#pleas take this as token of appreciation

[amelia-yap]

TUMBLR USER AMELIA-YAP. POINTS

I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT YER ART IS SO COOL AND AWESOME AND SUPER EXPRESSIVE AND SMART AND PRETTY AND CUTE AND EEEE ALL THE BEST VIBES <3333

YER ART IS A HUGE INSPIRATION TO MEEE THANK YE FER ARTING HEHEHE 💙💙💙💙

I HOPE YE HAVE A GREAT DAY!!! :3

//◕_◕ )👉👈

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Sleep

a/n did this need to be this long? No. But is it impossible to not make everything slightly sexual with these eepy boys? Yes. Someone needs to take my phone away. I also have exhaustion fever so this is actually a fever dream. Edited version.

summary: Sleep token with a model reader (preferably fem, but you can totally make it gn) like she's not a famous model, but like she's good at what she does and so eepy boys are like, "ooh they make good sht what if we hire her for an album cover or something"

warning: slightly sexual….?

sleep token boys x reader

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“You’re looking at her like she’s the last supper," ii snorted after a while of watching Vessel practically drool over you. The post-show gatherings were rare. Well, the ones where the team could bring plus ones were. Boys usually stuck around for a quick photo, their way of showing how much they appreciated everyone’s work before they disappeared into the privacy of the back rooms. But not today. And for the very first time, it felt worth it.

“She might be," iii snickered, his eyes equally as pleased with the sight in front of him. “Let me clean your drool”, iv brings a napkin towards Vessel’s lips, one that the lead singer is quick to push away. “She would fit the next album," it’s barely a whispers, but they all fix their gaze on you now.

“I’ve seen her around," iii mutters, trying to think where it was, but the sea of people after a while just goes mushy. “Yeah, because you’ve been liking her pictures," iv says, crossing his arms over his chest. “As if that’s not weird. How the fuck would you know that?”, but the look iii shoots at his bandmate is met with a middle finger. "Vess, we already have the shoot planned for Friday”, ii is quick to interfere. He is always the most put-together one, making sure the plan stays where it should, once the ground rules are placed. "Yeah, but I don’t like what we got,"  Vess waves his hand around, “We need her," and here it is, no longer a maybe but the tone of a man who had set his mind. 

“She could be sleep”, it’s almost a plea as Vess looks among the guys. “Look at her."  Crocking his head to the side, Vess once again lets himself shamelessly admire you. “The hair, the skin, and the eyes, look at her eyes." As if feeling all four sets of eyes burning into your skin, you finally glance their way. And it’s as if, with your gaze alone, you had set off the panic. “Don’t look, don’t look,"  Vess hisses, head down, with iii grasping for his beer that nearly slipped through his fingers. “How old are we, three?”, iv hisses, placing his bottle down, before stepping forward. "Ivy,"  Vess catches his arm, but iv only gives him a serious look before adding, “This is creepy; we need to go talk to her, not gawk like a pack of creeps”. 

You watch him approach you. The confidence oozing off him feels infectious. As if the whole room is pulsing to the beat of him. "Hey," he says as he slides down the booth to get closer to you. "Hi," you greet him, smiling, as you shoot him a little wave. “Never seen you before," his voice is smooth, steady, and perky enough to make you guess that he’s smirking beneath the mask. “Is that why you were staring?”, you ask, watching his eyes. He chuckles lightly before lifting his hands up, “Caught red-handed." And you can’t help but chuckle alongside him. 

“I don’t know if you know...", iv starts after a moment. "Who you are?", you finish for him, and he visibly halts. Because that had been exactly what he was going to ask. “I do; I’m friends with Sam,"  you point to the man in question, who’s posing for a picture with a mask as well. 

“Lucky son of a bitch," iv mutters, watching him for a moment before pulling his gaze back to you. A slight silence falls. “Join us for a drink,"  he says, nodding towards the table he came from. You gaze there, earning a salute from ii. iii just lifts his bottle up. It’s Vess, whose eyes you can’t see, but you know that they are set on you. “Is this a kidnapping?”, you look up at iv. “Most definitely,"  he nods, and you’re quick to follow his actions. “Alright then.”

It feels as if an unexpectedly found puzzle piece that fit to Vess as he watches you in the glass little pool. The mesh material of your dress is soaked and floating all around you. And the rain installation slowly turning from clear to pitch black. Drowning you out in darkness. “That’s it,"  he hears the director shout, “Look up." But Vessel doesn’t even look at the actual footage the camera is getting; his gaze is glued on you. An actual vision in front of him. 

“She’s fucking good; you've got to give her that,"  ii mumbles as he too watches the shoot. All of them are here. They were never here for shit like this, but today they were almost first. “I need a picture with her; can we get her in some promo shit too?”, iii once again pushes the narrative he had been trying to shove down everyone’s throats the moment you agreed. “She might not want to,"  Vess trails off. “Have you asked?”, iii nudges him, like a kid who’s not getting the exact candy he was looking for. 

“Can you get horny from watching someone…", iii changes his tone, but iv is quick to clasp a hand over his mouth. “If you make her feel weird, I will de-ball you myself,"  he hisses, giving him a little shove. The crew helps you step out before someone is quick to drape a dry towel over your shoulders. “Here to investigate your investment?”, you shoot them a smile, surprised to see them here. Mostly because everyone reassured you that they would not be here. 

“I like to follow the process,"  Vessel blurts out. “Hope it’s up to your liking,"  you mutter right as he brushes the strand of hair away from your face. “More than exceeded my expectations." His words throw you off center for a heartbeat before a smile spreads across your face. “Mind taking more pictures?”, iv nods your way. Your shoulders sag lightly as you glance at the screen, “You don’t like these?” “Oh shit, not like that, I mean with us,"  he quickly adds. You look at them. Blinking slowly. “But you... you don’t take pictures like that,"  you frown slightly. You’ve read through the papers their management sent out this morning. There was the underlined part that said no content regarding bad members would be taken. “Just feel like changing shit up,"  Vess glances at the setup. “This won’t do, but I have an idea.”

What follows after that is a slight madman frenzy. You watch Vess explain exactly what he wants from the production team. Going as far as scribbling the placement of objects on paper. “Is he always like this?”, you ask after a moment. “Passionate?”, ii ask, and you’re quick to nod. “When inspiration strikes, yes," iii nods along. “He pretty much fell out of a second-floor bunk in the middle of the night once because a lyric came up in his head and he had nowhere to write it down."  A chuckle slips from ii’s lips, and you can’t help but glance at him. Having him be so talkative feels like a gift in a way. “That’s beautiful,"  you muse, “loving something so much." The boys simply hum in response before the makeup and clothes department ushers them in. 

“Vess will direct it from now; follow his lead; and don’t overthink it,"  the lady walking you back on stage, brushes your hand in reassurance. The place is a lot dimmer now. Yet the lights reflect off the water just as beautifully. There’s a drum set in the middle of the set, with extra support beams intact too. You frown slightly as you hand the tower off to your makeup artist. “Do you mind lying down?”, Vessel asks. “In the water?”, you ask, but Vess is quick to shake his head. “On the drums." You swallow, glancing at ii, who’s already standing by his seat. "Sure," you breathe out, stepping onto the rearranged platforms. His eyes follow your every move, and he’s quick to gesture to his chair, no doubt as a step stool for you to get on. 

“Let me help you," ii says, taking hold of your hands before steadying your steps. “Won’t I break it?", you ask, looking at the drums. “It’s a fake; even if it breaks, it doesn’t matter."  The smoothness of II's voice sends shivers down your spine as you step onto the drums before slowly lowering yourself down. ii’s hands stay nearby, you can feel their warmth but not their touch. Your eyes lock right as you sprawl out. Letting the top of your body bend over the set. 

"Fuck."  It’s so quiet and low that you’re sure you’ve imagined it. Someone warns you about the water before your body and the drums are drenched. “I’ll only hit the plates; don’t get spooked out," ii warns you, yet you don’t have a chance to answer. The drizzle picks up, you gaze up, meeting his eyes, and the sound around you erupts, alongside the flashes of the camera. It goes like that for a couple of minutes. It feels like forever and then a blink of your imagination. And then you’re being pulled back up. “Good?”, ii mutters. You nod, and he mimics your movement. “Good. It will be hard not to see you every time I look at my drums now,"  he admits before stepping aside, the prep team swarming all around you. Making your head dizzy. 

Someone’s saying something about how sets with guitars will be less challenging, and you catch the sight of iii stepping on with a mask you hadn’t yet seen. “Scary?”, he chuckles. "No,"  you say, shaking your head, feeling slightly breathless. “It’s... mesmerizing." He lets out a low laugh. “That’s a first." And within a heartbeat, you’re sitting in the water with iii towering over you. Your hands are snaking up his legs and lower stomach as you arch your head up to watch his face. There’s no way to read his emotions. However, the vein in his neck says enough. You’re aware of the flashes, but it’s as if that part of reality is not there. iii’s body disappears after a while, and then he’s right there, inches from your face, leaning forward to look right at you. 

iv strolls in almost immediately after. Sharing a look with iii as they pat each other on the shoulder. And then the man built on confidence is right in front of you. “Care for a cuddle?”, he muses, sitting down in the water and spreading his legs apart. You just stare at him. Feeling your head spin. “Do I need to sit you down?”, he shoots you a daring look, and you instantly sink to your knees. “You minx,"  he says, shaking his head, “Come on, lean against my chest." You follow his lead, sliding between his legs and letting your back rest against his chest. He pulls his guitar in front of you two. Your fingers slip onto his thighs, then slowly upon his arms and towards his guitar. Before you look up, to find his blue orbs watching you with unmatched insanity. “Get why you left II and III in shambles now,"  he says, ever so slightly brushing his masked lips against your ear. 

You feel in a trance by the time you see Vessel standing behind his keyboard stand. “Do you mind?”, you’re not sure what exactly he’s referring to, but you shook your head. And then you instantly regret not asking because his hands are around your waist as he lifts you onto the keyboard. You let out a slight shriek, and his face instantly turns to you. “It’s okay, it’s okay; just didn’t expect that,"  you’re quick to reassure him. “Just do what feels natural,"  Vess mutters before turning to step in front of the keyboard. You pull one of your legs up, bending it beneath you, and turn slightly so you can face him better. His fingers move over the keys, head down. You watch him for a moment before slowly reaching out. Fingers brushing the exposed part of his face before ever so slightly inching beneath the mask as you turn his face towards you. Trying to figure out why a man of such talent and power wasn’t all that quick to take control. 

“How much freaky is too freaky?”, you ask him. Vess crocks his head to the side before asking, “Have you seen us on stage?” You smirk, bring your other leg over the keyboard, spreading your legs enough to make room for Vessel to stand in between. “Own it then,"  you say, reaching for his hands, moving one to your hip and placing the other in the middle of your chest. “The question here is, what keys are you playing, Vess?” You stare right at him before leaning back. He’s quick to steady you. Leaving his hands where you had placed them before lifting the one resting on your chest up as if he’s pulling your soul out of your body, right as you arch your back. “Fucking vision, fucking sleep,"  Vess grunts under his breath, drinking in the sight of you. 

The photograph shouts cut, and you let yourself breathe for a moment before holding onto Vessel’s forearms as you pull yourself up. “You are something else,"  he grunts, helping you down, and you can tell that his hands linger. “They do say that I’m good at what I do."  You wink at him. “Wrapping four grown men around your finger, you mean?”, he smirks at you before nodding to the side. You glance up only to find three sets of eyes looking at you as if you had been a vision sent by god, or maybe the devil himself. 

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Oooh you know I have to jump in here to book my travel package

How about Tech with fluff and pining on Alderaan and/or Bespin. And could I pretty please sprinkle in some hand holding??

💕

Thank you for booking with Soaring's Tours. We're now ready to board your flight. Please mind the gap between the transport and the platform. We wish you a pleasant journey!

Token of Affection

They say actions speak louder than words. When you unexpectedly join Tech in the cockpit, your presence unravels the intricate emotions he's been struggling to convey.

Pairing: Tech x f!reader

Word count: 2k

Warnings: fluff, sweetness, pining, idiots in love, comfort.

The lights of hyperspace streaked through the cockpit, the hum of the Marauder’s engines a familiar white noise. Opting to take the first watch hadn’t been an issue - if anything, Tech appreciated the time alone to decompress after the mission. That, and it gave him the time to tinker.

Hunched over Gonky, who was happy to be used as a makeshift workbench, Tech twirled the soldering iron between his fingers before making a few more adjustments to his latest creation. No matter how many times he thought he’d finished it, he always found something to tweak. Objectively, he knew it was because he was nervous about delaying the inevitable, but it was difficult to move past those feelings.

It had to be perfect. You deserved nothing less.

Setting down the soldering iron, he leaned back in the pilot’s seat, critical eyes roving over his handiwork. It hadn’t been difficult to find a piece of doonium – the entire ship was made of it, after all - but he’d decided to contrast it with duraplast from his spare set of armour. A sliver off one of his pauldrons wouldn’t impede the functionality, but it did add a more personal touch.

With a sigh, his thoughts turned to you, as they so often did these days.

Tech couldn’t shake the feeling of longing, lifting a hand to adjust his goggles, wishing he could just express what he felt. But the words never seemed to come out right, and he feared pushing you away with his clumsy attempts at affection. So, instead, he’d poured his emotions into this delicate little bracelet, hoping it would somehow convey the depth of his feelings.

But he couldn’t deny how many of them you brought out in him - your laughter so often echoed through his ship, your presence lightening even the heaviest of missions. There was a warmth in your smile that lingered in his thoughts, a comfort he longed for in the vast emptiness of space. He was created for war, his whole life dedicated to it – and while he was proud to fight alongside his brothers for the Republic, he couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting more from life.

Reaching out, he scooped up the bracelet, the metal cool against his skin. It was a simple design, but every curve and line held a piece of his heart, a silent plea for understanding. Would you see beyond the surface and understand the depth of his affection? Or would it just be another trinket?

The soft hum of the ship’s engines filled the silence, and Tech allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, eyes closing as his longing for you washed over him like a tidal wave. He wished he could find the courage to tell you how much you meant to him, how your presence filled a void he didn’t even realise existed until you came into his life. His brothers knew about his feelings; nothing ever got past them. And he appreciated their assistance – pairing you up for missions, steering you in his direction whenever you had a question – but it would likely go nowhere unless he took the leap himself.

In the heart of the ship, you rolled over in your bunk. Sleep was evading you, adrenaline still coursing through your body. You couldn’t shake the image of Tech from your thoughts, his focused demeanour on the last mission. There was something about how he immersed himself in everything he was doing, a passion that drew you to him. You couldn’t deny the flutter of anticipation whenever you were paired with him, the way his presence seemed to calm the chaos around you.

There were moments when his gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, when his touch ignited a spark of something more profound. Yet, like two stars destined to orbit each other but never collide, the timing never seemed quite right.

Leaning over the edge of your bunk, your gaze lingered on the closed cockpit doors – a courtesy whoever was on watch abided by so as not to disturb those resting. The urge to get up and see him gnawed at you, a persistent whisper in the back of your mind. What if this was when everything fell into place? When the unspoken words between you found their voice?

But doubt crept in, its tendrils weaving through your thoughts like cavenna vines. What if Tech didn’t feel the same way? What if your feelings were nothing more than wishful thinking born out of the intensity of your shared experiences? The fear of rejection loomed large, casting a shadow over the fragile hope that fluttered in your chest.

With a heavy sigh, you rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling of your bunk. The seconds stretched into minutes as you battled with yourself.

“Kriff it.” You finally reached a decision, pushing off your standard-issue blanket and swinging your legs over the edge of the bunk. Determinedly, you made your way to the cockpit, your footsteps echoing softly. As you approached, you could hear the faint sounds of activity from within – the occasional clink of metal and machinery’s low hum. Pausing at the threshold, you took a moment to compose yourself, steadying the erratic beat of your heart.

Pushing open the door, you entered the cockpit, the streaks of hyperspace casting a cool glow over the familiar surroundings. Your gaze fell upon Tech, who sat in the pilot’s seat, engrossed in his work, his brow furrowed in concentration.

For a moment, you simply stood there, content to watch him work, curious about what he was tinkering with this time. Then, gathering your courage, you cleared your throat, announcing your presence.

Startled by your sudden appearance, Tech’s hands jerked, nearly dropping the delicate bracelet he’d meticulously adjusted. Quickly, he attempted to conceal it beneath a pile of tools, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggled to regain his composure. “Oh, uh, hello.” He stammered, his voice betraying his surprise as he swivelled in his seat to face you. His goggles slipped slightly, revealing wide eyes as he attempted to mask his flustered state with a forced smile

“Hey.” You replied, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in your stomach at the sight of him. Something was endearing about his awkwardness, making your heart skip a beat. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Tech’s fingers fumbled for a moment before he pushed his goggles back up, his mind racing as he attempted to divert your attention away from the hidden bracelet. “No, it is fine.” He assured, his tone a touch too casual as he gestured vaguely towards the cockpit controls. “I am merely working on a few adjustments. You know how it is.”

You nodded, though the tension in the air was palpable, a silent question hanging between you both. Something felt different tonight, a shift in the atmosphere that left you both teetering on the edge of uncertainty. “Mind if I join you?” You asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Tech hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the concealed bracelet, before finally nodding. “Of course.” He answered, his voice quieter than usual as he shifted in his seat. He wasn’t used to being nervous, and it greatly unsettled him.

Pleased that you could stay, you sank into the co-pilot’s seat, opting for a safe conversation topic. “What have you been working on?” You gestured to the scattered tools atop Gonky.

Tech relaxed marginally at the change of subject, a flicker of relief crossing his features. “Just some routine maintenance.” He explained. “Nothing too exciting.”

Despite his attempt at nonchalance, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his sudden apprehension than met the eye.

Suddenly, Gonky released a series of beeps and shifted from foot to foot. Tech quickly glanced at the droid, trying to decipher its behaviour. Gonky wasn’t prone to random malfunctions; it had to be something else. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Tech realised the meddlesome droid was intentionally disrupting his tools.

“What’s wrong, Gonk?” You asked, brows furrowing in concern at his unusual behaviour.

Tech scrambled for an explanation. “He is experiencing a minor glitch, nothing to worry about.” He covered; his voice strained as he attempted to keep his composure.

As Gonky wobbled, the tools stacked upon him slipped, and Tech’s attempt to conceal the bracelet was foiled. The delicate piece of jewellery glistened in the bright lights of hyperspace.

You couldn’t help but notice the gleam of metal amidst the chaos. Your curiosity piqued, you leaned in for a closer look, using one hand to push aside an errant tool, your breath catching in your throat as you realised what it was: a bracelet, intricately crafted with a mix of materials, its design striking yet delicate. Gonky settled, and your mind raced with questions, uncertainty gnawing at you as you glanced from the bracelet to Tech, who appeared uncomfortably flustered under your scrutiny.

Tech’s attempt to conceal the bracelet only fuelled your intrigue further, and a million thoughts raced through your mind. Who could it be for? Was there someone else he cared for? The idea of Tech being romantically interested in someone else sent a pang of jealousy through you, though you tried to suppress it.

Trying to maintain an air of casual indifference, you forced a smile, though your heart felt heavy with the weight of uncertainty. “That’s a beautiful bracelet.” You remarked, your voice carefully neutral. “Who’s the lucky recipient?”

Tech’s gaze darted nervously between you and the bracelet, his discomfort palpable. “Oh, uh, it is just a... project.” He stammered, his words faltering as he struggled to come up with a convincing explanation. “Nothing...nothing important.”

“Well, whoever receives this ‘project’ is very lucky.” You stated, not believing for one moment that it was merely something he was creating to pass the time, but you wouldn’t pry.

Silence lingered for a moment, the air uncomfortable, before Tech let out a small sigh. There was no point trying to hide it anymore, no point in lying to you. Picking up the bracelet, Tech took advantage of your outstretched arm, carefully fastening his creation around your wrist. “My research indicated that giving tokens of affection to those you care greatly about is important.” He explained, double-checking the fastening, head tilted downward so he wouldn’t have to witness your reaction. “I do not have much, but I hope this is satisfactory.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Tech fastened the bracelet around your wrist, his words sinking in like a warm embrace. The weight of his gesture left you speechless, a rush of emotion flooding through you as you stared down at the intricate design encircling your wrist. It was more than just a token; it was a silent declaration of his feelings laid bare for you to see.

Touched by his vulnerability, you gently lifted his chin so he could meet your gaze. “Tech.” You began, your voice soft but steady. “This means more to me than you could ever know.”

Tech’s eyes softened, a flicker of relief crossing his features as he allowed himself to bask in the warmth of your acceptance. With a shy smile, he held your gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. “I care for you more deeply than I ever thought possible.” He admitted, his words laced with sincerity. “And I hope, perhaps, that you feel the same way.”

Your heart swelled with affection, the weight of his confession lifting the lingering doubts that had plagued your mind. Leaning in, you pressed a tender kiss against his cheek. “I do.” You whispered, voice low and soft. “I care for you more than words can say.”

As your lips brushed against his cheek, a rush of warmth flooded Tech, dispelling the lingering shadows of doubt clouding his mind. He could scarcely believe that you felt the same way, that his clumsy attempt at expressing his affection had been met with such genuine reciprocation. It was a moment he had longed for.

With a soft exhale, Tech’s shy smile turned more confident and he reached out, his hand finding yours as if drawn by an invisible thread, fingers intertwining in a gesture that spoke volumes.

There, in the quiet solitude of the cockpit, amidst the endless expanse of hyperspace, something beautiful bloomed.

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @starrylothcat @cw80831 @dreamie411 @issa-me-bry-blog @leftealeaf @isaidonyourknees @padawancat97 @dangraccoon @jedi-hawkins @sverdgeir

Sign up to be tagged in my future fics.

[godsfavdarling]

chapter 07

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!oc

summary: Molly and Spencer enjoy a playful date at the fair. Amidst the fun, Spencer's friends unexpectedly join them.

list of chapters, also available on wattpad and Ao3, my masterlist

warnings: none

words: 2,1k

Molly and Spencer strolled through the fairgrounds, taking in the vibrant atmosphere of colorful lights, the laughter of people, and the enticing aroma of fair food. 

As they wandered past the thrilling rides, both agreed that the spinning attractions weren't exactly their cup of tea, opting for a more grounded experience.

Molly's eyes lit up when she spotted a shooting game, a row of adorable prizes tempting her. 

"Hey, Spencer, how about a little friendly competition?" she suggested, pointing towards the shooting range.

Spencer grinned, always up for a challenge. "Sure, why not? Let's see who's the better shot."

They approached the game booth, where a friendly carnival worker explained the rules and handed them each a toy gun.

The competition heated up as they aimed for the targets, the sound of popping balloons filling the air. Spencer's competitive spirit kicked in.

Despite Molly's less-than-stellar performance, Spencer emerged victorious in the shooting game. Grinning triumphantly, he turned to Molly and said, "Looks like I get to choose the prize. What would you like?"

The carnival employee gestured towards an array of plushies, showcasing various options.

 Molly's eyes gleamed with excitement as she confidently pointed to a pink bunny. "I want that one," she declared, her choice made since the moment she laid eyes on the booth.

Spencer nodded, enjoying the playful banter. "One pink bunny coming right up!" He exchanged a few game tokens for the coveted prize, handing the adorable plush toy to Molly with a satisfied smile.

As Molly cradled the pink bunny in her arms, she laughed and shook her head. "I don't know what I was thinking, trying to compete with you! I mean, you're an FBI agent, and you probably deal with... gun stuff all the time."

Spencer chuckled, appreciating her humor. "Well, I didn't want to show off too much," he teased. "Besides, it's all in good fun. We both had a great time, right?"

Molly nodded, smiling. "Absolutely. Even if my aim was terrible, I wouldn't trade this pink bunny for anything."

Standing near the teacup ride, Molly cast a hopeful glance at Spencer, her eyes sparkling with a playful plea. 

"I know we said no rides, and I get that this one's for kids, but please, can we go on the teacups?" she asked, a touch of excitement in her voice.

Spencer couldn't resist the infectious enthusiasm in Molly's eyes. He chuckled and nodded, saying, "Alright, just this once. But you owe me a rematch at the shooting game afterward."

Molly grinned, thrilled at the unexpected turn of events. "Deal! Teacups first, then a rematch."

They joined the line, ready to embrace the whimsical joy of the spinning teacup ride, momentarily letting go of their earlier decision to skip the rides.

As Molly and Spencer hopped onto the teacup ride, the colorful cups began to spin, and the laughter erupted uncontrollably. The carefree joy of the ride transformed them into gleeful participants, their laughter echoing through the air.

However, as they spun around, they couldn't help but notice the curious stares from nearby kids, who eyed them with a mixture of confusion and amusement. 

Molly and Spencer, undeterred by the odd looks, only laughed harder, enjoying the moment of childlike fun amidst the bemused glances of the younger riders. 

After leaving the teacup ride, they found themselves unable to stifle their laughter. 

Molly, still giggling, turned to Spencer with gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you," she said, her laughter blending with the words. "When I was little, I always begged my parents to let me go on the teacup ride, but they'd say it's stupid and a waste of money.... 

As I grew up, I promised myself I'd never miss a chance to go on a teacup ride whenever I could."

Spencer smiled, appreciating the sentiment. "Well, I'm glad we could make that happen today."

In the midst of their shared laughter and smiles, Spencer leaned in and planted a sweet kiss on Molly's lips. As their kiss deepened, a familiar whistle caught Spencer's attention.

As Spencer and Molly turned to acknowledge the familiar whistle, they were greeted by the sight of Derek and his girlfriend, Savannah, standing behind them with amused smiles. 

Derek, wearing his signature mischievous grin, quipped, "Well, well, looks like the lovebirds found a little romance in the teacup whirlwind!"

Spencer and Molly exchanged amused glances, realizing that their tender moment hadn't gone unnoticed by Spencer's friends.

Feeling a hint of embarrassment, Spencer's cheeks tinged with a subtle blush as Derek and Savannah playfully stepped closer to them. 

The mischievous duo exchanged knowing glances and turned their attention to Molly, teasing grins on their faces.

A palpable silence settled among the group. Spencer, still caught off guard, stared at his friends with a mix of surprise and amusement, while Molly, unaware of their identities, maintained a warm smile.

Breaking the silence, Derek cleared his throat and glanced at Spencer. "Well, Reid, are you going to introduce us to your lovely lady here?" he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Spencer, finally regaining his composure, chuckled. "Of course, where are my manners? Molly, This is Derek, who I've been working with on the same team for over a decade now and Savannah, his girlfriend"

"And this is Molly, my..." he hesitated, realizing he hadn't officially broached the topic of their relationship. The pause hung in the air, creating a moment of discomfort.

Molly, sensing the pause and wanting to alleviate the tension, offered a friendly smile and took the lead.

"I'm just Molly,"

Derek and Savannah, quick to pick up on the subtle dynamics, exchanged glances but graciously played along. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, just Molly," Derek said with a grin, diffusing the moment with humor.

Derek and Savannah, sensing the need for a change of atmosphere, broke the moment by suggesting, "We were about to grab a bite at one of the food trucks. Why don't you guys join us?"

Spencer and Molly exchanged glances, appreciating the friendly offer. "Sounds like a plan," Spencer replied with a grateful smile. 

Molly nodded in agreement.

Spencer couldn't shake the feeling that Molly might have felt a bit upset by the awkward introduction. He sensed a shift in her demeanor – her eyes seemed to glisten with a hint of dampness.

Wanting to address the discomfort he inadvertently caused, Spencer discreetly pulled Molly aside. "Hey," he whispered, "I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to make things awkward. I should've asked you how you wanted to be introduced."

Molly, appreciating Spencer's sincerity, managed a small smile. "It's okay, really. I should've been clearer about what we are. It's just... "

Spencer nodded understandingly. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

Molly's smile grew, and she reached for Spencer's hand. "Let's just enjoy the rest of the evening."

The group settled at a table near the taco truck, the tantalizing aroma of sizzling ingredients wafting through the air as they waited for their orders. The vibrant colors of the fair illuminated the surroundings, providing a lively backdrop to their impromptu meal.

Conversation flowed easily as they perused the menu, sharing anecdotes about favorite fair foods and recalling memorable fair memories from childhood. 

The shared laughter and the clinking of glass bottles blended with the distant sounds of fair attractions, creating a moment of friendship that overshadowed any lingering awkwardness.

As the tacos arrived, the group dug into the delicious fare, savoring each flavorful bite.

Savannah, intrigued, turned her attention to Molly. "So, Molly, tell us a bit about your job. Working with kids must be quite an adventure."

Molly's eyes lit up as she began sharing her experiences. "It's absolutely delightful. My kids are at that age where everything is an adventure! And every day is filled with surprises!"

Savannah smiled. "Elementary school sounds like such a fun age group. What grade do you teach?"

"I teach second grade," Molly replied. "They still carry that wide-eyed wonder about the world."

Derek, ever the inquisitive one, asked, "Any particularly memorable moments in your time as a teacher?"

Molly began recounting heartwarming stories and amusing anecdotes from her experiences with the elementary school students.

She recounted the time when the class held a creative writing project, and the imaginative stories the kids came up with had everyone in stitches. 

From adventurous tales of magical creatures to heartwarming narratives about friendship, Molly painted a vivid picture of the vibrant and imaginative world of her students.

"There was this one time," Molly continued, "when we had a science experiment involving baking soda and vinegar. The excitement in their eyes when the concoction bubbled up was priceless. It's very simple but moments like those... make teaching so special."

After a while Derek, in his usual teasing manner, grinned at Spencer and said, "Hey, Reid, I hope you didn't forget something important coming up."

Spencer, always on top of his memory game, smirked back, "You know I don't forget things, especially birthdays."

Derek chuckled, "Right, right, Mr. Eidetic Memory. I just had to check. We're counting on you for some trivia and impressive birthday wishes."

Spencer, with a good-natured nod, assured them.

Savannah with an excited smile said to Molly, "My birthday is coming up, and it's on the 4th of July. We're throwing a little celebration, and I really hope you can make it. It would mean a lot to have you there! What do you think?"

Molly, touched by the invitation and the thoughtful gesture, responded with a warm smile, "Savannah, that sounds wonderful! I'd be honored to join!"

Molly gave Spencer a curious look, wondering why he hadn't mentioned his friend's party that is just three days away, especially considering Morgan seems to be both his best friend and coworker. 

The thought crossed her mind that maybe Spencer didn't want her to attend the party.

..........................

After a delightful time filled with stories and laughter, Derek and Savannah eventually announced their departure. "Well, we should be heading out," Derek said, rising from his seat. "It was really great meeting you, Molly."

Savannah echoed the sentiment, "Absolutely! See you again soon."

Molly smiled warmly, expressing her gratitude. "Thank you both! It was lovely meeting you as well. See you!"

As Derek and Savannah bid their farewells, the fairgrounds buzzed with the energy of the evening. Spencer and Molly remained seated at the table.

Spencer, sensing a lingering tension from earlier, turned to Molly with a thoughtful expression, a trace of concern in his eyes.

"Molly," he began, his voice gentle, "I want to apologize again for that awkward moment earlier. I should have handled the introduction better."

Molly, feeling a bit caught off guard, asked, " Why didn't you tell me about the party?"

"I meant to but... things got a bit busy. I wanted to ask if you'd like to go with me. I really did. It's just... We haven't known each other for long, and I didn't want to pressure you into anything. But, if you're up for it, I'd really like you to come with me."

Molly was quiet, processing the information. A subtle shift in her expression indicated her internal thoughts.

Spencer, sensing the need to also address the earlier awkward introduction, added, "And I'm sorry about earlier. My friends showing up unexpectedly caught me off guard, and... I should have... I don't know. I'm sorry."

Molly, appreciating Spencer's sincerity and being too tired to fight, offered a reassuring smile. "It's okay, really. I'm not upset. Well... I am, but I had a great time with your friends, and they seem like lovely people."

Spencer still couldn't shake the thought that he hadn't officially asked Molly to be his girlfriend. The desire to make things right gnawed at him, and he finally mustered the courage to broach the subject.

"I'm sorry about everything and... Molly," Spencer began, his tone earnest, "I know I never officially asked you to be my girlfriend and I'm not sure if this is the best moment..."

Molly looked at him, her eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and warmth. Spencer continued, "I wanted it to be perfect, and I'm sorry it didn't happen that way. I kind of figured that we're already dating in a way, but I realized I never asked you officially. I don't want there to be any confusion. So, Molly... will you... be my girlfriend?"

Spencer's heart raced as he awaited Molly's response, hoping that despite the unconventional circumstances, she would understand the sincerity behind his words.

Molly's eyes lit up, a smile forming on her face. "Spencer, I thought we were dating, too. And I'd also love to make it official. Yes, I'd love to be your girlfriend."

Spencer, elated and relieved, couldn't resist the impulse to kiss Molly. As their lips met in a sweet, tender moment, he couldn't help but feel grateful for the clarity they had just established.

Breaking the kiss, Spencer looked into Molly's eyes with a gentle smile. "I'm really sorry... and I really want you to meet everybody. I just wanted everything to be perfect."

Molly chuckled, her laughter echoing through the fairgrounds. "Nothing's ever perfect, you know? And everything is okay. The fact that you care this much... means the world to me."

Relief and joy washed over Spencer as he pulled Molly into a warm embrace. 

[miercolaes]

there are moments like this one in particular when chronos does listen to wednesday's pleas. time stopped and nothing much was happening. she was standing there beside her roommate, @shadowedvales, no imminent danger right in front of them, no self proclaimed villains right outside their window prepared to have either of them snatched. it was quiet and pleasant to some extent, reminding wednesday of better days, when she was but a child looking over a corpse in the family crypt. deep down, she yearns for moments that bring her back to that feeling — when her only worry was how to scare the life out of her family members. that night, wednesday missed home. she was making new memories with another that felt somewhat close to what she has home, but it was not the same. a heavy sentiment weights on her chest, as if a demon was digging its way into her soul. and perhaps, that was a possibility, although it was out of wednesday's keen sight. she's weak. being for the most part human had its downsides and wednesday's no stranger to weakness. she may hide it exceptionally well, but it's still there. lingering. growing. waiting to come out. for the more you muffle a truth from yourself, the louder it becomes. and when time comes that it needs to pour out, it'll be a disaster. and she's a master of that as well.

sly hands take the book that lied on the bed as she analyzes the hardcover. despite not having touched it in a while now, the book was in perfect condition, just as it was gifted. head falls into a tilt as she brushes her thumb over the graphic image of the staked heart. she's vulnerable. wednesday acknowledges some things cannot be hidden for too long and she reckons it'd be better to let her soul drip little by little instead of waiting for the explosion to occur. it's safer. unbeknownst to her, she managed to rationalize and quantify emotions, which marked the beginning of her emotional growth. wednesday knew there were some lagoons that weighted her down. perhaps, this way, she can defeat her achillies toe. a puff through her nostrils as she hands janessa the frankenstein book. ❝ take it. ❞ she simply proposed, offering her roommate a token of appreciation. janessa may not know it yet, but even through wednesday's dark lense she left a permanent mark. just because something's not palpable doesn't make it any less real, she thinks, as she hovers the book closer to jane. ❝ the book is yours now, flower included. ❞

both hands slither back into her own personal space, resting upon her lap, fingers intertwined. her gaze also slithered but towards the floor, as she ponders on janessa's remark. she fights the urge to debunk her roommate's impression just as she fights the urge to snicker. the notion of wednesday being classified as special was something else, especially when it came in a raw form — more often than not, the actual meaning is far more exclusionary, pushing her further away from humanity. but for some reason, when janessa said it there was no vile connotation. it was raw, sincere. probably one of the qualities she picked janessa from the crowd to be her new roommate. ❝ i can be forgotten. right now everything's still fresh, but as time passes, people will forget what happened at nevermore. it'll be one of those myths to keep children at bay from this place. it depends on who's writing the story. the winner doesn't have to be right, he just has to defeat the opponent. ❞ a pause commences as her dark gaze traveled back to her friend's countenence, ❝ which reminds me, how exactly did your power work? ❞

Sometimes, just sometimes, she wished Wednesday weren't so blunt. At the core of it, the roots binding their relationship, she'd never want a single hair on her head to change, but the words she spoke so effortlessly, the remarks of death and time faded... she doesn't think she could bare it. She sought support and was met with plain honesty instead. Child has no terror of the concept itself, instilled by an overwhelming knowledge of the gloom that existed within the crust of the earth. Simmering darkness plaguing from the womb to present day. She knew Wednesday coped with her own version of that, seething below a tough exterior that Jane was lucky enough to witness in quaint moments. "I know. I only, um..." She responded tightly, an intention to finish her trail of thought cut short, eclipsing sadness burrowing to the point that she barely knew what to say. I do not want to picture my life without you, went unsaid; those big emotive eyes of hers did the talking.

When her friend continued, Janessa's concern descended, heart beating less hard. A pocket of fascination revealed itself in the stretch of her lips, head tilting to the side while watching the book carefully taken off the shelf. It was a story she once attempted to read, but certain aspects and themes felt a little too close to home. Only the first four chapters had been devoured. (The text itself much too difficult to understand, also.) "Wow... It is so pretty." Murmured beneath a small gasp, surprised at the sentimental value her friend presented. She reached forward, fingers light and nimble hovering over the flower, afraid to properly touch it in fear it'd shatter under given force. She took charge despite apprehension, lightly brushing against the wilted gift. It felt worn and dry. Confusion practically dripped, and her hand fell like it'd been burnt, prepared to question why such a thing was deemed worthy to keep. Wednesday never failed to surprise her, even now, after all their time together. Unpredictability tied up in a perfect black ribbon.

"That is..." She jumped back an inch when the pages slammed shut, a smile gathering on her features. "That is a very nice way to think." Still sorrowful, a lingering curse of what Wednesday endured, a thought with the power to permanently wound. For now they'd make do with granted time, time shared in an unlikely partnership which initially began through a devious plan. Demise became a flavoured scent in both girls' lives, sometimes faint, oftentimes blearing; for now it was hidden deep where it need not be touched. Growing beam turned upwards and outwards, consistently bright was Janessa's soul in her company, nourishing the body into striking warmth. At this, the hour of mirth and curiousity, another thought swam about in that old, rickety head of hers. "I do not know what I could be remembered by." It wasn't a depressing notion, nor a seek for some fraction of sympathy, but a genuine thought breaking free from enclosed confinements. "But you..." She looked away lest her cheeks tinge red, never sure how her friend might react to positive endearments. "I do not think any-one could forget you. Ever. You are too special."

continued from here. @miercolaes

[nokwisi]

mouth open — viktor x fem!reader / drabble note; so uh, yeah, @arcanescribbles, you are an enabler, and I say that with the utmost of love. please accept this filthy drabble as a token of my appreciation 🙈😌 warnings: nsfw, 18+, light dom/sub dynamic

"Get them wet for me, Viktor."

The setting sun bleeds deep shadows across the room, and with his eyes half-mast as they are, his lashes cast spindly silhouettes against his sharp, rose-tinted cheekbones. His hair is in a state of elegant disarray; the product of your fingers carding through it, fisting it gently at the nape to angle his head back just so.

He followed the movement with devout obedience, and that ardor still lingers even now; with two of your fingers pushed inside the wet chasm of his mouth.

Viktor is beautifully debauched, strokes of color mottling his skin, highlighting him in varying hues of lust. The long stretch of his throat and the hard, shuddering surface of his sternum are littered with your mark; purple and red and marred with the faint crescents of your teeth.

His cock is flush against your belly, ruddy and glistening, but you haven't touched him there, yet. You want to make him wait—he wants to give you what you want, and so there it remains, neglected; steel-hard, throbbing with heat, and weeping at the tip.

You're pressed close enough that the dark sews your shadows together, connected in this plane, and the next. The sliver of space between you two is damp and hot with your coalesced breath, leaden with lust and unspoken pleas, and then Viktor makes a noise.

It's akin to a whine, and it vibrates behind his teeth, sparks on your fingertips and ricochets along your nerves until it settles between your thighs with a pulsating want. You shiver, and as though the sensation is echoed through the press of your bare body against his—he does, too.

Reverence blows his pupils wide; a ring of amber around glassy, desperate jet. He's looking at you like you're divinity, like a man before his creator, and he savors the press of your fingers on his tongue like he wishes to memorize the whorls of the prints there.

His long, pale fingers are wrapped around your wrist, but he doesn't pull you; doesn't push you away. No, he anchors himself, braces himself as you drag your touch against the slick muscle of his tongue. Saliva pools in his mouth. He doesn't swallow, he wants it on your hand, wants it enough that he lets it sluice down his chin in messy rivulets.

There's a thrilling sense of control inside you; a confidence that pulls the track of your spine straight, tugging your hips forward in a deliberate roll. You rub your slick cunt along the base of his shaft, your clit crashing against the velvet-smooth heat of him electric.

When Viktor groans, you press your fingers further into his mouth, as though trying to take hold of his pleasure from the root. His thick brows pinch together, eyes screwing shut as the sound garbles filthily in his throat. It echoes through the still quiet of the room with a lewdness that kindles the desire within you.

And still, he doesn't pull away.

He tightens his grasp around your wrist, and he rocks back against you fervently. His hand, buried in the sheets behind him, fists the fabric, wrings it until his knuckles blanch; until the taut muscle of his forearm rolls and veins pop like ivory rivers against alabaster stone.

Gods, he looks ruined—his face blushed red-hot, his mouth open and eager around your fingers, wet and sloppy at the way he pushes back. You're helpless to the gasp that escapes you when he opens his eyes: they're dazed and salacious, crystalline wet clinging to his lashes with the reflex of tears.

You pull your fingers from his mouth slowly, holding the tether of a gossamer string of spit, before it breaks and lands on his heaving chest. Viktor keeps his gaze fixated upon you, anticipation softening the look; begging you silently.

With your heart fluttering excitedly in your chest, you lean down and steal his wetted lips in an open-mouthed kiss, pulling back just as he licks an eager, hot line against your tongue. Mercifully, you reach down and envelope his cock in your palm, stroke him from base to tip with the smooth and slippery glide of his spit on your hand.

His brows pinch and bow upwards, mouth dropping as his head falls between the cradle of his angular shoulders; like a man that's taken a dose of euphoria straight to the brain. You smile, satisfied, and lean in close enough to draw your nose against the cusp of his sharp jaw.

In a whisper that rattles him right down to the marrow, you say, "good boy."

[themurphyzone]

Two Mice and a Baby AU

AU where the mice wind up adopting baby Superman. These HCs are based off the DCAU version of Superman and the Justice League. 

1. The mice choose to move out of the lab and into Smallville, Kansas. Cause if the lab caught this superpowered alien baby that can fly and shoot laser beams out of his eyes, the consequences could be disastrous. Brain re-establishes Brain Acres and farms the land (while also having a small lab in the house so he can do experiments and try to take over the world). Pinky mostly handles the livestock. 

2. The baby is named Clark. The mice’s neighbors are the Kents, and when Clark’s a little older he chooses to take Kent as his last name cause the Kents are just so incredibly nice. And it’s uninamously agreed by the mice and Clark that Martha Kent has the best dang apple pie in the world. They serve more as grandparent figures in this AU. 

3. Clark’s powers kinda fizzle out once he’s two years old, and don’t make a return until his high school years. 

4. Brain has created a huge defense system for the farm that would make even the Batman jealous. This is so nobody dares steal away his family. 

5. Pinky is a huge shipper on deck for Clark’s little crush on Lana Lang. He’s constantly telling Clark he oughta bring her home so they can meet her. 

6. Clark doesn’t really agree with Brain trying to take over the world, but he does appreciate the notion of improving the world somehow, just a little at a time. 

7. Clark grew up with horror stories of ACME Labs, and decided to do a little research of his own. He came to enjoy the sleuthing and decided to pursue a career in journalism. 

8. Lots of tears were shed on the day of high school graduation, the move to college, and eventually to Metropolis. 

9. Once Clark begins to rediscover his Kryptonian heritage and grew into his powers, eventually finding the Fortress of Solitude, Brain practically fell in love with all the interesting alien tech. 

10. Clark begins his stint as Superman. Brain creates a portal gun they can use to jump between the farm and Metropolis so they can visit often. 

11. Brain really cannot stand Lex Luthor. 

12. Clark sometimes wonders if he oughta go over to Gotham to help out, cause the city is just a crime ridden cesspool. The mice shout him down every time, cause nobody wants to ever wind up in Gotham. 

13. When Superman is brainwashed by Darkseid, the mice are horrified and try to snap him out of it, to the point where Brain even tries to attack Darkseid but is easily swatted aside. It’s only thanks to Pinky’s telekinesis that he survives the encounter. 

14. Clark is horrified by what he did under Darkseid’s command, and the people turn against him. That is, everyone except Lois, Jimmy, and the mice. Still, it takes a while for Clark to trust himself to make important decisions again. 

15. Pinky and Brain wind up in the alternate universe of A Better World, in which they discover that the Justice League have turned into the tyrannical Justice Lords. Brain begins to wonder if they truly stumbled into a better world where everything is clean, where crime is non existent, and where nobody ever has to turn a weapon on anybody ever again. 

But...Pinky notices that people are arrested for petty offenses, and even tries to help plea the case of one who was just out two minutes past curfew. But the peacekeeper doesn’t listen. 

And Brain realizes that it’s not a better world, if people are just randomly arrested for no good reason. 

The mice discover that their own son was the cause of this split in the timeline. Justice Lord Superman just tells Brain he was following his philosophy of creating a better world, and offers both mice a place in the Justice Lords, as a token of gratitude for raising him. 

Brain vehemently refuses. 

And later on...they discover what happened to their counterparts. Pinky had protested against Superman’s brutal methods. And in return, he died. Brain was lobotomized by Superman’s heat vision and sent to Arkham while trying to avenge Pinky. 

And when the mice from the normal universe seek answers from Arkham, they run into the alternate Brain. He can’t talk anymore, only communicating in squeaks and cries. Brain is startled to see himself not care about dignity at all. But upon seeing Pinky, the alternate Brain latches on to him and refuses to let go. 

Even with part of his mind fried, part of him will always know who Pinky is no matter what. 

When the Justice Lord fiasco is resolved, the mice make Superman promise he will never become what they saw. But Superman is still very shaken up, and doesn’t know if he can stick to that promise. 

[biteyourcrush]

Oh, what's this? Hope seems to be... putting together some sort of "Apology Fruit Basket", with a little hand written note. Wonder what it says?

"Oz,

I am so very sorry our coven leader is an emotionally constipated moron. Please don't take her martyr complex personally- she's just Like That. As both a token of my appreciation for being one of the nicer boys around, as well as a low-key plea not to go complete supervillain and probably bring around Fifth Hope, I've made this fruit basket. Admittedly, I don't know if you do actually eat, but the artful arrangement could make for a nice still life, or maybe you can compost it all and take up some gardening.

Kindest Regards and Please Don't Turn Evil,

Hope Halko"

[ahkaahshi]

taste testing [hirugami sachirou x reader]

pairing: hirugami sachirou x fem reader

genre: smut (18+) and fluff

warning(s): explicit sexual content, food play, spitting, reader has one dom moment but I swear to god it’s very fleeting bc that’s not our brand here, and there’s not really any other warnings?? this one was kinda wholesome, good for the soul smut tbh

word count: 4.4k (episode #??? of why am I writing so much?? idk!!)

overview: a heatwave in combination with an accidental ice cream spill end up giving your boyfriend a new idea

“Should I be worried?”

Hirugami rolls his eyes at you mockingly from over his shoulder in response to your comment as you shuffle to one of the stools near the kitchen island. “C��mon, (f/n), have some faith in your reliable boyfriend, why don’tcha?” he teases, turning his attention back to whatever creation he’s concocted on the counter in front of him—which his tall figure blocks from your view.

With a chuckle, you comment, “Well, it’s not often that I get summoned to the kitchen by said boyfriend unless he wants me to try some crazy recipe he developed.” Grabbing the small fan sitting atop the wooden surface and activating its oscillating function so it can blow room temperature air towards you as well, you add, “Besides, with this stupid heatwave I wouldn’t be surprised if you accidentally set something on fire.”

“I cracked an egg on the floor earlier and it didn’t cook, so I think we’re still good, babe.”

His wittiness never fails to elicit a gentle snicker from you, no matter how foul your mood may be, so you can’t help letting one out in spite of your current circumstances. Much to your dismay, the air conditioning unit had decided to succumb to the increased temperatures outside, leaving the two of you in a nearly unbearably hot apartment. Luckily, the power hadn’t gone out, so the two of you were able to keep fans running, and you were able to stick your head in the fridge while he stuck his in the freezer above it. The situation could be much worse, but that knowledge didn’t make it any less unpleasant.

You hadn’t worn a shirt at home in days, resorting to lazing around in a sports bra or bralette and shorts most of the time. Today was no different, and you appreciated every blast of air that the sheen of sweat on your chest and abdomen cooled down each time the fan turned your way. From where you’re sitting, you’re able to admire the ridge of every bone or muscle beneath your boyfriend’s toned back, since he’s only wearing a pair of athletic shorts.

“Well,” he begins, his voice snapping your gaze from his exposed skin to his warm, brown eyes when he peers at you from over his shoulder once more, “wanna know what I made today?” Your enthusiastic approval prompts him to turn away from the counter and place two bowls atop the island filled with a treat you can instantly recognize. “I made some ice cream earlier this morning, and it’s extra cool since I just took it out of the freezer.”

He marvels at the look of awe and excitement on your face as you admire his handiwork, since he’d gone the extra mile to decorate his dessert with chocolate and caramel syrup, some fruit, and a dollop of whipped cream. “Wow! Look at you!” you exclaim before placing your hand around the back of his neck to pull him closer for an appreciative kiss, “Thank you. This looks really good.”

“You sure you’re not just blinded by love?”

Playfully, you give his arm a gentle smack where he stands opposite you, elbows resting on the countertop as he patiently waits to see your reaction to his creation. Prickles of heat rise to your cheeks at the way he’s staring at you so intently, as if he could do so all day long. A small grin forms on your lips when you pick up the spoon resting in the bowl and carefully scoop out a generous serving of the ice cream he’s so carefully prepared. The refreshing coolness and sweet flavor it spreads across your tongue when you place the spoonful in your mouth has you humming with satisfaction and closing your eyes momentarily.

“It’s really good, Sachi,” is the praise that leaves your mouth once you’ve swallowed. You’re soon digging in for another bite, making him laugh at your eagerness. “Seriously, if you hadn’t chosen to be a vet, you could’ve definitely been a pastry chef or something with all the desserts you’ve made for me.”

Wiggling his spoon between his fingers pensively, he wonders, “Maybe I should start an Instagram page, take pictures of my creations, and climb my way to fame in the pastry-loving community.”

“Oh, you’d have so many followers.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re a hottie who likes to bake. Simple as that. Trust me,” you explain, reaching over to him to brush his waves of brown hair away from his face, “you’ll have women all over the world sending you tokens of their love and commenting heart or fire emojis underneath your posts. You might even get to be on a talk show if you’re successful enough.”

He nods towards the living room, indicating that he wants to sit down at the table with you to eat and asks, “Is that so? And where are you in all of this?”

You place your hands beneath the cold bowl of dessert and scoot off the stool so you can seat yourself on the floor beside him instead. “Professional taste tester slash content curator slash manager,” you answer with confidence before dipping another spoonful of ice cream between your lips curled in a self-assured smile.

“So fancy,” he states, sending a small wink your way that has your heart fluttering in your chest—as if he’s a high school crush who’s noticed you rather than your boyfriend of three years. Holding up his metal spoon filled with ice cream towards you, he suggests, “Should we toast on our new business deal, then?”

With a giggle, you raise your spoon to his so you can clink them together and continue enjoying the delicious treat he’d prepared just for you. In between scoops, you reach for the television remote to turn it on so you can watch something other than a dark screen and distract yourselves from the stifling heat flooding your home in any way possible. As you’re eating, trying to finish off the ice cream before it melts entirely, you end up accidentally spilling some of it on you.

The squeal you release at the iciness of the dessert trailing down your chin and onto your chest startles Hirugami, and his attention snaps to you instantly. Shuddering at the sensation of the ice cream sliding down your sternum, heading towards the low neckline of your sports bra like it’s on a race against time, you quickly scan the room for any napkins you can grab. “I got it,” your boyfriend offers, placing his bowl down on the table and shifting closer to you.

At first, you think he’s going to reach for the tissues you’d spotted nearby, but you find yourself frozen in place when he suddenly dips his head towards your chest to drag his tongue along your skin. The sensation of the wet muscle gliding along your chest, from the dip of your cleavage all the way up to your chin, has you shivering for an entirely different reason, and he meets your wide-eyed gaze with his calm one once he’s finished.

“Did I get it all?” he questions, purposely feigning cluelessness, as he enjoys doing to tease you.

There are a few beats of silence spent watching one another while you try to regain your composure. Hirugami always found little ways to surprise you, whether he was welcoming you home with something special he’d baked or spreading your legs apart to dive between them after he’d had a rough day. He’d never once attempted the feat he’d just done; however, you find that you’re surprisingly aroused. He seems to notice his actions have had what he deems to be a desirable impact on you when he sees you clench your thighs together and dip your spoon into the ice cream once more.

With intrigue reflected in his gentle eyes, he watches you intentionally press the spoon to your collarbone so the substance can drip down your chest, leaving small, rivers of color over the bones beneath your skin and the shape of your breasts. A somewhat innocent grin spreads across your lips when you feel the ice cream sink below the neckline of your sports bra.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning away from you momentarily to grab the bottles of syrup and can of whipped cream he’d brought along with him from the kitchen, “Might as well make this an entire sundae, don’tcha think?” You swallow thickly as he pops open the caps and tasks himself with drizzling the syrup over your chest, deviating from the area once he’s satisfied with his work and allowing a few drops to fall onto your lips.

His tone is sugary sweet, but there’s a devious glint in his eyes. All you can do is nod and lean into the arm he wraps around your back, letting your head roll back so your neck and chest are fully exposed to him. Your heartbeat is quick underneath his tongue when he pulls the top of your sports bra down enough for him to dip it inside and start collecting the trails of ice cream and syrup he’s used to decorate your skin. Almost instinctively, you arch your back towards him in a silent plea for him to give your breasts more attention, but he ignores your request for now and moves up your sternum, towards your chin once more.

When his lips meet yours, the taste of his tongue is sweet as it slides along your own, making you moan softly into his mouth. His hand on your back moves to your waist before traveling up to your shoulder and plucking at the strap of your bra. “Take this off for me,” he requests between heated kisses, “Actually, take your shorts off too, and wait for me in the bedroom. I wanna taste what I made on every inch of you.”

Though you’re hesitant to leave his tight grasp and part your lips from his, you oblige his request and head for the bedroom. After grabbing a towel and laying it out across the comforter so it doesn’t get stained, you strip off the little clothes you’re wearing—but leave your underwear on. Not long after you’ve situated yourself atop the mattress, Hirugami wanders into the room with all the food items he wants to adorn your bare body with.

“Want some?” he asks upon seeing your attention shift to the can of whipped cream when he sets it down atop the bedside table. After receiving a nod from you, he says, “Close your eyes and open your mouth for me, baby.” You do as your told, your heart racing with anticipation as waves of adrenaline course through your veins. The crackling of the whipped cream spurting through the tip of the can reaches your ears moments before you feel his breath fan over your face and his tongue press the cool topping against yours, guiding it into your mouth.

Your hands move to his shoulders to pull his hot body closer to yours, wanting to feel every inch of his skin burning against you in spite of how unbearably warm the apartment is. Your kisses are messy, but neither of you mind, considering how sweet they taste and how intense the craving you have for one another is becoming. When he pulls away from you, he looks uncharacteristically disheveled—cheeks and lips tinted red with warmth, a hint of whipped cream at the sides of his mouth, and his eyes clouded over by an undeniable lust. Because of how calm and composed he usually is, it thrills you to see him like this.

However, his lips are quick to form a grin, as if he finds it entertaining that you saw him in a moment of discomposure. In an instant, he’s reaching for the ice cream nearby and standing beside the bed with a pensive look on his face, like an artist pondering what he should paint on his blank canvas. You squirm a bit under his intensely focused gaze, but soon shiver at the cool sensation of the previously frozen treat dripping onto your chest once more, navigating along the natural ridges and valleys of your body.

As he drizzles ice cream and syrup along your exposed skin in a way that makes sense to him, your attention flits between the look of admiration in his eyes and the prominent bulge in his shorts. He sees where your gaze is drawn and chuckles before picking up a strawberry and pressing it to your lips, which you open to take a bite. At noticing how the juice makes your lips shimmer tantalizingly, he can’t help but swoop in for another open-mouthed kiss. But it’s short-lived, since he’s eager to taste the creation he’s made on your torso instead.

Once more, he opens his mouth and drags his tongue along your skin, being sure to trace every path that the dessert has taken along your figure. You release a small mewl and place your hands on his head, weaving your fingers into his soft hair when he grazes your breast with his nose and lips. The whimpers of appreciation and increasing strength of your grip spur him to lick and suck one of your hardened nipples while he gently pinches the other, coaxing more breathless cries from your mouth at the dull throbbing that’s building in your core.

“Mm,” he hums, sending pleasant vibrations through your body, “so sweet. Want a taste?”

You nod when his face returns to your field of view, hovering over your own as he watches you intently. Your lips part naturally, waiting for him to meet them with his own, but, instead, he places his hand on your jaw and prods your lower lip, signaling for you to open wider. The pucker of his lips soon brings you to the realization that he intends to spit into your mouth—and while you thought you’d be repulsed by the idea; you find yourself sticking your tongue out expectantly. With curiosity, you watch as a glob of saliva leaves his mouth, finding purchase on your tongue and rolling back towards your throat. There’s a pleasant tinge of sweetness to it that you hadn’t fully anticipated, but that you appreciate as you swallow.

The way he’s watching you with such rapture makes your heart pound in your chest. In an instant, he’s occupying your lips once more with his own, showering them with passionate kisses as his long fingers trail down your torso, making their way to the lacy edge of your panties. You hold his body flush against yours, creating a sticky mess between your chests of syrup and ice cream as you wiggle your hips needily and take his lower lip between your teeth. An airy chuckle leaves his throat at your antsy behavior, but he’s soon indulging you by slipping his hand between the delicate fabric and your skin.

His lips soon travel in the same direction as your fingers so he can lap up any of the toppings he’s drizzled along your neck and collarbone while his fingertips tease you by lightly running up and down the length of your slit. Your grip on his shoulders tightens in response to the sensation of his digits coated in your essence sliding along the sensitive skin before one of them takes to tracing circles around your clit while the others slide inside of your tight core.

“Sachirou…” you whine softly, hips bucking against his touch as you feel your body temperature start to rise. Though you love the way his fingers feel inside of you, curling to reach the spongey region within you, and on your bundle of nerves, you’re desperate to feel his tongue since he’s been using it everywhere but where you want it the most. “Could you…?”

He seems to already know what you’re about to ask him, since he responds to your half-finished question with, “You want me to eat you out, baby?”

A breathless “Yes,” from you prompts him to give your neck a few gentle kisses before he removes his hand from inside your soaked panties and moves his head between your legs, treating himself to any food still left on your skin along the way. He presses his lips to the inside of your thighs before taking the fabric separating your dripping pussy from his mouth in his teeth and dragging it down your legs. Once he’s used his hands to slide it all the way off, he casts a somewhat devious glance upwards at you as he blows on your clit, making you squirm beneath his grasp.

You’re about to scold him for teasing you when you’re so vulnerable, but his gently spoken words give you pause: “You’re so beautiful, (f/n).” Moments after the compliment leaves his lips, he’s pressing them against your pearl, followed by his tongue.

The pleasurable burn you feel from his hot breath dancing along your exposed slit has you moaning loudly and sinking your fingers into his hair to inch him closer to your pussy. It’s evident he knows your body like the back of his hand, since he’s precise about his actions, being sure to vary his pace and intensity to make the buildup to your orgasm as enjoyable for you as possible. Where his large hands rest on your thighs, his fingers loosen and tighten their grip, kneading your supple skin. Every needy movement of your hips towards his face has him uttering a gentle groan, reminding you of the satisfaction he always receives from getting you off.

However, in spite of feeling the knot in your stomach loosening with each hungry swipe of his tongue along your clit, you move your hands to the side of his face to nudge him away from you. The confusion he feels is evident in his gaze and furrowed eyebrows, but it soon morphs into one of excitement when you sit up on the bed and motion for him to join you. Before he sits down, you tug at the waistband of his shorts and regard him with a demure gaze through your eyelashes that he reacts to subtly by biting his lip.

With a nod, he allows you to strip them off, then plops onto the comforter beside you and pulls you into his lap. Reaching towards the bowl on the bedside table, you grab another strawberry and the can of whipped cream so you can take the fruit between your teeth and offer it to him with your mouth. The gentle smile he wears spreads onto your own lips when he leans down towards you to carefully take the rest of the strawberry in his own mouth. His lips meet yours in a sweet kiss before you pull away to finish chewing the halves you’ve split with each other.

Grabbing the whipped cream this time, you place the nozzle in front of his mouth, prompting him to open it for you. However, you misfire and end up covering his nose with the fluffy topping instead, sending the two of you into a fit of laughter that he only fuels by using it to smear the whipped cream along yours as well. In spite of the stagnant warmth in the apartment, only disturbed every now and then by a gust from the nearby fan, you find yourself pressing your forehead against his and draping an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.

The kisses you share are heated and passionate in spite of the sweetness lingering in both of your mouths. Your chest is sticky against his with remnants of food and sweat, but he doesn’t seem to care, since he places his hands on your waist to hold your torso flush against his, only moving them up and down the sides of your body occasionally to feel the shape of you against his palms. Your free hand moving between the two of you to gently stroke his erection elicits a breathless and somewhat surprised moan from his vocal cords that empowers you to curl your fingers around it.

As much as he loves having your hand around his cock, he seems to want more of you, since he’s breaking the connection between your lips to suggest, “Let me fill you up, yeah? I’ll make you feel so good.” Once he’s received enthusiastic consent from you, he gently pulls your hips over his, before slowly guiding you onto his dick, being careful not to hurt you in the process. Low grunts rumble through your own throat when he presses his lips against your neck to trail open-mouthed kisses along your tender skin as he eases inside of you.

Once he bottoms out, you place your palm on the center of his chest to give him a playful push down onto the bed so you can rest your hands at either side of his muscular torso to support yourself as you begin grinding your hips against his. A smirk creeps onto his lips at your sudden act of dominance, since you both know it won’t be long before his large body’s hovering over yours as he plows you into the mattress until your mind is so blank that all you can say is his name overand over again. But he’ll let you have your fun for now, since he knows you like riding him, especially after he’s had a long day and you don’t want him to have to do any extra work.

Plus, he can’t complain when the view above him is spectacular.

“There you go, baby,” he praises, chocolate brown eyes darting down to your hips undulating against his as you take him deeper, “God, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous.”

His compliments spur you to increase your pace until beads of sweat are glistening on your skin and your body’s starting to shake from both fatigue and pleasure. Each slam of his cock into your sensitive core sends shocks of ecstasy through you, and you know—with the way he’s meeting your hips with thrusts of his own to reach your most receptive spot—that you won’t last long. “S-Sachi!” you cry wantonly, reaching for the hands he has gripping your waist to hold onto them for support, “Harder, please. I’m so close!”

“Don’t worry, pretty girl, I’ll make you cum,” he responds huskily. His face contorts ever so slightly with exertion as he pulls your hips down so he can snap his against them, filling the room with loud smacks of your skin meeting. Upon feeling your hips stutter beneath his palms, he quickly sits up and guides you onto your back so he can plunge deeper inside of you at a much faster pace. “That feel good?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s—ahh—so good, baby!” You’re surprised by your ability to form coherent words while he’s balls-deep inside of your pussy, filling your entire body with pleasure that’s nearly too much to bear. “Please!”

You don’t have to finish your sentence for him to understand what you’re trying to say, since his pace and intensity have you coming undone for him only a few moments after you’ve spoken. His voice is low and guttural as he growls, “Mm, just like that,” at feeling your walls flutter around him affectionately. Your loud cries of his name fill his ears, edging him closer to his own orgasm as he fucks you through yours. “You feel s-so good,” he rasps, “C’mon, make me cum. Yeah, that’s it; that’s it, baby.”

Soon, the sensation of being inside your tight heat as you squeeze him lovingly has him finishing with a string of expletives, followed by praises rolling off his tongue. Hot spurts of his release filling you up in the midst of your high have you mewling breathlessly until you’re left in a euphoric haze that renders your entire body too heavy to move. Once Hirugami’s ridden out his orgasm as well, he lets out a long sigh of both exhaustion and satisfaction before sinking into the bed beside you.

A few minutes of silence ensue as the two of you regain your breath and find the energy to move once more. In a tender gesture, Hirugami grabs the towel beneath you and uses it to wipe off any remaining food or sweat that’s accumulated on your skin before doing the same with his own body. As the two of you lie together, staring up at the ceiling while waiting for the fogginess to subside, you hear a familiar click that instantly makes you hold your breath with anticipation. Sure enough, the sound is followed by a familiar whirring, then a cool breeze against your skin from the vent on the ceiling.

“Yes!” you cheer, clenching your hand into a fist to express your gratitude towards the workers who have finally fixed your air conditioning unit.

With a small hum of contentment, Hirugami extends his arm out towards you to bring you closer to his chest. Now that there’s cold air circulating around the room, you welcome the gesture and curl up beside him. “Well, now that the AC’s working, does that mean you don’t want any more ice cream?” he wonders, lips brushing against your temple before he presses a kiss to it.

“Of course not! I mean, as long as you still have some that’s actually frozen.”

He laughs nervously and admits, “Full disclosure: I got a bit carried away and made enough to last for at least a few weeks, I think.” Upon seeing the incredulous look on your face, he elaborates, “I followed a recipe created by someone for her son’s birthday party of like thirty kids, so… that’s a lot of servings.”

“Sachirou!” you laugh, nuzzling your face in his neck, “Why did you do that?”

“Didn’t know how long the AC would be out. I thought I planned ahead pretty well, actually.”

“In that case, I would love to have some more of your ice cream.” He beams at you and pulls you into a hug so tight that your skin is sticking together when you pull away. “But let’s go in the shower first. Please.”

“Don’t know what to make next, though,” Hirugami murmurs as he sits up before grabbing onto your hands to help you into a seated position so the two of you can head into the bathroom. “But,” he adds, turning to you and leaning down towards you so he can press a chaste kiss to your lips, “what I do know is that I’d love be able to sample it on you again.”

treat me to a coffee! ⭐︎ kinktober masterlist

taglists (see pinned post on my blog for form)

general: @dinablossom, @newfriendjen​, @devlovesramen, @ohbyunhunn, @aftcrlust, @mister-future, @kyleclxin​, @kac-chowsballs​, @osamusmiya​, @nit-sir-hc​, @arixtsukki​, @shinsurou, @ichorizaki​

hirugami: @hqxreader, @pretty-setters, @misora-msby, @atsunakaashi

[an-annyeoing-writer]

Chanyeol x Reader: a day from humble slave’s life. [+18]

Word count: ~5k 

Warnings: s*xual themes, slavery, objectification, minor fat shaming. Please, don’t mistake this with non-con, for it’s not, but if you feel like an impression may trigger you too, simply don’t read it.

This is a fantasy. As much as I tried to portray Chanyeol’s personality accordingly, it has little to do with how I see him as a person, and - especially - with who he really is. Nonetheless, this is NOT meant to insult anyone.

The story was originally a birthday gift for my friend, and therefore, Reader’s age is specified and it’s also mentioned to be her birthday - forgive me that ^_^

7 A.M.

Even before your eyes open, the first streak of consciousness is how you welcome the world.

It’s not going to be a good morning, you think at first; your eyes are sticky as soon as you try to pry them open, your muscles ache, your hair is a mess. How disgraceful, you think. You can’t show yourself to the world like this. Thank God for the attached bathroom.

Look pretty, you were once told, that’s all you can do well.

The words, back then, didn’t sound half as appreciative as you considered them now. But with time, they became a motto, a goal, a purpose. They did say that you’re not good for anything else, but they also said you’re good at this one thing.

Look pretty for the one who deserves it. Whatever your Owner shall want to do with your body, you shall obey.

And if He doesn’t say anything, if He doesn’t even look at you, living His life as if you didn’t exist, then the least you can do is be pretty as to not offend Him: you owe Him your best quality, after all.

The shower is over, the make-up done, the clothes, selected carefully, wrapped around your silhouette as to expose what’s the best in it. The corset is so tight it hurts. But it’s worth it if that’s what He wants.

Off to eat a breakfast. The corset’s gonna get even worse after you eat, but that’s also the price you agree to pay. Eat, to stay healthy: not stuff yourself, not pleasure yourself with sweets. Eat to stay healthy and not cause Him any problems, so that your body stays in the best shape. He expects no less.

He’s there, you realize with surprise. He doesn’t stay around too often and usually doesn’t eat the breakfast at home. But He’s there, sitting in the dining room. Someone is serving Him a breakfast: one of many others, men and women, that He owns. They’re useful, you think. They can cook, they can keep the house clean.

All you can do, is to look pretty.

So you bow deeply as soon as you see Him, and when His gaze finally meets yours, you kneel on the floor next to the door, eyes on the ground as to not annoy Him, letting Him enjoy the sight of what He owns. It probably looks weird, you think, a woman kneeling on the floor with other people around, not an intimate situation at all – she’s not His lover, after all, just a property.

You don’t know if He looks at you, but your posture is perfect as if He did.

When He stands up and goes to the door, you dare not to look up.

When He’s right next to you, His fingers find your lips and put a small chocolate on your tongue, a token of approval; the chocolate is so, so good that you melt in its taste, and you take as much of it as you can, playing with it in your mouth long after He leaves without a word.

*

10 A.M.

Everyone knows, more or less, what’s His job: the exact crimes remain unknown, though, and His secrets stay safe: no one in the house would ever dare to spread them around. And it’s not like it’d be easy to do, either – only some of you are allowed to leave the house in the first place, and you’re not one of these. There’s no reason for you to leave, anyway, since everything you’d need: cosmetics, clothes – there’s nothing more you’d need, right? – other people only give you, and you’re given the exact things that suit His taste, no room for you to do wrong. There’s no reason to give Him surprises, either: you’re like a product, a window’s curtains that are changed to their owner’s liking, not picked randomly in a shop, but chosen by what he likes and what suits the rest of the house.

Your dress now is made of the same purple fabric as sofas in the living room when you’re called over and enter the spacious room with huge windows; a few familiar faces sit in various places all around – not your friends by any means, but people you just saw here before.

“Are you, for real?” one of them says. Your Owner laughs in response.

“See for yourself, Xing” He answers and motions you over.

A small movement of His fingers, a signal you’ve been taught long ago.

On your knees, it says, and you instantly catch the cue, a bit nervous at first, glancing at the stranger’s face just to make sure he’s alright with it: out of pure politeness, because you know that even if he didn’t like it, you’d still do it – it’s not him you’re here to obey, after all.

You don’t ask questions as you unzip his jeans, all the modesty gone as your lips wrap around his cock, as casually as it’d be to hand him a glass of water, no objections: you’re so good, so obedient.

You glance to your side with your eyes slightly blurry from tears. You see an amused, but content smile on your Owner’s face and that’s all the motivation you need to grow bolder, to suck harder. Your throat is not so good just yet, it still needs to get better, you realize, and you choke yourself on the man’s length, punishing yourself for not being good enough. It amuses them. You feel their eyes on you, a quiet sound of someone taking a photo, tears run down your face, your makeup smudged, your hair messy from where the man grabbed it, holding onto it as he set a righter pace for you to follow.

When he cums, you hold still. You swallow what you’re given.

“Thank you, sir” you say in a rough voice, your throat strained. The man smiles at you kindly, and you can’t help but smile back.

You know better than to ignore your Owner any longer though, and you turn to face Him, still on your knees of course, eyes on His shoes.

“Look at me” He instructs. You obey.

He stares at you with a smirk.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir” you reply honestly.

“You can go. Don’t interrupt us.”

Your duty is fulfilled. It feels so good to be useful.

*

1 P.M.

You’ve been sitting in your bathtub for what feels like hours, but it’s okay, it feels good, the water stays warm, your bathroom is so luxurious you can’t help but savor every minute of having access to it: not owning it, of course, but it’s nice nonetheless.

Everything in this room belongs to Him: the tub with heating system, the thick walls, the expensive cosmetics and the softest towels, and, of course, you.

How much do you love to be owned? He asked you once: do you like where you are, what you are?

Yes, sir.

Don’t you just say that to please me?

I mean it, sir.

Do you, really? Come here, then. Show me how grateful you are. Let your mouth convince me, but not with words.

It felt intimate, to be allowed so close to the one you looked up to. Being allowed to please Him was a blessing, and you wished you’d do it more often, but never dared to ask: you’re too low to demand His attention, so even if He was to say no, it’d be a waste of His precious time to consider your plea in the first place.

So instead, you savored every moment He allowed you, as much as you savored the memory of His small groans, the way He relaxed under your fingers, leaning back in His armchair and not even looking at you, but clearly enjoying this little paradise His humble slave served Him. Oh, how well He trained you, you know just what to do to make Him feel good. He deserves the best of you for He’s the one who gave it to you in the first place.

The memory sends a pleasant tingling down to your core and your fingers instinctively reach down, willing to relieve yourself.

But you stop yourself halfway.

You’re not meant for receiving pleasure, stupid, you remind yourself. There’s a smile on your lips at the thought. You’re good, you won’t do this, it’s not something He’d enjoy knowing of, and therefore there’s no reason to do it.

You choose to stay desperate and you’re proud of this choice.

There’s knocking on your room’s door.

“[F/n]? You’ve been sitting there for ages. Come out, I have something for you!”

“Ah, five minutes!” you call back.

“I’ll wait, then!”

You choose to rest just a little bit longer. She can wait, you decide. The water is just too warm.

*

1:30 P.M.

“Seriously, I thought you died in there” are the first words you hear upon leaving the bathroom. Your friend seems annoyed and it’s, truthfully, justified. But then her face brightens up. “Ah, look, I’ve got something good!”

She has boxes with various types of food sprawled over your bed, variety of tastes, mostly healthy, but some sweets as well, and these are mainly things you haven’t tasted in ages since you didn’t really consider yourself worthy of such luxury.

But then, you haven’t seen her lately, you missed her: she always brings something good to share, either be it food or jewelry you can wear for some time before returning it. These are little breaks in your routine, small pieces of something different than you usually experience. It’s good to recall how usual, human life looks like, even if you’re back to your own usual self soon later.

You notice a new, leather collar wrapped around her neck. You feel like you’d look good in one if you had it, too. Your Owner just never thought of idea as such, but who knows, maybe He’ll see her and decide it’s a good one? You can always hope for it.

“What’s that?” you ask, picking a random box. It smells good, sea-like.

“I have completely no idea, but it tastes good” she replies, stuffing her face with some vegetables she holds with sticks. You learned already that as much as she likes food, she never uses her brain to memorize any dish names. It’s not like she has too much brain to begin with, so who cares, anyway. She’s not a cook, but a slave like you, a different kind, but just as devoted and happy with her place. “Ah, try this.” She fetches some sort of candy and puts it by your lips, reminding you briefly of what happened this morning. You take the candy, it melts in your mouth almost instantly.

A few seconds later, her lips are on yours instead, and you taste the pepper with cinnamon she just ate; it’s a strange connection, but it tastes good, and, somehow, it suits the candy’s flavor still present on your tongue.

You feel stiff at first, but quickly melt into the sensation. You weren’t caressed like this in ages, your mouth has only one purpose on daily basis; it feels nice. Her hand is soon on your breast, squeezing it through the thin fabric of your silk bathrobe. She doesn’t wait long before pushing the fabric off you, your fresh and clean body, exposed to the air, getting still hotter with every passing second.

The door creaks and you two finally part; your eyes are on the man that stands in the door frame, his eyebrows raised at your friend as she lets out an awkward laugh.

He rolls his eyes, only half-amused with what he just saw.

“We’re going home” he says sternly. Then, without bidding you a good-bye, she gets off the bed and runs to him, and soon, you’re left alone. You didn’t even notice that your robe was off all this time.

But at least you get to keep the food, right?

*

5 P.M.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

He doesn’t invite you over for dinner often, so you try to enjoy it as much as possible. Yet, your stomach is still full – it wasn’t a wise choice to eat that much at once. You feel like you will blow up if you eat a gram more of the pork in front of you.

“I’m sorry, I’m not hungry, I ate earlier” you explain yourself. It’s not a reply that satisfies Him, but He doesn’t pry, and you hope that He will just brush it off.

“Eat.”

You don’t object, you know you can’t. Your stomach is so full you want to throw up. You take a bit of the pork and slowly munch on the meat, hoping that it’ll become more bearable with time. You don’t want to stretch your stomach like this, you’ll feel hungry more often, and what will He say if you gain weight?

You have to endure.

“What did you eat?” He asks.

“Quinoa with vegetables, fish, oats with milk, candy” you answer truthfully. There were some other funny combinations that you consumed, but you decide these are the essentials.

“Hmm, that sounds like a lot. What if you get fat?” He asks calmly.

“I, uh… I don’t think it’s possible if it’s just one time” you try to state so as humbly as possible, but you feel like no matter what you said, it wouldn’t sound good. Maybe you should have apologized instead? Asked Him to be merciful?

“Are you trying to argue with me?”

“No, sir” you answer instantly, your face showing fear at the thought; you wouldn’t dare, no, never. He seems to see it, the way you shiver at the accusation, and He smiles. You’re relieved. You know that He may punish you, that He may use it as opportunity to give you pain, and even tell you that you deserve it – to not feel bad about doing it to you. However, knowing that it’ll give Him satisfaction, that He won’t do it because He’s authentically mad at you, but just wants to play with His toy, is what makes you happy and excited for what’s to come.

For now, at least.

“I thought so” He just says and goes back to His meal.

Just as He told you to, you continue to eat your portion, trying to stuff yourself as much as possible, knowing that your stomach will hurt even more, and thanking God for not wearing the corset any longer.

“On your knees” He suddenly says when you’re almost done. You don’t object, you do as you’re told. “Crawl there” He motions you to sit nearby, not too close to him, off the rug and on the cold panels, hard under your knees.

He leans chin on His hand, watching you, almost bored.

“Make yourself vomit.”

You swallow your saliva nervously and glance up at Him, hoping that He’s just joking, testing your reactions. His face doesn’t change though, and, as you hesitate, His eyebrows raise in doubt. Will you do it? Will you humiliate yourself as a punishment? Will you ruin yourself once again, not through sex, but through being genuinely disgusting in front of Him?

Will He even like it? How could He enjoy such sight? Won’t He feel sick, since He barely just ate? Is it really what He wants?

“What are you waiting for? Did you not understand me? Or should I go over there and push my own fingers down your throat? That’d be so gross. You don’t want me to dirty my hands, do you?”

You quickly shake your head. Of course, no, He doesn’t need to do something that disgusting. You’ll do it, you can do it.

You push your fingers into your throat until you feel the food go back, and you close your eyes tightly, throwing up all over the floor, sensing it dirty your legs, but refusing to look at it. It feels disgusting, painful, the acidic sensation in your mouth making you want to throw up again.

“Look at me.”

You obey. Your face is still twisted in disgust and He watches you, almost unmoved with the scene that just unfolded.

“Gross. Wash the floor, and yourself. Can’t keep it clean today, can you?” He snorts. “I’m not hungry anymore” He announces suddenly, then stands up and exits the room, leaving you on your knees among your own vomit, allowing you to dwell on your pathetic, miserable self.

You sit there, breathing heavily for what feels like an hour at least.

Then you stand up, still dirty, and still disgusting, probably stinking, too.

And for some reason, it feels good, because you just did what He told you to, and there’s nothing more fulfilling than listening to your Owner’s commands, no matter how destructive and unpleasant would they be, and how unwanted and unattractive they would make you seem.

*

8 P.M.

You lie in your bed, exhausted. Your skin feels dry from all the washing today, especially since you spent so long in the tub earlier. You have your thin robe back on, and your eyes are getting sticky from how tired you are, so you close them and let your body relax. That’s so good, that’s so comfortable.

You don’t know how long you lie there, drifting off despite the early hour, before something rouses you out of the blissful state. You open your eyes and look around: the room is empty, lamps still off, but some of the street light entering through the windows allows you to see the surroundings rather clearly, especially since your eyes already accustomed with the darkness.

And said surroundings are quiet and empty, but your instinct tells you that you should get up just because, and you choose to listen to it: you’re not that tired anymore, you got a bit of rest and this day is far from over.

You stand up and turn on the lamp on your bedside table, its soft light brightening up the whole room, although not too intensely.

The door suddenly opens and a woman speaks to you from the corridor.

“Master wants to see you. Go to his room. Hurry.”

With that, she leaves, and you’re dumbstruck for a few seconds. You quickly realize your mistake: it’s not the time for you to be slow or hesitate. Whatever He wants, you’re here to deliver. It surprises you, though, He never makes requests like such. You wish to know if you should change into something more elegant, more suitable, just in case He’s not alone – the bathing robe exposes a bit too much and you’re worried that He wouldn’t appreciate it right now. Yes, more precise instructions would be appreciated.

But with what you’ve got, all you know is that you should hurry. You don’t take nor change anything, then, only making sure your hair looks presentable – the makeup is already gone, but it will have to stay this way – you fix the belt of your robe, too, not wanting it to slip by accident since you have nothing underneath.

You get up and go. You know where to go, although His room and yours are a few corridors apart – the mansion is big and you need to pass through all the most important places to get there, including the door to one of the living rooms and other servants’ bedrooms.

You knock on the door after a short hesitation: not too quiet, not too loud – it’s hard to measure, you rarely ever knock on any door, not to mention the door to His very bedroom.

“Come in.”

You open the door.

The bedroom is not that much larger than yours, but it seems more personal – there are souvenirs, ornaments, belongings that you don’t get to own, things that prove He owns this place.

And then He’s there: in sweatpants and nothing else, droplets of water randomly running down His back where He didn’t dry them with a towel, or where they slipped from His wet hair. You don’t get to enjoy the sight for long though, because He grabs a shirt and pulls it over His head, and you lower your gaze, realizing that staring probably wouldn’t be approved.

“Bend over the table” He instructs, still not looking at you. He walks around the room and enters the attached bathroom, doing all these small evening things: skincare routine, perfumes that seem to help Him sleep and so on. You stand where you were told to, trying to stop yourself from peeking curiously; it takes Him a few minutes of completely ignoring your presence before He finally sighs and turns to you.

He stands behind you, out of your sight. There’s a silence for a few moments before He suddenly pulls on your robe and throws its lower part over your upper back, exposing your behind. His hand pushes on your shoulder, forcing you lower, pressing you against the table’s surface. You don’t flinch.

“Spread your ass” He says, and you obediently move your hands to your cheeks; it feels awkward at first, the air hitting your most private parts, although you know already, there’s no private, and all of you belongs to Him only, all of you is for Him to see, judge and use. “More.”

It almost hurts and you wish you knew what exactly He sees back there; but you don’t. He doesn’t touch you, and a part of you wishes He did – you crave His touch, but you’re aware of your place, you learned to act accordingly.

You jump slightly when He unceremoniously pries your pussy open with His fingers, your hands tremble slightly – it feels so good, His fingers feel so good you could come just from feeling them on you, no matter where, really.

“I heard it’s your birthday today” He says suddenly. His two fingers dive into you and you struggle to keep your composure; your thoughts fly away before you manage to form them into an answer. He pulls His fingers out, spreading your apparent wetness all over your folds. “Is it true?” The touch disappears for a moment and you finally get a chance to breathe.

“Y-yes, sir” you force out.

“I see.”

His fingers are back there, rubbing you slowly a few times, as if checking for any deformations – of course there are none, but He checks nonetheless.

“What’s your age now?” He asks. You wonder if He really doesn’t know, it’s not like He has a reason to care.

“T-twenty one” you mumble in a strained voice.

“Twenty one. In centimeters, that’s how high heels you can only wear from tomorrow on, understood?”

“Y… Yes, sir.”

His hand must be stained with natural lubricant, you realize, as He moves it higher, smoothly pushing one finger into your ass. It’s a miracle you manage to stay still. He doesn’t dwell much on that place though; instead, He pulls out and neatly puts the robe back into place.

“Up and face me.”

Sometimes, you wish to be roughed up – to have your hair pulled roughly, to be manhandled. But He never does that. You know your place. His word is enough to make you do whatever He wants, so why be rough? He’d get unnecessarily tired, and you’re not worth of His sweat, are you?

You stand in front of Him, eyes down, His breath on top of your head, you almost feel His body warmth – you didn’t notice He’s so close, but He is, if you just reached out…

He doesn’t hesitate before pushing the robe open, exposing your front. His hand wraps around one of your breasts, squeezing it so hard and so suddenly you almost scream, your knees trembling. You force yourself to stand straight, but God, does it hurt. He pinches your nipple, no gentler, but at least doesn’t keep it for so long. He does the same on the other side, and you swear you’ll have them all purple tomorrow, and it lasted less than a minute. They hurt so much.

As soon as He loses interest in your breasts, you wrap your arms around your chest, trying to soothe it. His hand moves to your chin instead, forcing it up.

“Open” is all He says and you obey. “Wider.” You try to, but it’s not enough. Pushing fingers into your mouth, He pushes your jaws even further, to the point it hurts and you feel like it will soon break. But you don’t object. He pulls on your tongue – it’s hard not to pull back. You gag as He pushes His fingers deep, but – thank God – takes them out before you can repeat your act from earlier.

You pant when He finally retreats and the contact breaks.

“When was the last time you came?” He asks as soon as He decides you’re in the state to provide an answer.

“T… three weeks ago, sir” you mumble.

“That’s not too long ago, is it?”

“Not too long…” You whimper slightly, confirming.

He doesn’t really hold you accountable of this on usual – only when He, for some reason, feels like making you a bit more desperate, a bit more pathetic. But it’s not something that happens often. On most days, He doesn’t even care for your presence, so even if He – or anyone else He approved of – decided, on rare occasions, to use your pussy for a change, He couldn’t care less if you came, as long as you didn’t make His own experience any worse.

But then sometimes, just sometimes, He wanted to see you struggle.

“What’s the longest you went for?”

“A-a month, sir…”

“Well then, what about we make it two?”

You gulp.

“If you wish so, sir…”

“But that’s starting from tomorrow. You will come today.”

Your eyes snap up at Him as He turns around and sits back on His bed, crossing His legs leisurely. You don’t dare to move from your spot – a good choice.

“Kneel down and touch yourself. Leave the robe on, but don’t cover yourself.”

He watches you with a small smirk as you get down. Your pussy is already exposed; you spread your legs as far as you can and lean slightly forward on one hand, the other finding the most aching spots.

Your Owner watches as you start to rub yourself – and you’re shook about how little it takes for you to find yourself on edge.

“Stop.”

You press your lips together, holding back a whine that tries to push through your lips. It hurts, you wish you could just make yourself come, you’re so needy, so starved for it, it’s been so long…

“Give me your robe.”

You don’t ask. You take the fabric off, fold it neatly and stand up, head low, reaching out with your both hands. The man takes it without care, throwing it onto the floor, far from you.

“Go to your room now.”

“Yes, sir…”

You glance briefly at the clock on the wall – it’s almost nine. And you only wonder, how many people will you pass by, going through the cold corridors, with your pussy leaking and your breasts slowly turning blue.

*

11:49 P.M.

You’re asleep when the door opens again – the sound waking you up slowly, your sleepy movements incoherent as you try to turn the light on. You stop though, as, in the darkness slowly dissolving in front of your eyes, you recognize the silhouette that just welcomed you. Your hazy mind doesn’t proceed it fully though, yet, and you don’t know, what would be the right way to react – stand up? Kneel down? Out of no cue, you stay where you are, watching with wide eyes as the man approaches your bed and sits on the mattress.

His hand finds the edge of your sheets and pulls them away from your naked frame – you often slept naked, and now that he rid you off your usual evening attire, it feels like an even righter thing to do.

“S… sir…?”

“Don’t move. Don’t talk.”

You stay in your place, your eyes following every movement, and when his hand cups your sex, your breath hitches and you struggle to stay still – of course you struggle; you want to grind down, to prove how needy you are, like a bitch in heat.

But he said, don’t move. So you don’t.

He spreads your legs a bit and teases you, stretching your entrance a little just for the sake of his entertainment, like most of the things he does to you, anyway. But then he suddenly stops and starts to gently rub your clit. You press your lips together. It feels so good, so hot, you wish you could moan, scream for him.

But he said, don’t talk. So you don’t.

His other hand is soon on your hair and he pulls you up, not too gently, but not unnecessarily roughly either. His face is so close, his eyes boring into yours. What did you ever do, to deserve a proximity like this? To deserve that much attention? To deserve his hand pleasing you so well, so good?

Nothing, is the answer. You’re not worthy of it, yet he gives it to you: how generous of him, isn’t it? To be touching the filthy animal you are. He’s so good. He feels so good, and you struggle even more, trying to keep yourself together and hold back for the sake of feeling it just a little longer.

“You may come, if you want.”

“Sh… should I?”

He smirks.

“Do you want to?”

You hesitate, a second too long.

His hand disappears and you’re left panting, writhing, squeezing your legs together for friction, but feeling as though nothing can satiate you as well as his fingers did, and you finally let out a cry. How vulnerable.

When you come back to your senses, you feel his eyes on you and quickly return the gaze – you don’t want him to think you’re ignoring him, never. You may have lost your mind for a few moments, but it’s back there – figuratively, for you’re just a dumb whore, there’s no much mind left in you.

“I told you, that you will come today, but you didn’t listen.” You quickly glance at the clock – it’s 00:02. Oh, God. Oh, no. “And now that your birthday is over, I don’t need to hold back, do I?”

You want to say that he shouldn’t hold back regardless of the day, but you soon realize it probably wouldn’t be in your best favor.

And that he doesn’t really need your approval.

Please, reblog if you enjoyed!

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Memento - (Ahsoka and Vader’s thoughts at the end of TCW oneshot)

****

Ahsoka regarded the saber in her hand. Smudged, dented. Its weight sodden against her palm, a sombre reminder of what was no more. As the dust settled around her, the crudely painted helmets of her squad served as the only reminder of what had transpired. Jesse, loyal til the end. Forced to kill his friends, willing to die because of one fatal final order. Behind her, she felt Rex’s forlorn eyes on her. The smell of embers and ashes burned her nostrils, the crackling of burning wires and melting durasteel dying away with the winds mournful wail. 

What was to become of her now? The saber was her only tie to her roots, to her legacy. Was she to remain a fugitive forever? If the Jedi had all been targeted, surely any stragglers would be hunted down.

The saber. Her last tie to the order. To her upbringing, her religion, her family. To Anakin. Anakin, who had saved both her weapons; hopeful, perhaps naively so, that she would return to the Jedi. To him. Where she belonged. Anakin, who had been so excited to see her again. Anakin, who had eagerly approached her only for her to shoot him down. Anakin, who was only going to save the Chancellor, to finally end the war. The war was over, but at what cost? Was Anakin even still alive? There were so many things she’d meant to tell him, how she wished she’d left master Yoda with a message. He had inquired, and yet she’d hesitated.

What about Maul’s supposed visions? Anakin was groomed to be the Sith Lord’s new apprentice. Darth Sidious. The Chancellor, now Emperor. No. Anakin was kind, and good, and brave. He’d never fall so far, never stoop so low. Ahsoka refused to even entertain the idea, refused to imagine a world in which invincible Anakin could succumb to darkness. She’d felt his despair, she’d felt the shrill cry through the Force. She’d sensed his conflict, his fear, his pain - and then he was gone. 

She reached out, but found nothing as if grasping at straws. Emptiness, and a raw wound where their connection had been bluntly severed. Anakin would never purposely shut her out, never willingly break their bond. That left only one option.

Sighing, body sore, aching and weary from the struggle to survive; Ahsoka admired the saber. Where its twin had disappeared to, she couldn’t say. Lost somewhere in the turmoil, as she and Rex fought tooth and nail to persevere. Once its blade had been a vibrant green, now a royal blue. Anakin’s doing. She hadn’t minded. It had felt like a gesture of affection, of appreciation. Something to tie her closer to her former master, the man who had become like her older brother. Closer to Obi-Wan, too. 

What about him? Had he managed to get to Anakin in time? She couldn’t sense him either, the Dark Side streaming through the living Force like an infection, like a festering, deadly disease. Rotting all that was good and warm away, leaving her to fumble blind in the vast darkness of infinity.

Ahsoka stroked the pad of her thumb over the ignition button, faltering for a moment. The saber had been a gift, a token. It was her life, as Anakin had once said - something he, in turn, had been taught by Obi-Wan. Still, if she kept it as a memento, allowing it to be a weakness, it may do more harm than good. A lightsaber was a Jedi’s weapon, and as far as she was aware, all Jedi must die. If she left the saber, perhaps - if it were found - she would be presumed dead? Swallowing stubbornly against the ball of unshed tears lodged in her throat, she took in the weight of the saber that had saved her life uncountable times in her hand. Allowed herself to think of Anakin, of how she owed her life to him. Of how she wished she’d been able to come to his aid. They were supposed to have more time.

Hand going limp, Ahsoka let the saber hilt fall to the rough ground with a dull, metallic clunking noise. It rolled over and came to a skidded halt, and she shut her eyes tightly together; lips pursed with the last of her resolve. The Jedi were gone. The Republic was gone. The clones, the entire 332nd wiped out in an instant. Master Yoda, Master Plo, Master Sinube, Master Kenobi.

Anakin. 

Tipping her head back, Ahsoka’s chin quivered as she regarded the billowing smoke spilling from the ruins of the star destroyer that had become the tomb of her friends. The tomb of her past, of her present; of her reality. She felt the burn behind her eyes, the bridge of her nose red hot and prickly. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Blinking rapidly, she slowly shifted to turn her back on the rows of graves she and Rex had dug for his brothers. Their brothers. Avoiding another glance at the carnage, at her discarded Jedi identity, she let the makeshift cemetery fade away in the distance. She was alone now, and so was Rex. Perhaps the last of the Jedi, as well as the last clone with his free will intact - the only clone without Jedi blood on his hands.

At least they were alone together. As she dragged her feet up to join Rex by the beat up bomber that had become their saving grace, his bruised face seemed hollow. His half smile was weak, dishonest. An attempt at calming her, at reassuring her. Watching his hollow dark eyes, still glassy as he mourned his fallen brothers; she caved. Warm, salty tears rolled down her cheeks as she hid her face in her trembling hands and cried.

****

Vader regarded the saber in his hand. It was smaller, lighter than he remembered it. Frail, fragile. Snow and ice clinging to its freezing durasteel exterior; even as he used a still somewhat clumsy hand to brush it off. It gleamed in the cold sunlight, air crisp with the howling of the wind. The Jedi had meant for this specific saber to be a gift, and a plea. A plea for his lost padawan to return to him, to the Jedi order. The Jedi had been cowards, traitors and liars. A sect, envious of The Jedi’s powers, of his capabilities, of his potential. They had been foolish, and naive. Backwards, stuck in a bygone era. The padawan had been the first to fall by the wayside, their first oversight, their first sacrifice. The Jedi had tried to dissuade her, begging her to stay. He hadn’t betrayed her, he’d believed in her innocent. He’d been the one to clear her name. Still, she abandoned him. Still, she thought only of herself.

The Jedi couldn’t be blamed for the order, and their hubris. But the padawan had been his responsibility. He had failed her, just as his old master had failed him. A lineage of tragedy. The padawan wasn’t a Jedi, not anymore. Still, the lone saber and its dented, damaged exterior spoke a painful truth where it lay discarded among the wreckage of a republic star destroyer. Lonely, forgotten. Left behind. 

The padawan would never let it go, would never willingly abandon such an important part of her identity. If she had lived, it would have brought her comfort, reminding her of The Jedi - a foolish young man that Vader refused to admit was all too present. His ghost, and the mistakes he’d made, haunting his nightmares; his every waking moment imprisoned by the chains he himself had forged. The padawan would want to keep the saber, to remember her master as he was - unaware of what he had become.

Shifting, Vader took the dainty saber hilt awkwardly in both hands, silently admiring its familiar silhouette as he flicked the ignition. The blue blade appeared with the expected hiss, slightly wobbly but intact. The padawan’s eyes had spoken of her gratitude when she’d accepted it; taking the gift The Jedi had reserved only for her. He’d hoped she may return, even when his master had half convinced him to give up. Perhaps it had been a self indulgent decision to change the colour from green to blue, the work it had taken not insignificant. It had felt like an homage, a sign of respect. A way for the padawan to remember him, wherever she may wander.

Vader hadn’t executed the order. The Jedi would have maintained the belief that the padawan might have survived, his naivety a luxury Vader could not afford. He knew better. Time had gone by in a flash, and yet it seemed to drag painfully slowly on. The padawan was no Jedi, but it wouldn’t have mattered to the clones. The Jedi would have rushed to find her remains, urgent to locate her final resting place. As Vader gazed solemnly at the snow covered ruins that marked the padawans grave, reaching out one final time with an uncertainty - fearful, perhaps of his master’s ire, perhaps of what he may find - all he could grasp was emptiness. A piercing, sullen nothingness as he stared wordlessly at the sky through the red tinted lenses of his face plate.

When the war is over, The Jedi had thought. The padawan was to go to Mandalore, to capture Maul. He was to go to Coruscant, to rescue the Chancellor. The Sith Lord. Palpatine. Peace, he had fought for. Peace was all he’d ever wanted. Peace, as he left the order behind. Peace, as he and Padmé raised their baby on Naboo, by the lake as she had wished. His old master perhaps visiting, being the brother and father The Jedi had blindly sought approval and praise from. Prosperity. The padawan returned to the life where she belonged. 

As snow crystals danced past his vision, the heavy cape he wore following the same silent tune; Vader turned off the saber. Another soft hiss, and he clutched the weapon harshly; feeling the durasteel creak and protest against the might of the mechno that had replaced his dismembered limbs. The padawan was gone, there was no other explanation.

Why had he needed the confirmation to begin with? The Jedi and his past meant nothing to him. The padawan and her sarcastic remarks, her coy expression, her jests and jabs. A hand on his shoulder for support, the way she spoke The Jedi’s name when she was concerned for his well being - a scowl on her face, her lips pursed. Perhaps it was for the best. She would never need to come to terms with the events that had triggered the purge, would never be forced to reevaluate her perception of her master. He would forever remain a beacon of hope, a hero, someone to look up to. The Jedi would remain untainted in her mind, for she was no longer alive to learn the truth.

Vader glanced down at the saber still in his grip, almost fully engulfed by his large, gloved hand. He should leave it were he found it, it was of no use to him. Still, he found himself unable to let the weapon go. Opening his hand; he regarded the thin, jagged dents and scrapes travelling along its once pristine surface. A melancholy swept over him, making his stomach churn and he snarled silently at his own weakness. He was better than this; he was stronger than The Jedi. He would not succumb to sentimentality, would not falter. Where had that left him? Anger simmering just beneath the surface, bitter and infernal; Vader turned his back on the poetic scenery. 

Still, as he trudged back the way he had come through the snow - he held in his hand the lightsaber that had once belonged to Ahsoka Tano.

****

I got feels after watching the mastercut of Revenge of the Sith and The Siege of Mandalore remastered into one movie, and I was reminded once again of the painful ending of TCW. Hence, I wanted to write a little fic dedicated to it - also first new fic I write and post since I was banned from my old acc. Anyway, enjoy - if you can call it that!

Ao3 link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647357

[marabrosca]

[REUPLOAD] I Know Better Than To Let You Go (Surana & Morrigan Friendship)/(Zevran/Surana)

commission for @mahalzevran with her oc rhian

read on ao3

words: 1k

summary: When Zevran breaks the Warden's heart with his gift, Morrigan steps in. A cute ficlet about Surana and Morrigan's growing sisterhood.

tags: friendship, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, bonding

The changes had begun long before the Warden noticed them. They hadn’t started when Rhian sat in her tent alone, holding a pillow close to her chest in defeated heartbreak. It hadn’t started when she avoided Zevran, and started taking anyone else with her away from camp. It hadn’t started when she began to notice that when Morrigan’s barrier was cast on them during battle, her spell just so happened to miss the assassin. Or when the injuries were severe and health poultices were gone, Morrigan only managed to supply enough mana to heal everyone except Zevran.

No, this had all started with that book. The old, leathery book that was bound in twisted branch patterns, and radiated the smell of cinders from Rhian’s hands, is what started the changes. Since then, Rhian saw Morrigan’s eyes melt in a way they never had, and she spoke quietly to her. She called her a novel experience- a friend, a sister. The elf’s heart leapt from her chest at the declaration, as the witch’s heart was becoming something new as well.

Since then the mages were often joined at the hip, even if Morrigan denied it upon Leliana’s teasing. Rhian felt a special bond growing between them, something that felt earned and special.

Then one night, seemingly from the blue, Zevran approached her with a gift. It was a gift of gratitude, he claimed. He offered a token of appreciation and loyalty, and nothing else. Rhian grasped in the dark for a deeper meaning, and not only was she refused, but scorned. That was when she began to spend her fleeting hours of peace alone. Shortly after a few days passed, Morrigan approached her just as the elf had finished her dinner, smoothly striding across the grass directly to her friend.

“Warden, I wish to have a word with you.” The witch stated, fingers entwined, stopping in front of her tent.

“Of course. What do you want to talk about?”

“I do not wish to speak here. Come, walk with me so we may be away from prying ears.” Morrigan replied, gesturing to the thick woods parallel to their camp.

“Don’t go,” Alistair spoke up from the fire “she wants to get you alone so she can hypnotize you. Or turn you into a rabbit and eat you.”

“If there is anyone I would wish to hypnotize, Alistair, you would be my first choice. At least possessing you would mean we could go a night or two without listening to your incessant humor, or mouth-breathing. Though you need not worry about being devoured; as I imagine eating you would cause one to become deathly ill.” Morrigan retorted without missing a beat.

Zevran chuckled from his tent, and Morrigan shot him a sharp look from across the fire. Rhian didn’t bother to look up at him, instead walking into the shrubbery with the other mage in tow.

The forest was pitch black aside from the glowing orb Morrigan had summoned on their trail. It unnerved Rhian to be unaware of her surroundings, as she had a hard time seeing even in daylight. Morrigan peered down at her, brightening the light over her hesitant movements.

“Do not be so frightened. Nothing will attempt to harm us here.” Morrigan assured with more confidence than the elf was willing to believe. The witch walked forward through the night, with no sense of alertness or fear to be had. Rhian broke the silence to settle her nerves.

“You said you turned into animals often when you were a child. Are you able to sense what creatures are out here because of that?”

“Becoming a beast does not make you omniscient.”

The answer did nothing to assure Rhian, so she stepped closer to the other mage and her hypnotizing glow. But she smiled suddenly, turning to her.

“Oh, I always wondered; can you turn into a giant bird like Flemeth? Or a dragon?!” Rhian asked almost too excitedly, her black eyes lighting up.

Morrigan let out a quiet laugh, and Rhian almost didn’t catch the rare expression before receiving her answer.

“I have never attempted such a form, for I see no use in it. My reason for such transformations was to hide in plain sight, amongst the wilderness and the village. I use them to observe and become part of the world around me, so I may study them at a safe distance. To become a giant, flying creature –such as Mother prefers- would be counterintuitive. She always had a flare for the dramatic.”

Rhian pouted, disappointed she wouldn’t be getting a ride on a mythical beast into the starry sky. But she enjoyed the witch’s presence nonetheless, trailing beside her along the shimmering river that glittered with her light.

“And that’s what you always did?” the elf questioned “weren’t you lonely?”

“Loneliness was a luxury; it was not as you know it. When the greatest thing you have to fear lies within your own sanctuary, it does not act as a loss. It is a relief to grow amongst your own terms without feeling the anticipation of anger…or amusement.”

“I think I do know how that feels, a little.” Rhian replied, crushing down memories of the Circle before they ruined her night. She stopped suddenly when Morrigan turned to her.

“You are not in a place of isolation any longer. Danger may well be around us, but you do not have to go through perils alone…darkspawn or otherwise.”

Rhian paused for a minute, registering the woman’s words.

“Is this about Zevran?”

“It is about you. I was aware of the Crow’s intention from the beginning, but you are far too trusting. I knew one day he would turn his back on you, but I was not expecting it to be so personal.” Rhian’s eyes fell to the ground, and she held back the need to cry.

���To be given the mercy of his life by the very target he failed to erase, only to string you along? He is far more arrogant than I gave him credit for- though I am not surprised. Tis a man’s nature.”

“He didn’t string me along, he…I guess I was just feeling more about us, our thing than he was.” The elf sniffled, rubbing her nose with her sleeve.

Morrigan abandoned the orb to levitate in the air beside her, placing a hand on Rhian’s shoulders, eyes piercing hers. “I am not versed in expressing my concerns to others; but you need not hide to deal with your sorrows alone. I will not let a man make you feel as though you are not deserving of affection. Do not be afraid to speak with me. There is much else in the world with value than someone who is not worthy of you.”

Rhian’s cheeks dampened with tears and the crisp wind in the air, heart filling with both loss and relief. She opened her arms, a grasp in the dark once more, a silent plea. Morrigan embraced her, for the first time, a foreign gesture the witch would offer to no one else. She could feel the shorter mage smile against her, whispering a thank you barely heard over her muffled face.

Morrigan allowed Rhian to stay there as long as she needed, admittedly less than comfortable, but with a feeling of accomplishment. The elf lifted her head, a quirked smile on her lips, distracting from her swollen eyes.

“Hey, you said you didn’t want to be a bird or a dragon, but you fought with us as a giant spider. I guess your mother’s not the only one with a flare for the dramatic.”

Morrigan’s mouth gaped, offended by the comparison, sending Rhian into a fit of giggles.

“That is not the same thing!”

“Sure it isn’t.”

“Certainly not! I do not parade myself as display of power.”

“You're telling me a giant spider isn’t showing off?”

Morrigan huffed, and Rhian laughed as she pulled away, gathering her composure. She was still feeling the weight of sadness in her chest, as it displayed itself on her face.

“Come,” Morrigan faced the path ahead “was there not a question you had for me a few days ago?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah there was! When you lived in the Wilds, did the trees ever move?”

“Did the trees…ever move?”

“Or talk to you? When I was in the Brecilian Forest, there were these magic trees that would…”

Rhian recalled her memories of the Dalish camp and the werewolves to Morrigan as they moved farther away from the camp, leaving her troubles behind with it.

[sunflowersupremes]

Let’s Hang Out Sometime

Whumptober Day 1: Let's Hang Out Sometime Kinktober 2020: Foodplay, Bondage, Tickling

Series: Witcher in Quarantine

Read on AO3

“When I get my hands on you, boy, you’re dead.”

Dandelion snickered. He was shirtless, perched on a dresser halfway across the room, his cornflower blue eyes gleaming with mirth. “You’d have to catch me first,” he pointed out. “And I don’t think you’re getting out of here anytime soon.”

Geralt let out a huff. When he’d invited the man to live with him for the duration of the pandemic he hadn’t expected to wake up shackled to his own bed. Perhaps he should have, it was Dandelion after all. The singer was nothing if not a horny bastard. Ever since Dandelion had realized that Geralt’s senses ignored him - meaning he could sneak around the Witcher when he was asleep without waking him - he’d been talking about all the things he could do to him.

Geralt had thought it was a joke.

Apparently it wasn’t.

“You’ve made your point, brat,” he said sharply. “Now let me go.” One disadvantage of having a four poster bed was that there were four easy points to tie people to. Usually it was an advantage, since he liked tying Dandelion to them, but sometimes it was more of a problem when he found himself tied up.

“I don’t think I will.” Dandelion hopped off the dresser happily, bouncing across the room until he was at the foot of the bed. “Oh Geralt, I have so many ideas.”

“Unless they involve breakfast, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, well, I’m afraid breakfast will have to wait.”

“Just tell me you haven’t lost the damn key.”

That was when Dandelion made his error. Without seeming to realize what he was doing he patted his shirt pocket. Clearly that was where he’d stowed the key. Geralt pretended not to notice as the singer said, “Of course not, Geralt, what do you take me for?”

“A fool.”

Dandelion only laughed and waved his hand. “Geralt, don’t be absurd. I won, don’t you see? That means I’m in charge for the day and I get to do whatever I’d like to you.”

“Like what?” All he needed was to lure Dandelion closer to the bed.

The singer pursed his lips. “Anything I want,” he said haughtily. But he didn’t move closer.

“Planning to stare at me from across the room?” snorted Geralt. “Do enjoy that, Dandelion, and bring me some toast while you do.”

“I’m going to fuck you,” crowed the bard. “I’ve conquered a Witcher, I deserve my reward, don’t you think?”

“I suppose you’ve out bratted me, if nothing else.”

Dandelion stepped up to the bed, his eyes gleaming. “You’re only angry because I outsmarted you.”

As soon as Dandelion was close enough, Geralt wrapped his legs around the singer’s hips and twisted his lower body upwards.  The man went down with a yelp, falling face first into Geralt’s chest. It wasn’t hard to get the key after that, as Dandelion tried to get away he crawled over Geralt’s shoulders and the Witcher snagged the key, then knocked Dandelion down again, wrapping his legs securely around his neck.

Dandelion struggled and yelped, but he couldn’t do much with his face pressed into Geralt’s crotch. The Witcher unlocked the cuffs easily, then snapped them onto Dandelion’s wrists, leaving him in the same position Geralt had woken up in.

“Who outsmarted who again?” Geralt asked.

“Shit,” Dandelion grumbled. "Geralt my love, have pity."

Geralt made a point to put the key well out of Dandelion’s reach. “I’m going to eat breakfast,” he said irritably. “And when I come back, I’m going to take my belt to your ass.”

He made a point to take his time eating, knowing there was no way in hell Dandelion would get himself out of the cuffs (the bard periodically shouted at him. At first they were pleas for Geralt to come back, then it devolved into various insults when it became clear he wasn’t going to get his way).

Once he’d finished his meal he washed the plate and put it away. Before going back upstairs Geralt grabbed a glass of ice water and a fresh ginger root he’d bought the last time he was at the store. He liked making ginger tea, but there were other things he could do with it.

Dandelion was clearly pissed, when Geralt returned, thrashing about on the bed with a scowl. “You know it’s not safe to leave a partner tied up?” demanded the singer.

“You know I can hear your heartbeat from downstairs?” Geralt leaned in the doorway and began carving the ginger.

Dandelion squinted at him. “Geralt that had better not be what I think it is.”

Geralt took a bite out of an extra piece of ginger. Dandelion swore. “Geralt, I hate ginger,” he whined.

“What do you say if you want me to stop?”

“Red to stop, yellow to talk,” muttered the singer.

“What color are you?”

Dandelion sighed and looked away, his face red.  “Green.”

Geralt chuckled.

He dropped the ginger in the water and sat it on the bedside table, then sat on the foot of the bed and began easing off the sweatpants Dandelion was wearing. The singer put up a token fight, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. Soon, he was stripped nude, exposed for Geralt to enjoy.

“Lift your knees.”

“Make me.”

Geralt was happy to oblige. He grabbed the key from the dresser and unlocked the cuffs, then forced Dandelion off the bed. He bent him over the foot of the bed, shackling his wrists to the columns that rose from the base.

Dandelion swore and cursed the whole time.

“One of these days,” Geralt grumbled. “I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap.”

Dandelion snickered. “Fuck you, you cocksucker.”

“I wouldn’t talk like that when you’re about to get a spanking, Dandelion.” Leaving the singer tied in place Geralt fetched the ginger. He offered Dandelion the glass of water, helping him to take a few sips (he pulled a face a the slight taste from the ginger). Then he sat the water aside.

Dandelion wiggled as Geralt rubbed his thumb over his hole. “Relax boy,” he said. Using lube to get the ginger in would dilute the sting, which was the last thing Geralt wanted. The bard obediently relaxed his muscles, and Geralt was able to dip the pad of his thumb in after a few more strokes.

“Good boy,” he praised.

The singer squealed when the ginger entered him, even though Geralt doubted it had even started to burn yet. “Color?” the Witcher asked.

“Green.”

He patted his back and murmured a soft praise. Dandelion melted under the affection. Geralt took a leather belt off the hook by the closet, winding it a few times around his wrist, watching his partner as he did so. “Can you feel it?”

“Y- yeeess.”

Geralt slapped the belt over his ass and Dandelion yelped.

“Color?”

“Fuck! Geralt, I’ll tell you if it changes!”

“Color now, Dandelion, or we stop.” It was something he insisted on. Dandelion had a bad habit of letting lovers push him too far - it hadn’t ever happened with Geralt, but more than once, before quarantine, Geralt had been the one to patch him up after a scene went south (Dandelion refused to give Geralt the names of the partner who had injured him, but he suspected it was Valdo).

As a result, Geralt was hyper vigilant to know how Dandelion was feeling at all times (and, despite his protests, he knew the singer appreciated it). With something like ginger that he knew Dandelion was hesitant about to begin with, there was no such thing as being too mindful.  

“Green.”

“Good boy.” He struck the belt over his ass again, making Dandelion whine and pull at the cuffs.

Geralt peppered him with fairly gentle strikes, letting the ginger do the work for him. Every time he hit him Dandelion clenched around it, activating more of the burning sensation and yelped.

It was almost musical the way it played out. The belt would crack, Dandelion would jump, then he’d clench and yelp.

He kept the strikes uneven, keeping Dandelion off guard so he wouldn’t know what to expect. Soon the singer’s ass was a a light pink, just enough that he’d be hesitant to sit for the rest of the day.

Geralt took a step back and struck his belt firmly across the middle of Dandelion’s ass, far harder than the other strikes. Then he dropped his belt and rested his hand on the inflamed flesh.

Dandelion whined and sobbed, sniffling pathetically as his nose threatened to run. Geralt took pity on him and fetched him a tissue, helping him to blow his nose, then wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve.

“Are you angry with me?” Dandelion whimpered, peering up at Geralt through tear soaked lashes.

“No,” the Witcher promised. “No, Dandelion, I’m not cross. I’ll let you tie me up sometime, if you like, but don’t let me get the key next time.”

“I won’t.”    

Geralt kissed his cheek. “So what exactly where your plans, once you had me at your mercy?”

“I thought it might be fun to tickle you.”

He laughed. “Oh? Are you ticklish, boy?”

“No!”

Geralt’s eyes gleamed. He unlocked Dandelion’s wrists, then returned him to his place on the bed, sitting against the headboard with his sore, ginger filled ass pressed into the sheets. Then he locked the cuffs back where they’d started.

“Geralt!” Dandelion kicked his feet. “Don’t you dare! Geralt!”

The Witcher laughed as he hopped off the bed, opening the chest that contained Dandelion’s collection of sex toys. Sitting on the top, clearly intended for use soon, was a feather flogger.

“No!” shrieked Dandelion as the Witcher advanced on him, feathers in hand. “Mercy! Mercy!” He kicked his feet and pulled at the cuffs to no avail.

He sat on Dandelion’s legs to pin him, then slowly ran the feathers over his chest.

The singer squealed and shivered. “Geralt!”

“Color?” Geralt laughed.

“Green!”

He ran the feathers down the bard’s arm, then back up, rubbing it over his underarm. Dandelion struggled and gasped, grinding his punished ass into the sheets. Every touch of the feathers on his exposed skin brought equal noises of pain and pleasure.

Eventually Geralt grew bored of the feather flogger and tossed it aside. Instead he cupped Dandelion’s back and pulled him forward, pressing his face into his chest and blowing raspberries. Dandelion squealed and wriggled.  Geralt peppered him with kisses across his chest, then sucked gently on his nipples as his fingers tickled his sides.

Dandelion’s face was flushed red as his leaking cock, which jutted proudly against his stomach. Geralt gave it a few lazy strokes, just enough to get him to the edge, then resumed tickling him.

“Fuck you,” moaned Dandelion. Then, hopefully, he asked, “Fuck me?”

Geralt smiled and tilted his head, stroking hair out of Dandelion’s face. “I’m not interested in getting ginger oil on my cock.”

“Damn.”

Geralt slid his pants down enough to let his cock out, then grabbed lube from the beside table. Dandelion moaned in excitement as Geralt poured a bit onto his hand, then laid himself on top of Dandelion, pressing their cocks together. He stroked them both as he continued to kiss Dandelion, on the mouth this time. The singer returned his kisses greedily, leaving them both gasping for air.

As Dandelion neared his climax Geralt let go of him but continued stroking himself as the singer looked on in horror. “Geralt!” he wailed.

Geralt said nothing, coming with a groan and painting Dandelion’s stomach with spend.

“I earned this! Geralt! Touch me!”

The Witcher snorted. “No Dandelion, all you’ve earned is a cold shower.”

“Please, Geralt, please.”

Geralt pressed a kiss to his stomach, carefully avoiding touching his cock. “Color?”

“Yellow. I don’t like being cold,” Dandelion whined.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said, and wrapped his hand around the singer’s cock.

“I love you,” Dandelion moaned as Geralt began to stroke him. It didn’t take much for him to spill over Geralt’s hand with a loud cry. The Witcher offered his fingers to him and he lapped up his own spend greedily, sucking on Geralt’s fingers as he slowly drifted down from his postcoital bliss.

“Good boy,” Geralt soothed, swirling his fingers through Dandelion’s mouth. “Such a good boy.”

Once his hand was sufficiently clean he fetched the key to the handcuffs and released Dandelion, pulling him gently into his arms and rubbing his back.

[vetandready]

Anonymous Vet.

I just wanted to write somewhere what I was thinking about. And it feels like a lot.

I hope it gives a little insight to what it is like on the other side of the exam table at the veterinary office.

Today was another hard day at work. It was very busy, and I found myself being thankful for the 2 cancellations in the afternoon. We had four walk-ins to take their place. Not to mention, a technician is on a well-deserved vacation (staycation), but we also have another technician out sick - so this makes us short-staffed. In the morning when we walk in, there are three technicians, one receptionist, and a doctor to accommodate what I call the 10AM rush (along with whatever the rest of the day holds); typically, two scheduled doctor's appointments, one technician appointment, and three drop-offs (along with about 3-5 walk-in appointments show up calling at the same time which ties up the phone lines). You may think we are just overbooking ourselves, but we are booked out three weeks solid, AND STILL have people walking in to wait for the doctor or technician to see their pet.

I still have yesterday's lab works to call back and make communication with pet parents of all the sick dogs and cats that I saw the prior day. And when the lab work results come back from last week, this morning, I still have to review the medical history of those patients before I call the owners (because I saw maybe a hundred or more other patients since I last saw them). When am I going to see those drop off appointments? In between scheduled day appointments. I also must call every person and talk to multiple people on the phone.

My staff is busy the entire day also, answering phones and taking requests to book an appointment and answering random questions for the pet owner that just wants to know if their pet needs to be seen urgently for a freckle they just found on its rear end, and safely transporting patients to and from cars, comforting pets while samples are collected in the clinic, calling in prescriptions to local pharmacies, giving cuddles to the drop off patients (yes, they make time for that) while they take them out for potty breaks and stretches, taking medical histories over the phone for appointments, checking in appointments that have just pulled in and getting that new clients information entered into the system, and getting other tasks done in between.

 How is it that I still have people yelling at my techs over the phone for their hold time? And people who get frustrated because they had to wait 30 minutes to 3 HOURS to have their pet seen as a walk-in? Or those who feel the need to berate the receptionist who did not have the owner's flea prevention ready right when they called, but would not go ahead and pay before they arrived? Why are there those that question, jokingly, to me as the doctor, "when are you gonna start giving away free samples of one hundred dollar bills?" as if our services aren't valuable enough to them, for them to pay their bill with gratitude? Why do some people get upset when they cannot get in during our lunch hour? Why, during what you would think would be the hardest time for a pet parent, they still find it in themselves to be rude enough to bring a technician to tears?

My plea is this.

Please be patient when you must hold on the line, use that time to take a few breaths and be okay with slowing down. Please understand that we are doing our best to accommodate the walk-in patients. Please say "thank you" more often. And please be gentle to our staff, during a time that perhaps you need serenity as well - we all grieve for the loss of every patient, and do not take it lightly. We also have a great weight to bear with all the other expectations we are met with throughout the day up until that very moment.

Please continue to be the person who does not mind waiting patiently for five minutes on the hold line. Please continue to be the person who thanks the technician profusely over the phone for answering a few non-urgent questions. Please continue to ask inquiring questions, and really reap the benefits of what you are paying for. Please continue to come in for your pet's recheck appointments, and give the full course of antibiotics, and pay attention so we can work together when something goes awry with your pet. Please continue to be patient as a walk-in, and then thank us after you waited for three hours, for getting you squeezed in. Please continue to send us little snacks and cards as a token of your appreciation. Please continue to be patient and kind with us. Kindness breeds kindness. It gives us energy to continue moving forward and helping. 

At the end of the day, my stomach growls and I remember the snack I ate earlier while I had continued to work through my lunch hour. I am emotionally, physically, and mentally drained from the day. The highs of seeing a new puppy and sharing in the happy news of a pregnancy with some pet parents, and the lows of learning a referred patient did end up having bone cancer as I had suspected, having to deliver bad news regarding lab results, and having to help a patient peacefully pass - are all taking up space in my heart and mind. Before I get in my car, I remind my staff how much I appreciate their hard work, and then encourage them to have a relaxing day off tomorrow.

 We will do it all again on Thursday.

[ajokeformur-ray]

Pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie 🥰💕

 Summary: You are so tired. Nothing’s going right and when things go to shit, they really go to shit and you’re left breathless. Knowing is Arthur of your struggles, for he goes through many similar things, and he’s there with open arms, listening ears, and he’s ready to meet you in the middle with understanding and with love. You’re not alone, dearheart, not ever.

A/N: A personalised gift for @arthurskitten​; one of the sweetest, most kind and caring people in this fandom. I’ve been such a huge fan of your writing since the beginning and I just wanted to give you something which was just for you as a small token of my love and appreciation for you. I went through your blog, most notably your venting tag, and I pulled together bits and pieces so that I could make this as you as I could; you deserve nothing less! 💖🥰  I hope that you enjoy this, but if not, please don’t be shy to let me know and I’ll happily write you something else!💙

TW; mentions of (unspecified) traumas (canon compliant for Arthur), dissociation, insomnia and depression.

Word count: 2, 207.

Arthur knows everything about you. 

He knows your likes and your dislikes, your wants and your desires, your hopes and dreams, your wishes. your doubts and your regrets. He knows your insecurities and your nightmares, the best things which have ever happened to you... he knows things which you are only brave enough to admit in the dead of night and he knows how deeply and completely you love one another.

In short, he knows you like he knows the backs of his bruised, veiny hands.

Currently does Arthur lean against the archway which connects the kitchen to the rest of the cramped but cosy apartment. He is aware that this morning did you wake up feeling rather worse for wear, and though he wishes that he could cradle your very being in his hands and smooth away the crevices in your soul created by the things which happened to you across your life, he knows that he can’t, and so he must content himself with only loving you as hard as he can during every moment which the two of you are gifted with as a couple. As yet, he hasn’t ever broken his promise to himself, and never shall he, a determined being so full of love is he. There is a cigarette, half consumed, dangling gracefully between two of his fingers. Smoke rises into the air from the burning embers, and the tendrils curl around each other gently, dissipating just as you notice them. You long to similarly curl into Arthur, to become one with him so that never will the two of you be torn asunder.

It is a sentiment which Arthur echoes deep within his own soul. Now that he knows what life with you is like, he never again wants to know anything else. He has lived almost thirty six years without the light of your existence, without your love, and he doesn’t ever want to go without you again. This is another promise which he shall never break, a devoted soul is he. 

Arthur’s sea green eyes are fixed upon you. You are sitting on the worn sofa, a broken spring digging into your coccyx, though you take no notice of it, used are you to this sofa. Neither of you can afford to get a new one, you can’t even afford to put a deposit down on a new one, and you have grown apathetic to this physical discomfort. It couldn’t ever beat the discomfort of your mind, for one thing. Your eyes are on the television, but Arthur knows that look upon your visage. He knows that your body is here in the room with him and he knows that you are not. Your eyes are glazed over, so far away are you. As Arthur crosses the room does he wonder where you have gone, but he knows even without asking that he will be able to follow you. Similar are your experiences and Arthur is nothing if not sharp minded and willing to be his best self for you, even when he is exhausted mind, body and soul. 

Arthur sits down beside you and you blink, the sudden weight of his lithe form jolting you from your silent reverie. Some of the mist over your eyes dissipates as surely as the smoke coming off of the end of the now consumed cigarette does. Your clown will always pull you out of yourself as best as he can, using his own experiences to help you. He is almost grateful for his own pains and his own trials across his life, for they inexplicably have led him to you. Arthur bends the filter of the cigarette as he puts the smouldering end out, orange flecks quickly dying as they blend with the ash still in the tray; he has been slack on cleaning today, if only so that he can take care of you. He has found you now and proverbially does he bend over and take your hand as he pulls you up to standing from the carnage of your thoughts. He is with you and no longer are you alone. Arthur’s body is angled towards you so that you know that all of his attention is fixed on you. “What’s going on up there, Bunny?” Arthur’s soft, raspy voice is accompanied by the act of his thin lips, cool to the touch, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your temple, curious and concerned is he for his one and only person who understands him. You are in his space but no longer is he all alone and he never will be again. You are his everything, just as he is your everything; equal are the two of you in all the ways that you love each other.

You press your face into Arthur’s lips, wanting more of everything. Arthur’s breathy giggle tells you that he was expecting this, so affectionate a couple are you. He cups your face in his hands, his fingers splayed behind your ears so that he can touch as much of you as he can all at the same time, and he peppers your face in kisses. First your forehead as Arthur starts at your right temple and makes his way in a straight line to your left temple; then down your left cheek to your jaw. He pays extra attention to the corner of your jaw and his lips, warmed now by the heat of your face, his hands hot against your cheeks, and Arthur kisses along your chin up to your right temple. He finishes his pattern with a kiss to the tip of your nose. Your face is tingly with Arthur’s affections, your cheeks are burning deliciously under his touch as electricity is left in Arthur’s wake. With every kiss do you come a little bit more into yourself and Arthur coaxes you out of your own mind softly, tenderly. He knows how to do this well, just as you know how to do the same for him. You are safe in his hands, just as he is safe in yours.

Unsatisfied is he with your lack of a response and so Arthur says, “Come on, doll, talk to me.” You shift sideways on the sofa so that you are closer to Arthur and you turn your body to the side so that your knees are brushing against his own. Now are you nearly home. You are almost aching to feel as much of Arthur against yourself as you possibly can. He is your safe space, your joy and your strength, your reason and your purpose. You lean forward to rest your forehead against Arthur’s own and you can feel his skin crinkle beneath your own, so weathered is his face despite his own young age. Oh, how much comfort you find within him. You know it is because you are of a similar age and because neither of you had the chance to properly mentally mature as one of the consequences of the traumas which the two of you have gone through in your lives, and in this moment do you truly feel like you have found, at long last, your soulmate. In all your life, you have never found someone who connects with you on such a deep level, someone who understands you, someone who knows you and who loves you no matter what. Though the both of you struggle more than anyone should ever have to suffer, the both of you are also so deeply connected and so emotionally intertwined that sometimes you think that you are two halves of one coin, though indeed are you whole and complete people on your own. Arthur presses his forehead tighter against your own as once more does he capture your attention, and his oceans are wide open now. He is ready for you. “Please.”

This final plea, so desperate is Arthur to know what plagues you this day, loosens your tongue and through the haze of a mostly sleepless night do you manage to tell him about how badly your insomnia is affecting you, about how unrelentless your depression is becoming, and about how your overall mental health is on a steep decline. You are a fighter, you have had to be, and you are doing your absolute best, you tell him, and as your feelings spill from your lips like a waterfall is Arthur left in awe of you and of your continued strength. When at last have you finished telling him everything, you tell him your simplest, most important truth. It is the one thing which never leaves you no matter how heavy things become and always is it there for you to lean on and to depend on. “I love you so much, Arthur. It feels like everything is killing me but you keep me going and I... I want to be a good boyfriend for you. If I’m a good boyfriend then maybe I’m not too messy and I - “ You cut yourself off, having finally reached the point where your words run dry. There is nothing more to say and yet still is your mind somehow screaming at you while it is blissfully quiet.

Arthur coos in sympathy and his hands travel down your cheeks, down your neck and curves to the slopes of your shoulders. He is so confident in the way that he touches you but all the same does he avoid any areas which you don’t like being touched or areas which make you uncomfortable, so thoroughly and so completely does he know you. “I know what that’s like,” His voice is a breathy exhalation, so tired is he inside and out. He, too, suffers with insomnia and depression and it seems that the both of you have bad days together; it only makes you think that the two of you really are completely linked to one another, cut from similar cloth are you. “It’s okay to be messy sometimes. You’re human,” Arthur shrugs with one shoulder, his hands flexing comfortingly against your shoulders. His green eyes light up and he is quick to continue, “But, Bunny... you are a good boyfriend. You’re the best part of this shitty city, the best part of me, and I... I don’t want you to be any other way than how you are now, I - I love you.”

“I love you too, Arthur.” You smile sadly; there is always a bittersweet ache in your chest when you look at him, so beautiful and so ethereal is he. “You’re my safety.” You mean every word you say and you can never say it in such a way that you feel satisfied; never can you say enough how deeply and how unconditionally you love him and it is much the same for Arthur when it comes to you. You wonder how on earth you got so lucky that day and though you wonder what you did to deserve him, you also know that you will do that very same thing every day for the rest of your life if it means that you get to remain with the man who holds your heart in his weathered hands.

“I always will be, doll.” Arthur smirks, confident is he in his ability to be everything that you need for him to be, “You’re my one and only and you always will be. You’re my safe space, too, and I - I wouldn’t have anything to lose without you. You’re my Bunny, my home. I’m so proud of you.” The last sentence is a mere whisper, so shy is Arthur; changeable is he. You marvel at the duality of him and, oh, help you. That was everything you have ever wanted to hear from your Arthur and it is all you can do to keep yourself from pressing your lips to his again and again and again. You push yourself forward, chasing Arthur’s lips before they have even left your own, and Arthur hums against your lips as he presses forward into you. Oh, how stunning you are and so breathless is Arthur when he is with you. It seems as if every gift, every kiss which is bestowed upon you revitalises your soul and fills you with strength and with light. He grips at you with a gentle but a firm grip and with much fumbling and some awkwardness do you finally end up on Arthur’s lap, cuddled into him and completely surrounded by all that he is and all that he will ever be, and just as Arthur protects you from yourself does he also make sure that you know, beyond all shadow of a doubt, just how loved and cherished, wanted and needed you are.

You know that so long as Arthur is with you, you will make it through every rise and fall, every triumph and every fail, and no matter how scary and terrifying things become, you know that he won’t ever leave you. There is nothing Arthur won’t do for you, just as there is nothing you won’t do for him, and together are you the richest couple in Gotham.

Thomas Wayne could eat his heart out, for all you cared.

[e-outwiththeold]

”I love you so fucking much..” Death hadn't been what he'd expected. It did not come in the form of a warm embrace, nor in the form of his employer arriving to collect his damned soul. It was not quick, nor was it slow and steady. It was still, and unexpected, and compounded in emotions he could not begin to express. It was warm and cold and burning, frustrating and calm. He’d felt such great love and admiration, betrayal, understanding, and forgiveness. There was no light. Only the world around him, his world, fading until darkness consumed him. It was everything he deserved, and nothing. Gray Taylor had been a pariah. A creature of monumental errors and missteps alongside great triumphs and even greater failures. Very few appreciated his existence, and he certainly could never fault them for it. He preyed upon those less fortunate, raising them to great heights only to knock them down when they thought themselves to be Gods amongst men. It was cruel, and a choice he’d made for himself above all others. He lived in the past, carrying it with him as he brazenly walked into a predictable future that was unknown. He was a survivor. Only a young man when he was ushered into the Ghetto in the first wave, he'd done nothing to protect his family from their capture and subsequently slow torture. He hadn't fought to keep his mother and sister by his side when they arrived in Plaszow, nor did he try to get word to them within their expansive living grave. He thought of them, yes. He did not share the same desperation and hope as the others. He did as he was bid, burning the bodies of strangers that would later be known as victims of one of history’s greatest genocides. Only once it was too late did he sell the only thing that he could still call his own: his soul, for the survival of his family. As though they were an afterthought, Gray didn't know it was too late. It could be assumed, but he grasped at straws. He only knew his mother hadn't lived through it when the war was over, the camp was liberated, and he was reunited with his gaunt and sickly little sister. He never asked her what happened as he scavenged their way to health and safety. He never heard her tell the tale of how their mother caught death itself, and how Sarah awoke one morning in their crowded bunk to find their mother naught but a skeletal shell of the exceptional woman she'd once been, her corpse huddled against the girl’s back as if clinging to life lost. Sarah's choked sobs would never reach him, because he would never give her the chance to breathe life into them. He was a selfish man, no matter how desperately he tried to spin his vice into acts of selflessness. Gray took many friends over the course of his life, putting them before his remaining flesh and blood. A great many were mere stepping stones, while a few stuck with him, becoming a true piece of his history. Ra, the scarecrow of a man that he’d sworn to protect. So innocent and perfect, his death had ripped from Gray a piece of himself. He had to relearn everything, but not without protest. With Ra, went Sarah. Her blood would always be on this particular pariah's hands. Spring was an angry little woman. She had a foul mouth and a shit attitude, and scared the hell out of nearly everyone that she encountered. But he saw past her terrifying exterior, and just as she stepped into his life, she brought with her a whole family. With them came Autumn. His relationship with the fiery young woman was nothing short of heated and tumultuous. They were flame and ice and melted all that they touched. It was his first real jaunt in the realm of romance, and he’d been particularly horrible at it. She never asked him to change, never raised unrealistic expectations of him. She simply took all that she could get, and gave so much more. He ruined that, as well. Stubborn pride and fear pushed her away, and Gray paid the price. Even when presented the chance to apologize for his failure, he refused. It was Spring that gifted Gray with Jasper Thompson, as well. The furious young woman had a knack for bringing her friend to his knees, and Jasper definitely did just that. Their relationship had been pure passion. It was desire and want and a deep-seated need. It was Jasper that pulled from Gray just a few small words he'd never before dared to utter, and he held no shame for it. Despite their constant mutual dishonesty, they loved fiercely, crashing together again every time they fell apart. During this whirlwind, Spring died, too. It ruined Gray, and he was met with equal measure of support and seething hatred. It depended on the day and the source, but those who dared to question his dedication to Spring Summers were known. More than one person in his corner damned them and their ilk, though it brought him no comfort. Jasper had stayed with him through it all. He performed those sacred rites, and stayed close as Gray sung quietly her final passage, gifting her some bastardized version of the religion she had furiously claimed as her own. He wanted to blame Spring for taking Jasper away, though he knew the truth. Their demise was mutual, however differently driven. These losses stacked, cracking Gray beyond repair - and misery loves company. Another token of Spring’s generosity came in the form of a tall, dark, brooding man that could only ever be described as a human tornado. Victor made life hell for Gray, but with the very best of intentions. Where he was calculated and logical, Victor was irrational and quick to act. He might even call the man emotional, though such a claim would have been met with laughter or violence or both. They carried each other through their personal suffering, and came out on the other end with a fast and strong friendship. A brotherhood, in reality, as Gray could never really imagine a life without this monster in it. It lasted the test of everything and anything possible. In his misery, it was Jasper who gave Gray yet another undeserved gift, no matter how selfish he was in the giving. Claire, who selflessly welcomed Sarah back into his life. Claire was young and yet so very wise despite her short years. They were one and the same. Measured, careful, and cunning. She loved him in the way every older brother longs to be. Claire looked at him and he felt like her protector and guardian, a role model for one so inexperienced. Gray loved her like his. In doing so, he took for granted the very little sister who had been torn from the pits of Hell that he had condemned her to. Finally, his luck had turned and Bodhi Jones crashed into his life. Infuriatingly easy, hardly ever a quarrel between them, Gray fell fast and hard for the karmic man no matter how he tried not to. He fought it halfheartedly, constantly reminding himself of the last one he’d dared to love. But Bodhi gave him the gift of freedom, unconventional as it may have been. The push he needed, directive and clear in it’s message. It had been hard work on his part, and there was never any doubt in his mind that Bodhi had labored for their benefit just as much, if not more. He’d finally found his person. The one. The very air in his lungs and the beat of his heart. His world was allowed to revolve around his partner and Gray would thank God constantly for bringing them together. If only he were better versed, for Gray never felt as though Bodhi truly understood just how important and special he truly is. How could he ever properly explain to this wonderful man that he’d consumed and bettered Gray’s life, delicate and beautiful and dangerous as it was? It is all gone now, and there is not a chance to finally make himself clear. Gray has left them, though not by his own choice. He hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d begged for it not to be so, for more time so that he might truly live in the way so many desire but rarely accomplish. Countless meetings, hundreds of attempts to lengthen his life. He worked endlessly to undo the inevitable. He bartered and bargained and denied his grave away until it was thrust upon him by an unlikely hand. His last breath had been a plea for more, and despite the comfort that was offered to him, Gray Taylor left the world with fear and regret. There were so many things he’d never done, and opportunities he’d been too blind to see. He’d taken so much for granted… and now, he is stood in the back of a theater as he watches those last moments of his life from the perspective of the audience. He sees the way Bodhi breaks and the way his exit from this life only seemed to make things all that much worse for his sweet partner. There are tears and words lost to the universe, and Gray nearly drowns in the tidal wave of his husband’s sorrow. The screen goes black, the theater dark as it’s small audience sat in solemn silence. He needs to go back. It cannot end this way. This is just a bad dream, just like every other that haunted his nights up until now. “Bodhi,” he whispers, eyes stinging as he wills himself to wake up. He moves to make his way out only to find no doors. Gray turns to find one of the audience looking at him expectantly, his name upon their lips. Like looking into a warped mirror, those steel hues lock onto the familiar face and he feels the weight of his life settle down upon him like heavy iron chains and shackles. That life, named for so many, blanketed with a longing for the one person who managed to truly see him. Gray needs him. Bodhi needs him. Just as he begins to shake his head, the screen lights once more with a flickering countdown, and Gray watches on. Bodhi isn’t there. No one is. He isn’t sure how long he has been sitting in this theater. It feels like years, though it has clearly been days. He’d been slow to come to terms with his situation, hesitant to take a seat amongst this tiny sea of viewers when he knows what he needs to do is leave. Perhaps a dozen men and women surrounding him, at best. They’d clearly made themselves comfortable, but Gray is on the edge of his seat and dreading every minute of this. While they laugh and cry and everything in between as life unfurls before them, he remains stoic and disturbed. There is somewhere he needs to be, and someone he needs to see. A woman sat next to him had looked at him at some point, welcoming him and giving her name. “Rebecca. Rebecca Benson,” she’d proudly said. She expressed her pleasure at finally meeting him, and her sorrow at his passing. She had come just before him, she explained. Could hardly believe how long he’d lived and all he’d survived. What a love he shared, she practically swoons. Gray lowered his gaze, feeling the harsh pull of grief beg for him to stand and move despite knowing he couldn’t hope to go far. His jaw clenched, shoulders tight as it all became too much for him to bear. Rebecca took notice of the way he shut down, offering a supportive hand upon his arm before motioning to the screen with a hesitant, Cheshire smile. She has grey eyes much like his own, but they aren’t stormy; Hers are warm like mist in the early morning on a hot summer day. Whomever she had been, she must have been great. He feels comfortable in her presence, the desire to ask about the one he’d left behind strong but strictly held back. What good would it do to ask about the past? That is not where his interests lie. She watched in silence with Gray as the young woman upon the screen carried on, and it was only once he relaxed back in his seat that he finally opened his mouth to question it all in a measured fit of impatience. She’d been waiting for this. Called it completely normal, assured him they’d all gone through it, though none had taken it quite as hard as he has. “This is it,” she’d smiled. The afterlife. The truth of it. She is him, as is everyone else seated in this theater. And the girl on the screen - that is them, now. Then, she frowns, leaning in to whisper as though the others might be unhappy with her for sharing whatever it is she desires to tell him. “This has never happened before, though…” This is a new, but not fresh. This woman is perhaps in her mid-twenties, her life already well begun. She is English, but she lives in Rome. Works at a bookshop. No significant other to speak of, but is close to the owner, a portly, older man with a round nose and crinkly eyes. They seem to have a weekly ritual, dinner every Thursday evening and a bottle of wine. His wife passed away a few years ago, and his son is off doing god knows what, so she has stepped in to fill the void of loneliness. Cagey as his counterparts are, whispers are abound but no questions raised. Nothing of theirs is shared. Not those grey eyes, nor that wide, charming smile. Not their sandy hair, nor the air of confidence they each carry in their respective fashion. No quick wit, certainly none of that almost crazed cunning. None of this mattered to Gray. What mattered is that he has yet to see a single familiar face. He can feel his anxiety building, his fingers almost constantly fidgeting and moving to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves. No Spring. No Autumn. No Jasper. No Claire. No Sarah. No Victor. No Bodhi. Are they still alive, or are they in Hell or some random theater watching their own lives flicker upon a screen like a feature film? On the fourth day, the shop owner passes away, setting the scene for a downward spiral. While they all feel for the girl, there is no camaraderie, as Rebecca would call it. Gray can only think about how long he has been sat in this chair and wonder at where his person is now. Is he safe? Is he okay? Is he healthy? Is he taken care of? Is he taking care of himself? God, does he think he’s been forgotten? As if Gray could ever forget him. Of all the things he’s forgotten and likely going to forget, there is no part of Bodhi that he could ever displace. He just needs to get out of here. He has never heard of a layer of Hell quite like this one, but he would absolutely put money on it being the worst of them. By the time the old man is buried on the seventh day, this particular young woman can only be described as deeply troubled. The shop is open, left to the son who has yet to show his face. The young woman has little to no support as she goes through the motions and does all she can to keep things moving. Several times a day, she watches as a customer exits empty handed before doubling over in her grief. Gray almost feels sorry for her. He would, truly, if he wasn’t swimming in his own heartbreak. Thursday evening, she cooks their meal. Spaghetti and meatballs, the same as last week, as is their apparent tradition. The table is set for two, and two glasses of some labelless wine poured, and only one plate is set. She dines alone in silence, finishing off her drink and barely touching the feast before her. His glass meets her lips, as well. Then the bottle. She falls asleep at the table, her head rested upon folded arms. The next morning, it starts all over again. She wakes, she opens the shop, she tends it. It is after she closes for lunch that she steps out into the street and finds herself colliding with a car driven by a careless youth. There, in the corner of the screen, in the last moments of her life… Gray sees it. That very face he has been searching for, a familiar look upon him. The expression Bodhi has whenever he loses control and his nature reigns supreme, but the light is faded from those warm hickory hues. His person is empty, broken and without. It is as if they are staring at one another. He swears they are, swears that Bodhi sees him in that moment where the veil between life and death is so thin that it might just allow for a glimpse into the other side. Gray pulls himself to his feet as if such movement alone would break the man from his trance and they might find one another again. Bodhi’s name is upon his tongue, and he is desperate for this moment. The theater goes dark, pulling from Gray a tortured growl of a hum. And then, an exit sign flickers at the front corner of the theater. Gray glances at Rebecca before the others. None seem to notice, and none of them move. They simply sit, waiting for whatever comes next. As if this stranger they’d just watched die would show up in their theater, despite them knowing there is no way that it is them. Gray is a selfish man. He always has been, and he always would be. He is selfish because he loves deeply, and desires greatly. Thus, he moves, catching the attention of those around him as he walks toward this gift of freedom. This is it. This is the second chance he’d desired, the time he’d begged for, the very thing he’d attempted to buy but could never afford. How could he not take this opportunity? On the other side of that door, he might just be there, waiting for him. He could lay eyes upon that perfect face once more, and everything would be all right again. So he does. He walks through the door, and instead of grey hues opening to the world it would be pale emerald. It would be pain and fear and confusion. Yelling, talking, and sirens fill the air with clattering noise. Warm, dark eyes would be the only thing that stands out in the swimming surroundings. It would not be Gray Taylor, but instead the very person he’d just witnessed expire by his person’s hand. His second chance is here, but he would never know it. Meet Emma Foster.

@b-thecourageofstars