#pointedness

[chronomally]

It's been interesting to read how Clytemnestra's love for Helen slowly becomes warped as her grief and rage start to take over during the 10 years of the Trojan War and now, as Cassandra is about to be taken to Mycenae, Helen tries to reassure her that Clytemnestra is kind, but both Cassandra and the audience know that the person Helen knew no longer exists

[livingwellnessblog]

The ego, and divine consciousness as told by the Ramayana. (How to work with the ego in manifesting and spirituality)

The ego, and divine consciousness as told by the Ramayana. (How to work with the ego in manifesting and spirituality) A thread ⬇️

HANUMAN CHALISA & the ego “People don’t know,  every line of the Hanuman Chalisa is a mahamantra. “ – Sri Neem Karoli Baba In the Ramayana, the exiled Lord Rama and his wife, Sita, take refuge in the forest. They are living happily as hermits when the demon king of Lanka, Ravana, discovers them and abducts Sita, beginning a great war. As with all great parables, the surface level of the story…

[nouearth]

let me in.

peter parker x male reader.

summary: peter struggles to balance between life and work, and it's ruining his relationship with you.

wc: 6.6k. genre: smut. warnings: andrew!peter, college au, established relationship, brief fighting, brief injury and blood mention (nosebleed), misunderstandings, peter reveals his identity, dry-humping, over the pants (or suit) handjob, body worshipping, lots of sweat, fingering, frotting, riding, spandex fetish, reader has a thing for peter in his spider-man suit!

You were starting to feel antsy. You could feel it—the nerves kicking in again. Anticipation—a suspension of doubt—made your hands clammy at first, but it was the time that made your hands clutch nothing but air. You rubbed the sweat off your hands onto your pants, your knees not so comforting with their pointedness.

Acceptance—when it was evident that Peter was late, again.

Birthdays have never been a big deal in your family. Sure, it was great that you had the privilege to live another year. To witness yourself grow older, to stand a few inches taller, to live a little more knowledgeable than yesterday. But growing up with parents who had to constantly work, well-late into the depths of night, it had never been more than a birthday wish that had greeted you in the mornings, and bid you slumber in the evenings. Since then, you knew not to expect anything.

If only Peter hadn’t made such a big deal out of it this year.

“Excuse me?” The familiar timbre of a voice speared your thoughts; deep and tunneling as you were transfixed on the glasses of water before you. Yours had been refilled, though a little sparse compared to Peter’s full cup.

Your eyes widened with feigned curiosity, a small smile plastered alongside to hopefully negate any annoyance from the waiter—because you expected what he was about to follow up with.

“Hey… uh,” he shifted on his feet awkwardly, eye bags weighing heavier than the last time he had checked up on you. You looked around, surprised by the amount of patrons who had filled the space around you while you were daydreaming. Laughter and smiles completely lit up the room. The dim lights were practically stationed in the restaurant for decoration, and seemingly to spotlight your ‘dinner for one’ status. “I’m sorry, but… we have no more tables to fill, and if you aren’t ordering soon, then we’ll have to give your table up for the next party...”

It was obvious that you weren’t, you hadn’t even torn into the buttery bread rolls that were piping hot forty-five minutes ago. Now, the fat had solidified into spotty, yellow clumps, though you doubt that would’ve been enough to detract from the quality of the rolls.

“Oh, I—“ You pulled out your phone to check your messages again. Nothing. Swiped down to refresh your conversation with Peter. The loading icon felt like it took forever, you half-expected that your phone was updating the thread with Peter’s messages that somehow got lost in the void of the restaurant’s spotty signal. 

And nothing.

“I—yeah… uh. I-I’ll head out.” It was embarrassing. Even if the waiter had given you a sympathetic smile, you hated knowing that you wasted his time. You hated that you selfishly occupied a seat when someone else would’ve been done with dinner by the time you exited. 

“Thanks—” 

You hated that you had your hopes up for things to be different.

Again.

The night was dreary. Not even the wind had greeted you like the others when you stepped out. Soft and fluttering against your skin, but scolding enough to make you put your coat back on. Luckily, your apartment wasn’t too far from the restaurant, a fifteen minute walk at most if you speed-walked. Shoving your hands in your coat pockets, you then ambled along the sidewalks, wallowing in your feelings with a playlist that belted in your ears once you plugged your earbuds in. 

You didn’t have the energy left to hurry home.

Once you crossed the last intersection, you felt a little bit more at ease. Seeing the familiar apartment complex at the end of the block picked your pace up a step more. You paused your music once you neared the entrance, just a turn away before you could finally bury yourself in your bed. 

You reached into your pocket to grab your wallet. The weight in your palms instantly reminding you to deposit the cash tips sometime soon before the stretch of the leather had become unbearable to fit in your pocket. 

Your walk slowed as your attention was fixated on your wallet, fumbling it open clumsily to retrieve your keycard. In midst, you caught a glimpse of a photo print of you and Peter, standing shoulder to shoulder with the biggest grins as Peter had a peace sign above your head, doubling as bunny ears. Honeymoon phase, they’d call it. Where you were beginning to discover more about Peter, and Peter was beginning to discover more about you. Likes. Dislikes. Hobbies. Memories. It felt like yesterday when you two were spending every second of your day with each other. 

Now, it would be a miracle if Peter returned a call.

With the keycard in your hand, you turned the corner, and towards the entrance, the smiles from the photo print reflecting onto yours as you could vividly hear Peter’s pleas to retake them again. The flash of the cameras always made him blink.

If only you had been focusing on where you were going instead of the still image of the first memory between you and Peter, maybe you could have avoided the collision altogether when you approached the door. You suddenly found yourself on your back, facing the night sky as clusters of stars twinkled in laughter. There was a slight throbbing to your forehead, a mark you’d reckon would appear as purple within the next 12 hours despite the painless… pain.

“Oh god— I’m so, so, so, sorry! Let me—“ If the beating your face took to the door hadn’t snapped you back to reality already, the familiar face before you certainly pulled you out of your thoughts like whiplash once he helped you back onto your feet. Your vision instantly cleared of haze, as if his simple presence was your remedy.

“(M/N)?” Peter interrupted himself, his eyes widening. You could see the wheels turning in his head when the dim light spotlighted your features: eyes, nose, lips; flesh and bone that he was well-acquainted with.

“Peter—“ You took a moment to scan him. It was like all the other times he had been late. His fringe; stuck to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and water, the latter being a last resort to clean himself up. His knuckles; bruised and torn with minuscule cuts barely able to conceal the truth behind his scars. His necktie; clumsily done with the knots coming loose. Though, whether the silk unfurled by Peter’s own sloppiness, or by the increasing frailty of his fingers that had become susceptible by even the most delicate material of neckties; it was futile to mention it to him. You knew he’d shut you down with another excuse.

“W-what are you doing here? Are you okay? I-I’m so sorry—I was on my way to you and—Oh god, you’re bleeding!“ Breathless, panting, not only because he was panicking from running late. 

But because of adrenaline. You could see it in his eyes. The alertness. The high.

“What—“ You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, only to see a smear of blood blotted across your skin. “Shit.” 

Another thick drop splattered in greeting.

“Peter, it’s a nosebleed. You’re acting like I had my arm chopped off or something.” You’ve been applying pressure to your nasal bridge, pinching it tightly to barricade the stream of blood. All while you had your head tilted over Peter’s sink, in case of the blood leaking past your hold. “And how long does it take to find a cotton ball?”

“I’m trying—“ His one-sided game of hide and seek with the bag of cotton balls was leaning in favor of the latter. Medicine cabinet: empty. Bedside drawer: foreign coins and bills. You were watching him from the corner of your eye, a small limp to his step when the lightbulb seemingly lit up overhead and had him dashing towards the kitchen. 

“Found it!”

Peter’s touch was delicate. Tender, like the forming bruise on your forehead. He was adamant on taking care of you, even if frankly—you would’ve done it much faster had it been a solo endeavor. Cotton balls were plugged up into your nose, and a warm face towel was laid across your forehead. If an intruder had the audacity to rob Peter’s apartment, you’d imagine you would find yourself lucking out. Peter joked that you looked like patient zero.

“All done. See? Nothing to cry about.” He was joking again, the smug smile across his face a clear indication of it—and the laugh that he couldn’t help but contain.

“Ha. Ha. Thanks, Dr. Parker. Now, how much do I owe you? I’m paying outta pocket.” For a brief moment, you forgot that you were upset earlier. All because of how nice it was to actually see him again. He pressed a kiss to your lips, a comforting gesture if his constant apologies weren’t enough. Stay focus. 

“So, about dinner…”

“Oh,” Disappointment softened Peter’s smile. You could see it tightening, even as he was organizing his room. Though, it was really a matter of tossing his clothes on the floor back into the laundry basket. “Listen, my… bike got stolen and—“

“Peter…” You sighed, pinching your nose bridge because you feared another avalanche of a nosebleed incoming. That, and because it helped you maintained your composure. “You said that the last time. Three times, actually.”

“Third time’s… the charm?” He was joking. Again. But even he wasn’t laughing at it because he’d been cornered. Called out. Embarrassed that he thought that would even work on you. Embarrassed that he thought he could get away with it. 

Again.

“Peter.” You called out, straightening your posture against the headboard of the bed when he sat at the end of the mattress. Shit, it’s happening.

“I… I don’t know how to…” The veins in his hands, they lined perfectly to the cuts, scrapes, and bruises on his knuckles. Clear as day now that he wasn’t hidden under a dim light. “I just…”

He had his hands around his face, rubbing his temples, his cheeks, his nose, anything that could alleviate the accelerating drill of his heartbeat. 

You were hopeful to get an answer out of him. A proper explanation. But it pained you, knowing that in a few seconds—what he would tell you would only confirm your yearning suspicions of his strange behavior.

He doesn’t love you anymore. He’s cheating. You’ve become a nuisance, an absolute bore in his life. Actually, you’re a bad influence on him. You’re holding him back. He needs to let go of you to accomplish better things. He never loved you.

It’s happening. It’s fucking happening. All he has to do is say those words. The dreaded five words you’ve heard once from him in a nightmare.

I want to break up.

“If you want to break up, just say it.” 

It sounded softer in your head, but the tears that had welled in your eyes finally bursted into droplets. They ran down your cheeks, and your voice broke during its pursuit. 

Something commanded you to let those words slip out. 

Maybe it was the ghost that you and him had been theorizing about since the night you’ve helped him move into the apartment floor above you. Carrie; you nicknamed her, and Peter would scold you for doing so because he had the suspicions that giving her a backstory would ultimately reassess his home as a possessing ground. To this day, he swore he saw a shadow looming in the corner of his room on a perfectly stormy night.

Or maybe it was the months of frustration that you had accumulated, snowballed because of your own selfish reasons to continue being with Peter for as long as you could, even if you saw the signs, because you couldn’t bear to see yourself without him. Live, when you two had promised so many futures together.

“What? No, (M/N), that’s not—“ He jolted up at the mere mention of separating from you. There was a chill. The room suddenly felt colder, and then warmer—scorching hot, when the glossiness of your gaze reflected into his. He began joining you by your side. “Hey, hey, I would never—“

He broke into a cold sweat. He’d never seen you like this. And to think that he was the root of this—of your pain—it was all overwhelming.

“Peter, there’s always something going on with you. Y-you don’t text me for days. You ignore my calls. You disappear without telling me. You’re always late. And… you’re always hurt? And you think that I’m dumb enough to not notice that you aren’t? How you’re limping? How you’re always bruised and—For god’s sake, Peter, I’m just as smart as you, we have the same GPA and—“ You took a breather, a gulp because you were rambling now. Your cheeks felt hot, from your sudden outburst and from embarrassment, because the latter half of your rant immediately negated the idea of some kind of affair.

“Okay, maybe you aren’t cheating, but—“ You felt him tug you into his arms, but you wouldn’t budge. Instead, you pushed away, edging to the other side of the bed to face him.

“I would never.” He sighed, his arms dropping as soon as you removed yourself from his embrace. 

“Then what is it? You’re leaving me in the dark here. I barely see you anymore, you know that?”

“I know.” He was biting his lips. Chewing, as if he was internally debating something. A decision that could either ruin you, ruin him, or both.

“Then?”

You waited. Watched his fingers fiddle with one another as he continued turning the screws in his head. Your heart would jump whenever he would open his mouth, anticipating whatever had caused so much turmoil in his life, but there was a last minute decision that kept him silent.

Crickets.

Nothing.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re doing. But you’re getting hurt and I’m just… worried.” Your gaze dropped to his hands again. Pale, veiny, and full of life yet they’ve looked like they’ve been worn out. Torn. “At least tell me it’s not gambling.”

“Well—in a way with my life, it kind of is like gambling—“ He thinly smiled, hoping it would at least make you crack a smile.

“Peter!” You scoffed, nudged his side with your elbow out of frustration, then surrendered when you brought your knees up to your chest, and buried your head in between your knees. “Not funny.”

“Okay, okay, just… you can’t tell anyone.” His voice softened.

“We all know that between you and I, you’re the one with the running mouth.” Your voice muffled in the space between your legs, hands tucked around your nape.

“I’m serious, (M/N)” Pleading now, he held your hand in hopes to get ahold of your attention again, squeezing so you’d look at him. You do.

“I won’t tell.” It was a promise. Peter didn’t need you to clarify because he could see it in your eyes, honest and sincere. Determined, as if you were willing to protect him.

“Okay… and also, don’t… freak out.” Peter was off the bed now, wandering in the middle of his room as he rolled his shoulders back, relaxing the muscles in his back like a wrestler preparing for his next fight. He gestured for you to follow him out to the stairway, out into the cold. 

“Why would I freak—“ There was something around his wrist. No, wrists. You thought they were watches, but there were two devices around him. They were strapped with a similar black leather to your wallet, to Peter’s, and a red button protruded in the middle of it. “Peter, what are you—“

You stopped a few feet before Peter, watching him closely, yet afar. Afraid, yet intrigued. Concerned, because he was on the ledge of the staircase now, perched like an animal. Yet there was a grin on his face. Not crazed like a madman considering he was acting like one, but foolish. Goofy, giddy like the times he’d hide stuff from you, and wait until you’d notice it was gone.

“Like I said, don’t freak out.” 

“Peter, what are you even—“

With that, he opened his arms like wings that spanned across his back and flipped into the air as if the wind would carry him across city to city. As if he was recruited as a sponsor to the heavenly gods with the incredible height he’d taken off in, pursuing the clouds, the wind, the stars, and the night simultaneously all in multiple slings.

Into. The. Air.

Into the fucking air.

You raced forward with a yelp, as if you would’ve made it in time to catch him. To catch his hand before he fell. To hold him one last time before he’d land on the ground and shatter every bone in his body.

If he had landed. 

No, you blinked once—twice—no, at least in the double digits because this was all a dream. It was all a dream, right? That you caught a glimpse of Peter somehow slingshotting himself from window to window, from rooftop to satellite, like it was a mundane day job one had to endure to put food on the table, to pay the bills.

Right?

You paced around the stairs, raced towards one floor to another, bending over the railings because—Peter disappeared. He was gone. If he had smashed into something, you would’ve heard him. You would’ve heard him in yelp in pain. You would’ve heard the metal railings shake. You would’ve heard him cry for help. 

Instead, you heard the sound of wind. Whistling as it sailed leaves to the west of you. 

As if it carried a hint along the way.

“Peter?! Peter—Fuck, fuck!” You followed the sound of the whistle. The source of the pitchy sound. Fluttering when your head spun closer to the note, wavering when you were getting colder, then peaking when your gaze lifted, higher, and higher, until it landed on him.

Peter.

Peter, perched over the rooftop of the apartment complex like a bug. The moonlight framed his silhouette, emphasized the texture of his suit; protruding grids that encased him like a nest; and you’ve never been more intimidated. 

Red and blue spandex tightly-fitted over the muscles and body of the man you have been more than well-acquainted with. You’ve seen it before. It was familiar. On the news, on the papers, on the internet.

“You’re freaking out!” He yelled out, clearly amused in your frozen state of shock.

He peered over at you with a smug grin, aimed directly at your bafflement before pulling a mask over his head. It was the icing on top in rendering you utterly incapable of stringing up any words. The lens of his mask reflected off of you, mirrored your astonishment in clear display, and you sensed that would be a memory Peter would be carrying to his death bed.

“What. The. Fuck.”

“Okay, so, just to clarify,” You were winded, still recovering from the heart attack Peter had nearly given you after he took you on for a stroll in the night. Into the sky.

Luckily his bed was right beside you. As soon as your legs gave out, you fell back into his mattress, and stared into the ceiling, speechless. Peter joined you after, bringing you into his arms. He’d always been aware that touching you in any way or form brought you back to reality. “You are… not a cosplayer?”

“Honestly? That would make me way more money than what I’m making right now.” You couldn’t keep your hands or eyes off of him. Peter was still in his suit, and that gave you the perfect opportunity to run your hands over the webbed texture of the spandex.

“Just a few more months until my lease is up. I can move in, and that’ll help with the rent. For both of us.” It felt like silicone, or rubber. Whatever it was, it was durable considering how thin it felt in your fingers when you rubbed it in between them.

“Just like that? You’re not mad?” Your hands came to a halt when Peter suddenly took them, and rested your palm on his cheek, coincidentally on the cut that you’ve never noticed. 

“Why would I be mad?” Quieter. Your voice mellowed into a whisper as you catalogued the amount of beatings his skin had taken. Caressed the marks you were too selfish to notice. Exhaustion wore on his face, and yet he never looked so peaceful as he gazed into your eyes. 

Pretty eyes, Peter thought. Ones that could motivate him to get back up after falling. That feels nice, when you pressed a kiss to his damaged skin. A touch that made him believe there was a reason to suffer, to be great, to be all of this.

“Well, for starters, it’s your birthday and… I completely blew it.” Peter closed his eyes when you began brushing his hair back, knotted in cold sweats, but you fanned your fingers out to undo them until they felt somewhat tidy in your strokes. Smooth and soft. He sighed, “Again.”

“Can’t entirely blame you. How would I look if I were to complain about missing you, when you’re out there risking your life for everyone?” It wasn’t a question, but you wanted him to look at you. To respond. And he does, when you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, and he returned it with a silken one, a following grin. “All I wish for was that you told me sooner, I guess.”

“Yeah,” He figured he’d save the details of the ‘friends’ he had made along the way some other time. For now, it was all about you. “Wow, you’re not even going to wish for me to be safe?”

“Hey, you know what I mean! That’s a given.” You rubbed at his chest, finding yourself quickly accustomed to the scales of his costume. The red was striking against your palms, comforting almost. 

“Still. I want to hear you say it.” Peter rolled onto his side and slipped an arm under your back, scooting closer to you. His signature goofy grin never failed to knock a similar one out of you. And unwillingly drawn out, when he began pinching at your sides in quick snips.

“Stop—“ You laughed, your hands occupying themselves to defend your body from his quick attacks. But Peter was fast, avoiding your arms and hands to find another opening that you’d abandon. “Stop, stop! Stay safe! Happy?!”

Closer and closer, you found yourself beneath him, framed by his body as he took your arms above your head and pinned them secured with his tight grasps.“Incredibly.”

Your legs spread open to make room for his body, only for Peter to wrap them around his waist, to press his body into you, kissing you like he was driven to steal your breath.

“This your way of making it up to me?” You broke apart from the kiss, only briefly, before the taste of Peter, the softness of his lips reeled you back in for another kiss. Languidly paced until one’s accelerating lust for one another had taken ahold of the wheel and shifted gears, into a weightiness that kept your mouth parted open while Peter’s impulse to explore you had become evidently clear.

“Problem with that?” He’d been driving his hips into you, grinding his front with your own. Both clothed, infuriatingly covered, but the pressure in between your bulge and Peter’s was too pleasing to ignore. Too satisfying to make him stop. “I should take this off—“

“No, wait—“ You grabbed his forearm when he reached back to unzip his suit. To be honest, you never thought about how he even got in or out of the suit in the first place, but that was beside the point. Something about this suit, this costume, whatever you wanted to call it; it was a turn-on. 

The way it fit snug against Peter’s body; how every fiber of muscle was stretching the material to its limit. Maybe you were just turned on because you associated it with him being a hero. For god’s sake, that was as much of an aphrodisiac one could be if you happened to be saved from a falling tower. 

Or maybe, it was simply how Peter looked in it. Unabashedly handsome, yet himself, seemingly courting you further into his webs, as if he hadn’t already from day one.

“Keep it on. I like it.” You muttered, fiddling with the collar of his suit. It was snapped on tight, but you managed to slip a finger or two past, to pull at it with a stretch.

“Then how are we going to…” He abandoned the few inches he had unzipped, providing a small relief to the squeeze around his body while his broad back was bare and tense towards the ceiling. 

“Then, you’ll take it off. But for now, I just want to…” One hand was on his nape, pulling him down for another heated kiss, while the other traveled south between your body and his. Further, lower, until you cupped him at his crotch. Rubbing, squeezing, and palming at the thick, growing center. “Want to try something…”

You could feel him smiling, a crooked one flattened against your own grin when he whispered, “I should’ve told you sooner, shouldn’t I.”

“You think?”

You were getting harder, your pants beginning to tighten around the center as you palmed him. It was a heavy handful in the beginning, but Peter’s bulge began to unfurl. It didn’t take long, didn’t take much of a stroke for him to unravel from his tuck and thicken into a full-blown erection towards the left side of his thigh. It pointed downwards, the plump head evident through his suit, and you were beginning to drool in Peter’s mouth at the haziest image of it.

“Come on, I need to get out of this… It’s killing me.” It wasn’t like Peter to beg. It was charming, cute, sexy, all the synonyms that could describe how you felt all day and every day about him, and you squeezed, because he wasn’t being patient with you.

“Birthday boy gets what he wants, don’t you think?” He winched into your mouth, and you swallowed him. Swallowed every ounce of breath, and breathed it back out with a kiss. Sloppy, heavy, your tongue weighing on his because you wanted to keep his lips apart, mouth open to hear his moans.

Peter grunted again once you began stroking his cock, touching him like it was a delicate plate of chin. Fingertips only, dusting him off with little pressure so he wouldn’t shatter.

“What are you going to do about it, hm?” You continued your short, limp strokes. “Just going to take it? Hm?” Your wrist was weak, lazy as it became limp to tease him even more. Peter sucked in a breath, doing his best to maintain his composure, but it was all futile, all those attempts of sucking in his lip to chew, to hold back his moans, because you’d slap his clothed cock, grasp it tight in your hand, and massage as much as you could gather.

“Fuck, baby—“ You had him under your control. Even if his hands were free, you knew he wouldn’t lay a finger on you. He knew that if he did, you’d stop touching him, stop stimulating the blood running down every vein of his cock, fueling his erection. His desires. 

He couldn’t let that happen. Not after the day, the week, the months that he’d been having. 

You and Peter eventually switched places: Peter resting on his back while you sat in between his legs, marveling at the stretch of his suit. Somehow, his cock looked bigger than you’d remember. Squished and pressed flush against his thigh like this. The suit was like a magnet, inviting your hand back to his cock and refusing to let you go.

“Just relax.” You commanded him. He was watching you slouched up against the headboard, gravity weighing his eyelids lower. With his legs spread apart, he provided you excess space as you began massaging his right thigh with your free hand. “Is this okay?”

“Mm-hm...” He knew you were talking about the pressure on his thigh, but the strokes over his cock remained supreme in his mind. Championed through as you pressed harder into the shaft, massaging tenderly from vein to vein. The protruding webbed texture of his suit pressed into him, rolled against cock like the inside of a fleshlight, ultimately adding onto the already gratifying pleasure. 

It was glorious.

“More…” Peter gritted through his teeth, a selfish need for more escaping from his lips in huffs. Grunts, when you’d fulfill his wish with two hands now, kneading his cock like dough. 

Thick, stiff, throbbing dough.

Before the complaints could come pouring in, you shimmied your pants off in a hurry, tossing it in the corner before greedily climbing onto Peter’s lap. It was like he read your mind, perhaps another secret that he’d been hiding, because he immediately took you into his arms. An embrace, a tight one that grounded you against his bulge, pressing your body weight until it restricted the blood flowing into his erection, as well as preventing an escape.

“You’re so hard…” You marveled at how rigid he’d gotten under you, grinding your ass against the large mass, beating and throbbing with every rut.

“I’m so hard.” He confirmed, complained, and bragged all in one smile. He then took you by the nape to kiss you again. Hard on the mouth, slow with his tongue to taste you and your desires, his desires. His other hand rested on the small of your back, guiding your grinds at first before his fingers looped into your waistband, tugging once before stuffing the strap under your ass cheeks. Your hard-on was the only thing keeping the cotton material from slipping off while you continued grating your hips. “Just like that…”

To make it easier for you, Peter repositioned his erection so it was facing north, towards his navel, in its sublime mass. Your briefs had been tossed to the side now, completely bare bottomed against him while you mounted over him, and rode in needy strides. It was a sight to behold, something that Peter reckoned he should savor. He folded his arms behind his head, providing a self-made cushion for the weight of it, and watched you. It was entrancing, like a dance. You swiveled your hips to a ghosting rhythm, one that could only be heard between two hearts, two parties, between the two of you, man to man.

“Like this…?” Breathless, you unbuttoned your shirt open, but left it present on your body. Sweat formed over your neck, dribbled down to your bare and exposed chest;  it was practically an open-invitation for Peter to ravish you. And so he did, with a haunting groan as he held you, contained you in the warmth of his arms as he simultaneously pulled you forward, and pushed himself off the headboard to meet you in the middle.

He kissed you on the neck, achingly hard when he sucked, and then enthralling, sweat-inducing when he bit into your skin. He couldn’t contain himself. You tasted too good, and it’d been too long since he had you just like this. “Just like that. Your cock against my cock, fuck. I love it so fucking much.” He muttered hot against your neck, panting because he was sweating too. The spandex felt tighter on his skin, constricting against him with every drop of sweat.

“Oh, fuck…” His lips had latched onto your nipples now. Peter’s tongue worked magic on your two nubs, flicking and swirling over their perkiness until you felt swollen. Raw, when he bit, pulled, bit, and bit again. You buried your face into his hair, rocking yourself back and forth with your arms holding him close to your chest, gliding your cock against his print as if a gun was pointed to your head, like your life depended on making Peter come.

You were delirious, humping Peter without a single thought other than to get him off, and you’d reckon that was the goal lingering in Peter’s head as he began rocking back into you. It took a while for him to find your rhythm, chasing after it in slower, sluggish beats, but eventually he caught up to you, snapping his hips against your own, grinding his cock against yours like two crescent moons caressing the other’s curvature.

“Close…” He muttered into your shoulder. Your shirt was hanging off, exposing more of your skin, but Peter made sure you didn’t feel a single chill with the marks he had followed up with soon after. It was like he had done it on purpose. Made you feel safe in his arms, comfortable in the warmth of his body, worshiped with the amount of care he had given your body. Frozen, when you felt something prod at your pucker. Then enraptured, when Peter pushed a wet finger inside of you. 

Tremors, chilling tremors ran down your spine as you took the single digit Inside of you with one determined push. “Fuck—“ Your back arched, chest pushed forward towards him, and your hips jolted forward in one strong, and delicious swipe against Peter’s cock. “Peter…”

It was a mouthwatering display of food before him. The perky nubs on your chest, the veins in your neck, the mole on your body, the strain of your thighs on overdrive, the swollen head of your cock; Peter didn’t know what to lay his finger on first, what to mouth on, what to kiss, and suck, and latch onto until you’d scream. Whichever it was, he knew you were desperate for him. Begging, sweating, whimpering, for Peter to lay a finger on you. Another finger inside of you now, and you rolled your eyes at the stretch he was providing you with, a fulfilling wish that startled your hips once more.

“You’re so good, so good for me…” Peter was staring up at you, marveling at the layer of sweat on your body. It glistened with every movement, dripped heavily with every thrust of Peter’s fingers, and tasted just like how he remembered. Salty when he licked up your neck, up your chest, against your nipples, and repeated. Your body was his, and Peter was determined to let the world know. Determined to remind you in case that you’d forgotten.

Your hands were wandering. Grabbing and touching at anything and everything that could linger in between your fingers. Peter’s hair, his head, shoulders, chest, your cock and his, his back. Everything. You couldn’t keep your hands off of him. Even if he was covered from head to toe, you were touching him. Because he was yours.

“Gonna come—“ You cupped Peter’s jaw to straighten his posture, to kiss him sloppily on the mouth, and he pulled his fingers out of you, resting them on either side of your hips as he joined you once again in grinding hips. The pleasure was overbearing, drilling into each individual brain until the smallest movement would render you both speechless. Panting in slurred moans of each other’s names, of profanities that you two had rarely used in your lifetime on earth.

“Me too…” Peter pushed himself on top of you now. Your arms were tied around his neck, tighter than the necktie he had on prior, and your legs; they wrapped around his waist equally secured, if not even tighter, as he thrusted against you. 

You were too distracted, unable to respond to Peter’s constant licks in your mouth. He was desperate for you, suckling on your tongue and chasing after it once it slipped out because of your moans. They were rattling, each breath immediately vaulted in the back of Peter’s throat because he couldn’t part from you. Couldn’t imagine a life where he would. And if he had to, at least he’d have a part of you inside of him. Even if it was a whisper. 

He thrusted harder, panting into your mouth, his nose practically smushed flat against yours. He wondered if you could imagine that life, a life without him.

“P-Pete—Shit, I’m—“ Your fingers dug into his nape, grounding him impossibly closer to you when that feeling had suddenly come to stun you in place. 

It simmered hard in your stomach, then to a rolling boil as it traveled lower to your pelvis. You squeezed your stomach, clenched your toes, and your eyes widened when Peter’s hips showed no signs of faltering. Your cock swelled and your balls jolted, tightened, until you finally saw stars bursting into flames and let gravity have it come crashing down on you. Shivers had you enclose your arms around Peter, holding onto him tight as you felt yourself crumble and spill all over your chest and his suit. You came with a gritted grunt of his name, sinking your nails into his nape because you had nowhere else to channel your spasms as Peter kept rocking against you, drunkenly astonished by how you came for him. By how much you needed him.

It didn’t take long before Peter came right after. He buried his head into your neck, stifling moans into the heat of your neck, clammy with sweat, yet comforting as he filled the inside of his suit with thick, large loads. You felt his cock throb against you when you reached down to help, to ride out his orgasm to the fullest. His cock pulsed as you’d imagine several thick pumps of his load would gush out and uncomfortably layer his navel. If only his suit hadn’t been waterproof, because there was no doubt that he would’ve been leaking out of it by now.

You’ve never been so jealous of spandex.

He was hot in your ear, panting, breathing you in, then breathing you out as you slowed the strokes on his softening cock. Then a sudden inhale, a jolt of his body, when you squeezed hard, to seal the deal in covering the entirety of his cock in his own cum. It was filthy. It was shameless. It was Peter.

“Driving me crazy here…” Peter sluggishly lifted himself off of you to face you, a sleepy smile plastered across his face as you kept kneading at his cock, increasingly sensitive with every second.

“Not enough to drive you away, right?” You smiled, drowsy yourself as you quickly found your high coming to a crash. Though, you mustered enough strength to hold Peter’s cheek in your palm, tenderly caressing, to which he immediately kissed as soon as it reintroduced itself. 

Peter sighed, holding your gaze for what felt like minutes, and yet you wished it could be for longer. 

It was different this time, the way he looked at you. The same amount of love and warmth, yes. But they no longer wavered, no longer tried to find something else to look at in case you were prying about. 

“Never.” 

Instead, they stilled, relaxed the longer you stared into him, into those brown eyes of his, because you were in now. 

You were finally in his life.

How much you needed him?  His question had been answered.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[bucksboobs]

The pointedness that Tommy showed up to wait on news about Denny’s emergency surgery and talked about having a team behind you when things go wrong… yeah I think he’s gonna get hurt and yeah I think the 118 will be the ones to pull him out and be there for him afterwards.

[akuma-coffee]

Allow me to ask soft sukuna?? Just a short drabble with some body appreciation for chubby girls please🥺

order for anon! sukuna x (chubby) reader request menu

cw: reader is a little insecure but all comfort here!

“sukuna.” his name leaves your lips before you think twice, and he peers up from beside you. you’re laying on his right, twiddling your fingers with your bottom lip between your teeth. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re nervous, though you can’t quite find the confidence to ask him what you’re thinking.

“what?” he sounds a little short but you know that’s just sukuna, unrelenting in his cold tone and pointedness.

“it’s nothing.” you shift, uncomfortably wriggling on your back as you try and find yourself comfortable, but you can’t. you roll onto your side to face away from him, heart twisting. sukuna isn’t the most affectionate of men, not that you’d expect him to be.

“tell me.” his words are always straight to the point, he spares no time for niceties.

“it’s just…” you trail off as you mentally cringe, swallowing. “it’s nothing, really. just go to sleep, okay?”

sukuna sighs, and in the silence following, you feel a little breathless. have you pissed him off with your mood? but just as you close your eyes, mustering up some form of confidence to apologise, he rolls onto his side too, an arm lazily slinging around your front. his hand moves upward, scaling the skin under your shirt, gliding over the roundness of your belly and setting over the little curve on your abdomen.

“you’re shaped like a queen.” his words catch you a little off guard and your eyes open, head turning slightly as you watch him through your peripheral. he squeezes the skin a little, as if to be endearing.

“that’s what’s bothering you, is it not?”

you stop watching him, turning your head to face the other way again.

“was just wondering if it bothered you.” the admission is said quietly. he lets out a breath before selling his chin in the nook between your shoulder and neck.

“stop thinking of yourself so lowly. you’re divine.”

there’s a prickling heat at your cheeks when he speaks, a small smile breaking over warm skin.

[simplygojo]

Silent Moments II

Authors Note: A highly requested (not that highly, but enough lol) part 2 to “Silent Moments”! I hope you all enjoy it :)

Pairing: AgedUp/Megumi Fushiguro x f/reader

Word Count : 2.1K

Warnings : just a light makeout sesh, nothing wild.

Read the first part here: Silent Moments I

Taglist: @chexzavamarie @adoresia @simplyyyuji

It had been a week since that night outside your apartment, and the distance between you and Megumi had only grown. Each day felt heavier than the last, the silence between you becoming more deafening as the hours dragged on.

No words had been exchanged since that moment—the one where his fingers curled around your wrist, holding you in place, but not in anger. There was a tenderness in the way his grip had lingered, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. And yet, that same tenderness was what tore at you now.

How could everything feel so right in that moment, yet lead to this endless silence? Every time you thought back to it, your heart twisted painfully. The memory of his warmth, the gentle weight of his forehead against yours—those fleeting seconds felt like a promise, and yet, now it seemed like they were a wall keeping the two of you apart.

You’d catch him in the hallways sometimes, just a glimpse of his dark hair or his quiet form retreating into another room, and your chest would tighten. He wasn’t the type to be openly expressive, you knew that. But even he couldn’t hide the fact that he was avoiding you.

The way he moved so deliberately away from you during training, how he kept his eyes firmly on anything but your face. Each action felt like a silent rejection, one that gnawed at your insecurities.

Had you misread everything? Had he regretted almost kissing you that night?

You tried to convince yourself that maybe he was just giving you space, that maybe this was his way of processing what had happened. But that didn’t stop the ache that settled deep in your chest every time he chose to walk away instead of toward you. And each day, the gnawing uncertainty only grew, eating away at the fragile hope you had been holding onto since that night.

The worst part was, it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

One afternoon, during a break in training, Nobara sidled up to you. The two of you had been sitting outside, and while she was animatedly chatting away about something that had happened during her last mission, you found your mind drifting once again—back to Megumi.

You hadn’t even realized how obvious you were being until Nobara’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharper and more focused than before.

“Okay, seriously. What’s going on with you and Megumi?”

Her tone was casual, but there was a pointedness to her question that made your heart skip a beat. You blinked, startled, turning to face her fully. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” she said, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at you. “Something’s definitely up. You two have been acting weird for days now.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words caught in your throat. Nobara wasn’t the type to back down once she’d caught on to something, and lying to her would be pointless. Instead, you shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze.

“There’s nothing going on,” you muttered, though even you could hear how unconvincing you sounded.

Nobara wasn’t buying it. “Oh, please. I’ve known Megumi long enough to know when something’s bothering him. And you—” She paused, giving you a pointed look. “You’ve been spaced out all week. So, spill it. What happened?”

You hesitated, torn between wanting to keep things to yourself and the overwhelming urge to confide in someone—anyone—about the mess of emotions swirling inside you. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you ran a hand through your hair, your shoulders slumping in defeat.

“It’s complicated,” you admitted softly.

Nobara raised an eyebrow. “Of course it is. It’s Megumi we’re talking about. He practically invented ‘complicated.’” She leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “But seriously, what happened? You two didn’t fight or anything, right?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, we didn’t fight. It’s just… after our last mission, things got… intense. And we haven’t really talked since.”

Nobara’s eyes widened slightly, a glint of amusement sparking in them. “Intense, huh? You mean like… emotionally intense?”

You felt your face heat up, and you looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “Something like that.”

Nobara’s grin widened, clearly enjoying this new piece of information. “So, what? You two had a moment, and now he’s doing that thing where he overthinks everything and avoids it?”

“Pretty much,” you muttered, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment well up inside you.

Nobara hummed thoughtfully, tapping her chin. “Classic Megumi. He’s probably off in his head, freaking out over nothing.” She nudged you playfully, though her tone was more reassuring than teasing. “Give him time. He’ll come around.”

You nodded absently, though her words didn’t do much to ease the turmoil churning inside you. Time. That was all you had been doing—waiting. But how much longer could you stand it? How much longer before you couldn’t bear the silence anymore?

A few days passed, and nothing changed. Megumi was still avoiding you, and you were still haunted by the lingering memory of that night. It became harder to focus on your training, harder to ignore the hollow ache in your chest.

—

And so, one evening, long after the sun had set, you found yourself in the training hall alone. The quietness of the space felt comforting, the rhythmic sounds of your movements against the mats grounding you. Punch. Kick. Dodge. Repeat.

You threw yourself into the routine, hoping that physical exertion would somehow clear your mind. But no matter how hard you tried to focus, your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

The way he had looked at you that night, the way his voice had trembled just slightly when he said he didn’t want your first kiss to happen like that. It was maddening—this constant loop of emotions and unanswered questions.

You paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from your brow, breathing heavily. Maybe you were overthinking everything. Maybe you should just confront him. Ask him what was really going on.

But the idea of doing that scared you. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if you’d imagined everything? The possibility of rejection lingered like a dark cloud, casting doubt over everything.

The sound of the training hall door sliding open snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned, your heart leaping into your throat as you saw Megumi standing in the doorway. His usual calm demeanor was gone, replaced by something far more vulnerable, more uncertain.

Your pulse quickened. You hadn’t expected to see him here, not tonight, not like this.

“Megumi,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your heart race. He seemed conflicted, like he wasn’t sure if he should have come at all. But then, with a deep breath, he stepped into the room, letting the door slide shut behind him.

“I needed to talk to you,” he said, his voice low but steady. There was a weight to his words that made your stomach flip.

“About what?” you asked, though you already had a feeling you knew what this was about.

Megumi’s eyes flickered to the floor, his jaw clenching. He looked like he was struggling to find the right words, and the silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer, more hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the sincerity in his tone made your chest tighten. “For avoiding you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the apology, your mind racing to catch up with his words. “You don’t have to apologize,” you said quickly, but even as you said it, you knew that wasn’t entirely true. You had been hurt by his distance, by the silence.

“Yes, I do,” Megumi interrupted, his eyes finally meeting yours again. There was a determination in his gaze now, a resolve that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve been avoiding you because… because I didn’t know how to handle this.”

“Handle what?” you asked, though your voice was barely steady. Your heart raced, and the air between you felt charged with something unspoken.

He hesitated, his hands clenching at his sides before he finally let out a frustrated sigh. “The way I feel about you,” he said, his words rushed but sincere. “It’s confusing, and it’s complicated, and I thought… I thought it would be easier if I just stayed away. But it’s not. It’s harder.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his confession. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your mind racing.

“I don’t want to avoid you anymore,” he continued, slowly walking closer to you. His voice was steady, but his eyes—those deep, stormy blue eyes—were filled with uncertainty. “I don’t want to pretend that this isn’t happening.”

You felt your pulse quicken as he closed the distance between you; the air between you charged with something intense, something electric. And then, before you could fully process what was happening, his hands gently reached up to hold your beautiful face, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

For a heartbeat, you stood frozen, your breath caught in your throat. But then, instinctively, you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension between you seemed to snap.

You felt a lump form in your throat, your chest tightening with emotion. “Megumi…”

“I tried to stay away because I thought it would be easier. But it wasn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His voice was nothing above a low whisper—you felt his breath on your skin with every word he spoke.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you felt your breath hitch as he leaned in closer, his forehead resting gently against yours—just like that night outside your apartment. But this time, it was different. This time, there was no hesitation, no holding back. “I care about you,” Megumi whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours.

The kiss began softly, almost hesitant, as if Megumi was still unsure, testing the boundaries of what was allowed. His lips brushed against yours with a gentleness that made your heart race, each movement filled with a quiet intensity.

But then, as though something inside him finally broke free, the kiss deepened. The change was swift and undeniable—his hands slid down to your waist, gripping you firmly but with a kind of reverence, pulling you closer until not a single inch of space remained between your bodies.

It wasn’t just a kiss anymore—it was a release of everything unsaid, every glance and stolen moment, every frustration and desire that had simmered between you for weeks. His lips moved against yours with a new urgency, a passion that set your skin ablaze. It was raw, desperate, and achingly filled with all the emotions he had kept bottled up.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers threading through his soft, dark hair as you tried to convey everything you couldn’t find the words for. There was no holding back now—this kiss was a confession in itself, an admission of all the feelings you’d both been too afraid to voice.

The intensity of it was overwhelming, a dizzying rush of sensation that made your knees weak. But it felt right—like this was where you were always meant to be, pressed against him, lost in the heat of the moment. His hands roamed up your sides, his fingertips grazing the bare skin near your waistband, sending a shiver down your spine.

A low but soft moan escaped his lips, vibrating against your mouth as he deepened the kiss even further, drawing you impossibly closer. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together as you tried to catch your breath. Your hands lay around his neck and his on your hips.

“I didn’t want our first kiss to be out of anger,” Megumi whispered, his thumb gently brushing against your your flushed cheek. “But this… this feels right.”

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. It did feel right. More than anything else, this was what you’d both been afraid of—the depth of your feelings for each other.

But now that it was out in the open, there was no going back.

And honestly, you didn’t want to.

[waltricia]

Ok but the pointedness of the narration playing over this shot of Colin is incredible.

There were times in season 2 when Whistledown would be speaking about the diamond, but it would play over shots of Kate, implying that the narration was also about her.

That’s what’s happening here. And it’s soooo good because Whistledown is speaking about herself. Meaning the implication is that Colin is also Whistledown.

Lord Whistledown, I see you. Come home, honey.

💛🩵💚

[lewisinho]

quite absurd but perhaps entirely explainable that the media overtly and directly (which i find the most insidious of all) engages in such bad faith when it comes to lewis. you shamelessly ask him directly whether his answer about young rookies coming into f1 refers to the 'adverse criticism' he has received from you this year, that has been written in your very own publications and also manage to completely miss the pointedness of his tone and language when he specifically references the hostility of the media environment in that very same answer. wow.

[teal-fiend]

an observer who has perfected the craft of pushing people into predator mode.

word count: 2600

You were hanging out with this guy all day. You hadn't known each other for that long, a few months. and you still didn't know; were you just going to be friends? Or was it going to be romantic? You didn't mind either way, really. Although you would have liked clarification. But he seemed genuinely interested in you; you had shared interests, and it was just easy being with him - not in a bad way. it was just effortless in a way that was refreshing.

You spent the day out and about; walking around, you got lunch together earlier, but a few hours passed and now you were going back to his house

you expected a kiss, but instead he puts a hand on your stomach. Strange, but not entirely unwanted.

"Are you hungry?" he asked

"Um, yeah, I suppose."

You were starting to get hungry; it was time for afternoon tea, or an early dinner.

"Do you mind?" He asked softly. You muttered a no, you didn't mind. He petted your stomach gently, scoping it out, it seemed like. You felt him gently poke at your soft middle, moving briefly to feel either side of your hips, before returning to the belly area.

You looked to his face and he was concentrated, almost with a medical focus. You felt your face flush with the precise attention you were getting. But you also wanted to ask him what the hell he was up to.

Soon he looked up at you, your eyes met, his expression was neutral, like this was a normal thing for him. He asked you if you wanted a belly rub. You though that was what he just did. But you had no reason to refuse, and now you were curious - you wanted to see where this was going. So you agreed.

He led you over to a kind of couch-chair, that he encouraged you to seat yourself in. He guided you to lie back, making sure you were comfortable. Then he went back to what he was doing, pressing lightly on your stomach.

He worked in on your belly, kneading down on it with some force, but not a painful amount. When he got lower down, on your intestines, you felt some pressure.

"This is your lunch," he pointed out, poking at a firm spot under your skin. It was, you remembered the time the two of your spent at the cafe earlier. You didn't think that he'd be massaging your stomach later

you blushed, unsure of his motivations still. He began working on that spot, and you did feel some release of pressure, accompanied by a gurgle as the food moved down your digestive tract.

"What are you doing?" You asked, on the verge of mild annoyance from his lack of an explanation.

"I'm making room," he said simply.

...

You could piece things together. He probably had figured out that you were a pred. And he probably wanted to feed you. prey.

But how did he know? Was it really that obvious? You felt your face heat with embarrassment. How many people knew just by seeing you? How many people knew but never brought it up out of courtesy?

Anyway, You should have probably told him that you don't really eat prey. Not that often anyway; you definitely weren't hungry enough right now.

"Do you mind if I...?" He touched the corner of my mouth. You told him again, no, go ahead. He parted your lips carefully with his fingers, with the confidence and expertise of a dentist, he inspected your teeth. He pressed down on their points; you heard him hum, as if in confirmation. A practiced eye could tell a predator by the teeth. The canines tended to be longer, yours weren't, but your other teeth were of a certain thickness and sharpness that was indicative of a predator; your molars had a pointedness, similar to a dog's. Supposedly, this would help in holding down on prey as it was eaten.

You felt his fingers graze overtop of them, and you salivated at the taste. When he removed his hands, you closed your mouth and swallowed.

"Look," you said, "I'm not all that hungry. Well, not that kind of hungry"

"Your body is ready for prey" He explained, "You haven't eaten in a couple weeks at least."

"I just had lunch a few hours ago."

"I mean, you haven't eaten prey. I've been with you almost every day this year, and although you might be able to hide it well, I know it's been a while."

You can still taste his flesh on your teeth, you lick your teeth and swallow again.

"Sorry," he said, sounding genuine, "you're probably going to feel pretty hungry in a minute. but if you don't want prey, I have regular food in my fridge - or I can uber something if you want-"

"Why would I be hungry?" You did feel a little hungry now. But not... not that hungry...

"I mean," He started sheepishly, "the belly rub; your stomach is awake now, and your small intestine is empty too."

"Okay-"

"- and the hands in your mouth thing; you've had a taste of prey now, so your body's going to start preparing to consume that."

hmm.

"And talking about eating - specifically talking about eating prey, it can kind of help with releasing those predator hormones that come out before you consume prey."

He continues, "not to mention, we were walking around the park all day, that amount of exercise will also, um, stimulate appetite."

"You've got this down to a science," you say.

He smiles, but tries to hide it, "yeah, sorry. Yeah, I guess I do. But it's not like that-"

"You said you have food?"

He shows you to the kitchen

You go into his fridge, and take out a stick of celery. you crunch on it aggressively, like you're biting apart someone's arm. It falls into your stomach sadly, and you feel an angry clench in your middle. It doesn't want that kind of food anymore.

You feel a little light-headed, a little dizzy, your gaze snaps back to this guy. He caused this, it's his fault.

he looks a little scared as you glare at him. Good. You feel a swell of pride or righteous justice, but then you feel sad. You like him, you don't want to scare him. You don't want to mess this up. but he's the one that messed it up

"What made you so sure that I wouldn't eat you?" You ask

He opens his mouth, but seems lost for words. He whispers "please don't...?"

There's a reason you don't often engage with your predatory side; it's very hard for you to control.

He didn't know that, but should this be a mistake that costs his life? Your stomach is growling now, you put a hand over it, to silence it or comfort it.

"Do you have prey?" You ask through gritted teeth, "Besides yourself?"

"Yes! Yes," He says, "I'll be right back." He rushes off, almost quick enough for you to want to chase after him. But you stay where you are, your hand now gripping the countertop because it's the only thing keeping you in place

three people enter the room, it's him and someone you know to be his friend. The third person you do not know

your predator brain immediately feels excitement. three entire prey! all for you to eat up. You could run to the front door and lock it, then you could chase down each one of them - it would be so much food.

You remind yourself that you aren't even capable of eating that much. You try to be more present in the moment, you realise that someone had asked you something, but you weren't paying attention.

One of the prey speaks, "Never mind, I'll see you later," they say to each other. Then one prey walks out of the front door. You feel disappointed - you should have locked it. Now there are only two of them. Still, you've never eaten two at once.

One of them approaches you. you feel adrenaline building as they get closer - it's not even running away.

But no, no, this is not the one you're supposed to eat. "Are you alright?" He asks.

You can't even begin to broach the question. "I'm hungry," you respond, which is true. More true than the words can express.

He nods. With more confidence than he should have, he takes your arm, and guides you into the living room.

Soon, the prey's hands are in your mouth. You're gulping them down ravenously, animalistically. You haven't consumed prey in a long while; it's good to be back.

"good, eat, eat up" he says gently

As you swallow, you feel a relief from the mania of hunger. Your anger dissipates too, somewhat.

Him encouraging you feels good; in the past, people have ran away in fear. But he stays by you, even helping push the prey down your throat when you get stuck.

It's a lot, eating prey. it's a big mission. You feel your unaccustomed stomach stretch many times past it's usual capacity, it's shocking to your mind, but it happens. You feel your whole being sigh and melt as the prey sinks into your tummy. Your observer isn't quick enough to help you as you fall to the ground, unused to the new weight

He kneels beside you, saying some kind of affirmation

Do you still want to eat him? You feel the exploding fullness of your stomach. You have to breathe shallowly, because the prey is squashed against your lungs. No, this is quite enough.

He helps you up onto the couch chair that you were seated on before all this started. Now the lunch you had earlier has been completely pushed aside by this new, finer meal.

Each breath you take is difficult. Inhaling causes your stomach to just feel even tighter. You give yourself a moment to try to adjust. You will, eventually.

He's watching you lying there, apprehension still fidgeting in his eyebrows. You reach out for his hand, and you put it on top of your stomach. He smooths his hand over your skin and you can't help but wheeze.

A belly massage feels much different now. Every bit of pressure causes electricity that courses through the entire shape of your stomach, and that flows into your whole body, flushing into your limbs, and sedating you.

It's relaxing, he knows what he's doing, you can tell, with the way he dances with the contours of your abdomen. You hear him sigh with relief as you relax, as he says, "there's a good pred, just relax and digest now."

Right, you forgot. You blink your eyes open and place your hands on each side of your middle. You do have a unique ability, which is that your stomach is happy to hold the prey inside it without digesting, for a few hours at least, until it gets restless, then it will start on it's own unless you specifically resist. It's kind of lucky for you, because although you aren't great at stopping yourself from consuming prey once you get it into your head that you should, you do at least have a window of opportunity where you can reverse the decision, which is not something everyone can say for themselves.

But anyway, since you want to get this prey digested sooner rather than later, you think you should get started now. You watch the gentle movements of the prey inside your stomach. You stroke back and forth gently, and then you sigh and give your stomach permission.

Nothing happens. You frown. You look up at the observer. He doesn't seem to be aware of the situation. He notices you looking at him and tilts his head.

"My stomach doesn't want to digest," you explain

"Oh! interesting," he says. "I guess you don't have to?"

"No," you say, "I want to."

He gives you a confused look. You sigh.

"I don't know, it's being stubborn. It might take a while."

"So your stomach can like, purposefully delay digesting?"

"Yeah, I mean, look, the prey isn't really moving around at all; if I was digesting them, there'd be a lot more wriggling - you know."

"yeah, you're right." he says inquisitively, "I've never heard of this happening before."

"It's fine, it'll happen eventually."

"Alright, you can just relax then, no need to digest," he pats your stomach supportively.

He goes back to massaging your stomach, which does feel good. Your eyelids become heavy, and you yawn. He asks you if you want to go to bed; he has a spare bedroom now, you can sleep in a proper bed if you need. No, you assure him, it's alright for now. You do ask him to dim the lights though, which he does.

He presses into your belly again, kneading into the solid form inside in a uniquely pleasing manner. You can't help but grin slightly. Your predator brain is chuffed. a good belly rub is something it enjoys very much. It likes to be fed, and it likes to be attended to. You scrunch your toes. You feel warm and fuzzy. He's treating you very well.

You put your attention on the specific place where his hand glides over your skin, you follow the movements and patterns, it's like listening to music. you feel his hand on your skin, the warmth, you feel the prey pressed against the taut walls of your stomach. you think about how he is in a way, really rubbing against the prey, and your skin is just the thing between. But the idea of him rubbing on the prey, to help encourage the stomach to digest - he's rubbing against the prey to help break it down, really. He's trying to get you to digest it. He's probably using techniques that he knows will be the most effective for digestion.

For some reason, this thought is what convinces your stomach. A glowing feeling of heat starts under your skin. You groan softly. You melt deeper into the chair. A few moments later and your prey starts to get agitated. you smile as you imagine your stomach acids being released with each desperate kick against the walls of your tummy. It's ironic really. You feel a funny tickle inside, and a bit pressure that turns into a careless belch.

You had a long road ahead of you, though, suddenly you were exhausted by the task ahead.

"Oh, good for you," your observer notes, "you've started digesting haven't you?"

You grunt an mhmm.

"I think I'll get you into bed if you don't mind, to get you more comfortable."

That sounds good now, so you agree. Carefully, he guides you to your feet. You lean on him heavily, but he does alright. You feel your belly sag against your legs, and it swags gently as you walk, gurgling as the liquids are now swished around. You get to the bed, and lie down like it's the first time you've ever known the comfort of a mattress.

The observer helps put the blankets over you. "I think you could use a nap," he noticed, "but I'll be here when you wake up."

He brings you a glass of water, and turns the lights off, leaving you with your prey, which you curl up around deviously, eager to break them down for nutrients.

A part of you wants to think about the implications of this situation, and what your relationship with the observer has now become. But your predator brain hushes you and urges you into sleep. Your stomach needs it's moment to digest. You'll deal with the rest later

[atlantic-riona]

Though I Walk Through the Valley

Written for @inklings-challenge 2024. A Catholic college student and a vampire take a trip to the Underworld. Shenanigans ensue. There are four parts.

I. A Visitor of the Vampiric Variety

I opened the door to find Malachy standing on the steps, one hand raised to knock. He looked about as surprised to see me as I was him, and after a few moments spent staring blankly at each other—vague remnants of thoughts regarding grocery lists and the possibility of afternoon naps still floating about my mind, Lord only knows what was circling his—he pulled himself together to give me a strained imitation of his usual annoying smirk. “Fancy a trip to Hell?”

I slammed the door in his face.

Honestly, upon later reflection, I should have left it like that. I still had no intention of getting mixed up in his world, even if Isa—well. My best friend and I were cautiously on speaking terms now, but the argument we’d had loomed forbiddingly in the background of every interaction, even though by silent, mutual agreement we didn’t acknowledge it.

But curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door again, just a crack. “What.”

In the twilight shadows of evening, his slightly ominous expression would have sent shivers down any onlooker’s spine. Here in the warm afternoon sun, it merely looked out of place. “There’s a problem.”

“Yes, it’s called an irritating vampire refusing to get off my doorstep,” I retorted. “Was there something new, or…?”

“The Circle,” he said simply, and my blood ran cold.

“Goodbye,” I said, and shut the door firmly. I could hear him calling me through the door about needing my help, but I ignored this. And when I heard the windows rattling, I picked up my spray bottle, helpfully labeled “HOLY WATER,” and pointed it meaningfully (label side facing the window) in his general direction. He got the hint. At least I assumed he did, because the windows stopped rattling soon after.

Still, just in case, I went around the house, double-checking that all the windows and doors had crosses nailed above them, or rosaries wrapped around their handles. Call me paranoid, but I’d seen a lot of movies, and I was taking no chances.

I didn’t see Malachy for three days. And good riddance, said I. So when he showed up at my doorstep, looking inordinately pleased with himself, I certainly was not pleased myself.

I leaned against the door, which was open just a crack, and said clearly, “Go away.”

“Lili, you’ll want to hear this,” he said, grinning. Somehow he’d recovered his equanimity in the past three days, and I didn’t think it was for any reason I’d like.

The grin annoyed me. I pointed at the miniscule amount of space between the door and its frame, and said, “You see this? It’s about how much interest I have in whatever you’re about to say. And it’s only open so you can hear me tell you to go away, which means realistically my interest is much lower.” I had briefly considered shouting at him through the closed door, but regretfully had set that plan aside. I didn’t want him trying to crawl through the windows again.

“It’s about Isa,” he said. 

Through the opening, I gave him the old stinkeye.

He laughed. “Charming as ever, I see.”

“Did Isa send you?” I asked coldly, and not without a little pointedness.

His composure slipped a fraction. “No,” he admitted after a long minute. “I’m here without her knowing.”

I knew I’d regret this, but I still unhooked the chain and pulled it all the way open. “What is it, then?”

I had forgotten the secondary reason for keeping the door mostly closed, but it quickly sprang to mind when Theresa’s excited shriek from the living room deafened me. “Is that Malachy?”

“No,” I yelled back. “Go do your homework!”

But it was a fruitless endeavor to tell your little sister to do something as dull as solving for x when there was a live, breathing—well, dead and unbreathing—vampire at the front door, and it was doubly fruitless when said little sister had been obsessed with all things supernatural (especially the fanged variety) for years. Theresa came sprinting out of the living room, vaulting an armchair in her enthusiasm and skidding to a stop in her pink-and-white polka-dotted socks. “Malachy!” she cried happily. “Come in, come in, I have so many questions!” She’d already nabbed a clipboard from somewhere and was now squinting through her glasses to locate a pen.

As the point I wanted to make was already moot—namely, that inviting vampires into your house traditionally never ended well—I settled for giving Malachy a stare of loathing as I removed the cross hanging over the door, before stepping out of his way. He, in turn, gave me a brilliant smile, one that prominently displayed his sharp white teeth, before stepping inside.

He clearly thought Theresa was cute, but easily brushed aside, since immediately after greeting her with amusement, he turned to me, as if to continue our earlier conversation. How quickly he’d forgotten! I didn’t feel motivated to disabuse him of his misunderstanding, so I merely settled back, arms crossed, to watch the show.

“You remember how we found out that Isa’s condition is because she’s a descendant of—” he began, but broke off with a startled look when Theresa briskly pinched his arm through the leather jacket he was wearing. “What the hell?”

“Language!” I hissed.

Theresa ignored the both of us, scribbling something down on her clipboard. “So you’ve got pain receptors,” she said, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. “Which means your brain is capable of receiving and translating signals, even though it’s technically not alive, according to my research. Or is it alive? Does the blood you consume reanimate your life systems? Is that why you need to constantly replenish it?” She looked up inquiringly through the bright pink frames of her glasses at Malachy, who stared at her.

“Er—yes. I do need blood to…operate, as it were.” For the first time in my memory, he seemed discomfited.

Theresa nodded. “Right, blood’s very important to staying alive and operational, but it’s not really the only thing you need. How about oxygen? Do you need to breathe?”

He blinked at her, and then at me. Like I was going to rescue him from his flailing. I was enjoying myself too much. “To speak, mostly. And habit. I don’t actually require it.”

“Interesting.” Theresa scribbled something furiously on the clipboard, elbowing me when I tried to peer over her shoulder at what she’d written. “Then I wonder how you’re accomplishing cellular respiration. Of course, blood transports oxygen, so I thought that might be why vampires needed it, but if you don’t need to breathe, then how are you getting that oxygen? And how are your organs functioning? Or are they functioning? Are they rotting inside you right now?” She took a step forward, as if to start looking, and Malachy actually backed up a step.

“There will be no autopsies in this house,” I said loudly, “especially if you’ll be finding rotting organs. I just cleaned the carpets.”

“My organs are not rotting!”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, they probably are, but that’s your problem, not mine.”

“They are not—”

“I have a scalpel, we could check,” Theresa piped up, beaming. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your regeneration and healing capabilities, anyway.”

We both looked at her.

“How old is she?” Malachy asked me in an undertone.

“She’s turning twelve on Friday,” I said, not bothering to keep my voice down. “And speaking of, Theresa, if you want a party Friday afternoon, you’d better finish your homework ahead of time. You can bother Malachy afterwards.” I’d probably pay her to do it, if he was overstaying his welcome.

She gave me a pleading look. “Just a couple more questions?”

Behind her, Malachy was shaking his head no. I bestowed a beautiful smile on him, and told her, “Of course! You can have three.”

Theresa was physically incapable of sticking to three pre-planned questions. I let her herd him into the living room, talking at the speed that only middle-schoolers could achieve, and went into the kitchen to grab some supplies.

I came back out to find Malachy eyeing Theresa warily as she industriously wrote out calculations on her clipboard. He was sitting on one of the armchairs—the one that happened to be farthest from any doors or windows, I noticed. Coincidentally, these were all covered in crosses.

“Homework,” I said firmly, and she sent me a pleading look, but I shook my head at her, and she sighed. Collecting all of her things, she dragged herself out of the living room. As I set the vase down on the end table. I could hear her sadly thumping her way upstairs and into her room.

Malachy nodded at me, which was probably the closest I’d ever get to a “thank you” from him. Then he sniffed the air, and frowned over at the end table by the couch. “Is that…?”

I arranged the garlic flowers in the vase to display their purple petals a little more prominently. “Just testing out some questions of my own. Say, if I spilled some beans just now”—I had, there were a few on the floor by the couch—“would you feel compelled to clean them up?”

He had been regarding the garlic flowers with narrowed eyes, but turned away from his contemplation long enough to give me a scornful look. “I’m not a jiāngshī, am I?”

That piqued my curiosity. “There are different types of vampires?”

Malachy laughed. “As many as there are legends about them. Hollywood doesn’t have a copyright on the supernatural world, you know.”

“Great,” I muttered. So not everything I knew about vampires would apply to every one. Lovely. Guess I’d better start stocking beans in my purse alongside garlic and rosaries.

“That’s not really important right now,” he said, and I stared at the carpet. Normally Malachy never passed up the chance to mock my understanding of the supernatural world—if he was doing so now, the world must be ending soon. And I didn’t want any part in the trouble he’d probably brought with him, but on the other hand—Isa.

Just because my best friend had started dating a vampire—and been drawn further and further into a world that seemed bent on killing her—didn’t mean I wouldn’t do everything in my power to help her.

And right now, she wasn’t doing too well. Apparently, one of her direct ancestors had been attacked by a very powerful vampire, one who’d been thought to have perished ages ago. But now he’d resurfaced, and Isa was experiencing side effects from it. Odd dreams and lethargy being the least of them.

That was my understanding of the issue. The Circle had other ideas. 

“What’s the problem?”

“You remember the Circle,” he said, and I grimaced. Yeah, I remembered them—the organization of witches that basically wanted to run the supernatural world, and the ones who’d taken issue with some of my critiques of said world. It was kind of hard to forget, since Isa and I had fought over her decision to work with them, among other things. The fight had culminated in some fairly harsh things being said on both sides—but I didn’t like to think about that.

Suffice to say, I disliked the Circle and the feeling was mutual.

“What about them?” I said, as neutrally as I could manage.

“They have a lead on Isa’s condition,” he said, “but it involves a trip to the Underworld.”

After a polite pause, in which I gave him ample time to crack a smile at his joke, I reluctantly concluded that he was being serious. “Underworld? As in Hades and the three Fates? Hercules?” I’d really only ever seen the Disney movie.

“Hades, Annwn, Hel, Yomi, Elysium—whatever name you call it by, yes. There’s a key there that might help in a ritual, apparently. Something about using a key from the land of the dead to break the connection between her blood and the vampire’s. Sometime in the next week, the Circle—and Isa—are going to try to summon this key. I’d really rather avoid the risks of Isa attracting the kinds of beings that populate the Underworld, and so I’m proposing to nip in and retrieve it before this becomes a mess of drastic proportions.”

I crossed my arms and resisted the urge to curl up on the couch. It wasn’t that cold, even for October. “Okay. So what do you need me for?”

He gave me a long look. “You’ve heard of Orpheus?”

I shook my head. 

“The state of education is shameful, these days,” he muttered. “To cut a long story short—Orpheus was a musician whose wife died. He traveled to the Underworld to ask for her life back. He got it, but at a price. On the way up, if he turned to look back at her, she’d be lost to him forever. Three guesses as to how the story ends.”

“With the redemptive power of love and faith leading to a happy ending?” I said defiantly.

“Wrong. He looks back just once, and no more wife. She was sent back to the underworld forever. Then he died.”

“Of grief?”

“No, actually, he got ripped apart by a group of madwomen later in his life. For disrespecting the gods, I believe. But I digress.”

I slouched back, the soft cushion of the couch dipping under my weight. “That’s a terrible story.”

“The point is, that you must have heard of any number of stories where human champions descend underground to a supernatural world. Alice in Wonderland? Labyrinth?” He caught my surprised look at the casual references to modern fiction and arched an eyebrow. “I’ve lived a long while. You fill up the time somehow, and television’s everywhere now.”

I tried to imagine Malachy sitting in front of the TV, watching as the cartoon Alice in her poofy blue dress spoke to Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and couldn’t quite manage it. For one, where’d he get the TV from? It’s not like he had a house—would the cable guys set one up in a crypt?

Did he even live in a crypt? When he wasn’t crashing on Isa’s couch, I mean.

“The point is that getting to the Underworld’s not so bad, dangers and guardians notwithstanding. In some cases, it’s disturbingly easy to do so. It’s getting out that’s the problem. See, you need someone who…well. Can withstand temptation. Strong moral character, and all that.”

“…” said I, staring at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Some people would take that as a compliment.”

“Wow, the undead creature of the night that makes it a habit to drain people of all their blood thinks I have strong moral character because I—tell him that what he does is wrong? Amazing. I’m truly astounded you managed to find one person to fit your criteria with that level of moral understanding.”

Then again, it was a world that apparently thought vampires were sexy precisely because of the undead blood-drinking thing, so maybe he had something there. Case in point: every time I went to the internet to research supernatural creatures, I had to wade through pages of supernatural romance shows, books, art, what-have-you, before I ever got to what might be considered even slightly academic. If not practical—somehow I doubted that the researchers at Harvard had ever had to deal with the problem of a vampire inviting himself over to tea once a week. I declined to share this thought with him, however.

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Well? Will you do it?”

“What kind of temptation are we talking about here?” I was reluctant to commit, even though I knew in the end I’d do it.

“Any and all.”

Helpful.

Actually, I’d share that thought with him. “Helpful,” I said. “Elaborate?”

Malachy gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Death’s more attractive than you might think. And if not that, then fear.”

“Of…?”

“The unknown? Being left behind? Of it all being a trick? Remember, Orpheus turned around.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And the chances of getting out?”

He gave me his most charming smile. “I have every confidence in your talents, Lili.”

I arched an eyebrow of my own.

“Being the most stubborn, uptight, Miss-Morally-Righteous woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet in death,” he said, still smiling. “Also, you know, very strong belief. And you know how important that is, when it comes to my world.”

I did. Crosses, as far as I understood, hurt vampires—at least the kind I was familiar with—because (depending on what belief one subscribed to) they symbolized the resurrection of the dead, which vampires couldn’t partake in due to their unnatural state, or the power of God, or Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross. Explanations varied. 

While crosses and other holy objects (Christian, so far as I had experienced—jury was still out on other religions, though with Malachy’s reveal of different kinds of vampires, now I wondered) all had the ability to make vampires flinch back, it was the item holder’s faith that gave it real power. And it wasn’t just faith in the item, but what it represented.

Months ago, Malachy had seen me keep back a vampire with nothing more than the Sign of the Cross and two popsicle sticks held in a cross shape. So I suppose to him, that was a sign—no pun intended—of my strong faith.

I wasn’t so sure about that. Somehow, I didn’t think that being able to hold back creatures of the night was more faith-filled than, say, volunteering my time at a soup kitchen, or helping old ladies cross the street, or any number of good works that I could be doing instead of coming home at the end of a day filled with classes and multiple shifts, collapsing on my bed, and promptly passing out, repeat ad nauseam.

But there wasn’t really any point to having a theological debate with this particular vampire about anything, much less Matthew 7:21-23.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

That really should have been the end of it. I told him I didn’t have a day off until Saturday, two days from then (and conveniently for me, the day after Theresa’s birthday party, because there was no way I was planning, hosting, and then cleaning up a party for middle-schoolers after literally going to Hades). We set a time, he told me what to bring, and that was that.

Only it wasn’t.

Because Friday afternoon was when the school called to tell me Theresa went missing.

The first thing I did was—well. Panic, to be frank. This wasn’t the first time Theresa had gotten in trouble, and since the last time it had happened, it had involved a vampire of the non-Malachy variety—that is to say, not reasonable in any way and really rather bloodthirsty—I felt I was a little justified in doing so. Then, of course, I searched the house, called the school back, did all the normal things to check if her disappearance was due to something, well, normal.

Then, and only then, I called Isa.

The phone rang, and rang, and then—click!

My hopes were dashed when the voice I heard was the pre-recorded kind. I left a message, and then for good measure, texted her—though Isa had a flip phone, so I didn’t have real hopes of her texting back. And then I immediately called again. And again.

The other line connected, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Isa. I know it’s not a great time, but—”

“She walks through the long dread valley of night,

hand-in-hand with the hunter and his queen.

She sleeps under snow, she sleeps under ice—

and she fades away from the springtime green.”

The voice on the other end was soft—almost mechanical in its recitation. Yet there was something mesmerizing in the quiet rhythm of the words, hardly discernable through the crackling of the poor connection. As soon as the last word was spoken, the voice started over from the beginning. I don’t know how long I stood there, listening to the strange voice.

In fact, I was still listening, transfixed, when I sensed something behind me.

I whipped around, one of the kitchen knives in hand, to find Malachy regarding me with a raised eyebrow. Without lowering the knife, I lifted the phone away from my ear. I could still hear the voice tinnily in the background. “What was the last thing I said to you when you were over here on Monday?”

“It was Thursday, and I believe it was the equivalent of, ‘go back to whatever hell you spawned from,’ only the politer equivalent due to attentive young ears,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in the banter. “Have you heard from Isa?”

Damn. So it was really him. With trembling fingers, I put the knife back in the block. “No. I’ve been calling. Listen to this.”

Without the usual malicious pleasure I would have taken in doing so, I shoved the phone up next to his ear. 

He listened to it a few times, ended the call, and scrubbed at his face, which was looking a little paler than usual. For a corpse, at any rate. “She’s missing.”

“So’s Theresa,” I said, feeling cold. I put the phone away, reluctant to even look at it. It was strange to have something so obviously supernatural happen over such a modern device as the phone. “What do you think is going on?”

“I found out that the Circle was ahead of schedule and carried out their ritual at midnight. Apparently, they lost track of Isa at noon today.” He said this in a way that indicated to me that someone in the Circle had been left very unhappy when he discovered this. “When did your sister go missing?”

“I don’t know the exact time, but the school called me around one.”

“Not promising.”

“Do you think—”

“—it’s related? Probably. At least, you’d better hope, because I only know a potential method to track Isa, not your little tagalong.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Where do you think—?”

“Better grab your jacket,” he said. “Looks like we’re making an early start on our road trip to Hell.”

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

“I went to the gym, so I will be able to hold you up even longer” 🙌🏾🙌🏾🙌🏾

“I went to the gym, so I will be able to hold you up even longer” additional tags: (wrongly) assumed infidelity, miscommunication that gets resolved, this must be an au bc mickey would obv never interrupt his own sleep to leave the apartment

Mickey steps carefully into their apartment, taking great care to shut the door without being too loud. He closes it with barely a click. But nothing can prepare him for what happens next.

When Mickey turns, it’s like he’s stepped right into a 90s romantic drama, the single floor lamp clicking on to shine in a perfect spotlight, revealing where his husband is very much awake, and very much waiting for his return.

He’s sitting on the couch. Tucked up in his bathrobe and the most unimpressed frown.

“Fuck.”

“Who is he?”

Mickey glances from left to right. Behind himself. Looks at Ian again, his heart still pounding in his chest from the startle. “Who’s who?”

“Don’t gimme that.” And now Ian’s standing up, gathering his robe around himself as he prepares to fire off The Chin. “You disappear every night - yes, I noticed,” he states before Mickey can interrupt. “Bring a bag with you… Come home sweaty… I know you think you’re sneaky, but you’re fucking bad at hiding this, Mickey.”

It takes a second for everything to sink in. For the endorphins from the last couple hours to start pumping upward into his brain this time. 

And… Damn.

Ian caught him.

To be perfectly honest, Mickey thought he was getting away with this shit - was being real cagey and everything too - even getting a shower in before sliding back into bed with him.

“Two hours. That enough to meet up with him and do what you gotta do?”

Meet up with who? Yeah right. “You think I can get somebody out at this hour?” Mickey asks, his confusion starting to put him on edge. “Been doing this shit all on my own. Well-... I mean ‘cept for the other handful of guys who show up sometimes…”

And the way Ian’s eyebrows rise is almost as startling as how he stops in his tracks, repeating the words back to him with dragged out intensity. “‘Handful of guys’...?”

It’s got Mickey slugging his bag off his shoulder, the dramatics of it all really killing his high. “Christ, Ian. What’re you bein’ so bitchy for-”

“What am I being bitchy for.” There he goes again, repeating shit. Like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Mickey are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah - what - I was doin’ this shit for you, anyway. Thought you’d at least be excited about it.”

Oh. Fuck. Ian does not like that. “Excited?” Off comes the robe, in a flurry of angry movements. He’s running hot, and not in a good way. “Why the fuck would I be excited about my husband cheating on me!”

And it’s-...

He’s-...

Wait a second.

“What?”

“You thought you could go out every night and meet up with a ‘handful of guys’ and I’d be jumping for joy?” He sure is using air quotes like he’s having a good time with it, but no no no-

“What the-...” Mickey shakes his head, trying to clear the air because holy fuck, “I ain’t fuckin’ cheating on you, Ian - the hell?”

“You just said-” 

“Christ, you think I’m out bangin’ other dudes?”

“Wuh-...! You-...!”

Mickey rubs a hand over his mouth, everything suddenly making a whole lot of sense. The dramatics. The theater of it all. Ian was catching him coming home from the act, but ‘the act’ ended up being two very different things in their respective heads.

“Holy shit,” Mickey breathes out, going for his bag so he can put that thought immediately out of Ian’s head. “Look.”

He tugs the zipper open. Starts dumping out its contents on the floor right between them - his gym shoes - his old-ass iPod - a workout shirt - socks that stink so bad that they’re all he really needed to avoid all this. One whiff would’ve immediately made things clear.

But it’s enough now. Ian is slowly putting all the pieces together, the worry in his brow evening out and his chin returning to normal pointedness. Finally.

“You…” you says, hope returning. “You’ve been…going to the gym…?”

Mickey gestures to the pile of clothes in between them, his tone evening into something honest. “Yeah, man. Thought you wouldn’t notice once you knocked out…”

Ian eyes over everything one more time. Then slowly, his lips pull into a small pout, those eyes flicking away. “I notice every time you’re not in bed.” ‘Bitch.’ He wants to add it so bad. Mickey can practically see it trying to break through.

But he doesn’t. And there’s something so sheepish and honest and vulnerable about it, that Mickey can’t help but smile, peace returning as he stuffs his clothes and shoes back into his bag. “Fuck would I ever cheat on you for, ya dummy?”

A beat passes. Thoughts lingering. “I dunno… I just thought-...” 

“Well stop.” It sure makes a lot of sense, though. Now that he sees it through that lens. Fuck, he’d probably think the same thing if their roles were switched. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to getchya all riled up…”

“S’okay…” Ian watches as Mickey gets himself sorted. Still has a lot of questions trying to get out - he can tell. And it starts with this one. “What do you mean you were doing this for me?”

It’s the correct one - right away. And Mickey’s glad he asked, actually. Because if he must know…

The floorboards creak beneath his shoes as he steps up into Ian’s space, his muscles warmed up and ready enough to finally show off his skills. 

And when he does it - when he wrangles his giant-ass husband in and hauls him up until he's got those thick thighs straddling his waist, Ian’s startle and wide eyes say it all as Mickey slots him up against the wall - all two hundred pounds - keeping him held up in his arms.

“Been goin’ to the gym so I can lift ya,” he preens, impressed with his own strength.

Because he’s been working for this moment. For the look of sheer shock in Ian’s eyes from the rush of it - how it simmers into delight and pride and something much, much steamier the longer he holds him up.

And damn, that little breathy, impressed laugh that huffs out between them. “Fuck, Mick…”

Oh yeah. This is what all that 2am weightlifting has been for.

“You like that, huh?” Mickey grins, the atmosphere shifting familiar and fun - heavy in a good way. “This do it for ya?”

From his arms, Ian nods, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he takes a second to eat Mickey up with his eyes, those big arms wrapping around the back of his neck. 

He probably thought he was doing a decent job at hiding how hot he gets with this - when Mickey can make him feel small and moveable. 

They’re both absolute dogshit at keeping secrets, it turns out.

[ send me a smutty one-liner ]

[talonabraxas]

“In this book it is spoken of the Sefirot and the Paths; of Spirits and Conjurations; of Gods, Spheres, Planes, and many other things which may or may not exist. It is immaterial whether these exist or not. By doing certain things certain results will follow; students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophic validity to any of them.” --Aleister Crowley

Art: Qabalistic Tree of Life, by Steffi Grant. With alphabetic, zodiacal, elemental and planetary attributions according to the Golden Dawn system, as interpreted by Aleister Crowley in 777.

“It should now be perfectly simple for everybody to understand the Message of the Master Therion [i.e. Crowley]. Thou must (1) Find out what is thy Will, (2) Do that Will with (a) one-pointedness, (b) detachment, (c) peace. Then, and then only, art thou in harmony with the Movement of Things, thy will part of, and therefore equal to, the Will of God. And since the will is but the dynamic aspect of the self, and since two different selves could not possess identical wills; then, if thy will be God’s will, Thou art That.” --Aleister Crowley

The Message of the Master Therion, The Equinox III( 1), 1919, 39–43. Art: Steffi Grant

[livingwellnessblog]

The ego, and divine consciousness as told by the Ramayana. (How to work with the ego in manifesting and spirituality)

HANUMAN CHALISA & the ego “People don’t know,  every line of the Hanuman Chalisa is a mahamantra. “ – Sri Neem Karoli Baba In the Ramayana, the exiled Lord Rama and his wife, Sita, take refuge in the forest. They are living happily as hermits when the demon king of Lanka, Ravana, discovers them and abducts Sita, beginning a great war. As with all great parables, the surface level of the story…

[wanderinginksplot-writes]

Gar Cyare Chapter Seventeen

You come across a new arrival on Kamino

Word Count: 7,400

Warnings: Missing a friend, stress, lies, threats, mentions and discussions of reconditioning, investigations, conspiracy, war crime mention

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Traat'Aliit (Squad)

It was strange, the difference that one person could make in something as big as a city.

When the original ARC class had left, Tipoca City had felt empty. You hadn’t spend much time with the ARCs-in-training outside of mealtimes and the occasional training you attended, but the whole planet had felt a little colder without the boisterous troopers hanging around. 

You had expected something similar with Limit gone from the planet, but you hadn’t expected that it would hurt just as badly as the ARCs. Sheer numbers would suggest that it wouldn’t, but Limit had been such a large part of your life on Kamino. You felt his absence every moment and each one took your breath away. 

Alpha had done his best to help fill the void Limit left, but he had his hands full. The new ARC group had arrived, and they were at the stage of their training that needed the most attention. You still saw Alpha regularly, but that was largely because he always found his way to your quarters at the end of the day. 

None of that helped take your mind off the most concerning thing for you: the report was essentially complete. You had purposefully left a few sections unfinished so you would have something to work on, and you still had to proofread everything and organize it into the Republic’s desired format, but none of that would take longer than a month. Jaiss’s polite requests for updates had turned into more urgent reminders that your extended deadline was coming up quickly. 

You were, undeniably, running out of time on Kamino. 

And that was why, unable to bear the idea of staying trapped in your office for another moment, you had found your way to one of the break spaces deeper in the interior of the stilt-city. If asked, you would claim it was because the caf there was better, but you needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere you couldn’t see the datapads and report notes. 

To your surprise, you had been in the break room for less than ten minutes before you were interrupted by the arrival of Commander Colt. 

“Oh,” he said, pulling up short. It seemed that you had surprised Colt just as much as he had surprised you. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. Everything okay?” 

You started to give a rote assurance, but something about Colt seemed… off. There were stress lines etched into his face, which was filled with an expression of weariness. Even his posture was less perfect than usual, and you started to worry. “Is everything okay with you?” 

“Avoiding the question isn’t going to do you any favors,” Colt lectured. 

You crossed your arms, unintimidated by the way he was looming ominously over you. It was easy to do, since you were sitting down. “Back at you. I’m fine. And you?” 

Colt rolled his eyes at the pointedness of your question, but relented a moment later. He pulled out another chair at the table, slumping into it and rubbing at his forehead. “We have a new arrival on Kamino.”

“You mean the new ARC trainees?” you asked, befuddled. “They arrived a few days ago. Are they making trouble?” 

“No, Alpha’s already got them in line,” Colt said, the ghost of a smile passing over his tired face. It faded quickly, leaving you concerned and watching him closer than ever. “This one is… something else.” 

You leaned forward, scarcely aware of the motion. “Something else. Can you explain how?” 

Colt eyes you in weary amusement. “You and your tionase. He was sent here by his general for disobeying an order.” 

“They sent him to Kamino for disobeying an order?” It came out as a question, but you weren’t really asking. You had understood Colt, but the reasoning behind it was a mystery. “Why wouldn’t he go to Coruscant to be held accountable by the GAR? If it was that serious, why isn’t he facing a court-martial?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” Colt told you, looking away in apparent discomfort. Before you could apologize for upsetting him, he stood, muttered a goodbye, and left. 

Maybe this was exactly what you needed, you thought with a twinge of guilt. If the Senate wanted a report about the clone troopers, surely it couldn’t hurt to include an example of a time when a trooper didn’t obey orders. 

You hopped to your feet, discarding your caf and snatching up your datapad before hurrying out of the room. You had to find the trooper before anyone could stop you. 

At last, you located him. Kamino didn’t have much cause for a jail, but one of the smaller instruction rooms had been turned into a makeshift holding cell. The single clone trooper inside looked almost comically small, a single dot of color in the blank white expanse of a Kaminoan space meant to hold dozens. 

Then you stepped in the room and he looked over at you. He looked resigned, and weary enough to give Colt a run for his credits. 

Internally, you reclassified the unfamiliar trooper from ‘almost comical’ to ‘gut-wrenchingly sad’. There was something so desolate about him in that space, something that looked like a human version of a plaintive cry. Your heart ached just looking at him, especially when he struggled to his feet and offered a salute made clumsy with bound hands. 

“Sergeant Riptide, ma’am,” he reported. 

“Please, don’t…” After a moment of hesitation, you remembered the words. “At ease, trooper.” 

Riptide’s posture moved to something less formal, but he didn’t look any more relaxed. 

“Riptide?” you mused, trying to find a way to make him feel less worried. “Are you a SCUBA trooper?” 

He blinked, looking like you had thrown him off for the first time. “No, ma’am. I wanted to be, but I wasn’t chosen for the training. The name stuck, though. I hoped to get certified eventually, but…” 

The hopeless gesture at himself made you frown. “Well, I’m going to be honest with you, Riptide: I’m not officially part of this investigation.” 

“I figured that out, ma’am,” Riptide said slowly. “If you were, you’d have read about me in my file. You’d know I’m not a SCUBA, and you’d know that this isn’t an investigation. I won’t get one of those.” 

If ever there had been a phrase designed to make you want to fight, Riptide had found it. “I’ll have to disagree with you on that. I’ll make sure you get an investigation, even if I have to conduct it myself. But I need you to start by telling me what happened.” 

Riptide’s story was hard to listen to, but it was made worse by the detached tone he used to tell it. He didn’t sound uncaring, simply numb and resigned to facing the consequences of his actions. 

And what actions they were. 

Riptide had only just finished speaking when the doors opened to admit a small group. Nala Se was at the front, head swaying gracefully as she crossed the distance between you. Kaminoan expressions were notoriously difficult to read, but you didn’t believe she was pleased to see you. 

Behind Nala Se - and partially hidden by the Kaminoan’s height - was Shaak Ti. She looked serene as ever, though her expression was serious as she glided behind the Kaminoan. 

At the back of the group was Commander Colt. His eyes were fixed on the group ahead of himself, and the weary lines of his face seemed to be etched even deeper. He was nearly halfway across the space when he glanced up to find you standing beside Riptide. He didn’t pause, but you could see the instant of confusion that flashed across his face. 

“Administrator,” Nala Se greeted when she had approached. Her voice was gentle and polite as ever, but there was a coldness to it that gave you a glimpse of her true feelings. “We were not expecting you here.” 

“Really?” you asked, pretending to be confused. “But how can I write an accurate report for the Republic if I don’t see how the clone troopers behave when they are not performing to anticipated standard?”

The skin around Nala Se’s large eyes tightened. “Like any product, the clones can contain aberrations that make them function less effectively, but such incidents are rare.” 

“I agree,” you interrupted. “Even more so since I don’t believe that there is any reason for Riptide to be here at all.” 

“Is that so?” Shaak Ti asked, watching you consideringly. “And what brings you to that conclusion?”

“Riptide refused to follow an order issued by his commanding officer,” you explained. “But that order itself goes against the laws of warfare as determined by the Republic. All soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic must recognize Chancellor Palpatine - and the Republic by extension - as the ultimate authority, superseding even their generals and others in their direct chain of command.”

“And what was the order you believe he disobeyed?” There was something pointed in Nala Se’s tone, and it was enough to put you on-edge. Maybe this wasn’t a simple misunderstanding, as you had hoped.

Still, you forged ahead with the explanation Riptide had given you. “His general ordered him to burn a village filled with Separatist sympathizers.” 

“We were given a different version of events, from a far more trusted source,” Nala Se countered. “CT-6287 refused to pass on his general’s order to retreat. His stubbornness and inaction resulted in the deaths of several clones. His general was disappointed and reluctant to send 6287 to Kamino, but he ultimately agreed that the clone’s continued presence on the battlefield was a risk to his entire battalion.” 

There was a finality to Nala Se’s tone, as if she had given a recalcitrant child such a logical explanation that the conversation could do nothing but end. 

She didn’t know you very well. 

“As admitting the truth would mean immediate jailtime for attempting to commit a war crime, I’m not surprised that Riptide’s general shifted the blame. But there are a half-dozen witnesses who saw what really happened. What have they said?”

Nala Se blinked. “They were not asked for their statements. Due to their enhanced loyalty, clones would be far too willing to lie for each other-” 

“Even if asked a direct question?” Shaak Ti asked incisively. “Because that would also constitute an unwillingness to obey orders. That is a far more serious problem, and one that may dissuade the Republic from making further orders from the Kaminoan laboratories.”

“General, I must protest.” Nala Se’s head bobbed more rapidly, her long fingers clasped together tightly. “You have seen many clones and work with one on a daily basis. Surely any true reason for concern would have been apparent far before now.” 

“I agree,” Shaak Ti said with a nod. “So I agree with the administrator: it is odd that this clone trooper would struggle with orders when so many of his brothers do not. Upon reflection, I believe it would be wise to dig into the accounts of the incident more thoroughly.”

Nala Se straightened, drawing herself up to an even more impressive height. “And who will be responsible for the investigation? You are quite busy and I certainly do not have the time.”

“I’ll investigate,” you volunteered. “I already have the names and comm frequencies of Riptide’s squadmates. That will be a good place to start.”

“I would think your focus would be on finishing your report so you may leave Kamino,” Nale Se said, sounding the closest to impatient you had ever heard from a Kaminoan. 

You lifted your chin stubbornly. “This is more important.” 

“And what about you, trooper?” Commander Colt asked, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room. “Anything to say for yourself?” 

“The only order I disobeyed was the order to kill civilians, sir,” Riptide said, voice quiet at first, but gaining strength as he spoke. “We clones only have our honor, sir. As you taught us.”

Colt nodded. 

“One more thing.” You were reluctant to snap the tension of the moment, but you needed to get started contacting Riptide’s brothers. “I want Riptide to get food and water. And a blanket. And a place to sleep.” 

“One more thing?” Nala Se asked waspishly. 

“Haven’t you had any food, trooper?” Shaak Ti asked, kneeling in front of the low cot where Riptide sat. The motion put her on his eye level.

He shook his head slowly, staring at her as if transfixed. “No, General.” 

She patted his knee kindly. “We will remedy that. Give us a few minutes to get the items you require.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

With a gentle gesture, Shaak Ti ushered everyone out of the room, closing the door behind herself. She faced the door for a long moment and you wondered if you were still supposed to be standing there. You leaned away from the door, ready to start walking back toward your office as soon as you gauged the tone of the conversation and whether you were going to be reprimanded. 

“Mistress Se,” Shaak Ti started as she turned around, fiercely glinting eyes contrasting against her otherwise peaceful expression. Nala Se straightened, seeming almost nervous… even to your human eyes. 

Suddenly, you decided against leaving. There was nowhere in the galaxy you would rather be at that moment. 

“Yes, General Ti?” Nala Se asked. 

“Why is it that clone trooper Riptide was deprived of food, water, and basic comforts?” Shaak Ti asked, going immediately for the verbal throat. “That is now how we treat detainees of any sort, and especially not those who belong to our own army.” 

“There is a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Nala Se assured her. “Riptide has been scheduled for reconditioning. The procedure is safest if there are minimal contents in the stomach. And it is far simpler if the clone’s body temperature is lower. It is customary for them to wear only their body glove in a cool chamber in the time leading up to the process.”

You had to look away from Nala Se or you were going to get violent. Instead, your eyes went to Shaak Ti - who looked more than a little capable of violence, herself - then to Commander Colt.

The sight of him made you twitch. Colt was always strong, ready to take charge and lead, especially if it meant protecting his brothers. But an unfamiliar man stood beside you. The discussion of reconditioning had made him draw into himself, as if he were creating a smaller target by instinct or design. His expression was miserable and haunted, eyes fixed on Nala Se as if she would turn her intentions to him, next. 

You took a slow step closer, subtly lifting your hand to press it against Colt’s back. He twitched hard, gaze shooting to you in shock and defensiveness. You offered an apologetic smile and lightened your touch in a silent offer to break the contact. Colt shook his head and leaned back slightly, pressing your hand against his back once more. 

“And you intended to… recondition this man without any approval from the GAR, the Senate, or the Jedi Order?” Shaak Ti asked, her voice dangerously polite.

“If our product does not perform to expected standards, we reserve the right to correct the issue,” Nala Se reminded her. “It is part of our continued contract with the Republic.” 

“It sounds as if there may be cause to believe that Riptide’s actions were correct,” Shaak Ti countered. “I propose we allow the administrator to proceed with her investigation. We may make our decision when she has found any additional information that may prove Riptide’s case against his general.” 

Nala Se silently swayed her head back and forth as she worked through that. “No, CT-6287 is a defective clone. He is our responsibility. The Republic has no say in this matter.” 

“I would argue that he is property of the GAR and the Republic.” Shaak Ti straightened even further, tucking her hands behind her back. “And as I am the liaison for both of those groups on Kamino, I am the one responsible for Riptide.” 

“Perhaps I should contact Senator Tohu,” Nala Se threatened. 

You were at a total loss on that name until something clicked in the far recesses of your brain. Lon Tohu was the new senator for Kamino, replacing the likely corrupt Klaanuc Dralnulo.

“You may certainly try.” Shaak Ti’s customary smile looked sharper than you usually saw it. “Given that it is shortly after midnight on Coruscant, I fear you may have to wait for a response.” 

Nala Se didn’t answer. Instead, she stalked away, headed toward the section of Tipoca City that housed the long-range comm system. 

“I believe you should start your investigation sooner rather than later,” Shaak Ti told you. “I cannot claim to know what hours Lon Tohu keeps, but he will answer eventually. Thank you for bringing all of this to my attention.” 

You frowned. “Your attention? I thought you were aware of whatever the Kaminoans were planning. Why else were you down here?” 

“Nala Se told us that someone had broken into the holding cells,” she said, shaking her head. “If I had known what sort of conditions they were holding Riptide in, I would have been here much sooner. Please trust that I will take a keen interest in any troopers returning to Kamino in the future.” 

You nodded and turned away, but paused at Colt’s soft voice. “Go get ‘em, ad’ika.”

Tracking down Riptide’s friends had been trickier than expected. His general clearly hadn’t expected there to be any repercussions after he sent Riptide away, so the rest of his battalion remained intact. However, no one seemed inclined to answer their comms. 

The last comm frequency you had belonged to Stick, Riptide’s second-in-command. “You’re who? No, Riptide isn’t here.” 

You patiently explained the situation to him again, hoping the connection would be stronger the second time. It would be easier to use the official long-distance comms, but you didn’t trust Nala Se not to interfere somehow. If she even allowed you to use them while she was trying to contact Lon Tohu. 

All you could do was hope that Alpha’s illegally modified long-distance wrist comm would last until this investigation was over. 

“Sarge is on Kamino?” Stick asked, sounding horrified. “The general told us that he had requested to be transferred to another unit. Did they-? Are they gonna-? Is he okay?” 

The hopelessness in Stick’s tone made your heart pang. “He’s fine, but not for long. I need some kind of proof that your general asked him to burn the Separatist sympathizer village. Because the general is saying that Riptide ignored an order to retreat. Says a bunch of troopers died.” 

Stick swore vividly, some of it in languages you didn’t even recognize. “That liar. The only men who died on that mission were the ones who listened to the general instead of the sarge.”

“Do you have any proof of that?” you pressed. “I’ve stalled them for now, but I don’t have long.” 

“I don’t,” Stick admitted. “But if anyone has some kind of proof, it’s Holo. The man records everything. Maybe he got something without the general knowing.” 

“Can you give me his comm frequency?” You hoped the urgency in your voice carried over the comms, but you could never be sure. “Or I can give you mine to pass on to him. But I need to speak with him as soon as possible.” 

“Give me two minutes,” Stick said, and the line cut a moment later. 

You were anxiously counting the seconds when your comlink rang again. “The general sent Holo out on a mission yesterday evening. He’s in hyperspace right now and I can’t get through to him. How long does the sergeant have?” 

“Not long,” you replied, biting your lip. “I’ll do everything I can, but the Kaminoans are fighting to keep him, and I don’t know how much longer Shaak Ti and I can fight them off. I guess there’s something in their contract that says they get to deal with troopers however they decide is best.” 

“Karkin’ long-necks,” Stick said grimly. “Let me keep trying. I’ll contact some of Holo’s squad-mates. Maybe he sent them something.” 

“Can you give me a frequency?” you asked. It was pushy, but there was only so long you could keep Riptide away from Nala Se and her reconditioning. Especially if Tohu got involved. “We can contact more people if we’re working together. Besides, this is my only focus for the day. I’d rather not just sit here wondering…” 

“I understand,” Stick agreed, and there was a weary understanding in his voice that said he understood all too well. You wondered how many times he had been stuck wondering about the safety of someone he couldn’t protect, but had to stop thinking about it. You didn’t have time to feel sad and hopeless. Not when there was a chance you could still save Riptide. “I’ll send you Dex’s frequency.” 

“Thank you.” The gratitude rang out over a line that had gone dead. Stick’s comm manners were a little rough, but he had other things that were more important. 

By the time you pulled the comlink away from your mouth, it was chiming with an incoming message. You called the frequency as soon as you could enter the proper commands and listened with your heart in your mouth as it rang.

“H’lo?”

The voice was rough and slurred with either sleep or alcohol. You hoped it was sleep, or Dex may not be the resource you needed. “Is this Dex?” 

“Speaking.”

“Hi, I’m an administrator on Kamino and I need-” 

A loud sigh interrupted you. “I don’t have any money. Di’kutla scam comms…”

There was a pause that made your fingers twitch - Dex was getting ready to end the connection. “Dex, wait! Please! It’s Riptide, Stick gave me your number because we can’t get in touch with Holo and I need-” 

“Hang on, hang on,” Dex ordered, sounding more awake than he had during the rest of the comm call. “Sarge? Thought you said you were on Kamino. Riptide is with his new battalion on Geonosis. Something about those bugs coming back for another round.”

“Riptide was never assigned to a new battalion,” you explained quickly. “Your general sent him back to Kamino for reconditioning.”

The silence stretched long enough that you thought Dex may have severed the connection after all. When he finally did speak, Dex’s voice was unsteady. “Is he already gone?” 

“He’s still here, for now,” you reassured him. “The Kaminoans are trying to send him for reconditioning. I’m working with Shaak Ti and Commander Colt to prove that Riptide didn’t disobey an order, but I need proof.” 

“Riptide did disobey an order, though,” Dex told you, sounding wearily resigned. “The general ordered him to do something and he refused. We aren’t allowed to do that.” 

“From what Riptide told me, the order needed to be disobeyed,” you countered. “But your general says Riptide disobeyed a retreat order, which got several troopers killed. Stick said that isn’t true, and his version of the story lines up with everything Riptide told me. I need proof, though. Otherwise, it’s Riptide’s word against the general’s. Stick seemed to think that Holo might have recorded it.” 

Dex swore. “The general must have thought the same thing. He ordered a total wipe of all HUD records and storage a week after the mission. Anything Holo might have had is gone now.” 

Your shoulders slumped and you had to bite back tears. You barely knew this trooper, but you hated to admit defeat. How could you look Riptide in the face and tell him that you had failed? That he was going to be punished for doing the right thing, and there was nothing you could do to stop it because the party who was actually in the wrong was untouchable? 

It… wasn’t fair. Few things were - and even fewer in a warzone - but that didn’t cut through the bitterness on your tongue. 

“But wait,” Dex said, perking you back up. “You said it was the sergeant’s word against the general’s. I’ll vouch for Riptide, and so would half the men in the battalion. We all heard the orders, and heard him refuse to follow them. We can tell whoever we need to that there was no retreat order.”

The hope melted away faster than an ice shard on Batuu. 

“It won’t work,” you said mournfully. “The Kaminoans have already said that they won’t believe the troopers. They think you’ll all stand up for each other, even if that means lying about what really happened.”

Dex swore again, and you half considered joining him. 

“I’ll reach out to some of the other men in our battalion,” he promised. “Maybe someone has something. And I’ll keep trying Holo, just in case.” 

“Good luck, Dex.” You grimaced. “Let me know if you find out anything. Stick is also comming everyone, so you might come across some troopers who already know what’s going on. I’ll stall the Kaminoans as long as possible.” 

“Thank you.” Dex’s voice was tight with emotion again. “He’s a good man and it isn’t right, what they’re trying to do to him. It’s a battle worth fighting, I promise.” 

“You don’t have to convince me of that.” You smiled sadly. “I knew as soon as I spoke with him that I couldn’t let this happen, not if I can help it. Just hurry, please.” 

Dex agreed and severed the connection. 

Unfortunately, that left you in a lull. Stick hadn’t give you anyone else’s comm frequency, and you didn’t want to comm him back and interrupt more productive conversations. Besides, if Dex had been anything to go by, there were good odds that the next trooper would sever the connection before you had a chance to explain yourself. It was asking a lot, to talk to a stranger and take their word on an internal event that had seemingly been handled. 

Something felt off to you, though. You managed to put your finger on it after a few minutes of soul-searching - the general had lied about where Riptide had gone. 

It could be that they weren’t very popular with their troops. Maybe it was easier to mislead everyone about where their sergeant had gone. But it could also be that the general didn’t want anyone to know where Riptide really was so they couldn’t try to interfere. With, say, some evidence that things hadn’t gone exactly how the general said they had. 

No, you refused to believe that the evidence had been fully destroyed. You refused to believe that someone so corrupt could be allowed to continue acting against everything the Republic stood for. You refused to believe that the situation was hopeless. 

You just needed to buy Stick and Dex the time they needed to follow up on leads. With nothing else to do, you started back for Riptide’s holding area. You sent a quick message to Stick on the way - written, so he could see it between calls: 

Stick, I got in touch with Dex. The general had Holo delete his files a week after the mission. Dex is following up now in case anyone had copies. I’m going back to Riptide now. Contact me with any news. 

You had signed the message with your name, though you weren’t actually sure whether you’d given it in your conversation with Stick. If nothing else, you reasoned, there were plenty of context clues for him to pick up on. 

Before you put the comlink away, you called Commander Colt. “I’m headed back down to Riptide. Have you heard or seen anything?”

“Nala Se hasn’t been back there.” 

You frowned. “Good, but did they give him a blanket and some food?” 

“He has a blanket and a ration bar,” Colt reported. “It’s not much, but he’s better off than he was earlier.” 

“Thank you, Colt.” 

You detoured on your way downstairs, picking up two more blankets and a pair of fuzzy socks you had ordered for Alpha (he had steadfastly refused to wear them). The mess hall wasn’t serving food at the moment, but you knew where the previous ARC groups stored their treats. If this group missed the handful of snacks you had taken, you would restock the stash yourself.

Riptide was asleep by the time you arrived. He was curled on the narrow cot as best he could be, huddled under a blanket that looked like it would be too small for a much younger trooper. The remains of a ration bar wrapper rested neatly under the cot. It looked as if he had all but licked it clean.

You carefully spread the blankets over Riptide, moving gently so you didn’t scare him awake. The socks and snacks ended up next to the ration bar wrapper. You sat on the floor, carefully angled so that you could see Riptide and the door, as well as block any intruders’ immediate view of the trooper and the gifts you had brought him.

And then you had nothing left to do but think. 

That was a bad thing, since you immediately fell into ruminations about your report. You weren’t going to include Riptide’s story in it. You had decided that much within minutes of meeting him. 

Which brought you right back to where you had started: the report was done. Yes, you could stretch things out for a while by working on the editing process, then making sure it was properly formatted, but Jaiss would probably offer to help you with all of that. You needed to figure out what your next steps would be. You needed to talk to Alpha.

A low groan came from behind you, followed closely by the sound of someone trying to carefully turn onto their side. 

You turned, finding yourself face-to-face with Riptide, who watched you with surprise. When he finally looked away, he glanced down at the blankets. The way he rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger bordered on reverential. 

“Thank you.” 

With a grimace, you shook your head. “You’re welcome, but I would prefer you didn’t thank me. The blanket they brought you was an embarrassment.”

Riptide snorted. It was the first time you had seen him smile, weak as it was. 

“I also brought you some food.” 

He blinked at you. “I already had a ration bar.” 

With effort, you managed not to make a rude noise in response to that. Instead, you said, “Yes, well�� If you decide you want something with a bit more flavor, everything is under the cot.”

Riptide lasted all of three seconds before he glanced under the cot. “Oye! You brought the good stuff.”

“I did my best,” you agreed. 

He ate in silence for a minute while you kept an eye on the door. Eventually, Riptide asked, “Did you manage to get in touch with any of my men?” 

“Some of them,” you explained. “I spoke with Stick and Dex. Everyone is trying to reach Holo, but he’s in hyperspace right now and no one can tell me when he’s supposed to be back in range.” 

“They can’t,” Riptide answered automatically. “Confidential information. It would be a breach of Republic protocol to give away details like that.”

You didn’t answer that. It would be cruel to remind him that the current breach of Republic protocol was what had left his life hanging in the balance. 

Well, probably. If you were being honest, Nala Se had never said exactly what reconditioning was, but you had gathered that it was surgical in nature and - by her own description - ‘corrected’ the problem of troopers disobeying orders. It sounded suspiciously like they were killing troopers who they thought weren’t performing to expected standards. 

And it hadn’t escaped your notice that the troopers from Riptide’s battalion seemed to dread the idea of reconditioning. 

When the door opened again, you were on your feet quickly enough to disorient yourself slightly, but the sight of Nala Se’s cold gray eyes brought you back. 

“Well, administrator?” she asked, voice as dispassionate as her gaze. “What have you discovered about CT-6287’s mission?” 

“I have plenty of people who support Riptide’s version of events,” you told her, lifting your chin even as you wondered where Shaak Ti and Colt were. “None of them have even referenced an order to retreat, much less that Riptide refused to follow it.” 

“But do you have proof?” she pressed. 

“Not yet.” You took half a step forward. “But I will soon.” 

“It does not matter,” Nala Se said. “I have received confirmation from Senator Tohu that we have a contractual right to correct any manufacturing flaws that we discover.” 

“But the clone troopers belong to the Republic,” you argued. “The GAR and the Jedi Council are the ones who have to agree before you can make any ‘corrections’. If Tohu answered your comm, that means that the others should answer soon. Where are General Ti and Commander Colt?” 

“They have not come to find me since our earlier conversation.” Nala Se’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “You could always go discuss the topic with them personally.” 

Something in her inflection made you want to lift your arms to shield Riptide. “No. I have no guarantees that you won’t try anything if I leave.” 

“You do not,” she agreed. If Kaminoans made a habit of smiling, you thought she would have done so.

Your comlink buzzed and you glanced down long enough to see a short message: 

I always make copies of everything. 

There was a file attached. 

“Am I keeping you from something?” Nala Se asked, voice silky. 

“It was Commander Colt,” you lied, meeting her gaze. “He and General Ti are on their way.”

You forwarded the message to Colt, keying a quick request for him to remove any identifying information. You would not be responsible for any other troopers getting in trouble. 

The silence was uncomfortable, and Nala Se didn’t seem inclined to make it any less so. The air seemed thick with tension, almost difficult to breathe, and every time you or Riptide shifted, it felt like the loudest sound ever made. 

It was almost a half-hour before Commander Colt arrived, slightly breathless. “We’ve received the transmission. It shows all the proof we need. I copied it onto a data stick.” 

He handed it to Nala Se and you tensed, somehow sure she would destroy it. Colt glanced at you, a hint of a smile on his face. “And I took the liberty of creating an additional copy to display here.” 

Colt lifted his forearm, flexing his fingers to start a small holographic projector in his vambrace. A tiny pair of figures appeared, caught in mid-argument. 

“I can’t do that, sir,” the holographic Riptide said. 

“You can and you will, trooper,” the general ordered. You could see that he was humanoid and wearing a full uniform. Probably not one of the Jedi generals, then. “I gave you the order once and I do not appreciate repeating myself. Burn it down.” 

Some of the troopers around Riptide shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other. Riptide spoke again. “Sir, there are civilians inside. Only civilians. No military leaders or targets at all.”

“You think i don’t know that?” the general snapped. “Nothing but Separatist sympathizers in there. The galaxy is better off without them.” 

“No, sir,” Riptide said firmly. “That is against the Republic’s Articles of War and therefore runs counter to the orders given by Chancellor Palpatine at the start of this conflict. I won’t burn it, and neither will any of my men.” 

The general snarled, but before he could reply, shots started firing from beyond the scope of the recording. Cries of the injured rose in the air and the general heaved an irritated sigh. “Retreat to the ship!” 

“Retreat!” Riptide echoed. “Stick and Justice, grab a few men to help the wounded. Let’s move!” 

The recording cut, leaving the room quiet once more. 

“That does seem fairly conclusive,” Shaak Ti said from the doorway. 

You hadn’t heard her approach, but you were indescribably relieved that she and Colt were there. You had never trusted Nala Se, and you certainly hadn’t decided to start now. 

“Should we start an investigation, General?” Colt asked. 

“Absolutely,” Shaak Ti confirmed. “In fact, we should go now. Mistress Se, please accompany me to the long-range comms. The Jedi Council has gathered, along with several key representatives of the Grand Army of the Republic. They are waiting for our report on this incident to open the investigation. Commander, please release Riptide and arrange for his transport back to Coruscant, then join us at the comms. Thank you. And thank you for your effort on this matter, administrator.”

You returned Shaak Ti’s nod with a smile and watched as the Jedi and the Kaminoan swept out of the room. 

“Old Holo came through after all, eh?” Riptide asked as Colt unlocked the binders. Riptide’s fingers were trembling, though he tried to hide it by gathering what remained of the snacks you had brought for him. “Good man.” 

“Especially since the general ordered them to delete their HUD footage,” you added mildly. “Speaking of, did you..?” 

Colt nodded. “Tech helped me anonymize the recording before I copied it.” 

You relaxed at that. If Tech had removed any identifiers, you could be certain that there was no way to trace the recording back to Holo, not through electronic means. 

“Want to come with us to the transports?” Colt asked. 

You smiled, but shook your head. “I think I need a little time to relax. That was the most stressed I’ve been in a while.” 

Before you left, Riptide shook your hand warmly. “Thank you, truly. I don’t- I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t… Thank you.”

The immediate urge was to reject Riptide’s thanks, to insist that he didn’t need to thank you or that it had been nothing. But it hadn’t been nothing, and both of you knew it. He had almost lost his life because a general had lied about him and no one had searched for the truth. 

So you simply nodded instead, wishing him the best. 

By the time you got back to your quarters, Alpha was already there, lounging comfortably on your bed. You blinked at him, a little surprised before you realized exactly what the time was. 

Alpha looked up as you walked in. “Late night, little one?” 

“Long day,” you said. Alpha looked increasingly interested as you started stripping off your clothing, but you excused yourself to take a long shower. 

He was still awake when you came back out, and it only took a little prodding before the whole story came pouring out of you. 

To your utter shock, Alpha started to laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” you asked frostily. 

“You prevented a reconditioning,” Alpha explained. It wasn’t much of an explanation, and you gave him the evil eye until he continued. “That’s the closest thing the clones have to a horror story. Dying in battle is one thing, but reconditioning? And you just stopped one. Because you didn’t think it was fair.” 

“What… is it?” 

Alpha’s amusement didn’t fade immediately, but still faster than was typical for him. “We don’t talk about it.” 

“Why?” You silently promised yourself that you would stop asking questions the instant Alpha started to look uncomfortable, but he looked as unbothered as ever.

“Because it’s something no one wants to think about,” he said. “Much less admit happens to our vode.”

That wasn’t any better an explanation than you had before, but you tried to keep any frustration out of your voice. “So they… kill you? That’s what Nala Se implied.” 

“Did she?” Alpha leveled an arch look at you. “When have you ever known the kaminii to waste a perfectly good product?” 

You made a face at that. “She said they had full rights to control the quality of their products. That’s why she was fighting to recondition Riptide.”

“No, his body was fine,” Alpha argued, despite never having seen Riptide before. “They control for that from the growth tubes on. But if a trooper’s mind is bad, there’s no use in wasting a perfectly good body…” 

“So they… what? Brainwash troopers?” you asked with a chuckle. It disappeared entirely when Alpha didn’t join in on your amusement. “Wait, really? They brainwash you?” 

“Putting it lightly,” he muttered. “The Kaminoans built us, shaped the way our minds developed. If they don’t like how one turned out, they can tear it back down to its base components. You still look like you and sound like you, but… it’s not you. And you can never know how much of a trooper will survive the process. Some of ‘em act like they’ve been reset, but others… Well, no one wants to imagine being trapped in their own body for the rest of their life.”

You had to try a few times before you could speak. “But… But Nala Se made it sound like it was some kind of surgery?” 

Alpha tapped his temple. “Where do you think personality comes from? Remove the right part of the brain and you kill the non-spec parts of a person.” 

“That’s horrible,” you said with a shudder, climbing into the bed. You weren’t tired in the slightest, but wrapping your arms around Alpha always made you feel better. You could use that right now. “You’re lucky they’ve never done it to you.” 

Alpha snorted. “They could try.” 

“No, Alpha,” you chided quietly. “I can’t- can’t even think about that happening to you. I would never recover.” 

“Shh, neverd’ika,” Alpha soothed. “I’m in their good graces right now, and I don’t see that changing soon. Besides, if they reconditioned me, who would train their ARCs? No one else is lining up for that osik.” 

“Just be careful,” you pleaded, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. 

He squeezed you a little tighter, seeming content to cuddle you in silence for a while. You were almost asleep when he said, “You got a message on your comlink while you were in the ‘fresher.” 

You rolled out of the bed instantly, heart stuttering with cold fear that Nala Se had managed to trap Riptide after all. Instead, you found a message from a frequency you didn’t know. Your eyebrows lifted as you scanned over it.

“What is it?” Alpha asked. 

You read aloud, “You’ve been busy. If I’d known what kind of transmissions you’d be sending, I would have done more encryption. I’ll add some extra coding to it tonight. Power it off when you wake up tomorrow morning, wait five minutes, and turn it back on.”

As you read, another message came through. “Be careful.”

“I don’t recognize the frequency,” you said when you had finished reading. 

“Ordo,” Alpha supplied immediately. “He’s the one who encrypted the comlink for long-range calls. He must have seen more activity than usual from you and decided to check it out.” 

“He was listening in on my calls?” you asked, discomfited. “I don’t think I like that.” 

“I don’t like it, either,” Alpha admitted. “But Skirata keeps the Nulls busy. I doubt any of them are listening to your calls. Ordo probably just saw more activity than usual and decided to check it out.”

You grimaced. “Still.”

“Would it help if I threaten him over comms?” Alpha asked. “It wouldn’t do anything for me, but if it would help you feel better, I’ll do it.”

His tone was longsuffering, but there was a glint in his eyes that said he was teasing you. It wasn’t enough to make you forget about the stress of the day, but it did make you bite back a smile.

You rolled your eyes at him and Alpha grinned, clearly proud of his ability to get a reaction from you. When you stuck your tongue out at him, his surprised laughter made you feel warm all over. 

As Alpha recovered from the apparent shock, you crawled back into bed and cuddled into his side.

---

Author's Note - This was a really long chapter, but the next one will be fairly short. The two should even out nicely. Riptide is an OC and Alpha's definition of reconditioning is the fanon version. I'm pretty sure the canon reconditioning is just Kaminoans killing troopers, but this is somehow worse.

Thank you for reading!

[star-trek-fandom-confessions]

#530

"This is such a stupid thing to be pedantic about but I feel like how long and pointy Vulcan and Romulan ears are hasn’t stayed consistent throughout the years. Spock’s ears in TOS were the perfect length and pointedness (even in the TOS movies they weren’t the same)"

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

A kiss like they're trying to convince the other to love them and/or a kiss in front of someone they hold captive

Yennskier

Here's a little bit of both, set in an alternate timeline where they managed to capture Rience during season 3, episode 1:

“We should probably talk about what happened in Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier says in what he hopes is a casual way.

Yennefer looks at him incredulously. “Does now seem like a good time for this conversation, bardling?”

“Why not?” Jaskier shrugs. “He’s not going anywhere.”

They both turn to look at Rience, who scowls back at them from the chair they’ve bound him to in dimeritium chains. Jaskier can’t help but feel a thrill of vindication at seeing the fire fucker as trussed up and helpless as he was a year ago in Oxenfurt, even as he keeps catching himself rubbing his fingers together anxiously. It helps that Yennefer is standing next to him and Geralt and Ciri are just in the other room with Yarpen.

Rience sneers at Yennefer. “What’s one of Tissaia’s girls doing, working for a witcher?”

Jaskier snorts. Even if they hadn’t already figured out that Rience isn’t the mastermind trying to capture Ciri, that would have given it away. No one with any sense would think Yennefer a lackey. Leaning closer to Yennefer, he says, “We really should talk about this.”

“About what?” She sighs, clearly realizing she’s not going to be able to evade this. “A lot happened in Kaer Morhen. Do you want to talk about Voleth Meir? All the money you still owe Ciri after all the times she trounced you at cards?”

“She did not…” Jaskier draws himself up, realizes he’s being distracted, and lets out a huff. “About our last night there.”

Yennefer doesn’t visibly react, but there’s a pointedness in the way she turns back to Rience. “Who’s your puppetmaster?”

Rience bares his teeth at her. “I’m no one’s—”

“I don’t believe for a second that you’re the one calling the shots. You’re a one trick pony, aren’t you? You can harness fire, but not much else. That portal wasn’t yours.”

“I just can’t help but notice that you’re acting a bit… off,” Jaskier says carefully, because he and Yennefer may be friends now, but he still doesn’t put it past her to curse his bollocks off.

Yennefer closes her eyes. “Did you learn this interrogation technique from Phillipa?”

“Gods, no.” Jaskier barks out a laugh. “Phillipa wouldn’t let me anywhere near an interrogation.”

“I suppose that’s why Redania is still standing.”

“See? That was almost mean. That was the first mean thing you’ve said to me in three days, and it wasn’t even in your top ten best jabs! Something is clearly amiss. Are you a doppler? Are you dying? Did you hit your head in the skirmish yesterday? Melitele, are you actually plotting my demise? Is this your way of trying to lure me into a false sense of security? Because it isn’t working, Yennefer.”

“If you want him dead, you can just let me out of these chains.” Rience snaps his fingers menacingly and Jaskier can’t help but step back, even though no flames appear.

Yennefer throws out a hand and Rience’s chair flies backward, slamming against the wall and capsizing. He yelps as his head bounces off the ground and lies there, groaning.

“Yenn?” Geralt calls from the next room. “Jaskier?”

“We’re fine!” Lowering her voice, Yennefer hisses, “This isn’t the time.”

“Well, it has to be the time, because you keep avoiding me. Is this about what happened between us? Because you didn’t seem to have any regrets the next morning? In fact, you asked…” He trails off, pieces starting to slide into place.

“I asked you to come with me, Geralt, and Ciri,” she says through gritted teeth. “And you said no. Years of you popping up at the most inconvenient times, bardling, and the one time I want you to stay, you left.”

“But…” Jaskier opens and closes his mouth, at a loss for words. When he recovers his wits, all he can squeak is, “I told you I was needed at Oxenfurt.”

“Bullshit. You told me yourself that the Sandpiper organization would run just fine without you. The only thing you did going back to Oxenfurt was put yourself in Phillipa and Dijkstra’s sights.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t want to come with you just to watch you and Geralt play house while I was just there so you could keep me out of trouble.”

It’s her turn to look taken aback. “What?”

“You said so yourself, you wanted me to come with you so I wouldn’t get myself killed in Oxenfurt. You, Geralt, and Ciri are a family, bound by destiny. I’m not—” He’s getting too close to all the things he doesn’t want to say to her, so he looks away. “I’m happy to play the fun Uncle Jaskier whenever you need me to. But the thing about fun uncles is they show up, let you win at cards a few times, and then they leave before the joke gets old.”

Yennefer doesn’t look exasperated anymore; she just looks sad. That’s somehow worse. “It took Geralt months before he would talk to me about anything but the weather, Ciri’s training, or telling me to duck because someone was trying to stab me. I have never once slept under the same roof as him and Ciri, even when we barely had the coin to afford one lodging, never mind two. It took until the winter before he let me inside to break bread with them. The shadow of what I did hung over us every day. We weren’t playing house, we were on the run, and you should have fucking been there.”

“Yenn—”

She talks over him. “You were the only person who could look at me when we were at Kaer Morhen. I asked you to come with us because I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?” he whispers.

Her jaw clenches stubbornly, but she doesn’t answer.

Carefully, he reaches out to take her by the wrist, tugging her closer. “Watching the three of you leave Kaer Morhen was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. If I had known you really wanted me there, I would have followed you in a heartbeat.”

Her lips twitch into a half-smile. “Did you really think I was asking you to come just to be nice?”

“Foolish, I know.” He lets out a shaky breath. “I’ll stay this time.”

“What about the Sandpiper?”

“Vespula does most of the Sandpipering these days. I’m being watched too closely by the RSS.” Jaskier brings her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Yennefer looks like she wants to deny it, because gods forbid she or Geralt admit to being people with feelings, but she nods. “I’m sorry if I’ve been too kind to you. It won’t happen again.”

“Thank the gods. It made my skin crawl.” He leans down to rest their foreheads together. “Let me stay, Yenn.”

She doesn’t answer, but lifts her face so that he can close the gap between them and kiss her. It’s a tentative thing, not like the desperate, hungry kisses they exchanged on their last night in Kaer Morhen, as weeks of longing—well, probably years of longing, if Jaskier is being honest with himself—bubbled to the surface. There will be time for those later, once they’ve figured out who Rience is working for and ensured that Ciri is safe.

Across the room, there’s a noise of disgust. “If you’re going to make me watch this, I’d rather you just gouge my—”

Yennefer throws her hand out, not pulling her lips away from Jaskier’s. There’s a thud, a yelp, then silence.

“Don’t kill him yet,” Jaskier says, breaking the kiss to press his lips against her throat. “We haven’t gotten any answers out of him.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Geralt’s, the easily distractible fucker. He’s off chattering away with Yarpen while we do all the hard work.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and mutters something that’s undoubtedly insulting under her breath, but she kisses Jaskier again, so that’s alright.

***

Kiss prompts

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