#psyche-delic-dreams

[anantaru]

4 RULES TO SURVIVE A DIVORCE (GONE WRONG)

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — deciding to end your marriage with neuvillette might've been the hardest decision you've ever had to make in your life, although now, navigating through the divorce was becoming even more difficult, especially when you suddenly fail to stick to four simple rules you have both set between each other.

— ꒰ word count ꒱ — 7.8k

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — [ns]fw, fem! reader, ex! husband neuvillette, divorced couple goals lmao, fluff & crack, p with plot, lovers to strangers to lovers, size kink/size difference, rough sex, unprotected sex, unresolved tension and lots of bickering, sassy comments from the both of you, it's very much giving married old couple, office sex, cumming inside

RULE NUMBER 1: KEEP YOUR DISTANCE AT ALL TIMES

by the sixth day of waking up to an empty bed— with the left side untouched and consisting of nothing but a feeble scent of vacant perfume, neuvillette has decided that he's had enough.

which wasn't to say that he's had enough of sleep, even though that's certainly a potent route to take, yet the neuvillette the people of fontaine knew was only the one they believed they knew.

in this agonizing moment in time, he wasn't sure on how long he could act out this picture-perfect facade for the sake of his people.

they thought he was brilliant, attractive, chocolate-box pretty.

a radiant, enigmatic dragon that was quite the sight to behold, his smile reminding the flowers of spring-time to blossom to their original beauty— awakening their way of life— ah well, such lovely things to ruminate on, or when they decide to appreciate his delicateness, how uniquely he viewed the world and how otherworldly soft he chose to explore it.

in a true sense, the alluring stories the people of fontaine told each other got one single piece about him right; that neuvillette was very handsome and soft to someone's eyes.

with all ones heart, the man unquestionably had enough of the irrefutable coldness wearing down on his shoulders, sitting there alone in an empty bedroom that was previously essential to his well being, with misery written all over his face and bursting at the seams of his mental health, just enough for him to stop talking all at once.

the cold bedspread was rough against his naked body, the mattress too soft to rest on and giving in beneath his weight. wholly crestfallen did neuvillette realize that sadly, the only way to return to the life he's lived a couple months ago, return to where he should be, was to somehow learn on how to travel back in time and make things right.

which from the bottom of his heart, was impossible.

it was confusing, he has to admit, because the only factor he found somewhat common now was on how empty the bedroom was— besides his own belongings, which weren't a lot in the first place, everything else was taken by you weeks ago, beloved items that were brimful of memories stacked in cold boxes and delivered to your new home.

a predictable event, he knows, and how embarrassingly predictable it had gotten that neuvillette found himself in teething trouble, precisely the issue of his sleep schedule in this bed— one you had bought together, shared together every single day, one you had made love to each other every single night.

a slump of mindless memories waft through his psyche, resembling a wicket current of catastrophes as he ultimately came to the conclusion that the reason he was unable to sleep must be because of you— his serious issues on being unable to rest, it has to be because of you.

neuvillette's thoughts and judgments were all scattered, rummaging through the vortex of problems he had endured through the weeks, a matter much more pressing than all of the other issues put together— he continuously waits and aches, hopes and dreams, and before he notices he's slowly healing, it all comes crashing down on him again.

a recollection long gone relives itself in his mind's eye, and his previous gaze gets overturned by a new, haunting stare.

this is why he had bought the bed in the first place, he remembers it vividly now, it's because you fell in love with it right away, you liked the way it felt underneath your body, heedless of how he personally never really found it comfortable.

concealed from everyone's eyes, neuvillette was deeply saddened, but he hadn't given his mental health much thought yet, because how do you even process that your wife has left you?

how do you tell anybody that you failed as a husband?

and it's raining again? what a hassle, although now he's acquired another way to fault himself on, most importantly hurt himself, because no one deserved the bad weather other than he himself did.

for the first time after gaining the position of the iudex of fontaine, neuvillette did not want to go to work. what if someone begins to ask too many invasive questions when he visits the palais mermonia today?

if that's the immediate case that was going to happen, he begins to think about it more clearly— a person asking about his private life was definitely trespassing his boundaries, right? he could immediately do something about it and put them on trial.

by that logic of his, neuvillette cannot fathom how humiliating it was, his face clouds with a mixture of desperation and disappointment in himself, because he can already imagine the hot off the press headlines on the cover of the steambird;

ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

IUDEX OF FONTAINE LEFT STRANDED BY FORMER WIFE! ARE YOU WONDERING WHY WE THINK THIS MARRIAGE WAS DOOMED TO FAIL FROM THE START? GO FIND OUT IN THE NEW ISSUE OF THE STEAMBIRD. ©this article was written and published by journalist charlotte, do not plagiarize under any circumstances

up to the minute he was able to calm himself down, until imagining the wildfire of emotions an article like that would cause in fontaine.

all the unpleasant hours of arguing with you, even attempting to understand each other without actually coming to a conclusion on how to navigate a situation like that. aside from wanting to keep it all hidden from the outside world, leave it concealed and let the people of fontaine forget about the fact that you two had been married in the first place.

who cares, right? who gives a damn if it's husband or ex husband now? what even was the difference between a wife and an ex wife, you see that it's all the same?

ugh, who was he fooling besides himself.

the whole 'ex-wife' was aggravating him to the point where it made him physically sick.

why can't he just flip a switch and everything goes back to normal like it never happened in the first place. neuvillette wanted his normal life back, the normal life he thought you both loved and would continue to live on until your dying days.

in the end, neuvillette saw no other route around it other than to quit using it all together, maybe stop talking about you entirely.

by all means, it's not like he will talk to anybody about the divorce, maybe besides you when he has to mention it. granted that he might not talk to you about it either, because he wasn't allowed to see you right now, neither were you allowed to see him.

on how it came to that point was genuinely understandable.

after the divorce was finalized, new adjustments had to be made regarding your previous living situations, shared income and the future possibility of seeing each other.

as was anticipated, before he was able to say anything or make suggestions, you had already started to list out a couple of "important rules" that you made up, you called them rules but in the iudex mind he called them pesky little regulations.

regardless of his distaste for them, he wrote them down on a piece of paper as to not aggravate you.

well, he found it a bit bizarre, but neuvillette thought it must be a serious requirement at this point. it was his first divorce so how was he supposed to know how to navigate through one? it wasn't supposed to be easy, that's what he knew, it's very heart breaking and draining his life force.

although funnily enough, his overwhelm strengthens after you waltzed over the fourth rule of the day. that's one rule too much in his opinion.

just how many were there?

"i can't think of a better solution," you state whilst leaning your body against his desk, always facing the ground, you wouldn't want to lock gazes with him during such difficult time.

"we may even be able to talk again in the future, you know,"

but did you really want to?

it's safe to say that neuvillette would want to keep in contact, but it's certain that this would not only stress you both out in the long run, possible new partners could also get weirded out by the fact that you two were still talking and they may become jealous.

neuvillette stifles a groan, scribbling down the second rule that left your mouth before absorbing the letters on the piece of paper, "it's for the best if we keep a distance,"

to say like that was a punch in the gut would be an understatement, despite the fact that you proposed the idea in the first place.

alas and without any of you knowing before setting out those four simple rules, now— weeks after, you had found yourself in a position that made it near impossible to keep a distance from each other, or at least make eye contact in a social gathering.

for you, it has become your life in a literal sense to comb through this difficulty, for neuvillette, the possibility of seeing you in the future would secure his sanity and keep him from turning as mad as a hatter.

patience. the incurable truth was patience.

this afternoon, you have to talk for at least five minutes, with a window consisting of a maximum of ten minutes if one of you talked slowly— it's not like you want to see him, but you have to visit your ex husbands office to sign a paper regarding your previously shared finances and then you're good to go for the day again, you can leisurely exit his office and leave this failed relationship behind, exactly where it belonged in the first place, deeply stored in the past.

previously during the negotiations, neuvillette was quite persistent in leaving you the house which was located a little outside of fontaine. he was in no need of it anymore and wanted you to have it, without payments required.

between us two, it's quite obvious he wanted to get rid of it.

but so did you.

you didn't want to stay there, not now, not ever, you wouldn't sign that damned paper even if the god of contracts suddenly came knocking on your door and force you to.

all the memories in that house would eventually eat you up, they'd definitely destroy you, the gnawing grief would certainly keep you awake at night.

originally after telling your ex husband that you didn't want the house, he was able to find you a flat in the city— it's small but cute, and it had everything you needed. a cozy bedroom, a kitchen that was big enough to dance in while you're preparing dinner and an area where you can set up an office for yourself.

how convenient it was that you were previously married to the person that is in charge of fontaine.

aside from that and the fact that you were practically making neuvillette handle the most difficult parts of this— you realize how a sudden guilt was stored on your shoulders, you could barely face him after that.

the parts he needed to handle included, but were not limited to,  well, a problem slightly more irritating since it was about his life, turning approximately a hundred other problems he deals with on a daily a whole lot easier.

most of the legal process was handled by him, and only him for that matter, meaning that he had to spend additional hours on it and was barely able to move on with his life after losing you.

unlike you did.

well frankly, it's only been a couple of weeks, a month at best since you've last seen him— although it has been much longer since you've last felt him.

there really wasn't a lot going on in your life after breaking things off, it's always a grueling whirlwind of;

waking up, heading to work, walking home, eating, sleeping, repeat.

most significantly, your new bed felt a bit hard as well, it's uncomfortable and drove you insane.

you missed the one you had previously shared with neuvillette— wether it was because of the way it felt underneath you or because of its much better quality.

perhaps it was also that in the past, you had the chance of leaning against a warm body whenever you were freezing— the secret on why you found your new bed worse in comparison to your old one would certainly remain a secret forever.

it can never be answered, because you do not even know the answer yourself.

it's frequent and happens all the time— when you suddenly begin to wonder late in the evening if this was the right decision after all.

then again, a divorce wasn't necessarily something you would just forget from one day to the other— aside from that, there was a reason it happened, considering the countless events of arguing and the inability of you both to find a solid middle ground.

when you notice that a relationship drains the life out of you, or makes you cry your heart out late at night, a decision has to be made eventually, especially before it would turn your love into resentment or make your respect for the other person dwindle away.

was it really that surprising that you had your doubts?

when it comes down to it, neuvillette wasn't a bad man and you would never speak poorly of him. he was everything else but bad, which reminds you of the reason you had fallen in love with him.

but in earlier days, he had a reflection less of the way he was than of the way he wanted you to see him.

it was challenging for neuvillette to open up to you.

but hell, you're certain you won't be able to find someone who'd ever make you as happy as he did, bring you sweet tummy aches when he makes you laugh all night, or be there for you when you're sick and unable to take care of yourself.

you shake your head in embarrassment, your cheeks aflame as you're drawing several deep, steadying breaths— perhaps that's just how you're supposed to think right now.

it's not real, it cannot be.

right now, you feel like you should've never broken it off, but this marriage had been on death's door for months before the decision was finally formed— albeit from afar, no one had ever suspected anything and you're quite proud of that, in fact, both of you made sure no one would notice too much of what had been going on behind closed doors— like good spouses should always protect each other.

among other things, taking into consideration just how important his work and image was, the last outcome you wanted was for your ex husband to endure dreadful gossips about him.

neuvillette did not deserve a single negative word against him, this man deserved nothing but the finest life for himself— furthermore, after spending yet another night without sleep and thinking about your ex husband, you believed that the best for him just wasn't you.

it never has been.

RULE NUMBER 2: NEVER SHOW UP TO EACH OTHERS HOME OR WORK, NOT EVEN ON EMERGENCIES, ESPECIALLY NOT IF YOU MISS EACH OTHER

it's a little clumsy when you first enter his office, accompanied by an unnerving type of awkwardness outstretching across the room as neuvillette meets your eyes right away— but his head drops after around two seconds and he puffs out a wretched sigh, sounding as if he's about to cry.

neuvillette thought that this should've been way easier— but before you, he has never felt real love like yours before, and he was quite certain that this type of love only happens once in life.

the melusines were also happy to see you, and you could tell that they were equally as confused as you were— they probably did not realize what was going on and nor did you really want them to know.

given that their love and admiration for neuvillette was bottomless and you wouldn't want them to suddenly harbor a disdain for you.

nevertheless, when you listened to what they were whispering about behind your back, they were talking about how you must've been away for travel or desperately needed a vacation from fontaine, or one even mentioned that you might've been sick— considering how dead and empty your eyes looked those past weeks.

then there's the "being busy with work". ah well, the excuses were surely endless and somewhat amusing, you know you're not taking care of yourself when every second a melusine talks about how tired you looked and if you needed a glass of water.

everything but a divorce was being spoken about, at least you managed to hide that well.

your gaze lifts to meet his own again when neuvillette stands up from his desk and looks at you from the opposite side of the table.

under further examination of your facial expression, he notices the slight discomfort that buzzes underneath your skin, especially around your eyes and how you could barely look at him for more than five seconds.

beneath the familiar emotion of being in the same room as him, the sharp bite of his aftershave slips down the back of your throat when you suck in a sharp, choked breath, tensing like a tree at each step forward.

why do you look like you haven't slept for days?

it cannot be, right? but he was paying attention to certain details, either relevant or not he notices how you're looking around without focus, or shift the weight of your body from left foot to right foot.

and well, his supernatural senses were sharp, immediately picking up on your heart pounding against your ribs as if trying to fulfill a thousand beats.

his fingers twitch slightly with the document in his hand as he remains in his position, waiting for you to come closer.

"this couch doesn't seem very comfortable for sleep," you point to the sofa in his office, in an attempt to break the awkward tension, your chin forwarding to the left where a neatly put blanket and a small pillow sat on top of the furniture.

just how many nights has he spent here? did he even sleep in the first place? was he taking care of himself and should you worry?

it's safe to say that his work shouldn't be in danger, but it really is killing you that you cannot ask without coming across like a desperate ex, and you're fully aware that it would also go against your rules.

but neuvillette has always taken his important occupation very serious, sometimes even to the point where he forgot about his own marriage and his wife waiting for him at home with freshly made dinner served and his most favorite beverage awaiting him on a beautifully set up table and— yikes, that escalated quickly.

you're beginning to remember one of the reasons as to why this marriage failed.

"i hope you do not mind if i ask," neuvillette stifles a groan, "but are you mentioning this out of curiosity or are you speaking down on my new sleeping area?" the hint of sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable, the underlying scorn making you wince.

and oh, "sleeping area" was a big statement for that little excuse of a couch, you're very much aware that he can barely fit all of him on it and always had troubles finding a comfortable spot when he fucked— uh, well, when you did things to each other there.

yes, you already know how it felt on there, and who could possibly know of the plentiful times you had been intimate with each other on that couch.

wait a minute, was that the reason? was he already having a rebound this soon after your divorce?

no, it cannot be.

not your neuvillette, hold on, scrap that and reverse, he wasn't your neuvillette anymore.

it's stinging and like pins and needles on your heart when you think about neuvillette fucking someone on the exact same place he made love to you— leading to the conclusion that simply looking at the couch made you sick to your stomach, instantly setting off another unpleasant lurch of nausea yet you could still muster enough strength to fix yourself for the sake of this conversation.

he wouldn't dare, okay, this is the last time you're discussing this with yourself;

what if he wanted you to see this, tell you that:

hey, look at me! i am so happy without you stupid witch, and i already have a new partner too, isn't that nice for me? there really is no need for you to be worried about me, so please sign this document and exit my office.

because i am getting my dick sucked every single day!

your heart beat turns feverish in your chest, and you quickly snap your head towards the direction of your ex husband, "isn't it obvious that i was just trying to make conversation with you?" you retort back, swatting away the dust lingering on your clothes while simultaneously coughing out in an awkward manner.

"although i really cannot imagine that this couch is somewhat comfortable to sleep on."

"i believe you must still remember on how it felt laying there yourself,"

yikes, what a great comeback from him, and he didn't mean to say it like he's spitting venom into your mouth, it's almost like he wanted to tell you that it's your loss you cannot make yourself comfortable on here, even though he wouldn't mind bending you on all fours again like he did last— okay, that's enough.

there was a half-visible smirk on his face that aggravated you, the absolute last expression you were expecting to see from him.

you roll your eyes, "trust me, i don't want to," you reply, pinching your eyebrows together while assessing your distaste of his answer.

just when did an innocent question about a dusty, old couch turn into— whatever that conversation was about.

RULE NUMBER 3: DO NOT ASK INTIMATE QUESTIONS ABOUT EACH OTHERS PRIVATE LIFE

no, stop it, that doesn't seem right, neuvillette shouldn't treat you this way.

right now, he was experiencing his worst nightmare and the previous gears of sadness grind to a halt upon perceiving another emotion— one, that certainly scared him.

whatever the case, he wouldn't repeat his mistake, accepting any destiny the universe would bestow on him as he silently promises himself to stop any anger from slipping past the tip of his tongue.

pressing your lips together, you dig your heels into the ground, "okay, forget it, i don't have a lot of time," an unexpected force of confidence pushes you forward until you could feel the wooden desk graze across your thighs, you're so close now and the only thing keeping your bodies apart was the desk in between.

your mind was repeatedly screaming at your frame to stop moving before you actually did, "i have to be somewhere in, uh, about a couple hours, so lets finish this quickly."

what a sweet and pretty liar that you were, terribly aware that the only thing waiting for you tonight was your bed.

what a sad image, but he must not know!

"oh?" neuvillette mutters bitterly, a nervous rasp roughening his voice.

"a date, i assume?"

you would have gasped if you had any breath to spare, because you did not think this would actually work in a million years.

"ah, ah, ah," you note in a triumphant colored tone, happily waving your pointer finger from left to right.

"this, dear iudex, goes against rule number three."

content, neuvillette resumes to the document in his hand before placing it in the middle of the desk, sucking in a short, harsh breath, eyes deepening down south, just any area that wasn't you,

"of course, my apologies,"  his tone was thick, sickly sweet with barely cloaked amusement.

now he knows you're lying— he knows you so well it's almost embarrassing.

"this, is why you came for, right?"

you fumble a blistering retort that died with the hard press of teeth against your tongue, "mhm," you murmur in a low, rich tone, his casual unbothered spirit was dangerously convincing.

oh well, he must have gotten it right— and ah, you were remarkably stubborn too, resisting even the most innocent type of help coming from him as you take a random pen laying across the other side of the desk instead of the one in neuvillette's hand.

your eyes slowly scatter over the document, your brain struggling to put together the authoritative choice of words displayed in front of you.

"please elaborate on that," you press a finger on a significantly befuddling paragraph.

neuvillette muses agreeably before slanting against the desk to see for himself— and when he did you got a real good taste of his perfume suddenly invading your nostrils, playing devils advocate when you flinch back a little.

"do not worry yourself about this," his answer came so quickly you barely caught it, spelled out without a flutter of hesitation.

"everything is accounted for," he adds gently, you only need to put your name, there,"

your once-vulnerable eyes now squint stormily, "that smart mouth of yours surely has been busy, i can tell," as you place the pen on the desk before dropping both arms to your side— the man before you narrowed speechless, burning his eyes through your smug face.

"oh, just how many tricks did you pick up on your way here?" he replies sternly, accentuating the "here" as to remind you on where you currently were— as if that would somehow make him look threatening, you have been in his office plenty of times before, both naked and fully clothed, so neuvillette surely must search for another way to dominate this conversation.

priding himself in front of you with his position as iudex certainly wouldn't work on his ex wife.

"why?" you retort, "you like it?"

"indeed i do, or is that what you want me say, i assume?"

"no," a soft sigh above you echoes your own, "but i do find it weird that you'd want me to sign something without explaining it to me,"

"i did explain it to you multiple times, in fact, last time we saw each other i even asked you if you understood what i was referring to,"

an instinctive flutter of frustration, anger and exhaustion slips down his throat, "and if i recollect my memories," he coughs out and walks around his desk, so that nothing was in between you anymore.

"—you have said your time was limited." the radiating dominance of his body momentarily presses your back against the table, trapping you in the middle, caging between a wooden desk and your ex lover.

"that was weeks ago," you pause, "it's normal for most people to want a quick run through on a document of this importance,"

"it's normal?"

"it's normal," you reaffirm.

"how interesting indeed. i will keep that in mind," 

you lean your weight against the desk as to keep the eye contact with him in an attempt to stand your round, and the two of you have since lost the original purpose of this meeting.

"how could you possibly forget that?"

your voices flap over in an unmusical tune when neuvillette attempts to reply to you, although your tone was far louder than his. 

there was an awkward moment of silence that was practically slicing the air within your bodies and it's unusual on just how strong the tension had gotten in a span of two minutes. not to mention that he was so close— you honestly preferred it when his desk was keeping you both apart.

it was hard to remember anything and keep a rational mind, neuvillette realized that and found himself deeply saddened on how quick this meeting went out of hand and turned to this.

but a whispered sentence reaches your hearing and immediately calms you into a warm, relaxing state, "i apologise," he speaks finally and it surprises you, a nervous rasp shaking his voice,

"i shouldn't have talked to you in such disrespectful manner,"

your eyes widen, "no," and your cheeks grow hot with deep embarrassment, "it's really my fault, i need to apologize to you," as you force out a shaky laugh in an attempt to lighten up the mood.

"don't," neuvillette retorts back, contemplating wether he should or not but lastly deciding to rest a hand over your shoulder before he squeezes it, a smile manifesting on his lips— and it was otherworldly radiant, illuminating his complete face with deep warmth and joy.

"i always loved that witty side of yours."

he doesn't say anything for a moment, in fact, neither of you do— and the feeling of him touching you again after weeks of spending apart from each other, and despite it being just his palm on your shoulder, was instantly turning your knees into jelly.

the minute of silence felt like twenty years as neuvillette straightens his body upright, drawing a more serious touch along your shoulder before moving his palm from your collarbone until curving his hand along your cheek, holding your gaze through bright, gemstone-like eyes.

he must be crazy, he thinks— because right now, he's going against everything he has promised himself not to do, and everything you have told him not to do as well. but fuck, he hasn't touched you like this in so long, the last time was long before your divorce, and the helpless intensity of his desire horrified him.

it's when neuvillette suddenly realizes that he has never stopped loving you— not even for a minute, nor a searing second.

it was impossible to stop loving you.

"it's just that i…" your voice grows softer and quieter the more you attempt to speak and your heart thuds feverishly in your chest that you're pretty much aware he must notice it too, "everything feels terrible," you admit hesitantly and flutter your eyes up at him, your gaze fanning over the soft pink across his facial features. 

neuvillette begins to move his thumb across your cheek, "please forgive me for failing us," he whispers weakly, on the brink of tears, "for failing the only thing that made life worth living," his throat adds a slightly hoarse perception to his tone.

your eyes widen as you attempt to drop your head if not for neuvillette holding your cheek in his palm as a whirlwind of crystallines well up in your eyes, sousing your lashes.

your mind was gone, but suddenly you can think more clear— and you're not depending on the damaging daze that was originally controlling your body's autopilot feature— the grueling circle of work, sleep, repeat.

you sniffle between words, "no!" and helplessly slant into his chest as to bury your face in the fabric of his garments, "it's my fault, not yours!" continuing to cry and wail and sob your heart out.

"please don't hate me! don't resent me!"

being able to finally let go of all those stored emotions in your heart felt utterly freeing, as if an unbearable weight was lifted off your chest.

how did you two even end up in this situation? can someone, just anyone, make this agony for the both of you stop?

neuvillette shushes your cries with a soft shhh, folding his arms around your waist before smoothing one hand across your back. he decides to rest his head on top of yours, his warm breath fanning against your hair as you return his hug, pulling him deeper into you.

"i could never hate you," neuvillette sighs, "it's because i have never stopped loving you," before putting on weight around his embrace on you— perhaps as to prepare himself, because he was sure you were about to smack him due to what he just bluntly admitted to you.

while he knows it was certainly deserved as well, no excuse would make this proclamation easier even in the slightest.

but he doesn't regret it, it's over now. he just wanted to get this off his chest even if you'd most likely break off any remaining contact to him— although now he realizes that you've given him so much and he won't let you go again, not before repeatedly telling you that he loves you, loves you, loves you.

despite him believing that his efforts went to waste.

to his surprise, you did not hit him, nor did you yell at him or ask if he's hit his head somewhere— instead, you slowly move yourself from his chest, a saddened gaze meeting his own as a single tear falls from your eye.

your answer dwells a moment before you push it out, "i love you too," and whisper, "i love you so much," before you're peering at him with an expression he couldn't begin to decipher— for what's obvious, it's pure and selfless, a startled hum immediately following the last syllable that leaves your mouth when neuvillette suddenly slants his head forward to feel your lips.

RULE NUMBER 4: DO NOT FUCK UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, PLEASE JUST DON'T DO IT, SNAP OUT OF IT, DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT SEX WHILE BEING IN THE SAME ROOM TOGETHER

by all means, this wasn't supposed to happen— hell, you don't even know how you got here.

but his eyes were enticing as they meet your gaze, a deep source of exuberance affecting your delirium and when he leans into you to kiss your lips, his soft lashes clash against your skin, his traces subtle enough to make you feel a faint tingle shiver downwards your heat.

against all odds, neuvillette was terrible at making this any easier for the two of you, no matter how hard you tried to pull away after the third, fourth or fifth kiss, there was no way of ending this and his tongue made sure to clash against yours at each lap— this passion, it had no resistance, it will always find a way to flourish.

nothing more, nothing less, and you've got the iudex right under a fucking spell because even when his life felt depressing after you left him, when he was living through all those weeks and tried to navigate through this divorce— now, his heart had suddenly begun to beat again, although neuvillette knew that this would go against the fourth, and most important rule you had set up.

but he cannot stop.

blood racing, nerves alight, he pushes you against the desk and helps you to get on top of it.

you wanted him to pleasure you, needed him to use his hands and devour those pretty lips of yours— whine as his mouth carvs in a smirk, so excited and sooth as silk when you wrap your arms around his neck to push his frame against your chest, so he could easily rest his entire weight on top of your own.

"you're gorgeous," he coos, "so utterly breathtaking," the thought of you craving his attention to that level was flooding him with pride, it made his skin crawl with a thousand thunderous vibrations that hit the bulge in his pants, your wet kisses and hot traces fueling the withdrawals of your soul on his skin.

the dizziest groan touches your glossed lips— and neuvillette flips over your skirt to expose your drenched panties to his hungry stare, his eyes instantly hard with lust and love, every measure of his yearning openly shown as his cock twitches uncomfortably in his clinging pants. 

you moan a dreamy sigh when the freezing office air hits your most sensitive parts, the tone leaving your lips high-pitched and desperate to feel more of him. in response, you earn a rough groan from neuvillette as he discards of his belt, dopamine shaking his soul alive, manifesting ruthlessly and tempting as you hug him tight, your erected nipples crushing against his strong chest.

you kiss along his neck with tenderness and feel the intense force of redness on his flustered cheeks, your tongue swift to blend over the quivering skin as you lash fiercely at the outline of his jaw between sharp flares of teeth tickling his face— his bewitching expression being held captive by your hand gripping his jaw hard enough to pull him towards you.

unwinding with relief, neuvillette manages to pull his tight slacks off, sighing as he drew out his hard cock and aching balls— instantly taking himself in his palm before fisting it slow in front of your hole. a thrum of arousal around the slit of his tip intensifies his need to crowd you with his shaft, and he gracefully strokes himself until you wrap your fingers around his wrist as to stop him for a second.

"i want you to make love to me," you mumble impatiently, "it's been so long," and neuvillette follows your lead in a flash and a quick nod of his head, making sure that you're sitting all comfortable on the desk and that you wouldn't hurt yourself with a random utensil on the table before he urges you to wrap your legs around his waist, your thighs squeezing his hips close.

"everything you say, i do," neuvillette reassures you, "forever,"

your broken moans and bulging eyes excite him, not to mention when you refuse to let go of him. of course, who knows what will happen after desire subsides and you're both thinking rationally again, after all, you do trust him with your life, but you're still divorced and sure you would look stunning on your second wedding with him, he would very much prefer to marry you right after fucking the broad daylight out of your figure.

gently clutching at your clothes, neuvillette slowly lifts up the fabric until you're wholly exposed for him to feast on, at last working your panties down your legs as they hit the ground, a coy smile spreading across his lips— your naked body was prancing in front of him, reminding him on how gorgeous you were, especially now as your lips hang apart and your lewd whines spill from the tip of your tongue.

your pretty nipples were erected as well, laying a familiar caress up his spine when you grind your chest against his chiseled one, encircling the exposed skin until it comes to meet in front.

"just look at you," he mutters proudly, almost to himself, his cheeks flushed as he ducks his head to hide the beginnings of a pleased smile when he kisses your shoulder. the praises set your blood raising, pumping a hotness into your pussy as you moan out his name in sweet tandem, feeling the slight trace of his cock-head shadowing your hole.

you will do so well tonight, neuvillette thinks to himself, and before he helps you keep your legs parted, he teases your entrance with a half-hearted push of his cock. you want him closer and carry on to search for his entire weight on top of you as his dripping dick slides past the tight edges of your hole, your pussy throbbing as it began to hurt a little— just a bit, and it's important to note that you weren't used to this anymore, used to him, and it's because all the pheromones are currently leaving your body that it was worth having a slight pain come by.

because you knew neuvillette will do anything in his power to make it hurt as little as possible— so you could enjoy his erection painting your walls white as you moan avidly, your pussy rubbing deliciously on him, his hand continuously massaging the delicious, soft skin of your thighs and ass.

you breathe a shaky sigh of relief when he snakes himself half-way in, a gentle breeze of your whimpers scatter across the room as neuvillette continues to push inch after inch of himself into you, your body relaxing underneath his much bigger one as you welcome him, beautiful moans and whimpers spilling from the back of your throat.

oh, how much you missed sucking in his cock like your life depended on it— and whatever issues would arise after this sinful encounter, neither of you was giving an inch of mind to those future concerns.

"there you go, that's what you need," neuvillette grunts, tensing his jaw and limiting his breathing because fuck, how are you still so fucking tight— in any other case, he would never skip foreplay with you, knowing that his size tends to be too big for your pussy, sometimes offering you help in spreading your puffy cunt apart— but he is aware that you're extra wet today, he notices how much easier it was to slide himself through your walls and collect your slick.

a slightest raw edge of desperation made his groan sound almost like a plea when your pussy clamps down on his shaft, and neuvillette moans softly as he bows down to trap your lips against his own, sliding down his tongue and lapping at yours, wet and slow, wet and slow, a low hiss of pleasure accentuating his skilled ministrations.

your pussy squeezes him gently and wets him thoroughly so that his flushed cock glistens in your walls as neuvillette allows himself to nuzzle his face against your neck, humming appreciatively when he began to move his hips, drinking in the light tears that swell in the corners of your eyes as he kisses them away.

everything was so filthy, just like that, and you're back to square one again— it's lewd enough to make his cock throb heavily between your legs when he picks up on his shallow tempo, warm and viscous grinds of his thick cock pounding you in two, wild and passionate burning through your sore hole and matching the rhythm of your hips that were catching his shoves halfway.

fuck, you missed his cock filling you up, shaking at the added stimulation when one hand squeezes your tits— not to mention how heavy it felt to have him deep in your guts again, his slicked erection pawing through your walls and searching for your pleasure spots, until you're practically writhing of overstimulation, most importantly releasing the stress you endured those past weeks.

somehow, everything felt more intense tonight— ecstatic and as if you're drugged of his cock, like you broke off the connection from clear reality each moment his tip inches down the searing spots in your cunt— your screams muffled by his strong shoulder which resulted in your noises coming out in weak cries and sobs.

"i'm— i'm so close." it's the way you said it, the way you wanted him to hear you.

neuvillette glances down on you, "yeah?" he cannot hold back anymore, your walls were too hot and too tight, his thudding erection cornering your bruised pussy as his cheeks turn cherry red— the tip of his ears shading the same color, "will never let you go again..." the following sentence comes from under his breath, a strong utterance, holding graven significance as it ignites flames deep within the pits of your core.

it's so unbelievably sexy when you tell him that he's about to make you cum, and the repeated proclamations of love were aiding your orgasm in unraveling much more intense— neuvillette parts his lips before pinching your nipples in between his digits, never faltering nor losing the steady streams of thrusts on your sex, paying no mind to your minor struggle of keeping his thick member within your sloppy hole.

the moans you sob are bringing him such satisfaction as well, particularly the ones of his name made him swallow down the assembling saliva in his mouth, leaving small kisses against your face as his adams apple bobs harshly against his throat when he grinds his hips into your heat— your slick seeping out at the corners of your hole as your beautiful legs hover over his waist to get into that ideal position.

he cups your pretty face without stopping the shallow tempo on your cunt, "i.. want you to look at me," his rhythm becoming blistering and rapid— it almost pains him to hold himself back, or the desire to cum but wanting to make you climax first. it's like his shaft runs through satin, pressing back and forth the finest silk but it's your pussy instead, so soft and taking his shape, you're made for him and he'll never let you forget.

even though he could hardly breathe because of how achingly hard he was, caged within the tight embrace of your walls as tears spring to his eyes, slip down his flaming cheeks, being wild and free and finally one with you again— in addition to the exciting sounds of wet noises of skin clashing on skin providing the last bonus puzzle pieces to make you spiral out of complete control.

a static crushes as if underwater in your ears— and neuvillette rolls his hips fast and hard, purring deeply when your legs wrap and urge him to penetrate you further. the pleasure buried in you was coiling from the base of your spine and found the candid bubble in your belly before snapping into a million pieces— your gorgeous noises finding his ears as he fucks you faster, yanking his head back and clenching his jaw as you came apart together, moaning into each others mouths and welcoming your orgasm with melting, soothing moans.

you shake your head and bury yourself into his warm embrace, earning you a smile you cannot even see when your thighs shake around his waist as he continues to pump his seed into you, the warm covers of milky whites prolonging your orgasm and intensifying it to a tenfold.

just in time too, his hot gift soothes the soreness on your walls as neuvillette deafens your body with a post-orgasm sensitivity that catches you in a trance, his cock still buried inside and never leaving your tight hole as you work to somehow get a hold of your breath again, letting you ease the stress he senses from you.

the stone-hard desk underneath you was bruising and uncomfortable, but it's bearable when you nuzzle yourself into your ex lover, or, well— current lover? soon to be fiance again?

"do not worry your pretty head," his hand lovingly brushes over your head as you fuse into his trace, "i will take care of everything," as he's allowing you to indulge in the intimate atmosphere you have missed so dearly, "i could marry you right this second, wherever you want," and with that sort of enthusiasm, you hold in every passing word with love, knowing that whatever the case— neuvillette and you will figure out a way, but you'll do it together, as a team.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[laurajb]

"Thank you Mother"

"Dear, would you be so kind as to pass me the silver tinsel?" Amelia asked sweetly, gesturing to the festive decorations scattered across the living room floor.

"Of course, Mother!" replied her daughter, handing over the glimmering strand with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Amelia's heart swelled with pride as she admired the beautiful young woman before her. Malorie had come a long way since the surgeries. The former man's masculine features had been softened, curves added, a youthful glow emanating from pillowy lips and gleaming eyes. She was the picture of perfection, the ideal daughter Amelia had always dreamed of having.

Extensive gender confirmation surgeries and rigorous mental conditioning had transformed the cheating scoundrel into the lovely Malorie. An obedient daughter to replace the lying, philandering spouse. Amelia's ultimate revenge.

"Now, I have a special gift for you to hang on the tree," Amelia said, producing a delicate velvet box. Malorie's hands trembled slightly as she accepted it. Inside lay two shriveled blue orbs. Malorie's eyes widened in horror, the realization dawning. They were...James' testicles. Preserved as a macabre keepsake.

Malorie's conditioned mind suppressed any further reaction. She smiled woodenly. "Thank you Mother. How very thoughtful of you." Voice wavering only a fraction as she looped the 'ornaments' onto a high branch.

"There, isn't that lovely? A token to remember your past before you became my perfect girl." Amelia snickered in satisfaction. James was gone, wiped away, and in his place stood the daughter she had molded from his flesh and psyche. The ultimate revenge against a cheating husband.

The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of her new husband Richard and his son Todd. Amelia preened. Her hasty remarriage to the wealthy banker had been prudent and profitable. As had been introducing him to her 'daughter.'

"You'd better get dressed for our guests, dear. Richard's son is quite smitten with you, you know."

"Yes Mother," Malorie replied, glancing down at her flimsy silk robe. Richard and Amelia had been encouraging her budding relationship with Todd. Their own ill-conceived attempt at a modern family to mask the dark secret festering at the core.

Malorie fled upstairs to change, movements graceful and feminine despite the conflict raging within. A woman's body housing the emasculated ruin of the man who had once called himself a husband. Her thoughts ended up being unable to dwell deeper and had to put on the mask of the obedient daughter.

Amelia smiled to herself, admiring her handiwork as she awaited her guests. The perfect family...on the surface. But Amelia would always know the truth - that beneath her daughter's flawless facade lurked her pathetic ex-husband and his shriveled manhood, forever preserved on the tree. 

[cherriescreams]

A Devouring Desire

────

Post-vampire Akutagawa has been haunting my dreams and every waking moment of my life. So now he’ll haunt you too.

Summary:

Post-vampirism Akutagawa is trying to keep it together, but during a heated make-out session, he realizes he’s way too into leaving bite marks on you. Between his possessive hands and sharp teeth, things get intense fast—and he’s definitely not sorry about it.

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Trigger Warnings:

• Steamy physical intimacy but not Spicy

• Biting/marking (a little rough)

• Possessive undertones

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The dim lighting of Akutagawa’s sparsely furnished apartment cast deep shadows across the walls, amplifying the intensity that simmered between you. It hadn’t been long since he had reverted back from his vampirism, a part of him that had left its scars—not only on his body but on his psyche. He was more volatile now, his emotions closer to the surface than ever before, and though he rarely spoke of it, you could see the tension in his every movement. His once-unshakable self-control had been cracked, and now, here with you, the remnants of that primal side seemed to linger.

His apartment was cold and unadorned, much like its owner, but the air in the room was thick with something unspoken. Pressed against him on the leather couch, you felt the unyielding grip of his hands on your waist, anchoring you in place as his lips moved against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. His kisses weren’t soft or tentative; they were consuming, as though he needed to imprint himself on you in ways words couldn’t convey.

Akutagawa was not a man who indulged easily. Everything he did was controlled, calculated, held within the iron bounds of his own rigid discipline. But here, with you, that control was unraveling thread by thread. His teeth brushed against your lower lip, and when you gasped softly, your hands clutching at the fabric of his coat, he faltered for a moment. His dark eyes searched yours, the flicker of hesitation in them almost imperceptible.

“Did that hurt?” he asked, his voice low and rough, betraying an edge of vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface.

You shook your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Not at all. It’s… nice.”

The response seemed to ignite something deep within him, something primal and raw. His gaze darkened, and before you could speak again, his lips descended to your neck. He kissed the delicate skin there with a growing urgency, each movement less controlled than the last. His breath came unevenly, and his teeth grazed you again, lingering this time as though he were deliberating. And then, with a sudden resolve, he bit down—not with enough force to cause pain, but hard enough to make you gasp, the sensation sharp and electric.

A sharp moan slipped past your lips, unbidden, and your body arched into him as his teeth left their imprint on your skin. Your reaction hit him like a strike to the chest, and he froze, his breath catching as he processed what he’d done. He pulled back slightly, his gaze fixed on the mark he’d left. The imprint of his teeth stood out starkly against your reddened skin, a vivid contrast that seemed to pulse with its own energy. The sight sent a shockwave through him, radiating from his chest and down to his very core. It was as though something inside him had snapped—some dam he hadn’t even realized was there.

His fingers brushed over the mark, his touch deliberate yet trembling with the intensity of his emotions. But as his fingers lingered on your neck, a need greater than his restraint overtook him. His other hand, still gripping your waist, slid upward, his pale fingers pressing into your ribs as though trying to feel the way your chest rose and fell with your labored breaths. His touch wasn’t soft—it was possessive, as though he needed to confirm that you were real, that this moment belonged to him.

The rational part of his mind tried to surface, to reassert control, but it was no match for the visceral pull of what he was feeling. There was something deeply satisfying, almost intoxicating, about seeing the proof of his desire on your skin. It wasn’t just the mark itself—it was the way your breath hitched, the way you let out a soft, almost pleading whimper as his thumb brushed over the bruise. It was the way your body leaned into him instead of pulling away, silently begging for more.

When your fingers reached up to touch his face, your gentle caress grounding him, you whispered his name through uneven breaths, and the sound sent a fresh jolt through him. His lips returned to your neck, tracing the mark he’d left with an almost reverent slowness. His tongue flicked over the raised skin, soothing the faint sting before his teeth pressed down again, harder this time, the pressure deliberate and sure. As his teeth sank into you, his free hand roamed lower, gliding down the curve of your back before slipping beneath your shirt to splay against the bare skin of your waist. His touch was warm, firm, and electrifying, igniting a fire wherever he made contact.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips, followed by a soft, breathy moan that seemed to echo in the stillness of the room. Your hands slid to his shoulders, clutching at him as though to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensations. His grip on your waist tightened, and his thumb rubbed slow, deliberate circles into your skin. Each bite sent waves of heat through your body, and the small, involuntary sounds you made only spurred him on. The way you whimpered his name, soft and broken, set his nerves alight.

Each bite heightened his senses further, drowning out any lingering rationale. He could feel the slight resistance of your skin beneath his teeth, the faint give before the sharp impression was made. The way your breath hitched, the way you let out a needy moan that vibrated through him, sent his blood rushing in a way that left him dizzy. His roaming hands betrayed the depth of his craving—one sliding up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while the other gripped your hip, his fingers digging in as though to remind himself you were his and his alone.

When he pulled back to survey his work, his breathing was heavier, and his gaze flicked between the marks he’d left and your flushed face. The sight of your neck adorned with his marks sent another jolt through him, raw and visceral. The way your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, the way your lips parted as you let out a soft, contented sigh, filled him with a quiet, overwhelming satisfaction. His body felt charged, alive in a way he hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t just desire—it was something deeper, something more consuming, that made his pulse race and his chest tighten.

Akutagawa’s fingers traced one of the marks absentmindedly, his hand lingering on the bare skin of your hip, his touch possessive and unrelenting. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. Instead, he leaned in again, his teeth finding another untouched spot on your skin. The moment his teeth sank into you, a louder moan escaped your lips, your body trembling against his, and he felt the same shockwave ripple through him, grounding him in the moment, in you. His hands tightened on your body, pulling you closer as his lips and teeth worked feverishly, leaving behind proof of a craving he couldn’t begin to explain. Each bite was an unspoken declaration, a silent surrender to the part of himself that craved this connection more than he’d ever admit aloud.

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[flowerandblood]

The Taste of Shame (2)

[ dom!modern • Aemond x friend sister • female ]

[ warnings: doubts related to sex work, panic attack, remorse and depression, fluff, sexual tension ]

[ description: Aemond works as a professional dom, fulfilling the various fantasies of his female clients - however, he guards his privacy and does not enter into any relationships with them, recognizing that he does not want or need it. It turns out that what he wants and what he doesn’t no longer matter when he meets his friend’s younger sister for the first time. Slow burn, sexual tension, doubts related to sex work. ]

Series & Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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Walking to the lecture they talked about everything and nothing; for the most part, she was the one speaking, telling stories or asking questions, guiding her bike beside her by the handlebars, while he just added his thought or simply remained silent, listening to her.

They arrived at the Community Centre true to her word very quickly and indeed he immediately saw posters announcing that there would be free lectures by philosophers in the fields of contemporary ethics.

Robert's sister padlocked her bike in the designated area and they both went inside, following the signs. They entered a large, neo-classical hall with beautiful pillars and rich ornamentation on the ceiling, reminding him of a theatre or opera house.

They sat side by side on seats in one of the first rows − she explained to him that the presenter would be asking questions and, among others, her professor would be answering.

Indeed, the discussion was remarkably interesting and he caught himself drawn in; the men were talking among themselves about capital punishment, attitudes to the treatment of other humans and animals, warfare and human-wide conflicts.

However, he felt a cold sweat on his back and a tightness in his throat, his heart starting to pound like mad when the presenter asked the next question.

"As we know, a lot of young people start, as they say in modern times, sexworking − whether they show up on webcams or have sex for money. How do you, Professor, view this, do you think it's good for the psyche of such people? Is it morally right?"

The professor grunted and corrected his glasses with a slight hand gesture; he was a grey-haired, elderly man with a kindly, calm face.

"It depends on a number of factors. Firstly − what that young person's goal is. When we choose our job, we usually want more than just to earn money, most people's dream is to do things that fascinate them, that they are fulfilled in. Of course, people are also fulfilled in the sexual sphere with their partners, however, what happens when sexuality becomes a profession?

Well, in a way, two things are then combined that can be very destructive to the psyche − materliness and one's own body. At the same time, we make the decision ourselves, so it is not morally wrong if it involves two adults who agree to it, but there is an internal objectification, a selling of some part of our intimacy.

Of course, one can feel good about it. One may even like it. One should not tell such people that they are denying something, or say that they are selling themselves, that they are pricing their value. You see, it is not for us to judge. Everyone can do what they want with their body, it is their unquestionable right.

However, the danger arises when, underneath this materialistic approach, there is a desire for self-destruction, a desire to simultaneously dominate, to be in charge − I decide what happens to my body − and, at the same time, I desire to humiliate myself in my own eyes − I sell myself and I'm nothing, I don't want affection because I don't deserve it.

This issue is very complex and delicate, judging too quickly, especially by outsiders, will be even more hurtful to such people, a confirmation that they will never be loved and accepted, so they will be afraid to make sexuality emotional, which will lead to the opposite effect that we would all like."

The presenter nodded with understanding.

"If the professor were to state what it should look like in an ideal world, what would the professor say?"

The man laughed good-naturedly, stroking his white beard.

"I don't have an answer to that. I think that in an ideal world, the person who is made for us would be highlighted to us in green and those who hurt us in red. But we don't have that option. I think the fundamental mistake of every human being is to make judgements prematurely, instead of being willing to understand, to offer conversation, to support.

Calling someone a whore or a slut has never helped anyone, what's more, it only makes such people even more likely to have suicidal thoughts and be afraid to seek help when they feel they need it, because they are scared of revealing themselves to their parents or loved ones."

The presenter moved on to the next topic, but he heard nothing more, staring blankly at the floor, leaning forward so that his elbows were on his knees − he felt himself trembling all over, his eyes burning from the moisture that had gathered under his eyelids, his throat all clenched.

He felt her hand on his back and he shuddered, glancing over his shoulder at her with wide eyes − she was leaning over him worriedly, he could smell her pleasant scent again.

"Are you all right? Do you want to go out for some fresh air?" She asked frightened, clearly seeing how pale he was, and he nodded in embarrassment.

By the time they got outside it was completely dark; he reached with his shaking hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, taking out a cigarette and a lighter, firing it quickly and putting it into his mouth.

He felt her looking at him − they were standing in the square in front of the main entrance where there was no one but them, all around them was the loud hum of moving cars.

For some reason he felt desperate and miserable, weak, small; he clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head, trying to pull himself together. He sat down on the cold stone steps and she immediately sat down next to him, far too close.

He sighed when he felt her hand on his shoulder, stroking him gently, her warm breath on his cheek cool from the crisp evening air. He let out a loud puff of smoke with his lips, thinking only of how he had never let any woman touch him.

He placed his hand on hers, wanting to feel her for once, her skin soft as silk, exactly as he had imagined; he looked at her in pain, her eyebrows arched in worry, in incomprehension of what had actually happened.

"I'm selling myself." He said finally, desperate, and she blinked as if she didn't understand what she had just heard.

He took a drag again, not taking his eyes off her, and let the smoke out through his nose.

"I do all sorts of fucked up things to women for money and get satisfaction out of it, you know?" He asked in a low, trembling voice, feeling devastated how tears of shame one by one began to run down his face.

He felt himself shaking all over and thought he was an idiot, wondering how he could have said that to her. For some reason, he felt something inside him break.

He wanted her to know, to tell him she was disgusted with him, to look at him with that look full of reserve, to tell him it was nothing and just go away simply to let him finally stop thinking about her.

He saw her tighten her lips, her eyes turning red, her eyebrows arching in sorrow as if she was in pain as he was. He felt a pleasant shudder when her hand stroked gently through his hair as if he were a small child, and then she hugged her face to his cheek and simply remained silent.

She didn't say anything.

She stayed.

She wanted to comfort him.

Delighted at this revelation, he burst out into a quiet, mournful sob, leaned over and snuggled his face into her neck, wanting to hide from his own shame and remorse, from what she might think of him, from what he feared and could not forgive himself for.

Why did he have to be like this?

Why exactly did this give him fulfilment?

He sighed quietly as she put her arms around him and hugged him, her soft hand stroking his cheek with gentle, slow movements, her face nestled against his hair and placing a gentle kiss on it.

"You didn't do anything wrong." She whispered finally; he swallowed hard, rubbing the tip of his nose against her neck, brushing his lips gently against her bare skin, again, and then again.

He felt her tremble and tighten her hands on his leather jacket, his manhood in his trousers completely hard.

He had no idea what had just happened between them, but he didn't want to stop.

After a moment, as his emotions left him he realised what he had done.

That he had told a complete stranger about who he was, revealed to her his darkest secret.

This thought made him panic − he got up abruptly and mumbled through his tears that he would go home already, that he apologised to her for everything, not listening to her pleas to wait for her, running quickly down the stone stairs, walking ahead.

He looked over his shoulder as he turned into the corner of the next street and noticed with some kind of disappointment that she was not following him.

He burst out into uncontrollable sobs for the second time once he had locked himself in his car having complete chaos in his head, feeling that he was going through some kind of panic attack.

He thought that until he'd met her he hadn't felt this way, that the idea that he couldn't date her because of what he'd done made him start to regret it all.

What was he supposed to do now?

He reached for his phone hearing it vibrate and unlocked it quickly seeing as many as three new messages from her.

He clenched his eyelids, dropping his phone on the other seat, hiding his face in his hands.

He needed to calm down.

He sat like that for a few minutes in silence, not thinking about anything, just breathing, and then he drove home as if nothing had happened.

He entered his flat, took a shower, ate something and then turned on the TV, all mechanical, completely empty; he shuddered when he got a new message, reaching uncertainly for his phone and felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach when he saw it was one of his clients.

She wanted to meet the next day.

No, he thought.

I don't want to.

He wrote her back that he was taking a break from it all for a while.

He was infuriated when she started texting him to tell him not to do it, that she needed him, that meeting him made her want to go on living.

He slammed his phone furiously into the wall.

What about what he fucking needed?

When he picked it up after several minutes he found that it worked despite the cracked screen.

He accessed the last messages he'd received from Robert's sister and began typing quickly to her on his phone's keypad.

He pressed his lips together when he saw that she immediately displayed his message, a bubble popped up in his app window indicating that she had just written back to him.

He swallowed loudly, writing her back without thinking, without controlling himself, allowing himself to shamelessly write her exactly what was in his head.

He stared at the screen with a pounding heart, wondering whether to do it or not, walking restlessly around his living room with his phone in his hands − he typed out the answer slowly, feeling that he was hot.

She didn't reply for a long time even though he could see that she had displayed his message.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, laughing despairingly under his breath, not believing how desperate he was.

He'd known it from the moment he'd seen her, when she'd gotten off that fucking bike and looked at him with those big, innocent eyes of hers.

He stood looking at her message as if stupefied, reading it again and again, unable to believe it, feeling like he was about to die from the arousal and heat he felt in his chest, his fingers trembling as he tapped out his reply to her.

And so she did.

He didn't dare propose to meet her alone, knowing how that would have gone down on his part.

He didn't want to scare her off.

However, they wrote with each other for days, even during his classes; Criston and Robert laughed at him for having a girlfriend and not even wanting to introduce her to them.

He didn't care.

She was the first person he told about how it all started, what he felt when he did it, what aroused him and what repulsed him about it all.

She listened to him and answered him with sincere concern and worry, without judging him, without pretending it was a simple and obvious subject, giving him a sense of comfort and understanding.

He made it clear to her that he had refrained from any contact with strange women for the time being.

He licked his lower lip as he lay back in his bed, writing her off quickly.

He swallowed hard when she wrote him back after a moment.

He felt a squeeze in his heart at her words, some kind of pain that she thought of herself that way, that she saw herself as just another person he wanted to take out on.

He chuckled involuntarily, typing back a quick response to her question.

He blinked, looking at his screen with a pounding heart, not believing what he read.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[mydear-corinthian]

Rivals || Jonathan Crane x reader

Synopsis: You and Crane are both fighting for the asylum's new head of the psychologist department. Pairing: Jonathan Crane x reader / Jonathan Crane x psych! reader / Scarecrow x reader Warnings: SMUT +18, unprotected sex, p in v, rivalry Notes: RUSHED, there will be lots of grammatical errors. Click here to see the MAIN MASTERLIST Click here to see the CILLIAN MURPHY MASTERLIST

Today is the important day of your career. The head medical chief will now announce who will be the head of the psychology department.

You were working for nearly 5 years in Gotham's asylum, Arkham Asylum. You've seen many patients; juveniles, sadists, serial killers, and other more. It wasn't easy at first but slowly, you got the hang of it, being able to adjust the unusual environment of the hospital.

You had barely any interaction with anyone else when you were an intern except for Jonathan Crane. He was your age, a fellow psychologist committed to helping Arkham Asylum's needy patients. Your relationship with Crane developed with shared experiences and shared loyalty, creating a firm connection during the psychological obstacles of the asylum.

The pressure between you and Crane was intense and serious considering there were just the two of you. You will both keep track of the number of patients you see each day, the number of consultations and interviews you do, and of course, the journey toward becoming the department head of psychology.

Now, the both of you standing in front of the head chief resident, waiting for him to announce the result.

Even though you appeared calm and collected on the outside, there was a stream of anxiousness running through you. Jonathan Crane was just as calm as you were, but in opposite to you, he was so confident and at relaxed that there was no trace of nervousness.

"Doctor Crane, Doctor (Y/n), I want to say that the both of you did a wonderful job here as Arkham's psychology resident. I saw both of your performance since your first day and I can see the massive progress that you guys done for the past 5 years," the head chief resident said, lowering down the papers that contained both of your performances and records.

"Thank you, chief." a smile was plastered on your face as you thanked the chief resident.

"You both did an excellent job. I hereby congratulate our new chief..," the chief resident slowly announced, making your heart flutter, a wave of anxiety rushed over your spine.

"Doctor Jonathan Crane,"

Your eyes widened. You looked at your workmate, his eyes glowing as he shook the hands of the chief resident, thanking him.

You were left cashing by the shock that went through you like a voltage, and your hopes were buried in a deep sense of disappointment. A dream set back in the face of unexpected defeat, the pain of longing for this desired position, grown throughout your time at Arkham, suddenly seemed to resonate down the corridors of your mind.

Jealousy was starting to spin all over you as you shook Crane's delicate hand, muttering a 'congratulations'. You left the office after, giving the both of them privacy as they started a new conversation about Crane's new responsibilities and duties to the hospital.

Your gloomy walk echoed through the asylum's corridors. You immediately walked to your office and harshly opened and closed the door.

"What the fuck!" you yelled loudly in frustration Your palms curled up together like a ball. "What the fuck do you mean that Jonathan got the position and not me?" slapping your wooden table harshly as you threw a big tantrum.

"Fuck you, Jonathan!"

Good thing that your office was soundproof so all the staffs and patients passing by won't hear a single sound of you bursting into frustration.

Your tantrum stopped when you heard a knock on your office's door. Assuming it was the head chief resident, you fixed your hair and your outside, composing yourself.

You opened the door with a smile but it was gone after you see who it was-- Jonathan Crane.

"What are you doing here, Crane?" you spitted, your arms folding each other on your chest.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Fine," you groaned in annoyance, opening the door widely so he can enter your lightly-dimmed office.

He scanned your office, looking at the picture frames on the hanged shelf, books that were neatly stored beside your frames, and your Ph.D and awards that hanged over the white walls of the office.

"Now, what do you want, Crane?" you asked again, sitting in front of the wooden table, both arms still locked in your chest together, your eyes piercing through his.

"I just want to congratulate you for having the chance to compete for the position," he teased, a small grin plastered on his soft cheeks.

"Oh fuck off, Jonathan. Yeah, I got it, you got the position," you rolled your eyes, getting angry and annoyed every time Crane breathes.

"Won't you congratulate me, (Y/n)?" he asked, moving closer and closer to you, until your faces were only centimetres apart.

"Fuck no! Just go and flex your position to somebody else because I don't care about you,"

Your response made him chuckle. He took a deep breath as he adjusted his clear eyeglasses. "Mhm, I don't think so. You care about me. You have feelings for me, don't you?"

Your eyes grew wide at what he said. Was he aware that you like him? He's your rival, and you were beginning to feel something for him. He's a perfect man - well for you. He's good looking, smart, and works with you but you kept it as a secret, ashamed that you're in love with someone you compete with. His words caused you blushing leaving you speechless.

"I - What? Funny, Jonathan. I don't even like yo-"

"Not according to your journal here," he cut you off, he took a small brown notebook out of the pocket of his blazer, showing it you.

Then you realized what it was: it's your missing journal book. You remembered leaving it at your desk a week ago but after that, it just suddenly disappeared like that. You kept on finding it, you searched everywhere, your apartment, your bag, your office, your cabinets: none.

"Where'd you get that! Give it back!" you gasped, attempting to grab it from his hand but he sways his arm back further away.

"God look at this. You were imagining stuffs like this huh? Lusty images and scenarios of me," he teased, opening the journal and scanned the pages.

"Fuck you, Jonathan," you cursed.

"If that's what you want," he said before he crashed his lips to yours. Tasting every spot in your lips. You gasped at the sudden action but it was true, you fantasized about this.

You returned the passionate kiss, wrapping your arms over his neck and then his now messy hair, pushing your lips deeper to him.

His tongue traveled deeper into your tempting mouth, the passionate kiss becoming more messier and messier. His hand held tightly to your delicate body, pulling you closer him. Your lips softly moaned, each one begging for the kiss to get even hotter and more intense. You could feel the heat building as you both gave in to the burning desire that was dominating over. 

Crane's lips started to trail down on your neck, kissing the sweet and sensitive spots all over, earning a loud moan from you.

"You know, I fantasized about this too," he confessed, sucking your sweet spot that will likely leave a mark. Your back arched, your cunt getting more and more wet. "It's just that I don't write about it."

"Oh god, Jonathan," you moaned. His hands found your tight long sleeve shirt, unbuttoning it one by one. Crane tossed your shirt on the floor, continuing kissing you.

"Look at you. So fucking sexy," he said, your breasts now exposed after he unhook your bra only using two of his fingers.

Crane's trousers stretched out revealing his bulge and how he was hard already. In not much time at all, you unfastened his belt and took off his underwear, causing his hard cock to spring out, pre-cum leaking all over it.

"See what you did to me?"

"I need you, Jonathan," you begged, showing how wet you were when you removed your trousers. Your black panties were now stained with wetness.

He removed your panties with his soft hands before aligning his cock into your hole. "So wet for me, huh?" his tip teasing your wet and impatient hole as you moaned softly.

"Please.." you begged, getting more and more impatient.

He slowly entered you, earning a low grunt from him. Stretching your small hole as you took him.

"You're so tight, fuck," he cursed, starting his pace slow. His cock pushing in and out of your needy cunt, letting you a loud moan.

"Is this what you imagine me doing to you? Fucking you? Taking my cock?" he asked, his hands gripped your hips harshly as his pace fastened. A small dash of sweat was starting to form on his forehead as he grunt out loud from the sensation.

"Yes - oh god, Jonathan!" moaning, your eyes shut as you rolled your head back, taking him deeper and deeper. Allowing him to penetrate all the sensitive spots down there.

All you experienced was nothing but pleasure. You felt a rush feeling of thrill wash over you, seeing only sparkles. A huge mess was made as your skin flapped loudly, the table moved around, and some of your materials items fell off the table.

"Look at me while I'm fucking you, sweetheart." Crane hissed, harshly gripping your jaw to make you look at him.

His pace was immeasurable. The sound of his and your skin slapping together echoed inside the room as you let out a series of pornographic moans.

"Good thing your office is soundproofed," he laughed. "You don't want them to hear you moan while I fuck you, huh?"

Crane's right hand gripped your thighs, giving him support as he fucked you harshly.

In a short while, you felt your orgasm starting to form. Your legs trembling as you locked his back with it, allowing him to penetrate deeper at your sensitive spots.

His icy-like eyes met yours, mesmerizing him. His eyes. His mouth. His jaw line. Everything, admiring him.

"Jo - Jonathan, I'm close.." you breath shaking, feeling your orgasm coming near and nearer.

"Yeah? Come then, cum on my cock, love," his pace remained fast. His grunts were getting louder and louder.

After a few more thrusts, your orgasm came and so did his, staining the inside of walls with his seed as he came inside. The both of you continuously let out a few grunts and moans while reaching your high.

He didn't pulled out until every drop of his cum pours inside of you. The both of you pant hard, your cunt clenching on his hard cock.

"I like you, Jonathan," you confessed.

"Oh sweetheart, you belong to me," he said, pulling out slowly before he kissed you again but this time he did it passionately.

"I'm still mad at you for getting my desired position," you admitted, glaring at his sweet features as he chuckled with your response.

"Well, I can request the chief to make 2 psychologist the heads of our department," he remarked. "But before that, let me.. enjoy what belongs to me."

[pictureinme]

sweet dreams - jonathan crane

❧ who's the real deviant here?

jonathan crane x f!reader word count: ~900 tags: DUBIOUS CONSENT/CNC, somnophilia, bondage, medical kink, slight breeding kink, fucked up crane as per usual

(ao3)

Jonathan traces the curve of your thigh as you lie unconscious in his examination room. Your chest rises and falls with a calm rhythm, unknowing of the dilemma you’re currently in. He smiles to himself as he imagines what lovely dreams your feeble mind could be coming up with right now– an escape from what he was about to do to you.

Of course, the two of you had discussed this idea multiple times, with your various shared… interests. You know of Jonathan’s quirks and fascinations and felt nothing but pure curiosity when he would talk of them.

That’s how you ended up strapped to a cool examination table, unconscious and donning a hospital gown doing absolutely nothing to cover your most intimate parts.

“Look at that, you must be having a pleasant dream, (Y/N).”

Your legs were spread open further by Jonathan’s cold hands, revealing your idle wetness. A soft whimper is elicited when he does so, but you’re still fast asleep. He closes his eyes, taking in the delicate noise you just made– all for him, even if you didn’t know.

Not wanting to waste any time, he unzips his work slacks gently, afraid any noise might wake you from your deep stupor. Jonathan did use a much lower dose of sedative than he tends to, for fear of damaging your delicate psyche– but it never hurts to be careful, now does it?

He spreads your folds open softly with his fingers, relishing in the sticky feeling of your arousal. You could be dreaming about anything, but he was the one in control. Inching forward, he moves his tip up and down, collecting as much wetness as he can before entering you with a sigh.

“Perfect as always, my love,” Jonathan fully sheathes inside of you, “Gonna wake up sore and full, aren’t you?”

You try to turn over in your sleep but are blocked by the leather straps holding you down. He sees the tired confusion and struggle written all over your face and feigns pity as he starts to thrust in and out. The way you tighten around Jonathan’s length subconsciously has him struggling to stay focused, his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose in the midst of it.

His rhythm is steady and calculated, wanting to leave you sore was his main priority. You begin to whine quietly, a noise one might make when they’re too tired to get out of bed in the morning.

“Jonathan…”

The utterance of his name has him choke out a groan, stuttering in his previously steady movements. He slows down, hoping you were just dreaming of him, and not waking up.

Your eyes are lidded but open slightly to observe your predicament. Unable to truly stop himself, Jonathan starts his thrusts again, causing you to gasp loudly.

“Fuck, Jonny, what are you– oh!”

The sedative was wearing off slowly, and he grinned almost maniacally as you moaned in your questioning, “Don’t worry, just go back to your slumber, dear.”

You start to moan in earnest as he speeds up, sweat falling from his brow from the desperation of the situation. Even as you halfheartedly tug at the restraints, you try to meet his thrusts.

“Desperate little thing, even wants my cock like this…”

A dull thud sounds as your head falls back against the examination table as Jonathan rubs suddenly at your clit. His pace quickens, your sudden wakening has him even more eager to ruin you. He grips one of your thighs harshly as he pounds into your cervix, causing you to see white.

You quickly realize you’re orgasming, his treatment of you, coupled with the new situation, was too much for your body to handle. The warmth enveloped you, your tiredness only increasing the pleasure of it all. You had no choice but to fall deeply into it, a new daze coming over you.

Jonathan groans deeply as he feels your walls clench around him, and he quickly fills you up with his release. Continuing to thrust throughout both of your shared orgasms, he overstimulates the both of you. His hot breath is ragged above you, and your eyes finally fully open to see the mess of a man who just came inside of you. Sweat lined his forehead, hair sticking in all sorts of ways. Jonathan’s mouth hung open, you had never seen him like this before. Maybe that’s why he wanted you unconscious?

Your wrists ached from the straps, and he quickly undoes them for you. Catching your breath, you watch as he slips his fading arousal from your own, wincing at the change. The odd feeling of his seed dripping out of you onto the previously sterile floor has you shudder from embarrassment and lust.

“I can’t believe you actually did it, Jonny,” you bite your lip, pulling him close to you by his tie, “Sick son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

He grins, satisfied with your reaction, “You love it, don’t you?”

You kiss him with a newfound sense of passion, wrapping your tired legs around his hips, effectively trapping him in the embrace. Jonathan’s hands tentatively rake through your sweat-dampened hair, eager to please you now that you’re awake. 

[graceofagodswrath]

Omg your Humans are space orcs/deathworlders + Transformers is just *d e l i c i o u s*. My complaints are pretty much the same, it seems that most humans on the franchise are just manufactured to be hated or simply annoying for being so useless. I want transformers to realize just how hard we have to work to simply stay alive *in our own planet*, with the sheer amount of diseases and poisonous animals and predators and weather and so much more, I want them to wonder how such seemingly fragile beings became the dominant species, how can we be so resilient yet so delicate... I'd like a transformer that particularly hates/is disgusted by humans to swap places with us for like a day or so, the first one that comes to mind is Starscream, I want him to get a glimpse at the daily fight for survival here on Earth and can't help but develop a tiny speck of respect for humans, not that he would ever admit it, even to himself, that he's secretly more mindful of where he steps when there are humans around ever since.

I literally just gave a rundown about this to a friend in a drunken rant the other night, so I am so ready for this.

Starscream wouldn’t be my first pick, based solely on the fact that I haven’t psycho-analyzed him the same way I have others, but imma do my best ~

For situation-sake so my writer brain doesn’t kill itself over context, imma do this in the form of Headcannons. Let’s say Starscream gets stuck in a human body and has to exist as such until he magically gets put back. Until then, he’s stuck with a human who is aware of what he is (vague gn oc/reader, up to whoever. Writing from the viewpoint of “one of us”).

(Also y’all can input any Starscream here cause imma write him in his basic form: whiney, stuck-up, clever little cunt).

- Bro is flabbergasted. Disgusted. Horrified. Out-of-his-mind losing it. Keeps praying to primus it’s a drug-induced hallucination or a dream.

- Wakes up on the soft cushions of a… couch? The word pops up in his head. He knew the basics from his overviews when their war traveled to earth. He brought his servos- No. Hands, up to his face, inspected his new honey, fleshy digits. The detail was too vivid to be a hallucination. Colors were both muted and bright. Starscream found himself automatically trying to adjust his optic intake. But nothing happened. Of course. Because fleshy organics can’t manually adjust their own sensory inputs.

- He curls his lips, and is instantly hit with the feeling of muscle contorting. Skin and flesh was an entirely different sensation from mesh and plating. It made his plating- damnit no, skin crawl. Another sensation trailed up the center of his back, spine and shiver popping up in his mind.

- Even the way his psyche worked was different. Like a new plane of existence. Thoughts were unorganized, uncalculated. Like something that squirmed out of his grasp as he tried to keep hold. Everything felt simplified, yet the awareness and sensations were overwhelming. His entire presence felt… hypocritical.

- Sounds distracted him from his insightful, yet horrific reverie. His gaze drifted to another area of the room, half-built walls sectioning it off, but with flat slabs atop. Counters. A face pops from behind the half-wall. Human eyes catch his, and the creature pulls its lips back to bare its teeth. To smile. Even though humans and cybertronians had similar facial anatomy, the little creatures were so ugly that it was hard to recognize similar expressions.

- “You good bud?” The thing asks. Starscream felt his new face twist into his casual sneer, one laced with aggravation and disgust.

- “Good? Is such a thing possible when you’re a skin bag of flesh and bones?” The humans only response was to broaden their grin.

-“Glad you haven’t lost the attitude. Means you’ll make it out alive.” The nonchalance threw the ex-cybertronian for a loop.

- “You… know me?” That grin turned into a smirk that made the non-energon in his lines boil.

- “You’re Starscream, second-in-command to Megatron, lord of the deceptions, yada yada yada… yeah I know who you are.” They leaned back against the wall, eyes boring into the deception. Starscream found himself wondering if human eyes were always so disturbingly piercing.

- “Wonderful.” He shoved the unsettled feeling to the back of his head, determined to figure out a solution and still be in control. “Then you can explain how and why I am in this disgusting organic form.”

- The smirk disappeared into an odd expression Starscream had never seen before. The human flattened their lips and pursed their… cheeks. It looked entirely stupid. But something in the back of his head whispered apologetic.

- “I’m not sure on the exact details, but I can tell you it won’t last long. I’m basically your caretaker until it wears off.”

- Instinctually, Starscream’s brows raised. “That’s it? Is this some new human weapon, cruel imprisonment within one your fleshy bodies?”

- The human tilted their head back and laughed, once again taking Starscream off guard. Their casual presence was so different from the fight-or-die everyday lifestyle that gripped his species.

- “Nope. Just a random accident that you’re the unfortunate victim of.” At the con’s bewildered stare, the human pushed their mouth outwards, changing the pitch of their voice as they said, “aww, poor baby. Don’t worry, you’re safe with me.” Then they whirled around and walked into the other room.

- Man is flabbergasted. Is out of his element and cannot function. Cue him trying to stand and do normal things, and bust his ass because the different sensations hitting him all at once. Organic nervous systems feel very different from techno ones.

- First thing he starts doing is eating and drinking. It takes a couple hours, but his “babysitter” eventually gets him to try something. Water first, of course (he refused any organic foods). The con is disgusted, but moderately pleased that the tasteless liquid isn’t slimy or thicker like he expected. It’s actually rather soothing to his human body.

- The first food he willingly tries is melon. Honeydew to be precise. Refused to touch meat, as the idea of eating actual organic flesh was unfathomable. He was pleasantly surprised to find the flavor of the fruit likable. Humans don’t taste things the same way cybertronians do. Whereas energon has a more electrical charge to it (to put it in human words), Earth flavors were smoother. Discovers he has a huge sweet tooth (as his “babysitter” put it).

- His human guardian took this opportunity to drag him out of their home and go shopping for more consumables. Let him pick things he found somewhat pleasing, but chose most others. Lots of fruit to try and other non-meats. Went in to try the other types of fruit. Has a preference for honeydew, strawberries, cantaloupe, watermelon, and grapes. Really likes (loves but won’t admit) pineapple and raspberries. The sour/sweetness is similar to energon. Citruses like oranges and mandarin are also similar, but he prefers more sweetness than straight sour. Kiwi is also a treat.

- (I headcannon that energon is similar to sour patch kids and skittles, super sweet and sour with an electric tang and texture. So all transformers would be immediate sweet lovers as humans because of the similarity).

- Hates anything dull or flavorless. Don’t try to feed this man spinach, he’ll call you grass-eating fleshbag.

- Drinks water only because he has too (stupid human body), but once he discovers those liquid flavors he can put in, it’s all he uses. Tried juices when he found out they were liquids derived from the fruit he likes. Got excited when it tasted almost like energon and tried to only consume juice from then on. His guardian explained that humans couldn’t only exist on juice, but of course he tried to argue that all he needed was nutrients in liquid. He then discovered smoothies. Nearly did the same thing until he actually tried them. Hated the thickness and gritty texture.

- A couple days go by and his guardian decides it’s time to get him tf out properly. Man is lounging around all the time. If he’s not on the couch making fun of human entertainment and politics, he’s following his guardian meatbag around and demanding answers for his current predicament.

- So his guardian starts small. Hauls his ass outside for a jog. This is where things really get interesting. Starscream is unaware of how human bodies work. When his guardian begins a slow run, he gets confused. Why would you run when you can walk fine? Where were they going? Leads to an explaination of exercise, which results in the con doing his usual snide shit of “you force yourselves to go through training otherwise your bodies become slow and unusable? How unsurprising.” And they’re like “yes and nooo, it’s so we can stay strong and get stronger as time goes on. Staying strong allows us to do cool things.”

- Cool things like what? Well his guardian gets an evil idea in their head. Starscream hates running. Hates using his legs and having nothing to do with his arms. Don’t even get them started on the tantrum he threw when he started sweating (fluids exiting one’s body? Horrifying).

- So his guardian introduces him to swimming. The con is a jet in his natural form, and the closest he’ll get to that as a human without a shit ton of equipment will be the water.

- Problem is the man has to learn to swim first. And willingly get in the water. Stays on the edge of the lap pool the first few times, watching with his nose turned up at the humans swimming.

- However, he starts to slowly dip his toes in the water. The sensation is… interesting. It’s not dislikable on human skin. In fact, on the hotter days it’s very soothing, like when he drinks water (finds out he can’t drink this kind tho, chemicals and bodies in it and such).

- Eventually he gets in, staying in the shallow area. His guardian helps him learn how to swim. It feels humiliating, learning to kick and tread water, while watching human children do it with relative ease. It feels strange to use his body in such ways. But with his guardian constantly reminding that none of his cybertronian peers knew or will know of his situation, AND their constant praise, he finds it in himself to continue.

- The praise he receives from his guardian is also something he’s not used to. As well as other humans willing to help him learn. It apparently wasn’t uncommon for many adult humans to not know how to swim or do other things, and gave him more confidence to learn. He’d never admit it, but he tried harder to learn just to hear the praise from others. It felt nice to be treated kindly. Better than nice. But again, he’d never admit it. He’d just respond with a clever quip. Never did anyone hear a thanks (but most quickly figured out he was grateful from the obvious burning red on his copper-toned neck and ears).

- Weeks drag on, and to distract himself from the impatience of going back to his normal, Starscream becomes an excellent swimmer. He finds it is like flying, the way the water holds up his body. When he holds his breath and dips under the surface, he can almost imagine his rocket boosters on his pedestal holding him aloft in the sky.

- From the work it took, he gained a slight appreciated for how his human body worked. At first he thought it was a hindrance. But as he worked with the others, he began to have an understanding that unsettled the cybertronian part of him.

- Humans were incredibly versatile. After he began to improve greatly at swimming, he asked about other activities humans did for exercise. The resulted in learning that humans didn’t always “exercise” to become strong. Many did it for fun. It was a hobby to them, and the exercise was a great benefit. It kept their minds clear, it kept their bodies healthy, and it satisfies a part of them that he was only beginning to discover.

- Starscream was aware of human creativity. It’s what had made their species a slight hindrance when they aided the autobots in the war, but because of their size, they were seen as nothing but bugs. Pests at the most. But as the con experienced this small bit of human life, he began to understand there was more to them than he’d like to admit. There was this drive to do things, to push themselves beyond their current capabilities.

- He learned of skills that human no longer needed but still learned to take pride in for fun. Swimming was only a base skill. There were humans that attempted to swim across the oceans just to see if they could, even with the high chance of death. Beyond swimming, there was running across land for days on end, jumping off cliffs and diving in spectacular ways, gliding across the sky’s on flimsy metal pipes and fabric, and so much more. Their adaptability to any environment was envious.

- It nearly terrified him, the thought of what if humans were the same size as cybertronians. What if they could acutally measure up to other species of their universe? They could do anything. They would be a real threat. Or the greatest ally any race could ask for.

- His lid has been flipped.

- Eventually he wakes up back in his habsuite in his normal body. The euphoria that rushes through him at the familiarity his nothing he’s ever experienced before. Checking his info screens, he discovers no time passed. As if he had dreamed all of it. But when he looks to his desk in the room, he sees it.

- Starscream picks the item up, inspecting it, and feels his spark skip a pulse. It’s a small ring and chain, attached to two metal objects. Both in the shape and color of a pineapple and raspberry.

[pomegranate-pen]

The Aeon's Gaze.Veritas Ratio x GN!Reader.

summary: when outer space was quiet and your small ship was filled with a cacophony of tears and sad songs. Where once stood an excited traveler ready to see the world, now was a crying wanderer experiencing their first heartbreak, vowing to never call another planet ‘home’ ever again,

You remember asking yourself, Akivil, how have you ran this path? How can the express experience friendship and comradery and even love like no other in the world, and then so easily leave it all behind? Why can’t you do the same? Why must you feel so lost?

Why must you feel so alone?

you're trapped in a haze of dreams. Yet, through the mists of autumn leaves, blizzard snow and a space station bustling with researchers, in each and every illusionary minute of your dream, an indigo haired man is present. Like he’s in the back of your mind, stuck in like glue through every thought and theory that passes by you. and soon, as you stop acting in your dreams, as reality and illusion becomes one and you realize you’re in a fake, made-up world of your psyche, you stare into his golden eyes curiously, one question lurking echoing through your mind.

why wasn't Dr.Ratio a genius?

tags: uhh kind of slowburn? reader is a magic professor. reader is gender neutral. father figure screwlum. I have been writing this post two million times now I cannot for the life of me tag send help.fluff, future fluff. toothrotting fluff. BUT also angst.lots of angst. lots of nerdy talks because it's dr.ratio guys ofc there's gonna be nerdy rambles. this entire fic can be seen as a love letter to ratio and a character exploration of him ngl.

Word count: over 16k.yes.yeah.mhm.send help.

chapter1. the unreasonable reason for magic

Dr.Ratio has always been…difficult to get along with, to say the least.

It’s not like you despise him- nor do you wish any ill will towards him. But it’s common knowledge between everyone that knows even the slightest bit about him that Ratio is known to uphold his own opinion to the highest of status, he sees his ideas as superior to the ‘simple-minded’ (his words, not yours). You’ve heard his students, as you’ve met them once or twice during your months as a professor, call him the very definition of a researcher. What other academic and overwhelmingly strict professors would want a researcher to be. Bold, confident and utterly obsessed with knowledge. Ratio holds his opinion in high regard not because of pride or confidence-though they certainly have a play in it- he does it because his opinions all derive from knowledge itself. He doesn’t like when people speak of things they have little knowledge about, and so, he himself constantly strives to store the most knowledge he can in his peculiar mind. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get along with him as a friend, let alone a colleague. Hell, you’re not sure if he’ll see you as a person worthy of speaking to, because you see- Ratio is an honest man, blatantly so. He says what he thinks and wholeheartedly shows a person if he thinks they’re worthy to hold-up a conversation with or not. One of those blatant methods is his mask, one where you’ve always found yourself smiling at. The sheer absurdity of it, the stern and reactionless block of delicately sculptured stone leaves you holding back giggles for no reason whatsoever. You’ve heard fellow colleagues call it unnerving-uncanny even, yet you find it the complete opposite. It’s amusing, it’s delightful to look at. It’s a full treat to glance at him and see him intensely conversing with someone with the mask still on, his voice high on emotions while his face unmoving as ever.

Colleagues who have spoken to him are confusing as well— some find him to be respectable, a determined and highly intelligent person whose conversation always activates the gears in your brain- other’s find him to be too prideful, a snob who thinks he knows more than anybody else, understands things better than others do, “mean-spirited.”your co-worker Rina called him. “mean-spirited and somewhat elitist- but rather than his elitism being laced within status and power, he is attached to knowledge. If he thinks you’re simple-minded or do not have the same IQ or higher than his, you are deemed unworthy to even glance at, let alone speak to.”

“I think he’s nice.” your other colleague, Byron adds, while Rina glares at him.“you only say that because you think he’s hot!”

“Perhaps, but can you blame me?” Byron gushes. “ he’s too gorgeous to handle. You may all think that he wears the mask as a statement, but I believe he wears it because he knows he’s beautiful. so he wears that ridiculous thing just to make sure the students don’t get distracted!”

“Oh please! He’s not that hot. Sure his eyes are mesmerising and he somehow can pull off purple…and his voice certainly does add to his attractiveness…and his abs-“

“ ooook— this conversation is getting out of control.”  You’d quickly  cut in, leaving the now embarrassed colleague trying to explain their reasoning while the other one laughs. Safe to say, the reputation of the ever so famous Dr.Ratio, amongst other employees of the intellegencia is varied, and it depends on whom you ask. There can be no label put into him other than ‘popular’. But this reputation does not hold a candle to how your students like to describe him. to them, he’s the strangest and harshest teacher they ever had, but he’s also what pushes them to improve and show their value in the university. Whenever they come back from his class to yours(whether if it’s from another day or merely a few hours,) you find them to be mentally exhausted, sleepless and even malnourished. Five minutes of your class is spent on letting them rant about their troubles with him- though, they never say whom they’re speaking about exactly. The teacher is left as ‘that one stern teacher before your class’ and he has become a ‘he who shall not be named’ sort of rule amongst your students. A ‘voldemort’, some nerd (you) might be keen to say. The horror stories you’ve heard about his teaching methods and assignments makes you feel bad for wanting to do a surprise pop quiz that day as well. but unfortunately, you have a class too, and it’s your responsibility as a teacher to teach however much you can in the small duration you have in each class. After all, magic is an important and impossibly difficult subject, and though you understand that the subject Ratio teaches must be of a difficult and utmost importance, you cannot let the students see yours as something to yawn at.

You’re no genius, and even if being amongst the intellegencia professors makes you one in others' perspective, it is still something you’d completely deny if directly asked. The only reason you’re a professor here is because of your extensive  knowledge and passionate love for magic. Magic of any kind, whether cursed or blessed, inherited or physical trait, from aeons or from the wonders of space- any sort of magic is fascinating to you. you’ve spent most of your years being a wanderer, traveling between worlds and planets mastering all kinds of magic, to the point where most people just started seeing you as a researcher rather than adventurer. You’d spend days in a planet's library cherishing every and each book with even the word magic in it, any friend you spoke to you’ve talked their ear off about magic with. Passion has become talent, and talent has become knowledge. That is how you found yourself being offered the role of professor, and it’s a job you’ve started to cherish, because it’s basically them paying you to info-dump however much you want about the only subject you found pure love for.

‘genius’ is a highly inadequate title for you, you’d much prefer just the term ‘researcher’ because in truth— that is still who you are. You’re a researcher- more precisely- you’re a wanderer. Soon, you’ll get bored of this teaching gig and then fly off to visit another planet in the vast-less galaxies and learn more about magic- maybe even discover an undocumented one which you can write extensively about and make it into a book. When one is only great in one particular subject, can they really be called a genius?

This— in truth, is the main reason on why you don’t speak to Ratio. You’ve heard of his statement-his extreme low-tolerance of people he do not seem worthy of his time- and so, you’ve already came to the conclusion that he might not fancy  a conversation with you, let alone a discussion regarding the different methods of teaching yo both have, because truly, from what you’ve heard from your students, it’s obvious that you two are like sun and moon, your methods are total contrasts. Where he enjoys bringing students up individually  to the front to analyze their solving skills on the board, you don’t put time on that, rather you quiz them and give them ‘group projects’ so they could master a collection of spells together, all while also giving you a group essay about a certain magic that hasn’t been documented well-enough yet and can help them broaden their scope on the limitless and infinite forms magic can have. If someone fails to meet his expectations, he quickly sends scolds them and explains to the rest why that person’s methods were horribly false. But you prioritize helping the person you’re questioning learn their problem first before turning back to their seats.  He deems exams and pop quizzes the very buildings of his grading for someone- while you believe the person’s activity in class is far more of importance. He gives no second chances, you either fail or survive his class, but you always can’t help but feel bad for the ones failing- giving them a chance to give you essays and reports that can somehow enhance their grades. He’s the stern teacher while you’re the kind one. You’re too different, you believe. You’re the high acceptance rated class while this is, horrifyingly, only three percent.

“I-I’m not saying I think he’s hot!” when your mind goes back to the conversation at hand, you see your two colleagues still bickering. This time, the embarrassed friend seems much more frustrated, while the other much more amused. “I’d rather die than to date that guy. His personality is hard to endure and his reputation far worse.”

you give a soft smile. “I’m glad I at least don’t have such a shaky reputation. It’s only been a few months and I’m already overwhelmed with work.” You gave a chuckle, yet, silence overtakes the place. For a moment, you think they’re probably busy just sipping their drinks, yet as the seconds pass and no comment is added, you look back up to them confused.

They look at you concerningly, shocked even. As if they couldn’t believe the words that left you. you felt your nerves shake.

“what? What is it?”

The two give a glance  to each other, unsure on how to break the news to you. speaking in some sort of glance-language, the previously amused friend forces the other to speak. He groans, looking at you with a guilty plea. “ uh…well,” he falters a bit. “h-haven't you noticed?”

The question makes your heart drop for a moment. “notice what?”

“ aeons , you seriously didn’t see anyone’s ugly stare at you?” the other asks, all while she looks at you with disbelief.. Shit, you have noticed those.

“..I just thought they did that because I was new?” you replied confused.

“Well- it is but—“ he sighs, unsure of how to explain it in the kindest way possible. “…it also has to do with how you got here.”

You look at them confused, mind clanking together to piece together their broken words. Then, in a moment of brilliance, your eyes widen and you feel breathless.

“ They think I’m a nepobaby ?!” the ends of your hair stand straight. The shame and embarrassment of the entire weeks of working here now coursing through you. The wall of ignorance, the wall of bliss some might call it, has now broken, and you’re left to witness the typhoon of horrid rumours drown you, the cold shrieking wetness leaving you shaken, the warm coffee in your hand now feeling cold.

“Worse,” she adds, hissing at the severity of what she will add. “ They think you’re a sugarbaby.”

It’s like the mythical Kraken beast from your home planet has come to attack and swallow you whole.forcing you to drown deeper in the dark waters as you look at the two friends with a painful expression, disgusted by the very idea of it all.

It was true that it was by Genius Society's member seventy six’ recommendation that you were considered for the position, yet that hadn’t changed the rigorous meetings, interviews, past studies and travel checkings you had to go through to get accepted for it. this is the intelligencia guild,after all. Although you are known for your research and scholarly skills in magic, so are many others, and it was through the filled basket of candidates that they soon landed on you.

“That's…I….” you didn’t know what to say. Even the very image of you and Screwllum dating leaves you astonished. To you, Screwllum was merely a good friend, a father figure even. He used to be your motivator when you felt utterly helpless in your pursuit of magic, the one who saved you one or three times in the Herta space station when they were under attack, just as you saved him. He was a comrade, an old robot who reeked of wisdom and kindness. One might argue the most normal of the geniuses. All feelings you ever had of him were platonic and for the longest times, you thought people have also perceived your relationship as such. Apparently not. “I need to go.” Was the only thing you could huff out before leaving the scene immediately, using your class that would start in a few minutes as the excuse.

-----

Late in the nights where only a few guards remain, there are only two teachers obsessed enough with their work as a teacher that they stay for longer hours in the place.  That would be you and the alabaster headed genius. Late at night when you’d feel the bones in your neck cracking from exhaustion, you make your way to the office lounge for a break, you glance in, seeing that the statue head is on the counter and you quickly scurry away. it feels wrong- to see the true face of the man so keen on hiding it  amongst most people. Sure, you find his reasoning to be ridiculous, but you’re not one to overstep others’ boundaries. If he sees fit to scare and intimidate people he claims are ‘simpletons’, then so be it. it’s a silent agreement to not bother each other one bit, even if you both need the lounge at the same time. The other just has to wait five more minutes before they get their coffee.

As your mind is hazy and sleepy as ever,  you intend to repeat the infamous routine. However, time is everlasting, yet also constantly in change. Or, this is just your flimsy excuse on the situation at hand.

With the night-light in your office being your only source of comfort, you find yourself unable to check even one paper. Mind boggled with the supposed ‘rumours’ that have been circling around you since the moment you’ve stepped in here. you felt guilt, you felt embarrassment and most of all, you felt offended.

You spent years of your life suffering for magic, living for magic. Breathing magic. You;ve abandoned everything, your home on earth, your friends, your sense of normalcy and sanity for the sake of reaching the unfathomable, reaching the power that was never granted to your own world. Though you do still stand strong on the belief that you are no genius, that doesn’t mean that you’re not a scholar. It doesn’t mean you’re not a scientist in your own right.  a seeker of knowledge, to solve the unsolvable, to travel the unending galaxies to answer a question that remains unknown even to you. What is magic? What’s its true purpose?

It’s bitter, really. How one influential man’s name can change the course odf everything you’ve worked for. Not that you blame Screwllum— you’re certain that he got this job for you out of concern for your well-being. Especially since your last hang-out, where you got drunk out of your mind with him on the cold tiles of your bedroom in the Herta space station, sobbing into his shoulders about the infinite loneliness you feel as a wanderer of space—

You quickly shook your head. Your mind needs to focus on work, not meddling memories of the past nor unimportant rumours. With a sigh, you get back up from your seat, taste buds already craving the utter bitterness of coffee, all while your mind begs for a quick nap, which you’re sure would be an eight hour sleep instead.

You dismiss it, trying to distract your desperate body with ideas for your next lessons instead. As your mind comes up with new ways to explain curse-based magic and exorcism spells, your hand wanders off to the door knob. You were so distracted by your new ideas that before you knew it- you were inside the lounge with golden eyes piercing through you.

 Eyes full of wit and intellect, judging you a bit before his gaze softens for a moment- then his brows furrowed and it looks as judgmental as ever once more. hadn’t he been wearing his common greek-like wardrobe, you would’ve mistaken him for a complete stranger trespassing the building.

“Are you just going to stand there?” his voice startles you. you hadn’t even realized you were standing frozen. In instinct, you gaze at the table a few feet away from you, noticing the alabaster head placed on it. shit. If only you weren;t so dazed, you would’ve avoided such a strange interaction.

“sorry.” You could feel your nervousness seeping into your voice a bit, you berate yourself for it in your mind. “…I won’t bother you too much. I just need to make some coffee.”

He stays quiet, only taking a few steps to the left, giving you a clear way to the coffee pot. With a mumbled thanks, you start making the coffee. Silence overtaking the atmosphere and making things even more awkward. Aeons, you should’ve waited five minutes, you should’ve been careful.

Perhaps you can make conversation with him? The very thought leaves your mind as soon as it comes. What in the world were you going to ask him? How was his day? Who is he? You already know that, and from what you know about him, or more precisely, heard about him, he seems like the type to dislike short meaningless conversations.

But then again, what others heard about you are the complete opposite of who you truly are— so maybe it’s best you give it a shot?

“Dr.Ratio, is it?” you turn your head to him. “ I’m L/n, I teach-“

“I already know who you are,” he huffs. . For a moment, you’re left speechless and (though you’ll never mention it to a soul) charmed by his accent .“there’s no need for such feeble introductions.” He walks around you slowly, eyeing you as your gaze follows his confused, unsure of what he’s exactly inspecting. He stops, right next to your side with the coffee pot almost near finished with its hard work, the room is silent. You decided to focus on his face a bit, eyeing the red-like pupils of his that make his eyes pop. Truly, your work-friends weren’t lying, he is kind of pretty. His gaze goes up-and-down on your figure, right then, he gives a scoff and takes  a few steps back, giving space between the now offended you and him. Seriously, what’s up with this guy? Was he a prick just like everyone else said?

You try to ignore the interaction, quickly taking out a mug from the cabinets so you could pour your coffee and leave in peace. Unfortunately, he speaks up.

“magic is an incredibly difficult subject to teach.” He starts off, arms crossed and his gaze away from yours. “ Its very meaning still alludes to many geniuses, with every research of them leaving more questions than answers. its comprehension is far worse for simpletons and a nightmare for imbeciles…wouldn’t you agree?”

The mug is soon left forgotten as you process his words. The atmosphere becomes tense as you realize that he’s interrogating you now, wanting to know the truth for himself. Your posture straightens, desperate to show an ounce of confidence as you answer honestly.

“it’s true that magic is unexplainable for geniuses. But there's a reason for it. geniuses want everything to make sense, they seek logic. Magic is pure chaos, it’s illogical. Once you finally accept that magic is completely illogical, the easier it would be to learn it. “

He hums at that, a finger on his chin as his eyes close in thought. “…a reasonable answer.” He mumbles to himself, leaving you to be left even more confused than before. His eyes snap open one more, eyes brimming with more curiosity. “Then let me ask this— L/n,” you’re getting a bit sick of him not using ‘professor’ or at the very least a formal title before addressing you. insecurity suddenly strikes you. Perhaps you deserve such treatment with all the rumours floating around?

“You say that mastering magic means accepting it as the way it is— then, how about understanding? From your words, it can be easily deduced that understanding this subject is beyond impossible and something that’s best to not question— if that is the case, then why are you here ?”

There's something almost blinding in his eyes, as if he’s reached the boiling point of the case, has finally set out the perfect trap that no fraud can escape. You realize that in this moment, it’s not only your professionality and position that is being questioned here, but it’s also your dedication for what you do and if you’re doing your job right. if you were granted the position of a professor this quickly, are you even worth it?

With a deep breath and clear mind, you look him dead in the eyes. “you sure do like twisting words, Dr .Ratio” unlike him, you have respect for such things. And it seems that your use of his title intrigued him a bit, as he raised a brow. “ which is unlike what people say about you. you seemed more like a man of logic to me.”  for first impressions, he’s been hitting all the marks for a prick. as he hears your words, his expression falters only a bit before it goes back to monotone. Not even a bit offended or at the very least somehow affected by your words. You find that even more infuriating, yet decide to not show  any more of your agitation with his sudden interrogation in the middle of the night. “I said it’s difficult, yes. But what I meant by impossible is clear. If one wants to master it, they must accept it and try not to understand it. but if one wants to understand it, then for a much easier path, they must master it first. They must accept its chaos and then try their best to comprehend it. That is what held back a lot of geniuses from understanding it. That is why I’m here.”

“I may not be a genius, yes.” His eyes squint at your words. “but I am still a scholar, and now, a teacher. I’ll do my duties to the best of my capabilities.”

A moment of silence passes by, your eyes staring intensely into his, waiting for an answer. He hums a bit in thought, a small smile etching his lips as he un-crosses his arms and walks to the table to grab his alabaster head.

“the best of your capabilities, you say.” He turns back to you once more. “ Well then, we must see if this ‘very best’ of your work truly does fit the standard, don’t we?”

The mischief in his eyes leaves you confused. “…what are you implying, exactly?” had your mind been in the gutter and you wouldn’t have seen him as a total douchebag, this line of his would have had an entirely other meaning. Especially with how his eyes bore so intensely into yours now, as if he’s analyzing your very being in nanoseconds.

“yes, that will do.” he hums, ignoring your question. He walks away, near the edge of the door before he stops again- giving you one more glance.

“wait - what ?” This was too much implied fiasco in one night, a truly abysmal situation you’d rather not engage in. Even so, you’re not sure if you can convince someone as steadfast and stubborn as him to leave you be, not unless you want more suspicion on you. With a sigh and a pinch of your temple, you ask tiringly, “ when will you be visiting?”

“Wanderer or scholar, it doesn’t matter to me. Your words are confident, but you lack evidence. I’ll be the judge of your work, L/n.”

Ratio merely shrugs, leaving you alone in the lounge with a now cold coffee on the counter, and a head full of thoughts to dwell on.

----

You were always a night owl, but never to this extent.

That, is the first thought you have as you finally get  a grip on reality. All with the help of a red-pin stinging your finger as you tried to hastily take it out of your board.

Scraps of paper littered from the ground floor to the very walls, red lines linking everything together as if it’s a clue board for an unsolved murder, at last, the words of the ever-so-peculiar Veritas Ratio has left you rewriting every single one of your study plans in the night, all un fear of somehow,someday, in one way or another your teaching and skills will be questioned, and if the very debate against you is by none other than the world’s most stubborn scholar than you’d rather take the shovel out of his hands and dig the bloody grave they set for you all by yourself. But that’s quite the pathetic sight, isn't it? and in any case, you’d hate to see the smug smile of the bastards who've been spreading rumours about you all these months like a bunch of teenagers as you’re crushed. You’d be damned to let them play as Nanook for a day, even if it is for only a few hours.

Therefore, here you are, with eyes bloodshot as ever, taking a quick picture of your board and sending it to the group chat. Asking the two colleagues of yours that were all awake for much different reasons than yours- (one was gaming all night and the other binge-watching their favorite melodrama for the 100th time)- on how good of a study plan it is.

RatioSimp: dude.

RatioSimp: please go to sleep.

Y/n : that does not answer my question.

RatioSimp: if I tell you it’s good would you finally go to bed? We’re the ones with the cancelled classes tomorrow, not you.

RatioSimp: wait.

RatioSimp: WHO CHANGED MY USERNAME?!!!! AND WHY CAN’T I CHANGE IT?!

Y/N : rip but it’s true tho

RatioSimp :I would’ve blocked you rn if you didn’t help me with checking the exams papers yesterday.

Y/N: Whatever you say Ratio simp.

RatioSimp: *RatioSimp has attached an image of a google search bar, ‘how to hack and change someone’s username’*

RatioSimp: revenge shall be mine soon.

Y/N: good luck coming up with a funny username by then

RatioSimp: Are you calling me unfunny??

*Y/n has left the chat*

RatioSimp: IS THAT A YES??!!

Your nerves eased down a bit, yet the pit of acid in your stomach was still bubbling to an abnormal degree. You can’t help but imagine a disastrous scenario where the duke might find your teaching methods horribly relaxed- they might find it to be far too soft for such a harsh school and reprimand you for such, possibly even fire you as a result. Though, truthfully, you do not care about the status of your employment, what you’re more worried about is possibly being forced to be harsh on your students, and even if they did fire you, the substitute being far harsher or worse, unable to teach such a subject.

Magic is confusing, magic is difficult. It’s not meant to be fully understood, so you cannot teach it by the textbook’s definition of it. magic is always changing, always becoming more than it once was. With limitless power comes limitless knowledge, and magic is something no one can call themself an expert at, not even you. hell , if you’re the best professor they could find at the moment, someone who does not even have the confidence to call themself a genius, let alone let others do so, then who in the world(s) would they choose next?

you sighed, feeling the very weight of this workload affect you right now at this moment. Glancing at your phone and ignoring the abnormal amount of messages, you glance at the clock and note the time. Holy shit . Your work starts in two hours .

With an exhausted sigh, you feel your eyes starting to waver a bit, begging for some shut-in. Though the very idea of sleeping for only two hours leaves a sour taste in your mouth, it is far better than showing up to your class tweaking and ticking like a time-bomb from all the caffeine you would’ve been desperate to consume.

You take a glance around your room, tching a bit from seeing the mess it has become. Something far from aesthetic and beauty that the internet fools you to believe in, in which all the colors of all the books match and the handwriting between the scribbles of neat yet a tin bit crumble up paper is all cursive and pleasant to look at.  Oh, and who could forget the pretty mugs all tied in together, one of them laced with a motivational or sarcastic quote that just screams ‘I’m a scholar’. No no, it was nothing like that. For that aesthetic, though pleasant and calming to look at, like all other aesthetics and pictures are based on fiction, on lies. They are a representation of what people wish being a scholar was like. Happy, enlightening, calming and riveting. Yet, it’s nothing like that at all.knowledge can make someone go mad, it can make them lose sleep and sanity. It makes you forget that this house isn’t truly yours, it’s just a small apartment you’ve rented that barely had a thing in it other than a bed, bathroom and a tiny kitchen. No decorations, barely any lights and not even a pillow for the supposed be you got (which was incredibly fragile and creaky, always making you fear that it’d break on you in the middle of the night). Yet now, the empty, cold and lifeless room has become more fit to be a crime scene. From asylum to murder. How fitting! it’s like the very papers you’ve ripped apart and torn out or messed with just explain the story themselves. A lonely human free from the asylum’s care finally basks into the world again, finally tastes the true meaning of freedom. Only to find themself frozen, a heart with a sinkhole, that just keeps getting deeper and deeper the more time passes and the more that their isolation consumes them. The very house they got, the very fresh start they found has now become their new source of madness, their new asylum. They may have left the asylum, but the curse of loneliness and fear of abandonment has never left them. It is chained to their very being now- changed to their hands like in a vice, tight grim that makes their very fingers shake as they write out their sanity, as they write with pure insanity.

You clear your throat, feeling an itch in it that has never been felt. Aeons, is the lack of sleep getting to you now? you can barely even think straight anymore- let alone try to comprehend the carousel of thoughts that are going through your head.

With a sigh, you shrug off all the litters of paper, pencil and pens off of your bed and crawl into the sheets as the bed creaks with even an inch of your movements. The constant shrieks and creaks makes you wince in annoyance until your ears get used to it, and your mind succumbs to dream land as your head hits the pillow.

You feel like you're safe now, between the softness of your new bed sheets you bought a week ago and the little blue lamp giving you comfort through the eerie night. Yet, as your poor body thinks that this is finally it, you will finally get the rest you so desperately need, a certain, mischievous and evil mind of yours starts asking its dark questions of the day, ones that literally keep you up at night.

How long has it been since you’ve made a room yours ?

During your travels, there was rarely any time or, frankly at the start, any money for booking inns and hotels. So most of the time you were left camping or sleeping in empty rooms a few employers of yours offered for your services. In your time as a student, you’d often sleep in bunk beds with others and so decorating a room was usually unnecessary. After all, why try to make it yours when you’ll be only staying for only a few months or weeks? Why put on such time and effort for something that is meant to last for years?

And yet— these clusters of paper, you buying bed sheets with your favorite designs and hell-even the goddamn board you bought and installed in this room- these are all signs that someone lives in this building, someone lives in this room. someone is a part of this world, alive and important to the city around them.

Your other rooms were always left untouched, not even a pot or table moved one inch to the right or left. Your suitcase was always packed, your fridge was constantly empty. Yet now, in this room there are signs that you live, that you are no mere viewer of this world now, but a part of the play they’re all acting in. an actor who doesn’t even know their lines, let alone the play they’re in.

With a now heavy heart that matches your mind that was swimming with heavy memories- you grab your pillow, take a deep breath and scream into it with all your might, hoping, begging and even praying it will make the pain go away, that it will help your mind shut up and for your heart to stop throbbing in pain.

You tried to ignore the little teardrop marks that spotted your pillow as you finally drifted off to sleep.

-----

You craved something stronger than coffee.

The exhaustion that coursed through your veins was phenomenally high, your cup of sad black and half-assedly brewed coffee was becoming stale on your tongue. No matter how much you drank, you didn’t feel one bit awake.

“huh?— P- Professor L/n ?!”

The sudden voice of a student merely walking by stopped you in your tracks. Aeons, did you look that bad? Never in your life have you heard a tone so exasperated and shocked by your appearance. The student, along with a group of their friends approached you with worry, all giving different surprised reactions at the state you’re in. it took you a moment to realize exactly who they were-but when you did, you couldn’t help but sigh.

“oh…Dimitri.” You greet the first boy who noticed you. a student of yours who sat in the front row seats and was constantly writing down notes. He was a good kid, though at times his constant parade of questions were annoying- nevertheless, he had a golden heart, and his friends never shied away from teasing him about his nerd-like nature. Speaking of…

“You look like shit, prof.” the boy in the red jacket spoke, grinning.his clothing instantly reminded you of who he was. It was Caleb, the kid who sits in the back of the class. He never paid attention to class, not unless the magic you were speaking about involved pyrotechnics.His amused look quickly shifted to one of annoyance as another kid with glasses hit him in the head.

“watch your language, dumbass .” Glasses kid spoke. His voice instantly reminded you of who he was. Tulio. Always first in and first out, an incredibly punctual kid with a strong love for illusion magic.

“since when did you care?—“

“since you once called the craziest professor around here a ‘ shit-faced greek stone’ right in front of him —“

“both of you, stop.” Dimitri hit both of them in the head. His attention quickly turns back to you. “are you alright professor? You look like you’re going through one of- ehh…” Dimitri looks around for a second before leaning in. “ one of ‘you know who’s exams.”

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, which, in hindsight, perhaps sounded like a cry for help.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” was you reply. “ Just make sure to have your notebooks on hand. Today’s session is a wacky one.”

It seems like your tone was not convincing enough for Dimitri. His eyes only looked at you with more concern. However, they quickly lit up with hope as he started rummaging in his bag.

“Well, now you’re starting to scare me, prof.” Caleb continued the conversation. “I was hoping you’d have us test out spells again at the lab.”

“eh…well, maybe next time, Caleb.”

“..can’t it be today?”

Your brow rose . “ Why should it be today?”

Caleb and Tulio glanced at each other for a moment with an indescribable expression, as if they were trying to communicate something with mere blinks and breaths. Before you could question further- Dimitri excitedly takes out the energy inside his bottomless bag (it seems like the bottomless/teleportation spell you’ve taught the kids are getting far different uses then what the dukes and fellow colleagues might expect).

“Here ya go prof! I drink this anytime I need a pump of energy in me!”

You take it, giving it a good look and grimacing about how tall the drink is. You turn it around  to check its description, only to become pale at the percentage of sugar and caffeine.

“uh…is this-..is this healthy?”

“not at all.” Dimitir laughed. “but it’s always helped me go through hellish exams.”

Exams. Right. This is just like an exam. And unfortunately for you, the voldemort of the university is the judge of it all. He's the one designing the questions, the one who set the date to ‘I don’t know ill I just pop in one day and say exam time asshole!! And ruin your entire fucking week or maybe, horrifyingly  even, month now by haunting your dreams every night about this god awful shitty disgustingly bad and outrageous fucking exa-“

You quickly open the can and gulp down the entire thing.

You could hear Dimitri choking on the rest of his rambles, all while Caleb laughs in astonishment and Tulio hisses in second-hand regret.

You take a deep breath, letting the strawberry gas filled taste invade your mouth with its insane sugar and spice. “…uh.thank you, Dimitri. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

“y-you sure you’re okay prof? you can cancel today’s session if you want-“

“no no. I’m fine. I think. Maybe not.Maybe yes. Maybe-“ shit, not even a minute and the caffeine is already making you feel hyper. “just uhh- just get to class in time and have your notes ready. Today’s session is gonna be  a long one. “

“you…already said that…”

“d-did I?...” yep, this seals it. Screwlum was right, caffeine would be your downfall.“ ….I’ll see you kids later.”

----------

You swear you just saw Qlipoth watching you by the window.

Your heart is in a strange state. Not in disarray, yet so close to its edge. You're holding yourself back from talking outloud and doing every tricky movement imaginable, unable to mask it all. Yet, you try to, desperately. Trying your best to not weird out the students that are pouring in, awaiting the class to fill and for the chatter to end.

You take a glance at the room. there seems to be no sign of an alabaster head. Which means that for another day, you’ve survived. And for another night, you will be tortured.with a sigh and deep breath, you close your phone and tap the board, bringing the class into motion

Today’s session was all about emotion-based magic-commonly love spells and such- but also consisting of different varies emotions that one can casts spells of, yet, it’s a complicated process, and is in need of an experience and course in a multitude of topics such as neuroscience and psychology. You’ve mostly covered the history at first, explaining which aeon it came from and which planets are the most successful at generating this sort of magic without any need of these specific sciences, but for average magic users, such as the students in your class, it was needed to understand at least the slightest bit of them so they wouldn’t screw up the spell and cause horrid damages to the brains of their subjects, truly, it’s one of the more delicate magics, one where you’ve repeatedly warned them not to use at their current intermediate level, best to leave it for another year, decade even, because this magic was even a hellish thing for you to learn- you still remember when your teacher at the time cast one of the spells on you and you ended up crying for five straight hours, ranting and rambling about all the things in your life frustrating you most- even reaching the point where you confessed that you thought you were unlovable-that in all this time of your travels, you have failed to find enough love for another that you’d decide to stay, or even someone loving you so much that they’d want you to.

You quickly shake your head- taking a quick sip of water as the students gingerly take down notes. You pick up the marker to write down another spell on the board once more- yet falter as you see a porcelain white head poke out between the rows of students.

There he stood, in all his prideful glory, with crossed arms and a statue for a head that has become a nuisance for you now- being unable to see his expression and honest reaction to your teachings. Students , whom must've noticed his arrival much sooner than you, only share small glances to the ‘he who shall not be named’ professor and then each other. You stare for a moment, unable to process anything at that point. Heart in a complete panic and anxious thoughts consuming your mind. You close your eyes, decide to imagine this as pure hallucination and continue your teaching as if no strange man is there. no, the stern teacher your students always talk shit about is definitely not inspecting your class right now. He totally just didn’t see you info-dump about your hyperfixation  like a child. absolutely not. Nope nope. This is still a completely normal class, a completely normal day and your bloodstream is completely normal and not now,as you’re guessing, slowly starting up a timer for full-shut down mode in the next three hours. Maybe two.maybe one. Maybe even just five minutes -

No no don’t even guess!! You’re certain your body is as happy as a clam!! Your arms are most certainly not begging for a break right now!!! your mind is definitely not shutting down as we speak!!!and this? This is a very normal class. That’s all it is. A class about magic. Specifically- psychological/emotion-based magic - the one which  doctor fucking Ratio is now inspecting-

You take a deep breath midway lesson- calming down a considerably small amount of your stress and continue as if it was nothing important, ignoring the man whose eyes never left your form.

----

“ you did great professor .L/n !” one of your students whispered before leaving. Others gave the same anecdotes or just thumbs ups and smiles. Yet, it did nothing to comfort your panicked mind. Sweet? Yes, but very unhelpful, because the man himself was still quietly sitting at one of the row seats, his fingers grasping his chin in thought.

If you weren’t in such a nervous state, you’d giggle at the scene you’re seeing right now, the stone head still amusing you to no end. With a quick amount of confidence and motivation, and by seeing how he’s still unmoving from his seat, perhaps wanting to stay and think a bit more, you approach the stairs leading up to him and with each step closer, you could feel your neck suck in more breath and hear your heart beating faster. You cleared your throat, hoping your stress wouldn’t be evident enough through your voice.

“so…you’ve finally visited.”

He doesn’t glance up to you, nor does he respond. You can hear your mind berating you to the galaxies and back for thinking with your heart and not logic- not assuming that he might've wanted some quiet time instead.

You reach out your hand, hoping for a handshake or at the very least his attention.  “It's been some time since we last met, hasn’t it?”

Still, no response.

Okay, fuck this guy.  the least he could do was say hello back- or maybe you’re the prick here now? Aeons, you really need to leave—

“you mentioned something about happiness spells, about how they generate more chaos than they do ‘happiness’ in a person.” He finally speaks.” Could you elaborate?”  His voice is smooth, yet it still shows his confidence and pride clearly, though, it should be said that since he’s curious, his voice should sound more confused and in need of clarification, yet here, it’s like he’s truly taming his task seriously, his inspecting you and your knowledge of the subject you teach personally now. And so, you decide to answer it as clearly as you could- as if you were teaching a new lesson.

“ The spells will enhance one’s serotonin and their outlook on life becomes incredibly positive at that moment, so much so that this positivity they have slowly descends to toxic positivity the more they’re influenced by the spell. Enhancing any kind of emotion can cause multiple behavioral problems, because the patient in question’s mind all other emotions they feel is simply ignored for the one that’s been enhanced. “

“hm, good. So you weren’t just bluffing over there.”

You’d feel offended, yet your mind reasons that his action is not necessarily out of disrespect, rather it’s from caution.

“it’s foolish how people resort to magical drugs to somehow fix their life rather than proper therapy.” He then scoffed. “ But perhaps, they do this because they fear facing the truth about themselves. That maybe, if the problem hasn’t been solved in a day or so, they’re the very root of the problem.”

Something about the conclusion made you feel iffy, it felt somewhat wrong. And so, you bit the bullet and countered, “ well, I don’t think it can be that simplified.”

He tilts his head, you see it as confirmation to continue.

“ Though yes, you could argue that the problem could be from them entirely- there’s also the possibility that the problem could be another person. It’s hard to convince yourself you’re the problem, but it’s much more difficult to convince someone else that they are. There’s also the aspect of the person whose problem being a loved one- if that’s the case then one could feel horrible for even mentioning the idea of them being in the wrong.”

Ration then snaps his fingers. “aha, well that’s where you prove that I’m right. ” He then turns around to the board that’s far away from you. whether it’s for dramatic effect or if he’s truly in thought, you’re not sure.

“If the person themself can’t find the courage to face others and confront them about the issue, then they’re the problem. They need to face their fears directly, if not, the problem will only worsen, and they will soon be left with quick and temporary solutions that’ll never solve the wider problem at hand.” He turns around to face you once more. “they need to have confidence, in their own abilities and knowledge, they also need to have trust.” This is starting to feel somewhat personal now. “ in themself and others. if one is on the run all the time, there will soon be no home to go back to.”

“…are we still talking about psychology spells?” you gulped, feeling like someone intruded into your privacy without your consent or awareness of it.

To your luck, he doesn’t add anything else to that topic, only humming in what you can only describe as amusement. For what? You're unsure of, and would rather not know anyway. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. He then leaves, without bidding goodbye, yet as much as you want to feel annoyed by that, you find it to be in character for him. As you’ve said before, you’re no genius, and perhaps, he’s sensed that in you from the moment you started arguing back with him.

You’re about to just leave the classroom, taking your phone and other belongings with you, yet you pause for a moment, frozen at the door as you’re reminded by something horrid.

You didn’t ask his opinion on your class yet.

Another fearful thought hits you.

What if he thought you were terrible?

With a new pit of anxiety, you leave the classroom wanting to scream your head off. If the aeons were kind enough, which from what you’ve studied they’re often not, they’d give you the sweet release of death already.

-----

You couldn’t focus.

The dimly lit office room that was once your oasis to work at has now become a nuisance. Your essay was coming to a complete halt— your mind going nowhere but the meeting you had with Ratio a few days ago. Thankfully, nothing of importance has really happened. You hadn’t had anyone call you in for a questioning or anything of that embarrassing sort, yet, a part of you has become selfish. Especially since you heard your companions speak about how the kind yet notefull criticism they got from their inspectors was exceptionally helpful. In that moment, you realized that you wanted to know if you’re doing well too.though you don’t really agree with all of his views, you still consider them valuable, you’re eager to improve, especially since you might not even work here for long, considering that your wandering and urge to adventure slowly but surely building back up.

Or, maybe, you just wanted to see Ratio again.

You shake your head and huff in annoyance. No, that couldn’t be the case. It shouldn’t be. You’ve only met Ratio once, and from the get-go he seemed like the type you’d best stay far away from. Grouchy, overly-confident and full of insults. You were certain that had you been wrong somewhere or faltered for even one moment in your answer, you’d be facing the nastiest of insults and wishing you would’ve never met him.

Nevertheless, your mind was your enemy. The constant curiosity brewing within you, the questions and insecurities you now have of your work ethics and your brief, yet thoughtful conversation with the alabaster headed man has left you unable to complete your work and in need of the freshest, cheapest and saddest coffee the office lounge had to offer.

With a tired sigh, you get out of your seat and office, walking down the cold halls and basking the vastless stars that shine brightly within the windowsills. Memories of traversing alongside the endless bundles of light left you in memoryland; where the space was quiet and your small ship was filled with a cacophony of tears and sad songs. Where once stood an excited traveller ready to see the world, now was a crying wanderer experiencing their first heartbreak. Vowing to never call another planet ‘home’ ever again.

You remember asking yourself, Akivil, how have you ran this path? How can the express experience friendship and comradery and even love like no other in the world, and then so easily leave it all behind? Why can’t you do the same? Why must you feel so lost ?

Why must you feel so alone?

The bitter thoughts soon fade when you find yourself at the office lounge’s door.

This time, the place is empty.avoid of any mathematicians and alabaster heads. The only thing you are met with is the same old coffee pots and empty chairs.

Something behind you cuts the silence.

“..haven’t you had enough coffee for the day?” the accent, the sarcasm and the underlying curiosity, that was Ratio alright. “you were one cup away from a stroke when I saw you earlier today.”

“...I’m making tea.” You huffed, now embarrassed by your lack of sanity today.

“Tea has the same amount of caffeine as coffee.” His tone was so stern, you almost felt like one of his students. Someone who turned in a paper late and is now facing punishment.

“What do you suggest I have to keep me awake? Water ?” you grumbled, finally turning around to see him. your eyes widen for a moment- realizing that he doesn’t have his alabaster head on once again. Yet you quickly shake away the thought, not wanting to look flabbergasted in the face of a man who's been torturing you the entire week.

“ Perhaps you shouldn’t stay awake in the first place .”

You stayed quiet at that, knowing fully well that he’s in the right. you really do need sleep.now more than ever.

“It's not by choice.” He rebottled.

“said the man who is also awake.” To that, he scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Then we’re in the same situation, Doctor.” You huffed, filling up the kettle with water and setting it on the electric tea-stationary. A peaceful silence fills the room for a moment, only the rumbles of the kettle being heard as its heating the water to its boiling point. In this quiet moment, you wonder if you should ask the golden question. If you should seek the answer to all your doubts. Perhaps it was out of stupidity, perhaps it was out of exhaustion and lack of self-awareness, but you dared to jump into the lion’s den, then berated yourself in your mind for comparing this task so unbelievably horrifying, and finally asked the question that's been on your mind the entire day.

“….did you like my class?....”

Ratio rose a brow, curiosity gleaming from his eyes as he crossed his arms. “oh? What value does my opinion have on this subject?”

“I-I don’t know.” you shrugged, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed now. you weren’t one for interrogation, especially when you’re the target. There’s something about ratio’s eyes that make you feel like a test subject, as if you’re an intriguing piece of gemstones that he’s been tasked with knowing every inch of. “you were the one who visited out of nowhere.”

“And that didn’t strike you as odd?” he countered.

You huffed, eyebrows furrowed as you felt a headache coming. “I’m…assuming you were sent by the intellegencia guild’s heads?”

“So you do possess basic deduction skills.” His sarcastic and slightly coy-tinged voice irked you for a moment, but you didn’t let your annoyance show. Instead, you merely sighed and crossed your arms as well, looking at him with the same amount of fierceness he was giving you.

“Are you going to keep on dodging the question?”

He scoffed, closing his eyes for a moment and opening them up to judge you. “ Are you that desperate for other people’s approval?”

“hello??? You’re the one who interrogated my classroom??” was all you could say as you looked at him in disbelief.

He merely hummed at that, before adding “well, I had to. after all, they asked me to do so.”

“and?....”  you anxiously whispered. He looked at you blankly.

“Well you didn’t receive a letter promptly firing you now, did you?” gosh, why does he never give a clear answer? Must he always speak in riddles?

Nevertheless, you knew what his words meant. You’re safe. For now, at least.

“Still,” you pouted. “that doesn’t answer my question professor Ratio. What did you think of my class?”

“Why does it matter what I think?”

“well it mattered for the intellegencia guilt heads, hadn't it?”

“they did not specifically seek for me.” He argues back, then gives you a scrutinizing glare. “you’re lucky I was in that meeting. Had I not volunteered, you’d be fired by now.”

Your heart dropped, the kettle was forgotten and only his words remained. “..w-what do you mean?”

“Your reputation here is far worse than you think.” He speaks as if he’s scolding you for a mistake, as if he’s warning you. “the intellegencia guild isn’t as sophisticated as you think it is- nor is it filled with geniuses .” He glared at you, and you’re honestly wondering what he’s so offended by. You did say you don’t regard yourself as a genius, didn’t you? “There are rumours about you. true or not, it doesn’t matter. They’re spreading like wildfire, and you only have a handful of options on how to react to this situation.”

You could feel your heartbeat racing, you really just don’t know what to say at this point. You’re feeling a mix of incomprehensible emotions, and your eyes are filled with distress and caution as you try to steady your breathing.

It seems like he’s done speaking, and as he turns around and walks to the door, your instincts flare up, and you say something out of your own control. A slip of the tongue.

“Then what do you want me to do?!” you ask in desperation. The lack of sleep, the stressful days, depressing thoughts and every bullshit in-between finally getting a toll on you.the kettle howls with you, finally reaching the boiling point and switching itself off. “what must I do to get their approval?!”

“Who said anything about gaining their approval?” he questioned. “ Surely, you can think of other ways to prove your worth in this place.”

Ratio stills in his walk, his back turned against you, yet his frozen form is enough to let you know he’s in shock, in disbelief. And when he turns around to meet your gaze, your deduction is supported by the look of disbelief and slight disappointment that he gives you.

“…what other way could there be?” you let out a tired sigh you didn’t know you were holding in. “you’re not suggesting I fight with them now, are you?” you then grimaced. “ I’d never stoop low into doing anything that relates to public humiliation for them either.” 

Ratio sighed, a hand coming up to rub his temples. “…quite the stubborn one��” he mumbles to no one in particular, and you can’t help but give an exasperated huff. “If you really want my input, I’d say a few of them deserve a proper humiliation just to knock some sense into their empty minds. But this is your matter, not mine.”

“you’re right. and so I won’t be humiliating them.”

Ratio’s eyes widen only for a moment, as he gazes into your determined eyes with some sense of deep understanding. But….an understanding of what , exactly? You weren’t sure. And no matter how much you were analyzing his every tick and move, you couldn’t pinpoint it.

“…..then I wish you the best, wanderer. ” And with that, he leaves the office. Leaving you alone with a cold kettle.

-----

Perhaps humiliation was the right call.

“Aeons, you look like shit.” The exasperated gasp of one of your only friends, the one you love to tease (bully) so much catches your attention.

Because as you sit here on the lounge, with the fellow co-workers now pouring in one-by-one, you really aren’t sure how you can gain their approval, while also keeping your pride intact. Because after all, there is no way you’ll grant them favors by doing their research or grading their papers. Not only will it make you their scapegoat for work, but it’s also vehemently against the intellgencia guild rules, and that could easily worsen your reputation if not treated with the utmost care.

“Morning to you too, Ratio simp .” You yawn, bringing the coffee closer to your lips, yet the bitter aroma makes you gag, and you learn the cup away from you instead and give a disgruntled sigh.

Byron rolls his eyes, sitting down beside you. “Seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“…you won’t like the answer to that.”

He looks at you with a mix of pity and disappointment,and as soon as Rina joins you both at the table, he looks at her with a pleading stare. “knock some sense into them.”

“you think I haven’t tried?” she scoffed, taking a sip of her own coffee. “they’re the utter definition of stubborn as a bull.”

“We know.” they both say in harsh unison, and though you know their angered voice is all out of concern for you, a bit of your heart breaks at such reactions. Great, now even your only friends hate you.

“I’m right here you know.”

You rest your head at the table for a moment, taking a deep breath and clearing your sad thoughts before sitting straight again. “I need your help with something.”

“Does it relate to fixing your sleep schedule?”

“No.”

“Then we’re not interested.”

You huff in annoyance, clicking your tongue and looking at them with plead. “it relates to my reputation here.” to that, they look at you with pity and intrigue. Aeons, you always disliked it when people look at you with pity. What is there to be sad about? You’re totally fine. Your life is absolutely normal, right?

“you two have been here longer than I have. What do I have to do here to gain respect?”

“well…most people who join the guild already have some respect and admiration latched to their name..and others started out in a neutral social placement before achieving high respect here for their accomplishments…” Byron tapped the table, his head in deep thought.

“…but I’m at rock bottom.” You concluded, feeling your shoulders slouch.

“Exactly,” Rina nodded. “ We never had a case like yours before.”

“Actually,” Byron’s eyes suddenly lit up, looking at Rina. “ We did have one. Remember?”

“hm?” she hummed in confusion at first, before her eyes lit up as well. you looked at both of them with befuddlement.

“...what is it?” you questioned with a bit too much enthusiasm, no matter how hard you were trying to hold it back.

“ well…before you, we had another magic professor. Professor Malbin. He lost his position as a professor due to urging students to do unauthorized experimentation revolving around toxin magic.”…toxin magic? ..you’ve mastered toxin magic years ago, and your master has told you about its unresearched capabilities and the dangers it can bring to someone. Producing toxin out of thin air is hard to achieve, but trying to make specific toxins is even worse. It forces you to tamper with reality, to tamper with science and even at timed your own body. Plucking out small atoms from the world itself to create something utterly new and poisonous. A true danger for newbies indeed, and something you should always heed carefully when learning. You remember your own first time when dabbling in toxin magic. It was not fun at all. the dizziness, the state of uncertainty, the heightened senses and the feel of your magic, your very essence of becoming faltered and uneasy was painful, to say the least.

“they couldn’t find the students who were involved, but they did find Malbin’s private files about this research, and that’s why they fired him. But guess what? His research on this has garnered a lot of praise. So his reputation hasn’t dwindled, rather, it went up.”

“that….explains everything.” You frowned. No wonder the malic and rumors towards you are so penitent. They think it was unfair for Malbin to be fired. They see him as a far more worthy person to be called a professor rather than you. some wanderer the guild picked up from Screwlum’s advice. “so…I must conduct a research that is just as good- or hopefully even- better than what Malbin has done?”

They both give a glance at each other and then look back at you with not-so-motivating shrugs. “probably, yeah.” Rina replied, while Byron hummed.

A sigh sipped past your lips, a headache slowly forming into your mind as you drink-up the coffee in your hand while withholding your gag and exhaustion from the constant bitter taste. You really need to start eating something sweet with it lest you want to throw up. “…research it is, then.”

--------------

The room is dark, cold. You stand in the black void in utter confusion, and…discomfort. You can feel fear and nausea course through your veins like blood. You can’t speak, only feel. You look around you for anything, something in this dark, shapeless void.

“You left me.” a shaky, broken and horrifying familiar voice echoes inside the room. you don’t dare to turn around, afraid of what you might see.

A horrid silence takes over the room. you could feel him staring at you. you could feel his piercing, hatred-filled gaze. Your mouth opens, shaking and barely holding it together.

“…you were mara-struck.” You utter, tears forming in your eyes.

“And whose fault was that?” he scoffed. Aeons. You missed his voice. yet you want him to just stop talking. To just stop hating you. to just stop telling the truth-

No.no.remember what Screwlum said. Echo his words. It was not your fault.it was not your fault. It….

“…there was nothing I could do.” your voice was barely a whisper, barely a breath.

“you and I both know that’s not true.” His words were like a dagger to your heart, piercing your very being and making your knees shake, buckle and fall to the ground. Your hands coming up to your ear instinctively, holding your hair in a deathly clutch. You see drops of water forming in the ground…and you realize that they’re in fact your tears. You’re crying. your heart feels like it’s getting stabbed into millions of pieces. Echoes and memories, his giggles, his soft smile, his blood-curdling scream all crash into your head like a wave. You wanted to scream, yet your lungs wouldn’t let you even breathe.

you plead for mercy, head down near the ground as you see his shoes now, he’s peering down at you. you don't want to look up, afraid of what you might see. The yellow leaves cascading down are already too much.

“Was it worth it? is it still worth it, Y/n ?” you missed how he called your name. you hated the fact that this is how you hear it.

“It's all your fault wanderer.” His sharp claws reach out and grab your hair. You let out a screech of pain as you’re forced to look up and see his face.

Papers fall everywhere as your body lurches awake. Sweat and tears cascading down your face. The office is dimly lit, your computer being the only source of light. Your breaths go from quick and ragged to calm and steady as you gulp.

Water. You need water. You look around the room for your mug, and as you finally find and quickly grab it, you curse at its empty contents. Great, now you have to get up and go to the office lounge. What time is it, even?

You peer at the clock on top of your door. Shit, it’s midnight. You’ve overstayed, again . Perhaps brainstorming immediately rather than seeking sleep wasn’t the best idea. Your body has seemingly forcibly shut itself down mid-way through your work and made you fall asleep.

You slowly get up, trying to shake the mental image of his mara-struck face out of your mind. Tiredly so, you walk out the office and on a familiar path to the lounge. You hope that you’re alone, that no one gets to see you this worn out,as if you’ve just walked out of a storm.

However, fate loves to torment its favorite punching, and as you slightly open the door, you’re met with locks of purple hair and the most intriguing of eyes. furrowed brows screaming of intellect and deep thought, a face so ethereal that you’d almost mistake him for a god. You’ll have to, unfortunately, admit that he is quite handsome. Still, it doesn’t really defend him regarding the case of his attitude.

Horrifyingly enough, his expression falters. “ I can hear you.” His words leave you jolting, sleepiness now fading away and being left with absolute shame and embarrassment at your own horrid and cringe-fail behaviour. “ It's obvious that you haven’t had a proper sleep yet.”  The sigh he gives leaves you even delving into more self-deprecation in your mind, all while you slowly walk-up to the counter and prepare your own set of caffeine-induced bitterness.

“Sorry.“  for a moment, you wonder if you should mention your last comment that happened merely seconds ago before the eerie silence, but you soon decide against it, wanting to ignore it with every fiber of your being and hoping to aeons that he’d do too. Instead, maybe small talk would do. “…so what’s keeping you up at this time?”

“ Pop quiz preparations.”

You gave a joking wince. “you’re gonna surprise them tomorrow, eh?”

“next week, actually.”

“…and you’re preparing now?”

“There'll be multiple quizzes, on each day of the week.”

You look at him with disbelief, a concern for the students etched on your face. To that, his brows furrowed and he huffs in defense.

“It's essential to their learning.” He defends. “ I must make sure these lessons stick to their minds and don't fade away with time.”

“…I can see your reasoning behind it.” you mumble. “but…”

“but?”

“..won’t it crush their grades and spirit?”

“grades don’t matter. It’s what you learn that does.” He said with a firm tone.

He stays silent at that, and you take this as an opportunity to drink up the water your body so desperately needs.

“while that is true, that is not how the guild would think now, is it?” you open the fuacet, pouring water into your mug as you continue. “It's just like you said, the guild is quite flawed. And so, they’ll only care about the number on the paper, not the student’s own skill.”

“…one pop quiz it is, then.” You’re actually quite shocked by this outcome, as you look at him with disbelief.

His brows scrunch up in slight annoyance. “What is it now? surely you’re not suggesting for me to not do a pop quiz at all?”

“no..no..it’s just that…” you peer away from his gaze, a little overwhelmed by its intensity. He always looks like he’s studying you. like he’s trying to decipher your being. You’re certain it’s out of habit for him. a born genius, always thirsting for knowledge. “ …I didn’t think you’d be so easily convinced.”

“And why would you have such a belief, might I ask?”

“Well….” you tap your foot a bit in stress. Shoulders tensing up. “rumor has it that you’re quite difficult to reason with…”

“…guess we’re both victims of untrue rumors.” You reply, your finger swirling the rim of your mug.

“ah, well,” his voice had a sort of lilt to it, a lightened, slightly condescending tone. “ not all rumors around here are true, are they now?...or perhaps you’re suggesting otherwise?” oh, sneaky. And Unfortunately, he;s right.

“that we are, L/n.”

A silence takes over the room. you finally take a sip of your water, relishing its refreshing taste and your body soaring in victory since you finally drank something healthy for once this week. You forgot how good water tasted,how heavenly its cooling effects were for the mortal body.

You wonder if he’ll ask you the same question. and to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t. you don’t pay any mind to it, treating the silence as a peaceful one rather than awkward as you walk up to the windows to view the stars.

Stargazing has always been a favorite activity of yours, even if you’ve travelled all thw galaxies. There’s something about these glimmering dots up on the sky that leaves you in a blissful daze, deep in thought with no grief or heartache polluting your mind. They bring you a sense of clarity, of peace.

A frustrated groan gets you out of your daze as you slightly flinch, giving a small glance back at Ratio. He seemed stuck in his own mind, glaring at the pristine looking book he had in his hands as he seemingly scribbled out something from it with a disgruntled look. Soon, the discontempt expression becomes one of scholarly intrigue once again, and he taps his pencil on the book as he thinks.

His eyebrows furrowed again. “must you be so insistent on your gawking?”

You could feel shame and embarrassment course through you like a large hammer striking your head. You immediately jolt your head back, away from his gaze as you huff in embarrassment. “ sorry…sorry….” Aeons, how many times have you apologized for your strange behaviour tonight? Why is it so hard for you to hide your intrigue for him? What's so interesting about him that keeps dragging your mind deeper into analyzing his every move?...”I…I don’t know what’s gotten into me..sorry.” you pray to Nanook to just come and strike you down now where you stand. You’d rather embrace death than to revisit this awkward moment in your life time and time again at three in the morning when you can’t sleep. You’re certain it’ll be added to the collection, a collection which your bring will excitedly choose from, like a child in a candy store.

He  closes his book, sits down on a chair and crosses his legs, his hands resting on his head.  “Is there something you’d like to ask me, L/n?”

You hesitate on answering, wondering if there truly is something you wanted to ask him, which would explain the strange intrigue you had on him. with a nervous nod, you reply. “…what’s...gotten you so frustrated just now?”

His eyes light up a bit, his once furrowed brows losing a  bit of their intensity. “ah, for a moment there I thought you were going to ask me my thoughts about your class again…it’s good that you can take no for an answer.” He hummed. “ Though, this current question of yours isn’t of any value either. for what purpose would I want to explain my current issue to you?”

“well..perhaps I can help?”

“Do you have expertise in the area of physics?”

“No.”

“then you cannot help me.” he quickly concluded with a pep in his tone, crossing his arms. “It'll merely be a waste of time for me to tell you.”

“well..hey now…” you suddenly felt defensive, as if you had something to prove, as if you wanted to prove your worth. Not only to him, but the entirety of the guild as well. “I’m certain I can still help in some way. Even if I’m not an expert at physics, that doesn’t mean I can’t give my insight as a magic expert.”

“magic is in everything .” You replied. “ it is the unsolvable, and non-understandable science. It is the things we cannot properly explain, but they still exist around us. so I’m certain that one way or another, any problem can have magic involved in it. Just like how science is in every step we take, magic is too. Science is the peace, while magic is the chaos, and together they create life itself within this realm.” You were too into your ramble now, too deeply focused to notice the intrigue in his eyes shining brighter, and his frown slowly dissolving. “ Hell, think about our creators, the aeons. Can we truly only explain them in a scientific way? Must we not speak of magic and the unexplained phenomenons they produce as well? magic is in science, and science is in magic. the solved and the unsolvable. It’s that simple.”

“How are you so sure your magic expertise can help?”

How could you not hear of the land of dreams? The land where all wishes come true, where all your worries fade away. the place where you wanted to isolate yourself in, the perfect escapism, the perfect place for shutting down the world,pain and grief around you as you wither away. a place which Screwlum delayed your departure for, then quickly assgined you to this professor gig so you’d never run away from reality. You tense up a bit as you hear it’s name again, but nod away.

“That simple…huh?...” Ratio mumbled, tilting his head. “ Well then, enlighten me, L/n. Here is my problem,” he opens his book, and suddenly, the notes and scribbles float up in a glitch-like blue font before turning into a holographic blue screen. Physic equations, circles and archives about neuroscience and dreamscapes litter the holographic board in a series of what you can only describe as genius cacophony. “ I assume you heard of Penacony, yes?”

“well, the intellegencia guild has been researching its dream-related abilities for a while now,” he continued. “and I have tasked myself with researching its dream-bubbles.”

He suddenly brings up a video in the holographic screen, which was showcasing a person touching the bubble and suddenly getting pulled into it. “it’s a new, unknown teleporter that transports people into specific personal moments in their life, often blissful ones. The bubble seems to produce a visual space inside its circle that only the people inside the bubble can see. “

“so…kind of like a virtual world?...”

“You could say that. But, the physicality and contents of this bubble are completely unknown to us..moreover, it’s not a creation of the family at all. it just suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and more of it is producing out of thin air. I want to know how it’s made, and how it appears.”

“Well, the answer is obvious.”

“Is it now?” he looks at you incredulously. “What is it, pray tell?”

“It's magic.” you shrugged, and he gave a disgruntled groan in response.

His face became deadpan, a frown on his face once more. “ things cannot be that simplified, wanderer.”

“I disagree, Doctor.” You mutter. “ It's just that simple. Penacony is the prime source of a magic utterly and completely rare in our universe. Dream magic. These bubbles are obviously a by-product of it.”

“..dream magic…” he tutted in thought, hand firmly placed under his chin. “…so how are they made then? What happens within dream magic that creates these bubbles?”

“I…don’t know.” you shrugged. “I’ll have to see the bubble in person to determine that.” And from what you can guess, they’re in penacony. So, no, you really can’t help him, not unless you miraculously book a space ticket to that place and somehow manage to get there in time before tomorrow’s class.

Ratio stares at you a bit, nods and quickly gets up, walking away to the exit. And for a moment, you think that’s it. That's the end of your conversation, and the end of your lackluster aid to help him. that is, until he stops his tracks and looks at you expectedly.

“well?”

You froze for a moment, looking back at him confused. He gives an exasperated huff as his brows furrow. “Are you coming or not?”

“h-huh? To where?” you then huffed. “surely you don’t mean penacony-“

“ah yes, because I can most certainly teleport us there in an instant.” He said sarcastically. “I mean to my office, L/n. I have a preserved dream bubble there.”

“I see…” you cleared your throat, now a bit embarrassed by your own reaction. Truly, what is up with your deduction skills today? “lead the way please.”

------

The bubble shined with the wisps of light blue and gold, tantalizing its bottled illusions.

You were in a daze of its glory, the whispers and giggles it produced, perhaps from a sweet bottled dream, called out to you like a siren fooling a lonely pirate. It is in this moment that you realize why Screwlum stiffened in what you can guess was horror when you told him about your leave for penacony. Penacony was made for the lonely seamen of space, the siren of the damned. and you, were the most cursed being Screwlum has ever met.

“ well ?” Ratio snaps you out of your trance, and you shook your head and slid down the stressed up bundle of bile that was stuck in your throat. You take a few steps closer to the bubble trapped inside the glass podium, eyes scanning every whisp of magic and sensing its power.

“May we take it out of the case?” you asked him, and he looked at you with stern brows.

“any contact with it may cause you to see the confined illusions within it.” He steps closer. “If I am to open this, I must make sure that you will proceed with caution,wanderer.”

“I will…I mean, what can be so harmful about a tiny bubble?” Ratio gave a disgruntled hum to that question, giving you an earnest stare that you could only guess was demanding for you to be a bit more serious about the situation at hand. You cleared your throat. “uh..yes yes, I’ll be careful,Doctor.”

Carefully, ration clicks a button, and the glass podium starts deconstructing itself right before your eyes. The bubble’s once confined energy pollutes the entire place, overwhelming you with the intensity of its power. You take a deep breath, reaching out your hand to reconnect with its atoms somehow. To speak to the magic inside it.

“there’s so much magic…how can you look so…relaxed under its influence?” you huffed out the question as you glanced at him, seeing his unbothered figure. He looks at you in deep thought, eyeing your overwhelmed form as you are busy controlling colors and wisps of the air.

“….it seems that the magic affects you more than it does me.” he hums. “perhaps you are an expert at your field…but tell me, why do most skilled magicians always find themselves more influenced by the magical auras around them? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?...shouldn’t they be immune to it?”

“It's not a question of immunity, Doctor. Rather, it’s a question of how much you can speak to it.”

Ratio gives you an incredulous look. “ pardon ?” His eyes were filled with intrigue and bafflement. “Did you just say ‘ speak’ ?”

“…in my eyes, magic is a person in of itself.”  You paused for a moment, trying to hear the whispers wishes and unspoken stories of the magic within. “The most skilled people I know in this field are ones who treat magic as anything but an object. Some treat it like their god, others their enemy. The truth is magic is a living being of its own right, in a cosmological field outside of our mortal perspective…magic has lived as long as aeons have been around, and for some, magic is considered an aeon in their own right.”

“..and you, L/n ... .what do you see magic as?” he asked through the whispers, fierce eyes stuck on your expression as you try to pay your utmost attention to the task at hand.

“…a friend.” You mumbled, the wisps of flown magic going around your arm like ribbons, the whispers getting louder and clearer as they entered your ears and spoke of the unspoken. The illusion laid within the confines of water.

“…so you were correct.” Ratio cut through the silence, finger under his chin in thought, looking back at the bubble again. “…the bubble’s confines can be understood by researching its magic capabilities…”

“I’m not done yet, Doctor Ratio.”

“ oh ? Is your dear friend spilling secrets to you?” you couldn’t help but crack a smile at his reply, glancing back at him before reverting your attention back to your friend.

“Jealous much, doctor?”

“of you or the magic?”

“you tell me.”

“hah, as if.” He turned his head away from you, but you were keen enough to notice his small smile.

“that didn’t answer my question.”

“Not all questions need answers, Wanderer.”

“suit yourself.” You sighed. “But since I’m much kinder than you, I will answer yours—“ you gave him a cheeky smile, and he rolled his eyes at it, further fueling your newfound enthusiasm. “ You see, magic is quite the cheeky being. They don’t like giving answers that are straight to the point. Rather, they like to speak in riddles only aeons could fully comprehend. But, that doesn’t mean understanding it is impossible...it merely makes it harder.”

“and? What have they whispered in your ear exactly?”

“echoes.” You replied. “Echoes of memories deep within the bubble…some familiar…some unknown…I can’t really link any of them together…and all I can guess right now is that the bubble uses its illusionary powers to create a dream sequence solely indulged into the fantasies and dreams of the people that are nearest to it…to prove this…I need a few answers. who else has touched this bubble that you know of?”

“hm…many people have but…the last person who did besides me was the student who bumped into it…I believe it was…” he then tched, as if the very name of the person gives him a headache. “ Caleb Stones…” he sighed. “..the most troublesome student I’ve ever faced…” he mumbled.

You quickly get to work, speaking to the magic that was now within your mind, checking your dreams and desires. Wisps of your own magic appear, and inside your conscious, you kindly ask to see Caleb’s dreams, to see his deepest desires laced within a dream. For a moment, you think to yourself if this could be considered as crossing a personal boundary or not…is it ok to look through someone’s deepest wishes without their consent? Especially if they’re your student? Nevertheless, you’ve gone too far in, and the magic is more than eager to show you the illusionary powers it was capable of.

Sounds of claps echo through your mind, cheers buzzing in your ears and ‘congratulations’ being muddled within your area of hearing. You see yourself in graduation garb, and soon, you can feel the strange sense of pride, enthusiasm and joy of course within you. you see a bunch of your coworkers, you included,looking at you with prideful smiles, a piece of firm paper right in your hands. You take a deep breath, looking at the paper with buzzing excitement, as a familiar voice echoes a speech.

“Caleb Stones…” as the voice echoes, you see a familiar face in the crowd. One that you wished to never see again. fall leaves, withered body, mara-struck eyes. “We thank you for your incredible contribution to the research of---“ Your breath hitches, heart dropping to your stomach as your hands slip and the framed paper slips into the ground and shatters.

You gasp, falling back from the sudden influx of magic as Veritas calls out your name in worry. You take a deep breath, trying to dissociate illusion from reality. Trying to forget the autumn smell and poisoned immortality.

“…I know you have like two hundred phds and all, but there’s no need for a check-up, doc.” You try to wheeze out the joke with an exhausted smile, heart still in a bundle of disarray. Ratio’s brows furrowed, grumbling in annoyed disappointment.

“…are you alright?” you didn’t even notice that Ratio kneeled down beside you, hand on your shoulder as he checked your pulse. “…are you feeling any sort of pain?”

“ eight . They’re only eight PHDs.” He clicked his tongue.

“you act as if it’s a completely normal accomplishment.”

“it is to me—“ he then quickly huffs. “ aeons sake, why are we even talking about this right now? do not try to avoid the situation at hand L/n.”

“I’m not. I told you I’m fine.”

“You got blasted into my office’s wall.”

“Well, that’s just a Tuesday for me. just like how collecting PHDS is a normal task for you.”

“ for how long are you gonna—“ he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing and letting his frustration out through the huff. “ Has the sudden blow to the head messed up your mind? Why on earth do you keep bringing this up?”

You shrugged, giving him a sheepish smile. “joking helps me cope, I guess.”

A flash of understanding sweeps through his gaze before reverting back into the same scrutinising and analytical glare. “I see.” He pauses for a moment before asking, “ what have you witnessed within the bubble?”

It takes you a moment to collect your thoughts and answer. “....Caleb’s dream. The dream magic was just a bit more than what I expected I could handle, that’s all.” you lied through your teeth, feeling the guilt set into you. yet your mind warned you of the consequences of showing your heart to another. never again will you let anyone see your fear, your heart, your humanity in its rawest form.

Ratio hums in thought, tapping his finger under his chin as he gazes back to the bubble. “….an incredible influx of dream magic that can  sense your deepest desires and create its illusions…..” he then gives an exhausted sigh, a small glimmer of weakness from a man who always seemed in power. “…perhaps it truly wasn’t related to its physics at all.”

You felt a bit guilty, knowing what it's like to be faced with failure when you desired success. “….the strongest weapon of a researcher is their power to admit they were wrong about something.” You tried to comfort him. “ if we were to just be stubborn in our ways, we would’ve never prospered to the point we are now.”

He stays quiet for a bit, his smart mind in a deep thought that you could only assume was speaking in an ancient scientific language or hell, maybe computer codes laced with socrates and shakespeare-esque writing. Whatever it was, it seems like your words left him in a silenced splunder. You merely hoped the silence was because your words rang true, and not that he realized you’re a complete dumbass who doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

To your luck, he finally speaks. “….then a new research must begin.” He gets up, coating off the minimum amount of dust off his robes, and you realize how awfully squeaky clean his office floor is compared to others. you can see your reflection on the ground, and you wonder if this is what people truly mean when they say the floor is clean enough to eat on it. you think to yourself, does he scrub the ground himself, or does he hire a maid? And if so, is it a weekly,monthly, or daily wash? Your ridiculous trails of thoughts vanish the moment he outstretches a hand for you, and as you take it, you feel a buzzing comfort within your heart. It was strange, because now you’ve realized that you’ve….never really held anyone’s hands before. Only one person ever had that privilege, and he used to take your scarred hands into his soft, often cold ones as you walk around the aurum alley in search of vendors to binge-eat snacks from. Ratio’s hands, however, were the complete opposite. Despite being soft to the touch, it was far more muscular and meaty than yours. You could almost sense the years of training he had just by the weight of his palm holding yours. His hands were warm, deeply warm. As if the blood that runs through him is lava, a contrast to his cold and brooding nature. And once again, like the wanderer you are, you wonder, what does his heart feel like then? Is it as warm as his hands? Or as chilly as his attitude? Or are you just alluding yourself with these rambling thoughts all to avoid the reminiscence of the bitter past? Of the cold hands and cheeky smile, of the soft texture that were never meant to fight, never meant to shed blood or break. “ tell me, wanderer, do you have any plans for this term?”

You looked at him a bit perplexed, unsure of how to answer. Yes?..no?....“not…really?” yep, that’s the best way to put it.

“good. Well, sad and disappointing for you, but good for me.” he hums nonchalantly,only adding more to your grimace.

“did you really have to put it that way?”

“—would you like to join me in this research?” he ignores your question, adding further insult to injury. his words were like a bathtub full of salt, one you’d fear a wounded,emotionally sensitive person to fall into.”I could use your expertise in the magic field. “

You hesitate for a moment, eyes wandering away to the bubble once more, fearing the surging power within it, yet also, craving the chaos it contains. You’ve always been like this when it comes to magic. Screwlum has often called you a ‘magic-addict’, with Herta once adding, “it’s like you breathe magic to live.’ A burning curiosity blazes within you, desperately wanting to become the dead cat they always hum about, desiring the satisfaction that will revive you, the understanding of the world beyond you. therefore, with a nod, you give Ratio a reply. “…it’d be quite a pleasure, Dr.Ratio.”

Ratio looks deep within your gaze, searching for something, what that thing is, only aeons would know, and how desperately did you wish you could speak to them. He then lets out a sigh, eyes as steel and inquisitive as ever. As pretty as ever. “….just Ratio will do, wanderer.”

------

Ratiosimp :……..

Rina :……

Y/n : what?

Y/n : why are you two so quiet???

Ratiosimp :…….

Y/n : the fuck is ‘…..’ supposed to mean????

Y/n : pls reply with something other than dramatic pause in the group chat. I did NOT just spend hours texting in such excruciating detail just for you two to be dramatically silent.

Rina :…I….

Y/n : you are not helping.

RatioSimp : LMMMMFAOOOOOOOOOOOOOO YOU FUCKING DUMBASSS

Rina: the REAL Ratio simp. Hell one could say you’re a future Ratio fucker.

Y/n: I hate both of you.

Y/n: I am deleting this group chat and blocking you both.

RatioSimp: YOU DUM-DUM

Y/n: STOP

RatioSimp : YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FIND A NEW RESEARCH TOPIC FOR YOURSELF

Y/n : ENOUGH

RatioSimp: NOT GO HELP THE OTHER WEIRDO WITH ONE

*Y/n has removed RatioSimp from the group chat*

Rina : So when's the date? Or do you guys wanna skip that and get freaky in his office instead?

Y/n: goodbye.

You grumble in utter embarrassment as you turn off your phone and dramatically throw it to your bed, grabbing a pillow and screaming into it for dear life as you knew it.

Unfortunately for you, Byron was right. you were supposed to find a new research topic with this 3rd all-nighter in a row, not stupidly aid and accept the offer to help someone else with theirs. In fact, you should’ve told Ratio you are, despite others’ belief, busy with your own research. You just– didn’t know what exactly the research was yet!!

Yet here you are, now tangled with the man of utter mystery himself, the face of stone and marble with such a distinctive look on the world that you still find yourself trying to comprehend.

With a sigh and a hand through your hair, you lay your head on the soft pillows, the nerves in your brain all rejoicing at the prospect of you finally resting for once in these hellish hours. as your thoughts aimlessly drift by with whines and grumbles about everything, you find yourself fast asleep, trapped in a haze of dreams. Yet, through the mists of autumn leaves, blizzard snow and a space station bustling with researchers, in each and every illusionary minute of your dream, an indigo haired man is present. Like he’s in the back of your mind, stuck in like glue through every thought and theory that passes by you. and soon, as you stop acting in your dreams, as reality and illusion becomes one and you realize you’re in a fake, made-up world of your psyche, you stare into his golden eyes curiously, one question lurking echoing through your mind.

Why wasn’t Dr.Ratio a genius?

--------A.N----------

GUESS WHOSE BACK WITH ANOTHER FANFIC SHE’LL ONLY RELEASE ONE CHAPTER OF AND THEN FEEL OVERWHELMED AND LEAVE??? *points to herself* THISS GUYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

But no seriously if this gets enough attention I may actually have the motivation to continue it. The main reason I falter in continuing fics is usually burn out, terrible and horrid attention span due to my adhd (yes I’ve been officially diagnosed. But honestly look at my fics man how did you expect me to be neurotypical) and TERRIBLE TERRIBLE perfectionist mindset. And I mean TERRIBLE.i swear to you, each and every fic of mine has like—a poor draft filled with over 10k words that im too scared to continue and too nit-picky about it because I keep feeling like I’m utterly deeply incompetent and that my writing is ass. So I tend to give up before I cook, because I’m so utterly scared of failure lmao. I’m hoping by scratching this from being a oneshot to a full-blown few chapters fic, I can break this cycle and finally finish writing ALL the fics I’ve published without the fear of perfectionism. I think a main part that helps me get through it is seeing people actually enjoy my writing tbh. Like if people enjoy it and express that joy to me, my perfectionist urge dies down a bit and I feel more confident in myself. But since I’ve been writing for either unpopular characters orrr for characters so deeply popular your fic can easily get lost in the sea of fics out there, I’ve not received the attention my perfectionist mindset so desperately craves, and so I’ve been lacking in confidence in my own work. Im hoping with this fic it can all change T_T

Anyways if you want this fic to continue PLEASE RAMBLE PLEASE COMMENT RAHHHHH it truly gives me the motivation I need to continue this. Kudos/likes/votes ain’t enough folks i need to hear ALL your thoughts elfknwrnblskbwr

[doumadono]

EMERGENCY REQUEST

Hello my dear friend.. I apologize for using your emergency requests for something so trivial, but my nightmares have been absolutely killing me.. I'm always so terrified to go to sleep and even when I do, the nightmares plague me so badly that I hardly ever feel like I've slept at all and I feel like I'm losing my mind. I just want to scream and cry and rip my hair out, and I just want to sleep and actually FEEL like I've slept.

But all of that out of the way, I was hoping you might be able to do something with Douma, Akaza, and Kokushibo (all three or just one is fine) who are with a male human s/o who suffers terribly from night terrors and how they might help comfort their s/o.

Thank you so much for being such a beautiful, kind, loving, wonderful human being. I adore you so much 💜 You are truly such a warm presence in my life and I am so grateful for you

Upper Moons 1, 2, 3 & male s/o suffering with nightmares

A/N: oh, tiger, I'm so sorry to hear that you've been going through such a challenging time. Your well-being means a lot to me, you know that, and I'm here for you. First and foremost, your well-being is never trivial, and your struggles are always valid. Remember, it takes immense strength to share such vulnerabilities, and you've already taken a brave step. It's okay to feel overwhelmed, but never forget the strength that resides within you. I'm honored to be a part of your life, and your warmth and gratitude mean the world to me. Take one step at a time, and I'm here to support you through every single one. 💜 Always here for you

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST

Douma

In the dimly lit room, shadows danced on the walls as Douma's boyfriend writhed in the grip of night terrors. Douma, the Upper Moon Two, lounged elegantly nearby, observing with an unsettling mix of curiosity and amusement. A sadistic grin played on his lips as he observed the torment consuming his partner's dreams.

Despite his typically twisted nature, Douma was surprisingly attuned to the human psyche. He approached the boyfriend's trembling form with a languid grace, like a predator closing in on its prey. "Oh, my dear," he purred, "how delightful it is to witness the chaos within your mind."

"It's terrifying, Douma-sama," the man sobbed. "I don't want to see all those things..."

As his arms encircled his partner, there was an unexpected gentleness in the demon's touch, as though he had momentarily set aside his sadistic tendencies to embrace a softer side. His long fingers with sharp nails traced patterns on the man's back, a delicate dance that contradicted the ferocity he often exhibited.

In a voice that, against all odds, carried a sweetness the man never thought possible from Douma, he whispered into the man's ear, "My love, do you feel the warmth of my embrace? It's a flame that burns brighter than any darkness." His breath was a soft caress against your skin, the chilling aura he usually exuded replaced by a comforting warmth.

He traced a finger along his boyfriend's cheek. "You know," he mused, "the beauty of your nightmares is exquisite. You need to embrace the terror, my love, for in it lies the true essence of existence."

Akaza

Akaza, the Upper Moon Three, approached the scene with empathetic demeanor. His eyes softened as he observed his boyfriend's restless sleep, a stark contrast to the ferocity he displayed in battle. Kneeling beside the man, he gently brushed a strand of hair from his face. "Hey there, don't worry. I'm here," Akaza spoke in a surprisingly soothing tone, his usual aggression replaced by a comforting warmth. "Nightmares can be tough, but you're tougher. Remember that."

The man sobbed quietly. "I hate it. I can't rest because of those nightmares. I feel so lost."

"We all carry burdens," the demon confessed, "but facing them head-on makes us stronger. You don't have to face them alone."

Seated together, Akaza allowed his partner to snuggle against him, his muscular frame providing a comforting warmth. His normally intense gaze softened, revealing a tenderness that was reserved for moments like these. His fingers traced soothing patterns along the man's back, a silent reassurance that the man was safe in his arms. "Hey," he spoke in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, a stark contrast to the gentle caress of his touch. "You're safe here. No need to carry the weight of the world right now."

"It's alright to lean on others," he admitted, surprising himself with the admission. "We all need someone to rely on from time to time. So do I, a demon, whose fragility would be the last trait anyone could fathom."

Kokushibo

Kokushibo, the Upper Moon One, approached the situation with an air of detachment. He observed his partner's night terrors with an analytical gaze, as if deciphering a complex puzzle. While his demeanor remained cool, there was a subtle undertone of curiosity in his voice.

"Nightmares, a manifestation of the mind's deepest fears," Kokushibo remarked, his words carrying a wisdom earned through centuries, "One must confront the shadows within to achieve true serenity."

"It's hard to confront them, Kokushibo-sama. It's like being swallowed by some invisible force that no one can fight."

Rather than offering immediate comfort, Kokushibo encouraged introspection. He guided his boyfriend through a mental journey, dissecting the roots of the man's nightmares and addressing the underlying fears. His words, while cryptic, carried a strange sense of reassurance.

"Conquer your demons, and they shall trouble you no more," he declared, his gaze unwavering. Kokushibo's approach might seem cold, but it aimed at empowering his partner to face his fears head-on, emerging stronger from the depths of the night. "Confront the specters haunting your dreams with unwavering resolve. Your mind is a battlefield, and you, the warrior, hold the power to shape its narrative. Close your eyes, not in retreat, but in preparation. In the silence before sleep, let the echoes of your courage drown out the whispers of fear. Your resilience is a beacon that can pierce through the darkest of nights."

[gallawitchxx]

hi beeee!! i hope you're doing okay 💖💖💖

ooohohohoho okay for the kiss thingy: god knows why cuz it sounds potentially very painful but i feel so compelled to request 28 🙏

sweet deanna! i'm hanging in, thanks love! 💖 so you & @lingy910y both requested #28 & i want to fill both of your prompts. but because you were (rightfully) afraid of pain, i gave you one that's a bit strange, but has a promisingly happy ending? you can be the judge! xx

- - - - -

send me a number & i'll write you a smoocheroo 😚

- - - - -

#28: ...as a lie ps. this is inspired by this post about dealer!mickey & insomniac!ian, who have now rotted my brain.

Ian hasn’t slept in days.

It’s happened before—endless energy is one of his tried-and-true symptoms of mania—but this isn’t that. He’s taking his meds, his skin isn’t crawling and his mind is fairly quiet. Quiet enough to frustrate him as he tosses and turns and wonders what the fuck’s going on.

His schedule has been all over the place lately; his normal routine lost to the endless cycles of employment and Gallagher family responsibilities. He’d been hoping to add school to the mix this semester so that he could have other, less hectic options than a rig-riding EMT, but he’d pushed it off. A pity, now that all-nighters are apparently his thing.

Night two, he googles a few things, which is a huge mistake. Who can fall asleep after reading about how even just twenty-four hours without sleep can begin to derail your bodily systems? Sleep deprivation can cause or worsen conditions like Type 2 diabetes, High blood pressure, Stroke, Heart attack—his pulse leaps as his phone clatters to the ground.

Night three, he takes to the streets, running around the Southside until his lungs burn and his knees wobble. As he passes the clinic that gave his seventeen-year-old self a lifetime prescription for antipsychotics, he knows that if this lasts much longer, he should call his doctor. Tell them his nighttime meds aren’t putting him to sleep anymore. Nip this insomnia thing in the bud before it can overthrow the delicate balance he’s worked so hard to maintain.

Night four, desperate and a bit delusion, he pulls up a number he hasn’t used in years, saved under a contact labeled, DO NOT TEXT.

He breaks his own rule: Hey. Still making house calls?

The response is almost immediate: the fuck u care for?

Ian rolls his bloodshot eyes, typing: It’s an emergency.

Three little dots herald a response that makes him laugh: a weed emergency?

He stays strong: Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.

The next text makes his chest clench: u ok?

He decides to keep it vague—I can’t sleep, but it’s not what you think.—and hopes he doesn’t have to explain further and is relieved to read: u want ur usual?

Another clench: Indica

Two texts arrive in rapid succession: what else do u want? can i give u head while u smoke or no?

There it is: the reason Ian doesn’t use this number anymore.

Maybe in another life it would be a blessing to have a weed dealer to lovers arc with your childhood crush, but in this one, it was a curse. A curse that lasted almost a whole year, bringing with it an endless bouquet of blissful fucks and free weed, and a million moments of tenderness Ian knew nobody else was getting out of the guy. A curse that eventually came to collect payment in the form of bloodied knuckles, broken hearts and ego wounds. A curse that still clings to Ian’s psyche, filling his dreams with gentle, tattooed fingers and bright blue eyes and a sweet and savory scent that can only be described as Mickey.

Mickey, now DO NOT TEXT.

On second thought, maybe he should never sleep again.

The knock at the door makes him hard—a Pavlovian response that irks him more than the three sleepless nights he’s suffered so far. Three raps, one right after the other. The last one no more than a brush of his hand.

Ian adjusts himself and answers the door.

Fuck, one look at that smug asshole and he’s immediately right back in it. Lust and like and maybe even a little bit of reckless fucking love fill his body, rising to the surface like sweet cream. A layer of fat on the roof of one’s mouth; a treat to lick later, a reminder that they didn’t end things because they weren’t insanely hot for one another and potentially soulmates. They were just idiots. Stubborn, petty dicks.

Oh Pride, the great slayer of men.

Jesus, he needs to sleep.

“First one’s on the house,” Mickey says as he crosses the threshold, a joint held tightly between C and K.

Hours slip by. They laugh, they smoke. It feels like old times. Ian’s body is loose in a way it hasn’t been in years. It feels good. Like maybe-he-could-sleep-tonight good. And as he melts further into the couch, he starts to get a little horny too. Because Mickey’s yapping on and on about some asshole that frequents the bar he works at, and Ian’s listening, he swears he’s listening, but he’s also staring at Mickey’s mouth like he wants to take Mickey up on that text message and shut him the fuck up with his dick.

Like he wants to taste the stale smoke of his tongue.

Wants him to stay the night.

Forever, maybe.

Mickey finishes his story. His eyes go soft and he drums his fingers against his knee. “Should get outta your hair, Gallagher,” he says. “Letcha sleep.”

That’s the last thing Ian wants.

“Not tired,” he fibs.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not? ’S been days, man. This shit’s gotta be hittin’ ya by now.”

It’s true. It has been days and this shit is hitting him. Or maybe he’s having a sleep-deprivation-induced stroke. He just knows Mickey can’t go.

“Can’t go to sleep without a goodnight kiss.”

Mickey’s already leaning in when he asks, “Then you promise you’ll hit the hay?”

Ian nods as Mickey presses a kiss to his lying lips.

[anantaru]

DAY 1 — SIZE KINK

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including. — alhaitham, wriothesley

𖧡 — warnings. — fem! reader, size kink, dom/sub dynamics, oral (male! receiving), rough and v messy but also sweet idk, we love big men

𖧡 — ALHAITHAM

alhaitham's fingers are slow, precise, and it takes no effort for him to place himself in between your thighs— his dick proudly prancing on top of your puffy folds, and he's so unbelievably long and thick, swollen and red, dripping at the tip when he expertly rubs his cock against your hole.

yet, it almost hurts when he lets you swallow the first inch inside— but you wanted him, longed for him this entire day, raw and needy awaiting him late at night, biding your time until his dripping cock was fully engulfed inside of you. "oh, fuck!" rolling your eyes, you wrest your body off the mattress, strongly against alhaitham's chest as he braces himself with one arm against the head board.

"hurts? i’ll stop." he asks in a whisper to make sure, his gaze softening upon admiring your changing mannerism and on how good you were taking him despite the troubles of his cock being too large for his own good. his length was already half way concealed in your warm pussy— and he shivers on top of you, the slick, wet sounds fueling his desire until he was eager to expose more to you, pushing a defeated sigh past his parted lips the moment you clench down on him.

"n-no..." your breath rattles in your chest, a need frantically building in your belly as you wrap your arms around his neck to pull your boyfriend, your eminently affectionate alhaitham, against your lips, "y-you can move now...." and with his body swiftly reacting upon accepting the softness of your voice and body, the man began to move his hips— although slow, his thrusts leaving no possible room for any breaks in between.

you moan out little noises and mewls with your body rippling back and forth the mattress at his harsh blows, your tits bouncing in tandem with the way he fucked and pleased you, your skin shivering wild and free, and you kiss him desperately, hastily breathing through your nose as you add your tongue into the mix.

all day, you wanted this so badly, and so did alhaitham, his heart thudding in his chest with a frenzied intensity— feeling like he was currently underwater, the passion and euphoric drill roaring through his limbs and muscles as he fucks into you, again and again, husky groans deep in his chest, rumbling, only waiting to be heard by you.

𖧡 — WRIOTHESLEY

fundamentally speaking, wriothesley knew his way around your body, and he had already carved every spot and curve of your skin inside his very psyche, so he could be sure of it and day dream about your bare skin on top of him, yet also so he wouldn't have to worry about you not enjoying it.

and now— with your frame pressed in between his body and the desk behind you, his large palms silently move to curve around your face when you slowly fall on your knees, and you could see it in your boyfriend's brilliant eyes, the way he wasn't sure if he should let you take him in your mouth, just like that— because you see, he was big, remarkably so, and the last thing he wanted to achieve was to make it an unpleasant experience for his enchanting darling.

yet there he was, with desire flaring and expanding in his stomach at all the visible bare skin under him as you leisurely stroke your hands over his thighs, your tits being exposed with your nipples erected, fuck, he couldn't wait to touch them afterwards and have them in his mouth.

his heavy muscles were parading under the delicate shade of light, whereas his cock was now tightly closed in between your warm palm fisting him— his length standing thick and proud, so damn erected and aching that it was almost side by side to his defined stomach.

"sweetheart.. you sure?" wriothesley coos down at you, his voice cracking when you teasingly rub his leaking tip against your pouty lips, the featherlight weight of your mouth encircling him in such way was definitely the most marvellous touch he had ever felt.

"i'm sure." you assure him sweetly, kissing the tip, and add, "relax, baby.. i will take care of you." with your voice gentle alike, soft, as you caught onto the twinkle of desperation in his eyes.

you assemble enough saliva in your mouth before opening up, and a hand covers the back of your head as to guide you. you split your lips apart to take him in your mouth— and granted, it's a little scary, you have to admit, he's barely half way in and you can feel a pinching burn on the split sides of your mouth, taking a deep, shuddering breath as you circle your tongue around his shaft to have more slickness added.

"slow.." wriothesley whispers and moans at the same time, fondly scratching the back of your head to signalize you that it was okay, his eyes warm with a smirk prancing on top of his lips.

"slower sweetheart.. take your time."  

with his cock being buried in your mouth, although not entirely, wriothesley was able to trace the insides of your mouth with a thoroughness that it had him moan shamelessly above you— and you were quick to catch on to it as well, adding more tongue, making a mess out of him, placing a hand right under his balls so you could cup them all nicely and play with them while taking your sweet time, one inch more, hollowing your cheeks before taking another;

just how your boyfriend liked it, envisioned it, craved it.

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter III : Psyche

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Overstimulation; Orgasm delay; Rough sex;  Ass play; Unprotected sex; Size difference; Discussions of infertility; Discussions of past abuse

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word count: 9.0K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER III : PSYCHE

Are there many little [girls] who think they are a Monster?

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

You see him in your dreams – his mind or his memories or his own dreams – you can’t be sure. Fraught with violence and desperation and desire. The shadows and shapes of his past or his future, coalescing to create a dreamscape in your own mind, mercurial thoughts of a desire to possess something which you’ve never had or known or imagined possible. 

And he’s there, a physical manifestation of him or an imprint of his mind – something that calls to you in echoes, something that knows your name or your heart, maybe, the things you want and hold in the deepest part of yourself. The shape of his name, which you cannot hear, the shape of his face, which you cannot discern, which you look away from quickly, ripping yourself away from the threat of violation that would be and into wakefulness. 

When you finally open your eyes again, his bare hands are there, illuminated by a singular, warm shaft of light through the cracked open fresher door. 

The first time you’ve gotten a glimpse of them, and they’re scarred – beautifully crafted, long, thick fingers, short, neatly clipped nails, wide palms, prominent veins – but scarred with a roadmap of his lived past. The architecture of him is so magnificent, and you have the fleeting whisper of the thought that his face must be just as beautiful, and that it’s a true shame that it exist so hidden from everyone else to see. 

He’s crouched before you in the darkness, arm slung over one bent knee, the dark tee of his visor trained on you infallibly, so still you worry for a single moment that he’s calcified into a droid, but he starts slightly when he notices you’re coming to. He’s still not donned his armor or duraweave once again, only clad in another, clean, dark undershirt, and he slides to kneel closer beside you silently, one hand shifting through your loose hair to cup the back of your skull and look down at you. He’d taken out the ties that you’d had the heavy mass of it held up in, so that it lays in a tangled mess about your head.

You’re disoriented, body sore and throbbing as if you’d run endlessly for ages. Your muscles scream in protest as you shift your legs, and a hoarse whimper claws its way up your throat as the tendons in your back pull tight in agony. His hand tightens in your hair imperceptibly at the sound of your pain, and you clear your throat, your voice coming out scratchy and raw when you look up at him worriedly to ask: “Are you okay?” It sounds as if you’d screamed yourself hoarse and voiceless in your dreams. Your mind, sluggish, confused, so his responding voice sounds just as disjointed when he speaks. It feels as though there’s a mudslide slipping through your consciousness, filling your ears with static, and you feel your panic spike for one second. What’s happening to me? What’s happening? You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, trying to shake your head free of the disorientation, and his other hand comes up to gently cup your jaw, tenderly stroking the delicate skin beneath your eye. “What did you say?” You blink up at him confusedly. 

“You’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“You– you were hurt… and I–” Your brow crumples, “I can’t remember–”  You’d healed him– the Force– you’d used the Force to heal him– You surge up suddenly, at the realization. You’d healed him with the Force, that had been that feeling of power shifting within you. You’d healed him, and you’d not stolen anything in compensation for the act. At your sudden movement though, your head goes woozy, the contents inside of your skull seemingly sloshing about between your ears, and your arm buckles under your weight, ready to give out, but then his hand is there, gently pulling you in between his splayed knees so that you’re huddled into his strong embrace. “You were hurt– you were shot,” you say, reaching for his side where the terrible blaster wound had been. He grasps your chin between his fingers, his touch, so gentle, when you know he possesses such strength, feels all the softer for his care. “Be slow, it’s okay. You’ve been unconscious for hours,” his deep voice comes slowly through the modulator. His hands are warm and dry as he handles you, gloveless, pulling you in even closer to himself by the bend of your knee. He clasps one strong hand around your waist to support you while the other wraps around your jaw to keep your face turned up towards him. His gaze through the darkness of the visor is almost searing for its intensity, almost a physical manifestation of his inspection of you. “I don’t know what you did…”

“I think– I think I healed you,” and there is so much wonder in your voice – had you turned to the light? who could even say –  the juxtaposition between light and dark, good and evil – those things were beyond you and wholly inconsequential; at this point, all you could understand was freedom, and that you were here now, with him, it’s all you want, all you care about – that you forget yourself when you reach up unthinkingly to run your fingers down the gleaming silver of his helmet. You feel him tense and flinch for a moment, and you jerk in his arms, as well, remembering the violent way he’d handled you the last time you dared to touch the helm, but as you make to pull away from him, his hand shoots up to clasp your wrist in his strong fingers and press your entire palm to his helmet so that it’s splayed out across the face of it. 

“Thank you,” he says, his voice is almost choked for the fervor of it. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.”

“I used the Force. I– I think– I didn’t know I could. But I was so scared… so– I felt so– I had to, and I didn’t know what to do, but you– you were dying. I could feel it. And the energy inside of you– it’s– it’s so strong. Did you know that? Your presence in the Force is so strong – like you’re,” you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head quickly, trying to find the right words, and you feel a slow brush of his thumb at the corner of your mouth, “I don’t know, like you’re extra full of life.” You open them again, and the hand splayed at the small of your back begins to stroke you gently there too, back into calmness with slow soothing passes. 

“It’s alright,” his voice holds that same soothing cadence his gentle hand is trying to imbue into you. “It’s alright,” he says again. “Take it slowly. You’ve been unconscious for over twelve hours. Whatever you did must have taken a lot out of you.” You freeze shocked at that, at the same moment that you realize that the ship is currently moving, the gentle, steady thrum of a vessel moving through hyperspace, vibrating through the hull. You turn to look around at the darkened space surrounding the two of you, he’d shut off all the lights save for the warm glow coming from the fresher, and his hands tighten around you imperceptibly, as if he’s unwilling to let you move away from him even a millimeter. 

“Where are we going? We’re moving–”

“I’m sorry. I had to get us out of there. We couldn’t sit there on Corellia any longer. I’ll take you anywhere you need to go. I just have one more bounty to retrieve, and then I promise, I’ll take you anywhere you need.” His voice takes on a hint of rushed worry, as if you’ll be angry or bothered that he’d snuck off with you without asking first. 

You bring your other hand up to clutch at his shoulder, trying to squeeze reassurance into your touch. “It’s okay. I– I don’t have anywhere I need to be. I can go with you for now–”

“Alright,” he says quietly. The hand on your back slides up to grip the back of your neck. “Thank you. For whatever you did, thank you. You saved me, and you shouldn’t– the group– back on Corellia– you shouldn’t have had to do that.” And you realize that he’s trying to apologize for the fact that you’d had to kill for him. 

You shake your head quickly, “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t–”

You cut him off, “It was nothing I haven’t done before,” let the truth of what you both really know about you hang heavy and pungent in the air. He’d seen you murder those that had hurt him, brutally, without hesitation. Wielding this power within you and a blade that you’d forged with that very strength, unflinchingly in his name. You think suddenly, that if it hadn’t been for his presence, for the fact that they’d hurt him, that you’d probably not have killed them as you had. Had it been only you they’d attacked and hurt, then you’d have, perhaps, let them get away with it. It was only you, after all, and there was not much damage sustained that you could not walk away from. There was not much damage sustained that you had not already experienced before. And there was nothing in you left with the desire to hurt or kill, a fact you’d not been aware of prior to this very moment. You had not realized that the blood lust had left you entirely. But to save him, to defend him, you’d once again donned that mantle of viciousness and brutality you’d so desired to forsake, and you realize that you do not resent him for this fact – for the necessity of brutality he’d unknowingly pulled from you. On the contrary, you feel so, so unerringly grateful, deeply grateful, in this moment, that you possessed the ability to protect him. And it is with a painful, jarring shock that you realize that this is, perhaps, the first time in your entire life, since the day you’d discovered your power in the Force, that you’re grateful for it, that you’re able to see it as a gift, and not a curse. 

“You still should not have had to do it alone.” There is nothing you can say to that, nothing within you that knows how to accept such a thing. “Keep your eyes closed,” his voice comes then, quiet and hesitant. “Don’t– I want– I want to do something. Don’t open your eyes.” Your heart squeezes and flips with nerves, and then you hear the hiss of the helmet’s hydraulics disengaging, and the heavy thunk of it as he places it on the metal floor, and those nerves turn to a full blown, screeching havoc of panic. You shake your head quickly, mind still confused so that your brain feels as if it’s gone liquid, sloshing around in your skull with your movements, you squeeze your eyes shut as tightly as you can. 

He’s taken his helmet off. He’s taken his helmet off.

“No– wait, don’t. What are you doing? Don't take it off,” voice full of panic.

“It’s okay. I just want to–” he wraps his fingers around your jaw, tilting your head back to the angle he wants you in . “I just– I have to– I’ve never done this before.” And it is a confession and a promise and an apology, all at once, and then his soft mouth is pressing to yours gently. He holds there for a long moment, you can feel the panting fan of his breath against your face, and your heart feels like that of a small and vulnerable animal on the brink of death, running ragged and painful within the confines of your chest, your breath on the verge of hyperventilating. He has a plush, soft mouth, warm and a little dry, cracked, his bottom lip feels slightly fuller than the top. A soft, sensuous mouth on a hard,  uncompromising warrior. Your lips open on a shocked little gasp, and he groans deep and savage in his chest. His other hand twisting in your hair to pull your head back and open you to him, deepening the angle so that he can dip his tongue into the wet warmth of your mouth. When his tongue touches yours he pulls back with a small gasp, a gutural, muttered, fuck, and then he’s licking into you again, noses brushing, lips slotting against each other, soft and desperate and wet, and you can’t believe this is the first time he’s ever done this. He does not kiss like this is the first time he’s ever done this. Your fingers slide up his neck to his jaw, cupping the sharp, strong edge, he has scruff. He has a scruffy jaw, and you are, for some reason, shocked at the humanity of the man beneath the mask this signifies, and as you make contact with his face he lets out an almost pained, animal sound, a whimper or a plea, fuck, fuck, whispered again, his fingers tightening on you almost painfully so that you’re left wanting for more, for harder, for tighter. Inside, inside, inside, a chant in your wanting mind sounds – up his cheeks, over the strong, prominent bridge of a curved nose, his eyes, thick lashes, brows.

He pulls back, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, down further to lick your neck, to taste your skin, your breath is panting and agonized and your cunt is slick and weeping beneath your clothes, your breasts heavy and aching, your entire body awakening to bloom for him. “You shouldn’t– we shouldn’t– you shouldn’t trust me,” you whisper in a small, anguished cry. It feels like the moment warrants a soft, quiet voice for the resounding blare of lust and desperation in your mind. “I’m bad.”

“I do anyways. And you’re not. You saved me. ” 

“Why? You don’t know. You don’t know me.” Your hands finally reach his hair, thick and so soft, heavy curls covering his head, and your fingers twist to tug harshly, pull him closer. He growls, bites down on the hammering pulse in your neck to reciprocate the hurt. 

“I know what it is to be a stranger to yourself,” he murmurs into your skin. “To be afraid. And I have to – I can’t help it. You deserve it.” An anguished sob heaves in your chest, and his hand moves to cup your breast, squeezing tightly, palming the heavy weight in his large hand. You moan for him wantonly, and he finds the peak of your nipple, thumb brushing over it and then pinching to elicit another mewl. 

“Fuck– you’re so–” he moans, “You’re so soft, little one. How’re you so soft?” He noses into the skin of your throat, nuzzling and kissing and licking at you, big hands squeezing and kneading at your curves, pressing you into him. He moves to pull you further into his lap, pulling your knee over his thigh so that you’re straddling him fully, and as your aching core makes contact with the prominent bulge in his lap you both groan, pained twin sounds. “Fucking Maker– I want–” But as he grips your hips to press you down harder on that thick length beneath his trousers, rolling the heat between your legs over himself,  you have a sudden remembered flash of your earlier dreams, of him moving through your dreams, and the murky, confusing landscape of that place that you couldn’t discern as belonging to you or to him. 

“Wait–” you gasp. “Wait– we– we can’t. I have to–” You plant your palms on his strong, wide chest to keep him at bay, feeling his muscles beneath jerk and twitch at your touch, and he lets out a frustrated growl of irritation, pulling you back in by the waist. “Wait– I– there’s something–” A soft kiss to the tender place behind your ear, his tongue dipping into the soft, vulnerable shell, his hand at the small of your back pressing down on your ass to drag your cunt over his hard cock. “Please, wait,” you beg, moan.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he presses into your skin with damp, seeking lips. 

“There’s something– There’s something you should know.” You don’t want to tell him this. You don’t want him to take himself away from you. But you also know that you must, that he deserves your honesty, your truth, if nothing else, then this truth, at least. “There’s something you should know,” you say again, “If we’re going to – if we’re– going to be close– to… to spend time together.”

“What is it, little one? Tell me.” He continues to press kisses to your face and throat, unable to stop himself, hands roving and squeezing, seeking entrance to bare skin.

There seems to be, for some inexplicable reason, an unusually strong bridge between the two of you. You’d noticed it last time you’d been together, his presence, his emotions, his desire – so prevalent around you, it was almost sentient, flavored. His mind, so easily open to you – easily connected in a way that you’d never before experienced with another being. You could see into him, his memories, his past, his thoughts, almost unconsciously, unknowingly. Lost in your dreams, your moments of stress and fear or ecstasy, filled with flashing images of the shape of him, and what could, perhaps, be his memories, or his very own dreams, entirely out of your control. You couldn’t understand why it was, or what the meaning could be, you only knew that you felt him at a great vulnerability in your presence, and try as you might, you could not make sense of the connection that seemed to run between the two of you. Perhaps, because the energy inside of him was so strong. Perhaps, because he felt so alive, and you felt, sometimes, just on this side of not. Perhaps, because from the very first sighting, that first meeting in the dark, you’d felt as if you’d known him, had been meant to find him, meant to touch him, to have him. In some strange and unknowable way, he felt like he was yours. 

That dark, red thread of fate at play.

“Any Force user – but– but especially one who’s inclined toward the dark side has the ability to see into another’s mind.” You feel the imperceptible tensing of his muscles beneath where you’re perched across his lap. “And for s– some reason,” you stutter, “I think– I think– well, I don’t know why, but I can see within you, into your mind, so easily. When I was asleep before–” your voice is choked with nerves, and you squeeze your eyes shut even tighter, bringing your hands together in front of you to twist your fingers together anxiously, it’s alright, he murmurs, keep going, his thumb brushes over your kneecap soothingly. “The energy inside of you – it’s very– it’s strong. You’re strong. And that would have made me think that you’d be less susceptible to me finding a way inside, but for some reason, it’s like you’re wide open to me. I don’t know why. But I– I could see anything. Anything I wanted to, whenever I wanted, and you’d never even know it if I was careful, if I didn’t want you to know.” The worst part now, “I– I could see your own memory – a memory of your face…” you trail off, quiet for a beat, letting the truth of that terrible potential violation settle in the air around you. He remains still and quiet except for that still softly stroking thumb over the cap of your knee. “And I would never, never look intentionally, I swear.” You raise your eyebrows over your still closed eyes at him, shaking your head as if to drive your point home. “ But I– you just needed to know. And I haven’t looked. I promise, I haven't looked, and I swear to you, I never would. I’d never do that to you–”

“I know,” he says simply. 

“But I… What?” He must not be understanding the gravity of what it is you’re saying here. Surely, he mustn’t.

“It’s alright–”

“I haven’t looked,” you say again, pushing urgency into your voice so that he’ll understand what it is you’re saying here, pressing a splayed hand to his belly and trying to strain away from him, keep yourself away at the same time that he tugs you nearer. 

“I believe you. It’s alright,” he murmurs, mouth returning to yours. 

“You should know. Before– before you decide to– I don’t know–” a gasp as he presses his hips and straining erection up against you, “Or– or you could just drop me at the nearest–”

“No,” he growls, suddenly surging forward with you held in his arms to lay you on your back, settling between your splayed thighs into the cradle of your hips. “No, you said you didn’t have anywhere else to be. You can’t change your mind now,” he clasps your wrists gently in the circle of his fingers and brings them to rest together over your head, pinning you beneath him, trapped and splayed out for his ravaging. “You’re coming with me. You can’t change your mind now. You’ve said you’re staying, and now you have to stay with me.” He’d pulled blankets from somewhere to create a nest for you while you’d slept, and as he presses you back into the layered pile you go soft and pliant for a moment, letting yourself be handled and arranged as he sees fit. Your mind still befuddled and murky from your long hours of unconsciousness, his lightning swift movements have you confused so that your eyes crack open infinitesimally in the onslaught of rapid shifting to take in his darkly clad chest, the top of his naked throat. You snap them shut once again immediately, squeezing them closed and turning your head into the crook of your arm to hide yourself away from the threat of seeing anything you’re not supposed to, and with a flit of your fingers, the fresher door snaps shut, plunging the hull entirely into pitch darkness. He gives a low rumble of approval, “Nifty little thing,” he presses into the skin of your exposed neck, biting down gently on the straining, delicate tendons. He reaches up to grasp your chin, turning your face back towards him so that he can kiss you again, licking into your mouth, nipping at your full bottom lip, tasting behind the line of your teeth. He’d said he’d never done this before, kissing, he’d never kissed before, and he seems to have now developed an immediate taste for it. His hips grind into yours, thick cock pressing into the apex of your thighs so that you’re moaning, high pitched and keening for him. 

“I want you,” he whispers into your mouth “I need you,” he licks into your skin.

“Oh– Oh, wait,” a gasp, “I– I think that maybe we should – your wound,” another, as he nips at your breast, sharp teeth catching gently at your nipple and tugging, sucking the peak beneath the fabric of your clothes into his hot mouth. “You’re hurt,” you try to protest with absolutely zero conviction. For some reason, unlike the last time when you’d been brazen and ravenous, you find yourself now shy and nervous to give yourself to him. The two warring sides of your inner heart vying for attention or shadow at the same time. You’re afraid of what this time will mean, do, to you. 

“Quiet.” He reaches down to squeeze your ass in his wide palms, pulling the soft meat of you apart so that he can slot his hand between your legs and roll you up into his thrusting hips. 

“Oh, p– please, please, I just–”

He pulls back then, suddenly, bracing himself above you on his strong arms, “No, you’re right,” he bends his neck for another kiss to the tip of your chin, sharp teeth nipping there gently, and then nosing along the edge. “You’re right,” he says again, “We should wait. There’s one more thing–” he reaches up to begin unfastening the buttons of your high necked tunic, down, down, until it’s open to beneath the heaving swell of your breasts, he presses one more kiss to the tops of them, and then he presses his forehead there, to the space beneath your clavicle. “I want to tell you something too – something… another thing I’ve never done. Only because… I told you I trust you, and there’s no reason for it, surely, like you’ve said, there’s no reason for you to be able to see inside my mind so easily either. And yet, both things are true. So, I think– I don’t want you to find this before I’ve given it to you myself. And well, also… I want to hear it.” Your heart is beating so hard beneath your breast bone that the mass of it aches, pinches and twists like some vile writhing creature. So hard he must surely be able to feel the reverberations of it against his face. He can’t give you anymore, you don’t deserve anymore, but before you can get the words out, warn him against you once again, he says, “Din. My name is Din.” You close your eyes, even against the blinding darkness, and let the words settle between the two of you. “I’ve never done that before either,” he whispers into your breast. He had asked you for your name once before, and you, in your fear, had refused him. So you give it to him now. You give him your true namesake. The one given to you by your mother before it was stolen away by the dark, enshrouded by a helm forced upon you by that cruel power. And perhaps, he should not have given it to you, nor should you have accepted it and returned the gesture, but for much time after that, there are no words, only the soft wet press of mouths and tongues and seeking hands, the darkness surrounding the two of you, no longer cruel, but only comforting here with him. 

He pulls your clothing from the two of you slowly, meticulously, but even yet, there is a hum of desperation to his movements, that fear and anxiety from before, being wounded, your frenzied fight to heal him, his endless hours of waiting for you to regain consciousness, you can taste them, feel them, in his kisses and his touch. He was afraid for you. Just as he’d worried for you on Corellia, afraid that you'd be hurt by your attackers, you shouldn’t have had to do that. He had worried for you. For a creature that had been subjected to things much worse and darker than that which he could ever imagine. You had never had that sort of benevolence extended towards you, lie, and it has you spreading your legs wider for him, tilting your pelvis up to accept the thick, invading press of his cock when he finally pushes into you slowly. You’d dreamt of the feel of this since that night on Nevarro with him. You’d dreamt of the feel of him, heavy and changing within you. 

“I thought about you so much,” he whispers as if he can read your mind.

He moans into the crook of your neck when he bottoms out inside of you, his heavy sac pressed tightly against your bottom, thick root stretching you until you think there must surely not be any space left within you. He holds there, the wide head of his cock pressed up against that deepest of places so that you can feel your walls start to tremble and pulse around his invading length, overwhelmed, already on the brink of orgasm, just from this, just from the feel of him stretching you. 

A groaned, “Fuck,” his hands roaming and squeezing and pressing along the soft contours of you, pulling you tighter onto his impaling cock with a hand on your bottom, his fingers so long he presses down on the tight furl of muscle of your ass. “Fucking soft and wet– perfect little cunt.” He starts to move in deep, strong thrusts, the wet slap of his balls against the curve of your ass as he fucks into the soft, spongey place inside of you. Your hands explore his own body, sharp little nails dragging along the strong, muscular planes of his back, the smooth slope of his nape, up into his thick curls to twist through the heavy locks. He mouths wetly at your ear, down your neck to your breasts, sucking and nipping at the sensitive tips, wrapping his hand around the entire heavy globe to bring it up to his mouth and feast on you, all while the steady rhythm of his hips continues to pound into you. The wet squelch of your joining is lewd and deafening in the dark quiet of the hull. “Din, Din, Din,” you whisper the gift of his name into his ear over and over again, and it has the savage growl of your name ripping from his throat in return. His voice sounds almost furious or pained at the sound of his name spilling from your lips. I’ve never done this, I’ve never had this, he whispers back. The two of you are giving something more to each other in this moment than just pleasure or sex. So different is the joining from that night on Nevarro before. There is something intrinsically other about the feel of him fucking into your cunt now. Something meaningful, in a way that last time, although changing and desperate and intense, had not translated. He presses upwards suddenly, anchoring himself above you with one strong arm, pulling you onto him harder with the other wrapped beneath you so that his cockhead is drilling right into your g-spot, “Come,” he grits, “Come on my cock. Give it to me, I need to feel it.” He bends his head to bite painfully at your breast, and at that, coupled with one particularly savage thrust your orgasm starts to hum through you, twisting in a tight ball of heat in your pelvis and going loose and wet, fluttering through your muscles. You arch up into his hold, pulling one of your knees up to your shoulder to open yourself wider to his thrusts. “Maker, yes– just like that. Fuck– give it to me just like that,” he moans. He continues the steady onslaught, fucking himself into you over and over again through the waves of your orgasm. You can feel the dripping wetness of your gush between your slick, sliding skin. 

As the waves of your orgasm ebb into throbbing echoes he pulls out suddenly, the wet sucking sound of his cock slipping from you has a blush heating your cheeks, and you try and pull at him, scratching at his shoulders to bring him back towards you. “I have to taste it,” he mumbles, sounding half delirious, cunt-drunk, and then he’s moving down your trembling frame, mouthing at your breasts, the heat of his tongue dipping into your belly button and teeth nipping at the soft swell of your belly, to finally shoulder your thighs apart, making room for himself down at the level of your still fluttering cunt. He licks at the vulnerable softness of your inner thighs, tongue lapping up the mess of sweat and slick and come, tasting between the crease of your thigh and pelvis and groaning and the flavor of you there. He kisses a path across the top of your mound until his soft, seeking mouth finds the apex of your sex, and his tongue sweeps out over your swollen clit. The sound he makes is almost a whimper, another I’ve never done this either, between wet laps at your slit. “Taste– taste so fucking good,” a groan as he dips the tip of his tongue into the source of your leaking slick, “Gorgeous little cunt, so soft– so pretty–”

You groan into your crossed arms thrown over your face, the fucking mouth on this man, you swear to the Maker you don’t think you’ll survive this, him. “You can’t even see me,” you say, voice breathless. Your hips moving against his mouth in needy little arcs. 

“Don’t need to see, I know– prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You live your life inside a tin can,” you sass, “You can’t have tasted much.”

“Quiet,” a sharp nip to your thigh, and then he’s back to slowly lapping at your folds, sucking on your clit, the tip of his tongue dipping into your opening over and over again. The pattern, slow and intentional. He’s down there for what feels like hours, savoring the taste of you, drinking down the slick you produce for him, enjoying the sound of your pleading moans and cries for more, for harder, Din, please. He eats you for so long you’re eventually left as nothing more than a wet, trembling mess of a girl, never letting you hit your peak, never letting you unravel. Shuddering, tears spilling back into your hair, dripping into your ears. You beg for mercy, for him to stop, to let you come, but he keeps you just on the brink of orgasm for his own enjoyment, his own pleasure at the taste and sound of you. You can feel that deep buzzing of satisfaction humming through him and into you. His energy is strong and sensual and almost viscous, a syrupy sweet delight that the two of you are feeding into each other back and forth. The feeling of it is almost more overwhelming than the stimulation of his mouth on your overly sensitive sex, licking and biting and kissing and sucking. “Please, please, Din,” you cry, overwhelmed and on the brink of insanity. “Please, let me come, please, please, please–” And he finally,  finally, presses two of his thick fingers into you, crooking them within to beckon your orgasm forth with a murmured, come for me, little one. It licks through you like fire, white hot like electricity, almost painfully, so that you’re sobbing and heaving and whining, delirious. 

You feel him uncurl from his position between your legs, big hands maneuvering you to turn onto your belly in your delirium, pulling your hips slightly up and pulling you apart by the soaking wet meat of your ass to lick at your clenching pussy once more, tasting the rosebud of your ass, pressing his tongue there, biting harshly at your cheek, and then he’s pressing his cock at your entrance again and sliding slick and unencumbered all the way to the deep end of you. You’re so sensitive, a writing mass of wet flesh, and his thrusts take on a brutal pace. Fucking you into the nest of blankets, hard and savage, holding nothing back. You can feel him throbbing inside of you, movements becoming harsher and rougher with each punishing thrust. One of his hands twists into the back of your hair to pull your face up from where you’re sobbing and drooling into the blankets, the other holding your asscheek open for his impaling cock. Your cunt pulls tight, and you don’t want to, you don’t, you can’t, it’s too much now, but you start to come again, fluttering and pulsing, too sensitive, too painful, nerves a raw, writhing mess, around his cock. “Fuck, yeah. Yes, yes, come one more time. Good fucking girl.” He bites into the thin tendons of your shoulder, your neck, sucking on your skin sharply. Ravenous. He snarls a hoarse, ragged curse in a language you can’t understand into your spit and sweat slick skin, and then you feel the heavy kick of his cock as he starts to come deep inside you, coating the walls of your cunt with the hot blanket of his spend. “Shit– fucking perfect, take it all – yes. You perfect, gorgeous fucking thing.” The two of you moan into eachothers open, panting mouths, and he licks at your lips, your teeth. Messy and sloppy and so fucking good. Everything is wet and trembling, the two of you, a tangle of shivering, exhausted limbs. You feel the tickle of his long curls on your forehead and reach up to card your fingers through the sweat soaked strands, pushing them back and out of his face. He rumbles low in his throat, nuzzling into your hand like an overly large and needy cat, and you press a soft kiss to the curve of his nose. Din, Din, Din, Din, his name is a chant of a certain type of victory in your mind. The name suits him, you think, straight forward, to the point – strong. A mysterious and beautiful name for a beautifully mysterious man. For you’ve felt him now, touched his face with your own hands, you know he is beautiful, even if you’ve not seen it with your eyes. 

The two of you lay tangled together for hours with the thrum of hyperspace around you. Limbs intertwined and damp, cooling in the comfortable dark of the hull, trembles abating and finally settling. He touches you everywhere, fingertips running over the lines of your arms, circling your nipples, pinching the tips, smoothing over the slopes of your thighs, pressing into the soft of your belly, dragging through the strands of your hair. He feels your face, the fan of your lashes, the sweep of your brows and arches of your cheekbones, the plush of your full lips where you suck his thumb into your hot mouth, running your teeth lightly over the pad of it. He growls threateningly at that, the once again stunningly hard length of his erection pressing into your belly. The man is insatiable and fucking needy, a constant demand to have his hands and mouth on you at all times. Touch starved and desperate.

Eventually, he stands to get a damp cloth to clean you up, and once again dons his helmet, hiding himself away to bring you a canteen of water and a ration pack which he forces you to finish entirely, and he takes care of you with such intention and patience – like you’ve never before experienced. 

Illuminated once again by the warm glow of the fresher, he watches you eat with hyperfocus,  making sure you finish the entire thing. You motion for him to take a bite himself halfway though, and he refuses with a shake of his head and a low, not hungry, which you don’t believe at all. He sits with such stillness that if you hadn’t just felt the hot softness of his skin within your own body you’d have mistakenly taken him for a droid or some other non organic creature. When you’re finished, he takes the wrappings and the canteen from you, brings you one of his large, soft, long sleeved undershirts and covers your cold feet with some of his own thick woolen socks, and then tucks you into the narrowly tight space of his bunk. With your eyes closed and hidden, he pulls off the helmet once again and all of his clothes with it and climbs in with you, shutting the two of you away in the safety of the dark. 

He settles in beside you, both of you lying on your sides with you tucked under the crook of his arm so that your nose is pressed right to the hollow of his throat, at the very source of that musky, delicious scent of his. He presses you tight to his chest, the deep exhales of his belly pressing into your concaved inhales, and the intimacy is almost too much, the closeness, his skin and heat and scent everywhere, the endless expanse of his wide shoulders crowding you into the cool steel wall of the bunk behind you so that the sweltering heat coming off of him is balanced by the coolness behind. There’s still a slightly overwhelmed tremble running through the lines of your muscles, wet, leaking cunt still quivering, oozing the thick drool of his spend. 

Once again, as if reading your mind, he murmurs, “I didn’t pull out – I– I’m sorry, I didn’t ask if you have an implant or–”

“N– no–” you stutter, embarrassed and immediately nervous, humiliated at having to confess this. “I um– well, I don’t have one. But I, I–” you turn your face into the cave of his underarm, hiding yourself away even in the deeper darkness, blowing out a slow stream of air to settle your racing heart. “I don’t think– well– I was told that I can’t– I can’t have children. So… it’s not really– it isn’t necessary. I–” you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, feeling him tense beside you.

You force yourself to continue: “I was told that I couldn’t ever– ever conceive. I was entrenched in the dark side for so long – it made me– turned me into something I wasn’t supposed to be – an inhospitable environment, not fit to sustain life–” your breath hitches in a repressed, agonized sob. You remember the exact cadence of your master's voice as he’d said those exact words to you, and you feel, suddenly, that you’ve told him too much, this is too much. Nothing he needs or surely wants to know about.

But then, in the gentlest tone you’ve heard from him as of yet: “I’m– I am so sorry to hear that, sweetheart. Truly… I’m sorry.” And there is so much anguish for you in his voice, anguish and tenderness and compassion at hearing this confession, this devastating truth of what you are, what they made you, that you want to cry at him, Don’t be tender, please. Don’t be kind. You’ll ruin me – I don’t deserve it. They’d taken away the possibility of more, of hope, of future. First they’d stolen your parents, and then they’d stolen your ability to ever make a family yourself – and it was the worst thing they’d ever done to you. But he presses his soft mouth to the tender skin above your brow, rubs his lips there soothingly while one of his large hands passes long comforting strokes along the slope of your spine silencing your thoughts. “Explain it to me – how it works… the Force. I’d– I’d heard of it, in rumors and stories, the Force, the Jedi, but you said– you said before that you’re not– that that’s not what you are… So then…” he trails off, a question in his voice. And then: “Tell me what you are.”

Truth. He wants truth from you. But how to say that you were bad and wrong and forged in a crucible of darkness and war and destruction. Never given the chance to be what you should have, never given a choice. 

Tell me what you are. “Nothing,” you say. 

“That’s not true. I don’t believe that.” You can feel the reverberations of his heart thumping into your own chest. 

You shake your head, but tell him anyways, “The Force, it’s – it’s a living thing, almost sentient, and it lives through all of us, every living thing – through you, it’s why – it’s why I can feel you so strongly, I think. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together. It’s life itself. And those of us that wield it – Force sensitives, we can exist on either side of it: the Jedi who adhere to the light, or the Sith… who covet strength and power through the dark side. And it can be– distorted, poisoned – used to do harm. A creature born in darkness can wield it in an ill intentioned way – drawing from anger, hatred, fear, jealousy – strong emotions. It can be turned into a foul and desecrated thing. It can turn you into that.”

“I was stolen as a child – when it was discovered that I was a wielder. When someone of great strength comes into their power it can be felt, a disturbance in the Force. We were found, my parents were killed, and I was taken, enfolded into the Sith – their cult. I– it felt like I never had a choice. I don’t know if that’s true… But I could have done things differently, of that I’m sure. Made different decisions once I was old enough to understand. But they whispered into my mind for so long – that I was alone, that I was forsaken, weak, bad, ugly, wrong – that I’d never have anyone or anything that was solely mine. Eventually, I sat with the dark so long, it spoke back to me, understood me. It became the only thing I had to turn to, to hold me. And there was, perhaps, a part of me that always knew that it wasn’t – that I wasn’t how I should have been… how I would have been… But I was so– so–” you shake your head, desperately searching for that word which you know in your heart is true, but which hurts so terribly to say out loud to him, “I was so alone,” you hitch, tears spilling down your cheeks to slide over the swell of his arm. “I was lost, afraid, angry. So many terrible things.” Why are you telling him all this?  “Perhaps, I had no choice. Perhaps, I did. I don’t think that’s the point. The point is that sometimes I liked it. Sometimes I felt grateful I at least had one thing to hold on to, to hold on to me, even if it was a bad thing.”

“But you were a child? Stolen–”

“I was not always a child, though. Eventually I grew up.”

“But when it counted… you were vulnerable, alone–”

“It doesn’t matter–” you cut him off, voice almost sharp. He must see – he must understand that not even he, the great warrior, can save you. “You don’t know. I’ve done things I bitterly regret,” Unforgivable things, things which you’d detest me for, “I was once a thing I wish to never be again. I wielded the Force in the name of the dark, and I did terrible things that I can never take back, and that I’ll always regret. I’m trying to be different now. Whatever the rest of it may have been, or may be, is inconsequential to me now, other than that I’d like– I’d like to be different. Something else.”

“I think that in a life such as this… all of us, eventually, do things that we regret. That we feel remorse over. Things that are terrible, even.” But not like me, you think. “Do you think that I am so honorable that I have never done such things? That there have not been times when I’ve done things that I felt I had to – even if they were ignoble, perhaps, terrible, even, when a different path could have been chosen? And worst of all, that I liked them – that sometimes a mistake in the moment seems like something you want, something that could have been avoided, but that you choose to go through with anyway. To err is to be human – to be alive.” Like your tears, like your regret, like your gratitude for this tender heart that was coming to life within you, and that you would have surely taken for weakness before, but now you only saw with appreciation and relief. And you realize that Din is not a man to cast judgment. He will not judge you. “Mercy, the capacity for forgiveness even, loyalty and honor, this is what makes us worthy in the end. This is the Way.” The intonation of his Creed makes your heart clench and spasm like a live creature within your chest. 

“My parents were murdered when I was a child, as well,” he tells you then. “The Mandalorians took me in, raised me–”

A small huff of bitter laughter, “Another cult. I’ve heard.”

“Some think so.”

“I think… that I’ve had enough of orders to last me a lifetime. Staunch zealotry – unchangeability – I cannot fathom such things any longer. Never again. If I cannot be free, then I do not want to be anything. This – this isn’t to say that I don’t respect you, or– or understand the value of your Creed… the meaning behind it. I do. Before, if I could have put myself away beneath the mantle and protection of a belief in something that was good, perhaps, things would have turned out differently for me, been easier. And it must be– it must be comforting? Such protection.”

“In some ways… perhaps. A mantle can also weigh heavily at times, you know this better than most, but this is The Way.”

You laugh sardonically, “Yes, that I do know.”

The entirety of your life thus far had been lived beneath the heavy weight of such a mantle. Beneath power and desire and greed. But there had always been that little seed too, within you. That tiny sprout of hope and imagination and a wish for something more or different. And they had tried to kill it, but they had not succeeded.

One foot on either side of light and dark was a difficult way to exist, even if you wished you could find yourself firmly planted on the side of good, of benevolence and mercy, there would always be a part of you that was of a slightly darker nature, this you could not help. Even your eyes, one lighter than its darkened counterpart, reflected this division within you. Like the Maker had known, when you were being crafted, that you’d live at war with yourself all your life – a physical manifestation of that battle plain on your face for the galaxy to see. 

Later, he says, “You can’t ever tell anyone my name. Or ever use it in front of another – only when it’s just the two of us, alright?”

The two of us, he says. “I won’t. Never. I promise.”

And then more silence and touching and the soft, wet press of his seeking mouth, the slick heat of his tongue, before he asks,“Why the crossguard?” One of his hands sliding between your thighs to feel your wetness and his own spend leaking from you, not giving you the relief of penetration. 

You groan and beg with silent whimpers but tell him what he wants to know nonetheless,“Ah, unstable, fickle thing, that blade. I needed a deviation for the excess energy. It was entirely unintentional – I cracked the crystal when I was making it – I was– I was also… unstable. Unmoored, or I don’t know– not undecided… but unanchored. My power and emotions, too volatile at the time. I should have waited, or perhaps, not made one again at all. But it’s been my weapon to wield for so long – I felt like I needed it. Now… I don’t know, there’s something about the volatility of it that I like – that comforts me or that I feel a kindredness with – an understanding, perhaps… I don’t know.” You laugh, “I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“No, I understand,” he says quietly, hand sliding back and forth over your wet seam. Teasing – pressing lightly to your clit and then retreating, palm sliding down the back of your thigh to hitch your knee over his hip and roll the hard length of his cock against you. 

You gasp and grip the frame of his jaw, squeezing as tight as your little fingers are able, feeling the ridges of his molars beneath his cheeks, the scruff of his jaw, the soft mustache above his full mouth. “How old are you?”

He’s silent for a moment, and you wonder if this is something he’d not like to share for some reason. “I– I’m not sure. I think maybe my late thirties, early forties – but I can’t know for certain.”

“I don’t know either.” And you feel such sudden kindredness with him. The knowledge of not even knowing how old you are, the date of your birth, is such a small but specifically sad and humiliating thing. Such a small thing, a date, to be taken from a person but just as devastating as anything else. 

“The things we lose along the way, huh…” He gives a soft, breath of a laugh, sardonic and a little sad. 

“Had you really never kissed someone before?” He tugs your head back with a fist wrapped in your hair and gives you an open mouthed, wet kiss, groaning deep in his chest at your taste, shoving his cock up against your pussy. 

“Never,” he whispers against your swollen mouth. “Your cunt is also the first I’ve ever kissed,” another swipe of his tongue behind the line of your teeth, slick along the surface of your own tongue. 

“Maker–” you moan. 

He pulls back with a groan, and drags you on top of him so that you’re draped over his chest, a murmured, no more, for now, racing heart knocking against his own rapidly thrumming one, and you run your palms down the flat plane of his naked stomach, running your fingers through the trail of hair below his navel leading to the thick, hard cock resting heavily on his belly – still slightly sticky and damp with your slick. 

“Sleep, little one – you’re exhausted,” he says as if he knows you, as if can read you so easily. 

But you don’t want to sleep, you don’t want to go away from him yet. You want to keep talking to him forever. “I was out for hours – I’m not tired,” you grouch, mouthing at the skin above his heart, little tongue swiping out to lick lightly as the flat of his nipple. “You’re not the boss of me.” He growls at the feel of your explorations and pinches your bottom in gentle reprimand.

But you’re out like a light minutes later, lulled by the slow, mesmerizing cadence of his breath beneath your cheek, the soothing strokes of his fingers through your hair and the heat of his skin.

Chapter IV

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COD FF // Callsign: Sunshine // Ch. 46: Beloved

Soapy :')

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Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 46: Beloved

Rating: 18+ !!MDNI!! Chapters: 46/? WC: 123,154 Pairing(s): TF141 x F!Reader (You) (no use of y/n) Chapter Warnings: Explicit language, suggestive language Chapter Excerpt (🚨spoilers!!🚨):

As soon as the words leave his mouth, they feel stupid. 

Inadequate. 

Redundant. 

He knows you already know, of course. You'd have to. Surely. It's a subject that's been broached before. Once or twice.

But he's never admitted it. Never said it. Not aloud. Not to anyone. 

Not even you, despite always being an arm's length away. Against the will of his mind, his body has made every effort to keep you close. Lingering touches. Besotted glances. The enduring, ever-present drive to be by your side -- or Ghost's. 

He's made attempts to hide his feelings. To pretend like it isn't true. Like he doesn't love you. To carry on -- move on. But he can't. You dosomething to him. Chemically. Cellularly. 

He feels you everywhere. It's pervasive and poignant and permanent. A vibrant bloodstain blooming against the crisp, white expanse of his psyche. 

He can't explain it. Doesn't want to. 

And he knows you know. 

Why he chose this particular moment to voice the words, though...

Here you are, naked and shivering in his arms. Bullet hole in your thigh. No doubt hungry and exhausted. It just started bubbling up out of him before he could think better of it -- and you'd latched on.

You'd asked. Begged. Like it wasn't earth shattering information. Like it even might be something you wanted to hear. 

That arm's length -- strategic and necessary. Every hint of your reciprocation -- blocked from memory. He'd convinced himself he'd hallucinated it. All of it. Every moment a dream. A cruel joke played by his subconscious. 

But he studies you now. Notes the way silver slowly lines your eyes. The way you bite the inside of your cheek. 

You're quiet. Unusual, for you. You almost seem shy. 

Haltingly, you push up on your toes. Slide your hands up to rest at the base of his throat. Instinctively, his hold on your waist stiffens. The oxygen flees his lungs. Still, he watches you. Watches you close what little distance remains.

The contact, when it comes, is a tender brush of your lips against his. Fleeting. So, very delicate. A timid question. A demure plea. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to grip you by the rear and push you up against the locker room door. 

He screams at his body to slow down. To focus. To savor the moment. To memorize the velvet feeling of you. Catalog the way you taste -- the way a warm summer day feels. And it obeys -- just barely. A telltale tremble echoes through him. 

And then -- 

"I love you too."

That restraint snaps. 

Soap deepens the kiss, finally -- finally -- opening himself up to you. Reckless. Feverish. The heady ale of your evident and savory wanting soaks him down to the bones. His limbs become jelly. His heart clambers for escape from his ribs. 

You throw it all back to him in-kind. Nails to his scalp, a bite to his lower lip, and a rogue, eager moan that reverberates through him like a wind chime. 

Thirty seconds in and you're already driving him crazy.

He does push you against the door, gently, though, keen to let you remain in control. But you don't protest. You drag him by the collar with you. 

He travels down your jaw, along the column of your throat. Has to bend his knees to reach, but it's no trouble. Hell, he'd drop to them in a heartbeat -- for you. Take a bruising or a beating. Strip down to nothing and crawl on all fours along these wet, icy tiles. Just to kiss the ones beneath your feet. 

He'd do anything. 

Anything. 

You need only ask. 

It's a funny thing, devotion. Loyalty's favorite cousin. Soap's never been one for it. 

Never a god or a gal or a game that ever really caught his fancy. Not enough to dump everything else in his life. 

Then came Ghost. And what started as a run-of-the-mill sense of duty slowly morphed into something else. Something he'd never been able to name. Or even describe. 

But you -- loving you and...watching you love him. It changed things. It changed everything. 

He breathes your name into the crook of your neck, unable to articulate anything else. You nuzzle his nose with yours. 

"Johnny."

"I...," he grinds out. "I just..."

"I know," you murmur, drawing him into another kiss. His mind spins. A colorful whirligig -- ribbons of gold and cerulean swirling 'round and 'round with unrepentant glee. 

..................................................................... Links to: Spotify Playlist Full Fic

[sakyhana13]

Excerpt without context from the Gelphie fanfiction in the style of "I need to save my girlfriend who was cursed to be a monster"

(Idea based on the fact that I'm a dumbass for witches trying to rescue and detransform their girlfriend cursed by a maniac, anyone who assistiu Dungeon Meshi knows what I'm talking about. that nobody asked for, but I need to share it or I'll explode.)

Elphaba watches Glinda sleep. It's so funny, even when she's in the form of a giant cat, with a high chance of snoring and drooling. But Glinda doesn't do that; she just sleeps quietly, with short breaths and the occasional snort. Her tail twitches happily every now and then. Elphaba wonders if, in this form, Glinda still has dreams and what she would dream about. There was a time when Elphaba knew the answer to all these hypotheses. Glinda dreamed. She dreamed big, of a life of adoration by the masses and unlimited influence. She dreamed of dinners and balls, of the burlesque life that the Emerald City had to offer.

They dreamed together, one day, of building a life in this place: Elphaba as the Wizard's apprentice, and Glinda as a socialite loved and well-liked by society. One day, Glinda dreamed of marrying Fiyero. One day, Elphaba dreamed of being like Glinda. Elphaba once dreamed of being loved and respected. But that had changed, at least for Elphaba. Ever since she left Glinda in that tower, her dream after ending the wizard's tyrannical rule had always been to one day return to her arms, at least one last time. To return to Glinda and to their dormitory, to hear the clicks of Glinda's heels hitting the floor. To Glinda's nimble, delicate fingers in her hair as they rested under their favorite tree on the Suicide Canal, while Elphaba read aloud from one of her books. Elphaba's dreams were filled with nights sharing a bed with Glinda beside her, whispering secrets and nonsense. Sometimes Elphaba would wake up smelling Glinda's perfume, as if her nose were buried in her blond curls, and the heat of her body just above hers. Elphaba didn't like to dwell on the past, or to ask silly questions, but she wondered how and when she had lost all of this. She knew the answer, but sometimes she still felt disbelief that she had lost Glinda. It wasn’t even her fault. It wasn’t even Glinda’s fault. They were just the right people at the wrong time. Always at the wrong time. Could they never exist without causing each other pain? Without hurting each other or becoming fractured? Not after Shiz.

Elphaba still remembers Glinda’s raw anger at their last meeting. She hadn’t expected the slap, hadn’t expected Glinda to hurt her. But Glinda had. Elphaba hadn’t expected to hurt her sweet girl either, but she had, because in the end, she had fought back. Her hand hadn’t touched Glinda’s face to tuck a stray strand behind her ear. No. Her hand had returned the insult in kind. It had always been that way between them, hadn’t it? Always fighting back and giving back what they had received from each other. Always trying to balance the scales. If heartbreak corrupted one heart, the other would soon follow. Just as affection in one could not blossom alone. Elphaba wonders why they were destined to this. Why were their destinies so singular, yet so rhyming? Why did Glinda's song always rhyme with hers? Why couldn't she just be alone? Why couldn't she exist with a heart of her own? Why were she and Glinda woven together in the universe, even when they were in opposition? Even when they were far apart? Why was their pain shared? Why was Glinda always following her, even when she didn't want to? Even trapped in this form where she was not remembered, where all Glinda knew was that someone had taken care of her when she was hurt. When all that was left of Elphaba in Glinda's psyche was a stranger. When they had already been so much more than that… She doesn't know how to reverse this, doesn't know how to heal her. She needed the Grimmerie to even look for a hint, a suggestion, but she also didn't want to try to use the damn book and make things worse.

[sad-scarred-sassy]

What if Elain and Lucien met before she was made – Part 2

Read part 1 here

----

Lucien Vanserra did not understand what had gotten into him.

He had become used to leading a quiet content life, but ever since seeing her, ever since touching her, something had changed. When those fawn brown eyes landed on his, he had felt stranded. Amiss. Like he had somehow lost his way, had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing with his useless, pointless life.

It wasn't that he had ever been too sure about what his life had meant to be like, ever since he lost everything he had resigned himself to serve, to fulfill his duties, to follow orders and go by. He had been content with it, had been okay with the occasional diversions he allowed himself. Not that it had been the same after Under The Mountain, all diversion essentially gone. But he had been fine with just getting by, fighting when he had to, resting when he needed to. Helping Tamlin clear up the Spring Court of the residual trash of Amarantha. He had endured harder times before and had been fine.

Until that day that one of Hybern's more playful lackeys had attacked him inadvertently and had dropped him in the only place that could be considered dangerous for a fae in the mortal lands, and he had met her. Had been saved by her.

His first thought of her had been that she was impossibly beautiful, so much so that it stunned him. That wasn't his usual opinion on any female ever. He obviously could appreciate female beauty and affections but she was the most beautiful... woman he had ever laid eyes upon and it troubled him so. He had never thought that about a female after- after Jes.

But having shoved that thought away and assessed the situation, his second thought about Elain had been that he had to protect her. It wasn't even so much of a thought but a bodily reaction he hadn't been able to rationalize. And when she hadn't shied away from him, had called his name, he thought he had never heard it sound so nicely before.

But ever since that day, ever since having felt the sudden spark at touching her small hand, and having felt the unshakeable pull of wanting his body closer to her body, having his hands on the delicate skin of her ankles, everything in his world had shifted, and Lucien, for the life of him, could not place why.

So he had ignored it as much as he could, he had busied himself, drowning in more work than he could take upon himself and had shoved those thoughts deep inside of him. What use would it make to be thinking about a human girl? A human girl he merely met once? And Feyre's sister, of all people.

He hadn't told her. Had honored Elain's wish to keep it a secret, for whatever reason. He could understand, though. Meddlesome siblings were something universal, it seemed, and it felt somehow nice to have something only he knew, a secret thing only shared with her.

But even with all the work, all the tiresome activities he subjected himself to so that he could stop thinking about her eyes, and her freckled nose, and her pouty pink lips, he could not stop seeing her in his dreams, or in random flashes when he glimpsed a rose, or a lily, or any flower, really. Living in eternal spring did nothing to help his situation.

He could swear he sometimes felt like she was calling him. He could feel it in the wind, in the smell of freshly cut grass, in the sight of the first rays of sunshine coming through his windows. It was pathetic, actually. To think a woman like her would even remember him, let alone be calling him to her. She had seemed so free, so desperately alive, he doubted he had posed any significance in her life.

He was losing his mind.

The long weeks passed and he tried to convince himself that his constant thinking of her was just an outlet for all the stress he had been accumulating, a normal response of his psyche trying to fixate in something beautiful and right, rather than the depressive reality he was shoved into. But a part of him knew it wasn't that simple, and ignoring it was resulting to be useless.

He had tried to stay away. He really did. He had tried to put her behind him. He had even gone to the village to see one of his past lovers, a headstrong but gentle female that had shared a similar need of release as him, expecting nothing more, needing nothing more. But the moment she moved her lips to his, the moment he had touched her hand in that cozy tavern they usually met at, he realized he couldn't do it, he had seen her, he had seen Elain in his mind and could not put her away. He had to apologize and leave, compelled to spend another night alone, thinking about her.

So here he was, back in the mortal lands, pacing outside her house in the dead of night under the cover of some trees surrounding her manor. Couldron boil him. He had left Spring under the pretense that he would survey the border with the human lands, Tamlin had simply agreed, and he had winnowed to where he knew she lived. But now that he was here, and somehow he could feel the closeness of her, he didn't know what to do.

He was going to leave, he had decided this was an awful idea, had turned around and prepared to winnow when a soft voice called him and made his whole body stop short.

"Lucien"

----

Elain Archeron had not been able to sleep that night, and when she had finally grown tired of rolling around in her bed, she had found herself outside in her garden, taking in the chilly night, the smell of dewy grass and jasmine bushes.

She had been thinking about him... again. Lucien, he had told her his name, and she had replayed it in her mind again and again during those long weeks. Her tongue rolling softly, only for her to hear, as if her body was involuntarily calling him. She had thought she was finally losing it.

She sat there now in one of the wooden chairs alone in her courtyard, when everyone in the manor was asleep, thinking about his broad but elegant hands, his enchanting mismatched eyes, his otherworldly beauty, one that she could not find anywhere else, one that dwarfed even Greysen's handsome face. She felt the need to roll his name on her tongue again, felt the need to chant his name as if containing it inside her might actually drive her insane.

"Lucien" She spoke softly, but the sound of his name was enough to make her blush. If anyone could hear her in that moment they would say she was definately insane, sitting in the garden talking to herself. She huffed a short laugh at how hilarious it was. A tale as old as time, the human girl enthralled by the mystical fae that probably could not care less about her insignificant existence, she was a living cliché.

She tasted his name in her lips anyway, a guilty pleasure she could not rationalize. She couldn't help but feel the rightness of it, even if she was not able to place it in any logical thought. The weeks since she had met him had not been the same, as if something in her had awoken, something she hadn't even known had been inside of her sleeping.

She was just about to stand up to go inside when a voice made her stiffen.

"Elain?"

It was low and tentative, masculine but soft. The voice she had not been able to forget through all these weeks. Her heart was hammering in her chest when she snapped her head towards the orange and apple trees surrounding her garden. She saw him then and gasped, bathing under the moonlight, a statue of a male, his long flowy hair shining in a deep red under the cool light. He was looking at her with surprise in his eye, as if he hadn't expected to find her here.

He had come. He had come back.

"Lucien" She spoke again and she could swear she saw him shudder a bit. Suddenly she felt insanely self conscious, looking down at herself in her thin nightgown and flimsy silk robe. She looked up at him again, dressed immaculately, an embroidered navy blue vest, tight cream pants and knee high brown boots. He looked impossibly regal.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" She crossed her arms around her chest, heart still beating loudly, suddenly aware of the situation, looking at her surroundings to see if there was no-one else around. She questioned what exactly he was doing here, in her home, in the dead of night. Had he finally come to steal her away like the other one had done to Feyre? Like every cautionary tale of the fae she had heard since she was a child?

"I-" He said, apparently also realizing his surroundings. "I was patrolling the border and I-" He looked down and clenched his hands awkwardly. He looked up at her again. "I'm sorry for the invasion, I was just trying to check if you... and your family, were doing alright" He said.

Something about seeing him a bit undone, this mountain of a male that exuded power, struggling with his words, made her ease a bit. The familiarity of him, even if she had just seen him once before, overtaking her, making her step up towards him, even if all logic called her to be smarter, he was a stranger after all. Why did she trust him so easily?

"You came to see if we were doing fine?" She said, cocking her head a bit as she saw him stiffen at the steps she had taken towards him.

"Yes, milady" He simply said. She couldn't help but like the way that sounded on his lips, the way it made her feel.

"Under my sister's wishes?" She asked softly, tentatively shortening the distance between them, just letting her body naturally drift towards the pull she felt.

"No" He said, watching her closely, unmoving. She could swear he was also trying not to just run towards her. Was she out of her mind? Imagining things she deep down wanted to believe?

"Under your wishes?" She asked when he didn't elaborate, and she almost laughed when he didn't even word a response, simply nodding his head and straightening when she reached him under the cover of the trees. "Why?" She asked, placing one of her hands on the tree close to her, for comfort and stability.

"These are… dangerous times" He said sharply and she could finally smell his woodsy, masculine scent again. She relished in it, the way it filled her with something she didn't know she had been missing. She noticed his own nostrils flaring, as if he too was taking in her smell in that moment. It made her feel something warm deep inside her tummy, running through her core.

"I thought you would have another reason to come by" She said, tilting her head a bit. He stared at her with those dazzling mismatched eyes and softly cleared his throat.

"Were you by any chance calling my name?" He changed subject, turning it on her and making her face grow impossibly hot. He had heard her?

"Me?" She straightened. He simply watched her with a predator's gaze. She suddenly felt impossibly bare before him.

A soft smirk crept over his lips as he noticed the aggressive blush she could assume had taken over her whole face. She averted her gaze at that, but quickly found it in herself to retaliate.

"Well, maybe I was" She held her chin up towards his towering frame. "Maybe I knew you were around and decided to summon you out of the shadows, acting as if you're some thief in the night" She said, but his smirk only grew more wicked.

"How can you be so sure I'm not some thief in the night?" He said, suddenly leaning his forearm over the same tree trunk she was pressed against. His tall frame towered over her, his smell and warmth intoxicating, filling her senses. Elain again found herself in one of the most scandalous scenarios she could think of. With a fae male leaning above her in the middle of the night, smirking at her like some fiend, eating her up with his gaze.

Her face grew hotter. In fact, her whole body did.

"Have you come to take me away, then?" She suddenly sounded more serious than she had intended. He noticed it, his face relaxing to a more serious stare, eyes suddenly lost in hers.

"Do you want me to?" He rasped, a slightly devious grin curling in the corner of his mouth again. His eyes never left hers, and for a moment she actually considered it, damn her, just simply running away from her small content life, leaving everything to go see the world, things she could only imagine, experiences she could only dream of. She realized they were still looking at each other, still breathing the same air, her chest rising and falling quickly, when she dropped her gaze and stepped out of his reach.

"Funny. Do you find me so careless as to think I would just run away with a strange fae male I just met?" She arched an eyebrow in a teasing way, although the tension between them did not subside.

"I did meet you running around barefoot in the middle of a forest" He crossed his hands behind his back and shrugged a bit. His hair was tied up, but she noticed some strands that had fallen off, moving around his chiseled face as he talked.

"Can't a lady have her moments of liberty in peace?" She crossed her arms again, diverting his intent gaze.

"By all means milady, I am sorry for assuming" He teased softly and she dared to look at him again. "I will say though, I'm usually right about spotting wild things and you-" He assessed her again, as if he could read her like a book. "You struck me as one"

"I'm not such thing" She cut him a glare, but it held no real offense.

"Aren't you?" He said with amusement in his eye and she pursed her lips.

She held his gaze for a moment, even though they were just teasing, there was an undertone of reality in his words, in his assessment of her. She was trying to find it in herself to deny it, to negate the raging feeling of wanting to see more, wanting to learn everything there was to learn. She couldn't.

"You may be right" She exhaled a breath as she turned and looked towards her garden, feeling his body heat at her side, his presence so overwhelming she was having difficulty thinking. "I'm in my courtyard, talking to a strange male in the middle of the night, any proper lady would deem this scandalous" She said.

"And what do you deem this?" He asked, she could still feel his eyes on her, it felt as if he could not, for the life of him, stop looking at her, even for a mere second.

She looked at the ground for a moment, feeling out the question, sensing her response and deciding to simply voice it.

"Exhilarating" She said not daring to look at him. Her heart thrumming in her chest again. For a moment he said nothing. The night sounds filling the air between them. She swallowed as she felt him move closer to her, sliding behind her. What would Nesta say if she knew she was having such conversations with a stranger like some scoundrel in the night? Even worse, with a seductive fae male at that, tempting her to release her wild side, something she had always kept under a tight leash. It was more than enough to make her sister see red.

"Maybe if I ask you to tell me more about yourself-" His voice was rough, breath hitting the back of her ear and neck in a way that made goosebumps rise over her skin. "Then it wouldn't be so scandalous, don't you think?" He finished, and some small, wicked part of her expected him to touch her, even if just her shoulder, her hand. She quickly shut it off.

"Could be" She breathed, turning her face slightly to glance at him. "But only if you also tell me more about yourself" She dared to say.

"What do you want to know?" She felt him lean down towards her exposed neck. His mouth so impossibly close she had to shove that thought away as well. It was one thing to engage in conversation with an interesting individual, even if it happened to be in the dead of night and had the potential of ruining her entire reputation, it was another to have such improper thoughts about them.

Even if she had to shamefully admit to herself, she had never been so attracted to anyone like this before.

"What do you do... for a living?" She asked in an effort to distract herself from that line of thought. She turned around to face him again, needing to see his face and assess him as she knew he could assess her.

"I'm a court emissary" He said, his body remaining close to her, half a step away. She took a look at him, eyes wandering from head to toe.

"Are all fae emissaries so... buff looking?" She blurted and he had to contain a laugh in order to keep quiet.

"It's not a requirement" He said, amusement still present in his face. "I do like to keep myself useful in more ways than one. Training allows me to do that" He looked down at himself following her eyes, then they both met their gazes. "Do you have a complaint about it?"

"No" She said a bit too quick to be casual, his smile broadened, she noticed he had a dimple beneath those scars in his face, and couldn't help but wonder. "How did you... get those scars?" She asked and immediately regretted it, seeing how the dimple disappeared from view, his face hesitating.

"I pissed the wrong person" He cringed a bit, but he seemed to be more concerned about her own reaction than on the memory of it. "It's not a pleasant tale, but one I could tell you some day. Now it is my turn" He said and his eyes travelled around her frame. The prospect of meeting him again in the future gave her a ridiculous flutter in her chest, one she quickly pushed aside.

"What do you enjoy doing, aside from running around in haunted forests?" He asked and she held her laugh. She moved through the trees then, in an effort to dissuade his intent focus on her, but his eyes seemed to relish on her movements, on the way her thin clothes hung from her body.

“I enjoy gardening” She said a bit shyly. “I take pride in it” She concluded, signaling towards the garden behind them. His eyes followed it, quietly contemplating her work, as if he could even see the garden in the dim light. His lips curled in a soft smile.

“That’s very impressive, lady” He said. “I shall like to take a closer look some time”

Elain had the urge to fix her hair behind her ear, not really sure of what to do with her own hands.

“What do you like to do… aside from work” She asked then, caressing her fingers through a jasmine flower blooming.

He followed her closely, watching her with amusement. “I like to lay down in nature”

“I could see that” She teased and he snorted. “What’s your favorite place to do it?” She asked.

He pondered for a moment. “There’s a stream in the court I live in. Its calm, lovely in the morning and during the night, surrounded by fireflies and white lilies”

“That sounds perfect” She said, imagining such a place.

“Would you want to see it?”

“Are you trying to steal me away, still?” She gave him a look and he laughed softly.

“Forgive me for trying” He said, casually striding in front of her, intercepting her like prey, eyes dancing with mischief under the moonlight.

She bit back her smile. “Is it far?” She found herself asking. The question had surprised him a bit, he didn’t seem to expect her to actually be considering it, and if she was honest, neither did she.

“Uhm- just a few jumps- winnows I mean” She assumed he was talking about that transportation magic he had used before.

“I see” She said, thinking about the implications of it. She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t. But she couldn’t help but be enthralled by the idea. Escaping for a night, seeing something she had never considered seeing before. Her heart hammered in her chest again.

He noticed her hesitation and tried to ease up a bit. “It was a wild proposition, milady, there’s no-“

“Let’s go” She said, determination shining on her face.

“What?”

“Take me there” She repeated, but he still looked at her like he didn’t believe her. “It’s safe right?”

“Yes…”

“And we would be back before dawn, right?”

“Yes-“

“Then take me” She said, stretching out her hand to him. He looked at her small hand. “Show me” Show me things I have never seen before.

The determination in her brown eyes must have sparked something in him, because after that he slid his broad hand around hers, and as she felt that tiny spark in their touch, the spark she had craved ever since the day in the forest, Elain felt the world collapse around them, and just like that, they were gone.

[theheartofone]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Thirty-Four

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Thirty-Four: Aragnus

All she can think of is him.

He plagues her in her sleep. Comatose and unkempt, all her body is able to do is toss and turn, drink and re-drink each memorised plane of his body.

His hands. Large and calloused and firm – in another lifetime, she really would’ve complimented them. She would’ve held her fingers over them, quietly sliding over each scar, over each section of where his skin regrew to be tougher, to be stronger, to be… better.

Oh, and the way those very hands travelled across her jaw; his rough, heavy fingers curling across her throat as he held in his own admiring breaths reserved for her. They felt firm on her skin - yet in the way they lingered, they could only be described as soft, tender almost. It was as if they were self-assured, that in that moment, she was his, and nothing could take that away from him.

His mouth. His jaw. The way he’d silently part his lips and pant out repressed breaths as he’d loom over her, and when he stared at her like he’d never seen someone so delicious as her, consumed by the lust that even the strongest men are rendered vulnerable to…well, something tore within her.

Constant dreams. Of his breath laying hot against her skin, his large back curling over her body. His shoulder blades flex as his lips near the shell of her ear. And with each pant he released into her, another wall between them broke.

Hard kisses and shivering gasps and intensely gripped at hair. Bare skin brushing against bare skin, lips crossing across lips like wind that delicately brushes through long grass.

A swell of something inside her grows as she turns in her sleep again, her psyche desperately clawing at the vision that lays before her - begging, pleading, for it not to dissolve into some man-told fiction.

It’s a constant and repetitive dream, lasting for days on end. And when Raya finally stirs from her own relentless mind, she wakes up gasping, her torso shooting up from the bed.

Raya gasps heavily, blinking confusedly within the darkness of the medical cabin. It’s silent here, the only source of noise being from her own fearful mouth that inhales all the oxygen of the room.

She feels hot – too hot, uncomfortably hot in a way that feels like her body is on fire. On fire with anger, with lust and confusion and heat, and everything in between, every single thought and feeling is relentlessly aflame.

And so, Raya makes a run for it.

Plagued by the intensity of her own blood and skin, she swings her legs over and stumbles out on the night-ridden deck, where she’s immediately slapped in the face with a gust of freezing air.

Wearing nothing but a long shirt and socks, Raya stands on the deck, shivering. A repulsive sensation of the wind mingling in with her sticky sweat irritates her even further, making her look down and curse at herself for leaving the room without putting any pants on.

But when Raya inspects the skin on her legs closely, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, a sense of dread washes over her. Because her legs aren’t just bare, no. They’re glistening, with metallic protrusions threateningly spiking out from her skin.

Since when did it grow out of her legs, too?

“You should be asleep,” a deep voice mutters out from behind her, the heaviness of his boots creaking against the wooden surface of the dock.

Raya’s heart trembles.

Because she knows whose voice that is.

Raya spins around clumsily, meeting with the face she only stopped obsessing over a few moments ago.

Her breath catches in her throat as she continues to stand stupidly in front of him - Zoro, meanwhile, tries his absolute best not to look at her legs, but his little glances downwards betray him.

“I…feel…” Raya swallows. She doesn’t know when or why she does it, but her legs automatically take a dizzy step towards Zoro. “I feel all wrong.”

She takes another step closer, taking in Zoro’s baffled furrow of his brows, his arms tightly folding against his chest as he quickly scans her over for any sign of injuries.

She stares at him. At his strong jaw, the thin scar that slits down his eye, the muscles that ripple from his neck, and the heat from within her pulsates, the sweat across her skin beading faster together in a desperate attempt to regulate herself.

Zoro clears his throat, feeling quite uncomfortable with being under her scrutinising eye. “Wrong?” He forces his gaze away from her half-naked form. “What’re you talking about?”

Raya tries her best to shrug as coolly as possible. The heat underneath her skin continues to pulsate as she roughly swallows, eyeing the muscles that run so perfectly through his arms. And, as if on their own command, her fingers raise towards Zoro’s face, gravitating towards the line of his thinly veiled scar.

“I… Everything feels so…”

Zoro gapes at her as he raises his own hand, grabbing her fingers before they reach his face. He shakes his head, unable to take his eyes off from her. “Raya… You should go back to sleep.”

"I can’t. Someone’s coming for me. I can feel it" Raya dazedly whispers, rising on the tips of her toes to reach his face. She nears his mouth, her fingers gently searching for respite in the nook of his shoulder. “But…but I…”

She can’t control herself anymore. The heat within her is too suffocating, and she needs a release more than ever.

So, softly, ever so gently, her lips lay against Zoro’s neck. Peppering his tan skin with light kisses, trailing so sensually towards his clothed chest, her voice softly muffles against his body. "But I can’t seem to care."

Zoro stands frozen in place, his mind reeling as Raya's lips press against his neck with a tender urgency that sends pleasure through his entire body. His heart pounds in his chest, his breath catching in his throat as he struggles to comprehend the sudden shift.

For a fleeting moment, he's overcome by a surge of conflicting emotions - confusion, desire, and a gnawing sense of unease that coils like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. He knows that something isn't right, that Raya isn't herself, but the intoxicating heat of her touch ignites a primal urge within him that he can't ignore.

As her soft lips trail down his neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, Zoro's resolve begins to waver. His muscles tense involuntarily, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights against the overwhelming tide of desire that threatens to consume him.

Zoro's voice emerges as a rasp, strained with a mixture of disbelief and arousal. "Tenguyama," he manages to force out, his words thick with restraint. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

In response, Raya's gaze intensifies as she searches for his eyes, her own filled with a desperate longing. With a swift movement, she pulls away from him, her breath still warm against his skin. "Are you uncomfortable?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. "I can stop."

Zoro's cheeks flush hotly, his gaze darting away from her as he struggles to find the right words. "No!" he blurts out, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "That's not... I mean, it's not about that. You're just... not yourself right now."

“But I want you,” she murmurs softly, her arms hesitantly returning to rest across his shoulders, pulling him closer. “I want you.

But just as Zoro begins to speak, his words are swallowed by a deep, guttural groan escaping his lips. Raya’s mouth electrifies his senses as her lips press against his neck - harder this time - and begins roughly sucking at his skin, sucking so desperately, that even Raya muffles out a sigh of pleasure. With each stroke of her tongue, he feels an intoxicating wave of pleasure wash over him, rendering coherent thought impossible.

“Raya,” he hoarsely mumbles. He fights to suppress a mounting groan as she responds to her name with a teasing nip at his neck.  “You’re not in the right mind—”

“Why do you never leave me alone?” Raya slurs softly against his neck. She kisses a tender spot from below his ear. “Even when I’m in a bloody coma, you’re still there. Burned into my retinas.”

With a low growl of desire, Zoro leans into Raya's touch, his hands sliding possessively over her hips as he pulls her closer. The feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine, igniting a fierce hunger within him that demands to be sated.

Before Zoro can open his mouth, a ferocious onslaught of wind consumes the sails of the ship, throwing the Sunny itself into a spinning plank of wood. Amidst the deafening roar of the tempest, all semblance of sound is devoured by the howling winds, leaving only a cacophony of chaos in its wake. With wide-eyed terror, Raya watches as the air itself seems to warp and distort, heralding the arrival of an unimaginable threat.

An enormous gasp escapes her lips as the surreal sight unfolds before her: a horde of colossal dragons descending upon them with breath-taking speed.

Each behemoth is a marvel of ferocity and power, their scales gleaming like molten gold in the pale moonlight as they carve through the tumultuous sky with deadly precision.

Zoro's hands move with practiced urgency, instinctively reaching for the comforting weight of his swords as he braces himself for the impending clash. Muscles taut with anticipation, he stands ready to defend against this otherworldly onslaught.

"What the fuck?" Zoro's voice booms above the tempest, his words swallowed by the roar of the wind. But even amidst the shock, his resolve remains unyielding, his gaze fixed on the approaching threat.

And then, Raya does the mistakeable. She locks eyes with the largest of the swarm, the darkest of the dragons.

The dragon, a towering titan among its brethren, commands the sky with a presence that defies description. Its scales, as dark as the abyss itself, seem to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it, giving the creature an aura of ominous power. Each movement is fluid yet purposeful, its sinewy form twisting and coiling with a grace that belies its immense size.

As it descends upon the ship with lethal intent, the dragon's eyes burn with an intensity that pierces through the chaos like twin beacons of malevolence.

It is her, his voice rings in her mind.

Raya staggers backward, overwhelmed by the sudden intrusion into her mind. The dragons' voices reverberate within her skull, sending shockwaves of pain rippling through her consciousness. She clutches her head, her nails digging into her scalp as she struggles to block out the cacophony of voices assaulting her senses.

Another dragon swoops into her vision with a huff from his snout, almost as if sneering at her. She does not smell strong, Aragnus. Perhaps old age is catching up to your snout.

The large dragon roars furiously in response, his large, wet eyes narrowing at his red brother.

Do not ridicule me, smallthing! He thunders out loud in Raya’s mind, making her scream out in pain, desperately clawing at her ears to make it stop. Her talons do not lie.

Speak with the human, Aragunus, a feminine voice huffs out. With each of its exhale, plumes of smoke and flame billow forth, painting the night sky with a searing glow of impatience. She seems to be in pain.

"What are you doing?" Zoro yells, staring at Raya who’s gripping at her head in complete terror. “Grab a weapon, already!”

But Raya shakes her head, her eyes never leaving the dark behemoth that soars overhead. “No,” she whispers, her voice barely audible above the roar of the wind. “No. They’re here for me.”