#she is not keen to having things put inher face
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Reports scramble around the popstar diva, crews pointing their cameras at her, photographers taking picture after picture, flashes filling the air.
"Ms. Evelynn!" "Excuse me—" "Would you be interested in an exclusive int..." "Are you dating anyone?!" Someone manages to stick a microphone in her face after shoving aside many other media company representatives. "The diva of K/DA herself! You usually have other members with you. Tell us, is the band planning another release anytime soon? It's been years since your EP was put out. Or maybe you're planning a solo album?!"
Really, all Evelynn wanted to do was take a nice stroll around the city, basking in the night for the very reason to avoid paparazzi. Lucky, evidently, isn't on her side and it's not long before people flock to her. Certainly not the first time, nor the last, as these humans never learned.
Bombarding questions, most don't reach her ears, but she nearly has the mind to scream 'YES' at the inquiry of her relationship status. How many times now has she answered this questions for the spineless men not quite understand?!
Evelynn barely masks utter disgust at the microphone shoved in her face, a dignified sigh as she pushes it back. Brows soon furrow at the question ( and the truth, she is normally accompanied with Akali ), glancing back to the coward who eagerly awaits her answer.
"The rest of the band is busy tonight," she says calmly ( it's a lie, she just needed some fresh air ), she takes a step back then, arms folding across her chest. "I do think Ahri would have my head if I gave away too many details, darling. However we are all very hard at work currently."
"There's no solo album, I've no need. K/DA is where I belong." It's her only home. "My only work has been some idle fashion work and the collab I did with Sona."
#» WHO DOES A GIRL HAVE TO KILL TO START ANOTHER RUNE WAR? ( ASK )#Anonymous#» HATE AND LOVE ARE JUST TWO WORDS FOR PASSION ( IC )#» V. { KDA }#Eve real close to being not so kind to that reproter#she is not keen to having things put inher face#i couldnt tell if this was in relation to the meme i reblogged
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❝𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢.❞
harumasa x afab!reader
genre/warnings: suggestive, nsfw mentions, he’s just a boy loser guys idk what you want me to say
summary: you are order, and he is chaos. He thinks you’re his type, and you think he deserves a good tease for the trouble he’s caused you.
wc: 1.8k
Asaba Harumasa was convinced that Deputy Chief Tsukishiro had made up her mind to finally put an end to his existence.
Now sure he liked to skimp on his paperwork every now and then, or call out sick for multiple days in a row, or do whatever he could to clock out early, or fall asleep at his desk (all things he firmly understands don’t help his case), but this? Convincing the Chief to let her handpick an “executive assistant” to run the Section 6 office like a real prison? He was sure it violated some law against war crimes and torture.
You were everything his existence in the unit contradicted and he knew it from the moment you stepped through the doors of their suite in a perfectly pressed skirt suit and a terrifyingly cool expression on your face.
It was like Yanagi spawned a twin of herself, one that’s sole purpose was to work every kink in the system out by force and relieve the paperwork load so effectively that even the dedicated Deputy Chief was able to clock out of work on time. Your critique was swift and harsh, and the execution of your corrections to the administrative side of their work just as damning. Within a week the sound of your heels clicking on the tiles was enough to draw a fear response out of him and Soukaku (though she was spared more of your wrath and gained your affections, further solidifying his theory that you are yanagi’s more evil twin).
You were order. You were dependable. You were the warden of a paper prison that ruled with an iron fist.
And you were totally his type.
He didn’t even realize it in the beginning, after all, you were like a monster from one of his nightmares. Very little slipped past your keen eye, forcing him into the submission of not cutting corners and actually doing his job. You were particularly hard on him, but he had to contribute most of that to the fact that he resisted the change as long as he could before he lived in fear of the snap of a folder of incorrect paperwork back onto his desk and a disapproving glare on your face.
Maybe it was the fact that you were never inherently mean about things too. You were very fair and worked diligently to boost morale, he couldn’t count the times you footed the bill for drinks after a big mission, and you always offered praise for improvements. You had everyone’s coffee order memorized too, everyone coming into the office bright and early to a hot coffee or tea of their preference already on their desks next to a neatly printed agenda customized to their schedules. Oh, and those tight little skirts you wore over your sheer stockings certainly didn’t help him to not like you, but that was neither here nor there.
The first to arrive and the last to leave, your dedication pretty much knew no bounds, and that’s exactly how he ended up in the position he was in now.
He had made it through his night shift by the grace of whatever powers existed in the universe, and promptly crashed on the sectional tucked into the corner of the office, choosing not to expend the energy to walk back to his apartment when he would have to be at the office first thing in the morning for a big meeting anyways. The plan was to wake up early enough to hit one of the locker room showers to freshen up and get himself looking half decent.
The plan died immediately upon him snoozing his first alarm. Then it shriveled a little more with the second snooze. The third snooze was him digging the plan up to kill it again. By the fourth time he was basically dancing on the grave of his plan and digging his own grave while he was at it, because there was no plan conceived that involved you showing up early.
It was muscle memory triggered by the click of your heels as you entered the suite that shocked him out of sleep as he practically rocketed upright with bleary eyes and a sleep muddled brain struggling to catch up with his body’s dramatic response. It was enough that you fully paused in your tracks, coffee cup hovering millimeters from your lips as you eyed him with thinly veiled confusion.
“Good morning, Mr. Harumasa.”
“Good morning, Miss (y/n).” He yawned out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted into the bright office lights.
While you found it humorous to watch the wheels in his brain slowly begin to turn in real time, the brutal hand of time waited for no one and you were nothing if not punctual. Your lips quirked momentarily as you checked the time, eyes darting from your dainty wristwatch back to your dear newly awakened coworker.
Asaba Harumasa’s lack of care for the precision of his work uniform was a hill you had chosen not to die on from the very beginning. You weren’t the dress code police after all, and he wasn’t so dramatically out of regulation that it irked you or anything like that. Most days. But today wasn’t most days, because most days you had a solid hour of silence to prepare for your day, and he would saunter in fashionably late, pass you some lame pickup line, then slink back to his desk where he promptly assumed the look of a kicked puppy until his paperwork was done and he could leave. He had been so methodical about this routine that this disturbance almost took you by surprise.
Almost.
It did bring you a new challenge however. He looked like a total wreck. His hair was matted on one side while the other dramatically cowlicked out in three directions, there were sleep marks on the side of his face from the couch upholstery, his tie was loosely hanging on to one side just pinned enough by his rumpled collar that it hadn’t fully fallen off, his shirt was wrinkled to high heavens and unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a very well sculpted chest, and were those the outline of abs you were seeing—?
You cleared your throat as you averted your eyes, thanking your lucky stars that he was still half clinging to this side of reality. How embarrassing it would have been to be caught practically ogling his body like some degenerate teenager! You are not one to stare, let alone ogle. It was completely uncharacteristic, you were a dedicated administrative assistant after all, you were immune to anything that threatened the routine flow of your workplace.
Right?
Right. Your carefully crafted defenses had not failed you, and it was simply an undiagnosed heart condition that had rendered you breathless every morning for the past three months as you locked yourself in a stall in the women’s bathroom to calm the hot flush that burned your cheeks and the thundering of your heart behind your ribs at the coy tone of his voice as he hammered you with another pick up line before walking away like nothing ever happened.
This was simply a new hurdle to your morning. Nothing more, nothing less, and you had a duty to perform on the behalf of your entire section to ensure the morning went off without a hitch. Definitely no ulterior motives.
You sighed heavily as you set your coffee and bag down on the edge of his desk before propping yourself upon the flat surface, a hand coming down to tap it impatiently.
“You look like a wreck. Come here, Asaba.”
If hearing his surname fall from your pretty painted lips wasn’t a wake up call for his brain enough, the sight of you in all your glory seated upon his desk certainly was. He practically scurried from his spot on the couch to you as if efficiency was going to save him from the wrath of the office warden, electrifying eyes dancing nervously as he attempted to readjust his tie.
“Take it easy on me boss, I had a long night and—,” he never finished his thought as your manicured nails wrapped around his tie, yanking him forward till his hands braced against the desk on either side of you, caging you between him and his own designated workspace.
This close and he could smell the pretty floral undertones of your perfume as he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes blown wide compared to your own ever-cool expression. You met his gaze, stifling the smirk that threatened your lips.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Harumasa? Not feeling chatty this morning?” You pressed, your thighs parting just enough to slot his body between them.
He really hoped there was a merciful god out there somewhere that was orchestrating all of this, cause he was feeling so damn tired but he was ready to die a happy man between your thighs if you’d let him. He swore your skirt had to be a little shorter today ‘cause how else was that lace edge of your stockings peeking out from under the hem of your skirt? If you slid your leg up a little higher he’s sure he’d get a peek of your pretty thigh fat bulging over the edge of the elastic band snuggly bound around your upper thigh.
His fingers twitched as he felt his blood run south at the very thought, catalyzed by the way you leaned in so close, hands running from his chest to his waistband in a sinfully slow manner.
“Oh, don’t tell me no one’s ever…,” your tone was sultry as your breath tickled his ear, your fingers latching around his buckle as you slid your body closer to the edge of the desk, feeling him shudder as he failed to stifle a nervous squeak.
“Helped you get ready?”
He would love to say that he pinned you to his desk and gave you exactly what you were asking for, that he kissed you stupid as he wrestled that damn skirt up just high enough to press aside those lace panties he just knows you love and sink into your pretty cunt and make you beg for him. That your nails left a burning impression down his back that seared his skin as perfectly as the hot kisses that stained the column of his neck every shade of your favorite lipstick. That the office of Section 6 sounded more like a filthy wet dream straight from a porno than a sterile work environment, and that he would never be able to look at his desk without remembering how pretty you looked bent over it crying for him.
There’s a lottttt of things he would love to say. At this point mostly profanities as he blinked stupidly back at you, your hands busy as you neatly fastened his tie all the way up to the base of his throat, his shirt now perfectly tucked and buttoned as well.
You hummed in satisfaction at your work, hands bracing his shoulders as you guided him away from his desk so you could slide gracefully off it yourself, pausing just to smooth your skirt.
“See, isn’t that better?” You said with pride, swiping up your coffee cup as you took a sip, marching to your little desk in the corner as if nothing had ever transpired.
“Now go fix your hair and get ready for the meeting, the others should be arriving soon.” You called over your shoulder, never looking back in fear of your expression cracking at how bewildered he looked.
Oh, he would certainly be fixing something in the bathroom, but his hair was the least of his concerns right now.
Rey 2024, crossposted to ao3
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In short, mis/uninformed counselors are the WORST to talk to
Gonna vent here, so probably Don't read if you're in a bad headspace, and also don't read if you hate reading, because this is a long, long, long post. Specific CW: discussion of fusion and dormancy in plurality/DID
Okay, SO. Recently, I've begun seeing a new therapist (he's great btw, he's not the one I'm venting about). Thing is, he wanted me to have an updated psych eval done at the place he is working at. Which, okay, I guess it's good to stay on top of potentially relevant issues, so I agreed to do it.
A week later, I walk into the eval, and I say to myself, "Oh, no, it's this bitch."
Bit of backstory: I've been evaluated at this place before. Now, I say "evaluated", but really, they just put me in a room with this counselor, gave me two hours to talk about my difficulties and traumas, and sent me on my way. Now, I'm no therapist, but I've had a previous evaluation elsewhere and I've heard enough about them that I... don't think that's how they're supposed to be done usually. But hey, I could be wrong.
They diagnosed me with some things that I expected... and then I read the diagnosis of schizotypal personality disorder. A disorder caused by "magical thinking" that may cause difficulty in interacting with people and the world. And I go, "What the fuck," because if I have magical thinking, it's certainly news to me, my mom, my dad, and EVERYONE I HAVE EVER SPOKEN TO SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME. And she goes "Yeah, I didn't really know what to diagnose you with, so me and my colleague just kinda threw you under this one" (which also effectively cancels out my autism diagnosis, one I am pretty sure is accurate. thank you, (counselor).)
End of backstory!
Now, I obviously knew this would go badly, just based on past experience. But I wasn't prepared for how badly.
For years now, I have theorized that I am plural in some way. There seems to be distinct and separate states of consciousness that exist within my brain. Each of us have our own names, opinions, internal appearance, internal and external voices, and sometimes memories. I have no idea if my plurality is disordered, or what disorder it would fit under, but I'm 99% sure we are plural.
The eval goes okay at first, just the usual questions about self-confidence and anxiety. And then she brings up the "others" that I had told her about in the last eval.
I go, "oh, yeah, that's developed a lot since last time. We've discovered (number) distinct identities"
and she goes "hmm... do you think you have Dissociative Identity Disorder?"
My heart drops. if you've ever had a doctor or therapist ask you something like this before, you probably know the feeling. I'd just been handed a metaphorical gun, and the only targets are my left foot and my right.
Of course, to hopefully soften the blow, I say, "I think it's a possibility".
She explains how DID is formed, which yeah, I knew that, but I'd rather not risk her taking that as a personal insult. And she says that the goal for treatment is to merge the parts into one.
Everything internally descends into chaos. Many of us are very scared of the prospect of fusing, especially the younger ones. Personally, I could care less whether I ever fuse with another headmate or not, but I'm not keen on forcing the solution upon anyone unwilling.
I bring up the idea of functional multiplicity to her, and she goes "but why can't you just be one person?"
Palm, meet face.
She continues insisting upon the idea that any type of multiplicity is a disorder that must be "fixed", and I continue to raise the question, how is plurality inherently bad? Of course, she does not listen or answer my question, because all hail the mighty therapist who knows all.
(She also ended up influencing my mom into believing plurality is inherently bad, and now my mom thinks I can't live in the real world unless I fuse. Thank you, (counselor) and mother.)
Multiple headmates, including me, had a breakdown after the appointment (which was only an hour long, which, again, I'm not a therapist, but I don't think that's enough time to do a psych eval) to the point where one considered putting himself in PERMANENT DORMANCY so he wouldn't have to deal with this and we wouldn't have to deal with him (dw, he's still here and doing much better)
Anyway, how was your Halloween? /lh
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Quinlan and the Interdimensional Ingenues (except not really)
Context: SW Suddenly Omegaverse AU (Original Post), Interior Design (Nesting Divots), Chrono Rating: T+ Relationships: Anakin & Obi-Wan, Quinlan/Obi-Wan
This is like 90% cuddles and scenting that’s a few steps to the side of a/b/o standard. There is a lot of non-sexual licking. It’s a little odd, but I’m assuming that’s what you’re here for. It’s also over 5k words, so, you know. There’s that.
Note: “Ternary” is to the number three as “binary” is to the number two. Binary gender/sex refers to IRL male/female distinctions, and ternary refers to alpha/beta/omega. Gender and sex are much more complicated than is touched on in this particular fic, and trans identities exist within both the binary system and the ternary system. (More notes at end.)
-----
“Sorry to tell you this,” Quinlan says, sliding into the room as quickly as he can, “but we can smell omega distress from several rooms down the hall. What the hell is going on?”
“We’ve having a lot of feelings,” Kenobi says drily. He’s on the couch, looking damnably normal, and Skywalker’s got his face shoved into his master’s neck. Kenobi’s fingers card through the curls, and it’s... well, it would be easy to tell which of them was having said feelings even if Quinlan hadn’t already been able to tell them apart in scent.
“I’m distraught,” Skywalker moans, mushing himself somehow closer.
Kenobi’s eyes go to the ceiling, and he visibly prays to the Force for patience. “I know, Anakin.”
“You think I’m being dumb.”
“I think you’ve had a few months to prepare for this, but that your reaction is understandable nevertheless,” Kenobi says carefully. “Quinlan, would you like to take a seat?”
He hops the back of an armchair in a way that earns him a long-suffering, fond sigh. Quinlan grins encouragingly. “So, do I get to know what this is about?”
“I’m having trouble keeping it out of the Force, but at least I can do that,” Skywalker mutters. He does not lift his head. “I can’t control the scent stuff.”
“Yeah,” Quinlan says, because he’s not sure what else to say. “Do you want me to go get Tano? Might make you feel better.”
Skywalker just whines, high and pained, and tries to curl impossibly closer to Kenobi.
“Anakin,” Kenobi tries. “Anakin, do you want me to explain?”
“I want my--” Skywalker cuts himself off with a choking noise, and then keens. It’s a very omega noise, in the sense that his vocal cords can make it, and non-omegas have trouble mimicking it, and it makes Quinlan want to go over and do his best to fix things in whatever way he can.
(This, everyone is finding, is the truly awkward element to having Skywalker and Kenobi around. They don’t have any experience with controlling their ternary sex instincts, and it makes everyone else react poorly when they do, well, almost anything. They can’t be blamed, considering exactly how inconvenient this is for them, as well, but it’s not a great time for anyone.)
Quinlan tries to keep his own scent pleasant and calm, as soothing as he can make it through the blockers. He doesn’t think it works. “Your what?”
“His wife,” Kenobi says. “Because apparently that was the other way he broke the Code.”
“I looked her up,” Skywalker moans, dramatic as anyone. “She’s already mated and married, in this timeline. To that artist. She’s totally happy and she’s never met me and I’m never gonna be able to work with or around her because I won’t be able to act normal about it and I miss her.”
‘A lot of feelings‘ Kenobi mouths at Quinlan over Skywalker’s head.
“Well, at least it explains the position you’re in,” Quinlan tries to joke. The blank look he gets from Kenobi tells him clearly that the joke didn’t land. “Uh, scenting at the neck like that.”
“Inappropriate?” Kenobi hazards a guess. He doesn’t pull Skywalker away.
“Sort of,” Quinlan says. “You’re family, or as good as, so between that and the need for comfort, nobody’s really going to judge you for it, especially given your backgrounds, but that kind of prolonged neck-scenting for comfort is something kids outgrow in pre-adolescence. It’s only really used for either comfort for extreme emotions, like this, or, uh, between lovers. Post-coital, or during foreplay before, you know, mouths get involved.”
Kenobi grimaces. “Lovely. And what do you mean by ‘of our backgrounds’ in this case? That we have less control, or another factor?”
He doesn’t sound offended. Quinlan appreciates that. “You didn’t have ten years to get that comfort. It’s like... touch starvation, but for scenting. Anyone who knows what’s going on with you, even in the vague sense that doesn’t involve dimensional travel, is going to give you leeway on scenting because you didn’t have that, growing up.”
Kenobi’s grimace doesn’t go away until Skywalker’s breath hitches, hand curling in his master’s robes. “Anakin?”
“I don’t like feeling like this,” Skywalker mutters. “It sucks.”
“I know.”
“And we can’t delay the war much longer, and she was one of the only reasons I stayed even kinda sane through it.”
“I know, Anakin,” Kenobi sighs, running a hand through Skywalker’s hair and, awkwardly as anything, pressing a small kiss to the young man’s forehead. “You’ll have other ways to de-stress this time around. Maybe you’ll actually attend your meditative retreats.”
Skywalker huffs out a breath, in a laugh wet with what might be burgeoning tears. “Shut up.”
“I think you’ve known me far too long to think I’ll ever run out of words,” Kenobi says. He meets Quinlan’s eyes again, but before either of them can communicate about whether Quinlan should leave, Skywalker lurches to his feet, muttering something about a shower.
He’s gone before Kenobi can get more than two words out, and the man is left looking ruffled and confused by his former padawan’s sudden departure. He stays watching the door, and slowly wilts in a way that doesn’t speak well for his state of mind. The man sighs and drops his head into his hands, cradling it with his elbows on his knees, and whatever calm he’d had fades into pure stress, the air curdling with the smell of it.
Quinlan waits, unsure of how to handle this; Kenobi’s Quinlan Vos probably would have known how to deal with the change.
“What am I doing?” Kenobi breathes out, the words almost inaudible from behind his hands.
There are a few moments for Quinlan to consider the many complications and ramifications of getting involved, and then he decides to do so anyway. He stands up and steps around the caff table, and sits down next to Kenobi. He wraps an arm around the man’s shoulders, and brings him in close.
“You don’t have to do this,” Kenobi says, though he makes no move to pull away. “I know you don’t... this is just an obligation. The Council assigned you to gather information and keep an eye out for us in terms of the whole omega thing, since you already shared my heat, and... I know I’m not a friend to you. You barely know me, and the fact that you have to look out for me is something that truly grates. Such care shouldn’t...”
Quinlan waits for him to finish, but he doesn’t.
“I won’t say that they didn’t give me that assignment, because that would be a lie and you’d know it,” Quinlan says. “But I do want to be friends with you. We’re sort of there, already, even if that’s mostly you knowing my other self, and my psychometry, but I’ve seen what a friendship with you could be like, in what you let me see. We’ll never have that same dynamic, because I didn’t grow up with you, and the ternary sex adds an element that changes things, but I do want to be your friend.”
He hesitates, unsure if the rest will make things worse or better, but says it anyway. “As for taking care of you, looking out for you... I do feel a need to do that on an instinctual level, yes, but I can ignore it. It’s an instinct, but one that I, like everyone else that’s grown up as a human or near human in this galaxy, can work around. I am doing more than the minimum the Council requested, and it’s because I do actually like you as a person, and want to know you better.”
Kenobi’s head is resting on his shoulder by this point, tired and heavy, and Quinlan reaches up to brush his knuckles against the beard without looking. His blockers are still keeping his scent down, but the contact seems to make Kenobi relax more. His hands are mostly laced together, and falling into the dip between their legs.
“There’s a way I can help, but it’s, ah... not inherently sexual in nature, but generally only done by those whose relationship is already some degree of sexual,” Quinlan tells him. “To make you feel better, less stressed.”
“I’m assuming you’re not suggesting an orgasm,” Kenobi mutters, dry as anything. He laughs when Quinlan puts a hand on his knee.
“Not exactly feeling it,” Quinlan agrees. He squeezes Kenobi’s knee, and then says, “No, it’s mostly scenting in a way that’s usually only done by lovers; it’s more effective, but very intimate in a way many find uncomfortably sexual, because the amount of tongue involved is very reminiscent of foreplay.”
Kenobi laughs, a little harder, and nuzzles a little. He doesn’t seem aware of the fact that he’s doing it. “Alright, then.”
“I’d also suggest moving to one of the nests,” Quinlan says, and Kenobi immediately freezes. He gives it a moment, and then says, “I know you found it helpful after your heat, Kenobi. The nesting instinct is human here. It’s not shameful. There are people who don’t get anything out of it, but I’ve seen you nesting, and it’s good for you.”
Kenobi shudders and Quinlan thinks he might be fighting down a whine. “It’s a change, Quin. I mean, Quinlan. It’s... it’s just another thing out of many that’s different.”
“And one of the few you have control over?” Quinlan guesses. He tries to purr for support when Kenobi nods against his shoulder, and he thinks the deep rumble is soothing to Kenobi. “I get that.”
“Don’t stop,” Kenobi mutters, and Quinlan can guess he’s blushing about it.
“Into the nest,” Quinlan mutters. “It’ll help convince Skywalker to use it, and he really needs that kind of comfort.”
That’s the line of logic that actually works, and Quinlan isn’t the least bit surprised.
“Fine,” Kenobi sighs, and gets to his feet before Quinlan can offer to carry him or something similarly joking. The man walks to the communal nest at the edge of the room, and then looks down into the barely-used mess of blankets and pillows in the floor divot like he doesn’t even know how to get in.
Quinlan thinks there might be dust, even.
Fine. He can work with that. He’s taken this duo on as a project of his own free will, and he’s damn well going to follow through.
“Want to rearrange it?” he asks, in hopes that he can prompt Kenobi into figuring out what’s wrong.
“I don’t... know,” Kenobi says, frowning in a way that’s more worried and uncomfortable than angry. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Quinlan considers it, thinks of how the dust means nobody’s been here, that there’s not even a hint of scent, and then turns and grabs the throw pillows and thick, woven blanket from the couch.
“Wait,” Kenobi protests. “They don’t--”
“We can put them back later,” Quinlan assures him. He holds them out to Kenobi. “Trust me? I may not be an omega, but I do know enough of the theory.”
Kenobi takes the pillows and the blanket, stares down at them and then at the nest, and steps out of his slippers and into the nest. The layer already there is thin, and likely not doing much for anyone, but it’s the bare minimum and Quinlan can work with that.
He turns and scouts the room for spare fabrics, grabs all three of the outer robes from where they hang by the door, and the recently-used dishtowel that only barely carries Skywalker’s scent, and brings them to Kenobi.
“The robes aren’t clean!” Kenobi protests.
“I could grab something from your room instead,” Quinlan says. “Or you could just leave the hems on the outside. But you need more fabric that actually smells like someone.”
Quinlan wonders, idly, if Kenobi would have this kind of reaction to the suggestion without omega instincts at play, or if it’s just the instincts and he doesn’t realize, or maybe that he’s decided to let the instincts happen since Quinlan’s pushed him into nesting already anyway. The man had insisted in perfectly pressing his robes from the beginning, long before their bodies had had a chance to change, and Skywalker had found it normal, so it’s probably, at least a little, just the man’s personality. It probably doesn’t matter, overall, because all Quinlan has to do is sit at the edge of the nest until Kenobi--the person who actually lives here--is done arranging things.
Quinlan takes off another two layers and offers them, noting out loud that he can get them back later when Skywalker can fill in the gaps or something before too many protests can be voiced. Kenobi hesitantly takes them and tucks them in among his own additional layers. Quinlan’s seen enough communal nests to know that most of the placements are odd and not going to work out long-term, but that’s not the point right now. The point is getting Kenobi to recognize the his body, and more importantly, his mental health, rely at least somewhat on nesting now.
“Are you going to come in?” Kenobi asks, belatedly realizing Quinlan’s still outside the lip of the flooring divot.
“Not without permission,” Quinlan says, and sees the realization flicker in.
Kenobi holds out a hand, silent, and Quinlan lets himself get tugged in among the half-stale, half-new nest. It’s not great, but that’ll come with practice. He tucks himself around Kenobi, and rubs at the man’s arms in an attempt to ease some of the tension that’s clinging to every line of his body.
“What now?” Kenobi asks, just a shade more quiet than Quinlan thinks is really required by the situation.
“A lot of the stress you’re feeling is a feedback loop from being covered in your own distress scent,” Quinlan says. “You can shower to handle that, which is what Skywalker is doing, or you can manually remove it.”
“I’d imagine a wet towel,” Kenobi says, a touch wry, “but given that you mentioned tongue earlier, I’m guessing you intend to lick it away?”
“It’s more effective,” Quinlan admits. “Not at removing the scent, necessarily, but it removes enough to help while also generating comfort and relaxation hormones from the close contact, and being scented by a trusted individual.”
“Makes sense,” Kenobi admits. “You, ah, use scent blockers usually, right? Can you, er, scent me?”
Quinlan can see just how much Kenobi dislikes using the words. He tries to keep it quick. “I use a cream blocker over my scent glands, namely at the neck and wrists, since the rest are covered in fabric. It’s... well, it can be wiped off, or also removed orally. Most manually-applied blockers are formulated to be safe for contact with the mouth or genitals. Only really gets to be a problem if there are rare allergies or with specific species. It doesn’t taste like anything, if that matters.”
Kenobi’s discomfort is almost palpable, but Quinlan lets him work through that. This isn’t really something he can make a choice for Kenobi about, and the discomfort is... well, it’s not really the kind of discomfort usually associated with ternary sex and associated behaviors. Everything���s just very new, and comes with changes to the body that Kenobi never agreed to.
“Right,” Kenobi says. “I want to... to at least try it, I think.”
He turns and blushes, eyes anywhere by Quinlan’s face. “I don’t know how much longer Anakin will be. I’d rather he not think we’re, er...”
“Then I’ll take care of that part fast,” Quinlan promises, and is rewarded by Kenobi offering a wrist.
It’s... not sexual. Quinlan knows he has a hard time explaining this to near-humans that don’t have the scent glands, that don’t have the ternary dynamics. He’s had a similarly hard time explaining it to Kenobi and Skywalker. It’s not sexual, just intimate, when he pulls Kenobi’s wrist to his face, closes his eyes, and breathes in the scent of a distressed, uncomfortable, bitter omega that he’s shared a heat with and knows as almost-friend. The smell, this close and this strong, triggers the production of pheromones of his own, and when he feels Kenobi tentatively start pressing kisses to Quinlan’s own wrist, he relaxes. He brushes his lips against Kenobi’s wrist, and then puts his open mouth to it, the slightest press of teeth and his tongue laving across the skin. He hears Kenobi’s gasp, an almost-yelp, and pulls away long enough to press a kiss the the veins under his lips, and to say, “Relax, Kenobi.”
He forces a purr out, low and rumbling, and feels it work on Kenobi just like it did earlier. There’s a tongue pulling, a little dry, to rub away the blocker on the inside of his wrist, and he turns his attention back to Kenobi’s. The scent is even stronger on his tongue, bitter and unhappy, and his body continues to produce calm and comfort as he pulls away the uglier feelings painted on Kenobi’s skin.
More pheromones leak under his mouth, but less bitter. Less intense. He does what he can, opens his eyes and turns and sees that Kenobi is unduly focused on his wrist, mouthing and not quite purring, but oddly fuzzy in the Force. His eyes are closed, but Quinlan’s pretty sure they’d be glazed if not.
“Kenobi?”
“Hm?”
“Guess you haven’t encountered this outside of a heat before,” Quinlan mutters. He shakes his arm a bit, and puts his other hand on Kenobi’s shoulder. “Kenobi, hey, look at me?”
Kenobi pulls away, blinking, and then makes a face. “That...”
“Didn’t like losing control?” Quinlan guesses. The answer is clear enough. “It’s a matter of practice, especially for you.”
“Why did I... it smelled and tasted like... like I was safe,” Kenobi mutters lowly, eyes on the nest instead of on Quinlan. “I’ve never associated any sense with safety other than the Force.”
“You trust me,” Quinlan says, as if that’s not a little terrifying in its own way. He already knew that Kenobi trusted him, but he thinks that this strong of a reaction might make him Kenobi’s most trusted person after Skywalker and maybe Tano. “And since you trust me, your body subconsciously takes cues from mine, when it comes to pheromones. I project comfort and safety, and your body takes it as... not fact, but affirmation.”
“So I won’t react to anyone like this,” Kenobi says, not quite begging for Quinlan to confirm, but close to it. “Just you, and... does that same logic apply to those who aren’t Alpha designation?”
“Yeah,” Quinlan says. “Not in the same way, but familiarity and trust does affect which pheromones affect you, and how strongly. Children are largely unresponsive to aggression pheromones from their parents, by default, since their minds process it as aggression in defense of them, rather than aggression at them.”
Kenobi purses his lips, but nods and looks at Quinlan’s other wrist. “Moving on?”
“If you’re okay with it,” Quinlan says, but he brings his cleaned wrist to Kenobi’s and rubs them together until his own comfort scent is covering up what’s left of the distress. “Take a smell at that and see how you feel.”
Kenobi eyes him warily--he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to deserve that, but allows it because, well, Kenobi--and sniffs at his own wrist. His brow furrows in confusion, and he sniffs again.
“Good?” Quinlan hazards.
“I... yeah,” Kenobi says. He sounds as confused as he looks. “I like it. It’s... the safe thing, again, but mixing with me?”
“That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” Quinlan assures him. “Other wrist?”
If he were actually the friend that Kenobi had grown up with, if he’d actually had a Kenobi to grow up with, he thinks he might have thrown in a few joking pet names by now.
But he’s not, and they didn’t, so he won’t.
He thinks he hears Skywalker finish up in the shower, but Kenobi pulls his mouth to the neck, and mutters that they have some time while Skywalker does something to his hair. Apparently, there are products needed for those curls.
The angle’s going to be a little uncomfortable if they try to get at each other’s scent glands simultaneously, so Quinlan suggests that Kenobi handle getting the blocker off first.
“Why?”
“More convenient,” Quinlan says, and then clasps Kenobi’s hands so their wrists rub together. He squeezes, just a little, a touch of reassurance, and smiles and tilts his head. “All yours, Kenobi.”
The man smiles, brittle, and almost giggles. Maybe Quinlan was doing something oddly similar to his counterpart from Kenobi’s dimension. Maybe it was an inside joke he didn’t know. It doesn’t matter, because Kenobi’s leaning in and mouthing along Quinlan’s neck and throat like a man possessed a half-second later.
Quinlan closes his eyes and threads a hand into Kenobi’s hair, focuses on warmth and comfort and protection, rather than anything aroused. Kenobi slows down, lapping at Quinlan’s neck and inhaling, and in the Force he radiates confusion.
“That’s it,” Quinlan mutters, and Kenobi makes a low chirruping noise that he immediately stifles with an annoyed huff. “Hey, no, those are normal. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
“I want control over my own body, Quin,” Kenobi mutters, and switches to the other side. He rubs his face against Quinlan’s neck, and it’s another point on the list of things Kenobi does that he might not realize are based in newer instincts. “I don’t like something being wrong with me, and not understanding what it is.”
“Nothing is wrong with you,” Quinlan mutters, using the hand in Kenobi’s hair to guide him into actually removing the scent blocker instead of donating a case of beard burn. “Even going as fast as you did just now wasn’t something wrong. Your instincts got a bit confused, that’s all. You’re fine.”
He purrs until Kenobi is done, and gets that chirruping noise again. Kenobi’s still annoyed about it, but Quinlan’s just happy he’s getting less uncomfortable about it.
“Okay, sit up and turn around,” Quinlan says, and Kenobi eyes him again. “Have I steered you wrong yet?”
“No.”
“So trust me,” Quinlan urges. “Just turn around.”
Kenobi does. Quinlan sits up and rearranges his legs so there’s one on either side of Kenobi, half-bent. He pulls the other man closer, blankets folding oddly beneath them, and wraps his arms around Kenobi’s waist.
He breathes for a moment, chin hooked over Kenobi’s shoulder, and asks, “Good?”
“Oddly so, yes,” Kenobi mutters. He might be blushing. “Er, should I... do anything?”
“Hands on mine, if you’d like,” Quinlan tells him. “We can lie back down and spoon after I clean up your left.”
The noise Kenobi makes is low, affronted in a way that speaks to his ongoing embarrassment. Quinlan ignores it, just gets to work taking away as much of Kenobi’s stress scent as he can, mouthing along the man’s neck and managing a purr that isn’t even forced. It rumbles out of him unprompted, his hindbrain piecing together the relaxing omega in his lap and the safety of the Temple and the pride he’s got in doing this right, the knowledge that Kenobi’s happier than he was an hour ago and it’s all Quinlan’s doing.
He rubs his face along Kenobi’s neck as he finishes up, scenting and being scented back, and is gratified when Kenobi starts purring too. The nuzzling is mostly soft, though Quinlan’s stubble is nothing to Kenobi’s beard; the hairs trap Quinlan’s scent where it’ll do the most good. He follows a hint of mischievous intent and tugs at Kenobi’s earlobe with his teeth, earning himself a little whine. He laughs, and licks the curve of Kenobi’s ear, immediately scenting further.
“Anakin’s going to be back soon,” Kenobi says, sounding almost sleep drunk.
Quinlan switches sides and guides them both down to lie, chest to front, in the nest. He works more slowly on the other side, keeps himself propped up on his elbow, forearm slipped neatly under Kenobi’s neck. The scent gland at Quinlan’s wrist rests under Kenobi’s nose, right where it’ll have the most effect. His other hand rubs up and down Kenobi’s side, and by the time Skywalker reenters the room, Quinlan’s done with licking the stress off and rubbing his scent into anything he thinks will help. He’s lying fully on his side instead of having his head propped up, and just doing his best to spread comfort through the room through Force and smell. He maybe nibbles at the back of Kenobi’s neck, here and there, because the man has lothcat response, and
“Guys?”
“Over here, Skywalker.”
The kid--not really a kid, but younger than Aayla, still, so he counts--rounds the couch, and sees them among the added cloaks and pillows and blanket. He stares. Kenobi starts to stiffen back up.
Quinlan increases his purring, and rubs his face against Kenobi’s neck, and glares up at Skywalker for good measure. Kenobi can’t see past Quinlan, probably, and squirms. Skywalker tilts his head, and then puts up a finger in a ‘one moment’ sort of gesture. He runs off.
“Anakin--”
“Kid’s fine,” Quinlan assures him, and Skywalker skids back into the room at unsafe speeds, arms full of what Quinlan’s pretty sure are his own duvet and pillow, and falls face-first into the nest. Kenobi jerks back into Quinlan, but Skywalker ignores this in favor of rearranging the nest into something approaching functional. He’s better at it than Kenobi.
Quinlan’s pretty sure Skywalker was more open to these things from the start. It tracks.
“Now Anakin, really,” Kenobi sputters, as Skywalker finishes layering things in the way he thinks is best. Skywalker beams at him, earlier melancholy forgotten for the moment, and flops down to drop his head somewhere near Kenobi’s chest.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” Skywalker says. “This is good for you.”
Kenobi blushes, and Quinlan scrapes his teeth against the back of his neck again.
“Quinlan!” Kenobi yelps, jolting. “Not--we’re not alone!”
“Helps you calm down, though,” Quinlan says, pressing a few close-mouthed kisses at Kenobi’s hairline.
“Different cultural standards,” Skywalker adds, half-guessing but sure of himself nonetheless. He seems entirely too delighted to be here. “You know what? We should invite Ahsoka.”
“She’s not your padawan here,” Kenobi scolds.
“Yet,” Skywalker corrects. “As soon as I get all my psych evals cleared, the Council’s going to promise. She’s basically my padawan already.”
Kenobi sighs, aggrieved in a manner that feels more fond than actually upset, in the Force, and places a hand lightly on Skywalker’s.
Skywalker chirrups and wriggles closer, pressing his face to Kenobi’s tunic with a smile.
“I see someone’s feeling better,” Kenobi notes, and moves his hand up to play with Skywalker’s hair. “The shower helped?”
“Mm-hm,” Skywalker says. “’nd some of the stuff they made me learn in therapy.”
Kenobi hums low in his throat, an aimless vocalization, as he continues to comb his fingers through Skywalker’s hair.
Skywalker blinks, slow and bleary, with a soft and dopey smile, and Kenobi stops.
“What?”
“I like it when you play with my hair,” Skywalker says, almost too low to hear. His eyes close. “Feels nice. Cared for. Family.”
Kenobi freezes, breath hitching, and Quinlan shifts and lifts just enough to see the man is staring at his own hand in confusion and a slight bit of fear.
“Kenobi?”
“I didn’t even question it,” Kenobi says faintly. “I don’t... I haven’t done that since he was just a child, but I didn’t even question it. I stopped myself from commenting that he’s too old to come to his master for cuddles, because he’s not, in this dimension, and I’m getting used to that, but I started playing with his hair like it was normal and it’s not.”
Quinlan puts his mouth to Kenobi’s trapezius, just enough pressure that he’s not biting, just there, and purrs.
It’s several inches away from anything resembling a mating bite, but Kenobi tilts his head and whines anyway.
“Obi-Wan?” Skywalker prompts, brow furrowed. “It’s not... I mean, I’m not going to say it’s okay, since I know we’re both still upset about our bodies being changed without our permission or input or even a warning, but we’re getting used to it. We’re working with it. The hair thing is fine with me, I like it and would have before. And now that you know you’ll want to do, uh, that sort of thing--”
“Subset of grooming behaviors,” Quinlan tells them, pulling away from Kenobi’s neck with a final open-mouthed kiss. He sees the face Skywalker makes in response to the words, and feels Kenobi’s discomfort, so he elaborates. They’ve compared most of what they hear with tookas and lothwolves, so he thinks he knows what this is about. “We’re not exactly going to start licking each other clean--excluding scent comfort, that’s different--like lothcats, but you’ve already noticed that humans and near-humans are more tactile than you’re used to. Most forms of care, especially of partners and children, ends up physical in some way.”
He gestures between the two of them. “You view Skywalker as family, for all that you shy away from defining it, and so naturally gravitate to care. The easiest way for that to manifest when sharing a nest is usually playing with someone’s hair. Since he’s younger than you, and you’ve spent as much time as you have being the adult in his life...”
Quinlan trails off before he can comment on the question of whether they’re closer to brothers or father-and-son. Kenobi’s already expressed discomfort with that topic, well before they started naturalizing to this dimension. Quinlan’s not going to push for Kenobi to acknowledge Skywalker’s importance to him.
(They’ll have to address it at some point, but that’s a job for the mind healers, not for Quinlan.)
(For all that it’s going to impact and be impacted by their dynamics, that much is definitely not Quinlan’s to handle.)
Kenobi shudders in his arms, but doesn’t shake him off, and doesn’t stop Skywalker from burrowing somehow closer. Quinlan settles back in as Kenobi returns to playing with Skywalker’s hair.
“We really should invite Ahsoka, though.”
“Not tonight, padawan.”
-----------------------------------------------
Additional notes:
I initially wrote “ternary gender,” but found that it didn’t strike true to how I envisioned gender and dynamic playing out among Jedi culture in particular. While the term ‘dynamic’ is used regularly in a more casual setting, Quinlan uses the term “ternary sex” when talking about it in the company of Anakin and Obi-Wan. I view it as a subconscious attempt to keep a clinical view of the ternary sex system present in the omegaverse dimension, in recognition that it’s new and unfamiliar and often unpleasant for Anakin and Obi-Wan, having come from a dimension that doesn’t have ternary sexes or the associated reproductive capabilities, instincts, or cycles.
I’d like to explore how the ideas of sex, gender, dynamic, and so on intersect within the context of this universe, because I think it’s something I’d have a lot of fun working with, but this is not the fic for that.
#Quinlan Vos#Obi Wan Kenobi#Anakin Skywalker#QuinObi#anakin and obi wan#obi wan and anakin#disaster lineage#time travel#dimension hopping#omegaverse#SW Suddenly Omegaverse#past anidala#star wars#the clone wars#nesting#grooming#scenting#we went fully weird with this and I'm not apologizing... much#Phoenix Posts
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so i wanna know what cad would do if his daughter started getting interested in boys!! like overprotective bounty hunter dad mode lmao.
proof that all cad bane simps share the same brain cells
The Bounty Hunter's Guide to: Unsupervised Outings
Summary: In which the Little Lady tells a little lie of omission, her little brother makes some cash, and Cad Bane gets busted. Pairing: Cad Bane x Reader Rating: General. Word Count: ~3.6k Warnings: None!
Of all the house rules you had, only one stood the longest -- no shooting in the house. And you stood firm when it was pointed out that it’s an apartment, not a house.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get carbon scoring out of carpet?” you’d said. “Keep it outside.”
Bane didn’t pay it much mind until he was showing the kids a trick shot and karked it up. Three hours, two sponges, and a whole bottle of all-purpose cleaner did barely anything. He ended up rearranging the furniture and swearing the kids to secrecy.
And so, despite the chill in the air, he's set up a few empties on the balcony railing.
Winrel "Bambi" Bane will be a good shot one day. He’s got steady hands, keen eyes, and a mind for on-the-fly calculations. But inherent skill is nothing without practice, and Bambi is a lazy, flighty pre-teen who’d rather be listening to sound slugs. He needs a firm hand.
“Legs wider,” Bane says. “Elbows up and out. Y'ain't stuck in a box.”
The boy takes the advice and squeezes off a shot. The bolt clips the side of the bottle. It spins on its base and falls off the side, landing with a crash below.
He looks to his father, a hopeful smile on his face. But Bane shakes his head.
“Close don't count, son,” he says. “Again.”
The light goes out of the boy’s eyes and he slumps. “Do I hafta?” he whines. He flexes his fingers. “Can’t feel nothin’ below my knuckles.”
“When ya hit one dead center, yer done.” He makes a note to buy the boy some good gloves.
Bambi grumbles something under his breath, but raises his hands. He takes careful aim.
The balcony door opens, and bare, light-stepping feet come padding out. Bane would think it was you except for the fact that the Little Lady's stride is shorter -- poor thing didn’t get the tall genes. Probably for the best, given how gangly her brother is getting.
Two thin, violet arms wrap around his waist to hug him from behind. “Hello, beloved father of mine,” she says, voice syrupy sweet.
He snickers. She only takes that tone for one reason. “How much does it cost?” he asks, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder.
She hops back, a scandalized look on her face. She puts her hand on her chest in mock offense. “Am I not allowed to hug my favorite parent for no other reason than that I love him?”
“Nope.” He turns to her and crosses his arms. “Y’only do dat when yer in trouble or ya want somethin’. So which is it, missy?”
“Well, I'm not in trouble and it doesn’t cost anythin’, so yer wrong on that.” She puckers her lips and folds her hands behind her back to bounce on her toes. “Buuut there’s a li’l carnival uptown tonight. Can I go? Sida’s mum said she’d drive us.”
He raises a brow. “Who’s ‘us?’” He likely already knows, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.
She gives him the same dry look you give him when he asks a dumb question. “Sida, Miry, and Trish. Who else?”
The Usual Suspects, as you’d dubbed them. They’d been friends since primary. The Little Lady was always the ringleader.
Bane takes a deep breath. “Y’ask yer mother?”
“Asked before she left,” she says. “She said yes but to ask you, so here I am.”
He drums his fingers on the butt of his remaining LL-30 -- Bambi has the other one.
He takes a mental inventory of his opinion on them: Sida is a Togruta -- a narrow-eyed schemer, but loyal. Miry is a Zygerrian, good-natured and polite, if not a bit of a pushover. It’s Trish he doesn’t like. Her father is the Imperial sub-governor, and she likes to remind people of that fact.
The shatter of glass knocks him from his thoughts. He turns to see a bottle falling from the balcony and Bambi stomping his foot like an agitated bantha.
“Piece o’ shit blaster,” he spits. “Can’t hit nothin’ straight!”
“Watch yer mouth, boy,” Bane warns. “Ain’t de blaster’s fault.” He returns his attention to his daughter. “You can go, but I want ya home by ten. Got it?”
She claps her hands together and... squeals. She’s been doing that lately. He loves the girl dearly, but stars above, what an obnoxious sound.
“Thanks, Daddy!” she chirps. She throws her arms around his neck, knocking his hat off. She presses her rostrum to his and gives him a gentle nuzzle before releasing him. “Good luck, loser,” she says to Bambi.
Bambi sticks his tongue out at her. “I hope ya get kidnapped.”
"An' I hope yer fingers fall off."
Bane is sometimes genuinely unsure if the kids like each other, and he wonders if Bambi will try to peg his sister with the blaster. But the exchange ends there and she trots back inside, presumably to get herself dressed up.
He watches after her for a moment. The Little Lady isn’t so little anymore, he’s starting to realize. And it hurts a bit -- he’ll never not see her as the little purple baby cradled in his arms, mrrrr-ing sweetly and chirping for attention.
A mischievous chuckle reaches his ears. It's trying to be low and devious, but Bambi’s still a kid and his voice hasn't dropped yet. But the smirk on his lips is unmistakably Bane’s, as if he didn’t need anymore proof that the boy was his.
“I know something you don’t know,” Bambi sing-songs.
And there’s your cheekiness. “Spit it out, den.”
Another chuckle. “Y'always say not to work for free, ol’ man.” He fires another bolt, and it sails past the bottles to hit the building across the way. “Whoops.”
Maybe he’s teaching the boy too well. “Ya don’t make a threat like dat unless de other person knows what yer on about an’ it’s interestin’ to 'em.”
“It has to do with her friends,” he says.
...alright, that is interesting. “If ya tell me, you can have extra dessert.”
He shakes his head. Grinning his sly grin, he rubs his fingers against his thumb. “Fifty creds.”
“Twenty-five,” Bane says.
“Forty.”
Bane shows his teeth. “Thirty an’ I don’t chuck ya off dis balcony.”
Bambi stares at his father. Bane can see the gears turning in his mind, trying to figure out if he’s actually in danger. He’s not -- Cad Bane would never be so sloppy as to rely on a fall that short to kill a target. Not to mention the fact that he'd never see the light of day again if he ever deliberately harmed one of your kids.
But Bambi doesn’t know that. “Thirty and you let me be done for the day.” Bane frowns at him, and Bambi gives him a pleading look. “Daddy, please? I really can’t feel my fingers anymore.”
Bane inhales deeply. “Deal. But you’ll get yer money wit’ yer allowance at de end o' de week.”
Bambi gives him a toothy grin. “Pleasure doin’ business, mister,” he says. He tries to twirl the blaster, but it slips out of his hand and hits the ground with a smack. Father and son both flinch, but it doesn’t go off. Bambi's grin turns sheepish.
Bane just shakes his head. “Now spill it, boy,” he says, squatting to pick up the blaster and his hat.
“The reason they’re going to the carnival is that Trish’s cousin is in town,” Bambi says.
He dusts off the brim and places it on his head. “So?” he says, picking up the blaster.
“He’s a boy. And he's eighteen.”
The blaster hits the ground again. It goes off, shattering one of the bottles.
---
Bane is acting casual on the sofa, pretending to read while Bambi strums his kitarra and you argue with your daughter about footwear.
“But they match my dress!” the Little Lady whines.
It's a fair argument, but you’re not having it. “You’re gonna be on your feet and walking around and playing games,” you say. “This is not a heels situation. Go put on flats.”
“Yer always doin’ stuff in heels!" She sounds like him when he gets mad, he observes. "Ain’t’chu always goin’ on about stealin’ the Jewel of Yavin in heels?!”
You scoff. “In pumps, not heels. I’m not stupid.”
Bambi casts him a look. There’s a difference? it says. Bane nods his head -- you’ve lectured him enough times over the years about it.
The Little Lady whines again. “But Momma--!”
“Mezerel Donnina Bane,” you say. “Go put on flats or you’re not going at all.”
Ooh, you broke out the Full Name. Even Bane winces at that.
With an aggravated huff, the Little Lady turns and marches back to her room. When you hear the door close, your bluster deflates and you flop onto the sofa.
“There’s a curse on Zeltros,” you say. “‘May your son be like his father and your daughter like her mother.’ Never got it ‘til just now.”
He chuckles. “If she’s anythin’ like you, fullua, she’ll be alright,” he says. “The boy, though...”
Bambi frowns as you laugh. You open your mouth to reply, but the doorbell rings.
“That’s for me!” Little Lady comes sprinting out of her room, petulant rage forgotten. She pauses to kiss you on the cheek, then him. She even gives Bambi a playful bop on the head. “We’ll-be-safe-I’ll-be-back-by-ten-I-love-you-both-byyyye!”
And just like that, she’s gone.
You blink after her. “...have fun, Donnina!” you manage. You glance at him. “Does she get that from you?”
Bambi chimes in. “Naw. You do that to Daddy all the time.”
You look to him for confirmation. Bane nods. “He ain't lyin'.”
“Huh.” You shrug, then let out a yawn the likes of which he hasn’t seen since Vincenzo passed, rest his little feline soul. “I think I’m gonna turn in early,” you say, rubbing your temples. “Been sleepy all day.”
He gives you a toothy half-smile. “Need a hand?” he says with a wink.
You laugh your chirpy little laugh. “Thank you, darling, but I’m all set.” You stand and take his head in your hands. You place a long, lingering kiss on his forehead. “...but maybe later.”
Bambi looks up from his strumming to wrinkle his forehead at the pair of you. Bright as he is, Bane is still surprised he hasn’t put two and two together as to what his parents get up to in the dark hours of the night.
He looks like he might ask, but you interrupt that by pulling your son into an obnoxiously tight hug. “And goodnight to my favorite little kitarra-playing bottle-shooting bellissimo bambino--”
He groans in displeasure as you pepper his head with kisses and Zeltrian words of affection, but he doesn’t make any real effort to get away. “Daddy, make ‘er stop,” he whines.
Bane chuckles. "I ain't gonna pry a woman away from her son."
A son from his mother, maybe, but that was a long time ago. And he didn't pry, she handed him over freely...
As soon as you're out of sight and the bedroom door is closed, he stands and walks to the balcony door. He pulls his hat off its peg and places it on his head. "If yer momma asks..."
"I know, I know -- yer gettin' some fresh air." Bambi waves his hand. "I'm no snitch. Just don't get caught. She'll kill ya."
He snorts. "Which 'she?'"
"Both of 'em."
---
The Little Lady scans the crowd every so often, recognizing anyone who might be a threat. Subtly herding her friends away from suspicious characters. Making sure to put at least two people between herself and anyone who might be looking for trouble.
From his spot in the shadows of a speeder trailer, Bane can't help but feel a bit of pride. He trained her well -- not a day goes by where he doesn't regret pushing her harder to go on jobs with him. Bambi's a good kid, but he's never going to beat his old man. The Little Lady, though... she could have given Daddy a run for his money.
But she's got her mother's distaste for dirty work. She likes a quick, easy payday, not getting down in the blood and blaster fire. At least she keeps up her target practice. The galaxy is a dangerous place for a young woman, and there’s bound to be sleemos lurking in every corner.
Like the one he's choking now. A Human male he'd spotted leering at the girls. Bane snatched him by the collar and hauled him into the shadows, wrapping his arms around his throat in a blood choke.
Overkill? Not at all.
He lets the man hit the ground and slinks out of the shadows into a new set, a narrow alley between done buildings. He taught his girl well, but he's got experience and has been able to avoid her scanning.
Something clanks above him, and he looks up just in time to see someone clambering off of a fire escape and over the edge of the roof.
He frowns. Now that's just suspicious.
He activates his boots and shoots upwards, grabbing the edge and hauling himself upwards.
A figure in a heavy coat lurks in the shadow of a water tank, peering through a pair of macrobinoculars gripped in well-manicured hands. They're squatting in pumps, managing to stay perfectly still...
...Wait a tick.
He sidles up to the figure quickly and quietly, hovering right over their shoulder. The sweet, faint smell of flowers hits him.
He grins. "Evenin', missus," he purrs.
You let out an adorable yip of surprise as you whirl around, dropping the macrobinoculars and immediately going for your blaster. You squeeze off a shot from the hip, but he dodges easily.
You go to fire again, but he slips under your arm and grabs your wrist. He pulls you against his body and dips you down, twisting your hand just enough that you drop the blaster.
Ah, the look on your face is beautiful. Wide, panicked eyes and lips open in a perfect little circle. He can't resist a taste.
You go rigid, only to relax as soon as you realize it's him. You wrap your arms around his neck and push up into him.
Every bone in his body is telling him to take you right here -- this is the best foreplay he's come up with in a while. But he's on a mission, and he pulls away from you with a wet pop, straightening up.
Your lips twitch as you try to frown at him, but a smile wins out. You give his cheek a weak slap. "I almost shot you, jackass," you say.
He huffs a laugh. "You couldn't de broad side of a bantha," he says. He picks up your blaster and hands it to you. "Guessin' we're both here for de same party."
"Looks like it," you say. Your smile vanishes, turning into a sneer of disgust. You poke his chest. "But I'm here on a tip, not just because I'm an overprotective parent."
He realizes immediately what happened, and he's honestly too impressed at the duplicity to be mad. "How much did ya pay Bambi fer it?"
“Twenty-five--” Your brows shoots up as you also put the pieces together. "...that kid's going places,” you say, impressed. “Probably prison, but definitely places.”
He snorts. “Not if he listens to his ol’ man.” He picks up the macrobinoculars. “You see ‘em?”
You return to your squat. “They’re outside the malt shop with the striped awning. Miry got melonade spilled on her so Sida is helping her wash up.”
He spots the awning and, beneath it, the kids. Trish is talking animatedly about something, and the Little Lady laughs every so often as she sips a chokecherry phosphate.
The young man looks a bit like Trish. He sits with the chair leaned backwards on two legs, his feet up on the patio railing.
"He seems above board, but who sits like that?" you say. "Weirdos sit like that."
He lowers the macrobinoculars to give you a dry look. You backpedal immediately.
"I mean, I don't mean you--" You roll your eyes at him. "Oh, come on. We're a burglar and a bounty hunter on a roof spying on our daughter after our son snitched on her. What part of that isn't weird?"
He shakes his head at you, then returns to the macrobinoculars.
Nothing has changed in the thirty seconds since he looked away. Sida is still talking, the boy is still sitting...
...and the Little Lady is staring right at him. She turns away quickly, but he knows he's been spotted.
Busted.
---
He returns home with you around quarter to ten. The lights are all off, so you both assume the Little Lady isn’t home yet and Bambi is fast asleep. You enter quietly, him close behind you.
The light flips on, making both him and you wince.
The Little Lady sits in the recliner, arms crossed and frowning deeply. She looks between him and you several times, waiting for someone to talk.
He goes first. "I think we're s'posed to be de ones waitin' fer you to come home."
She doesn't appreciate the attempt to diffuse the situation. "What's wrong wit' you two?!" she says, jumping to her feet. "You were spyin’ on me de whole time!"
"Not the whole time--" you start.
"See, Daddy I expected. He's always slinkin' 'round like a schutta.” She jabs a finger at you. “But you?! I thought you were de sane one!"
You bristle slightly. "Don't talk about your father that way,” you said. You cross your arms. “If you’d been straight with us about who was going with you, we wouldn’t have tailed you.”
“I was straight with you!” she says. “I was wit’ Miry an’ Trish an’ Sida.”
“An’ a fella neither of us have met,” Bane says.
Speaking of fellas, a bleary-eyed, pajama-clad Bambi comes slinking into the living room, rubbing his eyes with one hand and clutching his teddy bantha in the other.
The boy doesn’t get the chance to speak before the Little Lady whirls on him. “Ya li’l fink!”
She dives at him, but Bane snatches her out of the air. Bambi doesn’t even flinch, just wrinkles his brow and blinks as Bane holds her back.
“Easy, missy,” he says.
She hisses a short, quick spit at him. He curls his lip and hisses back, but she keeps squirming, trying to get at her brother. He pins her arms to her sides and hisses long and loud enough that her eyes go wide and she falters. A little chirp of submission escapes her, and her cheeks flush in embarrassment as he releases her.
Beside him, you roll your eyes and mutter something about being surrounded by lizards. “Look, everybody sit down so we can talk this out.”
Bambi raises his hand. “Can I go back t’ bed? This seems like a ‘you guys’ problem.”
Bane shakes his head. “Sit, boy.”
The boy groans, but slinks over to the couch.
---
It’s a productive conversation. You do most of the talking -- you’re better with words than he is, explaining why the kids ought to tell the whole truth so Momma and Daddy don’t think they’re hiding anything. He just sits and gnaws on a toothpick, nodding at appropriate intervals when a point needs emphasizing.
“You two don’t realize it yet, but the galaxy is a scary place full of people who might want to hurt you,” you say. “You’ll both be independent and capable of defending yourselves one day, but until that time comes, it’s our job to keep you safe. Got it?”
“Yes, Momma,” both children say.
“That being said...” You take a deep breath. “You’re our kids and you’re gonna do illegal things without telling us. So if either of you ever end up in an unsafe situation, call me or Daddy to come get you.”
Bambi tips his head. “Like what?”
You purse your lips. “Like... if you got to a party and you drink something and you start feeling sick. Or someone breaks out deathsticks. Or--”
Bane chimes in. “Or ya get kidnapped by gangsters and need someone to come rescue you.”
You start to nod, only to shoot him a dirty look. “Once. That happened once.”
“An’ as long as ya keep me ‘round, yer never gonna hear de end of it.”
The kids both giggle, and you roll your eyes. You stand up. “Alright, enough lecturing. Everyone go to bed.”
Bambi scrambles to his feet and nearly trips over you on his way out of the room. The Little Lady is slower, waiting until she’s alone with him to speak. “Sorry I hissed at you,” she mumbles.
He chuckles as he stands. “It’s instinct. Gets easier t’ control when yer older.” He places his hand on her hand and gives her a pat on the crown. “Go rest up.”
She blinks at him, then wraps her arms around his torso, sticking her face in his chest. “Love you,” she says, voice muffled.
He’s never going to get used to hearing that. Not from you, not from her, not from anyone. Every single time, it will make his heart swell and his throat close a bit. At this point, it’s a bit frustrating.
He clears his throat and forces some roughness into his voice. “Love ya too. Now shoo before yer momma yells at both of us.”
The Little Lady pulls away from him, smiling. With a little wave, she trots off to her room.
---
"Catch Us If You Can Masterpost" | To the Mastahpost | Tip Jar
#thanks for the ask!#cad bane#dad bane#cad bane x reader#cad bane x oc#star wars#catch us if you can#99 problems#emberly writes#emberly speaks#fanfiction
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To bargain for immortality pt.6 END
There were little things, really, that ended up putting her doubts and theories to rest. Nicole hadn't been an active person since she was five, so the occasional mild fatigue didn't stand out from her normal routine. The headaches that came and went or the tiredness that accompanied nights when she didn't get enough sleep were simply chucked to her body adjusting to its newfound immortality. Sometimes it takes longer for the Cadou to fully settle in, Esteria had reassured her, talking from personal experience as her own mutation took close to two years to be done changing her body.
All the doubt was wiped from her mind when she woke up one evening, the day after another particularly unpleasant experiment run with Miranda, with a splitting headache. It soon turned downright nauseating and hasty steps took her to the bathroom connected to Cassandra's bedchambers, where she all but doubled over, as much as her position leaning on the sink allowed.
Her initial plan was to simply splash some cold water on her face, but that soon went out the window when her throat and mouth were invaded by the familiar sensation of thick blood coming and pouring out. The white porcelain got stained in dark crimson as her heart seemed to beat painfully against her ribcage, making a small whimper escape blood stained lips. This experience in and of itself was not unfamiliar by now, but her own body apparently taking offence to simply existing was a new and unwelcomed development. An attempt to take a deep breath was made, but that only seemed counterproductive as it sent a stinging ache through her chest, so she settled for holding her breath until the pain subsided. A few shuddering intakes of the oxygen her body seemed to scream for later, the room and her reflection finally seemed to stop spinning.
Her eyes landed on the crimson mess in the sink and she let out an exhausted sigh, but before it could be cleaned, the bathroom door that she had left ajar creaked open.
"Heyy- ooo that looks bad," Daniela's voice came from her side, tone as over the top as always with the grimace that pulled at her features.
"Oh this? What do you mean, just a normal Thursday evening," Nicole replied, voice dripping with sarcasm and hands still shaking on the faucet when she turned on the water.
The other redhead didn't seem phased, presumably being Bela and Cassandra's sister does render one immune to sarcasm. Instead she shrugged and occupied herself with her sister's collection of perfumes that were placed on an adjacent counter.
Nicole gave her a look through the mirror while trying to splash some water on the remaining blood stains. "Did you… need something?"
"Dumbass number one and two are practicing some sword fighting in the garden. Thought you'd like to see," came the reply complete with an eyebrow wiggle that gained her a playful shove.
"Give me a minute to change," Nicole said, finally pushing herself off the sink when the nausea subsided back to a mild headache and her face was free of crimson trails.
As promised, when they entered the back garden that stood between the castle and its extensive vineyard, the faint clinking of metal against metal could be heard. It raised in volume as they made their way to an area where a few logs had been set on the grass, that made perfect sitting spots around what the sisters reclaimed as their small personal arena dedicated to occasional training. The vine covered statues and bushes with colorful leaves made for a pleasant spot to simply spend time in too, her wife currently dressed in light training gear and sword fighting coming as a big bonus to the beautiful surroundings.
The moment Cassandra's eyes landed briefly on her, a characteristic smirk pulled at her lips, their ashy tone left visible from the choice to skip lipstick for the time being. Their sparring match got cut short by a sudden low swipe at Bela's feet, that knocked her off balance and sent her on the trampled grass underfoot.
"Show off," she grumbled at her younger sister when offered a hand to get up. She took it, but continued to glare daggers at Cassandra as she dusted off her pants.
Not that the middle sister noticed, having turned and came up to her wife for a tender good morning kiss. She let the hand not occupied by the sword's handle rest on Nicole's cheek, eyebrows pulling into a frown upon noticing the tired look in emerald eyes.
"Are you feeling well? You look pale."
"Yeah yeah-"
"Oh just some mild gut-puking in the form of blood all over your sink," Daniela interjected, giving a fake innocent shrug when Nicole turned to glare at her. "You might wanna get a maid to clean it up, she did a shit job of it."
"I did not!" Nicole protested.
"You forgot the underside," Daniela hummed. "That was some mad splatter there."
She was rendered mute as the youngest sister moved to the small fence portion that was turned into an impromptu weapon holder to choose something and take Cassandra's place in another sparring match. Her glare was interrupted when she noticed her wife's worried expression.
"It's fine, just a mild headache now," Nicole sighed as she brought a hand up to interlace their fingers and pull Cassandra with her so they could both sit where Laura and Anita were. "Any chance I'm getting another performance? Since I missed the last one," she then said, a sly smile making its way on her lips.
That got Cassandra to grin, fangs glimmering in the early evening's soft light in a way that anyone else would find downright menacing. "Of course," she answered, eyes momentarily moving to her sisters.
It looked like Bela was winning, despite Daniela choosing her preferred twin swords that she wielded with an odd mix of grace and chaos. A slip past her guard and a hit with the ornate hilt of Bela's sword was what it took to put an end to their match, the youngest sister stumbling forward and breaking into a swarm before she had the chance to fully lose balance and fall face first into the dirt. She reappeared in front of the blonde, tongue stuck out and nose scrunched in an annoyed grimace, complete with a middle finger. If the Dimitrescu sisters had one thing in common, it was that all three of them were the world’s biggest sore losers.
"My turn to kick her ass," Cassandra perked up, picking up her well polished gladius.
Daniela, still miffed about her previous loss, didn't offer her the grace of getting into a proper stance. A flash of flies later, the clanking of metal ringed around them as Cassandra pushed her back.
"We said no swarm!" Bela called out from where she had found a seat on the grass, right in front of Laura.
The youngest rolled her eyes but complied, the buzzing completely dying down in favor of quick swipes and blocks. What Cassandra might've lacked in speed, she more than made up for in an impeccable defense, being near impossible to get near her body even with the apparent advantage of having an extra sword. Their fighting came to a standstill soon enough, with Daniela unable to get near while also being too quick to let any major hit land.
"My ladies."
Alexandria's voice called out from the entrance of their little makeshift arena, distracting Daniela enough for her sister to quickly swipe at her feet not unlike she had previously done to Bela.
The Steward flinched for a second when a long frustrated growl was heard from the youngest, but cleared her throat and did her best to keep up her characteristic poker face as she addressed Nicole. "Mother Miranda's assistant is here for you."
Her face fell, annoyance and dread both bubbling in her chest at having her pleasant day cut short not even two hours after waking up. She got up and exchanged goodbyes with the rest of her family while grabbing Cassandra's free hand in a silent demand to see her to the door.
On their way out, she decided that old jeans and a slightly oversized shirt that had survived her high school days was an attire appropriate enough to being tortured. It should've been concerning how at peace she had become with that idea, at least to any person with a sound mind. She never declared her sanity intact though.
"I'll see you later," she told Cassandra once they were at the heavy doors of the castle's main entrance, a thumb slowly tracing her jaw.
Emma was impatiently waiting for her just outside and blame the slight inherent meanness she had learned to let free since becoming a Dimitrescu, but Nicole took immense pleasure from the woman's uncomfortable grimace when she pulled Cassandra down in a deep kiss that went on for ten seconds too long. Small victories in the face of doom.
---
Nicole choked out a sob that walked the fine line between crying and screaming when the knife that looked way too big for the woman's hands came down at her elbow's joint with a gut wrenching crack.
It felt like Miranda had an unbeatable talent to never disappoint when someone thought she had reached the peak of inhumane with her experiments. The poisons were dreadful as was everything before that. The test on how well she can heal bullet wounds from the previous day had been downright cruel, only stopping after the results that showed how only a bullet through the head can incapacitate her for a while. Today's experiment on regenerating limbs was starting to eat away at Nicole's remaining sanity. It obviously started small, with fingers, but Miranda was always so keen on pushing limits.
She turned on her side with the remaining hand pressed to tear filled eyes and nails digging into skin as she desperately tried to find some sort of distraction from the pain and tingling that felt like static in her veins. Her temples were already throbbing with a headache and her vision was spinning due to the nausea. Miranda and Emma were having some sort of conversation to the side, but it felt distant through the deafening ringing in her ears as she put all her effort into not throwing up due to the sheer shock her body was going through.
The amount of time she laid there sobbing completely evaded her, not bothering to keep a mental track nor raising her head towards the clock mounted on the wall. She just wanted the healing to move and get it over with.
By the time she was mentally prepared to stomach the sight, her hand was already stitching together muscles covering the newly reformed bone, together with the beginnings of skin close to the incision. She tried moving her finger and flinched into a whole body cringe at how utterly wrong it felt.
The door creaking open took her attention away from the unsightly muscles twitching as they got placed together and into their places.
"Lord Heisenberg is here," announced a man, donning a white lab uniform not unlike Emma's.
"Just on time," Miranda perked up, a dangerously gleeful look in her eyes.
She got up, leaving the assistant with the job of timing Nicole's healing as she went to greet Karl. It went on for almost another torturous minute before the tell tale click of the timer and Emma noting it down marked that her arm was once again whole.
"How- how long was that?" Nicole asked, tentatively moving her hand. Good as new, with the exact same mobility function and sensitivity. The only thing missing was the beige nail polish applied just the night prior.
"Five minutes and twenty," the woman replied, not looking up from her paper.
Another few minutes of silence passed, that Nicole spent flexing her fingers. A bit of hot rage coursed through her veins when she noticed her ring finger, the matching band she and Cassandra had having been left on the desk upon entering the lab. At least Miranda had the decency of not slicing her hand off with the ring still on it, but she still wanted it back.
It wasn't long before Miranda came back, motioning for her to follow. "Come," she said, waiting for Nicole to push herself off the hospital bed and onto her feet.
A small burst of dizziness later, she was standing and shaky legs were taking her towards the woman. "Can I get my ring back now?" She did her best to keep the edge out of her tone, too tired to face her wrath.
Miranda simply thought for a moment before waving a dismissive hand at her. "Fine, it won't be in the way anymore."
Nicole wasn't sure if that was good or downright horrifying.
Most of the rooms in the underground maze of corridors were unknown to her. The structure twisting and turning in dizzying patterns that were enough to disorient anyone not familiar with the layout. Not to mention the occasional tunnel that stretched for entirely too long that led to one place or the other from the town above.
Nicole found herself following Miranda through one such unknown area, the corridors new to her but the look not dissimilar to every other part of the underground structure. If it weren't for the numbered plaques on the door, she wouldn't even be able to tell this was a different area than the ones she's seen before.
Miranda pushed open a door and led her inside. It was definitely more spacious than the labs and the space was mostly cleared out save from a few tables lining the walls and some cabinets. The only thing at the center was Lord Heisenberg and a long metal table, leather straps fastened to its sides and a circular saw blade attached to a machine above.
Nicole took a couple stumbling steps back, hips hitting the corner of a table and rattling the papers placed on it. It seemed to peeve Miranda, who grabbed her wrist impatiently.
"Come now, we don't have all day," she said while slowly dragging her towards the table.
With every shaky step, her knees felt like jello under her and her ears started to ring anew with the panic and dread settling like ice in her veins. Her legs finally gave way under her and she fell to her knees with a pathetic sob.
"No please. Please I can't," she said, one hand meekly grabbing at the goddess' lab coat.
Miranda bent down on one knee, brows furrowed in the feign concern that only she could have perfected to such an art. "We have to," she started, voice so soft one could easily believe it belonged to someone else. "We must know the limits of your regenerative abilities. You said it yourself that you want to know them."
She had but not like this. Not like this.
"Then use anesthesia. Please just don't-" she choked out a sob before the end of her phrase. Not that it was going anywhere, it was just a pathetic attempt at bargaining for less suffering.
Surprisingly enough, there were few instances since coming to the Village when she felt truly and utterly terrified. Anxious and afraid? Sure. But not even Lady Dimitrescu hiring her, or Cassandra taking an interest in freaking her out or even getting shot made her feel the dread she was feeling then. She would've rather spent eternity on the cold hard stone under her knees than budge an inch.
Miranda pursed her lips and lifted her chin with one hand, expression like a mother hearing her child make an outrageously unattainable request. "You know that will interfere with the results."
"Then local anesthesia," Nicole suggested, holding onto some kind of feeble hope by a thread.
The goddess seemed to actually consider it for a moment before shaking her head. A hundred meek protests and cries fell past Nicole's lips and on deaf ears as she was pulled up by the wrist and back on track towards the metal table. Miranda was incredibly strong despite her rather short stature, so any attempt at pulling back was completely useless.
Once at the room's center, she pushed Nicole against the table, frowning when she refused to get on. With a sigh, she grabbed her chin once again, putting slightly more force in the gesture. Both a warning and witness to her growing impatience.
"If you keep still it's going to be much less painful," she promised, though the validity behind her words were doubtful.
Though there was something in Miranda's tone that almost demanded to be believed without question. It may have been the inherent authority that came with being almost divine, a goddess in all ways that truly mattered. Or something else entirely, common to every piece of the Megamycete's web, down to the finest and farthest roots.
With a barely visible nod, Nicole pushed herself onto the cold surface of the table. It was far taller than she was so Karl had to spend a few good minutes readjusting the leather straps on the sides until they were in the right positions to wrap tightly around her limbs.
"Uh… sorry kiddo," he said in a barely audible whisper as he fastened a strap around her forehead. "Here," he pressed a folded cloth to her lips, that she bit down on to at least try to not crack any teeth.
He seemed almost as much of an unwilling participant as she was, lips pulled into a tight line under the scruffy mustache. The only one seeming rather gleeful there was Miranda.
The leather was digging painfully into her skin, the belts having been tightened slightly too much to prevent movement. Not to mention the uncomfortable position, with her hands tied above her head and starting to feel numb. Her head also seemed beyond foggy, the shallow breaths she was taking doing a poor job of providing her body with oxygen, to which it protested with a heart painfully beating against her ribcage, almost as if the small parasite that nestled around it was taking offence itself.
Another sob shook her body, deafened out by the metal sound of the circular blade when it was turned on. Thankfully it was clean. At least Nicole hoped as much. And sharp. If she was going through this she prayed that she would at least be granted the mercy of a clean cut as opposed to shredding of skin and muscle with everything underneath.
She shut her eyes when Miranda raised her shirt enough to expose her abdomen and, as the saw forcefully came down, screams were muffled both by the cloth in her mouth and the deafening roar of the saw.
---
The feeble knock on heavy ornate doors was answered by the tall woman positioned on guard duty that night. Nicole did not remember her name and at the moment it was the least of her worries.
She took a handful of shaky steps inside before clearing her throat in an attempt to not let her voice waver. "Cassandra?"
"Out hunting with her sisters and the other ladies," the woman answered promptly.
Nicole simply nodded once and made her way into the castle as the heavy thud of the shutting doors echoed around her. Her movements seemed on autopilot, eyes only focused enough to watch her step as she made her way through the familiar path up to her wife's bedroom. She barely registered passing through the first set of corridors, the paintings and priceless decor she had grown accustomed to every day becoming a background blur.
She felt downright dreadful.
Her ears were still ringing slightly and exhaustion made her limbs feel heavy and aching with every step. The headache from earlier was also back in full swing and throbbing painfully at her temples.
A quick look at a golden clock mounted on the wall in the main hall reminded her that it was near dawn so the rest of her family must be on their way home.
She flinched, a small jump that threatened to throw her off balance, at the heavy footsteps that came behind her. Throwing a look over her shoulder she saw none other than Lady Dimitrescu, her mother in law, making her way under the low arch of one of the doors leading into the spacious room. Thin black eyebrows were pulled into a frown at the sight of the much smaller woman, hunched over and all but shivering, with dark circles under her eyes having taken an almost purplish hue and dried tear streaks on pallid cheeks.
"Oh hi," Nicole greeted with a wry smile. "I thought you were out hunting."
Alcina waved a hand dismissively, eyes still focused on every minuscule shake of her shoulders. "Paperwork had to be taken care of."
At the explanation, Nicole let out an oh and shuffled her weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to politely book it up the stairs and under the mountain of blankets on Cassandra's bed. There was no escape, it seemed, as a large hand came to gingerly rest on her shoulder, leading her further in and towards one of the plush couches lined in front of the barely lit fireplace. "Come sit," she offered, face softening in a gentle motherly smile.
Nicole just nodded absent mindedly, sitting barely on the edge of the white cushions decorated with a beautiful intricate floral pattern. She passed clammy hands on her jeans, now covered in fine powdery ash from the crystallized remains of the discarded half of her body after she retrieved them following the night's experiments. A disgusted grimace pulled at her lips, deciding then and there that the pants had to be burned as soon as possible.
"How did the tests go?" Alcina asked, taking her attention away from the ruined piece of garment and being met with distant eyes.
"Good," Nicole whispered, but before the word could even be fully out of her mouth a sob shook her entire body, coming out accompanied by choked out gasps as she all but doubled over in an attempt to make herself smaller than she already was.
The Lady's eyes widened at the sudden outpouring of emotion, so uncharacteristic for the woman in the few years she had been part of her family. "Oh child," she whispered, hands resting protectively on small shaking shoulders.
"Did-" Nicole started but interrupted herself with another shuddering gasp. "Did she- do the same thing to-... to you?"
Alcina grimaced, expression unseen by the smaller woman currently curled in on herself in her arms. It had been so long since her infection, the pain caused by her body acclimating to the Cadou a distant memory. Something that would forever remain seared in her mind however was the cruel ice in their goddess' eyes as she ran test after dreadful test, pushing the limits of her body to see how much she can actually heal. It had taken months to finally be content with the results, after her body's defensive response had been mutating and turning into the giant hungry beast she kept carefully at bay from that moment on. Instead of answering, Alcina decided that the better option was to rub her back slowly, not unlike she had done to her own daughters countless times before, to bring some comfort.
"You will get through this," she promised, unwavering conviction in her tone.
---
Date: 20th May 2012
Subject: Nicole [REDACTED] Dimitrescu
Mutation experiments - 5 (Regeneration- 4)
Testing the limits of regenerative abilities - regrowing body parts
Subject can regrow limbs (arm, served from elbow - 5'20'') and regenerate after being cut in half. If the body is cut with a 50/50 ratio, the upper half will regrow the lower half, prioritizing brain activity and the Cadou's placement. If the proportions are different in favour of the lower half, the upper one may still be the one taking priority; results vary. Up to 80% of body mass can be regenerated. If more than that is destroyed (eg. dissolved using acid) subject will presumably crystallize and enter a dormant state like others infected with a Cadou.
The discarded body parts crystallize and disintegrate into a stony/ashy mass.
---
Miranda's enthusiasm seemed to slowly dwindle after a few more experiment runs, the same effects John Abbott's mutations that caused his untimely death coming to knock at Nicole's door every so often.
"You see," the goddess had said the last time she had called Nicole down in the underground labs. "John was missing the healing abilities, which led to his infection slowly corroding away at his body until his death. You can heal, so you won't die, but the negative effects are still present. So try not to get hurt too much too often," she finished, not even sparing her a glance.
And that was the last Nicole had seen of Miranda, at least as far as one on one experiments went. The woman would still pay the castle a visit every so often, sitting down with Alcina for a glass of wine and having the rest of the family joining in on occasion, when their discussions didn't stray too far into matters of their cult.
She was right too. There were days when a migraine would rudely wake her up in the morning, or when her chest seemed to ache to the point where she was sure the parasite that made its home around her beating heart was trying to escape. The Cadou truly was a wretched little thing, constantly at odds with her body's defenses and trying to slowly but surely cause damage to the point of death. But if there's one thing that very same parasite had bestowed upon her was just… being really good at not dying. The healing abilities were in a continuous cycle of repairing any and all internal damage the infection may have caused on a not so good day. Those times had her doubling over the nearest sink, or suitable container if unlucky, a waterfall of blood carrying all the damaged tissue that had been replaced flowing from her lips in crimson rivulets.
A cruel fate, one may think. Not her though, for the knowledge of how her family had helped her through the change was at the forefront of her mind each time she had to sit down due to a burst of dizziness. Cassandra rubbing gentle circles on her back while she was coughing up the clogged blood in her throat grounded her beyond belief. Then, when everything was said and done, there was always something to get back to. A short vacation originally meant for business but that Alcina would always prolong for just a couple days so they could all spend some quality time away from the Village and the cult and Miranda's scrutinizing ever watchful eyes. Or the season's first hunting trip, the genuine glee on her wife's face never growing old to her. Even life's more mundane events, like the weekly movie night that had half the family groaning at Esteria's choice of vampire media. Rinse and repeat, forever under the castle's imposing towers and inside ornate inviting rooms, always warm and welcoming, always feeling like home to her.
If that was the price she had to pay for eternity, then so be it.
---
Subject Name: Nicole Dimitrescu
Cadou Affinity: Favorable
Brain Functions: Normal
Subject can regenerate at an incredibly fast rate, although healing slows down with loss of consciousness. Shows a similar mutation to John Abbott; able to detect illnesses by specific smells. The latter mutation causes the Cadou to have adverse reactions, causing internal damage that is however kept at bay with the regenerative abilities.
An unfit vessel for Eva.
#unhinged maiden™ my beloved#cassandra dimitrescu x maiden#mother miranda#karl heisenberg#to bargain for immortality#fanfic#lady dimitrescu#tw torture#like big fat tw for this one
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“we’re just…friends.” “friends don’t do this type of shit!” FRANKIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You asked for some Frankie and you get some angsty Frankie, babeyyy. Did I loosely base this off an experience in my own life? Maybe. But this one has a much better ending. Enjoy!
Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader
Warnings: none
»»————- ♡ ————-««
What was supposed to be a simple shopping trip ended up being a lot more than you had bargained for. You’d gone shopping for Christmas decorations with Frankie, aka your best friend, also aka the love of your life. Except he didn’t know that, and he would never know.
Above all else, he was your best and oldest friend and you didn’t want to lose everything you had with him, and if that meant suppressing your feelings and staying quiet, then you were willing to do. You’d rather have him as just a friend, than nothing at all. And you were sure that he would never like you back. Why would he?
But as you looked around the shelves of the home goods store, chatting away excitedly as you both sipped your hot cocoa, you felt fine, everything was fine. Until he ran into her. His latest girlfriend, aka a girl you just inherently despised, but had no real reason to. She was kind, albeit not a fake way, and friendly, having been more than kind to you on the times you’d met her. She was pretty, fun, and it was easy to see why Frankie had fallen for her; she seemed to make him genuinely happy. Of course she’d chosen today to come to the store at the same time, and he’d greeted and chatted with her for a moments before turning his attention back to you.
You’d tried to pretend everything was fine, in reality it was, and nothing was changed. Something within you had snapped. It had completely broken you were suddenly heartbroken. There was something about the moment, about today, that had you realize just how much you loved him. How much your chest ached at the thought of him, and how you would never having anything more.
And maybe it was time...to let it go. You didn’t want to constantly feel like this, or harbor these jealous feelings any time he’d have a girlfriend, or more. It wasn’t fair to him, or to you. You either laid it all on the table, or you had to walk away. You just knew you couldn’t do it anymore.
“Bee?” Frankie’s soft warm voice reached your ears as you looked at the small little bee ornament displayed on the tree. It had made you smile when you’d seen it initially, especially since that been Frankie’s nickname for you since you were kids, “is everything okay?”
“Y-yeah,” you took your hand away from it and blinked a few times in order to keep your tears at bay before taking a step back. You looked at those eyes, those soft brown eyes, before making a hasty decision, “I, um, I have to go to.”
“What?” he asked, confusion visibly crossing his features, “what do you mean? We just got here and we’ve still got plans-”
“I know, I just remembered that I have to go,” you lied as you tried to offer him a small smile, “I’m so sorry, Frankie.”
“I drove,” he reminded you, “let me give you a ride to wherever you need at least.”
“No, it’s okay,” you had your back to him, a few tears spilling down your cheeks as you kept your back to him, “I’ll get an Uber or something-”
“Bee-”
“Goodbye, Frankie,” you interrupted him before he could go on, rushing out of the small shop as you started to sniffle and cry, not even bothering to hold it back anymore. You knew, the remaining logical part of you knew, that it wasn’t exactly fair to do this to him either without some sort of explanation, but you couldn’t do it. Not right now anyway....maybe one day.
»»————- ♡ ————-««
One day had turned into several days and several days into weeks.
You hadn’t meant to let it get this far, but once it started you couldn’t stop it. Days were spent wallowing and crying, feeling sorry for yourself even though you had brought at least part of this yourself.
And Frankie? Poor Frankie. He was seemingly just as distraught as you were. He had called and texted nearly everyday, checking in on you, asking if you were okay, but everything went unanswered. He even came over in the evenings after work and you feigned sleeping or that you weren’t home. He even came by your office and asked about you, but you had politely declined his visit.
You were being a terrible, awful jerk and you knew it. You just couldn’t handle being around him at all right now. It was all too much and not even at the same time. But he was persistent, damn persistent and he wasn’t about to let you walk out of his life. Not without a good reason.
So one evening, after he was off work, he came straight over to your house, sitting down on the porch and waiting for you to get home. He was done waiting for answers. It had caught you so off guard that you panicked and didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t like you could just hide or run away; no, it was time to face you demons.
Swallowing thickly, you climbed out of your car and slowly made your way over to him, offering him the ghost of a smile as he looked at you with red rimmed eyes. Shit. You hadn’t meant to do this to him. He looked just as nervous as you as he clutched a small box in his large hands.
“Frankie, what are you doing here?” you attempted to side step him, but it was no use. He was on his feet in a flash and blocked your way to the door, “Frankie...”
“Why have you been ignoring me?” there was a crack and a shake to his voice as you allowed yourself to meet his eyes, “you ran out on me and then have been ignoring me for three weeks. Bee, what’s wrong? Did I do something?”
“Frankie,” you already felt the warm, familiar sting behind your eyes as you realized this was happening. It had to, after all, at one point or another. There had been no way that Frankie was going to let anything go, “please don’t do this. Not now...”
“Then when?” he asked as you stared at your feet and shrugged, “my best friend, and the best damn thing in my life just walks away and says nothing and you except me to just accept it?”
“I...we’re just friends,” you stated as he avoided looking at his eyes. If there was any time to go ahead and spill it all and pour your heart out, it was now. You took a long breath and steadied yourself, “and I don’t know if I can do that anymore...I don’t know if we can be friends anymore.”
“We’ve been friends for almost thirty years,” he let out a small, bitter laugh, “and you want to just stop? For no reason?”
“I have a reason,” you wiped away the tears that had rolled down your cheeks, warm and salty as ever, “I can’t be just friends with you, Frankie. Friends don’t do this type of shit, all the things we do. How we are, how we seem...it’s not just friends. You and I both know it, and I know you only see me as a friend. And I can’t keep doing it.”
“What do you mean we’re just friends?” he asked softly as you held up your hands in frustration, “please just say what you want to say. I-I’ve been worried sick about you for weeks, at least be honest. And if then you still decide you want nothing to do with me, I’ll respect that.”
“Frankie, I...I’m in love with you,” the words came out surprisingly easy. They’d been on the tip of your tongue, as you always seemed to dance around them, for years. And now they were out, on the line just like your heart, “and I don’t just mean I love you, but I’m in love with you. Actual love.”
“D-do you mean it?”
“Yes,” you nodded slowly, “and that’s why I had to walk away...you deserve happiness Frankie, we all do, and you seem so happy with Ashley, and she seems so kind, but I can’t help but harbor negative feelings for her. Because she has what I want...you. And it’s not fair to you or her or me to feel that way and still hang around. It’s no one’s fault, it’s just the nature of the beast. But I think it’s best if we...just didn’t hang out for a while so I can get my own feelings in check and see if I can be just friends with you.”
“I broke up with Ashley,” he admitted as your jaw dropped and you raised your eye in confusion. He nodded at the the surprise on your face, “the day after you ran out on me.”
“What? Why? You seemed so happy together...”
“She was great,” he admitted softly, “and she was very kind and understanding when I told her I couldn’t be with her anymore. She said she’d kind of felt it coming for a while.”
“Oh. Oh. Why? What happened?” you asked as he was now the one to avoid your eyes.
“Nothing happened so to speak,” he confessed, “she asked if I was in love with you and I said yes. I have been for a long time...she said it was obvious. I don’t know...it just hit me. I’d always known, but something changed that day, and I really knew. I decided it was time to tell you too. I don’t want to spend a single day without you, Honey Bee.”
“Frankie...” you looked up and saw that he was crying now too, his cheeks flushed pink as he waited for you to say something, anything. In his haste, he held up the box to you, which you slowly took and gently unwrapped. Inside was the pretty little bee ornament you’d been eyeing at the shop. You cradled it delicately in your hand as you looked up at him, regretting walking away without a word, regretting almost losing him completely, “it’s the one I was looking at it. You got it for me?”
“Of course,” he slowly reached up and put his hand on your cheek, gently stroking your soft skin, “a little bee for my sweet bee.”
“Do you mean it, Frankie?” you keened into his touch as clutched the bee to your chest, “because I don’t want you to say it unless you really mean it.”
“I do,” he promised gently, “the only thing I regret is not saying it a long time ago.”
“Me too,” you agreed, “I’m sorry for walking away like that ignoring you. I shouldn’t have just left.”
“I wouldn’t have let it go without a fight.”
“Good,” you beamed at him, “I love you, Frankie.”
“I love you, Honey Bee,” the two of you just grinned at each other like fools, “can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“May I kiss you?”
“Please.”
So he did. Finally.
Frankie finally kissed you. And it was everything and then some that you had always wanted and dreamed of.
»»————- ♡ ————-««
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#frankie morales#frankie morales x reader#triple frontier#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal#fem!reader
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Hold up...your theory on all the season finales focusing on Buck and his love interests — Buck ending each season being left by someone he loved (he didn't really love Ali, but doesn't matter). Hold. Up. Not really a theory, but a keen observation of fact on your part! But what was different about season 4, hmm? He almost lost Eddie, but the episode ended with Eddie staying, Eddie choosing Buck. THIS SHOW!!!
911 narrarive parallels are rarely one-on-one, they are like fractals. What on earth is coming next???
(And I am now just remembering that that scene with Buck and Eddie was the final scene of the episode, before the montage.)
I don't know what I'm asking except I would love to hear more of your thoughts on this parallel (or anything else 911 that is on your mind...)
OHohoh be careful what you ask for, I will reach into my brain and splatter the proverbial canvas with every over-analytical triviality I can get my hands on.
@yramesoruniverse I am so happy to see you in my inbox, every time your url pops up on my dash I smile. I vibe with your vibes! Reading your tags on my posts and vice versa feels like we're sitting down with some popcorn to talk shit (affectionate) about this beloved weewoo show.
Okay okay onto the ask - naturally I have some opinions, 90% of my headspace is the weewoo and 10% is nonsense like bills, groceries, my job, school applications, etc. I've got thoughts. So here we go:
I've started realizing this on my latest re-watch, and I just got to the season 3 finale, and as I was shoving my face full of Wendy's I thought to myself, whoa whoa whoa, this is the third finale of this show and the third time I have to see Buck all forlorn and woe is me bc another LI is leaving him. And everything snowballed after that. Let's go in order, and then we're gonna talk about other character's arcs as they manifest in the finale, and then hopefully I can pull this mess together at the end so it makes sense!
Let's preface these analyses by saying that typically season finales are reserved for revisiting the main storylines of characters, and in the case of 9-1-1 which focuses on the personal lives of the first responders, the main storylines revolve around those characters' families. Buck's main storyline is his search for meaningful connection and having something that he can call his own.
1x10: "A Whole New You"
Abby leaves Buck. That's what this boils down to in regards to the theme of this post. After Buck prepared himself to "step into it with her" and "keep her company there," Abby's mom passed away and relieved her of the last thing tethering her in place, resulting in her deciding to travel the world and rediscover herself. I think the title of the episode is hilarious as it relates to Buck and Abby, because it's pretty obvious in Abby's case but in the context of the next season we literally start to see the transition to a "whole new Buck." I hate speaking its name aloud, but Buck 2.0 anyone???
Why Abby leaves: she was afraid she would lose herself if she stayed
What Buck learns: he is capable of a monogamous relationship and actually he might prefer this to the alternative
2x18: "This Life We Choose"
Ali leaves Buck. Her mere existence in this episode shows the audience Buck is actively moving on from Abby. He is trying to make this whole meaningful connection thing work, which feels more authentic to him probably because Ali is already established in his life (sound like someone we know from season 4 anybody??? sorry I digress), but we know how this turns out.
Why Ali leaves: she couldn't handle the inherent danger and unpredictability of his job
What Buck learns: people leave, but you know what will always be there for him? His job. Let's project our entire self-worth onto that, then.
3x18: "What's Next?"
Abby leaves Buck (again, and this time for another man!). It's more like the continuation and finalization of the process she started in the season one finale, but absolutely this gets its own mention. Never mind that Tim said the train was literally a metaphor for Buck. Abby isn't walking off into the vague unknown with this one. She is about to marry a single father (cough cough) and that is the deliberate cut-off to her and Buck's relationship, which leaves him in a bit of a freefall as is obvious during the first bit of season 4 (hello Dr. Copeland, better late than never I suppose).
Why Abby leaves: she found someone who she can be her authentic self with, who she doesn't feel will make her backslide
What Buck learns: everybody walks away, he is always the one left behind, maybe the problem is himself.
4x14: "Survivors"
Eddie almost left Buck. The difference? Abby and Ali both made active choices to leave him. Eddie had to literally get gunned down in the street, through no choice of his own, in order to even be added into this parallel. Considering the culminating events of Buck's story arc throughout the years and especially the plotline we get in season four alone, this is huge, don't you think? I know the writers do, because they literally put up a huge neon sign with the final scene between Buck and Eddie like, "We know Buck always gets left behind at the end of each season but look at this! He isn't! In fact, it's the exact opposite!" and then we're forced to go insane ruminating on the meaning of these choices for an eternity during the hiatus.
This is already obscenely long, and I have some thoughts about other characters and how their main plotlines play out during the season finales, but I'll leave this here for now. Hope this gave you something!
#yramesoruniverse#ask#the writers are insane#the writers are unhinged#season finale parallels#something about being left behind#something about eddie not leaving him behind#Im going insane I think#buddie#evan buckley#meta#season 5 boutta knock me over the head#meta by me
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Online dating
darcy lewis x reader / masterlist
summary; darcy decides to try a dating app, least to say, the guy isn’t anything like his picture. and thus she ditches him, and finds someone else in a hot second / warnings; the oc guys in this fic are dicks, homophobia, darcy being bae, swearing, mentions of sex and cheating, mentions of joy x reader.
he was a polar opposite to what he had portrayed his online self to be, screw the internet! this date was truly tragic, darcy had plenty of things that she could be better using her time for, rather than sitting opposite this oaf, that was licking his unappealing lips, and staring at the waitress when he thought that she didn’t notice.
“huh?” the scientific doctor pulled her phone out, ushering a puzzled expression on her face as she stared at the blank screen. she of course recognised that no one was making any attempts to contact her, but he didn’t know that. “one second.” she held her finger up, bringing the phone to her ear as she blabbered into the speaker that was inherently catching nothing that she was saying.
“slow down jane.” darcy falsely ushered, using her hands to exaggerate the conversation in her head. she put the phone down, a facade of panic elaborating behind her spectacle adorned eyes as she grabbed her belongings in a frenzy, standing upright and out of her seat. “im so sorry, my friend has just hit some guy with her car and she needs some moral support. tonight is going to have to be cut extremely short.”
short was a relief, but the hopeful expression on this dude’s face wasn’t. perhaps it was cruel to leave this guy hanging, and well, she couldn’t blame him for wanting more, she sent him an awkward smile as he began to speak. “we should do this again some time - properly.” darcy wasn’t dumb, she noticed how his eyes sped to the side as the curvy waitress walked by.
“sure...” no, definitely not. darcy was well aware that she was wasting her time with this moron, she didn’t need a man, let alone a dweeb of one. a quick wave was all she bade him as she exited the coffee shop, only to become engrossed in a scene erupting on the local streets. there was a woman, flinging shirts, and a bra within the bundle that looked as though it was not her size, what was she thinking, clearly it wasn’t, at said example of figurative masculinity.
“screw you durkus!” any guy named ‘durkus’ was basically a label confirming that he was a dick. “i don’t need you, nor the next man! i am a well established woman who has done more for this country than you could ever know, you’re dust beneath my feet, a pathetic layer of residue that i want nothing more to brush off.” perhaps she was being harsh, but it sounded like he deserved it.
from the red lipstick, that the woman was not at all sporting, from the random bra that she had flung at her partner, it was a safe bet to assume that he had cheated on her. darcy plodded closer, listening whimsically in, and realising that her life was pretty calm, there were no longer asguardians or dark elves infiltrating her life, nor the work that she had attained to field in.
she had only recently earned herself the title of doctor, and it was frustrating that people would assume that she opted for a profession in a hospital room, or they would forget the professional endorsement all together, and address her as ‘miss lewis’. she was no one’s puppet, she had scaled herself up the ladder of her career to be where she was now, but another thing that she was alongside such a wave of potential was a feminist.
this dick was shouting in the streets, calling her inexplicable names such as a ‘whore’, and a ‘two faced bitch’. having the ability to hear the insults brew anger in her stomach, she couldn’t just stand there. “what are you going to do, turn into a complete lesbian?” now that was the last straw, it had darcy marching over, and promptly she shoved the guy, making him drop all the items that were grasped in the basket of his arms.
a flabbergasted ‘huh’ was riveted from him, and it made darcy smirk as she attuned his attention towards her; the stranger that had gotten involved in his public display of disrespect and homophobia. “how about you watch your damned mouth before i make sure you can’t open it again. and whilst you’re at it, get some new shirts, you’re not a model, unless you’re the kind that are put on prison pamphlets.”
“who the fuck are you?” he spat his saliva on the ground by darcy’s feet, establishing her with the information that her first impression of this dick had been correct. women just knew with this kind of thing, they could sense trouble from a mile away. “you know what, keep that crazy bitch. maybe you can help her store her katanas, and go on double dates with danny rand and his plus one. rather you than me.”
“don’t ask.” the woman shook her head, tired of the drama that durkus always seemed to bring. she had enough trouble, involving work and extracurricular night time activities, without him adding to them. darcy presented her with a sweet smile, picking up the box of random bits and bobs that was on the floor. “that’s just work stuff, i’m moving offices and as i came to collect some things from our apartment, and i found him- well let’s just say he wasn’t alone.”
“that was pretty easy to pick up on. how’d you not realise that you were dating a total sleaze?” she was blunt with her enquiry, though the woman shrugged, a guilty expression cowering upon your features, like an ashamed shadow. a small, attractive smile graced her lips, secrets hidden beneath the span of the expression.
“oh, i knew. i just had to pretend to be happy, so that my ex, or well now, my other ex joy would stop chastising me, claiming that i haven’t got over her. she’s so up her own ass sometimes and it drives me- shit, i’m sorry, you don’t know me, nor do you need to hear about my problems.” the y/h/c haired woman shook her head, stretching her hand out to miss lewis. “i’m y/n, thanks a bunch for helping me out back there.”
darcy accepted her handshake, completing the action as she smiled. “i’m darcy.” this woman didn’t need to know about her doctor title, in fact, darcy was keen on knowing everything about her instead. “so’d how you meet him?” referring to the person that had most recently became y/n’s ex. y/n was relieved that darcy had shown up, she was sure she’d have used her martial art training for more than composition; she’d have kicked durkus’ flat ass.
“on a dating app.” it was a normal answer, she wouldn’t share the intel that before that she had saved his ass whilst wearing a black hood, stopping him from getting mugged in the dead of night. perhaps she should have saved someone else that particular late evening. darcy couldn’t help but let a small laugh out, finding both their circumstances quite amusing. she was sure a similar situation would have unfolded if she had decided to regularly see the date that she ditched.
“online dating man, it sucks, am i right?” it had quite the reputation, for the two of them especially. “maybe we should just date each other.” she joked, though she was being partially serious. it felt right, they had bumped randomly into one another’s faulted situations on the same day, it almost felt like fate, though that subject was too cheesy to say aloud.
“well doctor lewis, i would not at all mind going on a date with you.” darcy frowned at the title that she had been called, pointing at the side of the woman’s jacket, that had a recyclable label stuck upon the material. “so you majored in science, if i am correct?” finally, someone got it! she could get used to that.
y/n did not appear as a deity nor a creature from another realm, she was normal. or so as far as the eye could tell, in fact, she did not suspect a thing from this woman, much less to be a defender of the earth that worked in a small and less know league than the avengers, yet still roamed the us to protect its people.
darcy though had won this battle for her though, giving her a moment of peace from fighting, and had idly sent durkus on his route far away. y/n could get used to not being the hero all the time, more so if this doctor was her knight in shining armour.
#darcy lewis x reader#darcy lewis imagine#darcy lewis fanfiction#Darcy lewis oneshot#kat dennings x reader#Darcy x reader#Darcy imagine#thor x reader#marvel women x reader#imagines#imagine#xreader#marvel x reader#Darcy lewis ff#darcy lewis x you#darcy lewis
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what do you think of people saying loki is ooc and slyvie is acting more like loki, imo loki is mix of loki in thor, loki in TDW and Loki in Raganorak, imo slyvie probably acting more like thor loki somewhat but wouldn't say she acting like loki just cause they fixated on the loki of 2011-2012 just because he different afterwards doesn't mean his ooc also moaning about loki not being in green outfit i admit it weird he still stuck in his tva costume but seems he be back in his green outfit later on so.... and people talk slyvie is more badass than loki imo loki outplayed her in their fight in ep 3
Hey anon,
I have nothing to say about these people. They're entitled to their opinions and interpretation of the Loki series. I just don't want to engage with these opinions. As I state mine on my blog, they state theirs on their blogs. That's how it should stay for peace to prevail in the fandom.
As for Loki and Sylvie...
I'm still not sure where the series going with the concept of a variant. Because while I see resemblance between Loki and Sylvie sometimes (they often mirror their actions and can fight in sync without having had previous experience of the same), I don't understand how she and him are the same person from different timelines. Because in episode 2 we were shown different Loki variants, and they all, at keast physically, resembled Loki enough to make that connection.
So I'm left wondering how Sylvie figures into the mix. She cannot shapeshift, as far as we know. Her magic is enchantment and maybe a bit of energy blasts, but not shapeshifting. She even coloured her hair blonde. Ok. But I still can't understand how she's a Loki.
I hope it's made clearer in the next episode, because this question is asked within the episode itself -- "What makes a Loki Loki?"
In terms of behaviour also, Sylvie is much different than Loki. She is very keen to fight and enchant her way into places. A more direct approach. Loki himself stated this to her.
In comparison, Loki tries the indirect approach first. He tries to talk his way into things. He tries to interact and form alliances, no matter how tenuous and unstable they may turn out to be later. He tries to manipulate. He did it with the Jotuns and Laufey (to Thor too) in Thor 1. He did it with Dark Elves in TDW. He did it with Thanos too, to some extent (it didn't work out that well, but he survived at least). He did it with the Grandmaster in Ragnarok. He did with Mobius through their little talks about free will and the Time Keepers.
In fact, upon watching episode 3, I recognized how he did ot with Sylvie too. He pulled info out of Sylvie very casually. She hadn't been keen on talking about her own powers, but he coaxed it out of her, eventually. He shared info about himself first, nothing that would give her advantage over him. He never shared the mechanics of his magic, instead he shared stuff about Frigga. Got Sylvie talking. She still didn't share info about her powers, so he tried again, and again...in different ways while they walked to Shuroo. Until she finally told him exactly how it works.
So that's how Loki operates. He puts others into a false sense of security to make them divulge something important. It's subtle and not very noticeable.
Sylvie, OTOH, doesn't do that. Maybe because she lived a different kind of life? She has been on the run from the TVA since her childhood, so I guess it shaped her into an aggressive, ready to fight kind of person? We saw what that kinda pressure can do to Loki, because he was somewhat similar to that mode in 2012 Avengers. But after being thrown into the TVA mess, I think he went back to his old approach, because he needed to survive and learn more about this new situation and opponent he was facing. Aggressors don't usually survive against more powerful opponents. He even pointed it out to Sylvie that he was surprised that she had survived this long with her approach.
I kinda digressed there, but... Here's the thing. I still don't know what to make of Sylvie, but in certain instances she behaved more like Thor than Loki. But then she also showed the hyper-vigilance of someone who was constantly on the run. In fact, it seemed that she and Loki took up opposite ends of behavioural spectrum in some of the key scenes. She was cautious in the train, whereas Loki was a being a (adorable) nihilistic disaster. She was aggressive while approaching that woman in the shack, whereas he tried to fool her. She wanted to enchant the guards and start a fight to hijack the train, but he went for deception and illusion. I wonder if that was intentional on part of the showrunners.
On their fights...
I don't think she overpowered Loki as much as Loki chose not to be aggressive with her. Ultimately, when push came to shove, he was able to hold his own and snatch the tempad, which he used as leverage to make her cooperate with him. And when he wasn't trying to defend himself, he tried to actively protect her. Their relationship is inherently not antagonistic. At least, not to him. Right from the start, he has been trying to get her to work with him. In episode 3 he finally succeeded.
Anyway, in conclusion, I think there's a lot more to come from the series, many variables we don't know about. So making solid opinions is kinda impossible for me at present. I simply want to wait and see it all play put before I conclusively say anything about Sylvie. Thus far, I do like her. She's an interesting character, a good supporting one to Loki. Let's see how it pans out.
#loki#mcu loki#loki meta#sylvie meta#loki series meta#loki series speculation#loki series observation#loki spoilers#loki series#loki series spoilers#loki and sylvie#sylvie#loki variant#anon#anon ask
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Old Times All Over (Part 1 of 2)
A very special thank you to @sequinsmile-x for the beta!
Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore.
Aaron takes a risk and goes to Emily while she's undercover in Paris.
Rating: M
Exactly six months pass before he can’t stand it anymore. The weight of her absence is unbearable; it follows him around as if lingering in hidden shadows and settling deep in his soul, an indelible stain that doesn’t fade as the days pass by. He bears the team’s grief, shoulders it and doesn’t let himself handle his own. It feels wrong to mourn her as if she were actually dead when in reality she lingers somewhere very different, another kind of hellish existence. He often finds himself wondering what she’d say about all of it. Emily would have scoffed at the ornate casket, rolled her eyes at the formality of the Catholic service the Ambassador insisted upon. He’d been the one to make the call on the flight back to DC. Elizabeth knew right away why he was calling, and the detached coldness in her tone was merely a coping mechanism, for the older woman’s grief seeped through the phone as he relayed the news. Aaron could scarcely reach her eyes as he offered condolences in person, the words heavy and thick on his tongue. Elizabeth’s questions were answered with the vague formalities that were constructed as part of a grand lie, held together with threads that ran the risk of being unraveled with the slightest misstep.
Read the rest below the cut or on Ao3
Emily’s life depended on the sanctity of those lies, as did his own.
No one can ever find out about this, JJ had whispered to Aaron and Clyde behind a firmly closed door in the depths of that hospital in Boston. It was eerily dark, their heads bent together in near silence as initial plans were laid. For her safety, and all of ours. It felt oddly conspiratorial to plan her disappearance as she laid just feet away, oblivious to it all and very much alive. But Doyle escaped into the night like a ghost, and that meant Emily had to go too whether they liked it or not. It didn’t matter that they hunted monsters like him every day. They knew the moment her heart started again, that she would pull through, that she’d never be free. He’ll never stop looking for her. Clyde’s voice was like rubbing salt in a wound that burned through his skin.The tension between them was thick, laden with the unspoken tension of a tentative truce and a keen awareness of the pain that coursed within each of them. He will go to the ends of the earth to find her.
Aaron disliked Clyde Easter from the moment he laid eyes on the man. Perhaps it was his closeness to Emily - she trusted him, more so than she did Aaron, as was being made abundantly clear. It still stung - that she’d gone to him in her moment of need without even once considering just maybe the team could have helped. Maybe it was the way Clyde knew her so intimately, almost as well as a lover would - a delicate balance of adoration and indignance, a fierce desire to protect the oaths they’d sworn years ago, loyalty and trust woven from years of brushes with peril only to do it all over again. But it was more than that; he knew from the moment Clyde sat before him in an interrogation room in Boston his loathing ran deep. Only later would Aaron realize they both paid a similar price for loving the same woman.
The idea to go to her comes to him once Dave has finally disappeared for the night and the bottle of scotch is empty once again. It’s a ritual they share now, unspoken yet expected, an attempt at burying the worst of their grief. It never quite hits the mark, because Dave doesn’t know the truth. His words are wise and well intended, but he speaks of loss in terms of death, and it’s one thing Aaron can’t think about for too long. But it’s some of the only company he has once the building quiets down, so whenever he shows up at the door, he doesn’t object. Most nights they leave together after a round. The echo of their shoes striking the marble floors is the only noise between them when they pass the framed photos of agents long gone on the walls, now with Emily among them. He wants to shake someone, tell them she doesn’t belong there. “Don’t look,” Dave tells him every time. “It won’t bring her back.”
He always looks.
Tonight Aaron lingers, the idea now an intrusive thought reverberating through his weary mind. It’s dangerous - violates every rule of her disappearance - and puts anyone who knows at risk. He shuffles the files on his desk only to do it once more, rearranges the pens in the cup and flips through a few reports that still require his signature. His phone rings; he doesn’t have to turn it over to know it’s Jessica asking where he is, that Jack is asking for him. He was supposed to have been home a few hours ago. Instead of answering that phone, he digs for a different one. This one has stayed hidden in his desk since the night they returned from Boston. Clyde had pushed it into his hand at the last possible moment before he boarded a flight, his face stony and solemn. “If you ever need to reach me, use this.” It might be the closest thing to a friendship they’ll ever have, a twisted kind of bond that comes along with a shared secret they very well might take to the grave.
“I was wondering when you would call,” comes the lilting British accent on the other end when the line connects. “I thought for sure it would be sooner.” Clyde’s voice is haunting; it takes Aaron right back to Boston when it was just the two of them in that interrogation room, piercing blue eyes up against his darker ones as the pieces fell into place. If you want to stop that man, you have to put a bullet between his eyes yourself. He barely recognizes his own voice; it strains when he explains exactly why he’s calling, once the doors of his office are firmly shut. Even then, it’s a near whisper.
“You do realize what you’re asking of me?” Clyde demands. He’s not exactly surprised by the request, though. After all, he and Aaron had a few things in common. “The risks of all of this?” He’s whispering, the hiss of his voice biting even from thousands of miles away, wherever the hell he might be. “I thought you did things by the book at the BAU.”
“Can you make it work or not?” Aaron’s terseness matches Clyde’s hostility, a thinly veiled shield for his grief that consumes him.
There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a contemplative inhale as if he’s considering his answer, like he holds the power in his hands himself. “You should have more faith in me, Agent Hotchner.”
...
It’s all a little too easy to coordinate once the initial call is made, much to his surprise. For two weeks, things continue as normal, or as close to normal as possible, a period of limbo-like freefall. A case takes them to Portland, another to Providence. While the team is across the country, Clyde takes care of the multiple identities and aliases Aaron will use in Europe, along with a reservation at a nondescript hotel and God only knows what else. He’s barely back in Virginia for an hour when a text message on the burner phone reveals a series of coordinates, a meeting location.
“A direct flight to Charles de Gaulle might seem suspect,” Clyde whispers, nestled amongst the shadows along the Potomac River three nights before Aaron slated to leave. “There’s a flight from Regan to Heathrow, then to Paris. You’ll have a different identity for each, so best not to get confused.”
Aaron bristles at the snarkiness in his tone. “And my cover story?”
Clyde scoffs, as if disgusted by the question. “You’ll tell your team you’re being called to London to consult with Scotland Yard as a favor to a friend. I’ve already taken care of those details as well - a fake case report. Familiarize yourself with them so they don’t suspect anything.” He passes over the thick envelope, holding onto it for just a moment too long.
“How will I find her? Once I’m there?”
“Leave that up to me, Aaron. She’ll be waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” is all Aaron can say once he holds the weight of it in his hands. “I know you took a huge risk to do this.”
Clyde stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and shuffles his feet awkwardly. “I love her too, you know.” It’s certainly the most honest he’s ever been, something that looks like hurt flooding his features. But he stiffens a few seconds later with an authoritative clearing of his throat. “Bloody hell, Aaron, for all of our sakes, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
...
Aaron drops Jack off at Jessica’s. He relays the same details he told the team a few hours before with the same feigned degree of calm assurance and mock annoyance - just a few days away, work related. No one suspects a thing. In fact, the rest of them seem almost happy for him to go. “A change of scenery might be nice,” Dave says as they walk out of the BAU.
It’s risky, inherently a bad idea and yet, it isn’t enough to deter him. There’s an element of betrayal he feels for lying to the team, for they’re still reeling from their collective loss. They miss her just as much as he does; none of this is fair. He drowns it out with a pair of headphones and a stiff drink as the plane roars to life and lifts into the sky as the sun sets.
He wakes up hours later in London with a headache and an all too familiar ache in his chest.
…
It’s another few hours of travel before he actually lands in Paris. He’s completely focused, determined as he collects his luggage and leaves the airport. He destroys the first passport moments after the plane touches solid ground and tucks the next one in his jacket pocket for easy access, the others will stay safely in his travel bag. Aaron calls Clyde on a new burner phone, one of several included in the envelope of documents that was passed over in a shadowy spot by the Potomac. He answers on the first ring, doesn’t even bother with a greeting. Instead he rattles off an address Aaron commits to memory and adds, “she’ll be waiting for you,” before the line goes dead. The address, he soon finds, is a small cafe in the fifth Arrondissement, the Latin Quarter. At first it seems risky, to meet in public, but it’s probably safer than somehow having a record of her address.
The woman at the small table in the back of the cafe is inconspicuous, but he spots her immediately upon opening the door. She could be anyone; she fits right in. One slender leg crossed over the other, a chic knee-length boot peeking out under the table. A simple raincoat, hair cut just below her chin. It’s lighter than it was the last time he saw her but still a rich shade of brown.The only giveaway is the state of the nails on her right hand - not manicured, bit down and ragged. It’s her, exactly where Clyde said she would be. He doesn’t make a big show, just simply sits in the empty seat across from her, his heart pounding in his chest when he sees her face for the first time in months. Emily’s hand is unsteady as her fingers wrap around the espresso on the table. “I’ve been waiting.” It sounds formal; she makes no move to shake his hand or hug him, or display any bit of emotion, but her lips tremble and her eyes well up a little.
“I got a little lost along the way,” Aaron shrugs a little, keeping his tone light for any ears privy to their conversation. She smiles, probably picturing him lost on the maze-like streets of Paris, the streets that still don’t feel like home to her either. “I’m here now.” It carries more weight than it ever would; all he wants to do is touch her to prove to himself this isn’t just part of the fucking nightmare he’s lived since March, one he’ll wake from wrapped in sheets damp with sweat and a pounding heart. She’s very much real, very much alive in front of him, but what the Emily he sees isn’t the Emily he remembers. Paris might be beautiful but it hasn’t been kind to her. She’s thinner and paler, shades of exhaustion on her face. Over the years Aaron has seen her sleep deprived more times than he could count - the toll of back to back cases added up - but this is something else entirely. It’s the culmination of fear from constantly looking over her shoulder, the toll of the unknown. Would Doyle ever stop looking for her, or would the rest of her days be spent on the run, alone, days that blend into weeks into months and years? Would she ever come home, to the only family she’s really ever had?
Emily studies him too, undoubtedly shocked at what she sees. Time hasn’t been kind to him, either. He’s a shell of what he used to be. A subtle shadow on his face that’s new, he’s weary eyed and tense. She knows it’s not because of the better part of a day he’s spent traveling - it’s much more than that. It’s a haunting look, with the memory of how quickly things spiraled out of control. He’d been helpless to stop any of it; Emily knows the blame he places on himself. If their hurried goodbye in the hospital was any indicator of the torment of what he’s been through the last six months, then she knows it’s been hell for him. Just like it’s been for her. She pushes another espresso, this one untouched, in his direction. “How much time do you have?” English feels foreign on her tongue. It’s been weeks, months maybe, since she’s had a real conversation not in French. It’s an act. This is all an act, but one her life depends on. Every minute she spends walking the arrondissements is a risk. The fear curls around her spine a little too tightly. She glances around the coffee shop, eyes scanning through without spending too long on any one thing. It can’t look obvious, only effortless.
“Not nearly enough.” Aaron wonders how much she knows about this, just what Clyde told her about the logistics of his visit. “We have about forty eight hours.”
He doesn’t miss the longing, wistful look in her eyes when she nods, the slightest tip of her head. It’s not enough time, it never will be. But it’s all they have, all they might ever have. They speak in short sentences, vague and cryptic, as they sip the espresso. It’s stronger than he expected, she seems immune to its effects. She doesn’t call him Aaron, and he’s careful not to call her Emily. He doesn’t know her new name, either. Not even Clyde could give him that information - it was probably better that way. They make superficial conversation - the rain here and the heat there, the bakery on the corner with chocolate croissants and the headlines on the newspaper that sits on the table. He plays along as she explains, as if he fits into this world she’s had no other choice but to assimilate into. To anyone in the cafe, they could be old friends, lovers even, with years of history between them, a casual intimacy spun like a web. The ease of lulls in conversation, a subtle glance every so often, the comfort of the proximity of someone else.
And hidden somewhere in their conversation, behind a facade of lies, is something else. What no one knows, what they haven’t quite managed to forget themselves, is something happened between them once before.
...
It was spring, after the dust had settled from Foyet and the world started to turn again, albeit slowly. Only when things settled into a new kind of normal - the humble experience of single parenting, relying on Jessica like he never had before - did Aaron realize something had changed between them. Perhaps it was the unwavering way Emily stood by him even when he wouldn’t admit to needing it, or how she picked up his loose ends without making him feel like his life was unraveling before his eyes. It was the way she mourned Haley’s death, a steadfast presence at her funeral, and her attentiveness to Jack in the months after.
He’d been divorced for more than a year, separated for at least two. Aaron no longer mourned his marriage, but the loss of his son’s mother, the woman he’d shared more than half of his life with. But someone else started to preoccupy his mind - dark hair, a blinding grin, a wicked sense of humor. It was becoming harder to ignore; she was everywhere. So a few months later in the spring, when he found Emily, nursing a drink at the hotel bar that had clearly seen better days, after a particularly brutal case in Scranton, he knew exactly how the night would end. It would cross a line - railroad through any professional boundary they still maintained. But an unsub had walked free earlier that night, a child was dead, and while it wasn’t her fault, he watched any trace of composure vanish from her face when they got back to the hotel as she retreated into herself.
It shouldn’t have happened that way - definitely not how he imagined it would. But Emily was desperate in her need to forget, he was desperate to help her do so. It was frantic, the clash of her teeth against his an ironic reminder that this was the first time he ever kissed her. Aaron pressed her back against the wall, sucked a bruise into her neck, and buried himself inside of her with one smooth push. He swallowed her moans with his mouth, the snap of his hips brutal and sharp. She reveled in it, her need for him and this, legs hitched over his hips as she clenched around him.
“Wanted you for so long,” he growled as she came around him. Her fingers were like vices around his shoulders, clinging to him as he fucked her through it, unrelenting. “Thought about you, about this.”
“Me too,” Emily gasped, the simple admission triggering his own release until he came apart and took her with him one more time.
Aaron had to carry her to the bed in the middle of his hotel room. It was the most gentle he’d been all evening, gingerly placing her in the center of it, following her down and pulling her into his arms. She was bruised and sore, he wore the scratches of her nails on his back and shoulders. Emily curled into him like she’d been doing it forever, snuggling into his chest. “I still can’t feel my legs.”
“We should have done that a long time ago,” he mused into the darkness, dragging his fingertips down her spine, listening to her slow, even breaths. It’s an admission more than an observation, and the low laugh that comes from her is all the confirmation he needs to know she thinks the same thing.
It happened again hours later, in the middle of the night, this time softer, slow and unhurried. He made her come twice with his mouth, coaxing her through each one. Aaron took his time, marveling at her and whispering praises into her skin. She beamed under his touch, besotted under his gaze. He studied the sharpness of her ribs, the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. And then he held her hands in his own above her head, rocking into her, metronomic and even. He kissed her like a lover should, his lips still wet with her slick, her legs pressed tightly wrapped around his waist as she crested against him. He collapsed against her shortly after, grappling for her hands, leaving kisses along her collarbones - anything to be as close to her as he possibly could.
But it was over after that.
Timing once again failed them. Not because they didn’t have the chance, but because they were both afraid something would change, whatever friendship they built over time, and they wouldn’t be able to take it back. They never talked about it, never even acknowledged anything had happened in that hotel room in Scranton once it was over. It lingered between them, the awareness of it sometimes all-consuming if she got too close or they somehow ended up sitting beside one another on the jet. But things happened - JJ’s untimely departure, coupled with Seaver’s arrival, the grueling toll of case after case. It was buried, hidden behind the burden of their jobs and the baggage they carried, both too stubborn to admit what was right in front of them.
And then she slipped away, shortly after a case in Montana. Emily’s typical professionalism, her unmatched level of skill was marred by uncharacteristic lateness and a short fuse, as if something had settled into her mind that she couldn’t shake. She was secretive and jumpy, slowly withdrawing from them all before his own eyes. And he’d been too caught up in what they weren’t saying, what they were hiding from, to even ask what was wrong.
Aaron never saw it coming. Until it was too late.
…
The cafe suddenly feels suffocating, the four walls trapping them in. What started as an alluring scent of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries now feels cloying, overwhelming. It’s just a little too loud as their conversation fades into silence. After all, there’s only so much small talk that can be made when he only has one question. Why? Across from him Emily shifts in her chair yet still wears her pleasant smile, still playing the act she’s perfected over the last several months. But she’s tearing at her fingernails, a sure sign that she’s nervous. He knows her tells by now, all of them. “What do we do now?” She asks, her voice barely audible. Whether it’s intentional or not he isn’t sure,
He leans in, takes her hand in his own. “Let’s get out of here.”
#hotchniss#hotchniss fanfiction#aaron hotchner#emily prentiss#aaron hotchner x emily prentiss#so not canon#hotch x prentiss#I love these two idiots so much#but I will make their lives angst and hell for a little bit#and slow clap for Clyde Easter#angsty but no one dies I promise
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1, 3, 23 for the ask meme? 👀
thank you for the ask!! 💕
1. favourite fic you wrote this year
It's gotta be Flux; the one that started it all back up again after a 2-ish year break from writing.
I'm really chuffed with how it works as a standalone fic and the way it slots into the wider Normandy Detective Agency series, and I feel like I got the ✨vibe✨ right for the setting.
Basically it's the post-Sidonis angst I think we deserve, with more cigarettes and slow-dancing 😙👌
23. fics you wanted to write but didn’t
the next instalment of tNDA rip
@shepgarrus and I are currently pooling our collective braincells into a shakarian formula 1 probably human AU which I'd love to make into something publishable but. c'est la vie.
Key points for your consideration:
- baby Shep and Garrus growing up racing on the karting circuit together
- a friendship based on both a fierce, long-established rivalry and a genuine respect for the other persons' ability
- TV interview banter, publicity photos where they always manage to stand next to each other somehow, and internet speculation about whether they're fucking on the sly
- the inherent potential for angst in a very dangerous sport
- kick-ass afterparties
- sweaty post-race Shepard in a half-undone race suit 👀👀
- sweaty post-race Garrus with messy helmet hair 👀👀👀
3. favourite line/scene you wrote this year
oooooh tricky! I got this one twice so I'll pick one published and one unpublished.
Unpublished: introducing tNDA-verse Castis.
The part of AU - particularly human AU - that I love the most is picking apart the characters. What changes? What's essential about them? How does what we know about them already - their motivation, their backstory, the way they dress - translate into a new setting?
I put Castis through the human AU wringer and he came out an expensively-dressed defence lawyer from New York, who has a somewhat contentious relationship with his bull-headed son and he's also a DILF thank you for coming to my ted talk
Under the cut because it's Long (also part of a longer scene with Garrus which I’ve written but haven’t included)
Ask me more questions about fic!
"Garrus, your car's outside I know you're in there."
Nobody walks anywhere in LA. Shepard pounds the door with her fist again, and at last a key turns and the door opens.
"Christ - finally, I was - "
Shepard registers the cane first. Then the moustache.
"Uh - "
"Good morning," says the man who isn't Garrus.
He's in his mid-fifties, Shepard would guess, in brown suit pants, a white shirt and suspenders; all well-tailored and immaculately pressed. The cane is a subtle, glossy dark-wood thing with silver at the handle, glinting in his fist.
"Morning - sir," she adds hastily, because he seems like someone who's used to it. "I'm looking for - "
"Garrus? He went to get a paper."
"Oh," she says. Trust him to walk to the damn store. "Right."
They must be related. They've got the same nose, the same scratchy voice, the same lean build, though Garrus is a few inches taller.
"I can - uh - come back later," Shepard offers into the stretching silence.
"You seem in something of a hurry."
"It can wait."
If she's quick, she could catch Garrus his way home.
"You always knock with such vivacity, do you?"
The man has a benign, amicable sort of expression which Shepard knows better than to take at face value. His eyes are keen behind the pleasantries and she gets the feeling he's not going to let her get off easy.
So Shepard settles on a personable smile.
"I suppose so."
He returns the smile and it feels like she's passed some kind of test.
"Garrus won't be long. Come in - please - Miss - ?"
"Shepard. Jane Shepard - really, it's not - " But he's already standing aside and waving her in.
"Castis Vakarian. Coffee?"
Shepard resigns herself to not having the morning she expected. "That'd be great. Thanks."
So this is the infamous Vakarian patriarch. Shepard knows the name from the digging she did when they hired Garrus. Castis has the same East Coast lilt as his son, though much more pronounced, and there's an old-money look about him. He wouldn't seem out of place in a grand old colonial house out in the country.
#ask#tNDA#castis vakarian#Formula 1 AU#i love castis so much!!!!!! i'm so excited to write more of him (and solana. the most terrifying of the vakarians)
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a singular darkness
@hallowed-nebulae Hope this makes up for the chronic pain of tonight!
Xehanort has no idea why he’s here.
This Radiant Garden, Hollow Bastion, whatever name it may be using at this timeframe, is much brighter than the one they’ve newly arrived from.
This world is not his world. Nothing about current circumstances will allow him to come even close to forgetting that.
Why should he care about it? Why should he even try to?
The people here don’t want him here, he can tell by the way they stiffen at the sight of him and try not to meet his eyes.
They might attempt to welcome the two Replicas and Master Aqua, outside of their interactions with Xehanort himself. But none of them really fit in this worldline.
Too Light, this world, compared to what it should be.
The other Xehanort accused him of being weak, of allowing himself to be consumed by Darkness. The rest here...will likely be similar. Are similar, in their wordless response.
They want something from him (everyone does) and Xehanort will not give it to them.
Yet only the silver-haired Ephemer (named after the founder, perhaps?) is brave enough to come up to him.
To get the question that Xehanort will give to all of them.
“Do you want something from me?”
Enough of that. The native people here are moving them to the castle. To a room where half of them settle and sprawl out on chairs of all kinds.
Xehanort stands. Waits for one of them to start their speech. The reason for dragging them off here.
They don’t disappoint.
“Are you aware of a man called the Master of Masters?” the other Aqua asks, the one calling herself Invi. She seems more put together than the Aqua of their current day’s world. Barely. Something shakes underneath, something seems ready to break.
No wonder Ruse involved herself. She’s always had a soft spot for broken things.
“I’ve heard of him,” Ruse answers almost right away. Of course she has. Never ceases to amaze how much she knows, considering how much of that information she shouldn’t have.
One day, Xehanort swears, he will discover the secret behind that. One day.
As for the present...the Master of Masters. Could that be...the man he ran into as a child, in the middle of the Keyblade Graveyard? The man wearing the black coat that Xehanort wears now, the man whose face he never got to see.
(The man whose name could not be spoken.)
If that is the same man, if he is playing a bigger role in this worldline...how interesting.
(How did he fail to get the other Xehanort involved in what should be an inevitable and shared fate?)
His attention sharpens. Intensifies on Invi as she continues.
“Well, I’ll make this short then. Superbia, more known as the Master of Masters, intends to destroy this worldline so as to also destroy any and all Darkness within it as well.”
The woman is shaking. Barely noticeable but to a keen eye. Next to Xehanort, Ruse is shaking too. Shivering in tune to her.
“He took advantage of my imbalanced education and convinced me that all Light was good and all Darkness inherently bad.”
Ah right, Aqua is Eraqus’ student. And something aches inside of Xehanort to learn yet again that his best friend never grows beyond the ideas of Light and Dark they once shared as fellow students. Failing his students in every worldline, it seems.
That Xehanort will never be enough to change his mind. That Xehanort isn’t worthy of being changed for.
(Fear is, as always, stronger than love.)
“He has twisted me into being only one step away from a proper Foreteller. I am human, but barely thus.”
Barely human. Yes, that seems right. That explains the glow, the feeling of breaking that Xehanort has caught. Why this woman seems more like Lord Ira than Aqua, when it should be the other way around.
“I tell you this-” A shaky breath. “-to serve as a warning of his danger.”
Eyes full of Light glare in Ruse’s direction. Too bright to be truly soft, as the Aqua he’s aware of often pretends to be.
“I don’t know if Superbia will appear again due to whatever you did to alter the feel of my Heart.”
Superbia...a name much like Invi's. Another name for the Master of Masters, from the context. More history, how fascinating. Xehanort will have to keep this in mind for the future.
(Not that it truly matters, in the end. Not with what lies ahead.)
“But… I advise that you all be cautious, here. He already threw Ven into your worldline, as an attempt to make things go according to the future he saw once. He views the future as an unchangable thing. I… do not wish to see what he would do, if he has truly decided to force things to proceed as he believes they should be.”
An explanation for the appearance of the strangers from this worldline, finally.
But instead of further talking about her woes, Invi suddenly rises to her feet.
“I have something else to attend to, so I must be on my way now. Do take care, and be safe.” With that, the woman almost stomps out, shoulders stiff and eyes glowing even brighter.
Silence as the people from his worldline shift uneasily. Considering what to do next.
A boy with black hair finally breaks the silence. “Do you have any questions?”
“Just one,” Ruse says, “for now. Why does Brain look younger than Lauriam and everyone else?”
More names Xehanort doesn’t know, outside history books. Interesting. Real people from Keyblade history right here? That seems more likely than all of them being named after said people, in this kind of situation.
...pity they seem as righteous and Light-loving as those same books painted them.
‘Brain’ looks surprised. Off to the side, Xehanort notices a similar expression on his lookalike. Before they start laughing.
Mocking. Of course.
He can feel Ruse bristle. Upset both by the laughter and her failure to catch what was really going on.
Xehanort isn’t sure exactly how he knows this, only that he does.
He reaches out to...not touch. He doesn’t touch people anymore. But the offer is there, nonetheless. For some reason, Ruse is the exception. Exception to a lot of things.
“I’m not Brain,” the more calm of the two says, while his twin falls on him. Still laughing.
“I am Luxu the Traitor. Brain is my younger brother – it’s just that I look younger because, due to the nature of being a Foreteller, I can control my appearance to an extent.”
Curious. Two lookalike brothers, twins in a way. Much like Ruse was of Riku, once.
And Luxu the Traitor? A heavy title. Xehanort finds himself intrigued. Perhaps in part because ‘traitor’ is the sort of title that usually gets thrown about in reference to him.
Due to his usage of Darkness.
The one calling himself Luxu shrugs. “I did look a bit older than this some time ago, but once Brain outgrew his hat and coat he gave them to me, which is why I’m wearing them.”
The other, Brain cuts in. “Luxu gave me his coat a long time ago, back after Daybreak Town had fallen apart. The black coats change shape and size to fit whoever wears them, so I never had to worry about outgrowing it, but I figured giving my hat and coat to my brother was a fair trade. Does that answer your question?”
...Not exactly the details Xehanort had been looking for.
Ruse slowly nods. Xehanort also catches Aqua and Xion giving nods of their own.
The boy called Brain grins. “Cool. It’s about dinner time, so we can probably go drag Even out of his labs. Or, Aeleus and Dilan will.”
“Either way, there’s going to be plenty of food for everyone, so you should all join us. I know some of the cooks that work here, they’re pretty nice,” the blond girl chips in as she stretches her arms.
Shepherding them all out to the next destination, like these newcomers are merely on some line awaiting to be assembled.
Leaving Brain and Luxu behind. Hm.
Xehanort puts aside the musing of whatever the twins may be plotting for another time. Focuses on his companion instead.
He doesn’t reach out. But he also doesn’t draw away as she briefly leans on him. Touches her head against her shoulder.
“Sorry, gotta talk to someone,” Ruse whispers. Draws away to race forward after the one called Ephemer.
Who would have guessed the founder of Scala ad Caelum would be like that? ...Xehanort probably could have, actually.
“Hey, wait up-! Can we talk, you know, somewhere privately?”
Ephemer pauses politely to listen to her.
Leaving Xehanort to...this.
He grits his teeth. Grinds them ever so briefly, don’t want to give anything more to these strangers than he already has.
Other than what Xehanort chooses to give, of course.
Aqua is off to the side, watching everyone carefully. The other Replica is more cheerfully pressing forward. ...As far as Xehanort can tell, with the way her face shifts and shivers.
They’re been led to an oversized dining hall. One clearly meant for royalty. Covered in...far too many dishes.
Xehanort almost manages to hide his sneer. Almost. But he’s not really trying in the first place.
Catches Vanitas’ attention, whose eyes narrow in his direction. “Hey, what’s your problem?”
Xehanort feels his own eyes narrow. “Why does it matter?”
He flares his Darkness.
(Feels Ruse’s own reaching out in return, something in the night suddenly watching-)
Flares loud enough to grab everyone’s attention. Perhaps he’s spent too much time around Ruse, to do something so obviously childish. Or to be so satisfied when nearly half of the room reacts rather...dramatically.
Xehanort smiles.
As cold as a Blizzaga.
#kh ficlet#kh young xehanort#storm whispers au#in which yx promptly judges EVERYONE and history for making huge assumptions#and then is the biggest HYPOCRITE in doing the same#never forget this guy is a villain and doesn't regret it
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Cuddling with Sal that turns from her kissing your neck to biting all over you until you beg for her touch. Please.
I.... had wayyyy too much fun writing this one, dear 😏 So, thank you 😊 It was truly honor to not only get the okay, but the approval of the incredibly talented @classyfruit to write for this soft, snarky, and insanely gorgeous creature! I can only hope that I did her justice! ♥️ So, without further ado, my dears.. I give you my first genderbent Sal fic! (at just about 3300 words - this deserves a cut!)
****
It was in the murky undertow. In the infinite darkness that filled the waters on the humble outskirts of the village. An absolute starless night enveloping you as you made your way to the water’s edge, keeping your eyes keenly focused. It had been months since you’d seen her last. Since her sea-kissed skin last touched your own. You had ignored all the rumors and hateful words that danced across the stale air of the village. It was no secret that the Lords instilled a great fear in the sheltered minds of the townspeople, but you had learned a long time ago that most of those people didn’t know what they were talking about anyways.
“Fuck, Sal.. Come on. Where are you?”
You were about to turn around, admit defeat and start the long trek back to the village when it hit. The unmistakable mix of fresh rain and cinnamon. It wafted over you warmly like an old friend, forcing your eyes to focus even harder. Smiling as you caught the sharp gleam of her teeth in the moonlight. A supremely smug smirk across her lips as the length of her rose from the dark water.
“‘Ey there, love. Lookin’ for me?”
“No, I’m looking for the other gorgeous sea creature that resides in these waters.” You replied, smirking as you rolled your eyes.
“That right?” Her sharp teeth elongating in the moonlight as her smile grew even wider. “What? One gorgeous sea creature ain’t enough fer yeh?”
“Cute, Sal.”
“Mhm.”
You heard the soft whisper of a chuckle skip across the cool night air as Sal began to close the distance between you. The exposed parts of her skin shimmering as her body seemed to glide seamlessly towards the water’s edge. One who didn’t know any better, would think she controlled the tides, that they bent to her every will. But you knew how strong the tentacles that propelled her towards you were, and you knew it well - so well, in fact, that the thought alone brought a swift blush to your cheeks.
“Blushin’ already, love?”
She gave you a full toothed smile, wrapping you in a warm embrace before her feet even had a chance to meet the wet earth. Her strong pheromones, supremely intoxicating as they rolled over you.
“Shush.”
Her breath was cool against your skin as she chuckled.
“Nah.”
“Heh.. little ol’ me?”
Burying your face into her shoulder, you allowed yourself a moment to linger in her scent - to relish in her very being. She was comfortable in a way that no other person had ever been - she felt like home and adventure, all wrapped up into one delicious package,
“Fuck.. I missed you, Sal.” You murmured into her, pulling a low chuckle from her throat.
She ran the tips of her nails softly through your hair, pulling you closer.
“Yes, Sal. Little ol’ wonderful you.”
You leaned up, to place a soft kiss directly under her chin, forcing a prompt shiver to shoot across her body. The pale moonlight above you, just luminous enough to allow the pink hue that splashed across Sal’s cheeks to shine brilliantly. It was a sight that you would never grow tired of - one that you would always strive for. You could make Sal Moreau blush a million times over, and forever be one short.
“Aye, flatterer.”
“It isn’t flattery if it’s true, Sal.”
“Mh.. ‘spose not.”
She chuckled again, her breath warm against your neck - causing you to shudder against her. Not even aware of the cold setting into your bones as a dense fog rolled in. Sal’s presence never failing to envelope you completely. You shuddered again, this time involuntary, compelling her to wrap her arms around you even tighter.
“Cuppa tea, love? Warm yeh up a bit?”
“Mmh.. you read my mind.”
She rubbed her hands affectionately down your arms, attempting to warm you before taking your hand in hers. Leading you both away from the water’s edge and closer inland towards her humble home - a subtle swirl of smoke from the fireplace told you that she had likely recently baked something. A splattering of flat rocks in the foreground that were perfect for stargazing - or so Sal had assured you many times. And you couldn’t help but smirk when you passed them by.
“Too bad there’s no stars out tonight.”
“Mh.. ’cept fer the ones in yer eyes, o’ course.”
You blushed as she looked over her shoulder at you, deep crimson across your cheeks.
“Smooth, Sal.”
“Mhm.”
She chuckled again, opening the small wooden door as she led you into the small home. The comfortable scent of fresh baked goods and Sal swiftly enveloping you as you stepped inside. Warm undertones of chocolate still lingering in the air as you made your way into the kitchen. There wasn’t a single thing about Sal’s home that didn’t give you comfort - that didn’t make you feel inherently safe. Every part of it overflowing with her essence. It was warm, and inviting, and every bit of who Sal was. You wondered how anyone who’d met her could ever call her a monster.
“Hava seat on the sofa, sweetheart. I’ll put the kettle on.”
You watched how Sal’s body moved fluidly throughout the small room. How her muscles flexed with each subtle movement that she made. She dropped her coat from her bare skin effortlessly, allowing the landscape of it to be truly appreciated. A small smirk to her lips as she caught your eyes on her, fully aware of the effect she was having on you. There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t toned, that didn’t look absolutely delicious in the low lighting of the room. The warm hue from the fireplace dancing exquisitely across each and every exposed inch of her, like rogue embers upon a driftless sea.
“Heh… see sumthin’ yeh like, love?”
“Perhaps,” You replied, blushing slightly as you bit your bottom lip.
She chuckled softly as she took down a small box from her pantry, placing it next to the two cups on the table.
“New kind of tea? I haven’t tried that one before;.”
“Aye, not so much new. Jus’ special..” She paused, giving you a wink. “.. like you.”
You averted your eyes for a moment, blushing as Sal chuckled - never failing to disarm you.
“Always the charmer, Sal.”
“Mhm.”
She laughed as she shook her head, swirls of steam encasing her face as she filled both mugs to the rim. An earthy but delicious scent immediately rolling over you. The name on the box was unfamiliar - and honestly, seemed a little fancier than Sal’s normal tastes, which only left you wondering.
“So.. do tell, Sal… what makes this tea so special?”
“Yeh mean other than the fact that I’m drinkin’ it with you?” A keen smirk across her face as she stirred what looked like honey into each cup. She was on her game that night, and she knew it. You bit your bottom lip, clearing your throat before replying.
“Ahem… yes, other than that.”
“Heh.. jus’ so happens to be my favorite kind.. but it’s only found in a small shop o’ the other side of the village. So Donna brings me a box whenever she visits.”
You felt a sharp pang in your heart as your eyes fell to the almost empty box on the table - immediately wondering how long ago that had been.
“Oh.. does she not visit you very often, then?”
“Ey?”
Sal looked confused as she caught the melancholic look upon your face, a large and husky laugh ripping from her body as her eyes followed your gaze.
“Aye, no.. she visits me once a week, hon.. I just really like tea.”
She laughed again, filling the small home with so much warmth that it was all you could do to chuckle along with her. A bright gleam to her eyes as she gave you a fond smile.
“Yer cute, love.”
“Hush, Sal.” You blushed.
“Nah… yeh’d think after so many months, youd’ve gotten used to me by now.”
You slowly stood from the sofa, meeting Sal as she came over to the quaint living area. A teasing grin across her lips as she stopped in front of you - raising an eyebrow as you smirked.
“Oh? So you think it’d only take a few months for someone to be used to an incredible, warm, charming, sweet, funny, smooth, insanely attractive goddess, such as yourself?”
You smirked proudly as you watched the fierce blush spill swiftly over her cheeks, a slight bite to her bottom lip as she did her best not to drop the two mugs in her hands.
“Aye… now who’s the charmer?”
“You deserve nothing less, Sal Moreau.”
Sal moved suddenly and without much warning. Placing the two cups on the coffee table before effortlessly pulling you both down onto the sofa. Her strong arms wrapped firmly around you as you settled onto her lap.
“Fancy a cuddle?” She asked with a wide grin, forcing you to laugh.
“You’re cute, Sal.”
“Mhm.”
You laughed again before snuggling into her, the gentle feeling of her fingers in your hair as nestled into the crook of her neck - humming with content as she placed a small kiss to your forehead. You wondered how many had been in your spot before, how many had been lucky enough to bask in the warm affections of this gorgeous sea creature - and if any of them had appreciated it as much as you did.
“Sal?” You asked softly, the tips of your fingers tracing gently over the muscles of her forearm.
“Mh?”
“Have... you ever been in love?”
You almost expected the question to catch her off guard, perhaps cause her to pull back a bit - but she only tightened her hold on you even further.
“Aye.. a few times, yah.”
“And?”
“Eh.. with some, time jus’ gottaway from us.. others jus’ lost interest.”
“Ah... And the rest of the Lords?”
She placed a small kiss to the top of your head before answering.
“Heh.. Alcina has had several who’ve caught her eye.. Her current handservant and companion bein’ my favorite, tho. And Donna… why she could ‘ave any maid or maiden she wanted, tho she’ll never see it.”
“And Heisenberg?”
A deep and boisterous laugh rose from Sal’s body, the rich tones of it dancing melodically throughout the air as she almost doubled over into you.
“Karl loves himself enuf on his own, love.” She replied, continuing to laugh.
You chuckled softly before placing a small kiss at the base of her neck, a slight hitch to her breath as your lips placed another. Her indulgent pheromones sweeping over you with each deep breath that she took. They were sea-kissed and spiced and everything that reminded you of Sal. You placed another kiss against her bare skin before snuggling back in.
‘Hey Sal?”
“Mh?”
“Those others that lost interest.. they were fools, you know?”
“That so?”
You could feel the low chuckle that radiated throughout her throat.
“Mhm.” You replied as you began to reposition yourself, eventually straddling her thigh. A light pink hue already splattering itself across her cheeks as you settled in. The feeling of her incredible body pressed firmly against yours swiftly igniting a fire deep within your core. “You’re fucking perfect, Sal.”
You felt her flinch slightly beneath you, her hands moving quickly to rest on your hips as you moved in a little closer.
“And so gorgeous.. and kind.”
A slight whimper upon her lips - a deep crimson on her cheeks - the exposed skin of her chest growing steadily more flushed as you leaned in further, wrapping your arms around Sal’s neck.
“So sexy.. and wonderful.”
The stunning blush that spilled so beautifully across the murky undertones of her skin, the slight bite to her lip. There was nothing that could rile you up faster - nothing that could make you wetter. - than the absolute fluster of Sal Moreau.
A deep hitch within her throat, a breathy whisper across her ear.
“And so delicious.”
You felt several parts of her move at once. Her arms wrapped securely around your waist - pulling you closer. Her thigh pressed firmly against your core - forcing a lightning bolt of pleasure straight across your body. The sharpness of her teeth - nipping at your supple flesh - ripping a prompt whimper from your lips.
“Speak fer yerself, love.” She replied, allowing the length of her tongue to lick over your freshly bitten skin.
“Mmph.. fuck, Sal.”
She nipped at you again, this time sucking over it. The soft rhythm of her thigh against you, making you all too grateful for the thin fabric of your stockings. Warm juices quickly gathering in your core as your wetness for her grew with each slow rock of your hips.
“I was trying to fluster you here, babe.”
“Heh… how’s that going fer yeh, sweetheart?”
She pressed her thigh into you even further, compelling a deep moan from your body. Another indulgent bite to your neck - the heated sting of it swiftly spilling over you.
“Ah-! It was going good for a minute there.”
“Mh.. it was.”
The exquisite shiver that ran across your body as she placed a kiss to the soft curve of your collar bone. Fingers wrapped firmly in her hair as you eagerly pulled her closer - a desperate and silent plea for more.
“Don’ wanna leave too many marks on yeh, love. What’ll the villagers think?”
“Fuck the villagers.”
“Nah.. rather fuck you.”
She chuckled as her thigh pressed firmly into your core, moaning slightly as she felt the heartbeat of it against her. Your warm juices dripping down - seeping into the soft scales of her skin. An immediate and absolutely desperate moan forcing past your lips as you ground your hips down into her. Her warm breath against the flushed skin of your neck as she tangled her fingers deep into your hair, tugging on it as she gently pulled it back. A trail of heated kisses up the length of your neck, nipping at your jawline before her lips crashed into your own.
You whimpered as you melted into her - into nothing more than the feeling of her - the utter and all encompassing sensation of her tongue dancing exquisitely with yours. And oh, how the world spun - how it rotated intoxicatingly around you - lifting you onto one axis with only Sal to hold you up. It was almost more than you could handle. With your core deliciously grinding against her. A deep heat building steadily within you as your hips slowly quickened their pace.
“I want to touch you, Sal.. I need to-!”
She moaned deeply as her mouth eagerly met with yours again, pulling you back in. A swift movement of her hand, taking your own as she brought it down exactly to where you both wanted it most. Moaning in return at the feeling of just how utterly wet she was - at just how badly she desired you. Juices immediately coating your fingers as you slid them over her clit, teasing her entrance before sliding three in. An exquisite hitch to Sal’s breath as you curled them deep inside of her.
“Mmh.. Fuck, love..”
She lifted her thigh up a little more, resting her food on the coffee table. Her hands firmly on your hips as she perfectly matched their pace to the steady rhythm of your fingers. A deep heat spilling over you - a desperate need for more. Rolling your hips down onto her as your wet folds slid deliciously around the defined muscles of her thigh. Every inch of her taut - firm beneath you as she pulled you closer still. Her hands moving - roaming over your body as if it were a handwritten map of the stars. The tips of her fingernails grazing over the soft skin of your ribcage.. ghosting over your nipples and down your sides. Crying out for her as the sharpness of them found your back, slightly digging in as you increased the speed of your fingers.
“Mh.. you feel so good, love.”
“You are so good, Sal.”
Her hips jerked, whimpering at your praise. A shot of pleasure shooting straight through you as your bodies connected - as they desperately crashed into each other - clawing at the other’s flesh like it was all that you had. Like you may lose each other at any moment.
“And so sweet.”
You placed the softest kiss to her lips, thrusting your fingers deep inside of her. Your own pleasure building with each masterful swirl of your hips - the firmness of Sal’s thigh delicious against your core - juices soaking straight through your stockings, dripping down the sides of it.
“Fuck, love.. I’m..”
The great Sal Moreau, the smoothest creature in existence - not even able to finish a sentence - to mutter a quip. Completely and utterly flustered beneath you. Her normally strong breath hitched, her cheeks a deeper crimson than you’d ever seen before. Slitted embers as her eyes grew increasingly half lidded. You had never seen her look more beautiful - and you felt bad for anyone who wasn’t there to witness it.
“You’re what, Sal? Hm? Stunning? Amazing? Perfect?”
You punctuated each praise with an indulgent thrust of your fingers. Her nails in your back, muffled moans against your skin as she sunk her teeth back into your soft flesh. An unrelenting heat sweeping over you with each delicious sting that marked it’s way across your body. Her hands back on your hips as she sped up their pace to match your own. Fingers strong , merciless inside her - forcing the sweetest juices to gush from her core. Body flushed, writhing against her as you moved as one.
“Come with me, love.”
The words lept from her tongue like a prayer - like an order that had been rolled up in nothing more than a desperate plea.
“Mmph-! Fuck, Sal.”
The heat between you was electric - charged in a way that you had never felt before. Beads of sweat dripping deliciously from your bodies as your pleasures continued to build.. as your fingers curled.. as she took your hips into her hands and forced your aching core down against her. Compelling a cry to rip itself from your lungs. Bodies jerking as a hot white pleasure spilt relentlessly over the both of you. Breathless, shuddering into each other as a tidal wave of it crashed over you… as utter bliss seeped into every cell that you had to offer… as you screamed her name out into the starless night - willing her to scream out yours in turn. Juices gushing - slicking over thighs, and dripping down fingers. And you held each other closely, riding out the infinite stars behind your eyes until neither could move.. until your hearts were beating as one. Your forehead resting gently against hers as you placed soft kisses to her dew stricken skin.
‘Fuck, Sal.. I missed this. I missed you.”
“Heh.. jus’ havta come back sooner next time, yah?”
“Touche’.” You chuckled, placing a sweet kiss to her lips. Her eyes closed as she tried to steady her breath. “So does that mean you won’t mind if I spend the night?”
“Bold o’ you to assume I planned on lettin’ go anytime soon, love.”
As though to prove a point, she wrapped her arms securely around you. The strength of her embrace holding you close as you settled back onto her lap, snuggling into her. The nightly sounds of the reservoir soothing as they swam throughout the late night air - calming as they softly drifted over you. Allowing the two of you to linger in the solace of the moment - in the feeling of nothing but each other - before Sal safely carried your slumbered body to the bed.
Xx
#depravity answered#resident evil village#resident evil#re8 village#genderbent sal#genderbend#sally moreau#inspired by classyfruit art#classyfruit art#resident evil au#re8 au#resident evil fanfic#re8 fanfiction#sal is hot#i hope you like it!
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Please write the second-to-last prompt!
*cough* I’ll put this one under a ‘read more’ because it’s a tad too long. And involves nakedness- and we all know how tumblr feels about that. M rated with no actual naughty business.
“it’s because i’m so attractive isn’t it?” “i say this. and i cannot stress this enough. i find you completely repulsive.”
---
Sesshoumaru arched a brow, torn between amusement, befuddlement, indignation, flattery and satisfaction.
It was a confusing mix.
Kagome stared up at him, cheeks stained crimson and hands planted on her hips. It was not the appropriate expression for one asking another for a favour.
Thin lips parted, before his mouth clicked shut. He blinked once, tipping his head to the side.
“You wish to…”
“Draw you,” she confirmed stiffly.
“Naked.”
“It’s called ‘Life Drawing’ and I need it for my college class. You’d...really be helping me out, okay?”
Sesshoumaru hummed, gaze sweeping over her critically. He’d never seen one of her pictures, and wondered if her skills could do him justice. “And you chose this one to be your subject?” he arched a brow, confidence radiating off him in waves. “It is because I am so attractive, is it not?”
Kagome made a noise, bursting into a laugh and waving this off. “I say this, and I cannot stress this enough; I find you completely repulsive.”
The teasing dance of her eyes told him she was joking. He huffed, finding the mere idea ludicious. None could find him repulsive.
“Look the reason I’m asking you is because it would be awkward with anyone else. I’m not dating anyone- and Inuyasha is out on account of him being my ex. Miroku is married. You’re the only available person who is kinda, sorta my friend. My last resort is asking a random villager if they’ll strip for me,” she sighed. “I’ve sat in on classes, I’ve tried using books for reference poses- but nothing works! My teacher always says they come off as stiff looking and the uh...the…”
Sesshoumaru watched her steadily turn redder, unblinking.
Kagome glanced around the empty hillside with paranoia, whispering the next part; “the penis…” she blushed, seeming to die inside, “always looks...uh...inaccurate, apparently.”
Mirth coloured his blank, guarded expression. He glanced at her waiting bag beside the tree. “Show me.”
“What?! No! No one will ever see those sketches! Ever! I’m gonna burn them!”
The Daiyoukai glanced away, arranging his features into something haughty and disinterested. “Then you will not sketch my body.”
Kagome gaped, groaning and burying her crimson face in her hands. “Urgh!”
To be fair to her skills; the men in her sketches held fairly accurate physiques. Nice bone structure; and a softness about their faces and dark shading that portrayed a moody tone, longing for something he couldn’t name. She’d even captured hands and feet remarkably well, something he knew most artists struggled with.
But then, inevitably, golden eyes strayed downward from their torsos.
“A-are they bad?” Kagome peered over his shoulder as Sesshoumaru sat, perusing her sketchbook.
He closed the book with a sharp noise of finality. “This is grave indeed.”
“I knew it,” she whined, wallowing in sadness.
Sesshoumaru’s nose twitched as he stood, passing the sketchbook back to her. “...You may capture my likeness.”
Her breath hitched, and relief immediately swamped her features. “I- thank you,” Kagome breathed, easing closer to him. “Thank you so much!”
“Hn,” inwardly preening and thinking that all beings should thank him for the generous sight of his naked form, Sesshoumaru set the date for their ‘meeting,’ inviting her to the Western Stronghold in two days' time.
---
They greeted each other easily enough on the actual day, Kagome being let into his private chambers with many a raised brow from his servants.
Sesshoumaru slid the door shut to conceal their ‘activity’ away from prying eyes, though he had no shame in his bare form. Merely, he sensed the miko’s nervousness and did not wish her concentration to be broken.
After stripping easily enough, shedding the finery of his clothes, Sesshoumaru stopped before her seated position at a respectable distance.
“Where do you want me?”
Kagome made a strangled noise, having looked up from her sketchbook. Blue eyes immediately locked onto the area between his thighs.
“Uh-! I um-” she stammered, attention flitting around the room like she were following a game of ping pong. “Standing is fine!” Kagome squeaked, turning scarlet as she motioned with her hand, “m-maybe just b-backup a little.”
Nodding primly, Sesshoumaru concealed his smirk, stepping away and waiting as her embarrassment slowly abated. Her bright gaze running over lithe, pale muscles couldn’t quite hide her curiosity; her hunger. Kagome pursed full lips and sketched a standing pose, before instructing him to instead sit down upon his bed of furs and busy himself with something. Sesshoumaru decided to read.
Keen, pointed ears caught every glide and sharp drag of lead on paper- every indrawn breath and hiss through clenched teeth.
After a little while, she sighed.
“You keep avoiding it,” Sesshoumaru hazarded a guess.
“I totally do,” Kagome groaned, staring miserably at the sketches, “right now you’re sexless. There’s a blank space where genitals are supposed to go.”
Golden eyes flitted up to her. “You are too tense. Come here.”
“W-what?”
“The bed is comfortable,” he clarified, tone becoming flat and business-like as he minded some silver hair back over one broad shoulder. “I refuse to be drawn inaccurately.”
Nodding, she swallowed and gathered her things, awkwardly padding over. A plume of repressed desire followed her like a cloud of smog. Clearly she was trying to remain professional and judging by the guilt mingling with it; felt ashamed by any natural reaction to his person.
Naked bodies were not inherently sexual things. They were just...bodies. But he felt no annoyance with Kagome for her attraction. Quite the contrary. She’d been acting like this for months with a cycle of repression. This ‘study’ had been a golden opportunity.
Kagome sat before him and took a long breath, forcing herself to look at his lap.
His cock twitched.
Making a thin noise, she blushed and directed her gaze firmly to the paper, scribbling away furiously.
Sesshoumaru’s fangs caressed his bottom lip in a sensual brush, sighing. A spike of his own arousal had more obvious effects on his person. He couldn’t conceal it like her- and Kagome’s intense attention only had him hardening quicker.
“Ah-” Kagome gaped, losing her voice. She cleared her throat, staring. Unbidden, she wet her lips, blue eyes flitting up to meet dark, golden hues steadily dyeing passionate red. “We- we can stop...until it goes back to normal?” she suggested thinly.
“Did you not require extensive research on this particular part of me, miko?” he purred silkily. “Perhaps sketching it in various states would be to your advantage.”
“I-I guess that’s true,” Kagome swallowed, shyly glancing at it and then meeting his gaze again. “Maybe…”
“Maybe?”
“I could…”
Sesshoumaru leaned closer, the cool air feeling too keen on his heated skin. Her breathy voice made goosebumps rise over pale flesh. “Yes?” he asked in a hushed tone.
Kagome looked at him again, silently seeking consent. Barely imagining it was possible he could reciprocate. But she did not know; had not come to learn the patience that wild, predatory beasts possessed. He’d bided his time so long his waiting looked like indifference on the outside.
Taking a short, quick drawn breath, Kagome bridged the distance between them. She learned the full scope of Sesshoumaru’s anatomy intimately well that night- and continued her studies for many nights after.
---
The feedback Kagome gained back from her life drawing was ‘good use of shading and muscle definition, an impressive level of detail. Improvement on discussed anatomy - but a tad too unrealistic in size.’
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Jim is Honest; Chap 8
Barbara was enjoying one of her rare days off, her feet up on the coffee table. After treating Jim’s injuries last night, she had written him a doctor’s note to excuse him from any physical activities. He still wanted to go to school, saying he didn’t want to miss any more rehearsals than necessary.
She had preemptively taken the day off from work in case his injuries were so severe he needed additional care. She was honestly surprised to see how well he was already healing. It seemed whatever magic was inherent in his amulet it did more than protect him from harm. Still she had the day off and was for once spending it trying to relax. She still had numerous concerns about her son and the war he had found himself embroiled in, but at least for the time there wasn’t anything specific she could do.
That was until she heard a knock at the door. It was a little surprising, she had very few friends, and even fewer who would invite themselves over without a word. She knew Jim and Toby were at school, and Nana was in the park playing chess with a few other retirees. She rose and cautiously approached the door.
“Ah, Dr. Lake. Its good to see you again. I was wondering if I could have a word?” The short, well dressed Asian woman at her door said, emerald eyes gleaming.
Ms. Nomura. Curator for the Arcadia Oaks museum. Secret changeling spy who had fought her son, just a few days ago. Barbara swallowed, forcing herself to maintain an outward appearance of calm.
Why was Ms. Nomura here? Had she come to kill her? Was she waiting to attack Jim? He would be home in less than an hour. But what if she wasn’t? Could this be her chance to offer her hand to someone on the opposite side of the war her son had found himself in? She forced a smile on her face.
“Ms. Nomura, correct? Please come in, you can call me Barbara if you like.”
She hesitated only a moment before ushering the other woman in. She noticed the rapid way Nomura swept her eyes around the room, taking in every detail. If she had been one of her patients at the clinic she would have sworn it was a sign of abuse. She wasn’t so sure now. She felt like she was a rabbit caught in the sight of a fox, though even this rabbit had teeth if need be.
“Thank you Barbara. You can call me Zelda, you’ve enjoyed the exhibits I’ve curated often enough. You’re practically a regular at the museum.”
Barbara guided Zelda to the table.
“Oh I didn’t know I had stood out in the crowd so much. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes please.” Zelda smiled while Barbara began preparing the tea. “I don’t know that you’ve stood out, so much as I’ve been keen to notice. You always wear such elegant attire when you visit my halls.”
Barbara couldn’t help but blush at the compliment. Though Zelda was laying the flattery on a little thick. She wondered if the changelings were all trained in honey traps, or if it were just the ones she interacted with. She had fallen for sweet words once. She had no intention of doing so again.
Zelda helped carry the two cups over the table once Barbara was finished making them. Barbara quickly ordered her thoughts. She needed to find out exactly why the changeling was here. She needed to find whether she was a threat to JIm’s life. If she was, then she would not be allowed to leave.
“Zelda I know you’re here because of Jim.”
Her words immediately set Zelda back on her back foot. Barbara watched as she tried to reorder her expression. So far all she had seen was surprise, no aggression, but she needed to dig deeper.
“I wanted to apologize on his behalf before he gets home.” Barbara said. “He acted in a foolish and impulsive manner. I’m sorry he startled you and put your life at risk.”
“Thank you Barbara.” Despite her words, Barbara could tell Zelda was shaken. What she was apologizing for was different then the official police report. “I just hoped he learned his lesson.”
“Oh he learned quite a bit from that night. Did you know he said he broke in because he was afraid for your life? You can’t fault Jim too much, he thought you were in danger.”
Nomura again startled, again quickly hid it. “That is very kind of him. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
“I’m sure you are.” Barbara smiled and put her hand on Zelda’s. Honeypots worked both ways. “You’re very strong. Do you have much experience with martial arts? I studied Krav Maga myself, I don’t want to be a push over you understand.”
“Yes I do. And yes I have.”
Time for vulnerability. Barbara had Zelda unsteadied in this conversation. She pulled down the neckline of her shirt, showing off a half moon scar on her shoulder. Their cups of tea sat abandoned on the table.
“My ex husband, James.” She said referring to the scar. “After he left us, I said I wouldn’t be a victim again. No matter how much he had wanted to treat me like his slave.”
Zelda’s eyes blazed with fury. And hidden behind that fury was a recognition. In herself Zelda saw a reflection of what Barbara had gone through. Her arm moved on its own accord to her opposite elbow. As if her arm had been broken before and still hurt her.
Barbara continued on before Zelda had a chance to say anything.
“I always tried to raise my son with those same ideals. Never to be a victim, but always to offer his hand to those who are hurting. Human or otherwise.”
She immediately regretted the last words. They were too obvious, playing her hand too quickly. Zelda stood, knocking her chair back as she rose to her feet, her eyes flicking side to side as she began drawing rapid fire connections.
“You- You know- You know about me-”
With the worst possible timing, the front door opened in that moment. Drawing both of their attentions to Jim stepping inside. All three froze. Jim’s face contorted with rage. Barbara knew how this must look to him. The woman he knew was a changeling standing over his mother, in his house.
“Jim, this is Ms. Nomura, from the museum. We were just talking.” Barbara said quickly, her voice higher than normal. “This might be a good time for you to apologize, and offer her your hand.”
He looked at her, consternation on his face, then stepped toward Zelda, his hand held awkwardly out in front of him. He was a smart boy, and he understood what she was saying. Barbara picked up her long cooled tea and took a hasty sip, trying to calm her nerves.
“Barbara no!” Zelda shouted, reaching out a hand to stop her, never mind the tea had already passed her lips.
Her vision immediately darkened as her head felt unbearably heavy. With a thump her head hit the table, the last thing she could see was a flash of blue light, followed by a flash of green.
#jim lake junior#Barbara Lake#zelda nomura#jim is honest#tales of arcadia#Trollhunters#writing emerald
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