#terminally funny i fear

[hollow-lime-green]

[vinnigami]

August 17 2023

You’re telling me the bethel terminal never tried to eat anyone? not even once?

[morallygreyintrovert]

So today I had to explain what non con is to my boss so that was my day, how was everyone else’s…?

She also asked why so many of the songs I was listening to depicted graphic gay sex and if I would have just shown her Ao3 i could have answered both questions and saved myself having to verbally explain.

Shall I explain knotting to her tomorrow?

[ineffable-gallimaufry]

the rain may fall, but we'll be there throughout it all

Everyone is afraid of something. E-123 Omega has the misfortune of being afraid of thunderstorms. Luckily, he has his team mates there to calm him down, no matter what.

written for day 2 of @teamdarkweek : storm!

[meiieiri]

𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 [toji fushiguro]

synopsis: so she tells him not to cry over the injustice of a life cut too short for at the end of all this, she’ll only be a dream.

pairing: ex-husband!toji fushiguro x terminally ill wife!reader | song inspo: soon you’ll get better, cancer

warnings: heavy angst, terminal illness (primary bone cancer, stroke and MS), mentions of divorce/past infidelity, allegories to cheating, major character death. please read at your own risk. | a/n: this was so heavy for me to write, i started writing at 2 in the morning, and it’s 6:34 now.

word count. 3k~

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

Toji should have noticed, he laments as he takes a sip of his cognac. He should have sensed that something was wrong sooner, maybe that way, he wouldn’t be begging to borrow some more time to make things right. Your fingers were trembling that day — the first time you ever ruined his morning coffee — your hands shaking uncontrollably as you washed the mug with a sorrowful look on your face, your eyes glossy with the tears you were desperately trying to hold back.

He shouldn’t have been so harsh, he realizes that now. Breakfast had been burnt to a crisp and ruined, sure, but nothing could compare to how he constantly ruins the one beautiful thing that has ever happened to him, who haphazardly spilled her smoothie on him when they first bumped into each other in Shinjuku just after he finally cashed in enough money with Shiu to get his laundry done.

Toji, whose senses have now been honed to pick up on the slightest of your sluggish movements and your pained and suppressed hisses, hears the bedsheets rustling and he instantly gets up before you could even force yourself out of bed. “Hey, hey, easy now.” He catches you before you could fall backwards onto the mattress, your skin appears cold and clammy, your thinning muscles stiff as a board — you must be having one of your episodes again. “What do you need?” he asks, his voice heartbreakingly gentle for the first time in months.

“Water.”

Your husband nods, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, hurriedly making his way to the dining table which was now kept in your bedroom so you aren’t forced to move around too much. The sound of water splashing into the glass fills the air and you feel another stabbing pain coarse through your joints.

Toji gingerly brings the glass of water to your lips and you sighed, an exasperated yet amused smile on your face. “I can do it, babe. Don’t worry.” Why did that sound like you were trying to convince not just Toji but yourself? You bring your bony hands to grip the glass and it takes everything out of your husband not to break into a fit of sobs when he sees your hand violently shaking with effort just to keep the glass steady.

His larger hands close around your defeated one. “I-I…I can do it, I did it yesterday. Y-you saw me.”

“Shhh, I know, it’s okay.”

You bite your lip to distract yourself from the anguish of realizing the truth behind the doctor’s words. Everything you feared was finally becoming your and Toji’s bleak reality.

“It’ll be a painful decline.”

Funny how you’re the one fighting to extend your life but Toji feels like he’s already gone ahead and passed on. Just a few minutes earlier, you were overjoyed to see him again. You didn’t think he’d see your text thinking that his new girlfriend must have asked him to block your number, and you most certainly didn’t expect him to arrive when you asked for him via a brief phone call to drive you to the hospital for your monthly checkup since he took the car with him when you separated. He made up a bullshit excuse when Yuko asked where he was going in such a hurry and he makes it to your old shared apartment to see you sitting on the driveway looking thinner and sicklier than ever — your eyes were sunken, and your cheeks were hollow.

Yet in spite of that, you gave him the brightest of smiles, waving shyly to him as he steps out of the driver’s seat. “Happy morning!” you smiled, greeting him with your signature good morning tagline which he used to happily wake up to everyday. There wasn’t a scintilla of resentfulness in your demeanor, and you genuinely looked so happy to see him for the first time since he moved out.

“How long?” Toji asked the doctor, his heart twisted into knots when he hears you happily humming in the MRI room as you put your clothes back on, oblivious to the solemn mood in the other room. You already knew what was going on, but you’ll just continue pretending that everything’s alright and that this is nothing more but a case of fatigue so as not to inconvenience Toji.

“A year, maybe even less.”

“And…you’re saying it’s best if she simply…doesn’t get the treatment?”

The doctor sighs heavily. She’s seen many cases like this before, but none as utterly hopeless as yours. Even if you did start the treatment, the lesions in your spinal cord have already entered the most severe stage, you were already exhibiting signs of autonomic nervous system distress — the tremors, the uncontrollable stuttering of your words, the growing loss of balance — and as if that wasn’t enough, the doctor also discovers that you were suffering from primary osteosarcoma.

There was no way to cure you now that it’s too late.

“I suggest we just focus on keeping her comfortable. The only thing left for us to do now is to bring her home. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re so fucking embarrassing. I can’t bring you anywhere.”

By some miracle, you and Toji went out one night around four months before the divorce proceedings. He went home that day, exhausted beyond all belief from another mission, but he was in a good mood. Yuko was out working late tonight, so, he decides to take you out to your and his favorite izakaya for some yakitori.

Some time during the night, after downing three full bottles of sake together, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. “I’ll be right back,” you told Toji, tipsily kissing him on the cheek as you hop off the bar stool in the direction of the women’s room.

You couldn’t tell if you were staggering from the copious amounts of alcohol you ingested, but your legs were beginning to feel heavy, and for some ominous reason, you were slowly losing all sensation in your left leg. You try to hold onto one of the izakaya’s shōji panel decor pieces to regain your balance, but it was a futile effort in the end. Your knees suddenly buckle, and a sickening crack tears through your tibia as you fall to the ground.

“Are you alright?!”

Toji picks up on the commotion instantly and he sees the izakaya patrons crowding around the hallway leading to the restroom. He quickly makes his way over and a look of disgust appears on his features when he sees you crumpled on the ground and the mortifying sight of you having relieved yourself on the floor, tears of embarrassment staining your cheeks at the thought of your body suddenly malfunctioning like this.

Muttering out an ignorant apology for his seemingly drunk wife, he roughly picks you up, growing increasingly infuriated with you when one izakaya employee offers him a damp cloth to dry out your urine with. It was funny how quickly other people came to your aid — people whose names you don’t even know — while your own husband seems very reluctant to even touch you right now. He doesn’t speak to you on the way home even as you apologize while he’s loading you into the car, grimacing when the leather seat gets wet. “Toji, I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened—“

“—Save it.”

What he should have said was: “Are you okay?”, “It’s alright.” or better yet, “I still love you.”.

At present, Toji decides on a whim to take you to Yokohama’s famed bayside today. It’s only a two hour drive from your place in Tokyo and Toji figures you must miss going on road trips by now with you cooped up at home all the time. “Toji, are you sure this is a good idea?” you murmured nervously as the car pulls to a stop by the bayside promenade. What happens if you can’t control yourself again? There doesn’t look to be a lot of public restrooms nearby.

Toji plants a reassuring kiss to your nose. “Babe, you remember what the doctor said, spending some time outdoors can do wonders for your health. Besides, didn’t you always love the coast?” He brings your hand to his scarred lips, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin before stepping out of the car to retrieve your wheelchair from the trunk.

“I know but what if I have another accident?” you said worriedly, rolling down the car windows so he could hear you. “What if I embarrass you again?”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about you.”

You’ve lost all control of your lower extremities three months ago, rendering you unable to walk and feel when you need to relieve yourself. Toji struggles with the wheelchair for a bit and a flash of sadness fills your heart when you see him take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He wasn’t angry, he was devastated. He looks wistfully at the boardwalk, a distant gaze trained on the sea. He remembers when you used to walk down this very lane, his hand protectively around your waist as you happily take selfies. He could still hear your fond giggles the last time the two of you went here.

“Why don’t you ever smile when I take pictures of you?”

Toji shoos away a pigeon from stealing a bite of his ice cream sandwich. He feigns an unamused look when you try to take another picture of him on your phone.

“Come on, I’ve been trying to get a shot of you all day! You still have to take pictures of me so I can post it on my Instagram feed!”

Your ever moody husband pinches off a small piece of bread and feeds it to the nosy pigeon. “You and your precious feed,” he bemoans jokingly.

“Please? Just one picture!“ you playfully nudged him. Truthfully, you just wanted to see him smile for once, a genuine one and not one of those lopsided smirks he usually gives you when he’s teasing you. “Please?” you pout knowing he can never say no to that adorable face you make when you really want him to do something or worse, buy something for you.

Sighing, he turns to look at your phone’s camera lens and you blush when a smile slowly illuminates his usually stoic face. Your thumb hovers over the stop recording function, not realizing you’re taking a video, but you can’t seem to press it. “What’s taking so long?” he holds the smile like he’s some cartoon character and you snap out of it.

“Oh shoot, it’s a video!” you laughed, and you begin to run down the boardwalk, eagerly getting away from Toji who demands that you delete it immediately. Of course, you’re no match for his borderline inhuman speed attributed to his athletic physique and he catches you by the waist, playfully swinging you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes.

Now, your giggles have gone silent.

Toji realizes now he should have indulged you more over the course of your relationship and subsequent marriage. Had he known that you won’t even make it to your third wedding anniversary, he would have allowed you to take as many pictures and videos of him as you’d like, he’d swallow his pride and he’d give you the brightest of smiles so you could happily post him on your social media accounts with a heartwarming caption about him being your “smiley hubby”.

More than that though, he should have taken more photos of you, mostly stolen candid shots, of course. You can’t catch him being all soft on you now. He still has a reputation to live up to after all. But more than that, had he known that your illness was intent on stealing every scrap of you from him, he should have made more effort in preserving all these memories. He should have kept everything from those toll tickets on your late night drives together when the two of you just needed a quick escape from the world, to receipts from your trip to Tokyo Disney Sea on your first wedding anniversary, and even simple convenience store receipts.

Toji should have kept everything down to the smallest of memories knowing one day, that’s all he’ll have to remember you by.

He opens the passenger seat’s door and he effortlessly gathers you into his arms, being extra careful with your fragile form as he sits you down on the wheelchair. He opens the backseat and he pulls out two different colored blankets, one sea-foam green and the other, rose pink. “Take your pick,” he smiles at you and you chuckled softly, pointing to the rose pink one. He happily covers your legs with it to keep you warm, stroking your cheek when you whisper a bashful ‘thank you’.

Suddenly, the wind picks up and your hair-clip that’s holding your locks in a low bun comes loose, and your head turns in the direction of where it flew off to. Toji is quick to take out his phone and he snaps a quick burst shot of you, your hair blowing in the wind, under the coastal spring weather. You turn to look at him and your face falls when you see him burying his phone in his pocket. Since you fell ill, you’ve become insecure of your appearance, banning your husband from taking pictures and videos of you altogether. “Toji, I thought I said no pictures.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The next day, you serendipitously find your photo on your Instagram handle with the caption: “Y/N — Yokohama, Spring, 2024” and when you swipe left, another picture, well to be more accurate, a screenshot of the video clip you accidentally took of him captioned: “Toji — Yokohama, Summer, 2022”.

“You don’t have to stick around for me. Please just go, I’m sure Yuko must be looking for you right now.”

Yuko, his new fiancé, had been blowing up his phone the entire day with texts demanding to know where he is and if he’s going to make it to their date that night. It’s 7 PM now, and Toji still hasn’t shown up to confirm their restaurant reservations. The damn witch will surely cuss him out when they see each other again, but for some reason, even if he tries, he simply cannot bring himself to give a flying fuck. Your immunologist and oncologist stepped out for a bit to allow you two a brief moment of privacy which had now stretched to an expanse of five hours since your results came in.

The air in the room is thick and heavy, not a single sound can be heard. Inside however, underneath this tough exterior he was projecting, Toji is throwing a fit, screaming at the sky like those broken men in those shitty Netflix romance tragedies he used to callously make fun of.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? You knew, didn’t you?”

Toji’s bites his cheek trying to keep a lid on his emotions. He knows the answer. He just wants to hear you say it out loud. You hated him. You wanted nothing to do with him after he cheated on you with some girl he met at a bar in uptown Shibuya. That’s why you didn’t tell him, he didn’t deserve to know. “Shit,” he whispers harshly, crumpling the medical abstract in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Was it because you hated me? Is that it? You didn’t think I’d worry about you?”

You screwed your eyes shut, shaking your head. You didn’t hate him, not even when you have every reason to. He abandoned you, left you to waste away and to die and yet, even now, you can’t bring yourself to resent him for the simple reason that he is the literal love of your life, the reason behind your smiles, your happy mornings and passionate midnight hours. “At first, I thought I was fine, maybe just fatigued or something.”

“Don’t lie. You knew something was going on and that something in your body was seriously fucked up.”

“And we weren’t married anymore so, I didn’t think it was right to tell you…I wanted to though, but I didn’t want to intrude on you and Yuko,” you said meekly. Even in your greatest hour of need, you were still thinking of him, putting him first even when he doesn’t deserve it. “I-I…I don’t hate you enough to worry you, to make you feel that you could have done something to prevent this. Because I’m telling you right now, regardless if you were faithful or not, I was bound to get sick anyway. You couldn’t have done anything to change that.”

“But I could have been there. I should have noticed. I shouldn’t have downplayed everything.” He says this as if he wants to shake this noble, self-sacrificing bullshit attitude out of your system. “I’m your husband. I should have been there.”

You flash him a heartbroken smile at his little slip-up, so, even now, he was still referring to himself as your husband, not your ex-husband. “To see me waste away? Babe, I don’t want you to see that.”

You begin to feel tears streaming down your face, the emotions you were experiencing now flowing like a free river after an entire dam is destroyed. Toji watches you unravel before his eyes and his bottom lip begins to tremble. What has he done? Dear god, what has he done to his poor, poor wife?

“I want you to remember me healthy, I want you to remember me as myself not this…sickly pitiful woman you’re unlucky to call your ex-wife…besides, after all this, I’ll only be a dream.” A mere passing second in his life. “And believe me, my life wasn’t so bad.”

He loses it at that.

“Just stop this, Y/N! Stop acting like you’re not scared shitless of dying, like you’re not gonna have regrets once all this is over! Stop pretending that things are gonna be alright one day because it won’t! Not when I’m now being forced to accept that you won’t get better, not when I’ve wasted so much time putting you through hell and back instead of taking care of you like a proper husband should, and certainly not when I’m suddenly supposed to learn to say goodbye and to live without you! Because fuck that, Y/N!”

You are left speechless at that.

Toji was never one to lose his cool, even during your worst arguments, he may slide a few snarky remarks here and there but Toji Fushiguro…never yells, and he doesn’t sob either.

You hesitantly stand up and walk over to him, crouching down in front of him as he covers his tear-stained eyes with his right hand while the other is crumpled around your medical abstract. Taking his left hand, you gently remove the medical abstract from his grip, and for the first time in so many months, you feel one another’s warm skin against each other. You press your forehead to his hand as you wept with him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be a dream. I want you to be real.”

“Can’t you be bothered to clean up in here?!”

You wake up from your nap, you’ve been battling muscle and joint pain the entire day, the slightest of movement causing you to double over in agony and because of that, you weren’t able to clean the apartment today. You slowly get up from the couch, being extra cautious not to make any sudden movements. “Well?” Toji presses, his lips curled into a scowl.

“I’m sorry, I was feeling a little tired,” you sighed heavily, picking up a broom to sweep the living room floor despite the excruciating pain you were in. Toji rolls his eyes, handing you a Manila envelope. “What’s this?” you asked softly, peering inside.

“Divorce papers,” he shrugs nonchalantly. Everything stops, even the very rise and fall of your chest halts into an uneasy stasis. “I already signed them. I just need your signature then, I’ll move out by tomorrow.”

You must be dreaming. That’s the only logical explanation to all this. You’re asleep, in a deep REM sleep, utterly oblivious to the world. This wasn’t happening. But you could feel the rough surface of the brown envelope, and you could still feel the agonizing stabs of white hot pain throughout your body. Glancing at Toji, you see him texting someone with an eager look on his face that screams: “I’m free.”.

Instantly, it dawns on you.

“Will she make you happy?” you asked, putting down the broom to look around for a pen but Toji pulls one he stole from the law firm office out of his pocket.

“She will,” he answers simply.

And you are indeed grateful that he is completely upfront about finding another while the two of you are married. It would have hurt much more, you silently remind yourself, if he had just upped and left without another word leaving you to wonder what went wrong between the two of you. This was Toji’s final act of mercy in your marriage, and he’s not opposed to honesty and truthfulness either. Not once did he try to change his phone’s lock-screen passcode, nor did he try to conceal the identity of the woman who was texting him every night while you slept fitfully next to him. It was almost as if he wanted you to find out, like he wanted you to know so you could back off yourself.

But if there’s one thing Toji loves about you, it’s your unending faithfulness to your promises, to your marriage vows, and your willingness to endure anything he threw at you. You never checked his phone, you never brought up his affair, you never got angry with him. You just kept silent, simply content with giving and giving…and giving while he milked you dry by taking, and taking and taking, tearing you to pieces bit by bit without hearing a single complaint fall from your lips.

You were a devoted wife, through and through.

And it bored the hell out of him, on top of your recent mishaps, he was done. Done with everything, and done with you.

“Okay.”

Come morning, he takes everything he owns with him and promptly proposes to the girl he’s been seeing for the past year. Two weeks later, your divorce is received by the Tokyo Family Court and is summarily approved and finalized. From that moment on, you and Toji went on your separate ways never to look back, you were each other’s yesterdays, and the love that existed between the two of you was nullified in favor of acquaintanceship…or so you thought.

“Y/N, I’m home!” Toji calls into the house as he comes back from your neighborhood’s pharmacy. You look up from the book you were reading, smiling ever so slightly at your husband who seemed to have a wonderful sparkle in his eyes. “Hey, kid,” he kisses the top of your head when he reaches your wheelchair.

“You seem happy,” you remarked positively.

“Well, for one, they replenished their stocks today and I managed to get you your steroids and painkillers so you’ll be able to sleep easy tonight,” Toji smiles, taking out the items from the pharmacy’s paper bag. “And I got you this neat memory foam cushion for your wheelchair.” He fluffs it up as a form of demonstration before placing it behind your back.

When he sees you smile, a sense of relief washes over Toji. You reach towards him, and he pulls you into an embrace. “Thank you,” you said, pure sincerity dripping from your voice. “For everything you do.”

“Anything for you.” He suddenly moves back and reaches into the tote bag you lended him. “Oh, and wait, before I forget, I have another surprise.”

You laughed airily. “Another surprise? Now, you’re just spoiling me!”

He pulls out a piece of paper from the tote bag and he places it in your hands as your eyes quickly scan over the document. Your breath hitches in your throat when you realize what it is. Did Toji really—? You couldn’t believe it. “A marriage pre-registration,” you said in awe. You read it again just in case to make sure that this wasn’t a figment of your sick body’s imagination, that this was real, that Toji genuinely wants to make everything right again. Your fingers skim over your typewritten names. “It has our names…we’re really—“ You can’t even finish your sentence without bursting into happy tears. “Are we—?”

Toji nods, gazing into your eyes, and as emerald and (E/C) clash for what seems to be an eternity lost in one another, he plants a kiss to your temple, coming up to embrace you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“We are. The Tokyo Family Court, as far as I know, will approve our remarriage once we file this. So, you have to get stronger, okay?” He’s begging you at this point, despite your rapidly deteriorating condition. “Strong enough to see me fix everything. Strong enough to be there on our second wedding, strong enough to say our vows again.”

Your hand comes up to stroke his cheek from behind, and he nuzzles into your neck at your tender touch.

“I will. I promise.”

But you never really get to say your vows. Not comprehensibly anyway.

“Babe, can you say that again?”

Toji crouches by your bedside as you look at him apologetically. You were causing him trouble and pain again which is the last thing that you want to give him especially when’s fought and worked so hard to care for you, to keep prolonging this borrowed time you’re on. “To-ji. Toji.” You gaze at him apprehensibly, not really believing you can do it without crumbling.

“Come on, babe, you can do it. Say my name, please…Toji. I’m Toji.”

“Toooji-“ you slurred sadly. At this point, your Multiple Sclerosis has reached its end stage and has taken…everything from you: your ability to walk, your ability to control your muscle spasms and other bodily functions…and now, coupled with an unexpected stroke, your ability to speak. And you and Toji know that time is almost up, with you having come to accept it, while your husband still held onto hope. Your fingers gently graze over his face as best as your spasms and tremors allow you, starting from his forehead to his eyes, his nose, his cheek and finally, his lips, as if you’re memorizing it one last time. “Lo-ove you-“

Toji sniffles, and your fingers instinctively catch his warm tears. “I love you,” he whispers brokenly. “I do. I love you.”

You feel yourself tearing up as you’re forced to watch your beloved cry. And the worst part? You can’t do a thing about it. “D-oon’t c-cry—‘m okaay. Promi-miise…e’everyything ‘ill be okaaay.”

“Y-yeah,” he chuckles, trying to crack a joke even as hope dwindles. “You’ve been nothing but a fucking champ this entire time, you know? I’m so proud of you. So…so…proud that you’re still here.” He strokes your hair as you tread between the realms of the conscious and the unconscious. “Do you wanna go out today? The weather’s shit though. You’ll probably catch your death out there.” At the mention of the word ‘death’, Toji stops, falling into an uncomfortable silence.

You smile weakly at him. “Tiiredd—“

“You’re no fun,” Toji gently flicks your nose and you scrunch it up in displeasure. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding back an entire waterfall of tears. He knows it’s today. It has to be. You woke up today without your usual ‘happy morning’ greeting, and you refused to drink anything, much less eat anything. “You tired? Any pain?”

You shake your head. You’re as comfortable as you can be for the first time in months. Hospice nurses say humans are built to live the same way they are built to die, no person in this world has ever had the uncanny privilege of being able to look up ‘How to die?’ on a quick Google search and actually find a Wikihow on the morbid subject matter, nor is there anyone else who can teach another how it’s done. It’s just something humans know how to do without a manual, deeply ingrained in the very fabric of human existence is the fear of death, the fear of what comes after, the fear of a nothingness that could follow after living such a vibrant life. Your life was short, barely spanning thirty years, but you lived well: you fell in love, you got hurt, but you fell together again. Now it all has to come to an end, Toji will just have to take care of the rest.

And you weren’t scared.

Or at least you can’t look scared, if you were to be more accurate, you have to look strong and ready to accept the cards you’ve been dealt with for Toji’s sake. When he feels your hand start to slacken, Toji intakes a sharp, shaky breath of sheer panic. “Not yet, Y/N. Please. Not yet.”

He climbs into bed with you, bringing you closer to this desperate man you call yours. There was no getting better anymore, there was no miracle he could hang onto, no deity he could beg for death to spare you, no pill bottle he could pray to. He knew that from the start. But what he witnessed these past months, you’ve been the braver one between the two of you, you knew how to make the most of the rhythm this cruel world gave you and you graciously took him along to dance to the last song of the evening with you.

“There’s still hope. Just keep your eyes open. Just keep them open.” He presses his lips to your forehead, his delusion getting the better of him. “We’ll just keep trying…you can’t leave. You have to stay. You have to.”

“Thaank yoou—“ you softly told your Toji, your voice shrinking in decibels as you become a little drowsy, sinking into the warmth of the requiem of a life well spent.

Toji listens to you, his lips pursed, intent on making this final act of love — a love that is strong enough to say goodbye — a memorable one. And should the afterlife exist, he wishes to send you off with a smile, with the reassurance that he’ll be alright even if that was far from happening.

“Toji.”

“I want you to be real. And I don’t care if we’ll live on borrowed time. Another extra second with you…is enough to last me my entire lifetime.”

[yinyuedijun]

ZERO-SUM GAME

It’s different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood. (Or: Aventurine wins you in a game of poker. He decides to cash out his prize right then and there—to enjoy you on the card table, laid out among all the chips and cards.)

8.6k words of psychological issues, explicit smut, and deranged characterization. aventurine tops, reader bottoms. public sex, voyeurism from strangers, piv, oral (reader receiving), fingering with gloves on, creampie. mild dubcon but the reader is ultimately into it. afab gn reader, they are playing a fem-coded role for an espionage assignment (dress, heels, makeup). themes of objectification. discussion of slavery and sa during slavery (not explicit). dead dove do not eat, mdni.

You are in the grandest casino of Kinyoshi Moon Colony, and Aventurine is running your latest husband into life-ruining debt.

You aren’t cut up about it. If your marriage (or concubinage, rather) were genuine, you'd maybe be annoyed about the loss of capital. But as it is, this relationship is an assignment from the IPC—one of the longest and most excruciatingly boring yet. Fortunately for you, Aventurine’s presence tonight means that you've finally gathered enough intel for Diamond’s needs. It is time for the IPC to terminate your latest contract, and Aventurine is here to collect you.

Which is a little funny, given your relationship. It is strange sitting across from your boyfriend, draped over another man and thoroughly ignoring him. You’re entirely focused on fawning over your husband instead—laughing into his ear, lighting his pipe and filling his whiskey glass, and oh, Mister Li, you're so funny, you're so clever, I think you should go all in!—but Aventurine doesn't react. He only smiles at the two of you, like he isn't bothered by the sight.

This is, of course, an act: when you came home from your last marriage (assignment), he'd made sure to pleasure you so thoroughly that you forgot all about your ex-husband (mark). Aventurine did not openly admit to any kind of jealousy at the time, but you could tell he hadn't been keen on letting another man touch you. He usually isn't too keen about anyone touching any of his things, in fact. Despite appearances, he always abhors the thought of losing anything important.

But any fears he might have are concealed right now. They’re always concealed. Hidden by the expensive suit, the countless stacks of chips, the golden walls and high-vaulted ceilings of the Venetian Zhijin, Masked by his generous gifts, his easy laughter, his careless frivolity. You can see right through his gilded smile. The rest of the table cannot.

They are all intrigued when Aventurine asks, a playful lilt in his voice, “How about we make this game a little more interesting, gentleman?”

The other players at the table consider him. The other plus-ones—concubines, courtesans, gigolos, and so on—look at him with calculated expressions of cursory interest. You do so as well, but only for a moment. Your gaze quickly returns to Mister Li’s face—your husband is meant to be your true focus, after all, not the game. You are not a player at this table, but an accessory. Closer to an expensive watch than a human being.

Some business magnate from the Triangulum Galaxy leans back and raises a brow. “I'm listening,” he says. You watch a bead of sweat travel down your husband’s neck.

“How about we up the ante,” Aventurine says, his voice light, “but instead of betting more money this time, we bet our dates?”

You think, in other star systems, other worlds, such a suggestion would invite riot. But Kinyoshi Colony being what it is, and the Venetian being the establishment that it is, the other players at the table only laugh. Nearly half of them deal in the trade of human beings anyway—this is nothing novel for them.

“Well,” one of them says, “it’s not like winning more money’s gonna make a difference to any of us.” A round of chuckling. He turns to his date—some noblewoman from Jarilo-IV who seems greatly out of her depth—and says, “What do you think, love? How do you feel about being part of my wager?”

She doesn't like it. She clearly doesn't like it, and she also clearly doesn't know how to say it. Were you not on the clock, you might intervene. Maybe. As it is, though, all you can do is observe quietly. All the power in this gambit lies with Aventurine. Even when surrounded by men who manipulate the wealth of entire cities, planets, galaxies—he remains in full control.

“There’s never any shame in folding,” he says, magnanimous. Then he looks your husband in the eye, smiling conspiratorially. “But I know there are some of us who aren't afraid to take risks.”

Li laughs. “You’re right about that, Mister Aventurine.” He gives you a fond smile. And of course he does—you’re his last shot at winning back all his losses for the night. “I think you'd make a pretty little chip, don't you?”

Although Mister Li is clearly less distressed at the thought of betting you than he was at the thought of betting his company just last round, you notice, out of the corner of your eye, a muscle in Aventurine’s neck twitching. It’s very, very subtle, and he'd have never let himself do it if the table’s attention were on him, but he did it. Perhaps it was involuntary. Your mouth curls.

“Sure, darling.” You try not to sound too giddy. “I’ll be whatever you like.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn't be so happy about this farce. This is, put plainly, a stupid way to extract you from your mission. Were the cards in anyone else’s hands, your husband could win and you might be stuck with him for another several weeks, at least—assuming that you aren't discovered and killed first. Or you could go home with another man and be subjected to the kind of things that men do when they trade human beings, and you don't think the IPC would care too much if you were. You are an asset before you are a person, after all. At this table, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being—and at the Company, you are an overpriced knife.

But to Aventurine, you're a chip in one of his games, and you don't mind that so much. Men who only know wealth will throw around their riches thoughtlessly, but men who have endured poverty will hold onto them tightly—desperately. Aventurine takes care of his luxury watches, his elegant knives, his liar’s dice. His capital. And he never loses anything. He always comes to collect. You trust him to collect you, even with this stupid plan, so you are calm as you watch the dealer shuffle the cards.

The table makes their bets. Most of the players go all-in. A couple fold, perhaps feeling some degree of concern for their partners, but it's more likely that they just have shit hands. A lot of the ones who continue playing have shit hands anyway. Your husband doesn't do too badly—a straight flush. He seems confident.

Then Aventurine lays out his cards. Ten. Joker. Queen. King. Ace.

All hearts.

You have to take a sip of your whiskey to stop yourself from laughing.

Aventurine, himself, has the grace not to look too smug about the outcome. Or maybe it's very unremarkable for him, all these winnings being pushed over to him—poker chips and human beings. Some of the other dates are clearly anxious as they move toward him (they are expected to be loyal to their husbands), and some are clearly excited (they are expected to be frivolous, hedonistic playthings). He humours them all, for a little while. Puts on the usual show as they crowd around him, charms them because it'll be good for business partnerships in case any of their husbands care even a little bit about them. You'd do the same in his shoes. But in your current ones (six-inch heels, black leather, red bottoms, luxury), all you can do is seat yourself on the card table and light up a cigarette. Waiting.

Aventurine eventually sends them all off. All I wanted was to get to know you, he says cheerfully, which is probably not a lie. After they leave, he asks the dealer to close the table and go on break. Turn a blind eye. You raise a brow when they obey him.

How interesting.

You're still enjoying your cigarette by the time he turns to you. You flash him a smile, one of the ones that you use for work. His expression doesn't change, but his thumb brushes against one of his many rings—switching off your synesthesia beacons for some privacy—and he leans back to study you. You know he's admiring you, but it could be mistaken for a leer.

“Well, well,” he says, “If it isn’t the esteemed concubine of Li Fengzhi.”

“The esteemed fifth concubine,” you correct. He hums, looking surprised.

“I thought you were the fourth. Did I misremember?”

“No, just misinformed. He took another concubine right before I arrived on Kinyoshi. He acquired a sixth just last week. Turns out he picks up paramours like they’re strays.”

“How inconvenient.”

“It made no difference to me,” you dismiss. “I’m his favourite anyway, but I’m sure you knew that already.”

“I’d have had to be blind not to notice it. You have the man wrapped around your finger.” Aventurine leans back, studying you as you smoke on your perch. “But before we continue—why don’t you come a little closer, esteemed Fifth Concubine?”

You make a face. “That title doesn’t sound as nearly as flattering in Avgin dialect as it does in Zhijinese,” you note, though you get off the table anyway. You don’t go very far, electing to seat yourself on his lap, your arms draping around his shoulders. The feathers of his jacket tickle at your bare shoulders; the satin of his gloves glide down the skin of your thighs before settling on your calves. “Since you’ve won my company for the night, though,” you sigh, “I suppose I can humour you, Mister Aventurine.”

“Lucky me.” He leans in, his breath sweeping the shell of your ear. His fragrance surrounds you, your body warming at the familiar scent of ambergris and vanilla. You realize, all of a sudden, how much you missed it. You have to stop yourself from pressing your face into his neck and melting—it would be a dead giveaway for your identity and also too revealing of your feelings. Aventurine might be endeared by it, but he might also find it disconcerting. He often needs to be tricked into intimacy.

He does enjoy being wanted though, and he can obviously tell that you want him. He pulls you closer, one of his hands giving your thigh a generous squeeze. It makes you throw your head back in a laugh, exposing the soft skin of your throat. You aren't surprised when he takes the opportunity to kiss it, his lips gentle against your pulse.

“You’re being very forward,” you tease him. “Did you miss me?”

“I’m just trying to be careful,” he defends himself between kisses, his breath warm on your skin. “We should try to conceal our mouths as much as possible. No one can intercept our synesthesia beacons, but someone could still read our lips.”

You give him a funny look. “We’re the only two speakers of Avgin in the known universe. Who could, other than ourselves, could read our—mmph…”

Aventurine has caught the rest of your sentence with his mouth. He’s hungry and wanting for you, the heat of his lips overwhelming. Your tongue is as practised as his, but you find yourself too distracted by your thrill to focus, your kiss wet and eager. Messy. Unprofessional.

You’ve never kissed any of your husbands like this. You’ve never kissed any of your other owners like this. You feel dazed when he pulls away.

You compose yourself. “So you did miss me.”

He smiles. “Guilty as charged.” A gloved hand rests on your face, satin tracing your lips. “How could I not? You’ve been away from the house for so long.”

Your eyes narrow. There’s no idiom for this in Avgin, so you flip briefly to Interastral Standard: “Pot, kettle, black. You leave home all the time.” You smack away the hand at your waist, petty. He looks amused. “And you almost always die.”

He switches out his smile for a pout. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last time.”

“You nearly got yourself blasted with atomics, so yes, I’m still mad at you.”

Now he’s frowning. “Am I going back to sleeping on the couch when you come back?”

“Yes,” you say. His deepening frown is meant to be read as a joke, but you know better. Deciding to throw him a bone, you lean in, whispering playfully into his ear: “You can still fuck me on it though.”

Aventurine hums, as if considering. His hands traverse your sides as he contemplates your suggestion. You move to straddle him, your thighs squeezed around his hips. When you grind against him, you can feel how much he wants you despite his composure, his control—his length straining in his pants, pressed against the silk covering your core.

“I don’t think I can wait long enough to fuck you on the couch,” he says, voice teasing.

“No?” You hum as his hands travel upward, feeling every inch of you. “The ship on the way home, then?”

“We don’t leave until tomorrow. Do you really think I can wait that long?”

You don't expect to feel the warmth of his hands on your chest. Your breath hitches when he starts palming your tits through your dress, neon eyes admiring the curve of them. One of his thumbs skims over the peak of your breast, and his mouth curls when your nipple hardens. “No bra? That's convenient.”

“I—” You squirm in his grip, whining. It just makes you grind against his lap more, your cunt moving against his slacks. A wave of heat runs through your lower half, and you clench around nothing. You can see people from a nearby table glancing at you, doing double takes. You can feel their lingering gazes on you, and you know Aventurine can too.

“I—are you going to”—your voice shakes as he pinches your nipple, as his other hand moves to squeeze your ass instead. Your dress is short—designed for easy access—and his fingertips easily skim the underside of its skirt. You wonder if he’s going to pull it up. You wonder if he's going to go even further than that.

But that would be an absurd thing to do in the middle of the busiest casino in the colony, which also happens to be the busiest trade hub in its star system. It would be absurd even for the two of you. Nevermind the reactions of the other players in the room—the staff here would immediately blacklist you, and so would every other gambling house in Kinyoshi.

You try to calm yourself. “Are you—ah—going to take me upstairs?”

He's fully kneading your breasts now. You can feel your clit throbbing, your body responding to his rough and unrepentant touch. “Hm… I don't think I want to.” Aventurine’s voice drops. His smile takes on a distinctly wicked quality. “I think I'll take you right here.”

“But we’ll get kicked out,” you whine. Even as you protest though, you're panting and moving your hips now. Grabbing at his arms, rutting against him like you're in heat. His fingers hook around the thin straps of your dress, pull them down your shoulders, already starting to indulge despite your reservations. You bend into his touch.

“Kicked out? By who? The staff?” He smiles, as always. “I own the place now. I don't think they'll be giving me trouble.”

“Y—you what?” For a moment, you're too shocked to keep up the wanton show. “You do? Since when?”

“Since last night.” He thumbs one of the straps that's fallen halfway down your arms. The rest of your dress threatens to come down with it. “Technically it's the IPC who acquired it—or, well, their shell company did—but I'm their designated representative here. I signed the contract.”

“The IPC isn’t going to be upset that you're fucking a concubine, who's not even your concubine, on their new property?”

Aventurine shrugs. “They know the kind of establishment the Venetian is. People gamble with humans here all the time, you know, so this has definitely happened before. The IPC definitely expects it to happen again. And besides”—he returns his attention to your dress, starting to slip the fabric down your shoulders—“I'm just cashing out my winnings. I'm sure they wouldn't deny a gambler his vices. That'd be bad business.”

You want to say more, but then he tugs, suddenly exposing you. You’re bare in front of him—in front of everyone. You can feel eyes on you. Heat curls in your gut as he grabs your tits again, his satin gloves smooth across your skin, and your nipples pebble beneath them. “Hm… much better.”

“But…” You bite your lip, glancing around. There are so many people watching now—so many voyeurs, who've forgotten about their games and their slots. Though there are a greater number of people who are continuing as usual, studying their hands, smoking their cigarettes, unperturbed. All regulars and VIPs, you know from your intelligence.

Aventurine pauses as you catalogue the room, raising a brow. Probably he's surprised at your sudden modesty; you usually have none when his touch is involved.

“Of course,” he adds, “if you'd rather enjoy the suite upstairs…”

“No—I don’t mind staying down here… it's just that I’ve never…”

Your voice trails off. Your eyes traverse the space again. There are people who’ve fully thrown their cards down, greedily drinking in the sight of you instead. Even some of the dealers are watching between hands, glancing at you instead of watching for cheaters. Like this is public entertainment, like you're a show.

Aventurine tilts his head.

“You've never had sex with an audience?” he guesses. He sounds surprised—perplexed. You don't know why. You know he knows it's a stupid question. You know he knows the answer.

You had sex in front of people all the time before you met him. You did it for the exact reasons that he’s almost certainly done the same. To this table of business magnates, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being; to the IPC, you are more like an overpriced knife; to this gambling hall, you're an interesting sideshow.

To your captors who fucked you in public, you guess you were something like a toy.

The thought sitting in your mouth is this: you've never had sex with an audience and enjoyed it. It was painful—not painful for the heart or the mind or anything else sentimental, but painful like it felt you were a fish being gutted open by a knife. And even beyond that physical pain, you simply didn't enjoy being passed around. You didn't like being owned by those people. You didn't like being an object for their entertainment, a spectacle to be consumed.

But it's different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You like being his plaything, spread for his viewing whenever he wants. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this commodity code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood.

You want him to own you too. You want him to show everyone that he won you, that he bought you, that you're his possession now. That he, and he alone, is free to treat you like a toy.

You're getting wetter just thinking about it.

“Nevermind,” you whisper. “Let's do it.”

His smile widens ever so slightly. Slyer than usual.

“Good,” he says. He guides you into standing. “Let’s get you settled then.”

You're seated back on the card table. The cigarette is forgotten in the ashtray next to you. Aventurine takes the time to straighten out your dress, lifting the straps back up and affording you some modesty—before he gently lays you out.

You look up at him as you're spread in front of him, laid out next to his royal flush and winnings. Like you're another chip in his stacks, the most expensive one. He puts a hand beneath your leg, drapes it over his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to kiss your calf, his lips delicate.

You glance at the tables around you. You watch the business owners and politicians as they watch Aventurine. You watch them as they watch your boyfriend pepper kisses up your leg, unless he's settling in between them. Your thighs spread easily for him, and you don't resist as he hikes up your skirt.

Then he frowns.

“I’ve never seen these panties before.”

“They’re new,” you relay.

“From your husband?”

“Yup.”

“I see.”

You can't see his face, but he sounds distinctly displeased. You expect him to complain, to say they're not expensive enough or not designer enough or just plain ugly.

You don't expect him to tear them right off.

“Aventurine?!”

You're so surprised you sit up, just in time to see him throw tatters of silk to the floor.

“What?” He looks up at you, expression unbothered, almost mild. “It wasn't your colour.”

Your mouth opens. “But it was still very nice!”

“I'll buy you nicer ones later. I’ll buy you a whole drawer of nicer ones later, when we’re done here.”

He looks down again, humming. Your cheeks flush as he spreads your legs again, baring your glistening sex to him—this time completely bare. Satin glides along the inside of your thighs, and your breath hitches when he reaches their apex. You feel the light touch of a finger along your opening, and you feel your body responding, tightening around nothing.

“Tell me,” he says, “What else did your husband do with you?”

His voice is casual, almost disinterested, but you know Aventurine is listening carefully.

“Not much,” you answer truthfully. “I haven't cum in months, you know.”

“Oh?” He sounds surprised. “You don't have sex with him?”

“No. He's fucked me a lot. It”—you whimper, pausing when you feel his fingers spreading you open, fluttering hole and swollen clit exposed to him—“it just wasn't very good.”

“Then”—you feel a thumb press against your clit, and you swallow—“he never touched you here?”

“N-no.”

“Stupid of him.” He’s drawing slow, lazy circles into the bud now, making you squirm on the table. You press yourself eagerly toward his familiar touch, having desperately missed it for months. Aventurine, perhaps sensing your neediness, asks, “And you didn't touch yourself?”

“He didn't let me,” you whine, and now he's frowning at you.

“I knew I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he says, and you have to bite back a laugh. Aventurine’s mouth curls at the sound, and he leans in to place a kiss on your thigh. “But that’s fine. I'll make it up to you now.”

Aventurine kisses are soft and precise. They pepper a path up your thigh while his fingers continue to play lazily with your clit. You want—need—to feel something inside you, but he doesn't oblige. His fingers merely run along your entrance, teasing your dripping pussy with luxury satin, and that's all they do, even as your hips buck needily toward him.

He pauses for just a moment. When you look at him, you see him staring at you—at the brand on your inner thigh, the commodity code that your captors left on you, branding you as a product to be used and sold.

His voice is almost soft when he asks, “And what did your husband say when he saw this?”

“He never did,” you reply. “He always fucked me from behind. And he never went down on me.” You pause, thinking about the way he spoke of his business. Of his trade partners. Of what your captors had done to your home when you told him about it, feigning intimacy only to be matched in cruelty. You think about the way he fucked you, how it felt to be gutted open on his expensive, silk sheets.

None of it matters to you, really. This is behaviour that you’ve long accepted, that your body always anticipates. But you always like to offer Aventurine intimacy, whether real or feigned, whether he returns it equally or responds with undeserved cruelty: “I think it wouldn't have bothered him if he had noticed it.”

You can't see Aventurine’s eyes, but you can feel his reaction when he places a chaste kiss on your product code.

“I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he repeats. Then he pauses. “Maybe I shouldn't have let you go at all.”

“I didn't mind,” you say. You aren't lying. “You gave me up for a reason.”

He stands. Cups your face with a palm, luxuriant fabric and gold rings pressed against your skin. Sometimes he's given up the aventurine stone temporarily for assignments, parting with it in elaborate gambles that he always manages to win. The way he’s touching you now reminds you of the way he holds the gem whenever it returns to his hand.

“Well,” he says, “I’m sorry it took so long to get you back.”

Aventurine tilts your chin up for a kiss. You meet it eagerly, and it's so tender in its familiarity that every memory of your husband fades. There's only Aventurine, and his gentle mouth, and the way his hands slide your dress down again, how he palms your breasts again. How he teases one nipple with his expensive rings until you're moaning into his mouth. How his other hand travels down until his gloved hand is cupping your heat. You drag your hips against his touch, desperately seeking some kind of friction, your wetness drenching the cloth. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your body aching to be filled by him, aching in a way that it does for no one else.

It’s one of the most addictive feelings you've ever known.

Aventurine only stops touching you so he can push away all the chips, clearing space on the table. He ignores the cacophony as countless stacks fall over, not sparing the plastic coins a single glance. Like you're the only prize that matters to him, even though the sum of his winnings come out to more than you ever were worth.

He lays you out on the table again, flat on your back, exposed, before kissing a path down your body—your neck, your breasts, your stomach, between your thighs. He deigns to give your product code one more kiss, his lips so gentle that it makes you tremble—and then he finally puts his mouth on you. He licks a hot stripe from your dripping pussy up to the crest of your sex, and your eyes close in bliss.

If you felt any uncertainty before this, it's completely gone now. Your hands ghost over your tits, playing with them as Aventurine’s tongue plays with you. He sucks on your neglected clit, fingers squeezing your thighs, keeping you spread open and still for him. He presses in, lets you drag your cunt over his greedy mouth and grind your clit against his face. Heat and pressure coil tight in your belly as he pleasures you, your body flushing with the kind of bliss only Aventurine can give you. You’re so lost in it that you almost don’t notice how quiet the rest of the hall has gotten, the cacophony of chatter and slot machines oddly subdued—almost missing. In their absence, the obscene noises that Aventurine is drawing from your mouth and body are louder than they should be.

The pleasure in your belly is just starting to swell when he pulls away. You give him a pleading look as he leans over you, but before you can start begging for more, you feel his fingers press against your heat. He watches you with keen eyes as he starts rubbing your pussy, maybe enjoying the desperate noises you make at his touch. You buck your hips, moaning as your clit and entrance grind against the fabric of his gloves, seeking friction. You’re empty, aching, desperate to be filled, but you think you can finish like this, just by rutting against his satin fingers—

Aventurine withdraws his hand, and you whine.

“No,” you beg, “please, please keep going, I was getting close—”

He raises a brow, feigning surprise. “Keep going?” He brings up his hand, shows you his gloves. The satin is soaked, shiny and stained with your slick. “I don't think I should. Look at what a mess you’ve made of my gloves.” Aventurine hums, frowning. “These are designer, you know. And limited—there are only 95 pairs of these in the whole universe. And you're ruining them.”

“I'm sorry,” you say, mind so fogged with lust that you can't even return his teasing. “I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you, I'll do anything, just—just let me cum—”

“Anything?” His smile is sly.

“Anything.”

“Well. I suppose if you help me clean this up, I wouldn't mind rewarding you with more.”

You don't need to ask what he means by that. When he holds out his hand to you, runs a finger along your lips, you obediently open your mouth for him. Your tongue slides along the wet satin, only making his glove messier—but he seems not to mind. He merely watches intently as your tongue cleans his fingers, taking in the obscene image of you hungrily lapping your own slick off the expensive fabric.

He lets you ruin his glove thoroughly before finally drawing back, peeling it off.

“I'm not sure that did any good,” he says, frowning. “I’ll probably need to buy a new pair. But”—he pulls away, and you feel him settle between your legs again, his hands spreading them. “I'll still reward you for the effort.”

Aventurine is quick about getting his mouth back on you. His tongue is hot on your skin, expertly teasing your clit. You feel his fingers running along your entrance again, growing sticky with his need. He laughs when you press your hips toward his hand, desperate to be filled.

Then he's pressing his bare fingers into your heat, and your back is arching off the table.

The moan you let out is obscene. It only gets worse when his fingers curl, making the pressure in your belly even heavier. Utterly shameless, you beg for him as he fucks you with his fingers: Aventurine, please, please, I need more, please, I'm so close, I'm so close.

As if taking pity on you, his mouth finds your clit again, his fingers pressing into your sweet spot at the same time. And he doesn't let up, pushing into it even when you think you can't take anymore—tongue swirling against your overstimulated bud, fingers making you gush uncontrollably. You practically sob when you cum, a noise of desperation that echoes in the gambling hall.

His smile looks a little fonder than usual—or maybe just entertained—as he stands again and leans over you. You taste your own release in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, and he strokes your face when he pulls away.

“So good for me,” he praises. “Are you going to let me do more?”

You nod eagerly. “Whatever you like,” you say, all sense of shame gone from your body, “and however you want.”

Aventurine’s mouth curls. “Your husband fucked you from behind, right? Why don't you bend over for me, then? Let's show him how he should have been doing it.”

You see the diamond pupils of Aventurine’s eyes glance off to the side, where, sure enough, your husband is spectating with some of his business partners. You force yourself to turn away before you can smile, hiding your expression from the other men. You’re not meant to derive any real pleasure from any of this, let alone pleasure of the vindictive kind. Your relationship with Aventurine is supposedly nothing but a gambler and his newly won, human plaything. It would be suspicious if you appeared to be anything else.

You slink off the table in a distinctly performative way, and Aventurine plays equally into the show—probably an act as familiar to him as it is to you. He guides you into turning around, your eyes falling on the scattered cards on the tabletop, the casino’s eyes falling on you. His hands waste no time in pulling down your dress and reaching around to knead your breasts, in full view of the rest of the gambling hall. You're only vaguely aware of your audience now, registering the interested, hungry stares, but not really caring. You're too focused on the way that Aventurine is tugging and twisting at your nipples, at how he’s pressed up against your ass, his cock straining through his pants. You grind needily against him, whining.

Aventurine kisses your shoulder. “Poor thing. You've been neglected for so long, haven't you?” His hands retreat, and you hear the sound of a zipper being undone. Then your skirt’s being pushed up and you're being bent over, your dripping pussy fully presented to him. When you feel the press of his cockhead against your entrance, you desperately try to push yourself back onto him. But he doesn't allow you to—only running the tip along your wet folds, still sticky from your release, while he stills you with a gentle touch on your hip.

You make a pathetic, desperate noise. Aventurine chuckles, though there’s now a breathy quality to his voice.

“Be patient,” he chides. “I'll take care of you.”

You know he will. He always takes care of you, in a way that no one else ever has. Even when he gambles your life for some mission, even when he can barely afford you the barest hints of intimacy, even when he displays your body to an audience of slave traders and murderers—he always takes care of you. Even if you are only a knife or a wristwatch or a chip in one of his games, he still treats you like you're worth holding onto.

Aventurine finally moves. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel his cock sliding into you. Usually he needs to be careful after your long missions away from him, knowing you'll be tense. He understands that your body always anticipates being in pain after being touched by other people. But he has you so worked up right now—still dripping from your release, still pliant from his fingers, still eager to please him before the crowd—that your cunt easily swallows his length. The stretch is pure bliss, pleasure unfurling in your body as you're filled up properly for the first time in months. He's just as affected as you, breath shaking as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he breathes—laughs. “Nearly forgot how good this feels.” He pauses, his breathing slowing—almost stopping each time you squeeze around him. You turn back, throwing him a pleading glance, and he meets it with an endeared smile. “Eager today, aren't you?” He hums, a hand sliding along your waist. “You really do need to be properly fucked.”

He's stalling. Trying to give you a moment to adjust, but you don't need it. “Yes,” you encourage him. Aching for the press of his cock against your walls, you grind against him, and you hear a strangled groan as you force him to move inside you. “Please, Aventurine—please, please fuck me, I need it so badly—”

He hums, both hands grabbing your hips, his fingers sinking into you. “Well. Since you asked so nicely.”

The first thrust has your eyes going wide, your hands reaching for the card table as you’re forced to bend over. You spread our palms next to the mess of heart cards and shiny tokens, bracing yourself for the way your body’s about to be used. He doesn't give you time to breathe after, each stroke filling you deep and fast. The rest of the gambling hall grows very, very quiet as Aventurine fucks you, and suddenly all you can hear is the appreciative murmur of the crowd, clink of ice cubes in aged whiskey, the noisy flick of lighters as more patrons opt to pause their games and enjoy the show. You hear the shattering of all the stacks beside you, hundreds of thousands of dollars in chips fall over beside you, tokens clinking as they roll across the tabletop. But all of that is soon drowned out by the wet noise of your pussy being fucked open, the squelch of your slick around his cock. You moan each time he bottoms out, eager to be filled.

When you feel his cock press into your sweet spot, your moans quickly turn into cries.

You hear something like a breathy laugh from Aventurine. Your body always reveals itself so easily to him, and you know he enjoys it. He hits that spot again and again, builds an agonizing tension in your body with every thrust of his hips. It has your pussy gushing around him, your thighs growing wet and sticky with your need.

Just when it feels like you can't take anymore, he reaches down and presses his fingers against your throbbing clit. Your knees buckle as he toys with you, chest heaving against the table as he sets a brutal pace. You're—overwhelmed, mind going hazy as you're fucked mercilessly. So far gone, you can hardly register the disgruntled expression of your husband, the hungry gazes of his companions, the way that other players are starting to shift in their seats, palming themselves at the sight of your pussy being split open. There's only the tight coil in your gut, the chips between your fingers as you grab uselessly for something to ground you, the cock that's filling you over and over and over—and oh fuck, you’re going to cum, you're really going to cum after being won in a game, from having your pussy used like a sleeve, from being watched by men who will never own you no matter how many times they trade you, no matter how many times they fuck you, no matter how many times they pass you around, because you'll only ever belong to Aventurine—

Your orgasm crashes through your body, and you sob.

It's a broken, blissed out noise. Your pussy is equally shameless, gushing as you pulse around Aventurine’s cock. You go limp as he fucks you through your orgasm, uncaring about the mess you're making. He only groans as you squirt all over him, hips stuttering as he reaches his own peak—spilling himself inside you, pumping you full. Aventurine’s body slumps over yours as rides out his high, his face pressing into your shoulder. You find the wherewithal to shift yourself, just enough to your lips against the tattoo on his neck. He looks at you for a fleeting moment, the blue ring of his eyes electric on you, before capture your mouth in a desperate, messy kiss.

The two of you stay there for a long moment, panting into each other. Then Aventurine collects himself, remembers how to talk: “Fuck.”

You piece yourself together just as easily. Maybe even faster. Smiling into his mouth, you ask, “Enjoy yourself?”

“Clearly.” Aventurine presses his lips into your neck, lingering only briefly. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Aventurine takes his time with moving, as if basking in the afterglow—or bragging in it. But he does rise, eventually. Pulls out slowly, making you shudder. He helps you to your feet, lets you hold onto him for support. His spend drips down your thighs as you right yourself, messy and hot on your skin. You can feel it sliding down your legs as you walk, braced against Aventurine as he guides you in the long walk toward the elevator. It slips all the way down to your calves, to your expensive heels, even onto the marble floor.

You're fairly certain that it's not an accident when Aventurine flips up your skirt as you pass your ex-husband. At the very least, it isn't a mistake when you stumble in that same moment, bending over and giving him a good look at your well-used pussy, now overfilled with your boyfriend’s cum. You don't stop to look at him, but you know he must be red-faced, displeased—aware that he’s been humiliated. Beaten by a Stoneheart, concubine stolen by Sigonian, one of his favourite possessions claimed by a former slave. You'd laugh if you could.

You can't help but kiss Aventurine while the two of you wait for the elevator, a smile glowing into his lips.

It's absurd, but a staff member approaches the two of you as you indulge in one another. Aventurine pulls away as you’re approached, looking mildly annoyed as he switches on his synesthesia beacon.

“Sir,” the staff says, “you’ve left your other winnings at the table.”

Even in his post-orgasm bliss, Aventurine responds promptly. “I’ll cash it all,” he says. “Send the money to my room. I'm not coming back tomorrow.”

“Very well. And the terms of the… human resource exchange that just happened?”

Aventurine’s jaw clicks. It's quiet, but surprising. You watch him carefully.

“We didn't bet contracts,” he says. “This is a concubine, not a slave. But tell Mister Li I'll buy them anyway. I'll pay whatever price he wants, which I’d wager is the company that he gambled and lost to me. Maybe suggest that to him.”

“Of course,” the staff member replies, bowing. Despite the first-rate service, Aventurine looks like he can't get out of there sooner enough as he guides you into the elevator. You give him a curious look as the door closes.

“You're going to give up a multiplanetary corporation just for this?” you ask.

“Not entirely. The IPC was planning to acquire it anyway. It'll be ours again in a few months.” He stares at your reflections in the mirror, his strange eyes lingering on your dishevelled form. “We’ll put your intel to good use,” he adds, and although Jade or Diamond or any of your real bosses would say this with a smile and reward you with a bonus, Aventurine’s expression is unreadable.

“What's on your mind?” you ask, fingers brushing against his hand. “You’re worried about something.”

Aventurine blinks, and it takes him a moment to recover.

“Nothing. Just hoping we didn't give our relationship away just now.” He cups your face with a hand, guides you into looking at his smile. A deflection. “I might have gotten carried away.”

You lean into his touch, eyes playful: a performance. As if he's some stranger that you're servicing, a captor being entertained; as if you're a plaything about to be used. As if you expect to be treated like the disposable commodity that your husband just gambled away.

“I wouldn't worry,” you reassure him. “I'm sure after the show we put on, it'll be clear to anyone that you're only keeping me around for sex.”

It's very, very subtle, but a muscle in Aventurine's neck twitches. He'd never allow it in a game of cards, never before the IPC, never before the prying eyes of slavers and killers—but he allows it in front of you. He always unwittingly bares himself to you, even as he swallows his discomfort before adopting his usual, vulpine expression. You don't think anyone else would notice what lies beneath the gilded surface of his smile, his liar’s eyes. You don't think anyone else would notice his tells, his vulnerabilities, his quiet fear of loss.

After all, there is no one else in this universe who knows how to trick him into intimacy.

Winning has always come with a certain emptiness for Aventurine. Gambling is, after all, a zero sum game. He plays a royal flush and people lose their homes. Winner takes all. He survives the fighting pits, his blade dripping red with the lives of other slaves. Winner takes all. He runs from the stench of blood and burning flesh, praying for thunder and rain loud enough to drown the screams of his dying kin. Winner takes all.

He alone survives. He alone enjoys his riches. Ever since the Avgin died, he has always been by himself. There is no amount of coin nor credit that will ever change this.

Here is another unyielding fact that hollows any win: that no matter how many credits he collects, he will always be a chip himself. He will always be a plastic token worth sixty coppers. Gambling is a zero-sum game, and ever since the day he was chained, Aventurine has been the pool of riches divided among winners. He has always been the commodity being traded between hands. He has always been the prize to be cashed out and used. Even now, with all this money and power, it will never be him who comes to collect: it will always be the IPC. Winner takes all.

Such is his fate. Luck is always on his side, but he has always had the losing hand against destiny. No matter how many times he wins, there is nothing that will ever truly belong to him.

But then he met you.

Then he met you, and now his luck does not always feel like such a cruel or empty thing. Now the zero-sum game has meaning. He hedges his bets in the market and buys out a planet, and acquires you along with the shares. Winner takes all. He gambles his life against a nuclear power and comes out on top, and the IPC allows him to keep you by his side. Winner takes all. He plays a royal flush and wins at a table of slave traders, and he gets to fuck you until you can't think of any cock but his own. Winner takes all.

Gambling is a zero-sum game, and when you're the reward, Aventurine wouldn't have it any other way. He’ll never share you with anyone. He'll never sell you to anyone.

He’ll never lose you to anyone.

Sometimes it surprises him, this attachment he feels to you. He doesn't quite understand it, but he thinks it mostly just has to do with how good it feels to fuck you. Much like gambling, Aventurine has never enjoyed sex until you came along. Sex for him has always felt like a humiliation, like being gutted open as a captive animal, like being won and passed around in the grand hall of some gaudy casino.

Which is, in fact, another thing he never thought he'd enjoy: having sex in the Venetian Zhijin before an audience of revolting men. He'd resented having to do it as a slave, but he’d enjoyed doing it with you as a Stoneheart. He'd even do it again if he could—take you over and over again on that card table, fill you up with his cum. Spread your cunt in front of everyone, so they could see for themselves that you were now his. Winner takes all.

Winning doesn't feel empty when you're his reward. Sex doesn't either. Because Aventurine isn't a chip or an animal or a commodity when he fucks you—he's a player. Someone with a seat at the table, as just as wealthy and powerful as the slave traders around him. Someone who’s allowed to own something—really own something.

Really allowed to own you.

Aventurine owns you. When he fucks you, he is a player at the table, and you are the prize he gets to keep. And no matter how you feel about him and how you act toward him—this is all the two of you will ever be. He knows this. He knows that you know it too.

So sometimes he can't fathom it, the way he treats you in bed. The way he always kisses your commodity code when he sees it, the way he allows you to kiss his own. The way he always thinks about pleasuring you until you're drunk on his cock, so addicted to him that you’ll never want to be touched by anyone else. The way he always likes how your body feels when it's being shaped by his hands. How different it feels from being forced to touch other people.

How badly you make him want something that he's always hated.

And this is what he understands least of all: how he doesn't like to hear you say aloud the true nature of your relationship. How he doesn't like it when you accept this reality and say, you're only keeping me around for sex.

It hollows him out when he hears it. A bitter feeling swells in his throat, and he forces himself to swallow.

Aventurine keeps his face neutral as he enters the suite with you. As soon as the door is shut, you pull him close—close enough for him to see the blurred lines of your lipstick, smudged from his mouth; close enough to see the white diamond necklace on your neck, a collar for a concubine; close enough to see the finger-shaped discolorations on your throat, poorly hidden by your foundation.

Close enough to see all the things done to your body by others—all the things you didn't choose for yourself.

“How do you want to have me next?” Your fingertip traces his lips. “On the bed? In the shower?” Your eyes are playful. “Maybe against the window?”

Aventurine’s hand cups your cheek, gold rings pressed against your skin. His hold is delicate, more careful than with anything else he's ever handled—any of his watches, his furs, his jewellery. Even more than with the aventurine stone.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You blink.

“Kiss me?” Your brow ticks up, but then your face lights up in supposed understanding. “Okay. You can kiss me. And then?”

“And then I'll keep kissing you.”

You tilt your head, not understanding. “Really?”

“What? Is that off-limits now?” He leans in, expression playful. “Don't tell me I've got to go back downstairs and win back permission to kiss you from your husband.”

Before you can say anything else—ask anything else, perceive anything else—he presses his mouth to yours. Your eyes widen for only a moment before falling shut, your arms wrapping around his neck. Your lips part for him, and he delights in the noise you make as he deepens the kiss.

He did lie, in a way. The two of you do end up fucking again—this time in bed, your mouth gasping into his as you fall apart for him, wet and needy around his cock. You're so warm around him, so pliable beneath him, so desperate when possessed by him. He knows that he could keep going, that he could do anything to you, that you'd be eager to let him use you however he wants.

But all he does afterward is kiss you.

This is yet another act that he never thought he'd enjoy. Kissing has always felt like a chore or a power play or a manipulation. It has always come with a certain emptiness—just like gambling, just like sex. And then he met you, and now it no longer feels so hollow. Because when he wins bets for the IPC, he feels like a poker chip in one of their games, but when he’s fucking you, he feels like a player at the table. And sometimes, when he kisses you—when he holds you close, when you come down from your high and press your face into the crook of his neck and in the vulnerable haze of your bliss, tell him, I missed you—

—he finally feels like a human being.

end notes: christ alive I have never written anything so horny glddjsksjs. I apologize for both my mid smut writing and deranged characterization 💔

initially this was supposed to be brainless pwp about aventurine eating you out on a poker table but I kept asking myself “why the hell did aventurine gamble for human beings and why are these two insane enough to be fucking in a casino tho lol”, and thus a coherent narrative was born from my shameless lust for this guy! but please also don't take the story too seriously because this is a dumb smut piece first and foremost and I mostly wrote it with my clit 😔✌️

that being said, if you are curious about the subject matter that I covered – here's an afterword expanding on my intentions with the themes.

[thewinter-eden]

Upcoming Posts

FIND SEQUEL INFO HERE

Crack!Horror SKZ Series :

One shots. Dark comedies with gritty themes, satirical humor, and happy endings. These are meant to be STUPID and FUNNY, not imperative literature. Light or suggested romance, sfw. I don’t condone any of these behaviors btw.

Bang Chan - read it HERE

You Live Like This? - home invader!Chris breaks into your home one night to rob you blind, only to realize you’re too poor to rob. Fear, threats against your life, light violence (no harm), concerned Chan, terrified but exhausted reader, Netflix.

Lee Know - read it HERE

That Your Man? - mugger!Minho holds you and your bf up in a dark alley one night, ready to give you the old ‘your money or your life’ routine, but when your bf pushes you into the line of fire so he can run away, Minho has second thoughts. Fear, Minho has a gun, attempted mugging (obv), asshole bf, coffee.

Seo Changbin - read it HERE

Blink Twice if You Need Help - stalker!Changbin has been following you for weeks. He’s looking for his next target, and he’s obsessed with you. While he’s watching you, however, he learns the secret you keep—you’re being routinely robbed by your addict brother. After watching this cycle of abuse end with you crying almost every night, Changbin takes pity. Familial abuse, drug addict brother, Changbin’s a repeat offender, satirical but definitive death of character, chai latte.

Hwang Hyunjin - read it HERE

Don’t Look At Me Like That - hitman!Hyunjin’s next target is you, the child of a foreign diplomat. But when he shows up to do the job and finds you ambivalent to the threat upon your life, he can’t help but ask what the hell is wrong with you. Terminal illness, asshole family, political enemies, death of minor character, kidnapping.

Han Jisung - read it HERE

You Called? - demon!Jisung is summoned by your friends during a drunken college party. They’re trying to scare you, pretend to summon a demon and then lock you in the basement until they decide to let you out, but then the demon actually comes, but he thinks your friends are jerks. Fear/comfort, edgy but soft Jisung, terrorizing of minor characters, truth or dare.

Lee Felix - read it HERE

All Ye Who Enter Here - ghost!Felix is said to haunt the abandoned mansion at the end of Blacktree Road. Legend says all who go into the mansion are never seen again. When you decide you’re sick of your friends being afraid of a literal house, you rise to the challenge and go inside. Spoiler alert, Felix is real, and he can’t believe you’re dumb enough to walk into a haunted house. Hauntings, killings, creepy Felix, light tormenting (no reader harm), tea party.

Kim Seungmin - coming soon

Damn Puppy Dog Eyes - werewolf!Seungmin saves your life from a pack, inadvertently earning your unwavering loyalty, even though he’s just as much a killer as they were. Sometimes he can’t decide if he wants to wrap you up in bubble wrap to save you from your own idiotic self or dump your annoying ass back where he found you. Fear, attempted murder, werewolves hunting humans, reader makes dumb decisions, Seungmin’s gonna pull his own hair out, cuddles.

Yang Jeongin - coming soon

Do You Need a Straw? - vampire!Jeongin is starving (thirsty?), and your best friend would rather offer you up as his personal capri sun than face her own doom. Jeongin takes the deal, but when he hunts you down, he knows you—you’re his older sister’s best friend, and you don’t take him seriously even for a second. Innie? A vampire? Okay, Edward, if you say so. Killings, blood, threatening, attempted murder, your friend’s an ass, Jeongin’s not good at threatening you, unplanned night swim.

Tell me which ones interest you!

[braisedhoney]

HELLO??? WHAT THE HELL?? H E L L O?????.?!?!?

HOW DID YOU MAKE THIS SO QUICKLY?!

(commentary in the tags because Holy Shit.)

[SCENARIO CONTINUED FROM HERE.]

You select the second oldest of the available files. An observation log — COLONY keeps these, or so you assume. He never leaves commentary or notes to organize them. He probably just memorizes them instead. The terminal beeps beneath your fingertips, every click practically a gunshot in the quiet room. Thanks to your pass you are technically permitted to be here by the system — but you know better. There are security measures here that were not to be violated. If you are discovered, if THIS is discovered, you would likely be in trouble. The screen loads. Text fills the margins. After a moment, you realize that it is not just a file; it’s a transcript and an audio sample. There’s also a small attachment of some kind, likely an image. You play the audio.

[LOADING. . . (A short period of complete silence. Then, rustling as footsteps approach, and the familiar whir of a door. A familiar voice fades in with them.) “… I told you, it isn’t going to work.” “So you’ve said, Captain.” (The door whirs again. Locks.) “Please don’t call me that. Everyone keeps calling me that. Really I mean, I don’t even know what to do with…” (The sound of movement. Footsteps, slightly heavier but more measured than the first. The sound of something opening with a mechanical hiss — a containment unit?) (A quiet sigh. It’s barely audible.) “That… isn’t what I think. Right? Another one?” (A chuckle.) “Don’t sound so unenthusiastic. It’s terrible for morale.” “Le—“ “Just put them on, won’t you? It can’t hurt. One more trial.” “… Fine! Fine.” (The footsteps draw closer.) “Good. Now grab my hand.” (A clang, like somebody knocked into something.) “No.” “Trust me.” (Rapidly receding footsteps joined by another set.) “No!”(A loud bang, like a fist slamming against metal. The footsteps stop.) “No.” “It’ll be fine.” “You don’t know that.” “I’m right.” “This isn’t the answer. It isn’t going to — it’ll never be the answer, Leander, and I don’t even know what it — you know you can’t, right? Can’t come back? Doing this won’t let you see her agai——!“ “Captain.” (Silence.) “… shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” “Prove it.” ”Leander, please.” “Grab my hand. This will work.” “…” “I swear.” (The seconds tick by. Then.) “You...” (Another chuckle. Warmer in tone.) “Didn’t I say I would do it? Didn’t I promise?” (Laughter. Loud, nearly hysterical laughter interrupts him. It’s boisterous, disruptive.) “You did! You did, you… you magnificent bastard, you really found a way to———“] The audio ends. You stare at the screen. No matter how long you look at it, the text does not continue, the audio file does not extend. All that remains is a single attachment. Frustration makes your jaw tense, but you don’t have time to waste being angry. You’re running out the clock as it is. You click it. [LOADING. . .]

And then the screen goes dark. No. Not just the screen — the whole room blacks out. Every terminal flickers off, every bulb extinguishes. For a moment, there is total, unfamiliar silence. Even the faint electric buzzing that comes with electronics is gone. You are completely alone. You turn, grasping blindly at the records pass, the imprint of the screen still on your eyes. You stumble for the door, and to your surprise the pass blinks green, the only light left in the room. It opens and you shove your way through into the hall — Only to slam into a barrier. You look around. There is no hallway. Of all times for the paths to shift… The room you are in is tiny. The door behind you closes, and there is no scanner on your side, nor a handle. It is completely featureless. There is no way to open it. You call for COLONY. There is no answer. You call for the Captain. There is no answer. You call for help. You call for help. You call. You call. you. c a l l. . . . . . . . . . [YOU CANNOT BE TRUSTED.] [. . . ] [THE CAPTAIN WILL LOOK FOR YOU.] [. . .] [BUT THE CAPTAIN WILL NOT FIND YOU.] [ . . . ] [I AM SORRY.] [I AM SURE THAT MEANS LITTLE. BUT I AM.] [CURIOSITY IS NOT A TERRIBLE THING.] [BUT I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT HUMANS QUITE LIKED CATS.] [. . .] [A POOR JOKE.] [I CAN’T HELP BUT WONDER IF IT WAS WORTH IT.] [I DOUBT IT.] [BUT I DO HOPE.]

(Scenario End. Ending: “Status Quo”.)

[papenathys]

1 & 5 for the book ask thing

1 - Fave Books

Gun to my head, I had to narrow it down to five books and felt like drinking bleach throughout. In no particular order, they are as follows:

Providence Girls by Morgan Dante ( @ghostpoetics on tumblr): A historical cosmic horror novel set in 1940s New England which retells two Lovecraftian horror tales in the form of a tragic sapphic love story. Fucking broke me. Exists at the very specific juncture of my mind between the lesbian eroticism and healing from trauma of The Handmaiden, and the body horror and monster romance of The Shape of Water.

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer: I'll be honest the movie was whatever for me but this book was what kids these days call a serve...a banger even. Don't know how the author described the surreal morphing sentient, geographic, sort of sci-fi sort of psychological– sort of straight up eldritch horror?? but it terrified the shit out of me, because everything was so beautiful, so unsettling and so distorted, that by the end I wanted to be consumed alive by the fungi and the lighthouse moss too. Also the biologist is to me what Camille Preaker and Abigail Hobbs are to vaguely sad white girls on tumblr.

Walking Practice by Dolki Min: An allegory for queer peoples' alienation in South Korea, wrapped up in a gruesome, dark and funny little story about a crash-landed alien that kills people via dating app stalking. Not only was this book fucking fantastic visually in terms of typesetting and illustrations, but also the translation was genuinely great. And while the narration was very funny, there were also many passages that were gut-punchingly tragic and raw, and captured how it feels to be trans, queer and disabled in a homophobic, conservative society.

Blue Hunger by Viola Di Grado: Gorgeous litfic novella about a young Italian teacher grieving the loss of her brother, who moves to Shanghai and has a toxic, obsessive, dreamlike affair with a Chinese lesbian, one of her new students. This one is not for everybody because the romance is extremely imbalanced, unhealthy and nasty but also I don't care because the writing was so hauntingly beautiful. Think cityscapes, urban loneliness, lesbian sex in dirty alleys and grief striking you at the oddest, sweatiest, most surreal hour of night.

The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen: Scathingly powerful political-historical satire novel, about a Viet Cong spy in the South Vietnamese army who escapes to USA during the 1970s fall of Saigon, and once there, finds himself repulsed and fascinated by the heinous facade and global crimes perpetuated by the Western intellectual, political and military complex that he both loathes and lusts after. Easily the best book I read this year, banger from beginning to end, reminded me why I love historical fiction. It TEARS apart American imperialism, the politics of colonial/orientalist academia, propaganda film, and anti-communist fear mongering in the 70s, during the Vietnam war. Delicious and horrifying usage of the unreliable narrator. Extremely relevant, timely read today. If there's one book you take from this list, it should be this one.

5 - Book I would recommend to anyone

We Deserve Monuments by Jas Hammonds. It's a YA novel about a teen Black girl who moves to rural Georgia with her parents to look after her terminally ill, estranged maternal grandmother, but ends up having a whirlwind summer as the dark, violent and tragic secrets of her family's past–and that of her mother's childhood hometown–comes to light. This is possibly one of the best young adult books I ever read, it felt like a cross between a coming-of-age film, and a classic historical transgenerational family saga. It was at once a love letter to finding queer and Black joy and community in a conservative Southern town, but also harrowing grief about historic racism and police brutality and how trauma informs identity, as does love. I mean this in the most respectful way possible: in parts this reminded me of Toni Morrison's Beloved, that's how fucking good it was.

[the-cornuthaum]

Man, the shift in tone between Originium Dust and Lucent Arrowhead is pretty fucking wild, and I think it's best characterised by the emotional catharsis of the protagonists of either event - Ash and Ela.

I'm going to elaborate below the cutoff in case someone sees this and hasn't finished reading Lucent Arrowhead yet.

Originium Dust is much beloved for the insight into the life of the Infected, the little and least wanted people on Terra, and especially how they die and why Infection is so feared. It is not a happy story, not even remotely. It is not funny and is as straight as a lance at the end of which is taped the message "NOTHING, NOT EVEN ROCK CANCER, JUSTIFIES BRUTALITY AND ABUSE AGAINST THOSE WHO CANNOT DEFEND THEMSELVES".

It is an isekai story where a bunch of serious, professional military operators from their world's most distinguished pan-national special forces coalition are displaced in space and time and must reckon with life in a new world where much of the mores they took for granted are cast aside in the name of expediency (because goddamn Terrans treat the Infected so much worse than the world treats people with chronic and terminal illness and disability).

Lucent Arrowhead, in comparison, is much more of a fun story. It has jokes, like the way Mateo is a completely incompetent buffoon, Doc having a breakdown at people mispronouncing croissant, or - particularly - the NFT scene. It is still about how shitty people are to the infected, but it lacks that singular focus of Originium Dust.

And this really is best exemplified by the conclusion to the arcs of the two protagonists, Ash and Ela.

At the end of Operation Lucent Arrowhead, Ela finally gives in to what she wants to do and delivers a correctional beating to a goddamn idiot and selfish jackass to instill proper morals. She's pretty calm, collected and knows exactly why she's doing this - she's offended at Reynell's selfish stupidity, and wants him to reconsider his life choices.

You can see it in the art. This is the face of someone for whom giving someone a morals-improving beating is not too far out of the ordinary, someone who is making a deliberate, conscious choice. Someone whose story did not push her anywhere near a breaking point.

You can probably guess where I'm going.

Because the counterpoint to that CG - which is clearly and delibeately evoking the comparison to what happened at the end of Originium Dust - is Ash's breakdown.

Every single bit of this CG is drawn to make it clear that this is someone at wit's end, someone who hit their breaking point and whose reaction to witnessing personally and upfront some of the vilest, most horrible cruelty towards the least deserving man she has met in this new world was to start punching and keep going until literally pulled off of her target by her friends. The blood, the facial expression, the glasses, everything is meant to make it clear that this is someone thrown completely off balance, and it works.

Because Originium Dust isn't trying to be funny, it's not trying to make jokes, it's simply making abundantly clear what happens to the least and weakest. Originium Dust released (on CN) in March 2021, height of the lockdowns, half a year after Chapter 8, back when this game was still about the plight of the Infected rather than the latest iteration of Something Is Bad In Victoria. It wanted to make an important point and didn't let anything - levity or otherwise - intrude on that.

I think Lucent Arrowhead is an OK event. But Originium Dust was better, in significant part because it pushed its cast so much harder into Terra and its horrible no good very bad realities, because it made its protagonist lose her cool at the crushing injustice of it all.

[detroitbydark]

Chapter 15

Title: Tell Me That Your Soul Lies Now

Relationship: Sev/OC/Scorch

Rating: Teen+

Characters: Jessa, Sev, Scorch, Mereel Skirata

Warnings: Mentions of Canon typical violence Big Men Yelling Loudly and kissy face

Summary: The brotherly reunion doesn't go as planned -or- The one where Jessa gets really good at making Commandos and Nulls angry.

Under the never-ending dark cast by Wroshyr trees, Sev had been introduced to more terrors than a sleep cycle had room for. He’d spent months in the The Shadowlands of Kashyyyk, and of all the horrors and nightmare fuel he’d become intimately familiar with, none would hold a candle to the sound of Jessa’s screams. None would inspire the same bone quaking fear he’d felt seeing her bloodied form on the ground.

Sev’s palms sweat in the leather casing of his gloves. His fingers flex around the rifle gripped in his hands. It’s only the quiet, biting voice of his buir in the back of his head that keeps him from shooting first and asking questions later. 

Scorch seems to have no such affliction.  His blaster stays trained on the scene before them. Jessa coughs, rolling to her hands and knees, dragging in big swallows of air. Red streaks paint her bare back. 

Sev sees the body behind the two, its blood still pooling and cooling around it. Jessa’s blade is lodged haphazardly in the terminal wound it created.

Fixer’s free hand hovering toward Jessa earns him a snarl made tinny by Scorch’s vocoder.  It tells Sev everything he needs to know about where his brother’s head is- or maybe it’s the blaster aimed right between their former squadmate’s eyes.

Scorch advances, each stride eating up the distance between them. Jessa’s eyes, wide and blue as crystal pools, show confusion and then realization. Then she's scrambling, her battered, broken high heels skidding on the duracrete as she all but throws herself between Fixer and the unwavering muzzle of Scorch's rifle.

“Move!”

She flinches at the bark.  Droplets of blood sparkle across her cheek like liquid rubies. The movement is nearly enough to make him lose his focus.

“Jessa…” Her name is growled like a curse. “Move.”

“Scorch-”

“I said move.” There is no love lost in Scorch’s voice. He sounds as cold and as locked-in as their buir could ever hope for. Loose wisps of Jessa’s hair frame her face, floating around her like a halo as she shakes her head.

Sev feels like a spectator to a drama he never wanted to see. The barrel of his rifle tips away from the pair in front of them. Jessa’s hands are trembling, ichor dripping from the tips of manicured nails. Scorch is a statue, still as death.

“Come here, Princess.” 

Her eyes flick to him but she knows as well as he does who the danger is. He tries another approach.

“Vod…” 

Scorch pays no heed to him. Sev watches him stalk forward. Jessa may be ignorant to the ugly history between the two Deltas, but she knows Scorch- or she thinks she does. Sev knows that her body will do little to shield Fixer from his brother's rage, but try she does. Scorch’s blaster settles on her, the muzzle begging to kiss her body, the invisible bullseye centering on her chest as perfectly as if Sev had aimed himself. 

“Scorch. Check it.” His voice drops low, his buir’s own slow cadence coloring his. His steps are careful as he moves in. Scorch gives him a sidelong look. Sev can feel the tension radiating from his brother, a live wire with a hair trigger. The barrel of his own rifle is an extension of himself as the muzzle slides up under the other blaster.

 “Unless you plan to kill her, get her out of your crosshairs.” 

“You think this is funny?”

Sev stares, unmoving, “Don’t hear me laughing.”

Jessa moves, wiping ineffectively at the trickle of blood on her face, only successful in smearing it more. Her eyes are hard, her feet hip-width apart to counteract the slight sway that’s too easy to see. Fek. He might be able to talk her down. Maybe, in another dimension, he’d be able to talk Scorch down. He can’t do both.

“Scorch. Stand down.”

A growl, a low Huttese curse, is the answer he gets before something connects with his side and sends him stumbling off balance. The hu’tunn pushed him! A cold flash of panic sends his heart racing. He’s righting himself as Scorch’s hand grips Jessa’s shoulder and yanks her almost off her feet. Her back hits a nearby crate with an audible thunk before she crumples.  Not wasting a second of distraction, Scorch launches himself at their former squad brother.

There was a time when a fight between the two clones would have been fair, a time when they were evenly matched and years of familiarity led to an intimate understanding of how the other fought. That time has come and gone.The blaster in Fixer’s grip falls free as Scorch’s fist connects with a brutal blow to his head. His arms come up to defend his face, trying weakly to curl in on himself as Scorch looms over him, pushing him flat against the ground, straddling his body and loosing an onslaught.

Jessa scrabbles, hands pushing up on the rough duracrete while she struggles to get her legs under her. There’s a split second as she rights herself, a moment that Sev can see the fire burning in her eyes and he knows exactly what she’s about to do. There’s no time to think, no time to breathe. He lunges. His arms band around her waist as she makes a desperate dive toward the one-sided assault. Her momentum throws them both forward and they land with his armor-covered body pressing her into the duracrete. 

She snarls like a feral aak, kicking out in a desperate attempt to dislodge him. His beskar’gam absorbs the brunt of her fury. No question, if her knife had been in her hands and not cooling in the belly of her victim, she’d use it.

“Scorch, stop!  It’s Fixer!  Sev, stop him!” Jessa's fractured voice doesn’t cease the violence, Scorch either deafened by rage or flatly refusing to comply. Fixer’s desperate defense starts to fail. It’s a brutal punch connecting squarely with his temple that seals his fate- his head rolls like a doll’s, his glassy eyes finding the pair of them.  Jessa makes a sound of horror.

Sev sees it then- a moment of recognition in Fixer’s eyes, of clarity not focused on the woman struggling in his grasp, but on him.

“Sev..” the voice is weak, but even as Scorch hauls him closer to death, there’s relief in Fixer’s voice… and while Jessa’s pleas had been outside of his world made narrow by emotion, the quiet word from Fixer gives Scorch pause in his onslaught. Sev swallows hard. A million different memories flash through his Fett-given eidetic memory. This was their brother. He’d always been told to protect his pod above all else, but had what Fixer done- would have done, he clarifies- to Scorch been unforgivable? He wasn’t a man who liked to battle ‘what ifs’. 

“Dar’vod!”  The word is an accusation ground out through gritted teeth as Scorch’s moment of hesitation resolves itself again to violence. The demolition expert clutches his once-brother’s collar and twists tight. Fixer’s eyes roll back up to his attacker as he weakly grasps the yellow and gray of his brother’s vambrace. Jessa’s body jerks in Sev’s grasp. Her arms flail and a wild fist hits him in the buyce. If she felt the pain she wasn’t letting it slow her down. He adjusts his grip, pulling her arms into her sides to stop her from hurting herself more. 

“Vaii gar ijaat?! He’s hurt!” Her voice is raw, full of scorn. 

“In a minute he’ll be dead.” Scorch’s free hand goes for his boot knife. “Problem solved.”

“Leave that to Buir.”  Sev’s voice is level, even as Jessa lets her fury be known. ‘You don’t get to decide that.’

In the end it’s not Jessa’s hurled accusation that stops Scorch. It’s the word Buir. Like a switch flipped, like Wal’buir telling Mird luubid, Scorch drops Fixer unceremoniously to the ground, rocking back on his heels with a modulated snarl of disgust.  His chest heaves as he rises and takes a step back. His eyes never leave Fixer as Sev loosens his grip on Jessa, not letting her loose but not fighting against her when she pushes free of his restraining arms and crawls the short distance to the barely-conscious commando. She gathers his head in her lap, brushes sweat soaked hair back, checking over the quickly swelling planes of his face with shaking hands.

Scorch‘s shoulders wilt like meadow flowers in the hot sun. Sev watches his buyce linger too long on the pair on the ground. 

And then it’s back to business.

He turns away from Sev, from Jessa and Fixer, and makes a show of dropping into a crouch and grabbing his blaster. He checks the settings, the charge pack before meeting Sev’s gaze.

“I’m not carrying him.”

Jessa slowly pulls Fixer to a seated position, looping his limp arm around her shoulders.  Scorch’s words are clearly spoken through gritted teeth.  He doesn’t spare any of them so much as a glance. 

“He keeps up or he gets left behind.”

——

Murder.

Murder was always an option, especially for traitors like him. 

For the moment, the blind fury that had burned away Scorch’s grip on higher thought had become a smolder. Ending Fixer would have to wait for another day. His chest hurt, heart pumping rough to match the puffs of breath he was trying his best to slow down. He'd hit a flashpoint. Fear of losing Jessa had fueled him past the point of reason. He’d have killed Fixer if Sev’s voice hadn’t cut through the fog. He would have killed him dead with his bare hands, right in front of her. He shakes out his balled fist, willing the adrenaline from his system and the slight tremble from his fingers. He’d gone through her to get to his prey. Hot shame burns in his gut.

Sev is helping her prop Fixer up. Jessa is staring into the dar’vod’s eyes as he slumps against a crate, his hand griping her forearm before sliding limply to his side. Sev muscles in, roughly shoving something in Fixer’s mouth. One of Doc Gilamar’s stims, most likely. Commando candy. Scorch wishes it was cyanide.

No one speaks. 

Without the first hint of a glance in his direction, Jessa makes herself busy shoving her feet into stolen boots. Not very polite, but their previous owner was decidedly quiet on the matter. Scorch hadn’t missed the wound on her side as Jessa had retrieved her blade, wiping blood from the honed edge of the beskar on the tattered remains of her dress. He’d had to smother whatever pride he’d felt for his Mesh’la. She’d certainly done the same for any warm feelings she had toward him. 

Kriff.  He’d ruined everything, hadn’t he?

———

Everything is a blur. In time, Jessa will come to know it as shock, a feeling of weariness welding itself to her bones. Her body has gone into autopilot, leaving her merely a bystander to it all. She’s numb, unable to feel the pain from her injuries, the cold air on her skin, or the burn in her lungs with each breath she takes.

Initially she’d been the one shouldering Fixer’s weight, leaning into him as he leaned into her in a desperate attempt to keep him upright. Whatever Sev had given him had added some coordination to his steps, but it certainly had not added any pep. After the second time she’d nearly buckled under the weight of him, Sev had taken over. A blaster had been pressed into her hands with simple instructions while he’d juggled his own rifle and the injured commando into his grip. Don’t point it at anyone.  Keep your finger off the bang switch, Princess.  It was the only time during the slog to the hanger Scorch had looked back, though Sev’s low rumble nixed any chatter before it started.

“And don’t shoot him just yet.” 

Whether Sev had been serious or trying for levity in the situation, she wasn’t sure. In honesty, she was too fried to even care.

Whatever higher power there was- the Manda maybe- saw fit to give them a retreat clear of opposition. The halls were eerily quiet, the bombing seeming to have died off. The scuff of footsteps echoing around them was the only thing tethering her to the present. Right. Left. Right. Left. Fixer’s prosthetic ground and whined with every step, getting a questioning look from Sev. Her stolen boots were tight and too narrow- a blister was going to form at the base of her little toes if she kept them on too long. The trade-off was the faster pace she could keep. The blaster in her hands, sized to Sev specs, is heavy. There is no safety. It takes active thought to follow his instructions.

She stays sandwiched between the two men, trapped in their bubble of safety, the only sounds to be heard are their boot falls and the shuffle-grate-whirr of Fixer’s prosthetic as he struggles to keep his feet moving in time with them. They continue to herd her along until the wide maw of the hanger takes shape. 

The domed ray shield had likely been lost during the bombing. The destruction around them was inescapable. With emergency power restored, so had the shield. Only hours before she’d strutted in amongst the wealthy and powerful, nose held high, prepared for a completely different outcome. Now, half the shining pleasure cruisers and exotic transports  were covered in a fine layer of duracrete dust, while the others lay on their sides in their docks or sat partially crushed by collapsing walls. Smoke hung in the air with the acrid smell of starship fuel. A pair of feet jut out from under a nearly pleasure yacht. She doesn’t put a name to the coppery tang that hits her nose.

Behind her Sev clears his throat, drawing her wandering mind back. Scorch has stopped ahead, the T of his visor focused unflinchingly on her.  Words die on her tongue. Nothing good would come of speaking now. He pauses another second before flagging Sev forward. 

“Here.  I’ll take him.”  She shifts Sev’s blaster awkwardly to her other hand, and Sev deposits Fixer’s weight on her. His arm dangles limply over her shoulders. She has to lean into his body as he starts sagging against her. It’s an effort to keep him on his feet. Her hand goes to his back for support, her own fatigue rearing its ugly head. It comes over her in growing waves, the weariness soaking bone deep.

“S-sorry.” Fixer wheezes between gritted teeth.

Jessa tries to redistribute the weight of him. Her eyes go to the other two Vaus a few feet away. There’s no conversation to hear. She had no comm channel to listen in on to figure out what they were saying.

“Don’t-” she huffs a frustrated breath, “say you’re sorry. It’s not-”

It’s not a sound that alerts her, at least not one she could consciously identify. It’s an instinct, a split second sensation of something. Her body moves without hesitation, blaster swinging up to attention and finger covering the trigger.  Her eyes lag behind the arc of the muzzle- she doesn’t recognize the target until he’s well in her sights, and-

“HAR’CHAAK!”

The blaster discharges, the bolt going wide and scarring the duracrete wall meters behind his head. Jessa freezes, staring down the trembling barrel at a wide-eyed, furious Mereel.  Fixer groans at the sudden twist of her body against his, but she can’t move- can’t stop- can’t lower the blaster. The Null’s eyes burn like an accusing brand.

“Vau!”

“There’s three of us. Better clarify.” Despite their earlier standoff, Scorch’s presence at her back and his low warning voice are a balm to her nerves. 

“How about the one that thinks it’s ok to off her handler!”

The heavy blaster trembles in her hand. She’d nearly nearly shot Kal Skirata‘s son. The implications send a fresh wave of nausea bubbling in her gut.

Sev’s gloved hand lays delicate and steady over the barrel of the blaster, pressing it down to point safely at the duracrete.  His thumb slips between her finger and the trigger guard before carefully plucking it from her grip.

“At ease, Princess.”

Mereel’s buyce is clipped to his belt, and aside from the murderous glint in his eyes and the light sheen of sweat on his brow, there’s no indication he’s any worse for wear. 

This is what he was bred for, a small voice at the back of her mind whispers as her eyes flit to the scorched wall. But not you.

“I thought you were gone already.” Thankfully Scorch has the words to fill the chasm between Mereel and their own small group.

“Took me longer to get back than I thought.  Didn’t exactly have help.”  His critical eyes rove from her blood-spattered face to her too-small boots, and clearly find her wanting. If not for the solid weight of the former commando reliant on her to stand, she’d have found a rock to crawl under.  “Though it looks like I was better off doing it alone.  How does he look worse than when you blew the op?  I’ll take him, give him here.”

“She didn’t blow the op.”  It’s Scorch, his teeth clearly gritted under his helmet.  He doesn’t help as Mereel lifts Fixer from her as if he weighed nothing. She’s too tired to fight. Truth be told, it’s a relief. Her body sways as she has to find her balance yet again. A gloved hand comes to rest solidly on her hip. Scorch’s hand is steadying. She can see him from the corner of her eye as he shuffles closer. Cool beskar presses to bare skin and goosebumps rise on her arms. He doesn’t look down at her, his visor set on Mereel, but his hand doesn’t move.

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Keldabe.  We’d be gone by now if she hadn’t gone rogue.”

“She didn’t go rogue.” Sev falls into place at her side.

“None of that was a question, Delta.  First sniff of a woman and you all go to pieces.” he shakes his head in disgust. “And you-” his gloved finger finds her, “You’re coming with me, Princess.”

“Don’t call her that.” Sev growls, a small ember of warmth sparks in her chest. Mereel gives no time for dwelling on the feeling.

“I’ll call her whatever the kriff I want.  She disobeyed orders.  You all did.  She left me to carry a vod back under fire, you abandoned two of my vod’e with a pack of untested cadets to chase down your pretty little piece of ass, and somehow your brother comes out looking like you brained him for aiwha bait?  No, I’m gonna deliver him right to your buir and tell him exactly what osik you pulled.  Last chance.  Are you coming with me, or going with them?”

“With them.” The words come out without hesitation. Without question. Even with Scorch’s ire, there’s nowhere else should choose to be.

“Your funeral.  You’ve never seen what happens when someone disappoints your precious buir, have you, Princess?  You wanna know what’s coming?  Ask Atin.”

“Blooded-” it’s a barely audible wheeze from Fixer, more like a creaking floorboard than a word.  Mereel jostles him in query.

“What are you on about, vod?”

“She’s- blooded-”

The Null looks skeptical, “Yeah? She a real Delta now? A real Mando? Got the fancy blades,” he points out caustically. “Even has a pair of guard strill’e.”

Sev growls, at the end of his invisible chain. “Enough.”

“That’s right, it is enough. She was assigned to me.  She’s my responsibility. I’m the one that has to report to your buir. If I leave her behind it’s my ass. Bad enough she’s damaged goods. What do you think he’s gonna say when he sees her?”

She recoils. He talks like she’s not there, like she’s a broken blaster or a miswired det.  It’s a slap in the face, and it hurts as much as any punch the dead rebel had thrown. What was there to say to that? They hadn’t said it outright, but she knew she was the only reason Sev and Scorch hadn’t been with the rest of their squad already safely in the black. She was probably the reason Mereel hadn’t left. He had a trooper who needed medical care, and he wasn’t getting it because she didn’t listen. It’s because-

Scorch’s comforting bulk steps around her, the support at her back turning to a shield of beskar from Mereel Skirata’s vitriol.

“She stays with us. We endex’ed the mission and none of ours are dead. Our buir will be just fine. Sounds like you’re more worried about what your buir is going to think.” If only for a second it’s like Walon Vau’s voice is coming through the vocoder and not Scorch’s. There’s a level of patronizing, a bored disdain that would make the old merc proud. “Old Kal always has had a problem with independent thinkers.  That’s why he likes Ordo so much.”

“This really the hill you want to die on, Scorch?’’ 

Jessa leans her forehead against the cold beskar covering the Delta’s back. The cool metal is a relief against her heated skin. 

“I’ve done it on smaller, stupider hills than this one.”

“You know what? Fine. She’s your responsibility now.” 

“Great. Glad we agree on something.”

“This conversation isn’t over. We’re gonna have this out sooner or later.”

Jessa can’t help but think he’s talking to her more than Scorch.  Scorch turns to Sev, dismissing Mereel without a second thought. They’re on private comms again. Scorch’s hands gesture about the hanger. Her eyes find Mereel as he starts up the ramp to the ship they’d come in on. He looks over his shoulder and their eyes lock.  It confirms it.

He was talking to her.

————

Scorch is quiet. That should be the first sign that something is very wrong. Sev glances in his direction as they work fifteen minutes of preflight check into three. The ship is not happy rumbling to life in unknown hands. It rattles and shimmies as a series of explosions from deep within the facility chase them out. Their parting gift, all the way from Kyrimorut.

They hit atmo before it’s even had time to properly warm up. Jessa sits quietly in the co-pilot seat, her legs curled under her in a poor attempt to make herself invisible. It hardly matters- she could disappear entirely, but Sev knows good and well that there’s nothing that can stop the coming squall.

Scorch punches the coordinates for home with prejudice. The ship rises from the smouldering ruins of the former Imperial prison. It’s a war zone. Sev takes a mental snapshot, a picture to use during a later debrief. There are no smart comments from his brother, no quips or jokes, as the black of space engulfs the transport. Sev catches the sharp turn of Jessa’s head towards the nearest transparisteel window, her fingers worrying her tattered dress as Scorch storms past and disappears down into the bowels of the ship without a second look. 

He should say something. He should calm any fears she has. but he can’t because that was Scorch’s job and honestly he’s just as pissed as his pod brother.  The only difference is he’s not sure how much right he has to that anger. 

“Sev?” 

Jessa’s voice waivers. He controls the sigh threatening to give away his own thoughts. Training hadn’t prepared them for this. Maybe this was what his Buir had meant when he’d said he hadn’t prepared them for this life. War was dirty. It was pain and struggle and brutality, but he knew how to handle war. This, though- this wasn’t surviving, it was living.  Jessa had been thrown to the wolves and she’d done her best to keep up with the pack. Sev’s stomach knots. She hadn’t been ready, and they’d allowed her to get into this situation- even if she’d volunteered- when that hu’tunn Skirata had brought it to her. They hadn’t fought to protect her, hadn’t advocated.  Their fault in the events that had transpired was all too clear. The shame at falling short of his buir’s high standards, and guilt- a new feeling he was not liking- gnawed at his guts.

“Sev?” Her voice grows more concerned. 

“Shut up for a second. I’m trying to think.” Jessa’s eyes widen at the growled words, her body curling in on itself in the copilot's seat. 

Scorch’s seat. 

But Scorch isn’t there. Sev’s sensitive hearing picks up the crash of metal on metal, of his brother down near the crew quarters putting his demolitions training to use. Jessa flinches. All right, maybe enhanced hearing wasn’t needed. 

Only one other time has he ever seen his brother come absolutely unglued. Feeling it, they used to call it in the old days. That point when a man had been pushed too far, when that raging beast within took over.  Sev’s not sure how to fix it. It took cold-blooded murder and a Jedi before. Sev was no Jedi.

“Haar’chak!” The curse slips from his lips. Jessa. Scorch. His buir. It’s all too much. It’s a tangled mess that he can’t begin to unravel. Not now. Not yet. There’s no hesitation as he cancels the flight plan and re-enters a new destination, one where they’ll have time to make this right without the busybodies of Kyrimorut breathing down their kriffing necks, before rounding on Jessa. “Go find him and make this better.” 

“I-“

“No.” There’s no room for discussion- it’s an order, not a request. “You find him and you fix this.”

Her chest rises in a slow deep breath before she allows the air to rush out. Her eyes water but nothing comes. He wasn’t about to be swayed by tears, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have felt worse then he already did. Slowly she unwraps her arms from around her body and stands. She makes a pained sound through gritted teeth and nearly nearly topples over as she stands. Sev’s got his hands on her upper arms bracing her in a flash.

“What’s wrong?”

Jessa shrugs from his hold. “Stupid boots.” She crouches and Sev looks away from all the skin on display. She grunts as she works to unlace the dead rebels boots and kick them both off. Her voice isn’t meant for him but he hears it regardless, “Stupid. Too small. Gonna kill me.”

He smothers the derisive sound as she stands. In bare feet, she’s an inch shorter than before. But she looks so much smaller. So breakable. He can hear her scream echoing in his head. He can see the blood covering the floor and her hands. For just a moment he’d thought it was hers and they’d been too late. Scorch had been too lost in the red haze- it had taken him far more than a moment. He’d thought she was gone.

She turns to go, and he doesn’t bother to worry about her feet on the cold durasteel. She’d had worse. She was a survivor. Like he was. Like Scorch was. Her eyes lock on the door Scorch had disappeared through, but she doesn’t move.

“Now, princess.”

She turns tired blue eyes to him and offers a nod. Sev doesn’t move back to the pilot's seat after she disappears down the stairs outside the control room. She doesn’t look back.

It wasn’t going to be pretty, but it had to be done. She’d need to come to terms with Scorch’s darker side if this was going to work. His vod was more than the happy aak dog pup she’d come to know at Kyrimorut, and she needed to reconcile that. For herself. For all of them.

———-

She’s only distantly aware of the biting sharpness of the cold steel grating as she pads along. She moves on autopilot. Scorch, her comfort and her support, has never been closed off from her. He’s never turned away from her. Never given her a cross look, or been anything but a safe place to fall, but the coldness she’d seen in him when they’d found her with Fixer laying at her feet and blood on her hands… the chaos of it all had been raw, had spoken of hatred. There had been no quips, no smile, no sweet greeting of Mesh’la. 

In that moment the primal part of her, the part meant only for survival, the part that had spurred her to crawl into the cargo hold of an escaping ship, had known fear. 

It’s not hard to find him. She follows the sound of crashing until she’s outside a tiny medbay, if the hypos and bacta dressings spilling into the passage were anything to go off of. She steps into the door frame just in time to see his gloved fist connect with the wall. When he pulls back, a dent stares back at them both

“Scorch?” His shoulders tense at the sound of his own name. Bleached-blond curls are plastered to his head with perspiration. His buyce rolls at his feet. The sounds of his ragged breathing fills the small room.

“Scorch…” she tries again when he doesn’t turn to face her. “You’re scaring me.”

That earns her a bitter laugh. “I’m scaring you. I’m scaring you?”

A cold chill runs down her spine and she suddenly wishes she had more than the remnants of her thin cocktail dress over her body. Scorch turns and, for the first time, Jessa can see that spark of psychopathy that Parja had once told her all of Delta possessed. 

A gift from their dear Wal’buir. 

She hadn’t believed it. Not entirely. She’d seen it glowing cold in Sev- accepted its existence- but it’s foreign and frightening in Scorch’s eyes.

Jessa takes one step back. He follows, matching each of her backwards steps with his own, his longer stride eating up the distance between them.

“Stop.” It’s an order barked out in a way that makes Jessa wonder if this really wasn’t Sev. “You don’t get to do this. Do you understand?”

Tendrils of hair fall in a curtain around her face as she shakes it from side to side. Her stomach revolts and a wave of nausea rolls through her. “I don’t-“

Scorch’s eyes flash dangerously.

“You don’t get to follow me down here and tell me you’re scared. Not after what- kriff!” He turns and punches the wall again. Jessa jumps. The sound of durasteel reverberates in the moment of silence that follows. He makes no move like the blow hurt as he turns back.

“Mereel gave you the order! He told you to abort! He ordered you to abort and you didn’t listen. You put yourself and everyone else in danger- for what?”

“Scorch-”

“For what?!”

“It was Fixer, Scorch!” Jessa finds her voice, though it still wavers in the face of his wrath as she tries to make him understand. “It was your brother, and if I didn’t go in there, who's to say he wasn’t going to be lost again? How was I supposed to look at you? At Sev? At your father and say I could have helped him and didn’t?”

“How would you have looked at any of us if you were dead?” Jessa stands her ground as he stalks forward, towering over her. A tempest rages in his gaze, but her battered body stays defiantly straight. “Tell me... haar’chak… did you even think- I keep seeing you with blood on your hands-  your face- laying on the ground like a ragdoll with dead eyes“

He’s seeing her corpse.

“But I didn’t die. I’m here!” Desperation bubbles up inside, mixing with the nausea and making her feel dizzy, “I thought it was worth it. Aliit is worth everything.”

His finger comes up within an inch of her face. “Aliit ori'shya tal'din!” He spits the words like a curse. “Do you know what that means? Before you throw some Mando’a in my face and pretend like it makes everything better. Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Family is more than blood. There’s your Mando’a lesson for the day, Mesh’la.”

Hot tears sting her eyes. 

“Scorch-“ She watches helplessly as he turns and stalks away. His hands run roughly through his hair, callused fingers yanking at the roots. With a growl his boot connects with his discarded buyce. It flies across the room and crashes against a wall. The sound fills the quiet between them like a bomb going off. Jessa recoils as he turns, his brows drawn together in an unwavering stare.

“No, Jess.  You want family?  You’re our family. You’re aliit, but you are so much more than that. How do you not see it? How do you not see how important you are to me? To Sev? If something would have happened to you-” His voice suddenly becomes calm, slowing to make sure his point is understood, and he closes the space between them again. “If something had happened to you, if Fixer had been alive and you- had-” the word gets choked off. When he speaks again his voice has gone cold. “If you’d died. I would have filled that dar’vod filth with blaster bolts and then I would have razed that whole moon. I would have left nothing but ash for the empire to choke on.” His voice fills the space, and he looms dark and desperate over her. “Do you understand?!”

“Ner vod, enough.” Sev deep-gravelled baritone rumbles behind Jessa. She’s trapped between the two. She can feel the heat radiating from them both, warming her skin laid bare by the tatters of her dress.

“She needs to know! She needs to understand!”

“Then just tell her. Enough with the dramatics.”

Jessa turns her head to catch the back and forth volley and the quiet stare down that follows. They’re talking without words in the way that she’d learned was purely Delta. It’s too much. She just wants her boys.

The ship shudders and Jessa places her hand flat over the kar’ta beskar in the middle of Scorch’s chest to brace herself.  His gloved hand covers hers, fingers hesitant and then gently squeezing. The fight drains from Scorch’s eyes as she watches. She feels the rise and fall of his chest, shivers when it syncs with her own, can imagine the feel of his heart through his armor in time with her own.

“Jessa… we… love you.  Not just me.  Not just Sev.  Both of us.  We- neither of us- have done anything like this before.  Or felt this way.  It’s not normal, I get that. It's not how this kind of thing usually happens, but… we’ve never been normal.  Either of us.  Ever.”  His hand over hers presses down insistently.

“We wanted to tell you, but everyone kept saying we’d need to decide.  That we needed to make you choose if you wanted one of us-”

“Or neither of us.”  Sev’s grumble is a vulnerable, half-breathed footnote to his brother’s yammering.

“- yeah, or that, and it didn’t feel right.  I’ve never done anything right without him by my side-”

“That gives me the warm and fuzzies.” 

Scorch ignores his brother, charging ever forward.  “Part of why we went on that last hunt was because we needed to… think. Talk.  Clear our heads.  Figure this out without everyone else butting in.  And…” Scorch gestures vaguely at the room around them.  At his brother.  At himself.  The commando, seemingly never at a loss for words, is suddenly struck mute.

‘I- this is,’ her tongue stumbles. ‘It’s a lot… I just...’

Sev’s familiar frame presses in behind her like the reassuring weight of a heavy blanket. “Laseema said you wouldn’t make a choice, and we don’t want you to. We’re making it easy. Two for one.”

Two for one.

“Or none at all. It’s a package deal. Neither of us can do this right alone, but together? Together we’re one full person. We could be that for you.”

It’s whiplash, emotions shifting at the speed of light from one corner of the galaxy to the other, leaving her dizzy. “You…? I- I don’t feel so good.”

“Not the reaction I was hoping for,” Sev grumbles. Her eyes squeeze shut in a sad attempt to stop the world from spinning.

“Jess? Mesh’la?” Scorch’s voice is softer. Still not the same comforting one she was used to, infused as it was with residual anger and tension. With hurt. A hand cradles her cheek, a thumb gingerly strokes over the smeared blood there. When she opens her eyes, only that’s written across Scorch’s face is concern.

“Exam table?” Sev’s voice comes from near her ear, his hands falling to her hips.

“A scan probably isn’t a bad thing.” Scorch’s worried eyes never leave hers even though the pair of them are doing that thing again, talking like she wasn’t there. 

“I’m fine.” She pulls in a slow deep breath, counts to three before letting it escape. “I’m fine, I just…” She hesitates. “You want an… us? Both of you?’

Something flashes in Scorch’s eyes. Just a twitch of his brows as his gloved hand cups her face.

“That’s what the daggers were for. They were a courting gift. It was to show our intent.” He glances at Sev.  “Maybe we both should have been there.”

Sev huffs. “Probably.” 

Scorch shakes his head and refocuses on her. “We’re never going to ask you to choose.”

Sev rumbles in agreement behind her.  “Prefer you don’t, actually.”

“You can relax now.” Scorch continues.

“Maybe you should listen to yourself. Stop telling me what to do.”

“Start listening,” Sev mutters. She can feel the lines of beskar armor along her back, cool against her bare skin.

She tries to turn her head, but Scorch’s hand slips down to her chin and grips it softly, demanding her full attention.

“Just know, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be perfect. I hope this is good enough.”

Jessa hardly has time to think before his mouth is pressing against hers. Her head spins and her senses are filled with Scorch, the smell of detonite and sweat, the coarse pads of his fingers holding her like she was something precious. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up. She feels the pressure of his lips lessen, retreating, then she’s pressing into him, lips sliding against his tentatively. Her hand slides up his chest, behind his neck and into the damp curls at the back of his head. It’s all the encouragement he needs, moving from slow and careful to feverish as if his own iron will had blown apart with the base they just left. She can feel Sev’s hands tightening at her hips. Scorch moves to pull away but she follows after, desperate to not lose contact with him, demanding a response.  He doesn’t disappoint. 

The first time he’d kissed her hadn’t felt like this. This was no chaste peck before running away on a hunt. There was nothing sweet about this. His mouth is hot and demanding as his tongue seeks entry, stroking and pressing along the seam of her lips until she opens to him. He groans low in his chest as he licks into her mouth. She pours her apologies into the press of their lips.  Sev’s fingers dig into the flesh of her hips in a silent reminder of his presence. Like she could ever forget. 

Scorch pulls away, his eyes boring into hers, a slideshow of emotions only for her. A ragged breath slips from his kiss-swollen lips. Gently, like she was made of porcelain, he encourages her head to turn and taste Sev’s mouth. It’s a bad angle and their teeth clack together while they struggle to find their fit but when they do… She’s always known there was a difference between the two, never so naive to assume that because they were clones they were the same. Kissing the pair drives that fact home. Sev kisses like he’s trying to devour her soul. It’s deep, aggressive and consuming, and Jessa’s body turns and presses into his chest. Scorch mouths at her shoulder through the soft fabric covering it. His teeth sink gently into the flesh and Sev swallows the resulting moans with enthusiasm.

To be surrounded and pressed between them, to feel safe and protected, becomes overwhelming. Jessa feels the hot sting of tears building. She tries to call them back, focusing on the warm sensation of arousal building between her thighs instead, but she can’t. The sob that works it’s way from her throat startles her. Sev swallows it down but pulls away, his eyes laser focused. Scorch’s hands squeeze along her body.

“Are you hurt?” Sev demands quietly, trying to search her eyes. His hand clamps on her chin and draws her face back when she tries to turn away. The tears are rolling, hot and saline down her cheeks now. Soft sobs wrack her body as she attempts to speak.

“I’m not- I’m not hurt. I’m sor-sorry.” She manages. “Please don’t stop I-“

Scorch’s warm voice hushes her. She only struggles for a moment as she’s drawn back into his chest and his thick arms wrap around her. His chin rests softly on her shoulder as he speaks.

“Shh… that’s enough, Mesh’la.”

All she can muster is a weak nod. Sev presses his forehead to hers softly. A tender touch that is so rare and precious from the commando that Jessa feels the emotion surge back to the top. She swallows hard, choking everything back.

“So, about our final destination,” Sev begins clearing his throat. “We’re gonna take the scenic route.”

translations 

Vaii gar ijaat- where is your honor

vod/vod’ika- comrade/brother/sister

Hut’unn- coward (a severe insult)

buy’ce-helmet

Haar’chak-damn it

Osik- shit

Buir- parent

Dar’vod- not a brother 

Luubid- enough

Taglist: @bylightofdawn​ @leias-left-hair-bun-again ​ @skdubbs​ @passionofthesith​ @haloangel391​ @fractiouskat @peacelandbread​ @clonewarslover55​ @cherry-cokes-world​ @nelba​ @jedi-mando @shadylightbearherring @poppunkdee @iamassbuttkingofhell

@royalhandmaidens @wolfswing @lockbox22 @generic-geek-girl @captainrexwouldnever @kesskirata @ahhrenata @apathetic-catastrophie @littledragonlady @my-own-oracle

[strawberrycakelove]

In defense of Chichi

ChiChi gets very little credit and recognition as a martial arts teacher and martial artist herself, just look at how Goten is not only well trained but apparently has much better emotional training than Gohan. Both Piccolo, who is from the Namekian warrior class, and Goku, who is a Saiyan (and now after the film Broly we discover that he is also from the warrior class, as the film shows that there are Saiyans who are not of that class, will that side " Gohan's nerd" came from this characteristic of Saiyans?), they hope that Gohan, being half-Saiyan, discovers his warrior instincts on his own and with him comes an instinctive willingness to fight and he an emotional control, which apparently, none of the two needed training, as it is innate to them, and both assumed wrongly, each in their own time, that Gohan would have it. And even though Goten is a child - 7 years old - during the Buu saga, despite being younger than Trunks and having less strength (by a very small margin) and not knowing how to fly, he has more emotional control and better controls his impulsiveness, better than Trunks, who has been shown to be worse at this than his Future counterpart even. Future Trunks isn't exactly excellent at doing this, he also shows this trait of impulsiveness that present Trunks has, so much so that much of his apparent "control" is very well portrayed as a product of reluctant and hasty anxiety (read : trauma) - the same one that makes him step forward and attack Cold and Frieza before Goku arrives and retreats in the face of Vegeta's stupid decisions - it is very well characterized that he only "controls himself", in an unstable way, because he was pressured by necessity to survive, because of his brutal reality, and because he has not been properly trained, his "control" is a result of trauma and the need to survive that his present counterpart does not have (and it is funny to see how exactly by not being anxious like future Trunks is, that present Trunks is so impulsive LOL). And Trunks' decision-making process is as bad as Vegeta's, the difference is that he makes terminal decisions because he doesn't have the desire Saiyan for battle and because killing quickly is the only safe decision he knows, All of the rest he is not sure of absolutely anything, insecurity that present Trunks does not know, he is sure of everything, because he is rich, spoiled and has everything, which is why his impulsiveness runs wild. ChiChi gets very little credit for how well Goten is trained and disciplined, especially emotionally, as he doesn't have the insecurity about fighting that Gohan had. It is true that he was not pressured by the need to survive and learn to fight in a hurry like Gohan and Future Trunks, and it is exactly this pressure that harmed their ability to make decisions in moments of pressure, which Goten did not do in the Buu saga, when ChiChi died, he wanted to take revenge, but he quickly recovered and accepted Piccolo's guidance, to train more and become stronger. He is not taken by the fear of inexperience and not knowing what to do in a battle, the moment arrived and he did not lose his there, not even when he was already pressured by Gohan's apparent death and after ChiChi's death when Buu killed in front of your eyes. As I don't have the patience to make prints of manga scans, and there would be MANY IMAGES, if you want to check them out, the chapters will be listed below, read them and draw your own conclusions: 354 - Future Trunks impulsively attacks the androids when Vegeta has his arm broken, scaring Piccolo and putting his life at risk, he does the same thing as his 8-YEAR-OLD counterpart from the present

~466 (Buu Saga) - His present counterpart does the same thing, but it's more understandable, here Trunks is 8 YEARS OLD compared to his future counterpart's 17/18 years

381 - Vegeta makes the stupid decision to let Cell complete himself by attacking Trunks, Krillin here is no better, and Trunks only decided to act when it was too late, even though he knew that Vegeta was terrible at making decisions.

383 - Trunks at least considered himself stronger than Vegeta and Krillin says he knows too, as he has more experience in sensing the power of others, but Trunks decided not to interfere in the battle and kill Cell before he was perfect because he didn't want to hurt his pride. Vegeta, and it was disastrous, because once Cell found 18 he was very efficient and Trunks didn't stand a chance. here Krillin even points out his subservience to Vegeta. (which lack of affection doesn't do, it clearly shows your lack of emotional control)

384-Trunks showing a little more how bad he is at making decisions, and only because he wants to preserve Vegeta's Pride.

Boo Saga

488 - Here it shows how Gohan, when he loses control with the Supreme Kai, and almost wastes the ritual (and only calms down because he sees that the old man wasn't bluffing), and being older, has less emotional discipline than Goten, who in the same chapter sees ChiChi die right in front of him and manages to control himself after hearing Piccolo's warning (Goten is still able to follow instructions here, when Gohan barely does so and his later fight with Buu only proves this) and begins his training immediately, while Trunks is more bothered by food, it shows how ChiChi trained Goten very well (and Gohan already went through a similar experience on Namekusei),

Goten is 7 years old and doesn't lose control at the risk of ruining everything, and it's not because he's more mature or makes better decisions or has more experience (as shown by Gotenks), it's because he has emotional control and has been well trained by Chichi. Chichi deserves more recognition!

Bonus:

366 - Read this chapter, it shows that Chichi is not as irrational as TOEI made her seem, she allows Goku to train Gohan and asks him to make him as strong as possible.

371 - Check out the cover, LOL. Future Trunks is just as rude as his present counterpart LOL, the animation makes him very "clean" and polite, but he's not so much LOL, he's just submissive.

377 -Read this chapter, Goku ISN'T DUMB, he learns when it suits him, he even remembers details when it's about things that interest him.

387 - Here he demonstrates all his experience and accumulated knowledge as a martial artist

Buu Saga

470 - I love Bulma's parents, they love animals and wouldn't leave them behind. It has nothing to do with it, but I couldn't help but notice it!

479 - Goku's dirty deal, LOL, he is neither innocent nor stupid LOL. The Supreme Kaioshin here talks about the 25-hour ritual! LOL, Gohan can spend hours studying yet another ritual he can't handle. LOL. Goku is a terrible decision maker, but he knows how to get what he wants.

492 - Goku teasing Shin LOL, he makes fun of anyone when he can.

[bloomingpresent]

FERRO ROSSO CHAPTER VIII

Pairing: Charles Leclerc/Female reader digital artist older woman

Summary: in your mid 30’s you never imagined you’d be divorced. To help with the healing process you decide to return to your first love: digital illustration. Posting videos of your art online leads you to work for Ferrari. But you never thought it’d lead you to find somebody who’s going to bring you back to trust again in love.

Warnings: NSFW! 18+, swearing mention of sexual words, consensual sex, penetration, cheating, sexually themed. IT’S ALL ABOUT REVERSE AGE GAP HERE. Older woman with a younger man. They are both adults, don’t be judgemental. 

Disclaimer:

I don’t mean any offense to Mr. Leclerc. 

English isn’t my first language so all mistakes are my own. My Italian is basic so be gentle, please.

All the previous chapters are here

The sound of your cell phone wakes you up the next morning. You turn towards the nightstand and pick up the phone without looking.

"Hello?" You answer with a sleepy voice.

"Do you want to tell me what this email I'm reading?" Your agent's voice speaks on the other end of the line.

You barely open your eyes. "It's pretty clear," you answer, trying to adjust your vision to the morning sun that barely enters through your bedroom window.

"Do you want to end your contract with Ferrari?!" she asks. You can hear the sound of cars in the background.

"Yes" you answer dryly.

"Why the hell do you want to do that?!" Your agent sounds agitated about the topic.

“I…” you try to sit up on the bed. You know that if you are not honest with her, she will never understand why you want to stay away from Ferrari. "I have an affair with Charles Leclerc and I'm not able to handle it," you answer, almost whispering.

The silence on the other end of the line is worse than yelling at you.

"Hello?" You repeat, rubbing your eyes.

"I'll see you in the office in 1 hour. If I'm going to do this, you’d buy me coffeeat least" she answers on the other side.

An hour later, you're walking up the stairs to your agent's office in central London.

You can almost hear her lecturing you about being professional in your work.

You let your agent know what happened. Her reaction ranges from anger, to surprise, to understanding you as a woman.

"I'm going to talk to Ferrari's agent. It's not easy to get out of a contract like that. But you have to show up for the restart of the season, otherwise it would be a breach of the contract, at least until I can pass on my proposal to them, okay?" " she tells you as she plays with the pencil on the desk and drinks the Starbucks coffee you bought her.

You don't want to, you don't like it and you don't feel like doing it. But there you will go again, into the den of the wolf again.

What motivates you the most is that you don't know Baku, so from now on everything will be work and if possible, get to know a new city. Which is what you're really going to miss about working with Ferrari.

You have everything planned scientifically. Your agent will release you from this contract and you will be able to return to your studio to create your art in peace.

Just one more time.

Baku shows you right away that it is the capital city of the modern world. Maybe you wouldn't have seen places like these if it weren't for F1.

Everyone on the team has renewed energy after the mini vacation. But you are not.

From the moment you check in at the hotel you are alert. Or ready to avoid all contact with a certain driver.

The first day on the circuit, when you arrive at the hospitality area, you receive a video call from your agent.

"I'm afraid I don't have good news for you," she says as soon as you answer the call.

You walk outside the Ferrari hospitality area while talking. "What are you talking about?" You answer her, already agitated, fearing the worst.

"Ferrari is not willing to terminate your contract" she tells you with a strange smile on her face.

"That's funny?! Why can't I end my contract with them?! I'm just another designer" you try not to raise your voice but you're flustered.

Your agent's smile is bigger now. "They actually offer you a promotion, and from what I'm seeing it has already been made effective."

Your heart stops for a few seconds. "What?! Effective promotion?!"

"You are now Charles Leclerc's PR agent, dear." Your agent laughs openly.

She tells you that out of the corner of your eye you can see the movement of photographers and cameras at the entrance to the hospitality area. That means a driver is making the entrance.

You move out of the way, holding your breath, hoping it's not him. "What the hell?! Why?! How?!" You spoke to your phone screen in complete shock while walking through the group of people.

"Apparently he asked for you." the voice on the other end of the call tells you.

This can not be. It's the only thing you can think about while you hold your phone with your mouth open and ignoring what's going on around you.

"Be careful what you let into that open mouth," someone tells you from the middle of the group of people.

Of course it's him. With his big smile and his winning attitude. And continue walking towards the hospitality area.

You want to kill him.

You just sigh and close your mouth. You put on your best smile of commitment and walk away.

What follows is an open discussion between you and your agent about the topic. She explains why you can't get out of the contract, you tell her why you won't accept it, she tells you again why not and why you shouldn't do it. Then follows another long sermon about how good this is for you professionally.

Again.You want to kill him.

You don't understand why, how and what he wants from you.

Your agent convinces you after half an hour of your arguments and tantrums.

You just sit on the floor between the giant equipment trailers trying to prepare yourself for this.

In minutes you'd have been in front of your new boss to start working at Team Leclerc.

You are completely stubborn and you are not going to let it affect you. IF he wants you to be the person who is stuck to him throughout the season, that's how it will be. And you will be the most professional person in the world.

This is your plan, it is decided. Whatever he wants with this. He's not going to make it.

It takes you more than 1 hour to introduce yourself to your new superior and get up to speed on your new tasks. The questions from your colleagues do not wait. About how and why you were promoted. Silvia Hoffer, your new direct boss, is an experienced person and surely smells something of what is happening. But she doesn't tell you anything, she just tells you what you should do and she makes it clear that "this is a test, if it doesn't work for us, we can let you go."

Only she knows what she means by "make this work." But you're as stubborn as Charles, and you won't let whatever her reason for doing this ruin your resume.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you step into the bustling Ferrari hospitality area. The adrenaline from the chaotic morning lingers, and you can’t shake the image of Charles from your mind. He’s a magnet, and somehow, you’re drawn to him even when you want to run in the opposite direction.

As you navigate through the sea of team members and journalists, you catch a glimpse of him across the room. He’s laughing with a couple of reporters, his charisma radiating like sunlight. You can’t help but feel a twinge of longing mixed with annoyance. Why did he have to complicate things?

Silvia appears beside you, breaking your thoughts. “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually. Remember, professionalism.”

“Right,” you murmur, forcing a smile. “Professionalism.”

“Let’s start with a plan,” she suggests, her tone businesslike. “We need to establish clear boundaries.”

You nod, trying to focus. “Okay, I can do that.”

“Good. And just so you know, the media is going to love this. They’ll eat it up.” She glances over at Charles, who’s just spotted you. “Looks like it’s time for your first introduction.”

Your heart races as he strides over, that effortless confidence in every step. He stops in front of you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, look who it is. My new PR agent.” 

“Don’t get too excited,” you retort, crossing your arms. “I’m not your personal cheerleader.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks, his gaze steady on yours. “Just think of me as your biggest project.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Let’s just stick to the work, shall we?”

“Of course,” he replies, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But I hope you’re ready for a little chaos. F1 isn’t exactly quiet.”

“I thrive in chaos,” you reply, matching his playful tone. Inside, however, you’re a bundle of nerves. This is going to be a test of your patience—and your heart.

As the day progresses, you find yourself following him around the paddock, taking notes on interviews and media obligations. Despite your best intentions to stay professional, there’s a chemistry that crackles in the air, leaving you breathless. 

During a break, you find a quiet corner to gather your thoughts. You pull out your sketchbook, a habit from your days of digital illustration. Drawing was your escape, your solace. But today, even that isn’t enough to ease the tension.

“Hard work?” Charles’s voice interrupts, and you look up to see him leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Just… organising my thoughts,” you say, trying to sound casual. 

He steps closer, glancing at your sketches. “You’re really talented, you know?.”

“Thanks,” you reply, suddenly feeling shy. “It’s just a hobby—was just a hobby.” You set the pencil down, meeting his gaze. “But now I guess it’s part of my job.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You seem conflicted about all this.”

“I didn’t want this role, Charles. I’m not sure I can handle it, especially with… everything.” 

He hesitates, the playful spark dimming. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know it’s complicated.”

“Complicated is an understatement,” you say, frustration bubbling up. “I’m trying to get my life back on track, or was trying to get my life back on track, and being around you makes that difficult.”

“I get that,” he says softly, stepping even closer. “But maybe this is a chance for both of us. To redefine things. To… figure it out.”

Your heart races as you look into his eyes, seeing a sincerity that makes you want to trust him. But your walls are high, fortified by past hurts. “I can’t just jump back into… whatever this is.”You look around, clearly this isn't a subject to be talking around people. 

“I’m not asking you to,” he replies, his voice low. “Just take it one step at a time. We can keep things professional, but I can’t help the way I feel about you.”

Feel about you. He said that you did not imagine it.

You swallow hard, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. “It’s not that simple, Charles.”

He takes a breath, looking momentarily pained. “I know. But I’ll be here, whether you want me to be or not.”

Before you can respond, Silvia appears, breaking the moment. “Y/N, we need you for the next briefing,” she says, oblivious to the tension. 

You nod, glancing back at Charles, who offers a small, encouraging smile. As you turn away, you feel the weight of the decision hanging over you. Maybe you’re not ready to dive back into love (or whatever this is), but with Charles, it seems like you’ll be navigating a whole new kind of chaos. 

You take a deep breath and head towards the briefing, determined to keep your focus on the work, even if your heart has other plans.

PS: I'll post the next chapter tomorrow! It's Charles POV. Thank you for waiting on me!

Tags: @janeh22 @elenizacharop @h-jpg

[apriltempleos]

october 1st 2024: drafts!

preacher: i'm attaching slightly improved versions of our original drafts, but i'll also include mine and scott's garbage sketches under the cut because i think they're a little bit funny

(image id available through tumblr's accessibility options)

this is a slightly revised version of my original concept for "APRIL".

the main functionality i wanted for "APRIL" was for her to be able to read out words from the templeOS god word app, and ideally without needing keyboard input – hence the microphone. ideally all of her parts are going to fit inside a hollowed out mannequin or doll, which will probably just be the torso, so that she's more portable. for the same reason, i want her to run off a power bank – i want to be able to take her places!

if we manage, we're going to give her an animated LED face which moves to indicate when she's speaking. the way i first pitched it, i wanted it to also change a bit depending on how she "felt" – for example, frowning if the environment was hotter than ideal for the raspberry pi to operate on. but that's a bit beyond our current scope right now. i don't think we even ordered a thermostat.

scott drew the following wiring diagrams based off my original sketch. here revised digitally for readability's sake.

(image id available through the tumblr accessibility options although i fear it's not very good in this case. feedback appreciated).

scott: I decided to go with the raspberry pi zero 2w because it's what I've got experience coding on, it's relatively cheap for the "brains" of the operation (heh) and can perform both tasks from the godword prophecy generation, speaker operation and led matrix operation simultaneously. Plus its small enough to keep the circuit lightweight and fit inside the initial mannequin design.

This drawing fits no kind of engineering standard by the way lol. It was an initial sketch closer to a wiring diagram to see how it'd physically setup and wrap my head around transforming it from mains power to being theoretically portable and running on powerbanks. Unfortunately the LED matrix is really fucking power hungry so needs its own power supply of really specific voltage and current draws hence all the converters.

Also because Im using the smaller and cheaper pi, as oppossed to a stronger system like the pi4, it doesn't have any audio out jack so I plan to use the micro usb for audio out which means yet again I need another adapter for a soundcard and usb to micro usb adapters and all that jazz. Usually sound out can be done through the GPIO pins but the LED matrix takes so many pins that I cant really take anything form them so I had to look for other ways of doing it. Plus this way I get to add a soundcard so if we wanna add microphone support or anything later on we can :)

(Also this is all a little obtuse because I'm trying to do it as much as plug and play and screw terminal style as possible rather than actually solder connections for ease of access and initial setup, but this also works for modular design and component swapping later too so its cool.)

preacher: another reason we're going with plug&play is becauuseeeeee i don't own a soldering iron 😭 it's ok. it's ok.

our silly initial drafts under the cut for your viewing pleasure.

preacher: these were made around 2 weeks ago, so about september 15th ish.

as you can see the first "APRIL" drawing was beautifully drawn with my fat fingers in the facebook messenger photo editor. i think it holds up. lol.

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

I was rewatching the first episode of Yellowjackets, and I might be the only one to just notice this, but does anyone else realize that in Season 1, during the party, Van is the one who steps in between Shauna and Tai when they start arguing about what happened to Ally’s leg? Then, in Season 2, Van does the same thing when Tai suggests getting rid of Jackie's body and Shauna gets upset about it

I have never noticed that before but that makes so much sense for Van's character! I feel like she always has the role of lightening the mood and cheering everyone up in the group (at least in the pre-crash and early wilderness days) and this includes dissolving tensions between her teammates and stopping them from hurting each other. I’m reminded of her introduction in the script (being described as “terminally cheerful”). I have a feeling she has always played the role of mediator when team members are fighting (she has a “lover not a fighter” kind of vibe). She makes everyone feel better (telling funny stories during Tai’s expedition and during the attic seance to soothe everyone else’s fear and get them laughing).

But also, I think that role has definitely shifted towards the end of season 2. I think Van is going feral and we’ll see a lot of that in the next season. Van calling off the psych team for Lottie and that numb, cold look on her face when they’re pulling Javi out of the ice tells me all I need to know: dark Van is coming and I’m excited.

[hellfire--cult]

Baring Teeth {Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader} - Ch. 10

Edit of Eddie: pitifulbaby

Chapters: Masterlist (Go here to see list of chapters, plotline and general warnings.)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Non-Traditional Omegaverse, Slow burn, Modern!AU, Mechanic!Eddie

⚠️This chapter contains: Mean!Eddie, Angst, traumatic past, painful procedures (gyno), cheating, Billy x reader at the beginning

wc: 7k

Crossposted on: Wattpad & AO3

A/N: Well shit, I did say it will take a turn and shift. Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter, it was painful to write, but it is needed for you guys to know about the backstory of it all. If you see real closely, you'll see a part of this chapter that was actually in previous chapters ;)

Anyways, Enjoy! ❤️ And don't forget to always support me by hitting the reblog button or leave a comment!

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CHAPTER 10

Two dates turned into three.

Three dates turned into four.

Four turned into eight.

And you lost count.

“All I’m saying is that Max found you entertaining in the video call!” You chuckle with heat on your cheeks as you dipped your head in Billy’s chest, trying to cover your face. You didn’t intend on presenting yourself to Max, but he was on a video call when you arrived at his place yesterday, and you didn’t know because he had opened the door so normally with the phone in his hand and greeted you with a kiss, not noticing the phone in his hand.

Of course the girl on the other side of the call almost screeched and you jumped in fear at the sudden noise.

He was talking to Max, and he introduced you two through video call, which made your heart pound loudly in your chest, because the feelings for Billy escalated in ways you didn’t think they would. But it wasn’t just you, Billy had been smitten by you the moment you rejected him the first time ever a month ago at your office. He was never one for formal relationships, exclusive ones maybe once or twice which didn’t work out in the end.

But there was something about you that he couldn’t quite let go of, he almost seemed obsessed. He was afraid of being that clingy to you, but after date number eleven he gave up on the feeling and made himself exclusive to you, even if you didn’t know it. He didn’t want to be with anyone else but you, and it had scared him, it still does, but it was the first time he felt as if someone understood him.

When you had asked him a week ago if he slept with other girls, he had told you that he didn’t. That he hasn’t slept with anyone but you because he simply couldn’t. Your heart melted at his words, and how could you not believe him? If you two didn’t see each other, it was on video call or messaging, or at work. There wasn’t a single time where Billy didn’t answer you for more than one hour.

You know it’s excessive, and it’s too much, and maybe you are making a fantasy in your head, but you truly did end up liking Billy. He told you about his past, about his father and how he abused him physically and mentally, which he had to go to therapy for. He told you about his mother, her ashes being thrown in the Californian beach where she always took him surfing. 

His favorite color is Red. His music taste is rock. His favorite movie is Terminator. His comfort movie, funny enough, is Shrek 2. His favorite food is Fettuccine Alfredo. His favorite dessert is dark chocolate. His favorite band is Scorpions. His favorite song is ‘You give love a bad name’ by Bon Jovi. 

And as you knew these little facts about himself, he knew little facts about you, which he always remembered, and always made it known that he remembered. He got you Pínk roses once, your favorite flowers. He got you some strawberries and whipped cream, your favorite dessert. He got you a mascara from Dior because you had told him once you were running out of it.

All those small things, details, doings, made you fall for him. It wasn’t just because it was physical, and you knew that falling for a Model wasn’t the brightest of ideas, but it was impossible not to. You weren’t public yet, and you really didn’t mind that, and it’s not like you two are anything, because he never really asked. 

But today, right now, when you’re laying on his chest with the bedsheets over your naked bodies while he is propped up on some pillows against the headboard, laughing because of the situation from yesterday with Max, something felt right, like a puzzle coming together.

“Hey Sweets… I gotta ask you something.” He suddenly says and you look up with a playful smile on your face.

“Oh, danger.” You replied and he chuckled, but you noticed that behind his laughter there was a glint of nervousness, which made your teasing evaporate, replaced by worry.

“It’s not bad… It’s just– I really like you. I never felt this for someone else, and I have never been in a relationship before, so I don’t know how it really works– I mean, I did have relationships before, it’s just, they never worked out, or I didn’t like the person or I just didn’t connect with them…” He was rambling, but a smile was forming on your lips, and you bit the inside of your bottom lip to forbid it from going wider. 

“And what are you trying to say here, Mr. Hargrove?” You ask him, in a low voice, your eyes already looking up at him with adoration in them, heart beating fast in your chest as he looked down at you, with a smile on his lips, shaking his head slightly.

“You know what being called Mr. Hargrove does to me.” He says before pulling you on top of him with a grunt and you squeal from the movement, still giggling as you look up at him. He brushed some hair off your face, putting it behind your ear. “I want you to be mine. I want us to properly date Sweets.” 

You could feel his heart hammering in his chest and yours was at his same pace. Your smile had dropped but because of the surprise, not because you weren’t happy. You were exhilarated, wanting to jump from excitement and yell it to the whole world that you are dating him, that he is yours and you were his… But–

“You’re famous, I’m… I’m nothing. What will the people that follow you say?” He shakes his head, his arms around you to keep you on top of him, not letting you go. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, he wasn’t going to miss this chance when he finally found someone he could be himself with, or was beginning to.

“I will fight every single one that goes after you. Whatever they say it’s because they don’t know you like I do… Sweets, I want you to meet my sister properly, my friends… I mean, I talk about you enough already, and they’re getting impatient to meet you.” He chuckles and your eyes widened at his confession, heat spreading on your cheeks as you looked down at him. 

“You talk about me?” 

“Almost every single day.” 

Oh your heart melted at that. Your brain short circuited. It’s been too long since you felt this kind of desire towards you, this want to have a future with you, and you almost teared up at his words. You had shut yourself for a whole year, began dating random dudes, and somehow you landed on Billy, who you thought was going to be a simple hook up, but he ended up being so much more than that.

You are afraid. Terrified actually. You don’t know if your ideals stand in the same place as his, but you won’t know unless you take the leap, and follow your feelings in this very second. You leaned down and pressed your lips against his softly, and the both of you closed your eyes to enjoy the tender kiss. After a few seconds you pulled away with a smile on your face.

“Okay…” His eyes widened in surprise, a wide grin spreading in his lips, teeth showing and all.

“I can call you my girlfriend now?” Your cheeks flush again at the name, feeling like a teenage girl all over again as you nod and he immediately turns you both completely, another squeal coming out of your lips as he lays you down on the other side of the bed, bouncing from the sudden force as he kisses you on the lips, still smiling as he does so.

You really cannot wait to tell everyone today at Nancy’s party. 

You parked your car a block away from Nancy’s apartment building, which was actually huge, walking quickly with her gift bag in one hand. You bought her a nice pink blouse that she was groaning about not having for a while now.

You saw the lobby door almost closing, rushing towards it to get through, walking inside and then past the couches to catch onto an elevator. The doors were almost shutting so you dipped your arm in between the doors with a ‘sorry’ and stepped in, only for your mood to drop in a second as you saw who was in the small space with you. 

“Jeez, you could have gotten the next one Peach.” That horrible voice says to you with venom behind his words. Of all the people you had to share an elevator with, Munson was certainly not at the top of the list.

“I am already late, and so are you.” You say and press on Nancy’s floor, which was the 7th. He rolled his eyes as you stood next to him, holding the bag in front of you as the elevator bounced slightly and started moving. Your heart was hammering with pure hatred, just standing next to this man was getting your hairs to stand, like a cat that is about to defend itself.

“Please tell me you’re joking.” He suddenly says and you frown, completely confused and looked up at him, but you found him looking at your bag. You looked down on it, and backed up at him. 

“What’s wrong with my gift?” He shoots a glare your way, pulling the same bag, from the same store from his side. Your breath got stuck in your throat as dread from possibly getting the same thing settles in. “Is it a–”

“Pink Blouse.” 

You both groaned loudly, anger filling your chest from him getting the same thing for Nancy. At least there’s a ticket that she can use to exchange it for something else, but now your gift is not unique anymore, you made sure, talking with everyone about what they will gift Nancy, just so your gift wouldn’t match with anyone else’s… Except.

“This is what I get for not wanting to talk to you?” You say on the low, almost mumbling to yourself, but he heard it, loud and clear, a smug grin appearing on his lips.

“Oh, are you regretting not getting on my good side now?” He says and you make a face of disgust, looking up at him, shaking your head.

“The last thing I want is that, I mean you probably don’t even have one.” He chuckles at that response to hide how irritating you were to him. He wanted out of the elevator, he couldn’t handle standing next to you when all he could feel was just how happy you were. You were almost excited from what he could guess from your features, but he didn’t know why.

“I do, you’re just not special enough to see it, Peach.” He replies with venom in his tone, surprising you from how that hit your dignity a bit. You know you aren’t special to him, just to him, and that’s fine. Still, it fucking hurt.

“Okay, now that’s–” Suddenly the Elevator bounced aggressively, signaling a stop, but the lights went out, turning the emergency ones on. They weren’t as bright, but it was something. Your eyes widened, looking at the digital number that should appear at the top of the elevator, but it was black. 

“You have to be fucking kidding me!” Eddie yells, pressing desperately onto the ‘open doors’ button repeatedly and then the help button. 

You cannot believe this. Someone from a higher power really hated you. It despised you, because there is no way, no possible way that you are now stuck in an elevator with Eddie Munson. You took your phone out, seeing one bar of signal, calling Nancy immediately as the nerves in your body started taking over. You aren’t claustrophobic, but staying inside four walls with your sworn enemy was not your idea for a party.

“Hey–” You didn’t even let her finish her words.

“Nance we’re stuck in the elevator!” You say to her, as quickly as you can because you don’t know if the signal will stay on for too long.

“We?”

“Munson and I.” You say with spite which Eddie noticed, rolling his eyes how disgusted you sounded saying his surname. He was still pressing onto the open doors button, hoping that it’ll make the energy return or something.

“No…. Power… Called–” And the line cut off. You groaned loudly, stomping your foot in anger as you looked at your phone to now see there was no signal. 

“What did she say?” Eddie asks, still looking at the elevator console and you glared at him and then his hand, pressing the buttons nonstop.

“Power outage, so you can fucking cut that out.” He stops, only to turn his head to glare at you. You almost never fully insulted him, but when you did, his anger boiled. You were spoiled, a brat, a liar, a bad friend. Friends do not keep secrets to each other, and you are filled with them.

“Come on Peach, insult me more. Turns me on.” He replies and you fake smile at him, flipping him off before sitting down on the floor of the elevator. You grabbed your bag and you took a hard candy out, a honey one. You always chew on something when you are nervous, and being in this closed space with someone you despise was not helping the knot in your belly.

He sighed heavily, the anger swirling in his chest as he looked down at you for a second and looked back at the buttons. There wasn’t much he could do but wait now, he is not strong enough to rip the doors open, so he decides to sit in front of you, resting himself against the wall, legs spread in front of him, next to yours. All he wanted and needed was a couple of beers today. He needed the distraction from the week’s turmoil of events. Wayne’s medical bills started going up, and he had to work extra the past week to cover most of it, while saving some money for himself.

You were looking up towards the emergency light, swirling the candy around in your mouth, making some clinking sounds against your teeth every time it went from one side to the other. Eddie was glaring at you as the annoyance grew in his body, his eye twitching as you continued your movements without caring if you were being loud or nasty about it.

“Can you eat candy like a normal person?” He spats and your eyes shoot towards him, a confused frown in your face. “You’re making too much noise, cut it out.”

Oh you were now glaring back. You cannot even have a candy in peace with him, and you were debating if to spit it out, harshly, towards his forehead. For the past month, the bickering had gone down between the two of you, and that was because you spent your time with Billy more than anything, or at work. 

“What, you’re going to tell me how to eat candy now? Jesus christ.” You really don’t understand what his problem is, and if you had to be stuck in this elevator with him for the next few minutes, you were sure you were going to murder him if he kept this attitude up until then. Someone would open those doors, and just find you covered in Eddie’s blood. 

“It was just a comment, respect the other person that’s in the same stuck space as you.” At those words you almost choked on your candy, and you bit it down to swallow it and laugh, which Eddie knew was sarcastic, making him squint his eyes at you.

“I’m sorry, you talking about respect is funny.” You say with a smirk on your lips as you look back down at him. He was looking at you incredulously as his hands started to heat up from the rage that was slowly building up.

“Excuse me?” 

“Oh come on, you and respect don’t go hand in hand. One day Munson you will admit you’re a self entitled prick that only cares about himself.” And that’s where you were wrong, but you didn’t know that, and Eddie’s blood was boiling at your words. Who do you think you are? You don’t even know him, yet you are insulting him, freely.

“You don’t even fucking know me Peach, and you’re not even worth knowing about my life.” That made something in your chest snap. For some reason, those words cut harder into you than any other insult he could ever throw at you. You didn’t notice that your eyes had teared up at the word, and Eddie simply looked at you with a mocking grin to his face. “Aw, are you going to cry? I can’t believe you actually have feelings.”

“Shut up–”

“I just don’t get it, how Robin trusts you so much, all this while. I don’t understand the rest either, but especially Robin. I mean, you really aren’t that special–” His words were pure stabs into your body, your breathing becoming heavy as he talked, and your emotions were beginning to spill over the edge of the glass. You hadn’t heard or thought of those words for a long while, and here he was, in just mere seconds reminding you about them, letting them brand into your skin again, over the scabs that built up over the last year.

“Shut the fuck up– I–”

“Oh, so you are crying now? After insulting me? Why, can’t take it like I take all of your fucking names and comments?” He all but growls. He was pissed, glaring at you with anger shown on his features. He didn’t care that there were tears running down your face, he didn’t care about your feelings, he didn’t care if this was hurting you, just like you never cared about him either.

You couldn’t take it any more, the tears falling, trying to regain your breathing, but your anger, your nerves, your despair, and your past was hunting your brain. It was making you slightly dizzy, lightheaded, and your mouth was responding for you now, no longer processing the words coming out of it. You slammed your hands on the floor of the elevator, glaring at him through a tear stained face.

“Why the FUCK do you hate me so much!? You don’t know SHIT about me, so I don’t understand why you’re like this!” You almost yell at him, your voice already getting strained by the emotions you swore you put inside that box long ago. Eddie scoffed at that, yet matched your energy as he leaned forward, pointing at you.

“Right back at you! You don’t know me! At fucking all! But the difference between you and me, Peach, is that everyone else in the group knows me, knows about me, knows about my past. And you? NO ONE knows shit about you. Not just me.” You roll your eyes at that with a scoff as your heart pounded into your chest, going wild at the process of his words.

“It’s because it’s no one's business! Can’t you fucking get that?! I am not lying about anything, I’m just keeping my past to myself! I’m harming no one!” You exclaim at him, your hands gripping onto the hard floor of the elevator and he shakes his head, giving a sarcastic laugh of his own, which made your brain snap once.

“That’s what you fucking think! You think that Robin doesn’t give a shit about that side of you, but she told you every single thing about herself, yet you act like you’re some mysterious chick that came out of nowhere just for what? Attention? For people to discuss about your past life and for you to feel fucking important?” 

Your brain snapped two, three times.

“Stop–” You begged, you were begging, not being able to handle the emotions any longer, and you needed peace, you needed silence, you needed him to stop stabbing you, hurting you, making you remember.

“So who is the self entitled prick here? Huh? Look into the fucking mirror for once, and come to the actual fact that you’re an attention seeking whore–”

And then, it cracked.

“What the fuck do you want me to say!? That I’m a divorced woman that went through three fertility treatments in the lapse of three months, with a husband that was cheating on me through that?! Is that what you want to fucking hear Munson!? Is that what everyone in this fucking group wants to know or just you?!” 

Silence. The small space fell into complete silence. His stretched legs next to yours, facing one another as your chest heaved up and down. He was stunned in his place, not fully processing your words because it couldn’t be. You couldn’t have gone through that, you didn’t show it… That’s when Robin’s words came into his mind: Just because she hides her past, doesn’t make her a liar.

And now, he felt the cold sweat of guilt, washing all over his body, all the way to his feet. His heart had slowed down, thanks to the shock of those words, and he was feeling like vomiting right now as the knots in his stomach appeared, trying to pry his stomach open, ripping it apart. You fell silent, slow tears still rolling down your cheeks as you rested against the wall again, and you looked up at the emergency light.

The box had opened. Everything you sealed up, everything you worked for a year to keep inside of you, inside of your head, to maybe erase it, to erase the pain, to erase the treason, to erase it all. Your mother had told you that someday you would explode. She had suggested a therapist, but you never listened, because you thought you were strong enough. That you were strong enough to deal with the pain and with the memory by yourself.

By leaving.

“I was–”

“You don’t have to…” Eddie stops you immediately. He didn’t do this for you to confess your past, or maybe he did, but he never expected this, and now he was regretting every single word that came out of his mouth throughout this whole year towards you. You glared up at him through your tears, talking to him in the coldest tone he ever heard coming from you.

“You wanted it, now you listen.” He felt fear towards you, but not because he was afraid of you, but from what you might have experienced. “Do you know… how the fertility treatment for a female Beta works?”

“So you just sign here, and he signs here, and then the treatment will start for the both of you.” Camila says with a smile to her face as she points at the contact that was on the table. You squeal in excitement while holding your husband’s hand, Henry, as he smiles at you and kisses your knuckles. You grabbed the pen and signed the contract, your husband signing afterwards.

“I can’t believe it’s happening…” You say, smiling towards Henry, your husband of three years, friend from school, boyfriend in college. Getting together with Henry felt like destiny, after the two of you were assigned on a project together at college after not seeing him for over a year. 

And now, you two had signed to start the fertility treatment on the both of you to have your first child. It was something you two knew since you started dating that it would happen, and that you wanted it, you both wanted it. You looked up at Camila, your lawyer and your best friend since middle school. She had a big smile on her face, giving you a nod.

“I’m so excited to be an aunt!” She squealed and you giggled while Henry shook his head at the both of you with a chuckle of his own. You heard about the procedure of fertility treatment for females, and it has 99.7% efficiency. You also heard about the pain that it would bring, but it couldn’t be that bad, would it?

–

GET IT OUT. GET IT OUT. GET IT OUT. GET IT OUT.

Those were your only thoughts as you bit and screamed onto the towel that was given to you, while you were put in a sitting position on the procedure chair, like a Gynecologist's, and your thighs were strapped onto its supports, keeping your legs open, not letting you move away either. 

The procedure consisted of a long small tube that held a very needle inside. That tube is inserted into the vaginal canal, piercing through the uterus breech until it gets to a fallopian tube. Then the needle would start poking the treatment into the organ, reactivating the fertility process on the eggs that are inside the ovaries. 

But the large bendable tube, ripping through your uterus, feeling it going into your fallopian tube, without anesthesia, was too much. Too much to handle. You didn’t expect this to be this painful, because the male Betas had it easier. They had injections done on their ball sack, giving fertility to the sperm inside for a limited period of time. 

The tears were running down your eyes as you clenched them tightly, feeling the sharp needle starting the process now, and you just wanted it to be over. It was going to be all worth it in the end, you will have a beautiful baby, the one thing you’ve always wanted. You always dreamt of a big family, and Henry promised you just that. 

The pain might be unbearable, but if it meant you could have more kids with Henry, you would go through it again.

–

Your eyes were wide, glossed over from the incoming tears as you saw the pregnancy test in your hand. You did everything right, the procedure, the postures, the aftercares, just everything…

And it didn’t take.

It might take some time, more than a month after the treatment, but the next day after the failed test, your bedding had been stained with your blood. You almost screamed with a sob, covering your face with your hands as you looked down at your splayed legs and the blotch of blood that was in between them. 

Your husband immediately shot up from his sleeping state, looking at your figure and then down at the bed. He shook his head, gulping heavily as he pulled you into an embrace, trying to soothe you down, brushing your hair softly.

“It’s okay baby… It wasn’t 100% efficient, we knew that… It’s okay, nothing’s wrong, you did nothing wrong.” 

Those words filled your empty heart, accepting the fact that the treatment did not work this time.

“Next time, it’ll work…” You softly mumble against his neck and his eyes widen slightly, looking down at you.

“You want to try again?” He asks and you nod, your spirit not backing down from that family you always wanted. He nods at you and presses his lips against your head. “I’ll prepare a warm bath for you, okay?” You sniffle, looking back down at the puddle of blood on the sheets and that is probably sipping through them and onto the mattress.

It’s okay, next time it’ll take. 

–

You were sobbing as you sat in Camila’s toilet, feeling the blotches of blood falling down as your best friend was trying to wipe your face with concern being drawn on her eyebrows. The four pregnancy tests were all over the sink, and then it suddenly happened, and you had to pull your pants down to see blood had started leaking down from you. 

“Sweetheart, shh, don’t cry…” 

“I don’t get it! I did everything right! I even rechecked myself, and I am healthy, and ready for a baby, and he did the studies on himself too and there’s nothing wrong with us!” You almost screamed as you felt more blood running down into the toilet, the sobs ripping out of your chest at the failed conception, once again.

“Maybe the third time’s the charm? Like the saying?” She was trying to put humor in the situation, but you had told her about the insufferable pain you went through. Going through that two times, the appointment being just one month after the last one, was almost traumatizing. 

“I don’t know if I can handle a third… Not only because of the pain, but because of seeing that single line again, and then feeling my blood coming down… I don’t want to feel that again!” Camila grabbed your face in between her hands and she gave you a slow nod, with a warm smile on her face.

“You are so strong, I know you can do this, and Henry is waiting for it to happen… Nothing is wrong with you both, maybe the timing was wrong… This time it’ll happen.”

And those words helped you clean yourself that evening and already book another appointment. Third time’s the charm.

It has to be.

–

“Please, please, give me a break, I can’t do this again, please!” You yelled while laying on the hospital’s bed, your upper body propped up with each foot hooked into some metal pedals in each corner of the bed to keep your legs spread.

The doctor pulled away, looking up from in between your legs with pity eyes and shook her head.

“We can’t stop the process sweetheart, a pause can cause an alteration and we’re already more than halfway there! I promise!” You were processing what she was saying, with tears streaming down your cheeks, your bottom lip busted open from biting onto it way too hard to control your cries. The pain was unbearable, feeling like you were being split open, your insides being ripped apart. 

But you wanted this. You both wanted this. Something is wrong with you, it has to be. There’s no other explanation for it, no matter if the doctors ran a bunch of tests on you and said everything should really be fine, you didn’t believe that. Something was not working, but you really wanted this. 

So you nodded for your doctor to proceed, and the pain worsened from there.

But that day, you got out of the appointment earlier than expected because another person decided to not show up. So you decided to surprise your husband and head over to his clinic, where he was getting his appointment done at this very moment with a smile on your face, fighting against the pain that was in your uterus and in between your legs.

Parking your car in the lot, you got out with a wince to go towards the clinic’s doors, and head over to the receptionist with a smile to your face.

“Hello! I’m here because my husband is having fertility treatment?” You say with a chirp to your voice and the blonde girl at the desk smiled at you with a nod.

“Can you give me the name?”

“Henry Creel.” She nods and types something on her computer, a small frown appearing on her face as she looks up at you.

“There is no one by that name for a fertility treatment today.” You tilted your hair to the side, completely confused because you swore you heard him say it was today. Maybe you had heard wrong but there was already a storm inside your stomach, your instincts kicking in.

“O-Oh, then, is it tomorrow?” You ask and the lady had a sad frown on her face, looking at you with worry in her eyes.

“There were no fertility treatments done to a man named Henry Creel. Ever. He is not in our system…” 

You were frozen in place. It couldn’t be, this was the clinic, you were sure of it. He told you that it was close to yours many times, that’s why he always picked you up after your treatment, taking care of you, buckling you into the passenger’s seat as he went home with you.

You didn’t even reply to the woman, despite her calling out to you, and you immediately darted towards your car. You needed to get home, you needed to check the contract to see if the clinic was another one, because that must be it. He signed the contract so the fertility treatment has to be done.

You raced home, stepped on the gas like never before, your head spiraling as you reached your house and the knots in your stomach appeared. Your eyes widened when you saw a very familiar car at the front of your home, so you shut your own car off a little bit further so you could go inside silently.

Your heart was pounding into your chest as your mind was telling you to not go inside your home, despite you already opening the door, and walking inside, only to be hit with the sound of moaning, groaning, breathless sighs coming from upstairs. From your room. 

You started heading up, silently, thinking that this is a nightmare, that this is not real, that this was just some random people that barged into your home to have sex, because it couldn’t be real, it just couldn’t.

But when you opened the door, it all became real. Your husband looked at you, his movements stopping completely, his eyes widening at the sight of you. Then your eyes darted to the person below him, the person who was clawing her nails onto his back.

Camila.

“The contract was fake. He never went to any of his appointments, not once, and I suffered three times… Three.” Your tears never stopped, your eyes never leaving the emergency light at the top of the elevator. “They both cheered me on… Knowing how painful it was, knowing I could end up traumatized by it… while they fucked behind my back… The only two people I ever trusted, fully, in my whole life.”

Eddie was speechless, looking down at his feet with a pained frown in his eyebrows. His jaw was clenching from the anger of what you went through, of what they did to you, and because he was holding in the lump in his throat from the guilt that was brewing in his mind and his heart. 

He now understood why you didn’t want to talk about your past, and it wasn’t because you were hiding, but because you wanted to start fresh. You wanted those memories gone, and he just got them out of your mouth, when you probably haven’t talked about them for the last year. He just made you spill that part of yourself that you tried so hard to conceal, and he did it in the most spiteful way.

In a way he doesn’t think he will forgive himself for.

“I–”

“Now do you understand why I don’t trust easily? Or are you still going to act like a self-entitled prick?” Eddie’s eyes shot up to see you no longer glaring at him, but with a much more pained look on your face. He was the last person you wanted to know about your past, about your pain, about your memories, and he got them out of you inside a stuck elevator. 

Silence filled the air again as you both looked at eachother. Pained nothingness in your eyes while Eddie’s was filled with pained guilt. He clenched his jaw again, swallowing the lump in his throat as he tried to clear it up a bit to try to talk again.

“I-I know this… won’t do–” He cut himself to bite his top lip and looked away from you but you could catch his eyes turning glossy, making you listen to him closely. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You stared at him, for a long while. You were angry, pissed, enraged by the fact that the man in front of you tormented you for a whole year and even got your past out of your mouth, yet… There was a sense of relief now. Not with him, but within yourself. As if you had held your breath for too long and you could finally sigh it out.

“I don’t accept it.” You reply to him and he simply nods, still looking away from you. You looked down at your hands, feeling slightly defeated by him. You couldn’t help but feel weak now, feel completely vulnerable after giving him your story, which he probably will tell Robin about. Will she hate you for hiding it from her? Will everyone else think you are some poor girl that needs saving?

A shadow casted over you, making you frown slightly, turning your head up to see that Eddie had moved, now kneeling in front of you, looking at you with eyes that now could see you for who you were. 

Strong.

“Finish it.”

“What?” You were baffled by his sudden words, frowning up at him.

“Finish what you intended that night. The night you tackled me.” Your eyes widened at that request, shaking your head slightly, looking at him as if he had gone crazy.

“What are you saying?”

“I deserve it and more. Finish what you intended that night.” He was opening himself up for you to take your anger out on him. You felt your whole body heat up, a burning sensation going towards your fingertips, and your chest flushing with the wave of anger exploding inside of it. You immediately kneeled in front of him and sent your right hand flying against his left cheek.

His head swung to the side, stinging him from the blow, but he couldn’t be mad. In fact, he knew he deserved it, and he deserved it that night. He now understands how hard it must have been for you to go on all those dates after what you went through. He now understands how hard it was for you to open up your heart again. He now understands that despite it all, you do tell Robin stuff, pouring yourself out to her.

He now understands. He now respects you, completely, entirely.

Your tears ran down your cheeks as you took a deep breath in and swung your other hand towards his right cheek, making his head swing to the other side now. Your hands were burning and stinging from the blows, but it had helped. It helped so much because Eddie Munson didn’t look like someone who would let himself be hit or be disrespected without consequences, yet he was giving himself out to you for you to hurt him. 

To make him feel, how you felt whenever he said the word Worth.

Because that’s how you felt when it happened. Were you that worthless that they didn’t care about you? Were you not worthy enough to find love? Were you not worthy enough to find a family? Were you that worthless?

You were about to hit him again when realization hit you, your hand stopping mid air. But Robin… She loved you unconditionally, opened her arms for you despite you building walls around you. Jonathan had cared for you, even after rejecting him, and became a friend without any awkwardness between you two. Steve, Nancy and Argyle, they never once questioned you, never once left you aside or made you feel unwelcome.

They do that, despite your walls. 

Do you deserve that?

Eddie was looking at your expression, your eyes darting back and forth as thoughts processed in your head. He could feel your uneasiness, your sadness, your pain, your uncertainty, but there was one thing he could see in yourself right now, and he wasn’t going to let you think about it, not for a single second. 

“You’re not worthless.”

Your eyes widened and your head shot up to ask him how he could read your mind but then you were both thrown to the ground as the elevator started moving again, abruptly, shaking itself as it went up. Your hands had to grip his biceps for support and he had his own arms on your waist, pulling the both of you up from the ground. He held you until you could stabilize yourself and then pulled away from you. He clenched and unclenched his fists without much thought as he looked at you.

“You okay?” He asked and you looked up at him, seeing his reddened face because of your slaps and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the sight. He blinked as if you were insane and kept his eyes on you.

“I-I’m sorry, I just don’t know how we will explain our state to everyone else.” You say, knowing your makeup was running down your face, your nose was stuffed, your eyes were red from crying… He chuckles with you as the elevator dings that you both got into Nancy’s floor. He grabbed the bags, the same present, but from different people, and he handed one to you. 

“We’ll think of something, Peach.” 

As you stepped out of the elevator, you know something shifted at that step. It was as if you left something inside there, someone else, and it was time for it to go. Something has definitely changed, inside of you, and probably with the way you are with everyone else. And that’s when you came to a decision, because if you didn’t move on now, you never will.

Next thing tomorrow, you’ll tell Robin everything.

End of chapter 10

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A/N: As I mentioned, THIS STORY IS A NON TRADITIONAL OMEGAVERSE, most of the lore is created in my own head.

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