#the one luxury i want. linen sheets

[0ystercatcher]

i want linen sheets so incredibly bad its all i want

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

Chapter 2

Poly!141 x reader

Summary: You wake to four strangers at the end of your bed.

Warnings: 18+, dark themes, mention of kidnap, mention of torture,

Note: Merry Christmas Everyone - I hope you all enjoy this chapter! 🎅🏻🎄

Masterlist -> Here

For the first time in a long time, you slept well. More than well actually, amazing.

Your body was supported at all points, neck raised slightly, head cushioned on a thick feather pillow. And the sheets were actual bedsheets. One matching set of dark grey linen sheets, adorning the king sized mattress.

A luxury compared to how you’ve slept in the last few months. You never could fall into a deep sleep. Knowing that at any point your captors would come back to your room, kicking you from your slumber and starting your torment once more. When you did try to sleep it was on the concrete floor. Curled in a ball, spread like a starfish, lying on your front. All positions that you’d tried and failed to have a restful night of sleep in.

It must have been the light that woke you, you think wistfully to yourself. A ghost of a smile graces your face at the sight. Light streaming in and hitting the bedspread. Particles of dust, dancing carelessly in the rays. Things were turning around.

You roll on to your back. Stretching your neck from side to side and groaning. Your eyes find the ceiling, a plain white rectangle above you. You take a moment or two to enjoy the silence of the morning, letting yourself wake up.

It’s when you turn to your other side to gaze out the other window, that your peace is disturbed. The window itself is fine, the glass is intact, with a thin frosting of snow on each pane. But the figure that leans beside it is not something you wanted to see, in the previously empty cabin.

A mix of a gasp and shout of surprise leaves your sore throat as you jump in place. Your body becoming rigid and tense with stress at the sight of the intruder. Now sitting more upright, you see that the stranger not alone. He stands with three other men, each more imposing than the last.

While the one by the window did frighten you, his boyish dimples and lean figure have nothing on how the Goliath by the dresser makes you feel. He stands tall, taller than the rest. His face covered by a skull painted balaclava. His grey eyes give nothing away as they stare blankly at you on the bed.

Between the two opposites, are another two men. One stood next to the nicest looking of the four, crossing his arms and trying to keep his face stoic. His hair is styled into a Mohawk and the sight reminds you of bad guys from old movies. His blue eyes stand out against his brutish appearance. Softening the fear that his very being brings you.

The only one left is the man who sits on a chair found in the room. His legs naturally spread a little due to the size of his thighs. His arms are crossed over his chest, causing the muscles in his forearms to bulge under his long sleeve shirt.

His face is blank, hiding what his true thoughts are and most likely what he truly feels. His face is adorned with a healthy amount of facial hear. The feature ages him and makes him look rugged. Your eyes draw to the thick line of hair that he harbours above his pink lips.

They say nothing. They just stare. The action unnerving you. Making you feel like some sort of zoo animal.

The sight of the four muscular and good-looking men put you on edge of course. But there’s something else. Urges that you’d never thought of before. Feelings were never part of the mission. You were determined to keep it that way.

“You sleep alright love?” The man sitting asks you. Him deciding to speak first and the fact that he others look towards him leads you to believe that he is the leader of the men. Despite the authority that they all seem to hold.

His voice is low and quiet. The sounds rumbling together at the low volume. The words are clear enough though, that you can make them out a few feet away on the bed.

You don’t respond, you can’t. What is he wanting you to say? Yes thank you, it was the best sleep of my life.

So you strengthen your resolve and stay silent. Slowly shifting your position so you’re sitting up more instead of lying down. You calm your breathing and focus your mind. You let your eyes glance over the men in the room again.

“Enjoy sleeping in a strangers sheets?” Again his voice is quiet, soft even. But his eyes tell a different story. His eyes that are squeezed into a glare, glower at you. When you meet his eyes it’s too intense. You feel as if you’re on trial for your life. Come to think of it you are.

You stand no chance against these men. In any capacity. If they wanted to kill you, they could. If they wanted to hurt you, they could. If they wanted to take you, they could.

The last thought resonates with you deeply. That’s when the a prick of fear starts to grow in the back of your head. You realised how lucky you were that Miasma had no interest in hurting you in any sort of sexual way. Despite there being many opportunities too, the guards found more enjoyment in kicking you around then fucking you.

“Not going to answer love? Fine.” The man stands from his chair. He moves to stand at the bottom of your bed, hands stretching out over the bed frame. His presence getting that much more suffocating. When he stands close you find no refuge from his gaze. You can’t look to the other men as much, only him. Only his cold, piercing eyes that tell you telling this man anything but the truth is a death sentence.

“What are you doing in our house?” His tone is sharper, harder. The softness found in the low rumble of his previous words is lost.

Your mind races through the cover story you had before infiltrating Miasma. The details around it are so fuzzy. It feels like you’ve got the right story but there are undecided parts.

What were you here for?

Start simple. If you start simple you can fill in the details later. Give yourself a chance to think.

“I got lost in the woods.” Good start, it’s vague enough. Now change your tone.

“I’d been walking for so long and I,” your voice cracks for good measure and you feel your eyes starting to water. You use the emotions from the last few hours to fuel your tears. You were scared. You were afraid. These were all real feelings, you just had to try and channel them. “I was just so cold and so desperate. This was the first place I’d seen in miles.”

For a moment you see his eyes soften. In a flash they’re back on your again. Hard and cold and unrelenting.

“What we’re you doing in the woods, in the middle of winter?” He asks you. Behind his imposing figure you see the one with the Mohawk shift in his stance, trying to get a better look of you.

Your story doesn’t have to just convince the man I front of you. It has to convince the other three in the room. The thought registers as you run through your cover story as quickly as you can.

“I’m a zoologist. I was out here studying brown bears before they went into hibernation. Then these men-” you pause your story, desperate to have a few tears running down your cheek before telling them the rest. You need to sell this or all you’re done, all you’ve survived, would be worth nothing now.

“Go on love, finish your story.” The soft tone has returned, no doubt that it was due to the sight of your tears running and sniffling nose.

“These men came in trucks,” your eye contact won’t be enough you realise, so you free your hands from your side and use them to talk. “It didn’t seem right so I abandoned my stuff and hid. They came looking round and they, they had guns. I snuck away quietly but they found me. They took me back to some sort of military base. Last night was when I managed to escape.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. At least now you’d have a way to explain the myriad of injuries that had been inflicted on you.

The man hums audibly. You aren’t sure if you’ve done enough to convince him. His face doesn’t give anything away.

“Why do yer have their clothes if yer were a captive?” A voice from behind the man calls out, thick with a Scottish accent.

The clothes by the fire.

The captain watched your reaction for a moment. You hope he doesn’t think the flash of realisation that was on your face a moment ago, is evidence you’re lying.

He moves to the side slightly so that you can look the Scotsman in the eye as you answer him.

“They took my clothes. It was the first thing I grabbed when I escaped.” The four men say nothing for a moment. Eyes dead set on you, on your movements, your body language. Contemplating your words, your tone, your story and your tears.

It feels like hours until the leader speaks up again. Hours of waiting for them to pass judgement on you and your future.

“They hurt you?” He asks, tone quiet once more.

You hesitate, “A little…why?” Why does he care? Why would any of them care?

The man ignores your question, “Do you need a first aid kit?”

The question confuses you. Is this some kind of trick.

Part of you wants to say yes. Knowing you’ve got cuts and bruises a plenty that could use cleaning or stitching in some cases. But your hyper aware of where they’re placed. To get to the cuts on your back you’d have to raise or take off your shirt. Not exactly something your eager to do in the four men’s company.

Your shake your head, eyes now wide and mutter out a no.

It causes the men’s eyes to narrow.

“Don’t lie to him lass. Ye wouldn’t want to see what happens if ye do.” The Scotsman threatens.

You bite your lip, “I can handle it. It’s nothing serious.”

“Serious or not, we need to see what damage has been done.” You don’t miss the we in that sentence. Do they all really need to see how banged up you are?

You still shake your head at the premise. The idea causing a pit to form in your stomach.

“You stay put love, we’ll find a first aid kit and bring you a drink. Don’t move.” He fixes you with a final look before he leaves the room. The rest of the men trailing after him.

When the last of the men leaves the room, he shuts the door. The sight of the dark oak door brings air back into your lungs, it lets the haze that’s filled your mind clear.

You need to run, you need to get out of here.

You need to return to Gunner. You don’t need to be getting involved with these four strangers. Who just so happen to be extremely handsome and muscular.

You don’t trust them. Not one bit. How do you know they aren’t Miasma, here to find out what you know and finish the job?

As quietly as you can you leave the warmth of the linen sheets and step on to the plush carpet. Creeping towards the now shut door as you gently pry it open. You have little time to get out the cabin before it’s too late.

You cringe as the door scrapes against the carpet. The sound is practically deafening in the silence you’ve created in the master bedroom. You pause for a moment, convinced the men from downstairs have heard you.

When you don’t hear the thunder of steps up the stairs, you begin your mission to escape. Moving as silently as you can along the carpeted floor. Hoping to get out before they find the first aid kit.

“What are we doing price?” Ghost finds himself asking in a hushed voice as the entirety of the 141 congregate in the kitchen.

“Looking for a first Aid kit lieutenant.” Price answers and returns to searching the cupboards.

Simon wants to scream at his captain. He wants to complain to his team. He wants to know why they’re entertaining this girl. No matter how pretty she may be, she’s lying about something. Simon hasn’t got this far in his career without being an expert in body language.

Price busies himself with rifling through the cupboards. Thankful that Laswell keeps all safe houses fully stocked.

His hands brush past plates and cans and glasses before coming to the last cupboard. Finally his hands grasp the large green box, packed with medical supplies.

When his gaze moves from the first aid kid, he sees his men staring out him. Looking confused at the sight.

“I’ve got Laswell doing background on the insignia on the jacket. I want to see she’s lying. Looking at those so called injuries will do that.” Price tells the team as he checks the first aid box before taking it upstairs.

It seems the rest of the team h av e a permanent frown on their face.

“I just don’t think any of this is right.” Ghost mutters. “It all just feels wrong.”

“Aye, she looks so frail and small. How can a lass like that escape a group of armed men?” Soap questions.

“She’s either insanely lucky or has some sort of special training.” Gaz voices to the others.

The thought permeates within their heads. Are you some sort of secret agent? Able to escape from armed men at hidden facilities?

The sound of a creak breaks them from their thoughts.

[luveline]

hey pookie bear❤️❤️ i was wondering if u could do james x reader but enemies to lovers/one bed troupe, i can’t find enemies to lovers with james very often and my mind is craving it. thank you ily❤️❤️

hey!! ily tysm for requesting!!! —you and co-worker!james share a hotel room for the night. fem!reader, 1.5k

James Potter is the most insufferable, arrogant, suffocating boy you've ever met in your entire life, so when you hear you'll be sharing a room with him tonight, you shut down. Total icy silence. If he wants conversation, he can ring one of his irritating mates. 

It feels borderline illegal to have your workplace make you share a room considering, but you're adults, and the trip was supposedly all inclusive. Not even the most luxurious per diem could make this worth it, though. 

James lays in the middle of the bed, arms behind his head, skin awash by lamplight and hair a dark halo against the crisp white linens. He grins at you and you despise how handsome he is. Handsome, and such a fucking prick of a man. 

"Won't you join me?" he teases. 

You've kept your vow to ignore him until that point. "Please don't lie on my side of the bed." 

He moves over, looking startlingly apologetic. You'd believe he was repentant, but he asks, "What's the point? You'll be in my arms sooner or later." 

You nibble the inside of your lip. He agitates you, he irks you, but you know James is a good guy. His irritating mates are the same. When you joined the office, he made sure they all remembered to celebrate your birthday though it'd only been a few weeks. When you fell up the icy steps on the way in one morning, James didn't take the piss. He helped you up into the doorway and frowned at your bloody knees and ripped tights like they physically pained him.  

"Do you want to shower first?" you ask. 

"I shower in the mornings. Thank you. But I can strip down now if you'd like." 

"James, please," you say, rubbing your eyes. You'd usually have something much more biting to say, but you're tired. At the last second, you summon the energy. "No one wants to see that." 

He glares at you like he's remembered he doesn't like you. 

"Cruel." 

He leans over the edge of the bed and pulls a book out of his suitcase where it lays in arm's reach. 

"I didn't know you could read," you add. 

"Points off for awfulness. Put your jammies on, shortcake, I wanna see what you packed." 

He's being a creep to annoy you. It's working. You grab your pyjamas and a change of underwear and leave his presence to the small bathroom for a quick shower. You take your time to dry off. It's too big a wish to have him be sleeping when you emerge, and sure enough, he's wide awake but changed into his own pyjamas, plaid bottoms and a white t-shirt. 

"Now I know you're obsessed with me," he says, raising his eyebrows over the pages of his book. 

You cross your arms self consciously over your near identical pyjamas, the bathroom door closing behind you. 

James waits for you to put your dirty clothes in your suitcase before piping up again. "You look adorable." 

"Fuck off, please." 

He snorts and kicks the sheets down the length of the bed. Stretching with a groan that makes your stomach hurt, he puts his novel tented down on the nightstand. His glasses are next. He looks different without them but no less handsome. If anything, the eagle shape of his nose is more pronounced without them, as is the little pink scar on his cheek, stark against his brown skin. 

"You're an awful roommate," he says decisively, "you use all the hot water, you leave the windows open, as now you're ogling me. I feel rather objectified." 

You avert your eyes guiltily. "You might want to take your temperature. You likely have a fever, considering how delusional you're acting."

"Ooh, burn." 

Face hot with spite, you push back the sheets on your side of the bed and turn off your lamp. After a second, James turns off his. 

"You're not brushing your teeth?" you ask. Your voice lacks a specific bite, fatigue kicking in. 

"Did while you were in the bathroom." 

"What'd you do with the toothpaste spit?" 

"Swallowed it." 

You laugh. It sounds much too friendly, and you hate it. "You're disgusting," you mutter. 

You slide down flat on your back and pull the sheets over your legs and stomach, more than aware of his nearness and the heat of his body already waiting for you under the thin quilt. He smells nice, this close. Like deodorant, mint, but something else that snags your attention. 

You hate him so much sometimes —he steals your pens constantly from your desk, he never offers you a cup of coffee even when he's making them for everyone else, and he's lazy. He doesn't do his third of the finances on time. He nudges his desk into yours to make your small figurines fall over and calls it 'earthquake training'. They're fucking plastic. James Potter drives you up the goddamn wall, and being close to someone like this couldn't be more awkward. You're stiff as a board. 

"I was only kidding earlier," James says. He's quiet, but so is the room. He might as well yell. "I wouldn't lay a finger on you if you didn't want me to." 

"You gave me a snakebite three days ago." 

"I thought you had a bug on you," he says furiously, having had this argument already. "That's not the point. If you want me to sleep on the floor, I'll do that. I have no intention of making you uncomfortable." 

"You've already failed, then." 

He sighs. "I can go sleep on the floor in Sirius and Remus' room." 

"They wouldn't have you in the bed?" you joke lightly. They have a close friendship. It's nice, even though you might pretend they're a throuple whenever single girls visit the office to ruin his chances. 

"Oh, they probably would." 

"It's fine. Don't… don't bother. It's not a big deal for me if it isn't for you. I know you wouldn't try anything." 

"Yeah?" 

"Of course. You're a bitch, but I don't believe you're that kind." 

James laughs loudly, his chuckles shaking the mattress. You swear you can feel his eyes on your face, though the room is bathed in darkness and the strings of scarce red light blinking from the alarm clock. 

"Good. I'm not that kind of bitch," he agrees. 

"Well. Goodnight." 

"Yeah, goodnight, shortcake." 

You roll your eyes at his nickname. Whether your short or tall isn't his concern, James calls you shortcake because he's very tall, and he holds that against you often like a schoolyard tease, papers held out of reach, your figurines hidden in alcoves or on top of cabinets.

You turn onto your favoured side and try not to care that you're facing him. James falls asleep first, his breath slowing until a snore emerges, his weight dipping the cheap mattress. Combined with your own, you start to slide toward one another. 

Fucks sake, you think, edging back. 

Space reestablished between you, you close your eyes and try not to think about what he looks like when he sleeps. As you nod off, you feel the soft skin of a hand curling around your forearm. A quarter circle rubbed into your pulse. 

— 

James wakes first, and he is Oh so thankful. He isn't a pervert, he swears, he has no idea why he's curled around you like this. Hugging your arm to his chest like a teddy, his face curved downward, his nose pressed to your forehead, he wakes and he panics hard. 

You aren't touching him back. Sunlight filters in through shitty translucent blinds and kisses your unassuming face, your lashes lightened, your lips pointed down in sleep. He worries something's upsetting you while you doze. He bites his tongue. 

It's none of his business. None of his business why you're having a restless morning. 

James twists and lets your arm fall naturally back onto the sheets, squinting in the sun at the alarm clock. It's barely five AM. You needn't wake for another two hours but you will, if you keep frowning. 

James holds his breath. Carefully, he settles back onto his side facing you and cups your face. It feels too intimate, too much. He pulls his hand away after half of a second, opting to take your hand again instead. 

He's seen you cry before. Bloody hands and knees, humiliated and cold, you'd sniffled on the steps leading into the office and asked him not to tell anyone. Remus and Sirius know everything there is to know about James. His genuine but waning dislike for you, his budding crush. And yet, after pretty much a lifetime telling them every secret he'd ever come into contact with, James didn't tell them about that. He gave you the packet of tissues from his pocket, and he told you a lie about falling in the exact same place a year before you started working with them. 

The expression you gave him then is the same you wear now as he rubs the palm of your hand with his index fingers. You're comforted. Your unseen unhappiness abates.

James falls asleep like that, drawing shapes into your hand. 

—

i love him i want him to be my office frenemy. ty for reading!! pls reblog if u enjoyed it means so much to me!

[chilling-seavey]

Silence of the Mountains (gr63)

↳ A/N After watching Zhou's motorhome tour over the Austrian GP weekend, I ended up having a dream Saturday night...this is the written version of that dream. And, hey, it must have been a premonition because look who won the next day ;)

↳ Summary: George decides to rent a motorhome for the Austrian Grand Prix weekend like some of the other drivers do; he's sure it'll make everything so much more convenient. Sharing the space with his trainer might be beneficial for work but certainly not when it comes to taming your insatiable appetite.

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 4.2k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, risky locations, forced silence (smothering sounds with hands, pillows, sheets), little bit of grinding, whispered dirty talk, slight degradation, George goes from 🤭 to 😈 in like a flip of a switch, unprotected sex (& creampie because is it really something I've written if that's not included?)

The gentle hush of rain through the quiet night was a calming contrast to the thunderous sound of race car engines that had once filled the Austrian countryside. In the secluded section of the lush green forests, carved by breathtaking mountains and rolling hills, a half dozen million-dollar motorhomes rested in an organized cluster. There was an almost eerie darkness that surrounded the camp with nothing around but nature and twinkling stars hidden behind hazy rain clouds. 

The light drops fell in a soft pitter patter against the roof of the motorhome, creating a lulling atmosphere for a well deserved sleep before the impending race the next day. Within the protection that the luxury mobile home offered from the elements, the rhythm of the rain was countered by the soft sounds of timid kisses and breathy giggles that were muffled by the gentle rustle of sheets.

“We should sleep.” George’s whispered voice reached your ears under the sea of luxury linen. His hand rested on your waist, sliding around to the dip of your spine and back again.

Directly beside him, face to face, you had an arm tucked under his neck and the other strewn around his shoulders, holding him as close against you as you could physically manage. Your fingers clutched onto the fabric of his shirt as if worried he was going to move away and, once he spoke those words, your grip tightened a little more. 

“I don’t want to.” you replied in a hushed whisper.

Your lips met again in a few more passive kisses. 

“I want to keep kissing you.” you added dreamily, eyelids lovingly closed.

You could hear him smile through the darkened room, his adoration for you as clear as day in his tone, “Me too, love, but I need some rest for tomorrow.” 

The taste of his lips was addicting as you nuzzled your face a little closer to steal more chasté kisses from him. George would never complain. 

You laid there together in the king size bed in the motorhome you complained heartily about staying in that weekend (“You’re partnered with two hotels, I’m sure we can connect with one, rather than suffer in this glorified tin can on wheels”), limbs tangled under soft sheets, breaths falling in calm unison. When your eyes were closed, the place could almost pass as a hotel. 

The two of you were cuddled so close that it was physically impossible for there to be any space between you. You shared the mattress, the blankets, a pillow. Hands caressed clothed skin under the down-filled duvet, holding and coddling loving bodies, such a tangle you weren’t quite sure where you ended and he began. Chest to chest, you could feel your heartbeats thudding in slow, steady time; the shape of his pecs through his t-shirt pushing faintly against the curve of your breasts under yours like you were one entity. 

George’s breaths fell softly against your cheek and yours returned the favour, faces millimetres apart. So close that you barely had to pucker your lips and you would be kissing him. It was easy and convenient and you had been laying there together like that for who knew how long, making the most of the moment. Familiar hands, comforting breaths, lazy kisses.

It always felt so surreal like this; warm, dreamlike, ethereal. You wanted more of him, all of him, always. 

You pulled your hand out from under the blankets to slide around the back of his neck and into the roots of his soft hair, holding him firmly in place as you kissed his lips; the bottom one, then the top one, then both, both again, and again, and again-

“Sweetheart,” George murmured with a smile, his voice low and warm like melted caramel, “that’s enough.”

“No, it’s not.” you countered urgently, whispered words wavering through the darkened room before you pressed your lips together again. 

George let out a little ‘mmph’ against your lips at your insistence but he was never one to decline you. He always kissed you back.

Your leg slid up his until you could slide it around his waist, naturally urging his thigh between yours. He shifted in your arms a little, lips still locked in a lingering kiss, his large hand trailing over the curve of your ass and down to your thigh as if to keep you wrapped around him. You could feel the heat of his skin against yours and your hips naturally nudged against the muscle of his leg that was pressed between yours. 

Just as you let out a tiny whimper at the friction, George pulled away from your kiss. He rested his forehead against yours, sighing out, “Okay, that’s enough, love.”

“No, it’s not.” you protested, leaning in for more kisses from his swollen lips before adding, “I want more of you.”

He smiled against your lips, letting out a breathy laugh as he pulled away, “We can’t.”

But you just kept kissing him, kiss after kiss after kiss.

George chuckled softly with his hand rubbing up and down your thigh, reiterating when you paused to breathe, “We can’t, love.”

“Mm,” you whined softly, shifting in his arms to kiss his chin and then his throat, nibbling at his neck as your hips rolled naturally against his bare thigh again.

George’s breath shuddered slightly and his hand gave your bum a small pat, reminding you in a whisper, “Aleix is only a room away…and these walls are so thin…”

“Should have gotten a hotel room like I said.” you mumbled between soft kisses along the expanse of his neck.

George groaned softly and his head tilted back a little to give you room, his hand tightening around your waist as if he were torn between drawing you closer or pushing you away. He had figured renting a motorhome for the European races like most of the other drivers did would have been much more convenient; it would be closer to the circuit, there was hired security, his trainer would be right there should he need anything. But, despite all this, the convenience of using the second bedroom in the motorhome to sleep his trainer suddenly felt anything but ideal. 

He seriously needed to listen to you more often. 

“Baby,” George huffed out, his breathy words drowned out by a gust of wind that had the rain pelting down on the roof a little harder.

Your fingers pulled at his shirt, head lifting to chase his lips again. You knew you were being needy but you also knew how weak it got him when you were. So much so that he didn’t so much as offer an argument and, instead, tilted his face back down to lean in just as eagerly and lock your lips with his in a passionate, hungry kiss. 

The sounds of your kisses danced with the sounds of the rain all around you, growing needier and sloppier as George faced his losing battle. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, pulling away from your kiss to rest his forehead against yours for a moment to breathe. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

“Do you promise to be quiet?”

His voice had lowered, coming out as a thrilling rumble from his chest that proved to you that you had him right where you wanted him. 

“Yes, sir.” you purred, scratching your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

His nose brushed against yours as his lips sought out yours in the darkened room for one more kiss, or two, or three, before he was untangling your leg from around his waist with a husky, “Turn over for me.”

You shuffled yourself around under the sheets to face away from him with a giddy smile, right away wiggling back against him until your bodies moulded together like who halves of a whole. It was apparent just how into it he was with the feeling of the stiff tent in his underwear pressing right up against your ass; his hesitant words had been abandoned by his body. George groaned lightly against your shoulder, leaving a kiss to the same spot while his arm dropped between you to arrange himself. 

Your hand followed too, reaching behind you to rub your palm over his erection, palming him strongly through the thin fabric of his boxers. 

George’s arm tightened around your waist, locking you close to him as you touched him and he groaned against your cheek, words thick, “You’re a bloody tease, you know that, eh?”

“How am I the tease when you’re the one trying to deny me what I want?” you muttered back, already feeling hazy with lust while your hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers to touch him properly. “So many excuses.”

“Mm,” his lips brushed against your jaw, his fingers ghosting over your thigh under the sheets until he guided your leg up towards your chest, “did you forget who’s in charge, little one?”

You withered at his words and the feeling of his open mouthed kiss to the spot where your jaw and neck met, only making your mouth fall open as his slender fingers dragged along the thin fabric of your panties nestled between your legs. Your hand wrapped around his hardening dick, giving him a few messy strokes the best you could whilst facing away from him. 

“The only way this is going to work,” George breathed against your ear in a tone that had butterflies filling your stomach, his fingers pulling the fabric of your panties to the side so he could blindly caress your pussy under the sheets, “is if you do what I say and stay perfectly quiet. Can you do that for me, pretty girl?”

A tiny moan slipped from your lips but you nodded in response, turning your head to the side in need for more of him. He obliged and propped himself up on one arm a little more so he could lean down to kiss you over your shoulder, his fingers still toying with your pussy. You used his kiss as a way to muffle your little content sounds and since you were so gentle with your noises, he didn’t tell you off. Besides, you sounded far too pretty like that to warrant a scolding. 

“That’s my girl.” George purred against the corner of your mouth as your kiss broke, his fingers slicking up in your dripping wetness that pooled between your legs, “My messy, needy girl.”

Your top leg was bent up towards your chest at a ninety-degree angle to your body to keep you nice and spread open for his fingers, making it easy for him to touch you as he pleased. You took your hand from his dick to raise to the side of his face instead, pulling his lips back on yours as he blindly shoved down the front of his underwear under the sheets. 

His other arm was tucked under your neck and wrapped around your front, one hand naturally finding one of your breasts and he gave it a greedy squeeze as he kissed you sloppily over your shoulder. You pushed your ass back into him, sharing small groans into each other’s mouths as the warm shaft of his cock nudged between your cheeks. 

“Fuck, baby,” George panted as he broke away from your lips, his breath hot against your ear, “be a good girl for me and stay nice and quiet, yeah?”

You reached a hand back to pull at the flesh of your ass to try and hold yourself open for him as he got himself situated behind you. He dusted a kiss to your earlobe in silent thanks while his hand between your bodies angles the head of his dick against your cunt. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip in anticipation, waiting for it, but then he just slid it forward to smear between your legs and right to your clit. 

George chuckled lowly against your ear as he pulled back a little to do it again, basically just thrusting against you without getting inside you first, forcing you to just feel how hard he was between your legs and unable to do anything about it. Your teeth pressed harder into your bottom lip, holding back a tiny displeased groan as you ached with need for him. 

Before you could protest, he pulled back again and, with the next press forward, he was slipping inside you slowly but surely. Your breath caught in your chest as he stretched you out on his cock, his hand flying to grab your hip as he sunk deeper into you. He let out a wavering moan against your neck that was almost too loud and you turned over your shoulder again to pull his lips back on yours. 

Right away, he started to rock into you at a steady pace in slow curling thrusts, not thinking much of it apart from letting your humanistic drive lead you. George’s fingers pinched your nipple through your t-shirt, earning a whine out of you into his mouth and he took that opportunity to lick across your bottom lip. 

Despite having kissed half the night, they never moved past the point of innocent; tender and closed-mouthed. Now, as the heat rose between you, he was eager to get more out of you. You gladly opened up for him and let his tongue push into your mouth between sensual kisses that matched the pace of his hips pushing into you. It was filthy; the sound of your kisses overpowering the flurry of rain on the roof of the motorhome, wet and hungry and lewd. 

George’s hand moved from your hip to wrap entirely around your middle, giving you a tug back against his chest and thus forcing his cock deeper inside you. You gasped sharply into his mouth, letting out with a muted groan as he ground his hips strongly against you. He held you tightly in both arms for a moment as he pushed deeply into you again and again, both of you just panting into each other’s open mouths. 

After a moment, George’s hand slid across your stomach and under your thigh to lift your leg up a little more, spreading you open under the sheets as he adjusted his position behind you to start to drive a little faster into you. You gaped dumbly into the darkened bedroom at the warm fullness he offered you, giving you every inch of him in firm succession. And he was so hard…you were nearly salivating, mouthing a silent “fuck” to the room. 

“Such a good listener, aren’t you, baby?” George cooed against your ear, “But we’re just getting started. I’m gonna get a little rougher with you and you’re gonna stay so quiet for me, yeah?”

“Please.” you huffed out.

George kept his hand under your thigh to keep your leg up as he started to shove into you a little harder, letting out a faint grunt against your neck in the process.

You couldn’t help the soft squeal that slipped from your lips, your hand splaying across the mattress to grasp onto the fitted sheet to try and ground yourself. George hushed you against your ear, fucking you firmly under the luxury linen sheets with your leg still held up and slightly tenting the duvet. 

“Oh my God.” you squeaked, eyes screwed shut. 

“Shhh.” George lifted his hand from your chest to press against your mouth, taunting hotly against the shell of your ear, “You don’t want Aleix to hear, do you?”

You whimpered against his palm.

“No, we don’t.” he cooed, shoving into you a little harder as if he were trying to make it difficult for you, “Naughty fucking girl, aren’t you? Insatiable little slut.”

You cried out his name against his palm still clamped over your mouth, your fingers grasping his wrist tightly as if wanting to pull him away. George slowed for a second, grinding deeply into you to push another withering moan from your mouth while he arranged himself behind you again, situating into a better position so he could get back to those precise thrusts. 

You couldn’t help the shriek that fell from your mouth and into the palm of his hand, forcing him to pull your head back against his shoulder with a firm hush against your ear. He drove into you in quick succession, ramming right against your g-spot until your eyes were nearly rolling, stumbling out hungry moans against his palm. 

If it wasn’t your uncontrollable sounds that might have given you away, the lewd clap of his skin against yours would certainly do it. George had to slow himself down a little, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thigh to arrange the two of you a little to find an angle that minimized the sound. Once he was back at it, you were clawing at his hand still clamped over your mouth. 

“Shh, you’re getting loud.” he whispered sternly without faltering his movements for a moment, his breath hot against your neck as the temperature rose under the sheets and duvet. 

You couldn’t help the sounds you let out as he nearly fucked the moans from your chest, so delicious and dizzying. You turned away from his hand to press your face into your pillow instead, smothering yourself into it while your fingers bunched at the sheets. His pace was mouth-wateringly good with his hands all over you; groping your breasts and grabbing your thigh and his soft lips trailed hot, wet kisses up your neck and he nibbled at your earlobe. Your entire body was trembling under his touch, especially as you tried to hold yourself back. 

Your hands tugged at the sheets, trying to pull them towards your face, pressing them against your mouth in fistfulls to try and keep yourself quiet, dampening the expensive white linen in pleasurable tears and drool. Even still, you kept your back arched a little just so George could have perfect access to you and he could give you every last inch unobstructed. 

“Jesus, you’re incredible…” he panted, his voice thick and strained with pleasure of his own, “The way you take my cock…fuck.”

As the warmth rose inside you, reaching every nerve ending in your body, you were torn between wanting it all and having to keep yourself quiet. It was growing increasingly difficult by the second as George’s firm pace drew you closer to an orgasm at an impressive rate. The overwhelm coiled within you, aching for him, barely able to think a coherent thought as the moans and gasps fell from your lips and into the sheets you held clutched in your hands.

Desperately wanting to be quiet so as to not face the embarrassment of facing Aleix tomorrow morning, your body started to try and squirm away from your boyfriend as if pleading for some sort of mercy. Your head turned farther into the pillow beneath you and your shoulders followed as if you were subconsciously trying to turn away from him to keep yourself composed for even a second. 

But George wasn’t to be warned off that easily and even as you pulled your leg from his snug grip on your thigh to stretch it across the mattress as your hips tried to turn away next, he followed right after you. His body covered yours as you rolled yourself flat onto your stomach, arms encircling your pillow that you helplessly drooled onto while he kept giving you such perfect firm thrusts you swore you were seeing stars right through the cloudy nighttime sky. 

“Fuck-” you groaned out into the down filled pillow, elongating the word dreamily. 

“Mhm… that’s it.” George whispered from over top of you, resting his forearms on either side of your head and folded arms so his lips could brush against your ear. His hips snapped against yours in firm strokes that had both of you wearing the same raw expression of pleasure into the darkened room. 

The sheets were a tangled mess over the two of you, shielding your filthy late night rendezvous from the privacy of your rented bedroom and falling low across George’s lower back as he moved on top of you. The decency of the sheets were the least of his concern at that moment as he kept giving you what you wanted, his body pressed right down on yours, pinning you underneath him. Then, he slipped one hand under your hips and weaseled it down between your legs, blindly getting his fingers on you to start to rub messily at your clit.

“Fuck, George-” you whimpered into the pillow, knuckles turning white from how tightly you gripped it in your arms, voice rising in pitch, words muffled. 

He groaned lowly against your neck, almost as if he were struggling to keep himself quiet now. 

“You’re gonna have to cum without making any noise.” he told you lowly, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, panting. 

The bed rocked faintly under the force of his precise thrusts, getting so deep inside you and grazing your g-spot over and over with his three fingers trapped under your body and rubbing mercilessly at your clit. Your eyes were rolling back in your head, eyelashes fluttering, drooly lips dampening the pillowcase your mouth was pressed into. He had you entirely surrounded; body and soul. 

“Think you can be a good girl and do that for me? Not a sound.” 

You could barely choke out a, “Yes, sir.”

“Yeah?” he kept shoving strongly into you, getting slightly faster as he, too, felt that rising pleasure coiling deep within him. He spoke in a hushed tone against your ear, sending shivers down your neck, “If you’re a good girl and don’t make a peep, I’ll reward you with a nice big load deep inside you. You want that?”

“Uh huh-” you cried out into the pillow, barely able to understand anything he was saying you were so far gone. Naturally, your hips raised up a little to try and feel as much of him as possible no matter how much he had you pinned underneath his body weight. 

“Yeah? Want me to cum inside you, baby?” he purred, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

“Ugh, please.” you moaned, muffled by the pillow and sheets, face pressed firmly into the linen. 

Your hand flew out to slam against the built in headboard to anchor yourself on something, writhing against the mattress and his hand that was still stuffed between your legs. You were a moaning mess and desperately tried to use the pillow to keep yourself quiet as the euphoria ramped up strongly within you, burning heat. 

“That’s it, baby.” George praised through his teeth, still fucking into you strongly despite the way your body started to clench down around him, “Shh, shh, that’s it. Fuck, that’s it.”

His voice was handsomely strained, face contorted in beautiful pleasure tied in with proud satisfaction as he made you cum underneath him. With his hand that wasn’t busy between your legs, he pressed his palm against the back of your neck to keep you in the pillow to make sure no excess sounds would escape you as you cried out for him through your orgasm, muffling your chanted ‘yeses’ as he took you over. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.” he groaned lowly. 

With a few more thrusts, he was coming hard inside you, giving you a few more shoves to make sure he was as deep as he could get. His jaw clenched and long lashes fluttering, he moaned softly, beautifully, through the sticky warm air of the bedroom. You pushed your hips up to wiggle your ass back on him a little, milking him dry just a little more until he was entirely spent. 

George pressed a kiss to your shoulder and then sat back on his haunches, letting the sheets fall off his flushed body as his hands trailed down your curves and over the fabric of your shirt that was now slightly damp with sweat. He gripped your hips and eased you back flat onto your stomach so he could pull out slowly, his hungry eyes staring between you as he left you empty and gaping.

You turned your head out of the pillow to gasp for air as he pulled out, letting him adjust your panties back into place before he was tucking himself back into his boxers and flopping into his spot beside you. His sigh didn’t go unnoticed and you blinked at him like that for a moment, a proud and pleasured smile starting to form across your lips, before you reached a hand out to rest against his chest and his rapidly beating heart. 

George lolled his head to the side to meet your gaze and set his hand over yours. You stared at each other for a moment before he leaned in to softly kiss your lips, sharing a few lingering kisses between heavy breaths. When he pulled away, he rested his head on the pillow right with you so your noses were almost touching; both of you much preferring the comfort of each other’s personal space - especially after nights like that. 

With a sigh, George grumbled begrudgingly as if hating to admit that you were ever right in the first place, “We’re getting a hotel room tomorrow night, I don’t care.”

♡ None of the original writing on this blog may be reproduced, reposted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

[spudangle]

Companion Bed/Sleeping Preferences

Lae'zel. Brought up as a warrior she definitely prefers practicality over comfort. Big luxurious soft beds are not for her, they’re too much of a hassle to get in and out of, not proficient at all. But if she has to, then she can pretty much sleep anywhere, be it while lying down, sitting, or standing. If she were to choose, she would probably prefer a hard surface over a soft one, so that her back feels nice and straight in the morning. She’s probably the companion who goes to bed first if she’s not on watch duty, and were it not for the elven companions then she would also be the one to wake up first quickly getting ready for the day. However she’s NOT allowed to sharpen her sword until after everyone else has gotten up.     

Shadowheart, too, has been trained to be able to sleep under most conditions, and a comfortable bed hasn’t really been commonplace for her under Shar.

But unlike Lae’zel, Shadowheart would actually enjoy having a bit of comfort in her life, especially after leaving Shar. It’s just something that she has to rediscover gradually. The feeling of the soft warm bed that she has at the Elfsong—a stark contrast to the cold stone of her old bed—is nice, but she almost finds it too warm at first quickly having to throw off her duvet to not overheat. The smell of clean linens however is perhaps her favorite thing, reminding her of a childhood long forgotten. Post-game she would probably enjoy having her own sleep rituals that she can do for herself and not to appease some cruel goddess. 

Astarion is a man of luxury. That means that he wants as big and soft a bed as possible, he practically wants to drown into the mattress. And it HAS to have clean silk sheets, he is done with damp dirty sheets that smell like they’ve been fucked to death. The bed is preferably a curtained four poster so that the warmth can’t escape, because obviously the bed has been warmed up by a bed warmer before he gets in. I know that there are several takes about the wooden board that he has in his tent, but I personally believe that it's there so he doesn't have to place his bedroll directly on the dirty ground. Anyways, Astarion wants a comfortable bed because he is a creature of comfort, and if can’t rest peacefully then he can at least suffer while in a comfortable bed. 

Gale also is a man of comfort when it comes to beds. His bed in Waterdeep has at least ten pillows, however he can only sleep with one otherwise he gets neck pain. The extra pillows are there so that he can sit comfortably while reading in bed. The bed itself is probably also really pompous looking, not exactly like the one from his last night alive scene, no it’s more pompous than that, it’s probably round. Yes it’s round. It’s a round four poster, decorated with golden constellations and heavy velour curtains hoisted up with thick tasseled ropes. And boy did he miss his bed when he had to leave Waterdeep. It’s not that he can’t sleep anywhere else, it just takes him a while to get used to new surfaces. ALSO, Gale most definitely talks in his sleep. Has he ever set something on fire in his sleep? He would never admit it, but he also can’t say no.    

Wyll. Since being cast out by his father Wyll quickly got used to not having a regular bed. He’d either be camping or he’d be offered shelter for his heroic deeds by the people who he helped. He probably enjoys camping quite a bit, finding the quietness of nature relaxing. Either that or he’s too much of an optimist to admit to himself that he misses having a warm bed. Wyll is also most definitely a morning person. Early bird gets the worm and all that. In fact he gets restless if has to laze around in bed for too long. Lastly, sleeping after he gets his horns is, if not a struggle, then at least something that takes some getting used to. For instance, he can’t lie down without a pillow. Not on his back. Not his side. Not his stomach. So pillows are a must, or at least just something that takes the strain off his head/neck while lying down.    

Karlach is probably the most restless sleeper of the gang. Not in the sense that she doesn’t sleep well—because she does—but she is a very animated sleeper, either kicking or punching the air, or she gets those weird twitches while dreaming. So unfortunately she’s not just a bad bed partner because of her body temperature, which sucks because she loves spooning before falling asleep. So, she’s either cradling Clive or her blanket for comfort. She also prefers sleeping in cold environments, which was fine when the group hadn’t reached Baldur’s Gate because when you’re outside then there’s always a draft. However the Elfsong doesn’t offer that same luxury, but at least she gets to sleep next to the window.

Halsin can also pretty much sleep anywhere, not because it’s practical, but because he’s always comfortable, at least when out in the wild. After all, the perk of bear form is that you’re well-padded for any surface. And he is a heavy sleeper. Give this man a good hearty meal, and he’ll sleep for 12 hours. This also means that any bed partner of his should be careful that they don’t get smothered under him, because if he is in deep sleep then you cannot wake him. He has also most definitely talked himself to sleep when telling his children goodnight stories before bed, only to then wake up and find that he’s the one that's been tucked into bed.

(If you’re interested in more bed thoughts then I also have this post)

[lucklore]

sea of linen

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I used to sleep in a twin bed.

Its narrow frame held my life in place, a small world with edges I could touch, borders I could trust. At first, it felt secure, even comforting – small enough that I could pretend the emptiness beyond didn’t exist. Over time, the bed began to feel like a shoebox, its boundaries too tight, its embrace suffocating. My knees hit the wall, my arms folded awkwardly at my sides, and my dreams grew cramped, bumping against the limits of where I could stretch. In that space, I learned to fold myself into neat halves – an act of submission –  to take up as little room as possible, as though even in solitude, I should apologize for wanting too much – for being too much. It was cramped, yes, but it was familiar, and for a long time, I believed familiar was enough. But the nights grew heavier. My knees curled tighter, my arms crossed over my chest like a closed gate. It was as if the universe itself had conspired to remind me of my place, to show me that the world – my world – was nothing but this claustrophobic space. I was a prisoner, not of circumstance, but of my own refusal to grow beyond the limits set by my own mind. The bed became too small for the silence I carried, too small for the restless turning of my body, and I began to dream of something larger, something that could hold the questions I was too afraid to ask. I told myself I needed space, that perhaps a bigger bed could hold the loneliness more gently, as if loneliness, like a body, simply needed more room to breathe. I longed for more room; more space to sprawl and exhale. I told myself it was time to let go of the twin, time to make space for the life I thought I deserved – an act of rebellion.

So, I bought a queen, its width a strange luxury, a bed so vast it felt like a promise.

I imagined spreading out, letting my limbs unfurl like wings. I pictured freedom, imagined this expanse would cradle not just my body but all the restless parts of me that needed somewhere to go. But on that first night, as I lay down on one side – a subconscious choice, and perhaps there’s a metaphor in this, too – I felt the weight of the untouched space beside me, a silence so wide it felt alive. It was not a promise; it was a reminder. The other half felt like the ocean – wide, unknowable, dangerous. Its sheets stretched smooth and endless, undisturbed by breath or weight, rippling in the moonlight like dark water. I could feel its presence pressing against me, broad and indifferent, and it frightened me in a way I couldn’t explain. I stayed on my side, clinging to the shore, afraid to cross the boundary into the empty sea. I’ve always feared the ocean – its depth, its silence, its sheer ability to swallow, its surface serene but hiding the weight of everything it contains. And now, it was right beside me, every night, lapping at the edge of my consciousness. I cling to the edge I’ve claimed, the strip of mattress that feels safe, like a raft, pretending the rest does not exist. But it does. It is here every night, asking questions I don’t know how to answer.

What am I afraid of? That the emptiness will echo too loudly if I move into it? Or that it won’t – that I will stretch out and find it full of ghosts, of memories, of truths I’ve buried deep? The ocean of untouched space beside me is not empty; it is too full. It holds everything I avoid – every longing, every ache, every dream I’ve kept at bay.

I sleep on one side of this bed as if holding on to the only solid ground I have. The other side remains untouched, uncharted, like the deep waters I’ve spent my life avoiding. Sometimes I stare at it in the dark, wondering what it would feel like to reach across, to let myself drift into the unknown space. But I never do. The thought of all that expanse terrifies me – the thought of finding nothing, or worse, finding something I cannot name.

This queen-size bed was meant to give me freedom, but it has only amplified my solitude. The space I thought I wanted now feels too vast, a reminder of how much I am alone. The twin was confining, but at least it was safe, its limits clearly defined. It told me where I belonged. Now, every night, I sleep on this shoreline, while the untouched side sings like a siren, daring me – no, luring me – to venture into its depths. But I can’t. I am not ready to face that kind of vastness, not ready to find what waits in the waves. Not ready to drown.

I had escaped nothing.

The twin was a suffocating trap, and the queen was no salvation.

But a bed is still a bed, no matter its size. It is wood and springs, fabric and foam, a place to lay a body and let the world turn without you for a while. The twin may have felt like a cage, and the queen like the sea, but at the end of the day, neither is more than what it claims to be – a frame to hold sleep, a quiet stage for dreams.

The bed does not care if I cling to the edge or drift to the center. It does not care for my fears, my metaphors, my ghosts. It only asks that I rest. The twin taught me how to fold myself small; the queen taught me how to see the shape of my solitude. But both, in their own ways, remind me that the vastness and the confinement exist only in my mind.

I lie down each night and press my body into its surface, and the bed accepts me without question. It does not judge the way I cling to one side or the way I fear the other. It does not know of oceans or claustrophobia or the weight that I carry inside. A bed is still a bed. It can hold my body, but not my answers. It can cradle my silence, but it cannot fill it. At the end of the day, I am the one who must choose what to carry and what to let go.

The bed will be there, waiting, a place to rest and nothing more.

It doesn’t ask for meaning or company.

I fill the space, or I don’t. It doesn’t matter.

꩜ — lucky

[happyhauntt]

and i am coming home to you — nikolai lantsov.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: there are some things that cannot be saved. nikolai swears she won't be one of them.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: serious angst, pre-established relationship, descriptions of injuries, blood and torture, oc was held as a prisoner of war, allusions to ravka's war with shu han, suicidal thoughts if you squint. trauma. fluff & romance but in an angsty way. nikolai is so in love and so am i.

─── word count: 2.5k.

     There’s a soft, dusky twilight bleeding in through the window. The last few seconds before the sun goes down, and the shadows stretch like yearning fingers out of all the cracks and crevices.

     Anya used to love the sunset. Used to lay in her bedroll beneath the trees and wait for the world to go quiet. All the colour would bleed away until the blue and black and stars were the only witnesses left.

     She loved the sunset until one day, the darkness came and never left. It settled over her like a second skin, and that once-familiar comfort became something she feared she’d never shake off. She feared she would die there, in the dark.

     Once or twice, she even wished for it.

      The dark comes calling again, now. It no longer feels like an old friend. The light fades from the window, cloaking the cabin in a strange half-dark. The waves crashing against the sides of the ship are a dull roar in the back of her mind. An unwelcome accompaniment to the rest of her terrible thoughts. Her head aches. Her skin burns.

     He saved her, but what was left of her to save? What is left of her now but a ghost, a corpse, a pile of skin and bones and blood that can do nothing else but scream and scream and scream?

     That's what it feels like. Her body. Her heart. Little more than a carcass left to rot, picked over by crows.

     She would love him if she could. A fierceness rests between her lungs, the single spark of life left within her after they stripped her of the rest. This, she'd cradled close, clutched between gnarled, bloody fingers. This is his. This, they couldn't tear from her if they tried.

     And they had tried.

     The bed rocks beneath her. After so long trapped in a dingy cell, the mattress should feel like the height of luxury, stuffed with goose feathers and lined with linen, but it all feels like stone. She tastes blood in her mouth, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own. The silk sheets ghost over her flesh, feeling sharp as razor blades.

     Anya never learned to love her cage, but she doesn’t trust freedom, either. Not yet.

     It's not that he's the reason she lived. He isn't her reason to keep breathing. Anya Kamenev is her father's daughter, and has endured untold horrors, and if there is one certainty in the world, it is that she is not weak. She survived for herself, for her parents, for her country. She wanted to be home again. The trees blossoming in the summertime, fresh ripe fruit on her tongue, winter air that smells like snow.

     She wouldn't die like this. Not at their hands. Anya would go quietly in her bed at a ripe old age, surrounded by people who loved her. Or she'd go to her knees on a battlefield, still screaming as the bullets rip her wide open, and with her last breath, she'd take them down too.

     Not like this. Not in a dark laboratory, or a torture chamber. Not at their hands. Anya is stubborn. She'd bleed green if someone told her she was wrong. She'd make it true.

     But he loves her. He loves her, and that is everything. He’d appeared before her like a vision sent by the Saints, like something holy in a place she knows no god would ever touch. Like a miracle. On the bad days, his love is blossom trees and fresh fruit and winter air combined. He has held her hand through darkness, guided her through battle, and even when he left for his apprenticeship, he'd kissed her like it was a promise.

     They'd taken everything else. Broken her bones and slashed her skin. Wrought her apart to scratch at her soul. She'll bear the scars for the rest of her life, long after the wounds are healed. Her body will never be the same. Her mind may never recover.

     But this wasn't hers to give up. This is his. Loving him had been a candle in the darkness. A reminder that she was human still. A reminder that even in the blackest night, dawn will come again.

     But now, lying alone in his bed in a dim cabin, Anya grows restless. The mind is a strange thing, and something about this safety feels foreign to her. There are voices in the walls. The shadows have eyes. The ship lurches in the waves and she swears there is a hand right there, reaching out—

     She's on her feet before she realises what she's doing. She never was a girl built to run — her instinct has always been to stay, to fight — but this is different, and blood doesn’t always feel like blood when you touch it.

     Her knee buckles beneath her the moment she puts weight on it. A strangled shriek escapes her lips as pain streaks through her like lightning. The cabin door slams open, and Nikolai appears. His tailored-red hair glows in the candlelight, a halo of bronze. His face is still different, crooked nose and freckles and green eyes, but he will never be unfamiliar to her.

     He crosses the room in two strides and falls to his knees beside Anya. His teal overcoat has been abandoned, and what remains is a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, still speckled with her blood. Her stomach twists at the sight of it as his hands find her shoulders. Something solid, finally; her guiding light once more.

     The chill that had stolen over her body vanishes where he touches her, and Anya leans into him heavily, her face pressed into the warmth of his shoulder. An agonising moan rises up within her, but she holds her breath. She bites her tongue so hard it bleeds.

     "You shouldn't be up, love." His voice is still the same soothing cadence in her ear. One hand brushes through ragged, tangled girls. It seems someone tried to brush her hair while she was unconscious; bathed the worst of the blood away, changed her into fresh clothes, but the scent of iron still lingers on her skin. His fingers catch in a knot, but the sharp spike of pain on her scalp goes unnoticed. The rest of her is screaming too loudly.

     "I cannot be in that bed any longer." Anya shakes her head, once, and breathes in the salt-and-cedar scent of him. Hands outstretched, clawing blindly, she grasps him tightly and swears she'll never let go again. "I cannot be here."

     How long had the Shu held her? How many days have passed since they killed the last member of her unit, since his cries grew too quiet and she'd been left alone with her worst nightmares? Had anyone notified her parents? What will they say, when they learn the truth? When they discover their worst fear has come to pass, and their darling daughter was tortured for being Grisha?

     "You cannot be anywhere else, Nastya," says Nikolai. He sounds like aching. His lips brush against her temple as he speaks, voice soft as silk. His hands are gentle, too, as he scoops her up from the floor and settles her back onto the bed. She holds herself stiffly, choking back another scream as her knee jostles and jerks.

     He winces as if every choked-off cry is a blade through his heart. He murmurs sweet apologies as he readjusts the pillows and perches on the bed beside her, close enough to touch, wary of disturbing her leg any further. His hands linger on hers. The tips of his fingers trace light patterns over the inside of her wrist.

     For a moment, nothing has changed.

     "Do you need anything, Captain?" The voice in the doorway is a little startling, and for a second Anya is back in that cell. She stiffens as the woman watches them both, a soft frown toying at her mouth. Golden eyes shine with pity.

     Nikolai rolls his lips together for a moment. "Perhaps some water, please, Tamar." The woman nods, and tugs the door closed behind her as she departs, leaving the pair wrapped in stony silence.

     Nikolai's eyes trail over Anya, searching, inspecting her injuries as if committing every scar to memory. He cannot count how many times he has done this since he found her. Sitting on the bed just like this, close enough to feel the warmth of her, counting each breath as if they might be her last. His eyes harden at the bruises on her throat, the gash across her cheek. Sweeping lower, his gaze settles on her knee again. He swallows roughly. Darkness sweeps over him like a burial shroud.

     The skin of Anya's leg is mottled, black and yellow and purple, a medley of half-healed bruises intermingled with fresh ones. They hurt her. They broke her. And for the first time since he left Ravka, anticipating a bright and shining future filled with adventure, Nikolai is drowning in regret.

     "Tolya did his best, but he's not a healer." His throat feels tight, like there's smoke in his lungs. Her skin is littered with newly-pink scars and stitched-up wounds. Her leg is the worst of it. Nikolai doesn't recall seeing injuries like this, even in the army. "We'll get you healers when we dock. The best healers. They'll be able to help with the rest of it. They'll be able to—"

     "Fix me?" Anya sounds hollow. His eyes snap to hers, and he finds someone staring back at him, but it isn't Anya. It isn't the girl he fell in love with. Somewhere within, she might be hiding, but here and now, he's faced with a ghost. "I lost count of how many times they broke it. Sometimes they'd drag a healer in to mend the bone, and then... snap. Other times they'd just leave it. There are some things that can't be fixed if you break them enough."

     A rough shake of his head. His heart sits like lead in his chest. "We'll fix it. You'll be good as new in no time, Nastya, I promise you."

Silence falls over them for a moment, filled with nothing but crashing waves and crackling candles. His fingers keep drawing circles over her wrist, and her pulse flutters gently beneath his touch. Her hands remain in her lap, pale and thin.

     "How long was I gone?"

     He doesn't need to ask what she means by that. His heart squeezes. "Six weeks, we think. They reported you missing-in-action when your unit didn't reach the checkpoint."

     Nausea rises like a tidal wave in Anya’s throat. Six weeks? Every horrible moment had felt like an eternity, and yet she never believed, never could have guessed it had been that long.

     "Sturmhond came to find me. Why?"

     An old fury lashes through him, one that had only settled when he laid eyes on her, half-dead in that dingy cell. Fingers curl into trembling fists as that anger rises again, unbidden, but not at her. Never at her. His jaw ticks at the memory. "Command thought attempting a rescue would be too... risky." He spits the word through gritted teeth. The Saints only know what he’ll do the moment he gets his hands on the First Army General responsible for that decision. "They couldn't prove you were in Shu Han, and crossing the border to rescue you would have risked an international incident."

     A necessary sacrifice. Collateral damage. A most unfortunate loss. That's what the bulletin had read, when he finally received it. Sturmhond kept up-to-date on Ravka, its military engagements, its economy. When he'd docked in Os Kervo eleven days ago and sent the twins out for supplies and information, the last thing he expected to hear was that a scouting group had gone missing near the Shu Han border.

     His last correspondence with Anya had mentioned that she was being deployed there, that she'd been tasked with leading a reconnaissance mission with the aim of finding new ways around the Fold. It had only taken a little digging to discover the names of the personnel who'd gone missing.

     He sees Lieutenant Colonel Anya Kamenev: MISSING IN ACTION every time he closes his eyes. It might be seared onto his brain forever.

     Anya’s eyes fall closed. Her jaw is tight. With pain or anger, he cannot tell. It was a sound tactical decision, she thinks. She cannot blame them for that. She might even have made the same call.

     But her leg screams at her. Nikolai's hand squeezes her own. Your country abandoned you. The words ring through her mind like a death knell.

     "You disagreed with their decision?"

     That familiar crooked grin slips over his face. He almost looks like a boy again, and not the man who loves her, made world-weary by the things he’s seen. They could be home again. It almost makes her cry. "Ravka was concerned about tensions with Shu Han. Nikolai Lantsov was unable to risk an international incident. Sturmhond had no such concerns."

     A ghost of a smile. His heart twinges at the sight of it. "Your letters never mentioned why you chose the name Sturmhond."

     "I'll tell you some other time, darling. It's quite the tale." He leans and kisses her forehead, lingering a few long moments just to breathe her in, feel the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

     She'd been so pale when he found her. So cold. He thought he'd been too late. Every moment of the past eleven days had been agony as they docked in Shu Han and scouted out any scrap of intel they could find about Ravkan prisoners of war.

     "We'll dock soon. I sent word ahead to the generals, to let them know you've been liberated. I'll take you home."

     Home. A long journey around the Fold, most likely through Fjerdan territory, and then a trek up to Balakirev, and yet— A whimper escapes, almost too quiet to hear. Home. She thought she'd never see it again.

     "They'll want to question me, though." The thought of interviews, of recounting every detail of her torture, of having to admit that she's Grisha, that they killed the rest of her unit but spared her for experimentation, it all makes her sick.

     Nikolai shakes his head. His eyes are steel. "If they want to try, they'll have to go through me. Now sleep, love. Rest. I'll be right here."

     When sleep comes for her, finally, it does not come with those long, yearning fingers. Anya fears she will never love a sunset again, nor wish for the blissful peace of the night. But Nikolai lies down beside her, wraps her up in warm, solid arms, his chest beneath her head. She hears him breathing in her ear, a slow and steady rhythm, though she knows he isn’t sleeping.

     He’ll stay awake the whole night, to keep her demons at bay.

[lieutenantfloyd]

For the F1 prompts I just wanna request Fernando x reader. Anything at all works - dominant Nando, soft Nando. There's so much out there for the Charles, Carlos, Pierre girlies already

Here With You - F. Alonso

F1 masterlist

Pairing: Fernando Alonso x reader

Summary: Your first day on vacation together in with sleepy cuddles.

Warnings: fluff, minimal dialogue, Fernando being soft and in love.

a/n: I'm almost done writing a much longer fic for him but in the meantime, I think we all deserve a bit of soft! Nando content ♡ This is also somewhat poorly written and not proofread so…

The trip had originally been his idea. Although it didn’t take much convincing at all for you to begin packing your bags. Between your collective work schedules, neither of you got to spend anywhere near as much time together as either of you wanted.

You checked in to the hotel and set your bags down before heading out for a walk around town that ended in a quiet and romantic dinner at a local spot.

After dinner, several drinks, and many kisses. you and Fernando arrived back at your hotel. As you took off your shoes you glanced at the clock on the bedside table, you noted that it was well after 12 am. You stood and stretched, letting a loud sigh escape your lips as you roll your shoulders back. You finally got to take in the room you'd be staying in for the next seven days. The room was large but cozy. Well decorated and plenty big enough for the two of you to live comfortably for your remaining time there.

Departing your spot by the door, you moved deeper into the room. Appreciating how Fernando had dimmed the lights when he entered before of you. Ahead and to the right of the door was a small seating area. A large painting hung above the luxurious couch and a glass coffee table. Back into the hallway and to the left was a door leading to the bathroom. Inside was a large marble vanity with two sinks and a large mirror. A rather modern shower lay on the opposite wall, cased in glass and marble. Back inside the hallway, you once again made your way further into the suite. Directly ahead of you, a wide bed was surrounded by several floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. That was where you found him, laying casually on his back with his eyes closed and his hands behind his head. His casual outfit and soft hair falling onto the sheets completed his look of tranquility.

Not being able to resist the urge to join him, you crawled across the bed just far enough to alert him of your intentions. Needing no further hints, he outstretch his arms and pulled you down with him. Your head found a home on his chest while your limbs intertwined with his own.

You lay together in silence for what felt like hours. Both savoring the moment of domestic bliss your busy lives often robbed you of. Eventually, you stirred in his arms and slowly pulled yourself away from his frame. Reluctantly choosing to slide off the bed and locate your of nighttime essentials before heading to the bathroom. Your actions were met with great protest by him, which you teasingly waved off with the promise of returning as soon as possible. While he hummed in response, it wasn’t long before you heard his soft footsteps approaching.

Inside the bathroom, you slipped out of your day clothes and into one of the fluffy robes you spotted folded neatly atop the counter. A rack of bright white linens was next to the vanity. Scanning for a face cloth, you turned the sink on and let the water heat up. You dipped the fabric into the now-warm water. Leaning down, you brought the cloth to your face and let your stress melt away, as did the tension in your face and neck. You hung the cloth up to dry before reaching into your bag and grabbing your face cream. Applying a dime sized amount to your hands, you closed your eyes and began to massage the cream into your skin. From behind your shoulder, you heard the sound of the door opening and fought the urge to smile. Only seconds later two strong arms wrapped around your torso. His head falls onto your shoulder, a soft hum leaving his lips before you feel him smile while placing kisses against your shoulder. Pausing your routine, you turned around in his grip. Reached up and ran a hand along his jaw, you could feel your gaze grow soft. You always preferred him like this. Needy and gentle, with the fine lines of stress disappearing in favor of a boyish smile.

Unable to fight your body warming up with the need to touch him, the remaining steps of your skincare routine were forgotten as you pushed away from the counter and led him back to bed.

The sheets were warm, a sharp contrast from the brisk room. Pulling the duvet over your body, you sunk into the bed. The day's activities and your stressful work life began to fall off. You felt your body truly relax for the first in weeks. A soft pillow was pulled under your head as you turned to face the wall. Behind you, you heard the lights flick off just as you felt the mattress dip. Once again you felt his strong grasp wrap around you. Slotting himself beside you with his head on top of yours, you reveled in how well your bodies fit together.

Settling against him, he pulled you even closer. An ounce of tension, from all the nights he spent away from you, remained in his body. You’d never understand how he managed it all, but you guessed it was the fulfillment of chasing his life’s dream that kept him going.

“Relax, dearest. Neither of us are going anywhere.” You whispered. Raising your head slightly to place a kiss on his shoulder.

Your words and the small gesture immediately caused him to relax. You felt his chest fall into a steady rhythm and his breathing become stable.

“I wish I could do this with you every night.” He said lowly.

“Mhm. Me too, but I’ll take whatever I can get.” You replied with a sleepy voice.

A tender, contemplative silence filled the room. As it lingered, your tiredness began to the best of you.

"You know it's only you for me, no?"

"Of course, dearest."

He hummed happily at your response before placing a kiss in your hair as you finally lulled off to sleep, with himself not far behind.

[leiawritesstories]

swords and sea breezes

written for @throneofglassmicrofics with the prompt "Voyage," if you're noticing an ocean theme no you're not lollll

word count: 795

warnings: none!

enjoy :))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To say she hadn't wanted to be on this ship would have been a gross understatement. There was not a single molecule of Aelin's being that had not resisted this journey, but despite her valiant, violent attempts to stay off the ship, there she stood. It had taken a powerful sleeping drug and four armed guards to transport her while she slumbered, but apparently her parents would stop at nothing to force their only child into a marriage alliance with a foreign prince.

Damned politics.

When she awoke from her drugged sleep, she had locked herself in her cabin for three days, only emerging when the growling in her stomach threatened to wake the whole damn ship. She immediately discovered a rotating patrol of soldiers posted outside her door, and it took her all of a week to convince the blue-jacketed young men that she was perfectly capable of relieving herself without supervision. It had taken her two weeks to convince her guards that her daily walk was not enough fresh air, and they had finally allowed her to roam the ship, provided there was at least one guard tailing her at all times.

Aelin stood at the starboard railing of the deck, basking in the glow of the setting sun and the whispers of sea breezes that ruffled her loose hair and her skirt--simple gray cloth, since her fine dresses were useless on a ship full of stone-faced sailors. She closed her eyes, leaning into the last embers of sunset, and whispered her plea for freedom to the thrumming waves.

Please, gods above, save me from this fate.

"My lady, GET DOWN!" Her guard's sudden, sharp yell was punctuated with the weight of his body slamming into hers, all but tackling her to the deck in a graceless heap.

A flaming cannonball screamed across the deck, inches away from where Aelin had stood, blasting through sail cloth and lines and the opposite railing before it splashed into the sea.

The ship burst into a flurry of shouts, orders, and scrambling sailors everywhere. Aelin's guard helped her up and practically yanked her belowdecks, ignoring her slew of questions as he pushed her into her room and barred the door. He gave her only a salute as he whirled om his heel and ran back up to the deck.

Aelin pounded on the barred door. "Ass!" she yelled, fuming. She stalked over to her window and peered out, scanning the rapidly darkening ocean for--"Oh gods."

Pirates.

Swiftly, she stuffed some clothes, her journal, her sketchbook, and her jewelry into a simple canvas bag. She tugged on a pair of fitted trousers beneath her skirt, strapped her precious set of knives to her thigh, tucked her only dagger into her left boot, and grasped the handle of her window, pulling at it with all her strength. "Bloody....hell ...MOVE!" With an almighty yank, the glass groaned and opened with a boom, leaving a gap just large enough to squeeze through.

"Resourceful," drawled a deep, amused voice from behind her.

Her spine stiffening into steel, Aelin turned around--very slowly--to find a tall, broad, tattooed man with stormy emerald eyes leaning against the ruins of her door, smirking despite the blood staining his torn shirt and trousers and the bruises forming on his skin. Two smoking pistols filled the holsters on his hips, a leather brace of bullets slung across his chest, and far too many blades for comfort were strapped to his limbs.

She narrowed her eyes into a glare. "You're too late." And she leapt for her window, only to be abruptly stopped with a rough, calloused hand around her throat.

"I don't think so, my lady." A needle pricked at her neck, and her vision went black.

~

Aelin blinked awake to the unexpected luxury of soft linen sheets and a feather mattress beneath her. Groggily, she rubbed her eyes and rotated her stiff neck and shoulders as the details of the surprisingly large, well-furnished cabin came into view.

"Good morning, my lady." Her peace splintered with the sound of that infernal voice. The pirate who'd taken her lounged in a chair opposite the bed she sat in. He'd cleaned away the blood and changed into clean clothes, but the weapons still bristled off of him. "Welcome to the Queen's Cadre."

Her jaw dropped. She snapped it closed. "What do you rotten lot want with a minor noble lady sailing to her arranged marriage?"

He chuckled. "Rotten lot. I like that. As for what we want, my lady, it is simple."

"Do share, sailor."

"Rowan Whitethorn, at your service, my lady." He bowed, that smirk of his gracing his face. "Now. Take us to that island that your fiancé is hiding. We know it's not a myth."

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@aelinschild

@renxzs

[sabraeal]

Truth in Masquerade, Ch 9: Between These Wandering Hands

[Read on AO3]

Written as a late entry for day 1 of the Obiyuki Winter challenge (How It Started)...as well as part of a favor exchange with @claudeng80, who was perfectly happy to field a binding request for free, until I mentioned I could pay in fic 🤣 (and who could blame her)

With the lamps blown and her eyes still dark-blind, it’s impossible to tell when Obi joins her in the bed. The mattress may be eiderdown, dipping beneath the solid weight of muscle and bone— both of which Obi has in spades— but it’s also the size of a small country. What happens on one end hardly disrupts the other, unless there is a concerted attempt at an incursion.

And so the only sign of settling is his sigh; the smallest hitch of breath as the down catches him, cradling him in its cloud-like grasp. It had shocked her how soft a bed could be, that first night in the palace— years ago, now. The medical dormitory’s beds had been much like the one in her grandparents’ house: narrow, with a single rag-stuffed pallet intended to be sturdy and supportive, albeit newer than the one she left behind. But in Wistal’s guest chambers, enveloped between silk and velvet, the mattress holding her with all the gentle care of a babe in its mothers arms, well— Shirayuki finally understood how sleep might be seen as a luxury rather than a necessity.

The dark slowly fades to grays and blues, shapes resolving out from what had seemed to be unrelenting black. The washstand in the corner first, its linens taking an extra moment to settle; then the fluttering curtains by the window, left open to let in the breeze; followed by her own hands laid upon the silken sheets, the fine bones apparent even in the dim. And finally, Obi’s back, warm bronze turned to cool stone in the shadow of night, more statue than skin.

Pale scars bite into his flesh, ugly nicks and gashes so old they no longer pucker but lie flat, a fine tapestry darned like a sock beneath less skillful hands. Some might wear their hearts on their sleeve, or their thoughts written on their face, but Obi’s history cuts into him, carving him from flesh the way sculptors wrought wood or stone. Her fingers itch, desperate to reach out, to trace where not even time had healed.

If you’d been the one dressing the wound back then, he’d said once, his fingers wrapped like a whisper around her wrist. It probably wouldn’t have left behind such a nasty scar.

The knotty slash across his chest was always destined to silver and scar, and that gouge over his belly would have left something behind no matter how fine the technique, but those littler cuts just needed some care that didn’t come from the bottom of a bottle— or a ditch. An ointment could fade those slashes to slivers still; a nightly application, perhaps, though he’d need her help to reach more than a few of them. The handful between the blades of his shoulders, for instance, or maybe the pair of nicks at mid-back. The one just above his hip might even be—

That’s quite enough sight-seeing, Miss. Her whole body flushes from head to toe, so hot she could melt straight into the sheets. Experience has already shown that that’s not a place she should touch him. Not unless…

Her eyes narrow, adjusted to the dim light. Not unless she wants to spook him off the mattress entirely.

He’s hugging to the edge once again, one unwary roll from the floor. The carpet is soft enough to sleep on, she’ll grant him that, but that’s hardly the point. There’s more than enough mattress for the both of them, and even if there wasn’t, well— it defies the point of this to have him half-naked and still clinging to its farthest corners. Shirayuki may not have much experience with paramours behind closed doors, but even she knows they shouldn't seek to make space between them. Especially not on a bed as fine as this one.

“Shouldn’t you be”— she hesitates, the strange simmering beneath her skin making it hard to think, to keep her voice from sounding petulant— “closer?”

“W-what?” His yelp practically rattles the fixtures. If she weren’t in a different country, she might have even felt his shoulders clearing the mattress.

“We’re supposed to be i-intimate, aren’t we?” It’s silly the way she stumbles over the word, like she’s some apprentice pharmacist and not a master in her own right. “I don’t think we would be…I mean, that you would be”— her hand sweeps toward the edge of the mattress, and him with it— “You would want to be closer. If we were…”

Together, she fails to manage. Or maybe, like that. But certainly not, having sex, or, heavens forfend, making love. Not when he could just glance over and watch her make the words with her own mouth. The same one he’d kissed early, and she— she really should stop thinking about that.

Every muscle of his back stands out in relief, obvious without shirt or sheet to obscure it, practically stone-carved as he murmurs, “I wonder…”

An odd answer, even for him. “Obi?”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Miss,” he says, louder, voice rising and falling with its usual lilting sing-song. “I’ve never been what you’d call a post-coital cuddler.”

“Really?” She watches as each muscle loosens, not all at once, but a conscious relaxation of each group until he’s as languid and limber as a cat. “Then what did you do after, um…?”

A foolish thing to ask, far too personal, but Obi’s teeth flash in the dark as he flips to his back. “Look for an exit route, usually. I told you, Miss, I wasn’t the sticking-around type.”

Her mouth is too dry as he scoots toward her, the muscles of his stomach tensing and releasing with every sinuous scuttle. It’s a simple movement, silly even, and yet she still blurts out, “But you stuck around here.”

He stills, not even his breath lifting his chest— and then his smile widens to all teeth. “Well, you haven’t taken me to bed yet.”

“We’ve slept together,” she reminds him, those cold Lyrias nights a lifetime away from Tanbarun’s humid heat. “Plenty of times.”

“Th-that’s different, Miss,” he splutters, wide eyes darting toward her before he falls back on his pillow, the ceiling infinitely more interesting. “That’s just sleeping. Not…”

Participating in not-sleeping activities. The kind that often brought to young women to the pharmacy, for one reason or another. Ones she knew all too well, thanks in part to Garrack and her comprehensive lesson plan-- and another, much larger part to Suzu’s concerted effort in slithering out of any consult that might call for a professional recounting of both the birds and the bees.

“That’s still not very convincing,” she says, eyeing the gulf of silk between them. “The space I mean. If we’re supposed to have…ah, I mean if you had just been intimate with, um…” Lover is a whip crack of a word, a goad and a shock rather than a position, but partner is as sterile as the tools she keeps in her kit, not enough for what she means. “Someone…”

That’s worse; a withered flower in lieu of a bouquet. So bad, in fact, that Obi barks out a laugh, his whole chest shaking with the effort of keeping the rest from pouring out.

“I think you mean,” he hums, hands hooked behind his head, the molten gold of his eyes pouring towards her. “If we made love.”

Her hands flex against the mattress, and, ah, he didn’t need to— to make it sound like that. Like they were already skin-to-skin, the rough pads of his fingers catching on her spine, breath rasping in her ear as he—

“You would want to hold them closer, wouldn’t you?” The words squeak out of her, and she clears her throat before adding, “If you had just…just finished.”

There’s that glint of teeth, a knife’s edge in the moonlight. “Didn’t I just tell you, Miss? I wasn’t the sort to hang around after all was said and done. Always been the type to be more interested in the doing than the saying.”

*

(“Impossible.” Most people with a pedigree disdain the sort of noises that imply organs— or, ancestors forbid, mucus— but Miss Kiki snorts with relish, disdain saved solely for doubting him. It’s almost romantic, when Obi thinks about it. Makes a man feel special. “You’re in love with the sound of your own voice.”

It’s an ambush he doesn’t expect— a whole year talking up each notch on his bedpost to every uniform that would listen should have borne the sort of fruit that would make the dear Lady Seiren smirk over her glass and drive Sir choke on his. But instead it’s his tongue that gets tangled up, protest perched right at the precipice, flirting with the fall—

It’s not love, it’s that everyone’s too busy paying attention to your mouth to bother watching what the rest of you is up to—

Ah, damn. He’s had one too many tankards tonight if he’s already starting to reach for that top-shelf honesty. Obi sets down his own cup, too precise to be casual— a detail that won’t be escaping the iron trap of Miss Kiki’s mind, even if she saves him the trouble of calling him on it.

“I wonder,” he hums instead, smoothing the edges with his smile. “A man in my line of work learns to be silent, don’t you know?”

“I sure don’t,” Master mutters, fingers already pressed to his temples. “When does that happen?”

“I could be as quiet as a church mouse,” he insists, with all the gravity of a marquis. Well, at least the kind he’s had the displeasure of knowing.

“They squeak,” Sir offers, nursing yet another sip of his ale, and honestly, he might have taken offense, if only Miss Kiki didn’t add, “I’d bet he honks.”

“Honks?” Obi squawks— a noise at least a decibel nicer than honking. “You think I honk when—?”

“I think it would kill you to be quiet.” Miss Kiki’s tongue lashes him with the same unerring precision as her sword. “I’ve heard there are fishes who have to keep swimming to keep afloat. Maybe you have to keep talking in order to breathe.”

“I’ve been quiet loads of times,” he insists, even though he’s got to admit, there’s not many that come to mind. “I could probably be quiet all day, if I—”

“I think,” Master groans, drinking down the dregs of his own cup. “That I’d like to talk about anything else.”)

*

The night paints Obi in tiger stripes of light and shadow, the flex of muscles beneath skin giving them a hint of movement, like swaying stalks of long grass. Laying like this, a hint of his smirk still stalking the corner of his lips, it’s impossible to say whether he’s more a dangerous predator or indolent house cat— maybe both, in equal turns. He had played pet all too well the first time they had come here, only to shed his collar the moment her hand was out of reach, chasing her across half the country and out to sea. He’d cut a man down, right in front of her, but—

But he’d never turned his claws on her. Not since that arrow sunk itself into the wall, at least. If anything, he’d been too cautious about the way they touched, as if the barest brush of skin against skin might mark her, might leave her bruised.

Maybe he was right; even now the pressure of his lips still lingers, firm enough she’s sure she could lift her fingers and feel the dints where they had laid. His hands may settle softly onto silk sheets now, but the specter of them still burns over her cheeks and chin, scalded from where he cupped them. A whole handprint curving right around her jaw and up into her hair, tingling as if he still hovered there, just out of touch.

It’s distracting. Maddening. At least it must be, for her to say, “But you would, wouldn’t you? If it was me?”

There might be a gulf between them, a sea of silk it seems impossible to cross, but she’s still close enough to see the ripple of her stone’s throw, every muscle tensed into stark relief. It lasts for the length of a blink, the duration of one of her quick-caught breaths before easing, one by one, back to smoothness, his striped skin a still lake once again.

“I guess you have a point there, Miss,” he admits in his playful sing-song, but yet— his lilt is just out of key, too sharp in places and flat in others, like a piano fallen out of tune. “If it were you, I might hold on and never let go.”

It’s the same as that night, years ago— the way his fingers brushed over his chest, not bare as it is now, but covered in the unrelenting black of his formal dress. The way his voice lowered, not quite himself, to whisper, Will you hold onto it for me?

Why don’t I keep holding onto all of you, she’d decided, arms wrapping around a body that felt so much more solid than it ever had before. Just like this?

“Obi...” It's half a warning, half a wish, catching in her throat as he scoots along silk. He doesn't gently sweep of her into his arms, the way Yuzuri's books lived to linger on, but scoops— no, manhandles her until she’s half sprawled over him, head tucked into his shoulder and legs tangled together.

“There,” he huffs, chest expanding against the back of her fists, balled up between her sternum and his side. “That better?”

“Ah…” It’s certainly more convincing, but better made for a harder metric. Especially when there suddenly seemed to be so much more of Obi than she remembered. “Yes?”

“Good.” His head falls back on the pillow, every sharp angle of his face utterly spent, as if she were the one that manhandled him, and not the other way around. “I don’t think I can get much closer to you without Master asking me to draw swords at dawn.”

It’s such a simple excuse, one he’d used a half dozen times before. What would Master say, Obi would laugh, stepping out from under her hand, or, I think Master won’t be pleased when he finds out about this, when yet another lord took them for lovers. For years, she would tilt her head, trying to puzzle out which angle made them seem too close, what small gesture might be deemed too affectionate for friendship, but then—

Then Lord Eisetsu had found her in Obi’s room, looking between them with the wide eyes of a rumor well-proved and she— she blushed. “I don’t think Zen has any right to concern himself with how close we choose to be.”

“Ah…” The muscles of his abdomen jolt against her thigh, only a scrap of linen to obscure their sharp edges before they smooth once more. “Of course not, Miss. Must have drank more than I thought to forget…”

That he left her. That they’re only in this spot because Tanbarun’s ears are too sharp in Izana’s court.  “It’s all right. I don’t”— mind, she means to say, but the lie of it sticks to her teeth— “it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he grunts, the sound harsh against her knuckles. “If he was going to lay all this on you, he should have come north. Or at least let you go back there when it was all said and done.”

“It’s not Zen’s fault we’re here.” Her eyes angle up, fixing on the way his throat bobs as he swallows his anger. “Izana’s the one who sent us. And if we’re being fair, Raj is the one who sent the invitation.”

“What would have been fair is letting Yuzuri at him after—”

“Obi.” His stomach tenses beneath the press of her palm, the more thickly settled dark hair crinkling under her fingertips. “It’s fine. There was no good way for this to happen, but it had to. I’m only happy that everything was…civil, in the end.”

His laugh pulses against her hand, so low, so soft that her stomach churns, confused by the heat of it. “You might try being civil with me, Miss.”

“I…?”

His fingers wrap so gently around her wrist, guiding it from his stomach to his chest. She frowns, brow furrowing, nearly about to ask, how have I been anything but friendly—?

But then she feels the heady thrum of his pulse against her palm, and, ah, perhaps she'd been too friendly with that touch. Her fingers curl, catching in the sparse hairs on his chest—

(“Where’d you get those?” Yuzuri scoffs, sweeping past Shirayuki’s side to take a choice seat on the training yard’s rail. Makiri’s been working the trainees hard this summer— letting them sweat out the weakness, Jirou had laughed, the last time they’d been by— and even the officers are down to skin and trousers now, sweat pouring off them like snow down a mountainside. “I thought you couldn’t grow a single hair to save your life.”

Obi grinned, toweling off with the cloth she’d handed to him before taking one of their iced teas for good measure. “Try getting close to the wrong side of thirty. Couldn’t miss ‘em even if I wanted to.”

Her nose wrinkles, hiding a faint spray of summer freckles in their folds. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.” )

— and just barely resist the urge to drift lower. It would be a more natural sprawl, for one. And for two—

Obi’s palm presses her hand in place, fingers lacing them tight. “Good night, Miss.”

“Obi…” His eyes are already shut, the frantic tattoo of his heartbeat lulling into a more sedate hum.

Will you hold onto it for me? Her fingers squeeze his tight as she answers, if you'll let me. “Good night.”

*

Obi comes to consciousness the way leaves float downriver: meandering, mindless, and to the downright incessant song of the birds outside his window. Awareness only comes to him in dribs and drabs; first the smooth silk pressed into his back, then the scent of oleander and jasmine wafting on the warm breeze, then the strange sense of contentment brewing in his chest. A comfort he’s tempted to sink into— wallow in, until sleep finally deserts him.

Not the sort of thing that’s part of his usual morning routine, that’s for sure. Maybe he’s been drugged— they like that sort of thing here, don’t they? Putting things into drinks and letting it sort itself out the next day. He’s immune to most of the usual sedatives— at least the kind that weren’t applied by a firm whack to the back of the neck— but clearly someone’s done their research. Be a pity to ruin all their hard work by waking up.

He shifts, mind sloshing, and ah— seems he’s the culprit here. Or at least, the two or three bottles of fine Tanbarun red he’d polished off himself, trying to keep up with Prince Raj. Obi’s no lightweight; Kiki and Sir would have seen to that over the years, if his natural talents hadn’t already shined through, and Lyrias’s top brass had kept him honest when they couldn’t do the job, but well…he’s flirting a little close to thirty to be playing such a young man’s game. His knees ache now when he takes those hard landings, and sometimes he’s even got to stretch before—

Nails prickle over his chest, a small hand flexing right over his heart, and haah, he’d had quite a few last night, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t indulge in anything to put him out that pleasant. But the warmth pressed to his side begs to differ, soft curves snug against his ribs and a too-smooth thigh thrown over his hip, knee dangerously close to a part of his anatomy that’s already starting to get ideas.

His eyes slit open, catching bare shoulders and candy apple red spilling across his chest, and his heart near stops. Well, fuck.

Miss complains about the sudden jerk of her pillow, snorting and groaning and rolling to keep his shoulder pinned beneath her. It’s enough commotion to make the bird song outside the window stutter— just like his heart— and the covers shift, baring not more skin but linen. The last night comes barreling back at him; not just I don’t think the maid will be convinced by you wearing buckskins to bed, and you know I prefer to sleep in the nude, but, most devastatingly, I trust you—

He nearly misses the clatter by the door.

Obi’s not fool enough to crane his neck toward the slightest sound, but he does let his head tilt, just so. Enough to catch black-and-white from the corner of his eyes, and the silver spilled out across the floor. Ah, so that’s what really woke him: the maid’s come, breakfast in hand, to fill the basin and pull the blinds. And spy for His Majesty, of course.

Mischief curls at the corners of his mouth. Well, if His Majesty wants a show, then Obi would hate to disappoint.

The sheets he’d been so careful to tuck around Miss’s shoulders last night— after she’d fallen asleep, her kitten snore muffled in his side, and every inch of his skin had felt electric under her touch— ruck around his waist instead, leaving only the most interesting bits to the imagination. He makes a real production of it, groaning and stretching and letting every bit of the muscle seven days of weekly training carved into him have its day in the sun. By the catch of breath by the basin, it doesn’t go unappreciated.

Step one, complete. He doubts the king’ll be hearing about this part, but it’ll set the tone for the rest of the gossip this girl pours in his ear. Margravine Entaepode’s shameless lover makes for a more scandalous story than our guest’s living bedwarmer.

The next bit is harder— in more ways than one. There’s no natural way to roll up to his hip, for one, not when Miss is clinging to him like soil to a root, unwilling to cede a single inch to him unless he moves her first. She seeps into every space he manages to make with no more than a disgruntled huff, burrowing more tightly than before.

In the end, he has to half pull her on top of him first, then roll as single unit from flat to upright. From there he’s got to sling her leg over his hip; an easier proposition a few minutes ago, before he crushed all that soft girl flesh against his chest, and certain parts started to take notice. Now he’s got to negotiate that freckled thigh of hers around his cock, so hard it strains against the strict binding of his drawers, dying to bury itself somewhere, anywhere that resembles warm flesh.

He manages it, though. Gracefully, even. Almost natural, he’d say, until—

Until the much looser fabric of her chemise rides up, no longer nestled between her thighs but pulled taut across them, the rest of it trapped between her and the mattress. Her wet heat splits over the muscle of his thigh, only the thin linen of his drawers to keep them from being skin-to-skin, and he— he groans.

Between this and the kiss last night, it’s the closest he’s come to a good fuck in years. A mortifying thought-- made worse by how every lick of good sense in him scatters the moment Miss squirms closer, her heavy breath skittering over his neck. There’s already barely enough space for a breeze to pass between them, but one jerk of his arms traps her breasts against his chest-- all the encouragement his cock needs to test its restraints.

Really, all this following Miss around, playing at being a good knight has him strung tighter than he was at thirteen and just discovering what five minutes alone and some imagination could pull out of him. One hard twitch wins it enough play to jut right into her belly, which would be bad enough, really, if only—

If only she didn’t squirm into it. And he didn’t let out a noise more at home on a wounded mutt than a man.

There’s another clatter— trays being set down too hastily on the side board, by the sheer amount of jangling silver, setting his teeth on his edge— followed by hasty heels and the hurried slam of the door.

Haah, well— that's one way to complete step two. His Majesty will definitely be hearing about this one.

He just has to hope it's only the one on this side of the border.

*

It’s not the birdsong that rouses her— though it’s loud enough; a pair of nightingales scolding each other right outside the balcony doors. There’s a bunting there too, chattering as if it were only a friendly neighbor, come to mediate between another two, but the whole conversation takes place at a pitch that would cause dogs to howl and cats to pace. Shirayuki, however, simply turns over; it’s nothing compared to the jackdaw that’s taken up residence outside her room at Lyrias, arguing with every swallow and rock dove and crow that comes close enough.

No, what finally drives her from sleep is the empty space her hand finds when it splays out, searching for a place to perch. For the lack of warmth curled against her side, blankets smooth over the space where a body should be.

She lifts up her head, disoriented. This isn’t her room at Lyrias— she’s in Tanbarun now; Raj's guest of honor, complete with a set of chambers that would prove it. A carved bedstead with curtains, fashionable paper on the walls, and a balcony that looks out over the woods she’d run through that night, over half a decade ago. The only thing that’s missing from it is— “Obi?”

“Here, Miss.” He wheels out from the parlor door, toast in hand, one cheek bulging around what she assumes is the rest of it. “Seems they brought both our breakfasts to your room.”

“O-oh.” It’s too early for her to try to parse out all the layers of that, but at least it seems that the domestic staff have noticed their…cohabitation. Though whether it's made its way to the king’s ear is a different matter entirely. “I suppose I do have the bigger parlor.”

Obi snorts, sauntering out from the shadows to her bedside, bare chest a burnished bronze in the light from the balcony. “And the bigger bed.”

Her mouth is too dry when she says, “They looked about the same size when I was in there yesterday.”

“Right you are, Miss. Same size down to the sheets.” He slants her a hooked sort of grin, one that sets a simmer right beneath her skin. “But I think in these sorts of situations, it’s the knight who kneels for his lady, and not the other way around.”

It would be easier to talk, if her tongue didn’t have to be peeled from the roof of her mouth. “I don’t see…?”

“Let me put it this way, Miss,” he says, far too amused, and bare chest much too defined where he sits. “There’s only one of us who comes when they’re called.”

It’s terrible how quickly the heat fills her cheeks, hot enough to cook her own set of toast— and char it too. “I-I listen to you. When you call for me.”

He hums, taking another thickly buttered bite. Her own stomach grumbles with envy. “When it suits you.”

Hardly a fair assessment, when he’s the one that’s been leading her around these part few days, taking her to task when she extends too far past their plans, but—

Ah, hm. Her brow furrows. This is the sort of argument that shouldn’t be picked on an empty stomach. “Do you sleep well, at least?”

If she had blinked, she would have missed it— the flinch before Obi turns all smiles, playful lilt pitch-perfect as he says, “Like a baby.”

Shirayuki frowns. “Really?”

There’s a small hesitation, a flicker of his eyes to the doors, the windows, before he settles into a much more rueful grin. “Sleeping wasn’t the problem, Miss. Getting out of bed, though…”

*

(It’s a miracle that keeps Miss from waking as he slips out from the bed— and the tangle of their limbs. Ones she tightens as he begins to pull away, like the vines they’d grown in the hot house that one year, until they’d found one of the city’s stray cats mewling in its tendrils. Shidan hemmed and Suzu hawed and Kazaha dug in his heels, but eventually, Miss convinced them to forgo whatever medical advancements murderous vines might provide until the university board saw fit to provide them with a more secure location to cultivate them.

Which they hadn’t in the three years since they’d had him lug the things out with the other brush to be burned, but that’s neither here nor there. And hardly something he’s got time to think about, when Miss keeps growing two hands for every one he manages to pry off.

With one last gentle sweep of his wrist— and a disgruntled whimper from Miss— Obi finally disentangles himself, snatching his trousers from the floor before she can figure out a way to grow longer, stickier limbs to grasp him with. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, but from a safe distance; a lump wedged at his back when the braziers burned too low and only the heat of two bodies could keep out Lyrias’s chill. A belligerent hillock of blankets when Suzu flagged him down after a late night of celebrating, asking if he’d go check on their star pharmacist— or else she’d be late for her shift. But this…

Well, he’d have a whole new reason to keep her at arm’s length tonight. One that didn’t have to do with how much he’s struggling to button his trousers.)

*

“Don’t worry about it, Miss.” He waves her off before she can open her mouth to ask, popping the rest of his toast past his teeth. “You’ve got what they call ‘more pressing concerns.’”

Shirayuki squirms upright, settling her back along the pillows. “Do I?”

Both of Obi’s narrow brows hike right to his hairline. “At this point you’re made of them.”

“Well, I suppose Raj’s father is trying to make me queen.” An utterly strange sentence for a girl who, six years ago, barely knew anything of her country’s royalty besides a few names and the way the king's profile carved into her fingertips as she clutched every last penny. “But besides all that…”

Obi snorts. “And your cousins are trying to kill you.”

“No one has tried to—”

“Yet.” It’s impossible to miss the look he gives her, fond and frustrated all at once. “And that’s not even getting into your social schedule…”

She blinks. “My what?”

“The maid brought the post in with breakfast this morning. Seems like you’re a popular young lady, Miss.”

A shower of cards rains down onto her lap, the scent of rose and lilac and a dozen less overpowering scents wafting up from their envelopes. Her hands hover half-curled above them, uncertain; Shirayuki could compose protocols and troubleshoot pesky variables with the best of them, but she’d never had what she would call an analytic mind, the way Kazaha does. She might do well enough sifting through her own day-to-day data, or casually compare observations while wading waist deep in the morass of her own journals, but she could not sit surrounded by stacks of numbers and compose correlations the way he could. Strategy was a skill, and staring at this scattered array of invitations, she realizes— it’s not one she’s cultivated. Not in the way a woman born to this world would have. Not in the way she would need to navigate it.

“What am I supposed to do?” she murmurs, splaying her hands over the mess. “A real lady would be able to tell which card came from whose desk with just a glance and a whiff of the glue. But I…?”

Can’t. That’s what she meant to say. But she knows what she means is, don’t want to.

“Will have to open them one at a time.” She glances up, right into the same he’d worn that day outside Makiri’s office. It’ll be fun, he'd said, and it wasn't, not even a little, but she'd come out of it better a better ally than she'd gone in. For all that it had mattered, in the end “Good thing your trusty knight brought you the kind of blade that can cut through these things like Sir’s sword through Hisame’s shoulder.”

She doubts Mitsuhide would appreciate the comparison— not when he’s so adamant that it’s all water under the bridge at this point— but she barely gets the opportunity to muster an, “Obi!” before he brandishes said blade before her: a letter opener, silver and filigreed, and almost certainly not hers.

“Courtesy of the Little Highness,” he assures her in his most cultured tones, though she can’t possibly imagine when such a gift might have been tendered. Knowing Obi, it was probably best to not. “Now give one of those things over here. I think one of ‘em might be for a horse race, and I’ve—”

“We are not going to a horse race,” she informs him firmly. The last thing she needs is Obi trying to trade favors among Tanbarun’s nobles the way he did with Lyrias’s guards. “And I’m perfectly capable of opening my own mail, fancy opener or not.”

“Think of my reputation, Miss. If you scrape up those little fingers of yours, what would everyone say? That your knight wasn’t taking proper care of you, that’s what.” He doesn’t wait for her to hand him an envelope, instead seizing on a thick one faintly citrus smell before sliding the knife beneath the seal. “Ah, this is the one for the picnic Little Highness is putting on. Tomorrow, before all the ball claptrap. We’ll have to put on a good show.”

Shirayuki blinks. “Show?”

“Miss, haven’t you heard anything about the princess and her set?” He shakes his head, tongue clucking behind his teeth. “They run fast and loose, and if we want to convince them that there’s some...extra care going on behind closed doors, well…”

“T-that shouldn’t be a problem.” She doesn’t dare look at him when she says it, but she can feel it— the way his eyebrows raise, surprised. “We convinced Raj last night, didn’t we?”

“We did.” It’s careful, the way he says it, like the ice is too thin under his feet. “Though I don’t suppose we'll need to go that far. Unlike His Highness, that bunch can read between the lines.”

She nods, ignoring the strange swoop in her belly as she says, “I’ll tell her we’re going.”

“Doubt you would have had much of a choice.” His mouth hooked as he tore open the next envelope. “The Shenazards aren’t known for giving them. Ah, this one is from the Countess Katares—”

“Nereida?” Her nose wrinkles. “We just had lunch yesterday.”

“And she is inquiring after brunch today,” Obi informs her, “along with a post-meal ride around the grounds. I bet if you played your cards right, you might even get dinner out of it.”

If there had been one thing Raj had impressed upon Shirayuki during her visits to Tanbarun, it was that one must not appear desperate to make a person’s acquaintance. It was fine enough to seek out a morning stroll one day and perhaps dinner the next if you were eager to make friends, but lunch precluded an invitation the next day for all but the most bosom companions. For Nereida to ask her now— “Can I see that?”

“Sure thing, Miss.”

The letter folds over her hand as he passes it, but a quick flick sets it to rights. It’s just as he said: brunch with a fortifying ride after, and a heavy implication that it might run into the evening hours—

The exercise might help you keep up with your strapping young night, she adds, so helpful. I’ve heard the ones in Clarines are quite vigorous.

Heat slaps itself across her cheeks, so hot she must be giving her hair a run for its money— and though he’s too busy slicing open the next seal to look at her, the twitch at the corner of Obi’s mouth tells her he’s well aware why. “Ah…well, you don’t need to worry about this one, Miss. Nothing of note here—”

“It’s no use,” she tells him, “I can see Milan’s signature from here.”

Her cousin is hardly subtle. But neither is Obi, the way his mouth twists up, like he’s taken a hearty bite into a lemon, rind and all. “You already had dinner with him last night. He doesn’t need to get greedy. Listen, why don’t I handle tendering your most heartfelt regrets, Miss, and you can—”

“Read the invitation you’ve hidden in your pocket?”

His smirk stiffens with all the subtlety of rigor mortis. “Ah. So you noticed.”

“You did a good job trying to distract me.” Between the bare expanse of his chest and the suggestive contents of Nereida’s letter, he’d nearly managed it too. “But you’ve got a better memory than me for things like house crests…and personal seals. If you’d seen Milan’s in the pile, you would have already had it taken out with the trash. Unless there was an invitation you wanted me to see less.”

There’s not a shred of contrition in his star as he pulls out another envelope— nearly as fine as Rona’s, with a sweeping hand curled across the front— and hands it to her, offering her the opener handle-first. With a swipe, she opens it, and she doesn’t need to see it fully unfolded to know why he’d scurried it away before she could miss it.

Sincerely, that same steady hand writes, every loop precisely placed, Theodosia.

“Obi…”

There's no contrition in the way he shrugs, only resignation. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

[jreads]

Unexpected Constellations (Part 13)

Rating: M (18+, Minors DNI)

Word Count: 6.8K

Warnings: The usuals: Angst (obviously), Foul language, I'm not saying anything else but EVERY WARNING IN THE MASTERLIST APPLIES. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.

A/N: Finally. A chapter I actually like. As per usual, comment on this post or the masterlist to get added to the taglist. I'll put another note at the bottom but for now, get on out there and have fun. xoxo

You spent a full day in Fett’s bacta tank. A full day. Fennec had suggested it, citing that they really had no idea exactly what had been done to you on that starship.

No one knew what they had done to you. 

He didn’t know what they had done to you.

What had they done to you?

From the outside you looked alright, apart from a few darker bruises on your knees and legs. But he remembered the way you had thrown yourself at him, the way you had screamed. It was burned so vividly into his mind that—the one time he had tried to rest—the memory of it had sent him gasping into consciousness. 

Day had melded into night again, and you still had not woken. Boba had insisted you stay in the guest suite, a spacious and lavish room atop the Daimyo’s palace. The bed was soft, and the sheets were silk, and it was quiet… peaceful. He sat in a chair by the window, looking out over the sand, trying to pretend that he was simply enjoying the view. Not scanning the dunes for possible threats.

Fennec was bringing his meals up into the room so he could eat. Since you were asleep, it wasn’t a breach of the creed if he took his helmet off, right? Truly, it was the very last thing he was worried about. 

He wanted to go pick up Grogu, but he couldn’t leave you alone. Wouldn’t. Shand offered to make the run down to Mos Eisley, but he refused. She had done more than enough already. Still, she had sent word to Peli Motto, that everyone was on-planet, and that he would be back as soon as possible. He would be back. Not you. Because there was no guarantee.

Din turned from the window to check on you, even knowing you wouldn’t have moved an inch. You looked serene in sleep, angelic, bathed in the light of three moons. 

You left me! YOU LEFT ME!

It seemed to echo around the edges of his mind. His heart palpitated at the memory. Your eyes had been yellow when he found you. The Imps had convinced you that he had gone willingly, sold you off like chattel. What was worse was that you had believed them. The possibility that, in the back of your mind, you still might. It made him nauseous.

He should have made sure you were safe. He should have been honest about how he felt. He should have ensured that you would never question his loyalties. He should have, he should have, he should have. Din fell asleep running through all of the things he should have done but didn’t.

Everything was unfamiliar.

You woke in a large room, the shape of a semicircle, a curved wall of high, arching windows in front of you. They were flung open to let in a breeze, and the linen curtains that flanked them floated like ghosts.

Three moons sat low on the horizon… Tatooine then. You began to piece the past and present back together. Ornate patterned rugs littered the stone floor, a platter of fruit—half-eaten—sat atop a low table at the foot of the bed.

The bed. It was huge, sprawling over at least a third of the back wall. And silky, like a rain cloud. It almost unnerved you, having become so accustomed to the rough padding of the Crest cot.

Luxury. In a place like Tatooine, it could only mean one thing. You were at Fett’s palace. 

Safe? You weren’t sure. Was it true, what Shand had said aboard the frigate? What reason would she have had to lie? Credits?

You were still too weak and tired to try another escape plan. Instead, you inventoried the room looking for something, a bread knife perhaps, anything to use if you needed to defend yourself—

He was so still that you hadn’t even noticed him. Slumped in a leather armchair by the window, his helmet had partially lolled to the side. Asleep. You went cold, the breeze suddenly making you shiver.

You inhaled too loudly.

The helmet straightened and he swept the room, a move you knew was a scan for enemies. You felt an electric jolt when he landed on you, frozen in place, unsure whether you should bolt… whether you would even make it to the door before he caught you.

He stood from the chair abruptly, taking one step forward as if in a daze, your name a whisper through the vocoder.

You scrambled away into the headboard.

He reared back as if you had slapped him. The silence in the room was so deafening that it hurt. Din raised both hands and relinquished another step. He stumbled.

“Tell me the truth.” Your voice shook.

“Why do I feel like you won’t believe me.”

“Just tell me.” You were trembling… from the cold and the uncertainty. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I… I couldn’t.” He sounded raw.

You couldn’t trust yourself to be objective. Not with this. Because you believed him. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, you believed him. You cried silent tears.

“Okay.”

He swallowed audibly and you could see the shadow of his Adam’s apple bobbing under the edge of the helmet. But he was still so tense.

He turned and made for the door, taking a wide berth around you as if you were an easily startled creature. “I’ll go. Leave you to rest.”

No.

You found your voice just as he crossed the threshold. “Din, wait.” And he did.

“Please, don’t go. If I wake up again and you’re not here, I’ll think…” You couldn’t say it. “Just stay.”

He stared, unmoving, until it felt as if he had stripped you bare.

“You’re shaking.” You were.

“Just cold.”

“Do you want me to close the windows?” He moved towards the glass panes.

“No!” He jumped slightly at the intensity in your voice. “Sorry. I just… I need to feel the breeze.” But your teeth were starting to chatter.

You could feel sorrow from him. A horrible and tired kind, which twisted at your insides. 

He took a few hesitant steps in your direction. “May I?”

You nodded, wiping tears from your eyes. “Please.” The bed dipped as he sat on the side furthest from you. 

Warmth. Comfort. It radiated from him like it always had. Your Mandalorian. 

Maybe it was silly. Stupid. Maybe you were a fool. But when you breached that distance and wound your arm around his waist, flatting your body against his legs, the tremors eased.

He sighed, fingers finding your hair. Stroking tenderly. And for a moment, everything was fine. 

You drifted off once more just as the moons traded skies with the suns.

It was almost midday. Still, you slept.

Fennec had come in at some point to bring breakfast and widened her eyes at the sight: your body wound into Din’s like a stalk of ivy. She had smiled softly at him, and he had nodded once, in acknowledgement and thanks.

Hours passed.

By the time you stirred, stretching like a cat against him, he had figured out his plan.

“What time is it?” Your voice was rough with sleep, eyes still fluttering heavily.

“Not sure, just after sun’s peak.” You hummed in response, taking a deep breath. “You should eat something,” he pressed.

That got your attention. “Have you been eating?” The concern made him smile.

“Yes. I have.”

The stare you fixed him with was one of doubt. He had eaten, just not that much. He hadn’t really been hungry. And he knew you could see right through him.

“Eat with me?” It was more of a statement posed as a question. “I’ll turn around,” you amended.

You didn’t wait for his answer before detangling yourself from the sheets and crawling across the bedspread, reaching for the tray that Shand had left.

Stars, you were gorgeous. He instantly missed the feel of you against him. Oblivious, you turned back, placing the tray, laden with cured meats, cheese, and fruit, on the covers between you. 

He reached for the edge of the helmet, sliding it upward.

Your eyes squeezed shut as if you had been burned. “Sorry!” His mouth ticked upward. He’d let you interpret it however you wanted.

You had turned from him, sitting cross-legged on the bed, reaching blindly behind you with one arm to pick things up from the platter.

He laughed lightly, sliding it further toward you. “I can see just fine.” The breeze was pleasant on his face. The view was unbeatable.

“But you have to eat too.” Kriff, you were bossy.

“I will, cyare.”

There was a lapse of silence as you both fed. You were going fast, as if you were starved. 

Maybe you were.

He stiffened at the thought. “Take it slow.”

You laughed between mouthfuls. “It’s just really good. Was I in bacta? It always makes me hungrier.”

He didn’t want to know why you knew that. How many times had you been suspended in a tank? Anxiety gripped at him, hard. For more reasons than one. He called your name, trying to sound more assertive than he felt.

“Yeah?”

“I have something I need to show you today.” He shifted uncomfortably, all of a sudden too warm. “To prove myself. And what I said.”

“It’s okay.” Your shoulders had curled in on themselves. “I do believe you, Din.”

“No, but… But I have to show you this. You’ll understand, then. I promise.” Quiet. “I need to know that you don’t doubt me… not even a little.”

You huffed. “I don’t doubt you. If you had half as many credits as they said you did, you’d be on the other side of the galaxy by now. Some swanky penthouse on Coruscant.”

No, he wouldn’t.

He slid the helmet back on, grasping at your hand. It couldn’t wait. “Come with me.”

I felt nice to be back in the Crest, back home, even under such strange conditions. Din was so on edge that even you were getting anxious.

He was bent over a storage compartment in the hull, rifling around in whatever lay below, while you stood there somewhat awkwardly. Finally, he pulled out a wrapped bundle. Placed it on a crate. Cracked his knuckles.

It was about the size of Grogu, covered in an old, faded felt cloth that was pilling in places. It smelled like fire, like smoke.

“What is it?” He almost looked like he was shaking his head. “Din? Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry… okay.” Why was he so nervous?

“When I said I couldn’t leave you behind, I meant it. I couldn’t. By creed, I couldn’t.”

You didn’t know that much about creed rules. Just the basics. He was barely making sense. “I don’t understand—”

“I know. I know because I never told you. Because I was scared.” He paced in a small circle. Stopped. Started again. “That day you went to Canto Bight, I was late.” 

Canto Bight? That was days before any of this had happened.

“I was late because I went to Glavis. To the covert.” 

“But I thought—”

“I was cast out, I know.” He was being oddly expressive with his hands. “But I spoke to the Armorer. I told her…” He trailed off.

“What?”

Din pushed the package towards you. “It’s probably easier to explain if you just open it.”

His emotions were bordering on panic. You were worried about him. “Din—”

“Please.” It felt like he was begging. He was begging.

Okay. You reached for the edge of the fabric, unwrapping it slowly, listening to its contents clank together. Heavy. Cold. Silver metal with dark swirls.

Beskar. It was beskar. Your jaw just about hit the floor.

“They’re beautiful.” And they were… breathtakingly so. Vambraces, twin to each other, delicate but still imposing. The Armorer’s work had always been exquisite. 

He must have been able to read the confusion in your eyes because he grasped one, twisting it in your hold. “Here.” He pointed to a symbol on the inner wrist with shaky hands.

You looked at the horned creature, easily identifiable, and then back at him. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“The Mudhorn... My signet…” Was he meaning to say you were part of his family? That you had been since Canto Bight? It would make sense given the context but—

“It’s the closest my people get to proposal.”

Oh.

Oh.

It was like there had been a stopper on his words and—now that it was out—he could no longer control them.

“To share that symbol… it demonstrates a bond. One that our people don’t take lightly. It’s a promise to protect, to defend. To never leave behind.”

You were in shock. Real, honest shock. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes, instead staring down the gauntlets with blurring vision.

“To love.”

You broke down.

He had you by the shoulders. “Please, tell me you understand. I couldn’t leave you behind. It wasn’t possible.”

You were crying, hysterically. It was too much. To feel this all at once was lethal. You could die from it.

“I love you.” I sounded like he might be crying as well. “Do you understand now?”

You clutched him so tightly, in hopes that there would no longer be any telling where one of you ended and the other began. “Yes. Din, I do.”

You had embraced him with such force that he had stumbled backwards into the hull wall and slid down to the floor, taking you with him. And so you had cried into his armour as he held you, curled together like rose petals.

Your body was shaking with big sobs, but he could tell you were trying to calm down. To keep it together. You kept taking large breaths, as if trying to steel yourself, preparing to say something.

He ran a gloved hand over your back. “What is it?”

You sniffled and pulled away from him. “I have, um…” Tears had wet your cheeks and you wiped at them, eyes swollen and puffy. “I have something to show you too.”

Standing up was hard; he supported your elbow to help you up. You swayed a little, looking at him with a gaze that was a mix of something so deep, it felt as if he was being gutted. Taking unsteady steps to the cot, you reached into it, grabbing your pillow, opening the case, and pulling out a small slip of folded-up paper. ‘Mando’ was written on the front.

“When we landed in Mos Eisley, when I…” When you had almost left. “I wrote you this.” He took it from your outstretched fingers as if it were the most fragile thing in the galaxy.

“But when I decided to stay, I wasn’t… brave enough. So, I hid it.” He was already unfolding the parchment, though his eyes stayed on you.

“Wait,” you gasped. He stilled. 

“I can’t… be here when you read it.” You had gone timid, fiddling with your fingers, staring at the floor. “Just…” You backed away, to the ramp. “…come find me when you’re done?”

Din nodded. You practically fled.

Curiosity only allowed him to make it to the cockpit before starting to read, devouring the words with hungry eyes.

Din,

I’m sorry. For all of it. I know that this apology is not nearly enough to cover the damage I’ve caused you, but I hope you will accept it nonetheless. These years with you and Grogu have been the happiest of my life, but they have also made me selfish. I can see that now. I wanted to protect him and I wanted to help you, but the truth is I am just as much of a threat as whatever is out there. Your safety is the most important to me, so please understand why I’m doing this. Please be wary of the crystal, anything the dark side touches is dangerous and should be avoided.

Please don’t come looking for me. I’m sorry. I love you.

He read it once, and then again, and then a third time. And then over again, as many times as it took for each word to be imbedded into his mind forever.

‘…anything the dark side touches is dangerous and should be avoided.’ He knew you weren’t just talking about the crystal. But it was the last line that he dwelled upon the most, as if trying to find some hidden answer in the scrawls of your handwriting.

‘Please don’t come looking for me. I’m sorry. I love you.’ A thousand times he read that line. Insane. It was insane. The whole thing was insane.

He stood so abruptly that the chair swiveled. Boots on durasteel, one in front of the other. Out the cockpit, down the ramp, into the palace. He knew where to find you.

You had taken a shower, trying to calm the nerves, trying to ease the coil in your belly. He had been gone a while. What it meant was a mystery to you.

Fennec had left you clothes, a loose pair of shorts and a soft shirt, and you had put them on with shaky hands. What were you even supposed to do with yourself now? The responsible answer was rest, but there was no way you could go to sleep.

You stared out the window, across the Dune Sea, focused on nothing in particular. The heat of the day was passing, but the room had stayed relatively cool. Small blessings. Some animal tracks stretched across a crest of the sand. Bantha, maybe. You watched aimlessly, willing your mind to go blank.

What had you even said in that letter? You remembered the important parts of course, but what about everything else? Was it the right choice to let him read it? It was the honest truth, all of it, but what if—

Din’s footfalls were so fast and heavy that you whirled on him the moment he crossed the doorframe into the room. Closed the door firmly. Locked it.

And then he was ripping the helmet off, so fast that you saw a sharp jaw, a shadow of stubble before your mind caught up.

“Oh shit.” You squeezed your eyes shut, spun, clapped hands over your face. “Sorry.”

He barely let you finish. “Look at me.”

“No, it’s—”

“Look. At me.” He almost sounded angry. You had no idea what to say. He reached around you, gently grabbed your hands from where they pressed over your eyes. “I want you to look at me.”

Oh kriff, oh fuck, oh shit.

“Are you sure?” 

Impatiently, he turned you to face him. “Open your eyes.”

Finally, slowly, you obeyed. Blinked once. Twice.

What the fuck.

Maybe you had said it aloud, because in front of you stood the most beautiful man you had ever seen. The features you had traced before all started to make sense: the hooded eyes, angular nose, chiseled jawline, lowered brows. A divot between them, a smattering of facial hair. But it was his eyes. The irises. The deep warmth of them. Your mouth had parted in awe. You reached out to touch him. He leaned into it.

“Say it.” 

Oh, stars. 

“I love you,” you exhaled.

He groaned, and then kissed you with such a ferocity that it turned your bones to water. 

Fire ignited in your stomach as you kissed him back; his lips were soft, of course, but now you also knew that they were full, and impossibly carnation pink.

He crowded you against the stone wall, hitching your leg up to his waist and pressing you backward. His other hand was at the nape of your neck, cradling, angling so he could deepen the kiss. By the time you broke for air, you were both gasping.

“The letter…” he panted. “…it wouldn’t have mattered. I would have read it and tracked you to the ends of the galaxy.” He dipped his head to the curve of your neck. Placed one kiss there… two. “You wouldn’t have been able to stay hidden from me.”

It was like hyperspace. Like you were hurtling through stars and all you could do was hold on. So you held on to him. Threaded your fingers through his brown curls as he sucked at that sensitive spot just above your shoulder, and as he soothed it with his tongue. Your answering moan was downright lewd.

You couldn’t take it. Couldn’t handle one more moment not feeling his skin on your own. You started pulling at the buckles on his bandolier. 

“Do you want—”

You cut him off. “Yes.” It sounded desperate in your own ears. You had freed the belt with clumsy fingers, and it clanked to the stone floor. You wasted no time moving to his armour, the breastplate, the pauldrons. When you freed the cape and the cowl you threw them unceremoniously to the side, lost somewhere amongst the rugs, and pulled him back in for another searing kiss. He was laughing against your lips. 

It was hard work, stripping him down to the flight suit, and you had gotten frustrated in the process, pushing him backwards until his calves hit the edge of the bed. He sat back, pulling you with him, into his lap, thighs straddling his own.

“Slow down.” It was tender, teasing. 

“No,” you answered, spurring him along with a kiss, catching his lower lip between your teeth and griding down on him at the same time. He gasped into your mouth.

“You don’t play fair.” You swallowed his words, but he leaned backwards, just out of reach. Din cradled your face, tucking a lock back behind your ear. “I want to savour this.”

“What about what I want?” you challenged.

“What do you want? How far do you want to—”

“All of it. Everything.”

“You’re sure?”

You frowned at him. “Din. Please don’t make me ask again.” And then, before you could overthink, you pulled your top over your head.

Whatever he was going to say died on his lips as he looked at you. No, gaped at you. Ran his hands up your sides, then down again. Grasped at your hips. Whispered something sensual in Mando’a that sent heat rushing to your core. Nothing about the scars that littered your chest, abdomen and back. He just leaned in and kissed one atop your breast, a knife wound, and dragged his palms up your back to cradle your shoulder blades. 

“I’m dreaming.” It wasn’t a question that he whispered into your chest. “I must be.” Another scar, another kiss. “I dream about this often… about you.” His mouth moved to the valley between your breasts. “This is better though. This one is really good.”

You had to trap his face between your hands and guide it, so his eyes met your own. They had darkened, but still held that warmth of a fresh cup of brewed caf. “You’re not dreaming. Let me prove it to you.”

You moved to the zipper on his flight suit, dragging it down at a leisurely pace that was almost torturous. He wanted slow? You’d give him slow. 

Each inch revealed gloriously tanned skin, and the zipper stopped only as a trail of dark hair under his belly button started. You clenched around nothing. He was watching you watch him. Cocky, almost. 

Yes, definitely cocky. Because as you were reorganizing your thoughts, Din had tightened his grasp on your waist, and had started to drag you against him, the friction sending fireworks through you. Under any other circumstances, you might have been embarrassed by the sounds you were making. But it was him.

“I could watch you come like this. I like watching you come.” The words were so filthy, yet delivered so innocently. You gasped through parted lips. “Later… one day, I will.” It was a promise.

But instead, he lifted and flipped you expertly. Climbed over you, sliding you up the silk until your head met the pillows. Trailed a hand up your inner thigh, to cup you over your shorts. 

Holy shit. How could you find a way to touch all of him at once?

Somewhere in the haze, he had toed his boots off. The only thing that remained was half of the suit, the top of it hanging around his waist. You wanted to scratch lines into his back. You did. And felt his muscles flex under your nails.

Din was kissing down your chest again. Wet, messy kisses, on your clavicle, breasts, stomach, hipbones. Those fucking eyes met yours, crinkling at the outer edges, as he toyed with your waistband.

“Don’t tease me.” You lifted your hips for him.

“Whatever you say, my Alor.” Oh, you knew that one.

“I thought you were the Mand’alor?” It was meant to sound humorous, but it came out strangled instead.

In one fluid movement, he had pulled your shorts and underwear down, off your ankles, tossed them to the side. “I bow to you, don’t I?”

And he did bow, right there on the bed. It was different, being able to see him. How he watched you as his nose disappeared between your thighs. Absolute bliss. You arched into him.

“Stay still.”

“I ca—I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He licked a stripe up your center and you almost cried out. “Remember when you first joined me? You were still all the time. Like a statue.” He paused to flick at your clit with his tongue. “Even then, I used to think about you like this. Wondered if I could make you relax like this. I’d think about it when you were sleeping metres away from me.”

You were so wet it was mortifying.

“I used to curse myself for thinking about it.” He eased two fingers into you, holding your stomach down with the other hand. “But then you’d moan in your sleep. Were you dreaming about me? Hmm?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Good. Good girl.” The praise made you feel divine, like his words had washed away the years of darkness, of bloodshed. You could be good. You could.

But he curled his fingers inside you, and you lost the battle, canting your hips upwards. He was grinning.

“I need you. I need you. I need you.” You said it like a prayer, tugging at him with greedy hands. But he was lost in it, watching his own fingers pump in and out of you. So you did the only thing you could. You pulled him up, flipped him over. You must have used the Force because his dark eyes were now slightly startled.

But it only took him a moment to recover. To bring his hand up and place those two fingers, still coated in you, against your lips. He watched as you licked them clean, then asked: “Don’t you taste good?”

Flustered. You had no answer, mind going fuzzy. So you busied yourself working at his pants, easing them down, over his knees. Oh kriff.

You had wanted to toy with him, tease him the way he had you. But you weren’t so sure anymore. Now, you wanted to feel him inside you. You didn’t speak, didn’t dare even look at him as you lined yourself up, slid down, just the tip.

He had you beneath him again in a split second, pushing in, practically to hilt, the stretch euphoric. You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling back.

He stilled and you gasped. “What happened to going slow?”

Din whimpered. Actually whimpered.

“I know, Din… I know.” His head had dropped into the crook of your neck and he started moving, slowly but heavily, languid thrusts of his hips into your own. Each push was so deep, so visceral, that you could feel your body, your mind, rearrange to accommodate him.

The suns must have been dipping lower in the sky because the room filled with a heavenly light, bathing him in golden hues. Stars, the drag of him was almost too much to bear. Din’s earlier assertiveness was long gone, replaced with this raw, vulnerable energy. He was inside you, but you were inside of him. And it was beautiful.

Like a still lake, calm, a sunset skies’ warmth reflected in the smooth surface. Sex, desire, a ripple, making way to a tidal wave rolling towards shore. It grew and grew, instinct, fear, loss, insecurity. 

His breath was a rasp against your pulse point, movements getting faster, more purposeful. “You…You’re so good.”

Good. He knew what the word meant to you. 

‘You’re not evil.’ ‘You’re not a bad person.’ ‘I know you’re not, because you taught me that I wasn’t.’ ‘You don’t ever have to justify that part of yourself. Not to me.’ ‘We’re the same. You and me, remember?’ ‘I love you. Do you understand now?’

You crashed and burned as you came, the feeling so powerful that it brought tears to your eyes. You clutched him so close that he would probably have bruises later, maybe crescent-shaped indents where your nails had dug in.

He shuddered against you, tightening. Stars, you could feel everything, thoughts, feelings, the way he twitched every time you fluttered around him.

“Go on.” You urged him. “Come for me.” That was all it took.

Din lifted up and looked into your eyes. Kissed a tear away and then kissed you, burying himself so deep you swore you could feel him in your chest. He shattered.

There were no words for it, what you felt from him, what you felt for him. Everything else was inconsequential, the galaxy, the wars, light versus dark. This was it.

The two of you had collapsed together for minutes, speechless, just trying to catch breath. When he finally slid from you, you whined pathetically at the emptiness.

Din kissed you again before he rose from the bed. “I know, just let me clean you up.” A reply never came because you were too busy admiring his retreating figure. Wide shoulders, golden skin, narrow waist. You were still gawking at him when he made his way back.

“What?” He knelt beside you.

The lines in his forehead were pronounced. You traced them. “You’re beautiful.” He laughed as if he didn’t believe you, focusing on the task at hand.

You hissed lightly as he dragged a wet cloth over your sensitive skin.

“You okay?” There was real concern in his eyes, and it made you melt.

“Just sore,” you assured him, though that didn’t seem to lessen his worry. “It’s a good kind of sore.” He had the audacity to look bashful.

He was so gentle, wiping you down, discarding the cloth, lifting the sheets, and tucking you into his side. You were still looking at him. His cheeks had gone pink.

“So did you… re-break the creed?” It was your one concern.

“No.” Din smiled. “Well, not really. I guess I never properly asked.”

You propped your elbows under you. “Asked what?”

“About the gauntlets…” He surveyed you with a tender gaze. “Will you accept them?” 

Gesturing to the rumpled silk, you asked: “Was this not clear enough for you?”

His head shook slightly, and again you saw that disbelieving stare. You wanted to kiss it away.

“What does that mean for us? By creed, I mean.”

Din’s answer was simple. “That you’re mine. And I’m yours. Riduur, we call it. Perhaps it’s the equivalent of husband or wife, but to Mandalorians, it means more. It’s closer to something more like… like a soulmate.”

Soulmate. “So, you’re my riduur, then?”

There was a stupid smile on his face then. One that made him look younger. “Careful. If you keep calling me that, we won’t make it to dinner.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, riduur.”

You did make it to dinner, barely.

Watching him don the helmet again was like a punch to the gut, made tolerable only by the fact that you knew you could take it off as soon as the door closed again. Any time you wanted. You would never get tired of looking at him.

Since you had left the sanctity of your room, he had intertwined your fingers. A simple gesture, but one that felt magical, nonetheless.

Fennec had met the two of you just outside the kitchens, with a look that was knowing enough to make you shy. “You don’t mind if I borrow her, do you?”

Beside you, Din felt as if he might decline, stiffening slightly and tightening his grip on your hand, but a smile from you had him reluctantly handing you off to Shand.

“We’ll meet you in the dining hall.” It was a sweet dismissal. She beckoned you to follow her into the kitchen, handed you a small bottle.

“It’s a tonic,” she explained. “We have a few bottles brewed, so you can take some when you leave. It’s a monthly thing.”

Oh god. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.” She only nodded in acknowledgement. It was very thoughtful of her. But it left you wondering just how obvious it was, whether even the serving droids knew what had happened upstairs. Oh, maker. But a tonic… it was a good idea. 

You hadn’t even given it much thought, which was silly. But because of the stress and exertion and malnourishment of your past, your period had always come infrequently. It had evened out a bit on Sorgan, but it was far from regular. Regardless, if you and Din were going to be having sex, and you hoped you would be—a lot—then you should be taking something just to be safe. The two of you already had a child.

Boba and Din were already sat when you entered, engaging in conversation that seemed to abruptly end as soon as you and Fennec walked in. Interesting. You took a seat next to him, which may have been a mistake, because you could somehow feel the heat radiating off of him. You crossed your legs.

But, it was so nice. To be able to sit around a table with good company and have a meal. Din couldn’t eat, obviously, but had loaded a plate anyway, and would have it upstairs, later. With you.

Multiple times throughout the night you caught him staring, in that way that was identifiable only by a slight shifting of the helmet. But you knew him well enough to catch it. Riduur. Soulmate. The words clung to your psyche, even more as the wine started to go to your head. 

You had zoned out from the conversation, replaying the events of the day in your mind. Certain events in particular. Stars, the way he had sounded. The things he had said. He wanted to watch you come? You wanted that too. 

Din’s low voice broke your trance.

“Will you excuse us? I’m getting hungry.” The way he said it… the insinuation was clear. Fennec was biting her lip to keep from grinning as Din all but pulled you out of your seat, tray in the other hand. Shell-shocked, you could only trip after him. Boba’s laugh followed you up the stairs.

You were testing him. You were put in this damn galaxy to test him. 

He had been watching you, practically all evening, and it was beginning to border on torture. You had kept crossing and uncrossing your legs, squeezing your thighs together, nibbling at your lower lip. You weren’t even paying attention.

He was already hard and it was kriffing insane. Even the minute it took to get back up to the suite felt like forever.

“Din!” you were practically hissing at him. He dumped the platter of food on the low table and collapsed into the armchair, pulling you into his lap.

“Couldn’t even keep it together for one dinner?” He wished he could paint the mortified look on your face. “What was it, hmm? What were you thinking about?”

He dipped a hand into your pants, finding exactly what he expected. “Farrik, you’re fucking soaking.” With one finger, he pressed down on your clit. You slapped a hand over your mouth.

That wouldn’t do. “What was it?” He began to circle, slowly. “Tell me.”

Silence. You were trying, he could tell. “Words, cyare.”

Your upper body gave up, falling into him as you tried to reason through the pleasure. “I was thinking about what you said,” you admitted quietly into his shoulder.

“What did I say?” Faster.

You choked. “That you… that you liked to watch me.”

Din was grinning like an asshole under the helmet.

“While everyone was talking and eating their food… you were thinking about riding me in this chair until you came?”

You couldn’t answer, loosing whiny gasps into his shoulder. He felt drunk. This would never get old.

“You going to let me help you?” Incoherent, you just nodded against him. Good. He stood you up and tugged your pants down. You stepped out of them, all too eager. And you were fucking stunning.

Seeing you earlier in the late afternoon light, completely bare for him, was a religious experience. The scars—he had expected—but they had still struck such a deep chord in him that, for a moment, he had remembered who was tied up in the Rancor pit. And what Din planned to do to him.

You went to straddle him again but he stopped you, instead turning you around and pulling you back, so your spine was flush against his breastplate. The inside light was enough of a contrast that he could see your reflection in the glass of the open windowpane. Perfect. You arched against him impatiently.

He wound one arm around you, just beneath your breasts. “I know. I got you.” I took only the lightest of touches for you to let your head fall back onto his shoulder. From then on, you were absolute putty in his arms, squirming and whining as he toyed and teased. You watched his fingers as they finally plunged into you, but he watched your face.

The way your lips parted in a little ‘o’, eyebrows drawing together. Unbelievable. You were grasping at his vambrace absentmindedly, loosing a never-ending string of moans and ‘ahs.’ He had started to become acquainted with that spot inside you, the one that—if he hit it just right—would make you tighten like… that.

“Yes, right there.” You were undulating against him, grinding down onto his crotch so hard that he had to focus to keep control. Stars, he could hear it, how wet you were, and his ego seemed to swell with each audible movement of his fingers. He wished he had a free hand to dial up the volume on his helmet.

Din could see you losing it, hips stuttering, eyes going lidded. He wanted to bring you back. 

“Look at yourself,” he commanded. You did, meeting his gaze in the reflective glass. “Look how pretty you are.” Your shirt had bunched up under his arm; your skin was glistening with sweat. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” You were chanting, practically riding his hand, dripping. He could feel you getting close.

“Any time you get worked up like this, you tell me, understand?” You were nodding, over and over and over. “I don’t care if I’ve fucked you five times already. You want me? You tell me.”

“I’ll tell you. I’ll—” He had put his thumb back over your clit, effectively silencing you. He wanted to make you work for it.

“Promise me.” You were squeezing his fingers so hard he knew you were only seconds away.

“I promise, Din. I promise I promise I promise I…” Your body went rigid, face frozen in a silent scream. It was intense; he could tell just by looking at you. And he looked, at your face, at your lips, at his arm around your chest, at his fingers still inside you.

All mine.

As you relaxed, he held you. You took off his helmet and kissed him and he died. You said you had to shower, so he let you go, but you pulled him behind you—into the bathroom, out of the armour, under the spray. He fucked you against the wall, then licked you clean, then washed and dried you, as you shook a little from the overstimulation. 

You then chided him for forgetting to eat, so he did, and then finally, exhausted and sated, the two of you curled into each other under the sheets.

Taglist: @that-girl-named-alex @aavengingbucky @prismaticpizza @blub-senpai @a-phan-of-youtube @jaguarthecat @lizajane3 @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @graciexmarvel @soobinsrose @simply-maggie @alwaysdjarin @minky77 @tinytinturtle @tae27 @groguspicklejar @slightlyuglierbeyonce-blog @willow-t @abbyhaslongshorts @andrewshotspot @racetrackheart @leithatnight @messageinadaisy @lostinsideourminds @wren-2-d @goth-cowgir1 @aphterthoughtt @sleeplessskeleton @teawrites01 @dashlilymark @imherefordeanandbones @sunshine96 @kalea-bane @http-onie

A/N2: okayyy now that we're all on the same page... first proper smut scene ever how did i do. i literally wrote this so fast that i astounded myself, but it was like four days of my brain just being an extremely horny place. anyways i hope this felt warm and nice while still being a bit spicy. i hope everyone is as happy with it as i am. digital footprint in the toilet, there's no bringing her back now. anyway, if grogu or din dies next week i might never come back.

[talesfromawannabewriter]

Mistress of the Devil

Christmas gift for @libby-for-life based on the mistress au idea we came up with a few months ago.

Heels clicked against the tiles as a dark figure made his way through the castle in the dead of night. He slipped through the shadows, making sure that he was not disturbing the peace. Finally at long last he made it to his destination. The guards tensed when they heard someone approach. Only slightly relieved to see that it was just their king. 

Lucifer: Good evening to you gentlemen. I have come to pay a visit to my lovely mistress.

Guard 1: Our apologies my king but I’m afraid that he has already retired this evening. 

Guard 2: We can awaken him if you wish?

Lucifer: No need, I merely wished to see him and don't ever think such foolish thoughts again. My mistress needs all the rest he can get. Now if you’ll excuse me.

He waved a hand for them to move and they did. Even opening the doors for him. Before stepping through he turned and gave them a serious look. 

Lucifer: Remember. No one, not even the Queen herself is allowed in here when I’m here. 

They nodded and watched as he slipped through, closing the doors behind him. The room was completely dark, save for the moonlight coming through the open doors leading to the balcony. The linen curtains blowing softly against the evening breeze. He clicked his tongue, no, no that won’t do. His mistress could catch a cold if kept open.

 Or an intruder stupid enough to come here might crawl in. He would not let anything happen to his mistress. Especially in his condition. He closed them and then made his way over the large luxurious bed surrounded by thick light blue curtains. Thick enough so that nobody would be able to feast their eyes on the slumbering creature. 

Except for Lucifer of course. 

He waved his hand and the curtains drew back revealing the most beautiful being in all of creation. Adam slept heavily and peacefully snuggled underneath the soft, cotton blankets. Lucifer felt all the stress from the day wash away once his eyes trained on him. Especially when they landed on his swollen abdomen. A tender smile graced his lips and he reached over to rub it. 

Unfortunately it caused the man to stir and slowly flutter his eyes open. They adjusted a bit more trying to see who it was in the darkness. It soon became apparent to him that it was the king.

Adam: L, Lucifer?

Lucifer: Oh, my apologies Adam. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to drop by and see you before I headed to bed myself. Please go back to sleep.

Adam yawned and sat up, doing the opposite of what he was instructed to. The sheets fell down and Lucifer could see that he was wearing a short sleeping gown the same color as the curtains. It hugged his chest tightly, managing to keep them in place. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked toward his master with a tired but happy smile.

Adam: You were busy today?

Lucifer: (scoffs) That is certainly one way of putting it. Didn’t help that Lilith kept making it so I couldn’t see you today. But don’t fret my love. I'll be sure to visit you first thing in the morning. We can even have breakfast in the garden.

Adam: That sounds lovely Lucifer. (Yawns) I’m sorry but I’m extremely tired, our little one has been making it so I can’t relax for one second when I’m awake, even sometimes in sleep. Can you please leave? 

If it were anyone else in the entirety of Hell who spoke to Lucifer like that, no matter how nicely, he wouldn’t have hesitated and ripped out their spine and whipped them into oblivion with it. However, this wasn’t just anyone, this was Adam, his mistress, the mother to his future child. So he simply smiled and helped him layback down and feel comfortable. 

He gently massaged his belly and sang a soothing melody. Soon his mistress’s eyes were closed as sleep took once more. Gently, as to not wake him again, placed a small kiss on the bump.

Lucifer: Daddy loves you little one. 

He moved back up and kissed him on the cheek.

Lucifer: And I love you.

He backed away letting the curtains fall as he prepared for his departure back to his chambers, but not before one quick glance back to the bed.

Lucifer: Till tomorrow my mistress 

[violettduchess]

A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art

Cyran x Reader

WC: 638

Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps. 

Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.

The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him. 

"Cyran?" 

You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.

He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..

You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.

You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble. 

The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.

"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep. 

"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."

He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.

Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.

"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.

He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.

"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.

Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.

"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.

You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.

"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

[seafavoured]

❛ what is it you want this time? ❜ (blackrose, dnd, perhaps more smug smug smug after ed shows up at his door a second time lmao). @pyratezlife / ned.

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐄𝐃'𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 ? because he certainly didn't recall making a conscious effort to do so, and yet, here they were. he'd been lying in his own lovely, four poster bed for what felt like hours, trying desperately to will his mind and body to sleep. it was the most comfortable they'd been in months, with all the accommodations of ned's tower. so why did they have an easier time resting atop the cold, hard ground in the middle of a danger ridden forest?

everything in their room was perfect : a comfortable mattress strewn with soft pillows and fine, silk sheets, his favourite elderberry wine chilled by the desk with an assortment of sweets that looked as though they were straight from the bakery in that last quaint little town. the one edward had fawned over for their blackberry tarts and fresh bread. even the high ceiling of the room seemed to meld to an ever shifting canvas of stars, as if the night's sky were captured right here in this room. they had been saying just this morning how hard they found it to fall asleep without the twinkling little pinpricks of light above.

but no amount of luxury could help when their thoughts ran an endless gauntlet through their head. memories they would rather not focus on, no matter how ... pleasant. he'd eventually risen in frustration and left to stroll the maze of corridors, aimless. at least, that was the intent. apparently somewhere down the line, his feet had carried him straight to ned's door, where his fist deigned to knock.

they stood blinking at ned through the open doorway, like a deer caught in the headlights. hells, what the fuck was he doing here? why had they come? heat flushed his cheeks a deep plum hue as he bristled, horribly conscious of their bedhead and smalls and rumpled sleep shirt. ❛ nothing ! ❜ they cringed. it was said too quick, in a knee jerk reaction of self defense. suddenly rankled and on edge, wishing he'd at least redressed in his leathers before going for a midnight walk in the tower.

❛ nothing. why do i have to want something, just to come say hello? because i don't want anything, that is. ❜ they might as well have come equipped with a shovel, for the godsdamned hole he was digging. fingertips twisted idly in the loose linen of their shirt, his other hand carding through that mess of dark hair. ❛ why, what do you want? ❜ accusatory, as if they weren't the one to come knocking in the first place. ❛ because it certainly seems like you're trying for something, plying me with gifts like that. you don't need to give me special treatment, just because we fucked one time. ❜

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Dream - Chapter Three.

So, in case you see this post before the previous one, it’s double update day! if you haven’t read chapter two yet, go on back now *shoos you gently in the direction of previous chapter* :) I wanted to try and split this one as it is longer than usual, but it would have disrupted it too much. Besides, this is where things begin to come to the surface! Enjoy! 

Previous chapters - Prologue  One  Two

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed (note: those not engaging will be automatically removed from the tag list, FYI)

Words - 4,141

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Opening her eyes, Keri saw she was in a bedroom completely bathed in white, the sound of the ocean audible and the bed linen luxurious in feel, just as brilliant white and crisp as the rest of the room. Wherever she was, it was a gorgeous house, turning onto her back and stretching, her arm suddenly touching against something warm at her side. Turning her head, there he was within the bed, just as naked as she, and god, he looked good.  

She wanted to say something to him, but as usual, found herself falling into kisses, the heat of his skin sumptuous as they entwined beneath the sheets, his body covering hers, hands running down her sides. One simple shift, and he could be inside of her, his cock rigid at her hip, but he resisted the temptation. Reality Angel wouldn’t have had quite the same inclination.  

Pulling away, he stroked her hair, looking down into her huge eyes. “Tell me your name, who are you?”  

She attempted to speak, but was stumped, that feeling of a stone lodged in her throat returning to her. So, she just pressed her mouth to his again and felt his tongue circle with hers, a deep groan coming from his throat as his hands slid down, gently cupping at her breasts. The feeling of his thumb skimming over her nipple finally prompted her, a soft exclamation leaving her mouth, her eyes closing as she arched against his muscular, tattooed form.  

To her dismay, when she opened them again, she found herself awake, rubbing her eyes and reaching to her nightstand, switching her lamp on and opening up the little book she’d began to journal her dreams within. Although she was still half asleep, she was desperate to write down every last detail of the dream before she forgot it, her notes a little messy. Jaime would have fun deciphering such chicken scratch, she thought.  

By then she had a collection of sixteen dreams to show Frankie's girlfriend, one for each night since it had started fifteen days ago, and one more slotted in when she'd been lucky enough to have two in one night. Since it was a Saturday and they had planned to hook up to work on their project, Keri decided she had enough evidence of her dream life to show Jaime, so decided to put her journal into her bag before she forgot about it and go back to sleep for a few hours. It was only just gone 7am, after all.

Arriving at their little one-bedroom apartment further into Provo (she and her family lived right on the outskirts, up by the mountains) at just gone eleven thirty, she was greeted with a kiss at the door by Frankie, taking a croissant from the plate proffered forth, biting into it. Chocolate and cinnamon. Oh, her girl knew how to do breakfast.  

“Oooh, is that a dream journal I spy being taken from the bag?” Jaime asked from her spot on the couch, Keri handing it over and giving her a kiss on the cheek, laughing through her nose and wiping away the croissant crumbs she’d left behind.  

“You spy correctly.” She’d picked it up at one of the little gift stores in town, next door to the little chocolatier she worked at part time, enjoying a rare Saturday off since she was covering the Sunday shift that week instead.  

Plopping herself down on the luxe couch, which in fact was old and thread bare in places, only luxurious from the large, velvet throw and many, many pretty cushions the girls had adorned it with, Keri continued to eat her breakfast while Jaime opened it up and began to read, draping a leg over her thigh in her usual fashion as she got comfy, Frankie joining them to her other side.  

“Oh wow,” she began, studying the notes Keri had made. “This is in such incredible detail; I'll need some quiet time with it. I'll leave you two to chatter about photographs while I digest it, without having to listen to jargon about lenses and lighting effects.” Untangling herself, she stood up, barely tearing her eyes away from the page.

“Just because you don't know one end of a camera from another doesn't mean it's jargon,” Frankie scolded playfully, she and Keri spreading out across the extra room.

Jaime grinned, leaning down to kiss her girlfriend’s forehead. “It does when you don't give a shit into the workings behind the end result of a pretty picture.”

“Oh, with your blasphemy! Get out!” Frankie yelled comically, reaching out to smack her on the butt as she walked around the couch, heading towards the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m going.” she called back over her shoulder. And so while Jaime went to read through the notes Keri had provided for her, the girls sat on the couch and began to look through print outs they had done on a traditional camera, both commenting it had been fun to use the darkroom at college for developing the pictures themselves, and deciding they would do it again rather than relying so heavily on digital images.

While they talked all things photography related, the laptop being brought out once more, Jaime sat and sipped on a bottle of mineral water while reading through the series of excellently detailed descriptions of Keri's dreams. It became apparent pretty quickly that whereas she could perhaps interpret the meanings of the dreams based on the surroundings and actions, she couldn't answer the crucial question; why she dreamt of the same man time and time again, when he was someone she professed to have never seen before in her life.

Usually, as she understood it, when you dreamed of someone repeatedly, it was because that person had some kind of profound impact on you or your conscience. For example, when Jaime was five, she had reoccurring dreams about her little sister crying over the China doll whose face she'd accidently broken, but not owned up to. When she’d gotten into interpreting her dreams later in life, she had learned that it had represented her feelings of guilt towards upsetting her sister and not confessing to being the guilty party.  

Why Keri was having such intense dreams over a man who she’d never even seen before, let alone knew, she just couldn't work out. Not without a few of her books in front of her for resource, at least. Hopping from the stool at the small counter, she raced out and through to her bedroom, pulling a few volumes from the shelf and scurrying back once more, referencing the index and beginning to read.  

She found that sometimes, dreaming of a person you didn’t even know meant they could be a placeholder for someone they didn’t want to see, for whatever reason. The fact that Keri always ended up in a passionate embrace with the man was at odds with such a theory, though. Also, they could be a manifestation of the part of the self yet to be seen, so she read.  

“Perhaps he’s a symbol of strength? Big guy, muscles, he could be representing that.” she muttered to herself. She made notes as she went, sharing her thoughts once present in the lounge again.  

“Okay, so I have a few things,” she began, seating herself on the arm of the couch as she picked at her tangle of blonde dreadlocks. “He could be one of a few things. He could be a placeholder for someone you don’t want to see, just a random person your brain is dreaming up in place of that person it doesn’t want to imagine, he might be a representation of strength, inner strength within you that you are yet to see manifest, or, and this one is weird, he might be your soulmate from a past life, coming back to you.”

“Oh, the kooky, kooky, spooky, spooky,” Frankie sang, receiving the soft thud of a book atop her head.

“Those aren’t even the kookiest things I read!” Jaime cried. “I also read he could be an astral projection, Keri could have had a spell cast on her, or she might be the one in his dream. There, is that kooky enough for you?”

Frankie’s mouth thinned. “And I’m quiet now.”

Jaime made a ‘hmph’ noise, shaking her head. “You’ve never been quiet a day in your damned life!”  

“Anything else?” Keri asked, not too convinced by what she had heard so far.

“Erm, well if he’s Native American, then he might be a dream walker. Why he’d be appearing to a little white girl from Utah, though, that’s anyone’s guess.”

“He isn’t, he’s Hispanic.” She pursed her lips, wracking her brains. “What do you personally think he is? What’s your opinion?”

“I kinda lean toward him being a representation of something. I suppose it would help if you could actually control yourself in being able to speak to him, rather than feeling as if everything you say, you have no control over as you’ve detailed in your journal. If he is a representation of something, he’ll likely tell you. Why he hasn’t already is befuddling, though. These signs, they speak up. They aren’t elusive if they come to us, especially if they carry with them a message.”  

Keri sat, her already big eyes widening, puffing out her cheeks as she released the breath she’d been holding. “Sorry, did I bombard you?” Jaime offered, reaching across Frankie to grasp her hand sweetly.

“No, no you didn’t, don’t worry,” she began, smiling. “I really appreciate your help. I just need to be able to get a hold on being able to speak to him. Maybe that will yield answers.”

Jaime was quick with more advice there. “Have you ever heard of a thing called lucid dreaming? It means you are aware you're dreaming, but with time you can manipulate your dreams to your own desires. It's very interesting. There are so many websites out there you can research, or I have books? Up to you.”  

“I think I’ll look online first, but thank you for the offer.”

“No thank you! Finally, something I can get my teeth into with dreams! I have boring ones for the most part, and Frankie thinks it's all a load of crap, so it's nice to have someone I can talk about it with!”  

After that, they decided to put aside everything dream or college related aside and enjoy their day, heading out shopping and then for lunch before meeting up with Ash, Rachel and Aaron, going bowling and then onto their local haunt The Lounge for a few beers.

Arriving home in the early hours, Keri put her head around the lounge door to say hello to her mother and her partner, David, who were still up watching a movie before disappearing upstairs to begin reading up on lucid dreaming, as Jaime had advised. She felt as if she'd get no others answers or reasons as to why he was there whenever she went to sleep unless she asked him herself, even if he was just a person her subconscious had created, she really had begun to question why she found him there in her dreams.

Up until two weeks ago, she’d never taken stock in the importance of dreams and their meanings, but what she felt whenever she was with him in sleep was so powerful, she couldn't help but become more and more intrigued with each dream that went by.  

As she read, picking out interesting parts here and there, she began to practice the techniques mentioned, hoping she could carry some of them with her when her eyes fluttered shut into the realm of sleep a little later. They wouldn’t work until she was actually asleep, but she felt it was good practice to at least familiarise herself with the techniques. That night, she found her voice quicker than she expected, but she still couldn't control her actions.

Slipping into the dream, she took in her surroundings, standing in a very ornately decorated room, hues of deep emerald, lots of black furniture, reminding her somewhat of the set of a vampire film, with the gothic and eerie accents scattered around. Even the candle flames burned green. It reminded her a little of the very first time she’d dreamed of him, that old house, everything tinged in a green hue.  

Walking around the room, she tried out a few of her techniques, wanting to be able to reach out and run her finger over the back of the chaise, focusing hard, her hand reaching for the black wood. She was elated at leaving behind a mark in the dust, turning to continue walking, jumping a little to see the man standing there.  

She smiled widely and walked over to him, feeling him pull her into his arms, a place she always felt unquestionably safe, whenever she was there in her dreams. His hand tangled in her hair, fingertips stroking her scalp as he leaned to her, their lips meeting in a kiss.  

“So, are you gonna tell me who you are, and why you keep invading every dream I seem to have?” he asked, his hands rubbing her back. What? But... but he was in her dreams!

'I'm Keri and you're in my dream,” she corrected. “I'm real, you're not!” It took a lot, but she was glad to have managed some control, keeping focused and concentrating hard on his face, using it as an anchor, to root herself into focus.  

He shook his head. “Nope, you're the figment of the imagination here, my imagination! Every time I fall asleep, there you are, and you're bugging me. I don't even know who you are.”

“I’m Keri, I just told you.”  

“And you say you’re the real one? What the...” Before he could finish his sentence, they both jumped back, a large, black wall suddenly rising up from the floor, cutting the room in half and separating them. Keri pressed her hands against the bricks, smacking her palms into them.  

“Hello? Can you hear me?” Meanwhile, on the other side...

“Keri? Yo, you still there?” He heard nothing in reply, turning around, trying out another of the lucid dreaming techniques. “I want her to appear again.” When he turned, someone was indeed there, but it wasn’t the girl who now at least had a name. There in the corner, sat an elderly woman at a small table, her eyes completely whited over, blindness, he gauged, holding her hand out to him.  

“You seek answers, Angel? Sit.” Her long fingers swept towards the chair, Angel moving over and taking a seat.  

“Yeah, yeah I gotta couple of questions over who the hell that Keri girl is, and why I keep dreaming about her,” he began, the woman nodding. She picked up a quill from the table in front of her, dipping it into the small pot of ink beside where her arm rested. She then began to write upon the piece of paper before her, blowing on the words before turning it around to show him. Girl_Where_Photo.  

“What?”  

The old woman screwed it up in a second, casting it onto the floor. “Remember it.” With a loud clap of her hands right in front of his face, he awoke with a start. Meanwhile...  

Watching the old woman scrawl across the paper, Keri felt unnerved, the wall yet to drop again, her eyes flitting over to see if the man reappeared, trying her techniques in order to get him to do so.  

“Girl!” the woman barked, holding up the piece of paper. Find him in the lounge. What on earth did that mean? “Remember it.” A loud clap of her hands made her wake in an instant, reaching for her journal, writing it all out.  

“Find him in the lounge? I mean...” she paused, looking at her bedroom door. “No. He is not in my damned lounge! That’d just be too spooky. This is real life, my brain punking me. It has to be.”  

Angel, however, was about to discover just how much his brain wasn’t punking him. With a little more to go on than Keri, he entered those words along with their underscores into Google, taking a breath before his thumb hit search. Instagram.com/Girl_Where_Photo. His heart hammered. Clicking the link, the page loaded, and there she was.  

“Oh hell no!” His phone left his hand at speed, Angel flinging it across his bedroom. She was real, an actual person. Keri existed. Throwing the covers off himself, he pulled on his sweats, pacing through to the lounge and picking up his cigarettes, lighting one up as he sat down on the couch. He could see the illumination of his phone screen just by the door into his bedroom glowing through the darkness, the light both a beacon that called out for his attention and a flare of warning.  

Whatever side he landed on that juxtaposition, he remained much too freaked out to pick it up.  

“I'm Keri and you're in my dream. I'm real, you're not!”

They were dreaming the same dreams together. They had to be, but his brain seriously couldn’t deal with that. Nope. It had shut down. It took two more cigarettes and three shots of tequila for him to even be able to go grab his phone, his persistent inquisitiveness taking over. He took a deep breath, opening the screen once more, looking at her Instagram account.  

“Keri. Clicker of photo’s, lover of peanut butter, Provo village idiot. Not to be trusted with ketchup.”  

He snorted laughing at her self-deprecating humour, her little jokes poking fun at herself steadying him when he felt as if he was spiralling. Clicking on a picture, his heart almost beat clean out of his chest. Yep, that was definitely her, the girl in his dreams. “How the actual fucking fuck is this real? This some supernatural bullshit, I swear to Jesus.”

Stubbing out his cigarette, he reached for his smoke box, needing something considerably stronger to calm down again, but sadly finding he was all out. This could possibly be rectified easily, though.  

“And what brings you to my cell phone at three seventeen in the morning, brother-in-law?” Sharise answered on the third ring.  

“I was wondering if there was any chance you were having a sleepless night, and if so, can I come make a nuisance of myself?”

“Mi casa es tu casa.”  

“Thanks, I’ll be there in ten.” He threw on a t shirt and his sneakers, picking up his keys, cell and cigarettes before leaving, heading the short walk to his brother’s house. He and Sharise had found the property a year ago, just after they’d gotten married, Angel noticing the realtor sign out on the front lawn on his way to the yard one morning and telling his brother about it as soon as he’d seen him. It was only the second house they’d viewed, but they fell in love with it, putting in an offer on the spot that had been swiftly accepted by the keen-to-sell owners.  

Sharise had put her personal touch on it all the way through, from the décor inside that was blended African and Mexican, to all of the large, wooden and stone statues that adorned their backyard, Tiki torches often lighting the perimeters, the space very much hers as she loved to garden. It was where after trying the gate and finding it to be open, he guessed he would find her.  

“Morning,” she spoke, sitting in her large wicker chair, her feet up on the table before her and a massive blunt in her hand.  

“Hey, Bob.” He often called her that, on account of the fact that when he first met her, he’d been so drunk, he couldn’t quite say her name correctly. “Just call me Bob!” she’d spoken at the time, very entertained by him. It had stuck.  

“So, what brings you to my manor at 3.30am, then?” she questioned, blowing out a series of neat smoke rings, handing the blunt to him. “By the look on your face, you’re in need of some fine weed.” It was Sharise’s business, a purveyor of extremely good cannabis, owning Santo Padre’s only dispensary so far since the ban had been lifted. Before then, she’d still sold it, but not legally, of course.  

Angel took a long drag, holding the smoke tightly in his lungs. God, she really did get the best weed he’d ever had, and that said something, with the amount he’d had smoked over the years. “I'm too freaked the fuck out to sleep. If I hadn’t come over, I think I’d have panicked.”

She inclined her head, finger rooting in her braids to scratch her scalp. “Well, you do appear to have taken on the demeanour of someone who has seen a ghost. Care to share?”

Even though he planned to reveal all to her, he still took a moment to pause. “You know how I was reading about the whole lucid dreaming thing, right?”  

She cast her mind back. “Yeah, vaguely. Go on.” And so he did, explaining it all for her as succinctly as possible, Sharise nodding, her eyes widening right at the end as she took the blunt back from him.  

“Okay so I know you aren't yanking my chain, for you to believe in anything remotely like that is a stretch. Even though I still class you as an open-minded guy, the thought of it being real is a bit of a leap of faith for anyone, really. You know, unbelievable as it sounds, I'm sure I've heard of things like that happening before, except it usually happens between close friends or family,” she commented, flicking the long trail of ash onto the floor. “So, you truly are like Martin Freeman in The Good Night, dreaming of a girl you’ve never even met.”  

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I mean, I ain’t seen the movie, but I guess I am, if that’s what happened to him.” He paused, sighing, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you know about this stuff, then? You kinda spoke from a place that sounds like you do.”

“Oh, not in any kind of detail,” she confessed, taking another drag on the blunt. “Just something I read one time that stuck with me, because I found it so fascinating.” Searching his wide-eyed face, she passed the blunt back, shuffling her chair a little closer to him. “I see you’re likely finding it anything but, though, to discover the girl in your dreams is an actual person, who more likely than not is experiencing the exact same dreams as you.”

He nodded, covering the hand that rested against his forearm, stroking her heavily ringed fingers with his thumb. “You ain’t wrong, Sharise. If this was happening to anyone else, I’d be telling ‘em to lay off the magic mushrooms, you know? Or telling them I ain’t that easy to fool, because it’s fucking unbelievable, isn’t it?”

She shrugged, her face passive. “Stranger things have happened. You might just have a cosmic connection with her, and your dreams are the way you find it.”  

“I don’t believe in all that, though.”

“Just because you don’t believe, it doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” Fuck. That struck him hard, Angel realising she made a very valid point. Sharise knew it, too, yet her face remained soft. Even when she was right, she had such dignity with it; except with her husband, who she enjoyed holding a little bit of self-righteous superiority over whenever she could. It was all playful, though. “Despite this Keri girl being very much real, you question your own sanity a little bit, don’t you?”

Perceptive. She was that, too.  

Angel stretched, beginning to nod. “Yeah, I guess I do. It’s just so... inconceivable!”  

“You know there’s something you could do here, don’t you, to maybe make it feel a little less weird?” He looked at her blankly, Sharise uncrossing and recrossing her legs at the ankle when her foot began to go to sleep. “Send her a message.”

“Dude.” A look of trepidation immediately crossed his face. “I’m only a half hour past throwing my phone across the bedroom.”

Her laughter tinkled through the quiet of the garden. “Then for now, how about we just sit and get nicely stoned. If you get too baked, you can take the spare room.” It might have only been a ten-minute walk away for him to get home, but she knew how potent her weed was.  

He took the blunt she handed him, patting her knee as he reached to pass her smoke box when she gestured towards it. “What would I do without my Bob, huh?”

“Panic on your own?”  

Once again, she was correct.  

[trying2cope]

I fell madly, deeply in love.

He did too. We talked everyday. We sexted. One day he seriously considered randomly driving to my house after work, even though we live 3 hours apart. I talked him down, explaining the sensible reasons why he shouldn't leave so suddenly-- I wish I'd let him now.

I realized though why waiting for marriage for sex was a good idea for me though. I didn't regret it exactly-- he was a far superior lover than my exes and I longed to please him and be his forever. But therein lay the problem. "I love him like a husband," I confessed to my friend. "It would destroy me to lose him." Giving myself so fully had left me with no ability to keep him out of my heart and soul.e

My kids liked him. I did cringe a little when I heard my kids mention that Mommy had had a friend over and they mentioned Master's name and I knew my ex would read between the lines and know I was dating. Not that I cared about his opinion, especially when he had dated while we were still married(!) but I didn't want him to cause any trouble or drama as he was prone to do.

I had not yet gotten to meet his daughter because he and his ex had made an agreement that no one they were dating would meet her before they introduced the new partner to each other. I was annoyed momentarily when he first mentioned this because I didn't want to be paraded in front of his ex for her to judge. But I very quickly calmed down and realized this was a long term thinking thing. There was no rule or custody agreement saying this must be done and he *could* have just introduced me to his daughter-- but doing so would have upset the ex and if I was someday to be his wife and his daughter's stepmom it behooved everyone that we do this properly and respectfully. He was pleased when I said that I understood and said that back to him.

Not that actually he could bring his toddler down yet. One of the big embarrassments of my life is how messy I can get. I had been severely depressed and struggling before meeting him and the house had suffered. When he had first suggested meeting, just the next upcoming weekend, I had panicked and almost said no. I knew I couldn't get it clean in time. But I also knew this was an ongoing struggle in my life. I get the house clean only to get sick or depressed or just very, very busy and the next thing you knew it was far too messy once again. I have ADHD with bad executive dysfunction that had only been diagnosed two years earlier and at that point my depression had made me afraid to contact the doctor to get my medicine. It made cleaning a near impossible task.

That can be really hard for neurotypicals to understand but to give a quick example it seems like NTs can say "I'm going to clean the bedroom" and it's one task, and they do it. To me, it's like 25: picking up trash, making sure I have a garbage bag, picking up clothes, making sure I have a laundry basket to put the clothes in, clearing off the end table, putting each individual item that belongs somewhere in the house away is an individual task item for each one, stripping the sheets, taking off the pillow cases, figuring out where I put the clean linens-- doing laundry if I didn't have clean linens. Putting the sheets on the bed, putting each pillow case on, deciding if the blanket is clean enough to go back on or needs to be washed and if it does, bringing it to the laundry room and finding a new blanket for that night. Picking up shoes and making sure they have pairs and are put on the shoe rack. Picking up my kid's toys which shouldn't be in my room but definitely would be and finding a bin to put them in and remembering to take the bin to their room. And more and more and more. This doesn't even get to things like sweeping, mopping, dusting or cleaning windows which felt like luxuries that I never even got to because I would get far too exhausted by the mental load of trying to do the rest of it I was nearing a panic attack before I got remotely close to be ready for that. Because while doing all those endless, thankless, soul sucking tasks I only have the working memory to keep maybe three or four things in my head. And that's only if I'm left to myself-- but I am a single mom so I never was. I *would* be interrupted with "Mommy this" and "Mommy that" every 3 minutes or so, making all my hard one mental efforts drop like being startled with giant armload of various items and dropping them all on the floor and once the kids go back to their play I'd have to pick them back up again only to drop them again in 3 minutes. It seemed like a fruitless, impossible task. And that was just one room of my 3 bedroom house.

So when my potential Master came in and looked around at my mess and nodded and said "we can work on this" with absolutely no judgement at all in his face, my heart nearly exploded with joy. This was the man I'd always needed. My ex husband had always been verbally abusive and critical, making everything much worse. Indeed the reason I would get anxious to the point of almost having panic attacks after 20 minutes or so of cleaning up was partially because I would hear him in the back of my head and I'd have to stop and take deep breathes so I wouldn't hyperventilate. My body associated cleaning with danger now. But Master's response had been so gentle, so not a big deal, that I knew with him I'd be able to find healing and the praise I so desperately needed to function, something that when I had pleaded with my ex to give me would only bring hateful scorn. "You want praise for doing the bare minimum?!" he had sneered. But praise would short circuit the anxiety and give me motivation when it was lagging. I *needed* it to function and he never understood. But this man would.

When he left after that first meeting I had been energized and had done some cleaning. But then a few weeks later I'd had a few busy days in a row. Whenever we were busy with tasks outside the home the house got messier because we tended to discard clothes and dishes and whatever on our way to rush out or to bed when we got back, too distracted or tired to clean up.

It had been three days in a row of busy days when I heard the doorbell ring one morning. I was upstairs and scantily clad so I threw some clothes on as I headed downstairs. I was expecting FedEx and assumed it was a package. I opened the door and a woman stood there with a clipboard.

"FedEx?" I asked.

"No," she replied. "I'm from Child Protective Services."