#the shuffle said i will expose you for liking ren and you know what. that's fine alkdjflksj

[slautertm]

Rules: shuffle your 'on repeat' playlist & post the first ten tracks, then tag ten people. If you're not on spotify, just share ten songs that you have on repeat.

screech's tale - ren

prologue - ren

what was i made for - billie eillish

this river between us - big fish the musical

jenny's tale - ren

just a man - epic the musical : the troy saga

the gold -- phoebe bridgers version - manchester orcestra, phoebe bridgers

daughter of the sea ( lullaby ) - sharm

haunted ( taylor's version ) - taylor swift

the torture tango - spies are forever

Tagged by: @sleazeballtm ! Tagging: @fearstouch , @andessence , @lazaruhs , @mvndrvke , & @butnobodyhome !

[summahsunlight]

The Light of a Thousand Stars, Ch.7

Rating: T

Word Count: 1810

Pairing: Poe/Skywalker!OC

Summary: Commander Dameron and Black Squadron’s continued search for Lor San Tekka brings them closer and closer to danger and exposing the First Order as a sinister threat. A new pilot on the team threatens their tight dynamic and although Poe is trying to desperately keep them together, he knows that at some point Evelyn and Kaleb are going to have to go their separate ways–to find their father and bring him back to the Resistance. Sequel to We Belong to the Stars.

Next chapter! I have about seven more chapters drafted, just working my way through editing them :)

Kaleb watched in horror as blood seeped across Evelyn's once pristine white shirt, as her lightsaber fell from her grasp--landing on the rocky floor with a resounding thud. 

Evelyn slumped against the canyon wall, all she could hear was a steady roar in her ears and the desert seemed to fade away around her. Kaleb had grabbed her by the shoulders and was staring straight into her eyes, but while she could see his lips moving--she couldn't make out a word that was said to her. Is this what dying feels like? 

Something bright flashed in her eyes and she definitely thought this must be what dying feet like, until C-3PO came into her line of sight, and she realized it was his golden plates reflecting in the hot sun. Kaleb yanked something from his hand and then shoved the droid aside. Her shirt was lifted roughly and the roaring got louder her ears, a steady beat of drums, as if they were chanting you're dying, you're dying, you're dying. 

No. You're not; not today, Evelyn. It's not your time yet.

All at once she could hear everything again, the drum beats stopped, the rushing of blood in her ears--gone--instead it was filled with Kaleb yelling at C-3PO about taking too long to get down the canyon with the medkit--and she couldn't hear the voice in her head anymore. Evelyn let out a strangled sob, startling her brother, "Daddy!"

There was no response; at least not from Luke. "He's not here, Evie," Kaleb said, quietly. "Sit down, let the bacta spray work its magic."

He was here! He was! He was talking to me!

Kaleb didn't seem to hear her, instead he helped her sit as comfortably as she could on the rocky floor, waiting for the bacta spray he'd applied to her wound to work. Once that happened, he'd wrapped the wound in some bandages. For now, they both needed to rest. C-3PO shuffled anxiously near by, the sound of his gears the only thing in the canyon besides the wind.

Evelyn sat there, tears running down pale cheeks as the universe came into focus again. Was Luke's voice the result of delirium from blood loss? Her inner most desire to hear her father's voice one last time before she died?

"Should I go contact the Resistance for medical assistance?" C-3PO asked, breaking the unnerving silence.

"No, not yet. They spray should heal the wound enough that Evie can get back to the ship on her own," Kaleb replied.

"You just don't want Aunt Leia to get mad at you," Evelyn countered, hoarsely.

"She's gonna get mad when we get back. I'm just stalling."

"Maybe you'll get lucky; maybe Poe will get to you first."

Kaleb chuckled, softly. "Treatment is working, Threepio--she's joking around. Give us a few more moments and then we'll head back to the ship."

C-3PO looked between the two siblings. "We are not going to keep going to the Jedi Temple?"

Evelyn felt a pit in her stomach, an emotional pain running so deep that not even bacta was going to help ease it. "Why bother? This whole thing was a giant trap, set up by the Knights of Ren to kill us. I don't think Daddy was ever here, Threepio--at least not recently." 

Her brother's calloused fingers reached out and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Kaleb looked up towards the ruins. "It wouldn't hurt to look around a bit; who knows, Evie, maybe we'll find something interesting."

"Interesting? A Knight of Ren trying to kill us wasn't interesting enough?"

"No; more of nuisance." 

She sighed, heavily, closing her eyes. "Just give me a few more minutes."

He didn't argue, and just whispered, "Alright."

Again it was quiet, the only sound the wind and C-3PO's nervous pacing. Evelyn would have preferred to sit there for hours, but she knew they didn't have the luxury. It wasn't going to take the First Order long to learn that the knight was dead and that he'd failed in his mission to kill Evelyn and Kaleb. If they were going to explore the Temple, they were going to have to do it now and do it quickly.

Kaleb helped her to her feet when she was ready, and led the way down to into the Temple. Evelyn could hear C-3PO behind her, giving them a history lesson and suddenly, she was a kid again--forced to listen to Ben give the same history lessons because her mother ordered them to listen--to make Ben feel welcome on Yavin. All three of them--Poe, Kaleb, Evelyn--had hated listening to those speeches Ben would give. Maybe if they had been nicer to Ben all those years ago, at least pretended to be interested in the same things, made him feel like he belonged on Yavin--then maybe, he wouldn't have fallen to the dark side.

"You know he sent that knight," Kaleb said, picking up on her thoughts. 

"We don't know that for certain," Evelyn countered.

"He's the master of the Knights of Ren--of course he sent that knight to kill us."

"I don't want to argue about this."

"I'm not arguing; the sooner you realize that Ben died that night--the better."

Evelyn shoved past him, tears streaming down her cheeks. She heard C-3PO ask Kaleb if it was something he had said, but Kaleb muttered that he was the one that made her angry. His belief that their cousin had died the night of the massacre had always rubbed her the wrong way. While the rest of the galaxy believed it to be true, their family held it close to their breast that Ben was still alive, that he was Kylo Ren--however, only Leia and Evelyn believed that there was still good left in Ben. Weeks after her mother had been buried and her father had disappeared, Evelyn had gone after Ben. If she could convince him to come back, to return to their family and to the light--then maybe Luke would come back too, maybe the galaxy wouldn't be falling apart around her...

...instead Evelyn had barely escaped with her own life. Kaleb had lashed out at her when she returned to the Capital. She had never seen him so angry at her--just another example of what a disappointment you are to him. To make matters worse, her uncle was just as angry--even Poe was furious with her for doing something so reckless.

Leia had been the only one that understood. And while everyone else was yelling at her for putting her life at risk, Leia was softly rubbing her back while she cried, flung out over her bed. Her aunt told her that she believed there was good in Ben yet--together they would figure out a way to get Ben to return to the light.

Stepping deeper into the Temple, her emotions overwhelming her--Evelyn put as much distance between herself and Kaleb as she could

--------

Poe could sense her approaching. 

It was hot, he was one of the only ones out on the flight pad working on his fighter. The arms of his flight suit were tied around his waist, and as Suralinda moved towards him, Poe took the hem of his tank top and wiped the sweat from his brow.

BB-8 whistled a low warning; Poe smiled, wearily, and pat his droid on top of his domed head. "Don't worry," he murmured, "I haven't forgotten about Evelyn."

"Even your droid thinks I'm out to steal you away from the Jedi Princess?" Sura asked, when she got closer. 

"He doesn't understand; he's just looking out for her," Poe replied with a shrug.

"I don't know what everyone's problem is--if they all claim to know you so well--they know she's been the only girl for you."

"Wasn't always that way; I turned her down when she asked me to join the Resistance."

Sura pursed her lips and leaned against his x-wing. Being a janitor around the base did have some perks--she heard all the gossip and rumors. She'd heard all about how Poe had broken up with Evelyn to remain in the Navy--how he hadn't spoken to her in five years before showing up on D'Qar. She heard all about Evelyn's spicy romance with Jas Dane, the spy who floated in and out of base with intel--and she heard that Poe got so jealous when her ex had shown up that he started an all out brawl at a party. "And they haven't obviously known you as long as I have--because you were in love with that girl even at the Academy."

Poe knew it was true; Sura had been with him when he bought a pair of earrings for Evelyn for her sixteenth birthday. She had teased him, told him that no men bought a girl earrings if he didn't have feelings for her--Poe denied it then, because Evelyn was only 16 and they had been friends forever. "It will blow over--something else will catch their attention and they'll gossip about that for weeks."

She chuckled. "Just like the Academy."

He smiled. "Just like the Academy."

"Commander Dameron!" someone yelled out across the flight pad to him. Poe glanced up to see a nervous tech rocking back and forth on his heels. "General Organa wants to see you!"

"Gotta go," Poe sighed, wiping his hands on a cloth. 

"See ya around," Sura countered as he walked away, BB-8 behind him.

Poe made his way towards the nervous tech, untying his flight suit and slipping his arms inside the sleeves. BB-8 wondered if they were going to have a new mission. It didn't seem likely, considering they hadn't assigned a replacement on Black Squadron for Evelyn. Then again, Poe thought as the tech explained to him that something had come up and it required Black Squadron's immediate attention, maybe we don't need a replacement for Evie. 

Leia glanced up at him when he strode into the command center. She looked exhausted to him--Kaleb and Evelyn being away from base clearly was keeping her up at night. "We have a situation. I know that Evie isn't back yet--but I need Black Squadron."

He smiled, softly. "We've managed without her before, we can manage again, General."

She nodded, curtly, but she didn't return his smile. "And Ms.Javos?"

"What about her ma'am?"

"Could Black Squadron manage with her was a replacement?"

"They can manage, ma'am." Will they like it? Probably not.

Leia handed him a data card. "Good. You leave in an hour."

Poe glanced at the assignment and he could understand the General's reservations. He had his own--but there was a job to be done, and Black Squadron was going to do it.

[lemmetreatya]

I love all your writing and I really love the way you write ererei. I was curious, what type of relationship do you think Karina Braun and Eren would have. Cuz I once saw a tweet that said the best punishment for Karina Braun would be having Eren as a son in law 💀 I have to know your thoughts on this 😂

OMG!! thankies!! 💙❤️ I love writing ererei! Theres just something about two broken men finding each other and making it work that has a place in my heart tbh! And I really do think Eren would be Karina’s worst type of punishment 😭💖 She’d absolutely hate him but being the passive woman she is, would ‘tolerate’ him just for Reiner’s sake

content: bimbo!reiner, slight manipulative!eren, mlm relationship, kinda cracky 😭😭

for starters, eren would butt into every conversation uninvited 😭 would intentionally be crude enough to remind karina that he is in fact in sexual relations with her son!!! doesn’t fail to add that reiner occasionally receives either and karina has to physically remove herself from the room/conversation to stay sane sskdk

“reiner, you’ve got to be eating properly. you cant just have a plate full of meat and call it a meal! i dont care about no gym diet, just eat properly.”

karina eyes reiner’s fixed plate with a face of concern. the blonde man only has time to look down at his plate with a pout before hes being spoken for. eren is quick to pop his head around reiner’s build to watch karina in her two eyes.

“don’t worry about how he’s eating. i make sure he eats well enough at home.”

and karina absolutely hates how shes being spoken to because its almost as if eren is indirecting, insulting, her ways.

“im his mother and have been feeding him for a fine majority of his life.” karina gestures to her son’s tall and buff build. “don’t i have a right to be concerned that he’s suddenly not eating balanced meals!?”

reiner can only mutter a soft ‘ma…’ in embarrassment because he’s not sure that her exposing that he’s never fixed his own plate a day in his life is not looking good on him right now. either way, eren doesn’t care. his face scrunches up as he looks karina up and down, ready to stand up to her.

“okay and im his partner who lives with him, cooks most of his meals and usually has him hands on knees begging for me to go deeper. and look at him — fine!”

reiner now looks to eren with a gasp, a scandalous ‘r-ren?!’ leaving his mouth as karina can only look on in shock. clearly eren isn’t too phased and only pushes reiner along so that he can go and eat his food.

“in this instance, i dont think your parent status matters so keep it to yourself next time.” he mutters in karina’s direction, and the woman is simply too stunned to speak.

despite karina not necessarily approving of their relationship, she still very much loves reiner so she tries to be as understanding with him as she can but its every hard with someone like eren who actively wants to make her life difficult. very much lacks manners for his elders

“oh you two look very dashing in those! stand together so i can take a picture!”

karina smiles wryly, her phone already raised in hand as she moves her other one to signal them to stand closer. both reiner and eren move on her demand, fixing their paper crowns so that they look presentable.

“okay lets take one!” she quips

just as shes about to take the photo, the boys start shuffling around

“reiner, grab my ass for this.”

“like this?”

“yeah, that’s it, like that.”

karina moves her head pass her phone screen to glance over at the two. with a frown, she watches as eren has his body pressed against reiner, but makes sure that his hand was taking a handfull of his ass which was now the main focus of the picture.

“uh… lets do a family friendly one first! we can… do a funny one afterwards.” she tries.

giving her a raised eyebrow, eren pretends to be taken aback.

“you think this isn’t family friendly, karina? you think its funny?”

the woman stutters for words. she doesn’t want to be crude but this isn’t exactly a picture she’d be okay sharing with her sister and niece.

“i…well-“ she tries.

“coz i dunno. if i didn’t know any better, id think you were kinda coming across a bit homopho—“

“his hand is literally on your ass! rei— reiner get your hands off his ass!” she practically squeals and reiner fumbles around due to no longer being able to play a passive role.

“o-okay.”

he doesn’t even know where to put his hands and so karina guides for him.

“just…bring it higher if you must, god.” she whispered the last word in absolute agony.

most of all, eren is the best punishment for karina as a son-in-law because shes no longer the most avid voice in reiners life. with other relationships, he would have still listened to his mother’s advice over his partners but since eren came along, she practically has no more influence with reiner’s choices

“i don’t think you should take it on. especially since you’ve got a lot on your plate recently and you’re still adjusting to your new role at work. maybe another time.”

reiner hums as he looks over the volunteer chick feeder opportunity that flashes on his phone. he’s always wanted to feed small baby animals, he thinks, but he just didn’t have the time to do that. either way the offer just looks so tantalising.

“but theyre so cute…” he pouts, his eyes sparkly as he looks onto the shutterstock photos of yellow baby chicks being fed.

“i know they are, darling.” karina stresses. “but you just dont have the capacity to do that right now.”

she wasnt even focusing on the conversation. she didnt think she’d have to say or do anything drastic for reiner not to take the job on. it seemed pretty self explanatory.

“yeah…yeah you’ve got a point.” he mumbles.

this however also seemed to be the wrong time that eren happened to walk in and glance over his lover’s shoulder. within three seconds, he’s gasping with a soft sigh.

“omg is that a chick feeding opportunity?!”

reiner enthusiastically nods as he looks back at eren with wide eyes.

“yeah! it just opened up 12 miles away and i was wondering if i should give it a go…”

karina looks over at reiner with a credulous look.

“12 miles?! for a voluntary job? reiner, i dont think thats—“

“reiner this has literally been your dream for the past 2 weeks. fuck work, you never know if tomorrows your last day. go for it!” eren butts in.

karina looks between the two with a face of confusion because this had to be a joke they were playing on her, surely. yet, as reiner looked back down at his phone and the badly designed flashing ad looked back at him, he couldn’t help but press apply button.

“yeah. yeah you’re right eren. i never know what tomorrow might bring.” he coos, and karina cant help but cover her face in agony.

where on earth did she go wrong?!

[bobafetts-princess]

Mistakes Happen Once

Pairings: Javier Peña x Reader (no use of Y/N)

Word Count: 1.5k (feels longer than that??)

Warnings: Javi is a fucking FLIRTTTTT, oral (f! Receiving) squirting (it’s a personal thing y’all) unprotected sex (wrap it and all that) Javi fucks sweet and passionate 🥵

A/N: This is Chapter 1 of a 6 part series I’m working on! Steve’s chapter will be out next week at the same time, let me know what you think about it!

Part Two ; Part Three

The first time you fell into bed with Javier Pena was after you after a successful mission to find one of Escobar’s drug plants.

-

You and Murph and Javi had gone out for a celebratory drink, which turned into a celebratory bottle before Murphy turned in. Connie needed him home, he told you both.

Javi had been giving you eyes all night long, trailing them over your exposed skin and giving you goosebumps. You knew where his head was at and honestly, that’s where yours was too. Javi was hot. Like hot hot, and judging from the screams you heard through your shared wall, he was a hell of a lover too.

You’d denied Javi before and he respected that. But he was a flirt to the core and always coming onto you, unsaid promises of how he could make you feel. But in your line of work you needed to keep your teeth, your edge. You’d never slept with a coworker before and you hadn’t ever planned to sleep with one, but another shot of tequila had you wondering what Javi would sound like murmuring things in your ear as he fucked you.

The two of you stumbled home, thankfully the bar was walking distance from the apartment complex you two shared with Steve and Connie. The two of you were talking and laughing too loud, making an absurd amount of noise and when you got in the front doors you both found that you weren’t ready to end the evening yet. He invited you in for a drink but the second you stepped foot into his apartment, the drink was long forgotten.

It was like one of those movie moments where you locked eyes with each other and then suddenly had to rip each other’s clothes off. He crushed you to the wall, foot kicking out to slam the door shut with his foot. One hand fumbled out to hit the lock, the other gripped the skin on your waist.

Javi’s lips were soft and pliant, but demanding at the same time as he descended on you kissing you with intent. The bristles of his mustache tickled your upper lip but your focus was elsewhere. Namely, the way he was stripping your shirt off your body, then following with his own. Strong, large, capable hands cupped your breasts, teasing the nipples through the cups of your bra and you let out a breathy whine at the feeling. Javi’s lips left your own, trailing down your neck and across your shoulder, deft fingers undoing your bra with one hand.

His lips wrapped around a nipple, teeth grazing lightly over one as his hand cupped the other breast, rolling your nipple between the pads of his fingers.

“So beautiful, make such pretty sounds,” he told you and it was then that you realized you’d been whining with pleasure the entire time.

Strong arms lifted you up by the backs of the thighs, carrying you down the hallway to his bedroom, kiss never breaking. Nimble fingers stripped you of your jeans, brushing along every inch of skin he could reach. You could feel the passion, the adoration of your body in the way his fingers glided over the skin. Strong lips traversed behind them, tongue tasting until he reached the apex of your thighs.

“Bet you taste so good, cariña,” his voice was a raspy whisper, fingers wrapped in the waistband of your panties as he pulled them slowly down your thighs. Large hands pushed you open, laying along your inner thighs as he stared down at your dripping core. His tongue was expert as he descended on you, circling your clit before dipping down into your core. He hit the spots that had you squirming on the bed, crying out for him. Javi knew how to make a woman scream and you were learning that firsthand.

“Javi!” You panted, his name the only thing your mushy brain could come up with. “Fuck Javi.”

“Love the way you say my name,” he told you, diving back in. One hand came up to brush at your entrance, a singular finger pressing in gently. You arched, crying out his name again and he added a second finger. You were squirming and moaning, one hand fisting in the sheets and one hand fisting in Javi’s hair. The hand that wasn’t brushing over the spot that made you scream slung across your hips to keep you in place.

“Fuck. Javi, I’m gonna come,” you warned him, hips grinding against his face. Lips came to wrap around your clit and the sensation of his mustache against you just heightened the sensation and you came, squirting on his hand.

“Dios mio, cariña,” his voice was deeper than usual, eyes trained on your center. “That’s how you come?”

“Little trick of mine,” you panted, enjoying the incredulous look on his face.

“Wanna see how many times I can make you do that,” he said, standing and retrieving a towel from the bathroom before you even realized that he was gone. He slid it underneath your hips before his fingers were inside you again, curling and hitting a spot inside you that had you arching out and crying out his name.

“Come for me again, bonita.” He instructed you and you did, deep groan leaving your chest as you created a wet spot on the towel underneath you.

“Jav-Javi, want you,” you told him, coming down from your high slowly but enough that you knew you needed him inside you. He obliged, kissing your hips before he stood to strip himself of his jeans. He wasn’t wearing any underwear so his cock sprang free immediately, thick and heavy, standing at attention for you.

He crawled up your body, cock brushing along your heated skin. His lips finally reach yours and he kisses you deeply, pulling your legs apart and brushing himself along your folds. He pulls back from the kiss, one hand lining himself up with your entrance as he asks if you’re clean. You nod frantically and he pushes in slowly, sitting back on his heels and watching you take him in. He’s thick and the burn of the stretch feels so fucking good as he works in, inch by inch.

“Feels so good, Javi. Please don’t stop,” you beg him, entranced by the look on his face.

“God never, baby.” He promises, finally bottoming out and leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. He shuffles again after a moment, strong arm wrapping around your back as he pulls you to him, spread wide over his thighs. He thrusts up experimentally, and the angle hits you somewhere deep and intense and you whine. Javi determines its a good whine though and does it again, eliciting the same reaction from you. He starts thrusting in earnest, his goal clear; to make you come again.

Your arm wraps around his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as he fucks you mercilessly, teeth nipping at every inch of skin he can reach. You’re sure there’s going to be marks when you’re both done, but you can’t even be bothered to think about that with the way Javi’s cock is hitting inside of you. He’s grunting right in your ear, telling you how good you feel and how pretty you look taking his cock.

It doesn’t take long, you’re so worked up and the angle that he’s hitting is making it hard to concentrate. So when a hand dips in between your bodies and circles your clit a few times, you break. Screams of his name come from your lips as you clench down on him and his own pace speeds up, his own release the goal now. He’s panting and whispering things in your ear in Spanish and English, praises and dirty words, arm holding your body flush against him.

His pace is frantic now but it feel so good as he pistons himself in and out of your body. Javi’s eyes roam over your body, the way your breasts bounce, the way you’re taking him in almost effortlessly, the way your head is thrown back in pleasure. He thrusts once, twice, three times before he’s groaning deeply, the sound reverberating in your bones as he comes.

You’re both panting and Javi is covering your chest and jaw with kisses as you both come down from your highs. His chest is pressed against yours, your nipples brushing against him. He’s still thrusting shallowly, pushing his come deeper inside you as he covers you in kisses.

“That was even better than I expected,” Javi chuckled as he nibbled along your jawline up to your ear. You simply laughed yourself, laying back on the bed with Javier following you, his body covering yours. “Stay?” He asked, but he really didn’t have to, you weren’t going anywhere this evening.

-

Somewhere in the distance you heard some yelling and a door slam, but you paid it no mind when Javi’s lips trailed further south, encompassing a nipple as he starts round two.

When you make it to work the next day you’re both in high spirits, having taken a shower together that morning.

But Steve isn’t, his face broken and angry as he pours something in his cup that shouldn’t be alcohol at 8 am.

“Connie left me last night.” He snaps when you ask if everything’s okay.

Well that explains the slamming door. You thought, plopping down next to him and working in silence.

Tags: @tibbietibbs @keeper-of-the-sarlacc-pit @jedi-and-clones @sammiesweet @auty-ren @ahoeformando

If you want to be added to my tag list lemme know!

[oreoambitions]

Part 9 of 12

Parts 1-3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 5.5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Ao3 “It’s me,” Alex murmurs. Her voice is all but a whisper and still it sounds too loud in the empty stairwell of Kara’s apartment building. Alex feels like an intruder, like a stranger, like she’s suddenly stepped into an unfamiliar place of worship, and the quiet isn’t helping any. Her footsteps feel heavy on the stairs, her very breath clumsy and inconsiderate as she climbs.

Maybe this time won’t be like the other times. Maybe this time…

She lingers at Kara’s door with her hand raised to knock, and she listens. Knocking, of course, is a waste of time. If Kara is here, she’s already aware of Alex’s presence. And if she isn’t here, well, knocking on the door certainly isn’t going to summon her back. Alex knocks anyway, winces as the sound of it seems to thunder in the silence, strains her ears for anything, anything at all.

“She’s not here,” Sam says from the stairwell. She tosses Alex the car keys as she makes her way down the hall. “I parked us a couple of blocks down. You ready to go in?”

Alex shuffles a little and looks away. “Give her a minute. Maybe she’s got headphones on.”

“Alex. She’s not here.”

Alex knows this already, knew it before Sam dropped her off at the curb, knows it even as Sam gently takes Kara’s wedding bouquet so that Alex has both hands free to fumble with the keys. She knows it even without Sam’s x-ray vision or the super hearing, but it was nice to indulge in a little wishful thinking for a moment. A moment or two longer would have been nicer. She pushes the door open, and she pushes the thought aside.

Kara’s apartment is almost exactly as it was the night before she left for the cabin in the woods. A little dustier perhaps, and a little tidier. Alex has had increasingly less to do on her weekly visits, and so the throw pillows on the couch are meticulously straight and the handles on the coffee cups are all pointed the same way. Anything to prolong her time in this place where she can imagine that Kara has just stepped out. She’ll be ducking through the window any minute now, brushing something off the sleeves of her super suit, flashing Alex that cheeseball grin before she superspeeds into a pair of pajamas for movie night. Alex can almost see it all play out as she steps into the empty apartment. Almost.

Sam settles the wedding bouquet into a vase with steady hands and a studious expression, the perfect counterpoint to Alex’s trembling fingers and anxious wandering eyes.

“In the bedroom, you think?” she says. “That room gets the least light…”

“Sure,” Alex replies. She doesn’t rehash the argument they’ve already had about the flowers, though the tension of it lingers thick in the air. Sam feels that having the bouquet preserved was a gift, something Kara will be grateful for in time. Alex fears it’ll be the thing that sends Kara running again as soon as she returns, and she knows the fear isn’t rational, but then, neither was Kara the last time they saw her.

“Don’t forget about the succulent in the bathroom window,” Sam calls as she makes her way down the hall.

“Right,” Alex mutters. She nudges open the fridge door. Nothing has expired yet, but she and Sam have brought fresh groceries anyway. All of Kara’s favorite foods to rotate in, and they’ll take the old with them to be sure it isn’t wasted. And if Kara comes home - when Kara comes home - it’ll be one less thing for her to worry about. That’s all Alex can do about any of this now.

“How was Lena this morning?” she asks when Sam wanders back into the living room.

Sam makes a noncommittal sound. “She’s been better. Been worse. Can you hand me that tumbler?”

“I heard about the perjury trial.”

Sam hesitates at the sink just long enough that Alex doesn’t quite believe her when she says, “Clark will handle it.”

There’s a long silence between them then. Sam waters the plants and Alex considers echoing her reminder about the bathroom succulent but the words die in her throat as she wipes imaginary grime out of Kara’s spotless fridge. Rotate in a new carton of milk, a carton of eggs. Sam brushes dust off the door frames.

“Maybe she’s on Argo,” Alex suggests for the hundredth time.

“She’s not,” Sam says.

“Well what if she-”

“She’s not.”

She isn’t. Alex knows this, has been caught up on the details around Kara’s hastily suggested engagement to Ren-Ar, understands the implications of her decision to marry Lena anyway. It may be a long while before Kara can show her face on Argo without causing a scandal big enough that Clark and Sam would have heard about it even from Earth. Alex tries not to wonder whether Argo will still cooperate when it comes to protecting Lena from the law.

“We should check the Fortress again,” she says.

“Clark was there this morning. No sign of her. Kelex is still saying she hasn’t been around since before the wedding.”

“She could have asked him to-”

“Alex.”

Alex bites back the words I’m sorry because Sam will only tell her not to be. “It’s been six weeks,” she says instead.

“I know."There’s another stretch of silence. Alex thinks she’s beginning to hate silence: the silence growing between the two of them, the silence in Kara’s apartment, the long silence over the coms line she keeps open for Kara all the goddamn time. Simon and Garfunkel were onto something when they said ‘silence like a cancer grows.’ She stands in the kitchen under the unbearable weight of it wishing there were something left for her to do here, and there’s nothing. There’s just Sam emptying the tumblr into the last of Kara’s houseplants, brushing a spiderweb from the windowsill as she goes.

"Lena still thinks she’ll show up to the gala next weekend,” Sam says. She doesn’t look up as she says it.

“Kara?” Alex doesn’t know why she asks. It’s not as if they could be talking about anyone else, but something about the way Sam refuses to look at her draws the question out of her anyway.

Sam shrugs. “It’s Lena’s first big public appearance since their marriage was, uhm, exposed.”

“Fabricated.”

Sam shoots her a look then, brief and meaningful. “Exposed. Lena thinks Kara will make an appearance just to keep the press from noting her absence.”

“The press has already noted her absence from the entire planet.”

“Well, that was before there was a perjury trial on the horizon.”

Alex lets out a long breath. It’s absurd to suggest that Kara might be more concerned about the press seeing her with Lena than she is about the world seeing her in National City, but the more Alex thinks about it, the more she follows Lena’s line of thought. Sam has been here to wear the cape in Kara’s absence, and she’s done a passable job for someone brand new to the whole beacon-of-hope gig. But she can’t protect Lena from the press; only Kara can do that.

“You’ll text me,” Alex says. “Right? If Kara shows, you’ll tell me right away.”

Sam licks her lips, her eyes on the floor. “Actually, I was hoping you’d be there.”

“You want the DEO to run security?”

Sam laughs at that, and she looks Alex in the eye at last. “I didn’t say the DEO,” she says, and her tone is warm and still full of laughter in a way that makes Alex’s stomach flutter. She wants to look away, fearful somehow that Sam will see the nerves in her, will see her desire and affection and it will be too much. But Sam’s gaze holds her in place.

“I’m not exactly National City high society,” Alex says, tugging on the lapel of her leather jacket for emphasis. “And I’d make a terrible undercover bodyguard.”

“You do clean up nice though,” Sam comments, and Alex flushes. She flushes even worse when Sam adds, “You’d clean up even better if you’d let me do your hair.”

Alex does look away then. “Nobody touches the hair,” she mumbles.

Sam is suddenly close. Too close for someone who was just watering a plant clear on the other side of the apartment not half a second ago, and Alex wonders absently whether there was a super power involved in their sudden proximity. She looks up just in time for Sam to brush a daring hand across her cheek and through her hair and fuck. If there’s an Earth where she never stops doing that, Alex would like to go there.

“Nobody, huh?” Sam says.

Alex swallows, but no clever quip passes her lips.

“That’s a shame,” Sam continues, twisting a lock of Alex’s hair between her fingers. “Because I was hoping you’d be my date for the evening. Got a dress picked out for you and everything.”

Alex stumbles right over the word 'date’ and lands on, “You want me to wear a dress?”

Sam half shrugs, and then she locks eyes with Alex so intensely that it almost feels like a challenge. “Do you want me to wear a suit?”

Alex’s internal monologue is replaced by a distant warm buzzing as her gaze drops to Sam’s mouth. “Yes?”

“Good. Then that’s settled.”

And just like that the moment passes. Sam scoops up the bag of groceries rotated out of Kara’s fridge and pantry and starts towards the door. Alex stares after her for a long moment and then has to hurry to catch up before it’s awkward. Sam did say 'date,’ right? As in the two of them, together, possibly with romantic intentions, possibly-

“Alex,” Sam says without looking back. “The keys.”

Still on the kitchen counter. Fuck. In her defense, there are other things on her mind.

[my-emotional-self]

Sinful Love - Chapter 1

Moodboard by the beautiful @princess-evans-addict​

Pairings: Prisoner!Steve Rogers x OFC

Warnings: Swearing, Prison, Steve has lots of naughty thoughts, talk of murder, blood

Summary:  Gemma, a quiet and meek crime writer from a small town in Massachusetts, interviews murderer Steve Rogers in prison for a memoir.  Will things go terribly wrong, or beautifully right?

Authors Note: Credit for this fanfic goes 100% to punk-in-docs as this is is based off her Prisoner!Kylo Ren “Sinnerman”.  You can find her on Tumblr at punk-in-docs or on A03 - Punk_in_Docs .  I HIGHLY suggest taking a look at her stories as she is a beautiful writer!!!

P.S.  I am currently NOT doing a tag list at the moment so I am sorry about that. 

 She was cold; that much was for sure.  Gemma bounced her leg up and down as she was sat in the cold metal chair, waiting for her name to be called.  Her emerald green eyes scanned her surroundings as she pulled her ratty old cardigan closer to her body.  

Her eyes landed on the sign in front of her: Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center. Yes, she was sitting in the waiting room of a prison.  

This was her job, as a crime writer with her publishing firm.  She didn’t mind it.  She loved hearing how inmates have turned their lives around for the better and she still even wrote to some of the inmates she had interviewed in the past.

Gemma Peterson was someone that people didn’t really give a second glance to; and she liked it that way. Ever since she was as young as she could remember, she was always told by her mother and grandmother what a dreamer she was; how her creativity would get her somewhere one day.  And yet here she was, sitting in a prison and waiting to interview a murderer.  

She really couldn’t complain however as she loved her job.  She knew she wanted to be a writer her whole life; that’s what she got for growing up in the smaller community a half hour away from Boston, Massachusetts. It was well known for its literary history.  

As she continued to wait, her right hand came up to grip the locket around her neck; closing her eyes and thinking of her grandmother and mother.  She had never known her father as he was never a part of her life. “Wish me luck today,” she spoke under her breath, knowing her grandma and mom were always with her.  Her mother unfortunately passed away before her 17th birthday: a horrible car accident took her away from you.  

Gemma’s mother was her world and was always there for her.  After her untimely death, her grandmother picked up the pieces and helped her get through everything.  

“Peterson!  You’re up!” Her thoughts were pulled from her when she heard her name being called.  Looking up, she saw a short and round man with sweat stains under his armpits waiting for her near a door.  She knew it was the resident Psychiatrist, Dr. Kauffman,  with whom she talked to on the phone earlier in the week.  

Quickly standing up, she gathered her satchel which held her notebook, along with the prison inmate file on Steve Rogers, and briskly walked over to the man.  

He looked her up and down then shook his head.  “They are going to eat you alive kid,” he spoke with a shake of his head before turning away from her and walking down the long and narrow hall.  

Gemma scrunched her brows and looked down at her outfit.  She made sure to dress accordingly with what the psychiatrist said. She was wearing a knee length black dress and a green cardigan to cover her exposed arms; her hair was neatly tucked back into a ponytail and she wasn’t wearing any makeup.  A pair of black converse on her feet.  But her eyes widened when she realized she put perfume on that morning.  Silently, she scolded herself as the man in front of her walked through another set of doors and took a sharp turn to the left.  

Taking deep breaths, Gemma kept up pace with the doctor in front of her as they now reached the official area where the inmates were locked up.  

“Hey sexy bitch!” A man growled from her right.  “Get your sexy ass over her and let me take a good look at you!”  

Glancing to her right, she saw a tall man, at least six foot five with his hands clenched around the steel bars; his smile wide, showing off his yellow teeth.  

There was a guard walking behind you and he took his baton, smacking it against the steel bars, effectively shutting the inmate up.

After a few more twists and turns, Dr. Kauffman leads Gemma into what looks like the visitor room. There are rows of metal tables and chairs; the tables having locks in the middle of them so the prisoners can be chained down with their handcuffs.  

“Take a seat,” Dr. Kauffman states as he points to one of the tables.  The room was large, but there was nobody else there.  It was cold, cooler than the previous room she was waiting in and it smelt musty.  

Dr. Kauffman took a seat at the opposite side of the table as her, clasping his hands together.  “Look, I know you’re here to interview Rogers, but don’t be surprised if you don’t get any information out of him,” he stated. Gemma furrowed her brows in curiosity to what he said.  “There have been dozens of interviewers here over the years and Rogers doesn’t particularly care to give any kind of information to them.”  He got up from his seat, placing his hands on the table and leaning towards her. “And just so you know, this is the first time he has seen a woman in three years.”

Gemma gulped, but her throat was so dry, it didn’t do anything.  Why was she so nervous all of a sudden?  This was her job; she’s interviewed hundreds of people over the last handful of years, but she had never been quite this nervous before.  

“Are you wearing perfume?” Dr. Kauffman asked as he stood away, folding his arms over his chest.

Gemma blushed, nodding her head.  “Sorry. It’s a habit.  I’ll remember for next time.  Promise.”

Dr. Kauffman walked towards the steel beamed doors where there were two prisons guards waiting.  

As Gemma waited for him to grab Steve Rogers, she placed her notebook and inmate file in front of her on the table.  Opening the file, she still couldn’t believe that there was no picture of the inmate. When she had asked her boss about it, he merely shrugged.  She had the file for almost a week and had memorized everything inside of it.  

She read over the questions she had written in front of her as she waiting; her hands palms starting to sweat as her heart began to beat rapidly inside of her chest; anxiety and fear creeping over her.  

“You need to behave yourself and be nice Rogers,” one of the guards spoke.  

Another voice broke through Gemma’s thoughts; one of the sexiest voices she had ever heard. Looking up from her papers in front of her, she saw a tall, well built man, clad in an orange jumpsuit, wrists and ankles locked together with cuffs, entering the expansive room.  

He scoffed at the guard, a sly smile on his face.  “I don’t play well with others and you know that.”

Her heart nearly dropped to her stomach at the sight of him.  He had to be close to six feet tall.  His hair was a dark blonde, almost brunette and was longer at the top of his head while the sides were shorter.  His hair was combed backwards and he had a thick yet trimmed beard resting on his face.

The guard brought him closer to Gemma, stopping just in front of her.  He pulled the chair out for Steve to sit in and cuffed him to the table.  

“We’ll be just outside the door, so no funny business Rogers,” the guard spoke, pulling at his cuffs to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.  

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve bit back sarcastically.  

It took a moment for Steve to look over at Gemma and when she did, she wanted to simultaneously shrink down in her seat from her glare, yet get lost in his eyes forever.  They were the bluest eyes she had ever seen in her life and she was mesmerized by them.  

Steve cleared his throat, making Gemma startle in her seat.   She tore her gaze from his eyes and noticed he had tattoos peeking out of the neck of his jumpsuit.  As she trailed her view from his neck, she also realized he had more black ink sticking out of sleeves of his orange garb and to his hands; wondering if his entire body was covered in the ink.  

Steve couldn’t help but take notice of the smaller woman sitting in front of him.  She was a mousy little thing, yet he could tell she was curvy underneath that drab old cardigan she was wearing.  Fuck, Steve hadn’t seen a woman in over three years and he wasn’t disappointed in this little Kitten sitting here.  He couldn’t help but notice when he startled her earlier, scaring her; it made his dick throb.

She wet her lips, grasping her notebook in her hands and looking over her questions yet again.  

Steve began to feel his temper rise under his skin, waiting for this little Kitten to speak.  Hell, at this point, he was beginning to think she was a damn mute.  

Gemma took a sip of water from her water bottle that was stashed away in her satchel; getting comfortable in her chair.  “Umm, I just wanted to say thank you for agreeing to meet and speak with me Mr. Rogers,” she spoke, her voice awfully quiet.  

His eyes narrowed at her as he leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest.  “Yeah yeah.  Let’s just get this over with.  I’m missing my yard time today for some journalist here.”

Gemma shuffles anxiously in her chair.  “Well, I’m not a journalist Mr. Rogers.  My name is Gemma Peterson and I’m a writer actually.  I work for a small publishing firm and they are interested in your story as a lifer in this prison.  They are actually doing a series on inmates and their personal memoirs and it will be published into a book of….”

Steve scoffed, cutting you off.  “Writer or journalist, you’re all the same. There’s no difference,” he mutters under his breath.  His eyes glance down to the manila folder that held his inmate information.  “From the looks of it, you’ve already read everything about me so you should know how I feel about journalists hounding me for questions about my life before prison and now.”  His voice was warning, yet a deep purr.  He leaned against the table, closer to Gemma, eyes pinning under his dark gaze.  

There was something about the fear that was ignited in Gemma, which also turned her on.  His eyes were piercing deep into her soul, mesmerized, yet terrified at the same time.  

Steve fought the urge to moan at the way she bit her lower lip, as if to stop herself from trembling; his cock jumping for attention under his orange jumpsuit.  She was modest, submissive even and he had to stop thinking dark thoughts about his hand around her throat as he fucked her raw.  When he was told about this interview, he assumed it would have been a balding fat man, not a shapely appetizing young woman.  

He was leaned over the table, as close as he could possible lean and inhaled deeply.  His nostrils were met with the most wondrous smell; some sort of flower he couldn’t quite figure out, but he wanted more of it.  He thanked whatever higher power out there for her perfume, her scent; it was a good distraction for his shitty fucking life in prison.  

Gemma took a shuddering breath as Steve leaned closer to her over the table; her eyes on his large hands clasped together.  

“Well go on then.  Ask your damn questions,” Steve urged, a hint of playfulness in his warning tone, making Gemma’s mind swirl with confusion.

“Umm, what..what more can you tell me about your conviction and what was it like?” She slowly glances back up at Steve, immediately regretting it.  His jaw was tight, tense.  

“Lengthy and tedious,” came Steve’s stiff answer.  

“And what about the trial?” she asks softly.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances down at his file and back up to her.  “Read the damn file.  It’s all in there.”

Usually she is poised during interviews, but Steve is throwing her off track with his demeanor. “Alright then,” she speaks, shifting in her chair.  “How has it been adjusting to life here in prison?”

“Agonizing,” he replies; his face deadpanned.  

“Umm,” she stumbled as she fumbled through her notes.  She could feel her cheeks begin to redden with mortification at her loss of thought. This was definitely not going the way she imagined.  Sure, she had never interviewed a prisoner before, but she had seen numerous crime shows and interviews online with prisoners and they acted anything but like Steve.  Her throat was beginning to dry up and reached for her bottle of water, taking a quick swig.  Not only was his behavior throwing her off, but he stature in general was terrifying. Here she was, sitting not only in front of a murderer, but a big man in and of itself.  His biceps were trying to break free from his jumpsuit and she could tell he was ripped and muscular underneath.  

Her eyes trailed up to his face; the veins in his neck starting to pop out.  “What do you want me to say huh?” he growled through his teeth. “You want me to sit here and talk about and describe in detail what killing and hurting those men felt like huh? How good it felt when I plunged the knife into their stomachs and slashed their throats?  Or how I watched one of them die a slow and painful death after cutting his femoral artery?  People don’t realize just how much blood the human body can hold, but I sure do Kitten and it’s quite a fucking lot of blood,” he explained.  

Gemma wanted to flinch at the pet name he gave her, but she kept her cool as best she could. Instead, she looked at him with her big emerald green innocent and scared eyes.  

Steve nearly came in his jumpsuit at the terrified way she was looking at him.  Fuck he would give anything to snap these chains off him, bend her over the table and slam his dick into her pussy.  He knew, just by looking at her, what a tight little cunt she had; and he wanted it.  

“Is that what you want to hear Kitten?  I think deep down you want to hear that I enjoyed killing those men.  Fuck, I’m glad I did it.  And no, I wouldn’t take it back if I had the chance to.  Sure, I’m fucking pissed to be locked in this miserable God forsaken place like a caged animal.  Having to be told when I can eat, sleep and taking a goddamn piss. But it is what it is,” he stated, shrugging  as if it was nothing.  

Gemma could do nothing but stare back at him.  Steve studied her, knowing he was wrong.  No, she was too sweet, too pure.  She wasn’t hard hearted like him.  He watches as she nervously chews on her lower lip.  

“What do you miss most from outside of this place?”

The question made him cock his head to the side in curiosity.  This petite, shapely five foot four librarian looking woman just astonished the five foot eleven murderer.  

“What?” Steve asked.  

“What do you miss about-“

“I heard the fucking question Kitten,” he growled.  

This time when he called her Kitten, she didn’t want to flinch.  Instead, she felt an oddly exciting tingle go down her spine; her cheeks turning a beautiful shade of pink.  Steve knew exactly what his pet name did to her as he slyly smirked.  

Steve stayed silent, not knowing how to answer that question.  Nobody ever asked him that question before in interviews.  

She remained quiet as well, her eyes fidgeting with her pen.  She had been told time and time again to not give any personal information about herself, but she couldn’t help just speaking up.  “I’d miss baking.”  Her voice was the softest she had ever spoken; Steve barely heard her.  

Her eyes flick back up to Steve as he sits back in his chair, getting comfortable.  His slicked back hair was now in the light of one of the few windows in the room and even though he used only prison shampoo, it looked so soft; she wanted to run her fingers through it.  

Since Steve wasn’t saying anything, she figured she would continue speaking.  “My grandma left me her house in her will when she passed. It’s quite small.  Just a two bedroom two bathroom house.  But it has a porch with a porch swing in the front and is full of hand me downs and small knick-knacks.  It’s warm and cozy and clean, and all mine,” she speaks.  “It’s all I have.  I don’t have any family left.  My entire life exists in that small house.   I grew up there my entire life.  I remember planting some lilac bushes when I was younger.  I love it every spring when they bloom, even if it’s not for very long.  My grandma and I planted a garden in the front of the house.  I try to keep up with the garden, but that was my grandma’s thing.  Plants and flowers.  Luckily the garden we planted when I was younger, doesn’t take much to upkeep. But baking is my passion. Cookies, brownies, pies and cakes. I make a lot of cakes for special events in my town.”

She couldn’t help but glance up at Steve and she couldn’t tell if her mind was playing tricks on her or not, but it looked like he was smirking.  

“Coffee,” was all he said, making Gemma nod her head.  But then he continued.  “Italian coffee to be exact.  Nothing added to it, dark as the ink on my skin.  The shit coffee they serve in here tastes like dirt.”  Gemma couldn’t help but let out a small giggle, the sound going straight to Steve’s dick, making him inwardly groan.  

The two of them sat there quietly, staring at one another.  

“Time’s up,” came the voice of one of the guards.  Gemma turned and saw two guards entering the room.  They stopped in front of Steve and unshackled him from the table.  Roughly, they jerked his hands away from the table and she wondered if his wrists were sore or hurt as she noticed how his skin was raised and red near the cuffs.  

“Come and see me again Kitten,” Steve spoke with a slight upturned grin to his lips.  

Gemma watched as the guards took him from the room.  She had never felt this way before she did today; terrified and fearful, yet oddly excited to see him again.  She had not planned on coming back here again, but when he called her that pet name yet again, she had made up her mind to visit him next week.  

[desiraypark]

Be My Guest

Sequel to “Be Our Guest” Characters: Commander Kylo Ren x Paul Sevier x Female Reader Content: M/F/M Threesome. Licking, sucking, and fucking. Don’t know what else to say lol. I guess my most important warnings: includes some face/throat-fucking, licking of zee cum, and unprotected sex.  Word Count: 2,599 (If I don’t catch any mistakes after this is published)

NOTE: Lingerie is linked in the story and the model wearing it is thin.

(Shout-out to @clumsycopy​​ this gif is fucking perfect lmaooo)

The months crept by since your encounter with Commander Ren. He’d come and gone from missions, and barely said a word to either of you. Finally, one sweet day, a couple of packages were left on Paul’s desk. He opened the top one and pulled out a note.

Tomorrow evening, 2200. My quarters. I would like to see you in these, and her in what’s in the other package.

You’d bunched the gown up under your work uniform, left your small quarters and met Paul in the corridor outside of his office. Then, the both of you walked through the base like a couple of teenagers up to no good. Finally, you got to Commander Ren’s quarters. Paul pressed the buzzer by his door, and a Stormtrooper walked past the end of the corridor. You froze, and just as the trooper stepped in your direction, Ren’s blast doors opened. The two of you shuffled inside.

The living space was dark and cool. Comfortable, but you immediately felt your nipples pucker to attention.

“In here,” a deep voice called from the bedroom. 

You and Paul walked into Ren’s spacey bedroom with its king-sized bed. But Ren sat in a velvet chair in the corner of the room--wearing nothing but a pair of satin black briefs. His eyebrows furrowed.

“You didn’t like the gown?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” you said, shaking your head. You quickly peeled off the layers of your uniform until the bunched red material fell. Ren licked his lips.

“Don’t cover it up next time...” he said.

Next time?

“...your fear of being caught excites me…”

You nodded. “Yes, Sir…”

His eyes fell on Paul, and Paul began to disrobe as well, revealing a pair of satin briefs similar to his, only in red. Your lips turned up into a smile.

“Do you like those on him, Beautiful?”

“Yes, Sir. I do,” you answered. Paul’s face flushed red and he bit his bottom lip, trying to hide his smile.

“Go on. Look at each other. Admire one another,” Commander Ren ordered.

You and Paul turned to each other and needed no instruction on what to do next. Paul took your hand and stepped back to look you over. Then he lifted your hand and guided you to twirl around, and you did. When you faced him again, he pulled you close and kissed you. You felt his hands slide down your shoulders and your back. He grabbed your ass and you giggled into his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” Paul mumbled.

“Thank you, Love,” you said, pressing your forehead against his. He gave you a peck on the lips. Then, you glanced at Ren. Paul lifted his forehead and did the same. Ren stretched his hand out in the direction of the bed.

“There is no consequence here. My bed is yours for the night.”

You looked Paul in the eyes and he pulled you close to him again and kissed you. The tips of his fingers tickled your exposed knee and ran up your thigh. Then, you ran your fingers through his hair. Paul pushed you down on the bed and knelt over you, looking into your eyes as he ran his hand up and down your thigh, still. You pulled off his glasses and reached for the nightstand. He took them and put them down for you. Then, he devoured your face.

Paul pulled down the sleeves of your gown and revealed your bare breasts--your nipples firm and greeting him excitedly. He sucked your left nipple between his teeth and licked circles around it. His firm hand pressed into the flesh of your right breast, massaging it. You ran your fingers through his hair, and he switched breasts--hand on the left, mouth covering the right. 

Heat began to rise between your thighs, and as if he felt it, Paul’s hand slipped under your gown and his thick fingers found their way to your clit. You began to gyrate against his touch, and he looked up at you--mouth still latched to your breast. He pulled his lips away, slithered down your body, and pried your legs apart. Then, he pressed his lips against your clit, and slowly, gave it a long lick.

You let out a sigh of relief and opened your legs wider. Paul laid flat on his stomach and slowly licked and sucked at your warm folds and soft, but steadily firming clit. Ren stood up. Your eyes fell to his pelvis, and you saw the bulging imprint under his briefs. He reached in and pulled himself out--thick, long, and oozing for you. And probably for Paul, too.

“Would you like to taste me?” Ren asked.

You nodded and sat up on your elbows. Paul looked up when Ren climbed on the bed beside you. He watched you stroke his aching length, then take the head between your lips. You hallowed out your cheeks, drew his dick in, and licked circles around. You hand-stroked the inches your mouth wasn’t reaching. Ren rested his hand on the back of your head and threw his head back. He let out a sigh. 

The more obscene your dick-sucking became, the more obscene Paul’s pussy eating became--he sucked and even took small bites at your clit and fucked your warm, wet hole with his tongue. In response, you hummed and slobbered over Ren’s dick. Suddenly, you felt a couple of fingers stretching you out--the sensation making you jump--surprised--and scrape your teeth against the hot, salty flesh in your mouth.

Ren grunted.

“Fuck…” he mumbled. “I liked that...”

Suddenly, his hand gripped your scalp and he pushed you further down, making his tip greet your palate. Tears welled in your eyes and you began to gag over him, feeling the saliva collecting in your mouth. Paul’s tongue left your folds and his fingers stopped moving. Unable to look at him or do anything with your eyes or your face, you spread your legs wider--hoping he got the hint. Then, you felt his wet tongue on you again, and his fingers stroked your walls once more.

“Beautiful mouth feels so good,” Ren grumbled, rocking your head back and forth. Finally, he yanked your head away and tilted your face upward by your hair. He knelt, ran his tongue around your lips, then slipped it into your mouth. You let him in and explored his mouth with your tongue. Paul slid a third finger inside of you, pulled his mouth away, and pounded into you--the bottom of his palm smacking against your skin. 

The overwhelming movement made you squeal in Ren’s mouth. Then, he sat up and pushed the head of his dick past your lips and into your mouth again. You reached up to stroke it, but he batted your hand away and started fucking your face. Your eyes got watery again and you screamed with a mouth full of dick and a pussy full of fingers. Suddenly, Paul stopped thrusting and instead, curled his fingers upward and stroked the spongy roof of your gushing pussy. Your legs snapped shut, and Ren pressed your mouth to the base of his dick and held you there.

“Open those legs,” he commanded.

Paul, now suddenly in cahoots with Ren, pushed your right leg back and pressed down on the thigh. He kept stroking your spots--there seemed to be more than one--and flicked his tongue against your clit. Then, Ren went back to fucking your mouth, but slowly. The pressure built inside of your core. Your eyes rolled back and your toes curled. Then, you felt the snap inside of you--a muffled scream escaped your throat as you came all over Paul’s fingers.

“That’s right, Y/N, come for me. Come for me…” Paul mumbled, pulling every ounce of cum and every vibration of energy from your body.

Finally, Ren let go of your hair and pulled his dick out of your mouth. You crashed backward on the bed to catch your breath. 

“Let me taste her,” Ren said, leaning over.

Thinking that he was about to eat you out, you pushed yourself up the bed and closed your legs, but Paul grabbed your shin and pulled you back down. You glanced down to see Ren actually running his tongue over Paul’s fingers. Then, he sucked all four of them at once--gagging a little. The scene playing out before you excited you again, and made you rub your sensitive clit. Feeling how wet drenched you were, you decided to get a taste of yourself, too. Now, you were aching to be filled. 

Ren licked Paul’s fingers clean, then stared into his eyes. He leaned forward and kissed Paul, getting a taste of both of you. Suddenly, he gripped Paul’s jaw and deepened his kiss. Paul responded by grabbing a fist full of Ren’s hair. Then, they pulled apart.

“You next, Sweetie,” you said. Paul licked his lips and smiled. “Lie down.”

Paul pulled down his briefs and let his back fall against the plush blanket. His dick pointed to the ceiling--the tip pained and red. You sat on your knees beside him and planted kisses down his sternum. Before getting to his stomach, you licked his left nipple, then took gentle bites at the right. You gave the right nipple a suck and bypassed his stomach, ready to have his dick in your mouth. Warm, wet circles around the head first, then, you went down and let him fill your mouth--so small in comparison to his thick circumference. 

Ren had pulled down his briefs and was squeezing himself. Then, he climbed on the bed and knelt on the other side of Paul. He leaned forward and began to lick his balls. Paul pushed his head into the mattress and let out a guttural groan as you sucked his dick, and as Ren explored his balls with licks, sucks, tugs, and massages. The sight of Paul’s toes curling in your peripheral put a smile on your face and made you get messy for him. 

You slid down on him until you gagged, then pulled up--letting spit fall from your lips and attach itself to his head. You rubbed the saliva over his length and took him in your hot mouth again--sucking and gulping, and stroking. Then, Ren released his balls and joined you at the dick. When you were on the tip, he was down the shaft and vice-versa. Eventually, the two of you met up, and let your tongues touch as you licked the throbbing, head.

“Oh, shit. Fuck...” Paul mumbled, his legs shifting back and forth on the bedding. Commander Ren abruptly sat up and grabbed Paul’s jaw. 

“Don’t you fucking come, Sevier.”

You pulled your lips away and licked them. 

“Fuck,” Paul whimpered. “Sorry, Commander. Feels so fucking good…”

Ren ran his fingers down Paul’s chest and abdomen. “Kylo. Kylo in here.” 

He looked at you and you nodded in agreement.

He tilted your head up by your chin and leaned down to kiss you.

“Take this off,” he said, tugging at the fabric of your gown. You tilted your body side to side to pull the skirt of it up, then, you pulled it over your head, revealing your naked flesh to the two. Kylo pushed you down beside Paul and looked at you both. He leaned forward and sucked Paul off some more--and he reached over to finger you. The two of you were stretched out before your commander, moaning and writhing at his touch.

“May I fuck her first, Sevier?” he asked.

Paul nodded. Kylo adjusted his body over you and Paul scooted close to the bed’s edge. You opened your legs and Kylo held them up back the backs of your knees. He let one leg go for a few seconds so that he could line up at your entrance, then, he pushed into your core, stretched you wide, and placed both legs around his waist. Your back arched and you whimpered as you felt the inches digging into your center.

Paul kissed you on the lips then sucked at your nipples again. As he sucked, he looked down to watch Kylo’s lower body colliding with yours. Then, he picked up his pace--letting his balls slap against the bottom curve of your ass.

“Does the Commander feel good, my Love?” he asked.

“Yes, Paul,” you answered, running your fingers through his hair.

Kylo looked down at your pussy. “She’s making such a mess...”

Paul sucked air in through his teeth. Then, he leaned over your crotch and licked your clit as Kylo fucked you--just as he did the last time--and it drove you just as crazy. 

Paul’s warm tongue flicked against your aching clit as Kylo’s hard dick stroked the ridges and folds of your walls. Then, your pussy began tightening around him. You released a chorus of “uhs” and “ohs” as the pressure built in you again.

“Mmm,” Kylo hummed. “Make her come on your cock, Sevier.” 

Kylo snatched himself out, and you whined at the sudden emptiness. Kylo and Paul switched positions, and Paul buried deep inside of you. He then dragged out and slid back in--repeating the motion at a moderate pace. Kylo just watched the activity for a few seconds before he rubbed the pads of his fingers on your clit. Soon, he began licking and sucking at your clit like it was melting ice cream. You felt your orgasm build again, and Paul didn’t break the pace.

“Fuck, come for me Y/N. Come for me…”

Your gripped the sheets and cried to the ceiling as you gushed around Paul’s dick. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you squealed and whimpered through your finish. Then, you felt Paul’s strokes getting sloppy. Kylo sat up and started stroking himself over your stomach.

“Do you want it inside of you, baby?” Paul asked. You sat up on your elbows.

“Yes, please, yes…” 

Paul gripped your thighs, held them open, and pounded into you. Pupils dilated and irises dark with lust, you stared into Paul’s eyes, and he stared back. 

“Fuck!” Kylo shouted. Ropes of cum left his body like little streams and landed on your stomach and chest. Then, Paul let out a lengthy moan.

“Come in that pussy, Sevier,” Kylo encouraged as he stroked the remnants of his own orgasm out. “Fill that beautiful pussy up.”

“Give it to me, baby,” you whimpered. “Give me all of it...”

Paul’s head flew back and his eyes closed. Finally, you felt his warmth filling you. And it didn’t seem to stop. Eventually, he pulled out and collapsed beside you--his chest moving up and down as he took deep breaths. You to the side, grabbed Paul’s flushed face, and kissed him on the lips. In that moment, you also felt his release squishing out of you.

You didn’t realize that Kylo had fallen on the opposite side of you--also catching his breath. 

“Fuck, you shouldn’t have done that Sevier,” he said, the fog clearing up in his brain. 

You released Paul’s mouth and rested your head, staring at the ceiling. “I had a contraceptive device installed, Sir.”

“Oh,” Kylo said. 

He looked down and collected some of his cum off your stomach with his index and middle finger. Then, he pressed the digits to your lips. You licked his seed with a hum and a smile, and he kissed you. When you pulled away, you felt Paul’s fingers on your chin. He turned your face to his and pulled your lips to his own. He explored your hot mouth with his tongue--collecting your saliva and the remnants of Kylo’s cum. ___________________

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 25- Checkmate

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU and Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

Captured by Dolios, it’s up to TFC to decide who lives, who dies, and who gets to walk away from the game Dolios plays with them. 

Chapter idea credit to @whumpster-dumpster

_____________________________________________

“How about a game of chess, guildmaster?” Dolios waves the hermits into the antechamber of the prison. The death dungeons Galena warned them of. TFC is pushed forward, standing before and alone from his friends. He stumbles and turns, head spinning from the sleep he was awoken from as he  looks at them all. Helmets cover the faces of the guards standing behind each hermit, but he can clearly see the knives at their throats. Every single one, a hair’s breadth from death. Some are stoic, like Doc. Unafraid and unblinking to the cold blade. Others are nearly collapsing to their knees- if doing so didn’t mean being cut by the knife. 

TFC turns back, a fierce growl rising from his throat “What is this about?” 

“I’m trying to be civil, can’t you see?” Dolios sweeps his purple robes to the side, revealing a table and two chairs. Atop the table, crystal and obsidian chess pieces glitter in the torchlight. “I’m letting you decide your team's fate. You see, each piece is a member of your illegal guild. On both sides. Each one that’s captured is eventual doom. Play my game, and decide the fate of your beloved friends. Who is more important, who will live? Who is sacrificed for the good of the cause?” 

“What kind of sick game-!” Grian claws his way out of his captor’s grip, biting down on the gloved hand before the masked man regains control over the spitfire. 

“And what happens when I win?” TFC puts a hand on his waist and raises a silvery eyebrow. 

“You won’t, but just to ease your fears, when you win your friends will get to live. It won’t be a nice time living, but they’ll be alive.” Dolios chuckles. “If you lose, those who are captured are killed and become another husk to add to my army. The rest may leave, in fact. But trust me- I won’t leave anyone alive. I play to dominate.” 

“What if I just don’t play?” TFC looks at the chess pieces. He picks up a knight, turning it over. Scrawled on the bottom of the crystal white horse, he can see Wels’s name. One piece, but one real life in this game of strategy. He has to be smarter than Dolios. 

“Then we can just make this fast and kill them all right now. I’m giving you the chance to free some, or all! Of your friends.” Dolios pulls out a chair and motions to it, brushing the cushioned velvet flat. “Sit, guildmaster. Let’s play a game. Show me your true worth as a champion guild.” 

Reluctantly, he does. He has no choice. This is the only way he can ensure some sort of life for his friends. But at the expense of others. As soon as he pulls his chair in, a blast of air and magic reverberates from the chess board. He winces, his hair blowing back and gripping the chair for support. When TFC reopens his eyes, the prison chamber has changed. 

Dolios and him are floating above the ground. Just beneath them, a massive chess board has appeared. The guards are gone, and on each checkered color stands a hermit. Only a few pieces are actual stone. Grian opens his wings, attempting to fly free from his place as bishop. But as soon as he takes off from the ground, his eyes widen and pain laces across his face. He crashes to the stone, black lightning shooting up his skin. Iskall and others step forward, before hesitating. They’re chess pieces now. Pawns. They can only move when the player moves them. Dolios looks down, chuckling. “He’s quite the wild child. Completely different from the last angel I quarreled with.” 

“Why are you doing this?” TFC hisses. “This isn’t fair!” 

“Since when did things ever become fair, guildmaster? You’re already playing with their lives by challenging me. Now you can see how your own mistakes led you here.” Dolios intertwines his fingers together, resting his elbows on the table. He leans his chin on his hands, a coy smile making his brown beard scratch at his skin. “I’ll let you make the first move, TFC.” 

The guildmaster looks across his chess board, as well as below him. It’s not just his pieces that are hermits, that are his friends. Dolios has some as well. Standing deathly still, waiting for the first move to be taken. TFC closes his eyes, thinking. He needs to be smart, to be a better strategist than the magistrate of Lairyon. This isn’t just a game. This is beyond what happens at the table before him. He needs to think of the repercussions each move will make. He has to make the least bloody moves as possible. Save as many of his friend’s lives as possible. 

“You promise no harm will come to my friends that survive?” TFC’s eyes open, realizing what he has to do. Without hesitation, TFC picks up a pawn, directly in front of Grian. It’s Mumbo. 

“I promise, on my word as the magistrate of Lairyon. May the ancient ones strike me down themselves.” TFC sets the pawn two spaces forward. Below him, he hears Mumbo’s yelp, followed by a cry of pain and feet scrabbling forward. When the crystal mage looks up, Dolios is grinning. “So the game begins.” 

He shoves his own pawn forward, moving exactly as TFC wants him to. The one directly in front of the king- of Dolios himself. TFC looks down, seeing Ren shuffle forward. He’s missing a sandal, only one flopping against the cold marble chess board beneath him. Two moves in front of him and to the left is Mumbo, shaking in his boots. 

TFC moves a second pawn- Scar. “You have my friends marked wrong. None of them are pawns. They’re all stronger than you could ever hope to be.” Wels is exposed, Scar standing beside Mumbo. 

“Tell that to this- checkmate.” TFC straightens his back, staring directly at Dolios as the magistrate shoves his queen diagonally. It’s not linked to any hermit, so a stone statue moves into the corner of the board. Turning and facing the white king. Capturing TFC. “You stupid mining moron! You lost in two moves!” Dolios cheers, his chair knocking backwards as he pumps his fist to the air and stands. “I didn’t even lose a single damned piece!” 

“Neither did I.” TFC whispers. “Now let my friends go.” 

Dolios stills, freezing mid celebration. His head turns, looking to TFC. He can see the magistrate slowly piece it all together, and the moment he realizes what’s happened. Elation breaks away in seething anger. A rage so bright and hot TFC swears he can feel it from his chair. “You tricked me!” 

“No, I played your game.” TFC’s voice is calm, collected. “You just happened to win. What was it you said before… you play to dominate? And dominate you did. Shouldn’t a good leader find a way to win without bloodshed?” 

Dolios waves his hand, a black magic circle appearing. A reverberating sonic wave shoves TFC out of his chair, throwing chess pieces all around him. Floating above his friends, he can hear them gasp. Only able to watch. Unable to move, to help their guildmaster. Their friend. Doc reaches out, but the black veins quickly reach back towards him. Towards his heart. TFC winces, sitting up. “You swore on your seat to let them go if I lost! If you go back on your word, everyone will know!” 

“Oh, I don’t plan on going back on my words.” Dolios snaps his fingers, and the hermits warp back to reality. The chamber is it’s old dull hall, torches and stone bricks. Hermits collapse together, checking one another for wounds sustained while apart. Grasping to stay together, to piece what happened between their last memory and now. Most only remember the capitol hall, then being woken up by the masked guards in individual cells.

 Dolios approaches TFC, setting his grey leather boot on the older man’s chest. Pressing his gilded heels harsh against his ribs. “But you still lost, you were captured. And all the pain your friends avoided? I’m going to do it tenfold to you!” 

A black ball of lightning grows as Dolios snarls, hand winding back and aiming directly for TFC. His eyes are wild, unhinged and untethered to reality. TFC raises his hand, a weak attempt to stop the growing dark magic before him. 

“Oh no you don’t!” X’s voice is sure, loud and reverberating off the stone walls. Unhindered by his mask. A snap follows soon after, and the dark lightning is dragged into nothingness. Into the void as X’s black hole grows. It threatened to eat up Dolios then and there, had he not taken an alarmed step back. 

“How? You shouldn’t be able to do that! You’re weak! My sleep spell should’ve...” Dolios turns, staring down the other hermits. Not noticing that Cub was hidden behind the others, or that TFC was no longer at his feet. 

“Nah, I’d say we’re pretty strong. Especially together.” X shrugs, and lets his black hole explode in a miniature big bang. 

With Dolios distracted, the crew makes their escape. Wels casts a shield and speed buffs, one hand raised to protect the retreat. Etho disappears down the hall, bouncing through shadows and silently taking out the guards ahead. At the top of the stairs, Mumbo hacks his way into the redstone powered door. Focusing all of his strength into forcing it open. Stress releases a sheet of ice before them, Jevin wraps everyone together into a bundle of bodies, and Impulse takes up a position next to Wels and his shield. Bracing against his friends, he casts his magic. Short spurts of explosions erupt from his hands, jetting the guild down the hall. 

Etho appears above the group from an arching shadow, grabbing Doc’s hand and joining them as they careen through the halls of the capitol building. Zipping past guards and wizards before anyone can even realize what they’ve seen, like a roller coaster ride. They don’t stop until they’ve burst out the back doors. Stress still doesn’t stop making a highway of ice, not until they’re well beyond the city limits, skating out into the open marshes that surround Milliara. 

Only then does the crew stop, breathing heavily and taking a moment to realize what just happened. And once they come to the same conclusion- they drown TFC in hugs. 

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

“Sir… they escaped. Again.” Apatia runs up, his breath heavy as his chest rises and falls. “They’re well beyond the walls. Should we send the Arcane guard after them?” 

“No. I don’t want anyone to question why we’re chasing after our champions. Erase all memories to anyone that saw their escape.” Dolios growls, rubbing his hand. Feeling the void still against his skin, trying to tear it apart. 

“But what about the illegal guild? They know-” 

Dolios turns away from the guildmaster, forcing the redstone door closed. Hiding the dungeons beneath the capitol building. “They are not our main concern. Let them squirm, let them think they’ve won. I have more important things to deal with. I have more power to gain.” 

Dolios looks down as something rattles against the floor. He stoops low, picking up the black pawn. It’s chipped, the onyx stone heavy in his hand. The Order of Hermits have captured this pawn, but he’s just setting the stage. Playing the whole field. “Check.”

[kineticallyanywhere]

Fourteen, and four thousand, years old

Summary: (Post volume five) Oscar and Ozpin pass out after the battle of Haven. Oscar wakes up and his thoughts are pretty scrambled. Qrow of all people figures out the right perspective. 

Wrote this mostly after volume 5 came out, forgot about it for like a year at a time, decided I liked it too much to sit on it, and then finally finished it because I stand by the descriptions I have (specifically about how merging with Oz affects Oscar, from Oscar’s perspective). It was a lot of fun writing the kind of thought-paradox that might come with sharing a brain, especially when the line between who’s thoughts belong to who should be clear, but isn’t. 

(not beta’d, not on ao3 yet)

---

Oscar’s pretty sure he at least gets out the word “Atlas”.

Then everything goes quiet. 

Blessedly quiet. 

“...dn’t…”

“...s he okay? It’s bee…”

“...sing his body for half the fight. Took out of ‘em both. Jus… ome time.”

Soft. Something's soft. 

“...at this rate. Are we gonna have to carry him to the train?”

Ow. Pain, something hurts. 

“It's not like he's very big.”

Everything hurts. Heavy. Why does he feel so heavy? 

“I mean, maybe if it was just Oscar, but ima… zpin around.”

“That’s…”

“If it comes to it, I'll carry ‘im. Big babies.”

Qrow. Lifting his head off the pillow to clear both eyes to open takes work. He feels it all the way down to his shoulder blade. He takes the inch he can get and tries to see who's next to him. It's all a blur. Has he even opened his eyes? “Qrow?" 

A hand rests on his shoulder. It kind of doesn't hurt. Oscar’s head hurts. Pounding behind the bridge of his nose. For a moment he thinks the red eyes he sees must be his own. No, his eyes are brown-- No. His eyes are hazel now. His eyes hurt, too. The room has gone silent. 

“Go back to sleep, kid,” Qrow says. Ozpin is silent; How can Qrow tell?

He is Ozpin though, and he is awake. He hurts. But that doesn't matter, what matters is, “Atlas…”

“We’re already on it.” Oh, good. Oscar did manage to say it before. 

“We’re gonna get you there in one piece, too,” a lighter voice says. Oscar’s head loses its inch from the pillow. His eyes - hazel, but so dry - slide to the person crouched next to him.”You’ve got nothing to worry about,” she promises. 

Promises… he's seen her faces a thousand times. She's a warrior. She has so many friends. She's alive and well. She's dead. Is that his fault, too? Probably. 

“Summer…” is all he can say, and Oscar has no idea (some idea) who that is. 

And then everything is quiet again. 

Blessedly quiet. 

Nothing hurts. 

...his hands sting. 

He's pretty sure he's sitting up now, leaning sideways against something. His clothes are soft. Not… not well worn soft, more like new soft. He's pretty sure Ozpin is the one who knows what that feels like. 

Opening his eyes is easier this time. He sees he's leaning on fabric that is folded around an arm shape. Green and black and a bit of pink. Hands folded in a lap. Legs on a couch, feet on the floor. The room is darker this time, and yet the air is lighter. There’s quiet laughter across the room and cricket chirping beyond a wall. 

Ozpin is silent. 

“Ren?” Oscar asks for instead. 

The shoulder he’s leaning on shifts a little, but Oscar doesn't want to lift his head from it. 

“Oscar?” Ren asks quietly in return. Whatever other conversation is in the room continues easily without him. He and Oscar go unnoticed. 

Oscar's eyes gravitate down towards his own hands, his own clothes. He’s wearing a clean white shirt and baggy grey pants that he doesn't recognize. His palms are stuck with bandaids -- his gloves are gone. The cane is different from a shovel, his own memory supplies. He runs his fingertips across the textured fabric pulling at his skin. He wiggles his toes and feels it there, too. Running up walls is different from rounding up chickens. 

Ren is wonderfully patient. 

“Did I wake up before?” Oscar asks. No depressed tones hang in this air. There's no worry or panic, if only for now. He recognizes the scent of a tea Oscar knows he's never encountered before. 

“A few times,” Ren tells him. He waits even more moments for Oscar to process what that means. Other than the idea that maybe he had changed his own clothes, he doesn't. Eventually Ren asks, “Are you hungry?”

Oscar feels very heavy. Something in his chest feels smaller, yet crowded, and something weaves across and around his skin like air but warmer. Heavier. Like more than it should be. It's not a bad feeling. He feels like more than he's been before, just a little. 

The band aids are lighter than his skin tone. Have they always been like that? 

Ren reaches a hand across himself to place over Oscar's. Oscar stops pressing at the bandaids. His hands sting. He misses when his cane was familiar to his hands. 

“You should sleep,” Ren suggests softly. He says most things softly. 

Oscar's eyes are already closed. “Okay…” he says. 

Everything is quiet. 

Quiet. And light. And heavy? Light and heavy. And hot. Oscar’s eyes are closed but his head is spinning but he feels like he's sinking. Like something intangible is contracting inside of him, pushing together and leaving him exposed. Cold. Hot. Tired. 

Oscar is so tired. 

There's a feeling on his shoulder. 

“...aura got really weak all of a sudden. I thought-- I thought maybe--”

“No, you're doing good, kid. Keep at it.”

Something falls over him, starting at his shoulder. Like a sheet of smooth water rolling over him and hugging him like a blanket. When he lifts his eyelids, he can see it. It's light green and feels cozy. It feels safe. Whatever was pushing inside Oscar’s chest decides to take a break for today and carefully releases. 

Tonight? This morning? Evening? What day is it? 

Qrow is there again. And Jaune, whose hands are glowing. Nora hovers behind them, swinging on her toes. She catches eyes with Oscar and gives a remarkably false smile. Oscar’s eyes slip shut without permission. 

“Take your time, ‘kay Os?” she says. 

Oscar makes a noise through his mouth which he doesn't open. 

And then it's quiet. 

It's still quiet when he becomes aware of himself. He's sitting up again, but leaning at an angle that he doesn't want to leave. Everything's quiet save for the sound of someone shuffling close by. Something ting-ting-tings softly. 

Oscar? 

It's not startling at all, as if he prepared the breath himself even though nothing was said out loud. 

Ozpin? 

Was that a question, or a confirmation? 

The voice that sounds like Ozpin says, Are we alright? 

His jaw feels stiff and his voice dry as he says, “Are we?”

Another dry voice says, from outside, “Kid?”

Oscar blinks his eyes and floats his head upright. He'd been leaning against the wings of a fluffy armchair. The room he finds himself in is unfamiliar, but the style still feels like Mistral, with long thin lines and dark, warm, tones. The other person in the room is much more familiar. Qrow has himself folded between the foot of Oscar's chair and the coffee table, where he's setting a spoon next to a warming plate with two mugs on top. Oscar’s chair isn't very tall, and Qrow is a small mountain even on the floor, so their difference in eye level isn't even that wide. 

Qrow is a mess of a human being, as far as Oscar can tell, but his presence is always assuring. The other children must be fine if they're not here and he is. 

“Hey,” Oscar greets. 

Qrow gives a small smile. “Hey there, Wizard. How ya feeling?" 

Oscar assesses. Slowly. He sits up properly and rubs his eyes. He's faintly sore. A blanket falls onto his lap. He remembers the fight for the relic, he remembers Ozpin going quiet, he remembers being safe, he remembers…

Ironwood will be upset. When isn’t he, nowadays? 

“A little blurry,” he decides. 

Qrow nods like that's a perfectly reasonable answer. He reaches for the mugs. “Coffee or hot chocolate?" he asks. 

“Hot chocolate?" The words feel new to his tongue. 

Qrow’s eyebrows raise. “You never have hot chocolate, kid?" 

“I…" No. They didn't have a lot for small, one-time, luxuries on the farm. “Not since Beacon.”

They both know Oscar’s never been to Beacon. The teacher's lounge always had a stash of cocoa powder. 

Qrow hands him one of the mugs without comment, for which Oscar is grateful, and takes a drink out of the other. The mug is warm, but the band aids on Oscar’s palms block the worst of the heat. 

Hot chocolate is Oscar's new favorite thing. Everything feels all warm inside. He feels his whole body slowly start waking up with him. He wiggles his toes and feels the rub of fabric between them. He pulls his feet onto the chair with him to get a look and finds several more band aids on the balls of his feet and one on the back of his left heel. 

“Looks like you've still got some work to do, farm boy,” Qrow tells him lightly. 

Oscar groans. Fighting… wasn't terrible. At least not until Ozpin took over and sent Oscar’s head spinning to understand how he could keep up with everything that was happening. Then Ozpin had let his grip slip off the controls and it had taken everything Oscar had to not black out on the spot. 

Qrow puts a hand on his knee and swings it back and forth. “It’ll get easier.”

That's what he's afraid of. 

“How long was I asleep?" Oscar asks. 

“It’s been a couple days since the battle,” Qrow answers. He lets Oscar’s knee go but keeps his arm leaning on the chair. “The kids have been pretty worried. You've woken up a handful of times. Do you remember?" 

Oscar humms uncertainty. “A couple times.” 

“Yeah I had the feeling you weren't quite with us. You remember changing clothes?”

Oscar shakes his head and picks at his shirt.

“You, uh… didn't miss much.”

That clearly wasn't true, but Oscar lets him have it, and a gulp of his coffee. Oscar turns his own attention to his hot chocolate. It's already half-empty. Figures he'd be thirsty, he guesses. 

“You spiked a fever last night, outta nowhere. Jaune super-boosted your aura and it came down, but the whole ordeal put some of the other kids on edge.”

That won't do. They'd all just had a major victory, the children need every reassurance they can get, not more aspects to worry over given by the very people they are just starting to put their trust in. 

Oscar is also a kid. Oscar would also like some reassurance. 

“You okay, Wizard?”

Oscar realizes he's been quiet for a while. “I just…” Oscar closes his eyes, which skews his sense of balance, but the simple loss of input spares him some focus to form a sentence. It feels like he has two lines of logic running at the same time, but each one alternates which one is making statements, so that every string of thought he forms in his brain ends up contradicting itself. Oscar’s been sick before, but nothing ever made him feel like this. This was familiar, though; something from a long time ago. Oscar hasn't lived a long time. Not yet. He will have. Soon. 

Oscar's head feels light and wobbly. He holds it in one hand, and it stops the world from swaying a little. The two lines of logic agree on one thing, at least. “I have a lot in my head.”

Qrow’s hand takes his ankle this time. It’s grounding. “Oz didn't give us all the gritty details about how this works, but from the way he talked about it - the whole merging thing - this is how it's supposed to go.”

That's what Oscar’s afraid of. 

“What I mean is: you’ll live. It'll get easier, and this phase’ll pass. You're gonna be okay. “

Oscar notices his hands shaking. He wishes he had more hot chocolate. Maybe some coffee. Oscar doesnt want coffee. He wants… he wants… 

A dark spot appears on the bandaid wrapped around the inside of his hand  

He can't get his voice to come out steady as he asks, “But will I still be me?" 

Oscar doesn't want to stop being himself. He doesn't want to turn into somebody else. He doesn't want to lose bits of who he is, one inch at a time, until someone else takes over. He doesn't want to disappear. 

Oh, Oscar… 

Oscar both wants to sink into whatever comfort Ozpin has to offer, and to push him away with everything he has. Not that any amount of pushing would get him very far. 

Then Qrow says, “Are you any less you than you were two months ago?”

Oscar looks up at him. He blinks some tears out of the way. “Huh?" is all he can process to say. 

“In the last two months, you got on a train, you’ve met huntsman and huntresses - hell, you've even fought most of ‘em. You've got new friends, new memories, new experiences; but you're still you, yeah? You just punch better and maybe know a few more things.”

“A few is an understatement.” Maidens, relics, gods, wizards, huntsmen, magic? Sure. A few things. “But I… yeah?” Or at least he didn't feel like he wasn't himself.

“You're gonna start remembering more and more as this goes. In a really, pretty short amount of time, you'll basically be experiencing everything that Oz - and whoever he was before that, and before that - experienced. You'll be gaining experiences, just like you have been these last two months. It's up to you--” Qrow poked him on the forehead “--whether or not you let those experiences change you. How they change you.”

Oscar’s vision gets blurry again, but his heart doesn’t pound quite so hard.

“I won't pad this for you, you will be different. But that doesn't mean you won't be you.”

Ozpin doesn't say anything, but there's no denial in that silence. No hidden corner or softened edge for Oscar's sake (there have been a few of those). Only reassurance. Wherever this goes, they'll go together  

Oscar rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. Sniffs self-consciously. "Thanks," he says. 

Qrow, mortifyingly, ruffles Oscar's hair, seriousness falling away again. "Any time, kiddo."

And then the door bursts open, ricocheting off the wall and nearly giving them both a heart attack. Nora stands in the doorway, the bottom of a cup still pressed to one ear. She makes determined and excited eye contact with him and shouts, "Oscar!" Then she leans back down the hall, door frame clutched in her fingers, to proclaim, "OSCAR'S AWAKE!"

A burst of red rose petals and then Ruby’s there. “Oh, thank goodness, are you okay?”

Oscar barely gets the words, “I’ll be fine,” out of his mouth before Ruby sags all the way to the floor in relief. 

“That is the least stressful thing I’ve heard all day. You would not believe the things Blake has been telling us about Menagerie and her house catching fire and-- oh!” Just like that, she’s on her feet again. “Oh my gosh! You have to meet Blake! I’ll--”

Before she can finish the next sentence, Nora has body-checked her across the room and taken her place. 

Seriously, she says, “Be straight with me, Oscar. Where does it hurt? Did you pull any muscles? What’s the weirdest dream you had? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Oscar looks nervously between her and her hand. “That’s a fist,” he tells her. 

Now Nora sighs with relief. “Phew.” Towards the hall, she shouts, “Looks like we don’t need the defibrillator, Ren!”

Just like that, Ren is in the doorway. “No one thought we’d need a defibrillator.” 

Then Jaune pokes his head in the doorway. He’s got his scroll up to one ear and a hand over the receiver. “We’re sure?”

He hasn’t called paramedics, has he?

Qrow asks him, “Who are you on the scroll with?”

“The pizza place down the street, you want any?” Jaune says. 

They get more pizza than they can eat in a day. Nora compensates for their weaknesses. Weiss makes more hot cocoa. Yang tells excellent sleepover stories. Blake has a very broad taste in book genres. They have a calm night. An easy night. They all know what’s coming, but until the sun rises again, the air is light. 

Oscar’s mind is quiet, the rest of that day. He’s not sure when his thoughts straightened out or the fog cleared away for a while. For a while he, unrealizng, makes the mistake of thinking himself alone in his own head. For a short time, he is only Oscar, and only a kid. 

Later, on a cold street in Argus, he suddenly understands why he’s known this feeling before. Why he recognizes that feeling--of single-mindedness, of solitude--and can articulate what it is. He is only Oscar, and only a kid. (But he won’t be, not forever.) 

It’s horribly quiet.  

[onlykyloscenes]

Don’t Look for Me: Chapter 6

 Ao3 | Chapter 5 

Summary: A verbose breath left his modulator before he answered, "if you refuse… I'll return you to my Knights, let them decide what to do with you. Ushar will no doubt have a few ideas. Would you like that, little one?"

Word Count: 3.7k

Near the end, Master Luke would often meet you in the meditation temple just after lights out. There were times during training where Luke would work with one Padawan at a time, or accompany a few on a specific mission. He made these excursions for a few different reasons: earning your crystal on Illum, putting your training to the test in real-world scenarios, or needing a new planet- a new environment- to feel the complexities of the Force. In those last few months at the Temple, you found that Luke wanted more from you in training. He could sense you holding back, suppressing something inside you—something you would never consciously allow flow to the surface. None but Ben Solo thought twice about the increased attention.

When Luke realized you wouldn't willingly release yourself during training, he pushed you harder—more time with only him in the meditation temple, more vigorous obstacle courses, more lightsaber training. What was usually a dance through the different forms, to assess which you excelled at, became sparring matches. First one-on-one, then two-on-one, and when that wasn't arduous enough, three-on-one. Two padawans  and  your Master, against you alone. 

It took five more of what should've been considered sparring ambushes for you to let go. Luke had taken one half of your split saber, clipping it onto his own belt. With only one saber, holding off two of your fellow padawans became a challenge. Your Master claimed relying on the two blades was a crutch, and shamed you for not retaining your mastery of a single saber. It was the perfect "lesson" to cover his honest intentions. By putting you at a disadvantage, it forced your mental guard to drop. If you were unable to maintain the upper hand through physical combat, you had to rely on the Force. When your Master saw an opening to join the spar, he leaped for it, for your then exposed left flank. 

You felt the advance before you saw it, and with the Force subduing one Padawan, and your saber locked with the other- Ben, you exploded. 

To slow persons or objects is not an uncommon ability for the Jedi to employ, but what you did that day was something… more.

 In an instant, your Master forcibly took the defensive. You had slowed Ben and his partner, Vos, so much that they seemed frozen in time. The saber you had locked with Ben's moved with your body on instinct, arching down to meet the green saber aimed for your left flank. With a now surfaced place in your mind keeping not just Ben and Vos, but the padawans watching the match in a slowed state of motion, your right hand Forced Luke away from you. 

Not by much, but enough for you to gain the upper hand. You weren't just in a cleverly achieved offensive; you were in a rage. It was quick and sloppy; Luke was easily parrying after catching his footing. Still, you pushed him further back, your limbs recalling the memories from before you earned the split saber. You didn't falter, your haste attacks only becoming more brutal the more ground you gained. It wasn't until you pulled the second half of your blade from Luke's belt, and locked them with his that your mind cleared. It gave you pause, and your Master used the loss of momentum to heave you back. When he did, your arms fell to your side – the last thing he expected. 

You gazed to the setting sun as Luke's advancing swipe met no resistance. He realized a moment too late that your blade had lowered, and the green tip met your jaw. It was there no longer than a second, immediately retracting on contact. 

Ben, Vos, and the others were released. They said nothing, did nothing, but they had seen everything. Luke remained in front of you, trying to draw your attention, but you just looked over his shoulder at the sun. Watched it dip lower and lower and wished you too could slip beneath the horizon for a time.

The others shuffled away from the sparring circle, having been silently dismissed by their Master. 

"Forgive me, young one. I- that was too much. We will meditate in the morning," your Master placed a gentle hand on your shoulder before excusing himself. 

Then alone, you sat crossed-legged on the stone ground, eyes still studying the painted colors of the sunset. A second presence joined you at your side. You didn't need to turn to know it was Ben. He said nothing, only mimicked your body's position. He sat with you, your minds open to each other as they often were when words escaped either of you. He listened as your feelings echoed to him, and in return, he caressed them. His pain met yours; seeing your anger and fear that eclipsed all reason  pained him . Where you felt guilt for the outburst, he felt remorse for not having the strength to reach you. 

Ben let you see through his eyes, a way of communicating that confused you the first night it happened. You could see yourself through him, he had let you become him through his mind. You could see his hands trying too hard to push against the Force, holding him suspended. His signature stretched, trying to touch the part of you concealed by your anger and frustrations. His thoughts screamed for you, but no matter how much louder he tried to be, you couldn't hear him. The words floated around, laid upon an invisible shield you had unknowingly thrown up, and dissipated into nothing. 

  "You're safe." "I'm here." "I see you."  

They were the same words you often used to soothe him.

When you had both felt what comfort you could, your minds fleeted back, and you simply sat. Ben's hand rest on your knee as you meditated, a wordless assurance that he was there and would stay. You remained there as a pair, until the sun sank below the horizon, not taking you with it.  

~

The walk from the ship hanger was silent, the emptiness giving way to the painful memory. Kylo led you with a hand on your left arm, daring glances down at you every few steps. There was no sign of him lurking in your mind, though at that point you weren't sure if you'd even notice him there. Your head hung, eyes trained on the ground, glazed and bare. When his head wouldn't cease from turning in your direction, you almost wished he would just take the answers he clearly sought. 

Your accusations before had sparked a rage in him that you had never seen, and it burned through him behind that helmet. He had released you soon after revealing that he knew you didn't  choose  to leave the Temple. Your eyes had glassed over, your lips parting from shock. The black visor, ever so consistent, gave away nothing from Kylo. He released his grip on you when your eyes found the ground, and the tears stopped falling. 

Kylo was true to what he said earlier; you weren't taken back to the room with the post. You did not go back to the detention level. The cowl he had placed over your head then now wrapped around his shoulders. A process, you noted, that he was very meticulous about. When the cowl didn't sit properly, you averted your eyes as he took it off and tried again. 

It was clear you were now in the residential wing of the facility. You walked through a rather spacious area, an alcove with furnishings, and a large window was to your left. To your right, a table stood just before a practical kitchenette. It was oddly… domestic. Complete with all the comforts a sadistic, sexually inactive group of Knights could need. Before Kylo could skirt you to gods knows where your pace slowed. The viewport was circular. Beyond it, a forest unlike any you'd seen, which was saying something considering you'd been to more planets than you could count. It wasn't green and luscious, full of singing birds and babbling brooks; it was dark, desolate. The trees not bare had few branches and little pigment. A slight mist hung in the air; it was near dusk. 

Not phased by your hesitation, Kylo continued forward. From the room with the ominous view, you entered another hallway identical to every other in the compound. The amount of space between each door told you they were the Knight's chambers. It was clear they used this place, this planet, as a home base. They were  ghouls , and the thought of them having anything as sentimental as a 'home' seemed outlandish. Ushar only ever spoke of one home, the one from before Ren. You had told him of yours in return.

Kylo often spoke of home with you, of the many places he considered to be it. Chandrilla, Hosnian Prime, The Falcon… the Temple. There was a time when the Temple felt like home to him, to both of you. During those first formative years, when there were so few rules and even fewer padawans. It didn't feel like home forever. After all, things rarely work out the way you expect.

You turned left at the end of the hallway and stopped at the second blast door. Kylo opened it and led you into what you assumed would be your new quarters, should you continue to entertain your captors.

The room was unnecessarily spacious. A considerable upgrade from the cell aboard the Knight's ship. Certainly more comfortable than your previous post. A bed sat centered along the far wall, a viewport above the head, giving you a view of that forest of despair beyond the compound. A cushioned chair sat in the corner, a second door a few feet away. No doubt, it led to a refresher. 

Kylo remained just inside the room as you ventured further. 

"Can - I – I'd like to bathe," you didn't turn to face him as you alluded to your request. 

 He is not your Master.  

 Isn't he?  

The door to the refresher opened, a silent approval of your request. 

He spoke before you could take a step, "you have until I return to make your decision." 

To find the Holocron for him. With him. To hear the message, Luke left you, and then hand him the key to finding Luke himself. 

"Going somewhere?" You countered.

"Until I return," he would give you no more than that. 

You faced him as he made to leave the room, your movement halting him in place, "what happens if I refuse." 

Kylo let out an amused huff, "what do you think will happen, young one?" 

Your head cocked to the side, surveying his response. 

"Something more creative than dropping me and my ship off a thousand parsecs away, I imagine." 

He was upon you in a few long strides, but you kept your position, only raising your head to meet his mask as he towered over you. The glare on your face couldn't be helped as he dared to reach a hand to your cheek. His knuckles brushed the skin up and down and up again.

A verbose breath left his modulator before he answered, "if you refuse… I'll return you to my Knights, let them decide what to do with you. Ushar will no doubt have a few ideas. Would you like that, little one?"

His hand traveled to the back of your head, giving the surely matted mess a stroke. Pain flickered through your scalp as he suddenly gripped a large section. The discomfort was hard to conceal, and your wicked gaze bore into his mask. 

"I suggest you not refuse." He released the hold and slowly made his exit, knowing he needn't worry about turning his back to you. 

                                                                             ____________________________ 

A bacta patch was waiting on the bed when you finished in the refresher. No doubt for the bruise left from the fractured rib, along with other damage, the concentrated shot didn't heal. One of the less agreeable patches, applied pressure, would send several minuscule needles into the skin to administer the bacta. 

The droid, to your disappointment, had been right before. In the refresher, which felt like the first genuine shell of privacy you'd had in weeks, you took the time to examine your hands. The spray had done a great deal of repair, but the skin still looked… tight… mangled… and had no sign of fingerprints. You expected as much and hadn't paid heed to the risks when you held your wrists to that blaster. 

It was what else the droid predicted that you hadn't expected. 

And when you reached to turn on the refresher, to grab the closet soap bar to sweep away the stench of captivity, ran your hands through your grown out hair; you noticed. There was no feeling in your right palm when you touched the settings, the soap, your hair. It seems all the bacta could reverse the nerve damage, as the droid warned. You remained in the shower long after the stream felt like ice raining down on you until waves of rose and bergamot eclipsed the smell of musk and sweat.

The bacta patch felt like nothing under your right hand as pressed it into the skin. A quick intake of breath was the only indication of the multitude of pricks entering your skin at once. The patch was unnecessarily large; the smallest of movements had the needles pulling this way or the other uncomfortably. 

You might have stopped to wonder who stayed here before, had a sleep not beckoned you to crawl between the sheets. Foregoing the soiled flight suit, you curled up in nothing but your skin. Any aches remaining from the weeks detained by the syndicate and Kylo's horde diminished, and, despite everything, you fell asleep unafraid of waking up. 

                                                                     __________________________________

Two days went by, now more easily tracked thanks to the window. A platter of food sat on the side table each time you woke. Another was left outside the door when the sun began to set. Kylo hadn't returned, and there was no sign of the Knights. Of course, you hadn't left your quarters, but you doubted any of them would give up the opportunity to torment you unsupervised. It was a welcome reprieve, though you knew it wouldn't last. 

You had visitors midday on the third day. The door hissed open as you stood on the bed, watching the forest outside. Sunlight barely touched the ground, and in the hours you spent gazing out the window, you saw no sign of native life. 

 You had guessed who came into the room before he spoke.

"Three days, and the only thing you want to look at it that damn forest." 

"I happen to know for a fact that the trees won't attack me if I walked by," you turned to face Ushar, not hopping down from the bed. 

He was masked as always, looking all too comfortable in your space. He held a large container in his arms, various tools, and dismembers droid parts hanging over the edge. Familiar droid parts. You awkwardly climbed from the bed as Ushar sat against the wall furthest from you. The familiarity struck you as he unloaded the tools and parts, meticulously arranging them on the floor between you two. Scraps of what looked like a recon droid, smaller than a probe but more substantial than a seeker. But surely it wasn't-

Ushar emptied the bin, "you'll have to make proper introductions when you accept Ren's offer." 

Curiosity had you moving to sit on the other end of the pile, facing Ushar. 

"Because attacking me, detaining me, and forcing me to watch you murder my friend wasn't introduction enough?" 

A quick scan of the array of metal confirmed what you thought. This assortment of droid scraps once fit together perfectly as your droid, ID-1023. IO, to you. It made sense that they would tear him apart, there was no way to siphon any information unless you ripped out his internal processor. 

Ushar tracked your gaze and explained, "managed to sneak back on board your ship before we towed it from the arena. I told them it was pointless; you're too careful with the information the droid stores."

He pulled the thick black gloves off his hands, "we can reassemble him together," Ushar removed his helmet, "if you're going to be Ren's pet, we'll have to get along."

"I have not agreed to be his anything," your voice lacked the usual venom as you turned your attention to the fallen droid, "and I wouldn't have to get along with you if you had left me well alone.  And  Jissani."

You dared a glance at him through your eyelashes. Only a couple years older than Ren, too young to be such a notorious murderer. He keeps his head shaved, never letting it grow more than a few centimeters. His face was washed pale from the lack of sun exposure, the rugged texture doing little to hide the fact that Ushar is, painfully, attractive. His eyes danced like the waves of the deepest oceans—eye, not eyes. 

"I killed her to save myself from Ren's wrath, and it is wrath like you've never seen. You bested me and this time I had an audience. I do not regret what I did, but I regret making you watch. Today is the last I'll speak of it."

You met his stare and took in what was different. His left eye was going, marred only by a scar that stretched from his eyebrow to his cheek. 

 Ren's wrath  

You made sure not to linger on the scar, and show no hint of surprise. Pushing the thought of how it did nothing to make Ushar less beautiful, you began assembling. 

"I'll grant you absolution if you now save me from his wrath," you said, passing him the part he needed. 

Ushar took it, and went to work, "that's not a bargain I can make little Padawan, and you know it. I also know that there's no way you don't want to find the Holocron."

He passed a wrench to you, and you nodded in thanks. "Of course, I want to find it, and I will. I just don't want to lead him to it. Finding Luke… it wouldn't bode well for Ren, no matter what the outcome." 

"Then refuse him," Ushar quickly assembled the legs, "he'll leave you here with me and go off on his search."

The laugh left your lips before you thought to care, "while we do what? Go on our own hunt for it? Stay here so you can find new ways to torment me until I bend to your will? He would kill us both"

"Who says he'll be around," the look on your face told him you caught on.

Ushar was thinking about killing your old friend. For a moment, you considered it, including the utter stupidity. The Ushar you knew was careful, his ideas calculated. If he had a plan, he thought it through five different ways. But, this. This Ushar was desperate, reckless even. He never liked being anyone's lackey, and every Knight is more possessive of the things they deem theirs than the last. It's only an unfortunate coincidence that the thing Ushar and Kylo seem to both want to some capacity is you. But if they were both too focused on each other, you could come out on either side unscathed. 

"Okay, Ushar. I'll play along."

You were silent as he explained, not ceasing from putting IO back together. And when he finished, you nodded a silent agreement and kept going. Ushar didn't press you and worked alongside you until a chime from his commlink sent him on his way. With him gone, you moved what little work you had left to your bed. Another half-hour of rewiring and you finished. 

Io hummed to life, and you didn't stop the victory cry that sent your arms in the air. At the same moment, the door to your quarters opened, and he was back. 

Not Ushar, but Kylo. 

Io was still booting up when you moved to stand at the foot of the bed. To say Kylo was tense would win you the award for understatement of the cycle. His body remained rigid, his breathing hard, but controlled. His fists clenched and unclench from beneath the black layers. The many layers of cloth and armor glistened, and you realized they were wet. A glance at the red trail behind him confirmed that it was blood. He must have come straight from his ship. Kylo scanned you slowly, and then scanned the droid now floating behind you. 

"Where. Did you get that." He growled through the vocoder. 

You sent the thought to the forefront of your mind as you said, "recycling facility."

It might have been where Ushar found it because Kylo accepted the lie without question. 

"I'll help you, and after, you'll let me go. You swear that then swear you'll keep your hounds leashed, and I won't lie, and I won't run."

"Do not make the mistake of seeing this as a negotiation."

Kylo is not gentle, that became clear the first time you saw him In all his masked glory, but there was something about the way he lingered. His hands hovered over your cheek with a vile restraint, as if he was unsure how to make physical contact without damaging you. Stuck between claiming what he deemed his in every vicious manner he could, and keeping a firm, absolute grasp on it. His body yearned to know what it was like to just, reach out and feel your skin, but underneath, you knew there was an iron beast, one only sated when he found violent pleasures, both yours and his.

It was soft, his touch at first before his gloved hand moved to cup your jaw and squeezed until your mouth opened ever so slightly. "I would do horrendous things to each of them if they tried to have you… and when I'm through with them, I'll do even more terrible things to you.

His body bent to press his muzzle to your ear, "and I won't stop until you and your body  scream  for me. When that happens… you won't want to go anywhere."

When he left, Io hovered closer to you and sang a few concerned tones.

"I'm not completely sure what's happened to me," you answered.

It was the truth, you realized. Because all of his threats did nothing to douse the embers slowly flickering to life inside you.

[today-only-happens-once]

the only exception

Title: the only exception

Word Count: 4,549

Summary: College!AU, Musician!AU. Patton shows up to a music festival that Virgil—along with his twin brother, Roman—is headlining, hoping to surprise him. Turns out, it’s Virgil that surprises him first. Romantic Moxiety, brief background Logince. Song-fic.

Warnings: lots of fluff and softness and sappiness, mutual pining elements, declarations of love, description of crowds, cursing, discussion of anxiety, mention of anxiety attacks, kissing, Virgil “writes” a song that’s actually written irl by Paramore but ssshhh Paramore doesn’t exist in this AU, please let me know if I forgot anything.

A/N: Someone on tumblr once made a textpost that said “The Only Exception” was a Moxiety song, and weeks later I listened to it and realized they were right. And then I had this image in my head that wouldn’t go away for like. Months. And then eventually I decided to write this. It’s basically a song-fic. Crazy self-indulgent, heh. Also, I’ve never written Romantic Moxiety before, nor have I written a Patton-POV focused fic. So writing this was a whole boatload of new. I hope it turned out okay! Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

You can listen to the song Virgil sings at the end here! 

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @quoth-the-sparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @noneed4thistbh, @awesomelissawho, @unikornavenger, @bopthesnoz, @spiralofsilencetheory, @finger-gunsss, @crownswriter123, @swlotakulady34, @gaylotusthatexists, @analogical-mess, @dolphidragon, @flix-net, @narniasfinestavengingsociopath, @friedlieb-ferdinand-runge, @bibbidy-bobbity-booyah, @procrastinations-my-middle-name, and also @randomslasher because moxiety! ^u^

…

Present. March. Junior Year.

Patton shoulders his way through the crowd as rock music blares loudly over the speakers. The late March air is cool, and the breeze tugs at the COLLEGE-PALOOZA MUSIC FEST banner hanging from the amphitheater’s stage. A few people he recognizes from his classes wave to him as they nod their head to the music. Patton slows as he finds a small gap in the crowd, not particularly keen on getting into the tightly packed mosh pit that had formed right in front of the stage.

The sun is beginning to set, casting the sky in a light purple hue. Perhaps ironically, it reminds Patton of the guy he’s actually here to see perform. Patton glances at the stage, but there’s no sign of him. He checks his phone for the time. The group was supposed to be on now, but perhaps he’d missed them already.

He looks at the guy beside him—leather jacket and sunglasses, holding a Starbucks cup—and asks over the music, “Which group is this?”

The guy takes a long swallow and then jerks his head towards the stage. “Planets Align. They had trouble getting the sound system working, so they’re running behind.”

Patton nods his understanding, smiles, and thanks him. Planets Align was scheduled to go on right before them, if the pamphlet he’d found on Virgil’s desk was anything to go by. He’d felt terrible at the time when he realized that the band Virgil had formed with his twin brother, Roman, would be headlining a music festival the same day Patton had already promised to help with a group project.

But the other members of his group canceled the meeting earlier today and rescheduled it for next week. So Patton really didn’t see any reason why he couldn’t come support Virgil. And if he maybe didn’t tell Virge in the hopes of being able to surprise him… well.

Besides, he had a feeling Virgil could use a nice surprise. He’d seemed really nervous about the festival when Patton was talking to him about it when he found the pamphlet. Virgil often seemed nervous, but… more nervous than even Virgil’s normal.

Patton smiles a bit to himself when he remembers when they first met.

…

September. Sophomore year.

“For the purposes of this research presentation, I will allow you to choose partners. We will need one group of three, but that certainly seems manageable.”

Patton glances around the stuffy lecture hall. It was only the third time the class had met, so Patton hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to many of his classmates yet. On top of that, it was a pretty big class. Patton had a feeling that he wouldn’t know everybody even by the end of the year. The professor waves her hand to indicate that they should select a partner and begin discussing the project.

Chatter rose up—most people leaning over towards people they were sitting next to, a few calling to friends across the room—and there was shuffling movement and the scraping of chairs as students milled about to find a research partner. Then Patton caught sight of a black and purple hoodie in the back row.

What was his name? Patton couldn’t remember, despite the ice breaker during their first class. He does remember the snort the guy had released when Patton had made a pun about his name when introducing himself. He also remembers the way he’d immediately ducked his head a second later when Patton grinned at him.

Patton gathers his things and squeezes through his classmates. “Hey,” he says. The guy in the hoodie looks up, seeming startled. “Wanna be partners?”

The guy blinks at him, then shifts in his seat and motions to the empty chair on the other side of his desk. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“I’m Patton, by the way.”

“Virgil. What, uh, what are you studying?”

Patton pulls his laptop out of his bag. “Oh! I’m an early education major. What about you?” As he asks, Patton casts a quick glance at the laptop in front of Virgil and notices the stickers on it: SANDERS in messy black scrawl, a thundercloud with a bolt of lightning, a small circle with a paint-smear style gay pride flag, and a few music notes.

“Graphic design with a minor in music,” he replies. Patton notices him glancing at the buttons on Patton’s backpack that he threw in the empty chair beside him—some about cats, some about dogs, a heart with glasses that he thought was cute, and a pride pin from last year’s Pride week.

“That’s pretty cool. You play music?”

Virgil lifts a shoulder. “With my brother, mostly.”

“Wow. That’s… really awesome,” Patton says, sincerely impressed. He’d always loved music, but really only dabbled in the ukulele. He’d always thought musicians were cool: having skills like that took a lot of work, and a lot of dedication. That seemed pretty admirable to Patton.

Virgil smirks. “If you say so.”

“I do. I mean it.” For a fleeting moment, Virgil looks taken aback by the insistence in Patton’s voice. “What do you play?”

…

Present.

“Roman is totally the hot one,” Patton hears a girl behind him say to her friends.

“Elliot thinks he has a crush on Logan Berry, you know.”

“He’s gay?” The girl sounds surprised, but not hostile.

“Ace, I think. Panromantic, if the stickers on his laptop are anything to go by.” Patton recognizes that voice as one of the girls in the LGBTQ+ club that Patton was secretary for.

“You have class with him?”

“We had English 100 together freshman year. Elliot’s in class with him and Logan, though, and says they want to gag literally any time the two so much as talk to each other.”

Patton grins to himself. Subtlety when he had a crush had never really been Roman’s strong suit. That was another place where Virgil was markedly different from his twin brother. Both Roman and Virgil had ways of keeping their distance from others, but where Roman put up a front of fearlessness and confidence and friendliness… Virgil seemed more likely to withdraw into himself.

Patton had learned that, and many other things about Virgil, slowly as meetings for the research project gradually developed into hanging out regularly and casually. Patton picked up on things about Virgil relatively quickly. He gets quiet and irritable when he’s actually anxious about something. He tends to catastrophize, especially when it comes to academics. He hasn’t yet learned how to accept compliments—something Patton didn’t let deter him from giving them. He hopes that the more he’s able to expose Virgil to them, the easier it will eventually get for him to accept them.

Patton learned that Virgil is fiercely protective, too. The fastest way for Virgil to overcome his anxiety about a situation is usually when it’s related to someone he cares about. He still remembers the fire that had alighted in his eyes when someone had started harassing Roman when he, Patton, Roman, and Logan had been heading back from a party on a Friday night a couple of months ago. Logan had been the one to diffuse that particular situation, but Patton hadn’t missed the way Virgil hovered closer to his brother and looked ready to fight when he’d seen the shaken look in Roman’s eyes.

But then there were the softer moments from Virgil, too. The fleeting moments when Patton saw something gentle and relaxed from him that a secret part of Patton liked to believe were just for him. They were a sign of trust from Virgil, and Patton had always cherished that trust precisely because it was so rare.

   …

April. Sophomore year.

“What time is it?” Virgil asks with a yawn. He’s sitting on the floor of his dorm, his guitar in his hands. His back is leaned up against the drawers of his desk. Patton sits on the floor across from him with his back against the cinderblock wall and his legs stretched out in front of him.

Patton digs his phone out of his pocket and checks. “Almost 1 in the morning.”

Virgil nods and strums a few chords softly. “You’re welcome to stick around, Patton, but… y’know. It’s chill if you’d rather go home.”

Patton shakes his head “I like it here,” he says. For reasons he is still figuring out, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Patton watches him; he watches the way Virgil’s bangs fall in a soft sweep across his face, the dark eyeshadow smudged under his eyes, the slight parting of his lips as he mouths unheard lyrics. He always loves watching Virgil play guitar. There’s something about watching him hold the light brown acoustic instrument—like it steadies him, like it’s a shield that protects him—that Patton can’t help but love. Virgil seems to… breathe easier when he has a guitar in his hands.

“Virgil? Can I ask you something?” Patton says suddenly.

Virgil glances quickly at him, then back down at the guitar in his hands. Avoiding his eyes. “Yeah. Sure.” His voice sounds oddly tight to Patton.

“Why do you play music?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. Virgil stops short for a moment, glancing back up at Patton. His hands still against the instrument, his eyes flit away in thought.

Then—to Patton’s surprise—he sets the guitar aside.

“It… gives me a space where I can… connect, I guess?” He rubs the back of his head, glancing at Patton as if unsure whether or not his own words made sense.

“Connect?”

“Well,” Virgil pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on top of them, “Yeah. I’ve never been good at… at the whole…” He waves a hand and sighs. “At the whole ‘words’ thing that’s required for making friends or helping someone or… whatever. I’m always afraid I’m gonna say the wrong thing, or make them feel awkward, or… shit, I don’t know. But music is different. It…” He huffs a frustrated sigh as the words escape him. Then he tosses Patton a wry smile. “See what I mean? Words aren’t really my thing. Music is different, though.”

Patton nods. He glances around at the MCR and Dear Evan Hansen poster on walls of Virgil’s side of the room. “I think I get it. Music lets you speak from where you are emotionally at a given moment, and people can come to you—or your music—to find that connection and community. It… lets you express yourself, and by doing that, lets you connect to other people.”

When Patton looks back at Virgil, he’s looking at him with something like disbelief. But there’s a softness and light in his eyes that makes Patton’s stomach flutter. “Yeah,” Virgil says eventually. “Exactly.” Patton meets his gaze with a small smile, even as he feels suddenly like Virgil can see all the parts of himself that he wants to hide.

The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks slightly and he digs a small purple leather notepad out of his back pocket. He grabs a pen from the top of his desk and scribbles something down.

“Whatcha writing?” Patton asks curiously.

Virgil folds it and slips it back into his pocket. “Nothing, Pat.” He still has that soft kind of smile and look in his eyes even as he grabs his guitar and pulls it back into his lap.

…

Present.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Planets Align!” The emcee shouts into the mic as he runs on stage and the band waves as they exit to the cheers of the crowd. Patton applauds them and briefly considers moving closer to the stage before deciding against it. He’d never done well with tight crowds.

The sun has dipped below the horizon now, the sky darkening quickly. The lights from the stage bleed out onto the grass clearing, providing some lighting of the crowd itself as well. The air is a bit colder now, but Patton doesn’t mind. Besides, all the people around him moving and dancing have helped keep it from getting too cold anyway.

“Next up, the ones you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s hear it for… SANDERS!”

Patton lets out a cheer as the crowd screams. He sees Virgil’s twin brother—though you’d never know it from how differently they do make up and their hair—run on stage with his arms up to encourage the crowd’s response. The cheers get louder, and Roman grins and strikes a hero pose. He’s energized. Patton smiles at his evident excitement.

Virgil follows behind him, an electric guitar strapped to his back. Even from his distance from the stage, Patton can see him shaking his head at his brother’s antics. He gives a small, appreciative wave to the crowd. His eyes scan it, and a part of Patton can’t help but wonder if he’s looking for him someone.

Reasoning, though, reminds him that Virgil said he always tries to get a feel for the size of a crowd when he goes out on stage at a venue for the first time. It had started as a nervous thing—how many people might see me fail?—but as Virgil’s confidence in performing grew, it had mostly just become a habit.

“What is UP, everybody?” Roman says into the mic. He’s wearing a bright red leather jacket with a white shirt underneath, shiny gold skinny jeans, and red high top converse. “We’re so glad you could come out tonight. How about this awesome weather, yeah?”

More cheers. Patton watches as Virgil pulls the guitar from around his back with a smile. He’s in his familiar hoodie, purple shirt, black ripped skinny jeans, and his black sneakers with purple laces. At first glance, he doesn’t seem too nervous—Patton had long ago gotten in the habit of glancing at him to check if he’s okay when he knows Virgil might be getting anxious—but it’s hard to tell from this distance.

“My brother, Virgil, and I thought we’d kick things off with an original song. How’s that sound, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals?”  There’s louder cheering, and the two of them waste no time starting a song that Patton remembers from previous concerts of theirs he’d attended.

…

November. Junior Year.

Patton’s phone dings while he’s eating lunch in the student union and flipping through an education textbook to study for his quiz tomorrow on Vygotsky’s Zone of Proximal Development. Exams are quickly approaching, and Patton had always struggled to remember theorists’ names for some reason.

It’s a text from Roman. Is V with you?

Patton frowns and types back quickly. No. It’s Tuesday. Then he sends a second text. Why?

The student union is bustling with students breezing through to grab lunch before rushing off to the library or their class. Groups are clustered around tables to hash out the details of final projects as their deadlines approach in the next week or two. Exhausted English majors slump over their stale coffee cups and computers as they edit their final paper for the eighth time. Engineering students running on caffeine and spite chug another energy drink before hurrying off to the lab building. A couple others that Patton can see are watching Netflix in a desperate attempt to give themselves a break before plunging back into the grind of end-of-the-semester assignments.

Roman’s reply comes almost immediately. He sent me a single letter text which usually means he’s freaking out but idek where he is

Patton stands up and forgets his half-eaten sandwich, dropping it in the compost bin as he slings his backpack over his shoulder and hurries out of the building. Have you tried calling him?  He texts quickly.

R: Yeah. No response… just lemme know if you see him or if he texts you or something ok

Patton rolls his eyes. As if he’s just going to go about his day and not try to help. Especially if V might be freaking out. We’ll find him, Roman. You check the science center and I’ll check the music floor of Stokes Hall.

R: ok.

R: Thanks

Patton turns his ringer on at full volume and braces against the cold air as he hurries to the building beside the Student Union. The November air is biting. Students bustle with their noses tucked into their scarves and red fingers curled around coffee cups. There was no snow on the ground, but the grass still crunches under Patton’s shoes as he hurries across the quad towards Stokes Hall. His light blue beanie is pulled low over his light brown hair.

He’s wishing he had a scarf to hide his nose in—instead opting to try to tuck it into the sleeves of the sweatshirt tied around his shoulders—when he walks straight into someone.

“Shit! I’m so sorry—”

“Virgil?” Patton asks, immediately recognizing the voice. He looks up, and Virgil seems frozen for a moment. It only takes Patton a second to realize that his eyes are red and sunken slightly. His usual sweep of hair is a disheveled mess under the hood of his sweatshirt that engulfs his frame.

If Patton’s being honest, he looks… rough. Concern twists in Patton’s chest.

“I’m so sorry, Patton. I’m an idiot, I just wasn’t watching where—”

“Hey, it’s all good, Virge,” Patton says, quickly but sincerely. He places his hands on Virgil’s shoulder to anchor him. “Breathe.”

Virgil laughs but it’s humorless and shrugs out from under his grip. Patton frowns. “I’m fine. I know I look like a mess, but really. It’s fine now. I was just. Um. Coming outside for some air.”

Patton considers the deflection and decides to meet Virgil half-way. “I could use some too.”

“You don’t have to do that—”

“Honest, V. The cold air is kind of nice.” Patton slips his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text to Roman. Got him. He offers a small, reassuring smile to Virgil.“ You wanna take a seat?”

Virgil meets his gaze, then glances away. He seems to think about it for a moment, then relents with a slight sag to his shoulders. “Sure. Fine.”

Patton wanders over to a bench across the pathway and takes a seat. He looks around as students rush quickly towards their classes, smiling brightly as a service dog trots dutifully beside his owner and pushes the button to open the door as the student hurries inside. He intentionally keeps his gaze from lingering on Virgil, even as he hesitates before sitting beside him.

Virgil waits until most of the students have rushed off before breaking the silence between them. “You aren’t going to ask?”

Patton glances over at him. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and you seemed reluctant to talk about it…. Should I ask?”

“No. Yes?” Virgil groans, zipping up his hoodie against the chilly air. “It wasn’t anything like. That bad. Y’know? I just get… anxiety attacks sometimes, and sometimes they get…” He trails off. Patton senses more than sees the way Virgil glances quickly at him. “Anyway. I’m fine now.”

Patton isn’t sure what to say. He’d known for a long time now that Virgil struggled with anxiety. That Virgil had anxiety attacks doesn’t exactly surprise him, and it definitely isn’t off-putting or anything of the sort. But Patton hates the way Virgil keeps trying to deflect… something. Judgement. Concern. Patton suddenly and fiercely wishes Virgil would just let someone care about him. Let someone love him.

Patton thinks maybe he already does.

“Virgil….” Patton says softly, looking at his hands folded between his knees, “It’s okay. You know that, right? You can talk to me about it. And I’m not gonna judge you or think you’re weird or that there’s anything wrong with you.”

“I… I’m fine.”

Patton lifts a shoulder. “Okay. But… it’s okay if you aren’t, too. And either way… you’re definitely not alone. You know? You know Roman’s there for you, but… but I am too. I care about you.”

In his peripheral, he sees Virgil look at him. “Patton—”

“There you guys are!” Roman exclaims as he jogs up to the two of them. Patton smiles at Virgil—who looks, for all the world, like the ground has shifted underneath him.

Patton wants to ask him why. He never does.

…

Present.

SANDERS has played through five songs, which means they’re nearing the end of their set. Patton is beaming. Virgil and Roman play off each other so well, and their music seems to be a blend of both of them in a way. They balance each other on stage. They’re fun to watch. Patton can’t help but think, though he may be biased, that if they really wanted to… they could make a career out of it.

But then they do something that surprises Patton, and apparently everyone else too from the way the crowd starts to murmur.

Virgil trades out his electric guitar for his light brown acoustic one. Roman grabs a wooden stool from one of the wings and sets it in the middle of the stage. Virgil adjusts the strap of the guitar around his shoulders, nodding his thanks to Roman.

“So I hope you all don’t mind if we close out with something a little different than our usual pace,” Virgil is saying into the wireless mic attached to him. “But I lost a bet against Roman, and that means I gotta do this.”

“If I lost I was gonna have to wear jorts for this concert. You all should be thanking me,” Roman quips back through his own mic. There’s a chuckle from Virgil as well as the crowd.

“Yeah, well. This is a song I wrote over the course of… probably about a year. It’s about someone very… important to me. He couldn’t be here tonight, but… he’s pretty great. Anyway, it’s a little different, so uh.” Even under the stage lights, Patton thinks he can see Virgil flushing slightly. “I hope you all like it.”

Virgil starts strumming and all Patton can do is watch him, transfixed by the sound of an acoustic guitar and the sight of Virgil under a spotlight on stage. It’s a much softer song already than any other song in their entire set. Virgil ducks his head slightly, his black sneaker tapping out the ¾ meter. And then Virgil starts to sing.

“When I was younger I saw my daddy cry, and curse at the wind.

He broke his own heart and I watched as he tried to reassemble it.

And my momma swore that she would never let herself forget.

And that was the day that I promised I’d never sing of love if it does not exist.

But darlin’ you are the only exception. You are the only exception…”

As Virgil sings, Patton can’t help but feel rooted to the spot. Virgil sitting and playing his acoustic guitar reminds Patton suddenly of that moment again back in Virgil’s dorm room. That moment of honesty and openness from him that always felt so rare. Patton feels like he’s experiencing that again, despite the crowd and the spotlights. Because this is not performance-Virgil, this is just…. Virgil. At his most honest. At his mot exposed. And it’s breathtaking.

Patton doesn’t even fully realize that he’s moving closer to the stage until he almost trips over a girl that’s swaying and holding her phone with a flashlight up in the air.

Virgil breaks into the second verse, and Patton feels his stomach fluttering all over again at the sound of his voice.

“Well maybe I know somewhere deep in my soul that love never lasts.

And we’ve got to find other ways to make it alone or keep a straight face.

And I’ve always lived like this. Keeping a comfortable distance.

And up until now I had sworn to myself that I’m content with loneliness,

‘Cuz none of it was ever worth the risk.

Well you are the only exception. You are the only exception…”

And a part of Patton—a part he’s afraid to admit to—suddenly starts to grow insistent with the realization that he might be really, truly, unequivocally in love with the person singing on the stage in this moment. The one with his bangs falling into eyes that had always looked to Patton to be a little bit afraid and a lot brave.

This song, this moment, is no exception to that. Music, for Virgil, had always started from some place deeply personal. It is what allows him to connect to others, after all. And Patton doesn’t know if the song is about him, but he wants it to be. Because that deeply personal space that Virgil is singing from resonates with Patton in a way that leaves only one thought repeating in his head. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Almost as if he hears the thought itself, Virgil looks up and starts scanning the crowd again as he reaches the bridge.

“I’ve got a tight grip on reality  

But I can’t let go of what’s in front of me here.” He’s scanning, scanning, scanning…

“I know you’re leaving in the morning. When you wake up,

Leave me with some kind of proof it’s not a dream. Oh…”

And then his eyes settle squarely on Patton, and Patton swears he hears the very faint catch of Virgil’s breath through the mic.

Patton gives him a small, faint smile. There’s a brief moment where uncertainty flickers through Virgil’s dark eyes, and then something sets firmly in them. As if he’s made some kind of split-second decision. Virgil stands up from the stool and starts making his way towards the stage stairs, continuing to play and sing as he does so.

“You are the only exception. You are the only exception….”

Patton loses sight of him as he steps down to ground level, the crowd blocking his view. But Virgil keeps singing that line over and over, you are the only exception, as if imploring Patton to hear it and understand it and know it is meant for him. As if perhaps Virgil has to repeat it himself to fully believe in its truth, but each time he sings it, Patton can hear the conviction growing. Far ahead of him, Patton can see people shifting around in the mosh pit in front of him.

Patton doesn’t move. He doesn’t think he knows how to.

And then through the crowd of people in front of him steps Virgil, still playing. Still singing. And Patton can’t help but notice his eyes look wide and scared and vulnerable—but unwavering—as he sings the final line.

“But I’m on my way to believing…”

He plays the final chord and stands there, looking up at Patton. He’s so close. The guitar and a few inches is all that separates them. Patton swallows past the lump in his throat and brings a hand up to cup Virgil’s jaw before leaning his forehead against Virgil’s and whispering.

“Can I kiss you?”

His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t see Virgil’s relieved, crooked grin. But he feels it when Virgil presses his lips to his own.

[elmidol]

To Be Drained by Devotion (NSFW)

Three Blind Tooke Part One Resistance is Futile

Read on AO3

Warnings: wound bleeding, oral, sex

Three Blind Tooke Part One: Resistance is Futile Chapter Twenty-Three: To Be Drained by Devotion

“This New Republic is young,” your father told you when for the umpteenth time you asked him why it was your mother had to work so late. “It needs steady hands to help build it. Strong hands to protect it. Patient hands to nurture it. Think of it like a sibling.”

“I want a different sibling,” you had stated obstinately.

You flinched as he lurched forward, his hands landing on either side of your head on the bed. “You’re proud, aren’t you? That the Resistance managed to destroy Starkiller—it was without you. How unnecessary you are to them.” You trembled at his words, feeling emotions surging through your chest, the pressure that threatened to choke you. “Replaceable… Everyone is replaceable, tooke. You are replaceable.” His lips twisted into a cruel mockery of a smile. “Trembling—are you scared, tooke? Is the Resistance intimidated?”

You reached up to your hair, his eyes on your every move as you undid the clip. You then lifted your arm, sighing whilst slipping the tooke hair clip into his locks. Above you, Kylo Ren’s shoulders heaved. There was something of an injured animal in the wild look his eyes held. You then dropped your hand to your chest. Blinked twice, watching him. He tried to remain still, and yet the anxiousness he was feeling showed well through his façade. The twitch of muscles. His jaw tensing. Eyes frantically searching your face.

“You can keep it, Ren…and give it to my replacement.” You were tired, your exhaustion displayed well through the passivity with which you spoke.

Kylo Ren wrinkled his nose, his brow furrowed as though he did not know how to respond. You sighed again. Waited for him to give into his anger fully. To hurt you—or break something within the room. Instead he averted his gaze. His shoulders continued to heave. In stark contrast to the norm, you were the passive individual and Kylo Ren was emotional. Though he would not allow those emotions to show completely. He was trying to stomp down on them. Using anger to kill—it was sorrow, you realized. Frustration. He did not know why he was upset, which had you curious as to what could render this man in such a vulnerable state.

Your mind started to take note of all the breakable items in the room. Ren’s mouth was in a constant state of motion; or, more precisely, his jaw. He nearly pouted, though at the last second he instead frowned. The man shifted his left leg, careful so as to not jar the injury on his side from the bowcaster. He settled down beside you, laying his head upon your chest. Your scowl deepened. This was not the result you had expected. You were tired of him. You wanted him to throw a tantrum and storm out of the room! The man had had the nerve to call you replaceable yet again, had mocked you, the Resistance—everything you stood for. And for what? Because you had commented on your father?

It had not been an invitation for him to cuddle against you; and yet Ren proved once more than he cared nothing for your wishes.

His breathing did not take long to relax. You could feel his body slumping further against yours as he lost consciousness. It struck you once more: he had sought you out for comfort. You were his tangible object. Rolling your eyes, you wished for all the galaxies that he had chosen someone or something else. You had nothing of your own, and here you were expected to give yourself to him. How laughable. On that note, you dipped your chin to take in his slumbering form. He was lying on his right side, the left being injured. It was on the left side of his head that you had slipped the tooke hair clip, and thus it was exposed. He had not done a single thing to remove it. Kylo Ren, wearing a tooke hair clip.

Father…father…Han Solo… General Organa is the leader of the Resistance—did Han Solo… I shouldn’t even care, not after everything he’s done.

And yet he had seen fit to bring you a small token of affection in a way, that single possession of yours. Comfort.

I’m so damn tired… I can’t do this… I have nothing—what the hell does he even want from me? His fucking fix… This is such bantha fodder.

“Just replace me already,” you muttered, placing a hand on his upper back. The man murmured your name, and you felt your heart stutter. So, you thought, he had not completely lost consciousness after all. Kylo Ren bunched up part of your shirt with his hand, clasping onto the material. He had once more tensed. Perhaps in pain, or perhaps because he was not dealing well with whatever emotional turmoil he was experiencing. A stream of air escaped through your nostrils. “You say it so often. So just do it already.”

“You replace my body with his.”

“His? Hux? You mean the man who ordered my mother’s execution? How…tactless of you.” You felt as though your throat were constricting again. You ran your tongue over your lips then bit down on your lower lip and shook your head. “Why are you even keeping me around? Just replace me already.” The hand loosened around your shirt, fingertips digging further into the material, tugging up more into a fist. “Go get in someone else’s bed…leave me alone.”

The man did not budge. You at last gave up, knowing that it would do no good to continue to push. He would not be leaving your side—for how long exactly, you were not entirely certain. Kylo said nothing further either. He kept his cheek rested on your chest, and at some point you fell asleep with him there. The Force user was there still when you stirred. You hummed to yourself as you peed, feeling rather awkward despite the catheter and also despite the fact that this was not your first time peeing with him around. You drifted off again afterwards.

What caused both you and Kylo Ren to awaken next was an exclamation of surprise. You both looked towards the door, where Doctor Urvno stood. The man’s face was drained of color, and he stuttered out an apology to Ren. His gaze darted between your face and Kylo’s. The Force user pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing then pausing every few seconds. He was likely sore, maybe even stiff, you noted as you mimicked his movements. Urvno’s gaze was drawn to the other’s hair. The clip.

“A-ah, sir…I… I will have bacta injections administered…and fresh wrappings brought.” He was at last able to jerk his gaze away from the hair piece. The man shuffled out of the room, likely doing exactly what he said he would.

The silence that surrounded the two of you was, surprisingly, rather comfortable. Kylo Ren was making no move to press for any sort of affection or intimacy, any sort of physical contact aside from him sitting beside you. You glanced towards the man’s bowcaster injury. You wondered once more how he had managed to survive the wound, how he could be walking—limping, you corrected yourself, so soon after receiving it. You had never before realized quite how determined the man was.

This is who I’ve been up against, you thought, a swirling sensation at the base of your neck. And my body… He has me at such a disadvantage. I need to defeat him, but how? How long will it take?

“Why don’t you remove the tooke clip?” you asked, breaking the silence at last.

“You wish to be replaced…”

“I am…beyond tired, Ren.” You sighed heavily, allowed your eyelids to drift closed, and took a moment to gather all your thoughts. “I’m not…giving up, not exactly. But… I just… I really do have nothing.”

You did not expect him to answer, and thus you were unsurprised when he said nothing. Doctor Urvno reentered the room, the supplies in his hand. Kylo Ren obediently followed each of the physician’s directions as the man administered the bacta injections and redressed the Force user’s injuries. You observed your captor with vague interest. It still felt as though there was a light buzzing in the back of your mind, something telling you that none of this was real; it couldn’t be, if it meant everything you cared for was gone.

When Ren had been attended to, the Master of the Knights of Ren rose from the bed. “See to it that she is placed in my quarters before the cycle has ended.” Urvno stiffened, his gaze darting to you. You could read the expression clearly; he did not want you near Kylo Ren in this way. The man was not stable, unpredictable in the best of times. At long last did he remove the hair clip, which he slipped into your hand. “Don’t be foolish, tooke.”

You stared at his back as he limped out of the room. Only when you were alone with Urvno did the physician at last turn to you and begin doing as he had been commanded. You were grateful when the catheter was removed, though the process was rather uncomfortable. You were given time to shower and groom yourself before gloves were placed on your hands, caps on your teeth—anything to prevent you from harming yourself. You did not protest, having no desire to give them any reason to further your restraints.

Kylo Ren’s quarters were just as bleak as you remembered. Cold. Lonely. Simplistic and impersonal. You climbed onto the bed, cupped the hair clip to your chest, and laid your head upon the pillow. It had his scent. Which meant, your mind supplied, he had limped all the way from this room to medbay in order to give you the clip, in order to comfort you in his own way.

And yet I’m replaceable, you thought whilst rolling your eyes. Everyone could be replaceable in a way. Some, however, were a lot more difficult to replace. You wondered if you fit into that category for Ren. You were his fix, one that could not be easily replicated. Which was why he did not want you to die. His bark was, perhaps, worse than his bite when it came to you.

You slipped the tooke hair clip into your hair, snapping it into place. You fell asleep wearing it.

Kylo Ren woke you when he entered his quarters. He stripped down to his underwear, his bandages covering another good portion of his body, and climbed onto the bed with you. You grunted when his hand covered yours, something pressing against the glove you were wearing. His limb then returned to his side, and the man relaxed beside you. You opened your hand and stared down. A small child’s game. Electronic pet. A tooke, you noted as you began to press the buttons.

The little tooke on the screen ate the food you gave to it. Which reminded your own body that it was hungry. You shifted uncomfortably, also aware that you needed to use the refresher. You continued to hold onto the small game as you entered the bathroom. You set it down only as long as necessary, walking out and climbing back onto the bed beside him. Ren grunted as the mattress shifted under your movements.

“I had one of these…when I was younger… My mother bought it for me.” Again, no response. You looked at the man, finding that he had his eyes open and was watching you.

He knew… It was one of my memories that he saw…

“You said you don’t want me shattered… What do you even mean by that?” Those brown eyes staring up at you. That expression again, the hint that something was not quite right. You recalled how he had reacted to the word father. “Was it the idea that I was dead, or was it who I said I was with?”

“Tooke…” His chest rose and fell heavily. “…I killed him.”

“Ben?” you asked quietly.

A sardonic smile, a snort. “Han Solo.” You felt a lump form in your throat. Though you had never met the man, Han Solo had been one of your heroes in a way. He had assisted in the Rebellion. His wife was Leia, for stars’ sake! And his son had killed him. The game dropped out of your hand. “Why should you care—a man you never met?” He grimaced as he pushed himself up. “You have your own to mourn. Why worry about a man you never knew? He would have disappointed you, tooke.”

“That’s a cruel thing to say,” you whispered, watching him and holding back a comment on the hurt you identified in his expression. That’s what it was. He was hurting. This man had killed his own father… You could not imagine doing something so cruel, so evil. On opposite sides of the war, you reminded yourself. “He was my ally, in a way.”

“Do you take each of their deaths so personally?”

“Maybe.” His eyes had widened when he spoke, and now he shifted closer to you. You felt your entire body tensing, shuddering when he rested his forehead against your sternum. “You aren’t able to replace me like you say, are you? Not that easily…”

“No, tooke…not that easily.” It felt like a punch to the gut, that he admitted to this. You felt air escape you, and it took you a few moments before you replenished that supply. “The Resistance found you easy to replace…”

As though he were arguing that he was better than the Resistance. That he cared about you. Your enemy—it made your head feel as though it were spinning. He scooped up the game, pressing it into your hands again. You cupped the small device. Your mind was on the memory—dream?—of when you were standing beside your father. Watching as Kylo Ren reacted so violently to your death. So passionately. This man who had killed his own father, and he had been unable to accept your life’s end. Had not allowed it, in fact.

“When I was with my father”—he tensed at the word—“it was like I could see you… When you were angry that I died… He told me that I needed to go back. I wasn’t allowed to stay with him.” You could hear the moment he opened his mouth. No words came out, yet his hot breath washed over you. Your thumbs ran along the game in your hands. Gloves preventing you from feeling the plastic-metal casing. “I don’t know if it’s a real memory… It hurt so much—being torn away from him like that, it hurt. I don’t remember death itself, dying I mean… I don’t remember it or the pain, but…”

“You’re mine, tooke,” he said through clenched teeth. His hands found your hips, fingers digging into you. You winced, hissing at the pain.

“I’m not,” you growled back, your entire frame shaking as you hiccupped a half-second later. A swooping motion had you gulping in air as Kylo Ren jerked your body under his simultaneous to adjusting his posture so that you slipped between his legs. You regained your breath while he settled atop you, his hands pulling down your bottoms. “So you’re going to rape me to try to prove a point?” Again did he freeze, much as he had when you had tucked the tooke hair clip into his hair. He blinked at you, his eyes wide for a few seconds longer until he started to calm himself. Unpredictable… Yet somehow he’s more gentle… Why? “You can use my body for comfort,” you said, thinking of how he had done the same for you, “but don’t be so hurtful—in your actions or words. Stop…just… I’m so tired, Ren.”

“Alright, tooke,” he whispered, resuming stripping himself and you. You eyed his side, noting the way he was wincing every few seconds. Perhaps he had torn open the wound once more. Rather than enter you immediately as you had expected, he slipped down your body and began kissing at you. You closed your eyes, feeling what he was doing to you. You hooked your legs over his shoulders, arched your back, and moaned as his tongue parted your slit, tracing along your labia then swirling against your clitoris. You clutched the small game in one hand, using the other to run your fingers through his hair, to grab at him as you bucked your hips, trying to get him to fuck you with his tongue. “Patience.” His breath was so warm against you as he spoke.

“Mm…Kriff!” He was going so agonizingly slow, much as he had that day he had you pinned while he watched the interrogation. Rather than continue, he began kissing, licking, and nipping a trail up the length of your body, his mouth soon sealing over yours. You responded immediately, wrapping your legs around him. “Ah! Fuck! Nnn, fuck.” You were shuddering, trying to ignore that there was a rather distinguishable wetness on your stomach from where he was bleeding on you. “You’re going to…nn. Ren, you—mm.” He collapsed atop you when he ejaculated, the man unable to support his own weight. “Kriff…you’re…fucking…heavy.”

Kylo Ren curled his body around yours, resting his head atop your chest as he had on the hospital bed. This time, however, you found that your feelings towards him were slightly less bitter. You were, nonetheless, thankful when he managed to shift so that his full weight was not on you. You balled up his bedsheets and pressed them to his side, commenting that he should seek treatment. A humorless chuckle, him commenting that it was not as though you truly cared—and you maneuvered yourself so that you could peer down at his face; it was an uncomfortable position for your neck, and yet you could not stop yourself.

“Perhaps not completely, Ren,” you admitted. “And yet…a little bit… I care a little.” He was the only person you had left with whom you had any sort of deep bond, born out of hatred though it had been. His mouth twitched, and the man reached out an arm. His commlink flew from his bedside table into his outstretched hand. You remained quiet while he called for a nursedroid. He would be bandaging himself, you noted. “My relationship with my father was different… I…miss him. And I miss my mother… I don’t… My last contact with her was…” You brushed underneath your eyes in order to wipe away your tears. “She thought I didn’t care that my father was dead. That’s not fair.” Through all this, the Force user said not a single word.

The nursedroid entered the quarters, and it was only then that Kylo Ren pulled away from you. You drew the child’s game towards your face, playing a small mini-game with the tooke. Nostalgia tugged at you, and you thought once more of your childhood, of sitting between your parents as you, while a child, had played such a game. Kylo Ren tended to his wound, re-bandaging himself. He then sent the droid away, walked into the refresher, and returned within a few minutes. You set down the device.

“My body is shattered.”

“No. It’s mending, tooke.”

“It will never be the same.” A smile threatened to form on his face, yet instead he settled for smirking. “Worse than a typical injury… I hadn’t even realized…even after I died… I didn’t understand the full extent…”

“I have told you countless times, tooke—how much you impress me.”

“By surviving?”

“Yes.” You nodded, bobbing your head and staring straight forward without truly seeing anything. “Your will to survive…though you would sacrifice your life for a cause…not many would find the strength…continuously, as you have.”

“It’s…exhausting.” His jaw twitched, his lips working against one another though he said nothing. Perhaps he was fighting back emotions. Sentiment was a weakness, you recalled him saying on more than a single occasion. “Are you tired?” Kylo Ren narrowed his eyes at your inquiry. Your lips quirked up into a small smile and air puffed out from your nostrils in a light laugh. “Rest allows the body to heal.”

“You’re openly seeking my company.”

“Maybe I am,” you said, unsure if this were so while at the same time concluding that it was quite likely. “You brought me…comfort. You’re injured, and yet… It’s not a quick stroll to medbay from here. I do…appreciate…what you did for me.”

“I have no need for comfort, tooke.” His eyes bespoke his lie, and yet you knew better than to argue.

Instead you pulled some of his blankets over your naked body. “Maybe I still need to be comforted.” A completely true statement. You felt waves of numbness and pain rolling through your mind in succession as they had been since you had known your mother would die. They had, naturally, worsened at the news Doctor Urvno had shared with you. “I feel so alone…and you’re the only one who… Maybe on a small level you do care.”

“About you?”

“Something like that.” He had taken a tentative step towards the bed. “I’m pretty sure the understanding is that I’m supposed to be your fix.” Two steps more. He was so close to you. Had you wanted, you could have reached out and touched him. You, however, did not. He needed to come of his own accord. “You’re not as merciless…as monstrous…as I had always believed. There’s something so…human about you… Even if you do not allow yourself to entertain such emotions, you understand mine, don’t you? Sentimentality. Grief. You brought something to comfort me… I honestly don’t know why you would show me such mercy when I’ve tried so hard to kill you every chance I’ve gotten.”

Kylo Ren at last moved back onto the bed with you. He lifted the blanket long enough to climb underneath, and then pressed his body against yours. You altered your position so that you were lying on the other side of him, spooning with him in a way that he was able to lay on his uninjured side. His arm was wrapped around you, and you placed your hand atop his. You glanced at the tattoo on your finger.

“Goodnight, Ren.”

Once more no words. He hooked his face against your neck, and you could both hear and feel him breathing in your scent. Something familiar. It was relatable for you, how he was acting. You had done the same to him countless times when seeking out something to cling to, something familiar, something for comfort.

So…stubborn… you thought, calling to mind his reluctance to admit to—complete denial over needing to be comforted. On some level, killing his father had, unsurprisingly, weakened him. That he seemed almost confused as to why this was baffled you. How could he ever think it would be right to kill his father? I don’t understand him… You clutched his hand, pulling it closer to you, pressing your lips against it. You did what you could to return the favor he had paid by his efforts to comfort you—how many times had he split open his wound doing so, you wondered. Devoted… He is such a…devoted person… Gives his all for the cause… In this, you felt almost a camaraderie. How well you knew the drive. You would give your all to fulfill your duty, one-thousand percent. Your life. Your everything.

For once the idea that you could be anything like Kylo Ren did not repulse you. This was one similarity, though it drove the pair of you to opposite sides of the war, that you could proudly embrace.

[We were cut from the same cloth, Then sent to different masters. Here we stand before one another— Which step in life truly matters?]

[nurseofren]

KYP Chapter 15 WCHB

Per the discord, here it is (:

You put your hands on either of his shoulders, crawling onto your knees, leaning down into his face as your legs spread across his lap. He broke away before you could settle completely on top of him. “Are you sure?” He whispered, eyes a prayer for your go-ahead.

It felt like an impossibility, him asking you if you wanted this; it had become easier as time went on to deny your feelings for him and settle for your friendship, but as you smiled down at him, seeing the raw desire blaring from his blown pupils, you knew it was real. Words weren’t necessary, only a kiss to let him know you wanted this as he did. And when you kissed him back, his hands left your face and fell to your hips, helping you center yourself over his legs on the couch. Your hands went up to his head, grasping fruitlessly into his too-short hair.

“Mm, you need to grow this out,” you said, smiling before you kissed down to his jaw.

“Duly noted.” He leaned his head back, his hands bunching up your shirt as they skimmed up over your curves, shivers creeping under their path.

There was a knock at the door. No – more than a knock. A bang. Three in a row. It was a nuisance, an interruption to your journey towards fulfilling a years-old need. “Get rid of them,” you breathed, biting at his lobe.

He stifled a moan, his fingers latching into you. He cleared his throat before he spoke, an effort to keep the lust from his voice. “Wrong residence, man.” He called over your shoulder, leading his nose to your hair afterward.

Another three bangs, boiling your blood as the distraction burned beneath your skin, desire thickening your throat. “Dammit.” Mason was even more annoyed than you were, the word nearly a growl.

He tried to push you from him, but you didn’t want to leave his embrace.; you pushed his shoulders back into the couch, pinning him down. Or so you thought, only for him to flutter his fingers over your waistline, tickling you into submission. “Mason!” You cried out, a sharp, short giggle following.

He made the poor decision to watch you instead of act in your time of weakness, his face cracked into a beautiful smile. Before he became aware of his flawed strategy, you latched onto his mouth, your hands pulling his jaw into your face, fingers cradling around his ears.

Another set of bangs, this time not stopping. “You’ll just have to come with me, I guess,” he said, your mouth working to stifle his words. 

He took advantage of your distraction, hands going right back down to your belly, clutching in and making your muscles spasm. Another fit of giggles left before he gripped your hips and stood from the couch, throwing you over his shoulder. You couldn’t stop laughing, kicking your legs as he carried you over to the door, half-pleading for him to put you down, not truly meaning for him to fulfill the requests.

“Hey, hey, I’m coming, chill out with the banging.” Mason initiated the door; before it opened, he turned his head into your hips and bit at your exposed skin, drawing a loud squeal, your shirt having slid down your back with gravity. “I’m a little busy, right now,” he said, the door hissing open.

There was too much silence for comfort, going on too long for a casual stranger. Below you, Mason’s posture shifted, and his arm came down over your legs, barring them from kicking. With effort, you angled your head so you could catch a view of who was standing before him, the blood pooling in your head rushing through your ears as you caught a glance of the black boots standing outside the threshold. Tracking your eyes up the figure, you found a gloved hand, holding the watch you’d stowed away in the assessment room. And you knew; now was when you would die. 

“I believe your preoccupation will understand my intrusion. Won’t you, officer?” Kylo Ren’s modulated voice was frozen, too still to be calm, calculated in the way it solidified your lungs.

You patted frantically along Mason’s back. “Put me down. Put me down, now.” He slid you down his shoulder, your feet hitting the floor with a thud. You tugged down on the shirt, smoothing it out meticulously to make sure you were covered, hoping to preserve whatever dignity you had left. Mason was big, but standing before Kylo, he was dwarfed, like he’d lost height just by being in the presence of your master. Mason’s charity of clothing weighed down on your skin, knowing the sight of you – draped in the belongings of a man who wasn’t Kylo Ren – was further fueling the fury you were attuned to sense. Not that the clothing mattered much, you’d cried out for Mason as the door had opened, your ass greeting your Commander while Mason chewed into you.

“Commander Ren,” you said, your cheeks emblazoned. “Is there something you need?” The only thing Mason knew about Kylo Ren was that you were bunking with him, and that’s how you intended to keep it.

“I came to remind you of that lesson I mentioned earlier,” he said, raising his hand to offer you the watch. “And to return this, as it was left behind in your forgetfulness.”

“Thank you, sir.” You looked up at Mason, whose face hadn’t recovered from his initial shock. Clearing your throat, you turned back to Kylo, looking even higher up to his visor. 

“You’re easier to track than you might believe,” your last name punctuated his statement, his voice sinister. He turned to look at Mason, still and silent next to you. 

His attention towards Mason was too pointed for comfort, your words coming quickly when you spied the tight black wads hanging below Kylo’s waist. “Mason, I totally forgot about my appointment with Commander Ren. We’re going to have to continue-,” Kylo’s head angled down to you at the word.  “Er – I mean… I have to go.” 

Mason looked down at you, and then behind him, spying the clock on his end table. To your horrified surprise, he chose to direct his words towards the masked wall in front of him instead of you. “Commander, with all due respect, it’s nearly curfew. Can’t whatever lesson your referring to wait for morning?” The words were each a slit to your throat, only working to amount the punishment you were promised as he spoke. “Mason – no, it’s okay. This -,” “It’s none of your concern, officer McCarty, but no, this particular lesson is time sensitive.”

Mason’s chest rose, his arms crossing over each other. Oh, please don’t do this. You have so much to live for, Mason. “Shouldn’t she have a say in this?” He looked down to you, Kylo following suit. “Per the policy handbook, your superior can’t request you out of predetermined hours.”

“These were predetermined hours, though my provider remains available to me at all times.” Kylo landed his hidden glare back over your mortified face. “She’s aware of both of these facts.”

You looked between them, seeing the convincing edge in Mason’s eyes, yet feeling the murderous glare of Kylo Ren pinning your lungs in place. You pulled your lips between your teeth, took a breath, and turned to your friend. “Mason, I have to go.” You turned back to Kylo. “I need to grab my uniform and put on my shoes. I will only be a minute.”

“Your friend can do that, can’t he?” Kylo was taking liberties now, and he could; he held the power here.

Mason’s brow creased and his mouth went to move, but you pulled his face down to yours before he could dig himself a deeper hole. With your hand at his cheek, barring his periphery of Kylo, you looked up at him. “Hey, will you? I’d really appreciate it.”

His eyes went to the side, trying to look for what was intentionally blocked. His muscles relaxed and his mouth lifted into a small smirk. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, his hands lingering on your chin before he left to collect your possessions. Well. That wasn’t ideal, but maybe –

Kylo’s shoulders were lifting in silent animosity, the leather of his gloves squeaking as it stretched across his flexed knuckles. Nope. There is no coming back from this. You stood there, watching the trembling frame of your master and listening to Mason’s quiet shuffling, time searing away at your nerves. Mason was lucky he still had his head; Kylo’s weapon was eternally sidled at his hip, ready whenever he deemed necessary. 

Mason walked up behind you and tapped your shoulder with your uniform, his other hand dangling your shoes by their heels from his fingers. “Am I missing anything?” He asked, staring too long at your master.

“No. Thank you,” you said, taking your shoes from him and stepping into them. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You looked back at him as you stepped next to Kylo, pulling the uniform from his hands. 

“Be safe, alright? I lo-,”

“Come.” The wrath in your master’s voice swallowed the rest of Mason’s goodbye.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 37

Read on AO3. Part 36 here. Part 38 here.

Summary: There are only so many ways you can deliver news.

Words: 2700

Warnings: dystopia

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I really didn't think I'd get a chapter out today, but I did, so yay!? Sorry it's a bit short (I remember when 2000 words was normal for me!), but I must be on my bullshit, as always.

Thank you very much to everyone who reached out. I had a shitty week this week, and I anticipate things in the next few weeks will not be super great. If there is a week where an update is missed, I hope you can understand.

I love y'all very much, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3

Beyond the sheet, the doctor’s shadow worked in silence, collecting instruments to soon be used to pry and expose your pomegranate flesh. Your monthly exam would never feel routine--prior to the collapse of society, they’d already been unpleasant. But now, separated from the provider by gossamer cloth, scrutinized in anonymity while metal objects cracked you wide, they crushed you in revulsion. The doctor whirled on his stool between your legs, air whispering over your bare skin. You swallowed.

A squeaking, clacking, and the cold metal of the speculum parted your labia and pierced your entrance. You held your breath, willing away the tears that pricked your sight--you’d always cried at this part, even before it became obligatory--drifting to your mind until he was finished. 

Kylo Ren had been gone for 18 days, and in his absence, Gilead had drawn from your veins, a vampire of systemic proportions bleeding you not of life, but of the will to live itself. Without his presence, his power, his capability to extract you from bondage, you’d sunk into it like a tarpit, thick sticky ooze edging ever-closer to your throat. Sutures now removed, antibiotics completed, your days consisted of waking, walking, waiting, and, more than once, weeping, before wishing yourself into a witless slumber. Not that you were surprised. After all, before you’d fucked him in secrecy the first time, you’d asked yourself, what was life without living? 

As it turned out: pretty fucking awful. 

Pain lit up your spine when the doctor dug at your cervix for a swab--you winced, and the exam room door opened.

“Hey, we’re running behind, you do you want me to grab the next one, or--”

“No, no,” your doctor replied. “I’m almost done with this one. Did you get the urinalysis back?”

“Uh, no, sorry, I haven’t checked. I can go do it now.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Oh, hey.” Then he swiveled away--leaving you gaping, a red tunnel open for observation. “Did you hear what the director said this morning?”

The other man hummed in thought. “Something about Commander Pryde. I didn’t really care.”

You stared into the ceiling, hands folded over your stomach, tears stinging again while your thighs began to tremble. Privacy and respect hadn’t been afforded to you in three years; you had long been designated a womb buried in a hunk of meat. But something about having your cervix on display like the Hope Diamond was particularly nauseating. Your stomach groaned in humiliation.

“Yeah. Anyone who’s even spoken with Pryde in the last month is getting rounded up.”

Breath stalled. There was no way the doctor knew who you were--the sheet separating you ensured that. Dread iced over your chest.

“Shit,” the other man replied. “Really? Damn.” A pause, clanging of instruments. “Just questioning, right?”

“For now.” The doctor grumbled. “I just had the tenaculum. What the hell?”

“Isn’t it right over there?”

“Oh, right, yeah.” Wheels squeaked across the floor. “Anyway, it’s just a new round of Ren’s bullshit.” He sighed, scooching between your legs again. Something sharp and cold pinched you--you bit your lip. “Dissenters this, threats to Gilead that. I wouldn’t worry about it. Unless--”

A snort. “I hate the both of ‘em.” The man sighed. “You’d think that fixing the birthrate should be their top priority, the way things are going.” 

The doctor grumbled, and something pinched you like talons, shooting pain up your spine. “Yeah. Well. If Ren has his way, half the people in this country are gonna end up dead.”

Your heart was tumbling into a canyon. In the time without him, your belief in your Commander’s defection had dimmed. You’d believed initially that his motivation for Pryde’s capture was revenge--something undesirable, but still understandable--but the longer his campaign went on, the more you realized that there would be nothing that would convince him to release his stranglehold on his position. A gnawing despair within you whispered that whatever Kylo Ren felt for you, he felt it one hundredfold for power and control; convincing him to leave it behind would not only be improbable, but impossible. Yet, as you considered betraying what little affection he might have, sorrow shredded you. The thought of his capture, trial, possible execution--

More tears. You couldn’t stomach the thought of him not here, of being torn from him, of his existence in the past tense. And you also couldn’t sacrifice your freedom for his sins. 

The release of the speculum tugged you back to the exam, and you sniffled, clearing your throat. You’d missed the rest of the conversation.

“Whatever happens, at least we won’t be out of a job. They’ll always need someone to make sure the breeding stock is healthy.” A pause, as if to acknowledge that, yes, you were still in the room. “No offense, of course.”

Bile burned your tongue. You said nothing. 

“Shit, that reminds me,” said the other man. “I’ll go check the urinalysis.”

“Thanks.” 

The door shut. Without warning, latex fingers pushed inside of you, another hand pressing down on your belly. The inspection went on for seconds longer than you thought it should, his fingers curling, as if he was languishing there, reveling in the sensation of feeling your uterus. For a blink, every thought surrounding your Commander’s desertion of Gilead fled your mind, consumed by a venomous desire that he might catch this doctor in the act and crack his skull on the pearly tile, spray his blood, stain the grout. And then the intrusion was over, and your fury dissipated, the ache for retribution hollowing in your heart. 

It wouldn’t have mattered, really, if he had been standing in the room when it had happened--the doctor was no anomaly, but a functioning cog in Kylo Ren’s machine. As long as you both remained in clutches of his own creation, he would spend eternity defending you from its design. Even if you could be an exception, other women would suffer in forced silence. And even if he could mould it to your liking, it would still mean he preferred you to exist in subjugation instead of liberation.

Hope had been a security blanket almost three weeks ago, thick and warm around your shoulders while he’d bathed you with gentle hands. Now it clung in tatters to your ribs, the tiny scraps fluttering like tissue with every gust of reality.

The door opened again. 

“Hey,” the man said. “Got the results.”

A snap of rubber as the doctor removed his gloves. “And?”

“Look for yourself.”

Shuffling paper stifled the sad knock of your pulse in your ears. Perhaps you knew, and had always known, that Kylo might never come to agree with your perspective. You just frequently forgot to acknowledge that it would mean letting him go. Forever. 

“Hey! Okay!” A warm palm slapped your thigh, and you squeaked. “We got another one!”

When no one responded, you realized he had been speaking to you. About a result. A urinalysis. Another one...

You couldn’t speak. Or breathe. Oh--

“You’re pregnant!” 

Like a geyser, it burst from you--your sorrow, your fear, your disgust, your absolute joy--and poured in rivers down your cheeks, your hands clapping over your face. There was no one coherent thought that could be plucked from your mind, just a constant tornado of horrific exhilaration, a celebratory mourning that within you, a tangible testament to you and your Commander’s connection beat and pulsed and flourished with life, growing veins like vines and limbs like wings. 

His child--your child--a physical entity you could nourish in the wake of his reluctance, an unalterable legacy inside of your womb, one that you, if you were to be denied all else, could adore. Your child, but also his child, descendant to a despondent devil, progeny to a preserver of your own imprisonment. A child that, if born into the realm of its father’s regency, would never know normality, or maybe even you--at all. A heaving sob cracked through, and you shivered, trembling with terrified bliss.

The doctor slapped your thigh again. “Don’t stress!” he said. “According to the chart here, you’re about six weeks along. There’s still a chance for disruption. So I’d stay relaxed, all right?” 

Swallowing, you creaked out a noise of assent. There wasn’t a word you could bear to say. 

After the doctor left, you slipped back into your red dress and wings--despite Kylo’s words weeks earlier, you had been provided no other options after he’d left, and you suspected he’d meant for you to only be out of uniform in his presence, regardless. You were escorted by an armed nurse out of the clinic, where a Knight--still masked, no cloak, just in tactical gear--was waiting by the black SUV you’d seen a few of them in before. Averting your gaze, you climbed into the back and buckled in. The vehicle started, you coasted through the parking lot, and onto the road.

For the first time in several days, the sun was out--though it would need more than an afternoon to evaporate the muggy air that had accumulated in its absence. You gazed into the stark, cloudless sky, placing your hands on your belly, as if you could commune with the little being inside of you, know it before it knew you. A question, awful and exciting, lingered in your mind  as you imagined telling Kylo the news, but no answer revealed itself. You replayed the scenario over and over again, practicing it on your tongue--I’m pregnant--digging deep for his reaction. But it was useless, as initially unknowable as anything else about him. Anxiety constricted your heart, a dam about to crumble behind your eyes.

The Knight turned a corner, and you jostled in the backseat. There couldn’t have been much intimacy between them all. But still.

“How do you think the Commander would respond…” You swallowed again--hesitation kept wadding in your throat. “How do you think he’d respond to a pregnancy?”

Long, sweltering seconds ticked by without a word. Balling your hands in your lap, your palms slipped, heartbeat thumped in your clasped thumbs. You’d never heard a Knight say a word, before--you weren’t sure why you were expecting one to answer you. Lava licked at your neck, dripping down your spine, your teeth tearing at your cheeks. 

“Whatever it is,” the Knight said, shattering expectation, “anything in comparison will look like apathy.”

A rush of interminable origin raced your flesh, flushing hot in your blood. That was about as accurate as you could expect. And unsatisfying as you could predict.

When you arrived at home and stepped out of the vehicle, another realization crested over you. Johana. Though your relationship had settled into an uneasy truce since the day the Commander had left, the words she spared you had been few and far between. You knew that your pregnancy was possibly her only dream, but combined with the uncharted territory of her husband’s intentions, you worried it would become her nightmare. 

At the same time, perhaps these worries were unfounded--the threats Kylo would face by disrupting his Wife’s right to your child might be too great for him to risk his power. His concessions had been minor and in relative secrecy, affecting only his relationship with you--everything else had the secondary benefit of securing his reign. He’d said plenty, but how much had he meant? After overhearing the discussion in the exam room, you were fairly certain that if made to choose between Gilead and you, you’d lose.

You followed the Knight into the house, relieved to cross into central air. Taking a few slow steps, you drew a deep breath.

“Ms. Johana!” You paused, listening for a response. You heard none. “Ms. Johana?”

She wasn’t in the house--that meant she was likely out in the yard. In the heat. Sighing, you trudged through the halls through the back door, squinting as light smacked your face. In the weeks since Kylo’s departure, the garden had been cleared and mostly restored at Johana’s behest--the grass gleamed gold, summer flowers replanted in over-saturated swirls of color. You hopped over the stones, turning the words on your tongue, hoping to make them real in your mouth.

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m--

“Ofkylo.”

You stalled, recognizing the moniker as yours, resentful of its familiarity to your ears. Beyond one of the hedges was Johana, prying open a birdfeeder. Heat--though whether it was from the sun or your fear, you didn’t know--sizzled the nape of your neck. You steeled your jaw, grabbing your skirts and tromping through the trimmed lawn in her direction.

“What are you doing out here?” There was a bag of mixed seed at her feet, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she wiped the feeder clean with a rag. “I thought you just left for your exam.”

“I did. I’m back,” you said. “I was, um. Looking for you.”

“Oh.” She flipped the top in her little hands, scrubbing it clean, too. “Well, that’s fine. What’s going on? They didn’t find out about the gunshot, right?”

You shook your head. “Oh, no no. That’s fine.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m tired of lying for your benefit. The antibiotics weren’t--”

“I know, Ms. Johana,” you sighed. “So…” The words were so simple, but so difficult to say. “The exam went well.”

She nodded, digging into the seed, scooping a helping. “Uh-huh.”

There was nothing that would make this any less nerve-wracking. You inflated your chest, and let it go. “I’m pregnant.”

Johana stopped, like she’d been shot herself, staring into the ground. The seed fell from her palms and spilled over her shoes. She rose, gaze drifting from your feet, to your hands, to your face, her chin shaking. A smile was threatening to explode across her lips.

“Wait.” She exhaled. “Really?”

Wagging your arms in admission, you nodded. “Yup.”

A human springtrap, she squealed, launching into you and wrapping you in a tight, bony hug. You wheezed from her strength--she squeezed you, pinning your limbs to your sides as she wriggled you like a toy. 

“Yes!” She jumped up and down, still holding you. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Yes,” you repeated. “It’s, um, it’s true!”

Johana released you, erupting with elation. “This is amazing!” she said. “Lord, I’m going to have to go see everyone. Yes, we’ll have to have a party.” She clapped her hands and hugged you again. “Can you let the Marthas know to clean this up? I have to get going.” A playful, devious smirk twisted her mouth as she skipped into the house, congratulating herself. “Oh, they’re going to be so jealous! I’m pregnant!”

You stood, staring down at your belly. It wasn’t obvious, yet--but it wouldn’t be long. The thought of Johana preening, presiding over your stomach like it was her work paralyzed your heart. Had it been any other Commander, any other household, you might have even been relieved to incubate your ticket out of the Colonies, but now, you felt only panic. You didn’t want to give this baby up to her--a desire you never would have anticipated.

But then, none of this had been anything you had the ability to anticipate. A Handmaid was not supposed fuck her Commander outside of the Ceremony, or kiss him, or wake up in his embrace. A Handmaid was not supposed to yearn for her Commander, feel comfort from his  voice, find companionship in his presence, or feel grateful for his brutality and strength. A Handmaid was not supposed to plan her Commander’s downfall, or plan his escape, and especially not plan his future with her in it.

A Handmaid was not supposed to fall in love with her Commander. But you were a Handmaid. And it was too late.

You left the empty birdfeeder and the bag of seed, slinking up the stairs, creeping back to your room. Throat, chest, face tight, you laid in bed, palms planted on your stomach, and breathed. Shutting your eyes, you hoped for the hundred-thousandth time in three years you would wake up in a different world--a world where the father of your child was not your legal owner, a world where another woman was not claiming it as hers, a world where you opened your eyes and you were not alone, and you were free, and you were truly, deservedly loved.

If you fell asleep, you didn’t know--the next thing you recalled was the familiar rumble of the Audi’s engine, dying as it rolled into the driveway.

[petalouda85]

I'm in desperate need of a sequel/followup to Return. I need to know what terrible things Snoke is going to do to them! Ares needs to kill him and save his parents! Or more angst! Thank you!

*casually walks in five months late* Look at what I finally managed to finish. I’m terribly sorry it took me so long to finish. I hope you enjoy it regardless. For those of you that don’t know, this is the follow-up to a short called Return that I wrote back in February. Here’s the link to it [x] as well as the link to the story (and this follow up) on AO3 [x]

On a final note: I have finished writing other requests that are still in my inbox and they will all be posted throughout this week and next week.

When the door opened to revealstormtroopers, Kylo knew their time had come. It never mattered how long thewait was. An hour, a day or a month. Everyone who betrayed Snoke would bepunished. He didn’t bother to resist as the soldiers pulled him to his feet,the force dampeners around his wrists having drained most of his strength. Helet them shove him out and quietly obeyed their orders to move.

He knew the way out – he had often walkedthe path to the cells himself – but at the exit, he stopped, his heart racingwhen he saw Hux waiting, stripped of his general uniform and his hands chained.

Seeing Hux like that, Kylo felt a pang ofguilt.

Hux had told him to wait, to bide theirtime just a little longer before executing the plan. But Kylo hadn’t listened,too impatient and too desperate to wait, resulting in him starting the plan onan emotional whim. Hux was quick to enact his part. But as quickly as theirbetrayal had started, those still loyal to Snoke had subdued them, throwingthem into their cell to await punishment.

Kylo had no regret for his betrayal; hisonly regret was that Hux would bear the brunt of his mistake.

The stormtroopers brought them down thefamiliar route to Snoke’s chambers, his former master sitting on his throne asalways, his face smug and prideful.

“Well, well, well. Myformer apprentice and general. How the mighty have fallen.” He mocked as Kyloand Hux were forced to their knees in front of him.

“Supreme Leader.” Kylosaid, trying to keep his voice from sounding as though he was begging. “Hux hadnothing to do with this. This was my doing and mine alone. Take it out on me,not him.”

“Silence!” Snokesnapped, standing from his chair to approach the kneeling men. “Your mind is nolonger protected, Kylo Ren; I can see everything now. How your precious generalconspired with you to displace me and get your precious son back. He planned itall with you, making him no less a traitor than you are.” Beside him, Huxremained silent and Kylo wanted to spew something back, throw his hands out andchoke the life out of the monster in front of him but he couldn’t. Not withoutrisking Hux more harm and so, he bit his tongue, pointlessly hoping thatwhatever punishment Snoke had would be swift and painless for them both.

For a moment, Kylo’smind drifted to his son, his beloved boy. He hadn’t seen him since he was atoddler; he would be a teenager now. He wondered what Ares looked like now. Washe tall? Did he look more like Hux? Did his hair color change or was it stillthat beautiful shade of blonde?

Perhaps, Forcewilling, he would see him soon.

“Enough talk.” Snoke’svoice snapped Kylo out of his short moment of reverie. “It is time. No onebetrays me without suffering the consequences. But what punishment would beproper for my traitorous apprentice and his bastard lover?” As the wordbastard, Kylo instinctually shuffled closer to Hux, wanting to protect him asSnoke continued to spew his venom. “I considered killing you both before thefiring squad but that’s fast. Much too fast. I considered killing just one andletting the other live but that is too merciful. But I found the appropriate punishment.”Snoke signaled to one of the guards, standing by a doorway leading to a sidechamber. He opened it and two stormtroopers came out, carrying someone betweenthem, though Kylo couldn’t see their face.

They dropped him tothe floor, the stranger groaning in pain as he looked up. His face was coveredin fresh cuts, his lip bleeding heavily and there was a fresh bruise forming onhis cheek. But despite his marred face, Kylo recognized him, his stomachfalling.

“Ares?” Hux said nextto him, his voice potent with disbelief. The teenager looked up, realizationdawning on his face as he gazed upon the two defeated men in front of him.

“Armitage Hux? KyloRen?” He asked in a small scared voice.

“Ares!” With renewedstrength, Kylo jumped to his feet and ran to his son, unable to believe he wasreally here. But before he reached him, before he could finally embrace his sonafter all these years, the Force knocked him back, Snoke chuckling in the background.

“It would seem despiteyour best efforts, you could not hide your son from me. You should never haveleft him on that forsaken island with that weakling. You could have molded himinto something worthy of the First Order, a worthy heir. Instead, you have onlygiven him pain and now, it is your time to feel pain.” Snoke nodded to one ofhis guards. The faceless man in red unsheathed and activated his weapon beforeslowly heading towards Ares, ready to carry out an execution.

“No! Supreme Leader, please!”Kylo shouted, fighting against the guards that grabbed him and were preventinghim from getting near his child. “He’s just a boy!” His pleas fell on deaf earsand he watched as Ares slowly shuffled himself into a corner, tears of fearrolling down his cheeks. With nowhere left to go, the teen huddled in onhimself, covering his head with his hands, waiting for the blow.

But it never came.

Kylo’s vision wentblack for a moment, followed by a blur that slowly cleared. Upon opening hiseyes, he quickly noticed that all in the room, including Snoke, had been thrownfrom their spot as if a strong gust had suddenly swept through. Sparks wereflying from damaged wires that were now exposed as the panels hiding them werenow gone. But most importantly, Kylo noticed he could sense the Force oncemore. He glanced to his wrists, the dampeners around them damaged beyond thepoint of repair.

Wasting no time, Kylogot to his feet, grabbed the nearest weapon and quickly killed the guards andhis former master before they recuperated. He allowed himself a moment to stareat the corpse of Snoke but he quickly turned away to release Hux from hischains.

“Ares.” He said oncethe bonds were off and the two men rushed to their son, the teen still hidingin the corner. He gasped in fear when Kylo lay a hand on his shoulder but hisfear was quickly replaced by relief and he allowed himself to be embraced by thetwo men.

“It’s alright.” Kylowhispered to his son when he heard him sniffling. “You’re safe now.”

[evilgrrl]

The Way Out: A Kylo Ren  Fan Fiction by evilgrrl (non-consensual version)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733605/chapters/34058348

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked, sounding bemused. His natural voice wasn't as deep as the mechanical voice, but it was warmer, richer.

Sara saw his face for the first time, and surprise and a little relief washed over her. He was not the old, disfigured creature she had imagined. He was, in fact, a well built, handsome young man with slightly uneven features and dark, enigmatic eyes. She read some kind of interest in her there.

“I'm Kylo Ren. Of the Knights of Ren,” he began, in a parody of good manners: the words polite, but the tone almost sarcastic. “And you are?”

Sara swallowed. Her throat hurt from screaming earlier. “Sara Calla. Sir.” Should she look at him, or tilt her head down respectfully?

The man approached her, and lifted her chin so she was looking up at him. Eye contact, then. He towered over her imperiously.

“What are you doing on my ship, Sara Calla?” he asked. He sounded less caustic than before, but surely it was a rhetorical question. How would she know what she was doing there when he had brought her aboard? It had to be some kind of game.

“I don't know, sir,” she mumbled, looking back down. Again the black gloved hand took hold of her chin and positioned her face where he wanted it. “Look at me when I talk to you, girl.”

He was so tall he had to bend forward and lower his head to be nearer her face. “You and I have something in common, Sara. I could . . . help you. Keep you alive perhaps.”

She heard a shushing noise as he removed his gloves, and his bare hand returned to her cheek, fingers caressing. It was as if he couldn't help himself, and that felt better than it should have. “We are the same in some ways” he said, his voice softer. “You and I both . . .” he trailed off.

Abruptly the hand retreated and he stepped back. His voice and his demeanor changed. He became impersonal, commanding.

“You said you'd do anything. Take off your clothes,” he said impatiently. The sudden turn in the conversation baffled her, and she stared at him without comprehension.

He spoke more slowly for her. “Take off your clothes. Now. Before I rip them off.”

Her abdomen clenched with anxiety. Clumsily she pulled off her shoes and leggings, followed by her tunic and undershirt. He was leaning back against the counter, observing her. His eyes went to her crotch. “All of it.”

Feeling embarrassed, she slipped off her small clothes. They joined the rest in a pile on the floor.

The man seemed somewhat satisfied, and his face relaxed a fraction. Why was Sara surprised? She had said she would do anything.

“Down on all fours.” His voice was husky, quieter. His eyes looked larger than before, predatory.

Sara felt her stomach contract again, then she complied.

Kylo Ren had moved away from the counter. He retreated slowly until the backs of his legs hit a cushioned surface, and he lowered himself to sit on the padded bench, still watching her.

“Crawl.” It was a politely phrased order.

Sara tossed her head to remove the hair from her eyes, and began to crawl. The floor was cool, but textured, and it hurt her knees a little. When she reached his feet, he leaned forward to look into her eyes.

“Kneel up.”

Sara pulled herself upright.

“Closer,” he murmured. When she shuffled forward between his legs, he leaned back into the couch.

“Undo me.”

Recognition began to form in her mind. She knew now what he wanted and that she could probably manage to give it to him. And yet . . . her hands were trembling. No one had given her orders like that before. She'd never slept with someone she feared the way she feared this man.

She stretched her hand toward the waistband of his pants, then glanced up to his eyes for confirmation. They urged her on soundlessly.

She clicked the button at the top of his pants, and the magnetic fly came apart. Almost without thinking, Sara leaned toward his body, then slipped her fingers into his small clothes. He was already hard.

“Take it out,” he told her, becoming almost eager.

She pulled the small clothes down until he was fully exposed. Then she wrapped her fingers around it, and the skin was soft, almost velvety. It slid on the shaft at her lightest touch. She heard him sigh.

“Take it in your mouth,” he said, but the words sounded less like a command, and more like an appeal.

She lowered herself to the head of his cock, noticing a little liquid seeping from the slit. She licked it up slowly and delicately, then slid her mouth around the head. Some small part of her filed away the taste of him, sweet and salty, sweeter than she had tasted before.

“Suck it.” His whisper was almost a plea. He was simultaneously ordering and begging her.

She took more of him into her mouth, then sucked him softly. He groaned and it sounded like relief. She made her lips glide smoothly, opening her jaw wide, swallowing as she went, her tongue cradling his shaft. She moved her fist around him as an extension of her lips.

A big hand came to rest gently on the back of her head. He stroked her hair a moment before his hand tightened a little, holding her head more securely. As she lowered her mouth on him further and further, she began to be aware of his smell, slightly sweaty, but clean. A little musky. His pubic hair was as black as the hair on his head, but short. He kept it trimmed, apparently.

“Harder,” he whispered.

Sara began to move up and down on his cock, her lips sealed firmly to his skin, increasing the pressure. She lowered her hands to his balls, which were beginning to firm up with his arousal. She stroked them and heard him gasp. The hand on her head implored her without force, but his desire was clear. This she could do. If her survival depended upon his sexual gratification, she could see to it. She had done worse things. With men who were not as gentle.

“Make me come,” he murmured.

Sara increased her speed, and sucked on the smooth skin a little harder. Gradually she took more and more of him into her mouth until her lips had almost reached his flat belly. His cock tasted of that sweet pre-come again. The tip of it kissed the back of her throat, no more, and she swallowed to avoid gagging.

The fingers on her head began to weave themselves through her hair as Kylo Ren went deeper under her spell. She repeated the movement that let the cock head touch the inside of her throat, and his hips jerked slightly. She heard him whisper, “Oh, god,” and felt his fingers tighten. He was trying not to thrust himself into her mouth, to just enjoy what she was doing, but it was too much for him. One, two, three times he pushed as far as he could, then went still. Sara felt him come, and kept swallowing.

The man groaned again and relaxed. Sara slipped up off of his cock, pausing at the tip to lap up the remaining semen, at which point he twitched again and seemed to experience an echo of his orgasm. Sara was gratified that she had been able to take him to that point, been able to exert some form of control over him. It would likely be all she had.

The fingers in her hair eased, and the pressure of his hand lessened. He stroked her head almost affectionately, sprawled against the back of the seat.

“Good girl.” His voice was breathy, soft and satisfied.

She felt words rising to her lips that she had never said to a man before and spoke them without thinking, “Yes, Daddy.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733605/chapters/34058348