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godihatethiswebsite · 2 days ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year.

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles.

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches.

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early.

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle.

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons.

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake.

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day.

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby.

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it.

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into.

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching.

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention.

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years.

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful.

That’s what they call you now.

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible.

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match.

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins.

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street.

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck.

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival.

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off.

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest.

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth.

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence.

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame.

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation.

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame.

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did.

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better.

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice.

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air?

At last you have your answer.

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

“Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths.

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses.

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to.

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment.

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence.

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault…

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t–

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

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keepingitformyself · 2 days ago

Text

especially for tender ones like us

A/N: hehehehehehehehehehehehe synopsis: humor, anxiety, and the salvation of love.

pairings: natasha romanoff x reader

genre: fluff.

warnings: no?

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

natasha tries not to stumble over her words when she suggests staying in, instead of going out. she does not mean to, but she does.

how could she not? could you really blame her for wanting a quiet night? something that isn’t so public. she wanted to see you, of course, but she wanted to see you in a space you could be comfortable in, without any of the outside world and free from any distractions.

you listen intently through the other line, you fight the giggle at catching her little stutter. she can’t see, but you smile widely at the whole thing.

“yeah, we can stay in. i can cook us dinner,” you nod. natasha’s shoulders drop in a quiet sense of relief at your words. her lips curl into a smile. “i’d like that. i can’t wait.”

although this would only be the fourth time you had met up together, to natasha, it felt like the first every single time.

you continue talking for a little while more. natasha shares details about her day, work, and what she ate during lunch. she tells you how on her way to grab her usual coffee order, an americano, she decided she’d switch her order to a matcha latte after having had you recommend it to her. she tells you,

“it was good, but not nearly enough caffeine for me to keep up with,” she said, her tone light but teasing. and while it hadn’t become her new favorite drink, just knowing she’d tried it for you was more than enough. her words sent your thoughts spiraling, a warmth blooming in your chest. you were certain that if she were standing next to you, you wouldn’t hesitate to kiss her right then and there.

but you can’t do that so instead, you just fall back on your bed like a high schooler talking to her crush.

when you finally do meet up the following evening, natasha is buzzing with nerves she doesn't understand. she has taken down whole regimes and has fought aliens from space, yet she seems to draw the line when it comes to facing you.

she knocks on your door, her other arm clutching a brown bag containing wine and flowers. a reasonable offering if you’re having dinner with someone you want to impress.

when you answer the door, you're wearing a cream-colored knit sweater.

“i thought i heard pacing out there.” you joke.

natasha’s cheeks flush as she tries—and ultimately fails—to fight the smile tugging at her lips. “i wasn’t pacing,” she says, though the slight crack in her voice gives her away.

you step aside and invite her in, and neither of you acknowledges the quiet intimacy of the moment. it feels like more than just dinner, more than just a simple evening in your apartment.

you’re about to cook for her, and somehow, that feels monumental.

natasha’s nerves are a mess, though she can’t quite figure out why—or maybe she can. maybe it’s the way your presence makes her feel unsteady, as though the ground beneath her shifts whenever you’re near.

but natasha doesn’t want to be nervous.

she saw once—a penguin mistaking a sleeping walrus for a rock. the penguin had been caught completely off guard when the walrus stirred, nearly crushing it before it scurried away just in time.

natasha had found it funny at the time, the way surprises can sneak up on you. but now, thinking about it, it doesn’t feel so funny. it feels… unnerving.

surprises are bad for the heart, she thinks. she’s been taught her whole life to avoid them, to anticipate every possibility before it unfolds.

but knowing too much, being too prepared—that can hurt, too.

her thoughts are interrupted by your laughter, light and unburdened, as you guide her toward the kitchen. your smile is so easy, so genuine, and she can’t help but feel how good it is to exist in this space with you.

she offers to help you cook, but you shoo her away instead. you make her watch.

she sits there, with her hands on her lap, and just stares. and she can’t help the look of longing on her face. the kind of thing that suggests she wouldn’t mind this being a constant.

you made pasta for the evening. nothing too spectacular, but natasha had treated it like you were a top chef and had spent hours crafting everything with your bare hands.

and then once you’ve plated food for you both and you’ve gotten down to a few bites, you notice the small sigh natasha lets out. the flutter of her eyes as she takes in the meal.

you smile at her reaction as you move some of the food with your fork.

“do you like it?”

she looks at you, mid-chew, her mouth stuffed with the food, but she manages a smile.

“yeah, uh, yes it’s good. it’s so good,” she says, hand over her mouth.

you continue eating, talking about everything and anything. the night was filled with small moments that would bleed into much deeper ones. you laughed, she smiled, you smiled, she laughed. the kind of things one feels they become when around those who make you tender.

and you don’t know how or when but you try not to notice how little by little natasha seems to retract a little.

you decide maybe she needs a small moment for herself and start cleaning up the table. she offers to help, but you wave her off, insisting she relaxes.

she tries to, but realistically, natasha doesn’t know how to relax. so she sits back and stares at you like she isn’t sure what to do with herself. she isn’t used to this at all. spaces like this–warm, cozy, comfortable.

the impending guilt comes. it’s all so layered. she feels so much at once. the nervousness, the anxiety, the fear of loss, the fear of not being present enough.

natasha doesn’t know how to be here without sacrificing so much.

after a while, natasha speaks up.

“i should probably get going.” her voice too casual to sound like she meant it. she tries not to notice the look of disappointment on your face when you turn around to face her.

“you don’t have to.” you find yourself saying, not wanting her to leave.

she hums, something that says she’s already made up her mind. she gets up and gathers her things.

you follow her to the door, or at least try to—but you pause at the end of the hall when you see her linger near the door, uncomfortably. unsure if she should leave.

you call her out on it. “you can stay longer if you want.”

natasha wrestles with herself because she really wants to. she looks at the door as if it’d answer for her.

you’re letting her know.

natasha feels awkward, clammy hands. she doesn't know what she’s doing. and it’s hard to think of anything else when your eyes are screaming, don't actually leave, at her.

you look at her carefully, trying to see if you can find any clear indication of what she may be feeling, but it isn’t hard to figure out the redhead in front of you.

you’ve noted quite quickly how easy it comes for her walls to lower when you’re around. and if there’s anything you’ve learned from that, it’s that natasha romanoff isn’t the trained killer everyone thinks she is.

sure we all have certain versions we show to certain people. but the natasha you know is anything but rough-edged. the natasha you’ve come to know is actually quite the opposite of what everyone else perceives.

she’s tender, in her own silent way. too afraid to ever let too much slip away that she’s so painfully aware of everything around her.

natasha is tenderness wrapped in quiet strength, a paradox of someone who feels deeply but guards herself fiercely. she sees the world clearly—the beauty and the harm—and carries that weight like a constant ache.

like she knows the world hurts more for those most aware of hurt.

her tenderness isn’t soft; it’s sharp, vigilant, always bracing for the pain that comes with letting others in. you can see it in the flicker of her gaze, the way she hesitates as if expecting the world to hurt her.

and yet, she doesn’t harden. she holds onto that fragile, open part of herself, even when it would be easier not to. it’s beautiful and a little heartbreaking.

natasha looks up at you, then back down at her hands. just above a whisper, she says,

“i don't know what i’m doing.”

“that’s the most fun part.” you joke. she smiles, she doesn’t know how to say she wants more time.

how could she say she feels greedy at this moment? she wants to protect being here with you. we have such little time, she thinks.

bashfully, she steps closer to you, “i don't want to go.” she says.

“then don’t.” and natasha almost complies. instead, she takes a step closer, her hand lifting towards your cheek. she’s so close now.

she kisses you, soft, and shy, but you make her feel sure when your arm circles her neck, deepening the kiss altogether. when she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, she lets out a shaky breath.

“maybe i’ll forget my scarf,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“please do,” you replied. please leave your scarf, please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of leaving. please always come back. “that way you’ll have to come back later for it.”

and just like that, her quiet uncertainty washes away.

she takes her scarf off and drops it near the door. you follow her actions, you smile, amusement in your eyes.

later that night, when natasha gets home, she texts you.

i forgot my scarf.

you reply, you’ll have to come get it then.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #marvel #natasha romanoff imagine

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sherewrytes · 3 days ago

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Plug Choso

Plug Choso: Who always cleans and pre-rolls your blunts and joints for free every time you buy from him, just to see the smile you give him when he hands them over.

Plug Choso: Always gives you his latest strains to try before anyone else, leaning in close as he says, "I saved this one just for you, ma."

Plug Choso: Who openly flirts with you during drop-offs, running his tongue over his bottom lip and smirking when you catch him staring a little too long.

Plug Choso: Always keeps your favorite munchies stocked in the passenger seat of his Hellcat, handing them over with a wink like he’s been thinking about you all day.

Plug Choso: Who insists on sparking the blunt with you every now and then, just so he can "make sure it’s hitting right," but really, it’s just an excuse to chill with you a little longer.

Plug Choso: Who texts you late at night with "You good? Need anything?" even when you haven’t hit him up, making sure you know he’s just a call away.

Plug Choso: Who swears he doesn’t do this for anyone else, and the way he looks at you? Yeah, you’re starting to believe it.

Plug Choso: Who always shows up smelling good, like some expensive cologne and a hint of weed, knowing you’ll notice when he leans in just a little too close to pass you your bag.

Plug Choso: Who always tells you to hit him up, "Even if you don’t need anything. I don’t mind pulling up just to see you, ma."

Plug Choso: Who makes sure to call you “his favorite customer” but says it with that look that tells you he doesn’t mean it like that.

Plug Choso: Who parks outside your spot blasting your favorite songs, knowing it’ll have you cheesing before you even open the door.

Plug Choso: Who doesn’t let you carry your own stuff when he drops off, walking it all the way to your living room while teasing you about how you always over-order.

Plug Choso: Who lingers at the door like he’s waiting for an invite, running his fingers through his messy hair and giving you that boyish grin that always makes you weak.

Plug Choso: Who tells you, "Let me know when you’re smoking, I’ll slide through," but really just wants a reason to chill with you again.

Plug Choso: Who always notices when you switch up your hair, complimenting it with a "Damn, that’s fire. You just tryna distract me now, huh?"

Plug Choso: Who casually brushes his fingers against yours when handing you something, watching your reaction like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Plug Choso: Who’s lowkey protective, side-eying any guy he sees you talking to and asking, "Who’s that? He treating you right?"

Plug Choso: Who keeps your favorite rolling papers on deck because he knows you’re picky and doesn’t want you going anywhere else.

Plug Choso: Who always makes it feel like you’re the only one on his list, even though you know damn well he stays busy.

Plug Choso: Who always lingers a little too long when handing over your bag, his fingers brushing yours as his dark eyes flicker to your lips. "You sure you don’t need me to stay a while, ma?"

Plug Choso: Who offers to roll up with you at your place, sitting so close on your couch that his thigh presses against yours, his voice dropping lower every time he leans in to light the blunt.

Plug Choso: Who teases you relentlessly, asking, "Why you always smelling so damn good? You trying to distract me while I work?" as he trails his gaze over you slowly, taking in every detail.

Plug Choso: Who pulls up in his Hellcat late at night, texting you, "Come outside, I got something for you," just to hand you a bag of snacks and a pre-rolled joint, his excuse being, "Thought you might need it after a long day."

Plug Choso: Who never rushes when he’s with you, leaning against your doorframe as he watches you sort through your stash, licking his lips as he says, "You really trust me to hook you up, huh?"

Plug Choso: Who shows up at the club unannounced one night, catching sight of you dancing with some random dude. His jaw tightens, and before you even notice, he’s cutting between you and the guy with a cold, "Yo, I think she’s good."

Plug Choso: Who leans in close after the guy walks away, his hand resting low on your back. "What you doing out here letting dudes like that in your space, huh? You know you could’ve just called me if you wanted attention."

Plug Choso: Who stays by your side the rest of the night, his touch lingering on your waist and hips as he “helps” guide you through the crowd, making it real clear you’re with him now.

Plug Choso: Who pulls you into his car after the club, his voice low and possessive as he says, "You don’t need them when you got me, ma. I’ve been making that obvious, haven’t I?"

Plug Choso: Who kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, his hands gripping your thighs as he whispers against your lips, "I’ve been holding back for you, but you keep testing me."

Plug Choso: Who texts you later that night, "Made it home yet? Let me know. Don’t make me come back and check on you."

Plug Choso: Who stays on your mind long after the weed is gone, making you wonder if this is more than just business for him.

Plug Choso: Who doesn’t just drop off your stash—he stays to light up with you, sitting close enough that his thigh presses against yours. His deep, raspy voice always carries a teasing edge. "You gon’ share, or you just like showing off in front of me?"

Plug Choso: Who runs his fingers along your thigh while you’re mid-hit, smirking when your breath catches. "Relax, ma, it’s just me. You trust me, don’t you?"

Plug Choso: Who, after the club incident, corners you in your kitchen later that week, his broad frame boxing you in against the counter. "You really had me twisted the other night," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Watching you move like that with him? That wasn’t it."

Plug Choso: Who doesn’t even wait for your response before his hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. His voice is gravelly now, his tone all possession. "You know damn well you should’ve been on me like that. What were you trying to prove, huh?"

Plug Choso: Who has your back pressed against the fridge, his lips ghosting over your neck, heat radiating from his body as his tattooed fingers trace your bare skin. "I’ve been real patient with you, Y/N. But you keep making me want to break my own rules."

Plug Choso: Who finally snaps when you whisper his name, his lips crashing against yours, rough and hungry, his hands gripping your hips like he’s staking a claim.

Plug Choso: Who backs you onto the counter, his hands firm as he lifts you up with ease. "You wanna play games, ma? Let’s see how long you keep that same energy when it’s just me and you."

Plug Choso: Who takes his time, teasing you with whispered promises between heated kisses. "I’ve been thinking about this, you know. Every time I see you, you make it harder to keep my head straight."

Plug Choso: Who pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. "You like making me crazy, don’t you?" he says, his voice dark and full of heat. "But now it’s my turn."

Plug Choso: Who doesn’t stop until he’s left you breathless, your body trembling from the intensity of it all. He pulls you close after, his lips pressing softly against your forehead as he murmurs, "Now you get it. No one else gets you like I do, ma."

Plug Choso: Who’s got you sitting on his lap later, still catching your breath, his hand tracing lazy circles on your thigh as he lights the blunt for you. "Don’t forget who’s really got you," he says, holding the joint to your lips.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #choso x reader #jjk smut #black reader #plug choso #jujutsu kaisen x reader #reader insert #jjk imagines #jjk x black reader #plug!au #sherewrytes #choso x black!reader

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lichenes · 11 hours ago

Note

!!! SEASON 2 ACT 3 SPOILERS !!!

Could I request Silco x reader where the reader has been transported from the show’s timeline to the au episode where everyone is alive and happy and she finally gets to see her love again. Mix of fluff and angst plsss 💞

Thank you for the ask anon!! Happy Silco THE love of my life. I hope you like it!!! CW: established relationship (kinda not since hes dead... but... yk...), petnames (dove, sunray), parental!reader x jinx mentioned like once. wc: 525 . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚

You were in the malaise of the Hexgates for what felt like centuries. Your senses - not quite with you, sudden pangs of hunger like you’ve never felt before and a constant feeling of pain circulating like blood in your veins. Then, light.

You were panting when you ‘awoke’. “You okay?” Said someone you haven’t heard in a long time. Aged, tired but you knew it was him. You were in bed with silk sheets, ones you’ve asked your husband for, once or twice, as a birthday gift. The undercity was quite hot when the summer months ruled so it was a perfect gift. A perfect gift you never got, at least- in your reality.

“Hey.” Silco said putting his hand on the small of your back, moving it up and down to comfort you. After a moment of disbelief you turned to him abruptly and launched yourself at his neck, wrapping your hands around it. Quiet comfort.

“…” Unbridled silence.

You pulled away from him and cradled his face as if to check if it wasn’t some twisted dream the Hexgates bestowed upon you.

“Dove, what’s wrong?” He asked, genuinely concerned. Your eyes were full of tears threatening to spill as soon as you spoke up. You were hysterical from joy. “Silco- I’ve- I’ve missed you so much.”

“You’ve seen me not hours ago.” You were crying, the tears staining the silk sheets you’ve dreamed of for so many nights. Cold, lonely nights without him. “I can’t believe you’re actually here and… and you look so beautiful- so happy-” He cut you off. “Dove- dove.” You looked at him, your vision blurry from crying.

“I’m here, I didn’t go anywhere. I’m here.” He assured you, trying to calm you down.”

“...” You couldn’t utter a word. You knew what happened. Jinx was inconsolable. So were you. “I didn’t… I-” She tried to explain herself. You were both suffering, her maybe more than you, maybe… It wasn’t time to compare levels of ache. “Honey.” Jinx looked at you. “We need to get rid of-” the body. You couldn’t say it but she got what you were trying to convey.

After a while of sheer uncontrolled, frenzied glee you were experiencing you calmed down. “It was just a bad dream.” He said hugging you tighter than ever. “Nothing to be scared of my sunray.” He accentuated the possessiveness of the statement.

“My condolences.” Said someone random on the street. That was why you didn’t leave your house anymore. That was why Jinx had to force food into you and why you knew this stupid fucking walk wasn’t worth shit. Sun didn’t reach Zaun- what were you saying? The only person who had any chance at making Zaun reality was d-

Now, you were eating breakfast with Silco. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, both physical and metaphorical. “You’re staring dove.” You chuckled. “Sorry, you just look so good in your robe.” I haven’t seen you in years. He looked at you, daringly. “Is that so?” You hummed affirmatively.

“I’ll never get enough of you, dove. Never.” A smile creeped onto your face. “Oh, is that so?”

. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　�� ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ masterlist

#x reader #writing #fluff #angst #angst and fluff #arcane silco #silco #silco x reader #silico #silico x reader #silico arcane

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ktownshizzle · 1 day ago

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Friends & Fools (Teaser)

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

Summary: You and Yoongi have always been just friends—inseparable since childhood, roommates in the city, partners in navigating life’s chaos. At your high school reunion, the questions start: Are you two finally together? Uh, no. But as the night goes on, and Yoongi looks at you like that, hmm—has everyone else seen something you’ve been too scared to admit?

Genre: Fluff, Suggestive, non-idol!au, best friends & roommates to lovers

Notes: 🎉SURPRISE 500-FOLLOWER MILESTONE dropppp. Could be yours soon... 🤭

Permanent Taglist is Open. If you want to be tagged for just this story, you may leave a comment.

Masterlist

Min Yoongi 101 is a course you could’ve taught in college. It’s a subject matter you’ve mastered somewhere between the sandbox (when he was the kid hoarding plastic shovels in the playground) and the shoebox (the over-priced apartment that you both decided to rent together after uni).

It’s ‘cause you’ve always been good at watching him. You’ve picked up all his visual cues, his weird quirks, his tells.

Tonight is no different. From across the room, in the too-bright glare of your HS gym’s rented stage lights, you catch the tell-tale pinch of his brow, the mindless nodding that means he’s enduring yet another overly enthusiastic former classmate. Someone’s laughing too loud in his face, and he responds the same way he always does—with a small, polite smile and a glance at his drink like it’s his lifeline.

You’d know that look anywhere.

Yoongi catches your eye then, like he can feel your energy slicing through the crowd, and his lips twitch. The faintest ghost of a smirk, the kind he reserves just for you. He raises his glass, and you do the same from across the room. A silent message of we're too fucking sober to be in this joint. He holds your gaze and you watch as he inadvertently inserts the straw up one nostril, giggling because that wouldn’t be the first time. He shakes his head and puts it back in his mouth for a sip.

It’s comforting, really. That tether between you and Yoongi.

Even if the two of you are apparently the only ones here who don’t see what everyone else does.

---

A/N: Here goes another one 🙈🫣

Permanent taglist:

@wonh0oe @hyukaluve @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog

@maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @marnz1990 @tea4sykes

#myg x reader #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x y/n #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts x you #yoongi x oc #myg x y/n #suga x y/n #suga x you #yoongi fluff #suga x reader #yoongi imagines #yoongi scenarios

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pedrosgrogu · 1 day ago

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Born Too Late - Chapter 5

pairing/au: neighbor!joel x reader // no outbreak

Warnings: MDNI!!! SMUT (2 chapters in a row :0.. So much for slow burn), age gap, no use of y/n, i think thats it fr, dirty talk, unprotected p in v (be smart yall, wrap it up). thats it i think, lemme know if i missed something :)

Summary: Sarah's conference is this week and seeing Joel is not on your list of things you want to do. Then he invites you over to talk. You need to set the boundary now, what could go wrong? (1.6k+)

a/n: i tried to write a lil more than usual bc i feel bad about inconsistent posting. (shoutout no personal life bc work/school) hopefully with winter break i can post a couple times a week. also trying to figure out how to make a taglist so if you want to be notified of new chapters, lmk!! If you have any suggestions, give em to a girl. i love to see/hear feedback :) <3

Yet again, you’re avoiding Joel like the plague. You have an unknown amount of missed calls from him. You also have conferences today. This means you have to see him, and you feel like you could throw up. He’s your last one at 5:30 p.m. The day goes by slowly, and you have lunch duty so you don’t have time to finish planning your conference notes. After lunch is the worst part of the day. Kids are tired and barely give a shit, but you have a couple good ones that you try to focus on. Sarah being one of them. The 2:30 bell rings and by 2:40 your class is empty. Conferences start at 3:30 so you finish your notes and try to eat your lunch but that sinking feeling is still there.

By 5:15, you’ve talked to so many parents that they’re all starting to blur. You’re exhausted and would rather be quite literally anywhere else by now. You gather Sarah's notes and sit them on the table, one stack in front of you and a copy of your stack in front of where Joel will sit. Sarah really enjoys a select few books from your classroom library so you sit them on her desk for her in case she's with Joel.

Before you see him, you smell him. The air in your classroom fills with hints of cedarwood and lavender. You look up and Sarah is already at her desk looking at the books. You stand to greet Joel. “Good Evening Mr. Miller” you reach to shake his hand but he doesn't move, he is staring right through you. “Sweet girl, you don't have to call me that.” He says, still staring. You smile and invite him to sit. “So” you start “Sarah is doing phenomenal, she loves to read and write, and is always very engaged. I pulled a few samples of her writings from the last couple weeks so you could read them. They’re the first sheets inside your fold-” “Babygirl” he says gruffly “I know my daughter, and she has excelled and exceeded every year. I'm here for you. Why have you been avoiding me?” You look at him, wide eyed. Half wanting to laugh and half wanting to cry. Your door is open and anyone could walk by and hear him, Sarah could hear him. “Joel I promise I'm not trying to avoid you” you say quietly, lying straight through your teeth. And he knows it. You stand up and walk to close the door and can feel his eyes burning through you. “I just dont think-” “I've called you more times than I can count, and you aint returned a single one. Shit baby, your bra is still on my bedroom floor. Taunting me every night.” You can feel the warmth begin to rise on your face, and between your legs. “Mr.Miller, now is not the time or the place for this conversation. If we could please get back to Sarah.” He looks at you, deadpan. “Alright, come to my house tomorrow night at 8. Sarah will be with her mom for the weekend.” Internally, you groan. Externally, “Yes sir”. You watch him stir in his chair at your words, repositioning himself.

The rest of the conference goes well, Sarah reads some of her writings to her dad, and shows him her favorite books. He asks her so many questions about her work and she is extremely detailed in every answer. He seems like a great dad, and it puts him in a different light for you. Now he isn't only hot, and great at sex, and great at aftercare, but he's a good dad. You are so fucked.

Friday comes and goes, yet again you're exhausted. You take a steaming shower when you get home. Shaving your legs, just because. NOT for Joel. Once out of the shower, you change into a pair of blue biker shorts and an oversized Texans crewneck. You throw your hair up in a bun and make yourself some coffee. Hoping the coffee will help combat the sleepiness, you throw yourself onto the couch and turn on some Grey's Anatomy reruns, and begin to drift into a nap. You try to fight it, but it's inevitable.

You wake up to your phone ringing. You check the time. 8:17. “Shit” you grumble. You flip your phone open without even checking the caller ID. “Hello?” you say, groggily. “There's my sweet girl.” He says, pausing briefly. “You’re late. Better get here fast, dinners gonna be cold.” And before you can get a word out, Joel hangs up. “Fuck fuck FUCK.” You say, frustratedly. This has gone too far, and god forbid your work gets wind of this disaster. You’d be screwed. You throw your shoes on and walk next door.

Joel opens the door right as you walk up the steps. The smells instantly take you back to that morning. You still remember how he felt inside you, how his lips felt on yours, how his hand fit around your neck so perfectly how- “You gonna come in or you just gon’ stand there?” Joel snaps you out of your trance. You follow him the rest of the way in, kicking your shoes off at the door this time. “I made spaghetti with garlic bread. Stuck it in the oven to stay warm since you tried to stand me up.” He says, grinning. “Joel look” you start, “I really appreciate this, and I really had a” “Sit down and eat. We can talk after.” He says, pulling a chair out. He walks around to the fridge, opening the door. You can't stop staring at him. His shoulders so broad, and biceps borderline busting out of his shirt. You’re in a trance. “Red or white?” he says, but you don't hear him. You’re too busy eye fucking him, completely forgetting that the only reason you’re here is to end this before it starts. He turns around and sees you still looking straight through him, undressing him with your eyes. He grins a devilish grin and you snap back to reality. “Huh? Sorry I was-” “No need to explain, I asked if you wanted red or white wine?” he says, grinning “Oh.. ummm.. White please!” He sits the glass next to you, along with your plate of food.

Dinner goes well, you talk about Sarah and how great of a student she is. You realize Joel could go on and on about her, because he does. Before you know it, its 10:00 and you're fighting sleep again. But this conversation needs to happen. You gather the plates and wine glasses and begin doing the dishes. “Darlin’ don't worry about those. I can do them in the morning.” “Joel, we need to talk.” You say, hoping it doesn't come off too harsh. You turn the sink off and dry your hands. “Joel, I had a lot of fun a few weeks ago. But I don’t think-” he cuts you off. “Why’re you thinkin’ baby? Thinkin’ don’t never lead to nothin’ good.” He says, wrapping his hands around your waist. As much as you don’t want to, you lean into his grip. “Joel, please.” you almost moan. “I don’t want to get in trouble at work, it's a huge ethical misconduct if the school were to ever find out, especially since Sarah is in my class.” He’s kissing up your neck, and you aren't doing anything to stop him. “I just want to taste you, just one more time.” He groans into your ear, nibbling on the tip. “This has to be the last time.” you think to yourself.

You don't fight it, you give in. And you enjoy every second of it. Joel picks you up and lays you on the table. The same table you just had dinner on. Your shorts are thrown across the room and your sweatshirt is being used as back support. He’s devouring every inch of your body. Leaving bite marks in unseen places. You hear his belt hit the floor and watch his shirt peel off of his body. You moan at the sight. He lines himself up with your aching cunt. “What was all that earlier about you gettin’ in trouble at work?” he says, comically. “Joel, please not-” and before you can squeak the rest of your sentence out, he's ramming his cock inside you. Over and over. “What's wrong baby? Can’t speak?” he says, laughing. Hes fucking you so hard that the goddamn table is moving. “I need something more stable.” He grunts, picking you up and throwing you on the island, his cock never leaving inside of you. He rubs vigorous circles around your clit, watching your eyes roll into the back of your head. “Dont. Stop. Joel.” You manage to say in between breaths. “I don’t ever plan to babygirl.” He says, rubbing faster. Your release is on the horizon. Everythings gone white and all you can focus on is the sound of skin slapping skin. Your back arches and you scream with pleasure. “Let it out babygirl, cum for me.” Just as you begin to come down, you feel Joel's cock tense up inside you, and he falls to your ear, moaning. He pulls out and you moan gutteraly. You feel the warmth of his seed dripping Yet again, he disappears and reappears with a warm washcloth. Cleaning and kissing every inch of your body.

You get cleaned up and dressed. Joel puts on a pair of sweatpants, no shirt. You could go for round 2 but 2 times is 2 too many. You begin to put your shoes on. “Darlin’, why don't you stay the night?” You instantly get nauseous, and feel tears? Maybe? You barely know this guy, what the fuck? “Joel, I told you. This cannot happen. Not again.” You say, trembling. “We can-” You cut him off. “No more Joel.” and you open the door and walk out. Leaving him just as quickly as you found him.

Masterlist - Chapter 4

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #last of us #neighbor joel x reader #neighbor joel #cliffhanger #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #joel miller x you #the last of us #neighbor!joel #joel x reader #daddy joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #my writing #tlou #joel tlou

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senkovi · 2 days ago

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[ID: twelve various gifs of Ellis from the show From.

Ellis says, "I feel like the people that make it here, it's because they— There's a part of themselves that they hold on to. And... I just think, you know... Look, last night I feel like I saw that piece of her start to slip away."

He is sitting against a tree, arms resting on his knees as he looks around.

A knife sticks out of Ellis' torso as he stumbles back a bit, saying, "Fucking stabbed me," as he looks down at the knife, grabbing the hilt.

He says, "You know, I figured while I was out there I could, uh, pick her some of those wildflowers she likes." Boyd, off-screen, responds, "Good. Good. Good man."

Ellis is picking said wildflowers.

An off-screen Boyd says to Ellis, "It has to be you, okay? You have to be that piece of her that this place can't take away. That's how we get through this. Okay? Even if we lose our way, we hold onto each other and we keep trying. 'Til we get home." Ellis nods slightly and responds, "'Til we get home."

A visibly anxious Ellis says, "There's a person growing inside my fiancé, and anywhere else in the world, I mean, that would be great. You know? I would be thrilled, which I am. But here, I just... I just keep expecting that at any second, it's gonna come bursting out of her with, like, with fangs and claws."

Ellis is grinning with excitement and though there is no caption, it is clear he says, "Okay. Okay!"

Ellis is standing with his arms crossed as he grimaces.

Ellis, who is wearing his wedding clothes and holding a bouquet, is standing in front of the floor-length window in his and Fatima's bedroom, the drapes around the window decorated to resemble a wedding arch. He says to an off-screen Fatima, "You're always saying that this view makes even this place look like a dream, so I figured... Is this okay?"

Ellis is laying in bed as an off-screen Donna says, "I should've been here. I'm sorry." In good spirits, Ellis replies, "Well, I am so glad that you have finally decided to apologize, because another grown man losing his shit and stabbing me is clearly your fault."

A close-up of Ellis during his wedding ceremony as he says to Fatima, "There have been so many times here where I felt like I was stumbling in the dark. But each and every time, you were the light that guided me through. You are my love. You are my home. You are my light in dark places."

plain text caption:

Corteon Moore as ELLIS STEVENS ━ FROM, Season 2

end ID]

Corteon Moore as ELLIS STEVENS ━ FROM, Season 2

#gifs #from tv #tv #described #long post #ellis is too good to be stuck in fromville

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ssentimentals · 3 days ago

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hii this is the anon who asked for 34 with joshua. im so sorry i didnt realize it was crossed off. coulf fluff prompt 8 with joshua work? thank u love

hii, it's alright my dear, of course you can get your request 💜 hopefully you will like it!

fluff prompt: 'if the whole world was watching, i'd still dance with you.'

you waited for this festival for so long that your heart was breaking at the sight of people packing up, not wanting to get caught under the rain. watching all of this from the balcony, you couldn't help but feel sadness wash over you - everyone worked so hard, prepared day and night to make sure everything will be ready and now it's all for nothing. rain wasn't that heavy, but it showed no signs of stopping any soon - the drizzling was constant and upsetting. music was still playing loudly from the speakers - whoever's responsible for them forgot to turn them off.

'don't be sad, dear.' joshua's arm wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. 'i promise everything is not lost.'

'but rain is not stopping,' you whined, pouting. 'and everyone will go home now.'

'rain will stop soon and everyone is not going anywhere, babe. look, they are all just hiding.'

joshua was making sense, but that didn't help; seeing how your pout was still ever present, he suddenly jumped in front of you, reaching out for your hand. 'will you give me the honor?'

you blinked. realization settled and you smiled wide, shaking your head. 'josh, people are watching.'

'and?' joshua asked, shrugging. 'if the whole world was watching, i'd still dance with you.' seeing your hesitance, he pushed: 'don't you want to? under the rain? just like in all these movies.'

who possibly could say no to this? certainly not you. with a warm smile, you let him pull you from the safety of the building and your laugh echoed throughout whole space, when you and joshua soaked through in literal seconds. 'oh my god, josh!' you giggled, when he pulled you in, wrapping both arms around your waist.

'dance with me.' he asked, gaze focused only on you.

and so you did. laughing, letting him twirl you around, dancing along with him. move after move your heart grew lighter and before you noticed, rain slowed down and sun peeked through the clouds. at the final accord of the song, joshua pulled you close, planting firm kiss on your lips and you blushed, hearing how everyone clapped at you two.

'all good?' he asked, smiling at you. 'look, even sun came out just for you. just so you could be happy.' you laughed and hid your face in his shoulder, feeling light kiss from him on your head. 'anything for your happiness, love.'

a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini

#seventeen imagine #seventeen fluff #joshua seventeen #joshua hong seventeen #joshua imagine #joshua hong #hong jisoo x reader #seventeen hong jisoo #seventeen joshua x reader #svt joshua #hong jisoo fluff #hong jisoo imagines #seventeen joshua imagine #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen prompt

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ariesize · 3 days ago

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emmrich x rook: and i'll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands)

A/N: I definitely did not write an 8k word fic about Rook going crazy insane over Emmrich's hands. You definitely can't read it on ao3 here or below the cut.

TW for smoking, drinking, blood.

It’s not something she notices when they first meet. She’s a little busy stopping the end of the world and her priorities are in other places at the moment. It takes a little while, a few weeks after he is officially a member of the team and settled in. After Weisshaupt and Minrathous and all of the other horrors they've experienced recently.

It happens during a game of Wicked Grace, of all things.

Rook isn't playing but is happy to sit, enjoying being surrounded by a few members of her team Varric’s team - you're just a placeholder baby. Harding brought the cards, Lucanis picked the wine, and Davrin and Emmrich were all too happy to join in on the game Harding proposed.

It's a good thing Rook didn't take a hand of cards for herself, as her concentration has wandered to one subject in particular. One person, completely oblivious to where Rook’s thoughts have ventured over the course of the evening. All he’s doing is holding a few cards, passing them back and forth and it's not special in any way - truly a perfectly ordinary moment during a perfectly ordinary evening. She barely even knows him, but all Rook can look at, all she can think about, are Emmrich’s hands.

All of him is pleasant to look at. He looks good, presents himself in a confident way that she noticed immediately upon their first meeting in the Necropolis, but what's taken her aback are his hands. The rings adorning his long thin fingers glisten just so in the candle light, the delicate way he holds the cards and the way he picks up his wine glass, the bangles on his wrists that make the most pleasing sounds. Rook is entranced. Hypnotized. She has never wanted anything more than she wants those hands on her, in her, anywhere near her as often as she can have them.

And he has no idea, is none the wiser to the turn of Rook’s thoughts. She knows this is completely inappropriate; he would absolutely never want to fraternize with a girl young enough to be his student would he? She tries to snap out of it, tries to pay attention to the game in front of her but her eyes keep catching the glint of his rings, keep noticing the way he fiddles with which card to place down, how he organizes them just so with fingers skimming the top until they land on the perfect card. She wants to know how those rings would feel caressing her face, her body. Would they be cold? Would they leave marks if he pressed down with a little force on her throat or hips? Would they sting if he slapped her across her ass? Would he keep them on even when-

She snaps out of it, drinks the rest of her wine, abruptly stands up and excuses herself while quickly mentioning that she needs to clean her knives, enjoy the rest of your game, goodnight everyone. Turns heel and all but sprints out of the dining room. It's rude, she knows, and will explain herself properly tomorrow if asked. I just can't have them getting rusted or dull - old crow habits, you know. It's a flimsy excuse but still perfectly reasonable if anyone were to pry.

When she's safe behind the closed door of the meditation chamber, she does not continue to think about her teammate. She does not sit on the green velvet chaise lounge and think about his hands on her, his voice so rich and smooth and gentlemanly. He's always ready with a compliment and oh, how she loves it when he tells her nicely done, Rook! Would he have such compliments ready if she got on her knees, ready to do as he said?

Rook tells herself she can do this once, get it out of her system, look him in the eyes tomorrow and claim she's never touched herself to thoughts of him. How improper. Where is her sense of decorum!

But tonight she uses her own hand and pretends it's his. She digs out the two rings she has in her pack, little trinkets she’s picked up here and there, places them on her fingers and grips her throat just so and there, just faintly are two little indentations. Tonight she can pretend there's more and the hand who gave them to her isn’t the one between her legs but the one that is currently across the courtyard and far away from where she wants it to be.

Tomorrow she’ll set her head straight. Tonight she comes with his name on her lips and knows immediately she's absolutely fucked.

Rook’s lounging on the couch in the library, comfortable as the day is long. There was no reason to leave today so she's taking time to relax - the fact that she protested for a long time when this was suggested by Varric even though her body was screaming for a break notwithstanding. She's not planning, she's not preparing, she's not strategizing like she knows she should be. Instead, she's laying on the couch, an apple in one hand and a knife in the other. She's cutting pieces and eating them, snapping the slices with audible crunch while her attention is on the scene in front of her.

Standing at the bookshelf are Lucanis and Emmrich. She’s fully staring at them, watching them pick books off the shelves and return others to their spots all nice and neat. What they're searching for, she hasn't a clue, and truly couldn't care less because that's not at all relevant to her train of thought.

No, she's staring at Emmrich’s hands again. Moving across spines, flipping through pages, tracing lines on the page and softly reading them out to Lucanis. Rook cuts the apple, puts the slice in her mouth, closes her lips but doesn't bite. No, that would be far too rational and her brain is not functioning at the moment. She gently pokes and prods it with her tongue, swirls around it a few times and pulls it out with a gentle pop, a small trail of saliva still connecting her to the fruit.

The men in front of her are none the wiser, still speaking in hushed tones about demons and spirits and gods. They have no idea that Rook is daydreaming not of an apple slice, but a certain necromancer’s finger in its place. She gently bites the apple, pulls the slice away from her mouth, thinking that instead maybe this is what it would be like to pull one of his rings off his fingers. He might hold his hand out, ready for her to spit it back into his palm. She would do that with each ring if he asked her to.

She'd do anything for his hands to be on her, his attention turned away from the book and his gentle voice, a little deeper and a little darker perhaps, could be teaching her instead of Lucanis.

She's completely lost in thought that when she goes to cut another slice from the fruit she misses completely. The knife, thankfully a slightly dull one from the kitchen and not one of her blades, goes directly across her palm and not right through it like it could have. Blood seeps out the cut, not deep enough to warrant any real worry but enough for Rook to gasp in pain loud enough to rouse the interest of her two friends.

“Rook? Everything alright?” Lucanis asks, seemingly noticing her for the first time since she sat down over half an hour earlier. He and Emmrich walk over to her, see her bloody palm, and leap into action.

“It's alright, please there's no need to worry. I just cut myself by accident. It's not even that deep,” Rook protests. She stands up, begins walking away to go clean and wrap her hand, when Emmrich steps in front of her.

“Mind if I lend a hand?” he asks, and oh how Rook would have begged to hear those words in any other context but this. He gently takes her hand and examines her palm, says “Come upstairs with me, if you want. I can clean and wrap it for you,”.

“No, it's alright, thank you, I don't want to interrupt-” she starts, fumbling her words as she looks at her hand in his. More blood is rushing out, threatening to drip down her arm and onto the floor, but she doesn't care. She needs to get out of this situation before she embarrasses herself even further.

“Rook, please, I wouldn't have offered it if I didn't want to help. It'll only take a moment.” Emmrich says, and well, she might as well let this cut be worth something. She grumbles in agreement, allowing him to pull her along up to his rooms.

On the stairs, she glances down at Lucanis. He’s regarding the two of them with squinted eyes and a smirk on his face, that bastard.

“Crows know better than to cut their hands while slicing apples, Rook.” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“If you tell Viago about this I'm sending you back to jail.” Rook deadpans.

At the top of the stairs she follows Emmrich into his study. He points at his desk and tells Rook to take a seat, it'll only take him a moment to gather supplies. She sits on top of it, not sure if that's what he meant but not wanting to be trapped behind the piece of furniture either. Oh how she's thought of this scenario many times since the Wicked Grace night. In none of them was she bleeding, however, but she's still slightly shocked to have even gotten to this point.

She makes a note to pull herself together when he emerges into view, sleeves rolled up and carrying a tray with bandages, cloths, and what she assumes is some form of antiseptic. His rings and bracelets, she notices, are still on.

“I apologize, but this might sting a little,” Emmrich says as he takes a piece of cloth and motions for her to place her hand in his. He gently starts wiping away the blood from her palm, careful not to put any pressure on the cut. It’s a little messy, more blood seeping from her palm with every swipe of the cloth. He’s gentle and diligent and so concentrated that she can't help it if her heart rate goes up. Being the object of his attention is too much. Her face is flushed, she’s shaking a little, and worst of all she can feel the heat between her legs building all too vibrantly.

All because he’s touching her, and her blood is on his hands. There's a few smudges on his fingers, barely any at all really, as he holds her hand with her palm facing upwards. Rook didn’t know she had a thing for blood until this moment, but she’s so flustered by this sight that she wishes the cut was deeper, more bloody, covering his hands while he patches her back up. He’s so gentle but still maintains perfect control over her, flipping her hand around and moving it this way and that. Emmrich could tell her to pick up a book and start reading it outloud right now and she would listen, do exactly as he said.

“Please be more careful next time you decide to eat an apple. We wouldn't want our fearless leader to chop off a finger,” he says, his tone light and humorous and miles away from where her own thoughts have wandered.

Rook smiles, laughs a little, says she promises to save the injuries for the battlefield. He presses a different cloth, this one soaked in antiseptic, to her hand. He was right - it does sting a little, but her blood is still on his fingers and she wants to offer to clean them for him, bring them up to her mouth and indulge in her fantasy from earlier.

The hand holding hers moves up her wrist just a tad, but it's enough to clue him into her current state. He presses down gently, furrows his brows a little. “Rook, your heart is racing. Are you sure you're feeling alright?” he asks.

No, she wants to say, I am feeling quite troubled and am in need of your assistance. It wouldn't take much to bring his hands up to her face, mouth, throat, or down to her chest, her hips, between her legs. He's staring at her with concern written clear as day across his face and not realizing the position they are in. She’s fully sat on his desk while he stands in front of her close enough that when they look at each other she has to tilt her head up a little. He's not quite between her legs but a little repositioning and that could be fixed. It's the perfect set up. It's all of her fantasies mixed into one.

“I'm just still a little distracted these days,” the rational part of her brain that is luckily still connected to her mouth supplies. “It's been a difficult few weeks. I haven’t been sleeping that well,” she adds, hopefully convincing him that that's truly the only thing in her mind.

He hums in agreement, now slowly and methodically wrapping up her hand. The blood is seeping through the bandage but only just so. Not enough to make a mess. Not enough to, say, get on any other surfaces, any other present parties who have no idea what they’re doing to her. Rook sighs, closes her eyes a little, wills away these thoughts in favor of trying to have a normal conversation and not thinking about getting bent over this desk and fucked into next week.

Her eyes snap open and she prays that she didn't say that out loud.

“Well, I’m no healer, but if you have trouble sleeping you are more than welcome to stop in for a chat and a nightcap,” Emmrich says while letting go of her hand and cleaning up the bloody rags. She isn’t surprised by the invitation. She knows he enjoys a few vices in life, he knows his wines and she’s smelled the smoke from a pipe he keeps stashed away on more than one occasion.

“That's incredibly kind. Thank you, Emmrich.” she said, still looking up at him through her lashes. She knows exactly what she's doing when she bats her eyes, once, twice, lets her mouth rest into an easy smile and tries to look as innocent as possible. The eye contact they’re making is full of tension. He looks down at her lips, only for a moment but it's enough for Rook to notice.

A-ha, she thinks, I got you.

He looks back up at her, his mouth slightly agape in what can only be the realization of their predicament hitting him all at once. He’s again holding her bandaged hand between them, their eye contact unbreaking and it would be so easy to move her legs, spread them slightly so he’s properly standing between them. She could nudge him forward with her foot and wrap her legs around him, so simple then for him to take her face in his hands and kiss her until her brain is quiet. The desk behind her is clear of anything breakable and all she would have to do is lay back and-

Emmrich clears his throat, breaks their eye contact first, steps away from a position that seems to be closer to her than he was a moment ago. Was he as wrapped up in the moment as she was? Drifting into her space, compelled by the same force that’s been driving her mad for weeks on end?

“Well!” he says, a little loudly and a little too forcefully, “Lucanis and I were in the middle of some terribly interesting research and I should be getting back-”

“Of course!” she interrupts, “I’d hate to take up any more of your time!” Rook states, sliding off of his desk and walking over to the door. She pauses, her hand gently pushing the door open. “Thank you again, Emmrich. I just might take you up on that nightcap soon.”

She leaves, doesn’t look back, but doesn’t hear him move to go downstairs either. She claims that as a win. One small step in the right direction.

Rook has upped her flirting significantly since she cut her hand. He has to have noticed, there can’t be any way he hasn’t. There have been some moments, none of them confirming or denying anything other than the fact that he likes to be around her as much as she likes to be around him.

Moments in his study, in the kitchen, in passing in hallways or on their long treks across the various areas of Thedas where their help is needed. He comes with her almost everywhere now. She's not sure when that started but now it's an unspoken rule that if she's heading off towards danger, Emmrich is by her side. If anyone has noticed they have kept it to themselves, bless them.

This night is one of those where she is reminded just how much she cherishes her crew. They’ve all gathered for family dinner as Taash has started calling it. Dinner has since ended, Lucanis and Neve are in the kitchen under the guise of cleaning up but really just wanted an excuse to talk away from prying eyes and ears. The wine is flowing freely and quickly, smiles are on everyone's faces, conversations are loud and everything is perfect.

Rook is sitting with Bellara and Davrin, the three elves swapping silly stories from their previous lives. Davrin is telling a story from his childhood that has Rook and Bellara in absolute stitches. Davrin seems more calm and cool than other Warden’s she's met before. He’s serious when he needs to be, don’t get her wrong, but he knows how to unwind and how to spin a tale so interesting that you can’t help but give him your undivided attention.

Rook goes to take a sip of her wine and notices the glass is empty. She looks around for the current open bottle and spots it next to Emmrich. At that moment he catches her looking from her glass to the bottle and raises his eyebrows in a silent question, gesturing to the bottle and then to her. Rook nods and smiles, holds her glass towards him slightly to show him the poor, empty state of it. He smiles and gets up, grabs the bottle and wanders over to the group, first topping off Bellara’s glass and filling up Rook’s.

“Oh! Thank you Professor!” Bellara says with a smile that could light up even the darkest, dankest cavern in the Hossberg Wetlands. If anyone was the physical embodiment of the sun and all things nice, it was Bellara. Her happiness was infectious as always, and heightened by the alcohol, Rook found herself to be terribly happy as well.

Rook never addressed Emmrich by his title. Of course she recognized his profession outside of this team was a prestigious one, but she wasn’t his student or colleague so it never felt right to say it. Not to say she hadn’t thought about it. She’s definitely let her mind wander to a world where she’s sitting in the audience at one of Professor Volkarin’s lectures. She’s seen him get heated in debates with Lucanis and Bellara before and knows how passionate he can be when talking about the subjects he’s devoted his life to. She knows that focus would only come across even more intensely in a classroom setting.

And so what if she gets a little turned on by that? He would be her authority figure in this situation. Maybe she could have studied under him, been his star pupil, the student he was most proud of. He would be ready to go with compliments, and she would get to watch him cast all day. The way he moves his hands while performing a ritual is exactly that, a performance. He takes on the role not of Professor or Necromancer but Conductor, his hands instructing a music unheard and unseen by Rook.

So, what if she sees a way to use this to her advantage.

Emmrich is already correcting Bellara, asking her to please drop the title in a setting like this, amongst friends and not in the halls of the Necropolis, when Rook pipes up from next to her,

“Yeah, thank you Professor,” she says. Her cheeks are red from the wine, her lips slightly parted as she raises the glass and takes a sip. She doesn’t let the moment linger any longer and turns her attention back to her companions, but she hears his sharp intake of breath next to her.

He recovers smoothly, leaving the bottle with them and returning to his previous spot. Rook glances at Emmrich out of the corner of her eye and sees him grabbing his glass and bidding his companions farewell for the evening. Harding and Taash quickly follow, and Rook knows now is her best shot.

After a few minutes she too picks up her still full glass, apologizes for interrupting the story but she simply can’t sit up straight any longer and needs to go to her room before she passes out in the dining room. She leaves before anyone can respond and call out the fact that minutes ago she was wide awake and conversing just fine.

Rook’s not exactly sober, but she’s sober enough to consider the possibility that he doesn't want her like that, sees her only as a friend, is repulsed by her even. She thinks it through, and by the time she's approaching the library she's made up her mind and decides there's no turning back now. She heads up the right staircase in the library and knocks at Emmrich’s door, and hears him yell a “Come in!” from the other side. Rook slips in and gently closes the door behind her. Emmrich is at his desk, striking a match and lighting up the contents of the pipe hanging from his mouth.

“I had a feeling that might be you at the door. Please, come in!” he says, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose. It’s unreasonably attractive, seeing him like this. It’s a perfectly normal activity and yet he makes it look so elegant that Rook can’t help but find herself staring openly at him.

“Thought I’d drop in for that nightcap and conversation you promised me a while back,” she says, trying to make her voice as smooth and steady as possible. They've had countless late night conversations and drinks together since he gave her permission to seek him out on sleepless nights but she's hoping this reminder evokes the memory of their almost almost kiss. She approaches his desk and leans her hip up against it, taking a sip of her drink.

This is definitely one of the more relaxed states she's seen him in. His vest is off, his glove is missing, his shirt unbuttoned (only the top one, but she’s never seen it unbuttoned at all before) and lacking the usual skull collar pins, but his hands and arms are still covered in his gold jewelry.

He takes another drag from his pipe, says “Well there’s no better time than the present. Is there something on your mind?” on his exhale, not blowing the smoke directly at Rook but letting it waft around them, creating a haze in the room.

“Not particularly,” she says, carefully enunciating each syllable. She thinks for a moment and then backtracks, tapping thoughtfully against her temple like an idea just came to her. “Actually, there might be one thing,” she says, letting the pause sit between them like the smoke in the room.

“You see, Professor,” she says his title just to see if he would react. And he does, his eyes widening and his face going a little red, coughing slightly as he exhales more smoke.

“Rook-” he starts, she tries to interrupt him but he talks over her, adding “Rook please, I have to insist that you do not call me that.” he says, the mood shifting from flirty to serious in an instant. Rook’s smile fades and she moves to stand up, already spewing apologies that she’s taken this too far, she’ll drop it instantly, let him get back to his evening when he reaches out and lays a hand on her leg to keep her still.

Instead of kicking her out like she expects, he stands up and circles the desk, coming around to face her. It’s a familiar moment, exactly the one she wanted to recreate, just now with less blood and more heat and all Rook can do is look up at him, take a sip of wine and set her glass down next to her. Emmrich's pipe is burning away, seemingly forgotten about in favor of this moment between them. He’s not quite leaning into her space, but his height compared to her causes her to lean back against the desk, bracing herself with her hands behind her.

“I apologize if I’ve gotten this all wrong, and I’ll stop calling you…that. I promise it won’t happen again,” Rook is saying, her eyes following his hands as he moves the one from her thigh and presses them together in front of him as he often does. Breathing deeply, her fears start singing full force in her head. She swears what they’ve been doing is flirting, and she doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable by her advances, especially using his title and their age difference as fuel.

She’s worrying, clearly it must be plain as day on her face, because what happens next is something straight from her imagination. Pinch her, she might be dreaming.

She’s about to apologize even further when she feels his finger under her chin, shutting her up more effectively than anything else ever has. He tilts her chin up just slightly, and she knows she looks like a mess right now. Rook feels her cheeks burning and knows her eyes are wide and glassy.

“I’m not asking you to stop it because I don’t want you to leave me alone, and not even because I don’t like it,” he elaborates. “I only mention it because I’m finding that I do like it, maybe a little too much.”

Rook is at a loss for words. She’s completely shocked, elated but caught way completely off guard.

“I have never had such a…relationship with a student before and I don’t intend on crossing those lines now. However, I have noticed the increasingly flirtatious way you act around me and I can’t pretend I'm not equally as affected by your presence any longer.” Emmrich says, his finger moving from under her chin, gently caressing her face as it travels up to her cheek. The rest of his hand rests against the side of her jaw, his fingertips just brushing her cheekbone. His thumb swipes gently over her lip, and Rook has to stop the moan threatening to escape her throat with all of her might.

“There is quite a distance in the years between us, my dear, so please tell me if I’ve overstepped and taken this too far.” he says, his voice soft and low and she doesn’t feel real right now, doesn’t know if this is just the most realistic dream she’s ever had and she’ll wake up hot and flustered and aching with her need for him.

To answer him she does exactly what she’s wanted to since that day she watched him play cards. She tilts her head down ever so slightly, opens her mouth and takes his thumb in her mouth. Looking up at him she gently sucks before releasing it, effectively rendering him absolutely stunned. Eyes blown wide, mouth hanging open, and she knows the walls between them are officially dust.

“No, I don’t think you’ve misread the situation at all.” she says, her own hand coming up to grab at the one he has against her cheek. She takes it and brings it in front of her, and loses all sense of self control. Never breaking eye contact with him, she takes his pointer finger and licks a stripe up it, her tongue catching on the ring at the base (cold, she notes, just like she hoped).

And that's the end of any distance between them. The end of the what if’s and the maybe, maybe not’s she cycles through daily. He gets his hand into her long, wavy hair, the other falls to her hip and he's pulling her head back, exposing her neck and trailing the gentlest series of kisses up to her jaw. He nips at the skin there, just a hint of teeth and tongue and Rook’s mouth is completely open now, the smallest exhale turning into a full on whine at the feeling of his lips against her skin.

“Please,” is all she can manage and she's absolutely begging now, turning her head to chase his mouth with her own. His face is right there, a millimeter of distance between them. Emmrich laughs, not because this is funny but like he too can't believe what’s happening, before finally pressing their lips together.

Rook wants to shout from the rooftops. She wants to set off fireworks and pop champagne and celebrate. She's finally got him exactly where she wants.

Instead she adjusts her position so that she's fully sitting atop his desk. Her legs are spread wide and he's standing between them, their bodies pressed together like they can't stand even being an inch apart any longer.

And the kiss is better than she ever could have imagined. He tastes faintly of wine, more so of smoke and something clean and sweet and oh how she's never going get enough of that. His hand at her hip is gripping her tightly, fingers roaming closer to her backside and she can feel the metal of his rings so clearly and it's so much better than she ever imagined.

Rook pulls away to get a breath of air and he's there immediately again, kissing her like he's a man starved and she's the sweetest thing he's tasted in so long. He pulls away and she's chasing him just as intensely, just as hungry as he is. It's filthy, all tongue and teeth and she needs him everywhere. His hands, his mouth, she'd make a million blood sacrifices just to stay in this place. On his desk with his hands holding her down with just enough force to keep her steady.

He's everywhere now, in her space, his tongue in her mouth and his hands, his hands!, finally grabbing at her in almost all of the places she's yearned for him to be. They're on her hips, her waist, slowly moving up and over her breasts and pausing briefly on her throat. He's studying her, mapping out her figure with the scholarly dedication he saves for the greater mysteries of the fade and the undead.

She’s never wanted anyone as badly as she wants him. This wonderful man whose path she never would have crossed were it not for their fight against the gods. How funny it is to find something so precious, perfect and passionate at what could very well be the end of their lives. Well, if I'm going to die anytime soon it might as well be after I learn what pleasure truly feels like, she thinks as his hands continue roaming her body. Nobody has ever made her feel like this nor has she felt such intense desire for any of her previous partners.

She moves to undo the buttons on her shirt, thanking the Maker she had the foresight to leave off the belt she usually wears for the evening, ready to grant him more access to her skin. He accepts this eagerly, pushing the shirt down her shoulders and taking a step back to look her over.

And look her over is exactly what he does. Emmrich takes his time, letting his eyes trail over her like she is his most prized possession, a piece of art he'd been looking for all his life. She knows she must look slightly crazed and disheveled, her breaths coming fast and hard as she tries to regain her composure. Her blonde hair is pushed behind her pointed ears, swept off her shoulders to give him a view of as much skin as she can with her pants and bandeau still on.

And it must all hit him at once, the reality of the path they’re headed down, because suddenly his expression is sober, not shocked but curious as if he doesn't know how this could have possibly happened.

“Maker’s breath,” Emmrich whispers, turning away from her with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing the back of his neck. She is starting to get worried now, maybe this was too good to be true, maybe he changed his mind and doesn't want her after all.

“Emmrich?” Rook calls out, fear and worry taking over. “Is everything alright?”

He spins back around to face her, stands with one arm crossed over his chest and the other propped against it, his hand at his mouth with a deeply serious expression on his face. Every trace of want is gone from his features, and if it weren't for the red in his cheeks and a single strand of hair out of place no one would ever have known that only a minute ago he was kissing her silly and stupid.

He breathes once, twice, opens and closes his mouth as he searches for the right words. All he ends up saying, however, is simple, cutting right to her nerves and her fears.

“Why?” he asks. Rook’s heart drops, all color draining from her face.

“I'm sorry?” she asks. She's stunned. She thought he wanted her as much as she wanted him, but clearly that couldn't be any less true. He's looking at her like she's a lost child, a girl who doesn't know what she's doing.

“Rook,” he starts, with such a softness in his voice and finally reaching out to touch her again. He steps in closer, not as close as they were earlier but close enough to cup his hand around her cheek. She leans into the touch, wanting to press her lips to his palm but holding back the urge.

“Rook, please forgive me. I don't mean any insult - you’re absolutely marvelous, but I have to know. Why me? The gap between our years is almost as much as your own age. You wouldn't feel more comfortable with one of the others?” he's saying, and of course Rook should have expected this.

“I don't want any of the others. I want you.” is all she can say in return, her hand coming up to press softly against his which still rests against her cheek. “I don't care that you’re older than me. In fact, it's kind of a turn on.” she says, a smile slowly returning to her face. “I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't want you, Emmrich.”

She takes their intertwined hands and starts slowly moving them down her throat, down her chest until they reach her tits. She grabs his other hand and brings it to her hip, tugging him slightly closer in the process.

“You don't even understand how much I want you, how I've daydreamed of your hands on me since we met.” she says softly, grabbing onto the lapels of his shirt and pulling him closer. “How badly I want to please you.” Rook says, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt halfway, exposing more skin than she's ever seen on him before. “How badly I want you to please me.”

And finally, finally, his mouth is on hers again. It's gentler this time, not so rushed and urgent. He sets a slow but deeply satisfying pace, takes his time to rebuild the passion from earlier. She wants to go fast, wants his hands to stop roaming everywhere but towards her pants buttons, how badly she wants to show him just how ready and wanting she is.

Emmrich must sense where her thoughts are because he's pulling away from their kiss, but this time he's grabbing her hands and tugging her along across his study to the bed he has tucked away in a corner behind the spiral staircase.

Rook sheds her shoes and pants fairly quickly while walking across the room. As soon as he's back within arms reach she starts tugging his shirt untucked and unbuttoning the rest. She’s standing there in just her smallclothes now but there's something about the way he’s looking at her, looking so affected by her want for him that makes her feel stark naked. She pushes up onto her tiptoes and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him back in for another searing kiss. He bites her bottom lip, so gently and softly but Rook wishes it was harder, wishes he would draw blood and kiss it away. She tucks that fantasy in a drawer in her mind, saving it for later - perhaps another time she can bring it up but now, today, is just about beginnings.

He takes a few steps backwards and sits on the edge of his bed and she's all too eager to join him, sitting down on his lap with her knees on either side of his thighs. His hands are on her waist, almost covering her entire midsection, and she slowly, slowly starts rocking her hips back and forth and the gasp he lets out is the most treasured sound she’s ever heard. She can already feel that he is enjoying this as much as she is, but she’s rewarded even further by his praise.

Emmrich tells her that she’s exquisite, and doing such a good job, and it just about sends her over the edge there and then. His praise in their everyday interactions always flustered her but here, now, with his lips brushing her ear and his hands on her naked skin it’s otherworldly. He can tell she’s getting too restless, too antsy for this to move forward quickly so she can release this tension building inside of her, and does what Rook always hoped he would. He takes the lead, takes control, instructs her on exactly what to do.

“Darling there is no need to rush tonight,” he says. “Just relax, I promise I’m not going anywhere,” and how she melts, how she sighs and drapes herself over him like her body has turned to liquid. He’s rock hard under her and she’s wetter than she's ever been in her life and he still hasn’t moved his hands down further, rather opting to stroke up and down her sides, occasionally coming up to brush her face, her chest, or gripping hard onto her thighs. It’s driving her absolutely mad, and the more friction she seeks the harder the pressure with which he holds down her thighs becomes. It's hard enough to bruise now, and Maker how she hopes he leaves her covered in marks that only they know exist. She’s in ecstasy, in agony, in everything in between and is seeking a deeper sensation with great fervor.

Emmrich’s kisses begin venturing down, moving from her lips down her throat and eventually to her chest. His hands move up to slowly unclasp her bandeau and expose her tits. He leans back just slightly, taking in her appearance slowly, savoring each new patch of skin, each scar because she truly is littered with them. Being a crow is not an easy life for multiple reasons but vanity gets dismissed almost immediately when wounds heal poorly, quickly, and the reminders of what once was stays in thin white lines.

“Gorgeous, absolutely perfect,” he whispers like he physically can’t stop the words from leaving his mouth. Rook’s had enough - she’s writhing in his lap like a pathetic lovestruck fool and needs him to do something now. As much as she’d rather this sped up to the main event, she’s glad he’s so insistent on taking their time, reminding her she’s something to savor and not a quick fuck to pass the time.

She takes his hand, slowly moving it down from her waist to between her legs, only a thin strip of fabric separating her from his hand now. He raises his eyebrows at this, kisses her once, and finally lets his hands wander past her underwear, tugging them down and practically ripping them off of her. She shimmies out of them, kicks them to the floor and she’s finally, gloriously naked atop him and he's still almost fully clothed but the disheveled state of him is just as obscene.

Emmrich brings his hands between them and starts to remove his rings but Rook intercepts, asks, “Please, can you keep them on a while longer,” and he smiles, laughs softly and says “Any particular reason why?”

Her skin is burning, her face must be redder than the wine she was drinking only an hour before. “It’s just,” she starts, sighing and grabbing his decorated hand and kissing his palm, running his fingers across her lips. “Your hands, your rings, they’ve caught my attention once or twice,” is all she can provide before her embarrassment overtakes her arousal.

“Oh do tell,” he says, enjoying this indulgence into her private fantasies. She can’t face him and say this so she does the next best thing, buries her face in his neck as he strokes her back, gently persuading her into telling him what’s on her mind.

“I just…you have incredibly attractive hands,” she explains. “I may or may not have…frequently…fantasized about them,” she adds, her face absolutely burning with embarrassment.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Rook. If you tell me what exactly my hands are doing in these fantasies, I’d be more than happy to turn them to reality,” he says against her ear, kissing the tip of it and slowly running his finger along the edge of the other one.

And the dam is broken, her brain has short circuited and everything is flowing freely. “Touching me, choking me, fingering me,” she blurts out, “Holding onto me tight enough to leave marks. Sometimes letting me remove your rings with my teeth.”

“You spend that much time thinking about my hands?” Emmrich questions, not in a demeaning or accusatory way, but with lust and wonder and pure want drenching his words.

“I told you. You have no idea how badly I want this, how badly I want you,” Rook says.

“Well, who am I to deny you of such an innocent request,” he says, letting his hands wander back down her body, rings still firmly in place. He lets one hand grip her hip, the other continuing to move south until finally reaching its destination, finally making small circles around her clit, so confident in his knowledge of her despite this being the first time he’s touched her. It’s like all those times she’s touched herself and imagined it's him, his deft fingers not even second guessing where to go because he just knows exactly what to do.

The moment his fingers find that already throbbing bundle of nerves she’s absolutely done. Head tipped back, moans and sighs freely escaping her throat, it takes everything in her not to come on the spot. She holds on as long as possible, letting his fingers work their magic. Slowly he thrusts two digits inside of her, saying, “You’re being so good for me, taking my fingers so nicely,” and it's too much, not enough, she needs all of him immediately.

And to think only a short time ago she had no idea what tonight held in store for her, had no idea what his hands felt like inside of her, what his voice sounded like as he talked her over the edge.

It doesn’t take long to get there. Rook was already soaked through her smallclothes when Emmrich kissed her for the first time. One of his hands is in her hair, the other expertly coaxing her towards her release, his praise ringing through her ears. His rings are cold against her entrance, his lips are on her neck saying her name, telling her she’s amazing, and finally the waves of pleasure are crashing over her brain, her hips stuttering on his hand as his fingers trace circles around her clit and move back and forth within her.

This time, when she comes with his name on her lips, he’s actually around to hear it, to kiss it out of her and tell her how wonderful she is, how perfect she feels, how good she did.

She spends one moment, two, breathing and regaining control over her senses. He’s still hard beneath her and she immediately feels bad for neglecting him, for making this evening all about her. Her hands move to his waistband, trying to undo the buttons and pleasure him just as he did her, but his hands stop her from moving any further.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Rook. As far as I’m concerned this night is about you,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over hers as she’s still catching her breath from earlier.

“I need you, all of you,” she whines, the heat building up inside of her again at breakneck speed. She’s been thinking about this encounter for so long that she’s not going to let it be over that fast.

“Then I am more than happy to oblige, my dear.”

If the rest of the crew wasn’t wrapped up with their own affairs or actively trying to save the world, maybe they would have noticed the little glances between Rook and Emmrich. They don't see the stolen kisses in an empty kitchen, his hand gently resting on her thigh after family dinner when they're all still gathered around the table, grateful for a slow evening with each other.

They don’t seem to notice Rook entering and exiting Emmrich’s study at odd hours in various states of dress and undress. They don’t see her pressed up against his bookshelves, or on her knees with his hands in her hair. They absolutely don't hear her moans and cries of joy, don't hear his steady voice talking her through her orgasms or the sweet nothings he whispers into her skin in the early hours of the morning.

They definitely don't notice the time he bent her over the couch in the library, both of them slightly thrilled with the knowledge that anyone could walk in and see them. He had to keep his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet (which only wrecked her further).

If they see the little bruises on the base of her neck, her collarbones, her arms that look suspiciously ring shaped and are only a finger's width apart, they don’t ask questions.

It’s Neve who figures it out first, unsurprisingly. She and Rook are walking back to the eluvian after a meeting at the Cobbled Swan when she asks,

“So, care to share what’s been going on with you and Emmrich?” She’s got a knowing look in her eyes and a friendly, teasing tone in her voice.

“There's not much to say,” Rook says, knowing she looks incredibly guilty at the moment. She can feel her cheeks and ears heating up. She shrugs and continues, “He just…is so knowledgeable. About the fade, I mean. And I’ve been learning a lot from his instruction.” she continues futilely. Neve can see right through her if that smirk is anything to go by.

“Oh I'm sure,” Neve says, smiling and elbowing Rook softly on the arm, detouring their route while Rook is distracted. They arrive at Neve’s favorite fried fish stand and as they get in line she adds, “You’re telling me everything while we eat. Spare no details; I want the full story.” And Rook is laughing, butterflies are fluttering in her stomach and she feels like a schoolgirl giggling about her crush. She obliges and tells Neve everything, secretly excited that they've been noticed, all too happy to gossip with her friend about this aspect of her life.

Later, when they've returned to the lighthouse, Rook makes no excuses and heads directly up to Emmrich’s room, sparing a mirthful glance at Neve who shakes her head and laughs. She's giddy to tell him the ruse is up, that Tevinter’s finest detective has figured them out. He's seated at his desk when she opens his door, reading over his correspondences from colleagues at the Necropolis and the latest updates from Myrna and Vorgoth.

“Give me twenty more minutes to finish up and respond to these and I’m all yours,” Emmrich says as Rook walks over to his desk. “Maybe thirty, but no longer than that.” he adds as she walks behind his chair and wraps her arms around his neck, gently placing a small kiss on his cheek.

“I just wanted to let you know I’m back from Minrathous. And that Neve has figured us out.” she says, savoring the way he immediately loses concentration on the materials in front of him.

“Come again?” he asks, brows furrowed and mouth open in that delightful, flustered look he used to get when she first started flirting with him.

“Turns out we haven't been as sneaky as I thought,” she says, moving to lean back and rest against his desk. Her arms are crossed over her chest but her voice is light, the smile she's had since her lunch outing is still plastered on her face.

“It was bound to happen eventually with all of us living in such close proximity to one another,” he responds, much more carefree and accepting of the situation than his initial reaction was. “As much as I enjoyed this being our little secret I can’t find it within myself to care too much about the others knowing,” he adds.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to share. I’ll leave you to it then,” Rook says as she pushes off his desk and makes for the door. She pauses when she feels Emmrich’s hand reaching out and grabbing hers, stopping her in her tracks. She turns back to face him, her eyebrows raising as he reels her back to him.

“I thought you needed twenty or thirty minutes to finish up what you were working on,” she teases, her voice dropping to an imitation of his from earlier. She jokes, but is all too ready to go along with whatever plan he’s concocting for the rest of their afternoon.

“Well,” he says as he leans back in his chair and she settles down on his lap, knees on either side of his thighs and arms circling around his neck. “I’m sure Myrna and Vorgoth will be fine if I take a little longer than usual to get back to them.”

“Whatever you say love,” Rook sighs as his lips meet her neck, his hands already gripping onto her hips. The world will keep turning outside of this little bubble they’ve created, the questions from their companions will start immediately once Neve confirms everyone's suspicions.

They’ll start to really notice the glances, the touches, the private conversations in crowded rooms. But for now it's just them, alone, and Rook finds she doesn’t mind one bit. She’d follow him anywhere, do anything he asked, just to have these moments of peace at his side.

#datv #dragon age the veilguard #rook x emmrich #emmrook #dragon age fanfiction #hand kink girlies this one is for you #i'll stop naming fics after taylor swift lyrics when she stops writing good lyrics #elf crow female rook too btw

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oddsconvert · 11 hours ago

Note

I don’t know if you’ve been asked this yet but could we get a snippet of Ronan actually being nice to Izaak for once. Further down the line when he’s good pet. No pain or work around tricks to make him get into trouble. Like how he coddles Henley. I just want to see this boy not scared for two seconds lol.

Some broken Izaak, coming up! Having a little cuddle with his owner! 🥰🙈

CW: pet whump, whumper turned whumpee, intimate whumper, submissive whumpee, light reference to previous torture, begging.

---

Ronan’s gentle fingertips absent-mindedly danced across Izaak’s scalp, waltzing with his dark chocolate curls of hair. Not a flinch or a wince, nor a cringe or grimace came from Izaak. His usually sharp and observant eyes were soft and doe-like, slowly slipping shut as he melted into the tender touch.

It pained Izaak to admit how taking this was easier. Much easier. Easier than all the kicking and screaming; hissing and scratching, the growling and barking that never got him anywhere other than in a world of pain. Through blood, sweat and tears, Izaak had lost to himself, his fight ripped from him. It was terrifying, almost exhilarating? It was exhausting. But most of all - it felt like sweet relief. In the surrender, Izaak found some twisted sense of peace.

He purred, like a content kitten, and nestled further into Ronan’s lap. What a fall from grace, what a fucking embarrassment. From the apex predator to a wounded beast, yearning and vying for comfort.

He couldn't sink any lower if he tried.

“Naw. Sleepy puppy. Should we get you to bed and all tucked in?” Ronan cooed down to his perfect little pet. As he reached across Izaak’s curled-up body for the remote to switch off the TV, Izaak squirmed and whined his dissent. He would bend over backwards to delay being dragged back down to that frigid basement, being chained like a beast, left alone with his thoughts, demons and the ghost of his past tethered to the opposite wall.

Izaak felt his heart plummet as he gazed up at Ronan, pleading with his glassy eyes. He desperately wanted to stay upstairs, safe and warm. Up there, he could believe in some warped sense of normality. Leave the horrors behind and pretend.

Despite how much it disgusted him, Izaak forcibly swallowed his final few crumbs of pride and nuzzled into Ronan’s belly. A calculated act of submission.

“Sir - please. I want to-”

Izaak caught himself there and the plea died on his lips. Pets didn’t have wants. Izaak shouldn’t ever want for a thing, his master gave him all he needed. If he wanted to keep Ronan sweet, he can’t risk silly fuck ups. He should blindly obey and be grateful for what he is afforded. Even if it’s scraps.

A weak sob choked in his throat, "Please...can we stay like this? I'll be so good-”

He was like a begging dog. His eyes wide and pleading, his head tilted to the side. If he had a tail, he’d wag it, too.

Ronan's fingers traced Izaak's sharp jawline, his touch lingering. A moment stretched between them, a silent battle of wills. Izaak's breath hitched, his heart pounding ten to the dozen in his chest. His collar suddenly felt suffocating, like it was two notches-too tight around his neck.

"Oh, aren't you darling, Izzy? You want to stay with me, hm? Curled up in my arms?"

His fingers delved beneath Izaak’s chin and scratched the sweet spot, the place where a dog would lean into the touch and kick his leg frantically in enjoyment. A low rumble escaped Izaak’s throat, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure. He tilted his head up, offering himself to Ronan's hands.

“I have you wrapped around my little finger now, don’t I, pet?” Ronan chuckled.

“Yes, sir,” Izaak whispered, earnestly and shamefully.

“Don’t get me wrong, you were oh so fun when you were naughty. But I much prefer you like this. So desperate, so submissive. Such a needy little thing.”

Never in a million years would Izaak have thought it would come down to this. A shadow of his former self, a mere husk of the man he once was. The once proud and defiant spirit had been broken down, shattered into a billion pieces. Now, he was nothing more than a creature of habit, a slave to Ronan's whims.

"I knew you'd break for me, sooner or later."

Shame settled heavy in Izaak's empty belly.

“And isn't it a sight for sore eyes! You're a delight. Such a good boy,” Ronan hummed, his voice laced with a hint of cruelty. His thumb stroked across Izaak's puffy cheeks, “So obedient. Don't you worry your pretty little head, we can cuddle all you want, pup.”

Izaak forced a wavering, teary smile to try to hide the turmoil within.

He craved the fire that used to rage fiercely within his core, long since snuffed out. Deep down, Izaak still felt the smallest flicker remained, a tiny ember waiting to reignite. Determination and defiance smouldered, ready to be rekindled.

Instead of fueling it, Izaak resigned to his cruel fate and rested his weary head on Ronan's thighs. "Thank you, master. You're too good to me."

---

Ronan tag list: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

Izaak tag list: @thewhumpywitch @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @sorrowful-hyacinth @whumpsoda

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blackcardz · 3 days ago

Text

his usual playful demeanor replaced by something much more serious as ari's words settled over him like a heavy blanket. he didn't flinch when she crouched in front of him, her touch grounding him in a way that made his own worries seem insignificant. for a moment, he just looked at her, taking in the vulnerability in her voice and the tension she was trying so hard to mask. he reached out, his hand brushing against hers where it rested on his shoulder before giving it a light squeeze.

❛ how am i ? ❜ he repeated softly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. ❛ honestly ? i don't think anything could've prepared me for this. but .. i'm not going anywhere, noona. you already know that. ❜ he leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady on hers, voice low but firm. ❛ if being by your side means seeing things i can't unsee, making decisions i never thought i'd have to ? fine. i'll deal with it. you don't have to carry this alone. ❜ he paused, letting his words settle before continuing, his tone gentler this time. ❛ but i need you to promise me something. when it gets too much .. because i know it will, you come to me. you let me be there for you like you are for me. ❜

his free hand moved to tilt her chin up slightly so she couldn't look away. ❛ you are not just my noona, the badass inheritor of a gang. you are my best friend. and no matter how bad it gets, that's not going to change. ❜ letting his hand drop, he chuckled softly, trying to ease the weight in the air. ❛ so, how am i ? i'm good, as long as you are. so let's deal with this war together, yeah ? even if i have to sit through whatever terrifying family meetings your dad throws my way. ❜

Ari's focus shifted from his gaze back to her knees again. Her positioning perched on the back of the couch was starting to feel a little stiff, so she turned her legs and plopped down on to the actual cushion of the couch so she was near his level again; he wanted to be a part of this. She'd let him, even though it tore her up inside.

"Then you have to be prepared for what's about to happen," she warned. "It's a good thing you like spending time with me. The safest place you can be right now is with us. Kim unknowingly just started a war and dragged his whole family in to it. I'll make sure Father doesn't involve your family, but you're involved now. That means you're going to be seeing a lot of things people shouldn't and making decisions you never thought you'd have to." Brief flashes of the last time their plans had been interrupted by the runaway and the torture she'd witnessed even she had a hard time stomaching. After an attempt on her life she was sure Father would secure a lot worse for the Kim family and she'd have to be a part of it -- she was just hoping Father wouldn't make Hyunwoo witness that torture.

Ari actually stilled, lifting off the couch and approaching him. Just as she'd done too many times when she could tell he was stressed, she placed her hand on his shoulder, though this time if felt like she was more so assuring herself. She took it a step further by crouching down, robe long enough she could reach the floor as she kneeled down in front of him. "How are you?" she breathed out, dropping the facade as the inheritor of gang and back down to the same Ari he'd known for years. None of this had to be easy for him. If he wanted to be there for her, she could return him the same favor.

#park hyunwoo : replies.#anexthetxc

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mothgirl-number-4 · 1 day ago

Text

[Your time is done. You're satisfied.]

[You couldn't take your role back, but that's his fault for leaving you alone. You're satisfied.]

[You're satisfied. You fade at last.]

...

[You feel a thread pulled to its limits. A fire burning hot hot hot and something breaking, failing, rotting. You gag on nothing as starlight beams out of your eyes and mouth.]

[The string pulls, choking you as you attempt to scream, but you have no mouth. You attempt to cry, but you have no eyes.]

[The thread snaps.]

[You feel a pulling in your head.]

[And you feel your heart..

]

[You wake up in a room. The first thing you take in is UNIMAGINABLE PAIN. You scream and scream and scream- there are footsteps. You hear the familiar sound of healing craft as the pain subsides the slightest bit. Not enough to be anywhere near comfortable, but you aren't screaming anymore.]

[You sit up, hands grasping at what you realize far too late are bedsheets. They rip in your hands, piercing craft chugging through your fingertips like the drip drip drip of blood.]

[You're already babbling apologies when]-

"Oh thank goodness you're awake, bright stranger."

[That voice. Not from the healer you don't recognize them but you turn to the neighboring bed- you're in an infirmary? -and see another stranger.]

[You recognize that accent but you don't recognize... Him?]

"[Who-]"

[You cough on your words- Vaugardian, Loop! Try again~]

[The familiar stranger looks at you with wonder.]

"Say- say that again, will you?"

"[What, 'who?']"

"No- what was that language?"

[You don't know.]

"[I don't know. Where am I?]"

[The familiar stranger- you're just going to call him the King, it's too similar to be a coincidence. You've never been lucky enough to even consider otherwise. -looks disappointed before lighting up again. His Vaugardian is rough, but understandable.]

"Ah! You're in the Bambouche house of change! Or uhm... The one closest to Bambouche I think... I couldn't really understand them the best."

[The King looks awkward. How could this pathetic whelp end up as the intimidating monster that killed- Blinding- He's speaking]

"They call me castaway, but I prefer Beau, he and him, please. What about you?"

[Oh this is hilarious. The Change god thinks its so blinding funny doesn't it. You're laughing. You're cackling and guffawing and]-

"[Siffrin, they/them, nice to meet you!]"

"Oh, like the savior?"

[What.]

#mothgirl drivel #my writing #isat #isat twohats #two hats spoilers #isat onehat #one hat spoilers #isat au #isat post-canon #astral birth au #i'm probably not going to write more for this but whatever

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a-vast-horizon · 1 day ago

Text

Everything You Thought You Wanted

[Fandom: Pressure (Roblox)]

Sebastian makes a deal with Innovation Inc. and they’re able to make him human again, but humanity isn’t everything he hoped it would be.

Sebastian waved off another group of expendables, rifling through the stack of research they’d left with him. A lot of classified files–that was probably good. It had to be good, right? Knowledge was power, and this information was the only power he had when it came to negotiating with other labs.

Urbanshade couldn’t fix what they’d done to him; his own file had made that clear. But that didn’t mean it was impossible. All the other top secret research labs out there had plenty of scientists and researchers of their own, and they'd be able to find a way to make him human again. They had to be able to.

He added the new files to the waterproof crate he’d been filling. It was almost full, a solid 50 pounds of confidential Urbanshade research and samples, a tantalizing offer to any of their competitors. He hoped. It wasn’t like he had many other options but to hope, and to keep sending updates over the radio.

He was already reaching for the radio when it came to life, a message cutting through the static.

We’d like to make you an offer.

Since he was first taken there, Sebastian had never been more than a few hundred meters from the Hadal blacksite. The closest thing to freedom he got was working on maintenance, able to swim out in the open ocean, but with a heavy collar locked around his neck and armed guards watching his every move. He’d never had the chance to cross a large body of water, and therefore he had no idea just how fast he could be.

Every little flick and twist of his tail rocketed him forward, and it only took a few minutes for the blacksite to be entirely out of sight. The ocean was dark, the only light out here what he himself provided, and he was lugging a waterproof crate stuffed with fifty pounds of classified data and P.AI.nter’s computer mainframe, but he felt freer than he had in over a decade. For the first time since his arrest, there was no one here to guard him, to tell him what he could or couldn’t do. He could go anywhere, he could do whatever he wanted!

Just for the hell of it, he looped into something like a backflip, cutting through the water with ease. The Urbanshade guards would never have allowed it on a maintenance run, and the Hadal blacksite pools weren’t big enough to accommodate this type of movement, so he’d never gotten the chance to try it before, but it felt so natural. He couldn’t help but grin as he took a second to corkscrew through the open water. For the first time in a decade, he was in control of himself, and he was happy.

“I need you to hold on just a little longer, Sebastian,” the woman in the white lab coat said. Even though he knew she wasn’t one of the scientists that had done this to him, that she was helping him, he still had a hard time caring enough to remember her name.

Of course, the pain made it hard to care about much at all.

It had been painful growing to the size he was now, but as it turns out, growing bones was a lot easier than shrinking them. The chemical cocktail burning through his veins was supposed to eat away at his bones little by little, letting them shrink down to the size they were supposed to be while his reconstructed DNA worked on remembering just how big that was.

His first session, he’d grabbed the metal table hard enough to dent it while trying to ride out the pain. Now, as hard as he gripped the edge, it didn’t budge. Slowly but surely, the treatments were working.

If only they didn’t hurt twice as bad as everything Urbanshade had put him through.

It felt like days before the last of the chemical was flushed from his system, though the clock on the wall proved the whole round of treatment hadn’t even taken an hour. The woman flipped through his chart, scribbling notes with a pen.

“Good news,” she said. “As long as your body keeps responding as well as it has been, you should only have four more rounds left.”

Sebastian leaned back against the table, staring up at the ceiling light until spots danced in his eyes–just two of them, now, the third surgically removed and the cavity packed with gauze until his skull remembered it wasn’t supposed to have a third eyesocket.

“Great,” he choked out.

“One more step, you’ve almost got it,” the physical therapist coached. “Lead with your shoulder, let your leg follow that movement.”

Sebastian tried to do what the PT said, just like always, holding tight to the railing as he dragged his right foot forward across the floor. His legs had only grown back to size a couple weeks ago, and they were still mostly numb except for the occasional wave of pins and needles, but the scientists had been eager to get him using them again as soon as possible. Sebastian was pretty sure he was holding himself up with his arms more than he was walking, but the PT seemed happy with his progress, at least.

It felt so slow and clunky to stumble along the rails or push himself around the facility in a wheelchair after years of slithering around the Hadal blacksite faster than any human could run, but the possibility of being able to walk on his own again was tantalizingly close now. When they’d first put him on the bar setup, he hadn’t even been able to stand. Now the PT said he’d likely be able to bend his knees and lift his feet within a month.

His knees. His feet. Parts of himself he thought he’d never have again, and now here they were.

Sebastian Solace left the Innovation Inc lab a little over a year after he’d entered it with P.AI.nter’s computer in his arms and a fat wad of cash in his pocket. Innovation Inc. was already seeing returns on some of the Urbanshade data he’d brought them, and he’d been well compensated for it. Innovation had helped him get set up with a new identity and an apartment in the city, and he walked out of the facility on his own two feet.

Sure, it wasn’t exactly perfect. He still had the gills that had been the point of the damn experiment in the first place, there were a few sparse patches of scales here and there that the scientists thought might not fall out, and he was still a good foot taller than he’d been before Urbanshade. No point getting hung up on that, though. He was human, and more importantly he was out. He’d be back to Innovation Inc. for a few medical check-ins, but other than that, he was done with that part of his life. He and P.AI.nter had the whole world in front of them now.

The apartment Sebastian moved into would barely have fit him a couple years ago, but now it was roomy. He had a bed he actually fit on, all of him and not just part of his torso, and it was soft. There was a desk in the corner where P.AI.nter’s computer sat, letting it see the whole room. He got a TV and a sofa and a table, and for the first time in over a decade he had a kitchen to cook in. Not that he had any idea what to cook, but it was nice to know it was there.

He spent the first month catching up on everything he hadn’t had since his arrest. Pizza was greasier than he remembered, but even more delicious. Fast food was more expensive, but worth every penny. He’d immediately gotten brain freeze eating ice cream for the first time in eleven years. And up here on the surface there was more than just food to be excited about. They’d made a sequel to his favorite movie, though once he tracked down a DVD of it, it wasn’t as good as the first movie had been. There were video game systems he hadn’t even heard of, whose controllers felt odd in his hands as he played.

Most importantly, the internet had come a long way. It took Sebastian a while to get the hang of it, P.AI.nter coaching him through using a phone whose touchscreen didn’t register his fingers half the time, but he found his mom, his siblings. He had a phone number for them now, an address that wasn’t the same one he remembered but was close enough to visit.

It took him a few days to work up the nerve to call, a few seconds of silence over the phone line to choke out a quiet “Mama? It’s me.” She was suspicious at first, and he couldn’t blame her, but once she came around–

He hadn’t let himself feel how much he missed her all those years, not until he heard her voice again and started sobbing.

Sebastian was still wary of sleeping. It felt too much like sedation for him to be comfortable with, especially in the hazy moments he was first waking up and couldn’t determine what was reality yet. Sleeping in a bed helped a little, but not enough for him to stop pushing himself to stay awake until the last moment.

When he managed to fall asleep, Sebastian dreamed of the water. There were the nightmares, of course; the suffocating feeling of breathing water before his gills were fully developed, being squeezed into a too-small tank for observation, working on wires with a heavy collar around his neck dragging him down. But those weren’t the only dreams. On lucky nights, he relived those moments after his escape, weightless and swimming freely in open water that went on forever. His body spiraled and turned on a dime with the slightest thought, his tail twisting and rippling gracefully behind him, the darkness broken only by the faint light from his eyes and his lure.

He woke up with the taste of saltwater in the back of his throat to a set of clunky legs that tripped over air and for a split second, he was disappointed. But this was what he had wanted. This was what he had asked for.

The city was noisy and bustling. More people lived here than Sebastian had seen at the Hadal blacksite in ten years, every one of them with a life and a dream and no idea that the person walking past them with a scarf wrapped carefully around his neck had ever been a monster. It was overwhelming to go from near-isolation to society.

He got weird looks sometimes. He walked slowly and carefully, still trying to get the hang of legs again, more like an old man than one who was thirty. He flinched at loud noises and shot to attention at flickering lights. He wore clothes that were out of style, he didn’t know technology or pop culture.

Sometimes he bitterly wondered whether people would have even stared at him any more if he was still a sixty-foot sea monster. He may have looked the part of a human, but he clearly didn’t do a good job acting it anymore.

P.AI.nter tried to reassure him that he was just out of practice, that he would get the hang of being around people again eventually. Sebastian hoped it was right.

Sebastian leaned out the window of his apartment, elbows resting on the sill, cigarette between his teeth. There were some things about being back on the surface that he vowed to never take for granted, and easy access to cigarettes was one of them. He sucked in a lungful of smoke and then exhaled it, watching it drift lazily away on a slight breeze.

The apartment was close to the shore, and the window overlooked the beach. It wasn’t one of those sandy, idyllic beaches where parents took their children. The waves crashed down on a sharp minefield of rocks, wearing them down too slowly to dull their sharp edges.

Sebastian had crawled up that beach, rocks scraping his scales, claws digging for purchase to pull him out of the water. He breathed in more warm smoke and remembered the chill of the ocean depths. He shifted his weight on his feet and remembered his tail coiled under him.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” P.AI.nter said. “You can’t seriously be missing the blacksite. That place was the worst.”

“I’m not missing it,” Sebastian said, taking another long draw of his cigarette.

“This is everything we used to talk about!” P.AI.nter said. “We’re both free, you’re human again, and I get to draw instead of mining Roblux. All our dreams came true!”

Sebastian nodded in agreement. He remembered those conversations, long hours spent reminiscing about the surface world and talking about what they would do if they ever made it back. Somehow, through all those hours of talking, he had never stopped to think about what it would actually feel like to be there.

He ground the cigarette out on the windowsill even though it was only half burned. He felt entirely too warm even without the smoke.

[kudos and comment on AO3]

#sebastian solace #sebastian pressure #pressure #roblox pressure #pressure sebastian #fanfiction #zen talks #zen writes

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