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audreydoeskaren · 4 years ago

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History of Chinese standing collars (part 2: Republican era)

Quick recap: I was debating with myself whether “Mandarin collar” should be a thing because standing collars throughout Chinese history looked different. In part 1 I went through standing collars in the Ming and Qing Dynasties, now I’m going to investigate the Republican era (1912-1949). I numbered the styles in part 1 but they’re only guidelines so you don’t have to remember anything.

*I’m not including Manchu womenswear in this post because they weren’t very significant to collars and there’s a lot I need to verify, so hopefully I’ll make separate posts about it one day.

1910s

Summary of 1910s Han women’s fashion here.

Let’s look at Han women’s fashion first. The 1910s continued the use of collar style 7 from the 1890s and 1900s; this style of collar, often called 元宝领 yuanbaoling, ingot collar, or 马鞍领 ma’anling, saddle collar, after the objects it resembles, was so tall that it reached the cheeks of the wearer and could not be closed in the front at all. It could be trimmed with binding, piping, or commonly in this era, fur or ruffles. It could have either rectangular or round edges. It was closed by one 盘扣 pankou, this fabric braided button, at the base, but it could have more pankous for ornamental purposes. Around this time people began experimenting with stiffening and structure in standing collars; this was a result of Western influence, specifically the standing collars on some Western military uniforms. I don’t think Chinese collars were ever boned like Victorian and Edwardian women’s collars, but a layer of stiff interlining was probably enough to give a collar shape and rigidity. Because of the extraordinary height of collar style 7, it had to be stiffened.

Source here

Calendar painting from 1914. This collar has a rectangular edge and is trimmed with fur.

Source here

Calendar painting from 1915-1916. This collar has a rounded edge and wide binding.

However, this ultra tall collar wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea and normal height collars existed as well, especially in the beginning and end of the decade. A new invention of this era was this tall collar with slightly rounded edges closed by two to three pankou----in some extreme cases four. I believe they were stiffened, but even if they were not, the use of wide, heavyweight binding could give it shape and rigidity. This style probably grew out of collar styles 2 and 3 from 19th century Han women’s collars, but it is going to become very iconic and distinct later in the 30s so let’s label it collar style 8. All Han women’s standing collars before the 1970s were extremely fitted, i.e. they completely hug the wearer’s neck and could sometimes be restrictive to neck movement. The loose fitted collars often seen on modern mass produced cheongsam is not historically accurate.

Source here

Calendar painting from 1911 showing collar style 8. It had three pankou, wide double row binding and could be closed at the front.

Source here

Calendar painting from 1919 also showing collar style 8. Throughout the 1890s, 1900s, 1910s and early 20s, innovative/Western trims like lace were commonly used instead of plain binding.

Quickly turning our attention to menswear. I’m not a menswear expert so feel free to add info or references. In the 1910s, menswear collars followed a similar development. After looking at more photos from the period, I figured out that in the late 1900s, men’s collars still had rectangular edges and were pretty low. This was also echoed in the formal dress code issued by the republican government in 1912. You can read more about the formal dress code in this article, it’s a great guideline for understanding ceremonial clothing in the republican era.

Source here (I’m probably gonna pull most of the menswear photos from the photo album in this article cause they are conveniently dated)

1907 photograph of a certain Mr Ye Jinglv, a legend who preserved his photographs from the 1900s to the 1960s, wearing a 短衫 duanshan short robe and pants.

I have no idea where this collar type came from but the three main suspects are European military uniform collars, Japanese uniform collars (also inspired by European military uniform collars) and Qing Dynasty officials’ collars (now attached to the tunic itself).

As the 1910s progressed, men’s collars gained rounded edges and grew taller just like women’s collars, but they were never so tall to the point that they could not be closed in the front. They were still closed by one plain pankou at the base (men’s pankou has always been plain). This is likely the collar style 6 I identified in part 1 but wasn’t sure about. These collars don’t appear to be stiffened, but rather just constructed of heavyweight fabric similar to the robe itself. Oh and sometimes in photographs you can see men wearing two collars, that is because both the 长衫 changshan, long robe, and 马褂 magua, riding vest, had standing collars in the 1910s, so when both are worn at the same time there will be two collars.

Source here

1916 photograph of Mr Ye Jinglv in a changshan and magua, collar style 6.

1920s

Summary of 1920s Han women’s fashion 1, 2, 3

Going into the 20s collar style 7 went out of fashion completely. The 20s was a wild decade and everything went, but overall collars usually ranged from medium height to tall. There is a wide variety of collar designs in the 20s, women’s dresses with no collar or Western collars like sailor collar, shawl collar or no collar at all etc. all existed, I’ll just list the most common standing collar designs of Chinese origin.

Early 20s collars decreased in height slightly but were still tall standing collars, with rectangular edges, binding and two to three pankous. Let’s call this collar style 9 because it has a will of its own. It’s weirdly reminiscent of collar style 4 from part 1 but the difference is that collar style 4 was unstiffened and had rectangular edges. I don’t think designers in the republican era ever really consciously referenced any historical collar shapes prior to the 19th century... Fashion history was a non-existent academic discipline at that time.

Source here

Calendar painting from 1920 showing collar style 9. It is unstiffened and moderately tall. It has slightly rounded edges, two pankous and a thin row of binding/piping.

Source here

Calendar painting from 1920-21, showing similar collar style 9 with thin binding and two pankou.

Toward the mid 20s both wide and thin binding could be used and the number of pankou ranged from one to three. I’ve seen multiple times collars with only one pankou at the bottom but still could close completely at the front, which means stiffening was likely used to keep the shape of the collar; I’ll number this collar style 10. The decorations of the mid 20s pursued a tacky aesthetic and were heavily inspired by the 19th century. Alternatively, collars could be decorated with scalloped edges or geometric Western trim. The overall aesthetic was still very 19th century Chinese though. I feel like internal hooks and bars could’ve been used to close these collars, like Western or Japanese military uniform collars, but this is pure speculation.

Source here

Watercolor ca. 1926 showing a medium height collar style 10. It closes with only one pankou but holds its shape very well.

Source here or see watermark

Mid 20s artwork showing a similar collar, albeit with thin binding.

Starting from 1928-29 there was this huge trend of using tall, side closing collars. This collar was stiff and structured, tall and closed at the side or back with either pankou or hooks and eyes/bars. It covers the wearer’s neck completely and doesn’t have any openings. This kind of collar was frequently applied to the newly developed cheongsam, which was a one piece dress, to emulate a Western flapper look. The art deco aesthetic was en vogue in the years 1929-31, so there were many cheongsam with innovative closures instead of pankou. I personally really love this look it’s very underrated. This would be collar style 11; it was truly one of a kind since it was never seen again in Chinese fashion history. Rest in Power.

Source here

Painting ca. 1929 showing collar style 11. This is probably closed at the back? Anyway the pankou were not emphasized at this time.

Source here

Kong Sang Hong ad from 1929 showing collar style 11 without visible pankou.

Now menswear again. In the 20s, the tall collar style 6 went out of fashion, following trends in womenswear. The new collar was medium height and still closed by one pankou at the base. It could have either rounded or rectangular edges but rectangular or mostly rectangular edges seem to be more common. I’d say this is similar to collar style 10.

Source here

1925 photograph of Ye Jinglv wearing again changshan and magua.

1930s

Summary of 1930s Han women’s fashion 1, 2

Returning to Han women. Collar 11′s popularity continued to around 1931, when it began to be replaced by a revived version of collar style 8. Collar style 8 with three buttons dominated the majority of the 30s, and these buttons didn’t necessarily have to be pankou; any kind of decorative loop button, clasp or frog closure could be used. 30s collars emphasized the roundness of the buttons, so beads or pearls were commonly used as buttons.

Source here

Calendar painting from 1932 showing collar style 8.

Source here

Mid 30s advertisement showing collar style 8 with bead buttons matching those on the cardigan.

Source here

1932 cover of The Young Companion showing collar style 8 with pearl/bead buttons. Oh collars on a transparent cheongsam would usually be opaque because the interlining/stiffening needs to be hidden.

Men’s collars of the 30s decreased in height again, this time becoming really quite short. Round and rectangular edges coexisted but round edges were still more common. Still closed by one pankou. Not many changes otherwise (gosh, menswear always changes at a glacial pace, y’all men need to step up your game). This foreshadows 40s Han women’s collars so let’s label this collar style 12. Men’s changshan and magua collars stayed this way well into the 40s and 50s.

Source here

1935 photograph of Ye Jinglv in changshan with collar style 12.

In the late 30s/early 40s collars dropped in height significantly, regressing to collar styles 9 or 10. It was usually closed with one or two pankou (because there was only enough space for two maximum).

Source here

Late 30s/early 40s artwork depicting the revived collar style 10.

1940s

Summary of 1940s fashion here

As the 40s progressed collars became even shorter, eventually so short that only one pankou could be attached. This developed from collar style 9 but since it was so low and so distinct to the 40s I’d say this is also collar style 12. It may appear similar to collar style 3 from the 19th century but it has rounded edges and is also stiffened and slightly taller.

Source here

Early to mid 40s artwork showing collar style 12.

19th century trims became fashionable again in the early 40s, especially collars with multiple rows of binding/piping. However because of scarcity of materials during the war, that style was only ever seen on actresses and celebrities; cheongsam collars for the average woman were plain.

Source here

40s Indanthren fabric ad, showing low collar style 12.

In summary:

Collar style 7: cursed belle époque (ca. 1890-1918) women’s collars that touched the wearer’s face. Extremely tall, stiffened, both rounded and rectangular edges existed. Closed by one pankou at the bottom but sometimes had more pankou for ornamental purposes. Worn by Han women and the plain version for men.

Collar style 8: first appeared in the 1910s, popular in the late 10s and throughout the 30s. As tall as possible without restricting the wearer’s neck movements, stiffened, rounded edges. Closed by two to three pankou. Decorated with wide binding or Western trims like lace in the 10s, multiple rows of binding in the 30s. Worn by Han women.

Collar style 9: developed from collar style 8, popular in the early 20s and late 30s/early 40s. Slightly shorter (medium height), stiffened, rounded edges. Closed by two pankou. Thin binding. Worn by Han women.

Collar style 10: developed from collar style 9, popular in the mid 20s and late 30s/early 40s. Slightly shorter (medium to low height), stiffened, rounded edges. Closed by one pankou at the base. Both wide and thin binding. Worn by Han women and a similar version by men.

Collar style 11: distinctly Western collar, popular 1929-1931. As tall as possible without restricting the wearer’s neck movements, stiffened, rectangular edges. Closed at the side or back with pankou or hooks and eyes. Often plain or of the same fabric as the dress. Worn by Han women.

Collar style 12: developed from collar style 10, popular throughout the 40s. Very short, stiffened, rounded edges. Closed by one pankou at the base. Commonly had thin binding. Worn by Han women and men.

Phew, I thought this was gonna be a short and simple post but it ended up taking way more of my time than I wanted it to. I’m gonna do one last post on the 50s and 60s and maybe address the state of Chinese standing collars nowadays, hopefully that will be actually simple to make lol.

#vintage fashion #historic fashion #chinese fashion #chinese history #minguo #republican era #cheongsam

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pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago

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An Ever Fixed Mark (arranged marriage Au)

Part 1 is here, finally! Title a reference to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

Read it on Ao3 HERE

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Vesemir’s slap hit Geralt firmly on the back of the head. Two seconds previously Geralt had been complaining about his upcoming, politically motivated marriage to some nobleman’s son.

“It’s a good thing, lad. Other witcher schools would kill for something like this,” he said. Geralt knew it was right, legal punishment for those who shortchanged or attacked witchers. It set a precedent, and apparently the earl was very influential. It could change things.

“And there isn’t a fidelity clause,” Eskel said. “It doesn’t have to be more than a sort of partnership.”

“No consummation requirement either,” sniggered Lambert from the other side of the campfire. “You don’t even have to fuck the bugger if he’s ugly.” This earned him a sharp elbow from Eskel.

“What I don’t understand is what they get out of this,” Geralt said. It had been bugging him.

“Ah,” Vesemir said, looking uneasy. “It seems that the payment is...taking the viscount off of the Earl’s hands, officially. It seems he’s something of an embarrassment.”

The unease in Vesemir’s voice was subtle, but after so many decades with their teacher, the wolves of Kaer Morhen knew the slight variations of tone and expression. His discomfort was twofold, first, the obvious implication that the Earl was sending his son to live a dangerous life alongside a witcher in order to...deal with him. A death sentence, from father to son. The second was that Geralt, already saddled with a political marriage, was also to be saddled with a nuisance of a husband.

“But why me?” Geralt knew he was whining like a child, but he couldn’t help it. It was three days to Lettenhove, and then they’d be there at least a week for the wedding and he’d have to act courtly.

He wasn’t good at courtly.

When he thought about it none of them were.

“It couldn’t have been me,” Eskel said, a little shyly. He was right. Eskel believed his scars were horrible, made him unlovable and undesirable. Geralt didn’t buy it, but nobles could get a bit stroppy about appearances. And if they humiliated Eskel because of his scarring...no, Geralt wouldn’t let that happen.

“Couldn’t have been me,” Lambert said, mouth full and rather cheerfully. No. It couldn’t have been him either, no manners and no filter, they’d be at war with the entirety of Lettenhove within a day.

“And I’m an old man,” Vesemir said. He didn’t actually wink, but he might as well have. Older though he was, he was still three times the warrior of any young human man walking about these days. But from what Geralt had heard, and it hadn’t been much, the Viscount was young, not quite twenty, and it wouldn’t be kind to marry him to someone so much older than himself. Geralt reflected grimly that he was nearly four times the youth’s age.

Three days of riding passed far too quickly for Geralt’s liking.

Chateau de Lettenhove loomed. It was a fairytale castle built by a man expecting a siege. There were high, rising towers with huge windows and artful buttresses, but to the trained eye of the witchers, it was a fortress. The towers had carved, decorative arrow slits, the windows all had iron grates over them, wrought like lace, and the buttresses could be easily used as defensive positions. All in all, it was a castle that growled, albeit genteelly.

They were greeted first by a footman, and then a line of servants increasing in rank, until a very snobby servant, likely the head housekeeper from the way all the maids scuttled away from her, brought them to an anteroom. At this point courtesy dictated that she bade them sit down on one of the lavish sofas. She did not. She chose instead to turn up her nose and sweep away.

The four witchers remained standing, not looking at one another. Geralt could feel Lambert stewing about the obvious slight beside him. He reached out, still staring straight ahead, and tweaked Lambert’s ear.

This was about to result in much brotherly retribution and probably a brawl when the housekeeper returned, followed by another woman.

“His lordship the Earl of Lettenhove is attending to vital business,” the housekeeper said, tone of voice implying that the arrival of four witchers who were muddying her nice clean floor were certainly not vital. “I present, her ladyship, Countess Amaria Elizaveta de Lettenhove.”

The countess curtsied, it was a polite little bob, and she smiled a little dazedly as the witchers all gave their best attempt at courtly bows. A small but significant part of Geralt’s brain was panicking, and it dealt with this new form of terror by imagining that the school of the wolf, seen from the outside plying their newly practiced bows, must look like a line of seagulls vying for a dropped crumb.

Vesemir stepped forward and, in a rather more suave gesture than Geralt had been expecting, took the Countess’ hand and bowed over it. Two bows seemed excessive to Geralt, but since it seemed to indicate that Vesemir would be taking over the speaking for now, he certainly wasn’t about to bring it up.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Vesemir said, straightening and releasing her hand. “May I introduce the school of the wolf. Eskel is--”

The countess had waved a limp hand. “Plenty of time for that at the feast, deary,” she said, smiling dreamily. There was something in her eyes that was a little absent, possibly more than a little if her calling Vesemir ‘deary’ was anything to go by. Geralt looked the countess over. He had been given to understand through the brief letters from the Lettenhove estate, that this wasn’t the viscount-Julian, the letters said-’s mother, but rather his step mother. She was a petite lady with mousy hair and rather absent blue eyes. Her dress was obviously of very fine material, rose pink and probably silk, although Lambert would know better than him, but a simpler cut than Geralt had expected.

His examination, done in a split second, decided that she wasn’t an immediate enemy, but probably not a terrible useful ally.

“I’m to give you this courting gift,” here she proffered a small but beautifully carved wooden box. “And to show you to your quarters.” She smiled again, and it was warm, but still vapid.

“Custom usually dictates that the fiancé give the courting gift,” Vesemir said, cautiously taking the box.”

“My husband wanted someone else to present it,” she said. “But your grandson can give his gift in person when he meets Julian. Now what...” she trailed off, not even noticing Vesemir’s slight sputter at grandson. “Ah yes, your rooms, right this way please.”

She got lost on the way to their rooms and a shaking footman showed them up to a suite, then kindly took her by the hand and led her away.

They sat, silent, in the nice but not lavish quarters. Four beds in curtained alcoves off to the side, and in the middle a room with a table and chairs, and a sofa and more comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace. It was already blazing and the witchers stared into it for a minute.

“That was strange,” Eskel finally said, and the others just nodded.

“Should I have insisted on giving her our courting gift?” Geralt said after another pause. “I thought they were usually given in person.”

“I think you’re fine,” Vesemir said. “If they broke that tradition they can hardly fault you for doing the same.”

Lambert, sprawled across the sofa, said, “When’s dinner?”

“I think I’m supposed to meet Julian first,” Geralt said. “Someone will probably come get us.

“When we meet Julian you mean,” Lambert said, sitting up.

“No, I’ve been thinking about that and I want to meet him alone.”

Vesemir nodded, “Sensible, we don’t know how he will react to one witcher, let alone four.” Then he smirked, although not unkindly, at Lambert. “You will be introduced and have a chance to be nosy later. At dinner perhaps.”

They unpacked their belongings, potion bottles and swords looking out of place along the old but nicely carved furniture. After days of tension on the road as Geralt wound himself tighter and tighter with anxiety for his...wedding, yes his wedding, now this pause was jarring. Eskel tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a look.

Geralt turned around to give Eskel room to work.

On the Path, witchers are rarely, if ever touched. Certainly not in a friendly way if the other isn’t being compensated. It wasn’t therefore, unusual for the wolves of Kaer Morhen to be tactile with one another. Not hugging and cuddling sweetly, but rough housing and wrestling ending in exhausted dog piles. But Eskel had a gift, he had magic hands, literally and figuratively, and he carefully oiled his hands while Geralt took off his travel stained shirt.

Geralt sunk into himself, half meditating as Eskel dragged the tension from his shoulders and beat the knots from his muscles. It wasn’t a relaxing massage, but it always left him feeling like liquid, if slightly bruised. When it was over and the liquid feeling had left him, or at least subsided enough that his knees could hold him, he stood, clapping Eskel on the shoulder in thanks.

Then came the hard bit.

Geralt needed to be courtly. He scrubbed the bits he could with water and a cloth from a little washstand, but he hoped he could have a hot bath later. Afterwards Vesemir advanced on him and battled the dirt from underneath his fingernails with a stiff brush before attacking his hair with a comb. Geralt sat on the ground like a child, his brothers looking on in amusement as Vesemir sat behind him on the couch and teased the tangles from his hair. He was making faces, he knew, but Vesemir wasn’t gentle, and he hadn’t detangled his hair in some time.

Scrubbed raw, with his hair floating around his shoulders like a silver cloud, Lambert presented him with a doublet.

It was black, which was good.

That was the only good thing about it. It was most likely a very nice, extremely fashionable doublet. Lambert might take delight in embarrassing Geralt, but he didn’t mess about with clothing. The issue was that it was attention grabbing, it was subtle in a way that seemed to play itself down while actually drawing every eye. It was black, in the same way a raven’s wing was black, every shimmering shade shifting as the fabric moved.

And he would be wearing it.

He did wear it.

His hands shook as he buttoned it up.

He was just examining himself in a slightly tarnished hand mirror when there was a sharp knock at the door. The footman let himself in right after and bowed swiftly.

“I am to escort the witchers of Kaer Morhen to meet Lord Julian.”

“Just the one witcher,” Geralt said. Vesemir pressed his courting gift, and the little carved boxed nestled on top, into his arms.

The footman didn’t seem to care and simply turned away, leading Geralt through hallways that all looked the same and down two very winding staicases, the second of which was so narrow his shoulders actually brushed the walls. They stopped outside a plain wooden door. The footman bowed and smiled. It looked, Geralt couldn’t help but feel, rather cruel. Then he left. Geralt knocked softly on the door, feeling very large in the narrow, low ceilinged hallway.

Eskel had told him once of a myth he had read, about a beast, half man half bull, hidden away in a maze. Geralt felt like such a beast, too large and rough and probably going to barge in and do everything wrong.

“Come in.”

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door.

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Oooh I’m naughty for leaving it there, but it’s almost 2000 words already. @llamasdumpsterfire here it is at last, I hope it lives up to expectations.

#the witcher #geraskier #arranged marriage au #vesemir #eskel #lambert #don't worry we'll meet Jaskier in part 2

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blarrghe · 3 years ago

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I. Wish to learn. About the inquisitors shiny cape

Been putting this off, sorry! So I drew some outfits/hairstyles for my Inquisitor a while ago and as I did a little ficlet popped into my mind for each and every one. This is the one for this art, in which the Inquisitor has a Shiny Cape.

(No guarantees on me finishing them any time soon, but psa that anyone can go ahead an request a ficlet for any of the other outfits, too...) --

Inquisitor Taren Lavellan swept into the room with a swoosh. A silvery blue cape swung about him as he stepped lightly across the woven rug that kept his feet from freezing on the floors of their chambers, high in a tower of the fortress Skyhold.

Their chambers, hidden away atop a mountain. Plenty of rabble and riffraff to deal with outside the fortress' walls and even just downstairs, but not behind those doors. It was actually official now, Josephine had made them sign something. And Dorian liked that, their chambers.

"Dorian," he hopped up to the place where Dorian lay lounging, leaning with a book across from a low-burning fire on a very comfortable Orlesian settee. Josephine had bought the settee during the Inquisitor's last lengthy foray into the field. She'd bought it because Taren had the habit of spending his free moments outside on a garden bench, and, in her words, "the poor dear was going to catch cold." Taren kissed Dorian on the cheek, and the brush of Dorian's skin with Taren's own cold cheeks as he did revealed that he had clearly not yet given up his habit of spending the majority of his sitting-and-thinking hours outside. "I have made a very exciting discovery," the Inquisitor declared.

Dorian closed his book and raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

The Inquisior nodded, grinning. "First, be honest. How do I look?" he asked.

Dorian moved the book to his side and sat up, lifting from his leaning sprawl over the length of the short couch to swing his legs forward and work his eyes slowly up and down the length of Taren's body. "You look..." Dashing as ever. Roguish smile, unruly hair -- though a little more ruled than usual today. He'd braided some of it back and left the rest to curl. The cape, shimmering around him like silk threaded sky, brought out the deep moss green and spark of life in in his eyes. He gave it all a spin while Dorian considered, twirling in place like that braided cord carpet was the great hall of the winter palace. "Very nice, actually," Dorian smirked back at the Inquisitor's small slanted smile, a smile which always seemed ready to crack into laughter at any moment. "For what occasion are you all dressed up, my Lord Inquisitor?"

The Inquisitor dropped his cape, letting its shimmering liquid silk pool onto the floor. "I'm not," he said, smile widening to a grin. "Look at this shirt," he pulled a bit of fabric forward, away from his torso where it fell loosely and comfortably over his slim frame, "what do you think it's made of?" Dorian shook his head, and gave the fabric an obligatory pinch. It was fairly soft, though a little stiff to the touch, as though recently washed and sun-dried, dyed a faded pale green, loosely spun. "Linen," he answered. "Linen!" The Inquisitor beamed. "And these trousers?" He lifted and tucked away the ends of his tunic, the soft green linen shirt had obscured a pair of very ordinary trousers. A deeper green, tapering at the calves where simple leather ankle braces met his feet in the elvhen style of a barely-there sandal. Unremarkable, until he touched them. They were very soft, and upon closer inspection between his thumb and forefinger, subtly embossed. "Velvet," he noted, jealously impressed, "embossed with --" he leaned forward. He'd thought at first that the Inquisitor had managed to incorporate Dalish designs into his formal wear, as he did sometimes with his more casual ensembles -- when he paid his outfits any mind at all, that was. There was a shawl he liked, with ancient and fraying Dalish embroidery, a bag he stuffed to spilling that was decorated in careful beadwork. But upon closer inspection, the art on his current trousers was not Dalish at all, but Tevene. His pants were all spiralled in snakes. "Are you making a statement about me with velvet-embossed trousers?" "You noticed!" Dorian laughed, falling back against the cushions of the settee. "Who taught you that?" The settee, too, was upholstered in embossed velvet. Dorian suspected Josephine had known just with whom to place her orders. "You did," Taren answered, still grinning, "I listen when you talk." Dorian let out an amused snort. "No you don't," he teased, "I have more than once caught you napping." "I do!" The Inquisitor protested lightly in return. "And I noticed when you made one about me." "Oh?" "You always have a square of embroidered dales laden wool now, its worked into everything you wear." "Aha," Dorian flicked an eye once more across the Inquisitor's form before him, admiring his easy posture and simple ensemble of linens and velvets one more time before pulling him down into a seat, into his lap, into a seat on his lap with his happy green eyes sparkling into his from mere inches away. Splaying his fingers across the smooth velvet on his thighs, pulling him closer and feeling the give of his body through the thin linen of his shirt.

"Yes," he kissed him, quickly and with a proud smile. "That is about you. But you didn't need to notice that, amatus, it wasn't for you to notice. It is for the people who notice these things to notice. You don't need to become one of them." "Well, I listened when you talked, and now I notice things." The Inquisitor waggled his eyebrows playfully, "the things I wouldn't do for your love." "Madman." Dorian kissed him again, longer this time. Deeply.

"So, watch this," with a flush still in his cheeks, Taren sprang back up, away from Dorian's hold on the couch, and picked his cape gingerly from the floor. He gave it a shake, then threw it round his shoulders again and sealed it quickly at his collar with a simple silver clasp. "Fancy, right?" Dorian chuckled as he shook his head. "Your definition of fancy…" "I could meet dignitaries in this." "You could meet dignitaries." Taren crossed the room to a dresser, where he found a large Inquisitorial pin, heavy with its golden sword and flaming eye, and added it to his ensemble. "And now?" Dorian laughed again; it really did elevate the outfit. "The king of Ferelden," he said, "but if the Queen-Consort were to be present I'm afraid you'd need a couple more medals. She's real nobility and a national hero, after all." "I've met the king of Ferelden. You were there, remember?" Taren replied as he turned again to search through a small chest on the dresser, "we were both covered in blood and ichor. He didn't seem to mind. "Fine," Dorian agreed, still mildly chuckling through it, "I suppose with the right earrings, you could treat with the empress of Orlais in that outfit." Taren returned from the dresser holding up a pair of golden hoops to match his pin. "How about these?" "Mm, the winter palace should throw another ball." "See?" He returned the earrings and the pin carefully to their places, then returned again to Dorian. Taren flopped onto the seat himself this time, landing beside Dorian with his cape billowing about him in ripples like the lyrium shimmer of a barrier spell.

The look suited him in more ways than one. Outside of the walls of his fortress he dressed practically, but soft fabrics and shiny baubles brought out his eyes and smile in a way that rough leather and metal armour never would. Yet in the brief moments that he hadn't spent fighting, he'd only been picked apart -- from his ears to his lack of shoes. Skyhold had become a home, but a restrictive one. He'd never cared much about appearances, and Dorian had nothing but appreciation for that insistent rebellion, but even he had been guilty of talking his ear off on the necessity of style when his chambers had become theirs.

But he looked, now, like he belonged. On this couch, in these chambers, with his shimmering spell of a fancy cape and his entirely too comfortable clothes beneath. Comfortable and yet impressive, the confidence of a Herald and the heart of a healer. It was funny, in its own twisted way, that the Inquisitor was supposed to heal the world. Everyone said so, and Blight it he wanted to, but most of the time bringing about peace and healing was the farthest thing down on his long list of duties. The world needed its Herald, and Taren Lavellan was, miraculously, the best suited person Dorian could ever imagine for the job, biased though he was. And yet, never did the world seem to want him. Not as he was. Except right here, in their chambers. Taren leaned into him, shrugging from his cape and pushing it to one side until it was draped over an armrest, curling closer as he took up Dorian's discarded book. "All I need is a nice cloak and some shiny shit, and I can wear whatever I want and still look important," he rounded off the declaration of his important new discovery, beaming. "Mm, I don't know," Dorian plucked the book from his hands and tossed it to the armrest with his cape. "Personally I believe all of this would look better tossed on the floor." He began tugging on the tunic, loosening its laces at the collar, "and these look very important…" he dropped a soft kiss to the edge of his collar bone, poked a rougher one under the fabric at his shoulder. Taren laughed a tickled laugh, and pulled himself back around onto Dorian's lap, his too soft shirt already half lifted.

#my fic #my writing #dragon age fanfic #dragon age inquisition #dai fanfic #dai fanart #taren lavellan #dorian pavus #pavellan #a rare canon universe fic from me lmao #not me getting emotional about clothes....

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theghostofashton · 3 years ago

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hey , when you are free ( only when you're feeling good , i don't want to burden you since you're already in the middle of writing another fic ) can you do a short fic on your interpretation of how both kurt and blaine decided they needed help and went to therapy and how it all played out leading upto s6 where we see them.

you sent me this so long ago and i'm so sorry it took forever. i decided to kind of write two fics? writing kurt and blaine's individual processes felt more natural as separate fics, because they are both in very different places. they got kind of long (i am so sorry - i cannot shut up to save my life lmfao) so i didn't go into the actual therapy sessions, but i can definitely write follow ups that do, if you want!

pretty heavy trigger warnings for depression in both of these. keep that in mind before reading.

i hope you enjoy :)

Blaine is numb.

He doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t want to feel anything. Everything’s hurt for far longer than he’s been able to bear. It’s finally starting to fade into a slow, steady ache, dull at the edges and no longer as painful, and for that, he is relieved. It’s the kind of hurt that he can tolerate, the kind that just blends into the background, a low buzz that just remains constant.

He just wants to lay here forever. Maybe until the world ends, or his body decomposes, whichever comes first.

It all happened so quickly. Sometimes it feels like someone took a sledgehammer to his life and left it in thousands of tiny pieces. He’s sitting amongst the wreckage, unsure of where to even begin rebuilding. Part of him isn’t sure it’s entirely possible to put back together the smithereens of everything he thought he knew.

The rest of him just doesn’t understand how things got to this point. He doesn’t understand how it happened, how he went from daydreams and decisions about wedding menus, to trying to soften the lump in his throat long enough to deal the last blow. I will never forgive you. I won’t.

I will never forgive you for this.

In the moment, it was all he could do. All of the strength he could summon had been poured into those seven words. He wanted them to hurt, to sting Kurt the way Kurt had stung him, icy hot and merciless. He wanted Kurt to know that it would take more. He wasn’t that easily breakable – at least, not on the outside. He would have the last word, and he would tell it like it was.

He doesn’t know how he could ever forgive Kurt for this.

More important than Kurt, Blaine doesn’t know how he’ll ever forgive himself for the series of bad decisions the past couple of months have dissolved into. Day after day spent in bed, tear tracks drying on his face as he stared at nothing on his walls and tried to keep conscious for a respectable amount of time. He knew it wasn’t a good thing to be sleeping for more hours out of the day than he was awake, but he couldn’t find the energy to do anything else.

Kurt had left.

He was gone.

And Blaine, as much as he tried to fight it, was broken by him. He was broken by the realization that he had put so much of his happiness, so much of himself into his relationship with Kurt and his future wedding, that, now that it had been yanked away, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know anything, anymore. His life no longer looked anything like he had envisioned it turning out, and he was forced to live with that. There wasn’t anything he could do.

Kurt doesn’t want him anymore.

There isn’tanything he can do about that.

A part of him isn’t too surprised, if he’s really honest with himself. Things have been different for a while. He’s been scared for a while.

His gut could tell something bad was coming. It was obvious, in the way Kurt moved around the apartment, in the lines of his body in bed at night, the way he was perpetually tensed, stiff with everything he was holding in. Maybe he’d wanted to break up sooner, but held back to preserve Blaine’s feelings.

Blaine isn’t stupid. He knows that that night at the restaurant wasn’t planned. He pushed just the right amount for Kurt to finally blurt out the thing that had had a hold on him. For how long, Blaine isn’t sure, but he knows it had to have been longer than the length of time he kept Kurt waiting at that table.

At least, that’s what he keeps trying to tell himself.

Because the alternative, the biting realization that Kurt hadn’t intended to break up with him, that it just slipped out, something so impulsive yet so final, is too much for Blaine. He doesn’t want it to be true. That isn’t the Kurt he knows. None of this makes sense, but that…that Kurt made the decision to end their relationship, their engagement, so quickly and easily, is too much for him to take.

It was his biggest fear. The thing he kept convincing himself would never happen. Kurt loves you. He always will. He told you he will. He’s not going to leave you. He loves you.

Kurt said he loved him. He said it back, in a moment that Blaine was sure he wouldn’t. But did he? Did he really? The way Blaine sees it, loving someone means fighting for them. Choosing them. Working through the hard things with them.

And Blaine doesn’t know why. He can’t ask. He can only guess. Spend some of these painful hours of consciousness contemplating exactly why he wasn’t good enough for Kurt to stay with. Because the Kurt Hummel he knows is the strongest, toughest fighter he’s ever met. Things had to be dire for him to not even make the effort.

Kurt had finally figured it out. What made him so intolerable, so exhausting to be around. He had realized what he was getting himself into and made a break for it before things could go any deeper. Blaine supposes that is for the best. Get out now, before the papers are signed and things are officially official, before it is much harder to make the break for it.

This is what he’s been scared of, been terrified of, since he and Kurt got back together. And he tried to push it to the back of his mind, because Kurt said yes and invited him to New York and promised to make it safe when he fell. Kurt promised to be there for everything, promised that they belongedto each other, promised that he would never stop loving him.

Blaine wonders when he did.

He wonders when all of this fell apart, how blissfully ignorant and idiotic he must have been not to see it.

How long was Kurt planning to do this? How long was he thinking about it? How long did he keep this to himself, wake up next to Blaine and kiss him goodbye every morning, knowing he was holding onto to the mother of secrets that had the power to destroy everything? Why did he get to be the one making that unilateral decision about their relationship?

Kurt controlled whether they got engaged or not, and Kurt controlled how it ended.

It was all up to him.

Blaine just had to hope they were on the same page about everything, and now it’s clear that they weren’t.

He’s so tired of other people getting to make decisions about his life, and leaving him to deal with the wreckage of their choices. He’s tired of not having any control. He doesn’t know how he ended up here. His life doesn’t feel like his anymore.

Madame Tibideaux had decided that he wasn’t worthy of another year at NYADA, that his emotions weren’t a good enough excuse for the quality - or lack thereof - of his work. It didn’t matter what he was feeling, or how bad it hurt. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t like every other person who could channel their pain into their art. It didn’t matter that he’d been doing it for as long as he could remember, feeling through every lyric he sang, every performance he gave. The cup had to dry up eventually. Something had to happen that was too bad, too painful, for him to sing his way out of. It wasn’t his fault. He’d tried so hard, given everything he could.

It didn’t matter that he desperately, desperately needed someone to see him. Not the things he produced, not the contributions he would make to a performance, him. His real self. The part that no one seemed to want.

It didn’t matter that Blaine Warbler felt like a lie he’d forgotten how to live years ago. He remembers grappling for it, trying to tug on the same mask he’d donned after the Sadie Hawkins dance, turn off his emotions and shift into autopilot, sing and dance and perform like he didn’t wish he could stop existing in that moment.

None of it mattered.

Blaine was just not good enough for NYADA, like he was not good enough for Kurt. He should’ve realized it sooner. It’s his own fault he didn’t.

“Honey?”

Blaine startles at the voice, jolting upward in bed and blinking rapidly against the sunlight pouring into his room. “Huh?”

“I brought you a little something to eat.” His mom sets a plate of buttered toast and a glass of water on his nightstand, and then leans down to drop a kiss against his head. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles honestly. He doesn’t want to lie to her. “Tired, I guess.”

“Sam called the house again,” she says. She takes a seat on the edge of his bed and reaches out to brush a hand through his hair. “He left a message, said you haven’t been picking up your cell. He’s worried, Blaine. I’m sure Tina is too.”

Blaine winces, dropping his gaze down to his blankets. Just one more thing you’re sucking at lately.

He hasn’t called Sam or Tina since he got back to Lima. At first, he was too ashamed to tell them the truth, although he knows that Sam is probably aware of what happened. Kurt and Mercedes talk, and even though Sam isn’t with her anymore, he knows that he and Mercedes are still very close. Sam’s been blowing up his phone for weeks. He sent a perfunctory, “back home for a while, but going to be really busy for a while” text, so Sam wouldn’t assume he was ignoring him, but he’s sure Sam has long figured out it was a lie.

“You don’t have to call him back until you’re ready,” his mom tells him. “But I do think he’d love to hear from you, baby. He could come over and keep you company, play some video games, you could-”

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t want him to come over.”

“Why not?”

I just don’t,” he manages. I don’t want him to see me like this.

I don’t want him to be mad at Kurt.

I don’t even know if I want to be mad at Kurt anymore. All of this is just so exhausting.

“Have you given any more thought to what we talked about a while ago?”

Blaine snaps his head up to meet her eyes. “You- no, mom. I’m fine, I promise. I just need a couple more days to…” He trails off with a sigh. To what? Wallow in his sadness? Sleep away and accomplish nothing? He hasn’t been the slightest bit productive since he left New York. It feels like he used up all his energy packing up and moving home.

That was over a month ago, and he still hasn’t recovered from it.

“It’s not really a matter of being fine, sweetheart. You know that. I just think talking about it might-”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” He snaps. And then he watches her face shift and crumples, lump in his throat throbbing as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

A pair of hands reaches for him, and he lets himself go, lets her pull him into a hug and buries his face in the crook of her neck. He takes a deep breath, and then another, hot tears burning at his eyes.

He doesn’t want to cry anymore. He feels like he’s done nothing but cry about this. He doesn’t know how he still has tears left.

“I know,” she murmurs, rubbing his back. “And I know you don’t think it’ll help. But you might be surprised, Blaine. I just think you should give it a chance. Get yourself back on your feet and feeling a little better, hm?”

She presses another kiss to the top of his head and props him back against his pillows. “You don’t have to make a decision right now. Just think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” he chokes out.

“I’m just going to be downstairs doing some work. Let me know if you want another piece of toast, all right?”

At his nod, she makes her way out of his room, and Blaine slumps back against his headboard, still fighting tears.

She’s probably right. It would help, far more than it would hurt. His mom has been a proponent of him seeing someone ever since Sadie Hawkins. He insisted he’d be okay then, and, seeing his distress, she didn’t push too hard for it. He knows she regrets that now, knows she blames herself for things getting as bad as they have. If he had gone, back then, maybe they would’ve been able to address some of this before it turned so bad.

But talking means talking about everything. About the dance, and meeting Kurt, and it going from so good to so bad, in such a short amount of time. It means talking about the things he hoped would stay buried, the ways in which he and Kurt were not perfect, his tendency to latch onto things and cling to them, tighter than he probably should have.

He isn’t sure he’s ready to think about more than how angry he is, or how much this hurts. He isn’t sure he’s ready to move out of this stage of staying in bed and not facing the world, holing up in his childhood bedroom and not confronting the life that he feels like he put on pause a month ago. He knows things are different now. He just isn’t sure he’s ready to see how much everything’s changed.

He doesn’t feel like he’s ready to move past all of this, but he knows he needs to.

He knows he needs to leave all of this behind, to start talking about it and thinking about it and rebuilding the pieces of his mess of a life. Otherwise, he’s destined to feel like this forever.

And that scares him even more.

---

Kurt is exhausted.

And if he’s really honest with himself, he’s felt this tiredness for a while now, become so accustomed to it that it feels like he’s leeched it into part of his personality, taken on the ache in his chest and the heaviness of his bones like a jacket with rocks in the pockets, weighing him down with every step he tries to take.

It’s the kind of tired that feels consuming, quicksand that swallows him the more he tries to get out of it. The kind that makes him feel like he’s running on empty, with no sign of a gas station for miles, the kind of tired that makes every day, every action, every conversation, feel like too much.

Part of him thought that this would stop once he ended things with Blaine. He didn’t want to go there. He never wanted to believe that Blaine could be the reason for all of this. How could the person that made him feel so, so loved and safe on his worst days also be the person that made him feel like this? It just didn’t make sense.

It never felt true, but the thought continued to linger, and with every passing day, ate more and more away at him. He tried not to spend too much time in that place. It hurt too much to think about until he was blurting out the words he didn’t even plan on saying.

And then, everything changed.

The breath it allowed him to take, the exhale, didn’t last long. Instead, he’s left with the image of Blaine’s crumpled, heartbroken expression every time he closes his eyes, the I will never forgive you for this playing on loop in his head every time he tries to think about what it could mean going forward.

That was it.

He ruined it.

He drove Blaine away for good.

Kurt remembers the day it happened so clearly. Getting home after a long day of classes, worn out and ravenous, only to be greeted by Blaine’s key to the loft sitting on the kitchen table. He’d sent Kurt a text that had far too many periods and was capitalized in all the right places – which, Blaine usually tended to do, but never in his life had Kurt read a message from him that felt so stiff and robotic and formal – about the rest of his portion of rent and bills for the month.

Blaine was gone.

Really, really gone.

And Kurt was alone, feeling further and further away from the people that loved him with each passing day.

In the beginning, he thought that was what he needed. Time away. A chance to be by himself and reevaluate the decisions he’d made over the past year. Crunch the numbers and figure out if Blaine remained in the equation by the end. He just wanted to be certain, be sure, that he wasn’t opening himself up to be hurt again. He wasn’t sure he could take it one more time, give his heart back to Blaine only to have it dropped, shattered like a stone.

He just wanted to feel safe.

He wanted to be sure of it, sure that he could let his heart go, run wild and free like it did in the common room, racing toward the boy with the beautiful voice who had held his hand and made him feel seen for the first time in his life. He wanted it to feel like that again. Untethered, too strong to control, defying each doubt with that wave of invincibility. So pure and open, expansive with all of the potential, broken parts shaved off to make room for the newness.

Maybe he just wasn’t meant to have that with Blaine, he’d thought. Maybe Blaine was supposed to be a bridge that helped him on the road to finding that. Maybe he’d meet someone else that would make him feel like Blaine first had, someone else that would make him feel weightless.

He tries to just go for it, to let it happen, but it never does. It never feels right, never the kind of right that it felt with Blaine. He lets Elliott set him up with friends that the other deems perfect, just your type, and feels nothing.

He tries speed dating, and starts getting more serious about Tindr. He matches with a few guys, goes on a couple of dates, flirts and reciprocates and tries, to let himself fall headfirst. It’s fun. Every date is a good time. They’re warm and light and exploding with newness. But the sparks die out after the first twenty minutes and then Kurt finds himself back in his head, thinking about hair gel and bowties and nonfat mochas, intertwined hands and the insides of coffee shops, the way it all felt like the safest home he’s ever known.

And he hates it, he hates that he feels nothing. He hates that his heart belongs to the hair gel and the bowties, because he fucked that up. He ruined that.

Kurt goes to class, goes to work, and comes home. Sometimes he sees Elliott, and sometimes he stays past his shift to chat with Artie at the diner, but otherwise, he spends every day the same. Sitting and staring through shows on TV, shoving spoonful after spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, and trying desperately to turn his brain off. Trying desperately not to wade into the murky waters of every moment that led up to that night.

I will never forgive you for this.

The realization slaps him in the face.

He’s trying to move on, and then he’s crying in public, humiliating himself in front of a perfectly good Tindr match, overcome with the sheer magnitude of the words that came out of his mouth so many months ago. It hadn’t hit him until then, how insistent, how cruel he had been in the moment. How he had the power to turn Blaine from light and warm and excited, to completely and utterly broken, in the span of a single conversation.

He did that.

And sure, it wasn’t just about toothpaste and towels and Blaine’s newfound habit of tardiness, sure, there was so much painful and deep and wrong underneath the surface. Sure, Kurt had had doubts ever since the car ride and the non-surprise of a proposal, sure, it would have come to the light sooner or later, sure, he was just speeding up the process.

But never in his life has he been so disgusted in himself. Never in his life has he gone back over a moment so many times in his head, wished he could turn back time and that 20/20 happened before hindsight and that he could see the future of misery he’d end up in and not decide to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him.

They could’ve talked about it. Blaine is one of the most understanding people Kurt has ever met. He would’ve absolutely been open to something like that. One of Kurt’s favorite things about him is that kindness, that space for grace he is able to hold for others.

Talk to me. Tell me you’re unhappy.

We’ve been putting this off for far too long.

Don’t you think we should have the talk?

Wait, Kurt, let’s talk about this.

Blaine always wanted to talk. It was how he felt safe, Kurt is realizing. Blaine wanted the words, the vocalization that everything was okay in that real and concrete way. It was how he grounded himself.

Kurt’s never been one for talking. He keeps his feelings close to his chest, locked up tight. He knows they’re not what people want to hear. They’re messy, and don’t always make sense. Sometimes they feel like the worst parts of him all bundled up into one, complete with pieces of him that haven’t fully left the horrors of high school behind.

Talking about them is effort he doesn’t have to exert. He’ll be opening Pandora’s box with no way to contain the contents. He doesn’t necessarily want to know how the people in his life feel about him. He doesn’t want to hear what they have to say. It scares him too much. There’s just no reason to ruin a perfectly good foundation by having conversations that uncover all of the cracks.

No, it’s better to drop a bomb on the entire thing and destroy it in one fell swoop.

He sometimes feels like he’d fallen asleep after Finn died and is only now being wrenched out of his nightmare, waking into a world that is far different than when he left it. Everything’s been on pause for so long. Hitting play feels like coming back to a reality he barely recognizes. A person he barely recognizes.

He hadn’t realized how much he didn’t like himself until there was nothing to distract from it. And maybe it isn’t his entire self, per say, but who he’s turned into. The person that’s been morphed together after the tiring, tumultuous year they’d all had. The stress, the anxiety, the exhaustion, personified. Even the littlest things – the tiny, stupid, don’t matter in the grand scheme of it, things – make him angry.

He’s been living on fumes for too long and everything feels like it’s at a breaking point. He’s trying to hold on to the reins, but they’re slipping out of his hands too quickly and he’s too tired to keep running to catch up. His life feels like it’s unraveling and it scares him, because he has never been this person. He has never been unable to keep going, unable to push through, to carry on, put all his stock into the rainbow on the other side and his nose down until he reaches it.

But everything that’s happened in the past few years, high school, and Karofsky, and all the little things he let go, all the things he said were okay and tried to move past and eventually decided didn’t mean anything anymore, never truly went away. They laid dormant for a while, so much so that he’d just about forgotten about them, until they decided to come back with a vengeance. Like he’s being reminded of how messed up his life is, because for once, hewas the one to cause it.

He’s spent so long being too gay, or too fragile, or too feminine, to get the things that he really wants. There’s always been something he couldn’t control, something inherently wrong with him, which keeps him from getting anything on the first try. It always takes extra work, extra effort, the need to prove that he does deserve it and has earned the role, or the solo, or the opportunity that is almost inevitably given up to someone else.

Maybe a small part of him thought that Blaine would be like that too.

The proposal wouldn’t be enough to propel them into a lifetime of happiness.

It couldn’t be that easy.

He wouldn’t get to be that happy.

There is so much wrong with him. Kurt knows that. He knows he can be bitchy, sometimes cold, often not someone that’s easy to get close to. He knows he has a tendency to hold everything in until he reaches a breaking point and lashes out.

He knows he’s angry. He knows he’s in pain.

And he knows Blaine didn’t need to see any of it, didn’t deserve any of it. Blaine was too good, too warm, too unimaginably kind, to deserve these parts of him. He didn’t want their relationship to turn into it, go sour and stunted until Blaine began to resent him.

Blaine loved him anyway. In spite of everything. Blaine’s capacity for love was so massive and unlimited, and Kurt couldn’t understand it. Blaine wanted to work on things, always, and Kurt didn’t understand that, either. He’s spent his entire life trying desperately to be okay, to be enough, for people, to not be a problem they will one day resent solving and decide to abandon by the side of the road. People don’t want a mess. They don’t want someone who’s broken. They don’t want to be there when the going gets bad.

But everything is just so much, and Kurt has never been more tired of fighting.

He can’t hide it anymore. Can’t compress it down and pretend it isn’t happening. A recent study session with Elliott turned into a minor – he would deem minor, although Elliott would definitely evaluate it way worse – breakdown over one of his theory papers. What should’ve been some simple frustration over his inability to phrase his argument was instead far more loaded, the depths of his anger and stress seeping through, unable to be contained.

Maybe talking is – finally – what he needs. He’s tried everything else.

He reaches over and into the pocket of the jacket he wore a couple days ago, and pulls out the card Elliott pushed into his hand as they left the coffee shop. For the therapist I used to see when I first got to the city, Elliott had told him. She really helped me sort through some stuff, and I know she can help you too.

Call, he had urged quietly. Please, Kurt. It doesn’t have to be like this.

It isn’t the first time Elliott’s brought up seeing a therapist. That was his first suggestion when Kurt broke the news of his and Blaine’s breakup. Kurt had ignored him then, insisted that the breakup was all he needed. He’d be fine.

But the lump in his throat has been there for weeks, and he is so tired of being on the verge of tears all the time.

That’s what he tells himself, as he grabs his phone. His fingers shake as he puts in the number and presses ‘call’.

He’s so tired of being tired.

#i've been messing around with these for weeks and i am so scared to finally post them #i hope they're what you had in mind i'm so sorry for how much psychoanalysis i ended up doing #klaine fanfiction #klaine #kurt hummel #blaine anderson #glee fanfiction #neha writes #i wanted to finish these before i jumped into anything else so other stuff is def coming!#also requests are open as always so if y'all have anything else in mind please feel free to send a message abt it!

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bastillia · 5 years ago

Text

First Lesson (NSFW)

Read on Ao3

Summary: Commander Kylo Ren needs a competent officer to accompany him on an important mission, and he has requested you specifically. When he discovers that you don't know how to pilot a TIE fighter, he takes it upon himself to fix that. Turns out cockpits are good for other things, too.

Rating: Explicit

Words: 7.4k

Content Warnings: possible dubcon, choking, spanking, inappropriate use of the Force, rough sex, minimal aftercare, cockwarming… yeah.

A/N: Wow so this is officially my first published work after lurking in the fandom for a good 4 years??? Holy shit. I'm super nervous, but hey, I've got to start somewhere! I've had this silly idea gnawing around in my little rat brain for fucking ever, so it feels good to finally pound it out (heh). I have... literally never written smut before, sooo I welcome any feedback. Thank you for reading this!

"Take a fighter. Follow me to the surface."

The commander strode powerfully over the gangway, dismissing you with a flick of his gloved hand as he approached the yawning cockpit of his TIE silencer. Engineers scrambled aside like rats to sunlight as he moved, conveniently parting a clear path for you to follow the rippling tower of black robes across the platform. You stumbled and jogged slightly to keep up, your gaze shifting nervously along the sinister row of TIE fighters. They sat anchored to the dock, still as a cavalry line at dawn, each black durasteel destrier awaiting its chance to charge into battle. But there was no impending fight here. Why weren't you taking the command ship?

"Commander. Sir, w-wai-" You collided with an unyielding wall of black, having not been looking where you were going. Ren had stopped and was now turned to look at you, posture stiff, eyes burning with impatience. You straightened sharply and jumped back, shying away from your next words as your cheeks burned under the dark beam of his stare.

"I... I don't know how to fly one. S-sir." You managed to say, and your heart plummeted into your stomach with the admission. It seemed childish. Silly. But-- what would he think of you now? You had always admired the commander more than you'd ever admit to your peers, and if you were honest, you found him wildly, dangerously attractive. There was something about the way he barely held back. The fire that shone behind his dark eyes like they were the only living part of a face cast in carbonite, that made you dare to wonder what he would look like if he let go. The power that radiated from him was always so visceral, yet restrained. Except, of course, when he had his outbursts. You only ever saw the aftermath: a shredded, glowing control panel, a dazed and heaving officer slumped against the floor after being Force-choked within an inch of death over a particularly inconvenient mistake. You'd be lying if you said such unbridled evidence of his power didn't stoke a flame of intrigue. And perhaps something else.

You had only recently been promoted to lieutenant general, but you had a feeling Kylo Ren had watched you closely for some time. You saw it in the shift of his eyes whenever you passed him by, the particular burn of his stare when you delivered reports on behalf of your superior general. You'd never known a commander to hold such a piqued interest in the drabble of stormtrooper reconditioning scores. Or why he had to fix his gaze so intently on you that you could swear he was trying to turn your blood molten.

You knew that you were more than competent in your position, yet you couldn't quell a desire to impress the commander. Whether it was with your sharp aptitude for command, tactical maneuvers, or securing risky strategic alliances, you always tried to establish presence. To command the room, intimidate both your peers and subordinates with your sharp wits, and earn those rare, blood-branding stares of approval from Kylo Ren when your steel confidence washed a hush over the room. What you'd never admit was how that steel later melted down into gushing whimpers under the forge of your sheets, imagining the kinds of things that your commander might do to you.

You'd had to forcibly smother your elation when you received the order for your aid specifically on this mission, not even knowing until a few minutes ago that it was you, and only you, that Kylo Ren had requested to come along. It sank like a cold blade into your gut now to know that your ineptitude would make him think less of you. The knife twisted with the realization that you would be left behind on the only opportunity you might ever get to spend some time alone with the commander.

He looked at you for a moment, expression unreadable. How had your command training not included basic piloting by default? A brief flash of anger lit his eyes and set his jaw tight as he thought about whoever's incompetence he would have to deal with later when he reviewed the training program. But for now, there was no time.

Your eyes were fixed to the metal grate of the floor, stomach knotting, as you steeled a calm mask over the disappointment that tightened your throat. You began to speak, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. "I’m sorry, Commander. I will inform mission control that you are in need of--" Before you could finish, Kylo Ren clamped his arm around your waist, pulling you firmly to his body as he leveraged his hips in one fluid motion to drag you with him into the small cockpit of the TIE silencer.

Your brain reeled, a small yelp escaping your lips as your ass landed firmly into his lap, one of his arms anchoring you there while his other hand reached to flick a control above him. Before you could stammer out the question of what the fuck he was doing, the cockpit was already hissing closed around you both.

"First lesson."

Your pulse was a flurry. He began to flip the controls absently, looking easily over your head as you awkwardly adjusted yourself on his thighs. The space was so small, there was absolutely no position you could assume that didn't involve your ass planted into his hips, your back against his broad torso, and your calves draped around either side of his ridiculously long legs. Your head spun. The thrusters hummed to life. Fuck. Everything was moving too fast. His gloved hand began to point individually at each control he had just engaged.

"Auxiliary."

His voice was dead even as he pointed to the first switch on your left, the movement of his arm making his chest ripple under your shoulder blade. Your brain was a mess of thrill and panic. Was this really happening right now? Heat flowed in a river down your spine and pooled in the roiling cauldron of your belly. Whether it wanted to wash you away, or pull you in like a rip current to his body, you couldn’t decide. His hand moved to a lower control panel where the second switch sat, affording you little time to take in what he was saying.

"Compressor."

You tried hard to focus on his words, blinking the spinning confusion out of your eyes as you dumbly studied the path his hand had just taken. You blinked again, hard. Auxiliary. Compressor. Okay. You forced yourself to bid the controls to memory, trying to catch up as he moved along. Four adjacent switches to your right had been next.

"Ignition,"

His gloved finger drew languidly against the curved switch in a way that suddenly made your skin light up against every solid line of his body pressed flush to yours. Your thighs tensed. Heat climbed your neck as you struggled to hold onto a fragile thread of focus.

"Thrusters."

He gestured to the final three buttons. Fucking breathe. Ignition, thrusters. Okay. Simple enough. You sobered yourself sternly and nodded your understanding as you flicked your gaze along the control path that started the engines, internally repeating it several times as your heartbeats became distinguishable again. It was quick. Concise. Fitting, you thought, for a state-of-the-art starfighter prototype that might need to get airborne in a hurry. It was certainly far less brain-scrambling than the orchestrations you'd seen performed upon the control panels of freighters to wrangle them towards liftoff. Why don't they label anything in those damn ships anyways?

"Now," Ren’s hands gripped your hips, instantly shattering your moment of composure. Stars, why did he have this effect on you? And why did a part of you never want it to end? He adjusted your seat, pressing you slightly straighter against him, and you could feel the warm, solid contour of his abdomen flex under your spine. You swallowed hard.

"Steering is intuitive." His palms smothered the backs of your hands as he picked them up, guiding them to grasp the vertical steering grips. Your blood felt uncomfortably hot in your veins. He kept his hands wrapped firmly over top of yours, arms encircling you like a gigantic fucking scaffold, coaxing you to lift the handles very slightly upwards. The craft lurched to life in response, and you were suddenly thankful for his hands holding yours steady as your heart threatened to explode from your ribs.

It was intuitive, you'd give him that, even if your intuition felt starkly absent from your brain at the moment. The body of the craft lifted smoothly, almost sentiently, with the subtle upward press of the handles. Still, the sudden g-force of liftoff sank you firmly into the commander's lap, amplifying an alarming and far too pleasant stir that agitated the pit of your belly.

You breathed slowly, trying to stay as still as possible on top of him, your brain still coming to grips with what the fuck was occurring right now. You thought maybe you'd had a dream like this once. Come to think of it, the enigmatic commander had starred in many of your most pleasant dreams -- with or without the mask. Oh, stars. You screwed your eyes tight, inwardly cursing your useless fucking brain. Did you really have to think about that right now? You were definitely blushing. A puff of breath hit the back of your neck. Wait- Did he just chuckle?

You didn't have time to figure out the answer as his gloved hands flexed over the top of yours and your eyes flew open, finding that the fighter was now hovering a comfortable distance from the hangar floor. He pressed your joined hands forward, and the ship responded gorgeously, accelerating towards the mouth of the docking bay in a smooth departure that made your veins flutter with a thrill of adrenaline. Vacuous darkness swallowed the viewport as the Supremacy was left swiftly in your wake, and you released a lungful of air you didn't know you had been holding. An unexpected calmness suddenly blanketed you as everything fell to the periphery. As your wide eyes adjusted to the void, a spattering of stars slowly blinked into view, decorating the expanse. It was... silent. Still. Breathtaking.

Ren pulled the grips under your hands back like the reins of an obedient steed, and the craft responded as such. The only indication that the fighter had stilled was the slightly quieter hum of the idling ion thrusters vibrating softly through the air of the cockpit. Your respite was brief. The tranquility of space was magnifying your far-from-tranquil realization that you were now decidedly, irreversibly alone with the commander, and your insides folded in half.

You hardly dared to breathe, let alone move, your senses suddenly augmented and trained sharply onto Kylo Ren as you sat pressed into his lap. His lap. Maker, have mercy. Your clean-pressed uniform suddenly felt tight and stifling around your neck, and you swallowed thickly.

"Take over."

He spoke curtly into the silence, almost making you jump as the baritone rumbled close to your ear. Stars, everything he said was a fucking command. You couldn’t deny how much you’d always enjoyed the rich color of his natural, unmodulated voice, taking secret reverence in the way he could paralyze a room with it. Nor could you ignore the way that every word he spoke was now having the opposite effect, riling up that dismayingly persistent heat between your legs.

He slid his hands off of yours, leaving you in full command of the sleek starfighter. Nerves needled a patchwork in your gut as you stared disconnectedly at your own bare hands gripping the controls. They might as well have been someone else's entirely. Two palms settled over the tops of your thighs, and the gesture pierced all the way to your brain.

By the void, calm the fuck down. You grounded yourself sternly, tightening your grip around the contoured handles and forcing yourself to feel their texture, the ridges that dug into your skin, the tension that rippled up your arms and into your shoulders as you squeezed them. Breathe. There was a reason you'd been promoted so fast: it was your aptitude toward levelness and situational control under pressure. You could do this. Just... treat it like another test. Taking a steadying breath and fixing your brow in determination, you pressed the grips forward.

If you thought takeoff was intuitive, now that you somewhat had your frayed wits about you, this was like an extension of your own consciousness. The silencer handled like a dream, and you quickly got the hang of its basic movements, almost forgetting your strange predicament as you took surprising delight in steering the agile craft through the vacuum of space. Kylo Ren hardly moved beneath you. He seemed to be letting you feel the ship out on your own, but his hands occasionally flexed over the curve of your thighs, his fingers splaying into a wide grip that pressed heat into your veins. An alarming reminder, each time, that he was paying attention. Always paying attention.

You cut the silencer back towards the Supremacy after a short while, and were surprised to note that the stifling mega class dreadnought seemed much… smaller, from out here. It felt strange, looking upon the massive vessel that encompassed your entire life, whose halls and chambers you had meticulously memorized, as if it were no more than a distant memory. The perspective settled a quiet feeling inside you that you couldn’t quite formulate.

Also in view, and framing the silhouette of the star destroyer impressively, was your ultimate destination. A large planet, twinkling with tiny rivers of light between clouds, and crowned in a halo of white flame from this system's central star. The planet would be the site of your mission, which, you noted -- the commander still hadn't even briefed you on. You funneled the nervous pang at the thought into determination as you caressed the controls again, considerably braver now about handling the craft.

In a moment of spontaneity, you locked the arches of your feet under Ren's calves and accelerated sharply, whipping the silencer into a tight barrel roll. A breathy, delighted laugh swelled in your chest before you could catch it as you righted the ship to its initial orientation again.

"Good," Ren murmured into your hair, a large hand sliding up to your belly as you reined the ship smoothly to a halt. He pressed you slightly tighter to him with a splayed palm, his strong nose grazing your ear, and the responding thrill between your thighs set your brain back to spinning. You suddenly became aware of a firm knot under your seat that you hadn't noticed before, and your breath stopped. You'd been so distracted maneuvering the ship, you couldn't be sure. You cocked your hips slightly, daring to shift against him, and with the movement it was undeniable: Kylo Ren was hard as a rock.

You gasped, and the moment you tensed, a gloved hand snaked up to slam into your throat and pull you roughly back against a solid chest, breath hot and immediate in your ear.

"Don't think I haven't noticed..." His voice was dark and dangerous as his free hand slid to your inner thigh, gripping the sensitive flesh there, your airway closed tight. You trembled, pulse galloping, as a spear of adrenaline ignited each of your most primal instincts at once.

"...How you can hardly keep those eyes to yourself around me." His lips were warm against the shell of your ear as his nose grazed the baby hairs at your temple, the feeling adding a confusing tingle to the sharp claws of terror that gripped you. Your pulse was deafening, and you struggled to find either breath or coherence under his iron grip. His hand on your throat loosened slightly with a creak of leather, and the sweetness of air crashed into your lungs.

"I could say the same," you breathed without thinking, suddenly wondering if you actually had a deathwish. His hand flexed threateningly on your throat and you flinched, but he simply breathed a dark chuckle into the hollow of your ear. Oh. That made you fucking shiver.

"Observant." He slowly ground his hips up into you, more or less fucking his prominent erection against your ass. Needles of fear laced confusingly into a wash of desire as a soft noise escaped you, and you bit your lip to catch it in its tracks as he continued. "But I know every thought you've ever had about me, lieutenant." Oh, stars. Fuck. You knew he’d paid attention to you, but not that closely.

"It's pathetic, really… " He continued to grind torturously against you, his broad hand pinning your thigh the same way a predator might hold down a piece of live prey that it wants to toy with for a while before killing. "...The way you try so hard to impress me." His growl bottomed out on the emphasis with a decisive roll of his hips that sent an electric shock careening to your core. You squirmed against him, but his grip on your neck and leg had you on an axis that allowed precious little freedom. His hips continued their disciplined pace as he spread his knees slightly, forcing your own to follow, and his thumb traced electricity into the tender patch of thigh just below your most intimate parts. You clenched at the closeness of it.

"But…” he purred, tone shifting slightly.

“The things that cross your mind at night?" You froze with dread, wishing the ice in your spine would somehow percolate into the space around you, freeze it into stasis so that he wouldn't continue with his next words. But Kylo Ren was a furnace, burning the unlimited fuel of your fear, and he rumbled on.

"When you touch that wet little cunt, and think about me?" He lifted his palm away briefly - the predator's illusion of mercy - before delivering a hard, stinging smack straight to your inner thigh. Your cunt convulsed.

"Filthy."

A silent pause filled the cockpit, allowing both the word and the impact to sink into your nerves before he slowly circled his glove across the tingling flesh under his hand. Your bones went gelatinous, and, stars, you whimpered. It was a sound so foreign to even your own ears, that you startled yourself.

His straining cock pulsed against the curve of your ass, and he swore darkly, sliding his hand on your thigh up to cup your sex through the fabric of your pants. You were already wet and aching, you could feel it, but the slight pressure of his hand over your sensitive heat drove your need to a frenzy. Another whine leaked unbidden from your lips.

“Tell me, lieutenant, how do you prefer me?” His voice was cruel and dark, drawing out your torment as he began to tease your slit with a pressure so light you thought you might die on the spot.

“With, or without the mask?” He pressed down, rolling his forefinger over your clit in a firm motion that sent sparks into your brain. Your mouth fell open in an obscene moan that echoed around the cockpit. Kylo Ren stiffened, tightening his grip on your throat and stilling the pressure on your aching bud.

He didn't have to say anything for you to know in your gut that an answer was required. Your stomach quivered. This was his game, and you were going to have to play at it if you wanted any of your deepest, most secret desires to come to fruition now. And stars, you wanted it bad. You found a few breaths, collecting fragments of your voice.

"Any w-way you'd have me, C-commander." Your voice was hardly intact, but you managed to breathe the words out through your daze of terror and need, finally pushing your own ass back into the motion of his hips. He released a warm huff of breath into your ear, seemingly pleased. Thank the Maker.

"That's right."

His soft hair dusted your ear as he dipped to latch a hot kiss into your neck, pulling your head slightly aside for better access. His tongue was molten and wet against your skin, and the feeling sank straight to your core. You reeled and whined as he sucked a bruise into your throat, taking his time tasting you, his hand over your pants drawing an embarrassing volume of wetness from your aching cunt already. You dropped your hands beside you and sunk your nails into the fabric over his thighs, need overflowing from your skin and into his body.

Kylo Ren sucked a breath through his teeth and slipped the hand on your throat upwards, gripping your jaw instead and pushing the leather pad of his forefinger through your lips. You accepted it a little too eagerly, sucking it in delicately and running your tongue across the ridges in the supple material as you relished the expensive taste. He hummed and slid a second thick digit into your mouth as his lips and teeth continued to worry the tender skin of your neck, and you were sure you would bear the dark purple evidence of his possession for at least a week. You didn't care.

His ministrations had your body pliant and wanting in no time, and your thighs had involuntarily begun to relax, falling wider around each side of his lap even as the sharp edge of a control panel dug into your leg. You felt the rigid hilt of the saber on his hip as well, a sensation that paralyzed you for a moment with a new spike of fear and thrilling desire. He ascended from your neck with a sharp nip.

"So eager, lieutenant." He clicked his tongue once and landed a sharp spank straight to the mound of your pussy. It made you jump, and clench hard with a small, leather-muffled yelp. He deftly switched hands, removing his fingers from your mouth as his other hand closed around your neck. His moistened digits dipped below the waistband of your pants, and you felt his own breaths quicken underneath your shoulders, exciting you. The smooth, warm leather slid easily down your folds, drawing a gasp from you as he collected and spread your arousal. Now, this, you had definitely dreamed about before. He circled slowly across your clit, slicking it over in a motion that sparked white ecstasy through your nerve endings, and you whined pathetically.

"What would your superiors think," Kylo Ren's deep, mocking voice dripped through you as he slid one finger down to tease your entrance. Your hips bucked, trying in vain to draw him in. "If they knew what a desperate little whore you are for your commander?"

Your brain stuttered then. An involuntary smirk pulled at your lips as you conjured the image of your superior general, and how his eyes always seemed to darken when they wandered a little too far down your uniform. You didn't consider the fact that your mind was on full display to Ren before the brat center of your brain produced one clear thought.

They'd envy my commander.

You bit your tongue hard the second the thought formed, as if you could banish it with the flash of pain, hoping desperately that he hadn't read your mind. But the way that Ren’s whole body went rigid suggested otherwise. Maker damn your smart ass.

His hand fisted into your hair, wrecking your neat bun, and he wrenched your head to the side, forcing you to look up at him. Your brows knitted together in pain, but you dared not whine about it as you met his stare. His eyes were black saucers, clouded with such a tenebrous fury and lust that it made your walls flutter in time with your stomach.

"Is that so?" The ice in his voice squeezed your veins.

Gone was all that confidence that you prided yourself on in your profession, all the poise and tact and sharpness of wit. It slipped as easily as water through your fingers now as you drowned in the inky depths of his stare, fear anchoring your words to your diaphragm with no means of escape.

Ren studied you, embers flaring in the pits of those live irises, framed by the beautiful stone hearth of his face. He moved your head back and forth a bit by his grip in your hair. You winced, but your muscles might as well have been liquid, unable to resist him in the slightest. He was testing your pliancy, considering.

"Open your mouth."

There was no warmth, no tease behind the words, and as if they flowed straight into your neurons directly, you obeyed. Your jaw fell open, your pink tongue pushing slightly against the pillow of your lower lip as it rested over your bottom teeth. He spat into your mouth, holding your stare in the tight space as… Oh. He sank two thick fingers straight into your soaking core, stretching you full, holding them rooted inside you. You might as well have been vibrating.

"Swallow."

The command was deadly. You snapped your jaw shut and complied, heart thrumming with fear and a hot, blooming need originating from the delicious ache that now filled your walls but refused to move. You whined, trying weakly to shift your hips for any amount of friction on his hand, but his hold on you tightened, immobilizing you.

"Impudence will get you nothing." He uttered warningly, never breaking your stare as his fingers began to pump slowly, agonizingly inside of you. You could feel yourself dripping around him now as the ridged leather of his gloves did something delicious to your walls. "Don't you want to come, little whore?"

You were putty in his lap. "Yes, Commander, sir." You managed to groan out quietly, embracing the pain that screamed through your scalp. His plump, gorgeous lips were parted slightly, a signal of desire to underlie the tempest of his stare. You relaxed more into his grip, hoping your show of submission would drive him just a little more wild, just a little closer to... Yes.

He yanked you closer and stroked his hot tongue into your mouth in a fucking vulgar kiss that spun your brain like a top. You suppressed a sigh as the taste of him filled you, his plush lips divine and remarkably soft against your mouth as you melted into the heat of his possessive kiss. He jerked you away by your hair long before you'd had your fill of his taste, a thin string of spit connecting you as you squeaked a pathetic sound. Your disappointment was fleeting, though, because his fingers were now curling faster against a heavenly spot inside of you that was beginning to coil you tight.

"Then be good."

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, bit down, and nodded as well as you could with his fingers rooted into your follicles. He watched the ecstasy blossom across your face as his thumb began to pass in quick circles over your sensitive clit. A cry fell from your lips as your pleasure began to overtake you, his fingers building you towards a crescendo that threatened to split you clear in half with a galaxy between. You didn't even have to try to keep your mind blank now as he consumed your every nerve ending in rippling pleasure, and soon you were barreling towards the event horizon of climax with every stroke of his digits and every slick pass of leather over your delicate pearl of nerves. Sparks flowed like hot plasma to your extremities as your walls began to flutter tight. You whined the warning of it as your brows drew together in restraint, pleading silently for the commander to send you halfway to hyperspace with the orgasm that teetered in your core.

"That's right, cum for me, little whore." His voice was harsh and cruel and delicious and everything your reeling brain needed to send you barreling over the precipice. Your orgasm split you, blanching your vision as your walls slammed down around his fingers and you sobbed out the waves of your release. He didn't slow, drawing out your climax to an impossible length as each clench sent you spinning and wailing again. Ren groaned and cursed under his breath as he watched you come apart, leaning on the familiar edge of desperate self control as his stiff cock twitched violently under the confines of his trousers.

He slowed and withdrew his hand from your pants, allowing you to come down with shallow breaths. He brought the hand up to taste you slowly from the glistening leather of his fingers, eyes never leaving yours, and the sight made your insides combust. He hummed a low, appreciative sound before shoving the cum-slicked digits roughly into your mouth. The sweet tang of your juices flooded your senses as he sat you back up against him, such that you faced the viewport again. Impossible as it realistically was, it suddenly felt as if the entire Supremacy may as well have just watched you cum like a trained whore around Kylo Ren's fingers. The thought tickled your belly as you laved your tongue over his glove, still warm from your cunt, your body thrumming with the high of post-orgasmic ecstasy as you diligently cleaned the ridges. Your insatiable pussy clenched hard when you felt his length grind against your ass, reminding you of its presence, and you suddenly ached to be filled again. You whimpered into his hand as you rolled your hips.

"You want my cock?" His voice was ragged in your ear, hardly restrained as he fucked his bulge against you. You nodded with an obscene whine, clutching the sides of his thighs and using them as leverage to grind yourself into his throbbing length. He cursed.

"Filthy girl."

Ren released you, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth and hair, and you collapsed back against his chest, panting. He shoved at the waistband of your pants, and with a thrill, you lifted your hips as far as you could to allow him to yank them down around your thighs, panties and all.

He propped you forward slightly, bringing a hand behind you to wrestle with the clasp of his own trousers. He unleashed his cock and sat you back over it, so that it rested thickly between the flesh of your thighs, flush with the swollen line of your wet slit. You looked down and gulped. Stars, he was big. Not that you expected any different -- you'd be the first to admit that this man carried himself like he was packing. Still, you couldn't suppress a twinge of nerves as you looked down at the fat head of him, swollen beautifully at the end of a thick shaft and leaking a bead of pre cum between your thighs. He rocked his hips up, and the thick, velvety length of his cock parted your lips, coating the top of his shaft in your wetness as it slid against your tender folds.

You whined, your walls screaming to be filled, to be stretched, and you strained your pelvis down towards his dick, but the angle was all wrong for you to have any control. His glove snaked into your hair and fisted it roughly, yanking you immobile again as you gasped.

"Beg."

Your pussy throbbed, dignity a distant echo in your brain as you keened and clenched around nothing. You'd never been known to beg for anything in your life, but with the way that every nerve ending in your body felt like it was curling towards him, trying to take root, to feel him in every way possible, you were sure you'd do anything to earn his cock now.

"P-please-" it came out in a whisper, your voice absent from your chest, and he jostled you by your scalp sharply. Pain shot through your nerves, somehow only kindling the flames of need that were licking up your spine and you yelped, the roughness punching your voice back into you.

"I can't fucking hear you." He growled through his teeth, breath crackling in his throat as he fought his own restraint. The sound shot a thrill through you. Oh, you were gone.

"Ple-ase, s-sir, please f-fuck me," you moaned louder, and your voice sounded foreign through the ring in your ears. Your thighs strained against the hobble of your waistband as your body tried to spread and arch back for him like a bitch in heat. Thoroughly carried away, heady pleas continued to pour from your mouth. "I n-eed your cock in me, Com-commander, please." He huffed a pleased sound, pulling you back until his lips grazed your ear.

"Good girl."

He released your hair and gripped your hips hard, lifting you up just enough for the head of his cock to slide down towards your entrance. You found yourself pressing your palms eagerly into the seat, pushing yourself up to give your commander better access. You tipped your hips until you felt the swollen head of him perfectly align with your soaked entrance, and-- Oh, fuck.

Even thoroughly lubricated with your own cum, it was a tight fit as he began to sink you down. You whimpered as the angle forced you to take the entirety of him, struggling to relax your tight walls through your descent. You were sure you'd never taken a man nearly this big, sure that your body might break open around him, and yet you were determined to withstand his challenge. He hissed slowly through his teeth as he buried into you inch by steady inch, until you finally sat flush with his lap again, keening from the pleasant sting of complete fullness.

Ren choked on a stifled groan as you reached the hilt of him, his grip bruising your waist as he held you there for a moment. He shifted you both forward, allowing him to brace you up with his arms, and pumped his hips once slowly to test the position. The feeling of his thick cock sliding tight against your walls until it pressed your cervix was as obscene as it was delicious, and as he buried himself again, you couldn't hold back the wanton moan that tore itself from your diaphragm.

"Fuck," You heard Ren mutter raggedly behind you as he adjusted his grip. He began to rut his hips up into you at a punishing tempo, and your thoughts evaporated as his cock slammed over and over into the epicenter of your core. You cried out, voice hitching from his pace and ferocity, as you wildly clutched at the side of a control panel for stability. Somehow the pain of taking him over and over began to morph into blinding oblivion, and the viewport swam before your eyes as you lost yourself in the furious rhythm of his cock.

Ren grabbed your neck and arched you back against his chest, slowing his pace enough to allow shards of air to fight back into your starved lungs. The slower thrusts, the slick feeling of every ridge and vein of him, sent a spike of voltage through your limbs that jump started your senses again.

"Was I wrong to assume you could handle me, lieutenant?" He purred breathily as he slowed to nearly a stop, though clearly not intending to cease his torment altogether. You whined your dissent and tried to roll your hips down into him, hoping to fuck yourself on his cock, to feebly prove that you could take him. "No?" His voice dripped warm with mockery. "We'll see."

His grip anchored you fast. You gasped, almost panicking for a moment as a foreign pressure began to flit and squeeze around your clit. It wasn't his hand. One was controlling your neck, the other a vice on your hip. You didn't have much time to register the fact that he was using the Force until his hips were moving again, his cock filling you whole at a steady pace as that strange and wonderful pressure swirled faster at your bud.

Then suddenly his hand was closing like a leather serpent around your neck, slowly, expertly constricting your pulse. A primal burst of adrenaline blinded you for a moment. He could kill you. It rang between your ears, imploring you to resist, but your body was so pliant, so wholly under the spell of submission, that the thrill melted into something warmer. Something perhaps like trust, but with a much sharper edge as it cut a path through your veins. He squeezed your arteries steadily until your hearing began to fog and inky motes crossed your vision. Pressure swelled in your head, the cockpit beginning to drift away around you until all that grounded you to reality was the steady pumping of the cock inside your cunt and the Force at your clit shooting effervescent waves of pleasure into your darkening brain.

Just as the cusp of total unconsciousness began to seduce you, the pressure vanished. Ren slammed his length into you, and you gulped a massive breath of air as the Force jetted against your clit. Your orgasm crested hard, and shot you over the edge faster than you'd have ever thought possible as he held you steady and pounded into your core. You screamed as your release tore through your body in a perfect harmonic overtone to the oxygen flooding back into your brain, and the combined relief washed such a powerful bliss through your nerves that in that moment, you felt as if the very fabric of space could part for you.

"That's it, fuck, good fucking girl." Ren’s snarls were filthy and delicious in your ear as he continued to fuck you hard, the pace of his cock refusing to let your body come down from the orgasm. You keened and moaned in an incoherent stupor as he slammed up against a spot inside you that was somehow, impossibly, pushing you towards the edge again already. Another orgasm ripped through you, this one singeing your nerve endings as you felt his thrusts become unsteady. Ren bellowed through gritted teeth as he came, cock pulsing inside you while your quaking walls milked him through his release. He pumped you slowly through your aftershocks, tensing with each clench of your cunt around his oversensitive dick, until your bodies stilled in a tranquil beat of silence and shared breathing.

You didn't know at what point he had wrapped both of his arms around you, but you snapped to the realization that Kylo Ren was now holding you tight, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he came down through shuddering breaths. You blinked, slowly bringing the geometric planes of the viewport back into blurred focus, and then beyond it, the distant Supremacy.

It hung suspended like a leviathan in the void, a staunch and silent voyeur to the star-shattering sequence of undoing and accretion that you had just experienced here at the hands and cock of your inscrutable commander. You couldn't be totally sure this hadn't all been another dream, but the feeling of him now was so real, so warm, so human in the depth of his breathing and the slight dampness of his skin against yours, that you were sure no version of Kylo Ren you'd ever conjured in your dreams could feel like this.

You didn't move, didn't dare, but simply felt him encase you, afraid to break whatever spell was holding you in this moment. In a place where maybe, maybe, you could pretend that you weren't just a rank. Or a strategist, or a minuscule pawn in the grander scheme of First Order rule. Here you were a body, yes, but a body that intertwined with something beyond material. Something that laced gently with the threads of humanity behind the frozen carbonite mask of Kylo Ren, which now seemed to thaw for the smallest moment as he held you wrapped in an embrace that could almost be mistaken for tenderness.

Almost.

Your high descended on clipped wings as he finally stirred, settling colder in your stomach as he loosened his arms and you waited for whatever would happen now. He was still inside of you, and half-hard at that, but even so, you felt filled to the brim with his cum and stretched tight around him. Your body bemoaned the idea of vacancy, but if time was up, then it was up. You weren't about to push it. You started to move, shifting to lift off of him.

"No. Stay." He murmured against your neck, and you almost questioned whether your brain had shorted out and you'd misheard him. He coaxed you back against his chest with a press of his palm, and you hesitantly allowed the gentleness of it to malleate your rigid spine. Your brain misfired again as you felt the soft brush of his thumb running slowly up and down the contour of your ribs. Your pulse skipped into your throat. You didn't dare allow your body to think that this was anything akin to intimacy. You had been starved of it for so long that if you let it believe so, you might fully lose sight of the fine line you were now walking. And if you fell, it would be straight onto a saber's edge. The vibration of your body fighting against its own tension ricocheted to the walls of your pussy, and as you squeezed him slightly, you felt his cock already beginning to harden again inside you. Your breath hitched.

Kylo Ren made no acknowledgment of the exchange as he peeled his face from your neck, straightening slightly. He reached his long arms around you to grip the controls of the silencer, but didn't move the craft. He sat still. Contemplative, perhaps.

You were leaned back against his shoulder, forehead resting just by his jaw, and you dared to let your face tuck gently towards him. You waited for a reaction -- to be pushed away, for some signal that you'd overstepped. But he was still. You cautiously nestled the bridge of your nose against his neck, feeling the steady thrum of pulse there, the soft currents of breath that drifted from his nose down to trickle across your skin. You tried to memorize the warm, masculine scent of him that drifted up from his collar, magnified by body heat, stirred by the gentle tide of his breathing. Oh, how long it had been since you'd had this…

The oxytocin-riddled valleys of your mind echoed with a sudden and deadly urge to tilt up and press a soft kiss under his jaw, but a harness of fear held you still as you remembered your place, and the fragility of whatever this was. Instead, you squeezed his cock with your warmth again, a flame of lust already flickering against your belly and providing a welcome distraction from the confusion that was drawing and quartering your brain.

Ren's chest swelled with a soft "mmph" as he seemed to come out of his own trance of thought. You wondered if he'd even been listening to yours at all. He rocked his hips once, the slide of his stiffening cock making your walls leak, and you sighed. Yes. This was fine. This was simple. He pressed his hands forward, beginning to guide the craft towards the twinkling planet in no particular hurry. You gripped his thighs and rolled your hips, squeezing and riding him slowly so as not to break his concentration as he guided you both through the silent expanse of space.

Yes, it was best just to enjoy the simplicity of this. Of two bodies exorcising your respective tensions through the physical release you could pull from one another. And soon it would be over, and the chaos would resume around you, and you'd carry on like your spirits hadn't just fused like two atoms -- for a microsecond -- within a supernova of passion in the middle of space. And that was fine. That was for the best.

So you fixed yourself on that tangible goal of physical pleasure, on the rhythm of your hips, on keeping your commander nice and hard and ready for whatever he decided was next.

Because if you were good enough, then maybe.

Just maybe.

You'd earn yourself a second lesson.

***

Update: Part 2 here.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren smut #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #star wars fanfiction #first lesson #my works #masterlist

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oklcmc · 4 years ago

Text

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀،̲،̲⠀𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐀𝐓 ❪chapter cinco：hell hath no fury like a woman scorned❫ [𝟏𝟖+] 🇯🇲

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀〝⠀I don’t wanna drive when I’m TOO LIT I just wanna VIBE when I’m TOO BLOWN，⠀〞 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✱ Tory Lanez — Blowin’ Mine’s╱╱Leah’s Introduction — SKIT ❪2019❫

ׂ ̣ ○ . ° ♰ 𓈒 ॱ 𓂂WORD COUNT：10，127

ׂ ̣ ○ . ° ♰ 𓈒 ॱ 𓂂PAIRING：street fighter!black!male oc ❪keith powers❫ ✕ black!female oc ❪kelis rogers，circa ‘99❫

ׂ ̣ ○ . ° ♰ 𓈒 ॱ 𓂂FOREWARNING：this chapter will contain use of strong language，use of drugs and alcohol，violence ， infidelity and sexual content. read at your own discretion.

Flatbush，Brooklyn · Saturday，September 24 11:48 PM

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐋𝐈𝐍

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 〝⠀That's why I need a one dance ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Got a Hennessy in my hand ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀One more time ‘fore I go ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Higher powers takin’ a hold on me，⠀〞

ㅤㅤㅤ𝕬S PER MY REQUEST， THE infectious Afrobeats inflections of Drake's smash hit "One Dance" blared throughout the bashment known as "The Babylon," putting any and every active Global Citizen in attendance under a simultaneous trance. We were assembled in what seemed to be an incubator of neon blue LED lighting that illuminated our brown, black and blue complexions beautifully, thriving off nothing but top-shelf liquor, high-grade marijuana and classic Dancehall records, so I guess we all debunked Beyoncé's 2006 theory in more ways than one.

I was stationed by one of four vertical fluorescent light tubes mounted to the pillars located on the upper-level of the makeshift nightclub, my back pressed straight up against the eroded wood paneling that seemed as if it would cave in on me at any given second while I casually took sips from my own personal 750mL bottle of Don Julio 1942 Tequila.

As much as I craved to be secluded other than just mentally, I would always be accessible both, emotionally and physically to those of my crew mates and fair share of jump offs, so while Richie had been repeatedly planting both, optimistic and affectionate lines in my ear about our futures with being initiated into The Soldiers more than usual for the past forty-eight minutes and counting— Which I had only been halfway agreeing to with the use of a simple head nod— Brooklyn had been popping her ass against me with a bottle of Myx Fusions Moscato in hand, not catching a single beat! I had no clue on what was making my dick so stiff other than my alcohol intake and the fact I had been discreetly invested in the moves of some other woman on the opposite side of the room through my oversized gold rimmed prescription eyeglasses since we first entered, 'cause truthfully speaking, all that Brooklyn was doing was adding creases to my C-note's worth of that short-sleeve Polo Ralph Lauren Tiger patchwork button-down and olive green Chinos.

I had finally eased up on being so officious towards Kei and gave her the leeway to do whatever it was that she so pleased for one night, but I had began to regret it. It was the first time I had ever witnessed her be so out of character.

She was posted up in the DJ booth built on top of various rows of subwoofers, horn loudspeakers and bookshelf speakers alongside the disc jockey himself; a stout and middle-aged man of a Jamaican descent with a vibrant red and yellow split dyed afro. I guess Ronald McDonald had finally met his match. Unlike Brooklyn, Kei's slim waist and sleek legs found a stupid rhythm to work against her partner with as if she had been experienced in the art of Dancehall her entire life span, and had even dressed the part. The vintage Jamaica.. No Problem graphic souvenir V-neck T-shirt Bianca handed-down to her was now severed at the sleeves and made into a macramé muscle crop top that clung to the glistening flesh of her flat stomach and collar bone, exposing her fuchsia colorline belly ring while the lengthy rhinestone tassels sewed onto the hem of her high-cut denim shorts and the ostrich feathers laced to the hot pink over-the-knee Yves Saint Laurent Yeti 110 boots I guilt tripped myself into purchasing for her for all the harsh shit I spewed her over the last month seemingly followed her every move. Rimless retro gradient pink and yellow Butterfly framed sunglasses, Blue Lagoon cocktail, spliff, lighter in hand and all.

I was jealous, no doubt about it, and it wouldn't be my first time having that kind of emotion towards her. I had only hoped I hadn't made it obvious this time around.

"Baaaby?!" I hadn't tuned-in on Brooklyn's obnoxious way of calling out to me over the music until she was facing to the front of me.

That was definitely obvious, T.

"Yooo?!" I slurred, clearing my throat before going to readjust the prescribed specs up on the bridge of my nose, giving her my full undivided attention. "What's up, mamas?"

"I wouldn't have to repeat myself if you were listening the first time, now would I?" Her index finger pressed into my chest as her hazel lenses bored into those of my own. "I'll be right back, I'ma make a quick run for the ladies room. Hold on to these for me?" She swapped out her finger for the items held within her hands instead, which so happened to be the half-drunken bottle of moscato and a simple black lace fabric coin purse— That I had assumed only held her smartphone from the weight of it— before I could even begin to protest her demand and placed a small kiss on my right cheek that had more than likely left my face stained in her favorite shade of Amplified MAC brand lipstick. "Thanks, baby!"

"No problem. Take your time." I trailed off, seeing her and those multicolored Versace "Dvea" patent-leather platform sandals that I loved so much off to the restroom area before my eyes cut back over to the DJ booth, which was now being preoccupied by the scratching disc jockey only.

Where'd she go that fast? I thought, assuming she had finally executed her great escape from me, but soon realizing I had a watchdog posted at every corner and exit within the room and how it wasn't that difficult to spot a 5'10" goddess in hot pink boots with a beautiful toothy grin maneuvering her way through a pit of intoxicated and desperate equals to a brief interlude of DJ Khaled's "Wild Thoughts" in order to get to the bungalow themed bar with outdoor patio lights draping from it's roof and various washed-out Dancehall artists' and alcohol flyers stapled to or around it.

I know that I had previously stated how I would keep my distance and observe for the night, but I'm man enough to admit when resentment was eating at me. I wanted to at least know if the feeling were mutual, but it wouldn't happen with Brooklyn's being there, so I had best make a run for it.

Standing upright from that wall after holding it up for what felt like an eternity, but was really only an hour in real time, had me registering just what other short-term effects binge drinking had on my 6'2" frame besides enduring erections. Lightheadedness was evidently coming in second, and it nearly sent me stumbling back until Richie caught me and thankfully straightened me back out.

"Aha, woah!" Richie sarcastically snorted, grasping at my shoulders until I found my balance. "Watch yourself, ese. You good?"

"Man, I'm good," I kissed my teeth, shrugging myself from his grasp. "Don't I look good?" I scoffed, sizing him up with a slight mug. I was irritated with his comedic antics to say the least. I had women to cater to, I didn't have the time nor the patience to sit there lollygagging with him the rest of the night.

"You know what?" Richie started, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"What, Richie?! Damn!" I coaxed.

"See, that's your problem right there! You looking so hard across the damn room, you can't even see what's in front of you!"

"Are you hearing yourself right now? What are you even saying?"

"Don't try and reverse this shit on me as if you're not in the wrong here. Yeah, don't think I didn't take notice to you admiring Kei as of lately. You feeling her, huh?" I groaned, rolling my eyes in defeat. "I wouldn't even trip on you if you were being more clean about your shit and hadn't played a part in kidnapping her, but instead of that, you have a wife at home, a side chick in the bathroom and potential in-home coño at the bar, in the same setting at that, like damn, save some putas for the rest of us, cabrón. Not only that, you know how Soldier feels about that mixing business with pleasure shit after what happened to Bianca when Trent passed."

"Ah, so this what all this is about? Y'all wanting my life? O-Or how I'm supposed to regret being the nigga I am because of the death of my brother?"

"No, but it's a start. Truthfully speaking, I'm just here to watch you fuck this up."

"What?! You joked out. Do you realize who you're talkin' to right now? I majored in pandering. You should be more concerned about yourself."

"Oh, yeah? That's how you feelin'? You got it, playa. Floor's yours." He extended his arm out towards the open bar where Kei was situated at, anticipating for me to make my first move.

"Bet. Watch that." I swallowed spit, my heart brimming with adrenaline as I handed him Brooklyn's moscato and coin purse.

"I'ma let you do what you do. I'ma watch you fuck this up!" Richie taunted, watching as I took another swig of my liquid courage before completely emerging myself in a crowd of lively guests in order to get to the woman I had been lusting after since making her acquaintance back in August. I feared rejection, specifically coming from her lips now after what we had put her through this past month, but I wasn't about to turndown a challenge to do what I did best, and that's mack. "Remember, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, T!" He shouted after me.

That had to have been the most logical shit he had spoken all night, whether I chose to consider his advice or not.

"Beep, beep, Richie!" I shouted in response, indicating that he spoke too damn much.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀〝⠀So every single Summer (Hey，hey，hey) ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I'll be the one that you'll remember ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And I better find your loving，I better find your heart ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I better find your loving，I better find your heart，⠀〞

By the time I accomplished my goal of reaching the bar's hut, Drake's nostalgic "Find Your Love" record faded into the club's scene, sedating the cadence of the atmosphere. I admit that Ronald McDonald had taste. Everyone was either already paired with their desired partner or working their way towards earning one, that including me. Only I— As greedy as I was— was working on a second.

"Baby girl, I never thought I'd see the day where you picked up any beverage besides a can of ginger ale." My breath teasingly fanned over her ear while my hand caressed her bare waist for merely a few seconds prior to her turning to face me.

The expression written on her own was perplexed to say the least, the empty steel cocktail pick of what would be her fourth refill that night was still trapped between her gloss coated lips until the moment she realized who she was actually standing in front of and embarrassingly broke out into a fit of contagious giggles.

"Oh, Tyree!" She paused briefly in order to hiccup with her hand covering her mouth. "Excuse me. I thought you were someone else for a second there, and to pick up on whatever it was that you were saying before. If you wouldn't underestimate me so much and actually opened your ears to listen every once in awhile then you'd know that I'm an occasional drinker and smoker, it just depends on the event. Besides my man is a drug dealer, so that wouldn't exactly make me the typical killjoy."

"Is that so?"

"Mmhm." She gave me a lopsided smirk as she finally took a sip out of her drink.

"Well you're gonna have to prove it to me," I reached for her dainty hand and did a brief salsa two-step as Wayne Wonder's "No Letting Go" commenced. "Out on the dancefloor."

"I don't think so, sir." She snorted, pulling away from me.

"Why? You scared? Or does Ronald McDonald have something that I don't?"

"None of the above. I have nothing to fear, but you on the other hand... Don't you have a date with Tracey Barbie or something?"

"Funny," I chuckled, raising my eyebrows in amusement. "Actually she had somewhere to be."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Then explain why she's approaching us in a jealous rage right now with Richie trailing not too far behind her?"

"What?" I whispered, dumbfounded, only to turn around and have my jaw connecting with Brooklyn's Famous four-finger ring. I ended up falling back into Kei's arms with my glasses misplaced.

Damn, that shit packed a lot of power.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Tyree?!" Brooklyn shouted, causing more than a few onlookers to form a tight circle around us.

"Ah," I groaned, shifting my jaw in order to get it loosed as I attempted to pull myself together in front of the crowd of complete strangers. "Baby, it wasn't even like that!"

"T, man, I tried to hold her back—" Richie began to explain only to be cut short.

"Bullshit, Tyree! It is like that! It's already an inconvenience that the little bitch is livin' under the same roof as you; sleepin' in the same bed as you and eating the same food as you! I mean, I can't even go to the damn bathroom for ten minutes without you tryna get your dick wet by somebody else! You're sick!"

"Tyree, you better get her 'fore I do, 'cause I'ma hurt her feelings!" Kei warned with her drink in hand.

"BK, could we please discuss this someplace else?" I gritted harshly, snatching her up by her upper arm.

"No, Tyree!" Brooklyn screamed, snatching away from me before glaring me down. "What?! You embarrassed now?! You better get this hoe in line or—"

"Or what?!" Kei challenged with her eyes slit, and Brooklyn had almost seemed flabbergasted that she was actually brave enough to have done so. "That's what I thought." The crowd slowly began to disperse, giving Kei the opportunity of escapism, but everyone in that venue, including myself knew that Brooklyn wasn't going to let that sly comment slide without putting up a fight.

"Not so fast, bitch!" Brooklyn waited until the very moment Kei was near the weak wooden barrier of the top floor to charge at her and shove her frail body straight through it. The planks and the heel on one of her boots snapped on impact and with no support from the crowd, Kei's back and cocktail was smacking the floorboards within seconds, causing her to emit the most excruciating groan.

I had no ability to put a stop to the chaos that was happening around me. I truly felt for Kei until like a Phoenix, I witnessed her rise from the ashes. My eyes never once departed from her as she stumbled around the pit a bit in order to pull the boots from her bare feet with so much infuriation in her eyes.

If Brooklyn hadn't been so set on shouting at me, she would've probably had enough time to brace herself for impact when Kei went to pull her down into the pit along with her by the leather Roberto Cavalli crop jacket that she was sporting. Instead she lost her balance in those Versace platforms she hardly knew how to walk in to begin with and hit the ring's floorboards probably harder than Kei had.

The very second Brooklyn hit the floor, she was seeking to avoid confrontation by crawling her way to a possible escape route, but unfortunately for her, the crowd was already enclosed around them and showed no signs of dispersing this time around.

"Yeah, don't try to run," We onlookers all found ourselves gasping in disbelief when Kei went to dig her fingers through Brooklyn's Barbie blonde inverted bob and began to forcefully yank her up on her own two until her wig was literally sliding back. "When this is exactly what your ass wanted!" Two straight punches to her narrow nose and Brooklyn's body was smacking the floorboards, yet again, within a matter of seconds.

I didn't think that Kei had it in her, but here we were. Maybe I have been underestimating her. To say I was somewhat proud was an understatement.

"Woo-hoo-hoo!" Richie exclaimed, grabbing my shoulders for support as he began leaping in midair and rattling my body in excitement. "T, you're a fuckin' genius! I'll never doubt you again! A girlfight between your two side pieces?! I mean, who would've thought?! That chica's gonna bring The Soldiers a lot of revenue! I'm gonna take up bets before it's too late! Keep up the good work, ese! You're the man!" He pointed before stepping down from the platform and routing his way towards the DJ booth.

I don't think Richie truly understood the gravity of the entire situation. I wouldn't exactly say that I wasn't the cause and effect of it all, but Brooklyn and Kei shared a mutual resentment towards one another since being acquainted, so this was bound to have went down regardless of my input. Leave it up to him to always have some get money quick scheme up his sleeve.

I could only flick my wrist in his direction in the most nonchalant manner before averting my attention back on the catfight transpiring in front of me.

Brooklyn hadn't tapped out like everyone, including myself, had expected of her to do after eating her words in the first round, and Kei showed no signs of taking it easy on her anytime soon either.

Kei hooked her left fist into Brooklyn's jaw twice then came a right hook aimed directly for her lips, splitting them open with her radiant cut beryl ring before she went to reach for Brooklyn's shoulders in order to set her next attack in motion. Once Brooklyn caught wind of this, it was a wrap. She broke free of Kei's grapple, snaking her arms beneath hers and going to reach for her left shoulder instead. Brooklyn had finally successfully landed a combo attack that night; a uppercut punch and a weak attempt at a push kick that sent Kei stumbling back towards either of the four glowing pillars standing in the center of the room.

"Let's get dis paypa ting started for mi bredren, Richie, ay?! Place yuh bets on di bad gyals fight!" The sound boy announced, dapping Richie up shortly afterwards. I see he had finally reached his destination.

I don't think anyone in attendance had truly came prepared when some ignorant motherfuckers decided that it would be a brilliant idea to trigger the fire sprinklers in the ceiling of the building by use of their lighters, causing the liquid filled bulbs built inside the sprinkler heads to bust and pellets of water to hose over us. Some individuals went seeking an escape from the deluge, but majority of the crowd accepted it, coming out of their top layers of clothing as if they were cast in an 2000's Nelly music video. This had to have been the first shower some of them had taken in weeks, 'cause the atmosphere was quite musty. Luckily I had worn my Vintage White & Indigo leather Vans tonight of all nights, otherwise I'd be lethal.

You would've assumed that the downpour would've been enough to make the two women scatter, but in actuality that had only fueled them to be more vicious towards each other. It was getting grimy.

By this time Brooklyn had came up out her leather jacket, indicating that the fight was not yet finished. This had only made it easier for Kei to grab the back of her solid black fitted T-shirt and the hem of her Sass & Bide fishnet leggings before colliding her knee with her nose, causing blood to leak onto the floorboards. Kei launched Brooklyn's frail body into the light pole of either pillar as if she was using her own personal entry ram, causing it's energy to drain completely. She immediately went to snatch it from it's socket and was seconds away from cracking it across Brooklyn's dome until she took cover and began to crawl away once again.

Once way or another, Kei was going to catch up with her, and did, cracking her straight across the back, causing the pole to shatter on impact and Brooklyn's body to collapse against the floor. That was the very moment that I had realized that Henry and I had awakened a beast. She was out for blood.

"Bomboclaat!" The sound boy provoked.

I watched as Kei spat blood on the floor directly beside Brooklyn's head before going to stomp her foot directly into her side, turning her on her back and crouching over top of her limp body. When she began to front hand and back hand slap her repeatedly as if she wasn't unconscious already, that's when I knew I would have to step in since no one else bothered to do so.

"Aight, clear the way!" I demanded, carefully leaping down from the platform and pushing my way through the crowd until reaching the center where all the action took place at. "C'mon, baby girl. That's enough fighting for one night. You won." I admitted, retrieving her boots from the floor before wrapping my arm around her waist and going to drag her off to the side with ease while Slim and Tec assisted in escorting Brooklyn off the premises. I bet that'd be Brooklyn's last time ever laying a finger on another woman without knowing how to throw hands again.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀〝⠀More than a million miles away ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀More than a million words to say，ohhh ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Now and forever and ever ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Will be just you and me，⠀〞

The soothing voice of Jah Cure faded into the scene, putting everyone at ease after witnessing a brutal ass whooping. They resumed their regularly scheduled programming as if nothing had ever happened, and I wished the same for myself.

"You aight?" I smirked, gently stroking Kei's chin with my free hand while the other remained pressed against the wall beside her head. She was definitely going to be my good luck charm from here on out.

"No, Tyree!" She scoffed in disbelief, jerking her head in the opposite direction as my hand before glaring at me in pure disgust. "I was just attacked by the same bitch you called yourself scrolling in here with and now you're comforting me while she's being dragged out? I mean, how does that sound or look to you?! You're as twisted as she said you were."

"Things move pretty fast in the underground, I admit—"

"Oh, save that bullshit for some other dumb broad!" She spat, throwing her hand up in my face. Her pink eyebrows were furiously knitted together, the water from the sprinkler positioned above our heads was still hitting against her pouting face while her damn curls clung to her cheeks. She couldn't get anymore prettier.

"Look, I'm—" I started to say something you almost rarely caught leaving my mouth until Richie intruded.

"Yo, I don't mean to interrupt y'all little session, but Soldier called a meeting at The Nata." Richie stated breathlessly.

"Right now?!" I bellowed.

"Yup," He patted my shoulder before jogging the small staircase. "See y'all there!"

Kei was seconds away from following in his footsteps until I grabbed her hand and pulled her back. After all, this would be her first time coming face to face with our boss, so I couldn't fault her excitement, but I came first being that I had provided her with everything else.

"Where you going? You still owe me a dance."

"What about the meeting?" She sighed, knowing I wouldn't give up until she gave in.

"It can wait. You're not going to leave me stranded again, are you?" I smirked and moved to the beat of the song just long enough for her to break character by laughing before I began reeling her into the middle of the dancefloor.

"I guess not." She giggled.

Vinegar Hill，Brooklyn · Sunday，September 25 2:54 AM

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐊𝐄𝐈 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀〝⠀Give you ice like Kobe wife ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀We sorta like Goldie，right? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The way we mold 'em right ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I could make you a celebrity overnight!⠀〞

ㅤㅤㅤ𝕬S IF THE VOLUME INCREASE on the stereo of that custom painted 2010 Audi S4 weren't enough, Tyree was reciting every lyric he could memorize to Twista's "Overnight Celebrity" at the top of his lungs, into his iPhone's camera through the Snapchat app.

He was completely shirtless, his Polo button-down left to air-dry on the headrest of the driver's seat I was seated in while he carelessly threw back the bottle of Casamigos Soldier supplied us with back The Nata, some managing to escape his bottom lip and drip onto his toned chest. Every now and again he'd call himself copping a feel with me by reaching over to grip my thighs while I was focused on the road and I'd be the one prying them right back off, like now.

"Tyree, please. Okay?" I sighed out, prying his hand from my thigh before going to reach over him in order to feed his seatbelt plate through it's loop all while keeping my eyes on the road ahead. "We're almost home." I assured him as I buckled him in as if I were caring for a child.

My bruised knuckles anxiously drummed against the steering wheel while my eyes skimmed over the rear-view for any sign of cops as I reflected on how we got into this predicament in the first place.

After me and Tyree's brief intermission back at The Babylon, what I assumed would finally be my proper initiation into The Soldiers family had turned out to be nothing more than a pat on the back for me and another useless celebratory afterparty for them. Everything about tonight felt ass-backwards and risky. I was paid under-the-table and we were celebrating, but for what? Yes, I beat Brooklyn's ass, but because she was infamous for throwing rocks and hiding her hands, not because she was apart of The Stallions and definitely not for Tyree. So while everyone was going past their alcohol limit, I was left to sober up enough to get Tyree and I home. Wherever the fuck that was.

Between avoiding temptation to misroute while following the directions that Bianca had given me to get back to Vinegar Hill without actually having my license or registration on me, going the correct speed limit, looking out for cops on Tyree's behalf again and keeping him under control, my nerves were shot to hell! It were the only night I had actually wished that Lamar were on duty. This shit was a whole 'nother job.

I knew I had finally reached our destination once making out the overfamiliar confined and abandoned parking lot sandwiched between our apartment building and another. I quickly chose a space furthest from the backstreet to remain discreet but closest to our complex so it wouldn't be such a hassle tryna get this man inside, safe and sound before putting the gear shift in park and killing the engine.

"Lord Jesus, please give me the strength to get through the rest of the night with this man." I spoke a quick affirmation barely above a whisper before reaching down to unfasten me and Tyree's seatbelt when realizing that he was slipping into a drunk slumber just that fast. As much as I wanted him to stay in that position for the remainder of the night, I knew I couldn't possibly make it to the third floor carrying all our items plus his body mass alone. I needed his assistance.

I reached my arm back, snatching his button-down from the headrest before going to wrap my sunglasses, lighter, his eyeglasses, keys and smartphone that once sat in the car sole or his hand within it, creating a bindle. I retrieved my boots from the floor in the back before pulling the inner handle of the driver's seat door and allowing the soles of the backup holographic wrap around Diamante bow square toe heels to hit the pavement. I circled my way around to the passenger side door after slamming my own to find Tyree stuck between a state of wakefulness and sleep.

"Yo, what time is it?" He slurred with his bloodshot eyes halfway closed shut.

"Time for bed! Now, help me out here, Tyree," I grunted, positioning his scrawny legs so that they were hanging outside the parked vehicle and pulling his arm over my shoulder before using using whatever strength I had in me to pull him straight up beside me. "Upsy-daisy!" I expressed, trying my very hardest not to tilt over with all his weight leaning up against me as if I was a damn support post. "Are you okay? Can you walk?" I interrogated, wrapping my brimming arm around his torso, giving him even more of an advantage to crush me.

His choice of tequila, Calvin Klein cologne and Degree antiperspirant were all invading my senses at once. We were so close at one point in time, I thought we'd conjoin.

"Yeah, yeah." He assured me, but his Vans skidding against the pavement said otherwise.

If we at least made it to the elevator then I'd feel a little sense of relief.

I was accustomed to the routine by now. I was sure to check our surroundings before entering the building I had adapted to calling my second home before dragging the both of us inside the overfamiliar caged elevator. The rusted accordion door creaked once I went to pull it close and smack the button for the third floor before me and his back smacked the back panel of the shaft the second we took off. No lift music to distract me from the fact, so Tyree hummed his own sequence until we reached our floor. That being Lloyd's "Player's Prayer."

How ironic? I thought, shaking my head.

As if hoisting him wasn't already a hassle within itself, there were a plethora of unnecessary locks just waiting to be picked by me. While I was praying that Isaiah hadn't placed the door chains on for the night, I had kind of hoped that he had. I'd find any old excuse to knock and get assistance at this point in time. My shoulders were practically begging for release!

I kicked in the door of the apartment, careless of any other occupant whom might've been resting inside. Hell, they should've been used to the racket at these hours.

Feeling as if I would collapse at any given second, I had no time to spare in shutting the door back closed. I staggered through the living room area as quickly as possible, leaving my boots at the door, dropping the bindle off on the marble countertop of the kitchen island and falling back onto the leather sofa along with Tyree with an sigh of relief, but I knew my work here was yet completed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓

ㅤㅤㅤ𝕿YREE HAD ADJUSTED HIMSELF SO that his lanky figure was slouching into the leather interior of the couch, creating friction as his onyx irises were intensely boring into Kei's through his hooded eyelids the very second she went to anchor herself onto her knees in front of him. His top alignment of teeth had almost immediately closed in over his bottom lip as he interlocked his fingers behind his head in order to restrict himself from impulsively doing something he had been contemplating on the entire night.

What he was envisioning as some faulty submissive fantasy in his intoxicated state of mind had only been Kei unlacing the shoestrings of his Vans and going to pull them from his feet in her reality, leaving him in nothing but his Pokémon crew socks and Chinos. She found it quite amusing how a man who tried his very best to be an aggressor could still thoroughly enjoy his fair share of old school Anime.

Kei safely set his tennis shoes aside and used the seat of the couch as a support system to help pull herself up before going to reach for the half-drunken bottle of Casamigos within his hand.

"I'll be right back." As soon as she went to turn her back on him, there was a harsh smack against her backside that caused her to glance back at him grinning in pure disgust. Kei knew her choice in tonight's clothing pieces were a little high-cut, but that didn't give him the right to lay hands on her. He was a totally different breed when this intoxicated, and he had to have his way with her.

She carried out her failed plan from earlier before she was so rudely interrupted; going to close and place the locks back on the door before making her way into the confined kitchen area where she emptied the remainder of the tequila down the sink's drain and disposed of the bottle. They didn't need anymore occurrences such as this one happening for a very long time.

She grabbed one of the Fiji water bottles stashed away in the door of the tall freestanding larder fridge and went to grab the bottle of 800 milligram Ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet of their bathroom before coming back to take a well-needed seat next to Tyree.

"Okay, Tyree. Take and wash this down." Once unscrewing the top from the water bottle and shaking one of the oversized tablets into the palm of her hands, Kei passed the items on to Tyree. She watched intently as if she were monitoring a psychiatric patient as he skillfully placed the pill on the back of his tongue and went to wash it down the second he decided that he wanted to ask her a question.

"Kei..." Tyree choked. "Kei, I have to tell you something."

"Okay," Kei tried to choke back laughter as she went to push the bottle back towards his lips so that he could wash the pill down completely. "Whatever it is that you so urgently have to tell can wait until after this medicine is in your system. I'm the very last person you'd want to suffocate on, trust me. I don't know any CPR techniques."

"Well with what I'm 'bout to say, hopefully you won't be the one who needs it," Tyree went to set his water bottle down on the glass coffee table in front of them before giving Kei his full undivided attention, and that's when she knew he meant business. "Kei, I think... I think I'm feelin' you." He ran his tongue over his lips as he rubbed his clammy palms together in apprehension all while keeping eye contact with the young woman.

Kei allowed a nervous giggle to escape her lips as she quickly tried to think of a response to his confession. She stressed that if she responded with mutual feeling then he'd do something impulsive and if she responded with rejection then he'd break, so she chose to play it off, but the truth of the matter was that he was more nervous than she was.

"Of course you're feeling me, you've been feelin' on me the entire night." Kei played it coy, running her fingers through her damp curls before interlocking her fingers in her lap and looking straight forward. She was in desperate need of an actual shower after that rain shower back at The Babylon.

"No..." He sighed out, shaking his head frustration while shutting his eyes for a split second as he felt his head spinning. He was trying his very hardest not to intimidate the teenager for once. "No, Kei. I mean, like on an intimate level. You get me?" Tyree's hand went from caressing Kei's thigh to holding her hand, and she had snatched back just as quick as he had came.

"Tyree, I-I don't want to do this right now. We can discuss it later, but right now you're drunk and—"

"I'm not drunk, Kei!" He shouted, but quickly piped down when seeing her flinch. "I-I'm just passionate about what I say, so when I tell you that I love you I—"

"You what, Tyree?! You mean it?! Are you going to confess that to every beautiful woman you spot at a nightclub and decide to hold hostage?! Huh?! Answer—" Tyree's hand palmed the back of Kei's neck, bringing her face closer to his so that he could seize the opportunity to smash his lips on hers before she could protest any further.

Her fists were restrained between the both of them. They could distinguish the tequila, vodka and cherry infused lip gloss lingering on each other's lips as the kiss grew more intense.

Adultery is what it was. Falling for her abductor was out of the question, Kei knew it was and somewhere deep down inside Tyree's fucked up brain, he knew so too, but she couldn't help but relish the thought of an older man dominating what he thought was his, even if just for a moment.

"Tyree, stop..." Kei mumbled into the kiss, pushing against his bare chest, but he hadn't budged. Just pushed her further by lingering his kisses down to her neck. "I said stop!" She shouted, shoving him back onto the couch before her hand impulsively came flying across his face. It wasn't until then that he had noticed the tears staining her face.

She leapt up from her seat on the couch and staggered her way over to the kitchen's island with her fingers pinching the septum of her tinted nose.

She couldn't believe she took it that far with Tyree. She couldn't fathom being unfaithful to Antonio. It would already be jeopardizing enough having to explain the loss of their child in these circumstances, but having an affair with another man would officially end it!

"This is so wrong." She sniffed, needing a distraction from the previous situation, and getting that bindle untied seemed ideal in the moment.

Her hands went from gripping the perimeter of the countertop to getting the bindle unloosened. The way her nerves were set up, every item wrapped within the fabric slid off the countertop and hit the kitchen titles, that including the dress shirt itself. She was grateful that none of the fragile items had shattered once bending her knees to retrieve them, but something unexpected garnered her attention. A metallic gold wrapper peeping from the patch pocket of Tyree's button-down that she could've easily mistaken as a condom upon careful examination.

Royal Honey?

The sticky substance webbed through the tips of her fingers as she spread them apart in curiosity until finally coming to conclusion on what it truly was. Vital honey. A liquid enhancement used to increase male stamina. She got wind of the trend back in Harlem by her fellow peers, but never bothered engaging in it. It was a wonder why Tyree was all over her like a mule in heat, he was strung out on a combination of tequila and liquid Viagra! Now the only question was if this was intentional or an accident?

"Tyree?" The young woman called out to the man who had been quietly stripping from his Chinos the moment she went to turn her back on him. She stood up with his shirt still pressed against her heaving chest, and Tyree thought it'd be the perfect chess move to corner her into the counter.

He picked up where he left off at, sweeping her curls off to one side so he'd have access to trail wet kisses up the back of her neck. The action causing her to unexpectedly cave and loose grip of not only the items, but what she initially wanted to ask him in the first place. His lasting erection was so evident against her ass in this position and the only thing that stood between them now were their clothes.

"Tyree, please..." Kei gritted back a moan, refusing to give him the benefit of the doubt until his tongue came trailing over the most sensitive area of her neck. His eyes rolling back as if it would be the sweetest thing he tasted on her body that night.

She thought she'd go into sensory overload when his hand went from pushing back her hair to snaking around her larynx, applying minimum pressure at the same time, causing her to reach for his forearm with both hands. It was tantalizing and had her soaking the seat of her panties within seconds, but little did she know, it wouldn't be her last time doing this tonight.

The fingertips of his free hand teasingly danced around the folded waist band of her unbuttoned Daisy Dukes. He finished off the job by unzipping them. It was then she became self-conscious once recollecting the last time she actually had a wax treatment or picked up a razor other than for her legs or armpits.

"Tyree, please don't!" She shrieked, feeling her cheeks become flushed. "I—"

"I know and I don't care," His breath fanned over her ear as his slender fingers were finally able to slip between her sleek folds. "You've got to be crazy enough to think anything's coming between me and taming this sweet little pussy of yours, Kei." He planted a gentle kiss behind her ear as his fingers finally strummed against her clit, making her weak at the knees.

There was always words of affection being exchanged between her and Antonio when in the bedroom in the past— Pillow talk, if you may— so what Tyree had just spoken to her almost sounded foreign. Degrading in a way, but she thoroughly enjoyed it.

"Mmm... Aah!" Kei couldn't seem to bring a stop to the strand of moans parting her lips as the palm of her hands came down on the granite countertops in front of them more than a few times. She felt as if she were being stripped down to her own promiscuity.

He found it amusing how she tried so desperately hard to restrain herself from him when in the end, he'd wind up winning this game of Cat and Mouse.

"You've known me long enough to know I don't tolerate that humming shit," He hooked his index finger through the back loop of her shorts, turning her to face him. "Speak, Kei." He demanded.

"I— I..." Kei was at a lost of words yet again. A unsteady sigh parting her lips as she intently watched him slip his hand from her shorts and bring his fingers to his lips just to sample her arousal. This man was a whole demon out here. "The honey in your shirt pocket..." She blinked.

"What about it?" His hands was back around her throat in no time, applying more pressure than the first time, causing her breath to hitch as he bought her in for another hungry kiss.

"Is... It... Yours?" Kei managed to pant out every word spoken between the aggressive pecks Tyree was planting against her lips. She hadn't noticed him drawing their bodies back towards the couch in the midst of holding a conversation until he pulled back in order to answer her question.

"No. Now I'm tired of talking. Take off your shorts and panties so I can really get to work on that pussy." He licked over his lips, releasing her throat from his grasp with a slight shove that caused her fragile body to fall back into the couch with a slight bounce.

He could care less whether or not someone had slipped something in his drink at that point, he had built up an increased five-hour sexual appetite that immediately required fulfillment by her, but Kei couldn't possibly. Some one had set her up big time.

Kei's eyes bounced around the overfamiliar area of the spacious living room as she hesitantly reached for the straps of her heels with her heart out her chest.

"Tyree, maybe we shouldn't do this out in the open like this. What if Isa—"

"This is my crib and I'ma eat you wherever the fuck I please," He bellowed, intimidatingly overshadowing her with his right hand slipping halfway past the waistband of his Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs. "Now keep the heels, loose the shorts and panties. Don't make me have to ask again."

Kei knew better than to press him further. She swallowed spit, hoisting her hips in midair in order to hook her thumbs around the handles of her shorts and panties before guiding them down her smooth calves with ease.

"Lay back and spread ya legs for me." He directed, a goofy smile playing on his supple lips.

Both Kei's hands slid between her inner thighs, cupping her most prized possession before she eased her upper body back against the cushions of the couch. Even the sound that the sofa produced when her soft skin chafed against it had her flushed with embarrassment rather than the fact that she was opening herself up to another man, but he was gonna work that shy shit right out of her.

"Like this?" She murmured.

Tyree could only shake his head in disappointment at the timid young woman as he finally kneeled before her. He was tired of the games.

"No," His veiny hands impatiently caught the back of her right calf, dragging her body to the edge of the seat, causing her upper half to completely recline against the cushions before bringing her leg over his shoulder. "Like this."

Her hands impulsively went from cupping her sex to digging into the arm and cushion of the couch in order to bring herself back up, but Tyree refused to let her go that easy. She hadn't felt so vulnerable in front of another individual until now.

"The fuck you runnin' for? I ain't even do shit."

Kei parted her lips to retort only to swallow her words with a moan once he went to thrust his middle finger inside her. Initially just testing the firmness of her grip, he immediately regretted doing so once he went to pull back and witnessed her draw him right back in. Giving him that vacuum action he was so desperately seeking.

"So fucking tight." Tyree was in awe of her, trapped under his own hypnosis as his free hand gripped her thigh in order to keep her stilled with his head resting against the same area. His lips were pressed against the ticklish area of her pelvic bone when he went to add another finger to her mix.

"Ooh, Tyree!" Kei shrieked, her stomach flexing at his penetration. "That feels s-so good!" Her hands inched beneath her top in order to knead the flesh of what little breasts she did have, his dick twitching within his briefs at that display. All that shy shit was out the window then.

Her clit ached for attention at that point and he was desperate enough to provide that. The pad of his thumb gently swiped between the folds of her sleek labia, toying with her clit enough to make it swell. Her opaque cream collecting at the base of his fingers where his gold ring bands rested at as he simultaneously picked up his pace, really working those deep moans right out of her.

"You gon' let me taste you?" He seductively whispered through her state of euphoria, still holding intense eye contact with her.

"Please?" She whimpered, her body writhing against the couch for release as she didn't hesitate on bringing his face closer to her dripping mound using both hands.

Since she had asked him so politely, his lips closed in over her aching clit, creating a tight suction with his index and middle finger still working through her needy pussy. With her eyes screwed shut and her jaw left unhinged, Kei locked his head in place while momentarily accepting the pleasure that came out of that until it came to him changing the course of action.

He swiftly slipped his fingers out of her and cleaned them off before his large hands smoothed up the back of her left thigh, locking her knee against her chest as his tongue repeatedly glided over her clit. Her body responded well to this, her arousal dripping down her crack and leaking onto the seat. He couldn't believe she held him off from something as sweet as this, but it was worth the wait.

"Uhh, Tyree, I'm cum'n! Shiiiiit!" Her nails dug into the leather of the seat again as she went to slide back in order to alleviate some of the pressure from his tongue, but with his nails digging into her ass cheeks to keep her in place, that was nearly impossible.

"If you gon' cum then cum, but don't keep runnin' from me." He dragged her back in place and took this time to lap at her clit instead, feeding off the cadence of her pleads.

The sheer excitement of being caught in that predicament and the gushing sounds her body produced, bouncing off the four walls of the room, had her spraying against his chin in no time. Tyree left the teen in tears, seeing and hearing nothing but white noise. Even with her thighs conjoining in overstimulation, he made sure to clean her before letting up.

Tyree wasted no time standing on his own two before coming out his briefs, his solid dick effortlessly slapping against his stomach with precum. It had an evident hook that already made her want to run. How would all of it ever fit inside her?

"Tyree—" Kei started, already climbing up the back cushions of the couch until his hand caught her ankle.

"Shut up," He muttered, pressing his right knee into the seat and pulling her body close to his while his free hand lubricated his shaft in precum. "Told you 'bout that runnin' shit."

He dragged his tip across her sensitive clit more than a few times in preparation before slipping inside her without an ounce of contraceptives. The initial penetration had them both shuttering in pure bliss. Kei's hand abruptly pressed against his abdomen in hopes that he'd ease up, but that moment never came.

"Move your fuckin' hand, Kei." He sucked in a sharp breath, his hand immediately groping her neck the very moment he drew his hips back and came back down onto her with so much force that the couch slid back. He repeated this action, her clit sticking to his pelvis and her pussy releasing necessary air from how wet she was each time until he found a steady rhythm against her. He pounded her out, steadily reaching for that spot.

Kei felt winded as she felt for anything to hold onto; a throw pillow, her breasts or his arm for one, but he pulled her away with a vengeance every time. No running.

"Fuck, daddy... Not on the couch!" She whined, unaware of what she was truly saying.

Tyree watched in amusement as she convulsed beneath him. Her frizzy curls clinging to her beaming face due to the humidity of the room as her eyes rolled back. His thumb traced her bottom lip, pulling it back before spitting directly into her mouth.

"Yeah, on this couch, baby girl. You taking all of daddy's dick, huh?" He watched her breasts bounce to the cadence of his strokes and her cream slide off on his shaft before his forehead and lips touched hers. The Sacramento pendant of his chain resting on the indents of her collarbone, causing her to quiver from it's chilling sensation.

Kei nodded vigorously to his previous question, tears forming in her eyes and her hand slapping his wrists the moment she felt him slip deeper insider her, if possible. She had never been turned out before, not even by her own boyfriend. This was grown man dick and she'd be damned if any one else shared any parts in it from that moment on. She was hooked.

"Make a mess with that pussy. Give me all of it."

Those few words were all it took for her to leak onto his dick and the couch. Tyree followed suit inside her womb not even a second after delivering a few more hard thrusts with a violent groan. His hand groped his shaft, tapping himself against her clit a few times before he pressed his lips against hers.

"Can you teach me?" Kei's eyes innocently peered into his as her index finger traced his sculpted jawline before hooking around his chain.

"Teach you what?" Genuine confusion leaked throughout his baritone voice as his eyebrows stitched together.

She briefly nibbled on her bottom lip in apprehension before answering his question, truthfully.

"How to please you?"

Tyree hadn't given her a direct response, but Kei took the hint once he went to position himself on the end of the couch with one hand stretched across the back cushions and his dick resting in the other.

"On your knees." He ordered, licking over his lips, causing her clit to pulsate.

Kei leaped from her spot on the sofa off a pure adrenaline rush as she was finally comfortable enough to peel her top over her head and toss it onto the recliner. She used his knees as assistance to get down on her own. Her hands repeatedly ran over her thighs to pace herself as she anticipated her next set of instructions.

Tyree could only admire how beautiful she was in that position. He ran his tip along her smooth lips before tapping it against her for an invitation in.

"Open those pretty ass lips up."

She obliged direct orders, parting her lips so he'd have the freewill to slide his dick into her warm mouth. Her tongue impulsively running over the slit of his head to collect any of their leftover juices before her lips closed in over him fully, causing him to tense up from the sensitivity.

"Fuck yeah. Just like that, baby girl. Clean your dick off." His fingers tangled within her hair so he'd have the advantage to guide his length further down her throat.

Her lips were unyielding around him as she caught on to his rhythm and started doing the shit on her own. What she thought couldn't accommodate to her mouth was being squeezed by her dainty hands as she proceeded to throw neck.

There was a moment in time where her jaw tired out, causing her lips to pop off of him with a thick cord of saliva trailing not too far behind. She teasingly licked every visible vein around him while jerking her wrists as if she was working a shake weight. Tyree became bored of it rather vastly.

"I'm not with these games, Kei. Move your hands and open your mouth so you can catch all this dick."

Kei restricted her hands back to her lap and welcomed his length back into the warmth of her mouth with much attitude. She relaxed with her jaw slacked, giving him the access to mercilessly fuck her throat. Her eyes rolled back, watering with ever deep thrust that touched her uvula. Saliva uncontrollably dripped onto her chin and chest as she gagged on him.

"Mmm." She moaned around him as her fingers found her clit. She was getting off from this, and that told him that this wasn't her first time experimenting with this.

They both would reach the peaks that they had needed simultaneously; Tyree's load shooting down her throat and Kei's leaking onto the carpet. He didn't even have to ask for confirmation that she swallowed all his kids as she stuck her tongue out for further examination. That was so sexy to him.

"Shit, ma. C'mere." His fingers found that comforting place around the base of her neck yet again as he leaned down to suck on her tongue before bringing her on to her feet.

They both unconsciously leaned back into the couch in the spur-of-the-moment. Kei found herself taking charge this time around; mounting herself on top of him before aligning him at her entrance and slamming herself down onto him unexpectedly hard like any true amateur would do, her forehead pressed against his with her eyelids fluttering. Her lips departed from his with a shattering moan. Her body convulsed above him as her hands gripped the back of the couch.

"Sorry," She breathed, pressing her lips against his again. "You got me so sensitive, baby."

Tyree bought his mouth to her full breasts, clamping his teeth over her erect nipples the moment his fingers squeezed at her hips to bring her down onto his dick repeatedly. Her walls hugged him with every bounce as her juices coated him in the sweetest glaze. She paused all action momentarily to bring his arms beneath her thighs, wanting him to take control again.

"That's what we on now?" He showed improvement where she lacked. Grabbing handfuls of her ass as he effortlessly slammed her into his pelvis. He stood up with this action, her arms locked around his neck as her body writhed. She couldn't even make it to the bedroom threshold before she was helplessly leaking all over him yet again.

Tyree absentmindedly slipped from her grip, causing her to clench at his absence as he allowed her fragile body to fumble into the clean sheets of their King sized mattress. He hardly allowed her to fully recuperate from her fifth orgasm that night as he caught her ankle and proceeded to flip her onto her stomach, bringing her into a strong arch that had her back dimples on display, just how he liked it. He was going to tear her apart.

He positioned himself behind her with his teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. His heavy hand came cracking down on her bare ass a few times, causing her to wince as he pushed into her overworked pussy without warning. He bottomed out in her cervix, causing her arm to fly back with a powerful gasp.

She initially reached for his chest, but ended up digging into his forearm instead as he restrained her. She felt her nude polish chipping against his skin as effortlessly pulled her back further onto his dick. Her ass rippling against his torso and his balls slapping against her clit from such force.

"Aah, Tyree! You're in my stomach!" Kei shrieked with her face smushed into the mattress and tears pooling her eyes. She couldn't move and the sheer fear of it had her ready to bust.

Tyree took it up a notch, spreading her cheeks and spitting directly on her asshole before slipping his middle finger into her back entrance. The double penetration causing her to cry out loud.

"Mmhm. Throw that ass back." He demanded, beating her pussy to a pulp. Sweat beads were forming along his hairline as his jaw clenched in concentration. "You love me?"

"Yes, yes, yes! I love you so fuckin' much! Fuck! I love daddy's dick!" She slurred, her arch lessening as she melted into the mattress and weakly began to meet with his quick thrashes against her.

"You here to stay, you hear me?" His hand was wrapping around the base of her hair with no response, yanking her head back into his chest so that he could mark his territory by leaving bite marks and hickeys all over her neck. "Do you fuckin' hear me?!"

"Yesss, daddy! I wanna cum so bad!" She whined with tears staining her face.

"Cum then, bitch." Tyree became vexed with the young woman holding off from herself after their first encounter, so he gave her a few more encouraging slaps to her beaming ass until she finally eased up on clawing at the burning flesh of his veiny arm.

His aggressiveness caused her body to seize against him. She was squirting against his pelvis and the clean bedsheets nonstop as he shot inside her womb for the second time that night, finally reaching his peak while off a deadly combination of liquid Viagra and hard liquor.

He turned the young woman loose from his hold, allowing her fragile body to hit the soaked bedsheets once more as he finally grounded himself when overhearing her light snores. She was finished, and so was he.

He generously unfastened the crystal ankle straps of her pumps before pulling them from her feet so she'd be able to rest comfortably while he went to shower off their late session and gently went to press his lips against hers. She was, without a doubt in his mind, his to keep.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ elephant man，circa 2003 as 𝐆𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍

⤷ occupation：disc jockey

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀YOU’LL DISCOVER...

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 SEIS，PRT 𝟏╱𝟐⠀⦂⠀﹅⠀HIGH 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐒⸝ 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 REWARDS.⠀﹅

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀HERE!

#┃⠀･｡ﾟ☆⠀〝‘cause it’s hard to creep them brooklyn streets.〞⠀⠀╱ ⠀⠀꒰⠀𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬╱𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐚：﹅ 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐭. ﹅⠀꒱#oh-lcmcr #keith powers #keith powers fic #kelis #urban ff #urban fanfic #streetlit #contemporary lit #black authors #poc writers #djffny #def jam: fight for ny #def jam fight for ny #nicki minaj #elephant man #smut

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bush-viper-cutie · 4 years ago

Text

Garlic Chips

Pairing: young!snape x reader

Word Count: 1,550

Rating: E for Everyone

Plot: You drag Severus down to Hogsmeade with you to enjoy the day with him. Some warm snacks, a spot by the frozen lake, and snow falling all around you. What could be better?

Warnings: None

A/N: This time it is not in Sev’s POV, I felt it was cuter if it was in yours :) For Snape Appreciation Month, prompt 28: Young Severus Snape. @snapeloveposts

Posted: 6/28/20

Masterlist

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

You waited by a pillar, clutching your coat closed trying to stay warm as the icy wind drifted passed, nipping at your cheeks and nose. It finally started to feel like winter as the workload from classes lessened and spirits lifted throughout the corridors of Hogwarts.

Dozens of students walked by, enthusiastically conversing about all the shops they’d visit down in Hogsmeade today. There were less and less students in the castle as people walked down in groups with their friend, which left you annoyed the longer you had to wait.

Severus was always either impressively early for things, or frustratingly late. You sighed and kicked at a pebble as the noise around you died down. You looked around and spotted a lanky boy making his way down the Entrance Hall corridor, looking around at students as they passed him.

He jerked his head down, causing more of his black hair to fall on his face, shielding him from the world. You smiled and waved him over. He placed himself behind the pillar, almost hiding from sight and waited for you to say something.

“Ready to go?”

“Let’s wait a little longer,” his voice was quiet but calculated.

You laughed, “Severus, come on. I saw them leave half an hour ago.”

He sighed and moved closer, “Why are we going? We can just go to the courtyard if you’re that desperate for ‘fresh air’ – which by the way we get plenty of considering several windows and doors are always left open.”

“Come on,” you pushed him forward gently.

You made your way down to Hogsmeade through the slight snowfall, managing to keep his complaints of the cold weather to a minimum by asking several questions about the subjects he was most interested in, Defense Against Dark Arts. You stopped outside the Three Broomsticks and smiled at him.

“Go on to the spot, I’ll get us some food. Yeah?”

He glanced at the window and nodded. He turned and left, kicking the few inches of snow out of his way as he walked and turned a corner into an alleyway.

You walked into the Three Broomsticks and shivered as the warm air touched your cold skin. You wiped hair from your mouth and made your way to the counter and ordered a couple of butter beers and a basket of garlic chips.

You paid and stuffed the cans of butter beer in your pockets and hugged the garlic chips tight, trying to keep them warm as snow started gently falling. Behind the shops and houses there was a small forest of leafless trees that overlooked the lake.

Severus was squatting under a tree with his arms wrapped around himself waiting for your arrival. You handed him a can and the garlic chips as you settled into the snowless spot that he probably cleared for you before you arrived.

“See? Isn’t this nice?”

He smirked, “We could be doing this in the courtyard. It’d be just as cold.”

“But we wouldn’t have this,” you sipped on your drink.

He gave you a small smile and leaned over, resting his head on your shoulder. Ever since last month – when you noticed his behavior had changed – you invited him to sneak out with you to explore the castle after hours. He was normally just your partner in multiple different classes, where your friendship mostly stayed, but not since that night.

A month ago, he hardly looked up during lectures and talked a lot less than he already had, answering in low hums or shakes of his head. You had invited him to hang out and was surprised when he accepted. That night, after exploring for an hour, you had asked him what was wrong and was reluctantly told about everything that was happening.

He had cried and you had hugged him, held him, and stayed with him for hours. And since then, any time you and him were close, he always leaned into you, either resting his head on your shoulder or held your hand gently. Everything felt different around him now. Everything felt better.

“Are you sleeping?”

“No,” he mumbled, “I’m studying.”

You laughed and nudged him, “Studying how to sleep?”

“If you MUST know. I’m going over ingredient lists in my head.”

You laughed again and he looked up into your eyes and smiled. You brushed strands of his hair from his face and watched him blush and slowly close his eyes again. The two of you had been in this little secluded spot once before, a week after getting closer to each other, and had spent half the day like this.

The lake was frozen along the shore and whatever spell Severus had used on the ground seemed to be covering the air around the two of you. Snow was falling harder now but none fell above you. It was even warmer than you had expected it to be.

Severus was very peculiar, always doing nice things like this and never pointing it out or even caring if you noticed. Last week you had broken a glass chalice during transfigurations and before Professor McGonagall had turned, Severus had given you his and quickly repaired yours.

“Severus?” You waited for him to look at you, but he only nodded, letting you know he was listening. Despite how close the two of you seemed, neither one had put any kind of label to this new way of being together. “We’re friends, right?”

He sat up suddenly and turned to you, “I-I thought we were – “

“No, yeah! I just… to be sure we’re on the same page,” you smiled but he did not relax.

He pulled his knees up and looked away, “Yeah… friends…”

You felt your insides warm, wanting to ask immediately if you and him could be more, but you weren’t sure why he was still so distant and stiff. Did he not want to be friends? Was he afraid you were going to ask the exact question on your mind? “What’s wrong?” you asked instead.

He bit on the corner of his lip and out of the corner of his eyes watched you, “No… It’s nothing. Of course we’re… friends.”

“I like being this close to you… and how much we talk,” a slight blush was creeping onto your cheeks, “I can tell you anything and you tell me everything…” You bit your lip and looked away, “And I love when you rest on me and hold my hand. It makes me feel warm inside. And happy…”

He moved back to his spot, resting on you and held your hand. He entwined your fingers with his and squeezed your hand tighter, “I like this too…”

His voice was low and you didn’t know if it was because he was picking up on what you were leading up to. He doesn’t want to date. He wants to stay friends and just enjoys all the much-needed hugs. You wanted to give up, but your heart wasn’t letting you. You had to try. To say something, even if it led to rejection.

“What I’m saying is… I think I like it so much because…” your heart was beating in your throat, “I want to date you.”

Severus sat up and started laughing. Your heart sunk. He was making fun of you? After everything? How could he just sit there and laugh at your face?

“You’re laughing at me?” you stood up, furious. “Fine then. Next time a girl asks you out,” your voice cracked, “Be nicer!”

You covered your weeping eyes and turned to walk away but his hand shot up and held onto you, hard. He pulled you back down and hugged you tighter than he had ever hugged you before. It was like he was trying to meld your bodies together. You wanted to push him away but being held in his arms was all you wanted. Any time you cried you automatically went to him now, so of course, it was his company you felt you needed, even if he just crushed your heart.

“That’s not why I laughed! I swear… I… I laughed ‘cause I thought we were already dating…”

You pulled away from him and felt your own laughter bubble from the pit of your stomach to the tip of your tongue. “Why did you think we were dating? We never agreed!”

This time it was him who was upset, pulling away and spinning all the way around to hide his blush and frown, “Well I just thought… I wouldn’t act this way if I didn’t think we were dating!”

You continued laughing but pulled him down on your lap, parting his hair and leaning over to kiss his nose, “You’re adorable and our chips are cold now.”

He quickly gave you a peck on the mouth before you pulled away. You smiled and bent down to kiss him back, even longer than he had kissed you just now.

His face was brighter pink when you pulled away finally but he was smiling wider than you had ever seen, “I can heat them back up. If we… If my breath smells like garlic chips, would you still kiss me?”

You nodded and laughed, happy to continue what was now your official first date as a couple.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

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crimson-dxwn · 4 years ago

Text

At Odds - Chapter 4

Summary: The Empire uses dirty tactics to bring Mandalore to its knees. Orla gets in a fight(s).

Warnings: Realistic medical scenarios (including a minor character death), violence, blood, c*ddling

Words: 4200

Mij Gilamar is the kind of physician every young doctor or medic looked up to - kind, brilliant, a patient teacher. He’d been a mentor to her back in medical school and so much of her success was due to his encouragement and kind words. So seeing the look of anxious terror on his face is not putting Ori at ease.

She looks down at the datapad sitting on her lap. Her stylus hovers over the question on the form. Is there any chance you could be...

He'd been sent from Sundari, to try and prepare Keldabe for the onslaught of the illness that had now overwhelmed the old capital. The man looks tired, his brown hair streaked with silver hanging limp, armor loose on his gaunt frame. The room was full of nurses, doctors, medics and therapists, mostly specialists who didn’t work in the field that often.

“It’s become clear this is an engineered agent. I expect you to keep this in the utmost confidence moving forward. We have the best bioengineers on Mandalore working on a vaccine and we need to do what we can for our patients until they develop one.”

The situation really must be dire if they were bringing the obstetricians to the party. Dr. Gilamar explains the proposed mechanism of the virus, how its symptoms mimic Candorian Plague, how the agent’s genetic sequence has been altered. With a grim expression, he continues to detail the therapies that had been attempted in Sundari without success, that the fatality rate was nearing thirty percent, how it was spreading like wildfire in the ruins of the city. The mood in the room is grim.

He goes on about containment strategies they’d tried in Sundari, how they believed the virus spread, how it killed. Who it killed.

“I understand if any of you want to opt out. We won’t think less of you, nor will we ask for reasons.”

Ori doesn’t want to opt out. She has a sense of duty to her people. But watching them die without tools to help isn’t what she has in mind. No matter the risk of transmission, which according to Mij was still out of control. What nobody was addressing in the room was who exactly had set the virus upon Mandalore, if it really was an engineered organism. Mandalorians always had enemies, but it was easy to guess the most likely culprit. Either the Empire was clumsily stupid or so incredibly bold that being stealthy didn’t matter to them. Unfortunately Orla suspects it was the latter. Mij finishes up his speech and tittering erupts throughout the room.

“Please let me know if you have any questions, otherwise you can return back to your work. I expect to hear from you soon regarding your decision.”

They all file out of the room, turning in pads as they go. Looking around her, Ori doesn’t see a single person decline to work with the pandemic patients. A ping comes from her datapad from the nurses upstairs; one of her patients is getting ready to push and she needs to be there soon. Gathering her things, she moves to head back up to the delivery ward before Gilamar stops her.

“Doctor Beviin, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, Mij. I wish it was under different circumstances.”

“Agreed.” He sighs, pursing his lips. “We’ll need you here. I know you’ve been a specialist for a long time - and I don’t want to pressure you - but we don’t have enough boots on the ground here and we haven’t even hit the peak yet.” Orla wishes she could see the bottom half of his face through the mask.

“Of course, Mij,” she tells him as her datapad pings again, “I’m so sorry, I have a patient upstairs I need to take care of.”

He nods his head, body relaxing minutely as she signs her form and hands him the datapad.

---

Three Weeks Later

Summer, Keldabe, Northern Mandalore

In Keldabe it starts as a cough, benign enough at first that people don’t stay home from work or travel. Mandalorians fight through illnesses and this is no exception, though that is the exact reason it spreads so well.

The spread of the illness concides perfectly with an Imperial garrison being erected just outside Keldabe, complete with a bland-looking Administrator to oversee it. Plus hundreds of transport ships packed with shiny new stormtroopers to man the helm.

Unfortunately the populace is too preoccupied by the sickness spreading to the city to put up much of a fight. Even Mandalorians couldn’t hope to bring down the might of a government consolidated from both the gutted Grand Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems. It wasn’t a secret the population wasn’t replenishing itself; many had died in the Clone Wars, as mercenaries on both sides and many battles in between. Death by a thousand cuts. Ori couldn’t decide which was a more frightening prospect, immediate and painful death from this virus or slow and strangling subjugation by the Empire.

The new Imperial administrator laments the incompetence of the Mand’alor in controlling the pandemic. The screen in the doctor’s lounge is perfectly positioned in front of her chosen couch so Ori can watch the woman drone on about the might of the Emperor, how peace and security has been restored to the galaxy... all while supplying no aid, staff or medicine to the planets that need it. Kriffing useless Empire. If only she could be a fly on the wall in the Mand’alor’s meetings.

It’s her twelfth day in a row at the med center and the exhaustion has officially permeated every cell in her body. She sinks into the worn cushions with a deep sigh. If she could just close her eyes for a minute, just to catch up on a little rest, it will take the edge off her exhaustion. The med center has physician sleep rooms, but the beds are never as comfortable as she needs and the sound of doors slamming in the halls wakes her every few hours. Overhead code pages are happening almost every hour now, with patients actively dying in the emergency ward, on the floors, in the intensive care unit. The code team is being run ragged, even with rotating staff.

She tries to get comfortable on the threadbare couch. Clearing her mind has been….difficult....the past few weeks. Despite her exhaustion, her mind races. Her last day off was almost two weeks ago, when Mij had sent her home, refusing to hear any sort of counter-argument, even though she knew he was sleeping at the hospital too. By now there is an almost endless stream of patients coming through the center.

Not to mention her cycle is late. Very late. Really, she thinks, she should know better. But denial is a powerful thing, no matter how much knowledge you have. She needs to confront the facts. Just not right now, she thinks, as her eyes close.

She has been chalking her distraction up to the sudden appearance of the planetwide plague without a cure had occupied most of her free thoughts for the past few weeks. There seems to be no real rhyme or reason to who succumbed. By now the med center itself is so full that all hands were now taking care of pandemic victims - surgeries are canceled, and whole wards are blocked off for coughing, dying patients that even bacta can’t help. Plus she had all her house calls and deliveries. Babies waited for no pandemic.

Finally, her exhaustion wins out over her rushing thoughts and she drifts off to sleep.

*BEEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEEEP* *BEEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEEEP*

She wakes to the anxiety-inducing page tone coming from her commlink, ripping it off the waistband of her trousers and pressing the silence button.

Kriff

And then she hears the code page overhead.

KRIFF.

She’s up from the couch in a second and jogging through the med center, stiff achy limbs protesting every movement, though her exhaustion is temporarily forgotten.

Room 1379 is Maari. She is older, but not elderly. The past few days, Orla had been cautiously hopeful that she was on the mend. She’d stopped coughing up blood and even taken a few turns around the ward with the nurses.

She and Maari had talked the day before about how excited she was to go back home.

Ori reaches the room to find nurses and techs already working to resuscitate her. The woman is flat on the bed, back arching as she tries to drag a breath in through ravaged lungs. They’re scarred down and filling with blood - it’s what happens sometimes when patients relapse. Her team has seen it countless times by now.

Maari thrashes back and forth, desperate for air. The oxygen mask over her nose and mouth is coated with red, and her eyes roll around frantically. The rush of people is deceptive. To an outsider, this looks like chaos. In truth, it’s a well oiled machine. Each member has their role, and in the last few weeks they were all experts. Everyone in the room knows how this is going to go, but they try anyway. Even bacta nebulized through the mask can’t heal such damaged tissue. Mij turns up in the middle of the code with purple smudges under his eyes, looking even more ashen than usual.

There’s not much they can do at this point. She has no pulse, no electrical activity keeping her heart beating in art sort of organized rhythm. The medic compressing her chest drips beads of sweat onto the plasteel bed frame as Ori orders another push of medication with no response. Her team has been doing resuscitation for over an hour without a response and the looks on their faces tell her it’s time to stop.

Orla calls out time of death and the team debriefs. Maari is covered with a sheet and paperwork is started. Her family hasn’t been allowed to visit, and Ori prepares herself to make the call to her daughter. Propping herself against the wall outside the room to take a breath, she sees the transparisteel doors that lead to the outside, where two stormtroopers are laughing and jostling each other at their post.

Stormtroopers ‘guard’ every business and government building now. The Empire taxes Mandalore’s imports and exports and blockades their space. Weeks of begging hadn’t convinced them to send aid.

Something snaps in her when the aides wheel the body out of the room. Her exhaustion and frustration mixes into something ugly, curling in her belly and filling her with searing rage. If the Empire has decided to wipe her people out, she isn’t going to go down without a fight.

“Hey!” she yells at the men by the door. The troopers straighten and tighten their grip on their blasters. The other staff around her must think she’s officially lost her wits. She must look horrifying because both white-armored men take a hesitant step back.

“What the kriff are you laughing at? People are dying and you think this is funny?” She’s screaming now, her throat is straining with it. The two troopers aren’t shocked anymore. Now they’re angry, defensive, she can tell by their body language. She desperately wants to knock some sense into them, wants them to see her people’s suffering. But she’s still in her scrubs, and they’re in armor.

The trooper to her right grasps her upper arm. Ori is still so angry she barely feels the grip bite into the flesh.

“You think you’re so fucking tough guarding a hospital full of sick people?” she snarls. Her twisted expression reflects back at her in the trooper’s visor.

“Stand down, citizen.”

The trooper on her right aims his blaster. The movement rips her out of her focus and she realizes that multiple people are watching on the ward. Mij has a hand behind his back, presumably on the blaster she knows he keeps hidden beneath his uniform. The stormtrooper’s helmet is still inches from her face and cool durasteel digs into her ribs.

“I said stand. down.” His blaster shoves further into her side, pushing her back into his companion with his hand crushing her arm. How had she lost control like this. How kriffing stupid was she? Her breathing comes hard and harsh, and her stomach roils unexpectedly.

The seconds go by slowly as she lifts her hands up in surrender. Saliva pools in her mouth and she swallows it back down, which she finds out is a giant mistake as everything she’s eaten today - a grand total of four crackers and some water - splatters onto the trooper’s feet. He jumps back, blaster forgotten.

“What the-“

The other trooper shoves her aside, disgusted, and she takes the opportunity to scurry through the med center doors, wiping her mouth on a sleeve. Somehow Mij Gilamar looks even more concerned then he did when a blaster was in her ribs. His brows knot together as she walks towards him, needing to brush of what just happened and get back to work.

She’s almost to Mij as the room spins sideways and her vision goes black.

------

Kal watches Ori sleep. Somehow she looks so much smaller than the last time he’d seen her like this. Though the last time he’d seen her like this, she’d been naked in his bed where he could run his hands over her bare skin. Where she could make him forget every horrible thing he’s seen and done from Kuat to Kyrimorut.

Her chest rises and falls slowly and he finds himself watching it to calm himself. She’d made quite the scene in front of two stormtroopers and Kal was sure they were going to haul her away to god knows where in retribution. Fortunately the one had been too preoccupied cleaning vomit off his plastoid to care.

The situation in the hospital in Keldabe was as close to any war zone that he’d ever been in and it was no wonder she’d worked herself to the bone. She was mandokarla.

He’d been at the med center to talk strategy with Mij, who wasn’t able to leave the wards. Only he, Mij and his sons knew about the vaccine the Empire was keeping in secret. About the plans to cow the Mandalorians into giving them what they wanted. He hadn’t been trained to fight fair, it wasn’t their way. But this, this pandemic, was a whole new brand of dirty fighting. He’d spent a few hours in the medcenter so far and seen the absolute carnage.

He has an enduring sort of affection for her that he can’t seem to shake. Mij tasked him with looking after her and he wasn’t about to tear himself away.

------

“You’re working yourself too hard, doc.”

Her vision swims in and out, but there’s Kal, clear as day, sitting in a chair next to her bed and tapping at his commlink. Ori starts, not fully sure of where she is.

“You’re still in the hospital,” he says gruffly, leaning towards her, “Tried to get you a bed but they’re all full. Wouldn’t let me take you back to Kyrimorut with me. So here we are.”

She gains her bearings while he talks. Here is one of the unoccupied physician call rooms.

“Not working too hard,” she rebuffs.

“Mij tells me you’ve been overdoing it.” Ori rolls her eyes at him. They’re falling into their usual routine. “You puked on a stormtrooper.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly, demanding an explanation like she owes him one. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have one that she wants to offer to him.

Next to her bed is the worn datapad that she charts on and she picks it up to check her chart. Ori feels herself blanch with him in front of her as she reads her diagnosis. Mij must have had them draw blood after she passed out, and it’s a little unnerving that she doesn’t remember it, though when she looks at her right arm she can see the red mark where the needle had been. In her other arm is an IV line.

“Mij put me in charge of you until he gets back.” Kal looks incredibly pleased with himself, like they were playing a game and he had just won. He leans back in the wooden chair in the corner which creaks in protest. As usual, he wears his golden armor, which shines dully in the low light of the call room. Ori can’t remember a time when she’s seen him out of it, except when they’ve been in bed together. The blood rushes back into her face at that thought.

“So what did they do?”

The memory reasserts itself painfully. Ori doesn’t even know how much time has passed since Maari died. Behind her eyes she sees it all again.

At least she knows where she is. At least she didn’t wake up alone.

“I had a patient die...and I saw them out there laughing. I don’t know...I just lost it.”

It isn’t a good reason, she knows that. She wonders if Kal can even make sense of her babbling, she wonders if the troopers will report her, if she’ll even have a job to return to tomorrow. Some of her hopes she doesn’t, just to get a bit of relief from the exhaustion. Part of her hopes she’s infected, is jealous of the people lying in their sickbeds being taken care of instead of run into the ground.

But she’s not infected, she’s not even sick.

“Who died?”

“Maari Rook”

He nods, keeping eye contact. Men like him don’t flinch away from death; she wonders how many have died at the point of his knife or blaster. It’s surprising how composed she is, barely a few hours after the fact. Kal must think she’s losing her wits. She’s sure he doesn’t miss the way her voice wobbles and she sniffs.

“What can I do to make it better?”

It’s hard for her to get the request out and she feels weak for even asking. After all, they don’t know each other that well and she had no right asking.

“Can you just…” she says softly, still a little embarrassed from her outburst earlier, “lie down with me?”

He freezes, obviously not expecting this type of request. The ice in his blue eyes softens and a smile tugs at a corner of his lips. He looks almost boyish - she wasn’t expecting him to look so pleased. The armor comes off, chest piece first, then arms and gauntlets, thigh pieces next...and she must have dozed off because her face is pressed up against a warm chest and his arm is wrapped around her, the other stretching over his head to snake under the pillow.

“Mij is giving you a few days off,” he murmurs, warm breath tickling her ear. She hums in reply, inhaling deeply, trying to memorize the hint of cedar she can smell from the mountains around Kyrimorut that has percolated into his clothes. His body heat seeps into her bones as she snuggles closer; her hands twine in the fabric of his tunic. A large hand strokes through her tangled hair. Right now she wants to forget about the world outside and just sink into the warmth and safety surrounding her.

“One of my boys thinks the Imperials has a vaccine here on-planet,” he continues as his chin rests atop her head, “this’ll be over soon. Just be patient.”

But she can’t be patient.

Kal leaves her an hour or so later, assuming she’s fast asleep. Ori keeps her breathing deep and slow until she’s sure he’s gone. All she can think about is the possibility of a vaccine. Certainly, she’s had the thought before, since they weren’t seeing any troopers come down with the illness. The audacity of keeping vaccine on-world wasn’t something she’d considered the Empire bold enough to do.

The guards in front of the gleaming new garrison let her through without a fight. She tells the front desk her name and her complaint. Ori hopes they’ll let her talk to someone with any sort of importance or rank, if she can make somehow them see reason.

The bored-looking secretary beside the durasteel door looks her up and down, obviously unimipressed by her simple work uniform and disheveled hair. Strands are falling out of her bun and tickling her neck and she reaches her hands up to nervously smooth them back. She can’t remember the last day she washed it.

The secretary buzzes them into the room with nary a word and Ori follows the troopers’ lead into the office. The two stormtroopers who had escorted her into the office are silent by her side when the officer finally enters the room. The shining surface of the pure white plastoid keeps them separate, impersonal.

Behind a severe durasteel desk sits a man in a grey officer’s uniform. She wonders if it looks much different from the Republic officer uniforms - Mandalore had been removed enough from the conflict of the Clone Wars that she’d never even seen a Republic officer. Before the events of the last few months, there was hardly anything that made two regimes distinct. He’s certainly not a clone. From the few officers she’s noticed around Keldabe, this Empire seems to favor humans more than any other species, and at least from the groups of troopers she’s seen occupying Keldabe most are men. He rises, extending a hand for her to shake.

“Dr. Beviin,” he says smoothly, “it’s a pleasure.” The polished Core accent fits his persona, with his slick shiny hair and boots to match. His face is clean-shaven, with the plump look of a young man, unscarred. This was some politician’s favored son, no doubt, tasked with bringing Mandalore to its knees. Anger threatens to rise again, but she tempers it before it can best her again. She has a goal here.

“Likewise,” she replies. He gestures to the seat in front of his desk and she takes it. Her stormtrooper escort settles at the back of the room.

“I’m Corporal Hadley. How can I help you?”

“Corporal, as you know there’s a virus tearing its way across the planet.”

“Ah yes, I’m aware.”

“If you’re going to occupy a planet, you have a duty to its citizens.” She keeps her voice and manner neutral, trying to be as diplomatic as possible, though her anger and frustration are slowly rising. She hasn’t slept, and it always makes her testier than usual.

“The Empire takes care of its own first. Once your people prove their loyalty, then we will provide a vaccine. I don’t understand why you think your people will get anything for free.”

She decides to pull out the trump card.

“I know you have it here. I demand you distribute it as soon as possible.”

“Or what, Doctor Beviin?”

She is silent at this, for she has no reply. There’s nothing she can threaten them with except knowledge and they know it. It dawns on her then how stupid she is, how she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Not even Kal.

“The Mand’alor will -”

“The Mand’alor won’t do anything. There’s nothing he’s willing to barter with that the Empire needs that badly.”

The unnamed officer jerks his head at one of the troopers, so quickly she almost misses it, until she hears the crack of a rifle butt against her own face and pain lances through her cheekbone. The strength and shock of the blow is enough that she falls to her knees, watching her own blood patter onto the duracrete floor. Her cheekbone is broken, she’s almost sure of it as she reaches a shaky hand up to her face and feels it crushed inwards. Her fingers come away covered in blood.

“You hutuune,” Ori hisses, “Cowards.”

“Shut up,” one of the troopers mutters, pushing her to the floor for good measure, grabbing her comm out of her pocket and crushes it under his foot. The other pipes up as the officer watches.

“You know they say you’re supposed to rub their nose in it.”

A boot presses between her shoulder blades and grinds her harder into the floor, forcing the air out of her lungs, duracrete scratching painfully against her broken cheekbone. Tears spring to her eyes and she can’t hold them in, ashamed at how stupid she’d been to believe she could negotiate with Imperials. Desperation had blinded her.

“I thought Mandos were supposed to fight back? That’s what the briefing said.”

Ori doesn’t dignify his comment with a response. Not everyone fights with fists. It was something she had struggled with her whole life, though now was a rare exception where she wished she could take on three men and win.

The boot nudges at her again and she tries to flatten herself against the ground instead of instinctively curling inwards or using her hands to give away what she is desperately trying to protect. She prays they don’t take the beating further.

“Doctor Beviin, you’re under arrest for treason and assault of an Imperial officer,” says the grey-suited captain, with a tone so bored that he could have been ordering tea instead of standing over a woman his soldiers had just brutalized.

Bruising fingers attach themselves to her upper arms and haul her to her feet. The troopers march her out of the room as she tries to keep up, blood still trickling down her face and onto the collar of her work uniform. She can’t reach up and wipe it off.

Taglist:

@leias-left-hair-bun @nelba @cherry-cokes-world @clonewarslover55 @passionofthesith @808tsuika @wolfangelwings @the-arctic-violet

#Kal Skirata x OC #Kal Skirata Hate Sex #Republic Commando #Once again I hate this chapter and wish I could get it longer but alas #here you are #my writing

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