#this may sound a little stilted. sorry about that

[orange-orchard-system]

Aplatonic: someone who experiences little to no platonic attraction. That is to say, a person who is aplatonic has little to no intrinsic, automatic desire for friendship (or, depending on how they personally define it, other platonic relationships). By comparison, most people are alloplatonic, meaning they regularly experience platonic attraction without anything complicating or restricting it.

People who are aplatonic may or may not participate in friendship with others, regardless of their lack of attraction. They may also desire friends for reasons unrelated to platonic attraction (ex. "I like talking regularly with other people who like the same things as me, and friendship is the best way I've found to achieve that, but I don't feel any strong pull towards those I call my friends.") But of course, there are always those who do not participate in a particular kind of relationship precisely because they feel no attraction driving them to enter those relationships. Those who do not participate in friendship are often called friendless – not as an insult, but as a genuine, personal identity label – or non-friending, with the latter (non-friending) being more common.

Some people also use the aplatonic label to specifically refer to not wanting any queerplatonic relationships (relationships that fall outside expected norms and can't be neatly categorized as platonic, romantic, or another type of relationship). This appears to be becoming less and less common over time, however, as the other definition I gave above gains more prominence and awareness.

Aplatonic is often shortened to just "apl", the same way aromantic is often shortened to "aro" and asexual is often shortened to "ace". As you can probably guess, apple jokes and symbols popped up within the community as a result of "apl" sounding identical to "apple"

For those who experience some attraction but are not alloplatonic, the labels "aplspec" or "grayplatonic" may be used. Alternatively, a person might just use "aplatonic" as an umbrella term that covers their experiences.

Aplatonicism falls under the aspec umbrella – aspec meaning "little to no attraction of one or more kinds". Asexual and aromantic are the most well-known subsets of the aspec umbrella, with aplatonic after them, afamilial (little to no familial attraction; little to no intrinsic desire to have family/familial relationships) after that, and then numerous smaller aspec communities for other forms of attraction (or should I say, the lack thereof)

I am so tired of people somehow misinterpreting aplatonicism when they fully understand asexuality and aromanticism. Or, to make my point clearer, I am absolutely befuddled by people who know what "asexual" and "aromantic" mean, but somehow revert to half-baked understandings of aspec lives and identities when someone is aplatonic, as if it's impossible to take even the slightest guess at what this ~new, unfamiliar word~ means. I could understand it from someone who doesn't understand anything about any aspec identity but how and why is "It's just not wanting friends, right?" coming from the people who supposedly know a lot about aspec stuff and regularly participate in the aspec community. How have you gotten this far? It's not like the names for these things are confusing or extremely different – each of our identities is just "a" + (the type of attraction someone lacks). Maybe, just maybe, like how these other words you already know mean "experiences little to no (x) attraction", this other word that follows the exact same pattern also means that same thing. I didn't go through the trenches of "ace discourse" horseshit and the aspec community recovering from that hell for people to create the friend version of "asexuality is just celibacy".

[lipglossanon]

Dirty Little Secret

Stepson!Leon S. Kennedy x Stepmom!Reader <one shot>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pseudo incest, cheating, loveless marriage? lol, mommy kink, breeding kink, mentions of lactation kink, dirty talk, noncon, slight somno, mention of a rape play scenario, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread ✍️ just smut

title from Dirty Little Secret by The All American Rejects

You thought it was love. This guy wined and dined you then showed you the world. So when he proposes to you only three months into your relationship, you’re so smitten that you agree before he even finishes asking. 

It must��ve been the honeymoon phase because a year later, you’re stuck at home while he galivants around the globe for his business. It’s not like you have a hard time, but you’re lonely, done begging for attention from a man who apparently just wanted someone to live in his empty house while he’s gone. 

Then after months of stilted phone calls and cut short video chats, he drops by only to surprise you with a son from a previous marriage. Something you knew nothing about. After introducing Leon to you, he leaves him there—some flimsy excuse of letting you two get to know each other—and is off again once more. 

Leon smiles at you as his dad leaves, “Sorry to drop in like this.”

Your frown smooths out as you take a deep breath, “Not your fault, sorry if I’m off kilter. He didn’t even tell me about you til now.”

You wince after saying the words out loud but Leon only laughs. 

“It’s okay. I’ll stay out of your hair as much as possible.”

You wave your hand, “Don’t be silly, it’ll be nice to have company again.”

He smiles again but this one makes you feel a little more on edge, something about the way it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Well then, I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire.”

You settle into a new routine, Leon fitting into your day to day pretty easily. He’s sarcastic and mouthy, but it beats only having yourself for company. Your husband dropped off his son in late January and it’s now early May; it’s like you blinked and realized you haven’t even had anyone else visit except for Leon’s actual mom. (She’s surprisingly a sweetheart and quite helpful even if she makes Leon all moody to have her in your shared space). 

It’s after one such visit that left Leon in an irritable mood where you decide to have a little movie night in order to cheer him up. You’re unsure as to what started it this time, but the ex missus just gave you a quick smile and wave goodbye as Leon stormed off upstairs. Taking in a deep breath, you rap your knuckles on his closed door and listen for any movement.

Half a minute passes by before you hear him walk over and open the door. You take in his sweats and loose white tee. Good, it doesn’t look like he's headed out—you tilt your head before looking back up into his face. 

“Yes?” He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, a corner of his lips ticking up into a half smile. 

“Wanna watch some shitty horror movies and order pizza?” You smile, pleased with yourself when he drops his arms. 

“Sure,” he shrugs, tossing his phone back onto his bedspread and pushing you away from his door, closing it behind him, “w’nna order a cheese pizza?”

“Sounds good,” you lead him back downstairs, flopping down on the couch and grabbing your phone. 

Leon sits on the cushion next to you, leaning over to watch as you scroll through the app. 

“Want any sides or anything?” You ask, attention still on your phone. 

“Pizza’s plenty.”

You feel his breath ghost across your neck and it sends a chill down your spine. Scrunching your shoulders up, you laugh and bump against his side. 

“That tickles, Leon,” you shift a little and you feel him move to face the television. 

Once you place the order, you lock your phone and sink into the couch. Leon’s close enough you can feel his body heat, but you know if you move he’ll end up next to you again. It’s something you’ve noticed over the time that he’s stayed here; you’ve only brought it up once and he admitted he likes being close since he misses his mom. 

You frown to yourself as Leon channel surfs, not wanting to start any movies only for it to be interrupted by the delivery guy. For him to miss his mom so much, he’s always pissy when she visits. Maybe he’s just salty that she let him end up living here with you? Glancing over at him, he notices you looking and shoots you a grin. 

“Have any idea on what movie we start with?”

You return his grin and drum your fingers against your thigh, “Hmmm, you ever watch Spookies?”

He shakes his head, “I’m assuming it’s bad?”

“The worst but in the best way,” you laugh.

He studies you for a moment. 

“Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”

Giddy warmth bubbles in your chest, “Of course, Leon. I know the situation probably isn’t ideal, but I’ll take care of you.”

He laughs low in his throat, “We’re nearly the same age.”

You wave him off, “Yeah, yeah, but I’m still older though.”

Lapsing into a companionable silence, you mindlessly watch as Leon zips through different shows until the doorbell rings. After stuffing your faces with pizza, you settle in comfortably on the couch, feet laying over Leon’s lap after he tugged your legs away from you. 

“No reason to stay curled up like that,” he pats your calf. 

Unsure how to feel, you eventually relax into him. If it doesn’t bother him, then why should it bother you? The heat from his lap must lull you to sleep because the next thing you know is blinking your eyes open to some random movie playing on the tv. Another beat and you groggily glance down your body at the new weight pressing you into the cushions. 

Sandy blonde hair fills your vision as you feel Leon softly suck a nipple into his mouth. Without you noticing, he has pushed your flimsy shirt up and tugged your bra cups down. Squirming under him only leads to him sighing softly, eyes fluttering shut as he licks around your stiff peaks. 

“Stop, stop,” you pant, feeling sluggish and out of sorts, arms and legs feeling wooden as sleep tries to cling to your senses.

Leon only laughs and goes back to softly sucking on your nipples, mouth drifting from one hard bud to the other with quick swipes of his tongue. 

“But mommy, you said you’d take care of me,” his low voice raises the hair on your arms, “mmm, and what I really need is to suck your sexy tits.”

There’s no denying the rush of slick that fills the gusset of your panties. 

“S’wrong, Leon,” you counter, weakly crying out when he gently bites your nipple. 

“Maybe, but I think you need this, need me to take care of you. After all, my dad’s not going to,” he growls and roughly sucks the puckered skin around your stiff bud, “you need a husband who wants to stuff your hot little pussy.”

A loud keening moan leaves your mouth before you can clamp your lips shut.

His eyes are bright as a grin lights up his face, “See? C’mon, no one has to know that you let your stepson dick you down on the couch.”

Hips jumping, you mewl as he goes back to lapping at your nipples, hands coming up to grope the soft fat of your breasts. 

“Been waiting for this,” he murmurs into your sternum, mouth leaving a trail of hot kisses across your skin, “fuck, I’ve wanted you so bad, mommy.”

The condescension in that one word makes you drip, pussy throbbing for more than just words. 

“W-we shouldn’t though,” you try to get a grip on yourself, hands hovering over his hair, “god, I’m married to your father.”

“Is he here? Is he ever here?” He raises up and sneers at you, “never around when you need’em huh?”

Raising up onto his haunches he gives you a nasty smirk, “But that’s why you have me now. I’m gonna pound your hot little pussy day and night. Maybe it’ll even make you a real mommy.”

“Leon!” You gasp, nipples tightening at the thought, hands digging into the couch.

But he’s telling the truth. Your husband is never home— hasn’t called you back and barely replies to texts. You’ve been lonely and neglected even before Leon got here; so what if it’s wrong? It won’t kill anyone just to go along with him this one time. So that’s what you decide to tell him. 

“This one time,” you whisper, biting your lip as you give in to him, “just once.”

He laughs, “Sure, I can work with that.”

Once turns into twice. 

“It’s still just the one time,” you pant as he fucks into your squelching pussy, face mashed against the armrest of the couch, “it’s still the same round.”

“Sure, mommy,” he murmurs in your ear and you clamp down on him tighter, “whatever you say.”

Which turns into three and four and then five…

By the next afternoon, you're bouncing on your stepson’s fat cock in your own marriage bed. 

“Fuck, fuck, I need it, please, I wanna cum,” you whimper, grinding down onto Leon’s dick, “please.”

“Take it then, mommy, take your son’s cock deep in that little pussy,” he growls, thumb rubbing your clit in tight rough circles. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, eyes rolling back as Leon’s fat tip kisses your cervix, “god, it’s so good.”

“Yeah? Better than dad’s?” Leon asks, flashing you a smug little smile. 

“Uh huh,” you whine, hands pressing on his broad chest so you can ride him harder, “you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

“Goddamn,” he growls, grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back. 

Pulling halfway out, he bullies his cock back into your sopping wet hole, pace fast and hard making you wail as he rams against your g-spot. 

“Tell me mommy, tell me who’s making this fat pussy feel so good,” he pinches your nipples, “c’mon mommy, say it.”

“You,” you whimper, tears clumping your lashes, “you’re making mommy’s pussy feel so good.”

“Who?”

“My son,” you cry out as he tugs your nipples roughly, “my son’s filling my pussy and making me cum.”

“Good girl, mommy,” he coos mockingly and you squeeze his cock, pussy walls snug and wet around his thick length. 

“I’ve given you so many creampies,” he sighs, “fuck, I hope one of them takes. Wanna drink your milk.”

You shudder, hips stilling, “That’s so—”

“Hot?” He slaps your thigh and you start grinding on his cock again, “these tits leaking milk for me would be a dream come true. Let me breed you, mommy.”

“I can’t,” you mewl, clit throbbing as you rock your hips into his thrusts, “can’t get knocked up by my stepson.”

Leon groans, “It’ll just be the one time. Besides, I’ve been dumping load after load into this tight little cunt. We both know you want it, mommy. Making that pussy crave to have me stuffing her to the brim.”

You lean forward, face pressing against his neck as you moan brokenly. 

“I shouldn’t,” you hiccup, hips writhing as Leon reaches underneath you to grip your ass. 

“It’ll be our little secret,” he humps your pussy, cock knocking against your cervix and making you squeal, “let me breed you, mommy. Let your son breed your fat pussy.”

“I’m gonna cum,” you slur, mouth panting and drooling against his skin, “oh god, you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Next time, I want you to fight me,” he whispers in your ear and you moan, “fight me so when I pin you down, I’ll be raping your hot wet pussy until you cream all over my cock, mommy.”

Your nails dig into his back and you scream, orgasm wiping out your thoughts as your body thrashes under Leon.

“I’m cumming, fuck, mommy, gonna fill you up again,” he rambles, hips pistoning his cock in and out of your pussy as you continue to orgasm. 

The last thing you see is Leon’s blue eyes staring down at you as your pussy milks his cock while he spurts rope after rope of thick cum inside your clenching hole. 

You wake up sometime later with Leon running his fingers along your arm and shoulder. 

“You okay?”

You hum and nod, stretching out along the bed, feeling a slight twinge in your hips. 

“May’ve over done it,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands. 

Leon laughs and drops a kiss to your head. 

“Yeah I got that after you passed out.”

Giggling, you turn on your side to face him. 

“Need to drink more water I guess.”

He nods, a funny sort of smile overtaking his features. 

“You’re not gonna tell anyone right?”

You scoff and roll your eyes, “Why would I? Even if we’re both adults, I don’t think anyone’s gonna be happy it happened.”

Sighing, you push up until you can swing your legs over the side of the bed. 

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

Standing up, your thighs shake but you’re able to walk over to the en-suite bathroom. At the doorway, you turn back to see Leon staring at you, a hungry look in his eyes. You bite your lip knowing what you’re about to say isn’t a good idea, but what the hell. You’re already in it this far. 

“If you wash my back, I’ll wash yours,” tone flirty as you smile at him. 

Not waiting for an answer, you walk into the bathroom, listening as the sheets ruffle from Leon climbing out of bed to follow you.  

[moonstruckme]

Hey! Unsure what happened but I copy+pasted a request into my doc and now it's gone :( Anyway to whoever sent this, thank you!

Request: can i request hurt/comofort with high!reader x buzzed!sirius (or poly!mar whatever you’d like) where reader smokes a little more then she can handle and he takes care of her but he’s like still a little high himself, if that makes sense TT just nice and lovey and dovey!!!!

cw: weed, greening out, mention of vomit/nausea

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 727 words

Sirius is trying to be comforting, but he keeps getting distracted by the feel of your back underneath his hand. The muscles of your shoulders are tight, your breathing stilted and your skin shiny with a thin layer of sweat. Sirius can’t stop thinking about how he’d like to rest his face in between your shoulder blades and kiss an adoring line down your spine. He worries it wouldn’t be very helpful. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is quieter than breath, a soft sigh drooping your shoulders as you let your head loll forward. 

Your body starts to list forward with it. Sirius weaves his arm under yours, settling down more comfortably on the bathroom floor and pulling you back against his chest. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” He kisses the crown of your head. “I should have warned you about this. I need to remember to be careful with you.” 

Caution isn’t really in Sirius’ nature, but however unwisely, you put a lot of trust in him. The weed you’d smoked tonight was a different strain than the one he’s shared with you before, but he’d forgotten to clue you in. You’d matched him hit for hit, and with your lower tolerance it hadn’t ended well. You’ve been sick more than once. 

“You’re so nice,” you whisper. Your voice sounds tight. Sirius’ chest contracts, worrying you’re starting to get teary. “You don’t have to take care of me, but you are. You’re so, so nice.” Definitely teary now. “I’m really sorry for ruining your night.” 

“Aw, sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your face with something akin to desperation. He already feels like his heart is going to spill right out of his ribcage, and your upset makes it about ten times worse. “You’re not ruining anything. Of course I have to take care of you, you’re my girl, you know? I want to.” 

He peers around you, trying to see your face. You’ve got that same, slightly spaced-out look you’ve had for the past hour, a sad little line between your brows. Sirius reaches up to smooth it out with his finger, and you turn toward him like you’d forgotten he was there. He wonders if this much affection can actually crush his bones to dust. It feels plausible.

“I love you,” he says. 

You sigh, fitting your head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. It’s not a happy sound, but he knows it’s not meant for him. “You, too.” 

You take his hand, turning it palm up and tracing the lines in his skin. Your touch is so light it tickles. He has a small scar from a failed attempt at cooking with James when he first moved out, and when you get to it you raise his palm to your lips, resting them there purposefully. 

“Can I have a hug?” you mumble against his skin. 

“Fuck yeah, always.” 

Sirius does the work of turning you around, your own coordination not spectacular at the moment, and your arms curl under his arms, wrists crossing between his shoulder blades. He thinks your hands might be making fists. For his part, he rubs up and down your spine slowly, squeezing intermittently, unsure how much you want. Sirius has always been shit at comfort. He’ll keep trying as long as you let him.

“I don’t like this,” you admit. Your face feels warm where it’s pressing into his shoulder, and Sirius realizes you might be crying again. He hugs you harder. “I can’t think.” 

He feels, very acutely, his heart fracturing. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, “I’m so sorry. I know it’s awful.” 

“I’m scared,” you whimper. 

“I know, sweet girl.” He may well be crushing you now. If your ribs are breaking, you don’t seem inclined to say anything about it. “You’ll be okay, though, I promise. I’ve got you. Just try to relax, and I’ll take care of you, yeah?” You don’t respond, sniffling. Sirius rubs your back again. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick any more, darling?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” 

“Alright, my lovely. Let’s go to bed, okay? You might feel better when you wake up.” 

You hug him tighter. “Thank you for being so nice to me.” 

“Wrong again,” he says, tucking a kiss into your hair. “I’m not nice to you, I just love you too much.” 

[aza-trash-can]

Snippet (Blossoming of a Blue Spring)

“I miss them.” It’s the first sound to break the silence, a whisper into the night against cold glass. It startles Satoru, but he barely moves; just snaps his eyes to Suguru, who’s still looking out the window, looking at the snow.

“Miss who?” Satoru matches Suguru, keeping his voice a whisper. It feels important to keep this small.

“My parents.”

“Oh.” They lapse into silence, awkward and stuffy despite the slight bite of the winter air that slips through the edges of the window.

Parents. That’s… not something he has much experience with. Suguru talked about his a bit before; how his father would cook his favourite meal for his birthday or to celebrate a good school semester, how his mother would clean the scrapes he got from playing outside, how he’d get a kiss goodnight on the forehead every night when he was little. Maybe Satoru’s bar is low, but the little bits that Suguru had shared sound idyllic. Perfect, even. So Satoru may not really know what it’s like to have parents — parents that he can be around and see and know — much less what it’s like to be without them when they were good and loving and present, but he can take a pretty good guess.

“I’m… sorry.” The words are awkward and stilted, tumbling out of his mouth with the grace of a newborn fawn. The sentiment is just as new to the world, foreign yet aching to be felt, to be said, to be heard.

[lemon-russ]

the girls are fightiinggg- oh shit wait no they really are--

sorry so late! I decided to socialize and leave the house and was swiftly punished for my hubris with feeling like garbage. I drank a ton of baja blast and I'm good now 👉😎👉

Part 13/ ???

< previous || next >

Cato Sicarius x F!Reader

CW: Mentions of sex, slight? sexism,violence / fighting

Summary: Cato and Titus need to put on their get along shirt

word count: 1,946

The wood of the desk splinters under Guilliman's grip, tossing off shards that make light tapping sounds as they fall to the marble floor of his dead quiet office.

He stood, chair screeching across the floor, and composed himself, taking a deep breath.

“So. The men say Cato has gone to the planet I sent the ambassador, alone, and has not returned a day.” He says with forced calm.

The serf nervously nods.

“And he did not tell anyone. And neither he, nor commander Titus, nor The Ambassador, have voxed an update.”

The serf nods again.

“Right.” He says, brushing wood splinters off himself. He frowned. He liked this desk.

“Prepare my ship.” He said, walking briskly to his chambers down the hall, making the serf have to jog to keep up.

“Sir-?”

“My ship, prepare it to head to a294-56. The planet my wayward sons have absconded with my diplomat to.”

The serf frowned and nodded. “Yes, sir.” They squeaked, skittering off.

_________________________________

Titus watches Cato try to keep up a dance with the Ambassador, fuming and huffing in a corner. Cato was stiff and concentrating but managing. Astartes were quick to learn and had excellent reaction speed, so though he assumed Cato could not waltz before this, he copied the movements of the others and followed the Ambassador's lead.

Titus grumbled under his breath. He'd be better at this. He'd learn faster and move smoother and not embarrass the ambassador with poor skills.

His gaze track her smooth movements. Not as coordinated as an astartes, her reaction speeds were slower, not quite on tempo. He realizes Cato is actually the only one on perfect tempo, and that's why he looks stilted.

Regardless, or maybe because of, her human imperfections are what is giving her movements their beauty. She smiles and twirls and waltzes in circles around the room with the crowd. Her dress follows her like water, sparkling ultramarine blue.

Titus smiles, ignoring Cato and letting himself take in her giggling smile, her just exposed shoulders, the way her dress hugged her curves-

He snaps his gaze away. No, he will not let himself look at her in such a way as Sicarius does. She is a mortal, baseline human. It is predatory to look at something so simple, so naive and think like that. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and glares at Cato.

He catches his eye, and Cato grins smugly at him, then defiantly lowers the hand he has on the ambassadors hip to just the top of her rear. She giggles, and Titus has to squeeze his fists.

You can't assault your captain, you can't assault your captain- He forces into his seething mind.

The song ends and the ambassador leads Cato back to where Titus stands, smiling innocent. Like she didn't feel his hand on her ass? She may be naive, but innocent, maybe not so much. He restrains a scowl. “My lady, you dance very gracefully.” He says instead.

She smiled sweetly, and he found it hard to stay annoyed, giving in to a smile in return.

_______________________________________

You feel a little awkward. You'd been desperately trying to enjoy time here with Cato even though Titus was insistent on keeping an eye on you at all times it seemed. But at least you got a dance in. Though Titus boring holes in your back didn't make it less awkward.

It feels like being on a date with a chaperon, like you're some chaste noble girl who's parents worry about appearances.

Come to think of it, most of what Titus does for you makes you feel like an incapable child. Cutting your food, telling you how to dress, keeping you away from a guy you like, it made you feel like a teenager with a strict parent.

You fan yourself with your hand, “Wow this planet is humid. I'm going to step out for a minute.” You say, and they both follow without hesitation.

“Enjoying your view again, Titus?” Cato snaps behind you.

“I'm not doing anything- and you were the one being careless with your hands back there, Sicarius.” Titus growls back.

You keep walking to the beautiful garden outside, sighing and taking in the cool night air as you try to ignore their bickering.

“My hands are allowed to be careless, your eyes do not have that privilege, commander.” Cato snarls at him.

You turn around, finding Cato and Titus scowling at each other, only feet apart.

“Can you stop fighting for like, ten minutes?” You sigh.

Neither break their stare. Titus huffs, “No, I can't stand by and watch this anymore- what's going on here is wrong.” He spits, turning to face you. “You are being taken advantage of and you can't even realize it.”

You frown at that. “What? I'm not being taken advantage of-”

“Of course you are!” Titus interrupts. “You can't have a consensual relationship with an astartes! You're a baseline woman, you don't have the capacity for it!” He says, tone a bit more like he's explaining something obvious to a child.

You blink a few times in shock, eyes wide. Cato raises his brow as well, looking caught off guard.

“Titus- what the hell do you mean I can't consent?” You ask, baffled. “I'm an adult, and a pretty high ranking diplomat mind you.” You say, furrowing your brow.

He sighs. “Of course, of course, and you're very intelligent for a baseline human, I didn't mean that, but it's different, Astartes are on a level you can't comprehend.” He says patiently, giving a sympathetic frown.

Cato shakes his head. “Holy shit, are you- are you saying you don't like us dating, because you think she's, what? Too stupid?” He asks confusedly.

Titus scowls at him. “Of course not, she's very smart, but her brain is just not formed in a way that she can conceptualize anything like you can. It's a matter of capability” he says, raising his voice.

You shake your head, “you- you think I'm too unevevolved!?” You say, starting to shout.

He looks back at you with a grimace, “I wouldn't call it unevevolved-” he says quickly before being interrupted again.

“No, I'd call it jealousy.” Cato growls, hands balling at his sides. “You just need some weak excuse because you don't want to say you want to fuck her and you're mad I am!” He shouts.

Your eyes go wide, and Titus looks shocked for a split moment.

Somewhere far behind you, you faintly register the sound of heavy footsteps. You turn to see who's there, afraid they'll overhear this insanity, but you're stopped by the sight of Titus’ fist flying forward.

_______________________________

Titus snaps.

You can't assault your captain, you can't-

Fuck it.

How dare he accuse him of perverting that poor innocent girl the way he is doing. How dare he imply he has anything but the Ambassador's best interest in mind. And how dare he talk like he didn't know what he was doing was tantamount to abuse of authority.

Titus sees Cato process what was happening as he starts reeling back his fist, twisting his torso to add to the power. Cato is fast to react, but he isn't expecting it, so by the time he actually sees the punch coming and is dodging, it is already too close. It doesn't hit exactly on the nose where Titus was aiming, but he did still get his jaw.

Bone collides with bone as he makes contact, and though Cato raises his hand to deflect Titus’ fist last second, he is still forced onto the back foot and reels back, hand flying to his jaw.

In a second he goes from shock, to anger, to rage.

“You- You bastard-!” He growls, “A sucker punch?! Are you a coward as well?!”

Titus sneers a bit. “What, aren't you supposed to be the best duelist?” He says mockingly, raising his fists again, this time in fighting position.

Cato snaps his teeth, and in a moment is lunging, knocking both him and Titus to the ground.

They grapple and hit each other, snarling angrily as they fight to get off the ground and land another hit.

“You self-righteous piece of shit-” Cato growls, ramming an elbow into Titus’ face.

Titus lets out an angry shout, tossing Cato off, still in his power armor and much stronger. “You manipulative, depraved prick!” He growls back.

Cato hits the ground hard, leaving a dent in the grass as he slides, but rolls to his feet.

“Seriously? Fight me fair, lose the armor!” He snaps as he stands.

“Fine. Not that you deserve a fair fight.” Titus spits, and he undoes his armor, stepping out in just his body glove.

They run at each other again and now Cato can get a hit in, and Titus tackles him. They roll and punch and knee each other, spitting insults and curses.

The Ambassador, who had been watching in shock until now, gasps and stammers, “M-my lord-!”

They freeze, Cato kneeling on Titus’ chest, arm reeled back for another punch. They both snap their heads up, faces bleeding and bruised and muddied, to the sound of heavy footsteps.

Guilliman stops next to the Ambassador, staring down at them with an icy glare of disappointment.

“So this is how I find two of my most well decorated Sons? Fist fighting like hive gangers in the mud, in public. Your charge forgotten and undefended.” He says in a chillingly low voice, putting a hand on the Ambassador's shoulder.

They both pale before untangling themselves and standing as properly as they can manage.

“Father-” they say in unison, then shoot glares at each other before trying to talk over themselves.

“He attacked me first-”

“He's been using the ambassador-”

Guilliman scowls, and both their words die in their throats.

“You two are a disgrace right now. Look at you. Cato, why are you even here? And Titus, taking off your armor to fight your battle brother? What the hell has been going on here?” He growls with such anger they both shivered.

“My Lord, please don't be angry-” the Ambassador starts before Guilliman turns his icy look on her. “And you, little one. You did not even attempt to inform me of this situation? You know better.” He says in a much softer tone. The softness only makes it more cutting though, as the weight of disappointing him was so heavily dripping from his words.

She cringes into herself a bit. “I- I'm sorry-” she squeaks out, tears forming in her eyes.

Cato takes a reflexive step toward her, hand raised to reach for her, before another cold look from his genefather stops him.

Titus just glares at the ground, fists trembling by his sides.

Guilliman scowls at them, then sighs. “Enough of this. Pull yourselves together before you bring more shame on our legion.” He says with quiet anger. “I already found the other brothers I sent with you, they are gathering the Ambassador's things now. We're going home.” He says, turning the ambassador with him, guiding hand on her back.

Titus and Cato start to follow, and Guilliman looks over his shoulder. “Oh, no. We're going home.” He says, gesturing between himself and the ambassador. “You two can get your own ride back. I can't look at you right now.” He says flatly.

“I've already ordered your crew back, Sicarius. Consider yourselves both on suspension.” Guilliman says before walking away, hand on the Ambassador's back to make her walk with him.

She looks over her shoulder at them with a nervous grimace before Guilliman gives her a look and makes her turn back.

[lordkingsmith]

It had gone smoothly, several people had stopped by. Dorothy simply to tap the beak of his chicken. "Dante let me know all about it when they stopped by." The ogre told Lennox, amusedly tapping at the beak of the black chicken as Berthilda contentedly clucked on the table. "Werewolf courtship eh? That's a high compliment. Good for you!"

"Th-thank you for letting me keep the chicken." Lennox had stuttered, a little cowed, and embarrassed. "And being so understanding." Dorothy had huffed a laugh.

"I owed Dante a favor, I'm just glad my little lady was given to capable hands. You'll be giving your suitor whatever favorite recipe of chicken is, when you meet her. But may want to be where you meet usually for the full moon, so you can return the favor and get the next hints."

"…sounds like you've had experience?"

"Ah, my first husband. A lovable scamp of a man named Ryker Howlett. A good, good man. He gave me a goat and daffodils. I gave him a goat and potato stew when I figured out who he was."

"First husband? What happened?"

Her eyes took on a distant look. "Full moon after a heavy rain, and a hunting accident. Was nobody's fault."

"I'm sorry." Lennox was, truly. He didn't know what else to say to keep it from getting stilted so asked "who's the second husband if I can ask?"

"Who was my second husband" Dorothy corrected, and laughed. "Dante. They were my second husband. Like I said; I owed them a favor." Dorothy cheerfully bought a few eggs as Lennox processed that in stunned silence.

Did I plan on Dante and Dorothy having been together? No. Do I want the two to get back together? Kinda, yea lol

Two couples getting together. A young love situation and an old flame resparking

[gingerlurk]

Binding | Part III

Din Djarin x f!Reader

A Lovers' Crest one-shot (in three parts). Complete on A03.

Prev

Here's the LC Masterlist.

Summary: Can you and the Mandalorian heal from the events on Evalon? In a steamy cave heated with emotion, you'll try your best.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, it’s just fluff and smut here, I think. (Okay a lil angst too. Angsty fluff. Fluffy angst? Flangsty?), smut: oral sex (f!receiving), breath play, unprotected piv (be safe), sex in a natural body of water (fine in the story, probs avoid in real life), creampie, Din Neck Worship gets a warning not sorry about it though. If you look up self-indulgence in the dictionary – it’s just this whole chapter.

A/N: This story won't make much sense if you haven't read Lovers' Crest. Or even if you have, it may still be nonsense. I'm not sure. No matter what, thank you for reading!

--

He’d declined to hold his son again the whole way back to Navarro, despite the child fussing for it. It takes some doing to therefore get Grogu settled, but he is exhausted and lulls into a fitful sleep. 

You let yourself watch him for a beat – little nose twitching and upper lip curling in the relief of rest. He leans to your touch as you run a finger over the curve of an ear. The contented grunt reassures you that he is alright. 

Unlike the other presence in the cabin.

Turning from the slumbering child, your face is cast in shadow by the broad silhouette standing at the threshold of your shared bedroom. Din is peering in, motionless. A shard of yellow light from outside slants across the curve of his helm.

You look him over. Try to decipher the exact timbre of what’s radiating off him in this moment. In the time you’ve known him, you’ve come to see many, many emotions of varying intensity emanating from the armoured visage. But this one is new – and devastating. He’s carrying the entirety of the events of Evalon. A burden of overwhelming proportion.

Gods, you think. How will I fix this?

Just as you take a tentative step toward him, his shoulders quake and he slumps against the doorframe. You’re there in a heartbeat – right beside him. You clasp both hands over a cold pauldron, nose into the arch of steel where his cheek would be. 

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘Hey Din, we’re alright now. We’re—’

He gives you the lightest shove away and you fall back, arms dropping. Force down a sob.

‘S—’ he gasps on an exhale. Anguish in his tone. ‘Sorry, please just-- I can’t…’

You try, ‘We can get through this.’ Get a shake of the helmet and a strained sigh in response. 

‘I- I almost killed… you,’ he says. The dark T visor tips up to look over your shoulder. ‘I almost hurt my s—'

He’s raised a gloved palm as if you keep you back. Fat chance. You move to him again, pushing the barrier aside. He shies back.

‘Hey, hey,’ you say, reaching up to take hold of either side of the helm, draw it down to level a look straight at him. He stares. With a light lift, moving the beskar up just a fraction, you ask, ‘Can you?’

Whatever resistance there was seems to ebb a little as you keep staring at the visor. Another long, stilted exhale through the modulator before he gives up a shaky nod. He reaches to take hold of the helmet, replacing your hands – which slide to his wrists. He raises it and, as it clears his head and comes down, lets you take it. 

Tears pinch from his eyes. The angry red abrasion at his temple catches the light, spidery lines radiating out.

He holds your gaze at least. That’s something. 

But then it drops, slides down your face to land on your throat. You’ve no idea of the state of it, though it still throbs and it hurts to swallow. Which you do when an expression of pure desolation crosses his features. You’re losing him again.

‘I—’ you start, but are interrupted by an approaching Shnk, shnk, shnk. The sound of mechanised limbs walking to the entrance of the cabin. They ‘sch- veen’ to a stop and IG-11’s voice can be heard calling your name.

‘I have arrived at your request,’ he says. You’d sent a clandestine hail as the Crest broke atmo. ‘I am here to attend to the safety of the child.’

‘What?’ Din focuses back on you – his confusion a chance to move things along.

‘C’mon,’ you start to coax him toward the door, placing his helm with care on the bed. ‘Let’s um,’ you want to take him somewhere. ‘Let’s go to that little hot spring cave you found, hey?’ Grab up a med kit and a canister of hydration fluid. A light.

‘N—’ he’s trying. ‘I won’t leave—’

‘IG here will be a comm’s pulse away, and Grogu will be asleep for hours. He’s okay. He’ll be okay. But you aren’t. Please let me--’

He halts at the threshold of the cabin, a stone wall blocking the doorway. You bump into his back, and have to edge around to stand in front of him. IG waits, sights swivelling between you.

‘My muscles are aching,’ you say, with your best, most imploring expression. ‘I bet yours are too – we can relax and I’ll dress this, yeah?’ 

You brush the back of a finger over the injury by his eye. The motion seems to remind him it’s there and he crumbles, goes to putty in your palms. With a sigh of surrender, he nods. You take him by the arm, murmuring that Grogu will be fine, talking through the steps – I’m turning on security, I’ve got the monitor, IG will keep him safe. C’mon, you need this.

Coax, and corral and guide, until he acquiesces to your will and lets himself lean into your side as you head out to the spontaneous destination.

The cave is warm. The air potent with the smell of fresh water and minerals. 

You have him in a half recline, the pool you’ve sunk into together rises to lap at his pecs and upper arms. It swirls around your ribs where you straddle him. The small lantern sits propped on a nearby rock, casting a golden halo out across the underground spring. The contents of the med kit are laid out on the ledge by his shoulder and you reach for each item in turn.

The wound is not that deep. But you make a thorough show of the procedure. Giving him time to settle into the safe bubble you’re trying to create. He’s letting you work, dead quiet.

‘I don’t even think this will need dressing, you know,’ you murmur low. ‘It’ll heal in no time.’

Your words rouse him, and he lifts a hand – splashing out of the water to still your motions. His eyes track over you, scanning. He takes the cleanser you’d been dabbing to his temple. Sets it aside and twists around to pick up a fresh one, before lifting your forearm to scrutinise the abrasion there. 

You look at it in surprise. Hadn’t noticed it. It looks like a gravel rash, angry bruises smattered around it. He touches the gauze to it and you wince a tiny bit, hiss at the sudden burn. 

Din doesn’t look up, but he pauses there.

‘I did this to you,’ he says, voice soft and deep. His first words since leaving the cabin.

‘No, you d—’ you have to stop to clear your own voice, still raspy and strained. Now he glances up at you with abject pain. ‘You didn’t. You didn’t.’

‘I did,’ he insists. ‘I hurt you, here,’ he reaches up to stroke the skin by the strap of your singlet. You follow the gesture, see a multicoloured bruise. ‘And here,’ moving his touch beneath the water to trace along another fresh lesion on your thigh, blossoming out from the undershorts you’ve kept on. 

‘Superficial,’ you say. ‘I’ve had worse just from training and practice, you know that. They’ll heal. We will heal.’

The hand comes to your neck, fingers make a gentle path there. You still haven’t seen how it looks, but his eyes speak volumes. 

‘Here then?’ he says, asking you to defend this injury to him. ‘What about this?’

With an insistent shake of the head, and a ‘no, no,’ you move the hand so palm is pressed to cheek.

‘It wasn’t you,’ you say, pouring every ounce of persuasion you have into the words. ‘I was there, okay? I saw it. Every time you were a hair’s trigger from… from actually doing anything, you broke through and fought. I saw it.’

Drawing a thumb along his jaw, urging his chin up.

A mortal fear still plays on his features. He remains incredulous, stays holding tight to his guilt. 

A question occurs, and you ask it, ‘What was it like? When you were-- when- uh, I mean, what could you perceive?’

He looks a little confused by the turn in questioning, and his dark lashes drop low as he considers. It’s painful to watch. But a familiar posture emerges, a roll of the shoulders and a gathering of self, shrugging off the taciturn mask – preparing to open up to you. It’s a slight relief. 

‘It…’ he says. ‘It was like a… a thick sheet of glass was between me and my body. And I was trying to punch through it. It was foggy, hard to see-- what I was doing.’

Gods, you think. What that must have been like for him…

‘I remember glimpses of clarity,’ he continues. ‘You looking at me, terrified, holding your neck. You screaming my name, like that. You were so afraid, wh- what that must have been like for you? I can’t-- Then, uh, Grogu, freeing me. But I saw enough, I saw—’

‘Did you see the way you didn’t once use any of your weapons?’ you say, barrelling over him now. ‘The way you let me fight back? Or how about the fact you didn’t know which way your ship was? Would you ever not know the way back to your ship?’

He screws his eyes tight, sits up to press his forehead into yours. You push back, nose nudging into his. Breathing him in. Willing him to believe.

‘It wasn’t you. It was never going to happen. Hear me, Din Djarin? You were never going to hurt us.’ 

‘You were so scared—’

‘Of the tech, not you.’

‘I can’t—’

‘Please, if I’m going to be okay after this, I need you.’

That does the trick.

Over the lapping of the water, the echo of droplets all around, you hear the tiniest sob of acceptance. It wasn’t him. It’s followed by harsh puffs of hot air against your neck, where he buries it, arms reach around to clutch you tight. You need him.

Holding him around the shoulders, you feel them drop. Finally relaxing. Letting the wretched events you’d stumbled into slide to the side. That’s when your own guilt whirrs into motion – starts a melodic drone in your mind of your fault, your fault, this is all your fault.

‘I’m the one who should be weeping right now,’ you utter, pulling back. Imminent tears vibrating on your words. ‘Whole reason we were even there was coz of my mistakes.’

It snaps Din’s attention.

‘None of that was your fault, cyar’ika,’ he says, allowing you to ease from the embrace, but not letting go.

‘Wh-- of course it was,’ you say, fending off the urge to cry in earnest. ‘What do you mean? I- I…’

‘I’ll accept,’ he rumbles over you. An intensity in his gaze that seers across you. Heavy brows knitted together. ‘That tech… what it did, and what it made me do. I’ll accept that wasn’t entirely… I’ll accept that, okay? But you will not convince me that it wasn’t every one of my mistakes that led us there.’

You’ve lost the train of conversation. His mistakes? What is he talking about?

‘What are you talking about?’ you ask. ‘Your--? You haven’t… made any—’

‘Oh, yes I have,’ he says. He seems almost… angry? A fuming buzz just under the surface. ‘Many. How far back do you want to go?’

You can’t think of a single thing to say, so just stare – searching his face. 

He gives you a look like hm? A head tilt that you can’t help but be melted by. Something is swimming in his gaze, something profound, and you sense an immense emotion about to descend. Sure enough-- 

‘Back to when I realised I’d fallen in love with you, but didn’t tell you? Or to when I should’ve told you how Mandalorian custom works? And let you decide? Or how about to just to that day – what I put you through at that forge? Letting you go? Hm? My mistakes, love. Not yours.’

You’re reeling. This is- this is just--

‘Everything you did,’ he says, the anger dissolving into a well of melancholy. ‘In our time apart, everything you had to do – if I had.. if I’d just-- not been so afraid.’

The last word comes out a shuddered whisper and he takes a beat to draw a few centering breaths. You focus mainly on trying to take in a single inhale of air, mind swirling with the heady minerals and steam. 

A litany of feelings pass in this space you’re sharing. So much that has remained unspoken. While he considers his next words, you resolve to never let secrets be carried between you again. 

But when he goes on, your heart jumps into your – once again throbbing – throat.

‘I don’t hold any resentment that you… were with another, in that time,’ he says. You freeze in fear. Something thuds into place for you, why you had never brought it up, why you tried to just forget and move on. Because you regret it sure. But it happened. And you don’t want to know if he went and did the same. 

You’d rather never know – if, if he…

He senses it on you. Always reads you so easy. His features turn soft – tender and affectionate. A light dancing in his eyes.

‘Do not worry, cyar’ika,’ he says. He nudges a damp strand of hair off your forehead, draws the finger down your face, along your jaw, across collarbone, shoulder. Tracing a line of heat along your body until his bare hand is clutching one of yours under the water.

He holds them up, looks between them and your face.

‘From the moment I let you remove my glove, that first time… there was never going to be anyone else.’

He lets your joined hands drop with a soft ‘fwoosh’ back beneath the ripples.

‘I didn’t know I could let someone that close to me, and – I think it could only ever have been you.’

This confession is only just sinking into your bones, when he goes on.

‘There is something I should tell you,’ he says. Despite yourself, you still freak a little. Maybe something did happen, with someone else, and he just kept the armour on? Maybe- maybe he-- Gods, shut up, you chastise yourself. Don’t be daft.

This time Din doesn’t seem to be as attuned to your ridiculous spiralling. In fact, it seems as if he has drifted far away. A distant expression on his face.

‘I’m sorry for those things I said, before the mission,’ he says. ‘And you were right. You’ve shared so much of your past with me. It’s time I do the same.’

He lowers his head and you sit a little taller to caress him. Pull him close. Unsure what’s coming but feeling the air grow heavy with it.

‘I wasn’t always a Mandalorian,’ he says, whisper quiet but so close to you it shimmers in your veins. ‘I was… a foundling.’

Through whispers and utterances into your neck, against your shoulder, into your hair. He tells you about the world where he was born. About his village. His family. The attack. The cellar. About the Mandalorian who took him in arms and lifted him away from that life forever.

He tells you about the last time he saw his parents.

You listen with hands circling and stroking. With kisses to his uninjured temple. Grateful for the steam and the sweat on your bodies obscuring your tears, which flow free as you picture him. So young, ripped from the life he knew. Torn away in violence. So young.

He’s describing looking over the shoulder of his saviour, peering down at the ground shrinking away, when he stops. Lets a silent torrent of emotions pour into where he’s dropped his head onto your shoulder. Then a deep sigh of relief – of release.

He continues, in a timbre so achingly sad you have to bite down hard on a sob. 

‘I worry I can’t remember enough. It’s just that day now. The only clear memory of my, uh, my parents is that final day… just that last glimpse. Everything else is… fuzzy and… and I’m not sure if I’ve made memories to replace what I’ve lost and I don’t know if they’re—'

You interrupt him, sensing the distress returning.

‘You know I understand that pain,’ you say.

‘Yes,’ he rasps, drawing you back so you can see his face, so he can see you. ‘You do. And I think it’s why you’re the one. The way you carry it, inspires me. I think it’s part of what drew me to you. Part of why I let you in?’

He looks thoughtful.

‘Grogu as well, you know?’ he says. ‘He’s suppressed memories, from his past.’

You didn’t know that. ‘Really?’ you say.

‘Mmhm,’ Din looks sad again. ‘I’m afraid this experience will not be good for him.’

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘He’ll be alright. Whatever happened in his past, he didn’t have you. Us. Now he does.’

You shuffle closer again, cup his face. Draw thumbs along each cheekbone.

‘We’ll play a few rounds of capture the flag when he wakes,’ you say. ‘You’ll let him win. He’ll be okay.’

Maybe it’s the air thick with confessions. Maybe it’s just exhaustion now. But he accepts that without resistance. A loose nod of agreement.

‘Should we head back?’ he asks.

You reach over his shoulder and pick up a device, thumb the transmitter. ‘IG, any report?’

The droid answers in an instant. ‘Nil report, the child continues to sleep.’ You turn the screen to show the little cam’s view, pointed at Grogu. Though muted, it’s obvious he’s snoring loud. Din watches it for a moment, then – thank gods – lets a small smile grace his lips.

You put the monitor back down. ‘I think we can stand it here a little longer, don’t you?’ 

The smile is on you then, and it dances over your chest and into your belly. A coy spark jolts lower down. 

Not now, you tell your body. Now’s not the time.

Giving yourself a little shake, you find Din’s eyes. They’re contemplative. He has a question.

‘What is it?’ you say.

With a tip of the head, he asks, ‘Earlier, you said something like, I “let” you fight back. What did you mean?’

‘Oh, uh,’ you aren’t sure how to explain it. ‘Just that, I was fighting you, as you were-- just, don’t worry about that, but I was deflecting your blows and stuff. Seems like, if you were wholly you, I wouldn’t have been able to do that… So…’

Din gives you a sly look, brows arching ever so slightly.

‘You don’t think you could take me in a fair fight?’ he asks.

‘Wh- uh, no? Obviously?’ you say, somehow feeling silly under the weight of his gaze. It’s a measured appraisal he’s giving you, making you shiver. His lips tweak into the tiniest smirk, some conclusion settling on him.

‘I think you could,’ he says. ‘If you were really trying. And I think you’d win. Way you can be so resourceful, cunning, fast.’

With a snort, trying to hide how flattered you feel, ‘As if you aren’t all those things too and crazy strong,’ you counter. ‘You’d just have to pin me and it’d be over.’

‘If I could get a hold of you. Big if.’ He grips your thighs tight, with mirth in his voice, ‘Wouldn’t take much effort for you to find the gaps in my armour though.’

The insinuation is heavy, and it sends another thrill through you.

He doesn’t miss it this time, and the shift is instant – the hold on your legs turning amorous.

Large fingers glide up, dig under the hem of your shorts to find the crease at each hip. With a light tug, and a little yelp of surprise from you, he pulls your pelvis flush to his.

‘Um, D- Din?’

‘Mm?’ he hums, leaning up, eyes raking over you.

‘What’re you—'

‘Want you,’ he whispers in your ear.

‘Now? Are you sure? It’s been an emotional t—'

‘Please,’ he says. ‘Want to feel you.’

Well, if he wants it. Who are you to deny?

‘Okay…’ you say. Your body is way ahead of you, already thrumming like a taut string. ‘Kiss me?’

‘Please,’ he’s arching his neck and you tilt your head to seal lips together. 

It’s still and quiet as you revel in the softness shared between you. He pushes forwards to deepen the kiss. 

Before long, the only movement in the cave is your mouths making hungry paths to and fro, out and in. Heads angling and reaching for more. The only sounds are the ones you make together, bouncing off the walls and back to your ears. Loud and erotic. His tongue is hot and delicious, licking deep. Pulling back to let teeth make merry – to nip and seal and suck whatever is there.

Your shared breaths also grow into the space – short, harsh huffs of air made to sound like a fiery force brews within the cavern. His panting morphs into tiny grunts the longer it goes on, growing impatient and needy.

A rippling of water radiates out from where you're seated as he lifts his hands. Steaming from the spring, they cup your jaw, hold you still so he can make a feast with you. He drags bared teeth across your lower lip and it’s a hot spark that garners a desperate little whimper from your throat.

The contrast of his soft lips and coarse facial hair, traversing your cheek and jaw and the column of your neck, never fails to draw chesty whines out of you. So it’s not long before your voice joins the chorus of aching need as well. The crescendo concludes when a sudden, insistent suction of teeth and lips just below your ear draws a startled ‘Ah!’ out of you. 

He reacts by dropping his hold down again. The loud splash as he breaks surface tension to seek and grip your ass drowns everything else out as he shifts forward, pulls you in and lifts you. Rushes of mini waterfalls cascade from your bodies as he rises, you going with him, just enough so he can turn and deposit you to sit on the pool’s edge.

He doesn’t stop moving, stripping off your soaked singlet and little shorts – laying you down so your naked back presses into the warm rock. 

His bulky figure looms above, obscuring the light as he leans down to kiss you and kiss you. He mouths over to your ear and whispers, ‘okay? Comfortable?’ The husky rumble of his voice going straight down, landing in your cunt and sending ripples over all of you, just like the spring. At your nod and uttered, ‘yeah, s’good,’ he moves down, sinks below your field of view.

While he pauses at your chest to suck and tease your tight nipples, roll his tongue over your breasts, you reach up to grasp the edge of his cloak – laid out a ways from the water where armour and clothing rest. Curl the cloth into a tight fist. Just to have something to hold. Your other hand cards into his hair, moving down your body until you’re all but holding him in front of your leaking entrance. He slides a palm along the inside of a thigh, gliding over the droplets clinging there. 

With a sweet hum of content, he mirrors the motion on the other side of your sex – now aching, throbbing, pulsing.

He moves both hands back and forth, back and forth, massaging your legs and spreading them wider. Wider. Until your knees are nudging the rocky edge and your feet skim the pool’s surface.

The caress on your left thigh turns to just two fingers, traversing the curve, crossing the crease and making a reverent landing at your apex. He parts your labia and a probing pad swipes through your slit. The contrast of the clingy damp on your skin and the slick juices gathered there… It’s otherworldly. A chesty moan rips from you without warning, arching your back off the saturated rock.

‘Ready?’ he teases and you just ‘hnnnnn’ back at him.

It’s an ‘mmmmm’ of immense satisfaction that meets your pussy as he buries his face there and devours. Hungry lips make a meal of your pleasure. A precise tongue hits all your sweetest spots – creating even more for him to taste, lick up and swallow.

He takes his time moving back and forth through your folds – even deviates away to lave at the sensitive flesh on either side. Each time giving a grunt of approval as you tug him back to the source of imminent bliss. 

With his usual inhuman patience, he works at your core and waits for you to beg.

It doesn’t take long. 

‘Din, pl—’ 

He pushes forwards, nuzzles himself between your thighs. Those two fingers hold you open so he can get close enough to drive his tongue into you, lips and teeth parted wide, fucking your cunt with everything he has. The angle lets him in deeper than you’re used to; he takes full advantage – groaning with an animalistic intent as he makes deft curling motions through you over and over. 

It is so indescribably hot, and wet, and slippery. Warm all the way to your centre, it’s an inferno he is stoking in your lower belly. All your senses are funnelled to the heated tightness drawing down to your core, nearly ready to blow. 

Incoherent amid the ecstasy, you’d somehow forgotten he has another hand. So it is with an undignified shriek that you feel a thumb seek and circle your clit. 

It applies the exact pressure, to the exact right place – setting the bundle of nerves ablaze and you are lost in it.  

You can’t even hear yourself but it’s some kind of babbled string of, ‘Din I’m gonna c-- I'm gonna – Ah! Muh!’  

And it crashes over you. Rushes in, spreads over your entire body before ebbing into a dewy heaven.

Looking down at him, you gasp. Curls fall over his forehead, brush across the tops of his dark brows. They crown his long eyelashes, twitching and flexing along his waterline – where his eyes are closed as he drinks you down. He’s in his own world, taking in your pleasure as if it were at a font of eternal life.

It’s a sight so erotic that, as you watch and feel, another tidal climax washes over you.

When he pulls you back in and settles you over his lap once more, you feel he’s rock hard. At some point while working his mouth over you, he’d tugged his own shorts off and his cock twitches against your belly under the water. 

You’re staring down at it, tongue swiping a lip in hunger. So at first you don’t notice him grasp your wrist, lift it – and place it with a firm insistence at his neck.

Your attention snaps up to him. He’s drowning you with those dark, desperate eyes – an imploring look in them. But you shake your head.

‘Uh, n--’ you say. ‘No… Din. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not right now.’

‘Please?’ he says. ‘Just, please. I want to know…’

‘I really d--’ You try to pull your hand back, but he grips it there – pushes it higher. 

‘I trust you,’ he whispers, husky and wanton. ‘Trust me?’

At that he drops his hold, both arms go to your waist. Your hand stays where he’s left it, but doesn’t move. You look at him for a long, long moment – watch a droplet of moisture leave a damp curl over his forehead, fall across his temple, down along his jaw and drop onto your arm. 

The sense of intimacy expands and clouds your senses the longer you sit there together. He waiting. You thinking.

Still unsure, but willing to test – you trace a featherlight finger across, over his Adam’s apple. A jolt of desire whips through you when you feel his cock bounce against you, an instant response to your action.

Okay… you think. Maybe.

You stroke two fingers under his jaw where, if you were to do this, you’d push in to compress and restrict his breath. His lips part in a little moan, eyes grow heavy as he tips his head back – holding onto your waist for dear life.

‘Please,’ he breathes again and you watch his throat contract and bob as he swallows. Shift a thumb down a thick straining tendon to the valley between his collar bones, feel the skin peaking there as he pants a little. 

‘Hey,’ you say, drawing his gaze back to you. ‘This isn’t about… like, it’s not punishment, right? If I do this for you… it’s about only… It’s all about…’

With the same insistent grip as before, he takes your free hand and places it against his chest. Trails your linked fingers down, over sternum, stomach, to wrap around his erection. Leaves you gripping him there to cup your face, staring right into you.

‘I know, mesh’la,’ he says, and you swear his voice has reached such a low rumble it echoes all around you. ‘I know. I trust you. I want to feel this with you.’ 

Okay, fuck. What else to say to that?

So you shuffle your knees a little to get settled, make sure you’re steady with full control over your respective holds. Thinking for a moment, you say, ‘Hold onto my waist again – if you want me to stop, let go.’

He shifts to obey, large warm hands landing on the sensitive skin around your middle.

And then you wrap your hand around his throat, find the sweet little pressure points… and squeeze.

It’s a stretch – his neck so broad your reaching fingers only just span wide enough. Only just get the feel right. He doesn’t seem to mind, his face instantly overcome with a beatific lust. Eyes rolling back and mouth falling open – a few short gasps of air cease on a strangled growl that rains over your body.

Gods, you think. Oh gods. You thought you’d seen him at his most beautiful. How wrong you’ve been.

You set up a pattern similar to what he had done for you. Easing back to let the blood rush in – watching his face for any signs of discomfort. Squeezing in again when he seems ready for more.

The hand on his cock hasn’t moved yet, though you feel it pulsing. You’re waiting. Waiting for just the right moment to—

Just as you ease off and let him suck in a breath, an involuntary but forceful thrust of his hips makes you bounce upwards. Leg muscles growing tense and trembling under you. There it is.

You press in again and start to stroke his at-attention shaft in earnest. Patterned, rhythmic. Just how he likes it. His reaction almost takes you to the edge – a grip on your body so tight you might burst, a blistering whine splitting the air, head thrown back and body shuddering under you.

‘How does it feel?’ you murmur, letting him pull in air. ‘How does it feel, Din?’

‘F- feels,’ his lower lip quivers, nose scrunching in an enormous effort to tell you, ‘Feels, you feel… s- so divine-- gods, g- goddess. Uh!’

Without your volition, working on pure instinct, you shift forward to push your pelvis into the base of his cock and grind yourself onto him, upper hand squeezing harder, harder, him nodding into your hold, getting so so close until--

All at once, he stops you. Both your wrists are seized and hands yanked off him. Worried, panicked, you start to babble a string of ‘sorry, sorry, that was too much-- I knew we shouldn’t’ve, sorry sorry,’ but he shuts you right up with mouth on yours. Hot breath pours into you as he gasps and gasps. He’s desperate with it, almost clumsy, sucking and nipping at such a pace you can’t keep up. Just keep lips parted and let him have you.

When he pulls back, an intensity is radiating off every millimetre of him. A primal need.

He wraps your arms across his shoulders, then hands are on your ass and he’s lifting you again. 

This time he pitches forward. Steps into the pool and into deeper water. Walking until it’s up to your shoulders, pressing you against the wall.

‘More, love,’ he pleads. ‘Need more. Need you so--’

He’s never been so needy, never ceding such control to you. It’s setting your every nerve ending on fire. You keep hold of his shoulders long enough to tilt your hips to guide yourself onto him, until his cock finds your sex, slips through your folds and – Hss, ah, gods yes.  

With him halfway in, you pull him into another kiss right as you place a hand to his neck again. The feral moan he unleashes is almost drowned out by your cry of ecstasy. Because, the second you restrict his breath, he slams himself to the hilt and, without a single beat of blood through your veins, fucks you at a relentless pace. Forcing the air from your lungs and filling your head with a heady pleasure.

‘That’s it,’ you say, eyes locked on his. Those dark irises, unfocused and lost in bliss. Plush lips parted. The feel of his neck muscles – coursing, flexing with power under your hand. ‘That’s it, beautiful. All for you.’ He drives harder, shifts his grip just long enough to hike your knees higher, bends his own to find the angle to go deeper. 

The hard stone at your back leaves nowhere for you to go, allowing him to put just the right pressure on your clit with every piston of his hips. Your cunt sings with the desire running through you.

The resonance of the cave has it feeling like there are many of you – every strangled cry, every gasp, all the grunts and groans of desire from the two of you, echo around as if your joined bodies were endless.

All your senses are alight. It becomes too much. You have to let go, shifting your hand to bury it in his hair, as a nova explodes in your core – sending rings of sensation out to spark and flicker in your fingers and toes, the crown of your head. 

On a startled inhale, Din drops his head into your neck, shuddering with his own release. It feels like it goes on and on – one heavy buck of his hips after another. Guttural exhales turn to shaky sighs and, with one final, uhn, slam into you, he wraps arms around you and goes still.

Sinking a little deeper into the water as his legs go lax, his heavy lean and the hard wall are all that keeps the two of you up. He stays there as the space grows quiet and still again. You don’t want to move, don’t want to disturb whatever nirvana he’s resting in, but another slip down the wall has the water at your ears. 

You have to nudge him. 

‘Din?’

With a little shudder, and a groan of protest, he moves. But only to carry you – once again – back to where you had been seated. Holds you to him, until you’re back where all this began.

He’s settling, stroking hands over you and muttering, ‘so soft, so…’ when a question occurs to you. And you’re so desperate to know, you let it out.

‘Hey,’ you say, he responds with a soft ‘mm?’, continuing to lean back and fondle you. ‘Before, you said you’d realised you were in love with me, but didn’t tell me. When was that? Do you remember?’

He pauses his handsy ruminations to give you a lopsided grin; it makes your heart torque with lust and relief. With a flex of abs he sits back up, gets close to your ear, and whispers, ‘I remember, yeah, crystal clear. It was when you…’ His husky vocals ripple over your body as you listen, eyes roll back with it.

He finishes speaking by taking an earlobe between teeth and giving it a gentle suck. Then a long lick around the shell of your ear.

With a smile in his voice, he asks. ‘How about you?’

Returning the smile as he looks at you again, feeling so warm and fuzzy you might dissolve in this pool, you say, ‘Oh, you know, around the same time…’

That gets a surprised flutter of lashes; him blinking with a disbelief that confuses you.

‘Really?’ he asks, in all genuineness. 

‘Yes?’ you reply. ‘Of course?’

‘But y—’ But what? What is he getting at. ‘You hadn’t… seen my face, then,’ he says, the confusion morphing as you watch, into a kind of wonder.

‘There’s much more to you than this handsome mug,’ you say, fending off a sadness that creeps at the base of your skull. You’d been denying your feelings – back then. Running scared at the movement in your heart. But, in retrospect, any fool would have seen it.

‘And you know,’ you go on. ‘As it was happening. As I was falling for you,’ you don’t miss the shiver that runs over him at your words. ‘I truly believed I never would see your face. Sometimes I gotta pinch myself, you know?’

It’s almost too much, the look he gives you. Such a soft, reverent expression. You try with all your will to memorise it, to hold it in your heart forever.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he says. 

Not long later, the two of you step through the doorway of your home just as the child stirs, eyes slipping open and arms reaching for his father. Din reaches back.

–

The bustling hub is just as before. Delicious scents and alluring dishes everywhere there is to look.

Din strolls through the crowd. You at his side and the child in his arms. He’s enjoying Grogu’s happy burbles, a sticky sweet clutched in his paws – your idea, to keep him from Force-nicking any more food.

The three of you are hanging around, waiting for the sale of the oddly acquired ship to go through. 

He can tell you’re excited. A buzz radiating off you, likely contemplating the new state-of-the-art climate system the Crest will be getting from the windfall. He’s glad too – no more busted heating mid-jump leaving you to shiver away in the hold. And the upgraded air filtration in the fresher won’t be so bad either.

You couldn’t wait to install it, you’d said. Din thinks the job will – as always – give you that inexorable sense of control, of will, of youness.

He’s looking forward to it too. To watching you work. Seeing that light in your eyes. A light he loves.

He shifts the child to one arm, so he can reach across and link your fingers together. He tugs you close, tilts down to whisper into your ear, ‘You doing okay?’ he asks.

He hasn’t stopped checking in since returning from the cave. And you seem to be indulging it, happy to reassure him as much as he needs. 

‘Yeah,’ you say, squeezing your digits in his. ‘God damn hungry though. No idea what to get, still.’

Just as you say it, his eyes track over a vendor’s display.

Hotplates sizzle with the critters laid out row upon row. Dozens are skewered and arranged on their backs, so that hard carapaces become crispy and sticky. Spindly legs poke up into the air, curving into the bodies growing soft with the cooking process. A huge guy stands over them, basting something over and over the crackling delicacies.

‘Plazir Bay Bugs!’ yells the cook. ‘Bugs! Get ‘em while hot! They won’t last!’

You blanch just as Din makes a hard pull on your arm to drag you in the opposite direction. Strides you both away from the insect kabobs as the touter’s voice fades into the hubbub.

A full block from the stall, he slows. 

‘Uh, yeah,’ you’re saying as he turns to you. ‘Never again.’

In total agreement, his visor scans the surrounds. 

‘How about…’ he trails off. Feeling haunted.

With a quirk of the lips and another squeeze of his hand, you point to a sign.

‘How about a soup of some kind?’

Grogu gives his consent with a hearty, ‘Wah!’ He’s run out of sugary distraction.

With a sigh, Din says, ‘Soup it is.’

[shallowseeker]

TFW parenting, and pep-talking Jack:

Hey, Sammy DOES come into the domain of Jack's bedroom to act as Jack's father! It's in 14x01, when Dean is missing. :-) (TBF, He does this in 13x03 Patience too but that wasn’t well-received/was perceived by Jack as glib and fake.)

Anyway! This whole episode, Jack is pretty successfully being raised by The Village of Hunters. Everyone steps in: AU Bobby, Mary, Sam, Cas. (Of note, Jack doesn't feel better, really, until he talks to Cas.)

///

In this episode, Jack laments the loss of his powers.

In the Sam scene, Sam tries his best to sit with and comfort Jack, and he mostly does okay with that. Interestingly, Sam emphasizes "moving past it," because that's a Sam way of coping. Dissociate and get back to work.

This is a sharp contrast to when Dean comforted Jack about his nightmares in 13x23, which was to tell him, "It's not about being strong," and emphasize taking care of Jack.

Sam in 14x01:

SAM: I talked to Bobby. He says you may have had a rough day today. JACK (sullen, closed off): It was fine. Sam tries some more. SAM: I know it's a lot, I'm sure, but you can get past this. I know you will. I have faith in you, Jack, and I believe in you. (Mary enters; Jack still looks sullen and upset.)

It's a nice attempt, especially for Sam, who comes by connection in a more practiced, careful, "therapizing" manner. The conversation gets interrupted by Nick Vaught waking up. Nevertheless, even before the interruption, Sam's attempt gives off a stilted feeling, like Sam is reading from a self-help seminar.

He says, "You'll get past this," and "I believe in you." Somehow, it doesn't feel like he's coming down to Jack's level and getting real with him, as Dean and later Cas will do.

///

At the end of the episode, Cas comes into Jack's room, with his own face beaten to a pulp. Cas hasn't healed himself. He's letting Jack see his own weakness here. That it's okay to screw up. They all screw up all the time.

He asks how Jack is, and Jack sullenly mutters (again) that he's fine. Then, Cas tells Jack that he did well, and Jack explodes in a flurry of emotion, easily opening up to Cas: (we’ll see that he is more willing to hurl his genuine emotions at Cas, Mary, Dean…)

JACK: All I did was get punched...in the face! CAS (wryly): To be fair, we all got punched in the face. JACK: That's not--Before, when I had my powers, I-I could've done something. CAS (frankly): Jack, you don't-- you don't have your powers. And you- your grace should regenerate in time. But until then-- JACK: I'm useless. I can't kill demons, I can't find Dean, and Michael is in our world and I can't stop him. I can't do anything. I don't have...anything. CAS: Oh, Jack. That's just not true. You've got me. You have all of us. (touches shoulder) You have...your family. (then, passionately) And we are going to find Dean, and we are going to beat Michael, and we're going to do it together! Because that's what we do.

Cas's message seems to get through to Jack a little better here, though Jack is still uncertain and scared. Cas, like Dean, keeps it real with Jack (just like they keep it real with Claire). It doesn't sound so...canned. (Sorry, Sam. Ilu. You try so hard.)

Cas talks frankly: "Yes, you've lost your powers." He also, like Dean, emphasizes familial support and delivers a message of hope and unshakeable confidence.

///

Lastly, Jack is in his "Rocky Balboa" era. It's so adorable. I just wanted to point out his lil jogger outfit and make you imagine him training to "Gonna Fly Now." You're welcome.

No, literally. This is Jack is 14x01, except he's (somewhat hilariously) getting the crap kicked out of him:

[a-bombyx-mori]

Despite the Storm

Ithaqua/reader (but can kinda be viewed as platonic??)

A short little oneshot thing I wrote in a single afternoon. I haven't written a reader insert for a long time oops,,,

Also posted on AO3 under a_bombyx_mori, link in notes

Wind mercilessly whipped through the trees surrounding the cabin, shaking the windowpanes. You peeped out from under a mound of woolen blankets, noticing it must be nowhere near morning. Weak moonlight reached the foot of your bed. Embers stirred in the fireplace, casting a speckled shadow of the ongoing blizzard against the ground. The stilts by the door were missing.

A particularly strong gust hit, and you scurried back to safety. The storm carried on.

Snowstorms were such commonplace that you felt stupid to fear them. This may be the hundreth time you’ve heard the wind’s symphony, but it never failed to tear you from sleep. Tempests served you nightmares if you managed to drift off. You’d awaken after every vision to find your quilts scattered across the floor, leaving you shivering under thin sheets. Fear froze you faster than the cold.

Now’s not the time to worry about sleeping, though. A heavy branch thunked against the roof. The latches securing the door clinked violently. Desperate for a lull in the gale, you shut your eyes tight, only to pick up on a different sound. Footsteps.

“(Y/n)?” A familiar yet soft voice hovered above you. Slender fingers tugged back the edge of your cocoon to reveal a familiar pair of dark eyes. “There you are.” Ithaqua smiled, maskless. Snow clung to his disheveled hair.

Reaching out your hands, you beckoned him to join you in bed. “I missed you,” you murmured as your partner slid in beside you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” he sighed, “the winds are quite strong tonight.” Ithaqua pulled you close, his hand secure against your back. You hummed in response.

You could faintly smell pine as you tucked your head against his chest. His presence seemed to dampen the sounds of the chaos outside. All you could focus on was the subtle movement of his chest as he breathed, slowly lulling you to a comfort only Itha could bring. 

You didn’t notice how sleepy you were until a yawn forced itself past your lips.

“Aw, (Y/n)...” the boy beside you softly giggled. “Tired already?” His long fingers gently stroked your back. You could only nod as you snuggled closer into his embrace.

Ithaqua pressed a kiss against your forehead.

“Sleep well, my darling.”

[illogicalnordictales]

Here’s a story I often forget about.

So it’s also a story not many of y’all (EXCEPT MAYBE YOU BRANDON. Though to be fair I don’t know if I told you or not) have heard.

I helped a bird fly one last time back in 2023.

“One last time? Illogical, how does that work?”

Well, disembodied voice in my wall, I’m glad you asked.

The bird was dead.

No, I was not the one to kill it.

So it’s a Sunday morning, and I’m walking into my church for Sunday School. And as I���m walking in, I glance down and see this dead songbird, y’know the type: the little ones with the tiny stilt legs that hop around and make nests in your ferns. That kind.

So I’m like, “Ok well it’s dead, that’s unfortunate, someone’s gotta clean it up. We don’t wanna traumatize the people walking in”.

(Fun side note: I may or may not have traumatized one of the younger girls one time by donning my Mickey Mouse voice and chasing her.)

Anyway. So I walk into the student center and two girls are already there. So I just casually go, “Hey where’s James? I need a trash bag. (That’s not his real name, I’m not gonna dox him, deal with it).

And so they’re like, “…why?”

“There’s a dead bird. Did you not see it?”

“…no.”

So later James walks in and I’m like, “James I need a trash bag?”

“A what?”

“A trash bag. Yknow, like a grocery bag.”

“Why?”

“Did you not see the bird?”

“No, we came in the back way.”

“Ok well there’s a bird by the front door. I’m gonna need a plastic bag and some lemon juice.”

(I didn’t get the lemon juice but that’s fine, a wet paper towel worked.)

“We don’t have a plastic bag. How does a bowl sound?”

“Well I still need to pick it up to get it in the bowl. Toni (again, not a real name), go to the bathroom and get me some paper towels.”

So I get this bird, y’know, pick it up in the paper towels, wrap it up, and now I’m like, “I need to take it to the dumpster.”

And James is like, “Why don’t you just chuck it into the field?”

I’M SORRY SIR, THAT WAS AN OPTION? ABSOLUTELY, LET’S CHUCK A DEAD BIRD INTO A FIELD.

But before I do that, the girl who got me the paper towels (also the one I may have traumatized with the Mickey Mouse voice) was like, “Wait I wanna see it.”

And so in like, “Aight, sure, here.”

And so I uncover the bird, and stretch my arm out in her direction, and its little head just like lolls to one side. (Chances are, with the speed with which it hit the window, it was most likely an instant death cause by its neck snapping.)

And she’s instantly like “Oh no, never mind.”

So I’m like, “Aight cool.” And legit just…

H U R L that poor bird into the field.

10/10 would do again.

Mind you, I was basically like, completely unfazed by this whole thing, and was super casual about it, which makes it even better lol

[elfcollector]

there for you

rating: teen

relationships: platonic mason & the detective, mentioned adam/detective

warnings: none

summary: "No, no, it’s my fault, it’s my ——”  They spin and their smile is horrible, tight, mocking, and their voice goes too loud, too hurt “— it’s my fault for thinking I’d ever be enough for him!”

When there’s a knock at the door to their room, it’s all Blake can manage to choke out, “Go away.”

But the reply isn’t the silence they’d expected — and it isn’t the sound of Adam’s apology, which is what they’d stupidly, stupidly hoped for.  It’s gruffer, the voice on the other side of the door that says, “Don’t start sounding like me, Blake.  Your stupidly big heart is half of your charm.”

Despite the misery making a home in the soft center of their chest, Blake laughs out something soft and surprised and hoarse.  “You can come in, Mason.  ‘M sorry, I didn’t realize.”

The door opens, a slide of yellow light cutting through the darkness of the unlit room.  That darkness seems to surprise Mason a bit, if the way his shoulders hike briefly is any indication — when his eyes settle on Blake, they widen a little further, his lips thinning.

It’s strange, to see the Detective like this.  He’s seen them battered, bleeding, dying — but they’d always had a smile or a joke, that unshakeable confidence outshouting the pessimism that seemed like it should have made them less.  He’s seen them endure Adam’s stilted affections without ever so much as wincing, let alone seeming actually wounded.  But now, they’re curled on the edge of the bed, blankets wrapped around their shoulders in a makeshift cocoon, hair a mess and eyes lined with dark circles and red.  They sniffle, managing a weak smile at his apparent assessment and their awareness that they haven’t passed it.

“Hey.  Sorry I look like shit.”  Mason closes the door and doesn’t turn the light on, and they breathe out a relieved breath as the darkness lessens their headache marginally.  “It’s ‘cause I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” the vampire says as he crosses the room and, after a beat, sits beside them on the bed.  It creaks under his weight, the dip causing Blake to lean further into him, and he doesn’t flinch — Blake doesn’t bother wondering if that’s because he’s truly comfortable with them or because he knows just how Adam pulled away from them.  They just stare down at their knees and smile something pasted - on.  Mason continues, “None of us have really seen you for days, and I can’t remember the last time you had a lay-in.  Normally you’re up and at ‘em in the mornings, let alone by noon.”

“I don’t care.  I wanna sulk in the dark.”  They laugh around statement, but the way the words choke against their throat makes the sound a poor approximation of their usual sarcastic charm.  “Unless you’re here to drag me back to the light?”

“I told you I don’t make a habit of telling people how to live their lives,” Mason reminds them.  “That usually extends to ‘dragging them’ around.”

“Thought it might be a mission.  You’d listen to Adam if he was all like, ‘The detective has been shirking their duties in favor of their silly emotions.  Go collect them, Mason, so they can do their job.’”  They don’t even try to make the imitation a good one — they just hope they can drag a laugh out of Mason.  When there’s not so much as a chuckle, they look up at him with their red eyes, a brow quirked.

“I wouldn’t listen to Adam,” he says, finally, and Blake’s eyes widen.  “Not about this.”

They don’t know what to say to that.  They know Mason’s their friend, but the agent’s loyalty to Adam has always seemed so...absolute.  They manage to snap their mouth shut and turn back to stare forward towards the door, leaning a little further into the man’s side.  The silence stretches for a few minutes, Blake estimates, before they softly ask, “I’m probably worrying Felix, huh?”

“And Nate,” Mason adds, and doesn’t add ‘And Adam,’ true as that may be.  Adam doesn’t get to be miserable about the pain he inflicted and isn’t healing.  “And me.”

Blake laughs quietly.  Not surprised that he’s worried for them — they’re all past that, and Blake knows they’re loved — but that he’s admitted it.  The sound is a little less croaked.  “Sorry.  I’m just...doing really bad.”

Mason inhales and then breathes out a sigh.  “I think that’s what has us so worried,” he admits.  When Blake doesn’t reply, just breathes, too steady to be natural, he continues.  “Adam’s a dick —”

That gets something out of them, a muttered, “Tell me about it.”

“— But none of us have seen you like this.  About Adam or anything else.”  The agent wishes he had a smoke.  It would at least give him something to do with his hands as he dealt with the kind of emotional bullshit that doesn’t ever feel right from his mouth.  And he so badly doesn’t want to fuck this up.  “You’ve been — pretty plucky about his bullshit repression up ‘til now.”

Blake is quiet for a long moment.  Mason thinks they might not respond at all, and that would suit him just fine, so long as the silence and the company might comfort.  But suddenly Blake has pushed off the bed and is on their feet, blankets shed, and is pacing around the floor in front of him.  Dressed in only a loose t - shirt and a pair of boxers, he can see the bandages and the bruises that cover their body from the fight at the auction, though those concern him less than the laugh fleeing the smile they’ve stuck to their face, screaming in sharp contrast to the pain in their eyes.

“I was stupid,” they answer without hesitation, hands carding through their tangled hair as they pace faster, turning from him.  “I could tell — he’s been in love with me since the beginning, right?  It’s obvious.  And I’ve felt the same about him, and he’s so fucking dumb and repressed but we’re both good so I — I just assumed that — that if I — If I just waited it out, kept up the flirting and ——”

Mason does’t move, not sure if he’s frozen by the surprising depth of their pain or by the anger in their too-fast voice, their hunched posture, the hands tugging hard through their long hair.  He can’t tell if they’re angry at Adam or themself.

“I thought I — I was so stupid, and I — I shouldn’t even be m - mad at him, ‘cause he showed me exactly who he fucking is and I was fucking dumb enough to think I could help him, and I —”

“Hey, hey,” the vampire finds his voice, starting to rise, “It’s not your —”

"No, no, it’s my fault, it’s my ——”  They spin and their smile is horrible, tight, mocking, and their voice goes too loud, too hurt “— it’s my fault for thinking I’d ever be enough for him!”

Mason freezes, eyes huge, and Blake’s smile doesn’t fall, even when they inhale, ragged, and start to cry.

He isn’t a gentle man — he doesn’t show care this way, and love is so rare to earn from him that he’s rarely showed it at all, but it only takes a beat of looking at that miserable, heartbreaking expression before his body moves and he pulls the Detective into an unpracticed, awkward hug.

They stiffen, seeming as shocked as he is, but relax into the hug after only a few beats of their unsteady heart, hands wrapping desperately around his back and twisting tight into his shirt.  They bawl into his chest, and he can’t make himself relax or hold them right, but he hopes it’s enough.  He hopes they don’t think they have to keep smiling.

“I th-thought,” they whimper, so quiet he doesn’t think he’d catch it without his hypersenses, “that — h-he’s in love with me, and I’m i-in love with him, so we’d — and I just — I thought I’d b-be enough for him to — I thought I’d be wuh-worth letting the walls down.”  They hiccup, voice going smaller.  “I really — th-thought I’d be worth it to him.”

Mason loves all his family.  And he loves Adam, his stupidity and all, and he’s more loyal to that man than he is to the Agency or much else.  But he regrets, for a moment, not slugging the bastard when he’d had the chance in the hallways, days ago, when Adam had stupidly broken their fearless Detective’s heart.

“But I wasn’t,” Blake whispers.  “I — w-wasn’t worth it.  I wasn’t good enough for him.”

They’re more stubborn than anyone he’s ever known, himself included, and more full of love, too — and while Blake has taken guilt for those they’ve harmed or failed, or who’ve been harmed or failed by them, he truly never thought they’d ever hear the Detective doubt whether they were worth enough for another person.  Mason hates it, and he grasps their biceps to pull them away from his chest.  He’s relieved to see they’re not still smiling.

“Don’t talk like that,” Mason bites out, his hands tightening on their arms.  “You are good enough for Adam.  Hell, you’re too good for Adam.  That’s the whole problem.”

Blake sniffles out a joyless laugh, not smiling, head shaking.

Mason almost growls, “He’s the one who’s too much of a coward to deal with his feelings, not you.  He’s the one who’s acting like an ass, not you.”  They laugh again, still weak.  “You’re stronger than he is, and that’s the issue, not whether you’re worth it.  You didn’t do shit wrong.  Don’t let him make you think otherwise.”

Blake inhales, hard.  The tears don’t stop, but the sobbing’s faded to hiccuping whimpers, which Mason will have to take as an improvement.  “— He said the s-same thing.  That I’m stronger than him.”

“Then that’s about the only thing that he got right about this whole thing.”  Mason squeezes their biceps and hopes it’s encouraging.  One of Blake’s hands rises, still shaking, to wipe at their eyes.  “I’m not good at this shit, Blake.  But I know that Adam’s shit isn’t your fault.  And you shouldn’t feel like you’re less than anybody, especially not a guy who can’t even be honest with himself, let alone the person he loves.”

They steady in his arms at the words, nodding to themself after a long beat.  It hurts, but — the words help.  Mason’s belief in them, a belief they’d shared until so recently, helps.

“I think —” They have to pause, to inhale shakily, to get their voice back.  “I think you’re better at ‘this shit’ than you think you are.”

“Don’t you turn this around into comforting me or some shit.  I can only handle so much mushiness in one sitting.”

And they laugh — a real one this time, for however choked and soft it may be.  “I’m not.  I just — thanks.  I — hah.  I’m still fucking miserable but I — I feel better.  I feel — I feel better.”  They inhale, a little steadier this time.  “You’re a good friend.  I love you.”

He’s glad the light’s still off so the Detective can’t see the flush on his face.  This fucking human...  “I just said I can’t handle more of this mushy shit.”

And they laugh again.  “Okay, okay.  I’m — I’m gonna take a sh-shower and then show my face for the first time in days.  I’ll inflict any more mushiness on Felix.  Sound fair?”

Mason lets his hands drop from their arms.  “Sounds fair.”  His smile is crooked but sincere when he adds, “I’ll still be there, just pretending not to hear it.”

“That sounds perfect.”  Blake reaches forward and takes his hand, squeezing it once.  Mason groans — just to get another chuckle out of them — but returns the gesture.

[sidhewrites]

Chapter 6! I am suddenly confronted by the fact that I need to do some serious writing exercises with Haunted Archivists to figure out their interactions. But hey this is the first draft, it can be as stilted and awkward as it needs to be, so long as it gets written :3

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I can't remember the last time a morning had gone so miserably. At least the sky is still overcast, which makes me feel a little better about life as a whole. The universe may not care about one idiot in a small town enough to change the weather for her, but it was nice to pretend it did. Josie had texted early in the morning, letting me know she had free time this afternoon, and could I call her to arrange things? I hated how quickly I sat up, not even fully awake by the time I pulled up her name in my phone and called.

She didn't even answer.

I was an idiot. As sweet as Josie was, she'd always been bad with confrontation of any kind, which meant she was probably chickening out and too afraid to talk to me directly. I missed her like hell, but I wouldn't miss this.

Instead, I send a text -- Is 3:00 ok?

By the time I'm dressed, she's texted back: Yeah.

I wait for the three dots to appear and disappear, Josie typing and erasing her message over and over again on the other side of her screen. It doesn't surprise me. No doubt she's trying to find a way to tell me how hard this is, and how sorry she is for causing trouble, and so on and so on. I feel bad sometimes. I know she's not trying to make things worse. But Josie has always been too nice for her own good, and it lead to things like this, where I had to fill in the blanks and figure out how to fix things between us in a way that would make us both happy.

I'm not smart. It took me a while to figure this out about her and how to work around it.

With a sigh, I turn on my coffee machine, and offer a compromise. How about we meet at Mean Mug, and you can get your things then

Okay, thank you.

Cool see you then.

See you. Thank you.

I force myself to put my phone down before I make the mistake of apologizing. It would honestly be easiest if I just went and dropped things off at work or outside her apartment, but there are too many valuables in there I don't want to risk getting stolen or broken before she has time to get to it. I know Josie feels bad for what she's doing, but if I say sorry, then she'll apologize and bend over backwards to make it up to me, and I've got to do enough groveling later today for both of us.

My stomach churns, and I barely force down breakfast before heading to work.

Mr. Ngo isn't happy to see me when I arrive. I mean, I knew he wouldn't be, but he really isn't happy to see me. The office feels smaller than ever, air even staler and more difficult to breathe.

"Hello Kaz," he says. He'd been going over the schedule for the next few weeks. I get a glance of the tree trimmers' contact information, and resist the urge to make a joke.

"Morning. How's things?" I try to sound chipper, but it's not believable.

My heart drops further as Mr. Ngo hesitates, and looks down at his hands. He pushes himself up from the desk with a sigh, and makes himself meet his eyes. There's none of the frustration or disappointment I'd expected. I had assumed the Haunted Archivist team would have told on me the second they left last night, but instead, his eyes are red behind his glasses.

"Mr. Ngo? Everything all right?" I think back to the phone call he'd had last night. Oh god -- Phan. In my shame and dread, I'd completely forgotten about the phone call last night. I feel like even more of an ass than before.

He sighs, pulls off his glasses and wipes at his eyes before finding his voice. "I'm...going to have to take a couple days off, Kaz. Phan came down with a fever last night, and it's not going down." He shook his head. I swallowed my guilt, and made myself wait for him to talk again. "Look, she's in the hospital right now, and doctors are looking at her. I'm sure it's nothing, but..."

"No, please. Take all the time you need. Just let me know what you need."

He sighs again, and nods. I'd never seen him look so worn out. "I didn't want to tell you this, but we have overnight guests this week."

Shit.

"I know you wouldn't have approved of me staying out late, but I was looking forward to working with these kids. They're a couple of ghost hunters, very sweet. You'll like them plenty."

Anything but that.

It's a fight to keep my face neutral, but I can feel the muscles around my mouth tense, pressing my lips into a thin line, eyes widening.

"I just need you to supervise for the next few nights. Let them in at nine and let them back out when they're ready to leave. I'll do what I can to get someone to manage the day shifts, but..."

"Anything you need, Mr. Ngo," I say, and I mean it. Forget everything else. I can't keep him from Phan, and if that means working double- or triple-time to keep things running, so be it. I knew how to reach out to funeral homes and inform them of staffing changes, I had all our contractors' information on file. There was just one burial scheduled for the week, and I'd be able to manage that just fine. "You trained me on almost everything. I promise I can handle it."

It's like a massive weight falls off his shoulders, and he deflates with relief. "Thank you, Kaz. I can always trust you to take care of things."

"Any time. You look like you need sleep. Why don't you go home, and I'll take over for the day?"

"I have to schedule..."

"The tree trimming. I see the business card. Let me handle it. Okay?"

"Okay." He hesitates. "And if you need anything --"

"I'll call. I promise. You get some sleep, okay?"

"Okay."

I walk Mr. Ngo to his car and help him in, but he sticks his head out the window one more time. "You sure you can handle it on your own?"

"I promise not to raise the dead and unleash a horde of the undead on Stronte without you."

Finally convinced, Mr. Ngo shuts the door and turns on the car. I stand in the parking lot with as reassuring of a smile as I can manage, watching him go. But as soon as the car is out of sight, any hint of levity disappears, and I fight back a wave of nausea.

Shit shit shit shit.

The Haunted Archivists hadn't told him about last night, which was good. My job here has never been at risk, but I would prefer that not to change any time soon. But there was no way to avoid them in plain daylight now. I could try to pretend that it hadn't been me last night, crouched behind a gravestone and sabotaging their work, but I could also pretend I was ten feet tall with wings and extra eyes.

I drag my sorry ass back to the office, and sit down at the desk to review the notes. It's easy to tell my chicken scratch from his perfectly-formed blocky lettering, and I sort out the various to do lists and notifications. It's hard to focus on work, my mind constantly drifting back to the inevitable meeting where I'd have to face the Haunted Archivists and admit that, yep, the assistant groundskeeper was in fact their local nemesis -- who, by the way, was so very, very sorry about last night, and, hey, can I buy all of you a coffee?

Ugh.

Schedules. Notes. The headstones had just been cleaned, so I didn't have to tend to them for another week or two. I'd have to survey the damage from the rains last night, however, and see if any burial plots were loosened and needed to be tamped back down. The diggers were coming tomorrow to prepare a new grave for the burial, and so on and so forth. It wasn't exactly easy to fall into the routine of paperwork at the best of times. I hated sitting still for long periods of time without something interesting to do, but I couldn't let things slip even an inch this week. Mr. Ngo worried about everything far too much, and the last thing I wanted was to distract him from his wife.

By the time afternoon rolled around, I had gotten most of the necessary paperwork done, which meant I was free to step outside and answer a few basic questions for visitors about the historical significance of this headstone or that unmarked grave. It wasn't officially part of my job. We had a few part-time volunteers to act as docents and tour guides to those who were interested, but I'd been here for three years and learned more than enough to fill in. 

Everyone asks about Lucille Blue. Have we seen her, when does she come out, what does she look like. But I've lived here almost five years now, walking through the graveyard to get to class if not working here outright, and I'd never seen a single orb, much less a full-body specter. I tell them as much every time.

[transition here.]

I had hoped to get a chance to talk to the team first. Step up, hold out my hand, and make my case with a friendly smile. So it was more than a little troublesome that they found me in the office instead, pulling me out of my apology rehearsals. And though I've got the nicest, sweetest smile plastered on my face when I greet them, they recognize me immediately.

"Hi." I wave. It's pathetic.

"Hi." Lourdes looks me up and down, not the least bit impressed. "We're looking for Kaz Pine. Quoc said we'd be working with her for the rest of the week."

"That would be me."

"Of course it is."

"Listen, about last night --"

[She's super unhappy]

"If it would make you feel any better, I could get on my knees and grovel?" I don't often wish I could melt into a puddle and disappear, but this felt like an appropriate moment.

"Look, we had an interview scheduled with Quoc today. Are you gonna be normal if I ask you to fill in?"

"I've literally never been normal in my life."

"Great."

Great.

Though I call it a graveyard, this is technically a cemetery, which means there's a church on the grounds. Funerals would be held by the local priest, and a grave digger would manage the burial itself. The church fell to ruin during the industrial revolution. With a population boom, the townsfolk commissioned a new church, and left this one to the elements.

Nowadays, the church is mostly used by squatters and dumb kids who think it's a cool place to hang out and summon ghosts or take photos of each other. I've seen a few people try to call themselves urban explorers for going inside, but really, they're just idiots walking around the DO NOT ENTER signs and risking a broken neck when they descend the old wooden stairs to the cellar. If they'd just wait for a tour guide, we could at least take them a safer route.

I take the Haunted Archivists to the side door and let them scout the [apse? main room] for the best lighting before sitting down to talk with them. I go over a basic history of the town and the cemetery itself, plus a few fun stories I'd heard from over the years.

"It's normal for people to take a shortcut from the residential area to the local university, or just spend time here, since it's part of the historical tours they give on the weekends. One of my old professors claimed to be haunted a couple years ago. A full-body specter of a child would follow him from one side of the graveyard to the other, and show up at the edge of his bed in the middle of the night. It got so bad that he called in a priest to help banish the dead, but not before a couple of students tried to host a seance."

"Did they find anything?" Mick asks.

"Nah. One of them -- uh." I hesitate, feeling a grimace twist my expression. "Sorry, one sec." I take a second to clear my throat, and school my expression back into something that couldn't be described as I didn't mean to mention my ex girlfriend and feel sick to my stomach now.

"You okay?"

I make a different face, and aim finger guns his way. And then, finally, I manage to recover and start over. "One of them says she saw a shadowy figure walking around in the background, but it was hard to make out any details. Just that they were too tall to be a child."

"It wasn't just a local in the cemetery at night?" I don't miss the pointed edge to the question.

"No. We didn't have a night crew at the time, and no-one else saw the figure."

"So what happened?"

"Don't know. The story kind of died down after the priest showed up, but the professor seemed to be sleeping better at least."

Mick nodded, and reviewed his notes.

"Can you give us your version of Lucille's story?"

"Don't you guys usually cover that with some aesthetic stock footage and animation?"

"For our notes, please."

Ugh. But I do as he asks. "Lucille, born Lucille Cooper, moved here with her family not long after the civil war. They just finished a railroad at the base of the mountains, and the town's population was growing fast. She met a clerk, James Blue, and they fell in love. According to legend, it was love at first sight. The newspapers say it was a three-month courtship, or whatever the equivalent was at the time, but on the day they were to be married, someone found James' body in the woods. Lucille was heartbroken, and the mayor allowed her family to sign the marriage contract for her, allowing them to be married in the eyes of the law, if not god. She wore full mourning for six months, starting to sleepwalk and getting weaker with grief. One night, her mother forgot to lock her bedroom door, and they found Lucy the next morning, curled up on James' grave, dead."

"How did she die?"

"Nobody knows. She was sickly, but not to the point of death. And there was no sign of violence either. Her clothes were rumbled, but not torn or stained. Even her mourning veil was only a little creased. There were rumors she might have poisoned herself, but nobody wanted to believe Lucille could do something like that."

"What then?"

"Then, the Blue family had her buried besides James, but there's not a single record of his ghost ever being seen. Legend has it, Lucille's still here, waiting for her husband to guide her into the next life. For the past hundred-fifty years or so, people claim to see her in her mourning gown, waiting by her grave or walking around."

"Have you ever seen her?"

I shrug -- then jump as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out without thinking, and swallow the sudden surge of emotion. Josie's name sits on my screen, leaving me nauseated with a swirl of hope and dread in turn.

3:00? is all she's sent.

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This chapter really dragged me through the mud but hey-ho. It's here!! Sincerely hoping it will be more enjoyable to read than it was to write :)

Chapter VIII

Linsey was taking breakfast the next morning; a pleasantly simple meal of boiled eggs and slices of pork, freshly cut; when Mr. Dowset informed him gently of another fellow there to see him. He looked about with interest, thinking it was Captain Riley, or perhaps Lieutenant Gardner, though indeed he certainly favoured the former; then he halted in alarm, for it was Captain Elliot who stepped inside, bearing her aviator’s coat and neckcloth well-pressed, and smiling warmly as she stopped to speak with Mr. Dowset.

‘Captain Linsey?’ she said, coming over. Linsey blinked stupidly at her for a moment, before he righted himself and frowned, folding his hands over in his lap lest they begin to fidget in his unease. He was uncomfortably aware of the dull ache at his shoulder, made only more so when Elliott paused to look him over, inspecting the padding of bandages with a troubling amount of concern.

‘I wonder at your coming here, Captain: if you mean to humiliate me, you’ve a queer way of going about it.’ Linsey said sharply, disinclined to be polite in his displeasure.

Elliott looked up and blinked at him; her brow furrowed minutely. ‘Oh, no, that is not it at all; you were hurt,’ she said, slowly, ‘I only came up to see whether you were alright.’

Now Linsey paused, faintly puzzled; he stopped his first response short, feeling it unfair to condemn her, when this was a gesture so clearly made only in kindness. ‘I am well enough,’ he said instead, amending his tone, though he was afraid he sounded unnaturally stiff.

Elliot smiled, genuinely and with such warmth that Linsey did not quite know what to do with himself. ‘Then I am glad, and I am only sorry we could not be out there with you; Fancy was needed over in Port Royal, but dear old Riley has relayed it all: you fought very bravely, very bravely indeed.’

Linsey halted. ‘Oh.’

Elliot laughed, softly. ‘Oh, poor fellow, I supposed you will be used to our rotten manners by now.’ She said, ‘You must forgive us; there are good men here, they are only misunderstanding.’

‘And I suppose I am to give them my sympathy,’ Linsey said quietly, bitterly; Elliot blinked, somewhat puzzled.

‘No; but if you are so hell-bent on making yourself miserable, you might at least be a little kinder about it.’

Her tone was gentle, and softly spoken, as was her habit, but there was a firm quality that brought to it the weight of a command, or at the very least a reproval; Linsey was quiet, considering this, then he said, ‘No; of course.’ The words were stiff and frustratingly stilted in his mouth; he cursed himself silently and asked, by way of reparation, ‘How is Timor?’

‘He is missing you,’ Elliot said kindly, evidently marking the unconcealed worry in his tone. ‘I have spoken to him, and Malcolm too; he spent all of yesterday sleeping, or near enough.’ She frowned a little, ‘Dear Fancy has tried to keep him company, though he tells me Timor refuses to speak with him.’

‘Ah.’ Linsey said, ‘Yes, I may take fault for that.’

Elliott looked at him with amusement. ‘Oh, maybe not,’ she said, ‘He is only young, and has very strong opinions. It is a wonder you ever harnessed him at all.’

Linsey smiled at this faint sympathy, before he caught himself and drew his lips to a thin line: he found himself longing for the same easy company he had seen shared about the covert, between captains and their officers alike, in such a way that reminded him sharply of the men of his crew. But he could not share his loyalties—he cursed the very notion harshly, and may damnation seize his soul if he ever stooped to let such treacherous ideas slip his mouth in company so unpleasant—so frowned and turned deliberately from Elliott’s expression of sympathy, looking instead at his own hands, clasped together and twitching faintly in discomfort.

Elliott was silent for a long while, such that Linsey began to wonder if she had slipped away; then she hummed, a quiet, dispirited sound, and said, ‘I understand you are unhappy, and perhaps I wish we might set you at liberty, if only for sake of Timor.’ She paused, as in uncertainty, and then added only, ‘But you cannot expect to find respite in making yourself so miserable, and all those about you.’

She paused; the quiet afterwards was wholly discomforting, Linsey frowned and focused instead on the faint throbbings in his shoulder, if only to distract himself from his own displeasure.

Elliot sighed a little, apparently disheartened. ‘Well then; keep well, Captain,’ she said, and then she was gone.

By the end of the week Linsey was beginning to feel restless, and pulled at the bandages around his shoulder until the surgeons sighed and looked him over: the wound was healing nicely, to his great relief, and so Mr. Dowset gave the grudging approval for his release, and called up Commander Davis to discuss how best they might work him back into training. He was given a cautionary word to stay to simpler manoeuvres for another week, and to keep from sharp motions until they could be sure the wound would not reopen; Linsey was not a little discomforted by this notion, but could not ignore a sudden and foolish pride at his bearing a fresh scar, like a sailor fresh out of boyhood, taking his first scrape upon the sea.

He was putting on the fresh linens left folded at his bedside, and working the coat carefully over his shoulder, when a servant came running in, calling for him; he was young, and a little frantic, and Linsey set at once to considering what misfortune might have befallen Timor in his absence, such that by the time they set out walking he was all but overcome with dread.

They came up to the courtyard to a scene of wild disorder: Timor was at the centre, thankfully unharmed, and snapping at the men crowded about him, his ruff quivering in outrage. Linsey spotted Riley stood before him and waving frantically, shouting something indistinct; his lieutenant Powell was backed up against the fence to avoid the lashing tail, and looking helplessly at Davis, who stood with his hands clasped firmly at his back, looking on in apparent disapproval.

‘Damn you all! What have you done with Linsey?’ Timor was saying, his head bent low and snarling. If you have taken him away, then I will go after him, and if he is hurt, I will kill you all.’

‘I am here, Timor,’ Linsey called, crossing swiftly. Timor turned about to look at him, crooning softly as he rubbed the side of his head against Linsey’s face and shoulder; Linsey stepped gratefully into the encircling forelegs, putting his arms about Timor’s neck and stroking the smooth hide gently.

‘Oh, Linsey,’ Timor said, so very softly, ‘Linsey, please do not leave me again; they would not let me see you, I was worried you had gone away.’

Linsey shook his head. ‘No, Timor, I will never,’ he said, ‘I am alright, I promise you.’

‘By God, Captain, you ought to have him under control—we cannot be expected to manage these outbursts for you.’ Davis snapped, coming over; he could not speak directly to Linsey without stepping over the great scaled forelegs, so stood just before them, halting a little when Timor growled, very low in his throat.

‘You ought to keep your mouth shut, Commander,’ Linsey spat, whirling on him, ‘He is not mine to control, nor yours, and I damn well think you had better give him the liberty he deserves.’

Davis stared at him, going a little red at the cheeks. ‘Quiet, Captain, I had hoped you were past such impudence,’ he said, in a voice just short of shouting, ‘Or perhaps we will have to reconsider your liberties—come out of there, damn it, I won’t have you acting a fool.’

Linsey would hardly have liked to oblige him, except to strike him down, which indeed he was sorely tempted toward—but Timor growled before he could react either way, and curled his talons about him; his wings rose, mantling, and the long spines clattered frighteningly along his back.

‘I will not let you take him again,’ he snarled, the long tail lashing, and his dark eyes narrowed to slits. Quietly Linsey laid a hand upon his scales to placate him, taking hold of the harness straps that looped around his neck.

Davis was going nearly purple now, his face made only the more unpleasant by the deep lines drawn in outrage across his brow and under his small eyes. ‘You will damn well have to, unless you are wanting your dear captain to be put to the gallows, and to take a new fellow as your handler—or you might rot in the grounds, but by God I will not tolerate your insolence any longer—’

Timor was aloft before he could finish, his golden wings beating in great, sweeping thrusts and driving them out over the cliffs; Linsey was still clinging to the side of the harness, his legs swinging out beneath him, with only the rolling grey swell of the sea below to receive him if he should fall.

They were going at a great speed, racing over the waves with the wind beating hard upon his face; Linsey made a wordless sound of alarm, inaudible over the rush of air all about them. He reached up with his free hand to grasp at the straps over Timor’s back; his shoulder burned as he hauled himself upwards, and he set his teeth to still a gasp of pain. His hands fumbled over the straps, working his fingers into the metal rings and trembling with the strain. There was little below to offer up a foothold, but he found purchase on Timor’s side, pushing out and upwards; then he was at the reins and crouched low, and the wind pulled at his hair and face and set his hands shaking.

His heart was beating very fast with the familiar thrill of flying, and he found it a struggle to restrain the boyish laughter that kept threatening to rise from his throat; he composed himself only with difficulty and a quiet whoop, and set a hand on Timor’s neck to assure him that he was unharmed; the tight muscles unwound slightly, and Timor turned his head back to look at him, the amber eyes shining with relief.

The crack of gunfire sounded behind them, followed by a tremendous roar; Linsey turned about as Timor shook his head uncomfortably at the noise, the small ears flickering: Tolerans was sweeping out in pursuit, with Riley and maybe half a dozen officers upon his back, still hastily clipping themselves into the harness.

‘Timor!’ Linsey called, needlessly: the muscles under the golden hide were already tightening in preparation; Linsey took the reins tight in one hand to steady himself and put the other over his shoulder, steeling himself for the inevitable strain.

Timor tucked his wings in close to his side, spiralling out and upwards—then they snapped open abruptly, stretched wide at his either side like a great sail, and catching on the wind. Tolerans could not stop quite so gracefully, and went driving past them, turning to swoop out ahead; Timor snapped his wings shut and stooped, sweeping out and under him, trilling a little in barely restrained delight.

Linsey found himself grinning, though the expression was strained, he held his hand firm against his shoulder until the ache began to ease a little; then he took up the reins and pulled sharply westwards, setting them in a wide arc and drawing swiftly over Tolerans. The other dragon halted a little as they swept past, and Riley shouted something inaudible from his back; Linsey could not resist: he laughed aloud, and Timor rumbled happily in response.

This pleasure was short lived: Tolerans swept out in an arc to drive them again eastwards, in such a way that reminded Linsey uncomfortably of a working dog set to herding flocks of sheep; from upon his back Riley’s crew hailed a second warning, sending up gun-smoke, and Linsey thought faintly of his first flight alongside Timor, having encountered much the same trouble in face of their Navy captors.

The realisation sank like a stone in his breast. There was little else to be done but to repeat that same misfortune, and trail meekly back to the covert with head hung in shame; likely Linsey would be put to the gallows, and Timor made to take another captain, and they would not ever see the other again. But he could not risk Timor’s life where he would risk his own, and bargain on the slight chance that the aviators would not fire upon them; so he swallowed his misgivings and raised his hand, very slowly, in signal of holding, though it felt in the moment more similar to a sign of surrender.

But as Riley received this and sent up a call in return, Timor made an odd sound—guttural and desperate, from deep in his throat—and then he was stooping low, his wings tucked tight, dropping like a stone and sweeping back up just short of the waves. Linsey looked up in horror as they spiralled upwards, the long talons outstretched and reaching, aimed for Tolly’s exposed belly.

‘Timor—away, damn you!’ Linsey roared over the wind, throwing his weight backwards against the reins, ignoring the burning set at once into his shoulder.

Riley gave a shout of alarm from above, and set Tolerans quickly stooping, sweeping out just short of Timor’s reaching claws; Timor pulled away, very reluctant, and nearly turned about for a second strike before Linsey put a hand upon his neck to soothe him; even then he went up slowly, his head drooping a little in sulking as they drew beside Tolerans, who looked over them with an almost doleful expression of betrayal.

Linsey kept his hand on Timor’s neck as they swept back towards the cliffs, hoping at least to quiet a little of his anxiety; his heart hung heavy with the weight of defeat, and the humiliation of surrender, and though he longed terribly to cast his duty off and take their liberty by force, his usual defiance would not come: he felt a cold, deep-set misery, as though he were making his final walk, hung in chains, to hang before the gallows.

A small party was waiting for them in the courtyard; they scattered below them as Timor landed, then took up their swords and called Linsey down sharply. He was taken roughly by the arms almost before he had dismounted in full, and was given not even a moment to speak with Timor before he was hauled aside, his shoulder complaining sharply at every motion.

He was brought before Davis in a small tent of brown canvas, set nearly at the very edge of the covert, where the cobble roads drawn up from the harbour were laid out near overcome with soil and brushwood, and crowded on either side with smaller tents, seemingly abandoned, or set aside for later occupants.

‘Captain.’ Davis said, waving him to his seat; the tent was assembled a little like an office, with Davis taking post behind a bench of polished dark wood, and a second chair set out before it. Davis had his arms propped at the elbows and both of his hands clasped over the other, presenting a comfortable height to rest his chin upon; he tilted his head slightly forward to look Linsey over, examining his windswept hair and the fresh clothes already rumpled with unhidden distaste.

‘Commander,’ Linsey returned, matching his expression of disdain.

‘I have a good mind to call up your Admiral Chauncey; he will happily see you off the gallows, of that I am certain.’ Davis went on, ignoring this small indignity, though his brow twitched momentarily into a furrow of displeasure. ‘Though that will bring us again to the same issue: the beast you have under your command is remarkable enough, despite whatever unpleasant ideals you seem to have been putting in his head,’ he raised a hand sharply to silence Linsey’s rising protest, ‘We cannot spare him, His Majesty’s Aerial Fleet is weak enough as it is: the Spinewing is our most valuable dragon, and with your Timor—a Goldcrest, I hear?—I expect they will make quite the formidable asset.’

Linsey frowned in hearing this; he ought to have been pleased he would not yet be put to the gallows, and that Timor would not be made to take on another fellow as his captain, but the expression upon Davis’s face was much too self-satisfied to bear such kind news, and Linsey could not ignore a faint simmering unease.

His anxieties were quickly confirmed when Davis leaned back in his chair, laying his hands folded over upon the table before him. ‘But your treachery certainly cannot go unpunished,’ he said, smiling a little, ‘You are to be put out of service for the next week; Mr. Malcolm will take care of Timor in your absence, and you may take the quarters set aside for you in the captain’s round—I trust you have your holdings there already.’

Linsey stared at him, suddenly very short of breath. The very notion of being so long away from Timor was sickening, but he could not in the moment summon the strength enough for a protest: he was tired, so very tired, and had no heart at all to argue.

He walked out in silence, and found Gardner there waiting for him; Riley was stood just beside, with a surprising amount of sympathy on the scarred face, evidently aware of the toll a man would take when separated from his beast. Gardner took Linsey sharply by the arm, and paid no attention to his noise of protest at the stinging ache set into his shoulder; Riley frowned at him but said nothing, falling silently into step just behind.

Gardner released him at last when they reached the courtyard, though even then would not take his leave; Linsey turned from his frowning expression to look instead over the cliffs a little ways upwards, finding some deep sorrow in imagining Timor curled about himself in their small clearing, alone but for the pairs of gulls wheeling about overhead, joining occasionally with the small flocks of Slights and sweeping out wide over the deep blue-green surges of the sea.

‘I am very sorry, Linsey, I cannot help but feel I ought not to have done it,’ Riley said, coming to stand with him, and then laughed a little; a soft, comfortable sound. ‘Though of course that would have me put out of service—I suppose you would not have me as your lieutenant?’

Linsey blinked at him. ‘No, I would not.’ He said, and felt a strange disappointment in seeing the shine of amusement go out of Riley’s eye.

‘A shame; I might have liked to be a pirate.’ Riley said, ‘It is a curious thing, to risk putting your neck in a noose, for little more than what I might understand as—oh, I cannot say that lightly, but it is only greed, is it not?’

‘Certainly for some,’ Linsey said, the growing dark and his own quiet misery making him speak more freely than he meant to. ‘Not so much for me, or for my fellows. It is not only wanderlust, either, though I would not be so sorely tempted by such work apart from the sea.’ Here he paused; Riley was quiet, listening with all patience, and Linsey found himself warmed somewhat by the easy company; he took a deep breath and said, ‘In an honest service there is thin commons, and hard labour; in this, plenty and satiety, pleasure and ease, and all the liberty a man might ask for; I cannot imagine how your fellows find themselves so displeased by our manner, when all the hazard that is run for it, at worst, is only a sour look or two at choking. No; a merry life and a short one, shall be my word.’

Riley had been watching with bemusement, then a quiet wonder; now he hummed a moment in thought, and Linsey turned to find him looking out upon the ocean, somewhat solemn. ‘You are quite the poet, Captain,’ he said at last, turning to Linsey with his eyes shining.

Linsey found himself smiling a little, and could not now bring himself to hide it, when it offered the warmth he so desperately longed for in Timor’s absence. Riley smiled in turn and patted him lightly upon his uninjured shoulder, and let his hand rest there for a moment: a comforting gesture, of gratitude and consolation both.

‘Lord, I do not think I am quite a fool as that—though please, if you find me mistaken, you may put me to ground for the week.’ Riley said, earning him a short concession of laughter from the other captains; he had invited Linsey for a late supper in the mess hall, to relieve him of eating alone. Linsey was quietly grateful, but with the aviators largely turning to talk of aerial strategy and tactics, or friendly repartee between themselves, he found he could not insinuate himself into the conversation quite so easily as he would among his own men, so remained quiet and put his head down a little as he ate.

‘Mind, Captain, you won’t like to give our dear commander the excuse—you’ll be put off with poor Linsey,’ said Clemet, a young man with a sharp nose and cheerful look, and Gishni’s captain—that was the little Dipper, snoring quietly in the quivering lantern light just outside. His tone was not at all scornful, rather sympathetic, though regrettably unconscious of the resultant sorrow brought on by his words.

Elliott was sat on Riley’s other side, and gave the younger captain a meaningful look, which served to quiet him only a moment before he burst out, ‘Oh, but it is a damned shame! I’d think it dreadful, to be away from Gishni for so long, and I can’t imagine I would take it quite so mildly.’ He smiled, not at all disapproving. ‘Do not fret so, Linsey, it will not be forever.’

Linsey blinked and glanced up at his being addressed, pausing a moment in considering the faces looking back at him; the obvious sympathy was kind enough, yet still he found himself somewhat uneasy, and discomforted by their pity. He made a wordless murmur of agreement and shovelled greens into his mouth to conceal his displeasure.

Riley hummed in noticing this, but thankfully said nothing, only patted him lightly upon the shoulder and said, to Elliott, ‘Why, Mary, you have scarcely spoken to us; how is it in Port Royal?’

With this easy enquiry all three lapsed back into conversation, laughing lightly and making good humour between them; Linsey was again excluded, and so watched them for a moment, feeling at odds even in their company, and wishing impractically for the familiar fellowship aboard the Delight, and for his quiet nightly conversations with Timor.

‘Here; the fleet in Spain is well enough, if you mean to say we’ll take second to their Navy also, I’ll have you put out of service.’ Clemet said; the tone held something of a challenge, but his face was bright and shining as ever.

Riley gave a shout of laughter; a couple of the aviators taking supper gave him a curious look, much to his blithe disregard. ‘Lord, I sincerely hope not; their dragons are a damned nuisance, but ours will have their vessels in a bother right enough. It is the pirates you ought to worry for,’ he said, ‘Though I dare say Tolly thinks of it as play—he’ll wreck a fleet and come away capering.’

‘Oh?’ Clemet said, raising his brow in surprise. ‘You are certainly far more fortunate than I, Captain: I have been seven times to the Caribbean now, and not a single one, though I might like to take a crack at them. Oh, but I mean no indignity to you,’ he added quickly, glancing at Linsey.

‘So you say,’ Linsey said, so bitterly he surprised himself; there was quiet, and he glanced up to find the aviators staring at him, with some palpable uncertainty. He blinked at them and said, slowly, ‘You may count yourself lucky, man; those sorts are hardly more honourable than dogs, and they won’t take to you kindly.’

Clemet smiled, relaxing visibly. ‘Oh, a man like you must have quite the account; I take it you find far better tales in piracy than our service,’ he said, ‘Here; it is no good of you to keep so quiet there.’

He spoke with too much eagerness for Linsey to take offence; as the sentiments were repeated by the other captains, he made a tentative endeavour towards a tale told to him by his first quartermaster, though he was inclined to embellish it somewhat, that young man having been rather lax in any thrill in regards to his telling. This being received with great enthusiasm, Linsey found himself becoming bold; he could not resist, and so set to detailing one of his more impressive triumphs: a week long pursuit of the smaller naval frigate Greyhound, in precedence to a valiant attempt from her crew to come aboard and capture the Delight, which devolved quickly to a grim struggle, all throughout a gale in full wind.

‘Why, I suppose it is no wonder why Timor took to you so fiercely,’ Clemet said, ‘You have the right sort of spirit, no doubt.’

‘Spirit indeed,’ Elliott said, ‘Oh, he is a marvellous beast, Linsey, you are certainly fortunate. I cannot lie to say I know of any dragon as magnificent as my dear Fancy, but I have never seen a hide so golden—oh!’ she laughed lightly, ‘You pirates certainly have a fine eye for treasure.’

Her sentiments bordered perhaps on mockery, but Linsey took no offence, warmed somewhat by the clear admiration in her tone.

‘Thank you, Captain.’ He said, and meant it genuinely. ‘I suppose I am lucky to have him at all: I did not take him from the egg, and by all sense he was a stowaway aboard my ship.’ Here he halted, frowning at the sudden misery brought on by this memory: how he longed for the ocean, and the simplicity of command, with his dear Timor all the while beside. He thought briefly of Timor, likely curled about himself and sleeping, or perhaps he had his head turned to look over the sea, listening to the swell with the same such longing that Linsey felt now.

Linsey lingered a moment on this notion, before he blinked and set his focus forcibly elsewhere, all but overcome with a deep and aching sense of sorrow.

‘Captain,’ Riley said, very gently, ‘We are for bed; you might come up with Tolly and I, he will not mind the extra passenger.’

It was a tempting suggestion, but Linsey barely paused a moment in thought before he shook his head: to go aloft with another man’s dragon felt uncomfortably like a betrayal, he would more easily be damned than stoop to such disloyalty.

‘No; I should think I will manage.’ He said shortly, and nodded stiffly to Elliott and Clemet, as tentative gratitude. Then he took up his coat, folded over his lap while he was taking supper, and quietly took his leave.

It was scarcely coming twilight when he came up to the captain’s round: for he had been some several months now in the covert, a notion which troubled him greatly, and so found little difficulty in finding his way. He went to his quarters, rather more drab in appearance than those around, and far less well-kept, though this was likely through fault of his own neglect, and of the dull look of the canvas, where the others were adorned carefully with stitching in varying colours, or illuminated pleasantly by the warm glow of the lanterns set out at every entrance.

Linsey came into his quarters and paused, feeling some immediate displeasure—to a man adjusted to the confines of a ship, the room was spacious, if a little compact, but without the familiar warmth of Timor’s scales, or the deep regular sound of his breathing, Linsey found it terribly cold. His heart grew only heavier in realising this; he had grown used to Timor’s presence always beside, in the several months they had spent with only the other as company, and now felt a great sorrow in his absence; he stared miserably about and drew his lips to a thin, frowning line.

The entrance flaps behind him opened; Malcolm stepped inside and looked about in apparent dissatisfaction. He made as though to speak, then abruptly he paused, staring as in disbelief. ‘Good Lord, man, what is the matter with you?’ he said, sharply, and Linsey started in horror; for his face was wet, and hastily he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand.

‘Malcolm,’ he said, concealing his shame. Malcolm frowned and tucked his hands under either arm, as was his habit.

‘Forgive me, Captain; I suppose I am intruding,’ he said, though made no motion to dismiss himself, and glanced over Linsey with his brow furrowed a little in displeasure, or perhaps disapproval. Neither spoke; Linsey stood with bearing uncomfortably stiff, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, lest their fidgeting risk him further humiliation.

Then Malcolm sighed. ‘Timor is well,’ he said, a little rigidly, as though he were uncertain.

‘I am glad,’ Linsey said, very softly. ‘Thank you.’

Malcolm marked this with a frown. ‘You needn’t thank me,’ he said, rather harshly, before his tone softened. ‘He will do quite nicely, I should think; I am not so certain for you.’

Linsey frowned; this was not at all the sort of sympathy he had anticipated—least of all from Malcolm, who had bothered him all the while for their first months of fellowship—and he was put momentarily at odds before he said, slowly, ‘I am well enough.’

‘Oh?’ Malcolm said, ‘Then I must tell you again; your hair is out of tie, and you have your coat in rumples.’

‘Oh.’ Linsey paused and looked down at himself, finding a faint dissatisfaction in the bedraggled state of his dress—yet strangely, Malcolm’s words gave him no outrage, only gladness at the change in conversation. He neglected to condemn the lieutenant as such, for this small kindness warmed him somewhat, and served at least to dismiss a little of the misery settled heavy in his breast; instead he found himself smiling as he said, ‘Thank you, Malcolm.’

Malcolm smiled in turn; only faintly, a small twitching at the corners of his mouth, but with a sort of warmth that Linsey found wholly pleasant, despite the sullen lines still drawn across his forehead and brow.

He took his hair again into its tie after Malcolm had taken his leave, finding himself in better spirits, despite that same bone-deep, aching misery that set him still to sorrow. He did not turn immediately for bed; instead he lifted the cloths thrown over his holdings, stooping a little to pass a hand over Timor’s old harness, the leather somewhat stiff from its weeks of disuse, and the buckles still odd and substitute as they were. For a moment he paused, finding a faint comfort in the feel of the leather beneath his callused palms; then he straightened up abruptly and went outside.

The air was somewhat cool with the coming of night, and Linsey was at once grateful for his coat and neckcloth, which served despite their continued discomforts to offer him some warmth. He glanced over the other tents in brief unrest, and found some great relief in the absence of any company; with a quiet satisfaction he walked up to the edge of the round, where the brushwood grew thick upon the gentle rise of a slope. This he climbed, rather ungracefully, and stood looking over the sea, dull and grey in the shallows, and fading dimly to the deep rolling blue of the ocean, so very distant. The wind was in the southwest, thrown in from the Atlantic, and casting a faint sea spray, caught up from the cliffs, into his hair and his unshaven face; his breath quivered a little in longing, and he stood with his face lifted to the wind and the briny sea air, flung about him like an embrace.

[gingerbreadmonsters]

hiya! im a very big fan of ur fics, ur writing is like omnomnom!! i rerereread them so often ive basically memorised half of them (especially get in loser i love it so much especially the little almost asides freelancer has like certain moments where its like not quite breaking the fourth wall theyre like. brushing it with the tips of their fingers). IDK sorry to ramble but; may i request directors commentary on either kingdom come (why those four, of all people?) or one more paradox (incoherent wailing, from me). thanks!! have a nice timezone :]

im so sorry. IM SO SORRY ITS SO LATE 🫠🫠 i have not been well for a little while and i've been rushing around trying to get shit sorted for the start of term, so it's all just been a bit of a mess

i've done kingdom come for you - i do hope that's alright! and a lovely timezone to you, too 💕💕

why those four? to be totally honest, it’s just because they’re hot lol 🤩🤩 it is a long-held hc for me that gavin and vincent deserve to be besties, and the gn gals and i were chatting on discord about fl, gavin, lovely, and vincent going on a double date and all being so handsy with each other that it was impossible to tell who was actually going out with who?? so i just kind of jumped into a new google doc and mocked up a very short sequence based on that conversation, which ended up being used basically verbatim as the opening to kingdom come - it’s up to the bit where freelancer says “I think you can manage that, can’t you?”!

can’t lie, it was both more and less difficult than i expected? it was hard because obviously i couldn’t really describe freelancer or lovely’s bodies in detail - it’s hard enough with just one listener in the scene! plus, keeping track of four different people in something as descriptive and physical as a sex scene is always a nightmare. you have to keep track of (and describe!) what everyone is doing all at the same time without getting too repetitive, make sure that it’s clear who is doing/saying what (very complicated when two of them use he/him and have the same, uh, hardware, while the other two are in they/them and can’t have their bodies described basically at all), make sure that the positions you’re describing are physically possible and actually sexy… it’s a lot!

gavin and vincent are so fun to write, though, so that more than made up for it - both of them just seem to… talk? like, if any other fic writers are reading this, please do let me know if this also happens to you - but whenever i write them, they just spout dialogue like it’s going out of fashion, and i end up just being dragged along through the scene however they want, rather than how i planned it 😭😭 so yes it was tough, but a lot of fun to write - although i will say that there was a rather embarrassing incident regarding the dialogue [head in hands]

so, in order to make sure that my dialogue sounds at least faintly realistic and isn’t too stilted, i generally tend to read it out loud to myself? like, verbatim? hearing it in my own voice helps to figure out if it sounds too unnatural, which i am aware is also why sometimes my characters will say something that’s a bit too british for the source material, but whatever. 

the important part is that i was living in halls (student accommodation) when i was writing this fic, and the soundproofing on my door was… not excellent?? i had just finished ‘dialogue testing’ and opened the door to go and get a drink of water from the kitchen, when i ran face-first into one of my flatmates from the bedroom opposite mine, who had clearly been standing there waiting for a friend and had obviously just HEARD ME saying all of this… needless to say he did not make eye contact with me for some time after that and we do not keep in touch lmao 

all four of them make reference to the events of this fic being one of many, um, dalliances - this is really just because i think it sounds like the sort of thing they would do! they all seem like they would be good friends - you already know how i feel about gavin and vincent, and i reckon lovely and freelancer would get on like a house on fire. let them have a rapport! let them go on cute double dates and take holidays together and plan surprise parties for each other! this is my agenda! the whole vibe of this fic was intended to be satisfyingly filthy yet still very very sweet, and i think it works? i certainly hope it works? it is a CRIME that we have yet to have a canon audio with gavin and vincent together :((

[brooklynislandgirl]

╰(*´︶`*)╯: Do they appreciate hugs? Would they prefer to give hugs or receive hugs? What kind of hugs do they like to receive and/or give?

Body and Soul || Accepting {{ @nolegacies for reasons}}

Boy looms. Even taller than Mountain ~which is impressive in and of itself~ there seems a sort of disconnect with the long, scrawny limbs. His shoulders are nearly perpetually hunched. When he walks he sways. And when he and Girl are in the same room? They gravitate toward each other. Pulled by invisible forces into one another's orbits never more than the span of two arms away. Most of the time it's not even that. There are triggers, of course. Right now it was one of the stock boys dropping a box in the storeroom, but the echo is a loud and sharp rapport. Boy and Girl, sitting by the fire and communicating silently as they do with the occasional flutter of fingers, head shakes and nods, or simply long stares the other seems to understand perfectly, perhaps not unlike Ron and his twin in their earliest youth. Whatever it is they were about is shattered in an instant and the reaction is born of terror, pure and simple. Boy shifts his arms and legs around to encompass the sylph that is Girl, drawing her into his chest. Her arms come up to wrap around his neck, hands spreading around his head to ward off whatever may come. In any other circumstance they could be taken for young lovers caught in the throes of a blisteringly passionate embrace. To anyone who did not hear the Boy's whimper. To anyone who could not see the shaking of their bodies in full tremble. Who did not see the subtle flash of colour that was too quick to even describe as Girl shifted over him. Ron isn't just anyone. He's seen the way Girl tends to hug one of the dogs when both are comfortable with such a thing. How Boy wends himself around her from behind and she leans into his warmth and stature. She hesitates to take whatever little treat Ron puts on the bar for her if his hand is too close. How she tends to pull herself tightly together whenever it seems she might make contact with anyone else. When nothing terrible follows the sound except for a quick call of apology, it still takes a few moments before the two young mutants manage to quell their fear enough to untangle from one another. She flashes an accusatory gaze toward the kitchen door as they pick up as silently as they'd settled. Hand in hand, they edge their way toward the stair that will take them up to the small room Ron's afforded them. The only thing spoken is that she pauses and brings her fist up to her chest making a clockwise circular motion. I'm sorry.

~*~

Girl does not really enjoy physical contact with other human beings. She and Boy have been together for so long, they are so comfortable with each other that any touch shared between them is part of their raising, part of their incredible bond, and when seen…everything is tender. Even when they are in disagreement which is in and of itself rare, he might coil his fingers around her wrist, or put a hand under her chin to lift it but there is no violence between them. If pressed to answer, she would prefer to be the one initiating a hug. It would be stilted and brief but it would be of her own choosing. She does not speak of her aversion but Ron at least has an inkling as to why. Boy knows. Boy keeps her secrets.

[liber---monstrorum]

2 ⭐ - sorry if the review sounds mean, I got infected with the nightmare vegan evil disease

SUMMARY

Grace isn’t exactly thrilled when her newly widowed mother, Jackie, asks to move in with her. They’ve never had a great relationship, and Grace likes her space—especially now that she’s stuck at home during a pandemic. Then again, she needs help with the mortgage after losing her job. And maybe it’ll be a chance for them to bond—or at least give each other a hand. But living with Mother isn’t for everyone. Good intentions turn bad soon after Jackie moves in. Old wounds fester; new ones open. Grace starts having nightmares about her disabled twin sister, who died when they were kids. And Jackie discovers that Grace secretly catfishes people online—a hobby Jackie thinks is unforgivable. When Jackie makes an earth-shattering accusation against her, Grace sees it as an act of revenge, and it sends her spiraling into a sleep-deprived madness. As the walls close in, the ghosts of Grace’s past collide with a new but familiar threat: Mom. (Source)

Review below the cut. Warning, this review will contain spoilers.

REVIEW

I'm going to be honest: there's not a lot in Mothered that I particularly enjoyed. The pacing, story, prose, and characters were not at all what I want from a horror book. There were exactly two characters I liked seeing on the page (which is stretching it, since one of them is a cat) and one horror moment that I found to be memorably creepy. While it was a fast read, if I hadn't gotten this book through Netgalley I almost certainly would have DNF'd it pretty quickly (and that is if I had picked it up at all, since it would have failed the page 99 test).

STRUCTURE AND PROSE

As it opens and ends the story, I may as well discuss the prologue and epilogue. These two follow a therapist named Silas, who claims he is excited to work with an unnamed patient due to the brutality of the murder she committed. It's obfuscated which of the two women, Jackie or Grace, committed homicide. (Keep a pin in this as we'll be returning to it.) As the prologue concludes, we are told that “[Silas’s] job, as it often was, would be to filter the drop of truth from a waterfall of magical thinking” (13). This setup, with Silas being directly indicated to be a character who would engage with the narrative about to be told, indicates that the main bulk of the narrative would be in a narrative frame. Grace would speak to Silas to confess her life story and convince him of her point of view (a la Frankenstein, the reason why I love a good frame narrative). This is not the case. Rather than being nested, the narrative is delivered by a close third person narrator, with Grace’s story bookended by Silas’s. The prologue and epilogue might as well have not been there; they add little to nothing to the narrative. All that was achieved was disappointment. The completely normal third person narration was. A Choice. Look, I’m a fan of close third person. It works fine, but it was a disappointing choice, espcecially after that prologue setup. Grace as a character does have interesting elements to her that I feel would have been far more interesting to me as a reader had we navigated the narrative directly through her eyes. Speaking of characters, wasted potential is the name of the game in Mothered. Characters have features and traits, but aren’t well-rounded. Part of that issue is with the dialogue; it is middling at best, and stilted, awkward, or shallow at worst. Additionally, there's not as much of it as one would think for a story about a toxic mother-daughter relationship stuck in close quarters.

The standout issue with the characters for me is that they are their role in the story before they are a character. Silas is not a character who is a therapist, he is the therapist character (and, upon a re-read of the prologue, is I think supposed to be some sort of reader stand-in? Which I also am not a fan of). Miguel isn’t a character who is the main character’s best friend; he is the best friend character (worse, he falls into the gay best friend trope). Jackie isn’t a character who is Grace’s mother; she is the mother character. Grace, by virtue of being the protagonist, somewhat escapes this issue, but still is not well-rounded or developed by any means. She’s supposed to be an unreliable narrator, something I normally love, but in her found to be unengaging.

Grace as a protagonist could have been interesting; she has a lot of childhood trauma, but does genuinely try to help those around her. She’s kind towards her friend Miguel and drops everything to help him when he gets sick. While has the bizarre hobby of catfishing women (which she calls damsels) online, she describes it as intentionally trying to help build these women’s self esteem and help them improve their lives. The interesting elements of her, however, aren't really fleshed out enough. The damsels plotline especially had a lot of very interesting potential that’s completely unfulfilled. It really only exists so that Grace has something to feel guilty about and hide from her mother. The pacing. God, the pacing. The pacing was strange, due to the fact that a bulk of the narrative is dream sequences. The narrative jumps forward in time rather suddenly in order to dump the reader into a dream without indication. Not only does this make the pacing feel jerky and inconcistant, it also means that the dream segments are also far less effective. While suddenly jumping from reality to a dream can be a valuable strategy because it puts both the reader and the character into a state of uncertain reality, most of the time it did not work in Mothered. The only time I did find it effective and memorable was the first; after that, since I knew what the author was trying to pull, the strategy was ineffective because I knew it was a dream, even if Grace did not.

The pacing during the non-dream segments was jerky as well. It often felt like the narrative was just trying to hurry to the next dream sequence. For example, chapter fourteen ends with Grace texting her best friend Miguel; chapter fifteen jumps to her having been hired by her old boss and visiting the new salon space. From that first paragraph, it's obvious that it's a dream. As a result, the non-horror section of the dream dragged on for far too long (since the conversation the characters was having was not only not real but also completely banal) while the horror section of it was not horrifying (as the physical danger, social rejection, and reality break Grace was experiencing was obviously just a dream). During most dream sections, especially during the second half of the book, I was bored. For a mystery/thriller novel, Mothered is not very mysterious or thrilling. While there is certainly a hidden past tragedy that is eventually revealed, the actual reveal is... kind of boring. The narrative takes, in my opinion, the most uninteresting route. In the prologue, Silas muses that the case is “a good puzzle… one that look[s] on the surface like the gory movies he still so loved” (13). But this isn’t a puzzle. All the answers are spoonfed to the reader, and if the narrative makes an attempt to hide it, it does a terrible job.

One example of a very unmysterious mystery is the intentional obfuscation of who killed who in the prologue. My thought process during the first half of the novel was this:

A) Because the narrative follows Grace in close third person and

B) never follows Jackie,

that would normally indicate to me that

C) Grace, as the POV character, will be the surviving party.

However, because the identity of the patient in the first chapter is intentionally and carefully obfuscated from the reader, then

A + B might not equal C, but instead equal either

D) an upset of expectations (for example, Jackie killing Grace)

or

E) a third act twist revealing a previously unknown actor or plot element that reveals that the killer, the victim, Grace, and Jackie are in a more complicated configuration than first presented.

As I continued reading, it became clear to me that the narrative was not going to pull anything that interested. Despite this, I held out hope that the final chapters would have some kind of twist. That hope was futile. That setup of not knowing who dies is never cashed out. It just follows the most basic, obvious route: Grace is the protagonist, and because she is a protagonist, she can’t die so she has to be the murderer. Why bother to intentionally hide who kills who and then just not do something interesting? Especially when that problem is directly presented as being a puzzle!

Speaking of basic, the prose in general was boring. It’s all very direct and blunt, which can sometimes be a fantastic way to write a horror/thriller, but it just didn’t work for me here. The prose relies so heavily on telling over showing I felt as though the narrative was spoonfeeding me. Look, I don’t always need purple-literary-Romantic-big-words-long-sentences prose to enjoy a novel, but I do need something to chew on. If I’m not finding that in the structure, characters, horror elements, or central mystery, then by god at least give me some chewy prose.

THE DREAMS

I love dreams in horror. Exploring unreality, watching the line between waking and dreaming blur, having one encroach into the other. I love it all. Therefore, believe me when I say that the premise of incorporating horrible nightmares into a horror story isn't the issue. The issue with Mothered’s dreams was the execution. First off: the horror elements were almost completely restricted to dreams. Although there were one or two moments of horror that I found genuinely intriguing, memorable, or creepy (for example, the "Mona needs a calfskin bag" dream), most of the rest of them were tropey, predictable, or overdone. While I bought that these dreams were upsetting for the character, they were not particularly upsetting to me. At some point it just got old. The use of dream horror is, to me, something that has to be done subtly, carefully, and sparingly, especially when we have a protagonist presented as unreliable. It's none of those things in Mothered. The few horrifying elements outside of dreams are hallucinations. Grace dismisses them as such pretty quickly, and the hallucinations themselves fail to be credible from the get-go because they aren’t believably slotted into Grace’s reality. Horror-wise they aren't even good ones; they're even more tropey than the dreams. Even the horror of Grace and Jackie’s toxic relationship and the childhood trauma was restricted to these dreams as well; while there were some good moments of toxicity, gaslighting, or emotional manipulation in the waking world (such as Jackie letting Coco outside), almost all the detail and nuance we get about their history is dreamed.

Even the dreamed details about their past that do carry over into the real world aren’t fully fleshed. For example, during a dream, we are introduced to the paper dolls that Hope and her sister Grace used to play with. Later, while rummaging through her mother’s things, Grace finds her sister’s doll but not her own. While the doll imagery comes back in later dreams, that doll as a symbol of her mother’s favoritism and her relationship with Grace never beomes a point of conflict between the two. There isn’t ever a conflict about it, even when those dolls get brought up in conversation. I wanted a blow-out fight about those dolls; I wanted those dolls as an element of gaslighting; I wanted those dolls to be something that lead to a direct conflict that further develops Grace and Jackie’s current day relationship. But they don’t, and neither does much else.

The book’s summary claims that moving in together makes “old wounds fester” and “new ones open.” Sure, old wounds get re-opened, but calling what happens “festering” is a bit of a stretch. Grace is reasonably stressed about her mother being a bad roommate at times and Jackie occasionally apologizes for being a bad mother to her (though those conversations are rather surface level and nowhere near as toxic as they could have been). The only “new wounds” that open are are the ones that kill Jackie, with nary a new psychological wound in sight. As a result, the level of intensity between the two never quite reaches the fever pitch needed to make that final snap believable, narratively satisfying, and sharp.

One final complaint about the dreams I couldn’t shoehorn in elsewhere, so I’m shoehorning it in here. Sometimes (typically during dreams where Grace is reliving a childhood memory), Grace calls Jackie “Mommy.” I get why—as a child, she certainly did not call her mother by her first name—but it really did not work for me. Grace was a child forced to grow up too soon; I could buy her calling Jackie mom, maybe, but mommy? I certainly can’t see an overworked, exhausted Jackie referring to herself as “mommy” to her children. It was just weird and off-putting and out of place because it was so infantile, and, to be honest, came off as funny and unserious.

All that said, the dream scenes were far better written than the scenes that took place in reality. If they'd had better connective tissue and were more subtly handled, they could have been very effective. As it is, they're disappointing.

REALITY

From the premise, title, and setup of Mothered, I expected a book about a toxic mother-daughter relationship. I expected the narrative to explore that relationship in-depth and push the tension of it to its very limits. I wanted to watch them try to navigate an enclosed space. I wanted overtures of forgiveness turning nasty. I wanted conversations about Grace's childhood! I wanted them to have small disagreements that balloon out of control! I wanted a slow build of tension and complex hatred! I wanted gaslighting, damn it! There were a few times—for example, the dinner party with Miguel—where there was subtle friction between actions and intention between Grace and her mother. Grace questions who her mother is now and how she relates to the woman who raised her. Jackie is the traditional boomer parent and brings up grandchildren. Miguel and Grace share the occasional bemused glance. It was a good early scene, which I thought would lead into later, complex, more dramatic scenes. For the most part, though, Grace and Jackie’s interactions were not all that complex, did not have subtextual implications, and were so direct and unnuanced it just was never all that interesting. While Grace certainly had reasons to doubt the reality around her, as a reader, I did not have any reason to believe what she was being told by her mother was untrue.

As mentioned earlier, most elements of the novel’s central mystery—what happened to Grace’s twin sister—were introduced in dreams, then (maybe) introdced into the waking world. The only piece evidence that emerged from a direct confrontation between Jackie and Grace was the box. While what it revealed wasn’t particularly funny, I couldn’t take the contents seriously because it just gave me Assassin’s Creed 2 flashbacks.

Anyway. On all accounts, even down to the title, Mothered is supposed to be about a toxic mother-daughter relationship. It's also about:

The pandemic (which didn't really work for me. If it had been a book set during the pandemic, it might have worked. The difference between the two is a bit difficult to explain, but it's something that made a huge difference)

Her career as a hairdresser

Growing up being the primary caretaker to a disabled sibling

A weird disease that causes nightmares and turns you vegan

An ace woman’s relationship with her sexuality and desire to be a mother herself (complete with guilt over telling a teenager to have an abortion so her life wasn’t ruined!)

The close friendship between two queer people

That same woman’s hobby catfishing other women, pretending to be a man so that she can help them improve their self-confidence

The book just tries to juggle too much in the 300-ish pages it has. While a novel of that length certainly can incorporate that many or even more plot points, Mothered just doesn’t pull off weaving them together as cleanly as it could have. As a result, the narrative becomes muddled and shallow, with the titular mother-daughter crowded out by the rest. Before I close out, I just want to complain about the whole mystery illness plot point. It's another unnecessary, underdeveloped plot element that muddies the narrative waters even further. The final hook it provides in the epilogue (the therapist is like "oh no I'm having nightmares... just like Grace did!!!") was so cheesy I actually laughed out loud. It became doubly funny when I realized one of the symptoms of the disease is becoming a vegan. I'm sorry, but I genuinely cannot take the narrative seriously enough to be thrilled or frightened.

FINAL THOUGHTS

In writing this review, I had the opportunity to sit with the novel’s themes and really consider: what are they saying? What do they mean? It’s interesting to me that initially I read this book as (at least attempting to be) feminist. Yet after ruminating on how the book handles themes such as abortion and birth, motherhood, disability, and childhood trauma, it surprised me how shallow and at times contradictory it all ended up being.

While I can see why other folks enjoyed this novel, it's absolutely not to my taste when it comes to horror, thriller, or adult fiction. Further, in my opinion, I think it's ineffective in its exploration of mother-daughter toxcicity and childhood trauma. I requested Mothered because I always heard such great things about Baby Teeth; unfortunately, I think this has indicated she's not an author for me. Thank you again to Thomas & Mercer for providing a digital advance review copy through Netgalley. If you're interested in reading Mothered, it releases March 1, 2023. Find more information about the book here.