#two leaders of such influential places!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solspina · 2 months ago

Text

An Angelic Ambassador

sanguinius ⋆˙⟡

( for @yagodnyizefir ♡ )

a gift for this community's beloved zefir, who gifted me one of the most gorgeous pieces I've ever received. it felt absolutely impossible to not give something in return! your art is amazing, and so are you! I am begging you to never leave this community, you absolute gem.

one of the greatest imperial ambassadors of their era is assigned to sanguinius for a difficult negotiation with a non-compliant planet. eager to please the golden primarch and not embarrass themselves, the ambassador shoves down a rather concerning physical affliction, and must suffer the lack of consequences that follows shortly after.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: probably horribly proofread, mentions of blood and illness, fainting, mentions of anxiety and lots of comfort.

To say that she felt fine would be a total and complete lie - unless “fine” could be considered incomprehensible dizziness and nausea - but one that she had managed to uphold through the entirety of the day.

It was almost over. One more meeting and she could return to her small, foul smelling dormitory room upon the red tear. Not that she complained, of course, the primarch had already apologized profusely for the lack of a better sleeping arrangement. She was renowned as one of the imperium’s most influential diplomats, assigned temporarily to the blood angels in hopes that she could help them negotiate an alliance with a stubborn planet that refused to associate itself with “a pack of bloodthirsty animals.” Complaints about the place the primarch had arraigned for her rest were not part of her contract, especially considering others had proposed the floor as an alternative to the mildewed chairs they had offered.

And so, she strode through the halls of the non-compliant planet’s palace. The clicking of her rather uncomfortable heels making a loud enough noise against the elaborate marble floors accompanied by the much harsher clunk of metal that followed her, the primarch in his ceremonial armor with a rather concerned expression across his face.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You seem troubled.” he inquired, placing a hand upon her shoulder as to stop her from walking forward. “Our meeting does not begin for another hour; we can sit down for a moment if you need.”

“I appreciate your concern, my lord, but I am fine.”

That was a lie. He could tell and so could absolutely any prying ears that happened to hear that small excerpt of their conversation. Bags had formed under her eyes, and she shivered despite the angel himself feeling that the air temperature was rather warm.

She felt exhausted, in truth, and fully aware that she had fallen ill. She must have contracted something on one of her recent negotiation trips before accepting her contract with Sanguinius, and now she seemed a liar or a fool in front of the great angel.

Getting through this dreaded meeting was all she could do. It was all that he had asked of her. Such a minuscule task, and one that she began to feel she could not complete. Just make it through, she had to. How embarrassing would it be for the great angel to bring an ambassador, just to have her not show because she felt a little sick? How embarrassing would it be for her to be unable to engage in simple negotiations after one of the supposedly kindest and most benevolent primarchs had heard so highly of her? She could not humiliate him or create a bad impression on her first official conference at his side.

When the two of them made their entrance into the massive conference hall, conversation began amongst planetary leaders almost immediately. Many gawked at the great angel, and others whispered as their eyes bore into the back of his sweet little ambassador’s skull. Though not the cause, for it was impossible, their stares seemed to amplify the pounding in her head. The lights were far too bright for her sensitive eyes, and the whispers that fell from their lips seemed to travel into the very core of her brain.

Sanguinius simply smiled his absolutely stunning saccharine smile as he walked alongside her to his seat at the head of the table, opposite from what seemed to be the planet’s figurehead. He paid no attention to the girl at his side anymore, eyes instead fixated on those he would be watching her negotiate with, and part of her felt relieved he wasn’t looking to see her lightly limp or stumble behind him.

She pulled out the angel’s chair for him, and her face contorted into a brief and unnoticeable wince at the grating noise of its legs against the floor before she stood a distance next to him with her hands held politely over her stomach. Chairs were not reserved for the diplomats and ambassadors attending this meeting, and she stood alone at the side of the brightest one whilst a seated crowd of dark and brooding men looked at her expectantly.

“If you would be so kind, serf. Bring me the documentation of your master’s conditions.” The man at the opposite end of the table said as he narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue over his lips. She grabbed the documents and held them close to her body with trembling hands and freezing fingertips as she made her way across the table, suddenly much more aware of how revealing her outfit was on her upper half.

Anxiety had not paired well with exhaustion, as nausea now accompanied the cold sweat that clung to her skin and the paranoia she felt as an endless row of hungry men stared and salivated over her small and shaking body.

“She is one of the imperium’s greatest ambassadors, to call this one a serf of mine is to insult her.” A golden voice rung out from several yards behind her, one that was very obviously filled with a false and diplomatic smile. “She has earned her reputation.”

The main figurehead’s now irritated eyes were peeled off of her and onto the angel after his series of praises had struck his ears.

Normally, in any other case, she would give a smile with pride-filled eyes at a primarch’s praise, but on this particular day it was all she could do to inhale and exhale through her slightly parted lips as she attempted to ignore the swiftly blackening edges of her vision.

“You’re sure she has, lord Sanguinius?” One of the planetary leaders spoke, a slight laugh in his voice. “She looks like she’s going to collapse.”

As if he had willed it, she lost feeling in her hands and feet. She stumbled over her own legs and walked completely blind, her vision completely consumed by darkness and floating glares of light. She wasn’t completely sure when she had lost her footing, as her memory was swallowed entirely by the sharp pain of her head hitting the floor, and the sound of paper flying across the room.

The pounding in her head hadn’t stopped for hours, and that had become apparent when she opened her eyes again. Instead of in the floor of a gloomy non-compliant world's palace, she lay sprawled out in the center of an obnoxiously large bed made up near entirely of expensive but thin, scarlet-colored sheets and a mattress that could only have been made by the finest of imperial craftsmen. Warmth had surrounded her, trapping itself under the bedcovers and enveloping her in one of the priciest hugs she’d ever experienced.

The moment she’d gained enough strength to open her eyes completely, she assessed the blood angel's regalia scattered across the walls of the rather opulent room she had been moved to. Ruby blood drops had been meticulously placed upon nearly every surface of the room, and wings of the finest gold had been intricately inscribed into their sides. More crimson silks than the ones on the bed hung from the ceiling and cascaded down into the walls like waterfalls of blood that soaked the room in a suffocating sense of grandeur, all of this barely visible through the evidently dimmed lights and several scentless candles that surrounded the room and flickered their lights in anticipation of her realization.

Her suspicion turned into shock, and her shock turned into fear. She had not been taken back to her pungent smelling and recycled dormitory, she had been taken directly to the primarch’s quarters and laid in the center of his bed. The shadows of several elaborate blood angels relics danced upon the walls and her heart pounded in her chest like a series of bolter shots. She was a great ambassador and an incredible negotiator, sure, but even she had never seen anything compared to the magnificence of a primarch's resting area, and she had especially not been invited within one.

She had become so enamored in her fear that she didn’t notice the very object of her fear enter the room.

Sanguinius took incredibly quick notice of her state of panic, and made haste as closed the distance between himself and the trembling ambassador under his sheets. His presence had shifted from grand in the halls of a heretical palace to overwhelming in an area specifically designed for his comfort.

“I’m sorry m-my lord... I didn’t mean to disappoint you…” she began to weep as Sanguinius settled down onto the mattress next to her. Her voice trembled when she spoke, her head bowed as she refused to make eye contact with the angel lest he see the tears streaming down her cheeks or her knuckles whitening as she gripped his bedsheets in an attempt to contain the full-on sobs that threatened to spill from her lips and into a stream of incoherent apologies.

Sanguinius had sat now unarmored and clean from whatever he had done to those poor non-compliants she had failed to negotiate with. His hair was no longer tied into the intricate halo of braids that once circled his head, instead it fell around his face in soft waves, betraying any noble or fearsome gaze he may have held against her.

“Do not cry," the angel murmured just barely above a whisper as his warm and steady hand reached to cup her cheek, his thumb perfectly positioned to wipe away any stray tears that threatened to stain his silken sheets. "Why did you tell me that you were okay when you were not? Our meeting could have been postponed." He continued, using his free hand to brush a strand of her hair from her face and tuck it gently behind her ear.

"I'm sorry, my lord... sorry," She repeated as if another apology were going to save her from the nonexistent wrath of the golden primarch in front of her. "I just wanted to make you proud... you've been... so kind."

Sanguinius' expression softened even more than it already had been as he stroked her cheek with his thumb before finally removing his palm from her face and crawling under the blankets next to her. He pulled her into his side with one of his arms, wrapping both an arm and a wing around her shoulder in hopes of providing comfort to the crying ambassador, still trembling even underneath his warmth.

"What of my contract? I have failed you."

“We will cross that bridge when we arrive to it, your contract has been extended for the time being” Sanguinius replied with the slightest of smiles.

“Extended? But…” She stammered. To say she was confused would be a horrible understatement. She had failed, possibly ruined the future of an entire imperial planet while under the watchful eye of one of the most highly revered of the primarchs, and he had chosen to extend her contract?

“You fell ill under my care. I wish to see to it that you are well and that you do not choose to let one minor setback define you.”

Her mind and heart both raced so fast they seemed to be in sync as she struggled to comprehend such undeserved kindness. She had expected to be reprimanded, perhaps even punished for not only failing to negotiate but lying to a primarch alongside it, regardless of whether or not she believed her lie was for the greater imperial well-being.

The great angel gently laughed at her state of confusion. His simple kindness, save for the fact plenty of bloodshed had occurred at his hands today, had completely paralyzed the poor ambassador. She did not need to know what happened immediately after her head hit the floor, or why the primarch had been so eager to get her out of the room and into a safer place to rest.

She did not need to know that she was simply a buffer so that no bloodshed had to occur before her rather innocent eyes. Alas, Sanguinius had prepared for a much more gory outcome in case things went wrong, so it had not been much of an issue when they did. Peace was fragile, especially on such a planet. Protecting it was his second priority; he reminded himself in that moment. The ambassador was his first.

As he lay down and turn away from her, it took only a few moments of being lost in his own thoughts to feel her wedge her head in the exposed area of his back between his wings. She pressed her chest to his back, pulling her legs as close to his body as possible for a baseline. The bend of her knees sat at his mid thighs, as she was too small for her legs to mold into the shape of his.

"Thank you," She whispered, her breath warm against his back as her sniffles began to die out. "For everything."

The primarch extended one of his wings out behind him and allowed it to drape over her like a weighted blanket. She nestled closer to him as his soft feathers enveloped her, so much so that he could feel the tiniest of heartbeats hammering against his back, and he swore she would melt into his skin if she could crawl any closer.

"Always." He whispered so quietly her baseline ears could not hear. He closed his eyes, all too aware of the warmth against him, and just slightly thankful she hadn't questioned exactly how long her contract had been extended.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #sanguinius x reader #warhammer 30k #primarch x reader #sanguinius #blood angels

121 notes · View notes

useless-catalanfacts · 4 months ago

Text

Did you know that there is a European republic that bans entry to women and female animals, and until 2005 also banned entry to Catalan people?

This place is the Monastic Republic of Mount Athos, a theocratic autonomic republic in Greece. It's an Orthodox Christian religious centre that covers about 33,000 hectares and is inhabited by around 1,400 monks in 20 monasteries. In the 16th century, it had reached 30,000 monks in population, and right before the First World War it still had 9,000.

It was founded in the Early Middles Ages, and has been given autonomy since the times of the Byzantine Empire. Since the very beginning, in the year 1046, their laws have forbidden entry to any woman, child, and female animal with the only exception of egg-laying chicken, because they consider that women and female animals must be kept out to preserve the holiness of the site and to keep the male inhabitants away from temptation.

The reason for banning Catalans dates back to the Middle Ages, too. In 1303, the Byzantine Empire was being invaded by the Ottoman Turks. They needed help to fight against them, so the Byzantine emperor Andronikos II asked the Sicilian king for help. The Sicilian king sent him the Great Catalan Company, an army of 4,000 Catalan and Aragonese mercenaries (almogàvers) and 39 ships, led by the commander Roger de Flor. The Byzantine emperor already knew Roger de Flor, because Roger had served him when he was a Templar knight. Roger was a very respected and admired fighter with an impressive career, and he also spoke Greek. The emperor and Roger reached an agreement, Roger was nominated Megaduke and married to the emperor's niece, Mary of Bulgaria.

The Great Catalan Company was successful in their job: they fought off the Turks and gave all the land the Turks had recently taken back to the Byzantine Empire. But not everything went well: the Byzantine emperor did not pay the mercenaries what they were promised, and the mercenaries were cruel to the population. In 1305, the emperor's son Michael (co-regent of the empire) called all the mercenaries to Adrianopolis, bringing together 9,000 men of different origins. Even though last year Michael had refused to meet him, Roger de Flor went to pay homage to him again. This time, Michael welcomed him and invited him to a banquet with the leaders of the two other mercenary groups. During the banquet, following Michael's orders, the leader of the Alan mercenaries assassinated Roger de Flor and all the men who accompanied him, and dismembered Roger de Flor's body. It is said that Michael ordered exterminating all the members of the Catalan Company.

Obviously, this caused a scandal among the surviving Catalan-Aragonese troops. They answered this betrayal by declaring war against the Byzantine Empire, and sacked many parts of Greece, murdering and setting fire to many places they found on their way to Constantinoble. This terrible event became known as The Catalan Revenge. The revenge was particularly cruel against the rich monk communities, who the mercenaries brutally attacked to steal their riches and then set the monasteries on fire. The monks of Mount Athos say that the Catalan mercenaries burned 26 monks alive. The horrible revenge left a mark in the memory of Greek and Albanian people. In Albania, the word for "Catalan" became the word for "monster". Meanwhile, the theocratic government of Mount Athos banned any Catalan person from entering their territory.

Albanian book titled "Catalan", based on an Albanian folk story that depicts Catalans as monsters.

The mercenaries' cruelty only stopped when the influential Catalan doctor and intellectual Arnau de Vilanova and the Catalan king James II begged them to stop.

Mount Athos' law prohibiting Catalan people lasted for 700 years, until 2005. That year, the Government of Catalonia apologized for the events that their fellow countrymen did 700 years ago. The Catalan government paid 240,000€ for the reparation of a Mount Athos monument that had been destroyed by the mercenaries' revenge, and sent an embassy to Greece to have a reparation ceremony, which was welcomed by the Greek government, too. This way, the law was abolished.

Sources: UNESCO, National Geographic, newspapers from 2005.

87 notes · View notes

jihyoruri · 1 year ago

Text

THE GIRL IS MINE — idol!sakura miyawaki x idol!reader

warnings: yn and sakura from heart racing and best friends, gidle!reader, kissing, mentions and hints of caught in between

sakura knew yn was known for her visuals. she also knew that her girlfriend had a lot of people after her, so why was is such a surprise to her to see people actually going after the gidle member.

she watched from across the room seated with her members as ryujin made small talk to yn since gidle and itzy were placed beside each other and both girls were sat beside each other a little small talk was bound to happen.

personally sakura didn’t think it was small talk it seemed more like flirting to her.

“you are shooting laser beams at her head.” a voice snaps sakura out of her daze as she quickly turns to face chaewon who has a playful look on her face.

sakura scoffs at the short haired girl before shadily muttering a “you’re one to talk.” making a jab at the girls jealous ways towards her two other members.

chaewon shoots the older girl a small glare deciding to ignore her comment, “she seems to be telling yn a funny joke.” which makes sakura snap her head back to the pair.

even though she couldn’t sakura could hear yn’s soft laugh in response to something that sakura could hardly believe was that funny.

sakura stiffened and muttered to chaewon, “why are we doing this again?” three major groups doing a variety show together seemed like a good idea when it was told to sakura that lesserafim along with gidle and Itzy will be taking part in it, but now not so much.

“and why are they seated next to each other and we’re sitting alone.” sakura ranted to the leader of the group, “this is why we can’t have odd numbers.”

“are you sure the odd number is your problem?” chaewon asked before pointing towards yn and ryujin, “I don’t think so.” she says slyly.

sakura glared at chaewon before nodding towards her two other members, “instead of paying attention to me pay attention to those two.”

it was like an alarm went off in chaewon’s head as she immediately turns her head in the direction that sakura nodded towards, quickly squeezing herself into the conversation of the two members, her mind completely off of sakura.

sakura felt herself smile at the mess that she calls her members but it immediately disappears when she hears the mc call your name.

“yn!” he says pointing at youngest member of gidle, your head snaps up and you raise a brow in question.

“you have two popular and influential groups in this room with you correct?” he asks and you nod your head immediately in response, “which member of either groups do you admire the most?”

yn look at the ceiling in thought before bringing her gaze to the hybe group making immediate eye contact with sakura, she smiles before bringing her eyes back to the man, “sakura.” she says pointing at the older girl.

the members of lesserafim cheer as a smile makes its way to sakura’s only to once again disappear off her face when a certain itzy member speaks up.

“not me?” ryujin asks teasingly leaning closer to yn who covers to face in a flustered manner, “yeah yn, not ryujin!?” the other mc shouts at the girl who puts her face in her hand at the teasing.

sakura narrows her eyes at ryujin who pats yn’s shoulder teasingly, could she back off?

the rest of the filming was just ryujin flirting with yn and everyone eating up, well everyone but sakura who felt like pushing over one of the cameras.

she trusted yn, it was the itzy member she didn’t trust, sakura thought it was pretty obvious that something between her and yn was going to pretty much everyone in the industry, so its either ryujin is oblivious or she just didn’t care.

sakura was leaning more towards the didn’t care option.

the girls were done filming and sakura was determined to find yn, she walked through the halls until she came to a stop when she saw who she was looking for but with the person she didn’t wanna see at all.

sakura watched as ryujin picked up the necklace on yn’s neck, “this necklace is cute.”

sakura tensed her mind going a thousand miles as ryujin takes her hand from your necklace and brings to yn’s arm rubbing it in a “friendly.” manner.

yn smiles brightly before responding with a bright, “thanks my gir-”

“there you are.”

sakura’s voice cuts yn off as she looks behind her to see her girlfriend who pulls yn closer to her, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

without sparring a look at ryujin sakura impulsively presses her lips onto yn’s who just stands still for a couple of seconds before kissing the older back.

yn slowly pulls herself away from sakura, coughing awkwardly before turning to ryujin, “you’ve probably met my girlfriend sakura right rue?”

sakura sends a fake smile to the girl as she wraps an arm around yn, “yes I have, hi.” ryujin replies making eye contact with the girl. “you got yourself a good one.” she smirks mockingly at sakura, making the japanese girls blood boil for some reason.

“I do.” sakura smiles it’s a petty smile, “you’re members might be looking for you.” she says nodding behind as she pulls yn closer to her if that’s even possible.

“you’re right...” ryujin trails off before bringing her gaze to yn, “I’ll see you around yn.”

“bye ryujin.” yn smiles still a little embarrassed as she leans into sakura who nods her head, “yeah, bye ryujin.” she says passively but the itzy member just chuckles and walks towards where her members are.

sakura visibly relaxes when the girl leaves before pressing a kiss on yn’s jaw who in response rolls her eyes, “what?” sakura asks innocently.

yn turns her body fully to look at the girl, “you know you don’t have to be jealous right? I only have eyes for you.”

“me?” sakura asks pointing towards herself, “jealous?”

in response yn nods her head, “yes you, but then again if I was my girlfriend I would get jealous too.” yn says teasingly as she presses a kiss on sakura’s cheek.

it’s now sakura’s turn to roll her eyes as she wraps an arm around yn’s should and starts walking towards the direction where all the groups are, “who gave you such an ego?”

“you.”

#lesserafim x reader #Lesserafim #sakura x reader #lesserafim sakura #sakura lesserafim #sakura miyawaki fluff #sakura miyawaki x reader #sakura miyawaki #gidle!yn #girl group imagines #girl group fluff

633 notes · View notes

heartthrobin · 2 years ago

Text

please love me, like the wave does the shore

aaron hotchner x female!reader

wc: 7.9k

warnings: fake!dating, SO much pining, mentions of murder, only one bed, Hotch is very whipped lol, this is so cliché it should be a crime

an: the moment y’all have been waiting for! i hope you kids enjoy! this will probably become a lil series so stay tuned for part 2 :)

summary: murders along the glistening white coast of Cape Cod was not a good look for anybody. especially not the BAU. the case needs a turn around, a big break, but most importantly: a Mr and Mrs.

Portraits of grinning faces watched you from the whiteboard.

Women’s eyes twinkling. Husband’s grinning to the camera. At their wedding, in the woods during a camping trip, on a birthday.

"We have fucking nothing!"

Names and dates lined the edges of what used to be treasured memories in red marker. Memories each couple was not around to remember anymore.

"We have the profile." Hotch's voice was stern. It made the hair on your arms stand on end.

Outside, the ocean crashed loudly against the shore. Seagulls gabbled in the distance near the dock.

"You know that's not enough."

Chatham was one of the most influential and wealthy suburbs in Cape Cod, if not the whole state. Discovering strung out bodies on the crisp white beaches almost five times that month wasn't fitting for the shoreline that housed some of the most elaborate mansions in the county.

The BAU had been in Cape Cod for nearly three weeks. Two weeks too long in the bureau's opinion: a view shared by the team.

Derek slammed his hand loudly against the white board, over a photo of a tall, cream, wood-boarded resort sprawled over the edge of the coast. Seagull's Rest: Couples Retreat and Spa.

"Seagull's Rest is the only place that connects them.” He huffed, pressing his finger into the printed photo. “Every day that passes is another honeymooning couple that's in danger."

Emily sighed somewhere behind you. David lingered by the edge of the desk where Spencer was driving his eyes over some Greek mythology textbook, working the human sacrifice angle he’d been insistent on sharing with you over coffee that morning.

Police chatter busied the space between you and the other agents.

"Morgan," you pressed, "we have no idea what that even means. It could be maids, spa staff ... for all we know, it could even be other guests."

The room was warm, bright: through the window you could overlook the ocean. A scene too beautiful to deserve the blood painted across it’s portrait.

Nights dissolved into mornings at the sheriff's station. Coffee mugs finding purchase in the maze of photos, medical reports, staff lists: all leading back to the one place all four couples were spending their vacation.

"You know what this means, don't you?" David's voice carried over from behind you. You turned to face him, his gaze set hard upon Hotch's.

The team leader's jaw was tight.

He looked like he was considering David's words closely, sucking in a breath like it hurt him to do so.

Emily's chair squeaked where she leaned forward in it, "What is he talking about?"

Hotch's narrow eyes turned to face the team again. "We need to go in. Work the case from the inside."

"Undercover?" You probed, jaw loosening in surprise.

The team hadn't worked an undercover project in almost two years. Everyone understood that they were a last resort, when general good-old detective work wasn't doing the trick.

Hotch nodded stiffly.

"We're gonna need a couple to go in. Two of us. The pair has to match the preference of the unsub."

There was a heavy quiet before a collective understanding, a collective resignation.

"Fine." Derek nodded. He turned to face the board again. "The husbands, what are we looking for?"

"Alpha males, domineering personalities." David lifted a photo off the desk, examining it closer. "All high-power careers, wealthy. They have a handle on these women. Other couple's in the course with them reported the husband being out of touch, unaffectionate."

Spencer rose to stand, "But no specific physical traits. Unlike the women, they share a specific appearance: the hair, the height, the body shape. They all look like—"

Cold passed over your whole body from the highest point on your head. Like ice water had flooded your shoes.

"Like me."

Teeth sunk into the corner of your lip, the metal taste of blood nipped at your tongue.

It was impossible not to feel the weight of the team’s gaze, how they flickered quickly between where you sat and the photos against the board.

Spencer shrugged, nodding slowly. "Yes, like you."

You chuckled softly, missing most of the humor in the situation as you sunk further back into your chair. "I guess that's settled then."

It wouldn't be your first time working undercover, but you couldn’t say you were as experienced as your colleagues.

You'd joined the BAU last, working every possible hour and chasing down every possible lead to try stay in one of the most coveted positions at the bureau.

It definitely wasn't the easiest thing you’d ever done.

Yes, the team was welcoming - Emily worked hard to make you feel at home, empathizing with you about the difficulty of transitioning into such a team: a team that knows each other's every move and every thought before they themselves have moved or thought - and Spencer was always a friendly face.

Derek was considerate and David was a genius in the line of duty, a marvel to watch work.

What really made it difficult, was Hotch.

In the beginning, he was wary of you. You could feel him lingering when you worked, every decision you made or observation you gathered was held under the magnifying glass of Aaron Hotchner.

With time, he eased up. Trusted you with more, scrutinized over less.

It was then that the next - considerably more concerning - problem began, when you began to miss having his presence over your shoulder.

When your eyes began to linger over his hands where they rested on his holster, or fixate quietly when he brought that steaming morning mug to his lips - sipping oh, so gently.

You were so sure he'd kiss with the same tenderness. The thought kept you up at night.

The feelings you so embarrassingly held for your boss were pushed deep into the corners of your brain.

You felt secure in the knowledge that you acted as casual as possible. Nobody had mentioned anything, and the thought of Hotch ever catching even an inkling of an idea would be enough to never walk back into BAU headquarters ever again.

The only person who really knew anything was Emily.

It had slipped after a drunken night out, on the couch in her apartment, your fat tears staining her blouse: "he's so fucking hot I can't do this!"

And there he was. Silhouette dark against the cast of the sunlight through the window, looking down at you from his towering height. "You're sure you're ready for this?"

His voice wrapped carefully around your throat and you almost choked on its softness.

You coughed instead. "Ready as I'll ever be."

He nodded once, turning back to Derek. "The male?"

Derek shook his head, "Rossi and I went over there a couple days ago to question the owners. They know we're FBI."

The room turned to Spencer, who blinked big hazel eyes at the room innocuously.

You did little to suppress the giggle that bubbled out from your chest. Your heart knocked loudly when you felt Hotch's eyes flicker over his shoulder back at you.

"You wanna be our dominant alpha, Reid?" Emily's lips tugged into a playful grin, clicking the end of her pen loudly.

Soft laughter permeated the room, David knocked Spencer’s shoulder teasingly.

Spencer flushed a light pink, his gaze finding purchase at the open space between his two feet. "Yes. Very funny."

It took more than a few seconds for you to realize that without Spencer, there stood only one other possible candidate.

Your eyes climbed the length of Hotch's long black blazer sleeve. When you reached the top you found him already looking at you. You shivered.

"I suppose that means it’s me then."

Purposefully avoiding his gaze, you found Emily staring right at you - a grin curling up at the corners of her mouth.

"Mr and Mrs Hotchner." David chirped, a mischievous edge to his words. "Congratulations."

You managed to squeak out a sarcastic "thanks Rossi" but Hotch stayed quiet. It made you want to sink into the crevice of your desk chair.

Instead, he turned back to Spencer.

"Get Garcia on the line. She needs to set up aliases and get us registered for the next couple's course as soon as possible."

Spencer nodded once before disappearing into the next room wordlessly.

Next, he turned to you - sucking all the breath out your lungs.

God, he made it so hard to act normal when he showed up in that fucking suit and that perfectly professional haircut.

"I want you to go over the backgrounds of the women again. Get a feel for the unsub's preference, there may be a personality type that he likes best. I'll do the same with the men." You nodded, going to stand and finding yourself always just a little too far from his chest.

"While we're away, the rest of you need to work off the intel we feed. Let's solve this before there's more bodies."

Agents began moving in every direction: out the door, back towards boxes of evidence, but Emily crossed the room to you: eyes wide and alight with mischief.

She grabbed your hand, pulling you from the room and leaving Hotch behind. "This is going to be so fucking good."

Your stomach churned.

Just shy of two days later, you found yourself sitting in the front seat of a Mercedes Benz - god knows the bureau has its ways - only two streets down from Shellshore drive, where tucked into the curve sat Seagull's Rest: the beautiful lodge on the Cape Cod coast that offered couple's courses for new and old marriages that delve into the depths of the soul and connect partners in love and touch.

At least that's what the pamphlet said as it stared up at you from your lap.

It sat at the top of the stack of case files, documents and photos hidden beneath. You pulled out the ID from the midst of the stack.

The photo you'd taken the previous afternoon glimmered up at you: Mrs Eleanor Thompson.

With less than a couple inches of space dividing you, in the driver's seat, sat Hotch.

Penelope was talking over the car speaker.

"I signed you guys up for the Honeymooner's Retreat. It's six days long, but I'm sure you'll be out by then. There are five other couples doing this course with you, you'll find their names in the documents I sent. All their records are clean."

"Garcia, I want you to cross reference all the course instructors with anybody who has—"

Hotch's voice faded from your surroundings, your brain stuttering electrically as your eyes raked over his outfit.

A tight fit black polo that was hugging his chest and chino pants begging for relief over those long thighs.

The last two days had been painful.

You'd slept almost nothing: tossing and turning for hours over the idea that you'd soon be in much closer proximity to Aaron Hotchner than you'd ever been. Too close.

Emily had tried to calm you down, "just ... focus on the case, okay? whatever happens happens."

It was easy for her to say.

Her legs didn't liquify every time Hotch sent small praise her way, like they did on you, and she didn’t have flashing images of taking care of him in the way he never does himself plague her in the small moments of quiet throughout her day.

Making him breakfast, or taking his blazer off after a long case ... undoing the buttons down his shirt—

"They're expecting you for check in at five o clock."

Your eyes found the digital clock on the dashboard, it blinked red at you: 16:47

"Thank you Garcia."

"Yeah," you added quickly, "Thanks Garcia."

"Good luck lovebirds." The teasing lilt in her voice did nothing to calm the high power washing machine your stomach had transformed to.

Heat rushed over your face.

You could feeling Hotch watching you from the corner of his eye. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?"

Sliding your stack of pages into the Louis Vutton handbag at your feet, you forced a smile to press up into your lips.

"To marry you, Hotch?" You feigned a soft sigh, "I've only waited all my life."

The bubbling in your stomach simmered only slightly when Hotch rolled his eyes, what was almost a smile teasing at his lips. "I'll take that as a yes."

The car rumbled to a start beneath you, the expensive engine purring.

"We know what to look for. Keep your eyes on the guests, the instructors, anybody we interact with."

It was hard to focus on Hotch's advice when his wide hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

But you nodded anyways.

It felt like less than a few seconds before the car was being pulled into a luxurious white cobblestone driveway. A sign etched in ivory-coloured wood overhead marked the road: Welcome to Seagull’s Rest.

Bellboys stood in the distance under a grand arched entrance in cream uniforms, luxury cars stretched out in every direction of the parking lot.

The car rumbled to a stop. A valet attendant was already approaching before you’d even a second to gather what was left of your courage.

Hotch turned to you, slow and deliberate as was his manner, leaning precariously over the console. "Remember, we're being watched."

The door opened abruptly on your side, you glanced up to meet the face of the young man holding open the door. He couldn't be older than twenty.

He smiled. "Good afternoon and welcome to the Seagull's Rest."

Your eyes flickered back as Hotch climbed out from the other side, you smiled up at the boy before lifting the end of the olive-green sundress you'd been coerced into wearing and stepped out.

Hotch had rounded the car before you'd even straightened out. He tossed the keys at the attendant.

You were taken aback by how quickly he could escape his usually impeccable manners.

"Be careful with the luggage. There's things in there worth twelve times your salary."

You sucked in a sharp breath when he took your hand into his, sliding his fingers between yours. His palm was pressed so firmly you thought you might collapse.

He made matters worse when he cleared his throat loudly, "Come on, honey, let's go."

The reception was a bright open room, preceded by a tall oak arch, and a high ceiling loomed over the expensive wood of the front desk.

A small framed woman stood behind it, smiling as you approached. "Good afternoon, welcome to Seagull's Rest."

Hotch only nodded curtly in greeting, pulling you abruptly up against his side so that his hand wrapped over your waist. You only hoped he couldn’t hear your heart thumping hysterically against your ribs.

"James and Eleanor Thompson." He grumbled, "We're here for the Honeymooner's Retreat."

"Of course sir, if I could see some identification please?"

Hotch slid over the two fake ID's and the woman began to tap away at the computer.

Your eyes slid up to the view from the window beyond the desk, how the sun was almost setting over the ocean visible through the crystal-clear window.

Unsure if it was driven by purpose or simply instinct, your arms snaked up to rest around Hotch's hips, letting your head lull against the side of his chest just softly.

His chest swelled. You tried not to read into it.

"Baby," it took a moment, presumable for Hotch to realize you were referring to him, but he hummed in response, not looking down at you.

"Hm?"

You motioned to the window, "Look how beautiful it is. You couldn't have chosen a better spot."

Instead of Hotch, the woman at the front desk spoke in response.

"We boast one of the best spots along our coast. The morning yoga sessions are spectacular if that's something you enjoy, and we have cocktail evening tonight at our restaurant on the beach." Her voice dripped in sugar, sliding the two ID's and the keycard to the room back over the counter.

"That sounds wonderful—"

Hotch's stern voice pierced through your own, "Yes, well, we'll see."

The woman - Leslie, as her tag suggested - glanced carefully between Hotch and yourself. She offered you a quietly sympathetic look before meeting Hotch's face again.

"Y-Yes, of course sir."

You stayed quiet after that, allowing her to direct James and Eleanor to their room. Second floor at the end of the hallway.

Hotch huffed dramatically, grabbing the cards from the desk.

His hand slid from your waist and you almost had enough time to mourn the loss of his warmth against your side before that large hand wove itself back between yours - simultaneously warming and chilling every blood vessel in your body.

Hotch pulled you in the direction of the elevator. Nothing was said between you, only the swish of your dress and the heavy step of his leather shoes against the floors.

You two followed the corridor as instructed, gaze flickering curiously up to your fake husband every few moments before your interest caught the better of you.

"You're a little too good at playing the asshole, James." Your hand squeezed gently against his, "Something you want to tell me?"

He shook his head, "Nothing comes to mind."

The luggage was already waiting at the foot of the bed when Hotch pushed the door open, allowing you to step in first.

A gasp escaped you.

The room had to be the most exquisite thing you’d seen in all your life.

It was lined in crisp white and cream decor, a velvet couch along the one wall and a sprawling balcony that overlooked the ocean - the sound of the waves filling every crevice of the space.

There was a thud and you turned to find Hotch opening his briefcase, pulling out the neatly packed pressed shirts that lay within.

"Hotch—"

Quicker than it took you to blink in fright, Hotch's hand closed over your mouth. He shook his head, tapping his ear. "Wires." He mouthed.

You nodded quickly, feeling stupid.

His hand dropped and embarrassment flushed hot over your neck. You looked away from him.

This wasn't a holiday and Hotch wasn't your husband.

Eight people were dead.

Unease burnt at your chest, the same kind that had been building with every passing day and every piling body. You moved in silent to unpack your own handbag where you'd placed your files.

Hotch watched you carefully, as you leaned over the bag - silhouette forming against the red and purple tones of the picturesque sky behind you.

He stared a little longer than necessary, capturing the view to his mind.

It was something he found himself doing too often. Whenever he could find a moment, an excuse. His gaze would linger on your frame, your face.

When your fingers would twitch against your necklace or when you laughed a little too loudly for the Quantico office when Spencer told his terrible, very specifically not funny jokes.

But he was Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, and nothing if not the epitome of professionalism.

He planted himself far enough from the line to where he could go about his day and pretend like he didn't lose sleep at night thinking about you.

"James, did you pack the charger?" Your voice was loud, but wavered slightly. You didn't look up to his face as you usually did.

Hotch tried to convince himself that he didn’t notice.

"Yes, honey, it's in the side pocket."

There was no charger and definitely no need to ask about one besides making casual conversation in the case that wires tapped the room.

Reminded of the very real circumstance, Hotch abandoned the shirts on the bed to move around the room.

Behind him you were doing the same.

He lifted lamp shades, checked under drawers, desks and the headboard for any listening device that could have been planted before they came in.

You shuffled around behind the television stand and at the railings of the curtain before slipping into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes passed in silence before Hotch climbed back to his feet from where he was crouched down under the bed frame.

"We should be in the clear." He announced to you where you still occupied the bathroom.

"Check what I found." You emerged, sundress flittering around your ankles.

He cursed the sway of the material. Somehow you'd arrived in that green dress to the sheriff's station and it had made every nerve connecting his body to his brain turn fuzzy and the man of steel that was Aaron Hotchner was having a harder time than usual keeping his eyes to himself.

You waved a white envelope at him, "It was stuck to the window."

Hotch took it from you, it was addressed to a Mr and Mrs Thompson.

"That's us." He muttered, finger sliding to break its seal.

You stood against his side, close enough to read the letter where he slid it out but also just close enough to make Hotch's head spin from the waft of your perfume.

Good afternoon Mr J and Mrs E Thompson,

We welcome you to Seagull's Rest and want to thank you for choosing to participate in our Honeymooner's Retreat. The next few days will work to strengthen the bond of love and trust between any new married couple, and of course up the intimacy!

Tonight we will be hosting a champagne evening where you will be afforded the opportunity to meet the couples that you'll be spending the next six days with.

Meet us at the Pelican Perch Restaurant on floor 1 at six o clock. We look forward to meeting you!

Kindly, Seagull Rest Staff.

The page crinkled beneath his fingers.

"This is perfect." He muttered, looking sideways at you. "It'll give us a chance to see the unsub in a social environment if he's here."

The unknown subject (unsub) was clarified before you and Hotch had left the station that morning.

David's voice still rung in his ears:

"Someone who is calm and casual in social settings, easy to get along with but holds a position that allows people to trust them. It's what he uses to lure two people at a time to their deaths."

You glanced up at the antique clock on the wall hanging above the television. "That means we should leave soon."

Hotch nodded, "Leave the packing, we'll do that when we get back."

The sun was disappearing behind the glittering ocean surface when the door shut behind you and Hotch again.

His hand slipped down over your wrist before sliding into your grasp, between your fingers and over your knuckles.

Hotch could spend all night convincing himself that holding your hand was imperative to maintaining your cover because you were married and that was in the best interest of the case, but it would still do little to calm the way his heart began to beat from his throat when your grip tightened gently around his.

You made small talk on the walk down to the restaurant, as any couple would.

Mentioning the spa and the interior designs of the glamorous hallways you passed on the walk down to the Pelican Perch restaurant on the water.

The views of the lodging was almost nothing compared to when you two walked under the green vine archway into the restaurant.

Hotch heard your little gasp beside him and was sure it made his heart grow two sizes.

Above your heads hung a glittering maze of white fairy lights overviewing a large wooden floor with tables set in every corner. The bar glittered with bottles of every colour, size and shape that lined the shelves and the wide stacking doors were opened out onto the shoreline.

A soft jazz played and near the center of the room, ten chairs were stacked in a semi-circle around a small podium.

"This is so beautiful." You whispered, almost so soft he didn't hear it.

He looked down at you, enamored by the way the lights reflected off your eyes and your lips were parted in surprise.

"It is." But his eyes never left you.

Already, three or four couples had taken seats, keening over each other as if they two were the only people in the room.

It was almost six. Hotch tugged your hand gently in the direction of the expensive looking chairs, leaning down close to your ear: "Keep your eyes on the people."

You giggled as if he'd said something naughty, putting on a good show for the surrounding guests before leaning down to sit.

The lull of the music in the room almost convinced you that it was all real.

That as you sat and Hotch settled his arm over your thighs, pulling you close against him: that it was because he wanted, not needed, to be there.

Your eyes flickered over the people, a man and a woman were ushering people to take their seats and a tall thin waiter was sauntering around with a tray of champagne glasses.

You took two from his tray, handing the other to Hotch. He gave you a look to remind you to be careful, you could practically hear him chiding "remember, we're on the job."

The champagne was as close to velvet as you'd ever tasted, sliding down your throat far too easily as the man and woman took to the podium in front of you.

The room quietened.

"Good evening to all our lovely young couples!" The man's voice was smooth, warm.

He was older, every spit of hair from his body a stark shining white. The woman was the same, they matched the decor of the resort in the cream beach sets they adorned.

Wrinkles crinkled around her eyes when she smiled, "We're so glad to have you with us. Thirty years ago, we opened the Seagull's Rest to help any couple who felt they needed a place to connect with nature and each other, and since then it's become not only a home to us - but a home to every couple who steps through our doors."

You met Hotch's eye. Owners.

Laurie and Howard Ralph. The founders of the Seagull's Rest.

Howard spoke again: "every class is taught by a qualified, friendly and helpful instructor to make you feel safe in what Laurie and I like to call the education of love."

You'd seen their photos in files and on your tablet, somehow they looked even more pretentious in person.

While you knew you weren't looking for an unsub team, their demeanors didn't put them completely out of range for being possibly responsible.

At least that's as far as your brain could conjure up with Hotch's wide thumb rubbing circles into the side of your thigh - a motion you weren’t entirely convinced he realized he was making.

"We'd like to start off the evening with a few introductions, just to break the ice between you."

They were looking down the line of people, pointing to a Hispanic couple closest to the edge. "How about you two? Tell us your names, where you're from, how you met and your favourite thing about your partner."

The man stuttered, looking to his wife for support. She smiled up at him and you couldn't help the momentary swooping ache to have somebody to look at in that warm, soft way.

"Well I'm Alice and this is my husband Marco." She patted him fondly on the chest, "We're from New York."

"We met when we were kids, we lived next door to each other for fifteen years." The husband was a shyer speaker, but his adoration for his wife leaked through his words. "Before she left for college I asked her to be my girlfriend. The rest is history, I guess."

Laurie and Howard smiled plastically, like the grin was surgically attached there.

"That's lovely, and your favourite thing about one another?" Laurie pressed, before adding, "Remember ladies and gentlemen, this experience is about making yourself vulnerable to each other and to yourself!"

"I love how he can make me feel brand new after a terrible day."

"I love the way she knows me in little ways that nobody else does."

Slowly, the couples spoke down the line.

You were introduced to the Taylors, the Andersons, the Fletchers, the Schmidts.

As the line drew shorter, your breath grew faster.

Of course you knew your story, you'd had it drilled into your brain for the last two days, but your favourite thing about Hotch?

No, you corrected yourself, not Hotch. James.

Your brain fished for a lie, dipping past the bundles of things you loved about Hotch that could so easily be picked from the bush.

But would it be so out of line to admit something honest, something he'd never even realize was true?

Eyes fell on you.

Hotch cleared his throat, his grip over your thigh tightened.

"We're the Thompsons. I'm James and this is Eleanor. We're from Colorado."

His voice was strong, stern. Someone who didn't know Hotch might say it was how he always sounded, but there he held a jagged edge to his tone. "We met at—"

"Woah, woah," Howard interrupted, chuckling nervously. "James, you're running a bit away with us here. Why don't you let your wife tell us how you met?"

Hotch mustered the audacity to look affronted. "Alright."

You fought hard to suppress a laugh. Hotch was an abnormally good actor.

He turned to you, "Darling?"

You sighed, practically scribbling ditzy airhead over your forehead and lifting a hand to fiddle with the buttons on his polo, "Well, I met James in my last year at college—"

"Screwing the professor, very classy."

The whisper came from somewhere to your left and surprised you.

It was soft enough that you were sure Howard and Laurie hadn't heard.

The look on Hotch's face, however, proved that he had. He'd grown completely stiff under your hand.

You fought to regain composure, "H-He was working at a law firm that I was doing an internship at. It was love at first sight, right baby?" You patted his chest slowly.

He nodded, eyes darting anywhere but you.

The owners nodded, urging you to continue. "That's beautiful."

You looked up, met with the side of Hotch's face - he didn't look like he was going to speak first.

"My favourite thing about James is ..." your mind flickering between some cliché or just spitting out what you really wanted to. "The way he looks out for me. Always makes sure I'm safe, even if it's risking himself."

It was mild enough to pass off for just a casual comment but nearly specific enough that if he knew how you felt that he'd catch on.

He pulled his gaze from where it was fixated on the foot of the podium, sinking it into yours and making the room feel suddenly ten degrees warmer.

"My favourite thing about Eleanor is her laugh."

It was short and sweet and deep down you really hoped it was laced in truth.

By the time you looked away from your partner, the introductions had already moved down a couple. Judging by the way the tall blonde woman who'd just announced herself as Jade Atkins was staring at you, you could already gage that she'd been the one to make the professor comment.

You could still feel Hotch's anger radiating off of him. He was hard, tense and his jaw was set tightly.

Hotch was older than you, sure. You knew that.

It was one of the things that assured - plagued - you that he would never reciprocate your feeling.

He was mature and worldly, handsome in a way no man you knew could even remotely compare.

You were younger, not that much, but still. Enough that you could be looked at sideways by stuck-up bitches like Jade Atkins.

You knew you'd never be afforded a chance ... but then why did Hotch look so angry?

He knew he was older, but he also had to know that he left a trail of swooning women wherever he went?

"James ..." you whispered.

He looked quickly down at you, clearly of the impression that it was enough of a response.

"What's wrong?"

The word looked like they hurt forcing itself from his mouth. "Nothing."

You bit the corner of your bottom lip slowly, turning over his response in your mind.

Before you could find the sense to stop yourself, you reached up and took Hotch's jaw into your grasp, pulling it down closer to your face.

Following hesitantly until he was practically leaning over, you whispered into his ear: "ignore her, she just wishes her husband wasn't a cheating alcoholic."

You pressed a warm peck against his upper cheek, close to his eye and pretended that the brush of his almost-there stubble didn't make your heart swoop down into your stomach.

Letting go, Hotch straightened out again. He looked calmer, almost like he could smile.

His eyes flickered over the man, taking in his form. It took him a moment before he whispered back, "You're right."

Within a couple minutes, the last of the couples finished their introductions and the Ralph's were speaking again.

"Thank you all, again, for coming. Please, spend the rest of the evening getting to know each other, enjoying more of our champagne—"

"Imported straight from France!" Howard interjected and the couples laughed sporadically,

"—and savor the rest of your week."

Around you, couples rose from their seats. You detangled yourself from Hotch and did the same.

Initially, you had the full intention of floating around the room together, connected at the arm to analyze the guests quietly.

However, almost immediately, the women had dissected from their husbands to form a small group by the balcony.

The men had done the same, converging near the bar.

Blinking in surprise, you look up to Hotch for further instruction.

He nods towards the women, "You should go join them."

Your face crinkled in reluctance, "Don't make me go over there, James ... our friend isn't even supposed to be a woman."

Amusement was alight in his brown eyes, but his mouth remained a thin line.

"Then," he almost made you jump when his wide hand closed softly over your cheek, dragging the side of his thumb down your face, "go enjoy the company. I'll focus on the men."

Sparked by Hotch's warm touch, slightly dizzy on it, you nodded softly before turning to the women.

It was cool out on the balcony and the women greeted when you joined the circle.

You took a long gulp from your second glass of champagne, listening only half-committed to Patricia Anderson's story about their new condo on the Los Angeles beachfront.

"So, Eleanor was it?"

Recognizing the voice as the one who'd whispered brashly behind you not more than twenty minutes previously, you turned to the woman.

Your grip tightened around your champagne glass.

"Yes. Jenna, right?"

The woman gathered the nerve to look affronted, her tennis skirt swayed with the breeze over long bronzed legs.

"Jade, actually. Jade Atkins." She cleared her throat, "My husband is Richard Atkins, he owns all the Sonja Hotels north of the equator, I'm sure you've heard of him."

Another woman - Anne Schmidt - indulged her. "That's amazing, Elijah and I stayed there a couple months ago in Switzerland."

Jade nodded, looking proud, but seemingly intent on swerving the conversation your way.

"Speaking of husbands, yours is quite the catch isn't he?" The chatter of the other women dimmed slightly, the wives sensing the change of direction.

Taking another necessarily big gulp of your champagne, you nodded. "Indeed."

"He's very handsome ... how did you manage to tie him down?"

Her words dripped in condescension.

"Just got lucky, what can I say?"

Jade nodded, twisting a long golden strand between her fingers. Heat was beginning to curl at your cheeks.

"And he's so much older," she laughed airily, lifting her glass to sip at her drink, "but I guess that life insurance money makes him all the more attractive, hey?"

"Oh definitely. He also got a huge penis which helps."

Jade choked loudly around her glass and the women around you burst into fits of high-pitched laughter.

"Don't mind her," Imani Taylor pulled you aside, "All the Botox has gone to her brain."

You smiled kindly at her.

"So a lawyer you said, what's that like?"

Across the room, Hotch was sitting through a similar game of verbal tennis.

A circus of who's car is newer, bigger, better, who's company makes more money or sells more stocks.

He doubted he'd ever been so bored. That's maybe why his eyes flickered so often to where you were talking animatedly with a short woman in a hijab.

A heavy hand against his shoulder sucked him back into the conversation.

A sandy-topped man who Hotch quickly identified as Elijah Schmidt was patting him boyishly, "Don't worry about the girl, Thompson."

He didn't love the idea of you being referred to as girl but said nothing on it.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head vaguely. "Got to keep on eye on them. She can barely feed herself most days, only knows how to spend my money and crash my cars."

The words were bitter, like hot bile on his tongue but he insisted on maintaining a mutual expression. Nobody promised that playing an asshole was going to be any fun.

A handful of the men grimaced at his comment, while the rest just tutted offhandedly.

While the men were far from the nicest he'd met, in the couple minutes he'd spent with them, Hotch was almost sure that his unsub was not among them.

Despite most of their more than patchy backgrounds - mostly corporate scuffles, dug up by Garcia - none of them spoke with the ease that the suspect needed to have, the charisma and the trustworthy character. Hotch's energy was better placed elsewhere.

"Barely feed herself?" A gravelly chuckle filled the space, "Sure doesn't look like it."

Hotch's eyes narrowed on the short bald man laughing to himself, glancing over to where you stood across the room - a fat cigar between his fingers.

He recognized him as the man who sat with the woman who'd commented when you spoke. Richard Atkins.

Turning his whole body to the man, towering over his structure, Hotch's face twisted - his stomach contents boiling hot at the comment.

"I beg your pardon?"

Pulling at the cigar, the end lighting up, the man shrugged. "Just saying, y'know, she doesn't look like she's skipped a meal anytime recently—"

The expression curling onto Hotch's face must've been cause for alarm, if not the way his fist tightened at his side, because almost immediately two other men stepped in.

One at Richard's side, "Hey, hey, Richard, that's enough man."

The other patting Hotch's shoulder, "Thompson ... he's had a couple drinks, just let him go."

Richard seemed to find the situation amusing because he was chortling still to himself. "Of course, of course. My bad, just locker-room talk you know. No harm, no foul."

Seething white anger was tugging on every muscle in his body, and he fought hard to maintain composure - taking a cautionary step towards Richard Atkins.

"I'd watch how you talk about my wife if I were you. Otherwise we're going to have a problem."

Atkins only huffed, turning back to his friend and his cigar. The conversations started up again around him, but Hotch had lost interest.

His wrist watch told him they'd been standing there for almost an hour.

Cleaning out the bottom of his glass, he set it down on the nearest table before excusing himself, offering handshakes and a couple shoulder pats before moving towards the women.

A handful of men followed him, clearly keen to leave as well.

He found you by the railing, laughing gently at something the woman across from you said.

Hotch's arm slid over your waist from behind, dipping his head closer to your ear: "ready to go?"

You nodded, offering a quick goodbye to the woman and some others.

The walk back to the room was quicker than he remembered, or maybe it was the light buzz of champagne against the side of his head and how you were humming something that sounded like Etta James that made it feel too fast.

On return, the prospect of unpacking awaited.

"Anyone interesting among the husbands?" You asked from across the room, lifting shirts and dresses to stack into the open cupboard.

Hotch shook his head, dislodging the secret compartment at the bottom of his suitcase where the case files had been hidden. "The unsub isn't one of them. They're all, for lack of a better word, assholes. Nobody trustworthy enough to follow to your death."

You chuckled lightly, "The women were alright. Except for this one woman, that one who whispered that rubbish when we introduced ourselves."

Hotch's stomach turned at the thought of the woman's words. Screwing the professor, really classy.

The implication on your character made his blood boil.

"Let me guess, Atkins?"

You nodded, "How'd you know?"

"Her husband's a real piece of work too. I'm gonna find something to arrest him for before the end of the week."

Your giggle permeated the space and it worked to ease the knot in Hotch's stomach.

"Don't be so dramatic, James." You draped a towel over your arm, "Mind if I grab the shower first?"

"Of course." Hotch nodded, desperately trying to fan out the image that was quickly rendering in his mind of you in the shower. "I'm gonna phone Garcia."

The bathroom door clicked behind you and you sighed into the emptiness of the room.

You took your time showering, enjoying how the hot water eased the tension over your shoulders, before drying off and slipping into the most appropriate pair of pajamas you'd brought along.

It took some convincing to let yourself pack the silk shorts and tank top, after all: you would be sharing a room with your boss.

Quickly after you'd walked back into the room, Hotch had slipped into the bathroom himself with a towel and pair of pajamas hanging over his arm.

Images of all the people you'd met that very evening sifted through your mind like a deck of cards, flipping through them and filtering the ones you knew couldn't be involved.

The spray of the shower was loud and your mind reached precariously for an image of what Hotch looked like under the fancy head in the shower that had more than enough space for two ... how the hot water was probably gliding over his long strong arms, down his chest and through the happy trail at the base of his stomach leading down towards—

The water shut off and silence echoed across the room.

You heard shuffling behind the door, wondered quietly what he could be doing, but pulled your eyes back to the case file.

The list of connections between the victims and current guests were numerous, too many to be significant as people in this wealth category generally moved in similar groups.

The door clicked open.

"Put that away, you should get some sleep."

"I—" You looked up to meet Hotch's eye and almost swallowed your tongue.

His hair was still wet, drooping over his forehead in a way you'd never seen before, and his blue t-shirt stuck to his chest with dampness. He wore plaid shorts that exposed those long legs that had been so criminally hidden beneath his usual suit pants.

He looked so ... domestic, and it set every nerve ending in your body alight.

"I ... yes, boss. Was just looking." You set the file on the bedside table.

He nodded at you, a warm look on his face. "Want you well rested for tomorrow."

There was a short silence and the look cleared from his features to be replaced by another.

Hotch's eyes flickered between the bed and the couch, and for the first time in more than a while, a look of unsureness occupied his face.

"I ... I think I'll take the couch."

Your heart sunk.

"Why?" The question chased its way out of your mouth before you could reach to snatch it.

"I don't wanna make you ... uncomfortable, considering I'm your superior."

"I mean, the bed is plenty big enough for the both of us, Hotch." You stammered, desperate to be close to him. "It's probably gonna be painful to sleep on that couch anyways."

He hesitated.

"U-Unless you think it's weird, you can sleep on the couch it's fine." You wished you could sink into the sheets and disappear.

But to your surprise, Hotch nodded.

The bed sunk on his side as he lifted the covers, as close to the edge as he could from what you could see.

His head hit the pillow before he leaned over to flick off the light, you took it as a sign to do the same.

There was quiet for a long moment.

The door to the balcony was open, it was just too hot to close it, and the breeze curled over the sheets, wafting the smell of Hotch's shower gel into your face.

It took all you had within you not to sigh loudly and dig your face into his neck.

You thought the conversation had closed for the evening, but Hotch surprised you when his voice emerged from the darkness.

"You did well today. I know you were nervous."

A smile tugged at your lips. He could read you better than you thought he could.

"You've got a lot more practice at the husband thing than I do at the wife thing."

You could almost see the outline of his face against the light of the moon.

"Well, I hope this wife ends up better than the last one."

The memory of finding Hotch's ex-wife's body came starkly into view.

"O-Oh, Hotch." Your hand came to your face in embarrassment, "I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't have—"

"Hey, hey," he stopped you, "it's my fault. It was a bad joke, I shouldn't have made it."

You couldn't help the small giggle that escaped you, "I've never heard you freestyle a joke before, Hotch."

"Wasn't good?"

"It was terrible." You managed around the now growing laugh.

"And yet you're still laughing. Isn't that the goal?"

You shuffled over in the sheets to face him, even though you couldn't see much - the thought that he lingered there in the darkness comforted you.

"Not at that really bad attempt at a joke, I'm laughing at you."

Maybe it was your imagination, but you swore when the light from the lighthouse flickered quickly over Hotch's face that he was grinning.

"I'm glad I amuse you."

"Come on Hotch, you're telling me you don't have a single good dad joke?"

He was quiet a long moment, and for a second you thought you'd pressed too hard.

"Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?"

Absolutely surprised by the question, you shook your head in the darkness. "Why?"

"Because they're really good at it."

The light from the lighthouse hadn't passed over his face again but now you were sure he was smiling and every muscle in your body twitched to grab his face in the darkness and kiss him until he was oxygen depleted.

"That's the worst joke I've ever heard, Aaron." But you shook with small laughter.

"Worse than the dead wife joke?"

"Okay, maybe not that bad."

Quiet fell again.

"You should go to sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow."

Fishing for the sheets, you lifted to tuck them under your chin. "Goodnight James."

"Goodnight."

Tags:

@montyfandomlove @aurorastuffsstuff @cdizzleswzzlebonzy @pureblood-blake @kad00x @lena-1895 @marimorena06 @farrah-444

#Aaron Hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds #fake dating #criminal minds fanfiction #Spencer Reid #emily prentiss #David Rossi #Derek Morgan #penelope garcia #only one bed #mutual pining

2K notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 7 days ago

Photo

Matilda of Tuscany

Matilda of Canossa (c. 1046-1115), the Countess of Tuscany (r. 1055-1115) and Vice-Queen of Italy (r. 1111-1115), was the final head of the noble House of Canossa following the deaths of her father in 1052 and her elder brother in 1055. One of the most influential women of medieval Europe, Matilda is noted for her military and political prowess, her ceaseless patronage of the Christian Church, and her defense of Papal authority. Though a vassal of the Holy Roman Empire, Matilda often acted independently. Her conflict with the imperial state included a nearly lifelong military conflict with Henry IV (1050-1106), the German king (r. 1056-1105) and Holy Roman Emperor (r. 1084-1105).

Most of Matilda’s holdings, including her family’s ancestral castle of Canossa, were located across the plains of the Po Valley in northern Italy, an invaluable intersection of trade routes between the Italian peninsula and Italy’s northern neighbors beyond the Alps. In the southern part of Matilda domain beyond the Po Valley was the Duchy of Tuscany, rugged with mountains in its north, rural hills throughout, and vital roads connecting to Rome. With these possessions and an impenetrable alliance with the Christian Church, she became an influential political figure in medieval Europe. Matilda was often referred to as the Great Countess (la Gran Contessa) by contemporaries and scholars, despite this title being lesser than her truer title, that of the Margravine of Tuscany. Although she was considered the rightful heir to her father’s northern Italian holdings, Henry IV never recognized her claims to the lands within the Holy Roman Empire.

Early Life

Matilda was a descendent of the House of Canossa, a noble family established by her great-grandfather Atto Adalbert of Lucca (d. 988), a 10th-century Lombard military leader from Lucca and vassal to the German kings of Italy. Adalbert and his son Boniface expanded their domain and by 1027, the Canossa family's influence encompassed the counties of Brescia, Cremona, Ferrara, Mantua, Modena, Reggio Emilia, and Veneto. In 1027, Roman Emperor Conrad II (r. 1027-1039) transferred the Duchy of Tuscany to Boniface. As Schevill explained,

With Tuscany added to his strength ... Boniface completely dominated central and northern Italy; and since he clung to his superior, the emperor, with more consistency than was usual among feudal magnates, he served as the main pivot of the imperial power in Italy in his day. (53)

In 1037, Boniface married Beatrice of Lorraine (c. 1020-1076), a direct descendent of Charlemagne and Conrad’s niece by way of marriage. Matilda was born to Boniface and Beatrice in 1046 after two older siblings: Frederick and Beatrice. Matilda’s place of birth has been disputed, though scholars have suggested Canossa, Lucca, and Mantua. On 6 May 1052, when Matilda was six years old, Boniface was killed by an unknown assailant, likely by an assassin of Holy Roman Emperor Henry III (r. 1046-1056). Frederick inherited the feudal land of their father while Beatrice governed on his behalf. Matilda’s older sister died shortly after Boniface in 1053, though details are unclear.

In 1054, Beatrice married her first cousin Duke Godfrey the Bearded of Upper Lorraine, while Matilda was betrothed to the elder Godfrey’s son, Godfrey the Hunchback. Although Pope Leo IX, another cousin of Beatrice, gave them his blessing to marry, neither received consent from their king, Henry III.

Using the marital transgression to his advantage in 1055, Henry imprisoned Beatrice and Matilda at Bodfeld in current-day central Germany and claimed their holdings. Frederick, the only son and heir to Boniface, is thought to have died in 1055, leaving the young Matilda as the sole child of the Canossa dominion. Since women did not have the right to own, govern, or inherit feudal land under imperial law, Frederick’s death made not Matilda but Henry III, Beatrice’s closest adult male kin, the rightful heir to Boniface.

The mother and daughter remained in captivity until Henry III suddenly died in October 1056. Until the adulthood of Henry’s heir, Henry IV, the widowed Queen Agnes acted as regent to the young king. In exchange for a renewed oath of fealty from Godfrey the Bearded, Agnes freed her deceased husband’s prisoners and authorized the marriage of Godfrey and Beatrice. Godfrey, therefore, controlled the Canossa holdings and established his court in the Duchy of Tuscany, where the family returned by the spring of 1057. Information concerning Matilda’s youth beyond these events is terse.

The marriage of Beatrice to Godfrey the Bearded remained intact despite Henry III’s efforts and was recognized by Queen Agnes. Matilda’s inheritance in Italy was passed to the governance of her stepfather, who, in 1064, also inherited the Duchy of Upper Lorraine. With her role as heir forfeited to her stepfather, Matilda abandoned her ancestral home in Italy in favor of her husband’s in Upper Lorraine. The betrothal to her cousin Godfrey the Hunchback was not fulfilled by marriage until May 1069 when Matilda was 23 years old and the elder Godfrey was expected to die after falling ill. Upon his death, the titles in Italy and Lorraine were transferred to the younger Godfrey. The only child of Matilda by Godfrey was Beatrice, named after her grandmother, but she died shortly after birth, sometime between May and August 1071.

#History #Beatrice #Boniface #Canossa #WHE #[#]

45 notes · View notes

pikahlua · 7 months ago

Note

Can you expand a bit on why Hawks would want to keep the hero rankings rather than get rid of them? I'm having a hard time understanding why he would do that whatsoever. What "good points" are there that he would want to keep? It always felt like a major source of corruption imo, especially since one of Nagant's jobs with the HPSC was taking out corrupt heroes who found unsavory means to boost their rankings (convincing normal people to do crimes, then arresting them). Appreciate your insight as always <3

Hawks' major criticism of the hero rankings was not the rankings themselves but the popularity component of the rankings.

Saying the "popular" thing, saying the thing everyone wants to hear, isn't heroic; it's cowardly. It's conforming. Hawks is looking for a dependable hero to be a symbol, and such a symbol has to be strong in the face of criticism. They can't capitulate to what's easy and popular, especially when such sentiment stands in contrast to what's needed and righteous.

Hawks goes out of his way to pick Endeavor to mold into a leader because Endeavor has that leadership quality--he's not trying to look good in the public eye in every moment. He's consistent and dependable. He has the highest rate of incidents resolved--even more than All Might. Hawks thinks Endeavor is reassuring, that people will follow his lead.

Of course, the good part about the "popularity" component of the ranking is that it keeps people in check. To give an example, there's this concept in my old line of work called independence, which is divided into two things: actual independence and the appearance of independence. It's important for someone in my old position to be independent in fact BUT ALSO in appearance. If people can't TELL you're independent, how much does it help even if you actually ARE independent? The same thing can apply to heroes in terms of public approval. Yes, heroes need to take public approval ratings with a grain of salt, because sometimes doing the right thing is not the same thing as doing what's popular. However, consistently going against the grain without a thought for helping the public understand you, without regard for social mores or others' feelings, will eventually turn the public against you. It's the issue Katsuki had to deal with as he went through his character arc. If the public doesn't trust you, why would they take your hand when you reach out to save them?

Hawks never really goes into anything like what Nagant mentions, and I don't know if Nagant's commentary on heroes who colluded with villains for fame and glory even was a) directly referring to the hero ranking system or b) something that can be resolved by eliminating hero rankings in the first place. That issue seems like a product of fame chasing, not merely public approval, and people will continue to crave the limelight whether or not there's a ranking system. But if people aren't dependent on heroes being the only heroic ones, such as in this new list of everyday heroes Hawks is considering, the existence of fame-chasing heroes doesn't hurt society as much. People won't be depending on heroes to all be perfect and good, they'll support each other, and so the whole system won't be shaken up by the public image of heroes wavering.

As an aside, there's one other funny thing to me about this idea Hawks has.

Hawks is a young upstart, and the fact that he landed this influential political position is quite a shake-up of the status quo. Japan notoriously likes to have things happen in a certain social order, and young people jumping up the ladder ahead of their elders always makes for an awkward dynamic. I do kinda think Hawks is being considerate by not "doing things a little too fast" and completely destroying the old system, because something that radical is not always palatable to the majority opinion, especially when the person advocating for it is as young as Hawks. Just changing a system this much is already a pretty radical step based on my (limited) understanding of contemporary Japanese politics. And I direct you back to my commentary on how Hawks is building on what the older generations have given the next ones. He's always been a character that sat between the older and newer generations like a bridge, so this seems like a decent compromise.

#anon ask #ask pika #my hero academia manga spoilers #epilogue arc spoilers #keigo takami

137 notes · View notes

whereianonymouslypostfics · 8 months ago

Text

Distracted

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: ~1.8k

Summary: Wanda and Y/n spend the night in a club

A/N: This came to mind while I was riding my peloton bike, idk why

Warnings: fluff, angst

Wanda tried to feign interest in the rather one-sided conversation she was having while she sipped on her drink and kept an eye on you.

Tonight she was working which wasn’t abnormal, but it also happened to be one of the few times where you had accompanied her. She’d decided that it was acceptable for two reasons. One, she wasn’t expecting this meeting to be particularly dangerous, and two Bucky and Steve were both here as well.

They blended in well with the patrons at the night club that Wanda used as her meeting place. It was busy enough that not many, if any people took notice of her in the VIP area, and it wasn’t like it mattered much anyway. Wanda only really cared about keeping an eye on you.

You had invited some friends out tonight, and you and your group of friends were enjoying the queer-artist inspired set. Although all of your friends were taken, Wanda had to remind herself multiple times not to get jealous when she caught one of them dancing closer to you than she deemed strictly necessary.

“Do you agree, Ms. Maximoff?”

The only sign that Wanda was caught off guard by the question was the subtle tightening of her fingers around her glass. She kept her expression neutral as she turned back to the woman across from her and nodded despite not having any idea what she was talking about. Last she remembered; they were reviewing notes for the meeting that should be starting any minute now.

She knew that she had to be more attentive for what came next. The woman she was talking to was visiting from the East Coast to discuss a supposedly mutually beneficial arrangement. Apparently, the sudden surge of competition Wanda found herself facing was due to a runaway wannabe drug lord. She knew she could probably handle it on her own, but when the leader of the most influential group of criminals in New York asked for an audience, she knew she shouldn’t say no.

That said, she wasn’t sure what Bianca Sullivan had to offer her, and if she’d even be able to match it. She realizes she should have paid more attention to her talking points than how you continued to dance with your friends, but it couldn’t be helped. She was only human after all, and you looked way too good in those shorts.

The first sign that Bianca had arrived was the appearance of two of her guards setting up shop in the VIP area. When Wanda glanced toward the back entrance, she noted unfamiliar faces introducing themselves to her guards and then there she was.

The brunette was exactly what she expected. She had a severe expression and gave off the impression that she didn’t take shit from anyone. Wanda could respect this and she found herself smiling slightly as she stood up to greet the woman she’d only spoken with once. She watched out of the corner of her eye as her assistant left to get a waiter’s attention.

“Ms. Sullivan, welcome. I appreciate your willingness to meet here.”

Wanda didn’t bother to say that she wouldn’t have met her anywhere else. This was her territory, and it was only polite for the brunette to meet her here since she had something she wanted after all. Luckily, she sensed that the woman who offered her a brief yet firm handshake had a formidable business sense. She merely nodded before she settled into the plush seat across from Wanda with an enviable amount of grace.

“I appreciate you meeting with me at all, Ms. Maximoff. I know it’s a little unconventional.”

Although it was unnecessary, Wanda offered a small nod before she glanced to the waiter who brought Wanda a new drink and asked Bianca for her order. She isn’t surprised in the least by the other woman’s order, but she keeps her opinion to herself.

“I have to admit I’m intrigued. The group I’ve been dealing with has only grown since they first declared themselves a couple of weeks ago.”

Wanda watches as the brunette scowls at the thought, but she doesn’t get a chance to ask for the reason. She’s surprised by how upfront the other mob boss is. She discloses that someone she believed to be her ally, betrayed her, attempted to murder her, but when she’d failed, she fled here. It seemed like a random choice, but Wanda’s realized that very little that happened in her line of work was random.

It seems that she was right.

“I’m surprised that she made it this far, but unfortunately, for you, she’s causing trouble. I think I know how to handle her.”

Wanda finishes up her drink listening to the woman’s proposition. It seems simple despite the inherent complications of having Bianca’s people operating in her territory for a minimum of three weeks while they work on cleansing her city. She understands why Bianca doesn’t ask her to do it. Simply watching her talk about her former friend is telling enough. She feels responsible for her, and she wants to be the one to take her down.

“If you’re open to it, I’ll stay for as long as it takes to get rid of her.”

A familiar song reaches Wanda’s ears and she has to force herself to ignore it as she considers the cons of such an arrangement. She knows that the other woman isn’t here to stay and steal her business, but her presence is going to cause confusion and maybe even panic. She’ll have to spread the word that they have a new ally.

After almost a minute of deliberation, Wanda nods and sits up in her chair so she can set her glass down on the table between them.

“I don’t see why not. We’ll work out the arrangements and make sure my people don’t get in the way of yours.”

Bianca finally cracks a smile and Wanda is in the process of returning it when her gaze moves to over the brunette’s shoulder.

Baby don’t you like this beat? I made it so you’d sleep with me.

The way you dance to these words gives Wanda pause and she knows that the woman across from her notices. Still, she recovers quickly and tries to scrub the way your hips move against your friend’s from her brain. At least for now.

“Have you made hotel arrangements yet? I can offer a few suggestions if not.”

Bianca politely declines her offer with another genuine smile that Wanda feels is reserved for very few.

“Thank you, Ms. Maximoff, but my fiancée has already taken care of it.”

Wanda nods and the pair continue to talk logistics until Wanda’s distracted again a few minutes later. She plans on wrapping things up quickly so she can join you. Or maybe drag you from the dancefloor and into the nearest dark corner.

After arrangements are made to meet again tomorrow and talk strategy, Wanda decides to cut this meeting short. She sees Bianca’s gaze drift over her shoulder once again toward where her guards are, and she wonders who just arrived.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I look forward to speaking with you again, Ms. Sullivan.”

Bianca nods and they both stand at the same time, their minds already on something else entirely.

“You as well, and thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Maximoff.”

Wanda barely notices her leaving the way she came as she makes eye contact with you. You’re smiling at her, and as soon as you realize you have her attention you take advantage of it. Wanda watches your mouth move, and you raise an arm and motion her toward you.

Baby, why don’t you come over?

Wanda doesn’t hear you say the words, but they still have their desired effect. She abandons the VIP area for the bustling dancefloor nearly running into half a dozen people on her way to you. She notices none of them and they seem to scatter the closer she gets to you. You’re still smiling and dancing as she reaches out for you, and she barely notices how your friends have discreetly turned away and formed a barrier between you and everyone else.

“It’s about time, Wands. I’ve been trying to use my feminine wiles to summon you for ages.”

Wanda rolls her eyes at your exaggerated tone before she pulls you closer by the hips with a huff. She takes a moment to admire the way you move as the beat of the song picks up. She tightens her hold on you when she remembers that you’ve been dancing like this without her for almost an hour.

She leans in so she doesn’t have to shout, and she smiles as you wrap your arms around her neck.

“I’m lucky that I’m the only one you summoned dancing like that.”

She hears you laugh and she pulls away to see you smiling mischievously before shrugging seemingly unconcerned.

“What can I say? Your meeting was taking too long.”

Wanda rolls her eyes again before she leans in to kiss you like she’s been wanting to all night. She pulls you flush against her and allows herself to pretend that it’s just the two of you. Even if it’s only for a few minutes.

Bianca smiles as she embraces her fiancée with a tired groan. It’s past 2am their time, and she’s exhausted, but at least she’s accomplished something. She’s glad that Wanda is amenable to their alliance because now she’s one step closer to ending things once and for all.

Maria puts an arm around her shoulders and shoots her a knowing look. She’s suddenly so relieved that her fiancée was willing to make this trip with her. Forget the fact she may not be in New York again for weeks. She always felt more settled when the redhead was around.

“Is it time to call it a night?”

Bianca considers having another drink with her fiancée, but it’s loud and she’s practically dead on her feet. So instead of cozying up here, she decides that the hotel that Maria booked will be more than sufficient.

“I think so. It’s been a long day.”

Maria smiles as she guides the taller woman down a dimly lit hallway toward the back of the club where they’d parked. She ignores the normal shadows that follow them everywhere and considers how she can help her future wife decompress.

“Agreed. I think a hot bath and a massage would be a perfect way to end this day, hmm?”

Bianca smiles brightly as she follows Maria out into the parking lot. She pauses just long enough to plant a kiss on her lips, much to the chagrin of her bodyguards, before nodding in agreement.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Masterlist

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda x reader #silver springs #silver springs drabble #mob au

112 notes · View notes

weatheredfailnot · 1 year ago

Text

Please take these sections from EE3 on the Shadowkeeper (Cylva) because I love her so dearly

Transcript below:

A NAME SPOKEN IN WHISPERS

Around the time Ardbert and his comrades left Tomra, they stumbled upon evidence of the larger design. Threads linking together the disparate troubles of the realm. A name spoken only in whispers— the Shadowkeeper.

A singular force sowing chaos and discord throughout Norvrandt to an unknown end.

During Nyelbert's search for an energy source to replace the crystal he shattered, he began to suspect that the now-lost stone was not, in fact, a naturally occurring mineral, but rather had been deliberately placed under the mountain. Pursuing the truth of that theory led them to discover a connection to Lamunth, the gem counterfeiter whom Ardbert and Lamitt apprehended so long ago in Nabaath Areng. When they visited Lamunth's gaol cell to interrogate him, however, they found the man convulsing on the floor and frothing at the mouth. Ere the poison took his life, he managed to sputter the name of the Shadowkeeper. Further investigation revealed that this sinister figure had ordered Lamunth to secret the crystal in the mine shafts, and in return rewarded him with the illusory magicks he would employ in his forgeries.

They also came to learn that Tadric, the mastermind behind Voeburt's monstrous plague, had not worked alone. Research documents recovered from the court mage's laboratory mentioned the Shadowkeeper by name, the meticulous entries describing how the arcane lore shared by his co-conspirator had contributed to the completion of his transformation magicks.

The mining industry of Nabaath Areng threatened with demolition.

A scheme culminating in the death of Voeburt's royal heirs. The Shadowkeeper had plotted the downfall of two mighty nations, and Ardbert's band feared that Lakeland, the third of Norvrandt's major powers, would be next.

Lo and behold, a rebellion erupted in the home of the elves. The reigning king was deposed, and the Shadowkeeper, their heretofore faceless nemesis, took the throne.

The elven king, Lelfrey, was a passionate proponent of the arts- music and dance in particular- with his focus on such refined pursuits earning him equal praise and scorn. His was a peaceful rule, free of war and strife, but this passivity cost his kingdom dearly in matters of foreign diplomacy. A poor negotiator, he ceded border territories to Voeburt to avoid conflict, and signed an economic agreement with Nabaath Areng that put Lakeland at a clear disadvantage.

As these political blunders chipped away at the nation's authority, a sentiment of discontent among Lakeland's high-ranking nobility began to fester and grow. Traditionalists dreamed of a return to the golden age when all of Norvrandt lay under their control, and it was the Shadowkeeper who granted them the power to act. Rumors that this new player was the king's bastard child ran wild, and, true or not, served to unify the disgruntled nobles under a single banner. They indulged in treachery to undermine rival nations, while at home, their assassins targeted influential royalists. The scene was set for revolution.

The Shadowkeeper was attended by two dark-robed mages, by whose malevolent arts the traditionalists were empowered. One of their gifts was lupine transformation, a change which granted the recipient preternatural strength and agility. Thus bolstered by a company of these wolfman soldiers, the Shadowkeeper's faction stormed Laxan Loft and captured the royal seat for their leader. No sooner had the winning side declared a new age of glory for the elves than did they muster their forces and launch an invasion into Voeburtite lands.

Caption reads: The Shadowkeeper emerged amid blood and chaos, a formidable and enigmatic figure perpetually encased in stygian plate armor. Similarly clad in midnight raiment, the Shadowkeeper's forces inspired terror in all who witnessed their advance.

THE BATTLE OF LAXAN LOFT

The heroes were poised to continue their search for Nyelbert's replacement stone in Nabaath Areng when the silver-haired Cylva abruptly left the party. The swordswoman excused herself on the premise that she wished to reconnoiter the troubling situation in Lakeland, but in truth, she was hurrying back to don her black armor, unsheathe her blade, and lead the elven traditionalists in their rebellion. Cylva, the great deceiver, had been the Shadowkeeper all along.

She was, in truth, no bastard child of King Lelfrey-that was merely a fiction concocted by Mitron and Loghrif, her Ascian accomplices. Her true origin lay in the Thirteenth, where she had died young and powerless, an unrealized champion of the reflection-turned-void. The Ascians had found her in the moment of her demise, and it was they who brought her soul to the First to serve as a pawn in dark machinations.

Cylva was to insinuate herself into Ardbert's band, and guide them along the path to becoming Warriors of Light. That which they cast aside in their journey towards heroism, she would take into herself, growing ever stronger as a disciple of Darkness. And when all was in readiness, she would reveal herself as the villainous Shadowkeeper. By her hand would the Warriors of Light be slain, and despair sown in the hearts of the populace.

What the Ascians did not plan for was the Shadowkeeper's defeat at the hands of Ardbert's party. Cylva had steadily amassed her power, feeding on her erstwhile comrades' respective sacrifices of personal ambition, innocence, independence, and tradition. Yet despite her best efforts, Ardbert would not forsake what she sought to purloin- his caring heart.

Even in the midst of their deadly confrontation, he regarded her as a comrade in need of saving.

Thus denied her full ascension, the Shadowkeeper wavered and fell.

Swallowing their grief at the loss of a friend, the heroes turned their wrath towards the villains who had orchestrated this tragedy. The Warriors of Light now shone so brightly that even high-ranking Ascians could not stand against their incandescent fury. Even as Ardbert struck his final blow, fulgent power swelled in a cataclysmic wave, and the Flood of Light was unleashed upon the lands of the First.

Caption reads: In her bid to slay the Warriors of Light, Cylva turned her transformation magicks upon herself. Though Ardbert and his comrades did indeed struggle against this formidable lupine abomination, it was the necessity of striking down their former friend that presented the greatest challenge.

#FFXIV #Cyella #Cylva #My posts

204 notes · View notes

lenaariewrld · 9 months ago

Text

C.14 — formal dinners (w)

ON THE AIR — childe x reader smau

| SYNOPSIS;; Teyvat University’s popular radio personality, Y/n L/n, has only one gripe with her life. Her classmate, neighbour, and all-around nuisance in her life, Tartaglia. Their rivalry extends just past academics and, to her horror, into her work. He becomes the music director and co-host for her radio show, working alongside her most nights and forcing himself even deeper into her life. But is he really trying to just be friends, or is there an ulterior motive to his actions?

| WC: 3.6k

previous! ~ masterlist ! ~ next!

———

The giggles and laughter of your group reverberated through the restaurant as you all settled into your chairs around the table, a semi-private location that Childe had arranged for days prior to this. The conversation flowed nicely as you all breezed through the far too decadent appetizers and sipped on your drinks. You found it easier to just sit back and relax, enjoying yourself, than you’d previously thought. Ganyu sat across from you, with Keqing to your right and Childe to your left. Cyno sat across from the other man, and the seat next to Ganyu was left open. You had invited Diluc along too in case he was free, but he never responded. A part of you was unsure if you wanted him to show up. You couldn’t place why.

You all shared stories about your trips on breaks, funny things that happened while you’d been attending the university, or even memorable times you’d shared with each other. Ganyu recalled the first trip she’d taken on vacation, one you’d invited her on and had planned for her. Keqing shared her own stories about interesting things she’d learned while assisting her professors through the years, and you and Cyno had your own fun stories to share about parties or crazy nights you’d had. Childe shared a funny story about when he’d first moved here and the miscommunications he’d had with an unfortunate grocery store clerk when he was trying to get some specific ingredient for food.

The dinner was delicious, and a relaxing time for you and your friends, splitting off into separate conversations on occasion. You and Childe even fell into your own little world, the two of you bantering and chatting casually. Nicely. It was probably the least stressful interaction you’d had with the ginger man in years.

As the night wore on and the time leaned later in the evening, the conversations naturally turned to what everyone at the table wanted to do after graduating. In a perfect world, what jobs they’d pursue and careers they’d lead.

Cyno went first, explaining he wanted to be a lawyer or a judge. That he wanted to help judge cases based not only on fairness, but on the circumstances and would would best help a situation resolve. Keqing spoke up next. She wanted to work for the Qixing, a multi-million-dollar commerce company and the most influential conglomerate corporation in the nation. You joked that if she ever got the job, she should be your sugar mommy and expand the company into the entertainment industry to give you your own show. “I’ll think about it,” She joked, nudging your arm with a slight quirk of her lips. Ganyu then admitted she didn’t have a lot of aspirations, and that she’d be perfectly happy as an accountant or an administrative assistant, something with responsibility but not as a leader, where she could make good money and live a relatively calm life. You respected her honesty about it.

When it was unofficially your turn, you told everyone that, unsurprisingly, you wanted to write interesting stories. That you wanted to not only be able to give an escape for people who were as stressed and busy as you found yourself in school and in work, but also to highlight other people’s stories. You wanted to do something impactful, and writing or speaking was how you did that. Whether you ended up being a journalist or not, you didn’t care, so long as you got to accomplish that goal.

Then Childe shared his wishes. He wanted to be a musician, to either be a soloist or lead his own band and express himself (and potentially the others in his band) through music. He wanted to let out everything he couldn’t normally or shouldn’t. Music was the one thing he could communicate in, without fail. Language barrier or not.

Everyone hummed thoughtfully, falling silent around the table and taking a minute to let the topic settle in their minds. Cyno clapped his hands together after a minute. “Okay, well–” He chuckled and brought up a story about some of his teachers and the classmates he’d witnessed doing dumb stuff.

Just like that, the dinner continued as normal. The drinks refilled before you even realise they’ve fallen low, and the plates of food switched out as soon as you’d had your fill.

Once everyone was finished and Childe had paid for the extravagant meal, you all collected your things and headed back to the cars you’d arrived in. You and Ganyu linked arms as youn walked together, your steps far bouncier than hers.

“Oooo, we should go dancing!” You exclaim suddenly, twirling on your feet to face the others as you said this. Your eyes sparkle with excitement. Maybe those glasses of wine were hitting you.

“Y/nnie, maybe we should–”

“Good idea!” Cyno tacks on before Keqing can finish her protest. “We should make a night out of it! “ His voice came out sort of squeaky as he jostled your shoulders playfully, causing you to giggle. Keqing sighs, shaking her head, though you can spot the smile trying to split on her face. She relents eventually, ushering your group towards her car. You cheer and throw your arms around Cyno and Ganyu’s shoulders.

You all pile into the car and debate which club to go to, eventually giving Keqing a name. She drives you all there and your group makes it inside unscathed and without too much fuss. Before anything else, your group trails towards a booth. Keqing and Ganyu make themselves comfortable– with Ganyu graciously agreeing to hold onto your purse– while you, Childe and Cyno head to the bar for a round of shots.

After clinking your glasses and downing the shots, you order a few drinks to sip on before rejoining your friends. You slide into the booth with Keqing and Childe, while Cyno slides in next to Ganyu. You mainly stay silent, waiting for a song you like to start playing before you get up, nursing your martini, while the others have their own conversations.

When a song you recognise starts, you gasp excitedly. Your white-haired friend recognises the song too, and without prompting, grabs your hand to pull you onto the dance floor. The both of you start singing along, your hands intertwined.

It was lively and close as you push further into the throng of dancing people. The both of you throw your arms up or around each other. You keep giggling as you serenade the man, keeping close to Cyno. The rest of the dancing crowd melts away as the fuzz in your brain makes itself a home, your body feeling a current of energy coursing through your veins. Your both disconnected and hyper-aware of your body.

Time seems to become meaningless in this crowd as you dance, only the sure beats of the songs and the feeling of Cyno’s hands on your arms or shoulders keeping you aware of any change around you. You knew you were a more provocative person when you were drunk (not that you intended to, it just happened to loosen you up enough for you to be comfortable), but you didn’t mind in moments like this. In times when the energy was matching the constant thrum in your head. It helped, in fact, especially when you were around people you trusted, grinding and dancing with Cyno with near reckless abandon.

You were both lost in the moment, claiming the lights for your own and having your main character moment. Your hips, your arms, your hands traveled wherever, chasing the feeling of careless dancing that the entire crowd also claimed for themselves.

You were having the time of your life, not even recognizing the songs any more, just vibing to whatever played and the vibes of the club. That is, until you twirl around and effectively lose your friend in the throng of jumping bodies, your hands having left Cyno’s sometime during the spinning. You stumble a little bit as you come to a stop. You look around.

Wasn’t he just here? He was behind you, right? Or on your left?

Turning your head every direction does little to help you see over all off the people jumping and dancing in order to spot your friend, even with how bright his hair looked in the club lights. Your heart starts to hammer in your chest, the ecstatic energy turning sour with worry. You feel a hand on your upper arm and turn quickly to face the owner, hoping its Cyno.

A strange man you’ve never met smiles at you, already too close for comfort in this crowd. “You doing okay, little lady?” He asks, his voice dropped to a husky whisper as his hand trails up to your shoulder.

You scowl and push his hand away. “‘M fine,”

“Aw don’t be like that~ I just want to dance,” He coos, pouting obnoxiously, his voice a condescending tone. He’s really not going to leave you alone. “I can be your dance partner–”

“She already has one,” A new voice speaks from behind you, but you recognize this one. Childe slides up to you casually (when did he even get here?) and stares down the man. You can only turn your head to stare at him in confusion, a strange feeling burrowing into your stomach as he places his hand on your lower back. A light touch, easy enough to shake off once the creep disappeared, but high enough to make him see.

The man scoffs, “She can speak for herself, can’t she?” He defends, clearly not getting the hint. You roll your eyes, shaking out of whatever silence had overcome you and grabbing Childe’s hand.

“Like he said, I already have a partner,” You lift your intertwined fingers and pull Childe with you deeper into the crowd. Only, you don’t stop, crossing the floor as you try to find the edge of the dance floor, far away from the creep. You’re no longer interested in the fun of the crowd and pulsating bass line, wanting to find your friend. As soon as the two of you escape the pulsating wall of dancing bodies, you let go of the ginger’s hand.

Where were you headed? You aren’t sure. You don’t realise Childe is still following behind you until he gently takes hold of your wrist and stops you. You look around. You were trying to find Ganyu and Keqing again, to regroup at their table, but… this is a hallway, not the table. And, pointedly, it’s on the second floor of the club, a railing on one side opening up to reveal the dance floor and more of the first floor below.

“Y/n, are you okay?” Childe asks, his voice quieter now that the music isn’t blasting in your ears. The sound is slightly muffled now, but you can still feel the bass under your feet.

“I’m drunk,” You admit. “But I didn’t need you to save me, or to follow me,” You take a deep breath, collecting yourself. Childe sighs.

“Well, I’m not leaving you alone here,” He says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why not? I can handle myself,”

“Oh, you were really handling yourself back there with that guy. I’m sure your sarcasm was a real deterrent when you actually spoke up,” He sounds exasperated, raising his brows at you. You roll your eyes.

“Well, I would’ve if you’d not stepped in,”

He scoffs, throwing his arms up. “Why are you so stubborn? I was trying to help you?”

“I didn’t ask you to!” You step closer to him, pressing your finger against his chest. “I’m not some damsel in distress, and you don’t need to come to my aid!” You seethe, unsure why you’re even this frustrated. Your head was swimming, and you were beyond annoyed with yourself. You lost track of Cyno and you hadn’t even been able to pull yourself together to reject that guy. Even worse, you felt relieved when Childe had come up behind you, had felt a warmth in your chest, a bubbling fire when his hand had found your back. You didn’t like that feeling.

“I’m not going to look the other way while someone makes you uncomfortable, Y/n, is that so hard to believe?” The man’s voice brings you back to the conversation and you huff at his words, your lips pursing slightly.

“Why?”

He blinks, his head tilting to the side just slightly. It reminds you of a puppy, and for a brief second you understand the charm or his looks, and why so many girls fawned over him. “What do you mean? You’re…” He clears his throat, looking away from you. “You’re my friend,” He admits.

You find yourself lost for words for a second, the both of you staring at each other as his words settled in. It wasn’t hard to believe, necessarily. You’d been working together for a few months now, and had been setting aside your rivalry and amending it for the past three weeks now. As much as you didn’t want to admit it to yourself, you’d been softened to him, and he had definitely softened to you. But the way he says it, and the way it settles in your mind through the haze of your drunken state makes you feel like there’s something more to it.

You’re still staring at his face, your eyes glancing over all of his features, and your hand still pointing at his chest, the contact buzzing on your skin. You smooth your hand against his shirt and a thought pops into your mind. One you would normally never have or would push aside as soon as it came up. That is, if you weren’t drunk right now.

“Y/n?” Childe spoke up quietly, a half-question in his tone as he reached up and brushed some hair away from your eyes. You leaned forward into his touch, your body moving on its own without your brain’s interference.

“I want to kiss you,” You told him, your other hand coming up to hold the collar of his jacket. Where you got the boldness to speak your mind all of a sudden, you aren’t sure (it’s got to be the warm liquor, you think) but you don’t mind when the man lifts his brows slightly and lets out a soft chuckle.

And you don’t mind when he leans down and kisses you, capturing your lips with his quickly. Greedily, you meet his lips to kiss him back. And you taste the vodka he’d drank earlier on his tongue, the saccharine of the dessert he’d eaten at dinner making you drunk all over again. You feel heady, desperate even as you pull on his collar and drag him closer, your lips slotting against his as you exchange breaths.

His hands come up to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss as he dips his tongue into the kiss. It’s needy and messy and you lose any bearings on where you are, gasping as the cold of the wall melts through the material of your dress. Another breathy gasp escapes you as Childe presses himself closer, pulling your thighs against his hips. His kisses meet your heated skin, goosebumps raising where the cool air hits you once he’s done his task. The air around you both seems to send sparks across your nerves, your body arching against his. You feel even more breathless than before, your head spinning with every second that passes.

Childe kisses you with a need and a desire you had never experienced before, the groans he lets our vibrating on your skin, dripping into your chest and curling in your stomach. Your heart pounds. You can’t get enough of this, tugging on his hair as another shiver runs down your spine. “Fuh-ck,” His voice cracks slightly as he kisses up your jaw, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. “So fuckin’ annoying, so pretty,” He’s mumbling and you’re not sure if it’s for you or himself but you couldn’t really care as you grip his shoulders, your lips parted with heavy pants.

It’s like you’re becoming intoxicated all over again, the sensations more than anything you’ve ever felt before. Electrified. You turn your head and cup Childe’s cheek, meeting his lips in another kiss, too lost to care about the clack of his teeth against yours. You recover as he straightens slightly, a soft whine in his throat when you tug on his bottom lip with your teeth. You could get lost in this forever, could stay in this moment until the sun rises and your deeds were laid bare for you to witness.

Well, you could, that is until you feel your phone buzzing in your pocket, vibrating insistently against your hip. You recognize the ringtone– though it takes you a second to do so –as Ganyu’s contact. The chiming cuts through your haze instantly. “Shit,” You blink rapidly to clear your head as you fish around for the device, both your feet meeting the ground again as Childe lets your thigh go. You lean back against the wall, the both of you snapping out of the moment. Childe steps back, turning his head away from you, his ears a bright burning red that you can make out even in the low lighting.

Your own cheeks feel like they’re burning through, your head leaning back on the wall when you answer the call. As soon as the phone is against your ear, you hear Ganyu asking a million questions. “Where are you?? Cyno, Ke, and I have been looking for you for, like, thirty minutes!” She sounds both worried and relieved that you answered.

You cringe internally. “I’m sorry,” You unhale sharply, trying not to sound too out of breath. “I-uh..” You glance towards the red-haired man, who was running his hands over his face now, still turning away from you out of respect. “I got lost and.. I was looking for you guys, but I found Childe,” You tell her. The phone call continues for a minute or so more, ending with you promising to find her again. As soon as you tuck the device back into your pocket, you turn back to Childe. “I guess it’s time to.. Head home,” You tell him, clearing your throat and gesturing towards the direction the two of you had initially come from.

Before you walk off, though, he stops you and fixes the straps on your dress wordlessly. “Here…” he mumbles, fixing any of the mess-ups in your hair. You giggle softly, reaching up and swiping your smudged lipstick off of the corner of his mouth. Once the both of you are sufficiently cleaned up and unsuspecting, you head out.

It takes a couple more minutes of searching before you find and regroup with everyone, relief flooding your system again when they all greet you, not making any comments about you or Childe’s appearances. Cyno pretends to sob and hangs off of your frame. “I’m sorryyyyyy,” He dramatically wails, his head on your shoulder. A giggle escapes you again as you weaved your arms underneath his, rocking back and forth with the white-haired man. “It’s okay,” You soothe in just as playful tone as he was using. You then look to Keqing and Ganyu, filling them in on what happened. You pointedly leave out the details of your argument turned… whatever the hell that was with Childe, clearing your throat when you get to that part.

“I took her upstairs to see if we could spot you guys from there,” Childe steps in, easily covering up your quietness. He seemed to be even less eager to share what you two had got up to, his voice quiet and his hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. Keqing hums, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, you’re all sobering up and then we’re leaving,” She declares, sitting all of you down at the booth. She briefly departs before returning with waters, helping Cyno to sit up from where he was previously laying on your lap.

“I really am sorry for wandering off,” You tell her quietly, leaning your head against her shoulder. She pets the top of your head, holding your glass as you take a sip of the water.

“It’s okay,” She shrugs.

After sobering up a little more and enjoying some friendly conversation, mostly between the other two girls and Childe, Keqing leaves again to settle the tab. Childe kindly hands over his card for her to use, helping you and Cyno up out of the booth. Your white-haired friend seemed to get incredibly sleepy once everyone was together again, though he was able to hold himself up well with the two of you walking with him. You held his hand.

Your group then leaves and piles into the car. You slide into the back seat with the two men, sitting in between both of them. Ganyu and Keqing sit up front, talking quietly between them. Meanwhile, the three of you remain quiet in your drunken states, letting the night come to a quiet end for now. Your mind is still racing, and your heart is beating harshly, like you’re worried that your friends would be able to read your mind and see everything that happened.

Childe seems fine as the car starts, the slight bumpiness of the road doing little to jostle him as he sits upright, looking out the window with a glazed look in his eyes. You and Cyno lean against each other for support, practically cuddling as you fight to stay awake in the back seat. Cyno hums to the music Keqing has playing on the radio, his head resting on top of yours.

And somewhere, in your dozed and half-aware state, you find Childe’s hand, your pointer and middle finger hooked around his in the darkness of the back seat…

———

A/Ns: ehehehehe >:) likes/reblogs/comments are always appreciated, and don't forget to stay hydrated <33

TAGLIST: @popiizpops @scaradooche @yourfavoritefreakyhan @neversore

100 notes · View notes

troutfur · 3 months ago

Note

Curlfeather being in a constantly changing form depending on the current perception of her actually made an image just stick in my head

What if, in her final conversation with Frost, after First finds out everything about the plans and so forth. She meets her daughter looking like a normal cat, not a demon, not an angel, just her mother.

One final exchange and farewell with Curl being herself and being viewed as a complex person by her daughter, before the truth is told to the clan and she is forever framed as an evil demon and traitor in their stories and folklore that never truly cared about anyone.

She gets to remain a person, for one last time, in her daughter's memory at least before it is overpowered by clan consensus

OOOOH! Yes! Yes! You get me!

As the dust is settling after Splashtail's defeat and the four Clans are brokering a deal that satisfies the pro-occupation side, the isolationists, Berryheart's faction, and even the exiled Tigerheartstar's loyalists, Frostpaw (who they expected to act as the kingmaker but is currently incapacitated) has her gauntlet of near death experiences.

Curlfeather is a reocurring vision, flickering between the demonic vision of her mauled, reanimated corpse and the regal star-pelted cat/celestial heron of her bird form. As the conversation with her daughter in her dreams ebbs and flows, at times Frostpaw's perception of her aligning with one form or the other, the debate rages on in the waking world. We see this through the eyes of Mistpaw and Graypaw (perhaps Mistpool and Graysky already?), not exactly the leaders of the opposing factions but very influential figures on the two movements either way. And they show a similarly complex view of their mother arising in tandem with what their sister is experiencing.

At that last crucial moment, as Curlfeather gets her last word in, the whole of the puzzle clicks and her thoughts begin to settle. She sees for a few moments that vision of Curlfeather, neither as saint or damned soul, just her mother as she was in life for one last time. And in that pivotal moment the deal is brokered and she's officially condemned by the new WindClan leadership. Curlfeather settles in her form as a damned soul and the soon-to-be-named Icestar does the Sisters soul retrieval ritual thingy she does in the books.

And such is sealed the fate of Curlfeather, the arc-long ambiguity about her being put to rest. I would say that from that moment on, she'd haunt Reedwhisker's place of death, with the ghost story surrounding her warning against coming to close to the edge of the whole he was thrown into.

#warrior cats #wc #warrior cats au #curlfeather #frostdawn #graysky #mistpool #icewing #icestar #splashtail #splashstar

31 notes · View notes

peachyteabuck · 1 year ago

Text

let it happen (it's gonna feel so good)

↪ summary: now that you're officially kate's again, she puts you to good use.

sequel to the plum tree blossoms even in winter

a commission for someone who wishes to remain anonymous

↪ pairing: kate bishop x reader, yelena belova x reader

↪ words: 10,043

↪ trigger warnings: heavy pet play, implied kidnapping, dehumanization, blowjobs using strap-ons, face-sitting, vaginal fingering, strap-on PIV sex, manipulation, mob au, dark au, mentioned free use, mentioned primal play, use of 'daddy'

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

News of your return travels fast. Gossip does that in this business - all people have is the word of mouth and their reputation. The second one utters a juicy bit of conversation over a line or while on guard, a clique of power-hungry goons are picking it up and spreading it around as far as they can. Kate’s one of the most powerful mobsters in the Northern Hemisphere, visible in ways leaders hadn’t been in the past. Women, certainly not pretty ones, are ever as influential as she’s been.

So, you’re not surprised when every bodyguard, goon, runner, rat, dealer, and saleswoman who walks through the doors of her home or office looks at you with a mix of pity and smugness. The former because they knew what happened to those that betrayed the all-powerful Kate Bishop. The latter because people had been placing bets on how long you’d make it out in the real world, and you’d learned from Carol that very, very few had actually thought you’d last the year.

Honestly, the fact people were gambling on your ability to survive hits you less than you think it should. In truth, you wouldn’t have bet on yourself either. There are no underdogs here; only winners, losers, and those throwing money between them.

You try and remember the positives of being back in Kate’s care. Warm beds, always. Food that tastes good and doesn’t come from a bag. Her large bathtub with massaging jets. Her personal chef. Her caves of heated blankets you can hide in during traditional New York blizzards. Her chilled pool during hot summers. Fleeting memories of your time on the street bring your gratefulness into perspective, choosing to ignore your feelings of inadequacy as people you’ve known for years gawk at you like a newly revealed zoo animal.

It’s not as if all of them are mean – Kate would never allow them to throw things at you, touch you, or even come within a few feet of you without her express and explicit permission. But their heavy gazes, their snickering…it all makes you curl even deeper into yourself as you curl against the large dog bed. Kate has bought a new one, the deep gray contrasted by “Kate’s puppy” embroidered off to one side. Your skin occasionally brushes against it when you’re sleeping, yet another sensory reminder of your place.

Natasha is the first one to really meet with Kate after your newfound arrival, the two of them chatting over drinks and dinner. You get occasional bites of the lobster rolls (one of Natasha’s favorites), but as the meeting leeches deep into the night, you’re too tired to do anything else but keep your form.

She looks you up and down as you remain in position in the corner, your thick collar keeping your head up and face forward. It’s a strain, but one that’s familiar enough to feel…nice. You choose not to lean into the comfort, just letting it warm you from the inside out.

“The pet’s back, huh?” she asks as she shakes her head and turns back to watch Kate sign checks. Money laundering is a complicated business that requires careful precision and planning. These include cutting real, legitimate checks for fake, bloated amounts. Kate could have one of her assistants do this, but she likes to double-check the numbers – she refuses to be on the other end of such a heinous crime. “She’s prettier than I remembered.”

Kate grunts out a laugh. She’s known Natasha since the two of them were mixing coke with pre-workout…the redhead is allowed to make comments that would get other people shot. Still, Kate doesn’t need Natasha getting too big for her britches…even if those britches are currently skin-tight leggings that flatter her ass tremendously.

“Yeah,” your owner says, not bothering to look back at you. She’s still shaky in her belief you’re back for good this time, and doesn’t want to jinx it by going soft. “They just can’t seem to stay away.”

“Has it really been a year?” Nat careens her own neck to rake her eyes up your form once more. She’s not as into such discipline as Kate is - preferring a little more push and pull with the ones she decides to fuck. Even so, she can’t deny the scene in front of her is hot. Your form is perfect, with your back arrow straight and your gaze unflinching. Not to mention your nipples are hard as diamonds as they’re exposed to the chilled office air, and you shiver every so often when the air conditioning sputters to life.

Kate hmms after a minute or so, shoving the stack of checks into an envelope before pushing them aside. “And about a week. Time flies so fast, doesn’t it?”

It's Natasha’s turn to murmur a response, the both of them watching you now. It takes all your might not to look at them, keeping your eyes trained on one of Kate’s small vintage horse statues she got into collecting a few years back. Most of them were tossed when she moved into her new office after her old club was mysteriously burned to the ground after an undercover cop was found flirting with an escort Kate hires every so often. The insurance money was quite a lot, enough to build her a new office, and buy a whole lot of new decorations.

But that horse statue, somehow, remained unscathed. Depicting a wild stallion running through a river – its eyes wide, mouth open, teeth barred as fish flip uselessly around it, hair tossed from imaginary wind, and light brown coat speckled with dirt – you wonder if she had kept it for any particular reason. The statue, though dynamic, was neither large nor immediately thought-provoking. You also wondered why it was so low on the set of black matte shelves, given its old place had been higher and on an adjacent wall.

“You know what they say,” Kate leans over to graze her knuckles over your cheek. You don’t flinch, instead leaning into her touch. She rewards you with a smile. “Pets always find their way back to what they know.”

Natasha doesn’t disagree but does turn the conversation away from you. She’s not a prude, but watching you get eye-fucked by a mafia boss is not her idea of a fun evening (at least, not now. You’re always more interesting when there’s an audience). She’s certainly not against voyeurism, but in a world where she can touch…she’d always rather be at the center of the action.

“When are you meeting with the Russian?”

Kate takes a sip of her drink. The bourbon is just how she likes it, neat, and she hums in appreciation. She may be a very complicated woman, but she prefers a very simple drink. “Tonight. Said she’d come later into the evening when the club was busiest.”

If this were anyone else, Natasha would say something sarcastic, mocking the person for hiding in the sea of hot, sweaty bodies (not that it would work, Kate’s team of bodyguards are exceptionally well-trained in the art of track and trace.). But they’re not talking about just anyone, and although Natasha isn’t afraid of her…it’s just best not to invite the devil to your dinner table. “Makes sense. You know how they are.”

“Speaking of which,” Kate leans over and unhooks your collar, a sign you can lay down and rest for a little bit. “Don’t want her all worn out before our special guest arrives.”

Natasha says nothing. She’s pushed her luck enough.

“But yes, I’m intimately familiar. When they shave your head after kidnapping you and do it poorly, you tend to remember their cruelty.”

She wrinkles her nose at the memory – including the number of wigs she had to buy once she was safely returned. She was young when it happened, and her hair had long grown out since then, but her skin still remembers the itch of the growing stubble atop her head.

“Anyway, you know what I need from you,” Kate shakes her head to push the experience back deep into the recesses of her mind. “Everyone is hands-on, everyone tracks her. I don’t want a single person entering or exiting this club without us knowing any affiliations.”

It’s not as if Natasha knows the protocol – she was the one who developed it after an unfortunate incident with a Bratva a few years back – but she nods along as if it’s the first time she’s heard it. It’s easier that way.

As she goes to leave, Kate stops her – a wave of emotion cracking through her harsh façade for just a moment, before her steeled brow resets itself into its regular position. “Keep her safe. I can’t lose her again.”

The redhead just nods once, silently, before going back to the security wing with the rest of the team. Even underground, she can faintly hear the deep bass of a particularly rancid EDM remix, but mostly the only noises are the sounds of tactical gear clacking against itself. Loopholes in a military overstock program meant police departments were willing to exchange gear for cash with nonsequential serial numbers, and Natasha was always the first in line when silent auctions went live. It’s what she liked, it’s what she was good at: protecting, watching, strategizing.

She liked Kate trusted her enough to give her as much freedom as she does. That’s where she saw other mobsters fall—egos too big it couldn’t fit inside of them, imploding the whole organization from the inside out in a single generation. Natasha didn’t want to a freelancer anymore—the money was good, but stability had become more important in recent years. Maybe she’d gone soft, maybe she’d just gotten older. Either way, looking at the vast away of screens that covered every inch of the club and its perimeter…she felt truly at home.

Back in Kate’s office, you lay in your dog bed while your owner smokes a cigarette. It’s not something she does frequently—she’s a busy woman, she doesn’t have time to press pause every hour to hunch outside. Plus, she hates smoking with other people. She quit for the reason most people refuse to: the social aspect proved a worse taste in her mouth than the nicotine. Even the e-cigarette people didn’t find themselves outside, instead blowing fruit-smelling air into whatever closed space they felt entitled to.

Whatever, she sighs, putting it out in an ashtray that looks suspiciously similar to your pussy. I’ve got more important things to think about anyway.

Kate sees the suit first – a muted orange with fantastical patterns woven into the fabric, reminiscent of tapestries she remembers from a museum visit from a job farther down the East Coast. The thread glimmers in the light, a subtle way to signal her importance. Heeled boots thump against the tile as she walks, her loose, bouncy blonde hair framing her face. Unlike most of the people in the club tonight, she’s perfectly relaxed. It’s as if she’s sitting down at a family restaurant she’s been to a million times before, confidence in her step you’re not used to seeing.

“Yelena,” she says, gesturing to the seat where – just last night – Kate fingered you until you squirted all over the floor. She made you clean it, but your face still heats at the thought of her sitting there. “Come, sit. I will have my assistant pour us a drink, if you’d like.”

Assistant. Its double meaning hanging in the air like a dark, ominous cloud.

Yelena looks you up and down, eyes raking over your form as if you were a painting she was attempting to commit to memory. Her eyes seem to see not through you, but all of you – flesh and bone and sinew. You’re not sure what to make of her heavy gaze, the way she stops every few inches for just a moment before continuing. People watch you, stare at you, all the time – some shocked, some less so. She doesn’t look at you the way they do, like a starved animal seeing its keeper dangle fresh carnage outside of its cage. Rather, she’s a fully fed bear, fat and happy as it revels in its hunting ability. She knows she doesn’t need to kill, doesn’t need the destruction or chaos or unspeakable violence; but she can. She very easily can. And that’s all that matters to her, and her prey.

You’re wearing a gag – that part isn’t new (she’s not some sniveling virgin) – but what surprises Yelena ever so slightly is that it’s shaped like a dog bone. Drool pools at the side of your mouth, dripping down your chest and covering you in your own spit. All you can do, though, is look up at her with wide, empty eyes.

That is, until you remember your manners and turn your gaze downward.

“I don’t intend to stay long,” she says. It’s not meant to be sarcastic or clipping. It is what it is. Still, as she looks you over once more, a small smile curls at her lips. “Bishop-“

“Kate, please,” the brunette insists. “We have enough history to be past that formality, don’t we?”

Yelena doesn’t correct herself, continuing to stare at you. Her gaze is so intense you can feel it without looking back, small fires igniting down your spine under it. “I see you found a way to occupy your time since we last spoke.”

You wish you could see her, but all you can do is stare at the floor while the tension in the room builds in the way one expects the crash of a tsunami. Kate keeps much of her time in the Eastern Bloc a secret lost to time, but you’re not that much of an idiot to understand what silence means in these spaces.

Kate gives a tense smile, stepping to give Yelena some space. You’re not sure if the guest is asking for it, or if Kate needs it to cool down. “Sit, please. We’ve got much to discuss.”

It’s hard to track the movements of their feet through sound, but the slight scrape of the chair legs against the hardwood floor is too distinctive to ignore.

Kate tries to ease them back to the intended conversation, the experienced gears in her mind turning as fast as they can. “As I told Melina, your ports would be an incredibly valuable asset to us, and-“

“What are you offering me?” Her accent is thick, her tone straightforward. It’s one of the things Kate likes most about working with Russians – they don’t dance around the issue, they don’t fuck around, they don’t ask her to read between the lines. They say what they want to say without preamble or metaphor. Life is easier when you know what kind of target you’re shooting at. “You want access to several multibillion-dollar ports for what, the shithole Jersey has to offer?”

Kate narrows her eyes. “Underestimating your enemies seems to be a thing with your people, isn’t it?”

Yelena just laughs. It’s a dry, husky sound, and you do poorly at dampening the flutter in your chest. “Governments are very temporary where I’m from. No sense in vesting yourself in something that can’t touch you in a country so big.”

Both women pause. In the distance (or maybe right next to you), you hear waves crashing ashore—the sound of car alarms and windows breaking and people screaming. It’s here. It’s here and you are stuck in the middle of it.

“What do you want?” Kate remains outwardly calm, combing through her knowledge of the other woman to try and find some middle ground. It’s true – dock access benefits her much more than her Eastern counterpart. But she’s made people agree to a lot more for a lot less.

The woman across from her hmms, but stays silent otherwise. It’s that heavy, weighted silence; the kind that begs for another party to ask a question, lower their offer, barter for less. It’s an anvil that hangs over the both of them, swinging as they work against each other to determine where it will fall.

“Sign this deal, give me access to the ports, and if all goes well I’ll let you stay a week with my puppy over here,” Kate says plainly. Your head shoots up and your eyes widen when you realize what she’s saying, that she’s offering you up as bait for this deal. The bait part isn’t so surprising, you’ve been used as a carrot much more than you’ve been used as a stick. What causes your heart to stop is how sincere she sounds. Kate’s poker face is akin to a brick wall (maybe concrete – a brick wall has too many imperfections to be compared to your owner), but you’ve known her long enough to know how her tone wavers just a little when she’s lying. You hear nothing, no notes skipped or rests added. Just a sincere, long melody that rings throughout the room in a minor key.

It’s not as though Yelena isn’t gorgeous – with her plush lips, soft face, and eyes lined with dusty eyeshadow. She has this relaxed air about her that screams “I know exactly what I’m capable of, and you do, too.” And if your relationship with Kate is any indicator, you’re very attracted to that energy. Still, a pretty unknown is still an unknown…and you’re worried your recently lost seniority with Kate could have devastating consequences.

“I can give you money, drugs, equipment, girls,” Kate tells her. “But you said you willing to come and talk, so I’m assuming you didn’t come here just to-“

“No,” Yelena cuts her off. Fucking bold ass Russians, Kate thinks. You’d think they’d at least let you finish “I want to take the puppy out on a nice dinner, a little…what is it you Americans call it?” She smiles, laughing to herself just a little. “Dine and wine?”

Kate doesn’t correct her.

“Whatever it’s called, I want to do it to the pet. One night, including dinner. That’s what I want in exchange for giving you dock access.”

Kate clenches her jaw just a little. You don’t notice, head perking up at all the attention on you. It’s nice to not be a little toy on a shelf sometimes, everyone staring at you but no one touching. Having merely the focus of one person is a nice change, especially in a restaurant as fancy as you presume Yelena frequents. Perfectly literate in poverty, you can tell this woman and Kate fall in the same tax bracket (if they paid their taxes accurately).

They work out the details on their own, details far above what you’re able to hold in your own brain. All you care about now is what happens next, your body thrumming with excitement. If you’ve gotten the attention of this woman, you’re curious of what others would do for you.

Kate cuts up pieces of the food to feed to you from her own fork, pausing every so often to take a bite of her own. It’s awkward, sitting there just out of view but so exposed, hands bound in front of you as you’re denied the chance to feed yourself.

Sharon blinks, face blank. “Must we do this now, boss?”

Kate just smiles, watching as you eagerly swallow the spoonful of mashed potatoes. Ever since your return, she’d had her chef prepare comfort food she knew you’d missed while you were on the run – macaroni and cheese, pot pie, chicken noodle soup, decadent desserts. Watching pleasure wash over your face with every bite was worth denying you all those months. It’s something Kate’s had to learn intimately; how torturous waiting is. Still, she knows she—and you—are better off with abundance of patience.

“This is the only time I have available to speak on this matter,” she doesn’t look away from you as she speaks, her tone light while her words pointed. “We can either discuss this now, or you can wait in three days when the subject in question is back in position.”

The blonde’s jaw sets, her hands balling into fists under the lip of Kate’s massive oak desk. It’s not like she’s some prude, like that one guard who lasted twenty-four hours before begging to be moved to another post. She just knows that, less than four feet away, you’re clad in only soft panties and a large t-shirt that shows off your hardened nipples, collar jingling with each movement and your hands kept inert. If she had her way, she’d be bending you over and filling your holes with her fingers, laughing as you wept from the pleasure.

She’s not a prude, she’s just really fucking horny and wants to go home so she can watch the most intense porn she can find. Alone. With her vibrator and thruster and noise-canceling headphones and maybe an expensive bottle of Scotch. Or an edible. She doesn’t know, yet – part of the joy for her is sitting with the process and going with whatever sings to her heart the most.

So, Sharon shoves down the memory of your moans, of past promises of letting you loose in Kate’s mansion while Kate’s most trusted within the organization hunt you down like prey. She digs her nails into her palm as a distraction, but all it does is think of them digging into your hips.

“Are you really going to let her do that?”

Kate doesn’t move a muscle, and, for a split second, her blonde counterpart thinks she’s going to crack. Sharon knows what you mean to her, what your return symbolizes. When you decided to leave, Sharon remembers how angry she was, how often Kate came home with bloody knuckles or a split lip from forcing Nat to spar with her. To have you back and then immediately do something she’s never done before with you—letting someone outside their tight-knit group lay any sort of claim on you…it worries her.

But she’s Kate fucking Bishop, she has no flaws, admits no wrong, displays no weaknesses.

“We need several billion dollars, and all we have to do is let our little pet out into the world for the night,” Kate says with a shrug, looking at you with the same critical eye of an art collector. “Seems like a good deal to me.”

“Plus,” she pets the top of your head as you nuzzle into her knee. “Yelena’s not an idiot. She knows we’ll be watching and if anything happens to my prized pet that she’ll meet the end she was promised by the Red Room.”

Sharon nods just a little, trying to imagine how much a nightmare tracking you, the Russian, and the Russian’s own security will be awhile keeping Kate in the loop. She and her team can get it done (not as if they have a choice), but it'll be the definition of a logistical nightmare.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Kate coos to you. You keen under her words, pressing your face into the side of her knee and rubbing your face against the fabric of her jeans. “Daddy will always keep you safe.”

“Kate,” Sharon can’t tamper down the bile that rises in her throat as she imagines a Kate without you once more. “You’re sure?”

She ignores her, instead forcefully grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to face Sharon. You let out a small yelp, which Kate simply ignores.

"Do you want to be a good girl for me?"

You nod, desperately trying to push the fear to the back of your brain. Needless to say, it doesn’t work – you can feel it oozing down your spinal cord and settling into your stomach. You’ll be good – you’ll do anything to be good…but you worry your clammy hands and shaky breath might give you away.

Kate pulls you back so that you’re facing her, forcing a whimper from your throat.

“Then don’t leave that Russian’s side for a single fucking second, you understand?”

You nod as much as you can, eyes wide with fear. You truly have no plans to run again—you’d spent enough time on the streets to know that even if you somehow got away (which, in and of itself, is about as likely as you jumping off a building and flying), there’s nowhere for you to go. You have nothing to your name, nothing to barter or trade for on the streets. Kate is, in all ways, the devil you know. Better her than what waits beyond her scope.

The woman holding you face smiles—not the kind that comforts you, but the kind that has you bracing for what comes next. “Perfect.” She pushes you away as she lets go, patting your cheek hard enough that you’re sure it qualifies as a slap. “I knew you could do it. Now, Sharon, walk me through the security protocols, please.”

Kate’s bedroom in her mansion is technically categorized as a “master bedroom,” but feels close to its own apartment within the house. It’s bigger—much bigger—than the home you grew up in, certainly larger than anywhere you found to sleep while away from her. She’s got a large vintage wardrobe that’s been fitted with the favorites of her toy collection, a huge bathroom with a tub large enough for three people, and a small kitchenette.

You have your own walk-in closet, too, not that you really use it. On occasion, you’re arm candy to a fancy dinner or meeting, or you need to catch the eye of a target to leave them vulnerable. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of clothes hang, sadly, mostly unused, as you clap (yes, clap, Kate is not one to spare any expense, especially when it comes to you) the lights on.

You wish you had been given some sort of dress code; you’re not really used to dressing yourself. Truthfully, you’re not used to making any decision on your own, and now that everything rests on you… you’re terrified of messing it up.

It takes what feels like hours, but soon you’ve got three options. A vintage satin wrap dress that hugs your figure but gives you room to breathe, a strappy emerald green floor-length gown with a visible slit that parts every time you walk, and a plush pink sun dress that barely hits your knees but whose sleeves and straight neckline give the illusion of modesty.

In the end, paired with black stilettos and diamond jewelry you’re nearly completely sure was stolen from the Met, you choose the wrap dress. You’re not sure what Russian mobsters like, but you think it’s a safe bet that they enjoy plunging necklines, a high, hidden slit, and perfectly winged eyeliner.

(Or, at least you hope so.)

The car Yelena said would come at eight comes right as the clock ticks into the hour, one of Kate’s servants alerting you to its presence as it pulls into the winding driveway. It’s empty, save the driver, who attempts to neither greet you nor converse with you. He opens the door for you and helps you over the curb, certainly, but the car ride there is completely silent.

Wherever you go, someone seems to be right at your side. The driver escorts you into the restaurant, and the hostess walks you to the far back, where Yelena is already sitting at a perfectly set table in a private room.

“Sit,” she says, pouring champagne into shiny fancy glasses. “We have much to discuss.”

You do as you’re told, taking a champagne flute from her. Initially, you’d hope the alcohol would calm your nerves. Now, you’re settling for it warming your skin.

“It’s nice to have you alone, маленький щенок. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your face heats—you know your existence is the elephant in the room in many meetings with Kate, but having people know you when you don’t know them has never gotten less strange. Still, your lightweight nature begins to mask itself as bravery as you down the rest of the bubbly liquid. “Anything in particular?”

Apparently, the champagne, while calming your nerves, also dulled your inhibitions.

Yelena, to her credit, just laughs. Like her voice, it’s deep and raspy and goes straight to your center.

“Just that you are a very, very good girl who would do anything for her beloved owner.”

Her energy is electric, enigmatic. This must be what Eve felt like in the garden, with the snake swirling around her in its impossible size. Truthfully, you’d bite into anything Yelena asked you to, if she did it in the same way she asked the waiter for a booth in the corner or how she requested a more “balanced” selection of wine from the sommelier. She even lets you order for yourself, something Kate has never let you do.

It’s interesting to see the differences between the two of them.

As you watch Yelena cut a thin bite of bloodied steak, though, you realize how similar they really are. Yelena, like a knife with an intricately carved handle, and Kate, like a baseball bat with blood in its grooves, may not be mirror images of each other. It is easy to imagine, though, the both of them, side by side, waiting for their turn to torture someone who had wronged them in some way. Danger, regardless of its form, settles its heated self into your lower abdomen.

The conversation is light, flirty. It reminds you of a first date, the kind you went on before Kate domesticated you. You feel…warm, the light of her gaze. It’s hazy, too, the way a fire is in the wee hours of the morning. You feel that same sort of flush, that sort of vulnerability that only reveals itself in the hours before the birds start to sing. It feels both like decades and like seconds before you’re splitting a cherry crème brule and Yelena is sliding the waiter her black card. She holds you close to her with her arm around your waist, her thumb drawing small circles even as the directs you into a black car with the same driver as before. The ride is a daze, her hands dancing over your skin in complete silence.

She guides you into your destination—a hotel—in the same manner, the doorman pointedly making an effort to keep you from his eyeline.

The name of the place doesn’t register until you’re stepping into the lobby, a hand on your waist guiding you to an elevator hidden off to the side. Of course – this is the expensive hotel Kate gets rooms in sometimes to house guests she wants to keep an eye on. Yelena booked her own accommodation, and you doubt Kate needs as much retcon on Yelena as she does for a normal client, but what really causes your breath to hitch in your throat is the cost. A week here is more than most people make in a year, and you know she’s staying for two.

“You’ve been here before?” she asks as she hits on the buttons closer to the top row. The penthouses, you recognize.

“A few times,” you answer honestly. “But never for more than a night or two.”

The room Yelena’s staying in looks exactly like yours did all those years back—modern, tastefully decorated, almost too neat. You don’t have much time to look around, though, before Yelena’s got you pushed against one of the walls while presses her lips to yours. She doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to—simply bunches your dress in her hands to pull it off you.

It falls to the floor in the same way you think Marie Antoinette’s head did – smoothly, and with silent, eager onlookers watching as it finds its place on the ground.

You expect, or at least hope, there was more fanfare, more witnesses to her destruction. All this dress is getting, as you step out of it and deep into Yelena’s arms, is one woman’s lust. It’s easy to see, though, how anything the Russian does would overpower a crowd of thousands; in the same way her silence screams louder than an army, the way she tugs her bottom lip between her bright teeth says more than anything anyone else could tell you about her.

Her hand rests over your clothed pussy, skimming over the soft skin there. “What a good girl you are.”

You can feel the heat rise to your cheeks and over your chest. You wonder if this is what being burned alive would be like—the light tinging the border of your vision and painful heat quickly turning into pleasure.

“I like them well trained,” she murmurs into your skin. All you can do is grab at her shoulders, holding her close. If Kate said it was okay…

“I’m a busy, busy woman, little puppy,” Yelena peppers small kisses across the base of your throat, her soft, plush lips sending shockwaves through your body. “I don’t have the time to break the brats my…colleagues seem to enjoy so much. But you…you’d do whatever I’d ask you to, wouldn’t you?”

If the room was on fire, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to tell until the roof caved in. Heat licks at your abdomen, sparks flying across your center as you cross your legs in an attempt to dampen the flames. It, needless to say, doesn’t work at all.

“Oh, puppy,” Yelena grins as the hand begins to ghost over your tummy. “No, don’t do that. Don’t hide from pleasure, my darling.”

Your mouth feels drier than a desert as you meet her heavy gaze, her eyes lined with artfully smudged black shadow. She’s stunning, there’s no way around that (not that you want to avoid it); but, truthfully, you’re also not so sure what she sees in you. It’s easy to forget your insecurities, though, when one hand is suddenly moving south and pushing your carefully curated panties to the side.

Her hands remind you of the rest of her—rough, skilled, no-nonsense. She teases you for a moment, ghosting her fingertips over your desperate cunt. You want her, you want her more than a man dying of dehydration craves an endless freshwater ocean. She knows it, too, watches through dark lashes as you pant and chase her lips when she pulls back.

It's only when you begin to whine that she slides her fingers into your dripping pussy, a moan passing her own lips the same as yours. “Oh щенок, you’re wet after just a little kissing, huh? You like it when I touch you there?”

You swallow the frog in your throat, trying to find a way to defend yourself. The choosing you, the conversation in the restaurant, the touches in the car…but your protests die in your chest as her other hand moves to your throat.

“Gotta hold you in place, щенок,” she murmurs. “Can’t have you running away, can I?”

She finds that special spot inside of you easily, like a scent hound to the hideout of a family of foxes. You can hear the beats of horses’ hooves in just under your ribcage, their owners hollering at the chance to hunt properly.

“I-“ You gasp, trying to find purchase against the wall. When the concrete doesn’t make way for your fingers, your find yourself digging them into her suit. “I-“

"Come on, baby, be good for me,” Yelena purrs. It’s sweet, sincere…but you also can’t imagine how fake it’d have to be for you to not feel a trembling in your knees. She could be a snake oil salesman, and you a harlot hypochondriac with money burning a hole in your purse, and you’re sure you would do whatever she asked. “Give me what I want.”

And so, you do – exploding from the inside out like dynamite inside a coal mine. It’s hard for you to keep yourself upright, and you find yourself leaning on Yelena entirely. She catches you, keeps you upright enough so you can catch your breath.

“I know, baby,” Yelena purrs, rubbing her thumb against the fabric of your dress. “I know, it’s okay.”

She holds you to her, gives you a moment to find your proverbial footing as the pleasure settles into the base of your spine, your knees no longer struggling to hold your weight. You pull back, leaning on the wall as her arms cage you in.

“What a pretty girl you are,” she says quietly, as if she’s merely confirming to herself that her assumptions were correct.

Your heart—the stupid, fluttering thing—thumps against your ribs as you reach for her belt.

Yelena lets you do as you please, finding your lips as your hand finds the toy placed just for you. “Mm,” she moves to nip at your neck as you spit on her cock, your hand finding purchase on the carefully molded silicone. “So good, too. I’ve heard a lot of rumors, щенок. It’s good to know so many of them are true.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and chest. You’re not sure what to say, or do. Even if you did, all of your focus is concentrated on releasing what you want from their confines. Yelena doesn’t stop you, but doesn’t help either. All she does is push you to your knees, one hand on the top of your head while the other guides the toy to your lips. You’ve done this thousands of times with Kate, with her own strong hands at the top of your head.

This is different, though, with Yelena. Different in the way swimming in an ocean is different than swimming in a lake; in the same way sexting through text is different than through a phone call. It’s indescribable but perfect, and you can feel yourself dripping as you lick up the length of the shaft.

“Look at me, красивая девушка,” Yelena murmurs, voice low as if to not startle you. She moans as you meet her heavy gaze, the corners of your eyes watering as you slowly swallow her cock. “Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

You’d smile if your lips weren’t so thoroughly occupied, the praise hitting you at every angle. The warmth prods at you, urging you on, with the world shrinking until it was only the two of you and no one else. There was nothing, no one, who could break the focus of you on Yelena, and vice versa.

It's easy, with her hands on the top of your head and endless sweet nothings tumbling from her lips, to swallow her down until your nose was pressed against her pubic bone. She’s got a tuft of light brown hair on her lower tummy, a happy trail you’re eager to nuzzle into when you’re not pre-occupied with her cock.

“Gorgeous,” Yelena whispers, seemingly more to herself than to you.

Funny enough, looking up at her, you’re thinking the same thing.

She swipes her thumb over your cheek, following the outline the silicone makes in the muscle. “Absolutely fucking gorgeous, милый.”

Her praise spurs you on, pushes you to force yourself further and further down until you can feel tears forming at the corner of your eyes and your lungs fighting for air. Yelena just watches you, eyes full of awe and one hand at the back of your head, as you pull back and sputter for air before licking up the shaft once more.

“Enough of this,” she says gruffly, suddenly, grabbing you and throwing you over her shoulder before you can so much as squeak. You’re tossed on the bed much in the same fashion, her hands unzipping your dress and tossing your panties aside as Yelena kisses you. She’s rough, passionate, moving you without pretense until she’s on her back, your core hovering over her face. “Now this,” she moves her head enough to kiss as your empty, waiting cunt. “This is what I’ve been looking forward to since I saw you the first time.”

You want to question her—ask her how she knows about you, how she saw you when Kate keeps you under such close supervision. The curiosity dies as she grabs reaches under your legs to grab your hips and seats you atop her, her lips and tongue moving in tandem. It’s hard to keep yourself from rocking against her, and so you don’t. You grind against her tongue, your hands finding hers to help with her balance. You cum easily, quickly, shaking against her as she moans into your pussy. As the pleasure subsides you push yourself away ever so slightly, seating yourself against her chest. Both of you catch your breaths, the shared panting the only sound in the otherwise quiet hotel room.

When you’re finally able to look down, to see her blissed-out face covered in your juices, you’re mesmerized.

Yelena just smiles up at you, eyes half closed. “черт возьми, you’re amazing. Give me a second, and we can do it again.”

The next morning, Yelena drives you herself, waving away the driver who passes her the keys despite his concerned look. She opens the passenger door for you and closes it once you’re fully inside, getting into the driver’s seat after that. As she drives off, silence settles over the two of you. It’s hard to make small talk in your situation, and so you wait for her to say something first.

Luckily, she does.

“You could come with me, you know.”

You don’t meet her gaze, if she’s even looking at you. All you can do is stare out the car window and watch as the world passes by.

“Americans have nothing on us,” Yelena continues. You wonder if she notices your hands balling into fists. “I could keep you safe, if you wanted to run. It’d be very easy to convince my own people to love you the way Kate’s people do.”

The car stops—a red light, hopefully—and her hand caresses your cheek. “Look at me, щенок. Please.”

And so, you do. Apparently, you’re very easily persuaded.

“Not sure if Kate has told you, but you’re quite the talk of the underground.” Heat rises on your cheeks, the horrors of being known pricking at your skin like needles. “Like some kind of cat tossed out the back. Many people were following your path, щенок. Many people were following Kate’s path as well.”

“W-“ you stop for a second as her thumb rubs at your bottom lip, the lip she was nipping not-so-long ago. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you are a trophy,” she murmurs, eyes flitting from your lips to your eyes to your heaving chest. “You deserve to be treated like one. And I’ve got a special place for you with me, if you want it.”

Yelena lets you look away from her as the light turns green, the world once again shirking its responsibility to be a quality distraction. The car goes too fast for that, and so you are stuck rolling her words over in your brain.

“I can’t,” you say when the club comes into view. “I just can’t.”

The blonde next to you sighs quiet enough that you barely hear it. She nods to the valet—some scrawny kid you’ve seen once or twice. Where your hands rest in your lap, you feel Yelena’s own sliding between your fingers and depositing a simple business card. On it is just a number, the characters a stark black against the thick eggshell paper.

“Maybe one day I’ll see you again, щенок,” she whispers into your ear. “Tell your владелец she can use the docks whenever she’d like.”

You don’t speak Russian, but it’s easy to tell who she’s talking about.

“Thank you,” is all you can say back, eyes wide and waiting. You worry there’s some catch, a bit of rope you forgot to step over that will make you hit the concrete face-first.

But you remain upright, familiar faces ushering you through. It’s still early in the day, which is something you’re grateful for. You don’t need to deal with the prying eyes of patrons on top of the pity from the workers who are mopping the floors and cleaning glasses. You pass a few of Natasha’s lower guards in the narrow, dim hallways—all of them staring at you as though you were a cow being sent to slaughter. They’ll feast on you someday (both of you know it), but you still can’t make yourself do anything but stare at the floor.

Kate shows no emotion as you step into the office, her face expertly wiped of emotion. Natasha, standing guard at the door, seems relieved. She and her guardswomen have always been a sort of Greek chorus, their reactions slipping through the cracks in their facades every so often. It makes their earlier expressions far more sinister.

“Go lay down, puppy,” Kate says without looking at you. “Daddy’s got some work to finish.”

You do as you’re told, taking your shoes off before sliding onto the dog bed. As soon as your skin hits the fabric you can tell it’s been cleaned – the blanket on top of it, too. It’s still warm from the dryer, smelling distinctly of the lavender dryer sheets she buys in bulk. The bed at the hotel was too big, uncomfortable in its never-ending borders. This feels closer to home, and you lose consciousness to the sound of Kate’s keyboard clicking and opera music playing softly from her desktop.

Hours later, you lift your head when you hear her desk light being turned off, the familiar click a moment of respite from the harrowing silence of the office.

She smiles – a small smile, but a smile nonetheless – when she sees you perk up.

Home? You ask silently, looking at her with wide, pleading eyes.

Home, she tells you through a silent nod.

You tamper your excitement enough to follow her calmly, her arm wrapped possessively around your waist as you exit. The club hums with the pre-opening anticipation, and your own eagerness mixes with the electricity in the air.

The ride home is silent, Kate looking more at her phone than you. She does, though, keep one hand on your thigh, and for that, you are ecstatic.

Once home, Kate grabs one of the collars and leash sets that hang inside a custom end table, a bowl of car keys on top hiding its true function. You drop to your knees without further prompting. It’s hard to fight the moan that bubbles at the familiar clicking sound, and so you don’t.

It makes your owner smile, and you preen under the attention. The hand not holding the leash cups your jaw as you, too, grin with her.

“Such a good puppy,” Kate purrs, looking you over for signs Yelena had failed Kate’s commands.

“If I see a single mark on her, I will kill you,” she’d simply said.

The Russian just laughed. “Going to be hard, Катя. How about just the neck?

Kate hmms, thinking about it. She certainly doesn’t need Yelena to pull out of this deal for something as simple as a few hickeys. “Fine. Anything below the collarbone is fair game.”

“Be careful what you wish for, baby.”

You do not heed her warning—you don’t need to. You’ve known Kate long enough to know exactly what you’re getting into.

“Come on, pup,” she says, standing up straighter as begins to walk towards her personal wing of her house. Just as she trained you, you stand and follow right behind her, eyes focused on the floor. You miss crawling, but know Kate likes to keep your favorites for when she’s really rewarding you. When you’ve proved you deserve it.

As you follow her, you pass a room that’s hidden from view - the door closed to warn the eyes from unwanted, unexpected visitors. Inside rests the larger pieces from Kate’s sexual collection - the full cage, the St. Andrew’s Cross, the coffee table with rivets made for rope. All custom-made to her specifications (and your body measurements).

It surprises you, just a little, when she doesn’t lead you directly to there. Kate has always preferred grand gestures to smaller ones, and that preference doesn’t end when she steps into the bedroom. Once, after receiving news a rival of hers was finally killed by another, second rival, she tied you to the bed and edged you for six hours. She set a timer and everything, telling you it was “an hour for each bullet in his skull.”

You swallow your shock, following her diligently throughout her large mansion. You like Kate’s predictability – even when it’s paired with brutality. This change…you’re almost worried, even as excited and the last thrums of your previous orgasms rush through your blood.

It all melts away, though, when you feel Kate come up behind you, kissing at your neck. She pushes you towards the bedroom—the shared bedroom—the one with the bed you’re rarely allowed to sleep in. This is her version of affection, her language of love. She would never say it, never out loud, but it still makes your heart flutter.

“Good puppy,” she moans as she pushes you against the doorframe, kissing you fiercely. “Such a good fucking puppy for Daddy.”

One of her hands snakes between you, cupping your heated mound. It’s still sore from last night, but that certainly has never stopped her before.

“You’re so beautiful, too,” she murmurs breathlessly. “My gorgeous ray of fuckin’ sunshine.”

The beating in your heart travels south, Kate’s hands roaming over your hips and ass and thighs as she kisses you breathless. It’s easy for her to push your dress up, exposing you to the cool air. Kate laughs, staring at where your very expensive panties were no longer present. “She took ‘em, huh?”

You swallow, not sure what to say. In truth, you hadn’t even thought to look for them—Kate usually makes you go without.

She just laughs, going back to caressing your ass. “Can’t even blame her, I would’ve done the same thing if I had the chance.” She moans as her fingers sink into you. They’re not too deep, but that doesn’t do much to mitigate the stretch. “Fucked a lot of good pussy when you left me, but not a single one matches up to this cunt right here.”

You yelp as she slaps your clit, moans replacing the sharp sound as she circles it slowly. It’s easy to love her when she’s the one taking the pain away, even if she’s the one who caused it in the first place.

Without panties, her fingers slide in easily – your wetness already pooling under you. Your pussy is sore, but it only adds to the pleasure that spreads in your abdomen. It’s the kind of soreness you can feel everywhere—your shoulders, your thighs, your stomach, your arms. It feels good to be a well-loved toy, you think. It feels good to be used, to be useful.

“So wet already?” Kate purrs, a humiliating laugh tinging her words. “I bet I could get my dick now and I’d be able to fuck you exactly how I want to.”

You moan—you can’t help it—biting at your bottom lip.

“You want me to fuck you, puppy?” she asks, smiling as you nod feverishly. “Good girl. Strip, then go wait for me on the bed. Hands and knees, puppy.”

You scramble to take your clothes off and find your place as soon as she lets you go, almost tripping over your own feet in your frenzied desire to follow her orders. The bed, luckily, has already been made, providing you with a wide landscape in which to stake your claim.

Kate appears behind you, it seems, seconds later. The elaborate strap she’s chosen is gorgeous—all woven leather and silver hardware. She has a plethora of harnesses at varying levels of similar and dissimilar to the one she’s wearing, certainly, but after she wore it when she made you squirt for the first time…this one had remained her favorite.

You shiver, just a little, when you feel her hands running over your hips. Kate guides you, silently, closer to her. The silicone brushes against your bare core ever so lightly, sending another wave of desire through you.

“So wet,” she murmurs, her fingers everywhere except exactly where you want them. You’re about to whine, to cry, to beg, to do something to convince how desperately you want her, but before you can even open your mouth, you can feel the head of the toy slip inside of you.

“Oh,” you moan, barely fighting the urge to collapse into the bed, to let her use you like a toy. You know, though, that she likes to be the one to choose your position—if she wanted you with your face pressed into the sheets, she’s put you there with a hand between your shoulders. “Oh, please.”

“You’ve been a good little girl,” Kate muses. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the slew of pleads desperate to spill from your lips. “And well-behaved puppies deserve rewards, I suppose.”

You don’t have time to breath before she’s slamming into you, the toy fully sheathed as Kate pins you to the bed.

“Tell me who you belong to,” she hisses, the strap stretching your cunt. Unlike Yelena’s, this one is smooth, ridgeless, with a bulbous head that ends in a cone shape. It hits that spot inside of you with the kind of delicious pain Kate is so well known for—your cries interrupting her commands. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You can’t speak—you simply can’t. Your fingers grasp at the silk bedsheets, desperately wishing you had claws so you could hook them into the $15,000 fabric and tear them into shreds. Like a werewolf stuck in the middle of its transformation, the rabidness racing in your blood feels too much for your mortal flesh to bear.

And yet, Kate pushes.

“Say it,” she growls, barring her teeth as she thrusts into you.

“I-I,” There’s no way, no way you’ll be able to choke those words out, choke any words out – everything you want to say is lodged in your throat, stuck there like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. You thrash in the same way, knowing your fate but fighting against it anyway. What was that guy’s name? Sisyphus? He had it easy, rolling that boulder up that hill. At least he wasn’t getting his cock teased while it happened.

Or maybe he was…you couldn’t remember much of your early college English classes as a fire raged inside of you.

“It belongs- oh!,” you moan as Kate bottoms out, the leather of her harness pressing against the inside of your thighs. “It belongs to you.”

“That’s fucking right,” she moans, deep in her chest, as she fucks into you with purpose. “You’re mine, all fucking mine and no one else’s.”

Your cries punctuate her proclamations, hiccups and moans layered over her words.

“I don’t care how many other people touch you,” Kate tells you, ignoring you as your howls of pleasure. “I don’t care if every fucking night you’re at the center of some orgy. You’re mine. Not Natasha’s, or Maria’s, or even fucking Carol-“

You’re wailing now, sure the soundproof walls have disintegrated and are thin as paper—pieces of which flap against your sound waves. Kate, in her unwavering desire to ruin you for eternity, keeps going.

“And certainly not some goddamn Russian who doesn’t know when to stop fucking pushing.”

“N-no!” All you can do is wail, clutching to her so hard you’re sure there will be red marks down her back come morning. Kate won’t mind, though. She also likes a bit of pain to remind her of her own mortality.

“Good fucking puppy,” she whispers, panting into your ear. “Took a stray dog in from the street, gave it a collar. Look at it now, huh?” You can hear the smile on her lips—the kind hunters have when their prey whimpers below them. Kate could set a thousand traps, catch you a thousand times, and she’d still have that delicious grin plastered over her face. It makes you feel small, vulnerable, like a rabbit caught in a snare. You love it.

“Such a good fucking mutt,” she moans. “Good fucking mutt who takes my cock so well.”

It’s easy to come, then, already sensitive and desperate and so deeply happy to be back with he woman you love the most.

“Yes, puppy,” she moans. “Give it to me.”

And so, you do, over and over again. Kate continues fucking you, even as you begin to shake from the overstimulation. The world shrinks to just the two of you, Kate panting in your ear and you swimming in pleasure. There is no one, there isn’t a need for anyone, to exist outside of you and her.

You’re not sure when it ends. Like an ocean in high tide, you can only wait for her to recede and grant you peace under her thick duvets. She wipes you down with warm, fluffy towels with Puppy embroidered onto them, cleaning your slick and the dried lube from your center and inner thighs. When you gasp at the feeling of the cloth against your sensitive skin, to which Kate just coos and peppers kisses against your sweaty temple.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispers. “Go to sleep. I know you’re tired.”

Always the best at following directions, you allow unconsciousness to overtake you.

You wake up hours later, the darkness outside giving you no clues to the time. Your whole body is the kind of sore you haven’t experienced in years, the kind that reminds you of when your college roommate freshman year convinced you to run a 5K with her.

Kate sits beside you on the bed, reading some hardcover book about something or other. She likes older books, the boring kind you’d expect a dad to be reading in an old armchair.

It’s easier to deal with her when she’s satiated; when a deal’s gone well, or her product sold for more than she expected. She’s got a quicker step, and holds one hand in her pants’ front pocket as she smirks.

You’re not always the first thing she concerns herself with after her days go perfectly. She wants to brag—to soak in the euphoria of hard work done well with the people who benefit the most from her dealmaking.

But now, as she pushes sweaty hair from your face and smiles softly…it feels good. It feels right.

“How are you feeling, puppy?”

You blink, trying to clear the sleep from your vision. “M good, I think.”

Kate hmms. “Need anything?”

It’s only then you realize how dry your mouth is. “Water, maybe?”

She grabs it for you without question, reaching into the mini fridge hidden inside a less garish nightstand. She waits, patiently, until you’ve downed the whole bottle, before she speaks again.

“Now,” you can hear how out of breath Kate is, as though her restraint in not asking immediately after you’d woken up had driven her to the brink of madness. “Tell me everything she told you. I want every. Last. Detail. And I’ll reward you in ways you can’t currently comprehend.”

You’re not sure what to say at first, the fear of triggering Kate’s possessiveness is always a looming threat. What does she want to know? That you sat on her face? That she likes red wine? That her Russian accent thickens when she’s fucking?

Kate grabs your chin and forces you to meet her gaze, her eyes narrowed in determination. “Don’t think, puppy. Just tell me everything that happened in the order it happened. This sort of arrangement could change some things, could make you a much more important asset.”

You blink, still unsure. Kate’s eyes, though, don’t move from yours.

“Come on, puppy,” she leans down to kiss your forehead. “Tell Daddy what happened, and I can make you a very happy pup.”

#yelena belova x reader #kate bishop x reader #yelena belova x kate bishop x reader #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff #kate bishop/reader

343 notes · View notes