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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year ago

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A Perfect Score - Chapter 7 - Avalanche | FigureSkating!AU

Summary: With some time to spare before the finals, you return to the Hightower/Targaryen Household, a million questions on your mind | Word Count: 6.8k~ | Warnings under the cut~

Series Masterlist | Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

Warnings: smut straight out the gate, swearing, degradation, aemond being a sexual menace, a lot of dirty talk, p in v unprotected sex, marijuana use, hotboxing, oral (m receiving), face-fuccin, swallowing, toxic family relationships, implied p in v under the influence

A/N: yeah the whole hotboxing in a wendy house is actually a true story, my mum did it with my aunty when I was a kid (I wasn't there lol), so yeah thought it'd be fun to pop that in. ANYWAY feel somewhat self conscious of this chapter cos I feel like not much happens but OH WELL

Comments, reblogs & likes are always appreciated in this household. I love u 😚

You thought he might have been joking.

But he was playing a dangerous game.

Hotel check-out, they said, was 10:00am. Aemond has simply shrugged and hummed in agreement, not giving the receptionist the impression that he cared.

He'd made good on his promise after the match you'd won, practically dragging you to Arryk's car having made his pleasantries, pictures and casual conversations with the judges.

But after that? He was a man on a mission.

Arryk's car was deadly quiet the entire ride back to the hotel, the sun beginning to dip against the buildings by the time you got back. And some of the hotel residents had looked on with one eyebrow raised as Aemond's led you hurriedly through the foyer, still in your outfits.

As soon as the lift doors were shut, he was on you.

Hungry. Like he'd finally been allowed out of his proverbial cage, desperate for a freedom he found in having you all to himself.

He spent the majority of that evening between your thighs, basking in said freedom.

A beam was bleeding through the slits between the curtains, but the light against the warm cotton made the room feel soft and inviting. It was like the feeling of rolling around in fresh bed sheets and tired lazy mornings.

The soft slapping of Aemond's hips against yours was the only sound that managed to disturb this tranquil morning, as well as the hushed murmurs of his words against your tacky skin, and the softened tumblings of tiny moans from your lips.

You've lost track of how many times he's made you cum by now.

It's all a haze of the closest intimacy, the room smells of sex, humid from your bare bodies being pressed against each other.

" - Aemond - we have to - ah, fuck - we have to check out soon -" you manage in a breathless whisper, the air constantly being fucked out of your lungs with each desperate slam of his cock in the deepest parts of you.

You feel him, how his cockhead bullies the rough, spongy spot inside you. Unsure if you can even handle another orgasm. How Aemond is even doing this right now is beyond reason, the amount of sleep this man is running on.

Aemond grins against your ear, groaning lowly at the feeling of your nails scraping against the nape of his neck. If your previous trysts have been quickies, this time it's lazy and languid, almost thoughtful.

"You can give me one more before that" he growls, voice vibrating in his chest pressed flush against yours.

Your eyebrows furrow together, the pressure building whether you want it to or not, the way his length drags against your over-sensitive walls is too much and yet not enough. Feeling both numb and tender. Head feeling as if it's airy and empty, all you're able to think about is him and how he's making you feel.

Your body moves with the pace of his thrusts, breasts faintly bouncing alongside it, sticky from the previous rounds' half-dried spend. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, anchoring you to him, inevitably leaving marks in their wake.

He leans forward on his knees, his firm, muscular and athletic thighs, hardened from years of training, brushing against your own. The movement has his cock brushing against your cervix sensitively.

His hands, fingers long and lithe, hold your thighs and lift them higher and to your sides, widening you for him and granting himself deeper access. Your face heats up instantly being so on show, eyes glazed over with lust when you look at him.

His hair falling around his face, messily. His wide shoulders and slim waist, muscles flexing as he adjusts your position. As well as the warmth blooming in your core, it also does so in your stomach, and you briefly fear what it could mean.

You watch as Aemond keeps your legs elevated, his hips moving once more against you, his skin tapping against yours audibly with how wet you are.

You swear you've never been more aroused in your life.

The coil winds tightly inside you, watching how diligently and carefully he fucks you. As rough as the actions are, there is a softness in the way he holds your flesh in his palms.

"Come on, we don't want to be late now do we, pretty girl" he grins, lips parted to breathe with each thrust, a sheen of sweat covering his neck and chest, catching the light between his pecks.

If his movements don't finish you off, that most certainly does.

It's almost worse being in the back of Arryk's car with Aemond after all of that. Like the tension hasn't disappeared one bit. And you try to busy yourself with something else, like putting some music on or staring out the window. But nothing seems to help.

After successfully making it to the check out time, Aemond smirking the entire time he was giving his keycard back, you both faced the onslaught of reporters who hung around the entrance of the hotel where Arryk's car was parked. All wanting a glimpse and/or a word from the finalists who were warming up to each other visibly.

The flash of the cameras blinded you, and you recoiled with the appearance of several microphones shoved in your path with such personal questions, all talking over one another.

You at least made out that they suspected there was some romance involved.

Aemond, with his tall, beanpole form, had blocked the view with his body, rounding the car to open the door for you. He didn't seem to flinch as he parted his path between the reporters to get in himself. You supposed being the prodigal son of Viserys Targaryen and Alicent Hightower will do that to someone.

Idly you scrolled through your phone, seeing the various recommended news articles about the famed finalists.

Ice Prince and Princess demolish the semi-finals with their sensual performance. Aemond Targaryen. New partner or new lover? The ice has melted with our finalist couple keeping each other warm.

That last one made you cringe and click off your phone.

Even though things were better, and he had at least apologised, you couldn't help but have more questions. Mostly around Floris? Could you really believe Larys? And did Aemond have this kind of relationship with her as well? Perhaps that had been the reason behind her 'accident'?

Part of you, the doubtful part, thought that he'd only done all this, get close to you and sweeten you up, to improve the performance. Give him a better chance at winning.

You didn't want to think about that possibility. And yet it lingered.

Instead you focussed on the final. The final.

And against all the fucking people, it was the Martells.

Ugh.

But at least there was more time between the last match and the finals now. Time to prepare.

That meant going back to the large Targaryen House, back to 'normality'. You itched to be around other people again, as being around Aemond made your skin prickle up almost uncomfortably. Maybe it was not knowing where you stood with him.

The car zoomed past the electric gates and Helaena and Alicent were waiting outside, Helaena beaming with joy and waving and Alicent, ever graceful, hands clasped at her front, smiling fondly at the return of her son.

As soon as you got out of the car, Helaena threw her arms around you, her hair emanating her signature lavender-like scent, but as soon as she pulled back she had a knowing smirk on her face, which mildly panicked you.

Alicent made her pleasantries, hugging her abnormally tall son and guiding you both inside. Helaena grabbed your hand, following shortly behind, giving you the side-eye.

"What?" You asked her.

"Oh don't give me that. I have some questions for you later"

You didn't have time to roll your eyes before a loud, ear-splitting bark reverberated off the waxed floor, the click of claw-lined paws echoing as a large Great Dane, who was clearly on the older side, bounded happily towards Aemond, heedless of its true size, and tackled him successfully to the floor.

"Umf! Gods Vhagar" Aemond hummed annoyedly, but the smile on his face when the large dog stood on his chest and licked his face betrayed his true feelings. You'd rarely seen Aemond properly smile, so seeing the boyish excitement on his face was…a strange welcome feeling.

Aemond laid there, back flat on the wax floor, accepting his fate. The dog named Vhagar you surmised, once done with its vicious attack, looked up curiously to you, tongue and tail wagging with equal vigour. Aemond tilted his head back to look at you, amused, the dog's paws planted firmly on his pecks.

"This is Vhagar, she doesn't like gir-"

Vhagar barked and made for you, taking mercy somewhat and only jumped up to rest her paws on your chest, craning her head for pets, which you were more than happy to give, paying special attention to her neck and ears as a wide smile graced your face.

"Good girl, Vhagar" you praised, her tongue still hanging out her mouth excitedly. Aemond raised his eyebrows, shocked and happy to see that reaction, as if to say 'I stand corrected'.

"I didn't know you had a dog" you say, watching as Vhagar gallops back over to Aemond, sitting at his feet as he stands and brushes himself off, looking up to him with admiration.

"We all do. Family tradition. They've been at the kennel for a bit" he explains, shoving his hands in his pockets. At the mention of the word 'kennel', Vhagar puts her tongue away, staring with worry, as if she was horrified. Aemond hums a laugh.

Alicent claps once, gathering all your attention. She's elegant as always, long sleeved top and a black slinky skirt, her hair perfectly tied back and held with a gold accessory.

"Well! It's lunchtime, you can tell us all about the tour over some cheese and wine, yes?" She beams.

Ah yes, back to aristocratic 'reality'.

Outside, the table was set with a gorgeous spread of brightly coloured food, plates and such as well. Otto seemed not to be present, and with that, the mood was lighter, less business-like and more like a family.

That as well as the presence of another silver-haired brother, much too skinny to be Aegon.

Aemond shoved his arm around their neck playfully, dragging him up, “Baby brother, are you geriatric? Your senses are getting worse”

You and Helaena watch with amusement as the smaller silver-haired brother goes pink, stuck in the hold Aemond has him in, “The fuck is wrong with you, Aem, get off!”

“Aeg, get his legs” Aemond smirks, scooping his arms under the smaller brother’s, “Daeron, you look hot, how about a dunk?”

“No! No, Aegon, stop it!” he protests, but the oldest brother simply smirks, a cigarette hanging from between his teeth as the two shuffle over to the pond in the middle of the garden, “Don’t encourage him, Aeg, put me down!”

“Well that’s not fun then, is it?” Aegon grins,

Helaena laughs, simply watching but not helping, “Think of it as punishment for being away from us for so long!”

“That’s not fair, Hel!” he shouts as Aegon and Aemond begin to swing, chanting ‘a leg and a wing, to see the king’.

“Boys, put your brother down, the meat’s getting cold!” Alicent calls, bringing out the iced lemon water.

With a huff, they do as they’re told, Daeron landing to the floor with a thud. The youngest brushes the grass off his slacks, smiling at you as if he’s just noticed you’re here.

“Sorry, Daeron” he smiles politely, shaking your hand.

You smile, “A pleasure”

“Dig in, everyone” Alicent beams, setting down one last plate of bread rolls, “I’ll just get some cutlery”

Aegon huffs in his seat, “Look delicious, mother. Who can I thank for such a spread?”

Alicent taps the back of his head in a playful scold as she’s walking past, “Me, you cheeky little so-and-so”

You laugh as you take your own seat next to Helaena.

Without Otto here, the atmosphere is warm, everyone’s happy. A stark contrast to your first evening spent in the formal cave-like atmosphere of the dining room, feeling left-out and ostracised.

It’s more like a family now.

Conversation flows exceptionally well, all the tension now completely fizzled out with the soft, warm afternoon sun just dipping beneath the trees, flooding their garden with an orangey glow. Aemond and Aegon badgered their youngest, Daeron, about his studies and why he went to see Aegon instead of Aemond on tour, harmlessly teasing him on having favourites.

Alicent watched her three sons with motherly joy, but mostly chatted idly with you and Helaena.

After a glass of wine, Helaena now loosened, she confided in you quietly about the tour.

"Think I'm losing it" she mused,

"Losing what?"

She looked at you, violet eyes catching the sun, "My touch. The tour was okay but we got annihilated by the fucking Stormlands of all people" she scoffed.

"Who was representing Pairs for that?"

"Cass Barath and some guy she used to go to school with. They couldn't fucking stand each other but won on technical"

Couldn't stand each other.

That sounds familiar.

Or rather sounded.

"Shame. We could've been against one another" you smile, tapping your glass with your nail.

"Gods, if we went up against you after the last performance we'd have no chance" she smirks, "I have questions for you, don't think I've forgotten"

At the idea of telling Hel your face flushes briefly, turning away to try and hide it, just as Aemond has turned to you, Daeron talking his ear off. He gives a lazy smirk, somewhat bashful, as he looks down into his lap where his hands are clasped.

The evening was so peaceful it made a pain in your heart. And you wished it was like this for them all the time.

Alicent smiled, tapping her hand on top of yours, "Congratulations, sweet girl. We're very proud of you both"

You can't help the drop in your heart when she says that.

She speaks to you like she would a daughter.

It's a warmth you've not known for some time.

And she sees the way your face is completely relaxed, like nobody had ever said that they were proud of you before. There's a sadness in her expression.

When was the last time someone said that to you?

Estranged from your own parents, you honestly can't remember.

So you swallow over the lump in your throat and nod gratefully, trying not to show how deeply her small act of kindness has affected you.

"Thank you"

She smiles reassuringly, but it doesn't quite make it to her eyes, like she knows exactly what you're thinking.

A mother's intuition is never wrong.

She pats your hand once before pulling away, "You know, you remind me so much of someone I used to know"

You cock your head, "Who?"

Alicent visibly swallows, her eyes casting back, "An old friend" she says, smiling at the memory, "she was so sure of herself, unapologetically so. And she never let other people tell her what she should think"

You laugh lightly, "She sounds more confident than me"

"You are as well" she reassures, "I remember my last match you know.

I always wore blue, for my performances. But this particular day, my father got me to wear dark green, as an…homage of sorts, to Oldtown" she recounts, "I loved that outfit"

Her face falls somewhat then.

"I still can't watch that performance. Knowing it was my last"

Your heart aches in sympathy for her.

"And I can't look at that outfit without turning sad" she says distantly, her chocolate brown eyes looking down sadly.

You, of course, know this story to some extent. Banned from competing entirely, which seemed a very harsh judgement from the committee, but a decision was made nonetheless. You remember briefly watching reruns of her performance, how happy she looked then. How absolutely natural she was.

She didn't seem like she'd aged much at all. She certainly didn't look as if she had four children all grown.

You can't help but feel as if she had to grow up quickly.

"I'm just going to go and get some napkins, darling" she says with a polite smile, as if the conversation hadn't happened, standing up and excusing herself to the kitchen.

"So!" Aegon starts, "'Ice Princess', huh?"

You give him a playful glare, "Shut up"

"What!"

"I thought it was nice" Daeron says timidly,

"Don't you start" you retort, face heating rapidly as Aemond just sits back and lets the chaos ensue, with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"It was a good routine. Our grandfather wasn't much pleased" Aegon grins,

Aemond does too, "I bet he wasn't"

Helaena cocks her head, "What made you switch up the routine?"

Just as you're about to open your mouth, Aemond gets there before you do.

"I just gave her some advice in the dressing room" he grins mischievously, "looks like it worked"

Your lips slam shut at his words, a kind of dull, ache settling between your legs, reminding you of this morning, when Aemond had you in a rather precarious position. You hope to every god that exists that your face doesn't show it, as you stare him down.

He just looks impressed with himself.

You're not sure if it's the chill of the evening or the effect of Aemond that has goose bumps on your arms.

Just as Alicent comes back outside, Helaena takes your hand, standing quickly.

Thank the gods for that.

"I'm freezing, Mum. We're going to go inside"

"Alright, darling" she smiles.

You spare a look over your shoulder as she hurries you through the glass doors into the kitchen. Of course, Aemond is watching, his gaze unapologetically roaming over what you're wearing.

You don't miss Aegon's knowing smirk either, which never fails to make you roll your eyes.

"Hel, what the fuck is this?" You laugh as Hel hurries you to a secluded area near the trees.

There, nestled between two oak trees, is a tiny little wendy house, clearly purpose built, and by now definitely looking it's age, with single paned windows and fading blue paint.

"Otto had it built it for me when I was five" she uses all her possible strength to pull the door open, the wood having swollen with age and damp. It eventually gives with a squeak, dust billowing between you both, "come on"

You duck, slipping past the threshold, "You're not gonna axe murder me in here, right?"

She scoffs and pulls the swollen wood back into place, the windows rattling in the frames as she does, "If I was an axe murderer you'd be dead by now"

She produces a rather worn plastic bag, with several freshly rolled spliffs stuffed inside.

"Sorry I just assumed you did-"

"I don't often" you shrug, "but when in Rome" you smile.

She passes you one and sticks one into her mouth.

"Where did you even get these?"

She grins as she pulls out a lighter, "Aegon. He sells them"

She blows the first buff out from between her lips, tossing you the lighter, "So you stole them?"

She shrugs, "I'm his sister. I'm just borrowing them"

"Hmm" you hum as you light yours as well.

You both pull yourself only the ledges opposite each other, knees almost touching as you draw a few breaths in, the effect of it warming your throat and chest, your head already starting to feel lighter. The smoke fills the tiny wendy house, only serving to heighten the intensity.

"Right. Spill" Hel grins.

"Gods Hel, I'm not even high yet!"

"I don't care. Spill"

You give her a look, "He's your brother"

"Yeah I don't want the nasty fucking details, just keep it vague please"

"Alright, alright" you laugh, sighing between drags, "Well…"

"When did it happen?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

You roll your eyes, "The first night at the hotel"

"The first night?!" She shouts in shock, leaning forward and mouth agape, "How-"

You can't help but laugh at her reaction. She'd obviously expected more of a romantic lead up to what occurred on that night, the memory making you squeeze your thighs together.

Helaena listens intently, asking the odd question, the effects of the drug must be getting to her as well because sometimes she asks the same one twice.

Explaining it all to someone else, it makes it all feel a bit more real, and you're eager to see how his sister, the person who knows him perhaps the closest, will react to your side of the story.

"In the dressing room??" She grimaces, "you guys are fucking disgusting. I don't think I can watch that performance the same way ever again"

You laugh, the effect of the drugs now weathering away your inhibitions.

You suppose there's no time like the present to ask an innocent question.

"Can I ask you something, Hel?"

"I'm all ears" she responds.

Your fingernails tap against the worn out wood, nervously, "Were…Aemond and Floris…"

Helaena doesn't even let you finish.

"Oh fuck no. Absolutely not. When Floris was here he'd find any excuse to not be around her. It was quite funny really. But no, he's not really been with any girl since that fucking dinosaur"

Oh, Alys...

It's embarrassing, the relief that gives you.

"Floris just couldn't hack Aemond, she just thought he was…a cryptid weirdo. Aemond in turn just thought she was dumb and didn't care much for her skills"

"Was she not very good?"

"She'd be alright on her own, but she didn't collaborate well. Couldn't take criticism" she says, and you can tell by the tone of her voice that she's trying to be as nice as possible.

"Right…"

"So, you and Aemond…you're all good now?"

You sigh, honestly not knowing the answer yourself, "I think so?"

"You mean…you don't know?" she snorts, "surely if you two are smashing you're all good"

"Not really. I catch myself half-thinking about what he said, what I said, what's happened-"

"Yes, but Aemond's apologised, you said" Hel reasons, the small stream of smoke blooming from her spliff.

A warmth of embarrassment blooms in your chest.

"Yes but…I haven't"

Hel cocks her head, "What do you-"

Light floods the Wendy house as the door swings open, both of you squinting your eyes shut, having to somewhat sober up as the smoke is sucked out. Aemond grabs the doorframe, showing just how comically small the Wendy house is compared to him, and sticks his head in, crinkling his nose.

"Using your Wendy house to hotbox again?"

"Yeah until you came to ruin it!" Hel says.

Aemond laughs lowly, sparing a glance at you and plucking the spliff from your fingers to take a drag of his own before returning it. The act, weirdly, has your skin burning where he'd touched.

Hel pushes off the ledge, brushing past her brother, stubbing out her spliff on the side of the doorway, "I'll leave you two"

You look at her in shock as she crosses the greenery, watching as she passes you a smug grin over her shoulder, knowing full well she's leaving you alone with Aemond to torture you.

Aemond barely manages to fit inside the Wendy house with his height as he occupies the spot where Helaena was.

"What were you girls talking about?" He asks, his arms leaning against the ledge. He's wearing his usual, entirely black get up, something so unapologetically Aemond that you don't even question it. But the way his arms look in the short sleeved shirt never fails to send flutters in your belly.

So you just laugh anxiously and stub the spliff out.

"Just girly stuff"

He raises an eyebrow, "girly stuff?" He asks, pushing the hair back over the top of his head with his fingers.

Fuck. Him. For being so attractive.

Your mind whirs uncomfortably, confronted with him. If you don't say anything, who knows is Hel might.

"About you and Floris"

"Ah" he says, smiling, "is someone jealous?"

"No"

He presses his lips together like he doesn't believe you.

"In any case, if you were, there's nothing to be jealous about, princess"

You roll your eyes at the nickname.

You bite your lip, "and about how it's come to this. You and me" you start, "Hel and every other person in Westeros by the sounds of it"

He huffs a laugh, "Yeah I've seen the news articles"

Your mind swirls, his presence coupled by the effect of the drug have made everything feel like it's been turned up to 100. The warmth inside the Wendy house now that the doors closed, your knees nudging against each other, his broad form, almost encompassing every square foot.

It's here you realise he's not taken his gaze off you. Possibly feeling the same way himself.

"What?" You ask with a drowsy smile.

He shakes his head.

"Nothing" he answers, suddenly looking anywhere but at you. You swear you see a blush on his face.

The smoking has made you more aloof, so you step forward, running your hand up the inside of his arm, almost pressed flush with him.

"C'mon tell me" you insist, smiling mischievously, "I could practically hear you thinking"

He turns his head, sighing, but not really annoyed. He's quiet for a moment, like he's considering something, like he wants to say something. But all thoughts are sapped from you when his palm cups your face, his thumb runs across your bottom lip, barely applying pressure.

It's his fixed look that holds you though, his reverent gaze at your lips, flitting to your eyes that glimmer with a sort of drunken haze.

It almost sobers you up entirely.

You wonder what he's thinking, he's so difficult to read.

The thoughts don't last. Aemond leans down to press his lips to yours, the naturally curved shape of them anchors your mouth open to taste you briefly. Both of you taste of tobacco and smoke, mixed together with the musk of his scent. You don't know why it drives you so crazy. Nobody has made you feel like that…ever.

It's tender. Almost loving.

Embroiled in the heat of the moment, arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush to him, and you smile somewhat against his lips feeling his hardness pressed against his sweatpants.

With enlarged confidence due to lack of inhibitions, your hand winds down his body, your palm running over his length, and it's clear by the way he delivers a stuttered groan into your mouth that he enjoys it immensely and was also not expecting it.

You only part when both of your hands stop at the waistband of his sweatpants.

"What are you doing" he asks, his voice hoarse in anticipation.

"What does it look like" you smirk, lips still close to his, teasing him, "taking care of you"

Pushing them just past his hips, your hand slips down the front, past his tummy, to his achingly hard cock, wrapping your fingers around him and pumping slowly.

"I don't hear you complaining..." you smile.

" - fuck - baby…"

You can't help but love it when he calls you that. Like it just comes so naturally.

A wicked idea strikes across your mind like a match. Your eyes light up, loving the way he's giving the illusion of being at your mercy, when in reality he could very easily flip the switch and be his usual cocksure self.

His breath seems to get sucked from his lungs when you kneel down before him, looking up at him dreamily while tugging his sweatpants down enough to free his cock, standing entirely hard against his muscled stomach, the tip ruddy and leaking with arousal.

He has such a pretty cock it's difficult to look away, and you feel your own arousal pool deep in your stomach in anticipation, tracing your palm from base to tip, caressing his length with care. Watching how his grip is white-knuckled and tight on the ledge, the wood cracking under it.

You've not done this yet with Aemond. It's always been him pleasing you.

This time it'd be different, even if he was only pretending to be in control.

Aemond watches with lips parts as you lower your mouth to the base of him, drawing a line with your tongue agonisingly slowly over the prominent vein on the underside, all the way to the tip, swirling your tongue around where he's most sensitive. It has a shuddered breath escape Aemond, with something akin to a whine.

He shuts his eyes, his fingers carding through your hair at the side of your face, all the way to the back, curling them and tugging at the follicles pleasurably.

You've slept together, but you've never seen his cock up this close, and it's a shame, because he's perfect. Thinking about taking him into your mouth is just too good an opportunity to pass up, and the heady scent of his skin just has you wanting to devour him.

" - please, don't tease m-"

You moan around his length as you take him as far as you can, relaxing your jaw muscles to allow for more, and whatever you can't fit, you caress with your hand. Aemond gasps quietly as your mouth tightens around him when his cockhead hits the back of your throat, his grip tightening in your hair.

It doesn't take long for you to begin properly pleasuring him in earnest, figuring he's been patient enough. You press your tongue to the underside and hollow your cheeks, creating more friction. Aemond looks down, watching the way his cock disappears into your mouth over and over, the length slick with saliva from your efforts.

He meets your rhythm with the soft canting of his hips, using his hold to slightly pull you onto him. You look up at him, watching his hedonistic expression and the way his mouth is slightly open with hurried breaths, pupil blown wide with lust at the lewdness of the act as well as the setting.

" - you're so good - fucking perfect - " he whispers.

The praise goes straight to your core, tightening around nothing, and it only serves to redouble your efforts.

As usual, Aemond feels the need to be assertive, and his hands smooth your hair into a ponytail, one hand gripping it in place and he pulls you off, only a string of saliva connecting either of you.

"Wha-"

"I want to fuck your mouth, baby" He mutters lowly. And in the gentle darkness of the room, with only a whisper of light at one side of his face, he looks mythical. His sudden change of tone has you wet your lips nervously, but also in excitement.

"Can you do that for me?"

You nod once, eager to please him, but also to taste him again.

He smiles slightly, "Good girl"

He pushes off the ledge slightly, standing straight and holding the base of his length, prodding the tip against your lips, the precum making them glisten. Your hands find his muscular thighs for stability.

"Tap my thigh twice if it's too much"

You nod in understanding.

"Open up for me, baby"

He plunges his cock into your mouth, taking his time to sink completely in, until he bottoms out in your mouth, his cockhead now truly tapping the back of your throat. You gag softly at the invasion of him so deeply, your grip tightening.

"Breathe through your nose - that's it - good girl - " He praises lowly, and you do as he says, making the effort to relax.

He starts to slowly fuck your mouth, gauging how much of a pace you're able to take before going any faster. His grip tightens on your hair, tugging at the makeshift ponytail and pulling on it, making you whine around his length, which only serves to urge him on as he uses your head for leverage.

" - such a pretty little mouth - fuck - " he whispers, his hips now moving in earnest, snapping against your mouth with renewed vigour, in search of release, " - you're so perfect - look at me - "

It's hard to look up at him with his cock pistoning into your mouth, but you do, and the look he has is borderline magical. His chest moves quickly with his breathing, a soft smile on his face as he looks down at you with pride.

" - that's it - finally, a good use for your dirty mouth - looks so much better with my cock in it, don't you think?"

You hum around him, trying to relax your jaw as much as possible as his cockhead bullies the back of your throat, a line of saliva running down the side of your mouth.

He laughs, " - baby you're making such a mess on me - such a good little slut - ffffuck- bet that pretty little pussy is soaked from sucking my cock -" his head tilts back, clearly close, and you can tell by the way he goes faster.

Your stomach rolls with delight, face warm with embarrassment, knowing he's entirely right, you squeeze your thighs together for some semblance of friction.

" - you gonna be a good girl and swallow for me? - want me to cum in your dirty fucking mouth? - "

As a way of answering, you press your tongue to the underside again, one of your hands going to his balls to caress them, urging him on, with pleasured tears pricking at your eyes.

" - seven fucking - you're bad, aren't you -" he breathes, " - oh fuck - "

He slams into your mouth forcefully one last time, stilling as his cock throbs on your tongue, feeling his cum at the back of your throat. Joining the line down your chin, a line of his spend also runs down, having completely filled your mouth.

You look up at him for a brief moment, appreciating the way his eye is closed, his breath coming heavily from his lips after what sounds like a shattered whine. His shoulders tremble, and the bit of his tummy you can see poking out from under his shirt clenches uncontrollably, his muscles moving with his breath. It doesn't taste unpleasant, but it's salty and coats your mouth in the most lewd, delicious way. To see him so lost in pleasure is worth it.

His fingers loosen, and stroke your hair lovingly as you swallow as much as you can, thrusting shallowly a few more times with a near pornographic sound. After a moment, he pulls his softening length from your mouth, using one hand to tiredly tuck himself away as he looks down at you, his pupil blown wide enough to eclipse the blue and still trying to regain his breath.

"You're amazing" he praises, his thumb coming to your face to wipe the line of his release, dipping it back into your mouth. You eagerly wrap your lips around his digit, making a show of it while your eyes meet.

He pulls you up to your feet, slamming his lips against yours, heedless of the taste of himself on your tongue as he moans into your mouth. It sucks the air from your lungs, his arms wrapping around you and you in turn wrap yours around his neck.

"I could fuck you all night, you know that?" He whispers between breaks for air.

You've spent so much time with Aemond, less time romantically, but even still, it feels nice to be touched by him, to be praised by him.

He breaks and presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut, completely at ease.

You swallow. The haze now dissipated somewhat.

"I…need to say something"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry…"

He opens his eyes, brows arched in questioning, "what for, princess?"

Fuck, he needs to stop saying that.

You wet your lips, "For calling you a nepo-baby…"

The reaction you didn't expect from Aemond, was to fucking laugh.

But he does, quiet at first, but gaining traction, his eyes crinkling up into something you've barely seen. His white teeth gleaming in the darkness.

"What?" You smile, nudging his shoulder.

"Has that really been eating you up inside?" He jokes,

"Yes!" You insist, "I've said some…nasty things as well"

Aemond rolls his eye, "You don't need to apologise to me"

"Well I did, so now's the part where you say you forgive me" you reply, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He hums a laugh, "forgive you?" He grins, "and what if I don't?"

"You have to"

"Hmm" he smirks, "maybe -" he spins you around, pushing you against the opposite ledge, and you're astonished to find him hard, yet again, against your backside. Your hands find purchase on the ledge, keeping yourself up, and your face splits in a gasp when Aemond swiftly pushes his hand past your tummy at your front and swipes two fingers across your drenched folds.

"-You'll have to earn it, princess"

When you returned to your bedroom, with a pleasant ache between your thighs, having shushed and giggled with Aemond when you snuck back in (apart from when he'd nearly knocked a very precious antique sword off the wall), you'd felt a surge of something deep in your gut when stood outside in the hallway.

Aemond could barely keep his hands away, and as well as that, couldn't let go to say goodnight. He'd pulled you to him, littering your face with kisses that always seemed to end with his lips pressed to yours desperately.

When he'd pulled away, looking down at your face in the soft darkness, there was a tug in your chest. He looked so peaceful like this, so calm. And his thumb caressed the skin of your face with care, taking in every little feature.

He opened his mouth, but swiftly closed it.

And said something else instead.

"You're so beautiful"

Though it made your skin bloom all the same, as he so easily managed to do, you felt as if he wanted to say something else. And there were words on your mind as well, that felt too serious to say out loud.

Being this close to him, it felt incredibly intimate and rare, as if something precious had been granted to you.

And you could see the way something melted away when you touched his face, your thumb tracing the bottom of his scar carefully.

You wondered if he knew how beautiful you thought he was as well. If he'd ever been told that.

It seemed like he understood just by the gentle touch, all the little thoughts in your head.

Even if you weren't sure where exactly you stood with Aemond, even though you knew something needed to be addressed, to be defined…

…this felt nice.

But you didn't tell El these details. It would mean she'd ask questions, make you question yourself, and how you feel. You weren't sure if you were ready to confront them.

El was absolutely smug and ecstatic when you told her about what happened. As opposed to Helaena though, El did ask for the nasty details, which you provided some of. But not all. Those were for your own benefit.

You didn't tell her about what Larys had said about Floris though, not until you knew for certain. What did Larys have against Otto anyway? And why would Otto do such a heinous thing?

Supposedly.

You woke early the next morning as you always did, and pulled on a hoodie, with the chill of the day still hanging in the air. Your footsteps were soft from the fluffy socks on the staircase, a soft light emanating from the living room, and hushed angered voices within.

You stopped in your tracks, ears pricked.

Otto was here.

"You will not push Aemond as you pushed me, I will not allow it!" Alicent started, in an accusatory tone.

"I pushed you to be the greatest figure skater in Westeros. Or have you forgotten?" Otto replied, and you could tell from the tone of his voice that he looked smug.

"And pushed me into his arms into the bargain!" She retorts, her voice upset and strained, "Because of you, I am banned from skating competitively! Because of you, I cannot have one good thing of my own, and you robbed me of my only friend!"

There's a silence. You sit on the staircase, feeling wholly bad for prying, but too curious to stop. Alicent sounds as if she is catching her breath.

"And you will not take Aemond from me. You will not rob Aemond of her either"

Your heart freezes.

"She has little to do with this" Otto states,

"She is good for him. Aemond likes her"

Otto scoffs, "It is just business. Aemond knows this, it has been discussed. This is why I do not consult you, you get too emotionally invested"

Just business? You think over the words Otto has just said.

Just business partners?

No, surely…

"They are emotionally invested! I have never seen Aemond as happy with anyone as he is with her! You shall not ruin that with your vicarious ambitions!"

You can't bring yourself to truly believe what Otto has said.

Surely what you both had was more than that…

Anger prickles at your insides.

How he treats his daughter, and by extension his grandchildren, with the exception of Helaena, who he dotes on, angers you.

How could he be so cruel to them like this? Instilling a business-like appearance on a family.

You pull out your phone, typing furiously and quickly, still hearing Alicent and Otto argue in the living room.

What sort of information do you have?

You wait impatiently, but there's no need. Larys replies a few moments later and your heart pounds.

Good to hear from you. I'll send over all I have as soon as possible. -Larys S

593 notes · View notes

silaslich · 1 month ago

Text

In a grave so we feel safe

Simon “Ghost” Riley x afab!reader

Summary - just as you think nothing else can go wrong in your life, Simon Riley shows up at your place.

Wc - 5.3k

Warnings - GHOST IS NOT NICE, dubcon, 18+, smut, choking, violence, gaslighting, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, self induced vomiting, self harm, Ghost is not a nice dude, dddne

His blood was under your nails. Raking them down his shoulders as his teeth sank sharp against your throat. Carving bruises into your skin.

He was fucking into you sloppily, his rhythm stunted and unendearing as you laid beneath him, eyes glued to the ceiling- wishing for him to finish.

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look into his eyes without noting they were the wrong colour. You were unwilling to watch as your fingers fisted into the platinum blonde of his hair at the nape of his neck - unable to think about anything other then him. Wherever he was.

It was all wrong. Every part of it. None of it felt right. A coiling knot of unease settling in your belly, making you second guess, making you wish you could evaporate into the air, carried away on the breeze and far way from here.

He grunted in your ear, breath fanning your neck as he continued to fuck himself into you, pressing his pelvis into the alcove of your hips. You didn’t widen your legs for him, allowing him to fuck you deeper, there was nothing more he could give you.

“Fuck- gorgeous” he smiled against your cheek, kissing you there. You closed your eyes, this wasn’t right.

“Don’t talk” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut to try and drown him out, drown out the smell of him, the sound of him.

Wrong wrong wrong

He came- you didn’t. He rolled off of you, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, he had the nerve to try and hold you, warm skin beneath his soft palms. Your room smelt of sex and guilt, dread stirring in the mix at it replaced the afterglow, nothing more then a dry and crumbling experience at your expense. A waste of time. The joint in your shoulder clicked as you moved away from his grasp, sitting up and leaning down to fish your shirt from the carpeted floor.

“You can see yourself out” you spoke with a lump in your throat, attempting to swallow it down. He laughed.

“Are you serious?” You didn’t turn to look at him as you pulled a pair of sleep shorts from a drawer, snagging them over your hips and walking out of the room.

By the time you’d shuffled to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge, he was leaving, muttering as he did, you didn’t care to listen. You filled the wine glass barely an inch from the rim, slugging it down without a care, you didn’t savour the taste or the tang, you just needed the delightful numbness it provided you with. The thrum of alcohol in your blood to keep you steady, keep you even before it inevitably sent you in the same spiral it always did.

The hangover wasn’t worth it in the morning. Your head was pounding, that same ringing in your ears that there always was, echoing around your head like loose artillery rounds. You stirred awake, pressing the heels of your palms into your eye sockets, trying to push away the migraine looming. You moved to stand up but a wave of nausea knocked through you like a whip cracking, you barely made it to the toilet before you were spewing up last nights mistake, white porcelain stained with your regret. You heaved, lungs burning as tears sprang in your eyes. A daily routine, a filthy habit, crooked in the palm of your hand like a comforting token. Holding it tight.

There wasn’t enough relief, you couldn’t breath but you stuck your fingers down your throat regardless, sliding through the acidic bile on your tongue and scraping over the roof of your mouth. It hurt. It needed to hurt. To ground you to this bitter reality, a reminder of what you’d lost, what you been turned away into. A lame horse to pasture, left to starve, feet overgrown and coat dull. That’s all you were. Forgotten. Unneeded. That was a worse taste in your mouth. Not the sour bite of vomit on your tastebuds, sacrid and bitter. It was the disappointment. The lacking sentiment of your existence, there was no place for you anymore, nowhere you belonged.

Price’s voice still rattled in your head. Smoke and ash, the cinders of his cigar on his tongue, the encompassing look in his eyes - almost regretful.

“You ship out tonight” he’d said, eyes narrow and lips tight. You sat across from him, on the other side of his desk, arms folded. Relaxed. At ease, soldier.

“Where to this time Cap?” You’d asked, curious. Then- he couldn’t look at you. Eyes downcast and his brows pinched together, mulling over the words in his mouth.

“Home”

That word- home. It felt like a knife to the chest. A stab in the fucking back. He knew you had nothing that held any semblance to a home, no one waiting for you. This was a cruel hand, not for the military, but from Price, you would have never expected it. You didn’t react as he called your name, the sound of it resonating down the corridors as you fled, something sharp stinging the back of your eyes. Shame. Burning shame. All eyes on you, watching you, judging you. Price was leaning out the doorway of his office, watching you retreat, practically running from him. It stirred something in his chest, but his hands were tied, even he couldn’t save you. He’d later regret not trying. He let you go in January, but he truly lost you in October.

Days bled into the nights. One John Doe after another, chasing that high, never getting there. Seeking the alternative, always needing some sustenance to dull the ache. To sate the itch in your blood that never stops, never letting you be. That pounding in your head was still there, part of you now, etched into your mind like a back-stitch.

It was autopilot in the way you raided the cupboard, feet scuffing, nails biting into the countertop, steadying yourself, already drunk past the point of redemption. Pills rattled in the bottle as you snatched it, shaky fingers unable to fish one out as you swore to yourself. They scattered across the countertop, spinning like tops, taunting you. You couldn’t read what the label said, didn’t care anymore, all the better if they killed you. An unredeeming quality of yours, the inability to know when enough is enough. You grunted as the pills were crushed beneath the plastic bottle cap, powder rushing across the surface, wisped clouds of white cresting.

Again, your moral compass? Relinquished the day Price sent you away, sending you to live amongst the civvys, knowing you had never been allowed to be one. You crowded forward, carving your finger through the white powder and rubbing it along your gums. Bitter ink. Sharp medicine. Numbing. You snorted the rest, leaning back with squinted eyes, pain shooting down your throat as it stung. It was too much but all the same not enough, never enough to make you feel something - anything.

You cried in the shower. Crimson water gurgling down the drain, blood seeping, wrists numb. You wished for something else, anything else other then this. Your nightmares plagued you, kept you up and didn’t ever leave you, even in the day, they’d flash in your mind. Only, they weren’t just nightmares, frights conjured from a subconscious fear- they were memories. Digging shrapnel from a comrades throat as you listened to him gurgle the name of his child, listening and counting for the thud and the splat as you tried to gage how close the gunfire was, it was all crimson and bone. Broken and beaten down till it’s all dust, hollow shells of men moving, marching to a deadman’s chant.

You had thought the 141 might change you, and in part they had, but it was all for the worst.

Months had passed, but in turn it had felt like years. As soon as Price dismissed you, as soon as he sent you packing, you deleted and blocked any and all ways of contact with the 141, anyone who even worked remotely close enough to them that they might try and contact you through. Gone.

In the months that had passed, you had done very little, burning through any savings you had managed to tuck away, getting sacked from all three jobs you had managed to blag your way into. It was simply time passing till the inevitable now, drinking and snorting your way through the hours that bled by, hoping you’d overdo it.

Tonight didn’t change a thing. You stumbled off the bus, barely sober but not all the way tipsy, a nice lull in between. You don’t remember where you’d been trying to get to, don’t remember any reason why you needed to be out of the house at all. It was frosty, the gentle thrum of autumn making way for the biting cold of winter, concrete slippy under your boots as you trudged through the street that led to your flat. Tucked up. Away from the light and away from everybody, a handful of elderly tenants that never bothered you.

It was a nice flat, or it had been. It was desolate now, reeking of self depreciation and cheap wine. Ash trays packed till they spilled on the coffee table, smog sticking to the wallpaper. You tripped up the steps, stifling a laugh behind your palm as your eyes fell to the ground, swaying on your feet. When you reached your door, you saw that it was ajar, you thought nothing of it. This wasn’t the first time, hell, it wouldn’t be the last either. It would make your day if someone tried to rob you, maybe they’d bash your head in as an extra favour. You stepped forward, pushing the door the rest of the way open with your elbow as you fumbled for the light switch, trembling fingers finding it after a minute. It was cold in the flat, biting at you like the snapping jaws of a Rottweiler, yet it was eerily cold. Familiar.

As your boots scuffed the carpet of your front room you traced your hand down the wall, standing still as you flattened your palm against the light switch. When the stark bleached out light flicked on, you were met with eyes almost as black as ink. They narrowed as they adjusted to the light, but they never left you, the hazel in them shifting as the light hit them.

You scoffed, liquid courage sitting heavy on your tongue, what did you have to lose?

“Long time no see, Riley” you rumbled, smoke burnt lungs aching.

His gaze was cutting through you, despite the lack of a balaclava on his face he still wasn’t giving you any other indications, but his posture spoke volumes. Knees wide with his elbows braced on his thighs, fingers knitted together as he sat hunched forward, analysing - always.

“Didn’t take much to find you” he scowled, watching you walk through to the kitchen, eyes watching your back.

You saw things had been moved, even if only an inch, Ghost left no traces, he wanted you to know that he’d snooped around. Bastard. You didn’t turn to face him.

“I’m not hiding” you retorted, busying yourself with rooting through a cupboard, one that he and you both knew was empty.

“S’that why you cut all contact?” His question was sharp, like it insulted him personally, you’d never had his number in the first place. You scoffed.

“What would I need to contact any of you for?” You slammed the cupboard door, swivelling and turning your attention to the fridge, you needed a drink.

He was moving, you could hear it, but you didn’t acknowledge him. Couldn’t stay close. You’d risk smelling him, risk feeling the heat of him, that breath of his warm as he stood there alive. Not a dream or a hallucination, just a nightmare.

“Price wants you back. You didn’t even give him a chance to talk” his tone was low, gravel and graphite to your ears, rough and uninviting.

That made you laugh, a snicker that died into a hiccup as you pulled a half drunken bottle of Pinot from the fridge door, letting the glass slam loudly against the counter as you set it down.

“Price had nothing else to say to me, told me to pack my shit and go” you smirked, something stirring in your belly, it was something rotten, something you yourself didn’t want to admit to.

You felt sour to it all, to all of them, felt betrayed by the people you had taken bullets for, who you’d killed for.

You moved away, grabbing a glass, already dirty from the draining board but you didn’t care. You listened to Ghost grumble in the back of his throat as you poured yourself a drink, still not looking at him, not even glancing in his direction.

“If you learned anything from me it should have definitely been to lie better” he shifted even closer, elbows resting on the counter as he stood completely parallel to you now. You traced your index finger around the rim of the glass, shrugging your shoulders.

“You said it yourself- you’re all liars” you snatched the glass between your fingers, moving to walk away but he blocked your path.

Hulking shoulders practically the width of your doorway, you still couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, you knew that when you fell into them- you’d never get back up again.

That was something you had noted about him, for a man that didn’t care, he sure had a funny way of showing it. There were too many times to count on your fingers where he had told you how meaningless you were, not you specifically, and not to him. He was a generalist, glass half empty kind of man, he saw himself and his soldiers as numbers. Soon enough, your number would be called, that was the way the world worked. He lived to serve the flag and that was it, no hobbies or past times or interests. Just his mask and his front set in place like stone, nothing more, nothing less. Nothing to see here, keep moving.

Yet, he saved your life in Bosnia, and since that day, nothing had been the same. He’d pushed you from the throws of a hand grenade, folded you into his chest like a love letter from his past, tucked in the pocket of his vest. He’d held you so tight he was shaking, fingerprints bruised to the skin of your biceps for weeks later. You had both walked away practically uninjured, but you knew that if he hadn’t been watching, been waiting to throw you out of the way and barricade you underneath himself- you would have lost a limb or your life. That’s what it boiled down to, life and death, one and the same, one crueler than the other.

“Lying is kinder, sometimes” he cocked his head but you didn’t see, weren’t looking.

You took a heavy swig of your wine, staring off at the wall.

“There’s nothing kind about you” it was generalised, not entirely personal, but you’d let him take it how he wanted it.

“You don’t know me” he told, like chastising a child. Another swig of wine.

“Better to keep it that way” you were a liar, he knew it, you knew it. But it didn’t matter anymore, not to you, there was nothing left.

He hummed something rough in the back of his throat, a disgruntled noise that left something shooting molten heat down through your belly. Ghost stepped closer, there it was, the smell of oud wood and tobacco; warm and animalic on his skin, drifting musky and sweet into your nose. You wanted to run, step away, barricade yourself away from him. Yet you stayed, stock still as his chest invaded your vision. He plucked the glass from your hand, you let him, eyes glancing up for only a second as you watched his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed the contents of the glass down in one. He tsked at you, cradling the now empty glass in one hand.

“How long have you been on the pills?” He asked you outright, eyes narrow and brows knit.

Again, you dared to steal only a second to glance at him, unable to hold his stare. You swayed back on your feet, attempting to gage some breathing room but he didn’t let you.

“They’re for my headaches” you lied right through your teeth, you’d already started, why stop at just that. He kissed his teeth.

“Lying again”

The wind was knocked out of you when he shoved you back, nearly sending you toppling onto your ass if the wall hadn’t been there for you to brace against. He stood still, chest heaving, his mouth curved into something that resembled a snarl. Your eyes were wide, suddenly you felt sober, too sober for this.

“Answer me” he growled. “How fucking long?” He gripped the glass tight in his hand, like a threat. You didn’t back down.

“You’re not my lieutenant anymore” you bit out “I don’t have to tell you anything” you raised your voice as if it held any weight to it. To Ghost, it didn’t.

You watched with disbelief as he craned his arm back, launching the glass toward you at full force, smashing it against the wall above your head. You braced your arms over your face and head as it rained down over you, slipped down the front of your shirt and caught in your hair, tiny shards of it everywhere like crystal rain. You shot him a glare, anger rising in your blood as you bared your teeth at him, chest unable to contain the way your breathing spiked.

“Go fuck yourself” you spat venom, hoping it would carve something out of him, strike a nerve you knew he didn’t have.

He was moving forward before you could register it, crowding you back.

“You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” His boots were loud, the thud resonating up your shins from the hardwood floor.

He was on you now, barely inches between you, all you wanted to do was run, but you didn’t. There was more you wanted to say.

“You don’t want me to answer that” you scoffed, meeting his eye this time, staring him down.

He physically grimaced at your words, he’d never seen this side of you, not outside of a joke poked over the comms or between rounds at a pub. You were so obedient, painfully so, it had been the first thing he had noticed about you. Practically at his beck and call, like a puppy desperate for a scratch behind the ear, hanging off his every word and command like it were lifeblood. Like you needed it to stay alive, like you needed him to stay alive. He didn’t like this side of you, like a coin flipped, polar opposite, not as shiny as the other side, he didn’t like it at all.

He searched your eyes, analytic as always, digging deep. You gasped as he grabbed your chin, it was too rough, fingers pinching your skin as you grabbed for purchase at his wrists, nails taking root in the fabric of his hoodie.

“Are you high?” His voice was rough, nearly as rough as his grip, you tried to shake him away.

Your eyes widened and you found yourself trapped in his stare, you’d fallen. He loomed closer, breath fanning your mouth and nose as he pulled your face closer to his, inspecting you.

“You’re fucking high” he repeated, spitting your name back at you afterwards, it hit you like a double decker bus.

Ghost dropped his hold on you and stepped back, turning on his heel as he ran his hands over his face and over his hair, leaving it ruffled.

It felt like hours passed by as you stayed glued to the wall, unwilling to move incase he pounced, instead you watched him, eyes following him as he paced. He broke the silence.

“You’re a fucking idiot” he started as he meant to go on, “a real fucking idiot” you said nothing, just watched.

While on the subject, right at this minute, was about the time you’d get your next fix, that dark hour that loomed between evening and night, wake and sleep. You always drowned it out, but with Ghost here, you couldn’t.

It made you itch, made your skin burn as you stood there, mouth practically watering to rub something harsh and gritty into your gum line. You raised your hands to rub your head, feigning a headache, while this entire time a real one had been drumming away at your skull, it was a constant now that you’d learned to live with. He had his back turned and you moved off quietly, you knew he could hear you, but he didn’t turn to look at you right away. You crouched by the cabinet under the sink, eyes falling to nothing, the entire box was gone. The old quality streets tub that had everything from cold medicine to deep heat, gone, completely missing. Something fell in your chest at that second, a realisation striking.

You heard him move across the room, his clothes shifting.

“I flushed everything” he admitted. You turned so fast it hurt, eyes wild as you faced him, tears brimmed and your lip wobbled.

You couldn’t go cold turkey, not right now, maybe not ever. It was a cresting wave that swallowed you whole, but it didn’t spit you out at the other side.

Tears rose but you were determined not to let them fall, not for him, not for this. You tucked your chin to your chest and tried to brush past him, attempting to get to your room, you knew you had some painkillers in your bedside drawer, you just hoped that if you got there first he wouldn’t have even been in there. You weren’t lucky enough, he stepped into your path, blocking you, his presence practically begging for you to look at him, but you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. He was too clever, too analytic, it was engrained into him.

“I said I flushed everything” the weight to his last word told you he’d ransacked your whole place, turned it upside and flipped it from top to bottom to find whatever you deemed worthy to hide.

You felt vulnerable, like every private part about you and your life had been flayed open for his eyes, split skin seeping with blood that he lapped up gladly. You brushed past him.

“I hate you” another lie hissed in his direction, he knew you were lying.

He caught you by the arm, wrenching you back toward him till your side was crushed to his chest. He knocked the breath out of you, he craned his neck till he was your height, breath fanning over your ear making you shiver.

“No you don’t”

It was unceremonious, not at like what you had daydreamed about while out in the field, he wasn’t tender or affectionate. He was cruel, rough in his pursuit as he stripped you, but he let you kiss him.

That was enough for your weak little heart, something for you to hold onto, something that would help you pretend. Ghost had almost ripped your door from its hinges, shoving you backwards through the threshold of it before he was on you again, peeling away your layers, metaphorical and literal.

You were naked before you hit the mattress, spine connecting with the biting cold of your sheets, pressed down by the weight of his gaze. He’d paused, breathing ragged as he drank in every inch of you, there was something dormant in his eyes that marched to the forefront, lingering on your scars- not the ones he was present for when you gained them out in the field. It made the shame creep up on you, hovering over your shoulder like a bad omen, like a bad idea chirped in your ear, it spurred on the urge to do it again and that stung.

It took you back to a conversation you remember having with him and Soap, in a Northern Irish pub a few years ago, unknowing on what sparked this subject. You remember him saying what a selfish thing it was to do, a beg for a attention, a weak cry for help from someone that couldn’t use their words. That had stayed with you till this day, still, you couldn’t stop yourself wishing you’d met him somewhere else, perhaps in another life.

The metal clasp of his belt clinking had snapped you back to attention, suddenly very aware of how exposed you were, in more ways then one.

“Fucking ignorant” he hissed, hands at his zipper as he pushed them down over his thighs.

His shirt was gone, the wide plains of his chest bare to your eyes, swirls and blocks of tattoos etched into almost every section of muscle, skulls and bones and snakes and darkness. Summed him right up.

The knot in your stomach was coiling, weighing you down as you squirmed under his stare, prostrate and limp in his grip. You snapped your gaze to him when he looped a hand over each thigh, dragging you to the edge of your mattress, his eyes razor focused on your cunt and nothing else. You felt him before you saw him, the dull heft of the head of his cock pressing made you groan, you propped up on one elbow, watching as he rutted his cock through the wet folds of your pussy, his jaw slack as he watched himself.

There was no time for you to adjust to the size of him, you were wet from a stolen fleeting kiss, but it wasn’t enough to prepare you for the entirety of him. He crowded forward, shoulders flexing as his spine bowed, fucking into you without room for anything else. You screamed, the pain ripping through you like it tore you apart, shredded like paper. It was too much too quick, you tried to back away, tried to gather some leverage but he didn’t allow it.

“Fuck” he hammered his words into you like they pained him, teeth cresting into your throat as he fucked you, pistoning hips almost too much for you to bare.

His hips were wider then yours, your legs forced to part to the point it made your thighs ache just to accommodate him, it made him growl into your skin when he felt you quivering against him. He nipped up your neck, teeth sinking into your jaw as he adjusted his angle, hips fucking into you with a cruel curling motion. You were screaming his name, broken sobs of gods name in between, you managed to pull him close, wrapping an arm around his neck.

You kissed him, curled your tongue over his teeth, biting his lip till you tasted copper, and it still wasn’t enough. He claimed it as his own, hands gripping your flesh till it pooled between the gaps of his fingers, palm shaped bruises bound to bloom there. He sucked the taste of wine from your tongue, kissing you so hard your teeth clashed, sending a cringing shock straight to your toes.

You hadn’t felt the tears slip over your cheeks until you felt his fingers on your face, eyes meeting his, feeling as he began to drag his fingertips through the falling tears before he moved them to his mouth, sucking them from his digits. Your mouth was agape, jolting as he continued to fuck you, the unrelenting pressure of his thrusts making your head swim. You groaned only for it to be swallowed by him, crushing his lips to yours once again, the taste of ocean spray on his tongue, tang and salt.

He wasn’t focused on you, not the way he was making you feel, he was chasing his own release, his own high. For you the angle of his hips forced friction over your clit, the skin above his groin and the wiry dark hair that continued up to form a happy trail rubbing a sweet sensation that rattled right through your bones as it grew. You focussed on it, forcing yourself to try and meet his thrusts, the pain beginning to subside if only a fraction. He noticed, of course he noticed, and with that, he stilled.

You all but sobbed, desperate to feel anything other then the dread and the regret. He leered over you, the only tender action tonight being the way he moved your hair from your eyes, forcing you to look at him, unable to hide. His palms framed each side of your head, bracketed you downed, no escape from his eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move to speak, he was catching his breath, open mouth gaping as he swallowed air. You cried. Overwhelmed and feeling sick, the stirring wave of nausea creeping up from the lack of opioids in your system to sate it, to keep it at bay. You didn’t want to fight anymore, you wished for months to have him here, to have this, yet it still wasn’t enough to take away the pain. You choked on a sob, pressing your fingers to your eyes.

“I just want to die” your words were broken, hollowed out in your pain, heavy as you spoke them.

It was like an elastic band snapping. Ghost snatched your throat, pressing down with his full weight and crushing his fingers around the width of your throat. It caught you off guard, forcing the air from your lungs, you were gargling, trying to swallow against the crushing weight of his palm.

You didn’t have the capacity to scream, even if you did, no one would come looking for you. In a desperate attempt, a fleeting thought, you clawed at his wrist, nails digging till they drew blood, trying to slap him away.

In an instant, he released his hold, still buried to the hilt inside of your cunt, you swore his cock got harder. You were gasping, palms attempting to soothe your own throat, sucking down air like a fish out of water. Ghost moved closer, inevitably thrusting deeper inside of you as you moaned at the intrusion.

“No you don’t, you fought it” he was closer again, face barely an inch from yours, your head was still swimming but you raised your arms, retaliating.

You looped your arms under his and settled your nails into his shoulder blades. With each hardened thrust you dug deeper, droplets of blood pooling in your wake as you raked down the expanse of his back, feeling his muscles tense and flex beneath your fingers. It earned a moan, rough stone as it tumbled from his lips into your throat, his tongue soothing over the indents of his palms that laid there. The second and only other tender thing. That friction was there again, this time, Ghost ignored it. Letting it push you over the edge till you were blind in ecstasy, rubber limbs as he gripped you tighter and fucked himself to orgasm, burying his cock impossibly deep till he swore he was in your throat.

You were both gasping, sharing breath, exchanging sweat and heat as you both caught your bearings. He flattened his forehead to your chest, rubbing the sweat there, breath fanning your stomach.

You twisted your fingers into the mud tawny of his hair, curling it around your fingers, dampened tresses sticking to your chest as he stayed leaning there. Something was clawing up your throat, you tried to swallow it down, the familiar sting threatening to spill past your lash line.

“I told Price to discharge you” he breathed, your fingers stilled as they fiddled with his hair.

Ghost blew air through his nostrils, hitting against your skin.

“I still hate you” you told, swallowing the lump in your throat. Ghost scoffed.

“No you don’t”

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verbenaa · 2 months ago

Text

silver and silk | kinktober 2024

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: Astarion/F!Tav 𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔: E 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 4.0k 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: cunnilingus, choking/erotic asphyxiation, piv sex, safe words/gestures, Dom/sub undertones, the hint of a breeding kink, formal wear, rough sex

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: “And we, my dear, have some very urgent business to attend to.” His expression is nothing short of devilish as he practically pushes her inside of the tiny closet and shuts the door behind them both, only waiting a mere moment before wrapping his arms around her waist and lowering his lips to her neck.

“Urgent, Astarion?” She rolls her eyes despite the loosening of her limbs underneath the feeling of his lips kissing down over her collarbone, mouthing at the exposed cleavage of her breasts before he lowers himself to the floor in front of her.

✧· · ─── ·✧· ─── · ·✧

In which Astarion finds it in his heart to help Rin work off some of her frustrations in a variety of ways.

𝒶/𝓃: hellooooo! this is my first piece for this year's kinktober! I'm only writing a few of these due to limited time unfortunately, but this is the first one up. I'm not really working from any real prompt list or anything, and instead I just played around with a few ideas that I felt like fit with the reason of the season 🤭

This fic features my tav Rin, a half-elf bard, who I write about in my longfic to eden. You don't need to read that in order to enjoy this (but I obviously think you should, duh) because she's a total hottie that doesn't know how to shut up 💖 let me know what you all think in the comments either here or on ao3 and reblogs make me cry with happiness ❤️ enjoyyyy 🎃

read on ao3 | masterlist | to eden link

The scrape of embroidery from Astarion’s doublet against the bared skin of Rin’s shoulders is a small price to pay—a necessary discomfort, so to speak—for a tiny piece of stolen joy on a night like tonight.

Gods, she hated these events.

When she had saved the world, she hadn’t realized one of the direct results of it would be having to attend things like this—boring galas with drunken patriars, dusty bureaucrats, and simpering ladies who fawned over and gawked at her in equal measure, as though she were some creature meant to be kept behind a wall of glass to be studied for her strangeness or her unerring charm or whatever the hells other attribute it was they wanted to ascribe to her.

And Rin supposes that, to them, perhaps she was strange and charming.

After all, it was no noble knight or magnificent wizard who had led them to victory. It was simply her—a half-rate bard with a decidedly questionable skillset born from no one in particular, like so many others in the depths of the Lower City.

It had been fun at first, when she thought about the fact that it was not someone from a storied family who had saved them all, but instead someone without a last name who couldn’t even pay her rent every month and survived on cheap tavern wine and bread, not to mention her penchant for cheating at card games.

She had tired of it all after the third or fourth party, of course; niceties from people who would have rather let her die in a ditch than to have been bothered to afford her a single copper as a child falling terribly flat, and by now Rin was downright bored of it.

Even with her dearest’s presence by her side—Astarion’s arm wrapped through her own all evening as they made rounds around the ballroom and danced waltz after waltz, dressed in his finery with its elegant beading and metallic stitching shining in the candlelight—Rin was thoroughly at the end of her rope.

Astarion had dragged her inside of this tiny closet not terribly long ago, sensing the irritation building in her chest that was becoming harder and harder to hide with every sip of wine she drank, exhausted of donning the usual easy and unbothered facade she typically puts forth so gracefully during these sorts of things.

But not even the glittering candlelight, beautiful music, and expensive wine could soothe her simmering agitation, and so he took it upon himself to soothe it for her.

Rin will always remember his completely selfless kindness when she thinks back on it; it must have been terribly hard, after all, for him to have decided to steal away with her into some random closet.

Astarion grabs her hand within his and leads her away from the ballroom without a word, traipsing with her down hallways this way and that before they come across a locked door. Rin’s not entirely sure how he knew about it—or maybe it’s nothing but luck on his part—but within seconds Astarion has a lock pick in hand and the door is opened, the mechanism clearly no match against him.

“And we, my dear, have some very urgent business to attend to.” His expression is nothing short of devilish as he practically pushes her inside of the tiny closet and shuts the door behind them both, only waiting a mere moment before wrapping his arms around her waist and lowering his lips to her neck.

“Yes, terribly urgent.” He’s on his knees now, busy pressing searing kisses to the skin of her lower stomach as his hands find her hips and urge her to turn around.

Rin needs little direction, spinning to face the shelf behind her without complaint as Astarion’s hands begin to pull the skirt of her dress up.

“You see, it’s come to my attention that my dear, sweet wife has run out of patience tonight. I’m only doing my job as a wonderful, doting husband to help relieve some stress.”

“How charitable of you,” She says wryly.

The sight of Astarion on his knees will always be one that begins to kindle that familiar flame of heat deep in her belly; a flame that’s only ignited hotter by the sensation of his fingertips trailing up the inside of her leg.

“Incredibly.” He doesn’t bother to remove her underwear when his hands reach the apex of her thighs, simply pushing the gusset of it to the side with his fingers to make room for his mouth, wasting no time as he buries his tongue inside her core and lets his fingers round on her clit.

Rin comes in what feels like record time on his lips, the sounds of her cries muffled against her palm as she leans against the shelf in front of her, careful not to rattle the silver as her body shakes.

Astarion’s mouth glistens with her spend when he rises from behind her, unbuttoning his pants with a fluid flick of his wrist and freeing his cock from the confines of his underwear before filling her in a single stroke, her body still working through the aftershocks of her orgasm as he hilts himself inside her.

Which is exactly how Rin found herself here, fingers still grasping onto the very same wooden shelf and hoping dearly that no one outside of the small silver closet they stole away into can hear the slight metallic clink of the metal goblets and dishes every time Astarion thrusts into her from behind.

He has her bent, her ass jutting out towards his hips as the beautiful gown that he had lovingly designed to fit her every curve is pushed up around her waist in a mess of silk and embroidered tulle. The soft edge of the panties she wore—also designed by him and decidedly more fun to be fit for as he had double-checked his measurements—rubbing against every inch of his cock as he moves.

“Don’t you dare mess up my hair, Astarion.” Rin whips a glance behind her to where Astarion stands, one of his hands sneaking up from its place at her hips with fingers trailing towards the back of her neck as it searches to bury itself into her intricate updo, unruly dark blonde curls all twisted together and held with emerald-studded pins. “It took far too long to get it look like that and I will not be redoing it.”

“But sweetheart, I need something to hold onto,” Astarion mockingly whines into her ear as he thrusts particularly hard, hitting the end of her cunt. Rin barely withholds the moan that threatens to rip free from her lips, her fingertips gripping the shelf in front of her tighter.

She rolls her hips into his, trying to take him deeper. “You can hold onto it when you fuck me again later tonight, if you’re so desperate to touch it. In fact, Astarion, I’ll even give you full permission to ruin it.”

“‘Later tonight’?” He hits that same spot again, and this time she doesn’t hold back the soft moan that escapes her lips. “My, you’re simply insatiable, darling, if you’re already thinking about me fucking you again.”

Rin can hear the smirk in his words and doesn’t need to turn around in order to see it but she does anyway, swiveling her head to glance back at the look of pure arrogance decorating his temptingly plush lips.

“If you’re in need for something to hold onto, dear husband, you can just hold right here instead.” Rin guides the hand currently running cool fingertips teasingly up and down the nape of her neck around to the front, settling it along the line of her throat.

Astarion’s hips slow to a stop as he closes his hand softly around the elegant column of her neck before running his thumb in a soft touch over her skin, keeping his length still buried deep inside her.

“My, what a mood you are in, love.” His voice darkens as he caresses her neck, running his fingers across a set of lovingly made scars that decorate the side of it.

��Make sure I feel it. You can do that, can’t you?” Her hand is still wrapped around the back of his, and she squeezes it slightly to make sure that Astarion fully understands her point.

Thankfully, he’s a quick study and he tightens his grip infinitesimally, dragging her deeper onto his cock with the other hand still grasping at her hip.

“Oh, I’ll do anything for you.” Astarion leans in as he’s fully seated inside of her, letting his lips wander across her rouged cheek as his thumb presses in on her windpipe, nothing about the touch sweet or delicate.

It’s perfect.

“Good. Now move,” Rin rasps as she bucks her hips, urging him to give her more as his lips brush along the side of her face—pressing kisses to her temple, the corner of her painted lips, the freckles that dot over her cheeks.

“Is that how you want it then, my sweet? Does my love want it hard?” He has the nerve to practically snicker in her ear as he teases her, the bastard.

He’s lucky she loves him for it.

“I want it as hard as you can give it.” She grinds herself against his still hips, relishing the soft moan that escapes from his mouth at the movement. “Provided you can, of course.”

“Are you questioning my abilities, darling?”

“I would never dare to do such a thing.”

“A pity, because if you were I’d simply have to show you the full extent of them. I’d have you crying for your release later tonight, my sweet, while I pleasured you senseless in an attempt to show you everything I’m capable of.”

“Please,” She begs for it on a breathy gasp, the picture painted in her mind by those words one she finds incredibly tempting.

Once upon a time, she would have hated the sound of that word escaping her lips, but now she finds she doesn’t quite mind when it slips past her defenses to fall upon Astarion’s elegantly jeweled ears.

“Gods, I love it when you’re like this,” Astarion practically moans into her ear, his cock twitching inside her as he holds her still. “So terribly desperate and needy.”

Rin leans into his the touch of his lips against the soft point of her ear as much as she can with his hand still wrapped around her neck, no longer quite so bothered by the potential of a ruined updo as she sighs, “I learned from the best.”

Finally, Astarion begins to move in long, slow draws of his length against her walls, almost pulling himself out of her each time before pushing himself back in, filling her inch by inch.

“Do remember to tap my hand if it becomes too much. Are we clear, darling?”

Rin grinds against him again, eager for him to finally fucking move. “Like crystal, love.”

She can just barely make out the wolfish grin on his lips in the darkness as his hips find a slow rhythm, rocking into her gently as his hand tightens around her neck again.

It’s not enough to really hurt—never enough to truly cause her any sort of pain or injury—but it’s just enough so that she can feel the precious air in her lungs become harder to access, making it the tiniest bit harder to breathe.

Astarion was perhaps many things, but he was nothing if not careful in moments like these ones, where they played with the heady combination of pain and pleasure, always perfectly aware of her limits as much as his own.

He drops a kiss onto the shell of her ear before nipping at it, grazing the sharp point of his fangs across the sensitive skin. She whines at the feeling and he’s quick to shush her, the hand on her hip swatting at her behind in a quick spank that has her hips jumping.

“I’m going to have to shove my handkerchief into that pretty little mouth of yours, darling, if you can’t be quiet. Although, I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Rin winks back at him in response, biting her lip against the light pressure Astarion puts on her neck while she answers every one of his slow thrusts with a roll of her hips.

“You absolute freak.” His pace begins to speed up—no longer that slow, casual slide of his cock inside her, replacing it with increasingly punishing thrusts that has their skin meeting together audibly in the silence of the closet.

Her emerald eyes are gleaming in the darkness as Astarion tightens his grip on her neck on a particularly deep thrust that has another ragged moan breaking free from her lips. “Takes one to know one.”

Astarion drives into her hard and fast, that one hand around her neck squeezing just enough to have more heat surging through her body, driving her higher and higher with every movement of his hips.

She’s at his mercy and she loves every minute of it as he fucks her just as she had wanted, chasing every thought out of her mind that didn’t revolve around him.

“I’m going to fuck you full of my come and you’re going to love every minute of it, aren’t you?” His hips collide roughly with her own as he whispers low into her ear, the words sending a bolt of pleasure straight to her center.

Rin nods as she meets his thrusts, the hand on her neck tight as she manages the thought to speak a single word. “Yes.”

“Say that you want it, darling.” He loosens his grip just slightly so that she can speak easier, a rush of air whooshing into her lungs as she takes it in on a gasped breath.

She’s barely thinking coherently when she sighs the words he wants to hear, every one of them uttered only fuel for the want burning inside her. “I want it. I want your come, Astarion.”

The hand on her hip curls around her front, fingertips dragging as they explore the skin of her stomach before dipping lower.

Rin moans when the coolness of his skin meets her clit, Astarion running his fingers over it with a teasing brush before moving them lower to collect some of the wetness from where they are joined together.

“Tell me that you want me to fill your tight, perfect cunt up with it.”

He returns his fingers up to round on the pearl at the top of her folds, her body shaking around him as the pleasure builds and builds and builds under his care.

“Please, Astarion. Fill up my cunt with your come, fuck me full of it. Whatever you want, I’ll take it all.”

She should be embarrassed by the words she’s babbling, but she’s far from feeling ashamed by them as they leave her lips. She’ll gladly take whatever he wants to give her—anything—as long as it’s from him.

“I know you will, my love.” He bestows another kiss against her temple, lips lingering over her skin as his cock brushes against that special place inside her with every thrust as his thumb presses harder into her neck again. “Now, be a good girl and come for me.”

She tightens around him as he circles her clit faster, his length hitting perfectly inside her every time. Astarion’s determined to send her over the edge and draw her orgasm from her with the way he’s fucking her, and she’s more than willing to oblige him.

All it takes is a few more thrusts and she’s lost to the euphoria, careening into her pleasure as she comes, her body tightening around him. It sends a wave of heat through her veins, her body shaking as she cries out at the feeling.

She barely remembers to move her hand from atop his to cover her mouth, absently thanking all those months they spent fucking in camp years ago where she learned to quiet her cries as she presses her lips into her palm and moans her pleasure into it.

Her hips writhe, Astarion working her through it with his fingers still turning circles on her clit as his cock hits perfectly inside her, pleasure practically whiting out her mind with the pure feeling of it all.

She’s only just coming back down from her high when she hears Astarion’s moans turning increasingly desperate, his hips rutting into hers in a frenzy.

“Fuck, Rin,” Astarion swears as he loses his rhythm, thrusts growing faster. “I’m going to come, sweetheart.”

“Gods, please, Astarion. Come inside me,” She moans in response, squeezing herself around him one last time as he sucks in a breath.

He hilts himself as deep as he can on one last thrust as his orgasm hits, his hand falling from her neck to instead reach out to grasp at one of the shelves in front of them as he spills himself deep inside her warmth.

Astarion buries his face into her neck, the scent of her sweet perfume surrounding him as he lets his moans muffle into her skin as his hips rut into hers.

The satisfaction she feels as he comes inside her is yet another thing she should probably feel some sort of shame about; though she can’t seem to find it in her to care as his hips still press into her own, luxuriating in the warmth that blooms inside her chest instead as she smiles, still stuck in the dreamy haze of the afterglow.

He murmurs stray words of affection against her as he comes down and his hips finally slow—whispering his love in between the kisses he presses to her neck and shoulder as his hand slips away from her center to wrap around her waist instead.

He’s saying something to her in Elvish that she can barely make out in the midst of her own exhaustion, the feeling of his cool cheek brushing against her overheated skin a balm as he presses another kiss to her shoulder, sending a shiver through her overwrought body.

“I know you’re alive because I can hear your heartbeat, but do speak up so I can know you’re alright, darling.”

Rin manages a dazed chuckle, squeezing his hand where it drapes around her waist. “I can confirm that I am still breathing for the moment, at least. But if I were to have died, that wouldn’t have been a bad way to go.”

“Undoubtedly. But I am very much glad you shall live on for another day.” He presses one last kiss to her neck, right over a set of scars, before rising to his full height behind her.

He pulls his softening cock out of her, his come seconds from dribbling down her legs when he brings his fingers down, swiping at his spend where it threatens to spread onto her folds.

Slowly, Astarion pushes his come back inside her as she moans low, limbs tightening at the feeling of his fingers moving deep.

He brushes a kiss to her cheek as he teasingly curls them once inside her, having the audacity to chuckle at the way her body pulses around him. “Keep it, won’t you?”

“Gods, Astarion,” Rin groans as his fingers retreat and he secures the gusset of her underwear back over her with a little pat before he steps back. “Have I ever told you that you’re really something else, sometimes?”

“Plenty of times. And I never tire of hearing it, my love.” His handkerchief materializes in his hand as he cleans his fingers before tucking himself back into his pants and buttoning himself back up with more grace than she certainly possesses after their little escapade.

Hells, they were going to have to leave this closet soon and assess the damage done to their carefully made up visages. Rin’s confident her hair survived, if a little more mussed than it was, but the same cannot likely be said for her makeup.

With any luck none of it will have migrated, at the very least saving her the embarrassment of looking like a fancily dressed circus clown.

Rin rights herself, ignoring the heat already sneaking to her cheeks at the knowledge that when she walks out of here, there will be no mistaking the activities they had just engaged in.

Especially with Astarion’s come now seeping into her panties, the scent of him inescapable as it mingles with her own.

“What do you say to one more glass of free wine and then we sneak out of here without saying goodbye to anyone?” She fluffs the skirt of her dress as Astarion reaches out to fix the neckline, pulled a little too low on her breasts for her own comfort.

“And deprive Florrick and Ravengard of their goodbye from our beautiful and heroic bard?” Astarion says, aghast.

Rin whacks him playfully on the chest, shooting him a smile as she checks the pins in her hair.

“Ravengard is boring and Florrick is drunk, and if I have to hear either of them wax on about the Flaming Fist one more time tonight I may suffer psychological injury.”

“Alright, darling, you win. One more glass of wine and then we hope to never see these people again.”

They most certainly will have to see these people again, but was the point of being a good liar if you couldn’t even deceive yourself for a single evening?

“Maybe they’ll forget all about us and stop inviting us to these things, if we’re lucky.” Rin runs her hands through his hair, pushing fallen strands back into place before standing up on her tip toes to press a kiss to his lips.

Astarion happily returns it, his lips pulling into a smile as he kisses her back with a contented hum.

His arm loops around her, settling his hand on her lower back as he opens the door and peeks his head outside before ushering them both out of the closet, securing the door with a quiet click before they set back down the hallway.

Rin notices light from a nearby candelabra shining off of something in Astarion’s other hand, the color that of silver illuminated to a burnished gold in the flickering flames.

“Astarion, did you steal something from that closet?” She rolls her eyes before she shoots him a look of reproach for good measure. “You’ve got to stop stealing from people’s houses. It’s bad form.”

Astarion smirks proudly as he brandishes a set of silver spoons, both intricately patterned on the handles and easily worth a small fortune in gold coin.

“But darling, I thought you never wanted to be invited back?” He spins them between his nimble fingers with ease, a blur of metal twirling in the light that her eyes can barely follow the motion of.

She should probably tell him to go put them back. It would be very bad for her to turn a blind eye and continue to allow him to so blatantly commit thievery, wouldn’t it?

She was a hero, after all. Or at least, that’s what they liked to call her.

But when had Rin ever cared much for laws or rules? It wasn’t like they’d even notice two missing spoons in an entire closet full of silver, honestly.

Frankly, Astarion could have stolen much more, now that she thinks about it.

“Fine, steal the spoons, what do I care? While you’re at it, maybe go for a bottle of wine from behind the bar, too?”

“A woman after my own heart,” Astarion sighs dramatically before pocketing his new treasures, swooping down to press a kiss to Rin’s cheek one last time before they enter the ballroom. “Your wish is my command, my sweet.”

Her eyes cut to his as they step into the cavernous room, glittering with mischief of her own as she raises a brow in challenge.

“Don’t forget to make it an expensive one.”

#astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fanfiction #astarion smut #kinktober #bg3 kinktober #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #astarion fics #astarion fic

114 notes · View notes

taleeater · 8 months ago

Text

Fragile

Heyooo I’m writing this to get over my writing block for my book. All angst and comfort here 🤗

Generation: Bayverse TMNT

Tmnt x Reader Fanfic

Pronouns: Gender Neutral (except ‘dudette’)

Warnings: fighting, blood, injury, panic attack, hyperventilating, not proof read

Summary: You are a runaway experiment from Stockman’s lab. An unexpected group of mutants come to your rescue. How did they know how to find you?

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

You were freezing and exhausted.

The city was quiet as the darkness ebbed closer to early morning hours. You had been running for hours now, somehow they always found your hiding spot. You whipped around a corner into another countless dark alley way.

A flinch and a small yelp of pain left you as your bare feet tread across broken glass. You risk a break and press your back into the cold brick of an apartment building as you take a moment to catch your breath. Daintily you lift your foot and pull out a sharp piece of broken glass, tossing away the piece and check the other foot.

Suddenly the screech of tires catches your attention and the adrenaline hits you again like a crashing wave. You’re running again before you can even think. You exit the alley and dart out into the street. A black van rounds the corner behind you and you sprint for the narrow opening between two apartment buildings. You practically slam into the concrete, bumping your shoulder and scraping your knee as you squeeze your tiny body past a build up of trash. The car pulls up by the opening and the door is thrown open as two men in black suits jump out and reach for you, but you scoot further down and make for the other side. They curse and order the driver to pull around the other side and cut you off as they try to fit through the opening behind you. But you’re faster. You stumble out onto the side walk and fall to your knees, panting hard, and scramble to your feet. The black van again comes into your peripheral vision but you’re already booking it down the street as fast as you can. They can’t catch you again, they just can’t. Not again.

The black van zooms past you and the tires squeal as they pull the car in front of you, blocking your path. You hear the footsteps of the other two men behind you and you quickly find an alley to your right, avoiding hands that reach for you.

In the icy chilled night air, you are sweating through the thin white smock. A dead end.

“No…. No no no no they can’t- ….” You frantically look around at the corners where brick and grey cement buildings meet, discarded trash piled up but nowhere to hide. You find a glass beer bottle and smash the bottom of it. The raggedy sound of your desperate gasps for breath fill the space, your back pressed hard into the slimy brick wall. Heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Polished leather shoes click as the group of men slowly approached you, spread out like they were ready to catch a frightened animal.

“Finally.” A man in a white lab coat stepped into the alley behind the men in suits. “You stay right there. Before we go back, we are going to have a nice long “talk” about your behavior….”

Several of the men reached to their belts for a wand that extended into a short metal rod with electricity sparking at the tips, and another man walked over to a pile of trash and pulled out the broken leg of a wooden table.

The man chuckled, watching your eyes widen with fear as you trembled in your defensive position. He pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and clicked a pen.

“I will be observing if this event triggers a desired response. You may begin.” The armed men all suddenly lunged forward.

“Finally.”

A large flash of green and red suddenly descended from above and landed right on top of the man closest to you, making you flinch with fright.

A whoop sounded from above and everyone stopped to look up as another large being flipped in the air and landed in front of you in a showy flourish of waving nunchucks.

“Step away from the babe!” The orange clad being said heroically, looking over his shoulder to throw you a wink.

Your eyes were wide as your whole body tensed, frozen in place. His face almost didn’t look…. human.

Like Bebop and Rocksteady.

Another thud brought your attention to a large blue clad being that landed next to the red one.

“Raph, I said to wait until I gave the order!” He whisper yelled. Making the red one, Raph, grunt and step off the man he was standing on.

“Seemed to me that Stockman already gave the order. You think I was just gonna sit by and watch?”

The men in suits had started surrounding the red and blue mutants, while the orange protectively stood in front of you spinning his nunchucks.

You lowered the broken bottle in your hands marginally, sensing that the new arrivals didn’t have intention to harm you. When suddenly a fourth one in a purple mask landed right next to you, making you jump with surprise, the bottle flying from your hand and shattering nearby.

“My data indicates that this is indeed the supposed experiment that escaped from the Foot Clan’s secret laboratory approximately 4 hours ago.” He spoke calmly while you tried to catch your breath, panic rising again in your throat as your back slid down the wall until you were sat on the ground.

“Yeah, we gathered that, brainiac.” Raph gruffly sassed.

“The chip we’ve been tracking is still active. Leo?” Said the supposed brainiac.

“Shut it down Donnie, we’ll take care of this.” Ordered Leo, as he turned and faced Stockman.

“Right.” Donnie knelt next to you and suddenly looked nervous. He gave you a very awkward smile before continuing.

“Sorry, I just need to see your arm for a minute. Can I touch you?” He asked calmly.

It was clear that you were trying very hard to suppress a panic attack. Adrenaline still pumped through your veins and you were scared half to death. But this mutant was the first being in over a year to ask your permission before doing anything to you. So you swallowed your fear and gave a trembling nod.

The purple mutant, Donnie, looked at you seriously for a moment before returning your nod. “Okay, I’m going to touch you now…” he said as he gently took your arm.

You still flinched on instinct, and took in a sharp inhale of breath, trying to steady your nerves.

Donnie muttered a quick apology. One of the men in suits was suddenly thrown into the wall near you, startling you almost out of your skin. Making you practically leap into Donnie’s arms.

“Hey, watch it Mikey!” He shouted to the orange banded mutant.

“Whoops, sorry dudette!” Mikey paused his fight to wave over at you apologetically.

You found yourself half in the embrace of Donnie, who looked down at you and giggled nervously. You instinctively flinched out of his embrace, but remained near. You didn’t want to get any closer to the unconscious man in the suit.

“Sorry… let’s try that again. Can I… touch your arm? I need to find the chip.” He gently took your arm after you gave a quick nod and he felt around your upper arm for a little bump. You squirmed a little when he found it.

“There! Okay. I’m really sorry but I need to take it out of you. This might sting a little-“ before you could process what he said you felt a sharp pinch in your arm. You panicked. Your head shot up and you started to hyperventilate. You tried to find something to focus on like you did in the lab, and watched as the orange, blue, and red mutants chased Stockman back to his van. The coward leaving behind his unconscious men and shouting at them that he wasn’t going to give up on finding you. The three mutants, you distantly observed from their backs, looked almost like turtles.

The pinching in your arm stopped, but your breathing wasn’t slowing down. You felt a three fingered hand on your shoulder begin to shake you, the other turtle mutants turning around and looking back at you with surprise as Stockman drove off. Your vision got hazy. The world seemed to slow down as you watched the three turtle men run towards you with expressions of worry on their faces. The fourth one was shouting something to them from beside you as he placed his hand over your diaphragm to steady you. His face came into your vision, expression serious as you tried to make out the words he was speaking. ‘Breath… just breath…’ you could make out from the shape of his lips.

That was the last thing you saw before darkness overtook you, and you passed out.

Part 2 :]

#tmnt x reader #tmnt bayverse x reader #bayverse tmnt #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2016 #tmnt imagine #tmnt reader insert #tmnt imagines #tmnt 2016 x reader #tmnt fanfic #tmnt 2014 x reader #tmnt 2014 #bayverse donatello x reader

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whoopsyeahokay · 5 months ago

Text

October Sun

summary: Xavier had been tormented by many things since Maddie's disappearance, Simon's distrust and hostility at the top of the list. but there'd been other things that'd kept him up at night as well, and for a much longer time. I know we don't talk about it, he'd said, but maybe we should...

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.20

Xavier stood in front of the closed door, wary, unsure if he was allowed to open it. He knew what was behind it, knew you were in there because you hadn't been in your room when he'd gone to check on you after he'd heard the pipes shudder and the water stop.

He'd spent the last thirty minutes with Abigail—your grandmother—in the kitchen, their conversation skirting around the topic of your panic attack as if admitting what had caused it would conjure another episode. Abigail had fed him cookies and chocolate milk like he was still the little boy she'd been introduced to years ago, all scraped knees and peach-fuzz hair, adult teeth too big for his smile.

A massive tupperware of spaghetti and meatballs waited for him on the bench in the foyer where he'd kicked off his shoes and hung his jacket upon entering the house. Abigail always fretted over him. Hugged him and held him like her own. Xavier adored her. Adored your whole family, really; profoundly grateful to be accepted as part of it. Especially after his own had dissolved into something he couldn't hold together no matter how much he'd tried.

Still, being accepted into your family didn't mean Xavier had access to every corner and cranny. Some things were off-limits, private, For Our Eyes Only, and the room he lingered outside of was one of them. But, fuck it, he'd already missed his Bio test; had skipped last period to get you home safe, and he needed to make sure you were okay before he left.

With a grounding breath, Xavier summoned the courage and opened the door.

The room was daytime-dark, curtains drawn, the stars tacked on the ceiling glowing an eerie, phosphorous green. He could easily make out the child-height furniture. The shelves of picture books and action figures. Spiderman sheets, sleeves of Pokémon cards, and a stack of VHS tapes Aurora had insisted on playing whenever she'd been forced to babysit—"This sucks, Rory, we want Netflix!"—"Shut up. This is so much better!"

The air smelt stale, stuffy, and there was a thick film of dust on every surface but the bed. A shrine untouched in the years between Then and Now.

Xavier's eyes fell to where you sat on the floor, knees up, head tipped back to rest on the low, single bed. He wanted to turn around. Leave. Being there felt intrusive. But, you didn't yell at him. Didn't tell him to fuck off. Didn't throw something at his head. You barely acknowledged him apart from patting the ground beside you in behest.

He dropped down easily; accepted your weight when you slumped into his side, head on his shoulder, damp hair soaking a wet patch into the collar of his shirt. He rested his elbows on his knees, hand clasped around opposite wrist, and pressed his cheek into the top of your head. Glancing down the length of you, he noticed the stuffed lion in your arms. A long, gangly thing with a round face and button eyes, features sewn in black thread on a corduroy canvas.

Aidan had toted that thing around like a limb, Xavier remembered.

It hurt everywhere to think of the little boy who'd inserted himself into the sleepovers and hangouts you'd had in elementary school. Afternoons and evenings spent shooing him away only to give in within minutes because neither you nor Xavier or Hana had the heart to say no to him.

"Sissy~, I want to play, too!"

A lump formed in Xavier's throat, pressure behind his eyes that he ignored to ask, "Are you okay?" He kept his voice just above a whisper, the way people spoke in church. Afraid to disturb the spectral peace that pervaded the room.

After several beats, you finally admitted, "I don't think so," and held the lion tighter.

Xavier didn't know how to respond, the agreement you'd both made six years ago—no questions asked—weighing his conscience down. He wanted to respect the promise. Had always respected it just as you had done for him. However, things felt too heavy not to at least broach the subject.

On a shaky exhale, Xavier ventured, "I know we don't talk about it, but...maybe we should."

"Zav..."

"No, listen, you freaked the fuck out back there and it scared the shit out of me. I haven't seen you that bad in years." He nudged you off his shoulder with a minute shrug, shifting to prop his head against the bed. You studied him, thick lashes starred from your shower, and eyes glassy. The misery miring your expression was visible enough through the dark that Xavier felt guilty for saying anything. He said anyway, "Please don't shut me out."

His mother had very little interest in him; his dad treated him like an unbroken animal. And Maddie...he'd fucked that up so much that, even if she came back, he wouldn't be able to look her in the eye. And yes, yeah, he'd done it to himself, okay? He knew that. He'd always made sure not to let himself get too comfortable. Kept people at arm's length because, if he didn't, it would hurt so much worse when they eventually left.

But you were different. You'd been there since he'd pushed Harrison Levi out of the sandbox in kindergarten and split the kid's eyebrow open. The only one in the class who hadn't been afraid of Xavier after that, and had shared your crayons and glue during crafts period.

Xavier needed you like a lifeline, the one person in the whole damn world who saw him for who he was and hadn't left him in the past. You'd stayed through the angst of his parents' separation; through a childhood filled with inappropriate humor and distasteful comments. Through above-average forgetfulness and outbursts he couldn't control.

He felt the warmth of your breath on his cheeks, smelt peppermint toothpaste and vanilla shampoo; faces close, sides pressed together in a soft line. An intimate bubble of privacy and safety.

"I saw Ms. Chung in the hallway before class." You said at last, as if that explained everything, and okay, sure, Xavier could work with that.

Kind of. "Who?"

"The grief counselor that Principal Hartman brought in on Monday." You elaborated. "She, uhm...She was the counselor I saw after..."

Xavier understood what you couldn't say. Nodded and smiled gratefully at you for having shared that much. He filled in some blanks himself, "And, I guess, this whole thing with Maddie is hitting pretty close to home, huh?"

You snorted, "Yeah, it definitely has the whole 'someone you think you can trust ends up betraying you' thing going for it."

Xavier's blood ran cold.

It would occur to him later that he didn't fully understand how your comment related to your trauma. It was the one police file his dad had ensured Xavier couldn't get his hands on and snoop through.

For now, he was blindsided by fear. Because who the fuck else had Maddie been meant to trust and was instead betrayed by? Sandra, perhaps, but you didn't know that. Did you? Had you also been to see her? No, that would be weird as hell. You and Maddie were friends-by-extension. Xavier didn't think you even knew where Maddie lived. Thus, as far as Xavier knew, he was the only one who fit the profile, which meant that, oh God no, you knew about Claire and this was the moment you banished Xavier from your life forever. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to be entirely alone, not yet, please, not yet—

"What does that mean?" He fished, tone even, though inwardly he was losing his shit.

Your focus went distant as you seemed to think carefully about what you wanted to say. With his heart in his throat, Xavier listened as you told him, "Simon and I think Mr. Anderson had something to do with Maddie's disappearance."

And he almost cried in relief. Until a certain part of your statement sunk in.

"You and Simon?"

You leaned back, looking at Xavier like you were mentally fitting him for a dunce cap. "Really? That's what you're concerned about? Zav, you went on an adventure with his only other best friend yesterday. He didn't have anyone else to talk to, so yeah, I'm happy to help him follow whatever leads he finds."

"At least Nicole doesn't hate me." Xavier hissed, "Simon dead-ass accused me of hurting Maddie in front of everyone."

"Okay, a) I made sure to get it through his skull that you're innocent. And, b) Simon doesn't hate you." You stopped, appearing somewhat hesitant to continue before you went on in sympathy, "He's just obviously in love with Maddie and you're the guy she chose instead."

As if Xavier hadn't been painfully aware of Simon's big, fat crush on Maddie since the fledgling days of their relationship. Simon had been a looming presence; had viscerally attempted to hold back glaring daggers at Xavier across the lunch table or over your and Mathilda's heads at shows, or movies, or tailgates.

"We're all trying to figure out where Maddie is." You said, bringing the situation to order. "And it seems like we've all been doing a better job than the cops because you and Nicole found boot prints and a ticket, and Simon found a stash of cash in Mr. Anderson's classroom. Plus, after talking about it last night—"

"You saw Simon last night?"

You talked over Xavier, the volume of your voice rising marginally, "—he and I think he's hiding something in the theater, too."

Xavier hung his head, cracked his neck, and rolled his shoulders, trying to calm the wave of conflicting emotion cresting inside him. You were his best friend. Yet, you'd buddied off with Simon Creepy Possessive Elroy to—

"Wait. Anderson has money in his classroom?"

You rolled your eyes, sporting a sardonic smile, "Yes, Officer Baxter, welcome back to the point. You done being weird?"

"I'm sorry, okay?" Xavier apologized sincerely, ducking to catch your eye. He swiveled to rest his side against the bed and face you more easily. "That was a lot of information to digest. I didn't mean to get weird about you and Simon being close all of a sudden."

You playfully shoved a hand into Xavier's face, "Aw, Zav, don't worry, I'm still all yours," and winked before dissolving into a merry cackle.

Xavier reached across the narrow space between you both and slung an arm around your neck, dragging you close to ruffle your hair. It didn't have the same effect as when your hair was dry, tangling and teasing it into an 80s starburst, but it was close enough. You squealed and giggled, laid Aidan's lion on the bed, and then wrestled Xavier off you. In retaliation, he banded his arms around your torso and pulled you into his chest, fingers dancing along your sides.

It was fun, silly, something neither of you had been in what Xavier felt had been forever. Your laughter brightened the room, pushed the melancholy shadows into the corners, and made way for a cheerful lightness that hadn't existed in the space for too long.

"You're an ass." You wheezed, squirming out of Xavier's grasp and settling back against the bed, one leg held close and chin propped on your knee.

"Yeah, but you love me," Xavier teased.

He was loathe to ruin the moment—you beaming at him with dimpled cheeks and crinkled eyes—but his phone started to buzz in his front pocket. He dug it out, saw who was calling and glanced at you for confirmation that he should answer.

At your nod, he accepted the call, "Hey Tilda, sorry for not calling before, but—"

"SIMON, DON'T SAY A FUCKING WORD UNTIL MY MOM GETS THERE!" Mathilda shrieked on the other end of the line and then, into the phone, "What the fuck, Xavier, I tried calling you three times already!"

She had? Xavier hadn't felt his phone vibrate before then...Of course, when he was hyper-focused on something, everything else fell away, muffled by the void until he poked his head out of whatever rabbit hole he'd tumbled down. And, when it came to taking care of you, nothing else penetrated until he'd exhausted himself putting a smile back on your face.

Something he'd just succeeding in doing, damn it.

You pounced forward, grabbing Xavier's phone out of his hand and putting the call on speaker, "What's going on?"

"The cops just dragged Simon out of the school." Mathilda relayed, harried, clearly on the move. "I called my mom, but she won't be in town for another hour!" You and Xavier shared a look before Mathilda pulled attention back to what was unfolding on her end, "They're putting him in the back seat! That's bad, right!? XAVIER!? Is that bad!? What the heLL IS GOING ON!?"

"It's fine, Tilda," Xavier reassured firmly, eyes fixed on yours. "Unless he's in handcuffs, they aren't arresting him. They probably just want his statement on the record."

"His statement for what?" Mathilda sounded ready to go to battle, "They already asked us about Friday!"

Oh shit, you mouthed, the money.

Xavier muted the call to ask you, "Would Simon call the cops on Anderson?"

"I mean, he stole the man's phone. If he found something, he definitely wouldn't wait."

"Simon stole his phone?" Xavier almost clutched his proverbial pearls like a maiden aunt. The unhinged act of devotion to Maddie made him reconsider what it meant to care.

Simon was on the warpath, no fucks left to give, ready and willing to throw himself on the sword if necessary. Was that the kind of love Xavier had been meant to summon for Maddie? He had a lot of big feelings for her, most of them overshadowed by guilt now that she'd taken off without a backward glance, but none of them had inspired him to burn the world down in pursuit of her. There were—maybe—only two people he'd ever felt that kind of feral protectiveness over, and one of them was dead. The other...

He glanced up at you carefully, saw the distress in your eyes as you worried over Simon. "If they're taking him in," Xavier said, putting a hand on your knee for comfort, "they didn't find the money in Anderson's class."

"Then Anderson moved it." You choked. "Simon wasn't lying, Zav. If you'd seen how Mr. Anderson was acting last night, you'd know it was true, too."

"Hello!? Are you still there? Xavier!"

Xavier unmuted the call, both you and he chiming, "Yep, here!"

"Can't you call your dad?" Mathilda demanded and Xavier could picture her perfectly with her hand on her hip, brows furrowed, eyes ablaze, about to scold him like a mother hen. "He's the Sheriff! He could make them let Simon go!"

"Not necessarily, Tils. What if Simon knows something we don't?"

"Like what? He was at the APEX with us last week when Maddie took off. I saw him with my own eyeballs, Bax, he didn't know anything." Mathilda argued.

"Guess she's not pissed at him anymore," You commented quietly, more to a general audience than Xavier specifically.

"Alright, how's this. I'll go see what I can get out of my dad. You've already called your mom, she's on her way," He stated in a measured cadence, "There's nothing else we can do."

Begrudgingly, Mathilda agreed, closing the call with a semi-threatening, "Call me immediately, babes! I want to know why you weren't in Bio," directed to you, and then, "Love you both~!"

"I wasn't in Bio, either," Xavier grumbled, pouting at the white call-ended screen, "I don't count?"

You didn't indulge him, instead asking, "What should I do?"

"What should you do about what?"

"Tilly called her mom, you're going to sniff around your dad's office. What should I do? I can head back to the school and see if there's anything in the theater."

Immediately Xavier was on edge. The idea of you going back to the school and getting caught—possibly by Mr. Anderson who was, if as guilty as you inferred, absolutely going to be on alert now that the police had been called—didn't sit well with him. Not after what had happened to you earlier.

"No." He said, authoritative, stiff, "That's...no."

"I have to do something. What if Mr. Anderson hurt Maddie, huh? What if that money ties him to her somehow? And now he's going to get away with it because the police are focused on Simon."

Xavier grabbed you by the back of the head, angled your face so you had to look at him when he told you in no uncertain terms, "You're not going back there, kiddo. Not without me, okay? You've been through enough today, you need to rest."

"But—"

"How about this," He reasoned and dropped his hand to your shoulder, "We go in tomorrow morning before class and take a look around. Together."

You deflated, "And what about Simon?"

"There's literally nothing we can do about that right now, okay?"

An unhappy silence followed as you chewed over the alternatives Xavier offered. He was gearing up to sling you over his shoulder, carry you back to your bedroom, and lock you in your closet until he came to get you in the morning. Completely dismissing that you had a whole family who would hear you trying to escape and then very likely sneak you into the school themselves just for shits and giggles.

Color him surprised when you actually seemed to acquiesce.

"Fine." You said, audibly pissed that you were being benched, but, hey, Xavier was being sensible for once, the least you could do was humor him for one night. "But you'd better be here at dawn, Xavier."

Xavier traced an X over his heart, "I promise."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Of course, Xavier really should've had you promise to do as he'd said because, as soon as the coast was clear, you snuck out of the house, donning a pair of sleep shorts and your Uncle Andrew's hoodie.

💀___________________________

PART NINETEEN - PART TWENTY-ONE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

#Milo Manheim #Wally Clark #Xavier Baxter #Spencer MacPherson #Xavier Baxter is ADHD coded #Wally Clark x Reader #fem!reader #Wally Clark smut #Wally Clark fanfiction #Milo Manheim fanfiction #School Spirits #zed necrodopolis #Disney Zombies #October Sun

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storiesofsvu · 11 months ago

Text

Solace in Solitude

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, alcohol mentioned, smut! dirty talk, minor insecurity if you squint. If you haven't voted or what series I do next go do that! Though we all know Emily's gonna win... LOL. I do really want to write that one next but I also kinda wanna take a break from Em for a bit to branch out, not that I'm sick of her lol. We'll see what happens lol.

Neither of you were entirely sure how you’d gotten here.

It was an exceptionally hot weekend for almost being October, too hot to stay in the stuffy apartment with no air conditioning. In search of cooler air you’d ended up at a different bar, one with a very different vibe from your usual pub, one where heat wasn’t the only thing coursing through the air. You couldn’t pinpoint the moment when it happened but a few rounds of drinks and a handful of shots later Emily had you pinned to the wall in an alleyway on the way back to the apartment, her knee slotted between your legs as your lips chased hers for another kiss.

“You’re not the only one who needs to get laid Carter.” She husked, her teeth scraping down the column of your neck.

“I’m not fucking you in an alley.” You managed back between airy breaths and Emily chuckled, hand wrapping around your wrist to drag you back to the apartment.

The door was barely locked by the time Emily’s fingers were sneaking under the hem of your shirt, tickling up your skin before she tugged it over your head and it found home on the floor. Her hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in for another heated kiss, her tongue easily slipping into your mouth as you moaned, fingers slipping into the belt loops of her shorts. You backed your way into your bedroom, lips dancing against hers, quiet moans escaping both of you. An arm wrapped around Emily’s waist and you turned her until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. A small squeak escaped her lips as you broke the kiss, nudging her backwards while your lips traced down the side of her jaw.

“What?” You asked, nipping her skin softly, “you said you wanted to get off too.” Your hands tickled at the skin between her tank and shorts before they froze, “unless you changed your mind?”

“No,” She breathed out nudging at you to get you to continue sucking at her neck, her fingers wrapped around your wrist, guiding you away from the hem of her shirt, “just…leave it on.” She directed your hand to the buckle of her belt instead and you hummed in understanding.

Nipping at the crook of her neck, your tongue laved across the bite when Emily hissed softly and you placed a gentle kiss on the mark before sucking at her skin. Your hands swiftly made work of her belt, undoing her shorts and pushing them down her legs. She let out a groan when you cupped at her through her panties, her hips rocking toward the touch as pleasure surged through her, desperate to feel more.

“Don’t fucking tease.” She murmured and you laughed, pulling yourself away from her neck as your hands gently shoved at her hips.

“Then lie back and take those off.”

Emily dropped down onto the bed, fingertips slipping into the band of her panties to shove them down her legs, watching as you quickly ditched your own shorts, climbing onto the bed to capture her lips in another kiss. This one even more heated than the last as Emily’s hand tangled into your hair, keeping you close to her, tongue rolling against yours as her other hand easily undid your bra. Once the fabric had dropped from your skin her free hand began to toy with you, rolling your nipples, pinching them softly, pulling little moans and whines from you, muffled by the kiss.

Your hand squeezed at her thigh, fingers beginning to dance across her soft skin, tracing higher and higher with each rotation. She let out an impatient whine into the kiss and you smirked, nipping at her lip when she attempted to pout in frustration. Your hand cupped between her legs and her head fell back into the pillows when she let out a satisfied groan, her body tingling with pleasure. The heel of your hand lightly ground against her clit while your fingers started to trail through her folds, slipping in just enough to coax out her juices.

“Fuck…” Emily muttered beneath you, her breath picking up as her hips began to rock in time with your movements. You let out a prideful chuckle, shifting to sit up and she grabbed at your free arm, clicking her tongue at you, “get back here.”

She dragged you into another kiss, moaning into your mouth as your finger tips pressed into her pussy. Her hips twitched up toward the touch and you finally gave her what she wanted, sinking a single finger inside her, satisfied at the way her body practically melted beneath you. You thrusted a couple of times, your tongue dipping into her mouth at the same pace before you added a second finger and she broke the kiss with a moan.

“Oh god..”

“Relax…” you murmured, your nose nudging her chin so you could kiss down her neck again.

Emily’s hand tangled into your hair, holding you to her body as you continued to pump your fingers, each thrust shooting more pleasure through her. She could feel the sparks flying, soaring further south each time your finger tips brushed past the sensitive spot inside her. She let out a gasp when you suddenly curled your fingers, actually hitting it and she could feel your lips curve up into a sly grin against her skin. Whining softly her hips rocked up into your hand and you began to pump them faster, curling with each thrust and her heart was hammering in her chest. You nipped at the crook of her neck and began to make your way across her collarbone, barely able to leave a gentle kiss on the swell of her chest before the hand she had in your hair was pulling you back up into another kiss.

Her pussy was soaked, each pass of your fingers pulling more juices from her, smearing them across her inner thighs and leaking down your wrist. You could feel the way she was pulsing around you already, the tremors each time your finger tips pressed into her g-spot, her thighs quaking around your arm as her moans got louder and needier. You slowed, pressing into the spongey spot harder and longer this time,

“Oh fuck!”

“You gonna come for me?” You husked, your breath hot on her lips as she panted underneath you, a small nod of her head as her eyes scrunched shut.

Quickly changing the angle of your hand, your thumb found her clit, rubbing circles on it and she moaned loudly, her body tensing as pleasure rocked through it. When you pressed harder on her clit she could feel all of the fire racing into the pit of her stomach, curling tighter and tighter as you began to rub faster, timing it with the thrusts of your fingers. The moment you curled your fingers again she cried out, her pussy clenching down around you as her orgasm shot through her, the hand tangled in your hair tightened, nails scratching at your scalp. Her hips jolted up, thighs shaking as you fucked her through her orgasm until she collapsed into the pillows panting.

“Satisfied?” You asked with a smirk as you sat up, pulling your fingers from her before sucking them into your mouth to clean them off.

“Not until you’re so thoroughly fucked you can’t think.” She shot back, swiftly sitting up so she could flip you onto your back, her legs easily straddling your waist, pinning you to the bed.

Emily’s mouth began quick work on your body, kissing down the column of your neck, biting hard enough to make you hiss but hopefully not hard enough to leave a mark. Her tongue left wet paths over the indentations, mouth sucking at the crook of your neck harder when you moaned, back arching toward the touch. She nipped her way across your collarbone and licked a broad strip up the middle of your chest before her lips wrapped around one of your nipples, sucking it into her mouth.

Your hands easily tangled into her hair, pulling just enough to indicate that she should keep doing what she was doing. Every so often her teeth would dig into your tender skin, her tongue flicking patterns over your nipple while sucking, her hand mimicking her motions on the other side. You let out a gasp when her teeth sunk into the underside of your chest, this one for sure hard enough to leave a mark as she did it again, sucking at the same spot until she was satisfied and repeated everything on the other side.

You could feel the tension leaving your body, practically melting into the bed with each ministration of her tongue or fingers, knowing that this was exactly what you needed and she’d barely even started. Her free hand sunk down your body, tickling its way across your stomach until it landed between your legs, massaging at you through the lace of your panties causing you to let out a needy whine. Emily chuckled against your skin, her eyes darting up to yours, unsurprised to find your head thrown back in the pillows, eyes fluttering. Her fingers snapped at the waistband of your underwear before tugging at them and you were more than quick to help kick them down your legs, baring your pussy to her.

“So wet already.” She teased as her fingers swept through you, causing your hips to jolt up to the touch as you sucked in a heavy breath.

Continuing her movements on your chest, nipping and sucking at the supple skin her hand pushed your legs apart and her fingers easily sunk into your pussy. You moaned at the sensation, hips beginning to roll in the same rhythm that she set, whimpers and quiet groans escaping your lips. She crooked her fingers just right and you gasped, your fingers tightening in her hair.

“Oh fuck!”

“You like that?” She mused, her fingers curling again, pressing right into the spot and you practically whimpered.

“Mmhmm.”

“Good.” She pressed harder before pumping her hand a few more times, her fingers twisting and scissoring inside you before they suddenly disappeared from your cunt and squeezed at your hip, “over.” She slipped off you so you could do as she said, rolling onto your stomach, “where’s the strap?”

“Nightstand.”

She shifted off the bed, finding the toy and quickly assembling it with such expertise that your eyes nearly widened, she certainly did know her way around and what she was doing. She climbed back into the bed with a bottle of lube in her hand, settling between your legs she swatted at your ass and you eagerly popped up on your knees, presenting yourself to her and she hummed in appreciation. You heard the pop of the lube bottle opening before she smeared the toy with it and you gasped, nearly jumping at the coolness of it on such a hot night when she rubbed the tip against your cunt.

“Fuck..”

Emily spanked your clit with her cock a couple of times before thrusting it against your pussy, smearing it with your juices and pulling needy whines and whimpers from you. Her fingers returned to your cunt, spreading it open for her,

“Such a pretty pussy.” She praised, nudging the head of the toy into you, slowly sinking it in until her hips met your body and you let out a low moan.

“Oh my god…”

She dragged it out until just the tip was left still inside your wetness and then quickly thrusted back into you, pulling a breathy gasp from you and you pushed back against her, aching to feel it even deeper. Smirking, Emily braced her hands on your hips, fingers digging into your tender skin so she could set a steady pace, her cock fully plunging into your pussy with each thrust of her hips.

Flickering of fire began in your pussy, pulsing around the toy as heat built further and further through your body, sending a trail of goosebumps across your skin. It prickled just underneath the surface, feeling more and more like it was going to burst with each thrust of her cock. You could feel it down to the tips of your fingers and toes, curling, clenching at the bedspread while Emily continued to fuck you, the occasional thrust so hard it sent you bumping forward.

“Oh- g.. God don’t stop.” You managed, voice mumbled by the pillows and Emily didn’t even think of letting up the pace.

Instead, her hand snuck around you, fingertips finding your clit and she began to rub it in tandem with the pace of her hips. You felt the spark nearly burst inside you, pussy fluttering harder and tighter around the toy as it hit your g-spot with each thrust, juices practically dripping down your thighs. You let out a rather whiny moan, hands digging deeper into the bedspread as you pushed your hips back harder, making sure she was fucking you as deep as she could and she chuckled.

“Come for me.” She panted, pressing onto your clit harder as she rubbed it, “I know you want to, let me see how pretty you are when you come on my cock.”

It didn’t take much more than Emily’s voice husking those words to you for you to completely come apart, your cunt clenching down around her, a cry coming from your throat as your body practically collapsed onto the bed shaking. Emily pulled her slightly pinned hand away from your clit, watching the way your thighs continued to twitch as pleasure tore through your body. Her cock slowly thrusted in and out of you a few more times before it slipped from you and you let out a gentle whine.

“Satisfied?” She asked with a tease and you huffed out a laugh.

“Very.” Your eyes were fluttered shut, attempting to catch your breath but you heard the tell tale sound of the strap undoing, the toy landing on the nightstand to be dealt with later. Emily’s hand gently came to scratch at your scalp and you let out a satisfied hum, your body relaxing further into the bed.

“You okay?” She asked, still rather breathless and you nodded.

“Mmhmm.” You cracked open an eye, looking over at her, “are you?”

“Yeah.” She sucked in a breath, “more work than I remember.”

You laughed this time, propping yourself up on your elbows, “count it as your workout for the week then.”

“If all I have to do to get out of gym sessions is that then sign me up.”

You both laughed, then fell into silence as you both came down from your highs, finally able to catch your breath and relax, praying for the night air breezing in through the window to be cooler than the day was. You had your eyes shut when Emily spoke, her voice nearly hesitant,

“You know… this doesn’t like… change things, right? Like, I don’t like you like that or anything…”

“Not at all.” You mumbled, “just a friend helping a friend.” You extended a hand out to her and while she laughed, she high fived you, “now get out of my bed, I can already feel the heat radiating off your body and I refuse to sweat anymore tonight.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” She replied, hopping off the bed to collect her discarded shorts before disappearing through your bedroom door, making sure it was shut behind her before she finally collapsed into her own bed for the night.

_____________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @rustyzebra @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @supercriminalbean @daffodil-heart @its-soph-xx @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @hopelesslyfallenninlove @peanutbutterprincess @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @scorpsik @happenstnces @sapphicprentiss @geekyandgay98 @pagetboobstarcomments @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @desperate-gay @amypoehlfey @overtrred28 @regalmilfs4me @kalixxh @ara-a-bird @five-bi-five-mind @niyizh @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @hotchs-bitch @ollysmulti @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @romanoffsho @ratsnestinmyhair @assgardangod @originalbrunettecharacter @hopedoesntknow @dj-bynum3718 @venromanova @waitaminuteashh @noahrex @imlike-so-gaydude @wittygutsy @cx-emerald-cx

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #criminal minds #emily prentiss smut #criminal minds fanfic #emily prentiss series #emily prentiss fanfic #solace in solitude

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baldurs-gape · 3 months ago

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Gap in the Resume

In a way, Gale should have been grateful to Elminster, the man had pulled strings to get him the interview. Life was all well and good but he did feel a little guilty for relying so heavily on Astarion, not to mention it was setting a bad example that they made ends meet through skills of theft and contract killings. Determined to make an honest life, Gale had started job hunting once life had started to settle a bit and his hands weren't quite so full. Brushing out an invisible wrinkle from his tunic, he waited on the creaky leather sofa. Finally, the door opened.

"Mr. Dekarios?"

Standing so quickly his vision speckled, Gale tried to look confident as he approached the Dean of the school. It wasn't Blackstaff, he couldn't go back there, not after everything but a less prestigious school might just be what he needed.

"Good to meet you, and please, call me Gale." He shook hands with her eagerly and settled on the even less comfortable chair by the impressive desk.

"Elminster has talked highly about you and your skills. It made me think that perhaps you were a little too modest on your CV."

"Yes, well, some things are easier to explain in words than with in on paper."

The Dean looked at him over her glasses with a smile. "Well, here's your chance, Gale. Why would an ex-Chosen of Mystra herself want to teach at our school of all places?"

Rather than say that he was scraping the barrell and needed his old mentor's help in getting honest work, Gale tried to smile, cleared his throat and straightened his back. He'd rehearsed this, it was going to be fine, smooth even."

"Teaching has been somewhat thrust upon me in the last eight years or so. It's a little difficult to always keep track of time in the Underdark. It wasn't a career I had ever really entertained until I got firsthand experience of how rewarding it could be."

So far so good, the Dean nodded along and settled back with a more relaxed posture. Emboldened, Gale decided it was better to throw in some examples to back his words up.

"Perhaps my proudest moment as a teacher was when I took a small group on an expedition towards Lenore's tower and we encountered yet another minotaur - I swear they are the cockroaches of the Underdark - and the six with me made a meal of it." The somewhat puzzled look he received had him rushing to explain. "Before it would have been a lot of snapping and snarling at each other, more blood wasted than drank. Sebastian had a nasty habit of trying to claw the eyes out of anyone who so much as was near him when drinking. Yet there he was, happily sharing the bounty with five others!"

"Mr. Dekarios, Gale-" the Dean held up a finger, "-just what exactly do you teach? I was under the impression you were a wizard."

"I am!" Indignant, Gale huffed. "But you try teaching magic to 7000 feral vampire spawn. Manners had to come first."

"Seven. Thousand. Vampire. Spawn."

Nodding with vigour, Gale's arms came into play as he began to explain.

"We were responsible for them after freeing them. Well, first we had to sort out the Netherbrain while the Gur rounded them up and kept them safe from everyone including themselves. It wasn't like we could abandon them. I happen to take responsibility very seriously. It began with a book club for the more recently turned and those interested and just grew from there." Barely stopping to take a breath, he continued, "Trust me, I wanted to show them the wonders of magic but some of them couldn't even read, a tracesty if you ask me."

A strained smile appeared on the Dean's face. She sat primly, hands clasped on the table between them.

"Did this happen after your status as Chosen was revoke?"

"Yes. Well, not immediately. I spent a year trying to tame the Netherese orb in my chest." At that, the Dean looked alarmed. "Don't worry, it's all taken care of now, it's old news. But for a year I worked heavily on the research of the elimination of Netherese fragments bonded to a human entity. Alas before I could refine my findings and publish, a Nautiloid snatched me up as I was hanging my washing. Now, I know mindflayers don't have emotions in the same capacity but it was downright rude. Then they put the tadpole in my brain."

By that point the strained smile had fallen away and the Dean was outright alarmed, edging away from the table and away from Gale. Off script and caught up in the story, he wasn't slowing down.

"Anyway, you've probably heard of the Baldur's Gate Netherbrain incident. That was me and a couple of others who are now good friends of mine. But try putting that on a resume. It wasn't relevant to teaching magic really. I don't want to walk into the classroom as some mighty hero, I just want to be normal and treated as such. And now the spawn as all mostly settled, I feel I can leave them without fear of any incidents. I did so enjoy teaching them that I thought; why not? I could do this with young people. They'll probably be more likely to singe off your eyebrows by mistake than try to drain you of blood. Much cheaper if you ask me, scrolls of revivify used to make up a good 70% of our weekly expenses."

Tirade over, Gale leaned back in his chair and sighed, glad to have got that all out. A little sheepish at having gone so far off script, he offered a tiny smile. "Do you have any other questions about the gap in my resume? Because I don't think I touched on the mental health of students. Mystra demanded repeatedly that I kill myself. It is safe to say I wouldn't ever be anything but accepting and nurturing of even the most frustrating minds in the classroom. They're safe with me."

"Actually," the Dean's voice was a little breathy, "I think you've been very informative, thank you. I can let you know the outcome of the interview in the next tenday once all interviews for the position have concluded. Thank you so much for coming in today."

She stood and Gale copied. This time she didn't stand close to usher him out the room, a rather large amount of space was left between them. Gale's heart sank. It wasn't the first time an interview ended so abruptly and with such false smiles. Nodding, he turned to the door and left.

Outside, Astarion was leaning against the wall, covered from head to toe for safety.

"How did it go?" he asked.

Sadly, Gale shook his head and deflated. "I went off script. At least she didn't call security I guess?"

"Not to worry. We'll find a place. Hells, we could probably even found it, the Underdark Academy, a place for the unruly to come and be transformed into etiquette experts. What do you think?"

Laughing, Gale bumped their shoulders and sighed, trying to let go of the disappointment that had settled in his gut.

"You say the sweetest things to me, don't you?"

Their hands tangled until fingers interlaced and Astarion pulled it up to press a kiss to the back of Gale's. This job wasn't to be but that was alright. They had all the time in the world to figure it all out. And for Gale to discover that while he was in the interview, Astarion had stolen anything that moved from the school.

#bloodweave #gale x astarion #gale/astarion #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

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oleander-nin · 1 year ago

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Horrortober Day 20 - Captive(Yandere Rottmnt Donnie x Reader)

A/N, not important: This was supposed to be the final fic, but I didn't have one for today and this is my attempt to not delete my account or brain out of stress lmao. Me and @astral--horrorshow both had similar ideas, but they're completely independent of each other. We were both talking about them on discord then realized how similar they were, but neither was taken from the other👍. Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

CW: Kidnapping, blindfold, needles, dehumanization, collaring, restraints, cage

Words: 2464

Summary: Draxum is working on eradicating the human race, but what happens when his son wants to keep one for himself?

The sounds of metal and cries pierce my ears, the blindfold and binds keep me hogtied and blind, not letting me do much else other than listen to sobs around me. My ears twitch at the sound of low footfalls, the clopping similar to that of a deer or horse nearing. I grimace, knowing the Baron was back. The quiet flapping of his gargoyles could barely be heard over the sobbing from the cage next to mine. I try not to let out a scream of my own at the loud bang of hoof against metal, and a skull against concrete. The sobs quiet, and the air goes still. I slowly let out the breath I was holding, my nerves firing off warning bells as I resist the urge to flail around and cry. It wouldn’t do any good either way. Those who fight back fall first.

Another pair of steps joins the Barons while he makes his rounds. I can sense how everyone else stills, all us captives going completely silent to try and hone in on the new visitor. I couldn’t tell how many of us there were. Anywhere from five to a hundred, I wouldn’t know the difference. I rub my face against the rough floor, hoping to loosen the blindfold so I could finally look at my prison. While there were many of us here, people came in and out every day, taking someone away or adding another to the lot. I could always tell when someone was taken. Their screams reverberated around the walls of our keep, cries and pleads not reaching the ears of whoever took them. I assumed it was the Baron, although I was not sure. It’s not like I could see the act either way.

“Take your pick, my son. It’s time you truly learn my work.”

I grimace at the Baron’s low voice, shrinking back into my cage as much as I can while bound. Of course he has a son. Of course he’s going to be just as rotten as his father, doing who knows what with the poor souls who get picked. My stomach rumbles and I chew on my bottom lip, grinding down on the flesh with my teeth. The blood soaking out may be gritty and limited, but it was better than nothing. I just prayed I wouldn’t puke.

The quiet scraping of free feet across the ground alerts me to the younger captors movements, my face moving towards the sound subconsciously so I could hear it better. A beat passes with no more movement, and I tense. Someone had been chosen. Or, hopefully, he would decide this was immoral and demand our freedom. I chuckle quietly to myself. Yeah right, like that would ever happen. A sharp sound in front of me catches my attention and I turn towards my cage, my face furrowing in concentration.

“That one looks interesting.” An unfamiliar voice muses. His voice is sharp, unwavering, and oddly smooth. It alone was enough to make my blood run cold, but what really terrified me was how much closer it sounded than I expected. I could’ve sworn both of them were in the center of the room, but it sounded as if the voice was right in front of my cage. I shrink in on myself, tucking my chin to my collarbone and sitting on my ankles. Two sharp taps sound on the metal bars of my enclosure, a light chuckle sounding from the boy's chest. It wasn’t a friendly chuckle, nor a comforting one. I try to keep my breathing steady, refusing to cry and refusing to beg. I wanted to go down with dignity. I would refuse to bow to these monsters.

“If that’s the one you want to start on, then so it shall be.” The Baron’s deep rumble sounds, a sharp clap bouncing through the room. The sound of flapping fills the room, heading towards my cage and closing in fast. I sit back, trying my best to not shake. I couldn’t even tell if I was.

“Wait.” The younger voice sounds. He taps my cage a couple more times before I feel a scaly hand brush across my neck, taking hold of my collar and yanking me forwards. I yelp, losing my balance at the tug and falling onto my face before him. I struggle to move back to my kneeling position, the ropes keeping me bound threatening to pull my arm out of its socket if I keep trying. I lay down, defeated. I couldn’t get up. A deep heat settles in my cheeks from the shame of being at his mercy, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice at his next words. “I have a different idea for them.”

“Oh?” The Baron asks, his footsteps nearing as well. I try to pull back from the grasp the younger captor had on me, but his grip just shifts from my collar to my chin. “What are you planning then?”

“I want to keep this one. For my own personal studies. I can experiment on that one,” There’s a brief swish of the air when his hand undoubtedly moves to point at another poor soul in the vicinity. “But this one… I want to keep them.”

I hear a sharp breath from the Baron, his tone turning sour. “Donatello,” ah, so that was his name. I try and tug back again to no avail, my eyes widening under the blindfold as I realize he only has three fingers. “You cannot keep a human. They’re pigs. The rot of the world. You must understand that.”

I’m tempted to bite the fingers holding my face when I hear this, indignant anger bubbling in my chest. We weren’t the ones kidnapping people and caging them to experiment on. Sure, there’s a few bad apples in every batch, but you can’t doom the whole of humanity for a small handful’s doing.

The younger voice huffs, his thumb caressing my cheek. It was getting harder to hold back, every instinct screaming at me to pull back and run. “Still, why that may be, I think it would be interesting. Test their limits, experiment in different ways.” I can almost hear the sick smile in his voice. “Plus, it’s always nice to have company.”

“Do you even understand what goes into keeping a human? They’re very needy creatures. Not to mention clingy and violent. You’ll be responsible for its upkeep.” I feel sick the way they're talking about me, the hands of the scaled one still having yet to leave my face. He lifts my chin more and forces me to face him, my body screaming in protest from the position he was contouring me in.

“I do.”

The Baron sighs in defeat at his son’s words. I hear him take a step back, his voice steady as he walks away and starts to audibly mess with another cage. “Then I’ll allow it.”

I hear the screams of what sounds like a small child and my heart breaks, knowing slightly of his fate. While part of me was glad I had escaped it, I still yearned to switch places. Hearing someone so young scream in such ways was unbefitting. It wasn’t right. I feel the hand of the younger captor slip off my face, my own cage opening with a loud squeak. Strong hands hoist me up, fiddling with the ropes around my ankles and wrists. My two halves separate, my ankles freed from my wrists, but still stuck together as were my wrists to each other. I get slung over his shoulder, his muscle mass and metal backpack digging painfully into the soft of my stomach.

I consider trying to fight back, to even finally scream and curse them out, but I don’t. Every step he took sent his shoulder straight into my gut, and I knew it would be useless to try and resist. He seemed solid, and his shoulders reminded me of jagged rocks as they push against my torso. I try to shift myself into a more comfortable position, my body rocking hazardously in his grip. For one awful, awful moment, I’m certain he’s about to drop me, but his hands regain their steadiness as he tightens his grip to a painful degree.

“Move again and I’ll send you off to be experimented on instead.” He hisses, his voice as sharp as always. I settle down more, trying to ignore the painful lab of his arm.

He continues to walk for a while, his steps firm and sure. I wasn’t sure where we were going, nor what my true purpose was. This was out of the blue and completely unexpected, especially from someone who was supposed to be experimenting on me. I hear a door open and let out a small cry as I’m thrown atop a plush bed. I sit up, shaking my head to try and chase the disorientation away. A hand grabs my chin and holds me still, pulling the blindfold off of my eyes. I quickly close my eyes, shrinking back with a pained hiss. I’ve had the blindfold on since I was first kidnapped, covering my eyes and blocking my senses for weeks. I slowly open them, trying to get them to adjust to the new lighting. Once they can open, I glance around, taking in my surroundings as fast as I can.

It was a large room, one larger than I was expecting. There were different mechanical parts and machines strewn across the room, as well as a desk piled high with similar junk. I look in front of me, finally fully seeing my captor. He was only a couple inches taller than me, but his foreboding stature made him intimidating nonetheless. I scan him for a moment, my eyes taking in his green scaly skin and the metal shell upon his back. I lean backwards, wary of his domineering nature. He seemed to command respect, as if it was owed rather than earned. I felt no desire to give it to him.

“Why am I here?” I ask rudely, my tone clipped and eyes narrowed. The turtle doesn’t seem phased by my attitude, if anything, he was delighted.

“I’d suggest you’d hold your tongue. As lovely as your voice is, I do admit I have a short temper.” He walks across the room and picks up a small case, like he had been preparing for this for a while. “And I’m sure you would rather your tongue stay inside your mouth.”

I shift uncomfortably at his words, trying to decide what to do. I watch him carefully as he takes the case and opens it, four needles showing. My eyes widen at the sight as I back up on the bed.

He takes out the first needle and grabs a small vial from a miniature fridge next to him, getting the shot ready. “If you have any allergies, speak up now.”

I barely register his words, my eyes focused solely on the large needle in his hand. “What is that?”

“A couple of vaccines and boosters. It’s come to my attention that most of you have not had proper shots nor care, and while the others don’t matter, you do since you’ll be living here now.” He stalks forward with the syringe in hand as if he did this every tuesday, not a care nor concern on his face. I try to lean back, but he grabs me firmly by the elbow, not allowing me to move away. “I’d suggest you stay still and relax.”

I turn away from him, my heart thundering in my ears. I feel him inject the first into my arm, the sharp sting making me want to jerk away. It feels like hours, but he eventually lets go of my arm and backs away, disposing of the needles and setting the syringes back in their case.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” He starts, turning back to me. “It’s time we get started.”

“Who are you?” I interrupt, my mind hazy from the adrenaline coursing through after the shots he administered. He frowns at my interruption, his face pulled tight.

“I don’t like being interrupted. But, as you’re a human with no manners, I guess I can’t fully fault you. You haven’t learned the rules yet.” The turtle clears his throat, bowing with a dramatic flair. “I am Donatello, your new owner and savior. You, however, may refer to me as ‘Sir’ or ‘My Savior’.”

My nose scrunches up at his introduction, a chill running down my spine. My arm was sore, and my head was blaring warning bells left and right. This guy was seriously messed in the head. Well, of course he was. I was part of a group of humans he and his dad had kidnapped to experiment on.

“So, pet-”

“Not my name.” I interrupt, partly without meaning to but not fully regretting it. I refused to be called ‘pet’.

“Did humans never learn it was rude to interrupt or speak back to their superiors? Or is this just a you thing?” He hisses, clearly displeased. I shrug. My non-answer seems to anger the terrapin even more, his fists clenching at his sides. “As I stated before, I saved you. If it weren’t for me, you’d be cut open on a table with your guts spilled out. And while I would gladly return you to that fate, I felt it would be a waste to use someone like you in that manner-”

“Someone like me?” I interrupt again, tilting my head in confusion.

“Would you cut that out!?” He hisses, his face turning dark in anger. I shrink back, pursing my lips. I didn’t really want to anger him. I didn’t trust him. He continues to glare at me as he straightens his back. “As I was saying, you have something about you that I felt needed to be preserved. Therefore, here you are now. Serving as my pet rather than an experiment. And mind you, I’ll call you whatever I please.”

I glare at him, trying to pop his head open with my mind. Unfortunately, no such thing happened, and he continued to drone on.

“So, pet, I have something for you.”

He turns around and grabs something off his desk. I recognize it immediately, the bright collar jingling the bell as he moves closer. I try to lean back but he quickly hooks the offending item around my neck, his eyes and markings glowing for a moment as he holds the two pieces together. I rub at it with my chin, scowling. “There you are pet. Now you’ll never forget your place.”

It takes everything in me not to spit on him.

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slimeranch7 · 7 months ago

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It's you! Despite everything, it's still you.

(Kujou Sara x reader)

No warnings, just a tad bit of hurt/comfort.

Summary: What does it cost to carry the weight of the Shogun's will? For Kujou Sara, it was damn near everything.

Kujou Sara remembers it like this: Your hair flows with the wind, barely obscuring the rays of sunlight that peaks from behind your figure. Sakura petals build a picture perfect frame around you. A vibrant gemstone sits on your waist, adorned with a few decals that mirrored Sara’s own. Your smile was ethereal, genuine. It was you. You were beautiful. And it will sit with her for eternity. For as long as she breathes.

And then she would cherish it from beyond the grave when time came.

“Do you… Do you remember…? When…” She stops, stutters, for God's sake, unable to stand the notion that a single misstep would send you into a frenzied spiral of unhealed trauma of her own making.

Looking back, your grandmother was upset and miserable enough on your behalf. The poor old lady busying herself between steeping fresh tea for a visiting officer, and ensuring your triggers stay out of sight and out of mind. It took another round of convincing to let her take a short walk with you in the outskirts of the village.

The blank look she receives from you is all she needs to know. Hands clasped politely together, head slightly bowed, gaze cautiously matching hers. You were nothing but a stranger possessing the body of her lover.

“Gramma told me that we were close before I got into the accident,” You carefully fill the gap, trying to gauge her reaction. “Is it true? What were we like?”

Accident? Is that what they were calling it, now?

It was deliberate and forceful, carrying through her authority. There was nothing accidental behind the strength she bound your wrists behind you with. Nothing unintentional behind the screaming, pleading, begging that brutally scraped her ears as she tore the very gemstone built from your ambitions away for the Goddess that she pledged herself to.

Distantly there were other voices ranging from desperate to oppressive. Dirt kicked up from the struggle, clouding her eyes but all she saw was red. She saw nothing except red, raw, and angry, and so helpless and frustrated that she took the rest of the day off with nothing more than the motion of tossing her prized bow across the range as her only explanation for her leave of absence.

No, Sara holds no contempt for the duty she was forced to uphold. It is, after all, her responsibility as a high standing general of the Tenryou Commission. The Shogun's will is her own. She takes a deep breath.

What a fickle thing that memory can be. Delicate. Transient.

“We were beautiful.” She whispered, barely audible amidst the warm wind passing through the bridge. She turns to you, desperation clear in her eyes. “You and I, we… I'm sorry.” Then she repeats it, again and again. Each loop one hesitant step forward, and then two steps back. Longing for reconciliation yet afraid to hurt you again.

“What for?” You were mercifully cautious with your prodding. Ever the perceptive one, you’ve always read Sara like an open book even as she struggled to see herself in the light. Yes, she'll remember that about you, among many other things. The color of your laughter, the shape of your brilliant smile, the feeling of your warm skin against hers.

“General?”

Ah, that hurt. To be demoted to a mere general of an army. She could be more. She should be less.

You snapped her out of her stupor. She averts her gaze, embarrassed and ashamed to have dated to lock eyes with you, who she has wronged on all levels.

“It was my fault,” She finally utters. “I'm apologizing for my transgressions against-”

Your hand smooths over hers. Between her teeth, she sucks in a deep breath to avoid gasping out loud like a fish out of water. The electric sensation travels through the thick hide of her gloves. It is utterly euphoric, and she would never forget that, either.

Your eyes chase hers, searching for the glistening amber in the sunset. She feels a soft tug at the straps around her gloves. “Can I…?”

She doesn't make a move to stop you, and it's all you need to unfasten it like you've done it a million times before, to trace your soft fingers over her tender knuckles (still healing from the wooden beam she had beaten it with in the training hall).

You've stopped searching, stopped mapping out her hands, as though you've found it all. What did you find? She looks at you quizzically, deeply afraid of your answer.

You return a soft, contemplative hum, one that has her nearly choking on her own breath, hoping, praying that you'd be gentle with her heart, even if she wasn't with yours.

“General Kujou Sara…” You murmur. Her heart stutters to a near stop. “Kujou Sara. Sara. Sara. It rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?” You beam so brightly at her. In a very roundabout way, this was a rather cruel penalty.

That's enough. She retrieves her throbbing hand from you, along with her gloves. Her body aches all over. Her mind is numb. She has endured enough punishment. The purpose of her visit is over. You don't remember, and she will for eternity, the crushing memory ingrained into her existence like a repulsive brand.

“Wait.” You call, this time, your grasping at the plate on her shoulder, fingers stubbornly threaded with the ropes binding her armor together. “They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.”

Her first mistake was to let your words hinder her timely exit. She lets you off the hook for a lot of things, including how your hands sneak it's way up to her face, cupping it like you would to a lover at the end of a long day. “Then what do you say visions are the windows to?”

Archons help her.

No, not even the Almighty Shogun would be here to rescue her.

Despite all the memories you've forgotten, you certainly haven't lost your innate perceptiveness. Your touch is electrifying for all the wrong reasons, now. She is left stunned, locked in place and unable to tear her wary gaze from yours.

For all the battles she has led, no arrow has pierced through her armor so effectively. Is this what they meant when poets quoted, ‘love is war'?

“We really were close, weren't we? Otherwise I wouldn't have caught the way you keep looking at my obi like it's some foreign lifeform.” You had the audacity to giggle, all while Sara was frozen in terror. “My mind has forgotten, but I think my body and instincts remember every little tell that you have. Sara, hold my hand.”

As though in a trance, she obediently grasps yours, and doesn't stop you when you insistently interlace your fingers. Her heart stutters when they fit like a finished jigsaw piece. “Yeah, this feels right. What about you?”

Like explosions, she's sure, war and hailing arrows and the thunder from beyond. Gods above it felt like she was struck by lightning. Maybe she's ascending. There's really no telling.

“Good,” She manages, eyes impossibly wide. “It feels good.”

And, again, you beam, ethereal and genuine. Your hair flows in the wind, the sunset kissing your skin, fallen leaves swirling away, painting a beautiful, glowing backdrop. Did it matter that your vision was missing?

No, you made it clear that it didn't.

“I think they're the windows to the heart.” You noted after a brief, euphoric silence.

Sara eyes you carefully. “The heart? What makes you say that?”

You press some weight against her side, comfortably slotting between her arm as though that space had been tailored perfectly for you. “I haven't felt like myself since the accident, whatever it may be. Tried a lot of things- didn't help.” You confessed, gaze turning forlorn and distant. “And you come along, and it's like- like, fireworks. I can't explain it well, but I know it's you.”

Now she regards you with some semblance of pity. “Well, we were close before… Maybe I just triggered some old instincts.” She offers nervously.

“That's what I mean. It was empty and bleak, and Gramma’s hiding something from me for my sake. It was until you… visited me. And I realized, now, that it was a vision that I lost, and I must have lost you on that day, too.”

Sara takes a moment to contemplate her next course of action.

Actually, no, there's no need. She should follow her heart, as you did with yours.

“Petal?” A term of endearment that you had pestered her to use after a wonderful date under a sakura tree, now strategically deployed to further promote your journey of memory recovery.

“I don't care what happened to my vision.” You say, smile widening. She notes the tears brimming your eyes, and swipes her thumb to wipe it away. A fruitless endeavor, seeing as you've decided to stop trying to hold it in. “I don't care what happened before. But this feeling, I don't need a vision to- to know that I loved you.”

You choked on wet sobs for another good minute. Sara selfishly pulls you into a hug, wondering if you'd still love her if you remembered the pain and betrayal evident in your voice weeks ago. If you'd still love her if you remembered the way she had ruthlessly pinned you to the dirt, ripping away the very gift that defined your heart.

“I'll still love you, y'know?” You had finally dissolved into short stutters and heaves. “Your eyes are sincere, and your heart… well now I can see you'd follow it for me. Despite everything, I'll still love you.”

Sara closes her eyes as she leans into your embrace, relishing in the way her head spins from overwhelming euphoria. That's right, you're just as stubborn as she remembered. It's exactly why she can trust you to still love her despite everything when she inevitably unravels the truth in your hands. She understands that you'll stay, no matter what.

“For eternity,” She whispers. “I will love you, too.”

#kujou sara x reader #genshin impact #sfw works??? on this blog?? more likely than you think.

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syndrossi · 19 days ago

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resonant ch31 dvd commentary

This one was a doozy, as everyone on Tumblr had a front row view of. I wasn't thrilled with the draft on Thursday, but after some additional eyes and another comprehensive round of edits, I'm happy with how it turned out.

You can really see my struggles with it in the words cut, which were a minimum of 1500 (those are the ones where I extracted more than one paragraph into my scraps doc).

Favorite line(s):

The walk back to the holdfast was like a slow wakening from a dream, and yet Daemon felt desperately tired, his body aching with a fatigue so deep it seemed to scrape the very marrow of his bones.

I was quite proud of the visceral feel of this one.

Jon stood without meaning to, Jon Redfort’s hurt mingling with the rage that surged within his chest. “She hated him. She hated every reminder of him. They dyed Rhaegar’s hair until they couldn’t, and even before that, she could barely look at him. She loved me,” he said, the words choking him, the truth of it almost unbearable, Lady Stark’s love through a distorted mirror, only this time, he was Robb. “And Raymar would cry himself to sleep, convinced it was his own failing.”

The theme of Jon's role being flipped so that he is now in Robb's shoes is one we've been exploring since chapter one, where he notices the way Raymar is treated vs him. It's such a painful thing to deal with, because it both stirs memories of his own treatment by Lady Stark, and the guilt that Jon Redfort has always felt about it. Even though it's not directed at him, the secondhand experience through Raymar reopens those wounds.

Jon dealing with the part of him that is Jon Redfort is another theme we'll explore later on, particularly during the Runestone arc, but we're seeding some of his struggles now.

(Jon continually urging Rhaegar not to mourn Rhea is partly born of this, too. On some level, he believes she does not deserve his grief. And it's easier for him to ignore his own grief that way, or avoid dealing with the guilt-tangled love her feels for her.)

Favorite Details

Marriage hunt

Since the harvest ball is approaching and pretty much all of the marriage-minded misses of the court have been carrying out their pursuits offscreen/in non-canon missing scenes, it felt appropriate to sprinkle in a few hints of what's going on in the background as Daemon and the twins deal with more pressing matters.

Daemon's chair

It's hard to explain in narrative format where Jon was sitting/where Daemon always sits, but it's basically at the end/"head" of the table, while Viserys usually sits at the end of the side facing the window. It killed me a little when I realized that's where I've always written Daemon sitting in his scenes there with Viserys, and it's so obvious why: it's the closest Daemon can get to feeling like his brother's Hand. Similarly, Viserys seats him in an inverted version of that during their supper the first night in King's Landing, with Viserys at the head and Daemon to his side.

Dynamics

Jon & Viserys

This was a fun one to finally write, since we've only had brief interactions between them, from other POVs (Daemon, Otto, Rhaenys). Viserys sees Jon as a mixture of Daemon and Baelon throughout this scene, with Baelon coming out more toward the end. And we can see Viserys respond to Daemon-y Jon in a similar way that he might to Daemon, by getting defensive/frustrated.

Viserys is in a weird place with the candle business where he accepts, generally, that magic is a thing. The boys are fireproof, there is a prophecy that he thinks they will fulfill, he's read about the distant communication made possible by the dragonglass candles of Valyria, and he's seen the red candle spark to life, just as the black ones did once or twice when he was a boy.

But Jon is a child, and unlike Daemon, Viserys has a fairly good understanding of what an eight-year-old is generally like, so he approaches wild claims of high magic with a fair bit of skepticism. Over time, I expect this will change.

I enjoyed weaving in both Baelon and Daemon through the conversation, and the past bond Viserys had with his brother. Viserys absolutely cut little!Daemon's apples for him when he was old enough to carry his own knife. (As did Baelon.) And even throwing in some of Jon's impressions of Viserys and Daemon are alike and not.

And even a few small parallels between Viserys and Jon that I doubt many people will draw: an unwillingness to give up control (Jon not wanting to tell Daemon about the drag marks in the secret passage) and not trusting their brother (Jon, at the end, deciding to "protect" Rhaegar by not letting him in on his plan to go after the candle). They both are convinced of their own mandate to solve problems (the prophecy for Viserys, the candle for Jon).

Daemon & Rhaegar

Rhaegar was in a special hell with Daemon in the latter part of the chapter. He's operating at maximum Aerys damage-control mode there, reading Daemon at speeds enviable by modern CPUs so that he can figure out how to defuse the situation / "fix" him before any (unintentional) harm is done. And the parallels with Aerys's paranoia are incredibly uncomfortable, even if he understands that Daemon is suffering under an outside influence.

It's also terrifying being an eight-year-old child and being dragged along to the dragon enclosure by a father who doesn't seem to hear a word you're saying (or care, if it were Aerys), and you're pretty convinced this is some candle magic at work, but how do you stop him if he decides to take off with you on dragonback? And even if he's unwilling to force you, can you really let him go by himself, in such a vulnerable state?

Meanwhile, Rhaegar better be careful about his plan to claim that the bruise is the result of a training accident, because a blow from a wooden blade doesn't go all the way around the arm, kiddo. Imagine Daemon thinking he's trying to protect Cole after being handled roughly by him. Or just his response in general to his sons downplaying injuries that were clearly dealt by an adult.

@inkykate asked for Rhaegar's POV here for the upcoming winter promptathon, and I'm very tempted!

Quick-hitters

Lady Sera and Lady Dynessa are both from this little impromptu ficlet.

Originally, there was a plot thread where Jon and Rhaegar discussed telling Erryk and Arryk about the candle. At one point, it was in their debriefing at the start of the chapter, a request from Jon to Viserys during their breakfast scene, and even the start of a scene where they actually tell the Cargyll brothers. I cut it because there was a lot going on already and we can revisit it later.

The Rhea grief/anger outburst from Jon caught me by as much surprise as Viserys, but it was lurking beneath the surface. And I cry at a dime, so you can bet I was a mess writing it.

Can we appreciate for a moment the breathtaking gall of Viserys telling Jon he should be grateful for him repeatedly banishing Daemon because it resulted in his birth? Imagine him saying as much to Daemon himself!

The candle is candling hard.

I didn't go into the dragon dynamics with Daemon because this is already quite long, but there was some interesting stuff there for those with a keen eye, including hints at how some of the candle's (sorcerer's?) magic works.

Daemon actually did something so unthinkable (hurting Rhaegar) that Qelebrys hissed at her beloved not-Rhaegar. The heartbreak!

Lots of people keeping things to themselves. So far, for example, Daemon hasn't mentioned the bounty on him to anyone.

I have fun with Rhaegar's strengths vs Jon's, especially when it comes to dragons. Jon has a fairly significant leg-up with his warging experiences and his former quasi-bond with Rhaegal, but Rhaegar is basically a horse girl, except with dragons, so what he lacked for originally in experience, he's making up quickly. But I also like to throw in nods to Jon being able to pick things up that he's discovered very quickly, once shown/pointed out.

Finally, there were quite a few bits cut out of the chapter. I'll probably throw them in a separate post later, since this is pretty long!

#resonant dvd commentary

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apparitionism · 30 days ago

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Bonus 4

First, a PSA: If you are eligible to vote in next week’s US election, please VOTE FOR HARRIS as well as every other Democratic candidate on the ballot, and do what you can to persuade as many other people as you can to do the same. I assume anyone who bothers to read my writing is smart enough to understand why that’s necessary—and why engaging in any sort of protest-vote or sit-this-one-out charade is counter to the interests of most living breathing people at this point in history.

Anyway. Here I offer the final part of last year’s Christmas story... again and as usual, where were we? I recommend the intro to part 1 for where we are, canon-wise (S4, essentially, but diverging); beyond that, Myka has just returned to the Warehouse after a holiday retrieval in Cleveland (Pete, in town visiting his family, was tangentially involved), where Helena, whom Myka hadn’t seen since the Warehouse didn’t explode, served as her backup—a situation facilitated by Claudia as something of a Christmas bonus. Post-retrieval, Helena and Myka shared a meal at a restaurant; this was a new experience that went quite well until, alas, Helena was instructed (by powers higher than Claudia) to leave. Thus Myka returned home, both buoyed and bereft... and here the tale resumes. I mentioned part 1, but for the full scraping of Myka’s soul, see part 2 and part 3 as well.

Bonus 4

Late on Christmas Day, Myka is heading to the kitchen for a warm and, preferably, spiked beverage, intending to curl up with that and a book—well, maybe a book; a restless scanning of her shelves had left her drained and decisionless, hence the need for a resetting, and settling, beverage—and to convince herself to appreciate the peace of these waning Christmas hours. She peeks into the living room, just to assess the wider situation, and regards a sofa-draped Pete. He returned from Ohio barely an hour ago, which Myka knows because she had heard Claudia exclaim over his arrival. Then things had gone quiet.

Now, he appears to be napping.

Myka tries to slink away.

“Claud mentioned about your backup,” he says as soon as her back is turned, startling her and proving she’s a terrible slinker. Small favors, though: at least she hadn’t already had her beverage in hand and so isn’t wearing it now. “That had to be weird,” he goes on, sitting up.

She’s been wondering whether the topic would come up, whenever they happened to get beyond how-was-your-trip pleasantries... she entertains herself for a moment with the idea of referring to Helena, specifically with Pete, as “the topic.” So she tries it: “‘Weird’ does not begin to describe the topic.” It is entertaining, as a little secret-layers-of-meaning sneak. But there’s yet more entertainment in the offing, with its own secret layers: “Incidentally, speaking of weird—which I’m sure was also mentioned—I met your cousin. Thanks for giving her an artifact. Very Christmas of you.”

He rounds his spine into the sofa like he’s trying to back his way through the upholstery and escape. “Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was an artifact.”

Myka is tempted to keep him guessing about her feelings, but she doesn’t really have the energy; she gives up on entertainment and tells the truth: “I’m not mad. I’m serious: thank you.”

“I think you’re trying to trick me,” he skeptics. “Soften me up for something. But if that’s for real, then you should thank my mom more than me.”

Pete’s mother. The extent of Jane Lattimer’s role in Myka’s life is... surprising. Then again the extent of her role in Pete’s life has turned out to be surprising too, and that’s probably a bigger deal, all things considered.

Pete goes on, “Because I was gonna blame her, but should I give her props instead? It was her idea to give the little feather guy to Nancy, because of how after I got it I saw that it’d probably PTSD you.”

“I appreciate the seeing, but... wait. After you got it. How’d you get it in the first place?”

“I was in this antique store,” Pete says.

As if that explains everything—when in fact it explains nothing. In further fact, it unexplains. “Why were you in an antique store? According to you, you hated those even before the Warehouse turned them into artifact arcades.”

“Mom was picking something up there, and this guy showed it to me.”

“Your mom, this guy...” Myka is now beyond suspicious. “What did this guy look like?” A pointless question. As if knowing that could help her... as if anything could really help her. This is madness. “Fine. It doesn’t matter what he looked like, because I’m stopping here. I can’t keep doing this. For my sanity, I can’t.”

“Keep doing what?”

“Tracing it back. You win. You all win.”

“Do we? Doesn’t feel like it. And that doesn’t seem like a reason you’d be thanking me.”

“No. That isn’t. But as of now I’m trying to keep myself from focusing on... let’s call it the causal chain.”

“I’d rather focus on the popcorn chain.” He points to the strands that loop the Christmas tree.

They are the tree’s only adornment. Every prior holiday season of Myka’s Warehouse association, Leena has decorated the B&B unto a traditional-Christmas Platonic ideal; this year, in her absence, Myka, Steve, and Claudia, trying to replicate that, had purchased a tree. And transported it home. And situated it near to plumb in the tree stand, which was an exhausting exercise in what they earnestly assured each other was complicated physics but was really just physical incompetence.

They had then settled in to do the actual decorating, starting with popcorn strings... but once they’d finished those, they were indeed finished, pathetically drained of holiday effort. And they’d succeeded in that initial (and sadly final) project only because, as they’d all agreed once they’d strung the popcorn, Pete hadn’t been there to shovel the bulk of their also-pathetic popping efforts into his mouth.

“Take them down, slurp them up like spaghetti if you want,” Myka says now. “Christmas is pretty much over.” The statement—its truth—makes her stew. At Pete? But the situation isn’t ultimately his fault, no matter what part he played. And why is she so set on assigning, or marinating in, this vague blame anyway? She got something she wanted: time with Helena. It didn’t work out as perfectly as she’d wished it would, but she got it.

She tries to resettle: her heart to remembrance, her brain to appreciation.

The doorbell rings, its old-fashioned rounded bing-bong resounding from foyer to living room and beyond, bouncing heavily against every surface. Myka lets the vibrations push her toward the kitchen; she’s had enough of interaction for now. Her beverage and book, whichever one will provide some right refuge, await. As do remembrance and appreciation.

She hears Pete sigh and the sofa creak; he must have shoved himself from it in order to lurch to the foyer. A minute later, he yells, “Guess what! Christmas might not be over!”

Still kitchen-focused, Myka yells back, “If that’s not Santa himself, you’re wrong!”

“Never heard of that being one of her things!” Pete shouts, even louder.

“Quit shouting!” Myka bellows, so loud that she drowns out her own initial registering of what he’s said, which then starts to resonate in her head, a stimulating hum that resolves into meaning... her things? Her things... Myka’s torso initiates a turn; her body knows what’s happening, even if her brain—

“Hey, H.G.,” Pete says, and now every part of Myka knows.

Except her eyes, but once she moves to the foyer to stand behind Pete, they know too: There Helena is. Her body. Embodied. The illumination of her, in the foyer semi-dark... her bright eyes catching Myka’s, warming to the catch... oh, this.

Seeing the sight—greeting, once again, her perfect match—she is struck dumb.

There’s movement behind her, though, and she turns to see Steve and Claudia poking their heads into the space like meerkats—well, no, in South Dakota she should think prairie dogs... but they’re both built more like meerkats than prairie dogs, so she should probably keep thinking meerkats out of... respect? Whatever: they’re animal-alert, heads aswivel, faces alight. It surely signifies something.

Turning back to Helena, trying to get a voice in her mouth, she coughs out, “You’re back? Now? I mean, already? How did you—”

“To quote myself: ‘when I can, I will,’” Helena says, as matter-of-factly as anyone could possibly speak while maintaining intense eye contact with one person, and Myka thanks all gods and firefighters above that she is herself that person. “Now, not forty-eight hours later, I could. Thus I did. I should note that I’m unsure as to why I could, but perhaps it’s a gift horse?” Her focus on Myka does not waver. Pete and the meerkats might as well not exist, and Myka in turn is mesmerized.

“Maybe that’s the horse you rode in on,” Claudia says. Is she trying to break the spell? Myka wishes she wouldn’t... she ideates shushing her, even as Claudia goes on, “But better late than never, Christmas-wise, right?”

“Did you enjoy your additional portion of squash?” Helena asks Myka, ignoring Claudia’s interjection. Her tone is formal, presenting public, but her question is for Myka alone.

“It was very good for my heart,” Myka says. She doesn’t add, though she could, And so was that question.

Helena smiles like she heard both good-fors—like she’s grateful for both—and Myka thinks, for the first time out loud in her head, She feels the same way I do.

It’s... new. Different. Perfect? Not yet, the out-loud-in-her-head voice instructs.

But she can make a move in that direction. “Please put your suitcase in my room,” she says. Out loud, outside her head. Realing it.

“I will,” Helena says. She takes up her case and moves toward the stairs, presumably to real that too.

It renders Myka once again enraptured. She is taking her suitcase to my room. My room. She is.

The first stair-creaks that Helena’s ascent occasions sound, to Myka’s eagerly interpretive ears, approving.

Claudia and Steve don’t even blink. Pete does—well, more the opposite; he widens his eyes in the cartoony way.

But then he turns on his heel, Marine-brusque and not at all cartoony, and exits the space. Myka doesn’t know what to make of that. She’ll most likely have to address the topic—in fact, “the topic”—with him later. Fortunately, later isn’t now.

She does know, however, what to make of Steve and Claudia’s aspect: “I’m sensing some ‘aren’t we clever’ preening,” she accuses.

“We are clever,” Claudia says, dusting off her shoulder. “More Fred. Don’t sweat it.”

Exasperating. “Don’t sweat it? As I understood the situation, Fred was a retrieval and an insanely expensive dinner. Are we doing that again, or is she back for good?”

“She’s back for nice,” Claudia says.

Steve jumps in with, “To answer your question: we’re not a hundred percent sure.”

“See, we made a deal,” Claudia says.

“With whom?” Myka asks.

“Santa?” Claudia says, but without commitment. Myka’s response of an oh-come-on face causes her to huff, “Fine. Pete’s mom and company. And Mrs. F. And even Artie, in absentia.”

“What kind of deal?” Myka asks, because while she can’t dispute the indisputably positive fact that Helena is here, she mistrusts any deal involving Regents. Pete’s mom aside. Or Pete’s mom included: She can’t stop her brain from stirring, stirring once again to life those causal-chain questions: What’s being put in motion this time?

“A kind of deal about which things they’re willing to let us—well, technically Steve—say are nice,” Claudia pronounces, as if that explains everything.

Myka is very tired of proffered explanations that actually unexplain.

Steve says, “Claudia finally found the file on the pen. Seems that Santa’s list, once made, is kind of ridiculously powerful. And it turns out you can put a situation on the list.”

“For example,” Claudia supplies, “H.G. and you. Getting to be in each other’s... proximity.”

Steve adds, “And yours isn’t the only one I put there. That was part of the deal.”

“So you’re letting the pen reward nice situations with... existing,” Myka says. “And are you storing it on some new ‘Don’t Neutralize’ shelf? So nobody accidentally bags the existence out of them?”

Claudia says, “Kinda. At least for a while.”

This all seems deceptively, not to mention dangerously, easy. “But: personal gain, not for,” Myka points out.

“Right,” Steve says. “So here’s a question: what does ‘personal gain’ actually mean? The manual doesn’t have a glossary. So we’re trying to work it out. Let’s say Claud uses an artifact and then makes this utterance: ‘My use of this artifact was not for personal gain.’ And let’s say I assess that utterance as not a lie. The question remains, are the Warehouse and Claud and I agreeing on the definition of ‘personal gain’?”

“The question remains,” Myka echoes, fretting. “And the answer?”

“We’ll see,” Steve says.

It’s destabilizing, but that’s the Warehouse’s fault, not Steve’s. “I just hope the artifact won’t downside you for any disagreement. Because you’re remarkably nonjudgmental, and—”

“With a Liam exception,” Steve notes. “Or several. Ideally, though, the Warehouse and I can work through these things like adults. Unlike me and Liam.”

Myka respects his honesty. And yet: “I’m having a seriously hard time ideating the Warehouse as an adult.”

“We’re working through that too,” Steve concedes.

“You clearly have the patience of a saint.”

Steve chuckles. “Pete’s your partner, right? And in another sense, H.G. might be too?” Myka waves her hands, no-no-too-soon, because suitcases notwithstanding, she has certainly in the past thought she was making a safe all-in bet, only to lose every last copper-coated-zinc penny of her metaphorical money. “No matter what we call anybody,” he continues, “I think you get a lot more patience practice than I do. I’m just dealing with one little Warehouse and its feelings.”

“Aren’t its feelings... unassimilable?” she asks. “Or at least, shouldn’t they be?” It’s a building. Whatever its feelings, they should be talking about it like it’s an alien, not somebody who’s in therapy. Or somebody who should be in therapy.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Or maybe not. That was part of the deal too, that I would test out how it feels. About personal gain specifically here, eventually maybe more. But if it has a meltdown...”

“Ah. We cancel the test, neutralize the pen, and face the consequences.”

Steve nods. “But ideally, if that happens, we will have leapfrogged whatever the looming Artie-and-Leena crises are. The two of them coming back here safely are the other situations we niced, as part of the deal.”

Claudia adds, “My big fingers-crossed leapfrog is over their stupid administrative ‘keep H.G. away from Myka and everybody else who loves her’ dealy-thingy. We’re hoping they’ll just forget about whatever their dumbass reasons for that were when they see how great it is for her to be back.”

“Dealy-thingy? Have you been talking to Pete?” Myka asks, trying for silly, for light—so as to deflect that “love her” arrow.

“Not about that. But wait, are you saying he loves her too? I mean I figured he was okay with her after the whole Mom-still-alive thing, but his Houdini out of here just now makes me think he’s not quite all the way to—”

“Never mind,” Myka says, as a command.

Claudia squints like she wants to pursue it. Myka crosses her arms against any such idea, in response to which Claudia says, “Fine. Here’s some funsies you’ll like better. Making that list, you’ve gotta have balance. Naughty against the nice.”

“And you think I’ll like that because?”

“I talked to Pete’s cousin, a little pretty-sure-we-don’t-have-to-tesla-you-but-let’s-make-super-sure exit interview. Heard some things about a guy. Bob? Seemed like a good candidate.”

Well. Pete had been right on several levels about Christmas not being over yet. “That’s the best news I’ve had in the past... I don’t know. Five minutes?” Other than the Pete-vs.-“the topic” question, it’s been an absurdly good-news-y several minutes.

Claudia goes on, “Personal gain, what is it? There’s also a warden from that place I don’t like to remember being committed to who’s about to have a Boxing Day that’ll haunt him longer than he’s been haunting me.”

That definitely raises questions—flags, even—about “personal gain” in a definitional sense, but letting all that lie seems the better part of valor, so Myka asks Steve, “Any Liam on there?”

“Too personal to let the Warehouse anywhere near,” he says, but with a smile.

Myka smiles too. “Would that I could say the same about my situation.”

Claudia snickers. “Your situation is Warehouse-dependent. Warehouse-designed. Warehouse-destined.”

“All the more reason said Warehouse shouldn’t object to easing the pressure,” Steve says.

“Are you kidding?” Claudia says. “Its birth certificate reads ‘Ware Stress-Test House.’”

Myka appreciates their positions—Steve’s in particular, even as she internally allows that Claudia’s is probably more accurate—but she would appreciate even more their ceasing to talk about her situation like they’re the ones whose philosophy will determine how, and whether, it succeeds. Or even proceeds.

And she would most appreciate their ceasing to talk about her situation entirely. So that she can go upstairs and be in her situation, because Helena hasn’t come back downstairs, a fact for which Myka’s rapidly overheating libido has provided a similarly overheated reason: she is waiting, up there in the bedroom, for Myka.

Which thought is of course followed by Helena’s preemption of same: she descends the stairs and presents herself in the foyer.

Damn it, Myka’s disappointed libido fumes.

Sacrilege! an overriding executive self chastises, and it isn’t wrong, for again, here Helena is. To fail to appreciate that—ever—is an error of, indeed, biblical, or anti-biblical, proportions.

In any case, now four people are just standing here, awkwardness personified.

Helena flicks her eyes briefly toward Myka—it seems a little offer of “hold on”—then turns to Steve and Claudia. “I didn’t greet either of you directly when I arrived. I apologize. Claudia darling, it warms my heart to see you... and this is of course the famous Steve, whose acquaintance I’m delighted to make at last.”

Striking to witness: Helena has essentially absorbed the awkward into her very body and transmogrified it into formality.

Myka loves her.

“Famous?” Steve echoes, like she’s said “Martian.”

“I’ve heard much of you,” Helena says, with an emphasizing finger-point on “much.”

Steve smiles his I’m-astonished-you’re-not-lying smile, through which he articulates, “Likewise? I mean, likewise, but with more. Obviously.”

Yes, Myka loves her: for her charming self alone, but also for how that charm extends; her sweet attention to Steve has him immediately smitten. Myka’s the one to catch Helena’s gaze now, intending merely to convey gratitude, but to her gratification it stops Helena, causing her to abandon her engagement with Steve.

Maybe she and Myka can stand here and gaze at each other forever. It wouldn’t be everything, but it would be something. Second on second, it is something. It is something.

Claudia interrupts it all, saying to Helena, “Can I hug you?”

Myka doesn’t begrudge the breaking of this spell, particularly not with that; she had been selfish, before, greedy to keep Helena and her eyes all to herself. She also doesn’t begrudge the ease of the hug in which Claudia and Helena engage; getting a hug right is simpler when its purpose is clear. And clearly joyful.

Over Claudia’s shoulder, Myka’s and Helena’s gazes lock yet again, and it’s spectacular.

However: it also seems to introduce a foreign element into the hug, some friction that Claudia must sense, for she disengages and says, “So. I have to go. I just remembered I have an appointment to not be here.”

Steve says, “I feel like I was supposed to remember to meet you there, wasn’t I,” Steve says, and Myka has never been able to predict when he’ll be able to play along instead of blurting “lie” (even if he does often follow such blurts with some version of an apologetic “but I see the social purpose”).

“I don’t think you were,” Claudia says, “because I’m revising the gag; it makes more sense if I just now made an appointment to not be here. So you couldn’t be remembering some nonexistent-before-now appointment.”

“But I still think the appointment ought to be with me, gag-wise and otherwise,” Steve says, doggedly, still playing. “In the first and second place.”

“Is this the first place?” Claudia muses, faux-serious, now rewarding his doggedness. “Is the appointment in the second place?”

They could who’s-in-the-first-place this for days, so Myka intervenes, “In the first place, if this is a gag, it desperately needs workshopping. But in the second place: Scram!”

“You mean to the second place,” Claudia sasses.

Myka scowls, wishing she could growl proficiently.

Claudia’s eyes widen. “Scramming. Best scrammer,” she says, sans sass, proving the actual growl unnecessary. Interesting.

“Except that’s about to be me with the gold-medal scram,” Steve objects and concurs.

Myka pronounces, “I’ll be the judge of who’s what. Once you actually do it.”

“You’ll award the medals later though, right?” asks Claudia. Her words are jokey, yet her tone is weirdly sincere, as if Myka might forget they had scrammed on her behalf, and that such amnesia would be hurtful.

“Participation trophies,” Myka semi-affirms, “in the form of a healthy breakfast.” She adds, internally, Take the damn hint.

After much winking and nudging, the comedians at last absent themselves, and Myka and Helena are alone.

Unfortunately that doesn’t immediately yield the perfected situation Myka seeks, first and foremost because she doesn’t know what comes next. Take your own damn hint, she tells herself, but... how? They need privacy, and the only reasonable place for that is where Helena’s suitcase rests: upstairs. Myka can’t magic them there, so what incremental movement will be recognizable as an appropriate beginning?

She casts a wish for Helena to ease it all, as she had with Claudia and Steve, but Helena is stock-still, offering no increment. For both of them, upstairs seems to have become a different place... the promised land?

Nothing is promised, she reminds herself. Some things are newly possible, but nothing is promised. Certainly not when the Warehouse is involved.

So maybe the point, probably the point, is that it’s incumbent on Myka and Helena to realize the possibility.

Nevertheless, here they stick.

After a time—most likely shorter than Myka feels it to be—Helena announces, “Pete and I have had a chat.” Her articulation of “chat” shapes it into a synonym for “fight.” “Who won?” Myka asks.

“I believe it was a draw. He opened by saying he ‘didn’t get how far along this thing had got.’” Hearing Pete’s diction in Helena’s mouth is disorienting. “He then said he wants to protect you.”

That’s so Pete. “I don’t need protecting.”

Eyebrow. “I noted that I want to protect you too.”

That thrills Myka. At the same time, she wants to object to it nearly as much as to Pete’s assertion... internal contradictions, what are they? She lands weakly on, “I hope that persuaded him.”

“Pete finds deeds more persuasive than words,” Helena says. “Thus I’m ‘on probation where Myka’s concerned,’ until he determines I won’t damage you.”

That’s so Pete too. But. “That is my determination.”

“I expressed a similar sentiment. He responded, ‘And how’d that go last time?’” Helena’s wince after she says this is awful, and Myka dares to assuage it, stepping toward Helena with open arms, drawing her into an embrace.

This time, their hug—simpler because its purpose is clear—works, bodies soft-querying at the start, then firm, intentional. Not quite catching fire, but this is a palpable first cut into whatever membrane of uncertainty is obstructing their movement.

Slow, slow, they move apart. Yet they stay close, the embrace’s softness lingering as Helena says, “Selfishly, I didn’t concede his point, which is in any case indeed down to your determination. But I did note that circumstances have changed since then. And to be fair I must report that he allowed they have.”

“You’re both right,” Myka says. But: “Was this Cleveland mission contrived to... further change the circumstances?”

“I didn’t contrive it,” Helena says, fast. “I would have, if I could, but I didn’t.”

“I’m not saying you did. I’m saying I always wonder, because I can’t help it, how much, or how little, of what happens just happens.”

“And the rest—or if I’m understanding your implication, the bulk—would be...?”

“Some sort of social engineering.”

“On whose part?” Helena asks.

That’s disingenuous. “Your engineers of choice. Regents. Mrs. Frederic. Mr. Kosan. Ententes thereof.”

Helena runs a hand through her hair—frustration at the thought of those entities? Or just showing off? Then she shrugs, as if to dismiss both possibilities. “I favor any engineering that places me in private proximity to you.”

The words are beyond welcome. And yet. “I’m not objecting to it. I’m just...”

“Objecting to it.”

“No. Questioning its provenance.”

“Why?”

That brings Myka up short. “What?”

“If it produces an outcome you desire, what does the provenance matter? In this case, at the very least.”

It’s a reasonable question, and Myka’s most-honest answer would have something to do with the ethical acceptability of poisonous-tree fruits. For now, though, she goes with, “Because I don’t like being manipulated.”

“Don’t you?” That’s flirty, a near-whisper, compelling Myka to lean even closer. Helena knows—she’s always known—the power she has over Myka. And she’s always known how—and when—to wield that power.

“The manipulator matters,” Myka says, responding to the flirt, accepting the push away from ethics.

“Then would that I could in truth say I contrived that relatively banal retrieval. And sabotaged the elevator, so as to draw our attention to... that to which it was drawn.”

“I can’t say I was displeased with the drawing,” Myka allows. “So if you had...”

Helena moves her lips, a sly hint of curve, and says, “Oh, but perhaps I’ve manipulated you into that sentiment.” Again, an ostentatious flirt.

Myka’s knowing that flirt-show for what it is? That’s Helena-specific. In the past Myka has always had to be told when she was being flirted with: “He was interested in you,” an exasperated friend would explain of an interaction Myka found incomprehensible, and she would cringe internally at her inability to recognize such an apparently basic, obvious display. But with Helena she’s never needed a flirt translator. From the first lock of gaze, unto this night’s myriad connections; from that first brush of finger, unto the way Helena has just allowed their hug to linger; from the first just-for-you conspiratorial grin, unto this very moment’s slip of smile—all the advances, heavy and light, have been legible to Myka.

And based on what she is now reading, she has no ground left. “Fine. I like being manipulated if it means.” She clears her throat. “If it means I get closer to you. You win.”

“Do I?” Here’s the disingenuity again, but now Myka understands its intentional irony. Helena follows up with, “This establishment has no elevator,” Helena says, like it’s nothing more than a structural observation that checks a box on a form, a minor note in an overall architectural assessment.

“No,” Myka agrees.

“How fortunate,” Helena says.

Myka waits for the conclusion, the help... but it’s not forthcoming, probably in a that’s-down-to-your-determination-as-well sense. The next cut is clearly Myka’s responsibility too. So: “It has stairs though,” she offers. “That go. Up. Well, both down and up. Of course. As stairs do.” Stop talking, she tells herself, but her nerves don’t heed the advice. “As they have to? I don’t know; do they? Escher?”

“Ess-sherr,” Helena echoes, clearly uncomprehending. That she lets Myka hear her knowledge gap is a gift. For Christmas?

“He’s an artist. I promise I’ll explain later. Eventually. Anyway the stairs. I think you just used them? Without incident?”

Myka expects a comeback. She gets none, which leaves her in some non-place, absent as it is of Helena-attitude... but what form had she expected such attitude to take? Aggression? Naughtiness? Or “naughtiness”... does the lack of all that mean Helena is offering a self more authentic than the one who charms and flirts? But that doesn’t seem quite right, for the charms and the flirts have always seemed clearly intrinsic Helena-talents. Deployed, yes, but not inauthentic. So if this Helena is deploying fewer such talents, maybe it’s that she’s... less?

Ironically—of course ironically, because all of this is so, so layered like that—a reduced Helena is an even greater bonus.

All of this, which Myka had better figure out, fast, how to appreciate and accommodate. “Of course that’s no guarantee that travel will go well,” she begins. “So we should try not to trip on the stairs... wait, no, that would make it our problem, which I don’t think this ever was. Maybe better: we shouldn’t let the stairs trip us.” She considers. “But no again: what I really mean is, we shouldn’t give the stairs a reason to trip us. Right?”

Helena looks at her and blinks, charmingly blank. “I have no idea. Are you through?”

“I have no idea either,” Myka admits, still directionless without Helena’s attitudinal lead. Is this, like the semi-botched hug of two days ago, a seemingly terrible sign?

“Merely delay.” A little head-shake follows. Signifying disappointment? Making light of Myka’s inability to get through? Then Helena says, “And yet I don’t know how much more delay I can withstand.”

Those raw words are mediated by nothing more than molecules—the nitrogen-oxygen-argon-et-cetera invisibilities conveying waves to Myka’s ossicles—and for the second time, Myka ideates, in full awe, She feels the same way I do.

“Me either,” she says, literally heartfelt, sending the words back, a final push through everything, molecules and otherwise, that has stood between them.

Testing, she offers Helena her hand. Helena takes it.

These hands together: not a first. Not even a second. In the present circumstance, that translates to something very like “comfortingly familiar.”

Under the aegis of that comfort, they ascend the stairs, Myka leading the way, marveling that she can. Against her pulling hand, Helena offers what seems a single erg of resistance, a display, an I-am-letting-you affirmation.

They cross the threshold of Myka’s room, and then. Then, after Myka makes one turn and twist, a closed non-elevator door stands, for once and at last, between them and the rest of the world.

Closed, the door is, but not locked. In the door-closing instant, turning the lock—adding its presumptive click—had struck Myka’s hand as overly brazen: that’s a frustrating flinch her hand will have to work out with whatever part of her brain-body complex was certain enough to start this, start it by saying what she did about the suitcase... the same part that keeps telling her that Helena’s feelings match hers.

As Myka turns her back on the now-closed door, she sees her bed. She sees her bed. Disconcerting, in this new now, how large a percentage of the room’s space this one piece of furniture seems to be occupying...

But she’s self-aware enough to know that she’s overlaying the bed’s current brain space, the desires it signifies, on the physical. Whatever’s going to happen—or not—will happen, she tries to force into that space in her brain, pushing it down... for desire, sometimes indistinguishable from expectation, has devastated her before. But she tries too hard: missing the mark, she slips and falls into some past-obsessed cerebral fold, once again lost, quietly but deeply, in that devastation.

“Here we are,” Helena remarks into the silence. “Or, harking back to engineering: Here we are? I continue to be unsure as to why. I can accept unclear provenance, but I’d prefer more explication regarding my allowable movements.”

That’s help. That’s rescue. But oh: movements. The word nearly derails Myka in a different direction, but she gathers herself, resetting to reply, “It’s explicable, but I honestly don’t have the energy to explicate even my minimal knowledge of the mechanism. The most basic base is, Claudia and Steve worked out a deal to use that pen, and there’s a list that you and I are on. As a ‘nice’ situation. Anyway if you want real details, you probably should sit down with Steve.”

A mind’s-eye image comes to her, of Helena and Steve leaning toward each other, bringing complementary concentration to bear on some topic large or small... and then an incipient sound strikes her: the chime of their voices together, both seriously and lightheartedly, ringing notes she hadn’t before this new instant thought to anticipate. “Actually I think you and Steve sitting down would be really pleasant. Even productive. Given that you’ll be sticking around. I mean, if you’re willing, and if, or at least until, some definitional issues get worked out. As I understand it.” As I devoutly hope, she doesn’t quite utter.

“That addresses... some issues, I suppose. Yet a question remains.”

This is a bonus of a day: Helena turning into the queen of understatement? It’s freeing; Myka laughs and says, “Tons of questions remain. Which one’s on your mind?”

Head-tilt. “You said you didn’t have the energy... to explain the mechanism,” Helena says.

More delay, Myka knee-jerks... but she knows the reflex immediately as wrongheaded, for this is conversation, the value of which she should have learned by now not to discount. “Right. Sorry, I’ll try: so the pen, and honestly speaking of questions and provenance, I still have some questions about provenance, which I’m trying to ignore, but anyway, Claudia found the file, and—”

“That is not the issue I had in mind.”

“Sorry. I’m not getting anything right, am I?” Because of course she isn’t getting anything right.

“We’ll see,” Helena says.

“So what did I jump the gun on?”

“You don’t have the energy to explain.”

This muddles Myka; it will probably require another reset. “I did say that, but I can try to—”

“Myka,” Helena says, and her name in that mouth will never cease to be a singular wonder. “What do you have the energy for?”

Here again is the difference between the attitude that Myka, in her more cynical moments, might have thought Helena would maintain, and the reality she is instead offering: the question is suggestive, but guilelessly, graciously so; its import is genuine, not manipulative. “How do you do that?” Myka asks.

“Do what?” This question, too, is guileless, gracious.

“Stop me.” It’s the best definition Myka can produce of what Helena has in fact done, what she seems consistently able to do.

Helena breathes several breaths, like she’s waiting for the right words to arrive... no, more like they’ve already arrived, but she’s preparing herself, gearing up to deliver them. “I don’t want to stop you,” she eventually says, and Myka should have used that windup to prepare herself: for the admission this is, for how this don’t-want utterance nevertheless is want.

They are the most vulnerable words Myka has ever heard.

New, new, new... the fact is that historically, people have tended to twist and shy from revealing weakness to Myka. Fallout from her tendency to judge, no doubt, but it means that this, too, is new: here is Helena, and maybe in some other world someone else might have made such a mattering move but here in this best one it’s Helena, Helena ignoring that character defect, Helena blowing past it for a chance to change everything.

Everything. “It’s Christmas,” Myka says, because it is. And because now it is.

“So give me this gift,” Helena rejoins.

“You too,” Myka says.

For the space of one breath, they both wait—bracing for whatever fate intends to use to stop them this time.

But this time nothing stops them, for in the ensuing instant, they both give that gift, blowing fast past everything that, slow, might stop them, grasping at this chance to change.

The jolt of their contact reminds Myka of—no: the shock of it strikes her as—artifact activation, that calling of vested power into being, that enabling of such longed-for release. Before the Warehouse taught her to recognize this transubstantiating, she would not have understood this moment’s raw unleashing, its summoning and compelling of stored potential to manifest as what it has lain in wait, in desperate wish, to become.

But also: all the blood in her body knows she has never felt such power released nonartifactually before now, before this.

Before this world-encompassing, world-creating first kiss.

“You’re thinking,” Helena murmurs into the space of a pause for breath. “I can taste it.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Myka scrambles, kicking herself for not staying in the unprecedented moment, for letting thought intrude, as she always does, and it’s always bad, and Helena is now rightfully offended and disenchanted and—

“It’s delicious,” Helena says, punctuating—proving—by meeting Myka’s lips again, again again again, as if determined to never stop.

Myka would be perfectly happy, oh so perfectly happy, with that forever-continuation, but something in her brain has begun gesturing wildly, demanding her attention... something about her hand... brazen... she rips her lips away and yelps, “Wait! I have to lock the door!”

“The thinking continues,” Helena says, stepping back, freeing Myka, and spreading her arms in a ta-da endorsement. “You��re brilliant.”

A memory: “Bunny, you think too much.” No I don’t, she can now answer. Not for her. In time, given time, she’ll tell Helena how much this matters, but now is not that time. Not when Helena is saying, “However, as we’re behind a locked door, I’ll wager I can make you stop thinking... for at least one consequential moment...”

To Myka’s extremely consequential—and utterly, blissfully unthinking—delight, Helena wins that bet.

****

Later. Lazily, later: “I genuinely cannot believe we were stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. A thing to say, said. “As the prelude to all this.” Which is what she really means.

Against Myka’s neck, newly and blessedly intimate, Helena says, “Your limited capacity for belief is noted. Are you equally incapable of believing that we had the apparently obligatory, if not preordained, chat?”

“Obligatory... preordained...” Myka is still so lazy, she’s practically drawling, and the out-of-character surprise of it pricks at the edge of her ability to stay in such a state. Stay, stay, stay... “Honestly... just clichéd.”

“And yet I was able to add a reference to my Myka-index. Entry: Mirrors, your artifact-related discomfort with.”

Myka’s heart seizes: Helena has a Myka-index. That, plus their proximity now, surely requires her to do better than the little falsehood she’d rested on with regard to the mirror-discomfort. Pushing laziness aside, with something too much like relief, she acknowledges, “I misled you. There was an artifact, but that isn’t what bothers me. The real thing is that mirrors make me observe myself too closely. Too much. Which I do all the time anyway.”

“I wish you’d delegate that observational task to me.” Sweet. Helena sounds so sweet. And not just sounds: Myka can tell (hopes she can tell) Helena means it. Which is even sweeter.

And which in turn entails a need for Myka to think seriously about being observed. Being protected. Being willing—but more important, able—to delegate in the correct spirit, even minimally. “I can try.”

“I can accept that,” Helena says, and the approval is better than sweet: it’s buy-all-the-books-you-want indulgent. “But I must ask: do you honestly think any part of the Cleveland interregnum was the elevator’s doing?”

The true answer references Myka’s entire Warehouse experience, from day one: “Yes and no.”

Helena nods, her hair sliding mink-soft on Myka. “I can accept that as well.”

“And whoever’s at fault, our chat was interrupted,” Myka says.

“As it was poised to progress beyond ‘chat’... but in truth I would rather this happened here than in an elevator. Better environs for still further progress. Don’t you agree?” Helena moves her unclad limbs against Myka’s, in transcendent emphasis.

Of course Myka agrees. Which leads her to a painful realization: “So maybe the elevator wasn’t as judgmental as I... judged it to be.”

Helena bestows a kiss to Myka’s shoulder—small, intimate—bringing Myka’s mind back, sharp, to what those bestowing lips have so recently accomplished, which threatens to render her again overcome. She shudders, which reduces her to embarrassment instead, but Helena is kind enough to feign obliviousness as she says, “You did note your own judgmental nature.”

Myka’s soul twinges in genuine regret, collapsing her lip-recall. She regrets that too. “Do you think I need to go back and apologize? I feel all guilty now.”

“The elevator has most likely moved on,” Helena says, quite dry.

“You’re saying it doesn’t have my memory.”

“I’m saying that even if it does—an open question, though the lack of elevator memoirs argues in the negative—it’s unlikely to care as much as you do about what it does remember.”

“Story of my life,” Myka sighs out. Now she’s really saying it, because memory, and caring too much about it, is that story.

“For the best, I suspect. Your life story and an elevator’s shouldn’t be entirely congruent, should they?” Helena questions, and that makes Myka laugh and want to read an entire library shelf’s worth of elevators’ memoirs. Feigning seriousness, Helena continues, “Although we might revisit so as to investigate whether its conveyance of Bob proceeded properly after our visit. That could be revealing.”

“Speaking of Bob, I feel bad for Nancy. Because of course he’ll blame her.”

“For elevator mischief?”

Ah. Helena doesn’t know. “For naughty.”

“Naughty what?”

“The list. He’s back on it, thanks to Steve and Claudia.”

“Is he.” Her satisfaction is evident, and for a moment she and Myka are one in their schadenfreude. That, too, is delicious. “Better they punish him than we do,” Helena then says.

This sends Myka back to guilt. “It feels like cheating. We didn’t use the artifact, but we get the personal gain.”

Myka’s shoulder now receives an indignant exhale. In its wake, Myka is dwelling on how she would have preferred another kiss, but Helena says, “I was speaking of soul-consequences, not this personal-gain fetish you all seem to embrace. Or perhaps it’s an anti-fetish, but in any case was no hard-and-fast dictum in my day.”

“I’ll reiterate that you should sit down with Steve,” Myka tells her, and Helena accedes with a nestle that erases the exhale.

Are words about such things—ambiguously motivated elevators, deserved punishments, fetishes of undetermined valence—a waste of time? No... for again, they are conversation... the value of which, Myka has lately learned, is even greater when the words it comprises land as soft breath on skin.

In fact Myka has learned a great many things in this locked-door recent while. There is, for one, the gratifying fact that she and Helena are physically compatible, at least as evidenced by this first performance, in terms both of wants and of abilities to satisfy them. But nearly as important, particularly in its physical component but not only that, is her new understanding that while her life has offered her several circumstances with which she’s been reasonably satisfied—that she hasn’t minded—this right-now is orders of magnitude above such contentment. She must have in some soul-stratum known this would prove true, or she would not have been panting in its pursuit so seemingly hopelessly, with such dogged desperation.

She says, with gratitude, “This is what I wanted.”

Getting what she wants: that, too, is new. And very. very nice.

“I would hope so,” Helena says. As if she had some genuine doubt about Myka’s motivation? “No, that’s rhetorical; rather, I did hope so. You’ve realized that hope, and... well. I should be clear: this is more than I dared to want.”

Myka, endeavoring to bring everything together, says, “So what you’re saying, want-wise, is that it’s a bonus. A nice one.”

“I’m saying, want-wise, that my wildest hopes have been exceeded. Surpassed. Transcended.”

It’s something, that reply. Also more than a little over the top, rhetorically, which Helena obviously knows. “Pleonast,” Myka accuses.

Helena laughs. “Not inaccurate. I suppose your ‘nice bonus’ translation is technically correct, if a bit... with apologies, pedestrian?”

“It’s less pedestrian than ‘Fred,’” Myka says. A “hm?” from Helena reminds Myka that she hasn’t yet made that translation evident. “I guess ‘Fred’ counts as esoteric instead, so never mind. You’re right, ‘bonus’ is pedestrian. So is ‘nice.’ But maybe it’s a good idea to call our whatever-it-is something pedestrian. I don’t want to scare it away.”

“And what precisely do you think would ‘scare it away’?”

“Bigness,” Myka offers, weakly. It’s what she means, but—

“‘Bigness?’” Helena says, quotes evident. “From the woman who so recently deployed ‘pleonast’? Should I fear that you’ll regularly revert without warning to Pete-reminiscent locutions?”

Myka chuckles. “Spend enough time with him, it’ll probably happen to you too.” The laziness is back. Earned back?

After a time—or perhaps Myka only after a time processes the sound—Helena says, “God forbid.”

A further lag ensues before Myka manages to respond, with a drowsy “I agree.”

Sleep follows. That is certainly earned.

****

Consciousness resumes for Myka with a banging on her door and a shout from Pete: “It’ s really not Christmas anymore, because Artie’s back!”

“Being Artie about it!” Claudia shouts in addition. “He says get to work!”

“I’m awake,” Myka says as she becomes more fully so. This is a Warehouse morning, and Warehouse alarms ring as they do.

Then: I’m not awake; I’m dreaming, because the back of Helena’s head and her naked shoulders greet Myka’s opening eyes. That’s a bracingly new alarm.

Helena’s voice comes next. “He says get to work,” she quotes, playfully, and Myka would be willing to wake to such an alarm with joy for the rest of her life.

But assuredly, if the content of that alarm is the dictate, then no one is dreaming. There’s really nothing for Myka to say except, “Sorry, but one more time: Story of my life.”

“Now? Our life,” Helena corrects.

That is a literally life-story-altering assertion, and a self-deprecating impulse tempts Myka to scoff it away. Behind that impulse, however, lies a clear-eyed recognition that she must meet what Helena has said. How, how, how...

...and then her mind starts fully working. She begins to formulate a plan. One that will, if possible, manifest her gratitude, but also, display her difference from the Myka she used to be, that one from so few hours ago, who had not yet known the dream-surprise of this awakening’s sight.

“I’m going to tell them I can’t get the door unlocked,” she says. Steve isn’t there. She can get away with it. She sits up, ready to head for the door and tell that story.

Helena touches Myka’s shoulder. “Would it lend credibility for me to suggest out loud that I genuinely can’t believe we’re stuck in your bedroom?” More play, but the touch is becoming a don’t-leave-this-bed grasp.

Myka leans to kiss the restraining hand. “I think that would make them think you planned it. And were being nefarious about it. Shocked incredulity isn’t really your strong suit.”

“It’s true that my capacity for belief outstrips yours.” She pulls down on the sheet, exposing both her body and Myka’s.

Talk about overdetermined. Or is it, in this as-yet-unmapped terrain, underdetermined? To be determined later, if at all... Myka somehow marshals sufficient will to rise from the bed, while telling herself that she is not, conceptually at least, actually leaving it. At the door, she fiddles with the lock, expressing frustration to support her claim, after which Pete and Claudia make noises about toolboxes and battering rams, respectively, and then mercifully depart.

“They’re going to try to get us out,” Myka reports as she returns to bed. “Maybe violently?”

“Let them,” Helena murmurs. “That elevator and its manifestation of mischief... comparatively amateur. You’ve bested it handily.”

That jolts Myka out of a back-of-mind consideration of whether she might be able to jam the bedroom door’s lock with something easily to hand, or perhaps whether her dresser might be pushed across the room to block the door entirely. She then considers, front of mind, the possibility that Helena—her physical presence, her physical provocation—is a bad influence... or at the very least a naughty one... for these thoughts are so, so out of character.

“That, on the other hand, is not the story of my life,” Myka says, and the fact of it does make her more than a little nervous.

“A new chapter,” Helena counters, reading Myka’s mind and setting it right—in three words. Such economy.

****

Myka and Helena are engaged in adding to that new chapter (or at the very least, drafting a steamy interlude of same, even if it isn’t essential to the plot) when a banging on the door interrupts them yet again. As does shouting: “We’re back!” yells Pete, unnecessarily.

“Hey, Myka, what’s going on?” That’s Steve. Far more quiet.

“I brought Steve,” Pete says, also unnecessarily.

“I gathered that from his voice,” Myka notes.

“But!” Pete says, in aha-I-got-you mode, “what if it turns out all I brought was his voice?”

“Then I guess he’d still be here in some sense?” she says; she’s thinking on the Helena-hologram, on what a lack of visual might have meant, on how a more ontologically disembodied voice would have made her believe Helena was there, there but standing on the other side of a door. How she would have wanted to take her own battering ram to that door. The hologram’s present non-presence had stranded her, stranded them, in a strange shared space, offering no barrier Myka could use her body to break violently through.

“But!” Claudia exclaims, jokey, fighting with Myka’s ache of reminiscence, “what if it’s just me, doing my Steve impression?”

“That’d be a different thing,” Myka concedes.

“You do a me impression?” Steve asks Claudia.

Who exhales so dramatically, Myka’s surprised the door doesn’t just blow open. “You have stood next to me while I did it.”

“I have?” Puzzled-Steve is honestly Myka’s favorite Steve.

“Are we not a team?” Claudia demands. “Myka does a Pete. Pete does a Myka. Naturally they both suck, but the point is, why don’t you do a me?”

“Because you’d kill me?”

“Guys,” Pete says, “this isn’t getting Myka and H.G. out of the bedroom.”

Claudia says, “But let me just. Myka, H.G., you guys do impressions of each other, right?”

Helena raises her arms, a gesture of observe-this!—or maybe it’s at-last!—and exclaims, “I feel compelled to express disbelief about this circumstance!”

It takes Myka a second to get it, but once she does, she shouts, “I love blooming onions!”

For quite some time, there’s silence from the other side of the door.

Then Steve says, “Am I the only one who’s extremely confused?”

“Usually, yes,” Claudia says. “Except now, no. I’m with you. Pete?”

“Myka loves blooming onions,” Pete says, slow; he’s the one having trouble now with belief. Myka can picture his gobsmacked face. “There’s my endless wonder for the day. Also, I gotta rethink a whole lot of stuff she said about what she was willing to eat.”

Myka presses an apologetic kiss to Helena’s lips (and how nearly unbelievable it is to feel comfortable with such a touch being swift, to not need to hoard, to believe there will be more), then extricates herself yet again from the sheets, the bed. She heads for the door: to make a show of unlocking it, to send them away temporarily so she and Helena can reassemble themselves to rejoin the world—but. Problem. Big problem. “Guys. I really can’t get the door unlocked now.”

“‘Now’?” Pete echoes.

“You mean you actually could before?” Claudia asks.

Moment of truth. So, fine, truth: “I didn’t actually try before.”

“Ha!” Claudia barks. “Are we still on impressions? That might’ve been a decent one, for real, because the attitude? Way H.G.”

“Thank you so much!” Helena chirps.

“H.G.,” says Claudia, with a whiff of pedantry—and that she feels free to express such an attitude toward Helena is most likely because she’s on the safe side of a closed door—“I was complimenting Myka’s impression.”

“But in it, you recognized my attitude.” Helena’s words are a full preen, and as she speaks, she’s rising from the bed, approaching Myka, slipping arms around her, such that Myka loses her ability to track what’s happening on the other side of the door, even as splinters of sound catch in her ears—“hinges inside,” “lock plate solid,” and finally, “break it down”—whereupon she realizes anew that neither she nor Helena is clothed, and that being caught and seen in that state will constitute a disaster that outstrips a great many of the others in her experience.

“We have to get dressed,” she breathes at Helena.

“Wait,” Helena says. “I suspect a realization is about to occur.”

At times, Helena can be eerily prescient. But what is it this time?

As if in answer, Claudia says, “I have a really depressing theory. Myka, can you get the window open?”, whereupon Myka understands Helena’s deduction: this isn’t mechanical; it’s artifactual. More specifically, list-artifactual.

She cannot open the window.

“Yeah,” Claudia says, a defeated I-knew-it. “I’d be all ‘try to smash it!’, but since I can’t see you try it and, like, bounce off the glass, what’s the point? I mean, go for it if H.G. wants the lulz.”

“I don’t know what that means!” Helena informs her. That too is a chirp, and Myka’s pleased to note it’ll probably head off the slapstick.

“Kind of a shame,” Claudia says, but with a drag, like she’s picturing it, and Myka is less pleased to have to devoutly hope that picturing involves everybody fully clothed. “Anyway I hate to say it, but it’s pretty clear this is on us, the list-makers.”

Pete groans. “You were supposed to check it twice! It’s right there in the song!”

“Listen, we seriously argued about the wording,” Steve says.

“And oh guess what!” Claudia says, defeat apparently tabled for the moment. “Everybody in the world is going on about their day as usual due to the unshocking news that I was right.”

“No, I was right. I was the one who said ‘proximity’ was likely to be too vague,” Steve says.

Myka’s inclined to agree with him.

“Bro, I was,” Claudia says, “because I said it was likely to be not vague enough.”

Well. Now Myka’s inclined to agree with Claudia.

She sees the conundrum. “I appreciate it either way,” she says, and that quiets the combatants.

“Regardless, we obviously need different wording,” Steve diplomats.

“I think our first mistake was thinking an artifact would word like we thought it should. You need to get more into its head than you did before.”

“I was in a hurry before,” Steve says, a little less diplomatically. “Because you were yelling at me.”

“I am so so so so glad,” Pete hosannas, “that none of this is on me.”

Myka cannot let that stand. “Who gave his cousin a thing?”

A pause. Then, “Whoops,” Pete says, very sad-clown.

Later, she’ll thank him again, but for now, she doesn’t mind having wielded this little shiv, inflicting this little nick, so he’ll remember that there is, or should be, always a downside.

“How fortunate they’re not asking for our help,” Helena says, bringing her back to the upside.

“Who’s better with words though? You certainly are,” Myka says.

“You hold your own, Ms. ‘Pleonast.’ But ssssh. Don’t remind them.”

“We’ll fix it, we promise!” Claudia says.

“Don’t feel compelled to hurry!” Helena directs, cheerily.

Steve says, “I think she means ‘Don’t yell at Steve this time.’” His hopefulness is clear.

“He isn’t wrong,” Helena notes into Myka’s ear.

Pete announces, “I think she means bow chicka wow wow.”

“He isn’t either,” Myka notes back. “Even less so?”

Helena answers by kissing her with intent.

Claudia snorts. “I think no matter what she means, Artie’s gonna kill us.”

“Alas, the least wrong of all,” Helena grants with a sigh.

The wrecking crew’s voices fade, and they may still be making non-wrong statements, but for Myka and Helena there is at last, again, peace. And once Myka pulls Helena back to bed—a delectable spin she is now bold enough to put on their dynamic—there is at last again not-peace.

Lazily later—and these lazy laters are vying to be Myka’s favorite at-last—she says, “Not to overinterpret the artifact’s thinking, but this feels very nice. As an in-proximity situation.”

“This particular proximity seems more than a bit naughty, however,” Helena says, incongruously matter-of-fact. She isn’t wrong. “Pete obviously made an inference to that effect. Perhaps if Steve and Claudia can use that as a way of writing us out of the current situation.”

“I’m sure that’s for the best,” Myka says, with no small amount of regret, first attached to her embarrassment at Pete, Steve, and Claudia’s involvement in that inference, but even more due to the sad fact that this beginning must come to an end.

“Are you...” Helena’s words are a smile.

“No. I’d much rather stay here forever with you.” Her practical side then takes over, as even Helena’s body twined around hers can’t prevent. “But if they don’t fix it we’ll die—pretty soon, unless they can figure out how to get food in.”

“Would the artifact allow us to starve? That seem the antithesis of a situation that might be termed ‘nice.’”

“‘Termed’? Isn’t problematic terminology why we’re still here?”

“Granted. But of course we’ll die regardless.”

The casual, literal fatalism trips Myka up. She temporizes, “The artifact might have something to say about that,” placeholding, as she finds her way to a real response: “But artifact aside... will you though?” It’s a question about... well, about whether Helena is, for want of a better word, real. Speaking of terminology. “Die,” she adds, not as a word she must expel, for its terrible taste, but one she feels a need to place. As a marker.

Helena takes a moment. Before, Myka would have read that pause as censure; it would have pushed her overboard into I-have-overstepped agony. But the plates have shifted, and her footing feels—strange but nice (oh, nice!)—sure.

The answer, when it comes: “Here with you, I don’t want to be bronzed again. So yes.”

That leaves Myka warm, yet shaking her head. “I honestly don’t know a lot about romance.”

“Don’t you?” Helena asks, all of her limbs beginning to move again against all of Myka’s.

Which, for the moment, Myka resists: “So I’m not sure if it’s weird that I find it incredibly romantic for you to have said yes to dying.”

Now Helena’s smile is a smile; she rears away, back and up, showing Myka her face’s full measure of delight. “Weird or no, whatever you find romantic, I’m inclined to approve. If that’s acceptable to you.” Helena bows her head, as if to formally request Myka’s benediction.

The very idea of such an ask floods her with happy tenderness. “Is it okay for me to find that romantic too?”

“‘Okay’ seems a sadly weak word to convey the extent of my approval,” Helena says. “Further, I find it romantic for you to ask my permission to find any thing romantic. Unnecessary, yet romantic. Is that ‘okay’ as well?”

“It’s a relief,” Myka understates. “Can I call it a romantic relief?”

“I don’t see why not. However, to what extent is it romantic, or non-, that we seem to be finding—or placing—ourselves in recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying?” Helena accompanies this academically focused, seemingly serious question with yet more limb movement.

Myka is actively in bed with someone who’s questioning the romantic quotient of recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying. It is a level of “nice” that she could never ever have ideated on her own. “I genuinely cannot believe any of this,” she says.

“I can assure you that I will be taking some time—if allowed, and thus perhaps only in an ideal world, some great length of time—to determine whether your incredulity will ever cease to be tedious and elevate itself to ‘romantic.’ Some great length of time,” she repeats, playfully.

Myka knows Helena’s appreciation for time’s length is far greater than any ordinary individual’s... so this smacks of a promise. Myka’s gratitude rises, as does her willingness to pursue any and all romantic activity, despite her apparently romance-dampening incredulity... but then the limbs pause. “However,” Helena says.

“What’s this ‘however’?” Myka asks, now selfishly impatient.

Helena has, obviously and of course, heard and felt the impatience. Myka’s neck receives a press of lips, a curve of smile. “However: fortunately, at this juncture, belief isn’t required. Participation, on the other hand, is. So?” This is something Myka has always suspected was a Helena tactic, but here in intimacy she recognizes as true: challenge not for its own sake, but as an attitude in which to wrap something different, deeper, some authenticity Helena isn’t fully willing, or doesn’t quite yet know how, to express.

Myka moves her own limbs, her limbs that are even longer than, and just as flexible as, Helena’s. She moves them against Helena’s. She cannot believe she is doing so; nevertheless, she is. She is participating.

She places a chock under this particular incredulity, for unlike facts, the quality of emotions can escape her if she doesn’t consciously tie them down. She paints the word “bonus” on the emotion-wheel as she secures it, to ensure she elevates that felt quality too. Then she eases herself back to the full experience of the physical, this smooth beauty—and that is the word for every touch-heat-rise their bodies execute—that she and Helena together are creating... are enjoying.

She sighs soft against Helena’s neck; in return, Helena offers again her lips-on-skin smile.

They are participating. In this. Together. Lips on skin.

“So,” Myka agrees.

END

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #holiday (but not Gift Exchange)#Bonus #part 4 #Pete and the Meerkats is probably a stupid band name #but it works for a Hanna-Barbera animated show #in which they play concerts and solve crimes #anyway yes I did go back to a particular stuck-in-a-location well here #but it certainly beats an elevator #anyway the story didn’t fully adhere (to itself) as I intended #but I hope there were a couple moments #coming next will be another Christmas story #because god forbid I get to anything other than Gift Exchange and Christmas #which I have to hope is better than nothing #PS if you don't vote if you're eligible and physically can #then guess who's fixing to use that pen to write your name on the wrong side of the list #ME #which may not sound sufficiently scary but there you have it

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mamabearcatfanfics · 8 months ago

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Cairo Prison - InuKag

Sometimes, I write things just for myself, as a little treat. I might write my other favourite scenes here and there. Who knows, eventually I might have enough to string together a whole plot line. But lookie here @elkonigin and @coquinespike - have a little InuKag scene from The Mummy on me. If I ever find where I've put my laptop pen, there may even be some art to go with this.

Kagome swept across the courtyard, her anger making her simmer even hotter under the midday sun. She wasn’t sure who she was more annoyed at – the squat prison Warden for the obviously lecherous looks he was giving her, or Miroku, for lying about where he got the puzzle box. She shivered a little as they passed the gallows, not wanting to think too much about what usually took place here. When the Warden paused for a moment to speak to one of the guards, she rounded on Miroku, her voice a hissing whisper.

“I can’t believe you Miroku! You said that you found that box at a dig in Thebes! And now I find out you stole it from a drunk at the local Casbah! You told me a barefaced lie!”

Miroku looked a little chastened, but then fought back with a winning smile, hooking his arm into hers as they continued across the courtyard.

“That’s a bit harsh, Kagome dear”, he said, patting her hand affectionately. “We were playing cards, a gentleman’s game. I would have won it fair and square if he hadn’t got himself into an altercation. He left it unattended in his pocket. What was I going to do, leave it behind? He probably didn’t even know what it was.”

“You. Lied. To. Me.” Kagome hissed.

“What’s a little white lie between family members, ey?” He tried a winsome smile, which faltered quickly under Kagome’s withering gaze. “I mean, you’re not the only one I lie to old mum. But at least the lies I tell you are pretty ones.”

“That makes it worse! I’m your sister Miroku! Whatever happened to us against the world, together through thick and thin!”

Miroku looked taken aback, even slightly hurt.

“I’m deeply offended. Didn’t I come straight to you with the box? I could have just sold it, but I knew it was something special. And I knew you would be smart enough to recognise that. We both know you’re the one with the brains in this family Kagome dear.” Glancing nervously around, he tugged on her arm, trying to turn her back towards the way they’d just come. “And anyway, I don’t think this is the best place for a lady, so how about we just pop back to-”

Kagome glared at him furiously as he tried to make a run for the door, wrapping her hand around his bicep tightly so he couldn’t get away.

“Stop trying to get out of this Miroku. You can’t sweet talk your way out of this one. Oh, I am absolutely livid! Not only have we lost the most important part of the map, but we have to come here, to this place. You are going to stay here with me and see this through!”

She shuddered a little self-consciously. There were quite a few leering eyes directed towards her, and not all of them were owned by prisoners safely behind bars. Miroku patted her hand again, obviously trying to soothe her, and Kagome straightened her spine.

They’d been through plenty of scrapes together, her and Miroku. They only had each other since their parents died, social outcasts amongst the English elite due to their mother’s Egyptian heritage. She’d barely got Miroku back in one piece after the war, one of his hands shattered by a bullet directly through his palm. She knew it still hurt him, even though he never complained. He’d always been devil may care, even before he was conscripted, but since his return it was like he invited trouble. She was constantly worried about him. This was a chance to find the legendary Hamunaptra together, and there was no way she was going to back down, even if she was more than a little out of her comfort zone here.

Warden Mukotsu came back, his eyes running over her lasciviously, and Kagome lifted her chin in defiance, staring back at him with spirit. She pulled her elbow away from his grasping stubby fingers as he ushered both her and Miroku over to the rusted iron bars surrounding a holding pen. The locked metal door behind it probably led to somewhere unspeakable.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Wasn’t this what she had always wanted? A chance to show that she was not only a scholar, but able to go toe to toe with all the pompous, overstuffed Egyptologists? A chance to put all her knowledge to good use? She could do this.

Clearing her throat in an attempt to make her voice as unaffected as she needed it to be, she turned her attention away from the locked metal door to Warden Mukotsu.

“So, what is this man in prison for?” she asked, attempting an imperious tone. She hoped it wasn’t something horrible, like rape or murder.

The warden preened under her gaze, and she turned her eyes forward again, not wanting to encourage him one iota. He was giving her the creeps. Besides, there was some kind of ruckus going on behind the closed door, yelling, swearing, chains rattling. What on earth was going on back there? Miroku was looking more and more like he was going to bolt, and she pinched his arm viciously to keep him beside her, gratified when he yelped like a little girl.

The warden chuckled, his dark eyes squinting in the hot, midday sun.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting lady, but he’s not human.” He spat derisively on the ground, and Kagome grimaced, tucking the toes of her boots safely back under her long skirt. “He’s a dirty half djinn, with the ears of a jackal. His words cannot be trusted. But I did ask him.”

“And what did he say?” Kagome asked, unsure if she actually wanted the answer to that question. What on earth had Miroku gotten them into this time?

The warden leered at her, before leaving momentarily to handle a disturbance on the other side of the courtyard.

“He said, he was just looking for a good time.”

The metal door burst open with a clang. Four guards dragged a prisoner forwards, their arms and legs wrapped in chains. Despite the handicap, he seemed to be fighting them every step of the way.

His shirt and pants were ragged, his grey, hip length hair matted and oily, hanging in clumped tendrils around his face. Both her and Miroku took a step backwards at the absolute stench that surrounded him. One of the guards walloped him on the head with a truncheon, hard enough for them to hear a solid thump as it connected. Kagome winced in sympathy as it smacked one of his canine ears, blood trickling onto his scalp, and he snarled loudly, baring some very obvious fangs. Another guard beat him again, and the other two kicked him in the back of the knees, forcing him to kneel in front Miroku and Kagome. He grasped the bars in front of him as best he could with his shackled wrists, teeth still bared in anger, amber eyes full of rage.

“This is the person you took the box from?!” Kagome squeaked in surprise, shuffling backwards a tiny step. She’d never seen anyone like him before, and the scholar in her was already wanting to know more. Why did he have dogs ears and fangs? He had slitted pupils like a cat – could he see things human eyes couldn’t? Where had he come from? Did he speak English or Arabic? Or some other language she had no knowledge of?

“Shush, not so loud,” muttered Miroku from the corner of his mouth, turning his face away from the prisoner kneeling in front of them.

“Who are you?” the prisoner demanded, looking Miroku up and down, then turning his eyes almost immediately towards Kagome, as if he’d judged Miroku’s worth and found him lacking. “Who’s the wench?”

“Wench!?” Kagome sputtered, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. The sudden smirk on the prisoners face, and the accompanying glint in his inhuman amber eyes, made her want to slap him. She’d been feeling a little sorry for him after witnessing his treatment at the hands of the guards a moment before, but now she was seething.

“Ah, hello my good man,” smiled Miroku, pushing Kagome a little behind himself. “I’m just a humble local missionary, visiting the prison to save the souls of unfortunates such as yourself…” He faltered a little as he watched the prisoner ignore him, picking at his teeth with the very pointed, and probably very sharp, claw on his little finger. He dragged a reluctant Kagome forward. “And this here is my younger sister, Kagome.”

“How do you do?” said Kagome, attempting a cordial tone, then stiffening as the prisoner looked her up and down.

“Tch. Well, I guess she’s not a total loss.” He turned his head away.

“Excuse me!” said Kagome, tapping her foot at a rapid pace on the dirt, in an attempt to mitigate the burst of anger that was beginning to rise at this man’s attitude. “Excuse me, Mr…”

“Inuyasha. Just Inuyasha.”

Kagome nodded, and tried her best to smile winningly at him. “Inuyasha then.” She made the tone of her voice as warm as possible, speaking slowly and carefully, her expression coy. “You see, my brother and I found a puzzle box that we believe you might be able to help us with.”

“Bullshit.”

“I beg your pardon!?” she exclaimed. Both Miroku and Inuyasha winced at her loud and high pitched tone of indignation.

“I smell bullshit,” Inuyasha repeated gruffly. “We both know you didn’t come here to dirty your pretty little shoes in this hellhole to ask me about some box, lady. You and this stuffed shirt came here to ask me about Hamunaptra, am I right?”

Both Kagome and Miroku’s eyes widened in surprise. They both looked around nervously, hoping the guards hadn’t heard anything, and moved a little closer to the bars.

“How do you know the box has anything to do with Hamunaptra?” asked Kagome, barely able to keep the excitement out of her voice. Now they were getting somewhere!

“Because that’s where I found it.”

Miroku leaned forward, his voice a little suspicious.

“How can we believe anything someone like you would say?”

“Wait, do I know you?”

Miroku gave a nervous chuckle.

“Oh no, I don’t believe- “

Inuyasha’s nose twitched slightly, and then his eyes widened in recognition. He glowered at Miroku.

“You!”

Before Miroku could even think about taking a step backwards, Inuyasha’s fist shot forwards, catching Miroku on the chin. Even hampered as Inuyasha was by the chains, as soon as the blow connected, Miroku was laid out cold. One of the guards whacked his already bleeding ear again, hard, forcing his forehead to bounce off the metal bars in front of him.

“Hey, watch it, fucker!”

Kagome looked down at Miroku, laying prone at her feet, then delicately raised her skirt a little as she stepped over him to get closer to the bars, her eyes full of excitement.

“You were actually at Hamunaptra?” she asked, her voice full of wonder. Inuyasha stared at her in amazement.

“Don’t you care that I just decked your brother?”

She waved a placating hand at him.

“Oh, he’s had worse, I’m sure he’ll be fine in a moment. But Hamunaptra! You were actually there?!”

She watched as Inuyasha’s amazement changed into a lazy grin.

“Yeah wench, I was there.”

She was so excited that she hardly noticed what he called her.

“You were there? Oh my goodness, I can’t believe it!” Her eyes narrowed a little in suspicion, and she moved even closer. “Do you swear?”

The lazy grin grew wider, a pointed fang lowering over his cracked lower lip.

“Every damn day.”

Kagome scoffed.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

The grin was still there, then it dropped away from his face.

“I know what you meant. But I was there alright. Seti's place. The City of The Dead.”

Kagome could hardly contain her excitement.

“What did you see there?”

“A lot of sand.” He almost shuddered. “And a lot of death.”

But Kagome would not be put off now. Not when she was so close. She could see the warden coming back, and she just had to get this information. She leaned closer to him, taking off her hat to guard their conversation.

“Inuyasha,” she whispered, her tone determined. “Could you tell me how to get there?”

He looked at her, and blinked slowly, his expression nonplussed.

“The exact location,” she wheedled, eyes shining with excitement, “pretty please?”

“You really wanna know?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“You really, really wanna know?”

“Yes, yes, more than anything!” she said, almost bursting with nervous excitement.

He beckoned her closer, gesturing with one pointed finger.

“C’mere then.”

She was now almost nose to nose with him, ears straining, eyes wide, ready to commit anything he might say to memory so she could write it down as soon as a pen and paper were handy. If only she’d bought one of her notebooks with her! But before she knew it, one of Inuyasha’s hands shot out, not to punch her as he had Miroku, but grab her chin firmly. And then his chapped lips were planted firmly against hers.

Before she had a chance to register anything more than shocked astonishment at receiving her very first kiss in such a manner, the lips were dragged away.

“You wanna know so bad? Then get me the fuck outta here lady!”

She watched as all four guards rained blows down on his head, dragging him backwards. She heard the warden laughing maliciously behind her.

“Wait, wait, I’m not done talking to him yet! Where are they taking him?”

“To be hanged.”

“Why?” Kagome gasped, her shock at this sudden turn of events evident. She grimaced at the wide grin Warden Mukotsu gave her.

“Apparently, he had a very good time.”

Kagome hurried after Mukotsu, almost tripping over Miroku as she strove to keep with the warden.

They climbed a set of stairs to a balcony overlooking the whole courtyard, Mukotsu sitting down to watch the show, while Kagome hovered anxiously, fingers tapping nervously on the balcony railing. She watched as Inuyasha was dragged up the stairs to the gallows. Other prisoners hollered and jeered as the noose was roughly forced over his head, then cinched tightly around his throat. He made direct eye contact with her, his expression stoic. What could she do? Suddenly she had a brain wave, turning to address the warden.

“What if I offered you one hundred pounds to secure his release?”

The warden shrugged, noisily snacking on a plate of dates on a small table at his side. Juice and spittle ran down his chin as he answered.

“I would pay one hundred to see him hang,” he replied, his eyes fixed on the gallows below.

“Two hundred pounds, then,” she bargained, eyes darting back and forth between Inuyasha and the warden, who ignored her totally. He stood for a moment, bellowing down to the guards below.

“Proceed!”

“Three hundred pounds!” Kagome said desperately. She could tell Inuyasha could hear their conversation even over the dreadful noise of the screaming prisoners, his ears twitched in their direction. She looked back towards him and saw him nod at her, as if to say, keep it going. The yelling suddenly grew quiet as the hangman addressed Inuyasha.

“Any last requests, dog?” he sneered, spitting on the trapdoor near Inuyasha’s feet.

Inuyasha pretended to look thoughtful for a moment, then spat his reply.

“Yeah, I'd like ya to let me go.”

The Hangman grabbed the lever to the trapdoor with a leering grin.

“FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS!” yelled Kagome, sitting down on the seat next to the Warden, her eyes pleading, then recoiled as he set his greasy, lecherous hand high on her thigh, fingers grabbing hard enough to bruise.

“Anything additional to offer?”

Before she could think, Kagome slapped his hand in revulsion, then gasped as Warden Mukotsu angrily turned and gestured to the Hangman. The trapdoor dropped away with loud bang.

“Oh no!”

She watched, horrified as Inuyasha dropped through the hole, his body jerking as the rope pulled taut. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. His legs kicked wildly, then stopped, and for a moment, she thought all was lost. The rope spun him lazily around to face her again, and she realised he was still alive.

“Ha! His neck did not break! Good! Now we watch him strangle to death,” jeered the Mukotsu, stuffing another date into his mouth.

Angry chanting began amongst the prisoners, and the guards shouldered their guns nervously. Kagome could see Miroku climbing the steps, staggering a little, but she didn’t have time to help him right now. Not when a man’s life and finding Hamunaptra was at stake. She leaned towards the Warden.

“He knows the location to Hamunaptra”, she whispered urgently.

Warden Mukotsu’s head jerked toward her, his expression incredulous.

“You lie.”

“I would never!”

She glanced back towards the gallows. At the end of the rope, Inuyasha was making horrible choking and gagging sounds, his face a grotesquely mottled shade of red. She had to hurry!

The Warden eyed her suspiciously, wiping date juice off the corner of his mouth with a dirty sleeve.

“Are you saying this filthy godless son of a dog knows where to find The City of The Dead? Truly?”

“Yes, and if you cut him down, we will give you ten percent,” she said quickly, hoping that this would work. Inuyasha didn’t look like he had much time left.

“Fifty percent.”

She hesitated a moment, glancing back to Inuyasha, and watched his eyes widen at her incredulously at her bargaining. She quickly turned her eyes back to the Warden.

“Twenty.”

“Forty.”

Kagome hesitated again, biting her lip. Inuyasha’s eyes were looking up at her, almost bulging out of his head, like he couldn’t believe her.

“Give .... give him .... give him,” he coughed.

Under pressure, Kagome shrieked, “Twenty-five percent, and not one single farthing more!”

The Warden leered at her, then yelled down to the hangman. The sunlight bounced off the scimitar in his hands as he swung, cutting the rope, sending Inuyasha plummeting to the ground. His bound hands scrabbled in the dirt as he fought to get himself onto his knees, coughing and wheezing, taking deep breaths. His bloodshot eyes looked up towards the balcony.

Miroku finally made it up the stairs, leaning against the railing with a groan.

“So, how’d we do old mum? Did we win?” he asked, looking with some distaste at the leering grin of the Warden, then down into the courtyard at Inuyasha, who was still on his knees.

Kagome smiled broadly, and waved down at Inuyasha, who glowered at her.

“Yes Miroku, I do believe this visit was a success,” she said, excitement bubbling up. They were going to Hamunaptra!

“Jolly good show,” replied Miroku, gently fingering the darkening bruise on his chin.

#mamabearcat fanfics #inukag fanfic #the mummy au #this was so much fun to write!#need to get back to writing the next chapter of PUP but I'd love to do some more for The Mummy #I just love that movie so much!

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