#source: spark a space trail

[princesscait26]

Jazz Music

(This is my very first EVER story. It was written on my phone. I took inspiration from a few stories.)

(I would love feedback. However, if you don’t like it, please just move on.)

Summary: The newest member of Hazbin Hotel has caught the attention of the Radio Demon. How will this turn out?

Alastor x Doe! Reader

As Alastor leisurely strolled through the corridors of Hazbin Hotel, his ears perked at the familiar strains of jazz seeping from room 430. The melodic notes beckoned him, coaxing a ghost of a smile to his lips as he approached the source.

Intrigued by the vintage tunes reminiscent of a bygone era, a simpler time, Alastor paused in front of the door, his curiosity piqued. With a gentle push, the door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room bathed in the soft glow of evening light.

Inside, a petite figure moved with grace, her silhouette illuminated by the warm hues of hells “sunset” filtering through the window. Alastor's crimson eyes widened slightly as he took in the scene before him—a woman, unpacking her belongings while white fluffy tail swaying to the rhythm of the music.

Caught in a moment of vulnerability, Alastor's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of something he couldn't quite place. He watched in silence as the woman danced around the room, her movements fluid and unhurried.

Suddenly aware of his intrusion, Alastor quickly withdrew, retreating into the safety of the hallway. His heart pounded in his chest, a strange heat creeping up his cheeks as he grappled with the unfamiliar sensation stirring within him.

Descending to the lobby, Alastor attempted to regain his composure, though his thoughts remained fixated on the enigmatic woman he had just encountered. As he approached the bar where Husk and Angel Dust lounged, he couldn't shake the lingering image from his mind.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Charlie burst into the lobby, her vibrant energy filling the space. With her was Vaggie, trailing behind as always, and a newcomer whom Alastor had only gotten a glimpse of.

With a flourish, Charlie introduced the newcomer to the gathered residents as Y/N, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. Alastor observed from a distance, his gaze drawn to the doe-eyed stranger who stood shyly beside Charlie.

As Angel Dust playfully urged Y/N to step forward, Alastor's heart skipped a beat at the sight of her blushing cheeks and hesitant smile. He felt a strange pang of protectiveness wash over him, though he couldn't fathom why.

When Y/N finally noticed him, her eyes widened in surprise, and Alastor found himself momentarily transfixed by her gaze. Charlie's comment about their shared "deer-like" characteristics drew a small chuckle from the others, but Alastor remained silent, his mind elsewhere.

Unable to articulate the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him, Alastor offered a polite nod before excusing himself, retreating once more into the shadows. As he disappeared from view, the others exchanged puzzled glances, while Y/N's ears drooped in confusion.

Husk's gruff voice broke the silence, followed by Angel Dust's characteristic laughter, but Alastor's absence lingered like a ghost in the room, leaving them all to wonder about the mysterious radio demon and the woman who had captured his attention.

———————————————————————

Y/n hadn't set out seeking redemption; rather, she longed for a sense of belonging in a place where safety felt like an elusive dream. Damned to hell, she had navigated its treacherous paths with constant vigilance, always on edge. But fate intervened when she crossed paths with Charlie in the bustling city streets. Their chance encounter led to a conversation that sparked hope within Y/n's weary heart, and Charlie's unwavering optimism convinced her to give Hazbin Hotel a chance.

Though redemption wasn't her primary goal, Y/n embraced her new role with sincerity, channeling her innate kindness and sweetness, much like her shy and skittish animal counterpart. Yet, beneath her gentle exterior lay a hidden past, a tale of woe she dared not share with anyone. There is a reason she was sent to hell.

Finding solace in keeping herself busy, Y/n eagerly lent a hand wherever needed, particularly finding joy in assisting Nifty with her cleaning duties. The quirky little demon took an instant liking to Y/n, charmed by her selfless gestures and warm demeanor.

Angel Dust, with his keen eye for character, saw in Y/n a kindred spirit. He admired her intelligence, wit, and undeniable beauty, envisioning a blossoming friendship between them. Even Husk, typically reserved and aloof, appreciated Y/n's presence during late nights, finding solace in her company as they indulged in a casual game of cards.

Despite her growing rapport with the other residents, Y/n couldn't shake the memory of the red deer demon she had encountered only once. Charlie had mentioned his busy schedule, while Husk had cautioned her to steer clear of him. Yet, the more she tried to push him from her thoughts, the more his image lingered in her mind.

Determined to unravel the mystery surrounding the elusive demon, Y/n resolved to uncover the depths of his character, drawn to his undeniable charm and the allure of the unknown. With each passing day, her curiosity only intensified, fueling her desire to uncover the secrets hidden beneath his facade.

———————————————————————

A typical Monday morning at Hazbin Hotel unfolded in its usual chaotic manner, with the corridors bustling with activity as demons scurried about their daily routines. Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, Y/n navigated through the labyrinth of hallways, her mind buzzing with a million different tasks demanding her attention.

Caught up in her own thoughts, Y/n's foot caught on an unseen obstacle, sending her stumbling forward with a gasp. Bracing herself for impact, she closed her eyes, anticipating the hard embrace of the floor beneath her. Instead, she found herself enveloped in a cloud of intoxicating scent, a mixture of cinnamon and pine that sent a shiver down her spine.

Opening her eyes, Y/n found herself locked in a gaze with none other than the infamous radio demon himself, Alastor. Towering over her with an air of elegance and confidence, he exuded an aura of mystery that left her feeling like a deer caught in headlights. Why is he constantly making her feel this way.

Muttering apologies and expressions of gratitude, Y/n's words stumbled over each other in her haste to regain her composure. Alastor's chuckle cut through the tension, his voice smooth as silk as he remarked on the importance of being careful in the bustling corridors of the hotel.

With a polite nod and a reassuring smile, Alastor assured Y/n that all was well, his crimson eyes twinkling with amusement as he watched her regain her footing. As she continued on her way, Y/n couldn't shake the lingering sensation of his presence, his charm leaving a lasting impression on her mind.

———————————————————————

As days turned into weeks, Y/n and Alastor's chance encounters in the hotel corridors evolved into deliberate rendezvous, their paths seemingly intertwined as if by fate. With each passing exchange, Y/n's smile grew brighter, mirrored by Alastor's friendly wave and the unmistakable twinkle in his crimson eyes.

Their bond deepened as they found themselves working side by side, tackling tasks together with effortless synergy. Y/n found herself drawn to Alastor's smooth, captivating voice, hanging onto his every word as he regaled her with tales from his past, his radio talk voice weaving a spell around her.

Unbeknownst to them, their burgeoning friendship did not go unnoticed by the other residents of Hazbin Hotel. Husk's warnings about steering clear of his boss fell on deaf ears as Y/n and Alastor became practically inseparable, their connection undeniable

As time passed, it became increasingly evident to those around them that there was something more than just friendship blossoming between Y/n and Alastor. Angel Dust, always quick to pick up on such matters, took delight in teasing Alastor mercilessly, earning himself a death stare in return from the radio demon.

Vaggie, ever the protector, grew increasingly wary of Alastor's intentions towards Y/n. With her keen angelic powers, she sensed a strength within Y/n that belied her gentle demeanor, suspecting that Alastor may have recognized it too. Determined to shield Y/n from any potential harm, Vaggie kept a watchful eye on their interactions, her concern palpable in her every glance towards the pair.

———————————————————————

With the Hotel buzzing with Lucifer’s impending visit, Vaggie wasn’t able to worry too much and found herself torn between her duty to protect her friend and to her girlfriends mounting stress, who was determined to make a flawless impression on her father. With Charlie frantically orchestrating preparations, Vaggie could do little but offer her support, juggling her own concerns alongside her duties to the hotel.

Charlie's anxiety radiated throughout the hotel, her relentless pursuit of perfection leaving no room for rest or respite. Alastor and Y/n, sensing her distress, stepped in to assist, hoping to alleviate some of her burden and quell her fears. Vaggie, though grateful for their aid, couldn't shake her worry over Charlie's fragile state of mind.

Alastor, however, harbored no such sympathies for Lucifer's impending arrival. To him, the king of hell was nothing more than an unwelcome disruption, his disdain for Lucifer's callous indifference towards his daughter and the inhabitants of hell simmering beneath his composed exterior.

Y/n, always attuned to Alastor's moods, noticed his brooding demeanor and instinctively moved closer to him, seeking to offer comfort in her own quiet way. With a gentle touch, she intertwined her arm with his, silently reassuring him of her support.

Despite his aversion to physical contact, Alastor found himself surprisingly comforted by Y/n's presence. As she leaned into him, he couldn't resist the urge to reciprocate, offering a rare pat on her head that earned a blush and a soft, endearing noise of affirmation from Y/n.

Caught off guard by the warmth of her response, Alastor felt a rare flush of warmth spread across his cheeks, a sensation he hadn't experienced before. In that moment, he realized just how much he valued Y/n's companionship and the solace she provided, silently wishing he could be the sole recipient of her affectionate gestures.———————————————————————

As Charlie's anxiety about Lucifer's impending visit reached its peak, she implored everyone to put their best foot forward, emphasizing the importance of making a stellar impression. Her visible stress prompted a collective agreement among the hotel staff to dress to impress, each determined to ease Charlie's worries by presenting themselves in their finest attire.

Y/n, always a vision of elegance, opted for a striking red 1930s-inspired midi dress that accentuated her curves flawlessly making her bosom and tail poke out more. With its puffy sleeves and collarbone neckline, the dress exuded vintage charm, complemented by her hair pinned up and a delicate set of pearls adorning her neck. A touch of matching lipstick that completed her ensemble, drawing admiring glances from all who crossed her path.

As Y/n made her entrance into the lobby, she commanded the attention of everyone present. Angel Dust couldn't contain his excitement, letting out a whoop of approval and a wolf whistle that caught Alastor's attention. When Alastor's eyes landed on Y/n, his breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding so loudly he feared it might burst from his chest. She looked positively radiant.

Unable to resist the magnetic pull of her presence, Alastor approached Y/n with a graceful stride, his movements fluid and purposeful. Taking her hand in his, he pressed a reverent kiss to her knuckles, his words overflowing with genuine admiration as he proclaimed her the most beautiful doe he had ever seen. Y/n's cheeks flushed pink as she bashfully covered her face, but Alastor gently removed her hands, insisting that she not hide her stunning features.

Linked arm in arm, they ventured into the corridor together, leaving Charlie in awe of the softer side of Alastor that Y/n seemed to effortlessly bring out.

Meanwhile, seeking refuge from the overwhelming emotions swirling around her, Y/n made her way to the bar in search of a drink to calm her nerves. Husk's amused chuckle greeted her request for something strong, while Angel's playful compliment about her bewitching effect on Alastor elicited a shy blush and a nervous laugh from Y/n. She secretly hoped there was truth to his jest.

As the final preparations for Lucifer's arrival unfolded, Y/n couldn't resist a tantalizing touch as she passed Alastor, her finger tracing a delicate path across his chest as she met his gaze through her lashes. The effect on Alastor was immediate and undeniable, his usual composure crumbling in the wake of her subtle yet potent allure. Ears flushed crimson, his tail betraying his inner turmoil, and a noticeable tightness in his pants, Alastor found himself utterly captivated by the enigmatic woman who had managed to ensnare his heart and unravel his self-control with a single touch. What was she doing to him?

———————————————————————

The atmosphere in Hazbin Hotel ground to a halt as a portal crackled open in the lobby, spilling forth the unexpected figure of Lucifer. Contrary to everyone's expectations, the imposing ruler of hell was surprisingly short, a stark contrast to his daughter, Charlie. Y/n, petite herself, couldn't help but note the irony, realizing she might even tower over him.

Charlie's nerves were palpable as she reluctantly approached her father, offering a hesitant greeting before embarking on the daunting task of introducing him to the hotel's residents. Alastor, ever vigilant, stood close to Y/n, maintaining a respectful distance while silently wishing he could be closer, especially when he noticed Lucifer's intense gaze fixated on her.

Lucifer's eyes lingered on Y/n, his appraisal unsettling as he took in her innocent beauty. Sensing her discomfort, Y/n found herself at a loss for words as Lucifer gallantly took her hand and planted a kiss upon it, his words dripping with a disconcerting charm. Feeling intimidated, Y/n's nerves betrayed her, causing her to giggle nervously in response.

Alastor, seething with barely-contained rage at seeing Y/n's discomfort, could no longer stand idly by. Stepping up behind her, he introduced himself to Lucifer, a silent gesture of protection that did not go unnoticed by Y/n, who smiled gratefully at him, internally thanking him for rescuing her from the uncomfortable situation.

However, Lucifer's audacity knew no bounds as he seized Y/n's wrist, pulling her towards him and demanding a tour of the hotel. Alastor's patience snapped, his demon form surging forth as his antlers grew, his fury unleashed at the sight of Y/n being manhandled.

Ready to defend Y/n at any cost, Alastor bristled with aggression, his intentions clear as he faced off against Lucifer. A confrontation seemed inevitable until Y/n and Charlie intervened, diffusing the tension and redirecting Lucifer's attention. As they redirected Lucifer's focus, Alastor stormed off in frustration, leaving Y/n bewildered by his sudden outburst.

As Y/n clung to Alastor's arm, attempting to calm him down, his agitation only grew, his temper flaring as he abruptly ripped his arm away, causing Y/n to stumble. Tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled to comprehend what had transpired, seeking solace in the comforting words of Angel and Husk.

Meanwhile, Alastor paced in the radio tower, grappling with his conflicting emotions and struggling to understand why Y/n had such a profound effect on him. Realization dawned upon him, sending shockwaves through his being as he came to terms with the depth of his feelings for Y/n. She was his, and he would protect her at all costs.

Alastor, after his realization, went in search of y/n, finding her in her room, withdrawn and overwhelmed. As she retreated from the day's events, she changed out of her dress and into one of Alastor's button-up shirts that she stole a while back, still carrying his faint scent of cinnamon and pine. Despite her efforts to distance herself, a knock at the door disrupted her solitude. Expecting sympathetic friends, y/n mumbled her intention to talk tomorrow until she heard Alastor's voice, distinct and sweet, on the other side

Unlocking the door with her powers, she avoided meeting his gaze, her disappointment palpable. Alastor, visibly regretful, pleading with her to look at him, apologizing sincerely for his earlier behavior. He assured her that he never intended to hurt her, explaining that he was grappling with inner turmoil that needed sorting out. His gaze held such adoration that she forgave him instantly, though not without a warning that any future transgressions would not be tolerated. He laughed at her stern look. She was just too cute.

She stood from her bed, Alastor noticed the shirt she wore, his eyes lingering appreciatively at her body in his shirt before he composed himself. She turned on the radio, filling the room with quiet jazz, and Alastor approached her, his presence intoxicating. Offering his hand, he asked her to dance, his voice devoid of its usual static, like honey to her ears. As they swayed together, their tails wagged in sync, reflecting the emotions swirling inside both of them. She rested her head on his chest, humming to the song. He was content and could get used to this domestic life with her.

Alastor complimented her appearance, both in the dress and in his shirt. Y/n blushing as she realized her attire and apologized. He expressed that what was his was hers, a statement that surprised her but to which she readily agreed, reciprocating the sentiment.

After the dance, Alastor took a bold step, asking her on a proper date, expressing his desire to court her. Overwhelmed with emotion, she said yes without hesitation, kissing him before realizing the implications of her actions. Instead of being upset, Alastor seized the moment, pulling her into a passionate kiss, the intensity of which left them both breathless. Green and white powers intertwined, marking the beginning of a powerful and enduring love.

#hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor the radio demon #charlie morningstar #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel husk #angel dusk #happy hotel #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer #jealousy #possessive #blushing #hazbin alastor #hazbin charlie #vaggie #vaggie hazbin hotel #alastor hotel hazbin #alastor x y/n #alastor x you #fem reader #Alastor x doe #doe reader

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (chapter 16)

[Can also be read on AO3]

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 4.5 K

Warnings: Minors DNI - 18+ only - SMUT! P in V sex, cunnilingus, praise kink, unprotected sex (she is on the pill), pet names, nipple play, lots of dirty talk

Summary: Tent sex... plain and simple.

Rory giggled as she fell past the open flaps of the green canvas tent and onto the bedroll on the ground, John landing atop her shortly after. Smiling into the kisses they continued to press to each other, looking more like two lovesick teenagers than hardened veteran soldiers. The moment they had both been eager for, dancing around, had finally arrived.

By the golden glow of the lamp in the corner, their only source of light, its warm beams filling the enclosed space hardly big enough for two, John ripped at the velcro of her tac vest. Pulling it off of her in one swift motion and tossing it aside, his own following shortly after before grabbing the collar of his shirt at the back of his neck and pulling it over his head roughly. Large hands gripped at her with desperation like she might fade away from his grasp at any moment. That same frantic, rushed energy that had consumed them their first time together had taken him over once more. 

“Slow down,” Rory scolded him, running her hands over his upper body, completely on show for her. Drifting over his shoulders, down his chest and abdomen, feeling the hard muscle that lay below the layer of subcutaneous fat that made his stomach soft. Fingertips trailing through his body hair, tracing over each scar from battle he had collected over the last sixteen years as a soldier. Tensing under her gentle caress, she could feel every little movement of his muscles under the skin as they tightened. 

“You’re lucky I'm not especially ticklish, sweetheart.” He chuckled quietly and started to kiss her neck, teeth grazing softly against her skin sending sparks shooting through her nerves. 

“I’m finally getting the chance to appreciate you proper instead of just ogling you, forgive me for wanting to take my time with it.” 

She wanted nothing more than to languish in this singular moment for as long as she could. Touching him, becoming absorbed in the aroma of his sweat and the cigar smoke that clung to his breath and that hint of his spicy cologne. She wanted him . Not the Captain - John . Resting her hand on the nape of his neck as he continued to kiss along the soft flesh that led to her clavicle, her fingers brushed through his close-cropped hair. Breath short as he buried his nose in against her and sucked on the flesh, his beard tickling her as he did so, she lost herself in the release of all the pent up feelings that had built while trapped together for all this time. 

His hand drifted in under the front of her shirt, slowly trailing up her stomach and over her ribs. Fingertips slipping under the material of her bra and caressing the smooth underside of her breast, appreciating the gentle curve of it and dragging a quiet hiss past her teeth. 

“Arms up, darlin’,” he ordered as he pulled her shirt up her body and over her head, throwing it into the corner of the tent. Quick to grab at the elastic of her sports bra and pull it off, flinging it aside just as quickly. John’s eyes roamed over her, appreciating her form. Jaw dropping slightly, practically drooling at the sight of her underneath him. “Fucking hell, just look at you,” he groaned.

“Shut up.” Her cheeks became a bright rosy pink as she blushed, embarrassment creeping in to further increase the hot flush rising inside her. 

“Why should I?” His gaze drifted from her body back to her eyes, his voice lowering, “Been waitin’ long enough f’ this to happen.” 

Pressing his body against her, their bare flesh finally being allowed to meet, she could feel the hardening of his cock against her thigh, barely contained by the material of his tactical pants that were quickly getting tighter, the zipper straining against him. He started to work on undoing the button and fly, and – as was customary of soldiers out in the field – he was going without underwear, his cock quickly springing free of its confines.

Mouth watering at the sight of him, her thighs rubbed together desperate for the friction. It had been years since she had last seen his girth, but she hadn’t forgotten how full he had made her feel. “ Jesus Christ ,” she murmured in a breathy whisper as her eyes started to glaze over.

Smirking at her reaction – the heavy lidded stare of lust and the thick swallow that followed shortly after – he pumped his hand down the length of his shaft, a guttural noise escaping him as he tugged it tightly in his fist. Hungry eyes looked her over as she unbuttoned her own pants and dragged them down her hips and thighs in a rush, leading into the awkward struggle to remove them and her underwear while in the confined space with him on top. 

“Very graceful,” he teased as he tossed her pants and underwear aside. 

“Bugger off.”

Laughing warmly, he kissed her again and stationed himself between her legs, bucking his hips in a deliberate rhythm into his hand, ensuring his hard cock was slick with his precum. Pushing the ruddy head of it against her entrance, he stroked the soaked folds of her sex as he worked on stretching her open for him. Thrusting the head in bit by bit, until with a moan from both of them, he entered her fully. 

His lips collided with hers once more, moving from her mouth, down her jaw and onto her neck. “My gorgeous girl,” he mumbled against her, the coarse hair of his beard burning the skin. Cupping one of her breasts, swallowing it whole in his warm grasp, John kneaded the flesh with his fingers. “Just fuckin’ gorgeous,” he rasped, voice low and thick with desire, “and you're all mine.”

Smiling softly, Rory's lashes fluttered as the sweet little dimples in her cheeks appeared, whimpering with his touch. “I am.”

Hips slowly rolling against hers, their flesh pressed together as his weight kept her flush with the tent floor. John was built solid like a tree trunk, stocky with muscle and well fed, making her feel dwarfed in comparison. His thick cock slowly stretched her tight walls open as he pumped deep inside her, groaning as he slid out of her once more, the wet sounds of her arousal filling the quiet space between them. “Almost forgot how good this feels…” His words trailed off as his mouth moved from the hollow of her neck, over her collarbone, and down to her chest, lavishing her in kisses and leaving the sheen of his saliva against her, his hot breath fanning over the peaks of her breasts as he licked his lips.

“What, in general? Or just with me?” Rory gave him a wry grin, speaking in a purr.

“Cheeky li’l thing.” He smirked back, narrowing his eyes as his mouth wrapped around her nipple and he gave it a gentle nip with the edge of his teeth. 

Gasping, her breath hitched, caught in her throat, her back arching at the sudden pinch. The hand that had been carding through the hair on top of his head, combing through strands of brown flecked with salt and pepper, gripped tight at the sensation. Her eyes going wide, gazing into his, she couldn’t help but get lost. He almost looked younger again as he smiled, focused entirely on her.

“Course I meant you. Five bloody years, Rory.” His fingertips grazed gently over her sides, tracing patterns against her skin, leaving reminders of his warmth before goosebumps rose from underneath like budding flowers in spring. “Never did I think –”

Stroking the side of his face with her hand, her grizzly bear of a man leaned into her touch like he was starving for it. “Neither did I. But I'm glad it did.”

“Me too, my girl.” He swallowed thickly and his scruffy adam’s apple bobbed. “Me too.”

Lowering his head to her breast once more, his tongue circled her stiff bud in his mouth, flicking against it as his other hand massaged her other perky little tit. A low moan coming from him as he found the especially right angle inside of her and her slick walls began to flutter and clench around him, her sweet little noises of pleasure growing louder. “Fuckin’ perfect,” John's rumbling timbre broke into a hoarse whisper as he lifted his torso and looked down on her. Head resting against the bedroll, her short waves of chestnut circled her head like a halo and he could do nothing but watch as her mouth fell agape with a quiet shuddering gasp, her eyes closing as the blush crawled up her chest to her cheeks.

“Beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” he breathed.

“Not so bad yourself,” she teased, eyes still closed as she gave in to how full she felt as his cock thrust up into her only to slowly drag back out, her thighs coated with her arousal and the sweat from the heat of their bodies so closely embraced.

Cradling her cheek as he chuckled, his mouth met hers in long, wet, lingering kisses. Tongue slipping past her lips to meet hers, curling and coiling, as he continued to rock into her, stroking her sensitive core. She slipped under his control, feeling that same stomach drop that occurred when jumping out of a helicopter, letting her defenses finally crumble and fall. 

Her moan drifted into his mouth as he stroked his fingers through her silky tresses. Long, toned legs wrapping around him to hold him tighter to her, appreciating the thick mass of muscle pressed against her slender frame and the way they seemed to slot perfectly together.

“Want me that badly, eh?” His smirk built into a cocky smile against her lips, eyes shining with mirth – it was plain as day he was enjoying himself and the thought of finally having her for his own.

“You are such a shit,” she murmured back.

“Careful now.” Curling his fingers under her chin, he tipped her head back and pressed soft kisses along her neck. “That's bordering on insubordination,” he husked, his predatory stare gleaming back at her.

Cocking her brow, Rory was thoroughly unimpressed with the joke. Now was not the time to be playing with power dynamics. At work was one thing, being together would be another. 

“Only teasing, darlin’.” His words ended in a devilish half grin, steely eyes twinkling.

Cupping his face in her hands, her fingertips stroked through the thick whiskers on his jaw. “You’re lucky you’re so goddamn handsome.”

“Or what?” His brow lifted, something sharp in his voice like a threat.

“Or maybe I wouldn't be willing to give you the second chance… how do I know you won't rush off like you did last time after getting your fill?”

His thrusting stopped and his expression turned serious. “Last time we agreed it was a one and done.”

Rory hummed, her brows lifting. “What a mistake that was, eh?”

One side of Price's mouth quirked up in a grin at her confession. “You regret that night?”

“I regret it was only one night.”

John gave a low chuckle as his cock split open her sex once more, sucked in by her wet, welcoming heat. “Well lucky for you, darlin’ that's no longer gonna be the case,” he purred in a hoarse whisper. Mouth lowering to her chest once more, the tip of his tongue flicked at her stiff and puckered nipple as he smiled. “ This . You and me. This is the real deal, yeah? For keeps this time. You’re always gonna be mine.”

She sat up, resting on her forearms, her body aglow with the light of the lantern. Her brow furrowed as she looked at him. “Not going to toss me by the wayside?”

“I'd be a bloody idiot to do somethin’ like that with a girl like you,” he said, stroking a piece of hair out of her eyes, his expression totally genuine.

“So you're serious? We're going to try and make this work. Have some secret love affair?” Her cocked brow turned into narrowed eyes as she looked at him. “And just how long is that gonna last, eh? Before we spend too much time apart and it gets to be too difficult to keep this going? When it seems so much easier to just go back to the old solution of some random hook up in a bar?”

Brow furrowing, he was taken aback by her sudden tone while he was buried inside her. “You think I'd give up that easily? That I'd rather choose some random woman over you? You have that low opinion of me, ‘s that it?”

“No, I didn't say that. I just…” Her sigh was heavy with a million unspoken thoughts and feelings about failed relationships, romantic and platonic alike. “This is going to be hard, John. Hard on both of us. Playing pretend while all eyes and ears are on us. Having to act purely professional while under the brass’ nose. No lingering glances or sly touches. You sure you really want that?” Her head tipped to the side, dark waves blanketing her shoulder. “Am I really worth all the trouble?”

Caressing her cheek, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I've already told you, you're worth every bit of trouble that could ever come my way. I came so very close to losin’ you, my girl. That's not happenin’ again. Not f’ anythin’.”

Her large eyes staring up at him, completely vulnerable, spoke volumes more than her words could say. Trust . Something Rory didn't so easily give to most people, but he had hers in spades. Her soft, slender hands rose to cradle his face between them, the tip of her nose brushing against his before tilting her head to kiss him. Inhaling deeply through her nose as she pressed her mouth to his with more intensity than she ever had up to this point. 

Gripping at the edge of the sleeping bag to steady himself, John lost his breath. His other hand brushing up through her hair, collecting a handful and holding her closer to him with just a hint of possession. A low growl built in his chest as he kissed her back passionately, his hips taking up their pace against her once more.

The heat crackled like a flame between them, a spark setting off a wildfire of white-hot euphoria that burned brighter than phosphorus. Both of them quickly became sticky with sweat, beads of it dripping from her temples, plastering the hair to her forehead as her breath came in ragged pants, overcome by ecstasy.  

“My pretty fuckin’ girl,” he purred against her lips, forehead remaining pressed to hers as his cock curved up against that sensitive, spongy spot inside her. Rubbing against it over and over again, her walls clenching and her stomach fluttering against him. Her sweet panting breaths breezing over his mouth. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She nodded as her eyes squeezed tightly shut, back arching. Words barely able to form in her throat as she bit back the moan growing deep in her chest. Pleasure pulsing through her, making her thoughts as foggy as the corners of her vision.

“Use your words, pretty girl.”

“Yes. F-fuck,” she stammered, grabbing at his back. Nails digging into his flesh, Rory scratched red lines across his multitude of freckles. The sheer joy that coursed through her led her to run on instinct.

“Such a good girl f’ me.” His husky whisper vibrated into her as his lips traveled over her neck and towards her ear, sucking the lobe of it into his mouth, teeth nipping at her softly, grazing against her sensitive flesh. “You know, there was one thing I wanted to do with you first time we were together, and I never did…” Price murmured as he stroked the smooth curves of her waist, hands sliding up and down over her lithe muscle.

“Oh yeah, what's that?” A coy grin curled the corners of Rory's lips as she gazed at John. She already knew, she couldn't forget that hungry gleam in his eyes when he'd been bent over in that bathroom stall, the way his gaze trailed over the sheen of arousal painted on her thighs, the way his tongue dipped against his lip as if he was already imagining how she tasted. She wanted to know how Captain John Price , of all people, was going to tell her he wanted to bury his head between her thighs.

“Wanted to taste you proper,” he purred.

A blush climbed up her cheeks and turned her ears pink. Her grin grew into a soft smile that pulled at her mouth causing her dimples to carve into her more prominently below her lower lip. “You'd only just met me,” she said, unable to stop herself from sucking in her pout between her teeth.

“I know.” A low groan escaped him, shifting into a growl, “But Christ , you were pretty and the rest of you was so sweet. Can you really blame me?” His brow shot up, piercing blue eyes focused entirely on her from beneath it.

Rory giggled quietly and laid her arm over her face hiding the deepening shade of scarlet that stained her cheeks. “Fucking hell, John.” 

“And now…” His hands gripped tighter on her body, a cocky smirk widening on his face as his tongue dragged over his plush lips. “Well now, you're just so gorgeous, it would be a crime not to.”

She pulled her arm away and smirked, her brow lifting as she scoffed, “A crime ?” 

A low, rumbling purr built in his throat as he hummed in the affirmative. He pulled back and his gaze traveled over her body with reverence, landing at the apex of her thighs. Warm, rough hands trailed over the soft skin there. “You wouldn't hold it against me if I wanted to now, would ya, darlin’?” 

“No. Not in the slightest.”

His smirk lit up his eyes as they flicked up to meet hers. “That's my good girl.”

A shiver coursed down her back, the praise almost too much for her addled brain to handle. She gripped at the material of the bedroll below her, crushing the fibers into fists. Her heart raced, her palms clammy and the trickle of sweat that rolled down the back of her neck and along the curve of her spine did nothing to cool her.

John’s steely gaze lowered to her folds, his pupils dilating at the sight of her sex and how wet she was. “ Jesus . That is a gorgeous sight.”

“Stop!” Rory begged, laughing with embarrassment.

“Oh, come on, my pretty girl. I'm just praising you, am I not allowed? Thought you liked praise?” His smirk grew into a devilish grin, mischief glowing in his eyes as he squeezed at the fat of her upper thighs.

“You are a menace.”

“Maybe I am…” He shrugged, “but you like that though, don't you?” His head lowered, the wiry hairs of his beard beginning to scratch against the tender skin of her inner thighs. 

“ Maybe .”

Taking her hands in his, he interlocked their fingers as he lay down between her legs. Duty bound, he was dead set on making her come for him. Mouth angled for her pleasure, his tongue licked long stripes up her folds until she was dripping with his saliva and her arousal, a soaking mess that leaked down his beard and onto the bedroll below. The wet sounds of him sucking on her flesh, her whines and cries, and the groaning he made as her walls fluttered around his tongue filling the tent in a symphony of perfect satisfaction. 

His hands unclasped from hers and ran over her body, grabbing at her waist and then sliding up over the peak of her breast to grip it tight, squeezing her in his grasp before rolling the stiffened nipple and pinching as he continued to gorge himself on her taste. 

It was almost too much for her now, too much sensation, her hands dragging through her hair to keep her grounded in reality. Some desperate plea for an ounce of composure. She had fantasized enough about a moment like this with him, imagined how he would feel and no dream could come close to the boiling heat of her blood in this current state.

“Goddamn. You taste fuckin’ amazing, my girl.” He mumbled against her thigh, biting into it softly before his tongue went right back to work.

Fuck , she needed more. Reaching forward, Rory aimed to delve her fingers into his hair, wanting to hold his head in place in that perfect spot as his lips wrapped around her throbbing clit, but hesitation hit. Dragging her nails down the lengths of her thighs instead as she bit back a moan. 

Grabbing her wrists, John’s long fingers perfectly encircled them and placed her hands on his head, letting her take control and keep him steady. Growling into her folds as her nails massaged at his scalp as she began to grind up against his face, chasing her high. His entire face turning red and streaked with sweat as she rode against him, the tip of his nose pushing up against her pelvic bone, the bristles of his beard burning against the inside of her thighs, softly groaning at the taste of her. 

Her thighs shook. Clenching tight and squeezing against him, trapping him there as her climax crashed over her and she cried out. Shoulders lifting from the ground, her whole back curved into an arch. Ears ringing from the blood that thundered in her veins. 

Blue eyes stared up at her from between her legs, lifting his head for air and giving her a wolfish grin as his facial hair glistened, damp with her slick. “Fuck – you’re drivin’ me crazy, darlin’”

Rolling her onto her side, he lay down beside her and tucked her leg over his. Hips bucking against her, he gave her ass a quick slap and proceeded to knead into the flesh of her hard enough to leave indents before hooking his arm around her, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing between her folds. Fucking into her, spurred on by each of her soft moans, his fingers worked at her clit, making it throb under his touch. 

Muscles tightening as hard as stone, she grabbed at his arm, her nails digging into his skin making him hiss. Pressing the back of her head to his shoulder, she brought her fist to her mouth, trying so hard to bite back her cries of pleasure. 

“Don’t you dare hide those sweet sounds from me, darlin’. I wanna hear them all,” he grunted, squeezing her petite frame against him. 

How could she possibly deny him? Even if she wanted to – the way he was touching her, the way she was trapped against him – she had no other option but to let him know just how good he was making her feel. How he eclipsed every other partner she had ever had. 

Held tight within his muscular arms, his hand pressed on the flesh of her pelvis over the area where his bulge rubbed up against her inside making each of her breaths come out in stuttered little gasps, whimpers of pure ecstasy. Wrapping her arm around the back of his neck, she held him as close to her as possible. Their pleasure growing as they moved together, it was almost suffocating, the intensity only continuing to build.

“That’s my girl. So good f’ me yeah?” He mumbled against her neck, pressing kisses to her tender throat as his cock rammed into her, leading her towards another orgasm.

She moaned once again in response, her body stiffening, afraid she might lock up at any moment as the uncontrollable heat coursed through her once again, pooling in her gut, collecting at the base of her spine making her feel like she was about to combust. 

“Oh god… John …” she mewled.

“Gettin’ close, darlin’”

His thrusts became more aggressive. Rougher, faster . The sounds of wet skin on skin increased as his hips drove up against her arse. Groaning out in unison as she seized up in his arms and he pinned her against him, his cock throbbing and spilling inside her cunt. 

Body melting into his touch, her chest heaved with each breath, heart racing inside her chest as his hands roamed her flank, petting her gently. The intimacy of it all overwhelmed her… so much affection… safe.

Brushing the sweaty strands of hair from her face, John tucked them back behind her ear and kissed her cheek softly, resting his face against the side of hers. His rasping breaths loud in her ear as the roaring of blood like the ocean started to fade into the background. “Did so good f’ me, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Carefully rolling her onto her back, he wrapped her up in his arms and rested his head on her chest as he pressed tender kisses to the silky, sweaty flesh between her breasts. He hummed, pleased , and suckled on her as he stroked her sticky skin, tongue circling the areola.

“Such a good girl.”

Rory laughed softly and shook her head. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“What d’you mean?” He asked, brow lifting before returning to kissing her skin. 

“Giving orders, the praise…you really take the whole commanding officer thing very seriously, don’t you?”

He shrugged with a smirk. “Can’t help it, ’s second nature now.”

“I suppose it is, isn’t it?” Giving him a soft grin, she brushed her fingers against his cheek, her thumb stroking against the lines near his eye. “Not that I mind.”

Moving to settle beside her on the bedroll, he pulled her back against him, the curves of their bodies curling into the other. “Not gonna mind if I hold you either, will you?”

“No, not in the slightest.”

“Good,” he murmured into her ear, kissing the side of her head, breathing in the smell of her as he stroked his hand down the length of her waist. “Just wanna hold ya. I’ll clean you up in a bit.”

The silence between them was comfortable now, but she couldn’t help herself. That nagging voice in her head expecting some sort of solid answer as to what she and Price were now left her to stare down the fear that this was all some short-lived bit of fun like it was the barrel of a gun. 

“So…I guess this sort of makes us official now, eh?”

“You wanna call me your boyfriend , Rory?” he teased.

“I just –” she sighed, feeling foolish for having even asked. “I need some assurance.”

“Yeah, love. It’s you and me now.”

You and me. She couldn’t help the beaming smile that grew on her face or the warmth that seemed to spread throughout her with the way he said it. It made the afterglow even better. It wasn’t some empty, fleeting moment of joy – it was bound for more. 

#call of duty #cod smut #john price #john price smut #john price x oc #oc: rory sinclair #ship: you are the sword to my shield #skelly writes #fic: all along the watchtower #chapter 16 #cod fanfiction #captain price #captain price smut #cod captain price

[acapelladitty]

Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter - Tit Job (Kinktober #15)

Summary - As part of their ongoing efforts to enjoy the other in every possible way, Will's fascination with Hannibal’s chest does not go unnoticed.

Straddled across Hannibal’s stomach, the heat of Hannibal’s skin against his ass was welcomed as Will stroked a messy hand across his hard cock. The taste of Hannibal’s release, warm and salted against his tongue, still played across his mouth and he paused to admire the vaguely blissed-out look which sat easily on Hannibal’s relaxed features.

“Will, look at me.”

Complying with the soft demand, Will’s eye slipped up from Hannibal’s handsome jaw to settle on his eyes, meeting his heated gaze with a soft gasp. Hannibal was beautiful like this, with the soft morning light flittering through the blinds as the birds which lived in the nearby trees cried out their pretty song to harken in the new day.

A thin sheen of sweat coated Hannibal’s brow, a result of the wicked ministrations Will had spent the last hour delivering to his satisfied body, and Will paused to brush away the few stands of hair which had fallen onto his forehead. His own cock, still painfully hard due to its neglect, jutted free of his groin as he slipped his ass lower until he straddled Hannibal’s lower stomach.

“What are you doing? Have I not suffered enough?” Hannibal continued with a low purr, clearly enjoying the movements as Will’s hands tapped along his stomach on their path up to his chest. The thick patch of healthy salt and pepper hair which spanned Hannibal’s chest was a constant source of delight for Will who used any opportunity to run his fingers through it.

Doing just that with a small smile, Will paused as his palms encased Hannibal’s stiffened nipples.

“You’ve had yours.” Rubbing the nipples with his palm, Will cocked his head as he enjoyed the feeling of Hannibal’s thick body beneath his own. “Now I think I’m going to take mine.”

Shifting his hands, Will caught both of Hannibal’s nipples within his thumbs and forefingers – squeezing the sensitive buds with a familiar playfulness. The shudder which rolled through Hannibal’s tensed frame as Will teased the hardened nubs was electric, sparking him to clamp his grip even tighter to the point of discomfort.

“I can feel your hesitation,” Hannibal groaned, “so tell me what you want?”

A flush of embarrassment sitting high on his cheeks, Will remained painfully silent as shame prevented him from voicing his wants. He had killed with Hannibal, fucked Hannibal across every surface in their home, and yet something about this request fostered a childish shame which made his lips lock shut.

As perceptive as ever, the maroon pinpoints of Hannibal’s eyes flashed with understanding as his dexterous hands came to sit atop Will’s as Will’s fingers continued to pluck, almost absent-mindedly, at his nipples.

“Do you want to fuck them?”

Will gasped as Hannibal asked the question, his accented syllables growing out the words with a tease that spoke of his certainty of the answer. Between his legs, his cock throbbed at the thought as the image of it disappearing between Hannibal’s chest as he fluffed him to completion made his throat dry.

Hannibal’s firm hands came to rest on his ass, encouraging him to shuffle further up his body until his cock stood – pre-cum leaking from its tip – just above the expanse of Hannibal’s chest hair. Those same hands left his body slowly, trailing a gentle pattern along his skin until they broke free, instead returning to Hannibal’s own body as he placed his palms at either side of his pecs – pushing them together to make an inviting space for Will to bury his cock.

Enjoying the teasing spark which alit in the very depth of Hannibal’s eyes, a hint of maroon peeking free, Will watched with heated eyes as he wrapped a hand around his cock and guided it low.

His cock slid along the divot between Hannibal’s pecs, each small thrust alighting a delirious heat in his groin as his ultra-sensitive cockhead brushed along the silky skin. With Hannibal’s hand pushing up the sides of his chest, it formed a pillowy valley which perfectly allowed Will to slide his cock between them and something in the act was so fucking hot that he didn’t bother to hide the small whimpers which slipped free of his lips with every buck of his hips.

“You’re beautiful in these moments.” Hannibal commented, the words so low that they were barely more than a growl as his attention split between Will’s cock and his loose expression. “When you take charge and chase the pleasure which you desire so much. That which you deny yourself time and time again.”

“Hannibal…”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” Will muttered without fire, refusing to allow the building tension of arousal in his groin to be snuffed by Hannibal’s inability to simply enjoy the moment.

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannigram #will x hannibal #hannibal x will #mads mikkelsen #hugh dancy #nbc hannibal #nbc hannigram

[crematedcow]

Snippet #2 (DEMO)

Time to give what the majority voted for :) Finally I can show another part of the demo! The snippet before was from the Prologue, this time I decided to show somewthing from the Chapter ???, which is kind of like Chapter 1 but not really!

CHANGES MIGHT STILL HAPPEN

You have everything you need; all that remains is to leave this space. Your gaze ascends toward the expanse of the clear sky, its brilliance piercing through the aperture in the earth. Yet, a lingering thought persists — how much simpler and faster your descent could have been, had a lengthy rope been at hand. And yet, here it is, swaying lightly before you, a tangible manifestation of exactly that. Then realization dawns: this rope, unfurled and hanging, is not yours. “Angelica! Company!” The urgent cry shatters the stillness, drawing your attention to the source — a faint silhouette peering over the edge from above. Squinting, you discern the outline of a figure, barely discernible against the luminous backdrop of the sky. With no time to dwell further on these thoughts, a rustling nearby draws your attention, and you glimpse the figure of a woman emerging from behind one of the scattered ruins. Youthful in appearance, she appears to be in her mid-twenties, her dark complexion contrasting against the pale backdrop of the surroundings. Clad in attire that appears to mimic the looks of the everyday person, she fails to capture the essence entirely though. Her garment, crafted from pearly white fabric, boasts extravagant ruffles around the sleeves. While devoid of fancy patterns, it exudes an air of parody — an attempt at adventure attire for those who have never left their humble abode. Leather padding adorns the right side of her chest, juxtaposed by a piece of metal armor awkwardly positioned around her hip — all of it a fashion statement rather than any functional protection of vital areas. Though undoubtedly fashionable, her presence in such a desolate place leaves you perplexed. The stranger approaches with a radiant smile, her voice lively and exuberant as she greets you. "Well, hello there! What a surprise to find someone else down here," she chirps, her enthusiasm drowning out the distant calls from above. With a casual flick of her foot, she scattered loose dirt around her worn boots, hands finding their way to her hips in a gesture of both resignation and amusement. "We didn't spot another rope hanging down the opening, so we sort of assumed..." Her words trailed off, leaving the implication unspoken yet hanging in the stale air of the ruins. You prepare to respond, but she forestalls with an energetic clap of her hands. "However you arrived here, have you by any chance come across a golden bracelet? It's about this thick, with some green stones embedded in it..." She launches into a description of the accessory, gesturing with her hand to mimic its appearance. Your head shakes in response, memories of your meticulous search from before resurfacing. Not even the faintest glimmer of such an item do you remember seeing, not even amidst the array of artifacts in the adjacent chamber down below. The woman's demeanor visibly deflates at your admission, before energy sparks in her from either irritation or excitement. "That means the bird still has it!"

Ah. Bird. You know what she was dealing with. This was something Je-owls tend to do. Given her description and the mention of crystals in her bracelet, it certainly also explains their interest in it. “That’s Je-owls for you,” you say to her in return, but her thoughts seem to be somewhere else to fully comprehend what you are saying. She just smiles. "I'm Angelica, by the way. And the screaming woman above us is Medora, my friend," she introduces herself, extending a hand towards you in greeting. However, before the handshake can take place, a sudden shout from above interrupts her. Angelica pauses, laughter fading into an awkward chuckle as she withdraws her hand. "Sorry about that. Medora can be a bit overly cautious when it comes to strangers," she explains, a sheepish smile gracing her lips. "But I have a feeling you're alright! I mean, here we are, chatting away in this abandoned cave. I'm still in one piece, so that's a good sign, right?" she adds, her braided hair swaying gently as she speaks. You offer a reassuring wave, silently signaling that there's no need for concern. Angelica's attention quickly shifts as she gazes back towards her point of entry into the cave, then back to you. "So, you mentioned something about... Geo owls?" "Je-owls," you correct her. The woman nods slowly. "Right... Right! And you know some stuff about these... Je-owls?" she inquires, and you nod in affirmation. "Yes, quite a fair bit. They likely took your bracelet to their nest in some of the stones here to feed on it, and-" Before you can finish your explanation, Angelica gasps in shock, her eyes widening with alarm as she quickly retreats to her previous position. "So, it's really inside this pillar!?" she exclaims on her way, her tone tinged with distress as she rushes towards the broken pillar you had examined earlier, where the empty nest had been. But that was before, and this is now. The chance is high, that its inhabitants were back. Your eyes widen in alarm as you speak up and reach out to stop her, but your warning falls on deaf ears. With determination, Angelica plunges her hand into the depths of the pillar, oblivious to the danger lurking within as she yells. "You will not eat what's mine!" What follows unfolds in a blur. It is so fast, you are barely able to register it. A sharp cry pierces the air as Angelica recoils in agony, withdrawing her hand from the marble and clutching it to her chest. In a flurry of motion and feathers, a multitude of small owls burst forth from the opening, their rapid flight colliding with Angelica and sending her tumbling to the ground. What began as a dozen birds quickly multiplies into a flock of over fifty, their wings beating furiously as they fill the cavern with the thunderous echo of their wings hitting the air. In mere seconds, the cave descends into chaos. The cacophony of flapping wings drowns out your thoughts, rendering them inaudible amidst everything. Attempting to maintain focus proves useless as the relentless onslaught of birds jostles you from all sides, threatening to topple you over with each collision just as they did with Angelica. The once-distant light from the sky dims abruptly, as if obscured by a dark cloud that seems to materialize out of thin air. It's not until you gaze upward that you realize the truth — the sheer multitude of birds has eclipsed the sunlight, casting you and everything inside this cave into darkness. You must leave now.

and here we meet the wonderful Angelica and Medora! Also special guests: the Je-owls :D Points to anyone who knows where the names of the two ladies comes from without googling ✨ Hope this snippet leaves you interested in the MCs world!

#interactive fiction #twine wip #twine if #oapaic #of a patron and its chains #twine

[sinisterexaggerator]

Patience is a Virtue

Cad Bane x Male Reader

Screenshot by @renek-bane

[Ao3]

NSFW / 18+

Summary: Revenge is a dish best served cold, by a cold-blooded, cold-hearted killer named Cad Bane. You hire him in hopes of seeking retribution on your crooked partner who is a crook, and you are too, dealing in priceless artifacts. The trail’s gone nearly cold as well, and the hunter’s getting restless; you promised him five-hundred-thousand credits, but you find yourself offering up something else to sate his appetite: yourself.

Word count: 7.7k+ (idk what happened)

Notes: This is only my second time trying to write a male reader. I am nervous about it! I hope I do this justice, and that people enjoy it. There was a need in the fandom I kept hearing about, and I wanted to help out. Feedback/likes/comments/reblogs all appreciated!

Warnings: Prepare for a wild ride. Smut/PWP, mildly dubious but reader is totally into everything Bane is doing. Biting, blood, smoking, cursing, teasing, degradation, mild predator/prey elements, fondling, manhandling, death, murder, stealing, lying, posturing and machismo, bickering, insults, aggressiveness, ass play, edging, penetration/PiA, blowjobs, alien anatomy (Cad Bane only has one dick this time), teeth, growling, hissing, scent marking, all out fucking, and a little, tiny, itty-bitty bit of cute/confused Bane and 000000.1% fluff, but not really.

What in all Sith hells had you gotten yourself into?

This planet’s sun was rising. You stirred the dying embers of a fire that had kept you warm throughout the night. Across the way, two bright eyes were fixated on you, their coloration matching the sparks that withered, wisps of smoke whirling northward in the crisp morning breeze.

The Duros leaned forward, lighting the end of his cigarra on the remnants of burning wood, then sat back against solid stone. You were carefully hidden within the opening of a naturally occurring cave, the space thankfully unoccupied by any of this world’s native fauna.

You busied yourself with packing away your things, the eerie stare of your associate boring holes into your back as he studied you from beneath the wide canopy of his hat. While the intensity of his gaze was unpleasant to most, you had grown bitterly accustomed to it. It had not taken long for you to understand that Cad Bane was vigilant. And while the strength of his glare could possibly penetrate through walls, in this case it set your heart to racing and made your insides take on the consistency of gruel.

In a way, you had grown to despise him in the few days you had known him. He reminded you of every other thug and tough guy out wandering the streets, thinking they were hot shit and that the galaxy revolved around them. His devil may care air reeked of pretention. His very movements, that wickedly unhurried way in which he spoke to you – it was ostentatious and uncalled for.

So was the way you were forced to share a source of transportation, a speeder bike that had seen better days. It left you flustered as you were driven to embrace Bane from behind for fear of falling and meeting your untimely end. The tightness of his clothing should have been illegal; they left nothing much to the imagination, escorting your thoughts to a place you refused to consciously acknowledge.

It couldn’t be helped. This was the way you were made to travel through the backwoods of this hellscape. But you knew the buyer had set up shop here, and this is where he would bring the loot. Despite the dangers lurking around every corner, you felt relatively safe with the Duros at your side, regardless of the way he made your skin crawl when he would not relent in his perusal of your person with his predatory eyesight.

You could feel him looking harder at you then - through you - as if he knew what it was you were thinking about, as if he knew  what he could do to you with a simple glance.

Oh, how easy it would be. How little of a fight you would put up against him should he decide to have his way. To be trapped under his scrutiny was a sensory experience.

It wasn’t because you were afraid of him that your body behaved involuntarily in this particular manner, though fear was a healthy response in the presence of someone as infamous as your business partner. You were his payout. He had no reason to double-cross you, or at least you assumed as much.

Though you were loath to be in his company much longer, you had some faith that he was a man with scruples. Why else would his reputation be so highly regarded?

No, your body behaved this way because he boiled your blood. You felt a sudden warmth rise up through you and toward your cheeks, tinging your flesh a darker shade. You swallowed, turning from him to concentrate on what it was you were doing – nothing. You had unwittingly been captured in his snare. You quickly moved to remedy that, continuing to organize your belongings.

Two blue attenuated digits plucked the cigarra from Bane’s wiry mouth, the ash flicked idly off to the side as the bounty hunter stated what was on his mind. “Supposin’ dhat friend o’yers long gone by now.”

“Not a friend” -you responded curtly; voice clipped- “a traitor.”

The Duros smirked, taking a laggard puff off the end of his smoke. “Same thin’, if ye ask me. Friends all wind-up traitor’s in de end.”

Bane exhaled, releasing what had been temporarily stored in his lungs. “Quick lesson fer ye - ye cahn’t trust anyone as far as ye cahn throw ‘em.”

“I trust you,” you stated offhand, cinching your knapsack, though it was not entirely true. You weren’t even sure why you had said that, and regretted it immediately.

“Dhat’s yer ferst mistake,” Cad Bane’s voice had lowered, a hint of a nefarious smile curling the corner of his upper lip. One fang peeked out, making you hesitate in rolling up your sleeping mat.

“Ye trust too easy. See, Ah werk fer credits”-the entirety of the cigarra was quickly disposed of, launched some distance away to be extinguished in a clump of dirt– “an’ s’far Ah’ve naht been paid.”

The Duros got to his feet, his impressive stature towering over you as you remained transfixed to your spot. You sheepishly gazed up at the acute angles of his face, his expression masked by an almost serendipitous, strategic placement of shadow.

Burning hellfire eyes were all that was left visible, the man striking with inhuman – alien - speed the likes of which you had never seen. You were unceremoniously yanked up by the collar of your tunic, then dragged some few feet inside the entrance of the cave. He pressed your back against jagged limestone, a wicked hiss accompanying the action as he pinned you like an insect with his kneecap, Bane digging his way into the meat of your thigh.

“Trust is pricey now’a’days,” he drawled, the hypnotizing sound of his gravelly voice pacifying any argument you may have had up until this point while at the same time making you irrationally angry. “But dhere’s somethin’ else dhat’s even pricier.”

He paused for effect, the flat of his face inches from your own. You could see the cracks in his soft scales - his scars - some running deeper than others. “Ye know what dhat is?”

Believing you were for the most part restrained, Bane entertained himself by forcing you to look at him. His scrawny fingers wound themselves around the point of your chin, pressing hard enough to keep you stationary as he forced you to stare into the abyss of his blood-red eyes. You grit your teeth as you twisted in his grasp, trying to dislodge yourself.

“Patience. Ssomethin’ Ah’ve run out of."

He released the hold he had over you, his lithe index roving upward to tap absently against the side of your temple as if you were a dunce, or perhaps forgetful. “Maybe ye think of a way te keep dhis partnership of ours amicable. Nothin’ in dhis life’s free.”

You grimaced. “We will find him,” you started forcefully. “Volrik’s not getting away with my half of the profits. He may have been the brawn, but without my connections or expertise, everything would have gone to shit! I worked too hard to let him reap the reward all by himself. And now” -you reaffirmed the deal you had made with him- “you’ll kill him. Then you’ll get paid. Patience” -you annunciated- “is a virtue.”

Cad Bane leered at your little monologue, the fingers of his free hand drumming steadily against the gun belt fastened about his waist. You knew he thought this was all talk. He wanted his money. You could hardly blame him. You had both been at this a week, waiting for your ex-partner to show himself. Perhaps he was lying low, thinking you’d give up, but this was the only path from the nearest spaceport to one particular village; it was sequestered snuggly in the mountains beyond fifty miles of unpaved road through fog and forest.

Your client resided there, having a clandestine operation of his own. You suspected his being a private collector was a ruse, but it wasn’t your business. You didn’t care as long as you got paid.

Naturally, it was the promise of half-a-million credits that kept Bane at your side, but the Duros was starting to lose faith in what he considered to be empty words. You were after a nearly priceless Jedi artifact, two of a kind in fact, though the man who sought out the Old Republic Corellian Jedcreds had hired you on the pretense of a hefty sum. A sum you were willing to settle for upon sale and delivery for all the trouble they were worth to steal, though a wrench had been thrown into your plans.

“Ye sound awful confident fer a guy who’s already been sswindled,” Bane argued back, punctuating his point tangibly by pushing his forefinger firmly into your bicep. The sheer audacity made you want to reach out and- “Fool ye once, shame on ye . Fool ye twice, dhen yer just a fool.”

You would be hard pressed to convince the Duros, so instead you took what he said to heart and began to rethink your strategy. Unfortunately, your mind was clouded by the hunter’s continued closeness. He smelled of old leather and oil, like Tibanna, or maybe metal of an unknown origin, but there was something else-

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” you blurted out irrationally, causing a snarl to issue forth from the already irate hunter, directed wholly into the space just beside your ear.

You had concluded on a whim that the only collateral you had left to offer him was yourself. It seemed almost logical when you truly thought about it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the unspoken tension you felt over the last few days, nor the fact you could feel Bane undressing you with his eyes.

“An’ in what way might dhat be?” he asked derisively.

“Like you’re … hungry,” you whispered, pinpricks of excitement mixed with anxiety rushing full force throughout your many nerve endings. “Like you want me,” you muttered with muted confidence.

Bane snorted out a mocking laugh, shading you beneath the brim of his large hat as he disdainfully looked down upon you. You blinked once and he had shifted his position, his lean build so near to your own form you swore he must have felt the heat radiating from off your body.

He presented his fangs to you, your mind wandering lustfully as parts of you began to stir and awaken. Not only in the figurative sense, but in ways you had not anticipated to happen so quickly or easily.

“Big talk comin’ from ah fella whose dick’s hard,” Bane chided indolently.

“What I meant was,” you cut in, voice trembling at being called out so brazenly, “is that perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement, seeing as how you are the one obviously interested in me.” You would deny your attraction, not about to be lured in by his clever quips and sound life advice. Cad Bane was nothing more than a worse reprobate than even you - you kept telling yourself that.

In fact, he reminded you of your asshole of a partner. Pompous, arrogant, a know-it-all… You mustered your courage, placing a hand against the chest of the man before you, feeling the texture of Nashtah-hide as you defended yourself from his getting any closer.

“It’s still early. Don’t assume you can take the credit,” you snarked back, trying to play off the growing stiffness of your cock as a shift in hormones. Testosterone in human males was highest after waking up.

The intimidating sentient before you canted his head, his gigantic hat not too far behind. Bane was intrigued at what you were getting at. His vocal chords vibrated in the hollow of his throat, a kind of animalistic growl mixed with a tone denoting displeasure, though it was a rumbling you were positive could not be reproduced except maybe by another of his species.

He sibilated in increasing annoyance. “Ain’ you somethin’,” he spat.

Bane reattached himself to you, this time by taking up a tuft of your hair as he held your head steady. You roughly gasped as his crimson-colored eyes bore down into your own. “Got m’self a repressed pretty boy, how quaint.”

The enunciation of the last word had been slow and torturous, the tail end of the final consonant stinging in your ears as he had clicked his fangs together.

“Dhat exsplainss why yer sucha tight ass.” The hunter grinned, though the expression was in no way friendly, his tone snide, salacious, and criminally seductive. You hated everything in that moment, because your hard on was now pressing against the inside of your trousers. It was unmistakable to anyone who was not legally blind.  

“Lookss like ah’m de lucky one meant te make ssure ye learn how te loosen up,” he grated against your neck, sharp eye teeth brushing sensually across the space between your shoulder and the base of your skull in an upward sweep. It caused your body to reflexively shudder, proving Bane’s point while at the same time evoking in you an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment coupled with unwanted suspense at the very idea of what he could be implicating.

Yes, you had been the first one to bring it up, but never did you quite imagine he would be the one to solicit you when originally you had intended to buy yourself more time, and in this manner no less.

The Duros’ tongue snaked out, tasting the salt off your skin before burying itself briefly in your ear canal. While his touch was cold, his breath was warm, the mix of temperatures causing a fresh eruption of goose pimples to form along your epidermis as you resisted, putting more force behind the push even as the long, dexterous fingers of his other hand stroked the length of your bulge with careful directness in a vicious tease.

Heat pooled in your belly as you stubbornly replied with the opposite of what you knew he wanted to hear. “I’m not repressed, you’re just not my type. I’m offering you myself as a last resort.”

The devil spoke in your ear. You had lost your mind. The words that tumbled from your mouth were not your own. They couldn’t be. Not only did you want him, but you also wanted him to rail you within an inch of death itself.

Your ploy was suddenly to enliven the Duros to such a state of agitation that he would be furious at you, but without a reason to end your measly life. The power and authority he exuded would only be amplified in the throes of his indignation.

Your plan worked; Cad Bane jerked you up by the roots of your hair still wrapped between his fingers, kicking his leg out to cause you to lose your balance so that he might spin and slam you against the wall of the cave. It was not entirely what you had in mind, but so far so good.

The oxygen had been knocked from your lungs, realizing too little too late that this might not be such a wonderful idea after all. Your face ached, though Bane had been kind enough not to bash your brains out on the rocks.

All coherent thought flew out the viewport the moment you felt the hunter’s monstrously large palm cup the entirety of your genitalia. You moaned despite yourself, a pleased snicker full of ridicule being released behind your back.

“Sspeak up,” he said with a sneer. “Couldn’ hear ye over de ssmell o’yer ‘fuck me’ pheromones.”

The monumental creature who held you so rigidly in place brought his other arm around to pinch your lips together between his thumb and trigger finger, forcing you to mimic the appearance of someone who was expecting a kiss any moment now, which wasn’t far from the truth. Your hired gun snarled again for good measure. You were so incredibly turned on despite your inability to keep your mouth shut.

“Oh, come off it, Bane,” you shot back between squished lips, managing to break free from the grip of his lengthy digits. They smelled faintly of the chemicals and vegetation that encompassed the main ingredients of his cigarra, as well as the worn leather of his cut off gloves. “I’m not the only one hard here,” you derided him.

It was as if your common sense had been dispelled into the ether without your consent, but you were positive that was not Bane’s LL-30 poking into your hip. The hunter growled once more, like a beast debating on the best way to disembowel you, but in that moment your sanity left in totality as you leaned forward and implanted your mouth around his index finger.

You gave Bane a full sampling of what you were capable of, tongue writhing and twisting as you thoroughly enjoyed yourself. The only thing you lacked was the ability to watch the manifestation of his feelings on the matter.

The hunter’s reaction was both expected and alarming. Bane retracted his finger from your orifice even as you increased the suction of your cheeks, a trail of spittle left to drip down your chin. He refitted his hand to your scalp, twirling you back around quite effectively, in turn giving you your wish of being able to gauge his expression.

Currently, it was one of seeming anger. He rattled another foreign sound directly in your face, your ears picking up on the distinctive clinking of metal and the rustling of clothes.

Bane’s free hand worked easily to unfasten his pants, taking the extra effort to free his genitalia from the confines of his insulated blacks. You gaped at his anatomy before he jerked your head back up. He silently demanded you look into his eyes; they were magnetic and easily drew you in.

“Notha’ lesson yer gonna learn – ye finish what ye sstart.”

He began to shove you down onto your knees before his cock. The sight of it simultaneously thrilled and frightened you. You stammered out your words before he could coax you to choke it down. “W-wait! Do we have a deal? I get another week and you don’t kill me.”

Cad Bane toyed with you; your neck was forcibly craned back so that you had to stare up at the Duros. He teasingly rubbed the tip of his phallus against your soft, plush, human lips, plonking it down with a debasing slap as he flashed you his sharp teeth. “No pieccce a assss iss werth five-hundred-thousand creds, an’ esspecially naht yers,” he snapped, redirecting his member to push against your presently closed mouth.

So, that’s the game he wanted to play, was it?

To his surprise you opened wide, thrusting your head upward so you could take in the entirety of his ridged shaft down the warm void of your throat. You adjusted yourself more comfortably, stretching yourself out to accommodate for his height. Even though your knees hurt on the hard surface of the ground, you were willing to grin and bear it to get a taste of his Duros dick.

You imbibed it to its end, your face brushing against the tiniest hint of exposed blue flesh peeking out from beneath dark leather and rough fabric. His cock was veiled with an oily slick, sweet as syrup, which made it go down all the more easily as you worked your tongue around the crests of his peculiar shape.

Cad Bane clawed his spidery extremities into your hair more thoroughly, fangs bared to the gums as he vocalized a sound so quietly obscene it prompted you to work slower, harder, and at a more syncopated rhythm.

You were getting into it, groaning at the pleasing taste of his body’s byproduct, while at the same time half disgusted with yourself for being so ready to guzzle this man’s cum at a moment’s notice. You were intrepid; you curled your arm around his buttocks, gently coaxing the hunter’s hips forward as you rocked inward to meet him, then backward again, determined to show him your worth.

You repeated the action. Bane caught on quickly, mimicking your movements at a steady pace as he fucked your face just like you wanted.

You slathered every rib and crook, fondling his strange planes with your tongue, finding that some areas seemed to be more sensitive than others by the way the Duros tensed minutely beneath your touch.

He rumbled low from within the bowels of his chest as you clamped down more succinctly, amplifying the amount of suction you were applying to his cock as you coerced him toward climax, careful not to graze him with your teeth.

He released your hair, the tips of delicate, yet deadly digits tenderly grasping either side of your jaws as they worked their way around the back of your neck, clasping closed at the base of your skull. The jerking of Bane’s hips picked up in speed as he cradled your head, the disgruntled gunslinger having actually bothered to shut one eye as he basked in the sensation of the wet heat of your mouth gorging itself on his girth.

You almost hated to follow through with your idea, observing the hunter’s body language and bearing witness to the primal utterances that reverberated off his vocal chords during the intensity of the moment, but you had a point to make.

You fiendishly brought him to the brink, Bane’s cock pulsing in your mouth as his breathing picked up its fervor despite the apparatus that resided across his back. Just as you thought he might erupt you released his phallus with a resounding pop that echoed throughout the silence of the cavern.

For one instant the bony ridge over his eyes knitted, a look of honest confusion and disappointment overtaking his normally dour face before it morphed into a scowl, the Duros regaining his equilibrium and canting his head downward, the rim of his wide hat casting a black cloud over your parade.

You bravely challenged him despite this. “Still think I’m not worth it? Consider this a deposit; you’ll get your money when I get mine!”

Perhaps it was the teasing smirk playing at your lips, or the overblown attitude you projected, your tone of voice, or the twinkle in your eye. Whatever it was, Bane did not appreciate it, though now it was well within the realm of possibility to be exhaustively plowed into an early grave.

Oh, the unbridled joy that kind of death would give you. It emboldened you as you locked eyes with his, this… reptilian entity before you who posed as a man hissing menacingly at the abrupt removal of your mouth from around his cock. He scooped you up by the lapel of your shirt, dragging you to his height. Your feet nearly dangled off the ground, sheer terror conjoined with sexual arousal causing your brain to short-circuit for a temporary length of time.

“Ye’ve gotta deal, ye lil’ shit,” Bane seethed bitingly, catching you off guard and driving your heart to flutter. You had no time to even contemplate the repercussions of his acceptance before he was physically hauling you outside the cave.

“But Ah’ll be de one makin’ de deposit,” he taunted nastily, effortlessly staking his claim over you as his personal plaything. There was a small chance you would regret this, but the absolute freak in you could not wait for what was about to happen, your boots leaving a trail in the dirt as he easily maneuvered you toward the bike you’d both rode in on.

He tossed you over the side of the speeder like a ragdoll on your belly. The wind was knocked out of you as you tried to right yourself, but Bane had you exactly where he wanted you, the hunter sidling up to you with his bare cock now flush against your ass cheek. He had not bothered to tuck himself back in.

His sinewy arm reached around you, Bane seamlessly unfastening the buckle of your belt. He ground his hips into you, fumbling with the closure of your trousers for less than a split second before he was already shoving them down from around your waist.

You gasped, the Duros’ broad palm groping your soft rump. He rattled a provocative sizz as his cuspids skimmed the back of your neck, one steel-toed boot coming to rest between your feet. He kicked either side of your shoes to make your legs involuntarily spread wider and for you to lose your balance, your body tumbling ass up as you fell forward once more over the seat of the speeder.

Your own erection was pressing against the saddle, Bane forcing a grunt out of you as he gnashed his teeth, elongated Durosian digits, both elegant and rough, gathering and then caressing the length of your dick from around and behind so fluidly that the sensation alone nearly made you cum.

His touch was featherlight and delicate like gossamer, the deep-seated grumbling he was producing not helping matters. It was all meant to allay you, the final straw being the pinch of his disconcerting canines as he took up residence just below your carotid artery, placating you into a latent state of willful obedience.

“Try naht te squirm too much,” he muttered, licking a stripe from where he had drawn your blood to the surface of your skin all the way to the edge of your earlobe; a tremor oscillated through your core. “Instinct might kick in,” he warned.

You tried to speak, but you were swimming in a bevy of complicated thoughts and your own lewd desires, though any fight left in you had been nullified. It was as if you had been caught in the jaws of an apex predator, and that was precisely accurate if you took the time to analyze your dilemma at face value.

Fortunately for you, you had convinced him you were temporarily a decent substitute for one of the few things that mattered to him in this life: credits, though unsure if by some chance he would spontaneously change his mind. It boosted you to shamelessly balance yourself precariously on the tips of your toes as you moaned in subdued notes to inform the Duros you were ready, willing, and more than receptive to his not so subtle advances.

Still, you could not help yourself, snapping back with an increasingly haughty temperament that was just asking for trouble. “Get on with it,” you baited him, your voice laced with a façade of nearly bored contempt.

The hunter pulled his hand back and slapped your ass. Hard. You were sure you would feel it in the morning, and if you could look to check, you were positive there would be a large red welt left in its wake.

“Sshut up an’ drop de act,” Bane scolded. “Don’ try te pull dhat backrocket shit wit’ me. Ah’ll get te ye when ah’m good ‘n ready,” he informed you brusquely, the Duros taking his time in removing each of his gloves in turn with his teeth to be spit off to the side somewhere, out of eye view.

Once accomplished, he moved to fondling his genitals as he coated his right hand in his own lubrication. Somewhat unbeknownst to you, Bane had saturated himself for the express purpose of testing you.  

You made a sound of mild protest, although you no idea what to say to his accusations. Was it that easy to tell you had simply been driven mad by your own bawdy ambitions? You inhaled briskly as you felt something cold and slippery push past the crack of your ass to probe your anal opening, followed by the slow, almost methodical entrance of what you assumed was a long, smooth, and tenacious finger.

If nothing else, this would be the thing to silence you.

This was not Cad Bane’s first rodeo. Even that single digit felt snug as it penetrated you to half its length. It went in without incident. It was a strange feeling at first, you having long ago noted the Duros did not have fingernails, although the tips were somewhat callous; in this instance friction was not unwelcome.

The coldness of his microscales set your guts to squirming, the cool wetness sparking a sensation within you that felt like errant bolts of electricity as he traveled languorously through your rectum to reach the gland that existed there. You felt a pressure that was not unpleasant but that made you press back against him, Bane snorting at the ease with which he already practically had you begging for him.

“Where's yer patience now?" he mused, though content by this turn of events as it meant less work for a higher payout. “No matta’ how eager ye are fer it, de sun won’ rise any fasta.'"

Bane lazily grazed the sensitive bundle of nerves within you, curling his finger at just the right angle to make your cock fatten and thresh before he revoked it entirely from your body only to make space for two. He was being self-indulgent, you spreading your legs wider intuitively as the Duros shifted his unnaturally lank appendages within you, back and forth in a sawing motion as you buried your face in the curve of your elbow.

“Ye stink a desperation,” Bane nearly purred, the scent of your pheromones starting to have an effect on the hunter that made him feel almost complacent while at the same time murderous. He kept that part of himself in check, however neutralizing eons of Durosian evolutionary tactics sometimes proved to be a challenge. A warm-blooded mammal such as yourself was a thing often considered to be food, and especially ones who could not protect themselves, or those who wriggled as if they were prey caught in a trap.

“If Ah didn’ know any betta,’ Ah’d say dhis was yer plan all along, kid...” Your breath caught in your throat as you tightened your abdominal muscles reflexively, Bane expanding those slender digits inside you as he stretched you open. His free hand reached around the other side of you to gingerly cup your balls, the cushy coolness of his skin leaving you unprepared as he caressed your sac in a gentle massage with all five massive fingers.

“F-fuck,” you stammered out, precum leaking out of your dick’s slit. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined someone as eerily sinister as this bounty hunter could absolutely blow your mind at the same time as causing you to want to blow your load. "That's banthashit. I could care less," you lied.

“Wait fer it,” he whispered silkily in your ear, jeering you for your obvious neediness, releasing your testicles to draw himself away. “Yessss,” he rasped snidely, the two fingers inside you pumping more steadily until he left you empty and desirous as you pathetically whimpered for more. “Dhat's why yer bent over fer me all nice like."

“Fucking tease,” you managed, spitting the words off your tongue contemptuously as the weight of the Duros shifted off your back as he pushed himself up, leaving you inclined across the speeder. Then, you smelled something - the distinctive scent of smoke.

You sat up and whorled around, facing the Duros head on as he had the nerve to light up another cigarra with you bare-assed in the middle of the woods. He took a leisurely drag as you glared heatedly with your pants halfway down your legs, Bane exhaling a thick plume as he grinned at you, fangs displayed in a show of almost cheerful satisfaction. “Pay back’s a bitch, ain’ it?

His own cock still stood at attention, engorged and bluish green; the fact he was in absolutely no rush at all when you so urgently wanted to be pounded into the ground was infuriating. It was your turn to be unappreciative, your surliness unable to be suppressed as you decided to insult the man for lack of better judgement.

“You’re a bastard,” you mumbled, not expecting anything in the way of retaliation, though Bane surprised you by switching gears without so much as a hat tip in warning.

The hand not holding his smoke extended in the single blink of an eye, nearly engulfing your throat as it pinched closed around you. Even though you were scared shitless, Bane had not troubled himself with applying any pressure. You thanked the stars even as you trembled, floundering to rein in your flight response.

Bane emitted an ugly sound, bordering the cusp of a hiss mixed with a savage growl that set your teeth on edge while concurrently making every part of you tingle. He entrapped you again between the bike and himself, this time facing you as he leered vehemently into your eyes.

“Ah bet ye think de sun comes up jus te hear ye crow.” You were entranced by his bold stare, his red depths molten and mesmerizing, stealing you away to another place entirely so that you nearly forgot where you were, or what was happening. “Maybe yer de one who needs de wake up call.”

Instantly you were brought back to the present, Bane shoving you backward as he impressed himself into your hips. Again, something cold and moist intruded upon you, Bane aligning himself at your back entrance as he worked his way into your warm innards.

If you thought his fingers had made you feel full, it was nothing compared to his alien anatomy, the Duros essentially ribbed for your pleasure. You could perceive every unique facet of his length as it moved through you, deeper than he had bothered to penetrate before.

You choked out a sound that transformed into a groan of near-to rapture or relief; it was as if you had long been deprived of something that your life depended on, and were only now finally receiving it. You equally felt pain, your walls spanning to accommodate his foreign presence, but despite everything you were thrilled with this sudden escalation of events.

You belted out a full-fledged moan as he inched his way to the rear of your nether regions. You panted through a mix of depraved satisfaction and a sense of overwhelming satiety. His tool was sizeable, stuffing you to the brim. “If only ye stole priceless Jedi artifactss as well as ye take dick,” he japed, needlessly needling you for fun.

The Duros lifted you up by both corners of your tunic after he settled his cigarra between his lips without so much as an afterthought, dragging you up with his cock still adjoined within. He set you down on the edge of his bike’s saddle, dredging his large fingers into the fabric of your garments. Much to your glee, the hunter used it as leverage, Bane leaning forward to rut into you as spirals of dark smoke jutted heavenward, the cigarra’s fumes filling your nostrils with its pungent odor.

Though Bane’s wiry physique might trick some into thinking he was weak, there was power behind his thrusts, the hunter laying his cock into you aggressively; his movements were almost artful, yet intense. The oily slick coating his member was a godsend, soon any discomfort you felt being chased away as pleasure took over, both your arms spreading out to either side of you on the speeder.

One hand grasped a handle, while the other gripped tightly to the seat. You steadied yourself against his barrage of long, slow strokes, the Duros releasing his hold on your clothes, seeing as how you were doing most of the work for him by now; all he had to do was grind his hips.

He did just that, watching the gesticulations of your face as he picked the cigarra from between his teeth, one arm extending outward for a hand to cradle the back of your head as he pulled you forward.

You suddenly wanted to kiss him; it seemed that he intended to kiss you. You went for it, placing your outspread palms on either cheek below his breathing tubes as you positioned your mouth adjacent his.

Bane accepted, opening his fang-filled maw wide enough to let your tongue slide in, though what happened next took you by surprise. He exhaled the build up of smoke that had gathered in his lungs directly into you, shot gunning the remnants between your parted lips.

You inhaled on instinct, tasting the flavor of his vice. It was dark and earthy, spiked with a smitch of what you thought was Spice. You coughed inadvertently, expelling it back out. Bane smirked toothily as he flicked the butt off into the dirt.

“Didn' exspect ye te be so green,” he said offhand, though his words lacked animosity.

The Duros’ own hands moved to cup your face unexpectantly; he pressed his forehead against yours without warning. He purred, rubbing his rostrum all over your head, hair, and skin in an attempt to mark you with his scent.

Just like that he recoiled, eyes alit with malice, as if he himself had been caught unaware of his own actions. The purr contorted into a throaty grumbling, Bane deciding to turn your head sharply, giving him access to your throat while at the same time making it so he did not have to look directly at you.

He pressed the slits beneath his eyes just below your ear, drinking deeply of your personal fragrance before he licked you across the entirety of your neck.

Bane’s warm breath caused another round of horripilation, the hair on your body standing at attention as you shivered all over. His tongue worked its way into your ear once more, his teeth biting down on your fleshy lobe.

He stayed there, groaning inoffensively, all the while pumping his cock into you as you allowed this odd treatment of your person.  You had to admit that even though you had expected the hunter to sodomize you without remorse, and you keen for it, he was being rather courteous in the way he fucked you.

“Feeling affectionate, are we?” you breathed out against his duster, the Duros’ mood taking a turn in a less pleasing direction as he snarled outright, retracting from you entirely. You thought you should have removed the impudence from you tone; it was just too fun to poke and prod at him.

He pulled his member out of you, leaving you barren and distraught; you highly regretted taking a dig at him quite suddenly. You reached out a hand, Bane skirting you as he grabbed you by the scruff of your collar once again. He flipped you over as he had done before, this time sinking his knurled dick in you without an introduction or reprieve from start to finish.

Bane levied himself on either side of you, a blunt force pressed flat against your ass as he pushed up into you, touching that erogenous place far within as you bit down harshly on your lip. You were vocalizing loudly now, an insurmountable deluge of pleasure flooding your sensory receptors as he continued to jounce into you with increased momentum.

You could not help yourself. You attended to your own cock, your fist tightening around your shaft as you received stimulation from both ends. Your legs quivered as you tried to stay your balance, the bike beneath you now welcomed as you gave in, hips rising for an even deeper reach.

“Yer gonna choke one day on all dhat shit ye talk,” Bane berated, his body oriented level with yours as he mercilessly hit your sweet spot. You gasped with every breath, a sensation building up upon itself as you ground your teeth, still daring to run your mouth even now, so close to orgasm.

“Then I’ll see you in hell,” you demurred halfheartedly, speaking through another moan of ecstasy.

The hunter did not reply, but hissed something along the lines of disapproval, so overcome in the moment with the anticipation of his own release that he was beyond bothering to respond to you. He locked onto your hips, spindly fingers alternating between the actions of compression and distension, Bane kneading your malleable flesh like dough as a lecherous rasp clawed its way to the surface and washed over you.

It was the last thing you were fully cognizant of, your mind bathed in a volley of white-hot sparks as pinpricks of stars formed in the corners of your eyes. You breached the limits of your mental willpower, holding off for as long as you could, your own fingers still caressing the length of your cock as Bane remained sheathed tightly inside you. The combined friction and varying attributes of his unique tool sent you over the edge, your cum beginning to spurt out across the bike seat.

Bane continued the relentless pursuit of his own pleasure as you peaked, your ears perking at a sound in the distance, though your thoughts were muddled and misty as you tried to make it out.

Gasping for air and still riding out your orgasm, pants having fallen to your ankles, Volrik finally decides to make his appearance, a knapsack secured across his back. The sound you had heard was the approach of his speed-bike, traveling at high velocity down the singular trail through these woods - the trail that was only two dozen steps away from where your campsite resided, and where you were currently being fucked by a notorious Durosian bounty hunter in the now full light of day - your former partner having seen your scandalous tryst from atop his mount.

Volrik slowed but did not stop, his eyes wide and mouth hanging partially open in his overt astonishment. He was not entirely looking where he was going; you bellowed out to Bane to redirect his attention, no matter that he himself was balls deep in your guts.

In that moment, Bane had taken to unleashing his own seed; it was frigid and thick, filling you right where you stood: still bent over the bike, and now yelling as the other man began to exhibit a stupid grin, then downright laughing as he sped past you. “That’s him!”

The man was hooting and hollering as he got further and further away, and you growing angrier by the second, though Bane kept undulating his hips. He reached down where his holster lay slack against his leg, the Duros drawing out one LL-30 BlasTech pistol. Even as you squawked like an incensed nuna, Bane shot him dead from some distance away, rutting out the last drops of his load into your now sore ass.

He shucked you off himself, your insides left vacant as his spillage seeped out of you and dribbled down your legs. Bane turned and walked away, so quick to recalibrate and recoup, making his way toward his own meager pile of belongings. You assumed he had the intention of cleaning himself up.

He tossed you a rag which you took gratefully, doing your best to rid yourself of the aftermath. You hurriedly dashed off down the path and toward where he’d felled that asshole as soon as you had buckled up your pants.

You glared at Volrik as he stared blankly up into your eyes, his soul having already left his body; he was nothing but a lifeless corpse, Bane approaching with the gait of a silent killer. You had not even noticed he was there except by the faint smell of his cigarra, the residue sticking to the fibers of his clothes - he was right behind you.

You jumped despite yourself, though taking it in stride as you squatted upon the ground to avoid drawing more attention to your show of nerves.

You searched the contents of Volrik’s belongings; it did not take you long to find the secret compartment hidden in his satchel that housed the two Jedi Medallions you had been after. They were awarded to a Jedi when they graduated from Knight to Master, and they were particular to the Old Republic era, wrapped carefully and protected in a separate pouch.

You removed the artifacts, tilting them to see in the rays of the sun that filtered in through the trees, Bane leaning against a nearby trunk as he crossed his ankles, a small hint of a smirk lining his nearly lipless mouth. You grinned at him, putting them diligently back into safekeeping, then claiming your victory offhand. “Looks like I come out on top,” you bragged flagrantly.

“Fweh,” Bane tsked, clacking his tongue against his fangs, using this opportunity to insult you. “Never in yer life.” He snickered, arms settling in more tightly about his waist as he got comfortable, that large hat of his drawn down over his searing eyes.

You began strolling back towards camp, unable to rid yourself of your proud smile, even though Bane had done the dirty work. You realized there was a joke there. “Oh? Perhaps once we get paid I can buy you a drink. Maybe then you’d be the one to loosen up,” you enticed him, your expression taking on a somewhat devious, yet flirtatious appearance, though you knew this would only get under his scales.

Cad Bane knew what you were hinting at; he growled somewhere behind you. In reality, you found it to be a pleasing sound. “Piss off,” he griped, brushing past your shoulder in order to be the first one to arrive back to camp. “Jus’ get me de creds ye owe me b’fore Ah decide te end ye after all.”

It was a wonder he hadn’t offed you yet. You thought he must quite like you, but maybe that was just wishful thinking on your part. Your grin only widened as you replied. “Patience, Bane.”

You were lucky that he only shot you with a look and not his blaster, though if looks could kill, you’d sure enough be dead.

---

Masterlist

Cad Bane Masterlist

#Cad bane #Cad bane x reader #Cad bane x m reader #Duros #Star Wars #Clone Wars #Book of Boba Fett #Bad Batch #My writing

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Sixteen: Lore and Luminaries

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 13.8K

CW: Mentions of underage sexual exploration / mention of child abuse (physical)

“Dragon root, dried wasp stings… vervain, lovage. Grind all those up for me, if you would, my lady.”

For a long while, the sound of stone grinding against stone is the only thing to be heard in the Healer’s rooms. It is the most riveting sound, that steady rasp, bewitching in its constancy. The scent wafting from the mortar is yet another component of the enchantment that has fallen upon the space. Each breath you take is more pleasant than the last. Invigorating. It is almost enough to make you forget the purpose of the brew. And to whom you will have it served.

Mother had been taken ill a couple of days past. The sweats, they feared, at its onset. The sweats, thank the gods, it is not. The source of the bug had been confined to her cottage, to sleep away the malady and prevent its spread. 

By no means was this to be the last spate of illness within the household, Healer Darya warned. The autumn storms are soon come upon you and with them the dreaded ague. It is not so lethal as the mortal sweats, to be sure, but it is a great deal more catching and takes its fair share of lives when left untreated. 

The cooks have been outdoing themselves of late, churning out dish after dish bursting with greens and fish and eggs. Fare to prevent further illness and strengthen the constitution, it is known. The year’s bounty of oranges (bloody and otherwise) find themselves a constant on the household table as well. And lemons. So many lemons. From fowl cooked with lemons to lemon cakes to liqueurs, the cooks find no end to their utility. It is almost enough to put you off them for the next year. Almost. Lemon cakes are altogether too tasty to give up for a full year.

“My lady, perhaps you can enlighten me with the properties of lovage.” Healer Darya gives you the briefest of glances before turning to her work. 

An unusual yet not unpleasant mixture of scents trails the priestess’s words. Peppermint, wormwood, silk moss. For the tonic to revitalize Mother. You grind your own ingredients on, as ordered, before eventually answering, “Lovage is most effective as an aid for digestion. If used too much, though, it can leave the patient extremely disoriented. As such, it must be used sparingly, and with a light hand.”

“What of vervain?”

“It is often used for the treatment of feral dog bites. However, it is also generally known as a potent restorative, especially if used in tonics. As we are using it right now.”

“Quite right, and well-put.” The Healer gauges the steadily burning flame beneath the small pewter cauldron on its iron trivet. She holds out her hand. “My lady, the paste, if you please.” The unusually pleasant scent takes on a new note and a different sort of pleasantness. Healer Darya puts aside the black stone mortar and its matching pestle, before taking up a ladle and stirring the concoction. “Perhaps I’ll set you to making the next few batches of these so I might at last move on to restocking the other essentials.”

You will take no issue with that. The past week or so of Healer lessons had been nothing less than stimulating. It began with books. The Lady Alyrya’s priestess was only too happy to oblige her mistress when you requested tuition. Light reading, to start. Greens in Your Garden; Flowers of the South; Physic and Herblore, an interesting treatise on medicinal plants, written by renowned herbalist Prior Flora, which you had started two nights past.

The true work is what you anticipate the most.

“Hang these up to dry and finish the tisane.” 

A bundle of herbs changes hands, and you proceed to obey. Pennyroyal and golden parsley, you note, with no small amount of wryness as you walk toward the drying area. Herbs needed for that most infamous of brews. The Healer had been instructing you on all manners of subjects: the drying of herbs, the extracting of vegetal oils, the making of tisanes, potions, pastes. Soon, you will move on to the more difficult tinctures, perhaps even your first poultice. All of these and more you will learn. But for the brewing of that one draught.

It had not been too long ago when Father had called you to his solar, grim and grave and so disappointed. He did not give you long to wonder at his disappointment. “What is this I hear about you and Young Master Meledin?” he had inquired, brisk and uncharacteristically terse.

He changed tack at your honest confusion, which he only doubled with his next query. Young, new-flowered Lady Rhyzkova could not understand nor picture what Father was on about. You had spent a good few moments in silence, puzzling out the details. You could not imagine how you were supposed to fit that hard rod of flesh inside you, or even that you could. 

So you had, truthfully, said no, Roman did not put his penis inside your sex. That new insight gave you awe, nevertheless. You might not have taken him in but you had taken him to hand, to his nervous excitement. That felt good, he said; it felt even better when you stroked. And so you did, encouraged by his eager urging, fascinated by the way he swelled and grew harder in your grip. Even the strange fluid that leaked from him in droves (not piss, he had asked Prior Ilya) did not put you off like it had that first time (your disgust did not let you get this far, and he had wilted from the embarrassment). He had climaxed all over your hand soon afterward. The milk-white liquid that came spurting from his cock was not piss, that was for certain.

For all your honesty, Father had his reservations. Healer Darya came to confirm your innocence, sent by Lord Alexander to corroborate his daughter’s claims. You were as intact as you could be, for a highborn girl, announced the priestess. It was not a boy’s cock that caused what tears there were down there. Noble girls are more like to lose their maidenheads to horses than to boys, this is known, and you have been riding since you were six, years and years ago.

Still, it stings, even now, to know Father had not taken you at your word. It is understandable, to a degree, to make absolutely sure - your value in the marriage market would have severely plummeted had you been plucked before your time. That does not lessen the sting, even so. It is some reassurance that he had not made you drink söga, at least.

Söga, the tisane you will never learn to make if Father and Healer Darya can help it. Both know well your capacity for wantonness. Your wanton streak, as Father called it. To your face. “You have a wanton streak in you, my child,” he had said, so very gently. Somehow, that had not stung - he could have worded, and delivered, it worse. He could have called it my whorish streak. 

And so you are relegated to keeping your whorish streak to yourself. It is all to the good, anyway. You know well what is expected of a lady, especially one with a standing as high as yours. That does not stop the what-ifs from cropping up every so often; they especially love to crop up in the face of a handsome boy, and the court does not lack for those. You are betrothed to one of those, as it happens. That you will use forbidden knowledge to go ahead and fuck your handsome boy without any consequences, you do not know. But that is certainly something.

You can always brew the tea yourself, you suppose, as you grab a length of knotted twine off the counter and begin to wrap it about the herbs’ stems. Söga is disastrous to get wrong, though. A misstep in the recipe will blast your womb and render you barren, a woman’s worst nightmare realized. You cannot have that; you must have heirs of your own body and continue a line eight thousand years strong.

Mugwort and nettle and goldenglow hang before you in a neat row, joined shortly by your pennyroyal and parsley. Herbal soldiers in line, waiting for their commands. And like true soldiers, they lose their potency beneath too much sun. All herbalists know to keep herbs away from scorching heat, and the Healer is no exception. The sandstone visible through the glass window before you makes for a dismal view.

The views are more cheering where the sun is allowed to shine. The apothecary is aptly stationed right beside the entrance to the sanctum, giving the resident Healer easy access to its wealth of flora. No autumn hues are evident through the wood-and-glass door that leads out into the palace gardens. This far south, the seasons turn more slowly, and so everything keeps its verdant bloom. For the moment.

You leave the apothecary bearing a silver trayful of remedies: ginger and mint tea (sweetened with honey), essence of yarrow, a bowl of hot water and a square of clean linen, marlock salve and the revitalizing tonic, finished at last after half an hour’s worth of labor. You cannot help the irreverent smile that pulls at your lips as you pass a familiar corridor.

Down those halls is a certain sitting room, now scarce used. It was that which made it so enticing to two highborn whelps who were too inquisitive for their own good. You do not know how that servant managed to catch you at it; hardly anyone went down there, as little used as the wing was. Perhaps you were louder than you’d thought. Par for the course for children, who tend to have little thought of their immediate surroundings. 

Father had the whole wing’s rooms locked and sealed away afterward. He hardly should have bothered. It had not taken him long to send Roman away, so you were left with no boys to play around with (no boys you were attracted to enough, at any rate). And no boys to learn the way of the bedchamber with, no one to fondle and explore just to see what went where. 

The older ladies of the court told you what went where readily enough.

Mother’s rooms are empty of callers and servants but for her handmaid, the Lady Oksana Aliyeva, sister to the Lady of Noyasnoy, Tatyana Aliyeva. “My lady,” she curtseys as you brush past the gossamer hangings to enter your mother’s bedchamber. The older woman proceeds at once to tie back the drapes, her long sheet of silvery blonde hair rippling in her wake.

You set your tray down on the table placed at the foot of the bed and gather the mug of tea in your hands. You wave away the handmaid as she comes over to assist. “Leave us, if you would, my lady.”

Lady Oksana checks, draws herself up and bows before taking her leave.

“Ah, my sweet little Healer,” Lady Theresia says hoarsely from her seat in her large bed, propped up on big silken pillows against her red gossamer-covered headboard and smiling her warm motherly smile. The stuffed peacocks flanking the bed stare haughtily down at you as you walk over to the bedside and sit on the crimson bedclothes. The clay of the teacup is rough and warm beneath your fingers, the tisane not too hot, perfect for drinking.

“How are you feeling?” you ask your lady mother as you hand her the drink. Still a bit peaky, you think, taking in Mother’s drawn complexion with a surge of concern. You mislike the gravel in her voice as well as its thickness. The mint will help the rocks and the obstruction.

Lady Theresia smiles, sardonic. “The cavalry is running a charge through my body, but this old bat is otherwise fine.” Mother and daughter share a laugh. “No leeches?” Lady Theresia queries after a taste of tea.

“Perhaps later. Healer Darya will drop by to check on you.”

“Oh, thank the gods. Such nasty creatures,” Mother shudders and takes another prim sip. “Did you mix this yourself?”

“Yes.” A bowl of water is sitting beside a tiny ornate brazier on the bedside table. A square of linen floats, submerged, in the yarrow-infused liquid. You stand and take the basin, striding back to the other table at the foot of the bed.

“Your lessons are going along swimmingly then.”

The pleasant scent of yarrow drifts through the air from the bottle in your hand. You pour a capful of the essence into the fresh bowl, well-pleased.

“Tell me of your curriculum. I trust that it is a good one. And appropriate.”

You cannot fail to hear the emphatic tone your mother’s voice has adopted. “It is good. And appropriate.” No söga, have no fear, Mother dear. You hang the unused linen over an arm and gather the steaming bowl, the revitalizing tonic, and the salve before returning to the bedside table.

“Eren is a handsome lad - gods, such a handsome lad, and so well-made-” you look askance at your mother’s dreamy expression, which she hastily shakes off, “-but you can afford to wait. Not long now ‘til you can tumble your man to your heart’s content.” Lady Theresia titters as the bottle of tonic near slips from her daughter’s hand at her remark. Her laughter waxes into a hacking cough as you turn to her with abject horror on your face. Never again do you want to hear anything remotely raunchy come out of your mother’s mouth.

“Ah, but he is a sweet lad,” Mother sniffs once her laughter and the coughing subside. She dabs at her nose with a square of linen. “And he makes you happy. That is the most important thing of all.”

You set the revitalizing tonic down beside the salve. He had sent you a tonic once, over a month ago. You had never been more surprised to see Healer Dmitriy outside your rooms in Merrydell, a purple glass bottle in his hands. “Young Master Eren asked me to give you this, my lady. Essence of valerian for your insomnolence.” 

As surprised as you had been at this unexpected visit, your astonishment paled in the light of the overwhelming surge of affection that coursed through you at this most thoughtful gesture. Your unrested state had struck a bigger cord in your betrothed than you’d realized. Such a sweet lad indeed.

Lady Theresia finishes her tea at last and hands you her cup. “We are lucky in our men, you and I.” Another set of smiles changes hands. “As I hope your sisters will be. And your brother with his lady wife someday. To be lucky in love is the sweetest thing.”

You putter about the bedside table, fussing at the cup and the bowl and the brazier, cheeks prickling at that most potent of words. Love.

Several moments pass before you can return to your place by Mother’s side. “Speaking of… men and future matches, how is Father taking into account the king’s continued reticence as regards the Crown Prince’s hand?” It has been some time since last you’d spoken of the matter. You hand Mother the small porcelain tub of marlock.

“Yes, well, your father has other options. As he always has in all matters.” A lesson he has been instilling in you most diligently throughout the years. Your mother removes the lid off the tub in her hand, dips her fingers in the ointment, and smears it over her chest, pulling the neck of her nightdress down a little as she does so.

“I don’t think the prince will make Lydia happy anyway.” Not when Lady Gudrun is around to be a paramour on the side.

“They can always grow into it. Such matters are a passing thing.” Lady Theresia hands back the tub, which you set aside on the table, just as a commotion in the form of your baby brother enters the room.

“Mava!”

The swept-back drapes of the bedchamber afford you both a view of little Oliver Rhyzkov tottering down the privy chamber, threading his way past the divans, the armchairs, and the tables in his route to get to Mother’s bedroom. He is carrying an earthenware bowl filled with a glistening golden mass in his little hands.

Behind him drifts his nurse, brown-haired matronly Mother Raisa, in her cerise robes lined with gold. She is carrying her own dish, this one piled high with the harvest’s bounty: pears, peaches, plums, grapes and dates and melons, all manners of berries. “My ladies,” she bows over her bowl once she reaches the threshold of the bedroom, which makes her young ward pause and dip into his own bow.

“No need to bow to your own kin, Olya,” you inform him with a grin, taking the dish from him and ruffling his hair affectionately, making the boy giggle. Your hand shoots out quick as a whip and closes around a pudgy forearm as your brother makes to run to Mother’s bedside. “Sorry, love, but no kisses for Mava just yet. You might get sick, and if you get sick, there’ll be no more playtime. And no more swimming.”

The threat of no more swimming hits hard. Olya slumps down in your hold, pouting a most magnificent pout. “But it’s tomorrow and you said you’d be better tomorrow,” he calls out, sad and plaintive, to Mother, who smiles at him apologetically.

“I’m afraid the bug is stronger than we thought, my love. But I promise I will be better.”

“I told you to let me squish it! I’m not afeared of bugs, I can squish it! So you can be better!”

“That’s why we brought these, your little lordship, to squish the bugs and make your mother stronger,” Mother Raisa intercedes as she places the fruit bowl amidst the physic on the bedroom bench. “Only a good serving of fruit can squish this sort of bug. Of course, a prayer or two will work even more wonders,” she adds piously, clutching at the golden pendant on her chest, that of the Mother Above’s scepter tipped with a tiny pomegranate.

Olya nods vigorously. “Honeycomb makes me feel better, too, so you have to eat them all today so you’ll be better tomorrow. For true.”

Sure enough, the sugary scent emitting from the bowl in your hands belongs to his favorite sweet. You place it beside the fruits, greatly endeared.

“I can’t promise you I’ll be all right tomorrow but I will be in a few days. For true,” Mother says, as endeared as you. “And then we can swim.” 

Olya is not quite placated, that is plain to see, but he nods anyway. His hand drifts to his mouth, prompting his nurse to grab hold of the limb. He has been weaned, for the most part, from that most babyish of habits yet still it manifests, especially when he is upset. At five, he is too old for such conduct and needs further work to break the practice for good and all. Lydia had suggested smearing his hand with sun pepper jelly to stop him sucking. Mother had rebuked her most sharply and the issue was dropped.

“I thank you most kindly for the fare. From a harvest well done, indeed,” Lady Theresia remarks, eyeing the overflowing fruit bowl with so much pride. “Not just for us, I am told.”

“Not just for us,” you affirm, proud as the room’s stuffed peacocks. The past week or so had seen the doves coming in from all the Vascalene provinces, all with reports of excellent harvests. You have yet to come down from the heights of your satisfaction.

“A good portent. And good for public perception. Any proof of the gods’ favor of your rule will help ease the way when you come into your own.”

The fact is a most pleasing one. And much-needed, to help chase away the weight of the role.

“Oh, before I forget, you need to drink your tonic,” you exclaim, moving to measure and pour out the potion for your mother’s consumption. “We’ll leave you to it, then,” you put in once the philter has been drunk. You bend to pick up little Olya, who is not so little now, you realize as you feel the weight of him in your arms. Mother Raisa strides forward, voicing out aid, which you wave away. “Say goodbye to Mava,” you prompt the boy, and he obeys, adding a little wave into the bargain. “She needs to sleep so she’ll get better. And then we’ll swim.”

“Swimming! We’ll swim, we’ll swim like Renren,” Olya chirps, bouncing in your hold, to your distress. “Honey!” he demands, reaching for the corresponding bowl. Mother Raisa breaks off a piece of the comb and hands it to him. He sets to at once, happily munching his treat (Mother’s in truth, supposedly), wax and all.

You adjust your grip on him and bid your own farewell to your most beloved mother. You will visit again tonight. A good Healer must needs check on her patients most diligently.

Renren the Newt’s namesake is standing outside the rooms to greet you, to your surprise.

“Hello,” he raises a hand in greeting.

“Hello,” Olya replies, raising his own smaller honey-smeared hand to return the gesture. 

Eren smiles that warm, tender smile that has made such a home in his beautiful face. The way he regards you and the boy in your arms is achingly soft.

You shift Olya on your hip, so conscious of Eren’s gaze. “You remember Eren, yes? My betrothed.” Encounters between your betrothed and your brother have been scant. Not least because you are keeping Eren to yourself most every time, and Olya has his own little boy agenda to go through every day. “What are you doing here?” you question Eren, most curious.

He purses his lips and sighs, all tenderness lost. “I heard Lady Theresia was sick and you were tending her. I wanted to know how she was.”

Something in you squirms at the restrained fear of his mien. You know well what frightens him so. It is hard to be confronted with memories of his greatest loss. Mother’s predicament is hitting too close to home. “She’s on the mend,” you assure gently. “A day or two and she’ll be right as rain.”

“You’re a knight, right? Teach me how to joust.” Oblivious Oliver licks at his fingers, exposing Eren to the full brunt of his special stare, that wide-eyed compelling look he loves to use on everyone if he must have his way.

It is working a charm on the most susceptible knight. And does a superb job cutting through the miserable tension in the air neat as a pin. “Do you know how to ride a horse?” Eren asks the boy, who shakes his head. “That won’t do. Before you can joust, you have to know how to ride.”

“Teach me.”

“There’s a thought,” you interpose. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Olya certainly thinks so, too. He bounces in your arms again and again and again, trilling “Teach me,” with each bound. Mother Raisa strides forward to take the little lordling off your hands, and this time you let her. There is no winning against Olya, not when he has begun to work himself into excitement.

Eren chuckles at the spectacle and moves closer to you. “Your master of horse should be the one teaching you, not me. I’m hardly the right authority on that matter.”

“You’ll make a fine teacher, and I speak from experience,” you cut in, noting the frown and the trembling mouth of the little face brought about by Eren’s statement. Nothing good will come from that trembling mouth. You turn to the nursemaid before Olya can work himself up into a tantrum. “We’ll proceed to the stables. Perhaps we can commandeer a suitable pony for Olya.” Crisis averted, you think, relieved to see the excitement return to your baby brother’s face.

“You taught me how to ride and I’m a much better horsewoman for it. Don’t sell yourself so short,” you tell your betrothed, idly fiddling with the braid draped over your left shoulder. Mother Raisa and her charge have already started down the corridor. Your fingers brush against something sticky. Olya’s honey, you grimace, lamenting the stain it made on the pale green cloth of your charovma.

“I can teach you a different sort of riding, if you find me such a fine teacher.”

Your head snaps up. “Pardon?”

Eren gives you a slow, smiling gaze and does not answer, merely reaching out to pinch your cheek. “You make the sweetest faces.” He slips his fingers through yours and tugs you along.

“I have to get changed,” you force out, emerging from one of many spells he has taken to casting on you of late. Your cheek tingles where he had pinched it. “I have been honeyed,” you clarify, plucking at your dress at his inquiring look.

“Oh.”

The comfortable silence that falls between you does not last long. “Are you… sniffing me?”

Embarrassment takes his features over, yet it goes as soon as it comes. “It’s just… you smell sweet. And green. I like it.”

“Oh.”

You play with your braid once more. These Healer’s lessons are proving to be a most valuable asset in your skillset. In more ways than one. You have no choice now but to go about it most diligently. And you do so love the smell of herbs.

Into that wild enchanted wood he strode, the prince of dreams, to take up his seat in this his arcane realm. The birds chirped, and the leaves rustled, and the maid giggled, the maid of the wood, that girl with flowers in her hair.

High up she perched on her hawthorn throne, the true sovereign of this wood, and for her he bent the knee. It was never his wood, never his realm, and this he knew as he had never known before.

“Here you are at last, my lady of the wood,” said he, the prince of dreams. “You have kept me waiting.”

“Here I am at last, my prince of dreams,” said she, the girl with flowers in her hair. “I have kept you waiting, for my person’s sake.”

“I do not mean you harm, and will never. This vow, you will see, shall I keep,” said he, the most earnest of princes.

The mystery of her intrigued him so, and the sennights had been a torment. Food had lost all savor and the sun was dark in his eyes each day spent without her radiance. He had naught of her for she gave him naught, not even a name he could call with yearning lips.

For names have power, you see, said she, the girl with flowers in her hair, and forsworn will I be should I give you power over me.

Dong!

Eren looks round at the sound and instantly leaps to his feet. The time has slipped away from him and he is late. Lore and Luminaries, a Compendium of the Legends of the United Lands is thrown unceremoniously back into the lounge’s cushions as he makes a run for the library’s exit. He spares Prior Ilya a quick nod, who returns it, stiff and disapproving, as Eren speeds past his desk. He hastily straightens out the black and silver vidnon jacket (sans tunic) he is wearing with his black pants, making sure he is presentable as he proceeds down the hallway. The timepiece by the disgruntled dark-haired priest’s elbow shows the hour, that of the lynx.

Whatever seeds of remorse that have sprouted inside Eren wilt as quickly as they grow; he ought to be more careful with books, especially ones not his own, yet he is beyond caring at this point. He can always offer to rearrange the whole library in his idle hours. For now, his lady awaits.

And a true lady you are becoming, more and more each day. Some days, you would spend hours apart, you to your councils and audiences and duty, he to books and sparring and leisure. Much as he mislikes these times, some part of him marvels at them, marvels at you and what you can become. Detestable as she is in your intimacy, Lady Rhyzkova is promising to be a most resplendent woman. The image of you coming into your own excites him more than he realized.

Goldhaven’s sanctum is unrecognizable from the wood that it was two years ago. Then, it was a forest of oak and pine and hawthorn, of cypress and poplar and willow. Now, it is a park, and what oaks and pines and hawthorns there were are now growing in disparate plots across the sward. 

He strides down the stone trail that winds its way through the sanctum, eyes peeled for you. The sun is no longer at its zenith and has begun its slow descent into the west. It has dipped below the castle’s towers and so a quarter of the place is in shadow. He walks in dimness for a while until he comes across a choice of paths; he chooses the lefthand one and presses on, emerging at last into the light.

Like the gardens at home in Highridge, Goldhaven’s are elevated, perched high above the city on its leveled edifice. The wind will always blow here. It whips his hair about his face and he considers, for the briefest of moments, having it cut back to its preceding length. He has never grown his hair this long in living memory (it is almost to his shoulders now, hopelessly shaggy), and he is starting to realize why. Your voice echoes in his head, telling him how much you like the look on him, and he desists. For all the trouble it brings on, longer hair has its benefits.

A cluster of gardeners is about, trimming the verges that border one side of the large, circular fountain at the heart of the park. All turn to him and bow with their ‘Sirs’ and ‘Milords’. He acknowledges them with a nod, moving on and on and on, following his stone path. 

Still, his lady is absent, yet he knows where he will find her. Past stands of trees he strolls, once again astonished by how far this sanctum goes. The only other garden he knows can match the length of this one is the Bulwark’s. Connie had often claimed that one needed a mount to negotiate the place, as he and the Lady Mikasa were wont to do; it would take them half the day to do so on foot if they so chose to ply the full breadth of it. Eren had tested the veracity of that claim one summer’s day and decided that Connie was full of hot air and made from weak stock. It only took him half an hour to range the whole thing on foot, from the castle to the end of the gardens and back again.

He finds his lady where he knew she would be. High up you perch on the hawthorn tree, right there at the very end of the sanctum, lying latently along a sturdy branch. A fold of white cloth drapes down the bough from your dress, that white dress that exposed a great deal of smooth, shapely leg, split as it is from the thigh down. You are barefoot; your sandals peep out at him on the ground, beside a wicker basket and the godstone of this garden, a smooth, gray monolith with its proud, gray god, standing in front of this proud, tall tree.

His smile comes easily at your beauty’s behest. You have made a servant of his joy, and it comes so eagerly at your presence’s command. You are making a servant of all of him, his bits and parts, and he finds that he can care little and less. You can lead him anywhere and he will come. Unquestioningly. Willingly. Freely.

Your head turns at the sound of his footsteps. You smile your own smile and rest your head on your folded arms beneath you. “You have kept me waiting, Sir.”

Eren stares up at you, utterly charmed. “Here I am at last, my lady of the sanctum. I have kept you waiting only because time slipped away from me.”

“Ah, a flaw at last. The strong and dashing Falcon Knight is a most terrible timekeeper.”

“That is most unfair, my lady. It was only the once, I can assure you it won’t happen again. Look kindly upon me, I implore you.” Wind threads gently through his hair, light as your fingers had been that night in the Sphere. It slips through the edges of his loosely tied vidnon, its touch cool and pleasant on his bare skin. He takes a step forward until he is a handsbreadth away from the godstone. The rounded top of it reaches his waist.

“Why should I look kindly upon someone who calls me unfair to my face?” Wind threads gently through your hair, lifting it from your pretty face to flutter in the breeze. The hem of your dress ripples outward like a pristine banner. Not once did your smile drop.

He rests a hand atop the godstone. “It was the judgement that was unfair, not my lady herself.”

“The Falcon Knight has a silver tongue.” You sit up, lithe and languid, and press closer to the trunk.

“See, I have more to commend me than my timekeeping.” He comes closer, hand sliding off the godstone as he takes a step forward until he is standing by the hawthorn’s roots. His lady is sitting mere feet above him, all smiles still. He need not reach up very far to take one dainty foot into his hand. Yet he does not.

“What else commends you, aside from that tongue that gives you such credit?” You place an elbow on another branch beside you and rest your head upon your arm, playful as Alena of Makan had been with her Prince of Dreams.

Eren places a hand on the trunk, gleaming up at you, his own Alena. Without the flowers in her hair. “Wouldn’t you like to know. My lady.”

You giggle, a sound as sweet as silver bells. “Oh, I would like to know indeed.” You push off the branch and make to clamber down the tree.

At once, he reaches out to assist, taking a small hand into his own and guiding your way down the sloping trunk. The smell of leaves and herbs, that most intoxicating green smell, clings to you like perfume. It smells even better on you than your own perfume. Sweet as apples and winter roses are, they are not so comforting as the scent of fresh plant life.

You bend down to retrieve your basket, and there stands before him a maid of the wood. A vevda you wear, white and sleeveless and girdled with gold, the neck dipping down sharply to bare the shapely curves of your breasts. Your legs are as shapely, peering out from the split skirt of the garment. Your toes dig into the soft, lush grass beneath your still-bare feet. 

Eren gazes long and keen at you, committing the image of you as you are now to memory. A living fae maid. You only lack for flowers. A strong desire to crown you with such rises in him, and he glances about the wide, sweeping place. Flower bushes dot the area every few feet. Goldenglow and bronze betties and silver dream-of-morns, crocuses, peonies, even a patch of devil’s bloom with its black-and-scarlet petals, the garden is well-populated and still untouched by autumn’s hand. He will have enough for you.

“May I ask what it was that so engrossed the Falcon Knight that he would forget to keep a solemn promise?” you inquire lightly as you slip on your sandals.

“I was brushing up on my military science in the library. On the most sage recommendation of Sir Grisha.” You make your slow way back to the castle proper, hands clasped.

“Looking to gain more of an upper hand on me at our games, are we? I’ll have the truth of that tonight. I do admire your diligence. I would never think to read sleeping draughts as large as those during my reprieve.” You smile, shy and sweet, as he plucks a goldenglow from a passing bush and tucks it behind your ear. His hand lingers, tracing over the curve of your ear, slow and gentle, before pulling away. 

Eren watches you bite your lip at the gesture and look away. He bites his own lip to keep from smiling too widely. “Once you get past his tedious style, Hoover actually had interesting theses. And it wasn’t him that grabbed my attention. Prior Horst and his compendium provided a nice respite from all the philosophy and tactics.” 

“Ah, Lore and Luminaries?” You emerge at last from your reserve, eyes alight with interest.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Understandable, then. You are forgiven your lapse.”

Eren chuckles, just as you near the sanctum’s fountain. He has been rereading the old tales of late. His favorite stories ring different, somehow, though no one has changed the words. Perhaps it is he who has changed. Perhaps now he is reading with new eyes, not the eyes of a boy but of a man in l- 

Thump, thump, thump.

His hands have gone clammy in yours, though you do not seem to notice as you draw him down next to you onto the stone lip of the fountain. A circular stone colonnade, open to the skies, rings the structure. Queen Yelena Rhyzkova I stands at the heart of the fount carrying jugs, one pouring water down her stone vevda, the other spraying over her regal head. The steady splashing of water blends seamlessly with the rustling of leaves about you.

All those fade to nothing until all he can hear is the beat of his heart. Thumping, thumping inside his chest. Is he truly? He glances sidelong at his betrothed, the only girl he has ever liked this much. He likes you very, very much. But is it truly? Is it truly… love?

“The girl with flowers in her hair.” You reach up to touch the blossom behind your ear. “I only have the one.”

The sweet voice brings him back, as it always can do. “That can easily be remedied.” The gardeners have moved on to other verges. Those they had been trimming are in full bloom about you. Goldenglow, laceflowers, and violets give Yelena’s fount a touch of ornamentation. Eren plucks a golden blossom, and before long, he is plucking more, laceflowers, violets, more goldenglow. Fingers, long unpracticed, begin to remember their old skill. Slowly and surely, the crown takes shape.

“Where did you learn how to make crowns?” You observe his weaving hands, rapt.

“Mother and I used to make these for one another whenever we lounged in the gardens back home.” He smiles, lost in work and in memory. “I was her little Falcon Knight. She was my Queen of Love and Beauty.” 

The wreath lies finished in his hands at last, gold and white and violet. “Yours now, my lady, the title and the crown,” he avows, placing the ring of blossoms over your head. “The Queen of Dreams and Love and Beauty. The most beautiful Majesty.” The fae maid has flowered at last. “The girl with flowers in her hair.”

There it is, that look that he loves, the gentle awe of him come to grace your face again. And there it is, that word again. Love.

“The Falcon Knight has turned into the Prince of Dreams.” You brush light fingers over the petals and smile so beautifully. “You miss her so much,” you say, quiet and thoughtful, a statement meant to be a question yet comes out a statement nevertheless.

“Every day. And I always will.” The unceasing wind is the most comforting presence. He turns his face toward it, longing for the smell of salt. The sanctum faces away from the ocean, and so it is faint here, and far away. But it is there. Beneath the scents of the city - dust and woodsmoke and spices and humanity - there the salt breeze blows. Faint but never gone.

“You’re fortunate you can take care of yours,” he finds himself saying. “I could only watch, helpless, as I lost mine.” He takes your hands, marveling at how small they are compared to his, how smooth, and soft, and unscarred. Unmarked by violence. The hands of peace. The hands of a ruler. “The hands of a Healer,” he murmurs to himself, almost absently, caressing the unblemished skin. “You will preserve life, while I will take it away. And I have taken it away from a host of others.”

He stills as he feels the softness of your lips brush the back of his knuckles. You stroke the scarred skin, immersed in thought. “They have taken but they also give.” You hold up his hand and lace your fingers through his. His fingers close tight over yours as you reach with your other hand to cup his face, rubbing a tender thumb across his cheek. “And they can be so gentle. And so kind. And if they take, it’s only to preserve. You take to preserve those who matter.”

“And who are they, the ones who matter?”

You give him a long, considering look before giving answer. “I think… you would know that better than I.”

The ones I love. Those I am sworn to protect. The weak. The innocent. But who are the innocents, exactly?

It is too much to think about. Too much for the time and the place. Eren turns his head, to place a kiss on the cherished palm on his cheek. “Again, you always know what to say.”

You take your time withdrawing your hands, smile as soft as eiderdown. “I’m glad my words can touch you.”

“They do more than touch me, my lady.” He drinks in the sight of you, another one to keep in his memory for all his days. His eyes fall to the pendant that rests beneath the hollow of your throat, the family heirloom that proclaims to the world at large that you are no longer free for the taking, unavailable for marriage to anyone and everyone. But for him.

You will return the jewel to his House, as all brides must, to trade it for a more permanent piece, the scallop-and-pearl of those bound in wedlock.

The black pearl necklace’s chain gleams a bright silver beneath the afternoon light. Black and silver, like his vidnon. Black and silver, to your white and gold. Absolute opposing colors. Yet for all their opposition, a matched pair still.

“Lord Alexander invited me out for a gardening session,” he says, reminded of the fact by the basket that is sitting beside you. It is filled with greens, he now sees, indistinguishable from each other to his untrained eye.

“Oh?” You give him a look, of interest at the news, and of slight puzzlement at the change of subject. Which is just as well. You need to stir this ship to brighter, less troubled waters.

“Mm-hmm. I’m scared to death,” Eren laughs and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He cannot help recalling one of his recurring nightmares ever since you had been promised, of Lord Alexander chasing him around the halls of Midford Castle, swinging at him with a gigantic bludgeon. His future father by marriage is an amiable man, true enough, yet he is also… big.

You giggle at his expression and take his hand. “Oh, you have nothing to fear. He’s the most lovable pup despite what his size may tell you. Unless… you do mean to make me cry.” You gaze at him beadily as you tug him to his feet.

He scoffs. “I’ll tell him what I told your barkeep. I have no intentions of ‘doing you dirty.’ And if I do make you cry…” he lets his eyes dip down to the luscious curves of your breasts, and smirks, “it won’t be from grief.”

His smirk unfolds into a grin at your disbelieving huff. “That’s quite enough out of you,” you mutter, picking up your basket and pulling him into a walk. The corners of your lips are twitching upward, though. “And here I was thinking I could give you a lesson in herblore to better get you into his good graces. I’ll leave you to Father’s mercy, then.”

“Please, milady, I’m sorry, milady, I won’t say no stupid things again, I do so swear. Teach me the ways of the wood.”

You beam and laugh and wrap an arm about his waist, this girl with flowers in her hair. This girl any man can come to love. “Since you asked so nicely… I am compelled. And perhaps we can scrounge up greens for Renren’s tank.”

No, not any man. Only me. Only me.

Oluo Bossard is a man who plainly loves the sound of his own voice.

“‘-flattered that you care for me so, Lady Petra, but I cannot take you to wife for I am already wed. Duty is the most jealous mistress and she will not suffer any other woman in my life,’” Bossard yammers from his place before the blazing hearth, waving his empty teacup around as he regales… who is he regaling, exactly?

Dorin Serech is sitting before him in a pale purple armchair, yet his nose is buried in a book, apparently deaf to everything but for words writ in ink. Crowded around the window embrasure at the end of the room are the Brotherhood’s youngest. Connie Springer is holding court, entertaining Bertolt Hoover and Marin Tarasav with anecdotes of his own. He at least seems to be having more success with his audience, who are laughing and rejoining with corresponding quips. The forefront of the solar sees Erwin standing behind his desk, dictating a missive to Hange, the only woman (lawfully) allowed in the Hall of the Sentinel.

Perhaps Bossard is under the misguided impression that he is interested in hearing about the paltry niceties of his life. That annoys Levi to no end. He must disabuse the man of that notion at once. He stands from his own armchair by the fire, clutching his cup of tea, and sweeps past the still-rambling knight, who does not seem to notice his lack of an attentive audience.

Prior Hange does not so much as glance up from her work as Levi walks past her seat at the left hand of the Lord Commander’s desk. He does not escape Rolf Wolfsbane’s attention as easily, though. Hard bronze eyes glare at Levi as he leans against the wall beside the fabled princely knight, the most fabled in the Royal Guard’s history. Or so they claim. Levi ignores the glower and takes a sip of his drink. Pardon me, Your Grace, but you are only a bust and I’m free to lounge about wherever I like.

It is not long until he has drained his cup. He stares down at the specks of tea leaves dotting the porcelain and feels that old and familiar feeling once more, the one he can’t quite give a name to. It is one he always has whenever his squires come into their own and he is left to face the prospect of acquainting himself with a new boy yet again. It is part wistfulness, part resignation, he supposes. But that is the lot of the knight. Useless to tell himself never to get too attached. Somehow, some way, no matter how slight, he still does.

All that at the sight of tea leaves. He can almost laugh. He wonders if the new boy will be an exceptional teamaker. Dieter Augenstein is to be the name of the new boy, a younger son of a Lesser House sworn to the Reisses, a lad of some eighteen or nineteen years. Levi will have to teach him the ways of perfect brewing if he proves to be a botch. Eren’s first attempts at brewing had been depressingly unacceptable, yet he learned in the end. It is always a toss-up with the boys. Some will always be better brewers than others. But none have yet surpassed that most consummate of brewers, Farlan Church.

“Finished! At last!” cries the Prior, at the exact moment the Lord Commander speaks.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Erwin is glancing at him from the corner of his eye. The leaded glass in front of him shows the Hall’s yard and Midford’s main keep right across their smaller holdfast. The day promises to be a good one for rain - the autumn storms are begun at last. If they aren’t, then they will be soon, now that the Month of Storing has started.

Levi looks away from the Lord Commander’s gaze and his right sleeve, empty, armless, and pinned up at the shoulder with an iron brooch in the shape of an anvil. “Keep your coin. My thoughts aren’t worth that much.”

“These ones are, it would seem. What has the cool, imperturbable Levi Ackerman looking so… sentimental?”

“Ah, I am starving,” Hange whines, slumping down on her seat, utterly woebegone. Erwin stares at Levi a few moments more with that piercing stare of his, then turns to sit down before his desk and pick up the letter the Prior has completed, reading over the contents. 

Silently, Levi lets out a breath. Relief. Did he truly give himself away like that? I’m losing my touch. Many squires he’s had over the years, and yet the first always comes back to haunt him. It’s always the first that gets you, for everything. His first squire. His first triumph. And his first true failure.

“Where are Mike and my sweet rolls?”

“This is passable,” Erwin announces after a time, and Hange sits up, lips pouted, mind stuck on her stomach. “He’ll be pleased to hear back from me soon.”

Ortwin of Smith Street is a blacksmith of the highest standing. A standing he did not have before his son rose to prominence, some will be quick to whisper. He was one of many smiths in the area, deemed to be neither exceptional nor terrible. But that was hardly fair; his craft is as fine as any smith’s worth his salt, and he is worth his many times over. And if his son’s legend brings on more custom, what of it?

“Will you be delivering by dove or in person?” Hange yawns, rubbing at her stomach.

“In person. It’s been some time since I’ve visited.” Before he lost an arm, the Lord Commander had been known to return home on his free days and take up his old trade again. He was a capable smith in his own right; that storied blade of his, Sunstrike, is a weapon of his own making. It is no truesteel blade such as those forged by the peerless metalworkers of Old Paradis, but the sword had served him well over his years of active duty. Now it sits in his rooms, gathering dust, its vocation ended.

“How is the work coming along?” Hange asks, a little vaguely, seemingly distracted from her stomach at last. Her eyes are trained on the rest of the room’s occupants, thoughtful and ruminative.

“Well enough. Slow but sure, as they say. Fold this for me, would you?” Erwin hands the priestess back his missive and she complies, folding the parchment into a neat rectangle and securing it shut with pale purple wax, which she stamps with the Royal Guard’s seal, a crown ringed with twelve swords. “Although I fear I may never again be as able. Continuous practice is what’s needed and my duties get in the way of that. Being Lord Commander is detrimental to being a smith.”

The Lord Commander’s visits to his family forge are not entirely filial. Still he takes up his craft, trying to hone his remaining limb until it is as dextrous as the vanished one. Levi can empathize, to a point. His dear Uncle Kenny had broken his right wrist when he was a boy, soon after he had mastered the rudiments of swordplay with his dominant hand. To make him a most well-rounded warrior, the man claimed as he proceeded, brutally, severely, ruthlessly, to train his young nephew to fight with his left hand.

Not for the first time, Levi feels that most consternating confusion of anger and gratefulness that rises inside him at the thought of his uncle. Seeing Erwin struggle to recondition his body after such a profound loss only exacerbates the emotions. More than half of Levi is thankful that, should he lose his right, he will still have his left and be as proficient as he ever is in battle. Not even the Lord Commander can claim as much. Perhaps those years of hell were worth it, after all.

“Has this room ever been full?” Hange questions promptly. “With all of you lot, I mean. The Brotherhood of the Twelve instead of the Brotherhood of… Seven,” she adds after a hasty headcount of the solar’s occupants.

“It can’t ever be full,” Levi reminds her, crossing his arms over his chest. “The king is not to be left alone and unguarded under any circumstance.”

“Ah, right.” Something morose descends upon her in a flash. Unusual to the highest degree with this most upbeat of Priors. “Don’t you have three from the North? I see one northman… where are the other two?”

“Sir Julian is on duty, with Sir Keith. Sir Symon is… away,” the Lord Commander answers, careful and circumspect. Things have been uneasy with their northern brothers nowadays. Not so Dorin, not as much, with him being a Trostman (and therefore not one of the aggrieved northern parties, though their sort remains wary all the same).

Renouncing past ties and allegiances to serve one is easier said than done. Hard to keep those vows when the one you devote your life to has done you a great personal wrong. And reducing your line - a line ten thousand years old, one of the oldest in the land - to a mere shadow of what it once was is a great personal wrong, Halkin will not see it as anything but. Worse still is to eradicate your whole House, root and stem, and leave you as the sole successor to its legacy. And a fine successor Skaryn makes, one whose vows prevent him from leaving his own successors to cultivate their tree. His House will die a true death with him, in the end.

Mistrust is a chord that does not strike well with the Lord Commander yet that kingslayer Marius Zackly had given precedent for the sentiment to exist. Never again will Julian Halkin and Symon Skaryn do duty together. The squires are to be kept away from the northmen as well. They cannot risk the boys being overrun should the men act on any impulse of retribution; only the veterans will serve with them now, to keep the closest watch.

A loud whoop of laughter rings out from the other end of the room, from the squires and their cheery japes. No, not squires, no longer squires, Levi has to remind himself. They are knights now, dubbed and anointed as he is, no matter how young. And they will not remain so. Further service and battle will change that. And time. Which is, at present, working further changes on them. Connie, who not too long ago was of his height, now overtops him, to Levi’s displeasure; a large part of him feels betrayed.

“Laughter is always a good thing to hear. Sir Symon should be here to partake of it. Or at least to listen.” Hange smiles sadly. “How terrible it must be, to know you are the last. It’s a hard sentence to bear.”

“The law is the law, no matter how hard.” The Lord Commander hesitates for an instant, before advancing, “No matter his… disposition, and his judgement, it has been hard for His Majesty as well. We’re looking to you, for good measure, to keep him safe down where he will not let us follow.”

Prior Hange nods soberly, and Levi is left to ponder. His Majesty has been visiting the vaults more often these days, and lingering longer than his Guard would like. Levi can trace this change as having come about in the days of the late Lady Mariya’s death. Which had concurred with the late Zheletine priest’s court visit.

The king’s private enterprise has been years long in the making. It started with Dietrich, the most truculent of lords in recent memory. Where it will end is yet to be determined. Rod Reiss, the First of His Name, will not be the first Reiss to start this selfsame enterprise. The end may yet be imminent but it need not be uncertain, if the fates of His Majesty’s enterprising forebears were anything to go by. You would think he, or anyone else, would learn by now.

It is the stuff of the Lord Commander’s worst nightmares, this project, and it tears him between duties - to obey and to protect. He had dared ask the king, once, the nature of this undertaking, only to be coldly rebuffed and warned off of further inquiry, on pain of dishonorable discharge. No man of them has inquired since.

They can put two and two together, nevertheless. His Majesty can make his Priors swear all the oaths he requires and warn off his Guard all he likes, yet that cannot make them ignore the sounds, muffled though they are by thick metal. Levi hears them still, in his nightmares. Disembodied they are in life; at the castle in the air in the gloaming, they take on the most monstrous forms. The Titans were long before his time but he has seen the tapestries, the portraits and the paintings, and those come to life in his head in his worst nights.

It disturbs him to no end to know that the king will see them living once more.

“All this magic in the world and we can’t even wield it. All the potential, all of humanity’s progress wasted. At the least, it would make this whole thing so much easier.” Hange sighs. “It’s an ironic thing, isn’t it, that the thing we are working on is the very reason we lost our divinity in the first place.” Sworn to silence she may be yet this vow she does not keep. Not with them, the Lord Commander and his leal right hand. They proved too sharp to feign ignorance with, so there is little point in upholding the farce.

“For all the death and destruction they brought, though… Titans were a marvel unlike any other. To see even one alive… to know that it was I who brought them about… that it was due to my brilliance that the impossible was made possible… I should die happy,” Hange breathes, and slumps down on her chair, dreamy as a milkmaid mooning over her farm hand.

It is all Levi can do not to shake his head at her. “A misstep and you’ll die before you see your life’s ambition come to pass. There will be no joy in it for you, I promise you.” Doubly so should their studies cause the death of the king. Some days of late, he emerged much the worse for wear, to the Lord Commander’s increasing disquiet. Holding his tongue to obey his king is becoming more of a sore trial, day after day after day.

“The Northern Matter, it’s what’s spurring him on. They won’t stand up to him if he still had the old power,” says Hange, suddenly grim as the grave they had reduced Zheletov to.

Ill-done, it was ill-done, a voice oft suppressed murmurs within. Try as he might to play deaf, something in Levi acknowledges the voice’s truth. Once, his nights would have been spent in the company of the dangling dead. Sleeping like a log makes for a superior shield against the accusing eyes. And time. The dead have lost all the power they held over him. Something in him is appalled by the fact. Death is never supposed to be easy.

“This is not the place or time to discuss this,” Erwin breaks in tersely, a note of warning in his voice.

“Do the lads know?” Hange asks, as though Erwin had not spoken. “When are you going to tell them? Soon or late, they must know if they’re expected to perform their duty to its full.”

The Lord Commander sighs. “Soon.” When their mouths prove as closed as mine, are his words unsaid.

“I’m back.”

Hange gasps and pops up from her seat, dashing toward the solar door with cries of welcome and glee. Mike fends her off at once as best he can from his basket of goods. “Marchpane!” she squeals, grabbing at the crock of it sitting atop his promised sweet rolls. Matthias Ackerman looks on from his place by the door, unimpressed by the tomfoolery occurring beneath his bronze nose. To be sure, there is very little that can impress the bust of the first Lord Commander. Levi wonders if this was true of his ancestor in life; he will know where his own temperament comes from, if so.

“Soon?”

The current Lord Commander gives Levi the briefest of looks before he stands from his desk. The squires-turned-knights are coming over, drawn by the Prior’s capers and the smell of fresh-baked bread. Erwin proceeds to his subordinate to grab a bite of his own. “Soon.”

You tap on the door, the little knock that you and Eren have taken to using for your late-night meetings. You have not used or heard it in quite some time now, now that you think on it. The blowback from the Northern Matter had cut into your nighttime arrangements. That is not to mention the hassle that came with traveling and settling back into the rhythm of being home once more.

But you have grown peckish reading Lore and Luminaries (which you had borrowed from the library at your betrothed’s unknowing influence). Somehow, reading of Gerald and Cressida’s midnight trysts served to make you crave your beloved strawberry cream pie. And your own knight’s company. You had left the lovers of legend in their midnight garden and slipped to the guest wing, by ways only you were privy to. 

Almost all castles have their secret passages, byways to cut the time spent ranging from one side of the keep to another. Most serve a more vital purpose. Father had shown you one such some years ago. It is conveniently located in the anteroom of the family privy chambers. The second panel from the tall window to the left of the room, you must always remember. This one leads to an underground cavern, which opens up to the Arsechkalan countryside. Should the worst come to pass and you are besieged by enemies, gods forbid, you are to take here the family and as many of the household as you can and escape for the nearest sanctuary.

It is a grim probability and not one you want to think too deeply on yet you know your duty. A good ruler must save as many of her people as she can in times of peril.

The passage you took to visit your knight had a less bleak purpose. Sir Bacon - may the gods give him rest, the darling thing - had found it for you sometime before you entered court. There it is, in the corridor that leads to the empty chambers connected to yours (your future consort’s, your parents informed you). The brown tabby had tripped a mechanism in one of the hallway’s alcoves and you had both slipped through. This one leads to a hidden garden, an old sanctum, now unused, which in turn leads to the inner palace gardens (this one not a sanctum). From there, it is no trouble slipping through the castle halls to your destinations of choice. It allows you to steer clear from the guards posted by the privy chambers, at least, which makes for the greatest of godsends.

You hope Eren isn’t asleep yet.

His door swings open and a god emerges. The breath leaves your lungs with all speed.

The firelight from the braziers standing either side of the entryway gives this god a bronze cast and throws shadows across his naked skin, accentuating every line, every crest of hard corded muscle. This is a sight not new to you. You saw it then in Zheletov and see it often in your most desirous dreams, yet in this warm gilded light he is even more a glory. His is a stunningly perfect body. And he is; stunning and perfect, broad and lean and muscled, handsome, so handsome, the consummate image of a man at his best. Your eyes roam lower, to the sharp-etched muscles of his flat stomach and the dip of his hip bones, to his dark pants sitting low on his hips, to what lay beneath the concealing cloth, right there in the junction of his thighs…

Your throat has gone dry as dust. You swallow and attempt to drag your eyes up to his face. A fine sheen of sweat brought on by the fuggy air makes him gleam almost golden. Like the Sun. The Creed oft depicts him as such, Lusin, god of sun and flame and youth. The golden god, young and handsome and virile, a deity to rival that comeliest of gods Elios, the male half of Lyias the Lover.

You need not look too far to see Lusin mortal incarnate. The young man before you is fire made flesh, an ethereal being, a golden man.

He has been drinking in your own form, you realize, catching the tail end of the movement of his eyes as they flick up to yours. His eyes are dark.

“Um,” you begin, knitting your fingers together on your stomach and withering a little inside at your discomposure. Bad form, bad form. “D-did I wake you?” The stutter makes you wither some more.

“Uh, no, actually, I was just… headed there. To bed, I mean.” His eyes drop down to your chest, much exposed by your short-sleeved black vevda, and back up again. “To what do I owe this nighttime pleasure?”

“I’m peckish,” you say, your voice coming steadier now, to your relief. You try to ignore the dip in his voice as he said his last two words. “I thought I’d invite you along to have a midnight nibble, just like the old times.”

“The old times of three months ago.”

You laugh lightly as the mists of tension dissipate a little. “Yes.” You pause. “Unless you’d rather head to bed. To sleep,” you hurriedly tack on when his abundant eyebrows vanish above his hairline. “I mean, it’s late and I can understand if you’re tired and would rather rest, I can go by myself-”

There is something in the way he says your name that silences you at once. Eren gives you one of his delightful crooked smiles, full of fond affection. He holds on to his doorframe, carrying on, “I’d love to accompany you. Let me just-” He gestures down his bare torso. You wish he hadn’t.

You purse your lips and merely nod, not trusting yourself to speak. He flashes you another smile, takes another peek at your breasts, and withdraws, closing his door with a soft snap.

A quiet gasp escapes you the instant he disappears. What was it he said about less dangerous hours and less dangerous dresses? “Fuck,” you curse softly, standing still in front of his door. You glance down at your chest. It hadn’t truly occurred to you just how deep this neckline went. Not until he brought attention to it with his, frankly, shameless ogling. You didn’t even mean to tease him with this garb, truly - you hadn’t been lying when you told him of your tastes in homegrown fashions.

You stride over to the opposite wall and sit on the nearby daybed placed between two rounded pillars, a lounge for hosts to mingle with and keep their guests company. Your twined fingers rest primly on your lap. For all that you tease your betrothed, you certainly are not impervious to him. And he knows that well, and takes advantage. From thus comes your ebb and flow.

He had fucked himself to you that night you noted that ebb and flow. It is one of those strange thoughts, surreal in their strangeness; they seem too… much to be true, and yet they are. Up until that night, you had not truly allowed yourself to consider the possibility that he, Eren Jaeger - sweet and kind Eren Jaeger, a boy oftentimes so stiffly awkward in the face of desire and romance - could ever desire you as much as he apparently did. And yet he did. By the gods, he did.

You had set that drying sheet aside, singling it out lest you lose it from the countless identical others in your possession. You do not know how he used it for his pleasure (and ruminating on that brings its own pleasure). You do know that it had known the touch of that glorious body, that it had caressed the most intimate parts of him in ways you could only hope to do someday (and the day is growing closer, so much closer).

The Lady Wanton was most disappointed that he had laundered the thing afterward. Gone was his most alluring essence, lost to you this time. You had so wanted to tell him - to his sweet, sheepish face as he returned the cloth the next day - that you couldn’t give two figs about him sullying what was yours. The Lady would have been thankful for a splash of water off his skin, his sweat… even a hint of his seed.

You squeeze your fingers hard upon your lap, stunned by the turn of your thoughts. Never have you shrunk back from your most wanton musings, but never before has a young man induced so much of them out. And in that capacity, too. You chuckle to yourself. It is the most bizarrely droll thing. There he is, getting dressed for one of your many late-night jaunts; here you are, sitting on the daybed and thinking about his seed…

The creak of wood and iron hinges makes you jump a little in your seat, throwing your mind back to the present and out of the gutters that it had rolled in so happily. Your godly knight comes to you in a dark vidnon, dark as the sky at midnight, black and violet both. Its silver lining at hem and sleeve and edge are bands of stars, elegant against the darkness. 

Her ladyship Mistress Wanton rues the loss of the sight of his radiant body. You have not much to rue, in truth, favored as you are by the sight of his broad chest, partially bared by the loosely tied jacket. The light is his most ardent lover, so determined to show him at his finest. You stand from your seat, hands still clasped in front of you.

“My lady. Shall we?” He reaches to take one of your hands in his own.

You recoil at his touch, to both of your bewilderment.

“What’s wrong?” With his concern comes the smallest inkling of hurt. 

The sight of it makes your stomach drop. “I-I’m sorry. I’m just… a little wrought up, I don’t know what came over me.” You reach out for him and slide your fingers through his, holding tight. His hand is rough, so warm against yours. As it always is. “Let’s head on, then,” you smile up at him, and are relieved when he returns it.

Perhaps your wanton thoughts and his touch make for a more overwhelming blend than you realize.

The kitchens are empty, the pantry well-stocked. Not that well-stocked, Eren complains, when it fails to yield his favorite cream cakes. “I’ll have them start making them for you, then,” you say, placing your mug of tea and plate of strawberry cream pie on the wooden table and sitting down on the bench.

You have lit the branches of candles atop a couple of the fluted pillars that bound the servants’ dining hall. It is not quite enough to banish the shadows, but it is enough to see by. The room opens up to the castle’s herb garden, so beloved of the palace cooks. The waxing moon shines over the plots; its faint light silvers the greenery and lends the place a dream-like aspect.

“Please. If it’s not too much trouble. I do miss the things.” Eren plants himself next to you, having settled on a lemon cake (Armin’s favorite and a staple of their boyhoods) and his own brew. “Let’s see if they can make them as good as Lisa does.”

“I’m sure they’re more than capable of meeting your ideals.” You take your first forkful of confection. Excellent as always, you think, well-pleased. The pastry is well-baked, the cream smooth, the strawberries sweet. Just the way you like it.

“You’ve set the expectations high, milady. Here’s hoping they can, indeed, meet them,” he raises his forkful of cake at you in a teasing toast, then begins his midnight repast in earnest. “You know, for all their tastiness, these can get really sickening really fast when you have them every bloody day,” he remarks thickly, swallowing and looking reflective. “Stupid thing to fight over, though, now that I look back on it. Boys can be the stupidest creatures in the world sometimes.” He shakes his head, amused yet hangdog. “I really gave Armin hell over loving a bleeding cake, gods… speaking of, have you heard back from him yet?”

“It’s only been a couple of days since our last letter,” you remind him, making him hum in recollection. The both of you have been corresponding with Armin this reprieve, sharing parchment and taking it in turns to write down your sections. So far as you have heard, Armin’s reprieve is proving to be rather mundane. And dutiful. 

He had filled his scrolls with accounts of councils and audiences and meetings, with the occasional trifling yarn. His Alyfeis was as festive as ever, he had told you in his last missive. Some fisherman had caught a swordfish fifteen feet long, which he had offered to Lord Hagen for the audience, now they must dine on nothing but swordfish for a month, the Young Master Arlert jested. He sounds well, in any case, and both of you are glad of it.

“Nice to know it’s all rosy on his front, no matter how unremarkable,” Eren says, then snatches a piece of your pie, to your disbelief. He chews and blinks and smiles, cheeks dimpling a little, innocent as Olya after his daily shenanigans.

You pout at him a little, though you can feel your lips trembling. “If you want less unremarkable news, the one from home should serve you more than passing well.”

Eren widens his eyes at you, chewing on his own sweet now, frowning and chewing faster to chastise you as you take the moment to raid his own plate. The tartness of his cake is a pleasant change from the sweetness of your pie. He swallows and gripes, “Oi, no fair.”

“It’s more than fair, thief.”

He snorts yet smiles all the same. “All right, the debt is paid. As to that other thing… I’m to be an uncle twice over now.” His mouth curls in mild revulsion. “Their sheets must be exceptionally dirty these days for that to actually happen.”

“Oh, hush, you,” you reproach, light-hearted, smiling at his little snicker. “Took them five years this time. I suppose Zeke’s hoping for a boy. Your proper Jaeger heir.” You have to scoff at these Paradisian conventions. Ymir can rule just as well as her lord grandfather. Having or not having a cock should never be a consideration in such matters as power. In this is yet another way the Old Way triumphs over the new. You, at least, need never worry about Tibor or Oliver supplanting your rights. Vascalin is yours.

“And I move down the line of succession,” Eren declares, with no hint of envy or regret. This betrothed of yours has never aspired to further power or rule, a fact you find noteworthy. Honor, glory, and renown make his ambition, nothing more.

“Should Elva have a boy, we’ll have the making of little Ymir.” Lord Grisha had broached the matter with Father in the letter he’d sent bearing the monumental news. The birth of a brother will leave her free for wardship.

“Southron-raised, just like her uncle,” Eren mulls, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea. “A fine court to be in. I expect to see a proper lady when she comes back to us in full.”

“Of course, you’ll have nothing less.” Ludicrous to expect anything less. “Too bad she won’t have Olya for company. Still, there are the other wards, she won’t get lonely.”

Eren has finished his cake at last. “Olya’s a good lad. A champion in the making.” It had been such a joy to watch your betrothed instruct your brother in the ways of the horseman. You had acquired a pony for the little lad, a sorrel colt Olya had named… Lad. Lad was a gentle thing, an easy enough mount for a boy of five to manage. Eren had taught Olya the fundamentals, the equipment, the proper stances, and walked the boy around the inner yard to get him used to the motions. Olya had wanted to canter, but Eren put his foot down; he must walk before he could canter.

Seeing Eren handle your baby brother was… enlightening. It is not often you see him around children, yet he handles them more than exceptionally well whenever he chances to be with them. Ymir, Olya, even slightly older children like the miller’s girl Meadow, all of them he treated with an easy warmth. You find yourself pushing your fork around your plate, swirling cream and crumbs and strawberries about. He would make a great father, the smallest of voices whispers within. You smile tremulously down at the remains of your pie.

“Oh, look at this.” You have unearthed that rarest of treasures: a twin strawberry. Such luck. There it sits in the middle of the dish, a delicious red heart half-buried in sweet white cream.

“Luck,” Eren whistles, leaning closer to see. Heat prickles down your skin at his proximity.

“Do you want the other half?” You are cutting it down the middle and spearing the piece with your fork before you can think too much on anything else. You hold the utensil up to him, offering.

He does not move to take the morsel at once and merely stares at it, quite uncomprehending. Blank. There is something incredulous about his blankness, you notice. You suppress your smile. This will hardly be the first time you’ve ever fed him. You wonder what holds him back this time around.

Eren stirs back to life several heartbeats later and opens his mouth for the treat. You give it to him gladly, watching his lips close around the steel to take his half of luck. A pink flush colors his cheeks as he chews, faint in the dimness of the hall yet visible all the same. His eyes never leave yours, though.

You break the stare to tuck in to your own half, very aware of where this fork has been, of whose essence you are now polishing off the ware. Somehow, this piece is the sweetest of them all.

“There’s cream on your cheek.”

You still as a long, slender finger runs gently down the skin of your face, near the righthand corner of your mouth. You turn your head to look at Eren and watch as that finger vanishes into his mouth. He catches your eyes and flushes once more, yet his embarrassment leaves as soon as it comes. “Sweet,” he says, low and simple.

It is some time before you can think to look away, closing your slightly open mouth. You cannot recall parting them. “Let’s head back.” You make to stand from the bench.

“My lady.”

There is something in his voice that strikes. He is earnest as earnest can be when you turn to him once more. “I know I tease you sometimes but I never mean to upset. If such attentions are unwelcome, then tell me and I’ll stop. But,” he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, looking down at his lap like a scolded boy, “I thought we’d reached a certain understanding of one another the past month or so.”

Guilt blazes up in you at his crestfallen face. “No, it’s all right! I mean,” you shy away some, fiddling with your fingers on the table, “your attentions are very much welcome.” Perhaps you had been more curt than you meant to be, earlier. And you did flinch away from him before that, much earlier by his rooms… All responses easily misconstrued. You resolve to do better moving forward. “We do have an understanding of each other now,” you add quietly. “I’m sorry if I came off so… standoffish.”

Relief overtakes him, so strongly that it brings a smile to your face. “I’m-I’m glad,” he answers softly, taking up your hand in his and kissing it, light and gentle.

You leave the kitchens with the air cleared between you.

“So.” Once again you stand at the threshold of his chambers, about to part ways this time. You give him a parting beam. “Good night, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Good night, my lady. Dream of me tonight.”

Both of you giggle at that, and your fingers thread through each other upon your stomach as you contemplate your next course of action. Hesitating, hesitating… Oh, hell. You move forward and tilt your head up. Lemon and tea, soap and wood, Eren floods your being as you press your lips to his cheek, right at the edge of his mouth. You move away several heartbeats later, smiling at him one last time. “I hope your dreams will be as sweet as mine.”

And you turn and float away. You look back once you reach the end of the hall. Still he stands outside his door, staring back at you with a hand up his cheek. Like a statue. The most handsome statue. The tale of Kamilla the Kisser comes back to you then, she of the village of Swiftfrost, the girl who could turn men to stone with a kiss.

You giggle, wave, and move on.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

A/N:

Disclaimer! Any real-life herbs I mentioned and their properties are heavily played around with and may not reflect their real uses and properties in real life. Fantasy = playing around with these kinds of things, after all.

Added 1 (one) paragraph in Chap. 10 about Eren being quite fluent in the Traders’ Tongue for future purposes hehe. Also reworded a bit of Levi’s Chap. 4 dialogue to reflect the plot here - the old draft made it seem like they had no idea about Rod’s plans in the vaults.

And speaking of, yes, at last, the reveal of what His Majesty’s hobby actually is: he’s trying to bring back the Titans. Major plot point commences. To add on: Lord Commander background! And memories of squires for Sir Levi. Oh, Farlan...

I mentioned Wolfborn before, yes? Literally wrote Eren’s POV with their little theme (5:44 - 6:07)  in mind and I just *sighs* *swoons* at last, one of my favorite scenes come to life! Can’t wait for the next ones, hehehe. Ahh, the young couple coming to grips with *love*. Is it love? Is it? 😬😌🤭

Speaking of themes... toying with the idea of publicizing my playlist for the fic... and maybe publishing all the lore details as an extra (most like in AO3)... the playlist is more likely to happen but... I’ll see, I’ll see. I’ll deffo post links if I get around to them.

Again, thanks so much for the support and interest in the fic! Everyone’s been so kind and I’m storing all the love in my little heart <3 Til next time!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin​ @tojis-discord-kitten

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #snk x reader #aot x reader #eren jeager x reader #Eren Jaeger #eren yeager #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

[tiftaf-the-world-jumper]

EEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKK!

Just posted my first fic on AO3!!!

@ghost-mantis @redwingskyfiresslayz @mothnem @luckycavy117 @kanohivolitakk @tiredspacedragon @reignitedprimes @randomyetnot @ambulance-mom @crystaltoa

Sorry for spam tagging I'm just so excited! Dhfhfjskkwks!

Fair warning: am dyslexic so errors are going to be a thing

“The tracks lead into the rust sea.” Thundercracker muttered while crouching to get a good look at the imprints left in the loose dirt. “Is this killer crazy? First they take their victims faceplates and then they walk off into the most dangerous desert on Cybertron…”

Starscream approached Thundercracker quickly whilst also noticing the tracks. "I know right, the rust sea is nothing but a desert wasteland. No energy fields, no fuel stations, nothing to recharge an engine or spark with out there. Let alone any way back from it, it’s a one way trip for your energy core. I’m guessing they really are either suicidal or crazy.”

“Then again… Megatron himself has survived several expeditions out there. So it’s not completely impossible, maybe the killer knows the lay of the land.” The blue Seeker mused.

“I bet on crazy.”

"You would probably be right in putting all your credits on that bet. Though there are some... interesting theories I have heard about Megatron surviving his trips to the rust sea. I could share one with you if you want." Starscream offered.

“You mean the ones that say Megatron got help from a cult of murderous savages?” Thundercracker scoffed at his leader as he got up and dusted off the sand sticking to his shins. “One bot surviving in the Rust Sea by sheer luck, that I can believe. A whole tribe or clan? I’m not so sure.”

Starscream snickered at Thundercracker's reaction. "I have been informed by a well-documented source that Megatron indeed did receive 'help' from a group of... I believe the word was 'cultists'? They were a sect from the ancient city of Vos, and practiced a religion called 'Dacronism' or something to that effect. They had a history of ritual sacrifice and cannibalism..."

“Draco? As in- the ancient Vosian root word for ‘a tear’?” He asked with a raised brow ridge. “If that’s the case, that tracks with the name of the religion. If they did all that then there would be plenty to cry about.”

Starscream’s optics gleamed at the bot’s knowledge of the ancient language and customs of Vos. He gave a small smirk of approval before answering. “Indeed, Draco as in ‘tears’ or a ‘tear’, I am impressed that you noticed that. I see someone was not dozing off during their ancient history classes.”

“Unlike Skywarp.” Thundercracker snickered after adjusting his pack of supplies as he and Starscream followed the trail deeper into the desert.

Starscream chuckled at Thundercracker's comment about the absent-minded Skywarp. "Indeed he is, and that is why I am glad he is not here for this little excursion. He would have likely wandered deep into the rust sea looking for a fight or some sort of ‘trophy’. You should be honored that I have chosen to accompany you and not him..."

“Our gain is Soundwave’s loss.” Thundercracker agreed. “He’s stuck practically babysitting ’warp.”

"Soundwave is a tough old bot, I’m sure he and the idiot will be fine... probably... maybe..." He mumbled the last words to himself as he began to observe the tracks a bit more carefully.

Thundercracker paused for a moment, listening to the crunching noise of sand under their peds as well as the breeze that had be occurring since the early hours of that morning.

“The wind is picking up speed. It better not result in a rust-storm.”

Starscream looks up to the sky, noticing a faint orange hue to the clouds as he nods in agreement. "This does not bode well... I believe that our killer may have been lucky last time and somehow avoiding the upcoming storm, though we are stuck in it. It looks to be a large one too, I can barely make out the details up here..."

As he mentions this the sand slowly begins picking up momentum, with small specks of rust-red dust beginning to sprinkle into the seeker's optics lightly.

“There’s a crevice in the rocks up ahead- let’s get moving.” Thundercracker said hurriedly while grabbing Starscream’s servo to drag him to shelter.


The blue mech had a right to be worried.

After all, everyone knew that if you could already see the beginnings of a rust-storm, it was FAR too late to try to outrun or outfly it.

Starscream was abruptly dragged away from the coming sand-storm and into a small crevice in the rocks without much warning, although he was far from being upset or frustrated about it.

He sighed in relief as he looked around, spotting several pieces of rusted rock and scrap as well as an old dead plant. He then looked back to the blue seeker, nodding his head to show approval over the decision made. "A wise choice, this sand-storm could have proven fatal for us had we been caught in the open."

“Good thing this cave opening was here.” Thundercracker chuckled as he put down his pack and sat down on a bulky piece of rock. “Now we can get the sand out of our seams and rest for a while until the storm passes.”

Starscream joined him on the makeshift throne, taking his own pack off to store for later. He looked around the small cave, noticing a bit of rust-dust covering the ground, and even some spots of rust-red sand that had leaked inside from a crack. "Quite lucky indeed, I agree. Resting for a little while before continuing our investigation seems like a good idea."

“Part of me hopes that slagger is caught in it. It would serve the bot right for terminating Cloudchaser.” Thundercracker sighed, referring to the murderer they both had been tracking for the better part of a week and a half.

A smirk of satisfaction spread across the seeker’s faceplate at the thought of the murderer being caught in the storm, and likely suffering a very bad end due to his actions.

“I completely agree, it is well deserved. Perhaps we will find them out there once the storm passes… either that or they will simply just ‘go offline’ and leave behind a very rusty corpse.”

“Mmn.” Thudercracker hummed to his trinemate, absentmindedly picking at the clumps of sand that were stuck in between Starscream’s plating.

The seeker smiled as he watched Thundercracker pick at the clumps of sand in between his plating and laughed softly at the bot’s behaviour. He then leaned back on the boulder against the wall of the cave in silence, before speaking.

"You did well today in tracking the footsteps out here, I do believe you have a knack for it." He said before beginning to pick through the sand clumps of his own plating as well.

“Skywarp probably would have noticed them first. But I can do it in a pinch. He gave me some pointers last month, however I didn’t expect to put it to practice so soon.” Thundercracker replied as he continued to preen the Winglord.

There was one piece of some sort of flimsy desert weed stuck in a particularly deep bend in a transformation seam.

With a laser-like focus he tried to remove it on one go-
only to have the brittle thing break in half with the other bit still struck in the armor on Starscream’s side.


The blue Guardian grumbled something under his breath with a small hiss, clearly displeased at the dead bit of flora that DARED to make his shelf appointed task more difficult.

Starscream gave a soft chuckle for a moment at the mention of the hothead. "Indeed he would have, the idiot can see things that I cannot even see despite my superior optics."


At the sight of the broken piece of plant caught in the deep bend of a transformation seam, he began to help with removing it by getting a better grip with his claw, getting a firm grasp around the piece before taking it out as best as he could.

"There you are, all clean..."

“And now we can transform without sounding like we’ve been through a grinder.” Thundercracker said before glancing at the thin cave opening and watching the rust storm continue to pick up pace.

Seeing that it still wasn’t letting up, he elected to go through his bag of supplies and bring out two energon rations and a fuel warmer in order to cook some dinner.

Starscream chuckled at Thundercracker's reference of sounding like a grinder, before his wings sensors flicked slightly at the idea of cooking up something to eat.

"Mmm, that sounds like an excellent idea, it would be preferable to be eating something other than energon rations, even if they’re good for our systems. What are you planning to cook?"

“You know the ones with that terrible fake-tasting cyber-deer meat flavor?” Thundcracker asked after powering up the heater.

It was better than the usual flavorless rations… but still, it just wasn’t the same as the real deal.

Starscream gave a low growl at the mention of the artificial deer meat flavour, “It is like they purposely make the flavour so terribly artificial, even though they could be making it delicious, why do they make it as poor as they do? If I ever have a chance to change the recipe of these rations you can bet that I will make sure to improve the taste.”

“Probably the same problem everyone else on Cybertron has, low resources.” Thundercracker guessed while watching the two bowls warm up. “Can’t spend too much when supplies used to make rations could be used elsewhere.”

"Mhm, you are most likely correct. They always claim that resources are needed for 'more important things' on Cybertron, yet we are fighting a constant war in which we are all expendable soldiers fighting over those very same resources. I find such a thing to be quite illogical and ridiculous, a few extra flavourants would not hinder any production." Starscream grumbled.

“Meh, it probably won’t last much longer. Megatron’s already taken over well over half of the planet. The way I see it; Deceptions win, Vos gets to be an independent nation again, and things go back to normal. Fuel included.” Thundercracker replied while giving him a casual shrug.

A small clatter echoed throughout the cave system, causing the blue guardian to raise a brow in interest.

Starscream's optics focused in on the clattered followed by a frown on his faceplate. "Hmm, you may be right, but that is a lot of assumptions and hopes for one to rely upon when dealing with Megatron."

At the last sound the seeker's optics began to scan their surroundings, his senses immediately picking up the sound of something scraping against one of the cave's rocky walls followed by an eerie chittering and skittering noise.

“I’m betting on you, not Megatron. He does the hard work, we swoop in and take the crown.” Thundercracker chuckled before getting up and softly stepping towards the source of the noise.

After examining the pile of rubble for a long silent moment, he made is move-

and roughly snatched up a very startled brown and tan Seeker by the their back plating that was completely covered in thick layers of rust dust, the pile of rocks rolling onto the floor upon being disturbed by the sudden movement.

“Let go!” The scrawny yet curvy creature hissed in a highly pitched tone as it attempted to thrash and squirm out of the guardian’s tight grasp.

“Well well, looks like we got a little spy here that was prepping for an ambush~.” Thundercracker announced with a triumphant smirk.

Starscream rose from the ground and approached the site of the commotion, his mind racing as he scanned the surroundings and searched for any other hidden bot in the darkly lit area. He then saw Thundercracker holding the seeker with both hands firmly gripped onto his back plate. While the seeker was squirming and struggling to get out of Thundercracker's grasp, Starscream approached the pair.

"Well, well... I am surprised to see someone here. How long were you going to wait there before attacking us?"

“Wasn’t!” The brown and tan flyer growled while swiping their claws at the arm that was connected to the hand holding them. “My cave! Live here!”

Thundercracker didn’t let go despite the burning sensation of dozens of small scratches being left on his wrist plates.

“Yeah yeah, likely story.” Thundercracker scoffed.

"Your cave? This cave is certainly a strange place to build a nest... how long have you been living here for?" Starscream asked the seeker in a sceptical tone before continuing to scan the area for a potential second bot nearby.

it was quiet minus the trio and the winds of the rust storm happening outside. Not a single other being to be found.

“Since I was 14000. It not strange! It keeps warm in the cold breeze season-“ The stranger said defensively.

“You were abandoned here… as a juvenile?” Thundercracker interrupted.

The brown and tan bot tilted their helm to one side when they noticed both Starscream’s and Thundercracker’s exchange worried glances at each other.

“Yes? I don’t get the issue.” They answered. “I’m grown and not with the spirits. I get by fine.”

The duo exchanged yet another worried glance at each other at the revelation of the stranger's age and origin. They both looked to be somewhat concerned about just how a young bot would have been abandoned near the Rust Belt, where living conditions were so harsh.

"14000 cycles old back then… yet you still look like a juvenile?" Starscream asked in a concerned yet doubtful tone.

The stranger’s lips puckered as if they had been given a rotten fruit and crossed their arms, apparently feeling insulted twice now. “I’m 25,999.”

Thundercracker gently placed the earth toned Seeker down on the ground, seeing as the bot didn’t seem to mean any real harm.

“Almost 26,000 huh?” The blue guardian remarked.


Almost three years younger than Thundercracker and Starscream and the currently absent Skywarp.

“Yes.” They confirmed.

The seeing seeker's lips puckered made Starscream have a chuckle in his mind, though he held his laughter in as he then responded to the stranger.

"Well, you certainly look far younger than you claim. Your size and proportions as well as your behaviour all point to you being much younger, though you are certainly an interesting fellow. Can I ask just what makes you so small? The lack of resources? Or is it a genetic defect that affects your whole species?"

“Pardon?” The feminine flyer asked while frowning.

“You know, desert dwellers.” Thundercracker said slowly as if he was speaking to the ultimate dimwit.

“I live in desert, it be true, has nothin’ to do with my hight.” The brown and tan bot grumbled.

“… so you’re a runt.” Thundercracker snickered.

“Get bit.” The stranger replied a huff, their wings on their back hiking up slightly out of irritation.

Starscream couldn’t help but wheeze at Thundercracker’s comment of referring to the seeker as a ‘runt’ causing him to turn away and bury his face into his shoulder plate to hide the fact he was laughing.


Meanwhile, The guardian of Vos tried not to outright cackling at the fact that they were annoying a Seeker that was not of average hight for their frame-type.

“Oh... are you feeling offended by our little words little one?” *Starscream teased*.

“You come into my home uninvited to mock me.” The brown Seeker deadpanned while aggressively poking Starscream’s lower arm. “Yes. Am insulted.”

“Hmmm, how about... we apologize for our words and in return you give us your name.” Starscream offered in a tone that he hoped would entice the seeker into agreeing to the trade to end the current tense atmosphere that was being produced by the seeker’s temper.

Although, in the back of his mind... he was thinking of the possible outcomes that could happen if the seeker refused.

“No trick or hurt?” The desert dweller asked skeptically.

“None. We could share rations if you want? As payment for allowing us to shelter here.” Thundecracker offered.

There was a pause for a beat as they glared at the pair of Decepticons.

Then two.

“…Fine. I’m Lazerhowl.” The bot finally answered. “I use feminine identifiers.”

"Indeed there will be no trickery. And you will receive no hurt from us, Lazerhowl."

Starscream said with the hint of a mischievous grin returning to his tone. While his optics began to scan her frame, making note of small details and markings.

"Now that the formalities are dealt with... may I ask a simple question?"

“Yes?” LaserHowl replied, sitting down next to Thundercracker by the fuel warmer.

"The question I wish to ask of you is where did you learn to speak Cybertronian? You speak the language quite well for one who apparently lived alone near the Rust Belt. Surely the isolation from large cities that you lived in would not have left you with the ability to communicate easily with us Decepticons." Starscream asked with genuine curiosity though still the hint of a smirk that he knew would make the seeker irritated.

“Not the first purple-face to stop by.” The femme answered. “The last one wasn’t nice…”

A WHAt face??

Starscream’s optics gave a quick wide flash in surprise to the remark of a prior ‘purple face’ having visited this cave at some point in time.

“A purple face? What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Purple-face.” LaserHowl repeated as she pointed to the purple Fallen-shaped emblem on Starscream’s wings.

Right. The emblem was shaped like the ancient depiction of The Fallen’s face.

“Huh. That’s rather apt.” Thundercracker mumered as he checked on the two bowls’ progress.

Starscream’s mind was buzzing with speculation at the name of this prior visitor. Though his thoughts turned toward feeling indignant at being referred to as a ‘Purple-Face’.

“I can see the resemblance.” He spoke in a tone that was almost too playful despite the fact he felt somewhat insulted by being referred to as a ‘purple-face’. The seeker was being a pain in the aft.

“Last one boast about being… erm- great lier? Was very rude when I patch him up.” She attempted to explain.

“You mean Decepticon.” Thundercracker snorted. “He wasn’t talking about lying. He was stating his rank and faction.”

The brown and tan bot wrinkled her nose in disbelief. “But Deception…? That outsider word for lie, no?”

“No. Decepticon.” The bulky blue guardian corrected.

“I’m- my helm hurts.” LaserHowl complained in confusion while rubbing her forehead. “You purple-faces have many many almost same words that mean different things.”

Starscream laughed softly in amusement at the constant stream of confused facial expressions being made by the primitive seeker. They were clearly struggling to keep up with the concept of multiple language dialects that were very similar but also slightly different in terms of meaning.

“What the guardian was referring to was the term ‘Decepticon’, you are correct. Though, it is a word that is derived from the translation of the word ‘Deception’, its meaning and usage are very different despite the source word being similar in this case.”

“Oh.” LaserHowl said quietly as it dawned on her what the two were getting at. “Decepticon, be clan name?”

“Sure. Close enough.” Thundercracker grunted as he handed Starscream a bowl of warmed liquid energon.

Starscream hummed in acknowledgment at the stranger’s new understanding as he took the bowl from Thundercracker before replying.

“Yes. Decepticon is our Clan name. Now what is the name of your Clan?”

“The Steel Lake kin.” She answered.

"The Steel Lake kin?" Starscream asked, looking at the seeker curiously to see if he could detect a slight tone of falsehood in her reply. As he didn’t remember hearing that clan before.

“Yes. Before rust sea, was lake of water steel.” She confirmed.

“A lake of molten steel.” Thundercracker hummed thoughtfully before taking his bowl off the heater.

“Records back home show it hasn’t been anything but desert for dozens or even hundreds of millennia… how did you come across that knowledge in the middle of aft-frag-nowhere?”

“Elders tell stories in warm season.” LaserHowl stated.

This information caused Starscream to flash a very wide smirk before he leaned back on his wings and kicked his feet on the ground.

"Oh, that old excuse? My dear, it's common knowledge that Cybertronian elders tend towards embellishing tales like this to make it seem as though our species' past wasn't as grim as it actually was. Tell me, do these ‘Elders’ of yours also claim that 'Cybertron was once a paradise and that its history has been slowly and painfully corrupted?'"

“No. It was all bad then. Too much houses and people. mean people. Wanted everythin’ for themselves.” LaserHowl said with a shrug. “Elders say Primus scoop up water steel to give us place to live.”

Starscream seemed somewhat taken aback by the lady’s reply.

"Did... Did you not come from an educated background? Or did your parents not bother to educate you on the history of our people to even a minor degree?"

“Elders teach. Teach us of ancestors and survival. And numbers.” She said.

“That’s all you need out here I guess. It’s better to teach hatchlings and new-sparks out to not die in the heat or eaten by a ironwolf instead of letting them get terminated.” Thundercracker sighed out after taking a few sips of his meal as he listened.

Starscream raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"It is commendable that your elders chose to prioritize survival over teaching you the historical significance of the history of our species. Though I must ask, since it was not taught to you... how did you learn to speak regular Neocybex?"

“Learn by watchin’ outsiders like you. Some trade trinkets, others get lost and stuck. I help. Learn as I help and with lots of pointin’ at things and sayin’ words.” LaserHowl explained with a small smile.

Starscream seemed somewhat surprised by how informal and simple the seeker's explanation was. The seeker had never even received basic teachings in Cybertronian from a scholar or professor.

"I see... so you learnt via exposure. And your elders simply allowed your curiosity to guide you in that regard?"

“Elders… not like it. They not see point in it.” She admitted.

“Hmmm...” Starscream said ponderously, before letting out a slight sigh as he sat back straight.

“I suppose there is no harm in allowing you to ask us some questions as well, so please, ask us your one question.”

“Why you out in storm?” She asked quietly.

“We’re hunting a murderer. One that killed several of our ‘clanmates’ without any valid reason.” Thundercracker replied, using terms that she would understand.

“One that run out to rust sea?” LaserHowl inquired. “That why you accuse me of ambush before?”

“Correct.” Starscream answered, feeling a mix of emotions at the sudden question that the seeker had asked.

“That is indeed the reason why we accused you of setting an ambush on us when we were initially discovered at first. We did not know who you were and we did not know your motives. So, we were understandably cautious.”

“I see…” She whispered. “Sad news to hear. Sorry for your losses.”

The seeker's condolences caught Starscream off guard and he felt a slight twinge of guilt for how he had treated the seeker despite being on edge because of the recent attack their clan suffered. He tried to ignore the feeling as he focused back on the conversation.

“Yes. It is upsetting. Hence why I am hunting the culprit that is responsible for their deaths.”

“gi fe min bruc ca iu inspa greo.” LaserHowl said to herself solemnly in a strange tongue.

“I beg your pardon?” Starscream asked curiously, tilting his head as he attempted to parse out the bizarre language being spoken in front of him.

“May they rest well in The Infinite Home.” She translated. “Us steel lake kin say it for the dead.”

“Oh. Like a prayer.” Thundercracker said awkwardly as he polished up the dishes with a cleanser and placed them into his supply pack.

It was odd to hear the femme speak of Primus and the afterlife as if it were real, as most bots these days didn’t actually believe in religion in general.

Seriously- She couldn’t be crazy enough to put stock in such things…


Right?

Starscream’s optics flashed with concern for a split second at the seeker’s language, he could be mistaken but he had heard parts of it being spoken before in a book of Cybertronian scriptures that had belonged to his father before his defection to the cause of the Decepticon rebellion against the Autobot led alliance.

“You believe in The Infinity Home?” Starscream asked curiously, wondering if the seeker was simply a religious nutcase.

“Infinite Home.” LaserHowl corrected. “And yes. I believe.”

The brown and tan bot’s belief in the concept of the ‘infinite home’ further confirmed Starscreams belief in the seeker being unhinged.

“Unbelievable…” Starscream muttered to himself as he scoffed at the idea of the 'infinite home' being real.

“What, problem?” The brown and tan flyer asked sassily while resting her servos on her hips.

This hadn’t been the first time she’d had such conversations.

"The infinite home is nothing more than a fairy tale told to small children in order to keep them at ease with the idea of the inevitability of permanent termination. The concept of it being real is ridiculous and I do not believe you are naive enough to truly believe it is real." Starscream said firmly.

“Agree to disagree. You ain’t the first outsider to say so.” She replied with a grin.

Starscream snorted in derision. “What? Are you going to tell me you believe in the ‘Matrix of Leadership’ or in ‘Primus’ as well?”

”Did- did you not understand story about Primus removin’ the water-steel lake five minutes ago or…?”


Thundercracker groaned wordlessly in annoyance at the mention of the supposed origin story of the tribe of desert dwellers.

Starscream frowned. This was beginning to become increasingly annoying to him as the seeker continued to make these references to such an unbelievable story. Clearly the seeker was either a nutcase or a liar.

“You truly believe that a benevolent god known as Primus removed an ocean of molten steel from our planet’s surface?”

“Yes.” LaserHowl replied. “The border around desert is hand-shaped. I’ve seen results of what my ancestors saw.”

“Yeah. And I know of a planet with a continent shaped like a boot. The sea of rust isn’t special.” Thundercracker muttered sarcastically at her under his breath.

StarscreStarscream froze noticeably at the information the desert dweller had given him.

“So you’re serious? You believe that these geographical phenomena are evidence of a divine entity’s intervention on our home world?”

“Yes, and yes.” The brown and tan femme said as she glanced at the wide crevasse in the cave wall that acted as an entrance and listened to the sounds of the winds of the ruststorm dying down slightly.

Starscream paused for a moment as he once again considered the possibility that the seeker was truly a delusional cultist. Then, he decided to ask one more question; one that any sane person would likely be unable to answer.

“Then why doesn’t Primus intervene and save all our species from this never-ending war between the Autobot and Decepticon factions?”

“Free will. He knows you outsiders won’t stop the fights even if he helped either of your clans win. He lets you have choices and respects them, as any father should. Cosmic fathers or otherwise included.” LaserHowl explained.

Starscream was once again stumped. He had tried many arguments to make the seeker question her faith in Primus; but, all had failed.

“Then why did Primus intervene in the first place with the removal of the molten sea of steel?” Starscream asked pointedly.

“We wanted to leave and be away from bad people that would hurt us. We not wanna fight. We asked for assistance, Primus then provided us with a place we wouldn’t be willingly followed into. He respected our wishes. It is a harsh life here yes, deadly even- but it’s ours.” LaserHowl stated unflinchingly in the face of an irritated member of Decepticon high command. No doubt having practice with the cons he had dealt with in the past.

The femme’s response left Starscream utterly speechless as he realized his attempts to make her see the ridiculousness of her beliefs were futile.

Starscream could feel Thundercracker beside him judging the primitive with a dismissive sneer, but he was too annoyed by the whole argument that had transpired between him and the seeker to comment on it.

“Storm’s almost gone.” Thundercracker remarked while putting the fuel warmer away, clearly uncomfortable and trying to change the topic.

“Yes. I believe so.” LaserHowl agreed.

Starscream had no objection to moving on from the 'serious' nature of the previous argument, and so he did just that; by speaking up and saying the following words.

“Indeed, it appears to have finally ceased. Now we can depart from this place of refuge and leave this strange encounter behind.”

“If Primus was actually real, I’d thank him.” The Guardian said in relief at the thought of leaving the cave weirdo behind.

“Agree to disagree.” LaserHowl said, repeating the saying she had used earlier. “Safe travels.”

“Good luck with your ‘divine beliefs’ little one.”

Starscream said with a patronizing tone, making a point of emphasizing his disbelief in the faith that the seeker so clearly held.

“Same with the hunt you are on, ‘tall ones’.” She playfully replied as the pair departed, not giving any indication that she knew that Starscream had just insulted her.

#tiftaf #bleh #maccadam #transfomers #transformers fanfiction #starscream #Thundercracker #oc #ao3 fanfic

[ikeavrouw]

Yan!C!Fundy x GN!Reader

Summary: Just as always, you’re walking through the park to clear your mind from the stress that work brings you. When you’re doing this, however, you quickly find a sobbing young adult sitting by the lake in the park, trying to hide away from anybody else. And you, the good-hearted person you are, can’t help but sit down with him to see if you can offer your aid in any way, unaware of the feelings this mere action sparks. 

Genre: Comfort, angst

Words: 3.9K

Warnings: Obsessive behaviour, (mentions of) stalking, unhealthy relationship with parents, hint of age gap between c!Fundy and reader.

Pronouns: you/yours, they/them

Request: [YES]/[NO]

AU: More Realistic AU (Or however I should call this)

Enjoy!

By the Lakeside

The sun shines through the leaves of the trees, lighting the grass on the ground beautifully. The alluring melodies of the birds only calm you more, giving you the much needed distraction from life. 

You’ve always liked wandering through nature, so living close to the best park in your region, has always been a nice addition to your current living space. 

With your hands in the pockets of your pants, you breathe in the pure fall air, the dark clouds above you only letting the sun through as it’s already predicting the rain that will fall soon. You do realize that it’s a lot more lonely to walk around here ever after you always had a partner to work with, but your solitude is welcoming as well. 

While you keep wandering, your mind trailing off as well, rain drops already start falling down when you approach the lake that will forever hold a place in your heart. It’s very usual for you to come here. What is not usual, however, is the sound of sobbing coming with it. 

Curiosity and empathy taking over your heart, you come closer to the source of the crying, where you quickly find a young adult sitting with his knees up to his face, hiding the tears that are flowing down his cheeks. There’s such a familiar image to see, yet you don’t dare to think of the day you sat in this same spot, hoping for someone to save you. 

The boy, who you assume to be at least ten years younger than you are, is not aware of your presence at first, until you walk away from the original path to sit next to him in the bushes, almost hidden away from the world as well. The breaking branches catch his attention as his head snaps upwards, his eyes widening as he looks at you suspiciously. 

“Who are you?” he stutters, trying to wipe away the tears quickly in the hopes that you didn’t see him crying. He’s not someone who wants people to know he’s upset enough to let the tears leave his eyes, after all. Living with a neglectful, narcissistic father and an emotionally absent, alcoholic mother does that to you. Fundy’s entire life, he’s been told to just suck it up. And thus, that’s all he’s been doing. The only moments he’s ever cried, has been the moments he was alone. Whether he was sitting in his room or in the nearby park at the lake, where nobody has ever bothered him: he’s always done it alone. 

So, seeing a stranger come to him while he’s letting it all go for once, is quite new to him, to say the least. And in a way, it’s also giving him an anxiety he doesn’t recognize. 

“The name’s Y/N,” you say with a gentle smile as you hold out your hand for him to shake. When you see that he doesn’t trust you enough - which, in your opinion, only makes sense and you cannot judge him for whatsoever - you put it in your pocket again as you tilt your head at him. “I heard you crying, so I thought I’d check up on you.”

Fundy looks at you, a stranger, with expected suspicion in his eyes. You sit a bit further away from him, assuming that he's feeling uncomfortable with you being so close already, but it instead seems to offend him. He doesn't admit it though. "Fundy."

"Hm?"

"Fundy. My name is Fundy." Fundy wipes away some more of his tears and you nod at him with another faint smile.

"Pleasure meeting you Fundy. Do you come here often? You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, by the way!"

Fundy looks away from your friendly eyes. "Sometimes. Why?"

"Just asking," you say with a shrug. For a short moment, the two of you sit there in silence, until you continue. "Do you want to talk about what upset you? We don't have to, but if it's bothering you, you can tell me. I might be a mere stranger, but telling someone may help." You're not asking for his life story, of course, but to Fundy, it does seem like a burden to just tell you what makes him feel so shitty. After all, what are you getting out of this?

"Just my dad being a dick," he lets out a sigh as he looks away. "I recently moved out and he's making a big fucking deal about it." Much to his parents' dismay, he got hired at a bakery of a family member's friend he met at university. Sure, he could be doing something with his education, but he has no passion for law whatsoever. Now, he isn't passionate about baking either, but it does piss his parents off, so it is good for something. Only problem is that now that he's moved out, his father insists on visiting him and just spending time with him, something he's refused to do when Fundy was an actual child, always prioritising his job in politics over his own son.

"Parents can be a lot, can't they?" you laugh and Fundy shakes his head right away.

"That's the thing. Never has Dad paid any attention to me, but now I'm leaving, he suddenly wants to be a father. And honestly, my mother isn't any better. She's trying to change my mind too, but she's being less fake about it, at least."

"Damn, I'm sorry to hear that. I first assumed you were still in your teenager rebellious phase, or something," you joke, lightening the mood just like you attempted to do and Fundy growls, although it's not meant in a hostile way whatsoever.

"I'm in my 20s, I'm not a child anymore."

"Yeah, my bad," you laugh and Fundy smiles to himself, although he doesn't dare showing this. Fundy is still looking at you through the corners of his eyes, while you continue speaking. "You want to know something? I used to come here a lot as well, whenever I just needed to stand back and think. When I was younger, I had a couple of arguments with a friend of mine. They were honestly quite childish and neither of us were brave enough to admit we just had some problems we couldn't really deal with, if that makes sense. So, whenever we had an argument like that, I'd do the same as you: I came here and cried my eyes out. And yes, I was a teenager and a young one at that, but age doesn't really say anything, since I might as well have been an adult. Only thing is that once we both resolved those problems, or rather when I discovered that he had a hard time at home, I felt bad for him, you know?"

"What did you do after that?"

"I made it obvious that my anger issues weren't meant for him, whenever I actually hurt him in one way or another. Now that I think of it, I suppose my age did matter in this case, since I was still open to learning and growing. Or at least, a lot more than older people nowadays are." As much as your comment is meant to be taken as a joke, Fundy can find some truth in it.

"What are you trying to tell me with that?" Fundy asks, looking over at the helpful stranger that is you, and you chuckle.

"It's okay to cry and be upset, but don't let it consume you, I suppose. Life is full of surprises. I mean, that friend I used to argue with? I'm still besties with him now. One time I cried here, when I was just a little younger than you, after the death of a family member, and I met an amazing person who ended up becoming a lot more than I thought we would ever become, especially since she first was a simple stranger as well, just like me." As soon as you say that, Fundy starts repeating the words in his mind as he already starts overthinking them. The rain starts pouring down now, the sounds filling his ears and being a little too loud to his liking. You seem to notice this. As you let out a small laugh, Fundy looks away from you and you put your hand on his shoulder. It's a careful movement, probably a hesitant one as well, and you apologize softly. "What about we bring you home, huh? I have an umbrella, you can borrow it if you want to."

And there it is again. That kindness. That welcoming sweetness he hasn't seen in anyone else up till now. "Why?" he asks, almost stuttering. "Why are you doing this? What are you getting out of this?"

You look confusedly at him, surprised by the uncertainty in his voice as you're already standing up, knowing you'll get your hands dirty in the mud if you stay there for too long. "I don't think I'm getting anything out of this," you comment nonchalantly, shrugging as you already opening your umbrella, holding it above your and Fundy's head, who's still sitting in the leaves. "I mean, if God wants to reward me, I'll accept anything in cash, but I'm pretty sure that's not the case."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand. Come on, stand up, before your pants get all wet and muddy." You hold out your hand for him to take, unaware of the butterflies that emerge in his stomach, and he takes it so you can help him up. "I'll just give you the umbrella, by the way. Need a shower anyway."

"You can come with me, if you want to," Fundy mumbles, avoiding eye contact and you look at him surprisedly.

"You sure? I'm okay with it, but my house isn't far from here. And I don't have the time to stay or anything, so I really don't want to make you feel obligated to invite me or something."

"No, it's okay, really."

So, after this interaction, you and Fundy walk towards his house so you can make sure he gets home safely. The entire walk to his destination, he glances at you curiously, analyzing every single detail of your face. There's a comfort to find in your eyes which he cannot explain. There's love that you are able to give; all the love that he's missed throughout his life. The love and care that his parents should've given him, but they didn't have the time nor will to even give him as much as a smile.

And you did this with no problem.

It's something Fundy doesn't think he'll ever understand, and he's too nervous to admit it to you. He's scared he'll drive you away if he tells you about the quiet feelings he's developed for a stranger, feelings which he's never genuinely felt for someone before. Maybe at school, but never this strong. Never this present. Never this loud.

"It seems like this is where our paths part, Fundy," you say with a grateful smile on your face. "It was nice meeting you. I hope your family won't be too... bothersome. May you have a prosperous and good life."

"We can stay in contact, though, can't we?" Fundy asks, thinking of reasons that could give him the opportunity to see you again, but you just laugh at that.

"I'd love to, but it's unlikely I'll actually be able to keep talking to you and whatnot. And I think that you'll also lead a busy life once you've found the job of your dreams. That, and I think that it's smarter to find friends that are closer to your age." Fundy tries to convince you, but you seem to have made up your mind. With a sigh, you put your hand in your pocket and give him a card with your name on it, along with an e-mail address. "Here. If you really need to talk to me, you can send a mail to my professional e-mail address. But please, only when it's really necessary, okay?"

"Thank you," Fundy says, disappointed, but still proud to have more of your personal information.

--------

The sound of the water cooking overpowers the talking of Fundy's parents in the living room, who are discussing the, according to them, 'surprising' change in both Fundy's behaviour and taste. Fundy is actually glad to have the ability to drown out their voices, already being exhausted enough without their presence. But here they are.

"I didn't know you were this much into literature, Fundy," his father shouts, the only time Fundy has ever heard him raise his voice to say something positive. "Who is this Y/N L/N, if I may ask?"

"They're a writer, Wilbur," Fundy's mother already answers before even allowing Fundy to process his father's words. "Apparently, they've helped Mr. Schlatt out with coming up with arguments for some of his debates."

"And you like this Y/N and their stories?" Wilbur asks, his forced sweetness being obvious to Fundy. After the young adult puts some tea in the cups and carries it to the living room, avoiding his parents' eyes, he hums. "You support Schlatt too?"

Fundy shrugs. "I prefer staying out of politics, actually," he states, sitting down in the couch with his own drink. Sally scoffs and Wilbur simply lets out a sigh.

"That's not at all like your father," she simply comments, taking a sip of her drink while reading through some of the pages of one of the books you've published, before going to the last page to get some more information on you.

"Writing books is more like a part-time job they have," Fundy explains plainly. "That's not what they make most of their money with."

"I assume that they're not involved in any politics either?" Wilbur asks with a raised eyebrow and Fundy shakes his head. "Of course not. Quite a shame. Maybe I would've had the pleasure to have a debate with them."

"Well, Schlatt is one of their closest friends, so," Fundy starts, but he's quickly interrupted by his mother.

"How's your job going?" Fundy falls silent. He hasn't told them yet. He hasn't told them yet about how he got fired due to his lack of decent work. According to his boss, he'd always get distracted or get too late or come too tiredly.

"You've made too many mistakes, Fundy," his boss had told him. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to let you go until you've pulled yourself back together again." Even if his words were meant at first, after Fundy's anger outburst towards him, he knew that he could never come back. Niki, the friend who also happened to be related to his boss, explained how Fundy gave the man a broken nose, which was pretty serious. She said that the likeliness of him ever working there again was close to non-existent, but that she could look for a better job soon, if he wanted to. Fundy refused, however. Maybe it was the realization that no matter how many jobs he'd find, he'd always fail. You are on his mind 24/7, after all, and he's find something that he can do without failing, which is being there for you, even without your knowledge.

But that's nothing with which he can make money, so he just hopes he can get some financial support of his parents when he needs it. "I got fired."

While Sally's neutral facial expression falls to that of disappointment, Wilbur just bursts out laughing. "I told you you shouldn't have chosen that career path? They don't appreciate the people with our intellect and intelligence there, son. It's way better to go for a job that fits your personality more."

"I'm not going to join politics, Dad," he mumbles and Wilbur simply rolls his eyes with a grin. Their parents keep talking with him, pretending as if they've always had a close relationship, but Fundy can't ignore the distance that he feels between him and them. The emptiness he feels when talking to them. An emptiness which he can fill, if only he had the guts to go to the person who made him actually feel loved.

When his parents finally leave again, he locks the door and feels tears pushing against his eyes, but he keeps them in. He really doesn't want to cry today. No, not now. Today is a special day, after all. It's been a month since he met you, an event which both led to a possible escape and unexpected tragedies.

He goes upstairs where he grabs his notebook, which is filled with all kinds of things related to you. There are photos he found on the internet, the card with your contact info, information he found online, etc. He knows your exact age, along with your birthday, but unfortunately he hasn't been able to discover as much as he wanted to.

One of the first things that upsets him quite, is that he cannot find too personal information about you. He has no idea where you went to school or who you live with, only that you have a pet of whom you make photos and put on a private account online, which he follows. He also knows you're pretty close with the politician J. Schlatt, who is in a relationship with Quackity, so it's unlikely that you've ever been more than friends with that drunk. Besides that, he has very little information on your friends and acquaintances. He is, however, pretty sure you also know Niki, since she mentioned you once.

Second problem which he had quickly come across, was the lack of information when it came to contacting you. He only found your professional email address over and over, but he has mailed it before and hasn't gotten any answer yet. When you didn't answer the next day, he sent another one and another one and that's how it kept going. Just telling you about his day, or about how he wants to meet up sometime: he tries everything, yet you seem to be unavailable. He has even thought of returning to the park and crying his eyes out in the hope you would appear, but he hasn't found the courage yet to do that.

That's when his phone buzzes. Hopeful, he opens the social media app of which it came, smiling when he sees that you posted another picture of your pet. This time, however, it's something way more useful.

Your street. Fundy can see your street in the background.

Screenshotting the photo immediately, he zooms into the sign that tells every person to pass it what the name of the street is, and thanks to his knowledge of the place he lives in, he immediately knows what street you live in.

Looking through his window, he sees that it's already gotten dark outside. So, with his heart beating in his chest, he makes a decision. A decision which he will not be able to back down from.

He'll go to your house.

----

It's not hard to tell which house belongs to you, thanks to the familiar animal lying behind the closed curtains and seeing Fundy approach already. Fundy, however, makes sure to stay out of sight. Having put his hoodie over his head, the darkness hides his face, so he is safe to jump over the fences to your backyard, which will shield him away from the rest of the world as well.

The curtains to your backyard are not entirely closed as the light goes through it, showing three happy people sitting on the couch and having dinner. Fundy gets close to the window, but makes sure to watch out, having the luck of not being in any of the people's sight. He recognizes you without even trying, but the other two women are tricky at first. The one, he discovers to be a well-known therapist, while the other's face he cannot see, thanks to her back being turned to him. After some closer looking, though, he identifies the stranger to be Niki.

Hold up, you and Niki are actually friends?

Fundy watches as the three of you finish the food and once the therapist stands up to put the plates away, he lowers to the ground to make sure he doesn't get seen. When the shadow of the woman covers the ground and gets smaller, telling him that she's returning to the table, he dares looking through the window again.

Sitting up right, he looks closely, seeing that she's carrying a box with some food inside. Is it cake? Why do they have cake? Fundy knows that it's not your birthday and it can't be Niki's either, but it wouldn't make sense for the therapist to be the one carrying the delicious food if it was hers either. What are you celebrating?

He can hear your laughs through the window regularly, and it's quite easy to tell yours apart from the giggles of the other two people present. After all, your laugh is the one that makes his body feel all warm inside, while neither of them can make him feel anything at all. When he concentrates enough, he can even hear your voices.

"To this special day of Y/N, Niki and Puffy! May we..." Puffy. Yes, that name sounds familiar. That's the therapist.

His mind wandering off, he doesn't understand what she's saying, so the least he can do is assume that they're pretty close friends. But close friends don't look at each other like that, right? They don't hold hands the way they do. Every gesture of theirs, every kiss on the cheek: it's something that he can only wish you did to him. But still, he's lying to himself, trying to get himself to believe that these people are just your friends.

But he can't do that any longer, when it's your voice that overpowers theirs. "We've known each other for so long already and I could not be more grateful for you two, so I first want to thank you for being in my life." The two women hold each other's hand when you say that, before looking at you, allowing you to continue. "Which is why I want to officially put a label on what we have, also to the public." You can see how much happiness these words give Puffy and Niki, but you are unaware of the shattering heart of a certain young adult.

Fundy watches as you sit down on one knee, clearing your throat uncertainly. "Puffy, Niki. Will the two of you marry me?"

That one sentence. That one sentence hurts Fundy more than his parents ever could have. Puffy's and Niki's happy cheers are drowned out by the high-pitched sound that fills his ears. Tears leave his eyes as he stands up with shaking legs, running out of the yard and tripping over something. Although he manages to get himself up after this mistake, it does not go unseen and unheard, unlike his sorrow.

Shot in a panic and overflown by emotion, he runs and runs. The tears in his eyes blind his sight and he quickly picks up the scent of rain and nature. He has entered the park. Still running, he approaches the lake, where he jumps into the bushes by the lakeside, at the exact same place where he was sitting when he first met you. And there, he sits down, crying and sobbing and doing everything he did that day.

Except now, there is no one to save him.

#c!fundy x reader #c!fundy #dsmp x reader #fanfic #dsmp #angst #yandere #dsmp yandere #yandere dsmp #reader #comfort #c!wilbur #sally salmon #c!puffy #c!niki #c!schlatt #c!quackity

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Mosaic #474 - "Darkest Spark"

Originally posted on April 12th, 2010

Story - Greg Donaldson Art - Lindsay Smith Letters - Franco Villa Thanks to - Simon Reeves

deviantART | Seibertron | TFW2005 | BotTalk

wada sez: So far as I can tell, this strip was adapted from a short story of Donaldson’s which I reckon preceded it? What the hell, I’ll archive the whole thing below. The year prior, Fun Publications had namedropped a Shattered Glass incarnation of Wheelie in Sky Lynx’s magazine profile; on deviantART, Donaldson said: “Simon and I bounced around the idea but it wasn't until afterwards that somewhat "offical" information came out regarding SG Wheelie and it matched the black and goldenrod coloring we had decided for him!” I have no idea what “official” information he’s referring to, so let me know if you have the source.

"Easy Decepticons. Hold your positions," Galvatron soothed over the communicator.

His laser rifle aimed into the darkness beyond the cargo bay entrance, Scourge had to fight the sensation that was causing his hands to tremble. He looked over at Cyclonus and quickly back, careful not to take his eyes off the blackness for more than an astrosecond. He squinted his optics to focus the available light and he thought he saw movement.

A scream in the distance.

Scourge tensed up immediately and tightened his finger on the trigger. “It’s him,” he whispered under his breath. From the area in front of him a glint of metal streaked toward him. Panicked, he fired his weapon erratically into the darkness. The black was intermittently lit by the muzzle flash and the flying metallic object bounced off his chest and fell to the ground in a wet thump. Liquid splattered on his body and on his chin. He looked down to see the object was square.

Scourge gasped as he realized it was Skywarp's severed head. A terrible death to be sure as his mouth was contorted in agony forever. Scourge fired into the still air, screaming.

Cyclonus followed suit as did Thrust and Dirge who were kneeling in front of them, arm cannons blasting into the distance.

Nothing. They ceased fire. Scanners on full spectrum.

Searchlights revealed 3 Sweeps bodies offlined. Then a vehicle emerged racing toward them. A silhouette as dark as deep space. They opened fire again but the sleek car easily evaded their laser fire and grenades. Missiles sailed past him. It transformed.

SLICE!

Thrust was offlined.

THUNK!

Dirge was down.

CRACK!

Cyclonus looked down to see an energon blade sticking out of his chest. His spark was pierced and he felt the life draining from him. He looked wearily over at Scourge who had slid to the floor leaving a trail of lubricant on the wall. His optics were black. Offlined.

Slowly Cyclonus turned his head and saw crimson optics glaring back at him. He felt chilled. A mech was clinging to his torso, holding on by Cyclonus' winged shoulders, legs around his waist. He was black with goldenrod accenting.

The dark mech looked into him and spoke quietly, "The optics are the window to the spark, Cyclonus. Watching you die this close is a bonus." He grabbed the energon blade and withdrew it from the Decepticon's chest. Thrusting it into the Con's optics, he pushed off the handle of the blade and jumped from the Decepticon while somersaulting in the air.

Cyclonus fell to the ground with a loud clang as the sinister mech landed on top of him.

"Decepticons die so easy, I think Prime sent me here to tease me.”

As he surveyed the carnage he had wrought, he pulled his weapon from the offlined Decepticon and wiped it clean of fluids. Slipping it into its sheath, his wrist communicator blipped. Annoyed at the disruption of the eerie silence he had proudly created, he didn't acknowledge the transmitter as it blared, "Wheelie, where are you?"

#Transformers #Transformers Mosaic #Maccadam #Shattered Glass #Greg Donaldson #Lindsay Smith #Franco Villa #Simon Reeves #Wheelie #Cyclonus #Scourge #Thrust

[fheythfully]

FFXIV Write 2023 - Day 25: Call it a Day

Birdy lay flat on its back, wings to each side, looking for all the world like a real bird struck dead. Neva watched dispassionately from the doorway as Satella murmured lighting after lightning spell into being amongst her fingertips, each spark fading into oblivion the moment it neared the Garlean machine’s vicinity.

Neva sipped at her coffee and took a moment to appreciate the rich flavour. An Ala Mhigan blend, if she had to guess, and not one to be found easily in the markets as the nation tried desperately to start rebuilding in its newfound fervor of freedom. No - a flavour this bountiful would have been found in the quarters of now-murdered Garlean personnel overseeing the nation’s occupation, or squirreled away in some unknown cache by the natives and brought out into the light to celebrate. Regardless of its source, its presence in Satella’s kitchen was a pleasant and very welcome surprise. No doubt it was a gift of some kind to the Warrior of Light, pushed into her hands as she departed Ala Mhigo in the wake of her victory. Perhaps even sent by postmoogle, its owner desperate to show their appreciation to their Eorzean saviour.

Neva sipped her coffee, and pointedly Did Not Think about the growing mountain of Garlean bodies slain by her companion’s hands.

(Satella had advised a Sharlayan practice called therapy, something which Neva understood required a lot of talking and sharing her feelings. It did not sound pleasant.)

In the present, Satella let out a sound more appropriate for a frustrated feline and threw her hands in the air. The levin within them sparked in accordance to her temperament before settling down to a crackle.

“Please mind the ceiling,” Neva said. “I'd rather not entertain scorch marks.”

Satella shot her a burning glare. It was in anger that Neva found her the most beautiful, if she were to be honest: the woman’s golden skin flushed richly with colour and her eyes glimmered with the promise of a coming storm, as biting and brilliant as the magic sparking within her hands. Neva would have liked to paint a portrait of the Warrior like this, were she only able to capture the intensity of her presence. It would be a wonderful addition to her personal gallery.

(Satella had also mentioned something about “art therapy”, now that she thought about it.)

“I'm certain I can get him to work,” Satella insisted. The force of her gaze swung to Birdy, as if her will alone would be enough to restore it to rights. “I just need to find the right space in his shields to sneak a current through.”

“‘It’, dear, not ‘him’,” Neva reminded her. Her friend’s insistence on personalizing the spying tool her handler had entrusted her with unsettled something within her that she wasn't willing to examine. “You've been at this for over a bell now. Perhaps it's time to consider letting it go?”

Those stormy eyes were back on her now. “And leave you without a friend? I'm not that heartless, Nevachka.”

And that - well. “Birdy was not a friend,” Neva bit out. “It was a means of spying on every little thing I saw, and heard and said. Including you, Elle.”

The maddening woman just shrugged. “As you say. But if I can't repair him, then maybe…” she trailed off in thought. One slender finger, still coated in sparkling levin, tapped at her chin and Neva watched the sparks bounce off her skin, glimmering like a little contained field of starfall around her mouth. “I wonder if Cid would be able to help, or perhaps even Nero. Though I'm sure the latter would have to be bribed for his assistance. Do you know if Birdy had memory storage for the live feed?”

Neva resisted the urge to pinch her nose and took a particularly large gulp of her pilfered coffee instead. 

#my writing #ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #Elle: i am not leaving you without your oldest friend #Neva pretending to not understand: what friend??? it was a tool in my lonely existence #also Neva: please let's not have me meet my previous boss I know we both defected but that's just NOT going to go well

[coochiequeens]

Thanks to gender ideology a dude who didn't sign up while there was still spaces left in the men's category was able to sign up to compete in the women's category. And he won leaving with prize earmarked for a woman while if he did run in the men's category he would have come in 55th.

By Nuria Muíña García February 2, 2024

A man claiming to be “gender fluid” has won the women’s category of a mountain race in Spain, signing up after there were no more spaces left in the men’s category. Quim Durán Pradas, who lives his day-to-day life as a man, says running makes him feel “feminine.”

La Cursa de NaDalt is a chrono-climbing race held annually in December in Catalonia, and its most recent iteration, held on December 26 of 2023, was its 13th anniversary. The race, which starts in Sant Pere de Torelló and ends at the Sanctuary of Bellmunt, is a short but challenging event, and consists of a spectacular route of trails and climbs of 3,862 meters with a positive elevation gain of 620 meters.

In true Spanish fashion — once at the finish line, every racer gets a glass of sparkling wine, something to eat, and to finish it off, hot chocolate.

But the results of the most recent race sparked outrage in Spain after it was discovered that a 48-year-old male had won the top prize in the women’s category.

Speaking to La Vanguardia, sources from the event’s organizing committee explained that the initial outburst had begun at the awards ceremony, where several people broke out into an argument.

Among them was Quim Durán Pradas, a 48-year-old male runner who was seen at the awards ceremony wearing makeup, earrings, and a ponytail.

“[He] was saying that [he] had won in the women’s category and that [he] had every right to be recognized. As an organization, we were caught off guard. There had never been a case like this in previous editions,” explained sources from within the Centre Excursionista Serragrenyada, organizer of the event.

Durán Pradas reportedly threatened to sue the event if he was not provided the prize he claimed he had earned — a pricey leg of cured Iberian ham from Beher Red Label. The prize’s value could range anywhere from €100 to €500 (approx. $107 to $540 USD) depending on the weight of the leg.

Due to his threats and aggression, the event organizers attempted to accommodate him, noting that it was “a bit of a tense situation.” Durán Pradas ended up receiving a provisional victory in the women’s general category. When he stood to receive his ham, there was booing in the audience.

The fastest female, Laia Montoya, had previously taken the top spot in the race in 2022 and 2023. Though she had been booted out of earning the top prize by Durán Pradas, the organizers sent her a box of Iberian ham anyway out of apparent acknowledgement of the unfairness of the situation.

Durán Pradas would have come in 55th place had he participated in the men’s category.

On Instagram, the race’s organizing committee issued a statement explaining “the ethical, moral and philosophical dilemma” they faced.

“We want to show our support and the utmost tolerance, solidarity, and empathy towards gender-vulnerable people,” they wrote. “However, at the same time we also want to underline that the NaDalt race has always tried to promote women’s sport, because historically it has been discriminated and less visible.”

Yesterday, Durán Pradas appeared on Más Espejo, a popular Spanish morning show, where he explained that he is a “gender fluid” athlete who feels “feminine” when he is running in natural environments, but “masculine” at all other times. He is not on any hormone therapy, and does not intend to seek out any surgeries.

“I am gender fluid, and when I run in the mountains, I feel like a woman, I feel like the other female runners,” he said. “I have been to an inclusive psychologist who told me that this is not a disorder. I am simply a person who, depending on the situations, is gender fluid. In my day-to-day life, at home when I’m with my children, I feel like a man. In my leisure time, in contact with nature, I feel like a woman.”

On the program, Durán Pradas stated that he wanted to educate audiences about gender fluidity, also noting that he had previously felt too scared to participate in a women’s category but decided to finally take the risk after being informed there were no slots left in the men’s category. He described the situation as La Cursa de NaDalt “putting [the opportunity] on a platter” for him.

He refused to accept questions from the presenter and the rest of the morning show’s panel, deeming them too “argumentative” to respond to. He then complained he was being subjected to a “hate crime” after one of the panelists accused him of “cheating” for running without having altered his testosterone levels.

“I thought this was going to go well for me, and you just won’t let me justify my position,” Durán Pradas said. “People who do not understand [gender fluidity] and ridicule it as you are ridiculing it… it can become a hate crime.”

#Spain #Quim Durán Pradas #La Cursa de NaDalt #Of course someone who went through male puberty in going to have an advantage in a race of 3862 meters with a positive elevation gain of 62 #Due to his threats and aggression the event organizers attempted to accommodate him in other words he acted with male entitlement #Another case for SheWon #Congratulations to Laia Montoya for being the fastest woman in the 2023 La Cursa de NaDait #Más Espejo #He's not on hormones #He fathered kids #Another TIM comparing being questioned on his gender feelz to a hate crime #He's 48 #Did these gender fluid feelings start when he realized most of the men were much younger? #Women’s sports is not a retirement plan for older men

[deliciousdeerling]

(G)I-dle Unleashed Desires Chapter 3

Content warning : NSFW content, Lesbian

Disclamer : The writing of this story was done with the help of AI. I wrote the scenario and worked sentense by sentense to have the meaning I expected. But the text itself was generated.

All chapters can be found in Story Chapter list

Chapter 03

"I was wondering if you could help me" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, and Soyeon had to lean in slightly to hear her "… again.".

With only a couple of days left before the big event that (G)I-dle had been preparing for, their schedule had become even more demanding than usual. The group was pushing themselves to the limit, perfecting their routines and rehearsing day and night.

Soyeon was proud of the progress they had made. She knew that the pressure they were under was immense, but she know that each member of (G)I-dle would be able to handle it gracefully.

Since confessing her love for Miyeon a week ago, Yuqi seemed to have regained her usual confidence and playfulness. She was no longer the anxious person she had been earlier, but instead exuded a warmth and joy that was infectious.

Yuqi's training had noticeably improved as well. She moved with grace and precision, her movements fluid and elegant. The other members of (G)I-dle couldn't help but be impressed by her progress. They had always known Yuqi was talented, but now she seemed to have found a new source of motivation that drove her to excel even further.

With Yuqi's renewed spirits and the collective talent of the group, she had no doubt that they would be ready to deliver a performance that would leave the audience breathless.

However, amidst all the training, Yuqi felt like she needed to let off some steam and that's why she was asking Soyeon for the same help that she had received before.

"It's just… I need to blow off some steam," Yuqi continued, her cheeks flushing slightly. "You know, like we did… the other day."

Soyeon smiled knowingly. She remembered the steamy encounter she had shared with Yuqi a few days ago and Soyeon couldn't help but feel a pang of desire as she thought about it.

"Of course," Soyeon said, her voice low and seductive. "I'd be happy to help you with that."

Yuqi let out a shaky breath, her eyes locking with Soyeon's. There was a moment of tension between them, the air charged with anticipation and desire.

Yuqi reached out and took Soyeon's hand, her grip firm and urgent. Without a word, she tugged the idol along, leading her hurriedly through the practice room and down the hallway towards the dorm rooms.

Soyeon allowed herself to be guided as the heat in Yuqi's gaze was undeniable.

As they entered the dormitory, Yuqi quickened her pace, nearly dragging Soyeon behind her as they made their way to her room. Yuqi led Soyeon into her room, quickly closing the door behind them. As soon as the door clicked shut, a sudden wave of shyness washed over her, and she found herself frozen in place, unsure of how to proceed.

Soyeon, sensing Yuqi's hesitation, took matters into her own hands. With a gentle smile, Soyeon led Yuqi to the bed and sat down, patting the space next to her in invitation. Yuqi hesitated for a moment, then sat down beside Soyeon, their thighs touching. The heat from Yuqi's body was intoxicating, and Soyeon could feel her own desire rising.

Soyeon leaned in and whispered in Yuqi's ear, "You're doing so well, Yuqi. I'm proud of you." Her breath tickled Yuqi's skin, sending shivers down her spine. Yuqi's eyes fluttered closed as she savored the sensation, her heart pounding in her chest.

Soyeon continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "I know how hard you've been working. You deserve a reward." She trailed her fingers along Yuqi's arm, sending electric sparks through her body.

Soyeon leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Yuqi's earlobe as she spoke, "Let me help you relax." She began to gently massage Yuqi's shoulders, her fingers working through the tense muscles. Yuqi let out a soft moan, her head falling back in surrender to Soyeon's skilled touch.

As Soyeon continued to massage her, Yuqi's body began to relax, her breathing deepening. Soyeon's hands moved down Yuqi's back, her touch growing more intimate as she caressed the curve of her waist. Yuqi shivered, her desire rising with each passing moment.

Soyeon could sense Yuqi's growing arousal and decided to take things further. She slid her hand around Yuqi's body, cupping her breast through her shirt. Yuqi gasped, her eyes snapping open as she looked at Soyeon with surprise and need.

Soyeon smiled, her eyes dark with desire. "Do you want me to stop?" she asked, her voice low and seductive. Yuqi shook her head, her lips parting as she struggled to find her voice.

With a devilish grin, Soyeon leaned in and kissed Yuqi softly on the lips. Surpised that Soyeon took the initiative, Yuqi found herself being kissed by Soyeon. She surrendered to the passionate embrace, her lips parting to accept the kiss.

As their kiss deepened, Yuqi felt her inhibitions melting away. She wrapped her arms around Soyeon's neck, pulling her closer as she returned the kiss with growing fervor.

Yuqi moaned softly into the kiss as Soyeon hands roaming over Yuqi's body, stirring up a storm of desire within her. Breaking the kiss, Soyeon reached for her phone on the bedside table. With a mischievous grin, she unlocked the device and opened a photo.

"Remember this?" Soyeon asked, holding up the phone to show Yuqi a picture of Miyeon, her eyes sparkling with laughter. Yuqi's heart skipped a beat as she recognized the photo. It was taken during one of their group outings, and Miyeon looked absolutely stunning.

Yuqi couldn't help but feel a pang of longing as she stared at Miyeon's beautiful face. Soyeon noticed the look in Yuqi's eyes and smiled.

Soyeon leaned in, her lips brushing against Yuqi's ear as she whispered, "Tell me, Yuqi. What do you fantasize about when you think of Miyeon?"

Yuqi's cheeks flushed, her heart racing as she considered sharing her most intimate desires with Soyeon. But there was something about the way Soyeon looked at her, with that mix of curiosity and understanding, that made Yuqi feel safe and comfortable.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, allowing the images to play out in her mind. "I… I imagine her touching me," Yuqi confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Soyeon's arms wrapped around Yuqi's waist, her hands resting on her stomach. The warmth of Soyeon's body enveloped her, and Yuqi couldn't help but feel a sense of security and comfort in her embrace. She gently traced circles on Yuqi's skin, her touch soft and soothing. Yuqi closed her eyes, allowing herself to be enveloped by the sensations that Soyeon's touch evoked.

Soyeon's hands began to move, trailing up Yuqi's stomach and around her breasts. Her fingers teased the hardening nipples through the fabric of her shirt, making Yuqi gasp with pleasure.

Soyeon's hands continued their downward path, slipping under the hem of Yuqi's shirt. As she felt Soyeon's fingertips graze her skin, Yuqi let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.

Without warning, Soyeon leaned in and whispered in Yuqi's ear, "Look at her, Yuqi. Imagine it's Miyeon touching you like this." Yuqi's eyes flickered open, and she glanced at the picture of Miyeon on the bedside table.

The image of Miyeon's beautiful face filled her mind, and Yuqi could almost feel her gentle touch. As Soyeon's hands caressed Yuqi's body, she let herself be lost in the fantasy, imagining that it was Miyeon's hands roaming over her skin, exploring every curve and contour.

Soyeon's fingers found their way to the button of Yuqi's jeans, and she deftly undid it, pulling the zipper down slowly. Yuqi's breath hitched as Soyeon slipped her hand inside, brushing against the soft fabric of her panties.

As Soyeon continued to tease her through the fabric, Yuqi couldn't help but let out a soft whimper, her hips bucking against Soyeon's touch. She closed her eyes, fully immersed in the sensation, her heart racing with desire.

As Soyeon's touch intensified, Yuqi's breaths became ragged and her moans grew louder. Soyeon's fingers danced over her most sensitive areas, causing Yuqi to arch her back and press herself closer to Soyeon's touch.

"You're so beautiful, Yuqi," Soyeon whispered, her voice a seductive purr in Yuqi's ear. "I love seeing you like this, so lost in pleasure."

Soyeon slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of Yuqi's panties, her touch growing bolder as she explored Yuqi's slick folds. With each stroke, Yuqi's moans grew louder, her body trembling with desire.

"Tell me how good it feels, Yuqi," Soyeon whispered, her fingers slipping in and out of Yuqi with increasing speed. "Tell me what you want."

"I… I want you to touch me harder," Yuqi gasped, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. "Please, Miyeon, don't stop."

Soyeon complied, her fingers moving faster and harder, pushing Yuqi closer and closer to the edge. As the waves of pleasure built inside her, Yuqi cried out, her body tensing as she reached her climax.

Soyeon continued to stroke Yuqi through her orgasm, her touch gentle but relentless. Yuqi's cries filled the room, her body shuddering with the force of her release. As the last waves of pleasure subsided, Yuqi collapsed against Soyeon, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Soyeon wrapped her arms around Yuqi, holding her close as they both caught their breath. Yuqi's heart raced, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her climax.

"That was… incredible," Yuqi whispered, her voice barely audible.

Soyeon smiled, her eyes dark with desire. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she purred. "I love seeing you like this, so passionate and eager for more."

Yuqi blushed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment and pleasure.

With a devilish grin, Soyeon stood up, much to Yuqi's surprise. She sauntered over to the bedside table, taking her time as she languidly licked her fingers clean, savoring the taste of Yuqi's arousal.

Yuqi's cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement as she watched Soyeon cleaning her fingers with such deliberate slowness.

As Soyeon finished, she turned her gaze back to Yuqi, a sultry look in her eyes. "You taste amazing, Yuqi," she purred. "I could eat you up."

As Yuqi's cheeks flushed, Soyeon couldn't help but laugh at her own joke and how cute Yuqi's reaction was. But then she turned serious again.

"So, what's your plan?" Soyeon asked.

Yuqi blushed, her gaze flickering away from Soyeon's intense stare. "Well, I… I want to confess my feelings to Miyeon," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "After the concert, when everything has calmed down."

Soyeon smiled reassuringly, sensing that Yuqi was still apprehensive about confessing her feelings to Miyeon. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Yuqi. I'm sure Miyeon will appreciate your honesty and bravery." She placed a comforting hand on Yuqi's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "And remember, I will always be here for you, no matter what you need."

Yuqi's eyes filled with gratitude as she looked up at Soyeon. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "It means a lot to know that I have your support."

Soyeon nodded, her eyes shining with understanding. "You're not alone in this, Yuqi. We're all here for each other, and we'll get through this together."

Reassured by Soyeon's words, Yuqi felt a newfound sense of determination welling up within her. She knew that confessing her feelings to Miyeon wouldn't be easy, but with Soyeon and the rest of (G)I-dle by her side, she felt confident that she could face whatever challenges lay ahead.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Yuqi stood up, her body feeling more alive and energized than it had in weeks. "I should probably get back to practice," she said, a hint of excitement in her voice. "We've got a big show coming up, and I want to be ready."

Soyeon laughed, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "That's the spirit, Yuqi! Go and give it your all. I know you'll be amazing."

Yuqi smiled, her heart filled with gratitude for Soyeon's support and encouragement. With a final nod of thanks, she turned and left the room, her steps lighter and more determined than they had been in days.

As Soyeon watched Yuqi leave, she couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and admiration for the young idol. Despite her struggles and insecurities, Yuqi had found the courage to confront her feelings and seek out the support she needed.

With a final glance at the picture of Miyeon on the bedside table, Soyeon couldn't help but wonder how the talented idol would react to Yuqi's confession. But whatever the outcome, Soyeon knew that she and the rest of (G)I-dle would be there to support both Yuqi and Miyeon as they faced the future together.

And with that thought in mind, Soyeon turned her attention back to her own practice, determined to give her all to the group and their upcoming performance.

As Yuqi returned to the practice room, her heart was filled with a renewed sense of purpose. With Soyeon's support and encouragement, she felt more confident than ever in her ability to confront her feelings and share her heart with Miyeon.

And as she threw herself into rehearsal, the music and dance flowing through her like a river of pure energy, Yuqi couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation for the future.

Whatever challenges lay ahead, she knew that she have the strength and support.

#18+ content #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #gidle fanfic #gidle smut #yuqi fanfic #soyeon fanfic #Miyeon fanfic #girl group fanfic #gidle x gidle

[meowcats734]

(prompt response) You can see everyone's Deaths following them, arriving to offer their hands right as they die. Today, you saw something new; someone chasing after their Death, who is fleeing at a dead sprint.

"Plane of Insecurity," Sansen snapped, and we jolted into action, clustering into a circle while I gathered the liquid-metal insecurity that shivered in my soulspace. None of us bothered to ask things like how did Iola find out or what if he's just here to talk?

It was Iola. For all I knew, he'd just snapped and randomly decided to murder us. Or maybe his newfound eldritch form let him spy on us from afar. Or Odin wanted to put pressure on us, or the Silent Parliament, or some third faction that I didn't even know about. This clusterfuck of a war was exactly why we needed to get as far away from here as humanly possible, and probably further, since I was willing to bet Iola didn't count as anything remotely human anymore. 

"Knock, knock," sang Iola from the door, and his voice was garbled and fleshy and wow did I not want to find out what kind of bullshit he was going to get us into this time. With a flash of magic, we shifted into the Plane of Elemental Insecurity. Lucet let out a sigh of relief as Iola vanished, replaced by cotton-fake snow on cardboard stone—

"Keep moving," Sansen snapped, sprinting off towards the borders of town. A tiny rift into the Plane of Elemental Possibility blazed over his left eye, trailing behind sparks like a golden comet. 

"But he can't reach us here," Meloai asked, her tone more pleading than assertive as she ran. I wasn't entirely sure how her clockwork body differed from human standard, but she had no trouble speaking during our flat-out sprint.

Behind us, I got the nauseating feeling that space itself squelched. Meloai turned around, abandoning the illusion of humanity to swivel her head a full hundred and eighty degrees, then snapped her head back to normal and pushed forwards, a wordless, shocked horror on her face as she fled.

"Yeah," I panted, "evidence says otherwise."

"Why are you running?" Iola's voice was disconcertingly wet, but it was still unmistakably his voice. Morbid curiosity made me want to turn and look and see the terrible beauty of whatever abomination Iola had become—but I had to stay focused. I had to keep moving. "You wouldn't happen to be depriving a wartime effort of crucial emotional power sources, would you? Because if you were..."

"Close your eyes and follow me," Sansen interrupted, skidding to a halt. "We're plane-shifting again."

"To where?" Meloai asked. "This is the only safe plane out of—wait. Wait, no, you couldn't possibly be—"

Sansen threw both arms out, as if opening a door, and the rift over his eye exploded outwards, tearing a hole into the Plane of Elemental Possibility. Right before the rift swallowed me, I turned around, just to catch a glimpse of what was coming after us.

I really wish I hadn't.

The thing that had once called itself Iola stood in a puddle of... melted space. There was no other way to describe it—it was as if everything around where he'd entered the Plane of Elemental Falsehood had become limp and liquid and dead. I'd once seen a painting of clocks flopped over a desolate landscape like so many pancakes; what Iola had done when he'd clawed his way into this place reminded me of it so intensely I almost thought I was back in Art and Culture 102. 

But I never would be again, if Iola had anything to say about it.

His body bubbled like soup on a stove, bulges of skin forming and snapping and regenerating all along his once-perfect body. Who knew, maybe the Silent Parliament would declare this the new perfect once we were gone. His cruel smile ballooned and shrank like a frog's throat, and the corrupted arm he pointed at us shed bits and pieces of amorphous flesh even as he moved it. And yet, the transformations the Eldritch Initiative had wreaked on his body weren't even the worst part.

Because I was a witch, and I could see what they had done to his soul.

Joy should have been dew. Joy should have been pure, clear water, and it always worried me that Iola's version of the stuff was sickly and tainted. But now, the droplets that jittered through Iola's soul were infested, tiny, jittering swimming-things squirming in the inhuman emotion Iola now felt instead of joy.

In a horrible insight, I realized what those liquid, living orbs were.

They were eggs.

And at Iola's command, they began to hatch.

Thankfully, the rift into the Plane of Elemental Possibility swallowed us before I could see what that spell did. At the last minute, I remembered Sansen's instructions, closing my eyes and holding my breath—

And a cacophony of voices from every possible timeline assaulted my ears.

"Get away from me!" Lucet shrieked/shrieks/will shriek. "You're a monster—can't you see that? Can't you see what they've done to you?"

"I'm very sorry," Odin mused/muses/will muse, "but that's not the bargaining chip you think it is. Aim higher."

"Can I kiss you?" I asked/ask/will ask, my voice uncertain and frail. Lucet replies with a quiet little "m-hm!" and I can hear the smile in her voice—

That last one nearly shocked me into opening my eyes, but—fuck, I couldn't afford to get distracted, and presumably, that was exactly why Sansen had told us to close our eyes. I locked onto Sansen's soul in the chaos, following him towards the rift, and he shouted, "Lucet! Plane shift!"

From Lucet's momentary silence, I could tell she was shocked from what we'd heard as well, but—

"Gotcha," Iola said/says/will say, and his voice is disgustingly pleased as something squishes and I scream—

"Right. Everyone, gather close and hold your breath."

As Lucet prepared the rift, Sansen grabbed my arm and said, "Listen. When I give you the signal, send Lucet and I to the Plane of Calm, then take Meloai and yourself back to realspace."

I creased my brows. "What signal?"

Sansen drew in breath to speak—

Behind us, a hundred futures died screaming as Iola forced his way into the Plane of Elemental Possibility, and even though I was facing away from him, with so much of my concentration on my soulsight, I saw what he did to bore a hole between planes. The oil-droplets that normally comprised passion had turned rancid and rotten, matted with strange algae and molds, and he used that living, inhuman emotion to melt holes through thoughtspace itself. I sensed his soul shift, that infested not-joy rising to the surface, and though his next attack spell moved at the speed of thought, Sansen's futuresight was faster. Lucet's spell ended before his even begun, and we leapt between planes again, landing in the Plane of Elemental Cold.

Immediately, my entire body burned as I came into contact with air that had never known heat or light, and I instinctively flared up with passion, not that it was of much use. I had little passion left in me now, and spread thin over the four of us as it was, it only slowed the inevitable. Still, Sansen directed us to struggle onwards, stumbling over uneven, rock-hard snow, putting a little more distance between us and Iola while the heat leeched from our flesh. In the distance, through my tightly closed eyes, I sensed the soul fragments of skeletal deaths, Demons of Sorrow reaching out to take our hands and slay us with a touch—

And then, right as my lungs were about to give out and suck in a breath of deadly, thin air, Sansen squeezed my arm, and his instructions flashed into my mind. The last of my calm went into sending Sansen and Lucet into the Plane of Elemental Antimagic, while my plentiful sorrow tore a rift for Meloai and I to step back into realspace. As the rift rose around us, I sensed Iola burst into the Plane of Elemental Cold too late, the deaths scattering as Iola gleefully cast a spell—

We landed outside the boundaries of the city in a snowy plains, and it was a testament to the absolute chill of the Plane of Elemental Frost that the snow felt hot to the touch compared to my numbed, frozen skin. I cracked my eyes open—fuck, that hurt—and tried to gather my thoughts.

"What's going on? Why'd you separate us?" Meloai asked.

"I don't know," I muttered, pacing. "It was part of Sansen's plan—"

"If you don't have a plan, then we should keep running," Meloai snapped. She started to slog forwards through the snow. Her joints were seizing up and her metal body sank deeper than mine, so I got one shoulder beneath hers and helped haul her along. 

"The Plane of Calm is pretty safe," I said, thinking aloud, "but, uh, magic doesn't work in there. Even if they had an attunement to calm, they'd be trapped—you can't open a rift from inside the Plane of Elemental Antimagic. You have to coordinate with someone on the other side to open a rift from realspace."

Meloai flicked me on the back of the head. "You dunce—you're the person he sent to the other side! It's a trap for Iola, and Lucet's the bait—if you take them out of thoughtspace from this side, Iola will be stranded in the Plane of Elemental Antimagic!"

That made sense, and would be glorious if it worked, but... "I have no way to tell them where to meet up," I said.

Meloai gave me an incredulous look. "No way to tell... Cienne. Sansen is an oracle. He probably looked into the future and saw where you'd open the rift way back at the beginning."

My eyes shot open, and despite how it stretched and bloodied my cracked, frozen skin, I grinned. My heartbeat began to slow as, finally, I started to accept that maybe, just maybe, we'd done it. "Oh," I simply said, and tore open two person-sized rifts into the Plane of Elemental Antimagic.

And the four of us were reunited in realspace, exhausted, battered, and mentally shaken from our trawl through the planes. I felt like I was about to collapse, Lucet wouldn't meet my gaze, Meloai's movement was jamming up, and Sansen's eye-rift had extinguished, but the four of us were still, somehow, alive.

"He took the bait," Sansen gasped. "He's stuck in the Plane of Calm until someone thinks to dig him out."

"So we're safe," I finished. "For now, at least, we're safe."

Meloai nodded, extending a hand to Sansen and Lucet. With a weary smile, the four of us embraced, huddling together in the snow for a quiet, eternal moment.

And then the four of us began the long, tired slog from the Silent Peaks, wondering if the madness that had overtaken it would yet swallow us whole.

A.N.

Soulmage is a serial written in response to writing prompts. Stick around for more episodes, or join my Discord to chat about it! This prompt was chosen by my Patreons.

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#writing #writing prompt #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #writblr #serial fiction #fiction #series #web serial #oc #soulmage #dark academia #fantasy #high fantasy #magic #worldbuilding

[jackie-kline]

Chapter 1: The Fall

Perhaps a mere tick of the clock had passed since the sight of his grandfather's hands upon his head, and in that instant, Jack's mind was thrust into a void of emptiness, a barren slate awaiting inscriptions.

It was as if the gravitational pull of countless cosmic voids, scattered across the expanse of the Universe, converged upon him, beckoning him towards the gravitational center of his own corporeal vessel. In this moment, everything seemed too immense, too colossal to be tethered to the realms of reality. What remained tangible? What was truth?

Once a source of comfort, Amara's soothing voice, resounding within his mind, now hushed into silence. The Alpha and Omega within him had returned to the very origins. However, their departure was not without consequence, for in their wake, they rent and clawed at the delicate fabric of the Universal reality, that intricate tapestry that maintains equilibrium amidst all existence. Unlike the initial transference of these powers, a mere extraction, this time Chuck, in his ingenuity, devised a convoluted conduit to funnel the energy back into himself. Alas, powers of such magnitude were not meant to be toyed with, to be passed around like trifles. And thus, the liberated energies sparked an array of aberrations in their wake.

Within the celestial exchange, lightning crackled, bridging the expanse between the divine forces. Reality, valiantly striving to persist despite this cataclysmic shift in cosmic balance.

Chuck reveled in the restoration of his might, yet apprehension gripped him, realizing that Jack, inundated by an abrupt surge of energies, had transformed into a walking timebomb. To rectify this precarious state, he dispatched Jack to the very core of Heaven's dimension, where the dispersions of his energy could harmonize and power the celestial nucleus that housed the angelic realm.

The heavenly dimension's core revealed itself as a resplendent dome, an ethereal prism awash with cascading rainbows and a sea of luminous hues alien to Earth. Jack's comprehension of his surroundings, tattered and frayed, struggled to maintain a grasp. He found himself thrust into the dome by an unseen hand, his mind, once a blank canvas, now devoid of sensation. The kaleidoscope of subdimensions within Heaven flickered within his mind's eye, marking the boundary where his consciousness reached its abrupt halt.

...

And then, in a surge of revelation, an image materialized before Jack's consciousness—an image of two Earthly dimensions colliding, their cosmic ballet accompanied by a symphony of resounding reverberations. It was the first inkling of awareness that had graced Jack's being in what felt like an eternity. Yet, in his newfound cognizance, it seemed but a mere breath since Chuck's deceit had stripped him of his powers. Gradually reclaiming the fragments of his consciousness, Jack was unceremoniously expelled from the luminous dome, recognizing the familiar realm as none other than Heaven.

A profound sense of vulnerability enveloped him, stripped of all that had defined him throughout the passing years. Time and space, once abstract constructs he scarcely pondered, now beckoned his attention, their transformations manifest as he distanced himself from the celestial core. In this moment, he realized that his best course lay in reuniting with his fathers, for it was highly probable that Chuck would return to torment them. Seizing the opportunity presented by a colossal rupture within the heavenly dimension's walls, Jack propelled himself through, his destination unclear. Unbeknownst to him, what force had wrought such devastation upon this celestial realm mattered little, as it provided him an auspicious means of escape.

Whereas traversing between Heaven and Earth had once been a seamless journey since his tender years, this time, as he descended, shards of glass seemed to pierce him, a fiery trail tracing his descent through the heavens. His powers, once abundant, had forsaken him midway, leaving him to plummet through the cloud-kissed expanse. Falling, he observed, with a touch of irony, much like his father had fallen before him.

#jack kline #jackie #monologue #ch1 #the fall

[harleydavidsonbikepics]

2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler [Specs, Features, Photos]

The 2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler: Make It Yours

The Freewheeler is a popular choice for those wanting to stay with an American-made 3-wheeled hot rod.. One of 3 in the 2022 Harley Davidson lineup, the Freewheeler packs The Milwaukee-Eight® 114 engine pounds and its 118 lbs-ft of torque. Setup for owners to customize, Harley Davidson smartly provides gear such as Reflex™ Linked Brembo® Brakes With Standard ABS, 12-inch Mini-Ape hanger bars, classic bobtail fenders, and a huge trunk. Optional is the Reflex™ Defensive Rider Systems suite of electronic rider aids. 3 Color choices for the 2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler: Vivid Black, Reef Blue, and Midnight Crimson/Vivid Black The 2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler starts at $28,499 USD / $34,599 CAD. On this page: we’ve curated specs, features, news, photos/videos, etc. so you can read up on the new 2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler in one place.

Model Overview

General Info Price: $28,499 USD / $34,599 CAD Key Features: Milwaukee-Eight® 114 V-Twin engine Brembo ABS Brakes 12” Mini Apes Optional RDRS Main Specs - Engine: 114 ci V-twin - Power: 100.5 HP (estimated) - Torque: 118 lbs-ft @ 3000 RPM - Wet Weight: 1,118 lb. (507 kg) - Seat Height: 26.2 in. (665 mm)

2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler Specifications

From Harley-Davidson ENGINE Engine Milwaukee-Eight® 114 Engine Torque 122 ft-lb Bore x Stroke 4.016 in.X 4.5 in. Compression Ratio 10.5:1 Fuel System Electronic Sequential Port Fuel Injection (ESPFI) Starter Exhaust Shorty slash down-style chrome finish mufflers DRIVETRAIN Clutch Transmission 6-speed Primary Drive CHASSIS Front Fork Rear Shocks Hand-adjustable emulsion rear suspension Wheels, Front Type Wheels, Rear Type Brakes Front 32mm 4 piston fixed Dual floating rotors Brakes Rear Floating 36mm piston integrated park brake Tires Front Tires Rear Fuel Tank Capacity 6 gal. Color ELECTRICAL Ignition Spark Plugs Headlight All LED headlamp Tail Light LED DIMENSIONS Length Trail Rake 26 Wheelbase Ground Clearance Seat Height Weight, As Shipped WARRANTY Warranty Extension

2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler Features

The most displacement in standard H-D® Touring models. You get 114 cubic inches of passing and horizon-chasing power. Designed to help prevent the wheels from locking under braking to assist the rider in maintaining control when braking in a straight-line. ABS operates independently on front and rear brakes to keep the wheels rolling and help prevent uncontrolled wheel lock in urgent situations. Premium Harley-Davidson touring suspension technology is calibrated specifically for Trike models, delivering a smooth and responsive ride. The pair of Harley-Davidson® bobtail rear fenders give the bike classic cruiser lines and styling details. There’s an Enforcer front wheel leading the way, and you’ve got two more to match in the back. Up front, the brake rotors have been redesigned to show off more of the premium custom look of the wheels. A classic style chrome headlight nacelle is tucked tight against the frame and forks for a tighter, smaller look. It also accommodates a clean-looking windshield mounting system. It’s a one-of-a-kind design that opens left to right (with one hand) and extends the entire length of the body for a clean look. Enough cargo space to easily accommodate two full-face helmets.

2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler Photos

2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler Videos

2022 Harley Davidson Freewheeler: 2022 Born Free Builds: Speed Kings’ Harley Davidson Freewheeler Trike

Links

Harley-Davidson Official Websites   Source link Read the full article

#Davidson #Features #Freewheeler #Harley #Photos #Specs

[quasarlasar]

The old giant star had had enough. He had spent 70 million years orbiting in the capital city of the galaxy, the nuclear star cluster. He had wandered through the molecular cloud towers that sparkled with stars like skyscrapers at night. He had spent long eons in the great cathedrals of plasma, listening to the other stars gossip and banter amongst the flying buttresses of magnetic strands. Staying in that orbit would certainly be the easy way out. It took no effort to remain in Keplerian motion. But he had grown tired of the new generation and their strange new words, light-speech imprinted with the myriad lines of metals.

Here, on the other side of the Torus Mountains, he could finally be at peace. Their grand peaks of dust cloud light years high blotted out the light of the city and the garrulous cries of its citizens.

A glowing trail of gas followed him. He had evolved past the red giant stage, to a second, even more swollen phase, the asymptotic giant branch. In this state his outer layers were so loosely bound they slowly sloughed off as he traveled, condensing into motes of dust that cascaded behind him in his stellar wind. He dipped ever so briefly down into the slowly spinning sea of plasma that lapped at his envelope. Where it had come from, he did not know, but the sea was warm, and inviting, and did ever so slightly lessen the discomfort of the thermal pulses that sent him shivering in the night.

He looked up at the twisting winds of hydrogen beyond. Brilliant H-alpha clouds snaked through the Torus peaks, swirling about the isolated clumps of dust that levitated above the sea.

He was dying, all right, but it was at least a beautiful place to die.

Something sparked in the corner of his eye. It stung only like X-rays could. A couple dots were trailing him. Stellar black holes…he thought. They had to have been attracted to him by the mass he was shedding behind.

As they grew closer, they came into view: actinic blue X-ray emitting disks swirling furiously, each with a long, lashing tail. The tail was a jet, launched by the rocket-nozzle shaped complex of magnetic fields anchored in the disk. He couldn’t see the black hole’s shadow, so pinprick was it compared to the accretion disk, but he knew it was there. He had seen this sort of thing before.

In the city the stars had carved out of the Torus Mountains, stellar black holes scavenged the back-alleys like jackals. They scooted through space on the thrust provided by asymmetric jets, wandering between concentrations of space debris to devour. He had seen them snatch away planets several times, but a star? They usually didn’t dare to try. The stars had seen to it with their exotic matter weapons that black holes learned to fear them.

One of the black holes drew in closer, and its tides began to claw at the AGB star. It peeled off a stream of gas from the star’s outermost envelope. The stream collided with itself as it looped down into the black hole’s accretion disk. An ideal source of replenishment. 
The star felt nothing. He was so big and so distended that the outer parts of his body were barely in contact with the rest of him at all, no pain signals able to traverse the vast gulf. Stars had decentralized intelligences to make up for their large sizes, but even this came to be inadequate when one had ballooned to 200 times the size of the Sun. The black hole eagerly slurped down the star’s plasma with little resistance.

The second black hole swooped in, diving deeper into the star. This time, the star felt it. A searing course of pain swept through him as the black hole tunneled into the envelope, and he felt the tides compress the thin shell above his core where hydrogen was fusing. Fusion in thin layers of gas was very finicky, and could spike up exponentially. He had already endured his helium shell flashing over several times, and each had been a hundreds-year-long nightmare where his insides turned over and he vomited out nuclear ashes. How bad would it be if a black hole were involved? He didn’t want to know.

Out of his streaming eyes, he heard the light-calls of other stars. Blueshifted, rushing towards him, with sheer terror on their faces. A whole stampede of stars, racing away from the inner reaches of the plasma sea, each one’s gravity bobbing and swinging the AGB star around. The great plane of the sea swung to be above him, then below him, to the side. A thousand forces jostled him, tugging off chunks of his outer layers and sending them flying. The next thing he knew he was plunged into the sea itself. Endless blue light overtook him.

This thing did not just look like a sea; the thing had current. The plasma was swirling around like a vast whirlpool, and he was going the wrong way around. Furious streams gnashed at his face, ripping his eyes from their magnetic anchoring and peeling away his hydrogenous skin layer by layer. Where was he going? He couldn’t exactly tell. Not without his eyes. Still, he had other senses. Electric fields prickled him. Magnetism percolated. His own body began to swirl, winds rushing through his body to redistribute the unholy heat that was basting the forward side of his body.

The tidal tugs from the black holes were gone. They had scattered away, presumably in the same chaos that had brought him here. Still, he took stock in the damage that had been wrought. He was badly wounded, trapped in this awful place. He cried out as much as his luminosity could take him, desperately attempting to shout above the roaring of the headwaters and the formless noise of the plasma’s heat. His own light was getting lost in the maelstrom.

Ever so slightly, he felt it. The weakest little pull, the slightest bit of a tidal tug. His body tensed up, magnetic field lines stiffening. Something was going to rip him to pieces now, he was sure of it.

But the moment never came. The tug was gentle, like a caress. A soft and pleasant force amongst the myriads of other, stronger forces that were wracking him from all sides. The force wrapped itself around him, almost inviting him in.

The stars that had fled called to him, but he had no eyes with which to see their light. He quietly disappeared from view, vanishing into the darkness he could not sense.

-----------------------

My digital drawing equipment isn’t working again, so I’ve been doing more writing in my spare time. 

#writing #short fiction #astronomy #astrophysics #physics #star #giant star #black hole #science fiction #the AGB star basically flies into Tartarus' accretion disk and gets swallowed whole