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bodyguard: the first guard | part one | chan/reader

masterlist. part one of the previous story.

PART ONE.

( READ ON AO3. )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. please note this story will contain a great deal of physical violence, some committed against the reader and some committed by her. this will include fighting, training, torture, and parental abuse. there will also be explicit sexual content. chapter word count: 7500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Felix takes his place in formation. He is the youngest in the youth regiment at only ten years old, but he is no less competent. They all belong to the same special-ops program, a group of specially selected children raised for armed service. They are in the employ of Mister Miroh – and he says they will save the world.

The world is full of shadows, dank black holes and grimy stains so embedded that no regular agent can scrub them out. The young subjects of the soldier program are not regular agents. Their existence is their mission.

Felix has no life outside of the house of Miroh.

He stands straight. He looks forward. His feet are the appropriate width apart and his hands are folded behind his back. He holds this position as the trainers scour the lined formation, studying the young soldiers and reprimanding any flaw.

They need the best soldier for this mission. This is the most important assignment the regiment will ever receive. Felix has trained his whole life for this.

“Miroh has many enemies,” speaks the head trainer. It is a familiar speech, more important now than ever. “But our target is his local rival. This enemy family has been a corrupting force for generations, taking through inheritance what it has not earned. Miroh is not like The Enemy. Miroh is a solider like you. He came from nothing, fought for scraps, and built his own business one brick at a time. He understands the world and he will fix it through you. You will be his hands in the places he cannot reach. Your role is an honourable one.”

A trainer passes Felix. Felix straightens his spine that last infinitesimal degree. They touch his shoulder but do not reprimand him. It makes his pulse hammer with anticipation.

Felix is one of the best. There is a possibility they will pick him, if only because the actual best has a habit of—

“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Chris’s voice comes from a few rows back. “You know what they say: all work and no play makes—”

He is interrupted by a whoosh of air, probably a trainer punching him in the stomach. Felix closes his eyes so he does not wince.

“Bang Christopher Chan,” the head trainer says, his voice booming across the facility floor. “Step forward.”

Felix hears a frustrated sigh, then Chris stomps through the lines to reach the front row. Everyone looks at him.

He is an unassuming character. Not very tall but deceptively strong. Curly black hair and dimpled cheeks. Felix remembers that smile, the lilting and friendly, “Call me Chris,” when Felix was just six years old and first thrown into the regiment.

Bang “Call Me Chris” Chan is the best soldier here. Or he would be, if he did not hate the honour.

Even now he is glaring. Like the rest of them, he is dressed in combat clothes, the pitch black of Miroh. Unlike the rest of them, he stands with a lazy hunch in his shoulders. His dark hair is dishevelled and he scowls like a petulant teenager. He is thirteen going on fourteen but he is far from a normal teenage boy. Even compared to the rest of them, Chris is something special.

“Bang Chan,” the head trainer says. “You have been chosen for this assignment. Congratulations.”

Felix is not surprised. When Chris is forced to apply himself, it is abundantly clear he is the best soldier in the program by a huge margin. Felix is also not surprised when Chris responds with his usual verve and ire.

“Yeah, uh, you can go ahead and shove your congratulations up your ass, mate,” Chris says. He crosses his arms stubbornly. “Even if we kill this guy, do you really expect us to believe that’s the end of it? You’re putting us in the middle of a fight we didn’t start.”

He addresses the soldiers behind him just as much as the trainer. He even glances at Felix who glares back at him, unimpressed with the rebellious dramatics. Chris never learns. He gets more chances than the rest of them because he is so good. If he wanted, he could be unstoppable. He could use his strengths for good.

Instead, he just looks at the trainer and shakes his head.

“Nah,” Chris says. “You started this fight. I’m not ending it.”

A few of the adult guards move towards him. The gathered soldiers take a collective breath, watching with anticipation. It is common knowledge that thirteen year old Bang Chan can take a regular adult guard in a matter of seconds. When it comes to Chris, the question is not who will win, but will he fight at all?

He stands there like he has no intention of fighting. But before anyone can grab him, the door opens.

Miroh enters.

The room is so tense and silent, his footsteps reverberate like thunder. Miroh is every inch a soldier even in his blazer and tie. He walks with purpose, his face intent.

Walking behind him, keeping decent pace despite her smaller frame, is his daughter.

Miroh is a fighter who does not believe in unearned inheritance, so his daughter is trainee soldier like the rest of them. She is the same age as Chris. She trains with the regiment, one of the better agents, but she was not in contention for this particular job. People have tried to kill The Enemy before and it did not work, resulting in the death of innocents. Miroh wants a strong heir and he is not above putting her through the same grueling regime as the rest of them, but he will not recklessly risk her life.

It is fair to Felix. Miroh’s world makes sense. He believes in it. He believes in him.

So he is rapt as Miroh approaches.

The adult guards fall back and the young soldiers stand at attention. Miroh’s jaw is set with grim determination. He stares at Chris.

Chris drops his crossed arms. He is smart enough not to run his mouth at Miroh directly, but his frustration is clearly simmering beneath the surface. His fingers curl and uncurl in little fists.

Miroh stands in front of him. He speaks loud enough to address the entire room.

“I do not begrudge your desire for information,” Miroh says. “You’re soldiers, not animals. I acknowledge that you wish to know about the long-term goals for this company. But that is not your job or your purpose. This business is deliberately compartmentalized so if one cog in the machine fails, the apparatus does not cease to function. The results of your missions speak for themselves. What we’re doing is good work. That is all that matters.”

“Says you,” Chris blurts. Even he looks surprised by his own retort, though he does not take it back. He looks Miroh in the eye.

Miroh looks back. Then he reaches into the holster beneath his long coat and draws a gun. It is smooth, second-nature. Miroh is used to getting his hands dirty. His steady hand points the gun at Chris.

The trigger has not been pulled but the trainers already flinch. They know Chris is the best and they have worked hard to shape him, even if his stubborn mind is not molded as easily as his body.

Chris, himself, does not flinch. He stares down the barrel, unrelenting.

“You don’t want to do that.”

The soft interjection makes everyone pause. Heads turn and eyes dart, everyone’s attention transferring to the thirteen year old girl in the shadows.

Miroh does not lower the gun but he looks at his daughter. Chris looks at her too. Felix is not sure who is more bewildered.

The girl, herself, is calm. She has indubitably mastered a stoic countenance, not a hint of emotion anywhere on her young face.

“He’s the First Guard,” she states simply. “This is not worth killing him over.”

The First Guard. The other kids in the regiment sometimes call Chris that, though he doesn’t like it so it is usually behind his back. Chris does not like that he has been singled out. Chris does not like anything about the program.

This is Miroh’s second attempt at the youth soldier program. The operation raises soldiers from childhood to fight, to withstand pain, to feel no fear. This training is supplemented with medical treatments, hormonal injections that are only effective if administered in the crucial developmental years of childhood. It aids in building a body for soldiership, to take a hit just a little harder than most.

Chris is the only survivor from the first round of injections. He survived every test that followed. He is stronger for it, even stronger than the rest of them. He is a singular asset. He will never be replicated.

Thanks to The Enemy, none of them will ever be replicated. The Enemy recently attempted to recruit Miroh’s developers and killed them when he did not succeed. Detailed knowledge of the treatment died with them.

Miroh can never accomplish anything with his enemy on perpetual offense. Felix knows the stories like the rest of them, the generations of corruption wrought by a single wealthy family with its iron fist wrapped around the country’s throat. Miroh wants to free them. Felix knows if they kill this one man, if the household is left to rot in the hands of its weak successor, then Miroh can finally set everyone free.

It is a noble honour.

Chris does not see it that way. He never has. Maybe it is different for him, having watched those other children die. Felix understands it was a sacrifice, but a necessary one. The Enemy cannot be killed by a regular soldier. So many more innocents will die if he is left unchecked. Surely that is worth the price of a few soldiers. Wars have casualties. It will be worth it.

It has to be worth it.

Bang Chan, the First Guard – call me Chris – takes a deep breath. It sounds frustrated. He glares at Miroh’s daughter who is unaffected.

Felix looks between them. Then his gaze lands on another soldier in the formation. Seo Changbin is in the first row, a boy one year older than Felix. Not the best soldier, not second best, but not the worst. His most notable trait is his humour and his friendship with Miroh’s daughter. They are close – at least as close as anyone can be down here.

Changbin is looking at her right now, his gaze searing with intensity. Their eyes meet briefly and he shakes his head, a small motion, just enough for her to see. Despite his clear warning to stop, she is not dissuaded from addressing her father.

“With all due respect, sir,” she says to Miroh, “Eliminating Bang Chan would be a mistake. He’s the best soldier in the operation.”

“The best,” Miroh says. He presses the barrel of the gun against Chris’s forehead. Chris goes tense and everyone takes a breath.

His daughter is still unmoved. She is a quiet character in general. Felix has barely heard her speak never mind argue. She keeps her head down and goes about her work obediently. She is a good daughter and a better soldier.

Maybe that is why Miroh hesitates.

“He is not the best if this is how he conducts himself,” Miroh says.

“Father, aren’t you the best at what you do?” she asks without hesitation. “Surely a proper soldier like you should be able to control a little boy. Are you saying you are not capable of that task? It takes no skill to shoot a teenager. What message do you send to the rest of us if you have to resort to desperate measures to keep your own army in line?”

The silence is deafening. Even with a gun plastered to his forehead, a little dimple of amusement pops in Chris’s cheek. Changbin exhales. Felix is sick of standing still but he holds his form despite the growing tension.

The seconds feel like hours. Eventually, Miroh lowers the gun.

“Guards,” he says. The adult guards are immediately at his side. “My daughter has faith in our order. I would be remiss as a father to fail her.” He looks down at Chris and speaks with a snarl in his upper lip, “Let us all try our best to succeed.”

Miroh snaps his fingers and points at Chris. The guards swarm him, two of them taking an arm each. At least Chris is smart enough not to struggle. He is an indomitable force but he does not have an army at his call. He lets himself be seized.

“Take him to the Cell,” Miroh says.

An instinctive hiss leaves the mouths of a few soldiers. They have all been trained to withstand various degrees of torture, but the Cell is one of the worst. Even Felix shudders at the mention of it. It is a small windowless room buried deep in the bunker of the training facility, a small prison cell with no light and no warmth. Everyone has taken a turn in isolation, camped on the hard ground in the damp and cold and dark. Down there, minutes feel like days, days like years. At least literal torture causes sensation. The Cell is a great black nothing.

Chris does not argue, knowing it would be useless, but he does glare at Miroh as he is hauled away.

“Take her too,” Miroh says.

With a snap of his fingers, two more guards surface and grab his daughter. Her stoic expression finally fractures, true surprise bursting on her face.

“Me?” she asks.

“As my daughter, your perspective is acknowledged and appreciated,” he says. “As a soldier, you need to remember your place. Throw them in together. Double the people, double the time.”

Felix would not want to be shoved in that tiny space with another person. Certainly not if the trade was double the duration.

But then, Felix does not like company. He does not understand the exhausted look on Changbin’s face. Changbin isn’t being punished, so why would he feel anything?

Felix watches. He holds his form even where others begin to wane.

The guards and their prisoners leave. The door closes and Miroh looks over the regiment.

“Who’s the second best?” Miroh asks.

There is a beat of silence, the scene settling. The trainer finally clears his throat and looks down at his papers.

“Lee Felix Yongbok,” he says in that booming voice. Felix’s heart soars just as high. “Step forward.”

Felix marches forward, keeps his eyes ahead. Miroh approaches him. Felix does not flinch, not even when Miroh circles him like prey.

“He’s young,” Miroh says. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“I want to do good,” Felix answers. “I’m ready.”

They put a gun in his hand and a beanie on his head. He enters the world looking like a normal ten year old boy.

He puts a bullet in the head of The Enemy.

He suspects one day he will be back for the son and granddaughter.

He hopes it will be soon.

P R E S E N T D A Y

Despite your father’s remarkable propensity for making you feel like a child, you are a grown adult. You are intelligent and conniving and dangerously competent. In some ways, having been raised like a soldier beneath his merciless iron fist, you are more steadfast, more severe. Your life is carved into his, your fates tethered as one to his success. You are your father’s daughter, a Miroh, irrevocably a product of his upbringing.

You do not show weakness. You do not throw tantrums. You might spend twenty minutes in the lobby bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, and you might spend another five minutes shining your shirt buttons, then ten more folding and re-folding the lapel of your long coat – but walking into his office almost forty minutes late is not the same thing as throwing a tantrum.

You think you’re composed until you walk through that door, then the week’s anxieties expand in the cage of your chest. You are capable but you are not stupid. Miroh might be your father but he is a totalitarian man of influence and it would be foolish not to be wary of his power.

You are more apprehensive than you appear, but you march in there like a soldier, shoulders back and head high. You inherited your father’s marble expressions and stone stature. No one would ever guess your palms were so clammy, your neck hot and damp with sweat.

“I’m here,” you say by way of greeting. You are not characters to indulge in artificial small talk. There is no affection here and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone’s time.

“I won’t bother with pre-amble,” he says, predictably. ”You know why you’re here.”

“I do,” you say. “And I don’t agree with it.”

“I know you don’t.”

The argument ends just like that. You knew it was a dead-end protestation before you opened your mouth, but you had to say something. You are adamantly opposed to your father’s latest imposition.

A personal, twenty-four hour bodyguard. For you.

The decision was not made lightly. Your father’s business rival perished just under a month ago, the bloody circumstances extreme and mysterious. Until Miroh can ascertain what truly transpired at that house on that fateful night, then he cannot be too careful when it comes to guarding his own legacy.

Your father is a military tactician and business man. He is in the habit of bracing for every eventuality with a detached, pragmatic determination. Of course he wants you watched. This bodyguard assignment is imperative in protecting his house.

“I have a security team,” you say.

“They are insufficient,” he replies.

“I trained them myself.”

“They are too numerous.”

“I’ll cut down the roster.”

“Rotations open vulnerabilities.”

“And who’s to replace them?” Your patience snaps. “One of your dogs?”

“You are also one of my dogs,” he says, voice soft for such a venomous retort. It stings like a slash across your chest. “I would not disparage them.”

“Oh, of course, my apology.” You speak with the same false gentility. “What a thoughtful master you are.”

“I must be,” he says, “because the dogs still come when I call.”

There is so much contempt in his voice. He looks at you with more hatred than he ever directed to his worst enemy. It makes you want to leap across this room and throttle him with your bare hands, like you can shake the animosity right out of him.

You are too old to feel like a little girl on the verge of tears, demanding to know why her father does not love her. You have long since accepted there is no easy answer to that question. You would say that Miroh is simply not capable of love but you know that is not true. He can love. He just doesn’t love you.

You are the perfect heir, his exact replica in ability and countenance, but it is not enough. It will never be enough. No matter what you do, no matter how faithfully you obey him. You have bloodied your hands in the shadows while he takes the public credit. You have helped build the reputation of the family name. You have given him everything.

He rewards you with this.

You are not stupid. Regardless of his excuses, he does not want you under surveillance for your protection. You both know your personal training puts you leagues ahead of the overwhelming majority of agents. Your security team is a superfluous accessory as is.

Miroh has just witnessed the collapse of a previously impenetrable legacy. This does not put him at ease. The battle technician accounts for every possible manoeuvre. You know he foresees his own downfall just as easily as he sees his success. Unseated before his time, reputation annihilated, replaced by someone as savage and persistent as him.

A bodyguard will not protect you from the world. It will protect Miroh from you.

For all your inner turmoil, you are a steadfast rock, standing across your father in his office and exchanging a knowing glance. You are just like him. Of course he is scared of you. Of course he hates you. Of course he needs you.

The feeling is devastatingly mutual.

“Who is it?” you ask, calmly.

“Agent Slump, step forward,” your father calls one of the guards posted at the back wall. “This is your new bodyguard officer. He will accompany you at all times, day and night, including your office hours and service train—”

The agent steps forward as your father speaks. You draw your gun out of your chest holster and shoot when the man steps into your periphery. It blows through his shoulder and knocks him down, all in a piercing shriek that reverberates around the small room. The other guards flinch in the ringing aftermath.

You look at your father and re-holster your gun. You lay the lapel of your long coat back over your chest.

“He leaves something to be desired,” you say. “I would have thought you learned your lesson with these undertrained toy soldiers. Maybe a better bodyguard would have kept your wife alive.”

Your own mother died during complications in childbirth. Miroh remarried a few years later, a woman he genuinely seemed to cherish, a woman who was killed in retaliation for a deal gone sour. Nothing fills your father with more righteous fury than the mention of her. Miroh loved her almost as much as he hates you.

You know better than to retaliate with such childish rejoinders, but you want to hit him where it hurts, see something real on that stoic face. It garners you a flicker of rage, bathed in all that loathing, and it makes you smile.

“Let me know if you can find a competent replacement,” you say. “Until then, I have work to do.”

You turn heel and march to the door. The guards move out of your way despite lack of command. They have never respected you the way they respect your father, but they do fear you and it works the same way.

You are dressed for the office but after an unproductive hour spent stewing in agitation, you give up. The head of your security team accompanies you across town to the primary training facilities. Hidden in plain site, here Miroh has trained and developed some of his most deadly assets.

You are one of those assets. You spent your childhood in this facility, training among an elite selection of children, raised for the purpose of violence and victory. It was a unique program. It has never been revived, the medicant administered to the children lost and yet to be replicated.

You are one of the few still living.

Your training was relatively more lax. As Miroh’s daughter, the trainers could not let you die. But neither he nor they had qualms with letting you suffer. Miroh never admonished them and you never complained, at the time naively thinking that if you could prove yourself then he would care about you.

A foolish aspiration long since abandoned.

But the training has served you well over the years. It certainly comes in handy when you need to fucking punch something.

Your security team is comprised of regular soldiers so it does not take much to best them in a fight. The exertion is nonetheless liberating. You have always felt more at ease in action than behind a desk. Combat clothes are less stifling than formalwear. There is a reason Miroh never paraded you at parties the way his late enemy did with his late daughter. Your place is in a fight and always has been.

After a few rounds in the ring, you stop to rest. Your team knows when to leave you alone to brood. You lay back on the mat, flat in the ring.

There is a moment, as often passes, where you question your entire life. It has been a long, vicious fight, clawing your way to your position, that the road back out seems like an impossibly arduous task. Too much has happened, too much pain and loss. It has to mean something.

You cannot surrender now. The very thought has you reeling, physically painful to even consider.

This is where you belong. It is an irrevocable truth. You are a Miroh.

“Yah, murder princess,” comes a voice and the thud of booted steps. “Just three rounds? Tsk. You’re getting soft.”

You roll over, grinning even though you know better. You look up at Changbin who is dressed in similar fatigues, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark bangs brushing his smirking face.

“I was waiting for a real fight,” you reply. “Looks like I’m still waiting.”

He barks out a laugh.

Changbin is one of the few survivors of your father’s special-ops program. Unlike others who were imported from your father’s overseas operations, Changbin was raised right here alongside you. You do not even remember meeting him; he has just always been there.

He is a few years younger but he always held your attention, both because of his skill and his ability to retain a sense of humour. It was an often sought breath of relief in the conditions of your training.

You look at Changbin now, grinning and more jovial than someone like him should be. It is a testament to his resolute strength that he can hold a dual personality inside him. He has always been that way. He can flip between a stoic soldier and goofy guy in the blink of an eye. It is part of the reason you have never let yourself entirely trust him. Though you are fond of him, he is like you: just a little too good at what he does.

“Haha, the princess thinks she’s a comedian now,” Changbin says. He nudges you with the tip of his boot. “If you want to make me laugh, you should try fighting.”

“Oh, I see.” You cannot help but rise to his bait, like always. He is a perpetual little brother even though he is not your real brother and certainly not little anymore.

You swipe at him and he jumps back. Just like that, the pair of you fall into a long practiced dance.

It is not the gentle footwork of a real dance, but a violent collision and parry of limbs. It is just as musical and in sync, and somehow almost as tender. You know each other’s weaknesses as well as strengths. You know how to beat each other and how to prolong surrender, where to give advantage so the other can continue. You used to fight until the trainers called a tie, saving you both from selection for the loser’s punishment. To everyone else, it looked like a fight. To you, it was a conversation and consolation. Even if you had been in solitude for weeks, in that moment you were not alone.

Changbin reads you now, in every swipe and jump and dodge. In your matching black clothes and matching strength you collide and converse. Your frustration strains in every vein and his enquires are plain in the deliberate pause of his complicated steps.

“Daddy problems, ah, murder princess?” he asks, grinning.

He catches your fist before it collides with that smirk, twisting your wrist so you are forced to follow with a heavy drop. You roll together, a back and forth until you individually spring to your feet and face each other. You wait for the next move with equal calculation.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, batting a hit.

“Really?” he asks. “Because there are rumours in the pig pen that the general was looking for a big strong soldier to protect his little princess.”

He lets you clock his jaw but it is a satisfying smack nonetheless. A drop of aggravation is wrung out with your sweat. You wipe your brow.

“There was a change of plans,” you say.

Changbin laughs. He is loud, always so loud for someone who can be so stealthy.

“Of course!” he shouts. “Keeping the doctors busy today, are you?”

He really knows you too well. It is mutual. You side-step a movement and body-check him.

“Guess that’s what the general gets for choosing from the pig pen,” you say. You infuse your father’s title with all the sardonic venom it deserves and pig pen with the same playful mockery as always.

“Don’t be jealous,” Changbin teases right back, catching your taunt as easily as he catches your punch. “If you keep practicing, one day you might be almost as good as me.” He has been making the same wisecrack for years, laughing to himself every single time.

“Funny,” you say dryly.

“I am the best,” he continues to tease, embellishing his movements with an unnecessarily dramatic flair. “I’m sure that’s why the general doesn’t want me on bodyguard duty, right? I need a real job, not protecting the princess.”

There are a few rapid-fire moves, too taxing for speech. Then you manage, “Right.” You take his offered opening and catch the back of his knee with yours. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your probation after the last field mission.”

You expect to take him down but you do not expect the weight of his crash. It is not like Changbin to fully collapse under you, almost like he was truly surprised.

You are just as dazed by the impact. You loom over him, staring bemusedly, like you have no idea how he got on the floor.

It is not like Changbin to take a hit so personally. Of all your father’s soldiers, he was always the best at shrugging off his individuality in favour of a mission. He does not tend to dwell on his losses anymore than he lingers in his victories. The past is a heavy thing to carry into battle. He knows to leave it behind. There is always another job around the corner.

“You’re not still upset about that?” you ask.

The mission was shortly before the enemy’s downfall. Years ago, one of your father’s child soldiers betrayed an operation. Lee Felix switched sides and the enemy did not let your father forget it. But Miroh is an ever-calculating general who knows which battles are worth fighting.�� After one failed attempt at seizing the enemy’s daughter, he waited until the enemy came to him instead.

When he finally did, you caught him. You sent Changbin after his daughter and waited for the enemy’s imminent surrender. He retracted his operation but Felix, that loose canon of a traitor-turned-bodyguard, fucked the Mirohs a second time and disappeared with her. They all died a week later.

Changbin was noticeably uneasy after the job, but you did not think much of it. You were not worried about Changbin taking the mission too personally. Yes, Felix was a former soldier in this regiment, but Changbin is not sentimental. You chalked up his despondency to his loss. It is not like him to let a target slip through his fingers.

“Upset,” Changbin says. “Me?”

You know him too well. The joking tone is diminished, buried beneath the weight of his gloom. He tries to smile but it does not fit on his face, too big and too wide of a grin.

You tip your head, your regard scrutinous. You have no idea how to talk to him with real depth. You look at each other and understand it, but vocalizing it is another matter entirely.

Like he can read your thoughts, his face scrunches up and he says, “Yah, you, cut that out!” He shoves you as he gets to his feet, both of you stumbling. “I’m fine,” he says. “Come on, hit me again.”

You are certainly better at conversing that way.

You take a starting stance but you are interrupted when someone from your security team whistles. It is a warning whistle, the sharp tone a code for the arrival of your father.

You and Changbin straighten, turning to watch as Miroh approaches with a flank of armed guards behind him. They are all dressed for combat in their black uniforms and black masks. The half-mask is regulation for all field agents. It covers the bottom half of the face and serves as protection in the event of smoke from explosions or exposure to noxious aerosols and gasses.

It also undoubtedly turns a human soldier into a less-than-human figure. It obscures features, faces, flaws.

Sharp eyes stare at you, every face uniform and expressionless. There are half a dozen of them. Your father’s usual security detail trails behind them. Your security team eyes them in turn. The whole room feels like a pot about to boil over.

“What is this?” you demand.

“This is my adherence to our agreement,” your father says.

“Our agreement?” you ask.

“Yes.” He stops in the middle of the room, standing straight and steady. He looks at ease, like he barges in here with a small army every day. “You tasked me to find a competent replacement bodyguard,” he says. “So here is how this will go: whichever agent can beat you in a fight, right here, right now, will be your new bodyguard. If you defeat them all, I will drop the issue and leave the matter of your personal security to you.”

You look at his soldiers then at him. You force yourself to composure. It is not like you to instigate so much confrontation. You prefer to keep your head down and get the job done. Your father does not love you but he knows your work is reliable. Usually that is enough.

This entire escapade with the enemy has unravelled everyone. The house of Miroh should be more stable than ever, your father taking over assets left behind by the enemy, but the whole world feels changed. It is off its axis. You feel unsteady, your body braced for attack with no reprieve. You feel like you are looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. Everything feels wrong.

In difficult times, you fall back on training and soldier instinct. You are a battle technician, just as competent as your father. He is not going to drop the issue and this is a fair compromise. You can fight these guards. Half a dozen well-trained field agents is a handful but not impossible. Your body is built to be a little faster, a little stronger, to take a hit harder.

“Fine,” you say, a single grating syllable. You bite the word. Through clenched teeth, you add, “Let’s do this.”

You and Changbin exchange a look. He reflects your confusion, knowing you can easily take these guards, knowing Miroh knows that too. It makes you feel even more uneasy. Your father must be planning something but you do not know what. But you cannot control him. You can only control yourself. You can fight these guys. You can win.

You take a swig of water then stretch. The first guard takes a position in the fighting ring. You brace yourselves with a starting stance, measuring the other.

You wait, sweat dripping down your brow. You feel their eyes on you, every soldier, your father, your friend. Changbin stands off to the side, sitting in shadows.

It is where your kind belongs. You are not regular soldiers.

The fight begins and you take him down swiftly. Your game with Changbin was just that, a game. This is real. This is a battle. This is what your body was made to do.

One by one, you take out the agents. They charge at you, they swing at you, they even try to taunt you. You deflect it all. Your fist connects with a temple, your foot their knee. You pop joints and flip soldiers and springboard back to action.

You are getting tired by the last soldier but you do not let it show. You sweat profusely, breathing hard, but you run at him and take him down. Your bodies are a swirl of limbs and powerful movements. Then he is on the ground, groaning, and you are rising, victorious.

“Well?” you say. You cannot help but grin, elated from the sheer exertion of exercise, and proud of your triumph. There is a small, stupid part of you that hopes underneath everything, your father is proud too. That he must relent and admit you are good.

Miroh just stands there, unmoving and unaffected. It dims your smile, frustration returning. It simmers hot beneath your skin. It distracts you.

Pain explodes in your left cheek, so sharp and searing it turns the world dark for half a second. You see lightning flashes as you stumble, falling onto your side. There is another guard in front of you, one you did not even see enter the room. Did he drop down from the ceiling?

He is a blurry shape. You blink the stars out of your eyes, holding your throbbing head until clarity returns.

Then your stomach drops.

It is not a guard looming over you. He wears the same black combat uniform and the same half-mask, but everything about him is different, everything from his build to his stance to the ice cold slash of his dark eyes. Emotionless. Empty.

“Ah, I see,” you say, a breathless slur of words. You cannot stop your voice from shaking. “The First Guard. I should have known.”

There are only two living soldiers who can fight at your level. The only two survivors of your father’s special-ops program. One of them is Seo Changbin.

The other is Bang Christopher Chan.

He stands over you in his combat gear, unflinching and barely human. Even without the mask, you doubt you would see any humanity. There is not a single shred of the boy he once was. Chan was a problem for Miroh, once. That was a very long time ago.

That boy, Chris, is dead. He has been dead for years. The soldier in front of you is someone – something – else.

You get to your feet, slowly and shakily. He watches you. He does not speak and he barely blinks, his gaze a meticulous perusal, his body braced for anything.

Chan has the bloodiest, dirtiest hands of them all. He does your father’s worst missions, assignments with details that even you are barred from knowing. He is terrifyingly efficient, deadlier than any weapon in Miroh’s arsenal, and that is saying something because it is a substantial arsenal.

Your own hands are dirty but it is nothing in comparison. He is fast, he is deadly, and he feels nothing. He looks at you like a machine scans a calculation. A broken bone here, a fracture there. You are certain he is already picturing a hundred different ways to contort your broken body.

“Right,” you say.

You are a strategist. You know how to fight. You know when not to fight. But it is like instinct. You look at him and something says fight him.

You feel your father’s eyes on you. You are not sure who is teaching who a lesson.

You take a swing at Chan. He dodges it. He swings too, faster, but you anticipate it. You tuck and roll, moving faster than you have ever moved in your life. You are seldom pushed to the brink of your abilities like this. Even half your skillset is double what most adversaries possess.

But Chan is too much. You spend the fight on constant defense, blocking swing after swing, hit after hit. You take advantage of the smallest opening and crack your fist on his chest, only to realize he deliberately opened himself to it. He grabs your wrist and twists you around before you can retaliate. You are not used to such brute strength. You follow his twisting to prevent a sprain or fracture, which he anticipates. He grabs you by the throat and yanks you into him, right off your feet.

You choke, blue swarming your rapidly blurring vision. He slams you down on the ground, further disorienting you, still clutching your neck.

You dive somewhere deep inside your head. You collect yourself as per your training, then swing your knee up between his legs. It does not fully incapacitate him but it does discombobulate him. He lets go of your throat and you slide between his legs, jumping up behind him. He turns just in time to take a kick to the stomach, blasting him backwards to the end of the ring. He prevents a worse fall by forcing himself down on one knee.

You take the second he is down to catch your breath. You try to calculate your next move but your adrenaline is dwindling. Hopelessness settles in your chest. You cannot win this fight. At best, you can prolong it, but—

For the second time, you are blind-sided by pain. It shatters down the right side of your body, a winded shove that blows right through you. But it is not Chan. Chan is still getting to his feet.

You look up only for Changbin to bring his fist down in your face. It knocks you off your feet and you land with a heavy thud. Your heart races inside your aching chest.

You have never fought Changbin like this.

“What are you doing?” you hiss when he grabs you by the neck and drags you onto your feet. You come to your senses and fight back, but you are hurt and tired and he has been recuperating.

He punches you clear across the jaw and knocks you down again. The world tilts sideways, spotted with black and blue. Changbin drops on top of you. You cannot even wrestle him, so disoriented. He gets you flat on your front and pins you down.

Then he takes a second to whisper in your ear, “Stop fighting me, murder princess. Who do you want as a bodyguard? Me or that thing?”

If you were not so tired, you might have laughed.

Your life is so backwards. Changbin is helping you by beating the shit out of you. But it is undoubtedly helpful. He is right. If Chan beat you, then Chan would be your bodyguard. Your father would win. He would have one of his agents glued to your side. An agent you would never be able to shake no matter what you did.

But it is not Chan over you. It is your friend. Someone from the same shadows as you. Someone your father was not anticipating.

Changbin grabs you by the neck and yanks you up. You look at your father with blood dribbling out of your mouth.

“I win,” Changbin says.

Your father does not look happy. That should upset you. You and Miroh are bound as one.

But it gives you a thrill. His abomination of a soldier looms to the side, still staring at you, like he expects the fight to continue any second. You suppose Chan’s life is one big fight and always has been.

It doesn’t have to be that way for you, you think to yourself, a dangerous thought, one conjured by the feeling of your only friend holding you in his arms. It looks like a death grip to anyone else, purely technical, but you feel it, the way he cups your injuries carefully despite his bulk and power.

Miroh is scared. He is getting desperate. He wants you brought to heel. In doing so, he is only stoking your resentment.

That pot starts to boil over.

“Well?” you say, in a voice as rough as gravel.

“Yes,” your father says with a petty little snarl. “I suppose you have won, haven’t you?”

Changbin helps you off the ground. You suffer through your pains. You can feign steadiness for another minute, for long enough to retaliate.

You climb out of the ring. You pass the other injured guards. You walk right up to your father.

Miroh stares at you. You have identical glares, measuring each other. Two soldiers with the same fire in their blood.

You punch him. It is a nice sharp shot across the face, using all the strength you have left. You are one of the best. Despite your injuries, it is still one fucking hell of a punch.

Miroh falls back in an undignified sprawl, hitting the hard ground with a painful thud. He is good but he is not you. A fall like that would not have broken your bones the way it clearly fractures his arm.

“Until next time, father,” you say.

You step over him. His security team immediately surrounds him, helping him up. Your team comes to your aid as well. Changbin follows too, coming right up to your side. He grabs your arm and slings it around his shoulder, taking the brunt of your weight seconds before you would have collapsed.

You look back over your shoulder. The injured guards are tending their wounds. Chan is looming in the background like a living shadow. Miroh is clutching his arm and staring at you with fury pouring out of him. You walk away, smiling despite your injuries.

Your father should know better than to hit you.

You always hit back.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan x you #chan x you #bang chan fanfiction #bang chan smut #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfiction #skz x you #stray kids x you

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goldenbomb · 3 months

Text

I also have to follow these listed rules every time I hit the following number of notes. So please stop spamming the comments!

300 notes: Use a medium plug now

600 notes: Spend $20 on sissy clothes (must be pink)

900 notes: Wear panties 24/7 from now on

1200 notes: Spend $40 on sissy clothes (must be pink)

1500 notes: Sit on a 6-inch dildo once week for 30 min

1800 notes: Listen to 1 audio file of sissy hypno before bed

2100 notes: Wear androgynous or feminine clothes at home from now on

2400 notes: Practice deepthroating the current sized dildo twice a week

2700 notes: I can cum only once a month

3000 notes: Sit on a 7-inch dildo 2 times a week for 30 min

3300 notes: Wear androgynous or feminine clothing in public from now on

3600 notes: Wear only slutty or pink sissy clothing at home

3900 notes: I have to wear a corset under my clothes everyday

4200 notes: Use a large plug now

4500 notes: Use a smaller cage

4800 notes: I can only watch/listen to girly media, anything masculine or geared towards males is banned

5100 notes: Sit on an 8-inch dildo 3 times a week for 30 min

5400 notes: Listen to sissy hypno every time I do anal

5700 notes: I can only cum when I'm riding a dildo and it's changed to 1 cum every 3 months

6000 notes: Make a Twitter account archiving proof and progress

6300 notes: Every week either post proof/update pics of locked chastity, gif of current dildo riding, gif of current plug insertion, and pics of current sissy outfit that I'm being made to wear from these tasks

6600 notes: I have to permanently use she/her pronouns

6900 notes: Sit on a 9-inch dildo 4 times a week for 30 min

7200 notes: Lock myself in ballet heels for 3 hours every day

7500 notes: From now on edge every day for 2 hours

7800 notes: Use a smaller cage

8100 notes: Every 3 days I have to use a chastity cage with a sounding rod

8400 notes: Buy the most embarrassing humiliating sissy pink dress I can find (with all the ruffles and it locks when zipped up)

8700 notes: I can only wear a dress or skirt in public from now on

9000 notes: Get Started on Estrogen

9300 notes: Every 3 days either post proof/update pics of locked chastity, gif of current dildo riding, gif of current plug insertion, and pics of current sissy outfit that I'm being made to wear from these tasks

9600 notes: I now have to use a sounding chastity cage from now on

9900 notes: Sit on a 9-inch dildo 5 times a week for 1 hour

10200 notes: Once a week, I have to replace my plug with a dildo while I'm out in public for the day

10500 notes: I can only cum once a year

10800 notes: Buy a fucking machine

11100 notes: Buy and use sounding rods 3 times a week for 30 min

11400 notes: Buy breast/nipple pumps and use it twice a week to increase the size

11700 notes: Put on an inverse chastity cage from now on and no more edging or unlocking

12000 notes: Start an OF

12300 notes: Clicker train myself to get horny to the thought of cocks

12600 notes: I can only cum from anal

12900 notes: (I need ideas)

13200 notes: Use an XL plug now

13500 notes: Only use 10-inch toys from now on sit on it 6 times a week for 30 min, once a week use a 12+ inch toy

13800 notes: glue the lock shut, flush the key down the toilet, the only way I'm getting out now is if I hit 15000 notes

14100 notes: (I need ideas)

14400 notes: (I need ideas)

14700 notes: Get nipple piercings

15000 notes: Bottom surgery (My Life is Over). However I have to spend at least 25% of the entire chastity sentence in a cage before I get bottom surgery to prolong this even longer.

Please just scroll past this and don't interact with this post at all! I like my current life!

If you want to support feel free soy sent me stuff from my wishlist.

This post will LOCK IN on March 24 2024

#humiliated sissy #faggot sissy #sissifyme #feminine sissy #submisive sissy #humiliation sissy #sissi femboi #sissy caged

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who-is-page · 3 months

Text

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: Inky Paws #3

Inky Paws is a nonhuman anthology zine for original fiction writings by nonhumans and alterhumans about nonhumanity, alterhumanity, and similar, related themes. This zine is primarily literature focused, but will also be open to more illustrative methods of story-telling such as comics. The zine’s focus is on fictional pieces that are centered around nonhumanity, alterhumanity, therianthropy, and similar (see Submission Guidelines section for more details).

You are welcome to submit:

Short stories

Microfiction

Satire

Poetry

Song lyrics

Experimental fiction (fake newspapers, fake recipes, fake blogs, fake posters, etc.)

Mixed media

Comics

And more! If you're unsure, just ask! Seriously, please just ask. I promise I would 10000% love to hear about your idea even if you're unsure about submitting it, there is no such thing as a bad idea and I cannot stress this enough.

How to participate:

You can submit your pieces in this Google Form!

Email invisibleotherkin(@)gmail(.)com with your submission, and please title the email "Inky Paws Zine #3 Submission". With your submission, please include:

The piece's title or name,

A name or pen name to attribute the piece to,

Any content warnings that you feel are necessary for the piece,

Any social media handle or personal website you’d like to be published alongside your name with the piece (optional), and

Any relevant author notes or author biographical information (optional).

Anonymous pieces are also welcome.

Once submissions have been collected and the deadline has passed, these submissions will be put into the zine and it will be posted online as a free PDF. Submissions are due by April 30th, 2024.

Please see the Submission Guidelines, and Submission FAQ, below cut.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

Each individual may contribute up to 3 accepted submissions to be published in Inky Paws; individuals within systems may each submit 3 pieces, that is to say 3 pieces per systemmate/headmate/preferred term.

Comics and similar multi-part pieces count as one submission altogether: if you submit a single story that has been divided into two sub-stories for dramatic emphasis, or if you submit 10 pages of a single-story comic, or if you submit a written piece of fiction and an accompanying image that you drew or otherwise created to go along with it, that would still only count as one piece.

Submissions must fit the thematic criteria of:

Being explicitly about or based on nonhumans, otherkin, therianthropes, fictionkin, alterhumans, or similar groups, or;

Having strong themes or describing experiences strongly reminiscent of or related to nonhumans, otherkin, therianthropes, fictionkin, alterhumans, or similar such as (but not limited to):

Characters experiencing nonhumanity or alterhumanity as being a part of themselves/their identity,

Characters experiencing anything similar to a shift (including physical shifting),

Characters struggling with (emotionally, socially, or otherwise) being both human and nonhuman or alterhuman in some way,

Characters having a past-life as something nonhuman or alterhuman that strongly still impacts their current life, or

Characters desiring to be nonhuman or have nonhuman attributes.

TL;DR - Your submissions have to relate to or be about alterhumans or nonhumans in some way, shape, or form.

Written submissions must not exceed 7500 words, and must also use a reader-friendly font with a text size of or exceeding 16 pt.

For stories that use multiple different fonts, such as pieces meant to imitate newspapers and similar, every effort will be made to preserve the general "feel" of your piece but fonts may not be transferred over 1:1 due to potential conflicts with font copyright, readability, and overarching zine style.

Multi-part image submissions must not exceed 10 pages in length, and must also use a reader-friendly font with a text size of or exceeding 16 pt if they include text. Images larger than 8.5 x 11in. will be scaled down to an appropriate size; please take that into account when creating and submitting your images. It is also recommended that images be vertical or square in their orientation.

Written submissions should be submitted as a .docx file. Images and mixed media pieces should be submitted as either .jpg or .png files.

All submitted pieces should be your own work. Individuals caught plagiarizing or using AI within their submissions will be barred from participating in Inky Paws, including in any potential future volumes.

SUBMISSION FAQ:

Q: Where will this zine be hosted? A: The zine will be hosted for free download on Itch.io, where issues 1 and 2 of the zine are already hosted.

Q: What is the cap on submissions? A: At this time, we are not looking to accept more than roughly 25 submissions at most, in order to keep numbers and expectations manageable.

Q: Can I update my application after submitting? A: Yes, so long as the updates are submitted before the submission deadline!

Q: What is your policy on content moderation and content warnings? A: If you feel your piece needs content warnings, please include them in the submission, as we are hoping to include relevant content warnings and maturity ratings alongside all pieces. We are at this time accepting pieces of all tones and ratings.

With that said, It should be noted that any items submitted with soapboxing intent and anti-nonhuman, anti-alterhuman, anti-fictionkin, or similar leans are largely not welcome, as this is a zine geared towards all aforementioned groups and then some.

Q: Can I submit an in-progress draft or sketch? Can I claim a spot in the zine before sending in my submission? A: We are not currently accepting WIP pieces for submission at this time, though feel free to send us your WIP if you have questions related to its future submission. We also cannot reserve or guarantee a spot in the zine pre-submission, regardless of any existing drafts or WIPs.

Q: Can I submit a piece of fanfiction? A: While we've now accepted pieces of fanfiction in the past, we tend to prefer to leave them out for legal reasons. If you submit a piece of obvious fanfiction, please know that it may be significantly more likely to be rejected from the zine and that, if the piece is accepted, the piece may be removed without warning from the zine later on if DMCA or legal issues arise. We strongly advise that individuals who wish to write something inspired by fiction make it non-obvious to the outside reader where the inspiration is being taken from.

Q: Can I submit something I've created in the past? A: You can submit something you've created in the past, but please try to avoid submitting anything that you've published previously and is currently publicly accessible. For example, if the story you want to submit has already been featured in a different anthology, please don't submit it to Inky Paws! We want to encourage people to create new pieces, or to put the spotlight on pieces that haven't previously had the opportunity to be published.

Q: Do I have to write something based on the provided prompts? A: Nope! The prompts are there by popular request to help give people a jumping off point for creating, but are not required to be incorporated into your piece and will not have any effect on if your submission gets accepted or not.

Q: What is the projected timeline for this project? A: Submissions will close by April 30th of 2024. The publish date of the zine depends on submission amount and size of submissions; in an ideal world, we hope to have the zine published by December, before year's end.

Q: Can I rescind my submission? A: As long as you request to rescind your submission before the submission deadline, yes. After the deadline passes and the formatting and work towards publishing begins, we cannot guarantee that we will be able to remove your work from the zine due to time constraints and potential formatting issues. Please take this into account before submitting.

Q: Will there be any physical copies of this zine? A: Due to cost restraints and a lack of printing experience on the part of the zine organizers, we have no physical copies of this zine planned for print. You are, however, welcome to download and print copies of the zine for personal use.

Q: Who are the organizers of this zine? Where can I reach out to ask further questions? A: Who-is-Page and Noel Sol of the Sol System are organizing this zine. Feel free to send us any questions, comments, or concerns to invisibleotherkin(@)gmail(.)com, or you can always message us on Tumblr at Who-is-Page.

#alterhuman #otherkin #therian #fictionkin #zine #Inky Paws

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mochimooon · 2 months

Text

Now Playing at the Video Store - Jean Kirstein x reader 18+

pairing: Jean Kirstein x afab! Reader summary: Nights at the video store are reruns for Jean. But it's a short skirt, a pretty smile, and your X-rated taste in movies that offer Jean something to tune into every weekend. word count: 7500+ content warnings: smut, explicit language, dirty talk, masturbation, voyeurism notes: Reader-insert but Jean's POV. He's a little pervy here. Set between the late 90s and the early 2000s. Mild plot.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+ !!

Very little grabs Jean’s attention at the video store.

It’s the usual crowd every week. The gamers that snatch up the latest gaming titles, the oddballs that bring a stack of horror films at the counter (Jean thinks with too much enthusiasm), while the rest are just there to hang out.

It’s repetitive, it’s boring, it’s his part-time job.

However, it’s you that walks in one Friday evening that stirs his interest.

How can you not? You flash him and his coworkers a cute smile as you enter the store, short skirt flouncing when you spin a heel. You pass every aisle with tunnel vision, a woman who came here with something in mind. Jean likes that. You’ll be a quick and easy transaction. Of course, after some shameless flirting on his part.

From behind the counter, Jean sorts through a stack of returned rentals. He flits a look to find where you’ve wandered off to – way in the back.

You step forward and pause, scoping out your surroundings before making another move.

He keeps a tab on you, perplexed as to why you wait for a customer to pass you by while you rock back on your heels, scanning a nearby shelf with what looks like feigned interest. Strange. What are you doing? You lost?

Nope, Jean concludes, because after another minute, you enter the backroom, disappearing behind the door with a very distinct sign.

’18 and over ONLY!’

Jean’s mind blanks. Now this is something noteworthy.

Time slips away from him, and he’s not sure how long you’ve been in there, occupied with the Friday evening rush as customers approach the counter. Groups of friends and couples queuing up, eager to start their weekend with a movie marathon.

Despite all that, Jean steals a few looks at the back of the store, curious to see if he’ll catch you resurface.

More time passes, the line trickles and to Jean’s surprise, you step forward at the end of it, a DVD pressed to your stomach.

Jean blinks at the title hidden in your grasp. He means to look up and meet your eyes. Instead, his gaze stops at your chest beneath a thin long-sleeve Henley. It’s shameless, but Jean’s an easy guy. He sees tits, he stares, and he wants them in his mouth.

You clear your throat and Jean smiles, finding your eyes at last.

“How’s it going?” he says.

You cling tighter to the DVD. “I’m alright.”

“Were you ready to check out?”

Your lips purse in a smile. “I think so.” Yet, the DVD remains tucked away from prying eyes.

There’s no one else in line. His coworkers, Connie and Reiner are on the floor right now, organizing the shelves or goofing off, he doesn’t care to know which. It’s just you and him, and Jean doesn’t mind it one bit.

“You sure?” he says, biting back a smirk at your nerves.

It’s like you’re debating, turning over something in your head. Jean’s willing to wait. You look that good, he’ll stand here all night.

You slide the DVD onto the counter, slyly, like you’re conducting a drug deal. A onceover at the cover, and Jean’s dick twitches.

The lewd image of a woman, her best ‘O’ face on display while three of her fingers are buried deep in her pussy.

Jean doesn’t understand the lack of discretion when it comes to these DVD covers. Little is left to the imagination, but a glimpse at your shy expression is doing the opposite for him.

There’s no saving his mind from the gutter. It plummeted the moment he saw you in that skirt. And after this, there’s no going back.

Solo porn. He wonders… He shouldn’t… He imagines…it’s wrong. Is it? What sort of faces do you make when you’re touching yourself? Better yet why do you want to rent this?

“Just that.”

Your meek voice pulls Jean back to the present. And what sort of noises do you make?

The cogs in Jean’s head spin, twisting with sinful thoughts, he forces himself to get them in check. As if appraising your choice like some movie snob, Jean nods slowly, scanning it. “ID?”

You avoid his eyes, fingering the neckline of your shirt. You barely tug it to pull out your ID from the confines of your bra. It’s swift, but distinct that Jean chews on a groan, growing more rigid between his legs. You hold out your ID between tight fingers.

Same age as him, another neighborhood over. He imagines you’ll be a regular. Really, Jean only hopes.

He slides the DVD across the counter, mustering enough nonchalance. Although he’s enjoying how flustered you’re getting by the second, with three hours left on the clock, Jean’s not sure he can manage his erection for that long.

Still, he feels out your name on his tongue. “Due in seven days. Enjoy your night.”

You retrieve the DVD, albeit not in some hurry like he would have expected. You hold it close against your chest, wearing a coy smile as you read his name tag. “Thank you, Jean.”

Jean’s grateful for the privacy behind the counter because it takes a solid ten minutes for his boner to relax. When Reiner and Connie return, they notice something’s up.

“What’s with the smile?” Connie lifts a brow.

“Got a date later?” Reiner taunts.

With you, Jean fucking wishes. When he’s back in his apartment later, his mind drifts to the thought of you fingering yourself while his hand drifts past the waistband of his boxers.

…

Midweek, Jean finds your rental in the return bin.

So, you already had your fun with it, a few days before it’s deadline. He turns over the DVD in his hand with a sense of perversion. Did those soiled hands touch this? It’s a thought he ponders throughout the rest of the week, with wishful thinking that he’ll see you again.

And wishes come true because you’re back that Friday. Another quick smile to Jean, then to Connie, then to Reiner and you head to the back.

The idea of joining you back there scratches at the back of Jean’s skull. He wouldn’t mind observing your selection process, nor would he mind getting to be in such a private space with you alone. But he refrains, saddled with carting around rentals in the rom-com aisle on the opposite end of the store.

A while later you approach the counter. Connie flags Jean down, needing to use the restroom, the impromptu reunion playing out.

“Good to see you again.” Jean smiles in earnest around your name. You scratch at the shell of your ear, timid and already a little flustered, he bets from browsing through so much porn. “All set?”

Biting your lip, you swiftly hand over two DVDs this time.

Heat blazes beneath Jean’s skin, his pulse igniting at tonight’s haul. More solo porn, with one DVD featuring the porn actress creaming on a dildo. It’s not the woman on the cover he pays any mind to though. He looks at you, fantasizing the nuanced faces you’d make while getting fucked. They run rampant across his perverted mind.

God, you’re something else. Despite your timid nature, you’re very bold to rent these movies, back-to-back, and he thirsts to see more of you – with less clothing.

He scans the first DVD, feeling brave. “Date night plans?” Jean scans the next DVD, placing it atop the first, appearing innocuous.

Your mouth tightens into a line that Jean’s unable to read at first. You lick your lips, a faint smile unfolding. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He grins at that, pleased that you knew what he meant. “Solo date night plans?”

Now it’s your turn to grin a little, understanding the meaning behind that question. “Maybe…”

You’re a tease and he fucking loves it.

While he’d love to carry on the conversation – elsewhere ideally – a rush of customers gather at the counter behind you, and it’s not long before Connie’s back from his bathroom break to help kill the line.

For now, Jean’s fine leaving it here, hopeful that he’ll see you again soon. “Enjoy your Friday.”

“You too.”

He will, because he’s already got an image of you, legs spread out before him as he watches you fuck yourself with a toy.

…

It becomes routine. Friday night, you walk in, greet him and the others and make your private selection in the backroom. When you’re ready to check out, Jean’s sure to be the one to process those rentals making it seem coincidental.

But there have been a few times when either Reiner or Connie beckon you over while Jean’s busy with another customer that you seemingly aren’t ready. Only when Jean’s free do you approach the counter again.

Maybe you’re still too shy to let his coworkers in on your choice of movies, but Jean likes to think you reserve your attention for him only. Whether it’s delusional of him to think so, Jean doesn’t care. The interactions he has with you are special, and he’s just as eager to see what selections you’ve made every time.

It’s a familiar dance he does with you.

He flirts enough that leave you a little flustered, stumbling over your words a few times, only to recover with a warm smile as if it didn’t belong to someone who just rented a DVD of a porn actress using a wand.

And for the rest of the night, it’s all Jean can think of until he plays out that fantasy, fisting his cock to sleep.

…

Tonight, Jean catches you on your path to the back. He’s restocking returned rentals in the comedy aisle. Your presence triggers a sixth sense in him. When the door chimes, he just knows it’s you.

It’s never a disappointment. You slow your steps as you pass through the aisle, a coy smile in greeting.

Jean nods, gaze adrift at the cropped shirt you’re wearing. It hugs your tits nicely, the outline of your bra pokes through. But it’s the sparkle of jewel on your navel that has Jean’s mind wandering in lewd places yet again.

God, he really wants to see you naked. What else is hidden under those skimpy clothes? Nipple piercings? Maybe a tattoo on your lower back…?

And yet, you peer up at him, bashful and sweet, hands clasped at your front. “See you in a little bit.”

He watches you head towards the back, catching you throw a look over your shoulder only to avert your eyes shyly.

You’re a minx of a thing. A tantalizing balance of soft and sexy. Like an innocent femme fatale.

But your visits are so fleeting, a tempting treat of what-ifs every time he sees you, all of which revolve around those movies you rent. What if instead of a dildo, you were creaming on his cock?

What if he watched you while you edged yourself with your fingers?

What if you let him suck on your tits just once?

Several more what-ifs rattle in his skull in anticipation to meet you at the counter. When you reemerge from the back, you look to him and he drops the DVDs back onto the shelf and is behind that counter in record time.

“All ready for me?” Jean’s voice drips with tease.

You rock back on your heels, presenting the latest rental on mutual masturbation.

His mind goes into orbit, cutting you a look that you wither under. You must be thinking the same thing as him because why else would you rent this other than the intent to send Jean a message.

Still, you act nervous around him.

He doesn’t understand how you can suddenly turn so shy when bringing movies like this to the counter every week.

Some customers want to rent The Titanic, and you want to rent porn. Who’s he to judge? And if he was to judge, he prefers your taste in movies.

Nothing wrong with watching nookie, and nothing wrong with having it. And Jean wants to have it with you more than anything, these interactions reaching a fever pitch.

He shifts on his feet, a boner fast-forming he’s not quick enough to distract himself from the thoughts of you looking up at him with that shy expression while on your knees. More customers approach. Focus…

Thankfully Reiner hops on the neighboring register to help the others.

“Alright.” The strain between his legs rushes upwards, reaching his throat. He coughs lightly, finding his voice again. “Same time frame. Seven days.”

Your hand reaches out as he slides the DVDs forward, dainty, painted fingers brushing his, sending a spark to his cock. Jean bites back a groan.

You bat your lashes, hugging the DVDs to your chest. Shameless and hard, Jean’s eyes fall there, enamored with how your arms push them up, intentional or not, if it wasn’t for his paycheck, he’d fall right into them.

“Thanks again, Jean.”

He watches you leave, forlorn and hot all over. Another customer steps forward, but Jean doesn’t have the patience for them. He pats Reiner’s shoulder, choking on his words. “He’ll be right with you.”

He passes Connie on his way to the employee restroom, ignoring his odd look. He would have sprinted if it didn’t hurt to move his legs.

Behind the door, Jean locks it and undoes his zipper.

Dripping pre-cum, his cock is heavy in his hand as he touches himself. He thumbs the tip, hissing from the sensitivity.

Throwing his head back, Jean strokes his cock, muttering your name over and over again. He’s already so close to finishing that he doesn’t have time to tease himself with the fantasies of you, relying solely on your chest pushed up in that dress of yours earlier with that coy expression you always wear.

“F-f-fuck,” he breathes through gritted teeth, letting the memory of your voice uttering his name lead him to paradise.

His fist is warm and sticky with his spill, pouring thickly down his fingers. Jean doesn’t stop stroking himself, doesn’t stop thinking of you until his dick softens.

“Shit,” he sighs, cleaning himself up.

The rest of the evening he can’t get you off his mind. His thoughts drift when he has down time and he fights to keep another erection at bay.

Later that night, he’s on his back, playing a new movie of you behind his eyes.

…

After a few weeks, you’re more relaxed whenever he processed your rentals, and Jean had dialed up the flirting. His heart fluttered every time you smiled and laughed at something he had said, which was often suggestive.

And every time his mind ran wild with indecent fantasies, inspired by your latest rental. A new DVD each week. Solo porn. Softcore, with toys, with a man watching. Jean nearly nut on the spot when he glimpsed at the cover of a woman squirting.

Much like your weekly routine, Jean had developed one too. Touching himself after every shift, moaning your name, a vision of you creaming all over his hand, his face, his cock. On replay, a movie he dreams of experiencing.

Seeing you was the highlight of every shift, the reason for his better mood on Fridays.

It was addictive, something he couldn’t get enough of.

He was eager to get to the video store. His coworkers had never seen him this happy to be at work. It was out of character of him.

Jean checked the time: 7pm on the dot, you’d walk in through those doors soon. As he waits and works, Jean wonders what sort of outfit you’ve got on; what parts of your body will he get to preview tonight, and what movie you’ll rent this time.

So, when you were a no-show, that thrill came to a screeching halt. Jean was perplexed, expecting you all night. You never missed a Friday before.

He checked the clock as it inched closer to the end of his shift, there was still no sight of you. His mood soured as he rang up a guy that had grabbed two DVDs from the back.

He processed them swiftly, void of hospitality.

He had never been so bummed to clock out of work.

…

A month.

A whole month flew by without a single sight of you.

At first, Jean thought you’d come in later that weekend.

You didn’t.

Then he assumed that you were busy that Friday and couldn’t make it. You’d be back the following week.

Nope.

As much fun as he’s had with his little crush on you, Jean’s a realist. After two weekends of your absence, he didn’t expect to you see ever again. But that didn’t stop the disappointment from creeping in for the rest of the month.

Maybe there was a crumb of hope there that you’d turn up suddenly. He’d grown accustomed to these interactions with you, that he still imagined you walking in through those doors, flouncing in a skirt towards the backroom.

But you hadn’t. Thus, life at the video store returned to normal, much to his chagrin.

It was fun while it lasted, he thinks. The only regret he has was not taking it a step further with you. At the time, however, he saw it going in that direction. The momentum was building up, and soon it would have happened, he believed.

And now he’s spending another Friday night, bored and disinterested.

The evening rush passed through like normal. Connie and Reiner volunteered to stay behind the counter for the remainder of the night, so Jean took it upon himself to sort through new shipments of X-rated DVDs.

Jean squeezes into the backroom with the box in tow, letting it drop in a heap on the floor. He surveys the shelves, filled to the gills with DVDs and VHS tapes, an assortment of every genre of porn available. He has no clue how he’s going to fit any more videos in here.

The room is cramped, more akin to a walk-in closet than an average room. To save space, wired shelving had been mounted a while ago to display the videos for quick and easy selection. Because when it comes to porn, people do judge by the covers.

Though Jean doesn’t understand how anyone can properly look at them with the dim, warm lighting barely reaching every corner of the space. If anything, it’s the perfect room to stash away explicit videos while exploring the options under the veil of privacy.

Jean grabs a few DVDs from the box, looking for any available space on the shelves he can find. As he rearranges a few already on display, his eyes glaze over the covers with little interest.

The door clicks open.

“Oh!”

Oh.

There’s a flutter in Jean’s stomach to see you at the door. It’s a surprise after a few weeks of your absence, he’s unsure if it’s you or a mirage. And for once he’s left speechless, using that beat of silence to soak you in.

You’re wearing another dress, short-sleeved, with a cinched tie that displays a peek of your breasts. The dress is a little form-fitting despite the looser fabric, sitting high on your bare thighs as you shift foot to foot in low heels.

By some miracle, Jean’s composed. He waves a DVD (on blowjobs) in one hand, greeting you like normal. “Hey, long time.”

You laugh, breathy and stilted. There’s the flustered customer Jean’s been aching to see again. He couldn’t imagine better circumstances to reunite. Alone in the backroom where all the porn is stored away.

“I got a new job, and I’ve been training a lot on the weekends.” You rub your arm, a nervous habit, Jean assumes. It’s cute.

“That explains the dry spell.” The choice of words tumbles without thought. However, Jean doesn’t correct himself. On his part, there is some truth to that.

You shrug, smiling. “Yeah, I haven’t had much time to watch anything…It’s my first weekend off, so here I am.”

The air stagnates, the walls and shelves close in, Jean imagines drawing closer to you.

He brandishes the DVDs in hand again. “Help yourself. Got a couple more in today, and I’m trying to figure out where to stash them.”

Your lips open, but say nothing, turning your attention to the nearest shelf.

It’s the first time it feels awkward between you both.

It might be because it’s been a while since you’ve seen each other. But Jean watches you with a sidelong stare, noticing how you stiff you are browsing the shelves.

It clicks in his head.

It’s very, very intimate in here. The proximity couldn’t be any smaller and Jean imagines that you’re used to being in the room alone, browsing with abandon.

You’re a little nervous and Jean finds it endearing.

So, he slinks into character of the dutiful video rental clerk. “Find anything you like?”

You shift a glance at him with a shake of your head. “Still looking.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

It’s a harmless offer given the circumstances of what you’re searching for. Porn or not, it is Jean’s job to help out a customer.

You relax a little, treading slowly with your words. “Something similar to the usual stuff I watch…” Your voice trails off, a revival of the little minx he remembers all those weeks ago.

Jean hums. “Right…the solo porn. Might have something in this box here. That your favorite kind to watch?” Jean gauges your reaction, he presses his lips together, gleeful to read the answer on your face.

You shift on your feet, finger slipping off the end of the shelf. “Sort of.” You laugh faintly. “Is that weird?”

Jean sniffs out the brush of nerves. It’s the green light he’s been dying for. “Of course not. Everyone has their kinks. You practice with them, don’t you?” He rifles through a stack without reading the covers.

But when he turns again, you’re the most flustered he’s ever seen. You stand rigid, hands playing with the hem of that short dress, unable to hold his gaze.

Jean could be deluding himself, but when you look up, they’re wide-eyed and glossy. If not for the shit lighting in here, he’d get a better look. Despite all that, Jean’s been around the block because you’re more obvious than you think you’re being, clenching your thighs together.

Plus, Jean’s no saint. He doubts you are too, not with your rental history. After weeks of your absence, he’s not quick to let you disappear again. He’s not going to hesitate. He’s going to see where this can go.

“That’s how we all learn right?” Jean dials up the tension, cautious not to let it simmer too hot just yet.

This gets you to breathe out a laugh, shoulders going lax. “You watch porn?”

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

You shrug. “My friends don’t really like it.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

Your raise a brow, and Jean’s sure you’re trying to hide a smile. Another laugh slips out of you, surprised and lighthearted. “Don’t know. They just don’t like it.”

Jean hums, contemplative, but not really. He couldn’t care less about their opinions. “Shame, they don’t sound as fun as you are.”

Amusement tucks into the corner of your lip as you tilt your head. “How do you know I’m fun?”

Jean smirks, confident and sure. “I can tell. Why else would you watch them?”

Maybe you’re a natural and don’t realize the way you bat your lashes just then has Jean’s heart skipping a beat. A new kind of tension thickens in the room as you pass him a look.

Jean blinks. If this is a bait you set out intentionally, Jean’s on the move, sidling closer to crowd your space.

“Doesn’t it make you want to experiment?” He leans down to capture your gaze. “What’s the point of these videos if it doesn’t inspire some sort of action, huh? You’d like that, right?”

You gulp, staring at him, suspense hanging like a shadow over your eyes. “Do you?”

Jean’s grin broadens, a hand ghosting your face. “Hell yeah…” Tipping up your chin, his voice trails off.

His senses are drenched in you. Your warmth mingles so close to his body, your shallow, bated breaths echoing in his ears. The floral scent of your perfume, so fragrant, it makes him dizzy. The same for your eyes, glossy with renewed desire, anticipation hanging by a thread. What’s missing is your taste.

So, he helps himself, whispering his thoughts against your lips. “I’m more than eager to…take some action with you right now.”

He kisses you gently, swallowing down his carnal urge for the moment, wanting to savor the plushness of your lips. You kiss him back with the same softness, melting into his presence.

It’s the nudge Jean accepts readily, widening the kiss; poking his tongue to cut through the seam of your lips.

Jean’s mouth waters, relishing in the candied sweetness on your tongue. “Ooh…you taste like sugar.” Jean deepens kiss to inhale your taste again.

Pressing up against your body, Jean leads you backwards until you’re pinned to the wall from his weight.

Your soft mewls stutter into a whine as Jean’s bulge catches on your front.

It’s cute that you let him take the wheel, following his lead. You go still as he takes your lip in his teeth gently. Jean enjoys being in command, it’s so innate in him. But he wants to know your own tricks, what gets you off other than these B-rated videos.

Pulling away, he admires the raise in your brows and tilt of your chin, like a doe waiting for guidance, Jean bristles.

“You touch yourself to these videos?”

Your lips clamp shut, pursing together. He waits and you nod slowly.

“Show me,” Jean husks. “Be a naughty girl and show me how you touch yourself.”

He doesn’t want to be too greedy, though he is, and the request is just as much for him as it is for you. The number of nights dreaming of you playing with yourself, soaking your own fingers with your slick, moaning, whining, crying out in ecstasy, Jean wants you to spoil him with that vision.

You’re flustered, tits heaving, he can see the pert nipples behind the fabric. He needs to work carefully, to coax you into it.

Thumbing your lip, he kisses your hairline. “Don’t be shy now, baby,” he teases. “I already know about the kinky shit you like, remember? Show me what they do in those videos. Let me see how you touch yourself.”

You peer up and the look you give him is better than anything he could have ever imagined. You lick your lips, taking a slow gulp. Your fingers toy with the ties of your bodice without undoing them.

Jean holds that minx-like stare of yours. “Get comfortable. It does get very stuffy back here.”

Your hand falls away, dragging one tie down. The neckline cinches tight for a moment, squeezing your tits together until the fabric loosens.

Jean’s eyes dip to your cleavage, bated breath held fast in his chest. The itch to tear the dress off is tempting, but it doesn’t compare to the brewing sexual tension. That suspense of getting to see you in a way that he’s dreamt of is none other. Jean would happily pause this moment just to bask in it for a little longer. Because like any good movie, it takes time, some build-up to get to the best part.

You tug and pull at the ties a few times, never looking away from Jean’s gaze. True to his earlier statement, Jean swears the room rises in heat, a fever prickling along his skin, waiting, waiting, and waiting, choking on the thickened tension.

Jean knows you can’t stand the wait either, because you lower the bodice, taking the cups of your bra in your fingers, and your tits are on full display.

The sight of your bare skin, blooming with goosebumps around the flesh, peaking at your nipples is both too much and not enough for Jean. He wants to touch you, suck on your tits until they’re wet and bruised. But he stops himself from doing either, because more than that right now, he needs to see how you touch yourself.

“Shit…That’s a beautiful rack,” he murmurs. “Prettier than all the fake tits on these DVD covers.”

Your chest rises in a sharp inhale and Jean watches in a daze, following your hands as they roam down your sides to slip under your dress.

You give him another one of those shy smiles, dragging your hands down. Cotton panties slide down your thighs, past your knees, and fall to your ankles. You step out of them, mindful not to get them caught in your heels as you kick them aside. With that stripped away, you gather the end of your dress.

This time, Jean can’t keep his hands to himself. He bunches up the fabric for you, lifting up your dress and groaning to finally see your pussy. “Fuck…every inch of you is fucking beautiful.”

Flattery curls the corner of your lips, spurring you into motion again. A hand drips to the center of your thighs while Jean watches.

His jaw falls loose, a breathy sound escaping his lips. Your fingers splay out your folds, barely gracing your clit. You like to tease yourself it seems, because you rub in a languid pace, inhaling as you press that bundle of nerves.

Jean hums with a nod. “Get yourself nice and warmed up, baby,” he says, gaze drowning in the sight of your pussy. He fists the dress tighter to contain himself.

You rub yourself slowly, low moans spewing forth. When they hitch, your legs widen; two fingers curl past your pussy lips and into your twitching hole.

You’re sensitive, he can tell. The more pressure you apply, your mouth forms that ‘O’ expression that’s been the center of his filthiest fantasies.

Jean presses you against the wall, face warm from the way your glossy eyes stare up at him.

You’re so much smaller like this, swallowed up by his shadow. Jean leans closer with his forearm, a cage to keep you to himself.

Meanwhile, you touch yourself as instructed, whines filling the air. Jean’s not sure where to keep his eyes: your needy face or your fingers touching yourself.

“Do you think about anything when you touch yourself?” He strokes your face with his knuckles, wanting to pick apart your lewd mind, certain that you have some of the wildest fantasies stirring in that pretty head of yours. “What do you think about?”

“I think of you.”

Jean freezes up, your confession replaying between his ears on loop. A heaven-sent answer.

You shy away then, hand going still. “I’m sorry – I –”

Jean grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. The worry flickers behind your gaze, overshadowed with curiosity. He kisses you, deep and rough, inhaling your moan, then pulls back to admire the moisture on your lips.

You make another noise of surprise when Jean seizes your wrist, taking your fingers in his mouth.

Tangy, sweet, tasting like perfection to Jean, he wants to have more of you.

Kisses shower your neck, your jaw, your lips, everywhere like falling stars. Jean can’t decide which part of you he wants most, never satisfied in one spot, and needing more at the same time. His lips pepper your throat, his facial hair nuzzling you there.

You laugh, curling your fingers into his shoulders. “Jean, that tickles.”

If you had thought that Jean would relent, you were mistaken. He couldn’t get enough, weeks of your absence has left him starved.

“Let me take it from here.” Jean levels you with a heady stare. His fingers push past your soft lips, he bites back a moan at the stroke of your tongue. “Drool on them. Make it messy."

Your tongue swirls, coating his fingertips with saliva that connect in a thin thread when Jean pulls his fingers free.

He catches your gulp, anticipation rolling through you like a chill.

Without preamble, Jean cups your pussy, hissing in delight to feel how wet you are. All this for him. Your pussy reacting not only to his touch but the thought of him. Pride spreads through his system like a drug, traveling to his aching cock.

He strokes you, finger sliding up the slit and catching at your apex. You gasp, legs spreading apart. Jean plunges a finger inside.

There’s a tightness that greets him, twitching at the contact. He massages your walls with dexterity. Your shaky breaths pour out and Jean eases another finger inside when he feels your body stretch and squeeze around his touch.

His gaze lowers to watch his fingers sink in and out of you, slippery and wet imagining how that’ll feel around his dick.

“Jean…”

Light brown eyes crawl up your body, raking over your bare tits. Leaning forward, his lips and teeth meet your hardened nipple.

You hiss from the added stimulation, pussy clenching around Jean’s fingers, he thrusts another deep inside of you while he laps at your breast. You breathe out his name again, grabbing onto the roots of his hair.

Jean growls, nipping at your flesh, curling his fingers, gathering more slick that makes him dizzy and pussy-drunk. He meets your eyes, soaking in your gaping mouth.

Your nails claw into his hair tightly, pussy twitching as Jean fingers you with fervor, swiping your clit hurriedly, a tremor moves from you to him, indicating your release is on the horizon.

Jean pulls back to gaze at you hard, giddy to capture the moment you fall apart. “Cum for me. Cum on my fingers.”

The image of you has Jean choking on his breath.

Your eyes roll back behind fluttering lashes, a long moan of his name wrapping around his ears. His mouth splits into a dazed grin when he feels your pussy twitch, soaking his fingers with your orgasm, that drip into his hand and down his wrist.

He steadies the pace of his fingers, basking in your pussy’s warmth until you slouch back against the wall, catching your breath.

He busies himself with cleaning up his fingers, smirking to catch you watching him with a sense of intrigue. Much like himself, Jean knows you’re a voyeur, the perfect match for him, and he leans close to purr into your lips.

“You make the prettiest face I have ever seen. All for me too.” He feels you smile into his lips, momentary surprise flashing through him when your arms enfold around his neck with more strength than he would have imagined.

It enthralls him even more when you trail a hand down his chest. It roams south, fingers splayed flat to drag along the muscles of his stomach that flex in response. Your touch continues to explore until you reach Jean’s belt.

Almost in askance, you pull at the buckle.

Jean breaks away from the kiss to lift a cocksure brow. “Need me to touch you more? My fingers not enough for that pretty pussy, you need me to fill you with my cock too?”

Jean’s loving every bit of this. Regardless of how painfully hard he is, Jean doesn’t mind delaying his gratification to tease you, coax you into taking some of the reins and beg him to fuck you.

You bite your lip, and there’s a pull at Jean’s belt, going loose.

“That’s it, baby. Don’t be shy. It’s all yours.”

Your fingers are clumsy anyways as you undo the buckle. Looking up, Jean encourages you with a smile, humming his approval when you reach for the fly of his jeans.

Again, you pause with another look to Jean. There’s a little more confidence there veiled with a coy smile. You drag his jeans and boxers down, freeing Jean’s cock with an exhale.

Jean holds back from kissing you again. That mouth of yours gaping in awe sends a spark of lightning straight to Jean’s dick. While Jean can be humble, he can’t deny feeling cocky, knowing that the size of his dick belongs in a porno.

And it fucking aches, angry and red at the tip, a thick vein wrapped around the base, pulsing with need. Jean strokes himself, feeling the weight of his dick in his hand, pent-up and hard.

You swallow. “Uh…wow…” Your gaze lifts up in a slow drag and all it takes is the exchange of one heated look and Jean kisses you again.

He grabs onto your thighs, sweeping you off your feet to spread you out. You take hold of his shoulders, locking your hands around his neck, bucking down to feel his dick.

“Fuck. I’ve been so ready for you for weeks.”

The tip of his dick nudges your folds apart. Pre-cum leaks from the contact with your pussy, mixing with its slick. Jean shudders from the skin-to-skin touch; eager to slide into you with abandon, but a part of him also wants to prolong this moment, to savor every stroke to memory.

Lifting you higher is effortless. He admires the way your body moves with his strength. He lines up with your pussy with a bated breath.

His gaze drips down in admiration, the excitement reaching the corners of his mouth. Your pussy’s so pretty, glistening like a treasure in the dim room. It’d look even prettier with his cum spilling out.

There’s a sharp twitch in his cock. He can’t wait anymore; he wastes no more time.

Pushing in, Jean’s eyes flutter. Your warmth is so tantalizing, so inviting, Jean doubts he’ll ever want to leave. The way your walls suck him in slowly, bit by bit, inch by inch, it’s the only sensation Jean needs to feel.

“How does that feel, baby?” Jean pushes forward, grunting at the clench around his length.

You’re speechless for a moment, like words are too difficult to string together, only verbalizing with another throb of your pussy. “I…I…like it.”

Jean breathes a strained laugh, unable to tear his eyes away from your face. You try to slink back, flustered, if not for Jean’s hold. It’s endearing as it is arousing to witness each layer of you, from fiendish to flustered, to innocent to debauched.

Jean presses deeper, a dark moan rushing out from his lips. Your walls are so tight around him, pulsing to keep him inside with a vice-grip and Jean can really start to feel you now, it makes his head spin.

“Let me fill the rest of you up then. Because I want you to fucking love it.”

True to his word, Jean pushes into you to the hilt.

The throbbing in your pussy is almost too much for Jean, he takes a moment to muster his patience, and for you to adjust to his size. He gives you an open-mouthed kiss, sloppy and greedy as he inhales your sounds of pleasure.

“Oh, I’m going to fuck you so good, these DVDs will be useless.” It’s a promise Jean wants to make good on.

You seem to take that as a signal, gripping onto Jean in anticipation, whimpering out his name.

Jean pulls out just until his tip ghosts your entrance, adjusting his hold on your hips, so that your knees drape over his elbows, bending you in such a pretty shape.

And in one deep plunge, he fucks into you.

Your tits spring in tandem with the buck of Jean’s hips. More goosebumps sprout from the peak of your nipples, marked and bitten from Jean’s teeth.

You moan out, mouth unhinging in a series of gasps. Jean beams, feeling the clench around his dick, fucking into that burning hot spot deep inside of you.

A hum catches between your pressed lips as Jean fucks into you with more fervor.

“What’s that, baby?” he teases, fucking into you at the same rapid pace. “Something you want to say? It’s too late to be shy…”

A squelch between your legs robs you of the chance to speak.

Jean’s brows raise with amusement. “Oh, your pussy’s trying to tell me something. You hear her? She says she loves getting fucked by me. Tell me, baby, is your pussy being honest?”

You crack a smile, pupils wide, a whine slipping out. “Yes…yes, Jean – just like that.”

He keeps fucking you like that, pressing you against the wall, paying no mind to the tremble of the nearby shelving or the few DVDs tumbling from their stacks.

Your head falls back against the wall, arms clawing at Jean’s shoulders, legs squeezing him closer. Jean didn’t think he could reach you any deeper than he does in that moment.

“You feel so fucking good.” He lifts you up higher, choking on your name. “You know how to take a cock, huh? You know how to take my cock, you filthy thing.” He teases, pounding into you with abandon. “This is what you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it?”

The more you clench around him, the more Jean babbles.

Your whimpers spill into the air with every well-angled thrust. You’ve lost your voice. “Mhm – mmph!”

Jean’s dick spasms, his ego has transcended, and nothing will ever bring him down from this moment. To know that you’ve fantasized about him while you watched those rentals, the same way he’s stroked himself, imagining the noises you’d make and the touch of your skin.

It’s pure bliss he’s in and he wants to chase the rest of it, gulp down every drop as he gets closer to euphoria.

“Let me feel you cum – let me feel you cum,” he chants, pumping harsher. “I want you – wanna feel this pussy throb for me. Show me that pretty face again when you cum, baby. Let me see those eyes roll back –” Everything is said so quickly, he’s desperate to feel you twitch around his dick, to replay that face you make.

And within a couple more strokes, your back arches in his hold, chest rising like a wave. Your eyes roll back again like it did before, accompanied with a gasp echoing in the backroom as you cum for the second time.

He grunts, thrusting into you, and he feels it, spilling his cum so deep inside of you, finally reaching that climax he’s wanted for so long.

You’ve fallen limp but Jean clings to your legs, voice strung tight with a low, satiated groan, reveling in every twitch of his nerves, buried deep in your pussy.

Slumped against the wall, dress bunched at your waist, lax in Jean’s arms, you’re a vision. An image he wants to imprint in his mind forever. You deserved be plastered on a DVD cover, a stunner with an A-list pussy.

Carefully, he sets you down on your feet. You cling onto him, arms wrapped around his neck, wearing nothing but a dizzy smile.

Jean could get used to this. Pressing forward, thumbs rubbing up and down your hips, Jean smirks. “Better than the movies.”

Your laugh breaks through the hot air. “I wouldn’t mind having more practice.”

Jean’s smirk widens with delight, unable to control his restraint, kissing you. “Stick around for thirty minutes, and I’ll be off the clock.”

You nod, accepting another kiss.

“Good,” Jean purrs, holding you close. “After, we can take it back to my place, yours, anywhere…for round two.” A kiss to your jaw. “Round three.” Another to your neck. “Four…”

Or maybe the next round will happen in this room, because neither you nor Jean can peel yourselves off the other.

In an ironic twist of fate, you’re tied together in a heap of sweaty limbs an image that belongs in its own porno.

;) . . .

The screen freezes, paused at the image of Jean’s back turned to the security camera as he holds onto you.

“Oh shit – how much do you think Jean will give us to keep this a secret?” Connie breaks the silence of the video store. The last few customers took off a while ago, and the store has been empty for the last hour.

During that time, he and Reiner did what they often did when it was empty, chill behind the counter doing nothing. Except tonight, they surveyed the security cameras only to discover the peep show happening in the backroom.

He turns to Reiner, wearing a devilish grin. “Scratch that. We need make a few of copies of this. They could be the next Pam and Tommy!” He grins wider, more ideas, no doubt flooding his mind as he scrambles for the store’s phone. “I got to tell Eren.”

He turns away, dialing up his friend, whooping and raving with excitement about what he just saw.

For Reiner, however, it’s a different kind of excitement that keeps his gaze fixed on the security footage. One that’s left him with a raging boner at seeing his coworker, Jean fuck a customer in the back, inspiring some of his own fantasies.

He clears his throat, throwing a look over his shoulder.

Connie’s oblivious, still prattling on the phone. Bless him.

Reiner sneaks away, not stopping until he approaches the back. He flits a look up at the sign and debates. But softs moans muffled behind the door are more than enough to convince him to turn the handle and step inside. ;D

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zeldasnotes · 1 year

Text

LIST OF ASTEROIDS THAT I USE🪐

LOVE & RELATIONSHIPS❤️

3 Juno

433 Eros

16 Psyche

1585 Union

1221 Amor

268 Adorea

4580 Child

3561 Devine

29391 Knight

19029 Briede

5129 Groom

447 Valentine

1487 Boda

7328 Casanova

8991 Solidarity

THE LILITHS🕷

h58 Waldemath Lilith

H12 Mean Black Moon Lilith

h21 Black Moon Lilith

h13 Osculating True Lilith

1181 Asteroid Lilith

SEX & ATTRACTION🍑

16248 Fox

62 Erato

4386 Lust

875 Nymphe

80 Sappho

21419 Devience

17458 Dick

18624 Prevert

MAGIC & WITCHES🪄

34 Circe

5239 Reiki

5264 Telephus

100 Hekate

14827 Hypnos

37452 Spirit

8958 Stargazer

ABUSE & VICTIMISATION🧨

26 Proserpina

399 Persephone

7066 Nessus

157 Dejanira

6157 Prey

37117 Narcissus

4425 Bilk

128 Nemesis

26955 Lie

5273 Apatheia

7116 Mental

5188 Paine (Pain)

118230 Sado

228029 Maniac

1930 Lucifer

2150 Nyctimene

588 Achilles (Your Achilles heel)

APPEARANCE & APPEAL 💄

1 Ceres

1388 Aphrodite

2101 Adonis

5011 Ptah

5089 Nadherna

9758 Dainty

11727 Sweet

3267 Glo (Glow)

47 Aglaja

695 Bella

627 Charis

7500 Sassi

1862 Apollo

149 Medusa

1009 Sirene

COUNTRIES & CITIES🗺

1125 China

2045 Peking

780 Armenia

498 Tokio

1094 Siberia

2297 Daghestan

2698 Azerbajdzhan

3297 Hong Kong

1278 Kenya

1279 Uganda

1432 Ethiopia

1638 Ruanda

1718 Namibia

67 Asia

1157 Arabia

2169 Taiwan

Others

1488 Aura

6583 Destinn

55555 DNA

3811 Karma

9795 Deprez

212 Medea

1047 Geisha

4451 Grieve

9305 Hazard

5180 Ohno

6817 Pest

12927 Pinocchio

4227 Kaali

19521 Chaos

How to know where an asteroid is in your chart?

Use astro.com. You can Google ”Extended Chart selection” and click on the first link to get directly to the page. Write your birth info and then scroll down on the meny until you see ”Additional Objects”. Click on it and put the chosen asteroid numbers in the box ”Manual entry”. Oh and you can only see like 10 asteroids at a time.

COPY: 3, 433, 16, 1585, 1221, 4580, 3561, 29391,19029,5129,447, 1487, 7328, 8992, h58, H12, h21, h13, 1181, 16248, 62, 4386, 875,80, 21419, 17458, 18624,34, 5239, 5264, 100, 14827, 37452, 8958, 24626, 26, 399, 7066,157, 6157, 37117, 4425, 128, 26955, 5273, 7116, 5188, 118230, 228029, 1, 1388, 2101, 5011, 5089, 9758, 11727, 3267, 47, 695, 627, 7500, 1862, 149, 1009, 2150, 1930, 1488, 6583, 55555, 3811, 9795, 212, 1047, 3015, 4451, 9305, 5180, 6817, 12927, 4227, 19521, 588, 1125, 2045, 780, 1094, 2297, 2698, 3297, 498, 1094, 2297, 2698, 3297, 1278, 1279, 1432, 1638, 1718, 67, 1157, 2169

BOOK AN ASTEROID READING → PRICES

#astro notes #astrology #astro observations #astronotes #lilith #asteroids #birth chart readings

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thoseboysinblue · 1 year

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Unbroken

Part 3

Christian Pulisic x reader, Enemies to Lovers

You are best friends with Christian’s childhood friend, however, you and Christian cannot seem to get along with one another.

Word count: 7500+

Warnings: Smut, fluff, swearing, angst throughout the entire series

Part 2

You go up to your room, your heart a little lighter having cleared the air with, Christian. Hopeful that starting off on a new foot with him will lead to something better, even if it's just a friendship, you are just glad to know that you are no longer enemies. You brush your teeth and hop into bed, excited for your day tomorrow.

Y/N: Thanks for listening to me tonight, sorry if it was a bit much.

Christian: you never have to apologize for that, ever. I'm looking forward to our day tomorrow 😊

Y/N: Me too, hope I don't bore you to death 🫣

Christian: Never. Sleep well, y/n

Y/N: you, too Christian 😘

Your heart leapt in your chest to know he was also excited about your day tomorrow. You pull the covers up around you, hoping you can drift off to sleep.

The next morning you wake up ridiculously early, but too anxious about the day ahead to go back to sleep. You get up and take a shower, drying your hair and putting on some light makeup before deciding on what to wear, opting for something that will be comfortable for walking around.

You make your way downstairs, thinking Christian won't be up yet and that you will just make some coffee and sit in the back garden, enjoying the quiet until he wakes up.

Much to your surprise, he's already standing in the kitchen making his own cup of coffee, earbuds in as he hums along to a song when you walk through the doorway.

You stop in your tracks, taking in the way he looks, dressed casually, but still effortlessly gorgeous, his hair a bit messy, the last bit of a summer tan fading away, freckles on his cheeks, a slight stubble along his jaw, gorgeous brown eyes that you know you could get lost in, and soft lips that he presses to the edge of his mug, taking a long sip, before he swallows it down, Adam's apple bobbing.

He catches a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye, and turns and offers you a bright smile, "morning, y/n" he beams at you, grabbing another mug and pouring you some coffee, adding cream and sugar just the way he'd noted when you made your coffee in front of him yesterday, still humming along to his music, never missing a beat.

He slides your mug to where you are standing, leaned up against the counter. "Morning, Christian" you smile at him, a bit overwhelmed at the fact that he'd picked up on how you like your coffee just from watching you make it once. This all feels surreal to you, normal, like a routine you've done for ages, except, you haven't.

He places his earbuds and phone on the counter beside you. As you pull your mug up to your lips, he watches as you take a sip, a smile creeping over his face when you hum in appreciation. You sit your phone down beside his as he grabs your hand, "Let's sit out back, we don't get many sunny mornings here" he says quietly as he pulls you towards the glass doors that lead to his garden. You let out a small laugh as he slides the door open, moving over to the seating area and dropping down on the small sofa, patting the seat next to him indicating where he wants you to sit.

You sit next to him, as he stretches his legs out over the coffee table in front of him, you tuck your knees under you, barely leaning into his side.

"This is nice," you say, motioning towards the area behind his house.

"Yeah, I like to spend my mornings out here when I can, it's usually a quiet, calming way to start my day" he says as he takes another sip of his coffee.

"Thanks for this, by the way" you say, lifting your mug slightly. "Not sure how you memorized how I like my coffee that quickly, but I appreciate it anyways," you smile at him.

"I'm very attentive to details" he shrugs, making you wonder what else he might have picked up on from you.

"So, what do you normally do in the mornings? Just sit out here and drink your coffee like a little old man?" you quip.

"Well, I'm not an old man" he chuckles "but usually, I drink my coffee and play chess on my phone, so maybe I am an old man" he grins at you.

"Oh, that's right, I forget you play chess, I've heard Em mention it a few times," you say as you take another drink of your coffee.

"I like this one" you hum, dancing your finger over the chess piece on his arm, "it's really pretty." You notice how it feels like there is an electric current running between your fingertips and the skin on his arm, certain he's felt it too judging by the goosebumps that are now dressing his skin.

"Do you play?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper. "No," you shake your head, "but I've always wanted to learn" you smile at him shyly, pink tinging your cheeks.

"I could probably teach you, if you're up for it" he says still enjoying the way you are tracing the piece on his arm with your fingers and you nod in agreement, "yeah, I would like that, thank you."

"So, do you always wake up this early?" you quiz him, thinking of a whole list of questions you want to ask him.

"Yeah, I've always seemed to be an early riser, like to get my day started, you know? But woke up earlier than normal this morning, guess I was too excited to sleep any longer," he says, glancing at you to gauge your reaction.

"Hmm, why's that?" you raise your eyebrows at him, taking another sip of coffee.

"I don't know" he says smirking at you while pulling his mug up to his lips.

"Really, no ideas?" you grin at him as he shakes his head at you scrunching his nose up.

"What about you, are you always up this early?" he says, turning the conversation back to you.

"Yeah, usually, don't like to waste the day, I guess, but I might have woken up before my alarm this morning" you say as you realize you're still absentmindedly tracing your fingers along his arm, but judging by the way he leans into you a little more, and moves his arm over your lap tells you he's enjoying it.

"Why's that?" he says, lips curling up slightly at the edges.

"No idea" you grin at him.

"Maybe I'm excited about spending the day with you" he says, barely above a whisper before pressing a feather light kiss to your cheek, enjoying the way your breath hitches in your throat when he does.

"Well, maybe, I'm excited about spending the day with you, too" you whisper back to him, seeing his cheeks flush just the way you are sure yours are.

"Why the tiger?" you ask, turning your attention back to his arm.

"Favorite animal, and I'm a Tiger Woods fan, and it makes for a cool goal celebration," he grins at you.

"Mmm, if you say so" you grin back at him. "Better than your griddy though, I suppose" you say, giggling when he pretends to be offended.

"And here I thought we were having a nice conversation" he chuckles at you.

"I'm kidding" you say. "Sarcastic asshole, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. All that tells me is that you've watched enough matches to see multiple celebrations" he winks at you.

"Emily forced me, completely against my will" you quip back at him.

"Really?" he says, eyes burning into yours, "you didn't want to see me?"

You shake your head at him, nose scrunching and a hint of a smile on your lips.

"What's your favorite color?" you continue down your list.

"Blue, what about you?" he answers and responds with another question.

"Orange, how do you like your coffee?"

"Two sugars, and a little less cream than what you put in yours" he sighs leaning his head back against the sofa.

"What's the plan for today?" he asks you.

"Well, I was kind of hoping to go to Westminster Abbey, and maybe the Tower of London, if that's ok with you. But I'm really up for anything if you've been to those already," you answer him.

"No, that sounds good, I haven't been to either of them" he says settling his hand over your thigh and giving it a slight squeeze.

"Want to go get some breakfast?" he says turning to look at you, admiring the softness of your features in the early morning light, "there's a good little cafe on the way to the train station we could walk to."

"The train?" you question him, "Figured you're too high profile for that" you grin at him.

"Nah, if we are being tourists, we are going to be tourists" he smiles at you, "and I take the train a lot for the record, I'm an American remember, I don't get recognized as much over here as the English guys do."

"So, breakfast?" he says standing up and stretching, reaching his hand down for you to take so that he can pull you to your feet.

"Yeah, that sounds good. I'm starving, actually" you smile at him as you stand up.

"I just need to grab my bag. Can you text Em to let her know we are leaving so that she's not wondering where we are when she wakes up in about 5 hours" you chuckle at him.

"Yeah, I can do that" he says as you disappear upstairs.

He watches as you make your way back downstairs, embarrassed to admit to himself that he'd missed you for the few short minutes you'd been gone.

"Ready?" he asks as he opens the door, handing you a water and your phone.

"Yeah, but if this tour sucks, I'm calling Mason for the next one" you giggle as you drop your things into your bag.

"Did you see that video of him?" He chuckles at you.

"Yeah, I think everyone did," you grin at him, "I didn't even know who he was then, other than he played with you."

"Ahhh, so you have been paying attention?" he says, a wry smile on his lips.

"Maybe, a little more than I'd care to admit," you smile shyly, cheeks turning a soft shade of pink, a color he's quickly learning he loves.

You continue chatting as you walk towards the cafe, asking each other questions as you both work to get to know one another a little better.

You can't help but notice the way he always shifts to make sure he's walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street, or the way he places his hand over your lower back when you approach anyone else, or uses it to steer you in a certain direction as you continue to walk.

You also notice the way your skin feels like it's on fire when he's touching you, and how you miss it when he stops.

Once you reach the cafe and he guides you safely inside, you both stand trying to decide what to order from the counter and he makes a couple of suggestions to you. Once you decide, you both place your orders for breakfast sandwiches and a coffee, and you grab your card to pay, as he bickers with you over it. You let out a little cheer when you manage to get your card over the card reader before him and hear the notification that the transaction has gone through.

"You should've let me pay" he pouts a little at you.

"You're letting me stay in your house, breakfast is the least I can do," you smile at him.

"Fine, but, I'm getting lunch" he protests and you nod in agreement.

You enjoy your breakfast, your conversation continuing to flow from one topic to another. "This was really good, we'll have to come back here" you say, catching yourself when you realized you said "we", dropping your gaze down to nervously pick at your fingers.

"Yes" he breathes out, placing a finger beneath your chin and tilting your head up to look at him, "we will" he says, eyes burning into yours.

You could've sworn he was going to kiss you, standing there in front of the cafe, and you were secretly wishing that he would, desperate to feel his lips against yours again.

But he didn't, instead, he mutters "we should head to the train station, before it gets too crowded" and you nod in agreement as he wraps his arm around your waist, guiding you through the people walking along the pavement.

"I’m going to warn you, I might cry today" you say to him as you settle down in the seat next to him on the train.

"Yeah, why's that?" he asks you.

"Because these places that we are going, I've read about them and dreamed of seeing them for as long as I can remember, and I feel like I will probably be completely overwhelmed once I'm actually standing there. They are oddly special to me, even though I have no real connection to them" you say as you look down at your hands.

"But you do have a connection to them, they are part of your dreams, they are special places to you. There's nothing wrong with being passionate about things, caring about them, even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else," he says softly placing his hand over yours.

"You know, you always look at your hands, or your feet when you are nervous, and you pick at your fingers sometimes, too" he says giving your hands a little squeeze. "Your cheeks blush when you notice me looking at you a little too long, and you twirl this one piece of hair when you’re thinking about something" he says, reaching across you to twirl the hair he is referring to around his own fingers.

You lift your gaze to be met with his honey-colored eyes staring intently at you. And just as he predicted, you feel warmth spreading into your cheeks as they blush.

"You chew on the inside of your lip when you are trying not to smile or laugh at something" you whisper quietly, "and you blush when I catch you looking at me too long, your eyes get lighter in the sunlight, you smile differently when you are really happy about something, there is a difference between the forced and awkward ones that are sometimes posted on social media and the ones that reach your eyes when you are actually happy."

"So maybe we've both been paying more attention to each other than we'd care to admit" he says as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand.

"Seems that way" you smile softly at him, your momentary confessions interrupted when you realize you've made it to your stop.

"Come on" he says as he pulls you from your seat "let's go see these places you've been dreaming about."

You make the short walk from the train station over to Westminster Abbey, stopping to take a few photos along the way, handing your phone over to Christian when he insists on taking a few of you, both of you laughing hysterically when his attempts at a selfie with you go horribly wrong. Eventually, you pull yourselves together enough to manage to get one decent one of the two of you.

As you enter into the church you become a bit overwhelmed by emotions, tears pricking in your eyes as you think through the last 24 hours, you take a few deep breaths as you work to set up your audio guide for your tour.

You feel a hand slip around your waist, giving you a gentle squeeze, "You ok?" he asks quietly, a slight look of concern on his face.

"Yeah, I'm good, I'll probably be like this all day" you whisper back to him, "so, fair warning if you want to run away now" you smile at him as he shakes his head at you.

He stays close to you all morning, listening to his audio guide, following you as you explore all the various chapels and nooks and crannies, never rushing you, instead he takes it all in, watching as you stand in awe of certain things, noticing when your eyes fill with tears, taking a few pictures, including some of you when you aren't paying attention to him.

He does at times wander up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder to see what part of the guide you are listening to, occasionally grabbing your hand to get your attention, pointing out things he thinks you would like, asking you questions about a few things and listening intently as you explain who certain people are or how they are connected.

As you leave, he pulls you into the gift shop, "tourists need souvenirs" he smiles at you. You look around for a bit not really planning to buy anything when he wanders over to you holding a pair of coffee mugs.

"These seem appropriate for a chess loving old man and a history loving nerd" he grins at you as you nod.

"You don't have to buy me anything, Christian" you shake your head at him. "I know, but I want to, and whenever I'm having my coffee out of this mug, I'll remember today, and you can, too."

He heads towards the register to pay, picking up a couple of other things he thinks you will like while he's waiting. You wander outside to wait for him, taking a few minutes to drink some water and upload a few stories.

"So where to next?" he asks, holding out his arm for you to take.

"Maybe lunch? Or we can head over to the Tower and eat something closer to there?" you offer, slipping your hand around his arm.

"Yeah, let's do that, I've seen some pictures of places to eat along the Thames there" he smiles at you leading the way to the underground train that will take you closest to the Tower.

You get comfortable in your seats, as you settle in for the 20 minute or so trip, the two of you becoming increasingly aware of the lingering touches you've been sharing all morning, drawn closer and closer together by something neither of you are ready to admit you both feel.

He sits and fiddles with a ring you have on, the only piece of jewelry you are wearing, "this is pretty" he says as he continues twirling it around your finger. "It was my grandmother's. She gave it to me about a week before she passed away. She was the last person that told me she loved me." You smile at him softly, and he returns the smile, but you can tell something is bothering him.

"My mom was furious. She wanted it for my sister, but my grandmother gave it to me instead. She said she knew it would mean more to me and she knew that I'd take care of it. It's nothing fancy, but it was special to her, so it's special to me."

"Wait, y/n, I remember Em telling me about this, that's been nearly two years." he says a look of pain in his eyes.

You nod your head at him, "yeah, just about, why?"

"No one has told you they love you in nearly two years?" he asks quietly, finally working up the courage to slip his fingers through yours.

You shake your head at him. "I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've been told that I'm loved, Christian, I don't even think about it anymore" you give him reassuring smile, gently squeezing his hand.

"I told you, something about me is unlovable, broken maybe" you sigh, not really sure you want to be getting into this discussion again.

"And I told you, you are wrong about that, and that you deserve better" he says as he pulls your hand up to press a gentle kiss over your knuckles.

"Can you please not look at me like you pity me, Christian?" you whisper quietly, dropping your gaze to look at your hands in your lap, one intertwined with his, the other drawing soft circles on the back of his hand.

"I'm sad for you, y/n, but I don't pity you. This, that you feel from me right now, it's not pity, I promise" he says as he leans over to kiss the top of your head.

"Good, because whatever this is, I don't want it to be because you feel sorry for me or because you feel like it's your responsibility to fix it," you say to him, as you look over to make eye contact with him.

"It's not" he whispers as he shakes his head.

Your conversation moves on to something else, thankfully, and soon enough you find yourself exiting the underground station and facing the Tower.

"Holy hell, I can see why this place has intimidated people for over 1000 years" you gasp as you finally lay your eyes on it.

"Yeah, me too, I'll take 60,000 people yelling at me over this place any day" he chuckles as it hits you that there are so many things that are normal to him that you will never quite understand.

"So, what about pizza for lunch?" He asks you as walk past a few restaurants.

"That sounds good to me" you smile as you feel him slip his fingers through yours again.

"Good, because I might have done a tiny bit of research and there is a food truck here I'm dying to try" he grins at you and you let out a little laugh.

You decide to split a pizza, finding a quiet place to sit that overlooks the river and Tower Bridge.

"Is it as good as you expected?" you ask him.

"Hmmm, better" he says "oh, you are talking about the pizza, aren’t you?" he smiles at you a bit shyly, a twinge of pink coloring his cheeks.

"Well, yes, I am talking about the pizza. What are you talking about?" you ask him, a playful smile on your lips.

"The pizza is good, but I was talking about today, seeing all of this through your eyes, it's even better than I expected. I can appreciate it more because I know how special it is to you" he says, never breaking eye contact with you.

"So, I'm not boring you?" you ask him, genuinely wanting to know.

"Not at all, it's interesting to me, and I like seeing another side of you, one I feel like you don't let many people see" he says as he reaches across the table to pull your hand into his.

"No, definitely not" you say as you shake your head.

"Are you enjoying today?" he asks as you both toy with one another's fingers.

"Yeah, I am. Still having to pinch myself to believe that this is real. That I'm actually here, seeing these things, with you," you smile softly at him. "It's more normal than I expected, being around you" you trail off as he raises an eyebrow at you.

"I mean, I know you've been stopped a couple of times today, but it hasn't been as overwhelming as I thought it might be, honestly, I had no idea what to expect" you shrug your shoulders.

"Yeah, I can fly under the radar a little more here. I can go out and do things and stay fairly low key if I want to, it's a little different back home, but that depends on where I am there, too. There are lots and lots of people who don't know who I am, y/n, or don't care enough to bother me anyways," he gives your hand a squeeze.

"So what about you, what do you do besides play soccer and chess?" you ask him as you continue eating your lunch.

"Play guitar, play golf, read, catch up with people back home," that about sums me up he chuckles at you.

"I've always admired the way you called to check in with, Em. It's sweet." you grin at him.

"God, she's so chaotic" he laughs at you as you nod your head, "but I suppose that's why we love her."

"Speaking of, have you heard from her?" you ask him as you pull out your phone.

"No, I haven't heard back from her since I text her this morning" he says as he pulls his phone out as well.

"Oh, she messaged me a little while ago, she's going to Ben's" you say as you scroll through a few notifications.

"Uh oh" you say with a giggle as you open a message from where Mason has replied to one of your stories.

masonmount: your stories and Christian's stories look very similar 🧐

y/n: 🤫

"What is it?" he asks you, a little concerned.

"I think Mason is on to us" you chuckle turning your phone around so that he can see it.

"Yeah, I've been avoiding messages from him and Chilly all morning," he says with a smirk.

"Hmm. Ben has requested to follow me. Those two must be doing detective work together," you smile.

"Does my sister follow you?" he asks you glancing up from his phone.

"Yeah, she has for a couple of years I think, why?" you tilt your head at him.

"She's onto us too, then," he says as he ignores a message from her.

"It's not that I don't want them to know that I'm with you, I just wasn't sure how you felt about me telling them, and I'm enjoying having you to myself for a bit, if I'm being honest" he rambles.

"Chris, it's fine, you don't have to explain" you smile at him as you bring your hand up to his jaw.

"I like it when you call me Chris," he blushes slightly, imagining what his name might sound like rolling off of your lips in other situations, "but I don't want you to think I'm embarrassed to be with you, because I'm not, I just don't want to overwhelm you with everything that comes along with...well me" he says offering you a sympathetic smile before he turns his face to press a kiss to your palm.

"It's ok, really, I'm not bothered either way about you telling the people you are close with, but I'm enjoying having you to myself, too," you wink at him as you both stand up, taking your trash and throwing it away, "now if you want to tell your other 5 million or so followers, we might need to have a small chat first," you smile at him.

"It's 6 million or so, actually" he grins at you. "Well, keep posting those thirst traps and it will be double that before long" you quip at him.

"So, you've noticed" he raises his eyebrows, while you feign innocence. "Did you like them?" he asks with a devilish grin, but you just pretend to zip your lips shut.

You wander off to take a few pictures and videos, until you hear Christian call your name and motion for you to come over to where he is standing.

"He's going to take a picture for us, if you want one, figure it will be better than our selfie attempts" he chuckles as he slides his arm around your waist whispering "come here" into your ear as he pulls you into his side while you wrap your arms around his torso and lean your head into his chest.

He thanks the guy giving him a fist bump and taking his phone back before turning his attention back to you as he scrolls through the pictures while you lean against the railing looking out over the river.

"These are good" he says as he hands his phone to you, you look through them and notice that his smile is a genuine one. You both look happy to be with one another, not at all like two people who were barely speaking twenty-four hours ago.

"They are good, really good actually," you smile as you hand him his phone back and he shoves it into his pocket before he places one hand on the railing beside you, the other on your hip as he draws soft circles with his thumb.

You shiver slightly at his touch, as he leans in closer to you, resting his chin on your shoulder, before you slowly relax into him as your stomach flips over and over.

"Those pictures cost me one awkward smile selfie," he chuckles, "so you are going to have to ask someone to take the next one," he says giving your hip a squeeze.

"Not happening" you giggle at him, "I'll play rock paper scissors though, loser has to do the asking."

"Deal" he says, "but I'll warn you, I rarely lose."

"Well, neither do I, Pulisic," you say, glancing over to see his reaction noticing the slight smirk on his face.

"You ready to go inside?" he asks, turning his face slightly towards yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath along your jaw.

You nod slowly, unable to speak, and suddenly feeling weak in the knees.

You make your way into the Tower, both of you grabbing a map and audio guides before deciding where you want to go first.

As you make your way around the various sites within the Tower, Christian stays close to you much the way he did in the Abbey, asking questions, slipping his hands onto your hips as he leans his chin on your shoulder while he reads various things, noticing when certain things really capture your attention, holding out his hand for you to take as you walk up and down stairs and narrow passageways.

He's following along behind you, as you are climbing one particularly steep set of stairs followed by another and another, "my ass better look amazing after climbing all these damn stairs today" you say with a huff.

"Hmm, I've got no complaints regarding your ass" he says with a chuckle, and you aren't quite sure if he meant to say that out loud. "Christian!" you laugh as you reach the top of the stairs and slap him playfully on the chest.

"What?" he laughs back at you, "You think I've suddenly gone blind? Or are you forgetting I've seen you in a bikini?"

"Shit, I did kind of forget that we've known each other for a long time, considering the fact that today is the longest stretch of time we've been together and not wanted to kill one another" you giggle as he shakes his head at you.

You finish walking around, seeing everything you can possibly see. "I think I'm going to grab some ice cream; you want some?" you ask him as you turn to face him.

"Yeah, that sounds good," he says grinning at you, "I'm going to the gift shop."

"Don't buy anything ridiculous" you say, pointing your finger at his chest trying to pretend you are being serious.

"Yes, dear" he sarcastically rolls his eyes, leaning in to place a quick kiss to your cheek before he ducks into the small shop near the exit.

You get ice cream for the two of you and sit down on a small bench to wait for him. You see him emerge with two more bags in his hands and you can't help but grin and shake your head at him.

You hand him his ice cream as he sits down beside you. "So, what did you get?" you say trying to peek into the bags.

"For your books," he smiles as he pulls out a bookmark with Anne Boleyn on it, "I kind of got the feeling she might be your favorite."

"Thank you," you smile at him, "she really is, although, I'm a bit curious as to how you figured that out."

"Well, you lingered a while in the Chapel here, close to where she's buried and I kind of felt like you didn't want to leave her. You did the same thing in the Abbey earlier, with Elizabeth I. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't have to google it to see how they are connected," he says, a shy smile on his lips.

"I can't believe you've been paying that much attention to me today" you say quietly, blinking back a few tears.

"I've always paid attention to you, y/n, I just didn't show it until now" he says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"So, something for your books" he says nodding towards the bookmark, "and something for your bed" he says as you raise an eyebrow at him, your curiosity definitely peaked as he mentions your bed, before he hands you a small bear dressed in a Yeoman Warder costume.

You let out a little giggle "wasn't sure where you were going with that one, Chris, could've been anything in that bag, but I love this, it's perfect," you say as you lean over to quickly kiss his cheek.

"What's in the other bag?" you ask him, presuming it is something for himself.

"Well, I got this really cool ale tankard shaped like a skull," your eyes widen as he hands it to you, "hmm that's nice, thank God it's just something to drink beer out of and not a new tattoo." You notice his eyes light up when you mention a tattoo.

"No, uh uh, don't even think about it, skulls don't go with your Mike Wazowski vibe, babe" you say, closing your eyes when you realize you've just called him babe.

You open them back up to see him staring at you, a playful smile on his lips. "Want to see what else I got?" he asks, and you silently hope he's going to overlook your slip as you nod at him.

He pulls out a book about the history of the Tower along with his own bookmark with a knight on it, "can't let you be the only history nerd can I, babe?" he chuckles tapping you on the nose with the bookmark.

"Oh, don't think I'm going to let you live that down for a while" he grins as you bury your face in your hands.

You both finish your ice cream, and he puts all his purchases back into the bags as you carry the empty cups over to the trash can.

He meets you as you both walk towards the exit, "they also had this amazing chess set, but it was too bulky to carry home," he says, "that seems reasonable" you smile at him. "So, I'm having it shipped to the house instead," he grins, clearly overly ecstatic about his purchase.

"And I really wanted this massive suit of armor they had in there, but I don't think I have anywhere to put it so..." he shrugs his shoulders.

"Oh my God, you are never allowed into a gift shop alone, ever again," you shake your head at him.

"Looks like you are stuck shopping with me then, babe" he says wrapping an arm around your waist and kissing your temple.

"You really aren't going to let me forget that are you?" you roll your eyes playfully at him.

"Nope, not a chance" you clasp your hand over his mouth. "Don't say it" you chuckle. But as soon as you remove your hand "babe" he winks at you. You would be lying to yourself if you said it didn't make your heart flutter every time he said it though.

You make your way back to the underground station and once you get settled into your seats, you fall into a comfortable silence. He wraps his arm around your shoulders while you lean your head on his shoulder and slip your fingers through his as you pull your phone out to see if you've heard from Emily lately.

"Holy shit," he says as he glances at your phone.

"What?" you look at him confused.

"Have you not noticed all of those follow requests that you have?" he says as he scrolls through them by the hundreds.

"Well, I turned my notifications off because my phone was vibrating itself to death, but yes, I've noticed all of those follow requests, I just don't have the energy to delete them right now. Guess that's what happens when 3 Premier League footballers follow you within 24 hours or so of each other. I'm sure someone somewhere has me dating or fucking all three of you. Oohh I'm going to like some posts, that will really send them into a tailspin" you giggle.

"I'm sorry" he whispers as he presses a kiss to the side of your head, "I can get someone to help you with all of that if you want me to" he says frowning slightly.

"It's ok, you're worth it, I guess" you smile, reaching up rub your hand along his jaw.

He keeps looking through the requests, seeing if he recognizes any. "That's Mase's private account, and that one's Chilly's, if you want to accept them. And there is Sophia of course, and Kai, and Reece. You're racking up your footballer body count," he chuckles. "And I accidentally hit accept on my private account" he winks at you.

"Hmm, accidentally clicking on things, that reminds me" you say as you go through liking a few of his posts, "someone liked a post of mine from about 2 years ago yesterday. Having a little stalk were you?" you grin at him.

"Well, it was a nice picture, and it was on my boat" he says as he tickles your sides.

"So, were you liking it because of me, or because of your boat?" you ask him as you toy with his fingers.

"I liked it, because it was you, on my boat, now can we talk about something else because this isn't the place for me to be picturing how amazing you looked in that tiny blue bikini that left very little to the imagination," he says quietly as he pleads with you to change the subject.

You switch to a different train, Christian showing you a few things about the app you are using to navigate the city. You settle into your seats for the final leg of your trip, a bit surprised at how easily you’ve both gotten used to being this close to one another.

He leans his head back on the seat, draping his arm over your legs that are propped up on the seat in front of you. You take his hand in one of yours, while slowly dragging the fingers of your other hand up and down his forearm. He hums in appreciation as he softly closes his eyes.

“You want to grab some dinner, later?” he says, never opening his eyes.

“Yeah, that sounds nice” you whisper as you lean your head over on his shoulder.

“Good, because I’m not quite ready for this day to end yet,” he sighs and you shake your head against his shoulder whispering “me either.”

You make your way back to Christian’s house, both of you staying fairly quiet as you walk back, hands linked together. Once you reach his front door, he stops you pulling you closer to him. “Meet me in an hour? he whispers against your jaw, causing you to shudder slightly as his hands wrap around your back. “Ok” you answer him, struggling to force your brain to think of words as you wrap your hands around the back of his neck.

He pulls you into a tight hug, craving more of the way every inch of his body reacts to the sensation of having you against him. He places a few lingering kisses along your jaw enjoying the way you hum in appreciation. “I really have had the best day with you, y/n” he says leaning back to look you in the eyes. “me too” is all you can manage to get out, suddenly nervous and overwhelmed by everything that seems to be happening between the two of you.

“Come on” he says opening and holding the door for you so that you can walk into the house.

You both disappear upstairs and you hop into the shower. Pulling your hair back so that you don’t get it wet. You step out of the shower, turning on some music as you pull on a t-shirt and shorts before touching up your makeup and brushing through your hair, adding a few soft curls before you start deciding what you want to wear. As you sit in the floor, re-folding some of the things in your suitcase you hear a quiet knock.

You open the door to find Christian standing there, a shy smile dressing his lips. “Do you mind if I hang out in here while you finish getting ready?” he asks you, eyes softening a bit.

You shake your head and motion for him to come in. He moves over to sit on the bed, stretching back and relaxing against the headboard while you sit back down in the floor next to your suitcase returning to your decision about what to wear. “Do you know where you want to go for dinner?” you ask him, hoping that his answer might inspire you.

“I was thinking about a little Mexican place that isn’t too far if you don’t mind walking again” he answers you.

“No, I don’t mind, at all” you smile over at him deciding on a simple, flowy dress. “I’m going to go change” you say as you grab your dress and head into the ensuite, he nods, his eyes following you.

You change quickly, slipping your dress on and spritzing on some perfume, mentally noting the shoes you want to pair with it since they will be comfortable for however far you may be walking.

You come out of the bathroom to see Christian sitting on the bed, holding the picture of you and him and Emily. “Can I ask you something?” he says as he looks down at the photo. “Sure” you whisper nervously as you take a few steps closer to him. “Why didn’t you drink the other night when they mentioned kissing someone sitting at the table?”

“Oh, Christian, I” you stammered a bit, “I guess I knew if I drank, it would be obvious who I had kissed, and I wasn’t sure if you wanted that shared, and honestly, I wasn’t sure you even remembered,” you look down at your hands.

He places the picture back on the table, standing up and closing the gap between you quickly. He cups his hands under your jaw tilting your head up to look him in the eyes. “So, you do remember it then?” he says leaning in closer and closer to you as you feel his breath fan across your face. “Of course, I remember, Christian. How on earth could I forget?” you sigh.

He takes one more glance over your face, looking for any expression that might tell him you don’t want him to kiss you and when he doesn’t find one, he finally brushes his lips against yours. You both sigh into the kiss, giving in to whatever it is that you’ve both been fighting against. One of his hands slips around to gently hold the back of your head while the other blindly searches for your hand, once he finds it he intertwines his fingers with yours, giving them a squeeze, while you twist your other hand into the t-shirt he is wearing.

The kiss is delicate, tender, both of you trying to convey everything you’ve felt over the past twenty-four hours, or possibly the past few years. You both pull away naturally, bright smiles plastered across your faces. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he whispers, “actually I’ve been wanting to do that since the last time I kissed you” he says as he presses his lips against yours again, a bit heavier this time as you wrap your hands around the back of his neck, pulling him into you as close as you possibly can.

He moves to kiss along your jaw, whispering into your ear “can I tell you you look beautiful?” he sighs as you nod lightly. “Because, you do look beautiful, you are always beautiful to me” he says, punctuating his words with kisses across your cheeks and along your jaw. “Now, I’m the one that needs to be pinched” he says placing one final kiss to the tip of your nose, chuckling when you pinch him lightly.

“So, dinner?” he asks, pressing one more kiss to your lips.

Part 4

@batmansb1tch @breakablehcaven @neverinadream @iguessweallcrazyithinktho @mounthings @pulisicsgirl @opheliainwonderland @alwaysclassyeagle @dinonuggiesforliferz

#christian pulisic #christian pulisic imagine #christian pulisic smut #christian pulisic x reader #unbroken series

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astrophileous · 6 months

Text

Let's Put On a Show

Part 2 of 4 from The Countdown series.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Female Reader

Synopsis: As his undercover life begins, Derek finds that the biggest enemies he has to battle are past memories and resurfaced feelings.

Word Count: 7500-ish

Warning(s): 18+ NSFW CONTENT (minors dni); penetrative sex; vaginal fingering; alcohol consumption; derek might be a little bit of an asshole in certain parts; talks and/or implications of illegal trades (narcotics, firearms, explosives), human trafficking, past trauma (child abuse), reproduction, infertility (mentioned), coercion into sex (not by Derek), attempted rape (not by Derek), degrading nicknames (cocksle*ve—not by Derek), noncon strangulation during sex (not by Derek), physical violence, physical torture, violence against a child; pls lmk if I missed anything

Author's Note: this one is..... y'know what, I'll let you judge by yourself. pls be mindful of the warnings I've listed above. DON'T READ IF YOU THINK ANY OF IT MIGHT BE TRIGGERING. another special mention to @avis-writeshq for beta and for bearing with me 🥺💞 with that said, don't forget to LIKE+COMMENT+REBLOG <3

Criminal Minds Masterlist

It was a couple of weeks later when Temples called for another meeting at the factory.

"Everything's set and good to go," Temples informed almost as soon as you had stepped into the threshold. "Derek Miller will be reporting for duty in two weeks."

Temples handed you the tablet containing a digital file filled with documents about Derek Miller's life. You were instantly reminded by the memory of receiving a similar looking tablet, scrolling through the endless documents of the persona you had been living with for the past few years.

"How do you wanna initiate contact?" you asked as you handed the tablet to Derek.

"I called in some favors from Bastoni. He's gonna vouch for Miller," Temples explained. "I trust you can handle the rest?"

You confirmed with a solid nod.

"It's happening," Derek muttered.

"You ready?"

Derek's eyes flew towards yours. "As I'll ever be."

"Good." A gentle breeze blew against your face, as if preparing along for the inevitable storm ahead. "Let's put on a show, shall we?"

"Derek."

Wrapped in your breathy moan, Derek's name was a world-class symphony. The soft expanse of skin glided against his own in a dance that he had known all too well. Above him, you were a goddess reincarnated, writhing for pleasure and setting flames to every nerve-ending in Derek's body.

"Derek, fuck. I'm gonna—"

"I know. I've got you, sweetheart." Derek's arms circled your waist, pulling you close until your chest was pressed against his. "Feel so good around me. Shit."

It took less than a minute for Derek to finally feel you coming undone around him, the sensation of your pulsating walls triggering his own release. Derek kept rutting up against you even as he was emptying himself into the condom, drawing tiny circles on your bundle of nerves and holding you tighter as your body spasmed some more from overstimulation.

Derek's lips brushed a feather-light touch on your cheek, tasting salt where sweat and tears of pleasure had mixed. You got up from his lap as soon as you regained the first bit of strength in your limbs, pretending that your legs weren't on the verge of breaking like sticks as you teetered towards the bathroom.

He was just returning from the kitchen with a bottle of water when you finally re-emerged.

"Let's put on a show," you suggested, now clad in your wrinkled shirt that was buttoned merely halfway.

Derek handed you the bottle before settling back under the duvet. "What do you wanna watch?"

"I don't know. What's on?"

You found your way back easily to Derek's side. It was muscle memory by now, the way you gravitated towards him and the way he'd welcome you easily into his arms. The bedroom lit up in the presence of your giddy smile when you saw one of your favorite Law & Order episodes playing on the TV.

"Hey," Derek spoke after ten full minutes of silence. "A buddy of mine is getting married next week."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"That's great."

"I wanted to see if you'd come with me."

The offer caught you off guard. Derek knew it from the way you tossed your attention so fast from the courtroom scene on the TV and towards him.

"Come with you to the wedding? As... your date?"

"Do you want to come with me as anything else?" Derek deadpanned.

An intangible weight shifted in the atmosphere when you decreased the TV volume all the way to zero. Derek didn't like the way you were examining him at that moment, as if you were trying to find a crack in an otherwise immaculate ornament.

"I thought you were fine with our arrangement the way it is."

"We've never even discussed it. You avoid me every time I try to bring it up."

Your chest swelled around a shaky breath. Derek never thought a few inches could feel like an entire ocean until he stared at the distance between where the two of you were sitting against the headboard.

"You don't wanna do this with me."

"What the hell does that mean?"

There was no mitigating the hostility in Derek's voice. He thought it must have been an act of fortification when you opted to leave the bed and began pacing the room, stepping further and further from him until the previous ocean finally metamorphosed into a freaking planet.

"I can't be somebody's girlfriend, Derek."

He ignored the resonant snap in his chest. "Can't or won't?"

"I won't because I can't. It's complicated. You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me." Derek rose from the bed, erasing the distance that had stolen you away from him. His chest felt thirty pounds heavier as he stood in front of you. "Help me understand. I want to understand. Please."

You sank on the edge of the mattress, with Derek kneeling before you as though prepared to launch himself forward if ever you would need him to. His hand hovered above your knee, dithering and unsure, petrified over the possibility of you pushing his hand—or worse, him—away.

"I've never had anyone in my life aside from my brother. Nobody before you." Derek perched his hand on your thigh at your revelation. "I don't know how to be with someone. How to care for them. How to love. I've been alone most of my life, and I work better that way. I only know how to be alone."

"That's not true," Derek denied abruptly. "You know how to be with me."

"That's different."

"How is that different?"

"Because you haven't needed anything else but sex from me up until now."

Derek faltered in shock.

You didn't think you ever saw him looking so wounded.

"That's what you think? That I've only ever used you for sex?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Sounds like that's exactly what you meant to say to me." Nothing could be more fragile than the voice that roused when he next spoke, "Is it something I said? Did I do something to make you believe that sex was all I wanted from you?"

"No, Derek. Of course not. Dammit, I told you I didn't mean it like that." You ran an agitated hand over your face before continuing, "We've never spent time with each other that didn't start or end with our clothes off. That's how it's always been between us, and I'm okay with that. I'm good at sex. That's why everything has worked out so far. But a relationship?" You laughed sardonically. "I don't know how to do it. What will happen when you need me to be there for you, and I'm constantly letting you down? What will happen when you start needing more than just my body, only to realize there's nothing left inside of me to offer?"

The air thickened around your throat.

You peered up to see whether or not Derek had caught that last bit of slip-up in your extempore speech. You hadn't meant to divulge it. You hadn't meant to articulate your fear so plainly in front of him like that.

What will happen when you start needing more than just my body, only to realize there's nothing left inside of me to offer?

Slowly, as though trying not to startle an easily-spooked rabbit, Derek took a seat right beside you on the bed. The scent of sandalwood attacked your senses instantaneously.

"You have so much to offer than you realize, sweetheart," Derek murmured. "You're every good thing in my life, can't you see?"

You shook your head in rebuttal. "That's the thing. I'm not good, Derek. You can't see it now, but you will eventually."

"Sweetheart—"

"I'm gonna hurt you, you know?" You looked up at him through the pooled tears in your waterlines. Derek decided right then and there that he despised the sight of you crying in front of him. "Maybe not today. Maybe it won't be tomorrow either. But someday, somehow, I will do something—or say something stupid, because that's what I do—and you'll hate me for it."

"That's fucking impossible."

"You don't believe I'm capable of hurting you?"

"No." His hand flew to your face, dragging a comforting thumb on the anxious lines that had embellished your forehead. "I don't believe I'm capable of hating you."

You loathed being at the depot in the middle of the day, especially underneath a scorching summer like this one. It was an uncommon occurrence that you found yourself there while the sun was still out. After all, whatever business was going down in that place called for discreet logistics, and since secrecy was a nighttime affair, you rarely visited the container yard during the day.

Alas, a big package coming in from Bolivia was supposed to arrive one week ago but found itself shipped elsewhere instead. This unexpected hiccup had drowned you in a copious amount of paperwork for days, followed by a substantial scoop into The Big Boss' personal vault. The delay also meant you had to do everything in broad daylight to catch up with the tight schedule on your hands. Kreczmar wasn't happy about the whole ordeal, and frankly, neither were you.

As you stood with your back against one of the disposed wooden crates, you kept an eagle eye on the men unloading the contents of the Bolivia containers out to the yard. There were three in total: two carrying the hottest illegal substances on the market, and another one filled with smuggled explosives and weaponry.

The men were pushing off the last crate from the second container when a figure plopped next to your right.

"We need to talk," Derek announced without so much as a greeting.

"Hello to you too."

You could feel his eyes on the side of your face as he spoke, "I'm stopping by your room later tonight."

"You can't. I'm expecting Kreczmar tonight."

Derek's stare was sweltering on your cheek. Even after the two months he had spent under, Derek couldn't warm up to the idea of your arrangement with Aleksander Kreczmar. In fact, he constantly scorned it at any given chance.

"Fine. I'll stop by after you're done."

"What is this about, Derek?"

"Not now, sweetheart. Later."

You watched as Derek walked away towards the other men, leaving you yearning alone over his retreating back.

In the span of two months, Derek had managed to fit in better than you initially thought he would. Miller the Stiller, they had dubbed him. Derek told you it was because he sent any room into a standstill due to his domineering presence—to which you had rolled your eyes blatantly to his face—but chatter from the back rooms told you that the nickname came from his good looks that, apparently, never failed to render anyone speechless.

As it turned out, Kreczmar's crooks were just as vulnerable to Derek Morgan's charm as the average women were. You didn't blame them. You, too, had fallen victim to that same charm many years ago.

Derek moved with authority among the sea of men, molding into the perfect puzzle piece to slot himself in between Kreczmar's thugs. You watched every inch of his movement like a hawk, stopping only when a rugged voice slashed through your pristine reverie.

"Ghost." Jan Borowicz stood to your left with the same signature frown across his graying eyebrows. His eyes, as always, were uncharacteristically warm for a man of his repute. "Something you should see."

You followed the middle-aged man to the back of another container, where you saw a figure crouching down with a hunched head between their knees. You didn't need to see their face to know who it was.

"Paolo." The 13 year-old looked up at the sound of his name. You rushed over to his side, your hands going straight to the fresh cuts and bruises smeared on the boy's face. "What happened?"

Paolo's eyes flared with fear. The answer you searched for eventually came from Jan, "I saw him with Ralph Grader earlier."

You recognized the name almost immediately. Grader was one of the new recruits from a few weeks ago; a petty thief who worked for one of Kreczmar's smaller branches before being transferred to the headquarters. You hadn't bothered memorizing anything else about the bastard—not even his face—because you thought he would be smart enough to realize his insignificance to never cause any trouble.

Well, you definitely got that one wrong.

"Is that true? Did Grader do this to you?"

Paolo never granted you a verbal answer, but the way he recoiled at the name told you everything you needed to know.

You turned to Jan with a newfound ire in your chest. "Where's Grader now?"

"Unloading with the rest of 'em."

You helped Paolo to his feet before marching over towards where the men were working. Most of them stopped in their tracks as soon as they saw you approaching, Jan and Paolo hot on your heels.

"Grader." Your voice was ice as it traveled throughout the group. "Ralph fucking Grader."

A scuffle at the back of the crowd caught your attention. It was a few seconds later when two of the men appeared in front of you, holding up a scruffy man—whom you could only assume as Grader—between the both of them. They shoved Grader on his knees, earning a rather loud hiss from the bastard.

"Let's not waste anyone's time and get straight to the point, shall we? You know why you're here." You reached for the gun in your holster, pulling it out before aiming the barrel to Grader's forehead. "You're gonna give me the answer I need before I finish counting to three, and I may have just enough mercy to let you keep your life."

"What—"

"One."

"Wait. Wait. Wait a second—"

"Two."

"I don't—"

"Th—"

"Okay! Okay! Fine, I confess!" Grader exclaimed. "It was me. I did that to him."

"You're not fucking stupid. Tell everyone what you did."

Grader trembled like a leaf before your eyes. You could read the forgiveness he sought with his gaze—no doubt similar to the one Paolo had flashed to him before he charged at the boy—and your chest glutted with relish to see the scoundrel grovel at your feet.

"I did it. I beat up Paolo," Grader confessed.

Tension fulminated in the air. Everybody was holding their breath as they waited to see what you would do next: show compassion or assign Ralph Grader an even worse fate than death?

The moment you lowered your gun from Grader's forehead, everyone knew that you had chosen the latter.

"You know what to do," you declared towards the two men—Vin and Al—who had brought Grader to you.

The two of them each grabbed Grader's arm before dragging him away from the scene. You didn't cast a single look towards Grader's direction even when he started pleading for his life.

"You can hold down the fort on your own, yeah?" you asked Jan, to which he gave you a single agreeing nod. "Good. Everyone else, back to work."

The crowd dispersed instantly upon your command.

As you were taking the first step to your leave, your eyes caught Derek's dark ones from the distance. Without another word, you turned around and followed Ralph Grader's drag marks on the ground, shunning the weight of Derek's stare that seemed to bore a hole straight through your skull.

"You okay?" Derek murmured in your ear.

Your answer was a stern nod—one that would satisfy any other person—but Derek Morgan was never any other person to you.

The man didn't hesitate to bid a quick goodbye to the host—claiming that there was an important errand the two of you needed to take care of, despite your incessant complaints—before pulling you along to the lot where his car was parked.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" Derek questioned as soon as the car left the vicinity of Jennifer Jareau's house.

"Nothing's going on."

"You underestimate my ability to read you like an open book."

In the corner of his eye, Derek could see you staring out the window as if the city billboards were playing a non-stop rerun of your favorite movie. JJ's house shrinked in the rearview mirror with every yard the car sped through, and Derek thought he would suffocate in the silence if it continued any further.

He pulled up next to a curb as soon as he saw an empty spot he could park his car in. Confusion pranced in your eyes when Derek grabbed your hands in his.

"Talk to me."

"About what you said to JJ—" you evaded Derek's eyes, choosing to glout at your connected hands instead, "—did you mean that?"

Derek's forehead creased. He tried to pinpoint exactly which conversation with JJ you might have meant.

"About having a baby," you continued before Derek could ask you to clarify.

Understanding dawned on him in an instant.

JJ and Will had called for a merry celebration with the baby shower for their second child. All of Derek's dearest friends were in attendance, and he couldn't think of a more perfect opportunity to have you officially introduced to the team that had been his found family for the past several years. Some of them had met you in passing before, but this was the first occasion Derek could finally introduce you as his.

It was a joyous occasion, and in the midst of it all—after Derek had wished JJ a safe delivery and healthiness for both the mother and the baby—his blonde teammate had eyed the two of you cheekily and blurted out, "You guys are next, right?"

To which he replied without thinking, "Hopefully."

It was a lapse of judgment on his part, but Derek never expected the repercussions to be afflicting you this greatly.

"Hey, look at me." Derek's knuckles brushed against your cheekbone until your eyes leveled with him once more. "Don't take it to heart. I was making lighthearted conversations. I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Maybe." You pushed his hand away from your face, and Derek nearly groaned at the loss of contact. "But it's still something you want to do, right? Maybe not now, but later down the road?"

"Sweetheart." Derek tried to coax you into looking at him again, sighing heavily when you refused. "Do you not want kids?"

Derek's question crashed like a sinking ship in the air; slow and painful, catastrophic and dreadful. The firm grip he had on your knee would usually suffice as a life vest, but at that moment, the touch was nothing more than a stack of stones weighing you down even further.

"It's not about what I want."

"What do you—"

"I can't have kids."

There was no concealing the shock on Derek's face.

Out of everything he expected you to say, nothing could have prepared him for that admission. He didn't know how to respond to such a vulnerable confession. The way you were sitting right then, though—pressed against the door with your knees pointed away from Derek, as if you were an impala cornered by a lion—told him that any physical gesture he could present wouldn't be responded in kind.

"How long have you known?" was what Derek ended up asking after a while had passed.

"I think I've always known. It's not that I... I don't... There's no medical reason behind it. It's just something I can't do, Derek. Do you understand?"

He did.

Derek didn't think he could understand anyone better than he understood you at that moment.

As he watched your fingers trifle with the hem of your top, the abstract doodles in his head rearranged into a much clearer picture. He knew, then, that your incapability to have children wasn't caused by any physical factor. You simply wouldn't permit yourself to believe that you were capable of doing it.

It didn't take a genius to understand that this incapability was nothing less than a fear in disguise, stemmed from the years of abuse you had to endure as a child.

Derek hated to be profiling you during times like this, but the skills he had harvested from years on the job didn't exactly come with an off button. He had seen cases like this; where constant disappointment from loved ones gradually evolved into disappointment of one's self. Where the threat of projecting that same disappointment on others often led to drastic measures being taken.

In this case, the fear of turning out like your parents led you to believe that you didn't deserve to be a mother.

And that couldn't be further from the truth.

When Derek tried telling you this, you automatically shut down his attempt.

"Please, Derek. I know what you're trying to say. And I know that technically, you're right. But I just... I can't, okay? This isn't up for debate. I'll never be able to have kids. Not now. Not ever."

The finality of your words was indisputable.

Derek appraised you in its aftermath.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Not now. Not ever," Derek emphasized, grabbing your hand to circle a soothing touch on top of it. "You're in charge here, baby. We won't do anything you don't wanna do. You should know by now that I'd follow you blindly anywhere you lead me to."

"But I thought... Don't you want kids?"

"I want you more." Derek kissed you as though he was foregrounding his promise. The residual apprehension in your body evaporated at the first taste of his lips. "You're all I need, sweetheart."

The sight of your smile awakened something in Derek's chest. As he basked in your luminance, Derek could feel the shape of three little words consolidating inside of him. They frolicked around as if waiting to be said out loud, but Derek bit his tongue before they could slip past his lips.

The three little words could wait.

After all, there would be other opportunities for him to confess his undying love to you.

There were two rapid knocks on the door, a pause, a knock, a pause, and then another knock.

Derek Morgan was at the door.

It was already the third time Derek had ever been in the comfort of your bedroom, but it was the first time he stepped in there so soon after you had just finished your appointment with Kreczmar. The evidence of your time with the crime lord was still palpable in the unkempt state of your bed. Derek never thought the sight of ruffled bed sheets could feel like hot coals being shoved forcefully down his throat, and yet here he was.

"Drink?" you suddenly asked from your place by the liquor table.

There was no chance for him to respond before you thrusted a glass of whiskey in his face.

"It's not poisoned," you quipped after seeing the reluctance in his eyes. "I just got it as a gift. Old Fitzgerald. Good stuff."

Derek's jaw hardened the moment you mentioned the word gift. He didn't need further clarification to guess from whom "the gift" had originated.

"No, thanks." He put down the glass back on the table. "If you don't mind."

"Suit yourself."

The robe you were wearing spread out the second you sat down on the ottoman bench, revealing the naked length of your legs. Derek used to memorize every inch of those limbs better than he could memorize the lines on his palm.

"You said you wanted to talk?" you questioned.

Derek watched as you leaned back against the foot of the bed. Your navel was nearly exposed to him from this new position, but you crossed one of your legs over the other before you could flash him a peek. With the golden drink in your hand, you were the definition of a sinful temptation.

Derek buried his hands in his pockets and looked away. "I'm hearing chatter about a shipment coming in a couple of weeks. It's not listed in any of the existing manifests."

"Have you checked with the ones still awaiting approval?"

"I did. None in there as well."

"Hm. Interesting." You took a sip of your drink, savoring the burn while you lost yourself in contemplation. "Is the intel legit?"

"I heard it from Lascano."

You hummed thoughtfully at the name.

Mateo Lascano was one of Kreczmar's trusted right-hand men, though you'd argue that his loyalty resembled that of a guard dog just to see the man tremble with rage. You never liked the guy, and fortunately for you, the feeling was very much reciprocated. He harbored a nasty gash on his left cheek courtesy of your pocket knife from that one time he had challenged you to a spar after questioning your competence in front of Aleksander Kreczmar himself.

The taste of victory from that day was still sweet on your tongue, even underneath the bitter note from the whiskey you were nursing.

"He's an asshole, but his words do warrant some substance." You rose from your seat and headed for the liquor table to top up your glass. "I'll see what I can find out about it from Kreczmar."

"You think that's wise?"

"Why wouldn't that be?"

"He may get suspicious."

"I have my own ways with him. Trust me."

Derek's fists clenched against his sides.

You should have known by now that Derek's objections were never a matter of trust. He might still be leery about trusting you with his heart, but there was no question whether or not he would trust you with his life. Derek knew you would dive in front of a bullet for him if given the chance; a sentiment he both shared and requited in kind.

He did, however, have a strong disapproval of your so-called ways of handling things with Kreczmar.

"What's your plan, sweetheart? Fuck the bastard until you loosen his tongue?"

The drink in your hand stopped swirling. The glass fell with a loud thump when you slammed it back on the table.

"What the fuck is your problem?!"

"My problem?" Derek gritted his teeth. He stalked forward as though you were a convenient prey, blocking every possible exit until the only respite you were left with was the wall against your back. "You want to know what my problem is?!"

The next thing you knew, Derek had gripped your robe in his hand, yanking on the collar until you let out a reflexive shriek.

"This—" Derek began, his voice suddenly taking on a more gentle edge, reiterated by the touch he brushed against your neck, "—is what my fucking problem is."

You didn't need to look in the mirror to know what Derek was seeing in his eyes; to know what kind of marks you would glimpse if a reflection of you were to spawn in the middle of the room at that exact same second. After all, those bruises on your neck were pretty much identical to the ones that had tarnished your skin so many times prior. They always appeared in the ugliest splotches of blue, red, and purple, encircling your throat in the shape of Aleksander Kreczmar's hand.

You flung Derek's hands away before securing the robe tightly around yourself. There was a reason you liked that robe. It covered up your dirty little secret from any prying eyes.

Except for Derek's.

"How long has it been going on?" he asked.

You couldn't answer him.

What would Derek do if he found out that Kreczmar had been hurting you that way for as long as you had known the man?

The first time it happened, you hadn't seen it coming. Kreczmar left you gasping for air in the middle of your bed as soon as he was done, paying not even the slightest attention to the fact that you had nearly lost your life in his hand.

After numerous times going through the same thing, though, you eventually managed to learn how to ensure your survival by the time Kreczmar was done having his way with you.

It was a fucked up situation in an equally fucked up life. You made your peace with it a long time ago. This was merely an occupational hazard that you needed to learn to live with.

When you told Derek as much, the man proceeded to glower.

"Occupational hazard? That's all your life amounts to you? A fucking occupational hazard?!"

"What the hell do you want me to do here, Derek?"

"To stop being stupid, that's what."

"Stupid?" That single word was a blade through your chest. Red, fiery anger filled the gaping wound it left behind with every second that ticked by. "You're calling me stupid for doing my fucking job?!"

"It's not your job to offer yourself up as a punching bag for that bastard!"

"Yes, it is! My God, Derek. Of course, it is. You and I both know that it's part of the job description. It's a sacrifice I have to make for the greater good."

"And I'm telling you right now that you don't need to make that sacrifice. Nothing is worth putting yourself up as a sacrifice." Derek's voice fizzled to a low murmur, leaking desperation where his previously intact vigor had been punctured. "There are other ways to do this, sweetheart. I can help you find another way."

"Another way? You don't think I've thought of that after more than four years in this hell hole? Do you seriously think that letting myself be used by Kreczmar, keeping my life and my body at his disposal, was my first fucking choice?!"

Derek couldn't hide the physical reaction he had at your words. He couldn't help it. The thought of what Kreczmar had done and could do to you pained him more than what any type of injury could inflict on his body.

The man saw your knees buckle, but he could only watch you fall onto the edge of the bed after you smacked his hands away when he sprung forward to help. Derek swallowed down the bile in his throat. In front of him, your shoulders drooped as if Atlas himself had bequeathed his burden for you to bear.

"Miller the Stiller. That's what they call you, right? Tell me, who came up with the name?"

Derek frowned at the unexpected question. "Why?"

"Just fucking answer me, Derek."

"It was McCloskey."

"Justin McCloskey?" The scoff that fell from your lips echoed in the heated room. McCloskey was a drunk and a pervert who constantly begged to have his mouth taped shut. It didn't surprise you to find out that he had been the one responsible for Derek's nickname. After all, assigning nicknames to other people seemed to be one of his favorite downtime activities. "Do you know the story of how he lost the tip of his pinky finger?"

Derek could hear the blood surging in his veins. "Did you do that to him?"

"I did. Right after he tried to rape me." You rose from the bed languidly, as if you didn't just drop a bomb that obliterated every piece of Derek's whole sanity, and headed back to the liquor table to snatch the drink you left behind. "He wasn't the first. Others had groped me, sneaked into my room when I wasn't looking. McCloskey just happened to pull the short end of the stick. He used to make everyone call me a cocksleeve, did you know that?"

Of course not. Derek had no way of knowing it, and you knew that. Still, you let the question hang in the air out of pure spite.

"Those same people who worship your ass now, Derek, are the same dickheads who used to treat me like garbage. What I did to McCloskey didn't even hinder them. It wasn't until Kreczmar implied his claim over me did those bastards finally leave me alone." You ambled back towards the bed, now with a much-needed drink in hand, before sitting back down on the soft mattress. "I know you think that I brought myself into this situation, and you're right, I did. But only because it was the only way for me to survive."

A temporary silence settled in the room. Derek allowed it to simmer because he didn't know what to say.

"We're stuck in the same game but in two completely different playing fields, Derek." You smiled ruefully. "I didn't have the luxury to pick my own battles as you obviously do. If being known as The Big Boss' side piece was the only way for me to get my foot in the door, then I was completely willing to do it. It took me four years to garner the same amount of respect that you've gained after being here for only two months. So don't talk to me about finding another way, because whatever it is you can think of, I've done it. Believe me."

With everything off your chest, you gulped the remaining drink in the glass, savoring the burn it ignited all the way down your throat. The pressure solidifying in your ribcage traveled to your head at an agonizing pace. You closed your eyes to brace yourself for the incoming headache.

It felt like hours later, when in reality, it must have been mere minutes when you eventually heard the first shuffle of feet. Even without opening your eyes, Derek's presence was incontestable as it circled your bedroom. Your ears followed his movements until he stopped by the bed, directly in front of where you were sitting.

Gentle fingers hooked themselves beneath your chin, tugging upward and urging your eyes to open once more.

"What are you doing?" you asked as Derek sat down next to you. In his hand was a bottle of ointment that you had previously stored on the vanity table.

"May I?" Derek asked as his other hand reached forward, skimming above the neckline of your robe without actually touching. "Please."

Two frail nods from you were the only confirmation that Derek needed.

His touches were butterfly wings against your skin. They fluttered until the left sleeve of your robe pooled around your elbow, revealing your shoulder and decolletage, dangerously close to where the curves of your breast began.

When he rubbed the fragrant ointment on the odious bruises specking your neck, your chest deflated in an exhale.

"Does it hurt?" Derek asked.

You shook your head no.

In fact, Derek's ministrations were the exact antonym of pain. He handled you as if you were porcelain, infused with fragility and in need of utmost care. You couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched you that way—so tender and loving, without an ounce of malevolent intention buried underneath—but you were willing to bet that it had also been Derek who gave you those last few soft touches before you were rammed into this belligerent life.

You were lost in the rapture, only realizing that a moment had gone by when Derek finally shook you back to reality.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Your responding sigh was music to his ears. "Don't stop."

Who was he to deny the plea of a reincarnated goddess, anyway?

Instead of withdrawing after he was done applying the ointment, Derek opted to lean in, kissing every patch of contusion and condemning the abysmal memories tied to it away. A flicker started in the pit of your stomach for each one of his kisses, but once Derek slid further down your body, those same flickers turned into fireworks that erupted in tandem with the drag of his lips.

"Derek—"

He shushed you against your collarbone. "I'm sorry for what I said, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you. Let me make you feel good, hm?"

You were barely able to nod before he lurched forward and tugged your robe further down.

You couldn't quell your moan when Derek's mouth latched onto your nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud until you felt it standing taut. Your other breast became the object of his fingers' attention as they toyed with it, squeezing and massaging before his mouth decided to switch places between the two.

After he successfully transformed you into a panting mess, Derek pulled back and captured your lips in a desperate kiss.

It thrilled you, peculiarly, to find that Derek's lips tasted just the same as you had remembered it. Not only were his kisses the same, but the way he handled your body like a fiddle was also the same. You lost yourself deeper in the abyss of Derek Morgan, surprised to find yourself volunteering to dive deeper into him even when you knew consequences would be waiting for you once you decided to resurface.

With a heaving breath of his own, Derek murmured against your lips, "Tell me to stop."

"No."

"Good." He pressed you back until you were lying on the bed. "Because I'm gonna worship you exactly like you deserve."

At the first stroke of his thumb over your clit, you couldn't do anything else but mewl.

Derek teased your bundle of nerves while keeping loyal attention to the gasps you let out and the tics in your countenance. Your hands gripped his biceps tighter with each swipe across your clit, feeling the arousal pool bigger in your belly, but also noting it from the obscene sound of your wetness on Derek's fingers.

When he started to prod around your entrance, you couldn't contain the loud moan from spilling past your lips.

"Fucking hell, sweetheart," Derek muttered once two of his fingers were sheathed inside. "So warm and wet. This all for me?"

"All for you, Derek. Please, please, I need you to—"

"Hm? What do you need, baby?"

"Move." As if emphasizing your plea, you ground yourself down against his hand. "Please, need you to move."

With a kiss on your temple, Derek pulled his fingers back out—marveling the way your wetness coated them—before plunging the digits back inside and curling them against the spot that knocked the breath straight out of your lungs.

It didn't take long for Derek to find his rhythm, pushing you further to the brink of exultation with encouraging whispers against your cheek. You clawed at his face to pull him closer—as though his whole body wasn't caging you in already—and despairingly seized his lips in a kiss. Derek welcomed you with a groan, swallowing the needy sounds you made as his sensual ministratration picked up its pace.

"So good... Derek, please—"

"I know, sweetheart." Derek's fingers inside you never relented. He angled his hand slightly without ever leaving your heat, letting the heel of his palm smother your clit until you cried out in delight. "Can feel you squeezing me. Shit. Gripping me like a vice, baby. You'd feel so good around my cock."

Derek's words triggered another loud moan from deep within your throat. The thought of him driving into you only spurred on your arousal. This newfound excitement wasn't lost on Derek. He could tell that you were close from the way your walls were drawing him deeper.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Wanna feel you cum for me."

"Oh my God, Derek—"

"I know, baby. That's it. Gonna make you feel so good. Let it go, sweetheart."

The coil in your belly finally snapped. It jostled you into the pit of pleasure where your whole body convulsed in euphoria. Derek embraced you through it all, mollifying you with his voice, touch, and kisses, never once stopping until you were finally back down on earth.

"Where are you going?" you rushed out almost forlornly, raking the hem of Derek's shirt when he started to get up from the bed.

He smiled at your clingy display. "I'll be right back. Promise."

Derek returned less than two minutes later with a small towel in grasp. He cleaned you up carefully, his touch never a breadth too wide or an inch too deep as the towel swept over the skin of your inner thighs.

You extended your palm when he was done, and Derek accepted it happily with a kiss.

"It doesn't hurt," you said once you saw him fixated on your scraped knuckles. "You should see the other guy."

Derek brushed entirely past your lame attempt at a joke. "I did. I saw Vin and Al carrying Grader to the med ward."

"I know you don't approve of my methods—"

"If anyone had it coming, it's Grader. Especially after what he did to Paolo." The mental image of the boy's blackened eye made you shudder. "You care a lot about that kid."

It was an understatement rather than anything else. Everyone within ten feet could see how you regularly doted on the boy. Derek knew it was because Paolo reminded you of yourself; shoved into a life of violence too early in his youth, stripped of the childhood he so profoundly deserved. You never even hesitated to adopt the protector mantle for the boy, because in a lot of ways, it was something you wished someone would have done for you when you were a child.

"I know you used to have reservations about kids—" Derek continued, "—but I've seen you with Paolo. You're good with him."

"Right. Because I'm such a champ when it comes to being a good influence, right?" You rolled your eyes, skittering to sit on the edge of the bed and wrapping your body with the robe still on your back. Derek followed you silently. "I threatened a man at gunpoint in front of his eyes, Derek. You can't possibly say that witnessing something like that isn't gonna fuck him up for the rest of his life."

"Maybe not. But you're making this life less grueling for him, and that's something."

"I don't like where this conversation is going."

You stood up from the bed then, walking towards the windows of your room and popping them open to let the evening breeze in. When you spun around to face Derek on the bed, you had your arms folded defensively across your chest.

You were hiding again.

Two steps forward and three steps back.

That seemed to be the only thing Derek was capable of when it came to you.

"The incoming shipment," you began nonchalantly, as though Derek hadn't just made you orgasm until you could see stars mere minutes earlier. "What's your theory?"

Derek inhaled a deep breath before answering, "Gotta be something valuable if he goes to such lengths to keep it lowkey, even to the point of hiding it from you."

"More valuable than bombs and machine guns?"

"Precisely. Something that would make him a lot more money than those two combined."

"What? Like missiles?" Your eyes widened when realization bloomed in your head. "People. That's what you're insinuating, isn't it?"

"It makes sense, and it explains why you've never caught wind of any trafficking activity even to this day."

"They can't be using the depot, then. Too many witnesses. They must have another facility where they detain those people."

"Somewhere secluded but easy to control," Derek agreed. "And most likely, you know where it is."

"Me? What are you talking about?"

"Kreczmar profiles as a classic egotistical sociopath. It's not in his nature to do things quietly. He would want to boast, and you're the person in his life he'd want to do it to the most." Derek got up from the bed once he finished his statement. His stature somehow grew more officious as he stood in the middle of your room. "Think, sweetheart. You know the answer. You've had it all these years. You just didn't know that it was right there in front of your eyes."

Derek gauged every micro-expression zipping past your face. The wrinkle on the bridge of your nose was concentration, and the frenetic darting of your pupils was your mind flipping through the pages of memories about Aleksander Kreczmar. When your earnest gaze found his, Derek knew that it must have been the light bulb appearing right above your head.

"His guesthouse."

"Kreczmar has a guesthouse?"

"Well, a guesthouse might be a bit underwhelming. It's a freaking mansion that stands in the middle of at least two acres of land. He'd host parties there. Entertain important overseas guests or clients anytime they come by. He'd take me to the woods at the back of the property sometimes, and then he'd... well—" You cleared your throat and looked away. Derek didn't need to hear the rest of that sentence to know what you meant. "Secluded but easy to control. That's what you said, right?"

"Yeah." There was no guarantee that the guesthouse would end up being the place you were looking for, but Derek still deemed it necessary to pursue the lead. "We need to check the place out asap. Think you can set something up as a cover?"

"Don't need to, 'cause it must be your lucky day, Mister." The corner of your lips slanted upward, giving Derek a front row view of your pretty smile. He had to fight off the urge to march over there and taste the smile directly on his lips. "Kreczmar's throwing an exclusive party there in three weeks."

"He is?"

You nodded. "And it looks like you just got yourself an invitation."

Taglist is open. Leave a comment or send me an ask to be added!

Taglist: @citrusiove @kneelforloki @prentissim @bunbunbl0gs @lubunnii @alluring-andrayav @sammyrenae68 @burkayyy

#derek morgan #derek morgan x reader #derek morgan x fem!reader #derek morgan x you #derek morgan x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x fem!reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x y/n #shemar moore #shemar moore x reader #spencer reid #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia

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sissy-amber14 · 2 months

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also have to follow these listed rules every time I hit the following number of notes. So please stop spamming the comments!

300 notes: Use a medium plug now

600 notes: Spend $20 on sissy clothes (must be pink)

900 notes: Wear panties 24/7 from now on

1200 notes: Spend $40 on sissy clothes (must be pink)

1500 notes: Sit on a 6-inch dildo once week for 30 min

1800 notes: Listen to 1 audio file of sissy hypno before bed

2100 notes: Wear androgynous or feminine clothes at home from now on

2400 notes: Practice deepthroating the current sized dildo twice a week

2700 notes: I can cum only once a month

3000 notes: Sit on a 7-inch dildo 2 times a week for 30 min

3300 notes: Wear androgynous or feminine clothing in public from now on

3600 notes: Wear only slutty or pink sissy clothing at home

3900 notes: I have to wear a corset under my clothes everyday

4200 notes: Use a large plug now

4500 notes: Use a smaller cage

4800 notes: I can only watch/listen to girly media, anything masculine or geared towards males is banned

5100 notes: Sit on an 8-inch dildo 3 times a week for 30 min

5400 notes: Listen to sissy hypno every time I do anal

5700 notes: I can only cum when I'm riding a dildo and it's changed to 1 cum every 3 months

6000 notes: Make a Twitter account archiving proof and progress

6600 notes: I have to permanently use she/her pronouns

6900 notes: Sit on a 9-inch dildo 4 times a week for 30 min

7200 notes: Lock myself in ballet heels for 3 hours every day

7500 notes: From now on edge every day for 2 hours

7800 notes: Use a smaller cage

8100 notes: Every 3 days I have to use a chastity cage with a sounding rod

8400 notes: Buy the most embarrassing humiliating sissy pink dress I can find (with all the ruffles and it locks when zipped up)

8700 notes: I can only wear a dress or skirt in public from now on

9000 notes: Get Started on Estrogen

9600 notes: I now have to use a sounding chastity cage from now on

9900 notes: Sit on a 9-inch dildo 5 times a week for 1 hour

10200 notes: Once a week, I have to replace my plug with a dildo while I'm out in public for the day

10500 notes: I can only cum once a year

10800 notes: Buy a fucking machine

11100 notes: Buy and use sounding rods 3 times a week for 30 min

11400 notes: Buy breast/nipple pumps and use it twice a week to increase the size

11700 notes: Put on an inverse chastity cage from now on and no more edging or unlocking

12000 notes: Start an OF

12300 notes: Clicker train myself to get horny to the thought of cocks

12600 notes: I can only cum from anal

12900 notes: Make an Amazon Wishlist and add 100 toys and clothes for anyone to buy. Anyone who buys them will get a free show with what they bought

13200 notes: Use an XL plug now

13500 notes: Only use 10-inch toys from now on sit on it 6 times a week for 30 min, once a week use a 12+ inch toy

13800 notes: glue the lock shut, flush the key down the toilet, the only way I'm getting out now is if I hit 15000 notes

14100 notes: Listen to Bambi Sleep files

14400 notes: Get a tattoo right over my clitty that says "Property of _____"

14700 notes: Get nipple piercings

15000 notes: Bottom surgery (My Life is Over). However I have to spend at least 25% of the entire chastity sentence in a cage before I get bottom surgery to prolong this even longer.

This will run for one month, Feb 12- March 12

#feminization kink #sissi femboi #sissifyme #sissy cd #beta faggot #locked and denied #locked in caged #locked cock #chastized #feminine sissy #force feminization #feminization captions #panty sissy #pantylover #virgin loser #censored for losers #pathetic loser #sissy loser #loser slave

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sinisterexaggerator · 6 months

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Bossk x AFAB Reader

Summary: You join a small crew of other mercenaries on the lookout for your next big score, but there is time to kill before the hunt begins and you have an itch to scratch -- one that only a Trandoshan can reach with his sharp talons.

Warnings: NSFW / 18+ for size kink, cumflation, kissing, PiV sex, cunnilingus, blowjobs, alcohol consumption, and straight-up monsterfucking. Includes a little fluff, aftercare, and cuddling. Ending inspired by this artwork. P.S.: Bossk has two dicks.

Word count: 7500+

Notes: This is my first time writing for Bossk. I'm not sure if anyone will even read this or how many Bossk fans there are, but I've had it in my head to write a Bossk smut for a few months now, and I finally had time to do it! I haven't been able to publish anything in awhile, but I'm now settled in my new place and happy to get back into the swing of things.

*Banner and divider by me.

Bossk'wassak'Cradossk was a mouthful in more ways than one, you imagined. Luckily, to call a Trandoshan by his or her full name was not customary, and you were to be spared trying to pronounce anything but “Bossk.”

You had done your homework, impressing at least one of your new acquaintances, though that did not stop the reptilian-humanoid from introducing himself with a flash of his tongue. His preferred, shortened title was spoken so thunderously that it overpowered the cacophony of other voices in the bar. It was enough to ensure you would not make the same mistake twice.

That one syllable had been expelled between two rows of knife-sharp teeth, your eyes unable to focus on anything but this beast’s mouth -- that was until you noticed his head tilting incrementally to the left. He was regarding you curiously, a snorted breath being discharged from his flaring nostrils. It seems he had asked you a question and you had failed to hear it.

“What’sss the matter, tooka got your tongue?” he snickered, folding his arms as he waited for some kind of explanation as to your odd behavior.

“I-” you began, thinking quickly to cover your increasing embarrassment, “-I’ve just never been this close to a Trandoshan before. Much less the legendary hunter Bossk,” you finished, buttering him up. It may as well have been the truth, the only thing you failed to mention being the trailing thoughts fluttering around inside your brain in regard to his statuesque proportions.

This met with his approval, the mercenary belting out a short, sharp laugh. “Well, today is your lucky day then, issssn’t it,” he stated in a sarcastic tone.

You looked to the right at your partner; she had organized this little excursion. Scoria was a skilled bounty hunter in her own right, but she had convinced you that you would need help for this next job. Currently, she was talking to a man named Dengar who had introduced himself moments earlier. You caught his eye briefly; he had the nerve to wink at you.

Quickly looking away, you returned your attention to the Trandoshan who interrupted everyone all at once, his voice grating, yet somehow soothing to the ears. “We’ll head out at first light. I know how pathetic human eyesight isss in the dark.”

You had the sense of knowing he fully believed that statement.

“For now, let’ssss grab a drink,” he practically commanded, no one bothering to disagree with his proposal.

“Bossk, did I eva’ tell ya’ I love the way you think?”

“Shut up, Dengar,” the creature snapped back, causing you to suppress a laugh. He had emitted a growl that was downright predatory. You felt a little something dance down your spine. Fear? Excitement?

Following behind the others at your own pace, you thought it was a miracle this little backwater planet even had a bar, much less a room, your target lurking in the deepest, darkest depths of the forest where he had carved out a special place for himself among the native flora and fauna.

This being was said to be a Jedi sympathizer wanted by the Empire, and worth so much that even splitting the earnings four ways would have you sitting pretty for some time. Your quarry had spent the last several years funneling Jedi and Force-users to safety, the intel he possessed worth its weight in spice.

The worry was he would not be alone, and there would be many parties to contend with, more than you two could handle on your own – that’s where these so-called guns for hire came in.

You could not deny you were intrigued. In fact, maybe more than that.

Truth be told, as soon as you discovered who Scoria planned to solicit for help, you spent hours rifling through said hunters’ files. While Dengar was a notable hunter hailing from Corellia, Bossk was a powerful warrior of his ilk and had quite the track record, both working with hunters such as Aurra Sing, Embo, and Boba Fett, a man you had yet to lay your eyes on.

The sheer size of him, standing somewhere at 6’3” or taller, forced you to have to crane your neck when looking up into his eyes, the color of burning embers, black as pitch pupils swimming in a sea of red.

His talons were sharp as razors, as were the ones on his feet, capable of ripping a man in two should it be required of him, you suspected, yet you wondered how gentle he could be…

Your musings were interrupted when your partner asked for your order, Dengar having already rushed ahead, and Bossk having taken up residence on a nearby stool that barely supported his unique build. You stared unapologetically, having a rather impure thought, suddenly wondering what his weight might feel like on top of you instead.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” you nodded your head in the scaled sentient’s direction, the yellow clad merc turning his neck markedly to stare at you over his broad shoulder.

“HA! So you figure you can handle Trandoshan ale, do you?” Bossk snickered, banging the flat of his hand against the countertop where the awaiting bartender stood with a somewhat apprehensive look on his face. Though the lizard only had three “fingers,” he held up two, demanding his order to be fulfilled.

“Two. Trandoshan alesss,” he instructed with a snarl, seemingly not able to control his natural mode of being despite his intellect. By all definitions of the word, he was a monster. A monster that could walk and talk, among other things. Things you found yourself to be interested in; unsavory things; salacious things.

“What about me, Bossk?” Dengar asked, crestfallen.

The reptilian laughed full-fledged in his face before bothering to answer. “You’re on your own.”

“Well, excuuuse me for breathin’,” he snidely replied, Dengar deciding to rejoin Scoria who had found herself an opening toward the other end of the bar. Perhaps he wanted to continue their conversation, you surmised, curious as to the manner of their talk; Dengar made sure to call out to his partner before walking out of earshot.

“Remind me ta neva’ pick up your tab again.”

“Whatever, idiot,” Bossk shot back, though he had kept that booming voice of his lowered on purpose, making you wonder about the true dynamics of their relationship – it seemed complicated.

“Is this seat taken?” you thought to ask, another cutting breath being fired off from out of the hunter’s snout.

“What does it look like?” he quipped, not bothering to say yes or no. You thought that might be the closest thing to an invitation that you would get. You gingerly took your place beside him just as the barkeep returned with your ale.

The creature passed one toward you, then took up his own mug. He raised it in a toast, then bellowed out, “bottoms up.”

You held your tongue as you desired to turn his idiom into an innuendo. Instead, you collected your drink, hoping you had not gotten yourself in over your head.

After taking the first sip it was clear that you had.

You coughed, so potent was its taste. Although it appeared normal enough, the hops must have been so aged that you assumed it had been around since the dawn of the galaxy. In fact, it was so strong, you wondered why it was not being used to power starships.

The Trandoshan laughed heartily, pointing one long claw very close to your face to accentuate his words. “Figures!” he taunted. “Never known an ape who could stomach the stuff, much less a hairless one,” he japed as an insult to your kind.

Once marginally recovered, you gave him a look, determined to not give up and for Bossk to label you a sissy. He was little known for withholding opinions, whether favorable or not, or so you had heard.

“It’s just strong, is all,” you rationalized. “I never said I didn’t like it.”

“Strong, like me,” he confirmed with a terse cackle, taking a chug of his own ale before making you an offer. “If you don’t drink it, I will.”

Defiantly, you took another swig, this time managing to not pull a face. Not sure of its alcohol content, you were already starting to feel a buzz. Smirking, you realized your inhibitions were beginning to lower, but you had already been in an impish mood.

“So I noticed,” you said, wondering if he would perceive your words the way you meant them.

His reply was casual and dismissive. “Maybe your eyesss are sharper than I thought.” He was not one to miss an opportunity to flatter himself, as if your complimenting him was not enough.

“So very humble, Bossk,” you stated sarcastically and with some familiarity, as if you had known this sentient for more than ten minutes. The hunter made a sound that was reminiscent of an angry snake; you regarded him out of the corner of your eye.

‘What do you know?” he asked with a somewhat irritated quality to his voice.

“Nothing,” you admitted, taking a chance to amend this by asking him a little something about himself. You were curious, after all, and at the moment feeling gutsy. “So, tell me then: how did you become such a skilled hunter?”

Without missing a beat, the Trandoshan easily proffered an answer. “The Sssscorekeeper, she smiles down upon me.”

Not surprisingly, you knew little about Trandoshans or their home planet, Trandosha, much less about their customs and culture. You felt a bit ignorant, hoping that he would not be offended at your cluelessness about his people. “The Scorekeep? May I ask who she is?”

“The Great Goddesssss….” Bossk began, talons wrapping firmly around his glass. “She exisssts beyond time and ssspace. She watches the hunt-” he said with gusto, “-and rewards us for our killsss.”

“And she favors you,” you added.

“Yesssss, for I am the best!” he concluded, self-assured.

“I see,” you said offhand.

You thought for a moment about what you had learned, not having much in the way to add. He took this opportunity to take a drink of his ale as you came up with another question, this one causing the corner of your mouth to twitch as you moved your stool a little closer to his. “And what do you think of human Gods? We don’t put much faith into them ourselves.”

Bossk turned his head your way and huffed but did not say anything so as to impede your progress. You wondered if he had any idea you were experiencing an attraction to him, or if he was purposely ignoring it.

“Weak!” he nearly shouted, a few patrons rotating in their chairs to stare. Your eyes darted around quickly, noting that to bring attention to yourselves might alert the wrong kinds of people of your presence on this rocky world. This did not seem to concern the Trandoshan whatsoever. It was possible he enjoyed the attention, or assumed he could handle himself no matter the situation, therefore he did not think about those kinds of things. Whatever the case, he continued:

“Your Gods deal in suffering. Your reward is pain,” he growled. “Sssstupid.”

You could not argue with that and thought he had a valid point. It did feel that way sometimes, as if whoever was in charge of the universe enjoyed chaos and mayhem, strife and discord, or made a game of it and humans their pawns.

Smiling warmly, you scootched a little closer, allowing your elbow to brush against his. “And what do you think of human girls?” you asked, your voice matching your mood, so very tempted to finger the lightweight yellow material that clothed the reptile.

Bossk made a jerking motion and looked squarely at you, a sound being produced by his vocal chords that signified he was taken aback by your query. Blood-red eyes traveled your form; he took a moment before he finally responded, and it was not what you had hoped for.

“Piss off, sissssster… I’m trying to relax.”

You openly pouted, immediately quieting yourself as you took another drink of your Trandoshan ale. Having temporarily forgotten about its pungency, you almost choked, swallowing it down before having another coughing fit.

Bossk shook his head, chuckling darkly at you, perhaps finding you nearly dying to be amusing. “You don’t have to finish that, you know.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m weak,” you confessed. “I wanted to impress you.”

“HA!” the bounty hunter enunciated dryly. “Impress me with your hunting skillssss,” he asserted. It seemed he was making a habit of laughing at your expense.

That did not deter you. Testing the waters, you trailed a finger down the outside of his prodigious thigh, not really knowing what had come over you except you were inexplicably drawn to this… man.

And perhaps it was because he was not a man, or at least not a man the likes of which you had ever seen, that you were captivated by him, though you had been witness to many things this side of the galaxy that were strange and unusual, not so different from a Trandoshan, you thought, and yet --

“--Maybe I could impress you some other way?” you volunteered coyly, that third swig of ale having emboldened you more so than before.

Bossk angled his head like a curious animal, first in one direction and then the other. He glanced down at your finger tracing his leg and blinked -- you presumed he thought you ridiculous, waiting for him to tear you down once more.

“Are you flirting with me?!” he asked quizzically, and rather loudly at that. If you could have read his expression, you wondered if he might be confronting some sort of disbelief. However, his face was all teeth and tongue, his mouth stretching back nearly to where his ears should have been were he a member of your species. It was impossible to tell his true mood, at least as far as you were aware.

You returned a rather nervous, yet daring, “I don’t know, am I?”

He virtually howled, blood rushing toward your cheeks as he slapped his knee with an open palm. “You couldn’t handle me princessss,” he chided once he had calmed down enough to speak.

Feeling rebellious, your sullen temperament was not helping matters, as you were now speaking before you thought things through.

“Wanna bet?” you scowled.

“How much?” Bossk leaned forward across the bar top, not wasting a moment’s time, his face so close to yours you could feel his hot breath on your skin.

“My half of the bounty tomorrow,” you said without hesitation. You mentally slapped yourself.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, ssssweetheart. You’ll be lucky If you can walk.”

---

Bossk had a ship, the Hound’s Tooth. His modified YV-666 light freighter was more than well-equipped for his dirty deeds, and then some. Parked right outside the seedy establishment you had occupied, the lizard had taken to finishing your drink and the rest of his.

Taking you by the wrist like some ancient, uncivilized being, he had guided you outside, locking his talons around you with a surprisingly careful grip. He had chuckled deviously to himself, as if he had just won a prize, and perhaps he thought he had; you were not sure how often the hunter partook of sins of the flesh, nor did you care to ask. Instead, you planned to win that bet, however much of an excuse it was to get him in the sack.

The moment you stepped inside, the door slid closed, and Bossk was on you like a predator with caught prey, your body tossed like a ragdoll into the hull of his ship. You gasped, yet you would be lying if you said you didn’t prefer things a little rough, already anticipating what would happen next.

“Let’s ssseeee if you’re all talk…” he hissed into your ear, the tip of his forked tongue flitting against your earlobe. You were stock-still, as if caught in his hunter’s snare. You swallowed down your spit, one arm rising in an attempt to touch him.

“Sssssskkkk…” At once intimidated, Bossk slapped your hand away, his own returning to curl a talon against the crook of your cheek. It grazed itself along your jawline before coming to rest at your chin. He pinched you delicately as a show of good faith; he did not plan to hurt you if he could help it. Then, that same claw slid down, down the line of your sternum and came to a halt at the edge of your lowcut top.

“Some cleavage,” he said derisively, its pointed tip pushing lightly against the fabric that barred your breasts; you were wearing a one piece leotard for range of movement, having left your weapons on Scoria’s ship. Bossk sliced it open with a single swipe, leaving fleshy mounds exposed for his naked eye.

He carefully watched the way they bounced and fought against gravity. Though large, he thought them perky, the apex of his longest finger lightly fondling your quickly hardening nipple. You stood transfixed, panting against the wall and somewhat shocked that he would cut to the chase so fast by nearly wholly undressing you in the airlock of his ship.

“Tooka must have your tongue again,” he teased, inching so close it made you wonder how it would be to kiss him.

“Good thing it doessssn’t have mine,” he finished, and it appeared he was going to address that very thing. The thin expanse of his long tongue delved soundlessly into your half-opened mouth, bypassing your dull, human teeth, Bossk engaging you in such a way that it took your breath away.

You felt a tickle at the back of your throat, the monstrosity having buried himself to the hilt that was his fang-filled maw. You thought he must be able to taste what you had for breakfast at this rate, your hands, tiny in comparison to his, aiming to push against the wide expanse of his chest.

The hunter rasped, that elongated, warm muscle traveling backward as he pulled his head a bit aways, the vertex of your tongue finally able to find his. You toyed with its unique feel, Bossk having no shame as he palmed the round of your breast, squeezing gently at first before he released you from his strangely deep and passionate kiss.

“I’m just getting ssstarted,” he assured you, his large frame dropping down before you to where his head was level with your chest. The sound of his knees hitting the duralloy beneath echoed throughout the entirety of the small chamber as it startled you to stand up straight.

Both of his massive hands took hold of either side of the remains of your outfit, shredding it off your arms and legs, then tossing it idly to the floor at your feet so that you were left with nothing but your boots. You shivered at the sudden breeze against your now bare flesh, Bossk snickering as he admired your human shell.

“Cold? You won’t be for long with me warming you up,” he forewarned.

You had little time to respond. In fact, you didn’t, so fixated on the Trandoshan’s scaled face before you that you couldn’t think of a thing to say. You watched in awe as the tongue that kissed you found the divot between your tits, the lizard licking a path from the base of your breasts to the underside of your vulnerable throat.

You shuddered in delight, closing your eyes instinctively, though your small reprieve didn’t last long as a flicker of something warm and wet darted across both your nipples at the same time. He had pushed your tits together, aligning them, little bolts of pleasure causing a moan to escape you.

The pressure of them being smooshed between inhuman hands, and the soft, nuanced use of his tongue induced a throb between your legs. Bossk suddenly growled, pulling away, having smelled a change in your pheromones that exacerbated his primal instincts. You nearly jumped when one of his hands lifted to disappear below, the back of a claw, shiny and smooth, skimming down the length of your torso to right between your folds.

The curved, rounded arch brushed softly against your clit, parting your lower set of lips as he hissed a bestial sound. You trembled involuntarily, feeling almost ashamed of how wet that had made you, what you thought was a dastardly smile unfurling across the extent of the large reptilian’s face.

“Let’s have a tassssste,” he remarked, dropping your other breast for his now free hand to join in with his other. You felt the sensation of something sharp splaying your labia apart as his tongue, featherlight, dragged itself from the recess of your vagina, all the way to the top of your sensitive cluster of nerves.

You twitched against your will, pinned to your spot as your chest contracted with a breathy exhale. The bastard chuckled at your reaction, your spasming only further encouraging him.

“Barely touched you, doll face. Wait for it…” he lisped suggestively. Your legs nearly gave out beneath you once he really started in.

Fast flicks were administered to your already pulsating clit, your entire body quivering as your breathing picked up speed. The forks of his tongue stimulated you in ways you had not thought possible, the stretch of your lips between clawed digits exposing every nerve fiber to his attack.

Your bosom rose and fell as your breathing picked up, unable to control the pathetic whines and quavering mewls that fell loose on his ears. He only increased in fervor, and before you knew what had happened, you had crumbled into a heap amidst an intense orgasm.

Legs finally betraying you, you slid down the hull. Bossk pulled his muzzle away from you, once more laughing to your dismay. You cursed him under your breath, the Trandoshan at once standing up from off his knees even as you sat in a disarray on the floor. You could feel both the dampness of his saliva and your own secretions dripping down your inner thighs.

“Hmm, what was that? Don’t think I heard you, princess,” he informed you in a gravelly tone. You had no time to recover before he bent down to scoop you up, as if you were nothing more than his plaything and weighed about as much as a child’s toy.

“Come here,” he directed forcefully, though you may as well not have any say in the matter, Bossk holding onto you in his big, strong arms only to lift you up and set you down atop his shoulders -- frontwards.

You gasped, not knowing how you had even made it up there so quickly, finding your crotch to be centered with the lizard’s snout and your knees resting against his shoulders while your legs hung limply along his back. But then, you felt something else. There was a gentle writhing happening deep inside you, realizing he had sunk his bifurcated tongue straight into your core.

You groaned in ecstasy, unable to stop yourself even if you had wished to, that snake like organ massaging your walls as his beak rubbed against your still thrumming bud.

Your thighs tightened around either side of his mammoth skull, breasts pressed firmly against his face as your arms enshrouded the back of his head and drew him in. You subtly shifted your hips to and fro, finding yourself to be fucking his mouth with your cunt as he carried you aloft and down the hall.

He withdrew for just a moment with a slurp, causing you to whimper lewdly. “Watch your head,” he cautioned.

You looked backward and realized you would need to duck, clearing the entryway to the rest of the alien creature’s ship; the airlock shut behind you as you both vacated the area, and for a moment you dared to look around. However, once you had accomplished not beheading yourself, the Trandoshan made a guttural sound, delving back inside your pussy as he snarled predaceously, working his way deeper into the plush confines of your moist heat.

“Fuck,” you panted, hips once more gyrating slowly across his squirming tongue. He was playing with his food, you decided, somehow the man having found your g-spot as he worked it with unmatched patience. Your weight lifted up and off him as you raised your pelvis to meet his mouth; he was incessantly tickling you toward another release, and you could not help but want to get nearer to its source.

“Oh, fuck, Bosssssk,” you hissed out his name as if you were a Trandoshan yourself, a blast of hot breath streaming forth from his nostrils to scorch your skin as he laughed, even while still steeped inside you. You thighs clenched harder until finally you came, your body at once going limp so that the hunter would have to fully support you as he slid you off his shoulders and into his awaiting arms.

“That’ssss my name,” he stated to your annoyance, your eyes darting up as your chest heaved. Your expression alone informed him you were displeased at his attempts to be a smartass, hoping he did not force you to endure the other half of that childish phrase.

The man chuckled again instead. You were abruptly discarded with a thud, finding yourself tossed haphazardly onto what you thought was an oversized bed. You looked up at him, unable to hide your mild indignance. That’s when you saw it -- the size of his erection, jutting out obscenely beneath its cloth restraints.

“Shit,” you muttered,eyes widening. It was apparently time to put your money where your mouth is, and possibly quite literally. Still, you sat agape, having not even laid your eyes on anything but its substantial outline, and already you were thinking of chickening out. But that did not mean you weren’t at least somewhat curious.

“Shit is right, sssweetheart,” he jeered. “You’re in for it now.”

The man had little in the way of modesty, unhooking the white flack vest from around his chest to let it hit the floor. Then, trusting you enough – not that you were any match for him, and naked at that – he disarmed himself and allowed the remainder of his gear to be discarded in much the same manner, leaving him wearing nothing but his pressurized suit.

Finally, two talons started at the top of a hidden zipper to be cleanly whisked to just below his belly, Bossk shucking off the sleeves to leave his torso bare. Your eyes traversed his rough hide, though it was not unattractive, inquisitive to his very nature as his flesh was so different from yours, or any other species you had thus encountered for that matter.

Bossk’s firm pectorals lacked nipples, perhaps why he had favored yours with special attention earlier, though he had washboard abs that cascaded in ripples, exposing the tantalizing vision that was his rectus abdominis muscles. His scales were multiple shades of green, seamlessly overlapping one another, yet some jutted out more than others and came to tiny points like the ones lined along the arch of his skull. Overall, the Trandoshan’s calvarium was covered in these small, needle-like spikes, part of you wondering what their purpose was besides being a kind of organic armor; you would not bother to quiz him on the subject.

Together, you were skin and scales, now finding yourself to be daydreaming about what his body would feel like pressed up against yours, so frail in comparison; you deduced it would not be long before you found out, yet the grandiose size of his genitalia gave you pause. You were both eager and uneasy about seeing it outright.

He was not one to leave you hanging, his alien phallus springing forth from the gap in his suit where the zipper had parted; it was beyond sizeable, making your mouth water while at the same time putting the fear of God into you.

You were not sure what you were supposed to do with it.

“That’s not going to fit,” you blurted out, your eyes never once leaving the hardened, ridged cock of the creature before you. Its girth was nearly half as thick as your own forearm, an array of ribs and crests protruding conically along its outer edge on either side. The tip of his dick was shaped like the head of an arrow, though more rounded and robust, its entire length tinged an emerald hue that was brighter than his scales; unbeknownst to you, Trandoshan blood was green.

“It will if you want it to,” he sizzed sharply, something akin to a shit-eating grin having overtaken his face. “And you best make room for one more,” he advised, pushing down the remainder of his jumpsuit to reveal what he’d been hiding --there were two?!

You audibly gasped, Bossk placing his foot upon the bed beside you. One elbow came to a rest on his knee after he stepped out of the leg holes of his ensemble. He leaned forward toward you against his arm for balance, leaving nothing to the imagination; you openly gawked at his chiseled form. He waved a hand patronizingly in your direction, deciding to remind you of the alternative.

“Or-” he offered, “- you can give up now and expect to pay me all your hard earned creditssss.”

This simple admonishment was all it took to steel you for what was to come, not about to lose out on a job that could afford you a lengthy stretch of vacation should you be able to pull your own weight tomorrow. Either way, you would give it your best shot, deciding it was all or nothing; you swallowed back your trepidation and took one cock in each hand.

The beast before you made an unusual sound, something between pleasure and surprise. You weren’t even sure if he would like what you were about to try, but you also assumed Bossk was not one to hold back from announcing his displeasure should the need arise.

“Getting braver, are we?” he derided you, pulling his hips back from the hands that clasped his cocks to push them forward again, forcing you to squeeze them tightly in your fist in order to hang on – it seems this was the goal.

Taking the hint, you began to work your dominant arm, fingers traversing and exploring the many truncations of his anatomy. The other you guided toward your mouth, Bossk’s slit pupils dilating in anticipation. His tongue pulled away from wiry lips as his fangs clacked together, a soft, crisp hiss resounding in your ears. You relaxed your jaws, hoping by all of Alderaan's ghosts that you would still be able to breathe once it maneuvered down your throat -- and what an undertaking it would be.

“Good girrrrl,” he growled, causing you to hasten your efforts as you adjusted incrementally to the large invader sliding down your gullet, carefully beginning to glide your tongue and lips around its ribbed circumference. The hunter gathered tufts of your hair in his large claws, turning your head up toward his with a gentle show of force, his stare unwavering as he gazed into your eyes; this in and of itself shamelessly basted your loins, ensuring a smooth entry in the future, and you were becoming all the more eager for it as time ticked by.

“Not so bad, issss it?” he asked, his free hand moving below your chin as he held you steady with the backside of another of his unsettling talons. Although, you were now getting used to them, there being something decidedly sexy in the way a tool - designed to rend meat and flesh into sunders - could be so tender and conscientious as it touched and caressed your skin.

“Mnn mmn,” you voiced in agreement, sucking in air through your nose as you exhaled slowly, allowing yourself to further unwind. You felt your gag reflex trying to activate itself, yet you gradually managed to coax your throat muscles to loosen and go slack, finally intaking his member as far as your body would allow.

Bossk purred another pleasing sound, evocative of the Igua-Jaws that lived on Dagobah, his hips beginning to rock back and forth inside your mouth as the head of his cock plunged as far as your oropharynx. The hand holding his other phallus pumped him steadily, though it was hard to keep pace as the Trandoshan had found his own.

“Ssstay just like that, princesss,” he encouraged, fucking your mouth as if it was your vagina, not holding back even the slightest degree as you moaned and groaned under the uninterrupted onslaught of his cock. You did your best to stay afloat, at some point feeling used and liking it, as if you were nothing more than a squashy sheath to stick his dick in. Somehow, it gave you a sense of power -- he wanted you for reasons; there would be no more pretending it was all for fun and games.

You released your grip on his second cock, unable to accommodate it as you were only human and only had one mouth. You found it somewhat ineffective to keep jerking him, instead placing both hands on either side of the reptile’s narrow waist. You used this position to stabilize yourself, crawling up onto your knees for a better vantage. You could feel every thrust hit the back of your throat, your nails, clean and trim, digging into the hardened exterior of the man who had by this point closed his eyes in bliss.

“Sooo ssssoft and waaaarm,” he complimented, slowing his speed to instead fuck your mouth more deeply. He pitched his pelvis forward and backward, the head of his member edging close to your lips before he drove himself inward again. The meat of his thick thighs tensed, and you could feel his cock flex, indicating to you that he was close.

“Ssssssskkkkkkkkkaahhhh……” The Trandoshan verbalized his rapture, offloading a torrent of sperm that hit the back of your soft palate and kept on coming. In order to breathe, you focused on swallowing, guzzling down Bossk’s seed to the point there was no more room in your mouth to house it.

You murmured a sound of protest as a white seepage leaked at the corners of your lips, dribbling down your chin for droplets to find their way onto your naked breasts. Still, his semen kept pouring itself into you, as if he were filling a swimming pool, the feeling of your belly becoming full setting off alarm bells in your head; it was as if you had chugged a milkshake all in a few seconds’ time.

Pushing against his hips, the creature relented. You sucked in a desperate breath as soon as his cock exited your mouth. You gasped, intaking another round of fresh oxygen, your hand lowering to hold your now aching gut.

Bossk ran the backside of his foreclaw against your belly, prompting you to remove your hand. Then, he poked it, chuckling morosely as he pushed you backward onto the bed.

“We’re not finished here,” he stated, taking up his unspent cock to wave it at you, though he was careful how he handled it, knowing from experience just how sharp his own claws could be.

You stared at him with wide, timid eyes as you wiped excess cum off your face with the back of your hand; you had never been with a species that had a hemipenis, not sure you could handle one round, much less two. You held your breath as he mounted you, aligning his reserve phallus up against your twat as he prepared for entry; he drew it across your already soaked slit, saturating himself from tip to base.

Still holding your sore stomach, Bossk sibilated filthily into your ear, his forked tongue causing a wellspring of goosebumps to creep across your arms and legs. “Hope you’re ready for the main event,” he sardonically emphasized, causing a shudder to rock you to the marrow of your bones.

Having only a moment to prepare, the reptile entered you, pitching forward so that you were quite suddenly stuffed to the brim. You yelled out, though it felt so good to be stretched so taut, the plush, sensitive tissue of your sex able to feel every inch and then some, including the miniscule protrusions that lined his cock from head to hilt.

Slowly, deliberately, he drew out of you, once more thrusting inside to get you accustomed to the sensation of being split open time and time again. You groaned somewhere between pain and ecstasy, your fingers coming to rest on what was now a second bulge, this one the stout imprint of his lizard’s dick.

“Sssseeee? Told you it’d fit.” He grinned like the horned devil he was, placing his gargantuan hand atop your own. He moved succinctly, not too fast and not too slow, pressing down on your pubic bone with his open palm. This intensified the pleasure of having him sequestered between your thighs, finding yourself wanting to splay your legs wider to reveal more of yourself to him, whether that made you vulnerable or not.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he praised, bending forward to lap at the edge of your mouth before you supplied him entry, his talented tongue once more diving to the back of your throat as you bashfully twisted and wriggled among the sheets; you were pining for more and the hunter could sense it, rebuking you lightly for being so suddenly desperate, as if he hadn’t known this would happen all along.

“I’ve got your comm frequency, sisssster,” he said between snakes of a split muscle, licking the underside of your teeth before he parted ways with your face so that he could put all his attention into the task at hand. Bossk then began to make use of his powerful legs, each pump of his alien cock into you causing an indecent moan to pelt the air, the tone of your mewling betraying just how good it felt as you urgently tried to curtail your needy cries.

With his semen sloshing in your stomach, you did not seem to mind, having already forgotten his previous transgressions as you crooned to the ceiling of his ship.

“Fuck me, Bossk, fuck me; keep going, just like that,” you begged quietly, reveling in the peculiar experience that was your cunt being tenderized by the knobbed surface of his prick.

“What do you think I’m doing?!” he sassed back, the Trandoshan’s hips driving into you harder with every cast. He managed to penetrate you down to the convergence of your cervix; you had insisted, a shock of what felt like electricity climbing its way up your nerve endings to manifest itself in a yelp.

“Happy now?”

“Mmhmm,” you confessed, your hand cupping the shape of his abnormally large erection as it massaged your innards to your heart’s content. The continual pressure of his dick against the roof of your anterior walls finally triggered your body’s main erogenous zone, Bossk having hit it repeatedly until you exalted his name to the stars and heavens beyond.

“Heh, heh, heh…” he chortled dryly, obviously pleased with himself. He posed a question to you, even as he was working toward his own high.

“Oh, yeah? You liked that, huh?”

The way he phrased it was almost comical. In fact, you may have laughed had he not just given you one of the best orgasms of your life. Instead, you looked up at him with sultry eyes, pushing your breasts together for his viewing pleasure. He took this as an invitation, kneading and groping your right tit with one hand as his opposite held him up so as to not crush you with his weight.

“Mmm, always did love a nice pair of tittttsss,” he acknowledged, trailing off as you tightened your Kegel muscles and wrapped your legs around his lower back.

“Y-You’re gonna make me cum like that,” he conceded, that not stopping you in the least. You crossed your ankles, using the muscles in your legs to seesaw him back and forth inside your slippery crevasse. The Trandoshan was not amused, apparently not wanting to lose his spare load so quickly to the likes of you – a hairless ape.

“You never told me what you thought of human girls,” you whispered, intentionally allowing him to feel your torrid breath against his glossy scales.

“Grrrrmnnn….” he groused, not allowing you to get the best of him. “I love human girrrrlllls, and human girls love me,” he affirmed as if it was an indisputable fact.

This time you did laugh, the lizard canting his head as he glowered over you. You would make sure to reassure him, knowing he ego might suffer. All in all, you had come to the conclusion that Bossk was softer than he let on, despite his tough, leathery hide. “Mn, yes, we do…” You blinked languidly, smiling up at him.

Not knowing what you were in for, that was all it took; Bossk bust his second nut into your tight, mammalian hole. You squealed in surprise as warmth flooded your insides, your body not made to absorb and hold onto his sperm.

The Trandoshan gathered your legs, throwing them over his neck and shoulders as he continued to crank out more and more cum, the stuff spilling down your thighs and ass crack as your uterus expanded near to bursting. You watched in horror and mild fascination as your belly once more extended, as if you were being inflated like a helium balloon.

Once Bossk had drained himself, you were left looking four months pregnant, groaning as he slipped his cock out but held your legs firmly in place. He took hold of one ankle in each hand, then brought them together, looking down to admire his handiwork while not allowing you to spill one drop.

You drooled, sucking your own spit back into your mouth as you gazed up at your lover dumbly. He pat you on your tummy, once more tilting his head to the side. “Good thing humans and Trandoshanssss can’t breeeeeeed,” he snidely remarked.

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, Bossk produced a towel, having reached beyond you to some unknown part of his large bed with your ankles still gathered in his other hand. You hated to think how long that towel had been there, or if it was even clean, at least thankful there was anything at all with which to freshen yourself up.

“Thisss should do the triccck,” he said as he laid the worn piece of fabric out beneath you. Bit by bit, he lowered your legs, graciously permitting his spunk to travel down and out of you, finally taking some of the pressure off your guts.

You sighed in relief, wave after wave of semen trickling out of your sore opening, coating Bossk’s so-called towel in a deluge of his seed. When all was said and done, you weren’t sure how much of his cum you had interred within yourself, and how much had wound up on the bed, teetering somewhere between disappointed and thankful that it was over; you had won.

“Refresher’s down the hall and to your left,” he offered, granting you permission to use the sonic should you require it –- and you most certainly did.

--- Upon reentry to the lizard’s nest, Bossk was curled up in a position he had favored in the egg - knees to chest - having discarded his soiled linens to replace them with new ones.

Knowing that the hunt was to begin tomorrow, you did not expect Bossk to invite you to stay, yet he lifted the sheets as a way to motivate you to join him beneath the covers.

“Ssssleeping here is as good a place as any,” he entreated.

You suspected there was more to it than that, but decided not to deny him a snuggle after he had fucked you so good and proper. You slinked in next to him, your voluptuous rump sidling up against the convexity of his lap. Bossk intoned a little noise of satisfaction then, burly arms encircling your diminutive frame as you settled down to rest.

Who knew Bossk'wassak'Cradossk was a cuddler?

You could only hope that come daybreak you would still be able to walk, as Bossk had predicted otherwise. For Scoria to find you with legs bowed and crotch aching from being pummeled with an oversized cock that was not meant for you was not how you hoped to start the day. Besides, you no longer had clothes to wear; you assumed Bossk might at least provide you with a shirt, or shorts, figuring he did not expect you to go out naked to meet up with your crew.

Within minutes, Bossk’s light snoring and the sssskkk of his tongue in and out of dreams aided you in drifting off to sleep, the monster of a man not above using you like he would a stuffy, cradling you the whole night through.

Not surprisingly, you would later promise him to keep this to yourself. Afterall, he had a reputation to upkeep.

---

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sirowsky-stories · 3 months

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The Old Prince

Part 9

Author's Note: New Header! Because, oh yes, we're getting some major plot-twists! Can you tell I'm excited?

Description: You and Oberyn make a shocking discovery, which then leads to further complications, and not just for yourselves.

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Monster Oberyn Martell x Female Reader, AU fic, obviously Halloween themed, reader cusses. Major TW for descriptions of small child being murdered. Word Count: 7500 Author's Masterlist

His home is calling. That is where he feels he must go to find the answers, even though you have no connection to Egypt beyond your association to him. But you were correct when you said it was his bite which ignited all this, changing you, or perhaps triggering something dormant from your innermost being. But whether it had always been there or was somehow put there by the dragon, there is no denying the fact that had you never crossed paths with Oberyn, you would likely have remained ordinary.

You’re still not awake when he carefully lands in the desert, far enough from any cities or settlements that no human eyes can track his descent, and he ensures that no people are crossing the barren landscape before he settles on a location. The ground is covered in crystalized salt, a remnant of the past when there was still a body of water here, although that was before even his time. But these views still bring back memories of his childhood, which is one of the reasons why he has rarely ever been back here.

Now though, he needs those memories. He must learn what is happening to the two of you, because he is convinced that your fates are linked in some manner, and although he does not yet have so much as a hypothesis, it feels as though the answer is knowable. He merely needs to find the right clues. But before he’s had a chance to do anything, you finally stir within his paws, so he pulls you away from his chest to see if you have awakened.

The bright afternoon sun is piercing to your eyes, which have been closed for several hours by now, so he quickly shifts you back underneath his shadow again, while you climb out of his hands and step onto the age-old sands.

“Wh-what happened? Where are we?” you ask, sounding disoriented by more than the unfamiliar surroundings, as though the light within you has altered some fundamental aspect of your sense of self, which is far more believable than it might sound.

But he cannot answer you in his dragon form, so he steps back to transform, careful not to accidentally swipe at you as his much larger form is retracted and folded away within him.

“Not far from where I was born,” he replies as soon as his mouth is functional again, while attempting to rearrange the weapons he had brought.

It had seemed prudent at the time to offer you something with which to defend yourself once the creatures had been located, even though he knew you would likely not be able to harm them. However, he has found that humans often find comfort merely in having the means of defending themselves, regardless of the chances for success. And given your quite obvious association with the dragon, it wouldn’t have hurt you to have the possibility of safeguarding yourself against potential aggression from humans either. Unfortunately, this reasoning had slipped his mind once the hunt had begun, so the weapons are now mostly an inconvenience.

“We’re in Egypt?” you question, clearly somewhat confused since your last memories before passing out were of the northern Californian coast.

“Yes. Something happened with the spirits and I… felt compelled to seek some answers.”

“What do you mean? What happened?” you ask, and you sound frightened now.

He gives up on the weapons, letting them drop to the ground for now, so that he can put his arms around your waist and hold you while he explains. Because he feels certain you will appreciate the support once you’ve heard what he has to say.

“When you hit the water, Octopus was there, ready to drag you down and end you, and I couldn’t get to you in time. I dove and swam after you, but she’s much faster than I am under water. I never would’ve caught up to you. She took you so deep so quickly that I thought your brain would surely have imploded by the time I reached you. But instead, you saved yourself.”

You look utterly baffled hearing this, and he does not blame you. For a few seconds, you merely stand idle in his embrace, thinking hard by the looks of it.

“But I was unconscious…” you try to reason, closing your eyes for a moment as your equilibrium falters and you sway slightly where you stand.

The healing has weakened you and he has no food to offer you this time, so he can only hope that time will help you regain at least some strength.

“You were, and I wonder if that’s why it happened. If you have some manner of built in defense whenever you’re unable to fight for your life. Consider that you were also unconscious after I bit you, only to wake up completely healed just hours later, without any loss of energy, unlike the time that Lupus first attacked you. Although, on that occasion, not much of you escaped unharmed,” he recalls, which seems to remind you that the bat and butterfly had very nearly carved your kidneys out midflight a while ago.

He lets go of you when you begin to examine yourself. Your clothes are in tatters, but as you shift the torn fabrics around, you find no gashes or exposed ribs. Just the same smooth skin Oberyn had caressed so lovingly the night before.

“That’s right, you did it again,” he explains once you’ve stopped searching for damage, drawing your gaze back to him, except now with even more confusion in your brows, while he remains only impressed. “But this time, you also created a blinding light all by yourself, which scared Octopus away and allowed me to reach you.”

“What are talking about? What light? And from where?”

“I don’t know exactly, I had to close my eyes against it. Even in the darkness at the bottom of the sea, it was blinding.”

Unexpectedly, hearing this brings tears to your eyes. Oberyn would have thought hearing of such a powerful defense within yourself would bring you peace, as it has already proven effective against the spirits and might mean a chance for you to evade their murderous plans. But instead, you appear only to experience despair.

“Why do you cry, my lady? You are capable of defending yourself against The Decem. Does this not comfort you?” he asks, feeling increasingly confused now, himself.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, perhaps to keep your torn clothes from flapping in the wind, but more likely in attempt to hold your being together, your gaze drops to the ground and tension becomes visible in your shoulders.

“I don’t know… what I am anymore,” you start, and while he wants to object, he holds his tongue and waits for you to speak your mind, as this is clearly affecting you deeply. “I’m not human or dragon, but then you tell me I might be this terrible thing, ready to turn all the world into darkness and pain. And now you tell me I’m somehow full of a light so powerful that even the spirits can’t stand it?”

You look up again now, and your gaze has grown even sadder. He feels as though you must be lost, wandering the world much as he did after his own initial transformation, looking for meaning or at least some explanation. But as he has yet to find one for his own circumstance, even after six millennia, he has no answers to offer you.

“Great…” you shrug, “So, what am I supposed to do with that? I don’t even know how to use it, I still have no idea how I can heal myself, or if the creatures were somehow set loose because of me.”

“No, my love,” he finally interrupts, for this line of thinking must be stopped, lest you start digging your own grave with it. “The creatures are not your fault; of this I am certain.”

“How?”

“Simple: You are not a Darkling.”

This conclusion seems to annoy you, and he can see why. For weeks now you have had no answers as to what has happened to you, while Oberyn has presented you with several possibilities, each one scarier than the next. At this point, you must be so tired of theories and fed up with worrying about things that are still completely beyond your control. So, he must do what he can to help you understand where his sudden confidence on this matter comes from.

“I have told you before that I’ve been skeptical of this diagnosis from the start, because of the radical differences between you and the only dark one I’ve seen before. Well, this light you possess is proof that I was correct. A Darkling cannot bring light to the world, in any fashion. Once awakened, it is only capable of destruction.”

A glimmer of hope sparks within your features then, and Oberyn suddenly realizes how absent such a feeling has been from your frame, ever since you learned of the creatures’ escape. Surely, you cannot have taken on the blame for their mayhem solely on the notion that you could be a contributing factor, had you turned out to be the shadow-bringer.

“But if that’s true, why are the spirits still hunting me?” you ponder then, and he must think on it for a moment.

“Probably because they, like us, know of nothing else which can see them.”

“So, even if there’s clear evidence to the contrary, they’re gonna keep coming after me?”

“Most likely, yes,” he nods, and the hope once more falls away from your frame.

You sink to your knees on the ground, letting your hands come to rest against your thighs, and he does not like how defeated it makes you look. He’s always known your personality to be large. Not loud or brash, but the kind which fills a room simply by entering it. As if your soul is constantly attempting to eliminate emptiness. He wonders sometimes if it comes from your childhood and your feelings of abandonment.

“The Decem do not think as you or I do. They exist in the moment. We can’t hope to convince them of your innocence, which leaves us with only one other option, and this is why I have brought us here.”

“Alright,” you say, confirming that you are listening, even though your head remains tilted forward and your tone conveys only the mildest interest.

“I believe that my own history might hold the key to understanding what you are. Because it can’t be coincidence that our lives have intersected, I cannot believe that something so pivotal happened by accident.”

“Pivotal? To us or the world?”

“Both. To my knowledge, we are the only two humanoids on this earth with supernatural abilities, and not only have we settled down on the same continent, but we each have been drawn to and frequented the same area around the Seven Hills for years, until we eventually crossed paths. The odds against these chains of events, which began with my transformation right here, six thousand years ago, are astronomical, Valya.”

“Okay, sure. But how does any of that help us now?” you question, turning your head to look out at the desolate landscape, still not meeting his eyes.

“I don’t know that yet.”

“And how exactly do you imagine that we’re gonna find any answers out here?” you challenge, throwing an arm out to gesture to the glaringly obvious lack of clues. “There’s nothing left of that time, Oberyn. The odd clay pot or stone tablet, sure, but I highly doubt we’re gonna happen upon the perfect find to help you piece together your past. It doesn’t work that way.”

Something in the way you say the final sentence makes irritation flare within him. Because while he does understand why you would be struggling with the notion of your own identity right now, it completely escapes his understanding that you would so strongly resist any possibility of finding answers.

“Why are you so unwilling to believe in us?” he questions, and when you still show no sign of engaging with him, the malcontent grows within his chest. “Is it really so hard to fathom that there might be a reason we were brought together? That maybe it is our connection to each other which makes you capable of this incredible light, just as being with you has enabled me to see hope once more.”

“I don’t see hope…” you admit then, and his anger quickly cools, because this is not the answer he was expecting. “My life was never truly good, I know that. But it was enough. I never dreamed of adventures or bravery, of being the hero. I just wanted to live a simple life with my garden and my horse and maybe one day get to travel some. This… the magic and mysticism and saving the world crap… I don’t want any of it.”

Once you’ve fallen silent, you finally look up to meet his eyes, and he can see how deeply you believe in every word spoken. How you cannot be enthusiastic about any of this because none of what’s happened has been to your benefit. Except…

“Does this mean you don’t want me either?” he asks, tentative now that he suddenly cannot be certain the answer will be favorable to him.

But the words could just as well have been a kick to your jaw. You hunch at the sound of them, falling in on yourself as though your heart has just pulled your chest with it while it plummets through you. No words fall across your lips, merely the pained breath which is pushed out by the sudden contraction of your stomach, in revolt against the agony you suffer for his faulty assumption. Relieved, but also ridden with guilt over his mistake, he kneels beside you and pulls you close.

“Forgive me, my love. I know better than to say such things.”

You let him hold you for a moment before you reach up to reciprocate, but once your arms are around his shoulders, your grip is firm. A confirmation of your feelings, strong and true, even though your world outside of this relationship has come to an abrupt, and painful, end.

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

He takes you on a slow stroll through the desert, hand in hand, while he searches for these answers which he seems unreasonably certain he’ll find here, despite being in the middle of fucking nowhere. You don’t share his attitude for one very clear reason: whatever he might find is unlikely to mean good news for you.

Since this whole thing started, aside from meeting Oberyn and falling in love with him, everything that’s happened has meant pain, loss and unwanted change for you, none of which you’re eager to continue experiencing. Yes, the likelihood of you being a Darkling has significantly decreased, but you’re still no closer to a happy ending because of it. You’re still under attack and you may yet have to give your life to see an end to this conflict. Which is absolutely the very worst-case scenario, given how the dragon would likely react to losing you.

You try not to think about that as he leads you further out onto the salt-flats, where the heat of the sun makes the plain ground look like liquid in the distance. But you’re still so caught up in your own thoughts that when he suddenly stops, it’s only his hand in yours which alerts you to the fact that he’s no longer moving. Turning back to find out what’s caught his attention, you find him staring at the ground right at his feet, where there’s nothing of interest to be seen.

“What is it?” you quietly ask, hoping you’re not interrupting him in the middle of rediscovering a lost memory.

“I know this spot. This exact spot,” he slowly responds, and you step closer so that you can see his expression even though his head is bowed.

You want to ask how he could possibly know where he even is when everything looks the same for miles and miles, but that won’t help anything.

“Why? What happened here?” you ask instead, worried now as his face has begun to reveal a truly haunted image.

“My nephew… this is where he was torn from his mother’s arms. This is where he was thrown to the ground, toyed with, and crushed under the feet of half a dozen tribesmen. Barely a week old…” he says, whispering the last part.

He didn’t remember this much before, and you’re afraid to disturb him now that he seems to be reliving those horrible moments, even though it clearly tortures him, so you remain silent and still beside him.

“My sister screamed, begging for his life, trying to fight her way to him, but they kicked him between themselves as if he was a football, keeping him out of her reach. His father and I ran to her and tried to intervene, but they stabbed him in the back, and when I attempted to fight in his stead, I was beaten with a club until my neck broke and I fell to the floor.”

He’s crying now, shaking all over as if he’s freezing cold despite the heat of the sun above, and you hate to see him like this. The usual might of his shoulders no longer there, the stoic frame of his chest and seasoned wisdom in the set of his brow nowhere to be seen. You want to help him, but what can you do? He came here because he wanted to understand his own past, and now this place seems to be giving him exactly what he wished for, so however much it hurts you to see it, you must let him suffer through this. But you don’t have to let him do it alone.

“I’m here, honey,” you whisper as you take his hands, so that even if he can’t hear you, he might still know you’re there. “I’m right here with you.”

He doesn’t see you even though his eyes are wide open, but the moment your hands slip into his, he grips you firmly, as if he fears he might disappear into the memory without an anker in the present. And for all you know, there’s every chance he really could.

“I’m lying face down on the floor, gasping for air, unable to move, but I can still hear them. The screams and the cries. And then just desperate wails as the child goes quiet. God. He survived their sadistic game for so long…” he continues, but his voice breaks in the end, and he droops to his knees.

You follow, crying as badly as he is at this unfathomable picture he’s painting for you, enabling you to experience it with him, so that you might have a chance to understand at least some of all this. But then he flinches. Not hard enough to rock his entire body, but enough for you to know that something shocking just happened within the memory.

“The light… it’s blinding… everywhere, all at once,” he breathes, while his gaze moves around, seeing something entirely other than the desert lands of your time. “It doesn’t burn at first, it just makes everyone stop and cover their eyes. But I can’t. I can’t move, not even to close my eyes, but I can see… through the light.”

His eyes move quickly over the desert, as if he’s searching for something, and then they stop. He stares at a fixed point behind you, over your right shoulder, and you wish you could see whatever it is that he does.

“What is it, honey? What did you see in the light?” you ask when he doesn’t continue.

You expect him to say that he saw the other dragon, the one who presumably died by giving Oberyn the fire, but he doesn’t answer you at all. His expression quickly shifts from despair into something more like awe, and for a second, you can swear you see some kind of figure reflected in the wetness of his eyes. But then he blinks, and it’s gone, before he closes his eyes and somehow you know that the memory is over and he’s back with you.

“Hey, look at me,” you beckon, when he lets go of your hands and brings his palms up to rub his face. “What just happened? What was that?”

You have to grab his wrists and pull his hands away from his face to get him to look at you, but again, his expression is not what you expect it to be. He doesn’t look haggard or pained by the experience he just had, instead he meets your worried gaze with what appears to be that same awe from before. And yet, he doesn’t answer you.

“Oberyn?” you try, and he does react to your voice this time, but by getting back on his feet and turning his back to you.

He takes a few steps forward, putting his hands on his hips and exhaling hard a few times, and somehow, you get the feeling that this isn’t relief. More like he’s preparing to tell you something difficult. You stand as well, starting to feel worried, and you’re just about to approach him when he sighs deeply.

“It wasn’t a dragon that did this to me,” he says, and he sounds torn between sorrow and joy. “There was no other dragon.”

“Then what was it? What changed you?”

Another deep breath passes through him before he turns around, and once he does, you feel like you already know the answer. As if your body can sense it from his before a single word has been spoken.

“It was Lux. The spirit of Day.”

The moment you hear that name, something passes through you. Not a feeling so much as a realization.

Recognition.

“Me…” you breathe, scarcely able to acknowledge the thought. “I… I did this to you.”

He nods slowly, but his features reveal nothing of what he feels in that moment.

“It was you, all this time,” he says, and there’s a softness to his voice which takes your mind to the solemnity of a church.

To heavy subjects and grave implications, mixed with deep respect and reverence. But you can’t possibly be the reason why he would feel these things.

“No, it can’t be. I remember my life, I’ve only lived for thirty odd years, how could I have been in ancient Egypt, it makes no sense!” you ramble, getting desperate now because this is too much to ingest.

“I told you that no one has ever seen Day, that not even the spirits know who she is, and this explains it.”

“No, it doesn’t! How does this explain anything?”

He comes closer to you, and without meaning it, you recoil. Fear grips you at the idea that all his long years of solitude, agony and despair, could be your fault, and your body reacts. Although, whether to protect him or yourself, you’re not sure. Noticing your fear and desperation, he stops, but worry seeps into his face then.

“Don’t you see, Valya? The Latin word for day is Lux, which also means light, and light is everywhere, just at different times. You exist in all things and all places, which means you’re never just one person in one moment.”

“If that were true, then why is the Night spirit a bat, and not capable of the same?”

“Because light undoes dark. Yes, night falls upon each day, but only because the Earth turns away from the sun. Not because light no longer exists. All dark places, no matter how deep the blackness, are unveiled by light, and therefor, you are the most powerful of all spirits. Yes, in your natural form you’re probably much the same as the others, beyond thoughts or reasoning, existing only in the moment and the feeling. But unlike them, you must be able to choose when you wish to be seen, and in which form, since light can be bent and manipulated into any shape.”

Logically, it all makes sense, and you have no reason to believe that this man who has lived longer than any other, wouldn’t know what he was talking about. In fact, he’s probably the only one who even remotely understands these things. But you still resist. Not for lack of memory of past events, but simply because you don’t want to be the one responsible for Oberyn’s pain. He’s everything to you. Your light and purpose, your friend and confidant, your fucking soulmate.

He tries to approach you again, and just like before you back away. You can’t help it, you’re too scared of unknowingly doing something damaging to him. But this time, your rebuke saddens him, and you recall his question earlier. “Does this mean you don’t want me either?” Just hearing it had turned your insides into a pit of knives, and the memory brings the feeling back.

“I may not know why you changed me, but now that I’m certain it was you, I can only believe you had some plan for me,” he says without a trace of accusation in his tone. “Something you sensed coming, important enough to create a being so strong it could burn down this whole world, should it be deemed unavoidable. I know you, my love. Spirit or not, you would never willfully condemn anyone to an eternity of loneliness. And whatever else you might be, this person you chose to be born into is also you, and the life you’ve lived as a human is equally responsible for the character you’ve become. None of that is undone by the past. You are still the woman I love, and you always will be.”

Enchanted by his words, you’ve remained still while he’s crept closer to you, and when he falls silent, he’s suddenly only inches away. Before you can recover, he steals a long and loving kiss, using the intimacy to snare you into his embrace where you can’t help but melt into him.

From the first day you met his human form he’s been intoxicating to you, and maybe this does explain how that could be. Maybe you’ve loved him ever since he was an ordinary man. And if so, could you have filled him with light and made him so powerful as a way of protecting him? Somehow that seems… excessive. What you know with absolute certainty is that if something were to happen to him now, you would stop at nothing to save him. And since spirits are even deeper connected to their emotions than humans are, it is plausible you’ve always felt that way about him.

But it’s such a strange thing to absorb when you have no recollection of being anything else, of living in any other time, and maybe there’s a reason for that. Possibly just that the spirit of Day isn’t supposed to have memories. The problem is, you can’t help but think that what if the reason you can’t remember it, is because Oberyn is wrong and you’re something else entirely.

Wishful thinking, perhaps, but is it really so farfetched? The only way to know for sure is if you can figure out how to use your light, since that would be undeniable proof of your connection to Lux. But you don’t even know how to start. Then something occurs to you, and you pull back to look at your man.

“You said that light can be bent and manipulated into any form, right?”

“Yes.”

“Which means, theoretically, I could do that to any source of light, at will?”

“As far as I understand it, yes. Where are you going with this?”

“The spirits are made of light, aren’t they? So, is it possible… I mean, if I am Day… could I control all of them?”

His eyebrows shoot up at that, so clearly this is something he hasn’t considered.

“It makes even more sense than you realize, my dear. That’s likely the very reason why Day is never seen.”

“Because she’s already there, within all the others, like a natural piece of them. I mean, I am,” you correct yourself, trying to taste the words in the hopes that they’ll somehow start to feel right, but they just don’t. “Shit, this is so screwed up! How can I be her and not even know it?”

“I think our biggest concern at the moment is rather the question of why you’ve come to exist in human form at all? What’s changed in the world to warrant such an extreme measure?”

“Also, why can’t the other spirits tell that I’m one of them, and possibly even a part of them?”

“A conundrum, indeed. However, now that we have learned what we can from this place, I think we’d best head back and resume our hunt for the creatures. Perhaps in doing so, you can uncover the secret to using your power.”

“Let’s hope so, or this might be the shortest war in history.”

He smiles at your attempt to relieve some of the drama, but probably also to offer you some encouragement, since he undoubtedly knows by now that when you joke about deadly serious stuff, it’s usually because you’re scared out of your mind. You let him take a few steps away from you so he won’t knock you over with his transformation, but once he’s done, he doesn’t open his front paw to you.

Instead, he lays down flat and places his front leg against his own side, like a stepping-stone. He wants you to ride on his shoulders, apparently no longer concerned about his hairs injuring you, and while you’re not sure if you’ll be safer hidden within his paws or free to move around on his back, you are curious about what riding a dragon would feel like. Probably nothing like riding a horse, but undoubtedly a thrilling sensation all the same.

But when you step up to him and prepare to climb on, you notice something which hasn’t occurred to you before, and which makes you stop and frown while you try to remember if you’ve just been inattentive or if this has happened as incredibly fast as it appears.

“Hey… you’re a lot bigger than before,” you observe, looking from his snout to your left, all the way down to his tail, curled up further away to your right, and then up towards the muscular arch of his back and the two massive joints connecting it to the wings.

He watches you measure him, and there’s confusion in his golden eyes, so you attempt to elaborate.

“The first time I watched you transform; I figured you were about eight feet tall from the base of your chest to the top of your shoulders. But now, I’d say you’re more like twice that. Which, incidentally, means there’s no way I can climb up from here.”

Still with a perplexed expression, he starts looking himself over and you watch as his confusion is slowly replaced with surprise, so clearly, this is something that’s happened without him noticing either. There’s nothing to be done about it and frankly, it’s not really important right now either, so you move to his hindleg and use that to climb onto his lower back instead, and since you’re unaccustomed to the slippery surface of his scales, you crawl on all fours up to his shoulders.

Once there, you make another strange discovery, in the form of a few bald patches of hair along his neck. Although, you decide not to tell him that. You’re not sure how important his looks are to him, but judging by how impeccably he manages his grooming, there’s every chance baldness would negatively affect him. There was no indication of his human form being similarly affected, so hopefully this is just a result of his recent skirmishes with the spirits.

He waits until he feels you settle in and find your balance before he opens his wings and starts to walk around on the ground for a bit, just flapping a few times to let you feel his movements. It’s difficult to describe just how strong he feels. You imagine that compared to a horse, sitting on an elephant must be like going from a go-cart to a formula one car, in terms of power. But using the same comparison, Oberyn would be like a space shuttle.

And when he starts running against the wind to give you a softer liftoff than if he just jumps and pushes up, in some ways, it really does feel like he’s about to launch you into space. It’s a completely different experience from his back. Once he’s off the ground and the windspeed picks up, you have to lay down as flat against his neck as you can, to avoid getting pushed off by it. But surprisingly, you have no trouble staying put when he turns and maneuvers through the air.

The Atlantic seems to spread out underneath you in no time at all, so he’s not cruising along, and yet, you don’t feel as though you’re moving all that fast. Until there’s suddenly a loud bang, and it takes you a second to grasp that it was the sonic boom of the dragon breaking the sound barrier. You know enough about speed to understand that you shouldn’t be able to breathe if he’s flying that fast, so he must somehow also control the airflow around his body to keep you from suffocating.

In any case, it doesn’t take long before you begin to see land ahead. But if it’s the North American east coast, then someone’s done a real number on it. He slows down and drops lower as you glide in over land, and as far as you can see in all directions the ground looks similar to how it would if a wildfire had raged over it for days. But the trees and grass aren’t dead. Instead, they look like they’ve mutated into something you might’ve expected to see grow out of crude oil.

The tree trunks are black and somehow slimy, and their branches look like snakes covered in needles, just waiting for something living to walk by close enough for them to strike. The grass, meanwhile, resembles thick earthworms attempting to crawl out of the soil but being too deeply embedded in the ground to break free, tangling with one another in their efforts. Bushes and shrubs could just as well be some manner of horridly overgrown stick insects, actual insects have become at least ten times their normal size and overall nightmarish, and even rocks are oozing black goo and moving around, like halfdead trolls.

“This is what you talked about, isn’t it?” you guess once he’s set down some twenty miles inland, in the middle of a large clearing, and he nods once in confirmation which makes your stomach drop. “So, there is a Darkling at work. But if it isn’t me then… who?”

Just as you’ve said it, there’s a delighted laughter coming from what used to be woods to your left, and when you seek out the source, you’re rocked to your core to find Simon walking through the disfigured woods.

“You never really believed that it could be you, did you? Miss Pretty Little Loner. Hah! As if you could ever command this level of dark power.”

He looks exactly the same, save for the small detail that his feet are somehow joined with the wormlike grass, almost as if he’s grown out of it. And when he walks, there are no feet at the base of his legs, the worms just sort of… tear out of the ground when he lifts one leg, and then rejoins it when he finishes the movement.

“Oh, my god. So, Caelum was drawn to a dark presence at the Thanksgiving party, and when she noticed that I could see her, she assumed it had to be me,” you ponder, finally beginning to understand how all the pieces of this puzzle fit together.

“Bingo. And you actually bought it, you dumb bitch,” Simon snickers, obviously delighted that he’s managed to fool you all this time.

Suddenly his odd behavior that day, as well as his persistent attempts to keep you away from Oberyn, slip perfectly into place. He’s known all along what you are, and to him, it was apparently great fun to watch you fumble in the dark.

The dragon growls in warning, probably objecting to the name-calling more than anything, but you’re more concerned with the sudden absence of the spirits. Surely, they must’ve felt the presence of all this darkness being born and multiplying in record pace, so why aren’t they here, fighting it? They certainly never wasted any time trying to take you out.

“Oberyn, where are The Decem? Shouldn’t they be here already?” you whisper, low enough that Si can’t hear it from his position at the edge of the clearing.

But the beast can’t speak, so even if he does know the answer, he can’t tell you. And he’s not gonna risk returning to his human form when there’s a fully developed Darkling next to him. You’re gonna have to try and work this out on your own.

“Aren’t the spirits supposed to be able to sense you? How have you kept them off your scent all this time?” you ask Simon, hoping that his ego will enjoy the opportunity to brag.

“Well, you’re a fool if you think that evolution only happens to creatures of the day. Did the beast never tell you what happened to the last Darkling? I mean, sheesh… no way I was gonna go out like that. So, I figured out how to develop the dark power without actually using it, ergo, no trail for the spirits to follow.”

“And I suppose this is where you want me to congratulate you on your amazing genius?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. I mean, I have done something unprecedented in all of time. Kind of a big deal in certain circles.”

“So, that’s it? You’ll just cover the world in darkness and then live happily ever after?” you sneer, because it genuinely seems so stupid.

“Sounds about right.”

“And when everything’s dead or corrupted beyond redemption, what then? What’s the almighty Simon Truxly gonna do for fun once the world is done ending?”

“You’re not paying attention, sweetheart. I told you, even darkness evolves. The world will end, you’re right about that, but there’ll still be living things to torture for all eternity,” he happily chirps, leaving no doubts regarding just how rotten he must be inside.

“Not if we stop you.”

“Ah, yes. The omnipotent Lux and her pet. I’m sure you felt me coming even back then, that’s probably why you made that thing. Because to a being which exists outside of time, even things thousands of years away from happening are an imminent threat. And of course, you needed him to be well under control by the time I sprang to life, or the world would’ve gone to shit no matter what,” he snickers, but you find nothing amusing about the picture he’s painting.

Because you can see it. You can very vividly imagine what it would look like if a completely undisciplined dragon went to war with a mature Darkling. Especially if there were no spirits around to help. Where are they?

“I’m not gonna let you do it, Si. If you know me at all, you know I don’t stand idly by when bad things happen. And if you were truly so nonchalant about my power then you wouldn’t be wasting all this time trying to convince me that I can’t beat you.”

As cocky as you’re being, you’re also wondering just when you hopped onboard the “I’m a spirit”-train. Because while you’re beginning to hope it’s true, you’re still not convinced that you really are Day.

“I bet he told you that light will always undo darkness, but that’s not true. Even physicists will agree with me there, not that it matters. Bottom line: you’re not gonna beat me. Unlike you, I’ve been training, practicing, preparing all my life for this, while you still thought you were human just a few weeks ago.”

“And unlike you, I don’t remember being anything but human, which is why I still value my humanity. It’s not weakness, it’s what makes everything worth the effort. If life was simply about journeying through pain and darkness, we would’ve seized to exist ages ago, and then who would you play this fucked up game with?” you challenge, and his expression sours.

“Yeah, you’re right. I am wasting time, so let’s get to the fighting then, shall we.”

Before he’s even finished that sentence, with a mere flick of his wrist, a giant root-system is wrought out of the ground. Hundreds of yards of seemingly sentient and malevolent tentacles, coming at you and Oberyn from all directions at lightning speed. The dragon reacts at the first sign of movement, sending a large flame at the closest tangle of roots, which does destroy them. But there are so many of them.

Simon has an arsenal unlike any other, because there are more trees on Earth than there are stars in the Milky Way, not to mention all the other plants, as well as animals, he can corrupt and command. And what do you have? Even now, when your life is threatened, you don’t know the answer to that question. No light flares from within, no hidden connections to the spirits are revealed.

You have nothing. No weapons and no armor, except for the man and monster you love, who now fights for you with everything he is while you just sit there, holding on as best you can. But in the end, still helpless.

Oberyn is fierce in this enraged state. His flame is about to reach the same level of destruction as what he’d awoken in Detroit, and he’s spewing it without pause all around the two of you. How he can do that without needing to breathe in between volleys is beyond your understanding, but what you do know is that despite his colossal effort, he isn’t winning.

And then, amidst the fiery chaos, as if momentarily spellbound, your gaze is drawn away from the battle, towards something moving strangely slowly through the air. It takes a second for you to figure out which distance this unknown featherlike thing is at, but once your focus aligns, you realize that what you’re looking at are bright green strands of hair. Lots of them. Remembering the bald patches, you look down on the dragon’s neck, finding no part of the once thick mane intact.

Shockingly, however, it quickly becomes a mere footnote on this day’s list of unexpected developments, because what you’re looking at is no longer the slick green rows of perfectly aligned scales on Oberyn’s alter ego. Instead, what’s underneath you now is at least ten times bigger, completely white with much larger, thicker, and rock-like scales. The normal golden glow of his eyes has turned bright blue, and somehow, you know those eyes.

You’ve seen this beast before, in another time. He’s as old as you are. The first dragon, created by the clash of light and dark, long before any life had evolved in the galaxy. And back then, he’d been a creature of night, breaking the earth apart and reshaping it countless times over. It was his anger and despair which had sent continents clashing together, creating mountain ranges and deep-sea trenches.

For eons he’d raged, while you, a mere spirit with no other ability than to chase away shadows, had felt his agony and searched for a way to end it. By the time you’d learned of the complete absence of light within him, he’d become so infested with hatred, you’d feared no light could ever penetrate his blackened heart.

You’d gone to him anyway, formless, just a light hovering around his head, hoping for a moment of his focus. And you’d gotten only that. One moment. Just enough to show him. But once he’d seen true light, brightness had taken hold of him and found a home within his chest, so strong it had turned his body white. From that moment, no shadow, no matter how deep, could ever again sway him. And with that freedom, he’d chosen to give his strength, all his might and power… to you.

“Tyrannus,” you hear yourself say as the memory leaves you, and you know exactly what it means.

Tyrant. Oppressor. But it was also his name. The name of the first beast to walk the Earth, who’s powers you have now bestowed upon the old prince.

Part 10

The Ten Spirits of the World Air - Forest - Water - Stone - Night - Autumn - Winter - Spring - Summer.

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