#-unbetaed

[hardly-an-escape]

this post by @valeriianz burrowed its way into my brain and would not let me rest until I finished this. hope you enjoy, friend!

First Time

Square: E3 - Flirting Rating: E Word Count: 6096 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - human, bi-curious Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, bisexual Hob Gadling, alcohol consumption, first time blowjobs, oral sex, Johanna Constantine is a good friend and a bad influence, Hob is a bit of service top, Morpheus is a bit of a pillow princess, but not exclusively, strangers to lovers, my best friend dragged me out to this dingy pub and all I got was a boyfriend Summary: After yet another bad breakup, Johanna tries to convince her good friend Morpheus that what he really needs is to finally hook up with a few guys. At the pub that night, Morpheus meets Hob Gadling, a handsome grad student who is only too happy to help him achieve that goal… Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo

Morpheus shivered at the sound of his name in Hob’s mouth. He was suddenly, sharply, aware of how close they were standing to one another: close enough that he could smell Hob’s cologne and beneath it, faintly, his sweat; close enough that he could see the stubble on his neck and the few strands of grey in his hair, even in the glow of the pub’s neon sign. “I thought,” Morpheus said, and his voice was gravelly. He cleared his throat. “I thought. You weren’t interested.” “Mm. I wasn’t interested in giving Johanna the satisfaction of knowing I’d fallen for her schemes,” Hob said, still toying with Morpheus’s lapel. “But I would say I’m very interested in you.”

Johanna blew into Morpheus’s office one Friday afternoon like a breath of fresh air – for a given definition of “fresh.” When Johanna was around that generally meant stale cigarettes, oversteeped tea, and occasionally and somewhat concerningly, petrol.

“Knew I’d find you in here,” she said. “Swot.”

Morpheus sighed. “What do you want, Johanna?” he asked in the same monotone he seemed to be using for everything these days.

“Oh, I want a lot of things. A million pounds, for starters. A really posh flat in Chelsea. A manicure.” She circled the desk and perched obnoxiously on the edge, crowding Morpheus’s elbow and forcing him to slide the manuscript he’d been looking at to the side. “But right now I’d settle for my best friend dragging his sorry arse out of his dingy office and coming out for a pint.”

“I can’t possibly be your best friend,” Morpheus objected, pointedly not looking up from his work.

Johanna made a noise of pure frustration. “Is it the editor in you that drives you to nitpick every fucking thing I say?” she demanded. “Can you not, I don’t know, turn that bit of your brain off for a few hours and just come out and get a little drunk? For me?”

Morpheus sighed again, finally looking up to meet her gaze. The concern in her eyes belied the annoyed tone of her voice, and he felt something twist guiltily in his belly. She really was worried about him.

“Come on, McDreamy,” she coaxed, voice gentling. “It’s been what? Three weeks now? It’s not going to get better if you just sit in a dark office and brood.”

Morpheus pursed his lips. “Fine,” he said eventually. “I will come out with you, if –” Johanna crowed and pushed herself off the desk “– if you swear never to call me that again.”

“No promises, mate!”

She dragged him into exactly the kind of bar he always pictured when he thought of nights out with Johanna Constantine: ancient show flyers pasted to the walls, slightly sticky floors, and a bartender who greeted her by name.

“Do you know every publican in the city of London?” Morpheus inquired sarcastically as Johanna returned to their table with an intimidating number of shots balanced on a small tray.

“Professional investment, innit?” she said, shoving half of the shot glasses toward him. “You never know when some wayward spouse is going to do something dodgy in a dive like this. A friendly barkeep is the private investigator’s best friend. Now, drink up.”

They’d worked their way through the shots and Morpheus was nursing a gin and tonic by the time Johanna finally brought up his recent heartbreak – which she did in her typically blunt manner.

“I reckon what you need now is to bang a few blokes,” she said, jabbing a decisive finger at his chest. Morpheus choked on an ice cube.

“I beg your pardon?!” he sputtered.

“Oh, don’t come over all prudish now. You’ve been dropping precious little hints about if the right guy came along ever since uni. And I saw you and Cory getting hot and heavy at that New Year’s party five years ago, and I know you chickened out.”

“I didn’t – it simply wasn’t –”

“So I say, time to put your money where your mouth is. Or put your mouth where your… mouth is.” It took a second for her to get the straw of her whiskey sour between her lips before she could take a reflective sip. “What I mean to say is, you need to get some dick, McDreamy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Morpheus muttered, sinking low in his chair. “I can’t believe I go out in public with you, Constantine.”

Morpheus was on his second watery gin and tonic and Johanna was already working on a third whiskey when the bell over the pub door jingled cheerfully. Johanna looked up automatically and immediately grinned, shooting one hand in the air and waving enthusiastically.

Oh no. Morpheus was familiar with that particular grin. It generally didn’t bode well for a calm conclusion to the night.

“Oi, Hob!” Johanna called. “Come over here and pull up a chair!”

Curious, Morpheus turned to see who she was talking to. The man was about average height, with dark brown hair long enough to be tucked behind his ear. He had a strong chin and a slightly Roman nose. He smiled and waved back to Johanna, pointing to the bar and then gesturing between himself and their table.

“Excellent,” Johanna said. “Now it’s a night out. Hob is always good for a laugh, you’ll like him.” She turned back to Morpheus. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her register that he was still looking at the man – Hob, she’d called him; odd name – and yet he couldn’t quite pull his eyes away from Hob’s quick smile, the line of his back as he leaned against the bar, waiting for his drink. “Oooh. Maybe you’ll like him like him. Not a bad choice, Dreamface. I happen to know he swings both ways.”

“Johanna,” he hissed, whipping back around as Hob took his pint and headed toward them. “I am begging you to stop saying… whatever it is you’re saying. Please.”

“Spoilsport.”

And then Hob was next to them, snagging a chair from a neighboring table.

“Well, if it isn’t the hellblazer herself,” he said, giving Johanna a one-armed hug as he sat down. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Drowning our sorrows in the time-honored tradition,” she responded. “Mister ray-of-sunshine here recently got broken up with, again, so we are commiserating on the subject of fickle love and drinking hard liquor. Dream, Hob. Hob, Dream. Ite in pace. Deo gratias. Amen.” She solemnly sketched the sign of the cross over the tabletop and tossed back the rest of her drink in one go.

Morpheus extended his hand across the table. “I prefer Morpheus, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Hob took his hand with a smile. His palm was warm and his grip was firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Morpheus.”

They chatted about nothing much for a while. Hob was doing an advanced degree in history, having returned to academia at the ripe old age of 33, and was currently avoiding revising for an exam. Johanna shared some juicy details about a missing person case she’d been working, where the person in question turned out to be not missing so much as on the lam. But after another round of drinks, she managed to turn the conversation back to one of her favorite topics: Morpheus’s love life. Specifically, the disasters thereof.

“I’m just saying there’s been a trend. And the trend is that you keep getting dumped by women,” she said, tapping a finger insistently on the table.

“I am very aware of who has dumped me so far, thank you, Johanna,” Morpheus said, burying his face in his hands. He just knew he was bright red.

“So fuck the trend! Buck the trend, whatever. You know they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, blah blah blah. So do something else! Or someone else,” she added significantly. “You need to branch out, gender-wise.”

“I do find that it increases the potential dating pool by a statistically significant amount,” put in Hob.

Johanna’s eyes gleamed suddenly, and Morpheus groaned inwardly.

“What about you, then? Hob’ll try it on with anyone, he’s easy,” Johanna said.

“Oh, thanks ever so,” Hob said genially.

“Own it, baby! Hob about it, how? I mean, how about it, Hob? Are you down to do the dirty with our Dreamy here? He needs it,” she whispered, leaning in with a tipsy and conspiratory air.

Hob chuckled and leaned back in his chair as he took a long sip of his pint. Morpheus couldn’t help but think he was stalling. Of course a man like Hob, with his effortless good looks and easy charm, would not be tempted by Morpheus, who was – as he was constantly reminded – too much. Too intense, too work-focused, too gloomy, too skinny, too… him.

Thus, when he realized Hob was in fact giving him a speculative once-over glance across the rim of his glass, the look of panic he felt blooming on his face.

And Hob must have noticed it, because he immediately shifted: his posture became loose and unthreatening and he leaned toward Johanna, punching her gently on the shoulder.

“Nah mate, I’m done with dating for a while,” he said. “The only reason people do it anyway is ‘cause everyone does it. I’m working on myself for a bit.”

“Oh, g’wan, pull the other one, Hobert,” hooted Johanna. “You’re a serial monogamist and you know it. You love sex, and you love love. You’re a fucking sap, admit it.”

“Well, maybe I’m just ready to save it up for the right person,” Hob said.

Was there a quick flick of brown eyes toward blue as he spoke, or was Morpheus simply imagining things?

Read the rest on AO3 >>>

green = complete, orange = WIP

#the sandman #dreamling #dreamling bingo #dream of the endless #johanna constantine #hob gadling #my writing #this is unbetaed and barely edited and frankly I think it's distressingly similar to the last fic I posted. but it's DONE!

[composeregg]

wanted to join in on that meta post by saying yeah, even if we view joker’s and akechi’s relationship as special compared to the others, akechi is still written under the constraints of p5, and an antagonist to boot. like. vanilla had his confidant as automatic bc (iirc) they thought they couldn’t fit it in properly! which is crazy, even tho the automatic rank ups have an interesting implication (such as, akechi will always be rank 10 by the end no matter what you do). i understand that ppl probably wanted someone to talk sense into the thieves for their unwittingly callous actions, but not by the guy who decided to go thru with his 11/20 plan lol

(this post)

YEAH like, I love Akechi. I adore him. But I have SO many OPINIONS about this mans. like. I'm not going berate anyone for how they write characters, that's the freedom of fandom, but I am going to stand over here with my opinions and contrary thoughts and chitchat about them in my space

I know that very often it is because people want someone to refute what canon has shown us (because canon's writing disagrees with it's desired goals as mentioned in that post). They want someone to go "Look at Joker, look at what's happened to him, don't you care? How risky this was?"

But okay I'm actually going to back up a bit!

(this got long)

What other choice was there for 11/20?

Because the answer is not "they could have taken Akechi in a fight."

The goals of the interrogation room/metaverse plan:

Escape with Joker alive

Trick Shido and the conspiracy into believing Joker has died

and you know? you know? you cannot do that latter bullet point if you just beat up Akechi

So enlighten me. How, exactly, were the thieves supposed to come up with a different plan in under 20 days? One where Joker would live, where the conspiracy would believe he had died, and importantly, one that at that point in time cannot count on Akechi being a turncoat. They have no reason to trust that he would

"Don't you care about how risky this was? There had to have been other ways."

We don't get Shido's name as Akechi's employer here until after the phonecall reporting the death, I believe. They cannot change Shido's heart in time to avert this because they do not have the information. The interrogation room plan, genuinely, was one of the smartest ideas they had. It accomplished exactly what they needed to. These are teens in a life-or-death situation, who notoriously have MANY trust issues with adults for good reason, especially since society is so corrupt that a hitman can easily walk into a police department and assassinate a high-profile criminal and get away with it with help (remember the guard at the door?) The other options are basically "change your identity and flee the country" or "literally actually die" lets be real here!

SO

Akechi, let's be honest with ourselves here, would primarily be pissed off that the thieves got one over on him! And if he is concerned about the lasting trauma of it all, or how risky the plan was, he is seeing this and approaching it from the angle of knowing it worked.

(Better options for sense-talking: Sojiro! Sojiro is right there! Takemi! Iwai! Kawakami! Yoshida! All important responsible adult figures to Joker and at least some of the thieves.)

In my opinion if Akechi wants to snark at the thieves about the plan in any way regarding how much it fucks up Joker and how it was risky, they are more than allowed to fire back shots at him for making it necessary and shooting Joker in the head in the first place.

I think people often use it as a shorthand, to show that Akechi cares about Joker, but also as a way to emphasize the importance of Akechi to Joker (compared to the rest of the thieves). It's easier to ignore the fact that he killed two of the thieves's parents when it comes to Joker being in a relationship with him, as long as it can be shown that he's the one that really cares. That he wouldn't put Joker through something so fucked up with his care (hilarious, laughable, he shot Joker in the head). It separates "Akechi and Joker" from all the phantom thieves in a way.

(Honestly sometimes it feels like ship bashing/character bashing but for ALL the phantom thieves with how intensely some people write it! beyond even the point of exploring Atlus fucking up characterization to pretend to have a blank slate silent protag)

BUT like I said in the post, it also points out a major flaw with convincing players that the rest of the thieves DO care in the game. Because the thieves are never really given a chance to show that. It's implied, and it's clear the game wants you to believe they care, but we don't get scenes addressing specific stuff like this enough.

Joker is confident, and cocky, we see that with that bastard smile in the interrogation room after getting "shot" in those cutscenes. It is genuinely a plan to be proud of, and it hails back to his original persona being Arsène. Arsène, who escaped from prison simply by disguising himself and pretending he had already escaped and put a body double in his place. Arsène, who pulled off a robbery while in jail. Arrogant and self-assured and cocky, the interrogation room plan is genuinely something the likes that would be worthy of Arsène's name.

He can be proud of the plan, and also traumatized by it. But he actively agreed to this plan, probably helped come up with it (where does everyone get the idea that it was Makoto's plan? genuine question). Joker is not a hapless victim of other's whims, he also had agency. So many of the parallels between Joker and Akechi are how they exercise what agency they have while being stripped of traditional power and victimized by society.

Honestly? Honestly? In my personal opinion, having Akechi berate the thieves for the plan is disrespectful to his rivalry with Joker, along with his own characterization.

He holds Joker as his equal. Equal in agency, in skill. If he looks at Joker and says, "why would you go along with such a foolish plan?" if he looks at the thieves and says "why would you ever put your precious leader through this?" he is taking away Joker's agency and choices. One of Akechi's focal points is agency. If he sees Joker as equal in this, and he denies Joker his agency, he is also taking it away from himself.

Akechi's cocktail of emotions regarding the assassination can manifest in so many different ways, and he can translate that to anger at the thieves rather than himself for putting Joker through that, but that would be his emotions regarding himself being misdirected more than anything.

Akechi has too much respect for Joker to deny Joker his agency in a plan that was good enough to fool him.

Respecting agency and admiring a brilliantly crafted plan also doesn't mean ignoring trauma that ocurred from actions taken under duress.

(At least, it doesn't mean that as long as you're not Atlus)

#egg speaks #egg answers #ask #answered #Anonymous #p5 #persona 5 meta #persona 5 #goro akechi #akira kurusu #akeshu #this also doesn't at all get into my thoughts on people making Akechi the PT leader in situations where it can't be akira #but that's another topic lol #unedited unbetaed it is 2am these are post-nap words pre-sleep words #enjoy!

[oriley42]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: House M.D. Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gregory House/James Wilson Characters: Gregory House, James Wilson (House M.D.) Additional Tags: Phone sex operator AU, hang up to hook up, Booty Calls, First Time, Smut, Fluff, how to tag this..., fanon divergent??, Fic Alternate Ending Series: Part 2 of Nothing New - Phone Sex Operator AU Summary:

What if Wilson asked House-the-phone-sex-operator to come over, before they met at the hospital? What if House went? An alternate version/accompaniment to “buy some time, it’s on my dime.”

#hilson #house md #hatecrimes md #hilson fic #my fic #ahhhh finally this alt ending to this story has been percolating in the back of my head since i wrote the original #now i have GOT to go to bed so plz excuse any typos in this unbetaed silliness

[iruinn]

baby, you're the sweetest thing ❀ nanami kento

chapter 3

cw : none that apply (please let me know if u think there's anything that needs to be tagged!)

wc : 2060

masterpost

If someone had asked you 2 years ago where you thought you would be right now, you wouldn’t have even blinked before answering. Married to your boyfriend. Living with him in his family home. Visiting your own maybe once a week. Maybe you might have even had a kid with him. You certainly wouldn’t be working in a small publishing office as an editor, living alone in a tiny apartment in a city hundreds of miles away from your family. Unwilling to visit the very house you grew up in. But you had learned quickly that life rarely goes the way you plan it. You’re certainly feeling it right now, watching your ex-boyfriend stand next to your own sister, the both of them watching you in trepidation.

The awkward silence is broken by your mother. “You’re here, then. Despite ignoring my calls. Good that you remembered you had a family.” Your head pivoted to meet hers, and you cross your arms. “I’m sure you got my messages. Can’t have the family wondering why the bride’s own sister didn’t show up to the wedding, right?”

The matriarch of the Morita family shoulders past you into the house. She’s as put together as you remember, her hair pulled into a bun perfectly, her clothes without a speck of dirt or wrinkle on them. Your sister follows her, stopping before you. She hasn’t said a word to you yet, and you simply raise an eyebrow at her. “Cat got your tongue, Seiko? You certainly weren’t this subdued the last time I saw you.” She reels back, but regains her composure quickly. “I’m happy you’re visiting, (name). I would have hated for you to miss my wedding.” “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” You glance at Naoya, who’s been watching you closely. “Hey, (name). Looks like Tokyo’s been good to you.” He pulls Seiko into him, and you bite your cheek. You certainly have no more lingering feelings for him, you think. But looking at them together still stings you quite a bit.

You hear your mother scoff. “I can’t imagine your job is doing much for you. When are you going to give up on it and move back home? You’d be so much more comfortable here.” “We’re really getting into this now? It hasn’t even been an hour since I arrived, and you’re lecturing me about my life choices?” You whirl on her, your voice raising, and she meets you in kind. “You’re just being dramatic, (name). You know I’ve always wanted nothing but the best for you. Surely you know it’s a disgrace for a Morita to be working a desk job.” All you can do is stare at her in disbelief. You flush red in anger and embarrassment, noticing your father and grandmother were here too, probably hearing your raised voices. Of all the places to have it out with your mother, in front of your family as well as your ex was definitely the worst place for it. “Mom..I just-“ “No, (name). We put up with your tantrums and the silent treatment for an entire year. You’re a bit past the age for being this childish now.” Your throat tightens, your nails cutting into your palm. You should have known it was a mistake to come back. It was the exact same a year ago.

“That’s quite enough, I think.” A comforting presence surrounds you, a thick arm enveloping your waist and pulling you in. You look up, watching him come stand by you. Nanami’s face is expressionless, but his eyes are cold as he looms protectively. His hair is slightly damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower, his body warm against yours.

He noticed your gaze and smiles, bending down and kissing your forehead. Your mouth falls open as he renders everyone speechless. “(name), who is this?” Of all the people to speak up, its Naoya, cutting through the tension. The feeling of being cornered is gone, replaced by growing confidence. It’s hard to panic when you have a 6 foot tall brick wall of a man backing you up. “Ah, right. My boyfriend, Nanami Kento. I did tell you I’d be bringing someone along..” “My apologies for the interruption.” His fingers press into your waist, and you can feel how solid he is against your own body, feel his deep voice rumbling. It’s like he was engineered to tick off every single switch in your brain that made you melt into a pile of mush. You watch him as he turns to your sister and Naoya, and holds out a hand. “Congratulations on the marriage. I’ve been waiting for (name) to introduce me to her family.” He doesn’t sound very congratulatory, and you think everyone in the room realizes it. He finally turns to your mother, tilting his head towards her. “Thank you for having me. Your home is lovely.” She nods at him. Her face is mildly pale, spots of colour high in her cheeks. “Yes, well. Make yourself comfortable.” She examines him, her eyes lingering on the secure grip he has on you. “Go freshen up, (name). I’m sure you’ve missed your grandmother’s cooking.” She sighs, her fingers rubbing her forehead. Your grandmother claps, her voice cheerful. “Yes, yes, that’s quite enough. The hallway is no place for this conversation, is it?” She beckons your mother, sister and her fiancée into the kitchen, waving you and Nanami away. Your dad glances at you apologetically, before following them. They leave behind silence, and you groan, letting Nanami steer you upstairs. You notice Yuuji peeking from above the staircase, and he looks very anxious. “Thanks, Yuuji.” You peek at Nanami in confusion, wondering why he was thanking Yuuji. The boy brightens, shooting a thumbs up at him. “No problem, Nanamin!” ‘

He leads you into your room, and closes the door behind him. You collapse on your bed face down, turning your head to meet Nanami’s eyes. He sits down next to you, his fingers stroking your hair. “Nanamin?” You snort, and he shrugs. “He’s a good kid. He asked me to go downstairs when he saw what was happening.” You relax at the comforting feeling of his hand through your hair. “I’m sorry about…everything you just saw. We’re kind of a mess.” He’s silent, his hand moving downwards from your hair to your cheek. The calluses tickle your cheek and you giggle. “I know I haven’t known you for long, but you didn’t deserve to hear that.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.” You love your job in Tokyo. You love your apartment too, the creaky windows and the tap u sometimes have to jiggle to get to leak water, your collection of plants you forget to water every now and then. You love your friends too. (You especially love Gojo and Shoko right now, for sending your way god’s gift to humanity. You know you would have had a much harder time without Nanami’s support.) “But it’s okay. Just a week to get through, and I’ll be back home, and hopefully I won’t have to drag you into more family blow ups.” You sit up on the bed, dislodging his hand from your face, missing its warmth immediately. “Thank you, though, seriously. You didn’t have to do any of this.” “I’m not the selfless person you think I am.” He gets up off the bed, walking to your desk and picking up a photo of you from when you were in university. “But I’m glad I’m being helpful.” He tilts his head at you. “Feel free to use me as your shield for anything this week. That’s what I’m here for.”

You glance at his back, his muscles rippling through his shirt. A shield is certainly an apt descriptor for him. It’s weird seeing a man in your childhood bedroom. You don’t think you’ve even brought back a boy here. He looks out of place amongst the furniture, too large for life. You hope there’s nothing embarrassing left out by mistake, and you glance about your room, but its pretty safe. No weird childhood posters or unfortunate teenage photos hanging around. Something occurs to you, and you glance at Nanami, wondering how to bring it up. “Uh, Nanami..” “Kento.” “Whuh?” He turns to you, his expression stern. “Call me Kento. You’re my girlfriend for the week, aren’t you?” Your cheeks may be permanently flushed by the end of this. “Right..Kento. Would you be okay with us sleeping in the same bed? I can get you a spare otherwise..” It’d be weird to explain why you needed a spare bed when he was your boyfriend, but you’re sure you can come up with some excuse. He raises an eyebrow. “I’m comfortable with it if you are. It might be a cosy fit, though.” You’re almost thankful for the series of events that led up to this. You just shoot him a thumbs up, trying to appear unbothered. “I’m honor bound to warn you that I am a serial cuddler. Shoko has had to pry me off her too way many times whenever I’ve crashed at her place.” He bends down, placing his arms on either side of you on the bed, leaning over to whisper in your ear. “I look forward to it, sweetheart.” He pulls away so quickly you almost wonder if you imagined it. Walking towards the entrance of your room, calling out behind him. “Go shower and join us for dinner below, (name).” The door shuts behind him, and you fall back onto your bed, grabbing a pillow and mushing your face into it, muffling your screams with the fabric.

Dinner is a considerably more cheerful affair than before. Seiko and Naoya had thankfully read the room and bowed out early. You knew there was an enormous can of worms to open up there, but you decided to let sleeping dogs lie for today. Nanami is surprisingly carrying on a long conversation with your mother and father, and you’re extremely curious about what they were talking about. Knowing your mother, she’s probably grilling him about his entire history. You spend the rest of dinner joking around with Yuuji and your grandmother, shooting a glance at Nanami every now and then, which he meets with a reassuring smile. You’re happy he seems to be enjoying dinner, at least.

Night quickly arrives, and with it, the bed situation. You spend way too long deciding on a pair of pajamas, and settle on a comfortable t-shirt and shorts of respectable length. Nanami seems to have already changed, and made himself comfy, and you feel a flutter in your stomach at the way he’s sprawled on his side of the bed, his hair falling over his eyes instead of being swept up as it usually is. He’s grabbed a book off your nightstand and is perusing it, the light from your nightlamp illuminating him softly. You spend a few beats admiring the man, before joining him.

“Hi…” You whisper, slipping into the covers next to him, keeping some space between you both. He places the book down, turning his full attention onto you. He smiles at you, his brown eyes warm. “You good?” He settles in under the covers too. “I am. You’re looking tired, (name).” “It’s been a long day…” He leans over you to turn off the light, and you catch a whiff of his aftershave. He smells very good, and you feel mildly like a pervert. Your mind keeps wandering to how tall and wide he is in comparison to you. “Sorry if I steal the covers from you. My limbs take a mind of their own when I sleep.” You hear him laugh in the darkness. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart. Go to sleep.” Easier said and done. You close your eyes, thinking you’ll probably be awake for most of the night making sure you don’t accidentally cuddle Kento in your sleep. You're not making contact with him, but even with your eyes closed, you feel the warmth emanating off him. You open your eyes a millimeter, trying to catch a glimpse of him. You think he's staring at you back, but it's hard to say in the dark. Eventually the day catches up with you quickly, and before you know it, you’re fast asleep and dead to the world.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jjk #wow bed sharing trope ruin ur so innovative... #the self in self indulgent is REAL! #sorry if ive made a goof this shit is unbeta read #im using this fic as practise to get a lot of words in daily as like. pre nanowrimo warmup

[elliemarchetti]

Comfort in Times of Pain

A longish entry for prompt 21 of @wolfstarmicrofic

Prompt: Magical Accidents

Words: 962

When he threw the hex, Sirius was convinced it would hit the target. He had invented the spell with James, and although he was certain it would work, he needed someone to test its effects on, and who better than a member of the Slytherin Gang? The only problem was that, although he didn't like to admit it, he had been wrong, and now he found himself with terrible wounds similar to cold burns that tormented his right arm.

“It was just a little accident, there’s no need to worry,” he had told Remus when his roommate had found him in the midst of medicating himself with an ointment they made during Potions. The mixture was already dampening his pain, but it was difficult to apply the right amount in the desired places with his left hand while he was busy preventing the liquid bleeding from his injuries from staining his uniform and sheets.

“An accident you won’t repeat because you will never try to use that enchantment again,” Moony muttered as he sat next to him, and despite the serious expression on his face, he had rolled up the sleeves of his already crumpled shirt and had begun, with delicate and expert fingers, accustomed to the injuries he often inflicted on himself during his monthly transformations, to cover him with the milky coloured lotion.

“I don’t understand how could you be so reckless after…” he started, but words died on his tongue when he met Sirius’ grey eyes. In normal situations, when they only acted as friends and were with the rest of the Marauders, Sirius managed to hide the enormous crush he had on Remus. He wasn’t sure when it had started, perhaps when he had consoled him after his disastrous breakup with Marlene, which occurred solely because of him and his damned passion for flirting with anything that breathed. It was his way of masking the countless insecurities that living in Grimmauld Place, under the same roof as Walburga and with relatives like Bellatrix and her parents coming and going every day, left him, but the beautiful blonde didn’t like it, and in the end jealousy had led them to no longer be able to even look at each other without shouting insults. When everyone else, anyone with a crumble of sense, had agreed with her, Moony was understanding, and to calm him down he had taken him for a long walk on the shores of the Great Lake. They had competed to see who bounced the flats stones the most times on the water’s surface, and Sirius had forgotten about his problems when Remus had started telling him interesting facts about everything around them. He was like an encyclopaedia, full of knowledge about the plants, the animals, the history, and the geography of the place, and it made Sirius ponder more about his character, how there was a quiet passion in everything he pursued, which also spilled over into his way of loving others. Within a few months, Sirius had found himself wanting to be on the receiving end of his love, and not just the platonic kind.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, his voice lower than before, a hint of blush creeping on his scarred cheeks.

“Like what?” replied Sirius, but he was quite sure he already knew the answer. Usually, he didn’t allow himself to focus too much on the aesthetic details that made Remus Lupin a living work of art, but when he was sure he couldn’t notice, like when they watched James’ Quidditch matches and he was so absorbed in the game, or when they studied in the library, he casted furtive glances at him to imprint in his mind the precise location of his freckles – scarce, but he was sure he had at least three on his nose – or the exact hint of green of his perpetually tired eyes. Although no one, not even his best friend, knew it, Sirius was an excellent painter. It was a suitable pastime for someone of his rank, or at least that’s what his family though, as long as he didn’t plan on making it a profession. Anyway, he had never cared too much about the opinion of those who considered him little more than a disgrace they had to erase from the family tree, so he had continued to follow his passion in secret, sketching the faces of everyone he loved in a notebook he took out from its hiding place between the mattress and the bed slats only when night had long fallen and everyone else was asleep. He rarely portrayed the same subject twice, with the exception of Moony, of whom he had started at least a dozen portraits without ever managing to finish them, dissatisfied with how the pencil made his features too harsh and at the same time too mundane. Remus was contemplative beauty, the tragic outcome of pride mixed with innocence, someone who had been touched by cruelty and came out even kinder and wiser. All of this was written in his subdued smile, in the way his eyelashes touched the top of his cheeks when he looked down in embarrassment, and try as he might, there was no way to convey this on paper, but it was still sacrilege not to make an attempt.

“Like you want to kiss me,” he answered, the exact words Sirius dreamed to hear him pronounce a thousand times.

“Maybe I do,” was all he could muster to say, all the other words he knew flying out of his brain. Was it just his imagination, or was he really leaning in?

“Maybe you should,” whispered Remus, and before he could change his mind, Sirius covered the distance between their lips.

#wolfstarmicrofic #sirius black #remus lupin #marauders era #actually i'm kinda proud of this one #even if it's unbetaed #hope you enjoy

[raina-at]

Sherlock is startled awake by the doorbell.

He blinks himself awake as he checks the time on his phone. It's only a quarter past ten in the evening, but he apparently fell asleep on the sofa in front of the telly. He gets up and shuffles to the door, still a bit groggy. This is why he hates sleeping at odd hours, it always takes him ages to wake up again. But it's been an exhausting day - an exhausting week, to be honest. Winning Bake-Off, starting his own business and getting seriously involved in a romantic relationship at the same time would wear anyone out, he supposes, but that doesn't make falling asleep to EastEnders any less embarrassing.

He slowly makes his way downstais, still trying to get his brain online, and opens the door without thinking about anything in particular.

Unsurprisingly, it's John. He looks vaguely embarrassed as he looks Sherlock up and down, taking in Sherlock's dressing gown and his dishevelled state.

"Oh my god, you were asleep. I should have known. It's late, I should have phoned ahead, rude of me just to show up," John mutters, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, a classic nervous tell.

"It's fine-" Sherlock starts, but John interrupts him.

"No, it's not, you were already asleep, I woke you up, I'm sorry, I shouldn't assume, but I was in the area, meeting Harry for dinner, you know, and I thought about you, and- god this is really bad, just showing up here, isn't it, I'm sorry-"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and decides this has gone on long enough. As endearing as John's embarrassed stuttering is, it's also a complete waste of time and breath. So he decides John has entirely too much breath to waste and needs to do something else with his mouth.

He pulls John into the house, closes the door and pushes John up against it, then kisses him into shutting up. John resists for about a millisecond, then kisses back, winding his hands into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock gets his hands under John's jumper and pulls him closer, letting himself sink into the heady, addictive feel of John's body against his, John's taste and smell and presence. He sighs and feels the stress of the day melt out of him as they kiss and kiss, as he forgets everything except this moment and this feeling and John. I missed you, he thinks, which is ridiculous, because he saw John this morning, but still it's true. And from the way John kisses him back, hungry and wanting, he thinks it's true for John as well.

He finally pulls back and smiles at John, who looks dazed and well-snogged. "Hello," Sherlock says, uncaring that he sounds completely besotted, because that's what he is.

John smiles back, so full of open, helpless affection that it makes Sherlock's heart stutter. "Hello."

"Would you like to come up and have some tea?" Sherlock asks, still smiling like an idiot and still not caring even a little bit.

"Just tea?" John asks, teasing now, fingers playing gently with Sherlock's shirt collar.

"Let's start with tea, and see where we end up, shall we?"

John grins, happy and playful. "Sounds like a plan."

A snippet of happy Bakers for your reading pleasure this evening. Thank you for the tag and the prompt, @notjustamumj, thanks for the tag @calaisreno

I tag @helloliriels @khorazir @jrow @the-reading-lemon

#my fic #microfic #bakers with benefits #johnlock fic #prompt fic #unbeta-ed obviously #tea challenge

[raccoonfallsharder]

‧₊˚ ⋅♡ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. Autopilot Systems Check ‧₊˚ ⋅☽ ࣪ ִֶָ♡.

fluff | no use of y/n | gn reader | oneshot | word count: 1,406.

reader wakes up in the middle of the night and rocket is nowhere to be found. drabbly.

reader x rocket soft fluff & domestica. MCU-based, post-Endgame i guess. @rebel-21 said a thing and i thought about it all morning so now it is a little <1500 word ficlet (unbetaed & unbothered - be prepared for typos & messiness). it is pure soft fluff for your sunday afternoon. some romantic undertones.

When you wake in the middle of the sleep rotation, the Bowie is quiet. The flight engines murmur their little lullabies, and everything in your bunk is layered with soft ink-purple shadows, pinned at the floorboards by tiny gold security lights shivering like fireflies. The engines are purring, but there are no accompanying purrs from Rocket. You wait in the stillness, listening. You would know if he was here, even if - unlikely though it might be - he wasn’t pressed against you in some way. After all, you can pick him out of a crowd by the thrum of his heartbeat alone. Blindfolded, you think you can find him in a Praxius IX windstorm, just by the sound of his breathing. He had been working on something with the fuel injectors earlier. And a shifting mechanism for the shields. Dreaming up a more intuitive thruster steering system. Something with the atmospheric barrier, too, and the air re-filtration chambers. He’d been making repairs, all day, and you’ve missed him. The sarcastic cracks and slanted glances. The smirks and snickers. The lingering touches: sometimes when no-one is looking, and other times almost defiantly, as if to say to anyone in the room: yeah, I belong to ‘em. And they belong to me. And we touch each other all the time and we’re very frickin’ intimate an’ affectionate. You gotta problem with that?

read more on ao3. anthology masterlist | main masterlist

#rfh fanfic #softest drabble i ever did write #just vibes #rocket raccoon x reader #unbetaed && unbothered #no smut??? sorryyyyyy #tooth-rotting fluff #autopilot systems check #anthology #rocket raccoon fluff #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon fanfic #rocket raccoon #gotg fanfiction #rocket racoon x reader #reader insert #rocket raccoon x you #rocket x you #gotg rocket #rocket gotg #raccoonfallsharder fanfic #rfh fluff

[indie-summer]

a disruption of routine

for @cycleprompttuesday

prompt: rain

note: title inspired by this amazing post by @flourbray, go check it out

—

One look at Jonas and Tadej already knows what he’s going to say.

“I should get going,” he tells Tadej with a sigh, then hugs him a little harder before letting go.

The predictability doesn’t make things any easier. It’s been a while since the same pattern is repeated: every time they do this — whatever this is — Tadej wants Jonas to stay the night. He never says it out loud, and Jonas always leaves.

He won’t ask this time, either.

Instead, he just watches carefully as Jonas untangles himself from his arms, gets up and starts putting on his clothes. Once Jonas is completely dressed and probably ready to go, Tadej looks away. He can’t shake the feeling that this is wrong, so he avoids eye contact. He looks out the window and stares at the gray sky, full of tumultuous, dark clouds.

“You know, I think it’s going to rain,” he says casually, then is hit with an idea. He adds, “Maybe you shouldn’t drive home tonight.”

It’s a six-hour drive. Another reason why they don’t do this as often as Tadej would like to. When they’re not battling each other at stage races, all they have are sparse afternoons amidst busy race schedules and training camps. Tadej knows that is why Jonas won’t think of this as an actual relationship.

Jonas drives, Tadej drives. To Monaco, to Annecy, to Lugano. You come, I’ll come next time, they tell each other. Next time takes forever to come. What Tadej wants is to board a plane to Denmark and settle in Glyngøre for a while. He never tells that to Jonas.

Now, Jonas’ eyes follow his and he frowns. “It doesn’t look too bad. I’ll probably avoid it if I hit the road now.”

Tadej doesn’t know why it’s so hard for him to just ask Jonas to stay. Confessing his desire for Jonas all these months ago was easy. He felt so brave back then—but in hindsight, taking the first step came naturally, when for years he had noticed the way Jonas looked at him.

Now, the idea of blatantly asking Jonas to spend the night feels as challenging as climbing the Col de la Loze.

“Forecast says it’s gonna rain,” he insists, after pulling his phone from the nightstand to check the weather app. “Come on, I’ll get worried if you get caught up by it on the road.”

Jonas makes a puzzled face. Tadej senses his hesitation and waits for the denial, but Jonas just asks, “Is this your way of telling me to stay?”

Actually, Tadej knows why he never asks Jonas to stay.

He doesn’t want to impose, and he doesn’t want to demand. He knows he takes up too much space. Jonas is a man of routine, and these stolen afternoons are already a disruption of it. Tadej hates routine and needs to be entertained most of the time. He’s terrified of this difference between their natures, and won’t call attention to it.

At the same time, he really wants to have Jonas to himself for the whole night.

“I mean, it’s the safe thing to do,” Tadej replies without really answering. He can see in Jonas’ disappointed blue eyes that this is not what he wanted to hear.

"I really shouldn’t. I already missed training ride today—"

“We can ride tomorrow morning,” Tadej interrupts him. “You can borrow one of my bikes, we’re the same size. I won’t even look at your numbers.”

Jonas smiles, and Tadej is flooded with hope.

“I won’t ride for hours and then drive for even more hours after that,” he says, but before Tadej’s hopes are completely crushed, he adds: “I’ll drive home first thing in the morning, if it’s not raining.”

Tadej will happily take it, especially when Jonas gets rid of the clothes he’d just put on and falls into bed with him, lips searching for his, fingers digging into his skin.

Despite the weather forecast, it doesn’t rain.

Sex with Jonas is great, but waking up next to him is better.

Tadej first feels it in his nose. Not just the smell, but also the pressure of Jonas’ collarbone against the tip of it. He can’t help but inhale deeply, even before he moves.

“I know you’re awake,” Jonas murmurs somewhere above him. Tadej pretends not to hear it and keeps his eyes closed. Jonas lets his fingers run lazily through Tadej’s hair and kisses his forehead. “Come on, I should probably get going.”

“It’s too early,” Tadej objects, then hides his face in the crook of Jonas’ shoulder.

Jonas chuckles.

“I never took you for a sleepyhead. Thought you’d be one of those people who are full of energy early in the morning.”

Tadej kisses Jonas’ neck and feels, rather than hears, a low moan rising in his throat.

“Do you think much about early mornings with me?” Tadej asks, lips brushing against the sensitive skin under Jonas’ ear.

“Yes,” Jonas replies without hesitation. He wraps Tadej’s waist in his arms and pulls him even closer. Their legs are entwined and Tadej can feel the goosebumps on Jonas’ skin.

“I can be full of energy, with the right motivation,” Tadej teases, then nibbles his ear. Jonas pants.

Tadej finds out that sex right after waking up next to Jonas is even better.

It doesn’t take much to convince Jonas to have breakfast before he leaves. Tadej teaches him how to use his fancy coffee machine. He toasts the bread and makes them scrambled eggs.

Jonas eats like a starved man. “It tastes so good,” he says, mouth full.

“So does your coffee,” Tadej replies, taking one last sip. “Shame I already drank it all.”

Jonas smiles and offers, “If you want more, you can just ask.”

Tadej wants to ask for so much more.

He clears his throat and decides to start small.

“The weather is actually nice this morning. Wanna go for a ride?”

Jonas’ eyes sparkle with some kind of mischief. Tadej recognizes this look — it means Jonas really wants something he shouldn’t. He pushes just a little.

“Come on—a short ride, I promise.” And since Jonas still doesn’t say anything, he delivers the final blow, a challenge: “You can’t tell me you get too tired to drive after a 20k ride.”

Jonas looks almost offended. “I don’t.”

“So let's go.”

“Fine,” he concedes, and Tadej tastes sweet victory. “But I’m not wearing your UAE kit.”

Tadej doesn’t even try to hide the smugness on his face.

“You’ll look better in Slovenia’s lime green, anyway.”

Jonas laughs and, from the way his heart starts racing in his chest, Tadej knows he’s not going to let him go. He leans in and kisses Jonas on the mouth, hard and demanding. Jonas is taken by surprise at first, but after a beat, kisses him back. They end up in the bedroom again.

Jonas and Tadej are careful with each other in bed, but not after, on the roads. They attack on the climbs and race to imaginary lines. They end up in Nice and park Tadej’s bikes by a café, around lunchtime. The owner is a friend, so she gets them a table in a reserved corner, with a sea view. Under the table, Jonas rests his leg against Tadej’s, and it feels almost as good as holding hands. Despite the nice weather, there’s a storm inside Tadej’s chest. The air feels heavy around them and smells like longing.

It takes them almost four hours to come back.

“I’m sorry we didn’t stick to 20k,” Tadej offers when they leave the bikes in the garage.

Jonas shrugs and pulls him into a quick kiss.

“I’m not,” he admits, then asks, “Is it supposed to rain tonight?”

Tadej checks the weather app on his phone. It’s somewhat cloudy now, but no, it won’t rain tonight.

“Yes,” he lies, feeling just a little guilty.

Jonas frowns and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Tadej doesn’t think he believes him, anyway. Yet, he starts to ask: “Should I—”

“Yes,” Tadej repeats, this time speaking the truth. “You should stay another night.”

Tadej wakes up next to Jonas. Again. They have sex right after. Again. They take a shower together, then Jonas makes coffee and Tadej toasts bread. Again.

Tadej finds out he doesn’t mind this routine at all.

Now, Jonas is the one who looks out the kitchen window. It’s a bright and sunny day.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain today.”

Tadej feels a lump in his throat, but still muster the courage to ask:

“Do you want to stay anyway?”

Jonas’ eyes search and find his, and he smiles contently. Tadej can’t help but flash him a wide grin in response.

“Let me call the team,” Jonas says with conviction. And to Tadej’s questioning look, he replies: “They’ll find a way to get my bikes here, since I’m going to stay for a while.”

#cycling rpf #cycle prompt tuesday #prompt: rain #pogagaard #tadejonas #unbetaed #sorry about the usual mistakes #argh #not happy about this but fuck it #i wanted to dive deeper into the routine vs. spontaneity theme but in the end couldn’t find the right words #i need to learn to be ok with posting even when it’s not my best work #i also can’t look at this draft any longer

[lululawrence]

Gemma's Dad (Could Use A Guy Like Me)

by lululawrence feat. artwork by @ialwaysknewyouwerepunk

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | 14 Chapters | 83k

When Harry started heading directly towards where Louis was positioned and waiting, his eyes went wide and he stumbled enough that he completely let go of the handle, making the lawn mower choke and turn off completely, blanketing them in silence that felt heavy and loud.

“Hey,” Louis said, giving him a smile. 

Harry swallowed harshly and gave an almost pained smile before he nodded again.

A little confused about why Harry was behaving that way, Louis tried to push past it and said, “You know, I could always come over and mow your lawn for you whenever I mow ours. It’s probably going to be the only good physical activity I get this summer other than when I meet Zayn at the skate park.”

“Oh, yeah, well, I mean I’m pretty, uh, particular around my flower babies and all, and that is a lot of detailing to make sure everything is still able to be reached with the way they’re going to be growing.”

Louis licked his lips as he thought through everything Harry had just said in his response. It didn’t… really answer him, but he supposed it didn’t not answer him either. 

“Is.. that a no?” Louis asked with a smile while tilting his head in confusion. “I mean, I’m more than willing to watch out for your plants. I would never do anything to harm them, and I’m very good at mowing lawns. I did it enough for the grannies on our street growing up to know how to safely work around gardens.”

Harry started laughing, sounding a little hysterical. “I’m sure you have a lot of experience with that. I do remember how often you loved to show off the muscles you were building up with the various sports teams and things when you were on lawn duty.”

Again, his response didn’t really make much sense, and it didn’t really address Louis’ offer to mow his lawn now.

Still unsure how to respond, Louis just stood there, blinking at Harry, only moving to put his hand up to shade his eyes and allow him to read Harry’s expression a little easier. 

Harry’s eyes darted to him before almost immediately shifting away to something else as he moved his weight from foot to foot, acting almost like he was nervous and didn’t know how to behave. And that was weird, right?

“Okay, well, it was good running into you… urm, seeing you, I mean—” Harry shook his head and then quickly spit out, “Good job on your yard! See you again soon!” before he rushed back over to his lawn mower and restarted it, the loud sound of the motor picking up once more, leaving Louis only that much more confused.

Or a Stacy's Mom AU featuring lifelong best friends Gemma and Louis, but especially Gemma's dad, Harry.

Coming April 26th as part of @onedirectionbigbang!

Subscribe on AO3 to be notified when the fic is available!

#fic teaser #big bang fic teaser #big bang fic #my fic teaser post #my fic post #stacy's dad au #snippet #this is very much unbetaed #please have patience with me lmao

[pipariperho]

New year new me! Gonna start a reverse nanowrimo where I'll spend 1000 days writing 50 words per day. I might even go wild and make it 1001 days like a proper storyteller.

#the unbetaed edition of my life #At this point writing this way will happen faster #Anyway what to call it? #🤔 #Nanowrimo

[absolutefilthimsosorry]

So this post just set my brain buzzing and fingers tapping and I wrote a fic!

Happy Birthday to @freckliedan I guess 😂 and thank you to your anon for being my inspo!

#phan #phanfic #phanfic smut #unbetaed lmk if you see any glaring issues #Astra writes phanfic now

[thought-42]

Somebody has to leave first

Star Wars, 1400 words,Ezra Bridger Something something growing up something something ded parent something something Ezra Bridger in the Chiss Ascendancy. I've never heard of canon in my life.

Ezra Bridger talks to dead people.

They do not, it should be noted, talk back.

He knows all things are possible within the Force, so he's always gotta keep in mind that his monologues run the very real risk of becoming dialogues, probably at the most embarrassing or inconvenient times, but honestly if a ghost has nothing better to do than listen in on his diary entries to the beyond that says more about them than it does about him.

He doesn't talk to Kanan. It seems like the obvious assumption, follow in the shuffling footsteps of Obi-Wan Kenobi and claw out frantically for a point of stability to serve as compass in a world gone upside down. And there was a time where a smile or a few words of pride from Kanan was all Ezra needed to reinforce his foundations and stand tall and ready. But the truth of it is, he doesn't know if Kanan would be proud of him, which would be less of a problem if Ezra himself had any uncertainty about his life choices.

Besides, even ten years on every time he thinks about that last glimpse of Kanan, wreathed in flames, he wants to dig his fingers into his skin and deeper and pull and pull until the memory and the sick feeling in his stomach are gone. He cannot think about it. It is an impossibility, it is not something his mind is capable of bearing, the idea of another living person who he loves burning and burning and burning is not something that can live inside of him sustainably. He thinks of Kanan and he feels sick and sad and selfish for not being able to focus on all the good memories.

No, Ezra doesn't talk to Kanan. Ezra talks to people he has only ever known in death.

He talks to  Master Mace Windu and tells him he wishes he knew how to see shatterpoints. Ezra is good at building connections, building bridges, yeah yeah yeah, but every web has one thread at risk, one point where a quick pull will unravel the whole thing. Ezra's had his entire life shattered twice before with no warning, he would really love to know how to prevent the inevitable third round. . Shouldn't this skill just come free with the lineage?

He talks to Thrass-- "can I call you Thrass?" Everybody says Thrawn needed a brother, and yeah, ok, his older brother died and Thrawn went off the rails there for a hot eighteen years, but Ezra's here now, reporting for little brother duty twenty years late with caccoleaf; but better late than never, right? It feels right, picking up Thrass's flag in the relay of Sky Walker investigation and running hard and fast with it as far as he can go. Feels kinda like when Zeb would start a repair project on the Ghost and then leave the second half for Ezra to finish off with no need for explanation or request, just the trust that Ezra knows what to do. ...Thrawn kinda feels like one of those handed off projects, too, but Ezra doesn't even say that part to the dead, just in case they really are listening and decide to tell on him. Ezra never had an older sibling by blood, but they seem to adopt him everywhere he goes. He figures it's his turn to adopt one back, even if it is posthumous.

He talks to Master Depa, because, as his grandmaster, she's legally required to think he's doing a great job. He talks to her about being a teacher on a warship, asks how she delt with knowing every time she ruffled Caleb's hair over breakfast it could be the last.

He tells her every time he wonders if he permanently stained his soul with the dark he remembers that she came back as strong a Jedi as anybody could ask, and it really does make him trust in himself.

He thanks her for raising Caleb, although would it have killed her to teach him just a biiiit of Vaapad?

He tells her he understands, fundamentally, like a burning cole lodged in his ribcage, her desperate need to protect her student, to die so that he could live.

He tells her she would be proud of the man Caleb became, but that it probably wasn't what she expected. Caleb didn't grow up into Caleb. Caleb grew up into Kanan, and secretly Ezra always wonders if Kanan would have been someone who would have fit back in with the Jedi of his childhood.

Ezra's cabinet of entirely metaphorical ghosts all roll their eyes at this transparent attempt at obfuscation, because all the ghosts Ezra has made up to talk to are assholes.

Ok, fine. So maybe Ezra's pretty sure that the found family who gave Ezra Bridger, Jedi Padawan a home might not know what to do with Stybla'ezra'bridger, Jedi Navigator.

It had taken Ezra and sacher actual months, long nights  of sitting at Ezra's kitchen table with big sheets of paper and cheap wine, tossing potential names for their brand new program back and forth. They settled on Jedi Navigator mostly because Thrawn told them they had three days before the official paperwork had to be filed, and they hadn't come up with anything better that they could both agree on. Ezra hit submit on his part of the project proposal and that night he'd laid awake imagining a scenario where he got to tell Hera and Kanan-- "See? Jedi Navigator. Something from each of you."

He's heard the war is over. The Rebellion won and turned right back around to build another Republic. He's heard there's another Jedi --not Kanan, miraculously returned like Ezra dreams at least once a month-- and he's going to start a new order. And he's tried to imagine himself somewhere in all of that and it doesn't fit. He fit on a bunk bed in the Ghost with his family around him, doing their part to beat back the constant press of fascism. But there's no more Empire, no more family all squished together in one little ship. Even if he wanted to climb back into that bunk he knows his head would bump the top now.

The space between eighteen and twenty-eight feels like a lifetime. At eighteen Ezra had just gotten all his clay together and ready to be moulded into a person, and then he'd flung himself half way across the galaxy and wound up being moulded and fired in a different kilmn entirely. There's an Ezra somewhere out there who grew and changed right alongside that cramped little family, who moved forward in their orbit, chose his path and his place on the same game board. He probably knows how to fit in. He's probably working at the Jedi school or part of the reconstruction efforts on Lothal or a commander on a Republic ship stamping out the last remnants of the Empire.

Ezra's not jealous of this other version of himself, this what-if world he built in his own imagination specifically to hurt himself. He expected to be struck by the longing for home, by the bitterness of lost possibility. He isn't.

He can't tell Thrawn this because Thrawn spent eighteen years becoming something monstrous, shredding himself and everyone around him in an increasingly desperate dancing of 'I can fix this I can fix this I can fix this' and when he’d come back the hole his departure had left had long since healed over.

He can't tell Kanan this because--- the force of the explosion, maybe, was enough to make it quick--

Hera's a General now, apparently, and Ezra's certain it suits her just as he's certain even in a world where he'd stayed he wouldn't be asking a General for existential advice at 3:00 AM. Every thing he learns about what's happening in Lesser Space is a double-edged blade.

They aren't really supposed to know much at all-- not relevant, but Theliva keeps offering Ezra little nuggets of info about the Spectors like an awkward stepparent offering candy to win affection from a recalcitrant child. To which Ezra says, 'did you know it was actually just so easy not to join the Empire?' If Ezra's parents had been alive and he could have carried on their family legacy-- well. Isn't that what his whole life's been about, at the end of the day? Hauling around other people's legacies, trying to build something new out of the scattered pieces.

He offers himself up, everything he is on open palms to the gallery of ghosts, living and dead:

This is all I have to offer. It is enough.

#Star Wars #Ezra Bridger #tumblrfic tag #star wars why? #listen man i don't know #sometimes you realize you've grown up and you're not at all where you thought you'd be and that's ok actually #also wanted to poke at some of the weird things your brain does if you lose a parent young #anyway I do think at some point Ezra and Luke become like online friends who scream together about trying to teach Force sensitive kids #this is also clearly unbetaed because sometimes your brain starts writing in the shower and you just gotta throw it into the universe #star wars rebels #chissezra au

[experi-sketches]

Beyond the Endless Day

Part Two

Part One I Part Three

Been a while, but here's Part Two! Thank you so much for the feedback/reblogs/likes on Part One! To recap:

Beyond the Endless Day is a whumpy slave-fic in a modern setting. AIBT is still my primary project, so updates to this story come as they will! I have no rigid update schedule for this story at this time.

This story will be NSFW and will contain explicit dubcon/noncon, so be warned! TWs will be listed for each chapter as they're posted.

If you'd like to be added to a tag list for this story, let me know!

Word Count: 5,327

TWs: slavery, mentions/discussion of sexual slavery, mentions/hints of past trauma (psychological, physical, sexual), on-screen anxiety, mentions of food restriction

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Part Two

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It started as it always did: bright sunlight and the sound of crashing waves. Then sand, hot, coating his throat, burning his eyes. It stung him and made the air taste like dust. 

His body ached. His gums tasted like copper. The skin was raw on his knees and elbows, and the bruises on his wrists pulsed to the beat of his heart. There was blood between his thighs.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Then came high, screeching laughter, and with it came the familiar thrall of relief and terror, and the desperate need to please. To show respect, and to show that he understood just how very, very lucky he was. He needed it. He hated that laughter, and yet he needed it. Bulhar’s Keep, he wouldn’t survive without it. He was a good boy. He needed to prove that he was a good boy.

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

The world was shifting now, changing. Everything was changing. His head throbbed. The sand in his eyes grew sticky. He was aware of the heaviness of his limbs, the dryness in his mouth, the bright, harsh light bleeding through his eyelids—

Kiran awoke to a vicious headache. His temples hammered and his tongue was bone dry, sour from long hours asleep. He dared to open his eyes a crack and immediately shut them again, catching only a brief glimpse of piercing light.

He remembered, dizzily, that Horvath had fed him those awful drugs again, right after he’d told Kiran that it was his day to go to show—

Kiran went utterly still.

It’d been his turn to go to show. 

He took a hasty inventory of his body. He felt fine, no telltale aches or pains except the hangover from the drugs. His throat was dry and his eyes had too much sleep-sand in them, and there was the headache, but it seemed he’d escaped unmolested. The good news ended there, though, as he began to pay closer attention to his surroundings.

He was laying in a bed. A real bed, not one of the Complex’s flimsy regulation cots. The mattress was soft, the sheets clean, the pillow cool and firm. 

And there was the light. The room was filled with light, and not the cold florescence of the windowless dormitories at the Complex. Even through his eyelids he knew it was the warm, unyielding daylight that claimed habitual dominion over Aswein. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Kiran held his breath. He wasn’t alone. The sound came from somewhere off to his right. He laid still, eyes closed, and listened. The tapping came again, followed by a soft sound of frustration. Male. The voice was deep and unmistakably masculine. Kiran’s heart quickened.

Purchased. He must have been purchased at show yesterday. His head reeled, groping through a hazy wash of drug-addled memories: a tall, dim figure through plastiglass, the claustrophobic, smooth white walls of one of the Complex’s private booths, Horvath’s wry laughter, a pair of sharp brown eyes looking down at him from impossibly far above—

That was all he could remember. Kiran had been purchased by a man. A tall, dark man with eyes like two piercing daggers. He shuddered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Kiran dared to open his eyes.

The light was miserable against his throbbing head, but the hangover was familiar and manageable. It was a moment for the room to come into focus, and when it did, Kiran’s mouth fell open. He laid amidst cream colored sheets in a vast bed, surrounded by an enormous bedroom, the walls tastefully neutral and the ceiling high above his head. It was sparsely decorated with a few pieces of stately furniture. There was a door which led to an ensuite bathroom to his right, and to his left, blinding and terrible, was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, curtains drawn back to allow in the daylight. Before the windows, nearly obscured by the assault of light, were two upholstered chairs arranged on either side of a small table to form a small reading nook, and, sitting on one of those chairs, was the largest man Kiran had ever seen.

His skin was dark—far darker than the deep olive or light brown of Aswein skin, and Kiran knew he must be Chuasi. Only people from the day-scorched deserts of Chuasal ran that deep. His hair was short and black, and his clothes…Kiran’s heart leapt into his throat.

Blood red. He wore a crimson uniform from head to toe, tailored trousers and sleek, high-necked tunic. Kiran recognized that uniform. It was a much finer version of one he’d seen many times before. One he feared greatly. 

This man was a sentinel. A slave, like Kiran, but one who had spent his life training to do one thing, and one thing alone: kill. Kiran hadn’t seen a sentinel since his days on the shores of Meles. Preath would sometimes take him along on trips to the red camps, and the brutality Kiran had witnessed there still haunted him. It was entirely different to the savagery in the white camps. In the red camps, it wasn’t just the handlers who delighted in violence. It was encourage among the slaves. Rewarded, even.

Kiran slid further down into the sheets. 

The sentinel lazed in one of the chairs. There was something in his hand—a tablet. He poked at the screen rhythmically, eyes narrowed in concentration.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His finger jabbed the screen and he let out another frustrated sigh, dropping the device into his lap. He muttered something that might have been a curse, and then, without warning, looked toward the bed.

Kiran wasn’t expecting it. He drew in a sharp breath as their eyes locked, temples throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat.

“Oh.” The sentinel’s dark eyes rounded. “Oh—you’re awake! Since when are you awake?” He shot from the chair. 

Kiran huddled deeper into the sheets, if that were possible. The man was tall—extremely tall—and had the streamlined, sinewy, wide-shouldered frame of someone who used their body for a living. He crossed the room with catlike grace, dark eyes bright with interest as he came to the bedside. The tablet was clutched in his hand; on its screen was a game of some kind, gaudy colors and flashing text that Kiran couldn’t read. Technology somewhat mystified Kiran. He’d never had much opportunity to use it.

“You should have said something!” The sentinel grinned. “How long have you been laying there? Bah, no matter. Your head must be killing you. Been years since I’ve had to take those drugs, but it’s not something you forget. Here.” He lifted a small tray from the bedside table and held it out to Kiran; it contained two white pills and a glass of water, and looked absurdly tiny in his large hand. “This is for you. Adam Sir said he wanted you to take it the moment you woke up.” 

Kiran said nothing, eyes jumping between the tray and the sentinel. The water looked extremely enticing, but the slave holding it less so. 

The grin faded. “What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?” 

Kiran’s throat felt tight. Did he want Kiran to speak? What was he supposed to say? This place was entirely new to Kiran—he had no idea what was expected of him.  

A wrinkle appeared between the sentinel’s dark eyebrows. “Whoa. Hey.” He put the tray down. “Don’t—what’s wrong? Don’t go all pale and shaky. Talk to me.” 

Kiran knew better than to disobey a direct order. “I…” his voice was little more than a croak. What was he supposed to say? “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Sir? Whoa, no, there’s no Sirs here. I’m a slave, like you. You can call me by my name. I’m Zavian.” His smile returned, but it looked more careful than before. “Zaiv, if you like.”

“I, yes, I’m sorry, S—” Kiran stopped himself. Licked dry lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. How about you? Do you have a name?”

It was a long time since anyone asked Kiran that question. He almost didn’t know how to answer. “Kiran,” he said quietly. 

“That’s a nice name. Well, Kiran, the Sir wants you to take these, so I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.” He offered the tray again. “They should help with the headache. Go on.”

Moving slowly, limbs still heavy, Kiran carefully sat up and accepted the pills and water. The bed’s large, sturdy headrest was cool against this back; he was still wearing the standard-issue white tunic from the Complex. The pills stuck in his throat, but the water was bliss, cool and soothing, and he longed for a second glass.

Zavian took the glass when he was finished, setting it onto the table. “So I suppose an explanation is in order. I don’t imagine you remember much—you were out cold when those Complex goons delivered you—but I’m sure you’ve figured it out. You’ve been purchased. Do you have any idea where you are? Or who your new master is?”

Kiran shook his head, feeling ill. There were many things Kiran hated about his life, many things he feared, but perhaps one of the things he hated most was change. He hated new places, new owners, and new routines. Routine was comfort; routine was safe. When life was a series of predictable patterns Kiran knew how to behave, and how to protect himself. Without that, he was lost. 

“You’re still in Medrein. I’m not sure how familiar you are with the city, but you’re in the Glass Quarter. Posh stuff.” Zavian tipped a lopsided grin at Kiran. “You were bought by High Counselor Adamire Sonn. Have you heard of him? He works in the Department of Foreign Treatise. A lawyer, and an ambassador of sorts. He’s a very important man.” Kiran thought he detected a hint of pride in Zavian’s voice. “I’m his sentinel. Usually I’d go with him to the office, but he had business at Capital Tower today. They don’t allow private security in there. State-provided detail only. So here I am.” He shrugged one shoulder. 

Kiran didn’t know who High Counselor Adamire Sonn was, but he was relieved to hear that he was at least still in the capital city of Medrein. He was aware of the Glass Quarter, having heard tales of the city’s wealthiest district. One apparently needed special identification to even enter this part of Medrein. It was one of the few bits of information he’d learned of the outside world during his time locked away in the Complex’s stark, windowless corridors. Otherwise he’d only ever been told of the types of men or women who might purchase him while given a litany of drugs and trained, relentlessly and exhaustively, by an unending series of faceless, grey-suited Complex handlers. Horvath in particular had taken a special interest. Kiran shivered and pushed the memories away.

Since he hadn’t been asked a question or given a direct order, he remained quiet. The thick glass windows blocked any sound from the city outside, and silence hung like a low fog, the only sound the low, subliminal hum of the home’s cooling system. Zavian watched him, the steadiness of his dark gaze making Kiran itch. 

At last Zavian sighed and shook his head. “Maker, you are pretty. I see why Adam Sir bought you. You’re just what he likes.” A look crossed this face, the wrinkle returning. “I wonder how Derin…” His deep voice trailed off, and then he smoothed the expression away with a shake his head. “No—doesn’t matter. None of my business. How are you feeling? Are you hungry? I know you haven’t even since yesterday.” 

Kiran wasn’t sure what had just happened. “Yes, Sir.”

“Zaiv, remember?”

Kiran’s heart thumped in his chest. Bulhar’s Keep, he needed to be making a good impression, and here he was already mucking it up. “I’m sorry—”

“I’m not reprimanding you,” Zavian said quickly. “Just reminding you, is all. We’re equals. No harm done.” His smile seemed more forced, now. He pointed to the door off to Kiran’s right and changed the subject. “That’s the bathroom. Adam Sir said you should bathe. There’s clean clothes laid out for you, he had some things delivered earlier today. Did you know it’s almost two in the afternoon? You’ve been sleeping for hours.”

Kiran didn’t know how to respond, so he did the safe thing and said nothing.

Zavian cleared his throat. “Right then. Everything you need is in there. When you’re done I’ll introduce you to Miss Shani and she’ll fix you something to eat. She’s dying to meet you, of course.” He smiled again. 

Kiran swallowed. He was hungry, but he was so sick with worry he didn’t know if he’d be able to stomach anything. 

Slowly he slipped from the bed and headed for the bathroom, keenly aware of Zavian’s eyes on his back. 

~~~

Kiran wasn’t sure how to work the shower—again, technology—and eventually Zavian had to come and turn it on for him, but after that Kiran managed on his own. He still felt lightheaded from the hangover, but the pills had reduced the pounding in his temples to a mild buzz. 

In the shower, behind a closed door and separated from anyone else’s eyes, Kiran cried. 

It came on quickly, and he was surprised by it. He fell to his knees on the red-sand tiles as the bathroom tipped around him, heaving gasps of humid, soap-scented air, and cried as quietly as he could. Where was he? He knew where he was, technically—Zavian had told him as much—but he didn’t know anything about this place. He didn’t know its rules, or its dangers, or its people. Once again everything was changing, and Kiran was powerless to protect himself. What kind of man was Adamire Sonn? Was he fickle? Was he stern? What did he like, and what would he do if Kiran couldn’t please him? Would he punish Kiran, hurt him? Or perhaps he would make someone else hurt Kiran in his stead. Someone like Zavian, who was trained in all the many ways a body could be hurt; who had, mostly likely, hurt people many times before.

High, screeching laughter echoed in the dark recesses of his mind. Kiran choked on another gasp and sat quivering on the floor, lost in the tangled urge to both hide from that laughter and wrap himself in the cruel comfort it offered him.

He moved through his grief quickly. He couldn’t keep Zavian waiting. 

Kiran eventually stood on wobbling legs and washed thoroughly. If Adam Sir had ordered him to bathe, Kiran knew what that meant. Afterwards he dressed in the white tunic that was hanging in the…main room, he supposed? The bathroom was massive, partitioned into sections all made of glass and tile and soft, golden light. The shower and toilet were each in their own separate rooms. 

He dressed in front of the mirror above the double sinks, unnerved by his reflection. It wasn’t often Kiran had a chance to see himself. He felt oddly detached from the fine-boned, pallid creature that looked back it him, eyes only slightly red-rimmed from the crying. Kiran hoped Zavian would it assume it was from the drugs. The new tunic was much nicer than the standard-issue Complex one. Its soft fabric hugged his sides, pure white and sleeveless with a scooping neckline to display the pale column of his throat and sharp notches of his collarbones. It was shorter than the old one, ending mid-thigh. Kiran would have preferred something longer, but he was glad to have clothes at all. Preath hadn’t often allowed him the privilege. Most days he’d made Kiran go naked, unless they were leaving the property or going into the camps.

Kiran paused before he left the bathroom, closing his eyes. He need to be calm. He needed to be good. Zavian was likely a well-favored slave and would no doubt report back to their owner. Kiran needed to show that he was a good boy. With one last deep breath, he opened the bathroom door.

Zavian was back in the chair, poking at the tablet’s screen. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He looked up when Kiran appeared, and his face brightened. “Now look at that!” He stood, setting the tablet aside, and went to Kiran. “Good as new! And it fits like a glove.” His eyes did an appreciative slide up and down. “Figured it would. Your measurements were listed in your papers. Made it easy for Adam Sir to place a quick order.”

Kiran kept quiet, deciding not to risk a pointless thank you. He knew better than to speak out of turn. The back of Horvath’s hand had taught him that lesson. 

After a moment, Zavian cleared his throat. “So then. Food? You want to eat?”

“Yes, S—yes, please.” Never wise to turn down a meal. 

“Right. Okay then. Let’s go.” Zavian gestured toward the door. “I’ll show you to the kitchen. You can meet Miss Shani.” 

Kiran wasn’t prepared for the home that lay beyond the bedroom. 

He’d never seen anything like it, not even Preath’s property in Meles. It was wealth like Kiran had never witnessed. High ceilings, tasteful, neutral-toned walls, and stately, expensive furniture. The bedroom’s plush carpet gave way to gleaming hardwood floors. Kiran felt like a minuscule speck among such grandeur, ragtag and messy with his damp hair and knobby knees, out of place among this man’s other fine possessions.

The feeling only worsened as they journeyed across the home. They were in some short of high-rise tower, the windows far above Medrein’s sun-blasted streets, and if the length of their trek was any indication, it seemed the home took up the entire floor. Zavian had said Adam Sir was an important man—a government lawyer of some kind. Kiran shivered. 

They arrived at a large, swinging door. “Here we are,” Zavian said with a grin and pushed through, holding it open for Kiran.

Kiran entered an enormous kitchen, all sleek, dark tile and gleaming steal. Along the far was a long stone countertop with a large stove in the center, and before it, turning to greet them, was a middle-aged woman in a long apron. She gave a broad smile, setting down the spoon in her hand.

“Miss Shani!” Zavian boomed. Kiran flinched, blanching. “Look who’s awake!”

She was hurrying over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hush! Easy, can’t you see you’ve startled him?”

“Sorry.” Zavian sounded sheepish, but he was grinning. 

“Sorry indeed.” Miss Shani smiled down at Kiran. “Never you mind him. Zaiv’s all bluster and no bite. Well then, look at you, up and about! I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away. Here, let’s have a good look.” She didn’t touch him, but Kiran obeyed, lifting his face to meet her gaze.

She was free citizen. He could tell that much at a glance; she did not wear the blue uniform of a domestic slave. Her common garments were modest in comparison to the splendor surrounding them, a simple, dark blouse tucked into long trousers, all covered by the apron. She was Aswein—her brown skin crinkled at the corners of her eyes as she smiled down at him, and her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, slightly greying at the temples. Hired help, most likely. Adam Sir seemed the sort who could afford it. 

“Look at that face!” Miss Shani grinned. “I’ve never seen anything like it. But you’re so skinny. Don’t they feed you at the Complex?”

“By precise weight, from what I remember,” Zavian said in his deep voice, saving Kiran from having to answer. “Miss Shani, this is Kiran. Kiran, this is Miss Shani. Adam Sir pays her to help with the cooking and housekeeping. She’s a free citizen. And she’s brilliant.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Kiran bowed. “An honor to meet you, ma’am.”

“Oh, none of that.” She waived her hand. “We’re all on equal footing here, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve never owned a slave in my life and I don’t see much sense in treating you boys like I’m better than you. Now, you must be starving. Here, sit, sit—”

She herded him onto one of the stools at the large island in the center of the kitchen. Kiran perched awkwardly on the seat, the stone countertop cool beneath his palms. Zavian followed, standing to lean easily on the island, looming at Kiran’s side like a tall, crimson shadow. Kiran tried not to lean away, acutely aware of the power coiled in the body beside him. He felt small again. Small and unprotected. 

Shani produced a tray from the massive fridge and set it before him, and Kiran went still as he gaped down at it, thinking, for a moment, that there had been some sort of mistake: a bowl of cold soup, a sandwich stuffed full of some variety of thinly sliced, pickled vegetable that he couldn’t identify, and a dish of mysterious, deep purple berries. He had no idea what any of it was. Preath had only ever fed him scraps from his own plate, or the same flavorless gruel served in the camps. The food at the Complex had been similarly bland—processed and colorless, a mere vehicle for calories.

This was food. Kiran almost didn’t know what to do with it.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be up,” said Miss Shani apologetically, “so I thought something that could keep in the fridge would be best. But I’ll have a warm meal for you tomorrow. I promise.”

Kiran blinked down at the dishes stupidly, suddenly and painfully aware of just how empty his stomach was. Was this really all for him? If felt like a trick, like one of Preath’s games.

But then Miss Shani said, “Go on,” and Kiran saw in their faces that they were expecting him to eat. So he did. 

It was delicious. The first taste of the soup—some sort of chilled vegetable concoction that was sweet and bright on his tongue—sent a shiver down his spine. Miss Shani seemed pleased as he fell upon the rest with fervor. She and Zavian left him to it, chatting while Miss Shani tended whatever bubbled on the stove. 

They seemed comfortable with one another. Zavian offered no formalities as they laughed and joked, as though they were two free people having an easy conversation. If Kiran weren’t so distracted by the food, he might have been scandalized. Etiquette and respect where important lessons. Their edicts had been drilled into Kiran relentlessly: he was not a free citizen, he was beneath them in every sense, and he needed to show respect. Always, it came down to respect and deference, and pliant submission—to any free person, really, but especially to his master.

His master. His new master. Who he knew nothing about.

Kiran set down his spoon, swallowing a mouthful of cold soup. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.  

“All done?” Miss Shani asked at a lull in their conversation. 

Kiran nodded, then remembered himself. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

She looked as though she was about to say something, then let it go with a smile and cleared away the dishes.

She and Zavian chatted a bit more while Kiran numbly sipped some water Miss Shani placed before him. His nerves were a mess, but the food had at least driven away the last of his hangover. 

Then Zavian’s hands thudded down onto the island’s countertop and startled Kiran again. “Well then! I think it’s about time for a proper tour, don’t you?” His eyes gleamed as he grinned down at Kiran.

Was that a real question? Was he supposed to answer? Kiran felt his heart crawling up his throat, pulse quickening in his ears.

“Ah—Adam Sir wanted me to show you around, once you were on your feet,” Zavian quickly went on, saving Kiran a second time.

“Don’t you run him ragged,” Miss Shani warned. “Not everyone has your energy, you know.” 

“Oh, it won’t be that bad. I’ll just give him the two-minute tour.” He looked back to Kiran and nudged his head toward the door. “Come on. It’ll be nice and quick, I promise. Sir’s orders.”

~~~

It was not quick. 

It wasn’t so much Zavian’s fault as it was the sheer mass of the home. Kiran kept quiet as he was guided from one grand, high-ceilinged room to the next, completely overwhelmed. 

There were so many places intended simply for existing. There was living room, a sitting room, and a den. A receiving room, an office—several of those, actually, one in each of the home’s vast wings—and a reading room, and a smoking room. A parlor. A solarium, whatever that was. Kiran’s head spun. All of this surely couldn’t belong to one man. Kiran wondered if Adam Sir had a family. He’d seen no one else beside Zavian and Miss Shani, no photos on the walls or mentions of children, husbands, or wives. Zavian had said a name earlier—Derin—and that same name had come up once or twice in his conversation with Miss Shani, but each time they’d quickly moved on as though the subject was better left alone. 

In the western wing was a small dormitory with four single beds, only one of which looked slept in. Zavian explained that it was the slave’s quarters. Before Kiran, Zavian had been the only slave in the home. Miss Shani only worked during the daytime and went home in the evening. After preparing diner, she’d travel across the city to her own apartment in one of the more reasonably priced residential quarters, leaving Zavian to serve Adam Sir his meal. Zavian said he didn’t mind. He was Adam’s Sir’s sentinel, not a domestic slave, but it was all just as well to him. He was glad to be of any service to his master that he could.

There was one other room in the western wing that caught Kiran’s attention: the pen. Kiran was well familiar. Most households wealthy enough to own slaves also had a pen. A room used for punishment, most were equipped with the tools needed to manage an insubordinate slave—cuffs, canes, muzzles, whips, and whipping post being the most common. Adam Sir’s was small but well-stocked, and dusty with disuse. Still, it existed. Kiran went a bit green as he peered at the tools hanging on the walls, his lunch sitting like a stone in his belly. Zavian quickly shut the door and hurried them away.

Eventually they ended in the formal dining room. It was a beautiful space, with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall that offered an unobstructed view of the Glass Quarter’s skyline. Kiran came to an abrupt halt as he was suddenly faced with the sun-drenched reality of the outside world, startling as a slap to the face. The Glass Quarter was a fitful mountain range of glass and steel, a sea of jutting towers against the sky’s fierce yellow, each blazing like a pillar of fire. Luckily the windows were dampened to dull the glare, or else it might have been blinding. The rest of Medrein sprawled off into the distance behind, a living grid-work of buildings and streets, and beyond all of it, far off on the edge of the world, was the ocean. It shimmered like a ghost on the horizon, obscured by wavering heat and city smog.

Speechless, Kiran went to the window. It was his first proper look at the outside world since waking up in the massive bed—his first good look, really, in over a year. There were no windows at the Complex—none that he could see, anyways—and he’d arrived there just before his nineteenth birthday. He was twenty now. This was the first he’d properly seen the city he’d spent more than a year of his life in, and still he was still separated from it by a thick layer of insulated, tone-adjusting glass.

The street below was unnervingly distant, people and vehicles moving about like insects on bleached concrete. An odd sense of vertigo overcame Kiran as he looked down at them, mesmerized. There were so many people—so many free people, all going wherever they pleased. Doing whatever they pleased, whenever they pleased. Saying whatever they pleased. Eating whatever they pleased. Living however they pleased. It was such an alien concept that Kiran almost couldn’t hold it in his mind. 

His hand drifted absently to the skin over his left bicep, searching, not for the first time, for some sort of bump or scar, but found nothing; the tracker had been installed flawlessly. There wasn’t even a mark on his skin where they’d put it in. It was one of the first things they’d done after his arrival at the Slave Complex, while he was still reeling from the shock of Preath selling him. A tracker had been inserted in his arm, buried deep beneath the flesh. Kiran knew it must already be programmed with Adam Sir’s information. The Complex would have seen to it before shipping him off to his new master. He couldn’t go anywhere without being traced. He likely couldn’t even leave this building.

No matter where he went, Kiran would always be a slave.

Zavian appeared beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his red trousers. He scanned the skyline with Kiran, his dark skin burnished by the sun, glowing in it, made to withstand the daylight. “Amazing, isn’t it? All this—the view, the house. It’s like a different world. I’ll never get over the things money can buy.” He looked at Kiran. “We’re lucky to be here, you know. I know it can be frightening, being somewhere new. But you’ll be safe here, Kiran. You’ll have a good home. Adam Sir really isn’t so bad. He’s a nice man. And Derin—well, he’ll come around, I think.”

Something clenched in Kiran’s chest.

They were quiet for a moment, and then Zavian sighed. “That’s pretty much the whole tour. You’ll learn your way around as you settle in.” He hesitated a moment. “There’s just one more thing to show you. It shouldn’t take long. Come on.”

Zavian led them to a large, stately door in the home’s eastern wing. He stood before it, but made no move to open it, leaving it tightly shut.

“Adam Sir wanted me to show this to you, specifically.” There was an odd stiffness to his voice. “We’re not going in. He wanted me to make sure you knew this room is off limits. You can go anywhere else you like. Anywhere. Except here.” He paused. “You are never to enter this room. He said…that the punishment will be very severe, should you do so. He wanted me to say that.”

Zavian must have seen the fear on Kiran’s face, because he quickly went on, “But don’t worry. You’ve no reason to go in. You’ll be fine, Kiran. You never even have to look at this door again. Really, don’t let it bother you.”

Kiran tried to obey those words, but as they headed back toward the kitchen he couldn’t help a brief glance over his shoulder. The door looked just the same as any of the others in the home, and yet Zavian’s warning made it seem larger and more sinister. He quickly tore his eyes away, turning them down to watch his bare feet pad across the hardwood floor, and resigned to never look at that door again.

_____

Tag list: @burntcoffeewhump @generic-whumperz

#Beyond the Endless Day #my writing #my OCs #whump #NSFWwhump #whumpblr #slavefic #this is completely unbeta-ed lol #sorry for all the typos #writblr

[hdawg1995]

I've been writing a dumb stupid OOC edgy angsty fanfic about my player's D&D characters, y'all wanna read this bull shit?

#ramble #D&D #it features Regis fel #and his boy friend Corvus Cawl #and their friends who have to sit and wonder what they ever did #to deserve to witness this #i've been writing it at work in my work email #it is unbetaed #it is the only thing i can seem to make #i have tried other things #but burn out really said “bully the snake man” #anyway in the most recent edition to it there is a kissing scene #now #i ain't good at that shit #i just like. googled how to write a kiss scene #and then went with it #anyway if this gets even one note i'll post it

[thesokovianaccords]

(press you to) the pages of my heart

four: "come here. let me fix it."

a steggy friends to lovers au (also on ao3)

They were going to be late. Even for them.

(Though Steve would swear up and down it wasn’t his fault. Peggy would swear that he was lying.)

“It’s basically the same costume, anyway. How are you still not ready?”

“I had to send Tony an angry voice note first,” Steve shouted from his bedroom. “Really, it’s his fault we’ll be late.”

Peggy tapped their new and improved badges against the kitchen table. “Pepper’s a natural redhead. It makes more sense for them to be Mulder and Scully. Also, I somehow managed to make new badges, find realistic neuralyzers, and fix my costume before you tied your tie.”

“Well, I got into an in-depth debate with both of them over who deserved a quote-unquote ‘couple’s costume.’ That ate up some time.” Steve walked out into the living room, his eye roll audible across the apartment. “They both had lots of unsolicited opinions, so you’re welcome for sparing you from that.”

“My hero,” Peggy scoffed, grabbing their drinks and dropping next to Steve on the sofa, as he tied his shoes. “Hopefully the party will still be going when we get there.”

Steve sent her an incredulous look, and they both laughed. “Yes, right, fine. It was impossible to even think that with a straight face.”

“Sometimes I still feel hungover from their 4th of July party.”

“Ah yes, the Steve Rogers Birthday Bash, T-M,” Peggy said, holding up her hands in brackets to showcase the trademark with the aplomb it deserved. And because he always glared at her when she did it.

“Yeah, yeah, hilarious. So funny. I’m dying of laughter.” Steve pushed himself to his feet and pulled Peggy up to hers too. “Are you ready, Agent P?”

“What are you saying, Agent S? Don’t I pass muster?”

He gave her a once-over so quick she might have been insulted, if the warm weight of his gaze hadn’t pinned her in place for those few seconds. Her breath caught for an embarrassing moment as his eyes returned to hers. “You look beautiful. And deadly. Perfect, as always—except your tie is crooked.”

“It is not.” Peggy had no idea whether that was true—Steve’s compliments had thrown her for a loop, and recalibrating herself to focus on what he was actually saying was taking longer than it normally did.

He set their glasses on the coffee table and pulled her to their entryway. “Would I lie to you?”

“Yes,” she retorted, but unfortunately her tie was, in fact, listing to one side. “I swear I had it sorted—it must have gotten bored waiting for you to be ready too and decided to relax.”

Steve snorted as she loosened the knot and began to loop the fabric over itself again, but no retort came. He just watched her hands in the mirror as she pulled the long end of the tie through and tightened the knot. But once again, it hung slightly off to the side, and she groaned at her reflection. “These things are bloody impossible. I don’t know how you wear them every day.”

“It just means I have a lot of practice. Come here,” he said, dropping his hands to her shoulders and spinning her around. “Let me fix it.”

Peggy considered the possibility, with Steve’s knuckles brushing against her neck as he re-knotted her black tie, that she was dreaming. Or that she had taken complete leave of her senses. She and Steve were so often in sync—and naturally so, without any conscious thought behind it—that when they weren’t, when they seemed to be in the midst of wildly diverging experiences of the same event, Peggy felt unmoored. Speechless, even. How else could she explain Steve’s efficiency, his apparent immoveabiity, while she was left breathless at the sweep of his hands across her collar? And how was she meant to deal with this new reality, the one where she and her best friend were horribly, perhaps permanently, out of sync, and one wrong word or move could tear everything down?

Steve, oblivious to Peggy’s personal crisis, stepped back and placed his hands on her shoulders again. “There,” he said, a soft smile on his face. “Perfect. As always.”

Peggy placed a hand over the knot and cleared her throat. “As are you, Steve,” she said, relieved her voice stayed steady. “Now, let’s go save the universe. With tequila shots, preferably.”

He laughed and ran his hands down her arms, before taking a single step back. “Yes, ma’am.”

#saturdaystorkclub #steggy #steggy fic #steggyfanevents #steggy au #(press you to) the pages of my heart #thought it was time that I finally participated in one of these! #so here we go - a halloween themed friends to lovers ficlet #and they were roommates #featuring a bit of yearning and assumed unrequited pining #bc ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ that's why #I cannot emphasise enough that this is unbetaed and I am getting back into the writing groove #so thank you in advance for your grace and forgiveness lmao

[beauty-of-nyx]

I have too many wips, so you guys can have a little snippet

somehow already at 2k words when I just started writing last evening.

EDIT: IF YOU'RE SEEING THIS AFTER 12TH OCTOBER, THIS FIC HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND PUT UP ON AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/42339057

#ANGST #the sandman #dream of the endless #sandman #dream #desire of the endless #morpheus #fanfic #I have a lot of thoughts for this show #thank u mr gaiman #I love ur lil gay show with all its lil gay people #dreamling #unedited and unbetaed rn