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megan-is-mia · 3 years

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Could I ask for Peacock Vil with #209? Like he's in his mating season and she is rejecting all his advances.

(This one is kind of long sorry) 209. “The way you say my name feel so fucking good…keep saying it.” (Yandere! Peacock Vil Schoenheit x Fem! S/o) (WARNING NSFW AND NON-CON AHEAD!)

Ever since she was a young girl (Y/n) had known what her future would be. Born to a concubine in the Peacock King’s harem there was only one fate open to her: to become a harem-girl like her mother before her and serve her master obediently. This fact had been drilled into her since toddlerhood. Yet there was something that gave her hope and kept her from fully accepting her destiny. She had a special friend, a secret friend who lived in the castle as well. They’d never seen each other’s faces but spoke to one another every day through a hole in the wall between the two grand gardens of the palace. Her friend called themself Scélérat, and they loved two things: knowledge and beauty. Each day they would teach (Y/n) new things they’d learned from the books in the library.

With every scrap of knowledge (Y/n) gained she found new strength in herself. When she was with Scélérat she wasn’t just a lowly harem girl, she was a person who mattered in this world. Yet as the years went by things began to change, she began to be plagued with more and more duties to make her into the ideal concubine. Even worse the Peacock King’s son Vil demanded that she become his personal servant and tend to him daily.

“(Y/n) why do you stand so far from my side? Come closer darling I won’t bite” Vil cooed as he lounged back on the chaise longue and gestured for the servant to come closer. (Y/n) grit her teeth but obeyed, she despised the peacock-man and his father and everything they stood for. If it wasn’t for the king and the prince, she and her mother would not be bound to a life of sexual servitude.

Vil pulled (Y/n) down into his lap as she came closer, she had grown more beautiful than he could ever have hoped for. He still remembered with total clarity when he’d first met her, back when they were children still innocent of heart. She’d been crying in the garden and he’d spoken to her through the wall. (Y/n) had spilled out her sorrows to him and he felt his heartache for the first time in his life.

He hadn’t told her his name then, for that would have ruined everything. To her, he would be Scélérat, someone she could always depend on to be there for her and lift her up. But as time has gone by their meetings had grown shorter and less frequent, it was not her fault that she wasn’t able to meet him. (Y/n) was blooming into a beautiful young woman and therefore she had to know her duties as a concubine.

That didn’t mean he would let her slip away from him. Sure for now she may not love him as Prince Vil, but he would win her yet. He was sure of it, she had no choice in the matter. When he became king he would dismiss most of the harem that his father had amassed. Of course, he would make sure the concubines went to good homes but he would not need so many women to keep him happy. The only woman he needed to be happy was (Y/n), she would be his queen in all but name. He wished he could make her queen proper but he knew patience would be key to being successful in his endeavors. If he gave her that power before he knew for certain that she was loyal to him everything could go down in flames. Vil could not let the love in his heart cloud his judgment on the matter.

(Y/n) hated how intimately the prince touched her. His hands made her skin crawl and she felt like she needed to scrub her skin clean after every encounter with him. The other harem girls gossiped that she must be his favorite since she was the only girl he’d ever called to his chambers. However, she did not care whether or not she was the prince’s favorite for she would never care for him.

For her heart already belonged to another, her beloved Scélérat, yes they were her beloved. Though she had never had the courage to tell them of her feelings for them and now she was unlikely to ever have the chance to tell them with the prince hoarding her time and body. The only relief she had was the fact the prince and king’s mating season would soon start and none would be allowed near their rooms nor them. Perhaps in this downtime (Y/n) would gain from the prince’s season she’d be able to speak to Scélérat again and set things straight. However, until the season started she would be quite busy with Prince Vil. In the week leading up to his mating season, the prince began acting strangely towards her. One could almost call it affectionate, the way he spoke to her and tried to shower her in gifts of clothes and jewelry. “He must be trying to court you” another harem girl suggested when (Y/n) spoke of her concerns one evening. “The gift-giving, the affectionate words, the only sensible explanation is that his more bestial brain is piloting and he wants you to be his mate” she added making (Y/n) cringe with disgust. Her? The prince’s mate? No way! There was no way she would ever become the prince’s mate!

Yet despite her unwillingness, she found herself being locked in with the prince on the day his rut started. At first, he seemed totally unaware of her presence in the room, jerking furiously on his bed and grunting in a low voice. This was a side of Vil she’d never seen before, who was this unrefined creature unable to think of anything but sex? She could almost feel pity for him, almost.

(Y/n) was so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice when the prince had given up trying to pleasure himself and was creeping towards her. Suddenly she found herself being pulled and forced down on the bed as Vil climbed atop of her with a lecherous grin. (Y/n) grimaced and tried to kick him off even as he leaned down to capture her lips in a hungry kiss and ran his hands down her sides.

“Finally, I have you where I want you… I’ve been waiting for this day for years” Vil said in a coo as he pulled away from the kiss. “Ever since we were young I knew you were the one for me my darling” he added leaning in for another kiss. (Y/n) turned her head away confused by the prince’s words. “What… What are you talking about! You aren’t making any sense!” she said, trying to kick him again. “Even when we’re this close to one another you still don’t recognize me? You cannot recognize your oldest friend?” the prince said, leaning down to speak in (Y/n)’s ear. “Your dear Scélérat sits before you and yet you do not see?” he whispered before pressing a kiss to her ear. This revelation froze (Y/n) to her core, the prince… he was the one she’d loved for so long? Impossible! She could not accept, she would not accept this to be true!

“I don’t believe you! You must be lying! Scélérat is a good person, unlike you! He would never let me remain a harem girl if he had the power to free me like you do!” (Y/n) said in a hiss. “Oh I have every intention of freeing you, just not yet… first I must become king so I can make you my wife” Vil said nuzzling the young woman playfully. “But such serious matters can wait until another day, let us enjoy each other’s company” he concluded.

(Y/n) knew exactly what he meant by “enjoy each other’s company” and she wanted none of it. She tried to push him away again even as he kissed down her front, yanking her top down to lavish her breasts with attention. (Y/n) had never had the curiosity to try touching herself in such a matter and as such her body jolted with the new sensations Vil forced upon her with his mouth and hands.

“You saved yourself for me didn’t you darling?” the peacock-man said with a croon, his hands darting further down (Y/n)’s body to run down her thighs. “I wish I had the patience to wait until our wedding night to do this… but I suppose there really is nothing wrong with getting started on making an heir right?” he mused to himself as the young woman below him felt her blood run cold. Her? Carry the prince’s heir? She couldn’t think of many things worse than bearing a child for this man! Perhaps she could stop him from doing this tonight? Maybe she could spare herself such a fate by taking command now? (Y/n) reached down clumsily searching for the prince’s cock and taking it firmly in her grip. Without hesitation, she began jerking him off quickly as he began to buck into her hold. “Mmmph fuck that feels so good” Vil said, his tail feathers spreading behind him as he fucked himself into the girl’s fist and let his head lol back in pleasure. It didn’t take long for him to cum messily onto (Y/n)’s body with a weak grin. “That was delightful darling, now allow me to return the favor” the prince said situating himself between the girl’s thighs. He pulled her undergarments aside before pressing his mouth to her cunt. This was not what she had wanted to have happen! She’d touched him hoping that it would be enough to please him so he wouldn’t impregnate her. He wasn’t supposed to try and return the favor of pleasuring! (Y/n) weakly kicked at the prince as he sucked on her clit and drove his tongue deep into her cunt. It felt like he was trying to clean her insides out with his mouth and she could feel her eyes rolling back in her skull. “P-puh-prince Vil!” (Y/n) squealed desperately and to her surprise, the peacock-man stopped. “The way you say my name feel so fucking good…keep saying it” the prince groaned out before he began tongue-fucking her again. It didn’t take long until the harem girl was seeing white and cumming all over Vil’s face. He licked up her release greedily before spreading her legs and scooting so his cock brushed against her pussy.

“I’ll try to be gentle, considering this is your first time… but I can't promise I won’t lose control” Vil cooed before starting to sink into (Y/n)’s depths. It didn’t take much before the young woman was squirming with discomfort. The prince was so big compared to her and his cock was just as proportionally big. The kisses that he pressed to her face did nothing to ease the pain he was causing her at this moment. “Hold on for me darling… I just need to get all the way in and then I'll make you feel really good” the prince promised. He continued to sink into her, stretching her like she’d never been stretched before. His fingers teased her clit made it almost bearable but still it wasnt enough to take the pain away. Finally, Vil was all the way in and let out a long gasp. He nuzzled (Y/n)’s shoulder before kissing it.

“You feel so tight around me… it feels amazing… I'm going to make you feel amazing too” the peacock-man said, his tail feathers shaking with delight. He pulled back a little bit before slamming back into (Y/n) with a grunt. He repeated this action over and over again each time striking a spot deep inside the harem girl’s cunt that made her see stars and moan for him like he wanted. Gradually Vil’s movements got faster and faster, gripping the bedframe as he fucked (Y/n) with all his might. The young woman came so many times yet the prince showed no signs of wearing out despite the many times he had also cum as he pounded her into the bed. “I’m gonna plant an entire nest in your womb darling… you’ll like that won’t you? Soon you’ll be a wife, a mother, and a queen just like you deserve…” THE END

#Twisted Wonderland #Yandere Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Yandere TWST #Yandere Vil Schoenheit #Vil Schoenheit

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maplefiasco · 5 years

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All of the Fire I've Swallowed

Holy crap, I actually kinda finished something. And have it ready to go for Scoundress Saturday and everything! Title comes from “Take Me To War” by The Crane Wives

Han/Leia. Rated T. Pre-ESB. Three times Leia took something she wanted.

(Posted below, or if you prefer, you can read it on AO3 or on FF.N)

The first time she kisses Han is a mistake. Yet another in a long line of bad impulses she seems to have around him.

Their mission had been quick and simple, just her, Han, and Chewie picking up a shipment of medical supplies. But it was still a surprise when it turned out to be one of those rare missions that go smoothly. No unexpected Imperial checkpoints to shoot their way out of; no bounty hunters ambushing them at some key moment.

It's just so damn rare to get a win these days. When they actually do, it feels like the whole galaxy is hers to conquer, shape, do with as she sees fit. Today, a couple crates of bacta. Tomorrow, the galaxy.

Chewie's busy in the cockpit, so it's just the two of them in the main hold, both flush with adrenaline and a strange light giddiness. Han had even hugged her after the jump to lightspeed. Even more alarming, she had hugged him back. And now, watching him re-scan the cases for tracking devices (can't be too careful, sweetheart), she tries to remember why it is she goes to so much effort to avoid him, keep him at a distance.

If Leia is being truly honest with herself, which she usually is. Though not on this subject. On the subject of Han, she is coy and elusive with herself, watching herself from a safe distance with a silent smirk most of the time. But for this one brief moment, she allows herself to be open to the possibility of admitting to herself that maybe, possibly, theoretically... kissing Han Solo is the kind of thing she wants to do.

And why not, this new carefree and confident voice in her head asks. If she wants to kiss him, she can. It doesn't have to change anything or ruin her life or break her heart. Like any other mission, she can have an objective, achieve it, and then get out before it gets dangerous. Not everything in her life has to feel like the end of the galaxy. Or maybe it should, given her particular lifestyle these days, in which case she should seize every moment, right? Either way. This feels like a moment. An everything-is-good-and-also-maybe-there's-no-tomorrow moment.

Han is oblivious to her epiphany and how it will shortly affect his mouth. He gives her a good-natured wink and turns off the scanner. We're officially not being tracked. Told ya you were being paranoid as if it hadn't been his idea to do the second scan. Propelled by lingering adrenaline and newfound resolve, she takes a step to close the space between them and kisses him. Whatever she lacks in buildup or seduction, she thinks she makes up for with straightforward enthusiasm.

(Once, when she had been nine or ten, young, but old enough, she had joined her parents on a tour of Isata, a continent far from Aldera and its vibrant hustle. Every day that summer, they visited farms and villages, posed for holos with the locals that would later be broadcast across the planet. It was the first time in her young life Leia had felt on display. Commodified. Today the royal family saw the largest auberal harvested on all of Alderaan. Why it's a few inches taller than our little princess. Up next, your weekend weather forecast.

They had been touring yet another a village, stopping to meet the owner of a frozen joral cream shop. The midsummer sun had hung high and oppressively bright. Leia's elaborate braids had been damp and heavy against her neck with sweat, the hairpins jabbing her scalp every time she moved. The shop owner had offered her a joral cream, any flavor. It would be my honor to serve our sweet princess something as sweet as she. Just name your flavor, your highness.

She had been trained for this. Repeatedly. She knew her line by heart. Thank you, but I could only enjoy it if you give it to a child in more need than me. All summer she had parroted her script and curtsied to Isata's finest confectioners, toy makers, and bakers. What generosity! How compassionate and unselfish the princess is! And then she watched them pull their temptations out of her reach. She hadn't minded, mostly. The affectionate pat on her head from her father was a reward in itself.

But that day, the sun, the constant pressure of being on, all of it, had bested her. She had stood there, boiling in her dress's heavy puddle of fabric. Across the shop sat a girl about her age. Her bright hair swept back in a loose braid, her simple dress breezy on her skinny limbs. She was barely paying attention the royal procession in front of her, so enraptured in her half-melted joral cream. Leia had watched her devour the frozen treat with envy, how she caught the stray drips of melted juice before they could trickle down the cream's flimsy stick and onto her tight fist. Her lips were stained purple, and when she slurped on the cream it echoed all the way across the shop, each a satisfied pop of tangy, cool fruit that Leia could feel on the back of her stale tongue.

At that moment she had so longed to be that girl. Why could she, princess and therefore (as she understood it at the time) most important girl on all of Alderaan, not be as free and natural as the next village girl. She felt her parents' keen eyes on her, waiting to hear her well-rehearsed line. But wasn't she just as hot and hungry as any other girl? The day was already so long, and yet so far from over. Didn't she need a respite as much as anyone else? Why couldn't she, just once, have the simple pleasures that everyone else got to have? The sudden longing and unfairness of it all overrode her royal training. Starblossom flavor, please!

Her mother had laughed and smiled her most diplomatic royal smile, the one that didn't entirely reach her eyes if you really paid attention, thanked the shop owner profusely when he stretched across the counter to bestow Leia with the stick of sweet frozen cream. But when she met her mother's eyes, she knew she'd pay for this defiance later; a stern speech about how one behaves and what one represents that will undoubtedly go on for too long, stirring in her equal parts guilt and boredom. But at that moment, it had only made the joral cream taste all the sweeter.)

So yeah, she kisses Han. And for a single, endless moment she tastes icy sweet starblossom.

The moment after that one, however, is flooded with cold reality. The rational part of her mind, having finally wrestled control back from her giddy idiot brain, went into overdrive. Every very real, very logical reason why this is a very bad idea hits her all at once. A wave of electric panic shoots up her spine, the tang of fruit and summer replaced with ash in the back of her throat. Already cringing, she opens her eyes.

He's standing perfectly still, eyes wide in surprise. This close she can watch the color in them change, from bright green to dark gold, literally watch his mind process what's happening while his face catches up.

The panic takes a quick jaunt through her entire body before settling in the pit of her stomach. Kriff damn hells.

She pulls back stiffly, the way one is supposed to back away from a feral sabercat if they cross paths with one in the wild. Maintain eye contact and don't show weakness. His lips curve up in something between a smug grin and a surprised O. She'll never hear the end of this.

Maybe if she looks aggrieved enough, she can act like what just happened didn't actually happen. Maybe she tripped. Maybe his kriffing ship bucked and bounced her mouth onto his mouth. Because that happens, right. Maybe–

He's full-on grinning now, so no luck there. "Why, Princess–"

"Shut up." Not her most diplomatic tactic, but her mind's blanking on anything more articulate.

"I haven't even said anything yet!"

"Well don't!"

"Hold on, you're the one who just kissed m–"

"No, I didn't, so don't even start." She stomps to the crew quarters and spends the rest of the trip working, definitely not just reading the same page over and over and avoiding him.

This seems to do the trick, because when they land and she finally emerges, he's carrying cargo down the Falcon's ramp, only nodding when he passes her. It's an offhanded, same-shit-as-always kind of nod. Nothing that would indicate that he now knows the taste of her lipgloss or the smell of her hair, which he almost certainly must.

He doesn't say anything and obviously she doesn't say anything. After a while, it's almost enough that she can convince herself it didn't actually happen.

The second time she kisses him, however, he's ready for her.

Remembrance Day was as good an excuse as any for the entire base to celebrate and let off some steam. Some low-grade cabin fever had been making the rounds at Echo Base; the remote location making everyone itch with isolation and anxiety. Why not bring out a few cases of alcohol and let the base run wild for a night. Shake off the nervous energy.

It's noisy and chaotic, the base a barely controlled riot of merrymaking. But in that good way that makes Leia's heart ache. Enthusiasm and camaraderie and everyone here, brought together by a shared mix of fierce dedication and naiveté to believe they can change the course of the galaxy all by themselves.

She's tipsy, not drunk, for the record, because royalty doesn't get shit-faced. A small crowd has ended up in the main briefing chamber. Not completely separate from the partying out in the hall, but adjacent to it.

By day, she's Commander Organa, down in the front of this chamber, presenting intel and passing out mission assignments like some school teacher of war. But now there's a forbidden thrill to being in this room at night, being in a purposeful room without purpose. The usual stresses and duty she associates with this room on pause for the night. It reminds her of playing tea party in the formal banquet hall as a child. Sipping air at the same seat her mother often led state dinners and entertained the galaxy's leaders.

They're holed up in a back corner, the harsh overhead fluorescents off, so the room feels dim and strange. Han doesn't share her reverence for a good briefing chamber. He rearranges the chairs with a casual disregard until they're better suited for social drinking and bullshitting.

She chats for a while with Shara about the pilot's current difficulties. Which are mainly adapting speeder engines for Hoth's temperatures, and getting a strong enough signal to call her parents regularly. (Not that her infant son is much of a conversationalist, but it's the principle, y'know? If he doesn't hear her and see her often enough, how's he going to remember who she is?)

Han and Wedge seem deep in something, their Corellian flowing too rapidly for Leia to pick anything up in the snatches she hears from across the room, especially in Han's thick Tyrenan accent. Luke's in between the two of them, nodding a lot, which means he's either better then she is with Corellian, or he's somehow even worse. At least it sounds lyrical, whatever they're saying, like all Corellian does. Every now and then Han catches her eye across the small crowd. He smiles and cocks his chin towards her ever so slightly. Like they're co-conspirators. Like the two of them share some precious secret only they know about. Her cheeks burn at the presumed intimacy of it. Not embarrassed, but something close to it.

It's well after midnight before the crowd starts to thin out. Shara and Kes had stumbled off in search of Endrolian ale and never returned. Luke, ever the farmer and habitual early riser, had called it a night. Slowly, then all of a sudden, it's just the two of them.

Leia doesn't miss the carefully effortless way Han approaches her, stretches and yawns, then drapes his arm across her shoulders, pulling her close. As if they do this every day. As if tucked under his arm is where she belongs. He's close enough she can smell the whiskey on his breath. "Well honey, you throw a pretty good party." He looks younger when he's not scowling, as he so often is. Softer.

She's far gone enough to enjoy this, thrill slightly at his domestic make-believe, even if a scant few hours ago she would have sooner bit his hand off. "I think it was actually Mon's idea."

"Then tell her she really knows how to run a Rebellion next time you see her." It's high praise from the man who usually only has two opinions about Mon Mothma. One, she's an idealistic fool. And two, she pays too well. But don't correct her on that count.

"I think you like our little Rebellion."

Han sighs before he answers as if it takes a moment to build up the courage to relent and say, "I guess I do." He catches her gaze, smiles his achingly Han smile. "Don't tell Leia, though. She'd be insufferable if she knew." Leia retaliates with a sharp elbow to his ribs. Enough to register, but not hard enough to actually hurt.

"Stars forbid we have one nice moment. If you could just be nice for–" she's gesturing sharply until he catches her hand, kisses the back of it, quick and amiably. A gesture of apology for the words he'd just said, and the ones he knows he's going to say next.

"See? Already insufferable."

She laughs despite herself. It's nice, this. Fighting for fun. (There's a word for that. Flirting. But admitting to herself that that's what they're doing right now is one step too far for her, even now.) It's a struggle to pinpoint the last person who teased her, treated her like Leia, as opposed to Commander or Princess. She knows it was before, before– well, even Luke still has a hint of awe in his voice when he talks to her sometimes.

It's as close as she's gotten him to admit to caring about the Rebellion and she wants to savor this victory. And it shouldn't be a turn on. She's on a base literally filled with sentients who care so damn much they're ready to give their lives to the cause. But it is. Because everything right now feels warm and soft. Because it's him. Because maybe she likes her men like she likes her political revolts. Hard-won and more difficult than they should be.

If she's thinking about kissing him again, it's his fault. For having that stupidly beautiful smile, and directing it at her while admitting he cares about the cause, saying he likes the rebels in a way that really means he likes her. It's not fair. Who grins like that, warm and somehow indecent all at the same time.

So really she has to kiss him, if he's going to have that face.

And it's like he's been waiting every moment for the past three months for this. For it. Again. Like he needs to prove himself after last time when he'd just stood there dumbfounded. Without hesitating, his hand cups her jaw, guiding her closer.

It turns out Han kisses the same way he flies, the same way he argues with her, the same way he does everything in life. Focused and intense and just a little bit carelessly pleased with himself. It's just as impressive and infuriating as anything else he does. He's... unhurried. Less interested in conquering her and more simply exploring, mapping her unfamiliar constellations so he can navigate by them in the future.

She leans further into him, doubling down on her own boldness as if that's the way to somehow regain control of the situation.

He only responds with an arm around her waist, until their bodies are flush against each other. This got away from her so fast. It's dangerously close to something she can't take back, if she even wants to. She feels lightheaded and fuzzy on the exit points.

A loud crash out in the hallway, followed by the sound of glass breaking, shatters the spell between them. Outside, people laugh and carry on, like everything's still normal.

This time her this-is-a-bad-idea brain is slower to pipe up, struggles to gather enough righteous indignation to push him away. He doesn't look offended when she does, though. He looks about as far from offended as possible. "Sorry sweetheart, but I think this time you have to admit you kissed me."

"Don't worry, it won't happen again."

He doesn't look convinced. But then, she didn't sound convincing.

They go three weeks and two days without any more kissing incidents. Not that she's keeping track.

It's either very late or very, very early. If anyone ever asked, not that they did, she would say she spent so much time on the Falcon because it was warmer than the rest of the base, short of her hanging out down on the fuel reservoir level, warming her hands against one of the large fuel pipes that keeps the entire base running.

But everyone seemed to know better than to ask.

Han had spent the evening replacing a motivator in the Falcon's shield generators. She was there under the pretense of needing somewhere warm and relatively quiet, somewhere with an endless supply of kaff, to review reports. Except most of the night had been her sipping kaff while passing tools to Han and watching him work. Grease-stained white shirt with sleeves absentmindedly pushed up to the elbows. Bare feet.

Working on the Falcon is a physical undertaking; throughout the evening he's done everything from dangle half of his body into an open panel in the floor, to bury himself in the sea of wires and circuitry that live behind the main hold's command station. Over the years, she's heard him declare that his blood and sweat are what hold the Falcon together. But it's fascinating to watch the act, the ritual offering of himself to his ship's wellbeing, see for herself how his declaration is in no way metaphorical.

She's on her seventh dossier (and fourth mug of black kaff) when he sidles up to the table, wiping his hands with a deeply stained rag. "Don't you ever take a break, sweetheart?"

"The emperor's not taking breaks. Vader doesn't take breaks."

He plops down next to her on the bench, his body close enough she can feel its warmth. "And isn't that what separates them from us? How we value life and," he waves his hand vaguely. "–actually getting to live it?"

"I promise to live my life after they're dead, how's that for a compromise?"

A wry smile graces his face as if he doesn't want to disturb the quiet of the ship by laughing out loud. "And what about the next Vader? And the Vader after that Vader? And the–"

"Alright, I get it." She pushes her mug of kaff around the table with great interest before she finally answers. "Someone has to do it."

"But ya don't need to do it single-handed, Leia. What about what you want?" He adds before she can answer, "And I mean you. Not what the Rebellion wants."

Maybe there's not enough left of herself for herself. She remembers who she was like one remembers a distant relative you met only briefly as a child, at holidays and weddings. 'Leia Organa' is just an abstract concept to her, another chunk of rock and dust floating around what had been Alderaan's atmosphere. If your home, where all the experiences and memories that made you you, is no more, are you no more as well? If you can't go back home, can't find those places again, can you ever reunite with yourself? Or are you destined to wander the galaxy as Not Yourself, until you eventually become someone else. If so, she's still getting to know this someone else who shares her name, who has no one and nowhere to return to, whose anger always boils just beneath the surface, who hangs out with dangerous men on their smuggling ships in the middle of the night.

She doesn't– can't say any of this. So she settles for turning her attention to him. "You can't talk. You're up same as me, still working."

"Ah, that's different. I'm working on my baby," he reaches out to pat the hold's wall affectionately. "Which is never really work."

She's witnessed enough times when 'working on his baby' was mostly just cursing and hitting it, then cursing at Chewie, then Chewie cursing at him, to know that wasn't true. But it's too late for pesky things like facts and reality.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and unfamiliar. He determinedly stares in a direction that is not her's. "Hey, y'know how you keep kissing me?"

Kriff.

"No, I–"

"Because y'know, if it's just getting caught up in a moment. That's one thing. I mean, I get it." He gestures to his lean, stupid body that she will very shortly push into another trash compactor. Then he adds, because he can't help himself, "I know how irresistible this package can be."

He leans closer, now firmly in her space. Surely they had an unspoken pact to never speak of this, and here he is, blatantly speaking of it. "But if it's not. If you somewhere deep down actually like me–" He doesn't even have the decency to wait until they're in some heightened, life-or-death situation. Or drunk. He really thinks they're going to have this conversation politely, at the table, over cold kaff.

She cuts him off in the tone she learned from her mother, her I'm royalty and you're not tone. "Of course I like you. Don't–"

"You know that's not what I mean. Come on, Princess." If he'd had a fraction of her diplomatic training, he'd know the proper protocol was to dance around the topic for a couple more years without ever directly addressing it.

"I– I like how involved you've become. With the Rebellion." His jaw clenches in silent aggravation. Too bad. He won't let her lie her way out, fine, but he's not provoking her into some heartfelt confession. "You have! You run missions efficiently... most of the time. You're reliable. Riekeen can't stop singing your praises–"

"I'm not talking about being another dedicated soldier for your cause. You have Luke for that. What you're describing is Luke. Is that what you want?" The air of betrayal in his voice is only half-teasing.

"I do not!" Invoking Luke is out of bounds and he knows it.

"You want Luke, but you don't want to scare him off. So you're using me as a cheap substitute."

"That's absurd. Don't you think I'd be with Luke right now if I wanted him? I don't want Luke."

"Then prove it," he challenges. It's a stupid dare to get her to kiss him again, she gets that. But he doesn't actually think she'll do it, does he? He can't. Which would mean he'd be so surprised if she did actually kiss him. She could kiss him, quick and cold, to shut him up and wipe the smirk off his face. That's fine. That's just beating him at his own stupid game, right. She takes a moment to pride herself on her own strategic ingenuity, then presses forward.

Damnit.

Apparently, he did think she'd kiss him. His mouth meets hers easily, his lips slightly open and encouraging. It's like the last time they kissed, but more. More intense, more real. Sharper and in full color. Her ingenious strategy immediately forgotten, she leans into him, kissing back.

She should–

She moves her arm to better reach him, sink her fingers in his hair. In the process, she elbows her forgotten kaff mug. "Shit," he hisses under his breath. Han reaches and fails to catch the mug before it tips and spills across the table.

"Is kaff on all my files?"

"And getting into the dejarik table wiring. Great."

"If this table wasn't so damn small–"

Han's already turning his attention back to her, muttering, "Forget it, I'll clean it later."

"–and surrounded by junk–" she stretches and shoves a box of tools off the edge of the bench behind him. If they're being messy and destructive, might as well go all in.

He catches the handle of the toolbox before it can hit the ground, only to throw it across the room. "Are you seriously starting a fight right now?! We coul–" A loud clanging stops them as a rogue hydrospanner falls down an open panel, hitting something down there with a sickening thud. A second later, smoke drifts up from the panel. "Okay, that's definitely the hyperdrive."

"You just broke your hyperdrive?"

"I can fix it later!"

"It's on fire!"

"Barely!"

The reality of their ever more compromising situation hits her. The sudden absurdity of it. How will she explain to Riekeen, Mon, Luke for crying out loud, how she died in a fire on the Falcon, in the middle of the night. Or maybe they'll survive, evacuate out into the hangar looking disheveled and compromised, where she'll only be able to wish she was dead. Or maybe nothing more will happen than Luke will stroll aboard in the next moment, hiding out and warming up before his early shift. All possibilities feel equally catastrophic. "That's it, I'm out."

"Because of a tiny mechanical fire?!"

"That's not it." Leia struggles to extricate herself from the table, his arm, the mess of tools and exposed paneling. All of it. Finally, she storms towards the Falcon's gangplank. "You can't go five minutes without breaking something." Hyperdrives. Ships. Nice, peaceful moments they were having. Unspoken agreements to kiss sometimes and not ask each other follow-up questions about feelings. Their whole tenuous friendship. The list goes on.

"Oh come on. You're not as blameless as you like to imagine, Your High and Mightiness."

"Don't try to pull me down to your level."

"Is that– fine leave, before I dirty your royalness with my level and my fire."

"That's not what I meant!" It's impossible to articulate what precisely she did mean, though.

"Great! Come back when you know what you want."

"It won't be you!"

Tomorrow morning she'll pick up her kaff-stained reports. When she does, she'll call him captain and stare at the bridge of his nose rather than make any real eye contact. She'll pretend she can't see his expression oscillate between wounded and annoyed. Then she'll get back to work. And if she finds herself entertaining any more bad impulses when it comes to Han, she'll sternly remind herself that it only leads to destruction and doom. Literally.

In the meantime, she ignores the fact that to her rattled, tired mind, the smoke in her hair smells like starblossom fruit.

#scoundressaturdays #han x leia #fanfic #my fic #fanfiction

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

Note

As the self appointed coxswain of this garbage ship (shut up! It's a cool word, and I was always too tall to ever have a change of being one in real life. And it involves a lot of yelling. What's not to like?) we sail, I respectfully demand another Flynn/Lucy installment. Girl, you know those two aren't gonna tease each other like that forever. Something's gotta give...

part one of my shame, part two

It is April 17, 1912, and RMS Titanic has just docked safely in New York City, fresh off her maiden voyage – there were ice warnings, but thanks to a mysterious transmission sent on the night of the 14th, a transmission nobody can trace or even quite understand, the ship was compelled to change course and slow down. Its passengers, including some of the creme-de-la-creme of high society – John Jacob Astor, Benjamin Guggenheim, Isidor and Ida Straus, Cosmo Gordon Duff, Molly Brown, Dorothy Gibson, and more – have just disembarked, and the dockyards are busy. The day is pale and sunny. A huge crowd has gathered to marvel at the sleek black steamer, jewel of the White Star Line, smoke still huffing from its four funnels.

In a brownstone hotel a few steps off the New York Port Authority, in a dim back room suffused with the scent of cigarette smoke and Macassar hair oil, Lucy Preston says quietly, “What the hell did you do that for?”

Flynn gives her a twisted smile. “I can’t save lives now, instead of taking them?”

“Please.” Lucy suspects Astor and Guggenheim at least were (are) Rittenhouse, probably high-ups, and Flynn wants them alive so he can pump them for information, disrupt their projects, tap their extensive list of contacts – smoke the roaches out of the rushes. “This is like the Hindenburg, isn’t it? About perhaps who was supposed to go back on the return trip?”

Flynn lifts one shoulder in a magnificently contemptuous shrug. “Ah,” he says. “The Hindenburg. Beginning of such a beautiful relationship, wasn’t it?”

He does something with his eyes to her that makes her feel as if she’s not wearing anything, despite the silk dress and fur wrap and pinned hat. Lucy can feel her flush in her throat, closing off her breath. He doesn’t appear to bear an outstanding grudge against her for chaining him to a bed in 1787, though at least none of the Founding Fathers got capped in the ass that time, so –

“Tell me,” she says, “and I’ll leave.”

He grins. Even more darkly than last time.

“Make me.”

Lucy gives him a demure don’t you wish smile, even as she’s moving closer toward him, turning herself into his space, raising one gloved hand as if to flick a speck of dust off the shoulder of his pinstriped suit jacket. She reaches up and takes hold of the brim of his felt trilby, taking it off and setting it aside, even as his breath catches rather satisfyingly. Femme fatale isn’t a role she plays naturally, but it comes to her as easily as sliding a knife between his ribs. Leans very close and breathes, “We both know I could make you.”

“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.” This appears to delight him inordinately, even as he swings her around and pins her to the wall, the length of his body pressing against hers, knee between her legs. As if this is what he has been waiting for since the moment he got hold of her journal (however he did) and thought they were destined to do great things together. “Taken you long enough, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, you’re mistaken.” Lucy thumbs the dark stubble on his chin. “I want something. Give it to me.”

“And what do you want, exactly?”

She leans still closer. Breathes against his cheek. “Information.”

“I think it’s more than that now, isn’t it?”

She opens her mouth to say no, because what else would she say? Sensibly say? Third time’s the charm – and this, no, this has already gone far enough. There’s no point in distracting him this time, no tactical advantage to a delay. He’s not here to kill someone (at least, yet) like he was in 1929 and 1787. This, therefore. This is just about wanting. No good excuse.

Maybe this will stop it. Maybe this will turn it off.

Lucy is about to say something else. Probably important. She doesn’t get that far, because Flynn kisses her.

It’s rough, hungry, demanding, brusque, dangerous, uncontrolled – all, in fact, rather like the man himself. As if this is the long, slow-burning spark she lit when she kissed him the first time (which technically will not happen for another seventeen years – welcome to time travel) in New Orleans. As if they’ve danced and darted around each other long enough, and now this is this, that is that, and he’s completely through with waiting.

They take half a breath, and then turn their heads and go after each other ferociously again, stumbling down the narrow hall and crashing through a door into a small smoking lounge beyond – chaise longue upholstered in slightly moth-eaten green velvet, blown-glass lamps, dim in half-closed curtains. Flynn kicks the door shut and throws a heavy andiron after it; he’s clearly not about to risk any interruptions. Lucy is completely breathless, hair coming out of its elegant pinned updo, as they are barely able to tear themselves apart long enough for him to wrench his belt undone with one hand, as she kicks up her skirts. She sinks back onto the chaise as he comes down with her, as their mouths are bruised from kissing too hard to breathe, hands all over, gripping, yanking, pulling. He bears her backwards, bunching a fistful of skirt, finding his way to the old-time underwear and efficiently getting it out of the way, as Lucy kicks it off her foot. Then in half a breath more, she’s on her back on the chaise, legs akimbo, and he kneels between them, doesn’t even bother to get his trousers the rest of the way off, and thrusts half-violently into her.

Lucy’s breath is punched back into her throat as he leans forward, bracing himself on his elbows, pushing her hips wider with his own as he slides deeper, as she jerks up her head and he practically bites her lips off, tongue prodding into her mouth and muffling her whispered, “Jesus.” He is solid and hot and very hard, and he fills her just to that point of sweet burning, as he did before. She clutches hard around him, spasming, as he draws out half an inch and then plunges back, their entangled bodies making slick wet soft sounds, as he comes to rest hilt-deep inside her, bites her shoulder, and both of them buck half up off the chaise. He gives her a moment, but only that. Then he starts to move.

He fucks her in compact, powerful, rutting bursts, square and savage, with an extra twist of his hips at the end to be sure he’s hitting her as deep as he possibly can. She claws at his back, his straining shoulders, one hand on his dark head, as the carved feet of the chaise thump and crash against the floor with the force of their motion. He drags himself against her, with absolutely insolent thoroughness, then buries once more, as Lucy can barely stand the heat and friction and harder-burning drive of it. He rasps slickly against her. Doesn’t quit or pull back a single one of them. One leg links around his back, and the other struggles to dig for purchase, to anchor her to the world. She seems to have somehow lost her hold altogether.

At last, Flynn gives a final jerk and shove, and Lucy feels herself about to be dragged over, then free-falling, as her world goes white and hot and melted and there’s a thousand exploding suns in her belly and her breast and her brain and every other bit of her. She claws and clings and swears. Burns.

She comes back to earth slowly, breathing as if she’s been chased by a train, to see him staring down at her as if he’s trying to memorize her face, how she looked just then, to keep it in whatever tarnished jewel-box of memories he holds away from the rest of his darkness. She just lies there, gasping, until at last, slowly, they disentangle themselves. She sits up, fumbling herself back into place. She is slick and raw and very well-fucked. She can still feel it echoing through every sinew of her.

“Tell me,” she says again, after a momentary struggle to make the words work. “What you’re doing.”

He shrugs. As if to say he has no secrets from her, never has. Has always been completely open about what he intends to do, and what he hopes for her. “You know what I’m doing, Lucy.”

She does, at that. She thinks of the fact that even with every ulterior motive in the world, Flynn has saved over two thousand lives – everyone who was supposed to die on the Titanic, and didn’t. All the children they will have, the grandchildren, who would never otherwise have been born – the things they will do, see, invent, experience. The change to history is beyond comprehension.

And yet. Insisting that they die, that things go back to one way they happened to play out, out of all the countless thousands of possibilities – doesn’t that make her the monster?

They’ve chased Flynn all this time to stop him from hurting people. What the hell does she do with this now, instead? Where does she even begin to work it out? She is facing the utterly unknown, uncharted, unfathomable. Remembers her insistence that Lincoln had to die, it was how it had to be, and Rufus and Wyatt’s incredulity that they just had to sit back and let it. And when push came to shove, when it was in front of her –

She looks over at the man who shot Lincoln, and gets to her feet, letting her skirts fall. Shaky-legged and watery-kneed, needs to steady herself on the chaise. “You know,” she says, half in a whisper. “You know we won’t let you. No matter what.”

He seems amused. Not in the least surprised. “Oh, of course,” he says, getting to his feet, and pulling his trousers up, doing up his belt. “But not for much longer. You’re going to join me soon, Lucy. Trust me.”

And with that, he actually leans over and kisses her cheek, half-genuinely-affectionately, as if he’s going to pick up milk from the store and wants to know if she needs anything while he’s out. Pulls on his jacket, straightens his cravat. As she stands there, shaken and silent and still undone to the flesh, the blood, the bone, he lets himself out, closes the door behind him, and is gone.

#lucy x flynn #garcy #you are all enablers #all of you i say #prairiepirate #ask #the trash saga of flynn and lucy #garcy ff

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