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fics-and-quotes-andthelike · 2 months

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A Dance in Death

Title: A Dance in Death

Pairing: Alastor x fem!reader

Word Count: ~3,927

In which Alastor takes the reader out to Mimzy’s club. Things go sideways much too soon, but the Radio Demon is quick to make amends.

A/N: Part 2 of sorts to my Never and Always series. Hope you enjoy!

Part 1, Part 3

Mimzy’s speakeasy was most known for three things.

One, it was known for its captivating acts and performances. Demons and sinners from all around Pentagram City had heard stories and whispers about what could be experienced there. Two, it was known for being one of the most lively and entertaining places on this side of Hell. And three, it was known for being on the wrong side of town, making it the perfect place for no-good demons to spend their time and even do discrete business, so long as they paid their dues to Mimzy, of course.

That last point probably should have kept you away from this place. But you couldn’t help but feel safe knowing that you had come on the arm of the Radio Demon himself. After all, who would dare approach you with Alastor around?

Nobody, as it turned out. You and Alastor had been sitting in a corner booth for almost an hour now, and nobody had dared to come within ten feet of you, save for one unfortunate server who had graciously provided you both with your drinks before scurrying off and hiding, not coming back even once.

And although you enjoyed any time that you got to spend alone with Alastor, you couldn’t help but notice that the two of you were both on edge that night.

You, on one hand, simply wanted to dance. It wasn’t often that you were able to go to bars or speakeasies, and you would have loved nothing more than to lead the demon across from you on to the dancefloor. But you knew better than that. Alastor’s interest in you came with limits that you hadn’t yet discovered, but you’d be double-damned if you were going to find them out tonight.

Although you had to admit, as you gazed out longingly at the dancing demons on the floor, that you wouldn’t mind at least trying to share a drink and a conversation with your partner. But that wouldn’t happen until Mimzy finally decided to saunter over to your table.

Which led you to the reason for Alastor’s impatience.

The whole reason that he had invited you out tonight was because Mimzy had requested an audience with him at her place of business. To discuss what, you weren’t sure, but you knew that the Radio Demon hated to be kept waiting.

His impatience was starting to become evident, though it was likely that nobody around you noticed anything amiss. You, however, had become well versed in reading Alastor’s silent cues.

He had yet to touch his drink, though his clawed hand was firmly wrapped around the glass. He was surveying the building with apparent disinterest, but you could see the way that his sharp gaze roamed over each and every other demon and sinner present. You could see tension in the corners of his ever present smile, even though his eyes were hooded in an expression of mild boredom.

As you downed the last drops of your drink, you risked a glance over to Alastor once again. You had wanted to strike up a conversation since you had stepped foot through the door, but hadn’t wanted to distract him from his thoughts. But when his grip around the glass tightened once again, your internal war finally ended. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to have him suddenly lose his composure and bring the whole place to the ground.

You cleared your throat lightly as you placed your glass back down on the table. You received Alastor’s attention immediately, his eyes darting over to yours. “Yes, my dear?”

You smiled back at him. “Mimzy has a lot of nerve hyping this place up when it has such terrible customer service, doesn’t she?”

With no small amount of satisfaction, you noticed Alastor’s smile ease into something that almost resembled kind amusement. “Indeed,” Alastor hummed. “Though I must say, her choice in song is quite enjoyable.”

You shrugged, looking back at the dance floor. “It’s fine to dance to, I suppose. Not so much fun when you’re stuck sitting and waiting for someone to show up.”

There was no response. You returned your gaze to Alastor to see him looking at you almost curiously. “I wasn’t aware that you were one for dancing, my dear.”

A laugh bubbled up and pushed its way through your lips before you could stop it. You pressed your fingers to your lips to try and conceal it as Alastor tilted his head at you in confused interest.

At the sound of your laughter, his shadow suddenly perked up, quickly making its way over and sitting beside you.

When your giggle had finally subsided, you opened your mouth to respond to Alastor’s comment. It wasn’t completely his fault that he knew so little about your past life, after all, but you hadn’t expected that he, of all people, would make such blatant assumptions.

Before you could get a word out, though, the shadow placed a clawed hand under your chin, tilting your head to face it. Its fingers wandered until they reached the base of your throat before gently clawing their way back up, almost as if trying to coax another laugh out of you through touch alone.

It was so much more intimate than you had thought Alastor was capable of.

But then Alastor waved a hand in the air, summoning his shadow back to his side. It obeyed almost immediately, caressing your throat once more before melting back into the floor and returning to its rightful place.

You cleared your throat again, this time in an attempt to fight the red spots on your cheeks. Not that their presence had escaped Alastor’s notice. His smile had widened dramatically, though thankfully, he chose not to comment on the interaction, instead waiting for a response to his earlier comment.

“I do dance,” you finally replied, looking back up at the Overlord. “I used to dance plenty before…well, you know,” you said with a small grin. “I died.”

Alastor waved away your comment with a flourish. “Ah, yes, I do see how such a thing could impede on your abilities for a moment. Though, if I’m not mistaken, you now have two perfectly functioning legs.”

“But I haven’t been to a club since before I died. And there’s not much opportunity to show off my moves at the hotel,” you replied with a shrug. You tilted your head at the demon. “And you? Do you dance?”

The Overlord smiled wistfully. “Oh yes, I was quite known for my dancing abilities back in the land of the living.”

“I thought you were known for being a mass murdering radio host.”

Alastor shrugged, giving you a devious grin. “I’ve always been multitalented, my dear.”

You laughed again, this time trying to ignore the eager look you received from both Alastor and his shadow.

“You know,” you said slyly once you had calmed yourself, looking down at your empty glass. “I wouldn’t mind brushing up on my skills tonight after your meeting.” You looked up innocently, meeting Alastor’s eyes. “If you haven’t lost your impeccable skills, that is.”

The demon’s eyes flashed. “Careful, mon chere. I-”

“Alastor! How’re you doing, doll?”

You whipped your head around at the sound of the new voice. You stared as a short, blonde woman made her way across the floor, arms raised in welcome and a broad smile on her face.

Alastor, on the other hand, didn’t seem at all bothered as he greeted the woman. “Mimzy, dear,” he drawled, turning away from you. His smile stretched unnaturally. “You are extraordinarily late.”

The woman- Mimzy- waved her hand in indifference. “I’m busy running a business, Al, you know how it is. Can’t eva get anyone to do what you want without a bit of prodding.”

Her gaze slid over to you, eyes widening as her smile grew. “Say, Alastor, did you bring me a new toy?” Her eyes roamed over you slowly. “She’s a little dull, but I can spruce her right up.”

You suddenly felt very exposed.

You recoiled slightly, attempting to keep your movements unnoticeable as you pressed yourself further into the booth to get away from the Mimzy’s prying eyes.

You tried not to notice the way that other demons and sinners had begun to glance over at the sudden appearance of the bar’s owner. They aren’t looking at you, you told yourself. But you couldn’t help but take in Mimzy’s confident appearance and attitude, coupled with Alastor’s calm poise. You could see how the Mimzy could have mistaken you for one of Alastor’s wayward souls.

Almost as if it could sense your discomfort, Alastor’s shadow suddenly reared up and placed itself directly in front of you, blocking you from Mimzy’s line of sight.

“Unfortunately, Mimzy dear,” Alastor said from opposite you, though he avoided looking in your direction. “Charlie has grown quite attached to her little friend, and I doubt she would be thrilled to discover that I had allowed her to become a part of your…”

“Productions,” you piped up. Alastor’s shadow looked back at you in delight before shifting through the air to sit beside you once again.

“Precisely,” Alastor said.

Mimzy only shrugged, giving you a wink. “Well, I’m here if you change your mind, hun.”

She turned back to Alastor. “Let’s you and me talk for a bit, huh? I know this sorta thing ain’t really your cup of tea. I’ve got a room in the back that we can use. Your little doll will be alright on her own for a while, won’t she?”

At her words, Alastor finally turned to face you once again, his eyes roaming over your face for only a moment before he stood. “Of course. I never would have brought her otherwise.”

With that, he made to follow Mimzy without so much as a glance back in your direction. A move that he had made on purpose, you were sure. After all, it simply wouldn’t do to have others believe that the Radio Demon actually cared for someone.

Even so, you couldn’t help but sigh in disappointment as the two sinners walked away. From beside you, in the dim light that the club so generously provided, Alastor’s shadow placed its hand on yours comfortingly. You turned to face it with a smile. “At least I still have you.”

The shadow grinned, using its other hand to gently cradle your cheek, pulling you closer until your foreheads met. You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling as your heart grew light. The shadow might not have been Alastor himself, but you had learned enough to know that it was heavily influenced by Alastor’s own thoughts, feelings, and commands. This was as close to affectionate that he would ever be with you.

Suddenly, the shadow’s touch left you.

You opened your eyes to see that it was nowhere to be seen.

“My, my,” a voice said from behind you. You jerked forward in surprise, spinning around to see a tall, winged imp casually leaning against the booth. He definitely hadn’t been in the building a few minutes ago, you noted.

The imp leaned forward. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

You flushed, glancing around to see if you could catch a glimpse of Alastor’s shadow. But it was as if it had never been beside you in the first place. Which would explain why the imp had decided to approach you at all. Nobody would have dared spoken to you if they knew that you were here with an Overlord.

You opened your mouth to tell him as much before you caught yourself, clamping your mouth shut. No matter how well Alastor’s conversation went with Mimzy, it was likely that he never would have danced with you anyway. There were too many eyes and ears here for him to let his guard down.

“You here alone?” the imp asked, trying his luck once more.

You fixed a smile on your face. If this was your only chance to dance, you were sure as Hell going to take it.

You stood, extending your hand in greeting. “Would you like to dance?”

The imp’s flirtatious smile changed to one of intrigue. “Straight to the point. I like it.”

You wiggled your fingers. “Are we going to dance, or what?”

The imp grinned, taking your hand and leading you on to the dance floor.

Sure, it wasn’t exactly what you were hoping for when you and Alastor had come to Mimzy’s club, but you figured that it would at least be a decent substitute for something that you would never be able to have.

You felt your smile slipping as the pair of you began to move to the music.

You hated moments like these, when you realized that no matter what you did or how you felt, you would never be able to show your feelings for Alastor in public. It wasn’t just the fact that he disliked physical touch, which you had never faulted him for. It was the fact that as one of Hell’s most powerful Overlords, he felt the overwhelming need to keep up an appearance. One that did not, unfortunately, include you.

A gentle touch snapped you back to reality. “You alright?” the imp asked.

No, you weren’t. But you weren’t going to let that stop you from dancing.

You nodded, taking the imp’s hand in yours as you began to move to the music once again. “I’m fine.” You smirked. “Now, show me what you’ve got.”

~~~

If you were to later ask anyone at Mimzy’s speakeasy what had happened that night, you would probably receive a whole mix of stories.

Some would say that the Radio Demon had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, his antlers growing and his bones cracking as he laid waste to the bar, presumably for fun or out of an unjust anger.

Others would say that he had come to seek some sort of revenge on a winged imp that had been spotted dancing before he suddenly disappeared, not to be seen again.

One specific witness, who shall remain nameless, would say that she had been speaking to an old friend about a business opportunity that he had foolishly taken no interest in. As she was speaking, a shadow had entered the room, whispering in its owner's ear. Her old friend had walked away from her, re-entering her bar, where he was met with the view of an imp dancing with the very woman that he had brought here in the first place.

The witness hadn’t even had time to blink before her friend had taken on his true demon form, batting people aside as if they were only flies before promptly picking up the imp dancing with the woman and melting into the shadows with him.

When her friend returned, he refused to say what he had done with the poor imp, though the witness had no trouble making a few assumptions. He had walked over to the women, gently taken her hand, and gave the witness a clipped farewell before vanishing with the women into the shadows.

It was a brutal display, even for the Radio Demon. If the witness had to guess, she would assume that perhaps the woman had something to do with the whole debacle.

Not that she would ever say so to anyone else, of course. She knew better.

You, however, had no trouble saying straight to Alastor’s face what you believed had happened.

“We were dancing, Al. It was harmless. If I’d needed your help, you would have known.”

“You would never have summoned me if he was threatening you, my dear.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. The two of you had been going back and forth like this ever since he had so graciously brought you back to the hotel from Mimzy’s bar.

You lifted your head and took a breath before continuing. “If he was threatening me, we probably wouldn’t have been just dancing.”

Alastor’s eyes flashed dangerously, his shadow rearing up and scowling in disgust.

You whirled around and pointed at the shadow. “And you. You went and told him that something bad was happening, didn’t you? You are a liar and a rat, my friend.”

At your words, the shadow suddenly shrank down in size and hid behind its owner, almost as if trying to avoid your accusatory glare.

Alastor, on the other hand, didn’t break eye contact. “He only meant to protect you, my dear, the way he was instructed to.”

“What did you think I would need protecting from, exactly? I can’t exactly die again, can I?”

“There are things far worse than a second death, my dear,” Alastor said with false sweetness.

He was right, you knew. You had almost been subjected to such a thing after your death, when you had sold your soul to the Vees. You still weren’t sure exactly how it had happened, but Alastor himself had found out about you and somehow saved you from a life of imprisonment and torture.

Not everyone was as lucky as you were.

But that wasn’t why you were upset.

As soon as Alastor had saved you from the Vees, you had been determined to help him even a fraction of the way that he had helped you. You owed him so much more than that, you knew, but it was the only thing that you could give. And so, from that moment forward, you had tried your very best to become a solid and stable presence for Alastor, unmoving in your trust in him and, hopefully, eventually something like a friend.

But tonight, you had done the exact opposite. To see the Radio Demon defend you was to know that he felt things like affection, or even something more than indifference. That wouldn’t do for his reputation at all, you knew, and you hated yourself for being the cause of it.

You sighed in defeat, crossing your arms over your chest in defense. “I know that,” you said, holding your position and glaring daggers at the Overlord. “But I also know that you risked a lot today by protecting me. I’m not worth losing your power over-”

You gasped as Alastor appeared directly in front of you, glaring intensely. He didn’t lift a finger, but you swore you could feel the heat of his gaze.

“I do hope you haven’t finally started to doubt me, my dear.”

“Never,” you promised, searching his gaze.

The Overlord stepped back, his stretched out smile immediately concealing his true feelings. “Wonderful,” he said. “Then we both understand that my power and status will forever remain.”

You nodded once before finally breaking eye contact, choosing to look down at the floor.

You could feel the anger seeping out of you slowly, replaced by embarrassment. Of course Alastor would never give up his power for you. Even if someone had truly seen the incident, it was unlikely that anyone would ever be able to use it to their advantage. You were talking about the Radio Demon himself, after all.

“You’re right,” you muttered, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. “I made a foolish assumption.” You smiled to yourself. “I seem to be full of those today. I’m sorry.”

You were met with silence.

But before you could look up, you suddenly felt the cool touch of a shadow. It rested its hands against your cheeks, tilting your head up to make eye contact. It moved its thumbs in slow circles, leaning down until your foreheads were touching. It didn’t move any closer than that, but you knew that this was more than anyone else had ever received.

It was lovely.

But oh, how you wished it were really him.

The shadow stepped back, returning to its place beside its owner.

Alastor himself acted as though he hadn’t noticed the interaction at all, instead looking around your room as if seeing it for the first time.

“I do plan to maintain my powers, my dear,” Alastor repeated.

Before you could even open your mouth to reply, he pushed forward. “Although,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “I certainly wouldn’t mind losing a few souls to keep what is most certainly mine.”

He looked towards you then, his gaze hard, as if daring you to argue.

And you should have. You should have told him that you weren’t worth losing souls for. You should have told him that you only wanted to help him, never hinder him.

You should have done lots of things.

What you did do, however, was smile and duck your head to hide your rising blush.

You looked back up and extended your hand wordlessly.

Alastor looked down at it before glancing back up at you, his eyebrow raised in a silent question as his shadow looked on eagerly from behind him.

Your smile only widened. “I believe, good sir, that you owe me a dance.”

The shadow nearly leapt with excitement, rushing forward and taking your hand.

You laughed at its enthusiasm before Alastor stepped forward and waved his hand, whisking the shadow away and taking its place.

He placed his hand under yours, bringing your hand up to place a soft kiss on the back of your knuckles before releasing you and straightening. Slowly, he brought his claws to the base of your throat before gently dragging them back up until he reached your chin. He tilted your face up further to meet his gaze before dropping his hand down to yours once more.

With his other hand, he waved his staff, summoning a slow dance tune that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

You tried to ignore the heat in your cheeks and looked up curiously. “Didn’t you used to dance to songs that were a bit more lively?”

Alastor smiled gently down at you before summoning his shadow and surrendering his staff to it. “I did indeed, mon chere. But we aren’t exactly alive now, are we?”

You smiled back in agreement. “No, I suppose we’re not.”

You placed your hand on his shoulder as he placed his hand on your waist. He lowered his head down until your foreheads were touching and began swaying, taking you with him on his slow trek around your bedroom floor.

You couldn’t have asked for anything more.

~~~

If you asked anyone at the hotel what had happened in your room that night, you would receive a few different stories.

Angel Dust would have told you that the Radio Demon had suckered a poor woman into going out with him that night, and you were most likely getting it on.

Charlie would have told you that she hadn’t seen either Alastor or the hotel’s newest resident all evening, though she doubted that the two of you had gone off somewhere together. Right?

Husk would have told you that he felt sorry for the woman who had gotten caught in the Radio Demon’s line of sight. You were such a sweet thing, and you deserved so much better.

You would have simply smiled and shrugged, giving nothing away.

Nobody would have dared ask the Radio Demon, of course.

But if anyone had bothered to ask the shadows, they would have received a rather lovely story about two sinners who had found their peace, only for a moment, dancing in each other’s arms that night.

An Overlord and a sinner.

A woman and a man.

Two damned souls, finding home at last.

A/N 2: I didn’t get to proofread, but I hope you guys still enjoyed it! If you read the first fic (or even if you haven’t), I’m thinking of making another part where it’s platonic Angel Dust x reader and he finally gets to give her a makeover. Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Also, I want to write more Alastor x reader (maybe a continuation of sorts, maybe not) so let me know if you guys want to be tagged in those!

Taglist: @severusminerva @anh4125 @midorichoco @rapturenyx-blog @maybememoriesx

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tadpolesonalgae · 5 days

Text

before the corn grows.

Batboys x depressive!reader

a/n: oh my gosh this was so therapeutic—also, I was unsure whether to include people on the az taglist in this fic since it’s technically a poly fic? Sorry if you didn’t want to be included in this, I wasn’t sure about it :/

As always, thank you for the request, anon <3!

warnings: mentions of self-inflicted violence, fluff, I think this is technically hurt/comfort?

word count: 2,766

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Judgemental prick.”

“I don’t think I said anything.”

“You didn’t have to. It was written all over your face.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cassian scowls, stirring in the fifth spoonful of sugar. “For the Spymaster, you were practically yelling it across the table. It’s the small things in life—I’ll enjoy some damn sugar in my tea if I want to.”

Azriel shifts in his seat, powerful arms folded over a broad chest, thighs spread as he relaxes into the seat. “There was nothing small about the amount you just put in,” he replies, smirking. “Just looking out for your health.”

“You look after yours and I’ll look after mine,” the General mutters, brows tightening at the cocky smirk on his brother’s mouth. Matching hazel eyes glint with sinister mirth that Cassian decides to ignore for today, raising the mug to his lips and drinking deeply.

He jerks violently, spraying the bitter liquid across the table, making Az recoil. “It’s salty?” He glares at his brother, who’s now grimacing at the smattering of tea that’s been spat in his direction. “I told you I was looking out for your health,” he mutters, reaching for the kitchen roll.

The General grabs it first, snatching the roll away, dabbing at his mouth and tongue before Azriel is leaning across the table, grappling at Cassian’s arm to try and pry it from his thick fingers. “Let go you prick, I’m the one who has that concoction on my tongue,” the General snaps gruffly. “And I’ve got your saliva all over my leathers. Hand it over.”

“Oh I’m sorry, did I ruin your pretty clothes? Is your vanity hurt?”

“Piss off, bastard,” Azriel snaps. “You should have paid more attention to what you were spooning into your drink.”

The door swings open and the third brother walks in, violet eyes visibly worried, fingers preoccupied with straightening the pristine cuff of his sleeves. Freshly polished shoes pause in their place, surveying the chaos that’s unfolded upon the kitchen table. The two pull apart, sobered by Rhys’s strained look, at once on guard.

“Where are you going?” Cassian asks, noting the fine but not flashy dress of the High Lord—clean but casual. “Have you seen her recently?” Rhys asks, and they both stiffen, shaking their heads. Hazel eyes glance at one another across the table, before returning to anxious violet, in time to catch him running a hand through his hair.

“She’d been focusing on getting orders done in time for solstice presents,” Azriel offers solemnly, “it’s when the most work comes in, so she’ll be resting now.”

“I’m going to check on her,” Rhysand announces, and neither of the Illyrians object. Not a word needs to be spoken to know the High Lord will relay whatever news there is to the two of them the second he learns it.

Then in a whisper of darkness, he vanishes.

————

The door had been locked, but it hadn’t been an issue.

The issue was the stagnant air in her house. The issue was the moulding bread in the kitchen. The issue was the dirty clothes scattered across her bedroom floor.

The issue was, she looked like she hadn’t gotten out of bed for a week straight, hair knotted and oily, skin lacking the warmth of life, eyes numb and unfocused.

He braces himself to deal with her, then lands three quiet knocks to her open bedroom door—letting her know he’s here. Blankets curl tighter, being pulled over her head, wrapping into a tight ball that shudders and sobs almost silently. He can hear the gasping inhales, the wet snivels as she tries to hide away.

He knew something had been amiss.

“Lovely,” he calls softly, the name like heated cotton against clean skin. “How long have you been sleeping for?”

————

You curl tighter, feeling the bed dip, the shape of a large, warm palm settling over your shoulder.

“Go away,” you manage numbly, throat raw, sinuses hurting. “I’m tired. Leave me alone.” Limbs wrap tighter, trying to pull yourself together for him. Simultaneously wanting to scream at him to get out, to hit and lash at him, wanting to melt into his arms. Yet the raging instincts rise, and rise, and repeatedly fall short, losing their momentum and disintegrating into silence. Your clothes are stiff and sticky, glued to your body with sweat and salt, and you hate you hate you hate everything so much that it has to be pushed away. Folded up neatly into a box and just pushed away.

Fingers latch over the duvet, prying it from your grip with startling ease, hands too weak to do much against him, stomach aching with nausea. Light cracks into your vision, and you attempt to hide from him, conceal the gleaming spit and snot across your upper lip and chin, hide the puffiness of your eyes and the knotted mess of your hair—damp from tears that had been shed what feels like hours ago.

“What’s wrong…?” He asks softly, knuckles brushing the rat-tailed hair from your forehead, pushing it away so it’s no longer being coated in saliva and mucus and tears. “Talk to me, please,” he whispers, making to pull you up.

Sobs wrack your chest, slamming into you with violent force, wet breaths gasping from cracked lips as you heave with despair, uncontrollable spasms seizing your lungs as a fresh wave wrecks through you. He can feel you shaking your head, wet palms trying to dry freshly tearful eyes, hot water dripping heavily onto his shirt as you try to stop.

“Please…” you croak out, stumbling over the word, interrupted by stuttering breaths. “Leave me…go…”

“I’m not leaving you like this,” he whispers tenderly, pushing wet hair behind a pointed ear. But you shake your head again, crying harder, and his heart fumbles in his chest, aching sharply.

“I don’t…go away,” you moan shakily, head lowered against his shoulder. “I don’t want you here.” Lips are weighed in viscous saliva, turning them soft and slimy, making it hard to speak. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, arm wrapping over your back, power sliding for the window to flick the latch open—get some fresh air circling the space.

“I don’t…I don’t want you here!” You cry sharply, trying to wriggle out of his hold, struggling to return to your grave-like bed. To dive into the thick and smelly sheets that’ll get tangled with your limbs. “Lovely,” he says quietly, “hold still.”

Your body shudders to a gradual stop, shins and upper arms burning with the movement, left raw and unhealed from the lack of energy. Breathing stutters as you try to back away from hyperventilating, trying to calm your lungs, but the airways continue to spasm.

His broad palm pushes the stray locks of hair away, still saturated with salty tears that clump at the ends, scraggly and messy and smelly and damp and cold and…you try to pull away from him, feeling disgusting for getting him dirty. He’s so clean and tidy, and smelling so nice, like freshly washed sheets and crisp morning air. He shouldn’t be in your room.

You can hear the stuttering pulse of his heart, the only give to his emotions and one you’re only able to discern because he doesn’t think to hide it from you. He strokes your hair soothingly, goading you to calm, to resign yourself into his care so he can look after you.

“I’m tired,” you manage, chest shuddering with stammering breaths.

“Then rest,” he whispers, “but let us be with you.”

“No…” You shake your head, brows scrunching as your lungs begin to flutter and he holds you just that little bit tighter. It’s bad enough that he’s seeing you like this, it can’t be the others too. “Rhys…”

“Let’s get you cleaned up, first,” he murmurs, pulling away and cupping your jaw, violet meeting your gaze, “okay?” Your lower lip wobbles, fresh tears spilling as you grip just that little bit tighter, at last falling into him, if only because you lack the energy to stave off anything else. Far too tired to protest.

————

It had been so much worse than he had been anticipating, and a small part of him recoiled with sorrow when wrapping her shins in bandages, carefully applying a numbing balm to her upper arms to ease with movement.

He hadn’t realised…he hadn’t seen the signs… Even looking back on the weeks leading up to Starfall, he can’t find anything out of order. She’d been as peaceful as usual, as calm and reserved as normal, preparing for the influx of projects, almost anticipating them, desiring things to preoccupy her mind with, perhaps.

He feels wretched and useless, only able to scramble after the remnants of the storm. Desperately trying to find pieces of what he’d known in the wreckage of a war. Her eyes stay vacant, though not as foggy as when he’d first found her.

A bath had been too painful, so he’d used his hands to clean off the grime, only a flannel, soap, and a warm bucket of water at his disposal. He can only hope that once she’s fed, her body will begin its reconstruction, stitching together the thin slices, healing over scars so she doesn’t have to be reminded of it. Though he wonders if that’s an appealing aspect rather than a detestable one.

He’s proud of his own scars, memories stored away within his skin, stories contained within the tissue of battles long past. A map of his history placed into the grain of his body. He wonders if it’s at all comparable—how she starves herself so the cuts might set, so she will be able to look back at what she’s gotten through. A token of some kind for surviving. To know that while it’s all inside her own head, none of its meaning is detracted.

Pain is still pain, no matter where it comes from.

————

You’d tried so desperately to pull yourself together. To keep those haunting beats of emotion kept wrapped up in ribbons and bows, so it would be less inclined to leap out if stored comfortably.

Had tried to sit on the box to keep it from bursting open, so you wouldn’t have to bear that vulnerability. You’d rather stick yourself with knives that try to articulate what can only exist in the blood of your veins and the screaming caves of your mind. The echoes that repeat until painful instructions are being mumbled upon your numb lips, hardly unaware of the order to cut, cut, cut.

Had managed for the most part to section them off, until he’d finished tucking you into a spare bed, and his lips had brushed your cheek.

Then some tears had again dripped out, but he’d thumbed those away tenderly, never becoming fed up on the nonstop trickle.

You could hardly manage to look at him, not ready to face that reality yet. Then he’d told you he would be finding you a meal, and that you should eat as much as you felt capable of, but that you should try. And then he had pressed another light kiss to your cheek, swifter than the last, not giving you time to comprehend it, helping keep the tears to a minimum.

A large part of you is relieved, a great weight raised and wiped from your shoulders now your skin is clean again, now your hair is no longer sticking to your scalp but smelling fresh and healthy. Relieved you can again feel your circulation up and running, having gotten too used to the freezing tips of your fingers and toes, the cold numbness that had overtaken your shins and arms as your body tried to spool in the blood to your torso.

A knock sounds at the door, and you lift your head to spot hazel eyes watching you, concerned, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. He sees the reaction, and sighs, opening the door a little wider so he can walk inside.

“Does Rhys know you’re here, Cassian?” You ask, a sad smile on your lips as you incline your head to look up at him, stood beside your bed. Before he can answer though, you here a derisive snort coming softly from the hallway, and a tender warmth unfurls in your chest, throat aching a little with emotion. “Az, you too?”

A figure wreathed in shadow steps guiltily into the empty doorframe, one hand resting on the wooden beam as if he might leave.

You swallow thickly, shifting comfortably beneath the crisp sheets, liking how they rustle with the movement, scraping against bare and clean skin, even if it hurts a little. “Did… Has Rhys told you…?”

Cassian watches you silently, an anguished look on his features, but Azriel pauses, then nods his head solemnly.

Your lips press together into a thin line, unsure what to say if they already know. There’s no use in lying then, or trying to get out of it. Not without causing more concern. So you allow your shoulders to slump, resting back into the pillows. “I don’t really know how it happened,” you admit quietly, peering into your lap. “I just…I guess it had been building up for a while.” Your eyes shut briefly, hands rising to cover your face, rubbling lightly at your brows before falling away again, “I didn’t even know I was in it until I was out of it.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to explain anything,” Cassian says thickly, hand hesitantly settling over your shoulder, thumb stroking in slow, careful motions, ready to pull away if you don’t want the touch. But your lower lip wobbles, head dipping a little, before leaning into the gentle feel, the broad, reassuring warmth of his palm, the callouses rasping against your scrubbed-soft skin.

“We wanted to make sure you were okay,” Az murmurs, closer than he should sound from the doorway, but then you feel the slightly cool breath of his shadows curling against your cheek, and a tear drips down your face. You nod. “I’m fine,” you rasp, voice thick, clogged with emotion, “now. I’m fine now.”

“Are you…” Azriel begins, trailing off when you glance at him questioningly, his heart aching when you turn your gaze to him, the small cuts peeking out from atop the duvet. Cassian takes up the lead, thumb still gently sweeping over your shoulder. “We want to hold you. Will you let us?”

Your lower lip wobbles, eyes growing hot and wet at the simple ask, somehow knowing exactly what you’re too afraid and embarrassed to ask for. “Yes…” you manage, voice small and quiet.

Neither of them comment on it, moving with swift certainty, collecting at your sides as their wings reorganise at their backs. It’s a rare sight to see them in anything other than their leathers, but the soft fabric is welcomed as they settle, the pale linen thin enough for you to feel heat through it, to almost be swept away by the comfort their scent brings, like returning home after weeks away, remembering the scent that you become too quickly accustomed to, to fully appreciate and treasure.

You lean into Cassian’s side, head tipped against his shoulder, Azriel pressed close enough to twine your fingers together in your lap atop the sheets, shadows roaming freely between the three of you, a sure sign you’re home again.

A long sigh comes from the doorway, sounding more resigned than disapproving—he knew this was going to happen at one point or another. There would be no separating any of you in a moment of need or vulnerability.

“I thought I told you to at least wait until she’d recovered a little more,” Rhys sighs, a gently scolding tone to his words, eyes displeased but softening when they spot how you’ve practically melted into his brothers’ sides. You switch subjects, eyeing the tray he’s brought, stomach grumbling as the promise of a hot meal dawns in your mind. “That smells good…” you murmur, watching him intently, and a fond smile curves his lips.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rhys replies. “Your favourite, if my memory serves.”

Your brows curve, lip wobbling again—you don’t deserve this. Them.

But Rhys has already leaned over Cassian, pressing a kiss to your forehead, smoothly sliding the tray into your lap.

“Eat,” he instructs softly. “If you’re still so inclined, you can cry afterwards, but eat first, okay?”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes

#poly!bat boys #batboys x reader #poly!batboys x reader #batboys x reader fluff #poly!batboys x reader fluff #before the corn grows.

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bb-sg · 1 year

Text

Wildfire

Relationship: Yandere!Dabi x fem!reader

Summary: Dabi can't stop thinking about the new warden of the prison. Prison AU.

MDNI! Please mind the content warnings, this fic contains dark content and themes.

CW: Smut, masturbation, violence, gun use, yandere!dabi, obsession, language, implied murder, language, punishment, implied non-con/dub con, domestic violence, darcyphilia

You were a natural disaster waiting to ravage him. You were like lightning; you were striking and consuming. You were meticulously put together, not a hair out of place, always presenting your best self. You shone through the bleakness of these cold walls. Just like lightning, your presence was electrifying. The moment you entered a room, your energy flooded the room and demanded attention.

Where there was lightning, there was thunder. Just like thunder, you made your existence known. It was the way you walked with confidence and an area of authority that made you impossible to miss. You carried your head high, beautiful eyes facing forward, your composed demeanor never faltering.

Why shouldn’t you carry yourself like a queen? You were the new warden after all.

The first time he saw you was in the cafeteria. A fight had just broken out between two gangs. Men in faded orange jumpsuits brawling over the thriving contraband economy. It was nothing that concerned him, so he sat back and watched. Secretly cheering certain men on until the security guards called for a lockdown. He rolled his eyes, annoyed at the inconvenience of having to lay on the ground. He complied but kept his eyes glued to the commotion.

He had never been happier that a fight broke out when he saw you. Alarms started blaring as you burst through the door with your face set in stone. He watched every move you made as you surveyed the scene. Two security guards protected you as you approached the two original instigators of the altercation.

“Take these two to solitary. Along with anyone else who was involved.” You snarled, looking down on the prisoners being detained on the ground. “Take the injured to the infirmary.” The clack on your heels could be heard as you walked to one of your guards, delegating him to get the rest of the prisoners back to their cells. You took one more look around when you locked eyes with him.

He thought you were too beautiful to be in such a wretched place with people like him. Everything about you drew him to you. You stern but gorgeous features never displaying any emotion as you stared him down. He let his eyes drift down your body, devouring your delicious figure under his gaze.

What really made him want you was the way you tried to exude control when he knew that you were just begging to be dominated. He could see it in your eyes, you wanted- no you needed, to be put in your place.

“Get them back to their cells and get this cleaned up. Now.” You barked out, while turning on your heels to leave the room. You paid him no mind as you sauntered away, but he could not help but watch your hips sway with every step. He listened for the sound of your heels fading away, like rolling thunder in the distance.

Each step echoed in his head as you disappeared from sight. That is when it began, when he found the silver lining about being locked up. Each step you took punctuated the thoughts that consumed him.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

You. Will. Be. His.

That was six months ago and since then he has poured all his energy into finding ways to be close to you. He would purposely get caught with contraband, pick fights with a guard, and try to incite chaos wherever he went just to draw you out.

Every time he got called to your office, he wore a smile proudly. He always greeted you with compliments, pick up lines or charming anecdotes to try and get you to open up. The guards frequently jostled him around to try get him to behave but you stopped them. Each time you said the same thing.

“He’s harmless, he is just trying to get a rise out of me. Don’t entertain him.” Your eyes always stern and unwavering. He wanted to laugh; you really had no idea what he could do. What he would do.

“Yeah, harmless.” He smiled a little too much, almost letting a chuckle slip out. “You do have me chained up like a dog after all.”

“This is the second time this week that you’ve been caught breaking rules. Do you want to be thrown into the hole?” You drawled out, with disinterest.

This annoyed him. He wanted to hold you by the neck while he railed you mercilessly. Wiping the arrogant look of your face. He wanted to make you cry for forgiveness, cry for ever thinking you were above him.

He painted on a calm face and leaned back in the chair positioned in front of your desk.

“There are a few holes I wouldn't mind being in, but solitary confinement isn't one of them.” His voice was laced with honey, batting his eyes at you.

“Please, at least have the decency to refrain from hitting on me.” You were unmoved by him.

“You always seem so high strung, I know how to get you relaxed, let me show you.” He smirked.

“I’m happily married, not that it’s any of your business. Now I’m assigned you to janitorial duties until you can knock off this shit attitude.” You deadpanned.

He was impressed with you. Never once in the past six months had you broken character. It only made the build up to the inevitable better for him. He couldn’t wait to see you reduced to a sniveling mess under him.

“Always work and no play.” He whispered to you. “Your husband must be slacking at his duties.” He laughed as the guard pulled him out of your office. He would keep chipping away at you until you revealed a crack in your armor.

Another six months had passed, and he continued his onslaught of mischief around the prison. It was like clockwork; he would break the rules and you would call him to the office to scold him. His crimes began to escalate, waiting for you to truly break and for him to see the real you.

Then one day he got a glimpse of it. He had gotten in a guard's face and refused to follow orders. On the way down the familiar corridor to the office he heard you arguing with someone. He heard your distraught voice drifting down the halls, your voice shook, wrought with emotion.

He savored it, trying to walk as slowly as possible to bask in the way the timbre in your voice made it impossible to miss the pain you were feeling.

He loved it.

The guard knocked on the door gently, undoubtedly feeling uncomfortable with disturbing you.

“Excuse me ma’am?” the guard beckoned to you. On the other side of the door, he could head you scrambling to get off the phone, shushing whoever was on the other end. You cleared your throat before inviting them in.

It was obvious, your normal shell was cracked. Your eyes were darkened from exhaustion, your hair wasn’t as neat as usual, and your usual conservative clothing was replaced with more relaxed, casual wear. He loved the way your tank top clung to your body, he took in every little detail.

When you saw it was him you audibly signed. You rested your hands on your hips while you tried to compose yourself.

“What have you done now?” you groaned, clearly not in the mood to deal with him.

“That’s no way to greet a friend warden. You don’t look so hot today, what’s troubling you?” He smiled and cooed at you.

You rubbed your eyes, trying to wipe away your fog. The guard shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, the tension was thick, and the atmosphere was heavy and stale.

You walked around to the front of the desk and leaned against it, eyeing Dabi down.

“Can you please give me a minute alone with him?” You croaked out meeting the guard’s eyes. The guard nodded before he exited your office.

Dabi kept his eyes on you, standing still waiting for you to make a move.

“What is the purpose of all this? I don’t get it anymore. Do you want to be stuck in here forever? You have a parole hearing coming up soon and I have no reason to vouch for you to be released early. So, give me a good explanation on why you’ve been you’re constantly getting into trouble?” You ranted, speaking faster and louder than you normally do. You crossed your arms in front of you protectively when you waited for his response.

“What can I say? Seeing you is the best part of my day warden.” He laughed taking one step closer to you, his kept his eyes trained on you, almost stalking towards you. He couldn’t believe his luck that you asked to be alone with him, this was his chance to finally get to you. He didn’t know what he wanted to do first with you: force you to your knees and make you cry on his cock or push you down on the desk and make you beg to be let go, tears running down your face, whimpering beneath him. He knew you would look beautiful when he broke you and you were so close to finally letting your façade crumble.

“Stop fucking around. You are going to catch a new charge at this rate that you’re going, and you will end up rotting in this prison alone. Is that what you want? I’ll happily throw you into the hole for as long as I can if you don’t drop this act.” You snapped back, dripping with venom. You stood your ground when he took another step closer, his handcuffs rattling cutting through the silence.

“C’mon, you wouldn’t do that to me. Don’t act like you don’t enjoy seeing me warden. If you want, maybe I can get you out of your shit mood and make you feel better.” He sauntered closer to you, now standing directly in front of you. “Just beg for me and I’ll happily make you forget about everything. I’ll put you in a good mood and send you back to your doting husband, you’ll have a great night with him, make dinner, watch your boring shows and pathetically fall asleep next to him in your bed. Fuck, he will be none the wiser.” He whispered, baring his teeth like a wolf who has trapped his target. “What do you say warden? You wanna drop that whole bitch act and give in?”

“Shut up! You’re insufferable. Fine, you want to fuck around? Let’s fuck around and I’ll write a letter to the parole board begging them to keep you in here for your full sentence and then some.” You pressed a finger to his chest and pushed him back when you stood up tall. You gather all your strength to put forward some bravado, but your voice betrayed you as your voice shook with every word.

“You think you know everything about me, don’t you? You don’t know anything about me! How dare you talk to me like that! I’m so sick of the men in my life acting like fucking assholes! What is it about me that makes people want to take advantage of me…” You trailed off quickly and sunk back against the desk.

Then he finally got what he’s been pining for, seeing you break down before him. You covered your face, shoulders slumped and shaking.

Where there is lightning and thunder, there’s also rain. Right now, you were pouring. You started weeping, your sobs wracking your body while you struggled to breathe through each cry. You collapsed into yourself, holding your body as you fell forward.

His smile fell when he saw you. This was supposed to make him happy, overjoyed even but now all he wanted to do was to break the neck of whoever did this to you. The sight of you so disheveled made him feel feral with rage. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he was supposed to be the one to break you. He wasn’t basking in your pain like he had wanted to, he actually felt sorry for you. He would find out who did this to you and rip their throat out, he promised this to you silently.

You tried to pick yourself up, attempting to stop crying and fixing your clothes and posture. You wiped your tears away endlessly, still sniffling. Your eyes were puffy and red when you made eye contact with him again.

He was right about one thing though; you did look beautiful when you cried. It made you look more human, vulnerable, and weak. He wanted to protect you, keep you safe from whatever was happening. Keep you safe from this world, lock you up and throw away the key so nothing can make you cry again, except for him.

He lifted his arms up slowly, adjusting the handcuffs slightly to allow him to wrap his arms around you so he could comfort you. He expected you to push him away, but you didn’t. Your head fell to his chest as you started crying more. You knew it was inappropriate, but you didn’t care. He awkwardly tried to pat your back, but his restraints didn’t allow him to. Instead, he just held you, silently waiting for you to be done crying.

“I’m sorry.” You choked out between sobs. “This is so unlike me.”

You nuzzled into him, inhaling the scent of his body wash. He smelled like rich dark wood and smoke. It was soothing and relaxing to you. His broad chest served as a pillow for you while you drained yourself, purging out your frustrations.

After a few moments he spoke, his voice shaking you from your stupor.

“Who did this to you?” The base in his voice vibrating against you.

You pulled back, coming face to face with him. You admired him for a moment. Taking in his features for what felt like the first time. He was handsome, his eyes were beautiful and enticing. His lips fixed in a line while he looked at you, not giving away any of the thoughts running through his head.

“I’m so sorry, this was incredibly unprofessional.” You half-heartedly laughed and unraveled yourself from him. “It’s just some stuff going on at home.” You uncomfortably cleared your throat, fixing your clothes again and cleaning your face with a tissue.

“Is it your husband?” He said quietly. He secretly hoped it was.

He eyed the framed picture of you and your husband on your desk. He pictured beating your husband within an inch of his life for hurting you.

You bit your lip and looked at your feet. “Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen, okay?”

Bingo, he thought as his eyes shifted back to you. Your body language told him everything that you didn’t want to tell him. He shifted his attention back to the photo, he memorized it, burning the image into his brain. He vowed he would find your husband and rip him apart, piece by piece, make him plead for his life. He would laugh while he snuffed out your husband’s life. The only person that had the right to make you weak was Dabi and he would make sure of that. You were his and his alone, you just didn’t know it yet.

He couldn’t help but commit how you looked in the photo to memory too. How could he not? You looked ethereal, your smile was radiant, spreading to your eyes. Your skin was glowing, your eyes were bright, and your lips looked so inviting. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about your lips around his cock while you drooled and gagged around him. It made his blood rush to his stiffening member. That was going to be one of his favorite ways to make you cry. In the photo you’re wearing a sundress that fit you perfectly, the color complimented your skin tone beautifully. He daydreamed about seeing you walk around in that dress, teasing him with the way the dress flowed around you and gave him hints of your body underneath. In his daydream he preys on you, pouncing on you while ripping your dress off you so he can take you properly. Whether you wanted to or not. He almost audibly moaned at the idea of sheathing himself inside you and fucking you like an animal. Your pussy clenching around him more with every thrust until he came deep inside you, breeding you. You wouldn’t be able to leave him if you were swollen with his baby, right?

You noticed him staring at the photo and quickly put it away in a drawer, feeling uncomfortable with the intensity of his stare.

“Let’s get back to the issue at hand. You need to knock off all your shit if you want to have any chance of getting released early. I don’t want to see you in my office again or I’ll throw your ass into solitary, and I will personally beg the parole board to keep you in here for as long as possible.”

Just like that, you were returning to your normal self, the armor was put back together and your walls were up. You glared at him, waiting for a snarky reply.

“Understood, I will be a saint. You have my word warden.” He held his hands up in defeat and smiled at you.

Oh, he would be on his best behavior, he has to get out in order to be able to find your husband. He’ll be a model prisoner if it meant that he would be able to see that man’s life leave his eyes and he would have you all to himself. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity to have you stuck in a prison of his own design.

You resigned and called for the guard to take Dabi away, hiding your face to prevent the guard from seeing your tear-stained face.

That night in his cell, the only thing he could think of was you. He made a list of ways he would fuck you and another list of ways he would put you in your place. The way you would be sobbing while he railed you from behind, his hands locked around your throat, made him hard. It was only a matter of time.

He swiftly pulled his hard cock out of its confinements and stroked it softly. He groaned at the feeling, thinking about how it would feel even better if he was in your hands. He caved into his lust and increased the pace of his strokes. He used his thumb to swipe the precum from his slit, shuddering at the touch.

“Fuck…” he whispered and lifted his shirt up, holding it out of the way with his teeth. Closing his eyes, he thought of how warm and tight your pussy would feel around his cock. How you would clench around him every time his tip hit your cervix, writhing with pleasure and pain when he held your hips down, making sure you take all of him. The strong, fierce woman he sees everyday reduced to the fuck toy you really were. His fuck toy. The idea of you blubbering over how good his cock felt almost made him cum too quickly. He moaned and slowed his strokes, he wanted this to last, he had too many fantasies of you that he wanted to play out in his head.

His cock twitched when he thought of you riding him, desperately trying to please him. Your breasts bouncing in his face while he lies to you and tells you that if you can make him cum in under five minutes, he would let you go. You would try your little heart out but fail, not only to make him cum but you would fail to deny that he makes you feel so good. The feeling of your slick covering his cock was evidence that you enjoyed every second. Then an even better idea dawned on him. Maybe he would make you make you cum in front of your shitty husband. He’d fuck you stupid while your husband watched his wife scream for another man. You wouldn’t be able to hide the shame you felt from cumming around Dabi’s cock, but you wouldn’t be able to help yourself no matter how much you tried.

His pace quickened and he let out a series of whinny moans while his toes curled in pleasure. He was thankful for the shirt in his mouth that was stifling his moans. The fantasy was perfect, you would look irresistible beneath him, your lips shaped in an “O”, eyes screwed shut and moaning for him. Just for Dabi. He was tethering on the edge, pressure building up as he approached his climax. He focused on imagining how beautiful you would look while he fucked into you relentlessly while your husband begs for Dabi to stop. Would he take you again after he killed your husband? Maybe. He would make sure that you were too scared to ever try to leave him. You’d be his to keep, a pet to play with, forever. He came hard as pleasure washed over him.

He laughed to himself as he came down from his high. You were going to be his. He would keep you hidden away, just for him. You’d hate it at first, but he’d break you down and make you appreciate him. One way or another.

The next few months passed by without an incident. Dabi was true to his word and stayed out of trouble. Keeping to himself and watching you from a distance. You went on like nothing happened, only sparing him a glance from time to time. Every time you graced his presence he memorized every detail about you, each time saw you he felt like he knew you more and more. He was obsessed with you, and he knew it.

His life had become monotonous, until one day he saw you speaking to your staff from across the yard. He noticed your lip was busted and eye swollen. You looked like you had taken quite the beating. He saw red. He knew it had to be your husband. He was filled with a blinding rage, barely able to hold himself back from approaching you. He thought about taking out his anger on the poor bastard next to him, beating him until Dabi felt better. Poor guy would be collateral damage, but it would be a win, win for Dabi. He would get to get this rage out of him, and he would be able to see you when you inevitably threw him into the hole.

He stared at you, his self-control weakening every second he saw your beaten face. How dare another man lay a hand on what was his? He was the only one that has the honor of putting hands on you. He wasn’t going to stand for this. He wanted you and your husband at his mercy.

Now.

He let out a deep breath and calmed himself. Deciding that tonight was the night he was going to get out. He couldn’t wait any longer, he wasn’t going to be able to sleep until you were his for good.

It was one in the morning when the sound of your cell phone ringing woke you up. You groggily rolled over in your bed to feel around for your phone on the nightstand. You figured it was your husband, presumably out at a bar getting plastered before he came home to start another fight with you. For months it was the same thing over and over. The smell of whisky overwhelming you while he yelled in your face about anything and everything. Ever since he lost his job, he hasn’t been the same.

You looked at your phone and noticed the call was from the prison. Your eyes widened in concern as you quickly answered the call.

“What’s wrong?” You croaked out, your voice gravely from sleep.

“It’s an emergency! A riot has broken out and some of the prisoners have escaped. We need your help, t-there’s not enough guards here to handle this!” One of the guards cried over the phone, panic evident in his voice.

“What! Who escaped and how?” You scrambled to get out of bed and throwing on whatever clothes you could find. You picked up a tank top and sweats from the floor before digging in the closet to get shoes. Your mind racing with all the possible ways prisoners would be able to escape. Trying to think of a solution to get the riot under control.

The guard listed several names before he sputtered out Dabi’s name. You froze, panic overwhelming you.

Why would he escape? His parole hearing was coming up, he could have been released. It didn’t make sense. You recalled the way he has been watching you over the past few months, the look in his eyes when you made eye contact and you shuddered.

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” You frantically hung up the call and rushed to find your keys. You ran to the front door to where you kept your keys, but they were gone. You were sure you left them here when you came home. Your husband must have taken your car; that was the only explanation you could come up with.

You sighed as you pulled your phone out of your pocket to call your husband. You cringed at the thought of having to ask him to come home, expecting him to be too obliterated to be reasoned with. You called him, bracing yourself mentally when you heard the jingle of a cell phone in your living room.

You couldn’t move. Something wasn’t right. Why did your husband come home and not come to bed? He always ended up passing out next to you. If he’s here, then where are your keys? Your stomach dropped and your chest tightened with fear.

You hesitantly called out your husband’s name but received no response. You heard footsteps coming from the living room and the sound of a chair sliding across the floor.

Each sound reverberating through your body, your heart rate quickened, and you started to sweat. You thought about running out of the house and screaming for help, but you couldn’t bring yourself to flee. You slowly tip toed towards the living room, telling yourself it was just your husband. It had to be. You gripped your phone tightly in your hand, ready to call for help as you rounded the corner.

You stopped in your tracks when you took in the sight before you. Dabi was standing in your living room. He wore baggy joggers, a white tee that was tattered and splattered with blood with a crazed smile on his face. His hair hung in his face, but you caught a glimpse of his bright eyes staring at you. Fear jolted through your body when you saw him standing over your husband. Your husband was gagged and tied to a dining room chair, badly beaten and unconscious. You were about to cry out when Dabi pulled a gun from his waistband and cocked it against your husband’s slumped over head.

He tutted and shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you warden.”

Your eyes filled with tears; your heart pounded in your ears as you tried to process the scene in front of you. Maybe you were having a nightmare. You wanted to believe you were still in bed, but you couldn’t wake up.

“Come closer and hand me the phone, doll.” He cooed at you.

You slowly walked towards him, your body acting of its own accord. With a shaky hand you gave him your phone, never taking your eyes away from the gun.

“Hey, look at me.” Dabi whispered, pushing the barrel of the gun against your cheek to turn your attention to him. Your heart skipped a beat when you looked into his eyes. His blue eyes looked at you adoringly, he smiled as he leaned closer to you.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt about this moment. Don’t ruin it by doing something I’d have to punish you for darling.” He whispered his voice low and dangerous.

“Dabi. Why are you doing this? Why?” The tears in your eyes spilled over and raced down your cheeks.

“To see that look on your face. It’s just as beautiful as I thought it would be too.” He grinned while he watched your tears run down your face. “Plus, this piece of shit here needed to pay for what he’s done to you.”

Dabi kicked the leg of the chair your husband sat in, causing it to break. Your husband fell to the floor with a loud thud, waking him up. Dabi laughed when your husband cried out into his gag.

“Dabi...”

You tried to reason with him, but no words came out. You watched in horror as Dabi knelt down closer to your husband.

“Now, tell me. What do you think I should to him?” Dabi asked while locking eyes with you. You wanted to cry for your husband, plead with Dabi to let you both go but you couldn’t. You thought of the torture your husband has put you through, the screaming and yelling, the other night when he finally snapped and hit you in a drunken haze.

“Shoot him.” You whispered softly, your mind going blank as you uttered the sinful words.

Dabi burst out laughing, surprised by your response. Truly were perfect for him.

“Oh dove, you really are a force to be reckoned with, aren’t you? I’ll make a deal with you, I’ll do your little dirty work and rid you of this cockroach but in return you’re mine. You’ll. Belong. To. Me.”

You fell to your knees as you contemplated his proposition. Trying to weigh out your options, figuring out which was the lesser of two evils.

“This is crazy...” You whispered.

He smiled tucking the gun away as he moved to kneel in front of you, capturing your face in his hand.

“What can I say, you make me crazy. I’ll let you in on a little secret love, you’re already mine, whether you like it or not. So, I’ll do you a favor and get rid of him,” he nodded in the direction of your husband who thrashed against his restraints. “But first, let’s show him who owns you.”

He leaned in, holding you still as he pressed his lips against yours. He kissed you feverishly, moving his lips against yours hungrily. He bit your lip harshly, causing you to yelp. He used the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth and taste you. You couldn’t stop yourself from moving in time with him, your skin burning with desire. You shouldn’t enjoy it, but you did. You hadn’t been intimate with your husband in months, and Dabi’s touch caused your body to tingle, you didn’t even want to fight it.

He pulled away from you and hummed in approval. He licked the tears off your cheek and smiled to himself. This was better than he imagined it. You tasted sweet, your lips and skin were so soft, and he could hear your heart beating rapidly in your little body. He felt his cock straining against his pants, the sight of you making him hard. Nothing and nobody was going to be able to take you from him now.

“Oh doll, you don’t know how far I’m willing to go in order to make you mine. Don’t worry, I’ll make you feel so good that you’ll forget all this asshole. You’ll learn to love how I make you feel. You’ll learn to love me.” He whispered in your ear.

You trembled at the feeling of his breath on your neck. You couldn’t think, speak or move. You could only focus on the heat radiating off of him, the tickle of his breath and cadence of his voice.

You may be a storm; you may be made out of lightning and thunder, but he was a wildfire. He would burn the world down to keep you by his side. He will destroy everything that gets in his way, and he will consume you with his flames. The passion he felt for you fueling him.

He stood up, unbuckling his belt. “Now take off your fucking clothes or I’ll do it for you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was inspired by a yandere prompt list and a fan art of Dabi that has been living in my mind rent free.

Please let me know what you think, my first yandere/dark fic.

Reblogs and likes are appreciated, please help my spread my writing. :)

Thank you for reading!

#bnha dabi #dabi #dabi x reader #todoroki touya #touya todoroki #yandere dabi #yandere #mha x reader #bhna x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha dabi #dabi imagine #dabi smut

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the-lonelybarricade · 4 months

Text

Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans - Chapter 3

Summary: Fresh after her third, and final, breakup with Tamlin, Feyre decides a one night stand is exactly what she needs to get him out of her system. Except, her one night stand with a violet-eyed stranger ends up being far more than she bargained for.

Or; the one where Feysand gets pregnant from a one night stand

Read on AO3 ・Masterlist・Previous Chapter

“So—you still haven’t told him.”

Feyre kept her eyes held wide, careful to avoid stabbing them with her mascara wand, as she flitted her pupils to the corner of the vanity mirror and met her roommate’s disapproving stare.

Alis was leaning against the open doorway, arms crossed. Some evenings she neglected to leave the stern teacher role in her classroom, and over the last two weeks Feyre had begun to feel increasingly like one of her misbehaving students.

“There hasn’t been a good time,” Feyre said, returning to the delicate task of swiping the wand over her eyelashes.

“Mmhmm.”

Feyre grip tightened on the tube of mascara. A slew of defensive words rushed to the back of her tongue, but she held them, enduring another of Alis’s incredulous hums as she stepped into the room. She wasn’t one of Alis’s guilty students and she wasn’t going to act like one, even as Alis began surveying the diamond-studded hairpins Feyre had spent the better part of the morning arranging, the dissected makeup bag that hadn’t been touched in weeks, the elegant dress laid on the bed.

That was where Alis ended her inspection. The midnight gown was still in its protective casing from the dry cleaners, a new addition to Feyre’s closet. Alis pulled at it, and the plastic hissed as it slid over the bed—as if warning, begging Alis not to venture any further.

“And the art show this evening hasn’t had any influence on your decision?”

Feyre capped the mascara and whirled to face Alis, who held up the dress the way a lawyer might present a piece of incriminating evidence in court. Both the dress and the art show were a gift from Tamlin—an apology and a peace offering in one. It was his way of showing that he was ready to take her art career more seriously. Or at least, that was what he’d told her at the cafe, when she’d suddenly lost all nerve to tell him the truth.

“I’m not using him for the art show, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Feyre snapped. “It’s just…” her shoulders slackened. “He was so excited for this, Alis. He’d already paid for the venue and invited his colleagues. I couldn’t tell him no and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand to start another fight.”

Feyre faced the mirror and it took all her self control not to cringe. The concealer had covered up the worst of the dark circles, but it couldn’t hide the exhaustion glazing over her eyes. Maybe it was all the changes in her body, but recently she’d just felt so… heavy.

With a sigh, Alis dropped the dress back onto the bed and approached Feyre from behind. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Feyre at last saw behind the mask of the stern teacher, to the concerned friend who clasped her on the shoulder and whispered, “I’m worried about you, Feyre.”

“I’m okay,” she said, but her voice scraped along the cusp of breaking. She swore that even her own reflection winced at the lie.

Alis clucked her tongue. “You’re trying to handle all of this by yourself.” When Feyre said nothing, Alis added, almost desperately, “Let us help you. If not me, then someone else.”

Besides Feyre and Alis, there were only two people who knew of her pregnancy. Two people that she had been admittedly avoiding since she’d blurted the truth to them outside the cafe. In a typical Mor fashion, Feyre had been bombarded with texts over the last two weeks, each of them cheerfully dancing around the pea-sized elephant in her stomach.

All but one.

I respect you and my cousin enough not to meddle. This baby stuff is between you and him and no matter what happens, I support you unequivocally. I just want to say one thing, then I promise I’ll never bring it up again:

Rhys is a really good guy, Feyre. You can trust him.

Anyway, you want to grab brunch this weekend? Bottomless virgin mimosas?

Feyre was fairly certain that a virgin mimosa was just orange juice, but it made her heart feel light enough that she’d pulled up Rhysand’s contact details and nearly sent him a message. But once it was typed out, her thumb waivered above the keyboard, and regardless of how hopelessly she willed herself to press send, her body resisted.

She’d only met Rhysand twice now, but each meeting had felt more akin to a collision, knocking her violently off her predetermined path, leaving her unmoored. Unsettled. It was too soon to see him again, when she was still barely keeping afloat the wreckage of their last encounter.

And if—when—she told Tamlin, he would almost certainly take issue with Feyre and Rhysand having any kind of relationship, no matter how platonic. In the long run, it was better to keep him at arm's length. Wasn’t it?

“I have my first midwife appointment tomorrow,” Feyre said, because she thought that might appease Alis enough to let this go. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Alis beamed and squeezed Feyre’s shoulder, hard enough that Feyre had to swallow a yelp, but that was Alis—unrestrained and a little heavy-handed, even in her affection. “I would love that.”

Feyre forced a smile. She’d never liked going to the doctors, and in truth simply making the appointment had been a nerve-wracking experience. There was no bump on her stomach yet, and besides the morning bouts of nausea and the wearing exhaustion, she could almost pretend she was the same Feyre she’d been eight weeks ago.

But an appointment made it real.

Bearing all of that to Alis felt impossible. She wished she could do this alone, so that no one would feel burdened by the weight she was carrying, heavier and heavier each day.

“You know,” Alis said, tone a little too casual. “They might want to know about the baby’s father tomorrow—his medical history, what his involvement will look like. It might be worth reaching out to him to make sure you have those details.”

Fuck.

“Right. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll, uh, try to call him later.”

Alis took enough pity to leave Feyre alone after that. But her words lingered, and Feyre spent the next hour staring blankly at Rhysand’s phone number, the sequence of numbers now so familiar she might have been able to recite them from memory. When she finally willed her thumbs to move, they tapped the letters out slowly, every word foreign. She repeated each sentence back, deleting the one that sounded awkward or clumsy or too inviting.

Hey, she eventually settled with. This is Feyre. I’m having an art show tonight at Brush and Chisel. 8 pm. Would you and Mor like to come?

Feyre hit send before she could think about how absurd it would be to have Rhys and Tamlin in the same room. But there was no taking it back. The message was read almost immediately, and Feyre’s panic set in when a small typing bubble popped up with little hesitation.

Rhysand: Sounds wonderful. We’ll be there.

Feyre: Please don’t say anything to Tamlin about… you know

Rhysand: He doesn’t know?

Feyre: Do you want me to revoke your invitation?

Rhysand: No need—my lips are sealed. Looking forward to seeing you again, Feyre darling.

Feyre: No calling me that, either.

Rhysand: No? What would you like me to call you, then?

It was close enough to the flirting they’d exchanged at Rita’s that Feyre thought he was doing it on purpose. Maybe he was trying to wind her up by forcing her to recall the different things he’d called her that night. Feyre darling… Baby… Good girl. The memory of them was making her cheeks feel warm, a sign she might have made a terrible mistake inviting him.

Feyre: Just call me Feyre.

Rhysand: Is that what your friends call you?

Feyre: I wouldn’t say we’re friends yet.

Rhysand: Well in that case, would you prefer I call you something more formal? Miss Archeron?

Feyre: Feyre is fine.

Rhysand: That she most certainly is.

Feyre groaned and resisted the urge to chuck her phone away. This was the man that Mor vouched for as a really good guy? One who couldn’t even control himself for five minutes?

Feyre: If you can’t behave yourself tonight, then I don’t want you there.

Rhysand: I assure you, I will be on my best behavior.

Somehow, that wasn’t very reassuring to her.

“Are you feeling nervous, Feyre?”

“Hmm?”

Feyre drew her eyes away from the double glass doors that comprised the venue’s entrance. She’d been staring absently at their reflection, but realized that Tamlin was leaning into her, his hand positioned supportively against her back—his touch was searing now that she was aware of it, though she couldn’t say how long it had been placed there.

He smiled, as though her response were answer enough. “I think it’s normal to be nervous. This is a lot more people looking at your art than you’re used to.”

That wasn’t empirically true. Outside of her instagram account—which had enough traction to keep her regularly commissioned—Feyre displayed her art fairly regularly in street art shows on the Rainbow. This was her first time displaying her art in a proper gallery, however, and perhaps two months ago she would have been nervous.

Presently, Feyre’s bandwidth on things to be nervous about was running low. There were only so many fears that could plague her mind at any given time, and occupying most of that real estate was the itty-bitty issue of her pregnancy and the baby daddy she’d so stupidly invited to the art show.

By comparison, what Tamlin’s business associates thought of her art was of trivial concern, particularly when they didn't even bother to speak to her. It was clear, by the firm handshakes and tactical segues into business deals, that most of the people in attendance were here to impress Tamlin.

“But hey,” Tamlin said, gliding his hand across her back until she was completely folded into his arm. “Hart was just telling me how much he loved that mountain piece. I think he might make an offer.”

Before she’d tuned out of the conversation, Hart had also been telling Tamlin how keen he was to get his investment proposal signed off. Conveniently, the mountain piece was also the only one in eyesight, and Feyre felt more like a corporate gift basket than a respectable artist.

Feyre didn’t say that, though. She smiled and said, “I love that piece.”

Tamlin hummed, as if he agreed. “Why don’t we go get a drink to calm your nerves?”

“Oh, no. I’m okay—”

“Come on, we’re celebrating!” Tamlin used his arm to urge her forward, guiding them both towards the open bar near the front entrance.

The bar was strategically placed, Tamlin claimed, because people were more likely to make impulsive purchases with a drink in their hand. Feyre couldn’t fault his logic, though she’d prefer for her art to be sold of its own merit and not because the buyer was drunk and trying to impress his boss.

“Really Tamlin. I’m not in the mood to drink.”

“You’re so tense, Feyre. A drink will help.”

Across the room, Feyre met eyes with Alis, who quirked a black brow when she saw where the two of them were headed. She took a step towards them, then stalled, and Feyre thought for a horrific moment that Alis was going to let her get buried alive in this hole she’d dug herself.

“Feyre!” Squealed a familiar voice.

Mor didn’t wait for Tamlin to step out of the way before she became a blur of red and gold, barreling towards her Feyre as if this was the first time they were reuniting in years.

She was squeezing so tight that Feyre’s responding, hi Mor, came out a little breathless.

“Mor,” Tamlin said. He’d taken a step away, either to give them space to reconnect or simply because he didn’t want to risk brushing arms with Mor. “Good to see you again.”

“Tamlin.”

Mor, by virtue of being her college roommate, was once privy to every fight and minor frustration between Feyre and Tamlin. As a result, she never tried to hide her dislike of Tamlin, nor did he give much effort to do the same in return. A polite cough behind Mor’s back prompted the tall blonde to peel herself away from Feyre and pivot to reveal Rhysand, who was withdrawing his hands from the pockets of his formal black trousers to extend one of them outward. Towards her.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“This is my cousin,” Mor filled in, brown eyes twinkling. “Rhys.”

Tamlin chose that moment to turn to the bar and order two double vodka tonics. Feyre wasn’t sure which struck her with greater panic—how to evade drinking without raising Tamlin’s suspicion, or how to shake Rhysand’s hand without feeling like her whole world was shaking with it.

“Feyre,” she said. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. “It’s good to meet you, too. Thank you for coming.”

Rhys continued holding her hand a beat too long. “Thank you for inviting us. I’ve heard you’re a very talented artist.”

Drinks now in hand, Tamlin shouldered himself back into the conversation, pointedly holding a glass towards Feyre so that she was forced to let go of Rhysand’s hand. She accepted the drink with an exaggerated smile.

“Tamlin,” he said gruffly to Rhys, not extending a hand. He slid a possessive arm around Feyre’s shoulders—a statement that none of them misunderstood. “Feyre’s boyfriend.”

“Well met,” Rhys said cordially. If he was intimidated by Tamlin’s slow and evidently unimpressed assessment, he did an excellent job at hiding it.

Seeing it was her job to play mediator and hostess, Feyre saw her chance to kill two birds with one stone. “Can I get the two of you a drink?”

Mor’s answer was an immediate chirp of, “Wine, please.”

“She means a bottle,” Rhysand clarified.

Feyre laughed. “Oh, I remember. We’ll start with a glass for now, but I assure you there’s plenty more where that came from. What about you… Rhys?”

It was only his name, she told herself. Why did speaking it feel so intimate? She could still feel its shape on her lips from when she’d panted it into his skin, RhysRhysRhys—

Did he remember it too? Is that why he studied her for a moment, eyes turning a shade darker, before he cleared his throat and said, “I’m the designated driver, so it’s going to be sparkling water for me.” He glanced down at the vodka in her hands. “But do me a favor and ask them to put a lime wedge in it? I like to blend in.”

“Sure,” Feyre said, taking a step towards the bar. This was her chance to untangle herself from Tamlin and trade out her vodka for a sparkling water, too.

Or—that was the plan. Until Tamlin decided to follow, grabbing her elbow and seizing the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “He gives me a bad vibe.”

“You just met him,” she whispered back, irritated and not trying to hide it.

“I work in business,” he deflected. “You get good at reading people quickly.”

Feyre resisted the urge to roll her eyes as they came up to the bar. She repeated Rhys and Mor’s orders, noting with frustration that when the drinks were finished, Tamlin was the one who insisted on carrying Rhysand’s. She reminded herself that his fears weren’t unfounded—she had slept with Rhys after all, and she couldn’t deny that there was chemistry between them, even now.

Fortunately Rhys was unruffled, and he accepted the drink from Tamlin with a gracious thank you that really sounded like I’m the bigger man and I know it. Tamlin’s posture went rigid, and Rhys’s lips quirked, all smug satisfaction for getting under her boyfriend’s skin. Gods, what had she been thinking putting them in the same room together?

“Tam!” Lucien called, turning away from a small group of Spring Corp executives midway across the room. He made a gesturing motion with his hand. “Come here, Andras just came up with a brilliant new pitch for the Hybern deal.”

Tamlin pressed his lips together, surveying his present company like he didn’t trust leaving Feyre alone with them. And yet, he decided that was preferable to dragging Feyre along to whatever ad hoc business meeting was taking place at her art show.

“I’ll be just one moment,” he said, pressing a kiss to Feyre’s temple before he joined the group of well dressed men. The reprieve from his surveillance was short lived, however, given that he positioned himself at just the right angle to keep Rhys and Mor in his periphery.

It would have been less mortifying if she didn’t glance over to Rhys and see the way his smile flattened, having observed the same.

“He seems charming,” Rhys said.

“He…” Feyre struggled for an explanation that could possibly justify his behavior. “He’s just a little stressed. He really wants tonight to go well.”

“Funny,” Rhys said, leaning his shoulder closer. She found herself leaning in too, nervous he was about to say something she didn’t want anyone to overhear. “I would think that at an art exhibit, the artist would be the one worried about the night going well.”

“I…” Feyre didn’t know what to say. “I do want tonight to go well.”

Rhys raised his hand, fingers brushing over her white-knuckle grip on the vodka tonic. Heat jolted through her, and she resisted the urge to snap her hand back. Any sudden movement would surely draw Tamlin’s attention.

He pitched his voice into a whisper. “How do you feel it’s going so far?”

That was when his hand slid around the glass, gently easing it from her grip. And before she could summon any protest, or speculate as to why he’d decided to pry her drink away, he smoothly pressed his sparkling water into her vacant palm.

It all happened in the space of a second. Feyre was blinking, still processing what had happened, as Rhys leaned back and took a sip of the vodka tonic with a remarkably straight face. Between the lime wedge and the small, carbonated bubbles, their drinks looked identical. He winked, and she knew that he’d planned it this way. From the moment he’d overheard Tamlin’s order.

Feyre could have slumped in relief, were she not hyper-aware of the jade green eyes on her not ten feet away. She ducked her face into the glass of sparkling water to hide the laughter threatening to burst from her lips—it was the first genuine smile she’d managed all evening. All week, really.

“It’s starting to look up,” she said, once she managed to regain her composure.

She meant it, too, though she wasn’t quite ready to unpack the implications of that. Was she a horrible person, inviting him here? The list of things she was lying to Tamlin about was beginning to feel ever-growing. Insurmountable. Her mood quickly soured as she glanced down at the glass in her hand and realized it was just another deception. Someone had come to bail her out this time, but how long could she keep digging this hole until it buried her alive?

“Good,” Rhys said.

His eyes were dancing with a mirth that didn’t feel touchable any longer. Even if his grin was the infectious, wicked sort. The kind that could persuade a saint to deal with the devil. His gaze flicked over her shoulder, skimming the pieces on the back wall.

He jerked his chin towards the displays. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Feyre turned to consider them, though she already knew the answer. “Guess.”

A challenge. One he looked delighted to accept. As a group, the three of them drifted closer towards the art so that Rhys could study each of them with the intensity of a student expecting to be quizzed on their meaning.

Tamlin didn’t return until they reached the final piece. His expression was tight, though Feyre couldn't tell if that was the result of the conversation with his colleagues, or the fact that Feyre had wandered outside his line of vision. Knowing her boyfriend, it was likely the latter.

“What have I missed?” He asked.

“We’re trying to guess Feyre’s favorite piece.”

It was Mor who answered him, given that her cousin was far too busy studying the landscape before him—a hazy clearing of snow and skeletal trees and nothing else besides a curious pair of wolf-like eyes watching from the shadows.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Tamlin said, pointing two pieces down to a hand scooping incandescent water from a pond. The one she’d titled The Pool of Starlight. “That one’s her favorite.”

Feyre elbowed him for ruining the game. She might have done so more gently, if he’d actually guessed correctly. Tamlin offered her an exasperated look that said, What did I do wrong this time? Her tongue burned with the urge to correct him, but she said nothing, suffering the glance Mor and Rhys exchanged with each other. A shared disappointment of a game ruined, and something more. Something that left embarrassment itching up her neck.

Rhys glanced towards her alleged favorite painting and nodded good naturedly. “I understand why. It’s a beautiful painting, Feyre.”

Again, Tamlin’s arm fell over her shoulders. And he said, “That one’s not for sale.”

“Tam.”

He ignored her, continuing, “Feyre painted it as a gift for our four year anniversary.”

Mor muttered under breath, “Four years my ass.”

Tamlin narrowed his eyes. “Pardon?”

The whole room quieted for a stagnant beat, as Mor contemplated her response. Feyre widened her eyes, trying to silently plead with Mor to let it go. It didn’t matter that in those four years, they’d spent as much time broken up as they had in a relationship. What mattered was surviving the night, the week, the year ahead.

Mor tipped her chin, and as her red lips curled into a flat smirk, Feyre felt her stomach plummet.

“I said—”

A waitress stepped towards them, brandishing a platter full of mini quiches in offering. She was staring at Rhys, expectant. As if he’d been the one to call her over. He offered her a broad smile as he plucked one from the tray and promptly handed it to Mor.

Then he innocently looked towards Feyre and Tamlin. “Quiche?”

The smell of cooked eggs and salmon invaded her senses as the waitress swiveled the tray towards them. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and Feyre tried her best to swallow it as she politely shook her head.

“No thanks,” Tamlin said, his voice flat.

The waitress stepped away, wafting the smell under Feyre’s nose a second time. Nausea lurched violently in her stomach, refusing to be ignored.

Even Tam noticed the look on her face. He leaned towards her with a frown, pressing his palm into her shoulder. “Fey? Are you alright?”

Feyre feared that if she tried to speak, her stomach would upheave itself right then and there. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head before she turned and dashed for the bathroom.

The gallery became a blur of color and ambient sound. She thought she might have heard her name being called. Guests lobbed curious glances towards her as she brushed past, heels clinking urgently against the smooth concrete. The bathroom door swung open beneath her palms, and she didn’t spare the time to lock it before her knees slammed to the floor in front of the toilet.

She hated this. The puking. The way her eyes watered and her body trembled and the sounds of her retching bounced endlessly off the walls. If anyone was waiting outside, they’d doubtlessly hear it.

Feyre panted as the first wave subsided. She knew that wasn’t the end, could already feel her stomach turning in preparation for the next unforgiving torrent of nausea. Was this how it felt to be at sea, so lost and unsteady, with nothing to anchor her besides the cool press of the filthy bathroom floor?

She hunched as the next onslaught began, grasping onto the porcelain bowl, already imagining the bath she was going to take in disinfectant once she got home. Over the stomach-curdling noise, she heard the bathroom door creak open.

Feyre’s hair was pulled away from her face a moment later.

“It’s okay,” Mor soothed. “I’ve got you.”

She traced a delicate hand along Feyre’s spine, up and down. Feyre shut her eyes as she heaved into the toilet, grateful that it was Mor who had come, and not Tamlin. Or worse—Rhysand.

“It’s like we’re in college again,” Mor teased.

Feyre felt too wrung out to laugh. But when the nausea finally ebbed, she managed a shaky smile over her shoulder. “Usually I was holding your hair back.”

“Glad I get to return the favor.”

The memory ached. Three years wasn’t a long time, comparatively, but the Feyre who’d once sat drunk and giggling in public restrooms with Mor felt like a completely different person to the one she was now. It was more than time that separated them—more than motherhood, too. Back then, she had been so carefree, so full of light. And now…

She was trembling like a newly born fawn trying to rise to her feet. Mor slid a supportive hand beneath her elbow, her other hand still holding Feyre’s hair away from her face as they shuffled towards the sink.

Everything that was once simple now felt like a million steps. Twist the faucet. Pump the soap. Lather her hands… Over her shoulder, Mor watched it all with a pinched expression. She didn’t need to say anything; Feyre could still hear Alis in the back of her mind. I’m worried about you, Feyre.

Noticing she’d been caught, Mor took to coyly searching through her clutch, murmuring, “I think I have a pack of gum somewhere…”

The tap stopped running. Feyre stared at her friend in the mirror, how her blonde brows pinched together as she feigned an intensive search. And then Feyre looked at her own reflection. At her wide eyes, gleaming with unshed tears. And she finally admitted the truth to Mor, to herself.

“I’m scared.”

Mor’s mouth popped open. “Oh, Feyre,” she whispered, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug.

A great, gasping breath shuddered through Feyre, the final resistance before her foundation cracked, and every wall crumbled to dust. The next thing she knew, she was sobbing into her friend’s shoulder while Mor held tight, the only thing keeping her tethered.

Now that she’d let the words loose, she couldn’t stop. “I’m going to be a mom.”

“You are,” Mor whispered, swaying them back and forth. “You’re going to be a great one.”

“I don't know anything about being a parent.”

“No one does. It’s the kind of thing you learn on the job. And you—Feyre, you have always been exceptional at adapting to everything life throws at you. Even this.”

Her lower lip trembled. The question came tumbling out of her, broken and small. “Did I make the right choice?”

“There was no right choice,” Mor said. “There’s just the choice you made, and the one you didn’t.”

Mor leaned back to swipe her thumb along Feyre’s cheek, chasing away the tear tracks and smeared mascara as best she could.

“Though, you know what I think?” Mor’s brown eyes shined under the fluorescents as she held Feyre’s gaze. “I think that one day, you’re going to look back on this moment, and you’re going to be so happy that you decided to become a mom.”

Feyre sniffled, pressing a palm to her stomach as she attempted to imagine a future Feyre who was confident about this choice. Happy. “And Rhys?” She ventured. “Does he really mean it, about wanting to be involved?”

Mor didn’t hesitate, not for one second. “He does.”

Her eyes drifted towards the door. Tamlin and Rhys would be waiting on the other side. She didn’t know whether to laugh or feel mortified by the thought of the two of them together, stewing in hostile silence. If she was lucky, Tamlin had already dismissed this whole ordeal as female dramatics and was entertaining more of his colleagues without paying any mind to her absence.

Luck wasn’t exactly playing in her favor recently. Feyre’s eyes shifted to the hopper windows on the back wall, contemplating if she could squeeze her body through one. “What do you think my chances are of sneaking out?”

Mor followed Feyre’s gaze and pursed her lips, assessing the windows like she were truly calculating the feasibility of such an escape. “I don’t think those windows open all the way.” Her eyes slid coyly back to Feyre. “So… Tamlin—”

“Don’t start.”

She couldn’t handle another lecture about telling him the truth—not now.

But where Alis clicked her tongue and gave disapproving looks, Mor only laughed and patted Feyre on the shoulder. “Fine, fine. Just let me handle this.”

Mor didn’t give her an option to refuse. Which was just as well, because Feyre would have spent the entire night holed up in the bathroom if Mor didn’t pull her by the wrist.

“Wait!” Feyre dug her heels, trying to slow the too fast approach towards the bathroom door. “My makeup—”

“You look beautiful.”

A lie. Feyre looked like a trainwreck in a pretty dress. Not that Mor gave her time to do anything about it as she pushed the door open and announced to the two men standing on the other side, “Feyre has food poisoning. I’m taking her home.”

“I’ll grab our coats,” Rhys said.

At the same moment, Tamlin said, “I’ll take her home.”

He shifted, trying to peer at Feyre where she stood at Mor’s back, but her friend stepped into Tamlin’s line of vision. Her voice was flat. Unyielding. “You’ve been drinking.”

“So what? I’ll call us a cab.”

Feyre took a deep breath and stepped around Mor. “Tam.” Those bright eyes pinned her in place, seeing far too much. She knew it was obvious that she’d been crying, and his jaw tightened as he processed the lie, and the way she silently begged him not to push. Not yet, not here. “I need someone to stay here and make sure the art show isn’t a complete disaster.”

He contemplated this for a moment, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he looked to Mor, then to Rhys. He released a heavy sigh. “I’ll come by once it’s over.”

It was like standing on a frozen lake and watching it crack beneath them.

“Okay,” she whispered.

They both knew what was coming. It had always been precarious, this thing between them. Never simple, never clean.

Mor looped her elbow through Feyre’s. “Come on,” she urged, rushing them towards the front entrance before Tamlin could change his mind.

The stares of Tamlin’s colleagues followed them as they went. Rhys peeled off to collect their coats, allowing Mor and Feyre to make a swift exit into the liberating embrace of Autumn. The cool breeze pressed against her flushed skin, and Feyre drank it greedily, feeling the air cut a path all the way to her lungs. Finally, she could breathe again.

Rhysand emerged a moment later, two coats hanging off his arm. And Mor chose that moment to look up from her phone and say, “Rhys, you go ahead and take Feyre home. The night’s still young for me.”

“Mor!” Feyre whispered, horrified at the prospect of being alone with him. So much for not meddling.

“What?” She asked innocently, though the look she exchanged with Rhys was nothing short of conspiratorial. “Between my wine and Rhys’s vodka, I have the perfect pre-Rita’s buzz.”

Rhys didn’t seem at all surprised by this news, nor did he seem the least bit phased by the prospect of being alone in a car with Feyre. He simply walked Feyre to his car and opened the passenger door. As she slid into the leather seat, he called to Mor, “Do you want me to at least drop you off?”

“No.” The blue light of her phone lit her grin, and she giggled, looking down at the screen as she said, “I have a ride.”

“Emerie?” Rhys asked, raising a brow.

Mor bit her lip, offering no confirmation one way or the other. With a shrug, Rhys shut the passenger door, leaving Feyre briefly alone in his immaculate car, which smelled vaguely of leather and plastic and… and—him. It had been eight weeks, and Feyre still couldn’t get over the way he smelled.

She took a moment to compose herself, to prepare for being alone with him for the full twenty minute drive to her apartment. Whatever further words he exchanged with Mor, she couldn’t hear. But she could see the way he was smiling, and when he glanced at the car over his shoulder, she had a feeling they were talking about her.

Oh god.

The driver's door opened, suctioning all of the air and replacing it with the site of his obscenely handsome face. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, Feyre darling.”

She was majorly fucked.

#Take My Hand Wreck My Plans #feysand #feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand

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amywritesthings · 1 year

Text

about you. (cassian x you)

Pairing: Cassian Andor x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.6K

Summary: You are a rebel spy working as an escort at Canto Bight's cliffside casino. When Luthen cannot meet you for an intel exchange on New Year's Eve, he sends his best asset. Never in your wildest dreams did you think that meant you'd reunite with your former childhood best friend, Cassian Andor.

Warnings: New Year's Eve, Spy Thriller, Escort Service, Romantic Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Reunions, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mentions of Sex Work, Wall Pinning, New Year's Eve Kiss

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I had a fun holiday one shot idea and wanted to try my hand at writing Cassian Andor. I am wishing you all a happy & healthy new year, and I can't wait to continue writing in 2023.

( Read on AO3 )

Canto Bight is always bustling at New Year’s Eve.

It’s why Luthen Rael has shown up on your doorstep for the first time in months. In his not-so subtle way, the man requests (see: demands) that you float back to your old haunt, the one within the glittering halls of their monument cliffside casino, and do what you do you best: entertain as a partner experience escort for the rich and powerful.

The partner experience operation has been your designation from the very beginning of this rebellious calling. Your contribution to the rebellion, as he claims, is valuable — because the whispers in the night by decorated Imperials that feel safe in your company are priceless.

Whispers bring intel, and not even gold is as priceless as Imperial intel.

Luthen claims he knew of your potential the moment he laid eyes on you in a seedy dive bar on an Outer Rim moon. The little lamb far from her home planet Ferrix, looking fearful yet enraged all the same; starved, but most importantly willing to do anything to take down the Empire one domino at a time.

It was the type of spunk the older man needed in a claustrophobic world.

So you struck a deal: under trained supervision, you would run the casino circuits and red districts — never quite getting close enough to sleeping with the enemy (who knew the Empire thrived on humiliation and edging?) but enough to drug them, learn from them, then report back to him for the next move.

Rinse and repeat for six successful years.

And right now, you were supposed to be done. Find a small shack in the middle of nowhere knowing you did your part in the small but mighty agenda. Perhaps, eventually, you would find a way to make peace with your past and your present.

Then Luthen fucking Rael shows up at the stoop of said shack only six months later with a new opportunity.

A new strategy on the chess board.

(The rebellion, as he so candidly puts it, is never final.)

“Did you hear about what’s going on with Life Day this year on Canto Bight?” Luthen grunts, opting to stand by the doorway rather than a seat at your makeshift kitchen table.

You drop down unceremoniously with your arms at your sides. You know — and you know he knows — there is a blaster taped on the belly of the steel table should this be an unpleasant visit.

“You mean the Wookie holiday?”

“Hmm,” Luthen sounds, caught between a yes and a no. “Supposed to be the Wookie holiday, but it seems the Empire has allowed the casino a profitable chance to participate until the new year.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” you muse in return, surveying him. “When you say profitable, you mean—”

“Everyone who is anyone will be visiting.” Luthen never makes any sudden movements; always trapped sounding bored with this life he leads. It’s also a tactic not to play his cards too far from his chest. “They’ll be running the gambit for paid time off.”

Smile bland, you nod once. “Which is code for… you need someone on the inside.”

“For the season,” he agrees, shifting his weight. “A gift to the faces who may have missed you.”

“Missed me?”

“I hear about the Diamond quite a lot.”

Their precious Diamond.

Maker, that nickname always made your skin crawl.

You huff, rubbing your nose with the back of your thumb. “Flattery gets you nowhere with me, Luthen, you know that.”

He takes a pause, small eyes observing everything that you do. Updating a mental database logging your quirks and your discomfort to cipher for a later date — that’s all he’s ever done, study and download people, and he’s done so without error yet.

(It’s why he’s never been caught.)

“It isn’t flattery,” he finally says. “It’s an opportunity.”

To do everything we couldn’t the first time, is what he really implies.

It’s feeding an addiction no amount of dead fascists will be able to quench.

“And how do I tell them why I want the job back after I quit?”

“Your mother was very ill. You needed to help with her expenses,” Luthen fabricates from thin air. “It was easiest to part ways without the low note on your record. But the credits have dried up, and their clientele will be thankful of the casino’s decision to allow you back on the floor.”

It’s your turn to pause — to study. He gives away nothing. You lean forward to rest your elbows on the tops of your thighs.

“You think that’ll work?”

“You’ll sell it,” is all he gives back like you’ve already said yes.

You’re supposed to be out.

(Do you want to be out?)

No.

No, you don’t.

Getting the job back at the casino as a specialized escort is easy. The difficulty lies in remembering how to fall into old, subtle habits when all you want to do is cause chaos. Staying engaged while chatting up Imperial scum as they spittle in their expensive liquors and moan about the woes of their occupations and agenda can only go on for so long.

Yet you laugh with the rest of them once they’re kissing your feet and your hands, because everyone in this rebellion has a part to play.

(Our loveliest of diamonds, back to see us once again.)

Luthen, of course, never leaves you to your own devices for long. Gifting a hefty sum of credits and a bag of dissolvable sedatives every time he passes through Canto Bight as his alter ego is about as noble as the illusive man gets.

You fill small briefcases with voice memos and holovideos of nightly conversations, drunken manifestos and slippery plans.

It works.

By some miracle, you have never been caught.

New Year’s Eve is filled to the brim with Imperial guards enjoying time off from their grueling schedules. Some of the higher commanding officers already have their arms draped over people inviting them to a great time. Others chase after the debauchery promised by scantily clad creatures inviting them into the halls and out of their money.

You? Have a booking in advance: a high-ranking officer, but not within the Inner Circle.

According to Luther, he’s a valuable asset double-crossing their superiors.

A plant.

You are to deliver the intel to him under Luthen’s command and trust.

(Ironic. You always believed Luthen trusted no one.)

At the final half hour of the year’s end, you round the corner from the main entertainment room and down the hallway towards the private event spaces. A multitude of sounds are muffled by the doors — some good, some not so. Your focus is set on the twelfth door where your officer awaits, and suddenly you feel nervous all over again.

Meeting one of Luthen’s other operatives feels all too daunting.

After a moment, you place your code into the code box by the door and wait for the durasteel to slide, revealing the plush crimson meeting space. It's staged with a convenient king-sized bed and a vanity for refreshment, inviting comfort and suggesting the obvious.

What greets you as the door opens — a silhouette at the edge of the bed, dressed in Imperial formals — is not what you envisioned.

The man’s hair is what you notice first: disheveled brown locks are combed back neatly, smoothed by gel to keep the unruliness at bay. The jacket’s shoulders are a little too pointed, as if he’s not grown into his uniform quite yet — or like he’d stolen it on his way into the venue. The lines on his faces aren’t new, but aren’t old. He’s tired — so fucking tired, but he sits taller the second the door opens.

The blank expression on his face is purposeful, almost doe-eyed, with a feigned, smug-like innocence only an Imperial officer would wear.

Then his gaze travels from your open-toed shoes, up your bodysuit dress of sequins, and locks onto your face.

Just like that, the façade is broken.

What once was blank now hardens, wholly confused, before the lines on his prominent brow smooth with recognition.

Cassian.

Of all the idiots in all the galaxy, Cassian Andor is dressed as an Imp in your meeting space on the eve of the new year.

And you thought, with this rebellion, that you’d seen everything.

While the officer in disguise is much older than what your memory recalls, you could never forget that face even if the Empire tried. The feeling of dirt under your fingernails, the scent of rubber burning, the spark of an electric charge from a stolen piece of property — it all floods back in a tidal wave, almost knocking you a step back into the hallway.

On Ferrix, Cassian Andor always ran around with different people — sometimes it was Bix when she wasn’t punished for entertaining teen scoundrels; sometimes it was other boys in scrappy brawls and mended machinery; most of the time, however, it was you.

Hand and hand, causing mayhem in the bright suns and the full moons. He'd shown you what it meant to stand up for yourself. To want what you want and not apologize for it. To be bold, even at the expense of disruption.

And then he’d pummel whatever wayward eye looked at you the wrong way.

Trouble.

Cassian Andor was so much trouble, and you were mad for it.

Your last memory of him is as vivid as the neon lights lining the ceiling: you're both sixteen years old and shoulder-to-shoulder on an inclined metal slab, staring up at the stars. He's wearing that jacket from his father and hasn't combed his hair in days. You're lost in telling him about your dreams of a better tomorrow, of one day leaving Ferrix for good and making a difference in the vastness of the galaxy despite how small you feel. He laughs, a hum more than anything else, and takes your hand in his.

You're too afraid to squeeze back.

Having Cassian poke fun of the idea of doing much of anything in the galaxy never felt like he mocked you for wanting to try. More than anything, his laugh was one of envy: he couldn’t afford dreams, so you dreamt for the both of you. He couldn’t handle intimacy, so you were satisfied with resting your hand in his the entire night.

Nothing was said. Nothing had changed.

He gave what he could, and you understood.

Childhood friendship has a funny way of feeling that simple.

Cassian, however, never truly chose to change with you. He never truly chose anyone, not really, not when he had so much to give — to his mother, to his scrapyard confidantes, to Bix.

You fit somewhere in the chapters of his life, but Cassian Andor could never tell you which ones. He could not, and would not, promise someone tomorrow.

An unfinished book.

You never did tell him where you were going after hitching a ride on that stock transport to get the hell out of Ferrix for good. Not a single holocard or a note.

Just… gone, into the galaxy, to dream.

Now he sits in front of you at the edge of your meeting space bed, threatening to ruin your calculated cover in one-fell swoop.

Before Cassian can implode your operation, you turn on the mask: with a bright smile and squared shoulders, you gesture to the plush furniture of the room. “Is it to your liking, Mr. —?”

You trail off on your question to give him a chance to speak.

Cassian blinks a few times, only to remember himself.

“Raoul,” he blurts without dismissing his accent, eyes widening with an unspoken question: what are you doing here? “Sargeant Murl Raoul.”

Maker, you haven’t heard that voice in so long.

It’s deeper now. Rusty. Scratched.

“Sargeant,” you correct pleasantly, taking a step into the bedroom to toe the perimeter. Cassian pulls the geometric gray hat clear from his head, balling it in his fist, but you raise a palm at the hip when his mouth opens: don’t.

He listens, pressing his lips together with purpose.

“I asked if this room was to your liking," you repeat.

Cassian struggles with an answer, studying you with concern. You hate it. You hated it back on Ferrix when he tried to play protector, and a decade and a half apart doesn’t dilute the emotion.

Your brows rise, and he clears his throat. “I— yes, I am quite comfortable.”

“Good,” you conclude with a small nod. “Now before I join you and get more comfortable, do you have any questions for me?”

“More comfortable?” he asks a little too fast, so you recover with a glide of your hand along your sparkling thigh.

“Can’t do much when I’m in this old thing,” you coo, that stage performer voice now sounding so phony to your ears with a known audience. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Cassian runs the tip of his tongue along the seam off his lips, shifting his seat on the mattress. “I suppose I could ask how… uh, how long have you been doing… this?”

You don’t know if he’s asking about the escort arrangement or the Informant position, which further complicates the game. The odds of Cassian showing up on Canto Bight should be slim. Cassian wearing an Imperial outfit on his own ought to be slim to none.

But appearing in your private meeting space, fake alias and all?

Your blood runs cold with truth between the lines.

(Luthen never does anything by accident.)

This meeting — reuniting Cassian and yourself — is his test, a judgment call, but you refuse to let Luthen win the game with this surprise hand.

“Years,” you answer honestly, to both.

You continue to face him as you skirt around the left side of the sparkling vanity, not taking any chances with your former friend. Your manicured fingers glide along the mirror’s back, searching for the planted Imperial wire.

(Not only are they cruel, but perverted in their efforts to catch spies.)

“So then you are... experienced?” The question comes out rougher than you believe he intends. Gruff, like he’s embarrassed to even ask.

(The question almost — almost — makes your face burn.)

“If you’re worried that you won’t have a good time, Sergeant, then I promise they sent you to me for a reason. I’m going to take great care of you.”

Cassian’s expression darkens at this as he rises to his feet with purpose.

You rip the microphone from the back of the mirror, holding the device between your index and middle finger for show.

This stops him from moving ahead, eyes locked on the microphone before flickering back to you. You shake your head.

I said don’t.

He nods once, and you take the microphone between your hands. With two clicks, the wire cover pops open, displaying a multitude of tiny wires. You fidget between two, pulling, until the red eye at the center of the device dissolves into black.

The room is blanketed with silence.

Now it’s just you and a ghost here.

“We’re clear,” you tell him after another beat, dropping the seductive aloofness in your tone.

Cassian’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “That was fast.”

Your brow picks up that fraction, raising high. “You have to dismantle them fast."

“Let me take a look at it,” Cassian replies, tossing the hat twisted in his hands to the mattress. "Are you certain it's off?"

“Positive,” you say, sheltering the item closer to your chest. “You don't need to look at it. Easy to disable and reassemble at a moment’s notice, so I’ll turn it back on when you depart.”

“What about lost footage?”

“Chalk it up as faulty equipment they’re too stubborn to replace in a shithole like this.”

Cassian mulls over your answer, taking a cautious few steps forward to observe the small device in your hand. “Imperial-grade wires are tough to work with. A five-second warning doesn’t give many people time to disable the alarm,” he informs in a whispered afterthought. “Where did you learn to do that?”

In your bones, you know it’s a trick question.

Fifteen-something years of reuniting in a moment like this comes with immense drawbacks. When he asks, it is not out of curiosity — it is out of the desire to see if you are truly you.

(Because he remembers your face, too.)

“On Ferrix,” you reply.

He gives no reaction, continuing to deadpan. “Where on Ferrix?”

“You want me to remember from that long ago?” you laugh, placing the microphone on the vanity’s surface and following up with a thick blue cloth to drape over top of it.

“Humor me,” he reasons, flexing his leather-clad fingers at his sides. Now that he doesn’t have a distraction, Cassian doesn’t stop looking at your face.

(The same intensity as the boy without dreams.)

“The old Slavyard. There was that one incredibly rainy month when those prim and proper freaks—”

“—installed the spyware on the back door in the middle of the night,” he interrupts, finishing the story with a misplaced awe under his breath. “You played lookout while I disabled the devices.”

You don’t answer, not really, as you offer a half-hearted smile. “Say what you want about that place, but you learn a lot of things when you watch restless boys who never know when to stop getting in trouble.”

The return smile is small and fleeting, but the corner of Cassian’s lip upticks. His brows knit together, contemplating before a huff of a laugh exits. “Not a very good lookout, then, if you were so busy watching me.”

“You never got caught, though, did you?” you joke.

You swear he almost laughs.

The silence settles at your ankles and rises with each passing second, encompassing you both in a shroud of possibilities: pleasantries are nice, but the popping of bottles and shouts of celebration passing by your room brings you both back to a reality where you’re playing pretend.

Cassian huffs once more, running a hand down his face and around his neck before dropping it in a gesture towards you. “He cannot be serious.”

He.

You catch that pronoun with intrigue and tilt your chin.

“Serious about what? Who’s ‘he’?”

His voice softens, shrinking in size, as he nears half a step closer and into your bubble. “Don’t tell me it’s you.” You maintain eye contact — maintain dominance of this situation — and stay in place. “When he said to wait…”

“...for the Informer, you didn’t think you’d run into a ghost?” you finish, and he’s polite enough not to nod. “He only told me the person he was sending in his stead was one of his best assets. This reunion isn’t my doing.”

“No,” Cassian agrees, low and certain. “It isn’t.”

Because Luthen knows.

Luthen knows, and that’s dangerous in and of itself: his little lamb on Ferrix knew his most trusted asset long before the mastermind was in the picture, and this sabotage is meant to figure you out.

(To figure you both out for his own gain: to make sure you were both up for the task, history aside.)

Your jaw clenches as you nod with assertion, mindful of the train of your body-tight dress when you shift around Cassian to create some space. He turns his torso, following.

“Did he force you to do this?” When you pause in your steps to quirk a brow, he struggles with verbalizing what this means. “Entertaining these low lives while they piss their credits away.”

“Very strong words for someone dressed as an Imp.”

He completely ignores you, hyper in his budding rage. “Because if anyone has touched you—”

“No one’s forcing me to do anything, Cass,” you reply, hateful that the former nickname leaves your lips so fluidly; as if no time has passed. “We’re all cogs working for the same machine.”

“That doesn’t mean he should be having you do this on your own,” the man argues. “He’s not even on the planet, for fuck’s sake. This is dangerous work.”

“You keep saying this or that, but you’re not really asking the real question.” Your nose scrunches, maliciously playful. “I don’t fuck them. It’s pretend, Cassian. My honor is intact.”

Cassian squints with a scoff. “That isn’t what I meant—”

“It isn’t?” you challenge.

“No,” he responds just as fast and just as intense. A smirk plays on your lips, slow and growing. “Fuck whoever you’d like to fuck. One or a dozen, I don’t care, but not them. They don’t deserve you.”

“And who does?”

“I don’t know, but not Luthen or the pieces of shit out there or anyone on this planet.”

“Not even you, right?”

He stares down at you, hard. You snort in disbelief.

“I never thought I’d see the day where Cassian Andor is jealous of a body count, but I guess stranger things have happened for both of us.”

Cassian’s jaw sets, nostrils flaring with an anger he refuses to bury completely. He searches your face, lost on a response, before sharply inhaling through his nose.

“I need information on your regulars.”

Ah.

No more games.

You roll your eyes, absently waving him off as you turn to walk towards the crate-like nightstand. “I have the files on a drive.”

No more games, or so you thought — Cassian follows close behind. “Drives are easily corruptible or lost or stolen. You could just tell me.”

Your hand hovers on the drawer when you turn your chin to look at him. “Yeah, sure, let me just… tell you about a mission I’ve spent years finessing so you can get the details wrong when you relay with Luthen.”

“Do you think so little of my memory skills?” he says and it’s a joke, but it teeters on the edge of an argument.

Just like old times.

You don’t need this type of deja vu before the new year.

“Whisper down the lane only goes so far,” you answer, turning back to the drawer in front of you. Your hand lifts the edge of the bottom plate, removing a small box from the center of the hidden compartment.

You only pause when you feel his presence right behind you as soft puffs of air tickle the back of your exposed neck.

He says nothing, not at first, in this proximity. Then a syllable sounds:

“Why?”

The question is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it whisper. His voice flutters along your skin, causing a shiver down your spine. Deep down you know he’s not asking about the drive or your distaste for his preferred method of relay. Why — the one word you hoped to never face.

If you concentrate hard enough, you can smell the scent of his cologne.

It smells nothing like Cassian.

You stay focused on a miniscule dot on the wall, too afraid to turn around.

“We can’t do this here,” you murmur, barely audible in return.

“I paid for the hour,” he replies. “If I were to leave ten minutes into your company, then there would be questions.”

(He’s right. As much as you hate it, your former friend is right.)

You raise your chin to the ceiling, closing your eyes. Contemplating. Seeking anything, everything, to say to avoid what’s to come.

You open your mouth to speak, but Cassian gets there first.

“I looked for you.” A vulnerable statement from an impenetrable man. His chin leans forward, the warmth of him spreading to your aura. “In dozens of quadrants—”

“Cassian.”

“—and about a hundred planets—”

“Stop.”

“—but you left nothing.” The final word emphasizes with raw emotion, causing your throat to swell. His gloved hand rests on your tricep, but you turn to finally face him. The closeness of him is a surprise — piercing brown eyes meet yours with mere centimeters between noses. “No note, no goodbye, no telling where you might have headed. Nothing.”

Frowning, you don’t realize that you’re shaking your head. The lines on his face are too distracting. He is distracting.

“You were never supposed to see me again.”

“And I never understood why.” He steps forward. You step back. When you think he won’t advance, he continues to step once, twice, until the third lands your back to the corner of the room. “So I am asking — now — while I can still have you: why?”

While I can still have you. You know the implication isn’t there, not truly, but your heart aches for it. The tension makes you feel so small, as if you’re eighteen and flying all over again.

You’re supposed to be over this; over him.

“I had to start new,” you answer after a considerable pause, forcing yourself to look him in the eye in what little space is held between you. “I was always going to leave Ferrix.”

“I knew that,” he argues softly. “I was never going to deter you from—”

“No. No, you were never going to,” you agree, nodding. “But you were always off and on the planet, doing what you had to for everyone else. If I didn’t cut Ferrix out of my life, then I wonder if I would have had the same fate as my parents or my friends: getting stuck there. And not just getting stuck, but waiting.”

“Waiting?” Cassian asks with confusion, brows knit.

You relax against the wall with a humorless laugh. “How did you not see it? The way I always waited for you.” Anxious, you turn your cheek to check the main door as you mull over your next few words. “I would have waited my whole life for you.”

The air in the room shifts.

Although he remains in your peripheral vision, the man stays staring at you without a discernible expression. The gravity of what you’re admitting drags lower, lower, until he says something that forces you to look at him head-on:

“I thought you were indifferent to me.”

Your eyes widen. “Indifferent?”

Cassian nods, short and quick. “You had all these big plans. I listened for hours. Not one of them involved me.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d want to be a part of those plans.”

“Maybe I didn’t think I couldn’t make a difference, not in a… rebellion, though the irony is not lost on me now,” he admits with a huff of a laugh, “but I wanted to be a part of you. I didn’t care what it was, so long as I still had you.”

You stare at him as he stares back at you, totally dumbfounded with this brand new information. Cassian swallows thickly, shifting his weight yet again from one leg to another. The loud party continues outside of your room, drowning these confessions in the excitement for a nearing midnight.

You had all these big plans.

Memories warp at a second’s notice as your brain tries to understand what he’s laid at your altar.

Not one of them involved me.

He shouldn’t be saying this.

He shouldn’t be saying any of this.

Closing your eyes to find a pause in your racing thoughts, you try — try to find where perhaps this is fabricated, designed to see if you’re easily swayed by the past that you so desperately let die in this rebellion.

Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. Cassian is watching with something close to concern.

(Something, maybe, closer to fear.)

You gently shake your head. “This is a test.”

“I know.”

“Luthen did this—”

“Fuck Luthen,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to stare at your lips, and your heartbeat quickens.

His brows meet in the middle, concentrated yet lost — as if he’s back on Ferrix, scrawny and scrappy and calculating the gravity of the risk should he decide to steal or trespass —

Or do something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Cassian.”

Your voice is gentle with a warning. His eyes do not raise, but he does answer.

“What?”

“You have that look on your face.”

“I have a look?”

“When you’re contemplating doing something stupid? Yes.”

He snorts, amused. “You remember what that looks like after fifteen years?”

“It's very hard to forget it.”

He mulls the moment over, flickering his attention back up to your eyes and nodding.

“You’re right. I am thinking of doing something stupid.”

“How stupid?”

“Incredibly.”

A beat passes.

Finally he blinks up to your eyes, searching for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet. You wait, just as you’ve always waited, to hear his voice.

“It’s almost midnight,” he says, flexing the leather gloved hand at his side. “I should go.”

Everything sinks.

The crowd outside grows louder as people depart from their private rooms to celebrate in the middle of the casino. Everyone begins the unison countdown of the final minute until the new year rings out.

The device in your hand grows heavy — a reminder of why he’s here in the first place, what Luthen will be looking for, yet your arm cannot rise to give it over.

(A few more minutes and he’ll be gone.)

To find a reason to keep him here with you would be selfish.

Instead of protesting, you nod.

“Yeah. You should go.”

He nods, too, and his throat bobs with a swallow.

Outside your door, their laughter and shouts reach a collective ten, nine, eight, seven…

Yet he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Six, five, four, three…

“Cass?”

Two.

Cassian speaks with broken finality, rushed and wanting. “I can't go without—”

You beat him to it.

Canto Bight’s cliffside casino roars with excitement of the new year while you grab the lapel of his Imperial uniform, dragging him in as he simultaneously launches his lips to yours.

The force of him smacks your head into the wall, but the stars behind your eyes aren’t from impact. It’s from the way he presses his mouth to yours, desperate to pour years of frustration and wonder into a long-awaited kiss. You whimper into it, eager to dissolve any space between you.

Cassian Andor cages your head into the palms of his gloved hands, holding you with a tenderness and strength only he can have. He groans into your mouth when he tastes you, tongue dragging along your lower lip — the neediness of it is enough to make your knees give out.

Except he drops his hands to your shoulders and spins you, pressing your chest into the wall. Using your hands to balance yourself, Cassian wastes not a second more to place his hands over yours, pinning you in place.

“We should have — opened with a fight,” he murmurs breathlessly into your ear, kissing your earlobe before bringing it into his mouth.

You bite back a moan, dropping your forehead to the wall. “If I'd known you wanted to kiss me after all this time, Cass, then I would have — gone straight past a fight and went for it.”

He chuckles behind you, letting go of your earlobe to travel kisses down the side of your neck.

“There is a lot I wanted to do back then, but I was too chickenshit to try it.”

The imagery of a lot burns into the back of your skull.

“And now?” you ask, but it’s wavered.

Cassian slows down, but his lips remain against the crook of your neck. You mourn the loss of speed, pushing your hips back to connect with his.

A hand shoots down to still your waist as his thumb runs soothing strokes into the skintight dress.

“Not here,” he decides, but it isn’t regretful. It’s determined. “When I see you again—”

“When?” you interrupt.

“When,” he enforces, squeezing your waist, “I see you again, I’ll do what I’ve been too chickenshit to do and it won’t be under a watchful eye.”

When I see you again.

You smile small, delirious in the haze of him.

“Is that a promise?”

“As good as I can make one,” he responds in earnest, turning to leave a small kiss on your cheek. “You’re not losing me so easily this time.”

And you believe him.

Misunderstandings, miscommunications — all of that hardship to end up here, of all places.

You have so much to learn.

(He has so much to hear.)

Even if this was Luthen’s doing, even if this was a test of faith, you cannot find a reason to care. Not when your lips still tingle with the kiss you’d only dreamt about your entire life.

Reaching for his arm, you gently bring his free hand to yours and place the small drive in the middle of his palm. Cassian’s chin drops to observe the tiny metal, jaw setting to its unreadable clench.

Because at the end of the night, you both still have jobs to do.

A new year.

(A new horizon.)

“Until next time,” you say, removing your hand from his.

Cassian curls his fingers over the drive, shoving the small device in his coat pocket. He flexes and raises his hand to bring it up to your cheek, cradling your face once more as he leans in for one final kiss. This time it’s softer. Timid.

The closest Cassian Andor can ever get to a promise.

He pulls away, nose to nose, and mirrors in reply.

“Until next time.”

#andor #cassian andor #cassian andor x reader #cassian andor x you #cassian andor x female reader #cassian andor x f!reader #andor tv #andor tv series #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars #andor fanfiction #cassian andor fanfiction #luthen rael #female reader #reader insert #new years eve #about you #amywritesthings

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ohbo-ohno · 8 months

Note

Congrats on 1k followers!! Your fics are amazing 🫶🏻 Can I request old Victorian mansion and seance with Johnny x reader?

1k game here

tysm for reading my stuff!!! the victorian mansion isn't exactly present here, but it's the end goal!

2.2k of Soap x Reader with an old Victorian manor & a seance (ft. scam artist reader and asshole ghost johnny. no smut!)

Your newest clients are odd. That's all you can think as you show up on their property, surveying what they claim is haunted.

Usually your clients live in just slightly run-down homes - old enough to have setting bones (or "strange sounds in the night"), some odd air circulation (cold spots), and usually on at least a bit of an incline (uneven flooring that leads to "things falling off shelves at random"). A house just old-enough to cause seemingly impossible things, but not so old that the people moving in already knew what to expect.

But this house... well, it's a bit of a different story this time. Mainly because it's not a house. It's an old RV that, quite frankly, you wouldn't even bother to try and turn on.

The couple who's hired you - Mr. and Mrs. Stewart - had told you over the phone that they planned to take the old RV on a cross-country roadtrip. Seeing it in real life, you're not sure how they ever thought that would happen even before the supposed haunting.

"Oh, fantastic!" Mrs. Stewart, whose first name you can't recall no matter how much you try, rushes up to you and away from her husband. She's middle aged - you'd guess older than forty but not quite fifty - with brown hair and gray streaks, a pair of round-rimmed glasses making her eyes look bigger than they are and a tie dye caftan. "You must be the medium, Ms...?"

You give your name with a small, hopefully non-threatening smile. Poor Mrs. Stewart looks fit to jump out of her skin at any moment, her hands twitching as she lifts them to shake your outstretched hand. She cups yours in both of hers, leaning closely to you.

"Yes, yes of course. We're so happy you agreed to a consultation! Honestly, we've just been terrified, I can't even sleep at night these days, what will all the flashing and the noise and..."

You tune her out a bit as she shakes your hand endlessly, letting your eyes run over her shoulder to her husband and your project of the night.

Mr. Stewart is at least a decade older than his missus, if not more. He's fighting a losing battle with his hairline, leaving him with one of the most insane receding hairlines you've ever seen - the man nearly has a mohawk. His khaki shorts reach his knees despite being belted nearly around the ribs, and a faded polo shirt is tucked into them.

"...and my husband doesn't believe me, you know. No, he acts like I'm insane! Hah! Can you believe that?"

When the endless rambling goes quiet for a beat, you tune back in. Years of zoning out during long winded stories from your mother have given you the great gift of hearing just enough of a speech to respond.

"Well, not all of us are true believers," you say with what you hope is a slightly wise tone. You're still not great at playing the character you've constructed, but you're getting better. At least, you're getting paid more.

Mr. Stewart lets out a loud bark of laughter, then descends into a fit of coughs. Mrs. Stewart quickly moves to his side, patting his back and ignoring the way he waves her off.

"True..." he coughs again. "True believers my ass. Honey, I told you this would be a scam! Look at her - you think a medium shows up to her clients in jeans?"

You fight a blush at that. You knew you should've changed - people are never as doubtful when you wear floor-length skirts, something about pants apparently makes people think you can't see ghosts.

Not the most unfair assumption. You can't see ghosts. But not because of your pants, because they aren't real.

But that's not what you're selling to this couple. So you duck your head a little, try to keep your smile soft. "I'm sorry my informality, Mr. Stewart, but I came as soon as I got your wife's call. This situation sounded... well, I'd hate to use the word dire, but..."

Mrs. Stewart gasps dramatically, right on cue. "Dire! Oh, Lewis, did you hear that? Oh, I told you something was wrong with this damn vehicle!"

"Honey, she's just trying to-"

You cut him off quickly. "I'm here to do whatever needs to be done." You wince at the terrible line, but hurry on. "If there's a lingering spirit here, I'll be more than happy to help them move on. If there's not, no harm to you."

"Harm to my wallet," Mr. Stewart grumbles, scowl only deepening when his wife whacks him on the arm.

"We'll pay whatever we need to to have a safe vehicle," Mrs. Stewart says, her tone very pointed. "Please, we just want to be able to start our trip. We've been looking forward to it for years now!"

"I understand," you nod sagely. "I do prefer to perform my initial inspections alone, so would you mind...?"

Mr. Stewart looks positively indignant, even as his wife begins to drag him away. "We are not leaving this girl alone with our property, Cheryl! She'll rob us blind!"

"Oh, Lewis, you've got to stop seeing the worst in people! You give us a call when you're ready for us to come back, alright?" She steps quickly back over to you, dropping a keyring in your palm. "Here. The damn thing doesn't start, but the doors still work properly."

You nod at Mrs. Stewart and give her as comforting a smile you can as she and her husband make their way over to the bus stop you'd stepped off at, leaving you alone in a dark and frankly creepy parking lot. You're not sure why they chose such a shady part of town to keep their property in, but as long as no one's around you're not going to complain.

It takes a bit of effort to yank the door open, the metal a bit warped, but you manage it without too much trouble and shut it securely behind you as you finally step into the vehicle.

It's.... kind of a dump.

You're glad you brought a flashlight, flicking it on and scanning over all the contents of the RV. You can see dust particles floating through the air and there are cobwebs in every piece of furniture that has a corner, each surface covered in a thick layer of dust.

You can't help but wonder how long it's been since anyone's even bothered to try and turn this thing on, and scowl a little to yourself. If it's been that long since someone was here, there's a good chance it's devoid of anything of value for you to nick.

You scoff and let your flashlight drop, making your way to the driver's seat and flopping into it with a sigh. If you can get the engine to start thig might not have been a total waste of time.

It takes a couple tries for you to even get the key in the ignition, and a couple more turns for the engine to do more than sputter loudly, but the old beast eventually rumbles to life, the lights on the dashboard and above your head brightening the car.

"Than God," you huff. It might be a bit of a pain to steal this hunk of junk, but if you can manage it... well, it would be nice to not have to shell out money for motels every couple of nights. "Full tank of gas," you hum to yourself, frowning a bit at the little gauge. For some reason that strikes you as odd.

"Where you takin' us?"

You scream at the sudden voice behind you, jumping nearly a foot out of the chair as you whirl around.

There's a man standing in the middle of the RV. Tall and young, with broad shoulders and a dark brown mohawk.

And he's transparent. Well, at least partly transparent. The soft yellow glow of the cabin gives him an odd coloration, and you can... oh God, you can see the door to the back through him.

You can't speak. You're left standing there, gaping a bit like a fish, and staring with wide-eyes.

"Well, lass?" He asks, smirk growing on his half-there lips. He takes a few steps forward, hooks his arms around the passenger and driver's chairs and leans forward into your space.

You yelp as you jerk back, landing on the dash board and brandishing your flashlight as a weapon.

"Get the fuck away from me!" You shout, heart nearly beating out of your chest.

"Och," he tilts his head, adopts a fake-hurt expression. "But aren't you the medium? Thought your job was to make contact with ghosts. C'mon then, bonnie." His grin gets... almost salacious as he leans as close as he can to you, nearly brushing noses. "Make contact."

You can't believe it. Honest to God, you think you might've died. There's simply no way you're really seeing a ghost, and there's doubly no way that that ghost is flirting with you.

He seems disappointed by your lack of response, leaning back and letting his expression fall to a more neutral expression. "Not into it then?"

You shake your head as best you can.

He sighs dramatically, like you've done him a terrible inconvenience. "Alright then. Well, if you want to take this thing, you're only taking it to one place."

You still can't quite manage words. Even as he steps to the side, throwing himself into the passenger's seat and somehow not slipping through.

"I wouldn't mind a bit of a roadtrip with you," he goes on, heedless of your shaking and overall terror. "You're not a bad view. But this piece of shite is only going one place. If you don't want to go there, you can get out now."

It takes you a minute to work up the nerve to speak. "Wh...where?"

His eyes flick to you, and he grins again. "My home - nice old house on a hill, left to me by my granny. I was on my way there when the bawbags who own this car ran me down. Didn't even stop to make sure I was alright, can you believe that?"

You shake your head, a little numb as you slip into the driver's seat. You're unintentionally facing him, and he angles his body more towards you and laces his hands between his kness.

"You take me to my home, and I'll let you go. How's that sound?"

"You can't..." you lick dry lips, work a little more moisture into your mouth. "You can't drive yourself?"

He makes an angry noise, leans back against the window and crosses his arms. His legs - intangible as they might be - are long enough to rest on either side of your feet.

"Can't touch anything anymore." You'd almost call his expression pouty, if a ghost could be such a thing. "Can do anythin' else to this thing - turn it on, play music, make it hotter than hell, but can't drive the damn thing."

The lights flicker above you as his tone gets more angered, and you suck in a quick breath.

"Alright," you breathe, hoping maybe he'll calm down and not... what? Blow up the RV? What's the worst case scenario here. "I want to leave town, you want someone to drive you out of town. I can do that."

He eyes you, a little suspicious gleam in what look like they might've been blue eyes once. "You're taking this very well. You met other ghosts before?"

You can't help the laugh that bursts out of you, wiping a hand down your face. "No. No, as a matter of fact, I didn't think ghosts were a thing until about five minutes ago."

A little smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. "Well, rough day for you then, huh?"

You giggle a little hysterically. "You could say that again. Where's your house, anyway?"

You turn to face forward, moving the chair up so you can comfortable reach the wheel as he rights himself in his seat too.

"Oh, it's a stunning thing. Old Victorian building, up on a hill like in all the best movie. Gran always said her own pa built the place, but I'm not so sure myself. Figure if I'm stuck haunting anything, it might as well be that."

"Sounds pretty," you hum, pulling the car out of the parking lot. It's not easy to drive, but you try and keep the jerky starts and stops to a minimum.

"Oh, it is, lass. We MacTavish's have been up there for centuries now, if Gran's to be believed. Might even get to see her again, if this whole ghost thing works out."

"MacTavish?"

You see him grin as he leans forward, holding out a hand. "Johnny MacTavish, ghost extraordinaire, at your service. Long as you take me where I want to go, you and I will get along just fine."

You glance over at him as you pull up to a stop sign. You introduce yourself, reaching out to grasp his hand. It doesn't.... quite work. There's something there, certainly, but it sends shivers up your spine when you try to grab it, and you feel almost like you've been doused in ice water.

He pulls you a little closer by the odd not-quite grip, grin sharpening as he nearly brushes noses with you.

"You try and trick me, lass," he rumbles, lights flickering above you. "You might just find yourself trapped in here with me."

#1k celebration #these are getting written SLOWLY but they are getting written! promise!#soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #cod fanfic #bo writes

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ak-vintage · 2 months

Text

Quarry - Chapter 1

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: Reader is Mando's bounty, minor peril, threats of violence, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

It was over.

Countless rotations it had taken you to plan your escape. Stolen hours when you were meant to be elbows deep in the bowels of a customer’s starship had instead been spent discretely stashing supplies in hidden corners of the hangar. Endless nights and scores of hours of sleep had been sacrificed to mulling over your options as you lay in your bunk, devising one strategy after another. You would only get one chance. When your moment came, you knew you couldn’t let it pass you by.

And you hadn’t. You had done it. A satchel full of ration packs, a canteen, and the clothes on your back had been all you had to your name, but you had managed to stow away aboard a freighter, wedged into the maintenance access crawlspace near one of the escape pods. Forty-eight hours you spent jammed between the bulkheads, breathing as quietly as you could manage and not daring to move any more than was needed to open and delicately sip from your canteen. When you felt the tell-tale jolt of the ship dropping out of hyperspace, the wave of relief that passed over you had made you nearly faint.

That had been over a month ago according to this planet’s local calendar. In that time, you had found yourself a bed at a local hostel. You had landed a job at a cantina clearing tables – perhaps not the best use of your skillset, but it paid, and to say you needed credits would be an understatement. You had even managed to save enough money to replace the pair of work boots you had been wearing for nearly a decade and had taped back together more times than you could count.

Freedom agreed with you. It was the easiest you had breathed, the soundest you had slept, since you were a child.

And now it was over. It had all been for nothing.

The bounty puck on the bar hummed quietly as it projected your image into the air above it, the blue hologram flickering, your name printed in red below your expressionless face.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the man who had presented you with the puck reach into his utility belt and pull out a tracking fob. The red beacon was blinking rapidly as he pointed it at you, the incessant beeping nearly inaudible over the sounds of the cantina. But even as he stood there, clearly expecting some kind of response from you, all you could do was stare at your own face in the hologram. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, could feel your hands start to tremble uncontrollably. This couldn’t be how it ended. You had worked so hard –

“I said, this is you?”

You started, wrenching your eyes from the buzzing bounty puck to the man before you. He was tall, broad, and clearly humanoid, and he was clad head to toe in gleaming beskar armor, his face hidden behind a helmet with a distinctive black, T-shaped visor. Even in your brief survey of his appearance, you could see no less than four weapons stashed across his body. A set of binder restraints was clipped to his belt.

You gulped audibly. A Mandalorian. They had sent a Mandalorian after you.

There was only one thing you could do. You had to try to run.

In the same instant this occurred to you, it seemed that the Mandalorian had a similar thought.

“It will be worse for you if you try to escape,” he said, his voice low and modulated through the vocoder in his helmet. He made a movement as if to reach for the binders. “Best if you come quietly.”

Not kriffing likely.

Before you could consider it further, you spun around, grabbed ahold of a rung on the closest liquor shelf behind the bar, and threw your weight back. The heavy steel shelf tipped precariously and then, with an incredible crash, fell forward. You dodged out of the way just in time to avoid the shower of shattering liquor bottles, more than one breaking on the helmet and pauldrons of the bounty hunter before you.

“Dank farrik,” you heard him curse, but you didn’t stay long enough to see how he fared. Instead, you leaped over the bar and bolted toward the rear exit.

You had never been much of a runner, but you were nimble, and this was your cantina. It was just after shift change at the local lommite mine, which meant that the place was packed with patrons of all species dressed in bulky safety gear and carrying dusty equipment packs that made it difficult to navigate between the tables. Ducking and weaving through the crowd, it took you only a moment to reach the door.

You were tempted to glance over your shoulder as the exit door slid open, but the sound of shouting and arguing behind you was enough to tell you that you were being pursued. Instead, you took off running down the back alleyway.

There was no way you were going to outrun him. You had never encountered a Mandalorian personally, but you had heard enough stories to know that they were fierce hunters – clever, resourceful, and at the peak of physical fitness. Your only hope would be to lose him in the maze of buildings that made up this part of town. This area was densely populated, the buildings packed in close together and laid out in such a way that it was clear that very little planning had gone into the design of the neighborhood.

Take him on a wild bantha chase, you thought, your breath starting to come short in your chest, your legs starting to ache. Take turns at random, change levels when you can, try to make it back to the hostel. Get your pack. Head to the nearest space depot. Get off planet. Start again.

You could do it. You could start again. This didn’t have to be the end of your freedom.

You could hear heavy footsteps behind you.

He was faster than you. He was closing in.

Nearly skidding into a wall, you threw yourself down the next alley, pushing your arms and legs to pump as hard they could. You were getting out of the mining district and into the market district; stalls and carts began to pop up along the walls as you continued to run. You dodged them with ease, but a dozen yards behind you, you could hear chaos erupt as beskar crashed unceremoniously through wood and fabric. If you hadn’t been so out of breath, you would have laughed.

Your joy, however, was short-lived.

As you came careening around the next corner, you found yourself inches away from a moving produce cart being pulled by a rolo droid. You had come in too fast – by the time you saw it, there was no way to stop.

In an instant, you slammed bodily into the cart, bending over the side and flipping headfirst into the pile of what appeared to be some kind of vegetable. The rolo droid squealed in protest, beeping and whirring and spinning in place, but you couldn’t be bothered trying to apologize.

The impact had knocked the wind out of your lungs – you gasped ineffectually, clutching your ribs as you attempted to work up the strength to fling yourself out of the bed of the cart. Every second spent trying to catch your breath was another second for your pursuer to close the distance between you. But it didn’t matter in the end – you weren’t fast enough. The moment you managed to get your arms under you, you heard a faint fwip cut through the air, and a grappling line wrapped snuggly around your leg.

A sharp tug, and you were yanked from the cart and onto the ground. Another, and you began to skid down the coarse pavement of the alley floor. Your arms flew out, scrabbling against the stones, but it was no use. Before you could figure out which way was up, the heavily armored figure of the Mandalorian bounty hunter was hovering over you, the setting sun glinting harshly off his beskar helmet. The grappling line was retreating into his vambrace.

Wordlessly, he stepped forward, planting his boot on the line near where it wrapped around you, effectively trapping you at his feet. You could do nothing but lay gasping on the ground, glaring poisonously at his helmet in what you hoped was the direction of his eyes.

“Put on the binders, or I’ll do it for you,” he said, unhooking them from his belt and tossing them onto your heaving stomach. Bitterness burned in your gut at the sound of his modulated voice. He didn’t even sound like the chase had taxed him at all; he was completely unphased. “And I won’t be gentle,” he added.

You swallowed hard. It really was over.

After a moment of silence, you clasped the binder cuffs around your wrists – one then the other. They glowed blue against your skin, tight, cold, and heavy.

The Mandalorian reached down then and wrapped his leather gloved hand around the connector in the center of the binders. With what appeared to be very little effort, he hauled you to your feet. He permitted you a moment to steady yourself before tugging once more on the grappling wire still around your leg. It slid limply away, and he deftly tied the end around the binders, creating a makeshift leash.

“Let’s go,” he muttered. And with a firm pull on the wire, he set off down the alley, you trailing reluctantly along behind him.

___

As you expected, he led you to the yards on the other side of town, specifically the ones intended for short-term docking. He stopped only once along the way, grabbing several skewers of cooked meat from a street vendor near the terminal. For a wild moment, you expected him to offer you one, but instead he took half of the skewers and stuck them into the small brown satchel he wore across his body. He kept the remainder in his hand, but made no move to eat them, which you found odd.

Had you been in a quieter part of town, you might have heard a wet swallowing sound and a high-pitched gurgle of approval coming from the vicinity of that satchel. As it was, however, you simply continued to follow your captor in silence.

The docking yard was as you remembered it – congested and impossibly loud. Species of all varieties milled about, standing in line to board their transporters, searching for their luggage on long conveyor belts, chasing small children, and arguing with the ticket and security droids that lined the terminal. It had been easy to blend into the chaos when you arrived. No one had batted an eye at the sight of your body slipping awkwardly out of a maintenance port on the underbelly of freighter. Now that you had returned, however, you couldn’t help but feel as though the crowd hushed as you passed. Perhaps it was simply the humiliation of being dragged through the throng on the end of a bounty hunter’s leash like a charhound, but you were certain that you caught more than one judgment-filled gaze as you passed.

The Mandalorian led you through the crush of people with confidence. It didn’t take long for you to realize that his ship must have been parked further down the terminal, for as you continued following behind him, the crowd began to thin, the massive ships designed for transporting large numbers of people falling away and being replaced with smaller personal transport vessels. It wasn’t until your eyes landed on a pre-Imperial patrol gunship that had clearly seen better days that you realized that this was where you were headed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath, taking in the patchwork hull, the fading paint job, the countless dents, the blaster marks… You weren’t entirely certain of the specific make, but you knew it fell into the ST-70 class of assault ships. Then again, you wondered, did it matter what it was if it looked ready to fall out of the sky at the slightest provocation?

The Mandalorian glanced sharply at you over his shoulder, and your heart jumped into your throat. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to talk smack about your captor’s ship.

Luckily, you were saved from having to answer for that comment by the sound of a small, blue Rodian dressed in a dock worker’s uniform calling out in Huttese.

“Uba bata shado, murishani,” he said, nodding to the bounty hunter in greeting. You’re back quickly, bounty hunter. Or at least, that is what you thought he said. Your Huttese had always been rather rudimentary.

Your escort pulled up short at this, his head tilted and his shoulders stiff.

“Well, I’m good at my job,” he said, a hint of hesitance in his voice, as though unsure how to respond.

The Rodian replied, once again in Huttese, but there was enough in that sentence that you didn’t understand that you refused to even attempt to translate it. The Mandalorian, however, had no such issues.

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve been docked here less than three hours. I’m not paying you for the whole day.” His deep, raspy voice buzzed through his vocoder. The revelation left a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. Less than three hours. Less than three hours it had taken him to find you, even in a city of this size. A part of you wondered if that was more of a reflection on his skill as a bounty hunter, or if perhaps it said something about your skill as a fugitive.

Oblivious to your distress, the two went back and forth for a few moments, the dock worker in Huttese, the bounty hunter in Basic.

After a time of seemingly no progress, the latter said decisively, “I’ll pay for a half day, but no more.” He took a step into the Rodian’s space, dragging you stumbling behind him. The reptilian made an offended noise, clearly about to continue to protest, but he was stopped short by the Mandalorian swiping aside his cape and hovering his hand threateningly over his holstered blaster. “I think that’s more than reasonable, don’t you?”

A beat of silence passed as you glanced between your captor and the dock worker. He appeared to be weighing the offer and the potential risk of continuing to argue, but before long, the tension left his body, and he extended his hand toward the Mandalorian in resignation. “Okey-okey. Wamma tonka.”

The bounty hunter nodded once and produced what appeared to be some denomination of New Republic credit from his pocket. Dropping it into the Rodian’s waiting hand, he gave a tug to your grappling line and pulled you toward the shabby gunship.

___

“Tell me, are you going to attempt to run again?”

It was the first thing the Mandalorian had said to you since he had taken you captive. It had taken little time for the two of you to board his ship once he resolved the issue with the dock worker, and he had just managed to pull up the exit ramp and close the blast doors. Interestingly, he had also stashed his few remaining meat skewers from the street vendor in what appeared to be a chilled rations locker that sank into the port-side wall.

Now, he stared intently at you, his hands on his hips and his helmet cocked at an angle, as though contemplating what to do with you next. You were still attached to his grappling wire by your binder restraints, though he admittedly had given you a bit more slack in the line once you were securely locked up in the belly of the ST-70.

You mimicked his stance as best as you could while still bound at the wrists and attempted to project a confidence you weren’t sure that you truly felt.

“What do you think?” you asked, your voice as even and neutral as you could make it.

He seemed to consider the question for a moment before replying, “I think you’ve already put up more of a fight than I expected.”

A thrill shot through you at that – a quick zing of pride that even though you hardly seemed to have been much of a challenge for him, you still had managed to subvert his expectations of you. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “Then I think you have your answer.”

It was the truth, and you knew that he knew it, too. If given the opportunity, you would try to run again. You had fought and planned for too long to give up on your freedom this easily.

Something like a grunt of displeasure sounded through his modulator, and suddenly his posture was less relaxed, becoming straighter and more intimidating. “Fine,” he rasped.

With a sharp yank on the grappling wire, he tugged you toward him, knocking you off balance, and grasped firmly onto your shoulders.

“Hey, what’re you – ”

As the question started to leave your lips, your eyes landed on the padded recess in the starboard-side wall. You didn’t know how you had missed it when you first entered the ship. It was just deep enough for most full-grown bipedal species to stand inside. Several color-coded gas canisters lined the edges of the recess, dispenser funnels pointed inward.

“No,” you whispered, the breath suddenly stolen from your lungs.

A mobile carbonite freezing unit. You had only seen a handful of ships in your lifetime equipped with one. He was going to freeze you.

“Oh, kriff – no, no, no, wait, you can’t – ” Panic rose in your chest, threatening to suffocate you even before the pressurized gases could manage to surround you. Immediately, you began to struggle against his grasp – twisting and throwing your weight, beating your bound fists against his hard, shining breastplate.

Silently, mercilessly, almost easily, the Mandalorian wrestled you into the unit and punched the activation controls.

Your eyes slammed shut and a scream caught in your throat as ice-cold gas shot from the canisters nearest your feet. And then –

…nothing.

A beat passed. Silence. No carbonite panels. No freezing gases designed to hold you in place, in stasis, until someone decided to free you. There was just…nothing.

You gasped, your eyes flying open and quickly scanning your surroundings. A shrill beeping sound came from a control panel somewhere near your head.

“W-what happened?” you stammered, a wave of knee-weakening relief threatening to overtake you. “Why did it stop?”

“Damn it,” your jailer muttered. One hand came up to bear down against your sternum, keeping you pressed firmly back against the padded chamber. The other was aggressively thumbing at the protesting control panel.

A breathless, slightly unhinged laugh bubbled up in your throat. “It’s malfunctioning, isn’t it? Your unit’s broken.” Perhaps your luck hadn’t run out entirely.

“Shut up.” His voice was tight, his words terse.

That wild laugh overflowed for a moment, pressing your chest into his gloved hand.

“Oh no,” you huffed in mock sympathy. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, buddy.”

The bounty hunter cursed again under his breath, slamming his fist into the carbonite unit’s control panel one last time. “For now,” he growled.

“Now what are you going to do with me?” you asked breathlessly. A strange feeling of victory continued to linger in your chest. It hadn’t been you that had caused the malfunction, of course, but you couldn’t help but feel as though somehow the points for this particular encounter should go to you. After all, the son of a mudscuffer wouldn’t be able to get rid of you so easily now.

He seemed to take a moment to deliberate, but then he was pulling you back out of the recessed chamber and instead tugging you further into the ship’s cargo hold. “Come on,” he grunted. “You’ll say here until I can get the carbonite unit repaired.”

Pressing firmly on the tops of your shoulders, he forced you to lower yourself onto the deck plating, sitting you against the wall. He had your binder cuffs separated with a few deft movements, but quicker than you could react, he was reattaching them, this time so that they looped around the base of a ladder that appeared to go to the second floor of the ship.

“And uh…what exactly am I supposed to do in the meantime?” you asked incredulously. He couldn’t really expect you to sit on the cold, unforgiving metal floor with your arms hanging awkwardly from this ladder, could he? Even if he took you right back to where you had run away from, that was a two-day journey through hyperspace. You would surely lose circulation in your limbs by then.

The Mandalorian was less than sympathetic. “Just keep quiet, and don’t bother trying to break out of that binder – you’ll break your wrists before those cuffs release. Otherwise, I don’t really care.”

“Got it, I’ll keep that in mind,” you replied. Your tone dripped with sarcasm.

“Stay put,” he reiterated, jabbing a finger at you as though he were scolding a small child.

You rolled your eyes as you watched him grasp onto the sides of the ladder, one boot stepping up onto the lowest rung. However, before he could begin to climb up to what you assumed was the cockpit, you heard a strange sound coming from somewhere on his person.

A giggle, a high-pitched, gurgling babble – like the coo of a baby.

This seemed to startle the bounty hunter, as he immediately dropped his grip on the ladder and glanced down at the brown satchel strung across his body. Your gaze followed his just in time enough to see a tiny, green, three-fingered hand wave out of the satchel before he shoved it back down. He quickly wrapped his cape around his body to conceal his torso and in doing so, the bag.

“Wait – what was that?” you demanded. He couldn’t be carrying a baby in that satchel…could he?

His only reply was a weary sigh, and before you could repeat yourself, he was up the ladder and out of sight.

___

The next several minutes following the Mandalorian’s hurried departure were almost perfectly silent. You assumed you would be taking off soon, but in the meantime, while you were still on solid ground, you couldn’t help but take a few moments to test your restraints. There would be no point once you were in the air – where exactly would you escape to, once you were in the expanse of space?

You first tried to brace the binder cuffs against the side of the ladder, tugging down as hard as you dared with both hands against the center connector. Perhaps you could force the two cuff units to separate from each other. No success, though this didn’t really surprise you – the durasteel was nearly indestructible. It would take someone a great deal stronger than you to break them.

Your next attempt was simply to try wiggling a hand out of one. It quickly became very clear that that wasn’t going to happen either. Luckily, the insides of the cuffs were lined with padding, designed to mold tightly to the form of the prisoner regardless of their size without wounding them. If they hadn’t been cushioned at all, you may have done as the bounty hunter had suggested and broken your wrist. No matter how you twisted or pulled, your hand simply would not contort into a shape small enough to slip through the cuff without injury. In fact, you would probably have bruises later from the attempt.

Cursing softly under your breath, you took a moment to survey your surroundings as you contemplated your next move. It would be too much to ask for a toolkit of some sort to be sitting around somewhere you could reach. Small tech like this binder didn’t really fall within your expertise, but you were reasonably certain that given enough time and the right equipment, you could override the release code mechanism and remove them that way. However, judging from your current predicament, the likelihood of those conditions being met was less than zero.

Just as you resigned yourself to being tied to this ladder for a bit longer, the deck plating below you started to vibrate, and the distant roaring of the gunship’s engines turning over filled your ears. You were taking off.

You braced yourself as best as you could, folding your legs up to plant your feet flat against the floor and push your torso back against the wall. Given the ship’s apparent age, you could only assume the ascent through the atmosphere would be a bumpy one, and it wasn’t as though there was any safety gear for passengers in the cargo hold. However, to your great surprise, either the Mandalorian was an exceptional pilot or the ship was sturdier than she looked. The rise through the atmosphere featured minimal turbulence, and by the time you could feel the artificial gravity and life support systems activate, there was nothing but the constant, low-frequency vibration of the engines to indicate that you were anywhere other than solid land.

A handful of minutes passed, and then you felt a swooping sensation behind your navel as your body was suddenly, briefly tugged toward the rear of the ship.

You had jumped to hyperspace.

After that, the silence returned.

In that way, this wasn’t much different than your last experience with space travel. You had been alone, cramped, uncomfortable, and frightened, with nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company, and surrounded by an almost oppressive quiet. Though you supposed you could acknowledge the improvement in the view. Rather than staring directly at the anonymous gray hull of an escape pod, this time your eyes had a whole cargo hold to explore.

Really, there wasn’t much to see. The Mandalorian seemed to run quite a bare-bones operation. To your right appeared to be most of the storage space on the ship. A few wall panels that likely pulled out when pressed, as the cooler locker had when you first boarded, a stack of gray cargo bins that had slid to the back of the hold during the hyperspace jump, and, of course, the dreaded mobile carbonite freezing unit in the starboard wall. You suppressed a chill and sent a brief thank-you into the universe that you hadn’t been subjected to that.

Directly across from where you sat tied to the ladder was a large silver cabinet, the contents of which you could only guess at. All you knew was that it must have been important, as it took up the most amount of space in the hold by far and appeared to be under a coded lock.

Finally, to your left, fully open and exposed to the rest of the room, was a somewhat grimy multi-species vacuum ship head as well as an alcove where a thin, bare bunk had been tucked away. You balked at the apparent lack of a full refresher, or at the very least a sonic shower. Did this man who spent all his time wrapped head-to-toe in armor (which you had noticed was also layered on top of a padded flight suit) really not have a way to get clean on his own ship? Silently you hoped you would never get close enough to him to experience the consequences of that choice.

Just as you were starting to contemplate the humiliating eventuality of needing to use that exposed ship head, the sound of footsteps could be heard echoing off the deck plating above you. A distant hiss sounded, like the sliding of a blast door, and in the next moment, the Mandalorian was climbing back down the ladder.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” you said, feeling your eyebrows raise as you looked up at him.

At first, he didn’t respond. Instead, he gave you a once-over when he reached the bottom, clearly assessing whether you had attempted to escape. Finding you precisely where he had left you seemed to satisfy him, and he nodded once in your direction before making his way back over to the cooler locker he had opened earlier. Opening it, he retrieved the remaining meat skewers from the street vendor as well a couple of assorted ration bars.

For a moment, you thought he might go right back up the ladder without saying a word to you. However, once he kicked the cooler locker closed, he reached out and passed one of the ration bars into your bound hand. “Here,” he said, the voice floating through his helmet low and a touch raspy. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Oh.” Blatant surprise colored your tone before you were able to school your expression. “Thank you.”

His helmet tipped in acknowledgement, but he said nothing.

A beat of silence passed, almost as though he was waiting on you to say more. When you didn’t, he took a few steps back toward the ladder, readying himself to climb back up into the cockpit.

“Wait,” you blurted. You had to know – before he hid himself away again, you had to ask, “Are you taking me back? Back to Chardaan?”

The bounty hunter paused, seeming somewhat taken aback by your question. He backed away from the ladder, instead moving across from you to lean back against that large silver cabinet you had noted earlier. Cocking his head to the side, he considered you for a moment, then replied, “No.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “No?” you echoed.

“You were the first of my bounties on this hunt. I’ll need to collect the others before I can return to my guild agent and make the exchange,” he explained. “He’ll be the one to ensure you make it back where you came from.”

A bolt of relief shot through you at this revelation. You still had time. He wasn’t taking you straight back there. Your freedom hadn’t entirely abandoned you. There is still a chance…

“How many more are you after?” you asked, struggling to keep your voice neutral.

The bounty hunter paused, seeming to mull over how much he wanted to share. After a minute, he said, “Six.”

In spite of the careful control you were trying to exert over your facial expressions, your jaw dropped at the number. You had never heard of a Bounty Hunters’ Guild member carrying more than four pucks at a time. “That feels like a lot all at once.”

He shrugged, the gesture emphasized by his shining beskar pauldrons. “I’ve been working with this agent a long time, and it’s going to be a while before I’m able to pick up more work. Plus, this lot includes a few lower-level quarries. Shouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

“‘Lower-level quarries’?” you repeated. “What, you mean like me?”

“Yes. Like you,” he replied. You could swear his modulated voice sounded smug, though perhaps you were projecting. Something about your classification as “low-level” made your hackles raise. Not just anyone could have escaped from Chardaan the way you did…

You looked away from him at that, your cheeks burning, and busied yourself instead with examining the ration bar he had placed in your hand. You weren’t familiar with the brand, though it hardly mattered, as you had seen bars like this more times than you could count. Nutrient-dense, packed with protein, vitamins, and carbohydrates. Hopelessly bland. Somehow both fudgy and crumbly at once. They were designed for deep space travel and, although efficient and sensible, you couldn’t help but feel a touch of dread looking at the one in your hand.

“That’s not poisoned, you know.”

The sound of the Mandalorian’s voice startled you out of your thoughts, and you glanced back up at him to see him watching you with something like confusion in his body language.

“If I had wanted to kill you, I would have by now. Poisoning isn’t exactly my style,” he added.

You almost chuckled at that. Perhaps this tin can had a sense of humor after all. “I don’t see you eating yours,” you retorted, staring pointedly at the bars he still held in his gloved hand. “I’m supposed to just trust that these are safe for me?”

“I don’t eat in front of others. I’ll eat when I get back to the cockpit.”

That comment did make you smile. “Ah, but you’re not the only one in the cockpit…are you?”

His posture straightened immediately. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was back to that cool, firm tone you had become accustomed to from him.

Gotcha.

“That thing you had in your bag. I know you didn’t want me to see it, but…” you trailed off, shrugging slightly.

“That’s none of your concern,” he snapped. The response left no room for debate, but you didn’t mind. It was enough for now that he had confirmed that you weren’t, in fact, losing your mind when you saw that little green hand emerging from his satchel earlier.

“Okay, whatever you say, boss.” You were sure you would learn more about that mysterious creature eventually. After all, it looked like you were going to be stuck with the Mandalorian for a while…

“Don’t call me ‘boss,’” was his only reply. His stance was tense, irritated.

You quirked an eyebrow at him. Perhaps…perhaps you should have been playing it a bit safer. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to provoke your captor, not when he quite literally held the keys to your future freedom in his hands. But…it was more fun than it should be to push his buttons.

“Well, what should I call you, then?” you asked. “I don’t exactly know your name.”

A somewhat exasperated sigh buzzed through his vocoder. “People call me Mando.”

You snorted at that. “Mando? What, like short for ‘Mandalorian’?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not really your name, is it?” It couldn’t be. There was no way.

“It’s what people call me,” he reiterated tersely.

That is not what I asked, you thought, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a chuckle. This guy was like a character out of a holovid. Masked, stoic, almost comically mysterious.

“Fine. So, what’s next then, Mando? On to the next bounty?”

He shook his head. “Not quite. My carbonite unit is malfunctioning.”

You smirked, feeling that same surge of unearned victory from earlier rise in your chest. “You don’t say.”

“I can’t continue with the hunt until it is repaired,” he continued, completely ignoring your sarcasm.

“Why not? You seem to have handled me just fine without it.” You shook your arms, loudly jangling your durasteel binder against the ladder for emphasis.

“You, yes,” the bounty hunter acknowledged. “But this lot isn’t just low-level bounties. There are some that are…higher risk. Some that I’m going to need that additional insurance for.”

All of the good humor that had been building up inside you throughout this verbal sparring match evaporated at that, and a pit formed in your stomach.

Not for the first time, you took a moment to appraise your captor. He cut a powerful image – his flowing black cape, his fine armor that you would guess was worth more than your life, his purposefully anonymous face. It was also impossible to miss that he was armed to the teeth, even while in hyperspace, even while standing in the cargo hold of his own ship. The ferocity of Mandalorian warriors was legendary. He was clearly a formidable opponent. It made sense to you that this man would be someone skilled enough to bring in the…high-risk quarries.

The bounty hunter allowed you both to sit in silence for a moment as the reality of your situation settled in. This man was dangerous. This job was dangerous. And you were stuck along for the ride, at least for now, whether you liked it or not.

After a moment, he sighed and pushed away from the cabinet, once again making his way toward the ladder. “Eat your food,” he said, his tone somehow both commanding and…soft? Gentle? “I’ll be back later to start on repairs.”

He had climbed all the way up and reached the landing outside of the cockpit before you managed to call out, “Mando?”

A pause, and then, “Yes?”

You swallowed hard. “If you are able to fix it…are you going to freeze me?”

Your question echoed off the bulkheads, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

“Are you going to try to run again?” he asked.

You closed your eyes and rested your head on the nearest ladder rung. Yes, you wanted to say. Of course I am. It was on the tip of your tongue. I am going to try to run every chance you give me.

But…you didn’t reply.

He waited a moment or two, and then you heard the hissing sound of blast doors opening, the echo of his footsteps on the deck, and you knew he had disappeared back into the cockpit.

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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tinyluminaryzombie · 10 months

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@jilymicrofics | August Prompt 21 | 684 words

“And how’s my favorite radical?”

The coffee shop was already bustling when Lily entered. Three months ago, she’d made a New Year's Resolution to treat herself more (within reason). Since then, her semi-weekly walks to Three Broomsticks Cafe have served as a respite from deary memos and disappointing memos. The distractingly cute owner doesn't hurt either.

“Don’t be silly, James. Radicals don’t wear iron-pressed suits.”

“You know you’re my hero, Evans.”

The second time she visited Three Broom Sticks was for a chocolate fix after a terrible day at work. At 7 pm, the cafe was cleared out. The quiet, mixed with James's soft smile and delicious pastries put her at ease.

So much so that Lily started ranting about her day.

Since then, James has always asked her for work updates. He also couldn't get over her job as legislative director at a large climate nonprofit. Which, yeah, was a terrific ego boost. Lily knows it's impressive, especially at 28. It's another thing to have James tell her.

Bantering with James was becoming one of her favorite things. but t it was also one of the most confusing; did James just like the job or did he like her? And no, despite her friend's instance, Lily refused to make a move. She would not be the creepy customer hitting on the barista/pastry chef/owner, no matter how gorgeous, sweet, and funny he was.

“You with me, Lily?”

Lily shook her head, hoping it looked like she was surveying the options instead of fantasizing.

“Yep! Present as always,” she managed with a smile.

“Great.” James started tapping his fingers on the counter. “Um— I know you’re busy saving the world—“

“James.”

“— No, I’m right and you know it,” he continues forcing a soft dose of eye contact that made her blush.

“Anyways... We’re having a community organization night tonight, it was actually my brother’s idea! There are a lot of people who want to get involved with their community but aren’t exactly sure how to, hence the community org night. It’s in a week and I thought you could do a table? Maybe make heroes out of us?”

James paused, dragging his hand through his black hair. “Um...I know you’re busy but it would be great to have you!”

Lily was ashamed that her first thought was “I want to touch his hair.” She’s a professional for god’s sake! What’s worse was that her second thought was “how can I make this work?” As legislative director, Lily doesn’t interact much with volunteers. However, the outreach and volunteer coordinator happened to be her former roommate and current best friend. If she brought James’s event during this week’s leadership meeting she doubts anyone would tell her not to go, especially Mary.

“How many people are you expecting?” Lily quickly asked, already preparing the meeting.

James looked almost bashful. “Right now we have 120 RSVPs, which is kind of all this place can fit.”

Damn, Lily thought. It made sense, though. Everyone loved Three Broomsticks and its energy, with community-made art, pride flags, and unique mugs.

“I’m in!”

Suddenly, James had reached over the counter and swung his arms around her shoulders. She leaned into him just as he froze up.”

“Shit, shit!” James exclaimed as he recoiled.

Lily couldn’t get a word in before he started talking, pulling the stands of his hair. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe— so unprofessional of me!”

“James it’s fine. All good.”

“I was just really excited that you’re coming, I hope you still are,” James said with a forced laugh.

“Of course I am! I’m about two seconds away from it being in the Google Calendar— then you know it’s official,” Lily joked. James just nodded.

“Well anyways, here’s your regular, it’s on me today.”

Lily wanted to argue but James was practically begging her to leave. Their flirty banter had dissipated in seconds she couldn't fix it. Instead, she thanked him, tipped what she would have paid, and promised to be back in a few days.

Somehow this particular trip wasn’t as restorative as her others.

#so this just happened #and i kinda like it #might make into larger oneshot when I have the time #i like half proof read this so apologies for any typos #anywaysss #lily is a badass #and james loves it #jily microfic #jily oneshot #jily fic #jily modern au #jily coffee shop au #lily evans #james potter #marauder era au #my fic #my jily fic

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suddencolds · 1 year

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Loose Ends | Genshin Impact

Happy (late now, I'm sorry!) birthday, @caughtintherain!! I hope it was a good one! :) ❤️

I am hopelessly behind on archon quests (I haven't officially met Kaveh or exchanged more than a few sentences with Al-Haitham) and Genshin as a whole; hence, I feel super unqualified to be writing this. (The last time I wrote anything for Genshin was over a year ago—how time flies!)

That said, please take this Kavetham / Haikaveh fic ft. sick Kaveh—it was fun to try my hand at writing new characters after so long; I hope this is okay!

—

It is only, as far as Kaveh is concerned, a mild cold.

It starts off with a slight twinge in his throat, a rasp to his voice, a headache that a daytime nap can’t shake off. Small annoyances, but nothing more than an inconvenience—the slight hoarseness to his voice is barely noticeable after he clears his throat, and the good thing about the headache and the sore throat are that they don’t show, which means that while he takes extra care to keep his distance with clients, he looks no less presentable than usual.

It’s not exactly his intention to push himself, but he doesn’t go out of his way to take things easy, either. He has plenty of things to worry about already—a meeting with a client to go over a second round of design proposals, and before that, several new alternative proposals to sketch out, in light of the client’s feedback on his initial sketches. Then there’s the delivery of materials to worry about for a different project—he needs to go through the materials to make sure that they line up with the load-bearing calculations he’s done and then, in the following few days, supervise the construction of its most basic foundations. Everything—the delivery, the work he’s paid for in construction, the meetings he’s added to his calendar—is on a tight schedule, and Kaveh has no intention of going back on his promises.

It’s for that reason that he stays up a couple nights in a row finishing the sketches. Kaveh is nothing if not thorough—he considers both aesthetic presentation and practicality in tandem, makes small adjustments to the building at hand, from its most basic foundations to its exterior qualities—sloping roofs and high, curved windows, its circular stairwells and wide, elegant columns. He thinks, too, on how to present his work—his client had said that the first round of designs had seemed too extravagant and asked for something more subtle and understated, but Kaveh believes that even buildings which appear unremarkable can be thoughtful and elegant in their subtleties. The challenge is just in the execution.

And it’s for that reason that he ignores the harsh, grating cough that develops, the headache which only seems to worsen, the exhaustion that he can’t quite seem to shake—then again, is that not just to be expected, when it’s been days since he’s had a proper night’s rest? He’d certainly had his fair share of late night work at the Academiya, back when he’d frequently stay up late to help other students with their work—a little tiredness isn’t anything he’s not accustomed to.

On the third day, when he wakes up congested and shivering, when every subsequent sneeze scrapes at his throat, when he finds himself dizzy and too-hot in such a manner that suggests he might be running a fever, he waves off all of these things, gathers his latest sketches, and heads out into town just before dawn for the meeting.

It goes well enough—he can tell his client takes well to the new sketches for the way she surveys his designs, her eyes bright, and asks him about the feasibility of several new features. The new adjustments will be more work—more work with a quick turnaround, if he intends to keep everything up to their initial schedule—but that doesn’t bother him. If anything, he takes a little pride in the fact that the sketch she’s picked out is one that she is interested enough in to consider adding to it.

Their back and forth takes longer than planned, and by the time he leaves, his voice is slightly hoarse from overuse, his throat so sore that just speaking is enough to make him cough. His client wishes him well—actually, she tells him to get some rest, and to take his time on his next round of drafts, but also taking into account the work he has with supervising construction, he really ought to hurry things up to keep both projects coming along.

When Kaveh finally steps out from the building, it’s raining hard.

Of course today, of all days, he doesn’t have an umbrella on him. Just his luck. Al-Haitham will laugh him into his grave. But he can’t exactly wait out the rain, even if he wishes to—he has lots to do, preferably in the quiet space of his own study, and there’s no guarantee that this inclement weather will let up anytime soon.

So Kaveh does all he can, in this situation—he makes sure his manuscripts are all securely locked up in his briefcase. Then he books it.

It’s not a long run, but it’s raining hard enough that by the time he arrives before the front door, his clothes are soaked. He wrings the rainwater out of his cape, sets his briefcase down gingerly, and reaches for his keys.

The house—Al-Haitham’s house, technically, though Kaveh doesn’t like to refer to it as such—is very quiet when he steps inside. The lights are off in the central living room, and as far as he can see, there’s no one in the kitchen, or Al-Haitham’s bedroom, or the study. Probably Al-Haitham is out, still, finishing up the day’s work.

Kaveh gets changed.

It’s a good thing, he thinks, that Al-Haitham isn’t home to see how he’s shivering so hard that it takes longer than usual to loosen his cape, to unclasp his belt, to pull his shirt over his head. It’s a good thing that Al-Haitham isn’t home to hear the loud—terribly loud—sneezes that tear through him (too loud, he thinks, to be neatly contained within the four walls of his bedroom), nor the harsh, fitful coughs that he’s been muffling into his elbow all morning. if he were, surely Kaveh would never hear the end of it.

It’s a small consolation that his sketches are dry, at least—safely locked up inside his briefcase, which at least offers the most basic protection against the elements. The new, dry clothes he picks out are a relief, too, once he changes into them. But his hair is still wet, and even though he’s changed, he finds he can’t stop shivering.

He really is a mess, he thinks.

But no one has to know. Not his clients, nor the agencies he’s worked with, nor his mentors and his peers from the Academiya, and certainly not Al-Haitham, so long as Kaveh resolves to stay out of his way. If he can produce a sketch of the building’s layout which exceeds his client’s layout expectations, his situation is irrelevant; the head cold he feels brewing is entirely inconsequential.

So he takes a seat at his desk, reviews his notes from today’s meeting, and gets to work.

—

The next few hours are less than optimal. More than once, he finds himself on the verge of dozing off, snaps awake from the pencil in his hand arcing from a steady, intentional line to a shaky tangent. Eventually, he resigns himself to keeping his head propped up on one hand as he works, if only to keep himself awake.

His head hurts fiercely. There’s a small part of him—a part which he diligently elects to ignore—which tells him that it’d probably go away much faster if he’d allowed himself some proper rest. He can rest when he’s finished, he tells himself, but judging by his current progress, that won’t be anytime soon.

He’s so focused on his work—or, rather, so distracted by the headache, with the chills he can’t quite seem to shake—that he barely hears the front door open.

Barely, which is to say, he notices it still. Al-Haitham had advised him last night to get some rest—a thoughtful enough remark taken alone, if only it were not immediately followed with something along the lines of, It is in my own best interest if you don’t keep me up all night coughing. As if his noise-canceling headphones would not be a suitable—convenient, even—solution to that.

Just for that, Kaveh resolves to keep quiet, now. Just for that, he stifles each subsequent sneeze, muffles every ensuing cough as quietly as possible into his arm. If Al-Haitham has any complaints for all the noise he’s making, at least he can say he’d attempted to be quiet.

Barely half an hour goes by before he hears the knock on his door.

Kaveh clears his throat. “Come in,” he says.

Al-Haitham does—he steps fully inside and shuts the door behind him. “Kaveh,” he says.

Kaveh sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess. I’m being too loud,” he says.

“I can’t help it if I— if I have to— hEHh-!” Ironically, he feels the all-too-familiar prickle settle in his nose. He’s felt it enough times over the past few days to know exactly what it precedes. “Hheh…. HEhH’eEZSCHhhEW!” It’s already humiliating enough to have to be doing this while Al-Haitham is watching. It’s with an awful sense of certainty that he realizes that he isn’t done. “hHEH… hh-HhH-hEHh’iSSCHH-YuE!”

It’s a relief, really, to let out a sneeze properly after he’s stifled so many, though it’s loud, especially in the enclosed space of his room. Kaveh sniffles, rubs his nose on the back of his hand. “Believe me,” he says, clearing his throat, though he thinks his voice doesn’t sound any less hoarse when he speaks up again, “I don’t want this cold any more than you do.”

“You sound awful,” Al-Haitham says, as if he’s merely stating a fact.

“You wouldn’t sound any better if you spent all morning talking to clients,” Kaveh says, with a huff, which—to his great dismay—turns into an untimely fit of coughs.

“I distinctly recall telling you to get some rest,” Al-Haitham says.

“And I remember telling you it was none of your business when I sleep,” Kaveh says. “I can— hHEHh-!” he turns away—from Al-Haitham, from the desk with all of his papers—to catch a “hH-hhEH-HEh’IISSCHh-yUe!” in one cupped hand. He sniffles again, rubbing his nose, and levels as convincing of a glare as he can muster. “I can take care of myself.”

Al-Haitham frowns, seemlingly unbothered by Kaveh’s… well, rather unsubtle display. “If that was true, you’d already be on the mend by now.”

“It’s only a cold, Al-Haitham,” Kaveh says, with a sniffle. “I just have to let it run its course.”

“That sort of negligent attitude is what landed you in this very position in the first place.”

Kaveh’s head hurts. Whatever reasoning Al-Haitham has for why he’s caught this cold, he doesn’t want to hear it. He needs to finish up his sketches, needs to perform the necessary calculations to ensure the foundations he’s drawn are spatially optimized and will take well to any structural or environmental pressure. “Is that all?”

“No,” Al-Haitham says.

Kaveh shuts his eyes, braces himself for an earful. But whatever Al-Haitham is planning to say, he doesn’t get to hear it before he’s veering away again, sharply, burying his nose into his elbow just in time for—

“hhH… hEHh- hHEh’EZSCHhh’ew! HHEH’iIKSHhhEW! Excuse mbe… hh… HEHH’DZSCHh-iEEw!”

He emerges, slightly teary-eyed, disoriented and blinking, which is why he doesn’t have time to intercept the hand that Al-Haitham presses to his forehead.

It is there only for a moment. Al-Haitham’s hand is surprisingly warm—it’s soft, a little calloused.

Then it’s gone. It takes Kaveh a few moments to parse the feeling in his chest as disappointment.

“You’d better keep your distance,” he says. “If you come down with this in a few days, I want it on the record that I wasn’t the one who told you to step foot inside my room.”

He expects a snappy response, as usual—sometimes, he thinks Al-Haitham has made a hobby solely out of being disagreeable. But Al-Haitham only frowns, watching him with such scrutiny that Kaveh wants to shrink away under it, knowing that Al-Haitham—now, as always—sees him so clearly. “Have you taken anything for your headache?”

It’s not a question he expects. Kaveh must not do a good job at keeping the surprise off his face. “What?”

“Nothing yet, then,” Al-Haitham says, interpreting his hesitation as a proper response (which is infuriating, Kaveh thinks—he hasn’t even said anything). “How about for your fever?”

“I don’t—”

“If you are going to attempt to deny it,” Al-Haitham says, “You’d have much better luck with something that I haven’t just verified for myself.”

Kaveh rolls his eyes, sniffling. “You wouldn’t have believed me regardless.”

“Probably not.”

At least they agree on that.

Al-Haitham steps behind him, reaches over the desk to snag the papers he’s laid out over it—sketches, meeting notes, architectural blueprints, scratch paper. In one swift motion, he gathers the papers and lifts them out of reach.

“Haitham,” Kaveh hisses, scrambling to his feet. “Those are for a client.”

“I will give them back to you once you’ve recovered fully,” Al-Haitham says, turning on his heels to head for the door. “Subject to my discretion.”

“You can’t just take them! I… n-need… hEHh… them for… hehH… my… hH-HheHH-hHEH’TZSCHh’YYUE! snf-!”

“Bless you. If you lay down, I’ll consider giving them back sooner.”

Al-Haitham is truly insufferable. Kaveh is truly, never forgiving him, (though later, when Al-Haitham comes back carrying steaming hot tea, which he says has medicinal properties that should help with headaches—procured helpfully from Tighnari, which is why he was out later than usual; later, when Kaveh wakes to a hand on his forehead, a familiar voice uncharacteristically soft, an extra blanket tucked neatly around him; Kaveh finds himself nearly convinced).

#snz fic #snzfic #sneeze fic #my fic #sneeze kink #i may not have played the arch/on quests or any story quests but i read their character profiles + watched scenes of them + read a lot of #- fic on ao3 trying to get a better hold of their personalities T.T #i am intimidated by everyone who writes fanfic and regularly overcomes the hurdle of trying to get a feel for new characters #i must... sleep now (<- downed tea at 10pm to finish writing this.) but profusely apologize for any typos #which i will fix first thing tomorrow!

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justgowithitplease · 1 year

Text

CATS, BATS AND EVERYTHING UNSEEN

Pt. 1, Pt. 2,

ANOTHER INSTALLMENTTTTTTTTT

We finally getting to the Catwoman Part.

This Chapter is focused on the reader, and rarely has Dick in it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As you crept along the wall, you made sure to keep your guard up. Boy Blue could be anywhere.

'Shit!' You thought, ducking out of sight from Red Robin. 'That was close. Too close.'

How did you get into this position? Easy, It was your best friends fault.

-------------------------Flash back to the gala----------------------------

"Are you kidding me? That diamond is so heavily guarded that not even Cat-Woman could get past it!" Your best friend Dick Grayson argued.

"Yeah right. You could get past that. And that's saying something!" You countered with a snort.

" . . . Stop being so mean." He said with a fake pout.

"Never. Its too fun. plus, i gotta make up for lost time."

"What do you mean lost time?"

"Jasons paying me $50 to bug you all night since he has class."

"Cheapskate. I wouldve paid you $100."

"You already did!" You said as you held up his wallet, now empty.

"How do you keep doing that?!" He asked in astonishment.

"Just a skill i have i guess!"

"Almost the right amount of skill to get past the security for the diamond. Y'know, if it was possible."

"Stop Tempting fate, lord knows we have enough problems with the new Cat-Woman running around."

"Amen."

-------------------------Flash To the Present------------------------------

You whipped your head around, hearing a thud behind you. Batman and Annoying-Wing were on the roof of the building parrallel to you. they would see you for sure if you didnt move quickly. Turning yourself around to where your claws were the only thing keeping you from falling 12 stories to your demise.

'One shot, [Reader], you can do this.' You thought to yourself, preparing to leap across to the building. 'Deep Breaths, In...'

'And out.' You pushed off the wall with your hands and feet, gracefully positioning your arms out in front of you to catch yourself against the wall.

'Yes, Another successful landing.' you thought, pleased that you made it.

Turning yourself upside down, you scaled down the wall, reaching a window. You extended your hand, cutting a circle just wide enough for you to fit through. You swung down and entered the building, taking care to check for pressure plates before. Putting the glass back into place and sealing it, you turned around.

'Hm, lazers and trip-wire. How elementary.' You thought, Flipping, ducking and jumping over the floor. Once at the other end, you surveyed the door. Noticing how its attached to an alarm, you opted for the air vent. As you crawled through them, you thought back to nightwing. The stupid, insolent, pain the ass vigilante. He has consistently stopped you, attempted to jail you, and ruined your safe houses. Can't he tell that you're just trying to make a living? Coming to the end of the vents, you rappelled down into a lower room. This room had no windows, no lights, and no guards. The room was bassically a cement box, exept for a door with way to many locks, lazers, pressure plates for a floor, and a pedastal with the diamond on it in the middle.

As you surveyed the room, you thought about how Dick said it would be impossible to get past. 'And they said State-of-the-art security. Funny.'

lowering yourself, you reached for the case.

'WAIT! What if the glass is tripped out?' The voice inside your head screamed, warning you.

You took out a remote controlled hacking device, and shut down the alarm. Putting it back into place, you cut a hole in the glass, and Indiana-Jones-style swapped out the diamond.

'Easy-Peasy, Dick didn't think it was easy.' you thought while retracing your steps. Once back at the window you entered in, you checked for any bats. There were none that you could see. You crawled out of the window, and looked on to the roof. Still none. Sealing the window once again, you crawled up to the roof, and happily went on your way home, holding the diamond tight.

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sissybabycucksophia · 1 year

Text

The Adult Baby Adoption Part 1

(This story is complete fiction and although i may desperately wish it isn’t, there is no fact or real world experience behind this story. Also non of the images belong to me)

Having been single pretty much my entire adult life I’d never really had the chance to feel love or to be intimate with anyone and well with all my submissive kinks it was hard to get to know women well enough to date them. So after years of trying and the use of countless non kink sites to meet someone I stumbled apon a site which would change my life.

Miss Harrington’s Adult Baby and Little Space Adoption Agency! I couldn’t believe what i’d found, reading through the main information page 📄 it said: “Welcome one and all to Miss Harrington’s Adult Baby and Little Space Adoption Agency! Here at the agency we like to do thinks proper! In our mission we look to match Adult baby’s with Parents who suit their needs and desires! How do we do this? Glad you asked! Here at the agency we check both Parent and child candidates thoroughly to ensure the best possible match ups. Parents are subjected to several important tests to ensure the safety of adult babies at all costs, firstly their Police and criminal record checked to ensure they present no mortal threat to baby, then they are screened for any illegal drugs to ensure they do not break the law in secret and they are also credit and financially checked to ensure they can support your adoption! Once a Parent has passed these tests your safety is so guaranteed that you will sign a contract agreeing to behave and follow their instructions as their child! However before your matched both sides will answer a kink survey who’s results are then used too match you perfectly too the right parent or baby! Miss Harrington’s has been over 95% successful and for the low fee of only £200 pounds today! You could be a happy baby for the rest of your life!”

The excitement rushed through me as in an almost trance like state I scrambled to pay for and take the kink survey. Answering each question I began building a picture of the type of little sissy baby i was, eventually after excitedly blasting through the questions I arrived at the contract. “I ________ Do agree too give complete control of myself and my choices too the party in this contract known as Parent. I consent too Parent deciding all of my decisions for me and here In promise too stay with and obey Parent”. With shaking hands I signed the contract and felt a rush of excitement knowing that I’d just agreed to do whatever mommy said!

However weeks would pass having heard nothing and i began to believe even in the kink world i wasn’t wanted, until one faithful Sunday morning when i received an email 📧. “Dear Baby, CONGRATULATIONS!!! You’ve been adopted!! Below you’ll find an address, tomorrow morning head to that address to begin your new life as the baby you truly are! Do not worry about your Job, we have already contacted them under the guise of being your Doctor and gotten you 9 months Paid Stress leave so go now and settle in to your new home and get to know the parent who’s been chosen for you! Congratulations again baby and remember…. Follow your contract is all you’ve got to do!”. I couldn’t believe it! Shock and excitement rushed through me like a torrent to such a point i grabbed my Stuffed Stitch teddy and began crying in pure ecstasy into it.

The next morning I awoke and packed a backpack, stuffing it with food, a sleepingbag, comic books and Stitch i would put on my most little space clothing and set off. To my surprise the address was in the heart of London (quite the journey from my west coast of Scotland home), so off i went for the train. Getting sat on the train i knew there was a 4 and a half hour journey ahead of me so pulling out my sleeping bag i got myself all cosy inside and watched longingly out the window thinking about my new mommy! Was she pretty? Would she want a sexual relationship with me? What did she do as a job? Was she rich? Was i the only baby she’d adopted? So many questions rushed through my head as i watched the world go by. Truth be told as a bit of a of a childish move I deliberately decided to drink as much as possible on the train and held it so that the first diaper mommy put me in would be soaked.

Finally after 4 hours and 38 minutes the train pulled into London station, getting out of my sleeping bag i would pack up and get off the train. Then following google maps i would proceed too walk with my fit to burst bladder sloshing as i went, walking for a solid 20 minutes I finally arrived at a huge High end apartment building, stepping inside a security guard took one look at me and said “you must be ‘Baby’, take the lift to the top floor and knock the door… penthouse is expecting you” to which I stuttered and stammered as i replied “oh… uhm… ehm…. Yes… uhm… thanks you sir” and at that i headed across the lobby too the lift. Entering i road the lift to the top floor, when the doors opened i was met by a short hallway with one large and imposing door about 8 feet in front of me. Taking Stitch out of my bag i cuddled him in front of my chest, walking up to the door i stood before it looking the image of a pathetic little boy, cuddling my stuffy while wearing my dungaree’s, a long sleeve tshirt covered in little dinosaurs, a blue shin length puffer jacket, a blue woolly head, blue wooly gloves and a pair of blue earmuffs. Reaching up i knocked the door and the excitement of being this close to meeting mommy was making it really hard not to pee myself.

Then suddenly the door opened, there stood a man easily about 6 and a half feet tall, Muscular, arms covered in tattoos, grey hair suggesting he was older but perfectly cut and styled and him dressed very businessman like. In utter fear and shock my body gave up and seeing this man answer the door I instantly let go, pissing myself on the spot. “AWWWWWW~ hello there baby! Im so glad you finally made it!! Come give Daddy a hug” the man said as he pulled my head into his chest and began hugging me. All i could feel was the now warm and growing patch of piss on the crotch of my dungarees. Letting go the man looked at me and as he saw the piss stain chuckled as he said “ahhh now i see why baby wanted to be adopted, cause your still to little to use the bathroom! Well come in baby and we’ll get you changed out of that wet stuff. Taking me by the wrist the man lead me inside where before i knew what was happening he’d stripped me naked and sat me on a little pink plastic chair across from his sofa.

“Uhm…. I’m… uhm really sorry sir but I…. Uhm…. I think theres been an uhm… Mixup” i said as i watch the man fling my clothes into a laundry basket and walk back over too me. Sitting on the sofa and looking directly at me he asked “oh? How so baby? Are you James ******?” To which I responded, “well uhm yes but i ehhhmmm ticked saying i didn’t want daddies” i replied nervously using stitch to cover my penis. However at that the man pulled out a bundle of paper which appeared to be my information, turning it around pointed to the question which i was referring too and my eyes widened in shock as i reread the question in shock, “Im sorry baby but that question does in fact say which you’d prefer, and you’ve ticked Daddy!” The man said firmly as i began to flap and panic “no but im sorry but you don’t understand! Im baby boy who wanted a mommy gf i wanted a hetro relationship a dommy mommy! I have to fix this! Im sorry but I’m not into men!”

“So your going to break your contract? Alright, thats fine baby but i’ll be suing you for my £20,000 back after all that is what i paid the experts at the agency to be given an adult baby!” The man said quite firmly as he watched me trembling on the cold pink plastic chair. “But… but… but sir theres been a mix up…. I… No please don’t sue me I just wanted a happy life as an adopted ABDL!” I begged on the verge of tears. “Well, honour your contract baby and i’ll see to it you live a happy life ok?” He replied as he stood up, towering over me, and took stitch from my arms as well as grabbing my bag and walking over to what looked like a floor safe. “Now don’t get me wrong baby, i did in fact ask for a female baby from the agency and as you are with me, I’m slightly disappointed however i see looking at your profile and kink analysis that your a good 95% sissy! So from this point forth you will be my Sissy Daughter Jade not James. Truth be told looking at your skinny and weak little frame there, you’ll fit much more comfortably as a little girl” he explained as he locked anything male related in the floor safe.

Hearing him talk my heart sunk, I’d gone from starting the day as a man who was going to be regressed and adored by a beautiful woman too a sissy who was going to be humiliated and god knows what else by this superior specimen of a man to me. However walking over to me the man crouch down cupping my cheek in his hand he smiled gently and said, “Listen jade, I’m your daddy from now on ok? I know its not what you expected but I promise you will be looked after here. Let me introduce myself properly, I’m the CEO (Chief Executive Officer) of Shein, my name is Ulysses Carmichael and I’m a highly involved member of the Christian church. But you’ll just call me daddy or Father at church, oh that reminds me!” He explained, ‘oh shit he’s deeply religious too?!!! Can this get any worse for me! Im an atheist!!’ I thought as from his pocket he pulled a cross necklace, however clearly it was made for a little girl as at the intersection of the cross was the most juvenile and pathetic looking flower design. “For you Jade!” He said excitedly as he moved round to behind me and fastened it in place around my neck. “Thank you Ulysses but I’m actually deeply atheist and don’t believe in higher powers” i said trying to sound confident about something however i received a very blunt response. “Any daughter of mine, living under my roof and being taken care of by me WILL wear religious iconography, WILL pray morning and night, WILL observe rules and customs of our religion and WILL show me respect by calling me by the titles Father! Or Daddy! Or they can expect punishment of a very serious nature do i make myself clear Jade!” As he took me by the hand stood me up in front of him and waited for my response. What could i really say ? Other than cave in! With watering eyes and both hands covering my penis I whimpered “Yes daddy! Crystal clear daddy”

“Good girl, now Jade. Lets get you more appropriately dressed. I swear, once you accept your a little girl… you’ll love and thank me for doing this to you” Daddy said taking my hand and leading me through the huge and lavish penthouse to what can only be described as an explosion of all things pink, princesses and girly. Standing me next to the pink Disney princess adorned bed the man appeared to stop, looking me up and down as though studying me, “Ok jade, so here’s what you need to understand! I’m going to keep you regressed at an age of between 3 and 6. you will always wear pull ups and use them fully. you will NEVER be dressed sluttily and in fact you’ll always have very little skin on show because your my little girl. You will actively take part in little girl activities like ballet, choir, baking, gymnastics, beauty pageants and princess parties. You will publicly be seen and known as my daughter and as such when asked about our relationship you will be honest and tell said person the whole truth. Also you will go to elocution lessons and since you’ve clearly demonstrated poor and sloppy reading skills, in the mistake that lead you here, you WILL be retaught how to read and write” daddy said sharply. However as the man attacked my reading ability my eyes began to water and lip quiver as I became upset.

“Im sorry daddy, i didn’t mean to screw up… its just so hard and uncomfortable to read because i’m dyslexic” I whimpered trying not to cry. At that the man would wrap his massive arms around me and pull my face into his chest. Wrapping my arms instinctively round him and clinging to him he said “ssssshhhh sssshhh baby its ok, daddy is here not just for himself but for you too! Your going to be changing quite a bit to be the good girl daddy wanted to adopt! So now, daddy is going to make it his personal mission to help his daughter with this unfair disadvantage shes been put at ok ? Every night we’ll read before you go to bed ok? You will not let it hold you back in your new life ok sweet pee?” Daddy said rather comfortingly, as i nodded. “Now there, lets get you dressed Jade Carmichael!” Daddy said excitedly as he let go of me and began moving around the room grabbing bits and pieces. Firstly he would manhandle my small penis into an even smaller and humiliating pink chastity cage before telling me “you will never touch this ugly thing ever again! You will pee into your pull ups, you will never ask about it and it will be referred to as your princess parts!” He said as i turned a deep shade of red in embarrassment and quietly nodded. Next Daddy would grab a pink pair of pull ups with Cinderellas face on the crotch, holding them out daddy had me step one leg at a time into them before pulling them up too totally entrap my crotch in a fluffy, padded prison of regression.

At that Daddy smiled and kissed my forehead saying, “see! Much better, now we can’t see that vulgar thing at your princess parts… your beginning to look like a little girl!” He cooed as he then approached the huge wardrobe which apon opening it revealed hundreds of pretty, prissy, humiliation dresses. Picking one out daddy then approached me holding the pastel pink dress adorned with 3 large white bows down the torso, 4 large bows around the skirt and loads of frilly white detailing, sitting it down on the bed daddy then grabbed a pair of white Satin Glossy Opaque leggings which he then guided me into. Feeling the fabric glide up my legs then compressing around my diaper was such an unusual and arousing experience as all i could feel was the cage smothering my tiny erect penis. Then to further ruin my image if masculinity, Daddy would begin securing a pastel pink mid chest length wig with a fringe, making sure it sat perfectly daddy smiled as he finished positioning it and a slight tear came to his eye which he quickly wiped away as he instructed me to sit on the edge of the bed.

Once sat down daddy began to plaster my face with makeup, conturing and highlighting, rosey cheeks and nose, matte pink lipstick, pink sparkly eyeshadow and eyebrow shaping. By the time he was done my face felt so strange, heavier almost however i was yet to see what he’d done to me as he then began work on securing fake nails to every fingernail, all were matte pastel pink except for one nail on each hand which was matte grey with a matte pastel pink bow drawn on it (the knot of the bow being accented by little gems). “Right my little princess! Upsi daisy! Lets get you into your dress!” Daddy said excitedly as he picked up the dress and unzipped the back of it. Opening it up he held my pink pastel bow cover prison suspended in front of me too step into. Not really knowing what to say i nodded and daintily stepped into the dress, guiding my newly nailed hands down into the sleeves daddy slid the dress up into place. Then turning me round, he pulled the dress right into place and then i heard the zip traveling upward as the dress began to cinch from my waste up encasing me tightly in this beautiful prison of humiliation and helplessness, once fully zipped up all i heard was a loud CLICK as daddy locked the zip in place with a padlock. Coming back round in front of me daddy raised the dress skirt and began stuffing and securing 2 poofy white tulle petticoats, i was at a loss as to what to do or say now? After all what could i do? If i ran or tried to escape i was breaking a legal document but to stay meant never having a male orgasm again?! And dressing like this for the rest of my pathetic little existence!

Grabbing a pair of sparkly pink mid shin height Ugg boots, daddy pushed me onto a sitting position on the bed causing my poofy skirt to shoot up, patting it down so i could see i watched daddy slid the extremely fluffy inside boots onto my feet. Unlike other Uggs however daddy had modified these to have a sparkly pink belt around the neck of the boot which he tightened to stop me from removing them without him. Finally he pulled me to my feet, taking my hand tightly in his he used his other hand to dig out the girly little flower Cross chain and display it outside my dress. Walking me over to the full length mirror, daddy stood next to me holding my hand and watched as i caught a glimpse of myself for the first time… shock washed over me quickly followed by squirting sissy cummies into my pull up through my cage. Looking at daddy I quickly began to protest, “what have you done to me!! Im a man!! Please!! Let me live as a little boy!! This is fucking humiliating, i can’t live like this!!” I moaned yanking my hand free of daddy’s. Suddenly a very angry look washed over daddy’s face.

What happened next flash past me as though happening in fast forward ⏩. Daddy grabbed my throat, bent me over the bed, flipped up the skirt of my dress and smashed his hand against my pullup enclosed ass 10 times while lecturing and admonishing me for my disrespect, foul language, ungratefulness, being blatantly wrong and for being a bad Christian! With each hit daddy had to lecture louder to be heard over my screams and crying in pain as with each impact i began sounding less and less masculine and began to scream and cry more like a girl. Once he was done daddy forced me into a upright kneeling position with my elbows on the bed and hands clasped where he insisted I ask god’s forgiveness for such disrespect, ungratefulness and foul language towards my daddy. It was so demoralising and humiliating being forced to pray to a deity i have no belief in through tears of pain all while feeling like my ass was on fire, it was so humiliating more sissy cummies leaked into my pullups.

After about 15 minutes standing over me and making me pray allowed and begging forgiveness, daddy finally stood me up, wiped the tears from my face and said “Jade! Do you have anything you want to say to daddy?” To which I simply sniffled as I whimpered “im…. Im… sowwy daddy…. Pwease Pwease don’t spank me again… i sowwy” like some weak little baby. At that the man once again wrapped his muscly arms around me and hugged me as he said “good girl! I accept your apology but if you repeat those offences it will be 20 spankings! But enough of the disciplinary process. I wanted to celebrate the arrival of my baby girl today!! So dry your eyes princess!” Finally daddy would retrieve from the wardrobe a pink puffer jacket which was just longer than my bow covered dress prison, has pink frills arounds the pockets and bottom and a white fluffy hood. Getting me into it daddy would zip it right up too under my chin where he would padlock the zip in place with a heart shaped padlock “daddy… uhm…. Why do you uhm…. Keep padlocking these clothes on me?” I asked nervously as he walked over to what looked like a toy box. “Dont you worry about that little princess! Thats just an extra measure for now to make sure you realise that I DECIDE when you are allowed to or will be removing layers… not you.” He replied as he opened the toy box and began ruffling around. Hearing that my heart fluttered with embarrassment and regression as i stood examining myself in all my pathetic layers. Finally daddy returned to me, holding and Angel stuffy(stitch’s pink girlfriend), “I really shouldn’t give you this after having to discipline you but, in your adoption profile it said your favourite Disney character was stitch but since he’s blue and blue is a boys colour i figured i’d buy my little girl a pink stitch!” Daddy explained handing Angel too me.

Taking Angel in my arms i felt so touched that he’d read my profile and actually tried to prepare for my arrival. Cuddling Angel I felt the softness of her fur on my makeup coated face and smiled softly as I murmured softly “thanks you daddy~”. At that daddy would take my hand again and would lead me back to the living room, there he grabbed a jacket for himself, a backpack full of duplicates and opened the front door, clenching Angel tightly i panicked shaking my head as i said “no daddy please I can’t go outside dressed like this!” To which daddy took my hand and dragged me out the door and into the lift.

“Nonsense silly! Your a little girl and you look adorable! We’re going to an adoption day celebration at my church! The church flock is made up entirely of CEOs and billionaires who have done exactly what i did. So we’re all bringing our new babies too church today to celebrate what god has gifted us with!” Daddy replied keeping a tight grip of my hand. Looking at us in the lift mirror humiliation washed over me as here i stood only a foot shorter than this immaculately dressed muscular businessman covered in tattoos, while i stood wearing pink head too toe, holding a pink stuffy and with a face caked with feminising makeup and yet still quite obviously male by my totally unobstructed adams apple. I could only stand there holding daddy’s hand imagining what strangers looking at us would be thinking about me….. it was in that moment of thought i squirted cummies for the 3rd time into my Cinderella princess pullups.

(To be continued)

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partystoragechest · 19 days

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan meets with her parents.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,261. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: terrible parenting.)

Chapter 46: Lesson Three (a.k.a. Go F**k Yourself)

The Bann and Lady of Ostwick were not to be kept waiting.

“They’re already here,” a scout told Lady Montilyet, as the Baroness Touledy’s carriage rolled into Val Royeaux.

Trevelyan—her focus upon the gleaming white brick and golden spires of the city unfolding around them, rather than the growing ache within her stomach—whipped round.

“Very well,” said Montilyet.

The doors were opened, the hours Trevelyan hoped to have for preparation now escaping into the air like smoke. The Baroness’ footmen offered hands, helped the women down from their transportation.

Days, it had taken to get here. And yet, Trevelyan still had no idea what she would say.

Yet, the sight of Val Royeaux around her, a virgin experience, was fortunately captivating. Her feet landed upon elegant white-and-blue mosaic tile. The sun shone above, brighter than she’d ever seen it. Birds sang around her. The people who wandered the streets—betwixt arching facades and lush green foliage—were as shining and golden as the city they belonged to.

The square they had come to was lined with ornate chateaus, boasting columnades and windows aplenty. Each one had its own regal balcony, from which the no-doubt noble occupants could survey the world they owned.

Trevelyan gazed up at the very one her parents inhabited. The marble and gold leaf gazed back.

“Are you ready?” Montilyet asked, a hand on her shoulder.

“I am,” she lied.

The Baroness took her arm. The soldiers opened the doors. Lady Montilyet assumed the lead.

They entered into the foyer, tiled floor clicking beneath their feet, the fountain centerpiece trickling away. Everything was spotless. Everything was perfect.

A sprawling staircase ascended to a mezzanine. One last breath, and Trevelyan dragged her eyes up every step. At its pinnacle: her parents.

Bann Trevelyan was a man whose station could be determined from one glance. Though not rotund, he was well-fed, for never had there been a hungry day in his life. His clothes dripped with Marcher prestige. His posture was that of a horse rider and huntsman.

The Lady Trevelyan was much the same. Slightly more sinewy, for the physique society did value most. Draped in the loveliest dress, though somewhat Orlesian in style; she always did well to flatter the observer. Chin a little raised, so that her eyes ever looked downward.

A herald announced their guests:

“Presenting Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne, and Ambassador Lady Montilyet, of Antiva!”

The Bann offered his hand. His Lady took it, and together, they descended the stairs.

“Welcome,” she said, floating down from on high, “though we had not expected such guests, we are glad to have you all the same. A pleasure to meet you, Baroness, and Lady.”

They reached the bottom of the stair, paid exactly the amount of respect owed, with a curtsy and a bow. Then, she continued:

“The chateau here is one we have returned to for many years, on our pilgrimages to the Grand Cathedral. The garden is very fine. We shall sit there.”

Of course. For it was never asking, with the Bann and Lady Trevelyan. It was always telling. We shall sit there. Very well.

Trevelyan, the Baroness, and Lady Montilyet all followed the Bann and Lady, through the foyer, to this fabled garden. And yes, it was very fine. Fine, indeed. The small courtyard was shaded by a pergola, with trellises and climbing plants enclosing its sides. Privacy and beauty. Function and form.

At its centre was a table, prepared with four chairs for sitting. A servant wordlessly hurried in with another, and left as if never there.

“And how was your journey here?” asked the Bann, as they all took their seats.

“Very good, thank you,” replied Montilyet. “I hope yours was as easy.”

The Lady Trevelyan sighed, as she beckoned for a maid to bring their drinks. “The seas were rough. A good ship’s captain is hard to find, these days.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

The Lady waved away her concern. She looked instead to Trevelyan. “Are you prepared for the return journey? We have business with the Grand Clerics—we must express Ostwick’s disapproval at their meandering behaviour—but we shall be on our way soon enough.”

“Actually, that is what we came to discuss,” said Lady Montilyet, glancing at Trevelyan.

Trevelyan avoided her gaze. She did not know why she could not say it herself. She could not speak. Her heart thrashed against her chest. Her hands she kept below the table, to hide their shaking.

One should not feel such fear in the presence of one’s parents. And yet, Trevelyan was afraid.

“You object to her return?” asked the Bann.

Montilyet nodded. “The Inquisition would like to have Lady Trevelyan remain at Skyhold, and continue her work. Though I cannot speak to the nature of this work, I can assure you that it is of utmost importance—a worthwhile pursuit.”

“While we understand the mission of the Inquisition and have the greatest respect for you, Lady Montilyet, I am afraid that these were not the terms of our daughter’s being sent away,” the Bann explained. “She was sent to your Inquisition to procure a marriage. She has not done so, therefore, she must return.”

A servant hurried in, poured drinks into every waiting goblet. Trevelyan placed a hand over hers, and shook her head. The servant moved on.

“I understand that you had particular goals in mind, your Lordship, when you sent your daughter to us”—Montilyet smiled at Trevelyan—“however, that should not mean that all other avenues of achievement are disregarded, surely?”

“Indeed,” concurred the Baroness, “the Inquisition is currently of great standing in Orlais, with favour across all of Southern Thedas. Your House may benefit greatly, from there being a member within its walls—and one so high-ranking, as your daughter.”

Though the Bann appeared somewhat swayed at this allusion to greatness, given the tipping of his head, the Lady Trevelyan reached for her goblet, and sipped.

“I wonder that you think so little of our daughter, that this might be the height of her achievement?” she questioned. “Though indeed, working for your Inquisition is much a privilege—are there not greater opportunities to be had, outside of it?”

Trevelyan, hidden somewhere below the surface of her own skin, suddenly awoke. Something was not right about this. Opportunities. Why would they—?

“I think greatly of your daughter,” said the Baroness. “Which is why I do not deem it necessary for her to achieve the highest status it is possible for her to achieve—but to achieve that status which is both suitable to her House, and to her happiness. The Inquisition is, in this regard, a more-than-beneficial compromise.”

The Bann did not seem to take well to such disagreement with his wife, and replied, “Sons and daughters are born to serve their parents. I do not doubt you carry on the legacy of your own in ruling Val Misrenne—whether or not you should like to.”

“Then perhaps we are talking too vaguely,” Lady Montilyet piped up, sensing the shift towards the personal, rather than the political. “I wonder if there is not a way within the Inquisition that your daughter could serve this greater purpose that you have in mind for her.”

But the Lady Trevelyan said: “No. There is no way.”

And the cogs whirring in Trevelyan’s mind finally snapped into place.

“You’ve found another suitor, haven’t you?” she said, staring them in the eye.

Her mother showed no shock at the fact she had spoken—but did show some disdain. “What are you referring to, child?”

“Well, I can think of no other reason you would be so desperate to have me home. You have found another suitor.”

The Bann placed a hand on the table, leant towards her—smiling. “Be careful how you speak to your mother.”

There was a little fire in Trevelyan. One that had been burning her whole life. At home, in the Circle, it had been a fight to keep that fire glowing, even the smallest flickers threatening to die out.

But now she knew love. Now she knew escape. Now, that fire raged. Beneath the table, she took the Baroness and Montilyet’s hands both, and said to her father:

“Be careful how you speak to me. Do not lie. Do not talk in circles. Tell me. Have you found another suitor?”

Her mother set down her drink. “We have.”

Trevelyan’s blazing eyes met hers. “Who?”

“Son of an Arl. In line for his family’s holdings. He has not objected to any of your… qualities. Your marriage would provide us an opportunity for political sway in Ferelden.”

‘Qualities?’ Trevelyan scoffed. “You mean to say he has not objected to the fact that I am a mage?”

“Yes.”

She removed her hands from the Ladies’, and clasped them beneath her chin. “Oh, how lucky I am.”

Disapproving, her father said, “This Inquisition has given you quite the attitude.” The comment was not directed at her, but Montilyet. “Further reason for you to return home.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Or all the more for me to stay?”

Her father scoffed. Her mother took over.

“You can test your new husband’s patience with this,” she remarked, “not ours.”

Trevelyan chuckled, an idea coming to mind. A delicious, burning idea.

“Which husband?” she said.

Her mother’s face dropped. “What do you mean?”

“What of the Commander?”

“The Commander?” An eyebrow raised. “Indeed, what of the Commander?”

Trevelyan did not answer. Merely stared.

“Are you saying you have a prior engagement to the Commander?”

Her father shook his head. “We have not heard of such a thing.”

Trevelyan shrugged. “Well then, I suggest your sources are rather incompetent.”

Nothing like one last swipe at Missy and Cara. The rats.

“So you are engaged to him?” her mother asked.

Trevelyan laughed. (The Baroness tried to conceal hers). “I never said I was.”

The Bann groaned. “And you accuse us of speaking in circles?”

“Be clear,” the Lady commanded, voice raised, “are you or are you not engaged to the Commander?”

Trevelyan smiled. “No.”

“Do you have plans, to be engaged to him? Has he made suggestion, that you might be engaged in short order? Speak.”

“What if I did?” Trevelyan asked, delightedly watching the bridges between them burn. “What of your son of an Arl then?”

“They could always duel,” suggested the Baroness, a wry smile upon her face.

“Oh, no, no,” said Montilyet, with great pretense, “it would be so terrible for the Inquisition should its Commander kill the son of such an important Arl.”

They stared at the Bann. They stared at the Lady. The Lady drummed her fingers upon the table.

“You can attempt tomfoolery all you like,” she said, “but if there is no engagement, then your purpose is not fulfilled and your contract with the Inquisition is ended. You will come home.”

Trevelyan stood.

“You know, I have waited so long to hear you say those words. I wonder: do you recall, when you let them take me away? I stood there, a child—barely five years of age—crying and screaming, begging for my parents. Waiting for you to say those words. And you walked away.”

The Lady opened her mouth, but Trevelyan continued, scorching, searing:

“You never wanted me. You were happy to see me gone. You don’t even want me now. I am worthless to you, if I do not serve you. Good. Because I know now what I am worth, and it’s far more than whatever pittance this son of an Arl has offered you.”

The Baroness and Lady Montilyet rose, to stand beside her.

“I shall be returning to the Inquisition, and there I will stay. You may send an army—though I doubt you will—but it shall get you nowhere. Unfortunately, you delivered me to Skyhold with the express purpose of gaining the particular interest of its Commander. I do not suggest you find out what that translates to on a battlefield.”

The Bann grunted, about to stand. But she held out a hand:

“No, no. I shall go. So this time, it will be you watching me leave. You may cry, and scream. But I will walk away.”

She turned, wordless, the Baroness and Montilyet at her flanks. Together, they marched. Through the foyer, to the entrance. With a wave of her hand, its doors were thrown open. Inquisition soldiers on the other side startled to attention.

“Are you all right, your Ladyship?” one asked.

“I’m well, thank you,” Trevelyan answered, “but I think that title no longer applies.”

And the sun shone all the brighter for it—no longer obscured by an overgrown pergola or a dour set of nobles. Trevelyan gazed at the city, shining before her, and felt as though she could take off running down whichever street she chose.

For the first time in her life, she felt free.

“You are to be commended,” said Lady Montilyet, embracing her. “That was well done.”

Trevelyan welcomed her in; the Baroness, as well. "Thank you. Thank you for being there."

“Since we can take it that you are no longer a Lady,” Touledy asked, “how would you like us to refer to you, my dear?”

An excellent question. One she did not know the answer to. But that was the beauty of it. From this moment onward, she could be anything she wanted.

Trevelyan smiled. “For now, you may call me famished,” she said. “Shall we find somewhere to eat?”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #everyone welcome to the 'get their asses' chapter #following this we shall return to the normal schedule of one chapter a week around friday/saturday

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1skidoo9 · 2 months

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Gift Switch

The living room looked as if a tornado had torn through. Wrapping paper was all over the floor and, as always, it seemed like there was more of it than there had been presents. Patrick surveyed his haul proudly. He had gotten plenty of toys and games to make up for the inevitable new sweater from grandma. At least she had bucked tradition and gone with a dignified forest green over the usual baby blue.

"Anything left?" His dad said.

"Just the gifts from Aunt Eliza." For as long as Patrick could remember, Aunt Eliza had been 'too old to travel', so she always mailed her presents for him and his cousin Clara. "Let's see," Clara's mom said. "Here's Clara's, here's Patrick's. Clara, you're younger, so you go first." The shape of the gift did little to hide the skateboard that lay within, but Clara still gasped with delighted surprise. Patrick snorted, trying to imagine his cousin in her red velvet Christmas dress and white tights on the skateboard.

"Patrick, your turn." The humorous vision of his cousin forgotten, Patrick tore at the wrapping paper to reveal a large white box. He opened it in confusion and stared down.

"What is it?" His mom's voice seemed to be coming from a mile away.

"Not sure." As he pulled it out, he thought it might be a shirt, but it was not shaped right.

"It's a leotard!" Clara exclaimed. "And tights!" She yanked them out of the box and showed them to the room. "Patrick got dance stuff!"

"And that's not all." His dad said, grabbing a card from the leotard that Patrick still held up, thoroughly perplexed. "A full year of" his dad stopped and tried to hold back a smile. "Eliza paid for a full year of ballet classes." Patrick felt numb. There had to be some mistake.

To his relief, the whole family looked as shocked as he felt. His dad took the wrapping paper and checked the tag.

"Yep, it says to Patrick." He said. He leaned back in his chair. "How 'bout that? Clara got a skateboard, Patrick gets ballet lessons."

"A year of ballet lessons." Patrick thought he heard Clara murmur to herself, but in all the noise, he could not be sure. At least, not until she got him alone a bit later.

"It was me."

"What was?"

"I switched the tags on our presents."

"What?" He growled. "Why?"

"Well, I'm sick of Aunt Eliza thinking I'm some kind of dainty ditz and really, who better than my clumsy cousin to become a frilly pink ballerina?" He scoffed to hide his apprehension.

"Yeah, right. They'll probably kick me out."

"Don't count on it. You do know it's three days a week, right? And that's just classes. There's recitals, competitions, and ballet camps in the summer." She grinned wickedly. "By the time we see each other next Christmas, I bet ballet will be your whole life."

#gender role reversal #ballet boys #tricked #champion girls

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coochiequeens · 1 year

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Of the 136 “women” included in the study, 62 were trans-identified males. The remaining 74 respondents were described as “assigned female at birth,” including 69 “cis women” and five “non-binary individuals.”

A recent study purporting to examine the transmission and clinical features of monkeypox in women conducted its research on a sample where nearly half of the participants were male.

The study, published in prominent American medical journal The Lancet in November, was titled “human monkeypox virus infection in women and non-binary individuals during the 2022 outbreaks: a global case series,” and sought to contribute to the data on confirmed monkeypox cases in women. It surveyed 136 people from May 11 until October 4, and pulled the respondents from multiple countries.

While introducing the paper, the authors “hypothesized that the transmission routes and clinical presentation of monkeypox virus in the current outbreaks might not be the same for women as for GBMSM [gay, bisexual, men who have sex with men], and that presentations might also differ between cis and trans women.”

The majority of the trans-identified males involved in the study were also living with HIV, had multiple male partners, and were involved in the sex trade.

“37 (27%) of all individuals were living with HIV, with a higher proportion among trans women (31 [50%] of 62) than among cis women and non-binary individuals (six [8%] of 74),” the study states, going on to show to show that 73% of the trans-identified males had multiple male sexual partners within one month of the study being conducted, compared to 12% of “cis women and non-binary individuals.”

The study also noted similarities in the way the disease is transmitted and presents in “trans women” and men, but observes that these similarities did not extend to those “assigned female at birth.”

When outlining the implications of the study, the authors group all results together, and state that “special attention must be paid to avoid delayed diagnosis and misdiagnosis in women.” This is despite having found that it was significantly more likely for “cis women” to be misdiagnosed than “trans women.”

According to the Center for Infectious Disease Policy and Research, 99% of monkeypox cases identified in the United States have been in males, with 94% reporting recent homosexual intimate contact.

Screenshots of The Lancet article began to make the rounds on Twitter this week, inviting ample mockery from women’s rights advocates and those critical of gender ideology.

“Apparently there has been an unexplained increase in the incidence of testicular cancer among women too,” Twitter user Ian McLean wrote in response to a screenshot of the article posted by Anne Brøndum.

“This is an utterly ridiculous study. Biomedical scientists have swallowed the Kool-Aid. Now research is going to be harder to interpret because of this obfuscation,” another user wrote.

This is not the first time The Lancet has come under scrutiny from those concerned with female erasure.

In September of 2021, the editor-in-chief of the publication was forced to issue a video apology following widespread backlash after releasing an article in which women were described as “bodies with vaginas.”

The article, which was a review of an exhibit about the history of menstruation at the Vagina Museum in London, was featured on The Lancet‘s front page with a prominent quote reading: “Historically, the anatomy and physiology of bodies with vaginas have been neglected.”

Researchers have found that “gender inclusive” language, especially when used in specific medical contexts, can result in negative outcomes for women.

A collaborative research effort led by Australian academic Karlene Gribble concluded that so-called “inclusive language” had “consequences that have serious implications for women and children.” Gribble’s study focused around the neutralization of language in reproductive healthcare, and argued that it risked dehumanizing women.

“Desexing the language of female reproduction has been done with a view to being sensitive to individual needs and as beneficial, kind, and inclusive,” Gribble and her colleagues wrote. “Yet, this kindness has delivered unintended consequences that have serious implications for women and children.”

Gribble and her team of 10 global women’s healthcare experts went on to assert that neutralizing the language around motherhood, including “disembodying and undermining breastfeeding,” would result in “reducing protection of the mother-infant [bond].”

A co-author of the paper, midwifery professor Jenny Gamble, said that sex-based language “is important due to sex-based oppression,” and that neutralizing and confusing terms to refer to females “risks adverse health consequences and deeper and more insidious discrimination against women.”

By Jennifer Seiland Jennifer is a founding member of the Reduxx team, writing with a focus on crimes against women and sex-based rights advocacy. She is located in the American south where she is a passionate animal welfare advocate and avid coffee drinker.

#The Lancet #Biology is real #Gender identity is feelings #Just say women #Medical studies don’t include enough women to begin with

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cutef1cs · 2 years

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Beautiful as Spring - Harvey x Artist Reader

Description: On a spring afternoon, Harvey decides to give a beautiful tulip to the most beautiful friend he has, the farmer Y/N.

Genre: Fluff and Romance.

Warnings: None!

The gentle breeze of wind made the flowers in the valley fly, as if the colorful petals were traveling around. The beautiful sing of the birds blended in perfectly with the spring atmosphere of the small town near the mountains.

All the beauty and tranquility of that delicate fauna enchanted the local doctor. Harvey was standing in front of his clinic, he had closed it for today.

Harvey was calmly surveying his surroundings, his brown eyes were just admiring the nature and spring weathe. In one of his hands, he held a beautiful red tulip. The doctor had found this flower during his lunchtime walk through the forest, he stopped walking just to admire the beautiful flower.

All the beauty and grace of that plant made him think of only one person, the farmer. A great friend of Harvey's, but at the same time, a great friend that Harvey has a enormous feeling of love for, a feeling that Harvey has a hard time hiding… The doctor had already been in love with the farmer for two years, that is, practically since he arrived in town.

Harvey still remembers very well the day the farmer arrived, he was the subject of conversation in town for a whole week, everyone in the village was so curious to know what he was like.

When Harvey first saw the farmer, he was calmly arriving at the clinic with his overalls pockets full of seed packets, his boots soaked in mud. He apologized sheepishly for the dirt on his boots, but the doctor didn't care at all, the only thing Harvey paid attention to was how beautiful he was.

As time went on, as conversation went on, everything about that young farmer charmed Harvey. His gentle smile, his personality, his love for animals, his hair and the way it swayed in the wind...

Harvey was hopelessly in love. He didn't know how to handle it.

Now the doctor was looking at the tulip in his hands, with a small passionate smile on his face. Harvey was determined to deliver this beautiful red flower to the farmer.

But despite the romantic and delicate gesture, Harvey had no intention of declaring himself yet, deep down he wanted so much to talk about his feelings for the farmer, but decided to avoid it because of the fear he had of ending up losing his confidant and best friend…

So he will just deliver a beautiful flower, to a beautiful person.

"I hope he's not busy with the harvest…" Harvey was talking to himself, afraid he'd end up interfering with his friend's work.

Trying to put his worries aside, Harvey tucked the tulip into his coat pocket. He starts walking calmly out of the village, heading towards the farm in the forest. In less than two minutes he could already see the open wooden gate of the farm. As he approached, the doctor already began to feel nervousness inside him. Harvey felt his heart beat faster.

The doctor sighed, trying to compose himself and once again ignore this unbearable feeling. He judges himself for being so anxious around his best friend, but what the doctor doesn't understand, is that no one controls love.

After the small sigh, Harvey continued to look for the farmer, but he only saw his cottage and the vast forest fauna present throughout the farm. As he took a few more steps forward, Harvey found himself surrounded by grass and beautiful flowers.

He walks towards the cabin, looking for the farmer, but stops midway when he sees the farmer's pet cat lying on the grass. Harvey was smiling happily at the little cat, awed by its cuteness.

"Hey sweet little thing!" Harvey bent down to pat the cat on the head. The kitty just raised they head with eyes closed, accepting the affection in the sweetest way possible. "Little one, do you know where Y/N is? I wanted to talk to him."

The kitten was still lying there, just relaxing.

"Cute." The doctor gave the little animal a smile.

Harvey went back to looking around the farm, looking for him, he walked a little further and finally saw the person he was looking for so much!

The farmer was leaning against one of the trees to the left of the cottage. He was sitting quietly, doodling in his sketchbook with a pencil.

Ah, he's drawing.

Harvey thinks with a smile on his face.

Harvey just watched him with delight. The farmer was looking at the sheet of his sketchbook with a serene gaze, he was scribbling something here and there, seeming completely absorbed in the activity. After a few seconds, Harvey says:

"Hello Y/N!" Harvey greeted, approaching him.

The farmer turned his head towards the voice and then smiled when he saw who it was.

"Harvey!" He gave a little wave. "It's great to see you."

"I say the same." The doctor smiled kindly. "Oh, sorry if i got in the way, you're drawing right? I thought I'd pay a visit."

"No, no. You're not in the way." The farmer said, correcting him. "Not at all, i'm very happy to see you Harvey, I love your company."

Hearing this, Harvey smiled, feeling his cheeks heat up slightly, the doctor thought of how much he also loved the farmer's company.

"Want to see my drawings?"

"Of course, i would love." Harvey was smiling lovingly at the farmer.

"Come." The farmer patted the grass beside him, indicating the place for the brown-eyed man to sit. Harvey sat next to him.

"So what are you drawing?" Harvey asked, curious to see what he had in his sketchbook.

It had been a long time since Harvey had discovered that farmer Y/N liked to draw. He found this out the year the farmer moved into town, in a morning conversation. They were talking about random things until Harvey asked if he had any hobbies, any activity he really enjoyed doing in his spare time, and without a second thought, the farmer replied that he loves to draw.

Y/N showed him some of his drawings. To Harvey, all of his drawings were so beautiful. He admires everything about his arts, the lines, the painting… it's just so unique and beautiful. Harvey had no doubt that Y/N was an amazing artist.

The townspeople could hardly imagine that in addition to his work as a farmer, Y/N was also a thoughtful and talented artist.

Now Y/N was smiling, giving the sketchbook to his friend. Harvey would pick it up and start looking at each drawing there, analyzing it. It has varied sketches of natural elements, present in the farm. The daffodils, the sheeps and chickens, the beautiful trees with pink leaves that were surrounding the entire village that season. Harvey stood for a few seconds admiring these drawings, enchanted by the beauty of each colored sketch.

"It's very beautiful, Y/N…" Harvey spoke looking at the sketchbook with a captivated look, he had liked all the drawings very much.

"Do you think Harv? I'm enjoying drawing these, but you know, they're pretty simple."

"Being simple doesn't change the fact that they are beautiful, there is a lot of beauty in simplicity, I think these drawings are wonderful!"

"Did you really like it?" The farmer asked shyly.

"I loved it." Harvey had a gentle smile on his face. "Actually i love all the drawings you make, you are an amazing artist Y/N…"

The farmer put his hand to his head, a little awkwardly, with a slight blush forming on his cheeks.

"Thanks Harv…" The farmer replied to his friend with an embarrassed smile. He was feeling so flattered and happy with the doctor's lines.

That farmer's smile was enough to make Harvey feel a sea of butterflies in his stomach. The doctor just smiled back, a slight blush on his cheeks.

To me, you're amazing in everything you do…

Harvey thought, passionately.

"Hey Harvey." Y/N called out to him, causing the brown eyed man to snap out of his thoughts.

"Oh, say it!"

"Can I draw you?"

"Draw me?"

"Yes." The farmer nodded, a little sheepishly. "You are so beautiful, I would love to draw you."

Harvey's eyes widened, his cheeks that had previously only been slightly flushed were now completely red.

If a few minutes ago Harvey thought he would be able to control all the nervousness by being next to the person he loves so much, that fell apart when she said that.

"Mm… b-beautiful? Thank you…" The doctor who looked like a tomato, started to stutter, not making much sense at first. "…Of course… yes, I… I'd love to."

The farmer smiled kindly upon hearing this, he took out his sketchbook and one of his pencils.

"Stay still, so I can try to draw you in the right pose."

"Okay."

Harvey sits down across from the farmer, smiling sheepishly and cheeks still on fire.

The farmer begins to draw, joy evident on his face. As he drew, he looked at Harvey and then at the paper, picking up the references he needed to continue making his art.Y/N spent the next few minutes repeating this process, drawing passionately in her sketchbook. When he made a mistake in his line, he used the eraser that was on the side and corrected any mistakes. The farmer seemed calm and at the same time very determined with the drawing. Harvey was happy, curious to see how he would turn out.

After a few minutes, the farmer drops his pencil on the ground and smiles at his friend.

"I finished."

"How was it??" Harvey asked, curious about the outcome.

Farmer Y/N took the sheet out of his notebook, handing it to Harvey. On the sheet, the farmer had drawn a sketch of the doctor in his own artistic style. Y/N didn't notice but Harvey's dark orbs glowed at the sight of that drawing. No one had ever done something like this for him.

"What do you think?"

"It's so beautiful…" Harvey looked at the farmer with a grateful, passionate gaze.

"It's my gift to you, I'm so glad you liked it."

"Actually, i loved it."

The farmer was smiling shyly, feeling very happy that his friend loved the gift.

"Y/N…" Harvey called out to the farmer, a slightly sheepish smile on his lips.

"Hm?"

"Thank you so much... also, there's something I'd like to show you."

"What would it be?"

Harvey took out of his coat pocket the beautiful red tulip he had picked in the park.

"What a beautiful flower…" The farmer admired the tulip. "Did you pick it? It's very pretty."

"Yes, I… I was taking a little walk in the forest and i happened to find this tulip…" Harvey was smiling lovingly, he kept talking:

"I thought it was very pretty, so… I thought I'd give it as a gift, to the most beautiful person i know. "

"Is it… is it for me?" The farmer asks, the tulip was in his hands, but he was still in disbelief.

"Certainly." The doctor confirmed, looking at Y/N's face with a passionate and flushed look.

"T-thanks Harvey, this is a wonderful gift." Blushing, Y/N tucked the tulip behind his ear. "You are so kind..."

"I can say the same for you, Y/N." He was smiling at the farmer, less and less disguising the fact that he was hopelessly in love.

Harvey continued to gaze passionately into the farmer's face. For Yoba, he is so beautiful… Harvey's heart beat faster just seeing his smile. For Harvey the farmer is so beautiful, delicate, amazing…

They stared at each other for a few seconds, blushing, until the sound of the sheep's bleating gave Farmer Y/N an idea.

"Harvey, do you have free time now?"

"Yes, i have."

"Perfect... do you want to pet the sheeps?" The farmer asked with a happy smile on his face.

Harvey was smiling when he heard the cute proposal, just seeing that smile the farmer already knew they would spend the rest of the afternoon with the animals.

"Let's go!" Harvey replies, with adorable glee.

Y/N closes his notebook and holds it up. He and Harvey get up and walk together toward the sheep pen.

As they walked, Dr. Harvey couldn't help but notice the cheerful, genuine smile the farmer wore as he talked about the sheeps, about the drawings he had made of them. He looks so happy. Harvey was looking at the farmer with a passionate, hopelessly passionate gaze… Harvey thought:

Y/N, why every time I'm around you I feel like a teenager falling in love for the first time?

Will he ever be able to declare himself? Will he have the romance he's been dreaming of? Well, Harvey hopes so, but right now he was too busy thinking about the farmer, thinking about how much he wants to be by his side… The two friends spent the rest of the afternoon tending and petting the animals.

Harvey couldn't stop thinking how beautiful Y/N is, he is beautiful like the tulips in the valley… beautiful as spring.

And just like the spring flowers, the love inside Harvey's heart was blooming more and more.

Hours later, late at night, the farmer was sitting on the chair next to his table, eating a delicious muffin with cranberry juice. His cat was resting on the floor next to the chair. As he ate his sweets, the farmer could only think of how wonderful this afternoon had been. Spending the afternoon with his best friend was very nice, but in in addition to it, Harvey was also the person that farmer Y/N had fallen in love with... and he was so in love.

After taking a sip of the refreshing juice, Y/N takes the tulip from behind his ear and starts looking at it with love and admiration.

"[Cat's name], Look what Harvey gave me today," Y/N showed the red tulip to the cat lying there. "It's so beautiful..."

Still lying down, the kitten smelled faintly of the red flower, then the cat just wiggled his little furry ears. The farmer just smiles at the little cute cat. Y/N had only interpreted this gift as a friendly gesture from a friend, but still, it was enough to make Y/N's heart skip a beat.

What he didn't know yet was that Harvey was as in love just like he was. But we can bet, one day these two will discover the feelings they have for each other.

-------------- Author's Note ---------------

Hello guys!! i hope you enjoyed this one shot, i intend to make a continuation of it in the future.

By the way, i'm accepting requests for Harvey one shots and headcanons!

Feel free to send ask or comment whatever you want, thank you so much for reading ❤

#sdv harvey #harvey x reader #harvey x farmer #stardew valley fic #stardew valley #x reader #fluff #romance #one shot #sdv/you #x male reader #male reader #shy reader #spring

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