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gffa · 7 days

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PLANET: ILUM Astronavigation Data: Ilum system, 7G sector, Unkonwn Regions Orbital Metrics: 1,078 days per year/66 hours per day Goverment: None Population: 5,200 (support crew 45%, temporary researchers 30%, military 20%, other 5%) Languages: None Terrain: Frozen lakes, mountains, ice steppes Major Cities: None Areas of Interest: Holenesh Canyon, Jedi Temple, excavation sites, various ruins Major Exports: Ilum crystals [Source: Star Wars - Force and Destiny - Nexus of Power - Force Worlds] BACKGROUND: Ilum is a small, obscure world located far out in the Unknown Regions. The fifth planet of the Ilum system, it orbits an exceedingly bright blue dwarf star called “Asar.” Surveys of the system by ancient Jedi scouts show a handful of uninhabited, inhospitable worlds that are either heavily irradiated, completely covered in ice, or both. The rest of the system is largely empty, with no asteroid belt and few navigation hazards. Due to its location in the Unknown Regions and its isolation from charted hyperspace lanes, nothing was known of the Ilum system until a wandering Jedi discovered it in the earliest days of the Republic.

Roughly equidistant from Asar and the system’s cometary cloud, Ilum is the only world in the system that can support life. “Support” may be too strong a word for the relationship between Ilum and its flora and fauna, however. It is a large, terrestrial world orbited by two small moons and encircled by a wide set of rings made mostly of ice crystals. It is a land of broad continents, towering mountain ranges, and shallow seas locked in a perpetual ice age. Huge glaciers scour the planet’s face, slowly grinding the land flat. Where the glaciers have passed, deep snows or sheets of ice dozens of meters thick entomb the surface, making agriculture impossible. Ilum's few seas are shallow and broad, their waters choked with great floating ice mountains and thick sheets of drift ice. In addition to its frozen, snowbound landscape, Ilum has an atmosphere that is a near-constantly churning vortex of storms. High winds, sleet, thick snow, and freezing rain are to Ilum what gentle winds and soft rains are to Naboo.

Life, where it can survive, does so primarily along Ilum's equatorial region. Here, at least, the temperatures are only in the double digits below freezing, which has allowed a small number of native plants and animals to evolve. A few eke out an existence on the planet’s frozen surface, but most live either in the icy seas or deep beneath the ground in the uncounted thousands of kilometers of caverns and tunnels that worm through the planet’s crust. Savage gorgodons, cunning asharl panthers, and the terrifying razhak call Ilum home, along with hardy species of small rodents, birds, and worms. Alongside these are tough plants and fungi adapted to sub-zero temperatures, many of them completely undocumented.

LIFE ON ILUM: To date, no evidence has been found to suggest that sentient life ever evolved on Ilum. There are no ruins, nothing in the fossil record, and nothing recorded in the galaxy’s various ancient databases to suggest that Ilum was ever anything more than an obscure, uninhabited frozen rock. Indeed, the planet would have stayed that way until Asar burned itself out if the Jedi hadn’t come along and stumbled onto a discovery that would make it one of the most important places in the galaxy to that ancient order.

ILUM'S HISTORY: Ilum's recorded history begins tens of thousands of years ago with its discovery by a Jedi scout whose name is lost to history, performing Force-assisted hyperspace navigation. As the scout moved through the hyperspace lanes, she was drawn to the Unknown Regions by a particularly powerful resonance in the Force. Following the siren call of the Force resonance, the scout eventually discovered a lonely, hitherto uncharted system in the far reaches of the Unknown Regions, centered around a bright, blue-white star. The Force was strong throughout the system, but there was something powerful, something special, on the fifth planet, and that's where the Jedi scout focused her attentions.

The first scout's initial reports, as well as those from sub sequent survey teams, reported a barren, windswept world of tall, jagged mountains and shallow, frozen seas locked away beneath dozens of meters of ice. No settlements or ancient ruins were discovered, and all evidence pointed to the world being devoid of sentient life. What the teams did find was a world that, despite its inhospitable environment, managed to support some plant and animal life. Packs of large felinoids stalked the planet's steppelands; huge, slow moving aquatic mammals thrived in the icy seas; powerful and aggressive humanoid reptiles haunted the many mountain chains; and plants and fungi clung to life in sheltered spots away from the constant wind. These animals and plants didn't explain the planet's strong Force shadow, however. Its presence in the Force was enormous, a fact that the surveyors could not explain until one team was chased into a mountain cavern by dangerous creatures and discovered Ilum's real wealth.

Beneath Ilum's ice sheets and permafrost, the planet's crust is honeycombed by countless kilometers of interlocking cave systems. Within these caves, the escaping survey team discovered a motherlode of pontite, mephite, and other kyber crystals—the heart of a Jedi's lightsaber. The discovery of Ilum's mineral wealth quickly changed the char acter of Ilum's exploration from one of curiosity to one of grave importance to the Jedi Council. Upon receipt of the news that Ilum possessed an incredible wealth of kyber crystals, the Council immediately dispatched teams of scholars, artisans, and warriors to secure the world and to further study its natural wealth and importance to the Force. To pro tect the crystals, the Council made a decision to keep Ilum's existence a secret from the galaxy at large, and a number of steps were taken to ensure that it stayed that way. Hyperspace surveyors mapped out an uninterrupted, dedicated hyperspace lane from Metellos, a world in the Core region, straight to Ilum's orbit. The navigation of this route was so complex that a ship’s pilot needed to be at least sensitive to the Force, if not a fully trained Jedi Master, to even attempt it. In addition, all references to Ilum in official reports were quashed, and the world was even kept from local, sector wide, and galaxy star charts.

DARK LEGENDS: For thousands of years, the Jedi Order kept Ilum and its bounty secret and safe from harm. Generations of Jedi, from the greenest Padawans to the most ancient masters, traveled from all across the galaxy to search for crystals, study the planet and its connection to the Force, and enjoy the mental quiet of the uninhabited world. There is a nearly forgotten legend that speaks of a dark and violent time in the planet’s past, however. Ancient sources suggest that the Sith may have laid siege to the world, eventually taking possession of it for a time.

ENTWINED WITH THE JEDI: With Ilum secure, the exploration of the world and its connection to the Force was begun in earnest. Numerous settle ments were founded over the subsequent decades, typically near the sites of important scientific or Force-related discoveries. At places with a particularly powerful connection to the Force, the Jedi erected temples that served as training centers or pilgrimage sites where members of the order could go to meditate and heal. In addition, thanks to the abundance of kyber crystals on the planet, the Jedi Council established a massive, baroque temple over the entrance to the largest and richest cavern complex the survey teams had discovered. Once it was completed, the council began sending Padawans to Ilum to harvest the crystal for their lightsaber and to undergo the important training rituals associated with lightsaber construction.

Countless Jedi over the millennia traveled there to build their first lightsaber or to find crystals to build new ones. Eventually, as other sources of kyber crystals were exhaust ed or became otherwise unavailable, Ilum became the Jedi’s sole source of these precious crystals. While the planet remained a place of great importance, the Jedi Council recalled those members who were living on Ilum and shuttered all their settlements and temples save for the main temple used for lightsaber construction. With the world’s inhabitants gone, its glaciers and ice sheets quickly consumed the Jedi settlements and research sites, burying them beneath dozens or hundreds of meters of ice. By the beginning of the Clone Wars, there were no permanent residents on Ilum, nor any real evidence that there ever had been, and the main temple stood empty, save for the occasional Jedi pilgrim there to find a new kyber crystal.

CRYSTAL CAVES: Home to perhaps the largest deposit of kyber crystals any where in the galaxy, Ilum’s crystal caves were said to be the Jedi’s most sacred place by none other than Jedi Master Yoda himself. Winding for countless kilometers through and beneath Ilum’s largest mountain range, the crystal caves were first explored in the ancient past. Within the labyrinth of corridors, shafts, tunnels, and chambers is a staggering wealth of the kyber crystals—mainly mephite and pontite— that make up the searing heart of every Jedi’s lightsaber. Within a few short years of the crystal caves’ discovery, the Jedi Order erected a temple over the entrance to protect the caverns from trespass and to provide shelter and training facilities for visiting Jedi. The caves eventually became a pilgrimage destination for Jedi seeking crystals for new lightsabers and were incorporated into a Padawan coming-of-age ceremony called “the Gathering.”

The stone from which the crystal caves are carved is a smooth, black, basalt-like volcanic rock that absorbs light and is surprisingly easy to work with. The crystals themselves grow unimpeded from the walls and ceilings of the caverns and can occasionally be found littering the floors of corridors and chambers. In many places, the crystals can be removed from the surrounding stone by hand, and even the most stubborn, inaccessible crystal veins require only basic hand tools to excavate. It was this ease of excavation as much as the sheer quantity of crystal deposits that made the crystal caves so valuable to the Jedi.

Despite the millennia in which the Jedi lived and worked on Ilum and the planet’s importance to the order, surprisingly little of the crystal caves’ total area has been explored. Most of the known caverns lie within the boundaries of the temple’s training area, and those few charted areas outside of the temple’s footprint are a warren of dead-end caves, tunnels that turn in on themselves and either come to abrupt ends or plunge thousands of meters into dark cracks, and a confusion of chambers, side caves, and strange rock formations. The sheer size of the cave complex is staggering, with some ancient survey records suggesting thousands or even tens of thousands of kilometers of tunnels and caves stretching deep into the bowels of the planet. In addition, the Force tends to have a distressingly disorienting effect on visitors to the caverns. So powerful is the presence of the Force in the crystal caves that it causes vivid hallucinations in even the most guarded mind. This has led many an explorer astray; countless Jedi have wandered into the uncharted portions of the crystal caves in pursuit of some phantom, never to be heard from again.

JEDI RUINS: The Jedi worked and lived on Ilum for almost as long as they existed as an order. While they never established cities there—it was too remote, too hard to reach, and too sacred to the Jedi for that—they did build scattered small settlements, research stations, temples, observation posts, and other structures on and beneath the planet’s surface. These abandoned sites lie scattered all across Ilum in various states of ruin.

Some are still intact, seemingly awaiting the return of their inhabitants; others are little more than rubble. Most, however, have been buried deep beneath the shifting glaciers and massive, slow-moving ice sheets that cover most of Ilum’s surface. Nevertheless, a number of interesting sites can still be found here and there in sheltered mountain passes, at the bottoms of valleys, or within Ilum’s labyrinthine cave systems. One such ruin is the settlement at Holenesh Canyon.

HOLENESH CANYON: Located some five hundred kilometers from the main Jedi Temple at the mouth of the crystal caves, Holenesh Canyon is a deep, sheer-sided cleft in the planet’s surface over a kilometer deep that runs for roughly ten kilometers through one of Ilum's vast mountain ranges. The settlement, once home to around one hundred sentients, was built near the canyon’s end in the shadow of the mountain range’s highest peaks. It was established millennia ago to study a strange fluctuation in the Force that seemed to occur only once every few hundred years. Named for the Jedi who first recorded the anomaly, this small, isolated outpost stood for centuries before being destroyed in an avalanche triggered by a massive groundquake coinciding with the reappearance of the Force anomaly. Many of the settlement’s inhabitants were killed as they slept, but some managed to escape with little more than the clothes on their backs or what they could grab in their flight. Further seismic disturbances, combined with freak storms, prevented the mounting of a proper rescue mission, and by the time the Jedi were able to return to the canyon, the settlement was completely covered in snow and countless tons of fallen stone.

In the millennia since the destruction of the settlement, parts of it have been exposed through erosion and seismic activity. While the buildings are barely recognizable as such, their contents were surprisingly well preserved. Thanks to the remoteness of the ruined settlement and the difficulty of reaching it, precious little has been removed from the site. Anyone possessing the skills and courage to excavate the site might unearth any number of ancient Jedi relics.

CREATURES AND CHALLENGES: Ilum's climate is exceptionally harsh. Its land and most of its surface water are locked away beneath glaciers and permanent sheets of ice. Temperatures, even in what are usually considered temperate or tropical zones on other worlds, can sink to dozens of degrees below freezing. These temperatures are typically accompanied by howling gales and blizzards full of driving snow and ice shards. Few creatures, and even fewer plants, live on Ilum. To survive in these brutal conditions, Ilum's creatures and plants are both extremely hardy and extremely dangerous.

ASHARL PANTHER [RIVAL]: Asharl panthers are one of the more common predators on Ilum. They are large, aggressive, territorial felines that make their homes in Ilum's high northern and southern latitudes. Adult asharl panthers average between two and three meters long and stand roughly one meter high at the shoulder. Their four powerful legs end in two-toed feet equipped with nonretractable claws. The creatures’ bodies are covered in dense, smooth fur in shades of white, gray, and blue that holds their body heat in to protect them from the cold and driving wind. They have broad, earless heads with pronounced brow ridges, and their faces are remark ably expressive, with short, blunt snouts and golden eyes. The most noticeable feature is a pair of long, tentacle-like sensory organs that grow from their shoulders. Asharl panthers live in small family groups and typically hunt in pairs or in groups of four.

BLISMAL [MINION]: Blismal are small, furry, inoffensive rodents who live in the tunnels and caverns deep beneath Ilum's surface. About the size of a grown human’s hand, blismal have four legs; sharp featured faces with small black eyes, round ears, and long snouts; and short, hairless tails. Their bodies are covered in thick, luxurious, silvery fur that keeps them warm and sheds water and dirt. They feed mostly on cave fungus and insects, and they are happy to be left alone in the dark to live out their lives.

Like the harmless snowfeathers, which live on the surface, blismal have few natural predators. This is largely due to their speed and cautious natures, although they do have a frighteningly effective defense mechanism. When frightened, blismal make a shrill, painful, and sustained shrieking noise to ward off attackers and call for assistance from other blismal. When three or more blismal join in, they create a howl loud enough to shatter crystals and cause cave-ins, an ability that Jedi experienced firsthand long ago. The Jedi attributed this ability to the blismal’s close connection to the Force, and were able to counter the effects of the shrieking by manipulating the Force around the creatures. In doing so, Jedi exploring Ilum's cavern system were able to capture blismal, which turned out to be relatively easy to domesticate.

GORGODON [RIVAL]: Gorgodons are, perhaps, the most famous creatures to live on frozen Ilum. They are massive, non-sentient, thick-skinned reptilian creatures with long, powerful arms, short legs, and an axe-shaped head. A thick, shaggy coat of dark gray fur covers them from their shoulders to their feet, leaving only their head, which is a sickly orange color, bare to the elements. Gorgodons are incredibly strong and can with stand almost any punishment. It is said that they can even shrug off blaster bolts. They are a dangerous combination of dumb, aggressive, and brutal, and are one of the few animals that attack for no good reason. When the Jedi first arrived on Ilum, the gorgodons were the creatures that gave them the most trouble. Throughout the Jedi Order, the name of this creature was used in threats and curses, such as “thick as a gorgodon” or “as angry as a gorgodon’s mother.”

RAZHAK [NEMESIS]: Among the most fearsome predators on Ilum, these massive creatures are as agile as they are deadly. Averaging around eight meters in length, razhak-are armored, segmented, wormlike creatures that propel themselves using rippling muscle ridges. Their bodies are broad and flat, covered with thick, chitinous plates in shades of white and blue. While they have no apparent eyes, their heads are topped with long, segmented antennae that serve as sensory organs. Their huge mouths feature multiple rows of serrated teeth.

Aggressive and solitary, razhak live in the endless tunnel systems beneath Ilum's surface. They are deceptively fast and, when they attack, they rear up like a serpent and at tempt to swallow prey whole. Anything they can’t eat in one bite they tear into pieces by grasping it in their mouth and shaking it violently. In addition to possessing great speed and a savage demeanor, razhak also can generate intense heat strong enough to rapidly melt solid ice and cause serious burns to exposed flesh. This ability allows them to tunnel through ice as though it were soft sand. Razhak usually build their nests inside of ice walls or densely packed snow, typically leaving the nest only to eat or mate.

Thankfully, while they are terrifying to behold and extremely dangerous, razhak are also easily distracted and creatures of minimal intelligence. Keeping this in mind, a clever opponent can easily outflank them, lead them into traps, or make them lose interest in attacking altogether.

SNOWFEATHER [MINION]: Snowfeathers are small, clever, flightless birds native to Ilum. Their bodies are covered in a dense layer of oily, white feathers that protects them from Ilum's bone-chilling cold and vicious weather. Relatively harmless creatures, they live in nesting colonies built into ice shelves or cliff faces.

Despite their inoffensive nature and inability to fly, snowfeathers have few natural predators, for two reasons. First, their meat tastes terrible and is mildly poisonous, causing painful cramps, bloating, and loosening of the bowels in those unfortunate enough to eat them. Second, they have a connection to the Force that gives them the ability to project an illusion that makes them seem larger and more formidable than they really are. These characteristics have allowed them to survive and even thrive on an inhospitable planet full of savage creatures like gorgodons and asharl panthers.

#lumi.txt #star wars #jedi order #ilum #meta #reference #planets of the gffa

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gojhoes · 3 months

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Flesh Wound

summary: Yuta shows up to his new school with a single goal in mind: stay under the radar. Only he lands in the direct path of the school's outcast- you, with your hemp cigarettes and permanent scowl. An unlikely friendship, dark pasts, and sweet nothings.

warnings: mature topics, TRIGGER WARNING: dissociation, description of self-harm, suicide pairings : yuta x fem!reader (as teenagers and adults) contents: slow burn, hurt/comfort, time jumps, no curse au, not canon, reader has piercings/tattoos/dyed hair (mentioned), aged-up in next part wc: ~7k

“You’re in my seat.”

So much for laying low, Yuta thinks, which he has been successful in accomplishing up until this moment. He raises his head to see your steely gaze threatening to tear him to pieces and his mouth goes dry. He's too startled to get a proper look at you, but he immediately notices your septum piercing and the dark kohl lining your eyes.

“Oh, sorry!” he says lamely. He scrambles clumsily to his feet and resultantly knocks his binder to the floor. You're staring daggers at him as you lower yourself into your unassigned-assigned seat, and he bends to retrieve the fallen binder with shaking hands.

The desks in the classroom are arranged in pairs, most of which were already filled by a body or a backpack when Yuta walked in several minutes ago. Upon a quick survey, he sees that the only remaining option is the desk to your left, and something tells him there's a reason why it otherwise sits empty. He smiles at you nervously in hopes to dull the tension, but you've already looked away to pull a pair of headphones and a book from your dark green tote bag.

It's his third attempt at his first day of upper secondary school, and Yuta has already decided that there will not be a fourth. In his head, he'll joke that three schools in six months is probably some kind of record, but the reality is that it's embarrassing. His introversion and awkward nature already make socializing difficult for him, so his new plan to avoid it altogether. The two vices have only increased in intensity since leaving primary school, but he's grown accustomed to being alone.

It's normal to him, to lay awake into the early hours of the morning as the knife of loneliness cuts through him and twists savagely. It's normal, he thinks, to daydream about having tons of friends who sling their arms around his shoulders at parties as they hand him a red cup made of plastic. Everyone eats their lunch by themselves outside on the sidewalk...every day. Even if he is aware of the truth deep down, it's much easier to cloud his conscious mind and live as though he's not really there. As though he is an observer of his own body, watching the movie that is his life from above.

But you looked right at him and ripped him from that daydream he so desperately clings to without awareness. Before he can put his head down and lull himself back to safety, the tardy bell rings, and the cacophony of students' conversations quiets as the teacher commences roll call.

Yuta is painfully aware of when she goes straight from Ogawa to Ryu, skipping right over his own last name. His pulse jumps- he knows what's coming, and regardless of how many schools he's been in and out of, he always hates this part. No one really cares to know him, but he obliges to limit the awkwardness and speed up the exchange.

"Please welcome your newest classmate," the teacher says, gesturing toward him with a smile. "Yuta Okkotsu, stand up, please."

But he's already standing, so he waves awkwardly as every head in the classroom turns in his direction. Except for you, whose eyes remain trained directly on the book in your hands, and Yuta swears he hears you tsk under your breath. "Please call me Yuta."

There is a unified murmur of empty welcomes and the teacher allows him to retake his seat. Yuta eyes dart around the room, doing everything he can to avoid pissing you off further. He catches sight of the perfectly painted black polish on your nails and pauses at a nasty looking scar stretching across your knuckles. Otherwise perfect hands marred by silvery tissue knitted over bone. You catch him trying to read the title printed on the cover of your book and you scowl, placing your tote on top of the table to block his view.

Yuta sighs as he opens his binder. He wonders briefly if the next six months will be like this, every day spent a few inches away from someone who despises him. It's not his fault if there aren't any other open desks, but somehow guilt riddles him anyway.

The next several hours pass without incident, and Yuta is shocked to see that you've done nothing but read for the entire class. The teacher seems to ignore you largely, even skipping over you when she goes around the room with handouts. You've said nothing more to him, so Yuta adopts the attitude that everyone else seemingly exhibits toward you.

There's a tap on his shoulder, startling him, and Yuta flinches as he turns around to glimpse the assailant.

"Sorry," says a boy with pinkish dyed hair. "Do you have a pencil I can borrow?"

Yuta waits for the jests and laughter to follow, but it doesn't come. The boy holds his stare until Yuta realizes he isn't being cheeky, and stutters out a reply. "Yeah, hold on."

It's already a few minutes before lunch and this guy is just now asking for a pencil?, Yuta thinks to himself. But he doesn't voice the thought, only twisting to hold out the utensil as the boy smiles. "Thanks, uh..Yuki?"

"Yuta," he corrects gently. The boy laughs nervously as he rubs the back of his neck.

"Right, sorry. I'm Yuji, just so you know. Thanks for the pencil."

Yuta nods, but as he turns around he struggles not to cringe visibly. Everything about the exchange makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. He curses himself for the ineptitude of his social skills as the teacher wraps up the rest of her lesson.

The second that everyone is dismissed for their lunch break, you're on your feet and tearing out of the room without a word. You are distractingly strange, from the piercing in your nose to the odd scar painting your hand. As he pulls last night's leftovers of kimchi stir-fry from his bag, Yuta's wondering where you've gone in such a desperate hurry. He doesn't notice Yuji standing beside him until the other boy drops something on his desk unceremoniously.

"Here," Yuji says cheerfully. "For giving me your pencil."

Yuta pauses to take in the packaged sweet bun that now graciously sits before him. He looks up at his classmate as though the kid is God himself.

Yuji gestures at the seat beside him. "She's scary, right?" he says. "I'm surprised she let you sit with her."

Yuta lets out a breathy nervous laugh. "Yeah, I don't think she likes me very much."

Yuji's leans in, straight-faced as he holds eye intense contact with Yuta. "Nah, she doesn't talk, like, ever. Ever ever."

There is an uncomfortable pause until Yuji suddenly pulls back and smiles. "You seem like a cool guy, so don't let someone like her get your mind twisted. Where are you from?"

Yuta decides he likes this Yuji kid very quickly. Since the seat next to him is yours, Yuji stays upright to chat while Yuta picks at his lunch. Before he knows it, Yuta has spent the entire break period talking (mostly listening), until the bell rings and snaps him out of the conversation. His heart is pounding, but he can't deny that it was a nice chat.

You, on the other hand, slide back into your seat two seconds before the tardy bell goes off. He considers asking you where you went, but his thoughts get interrupted when he sees you pull a pen and an actual notebook out of your bag. The lesson after lunch is biology, which is one that Yuta doesn't care much about, but you seem to be perking right up as you date a blank page.

The end of the day arrives at last, but the teacher has apparently decided that the torture of an eight-hour span of learning is not enough. Before dismissing the class, she announces a quarter-long group project that "is to be completed with your tablemate".

Yuta feels like he's been dipped in acid the way his body tenses uncomfortably. Anxiety deprives his mind of words, but fuck, he has to ask you because it's worth 30% percent of his final grade. And he's trying to be a better student, a better person, blah blah blah. So he follows you as you sprint out the door, unwilling to back down.

He opens his mouth to call out your name only to realize that he doesn't know it. You had given no introduction, not acknowledging him or anyone else the entire day. In the haze of his desperation, Yuta thrusts his hand out and wraps his hand tightly around your forearm.

You flinch and gasp loudly as you whirl around to face him, eyes wide with panic. Upon realizing it was him, your shock turns to irritation with a nasty scowl. "What?" you snap. "What the fuck, let me go!"

He loosens his grip and drops his arm to by his side, highly aware that you just screamed "let me go" at him in a crowded hallway. However, no one seems to be paying attention to either one of you in their hurry to escape.

"Don't run," he says firmly.

You're gripping where he'd grabbed you with your other hand. "That fucking hurt, you asshole."

He ignores you, even if he does feel a little bad for grabbing you as hard as he did. "We need to figure out our project stuff."

You laugh, sharp and humorless laugh right in his face. "I'm not doing that shit."

It's not often that Yuta gets angry, but he can't help but to feel irritated by your flighty attitude. He had come to this school for a fresh start with a plan to do well and keep to himself. He, of all people, understands the hatred of group projects, but you still have to do them. He wants to argue with you and remind you that it's not just your grade at stake, but he knows that it's useless. You're already halfway down the hall, and he knows that you aren't going to look back. *** Yuta walks into the classroom with a set jaw and squared shoulders. There are exactly two days left until the deadline to submit the first draft of the project. True to your word, you have contributed absolutely nothing and have not offered to help once. And Yuta can't stop putting it off any chance he gets because at heart, he is a procrastinator, and it's complete bullshit that you get to blow it off without consequence.

So, he is on a mission, channeling every ounce of confidence that he's capable of producing. He's crafted his approach very diligently; he's going to demand that you participate in this project. No stuttering, no softness, no taking "no" for an answer. The shred of confidence he's got holds true as you walk through the door with your head already buried in a book.

You're late, as usual, and Yuta finds himself wondering how you haven't been kicked out of the school with your observably poor attendance record. He's come into this expecting to be shot down, or for you to yell at him or maybe slap him with one of your hardcover novels. He does not expect the simple and submissive "okay" that escapes your parted lips.

Yuta blinks at you. "Okay?"

You shrug, closing your book after marking your place with a sticky note. You're looking at him head-on with no trace of evidence that you might be messing with him. "If I say no, you'll probably cry, and I don't want that on my conscience."

A part of him screams that he should argue against such a statement, but the surprise at your cooperation overshadows the usual bite of your disrespect. Yuta relaxes visibly as he launches into phase two of his mission: organizing the project.

He explains, "Well, the first draft is due in two days, so we should work on it as soon as possible," noticing how you frown at the end of his sentence. "What?"

"You haven't even started?" you say dubiously, drawing your brows together.

Yuta's jaw drops. How are you going to turn this around on him when you insisted you weren't going to help in the first place? But as usual, he holds his tongue and replaces the quip with the first words that come to mind. "Well, I- I've been busy and I'm not good at science-"

As is typical of you, you interrupt him mid-sentence once again. "One: you're a terrible partner, and two: how can you be bad at science? Literally all you have to do is read." You sigh sharply and pinch the bridge of your nose. "It seems you really do need my help."

If tolerating your backward insults was what he had to do to get you to help, then so be it. Your jests were something he was growing used to, anyway.

"When should I come over then?" you ask nonchalantly.

A normal teenaged boy would be doing somersaults at the prospect of having a girl ask to go to his house, but Yuta can only feel his anxiety soar as he grimaces. Every millisecond seems to last a full minute as he tries to think of answer. He hadn't thought about the fact that he was going to have to see you outside of school.

You can't come to his house, not with the state of it right now. Yuta would rather die than you lay eyes on his place. The lamest excuse tumbles out of his mouth. "Oh, my mom doesn't let me have-"

"God, fine," you groan, rolling your eyes. "You can just come to my house after school, I guess."

Yuta blanches. "Today?"

You glare at him, and he raises his hands defensively.

"You said "as soon as possible"," you spit matter-of-factly.

"No, no, it's fine," he says quickly. "Thank you."

He's never been to a girl's house before under any circumstances. He's nervous, no- he's terrified to be alone with you.

"Don't think this means I like you," you say as you jab your finger at him.

Yuta shakes his head insistently as if to prove just how much he understands. *** The rest of the day drags on, and by the time the dismissal bell rings, Yuta's nails are nothing but bitten-down stumps. He is so nervous that he's sure there will be sweat stains when he takes his uniform off later. He has a mental image of a bedroom with black-painted walls and a spiked coffin in place of a bed.

The walk to your house is short and painfully quiet. You move surprisingly fast, as though as you can't stand to slow down in fear of wasting time. And he's disappointed by the quaint house that you approach with your keys in hand. He'd half-expected a vampire's den, but the place is nothing of the sort. There's a lawn statue designed to look like a cat sitting by the front door. There are several large pothos plants hanging from the spandrels, lush and bright green- clearly well taken care of.

"My mom gets home at 8:30, so we have a few hours," you say as you turn to unlock the front door. "Want a snack or anything?"

The offer is kind and so uncharacteristic of you that it takes him aback slightly. He declines, silently trailing behind as you lead him into the kitchen.

Something soft brushes at his ankles and he glances down to see an orange cat head-butting him. Yuta smiles and bends to rub its ears as it purrs against his hand.

"That's Momo," you say. "She's super friendly." The cat rushes to your side when you say its name and you scoop it up easily with one hand. You're not smiling, but there is a softening of your gaze as you scratch behind Momo's ears, who has their eyes closed purring contentedly.

"Want to give her a treat?" you ask. "She'll love you forever."

Yuta grins. "Hit me." And you're handing him a blue tube with pinkish gel creeping out the open end. Momo goes ballistic, springing out of your arms and racing over to Yuta's ankles once again. He bends down to give it to her, laughing at the zeal with which she devours the treat.

He glances up to see you smiling a little, and it's shocking. "Churu's her favorite."

"I can tell."

You snort. "Let's go up."

Yuta follows with Momo on his heels as you ascend to the upper level. The anxiety has really settled in as he realizes he's about to be alone with a girl in her room.

He sheds the backpack hanging from his shoulders and retrieves his binder in search of the incomplete project outline. Your desk is impeccably organized and Yuta notices a pair of succulents on top. The single window in the room sits behind the desk, overlooking the street below.

"You can take the mushroom," you point to an impossibly tiny mushroom-shaped stool in the corner. Yuta doesn't dare risk facing your wrath by declining, so he drags it over to your desk and settles himself down awkwardly.

"So, I was thinking we do a visual," Yuta starts.

You hum, peering over his scarce notes with your brows drawn in concentration. "Sure."

Yuta has spent every day of the last two weeks sitting a couple of inches to your right, but it feels very different doing so in your room. You're still wearing your school clothes, but your hair is clipped back and strands of it fall into your face as you write down ideas. The light here is different, and he sees you from other angles. More than once, he finds his gaze straying to the exposed flesh of your thighs spreading across your desk chair.

It's a lot of back and forth, but eventually the outline looks decent enough that Yuta is satisfied. He's writing out the remaining formulas, feeling burnt out as he tries to recall the specific elements. A quick glance at his phone tells him that it's 8:02PM, meaning you've been at it for nearly three hours.

"Ugh, give me that." You reach to yank the pencil from his grasp, fingers lingering on his as you frown. "Why are you wearing a ring?" you ask.

Yuta glances at the silver band around his finger which has been there so long it may as well have been part of his body. It feels strange for you to be touching his hand, so he drops the pen and lays it flat on top of his thigh.

"It was a gift," he replies with a tone that welcomes no further questions. You're surprised by the hardness of his voice, only nodding as you hold the pencil properly to write. Yuta thinks that perhaps, one day he will tell you, but it's not a story he wishes to recall in any sort of detail. You're quick to change the subject, asking him to read off the measurements so you can fill them in. It seems that you're apt for reading the moods of others, so much so that Yuta sends you his silent appreciation. *** The weekend comes and goes all too quickly, and before he knows it, it's Tuesday again, and up in your room, you're arguing with Yuta about which colors to use in your project.

"Warm colors are not scientific," you insist. "Our project is biology, so it should be green. Life equals green, or whatever."

"Why do you suddenly care so much about the quality of your work?" Yuta shoots back. He's not angry, the argument being more so teasing than real. But he's learned recently that he kind of enjoys seeing you get riled up, so when you first expressed your discontent with his color choice, he decided to hang back and see where the altercation would go.

You sigh sharply and squeeze your eyes shut for a second. When you open them, you reach into your desk drawer and pull out something he can't see, because you've already shoved it into your pocket.

"I need a break," you say. "Let's go."

You're walking out of your bedroom with intention in your every movement. Yuta follows, letting you lead him through the house, then outside behind a garden shed. He's sandwiched between two feet of space between it and the tall wooden fence surrounding your home. You stand just before him, thrusting your hand into your pocket to pull out... a pack of cigarettes?!

"Come on, it's just CBD," you say, rolling your eyes at Yuta's stunned expression. "My mom knows a lady who rolls them by hand."

As if that makes it any better. There's a lighter in your other hand as you slip a cigarette between your lips. Expertly, you hold it over the small flame and take the first drag.

"What does you mom do?" Yuta asks. Neither of you have talked much about your families, but the way you speak about your mom makes him curious.

You exhale, and smoke billows around him. "She's a ballet instructor."

"Oh."

You're puffing on the cigarette as though it's natural to you. He watches the way you drag on it, counts out how long it takes, and he likes the way you blow the smoke out through your teeth. It's captivating, and he feels for a moment that he might be in a movie.

"Oh, sorry," you say, holding it out to him. "Did you want some?"

Yuta slips the cigarette between his index and middle fingers, observing it as he contemplates whether to try it. He raises his eyebrows at you before bringing it to his lips. "You're sure this is CBD?"

You nod. "Scout's honor."

So, he takes a drag, trying to copy your exact motions down to the exhale. He coughs a little, but aside from a smoky flavor on his tongue, there is no noticeable difference.

"Do you like it?"

Yuta shrugs and passes it back. "I don't really feel anything."

You roll your eyes and scoff at him. "You need to have more than one hit, dummy. It's not supposed to feel like much of anything."

He doesn't understand your logic (he rarely does), but he watches as you finish it off, flicking ashes into a small hole dug into the dirt under the shed.

*** "How do you get away with your nose ring?" Yuta asks.

He's sitting at your desk with his hands hovering over his laptop keyboard, halfway facing it while also trying to look at you over on the bed. Summer has come more quickly than anticipated and with it, the project's deadline is fast approaching. It's the weekend, but you called an emergency study session to start working out the fine details of the presentation.

"I get away with a lot," you reply. "My mom works for the school board so I'm basically invincible."

Yuta is pretty sure that he has finally met someone more emo than he is. Despite the leveling out of his relationship with you, you still give the entire school the cold shoulder, and aside from the project, the rest of your work remains untouched. You're reading manga in class now, having replaced your giant hardcovers with smaller volumes. Yuta doesn't know you well enough to know that you only read manga when you're doing poorly.

You take it to a whole other level, though, with all your frowning and the dark clothing. But today is different. You're on the bed lying on your stomach, wearing a blue tank top with your hair pulled back, kicking your feet while propping your chin on curled hands. You're more talkative than usual, and you seem relaxed as a warm breeze musses up your bangs.

"I did them myself," you say after a few moments. "All you need is a sewing needle and some rubbing alcohol."

You can google this, but when some people are depressed, their pain tolerance increases. Some meds can affect it too."

Yuta could only stare. "Right."

You always seemed to know so much about medicine and the body. Despite the lack of work ethic you exuded, you seemed really into the anatomy chapter in class. Since he'd started spending more time with you, he'd learned that you had a true affinity for science. You liked knowing how things work, how A relates to B so you could understand it better.

"Would you do one for me?" he asks.

You visibly hesitate, but your expression is a concerned one. "Are you sure? It hurts like a motherfucker, Yuta."

He nods. "Yeah, I think I want my left ear. Stop looking at me like that."

Your giggles fill the room, and it's the sweetest sound ever to grace his ears even if it's at his expense. "I'm tougher than I look," he says indignantly, smiling widely.

The work has been abandoned. You scramble from atop the covers and quickly murmur your destination before bouncing out of the room. You return a minute later with a sewing box, a red wash rag, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"Come to the bed," you instruct him. He does, accidentally disturbing a napping Momo when he lowers himself down. You set the sewing box and rag down on the desk right on top of the script the two of you'd been half-assing for the last hour. He watches as you soak a bit of the rag with rubbing alcohol and turn around to face him.

There will be blood," you say seriously.. "Red so it doesn't stain, or my mom will bitch at me."

Yuta leans back on his palms as you stand to his side and reach up to hold his earlobe so you can disinfect it. The scent of the alcohol burns his nose a little, but part of him likes it. You hold him by the chin with one hand and rub small circles over his earlobe with the other. He watches you as you work and realizes that he likes seeing you in your element. Your brows are drawn in concentration, but your hands are steady.

You pull back, dropping your hand from his chin and your eyes meet his. "You ready?"

Yuta nods, trusting you fully not to hurt him more than necessary. You turn to reveal a sewing needle and the red rag from before. You place the rag in his hand before moving to situate yourself in front of him. He's waiting for you to go for the same position, but you're hesitating, biting your lip and you pinch the needle between two fingers.

"Uh, sorry," you say, and he thinks it's the first time he's even seen you act even a little flustered. You stand just to his left side, the outside of your knee brushing against his ribs and you're holding his chin again. Yuta's heart rate jumps at the contact.

"Want me to count?"

He shakes his head and squeezes a squishmallow in his fist. And then you're putting the needle in and he sucks in a breath. He makes a mental note to apologize to the plushie later because right now he's damn near destroying it.

"You feel okay?" you ask. Your voice is serious, concerned yet steady.

It stings, it burns, a fucking needle just went through his flesh, but the pain seems somehow faraway now. Your face is just a few inches away from his, and you're so close that he can smell the traces of hemp cigarettes on your breath. He is aware that blood soaking the wash rag you're holding against his neck, but he's too lost in your gaze to care as he answers breathlessly, "hardly felt it."

Your half-lidded eyes flick down to his lips. His heart hammers against his chest and he can see your pulse jumping on your neck. And he's reaching for you, acting more on instinct than rational thought. He thinks of sliding his thumb across the expanse of your jawline, of tucking a stray hair behind your ear. Blood roars in his ears and he lets his eyes flutter closed as you lean in, and his nose just barely brushes yours-

Then your phone is ringing, shrill and annoyingly intrusive, and you jump backward as you both flinch. Yuta feels hot, his shirt suddenly too thick and the room suddenly too small. He takes over holding the rag as you answer the call, getting up to go into the hallway.

Yuta's mind is reeling. He'd almost just kissed you...WHY DIDN'T HE JUST DO IT? He's cursing himself, cursing the cowardice that seems to be his default setting. What would've happened if your stupid phone hadn't started ringing?

And his thoughts are cut off when you burst back into the room and start cleaning up the papers strewn about your desk. Yuta notices the frown marring your face, any trace of your excitement having disappeared.

"My mom's gonna be home in like five minutes, so you gotta go," you say quickly. "Like now. Or she's gonna ground me."

"What about my ear?" he asks, rising to his feet. It's so painful and he's wondering how in the fuck you truly tolerated doing this to yourself.

You groan. "Yuta, I'm sorry, but you have to go. I'll text you what to do with your ear later."

And so he gathers his things, bids Momo farewell, and walks himself home with a bloody rag and a confused spirit.

Nothing like that happens again. You don't bring it up, and he takes it as a message to do the same. Even still, his mind will wander to the feeling of the tip of your nose touching his, and he often wonders if he'll ever get the chance to touch you again. *** A few weeks later, the project is nearing completion, and Yuta can't deny that the final draft is coming together well. He has spent every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at your house while Momo oversees production and the two of you share snacks. He's learned that you prefer fruity flavors over milky ones and that you can devour an entire bag of seaweed snacks in ten minutes. It amuses him deeply, especially in comparison to the darkness you exude on a normal basis.

He's also learned that you love cats, and you sleep with three squishmallows every night. You have a green thumb when it comes to houseplants, and you paint every pot yourself. So, Monday night he asks his mother to get an extra bag of seaweed snacks so he can bring it to you the next day as a surprise.

But when Yuta arrives to the classroom that morning, you're not sitting in your unassigned-assigned seat. You beat him there almost every day now that he's doing library duty with Yuji, so he shrugs it off until it's well past roll call and you're still not there. At the next break, he shoots a text asking where you are, feeling awfully lonely without the usual annoyed glares sent from his left side.

Lunch comes and he's anxious when he looks at his phone to see there's been no reply. His thumbs hover over the screen as he debates whether to send another text, knowing it will annoy you, but his curiosity threatens to win the battle. Yuta glances up to see Yuji holding out a small handful of multicolored rock candy.

"I hate these," Yuji says, making a face. "You want it?"

Yuta blinks at him. “Uh, no, thank you.”

The other boy groans before tossing them right into his backpack, surely now gone forever. Yuta cringes a little, suddenly wondering what other…treasures might linger at the bottom of Yuji’s bag. But then his phone is buzzing in his hands and Yuta’s heart rate jumps thirtyfold. And it’s you (you’re alive!), and the excitement he gets from the three words you’ve sent is embarrassing, but he doesn’t care.

>the doctor >why

<you missed a quiz.

>idc

A smile tugs at Yuta's lips. Of course you don't. His fingers fly over the keypad as he types out the question that's been burning in his mind all day.

<am I still good to come over?

And you're quick to reply, making him wonder what was taking you so long before.

>u might get there before me but there's a key under the cat statue

Yuta is triumphant throughout the rest of the day. It's around 4:15 by the time he makes it to your front door, buzzing from how excited he is to deliver the bag of seaweed snacks. He glances around the porch, searching for the statue that looks like Momo to retrieve the alleged spare key.

The door is unlocked, so he concludes that you are home after all. He quickly returns to the key to its holder and closes the door behind him. It's dark inside, all the curtains drawn and the lights shut off. Momo is not there to greet him, and you are nowhere to be found. Yuta calls out your name in question.

There's a trilling sound as Momo descends the stairs and pads over to him, weaving in and out from between his shins. Yuta bends to give her some pets, but she darts away toward the stairs once more. She looks back at him before running up, tail flicking back and forth as she meows, and then it clicks.

"Oh!" he says. "Lead the way, ma'am, by all means."

So he follows, and as he reaches the top of the stairs he hears the sound of running water.

It's deja vu. He's seen this film before and is currently living in the end credits waiting for another scene that will never come. Is this the sequel? The parallels are so uncannily similar that it has to be a joke. It's a prank- it has to be. Your name tears from his mouth as he tries the doorknob knowing that it will be locked. And as predicted, it doesn't budge, so he knocks once, twice, three times, but there's no answer.

"Yuta, stop!" you say from the other side. Even from those two words, he can hear the distress in your voice. He feels desperate, shaky, and he knows he has to get you to open the door before you do something stupid. The words tear from his lungs,

"I will break this fucking door down if you don't open it right now!"

The water stops running. The only sound is Momo scratching at the door, trying just as desperately to get you to stop.

And it's you, and the sight makes his blood run cold. There are so many horizontal marks on your arms, and there's blood seeping from each one. Yuta is acting purely on instinct as he surges toward you.

He grips your forearms uncaring of the blood that's going to stain his skin. You're hyperventilating, hot salty tears streaming down your face as Yuta tries to get you to look at him. You're rasping something shakily over and over, and he's trying to get you to speak up so he can hear properly.

"Talk to me," he says gently. "It's okay."

He reaches to grab the washcloth hanging by the sink to press them to your cuts, but before the fabric makes contact, you burst into tears once more and shake your head frantically.

"No!" you cry. "Get the red ones from under the sink."

And it clicks for him then. This was not an isolated event, evident by the tall stack of red washrags and how you'd been so dead set on using one when you pierced his ear. You rarely wore short sleeves even when it had been so hot lately. He remembers grabbing you in the hallway at school and how you'd clutched at your arm then.

He holds one rag to each of your arms and instructs you to keep them there. On the bathroom counter is an assortment of pill bottles, each of which had your name printed on them with your date of birth. Drugs like fluoxetine, alprazolam, and lithium, all of which are ones he's been on himself over the years. A certain numbness flows through him as he detaches himself from the situation.

How close of a call was it? How long had you been planning? What triggered you? When? You've left him speechless, completely stupefied because of course, he should've seen the signs.

"Unlock your phone for me," he says calmly, handing the device to you. You comply. He scrolls through your contacts until he finds your mother's and instantly he taps the call button.

"Hello?"

It's a woman's voice, an unfamiliar one. Yuta keeps it brief, not wanting to upset you further by going into detail and acting like you aren't in the room.

"Yes, I'm staying with her until you get here. We're in the upstairs bathroom."

Yuta does not raise his voice. He does not scream, does not yell. He only regards you with sadness in his eyes as his fingers wrap around yours clutching the bottle.

"Yuta, why?" you wail.

It breaks his heart. It shatters his soul in a way that he knows is going to affect him longer after this moment, but he has to do it. Yuta tilts his wrist and lets the pills fall into the toilet until the rattling stops and the bottle is empty. There are tears streaming down your face and your eyes are wide with something that chills his blood as he glimpses you.

"I can't let you," Yuta says in a calm voice. His throat feels tight, like he might scream or burst into tears any moment, but he wills himself to remain composed for your sake. He cannot break when you need him so dearly.

You're sobbing as the words tumble from your mouth while you sink to your knees. "You don't understand..."

And Yuta's kneeling before you, resting both of his hands on either of your shoulders to pull you into him. You let him wrap his arms around your shaking body and he lets you weep. It's uncontrollable, it's animalistic, it's desperate and the sadness infects Yuta's heart. 17 years of pain, trauma, and too-heavy crosses fill his ears and poison his soul.

The two of you stay like that until your mother arrives several minutes later. Yuta hears the garage door open through the bathroom floor. You're still clinging to him, your sobs having turned into soft yet consistent cries and sniffles. He hears the jingle of keys and a set of footsteps that fly up the staircase until a woman stands in the way of the bathroom door.

You look like her, Yuta thinks. Your mother's tired eyes meet his and she thanks him. Yuta gently guides you to sit on the edge of the bathtub, feeling awkward to touch you so intimately in front of your mother. Your face is a mess, red and puffy with an empty expression that squeezes painfully at Yuta's heart.

"Yuta..." you say, gazing at his face sadly.

He knows it's his cue to leave, but his feet are rooted in place beneath the weight of your presence. He doesn't want to leave you. He thinks of the cries that ripped from your throat just moments ago, knowing that he will hear them in his dreams now. But it's not his place to rescue you. You'd said so yourself- you're not his girlfriend. So he squeezes your arm, keeping his eyes downcast, before rising to his feet and ducking out of the bathroom door.

Walking home is torture and sleep does not come that night. Nor the following, because his mind is devoted to replaying. And he goes to school that Monday half-awake and swaying as he stands in the breakfast line with Yuji. He sees your tear-stained face and empty eyes, the despair riddling your voice.

And he's heard nothing from you. No one at school asks about you, not even the teachers who see the empty seat that no one will take because it's yours. They see the dark circles painting his undereye, yet there is no mention of your name. He is so clearly on the edge of falling apart, but the world moves on around him despite claiming to care.

One week after that Monday, Yuta goes to the records clerk in the administration building during his lunch period. He asks for your emergency contact by name after briefly explaining your episode. The clerk agrees to give him your mother's phone number after insisting that he's your cousin. And those digits are gold to him, more precious than any gemstone money can buy.

"She's been admitted to a psychiatric facility," your mother explains. "We've pulled her out of school for now. Just want to give her time to get better, you know?"

All Yuta can see is you dressed in a hoodie with no strings and pants with no zippers as you trudge silently through hospital hallways. Your face devoid of all emotion, numb to the world as you recover from your dance with death.

Your mother said it's what you wanted, so Yuta had no choice but to let it go. So that following Monday, he goes to school. Not one person mentioned your name in passing, nor did they ask him about you.

But days turn into weeks, and months into years, and Yuta never saw you. Texts go ignored and every social media account you'd had was deleted. Selfishly, he feels that you've abandoned him, as desperately as he tries not to blame you in any way.

He walks by your house one afternoon to see a moving truck parked in the driveway as strangers, not you or Momo, march in and out of the front door. The cat statue on your porch isn't there, and Yuta's heart sinks to the ground. You're gone.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #yuta okkotsu #yuta x reader #yuta x you #no curse au #jjk yuta #hurt/comfort #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta x reader #okkotsu yuuta #jjk yuuta #yuuta x you

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dailyadventureprompts · 4 months

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Wilderness: The Secret of Grist Ridge

Taking its name from the its centuries old owner, the rolling highlands known as the Domain of Daldivain still bears the scars from when it was vast salve farm that fed the armies and granaries of the old empire. Since the empire's fall the people of the domain have maintained small settlements and scattered villages, herding over the the valleys and rises their debt-bound ancestors once toiled to cultivate.

All is not as peaceful as the picturesque vistas of the domain would suggest; cloud drakes, once a rarity and folkish sign of good fortune have become invasive in the region, beginning to prey on livestock and even lone travellers as their numbers swell.

After having several of their homesteads savaged by the beasts, one of the villages has sent for the party: The majority of its residents including the majority of its elders want the party to hunt the beasts back to their lair, but their wisewoman claims to have had a vision that points them to Grist Ridge, the old ruins that lay at the heart of the old autarch's domain. Most have no idea what the mushroom addled crone is talking about, but there is some rumour of treasure in the old mill that may make it worth checking out.

Adventure Hooks:

Early in their journey our heroes encounter a band of warriors led by Haltri Drakesbane, a woman who sees herself as the protector and future leader of the domain's people. Already having proven herself by slaying the beasts that preyed upon her kinsmen's land and several other villages, she's more than happy to ally with the party and split the glory if it means driving the drakes out for good. Her offer is not without caveat: Haltri hopes to leverage strength of arms into a unifying authority over the scattered peoples of the domain, and her detractors (including the village elders who sought the party out) fear what her ambitions may lead to if she goes unchallenged.

Feeling an inexplicable desire to wander, the journymage Enilo (along with his fluffy familiar, Cloudchaser) has sought out the ruins at Grist Ridge, spending days exploring and journaling about his experience. Enilo doesn't know it yet, but he's been called by the goddess of sky and enlightenment to receive a revelation that may change the future of the domain, provided the party's willing to have him tag along during their exploration and later defend him when Haltri shows up sometime midway through the delve to take the ruins for herself.

Though a number of the usual dungeon denizens have made their home in Grist Ridge, there is something malevolent skulking around its deepest reaches, filling the tunnels between the old windmills with the echo of scraping chains and a distant grinding sound that unsettles to the bone. It leaves handfulls of corroded coins from the old autarchy in places where others may find them. The locals know not to touch these, as it seems accepting the gifts of the lurking horror means inviting it to follow you home.

Background: One of many such sites left over after the fall of the old Autarchy, the ruins today known as Grist Ridge once surveyed a vast domain of slave farms owned by one of the old empire's richest men, Lord Daldivian, who's mark on the region endures even centuries after his death.

The old lord bought up the debts of hundreds and dragged them off to work in his fields, grinding them down much in the same way his mills ground down the grain they cultivated. Because he didn't need to pay his workers he was able to sell grain for less, bankrupting score upon score of the region's old farming families and creating people desperate enough to sell either their ancestral land (expanding Daldivain's domain) or themselves into bond slavery for fear of starvation, swelling his workforce from hundreds to thousands.

Daldivane was of course using lives as grist for his ambition long before the first mill was built: The region that came to be his was originally open wilderness along the Autarchy's border inhabited by worshipers of the goddess Yithini, who the old empire considered heathen and thus worthy of extermination. Lord Daldivane used his in with the imperial military to raze their homes and shrines, sowing his first fields with meal ground from their bones. He also used this military connection to hunt the endemic species of drake near to extinction, both because the beasts were sacred to Yithini and because they threatened to impede his expansion.

Further Adventures:

Enilo's observations of the region and the ruins (built on the space of Yithini's demolished temple) will eventually lead him to a series of revelations: The drakes aren't invasive, they are merely returning to their natural population levels after being culled. The environment is healing because of the return of its natural predator. There were people who lived in the domain before who's existence and subsequent elimination Daldivane concealed, who lived in harmony with the drakes through their worship of the now forgotten sky goddess. Unexpectedly finding himself a prophet, Enilo will return to the people of the domain and begin expounding on this secret history, reawakening the worship of Yithini in what was once her sacred land and sparing the people from further clashes with their draconic neighbours.

Haltri does indeed have ambition, taking the exactly wrong lessons from the stories of Daldivane she imagines herself as a new, kinder, autarch, seeking to reclaim the mills of Grist Ridge and rebuild the economic engine that made the old lord one of the richest men in the known world. This will of course require the denizens to be put to work in the fields once again, but in her opinion its the least they can do to repay her for driving the drakes away and keeping them safe. Its up to the party to uncover these ambitions, or perhaps look aside for the sake of their new, increasingly powerful ally.

The thing stalking the foundations of Grist Ridge is a demon born of Daldivane's pittiless greed and the sorrow of those he enslaved. Stalking around the lowest reaches of the ruins and emerging only at night, it resembles a man dressed in tattered finery of the old autarchy with his legs fettered together and his arms bound to a yoke. Where its face should be there is only a cracked millstone, grinding forever and ever over its bleeding and lipless lower jaw. Most disturbingly of all It hungers for bones: placing severed limbs or whatever stray mice it can catch in its mouth and grinding them to powder, sometime after its meal coughing up bloody autarchy coins the way an owl might a pellet. Though it does not speak or perhaps even really THINK the demon of Grist Ridge believes in fair commerce, as any who feed it are due a compensatory amount of treasure just as anyone who takes from its offerings owes it in some way.

Art

#low level #wilderness mountain #wilderness highland #exploration #mountain dungeon #highland dungeon #fiend #monster hunt #demon #yithini

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binxiboo · 25 days

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The Frenchier Mistake

(aka Dean meets his celebrity crush: Actress!Reader)

Supernatural Masterlist // Full Masterlist

A/N: @princessmermaid1289 you'll never guess what I've only gone and done... I finished it! (we'll ignore it being well over a year later)

Actress!Reader x Sam and Dean

Clatters fill the bunker as all sorts of equipment and tools get dropped on the closest surface to the bottom of the staircase. Both Winchester brothers are incredibly over this last hunt. They were meant to be home days ago, thinking that they’d killed a whole nest of vamps; turns out these vampires were the vengeful kind, and when they found out that their friends had been savaged… well they didn’t take it lightly. It didn’t take them long to find the ’67 Chevy Impala on its route back to the bunker.

The respective hallways echo with heavy footsteps as the tire brothers silently bid each other goodnight before slinking behind their bedroom doors, each leaning their weight against them, unknowingly synchronised across rooms. It’s a miracle either of them even got their clothes off before collapsing into bed, finally getting a comfortable night’s rest they’d not had all week.

The two had a shock, however, when they were awoken by… clapping? Sam and Dean both shoot up in their beds, instantly trying to place what could be happening in their heads. As they’re processing the information around them, they begin to realise that the beds beneath them no longer feel like the comfortable ones they fell asleep in the night before. Hell, they’d had nicer motel beds than these. What are they? Solid wood? Dean runs his hand alongside his leg, pushing down on the barely-there mattress. Well, there’s some cushioning at least.

“That was a good one, guys!”

“Yeah, I think that’s us done for the night.”

The bodies in front of them slowly filtered out of the room while the two men made their way out of the prop beds. At a certain point, the wall separating their apparently-not-a-room ‘rooms’ ended, and the two brothers found themselves side by side. They turn to look at each other, then around what they’ve now realised is a tv set.

“Sammy?”

“Dean.”

“Tell me it’s not happened again.”

Sam swallows, hard. The lack of verbal response has Dean running a hand over his face. The next few moments are spent considering what actions may have led them to being stuck in this universe again. Several things get ruled out. They haven’t pissed off anyone with the ability to transport them across universe lately. Neither of them was messing with magic, or any practices to be clear, that could’ve gone wrong like this. It isn’t a dream that they’ve both ended up conscious in. There’s no way for anything to be an imminent threat. It is at this conclusion that Dean gets the best idea he thinks he has ever had in his life.

He's going to go flirt with some babes.

Dean quickly locates the door everyone had walked out of previously and practically drags his brother through it. Sam doesn’t quite process that he’s moving until his head almost hits the door frame on his way out of the building and his face screws up as he processes the information.

By the time Sam has gotten out of his own head Dean has already surveyed half the studios surrounding their own. As soon as a question begins forming on his tongue, Sam is pulled in another direction by Dean’s, arguably tight, grip on his forearm. Dean is on a mission as he glances around at the postered walls of each building. Honestly, Sam doesn’t understand how Dean even knows what he’s seen with how short the glances are. The sniffer dog act ends abruptly though when Dean receives all power of the moose that is his brother slam straight into his back, eliciting a grunt from the older, shorter brother.

“Not my fault you don’t come with brake lights.” Sam says with a shrug in response to Dean’s glare. “Why’d you stop so suddenly anyway?”

Dean simply turns around and gestures at the poster on the building directly in front of them. Sam, confused once more, delivers an expression to encourage elaboration.

“Dean, am I supposed to know what this is?”

“It’s a TV show. With doctors in it. Very dramatic. Heavy stuff.”

“And that’s supposed to help me how… oh. Is this that med show we got stuck in before?” An air of exasperation arrives by the end of Sam’s sentence.

Dean purses his lips and keeps his face hidden from Sam. He tries to tell himself that there’s nothing embarrassing about watching what is, frankly, just good television.

“Yeah, well… there’s… hot chicks.” Sure, that was convincing enough, Dean decides.

With a roll of his eyes, Sam follows Dean in through a door, slipping behind the few crew members who have just exited through it. They stick to the shadows, Dean, not so gently dragging Sam into the darkness with him, determined to sleuth out the space rather than risk immediate expulsion. Once, deemed safe, Dean slinks forward, attempting to contain his inner nerd, but ultimately coming to a halt as he ends up turns to face with someone he could never have prepared for.

The older Winchester’s eyes widen, pupils absolutely dilating – in fact, if this was the Scooby Doo crossover, there’d be audible ‘AWOOGA’s filling the silence. Dean Winchester has been infatuated with this actress since she began her role, how could he not? She’s inarguably the most attractive woman going, the amount on unsavoury concepts his filthy man brain has conjured up over the seasons… well, they’re better off inside his head, he thinks. A mental note recorded to not let any of them slip.

It has him in shock that she’s somehow existing in this universe. He’s in even more shock when he realises that it’s taken him ending up in another dimension to be in her presence, he was sure that he’d have to somehow get himself to that fan convention a few states over without Sam finding out, and yet, she’s here. They’re both there. A loud yell to cut triggers him to collect himself.

She sighs, walking out of the set, towards the snack table- towards him. He goes to inhale deeply, to settle his excitement before making a fool of himself, but she speaks before he can.

“Jensen? Jared?” there’s a lilt of interest in her voice, even excitement on her part.

Dean does a double take. She knows him. No. She knows Jensen. Well, that solidifies the theory that this is the same universe from before. Jensen. He can work with that.

“Hi.” He responds, his best charming smile sliding onto his face paired with a small wave of his hand. It encourages her to come closer, Dean internalises his celebration.

“Um, why-” her brow furrows, as she struggles to phrase a sentence, “You’re on my set? This- our set.”

“Yeah...” Dean nods, processing how he can spin this, “Actually, I- we- we came to see you."

Her face flushes, eyes widening slightly before she catches herself. “O-oh. You did?”

Dean nods, smiling at her again. Sam offers her a slightly awkward, but still kind, smile as her eyes flick over to him.

“Well, I was going to head to a bar after this shoot.” There’s an air of confidence flooding through her words now, she looks back at her director for the evening. He looks exhausted as he talks to other crewmembers, shaking his head. He mutters something. Then there’s a loud statement, letting everyone know they can go home for the night, they’ll try to get the scene tomorrow.

“A bar, you said?” Dean can’t hide his smirk as he gains her attention again.

She nods, “Yep. I- actually, think you’ll love it.”

“Lead the way then, Doctor.” He adds a laugh to this, hoping it doesn’t make her cringe. It makes Sam cringe, which earns the taller Winchester a not-so-subtle smack to the stomach. She, thankfully, laughs. Man is it one of the sweetest things he’s ever heard. He almost lets himself get lost in the sound before he remembers that this is not his universe, and that he’s not even himself here. He’s Jensen instead of Dean. On that topic, he considered whether anything indicated whether Jensen was in a relationship. He knows Sam has to act married; Jared having married ‘Fake Ruby’ and all that.

The two follow the actress.

They end up a street away from the studio. The lighting is low, but warm, almost comforting. Dean decides to be the gentleman and get the first round in. He asks the lady what she wants to drink, then hands his wallet to Sam, telling him to get him ‘a beer- no! No, a whiskey’. The two leave Sam at the bar to situate themselves in a more secluded booth in the back of the bar.

“Let's play a game.”

Dean’s head shoots around to her, eyebrow quirked and lips slightly smirked, challenging.

“I’m thinking... two truths, one lie?” There’s a playful tone to her voice as her lips morph to match his smirk.

“Oh, absolutely. We’re going to need shots...” Dean leaves the table just as Sam returns, earning him a confused look from his younger brother, but continuing with his mission regardless.

Once the older brother returns to the chosen booth with a tray of pre-poured shots, Sam takes one look and decides he wants no part, taking his chance to work out how the hell to get home instead. Dean, however, eagerly sits across from his celebrity crush, rubbing his hands after placing the tray down gently enough not to spill any nectar.

“Who’s up first?” he asks with a smirk, taking a swig out of his whiskey glass, he looks up to be met with a matching expression on the actress’ face as she begins to speak.

“I only got to where I am because I have a godparent high up in the industry. I speak multiple languages, aaaaand… I’ve been approached for… naughty modelling.” She finishes with a wink.

Dean’s biology serves him no favours as he processes her last insinuation, shuffling to obscure himself better under the table as he chokes a little on his whiskey.

“Well- I- The last one has to be a truth, there’s no way you haven’t. I mean, look at you.” His words met with a modest blush on her cheeks as she laughs a little. “There’s no way you can speak another language, well maybe for a role, but not fluently, so I call bull. Then that leaves the last truth to be nepo baby.”

“Take a shot. Or two… do you want to do a shot per wrong answer?”

“What? No- how’d I get that wrong?!”

“I’m not a nepo baby, just… either extremely lucky or someone was trying to get in my pants. Like the photographer that wanted me to pose nude for him… when I lived in France and spoke the language every day. Because I speak French. Fluently.”

Dean’s jaw drops open, sighing before he shoots two glasses back without a word. Y/N giving an approving nod.

“Your turn.”

It’s safe to say… Dean sucks at two truths and a lie. Or at least he does when any truths he could say sound crazier than any lies, especially when he reminds himself that he needs to play along as Jensen. In fact, he gets so many wrong that the night begins to blur, her needing to collect the next tray of shots as he fails to coordinate his way to the bar. By the time Sam returns, Dean’s slumped over in the booth, words barely English as they slur, and then, darkness.

When Dean sees the world again, he’s back in the concrete confines of the bunker. His brain struggling to work overtime to get his bearings and put memories in chronological order. Through his bedroom door comes Sam, acting as if nothing was wrong.

“Sammy- what- how’d we get home?” Dean’s voice comes out hoarse and gravelly as he speaks, rubbing his head.

“What do you mean? I drove.”

“Drove from… another universe?”

Sam laughs. “What?”

Dean’s face drops. “I- I- We were in that other place again- that- Ackles and Pada- Padalinski.”

Sam shakes his head, muttering to himself as he walks away, waiting until he’s around the corner before checking the photos remain on his phone. His brother blacked out the corner of the bar booth, his celeb crush posing next to him after covering his face with lipstick kisses.

#supernatural x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #deanwinchester #dean winchester imagine #sam winchester #supernatural #supernaturalxreader

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amaranthine-enihtnarama · 1 year

Text

Les Petits Morts (Marquis de Gramont x Assassin! F! Reader)

(Cat and mouse, do-they-want-to-kill-each-other-or-fuck-each-other, enemies to lovers, two psychotic mfers flirt)

taglist: @the-ice-frozen-ground-red-rose

warnings: freaky behavior, blood k!nk, knife play, violence, what y’all came for (🤨), reader is lowkey a brat hehe, marquis doms ofc bless up, mentions and brief moments of violence, build-up, more story than necessary probably. Romance⁉️

Part Two is here!

Vincent de Gramont had made a grave miscalculation when it came to her. He knew the moment he’d laid eyes on her that he was in danger: her wide, brown eyes shining golden in the rising sun, her fragrant hair swooping over one shoulder, letting the skin of her neck catch the light, and, as she’d finally stepped before him, that haunting scent of jasmine and gardenias, the radiance and bohemian ease she exuded; he was immediately disarmed from the knowledge that she was a killer. She was a slippery figure, shrouded in mystery, in fear. No one knew where she came from, but everybody knew of the story of how she earned her freedom. A young girl, bloodthirsty, filled with fire, tearing open the throat of the Marquis to whom she had been promised, her bloody mouth pulled back to bare a glimmering smile in the face of her freedom. Still, she remained in her former line of work, even more dangerous with her years of being outside of The Table’s shadow.

La Belladonna is what they called her, and she gave no name. She smiled at him, gaze twinkling something wicked. He maintained composure, of course, but he couldn’t break away from that haunting, doe-eyed gaze of hers. He’d expected a woman, but not one like this. He’d imagined a savage before him based on the story that had always been told. Not someone so beautiful, so graceful…so enchanting.

“Bonjour, Marquis,” she greeted, “I do hope you didn’t mind the early morning.”

“I did.”

She laughed, turning away and taking a seat against the wall.

“Well, that’s just too bad.”

She checked her nails; a crimson manicure. Her eyes flitted from it to him. He was confused by the expectation in her gaze. He’d never once seen that look in anyone’s eyes before (except, perhaps, from one of The Table).

“Won’t you have a seat,” she questioned.

He cleared his throat, glancing over to one of his men then slowly moving over to the barrel next to her. She admired the horses with a small subdued smile, then turned to him with a sigh. He surveyed her, unsure what to make of this so-called dangerous killer. He was quite sure he’d met worse. He moved to speak, but she cut him off.

“So, Marquis, why exactly do you require my services?”

“They say you’re the best,” he responded cooly.

Her lips curved into a bemused smile. “They say we’re all the best. Why me specifically?”

He gave a slight smile. “You are able to go unnoticed. Become invisible. I want someone invisible.”

“And why is that? Don’t you have Caine? He’s the best.”

His smile fell. Her eyes widened slightly with the thrill of his upset.

“What? That’s practically public information.”

“In that case, I suppose you already know the answer to your own question.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” she corrected, tapping his nose with a slender cigarette holder and a bright smile, “I know you want John Wick dead, I know you want those aligned with him dead. But I know you not only have Caine, but the entirety of The Table’s resources at your disposal. You don’t need someone like me; you don’t require someone so subtle, it’s certainly not your style. You are fortunate enough to have to ability of using sheer force to achieve your goals.”

She took out a cigarette, placed it in the holder, then put in between her lips. Despite himself, he stole a glance at her mouth, taking in the slight purse of her lips as she lit her cigarette. He watched smoke puff from between them.

“So…what is it you want with me?”

He met her eyes, sitting back. “You’re very observant. Good job.”

Her eyebrow twitched in annoyance, creating a tiny crack in her mask. She gave a slight smile, blowing some of her cigarette smoke at his face.

“Hm.”

He stood, brushing his nose off. “You’re right. If we were looking at this in the short term, I don’t need someone like you. But I am not thinking of the short term.”

Her eyebrows rose in interest. “I’m not a kept puppy, Monsieur de Gramont. I’m sure you recall my exit from the Table. I wouldn’t recommend becoming my boss.”

His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“For my price, I think you are.”

She held his gaze for a moment, finishing her cigarette. She tossed the butt onto the barrel, then gave a light chuckle, shaking her head in amusement.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear.”

She stood, raking her fingers through her hair.

“I apologize, but I’m afraid I’ve wasted our time. I suggest getting some extra sleep while you can.”

Vincent watched her turn away with unease, swallowing as she started to leave. He shot a look to the men at the door, then walked after her. He moved to place a hand on her shoulder but she turned swiftly, pressing her cigarette holder into his chest, pushing him backward.

“Do not grab me, Monsieur. I cannot be bought. Only hired. I do not make deals, especially not with men like you. There is not a price you can name that would change my mind.”

“I’m quite sure the prices I can name are beyond anything you’ve heard before.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re quite arrogant, Gramont. It’s endearing, but not enough to hold my attention. Goodbye.”

Vincent watched as she turned to leave, but soon slowed down, then halted to a stop. A pressure lifted on his chest. She tilted her head, twirling the cigarette holder between her fingers.

“Do you really want to offer up two perfectly fine men for the slaughter? Just for a silly little price?”

“I would prefer to avoid bloodshed altogether, mademoiselle.”

She was silent for a moment.

“Whoever told you I am a patient woman was misled you, Gramont.”

He smiled. “Whoever told you I am a relenting man did the same.”

***

Milan, Italy.

Belladonna sat back in her chair, taking a long drag from her cigarette in its holder, crossing her legs with a smile. After several months of hide-and-seek with that pesky Marquis, she’d finally shaken off some the men he had tracking her, and killed the rest. Now, she finally felt like she could just breathe, sit back, relax, enjoy her espressos and afternoons by the sea, and then, when she fancied, a night at the opera. As luck would have it, they were performing her favorite; Madama Butterfly.

She poured herself a glass of champagne as the lights dimmed, and as she took a sip her phone buzzed. Her eyebrows drew together in annoyance; she made it clear to her team not to contact her, lest they risk her being tracked again by one of the…

She frowned, reading the text. It was in french, from a sender with no number.

The Italian sun has treated you well, Mademoiselle.

Her shoulders tensed, but she kept her cool. How did he find her? And why the hell did he follow her here? She was quite sure she’d made herself clear with the last two men she got rid of: do not bother me again, or you’ll end up looking just an mangled as them.

Darkness swallowed the theater as the curtains rose, and Belladonna felt a pit form in her stomach. She’d never felt so troubled by anyone as much as she had by this man. He was bull-headed and inescapable—with all of the ability in the world to keep her in his sights. Discretely, she glanced around the balconies in her view, but only saw strangers. Where was he? Where was the son of a bitch this time?

She put out her cigarette harshly, trying to keep her composure. After finishing her glass of champagne, she sent a message in response.

You’re toying with your life, Gramont.

I could say the same for you.

She rose an unimpressed eyebrow, twirling her cigarette holder between her fingers. She set her phone down with a heavy sigh. He just had to ruin everything, didn’t he? Bothering her during her jobs, and now during her time off. Her phone buzzed again. With a clench of her fist, she ignored it.

As she paid more attention to the opera, her mind wandered. Her six-foot-four shadow quickly evaporated into a tiny shadow in the back of her thoughts, and she admired the gorgeous costumes of the singers, the swelling and rhythm of the orchestra, and rested her cheek on her fist in awe as the soprano playing Madama Butterfly began her aria Un Bel di Vedremo.

She could remember the first time she’d heard it; she’d gotten it as a gift from a lover in a period of innocent youth that had become alien to her. The lover she lost as a sacrifice of that innocence. Despite herself, her eyes grew misty from the memory. She watched the soprano’s wistful gaze, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and as she reached the peak of the aria and the orchestra swelled, Belladonna could’ve sworn she could see the singer’s eye’s glistening along with hers.

The music of the aria faded out, and she quickly wiped her eyes as the lights of the house rose. She rose to her feet, glancing around again. Her heart jumped at the sight of a tall, brown haired man in a three-piece suit leaving one of the booths. She hesitated to get worked up—every man she’d laid her eyes on had a three-piece suit on, it didn’t have to be him. Maybe she was just in denial. Although she’d never want to say it, the Marquis was successfully beginning to wear her down.

She dialed a number on her phone. The call was answered before it could ring.

“Yes?”

“The Marquis is here in Milan. There may be some of his men at the opera house. Kill them, would you? Be thorough with it. Wherever they may be crawling about. And leave me a change.”

“Of course, right away, ma’am.”

She hung up, scanning the audience again before leaving her booth. She slipped into a women’s restroom, entering an out-of-service handicapped stall and quickly removing her dress and opening the duffel bag tucked between the toilet and the wall. It was a pity she wouldn’t get the pleasure of enjoying it, it was a lovely piece. She admired it on the hanger with a sigh, tugging on a bulletproof jumpsuit and zipping it up, adding elbow and knee pads. She laced up her black military boots, then unzipped the duffel bag, placed the dress and heels inside, and pulled out the pair of pistols under the false bottom, placing the magazines in the sides of her boots. She slid a pair of blade into hidden pockets in the lower back of the jumpsuit, then tugged on a beanie and a black face mask.

She pushed the duffel bag back in its spot, then stepped onto the toilet, opened the air vent, and with a hop, grabbed onto the ceiling and pulled her way up inside. Her knee and foot made dull impacts with the metallic interior of the vents as she pulled the door up.

She pulled out her phone, going through her messages to find the blueprints one of her navigators had sent. She stalled on a message from that numberless contact, the one she’d ignored before.

You look beautiful in that dress, Bella.

A frown formed on her face at the message. It wasn’t the first of these messages she’d read in these days. Messages occasionally complimented her ways of eluding him, how a pair of earrings complimented her honey brown complexion, how bloody a mess she’d left behind. Still, none were as direct as this one.

Beautiful, she thought. It conjured up an odd feeling, imagining him saying such a compliment. Perhaps if he wasn’t such a foolish nuisance, it might’ve even excited her a touch. She quickly went to the blueprint of the vents and started to crawl towards her escape.

After a sweaty fifteen minute excursion through the vents, Belladonna finally jumped down from a window and landed on a cushy pile of discarded wood. She didn’t allow even a grunt as she got to her feet and rounded the corner, finding a grey-suited body lying in a pool of her own blood a few feet away from her bike. Her cushy hotel was no longer an option, so she had to relent for the secondary location she’d had set up. The only bother would be the chilly night ride.

///

Montemarciano

She’d made it the country house by dawn, and the sun was preparing to break through the horizon. Exhaustion pulled on her limbs, demanding she collapse directly into the earth as she made her way to the door. She let her shoulders slump as she rested a hand on the door. This place was quite literally in the middle of nowhere. She’d made sure it was no registry or map. Yanking her beanie and mask off and taking a deep inhale of fresh, crisp air, she went for her key behind the false brick when a creak sounded inside the house. Belladonna froze, gripping the brick in her hand.

It couldn’t have been the Marquis, but it could’ve been someone else even more dangerous. She stayed in a crouch, crawling towards the back door and seeing it ajar. Her eyes widened, and she pulled out a pistol. Gently, she pushed the door open and slid inside, crouching against the wall like a statue, eyes scanning the living room. There weren’t many places for an intruder to hide.

In the blue light against the curtains, she watched a large figure pass through the room and right by her. The figure entered the bedroom, and Belladonna placed the brick down silently, getting onto her feet.

She slid through the door, watching the figure in the darkness. They sat at her desk, staring out of the modestly sized window as more blue light filtered through the linen curtains of the dark room. She flicked on the lamp. The figure turned and she fired without hesitation, watching as they tumbled to the floor. She leapt over the bed, planting a foot by the stranger’s head and placing her weight into the knee that she dug into their shoulder. The figure had covered their face with their arm and swiped it blindly at her, but she easily knocked it to the ground and trapped their wrist under the heel of her boot.

Cooly, she held the gun to their face, pressing harder on their wrist. A familiar voice swore, letting out a grunt. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Gramont,” she remarked quietly, making out the face beneath her.

He was breathing heavily, eyes darting between the gun and her face. She turned off the safety.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you now,” she said.

“Many will come after you. Worse than me,” he said breathlessly.

She smirked, shaking her head. “I said a good reason, Monsieur. Don’t waste your breath.”

He looked at the gun, then to her surprise, smiled a bit. He rose his eyebrows.

“Come now, Bella. Haven’t we had fun these past months?”

“I thought you’d be better at bargaining.”

“If you really intended to kill me, I would be dead by now.”

She paused and tilted her head.

He made a good point.

With a grin, she added. “I really intended to kill you, Monsieur, I would’ve killed you the morning we met.”

She moved the gun away from his face.

“You came here alone.”

“I came to deliver something to you.”

He tried to sit up, but she doubled down her weight onto him.

“Certainly you don’t think I intend to harm you?”

She studied his face, then chuckled. “Not alone, no.”

He let out a breath as she rose to her feet, stepping away from him. He sat up, watching as she trained her gun onto him as he stood. Vincent fixed his hair and his suit, gesturing to the door.

“It’s in the living room.”

“Mhm. Ladies first.”

With his trained on her gun, he passed through the door and she followed silently, pointing it at his head. She flicked the light switch on as they rounded the corner, and lamps lit up, revealing a spare but cozy living room. He chuckled, turning to her.

“Very cute, Bella.”

She didn’t answer, only held the gun to his face. He turned back around, going to the coffee table. There was a large black box, along with two other boxes. One appeared to be a shoebox, the other a mystery. Caught off guard, by gifts, Belladonna’s grip loosened on the gun. She squinted in confusion, almost wanting to laugh.

“What…”

“Your gown tonight was lovely, but it can’t be worn again after you left it in that filthy bathroom. I thought I would replace it for you.”

“…the fuck…”

He stepped towards her, and her gun returned to its leveled aim reflexively.

“…Is wrong with you?”

He smiled, pleased at her bewilderment, although she seemed a bit amused as well.

“What is wrong with a gift?”

“Oh, when it comes from you, several things.”

He chuckled, placing his hands in his pockets.

“We’ve been playing this game for a little while now, and I must admit that I see no end to it. So why don’t we talk it over dinner?”

“It took fourteen bodies to get to dinner, huh?”

He looked away almost bashfully, if his eyes could express such an emotion.

“I thought you’d be easier to kill, I’ll admit that too. And I believe tonight makes twenty.”

His callousness uneased her, but not as much as the glimmer that formed in his eyes when he fixed his gaze on her.

“Come now, is dinner so bad compared to these last few months?”

She narrowed her eyes. He smiled again.

“Think of it as a celebration if you want. Perhaps for your birthday? It’s this weekend, isn’t it?”

In an immediate shift, her eyes darkened, and without warning she flung a knife at his face that he barely evaded being mortally wounded by. Blood poured down his cheek as she lunged at him, knocking him against the wall, but this time he had his footing. He grabbed the fabric of her jumpsuit and whirled around to slam her into the wall with a grunt, but she quickly drove her knee into his stomach once, twice, then kicked him back with both legs, sending him crashing against the kitchen counter. The photos on the wall shook on impact. Before he could even recover she had him on the floor, and his mind quickly went back to the position she’d had him in before and he shot into action, overpowering her just enough to have her beneath him. Still, she was fast, and limber. It seemed like only a moment had passed when she’d locked her thighs around his neck and held his arm at a seemingly impossible angle. He gasped and coughed, feeling the blood pumping in his head.

“You haven’t really gotten your hands dirty like this before, have you Marquis?”

He felt around desperately, and found a saving grace sheathed in her boot.

“You’ve never had your heart race like this, feeling your life threatening to slip through your fingers.”

She twisted his arm further, and he snatched whatever he’d found out of her boot. Her laugh rung in his ears like a funeral bell.

“It’s unfortunate your first real fight turned out to be your last.”

He stabbed her in the upper thigh, and she growled lowly, her hold weakening. He moved in a flash, snatching the blade out of her leg and trying to force her onto the ground, but she began to shimmy backwards despite her injury. He grunted, grabbing at her until he’d finally pinned her down, when he saw her arm go out of his line of sight and something hard slammed into the side of his head. Despite his delirium he grabbed her arm as she hit him again, and forced it to the ground, getting frustrated grunt out of her as she struggled, but he had her.

He caught his breath, his muscles straining to keep her in place. Adrenaline was coursing through his body faster than blood as his sight cleared, and his eyes fixed onto her searing gaze. Slowly, he pressed the blade—a small one, to his surprise—against her neck, watching her swallow. Their eyes locked onto each other. Their blood rushed violently as their chests heaved. Vincent pressed his hand into her chest harder, keeping her firmly on the ground. Her eyes scanned his face with a curious glint.

“I’m not afraid to cut,” he said through puffs of labored breath.

She grinned. “I’m not afraid of cuts, rich boy.”

He dug in the blade, dragging it slowly through her skin. Her fists clenched but she gave no reaction this time. Her eyes only bored into his as the living room filled with warm sunlight. Crimson trickled from the cut, and he smeared it with his thumb as they fell still. He could feel her blood humming through her thundering pulse. Her skin was hot, alive. She watched him, then grabbed his arm, pulling him down with sheer strength. He tensed, preparing for an attack but she just held him by the lapel, a smile dancing on her lips as she leaned up slightly.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, “Has this become business, or pleasure, Vincent?”

His eyes seemed distant as his name left her lips. They drifted to her curved, full mouth, and then fixed onto her eyes. Wordlessly, he took his thumb from her neck and placed it against his tongue, watching for her reaction. She gave none. A challenge.

“Are you pleased?”

To his surprise, she giggled. Her body relaxed under his and Vincent’s head swam with confusing desires. What was this, now that he thought about it, what the hell had gotten into him to chase this girl for months? He looked at her face for answers, finding that same smile he’d seen the first time they’d met. What did it mean?

“Come here,” she encouraged, watching his eyes scan over her in a daze.

He looked at her. Her smile widened, and she beckoned him closer. But with what, he wondered, how could she command him so swiftly without words? Her eyes trailed down to his lips with what part him hoped was the same mysterious hunger that was bubbling up inside him. He leaned closer, breath fanning against her face.

“That’s right,” she said softly, reclining.

He leaned down over her, and for a moment there was stillness between them, a pull that seemed to magnetize them closer. Belladonna’s eyes widened a fraction as the feeling of it came over her, and she quickly head butted him with all the force she could muster. He groaned, clutching his head, leaving him completely vulnerable to her attacks. She managed to twist her way from beneath him, hopping to her feet and grabbing the knife that had lodged into the wall. She sniffed harshly, grabbing his hair and tilting his head up, pressing the point of the blade just below his chin. He stared up at her, eyes half blazing with unspoken fury, the rest uncertainty of what to expect next.

“You surprise me, Marquis.”

He tried to move but her grip tightened onto his scalp painfully. “Ah-ah-ah. I don’t think so. Unless you want me to drain your neck.”

With an even more furious stare, he relented. She grinned at his expression.

“I gotta admit, I didn’t expect you to put up such a good fight. The last one I dealt with wasn’t half as good a match as you. I’m impressed.”

A strange swell of pride bloomed in Vincent’s chest despite his indignation. She hummed thoughtfully.

“Dinner does sound nice, doesn’t it?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, struggled to swallow in her hold.

“I haven’t been on a date in a while,” she remarked, “Maybe you’ll show me a good time, eh, chéri?”

She let him go, stepping back. Before he could respond, her knee collided with his head. The world went dark.

He came to in the afternoon with the sun beaming down on his face. The back door was wide open, leaving only the sound of birds and the breeze flowing through the golden-yellow grass. He popped his jaw and sat up with a groan. She was gone. If it weren’t for the blood and the dents in the wall he’d have thought it were nothing more than a dream. But he could smell gardenias, he could still taste her on his tongue. He could still feel her racing pulse beneath his thumb, hear her voice. He inhaled deeply, unsure what to think of the feeling passing through him. He couldn’t come to a conclusion, but he recalled something that caused him to smile.

She’d called it a date.

***

Paris, France. Two days later.

She was reclined on a park bench, eyes shut, taking in the sun while her black dress sparkled. He watched her a couple yards away, finding himself rather daunted. She’d told him over the phone he’d know where to find her, and it had taken barely twenty minutes for her to be tracked down. Despite their fight, she looked radiant. Completely unscathed. It was inhuman.

His phone buzzed, and he frowned as he answered. It was her. He glanced up curiously, seeing she had disappeared. He held the phone to his ear.

“Dragging our feet? I’m not a patient lady.”

His searched around for her, but she’d vanished into thin air.

“Go ahead, you can ask…how the hell did I do that?”

He listened to her soft chuckle through the phone with surprising pleasure.

“Come to me, and I won’t make you wait any longer.”

“Awe, listen to that. You’ve been so good at finding me, this shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“You are impossible,” he sighed, turning to scan the park.

“Impossible? This just part of the fun.”

The call ended, and he stared at the phone with slightly furrowed eyebrows. He looked to the bench, noticing something fluttering and went over to examine it. It was a note. He unfolded it, reading sweeping cursive. It was in french, but he knew she’d written it.

Come and get me, chéri. I am a ghost with many faces.

Vincent smiled, eyes crinkling. He pulled out his phone, making a call that was quickly answered.

“Where is she now,” he questioned.

There was a pause. “Well…sir…”

“Mm?”

“It seems like she’s at a cafe.”

“Alright—“

“She’s also at the Notre Dame.”

He hesitated to answer, but kept his cool. “I…see.”

“And the Louvre.”

He moved the phone away, smiling to himself. “A ghost with many faces.”

“Go get her,” he instructed, “Each one.”

Belladonna’s game led him across the entire city. Well, his men, but still. They called him reporting of notes that read ‘warmer’, ‘colder’, or ‘come on, you can do better than that’. Each of her clones proved to be as slippery as the original, and it gave him a thrill and a more subtle concern. He was aware what she was telling him, their game aside. She was showcasing her manpower—how perfectly coordinated her operation was. She wasn’t just a mere assassin, she had built her own network. He’d suspected help, although not to this scale of control. It was clear to him, though, why she’s wouldn’t accept any price. Leaders can’t be bought. She’d left The Table and had somehow managed to build one of her own.

When the evening had rolled in, he simply relented trying to track her down. It was impossible, he’d accepted it. Standing outside the restaurant he’d reserved, he called her.

“Alright, you win. I give up. Where are you, I’ll send a car.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “No need. Just come in.”

“Have you been inside this entire time?”

“God, no. How boring would that be?”

She hung up. He shook his head, going inside. “Mon dieu.”

When he’d entered, she was there waiting, smoking with her legs crossed. Her lips were crimson red like her nails and her hair was curled to a dazzling perfection. Still, as he approached from behind, he could see the bruises on her back and shoulders. He stopped next to her, brushing her hair away from her neck, revealing the bandage over his cut. She turned her head, met his eyes. They glittered as she looked over his face.

“You know, if a date was all you wanted, a whole lot more of your men would be alive right now,” she said.

“Hello to you too, Bella.”

He brushed the bandage with his finger, earning a stare from her. She was smiling at him.

“Why are you here?”

She looked away as if to think, then locked her gaze onto him. “Why are you?”

He smiled in return. “I imagine we’re here for the same reason.”

His fingertips brushed down her neck and over her shoulder as he moved to take the seat across from her. Her eyes followed him, smoke passing through her rouge mouth.

“Well, then.”

She leaned onto the table, eyeing him.

“Do we really need to have dinner, or should we just get out of here and get straight to it?”

A wicked grin spread across her mouth as she surveyed him. He cleared his throat, but smiled.

“I went through so much trouble to get you that dress, I’d hate to ruin it so soon.”

She laughed. “Oh, you’ll ruin it, will you?”

He pressed his stare onto her. “I’ll rip it right off of your body and devour you.”

Belladonna took in his words, absorbing his stare in her deep brown eyes. Her teeth bared in a wide, shimmering smile.

“Not if I eat you first.”

Her cigarette burned out as they were served the first course.

She ignored the food, her eyes fixed onto him. Something about being under her stare made him feel stiff in his bones. The closer he brought her, the more it felt like reaching into a fire. Her gaze was always so predatory. It gave him a thrill of familiarity, and the chill of it, too.

“Eat,” he told her, gesturing to her plate.

She glided her finger over her wine glass, then shook her head slowly, eyes daring him.

“I don’t think I will.”

He paused in annoyance, but couldn’t help how pleased the resistance made him feel. It was plain on her face, she was playing with him.

“Don’t be difficult, now. We’re just starting to get along.”

Her teeth gleamed again. “Or what?”

The response made him pause. He set down his fork, processing what the woman who’d nearly killed him two days ago had just said to him. He leaned towards her slightly, a smile playing on his lips.

“Is that what you want, yeah? You want to be in trouble?”

A soft laugh made her shoulders bounce as she sat back. The toe of her heel nudged his leg underneath the table.

“That depends. What happens when I’m in trouble, Monsieur?”

“You don’t want to be in trouble with me, Bella.”

The warning only spurred her further. “Oh, but I love a little trouble.”

“All you American girls love trouble, don’t you?”

“It’s our middle name,” she teased, “So you’d better be as bad as you say.”

Her eyes flitted from her eyes to his face, zeroing in on his cheek. He was surprised by the warmth that seemed to emerge in her eyes as she leaned forward, tracing the cut in his cheek with her cigarette holder. A soft smile spread across her face. She almost seemed gentle.

“Such a pretty cut,” she muttered, “don’t you like it? A pretty cut for a pretty face.”

“You think my face is pretty?”

She chuckled softly at him, leaning further and caressing the slice with her thumb.

“Of course it’s pretty, chéri,” she murmured, “That’s why I made it mine.”

Wordlessly, Vincent took her hand. He could feel the slight callouses on her knuckles and the bases of her fingers that had been softened by manicures. He turned her hand, pressing his lips against her fingers and kissing her knuckles.

“Si tu me fais tienne, je te ferai tenir.” If you make me yours, I’ll make you mine.”

She turned her hand, brushing her fingertips against his lips, trailing a finger down to his chest. Her fingers wrapped around his tie, and she tugged it out of his vest, carefully pulling him over the table and leaning in for a kiss. His breath caught in his chest and his eyes fell shut from the feeling of her lips against his. With a rotation of her hand she tightened her grip and pulled him closer. He kissed her deeper, tasting a hint of champagne in her mouth and feeling her shuddering breath against his when she broke the kiss for air. She took in his intense green eyes and caught her lower lip in her teeth.

“Alors fais-moi tienne, Vincent.” Then make me yours, Vincent.

“Ah, I thought you were not kept puppy,” he said, a grin threatening to form on his face.

She yanked him, raising a brow. “I am not.”

He gingerly held onto the table with a laugh. “Then what are you doing here?”

Belladonna loosened her hold, dropping the tie and considering him for a moment.

“You may not be able to make me your puppy, but you’re in danger of making me your woman.”

His eyes flashed, and a grin spread across his face. “It’s dangerous, is it?”

“There would be many who would start ringing a funeral bell for you if they heard the news.”

His gaze lowered to her lips. Vincent took her chin in his hand.

“Is that the price to make you mine? My life?”

“It would certainly be one I’d consider.”

“Then it’s the one I’m offering.”

She laughed, looking away. He turned her face to make her hold his burning stare. For a moment, her eyes softened. She seemed to hesitate despite how far she’d escalated the entire situation. But, soon after, she closed her eyes and placed another kiss on his lips.

“Then I’ll tell you again,” she whispered, “Fais-moi tienne, chéri.”

He kissed her firmly, letting out a sigh. “Come with me, Bella—now.”

The minute he’d gotten her in the back of his limousine he tore the slit in her dress up to her torso and pinned her to the ground, undoing his tie and holding her wrists together firmly.

“You’re not getting away this time,” his voice rumbled lowly, “I won’t let you get away.”

He bound her wrists together tightly, watching her skin chafe against its luxurious material. Her breath was trembling. Her skin was already hot for him.

His cock was already hard against her inner thigh—the string of desire had been tugging at him the moment he’d read that note. She let out a heavy sigh, pushing her hips up against him and lifting her arms over her head to drape them over his neck and pull him down to her. Their lips crashed together while her hips ground against him, and a soft moan spilled from her mouth into his as her body started to wrap around him. He kissed harshly down her neck, digging his fingers into her hips and pressing it back down onto the floor.

“Stay still—stay fucking still.”

A laugh bubbled in her chest. “Oh, you’re going to have to work much harder to keep me still, baby.”

He quickly removed his jacket and grabbed his butterfly knife from his waistband. He grazed her leg with the cool blade, admiring the flames of desire that sparked in her eyes from the mere contact. Delicately, he dragged the point down her inner thigh, stopping to watch how her chest rose and fell erratically. He guided the blade lower and lower over her hips, grinning at how they slightly bucked.

“Ah, you want it?”

Her fingers tangled in his hair as she gently pulled him back up to her lips. She opened her mouth against his with a moan, running her foot up the back of his leg.

“Just take me,” she whispered.

“Fuck, stop ordering me around,” he said, lips trembling against her collarbone as he laughed, “I might start to like it from you.”

“Then make me beg.”

He nicked the cut he’d made in her upper thigh, shuddering at the gasp she let out into his mouth. Without wasting even a millisecond he dragged his mouth down over her stomach—and ghosted over her cunt—to run his tongue along the weeping slice. He grabbed onto her as he made his way from the cut to between her legs. His lips brushed her clit and her body seemed to jump a little at the feeling. Vincent couldn’t control himself. He placed a kiss close to her aching core and relished in how her body seemed to quiver at the slightest touch.

“Look at you, so wet…”

He hesitated to leave her cunt alone, but planted a kiss on her hip and then sank his teeth into her, earning a yelp and a soft, lighter moan when he didn’t let up.

“Vincent,” she whispered.

He was close to getting what he wanted, he could tell.

“Yes, chérie?”

His fingers teased through the fabric of her lace underwear—she let out a soft mewl, making his eyes widen.

“You wear these lace panties for me, chérie? You were going to give it up to me that easy, like I already owned your little cunt?”

“Vincent…”

“Est-ce que c'est ça qui te fait mouiller, mon coeur, quand tu es en dessous de moi comme ci ? Quand tu sais que je peux faire ce que je veux de toi ?” Is that what makes you wet, my darling, when you’re beneath me like this? When you know I can do whatever I want to you?

She sounded almost anguished. “S’il te plaît, Vincent.”

“Ah, now I can get a please and a thank you? Is this why you’re so fucking disrespectful to me, Bella? You want to be punished like a filthy whore, then?”

“Oh,” she managed through weak laugh, “I’m definitely disrespectful because I’m a pompous bitch. Why do you think I’m the one that can’t be bought?”

“Mm, but you can be fucked, huh?”

She smiled widely, eyes falling shut.

“Only if they’re as pompous a bitch as me, monsieur.”

He moved away from her hip and went back to her cut, sucking on it hard enough to make a hickey. Her body arched at the sting of it and Vincent could feel her getting slick in her underwear.

“Beg,” he said, taking off the heels he’d bought for her, “Beg for me.”

The words left her mouth in a whisper. “Please, please, just fuck me.”

“Je ne t’entends pas, chérie.”

He closed his teeth around her waistband, pulling it taut and slicing the underwear open.

“C’mon, baby, please?”

“Don’t ask,” he instructed, “Beg.”

In his fervency he nearly pressed his mouth onto her as he tore the rest of the fabric off and laid eyes on her pussy. His teeth sank into his lower lip—this woman was going to be the death of him.

No. No. He had to take his time.

There was nothing guaranteed with La Belladonna, it was what they all said. He couldn’t waste the moment she was wide open and willing for him. He returned to her sweet lips, kissing her slowly, inhaling her scent. He kissed down her neck hungrily.

“Fuck, I need you,” she whispered, “Please, just fuck me. Please, please, Monsieur.”

“Mon dieu, you know exactly how to beg, too. How can one woman manage to push every single one of my buttons?”

“I’m not the only one with a type here, honey,” she said, smiling, “I get what I want, too.”

His hand snaked down to rub her clit—slowly, to take in her expression, her voice. She moaned, grabbing his hair, pressing her forehead against his cheek.

“Oh, god, Vincent. Please…please…”

His fingers slid inside her eagerly, curling and pulling back then thrusting deeper.

“Mm…Vincent…”

“Yes, baby, say it like that.”

His voice was soft against her ear. She melted into the floor of the limousine, her body easing against his hand, just they way he’d imagined it would.

“I knew you’d be a good girl, Bella, I just needed to give you a nudge—“

She gasped loudly at his fingers pumping harshly back inside of her.

“—In the right direction. Don’t you think?”

Her smile even shone in the feeble light the managed to get through the limousine’s tinted windows. She turned her head and kissed him. He returned it sloppily, his head pulsing with blood as his cock ached painfully. Her lips found his cheek, then his jaw, then her tongue grazed his neck, making him shiver. She closed her teeth around his earlobe and tugged harshly. He moaned into her hair, shutting his eyes. He needed her. He couldn’t even keep his head on fucking straight enough to tease her. Months he had to wait—months of clinging onto remnants of her scent, her red-stained cigarette butts and rivers of blood that trailed behind her—months that drove him fucking mad.

“God, you fucking woman.”

He tore his belt open, undid his pants and pulled his dick out, wetting it with her slick. He rubbed the head against her pussy, breath shuddering, mouth drying; he wasn’t sure if he’d survive making love with her, feeling the way his heart thundered out of his chest.

“Take me,” she whispered, “fuck me, Vincent.”

He couldn’t hold back any longer. He slid inside her gently, but once he felt her, he couldn’t be gentle anymore. His hips drew back and crashed into hers, making her groan loudly and move her hands back over her head. His thrusts were harsh, intense, but his hands slid into her hair affectionately. He kissed her skin like it was the first thing he’d ever tasted, her sweat tasted like sugar to him.

“Fuck, you taste like vanilla.”

Her hands returned to him unbound, and they slid under his shirt. She held onto him and wrapped her legs around his hips as her breath caught with each thrust. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to hang on for him, to have this moment last as long as it could. His body felt perfect against his, his warmth, his scent, his taste. She’d only said words earlier—of course no one kept La Belladonna for long— but he seemed to be the man that just may have the ability—

“Put your hand on my neck,” she whispered, voice shaking.

His hand caressed her neck delicately. She let out a sigh, closing her eyes. Yes, he just might be the one.

“Harder, please,” she whimpered.

“Anything, mon cœur.”

“Faster.”

Her voice was barely leaving her throat. Vincent’s hips moved quickly as he felt her tightening around him. He moaned again, sure his voice managed to reach outside of the windows.

“Fuck, you’re getting so tight, Bella, you’re going to kill me.”

Her nails dug into his back cruelly, pushing him even closer to the edge as the pain echoed throughout his entire back. He managed to reach down and rub her clit again, feeling how swollen it had gotten as her orgasm came closer.

“Come for me, Bella, come, baby,” he encouraged, his fingers working quickly.

She cried out, her voice breaking as she grabbed onto his shoulders. She was just at the edge, her mind was spinning wildly. Her words were unintelligible to him, he’d never caught onto Italian very well.

“Oh, mio caro, sì, sì, ah, cazzo, sì—“

Her legs tightened around him as he slammed his hips against her, watching how her mouth fell open, listening to her gasping breath.

“Sì—sì come questo, tesoro, oh…oh! Non fermarti, per favore, oh per favore—ngh—cazzo!”

He groaned as her pussy clenched around him and she let out a cry, her nails digging so hard into his skin they might’ve been drawing blood. He snapped his hips into her one last time and came—loudly—as he felt for her breasts and grabbed onto them, tried and failed to stay upright, then lowered, his body pressed up against hers.

They laid for an eternity, trying to catch their breath, trying to wait for their heads to clear. Vincent managed to move first and kissed her neck, inhaling the smell of her skin, feeling her pulse starting to slow down. She let out a heavy exhale, eyes opening.

“You are…”

She trailed off into silence for a moment.

“…Magnificent.”

Vincent chuckled, kissing her jaw softly, unable to speak just yet. She smiled.

“Ti terrò in giro per molto tempo, tesoro.”

“I don’t know Italian, Bella.”

She laughed. “I said I’m going to keep you around.”

They looked at each other, and he smiled.

“Oh, are you?”

“Oh yes, Monsieur…for a very long time.”

She lifted a finger, tapping his nose affectionately.

“You keep me, I keep you, Mademoiselle.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, smiling softly. “That arrangement just might be acceptable.”

He smiled. “I’m glad we could finally settle on an agreement.”

Her laugh was weak, but her eyes shone with that sardonic humor that had charmed him so. He slowly pulled out of her, gently sitting her up.

“Come with me. I will take you home so you can rest. We’ll have dinner.”

#marquis de gramont #amaranthine_enihtnarama #my wriitng #ao3 writer #marquis de gramont x reader #fanfic authors #john wick fanfic #john wick fandom #Spotify

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clangenrising · 2 months

Text

Month 13 - Newleaf

The thunderpath was oddly warm to the touch. Past the thunderpath, fields stretched out and eventually tapered off at the foot of the city’s farthest reaches. Smokyrose gingerly stepped onto the edge of it, marveling at its strange texture and acrid smell. She’d never actually touched it before, leaving such foolishness to cats like Yarrowshade who thought it was worth the risk to try hunting on the far side. Now it was her turn to take a necessary risk.

“Okay,” Songdust said, glancing side to side, “Should be safe to cross.”

“Thanks again,” Smokyrose said. “I really appreciate you coming with me.”

“I told you, Rose, I’m not gonna let you go in all alone,” Songdust said, swatting at her friend’s ear. “Now come on, let’s hurry before a monster comes.”

The two cats sprinted across the thunderpath as quick as their old bones could carry them. Smokyrose felt her heart rate spiking with the thrill of it. She smiled as they panted in the grass on the other side, glad that she wasn’t too old to appreciate a good dose of stomach fluttering excitement. After she’d caught her breath - which took a good moment or two longer than it did for Songdust to catch hers - they started again towards the city.

The plan was simple. Find Ghost and have a conversation. If she was lucky, she might also be able to sate a bit of her own personal curiosity, but that was secondary to the goal of making peace. Lives were at stake and in her paws.

They walked mostly in silence, Smokyrose sometimes huffing, out of breath, for a long time. Songdust suggested they break every now and then but she was determined to get there as soon as possible and so declined.

At one point, Songdust said, “I’d catch us something to eat but there’s almost nothing out here, it seems… Sad. This place used to be a really fertile hunting ground.”

“I must be scaring all the mice away,” Smokyrose laughed between labored breaths.

“No, I think it’s more than that,” Songdust frowned as she surveyed the grassland. “I don’t think the city cats know how to preserve next year’s hunt.”

“We’ll have to teach them,” Smokyrose smiled. Songdust hummed to herself and the two continued on their way.

Eventually, the smell of city cats came to them on the wind. Songdust stopped to taste the scent, tail twitching. Smokyrose gladly stopped as well, sides heaving with effort. She hadn’t thought she was so out of shape. She lifted her head to look over the grass and spotted three sets of ears, one shorter than the others.

“Hello, there!” She called, causing Songdust to stiffen. The cats ahead of them stopped, ears flicking in her direction.

“Who’s there?” one of the voices called, sounding wary.

“Friends,” Smokyrose said as pleasantly as she could.

After a moment, the cats crept closer, stopping again once they came clearly into view. The first of them, the one who seemed to have spoken before, was a short-furred white she-cat with a faintly grey speckled back and a notched ear. The second was a brown rosetted tabby tom around the same age with a notch of his own. The third and youngest of the group was a grey speckled tabby who looked no older than Oddstripe’s litter, ears intact. The small group regarded them carefully. The youngest opened his mouth to drink in their scent and his tail immediately bristled, arcing down behind him.

“They’re savages!” he squeaked in fright. The other two cats’ pelts prickled at the realization.

“Rude,” Songdust huffed, mostly to herself.

“I thought you said there weren’t going to be any wild cats!” the white one accused.

“Bucket said they don’t cross the road!” the brown one shot back, more offended than worried. “He said the Folk keep them at bay!”

“Well, clearly these ones got across somehow!” the white one hissed back.

Smokyrose laughed awkwardly to herself and tried, “I-it’s alright, really, we don’t mean you any harm.” All three of them snapped their attention back to her sharply. She smiled and continued, “My name is Smokyrose and this is my companion, Songdust.”

“I’m Mulch,” the brown one said carefully. Neither the white one nor the grey one offered their own names and after a moment of awkward silence, Mulch said, “What are you… doing out here?”

Smokyrose brightened. “I’ve actually come to speak with Ghost. Do you know him?” Mulch let out a breathy, nervous laugh and glanced at the others. The white one squinted suspiciously.

“Yes,” she said, speaking like she was testing out the ice on a frozen pond. “Why do you know Ghost?”

The younger one gasped excitedly. “This must be his wild girl!” The white one’s ear twitched.

“Bit old for a ‘girl,’ don’cha think?” Mulch muttered back with a chuckle.

Smokyrose blushed and pursed her lips shut in embarrassment. Ghost’s wild girl - what a ridiculous thought, like he owned her or something! Was that how he talked about her when she wasn’t around? She hoped not but bile rose in her throat nonetheless.

“I’m a mediator,” she said, choosing to ignore that for now. “I solve disputes and facilitate communication between parties. Ghost is the cat in charge, isn’t he? I’d like to speak with him and see if we can come to some kind of peace agreement.”

“Oh, she must know the Transgressor!” the youngest one whispered to Mulch.

“Will you shut up, Flick?” Mulch raised his brows indignantly and swatted the younger cat lightly in the face.

“Sheesh!” grumbled Flick, swiping half heartedly back at him.

“You want to make peace?” the white one scoffed disbelievingly.

“I do,” said Smokyrose and she meant it. “I want to try and resolve the conflict before anyone else has to die on either side.” The three city cats exchanged glances with a mix of what Smokyrose thought was suspicion, reluctance, and respect. They looked back at her then the white one jutted her chin towards Songdust.

“Why is she here?”

“I’m her protector,” Songdust said firmly. The cats shifted uncomfortably.

Mulch said, “Can we have a moment to discuss?”

“Of course,” purred Smokyrose, sitting down, “take your time.” Songdust sat down as well and they watched as the three cats shuffled off into the grass to talk, Mulch having to give Flick a tug on his scruff when he forgot to walk instead of stare. They kept their voices too low for Smokyrose to listen in but she didn’t mind. It was nice to rest for a bit and patience was something a good mediator had in spades.

After a few moments, the city cats came back and Mulch said, “Alright, we’ll take you into town.”

“Splendid!” Smokyrose purred, standing up. “I really appreciate the help.”

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged, looking uncomfortable. With a flick of his tail, he gestured for them to follow and started off back towards the city. As they went, Flick and the white one fell into step around them, almost like a guard. Smokyrose could feel them watching her every movement. It was almost flattering that they thought she would be able to try anything.

After a while, Flick leaned in and said, “I’m Flick by the way.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Flick,” said Smokyrose, starting to huff again.

“The grumpy one is Jumper,” he added. The cat in question bristled.

Smokyrose kept her attention on Flick. “I see. What were you doing out here?”

“Don’t answer that,” Mulch shot back before Flick was finished opening his mouth.

“Apologies,” said Smokyrose, “I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Yeah,” Flick protested, “We were just talking.”

“Well don’t,” Mulch snapped, mostly at Flick. Glancing at Smokyrose, he added, “Sorry, but my brother doesn’t know how to keep his damn mouth shut.”

“It’s alright,” she said, “I’ll try not to encourage him anymore.” Mulch nodded, satisfied, and they continued towards the city in silence from then on. It was a longer walk than Smokyrose had been expecting. The more they went the more she realized the actual size of the twolegplace, the buildings starting to grow and loom in the distance like an angular forest with no leaves. Eventually one of these structures drew near, a large, rickety shape that smelled strongly of hay and manure. On the far side, she could see wooden planks arranged in repetitive rows and columns that created a barrier around a group of strange, smelly deer-like things.

“What are those?” she couldn’t help but ask.

Flick followed her gaze and said, “Goats. Do you not have goats on the frontier?”

“No, we don’t,” Smokyrose said, busy puzzling over the word ‘frontier’. She’d never heard it before but she had to assume he meant Clan territories.

“They stink,” meowed Songdust, face crinkled in disgust.

“Yeah,” Flick laughed. “But the Folk seem to like them anyway.” The Folk - that meant twolegs, right? She squinted at the creatures curiously. What would twolegs like about these goat things?

“Come on,” Mulch said, “we’re nearly there.”

They curved around the wooden structure, revealing another one, shorter but wider, and an expanse of gravel and dirt. Smokyrose winced at the texture of the rocks on her paws but soldiered on. She was so close. They crossed the gravel then followed along the edge of it for a while, leaving the structures behind, until they came to a large empty space of dirt surrounded by weeds and wildflowers.

Cats were scattered across the dusty field in pairs, sparring, most of them with notched ears. Cats wearing collars strolled around in between them, hissing orders or giving harsh corrections. A few cats watched from the edge of the clearing and one of them, a brown tabby tom with a silver collar that reflected the sunlight like a concentrated band of heat waves. The tom stood, head tilted, and started walking their way.

“Great,” Jumper said, “here he comes.”

“Shut up,” Mulch said, “This is fine. We’ll hand them off and be done with it.” They stopped where they were, waiting for the tom to close the distance. Smokyrose took in his appearance as he grew closer. He had a sleight build and slim cheeks giving him an almost kitten-like appearance despite his full grown size. His fur was a warm brown with dark, brindling stripes and a neat mask framing his green-yellow eyes. His collar, which seemed less shiny up close than it had far away, bore a small, blue, vaguely fish-shaped charm covered in geometric silver scratches.

He smiled as he neared them, bright and friendly, and said, “Well, now, what do we have here?”

“We ran into these wild-cats while we were out hunting,” Mulch said and Smokyrose picked up on the deference in his tone. “They crossed the road. Said they wanted to speak with Ghost.”

“Really?” The kittypet’s eyes widened with interest and he turned his gaze to Smokyrose, inviting her to speak.

“Yes,” she purred with a gracious dip of her head. “My name is Smokyrose and this is my companion Songdust. In my Clan I work to handle disputes and settle arguments and I wanted to speak with Ghost to see if we could make peace between our two peoples.”

“Well, Ghost is currently indisposed,” the tom said apologetically, “but I would be happy to take you to speak with Razor instead.” The cats who had escorted them all tensed at the sound of Razor’s name. Songdust took a step closer to her.

“Indisposed?” Smokyrose frowned in concern. “How so?”

The tom winced. “He recently had a bit of an accident and has been resting to regain his strength. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Oh, alright,” she said, ears drooping. What kind of an accident? Her gut twisted in worry and she sent a silent prayer to StarClan to let him be okay.

“Why don’t you walk with me?” the tom offered, half turning towards the city.

“Alright,” She agreed. Despite her disappointment, she still had a job to do. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he purred. Looking at Mulch, he said, “You’re excused.” Mulch let out a relieved breath and nodded.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, then turned to the others and said, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Goodbye, Flick,” Smokyrose waved her tail. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Flick said. Mulch cuffed him over the ear and the little group turned and went the way they had come.

The kittypet lifted his head and called over to the other cats watching the training. “I’m off to see Razor,” he said, “You’re in charge, Dexter.” One of the other kittypets nodded. Lots of cats started to stare. The tom in front of Smokyrose and Songdust smiled at them again and said, “This way.” He led them down the edge of the gravel path, walking side by side with Smokyrose, tail curling back and forth in a friendly wave.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” Smokyrose said, focusing in on him.

“You can call me Sardine,” he said. “I hope the others were good to you. I’d hate for the Chaff to give you a bad first impression of the city.”

“Oh, they were quite hospitable,” she exaggerated. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he purred. “You said you settle disputes among your people. Did they send you here or have you come on your own?”

“I have Goldenstar’s approval to go forward with peace talks,” said Smokyrose, even if that was not entirely true. Goldenstar had asked her to wait even if she was open to the idea.

“Goldenstar, that’s your leader?” he asked.

“Yes,” she purred. “She’s quite eager to see this conflict end peacefully.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said. “I know there are many here who feel the same.”

“Really?” Smokyrose asked, her heart lifting in hope.

“Oh, yes,” nodded Sardine. “I think everyone will be relieved to have this whole war business over soon.”

“Good,” purred Smokyrose. That was a relief. She glanced at Songdust to share in the excitement but found her companion grim faced. She frowned slightly but shook it off. She would have to talk with Songdust once they had a private moment. Sardine was talking again and she returned her focus to him, answering all his curiosities pleasantly and asking questions of her own. Eventually the gravel turned to the hard stone of the thunderpath and Sardine asked them to stay close to him for their own safety.

“Just a bit further and we’ll arrive at Razor’s garden,” he said.

“Excellent,” she said, tail swishing. “I can’t wait.”

UPDATES: - Smokyrose ventures to the city to try and make peace.

#clan gen #clangen #warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats oc #warriors oc #clangen oc #clan gen oc #Smokyrose #Songdust #Sardine #Flick #Mulch #Jumper #Newleaf #clangenrising

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lostmyremembrall · 11 months

Text

𝓣𝔀𝓸 𝓢𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓻𝓼

Sebastian Sallow x Ominis Gaunt x GenderNeutral!Reader 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝐹𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓, 𝐻𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟, 𝐻𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑆𝑚𝑢𝑡

Summary: Not a single pair of knickers to wear to class. You're beyond angry when you storm into their dorm, knowing them to be the culprit of your misery. Those foul rats will pay. (And get you new ones).

Warning: Hints of smut. The pronouns are gn, but MC wears thongs.

-> Pt. 2 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓐𝓹𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝔂 𝓖𝓲𝓯𝓽 -> Pt. 3 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓗𝓲𝓰𝓱 𝓖𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭

“You! Are. A Swine!”

Those were the first words that you greeted Sebastian Sallow with.

Sebastian’s eyes widened as you burst into their dorm, the chuckle dying on his lips at some lame joke that he made to Ominis.

“Woah woah,” Sebastian raised his hands in surrender as if to tame a fuming feline. “No sweet words blessing me good morning? No kisses on the cheek?”

Ominis’ lips curled with a light scoff at his friend’s rather dramatised woes.

“We’ll talk of kisses after you make amends,” you seethed.

“Oh Sebastian, what did you do this time?” Ominis sighed, his brows knitted in disapproval and disappointment, a turn of phrase that was becoming habitual for his liking.

You ignored Sebastian shaking his head in bewilderment, and produced colourful fabrics from your robe pocket.

“This!” You shook the lacey fabric in the air. Sebastian smirked victoriously at the realisation of what you held in your hand.

“Torn,” you continued to shake exasperatedly. “Every. Single. One!” With every word, you threw the fistful of your undergarments at Sallow’s smug smile.

“Sebastian you savage,” Ominis joined in on the rebuke. His steely cool blue eyes pierced the man that sat on the bed, refusing to take off the thongs that still hung on his ear. But still, you caught a glimpse of amusement in the corner of the blond’s lips.

“Oh you are no better, Ominis Gaunt,” you snapped, eliciting a raise of confused brows from the boy.

“You promised you’d buy me new ones!” his ears perked at the sound of your heels approaching his bed where he sat. “I have yet to see your commitment to that promise, Ominis,” you crossed your arms as you towered over him.

Ominis parted his lips, but closed them again in an excuse that never came to him.

“In fact,” you raised your head, “I am certain that someone had been stealing my knickers.”

Ominis remained motionless, his eyes nervously flickering around the space before him. But, you did not miss the distinct blush that guiltily rose to his cheeks and to the tip of his ears.

“Let’s see, where would an unruly boy hide such a thing,” you swerved on your heels, surveying the room that you’ve come to know too well, taking your time.

“Ah, perhaps… the bedside table?”

You evaded the blond’s hand that shot up in a futile attempt to stop you only to grasp at nothing, and opened the bedside drawer.

“Ah ha!”

You may as well call it had turned into your underwear drawer. In the folds of many colourful fabrics and laces, you found some of Ominis’ valuables and belongings - a collection of watches for different occasions, cuffs, and suit pins. It was vibrant and shimmering with luxury like some treasure box.

The top drawer and the bottom, full of them.

“Maybe…” You turned on your heels once more, ignoring the way the blond bit his lips in silent shame and embarrassment. “Under the pillow?”

You were not disappointed. A pair of your knickers, hidden underneath the silk pillows. His favourite ones.

“Ooh, you have been naughty, Ominis Gaunt,” you tsked.

But, knowing Ominis Gaunt, the gentleman in the street, the fucking depraved animal in the sheets, you knew they weren’t all.

You narrowed your eyes on him. He straightened his back, seemingly sensing your fuming gaze that pierced him on the spot.

“My favourite ones,” you raised a demanding brow. “Where are they?”

Ominis swallowed hard. If it wasn’t for the cool Slytherin dorms, a sweat would have been tickling down his back.

“Ominis?” your saccharine voice belied the fingers you dragged across his jaw, your digging fingernails eliciting a twitch from the boy.

Ominis gave out a shuddery breath, his milky eyes staring past you to your left.

Your fingers traced down his neck, to his chest, feeling the small mound. You furrowed, and dug your fingers into his inner chest pocket, fishing out your last pair.

“Ominis, you beast!” Sebastian’s eyes shimmered, seemingly exuberant that the object of your wrath have been redirected away from him.

Ominis rolled his eyes at the comment, fully aware that his friend was merely trying to egg you on. The traitorous rat.

“Do you carry these with you, everywhere?” you swung the pair in front of Ominis’ eyes. Blind as he was, he could smell it, most likely.

It was perhaps the most unbearable thing for him, to have the proof thrust into his face. The evidence of his thievery. The evidence that he wasn’t a gentleman as much as he liked to think he was. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at you, his skin beet red as he murmured, “Maybe.”

“Ugh,” you tossed the pair into his face, the blond recoiling from the shock. “You two are unbelievable!”

“Thanks to you two,” you turned at the doorway, seething. “Now I have nothing to wear to Charms, which,” you briskly glanced at your watch. “Begins in 15 minutes!”

You fumed as tapped your feet, huffing out the strands of hair on your face. You waited for an apology. But, the boys remained quiet, silenced by the raging storm in front of them that was ‘the love of their lives’, unfortunately.

“So,” it was Sebastian who spoke up first, followed by a tentative glance towards Ominis. He leaned over, his elbows on his knees as his curious eyes flickered between your eyes and your hips. “You are not wearing anything at the moment, then? Underneath that?”

There was not a single remorse in those hungry eyes, your pink knickers still hanging off of his ear.

You swallowed the shock, the heat now rising to your own cheeks. “I–,” you stammered at his lips that curled into a smirk, intuiting the answer from your reaction.

“You’re incorrigible, Sebastian,” you managed to hiss in the end. Deeming an attempt at any civilised conversation with these two was pointless, you turned on your heels, and stormed off.

It was quiet after the storm, broken by Ominis’ blatant question.

“Does this mean we get to keep these?”

Sebastian, however, was not paying any heed to his question. His eyes were glued to where your hips were before the door closed. The way they moved, underneath the garment – they certainly weren’t wearing anything.

“15 minutes,” he breathed out.

Turning to Ominis, he asked, “That’s plenty of time, don’t you think?”

“Hm,” Ominis pondered, the class and composure returning to him as he brushed the dust off of his suit leg. “A bit short for my liking. But, I am hungry,” he murmured with a mischievous grin.

Sebastian did not need to be told twice. He was off on his feet, dashing after you.

The Charms class was just going to have to wait.

A/N: Of course, my first story about them is sexual🙄🙄 Comes as no surprise, really.

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fragileheartbeats · 2 months

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𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟮: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮

Sixteen winters have passed since that day. In the shadowed cradle of a world untouched by the warmth of the sun, the twins roamed the icy barrens like phantoms of the frost. Born of blood and ice, their lives had unfolded beneath the watchful gaze of their draconic guardian, a beast of legend whose breath was death's cold whisper. The twins knew not the touch of human hand nor the soft cadence of the spoken word; their language was the howl of the wind, the crack of ice, and the silent understanding that passed between them like the secret whispers of the stars. No names graced their lips, for in the language of the winds and the wild, names were as fleeting as the breath that bore them.

Their days were a testament to the savage beauty of survival, a dance with death played out upon the endless white. They hunted with ferocity of the wild, their bodies honed by the relentless pursuit of the fleet-footed hare and the sharp-clawed bear. Naked they roamed, their skin kissed by the frost, wearing only the silver and blonde crowns bestowed upon them by their lineage. They moved with a grace that belied their savage existence, their bodies honed by the relentless pursuit of survival. They were creatures of instinct, their senses sharp as the frost. Silver hair cascaded down their backs, untouched and unbound, a river of moonlight in the eternal twilight of their world. Their eyes, a haunting echo of Valyria's lost glory, gleamed with a feral light, silver and purple orbs reflecting the endless dance of predator and prey.The cold was a constant companion, yet it bowed before them, for they were of the ice, born to its embrace.

The twins hunted as one, their movements a symphony of silent death. The ice beneath their feet whispered tales of ancient hunts, of blood spilled and lives taken in the eternal cycle of survival. They feasted on the raw flesh of the seals that dared to bask on the ice, their teeth tearing through skin and sinew with primal savagery. The taste of blood, warm and life-giving, was the sacrament of their existence, a communion with the land that bore them.

They communed with the world and each other through gestures and looks, a language born of necessity and the purest form of understanding. They needed no words to convey the depth of their bond, for their souls were intertwined, two halves of a whole forged in the crucible of their shared existence. Their language was the unspoken bond of soul and glance, a communion of spirits entwined by shared blood. They spoke in the rustle of leaves, the crack of ice, the sigh of the wind through the desolate wastes. Theirs was the vocabulary of the wild, a tapestry of sounds and silence that spoke of deep, unbreakable bonds.

The dragon, their guardian and guide, watched over them with a presence as ancient as the mountains. Under her shadow, the twins knew no fear, their lives intertwined with the leviathan of frost and snow. They rode upon her back, her wings beating a rhythm that echoed in the very marrow of their bones, a song of freedom and flight that filled their souls with exhilarating terror. Each day, they roamed the wastes on the backs of their dragon kin, the sky their dominion, the earth their hunting ground. They hunted as the dragons did, striking from above with lethal grace, their prey unable to escape the shadow of death that descended upon them. Fish from the frozen rivers, hares that darted across the snow—no creature was safe from their hunger.

On the day that destiny's hand would steer their course anew, the sky above was a tapestry of brooding clouds, the sun a forgotten memory. The twins ventured forth upon the back of their dragon mother, her scales a labyrinth of frozen light. They soared above the world, masters of all they surveyed, until the whims of fate cast them down. They were aloft, the wind in their hair, the world spread out below them like a tapestry of ice and snow.

The boy, in his curiosity and boldness, leaned too far, reaching for a glimpse of eternity in the abyss below, laughing into the wind as they ascended into the heavens. And in that moment, the bond that tethered him to safety snapped, and he was swallowed by the void. A sudden gust, stronger and more treacherous than any they had known, caught them unawares. The dragon faltered, its wings buffeted by the relentless force of the wind. And then, in a moment that stretched into eternity, the boy was gone, torn from the dragon's back and sent plummeting into the abyss below. His sister's cry was a thing of raw anguish, a sound that would haunt the winds forevermore. She watched, powerless, as her brother fell, his body a mere speck against the vastness of the world.

The girl's cry pierced the veil of snow and ice, a wail of loss and despair that shook the very foundations of their world. She watched, heart shorn in twain, as the sea consumed her other half, the boy who was her mirror, her soul's echo. The dragon circled, a silent mother, its mournful cry a lament for the child it had failed to save.

As he fell, the world around him a blur of white and grey, the sea below, a maw of churning darkness, opened to claim him, swallowing his form with indifferent hunger. He struck the sea with a force that turned his body to fire, the cold waters closing over him in a shroud of death. But death was not yet ready to claim him. The cold seeped into his bones, a herald of the end, yet it was in this embrace that he found clarity. The memory of a voice, soft and sorrowful, filled his mind. He saw her as if through a veil of dreams, her face alight with love and pain as she whispered to her children. Her lips pressed against their foreheads, a benediction and a burden all at once.

Yet, even as darkness claimed him, he did not feel fear. In the space between breaths, in the quiet heart of the storm, he heard her voice again, a lullaby of the night sky, of stars and secrets and the boundless love that endured beyond the veil.

"Forgive me," she whispered, her voice the warmth in the cold, the light in the dark. "Forgive me, my darlings, for the world I have brought you into."

And he closed his eyes.

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿

@fragileheartbeats . Don't plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

House Celestyr tag list: @emily2003alzaga @nash-dara @altaircc @heavenly1927 @omgsuperstarg @asoiafhyperfixation

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shiyorin · 4 months

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Animal instincts

#Just romcom in 40K

#Today's menu: Leman Russ and Lion El'Jonson

#Primarchs x Reader, Reader is Imperial Agent

#Late Christmas gift and early New Year gift

Leman Russ

The endless snows of Fenris stretched as far as the eye could see, blanketing mountains and wilds alike under pristine powder. You found yourself overwhelmed at the awe-inspiring landscape, so different from your world upbringing.

But greatest curiosity lay with one who called these frigid wastes home - Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves. You observed him now, surrounded by his warriors yet apart, a lone towering figure contemplating the white void.

His austere features seemed carved from the very stone and ice encasing this planet, immovable yet holding untold depth and power beneath granite exterior. Thick fur-lined armor and coarse pelt draped his massive frame, like the predators ruling these inhospitable wastes.

But as Russ turned toward some comment, face transforming with gruff laughter at his pack's roughhousing, you saw not an impervious demigod but something familiar. Great shoulders shook in mirth like immense boulders slipping loose, blue eyes alive with warmth despite frigid surroundings. An involuntary thought slipped through, that in this moment, he resembled not conqueror but some canines, mighty and playful.

Shaking off fanciful musings, you continued observant tasks, keeping distance respectful between yourself and the lords of this domain. But later as briefings commenced, Russ stopped his gigantic form before you, breath curling like frost wolves from a mouth curled in question.

You blinked up into eyes keen yet gentle, all rational thought scattering like snow on gale winds. Impulse surged before discipline could rein it, and you found hands rising of their own accord to Russ' massive brow, carding gloved fingers through coarse hair as one might a trusted hound.

Silence descended, thick as the powdery drifts. Russ' features slackened in blank shock, pale eyes blinking owlishly. "Lass..." he rumbled, uncomprehending.

You started as if slapped, jerking hands back so swiftly your wrist protested. "My lord, I..." Words fled, face aflame to your hairline. What folly had possessed you so?!

Yet to your surprise, Russ laughed, a booming, resonant sound like glaciers calving. "By Fenris's ball, lass, yer got the spirit!"

His tone held no anger, merely bemusement. But when you swallowed apologies, you glimpsed what may have been wistfulness flickering through feral eyes, gone as swift as the thought that spawned it. Had his invisible tail genuinely twitched to wag? Definitely you are crazy or something.

"Aye, lass. Well, if the fur satisfies yer hands, s'pose I'll oblige."

To your shock, he leaned nearer once more, an unmistakable invitation dancing in blue eyes. Hypnotized, you carded soft locks obediently, finding they are softer than you think. Russ sighed, almost seeming to lean into your touch. An absurd image flickered of an immense wolf nuzzling against your hand, tail wagging invisible yet content. Smiling softly, you traced strong jaw and was rewarded with a look of such warmth and longing, all of your rational thought dissolved.

Lion El'Jonson

Your survey of the growing threat in Caliban's wilds brought you regularly to the Lion's tower, poring over maps and missives seeking the root of corruption's spread. This eve found you and him yet at work as dusk deepened, twin flames bending over parchment and discourse.

A lull arose as analysis hit dead ends once more, frustration mounting. You sighed and stretched tired limbs, risking a sidelong glance at your lord. The Lion remained absorbed, strong brows furrowed, stroking his trim beard absently as strategic mind raced.

A strange thought struck then, in this dim shuttered space, with dusk masking Caliban's savage beauty, did he not seem every inch a great cat himself? Powerful yet graceful, thinking moves ahead with predatory cunning, alone yet bound to wilder instincts doubtless few witnessed.

Before rational thought could intervene, curiosity overruled. Stepping softly, your hands found scratching points along Lion's bearded jaw and throat. Beneath your ministries his eyes slid shut, muscles unwinding with a contented sigh. Success! Like any feline such attentions soothed.

Encouraged, your nails lightly raked his scalp, eliciting a startling response, a primal rumbling purr trembled his massive frame. His relaxation vanished in an instant, eyes flying open to stare at your in wild-eyed alarm.

You stumbled back several paces, own eyes round as moons. Had Lion just...purred? Like some overgrown house tabby? Your mind reeled, seeking logical explanations amongst unfathomable strangeness unfolding.

Lion's pupils elongated before your gaze, resembling nought cat-like slits in green eyes gone feral-bright. His confusion melted into predatory stillness, fixing you with an eerie stare that raised all hairs standing on end. What strangeness possessed them?

For long moments you and him remained suspended, breathing halted, shock and unnamed sparks passing between hands dropped limp to sides once more. Then all broke at once, your stammered excuses and the Lion retreating to the shadows of his tower, retreating from… what?

That night, your sleep proved fitful, your mind restless with possibilities. Had you gone too far when crossed a line with Lion that afternoon, awakening forces better left slumbering?

Morning comes, dread coiled cold and heavy in your gut. Open the tower's door with trepidation, you froze at the grisly sight awaiting just beyond threshold. A massive deer carcass lay splayed, crimson pool already attracting swarms of flies.

Your breath caught in horror, had Lion's frustrations boiled over in vengeance? Was this brutal warning of what further torments awaited should your act overstep once more? Shaking, you backed hurriedly inside, thoughts whirling.

Meanwhile across Caliban's wilderness, Lion admired graceful flickers weaving between ancient trees, oblivious to turmoil sown. Inhaling your lingering scent lost to the mists. Pride swelled that his token gained your notice, for what better way to proclaim your worth and pique your interest further?

He would await your next visit, gifting further demonstrations of prowess to stoke your regard. In time, you would see none matched his prowess for providing and protecting what he deemed most worthy.

Extra:

Russ: Pat me, pat me, woof woof!

Lion: If I give a bigger prey, will the agent love me more?

#shiyorin's writer #wh40crack #primarch x reader #reader insert #warhammer 40k x reader #romantic stuff in 40k

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achillean-archives · 1 year

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*Note: This post isn't about if this Ken in the Barbie movie is going to be queer but that he is inspired by a Ken doll that "accidently" became a queer icon. Ryan Gosling's Ken in Barbie(2023) is based on the famous best selling Ken doll, Earring Magic Ken, also know as Fey Ken or Gay Ken.

"Mattel had conducted a survey of girls asking if Ken should be retained as Barbie's boyfriend or whether a new doll should be introduced in that role. Survey results indicated that girls wanted Ken kept but wanted him to look "cooler". USA Today noted after the American International Toy Fair that the doll Soul Train Jamal was also wearing an earring that year. According to manager of marketing communications for Mattel, Lisa McKendall, "We tried to keep [Ken] as cool as possible." This generation of the Ken doll had blond highlights in his traditionally brown hair and was dressed in a lavender mesh shirt, purple pleather vest, a necklace with a circular charm and, as the name indicates, an earring in his left ear.

These clothing choices led to gay commentator Dan Savage joking that Mattel toy designers had "spent a weekend in LA or New York dashing from rave to rave, taking notes and Polaroids." He also suggested that little girls' idea of coolness was shaped by homoerotic MTV music videos, Madonna's dancers, and what ACT UP/Queer Nation members were wearing to demonstrations and parties. Donna Gibbs told the San Francisco Examiner in November 1993 that the team of (presumably straight) women who made the doll were surprised that gay men wanted him.

[...]

In July 1993, Dan Savage wrote an article on Earring Magic Ken titled, "Ken Comes Out." He noted in his article that, in addition to his outfit's perceived flamboyance, his necklace resembled chrome sex toys that queer people were wearing as charms at the time. Savage expressed feelings of ambivalence about Ken's new style, writing, "Queer Ken is the high water mark of, depending on your point of view, either queer infiltration of popular culture or the thoughtless appropriation of queer culture by heterosexuals [. . .] Queer imagery has so permeated our culture that from rock stars (Axl Rose and his leather chaps) to toy designers, mainstream America isn’t even aware when it’s adopting queer fashions and mores."

[...]

Kitsch-minded gay men responded to this press by buying the doll in record numbers, making Earring Magic Ken the best-selling Ken model in Mattel's history. The doll debuted in stores for around $11 (equivalent to $20.63 in 2021) and had completely sold out by the Christmas season, largely due to gay men buying the doll in droves. Due to high demand, Chicago's FAO Schwartz created a wait list, and, allegedly, some shops in San Francisco began to sell Earring Magic Ken for prices ranging between $17 (equivalent to $31.89 in 2021) to $24 (equivalent to $45.02 in 2021). (The latter claim was disputed in the Bay Area Reporter in October 1993 by the general manager of San Francisco FAO Schwartz. According to him, only a few gay men were coming into his store, and Earring Magic Ken was selling better in New York and Chicago than San Francisco.) Earring Magic Ken was also popular with gay men in the United Kingdom, and sold well at the toy shop Hamleys in 1993. Toy scalper Mr. Barger told the Wall Street Journal in 1996 that Earring Magic Ken was so popular that he was able to re-sell him to specialty shops at premium prices. Richard Roeper, writing for the Chicago Sun Times, referred to him as "The Cabbage Patch Doll of the summer of '93."

A major appeal of the doll for many gay men was that Mattel did not market it to them on purpose. Rick Garcia, director of Chicago's Catholic Advocates for Lesbian and Gay Rights, told People magazine in 1993 that the stereotypical dress was funny to him because he believed it was an accident, and that it would have offended him if it was purposeful. In 1993, many newspapers interviewed individual gay men in California to understand the phenomenon. San Francisco resident described Earring Magic Ken as, "a pariah setting foot in one of America's sanctuaries." Another California resident, Bill Harley, described Earring Magic Ken as, "A campy, funny thing to have." Laguna Beach resident Keith Clark-Epley had more reservations about the toy, saying that, "It's an uptight heterosexual male doll following gay fashion and who is still behind the times," and believed that calling the doll gay could potentially reinforce negative stereotypes about gay people." Source:

#barbie #ryan gosling #barbie ken #ken #barbie 2023 #Earring Magic Ken #Historical Queer moment #accidental queerness #achillean archives #campy

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softagenda · 10 months

Text

aperitif (ais)

ais x reader(f)

food au / short fic

series: birds of a feather ; aperitif

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview:

“He wants you to become one with the Seaspring. To bind your soul and body within this temple. To drown forever in these waters.”

His hand slid up your back and sunk into your hair. He crushed your mouth against his, more bite than kiss, his breath hot against your face. “Sometimes, sparrow,” he said softly, pressing the words into your lips, “I want that too.”

______________

A thin trail of cigarette smoke issued from the open maw of the Seaspring’s temple.

You felt the tension leave your shoulders, breathing in a lungful of briny air as you breached the steps and entered. This must be what it felt like, to tread on the tongue of a colossal whale: humid, salty air drifting around you, almost cloying to the skin; the arching red gates and rafters forming the palate, stalwart pillars covered in white talismans like teeth; a lake of blood pooling below like saliva.

As you surveyed the room, a form lounged between the pillars on the left, one long leg hanging over the pier, his boot stirring the water below. Your gazes met over the embering butt of a cigarette, his eyes glowing amidst the shadow and gloom of the temple.

You waited for a moment, gauging his mood, but, when the corner of his mouth slowly rose, you approached. The pier creaked underneath your boots, the talisman’s fluttering against the current of air.

“There you are.”

Ais took another long drag from his cigarette before a smirk curled his mouth. “Missed me?”

“Not you.” You instead knelt next to the Soulless lounging at his hip, three tails writhing with what you’d come to recognize as happiness. “Hey, good girl. I brought you a little something.”

Reaching into your bag, you tugged out a parcel wrapped in butcher paper. Once the massive hunk of meat and bone was revealed, Princess leapt to her feet and whined, prancing on the pier. You checked to make sure all the paper had come away clean before lifting it with both hands and offering it.

Vicious jaws bit with savage glee into the middle, sending rivulets of blood falling to the ancient wood below. She spun to the left and leaned into Ais, as if to show him the gift proudly, before he gently guided her back with a hand on her shoulder.

“Good for you, Princess,” he said with a smile, the hard lines around his eyes softening a bit. “Mind eating over there? You’re dripping.”

With a happy whine, she took her prize a few yards away and began tucking in with glee. You smiled but glanced away, ignoring the visceral wet sounds of hundreds of teeth gnashing into meat and scraping against bone.

“Where’s mine?”

You dropped down across from him, crossing your legs and propping your back against the pillar. “Jealous?” you asked, an echo of before that had his mouth curling again. “Have you been a good boy?”

“Doubt it.”

“Then,” you continued, “earn it.”

“Woof.”

Glowing red eyes watched you, their depths inscrutable, as he took another pull from the cigarette. The smoke curled from around his lips, slipping from the cracks in his teeth. The shadows under his eyes had darkened since you last saw him, the hollows in his cheeks deeper.

“You weren’t at the Wick the other day,” you said, careful to keep your voice level. “Skipping out on your tab?”

Smoke exuded from his nose as he sighed, head drifting back as his eyes closed. “Hm. Didn’t feel like company. Pissed I didn’t show?”

“No. Not like we’d agreed to meet,” you said easily. That was true - though over the past few months, it had become something of a regular thing: moseying into the Wick some time after dusk, having a drink with the other at the bar, sometimes lazing the night away in the booth in the corner, nursing pints and heckling Leander. “And now?” At his look, you added, “feel like company?”

“If I don’t?”

Witha short nod, you swept your bag over your shoulder and prepared to leave, when Ais’s eyes opened. “Stay.”

“Ass,” you murmured under your breath but slouched back to the ground.

In silence, you watched the water, the blood red surface still as stained glass. Ais resettled, his head back, eyes closed, his expression almost meditative except for the furrow on his brow. Once in a while the cigarette was lifted, his frowning mouth wrapping around the end, before another ghost exhumed from his lips.

You sat back, content to wait, thoughts drifting hazily as though you were spread out on a sunny hillside rather than the threshold of hell.

Ais could be mercurial at times - his moods swinging from playful smirks to grim contemplation, sharp with an icy rage or coddled by an almost drowsy boredom, with little warning. Some of that you knew was due to the Seaspring and the hivemind created amongst those who had drunk from the water, but it was difficult to tell how much.

Every now and then, Ais would disappear for a while, locked somewhere deep in this temple, and resurface after a time, his countenance steadier, more controlled. You couldn’t be sure - you had only known him for a few months, after all - but you wondered if that was his time to center himself amidst the hundreds of others swimming through the hivemind’s pool.

Hours could have passed before you felt his gaze on your face. The cigarette was barely a nub between his fingers. He dropped it into an iron tray by the tea kettle with a flick of his wrist and watched you for a long moment before he lifted his hand.

You lifted one brow in silent question, but Ais just curled his fingers, beckoning.

With narrowed eyes, you sighed before rising from your slouch and approaching him. Once in range, his hand whipped out and grabbed your arm, tugging you into his lap. Your knees hit the ground behind his hips, burning white hot for a moment before aching like a fresh bruise.

Muffling a curse into the front of his kimono, you sat back on his thighs, pushing against the hand that had settled on the small of your back. “Here I thought you wanted to earn that ‘good boy’ title,” you griped, shooting a glare at the mouth just inches away.

But Ais wasn’t teasing as you’d expected. His mouth, rather than twisting into a smirk, had stiffened, a muscle flexing on his tight jaw. Red eyes bore into you, the color of wine, not bright with humor but full of a deep, bottomless darkness that hooked into you with a strange mixture of trepidation and desire.

“Far from it,” he said, his voice low and empty. Before you could react, his hips turned, both legs hanging over the pier, as he slowly leaned forward.

Your arms, once draped loosely around his shoulders, now clenched around him as he held you over the Seaspring with an arm bracing your back. Your hands clutched fistfuls of the kimono, the fabric slippery between your sweaty fingers.

Ais continued to bend until your back was near parallel to the surface of the water. Out of growing panic, your legs had wrapped around him, thighs gripping as tightly as you could hold.

“Ais,” you started, but froze, the words caught in your throat.

His face turned toward you, burrowing deeper into your neck, his lips brushing against your ear. “Sometimes, the thought of you drinking from the Seaspring grows inside me.” His nose trailed against your cheek as until his mouth hovered against yours. “I dream of it. Taking a drink myself. Letting the blood pool in my mouth. Then…” A brush of hot, wet tongue teased against your lips, trying to coax you into opening for him.

A shudder ran down your back. Heat pooled and thrummed between your thighs, even as your stomach twisted at the idea. You’re caught between fear and desire, struggling to keep pace with him.

“Or like this,” he continued, his body pressed tightly to your front as he lowered you ever closer to the water. You realize with a thread of panic that the ends of your hair were now dipping beneath the surface. “Trapping you in my arms, and just… sliding in.”

Something hard and unyielding pressed against your groin, rubbing against you.

You swallowed thickly, staring into his eyes. The simmering red had been completely subsumed within the black. An abyss peered back at you.

“He whispers it, in my head.” His arm loosened at your back, dropping you another inch closer to the water even as your legs and arms tightened desperately.

The words sent icy fear flooding through your veins. He whispers it, in my head. That could only mean one thing, one being. A name you had only heard once before.

Ocudeus.

“The thought of losing you, of someone taking you far from here,” Ais whispered, his voice rough. “He wants you to become one with the Seaspring. To bind your soul and body within this temple. To drown forever in these waters.”

For a long moment, you hung there over the still water, holding him as tight as you could. You felt cold, your body paralyzed with fear.

Beneath you came the sound of faint, thin pops of air. Bubbles. One, two, a cluster breaching the surface.

A scream was building in your throat. Instead of giving in to it, you stared into his eyes, searching. “You’d have to think of a new nickname for me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Sparrows can’t swim.”

You licked your lips, your tongue just brushing against his, and - there. A flicker of that familiar red curling around his pupil. “‘Seagull’ doesn’t have - quite as nice a ring to it,” you gasped, heart pounding in your chest.

The bubbles were emerging more frequently at your back, the water gurgling, near boiling.

A thin whine from nearby cut through the air.

Just as it seemed the Seaspring might reach up and wash you beneath its undertow, you’re jerked upward. As easily as he might a bag of flour, Ais rolled you both back onto the pier. Stars burst behind your eyes as your head knocked on the pier, your hair snagging on splinters and nail heads.

Blinking through the pain, you forced your eyes open.

Ais was braced over you, his hair drifting about his face, the white tips hovering along his jaw and his horns. He was stiff and pale, his jaw taut, his eyes clenched shut as he fought himself.

When you twitched, his whole body tightened around you. His hand beneath your head which had once softened the blow, now slid down and gripped your nape, holding you in place. The silver pendant that rested on his chest now nestled against your collar, a cool kiss of metal against your clammy skin.

Panting, shaken, you laid there without complaint as your body slowly calmed.

After a long moment, the tension seeped from him, a tidal wave easing back into the ocean. His eyes opened, and the familiar bright, brimming red finally set your heart at ease.

His lips parted but no words came forth. He seemed unsure what to say.

Gathering your courage, you sighed, “... good boy.”

Ais blinked.

Stared, inscrutable, for a tense pause before his head hung between his shoulders. His forehead dropped against your collar bone, his face practically nestled in your chest, and just like that your heart was thundering again, knocking insistently at your rib cage.

He tilted his face toward you, his cheek rubbing against your shirt like a cat. “Do I get my treat now?”

“Think you deserve it?” you shot back, still shaken, but fighting through it to smirk. “After that performance… maybe I should muzzle you.”

Ais hummed, his hands idly stroking up your waist. “Would find a way to bite you regardless.”

“How about you bite my buns instead, if you’re so desperate for a nibble?”

His brows rose, but Ais smirked, his hands drifting lower, headed for your ass. “Read my mind, sparrow.” He managed to grab two, squeezing handfuls while you were reaching above your head and digging through your bag.

Wiggling out from under him and sitting up, you pushed another parcel into his now empty hands, flushing hot beneath your clothes. “These buns, asshole.”

Bemused, Ais maneuvered himself back into his preferred seat, leaning against the pillar with one knee drawn up. He inspected the parcel before unwrapping the edges. Three golden balls of bread were crowded together, their skins glazed with butter and lightly roasted. Inside, he’d find braised meat and chopped root vegetables, all marinated in a spicy sweet sauce.

He looked up, that fanged smile spreading across his face. “Really did miss me, huh. Sap.”

Huffing, you avoided his gaze and stared out over the water, drawn inevitably to the place where the Seaspring had begun to boil. The surface was once again calm, the depths impossible to distinguish. A shiver slipped down your spine, the hair on the back rising.

“Here.”

A bun hovered in front of your mouth. You stared him down over the top.

“Sharing is caring. Can’t be known as that terrible of a host,” he said dryly, “Think of my reputation.”

“You just want your balls in my mouth,” you grumbled but bit into the bun to hide your smile as he grinned again.

“Been told the taste is to die for.”

“Who told you that, Vere? I guess he would know.”

“Ask him. Get a second opinion.”

“An expert opinion, I bet. I’ll do that.”

Debating the point amidst bites from the mean buns, you sank into the comfort of the familiar as that moment grew further and further away. Princess, evidently finished obliterating her cow shoulder, approached and curled up next to you for a post-dinner nap, her head resting on your thighs. She seemed a little unsettled but calmed after a couple scritches.

As you stroked her head and fed her the last of your bun, all beneath the soft, dark veil of Ais’s gaze, you resolved to tuck that memory to the side for now, to examine later.

The first true moment that the Seaspring’s maw attempted to swallow you whole.

__________________

a/n: thanks for reading!

#ais x reader #ais reader fic #ais touchstarved #touchstarved fanfic #touchstarved reader fic #touchstarved

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blackkatmagic · 8 months

Note

So which blorbo is currently commanding your attention?

Feral is dead. He’s broken. And then he’s not.

He gasps back to life under the touch of a warm hand, an ache in his bones and a desperate sort of coldness threaded through his veins, nails scraping stone and head spinning. Above him, there's a shadow, gold, and a wash of red like a crimson sunrise that burns itself into his heart.

“Easy,” a voice says, rough but amused. “I only just fixed that.”

That is Feral’s throat. That is Feral’s spine, crushed under Savage’s hand, snapped like nothing of the past meant anything any longer, and Feral shudders, hands rising, pressing against cool skin. He’s so cold, cold like he’ll never get warm again, and half of that is fear, fear like a knot in his chest that tightens with each beat of his hearts.

Not all of it, though. Half of it is something else entirely.

The hand on his back is a brand, a beacon. Fingers slide up, curl around the back of his neck as he coughs, a brace, and the man says, “Just breathe slowly. You’re all right.”

Feral shouldn’t be. He was dead. Savage killed him.

“You—who are you?” he manages, pushing up. The hand lightens to let him, but it doesn’t move, and he looks up into gleaming gold, that burning red like a star so close it’s blinding.

The man is older, hair greying, eyes dark. Human, or something close, with lines in his face and worn scars, but—

The scars shine subtly gold, unsettling and eerie, and Feral goes still at the sight of them. Like facing a much larger predator out in the swamps, there’s a prickle down his spine, a wash of adrenaline that sharpens and settles the world, and he stares up at the man as he smiles.

Fingers slide into his horns, tug his head back. The man studies his throat like he’s surveying his work, assessing the repaired bone, and then he drags a finger over Feral’s skull, smile sinking into something dangerous.

“I'm the new Sith Emperor,” the man says. His eyes are drowning-dark, and Feral can't breathe beneath the weight of them, the press of intent and heavy power that makes Mother Talzin's feel like a bare shadow. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

Feral swallows. Sith Emperor, he thinks. That’s—alarming. There isn't a Sith Empire to be Emperor of, but—

The man looks like an emperor. He feels like it, heavy and burning in all of Feral’s senses, with a presence that takes up all the air around him. He’s carrying a lightsaber, too, a brilliant red blade that washes light through the twisted trees around them.

The Nightsisters must have dumped Feral’s body outside the temple, left him for the predators in the swamp. That’s what they always do with the men of the tribe. Only Nightsisters get burial in the Grave Thorns.

Feral shivers, pushes up. His bones hurt, burn with a cold that feels impossible given Dathomir’s heat, but he grits his teeth, and when the man offers him a hand, he pauses.

“It’s all right,” the man—the Emperor—says. “You're mine now. I'm not going to do anything to hurt you.”

Feral can't help but put a hand up, to where his neck was broken just a moment ago. He can still feel Savage’s hand there, but—there's something else, too. A single line of heat against the chill inside of him, like a shining fracture that’s sealed itself over with gold.

There's a sunburst on the man’s jacket, a patch right over his heart. It shines orange-gold, metallic and bright, and Feral can't seem to take his eyes off of it. He stares, hesitates—

When he slides his hand into the man’s, the man grips tightly, pulls him to his feet with ease. In the pre-dawn darkness, the curved scar around his left eye catches the light and shines in the same way as the sunburst, the same way as a dozen old scars littered across the man’s hands as he tugs Feral close, and there's nothing in Feral that has the will to pull away.

“Come on,” the Emperor says, and smiles. “I've been needing a knight of my own. You’ll do.”

#my writing #nothing gold can stay #codyferal

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she-is-juniper · 1 year

Text

temptation greets you like your naughty friend (joel miller x reader) // chapter one

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader chapter title: the arrangement summary: joel miller likes to be made to feel in control; reader like to be made to feel helpless. thus, an arrangement is born, no strings attached. but there’s more than meets the eye to this gruff survivor.... This story takes place in the Boston QZ roughly 10 years after the outbreak begins, and Reader and Joel are business partners in the illegal smuggling trade. word count: 5K rating: E (Explicit) ***18+ only. minors DNI or you will be blocked. content/warnings: there’s a lot…. dom!Joel, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, established relationship, age gap (reader is in her 20s, Joel in his late 40s), oral s*x (f receiving), squ*rting, some degradation/humiliation but in a lighthearted way, some begging, a splash of a “sir” kink, some angst and resolution, porn with a bit of a plot, spanking, power play (all of this is consensual). Also Tess exists but she and Joel are not together a/n: ah, yes, the fanfic to end a hiatus... ♡ I recommend reading this one before bed so you can, yknow, have nice wet dreams about it while you sleep. to my long time readers/fans: hiii i missed y'all! to my new readers/fans: enjoyyy and please reach out to introduce yourself! i’m always looking to make new friends ◡̈ ((I do not claim to own the last of us or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. Please note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. And please, for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks if you want to see more of my writing—it’s the only form of repayment i ask for!!! thank you in advance!))

———

A hardened man like Joel Miller has a lot to offer a woman like you. Particularly in the form of desperate, mind-numbing sex.

The kind of sex that makes you forget your own name. Makes you forget the sting of whatever injuries you’d suffered this week at the hands of thugs and hunters. Not to mention, makes you forget, even if just for an hour or two, the fact that you’re living in the aftermath of the apocalypse in a world savaged by infected monsters.

That’s the kind of sex you and Joel both crave. The kind that takes away the crushing weight of repressed memories and feelings. The kind of sex where there’s nothing left to think about but the way his cock fills you up and his lips steal the breath from your lungs. The kind of sex that, after a day’s worth of decision fatigue as Tess’s right-hand woman as a contraband smuggler in the Boston QZ, you finally don’t have to make a single decision for yourself, as your pleasure is entirely in Joel’s expert hands.

Just sex, nothing else. Plain and simple. That’s the arrangement as you know it. No cuddling in bed after, no exchanging tender kisses, no talking about your feelings or any bullshit like that. Just rough, dirty sex to get your minds off the shittiness of your lives.

No shame. Everyone who’s survived the pandemic thus far has found their own unique means of self-medication. For some, it’s drugs, or alcohol, or murder. For you and Joel, it’s fucking.

As for when the encounters would take place, it depends on the day or week. Today, after a particularly shitty week for the both of you, all it takes is a mutual look shared from across the room in the rations distribution center.

You’re near the front of the rations line when you spot him coming in toward the back. Joel surveys the crowded hall, the line of his brows furrowed into his signature harsh scowl. You meet the man’s gaze with glassy eyes of your own. In that moment you swear you notice his frown soften as he looks at you, although a tendon tightens on his temple. It’s a look that confirms he’s had just as god awful a week as you had, although there’s something more there today that you can’t quite put your finger on.

You look away and sigh, wincing a little at the pain from a bruised rib that’s only just started to heal. Your injury’s pretty mild, though, and nothing compared to the state you’d left the other guy in. Oh, well. At least you got a few extra ration cards out of it, which you now hand to the FEDRA officer in exchange for a box of supplies and provisions. Mostly non-perishable food, but there’s also some medicines, toiletries, socks, soap—thank fuck, more soap.

On your way out of the hall, you meet Joel’s gaze once more. Not a word is exchanged, but with an almost imperceptible nod of his chin, you know you’ll be hearing his knock at your door at 2300 sharp. God knows you need his specific methods of distraction right now.

– – –

Three raps of his knuckles against your apartment door at 2300 exactly, and Joel’s all over you.

It happens so fast. As soon as you open the door, Joel seizes you by the arms and spins your body with his, slamming your body to the door with his own momentum to close it shut. Your sore rib burns from the impact and you hiss, “Ouch, asshole.”

“Toughen up, princess,” he growls. There’s nothing endearing about the pet name, it’s not like that. In fact, he says it almost demeaningly, which is on par for your relationship with the smuggler. But there’s a primal sort of desperation in the tone of his voice, and your arousal at that prospect spreads over your whole body and finds a home right in between your legs.

Joel’s hands wrench your arms above your head and pin them there as his mouth attacks yours, effectively muffling the surprised squeal that emits from your throat. His mouth is hot, his grown-out stubble scratching the delicate skin of your face in a delicious contrast, his breath faintly spiced from whiskey. You melt into him, arching your body into his, and a surly grunt resonates from his throat. He gathers your wrists in one hand pinned to the door and brings his free hand down to the nape of your neck, not so gently pulling at the base of your hair. He pulls away from the kiss and regards your exposed neck, where you swear he can see your pulse thumping in your throat. You wish he would kiss you there, but he holds back.

“Still on the mend?” he asks, bringing his hand down to your ribcage and barely brushing against the bruise.

“Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“Tell me if you want me to be gentler,” he says.

You almost scoff. The name “Joel Miller” and the word “gentle” don’t go together. Nothing about that man is gentle. And nothing about what you and he do together behind closed doors has ever been or will ever be gentle. Part of you wonders if Joel would rather go on home than fuck you gently.

Besides, you don’t want it to be gentle. Not one bit.

You slip one of your arms out from where he’s pinning them against the door. You grab his hand and slide it from your rib under your shirt to your breast, squeezing yourself with his palm. “I’m tougher than you think, Miller,” you purr.

It’s your way of giving him permission to do with you what he wants.

“Are you, now?” he drawls. He takes your initiative and runs with it, pinching your nipple between his calloused thumb and forefinger, just a little at first, and then much harder. You gasp, heat flooding your lower stomach. “You think you can handle me tonight, huh, darlin’?”

You reach for his crotch, feeling the erection you know he’s probably had all night, and smile at the strained breath he releases. “Should be asking you the same question, don’t you think?” you say.

It’s a thoroughly bratty response, not to mention completely loaded, and you and Joel both seem to know it. Joel calls the shots in these encounters, not you. Which is exactly how you both like it.

Joel hitches your leg up and situates his hips in between your legs. You can feel his dick pressed against your inner thigh now. He tangles his hands in your hair and kisses you fiercely again. The only time Joel ever kisses you is before he fucks you. Never after. You’re sure that somewhere, buried deep down inside you, you secretly wish Joel would kiss you after sex, too. But that simply isn’t what this arrangement is about.

You hang onto the moment as long as possible, lacing your fingers behind his neck and pulling him even closer. His once neatly slicked back hair now mussed from your fingers, and his skin smells like firewood and soap.

Outside, the female military voice recording announcing the strict enforcement of curfew echoes through the QZ, but you and Joel barely notice. You’re lost in him, the feel of his body, the touch of his rough hands, and allow yourself to fall into the mindless, primal motions of sex.

You and Joel have done this many times over the past few months. Sometimes, when all was quiet and going relatively well in the QZ, you didn’t feel the need to visit him quite as often. But your need to see each other only increasing in frequency when things seemed to get worse… and things surely have gotten a lot fucking worse lately. FEDRA cracking down on everyday civilian freedoms. Rising animosity between the factions of smugglers within the QZ, causing many of Tess’s deals for ammo and pills going south more often than not. Firefly attacks within the city walls with no regard for innocent lives. Oh, and not to mention the ever-present problem of the growing number of infected just outside the city…

All of which to say, you and Joel have been seeing a lot of each other as of late.

Clothes fall to the floor. Joel’s new shirt that must have come with his set of provisions today, your favorite holey sweater you can’t bear to toss, his pants, your pants, shoes and socks. The next thing you know, you’re flat on your bed beneath him.

In your past life, would you have been with someone like Joel if you knew of all the bad things he’s done? Would it have overpowered the intense attraction you felt toward him, causing you to be repulsed by him? Probably then.

But not now. You don’t care what he’s done in the name of survival. You both have committed your fair share of inhumanities. But this is just how your lives turned out. Neither you nor Joel had chosen the life of smugglers, but the perseverance to survive takes over one way or another.

But none of that matters right now. All that matters is the need to eliminate any space and barrier between your hot, needy body and his.

He’s a menacing sight with his intimidatingly large muscles, the result of nearly five decades worth of manual labor, and the numerous scars peppered over his skin from countless tussles. He looms above you like a thundercloud, like a predatory cat prowling for its meal. You think to yourself how lucky you are to be on his side as an ally in your nefarious affairs—and not just an ally, but a business partner of all things. Because someone like Joel Miller would be a scary as fuck to have as an enemy.

Joel hooks his thumbs under the hems of your underwear and wastes no time to yank them down and off your legs. He pries your legs apart as far as you’ll let him, nearly drooling at the sight of you completely naked for him. You almost feel self-conscious, but you know if you try to shy away or close your legs now, it would do absolutely no good. Joel’s a very single-minded man. When he puts his mind to something, there’s absolutely no stopping him.

It always takes you aback when Joel doesn’t immediately penetrate you, especially with that glint in his eyes like the one he has now. But he never rushes that part, not even when you really wish he would. Instead, as per usual, he dips down and buries his face in your pussy.

“Joel,” you whine out his name, your body lurching—away from him? Closer toward him? You can’t be sure. All you know is that his mouth on your pussy like this feels so intense that it would be impossible not to squirm. You wonder if he does this for himself or for you. “You really don’t have to,” you manage to get out.

The look of sheer wrath he gives you…it’s as if you’d just told him you’d given away all the contraband he’d smuggled to FEDRA. “You think I only do this for you?” he rasps.

“I don’t know," you squeak out with a nervous laugh. "I mean, I know you do it every time, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t feel obligated—”

“Obligated?” Joel barks a laugh. “Don’t be so naive. You think I would eat your pussy if I didn’t want to?”

Wetness pooled at your core. “Fuck, Joel.”

“I wanna make you squirm first,” he growls. “Wanna make you so needy and wet for me that you don’t think about anything else.” His breath fanned out over your pussy, and you shivered, your thighs squeezing together. He pries them apart again. “You say some bullshit like that again, I’ll tie your ankles to the goddamn bedposts so you can’t even think about closing your legs. You hear me?”

Your eyes widen and your stomach flutters. Does he not know how much the idea of that turns you on? “Yes,” you croak.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes sir,” you correct yourself.

“Good girl.”

He doesn’t need to tie your ankles to the bedposts when he’s got the leverage of his body weight to press your legs apart. His mouth is on you again in an instant and you gasp embarrassingly loudly, falling flat against the mattress.

He eats you out with the fervor and desperation of a parched man finding water, pressing his entire face into you as though he couldn’t possibly get close enough. Joel’s lips trap your clit in a tight suction, his tongue swirling in practiced circles in a way that makes your hairline break out in a sweat. You moan too loudly again, reaching for the nearest pillow to stifle the sound for the sake of your poor neighbors.

Just when he’s gotten into a groove, Joel releases the suction of his mouth with a pop and buries his whole face even lower, his tongue drawing a lavish line up your entrance before moving inside you, his nose pressed against your clit. He’s absolutely ravenous, and you have no semblance of control left in your body. Your legs jolt, and he presses them even further apart in response. The sparks at the pit of your stomach bloom and bloom.

“Fuck, baby, you taste so good,” he moans into you. You moan in response, tangling your hands in his silvering hair. Baby, that one is new. Baby’s almost too sweet coming from a man like Joel’s lips. A little red flag goes up in your mind but you quickly forget all about it as he continues to lap at you.

Joel breaks away only to wet his finger with his saliva and you watch in awe as he pushes it into you. You see stars as he curls his adept middle finger up toward your belly button. You dig your nails into his arms and keen his name again.

The waves of pleasure grow and grow, like a tsunami on the horizon approaching fast and sure, and your breathing grows erratic. Joel is relentless, tireless, his lips finding your clit again, and it’s as if he knows he’s found the sweet spot, knows the exact speed and intensity to stay at to push you over the edge. His eyes close as if in total bliss, seemingly motionless, and only you as the recipient of this unholy worship could ever know just how expertly fast his tongue is moving against your clit. The combination of that with his digit curling up into you over and over breaks you of any resolve you might have had left.

You should warn him you're going to come. You have before. But you know how well he knows you now. He knows you're right on the edge. So he presses his palm to the soft part of your stomach, just below your belly button, and that does it. He knows me so goddamn well.

You come completely undone, the waves of your orgasm furiously overtaking your whole body. You arch your back and clench your walls around Joel’s finger, unable to keep from writhing in pleasure, unable to hold back the choked moans from your throat.

“That’s right, ride it out, darlin’,” Joel praises you. “Love feeling you squeeze my finger so tight. Good girl.” He sits up and watches your body come down from the high, gently coaxing about what’s left of your convulsions with his finger. But even once they subside, he doesn’t pull it out, instead continuing to curling it into you again over and over. You weren’t expecting a break—Joel never needs one, never gives one unless you ask—but you wonder how on earth you’re going to survive this. With a desperate, pleading sound, you peer up at him in disbelief.

“It’s too much,” you whimper.

“Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head furiously. Joel almost smiles at that, almost as though he knew your response already. He repositions himself so he’s propped up on his elbow beside your body, his other hand still at your slippery entrance. His finger slides in and out with each movement, the pad of his finger gliding against precisely the right place inside you. It’s a sensation only another person could satisfy in you, and you find yourself silently thanking your lucky stars that Joel knows how to do it so well. He knows your body so well after just a few months, knows exactly what you need is a break from the clitoral stimulation, yet added stimulation elsewhere.

Pressure builds in your pelvis, a different kind of pressure than before. Your jaw falls open when his tempo picks up. Joel presses his forehead to yours, sharing your breaths, before he moves to your ear and starts whispering.

“Takin’ my finger so well,” he breathes, and goosebumps erupt across your whole body. “Wanna see if you can handle another one?”

You nod breathlessly and he slides his ring finger in with the middle finger. A jolt of energy overtakes your body. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck. The last time he fingered you like this, you had completely soaked the mattress. You had luckily remembered to lay a couple of towels down under the sheets this time, just in case, but still. You’d been humiliated. You hadn’t said anything about it last time, but you knew what had happened, and you knew that he knew.

And now he’s going to make you squirt again. Which means that he likes it.

Joel sets into a relentless pace and the dreaded pressure grows and grows. “That’s my good little slut,” he growls. “Want you to let go for me, make my fingers wet.”

You can’t help it. The pressure in your core explodes. A slick wetness seeps all over Joel’s fingers and into the sheets around your hips. Joel moans into your neck. You feel yourself turning so hot you break a sweat.

“Oh god,” you moan, suddenly lightheaded, and you cover your face. You feel him wrench your hands away and he stares at you in astonishment.

“Are you…embarrassed?” he gapes.

“Yes,” you respond, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

His face shifts slightly from disbelief into an almost sinister expression. “Look at you. All humiliated at the mess I made you make for me.”

The fact that he takes pleasure in your humiliation turns you on more than you’re willing to admit. “Fuck you, Joel,” you bark back, but there’s no energy left in your voice for malice.

Joel grips your chin harshly, forcing you to look at him. “You don’t call the shots here. If I want you to make a fuckin’ mess for me, then you will.”

If he hadn’t been manhandling you before, he’s manhandling you now, pulling your limp body into the exact position he wants: on your stomach, your thighs pressed together, your ass pointed up at him perfectly.

You realize then that he’s been touching himself for quite some time through his boxers, only now he’s sliding them off his body, revealing his dick, weeping and swollen and angry red. If you had any ounce of energy left in your body, you’d flip yourself over so you were on top and wrap your mouth around it. But he’s faster than you can replenish your energy, and in one feverish motion, he’s mounting you from behind, his dick pressed against the base of your ass.

“Tell me how bad you want me to fuck you raw into these sheets.”

You know Joel, know what he’s doing. He’s playing up the moment, building the anticipation, but he’s also gauging your consent. He’s asking your permission.

“Please,” you mewl. “Please fuck me, sir. I want you so bad.”

“Good,” he responds. “Good girl.” And then he’s plowing his dick into you.

Holy fuck. The momentum of his first thrust pushes you several inches up the bed and you cry out, inviting the mix of pain and pleasure with eagerness. He’s so much fucking bigger than his fingers, even though his fingers are nothing short of girthy themselves.

He pulls out unbearably slow, almost all the way out, until just the ridge of his head remains inside you, before he grips your hips with a fervor and thrusts back into you with a grunt. And again, and again. A rush of emotions floods through you at the feeling…among them, a sense of security, a total trust in him, the reassurance at the knowledge that Joel would stop if you told him you wanted to.

God, you don’t want him to stop.

“Mine,” he growls, gathering your arms behind your back, and your muscles burn. “You hear me? Your pussy’s fucking mine, sweetheart.”

You have no coherent response, only his name.

Joel uses your bended arms locked behind you as leverage, gripping them with desperation as he rams into you over and over again, taking what’s his. His dick feels unreal inside you, slipping in and out like it’s made for you. The position of your arms plays tricks on your mind, makes you feel trapped in the best way possible, like there’s no escape from this. Which, of course, there is an escape—the simple phrase stop, something you and Joel had agreed upon weeks prior—and yet, the false sense of helplessness is exactly what you’re going for.

And what is it for Joel that gets him going about this, you wonder briefly? Is it the false sense of control, something he’s felt devoid of in real life for years now? Is it the fact that for just one night, everything that happens will have been something that Joel had direct influence over? Did he need that catharsis of complete control as much as you needed the catharsis of being out of control? You wonder if maybe you and Joel were made to find each other in these awful, bleak times, if maybe though you fight day in and day out about business, if you were made for each other in this way.

A strange sensation along the spine of your back. It’s Joel’s lips, soft and wet along with the scratch of his beard. Juxtaposed with the unforgiving force of his hips crashing into your ass, you melt into him. He's never done that while he fucks you before. Joel releases your arms and kisses your back again, seeming to soak in the feel of your skin on his lips. He moves up to your neck, still mounted on top of you, still sliding in and out of you with a vigor, but his mouth comes to rest by your ear.

“You feel so good, baby,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful. The most beautiful girl I've ever seen.”

Oh, god. That was tender. You didn’t hate it, but talk about uncharacteristic for Joel Miller. Red flag goes up again. You squash it down, not wanting to kill the moment. You reach behind and comb your fingers through his hair. “Joel, oh my god, Joel.”

Maybe it’s as if he realized he’d breached some unspoken protocol with that lapse in his tough-guy persona, but Joel seems to snap to reality. With a new intensity, he pulls out of you to draw your hips up, propping you up on your knees and elbows. A much less tender, much more primal position. He kneels behind you and brings your hips back to meet his dick again, bottoming out in one motion.

You cry out and arch your back. This new angle is intense. Tender Joel Miller is gone, at least for now. He seals that notion with a hard slap of his palm on your ass.

He fucks you hard and fast and it’s precisely what you want. Waves of desire start to ebb and flow in your pelvis once again. You wince in surprise as you feel Joel bring his head down to bite your shoulder lightly. Nope, nothing tender about this.

“Oh my god, Joel, I’m— you’re gonna make me—”

“Make you what?” Joel demands. “Make you come again, pretty girl?”

You can’t make another sound; you feel so fucked out you could only nod as he brought you closer and closer. But Joel wanted more.

“You heard me, tell me how good I make you feel,” he growled and bit down on your shoulder harder this time. “Tell me you’re gonna come all over my dick.”

Telling Joel anything would be a little hard to do considering he’s fucking you so hard you could hardly breathe let alone speak, but Joel was now hell bent on hearing you. He slaps your ass again, even harder, and your knees nearly buckle. But you manage to locate your voice.

“You feel so good,” you sob out, falling forward onto your elbows while Joel keeps a tight grip on your hips. “I'm gonna come again.”

“You want that?” Joel says in almost a sneer from behind you. “You wanna come for me again, my dirty little slut?”

“Yes, sir,” you say, your voice hitching each time he rams into you, “please, please.”

“Love it when you beg like that for me. So desperate, it’s pitiful. Fuck,” he groans, seeming to somehow swell inside of you even more. Droplets of wetness roll down your thighs, your pleasure mixed with his precum. “You better not come until I say so.”

His request may or may not be plausible, given how fast approaching your orgasm was coming over you. You had no choice but to take him how he wanted you to and try to hold off your orgasm as long as you could. Joel keeps a firm grip on your sides as he snaps his hips, and the explicit slapping sounds of skin on skin fill your bedroom.

“Oh-oh-my-g-god,” you gasp out, moaning with each perfectly angled thrust, nearly in tears from how deep he is. You’re teetering right on the edge, dangerously close to the edge, but you realize then, so is he, if his heavy breathing and moaning is any indication.

“Come on, Joel, baby, cum deep in my pussy, make me yours…” The pet name had just slipped out of your mouth again. Reservations be fucked. If you wanted to be tender and intimate right now, so fucking be it.

Sure enough, Joel gasps and grunts with more bravado than you’d ever heard from him before, as if hearing you call him baby had made him come on command. You feel a flood of warmth gush inside you, filling you up as he stills and drops his head to your shoulder. The final bucking of his hips and the visceral, shuddering whimper that comes from his throat set you off as well. You can’t hold back the cry that comes from somewhere deep in your body. “I’m coming, Joel, I can’t help it—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, come for me now. I got you. It’s okay.”

You come hard and keep coming for longer than you thought was possible. Explosions of pleasure wrack your body and were it not for Joel holding you up, you’d have collapsed into the mattress. You’re clenching so hard around Joel’s dick that you wonder if it might hurt him, but he doesn’t protest, just moans right along with you.

You’re still trembling from the aftershocks as Joel pulls you up so your back is pressed against his chest and you both take a moment to catch your breath. Joel cups your breasts and kneads them in his hands as he comes down from his high, and in your daze you were dimly aware that he’s peppering several soft kisses along your shoulder blades, humming against your skin.

Again with the intimacy. What is going on?

“Joel?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you...dying or something?”

“What?”

“Or, like, secretly infected or some shit you don’t wanna tell me?”

He huffs, peeling himself off of you. You ignore the feeling of his cum dribbling out of you and turn to look at him. He’s scowling now, to no one’s surprise.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he barks. Aggravated, yet again. Oh, well, it's not like you were going to get any aftercare from him anyway—not part of the arrangement.

But nor was all that other shit he'd done.

“You’re acting…weird,” you accuse, your heart still pounding from before.

“I’m not acting weird,” he snaps back, defensive.

“You’re not acting like yourself, is all I mean,” you respond, crossing your arms and legs.

He watches you, that same tendon in his temple tensing up. “I have no idea what the devil you’re talking about,” he mutters, looking away.

“You have no idea what—” you repeat, shaking your head before explaining, “Joel, that was different.”

“What was different?” he asks, his voice gruff.

“That! The whole…” you say uselessly, gesturing between you and him.

He just stares at you. If he’s catching your drift, he must just be playing dumb now. “I’m gonna go,” he grumbles, standing to slip back on his boxers. “Come find me again when you start makin’ sense and stop drabblin’ on about nonsense.”

“Wait, stop, stop. Stop it, Joel,” you say, gripping his arm. “Jesus, will you let me talk? Why are you trying to run away?”

He glares down at you, his jaw rigid. A few tense seconds pass. “Go ahead,” he says at last, in response to the first question. As for the second question, you figure he’s trying to work that one out himself.

Now that you have his attention, you’re stunned. What exactly was the issue you were trying to bring up? He was being too sweet to you?

As if you can feel your own defenses coming up around you, you look around for your sweater and underwear, not wanting to be the only one unclothed here. Joel watches you wordlessly as you pull on your clothes, and your resolve grows stronger.

“That felt different,” you repeat, looking into his eyes for some sign that he agrees with you. “Didn’t it?”

Joel says nothing. In the silent space, your words come spilling out.

“Like… I don’t know, I just feel like something changed tonight. You felt different this time.”

Joel frowns in confusion and looks down at his crotch.

“No, not like that.” You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “It’s the things you…did. And said. It just felt different to me.”

“Like what?” Joel said, still playing dumb. You sigh again in exasperation. Is he really going to make you bring up specific examples?

“I mean, like…the kisses. And…and why’d you call me beautiful?” you insist.

He glowers. “What, so I can’t call you beautiful?”

“No, I—I mean, you can, I just… You’ve never said anything like that to me before,” you respond. He truly hasn't. He's called you sexy, called your pussy pretty, things like that. But he's never leaned down to whisper in your ear that he thinks you're the most beautiful girl in the world while railing the fuck out of you.

"Well, I did now. But I wouldn’t have said anything if I knew you were gonna get all weird about it.”

Jesus, he could be so fucking immature for a man in his late 40s. “It just took me off guard, that’s all.”

“Well, if that’s all, I don’t understand what’s the big problem.”

Why isn’t he understanding? You can’t help it, you explode. “That isn’t what we agreed on, Joel,” you say, your voice more insistent.

“What isn’t?”

“The...kissing, and the calling each other pet names, and the exchanging niceties,” you say emphatically. “Shit like that. That’s not what this arrangement is supposed to be about.” You started this with Joel to avoid your feelings…

Not to catch them for each other.

Joel leans down closer to you, cynicism in his voice as he says, “And what is it that this arrangement’s supposed to be about, then?”

“Sex!” you shout, raising your arms in exasperation. “Just sex!”

Right?

Joel says nothing. He stands and silently puts on the rest of his clothes before giving you the hardest stare you’ve ever seen from him since you met him half a year ago.

“Maybe for you.”

Your mouth goes dry. But before you can think of a response, Joel slips his shoes on and mutters. “I’m gonna go. Don’t come after me tonight.” Without another word, he leaves your dingy apartment, leaving you alone with your jaw on the floor. And in that moment, you realize, you had Joel Miller all wrong.

———

a/n: …i’m kind of embarrassed to put this on the internet but hey at least no one i know follows me so!!! hopefully at least! hahahahah 😭

Thank you so much for reading! I’m dying to hear your thoughts about it! Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!

For real though. Leaving feedback is just the common courtesy thing to do when you consume free, unpaid creative works online. Like I promise i do write for myself hehe but it really helps give me momentum to keep writing when i know that people genuinely liked my work!

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Much love ❤︎ from Juniper

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