#not sure whether to continue it or not...

[permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88]

this. this. yes, it's the state of fandom and fanfiction in general, now. there's no real way of telling whether or not it will change. but my gosh is it ever disheartening, and honestly terribly sad to see that this is the way it will continue to go, if things remain the same as they are, right now.

now, before anyone comes at me with them, I've heard the myriad of reasons why a person might choose not to comment or leave kudos. they're shy. they forget. they don't want to leave a "footprint" on this wild little place known as the internet. they fear retaliation and hostility from authors who misinterpret comments left in good faith, and any number of other reasons, as well. and I want to make it abundantly clear that this is by no means an attempt on my part to dismiss or invalidate those reasons. at the end of the day, if someone doesn't want to interact with a given work, they won't, and as much as that may sadden me, I fully respect it as their choice. a comment that comes organically, because someone feels moved to leave it is far better than one that is forced or pressured in any way, and that is a hill I will die on.

that said, though, we will continue to lose people who are willing to share their works with us, if this trend continues. it's just a fact. while I make no attempt to speak for all of us, there are so, so many people I know that write for themselves, sure, but they share their work in the hopes that at least one (1) other person out there will be moved by what they've created. they share in the hopes that said other person will maybe want to interact with them because of it. whether the interaction leads to an unexpected friendship and mutual discussion of fic plots and characters and new releases of our favorite series, or not, the hope for it is there. the heartbreak is there, too, when we, as creators, post something we're particularly proud of, and receive nothing but silence in response. it's there when we try to make sure we present a face that is receptive to feedback and interaction. when we encourage comments, and ask questions of our readers, and yet still...silence. sure, if we're passionate about what we're creating, and/or the themes/ideas we're trying to convey, we can push on. we should push on, because I, for one, am so beyond tired of a world that tries to stifle people, and drown their voices out because they don't "fit the mold" of normal that is determined by some nameless, faceless majority. but to continue doing so, and to continue to receive silence in response? to be called 'entitled' by some readers, because we dare to ask for something...anything...other than crickets, and the sensation that we're shouting into the void?

it's really no wonder that some may choose to move on to other things.

while I've never experienced what OP's friend has with Discord, I can only imagine that such a situation only makes what I've already mentioned above so much more discouraging. it must make those it has happened to wonder what on earth is the point? if everyone is too busy sharing their reactions in their isolated little groups without ever deigning to let the creator know their feelings, or just mass-consuming it and moving on to the next thing ten seconds later, as if the first thing that caught their attention never even existed, why are we even bothering to do this at all? again, I do not speak for everyone, but I daresay the majority of us are not trying to be the next big name author. we're not trying to 'make it big' at all. this is a hobby, that we do for free, in our (mostly) limited free time, and anymore, we largely receive absolutely nothing in return. we pour pieces of ourselves out there into the world, completely free of charge. we make ourselves vulnerable in ways that are often ugly. real. to many, silence in the face of that vulnerability is exactly the same as the dismissiveness and invalidation we've already received when we're that 'real' anywhere else in our lives. it drives home the thought that our voices do not matter, and thus we should not bother speaking. and no, society and our readers at large are not responsible for our vulnerability and our emotions and our traumas that we sometimes place upon our characters as a means of processing them. but even if we aren't opening ourselves up to our readers, if it's genuinely all in "good fun", we can't legally monetize it, interaction is our form of 'earnings' from this, and by and large that sort of thing is rare, and has been for quite a while. and sure. people can read and abandon fics at will, with or without leaving some trace of their presence along the way. that is well within their right. but I have also seen these same individuals go on to harrass the creators of works that have been abandoned or deleted for doing so, despite never once trying to show any form of appreciation at all. and then they have the nerve to call us entitled for wanting that appreciation in the first place.

the fact that the "social media-ification" of fanfiction (it is not Instagram, no matter how so many may treat it as such) and the quite honestly despicable behavior from a loud minority of touchy authors who have now effectively ruined commenting for so many of the rest of us has made fanfiction what it is today is just...heartbreaking. it really, really is. and while I personally plan to stick around and do my best to fight the demons in my mind that tell me no interaction means that no one cares about my stories so I should just stop writing them, not everyone will. we're all incredibly foolish if we believe otherwise, and honestly, as awful as I feel saying it "out loud"?

if fandom culture doesn't see a change soon, and more and more talented authors continue dropping like flies?

we'll deserve it.

tl;dr? creators are not robots, people. we aren't content-mills, put on this earth specifically to serve the bidding of consumers, on their timeline, and not our own. but what do I know, right?

I'm just a so-called "entitled" author who thinks interaction with our work, no matter how small, shouldn't be a thing that we have to try to pull from behind stubbornly gritted teeth.

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[neilsbeloved]

company of four

summary: your world stops the moment clark tells you he’s finally introducing you to his friends, not because you want to stay hidden as his mysterious girlfriend, but because of your distasteful past encounters with his friends. (based on this request!)

pairing: clark kent x fem!popular!reader!

tags: fluff / mentions of past bullying / clark being whipped / hidden relationships / first meetings / uses y/n (like twice)

Clark, who was lying down on his bed with arm stretched behind his head, has been watching you try on a gazillion combinations of tops, pants, and earrings for the past hour.

When he had told you that his friends had been wanting to see this mysterious girlfriend he's been hinting on for weeks, you were quite hesitant to say the least.

Actually—you were very hesitant.

Not only were you one of the most popular students in Smallville High, but you didn't exactly have the cleanest track record when it comes to your relationship with people. Clark and his friends—Chloe and Pete—included.

Now, you're still on your fifth pair of earrings. Your ears all red and itchy already.

"You're meeting my friends, not some editor at a fashion magazine." Clark throws a football up in the air, catching it just in time with you turning around.

"Clark," you say sternly, shooting him a look. "Circle one or triangle?"

He straightens up, muttering a quiet apology before answering: "Circle. Chloe likes circles."

You nod, removing the dangling triangle earring on your left ear before replacing it with the circle one. You grab your hair brush from Clark's cabinet, running it through your hair as you walked to the other side of the room in a rush.

"For the bag—which one do you think Pete'd dig?"

"Are you their girlfriend or mine?" Clark jokes, hoping to see even a small smile on your face. He quiets down when you glare at him once more. "Sorry, the brown one."

You throw Clark the burgundy one, moving your regular items from your everyday bag to the brown one he chose.

Clark stands up from the bed, groaning softly as he stretches his back.

"Look, babe, they've been waiting to meet you for over a month now. I'm more than sure they'll be happy to meet you whether or not you're wearing Chloe's favorite color or you know Pete's favorite comic book." He rests his head on your shoulder, hugging you from the back as he rocks you side to side.

You sigh, glancing at him over your shoulder. His nose bumping with yours. "Clark, that's before they find out that your girlfriend's one of the people that were bullying them for years."

"Oh please, you never really wanted to be involved with those people. You were just…" Clark purses his lips, trying to think of the best word. "…misguided, okay? You're not anymore, so you could stop worrying about that and just relax, y'know?"

"I had Chloe be removed as the Torch editor for a whole school year," you start, "Pete got injured in his shin because my friends found it funny to trip him while playing basketball," you add again, Clark cringing at the memory.

You exhale defeatedly, pulling away from Clark to sit on the edge of the bed. Massaging your own temples to try and relieve some of the stress.

Clark keeps a determined look. Taking a seat beside you before he places an arm around your shoulder. The warmth of his body immediately making you melt into him.

"I know you've done things you aren't proud of, things you don't even want to remember… but you can't just avoid those you've wronged forever," Clark pulls you close, nuzzling his face in your hair. "Sooner or later you're gonna have to actually speak to those people and say sorry."

"And if they don't accept my apology, what then? Clark, I'm not gonna let you choose between me and your friends." You snap at him.

Clark looks at you with a surprised look, not expecting you to lose your temper. When you notice what just happened, your features soften, mumbling a continuous apology as you looked at your hands on your lap.

He shushes you, taking your hands in his as he intertwines both of your fingers together. "Who said I had to?"

"If there's one thing I know about my friends, it's that they're not the kind of people you think they are." Clark looks into your eyes with a tenderness you've grown to love about him. "They know how to forgive, and they know how to understand people."

A small smile comes onto your lips as he kisses your forehead, tightening his hold on your hands. "Now stop worrying about my friends and focus on getting ready. I don't think I can last thirty more minutes helping you choose the color lipstick you should wear."

His face shines when he hears a laugh come out of you, willingly letting you go as you stand up to resume getting ready in the corner—close by the window, so you had some natural light whenever you put on make-up—Clark had cleared out just for you.

You smirk at him, teasing and lighthearted, holding out the bullet lipstick you keep in your bag. "Don't worry, Clark, I don't have blue lipstick for you to choose anyway."

The jitters gnaw at you the faster you and Clark arrive at the Talon.

Clark kept his hand in yours, squeezing it every now and then as a sort of comfort. When you see the Talon's signage appear into view, you tense up indefinitely.

"We're here," he announces, parking on the curb faster than you expected. "Ready to meet them?"

You shake your head as an answer but Clark only laughs at you. He exits the car, running over to your side to help you get down from the truck. One of the chivalrous things Clark does that you've gotten used to.

The two of you stand outside the Talon's doors, a considerable amount of distance between the two of you.

Clark calls your name, stopping you right before you can come inside the cafe. "Are we coming in as a couple or as chemistry partners—babe, come closer," Clark pulls you to his side with a scoff.

"Clark." You glare at him, biting back the complaint that tries to surface. "Don't get pushy."

He ignores your warning, shamelessly slipping his hand into yours as he pushes open the doors, immediately getting overwhelmed by the dozens of people inside of the Talon.

Your eyes quickly latch onto two of Clark's friends sitting around a circle table, Chloe and Pete having their own respective beverage as they conversed—or argued—with each other comfortably.

Each step you took felt like a step towards suffocating yourself. Feeling the air inside the Talon barely enough for everyone inside of it.

You clench your jaw, trying your best to keep calm despite the percussions pounding inside of you. Clark kept a smile on his face, unaware of the internal dilemma you're having.

When you finally reach their table, Clark yells out their name. Both Chloe and Pete turning to your direction with a smile, only for it to drop the moment their eyes drop to your interlaced hands.

You gulp. Unable to speak.

Clark opens up with a normal hey, giving them both a side hug before gesturing towards you. The way your name slips off of his mouth making you cringe.

"This is…" Your name rolls off of his tongue in a way that makes you cringe uncharacteristically. "And she's my girlfriend."  Clark turns to you with a smile, wide enough to show everyone his sharp canines.

An uneasy silence settles over the four of you—this time, even Clark isn't safe from it.

This is the worst experience ever you think to yourself as you start brainstorming the quickest way to just fall on the floor unconscious.

By the time you've thought about five ways, you hear someone speak.

"Is this some silly prank? I'm sure I vividly remember you and your group of highschool hotshots doing everything you can to make all of our lives a living hell?" Chloe, being the ever-so upfront member of the trio, says in one breath.

Your jaw drops. Out of all of the things his friends can bring up to you, that one was something you didn't expect.

You try your best to speak up—to apologize for it, but Chloe beats you to it. Again.

"I'm just kidding," she laughs loudly, her eyes crinkling into crescent moons as all of you let out the breath you were all unknowingly holding. "It's nice to finally meet you, Y/N."

You quickly take her hand and shake it, a surprised huff leaving your lips as Pete shakes your hand as well.

Clark looks at the three of you with a proud smile, pulling out a chair for the both of you once the introductions ended.

Before the conversation between the four of you even started, you apologized first. Showing them the raw and genuine side that you had to yourself; apologizing for everything that you and your friends had done to them since grade school.

Clark squeezed your hand from underneath the table, gazing at you affectionately as you began engaging his friends in an all out conversation about something niche.

The moment a Talon staff placed two extra glasses of mocha cappuccinos, another member of Clark’s circle is introduced. This time, someone you’re partially close with already.

“You’re with Clark?” Lana’s voice raises, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

Clark cuts in, “Lana, this is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

The brunette looks to Chloe and Pete, both of them looking at you consolingly. You didn’t expect another round of awkward silence to happen but it does, and maybe you should’ve expected this one the moment Clark told you he’s taking you to the Talon.

After some time of you waiting for Lana to speak, she finally does. “It’s good to see Clark finally happy.”

“Oh,” you turn to Clark, slightly growing confused at the entire situation. “I, uhm—“

“She makes me very happy, Lana,” Clark says with a tone of finality, placing an arm on your shoulder. “Hopefully, I make her happy too.”

Lana smiles, nodding as she excuses herself. A loud huff coming from Chloe when she finally notices your earrings—though you know it was only to get rid of the thorny situation.

A compliment left her lips as she stared at it with fascination, the genuineness in her voice making you smile. Pete follows up with a compliment too, this time about your bag—you're practically glowing with happiness.

Clark throws you a look, catching your eye as that smug little smile on his face tells you that he's soaking up every compliment you got thanks to his brilliant choices.

As it turns out, meeting his friends wasn't as scary as you thought it'd be. Or maybe that's only because they aren't what you're used to.

Nevertheless, it made you feel very much at home; sipping coffee at the Talon, your boyfriend's hand in yours, enjoying everyone's company.

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! xoxo

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

Mr Hale and Mr Stilinski Are NOT Dating

There have been whispers around the school that Mr Stilinski and Mr Hale are dating. They decide to set the record straight.

They’ve heard the whispers circulating the school, a buzz of chatter filling the school halls like a swarm of bees.

Mr Hale – the English teacher – and Mr Stilinski – the history teacher and assistant coach for the lacrosse team – are dating.

They weren’t quite sure when it started, but whispers of their alleged relationship had spread throughout the school. Snippets of gossip and rumours would trail back to them.

“Did you see the way Mr Hale looked at Mr Stilinski today?”

“I’ve never seen Mr Hale smile, but Mr Stilinski makes him smile.”

“They’d make such a cute couple.”

“I saw Mr Stilinski in Mr Hale’s office the other day.”

“Mr Hale helped Mr Stilinski put away the sports gear after practice yesterday, and they were in the equipment room for quite some time.”

“Mr Hale and Mr Stilinski always spend their lunch breaks together in their classrooms.”

For the most part, they were amusing, harmless gossip and stories made up by kids who had watched a few too many romance movies, but it was starting to get out of hand. So Stiles and Derek decided to address the rumours.

They called all their students together and gathered in one of the larger classrooms. Students crammed in where they could, sitting in chairs or on the floor, a few perching themselves on the cabinets that lined the far wall. The room was filled with a quiet buzz of chatter, a mixture of confusion, concern, and excitement.

Derek stood in front of his desk. His arms were crossed over his chest as he leant back against the edge of the desk. Stiles stood beside him, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

“Alright,” Derek said gruffly.

The room fell silent.

“We’re heard quite a lot of talk around the school about whether or not Mr Stilinski and I are dating,” Derek started.

The students started cheering. Some let out excited gasps and a few students shouted, “I knew it!”

Derek drew in a deep breath, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He waited for them to settle before continuing, “We’ve decided to clear this up, once and for all. Mr Stilinski and I are not dating.”

The room filled with shocked gasps, hushed whispers and a one student who was brave enough to shout, “Yet!”

Stiles ducked his head, hiding his smirk as he struggled to smother his laughter.

Derek waited for the room to fall quiet, his stern stare hushing the room.

“Mr Stilinski and I are not dating,” he reiterated. Pausing for a moment – waiting to see if the students would object again – before adding, “We’re married.”

The room burst into a cacophony of noise: cheers, screams, applause. You could have sworn they were celebrating winning the nationals, not finding out their teachers were married.

Stiles couldn’t hold it in any more, he burst out laughing, turning away from his students so that they couldn’t see how bright red his face was.

Derek glanced over at him, his harsh features softening as he smiled lovingly at Stiles and let out a quiet chuckle.

Stiles drew in a dep breath, gathering himself as he raised his voice above the noise to say, “And nothing happened in the equipment room.”

The members of the lacrosse team and a few other students who had heard that rumour started laughing.

[AO3]

[narcjsistx]

the rhythm, the notes, the lights. everything is frighteningly perfect, starting from the perfect time, ending with the fact that the concert is practically over. the screaming crowd is just the proof of how much the sleepless nights made sense, how much this job makes you feel alive even if it exhausts you. in your entire career, this is probably the most important moment, the one where you know you have to shine

the rush of adrenaline that runs through your veins makes you almost forget what you're about to do, unbeknownst to anyone. you want to do it, you have to do it, because you know that otherwise you will lose him completely. the more the guitar melody pushes towards the end, the more you think about what you're about to do, how your gesture could improve or ruin everything you have worked so hard to build

but you're in love, and you know he's too

you turn to him: RIN ITOSHI is focused, precise, no movement is casual. he plays as if his life depends on how he makes the notes come out of his electric guitar, with an anger mixed with adrenaline and the argument you had a little while ago. it sounds like he has to prove something to you for the last time, because he also knows that tonight will decide what your future will be: whether you will continue the fake relationship with the singer of his band or actually tell the world that you love the guitarist of the blue lock. he knows full well that, by the end of this evening and this concert, he will know whether his girlfriend of 1 year has chosen him or fame

your heart beats faster than the speakers that are still playing. your hands sweat, your throat tightens, the microphone between your fingers almost becomes even heavier. you need a very big deep breath, almost as if to find courage in your lungs, because the song is practically over and the audience is waiting for the icing on the cake: the kiss between you and the singer. the crowd erupts as the song ends, as you slowly approach the singer who is already smiling at you, even though he is the first to know that this is all fake

anxiety does not disappear, but it transforms: it becomes energy, adrenaline, truth. you advance briskly, the audience slowly seeming to become one voice. you look at the singer, accustomed to the stares, the attention, the farce that has been going on for far too long. he thinks he's the reason you're there. but that's not the case, because behind him, just outside the cone of light, there's the real reason you're approaching: your real boyfriend, the one who plays like he's only talking to you. he's playing as if nothing could disturb him, until his eyes meet yours: it's just an instant, but enough to make him miss a note. his gaze becomes tense, almost an impossible emotion for a phenomenon like him

"are you sure?"

he leans down, while i cup his face "more than sure" you say, and the microphone on the side of your cheek makes the words echo in the big arena. without saying anything else you take his hand and guide it to your side, to your waist, as if he hadn't already done it hundreds of times. RIN ITOSHI lowers the guitar almost instinctively, as if nothing matters anymore in that moment. the singer, behind him, throws a look full of everything: confusion, annoyance, maybe jealousy, but he doesn't even see it, too busy holding you before kissing you in front of thousands of people. a kiss that doesn't ask the audience's permission, nor apologizes to the stage

you feel the taste of anxiety mixing with relief, your heartbeat quickening as the crowd slowly erupts into another big scream. he kisses with hunger, anger, with all the desperation of those who have waited too long to finally give in

it's a kiss that seems to say: finally.

[chronic-conjuring]

I think the term/acronym for OCD has become way too overused (like a frighteningly large amount of clinical, psychological terms tbh) and too many people have a fundamental misunderstanding of what the fuck OCD actually is and looks like.

Too often do we see distasteful, harmful jokes and representations of OCD as just a “clean freak germaphobe” or someone being overly obsessive about the placement of every single thing in their house and then you get the overused (and frankly fucking stupid) “haha I need things to be in a specific order or else it drives me CRAZY!! 🤪🤪 iM sO OcD!! 🤪🤪🤪” kinda lines and it’s absolute bullshit. Sure, those first two are very common symptoms we see in people with OCD but that’s literally not what’s going on??? They aren’t just bothered by the placement of things because it annoys them on some level, they have irrational fears.

So now when we see people genuinely discussing the reality of dealing with OCD, having compulsions to do certain things due to fear of certain consequences if they happen to do/not do it properly and excessive, irrational anxieties, we get shit like this where people are wholeheartedly ignorant of what that even means. Like, people w OCD aren’t necessarily clean freaks because messes and germs give them The Ick™️ (like what many people without this disorder experience) they’re genuinely, extremely irrationally afraid of what could happen should they not keep things in a certain order or wash their hands three times in a row etc.

For example, someone could have an irrational fear that their clothes not being organized in a specific way will in some way cause a loved one to die unexpectedly, if they don’t excessively sanitize the counter after making a sandwich themselves or someone else will get severely, life-threateningly sick, or if they interact with a certain number in any way something bad will happen (“if I eat 5 cookies instead of 4 [something bad] will happen”). These all sound a little ridiculous, right? THATS THE POINT. THEYRE IRRATIONAL FEARS. THATS WHY THIS IS A DISORDER. ITS NOT SUPPOSED TO MAKE SENSE TO PEOPLE OUTSIDE THE PERSON WHO HAS OCD’S BRAIN!!!!

You CAN see how someone might come to some conclusions, the thought process of “germs make people sick, if I leave things dirty people might get sick” is a fairly rational one, the irrational part comes with the thought continuing with something like “I have just made a sandwich on a clean plate and not gotten anything on the countertop, but if I leave this countertop without wiping it down with disinfectant I could’ve possibly left some kind of contamination and now whoever uses this countertop next will get salmonella/ food poisoning/ an allergic reaction. I MUST wipe it down several times until it is Clean Enough” that sounds just a little ridiculous right? But you can see how someone might come to that conclusion. Which is probably why the most commonly thought of aspects of OCD get boiled down to germophobia and excessive cleanliness, it’s closer to something other people can relate to or understand on some level.

And then there’s other fears that make no sense with little to no logic for others to follow such as “if I don’t lock this door PERFECTLY CORRECTLY someone will break into my house and kill me. I must unlock and re-lock this door until It Is Perfect” logically, a locked door is a locked door. Whether or not you turned it slowly, quickly or whatever, the door is properly locked by the time you’re done with it. That doesn’t matter to someone with OCD. Somehow, someway, locking it too slowly or too quickly will lead to some catastrophic failure and suddenly in their head they are then vulnerable, so they will stand there and lock the door as many times it’s takes for their brain to say “that’s perfect, I’m safe now”.

By reducing OCD into just some quirky thing some people experience, we are doing a major disservice to everyone suffering from this disorder and we allow stuff like this, where people are equating being afraid of something happening to mean they must actually secretly want that thing to happen or to do that thing, to happen and actively harm people with OCD. Too many people misunderstand that it is irrational thinking and fears that drive OCD behaviors, not some hidden internal want for it to happen. Do better

[khuzena]

The Ink Didn’t Fade

𐙚 PAIRING: Mydei/F!reader

𐙚 PARTS: 1, 2

𐙚 SUMMARY: A wartime radio announcer keeps broadcasting long after a general goes missing in a bombing. The war ends. He doesn’t return. Still, she holds to his letters and the sound of her own voice—until a quiet reunion asks whether memory is enough.

Some promises survive in silence. And some voices you wait for, even when the frequency goes quiet

𐙚 C.W: Tragedy, hallucinations, implied PTSD, war themes, implied character death, violence, blood, survivor's guilt, grief, unresolved feelings, implied depression, emotional repression, loneliness, displacement, breakdowns, hopelessness, reunion after trauma, emotional whiplash, fleeting comfort, lingering loss, disassociation, and memory fixation.

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I started reading some journalist stuff about Edward Murrow (i think thats his name) and i was fascinated about how some radio broadcasters during war time would visit missions or camps to get the full picture and relay the news to common folk. I hope my writing is okay………. 

𐙚 TAGLIST: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx @takeyomikamakura @whatamidoing89 @myegyumi

𐙚 W.C: 8037

Three… two… one.

“This is Station Halcyon, broadcasting on 730 kilohertz to the northern provinces. It’s 0600 hours. You’re listening to the military update relay, authorized by the Office of National Communications. I am voice ID 042.”

You pause. Let the sound hang, steady, professional.

There’s a quiet shuffle behind the glass. Acacia, your sharp-eyed radio technician, taps away at her console, eyes darting between screens. You catch the subtle clink of a coffee cup being set down somewhere in the corner.

You clear your throat, keeping your voice calm, even though your throat feels tight.

“Last night, forces holding Sector D-7 managed to repel repeated enemy assaults. Confirmed casualties stand at fifty-seven, with six soldiers missing in action. The battle was fierce, with artillery fire disrupting communication lines throughout the night. Weather conditions remain harsh—snowfall continues to slow movement and reduce visibility, hampering defense and rescue efforts.”

You glance down at the papers before you typed-up reports from the front, barely legible scrawls from field commanders, urgent telegrams. Your fingers tap a rhythm on the desk, trying to keep nerves at bay.

“The situation at Station Epsilon is evolving. Early this morning, a bombing caused significant disruption to the communication infrastructure in the area. Frontline units are working tirelessly to re-establish contact. As of this broadcast, details remain limited and are subject to change.”

The room feels small but alive. Kastos, one of the writers, leans against the wall, scratching notes onto a battered notepad, eyes narrowed in thought. Acacia’s fingers flick deftly over switches and dials, tuning frequencies, her headset crackling with static.

“Acacia will be managing the relay patch for the upcoming shift,” you say quietly, turning slightly to catch her eye.

She shakes her head, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Nope. You’re on for the next segment too.”

You wince, lowering your voice. “I don’t have much choice. Prices are climbing faster than I can count. I need the overtime.”

Kastos raises an eyebrow, concern plain in his gaze. “Are you sure? You’ve barely taken a break all week. The others could—”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No. They need to hear a steady voice right now. Plus, there’s nothing else for me to do at home anyway.”

Acacia laughs softly behind her headset. “Fine. But don’t let us find you passed out on the floor.”

The supervisor’s voice crackles through the intercom, sharp and clipped, slicing through the low murmur of conversation.

“All units, stand by for frontline updates. Maintain clear channels. Repeat: clear channels. Prepare for immediate transmission.”

Your heart rate ticks up, the familiar rush of adrenaline threading through the exhaustion.

You lean forward, hands steady now, eyes scanning your notes again as you prepare to close this segment.

Outside, the pale dawn presses cold and gray against the windows. The world feels fragile, held in the fragile pause before chaos.

“That concludes the update for 0600 hours on Station Halcyon. Stay vigilant. Keep your radios tuned.”

The microphone’s red light switches off, and the room exhales in unison. You lean back, fingers relaxing, but the weight settles deep inside — this isn’t just news. This is lives hanging in the balance.

Behind the glass, Acacia fiddles with a new frequency, her expression serious.

Kastos pushes off the wall and walks over, tapping your shoulder lightly. “You want a break before the next round?”

You shake your head, forcing a tired smile. “Really, no. I need the extra hours. The cost of living’s not getting any easier.”

He nods, not pressing further. You sip your water, your mind already half on the interviews scheduled in the next shift, the faces you’ll have to see and hear and report.

The hours ahead, filled with static and voices, stories and silence.

Outside the station, somewhere between the lines and the snow, the war rages on.

The windowpane fogs under your breath as you lean forward, chin resting against your hand. Outside, snow drapes the ground in a dull white. Not fresh enough to be beautiful, but enough to make the road glisten with quiet hostility. It’s the kind of cold that gets into your teeth if you breathe too fast.

You sigh.

Acacia hums behind you, not really singing, not really talking. She’s fixing her scarf around her neck like she expects to be gone all day. You half-expected she’d insist on handling the assignment herself, but now she’s just stuffing a pack of cigarettes into her coat like it’s routine.

“The bombing at Station Epsilon,” she says idly, “wasn’t it near a munitions cache?”

“Might’ve been. The higher-ups didn’t say.”

“You think it’s sabotage?”

“Or someone got sloppy.” You turn back toward her. “Either way, they’re not giving us the full picture.”

She shrugs and gives a pointed glance to the dusty vent above the broadcasting booth. “They never do. But if the explosion was that loud and that close, maybe we’ll get real answers once we reach the camp.”

You grimace and look back at the window. The street outside is nearly empty—just snow-covered rooftops, shuttered buildings, and an old delivery van caked in slush. Nothing moves. Even the sky looks reluctant.

Kastos enters the room again with a stack of clipped reports, his scarf lopsided and his coat half-buttoned. “The company journalist’s already downstairs. And the car’s warmed up.”

You blink. “Already?”

He tilts his head. “You did say you’d go.”

You grunt, already reaching for your coat.

Before you’ve even shrugged it on fully, the crackling voice of the station chief echoes over the speaker:

“Halcyon crew. Let’s move. Camp Carthage is twenty klicks out and we’ve got daylight to burn. We need a full segment recorded by nightfall, preferably with clean audio this time.”

You wince. Clean audio. In a military camp. During a snowstorm. With half the equipment held together by tape and hope.

“Understood,” you call back, adjusting your scarf and tucking your press badge into your breast pocket. It’s chipped at the corners and still says Field Assistant instead of Lead Broadcaster, but nobody bothers to fix things like that anymore.

Acacia steps beside you, glancing toward the door. “You’re really sure you want to do this one?”

“I need the money,” you say, again. But there’s more than that.

There’s a kind of buzzing in your chest, not quite nerves. Not quite dread either. Just something pulling. Some part of you feels like something is coming. Something overdue.

Kastos hands you the last of the reports. “The camp you’re visiting? Carthage Unit. That’s one of the main defense divisions assigned to the Northern Borderline.”

You flip the folder open, scanning the list of ranks. Then pause. A name buried halfway down the page catches in your throat.

General Mydei.

The folder almost slips from your hands.

Acacia notices, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, closing the file again. “Nothing.”

Because it’s not supposed to mean anything. You’ve seen the name before on posters, in briefings, once scratched on a cafe wall like a curse.

But it still clutches at your stomach when you read it.

That’s the man who used to stand in line at the corner bakery every Thursday, exactly at noon. Who never smiled, but always tipped the staff and bought the same pomegranate bread, dusted with sugar. Who never said your name, but always nodded when you passed by. Who, one rainy afternoon, left a clean handkerchief on your seat when you forgot yours.

You hadn’t known who he was until he disappeared from the city altogether. Until the rumors started that the famous tactician was being shipped out. Until posters with his name were printed in black and pinned to walls like announcements of war.

You wonder, briefly, if he still likes pomegranate bread.

“Let’s go,” you say finally, as your hand tightens on the folder.

You make your way downstairs, the stairs groaning under your weight, coat pulled tighter around your frame. The wind slaps at your cheeks the moment the front doors open, and the cold digs straight through your bones.

Parked on the curb is the usual truck, military make, with the back converted into a cramped audio recording room. One of the junior field techs nods at you, holding the door open.

You step in, tucking your folder close to your chest.

The last thing you see before the door closes is the snowfall thickening.

As if even the sky wants to blur what’s about to happen.

Snow flurries whip past the windshield as the transport truck rolls to a stop, tires crunching over slush-packed gravel. The gate ahead is nothing like the ones you’ve passed on safer routes. No banners, no welcoming officers. Just concrete, barbed wire, and tall shadows flanking the entrance like stone guardians.

You press your palm against the side window, peering out.

“They really stuck us out in the edge of the map,” Kastos mutters beside you, thumbing his pen with nervous energy. He’s already creased the interview questions.

“They’re the spearhead division,” Iliyen replies, voice low but calm. She adjusts her officer’s coat and slips a black notebook into her breast pocket. “They’re the reason the front hasn’t collapsed yet.”

She says it like it’s praise, but her jaw stays tense. You don’t ask questions. You know her type,  the kind of correspondent who’s seen enough wreckage to speak in clipped phrases and small exhales.

The back door slides open, and a wave of cold air floods the truck’s interior. One of the drivers motions silently for you to get out.

You step down onto hardened ground, boots crunching over the icy surface. Around you, the camp sprawls like a living machine. There are gray tents and steel outposts peppered across snow-dusted hills. Men and women move like clockwork: some carrying munitions crates, others trudging in groups toward the eastern lookouts. Their uniforms are thick, faded with frost. Their expressions unreadable.

There’s no music here. No shouting. Just the wind and the occasional barked command.

You tug your scarf tighter.

At the gate, a stern-looking officer approaches — tall, clad in full winter gear with only his eyes visible beneath his cap. He doesn’t introduce himself. Just scans your badges and says:

“You’ll speak with Lieutenant Raen. She’ll brief you on what you can and can’t record.”

Iliyen nods. “Understood.”

You glance to Kastos. He flashes a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

As you’re led into the camp proper, you pass soldiers who glance only once before turning away again. No curiosity. No interest. Just war-weariness shaped into silence.

You’re not used to being invisible.

You pass the mess tents, the gear sheds, the comms posts with each one half-buried in snow, smoke curling from chimneys that barely heat the interiors. The air smells of sweat and rust and something faintly metallic.

And then you reach it,  a central pavilion reinforced with stone and iron, like a makeshift headquarters carved out of old world bones.

Inside, the air is warmer. Dim lanterns swing gently from the beams. Maps cover the walls. Chalk and pins mark movements and losses.

Lieutenant Raen stands at the center, sleeves rolled, voice brisk.

She turns when you enter and gives a short nod.

“You’re the press team?”

You nod. “Radio Halcyon.”

Raen eyes you, then Iliyen. “We’re on borrowed time. Command only gave you two hours.”

“We’ll take thirty minutes,” Iliyen says.

“Fifteen,” Raen corrects. “You want answers, ask fast. No photos. No names unless cleared. No questions about the blast. No questions about ‘General Mydei.’” She says the last part flatly, like she’s memorized it.

Your heartbeat skips.

Kastos doesn’t flinch, just flips to a fresh page in his pad.

You say nothing.

Raen leads you to a side wing where a handful of soldiers. The more presentable ones, you guess, are seated and waiting. Most look tired. One taps his fingers on his rifle’s strap. Another adjusts the bandage around her wrist and mutters something under her breath.

These are the ones they want the public to see.

Raen gestures toward the foldable chairs arranged like an awkward classroom. “You can record here. You get quotes, not monologues. Keep it clean. If anything sounds off-message, I’ll cut it.”

Iliyen already has her notebook out. Kastos follows suit.

You set up the mic, the static in your ears a low buzz. Your voice is hoarse from the cold.

You clear your throat, glance at the recorder’s red light.

“Recording live,” you murmur.

You look up.

And you begin.

“Corps Command Halcyon, frontline feature, Northern Defense Axis,” you say, tone low and measured. “Present location: Camp Carthage, spear division of the border defense. In front of us: five soldiers, five stories.”

One of the soldiers, the one with tired eyes and a faded patch on his arm, meets your gaze.

“Let’s talk about what survival looks like,” you say softly. “Here. Now.”

The recorder hums softly in your gloved hand, its red light blinking slow and steady. A bit like a pulse. You lean forward, enough to catch the profile of the soldier speaking without crowding him.

“…it’s cold, sure,” says one. Corporal Theon, wiry with sharp, wind-burnt cheekbones. “But the thing about frostbite is it creeps up quietly. Like artillery. You don’t feel it until you’re already too far gone.”

There’s a stiff chuckle from one of the others.

Kastos jots it down, then gently interjects, “How’s morale, Corporal?”

Theon shrugs. “We still get letters. The food’s warm. When it isn’t frozen, anyway.”

The woman beside him. Specialist Vesha. She folds her arms, eyes half-lidded but listening. You turn slightly to her.

“What about the last skirmish? Reports said Carthage was the first to respond.”

“We always are,” she says dryly. “We’re used to going first.”

There’s no pride in it. Just fact.

You clear your throat. “And... word was that someone on your squad intercepted a transmission from behind enemy lines?”

Now, that earns you attention.

Vesha’s brow lifts. Theon scratches his neck. The youngest, a Private whose name you never caught, leans in a little.

“Oh, you mean the mole?” the Private blurts, a little too loud.

You exchange a quick glance with Kastos.

Iliyen’s pencil pauses mid-word.

Vesha elbows the kid, not subtly.

Lieutenant Raen, who’s been standing off to the side like a bored shadow, steps forward. “Strike that,” she says firmly. “That information isn’t cleared for public dissemination.”

The soldier mumbles an apology. You nod silently, thumb the switch on the recorder and mark the cut. Later, you’ll edit that part out.

Still, you file the word mole somewhere in your brain. You’re not sure if it’ll matter, but your gut says it might.

Kastos moves things along. “Let’s talk about conditions.”

One of the others, a medic, judging by the red cross half-hidden beneath his coat, gestures vaguely outside. “Snow’s hitting harder this week. Rations are tighter. We don’t see command often, but when we do, they usually come bearing good or bad news. No in-between.”

“And what do you do to stay… grounded?” you ask. “To remember you’re still yourselves out here?”

The medic hesitates, then half-smiles. “We listen to the broadcasts.”

Your breath hitches just a little.

“The radio,” he clarifies. “Yours. Mostly yours. Someone strung up a signal rig in the comms tent. We catch it most nights if the wind isn’t too cruel.”

He doesn’t say your name, but his eyes linger a beat too long on your face. You wonder if he recognizes your voice before your face. If he ever imagined you looked different, or if you were better off staying just a voice.

“Helps us feel like we haven’t slipped completely off the map,” he adds.

“...Thank you,” you say, a little quieter than you meant to.

They nod. The air settles.

But then someone… One of the quieter soldiers at the end, older, worn like wet rope, murmurs, “The General listens too.”

Raen straightens slightly. “That’s enough.”

He doesn’t stop. “We heard it. From the mole. Enemy officers said he’s been picking up Halcyon frequencies, even when he’s behind enemy lines. They call him ‘ghost-walker.’ Think he’s some phantom with a pulse.”

You can feel your stomach twist. A slow, low curl of something in your chest.

Kastos writes faster.

Raen’s voice slices through again, sharper this time. “Strike that.”

Iliyen doesn’t even argue. She draws a thick black line across a portion of her notes.

The older soldier shrugs. “Was worth saying.”

You glance at the recorder. Still red. Still blinking.

You switch it off with a soft click.

The interview ends in an awkward shuffle. No one claps. No one thanks anyone. Just tired nods and half-formed murmurs of "stay safe."

You step outside again, scarf pulled over your lips as the cold slaps back into your lungs. The sky above is gray-blue and heavy with snow. The wind whistles through barbed wire and loose canvas.

Iliyen joins you at your side, gaze faraway. “He listens,” she says.

You look at her.

“The General,” she continues. “Or so they say. I wonder what he’s hoping to hear.”

You don't answer.

Because you already know.

You’ve seen the signal strength peak at odd hours. Heard rustling when no one else was supposed to be transmitting. Caught static at your name. You’d once said something—something small, off-script, during a broadcast lull:

“If you’re out there… if any of you are out there… just know someone’s still listening.”

And someone had tapped the line once. Just once.

You’d told yourself it was wind.

But you’d written it down anyway

The wind is quieter now, almost reverent. Snow falls in patient flurries, dotting your coat and lashes. You stand near the gravel path that snakes out of the main barracks, waiting for the car to circle back from refueling. A low hum echoes from the far end of the camp — soldiers drilling.

Not just jogging or casual formation.

No, training.

Hard.

Rhythmic, timed drills. Callouts in unison. Boots pounding frozen earth in perfect coordination. The kind of conditioning you only ever hear about in radio reports, but rarely see.

You and your small team stand near a stacked crate, watching like civilians watching a well-oiled, frightening machine.

Kastos exhales next to you, breath visible in the air. “The other camps don’t train like this.”

Iliyen folds her arms, gloved fingers tapping the outside of her coat. “Camp Carthage isn’t like the others. I’ve heard it’s where they send the toughest units.”

Kastos nods absently, gaze still trained on the soldiers. “Still. This feels excessive.”

“General Mydei runs this one, doesn’t he?” Iliyen says, not looking at either of you. “They say he’s strict. Really tall. Big build. Makes them train three times harder than protocol.”

There’s a long pause.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye but say nothing. The name Mydei clings to the inside of your skull like snow melt against skin.

Iliyen shrugs. “I mean... of course. Carthage is always first in. When the lines are redrawn, they’re the ones pushing it. Or dying on it.”

A young assistant, whose nametag reads Harren, maybe fresh out of training, sidles up to join your group. “It’s because they’re sacrificial,” he says bluntly. “Everyone knows that.”

You don’t even think before your hand jabs his side with your elbow.

“Hey.” You don’t bother hiding your glare. “Don’t say that. Not out loud.”

He stammers, rubbing his ribs, looking mildly ashamed. “Sorry. I just—everyone thinks it. I didn’t mean anything.”

You look back at the training yard. Soldiers running drills under snowfall, lifting crates, forming formations, voices crisp and synchronized. One of them collapses, gets back up within seconds. A sergeant barks something from across the yard.

“I know,” you say after a moment. “But some of them still write home. They still hold onto birthdays. They’re not just statistics.”

A long silence settles again.

Only the sound of soldiers calling out numbers cuts through the cold.

Kastos shifts beside you. “Ever met Mydei?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the yard.

“No,” you lie, quickly.

Iliyen watches you, but doesn’t call it out.

“Well,” Kastos says. “If this is his doing… can’t decide if it’s terrifying or admirable.”

“Both,” Iliyen says quietly.

You don't respond.

Instead, you stare a little longer at the blur of movement. The dark coats. The steady, trained bodies. And somewhere out there, maybe in one of the tents or maybe already gone back to the field, is a man who once stood in line at a bakery every Thursday at 4 p.m.

He always ordered the same lemon tart. He never said more than five words at a time.

You never knew his name back then.

Not until you started hearing it echo across casualty reports, field victories, and whispered soldier rumors like it was both a threat and a blessing.

General Mydei.

You pull your scarf higher up your chin and exhale.

Behind you, the car pulls up at last, headlights dimmed against the white glare of snow. You don’t get in right away.

You keep watching.

Not for long. Just a few more seconds.

You pat down your coat pockets once. Then twice. Then with increasing urgency, a third time.

No pen.

No—not just any pen.

You shove your hand into your left coat flap, then the inner lining, then frantically unzip your side pouch. Kastos and Iliyen are already halfway to the car, chatting like people who don’t have a heart sinking into the soles of their boots.

“Wait—ugh, I’ll be right back!” you call out, already spinning on your heel.

“Again?” Kastos yells over his shoulder. “What is it now?”

“My pen! My lucky pen!”

He groans. “You and that cursed thing—”

“I was holding it literally six minutes ago,” you mutter, ignoring him as your boots crunch back over the gravel.

It was Thomas’ pen. Your favorite professor during your last year in broadcast journalism. Said you had “a voice like velvet and vinegar” his words, not yours,  and handed you that red metal pen before your first campus coverage.

You got your internship three weeks later. Then your first job. Then—somehow—Station Halcyon.

And now you’d dropped it. Somewhere in Camp Carthage, the most intense military base in the damn region. You could scream.

You trudge past crates, your fingers jammed under your arms to stay warm. “Please don’t let some lieutenant find it and think it’s a bomb,” you mutter to yourself.

There—near a cluster of empty benches outside the officer tent.

You spot the gleam of metal against frost.

You scramble forward.

“Oh, thank god—” you sigh, crouching to retrieve it. Your name still elegantly etched near the clicker. Slightly scratched but still legible.

You tuck it back into your breast pocket with a reverent pat. “You’re the only thing that makes my handwriting legible,” you whisper to it, only half-joking.

Your nose twitches.

Then—ah-CHH! You sneeze sharply into your handkerchief, muffling it as best you can.

Ugh. Cold.

You straighten up and turn around—

And crash straight into something.

Solid. Warm. Tall.

You recoil, mumbling an immediate, flustered, “Oh, I’m so—!”

Then you look up.

And freeze.

He stands in front of you like a thunderclap dressed in regulation.

Dark coat. Tactical gloves. Snow still melting on his shoulders. His hair is slightly mussed, damp from training or wind. His eyes—sharp, dark, and steady—land directly on you.

You’ve seen that face only a handful of times up close.

Once at the bakery.

Twice in passing.

And one time, half-shadowed in a classified military photo you weren’t supposed to see.

But there’s no mistaking it now. No confusion.

This isn’t some vague officer or distant silhouette.

This is him.

General Mydei.

And he’s staring at you.

Just a beat too long.

You blink. Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker downward briefly, like he's taking stock of you: the scarf, the broadcaster’s badge on your coat, the handkerchief still clutched in your fingers.

Then his voice, low, smooth, with an edge like flint, breaks the silence.

“…You dropped your pen.”

He says it like it’s a matter of state.

You nod dumbly. “I—I got it. It’s, um… it’s really precious. Refill’s stupidly expensive.”

A pause.

Is that the corner of his mouth twitching?

No. Couldn’t be.

You clear your throat. “Sorry for bumping into you. I didn’t mean—sorry.”

“No harm,” he says.

Another silence.

Another moment that stretches longer than it should.

He’s not moving.

You’re not either.

You wonder if he recognizes you. Not from radio broadcasts. But from Thursdays. From tart crumbs. From the smell of lemon sugar.

Before this war devoured everything.

You’re not brave enough to ask.

Not yet.

From the corner of your eye, you see Kastos waving from the car.

You swallow, nod stiffly to him, and start to move past—

“Mydei,” he says quietly.

You pause.

“I’m General Mydei.”

You turn back to him slowly. He didn’t need to introduce himself. Everyone here knows.

But somehow, hearing him say it… to you feels different.

Like he’s handing something over. Even if it’s just a name you already knew.

You wet your lips.

“I know.”

He studies you a second longer.

Then, with nothing more than a nod, he turns and walks off toward the barracks.

You don’t move for a long time.

Only once he’s disappeared into the haze of snowfall do you whisper, “What the hell.”

Then you walk back to the car, hand over your badge to the guards, and try not to let anyone see how pink your ears are.

The walls hum quietly. The radiator sputters again.

You exhale as you toss your coat over the single chair by the door, boots kicked off with the sluggishness of someone whose spine has been standing too long. The second the latch clicks shut behind you, the silence settles. Not comforting. Just there.

You lean against the doorframe for a second, just breathing.

The building shakes faintly every few minutes, trams or low-altitude aircraft. Hard to tell anymore. The view outside your window is barely a view: dim streetlamps, skeletal trees, and that same white birdshit stain on the upper right pane.

You were going to clean it. Last week. Then your boss scheduled you for two more overnight shifts. And the market trip. And that call from the registrar's office in the Outer Lieran Region—your younger sibling’s tuition deadline, right on cue. The second one needed housing funds.

You didn’t even flinch when your last paycheck dissolved the moment it hit your account.

It’s quiet. You don’t turn the radio on this time. For once, your voice is the last thing you want to hear echo back.

You collapse into the chair by your desk. Your coat slips off the side.

Right. Work.

You dig out the pages from your coat pocket—notes from today’s field interview. Scrawled shorthand. Names, code designations, half-legible transcriptions. You’ll have to polish it all tomorrow, but you want to at least organize it before it all blurs again.

Your fingers ache slightly as you hold your pen. The red one. The engraved one.

Your name glints under the weak lamplight.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Then your eyes drift.

He looked different.

You'd already known he was tall—could tell even from the bakery line, from how people moved around him like his shadow carried weight. But in uniform? In full command?

It was like watching someone step out of a war mural.

The golden pauldron caught the light when he moved. The twin gauntlets didn’t look ceremonial; they looked used. The robe—dark and stitched with sharp red lines—moved when he walked like it had its own momentum.

But his hair—

It still looked the same.

Messy. Beige with threads of red through it like streaks of clay, sunlit in some places. A long, thick lock was still braided neatly down the right side, and the sapphire earring he always wore—the one you used to quietly admire when he passed your bakery window—was still there. Just… brighter.

The tattoos you only half-saw. They curled past the edge of his collar, glowing faintly beneath the sharp line of his neck.

You rub your eyes.

Why are you thinking about this so much?

You sneeze into your sleeve again, groaning.

Right.

Still sick. Still underpaid. Still out of credits.

You glance at the corner of your desk, where yesterday’s receipt is still pinned to the wall.

180 credits – Eggs (bargained 20% off)

The lady at the counter had looked at you like you were gutting her cat, but you needed it. Needed something cheap. Rent ate the rest.

Your fingers drift to the windowsill, tracing dust with your pinkie. It’s been a while since you even wiped this thing. The fucking bird droppings dried into the glass days ago. It looks like a cursed shape. Sort of a lowercase "g." or maybe a fucking “o”.

You should clean. You should.

But you don’t.

You pull your legs up into the chair, curling one arm around your knees.

There’s a letter on your nightstand waiting to be mailed. It's to your siblings. You’ll have to pay extra just to get it out by courier—postal lines are delayed again, thanks to military rerouting.

You sigh and lay your head down on the desk.

His voice was deeper than you expected.

Not booming. Just… deliberate. Like every word had to pass through a dozen checkpoints before being released. But when he said your name, even just once, it stuck in your chest like a bruise that didn't hurt.

You wonder if he recognized you.

You wonder if he ever listened.

Surely not. You’re just a voice on the frequency. Background noise between strategy reports and ration orders.

But maybe…

Maybe once or twice, before deployment or during quiet hours, he tuned in. Maybe he knew it was you. Maybe that’s why he said his name like that.

“Mydei.”

Like a reminder.

Your name, his name.

Two things that don’t usually sit in the same sentence.

You let your eyes drift closed, just for a moment.

The room smells faintly of ink and radiator heat. The soft hum of the war beyond your window fades just long enough for you to almost forget you’re part of it.

Almost.

Click. Pen. Click. Pen. Click.

You blink blearily at the scheduling sheet, the overhead lights too white for your crusted eyes. The ache in your throat hasn’t let up. The coffee’s cold, and you haven’t even touched it.

Your fingers are cramping slightly from transcribing yesterday’s interviews—nothing special, just more vague military platitudes and rehearsed optimism. Except for the one slip-up. That poor man practically flung his whole career into your recorder before Raen told you to cut it from the official copy.

You left it in your private notes, though. Just in case.

Across the room, Illiyen pinches the bridge of her nose. "Follow-up scheduled. Camp Carthage wants us back there for an extended segment. Apparently, the general’s agreed to speak directly this time."

Kastos lets out a low whistle. “General Mydei? Himself?”

Illiyen mutters, "They’re never that generous with media access. Wonder what he wants spun.”

“Control the narrative before it controls you,” Acacia mutters.

Your stomach twists.

"Guess who gets to interview him," she adds, eyes sliding to you. "Congratulations. He insisted."

You blink.

“…He what?”

“He said, and I quote,” Illiyen flips a page, “‘Tell the broadcaster not to bother assigning anyone. I’ll speak. Only with her.’”

Her tone is unreadable.

Kastos snorts. “Must’ve liked how you look clutching that red pen.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs on reflex. “Shut up.”

But your hands are cold. You shove them under the table, trying to steady your pulse.

You arrive late.

The morning frost hasn’t lifted, but Camp Carthage is already blistering with movement. Soldiers run drills. Barked orders echo across the field. The air smells like scorched fabric and freshly oiled metal. Yet there’s still that strange trace of sweetness—somebody’s always baking in this place, you swear.

You barely register the routine security checks this time. Raen’s already watching over you like a goddamn hawk. Illiyen’s adjusting her camera strap. Kastos is trying to look casual and failing miserably.

You’re just cold.

“Interview’s set up in the outer war room,” an escort tells your group. “General’s already inside. Waiting.”

Your fingers brush the edge of your coat pocket, where your pen rests. Still there.

Good.

The room is clean. Stark. A long rectangular table stretches through the middle, flanked by military maps pinned on every wall. Red markers. Circles. Strings. No windows. The heater hums.

He’s already there.

General Mydei stands at the far end, back to you at first—his posture unnervingly relaxed for someone surrounded by so much tension. But when the door closes behind your group, he turns.

Your breath catches.

In full light, he looks sharper. Not just large—striking. His uniform is the same as yesterday’s: deep maroon robes under sharp tailoring, the gold of his pauldron catching even the weakest light. His gauntlets reflect faintly, fingers flexed as if he’s perpetually ready to strike. The tattoos just barely peek from the edges of his collar. His eyes—sun-gold, slitted just slightly—land on you.

And stay there.

Iliyen starts introducing herself. Mydei doesn’t even blink. He nods once to the team. Gives a simple, “Thank you for coming.”

But his gaze never leaves yours.

You clear your throat. “We appreciate your time, General.”

“It was mine to offer,” he says, quietly.

The interview begins. You do your job.

You ask the prepared questions. Updates. Troop morale. Shifts in strategy. Reflections on public sentiment. His answers are composed, measured, but not rehearsed. There’s something disarmingly direct about the way he speaks. He never rambles. He never deflects. But he’s choosing every word like a blade.

And still—he looks at you. Almost the entire time.

You can feel the weight of it like pressure on your throat.

You try to ignore it. You have to.

Kastos starts wrapping up, giving the practiced thank-you and final formalities that come with every military interview. His tone is brisk, neutral, just enough polish to signal professionalism but not deference. Iliyen is already clipping the mic off her coat, brushing some lint off her scarf. Then, Kastos cracks his knuckles and mutters something about freezing his fingers off while fiddling with the audio case.

You don’t move.

Not immediately, anyway.

Your fingers hover over the recorder’s buttons, slowly double-checking everything you’ve already checked twice. You thumb through your notes, half-skimming your own shorthand even though you know exactly what’s written. A small, stubborn part of you stalls—lingering for a reason you don’t quite have the words for.

He doesn’t leave.

You feel it before you confirm it: that same unmoving gaze. Mydei hasn’t shifted from his spot at the far end of the table. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back now, gaze rooted to where you sit.

Not unkind. Not expectant. Just steady.

Your pen trembles slightly between your fingers. You set it down, too slow.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Kastos.

He’s mouthing something.

Ooooh.

You don’t even need to hear it to feel the heat crawl up your neck.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to shear his tongue off. He smiles innocently and turns away, already helping Illiyen pack cables.

Raen leans in just enough for her words to be heard over the static, voice clipped and quiet. “Tread carefully around generals,” she says, eyes fixed ahead. “I’m not in the mood to explain insubordination.”

Your mouth opens slightly. “I’m not flirting,” you hiss.

“You were lingering.”

“I’m working.”

Raen shrugs. “Then do it. And don’t try anything foolish.”

You ignore her. Mostly because you can’t argue while your heart’s pounding this hard.

When you finally lift your head, you’re met—again—with his gaze.

It’s not piercing. Not invasive. It doesn’t leer or search.

It just sees.

There’s a calm to it, like staring into the eye of a slow-moving storm. Not danger. Not desire. Just depth. Like he’s memorizing your face for reasons even he doesn’t understand yet.

You swallow. The back of your throat still aches.

You gather your things too quickly, nearly knocking your clipboard over. Your hands fumble with the strap of your bag as you follow your team, suddenly aware of the echo of your boots against the cold tile floor.

You hesitate in the doorway.

And still—he hasn’t said anything.

But as your hand finds the doorframe, steadying yourself as you step out, you feel it. The air shift.

He nods.

A simple thing. Barely even movement.

But it’s not a dismissive gesture.

It’s one of recognition. Like he’s answering a question you hadn’t asked aloud.

And it’s meant just for you.

The door shuts quietly behind you.

Days pass by, broadcasting news with a hoarse throat.

The news finishes broadcasting at precisely 17:00. Your voice still lingers faintly in your ears, the tail end of a final sentence about grain ration restrictions and how imports from the northern regions will be suspended due to sabotage.

You flick off your mic.

The studio is warm and smells like paper and old wires. Acacia’s in the corner doing maintenance on the transmitter, mumbling about the feedback delay on Frequency 3. Illiyen’s out on her day off—good for her—and Kastos is raiding the office cabinet for the last pack of coffee sticks. Again.

You're about to stand and grab your notebook when the front desk intern walks in, holding a square envelope like it's radioactive.

“Something came for you,” she says, holding it at arm’s length.

You furrow your brows, taking it cautiously. It's... old-fashioned. Real paper. Cream-colored envelope. Inked address.

Your full name is written in neat, squared handwriting. No return address.

But in the top corner—

Camp Carthage.

Your stomach drops.

Acacia doesn't notice. She's still swearing under her breath at the equipment.

But of course, Kastos notices.

"Ooooh," he says, drawing the syllable out like he's sixteen again. “Camp Carthage? That’s from frontline daddy, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, asshole,” you snap too quickly.

“Bet it’s a marriage proposal.”

You whirl on him, nearly smacking him with your clipboard. “I swear to the gods, I will file a hostile work report on you.”

He raises his hands innocently, grinning wide. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Or the jealous coworker.”

You pocket the envelope like it might spontaneously combust.

It’s probably not personal. It’s probably official. Maybe you forgot to redact something. 

Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe General Mydei wants to complain that you hovered too long or stood on the wrong side of a marked perimeter or—

You sneak out of the studio.

You head straight to the second-floor bathroom, into the third stall—the one that doesn’t lock properly but faces away from the mirrors. You sit on the toilet with the lid down, heart drumming faster than it has any right to.

You open it carefully, breaking the wax seal.

The handwriting inside is the same. Clean. Sharp-edged. Pressed like the writer hesitated after every word.

It reads:

“To Station Halcyon – Attn: Broadcaster [Name], Regarding your last transmission: You mentioned the supply shortages near the Estera fields, and I believe your source was either outdated or misinformed. For record accuracy, we’ve since rerouted all eastbound grain stocks via Riverline, with security guaranteed by Squadron IX. Furthermore, the tone of your closing remark (re: "the bleakness of the eastern border settlements") may unintentionally demoralize listeners stationed near those areas. I understand the pressures of tight scripting, but I would suggest consulting the civilian morale guide distributed last quarter. Should you require updated data regarding troop rotations or food parcel allocations, I can arrange for briefings to be transmitted weekly to your station. I will ensure they are signed and verified. Your reporting has been... notably consistent. – Commander M. of Carthage Division”

You stare at it.

You blink.

You read it again.

You feel warm in the face and cold in your fingertips.

It’s not personal—not really. Not even close.

But there’s a very specific kind of... attention to it. The formality is thick, like he doesn’t know how else to communicate. But the words aren’t condescending. They’re intentional. Even thoughtful.

"Your reporting has been... notably consistent."

What the hell does that mean?

You fold the letter neatly, tucking it back in the envelope. It smells faintly like paper and ink. No perfume. No hidden message. Just a strange, stiff kind of connection, signed with a single M.

Your foot taps against the floor. You reread the line about arranging weekly briefings.

You mumble aloud, “Does he... want me to keep talking?”

A knock on the stall door jerks you upright.

“You die in there?” Kastos calls. “Because if you are, I’m not covering your shift.”

“Get out!” you bark, flushing hard.

You bury your face in your hands.

When you’re back home, you fold your arms on the desk and groan into them.

Why is writing a simple thank-you letter making you sweat like this?

It’s not like it means anything. It’s a follow-up. A professional courtesy. You do this all the time. With vendors. With guest speakers. With that one guy from the postal union who sent you a thank-you card with an accidental oil stain.

This is normal. So normal.

You sit back, adjust your posture, and stare at the blank sheet of paper like it's a final exam.

Okay. Focus.

You pick up your pen—the red one, the one with your name engraved—and begin writing in the same formal structure you imagine he used. Except you’re chewing on the corner of your sleeve and second-guessing everything as you go.

“To Commander M. of Camp Carthage, Thank you for the clarification regarding the Estera grain supply reroute. We’ve updated our station records accordingly. I apologize for the error in tone regarding the eastern settlements—it was not my intention to frame the situation in a way that might discourage or alarm listeners stationed near the region. I appreciate the offer for regular briefings. If such transmissions can be arranged, it would greatly improve the accuracy of our broadcasts and help maintain the trust of our audience. Your feedback is valued. – [Your Full Name], Station Halcyon”

…Your feedback is valued? AAAAAA. You cross it out. It sounds like a customer service bot.

You try again.

“…Thank you for taking the time to write. I imagine your schedule is demanding. We’ll take care to reference verified materials moving forward.”

You tap the paper. Then rewrite that sentence because "I imagine your schedule is demanding" makes you sound like you’ve been thinking about his schedule which, you haven’t, obviously, what the fuck.

You cover your face.

This is deranged.

Why are you even blushing? It’s a letter. From a literal general. About literal war.

And yet—

You can see him. Stoic. Still. Gauntlets catching the light. Watching you like he did at the end of that interview, eyes not judgmental, just… unreadable.

You shake your head and close the letter.

That’s enough.

You’ll seal it, get it couriered, and not wait for a response.

You definitely won’t hover by the desk pretending to organize files just to hear if someone mentions incoming mail from Camp Carthage.

Definitely not.

The tent smells faintly of parchment, ash, and old tea. There's a brazier glowing behind you and the steady drip-drip of snow melting off the canvas above. Your breath fogs faintly in the cold.

You adjust your scarf, recorder already on, pen tucked behind your ear.

Iliyen’s at your side, halfway into the formal opening.

“We’ll be recording a brief segment for Station Halcyon, mostly regarding the western checkpoint—”

“Out,” Mydei says.

You and Illiyen both look up.

“...Sir?” illiyen blinks.

“I’ll handle this interview alone,” Mydei says again, tone even.

There’s a beat. You nearly drop your pen.

Illiyen blinks once, glances at you, then back at Mydei. “...Understood, General.” She doesn’t question it. She just pats your shoulder once and slips out of the tent, brushing past the flaps with a huff of cold air.

You are now alone with him.

You clear your throat. "U-Um. This will be brief," you manage, flicking your gaze to your clipboard. “Just a few notes on the recent patrol routes, and—”

“You speak well,” he says, cutting through your nerves with that low, gravel-soft voice.

You blink. “Sorry?”

He nods once. “Your phrasing. Clear. Intentional. Commanding, at times.”

You weren't expecting that.

“Oh. Thank you…?” you fumble.

Mydei leans back against a table, arms crossed. The light catches the gold edge of his pauldron. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“But,” he continues, “when you talk about troop losses… or damage…” He tilts his head slightly. “There’s weight in the facts, yes. But you allow it to linger.”

You freeze. “...Too much?”

“Not too much. Just enough to feel real.” He pauses. “But morale breaks in the quiet, not in the chaos. People are tired. Be mindful of how long you let silence stretch between your words.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Your heart’s hammering, and you’re not sure if it’s the cold or him. Probably both.

You nod slowly. “I’ll… work on that.”

A small grunt of approval. He pushes off the table and walks to the map on the tent wall. You take that moment to breathe.

He begins speaking, slow and measured. "Three nights ago, we intercepted communications from a collapsed enemy camp near the border. One of our moles confirmed what we feared—the bombing near Station Rozen was not meant for civilians. It was a test. Meant to measure response time.”

You scribble notes. He doesn’t pace, doesn’t fidget. He speaks like someone who has too many thoughts and not enough space in his body to store them.

You glance up. “And the camp here? Any word if you’re a potential target?”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Always.”

That hangs in the air longer than you want it to.

You shift in your seat. “I see.”

“Carthage is too valuable. We intercept most first-wave assaults. Which makes us both feared… and disposable.”

You frown. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

You don’t know what to say to that. But he continues before you can try.

“There’s also been movement along the frozen river. We’ve dispatched scouts. I’ll send you the official debriefing tonight.”

You nod quickly, pen scratching.

Then, silence again.

He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move.

Finally, he speaks again, voice quieter.

“You keep the red pen.”

Your breath catches.

You look up slowly. “How did you know it was mine?”

He looks down at you. "You said it out loud when you found it. Three times."

You flush. Of course you did. Fucking loudmouth.

“You could’ve left it at the officer's tent,” you say, trying to salvage your dignity.

“I could’ve,” he agrees, no hint of sarcasm.

You scribble the last note down. “...Thanks again.”

A long pause. He steps closer—not uncomfortably close, but enough for the brazier’s heat to catch his silhouette.

“You write your own reports?” he asks.

You nod. “Most of them.”

He watches you for a moment longer. “I read them. Often. Even before the camp visit.”

Your pen stills.

“Oh,” you say softly.

His eyes are unreadable. “They’re good.”

Then: “That’s all.”

You nod, throat dry.

You gather your notes quickly, double-check your recorder (still on, thank god), and make for the flap—

“Your cadence is improving,” he adds before you step out.

You look back, breath misting.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

You step outside, heart thundering.

Snow still falling.

And for some reason, you can’t feel the cold. Not yet.

The ride back to the station is quiet. Snow thuds softly against the windows of the old transport vehicle, and the heater hums in a broken, uneven rhythm. You’re wedged between your notes and your recorder, knees tucked under your coat, fingers still tight around your pen.

You press play.

"Your cadence is improving.”

You pause it. Rewind. Press play again.

"Your cadence is improving.”

𐙚 A/N: School rlly fucked me up and I had to keep revising- there's so many groupworks, I'm gonna have work immersion too... Please kill me :(( Just had exams today, really funny because it's just the second week of classes but o welp. I'm sorry if the fanfic was delayed for weeks, but I'm posting the second part tomorrow, I swear! :(

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[beepborpdoodledorp]

you know what would be fucked? If TADC ends with Pomni abstracting and that’s just…it. No status quo change, no salvation, Pomni dies and the Circus just continues on as normal.

Like, we like to think Pomni will bring some sort of change to the Circus because, y’know, she’s the main character and there has to be a reason we’re following her instead of any of the other poor bastards who ended up in the game. And whether Pomni brings about that change or not something is probably going to happen, considering Caine’s currently barreling in the direction of Completely Fucking Losing It which means God knows what for the Circus’s future.

But Pomni isn’t special, she’s just a random accountant, she’s surely going through the same motions that everyone else first did when they arrived, and while that very well could be the point - that ‘just another’ entrapped player is able to uproot the entire cycle through enough effort - it could just as easily take the more nihilistic route, that Pomni is just as doomed as the rest of them. Episodes 2-4 have had the overarching theme of finding hope in the worst possible scenario, and while the series has still been full of existential angst it’s not the total miserable despairfest Goose has hyped it up to be yet. If it was to take a more nihilistic turn starting in Episode 6 I wouldn’t be very surprised. And it keeps that way until the ending, I could see Pomni abstracting and…that’s just it. Her journey meant nothing. The whole time we were following just another crossed-out icon on a door. And the cycle’s just gonna repeat over and over again. Again, do I see this specifically happening? Probably not. If TADC was like, an indie game that released all at once I could see an ending like this, but after I multi-year long build-up I can imagine mobs would be showing up to Goose’s house if the ending was that unceremonious, no matter how interesting it would be. Whether she makes it out alive or not, I do think Pomni’s gonna have a longstanding impact on the Circus - for better or worse.

[dippindaz]

Can you please make a Dom!Smoke smut fic pls?

Absolutely!!!! Thanks for requesting for Smoke!! I had SO much fun writing this one, I added a little aftercare scene at the end cause you cannot convince me that Smoke wouldn't bean aftercare king 😤

MDNI

3.5k words

Warnings: Dom!Smoke, dom/sub dynamics, AFAB reader, praise, thigh riding, multiple orgasm, oral(f receiving), overstimulation, orgasm denial, belt restraint(wrists), thigh & ass spanking, begging, you address him as 'Sir' most of the time, fingering, dirty talk, I think that's it

You heard the front door before you saw him—no knock, no warning. Just the sharp sound of the deadbolt turning and then the heavy step of his boots across your entryway floor. Smoke never asked if he could come over. He simply arrived. Like a shift in weather. Unstoppable. Unspoken.

You glanced up from the couch, book forgotten in your lap. He was already in the doorway of your living room, black coat damp from the night air, leather gloves on his hands, eyes tracking every inch of you like he was deciding whether or not to speak.

“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if this was one of his silent moods or one of his watchful ones.

He didn’t answer right away—just stepped in, slow and precise, then let his jacket slide from his shoulders onto your armchair like he owned the room. Because in a way, he did. Smoke didn’t take space. He became it.

“Come here.”

Your body responded before your brain did. You rose from the couch, bare feet padding across the hardwood. You could feel how heavy his stare was on your thighs, your nightdress barely coming to the middle of them. A hum escaped his throat—low, satisfied, like he was cataloging you again, making sure nothing had changed since the last time.

When you reached him, Smoke cupped your chin, his fingers cold against your jaw.

“Was feelin’ you��d wait up.”

Your lips parted to answer, but he kissed you first. Not deep—controlled. Like a statement, not a question. His thumb stroked once over your bottom lip as he pulled back. His thumb lingered at your lip like he was waiting for you to speak—or maybe hoping you wouldn’t.

You didn’t. You didn’t need to.

He looked at you like he already had the answer. Like your silence told him more than your words ever could.

"Bedroom," he said quietly. "Now."

Your heart skipped a beat—not from surprise, but from how effortlessly the command settled into your bones. You nodded once, subtle, and turned without waiting for another word.

He didn't follow right away, but you could hear the thud of his boots hitting your floor. Only twice. You didn't look back though, just continued to the bedroom.

Then, you felt him behind you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to pull at the air around you—the weight of his presence brushing your skin like a shadow. Your nightdress fluttered at the backs of your thighs with every step, and you knew he was watching. Cataloging. Letting the anticipation bloom in your belly before he ever laid a hand on you.

By the time you reached the bedroom, the silence between you had thickened into something more intimate than words. You paused at the foot of the bed—waiting.

Smoke stepped in behind you, deliberate as ever. The soft sound of leather being pulled from his hands echoed louder than it should have. He tossed them onto the dresser without looking. Then, wordlessly, he sat on the edge of the bed beside you, spreading his legs just wide enough.

You felt the heat of his gaze pass over every inch of you. Without a word, he reached out. His hand brushed over your thigh and then he tapped twice.

“Up.”

You knew what he meant.

Your breath hitched as you swung one leg over, straddling his thigh, settling into the muscle beneath you. His hands didn’t guide you. They didn’t need to. You moved instinctively, slowly grinding down with a soft exhale, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders.

“There she is,” he murmured, one hand splayed low on your back, the other rising to curl around the back of your neck. “I come through that door an’ there you are, sittin’ all quiet like… You think I ain't know what you want?”

Your hips stuttered at the tone. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just cold truth, delivered like a gift.

“I—”

“You what?” His thumb tilted your chin upward. “You gonna sit there an’ pretend you don’t soak through the sheets when I don’t touch you right away? Like that little nightgown ain’t a damn invitation?”

You whined. His thigh tensed under you.

“Mhm. That’s what I thought.”

He let you grind. Let you build that slick pressure against him while his hands controlled just enough. He didn’t move his leg, didn’t push up, just let you work for it. Slow, maddening friction.

“Good girl,” he breathed, eyes half-lidded, lips barely parted. “Already makin' a mess.”

The words sank into you like heat, low and curling, coiling tight in your core. Smoke’s voice was low, reverent in a way that didn’t soften him, rather sharpened him. Like approval was another form of possession.

His hands briefly left their spots, toying with the hem of your nightdress before tugging it up. it the floor without a sound. Then, he gripped your hips.

You moaned softly—involuntarily. His thigh was so firm, so unforgiving, and you could feel every tremor of tension in it, every breath he held back just to watch. You moved a little faster, needing more, and one of his hands shifted lower. It settled right at the crook of your hip and thigh, pressing you down a harder.

"Greedy," he murmured, and you felt his mouth brush your temple. “Love how you try. All eager. All messy. Just look at you.”

Your nails dug slightly into his shoulders, not for control, but to ground yourself—because his words cut straight through you, sent sparks up your spine.

“I c-can’t—”

"Can’t?" His tone cooled immediately, sharp as glass. His hand stilled your hips mid-grind, just a small press to stop you in place. “You gon' come just like this, baby. Nice an’ slow. Just how I say," he paused. "You wanna give it to me, baby?”

You nodded too fast, too desperate. His brow twitched—barely approval, barely restraint.

“Words.”

"Yes—yes, Sir."

“That’s my girl.”

He let you move again. Barely. Just enough to find your rhythm again, to work against the ridged line of muscle beneath you as he stayed perfectly still—your body doing the work, his control framing the edges. The sound of you was getting louder now—breath hitching, your panties rubbing against his slacks, soft and needy moans. You knew he was listening. You knew he wanted to hear.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, hands tightening slightly around your hips. “Wanna hear just how bad you need it.”

You moaned, pitched and aching. You were so close. Every pass of your clit over his thigh shooting pleasure straight through your stomach, tight and overwhelming and helpless.

It hit like a wave—soaking through your panties and dampening your thighs. You cried out, hips stuttering uncontrollably as you clung to him, trembling, thighs tightening around his. He didn’t move. Just held you there, watched you come apart, the faintest smile pulling at the edge of his lips.

You slumped forward slightly, still gasping, body pressed against his. But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Smoke’s hands slid under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he stood, carrying you toward the center of the bed like you weighed nothing. He laid you down with calculated care—like he was already planning what came next.

Your legs were still trembling when he stood at the edge of the bed, peeling off his shirt with slow precision. His eyes never left yours.

“Y'think I’m done with you already?” he asked, voice low, steady.

“No,” you breathed. The corner of his lips tugged up as his fingers went to his belt.

You watched, breath hitching—not just from the anticipation, but from the way he looked at you while he did it. Calm. Focused. Not undressing. Preparing.

“Hands up,” he said softly as the belt slid free.

Instinctively, your arms lifted. He guided your wrists together above your head and secured the belt around them. Snug but not painful, pulling the leather tight with practiced precision. You exhaled quietly at the feel of it—the cool, worn leather against your skin, his fingers brushing your pulse.

You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have to. He liked you like this—open, restrained, at his mercy but trusting. And he’d earned that trust.

“Don’t move 'em,” he said, and kissed the inside of your wrist, right above the buckle. “You move 'em, I stop.”

The threat wasn’t cruel. It was worse. It was true.

You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes, sir.”

That earned you another small smirk—not playful, but approving.

Then he knelt on the bed again, between your legs. His palms smoothed up your thighs like he was memorizing them again for the hundredth time. His eyes were half-lidded, dark and heavy as they traced every inch of skin he touched. Reverent and possessive.

“Oughta make you ride it again,” he murmured, thumbs digging softly into the flesh at the top of your thighs. “Looked so damn pretty on my leg… ruined my slacks.”

You whimpered—not in protest, but in response. The way he talked about you... Like you were his craft. His vice. His home.

His hands slid upward, fingers spreading across the curve of your thighs, kneading them gently. Then firmer. You arched a little under the pressure, hips shifting. He smiled. Quiet. Knowing.

Slowly, he leaned down and kissed the inside of one thigh. Just above the knee. Then again, higher. And again. And again. His bread scratched against your skin and his breath fanned just under your cunt.

“You feel that heat, baby? All that for me?” he asked, dragging his nose up the inside of your thigh before biting at the meat of it. You gasped, thighs twitching around his head. He grinned against your skin, then his hand came down on your inner thigh. Not cruel, but deliberate. Enough to make you cry out and jolt.

“Stay open.”

You swallowed, legs trembling as you forced them wider again. You loved this—the feeling of being laid bare for him, vulnerable under his mouth, his hands. And he knew it. He loved that you obeyed even when you were shaking.

He kissed and licked the spot he slapped.

“Good girl.” He pulled back just enough to hook his fingers into the elastic of your panties and pull them off you.

He quietly groaned back in his throat at the sight of you before settling back down. His tongue slid through your folds like he was savoring a reward. Slow at first. Too slow. You let out a helpless moan, hips rising—but he pinned them down, strong hands anchoring you to the mattress.

You were gone the second his mouth latched on to your clit—not teasing now, not gentle. He ate like a man with purpose. Groaning into you, licking with hard, flat strokes that had you writhing within seconds.

One of his hands left your hips, and you only missed it for a second before smack—it came down on the outer side of your thigh. You cried out, half from shock, half from the rush that rolled straight through your cunt. Your wrists instinctively pulled against the belt, but you kept them above your head.

Your head fell back as you felt two fingers replace his tongue. He wasted no time sliding them inside you, curling them to hit that sweet spot. Then his mouth latched around your clit once more.

You were already close again. You didn’t know how. You didn’t care. His grip, his mouth, the ache still buzzing through your thighs—it was all too much, too good.

“Elijah—!”

The second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first. You bucked under him, sobbing his name, and your nails digging into your palms. He pulled out his fingers and held you still. His mouth never left you, licking you through the aftershocks like it was his right.

And when your hips finally sagged, spent and shaking, you thought maybe—maybe—that was it.

But then he looked up.

Eyes dark, chin wet, mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

He sat back between your legs, his fingers gliding along your inner thighs again—deceptively gentle. Like he was admiring the canvas before ruining it. His eyes flicked to your face, then down again, noting the way your chest heaved, your thighs glistening.

His fingers dipped between your folds, slow and purposeful, sliding through the mess he’d made of you. You whimpered, arching, and his palm came down—sharp and sudden—against your thigh again.

You gasped, hips jolting, the area throbbing. The contrast—the wet heat of his fingers and the sharp kiss of his hand—had your nerves on fire. Your hands flexed helplessly.

"Hold still."

You whined and nodded your head.

Smoke rewarded you with two fingers, pressing into your pussy with slow, unrelenting pressure. His knuckles pushed deep, curling expertly as your back arched and your legs quivered.

“So wet for me,” he breathed, voice dark with satisfaction. “You’d let me do anythin’, wouldn’t ya?”

“Y-yes,” you choked out. “Anything—”

Smack.

You cried out and ground helplessly into his hand. The slap landed where your thigh and hip met, right by your ass cheek.

“That’s what I thought.” His voice was like gravel now. Controlled, but dark. “You take what I give ya. Nothin’ more.”

His fingers fucked into you deeper, slow and steady, curling just enough to drag against that perfect spot inside you. Your thighs began to shake again, heat coiling hard in your belly. You tried to squeeze around him, to chase that edge—

But then he stopped.

You nearly sobbed, hips jerking forward in search of friction. “No—please—!”

Smoke clicked his tongue, withdrawing his fingers slowly, deliberately.

“Mmm. You was close again."

You nodded, breathless. “Please—just a little—”

Smack.

Your thigh jerked. Your hands lifted off the bed before falling right back down. It burned so good.

“Beg prettier.”

You swallowed. “Please, sir. Please touch me again, I’ll be good—I'll stay still, I just—I need—”

He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other slipping back between your legs with no warning. His fingers dragged through your folds again.

“I know you need it,” he whispered, lips ghosting yours. “That’s why I ain’t givin’ it to you yet.”

You groaned in frustration.

He kissed you then—deep and claiming, like he was sealing a promise against your mouth. His fingers slid back inside, slow and cruel, curling just enough to make you gasp but never fast enough to let you fall over the edge.

He built you up, again and again. Tightened the pressure. Spanked your thighs, your ass. Praised you for not pulling against the belt. Laughed quietly when you whined as his fingers pulled out of you.

But still… no release.

By the time he finally stopped, leaving you clenching around nothing, you were trembling, soaked, panting.

He looked down at your slick thighs, your tied wrists, your blown-out eyes.

Then he kissed your knee.

“Don’tchu worry, baby,” he murmured, unbuckling his belt from your wrists, “I’ll let ya come…”

Your wrists fell limp to the sheets as the belt slipped away, skin warm and tingling from where the leather had held you down. You barely had the strength to lift them, but you didn’t need to. Smoke had already moved.

He stood at the edge of the bed, pulling off the last of his clothes with the same measured control he used in everything. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just inevitable.

Your eyes locked on the thick line of his cock as he wrapped a hand around it. Slowly, almost lazily, he pumped it once, twice as he looked at you with dark amusement.

“Fucked out already, an’ I ain’t even been in you yet.” He murmured, stroking himself as he took you in.

You whimpered, thighs twitching where they lay open for him.

He climbed over you, crawling between your legs, hands bracing on either side of your body. His cock brushed your slick folds, dragging up and down with maddening pressure, but not yet pushing in.

“You want it?” he asked, voice quiet, deadly calm.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

He paused, lowering his head so his mouth hovered over yours. “You gon' take all of me, sweetheart? Even after what I just did t’you?”

“Yes—”

“You gon’ keep ‘em open f’me while I fuck you dumb?”

“Yes, sir.”

That earned a low sound from his throat, something between a growl and a hum. Then he sank into you.

Your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering back. He filled you completely, bottoming out with his hips flush against yours. He just held you there. Made you feel it.

“Takin’ me like you were fuckin’ made for it.” He muttered, one hand slippin’ under your thigh to hitch it higher on his waist.

Your nails scraped down his back, moaning as he began to move—slow at first, rolling his hips with devastating precision. Each thrust dragged along your walls, deep and deliberate, hitting all the right places and none of them by accident.

You clenched around him, already dizzy with the need to come, but you didn’t dare rush it.

Smoke wouldn’t let you.

“Easy,” he breathed, nipping your jaw as his pace increased just slightly. “You ain't comin' yet.”

���Please—”

“No.” His palm came down hard on your thigh again, right near the bruises he’d made earlier. You cried out, body jumping—and he fucked into you harder.

“Gotta earn it,” he growled, pulling back enough to look at you. “Take it. Be good.”

And you did. You let him use you. Let him fill you, fuck you, break you open with every thrust. His praise burned through your veins—rough, filthy, reverent:

“Look at you—drippin’ f’me.”

"Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you get close, baby.”

“Made f’this cock, huh? Knew you were.”

You nodded, moaned, begged—and he still held you back. Until finally, finally, he shifted his angle—hips grinding in deeper, one hand sliding down to press firmly against your clit.

You gasped, eyes wide, knowing you couldn’t take much more.

Smoke leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Now.”

There was only time for two more thrusts from him before the orgasm tore through you like a live wire—your whole body arched, convulsing under him, your fingers digging into his arms. You sobbed his name, legs trembling, walls clenching so tight he cursed under his breath.

But he didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, deeper, rougher, chasing his own high now.

And when he came, it was with a groan ripped straight from his chest. He buried himself to the hilt, filling you with heat, his grip iron-tight on your hips as he ground out the last few thrusts.

The room went quiet except for your shared breathing—ragged, heavy.

He collapsed beside you, your pulse still pounding in your ears. Every inch of you ached—your thighs, your wrists, your throat from crying out his name. You couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.

Smoke lay beside you, still catching his breath, one arm slung across your waist like a claim he had no intention of letting go.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you—not possessive now, not calculating. Just present. Watching the way your chest rose and fell, the dazed look in your eyes, the flush still blooming on your skin.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He pushed himself up slowly and reached down, sliding a hand along your thigh to check where the welts were forming from the slaps. His touch was gentler now, fingertips dragging slow across your skin like he was memorizing each bruise. You whimpered softly at the contact, not from pain—from how careful he was.

“Y'alright?” he asked, voice low and gravel-warm.

You nodded, too floaty to answer right away. He hummed—deep and satisfied—and leaned in to kiss your temple. Then he moved down down to kiss your thigh, right where his handprint was darkening beneath the skin. Then again. And again. Reverent. Worshipful in a way that made your throat close a little.

Smoke wasn’t the kind of man to say thank you. But this? This was his thank you.

“Lemme take care o’ you.” He murmured, sliding off the bed and heading to the bathroom. You heard the water run, the sound of him moving around.

When he returned, he brought a warm, damp cloth and a bottle of water. You let him ease your legs apart again, and he cleaned you carefully—no teasing now, no sharp edge. Just quiet, intimate care. His touch still firm, but with no agenda behind it. Just… you. Just the after.

He pressed the bottle of water into your hands when he was done and then lay down beside you again. His arm came around your waist, dragging you gently to his chest.

“You did real good tonight,” he said against your hair.

You melted into him, legs tangled with his, letting the rhythm of his breathing ground you.

“You feel alright, baby?” He added, quieter now.

“Mhm. Perfect,” you said. “You always take care of me.”

You felt his hand tighten just slightly against your hip at that. And then, softer:

“Damn right I do.”

[astarioffsimpmain]

My love 😭🫂 I'm honored to be on your list. 🥹 As I'm sure you know already, you're on mine too!

Thank you, @senualothbrok , for the fic that spoke my heart more than anything else I've ever read: "The Difference" It inspired me to write my own story in a way I didn't think possible until I'd seen it done by you, and thank you for then becoming one of my best friends in the world; always supportive, always kind, always lovely in more ways than you may ever know. You're my sister now, whether you like it or not. 😆💕

I'm thanking @optimisticgrey for her series "All We Have is Each Other" for helping sate my ever fervent desire for isekai and reverse isekai fics, and her other series, "A Song of Love and Loss", for giving me a poly-trio that I never knew I needed in Celeste, Gale, and Halsin. Thank you also for making me laugh when I'd rather cry. ❤️

I'd also like to thank @fanon-and-canon for her fic "For You, My Heart", which is a Halsin/Tav period comfort fic. You and I have talked plenty about our painful periods, and I've reread this fic several times when I'm having a really rough one. Thank you also for your unwavering support and understanding while I'm going through all of my medical bullshit. 🫂

Lastly, I want to thank @brabblesban for her fic "Whither is Thy Beloved Gone?" for giving me the opportunity to widen my scope and understanding of Ascended Astarion, and the difficult, but necessary, journey he could take after becoming the vampire ascendant. I never would have given him a chance without you. And thank you for being my longest friend in this fandom. It was by your encouragement that I continued to write and try to find my place here. 🥹

~

This list will get longer as I continue to read/catch up on fics and series. I'm having a rough go of it, so it may be a while. But I did want to finally finish this post. Love you all ❤️

my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day

[jetii]

Man or Commander

Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader

Words: 17,082

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, it's like 50/50 pwp, protective!Wolffe, smut, oral (f recieving), fingering, unprotected sex, pinv, dirty talk, so much of that, praise kink in a big way, size kink, veryyy soft dom!Wolffe, Wolffe is a cuddly drunk

Summary: After your first date in months with Wolffe is ruined, you want to make the most of your night together. All Wolffe wants is you.

A/N: This was born from @cyaretra and I discussing Wolffe's guilty pleasures of red wine, trash reality tv, and fast food. RIP Wolffe you would love space in-n-out.

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“How much further?”

You and Wolffe share a look over your shoulder as he hoists Boost further in his arms, Sinker dangling from yours like a wet bag of laundry. Comet trudges behind, looking for all the galaxy like he just got kicked in the face.

He had, by Wolffe's own account.

“If you don’t stop whining, I’ll leave you all here in the street,” Wolffe grumbles back, and you can tell he’s only half-joking.

Boost and Sinker, to their credit, shut up.

Comet, who has always been the most perceptive of the bunch, says nothing and tries his hardest to keep pace, limping on what you guess is a sprained ankle. The rest of him looks like a bruise, with various shades of reds, purples, and blues covering most of his exposed skin. He had been the first of them to get tossed around in the scuffle, the others jumping into the fray a little too late for him to not take the worst beating.

You try not to think about what might have happened if they hadn't intervened.

The streets of Coruscant are never truly empty, not even during the day, but they are at least quieter in the early morning hours. Which means that when a small squadron of clones, one of whom is being carried, appears from around the corner, people notice.

People stare.

You feel a wave of secondhand embarrassment for the four of them. You can practically hear Wolffe's internal cursing, and he makes sure you know he isn’t happy by the way he grabs your arm and pulls you close to him.

The four of you are going to look quite the sight once you reach the barracks.

Not a bad sight, mind, just a bit... rough.

Wolffe and you share the burden of Boost and Sinker, but it’s mostly him carrying both. You simply hang on, your free hand grasping one of theirs so they don't fall from their commander's arms.

Comet is still trailing behind, and Wolffe shoots him glances, trying to gauge whether or not he is going to pass out before you make it back. He doesn't say anything, though, and neither do you. Comet must take as some sort of dismissal, because he starts trying to make conversation.

"You know, sir, you should really get us some medals for this," he starts, and Wolffe looks up to the sky, asking some unseen deity why it hates him so.

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, but a giggle still escapes, and it makes Wolffe glance at you. You offer him a small smile, and his lips twitch slightly in return.

Comet keeps talking. "It was a hard-won battle, sir. We had them outnumbered. I bet there were twenty of 'em, at least."

"There were six," you say, turning back to him, and he shrugs, which you guess is as good a response as any.

"They were pretty big, though. They were probably part-Wookiee. Did you see the size of them? Huge."

You look at Wolffe again, who looks ready to drop Boost and Sinker in order to throttle his soldier. You can't help the laughter that bubbles out of your mouth.

Comet looks pleased with himself, and you think the pain of the fight is starting to make him delirious.

Wolffe glares at the two of you. "I hate both of you."

”Me?” you ask. "I didn't do anything!"

He doesn't answer, which is his usual response when you’re right.

You turn and continue making your way down the street. The neon signs and blinking lights of the seedy district fade into the darkness of the night as you walk, the sound of music and raucous laughter fading with them. The city is still busy, but it’s a different crowd, and they seem to be a bit more interested in getting home than making their way to the next club.

Not that there are many places open at this hour. It is, after all, one in the morning.

You and Wolffe share a sigh as another person pushes past, nearly knocking you over.

You've had about enough of this city. You were ready to go home the moment the sun went down, and now, it‘s all you can think about. You barely had time to look at your bed when you dropped off your bag this afternoon, and you want nothing more than to curl up in it, Wolffe at your side, and sleep for about a week.

That was the original plan, after all.

It's been months since you've had a day together, and you have been looking forward to it. A few drinks. A nice dinner. A walk through the city. An evening spent catching up on all the episodes of that awful holo-series the two of you have gotten hooked on. And then, you and Wolffe could crawl into bed and stay there for as long as possible.

It's what the two of you have been planning for weeks, and now, thanks to your over-zealous, over-protective, and frankly, ridiculous boyfriend and his brothers, you'll be lucky if you make it home before sunrise.

You can't bring yourself to be mad at them though. If they hadn't stepped in when they did, you and Wolffe would be the ones needing to be carried.

They saved the day, and you can't be mad at them for it.

But you are going to complain.

A lot.

"Why is there a fight every time we come here?" you ask. "Every time. We can't even get through one night without someone saying or doing something that causes a riot."

"Because Boost can't keep his mouth shut," Wolffe grunts, and the clone in his arms groans, which you think is an attempt to defend himself.

"You've got to stop picking fights with the locals," you add, turning to Comet, who’s looking worse and worse the closer you get to the barracks. "And I swear, if one more person calls me a 'trooper's whore'..."

"I will rip their spine out," Wolffe growls, and you and the others stare at him. He's a little bloodthirsty tonight, and you have a feeling it has to do with the way he'd been pulled from your embrace in order to break up the fight.

"That's a little graphic, don't you think?" you say, and he glares.

"They deserved it."

"Of course they did, honey," you placate, knowing it's easier to agree than to argue. He knows you're humoring him, but he lets it go.

A few more blocks, and the lights of the barracks come into view. There’s a single floodlight above the entrance, a few windows on the first floor still lit, but the compound itself is quiet. You’re the only ones walking the streets, and as you make your way through the gate, the silence settles around you. It’s a welcome change.

You step into the building and walk to the lifts. Wolffe presses the call button, and the doors to one open with a soft ding. You all shuffle in, and as soon as the doors are closed, you let out a collective groan.

Sinker snorts and lifts his head, his face contorted in pain. There’s a cut on his forehead, and a black eye mars the left side of his face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Wolffe shifts, trying to keep his hold on Boost while also giving Sinker a little shake.

That seems to do the trick. Sinker clears his throat and speaks, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, Commander. I really didn't mean to cause any trouble."

Wolffe shakes his head.

"You didn't. Those shabuir did,” he says. Boost grumbles, and Wolffe jostles him a little harder than Sinker. "Shut it. You're lucky I didn’t let Fox throw your shebs in the drunk tank. And I'm only not doing it because she," he nods to you, "won't let me."

Boost grumbles again.

"What was that?"

"Thank you, Commander," Boost mumbles, and Wolffe sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.

"I'm not mad," he continues, and you and Comet share a look, knowing what’s coming next, "but I am disappointed."

There's a chorus of groans and winces, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing.

The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open. You and Wolffe shuffle out, the boys in tow, and turn towards the infirmary. The halls are still and empty save for a few droids who patrol the floors, and your footsteps echo in the silence.

You pass the first ward, then the second, until finally, you arrive at the third. You enter, and the lights flicker on as you move into the main room, heading for your equipment.

"Let's get the droid. I'll take Comet," you say, nodding at Wolffe, and the two of you deposit your passengers on the nearest cots. The medic droid, sitting idle since you left, stands up and powers on, the little light on its head flashing red.

"How may I help?"

"Run a diagnostic on Boost, would you?” you ask as you thumb through bacta patches. “I'm pretty sure he has a concussion."

"Yes, Doctor."

You come to stand beside Wolffe as the droid scans Sinker, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You lean in and rest your head on his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry our evening was ruined," he says softly.

You hum and smile. "It wasn't a complete disaster."

"We didn't get to eat. Or talk. Or..."

You lift your head, and place a finger against his lips, shushing him. "No, we didn't. But we got a few things instead. For one, you got to prove to everyone that you can still take on three men twice your size."

"They were drunk," he points out, and you roll your eyes.

"And we got to spend some time together."

"Barely. Then they got jumped,” he says, motioning to the men, who are now all staring at the two of you. You give them a pointed look, and they avert their gazes, but not before muttering a few apologies.

"We also have the rest of the day, and tomorrow,” you add, raising your eyebrows suggestively, “to do whatever we want. With no interruptions."

"Is that a promise?" he asks, his lips pulling up into a smirk. He leans over you, his mouth inches from yours, and your breath catches.

"Absolutely."

"Oh, gross," Boost groans, and Wolffe pulls away from you, his glare returning.

"If the next words out of your mouth aren't a 'thank you' or an 'I'm sorry,' I'm going to make you wish you'd never been decanted."

"Thank you," Boost mumbles, and the other two chime in. Then, the droid speaks.

"Doctor, I have completed my diagnosis," it says, and you and Wolffe move towards Boost. "Trooper Boost has sustained several contusions and minor abrasions, including a sprained wrist, and a laceration requiring five stitches. He will also need an anti-inflammatory and analgesic."

"Shab," Boost lets his head fall back and groans, and Sinker rolls his eyes.

"I told you. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say that would happen?"

"Yes, Sinker, we get it," Comet interjects.

"Did I not?"

"Yes, Sinker. You did."

You tune out the bickering as you move to help the droid with Boost and Sinker, then move on to Comet. By the time you’re finished, his ankle is wrapped and the bruises and scrapes have been covered. He still looks like he got hit by a speeder, but at least he isn’t bleeding.

The droid makes a note of the injuries and gives you the report, which you quickly read over before setting it aside.

"Alright. All three of you," you start, pointing a finger at each of them, "will stay here for the night. No strenuous activity, no training, no lifting or pushing for a minimum of one week."

There’s a round of protests, but you hold up your hand, cutting them off. "No. You all will do as I say, or you will spend the rest of the war in the infirmary scrubbing bedpans. Are we clear?"

"Yes, doc," they all grumble, and you smile, satisfied.

"Good. Now, try and get some sleep. If you need anything, just ask the droid. Don’t call me.”

Wolffe, who’s been standing silently behind you, steps up and crosses his arms. "Do what she says. I'll be back in the afternoon, and if I find out any of you left this room..."

He lets his words hang, and the three clones nod vigorously, promising to stay put.

"Good."

"Thank you for defending my honor. But next time, please try not to get yourself beaten up in the process,” you say, squeezing Comet’s arm.

He nods and smiles, his grin crooked thanks to the split lip. "You got it, doc."

You pull away and reach for the datapad, signing off on the treatment plan before handing the pad back to the droid.

"Notify me if any of their conditions worsen," you say, and the droid's head flaps in understanding.

"Of course, Doctor."

Wolffe steps up and places a hand at the small of your back, giving his men a parting nod.

"Behave yourselves," he warns.

You step away, and the three clones give their goodbyes, calling their apologies and promises of good behavior as you and Wolffe leave the infirmary. The door hisses shut behind you, and you turn, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Wolffe back to the lifts.

The corridors are still and quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional beep from a passing droid. The lights are dim, the shadows stretching long across the durasteel floor, and you can feel the fatigue of the night begin to creep in. Your body is tired and aching from the adrenaline crash, but the thought of getting to curl up in your bed with Wolffe is enough to keep you moving.

You stop at the lift, and the doors slide open, the both of you stepping inside. As the doors close and the lift begins its descent, Wolffe turns and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace. You sigh and tuck yourself against his side, his warmth seeping through the fabric of his off-duty uniform.

"They shouldn’t have done that," he says, his voice low.

"They did it because they care," you answer, running your hand over his back.

"They're idiots."

"They're sweet," you correct. "I know they got a little carried away, but I think they're going to have plenty of time to reflect on that."

"You're too nice,” Wolffe replies as he leans down and nuzzles your temple.

"And you're too protective," you point out, smiling.

"You're worth protecting."

He presses his lips to your hair, and you close your eyes, savoring the rare display of affection. He’s not as sober as he appears, you realize, the faintest trace of alcohol still on his breath. He’s always more hands-on when he drinks.

Not that you mind.

You turn and kiss his cheek.

"And you're just mad because your brothers stole your thunder," you tease, giving him a grin.

"Damn straight," he says, leaning down to nip at your earlobe, and he smirks as you let out a squeak.

You slap his chest and turn to face him, his smirk widening at the flush on your cheeks. The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open, but neither of you make any move to exit. The idea of making the long journey back to your apartment is as unappealing as sneaking out of Wolffe’s quarters at the crack of dawn, and you can’t bring yourself to tear away from his embrace.

He tilts his head and nips at your jaw, his lips dragging along your skin. You sigh and run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp, and he lets out a pleased groan, his mouth traveling up to press a soft kiss against your cheek.

"You're staying," he says, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your ear, and you shiver.

It's not a question, but you pretend to think it over anyway, humming softly as you continue to play with his hair. Wolffe’s eyes narrow at your act, and his foot moves to stop the door from closing on his floor, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're staying," he repeats, his voice taking on a commanding edge.

You give him a sly smile and shake your head.

“I need to eat and shower, and I’m not using GAR-issued soap,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “My body is not a weapon, and I refuse to treat it like one."

Wolffe huffs and removes his foot from the door, letting it slide shut. He punches the button for the ground floor with more force than necessary, and the lift jolts, slowly continuing its descent.

“I suppose that means we’re going back to your place then," he says, his tone dripping with resignation.

"Unless you have a private collection of luxury soaps I don’t know about, then yes. I'm sorry to say we are," you answer, grinning, and you slip out of his embrace as the lift comes to a stop.

You step into the hall and turn, watching as Wolffe slowly follows, a pout firmly on his face.

"You know, a good boyfriend would keep an extra bottle of shampoo for his girlfriend in his shower,” you tease as he comes to stand beside you.

"If she's such a high maintenance woman, maybe she shouldn't be dating a soldier," he retorts, giving you a pointed look.

“Oh, well if that's how you feel..."

You trail off and start walking towards the exit, but Wolffe catches your hand and pulls you back, tugging you into his arms. You collide with his chest, letting out a soft 'oof' before looking up and meeting his gaze.

His eyes are soft, and the hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips.

"Come on, cyare, we both know I'm the only man for the job," he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against your temple.

You laugh softly and wrap your arms around his waist, holding him tight.

"Yeah, you're definitely the only one who can handle me," you say, and Wolffe’s eyes turn dark.

"Mmm, that I am," he rumbles, and he nuzzles your neck, his stubble scratching your skin.

You shiver, and Wolffe pulls back, looking down at you. He brushes a few stray hairs from your face and tilts your chin up, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. It's brief, barely a whisper, but it still makes you smile.

"Let's go home. We can finish our conversation there."

He drops his hand from your face, and you turn, looping your arm through his as the two of you begin to walk. It doesn't take long to reach the lot where your speeder is parked. The streets are empty, and the air is cool and fresh, the sky dark and dotted with stars. It's a pleasant night, and if it weren't for the events that transpired over the last few hours, you'd say it was perfect.

You shoot Wolffe a grin and hop into the driver’s seat, revving the engine. Wolffe rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays on his lips as he gets in and straps himself in, his hand coming to rest on your knee. He squeezes once, nodding, and you take off, heading home.

It's quiet as you fly over the city, the buildings nothing but blurs of color below you. You're not in any rush, and you fly leisurely, taking your time as you navigate the city streets. Wolffe's thumb moves in a gentle circle over your knee, his eyes fixed on the view outside the window.

You can't help but glance over at him every so often. It’s rare to see him like this, relaxed and unguarded. His head rests against the back of the seat, and he watches the city move by, the neon lights dancing across his features.

You know how much this break has meant to him. How hard it’s been, waiting for a day, an hour, even a minute where the two of you could be alone together. He's done well to hide it, but now, without the threat of prying eyes, his mask falls. He looks tired, and sad, and there's an edge of relief to his features, his eyes softening the closer you get to your apartment. You wonder how much sleep he's actually gotten over the last few months.

Not much, by the look of him.

The man doesn't know when to stop. Or when to say no.

It's part of the reason you fell for him. He's always trying to protect his men, his friends, his family. He puts others before himself, and you love him for it. You'd never ask him to change, but you do wish he'd take a little more time for himself.

Wolffe's eyes drift over, and they catch yours.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, his brows drawn together.

You shake your head and look away, back out the windshield.

"Nothing,” you reply. “Just wondering when the last time was that you slept."

He snorts and looks back out the window.

"That's an easy one. I can't remember,” he answers, and you frown.

"That's exactly what I was afraid of."

He chuckles as he turns his attention back outside, and you let out a sigh, shaking your head. He's impossible.

"Well, then I'm making sure you sleep tonight," you state with finality, a plan beginning to form in your mind.

Wolffe raises his brow and glances over.

"Oh, are you now?"

You nod, your gaze fixed on the street in front of you. The turn to your apartment complex is coming up, but instead of turning left, you fly straight past it. Wolffe’s thumb stops moving on your knee, and you bite back a smile as you continue on, heading towards the city center. He doesn’t say anything, but he sits up straighter, his gaze narrowing as he watches the cityscape pass.

"Yes. It's the doctor's orders," you say, giving him a sidelong glance.

Wolffe lets out a hum and sits back, his thumb starting its gentle movements again.

"Alright, then," he concedes. "Where are we going?"

"To get some food. I'm starving, and I can't sleep on an empty stomach," you reply, and Wolffe grunts.

"So we're stopping for a snack? We have food at home," he points out, and you shake your head.

"No, we're going to the best restaurant in the city."

"What restaurant is open at two in the morning?"

You look over, grinning, and Wolffe gives you a flat stare.

"Wolffe, my love, it's Coruscant. There's always something open."

Wolffe doesn't respond, but he does squeeze your knee, his thumb resuming its movement, and a shiver runs through you. He knows just how to work you, and even though the two of you are dead tired and the adrenaline has faded, it doesn't mean he isn't going to try and get his way.

But you have your ways, too.

You reach over and place a hand on top of his. He laces his fingers with yours and brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Wolffe," you warn, but it's a weak attempt.

"Cyare," he answers, a knowing smirk on his lips. It’s barely there, a twitch of his mouth and a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, but it's there, and you know it's not going anywhere anytime soon. Not when the two of you finally have the chance to spend the night alone together and not under the watchful eye of his men. Or worse, Master Plo.

"Sorry, Commander,” you tease, your eyes flicking over to meet his. He raises a brow, and you grin. "Food first. Then we can talk."

"You drive a hard bargain, Doctor," he replies, but he doesn't sound bothered in the least.

"That's why you love me."

"Hmm, that's not the only reason," he murmurs. You give his hand a squeeze, and he brings it to his mouth again, placing a kiss against the inside of your wrist.

"I'm sure there are many. You'll have to tell me later," you say, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"Count on it."

You turn another corner and drift down into a district lit with neon signs and glowing advertisements. It's busier here than the other places you've passed through tonight, and the sidewalks are filled with people. You’re forced to stop the speeder as a large group crosses the street, their laughter and loud conversations reaching you in the safety of the vehicle, and the two of you watch, waiting for them to pass.

“What are you planning?” Wolffe asks as he makes eye contact with two men who step too close to the speeder. They catch sight of him and immediately stop, backing away. He smirks.

"To surprise you," you answer, and he huffs.

"I don't like surprises," he replies, his eyes drifting over the crowd.

"Yes, you do," you say with a disbelieving laugh. You can name a few surprises he’s enjoyed in the time you’ve known him, and not all of them were of the sexual variety. Just most. "You just hate the idea that there might be a variable outside your control."

"I've got enough of those to deal with already," he grumbles, and you squeeze his hand.

"You're off duty. Just enjoy the evening."

He huffs, but you can see the corner of his mouth pull up, the dimple on his cheek becoming more pronounced.

"I'll admit, I've enjoyed some of the surprises you've come up with,” he says, giving you a sidelong glance.

A blush spreads over your cheeks, and Wolffe lets out a low chuckle. You shake your head and try to hide your smile.

"You're terrible," you murmur as you shift the speeder into gear.

"Maybe, but at least I'm honest," he replies, giving your thigh a squeeze.

"That's something I can't argue with."

The crowd clears, and you take off, zipping between the other speeders on the road. You turn and head towards the parking area, and the moment the speeder is secured, Wolffe is out of the vehicle and around to your side, opening the door and helping you out.

“What a gentleman," you tease, and Wolffe huffs, shutting the door and pulling you close.

"Don't go telling anyone. I have a reputation to uphold," he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth.

"I wouldn't dream of it," you whisper, tilting your head and catching his lips in a gentle kiss. He lets out a soft groan and his arms tighten, pulling you closer, his mouth opening slightly, his tongue darting out to swipe against your lower lip. You pull away, and Wolffe chases your lips, capturing them in a soft, brief kiss.

You chuckle and rest your hands against his chest, pushing him away. He goes with a slight stumble, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs rubbing in gentle circles.

"Come on. I'm hungry, and you're drunk."

"Am not," he mutters, but the way his eyes flick back down to your lips says otherwise.

"Oh, you're not, huh? That's not why you're so affectionate right now?"

"No,” he grumbles, his lips pulled down into a pout. You snort a laugh, and he rolls his eyes, his expression relaxing. He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. "All right, fine, maybe I'm a little drunk. But not so drunk that I can't keep up with you."

"We'll see about that," you say, pulling back. You let your hands linger for a moment before taking a step back and turning, making your way towards the restaurant.

The door chimes as the two of you step inside, and you’re immediately faced with a line of patrons snaking up to the counter and staff bustling back and forth. Wolffe makes a face as he scans the room.

"What is this place?” he asks, and you can hear the slight judgment in his tone.

“This is a restaurant, Wolffe," you reply, trying to hold back a grin. "I figured the best way to cure a hangover is with some greasy food. And you’ve never had a burger, so I figured we could fix that tonight."

"A what?"

You roll your eyes and take his hand, tugging him into the line. He lets you drag him along, and as soon as you find a spot, you turn and explain. Your hands run over his chest, and his come up, his fingers curling around your wrists, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside.

“It’s like a nerf steak, but better. It's a mix of ground meats, and there's this bread called a bun, and you put all these other toppings and stuff on it,” you say as you bounce up on your toes, bringing your face close to his. “It's good, trust me. You'll love it."

"So you're telling me this thing," he starts, gesturing with his head towards the board where all the food options are listed, "has all the same nutrients as a nerf steak, but the texture is completely different, and the flavor is...better?"

“Pretty much," you answer, giving him a wide grin.

Wolffe doesn't look convinced, eyeing the board with barely veiled skepticism. A laugh escapes you, and his gaze snaps down to you, his eyes narrowing.

"What?"

"Nothing, you just look so confused right now. I've never seen that look on your face before," you reply, grinning.

"I don't think I've ever been this confused in my life," he states, turning his attention back to the menu. His brow furrows. "What the kriff is a 'tater tot'?"

A loud laugh escapes you, and the sound draws a few eyes. You cover your mouth, trying to quiet yourself, and Wolffe shoots you a glare, his cheeks turning pink.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, but it's just so funny seeing you like this," you explain, and his face softens. He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.

"Well, I'm glad one of us is enjoying themselves."

"Oh, come on, you're having fun,” you murmur, poking him in the ribs. He jerks, and his glare returns, but his arm doesn't move. You laugh and wrap an arm around his middle, patting his stomach. "Don't worry. I'm going to order for us, and you're going to eat what I get. And then we're going to go back to my place, and I'm going to tuck you in."

Wolffe snorts, but the smile on his lips and the way he relaxes in your arms says it all.

"Oh, is that all?" he hums, and you can feel his hand sliding up and down your back.

"Mhm," you tease, running your hand up his chest, your fingers playing with the buttons on his fatigues. "That's it."

"Just tucking me in, huh?"

"Yup. Nothing else," you say, giving him a smile that is anything but innocent.

Wolffe's eyes narrow, and his fingers tighten against your hip, the pressure firm and steady. He's considering his next move, and judging by the look on his face, he's already made up his mind.

You take a step back and reach up, adjusting his collar, smoothing it out. You take your time, letting your hands run over his shoulders and chest, feeling the planes of his muscles. He holds still, watching you with dark eyes. You lean in, and he holds his breath, waiting for your next move.

You pat his shoulder, giving him a small smile.

"Well, maybe if you’re really good, I'll read to you," you tease, giving him a wink before turning to look at the menu, standing on your toes to see over the crowd.

Wolffe huffs behind you, and his hand comes up, wrapping around your waist.

"You're mean," he whispers in your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

"Mean? How so?"

"You're being mean to the man who just got out of a drunken brawl in your honor," he murmurs, and his hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into your flesh.

"Well, when you put it like that," you begin, turning and looking up at him. You tilt your head and give him a sweet smile. "Would the man who got into a drunken brawl in my honor care for a milkshake?"

Wolffe looks down at you and sighs, shaking his head. His lips turn up in the corner.

"I suppose he wouldn't be opposed to the idea."

"Good, because I'm getting you a jorganfruit one," you answer as you fall back on the soles of your feet.

"Is it good?"

"So good," you say, nodding enthusiastically. His mouth twitches into a smile, and his arm slides up, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close.

"Then I guess I can't say no," he replies, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You sigh and lean into him, his warmth surrounding you. Your head falls against his shoulder, and his arm tightens around your waist, holding you close.

It's the first time in weeks the two of you have been able to just exist, and you take a moment to relish the feeling of his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath on your hair. You can feel the eyes of the patrons on you, a few even openly staring, watching as if they're trying to solve some great mystery. It's not often they see a clone officer around here, especially one as decorated as Wolffe.

You're sure it's not every day they see one with his arms wrapped around a woman, holding her close, his eyes filled with nothing but warmth, either.

You can't blame them. The two of you are quite a sight, and while you know Wolffe's presence tends to make people nervous, you hope they can see him the way you do.

Strong, but soft.

Fierce, but tender.

Warm, and protective.

You tilt your head and look up, finding his eyes fixed on the crowd. He's scanning the room, his gaze roaming over the patrons, assessing the threats. It's a force of habit, and one that you're sure he'll never shake, no matter how many times you remind him that he's allowed to relax. Not that you can blame him. Tonight was a perfect example of the dangers of the world, and while you are grateful for the protectiveness he and his brothers show, you hope he knows that he can be vulnerable, too.

You reach up and place your hand against his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back down to you. You offer a soft smile, and you watch as the furrow in his brow fades, his features relaxing as his attention settles on you.

The line moves, and before long, you’re placing your order. Wolffe stands behind your shoulder, watching the man behind the counter as he takes your order with an unflinching intensity that you've grown accustomed to over the last year. He doesn't move, and he doesn't blink, not until the man hands you a cup and the receipt.

"Enjoy your food," the man says, shooting Wolffe a wary look.

Wolffe nods, but his eyes stay fixed on the man, watching as he turns and moves into the kitchen.

"Wolffe," you whisper, elbowing him.

He huffs, and a hand moves to rub at his side.

"What?"

"You were being rude."

"Was not," he mutters, his brows drawing together.

You raise an eyebrow, and his frown deepens.

"Fine, maybe I was," he says, turning his attention to the packed seating area. He scans the room again, his eyes moving from table to table, studying the occupants. They're mostly couples, a few groups of friends, but the place is busy, and Wolffe's unease seems to grow.

"See anything interesting?" you ask, bumping him with your hip.

"No," he replies as his eyes come back to rest on you. He leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. "Just making sure no one gets any ideas."

You laugh and shake your head.

"No one is going to bother me, Wolffe."

"After the day we’ve had, I'm not taking any chances,” he grumbles, and you turn, stepping closer and looping your arms around his waist. He doesn't hesitate to pull you into his embrace, and the two of you stand there, watching as the food is prepared and the people come and go.

When your number is finally called, Wolffe's arm stays locked around your waist, his grip tight and sure as he guides the two of you towards the exit.

The walk back to the speeder is uneventful, but the air is cool, and the sky is clear, the stars shining bright overhead. You lean into his side, and he turns, pressing his lips to your hair, holding you close as the two of you walk back.

The streets are still busy, and the sidewalks are lined with people, the sounds of conversation and laughter floating around you. You can see the neon signs of the restaurants and bars that line the streets, the bright colors and flashing lights a sharp contrast to the calm night.

The two of you come to a stop outside the speeder, and Wolffe moves to open the door for you, but you skirt around him, snatching the bag of food from his hand. You hop onto the hood of the speeder and turn, grinning as he glares at you.

"Really?"

"I'm hungry," you say, shrugging and opening the bag.

He huffs, his lips pulling into a frown.

"And you expect me to sit here and eat on top of the speeder?"

"I don’t expect you to do anything. I'm going to sit here and eat my food," you state, and you take a bite of a fry, making a show of letting out a pleased moan.

Wolffe watches, and the longer he does, the more you can see the cracks forming. He glances around the parking lot, his gaze shifting from one car to another, his eyes flicking over every darkened corner and shadow. When he's satisfied no one is watching, he walks over, his steps heavy. He steps between your legs until his thighs are pressed against the hood, and he leans forward, his hands coming to rest on either side of your hips.

You swallow and look up at him, and he raises a brow. His face is impassive, but his eyes are alight with humor. You take another bite and grin, and his expression softens, the corner of his mouth turning up in the barest hint of a smile.

"Well, are you going to share, or not?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Hmm, I suppose I could," you begin, and you reach into the bag and pull out a fry, bringing it up to his lips. "Open."

Wolffe hesitates for a moment before leaning in, his mouth parting. You push the fry in, and his lips close, his teeth sinking into the potato. You try not to stare as he chews, his mouth moving slowly. He's not trying to be sexy, but the way his jaw moves, the way his lips press together, has you entranced, and a shiver runs through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

He swallows, and his tongue darts out, licking his lips.

"Good?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Decent," he answers, his gaze fixed on your lips.

"Just decent?"

"Mhm. I could do without the grease."

"That's half the point,” you say, laughing softly.

“You’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be telling me not to eat garbage food like this?"

"No. I'm the Chief Medical Officer, not your mother. You can eat what you want," you retort, and you pull out a burger. You carefully unwrap it and offer it to Wolffe. "Eat this."

Wolffe stares at the burger in your hand, his expression flat.

"Why are you looking at it like it's poisoned?"

"Because it might be."

"Oh Force," you mutter, and you pick up a fry and shove it into his mouth. "Eat. Both. Or so help me, I will drag your sorry ass back to the infirmary and have the droids hook you up to a nutrient drip."

He gives you a look, but he takes the burger from your hand and bites down, chewing slowly. His expression softens, his eyes widening, and his eyebrows lift as he takes another bite.

"You're right," he says, swallowing. "It's good."

"I told you. I always know best."

"You're impossible," he mutters around his food.

"And yet you're still here."

"Where else would I be?" he asks, giving you a sidelong glance.

You can see the affection in his eye, the way his cheeks turn pink, and the smile that threatens to break out. He tries to hide it, but his walls have always been easy for you to see through, and you know him better than anyone.

"Oh, I don't know, off chasing after a new woman," you tease, and his expression turns sour.

"Don't be stupid," he grumbles, taking another bite.

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Because I have a beautiful, intelligent, infuriating woman who loves me right in front of me. And I love her," he states, the last words coming out a little softer than the others.

You blink, and he blushes, turning away.

"So that's why I'm here," he finishes. He reaches for another fry, popping it into his mouth.

A grin spreads across your face despite your best efforts to stop it, your cheeks warming. Wolffe never talks about his feelings. Not in the way most people do. He's a man of few words, and when he does open up, it's never as flowery or sweet as his brothers. But the things he says, the small moments when he lets his guard down and tells you the things he wants, or how he feels, are so much more meaningful.

He's told you he loves you before, but it's not something the two of you say often. You know it, and you think it, every moment you're together. The fact that the two of you even have the chance to have moments like these, where you can just be yourselves and not the faces people expect, is enough.

"I love you too," you say, your smile widening. Wolffe meets your gaze, his eyes soft.

"I know," he murmurs.

"Good. Because I'm going to tell everyone you said that."

"Don't you dare.”

You give him a shrug, and he scowls, taking another bite of his burger. You chuckle and reach for another fry, popping it in your mouth and chewing, looking out over the lot. It's a nice night, and you take a moment to enjoy the feeling of the breeze on your skin, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the man between your legs.

You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips as you watch Wolffe, his cheeks stuffed with food. He's enjoying himself, and while he'd never admit it, the food is helping him sober up. His cheeks are less flushed, and his eyes are brighter, less hazy.

He'll sleep well tonight.

Wolffe catches your eye and smirks, and you smile back. The two of you finish your meal in comfortable silence, the occasional laugh or comment passing between the two of you. By the time the food is gone, the lot is all but empty, the streets quiet and still.

"That was good," he admits, crumpling the wrappers and tossing them into the bag.

"You know, that's what I said about the nerf steak, and the dumplings, and the soup, and the fish, and—"

Wolffe huffs and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning down and nuzzling your neck. You squirm, trying to push him away, but he's stronger than you, and all it does is bring him closer.

"Alright, alright, I get it, you've got good taste,” he murmurs, and you giggle as he nips at your jaw. "Now, are we going home or not?"

You shiver, and a smirk pulls at his mouth, pressed against your skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you don't know whether you want to slap him or kiss him.

You opt for the latter.

You slide your fingers through his hair, the dark strands silky under your touch. He lets out a quiet groan and tilts his head, his hands moving to grip your hips. His lips are warm and insistent, and the faint taste of jorganfruit lingers on his tongue as it runs over your bottom lip. You let him, and he kisses you slowly, his hands running over your back, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space left between the two of you.

The two of you make out in the parking lot for longer than you should, your mouths moving lazily, your bodies flush against each other. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care that anyone could walk up and see the Commander of the 104th kissing his medical officer like a lovesick teenager, and neither can you bring yourselves to stop.

If anything, you think Wolffe is enjoying the display a bit too much. His kisses become bolder, more consuming, and his hands wander, running up and down your sides and over your ass. He presses until your back is flat against the hood of the speeder, and his thigh bullies its way between your legs, nudging the apex of your thighs. He doesn't do anything more, doesn't grind or move against you, but his intention is clear.

You pull back, and Wolffe makes a sound of protest, leaning forward and chasing your lips. You laugh and place a hand against his chest, gently pushing him back.

"Wolffe," you say, trying to put as much authority into your voice as possible. It's not easy when you can feel the warmth of his thigh between your legs, his breath hot against your mouth.

He doesn't move.

"Wolffe," you repeat, your voice dropping into a whine.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he tilts his head, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses against your neck. They start behind your ear, his lips dragging over your throat, stubble scratching your sensitive skin. He's gentle, his touch almost reverent, and you let out a soft moan, arching into him.

He takes advantage of your distraction to move his thigh, pressing it snugly against your center. Your head falls back, and your hands curl around his arms, squeezing. You can feel the muscle flex beneath your fingertips, his strength evident even under the layers of clothing.

Wolffe presses another kiss to your skin, his teeth grazing your throat, and you know that if he doesn't stop, the two of you are going to end up doing something in the middle of a parking lot that will  have you seeing Fox for the second time tonight.

"Wolffe," you breathe, and this time, it's more of a gasp than a command.

"Cyare," he rumbles as he pulls back, his eyes dark and filled with something you know very well.

"Take me home."

His eyes narrow, and his hands tighten around your waist. He's not going to take no for an answer.

"Or we can stay here, and I can bend you over the hood," he murmurs, and your face grows hot.

"Wolffe!"

He chuckles, the sound low and gravelly, and his hands run over your back, smoothing out the wrinkles in your clothes.

"Just saying," he says, giving you a teasing smile. You push him away with a hand on his chest, and he goes willingly, backing away from the hood and offering you his hand.

"You're terrible," you chide as you take it, sliding off the hood and straight into his embrace.

"Maybe," he murmurs, and his hands settle low on your waist, holding tight. "But you like it."

You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the fact that you very much do like it, and the fact that the man holding you is the only person you've ever felt like this with. He's the one who can bring you to the edge of your control with just a few touches, a few words, a kiss.

He's the one who makes you feel wanted, and desired, and loved.

He's the one who holds your heart, and the knowledge of that makes your head spin, a dizzying mix of arousal and affection washing over you.

"Let's go home," he whispers, and the look in his eyes says everything.

He's thinking the same thing, and his control is waning, the tension between the two of you thick and heavy.

You nod, and Wolffe wastes no time. He guides you around the front of the speeder, opening the door and helping you inside. He takes the bag from you and tosses it into a nearby can before sliding into the passenger seat. You turn to ask if he's ready, but the question dies on your lips, replaced by a squeak as he pulls you into a kiss, his hands cupping your face, his fingers tangled in your hair.

It's brief, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before he's pulling away, leaving you breathless and wanting.

"Thank you for dinner," he whispers against your lips.

"You're welcome," you reply, breathless and smiling.

"But if we don't leave now, I'm going to fuck you in the backseat, and then we're really going to be in trouble," he growls, and you shiver, heat pooling between your thighs. He pulls back and gives you a look that says he means business, and you bite back a whine as he settles back into his seat, fastening the harness.

"Let's go," he orders.

You're quick to obey, starting the engine and taking off. The ride back is silent, but the tension between the two of you is tangible. It's heavy and demanding, and all you can think about is the man sitting beside you, the way his mouth feels, and his hands, and how good it's going to feel when he finally has you alone.

Wolffe’s hand, heavy and warm, comes to rest on your thigh.

You swallow and press your foot down a little harder.

The city drifts by, and it isn't long before you're flying down a street lined with artificial trees, their branches reaching towards the sky. A few blocks down, and you're turning, entering the parking area below your building.

You park and kill the engine, and the two of you sit in silence for a moment. The lights from the streetlamps filter through the windshield, casting the interior in a soft glow. You take a deep breath, and Wolffe turns, his eyes catching yours.

“Are you ready to go inside, cyare, or do you want to do this here instead?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

A blush spreads across your cheeks, but you can't find the words to respond. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt, and his mouth twists up in the corner, a smirk spreading across his lips.

"Alright then, let's go," he murmurs, and his hand slips from your thigh.

He's out of the speeder and around the front, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle. He helps you out, his hand steady and warm as he pulls you into his arms. He closes the door behind you, and then he's walking, leading you towards the lobby.

You follow him inside, and the man at the front desk does a double take, his eyes wide as they land on the pair of you. You offer him a small wave, and he waves back, his face slack with surprise.

"Evening,” Wolffe greets, low and gruff. His hand finds the small of your back, gently guiding you to the lift.

“Have a good night,” you call over your shoulder as the two of you pass.

"You too, Doctor," the man answers, his gaze still fixed on Wolffe.

You press the button for the lift, and it comes to a stop, the doors sliding open. Wolffe wastes no time in ushering you inside and hitting the button for your floor. He stands close, his hand still pressed firmly against the small of your back.

The doors slide shut, and Wolffe steps in front of you, his eyes intense as they meet yours. His hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass, cupping and squeezing. You let out a surprised squeak, and he huffs, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What? You thought I'd be able to wait until we got upstairs?" he murmurs as his head dips, his lips hovering a hair's breadth away from yours.

"I thought you were going to try," you whisper, trying to hold back a shiver.

"Mm, no. Not tonight.”

You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the closeness making your head spin. His hands move over your body, and his eyes roam over your features, his gaze heated. He looks hungry, his desire clear in the way his eyes linger on your lips as you reach out, your hands moving to the buttons of his uniform.

"I think I can agree with that," you murmur, undoing the first button. Your thumb runs over the small patch of skin bared at the hollow of his throat.

Wolffe grunts, his eyes fluttering shut. You can feel the shudder that runs through him, and his hands come up, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. He doesn't push them away, though, instead, holding them loosely as you undo another button, then another.

You take your time, savoring the feeling of his skin beneath your fingertips. You know he's struggling, the need for control warring with the urge to give in. He doesn't often let himself lose control, always focused on the task at hand, but tonight, he's off duty, and the man between the lines of command and the soldier has shown his face.

And he's desperate.

The lift dings, and the doors slide open, the sudden noise startling the two of you. Wolffe's grip tightens as he lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Fucking hell," he mutters, turning and guiding you into the hall.

You chuckle, and his hand squeezes your hip, his expression darkening.

"You think this is funny, huh?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave.

You bite your lip, but the grin spreads across your face, the smile bright and full. Wolffe's eyes narrow, and a hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass. A yelp escapes you as his fingers dig into your flesh, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Oh, it's funny," he mutters, shaking his head.

He pushes you forward, his hand guiding the two of you towards your door. It's only a few steps, but it feels like a mile, his touch firm, the promise of what's to come clear in the way his grip tightens the closer the two of you get. You can feel his presence looking behind you as you unlock the door, your hands shaky and fumbling.

He doesn't say anything, but the heat in his eyes is unmistakable, his desire evident. He's going to make you pay for that smile, and while a small part of you is nervous, the rest is excited, eager to see how he's going to get his revenge.

You open the door, and before you can even step inside, his arm is looping around your waist, lifting you off the floor and into his arms. He steps into the entryway and kicks the door closed, the slam echoing in the otherwise empty apartment.

"You're a fucking tease," he grumbles, kicking off his boots.

"Me? A tease?" you ask, incredulous. You squirm in his arms, and his grip tightens. "Who was the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself the entire night? Or the one who tried to seduce me in the parking lot?"

"You're one to talk. If you weren't such a damn menace, we would have been in here hours ago,” Wolffe counters, his grip tightening around your waist. He steps around his discarded boots and carries you into the kitchen, flicking one of the cabinet lights on with his shoulder. You kick off your heels as you go.

"You know, I think I remember you being the one to pin me to the hood of the speeder,” you point out, and you raise a brow, giving him a look.

Wolffe sets you down on the edge of the counter and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning close. You lean back, and his hands slide over your thighs, gripping and pulling until his hips are pressed between your knees.

"Well, I'm not sorry,” he says as he dips his head, nuzzling your neck. “It was the best part of my night."

"It was?"

"Mhm."

"Better than the fight?"

"Much better," he answers, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth graze the spot just behind your ear, and you shiver. Your legs wrap around his hips, and your hands find his shoulders, curling around the fabric of his uniform.

"That's high praise, coming from the Commander," you tease, tilting your head and allowing him more access.

Wolffe chuckles and presses a kiss to the hollow beneath your ear.

"Mm, well, the Commander likes a good fight, but the man prefers spending his time like this," he murmurs, his hands moving up, sliding under the hem of your shirt.

His fingers trail along your sides, running over your skin in lazy circles, the touch firm. You can feel him everywhere, the warmth of his hands, his lips, the way his hips press against yours. The outline of his cock, hard and insistent, brushes the inside of your thigh, and you shudder, pulling him closer.

"Like this, huh?"

"Mhm."

"And just what does the man have in mind?" you ask, biting back a moan as his hands dip lower, running over the curve of your ass. He squeezes before continuing on, fingertips dancing over the tops of your thighs until they settle between them, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into your skin.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, the sound rumbling in his chest, his breath hot against your skin. It takes all your self-control to keep still, but the anticipation is delicious, the knowledge that he's going to do whatever he wants, and you're going to let him, a heady rush.

Wolffe pulls back, his gaze roaming over your face. Even his clouded cybernetic eye can't hide the lust, the way his eyes have darkened, the black almost completely consuming the brown of his iris. His cheeks are flushed as he studies you, and his lips are red and slightly swollen from where he's been biting them, trying to hold back the noises he wants to make.

"What does the man have in mind? Let me see," he murmurs, his fingers curling around the fabric. He pops the button of your pants and pats your thigh, and you obey, lifting yourself so he can tug the clothing down your legs. He drops them to the floor, his gaze returning to yours.

"Well?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips.

Wolffe doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches out and cups your sex, the fabric of your underwear a thin barrier between the heat of his palm and your aching core. His touch is gentle, barely there, and yet the pressure is enough to send a spark through you, your skin prickling. You swallow, and his lips turn up, the hint of a smile spreading across his features.

"Let's see," he begins, his finger tracing a line over the damp fabric, drawing a gasp from your throat. "First, I'm going to undress you."

His hands move, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear, fingertips sliding over the smooth expanse of your skin. He pulls the fabric down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches as you shift and shiver, his expression calm, the only sign that he's not unaffected the slight tremble in his hands.

"Then, I'm going to taste you, get you ready for my cock," he continues, his voice rough.

His touch is slow, methodical, the drag of his knuckles and fingertips torturous. Your underwear slides down, and you let out a small whine, the fabric bunching around your thighs.

"And when you're all nice and wet, and you're begging for me, I'm going to fill you up, and fuck you, nice and slow," he growls, his hands running over your legs, sliding your underwear down and tossing them to the floor.

Your face grows hot, the blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, the heat creeping down until it settles low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes track the movement, and he finds the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up and over your head, his hands immediately cupping your breasts over your bra.

"What do you think about that, cyare?" he asks, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, the fabric rough against your sensitive flesh.

You bite back a moan, and his brows raise, expectant. You know what he wants, and you can't bring yourself to deny him, not when his hands are already on your body, his fingers working the clasp of your bra.

"Yes, please," you whimper, reaching up and sliding your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"See? That wasn't so hard," he says, his lips twitching. He unclasps the garment, and it falls open, the fabric sliding down and joining the rest of your clothes on the floor.

You're left bare before him, exposed, and Wolffe takes a moment to drink in the sight. His hands come up, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder. They run over the swell of your breast, his touch feather-light, the contrast between the cool air and the warmth of his skin raising goosebumps. He continues down, over the plane of your stomach, the ridges of your ribs, until he comes to rest against the flare of your hip.

"Perfect," he breathes, his gaze returning to yours.

His mouth is mere inches from yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. He doesn't move, and neither do you, the two of you locked in an intense stare. You're waiting, wanting, and it's a battle of wills to see who will give in first.

You lose.

Your head tilts forward, and Wolffe is there, meeting you halfway. His mouth closes over yours, the kiss gentle, tender, nothing like the rough, demanding way his hands grip your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh.

It's the opposite of the words that tumble from his lips, the things he says, the filthy promises whispered between heated kisses. But it’s so him, the juxtaposition of the gentle and the rough, the soft and the demanding.

It's everything, and it's all you want, all you need.

Wolffe groans as your lips part, his tongue darting out, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. It's slow, his pace measured as he licks his way inside, his movements controlled and steady.

"You have too many clothes on," you murmur against his lips, and Wolffe huffs, pulling back.

"I guess I do," he says, his eyes roaming over your body, lingering on the curves and dips.

His gaze is so heated that it's nearly palpable, the intensity bringing a blush to your skin. He steps back and takes a deep breath, and you squirm as he stares, taking in the sight of you perched on the counter, spread out like an offering.

He reaches for his uniform, popping the buttons, his movements slow. The fabric parts, revealing the tight white undershirt, the thin material straining over the broad planes of his chest, dark hair peeking out from the collar.

You bite your lip, watching as he shrugs off the outer layer, his eyes fixed on you. The fabric slides down his arms, his muscles flexing as he works. His movements are fluid, easy, but each one is deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Wolffe," you groan, biting back a frustrated noise.

"What?" he asks, his tone innocent.

He drops his shirt to the floor, his fingers hooking into the fabric of his undershirt. He peels it up, slowly, his eyes shining with amusement as he exposes his toned stomach, the planes of his chest, and finally, the broad expanse of his shoulders.

"Are you in a hurry, cyare?"

"A little," you admit, the words coming out breathy.

Wolffe grins and steps closer, his hands finding your knees. He pushes them apart with ease, his palms sliding over your skin, his touch firm.

"I guess I can't blame you," he begins, his gaze drifting down to where your thighs have parted. "I mean, look at you."

"Wolffe, come on," you mutter, trying to close your legs.

His hands move, holding you in place. You don't stand a chance against his strength, the muscle of his arms rippling as he pushes you back, his palms running over your inner thighs.

"Shhh, let me enjoy the view," he chides, his eyes moving over your exposed skin.

You can feel his gaze like a physical touch, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, naked and bare before him. His hands run over your thighs, and then his thumbs are dipping into the apex, spreading you open.

"Look at how pretty you are," he rumbles as he brings his thumb up, running the pad gently over your clit, his touch barely there.

A whimper escapes, the contact not nearly enough to satisfy. You want more, but he doesn't give it, his thumb moving lower, dipping into the heat of your entrance. You shiver, and Wolffe makes a pleased noise, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"And I haven't even done anything yet," he teases, his thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh, circling your opening.

"Please, Wolffe," you whine, and his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"Oh, I like the sound of that," he murmurs, his eyes darkening. "Please, what?"

You glare, and Wolffe smirks, his gaze dropping back to the apex of your thighs. He presses his thumb in further, his knuckle catching against the edge, and the contact sends a shiver down your spine. You bite your lip and squirm, heat coiling low in your stomach.

"Please, what? Use your words," he murmurs, his tone dripping with saccharine sweetness.

"Stop teasing," you hiss, trying to press down against his hand.

Wolffe's lips pull into a frown, and his grip tightens around your hips. He yanks you towards the edge, his hands keeping you from sliding off, and you cry out, a spike of arousal shooting through you at the rough treatment.

”Try again," he says, his tone dropping an octave.

You take a shaky breath and glare, and Wolffe's expression grows darker, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hips. He's waiting, his eyes fixed on yours, the weight of his gaze heavy and expectant.

"Please, just...I want—"

"You want, what?"

"I want your mouth," you breathe, heat rushing to your face.

Wolffe hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against the inside of your thighs. The gesture is meant to be soothing, but it does nothing to quell the ache that has settled between your legs. He watches, waiting, and when he's satisfied with the desperation that's seeped into your expression, his lips curl up into a smirk.

"Good girl."

The praise sends a wave of warmth through you, and the blush spreads, creeping down your neck, the heat settling against your chest. Wolffe lets out a pleased rumble and leans forward, nuzzling your neck.

"That's what I wanted to hear," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the column of your throat. He pauses and sucks the sensitive skin between his teeth, biting and nibbling until a mark blooms beneath his lips.

He continues down, his mouth moving over the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out, licking a path between the mounds. He pays the same attention to each one, his lips closing over your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

A moan escapes, the sound loud in the silence of the apartment. Wolffe huffs a laugh and presses a kiss against your sternum, his hand sliding over your waist, his fingers dancing across your stomach.

"Let me hear you," he says as his lips drift lower, his tongue trailing over the line of your ribcage, his stubble scraping your skin.

He kneels, and the sight alone is almost enough to send you spiraling. Wolffe is the very picture of devotion, his hands warm and reverent as they run over your skin, his mouth gentle and sure as it moves over the soft expanse of your stomach. He presses a kiss just above the line of your hip, and you can feel the way his lips curl up, his eyes fixed on you.

"So beautiful," he breathes, his voice muffled against your skin.

His words are sweet, but the hand that grips your thigh, pushing it back, is anything but. It's demanding and firm, a wordless order to spread your legs. You obey, and the grin on his face is wicked, his eyes flashing.

"There we go, just like that," he murmurs as he leans in, his nose brushing against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. 

His lips trail higher, his mouth warm and wet as he sucks the tender skin between his teeth. You can't help but squirm, the sharp sting of his teeth followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue sending a rush through you. When he sucks another mark onto the opposite side, you let out a whine, your hips bucking against his grasp.

"Don't move," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

You still, the commanding tone enough to make you freeze. You've seen the way Wolffe can get when he's in the mood, and while it's fun to tease him, to rile him up, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that says tonight isn't the time.

Tonight, he's not going to let you get away with a single thing.

"Yes, Commander," you whisper, and the sound that escapes him is sinful.

"That's my girl," he rumbles. His tongue darts out, sliding over the skin. "I knew you'd listen."

He gives you a few more languid kisses, his mouth moving slowly, deliberately, working his way up until his lips are brushing the apex of your thigh. Finally, the first kiss lands, a soft brush against your clit, the touch feather-light and barely there. You bite back a groan, your head falling back, but you keep still.

"Good girl," he praises, and you can feel the smirk against your skin as he presses another kiss, his lips dragging over the sensitive bud.

The feeling sends a spark of heat through you, the praise mixing with the gentle drag of his lips. He knows exactly what you like, but he seems in no hurry to give it to you. Instead, he's content to tease, his tongue darting out, giving a few long, lazy licks before retreating.

He repeats the process, his tongue moving over you in slow, methodical strokes. He laps at your entrance, lapping up the wetness that's gathered, the taste of you filling his senses.

It's not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Wolffe pulls back and blows a stream of air against your heated skin, the coolness making you squirm.

"Wolffe," you whine. “Please."

"Shhh," he says, and his thumb comes up, rubbing small, gentle circles over your clit. "Let me taste you. I told you to stay still, didn't I?"

You don't answer, and he leans in, nipping at the soft flesh. You let out a squeak, the sound turning into a moan as he sucks on the spot, soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Cyare," he begins, and his voice is stern, his grip tight.

"I know," you mutter, forcing yourself to relax.

"That's better," Wolffe says as his hands move, trailing over the inside of your thighs. His touch is firm, his fingers tracing the path his lips just took, his palms spreading your thighs wider.

He doesn't keep you waiting long.

Wolffe's tongue drags a path from your entrance to the tip of your clit, the feeling so intense that you nearly miss the way his thumb hooks against the hood, exposing the sensitive bundle of nerves. The next lick is followed by the gentle pressure of his lips closing over the bud, his tongue swirling. It flicks over your clit, once, twice, before dipping lower, the tip sliding inside your entrance.

"Oh," you gasp, your hand flying to his head, tangling in the soft strands.

"Mm, so wet," Wolffe groans, and his tongue slips deeper, the muscle pressing against the silken walls.

He works you open, his tongue curling and twisting, fucking in and out, the wet sounds echoing in the room. You can't help the noises that spill from your lips, the moans and whines mingling with the sound of Wolffe's mouth as he devours you, his hands keeping your hips firmly pinned against the counter.

You're lost in the sensations, the feeling of his tongue, the pressure, the heat of his mouth, the way he groans as his head moves, his eyes fixed on you. Your fingers curl, tugging at his hair, and the vibration of his answering groan has your head falling back, the breath stuttering in your chest. Arousal pools heavily between your thighs, oozing over his tongue. He laps it up, his pace quickening, his nose brushing against your clit.

He fucks you on his tongue until you're dripping, and then he pulls back, his breathing harsh. The sound is obscene, the wet, sucking noise enough to make your face flush hot. You watch as his lips part, his tongue snaking out, licking up the mess you've made. He doesn't miss a single drop, his movements measured and thorough, his eyes fixed on yours.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, fingers tightening their hold.

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out, the compliment taking you by surprise. You're still getting used to his more open displays of affection, the things he says when the two of you are alone. The Wolffe that the world sees is nothing like the man who kneels before you, the soft, gentle side that he saves just for you.

You reach out, and Wolffe's lips curl into a smile, his cheeks pink and warm under your palm. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing as your thumb brushes over the scarred ridge under his eye. The moment is tender, a stark contrast to the things he's said, the way his hands have moved, his grip firm.

He looks at peace, and the sight has your heart melting, a warmth spreading through you, pooling low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes blink open, and the warmth turns into heat, the flames stoked by the hunger that's crept into his gaze.

He wants, and you want him to have.

"Wolffe," you begin, but the rest of the words are lost as his mouth closes over your clit.

He sucks the swollen bud between his lips, the pressure firm and steady. He's relentless, the flat of his tongue stroking the length, the tip flicking and swirling. You’re overwhelmed by the intensity, and there’s no time to brace yourself before two fingers slide home to the hilt and curl.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, arching into him.

A satisfied grunt rumbles through his chest, the vibrations going straight to the apex of your thighs. The suddenness of the intrusion, coupled with the heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, is enough to send a hot wave of pleasure through you, and your toes curl, the first tingles of an orgasm building in the base of your spine.

"More," you beg, tugging at his hair.

Wolffe lets out a soft noise, something between a groan and a growl, and his hand moves, slipping from your hip and sliding under your ass. His fingers dig into the plump flesh, the touch firm. Your back arches, and he pushes you forward, tilting your hips.

You have no choice but to lean back on your elbows, his strength too much for you to fight. Your head falls back, your neck strained to look at him, but the new angle leaves you spread wide open, his lips sucking eagerly.

"Oh, fuck, yes, just like that," you whimper as the pressure builds, the sensation coiling low in your core and spreading along your thighs.

He's merciless, his tongue and fingers moving with purpose, and his hands guide your movements, pushing and pulling you, your body pliant beneath his touch. He's completely in control, the position allowing him to do whatever he wants, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, a gush of wetness dripping down his fingers.

Wolffe doesn't seem to mind, his nose buried against your skin, his tongue working. The sounds that fill the air are obscene, the slick, wet noises mixing with the filthy moans and groans that fall from his lips.

"You're so good, Wolffe, so good," you praise, a strangled moan escaping as he presses his fingers in deep. He curls, rubbing them over the spongy tissue, his mouth closing over your clit.

Your words seem to spur him on, his movements growing bolder. His grip on your ass tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He's relentless, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, his rhythm unwavering.

The coil in the pit of your stomach grows tighter, the familiar pressure building until it threatens to break. Your legs come up, wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Wolffe obliges, his hand leaving your ass to press his arm over your hips, pinning you in place.

You let out a choked noise at the show of strength, the muscles of his arm flexing as he holds you down. Your mouth opens, but the only sound that escapes is a series of short, breathless gasps. The fire spreads, burning through you until you're a quivering mess. It's too much, the combination of his mouth and his fingers and the way he looks between your thighs, his eyes dark and filled with something akin to adoration.

It's the thought that breaks the dam.

His lips wrap around the bud of your clit, and the first flick of his tongue has you toppling over the edge, the pleasure bursting through you. Your head falls back, your eyes screwing shut, and a long, drawn-out moan leaves your lips. You can feel yourself gush around his fingers, and Wolffe groans, his fingers picking up speed. Your thighs clamp around his head, and your nails dig into his scalp, and you hold on, a choked sob escaping as your body writhes beneath him.

Wolffe doesn't slow. He fucks you through the waves, his mouth working, his fingers rubbing against your walls, drawing the pleasure out and coaxing another, smaller orgasm from you. It crashes over you in a burst of sparks behind your eyelids, shooting down to your fingers and making your toes curl.

It's only when your hips jerk away from his mouth, oversensitive, that he finally relents, pulling back with a wet pop.

"Fuck, cyare," he breathes, and his voice is hoarse, his breathing ragged. "So beautiful."

"Wolffe," you croak, unable to formulate a proper sentence. Your head spins, and you have to force yourself to breathe, to relax, your heart racing. The release has left you feeling drained, and all you can do is lay there, gasping and whimpering as Wolffe's tongue gently cleans the mess you've made.

He pulls away, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, his chin glistening with your release. He looks proud and a little smug, but the effect is ruined by the dazed look in his eyes, the way he leans into the hand that cups his cheek. You watch, transfixed, as he stands, gently maneuvering you until you’re sitting up, your back resting against the cupboards.

“Good girl, take a breath," he whispers, running his hands over your legs, gently massaging the tense muscles.

You obey, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The oxygen clears the fog, and when you finally open your eyes, it's to the sight of Wolffe, his hands undoing the belt at his waist. 

"I need to be inside you," he says, the words a low, raspy growl, barely audible underneath the sound of the metal buckle clinking against the counter.

The noise has you swallowing, your mouth dry. You watch as he slides the leather out and sets it down, the thud of the metal buckle against the countertop making you jump. His eyes dart to the offending item, and a smirk pulls at his lips.

"Nervous?"

You shake your head, and his expression softens.

"Good. No need to be, not with me," he says, and the belt is forgotten, his hands returning to his pants.

"I'm not," you whisper, and your eyes move over his chest, taking in the dark hair and the smattering of scars, the dips and ridges of his muscles, the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the way his arms flex as he pushes the fabric down his hips.

"I know, cyare," he says, his expression gentle. He's watching you closely, his hands coming up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," you reply, the word coming out breathless. Your eyes are locked on the damp spot that's darkened the grey fabric, the bulge of his cock straining against the material.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to see you."

Wolffe's breath catches, his eyes widening slightly.

"Okay then," he murmurs, his voice low.

His thumbs hook into the elastic band, and he pushes the fabric down, the hard line of his cock finally free. It's heavy, hanging between his legs, the tip flushed a deep red. The sight has your mouth watering, and your eyes follow the thick, pulsing vein that runs the length, the bead of pre-cum that has gathered at the tip, slowly dripping down.

"Like what you see?" he teases, reaching down and wrapping his fingers around his length.

"Always," you breathe.

You watch as he gives himself a few long, slow strokes, his fist closing around the head. The motion brings a bead of precome to the tip, and he spreads it down the shaft, the movement slow and deliberate.

"Are you sure you're not nervous?" he asks, his voice soft.

"A little," you admit, the words coming out shaky.

You know exactly how thick his cock is, but the sight of him standing between your thighs, the head level with your stomach, always takes your breath away.

"Shhh, I've got you," he says, stepping closer. "I'm gonna make you feel so good."

You nod, and Wolffe's hand leaves his cock, his fingers curling around your ankle. He lifts your leg, guiding it up and over his shoulder, his lips pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your knee. He reaches out and runs a knuckle down the length of your sex, the contact gentle and teasing.

"So beautiful," he murmurs.

His other hand moves to his cock, lining himself up. The head bumps against the inside of your thigh, and you gasp, the wet heat searing against your skin. It leaves a trail of precome, and the sight has your heart rate picking up, the anticipation coursing through you.

"That's my girl," he whispers, his hand sliding up, fingers brushing the swollen bud.

Your hips jerk, and the tip of his cock catches against your entrance, the slick head nudging at the opening. It's enough to make him grunt, the muscles in his neck straining, his hand squeezing the base of his cock.

"I'm gonna put it in, cyare, and I want you to stay nice and still, okay?"

"Okay," you agree, your hands gripping the edge of the counter.

He gives a few experimental thrusts, the head sliding against the wet heat, spreading your slick along his shaft. He pushes in, the first inch, and the stretch is immediate.

"Fuck," he hisses, and his hand drops, his thumb moving to press against the hood of your clit, rubbing gentle circles. "Just relax, sweetheart, take a deep breath."

You do as he says, sucking in a deep breath and forcing yourself to relax. The pain fades, replaced by the intense stretch, the pressure of his cock. He's not even halfway inside, and already you feel so full, the feeling almost overwhelming. It feels like it's been years since the last time he had you like this, his body pressed against yours, and it takes all your willpower to remain still, to keep from fucking yourself onto his cock.

"There you go," he says, and his tone is gentle, his expression soft. "Just like that."

He rocks his hips, the head sliding in and out. Each thrust is easier than the last, the silken walls loosening and allowing him deeper. Wolffe’s eyes flutter, his mouth falling open, his fingers moving against your clit. He's lost in the sensation, the tight, wet heat of your pussy clenching around his cock, and you can't help but stare, watching the way his brows draw together, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice strained. He grinds deeper as if trying to get as close as possible, the action drawing a whimper from your lips, and he stops. "You okay?"

You can only nod, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes as his tip kisses the end of you. It's too much, the stretch, the heavy weight of his cock, and yet it's not enough. You need him deeper, his skin against yours, his weight bearing down on you, pinning you beneath him.

"Words, cyare. I need words."

"Please," you gasp, trying to rock your hips.

He shakes his head and squeezes your hips, keeping you still. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are shut tight, his brows drawn together in concentration. You can feel him pulse inside you, the throbbing a steady beat, his cock twitching with each squeeze of your walls.

"Wolffe, please, fuck me," you beg, a desperate whine escaping.

Wolffe's eyes open, and his gaze finds yours, his expression softening.

"There she is," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth turning up. "That's what I like to hear."

He presses a kiss to your ankle, and he doesn't take his eyes off yours as he pulls out, his length dragging against your walls. It's torturously slow, his movements measured and precise, and he keeps his pace, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, his palms hot.

"Such a pretty girl," he says, the words strained. He thrusts into you, a slow, steady roll of his hips. "So good for me, letting me take my time, letting me enjoy the way you feel."

"You feel so good, Wolffe," you moan, arching into him.

"Oh, I know," he grunts. "I can feel it."

His thrusts are steady, each one hitting the same spot, his pace never wavering. He keeps his movements slow, his eyes never leaving yours. He's watching you, gauging your reactions, taking note of every sound, every facial expression.

You've been intimate before, but tonight feels different, and you realize that Wolffe isn't in a hurry, not anymore. He's taking his time, enjoying the feeling of being buried inside you, of watching your reactions. The lines around his eyes and the creases in his forehead have smoothed out, his jaw no longer clenched tight. The tension has melted from his shoulders, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like contentment.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low.

You can only nod, unable to speak, your mind a foggy haze.

"That's good, that's so good," he murmurs, and his lips turn up, his expression soft. "I like having you like this, all to myself."

You whine, and his smile grows, the tips of his canines flashing in the dim light. He's beautiful like this, his head bowed, his dark hair hanging in his face, a reverent, awestruck look in his eyes.

"Do you like this, too?" he asks, the words punctuated by a firm thrust, his hands gripping your thighs.

"Yes," you gasp, a moan slipping out as he hits a spot deep inside you, sending sparks down your spine.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I think we should do it more often," he murmurs, leaning in.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm," he breathes, and his nose brushes yours, his lips a breath away.

He's so close, the heat radiating off his skin. You can taste the sweetness of your release on his lips, and you want to lean forward and claim them, but he's just out of reach, and all you can do is stare.

"You're a tease," you whisper.

"I think I can live with that."

His eyes move, roaming over the exposed expanse of your body, and they linger on the place where his cock is buried, the skin stretched and glistening. He bites his lip, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, and his pace quickens, his hips snapping against yours.

The feeling has your toes curling, and you try to reach down, to stroke the bud of nerves that is aching for contact.

"No, no. Not yet," he chides, his hand grabbing yours and pulling it away. He brings your wrist up, pressing a kiss to the tender skin. "I'll get you there. Be patient."

You pout, and Wolffe smiles, a crooked, mischievous grin. He lets go of your hand, his palm coming to rest on your stomach. His thumb finds the spot, rubbing circles over the sensitive flesh, his gaze never leaving yours.

"It's not fair," you mumble, trying not to squirm.

"Mhm, tell me about it."

He presses down, his finger rubbing the spot in lazy circles, the pressure intense.

"How does it feel, cyare? To have my cock buried inside you, nice and deep?"

"Feels good," you breathe, arching into his touch.

"Does it?" he asks, and his eyes flicker down, watching as he pulls out. He pauses, the head caught against your entrance, the tip shiny with your arousal.

He stays there, the two of you joined by the very tip, his length coated in a mixture of fluids. The sight is obscene, the slick mess dripping from his cock and down his balls, the fluid coating the tops of his thighs.

"Look how messy you are," he breathes, his eyes wide.

"All for you," you murmur, and his eyes snap to yours, his lips parting.

"Fuck," Wolffe mutters.

He guides your leg off his shoulder, hooking his arms underneath both of your knees. He spreads you open, and the sight of his cock sliding in, the thick length disappearing into the mess, makes you groan, a fresh gush of wetness slipping from your entrance.

"Wolffe, please, I want more," you beg, trying to press closer.

“More, she says," he huffs a laugh, and his fingers dig into your legs, the pressure almost bruising.

"Yes," you moan, nodding.

"Then you're going to get more."

The words barely have time to register before his cock is slamming home, his hips pressing flush against yours.

You cry out, your back arching, and he wastes no time in setting a rough, unforgiving pace. His grip tightens around your legs, and he bends, leaning over your body, his hands planted on either side of your hips.

The angle allows him to drive deeper, and you can feel his pelvis grinding against your clit, the roughness of his pubic hair scratching against the sensitive skin. You try to move, to meet him halfway, but the position, coupled with his strength, leaves you immobile. All you can do is lie there and take it, his cock splitting you open.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts, his pace never slowing. His eyes are fixed on yours, the dark brown and grey shining with pleasure. "I could stay like this forever, just buried in that sweet cunt."

"Yes, yes," you cry, the words tumbling from your lips.

"Do you want that? Do you want me to fuck you all night, keep you full?"

"Please," you beg, arching into him.

"Fuck," Wolffe groans, his eyes falling closed. His pace picks up, his movements growing frantic, and he leans forward, his hands wrapping around the tops of your thighs. He uses his hold as leverage, tugging you towards him, the motion causing your head to knock against the cupboard.

"Sorry," he pants, and he reaches out, his hand cupping the back of your head, the gesture almost tender. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, please, just—"

"I've got you," he whispers, and his lips press against the side of your neck. "I've got you, sweetheart."

"Please, Wolffe, I'm so close," you plead, your nails digging into the skin of his forearms.

"I know," he growls, and his hips snap, the feeling making you gasp. "I'm right behind you."

His lips find the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping against the skin. He bites down, the pain sharp, and a cry escapes as he sucks, hard. The delicate capillaries underneath your skin break, a purple-red splotch blooming in the wake of his mouth.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, his mark sending a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"Mm, there's my girl," he grunts. "I'm not going to last, sweetheart. You're going to have to come for me, okay?"

You nod, unable to form the words, and you reach down, your fingers finding the apex of your thighs He's pressed so close that your hand brushes the coarse hair covering his pelvis, the tips grazing the base of his cock.

"Come on. Let go," he urges, his breath hot against your neck.

Your fingers brush over the sensitive nub, and you're sent over the edge, your climax hitting so hard that the room begins to spin. You're barely aware of his voice, urging you on, praising you as your walls flutter and pulse around his cock.

"That's it, let me feel it," Wolffe groans, his pace growing sloppy, his hips jerking erratically. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

You can feel the way his length pulses, his cock throbbing as his release builds, and then he's following after you, a long, low moan rumbling in his chest. He pushes in deep and grinds his pelvis against your clit, his movements frantic as his orgasm washes over him.

You're vaguely aware of his body jerking, his hips moving erratically, and then his release is flooding you, the warm liquid painting your walls. He fills you up, his seed leaking out and dripping onto the counter, the mess smearing over the smooth surface.

"Oh, shit," he hisses, his arms trembling. He sags, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his breathing heavy.

You can feel the sweat-slick skin, his chest rising and falling, the movement uneven. He's shaking, his body trembling as his arms finally give out, and the weight of his upper body presses down on top of you.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Wolffe replies, his voice muffled. "Just...just give me a minute."

"Wolffe?"

He doesn't answer, and you reach up, your hand threading through his hair. It's damp, the locks plastered to his scalp, and you run your fingers over the soft strands, trying to soothe him.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice quiet.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he replies, and his body shudders, his limbs growing heavy. You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, and then his arms are sliding under your back, wrapping around you. He's clinging to you, his embrace almost too tight, and you can feel the way his heart is racing, the rapid-fire beat thudding in his chest.

"Wolffe," you whisper, and his head shifts, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"It's okay, cyare. I'm alright, I promise."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he says, his voice soft. "I'm just..."

He trails off, his face turning, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the spot where his teeth had been moments before. You shiver, the feeling making your walls clench, and Wolffe lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping tighter.

"It's just...tonight was a lot," he murmurs, his mouth moving against your skin.

"Yeah," you agree as you run your fingers through his hair.

"It was intense, and I needed...well, I don't know what I needed, but this helped. Being with you, having you here, it helps," he says, his tone quiet. He pulls back, eyes glassy, his gaze searching.

"I'm glad," you say, swallowing.

"I love you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck.

"I love you, too," you reply, a smile pulling at your lips.

Wolffe falls silent, his eyes closing, and you can feel his muscles relax, his body sagging. The exhaustion is finally catching up with him, the adrenaline of the fight, followed by the intense release, leaving him drained. He's spent, and the realization has a fondness blooming in the pit of your stomach.

He's always so tough, and it's rare that he lets his guard down, even when the two of you are together. It's not the first time he's shown you his softer side, but tonight seems different. Tonight, it's the most vulnerable you've ever seen him, and you can't help but admire him, the way his face has gone slack, his brows no longer drawn, his eyes no longer filled with pain.

"You're tired," you say, running a hand through his hair and pushing the damp locks from his face. "Let's get cleaned up, and then we can go to bed."

"I don't want to move," he mutters, burying his face against your neck.

"Wolffe, come on. Up," you coax, your hands running over his shoulders. You drag your nails down the back of his neck, and he shivers, his arms tightening around you.

"No. 'M comfortable," he mumbles, his mouth pressing against the soft skin below your ear. His lips drag over the shell, and he sighs, his breath hot against your skin.

“There’s no way that’s true,” you tease, and you pinch his side, making him jump.

"Hey!"

"Up, please. My ass is falling asleep."

"Fine," he huffs. He cracks his eye open and gives you a pointed look, and then he's shifting, pulling out, the mess of fluids following.

"Fuck, that's a lot," he murmurs, his hand reaching between your legs.

You shiver, the feeling of his fingers slipping against your slickened skin almost too much.

"Stop it, Wolffe," you chide, and you're rewarded with a grin, the look in his eye mischievous.

"Alright, alright," he relents, pulling his hand away. "Can't blame a man for wanting to play a little."

"You can play all you want in the morning," yo say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

"I'll remember that."

"You better," you retort, and he chuckles, the sound making you smile.

Wolffe finally straightens, his back cracking as he stretches. He rolls his neck, and a pained groan escapes, his face twisting into a grimace. You wince, and he lets out a tired laugh, his lips curling into a half-smile.

"I'm getting old."

"No, you're not," you argue, sitting up.

"I am. I can feel it. Next thing I know, I'll be one of those old men, complaining about my back," he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Well, if you'd stop being such an idiot and letting people throw you through tables, maybe it wouldn't be an issue," you mutter as he approaches with a damp washcloth, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of soap.

"Ah, you can't blame me. I had a good reason."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," he says, and the look in his eyes is soft. He reaches out, running his thumb over the apple of your cheek. "I had a feeling I was going to get a nice reward for my efforts."

"Oh, did you now?"

"I did," he replies as he works, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And I think I'll get a few more in the morning."

"I bet you do," you say, unable to hide the smile that's threatening to spill over.

"Now, hold still. Let me get this cleaned up."

You nod, and Wolffe's eyes move, his gaze drifting over your body. He takes his time, wiping away the mess that's coated the tops of your thighs, and his touch is gentle as he cleans between your legs, his motions measured and precise. When he's finished, he throws the cloth in the hamper down the hall and returns, scooping you into his arms.

"I'm not completely useless, you know," you say, wrapping an arm around his neck.

"Oh, I'm very aware of that," he replies, his lips twitching. "But I want to carry you."

"Alright, then," you murmur, unable to deny the warmth that spreads through you at the gesture.

Wolffe carries you through the apartment and down the hall, his steps slow and steady. The lights are dim, and the darkness is peaceful, the sounds of the city outside muted. It's late, and you know the two of you should get some sleep, but the thought is drowned out by the comfort that comes with being pressed against him, his arms strong and secure around you.

"Think we still have time for an episode of Love Island?" you ask as he nudges the bedroom door open.

Wolffe chuckles, the sound low and soft, and you smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"Yeah, cyare. I think we do."

taglist: @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @spicy-clones @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @bimboshaggy @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @ghostymarni @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @callsign-denmark @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @captn-trex @feral-ferrule @webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams

[reverieblondie]

Tiefling man (or men—if you feel like writing multiple) of your choice pinning you to a wall and biting/nipping your throat.

Sorry this took so long! I was kinda taking an unofficial break from request, But now I am back to doing them! So excited! I am very proud of this one I rewrote it from what I originally had so I hope you like it! Also I couldn't think of anything for Dammon so I used @sinkuna / @dark-and-kawaii OC Kieran. I love him so so much!

(Rolan, Cal, Zevlor, and Kieran)

18+ MDNI! Fem Reader, SMUT!

Rolan

Is he… trying to intimate you or eye fucking you? 

As you look over to Rolan, you see him staring at where you are leaning over the front counter, waiting for Cal to get you the scroll you ordered. You are not unaware of Rolans staring problem, but you're never one to back down from a staring contest. So, game on Archmage. 

When you start staring, you notice how Rolan at first seems a bit surprised with how his eyes widen the size of saucers and his skin flushes a bit darker; you think for a second he's going to look away, but then when you smile he seemed to look less tense… 

The longer the silent game went on, the more smug he became; you watched him get comfortable as he leaned against the wall of books with his arms folded and an arrogant smirk on his lips. Then he walked over, never once leaving your gaze. Closer now you watched as his eyes wander over you, his body coming so close to yours, and right as his lips part. He breaks the gaze by looking down at his feet. And you erupt in glee. 

"Ha! Too bad, Rolan, you lose." 

You should have guessed it from the look on his face; he looked so confused and kinda hurt…

Before you could say anything else or even ask, Cal interrupted with a chipper smile and your scroll. Rolan took that moment to move away without a word. You watched as he made his way to the stairs, but before he left, he turned to look over at you one last time, his brow furrowed, his broad shoulders now slumped, and his lips in a prevalent frown. Rolan let out a quick scoff before quickly disappearing up the stairs, leaving you with more questions than answers. 

You wanted to follow after him, but if he was angry, you didn't want to push it. 

"What's the matter with Rolan? Did I interrupt something?" Cal asks, concerned. 

You continue to stare off, baffled, before turning to Cal, "I have… no idea. We were staring-" 

"Oh! You finally noticed?" -huh?  

You turn to him and lift your brow at him to elaborate, "You finally noticed how he looks at you, right?" 

"Um, I thought it was a staring contest… What do you mean how he looks at me?" 

Cal shakes his head with a sympathetic smile, "You have to figure it out; I'm not explaining it. He wouldn't want me to." 

So, you left… but, of course, as you got home, you began to think, and your mind immediately went to Rolan. He was the one staring at you with those keen, bright eyes first. Why did he have to get so angry with you? It had been going so well…

Ugh! This is so frustrating. If he has a problem, why doesn't he just talk to you? He has never had an issue with it before, nagging at you with that… soothing, sexy voice. 

You roll your eyes; this is ridiculous… Maybe you should go talk to him? No! If he has a problem, he has to come to you! And that's exactly why you're going back to sundries to make him have to come to you! 

Sure, it's hours later, and they will be closing the store soon… but Cal still told you where Rolan was hiding for the rest of the night while he dragged Lia out to the tavern for the rest of the night. You're not exactly sure what he had in mind, but you're not complaining about it. 

You walked through the quiet halls of the tower, looking through the endless bookshelves, hoping to run into him. Finally, turning a corner, you see him reading at his desk, his profile so sharp and striking, and his nose. You don't know whether to bop it or ride it. 

Rolan finally peers up from his book, meeting your eyes, and you watch as he jumps, muttering something in a deep infernal. He fixes his posture before walking over to you with a sneer. 

"What are you doing here?" 

You scrunch your face into a matching scowl of your own, "I came to see what your problem is?" 

Rolan looks at you confused, as if you have sprouted a second head before moving back to one of irritation. "My problem? You're the one coming in here unannounced!"

"You're acting weird, I thought we were playing a game." 

Irritatingly, he tilts his head adorably." Game? What are you talking about?" 

You feel a sharp sting in your chest, "Yes… you know, the one you started with your staring." 

Rolans face turns a bright red, "I… I do not stare." 

Rolling your eyes, you're becoming increasingly annoyed with this denial thing. "You stare like you've got a problem." 

You watch as he grits his teeth; you're about to continue making your point in the argument, but you're quickly cut off as he marches over to stare you down. You look up, and it's that same look in his eyes from earlier… but now that he's closer… It looks different. 

"My problem is that you think everything is a game…" He places his hand on your cheek as the other rests against the large shelf behind you, "And when I look at you, I have this… feral urge to make you mine every day." He leans in closer to whisper, "And that's not a game." 

To say you're shocked is an understatement… You feel your pulse race, and your stomach flutter. He places his forehead against yours, "Please say something…"  

Your blood rushes through your body to your lower stomach, and as he moves to lean into your neck, tracing your pulse with his hose and his breath fanning over your sensitive skin.

"Do it…" You say as you touch his chest, feeling his heart racing, and move your hands up to cup his jaw, looking into his golden eyes and his firm lips. "I want to be yours, feel this 'feral urge'" 

You almost want to laugh at that last part; imagining Rolan, someone so composed, going feral, seems like an impossibility. Then you feel his lips against your neck, followed by the feeling of the points on his teeth. The feeling has your body's temperature rise as you cling to his shirt, your thighs tightening the deeper he bites. 

He pulls away before he can break the skin, kissing the dull, deliose pain away as his hands slide down your body to hold onto your hips. You Can't resist yourself as you wrap your legs around his hips and feel his straining length pressing against your sex. The feel of him makes you gasp, and Rolan is quick to catch your lips in a searing kiss swallowing down your moans as he teases your clit through the thin fabric restraining you two. 

The more he ruts against you, the wetter you get, and you can tell from how he begins to whine in his throat he can feel you seeping through the fabric. It doesn't deter him, and he wraps his tail around you and buries himself into your neck. You're begging for him to stop teasing and to split you open on his cock as you reach up to grab one of his horns. 

That's all he needed to hear before he ripped off your soaked panties and bit down on the curve of your neck, letting the trickle of iron fall on his fevered tongue, and his cock teased your quivering entrance, taunting you to beg for more.

Cal

It's another night spending the hours playing drinking games and sharing stories of your recent adventures with your fellow patrons, just waiting for him to walk through the door… You two had been writing letters back and forth since the day you had left, and now, as you make your way back to the city, you're hoping to see him again. 

Your fingers anxiously tap as the noise around you becomes a dull drone of sound, and your eyes stay fixed on the door. Then he walks through; Cal walks in with that friendly smile as he surveys the room. Then his eyes meet yours, and you see how his grin gets a bit brighter, and your heart races a bit quicker. It's hard not to be smitten with him; you have been pining for a while now… but no matter what you do, that dork just can't seem to take the hint. 

Cal weaves through the crowd, and you're quick to stand on your feet to meet him in the middle; as soon as you're in reach, he's lifting you up in a sweeping hug. Yeah, when others do this same embrace, you are quick to dodge, not wanting to be touched, but something about feeling Cal's muscles coil in his arms and feeling the strength of his hands as he slightly squeezes your back, tickling you with the points of his claws. Well, it's just so much better… 

After your little twirl leaves you feeling weightless, Cal is quick to take you to the bar, "I want to hear everything you have gotten into!" 

"You know if you want adventure, you should join me on my next trip. Think Rolan can spare you for one?" 

Cal smiles, tilting his mug around to play with the golden fizz inside, "Well, I would love that, but I'm not much of an adventurer… Maybe I could be the camp guard and help make your meals!" 

Oh, someone needs to wife him up…  -That person could be you if you stop dragging your feet!

You quickly grab his hand and squeeze it, "I think that sounds like a grand idea." 

Time and everything else just seems to disappear when Cals is around; you two get lost in sharing stories and lame jokes. He truly is the best part of this city…  And it turns out you're not the only one who knows this…

Though everything around you sounds just like endless yammering, you hear a sentence that makes your ears twitch. 

"Isn't that the archmages, brother?" 

"Yes, isn't he cute? He's apparently really nice and can practically lift a crate of books with one hand." 

"Think he could throw me around then?"  

No! That's your plan! You throw a glare at the two sudden rivals in the room while also trying not to be noticed by Cal. Lucky for you, he doesn't, but the two staring solely at him don't really notice you either. You need to show that you're his, and there will be no cutting in. While you're racking your brain for an idea, you feel a hand nug your chin up, making you meet Cal's bright eyes. 

"Hey, you look like you're zoning out. Are you ready to leave?" 

You're quick to mutter out a string of nos as you grab onto his arm. Cal tilts his head, confused, but you just go with the first thing you can think of, "I'm sorry… I'm just… cold?" 

"Cold? But the fire is right there?" Cal points to the roaring fireplace stationed nearby, and you're kicking yourself for your lack of awareness, but you will not be deterred! 

"Well… I'm still cold… Could I hold your hands?" You mutter as sweetly as possible. Cal, being the gentleman, doesn't even question it before he grabs your hands with a big smile. Please, gods, don't let your hands get sweaty. 

You feel his thumbs rub slowly over your hands, and you just have to take the plunge, "I wish I had this all the time." 

His thumbs stop before you hear him chuckle loudly. -Okay, not what you were expecting. 

"Yeah, it is pretty nice; I don't have to worry about getting cold as easily." 

That's not what you meant… 

You hang your head down to stare at your boots; why did you have to fall for such a loveable airhead. You thought that was the perfect approach, direct and sweet. But… maybe that's not clear enough. Maybe it's going to have to be you showing him and everyone in here. You're already doing your fair share of public affection by holding his hand, what's a little more. 

So you just go for it and lean into him, pressing a kiss on his cheek. You know your face is beat red by the sheer amount of heat you feel radiating off of you. Building up your nerve, you peer up and see Cal looking surprised, but at least know he finally understands…

Cal just smiles at you with earnest eyes, "You're so sweet, you know that?"

You let go of his hands and slumped against the table, "I'm not trying to be sweet... I'm trying to be alluring... Show you how I feel... to see how you feel..." 

"Re-really?" He sounds surprised, and it only makes your heart squeeze more the damn ditz. "Well, if you want to know how I feel… we should probably go somewhere private." 

Your head pops up, and you see his cheeks a shade of dark red, and he bashfully rubs his neck. 

"Wait, are you saying you like me too?" 

He holds his hand out to you, "Do you want me to tell you? Or do you want me to show you?" 

The choice was clear… 

You retake hold of his hand and let him lead you through the crowd, wearing the proudest smirk on your face. Once alone, Cal gently pins your body to the nearest wall while his tail coils around your thigh as his lips slip against yours. He angles your mouth to open where he lips in his tongue past your lips to tease yours. 

A soft whine slips from your throat as his grip only tightens on you; he parts from your lips and traces your neck with his tongue. "You know how long I have been dreaming of tasting you?" 

"H-how do I taste?" 

Cal pulls back to meet your eyes; he gives you a quick kiss before he drives his fingers underneath the hem of your trousers, "So far? Like the heavens, but I need more to really know." 

With a nod of your head, Cal is sinking to his knees, pulling your pants down over your hips and past your thighs. They are not even to your ankles yet before he is driving his forked tongue over your slick folds and growling into you. You throw your hands up to brace yourself as he sinks his claws into the flesh of your thighs and parts you open on his hot tongue. 

"Just what I thought, definitely sweet…" 

Zevlor

You know what you're doing; you've been doing it for hours just to get him bothered... and much to Zevlors chagrin, it's working. 

It started this morning when he woke up to you wearing his favorite shirt… One of the few that are tattered with rips and holes. Zevlor watched as you pranced around him all morning in that shirt, giving him coffee and making him eggs, but when he would reach for you, you would step away with a smirk. You watched as his face twisted in worry, but you made sure to just shrug it off with a sweet smile. 

"Sorry, Commander, I have errands to run."

Zevlors' brow lifted at the name; he was used to 'darling' or 'my sun,' but 'Commander' was a new one that was definitely making him feel a bit flushed. He could tell you were up to something, and he couldn't help but take the bait. 

"Would you like company, my dear?" 

You let out a long hum like you were actually considering it before you agreed to let him "tag along." By the time you two had made it to the city, he had figured out you were playing a game and acting like a true brat. Walking in front of him and demanding your way? Pouting and huffing at anything that might suggest you wouldn't get your way. He racked his mind, wondering if he might have upset you, but nothing came to mind. What was your deal? 

Well, your deal was simple… Get Zevlor riled up so that he will take care of this newfound brat attitude of yours. It was an idea Shadowheart had given you, and you were excited to see if the famed zero-tolerance hellrider would come out… but he needed a bit of a push. 

You stopped abruptly in his way, making him run into you as your ass pressed against his groin, "I have something for me in there." 

Zevlor watched your pointed finger as you pointed to a fairly unassuming shop, but walking in was a different story… He had never seen such tiny and sheer clothes in one place. Feeling like he would be out of place in a shop clearly not meant for him, he offered to wait outside. But that wasn't going to fly with your plan. 

"Aw? Shy? Come on, I thought you Hellriders were an unbothered brave bunch?" You stepped closer, tracing your finger over his chest. "I got something custom made, you know… I wanted to show you…" 

So there he sat, waiting for you on the other side of the curtain; you, of course, made him wait till you heard his throat clearing, a tic of his to show he was uncomfortable. Once that was heard, you were throwing the curtain back and giving him a preview. A tight corset number that pushed your breast up to be practically spilling out the top and the rest of the outfit? Practically non-existent. A small triangle of cloth covered your mound, and when you turned, your ass was completely exposed. 

"A thong." you simply said with a smile.

It took everything in himself to not dig his nails into you and bend you over. But you two were in public, so he told himself not to wait until he got home, but you were making it hard…

"It's lovely. Are we taking it home today?" you could hear the hope in his voice. 

"No, it's still being worked on," you said matter-of-factly, and it took you everything not to squeal when his face furrowed. 

"Did… you just do this to tease me?" 

You played with your hair as you watched him from the mirror, "I don't know? Is it working?" 

Your fate was sealed. As you two left the shop, you both knew the game that was being played. It was just a manner of seeing when the other would crack. Zevlor was determined to make it home while you were just waiting for the snap.  

As Zevlor watched you stroll through the city, he noted how everything you did seemed to be laced with temptation. Your hips swaying, your eyes lingering, and your lips always in a glossed smirk, practically toying with him. But Zevlor is a gentleman, and though his eyes are currently leering on your ass, he won't just bend you over the nearest cart. You deserve better than that. 

You didn't want better than that. 

As you walk, you realize that your plan isn't working, and it's causing your teeth to grind. There has to be something to get him to scold you or show you any kind of unfiltered desire… Then, a thought flicks into your mind. With a whisper and a flick of your hand, you summon a simple spell, just a random wind gust. Just enough to get some action going…

The sudden gust of wind forces your skirt to fly up as you turn... and there he sees you, completely bare for him... Zevlor can no longer hold himself together.

You watch his face twist from shock to a stern stare before he marches over, grabbing your hand and dragging you out of sight. 

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he growls from under his breath, making your skin tingle. 

You would be lying if you said you weren't excited about your scolding from the ex-hellrider, but what happened was something you didn't see coming. He led you through the alley to the shadows. Zevlor is quick to press you to the nearest wall with his body pinning you in place. His full lips so close and his glowing eyes furrowed, you parted your lips to continue to taunt, but the words were cut from your throat as you were spun to face the wall and not your Commander. 

"I've had enough of your teasing..." his rich voice husked into your ear as his hands frantically lifted the back of your dress. 

You whimper as the cool air breezes across your exposed ass, "Teasing? I don't know what you could possibly-" 

A hot slap strikes across your ass, making you gasp into the stone wall. 

Zevlors hand caresses your flushed flesh, "Please continue to lie if you want to bend over my knee. You have been teasing me, haven't you?" 

You nod, and it's another slap to your ass that makes your eyes roll to the back of your skull, "Your words, please." he demands. 

"Yes, I- I wanted my commander's attention…" 

The weight on your back eases, and you turn to look at him over your shoulder; you see him with a smile that makes your knees weak. Then a flicking over your clit as you're keening and curling forward at the intensity.  

Zevlors hands spread across your ass, digging his hands into your flesh … "If you want my attention, you shall have it." 

His hand joins his tail, parting your slick folds and teasing your entrance, while the other works at the laces on his trousers, "Now, what should I do with such a brat?" 

"The spanking was doing something…" 

His trousers drop, and you feel his lips on your skin as he brushes aside your hair and his index and middle fingers push into your quivering hole with a painful, slow cadence. He is going to make you beg by the end of this, isn't he? 

"You're lucky I don't have my belt today." He curls his fingers in you, finding the spot that has your toes curling and your breaths picking up. "But I can figure out other ways to make you listen." 

Needless to say, your plan worked perfectly.

Kieran

Your nails dig into your palms as you press yourself further against the tavern's dark wall. You're a room away from everyone else, just like he planned…

Kieran's sharp teeth shine even in the darkness, and he watches your nerves take over your body. He traces his finger over your racing pulse, "How come every time I see you, you get all shy? You think I'm going to hurt you?" 

It's true since you met him, you have always claimed up in his presence. Maybe it's because of his striking beauty… or his reputation… The other servers warned you of his cruel tendencies. So you tried to keep a distance, but that must have made him want to seek you out more. Taunting and toying at you, and now he's got you alone and pinned.

 “Well… I…” 

He steps closer, bringing his arms to cage you against the wall. You look up to see him smiling, and his eyes glow. Gods, why is he so handsome? He could be the man of your dreams if he didn't have such a reputation. 

"Well, now you're trapped, so answer my question? Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" 

Your body shakes, and your thighs tighten, "Yes…" 

He brings his lips to your ear, "Yeah? You might be right…" 

Then you feel his teeth sink into your neck. You squirm in his hold at first, terrified, but as he bites down, he leans further into you, soothing you with his body heat and the feeling of his hands sliding from your chest down to your ass, pulling up your dress. The pain dulls into a bliss that has your body feeling like you're floating. You don't even notice how your panties are moved to the side by your own hand, touching yourself. Kieran parts from your neck to watch you with a grin. His tail coils around your ankle as you move your hand faster and faster against your sex. 

You don't know if it's a spell or if it's your desire… but you can't stop yourself from wanting him. Before you can reach your bliss, he moves your hand away, looking at the slick coating of your fingers. He laughs at you at first, making your chest cramp up in shame, and then you watch as he licks your fingers clean. 

"Spread your cunt for me, shy girl…" He lifts your body off the ground with your legs spread open wide. You hold tightly onto his neck, digging your nails into his skin, fearful he will drop you. 

Your skirt is trapped up your hips, and your stockings are ripped from his hands, scratching your sensitive skin. Then you feel something thick and hot slap against your quivering cunt. It has you getting slicked and holding on tighter. 

"W- Wait, what if someone hears?" 

He chuckles as he slaps his cock against you again, "Don't be loud, and we won't have a problem…" He licks the shell of your ear as he slowly splits you on his length, "But I bet I can make you scream." 

[earlgreylatte]

Her

(Spectre Hal Jordan x Reader) Your dead lover returns to you in a different form. Not that you really mind…

Tossing and turning for maybe the fiftieth time tonight, you kick your legs out in frustration. No matter how hard you tried to drift off, you were damned to stay awake.

You had thought that you were finally able to move past the many nights of dread and loneliness, knowing the man you once shared a bed with was irrevocably gone, but even with time, the hollow feeling of loss lingered.

Hero, traitor, murderer, and saviour at the very end, Hal left you and your image of him a mess of broken shards.

The only thing you could do was continue on without him, trying to bury the painful memories. But despite your best efforts, his presence continued to haunt you. Phantom touches grazing your face and illusions of him at every corner, he existed in your life as a ghost; cruel and unreachable.

Shaking your head, you slap a hand against your eyes, already aware sleep was a losing battle now that he’s evaded your mind.

“Hal…”

A murmur of his name leaves you, whether as a curse or evocation, you’re not sure, but the urge to call out for him emerged from somewhere deep into your chest.

You just hadn’t expected anyone to respond.

The syllables of your name intoned by a husky voice had you jolting up, searching the darkness of your room only to be met with a green clad figure, pale skin glowing.

A…woman?

You feel a small twinge of relief for a moment before reaffirming a home invader is in fact a home invader.

“Uh, could you…go?” You request.

That had you wincing in embarrassment.

She calls your name again, an amused cadence in her words, “You always have been nicer to ladies than men…”

You stare at her for a moment longer, observing her more closely. The way she said your name, familiar and slow, but not new. The longing but hesitant posture now more clear.

“Hal?”

She remains silent before moving closer, her presence heavy, but not unpleasant. Not unfamiliar.

“I didn’t think you would recognize me like this…”

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” You ask, accepting this was a dream, one where Hal appeared to you as a ghost lady. You didn’t want to think about what that says about your current state.

“I was, but then I was reborn again, as Spectre, arbitrator of retribution and vengeance,” she explains simply, as if you two were discussing groceries.

“So, that transitioned you into a woman?” You tilt your head, trying not to overtly stare at your dead lover’s chest.

She laughs, “I am an aspect of Hal Jordan. I embody the female energy that resides in his mind, heart, and spirit, in the same way it does for every individual.”

“Bet Oliver would pay to see this…” you trail off before startling, “Aspect? So, if you’re just one part of him, where’s…the whole Hal? Why hasn’t he come? Not that I mind you being here…!”

“He comes, every night really, watching you from afar, no matter how much it continues to pain him,” the spectre responds, weight now resting on your bed as she brings a hand to caress your face. It was surprisingly warm. Real.

“So, he gets to see me whenever he wants, but won’t even allow me to catch a glimpse of him, to know that he’s here?” You feel a stinging sensation in your eyes. How many more tears do you have to shed for him to return?

“I’m— he’s guilty. He doesn’t feel like he should subject you to anymore heartbreak.”

“He doesn’t get to decide that!” You retort hotly, “No, I shouldn’t take it out on you…or maybe I should?”

“I don’t mean to confuse you, I was selfish coming here knowing he was too preoccupied to visit tonight. I should leave you to finally rest.” The weight on your mattress shifts as she moves away, and in a panic you clumsily grab at her, frantically trying to make her stay.

She pauses. You stiffen.

You slowly remove your hands from Hal’s breasts.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s nothing you haven’t already felt…in another form, I suppose.”

“It just happened—“

“If you so desired, I’d be more than happy to let you explore me more thoroughly.” At that moment, you realized she really was all Hal.

You stutter for a moment, before resolutely reaching out to grasp her hand, smaller and more lithe than the larger ones you remember. But being able to touch Hal again, even if this was all just some fever dream, was something you’d always be grateful for, you realize.

She shifts closer, hands firmly moving you to rest on your back as she settles atop of you, her ghostly complexion and familiar green mask staring back at you, black lips twitching for a second before they meet yours. You grip her shoulders, desperately trying to get her closer as she devours you with a hunger you haven’t felt in ages.

Hal, Hal, Hal—

The fact a kiss was enough to have you feeling like this would have had Hal more than smug, but it seemed like she was just as starved of contact as you.

“I missed you,” she whispers, heavily, “This whole time I never stopped thinking about you, wanting to show myself—“

She exhales before burying her face against your neck, mouthing at your flesh.

You grip on her tightens, willing this moment to last longer, until she declared that she, Hal, was going to stay.

But just as quickly as it started, she pulled away with an irked expression.

“To be jealous of your own self…men,” she mutters, thumb brushing a tear from under your eye before she kisses you again. You hadn’t realized you were crying.

“Every part, aspect, and fibre of Hal Jordan’s being loves you, always. Remember that,” she whispers against your lips before tracing a finger across your forehead, and you felt yourself slipping away no matter how hard you tried to keep your eyes open.

When you awoke the next morning, groggily pulling yourself out of bed into the washroom, you screamed, noticing the red mark on your neck.

It wasn’t a dream…!

FIRST TO WRITE FOR FEM SPECTRE X READER!! I’m no coward (the same cannot be said for dc)!!

Edit: I did not realize it was Yuri Day😂

Masterlist

[camelspit]

Best Keeper Character 2025: Portrait Signups

What is it?

Like in the kotlc sexy competitions, artists sign up to make portraits of all of the characters (who made it past preliminaries) to be used in the polls. You will have until July 30 to complete the portraits and turn them in!

How to Sign Up?

Send me a tumblr message asking for the characters that you want, and I'll let you know if they're available as soon as possible! I recommend signing up sometime between June 24 - June 30 to give yourself as much time as possible to do them!

DO NOT send me an ask when signing up. Messages are a lot easier for me to keep track of.

Rules

You can sign up for as many portraits as you want, but I wouldn't suggest going over 5 because you only have a month to do them.

The canvas can be as large as you want, but please make sure that it's square (or, if you're drawing traditionally, as close as you can get to a square)

Traditional and Digital drawings are both accepted

Color is not required but it is strongly encouraged

You can draw as much of the character as you want, whether thats just a head or a full body.

The drawings do not have to be entirely canon accurate (hcs like piercings, poc vackers, ginger marella, etc. are allowed) but please make sure that it's still identifiable as the character. If you have any questions about that, feel free to message me or send me an ask!

If you think your portrait will be late or you need to drop out, PLEASE tell me as soon as possible!

To turn it in, you can send it to me directly and/or post it and tag me

List of Characters below the cut. I will try to update it as signups continue! If a name is colored in blue, that means the character is unavailable.

Alvar Vacker

Amy Foster

Biana Vacker

Brant [REDACTED]

Councillor Bronte

Master Cadence

Calla

Cyrah Endal

Councillor Darek

Della Vacker

Dex Dizznee

Edaline Ruewen

Elwin Heslege

Elysian

Ethan Benedict Wright II

Fintan Pyren

Fitz Vacker

Flori

Lady Galvin

Garwin Chang

Gethen Ondsinn

Lady Gisela

Grady Ruewen

Grizel

Iggy

Jensi Babblos

Jolie Ruewen

Juline Dizznee

Jurek

Kesler Dizznee

Linh Song

Livvy Sonden

Marella Redek

Maruca Chebota

Prentice Endal

Quinlin's Receptionist

Rayni Aria

Rex Dizznee

Ruy Ignis

Mr Snuggles

Sophie Foster

Stina Heks

Tam Song

Councillor Terik

Tiergan Alenefar

Tinker

Umber

Lady Vespera

Wylie Endal

Yuri

[sneezee27]

Cold Hands

I'm rewatching Stranger Things and my crush on Eddie quickly came back :) Also first fic soo sorry for any mistakes.

Hellfire ran late again as it always does, usually the schools parking lot is empty. Which actually a good thing because it guarantees that practice is over for all the jocks and there are no stragglers roaming the halls or the parking lot. The only downside is that he can't see you after your cheer practice is over but he'd rather not have all of Hellfire know about how hard he is pining for you. Eddie roams the empty halls toward the back since he usually parks behind the school as its closets to the woods, where his usual business route is. So imagine his surprise when he sees a familar white BMW still parked, not because the owner and Eddie are friends -god no- instead he recognizes the car because you are always in the passenger seat. He wished and dreamed that it was his run-down van that you were the passenger of. Eddie thinks about it so much he already has a plan of what he would do if you ended up sitting beside him while he drives. He would park closer to the school so you wouldn't have to walk far from your cheer practice. He would have a blanket on your seat so you wouldn't have to see all the stains or the loose crumbs that never leave no matter how much Eddie cleans. He would make sure that Hellfire would end on time so you wouldn't have to wait because he wouldn't be able to focus being the DM if you were in the room or worse have you wait in the cold especially since you shower after practice. He realizes that makes him sound like a perv for knowing that but he only knows because the very rare time d&d finished on time, he saw you coming out of the girl's locker room with your hair still wet. Back to his dream, he would take you back to his trailer where you two listen to music while you lay in his bed and talk about anything and everything. When it was time for bed you would change into his clothes and since its winter sometimes the trailer heater isn't strong enough so he'll pile all his blankets on you, climb under, then hold you till the next morning. Depending on the type of day he had this dream stays sweet and pure but sometimes his dream ends up being sexual where no one gets a good nights sleep. Just depends on whether or not he sees you in that tight uniform. But since you two are on opposite sides of the social ladder that thought was likely to stay in his dreams forever. Although there is nothing that says he can wish because everytime he gets in his van, its all he can imagine but there is no one besides his empty cups and his work "briefcase" as he likes to call it since that metal lunchbox stocked with drugs does help keep the lights on.

He looks up to see whether or not your are sitting next to that stupid jockstrap of a boyfriend you have. And no surprise you are but you clearly don't look happy. In fact, he has never see you look so annoyed before. You and your boyfriend are clearly arguing and you are so fed up that you get out of the car, slamming the door as you both continue to argue through the rolling down window.

"I said I don't how sorry you are! I told you no!"

"It was one time! An accident and it won't happen again! Just get back in the car, we are not done talking because you clearly don't understand what i'm saying."

"Do you think I am an idiot!? How many times do I have to tell you that i'm done!"

"Fine!" he said as he peel out of the parking lot.

You just sighed and turned back towards the school where you will probably have to find a phone to call for a ride but thats when you see Eddie just standing there by his van.

"Oh! Um hey." you awkwardly smiled and waved.

"Yeah, hey."

"So how much did you see?"

"Not that much." you had a questioning look one your face "okay, well up to the part where you slammed the door and till that jerk drove off" Eddie just scratched his cheek while you laughed.

"Well, thanks for not lying." Eddie watched you pause and hesitate on your next sentence. "You wouldn't happen to be able to give me a ride home." Eddie's heart was pounding because this was exactly what his was dreaming of when he should of been focusing on whatevers going on in english class.

"Sure, um just give me a second." He opened the van door and quicky slammed it. "Actually no! Can you turn around."

"Sure, but just so you know I don't mind." you said, smiling at him before you turned around. Eddie quickly grabbed the trash and threw it in the back seat and threw his leather jacket to cover his seat. He didn't care how cold it was, he wasn't going to let you get crumbs stuck to the back of your legs even if you are wearing jeans now.

"m'lady." he cleared his throat and did a small bow while he held the door open for you.

"Thank you" you climbed in, Eddie closed the door for you and you watched him awkwardly run to the drivers side. You find it so weird that only a few minutes with Eddie is already making you feel a lot less shitty than you did before. You look down to see his signature leather jacket under you legs and you watch Eddie rub his hands against each other in front of the vents once he gets into the van. You make a mental note that Eddie is much more of a gentleman than your ex. He's been taking bettter care of you in this short moment than your ex did during your whole relationship so you decide to grab Eddie's hands and cover his with yours. "Ah they're like ice!"

"You know you didn't have put your jacket on the seat. I told you I don't care." Eddie's stomach flutter when he noticed how big of the contrast was in your tone was in comparison to when you were talking, well yelling at your boyfriend-who he hoped was now your ex. "The winter here is too harsh for you not to wear a jacket, even it its for a few seconds."

"I could have but I didn't want you to see how the maids always miss this spot." he jokingly rolled his eyes.

"Oh." you smiled. "Is this any better?" you ask while squeezing his hands.

"It's perfect." Eddie notices how your body is turned towards him and he looks up to see how close your faces are. You look up and realize how pretty Eddies dark brown eyes are, actually you knew how pretty but you've never been this close to him before. You are starting to forget why you were feeling so angry earlier.

Eddie thought that this was a once and a lifetime opportunity so he was going to make the most of it. He noticed how your eye contact didn't wavier from his -when the usual treatment is dirty looks because the freak is staring- and how tightly you were holding his hands as a good sign. You didn't say anything and you never looked away or let his hands go. So as his heart was pounding out of his chest, as much as he would hate to let your hands go, he moved them out of yours. One hand went to the bottom of the your coat, fiddleing with the zipper while other rested on your knee.

"You know you in the van of the local freak. Shouldn't you be running away?"

"I think you're more of a nerd than a freak."

"A nerd? What makes you say that?" the distance between each other never changing.

"Playing D&D, alone makes you a nerd but also the fact that you know a lot of facts about the stuff you care about like metal music. Thats nearly textbook for a nerd well I guess a uncover nerd"

"And just how do you know that?"

"You're not very quiet at lunch and..." he feels you grabbing on to his hand that was fiddling with your zipper. "I might of had a crush on you since we had math together."

"Are you messing with me?"

"No."

If Eddie was thinking straight he wouldn't have just blindly believed you but that was all the conformation he needed. So he finally grabbed your chin and softly pushed his against yours. You smile into the kiss and grabbed his face because he was kissing you as if you'd break. Eddie moved his other arm off your knee to bring them to your face but it awkward fumbling made him hit his elbow on the horn which makes you both jump away from each other. At least you two are still in the empty parking lot so no but you two noticed.

"Of fuckin course." you laugh and he just sighs then starts laughing too.

"So Eddie, are you coming home with me?"

[creator4favestuff]

Sorry if there are any error grammars!

Following my previous post-

The first person to “test it out”?

Bumblebee.

He's so curious about it!

Since in canon they don't know what such things are- (i.e Sari explaining human biology to Optimus in the park)

Plus, you're his friend, and he wants to help you out. He's seen how stressed everything's been making you, so as the declared "best friend", Bee offers his help!

One day, he heads to your room, immediately bringing up your new appendage. However you choose to answer, whether shyly or boldly, he'll ask to look at it.

And maybe a mass displacement machine was built from a random idea the Professor had. So a ray blast here, him on his knees, just...looking at it.

It's...thick. And long. He wants to laugh it off, but a part of him is nervous.

So the questions come out to hide it.

Are they all this size? Do they all look so weird? Some of it has a bit of a glow- It probably shouldn't, right? It kinda reminds him of Cybertronian anatomy, but given the AllSpark did this, it shouldn't be a surprise.

He takes your spike in his servos, and hears you breath harshly and apologizes, but you explain in detail the…delicate nature of it all. His servos fiddle with it, more gently, before his dermas suddenly take the tip.

It startles you, but his upward gaze garners his helmet a gentle pat and a “good mech”. It excites him, and half your spike is already in his intake.

Bee takes it as a challenge to fit it all in and works the best he can, impressively so. By the time his dermas reach your pelvis, you're so close to reaching that high-

And he stops, letting his vents and intake adjust for a moment, feeling victorious for fitting it all in. It gives you enough time to push release back just a bit, questioning if he's okay and that he doesn't have to do so much.

His spark swells at the concern. Though you've always been so caring to everyone, it feels so much more...personal in this moment.

His processor feels fuzzy, and all it seems to want to focus on is you. Making you feel good.

So, with a slow pace, Bee begins giving you your first and best blowjob, one that he tries to prolong so he can get the hang of it.

Until release finally hits, and he feels something warm go down his intake, and for a moment, panics-

But his optics see the dazed yet happy expression on your face, the gentle pats on his helm, and boom.

The worry vanishes and he’s officially hooked.

Sure, it's a bit messy, and he'll "complain" about it at first, but every day without fail, he drives over to Sumdac Tower and gets on his knees, saying and doing whatever you want.

One day, however, he returns to your room with a cheeky grin, and it makes you…nervous. Until he moves to the bed, helm resting on your legs before asking a question.

Could you, with the power of the AllSpark, give him a similar appendage? Or the opposite?

Your confused gaze pushes him to explain that he did some research during a stay at base while the others were on a mission.

It IS a...valid question.

"Heh. Maybe I could even take mine away?"

A joke Bee does NOT like. But you're unsure, unconvinced.

Why give him such a thing? There IS a war with the Decepticons and your missing father. Not to mention, who knows how his body will handle it? Why risk that?

"So we can mix it up. Think of how fun it'll be!"

...

You really shouldn't be surprised.

Bee sees the unamused expression and BEGS for one time. You can take it back afterward, promise! The pleading continues until you finally agree.

Your eyes close, building the image in your mind with quiet concentration, hand on his panel. Nothing happens at first, but a glow emanates from your chest, flowing throughout your body towards the panel.

Bee feels something shift, like his body was physically altering itself to your command, and his optics can only watch in excitement.

For a moment, silence washes over the room, glow gone, with only the moonlight washing over the room. He's quiet at first, as if unsure of WHAT to say.

But you hear a shifting sound, seeing the panel open and showing the valve that…definitely wasn't there before, and it's already clenching around nothing.

His servo holds your hand, and you return the grip. No regret lies in his optics, frame shaking gently with excitement along that silly grin of his, albeit a bit wobbly.

“Aren't you proud of me for doing such good research?"

You nod, pressing a kiss against his helm before brushing your fingers against the outer lips of the valve. He jolts, unfamiliar with the feeling, but keeps still the best he can.

The way your fingers continue their gentle caress, as if exploring it like he did your spike, and the gaze that lingers, locked onto every squeeze and jolt.

Though a startled gasp slips past his dermas when a finger presses itself inside, another unknown touch that makes him heat up. It feels like you're trying to map it out, and he's unsure of why until he feels a spike of pleasure at a specific spot. One your finger continues to press on, that makes him grab onto the sheet beneath him, optics rolled back.

And when that first overload hits?

A loud moan leaves him, body tensing before relaxing, vents trying to stabilize. The forehead kiss certainly helps ground him, but he wants more.

Though it seems you read his mind, moving down to suck his node, while another finger enters his valve, working him to another overload that makes him see stars.

The fact that humans had such a form of pleasure is-

"Huh? What're you doing?"

You're cleaning your fingers off, as if calling it a night, and you say as much-

"But we haven't gotten to the best part! The...what's it called? The-"

"Bee. I don't know if it's gonna fit-"

He frowns at that.

"Hah! Do you know who I am? Of course it'll fit-Try it right now, and you'll see I'm right!"

You raise an eyebrow, sighing before pining him down, "The moment you're in pain, we stop. Understand?"

He nods his head, smiling and aroused at your commanding voice.

With one last sigh, you line your spike to his valve, giving it a bit more prep, before pushing in.

It's slow and indeed a painful stretch. Even the soft encouragement from you can't fully distract him, but Bee won't say anything.

He CAN'T.

Otherwise, it'll all be over!

So he pushes through the pain, digits holding onto the back of your top, optics closed as he focuses on your voice.

Soft, gentle, caring.

But even the wait for his body to adjust causes his patience to wear thin, so he tries to move. It's still painful, but the small movements offer some pleasure.

And you let him do things at his own pace, knowing he wouldn't stop anyways, yet at the same time not really wanting him to.

Bee wants you to move though, tugging at your top while giving you a desperate look that eventually has you moving your hips against him.

Slow at first, still wanting to be cautious, before turning into a fast pace. One that has whimpers and gasps leaving him, legs around your waist now.

He thought those blowjobs were something, but this! This was too much-

His processor couldn't think straight!

“Yes! Please, please- Right there! Right there! Ahh! Too much, too much-Ugh! I-I feel something! Don't stop!”

You can try and keep him quiet, put a hand over his dermas, or stuff his intake with something, but he'll still moan just as loud. Especially when he feels your overload fill him. It’s so warm, valve clenching down on your spike, and his body is pulsing with pleasure.

His servos reach out to keep your hands in place, “Just one more…One more round-I promise that'll be it…”

But it isn't.

It's round after round of pounding his valve, Bee begging for mercy, yet whining profusely the moment you try to pull out. “Stop! Don't pull out! J-Just one more round-Noooo! Please?”

It'll be a long night and a rather awkward talk with the team when you tell them that Bee's “too sick” to work the next day.

But once again, no regret lies in his optics, and he seems pretty content cuddling beside you in bed.

....Maybe letting him keep it for one more day wouldn't be so bad...

[ichigopuddingmuslima]

Just wanted to say to all the Alexei haters as an Alexei apologist (I don't have an audience and I feel like you would understand)

Brainwashing ≠ Torture

This is vital for what I'm about to say..

All three super soldiers (Bucky, Alexei & John) have ALL been brainwashed one way or another.

Just because Bucky's form of brainwashing is more outwardly ugly, does not invalidate the brainwashing both Alexei and John have experienced. No one is immune to propaganda. NO ONE.

In fact, being aware that you're being brainwashed also doesn't make it less affective.

All three are soldiers. All three were trained in some form of military training. That alone already makes them vulnerable to other forms of suggestion. Bucky then proceeded to get tortured for decades. Alexei was puppeteered and praised as a hero. John was given a mantel he could never live up to.

All three discarded and left to pick up the pieces.

I hate when people only focus on Alexei giving up Natasha and Yelena as the reason to hate him. It's a shitty thing to do, but when you're bred and trained and ordered to believe something you do is right, you're not going to question it. At the end of the day, they're all broken people who's done bad things. Whether involuntary or they simply think it's what's right. Give. Them. A chance.

(I'm also 99.9999% sure Alexei is unaware of the human trafficking that Dreykov was doing but people aren't ready to hear that)

Alexei haters can kick rocks with open toed sandals.

Alexei is a victim. The same way that Milena, Natasha, Yelena, and the rest of the Red Room widows are. I thought that was extremely clear in the Black Widow movie but I understand that media literacy is a dying skill.

Alexei says he was thrown into prison for protesting against the government and I believe that. He's done bad things. Really bad things but he is far from a bad person. The Black Widow movie was his start to redemption and the Thunderbolts continues that story. Marvel has historically butchered their characters so I'm hoping to treat him better in fanfiction. I hope I'm doing a good job lol

(He absolutely was unaware of the trafficking!)