#Writer Commentary

[homestuckteam]

November's Patreon content (including concept art and behind the scenes commentary) is now public!

To see more bonus material as it's released https://www.patreon.com/homestuck

[bladekindeyewear]

[S] 8r8k artist/writer commentary part 1

The artist and writer commentary on the first half of the [S] 8r8k flash just came out on Patreon, and I don't read any huge surprises in there, but there are a few interesting things there I'll put under the cut and discuss briefly.

Clarification that the red boots at the beginning are what Kanaya was wearing, I hadn't caught that.

(I haven't mentioned yet-- One last thing I hadn't noticed with the [S] 8r8k extract coming up in my youtube feed and its thumbnail was I'd never freeze-framed on Vriska's final design after emerging, with the extra infinities on her wings, et cetera, it's pretty cool to look at.)

What else from the commentary...

Chumi: Meanwhile, Vriska is losing her shit while (Vriska) watches and waits. This hug is her hardest task yet, apparently. Davepeta is losing their shit watching Vriska losing her shit! I think I made Davepeta look absolutely crazy, but if it took several years for someone to hug another person, I’d be losing it as well. Miles: If we as fans can spend 15 years dealing with the ramifications of Vriska in her messy entirety then surely Davepeta can handle half that time!

Hilarious bit here. Also the code on the back of Dave's card doesn't mean anything but there's a silhouette of Hella Jeff watermark-hidden in the captcha noise.

James: This scene is another example of some of the creative things we can do with class and aspect. Hope is “the destructive force of light, a violent vehicle of positive change and the ability to make the unreal real” while a Page is one who fights to preserve their aspect. Could this have had an effect on the way things unfolded? Who can really say.

Hmmm. I wonder how much to take this at literal value to override my Page theories or how much to just use this to add to our existing old guess at it? Classes can be pretty broad, and this interpretation isn't exactly in conflict with it.

James: In the background (unpictured) of this scene, we see Jade enlarging the heads of the soldiers to the point where it becomes so heavy it snaps their necks.

Interesting, I knew the skulls looked bigger than they should but I thought she was just twisting and snapping them. That's almost overdoing it but it's certainly a little scarier.

The team also mentions they've been decompositing Homestuck-original's gifs to break them down and learn from them to get their "homestuckiness" and timing right, which I've definitely noticed and appreciated since Beyond Canon with the quality increasing and fitting with the original Homestuck better.

Oh, and the Hope-protected Meteor had angels flying off of it too, that was too quick to catch (and consistent with the pre-Game-Over hopesplosion I think but I'd forgotten). Interesting.

[buckets-and-trees]

The epilogue was so sweet! I’m going to miss them. … But maybe not for too long? 🤞🏼🤞🏼😂 (no pressure) ❤️🤍💙

🥹🥹🥹

THANK YOU!!! I am going to be taking a little bit longer before I share some of the other scattered things I hinted at wanting to share/write for Red, White & True, but not forever long. I have a scene that I cut from Election Day that's half-written (I pulled it because I liked it but it just wasn't feeling like it fit in with the pacing of the chapter and I just need to finish it now) and a scene that was originally supposed to be the epilogue that's all outlined but takes place on Inauguration Day. And then there's just another idea that's sort of floating in my head for something that would happen for Steve and Mrs. Rogers in December between the Election and Inauguration...

...but also I have half-developed ideas for a spin off series that I have previously mentioned with a working title of The East Wing. Though I do need to preface that it's not going to be Steve x his Mrs. Rogers Reader, it's a different character and a different reader. 👀

...possibly this summer.

...like maybe July 4th?

(and if that seems SO FAR AWAY, just realize that as I'm posting this, I'm about to go to bed on May 1, so that's only two months and three days, which will literally go like LIGHTNING FAST!)

[justhere4thevibez]

⭐⭐⭐

(take that as an enthusiastic PICK YOUR FAVE or tell me three LOL)

Hooray!!! Thank you jen!

I think I'll give you an easter egg from The Graveyard Smash that nobodys noticed yet! Its very subtle, but I put Chrissy in a red dress very much on purpose, because who else do we know that wears a red dress?

Almost like it was fated or something 😏

Ask me for more directors cuts!

[majestyeverlasting]

｡･ﾟﾟ･ 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐂

“And all I can think about every time you leave is how I let you walk away without telling you how fucking much I enjoy you being around.”

AWWWWWFIJGKS 😩😩🥹🩷🩷

Jk. In all seriousness, this fic is so special to me.

I was scrolling through the reblogs after this reread, and I'm shocked by how long some of you guys have been reading my work. Time really does fly. I'm so grateful for those of you who've been following me for a while, and for all the new readers I've gained along the way.

This was literally me reading the usernames:

Writing this fic was so enjoyable. I'm such a sucker for friends to lovers, and I really wanted to create an air of ease around them. One that really made you believe they've known each other forever and are completely gone for one another even though they hadn't quite said it out loud.

There's so much I could say, but I'll be brief and start with the opening scene.

If I'm remembering correctly, the foundation of this fic was built on the concept of making a wish on an eyelash. I thought it would be the sweetest thing to open with reader taking one off Eddie's cheek. I love starting during small, intimate moments like this when it feels right for the story.

As soon as Eddie feels the pad of your finger meet the skin of his cheek, his lips curl into a soft smile.

Uggh. I just love that mental image.

I'd also like to rally a little commotion for the title drop that occurs a little later (spoken by reader). It's ironic but in the best way.

“Here I was thinking this was gonna be just another Friday night.” 

My approach to choosing of titles is to skim through the fic when it's complete to look for lines of dialogue or description that capture the essence of the story in some way, shape, or form.

This whole fic just feels very youthful, and fun, and sincere. I'm so happy to have shared it with the world. Thank you to everyone who has given this fic a chance (and continues to!). It means so much to me.

-Hannah 🤍

Just Another Friday Night

This piece contains 18+ content and explores the idea of Eddie as a soft dom.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Eddie Munson's been your best friend since fifth grade. And on a night you think is going to pass just like any other, you realize you can't keep running from the way you feel.

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: I hath returned. So excited to finally have this one out for you guys! Hopefully the person who requested this many moons ago is still somewhere in my orbit.

As soon as Eddie feels the pad of your finger meet the skin of his cheek, his lips curl into a soft smile. It brings small lines to the corners of his eyes and reveals the glint of his teeth in the dim light. Concentration sparkles in your eyes like water does beneath the moon. 

Both of you are seated on his messy bed. Him with his legs falling over the edge, and you angled towards him with your legs crossed. His breaths are steady, fingers lax from no longer strumming the strings of his guitar. 

When you finally manage to collect the fallen eyelash from his cheek, you hold out your pointer finger for him to see. If you’d been focussed on the song he was playing rather than studying his face, you never would’ve noticed the tiny hair to begin with. 

“M’kay.” His eyes flick back up to meet yours. “Now what?” 

You raise your finger closer to his lips. “You’ve got a wish to make.”

If there was anyone deserving of one, it was him. It had been almost a year since he crawled out of the Upside Down by the skin of his teeth. Half alive. You remembered all the long nights you’d spent by his hospital bed as he recovered.  

An air of weightlessness washes over both of you after Eddie blows it off your finger. As if somewhere far away, the course of time and happenings shifted in his favor.

“You can finish your song now. Sorry.” Smiling shyly, you tuck your hands into your lap and wiggle to get comfortable.

He smiles wider, but makes a quick work of tampering it back down. 

When he begins playing, you make sure to focus this time, letting the music soak in and flow through you. The passion is palpable, along with the underlying sense of purpose that hangs off the tail end of each resonant note. 

You’d been around to listen to him since the days he played off-tune chords with unsteady hands. As he sat playing now, hair curtained around his face, you knew he could easily captivate thousands if given the chance. 

As the song winds to an end, he looks at you and his fingers slow as the notes dissolve between you. The only thing left for you to do is applaud. Your approval makes him feel like there’s electricity buzzing beneath his veins. 

He absentmindedly strums a few quiet notes to keep his fingers busy, eyes remaining on you. “You’re the first person to hear it all the way through.” 

“Really? I loved it.” Honesty drips like honey from your words. 

He looks down to the fingerboard so you don’t see the faint flush of his cheeks. “Thanks. Lotta practice.”  

When he stands to hang his guitar back on the wall, you watch the way his shoulder blades shift under his t-shirt. You don’t mean to look as hard as you do. There was something captivating about the way he moved. Some days, he couldn’t sit still, but there were also nights like this one where he seemed to have embodied the very essence of ease. 

“So are you gonna add it to your setlist?”

He doesn’t answer right away, making sure Sweetheart is mounted securely. 

“Maybe after I’ve cleaned it up a bit,” he says. “The turnouts have been sick lately.” Gratitude glints in his eyes as they meet yours. 

Playing in front of a crowd at The Hideout was incomparable to selling out a venue like The Garden. But Eddie swore the gratification felt the same. With each new show, it’d been getting harder to find you in the crowd because of how many people had finally started giving him and the boys a chance. He never thought that locating you amid a sea head-bobbing bodies would be a pleasure he ever had. 

“Will I be getting a raise for spreading the word?” You tilt your head and bite back a smile.

He plays along as easily as breathing, biceps flexing as he crosses his arms. “You already eat my snacks, steal my jewelry, and make me drive you around,” he lists. “I don’t know what else there is to offer you, but it sure as hell won’t be Benjamin’s.” 

You have the nerve to blink up at him like a fawn. “It’s not my fault you hardly tell me no.” 

You make it easy to say yes a million times over. Again and again. 

There’s nothing for him to quip back with, so he sighs and studies you for the umpteenth time that night. There’s something amused about the glimmer in his eyes, but a fondness there as well. You’re wearing soft pants and a baggy sweater, looking effortlessly beautiful in a way that only you can manage. 

Guilt wastes no time prickling beneath his skin when you curl in on yourself a bit, self-conscious. You’ve never grown used to the way he makes you feel so seen. Part of you fears he can see right through to feelings you’ve been fighting to keep tucked away. 

He clears his throat and runs a hand through his eternally disheveled hair. 

“Maybe I should get better about that then,” he decides. “Start telling you no more often.” A lighthearted smile pulls at his lips. 

You look over at his alarm clock so you don’t drown within the increasing warmth of his umber eyes. You’re not ready to fall even though that’s what it feels like you’ve been doing for so long. 

He bites his lip in preparation for the weight of his next words, “I’ve been meaning to tell—“ 

“My folks are expecting me back by ten.” It’s the first thing you can think to say despite the fact that they hardly ever give you curfews. “I forgot to mention it sooner.”

“Oh.” He glances to his nightstand to scrutinize the red numbers glowing on the clock. Disappointment swells within him and makes him fidget. “How the hell is it almost ten already? Thing’s gotta be broken.” 

He pats the top of the device as if the right time was suddenly going to appear. “You can’t say for ten more minutes?” You shake your head apologetically. “How ‘bout five?” Another head shake. “Fuck—a minute thirty?” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat, making a helplessly gooey feeling melt down the walls of his chest. 

All too soon, with no success in convincing you, he’s walking you out to your car. 

The night’s chill nips at both of you without reprieve. You hug your arms and break into a jog to escape it faster, leaving Eddie slowly striding behind you in hopes of prolonging his last few moments with you. 

He watches you hop inside your family’s old station wagon and give the engine stuttering life. The headlights are soon to follow, illuminating a cluster of jittery moths. 

The feeling of his stare boring into the side of your face through the window makes you give into the urge to crank it down, handle squeaking faintly along with your movements. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” 

“Like what?” He huffs out a chuckle. “Where am I supposed to look? Up?” He tips his head backwards, and his demeanor immediately shifts. “Hey, the stars are out.” 

You peer through the windshield to see for yourself. Sure enough, countless of them shine like dull guardians miles and miles above lonesome Hawkins. They seem to span forever in every direction. The child in you looks for any surges of brightness or streaks that would indicate a shooting star. 

“The view’s better out here.” There’s a persuasive lilt to his voice. 

You don’t dare get out of the car. If you do, you wouldn’t make it home at all. It was getting too easy to be in his presence, like he was the bread and you were the butter that helplessly melted on top because you knew it’s where you belonged. 

“I really gotta go, E.” You swallow the sadness that wants to color your words as you buckle your seatbelt and settle back into the seat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He kicks at a cigarette butt on the ground, and nods. You were always within arms reach, yet lightyears away. 

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “Copy that.” 

A silence settles between you. The only sounds that prevail are the hum of your car engine, crickets, and muffled peels of laughter carrying from a few trailers down. 

Every time, it was you who pulled away at the eleventh hour before the dawn of something new. 

“Good night, Eddie.” 

•••

The cash register snaps closed with a resonant clamber. A beat later, you’re reaching out to take your change from the middle-aged lady thoughtfully chewing a piece of pink bubblegum behind the counter. The two of you are the only souls in the store. Humming freezers and a quiet instrumental soundtrack fill the air. 

She speaks up as you turn to leave, “You alright there, sweetheart?” 

“Just tired.” You sheepishly raise the bag carrying the Melatonin you’d purchased. 

Even God knew you weren’t going to be able to fall asleep on your own tonight. You’d lie awake thinking of all the reasons why you should’ve stayed. 

You take the time to read her name tag then: Irene. 

Her frown is sympathetic. “It’s a boy, isn’t it?” Warmth rushes to your cheeks. She then leans onto the counter and you feel compelled to take a step closer. “What’s his deal?” She studies your face for any hints before asking a different question, 

“What’s your deal?”  

You shrug lamely, and Irene tilts her head. You don’t owe her an answer, but you can’t help but feel as though you need to hear it for yourself. 

“I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay to be scared.” She blows a bubble and it pops neatly without sticking to her lips. “But it’s up to you to decide if you wanna be scared forever.”

•••

Eddie’s staring up at the ceiling when a faint series of knocks sound at the front door. Instead of moving, he blows out another cloud of smoke and watches as it dissipates into a thin haze in the air. The breeze entering through the cracked window helps filter it out. It isn’t until the knocks get louder that he’s convinced his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. 

What he’s not expecting is for you to be standing at the door. 

“Hi,” you say softly. 

He doesn’t dare question his luck. “H-Hey.” Eddie lowers the joint from between his lips and turns away from you to quickly exhale. “Tonight, uh, doesn’t count.” 

He was supposed to be taking a break from smoking, and you’d promised to help keep him on track. But now, as he stood doing just that for the first time in two months, it wasn’t the joint that captured your attention. It was the reason why, the conflicted look in his eyes that the pungent haze failed to mask. 

His next words get cut off with a cough, and he doesn’t bother trying to say them again. 

You're met by warmth when he motions you inside. Guilt tries to convince you that you don’t deserve another chance, fear says you’re going to blow it. 

“Eddie?” He raises his eyebrows. “I’m really sorry.” 

The way he nods suggests he knew your curfew was fabricated from the start. “Don’t sweat it,” he lifts his shoulder. “I’m gonna go put this out.” He holds up the joint. 

You trail him back to his bedroom, where your eyes roam idly over the posters covering the walls. Different things to say rise to the tip of your tongue, but none of them spill over. 

Eddie turns towards you when he’s done. 

“You didn’t have to lie.” Your shoulders sink as you meet his gaze, but he easily turns to humor, “You could’ve just told me you were tired of being cramped up in a trailer. I probably would’ve agreed.” 

You can feel the ghost of a smile on your face, but you still mean your next words, “I feel like the worst person in the world.” 

His nose wrinkles. “Maybe the fourth or fifth, but definitely not the worst.” 

In spite of everything, both of you find it within yourselves to laugh. It feels good, mending. 

You regain your composure before Eddie, and upon noticing he tries even harder to quell his amusement. It takes a few extra seconds because he’s high, but he finally manages to get himself under control. 

He thinks before his next words, “I wasn’t expecting you to come back. You never do.” A lump forms in your throat as you toy with the hem of your sweater. “And all I can think about every time you leave is how I let you walk away without telling you how fucking much I enjoy you being around.”

You swallow. “I know you do.” 

He shakes his head. “I like hanging out with the guys too—I’ll hang out with anybody if they’re cool.” You watch him with doe eyes as he speaks. “But you, you’re a whole different story. You drive me crazy in the best fucking way ever.” Those words hang thick in the air. “When I blew that eyelash of your finger, I wished—”

“Wait,” you hold out a careful hand, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Don’t tell me.” Part of you wants him to, but not at the expense of the wish not coming true. 

That keeps him quiet for a few seconds. He’s still charged from his confession, electricity having taken the place of blood within his veins. 

“You came back,” Eddie states instead. “Why?” 

His eyes don’t leave you, and you take in his entirety for the first time since you’ve been back. Long hair, short sleeve Metallica shirt, faded pajama pants. He doesn’t have his chest puffed out or his chin turned up in that charming way he often does when he’s working a crowd or a group of friends. 

He’s leveled. No guard up, no mask on, just Eddie. 

The one who’s been by your side since fifth grade. Who could make your sides ache on the days when laughing was the last thing you thought you could do. Who got on your nerves almost every time you were together, but still managed to be one of your favorite people in the world. 

“You know how you always say there’s no shame in running?” you ask, shifting your weight. You’d sat in on enough of his D&D campaigns to have heard that phrase uttered. 

He nods. 

“Well, we both know it’s also worth something when you have the guts to stay. So this is me choosing not to run anymore.” From your feelings or from him. 

The room shrinks and grows one hundred degrees hotter when Eddie moves to stand closer to you. He reaches out to grasp your hand, calluses brushing your skin. The chunky metal rings adorning his fingers glint. 

Your next breath stalls as he presses your palm flat against the left side of his chest. The quickened rhythm of his heart drums against it fiercely. A mix of vulnerability and courage are married in his eyes. 

“Same,” you whisper, and his lips twitch upwards. “Here I was thinking this was gonna be just another Friday night.” 

You let your hand fall from his chest. 

A grin breaks across his face like dawn, more tender than it’s ever been. “I’m glad it’s not.” 

Time slows as he cups your face, eyes flitting over every detail as if to memorize it all over again. “You’re so fucking pretty.” He whispers it like there’s nothing to question, like he's been waiting forever. 

You don’t mean to smile as wide as you do. His heart skips a beat, maybe two. He’s done holding back from what he’s been wanting to do for so long. 

Not another second passes before he presses his lips to yours. 

They move with careful earnesty. Despite the fact that it feels like your entire body bursts into stardust, you kiss him back with an innate sense of knowing. You can feel the puffs of air from his nose fanning over your skin, the way his thumbs brush over your cheeks. It’s intoxicating in a way that makes you weak in the knees. Even with the newness of it all, there’s an air of ease and familiarity that you lose yourself within. You don’t worry if you’re doing it right. 

By the time he pushes you backwards to sit on the edge of his bed, he’s taken off your sweater and tossed it onto the floor, leaving your pale pink bra newly on display. 

From your seated position, you watch him pull his own shirt over his head, further disheveling his hair. His milky skin hosts a myriad of dark tattoos and fading scars. Anticipation swirls in your core as he encourages you to lay on your back, propping himself overtop of you. He pecks the tip of your nose before slotting his lips over yours once again. 

A surprised sound escapes you when his lips begin to plant a trail of kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck, head tilting to give him more access. The moment your conscience catches up to reality, you push at his chest and he immediately pulls away. 

“Too much?” He studies your face. You can’t bring yourself to say no because you don’t want it to end. 

“I think I just need a second. Sorry.” Embarrassment clings to your words, but you muster a shaky laugh. “I’m not used to this kinda thing.” 

Eddie had experienced his share of sporadic flings, but his feelings never ran as deep as they do for you.  

“You’re okay,” he soothes. “I may like pushing your buttons, but ‘m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to, alright?” 

In all your years of knowing him, he’d never given you reason to believe he’d ever discount your feelings. Or that he was even capable of doing so. 

You raise a hand to cup his cheek. “Let’s keep going.” 

“You sure?” He turns his head to kiss your palm. “Absolutely positive?” He dips down and playfully nips at your collarbone. “Cross your heart?”  

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, but fail when he begins to move lower. He drinks in your laughter like it’s an elixir. 

He continues a disorderly line of kisses down your stomach, and your mind is beyond hazy by the time he reaches the waistband of your jeans. You don’t utter any words of protest when he kneels to pop the button open. The subsequent sound of your zipper being pulled down might as well be thunder with how quiet the room has grown aside from it. 

Your panties are the same pink as your bra, trimmed with thin lace that makes Eddie dizzy. Without waiting for him to ask, you lift your hips for him to pull down your pants. Once they’re on the floor, he runs his hands over both of your thighs, trying his best to memorize the feeling. You briefly close your eyes when his fingers ghost over the soft fabric of your underwear. Nerves bundle low in your stomach to the point where you feel like a live wire laying exposed before him. 

“You’re gonna be the end of me,” he says like a scripture. 

“Me?” you peer down at him in disbelief. 

“Yeah, you. Who else?” He lifts the thin waistband of your panties and lets it snap back down to your skin. “I’m gonna take ‘em off.” He only makes the announcement to give you a chance to refute it. 

Rather than doing so, you brace your feet so you can lift your hips for him once more. 

You’ve known him for the better half of your life. If anyone, your trust can reside in him. 

A string of awed expletives slip past his lips when there’s nothing left between him and your heat. To stop himself from staring, he turns his face into your thigh to suck a bruise into the plush skin. You don’t realize that’s what he’s doing until you feel the tiny pinch that stings so good. 

Your silence is perceived as permission to switch to the other leg to do the same. You can hear your heart in your ears, and regard it as a reminder that you’re alive and breathing during a moment you never thought would come. 

You’re marked now, his.

He runs a gentle finger from your clit to your wet folds, and your own sensitivity surprises you when your thighs snap closed and trap his hand. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, slowly blooming them open again. You make the mistake of meeting his gaze, where fondness seems to radiate like imperceivable rays of light. 

After pressing a kiss to the space just beneath your navel, he stands and climbs onto the bed with you. You sit up and look to him for further direction. 

An easy smile spreads across his face as he settles with his back against the wall where a headboard should be. 

“C’mere,” he stretches his legs out in front of himself. 

You crawl to him and sit so that your back is pressed against the warmth of his bare chest. It isn’t until you shift that you feel his erection pressing into your rear. 

You peek back at him with hot cheeks. “Sorry.”  

Eddie drops a kiss to your shoulder. “You’ve apologized five hundred times tonight.” You shrink in on yourself because you know it’s true. “You’re not allowed to anymore, capeesh?” 

You nod. 

“Now prop your legs up, buttercup.” You can hear the smile in his voice that hopes you caught his rhyme. 

You press your feet into his sheets and spread your knees into a V. 

His pointer finger finds your clit without warning, applying just enough pressure to hitch your breath. You’ve touched yourself before, but had never taken the time to truly gain an understanding of the deeper pleasure there was to be felt. 

Here Eddie was, showing you what you didn’t know about yourself.

He switches to rubbing your bundle of nerves with his thumb while his middle finger glides through the slickness of your folds, making you clench with want. You reach between your legs with the hope of helping, or perhaps egging things along, but Eddie tuts. 

“Hands off or I’ll stop.” His tone is gentle and commanding all at once. 

Even though you follow his instructions, he still withdraws his touch. A protest ends up dying in your throat when you feel his fingers undoing the clasp of your bra and pushing the straps down your goosebump-laden arms. It soon joins the rest of your clothes on the floor. You’ve never been so bare in front of another person. 

“Jesus, look at you,” he murmurs. His large hands raise to cup your breasts, fingers experimentally pinching both of your pebbled nipples. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight. 

You watch with hooded eyes and parted lips. Caught off guard when he grabs your hands and redirects them to your chest to take over for him. You tentatively pinch your nipples in the same way he’d done, sending minute shockwaves through your body. 

“There you go,” he coos into your ear. A gasp falls past your lips when his hand dips back between your legs to ease the tip of his middle finger into your entrance. As he pushes it in further, your toes curl tighter. 

But his touch disappears yet again, making an exasperated breath leave you as your head falls backwards onto his shoulder. 

“Eddie,” it’s a whine. “Are you teasing me?”

“No. I forgot to take my rings off.” They clink as he drops them onto the nightstand. “But I think I will now since you just had to say something.” The charged promise of those words sends a chill down your spine.

You’re begging three minutes later. A melodic mix of weakened pleads, his name, and incoherent bargains that only make him smile. 

He’s trapped you on the edge of a freefall. Your thighs ache from tensing, and the strong pulse of arousal between your legs consumes the entirety of your mind. His two middlemost fingers pump in and out of your entrance with no sense of urgency, curling into that spot within you that makes you want to shatter. Whenever he senses that you’re about to topple over the edge, he pauses to let a few seconds crawl by. 

It’s scary how good he is at reading you. At holding the reins. 

“I can’t anymore,” you breathlessly insist, pressing back into him. “Eddie, please.”

“Sure you can.” He suckles the spot beneath your ear. In your head, you scream at him in frustration but in reality you squeeze your eyes shut. 

He doesn’t know who he’s teasing anymore. Listening to you whimper and feeling you squirm has him twitching and straining in his boxers. 

Somewhere along the line, he remembers mercy. 

As soon as the cord within you snaps, your back arches and your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers. Your orgasm crashes over you in strong heated waves, each one fizzling out in their own time, making you tremble. 

When your breaths grow even again, he slowly pulls his fingers out of you as you watch, awed and silent. You place a hand on his thigh to ensure he stays close. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. 

The two of you sit in silence for a while, basking in the warmth of each other’s body, the new air between you. It’s as if you’re waiting to be roused from a dream. 

“I wanna keep making you feel good,” he eventually murmurs into your ear, smirking when you shiver. “Will you let me do that?” 

The feeling of his erection pressing into your backside suddenly registers in your mind again, and you reach behind you to curiously palm the outline through his pajama pants. He feels it in his bones. 

“You can do whatever you want,” you tell him.

Eddie grabs your waist and gently pushes you forward so you know to let him get up. You settle in the middle of the bed and pull your legs up to your chest in a halfhearted reclaim of modesty. 

He stalks over to his dresser and scans the cluttered surface with his lower lip pulled between his teeth. You trace his back tattoos with your eyes. After pushing a few stray trinkets aside, he makes a sound of frustration.  

“What's wrong?” you ask. 

He continues looking. “Coulda sworn there was a condom lying around up here.” 

After a beat, you crawl to the edge of his bed so you can peek into the drawer of his nightstand. There’s notebooks filled with song lyrics, old magazines, a Walkman, batteries, guitar picks. No square foils in sight. 

“Can’t we still…” your words fade when he meets your gaze, but he gives you an encouraging nod. “You know. If we’re extra careful, right?” Your voice is just above a murmur by the time you stop speaking. 

The innocence seeping from your gaze makes a helpless fool out of him. 

The next thing you know, he’s pulling his pants and boxers down in one go, cock springing up towards his belly as you watch with owlish eyes. A dark tuft of hair curls at the base, and the head is a pretty shade of rose that’s beading pearlescent pre-cum. A prominent vein snakes along the underside. 

You’re more than ready. It’s the lightning in a bottle type sureness that you can’t believe you’ve come to know so well. The second he starts moving towards the bed again, you reposition onto your back. 

Though you don’t utter a single word, every unspoken thought from your mind seems to shape his smile. It’s not entirely proud, there’s a hint of softness to it. Something giddy residing just beneath the surface that takes the edge off the intensity of his gaze. 

A comforting heat radiates from his body as he positions himself overtop of you. 

He reaches between your legs to collect the tell tale sign of your arousal on his fingers, and your eyelashes flutter. “Nice and ready for me, huh?” 

The tone of his voice makes you want to hide. You feel small and on top of the world at the same time. Eagerness is written all over your face. And in the way your chest rises with quicker breaths. How your fingers are curled into the sheets. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” You’re glad he does because you’re certain all words would fail if you tried to speak. 

All you can do is blink up at him, propping your legs on either side of him as he lines himself up at your entrance. 

It’s overwhelming at first, incomparable to his fingers. But he takes it slow, watching your face the whole while. Before you know it, you’ve stretched to take the entirety of his length, and his eyes are glued to where you’re joined. 

He bottoms out with a satisfied grunt, hair falling into his face. The fullness makes up for the dull ache. Especially as he begins to slowly pull out in preparation for another pump. A gasp escapes you the second time he eases back in, and your face scrunches with the new depth that comes with hooking your legs around the back of his thighs. 

“If you wanna stop at any point just tell me, okay?” He tries his best to keep his voice steady. 

“Okay,” you whisper shakily. 

He finds a rhythm before long, cheeks flushed right along with his chest. He looks beautiful like this. Even his pleasured sighs and huffs rush straight to the pit of your stomach. 

“Lemme hear you,” his voice comes out gruff. “Stop holding back.” 

You swallow a moan. “‘M not.” 

Unconvinced, Eddie rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, and your breath stutters on its way out. You don’t remember being this sensitive earlier, and a few more pinches have your mouth gaping open just as he expected. 

His thrusts grow pointedly harder, forcing the fire building in your core to burn brighter. 

“Oh, god—Eddie,” you finally choke out, gripping onto his biceps. 

He swears he grows impossibly harder, orgasm creeping even closer from its place in the distance. You’re so soft, so warm, so wet, squeezing him in a maddening way. Your blunt fingernails move to dig into the back of his shoulders, leaving crescent indents in their wake.

“Say my name again.”

“Eddie,” you sigh, helplessly clenching around him. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” You sound dreamy. It rushes straight between his legs, and he can feel that familiar coil beginning to wear thin. 

Hearing you say his name like that was going to do him in. 

A sudden burst of confidence finds you. “You’re so deep—gonna make me come.” 

His hips falter and something shifts in his eyes. He starts drawing circles over your clit.

“I wanna feel you fall apart around me,” he says, and you nod because you want that for him. “But not until I say, alright?” 

Your stomach drops. 

When you don’t answer, he slows to a torturous pace that makes your head spin. “Gotta answer me so I know we’re on the same page.” 

“We always have been,” you half slur, drunk on him. 

As Eddie looks down at you, he sees a large fraction of his world woven into the delicate furrow of your eyebrows, the way your eyelashes meet the very tops of your cheeks, the part of your cherry-tainted lips. 

He lowers himself so that his chest is grazing yours as he continues thrusting, pubic bone dragging over your clit. The feeling of his warm breaths fanning into your ear makes you shudder, and when you arch up, you’re only met by more of his warmth, more of him. There is no escape, nowhere to run. Only accept. 

“Wish I could, shit, wish I could bottle this feeling in a fucking jar and keep it forever,” he grits into your ear. “Never felt anything this good… five stars from me.” He’s fighting to hold himself together. 

You miss half of those words because you’re on the verge of an ascension. 

“Eddie,” you breathe, somewhat startled. “Eddie, please. Can I come? I’m so close.” 

“How close?” 

Your voice goes airy and high because he’s hitting just the right spot. “‘M right there.” 

“Tell me how good I’m making you feel.” Whining, you claw into his skin with the intent of making it sting, but it only makes his shoulders shake with a chuckle. “I’ll shut this whole show down if you wanna play that game—” 

“So good!” you whimper, giving in. “You’re making me feel so good. Just… please.” You clench around him in hopes of earning an okay.  

It almost makes him fold, come right on the spot, but he still forces out a, “Not yet, angel. I gotta practice telling you no, remember?” 

His constant denial was only adding fuel to the fire of pleasure burning within you and he knew it.

By his next thrust, he could tell the beginnings of an unraveling had begun sweeping you under. Even though he sees it coming from a mile away, he nearly passes out himself when you let go.

Eyes closed, your walls flutter around him in a strong, rapid succession that carries on for a while. You’re being lifted somewhere higher than you’ve ever known. The world fades around the edges, and the distant sound of Eddie’s voice washes over you as your jaw slacks open.  

There you go, that’s it. Couldn’t hold back any longer, huh?

Only when aftershocks begin to spark through you do you realize how deep your breaths have grown, and the new laxity of your limbs that makes you feel like you’ve become one with his bed, trembling weakly. A wonderful ache resides between your legs. 

A gentle weight soon meets your lower stomach, and your eyes flutter open just enough to see. Eddie has pulled himself from within the warmth of you, and rested his slickened tip against your warm skin. You watch dazedly as he strokes himself a few good times before jolting and releasing onto your belly. 

All you get is a glimpse of his blissed expression before he leans down to tuck his face into your neck. You lift a hand to his head and gently scratch at his scalp as you feel him begin to place soft kisses to your throat. You can still feel his cock against your belly, and you work your other hand between your bodies to wrap your delicate fingers around him. 

His whole body shudders, and when you lightly circle your thumb around the tip your name breathlessly falls past his lips. 

He grunts and makes you stop when you start to do the same lazy motion again, and you chuckle weakly. 

“Oh, is that funny?” he asks, wrestling a smile. When you bite your lip and nod sweetly, he pushes himself up so he’s propped higher above you. “You wanna know what else is funny? I don’t think I ever gave you the green light to come.” 

You blink up at him innocently. “I couldn’t help it.” 

He begins tracing the underside of one of your breasts and you suck in a breath, gripping onto his wrist. He pulls from your hold, and that same hand trails down your body, over your ribs and down your sides. His fingers leave a tingly buzz in their wake. You try not to squirm too much because his spend is still on your stomach. 

“I’m trying to decide if I should do something about it or be nice,” he says, ghosting a finger over your oversensitive clit. 

When you whimper, his fingertips move to revisit one of the marks he left on the inside of your thighs, and the ticklish sensation makes your muscles tense as you huff out a tired laugh. He playfully quirks his brows at that reaction, but you can see the warmth in his eyes. 

You smile when he leans down to give your lips a sweet peck. “I’ll be nice,'' he promises. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

•••

When midnight comes, sleep has found neither of you. You’re both fighting it, trying to stay awake so you can continue sharing hushed stories, soft caresses, and smiles that warm you right along with the sheets covering your bodies. 

Your eyes are the first to begin fluttering, and Eddie stops talking when he notices. 

“No, keep going,” you murmur. “I’m listening.” 

“We can talk more in the morning,” he says. You shake your head no, and he chuckles. “Yes. Go to sleep.”

Before you have the chance to say anything else, he reaches out to turn the bedside lamp off. You press yourself closer to his body after he settles back beside you. 

Neither of you say anything for a while, so you begin to assume he’s dozed off. When he speaks up again, his words are soft and honest, “This is what I wished for. A moment just like this.” 

You mean to tell him that you think you’re in love.

-

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

For more fics, see my pinned post! 

To join my taglist, turn on notifications for @taleseverlasting

[guzhufuren]

Support and uplift chinese queer creators and their fight. There is hope for an even better tomorrow.

text version

[whereserpentswalk]

"Creatives deserve to be paid" and "We desperately need community spaces for creatives that aren't focused on trying to make money or advance careers where we're allowed to make connections and experiment" are two statements that can and should coexist.

[rocketbirdie]

not to be a bit of a hater but advent children is so mildly annoying to me

we could have had a beautiful gut wrenching movie centered on cloud's long overdue mourning and his struggle to feel like a person again. and to be fair we did get that! but only a little bit. because sephiroth's three weed smoking girlfriend personas claim two thirds of the runtime

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

I’m scared but okay lol

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines. 

Or, send in a ⭐star⭐  to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!

[paperlit]

I need more lover boy Burdock Everdeen content. Like the fact that his friends know that he’s “nuts”about her? I’m sold. Though not surprising, Suzanne does love a boy who’s obsessed with his girl.

Give me his and Asterid’s star crossed love story. Give me more of Katniss’ parents.

[homestuckteam]

October's Patreon content (including concept art and behind the scenes commentary) is now public!

To see more bonus material as it's released https://www.patreon.com/homestuck

[bladekindeyewear]

I'm not sure if you are aware of this or if it actually affects your theories at all, but in an AMA on Reddit, James Roach said about the "One who fights to preserve" phrase: "I copy and pasted the class and aspect descriptions directly from the document andrew gave us. I will never fuck around about class and aspect that is my solemn vow. Well actually I might, but not that time." So I expect this description is at least fairly central to how a page works, if not their exact definition.

OH SHIT THAT'S SUPER IMPORTANT THANK YOU. I didn't expect them to have dropped the 100% FULL DEFINITION of a class for the FIRST TIME out in Patreon Writer Commentary land, and now I have to take it much more seriously. Going to your source now:

ErinsHere: Recently James revealed that a Page is "One who preserves"- was that an intentional drop of Canon Classpect Information? Can we expect to see more of those in the future? And, if so, do y'all have access to a classpecting resource bible, or are you working off of headcanon like the rest of us? JAMES: The exact wording is “one who fights to preserve”. I copy and pasted the class and aspect descriptions directly from the document andrew gave us. I will never fuck around about class and aspect that is my solemn vow. Well actually I might, but not that time.

Yup. Alright, that debunks my King Arthur view FOR CERTAIN and still most likely places the Page as the passive counterpart to the Knight, using this Active/Passive designation:

One who exploits their Aspect as a weapon, wielding it like a honed blade.

One who fights to preserve their Aspect (EDIT: and fights to preserve using their aspect? It's pointed out by ashercrane that he leaves the end open in the AMA, but didn't back in the Writer Commentary, so this may or may not be part of it).

The shared action verb would be to Fight, not to Exploit. Which feels odd to me, but mainly from unfamiliarity and my earlier doubts that personally "fighting" was meant to be so closely associated with Pages anyway. It still makes sense as an Action Verb for the pair in my book. (If they indeed ARE still a pair.)

This makes sense as a custom Active/Passive dichotomy like the Thief and Rogue definitions do, instead of using the "does" vs "invites" dichotomy language that the Prince and Bard's do. It also means that even if Pages can fight to preserve their Aspect for others, and sometimes make it available for others (as was commented that Grandpa Harley seemed almost to have intentionally given Jade a fuckton of prototyping options), fighting to preserve Hope in general -- theirs, another's, or just the concept/Aspect itself -- is the main point of the class. I'll keep that well in mind.

The Maid, though, was suggested to be a passive but powerful servant to their aspect (on a panel that reconfirmed the Knight "wields [their] aspect like a honed blade"). Isn't that too much of an overlap with the Page? Does the no-fucking-around policy apply back there too, or because that was page 278, well before the Beyond Canon team took over from the original HS^2 team on page 408, is this the implication that Maids are passive a misleading exception or something we should take literally? Because if so that could completely rearrange my chart, as I've mentioned before. Even if you take "serve" as a pun that lets one serve out the aspect, we've seen Pages do quite similar, as they might be able to under this new definition too... and Sylphs are Healers, so what are THEY paired with? Aren't THEY passive? I'm still not sure how best to rearrange the chart in the view of passive Maids, which is part of why I've resisted it for so long, but IF this retroactively confirms that alt!Calliope was being extremely literal about passive Maids and Sylphs aren't just the ACTIVE version of Maids which would seem... extremely fucking weird given how Sylphs have seemed as passive as Maids so often that it's been almost hard to tell which is more active if they're paired... guh, I need to resolve this confusion at some point and I can't wait for more info to trickle in that allows us to clarify all this.

(It's also STILL possible that Maids and Sylphs are "passive" compared to the other classes, but that Maid is technically the Active part of the pair, from Calliope's phrasing... but now that we have clear language debunking one of my existing class conceptions explicitly I'm starting to doubt that a whole lot harder.)

The true and full arrangement of the Class Chart, what the Active/Passive pairs are and their shared purposes / action verbs are, is incredibly important for Role Inversion theory. A new class chart arrangement definitely doesn't DEBUNK the theory by default -- it conceivably could, just, not yet -- but it DOES shape the way that we would need to apply Role Inversion theories both retroactively (ie. Did Maid/Bard inversion happen, or a different inverse pair? Will I ever make time to revise the Aradia Inversion post to sound less oversmug and sure of myself? Wait, I think I already did, that's damning...), AND going forward. Which will be especially important in the new Deltritus session if/when any of the characters we meet struggles with potential role inversion and going against their aspect and themselves. Which is practically a virtual certainty at least once, so it's pretty damned important for us theorists to have an accurate idea of what to expect from any given inverted Hero Title.

Stay tuned as I'll be doing my best to decide how to sort all this the fuck out as updates roll out and my liveblogging analysis continues. I'm also up for discussing any suggestions, especially well-justified ones with evidence, for revisions to the class chart that I've left stagnant for so long.

(EDIT 2: Wait, could Maid’s serve and Page’s preserve be intentional paired puns?)

[buckets-and-trees]

😏 Of course Ari is pleased to hear that he left your head a little bit melted and scattered. He revels in knowing he has that effect on you.

I'm vibrating over the things you've pointed out here! First, about Ari, yes! He's intelligent, fierce, powerful, but measured and precise. Capable of dealing out bluntness, but he himself is not a blunt instrument. Bucky values that Ari isn't basic - he knows he needs men who are on his level if he wants to achieve the true heights he's aiming for.

And what you're describing - that lenience? He's testing, adaptable. He's strong but flexible. He knows he can only push and stretch if he's willing to forego being rigid. And how much more fascinating to him to touch, explore, poke, prod, stretch, bend you, shift himself to fill in spaces around you.

You know me - I love to get to a smutty scene! But I'll also wait until the right time if I force myself, but as you so beautifully noted, this was the right time for Ari to claim you sexually. Physical intimacy and vulnerability will bring you closer to him and allow him to know you and grow closer to you. He doesn't want a subservient, he wants you the instant he sees you're more than something poured into a mold/cut to a pattern. He recognizes that it's a thread you share.

The role of omegas in this universe is in flux. There are omegas - like Bucky's - who grew up thinking they'd have more of a role in their society, and then the other side where omegas are commodities, and you - Ari's omega - dwell somewhere in-between. You'll have more of a life and an identity if you end up in the right situation and with the right alpha, but tied to your alpha, you still are and will be, and nothing is certain until you're ultimately placed with an alpha.

Ari will be just the alpha you never knew you needed or craved, and you for him much the same. He's spent years tracking people in espionage and tactical movements and attacks. But now he gets to study you and uncover mysteries about you - but things only for you and him. He wants to unlock who you are, and he's like full sunshine breaking out from the clouds after you've only ever been in overcast conditions - sunlight but never direct - and it's going to ultimately make you thrive.

Rank and Promotion

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Alpha!Ari x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 7.5k Summary: Ari Levinson receives a visit and a gift from Governor Barnes. (part of the Fine Line collection but can be read fully on its own)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse (alpha-omega dynamics, scenting, etc); power dynamics; loss of virginity; explicit smut: thigh riding, oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse and insemination, cum appreciation; omega trafficking

Author Notes: I said there would be more alphas in this verse, and HERE'S THE FIRST OF THEM! It is not necessary to read anything else in this story. Relevant information is relayed directly and/or insinuated in the narrative for this piece. But for anyone who has followed the Bucky parts of the story, this takes place immediately after the council scene in No Way Out.

Additional Note: I need to give credit where it's due to @stargazingfangirl18 for helping me figure out how to best approach sharing this storyline for new characters/a new reader into an existing verse!

Fine Line Collection

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Five years ago, Ari would have been pacing impatiently across the floor of this opulent living room in the penthouse of Skyline Tower, but now he’s learned how to control the impatience, to cage it, let it undulate deep inside of himself to be used to launch into action at the right moment. 

And so he sits in a comfortable armchair with a view of the mountains in the distance out to the west of the city, studying the view, reading on his phone, and looking out into the distance again.

Twenty-seven hours ago he’d received a summons from the Governor’s executive aide, told he was expected in the capital by sundown and to pack for an indefinite stay. The order had not been entirely unusual - he’d been instructed to move to different locations many times given the nature of his work, and many of those reassignments had been with unknown expectations for how long he would need to be there. 

Ari arrived in the capital the night before and had been escorted to this penthouse in the city’s tallest building, and thathad been unusual. Typically his assignments were fulfilled in ordinary, unremarkable areas, not the a place like this. 

The space balances luxury with functionality – sleek lines and modern fixtures softened by plush seating and warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the sprawling city below, but automated privacy screens can be adjusted for comfort. The leather couch looked genuinely used, not merely decorative. Books lined built-in shelves, their spines showing wear. The kitchen gleams with high-end appliances, yet remains approachable with its open layout. Even the temperature is perfectly calibrated – cool enough to remain comfortable, but not so cold as to require additional layers.

This attention to livability rather than mere display speaks volumes about its owner. Bucky Barnes may be Hydra's conquering fist, but he clearly values practical comfort over ostentatious wealth. It's an unexpected insight into the man who seized control of the territory mere weeks ago in a swift, brutal campaign that left the previous government broken, but not obliterated left with just enough strength and infrastructure to remain viable and powerful on the continent.

His phone buzzes, and there’s a message indicating that Governor Barnes has just arrived at Skyline Tower and will be with him presently. 

Ari frowns.

Having been summoned, he expected to be called to the Governor’s office or his mansion. 

A personal visit was yet another anomaly. 

Only a few minutes later, there’s a brief knock and a man enters the penthouse, making way for a tall, imposing alpha, and his omega. 

Ari man rises from the leather armchair. "Governor Barnes," he greets Bucky with a slight inclination of his head. 

"Levinson," Bucky responds, stepping forward to clasp his hand firmly. "I trust the accommodations are satisfactory."

"More than," Ari replies, gesturing around. His gaze shifts to the female at Bucky’s side, curiosity evident in his expression. "And this must be your new omega. The former governor's daughter."

Bucky's hand moves to the small of her back, a possessive gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room. "Yes. She's mine now."

Bucky steers his omega and gestures for her to sit on the plush leather couch with him. She settles beside him, and he drapes his metal arm possessively across her shoulders. Ari can see it’s not a demonstration for his benefit, but for hers. 

Ari takes his seat again in armchair opposite the couch and waits, deferring to the governor to speak first. 

"Your work in the eastern territories has been exceptional," Bucky begins, his tone matter-of-fact. "The intelligence you've gathered over the past three years has been invaluable to our acquisition of the territory."

"Just doing my job," Ari responds with a modest shrug, though there's a hint of pride he can’t hold back in his tone. 

"Which is precisely why I've called you here to the capital," Bucky continues. "Every weakness, every vulnerability you identified in the territory's defenses proved accurate. The takeover was executed with minimal resistance, just as you predicted."

"Minimal resistance is generous," Ari remarks with a slight smile. He heard every report, saw footage online and on television. "Your tactics were... thorough." 

And in line with many of the intel and suggestions Ari himself had supplied to Barnes and the others in the Hydra network for this very purpose. 

Bucky leans forward, his posture shifting subtly from casual to intent. "Which brings me to my proposition. I need someone to lead my military forces—someone with your strategic mind and field experience." 

Ari keeps his expression carefully neutral, though he is more than intrigued if Barnes means what he think he means. 

Still, he doesn’t want to misstep by assuming or betraying any eagerness. 

So he waits half a moment before saying evenly, "You have STRIKE teams already in place. Rumlow seems capable enough."

"Rumlow is a blunt instrument," Bucky replies dismissively. "Useful for specific tasks, but lacking the vision required for what I have planned." He pauses, studying Ari with calculating eyes. "I'm offering you the position of General of my armed forces.”

Ari raises his eyebrows slightly. "General?" 

"Yes," Bucky confirms without hesitation. "The current military leadership lacks vision. They're competent at maintaining order, but we need more than that to secure our borders and expand our influence. You understand the larger picture." 

He assumed there would be a special assignment, but he hadn’t anticipated this. Though his pulse has accelerated, he keeps his voice even. "What exactly would this entail?" 

Like himself, Bucky is a man who respects cool heads.

"Authority over all military operations, reporting directly to me," Bucky explains. "A seat on the territory council, but also a member of my personal cabinet.”

Ari considers the Governor’s words, drumming his fingers lightly against the armrest. His gaze flicks between the alpha and his omega - a woman who has remained stoic, silent, and still through all of the exchange, though certainly studying every word and action, thoroughly paying attention. 

"Think about it,” Bucky continues, “this territory has resources, manpower, and strategic positioning. What we lack is someone with vision to utilize them properly."

Ari weighs his options, calculating the benefits against potential risks.

Bucky shifts, squeezing the back of his omega’s neck before standing. "I don't expect an immediate answer. Consider the offer." He gestures toward the door where the man who entered with them has remained, clearly waiting for this signal. "In the meantime, I've brought something to mark your acceptance."

To mark your acceptance… So this is an edict, no room for negotiation, refusal an impossibility. 

The man - a beta, Ari can tell - nods and opens the door. A moment later, an older looking beta female enters, leading five omega women in behind her. 

"Alphas like us have... certain needs," Bucky says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, watching for Ari’s reaction.

Ari stands, and something in his chest rumbles unbidden. He’s enjoyed an omega here and there, though they’re difficult to find. To have five in a room together is rare. Five unmated? Unheard of. 

Bucky steps forward, his hand gesturing toward the line of omegas with practiced smoothness. "These fine specimen come from Whitecrest," he explains, voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride. "Perhaps the most prestigious omega training facility in the northern hemisphere."

All five are dressed modestly in cream-colored, simple yet exquisite dresses - each cut and tailored to show off the omegas in the best way possible. They appear to range in age from twenties to thirties. Their hair is neatly styled, their postures submissive but dignified, eyes downcast.

The beta male - Marcus, according to his silver name badge - steps forward with a slight bow. His suit is impeccably pressed, his manner formal yet approachable.

"Whitecrest is an institution with over a century of tradition. Interested families who are interested contact us when they have a child who identifies as an omega within days of their presentation, usually between thirteen and fifteen years of age," Marcus elaborates. "Only those with exceptional potential are selected. From that moment, their education becomes comprehensive. We identify their natural aptitudes and enhance them through rigorous education."

One of the omegas lifts their gaze momentarily before lowering it again. The brief glimpse reveals intelligent eyes that seem to assess the room.

"Our curriculum for all our omegas is comprehensive—multiple languages, of course, with each omega mastering a minimum of four. They study diplomatic companion relations, learning to navigate even the most complex international negotiations at their alpha's side. Our political training ensures they understand governance structures worldwide, while our history program contextualizes modern power dynamics."

Marcus's voice takes on a reverent quality as he continues, "And naturally, we provide thorough instruction on what an omega's role should be—how to anticipate an alpha's needs before they're expressed, how to manage a household of any size, how to present themselves in society. They learn to navigate hierarchies with grace and dignity."

Ari's eyes travel down the line of omegas, each one a testament to careful cultivation. "And their families simply... give them up?"

"They entrust them to us," Marcus corrects smoothly. "Most come from prominent families who understand the value of proper training. Others are discovered through our scholarship program, which identifies exceptional potential regardless of background. In either case, the families are generously compensated."

Bucky watches Ari's reaction carefully. "Each of these omegas represents years of investment. Their training costs more than most people earn in a lifetime.”

Ari feels a primal hunger growing within him as he studies the five women. His alpha instincts, normally kept under tight control, rise to the surface. He hasn't had the luxury of an omega companion during a rut in years, though he had been able to find sufficient satisfaction with betas to get him through. 

"And now, one of them will be yours," Bucky says.

The implication hangs in the air, heavy with expectation. Ari feels his pulse quicken despite his practiced control.

"You're offering me one of these omegas?" he asks, careful to keep his tone measured despite the sudden rush of alpha interest surging through him.

"Consider it a signing bonus," Bucky replies with a slight smile. "A general requires a proper companion. Someone who can manage your household, accompany you to diplomatic functions, and of course," his voice drops slightly, "satisfy your more... primal needs."

The older beta female steps forward. "If I may, Governor Barnes?”

Barnes nods, “Certainly. Levinson, I’ll leave you to your selection. Marcus and Elsie, send the final contract to my assistant.” Then he turns to his own omega, and reaches a hand out. 

The Governor’s wife rises from the couch with her own grace, and follows her husband out of the penthouse. 

The older woman speaks again. "Each omega has been specifically selected based on compatibility with your profile, sir," she explains, her voice crisp and professional. "We've studied your background, preferences, and needs extensively to ensure an optimal match."

Ari's brow furrows slightly. "You've been researching me?"

"Of course," she replies without hesitation. "Whitecrest prides itself on creating perfect matches, not merely providing bodies. These five were hand-selected from our entire cohort as potential matches for your specific temperament, career demands, and genetic compatibility. Governor Barnes provided us with your dossier months ago. We've analyzed your service record, psychological assessments, even your dietary preferences to identify the most compatible candidates."

Ari shoots a glance toward the door where Bucky has just exited. Months ago. Before the territory was even conquered. The realization that Barnes had been planning this role for him all along settles like a weight in his stomach – both flattering and unsettling.

"And what exactly did your analysis determine about me?" Ari asks, unable to resist his curiosity.

Elsie - Ari notes her own silver nametag - smiles politely. "That you're disciplined, methodical, and intensely private. You value competence above all else. You require an omega who can anticipate needs without constant direction, who can function independently when your duties demand your attention, yet submit completely when you require it."

Her assessment is uncomfortably accurate, even identifying elements he may not have thought to consider for himself but sound satisfying to him. 

Ari walks slowly along the line of omegas, studying each one with careful consideration. They remain perfectly still under his scrutiny, spaced out evenly approximately a meter apart from each other, enough room for him to circle them physically and assess their smells somewhat individually. 

As Ari approaches the fourth omega, he catches a subtle shift in demeanor – not defiance, exactly, but a certain alertness that distinguishes you from the others. While the rest remain perfectly still, your head tilts almost imperceptibly, but he does catch it. He recalls that you’re the he noticed looking up before, during Marcus’s thorough explanation about the education omegas of your kind receive. 

He steps directly in front of you, drawn by that subtle difference. "You," he addresses you directly, his voice low. 

Your eyes remain downcast respectfully, but your posture straightens a fraction more. Unlike the others who remained unmoved around him, you appear to become more present.

"May I?" He extends his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. The gesture reveals more about him than perhaps he intends – a preference for consent, even in a situation where he holds all the power.

You lift your gaze to meet his, just for a moment, before lowering your eyes again in practiced deference. With fluid grace, you extend your wrist, turning it upward to expose the delicate skin where your scent is strongest.

Ari's fingers close gently around your offered wrist, bringing it to his nose. The first inhale is cautious, analytical – but the moment your scent fills his lungs, something shifts fundamentally in his gut. 

Your scent hits him with unexpected force. It's not merely pleasant; it’s complex and resonates with him on a primal level, setting off a cascade of reactions he hasn't experienced before. His pupils dilate slightly, and he finds himself drawing a second, deeper breath.

"What's your name?" he asks, still holding your wrist, his thumb unconsciously tracing small circles against your pulse point. 

You respond, answering in a calm, controlled tone, but he can feel the way your pulse races beneath his thumb. 

Elsie steps forward. "A fine choice, General Levinson. This omega has excelled particularly in languages – fluent in seven, including Mandarin and Russian – and has specialized training in military history and strategic analysis. We believed these skills would complement your new position admirably."

Ari barely notices her words, as he's entirely absorbed in the scent that envelops him. However, his keen sense of movement and awareness of those around him ensures he catches Marcus signaling the other omegas to leave the penthouse. 

Marcus approaches with a sleek digital tablet in hand, clearing his throat discreetly. "If you're satisfied with your selection, sir, we have just a few formalities to complete." 

Ari reluctantly releases your wrist, though his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before turning to Marcus. "Of course." 

"Standard transfer of guardianship documentation," he explains, gesturing toward the tablet. "It confirms your acceptance of this omega and outlines your rights and responsibilities."

Ari scans the document quickly but thoroughly, his years of intelligence work having trained him never to sign anything without reading it first. The legal language is precise, transferring all rights to him while acknowledging Whitecrest's continued interest in your wellbeing – a formality more than an actual limitation on his authority. 

"Everything appears to be in order," he murmurs, pressing his thumb to the digital pad in the appropriate spot. 

Elsie, who has guided you to stand slightly apart while the men handle the paperwork. "The omega comes with a complete wardrobe and personal effects," she explains, her tone businesslike. "All items have been selected to complement your lifestyle and preferences."

Ari nods. 

“They will delivered to the concierge downstairs within the hour. Whitecrest provides a six-month adjustment period," Elsie explains, “should you wish to make any changes or find any incompatibility or unwanted behavior from or with the omega.”

"And we'll need your signature here as well, confirming receipt of the omega's medical records and maintenance instructions," Marcus says, swiping to another screen on the tablet.

Ari raises an eyebrow. "Maintenance instructions?"

"Just a formality," Elsie interjects smoothly. "Dietary preferences, exercise regimens, heat suppressant schedules as long as you wish to suppress them. Nothing you wouldn't expect." 

Marcus taps several more fields on the tablet before sliding it toward Ari once more. "Just your signature on the final acceptance form, General. This confirms receipt of the omega and acknowledges Whitecrest's fulfillment of our contract with Governor Barnes."

Ari signs with a practiced motion, his eyes flicking toward you. Marcus taps a few more buttons before the tablet emits a soft chime.

"Congratulations, General Levinson. She is officially yours," Marcus says with a practiced smile. 

Elsie straightens her jacket. "The omega has been thoroughly briefed on her duties and expectations. She'll serve you well." She gives you a final appraising look, a nearly imperceptible nod that seems to convey some private message, before turning back to Ari. "Should you require any assistance during the adjustment period, our support staff is available at any hour."

"That won't be necessary," Ari replies, his tone making it clear the conversation is concluded.

With a final nod, Marcus and Elsie depart, leaving Ari alone with you for the first time. The door closes with a soft click, and the sudden silence feels weighted with possibility.

Ari studies you, still standing precisely as you had undoubtedly been trained to do, hands folded neatly before you, eyes downcast. The perfect picture of omega submission—yet he hasn't forgotten that brief moment of alertness that drew him to you initially.

"You can look at me," he says, his voice neither harsh nor particularly gentle. "I prefer direct communication."

You raise your eyes to meet his, and he's struck again by what he sees there—intelligence, assessment, and something else he can't quite define. Not fear, which is interesting. Perhaps caution. Certainly awareness.

"I imagine this is... unexpected for you as well," he says.

“On the contrary, General Levinson, I’ve known for two decades I was being held in reserve, training and preparing for the alpha who would claim me.”

Ari notes that your tone doesn’t seem to harbor any resentment towards that statement or the reality of it either. 

"Two decades is a long time to prepare for something without knowing when it will happen," Ari observes, moving to the kitchen area. He pours himself a glass of water, then, after a moment's consideration, pours a second. "Would you like one?"

"Thank you, Alpha," you respond, joining him in the kitchen and accepting the glass with graceful movements. Your fingers brush against his, and he notes the controlled steadiness of your hand.

"You can call me Ari when we're alone," he says, watching your reaction carefully.

You take a small sip of water before responding. "As you wish... Ari." The name sounds intimate on your lips, a privilege you understand the significance of.

"I should inform you," you continue, your voice measured and practical, "that I'm currently on a regimen of heat suppressants, as is standard protocol before a Whitecrest omega is transferred to the care of an alpha." Your voice is measured, professional. "However, I can discontinue them immediately if you prefer. The medication will clear my system within seventy-two hours."

Ari's expression remains neutral, though his scent shifts subtly with interest. 

"That won't be necessary just yet," he replies, studying your face. "We have time." 

You nod once, acknowledging his decision. "Regardless of my suppressed state, I am fully capable of satisfying any and all intimate requirements you may have." Your tone remains matter-of-fact, neither coy nor embarrassed. "While I am a certified virgin omega, Whitecrest's curriculum includes comprehensive training in all aspects of physical intimacy." 

Ari's lips twitch beneath his mustache. He told you he appreciates direct communication, and he likes that you seem to fall into it naturally with him. “How does that work? A virgin but with comprehensive training?”

At this, you do drop your eyes for a moment shift slightly from one foot to the other. 

"Whitecrest, as explained, always adopts a thorough and methodical approach to educating their omegas," you explain, your voice remaining professional despite the intimate subject matter. "My physical training included extensive work with beta partners—men and women both—to master techniques of oral gratification. I can pleasure with my mouth, hands, and body in a myriad of distinct ways."

You take another small sip of water before continuing, "We were also thoroughly schooled in self-pleasure, to understand our own bodies' responses. This knowledge helps us better anticipate and accommodate an alpha's needs." 

Ari watches your face as you speak, the blood in his veins pumping more heatedly as you speak. 

"There were practical vaginal applications too," you add. "Specialized stretching exercises to gradually stretch and prepare our bodies to accommodate an alpha's... dimensions."

You meet his eyes directly now. "However, nothing has ever penetrated my vaginal canal deeply enough to break my hymen. That honor is reserved exclusively for my alpha. For you."

“Fuck,” he says.

The word escapes his mouth before he can stop it, his careful control slipping for just a moment. Your eyes widen slightly at his reaction, and he sees a flash of something—satisfaction, perhaps—cross your features before you compose yourself again.

"I apologize if I was too forward," you say, though your tone suggests you don't believe you've overstepped.

"No," Ari says, setting his glass down on the counter with measured precision. "I said I wanted direct communication. You're giving me exactly that."

He moves closer to you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. Your scent shifts subtly in response to his proximity, and he catches it immediately—a sweetening, an unconscious response that makes his alpha instincts stir with primal satisfaction.

"I want to be clear about something," he says, his voice dropping to a lower register. "You were trained to be what Whitecrest believed an alpha would want. But I'm interested in what lies beneath that training."

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, your carefully constructed demeanor wavers. "Whitecrest doesn't encourage individuality," you admit, tone laced with wariness. 

You’re incredibly intelligent, strategic. He likes that. 

"I consider it essential," Ari counters. “I want to know who you are beneath the training."

You tilt your head slightly, a gesture that seems less practiced and more natural. "What would you like to know, Ari?"

He steps back, creating space between you again, regaining his composure. "Let's sit," he suggests, gesturing toward the living area. You follow him, moving with elegant efficiency, and take a seat on the couch while he chooses the armchair opposite you.

He studies you for a long moment, taking in the details of your face, your posture, the way you hold yourself. There's a precision to your movements that speaks of years of training, but underneath it, he senses something more—a natural grace that couldn't have been taught.

"Tell me something that isn't in your file," he says. "Something Whitecrest doesn't know about you."

Your eyes widen slightly at this unexpected request. For a moment, you seem to wrestle with it, your training having conditioned you to present only what would please an alpha. But he sees the moment you let go and relax from that expectation.

"I steal moments," you admit finally, voice softer than before. "When I'm supposed to be meditating during quiet hours, I sometimes watch the stars instead." Your hands rest in your lap, perfectly still, but he notices the slight tension in your fingers. "There's a constellation that as visible from my dormitory window that wasn't in any of our astronomy texts. I named it myself." 

Ari leans forward slightly, genuinely intrigued. "What did you name it?" 

The question seems to surprise you, you’re clearly not expecting his curiosity to extend beyond a surface level. "Libera," you answer after a moment. "It means—"

"Freedom," Ari finishes for you, his expression thoughtful. "I speak Latin too." 

Something shifts in your eyes—a flicker of deeper interest in him, the man, not the alpha.

A current seems to pass between you both at that moment. Ari's eyes darken slightly, and the air in the penthouse grows heavier with unspoken tension. 

"Come here," Ari says, his voice low as he extends his hand toward you. His command is gentle but unmistakable.

You hesitate for just a fraction of a second—another glimpse of the real person beneath the training—before rising gracefully from the couch. You cross the short distance between you and place your hand in his.

With a smooth, deliberate motion, he guides you onto his lap, your body naturally finding position across his thighs. Without a word, Ari's hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of your lower lip. His eyes search yours, seeking something beyond the polished veneer of your training.

His eyes never leaving yours, Ari leans forward, closing the distance between you. His lips brush against yours—tentative at first, almost questioning. But when you respond, parting your lips slightly, his restraint crumbles. 

Ari deepens the kiss, hungry for more of you, exploring your mouth, the way you taste. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair to hold you in place as he tastes you thoroughly. You taste of mint and something else—something uniquely you that makes his alpha instincts surge with possessive pleasure.

You respond with the technical precision of your training, but there's something more authentic beneath it—a genuine response to him that makes his blood heat. He can sense it in the air as your scent shifts to something more heady. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming, exploring, and you match him movement for movement.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. Your eyes have darkened, pupils blown with a desire he believes matches his own. 

His hand travels from your neck down your spine, pressing you closer as he leans in again. This time his lips find the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you shiver involuntarily at the contact. He grins against your heated skin, and continues his exploration, trailing kisses along your jawline, down your neck, lingering at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. 

"Your scent is..." he murmurs against your skin, inhaling deeply. "Intoxicating." 

Ari shifts beneath you, adjusting his position in the armchair. He slides his hands to grip your waist, then guides you to straddle his muscular thigh, positioning you so his quad presses directly against your core, the fabric of your dress forced up around your hips. 

His eyes, dark with desire but still observant, study your face. His hand slides to your hip, fingers applying gentle pressure.

"Ride my thigh," Ari commands softly, his thumb stroking your hip. "Show me what brings you pleasure."

You hesitate, confusion flickering across your features. "I don't understand. My purpose is to—"

"Your purpose right now," he interrupts, his voice firm, "is to give me what I want, and what I want is to see you please yourself." 

The concept seems foreign to you, and Ari can see the conflict in your eyes—your training has conditioned you to focus exclusively on an alpha's pleasure, not your own. This slight deviation from your programming fascinates him. 

"I..." you begin, uncertainty coloring your voice.

"This isn't a test," Ari says, and he moves from your hip to cup your face, his touch gentle but commanding. "I want to see what feels good to you. I always study my subject, that’s my expertise. I want to watch you come apart, know what your body craves so I can meet out pleasure to you like you’ve never experienced before."

Something in his words seems to unlock something in you. Your body responds to his reasoning, beginning to move slowly against his thigh. The friction sends visible shivers through you, and your eyes widen slightly at the sensation.

"That's it," Ari encourages, his gaze intense as he watches your face. "Don't hold back." 

Your movements grow more confident, planting your hands on his shoulders and finding a rhythm. Your breathing quickens as you grind against his muscular thigh, the rhythmic movement causes your dress to ride up further, exposing more of your thighs. Ari's hands move to grip your hips, not to guide but to feel your movements, to learn your rhythm.

"Look at me," he commands, and your eyes lock with his. The vulnerability in your gaze is intoxicating—this isn't the practiced performance of a Whitecrest omega, but something raw and genuine.

A small moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you immediately tense, as if surprised by your own loss of inhibition so quickly.

"Don't," Ari says, his voice husky with desire. "Don't hide those sounds from me. I want to hear every one of them." 

Your movements become more urgent, more desperate as pleasure builds within you. Your body trembles against him, and Ari can feel the dampness growing between your legs, seeping through the thin fabric of your underwear and onto his pants. He finds the evidence of your arousal deeply satisfying.

"That's it," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to slide up your back, pressing you closer. "Show me what you need." 

Your movements become less controlled, more instinctual as pleasure builds. Your head falls back slightly, exposing the elegant line of your throat. Ari can't resist—he leans forward to press his lips against your pulse point, feeling it race beneath his mouth. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there. Not a claiming bite—not yet—but the promise of one.

"A-Alpha," you gasp, forgetting his instruction to use his name in the haze of your building climax. 

Ari doesn't correct you. There's something primal and satisfying about hearing his designation on your lips in this moment of abandon. His own arousal is painful against the confines of his pants, but he ignores it, focused entirely on your pleasure.

His hand tightens on your hip, urging you on, his other hand sliding from your back to slip beneath the neckline of your dress, exploring the soft skin he finds there.

Your movements become frantic, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach. Ari slides one hand between your bodies, pressing his thumb against the exact spot where you need it most, even through the fabric of your underwear.

"Let go," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Show me."

Your rhythm falters as pleasure overtakes you. Your thighs tighten around his, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body shudders with release. A broken cry escapes your lips, raw and unfiltered.

Ari watches, transfixed, as you come apart for him. The sight of your genuine pleasure, the sounds you make, the scent of your arousal—it all combines to stoke his own desire to nearly unbearable levels. His hardness presses insistently against his pants, but he makes no move to seek his own release. Not yet.

As the aftershocks subside, you slump slightly against him, your breathing ragged, your forehead resting against his shoulder as your body continues to tremble with aftershocks.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against your hair, his hands still gripping your hips.

In one fluid motion, Ari lifts you from his lap. His movements are controlled yet urgent as he lowers you to the plush carpet. Your dress has ridden up around your waist, and he takes a moment to appreciate the sight of you—flushed, disheveled, still trembling slightly from your release. 

"That was just the beginning," he murmurs, his voice deep with promise as he positions himself between your thighs. 

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, sliding them down your legs with deliberate slowness. The garment is damp with evidence of your arousal, and Ari inhales deeply, his pupils dilating at your scent. 

"Perfect," he whispers, mostly to himself. 

He spreads your thighs wider, exposing you completely to his gaze. He can see the mixture of anticipation and interest as Ari lowers himself, planting his shoulders between your legs. He senses his intentions are in no way unwelcome, but not what you were told to expect. His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh, already swollen and slick from your previous climax. The first touch of his tongue against you sends a jolt through your entire body, your back arching involuntarily off the carpet.

"Ari," you gasp, forgetting formality as sensations overwhelm you. 

He hums against you, the vibration adding another layer to the pleasure coursing through your body. His technique is methodical yet intuitive – exploring, learning, cataloging every response. When his tongue circles your clit and your thighs tremble, he takes note. When he flattens his tongue against you in a broad stroke and you whimper, he files that information away too. 

"You taste even better than you smell," he murmurs against you, his voice rough with desire.

Your hands flutter uncertainly before settling on the carpet beside you, fingers curling against the plush rug. 

Ari shifts his approach, abandoning the methodical exploration in favor of something more primal. His movements become unhurried, indulgent—almost worshipful as he parts your folds with his fingers and drags his tongue through your wetness with deliberate slowness. The meticulous pace makes every sensation more acute, more overwhelming. 

You gasp as he laps at you with broad, leisurely strokes, and he knows his beard is creating a delicious friction against your sensitive skin - he’s looking forward to seeing the evidence later. His technique is less precise now, messier. He's savoring a feast rather than executing a strategy. Slickness gathers at the corners of his mouth, but he’s unconcerned, focused entirely on drawing out your pleasure. 

"Please," you whisper, the word escaping before you can contain it.

He glances up, meeting your eyes over the landscape of your body. His mustache is slick with your arousal, his eyes dark with desire. "Please what?" he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath teasing you.

You struggle to articulate what you need, your training suddenly inadequate for this unexpected experience. "More," is all you manage.

A low chuckle rumbles through him, vibrating against your core. "Like this?" He seals his lips around your clit and sucks gently, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves with precision.

Your back arches off the carpet, a strangled cry escaping your throat. Your hands move instinctively to his head, fingers threading through his dark hair. For a moment, you freeze, but Ari responds by pressing closer, encouraging your touch.

He slips one finger inside you, careful to maintain the barrier of your virginity while still providing the pressure and fullness he knows your body craves. 

"That's it," he murmurs against you, feeling your inner walls begin to flutter around his finger. "So responsive.”

He adds a second digit, and his fingers continue their teasing exploration, never quite breaching you but applying just enough pressure to make you ache for more. All the while, his tongue works against your sensitive bundle of nerves with deliberate, focused attention. 

Your hips begin to rock against his face, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's giving you. He responds by increasing the intensity, his tongue circling your clit with relentless precision while his fingers press deeper, stretching you without breaching that final barrier.

"Ari," you gasp, your voice breaking as the tension coils tighter. "I can't—"

"You can," he growls against your sensitive flesh. "Come apart for your alpha again."

His tongue flattens against your clit, applying firm, consistent pressure while his fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot. The dual sensation shatters you completely. Your release crashes down, your body convulsing beneath him as waves of pleasure radiate outward. Your cry echoes through the penthouse, uninhibited and raw.

As you tremble through the aftershocks, Ari's control finally shatters. With a fluid movement born of years of military training, he flips your limp body over, and he hoists your hips up with powerful hands, positioning you on your knees.

"Present for me," he growls, his voice barely recognizable even to himself, thick with primal need. 

Your body responds instinctively to his command, your back arching, hips raising to offer yourself to him. The position is vulnerable, submissive—exactly what your alpha demands.

Ari's hands caress your exposed flesh, appreciating the curve of your spine, the perfect roundness of your ass, the sight of you ready and waiting for him. He quickly unfastens his pants, freeing his straining erection. The cool air of the penthouse against his heated flesh makes him throb with anticipation. He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against and then parting your slick, swollen folds.

"Mine," he growls, the single word laden with possession and promise. 

Without further warning, Ari drives forward in one powerful thrust, breaking through your virgin barrier and burying himself to the hilt inside you. The sensation is overwhelming—your tight heat enveloping him completely as your virginity yields to his claiming.

Your cry echoes through the penthouse, a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your body, still limp and sated from your previous releases, offers little resistance to his invasion. Your inner walls stretch to accommodate his considerable size, pulsing around him as your body adjusts to this new intrusion. 

Ari remains still for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he fights for control. The primal part of him wants to rut into you with abandon, to claim and mark and own. But the more controlled part of him—the strategist, the soldier—knows to temper that instinct.

"Breathe," he commands, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. His hand slides up your back to grip the nape of your neck, applying gentle pressure—a steadying, grounding touch. 

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling as it adjusts to the unfamiliar fullness. Your inner walls flutter and contract around his length, instinctively trying to accommodate him. The sensation nearly makes Ari lose his hard-won control. 

"So tight," he groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip. "So perfect for me." 

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling as it stretches to accommodate his invasion. Your inner walls flutter around him, adjusting to his girth, your body producing more slickness to ease his passage.

"Good omega," he murmurs, the praise falling from his lips unbidden. His hands return to your hips, gripping firmly as he begins to withdraw slowly, almost completely, before driving back. Each thrust is measured, calculated to stretch you perfectly while minimizing discomfort. The warrior in him wants to claim you roughly, but the strategist wins out, conquering your body with deliberate precision.

"Alpha," you moan, your fingers curling into the plush carpet beneath you. Your voice carries a note of surrender that satisfies something primal in Ari's core.

His pace increases gradually as your body yields to him completely, your initial discomfort giving way to unmistakable pleasure. Your scent changes, sweetening with arousal, and Ari inhales deeply, letting it fuel his desire.

"You were made for this," Ari growls, his rhythm increasing as he feels your body responding, accepting him deeper, your inner walls gripping him like a silken vice. "Made for me."

Your gasps and whimpers spur him on, each sound a testament to your pleasure. He shifts his angle slightly, searching for that spot inside you that will make you shatter again. When your back arches sharply and a broken cry escapes your lips, he knows he's found it.

"There," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Right there."

He maintains that angle, hitting that perfect spot with each powerful thrust. His hand slides around your body to find your sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it with his thumb in time with his movements. The dual stimulation has you trembling again, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

"Let go for me again, omega," Ari commands, his voice rough with exertion and desire. "I want to feel you come apart around my cock."

The pressure of his skilled fingers combined with the relentless stimulation of that perfect spot inside you push you over the edge. Your entire body convulses as pleasure crashes through you, more intense than before. Your inner walls clamp down around him in rhythmic pulses, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest. Your cries are uninhibited now, echoing through the penthouse as your body surrenders to him entirely. 

With a final, powerful thrust, Ari buries himself completely inside you, his body going rigid as his climax overtakes him. His release floods your insides, hot and abundant, marking you from within. His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you firmly in place, ensuring every drop remains inside you. 

As the waves of pleasure gradually subside, Ari remains buried deep inside you, leaning forward. His breath comes in harsh pants against your neck, his chest pressed to your back as he covers you completely with his larger frame. The position is intensely intimate, possessive in a way that satisfies something primal in his bones.

For several long moments, neither of you moves, your bodies joined and slick with exertion. Ari's hand slides from your hip to your stomach, splaying his fingers across your abdomen where he can almost feel the evidence of his claiming deep inside you. The thought sends another pulse of satisfaction through him. 

"Mine," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity.

You shiver beneath him, your body responding to his declaration with another small aftershock that ripples around his still-hard length. 

With utmost care, he eases out of you, his cock still semi-hard and slick with the evidence of your joining. Satisfaction courses through him as he watches his release begin to seep from your entrance, marking you in the most ancient way.

He will clean you soon, but for now he wants your thighs sticky with his seed, your slickness, and traces of your claimed virginity.

He helps you collapse gently onto the plush carpet. You fold your arms together and rest your head on them, turning your face to your alpha, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

Ari stretches out beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to study your face. His other hand traces lazy patterns on your back, unwilling to break physical contact. Your eyes are half-lidded, your breathing still uneven. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice softer now. 

You nod, meeting his gaze with a new openness. "Yes, Alpha... Ari," you correct yourself, reconditioning yourself from the instruction you’d surely been given to only call him Alpha. He imagines he will always find satisfaction from both falling from your sweet lips. 

He reaches out to brush some hair from your face. 

"You're remarkable," he murmurs, his eyes studying your features with newfound appreciation. "I didn't expect..." 

You wait for him to finish, but he merely shakes his head slightly, surprised by his own thoughts.

"What didn't you expect?" you press, your voice still slightly breathless.

Ari's thumb traces the outline of your lower lip, his expression thoughtful. "To feel this... connection. This quickly." 

The admission is wholly unexpected. He didn’t expect the feeling or to be ready and willing to share it with you, but you seem to be an element weaving itself into his inner alpha.

Your eyes soften at his words, a warmth spreading through them as he continues to hold your gaze. Your hand lifts hesitantly to touch his face, fingers tracing the edge of his beard with unexpected tenderness.

"I feel it too," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "They taught us to expect... many things. But not this." 

Ari turns his face slightly to press his lips against your palm, a gesture that feels more intimate than the joining of your bodies moments before. His alpha instincts purr with satisfaction at your admission, at the vulnerability you're willing to show him in return. 

The silence between you stretches, comfortable rather than awkward. In this quiet moment, Ari feels something settling into place inside him—a certainty he hasn't experienced before. Outside these walls, he will still become General Levinson, the calculating strategist who helped Barnes conquer a territory, the ruthlessly efficient military leader who will shape and command armies. The world will see the same disciplined, controlled alpha who has built his reputation on precision and detachment.

But here, with you, something different exists. Something private and separate from that external identity. 

I know I was just writing a very different Alpha!Ari last week, but IT'S ALPHA APRIL! And I've had this idea swirling in my head or about six weeks. I hope he was satisfying... 😏 There's at least one other alpha I'm going to introduce to this verse very soon.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[coline7373]

How to comment 101

A fandom is the subculture inherent to a group of fans. It touches anything related to the field of predilection of such a group of people and is organized or created by these same people. And, like everything that comes from people, it is alive and requires exchanges to continue to exists.

People who receive no comments have often and at length express how lonely it can feel to be shouting alone in the void and how discouraging such silence can be.

I have found after asking around that readers aren’t unwilling to comment, but mainly don’t have the energy or know what to say.

Some readers have also expressed a fear of annoying the author, as they are clumsy with words, or feeling intimidated in front of an author who has such a talent with words that the reader's own words feel too embarrassing. Or not feeling that their own five word sentence is worth the bother.

Every word matters.

Every comment is worth its writing to the author.

I refer you to this post if you doubt the importance and impact of comments on fanfics.

To help those willing to comment, I have done a very modest survey of roughly 20 persons, writers and readers alike, and here is what I have come up with.

For writers:

Write in your notes, at the end of the fic, clearly what type of comment you do not want. 

Clearly stating your limits and preferences helps readers who are uncertain or not very verbose to write in a relaxed way.

If they do not have the anxiety of offending, vexing or annoying the author, they will be more comfortable and therefore more inclined to write.

If you have repeated commenters, try to reply to their comments, even with just a few words. Some people who do not receive replies to any of their comments take the lack of response to mean the author is not reading comments at all, feel discouraged and stop commenting in turn.

If you do read the comments, but don’t want to reply for whatever reason, do say so at the end of the fic, in the notes, so that readers know what to expect and not be disappointed.

For readers:

Do:

About the story: 

You can write about a particular line that you liked, the themes, parallels with canon or within the story, the characterisation, a character’s exploration, a/several character’s motivation, a/several character’s mindset/thinking/emotional reaction, a/several characters’ interaction, the plot, the action happening, the worldbuilding, emotions within the fic, subtext, pacing...

If you liked everything and are overwhelmed on how to narrow it down, you can just say exactly that. “I loved everything!”

You can also focus on pointing out just one moment, one line, one specific thing and why you liked them, specifically. What matters is not that you wrote a novel but that you communicated to the author what made you happy, what you enjoyed.

About you: 

What emotions the fic made you feel, what you think is going on in a wip or what you (think you have) figure(d) out, what you are doing in real life while reading the story, afterward, because of it, and/or how the fic impacted your life (yay! motivation to make art!), how the fic is meaningful on a personal level because x, y, z, what it made you think of, like another fic, a book, a song, a movie, what subject/fact it prompted you to discover more of…

How: 

You can write an essay, a prose, or some serious, meaningful, impactful words but you can also joke with the author as long as you stay mindful or polite. A lot of authors have said they love when people make jokes or break the fourth wall. 

Unsure about your sense of humor? Here is an example: do not write "I hate you! How could you do this to me!” Write "How could you do this? The betrayal! die offscreen.”

Making a parody of what is going on with the characters with a few lines can be funny! Keep it positive. Not everyone has the same degree of sarcasm. But levity and good humor are always welcomed.

Small fics vs longer fics:

Emojis, keysmashing and incoherent yelling are very often correct comments for small fics or drabbles. (Unless otherwise specified.)

They are also loved in longer fics, (unless otherwise specified,) but people who have been writing a story for literal years appreciate you taking at least five minutes to say a bit more than that.

Try to go through all the “about the fic” and “about you” points above, methodically, and choose just two or three of them. Then write just one sentence per point.

If you really don't know what to say, look at other people's comments. Sometimes, you will recognise something you liked too or that you thought was really good. It can help and be the starting point of your own comment.

Long WIPs:

For long fics that you follow while they are being written, people have said they have at first a lot of enthusiasm for commenting, but find it harder and harder to know what to say as the number of chapters accumulate, and so does the number of comments they feel obligated to give in turn.

Please, keep commenting! Love keeps the writers motivated and helps creativity. It’s like shouting in the void and getting a high five back.

Even one line about something specific (a dialogue bit, a reaction, a plot maneuver) can make an author happy.

Writers are not really looking for length or details. They are looking for care. If you read something you liked, just point out what you enjoyed. That's engagement enough. 

Comments aren't really about the act of a compliment. They are about the shared joy of a fandom or a ship or a character. 

Example: “'X character diving headfirst into the sea like that is so like him!”

It’s good. It’s fun. It’s nice.

Some people have said to “save” a chapter, give a kudo and say “looking forward to reading this when I have time!” and wait until they do have time and energy to comment more at length, sometimes two or three chapters at the same time.

It let the writers know their fic is still being read. You just have to be mindful to not let months go by, otherwise, it goes back to leaving the author the impression they invested hours, weeks, months, into something no one interacts with. You can alternate strategies, lengthy comments, short comments, and commenting on several chapters saved.

If all else fails, go back to the tried and true. Choose one of the points above, choose just two or three of them and then write just one sentence per point.

If you are not a native speaker:

Google can help with the bare minimum. It's not great, but it lays the foundations. Write what you think in google translate and the translation will help guide your answer. You can always ask for help from someone else or warn the author that the fic’s language is not your native language, if you are unsure if your words come off in a tone not intended.

At the start of your comment, say “I am not a native speaker”.

Do not apologize. It’s not necessary. Just provide context. Use your words. Be clear.

Remember: 

The writer isn't what they write. They do not necessarily headcanon what they write, nor do they necessarily approve of it in real life. Be mindful to not approve or disprove of x, y, z going on in the fic as if they do. You do not know that.

It’s not about the length or the wording or the quality of your comments. Of course authors love that. But what they love most of all is to hold hands, jump up and down with you and squee and gush about the fandom, ship or character.

It’s about the sharing of the joy.

Don’t:

Do not ask for another chapter and for the author to finish a fic.

Do not threaten the author to put their fics in an AI if they do not finish the fic.

Do not say "I didn't like it" or "I liked but not that" or "It would have been better if x, y, z." If you want to talk about what you didn’t like, whether it’s part or all of the story, discuss it with willing friends. The author is not responsible for you reading something you didn’t enjoy (how it made you feel) and persevering.

Do not “offer” to correct typos, grammar, vocabulary, facts, canon facts, characterisation, ect. unless you know the author and know they are fine with it or they say so explicitly in the notes. 

Do not make demands. Do not.

Like that tumblr op said, “this is not the bespoke zone.” This is off-the rack. If the free suit is not to your liking, look for another free suit rather than demand to speak to the manager for "adjustments."

Tags are not owed to you. Ao3 is not a safe zone. Not everyone agrees on what degree of content merits each tag. Or what qualifies for a tag. So, if you found a fic that was more angsty than you expected and it broke your heart, comment on a part that was good and didn't make you sad, without saying you want a happy ending to the angst fic that was written for angst purpose. Off-the rack, remember?

Exemple:

"I found x,y,z to be upsetting. Would you consider tagging it?"

Vs "Your work is totally x,y,z triggery. You ought to tag it."

Vs "Hey, you do know some people find x,y,z, triggery, right?!? Because they do! So tag it!"

One of those answers is correct. The others aren't. No demands in the comments.

Your emotional well being while reading fic is your responsibility. If your expectations have been disappointed, do not say so. Talk about a point that was positive for you. If your expectations have been exceeded, do share!

Also, if you're mad, I have found that it helps to write your comment, leave it to decant, and wait a week or so to see what it looks like when you're in a different emotional mindset.

Some elements of fics can be very upsetting unexpectedly. It is not the responsibility of the writer to answer that. Nor comments are the place for it.

Once some time has passed, if you still want to talk about it, try to communicate in a way that is neither demanding nor negative. If you can't, talk about it with someone who is not the author.

My own personal opinion:

It can be so easy to focus on the fic and your own inner imaginary garden/cinema, that we sometimes forget to switch from "inner life" to "outer life" and exchange actively with people on both sides of the fence.

But it can also add so much more to the experience <3

Clear communication is always good. Even if you disagree. At least you know where you stand.

Say thank you. Fanfics are a gift. You have been given one. Say thank you. 

[zevzevarainai]

anyone else think about how even with amnesia, Majima molded himself into a pirate captain to fit what Noah wanted because it's written in his very core to mold himself into what the people in his life want him to be?

like being the lord of the night so saejima could have a place in the tojo clan when he got out of prison?

like uprooting his entire life and putting it in constant danger so Makoto could one, live, and two, move passed the underworld shitstorm and be a normal civilian?

like the crazy persona he put on after being titled the "mad dog of shimano" because that's what everyone expected of him and god forbid they know he has feelings? even though the dog comparison kinda rubs salt into the wound of being on sagawa's metaphorical leash?

like being wacky and unpredictable on purpose in order to provide distraction and newness for kiryu who is literally on the verge of a breakdown the entirety of kiwami oops i mean make him the strongest dude in japan again?

LIKE once again uprooting his life because Kiryu wants him to be present for Daigo despite Majima not caring about the Tojo Clan anymore?

LIKE protecting Daigo while he disbands the yakuza and becoming a fishmonger of all things??

LIKE pretending to be grumpy and an asshole on the trip to Hawaii, which the yakuza expect of him, but he's actually uprooting his life again to try and find a myth to save Kiryu's life???????

[shadelorde]

paraphrased from a conversation I had on Bluesky but actually the more I think about it the more utterly insane it is that the major thing Korra is hated for is losing the past avatars. You want to know HOW she lost the past avatars? by trusting an older member of her own family who then proceeded to GRAPHICALLY violate her and destroy an actual part of her in front of her with utter glee - but Unalaq isn't denounced as even a creep and no thought is given to any of the themes behind such a scene, it's just "how could korra let this happen??!?!?!"

life imitates art i guess.