#can you imagine how heavy soaked wool is?

[rt-closetcryptic]

Silly work doodles I forgot to post!

[moondirti]

I have to ask about the sheep reader bc my god your brain is so wrinkly and now the images won't leave my head ahhhh love your writing so so much

hybrids. manipulation. brief smut. referenced neglect

it was that or cult leader price which i feel like has been done before so,,, idk man. something about sheep girl! reader being gifted to him by a hybrid averse neighbour, trussed up in the back of their pickup, soft belly up, eyes quivery and wet with tears. though he does not need an addition to his flock — certainly not one that would require extra care — he notices the abrasions sectioning your bare patches of skin (consequence of crowding in with the more animal individuals of your kind), and chubs up upon realising how easy it would be to soft-soap you into submission.

all it takes is a bit of kindness. he herds you into his home, bathing you in a galvanised steel tub with shampoo made for human women. his hands are large and rough, work-worn, but they weave into your wool gently as to not tug on the knots that have accumulated with neglect. you bleat in the novel attention, peering up at him shyly when he works the soap down your back, cupping between your legs to make sure he gets the dirt spoiling your privates.

freshly clean, you’re a pretty thing. round in the most mouth-watering places, teeth healthy upon inspection, plump lips perpetually cast in a pout. price goes so far as to tell you while he detangles your hair with an animal comb, petting your bare cheeks to feel the way they warm. loveliest lamb i’ve ever had the pleasure of caring for. set to be my favourite, at this rate. the most special.

that’s what the collar he buckles ‘round your neck seems to argue, too. fashioned himself out of full grain leather, dyed pink, antique buckle making a sturdy hook for the bell he will eventually procure.

you give in like he’d brought a meat tenderiser down on your flesh. pull apart like a well-cooked feast, unspooling all your ripe sentiments on his lap. as he sups on lamb chops — seated on his arm chair with you by his feet, making you suck his fingers clean — he tells you what to expect in your new home. the schedule, the other animals, your place within it all. you will not be given this treatment daily, yet it does not mean he loves you any less. most winter days, he’ll lay a bed of straw in the barn, assuring you that it’ll be away from the rams and their meddling horns, and come to check in on you when you can. that way, you’ll make friends who can keep you company while he’s busy.

and the way you nod, nose twitching under his heavy palm, hesitant but so trusting of the only kindness you’ve ever known — he can’t help but skip a few steps. promises you that if you get along with everyone well enough, if you’re good, he’ll reward you with a nice bath, trim, and private meal weekly. it’s the right thing to say, too, because your hips jut excitedly at the suggested luxury. just one taste of it and you’re so easily conditioned.

he can’t imagine how eager you’d be if he were to give you more. more; like fondling your doughy pussy as he is so tempted to do, kneading until you’re sloppy and soaked through your wool. like giving you a taste of climax, fingers foraging expertly within your walls, stretching your hole out to eventually supplant them with his cock. you’d move so well underneath him, fluffy and malleable, legs moved up and out of the way to press against your teats. if he knows anything, he knows sheep acquiesce to handling like butter to the knife. he could bend you, tie you, pick you up in whatever way he sees fit, and you’d take it. all he has to do in return is make you squirt messily onto the soft grass, and pump you full of his seed until you cannot clean yourself out without the help of his hand and a hose.

all in due time.

[trashpandacraft]

i really like seeing posts about how other people are processing their fibre, so i thought that i'd add ours. we bought a couple bags (about three kilos—this photo is only half) of raw fleece at sheep and wool, and now have it all washed out and cleaned up.

the most helpful boys in the world were very interested in what we were doing, and frankly far less suspicious of the large tub of water than i would've preferred for them to be.

anyhow, about a kilo of fleece got dumped into the tub and arranged to be as aligned as possible. in future washes, i didn't bother with this and didn't find that there was much a difference, and certainly not sufficient difference to justify the time and effort spent carefully laying it out.

i imagine that this is different if you're washing a whole fleece and things are already more or less aligned. if you're washing a bag of of fleece that's just been plopped into the bag, i would suggest not bothering.

the small bag at the end were some locks that we'd picked ahead of time to see if they washed up nicer. (spoiler: they did not.)

worth noting is that we have one of those bathtubs that's short but deep, so this isn't as much water or space as it looks like.

if you've ever wanted to see how water-resistant wool is, here's a great example. these photos were taken the next morning, and some of the fibre was still totally dry, despite having carefully pushed it all underwater before we headed to bed.

after about twelve hours of soaking, this is what we had—the water doesn't look that dirty in the second photo, but you can just barely see a cloud of dirt at the edge of the mesh bag we were using to hold the wool in place in the tub. (it was just laid on the bottom of the tub, and meant that we could easily move the wool up or down the tub, or lift it out entirely, without having to move it much.)

anyhow, soaking water from this batch went into a bucket to feed my wife's plants. (and then the next batch i fucked up and drained it. 🤡 it's amazing they put up with me, tbh.)

wool got moved safely away from the water, and then it was time for the hottest tap water we could manage. our tap runs at well over 60c/145f, so we didn't bother to try to make it any warmer. as it was, i was very grateful that we'd bought the extra heavy duty kitchen gloves.

we added a couple splurts of dishsoap (palmolive) to the tub, then carefully let the fleece spread itself out again, which doesn't take much encouragement, thankfully. and then we fucked off for a while.

twenty minutes later, the water looked like this.

my hand's in the water to about my knuckles in that photo, and as you may notice, it very much appears that i have no fingers.

second wash. our friend the very large mesh laundry bag helped hold the fleece first away from the drain, and then from the tap, and we did it again just like the first wash.

another twenty minutes, and we had this.

you can almost believe that i've got fingers! progress!

this post offers a great look at what it looks like when lanolin is leaving a fleece. we have incredibly soft water, so most of their findings weren't especially relevant to our washing, but the visual guide is fantastic, especially since it took them so many changes to get things clean.

so again, drained, refilled, and resoaped, then left to sit for twenty minutes. and this time, i came back to this!

a whole entire hand! fingertips and everything! i was sort of surprised, honestly, since fine wools have a reputation for being really lanolin heavy, but after this batch of fleece i went down to two washes, and feel like it was more than sufficient for 90% of it. (there was a chunk of merino/bond cross in a later batch that was a little shorter and more lanolin heavy, and likely could've used a third wash, but i'm using that to make rolags and it's going fine, so whatever.)

anyhow, fleece clean! rinse time!

this looks like fleece in water, because that's what it is. we did two rinses, and that seemed plenty sufficient to get out all the suds.

next we spread it out as gently as possible onto a cheap sweater drying rack and hung it on a giant screw that's sort of inexplicably sticking sharp-end-out of the eaves of our porch. (and you'd be like 'that sounds normal, lots of people have screws or whatever to hang things,' to which i'd say 'it does! except that there are three of them and the placement is utterly bizarre, and this is the only one that you can hang anything from.' my best guess is christmas lights, but why a screw? why sharp side out? how sharp side out, at that?)

wool, drying! and the hated roses that have been blooming all fucking winter and are continuing to bloom and are getting bigger and now have spawned more roses somehow, and now we have a bunch of red roses, too. when we moved into this place a year and a half ago there were only white roses. we don't know where the red ones came from, nor do we know why the roses are suddenly VERY TALL—see how in this photo, they don't even clear the top of the wall? now they're like 50cm over it. eighteen inches over it. why. i hate them.

i will continue to hate them unless they become tall enough and self-support enough that they accidentally shade our office, in which case i will hate them slightly less but i'll be mad about it.

and now we're done! that's a lock of nice clean wool! all we did before this photo was fluff out the tips a bit.

i combed some out, and it's pretty good!

nice little nests of combed top. the wool's slightly different colours because, like i said, it wasn't a fleece, it was just fleece, if that makes sense, so there's a bit of a range of colouration in there. but there's much less loss than i'd expected, even combing it out, and all up this was a much easier and less miserable process than i'd feared it would be!

i've put off buying raw fleece for a long time, partly because i've mostly lived in apartments and haven't had a ton of space in which to wash it, and partly because i'm disabled and was afraid that doing it would be too much physically, but it turns out that i probably could have done this a lot sooner, and also that it's not really that hard on the body. the worst of it for me was bending over the tub to fill/refill and then get the wool onto the drying screen, which was a little rough, but definitely not so rough i wouldn't do it again.

(we then did this several more times to get all the fleece washed, and i can already tell you: we're gonna do it again.)

this is the first time i've done raw fleece that had lanolin in it, so please don't take this as an authoritative resource, but that's what we did, and it worked really well and was a lot easier than i'd feared, so i figured i'd share.

[whumpzone]

Linden & Colton - 28

(masterlist)

CW: pet whump, dissociation, panic attacks, talk of noncon and sexual abuse

-

Linden made sure the newspaper was between him and Col, dividing the two and their respective bowls of cereal. There were days where Linden felt he couldn’t be bothered with breakfast, but Col deserved three meals a day, so he made sure to set a precedent.

I suppose I deserve three meals a day too, he thought with a trace of humour.

The newspaper was a small but important barrier, along with the cereal box, and a pine-scented candle. It was never lit- Linden didn’t want Col to know where the matches were kept- but its pleasant aroma was still there. Linden was sure the barriers were mostly of psychological comfort, but he had noticed the way Col relaxed with them. It didn’t look quite as easy to reach out and grab. Given his wrist scars, Linden imagined that Col had spent a lot of his time strung up, open and completely defenceless. Every layer of clothing, every object, even the table itself, it all kept him away and separate. Like he was his own person, his own body. He'd been planted in his own patch of earth, and he could grow in any direction he wanted.

Vik would call it all overthinking, but it came to Linden so naturally these days.

This morning, Col was trying out his new cutlery. Linden had gone online and found a set of accessible forks, knives, teaspoons and tablespoons, all built with incredibly thick tactile handles.  Linden had chosen the green set. He had weighed up asking Col to choose, but he thought it would be better to keep them as a nice surprise.

Breakfast was also a good time to see if it was going to be a talkative day or not. “See how you get on with your new spoon, Col,” Linden encouraged, picking up his own as he spoke.

Col did one of his almost-smiles, where although his lips didn’t quite turn up enough, the heaviness on his face lifted.

“Thank you again, Sir, really…”

“Aw, well, you’re welcome,” Linden returned Col’s smile tenfold.

Col picked the spoon up and his eyes widened. “It’s so much easier, Sir.”

“Yeah?”

Col scooped up some cereal with ease and marvelled at it.

“Yeah. Thank you,” he said, meeting Linden’s eye. “Please may I keep using it?”

“Yes, yes of course, they’re for you from now on. I have big and little spoons, knives, and forks.”

Col’s eyes widened even more. “Wow, I… how can I earn all this, Sir?”

“You don’t have to. These are just to make your life easier.”

“But I haven’t done anything to… is there something you want me to do that involves these?”

“No, Col, honestly,” Linden said, still smiling, trying to keep it light as always, “They’re just for the simple but important task of eating your food. Your hands are always improving, but these will help while they’re still fragile.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Col said, almost tripping over his words to get his point across. Linden just waved at his breakfast with a limp-wristed hand.

“You’re welcome, sweet, now you can enjoy your cereal. I’m gonna do the same.”

. . .

After breakfast, after Col had prostrated himself in thanks for the new cutlery, which Linden had handled with barely any trace of awkwardness, the two moved to the living room. It seemed like it was going to be a talkative day, and Linden wanted to keep the momentum going. It was raining- the kind of harmless rain that nevertheless drove people inside. The kind that came from all directions like a mist and soaked you to the bone.

Linden was crocheting a new cardigan, and Col’s job was to hold the ball of wool and unroll it in even increments, making sure Linden never went without. It was the perfect light test of dexterity, with something soft and harmless. The only vaguely weapon-like thing involved was the crocheting hook, which was far too busy looping and stitching and working away.

“How would you feel about another walk, soonish?”

Linden waited for Col’s response before he clarified what soonish meant. It could mean today, if Col seemed willing, or it could mean in the next week, or month.

“Um,” Col started hesitantly, staring at the floor, “Would you please keep me on- on a short leash? If it isn’t too much trouble, Sir?”

“Would that make you feel safer?” Linden asked, and when Col nodded, he said, “Can I ask why?”

Linden knew this was something that would need to be worked around, not avoided, but it could be like the cutlery. If Linden could find the right tools to make it easier, then Col would be able to finally get some regular exercise.

“It’s st-stupid, Sir, I’m sorry for saying anything.”

“It’s not stupid. I want- it’s important for you to feel safe when we next go outside. I promise I wouldn’t ever use it against you.”

This seemed to get through to Col, a little bit. He gently squeezed the ball of wool as he found the words.

“I’m worried about seeing… seeing some people.”

Linden stayed quiet.

“Not my old Master, he’s- he’s dead, Sir.”

“Okay,” Linden murmured. He knew that already, from when Vik had told him, but it was good to finally hear it from Col. He was more than a little curious about the specifics of that, but it could wait.

“My old Master had all his friends ‘round, sometimes,” he started.

What followed was a very long pause. Col was still looking at the floor, but his eyes started to take on the unfocused, hazy appearance they had a handful of times before. Linden knew his consciousness was stepping away from the here and now, drifting like seaweed, hopeless against the syrupy pull of the ocean. He was being taken back and it was tumbling him like a breaking wave, crushing him against all the days and times and moments. Linden was watching him drown.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, and, mercifully, Col took a breath.

“He had his friends ‘round and they all- they all- they all fucked me.”

“Jesus. Oh, god, Col. Oh my god.”

Col wasn’t kneeling: his legs were tucked up against his chest, and his arms were folded over them like a hug. Linden quietly lowered himself onto the floor and mirrored him. When Linden next took a breath, it was shaky with horror.

“You know I would never do that to you? Ever.”

“Yes, Sir,” Col mumbled out, because he had to. Linden could tell he didn’t believe him.

“No, I mean it.” Col immediately looked up, a half-second away from begging that he wasn’t defying him, but Linden pressed on before he could. “I would never do that. I can’t. I don’t have an interest in sex. And while I would never do it regardless… what’s most important is that it can never happen.”

“You don’t have an interest, Sir? You don’t like it?”

“Exactly. I should have made this clear much sooner.”

Col lowered his head to brush the top of his knees, hiding his expression. “My old Master didn’t get involved when his friends came.”

It showed an incredible amount of trust that Col could say that- because what he wanted to say was are you going to do that? Could that be your work-around? Am I still in danger?

Linden remembered when Col had tried to offer him a sexual favour, back when he’d just arrived. Linden had been disgusted to find out that that had been part of the tapestry of abuse Col had endured, but he now realised quite how prolific it had been. It had been so much worse than he’d realised.

“That is fucking evil. Evil. Seeing that done to you would make me sick, Col. How can I explain… seeing something like that happen can damage a person. Even seeing it, yeah, Col? It isn’t normal. Not even close to normal.”

“So it… it wouldn’t please you, Sir?”

“Col, you poor thing. It would do the opposite. I don’t have an interest in sex, and that’s quite a neutral feeling. But seeing you get gangraped? I need you to understand that I would physically be sick. Normal human beings do not do things like that.”

“They don’t? Most people, th-they, it’s not f-fun for them?”

“Exactly. It’s not fun for Vik either.”

“Are- Are you sure? I’m sorry, I mean, I do believe you Sir, I just…”

“No, it’s okay. I promise. It’s okay to be unsure. You spent so long not receiving any kindness at all. Your old owner was a very wicked man.”

Col slid his arms from his legs, folding them against his chest, pressing his hands to his beating heart. His breathing was starting to speed up.

“Sir, that word you used…”

“Which one?”

“Raped. Is that… is that what happened to me?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry, Col.”

“But I was always just- it was always after I’d been really bad. It was just another lesson, that’s what I was told.”

“That doesn’t change it. That was wrong. I don’t care what you’d done. You never deserved that.”

“But I- but I- but, oh, oh god, oh god-“

Col’s breaths were now short and staccato gasps, barely able to get his words out around them. He pressed his hands into his face.

“No, no, it was just a lesson, just, just, a-a-and I always tried so hard,” he moaned as he began to sob. His chest heaved thunderously around his failing lungs, unable to keep up against the force of the panic attack.

Linden’s mind went white as Col wailed. Should he hold him? Leave? Speak to him?

Slowly, he reached out a hand, letting it rest on Col’s shoulder. Col wrenched a scarred, crooked hand away from his face and grabbed onto Linden’s wrist.  

“It wasn’t your fault,” he murmured. “And I’m here.”

“Don’t leave me, please,” Col wept. His crying was open-mouthed and wretched; Linden had never heard something so grief-stricken before. Col’s entire body was shaking from the force of it. It was a terrible sight, seeing him in so much agony.

Linden moved a little closer, gently rocking them both back and forth. Col turned his face down, pressing it against his shoulder, where Linden’s fingers made divots in his cheek. Linden could feel Col’s tears soaking into his skin.

“I’m right here,” he said, trying to breathe slowly and deliberately, but not expecting Col to copy him. Not expecting a single thing from the breathless young man curled up and crying against him, whose pain Linden couldn’t ever understand.

No wonder Col had been so terrified last time they stepped outside. He was living in fear of running into his rapists. Plural. Linden felt sick.

It wasn’t something he could produce a simple fix to, either. But Linden would do what he could. Ideas were already whirring through his mind.

Col sobbed until there were two rashes streaming down from each eye. Until his nose and cheeks and scleras were red. He eventually allowed Linden to support his arms and coax him onto the sofa- the first time he had ever let himself onto the furniture- where he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Linden covered him with a blanket and kept his promise not to leave him.  

-

taglist part 1:

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captain-seconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonwardsworld @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @the-monarch-whumperfly @penny-for-your-whump @briars7 @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread @vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate @littlespacecastle @haro-whumps @extrabitterbrain @neverthelass @downrivergirl914

[selamat-linting]

terrafirmacraft update again because i spent my off day playing video games

1. the bed

i got it guyss!!! i killed a bear and use the hide for bed. you see, a few weeks in game, i encountered a bear. i ran way as fast as i can because i dont have any armor yet. little did i know, when it followed my frantic running, it accidentally fell and get stuck on a steep cliff with nowhere to go. i was trying to find the start of the river, hoping it would lead to an area with a better flow of water, but instead i find the bear. it was easy killing. i just had to keep throwing my spears at it and it'll die.

look, i've gotten killed several times by bears so makes sense i'd get cocky seeing one completely trapped. i feel like a cerebral assasin, its all about the game! and how you play it. until i got too reckless and fell into the freezing river.

i frantically swim my way out and ran into the house, thinking the bear could accidentally fall with me and chase me home. imagine that, running home shivering and soaking wet afraid of shadows. im lucky this version of the modpack doesnt include a temperature system. i would have died of hypothermia! it was an autumn night and the climate im in was on the colder side.

i went back shortly in the morning, and the bear was still there. it only take a few shots. after retrieving the hide, i finally made my second thatch bed after eight months in game without it. the thatch bed is different than the regular base game bed since it couldnt be used to actually sleep, its just a way to set up your spawn point. my next goal right now, is a proper bed made of wools or silk.

turns out, silkworms are only for the hardrock version of tfc. i cant farm my way out of it. so, i have to find sheeps, or other wooly mammals. luckily tfc have alpacas, and they frequently spawn in colder regions like the one im in. it still took multiple expeditions that ends with me going home with only seeds or ores. i even find a spot in a hill that has a kimberlite (diamond) ore. thats how lucky i am with animals. i did find one eventually though

2. the alpaca

i kidnapped a child murdered and her mother. you see, when i find my alpaca, it was young and small, i was desperate already, especially since it was a snowy plains and walking there is so slow and annoying, so i just take it home. i didnt know where the mother is. every day i feed it. and what do you know, turns out baby alpacas can be sheared, despite its small size.

a few days after the alpaca is in my home, when im in another expedition, i find an adult female alpaca wandering alone in the wilderness. i figured it must be its mother. unfortunately, i was heavy with so much load and far from home, so i kinda need a food sourse. at least its sheepskin can be stripped into pieces of wool. in the end, the combined total of wool gathered from these two animals afforded me 1 (one) single wool sheets. weaving and spindling is cool btw. i just need two wool sheets more for the bed

(to be continued because im tired and this is too long already)

[coffee-4-dinner]

The Paladin and the Saint

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls - Oblivion

Scene: Hero of Kvatch kills Rufio at the Inn of Ill Omen

Hard rain battered the small wooden inn, tucked away along the forest roadside. Howling wind blew the squeaky, rusted old sign that hung by the door, a black raven and the words The Inn of Ill Omen carved carefully onto its face. 

A small figure, cloaked in thin gray wool, cut swiftly through the grass and up the cobblestone path towards the inn. Entering, the wind pushed the wooden door, slamming behind her with the loud clanging of a bell. 

“Hail!” A loud voice greeted her. An older man with thin blonde hair sat behind the counter in dingy light, smoking a pipe peacefully. He coughed as she approached, and squinted up at the guest. “Well I’ll be a spotted snow bear!” The man boomed. “A customer!” Kina flinched from the noise. He was the classic Nord- big, pale, and loud. Not unlike the snow bear, actually.

She kept her hood on, nervous eyes avoiding the man’s gaze. The less he saw her face, the better. “How much for a room?” Rain water dripped off curled black hair onto the countertop.

The innkeep coughed again, taking his feet down from the stool with a painful groan as he stood. “Oh, never grow old, lass. Ten Septims. I’ll throw in some bread and mead for three more.”

She silently passed over the gold coins, and he looked at her curiously. She was shivering intensely from the cold.

“Traveling alone, little miss? Off to the Imperial City I take it? Or is that where you’re heading from?” 

“Yes. Visiting family,” she said shortly, not clarifying which it was. 

The older man pushed a small pot of ink and quill towards her and she hesitated a short moment before scribbling a name into the heavy log book.

“Shouldn’t be traveling by yourself,” the man said kindly. “There’s brigands abound at every turn. But well, we got plenty of rooms, you can stay as long as you like! Don’t get too many guests all the way out here, as you can imagine…” He gave a wheezing, awkward chuckle when she didn't respond. “Ah, right well um, there's a room available right upstairs, first door on the left.”

The strange girl took the key from him wordlessly, her face expressionless, and swiftly headed up the stairs before he could engage her further in conversation.  

The innkeeper shook his head, settling back down. This place seemed to get no one but weirdos.

Closing and locking the door behind her, Kina leaned against it with a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment. Alone, hidden and safe away from the city at last. She needed some time to think. Peeling off her soaked clothes, she threw them carelessly to a pile on the floor, pulling on a dry cotton shirt. Tousling her hair with a towel, she squeezed out the rain. 

Feeling warmer already, she plopped down on the bed, crossing her legs as she rummaged through her pack. Withdrawing the Blade of Woe, she stared at the assassin’s gift, inspecting it clearly in the candlelight. 

She ran her finger delicately along the dagger's razor edge, admiring its fine forging, its intricate gold detailing on ebony metal. “Beautiful…” she whispered.

But this was madness. The Dark Brotherhood? Working as an assassin? Who was she fooling? You’re a horse thief and a street rat, a skooma slinger and a pottery painter. Nothing more, nothing less. Surviving in the Arena pit was just luck, it had only been a matter of time before she was faced with someone more than just another terrified slave. 

“You’re going to get yourself killed, you stupid little girl,” she whispered to herself. 

She couldn’t relax, tense and anxious, she paced the small barren room, barely even taking notice of her surroundings. Memories swam through her head of the Arena. The roaring crowd screamed in her ears, their stomping feet shaking the wooden benches of the colosseum. Cheering for death, demanding blood. The look on the first girl’s face, a mirror of her own terror. What choice did she have? But this isn’t the Arena. You can walk away. You don't have to kill him. The Arena was self-defense, forced and in tears. Fights for survival, and a kill for freedom. But this… This would be murder, true murder. Kina wrung her hands. She needed to go to the bathroom. How long would it be til she dare return to the Imperial City? How long would the guards look for her? All her belongings… still in her mother’s house on the Waterfront, unreachable. 

She took a deep inhale, giving a shaky long sigh. She tried not to feel the hangman’s noose close around her throat, or to imagine the planks beneath her splitting and giving way. If the guards caught her… Still, even death would be a blessing over being dragged back into that cage. That dim dungeon, with its nibbling squeaking rats. With that damn dunmer’s relentless, cruel mocking. And with them. With their rough laughter and dirty hands. She swallowed, feeling sick. She felt his calloused hand over her mouth again, the disgusting slimy wetness of forced tongues down her throat, their foul, hot liquored breath. She retched, stumbling to the dresser to shakily pour some dust filled, long sitting water, gulping it down. 

The girl put a hand to her forehead. And what about this stranger? This Dark Brotherhood assassin. Was he lying? Could she trust his words? If she ran, would he kill her? She trembled as she pressed her fist into her mouth. She was entirely trapped. She had no idea what to do. She had nowhere to go. Terrified and alone, she was a child lost deep in the forest. 

She stood there, still in the room for quite some time, listening to the rain fall quicken and hit her windows. 

Choose now. Choose the rest of your life. Run, and keep running. Keep stealing, keep scraping by bit by bit. Gutter rat, and that was all she would come to. End up hanged, or to die an old pauper, to be buried in the dirt with no coffin. 

For what? Honor? Innocence? Both had been stripped from her thoroughly. 

The assassin’s earlier words came to mind, his velvety voice a seductive purr in her ear. 

“Kill him. Innocence is life’s greatest illusion.”

This old man wasn’t innocent. Wanted for killing a young girl, he was in hiding from the law. The thought struck her for a moment. She and Rufio’s situations weren’t dissimilar. 

The guards had failed to find him, but clearly, somehow, the Dark Brotherhood had. She thought of Lucien Lachance’s description of the father- that he had been on his knees, begging him for justice. “Should I have denied him this justice, this peace?”

“No, no you shouldn’t have,” she whispered aloud. Rufio had plenty reason to deserve to die. 

Kina gazed at her reflection in the small, stained mirror propped up on the nightstand. The look in her pale blue eyes was not her own. 

“I’m sorry Mama,” she whispered to herself quietly. “I just don’t want to end up like you.”

She had decided before she’d known she had. This was inevitable, and not even she could stop this now. 

Alright.

She had to find Rufio. 

Making herself as presentable as possible in the limited, dirty clothes she had, she practiced a disarming smile in the mirror before heading downstairs. “Showtime,” she whispered to herself. “Right girl?” Just like old times. Men were easy to fool, she shouldn’t worry.

The old wooden stairs creaked as she came back down to the tavern’s first floor. A woman was here now, an older Redguard with bushy brown hair, knitting at a table by the fireplace. 

Plopping down casually on a stool at the bar, Kina struck up a casual conversation with the innkeep from earlier, who was now sweeping the room.

“Hey mister, can I get that mead now?”

He shrugged. “Sure, miss.” 

“So, what's the story behind the sign?” she asked as he brought it to her. “Maybe you’d have better business if you changed it.”

The innkeep laughed, a deep hearty sound from his round belly. “It's a horrible name for an inn, I know.” He had a strong Nordic accent, distinct from the Imperials in the city. “But I just can't bring myself to change it. Besides, I like the sign.”

“I do too, actually. I like the raven.” Kina took a swig of the mead. Sweet. She looked down at the glass bottle, peeling its label. Her stomach tightened. Would this be the last thing she tasted?

“What's your name, anyways?” she asked, looking up at him with an innocent, friendly smile. 

“Manheim. Manheim Maulhand, at your service my good lady,” he said good naturedly with a little bow. 

“Maulhand?” Kina raised a playful eyebrow. “You’re full of bad names.”

“Ah, on account of this twisted old stump.” The innkeep waved his left hand, a mangled and gnarled ugly thing. “Gift from my old dog. You never would have guessed it too, he was such a good old boy…never would have hurt a fly. I don't understand it.”

Hm. So he wasn’t Rufio. Just another old man. Kina looked around the empty inn, at the woman sitting by the hearth. She looked up, meeting Kina’s gaze for a moment and smiling timidly before dropping it.

“Who’s she? I was beginning to think I was the only one here,” Kina joked. 

“You are!” Manheim laughed. “Ain't nobody staying here. Well, ‘cept old Rufio. Minerva there lives up the hill. Says she got no place else to be though, comes ‘round a lot.” The innkeeper leaned a little close to her, a teasing twinkle in his eye. “I think the old gal is sweet on me.”

Kina smiled, but she barely heard a word past Rufio’s name. 

“Who’s Rufio?” She asked as casually as she could, her heart pounding as she took another swig of mead. 

“Bah, old codger. Been living here for a couple weeks now.” He leaned closer to the girl, lowering his voice. “If you ask me, he's hiding from something. But what do I care? He pays his tab.” 

Kina hesitated to ask further. She would surely arouse suspicion when Rufio turned up dead. Before she could decide whether to ask anymore questions, Manheim took off to the back of the bar, carrying a tub of dirty dishes whistling cheerfully to himself. 

Turning her attention to the Redguard woman, she waved hesitantly as they caught each other's eye, and the older woman nodded her over. 

“Hello stranger,” the woman called as Kina approached, taking a seat at her table. “We don't get many visitors around here. The only people that stay here are stragglers on the Green Road.”

Kina flashed a rather sheepish smile. “Yeah, so I’ve heard…must get pretty boring.”

“Oh honey you have no idea,” the woman said. “Makes things pretty lonely for me, if you know what I mean,” she added flirtatiously. “It's good to see a young face around, this inn has been cheerless far too long.” 

She introduced herself as Minerva, and it only took half a drink and a few honeyed words from Kina to have her spilling all of the personal business between Manheim and herself. 

“Say,” Kina interrupted her irritating, meaningless babble, learning forward over the table to focus Minerva’s attention. “I think Manheim said there was someone else here?” She blinked innocently. “What was his name, Rex? Riley?” 

“Oh you mean Rufio,” Minerva said, the disappointed change in her tone clearly indicating that she did not think highly of the absent tenant. 

“Oh yeah, Rufio. So what’s he like? Isn’t he any fun?” Kina added with a cheeky grin, playing along with Minerva’s desire for gossip.

“By the Nine, no dear. Oh, there’s not a lot to tell. He doesn't much like company, and spends most of his time in his room. So don’t expect a warm reception if you try to talk to that old bore,” Minerva sniffed. 

“Is he next to my room? I didn’t hear anyone else up there.” 

The Redguard shook her head, gesturing dismissively over to a small wooden hatch in the floor that Kina hadn’t even noticed before, half hidden behind some large barrels. “His room is downstairs. Manheim calls it the Private Quarters but it’s really just the basement.”

Bingo. 

Kina spent the rest of the hour entertaining Minerva and Manheim, laughing and smiling, but only half present. She had gotten all she had needed from them. Now they were just in the way. 

At last, Minerva, having had enough drink and drama for one night, hugged Kina goodbye in an all too familiar way, staggering home. Manheim shook his head, walking her home, then exchanged goodnights with his new tenant and retired himself.

Kina feigned going to sleep herself, waiting a good hour before silently creeping back down the stairs. All was dark and quiet. Good. 

Pulling the hatch up with some effort, she whispered a word of magic, fire sparking on her fingertips. She climbed down a ladder, and landed in a small dark cellar, lined with shelves of wine and bags of grain. A door on the opposite side beckoned her. Kina took a deep breath, then took the handle in her hand and turned. Locked, of course. Taking a knee to examine it, she withdrew a lockpick and made quick work of the amateur lock. 

And then there he was. Rufio. A sleeping figure on the bed, turned away from her. Easing the door shut behind her ever so carefully, Kina crept towards the bed with a practiced thieves footing, his snoring masking her footsteps. She withdrew the assassin’s gift, the Blade of Woe flashing in her hand. Coming to stand next to the bed, she looked down at him, examining his face. Yes, this was surely him. The old man hiding in the Inn’s basement. The man wanted for killing someone’s daughter. A Breton, wrinkled and thin, nothing but a ring of white hair clinging to his scalp.

Standing over the old man a minute too long, she found herself paralyzed, uncertain as a child’s first steps. If she shoved this metal into his throat, would he really die? Would he wake, scream, overpower her? Could she stab him in the head, or would the skull be too strong to break? Should she cover his mouth? Stab him in the eye? How much strength should she use? Would she feel the flesh tearing, the bone and blood through the blade? How many times would it take? Should she stab or slash? Would blood spurt all over her? Would her fingers slip on the blade? 

Overthinking will freeze you, she told herself. It was like thinking too hard about walking, the mechanics of it all, and suddenly finding yourself unable to take a step.

Just do it, do it. Whatever it takes, just get it done. Just make him dead.

Wiping off sweaty palms, she tightened her grip on the Blade of Woe. She lifted it above her head, ritualistic. A deep, shaky breath. 

It’s you or him. You or him. Choose. 

Down, the dagger plunged, the obsidian blade sinking into the old man’s soft flesh with ease like smooth butter. Rufio gasped, yellowed eyes bulging as he awoke in a panic, clutching a hand to his chest, bright red blood spreading across his linen shirt like a flower blooming. For a moment their eyes met and they stared at each other. Pushing his assailant away, he clumsily attempted to escape the bed. Sheets wrapped around his legs, tripping him to the ground. 

Managing to scramble up as Kina faltered, unsure what to do, he pressed his back to the wall, a hand held to his bleeding chest. 

"Who are you?” Rufio yelled. “What do you want? I ain't done nothin'!" 

“Shh!” Kina hissed, holding a finger to her lips. 

“Why, you…you’re not…are you? You’re just a girl…”

She stared at him. “Like the girl you killed, Rufio?”

“What? No, please. Please…I ain’t done nothin’” He repeated, a sure sign of the innocent. 

He was beginning to back away, palms held up. “Just go away.”

"Look, look, I can pay you, ok? More than whatever Claudius is paying.” Rufio said shakily, as Kina approached slowly. “Name your price, anything, really!”

Claudius. The employer who Lucien had refused to reveal. 

“You’re broke, Rufio. Everyone knows that. You’re on the run.”

"No, no I have gold! Hidden away, stacks of it!" He nodded eagerly, as if enthusiasm would help convince her. "I hid it, buried in the hills, just in case something like this happened. I'll give you all of it, I swear, you can have it all!"

"You're a liar, Rufio. A bad one."

“Oh, anything! Anything! Please, just let me live!" 

Kina hesitated. “What is Claudius’ full name?” She asked.

“W- what?” Rufio blinked, confused. “C- Claudius Arcadia.”

She was curious, suddenly. Kina cocked her head at him, her gaze cold.  “Apparently he’s in prison now, you know. For hiring the Dark Brotherhood, for performing the Black Sacrament.”

“Ye- yes, I've been reading the papers,” Rufio stuttered.

As usual, a brief jealous annoyance hit her. So he could read. Rich bastard.

“So do you feel guilty for that, or what?” The girl’s voice was flat, almost bored. 

“What? Do I- ? Guilt?” 

“Yeah, of course you don't. I don't think I will either, not really.” She said, adjusting her grip on the dagger and approaching him.

"No, wait! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me?” Rufio cried. “She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!"

The implication of Rufio’s words sunk into her, and Kina slowly turned to him, her teeth grit, lips twitching into a snarl, fury growing like fire in her stomach. 

“Oh yeah? You want to rape me too, you dirty old bastard?"

"It wasn't like that!" He cried. "I swear, I- I told her! She just wouldn't listen to me!"

"Well Rufio, for the first time in too long, I do have a choice. And I won't stay still either. I choose this! You fucking die!” 

She lunged, plunging the dagger deep into the man’s stomach, all the way to the hilt, growling in his face. Rufio choked, spitting out blood onto her shoulder. With Kina leaping back in disgust, the old man stumbled away from her, a hand held to his stomach, falling to the ground, he left a smeared handprint on the Inn walls. 

“Manheim!” Rufio called raspily, weakly. “Manheim!” His hand caught the legs of a nearby stool, knocking it over, the clattering loud in the night.

Suddenly, everything was real again. This was murder. Prison was real. A noose was real. He was never supposed to wake. Blood was getting everywhere. Everything was going so wrong.

Kina panicked, the adrenaline of rage morphing into fear. If Manheim heard him… She couldn't go back now, couldn't stop now. He had to die, quickly! Or it would be her head on the chopping block. Leaping on top of him, she put a hand over his mouth, and they struggled together. She stabbed him blindly, over and over.

His thrashing and his terror only made his heart pump faster. Blood spilled over, over his shirt, the bed sheet, the floor. Kina’s forearms and hands were slippery wet. Blood was all over her clothing, her hair and face. To her own shock and horror, she realized she was grinning widely, her eyes shining with glee, a wild crazed smile spreading over her face at the pure excitement, high off the rush of sadistic pleasure, the disbelief of the moment, caught up in the smell of blood like a hound. This was what freedom felt like, full power, with zero restraint. What pleasure to have someone completely at your mercy. She was flying.

As abruptly as it had began, the man was dead. 

Her heavy breathing was all that was left in the room. It was done. 

The passionate climax of the kill faded rapidly, leaving her cold. Numb, Kina stood up unsteadily, standing over Rufio and gazing around the room for a few dazed moments.

She needed to clean this up.

It was all she could think of now, how exposed she was. She needed to get out of this room, she couldn’t be seen here. What in Oblivion had she done? She was no killer, she had no idea how to get rid of a body, how to scrub a room spotless. You fool, you damned fool, you’ve signed your death warrant! 

Stumbling to the closet, she pulled shirts and linens blindly, falling back to the ground she attempted to soak the blood, already staining Manheim's cellar floor. She scrubbed harder and harder in vain, only spreading the red.

Her breath started to rise, anxiety brewing in her stomach. If she should faint...by the Nine, please do not let that happen. If she fainted now, it was all over. She might as well have taken her own life. Whatever you do, remain conscious. A killer didn’t have a single friend in the world, if anyone saw her- 

The door opened.

She spun around, certain her life was over.

“By the Nine!” Kina choked. “I thought… you… I mean, I thought…”

“Shh,” the tall man said, putting a finger to his lips. He walked over to her carefully, picking past the body, careful not to step in the blood. He smiled at her, an eerie sight.

And there she was, sitting in a pool of blood with wet curls, newborn infant killer. She looked up at him, wide eyed and lost. 

The assassin reached down and took her shaking hands in black leather gloves, bringing her up to her feet. “Well done,” he whispered. “Welcome to the family, Child of Sithis.”

“Hm,” the assassin said thoughtfully, a hand on his chin as he circled around the corpse, inspecting it. Torn up flesh, stab wounds all over his face, neck, chest, stomach, arms. Rufio was near unrecognizable. “Fear,” he proclaimed. “Rage. Manic, crazed, passionate. Amateur, but you’ll learn. Behold,” he said, casting an arm out to Rufio. “Your signature, young assassin. Your soul. Your art.”

“You…you do readings off blood? Like a seer off tea leaves?”

Lucien chuckled quite genuinely at that. “Alas, no. I leave the readings, crystal-gazing, and fortunes to the swindlers and scammers.” 

He cast a careless, disdainful glance to the dead man. “I’m surprised you didn’t just suffocate him. Old man like him, everyone would assume he died in his sleep.”

“Oh…” Kina looked down at her blood stained hands. Oh. “Of course, why didn't I think of that? Stupid.”

“Ah, but what’s the fun in that anyways, hm?”

Kina was not enjoying herself as much as the assassin was, a wave of nausea hitting her, she groaned, doubling over to place her hands on her knees.

“Breathe through your mouth. There you go. Don’t vomit, it's a waste of good food,” he smirked. “Have no shame, the first time of anything is always the most unwieldy, is it not?” 

She supposed that was the assassin’s idea of comforting. 

"What do I do now? With him, all this?" Kina gestured around the room, to Rufio, to the blood on the walls, herself.

"Nothing," Lucien said promptly. "Leave the body. Let the Guard find him. The Black Horse Courier will have material to print for days. Rumors will spread, and the people will know the Dark Brotherhood kept its word once again. That we succeeded where the Imperial Guard had failed them." A proud, arrogant smirk.

"We should leave then," she muttered. She tried to brush blood caked hands on her shirt, only to re-stain them. "I need to change." She moved towards the door.

“Stop. Aren't you forgetting something?”

She stared at the assassin blankly.

“The innkeep.”

Kina’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. No… Again? He wanted her to kill again, already? 

“He saw you.”

“Barely,” she lied, shifting uncomfortably. “And he said Rufio hardly ever comes up. By the time the innkeep finds him, I doubt he’ll even remember me.”

The assassin raised an eyebrow at her poor judgment. “This place doesn't see many guests. Let alone a young woman, traveling solo. He’ll remember you when the Guard comes knocking. Whether it's for Rufio, or for the runaway pit dog. Did you write your name in the ledger?”

She shook her head. “No, no of course not, I’m not stupid. I wrote a fake.”

"Hm. Even so, I would advise that you tear it out. Or else burn it. There are mages who can do magic with writing, you know. Change it, copy it. Perhaps even know who wrote it."

(Lucien kills Manheim, asks Kina if anyone else saw her here. She lies, sparing Minerva, at great risk to herself.) 

—---------------

(Kina tries to backtrack, is panicking, tries to convince Lucien she isnt cut out to be an assassin-)

“I saw your face,” Lucien said slyly. “When you killed Rufio. You were smiling. You loved it, the rush, the power, the complete and utter control. And you don't feel guilty,” he sneered. You’re afraid that you do. You're afraid of punishment. You think you should. Others want you to, simply because they are afraid of you, because they see it as a sign that you are a potential threat to them. It is a selfish reason. But you don't, because guilt is a tool of social control, its a lie, it doesn't exist! The moment you embrace that you are free. Accept yourself as you are, in whole. Only then will you have the life you long for, be the person you long to be.”

Every word was painfully honest, unspeakable truth, hitting her directly in the heart. Never had she felt so exposed, just as caught in the act now as she'd been when he had opened the door to Rufio's corpse. The assassin looked directly at her then, obsidian irises drinking her in. She almost felt a pull, as if being dragged into a void.

"I see you now, Child."

[fizzycherrycola]

PrUK, June 1815

Set after the Battle of Waterloo, this is my submission for @historical-hetalia-week​.

Warning: Blood, smoking, description of a battlefield.

Inspired by the phrase: “Buddies in Bad Times.”

Mars at Rest

Waterloo, Belgium; 18 June, 1815 

Cracking against flint, a match sparks and burns, breaking the deathly silence.   

Prussia brings the flame to his pipe, lighting the tobacco, watching it glow red before he inhales that woody, calming scent, letting it fill his bloodstream and permeate his mind. It doesn’t do much to dull the throbbing ache of his muscles, bruised and overtaxed, pricking in sour protest of every shift and gesture, but it quells the final itch of caution, a nagging leftover from the battle, dying out at last. Shutting his eyes, he exhales, long and slow, then turns to gaze upon the shattered countryside.

The field of victory is never a pretty sight.

Belgium’s rolling hills are riddled with bodies, military uniforms dotting the landscape in navy, crimson, and black. A few fires are smouldering here and there, dark smoke billowing off of charred grassland and wool fabric, torn flags rippling from the heat. Among the dead, like phantoms, riderless horses stand quiet, their heavy heads hanging low; sad statues lost without their masters. Dusk soaks the scene in a strange, muted haze, with clouds catching the sunset and blazing as they sink below the earth.

It’s a familiar view and Prussia idly wonders how many battles he has witnessed in his abnormally long life. Hundreds? Thousands? The uniforms and weapons may change, but in his memory, the conflicts all blend together in a sea of blood, a churning stew of grisly images stretching back to the Crusades. The shock and horror long ago morphed into tepid acceptance, better suited for survival, because when staring down a brigade of stampeding dragoons, there is no time for doubt, and the field of failure is a far worse sight than this.

Turning his back to the sullied terrain, Prussia puts his hand on a short, crumbling brick wall, barely more than a fence now, and hops, throwing his boots over the side to perch atop it. His tendons sting, a mild jolt of pain shooting up his wrist, but he ignores it; he rarely listens to his body, anyway.

“You look like shit,” Prussia tells his exhausted ally.

Barely upright, England is sitting on the ground, leaning against a broken cannon wheel that got stuck in the rubble. Coat draping his shoulders, he holds his bandaged side, red seeping through, and still manages the strength to glare up at Prussia, putting those impressive eyebrows to good use.

“And whose fault is that?” he grunts, voice dry and hoarse.

“My best guess would be France,” Prussia teases, popping the pipe between his teeth.

It certainly isn’t his own fault; Blücher had him awake and on horseback before dawn, in near-darkness, marching with fifty thousand armed men at a relentless pace. With a glowing pride behind his ribcage, he witnessed their discipline and how they shoved away exhaustion. They trudged past swollen rivers and muddy swamps to reach the battle in time and hurl themselves at The Emperor’s army; leaping into death’s jaws for duty, glory, and all the inspiring nonsense their superiors shouted about.

“I’ve been fighting since eleven, this morning,” England clips.

Prussia shrugs, a leisurely roll of his shoulders that cracks his joints. “You can’t pin this on me, not when I gallantly saved your ass and won the fight.”

“Gallantly?”

“Besides, I started marching before sunrise.”

England’s eyes go wide and, ever the storm cloud, he blusters: “Then what, in God’s name, took you so bloody long?! If you had arrived even 30 minutes later, Wellington’s entire force would’ve been routed and we’d have lost the damn continent a second time! Can you imagine what would’ve happened if--…. Agh....” He grimaces, eyes squeezing shut, and folds over his injury.

Sniffing, rolling the pipe stem over his tongue, Prussia gives his companion a moment before replying. “Calm down, old man. You’ll tear your stitches open.”

With an annoyed groan, England slumps against the wheel, head tilted back. He’s not in any shape to be shouting; a crumpled mess in the grass, sweat and dirt caking his freckled cheeks. The dark cherry smear is wide, probably from a sword, reaching around his bandaged belly from front to back in a half-circle, a nasty slice that would’ve quickly slain a mortal man. Leaning in, Prussia gestures at the wound. “Did you at least get him back for that?”

England cracks one eye open, an adamant emerald cutting through his dishevelled features. “’Course I did,” he croaks. “Just who do you take me for?”

Prussia cannot help the grin that splits across his face. Even in such a state, England isn’t one to go quietly, not ever, and certainly not against France. At Villinghausen, he took an artillery round to his right arm, and instead of lying down, he hastily shed his scabbard belt and made it into a tourniquet, snarling as he tied off his mangled limb. He fights death with every iota of his being, clawing at it with his bare fingers when he has to. In him is a tenacity, a brilliant refusal to comply with fate.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Prussia says, and England grunts, in the typical way that he does when accepting a compliment. “Do you know where you’re headed next?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll need to drag my bloody arse back to camp for a briefing.”

“If you’d like, I can bring you a cane.” England frowns, a deadpan look that tickles the corners of Prussia’s mouth. “Or maybe, I could take a cannon off its wheels, fashion a wheelbarrow, and cart you over there.”

“If you’re going to continue to mock me, you could at least offer me your pipe.”

Snorting a chuckle, Prussia obliges, sliding off the beaten wall, pebbles and dust shifting in his wake. He crouches down to his knees and passes his pipe, ignoring the rusty odour that drenches his companion, the pungent taste biting past the tobacco. England takes the piece, a languid thumb smearing blood on the bowl, and Prussia sits back, plopping onto the grass.

“We should get drinks again,” he mentions.

Lips curled over the stem, England sucks in a deep breath, then exhales. “Hm. Tempting.”

“Did you know that you get drunk faster when you’ve lost a lot of blood?”

“I do, unfortunately. Learned that in the Middle Ages. But I’m in no state for drinking tonight.”

Of course not. It won’t happen, not tonight and probably not tomorrow. Nothing less than total destruction will do; Wellington and Blücher will have them chasing after Napoleon Bonaparte like hounds on a hunt. It could be weeks before they can relax again, as they did after the last war ended.

“In Paris, then. When all this shit is over.”

England smirks. “Fine, but it’ll be on your coin.”

Amused, Prussia’s eyebrows fly up. “Oh ho! You're going to burn through my wallet? That’s the thanks I get for saving your army?”

“Think of it as restitution for arriving late.”

“Arschloch.”

“Twat.”

Prussia smiles, forgetting the world for a moment, until his back twinges and he has to flex again, twisting his lower spine with a crack and settling lazily, chin resting in his palm. He threads his free fingers in the blades of trampled grass, and if he concentrates, he can imagine it still thundering with horse hooves. He’ll write about this day, scrawl it into his journal and preserve it, violence and agonising victory. Another monumental event whisked away by time.

“I’m guessing this campaign will last a couple weeks,” he murmurs. “Maybe a month, at most.”

“Quite likely.”

“The Thief of Europe doesn’t have much time left.”

England squints. “Why do you sound disappointed at that?”

Prussia sighs, plucking a dry weed from the dirt. “He’s... different from other humans. People like him are only born once a century, and when he’s gone, that’ll be it. God, I wish I’d arrived earlier today, witnessed his genius strategies from start to finish.”

“You admire Napoleon Bonaparte?”

Prussia nods. “As a tactician, yeah, I do.”

England balks. “He ruined your army not ten years ago.”

Prussia tosses the weed aside, sees it land on a pile of smouldering fabric.

Those weeks were as startling as they were cruel; he watched, appalled, as his mighty military was obliterated in just 19 days by a damn Corsican. Cold hate knotted his stomach and he wished to cut the general down himself. But, when Bonaparte entered Berlin, he visited the tomb of Frederick the Great and instructed his marshals to remove their hats, saying, “If he were alive, we wouldn't be here today.” And the sight seized Prussia like a pair of iron tongs grabbing coal, immediately seeing the similarities between Old Fritz and this new ruler, igniting respect and melting his bitter anger.

What a loss it is that Bonaparte isn’t of Prussian lineage.

“Flawlessly,” Prussia declares, passion stirring in his chest. “Nearly every action he takes is flawless. How he rallies his troops, the speed of his attacks, the level of cunning he uses to out-manoeuvre his opponents...!” He releases his fists to the sky, shoulders high and back straight. “Bonaparte might be insane, but he wages war like he was born for it.”

Blinking, England’s mouth contorts in disgust, as if Prussia just blew his nose obnoxiously loud. When he gives no response, Prussia doesn’t slump, exactly, but his hands fall and disappointment needles at his heart. On second thought, it may be a little rude to brazenly praise the bastard who slapped the shit out of every army in Europe... including England’s, just an hour ago. “Ah, never mind.”

“You’re vile and you have a terrible taste in personal role models.” Although England speaks bluntly, the comment lacks true venom, sounding more like a report on peach farming than a judgement of character. He returns to the pipe, puffing fumes like a London chimney stack.

“I’ve got amazing taste,” Prussia boasts. ��That includes my tobacco and maybe my halfway decent sense for allies, too.”

England coughs, hacking up a lung full of smoke before he frowns and looks away. The faint colour on his cheeks would be brighter if he hadn’t lost blood. Prussia snickers.

Perhaps he is vile, but war is an unstoppable force. It will be here, until the end of days, and it has never done Prussia any good to waste time ruminating over its monstrosities or wallowing in the shadow of defeat. After the punishing mistakes of Jena and Auerstedt, he studied, pouring over accounts of Bonaparte’s battles, reading until his eyes were bloodshot, and when asleep, he dreamt of battalion formations scribbled across a map. Every revelation was scratched into his journals, pages upon pages of tactical strategies interwoven with jealous praise, because damn it all, France didn’t deserve such a magnificent general.

Regardless, he resolved to find a use for his painful failure, for the eradication of his brave men, and, if this recent victory is anything to go by, he succeeded, climbing over the wall of the dead to return stronger tomorrow.

England shifts, eyes catching something and he slouches. “Christ,” he mutters.

“Huh?”

“Here they come, now. New orders.”

Turning, Prussia at first sees nothing amiss. A few soldiers on horseback are ghosting over the slumbering site, weaving between bodies, torches held high to light their way in the sluggish darkness. They may be hussars, searching for any injured souls to rush away for medical treatment, but it’s more likely that they are commanders, taking vague stock of their casualties to draw up reports.

Then he spots it, a lone rider is approaching them at a trot.

Tall on his mare, shako and red uniform unsullied, the soldier lumbers closer and comes to a halt. He gazes down at them; a pale torch casts flickering light over his stern, olive eyes.

“Netherlands,” Prussia greets, waving at the giant. “Good to see you’re alive.”

“Indeed,” Netherlands responds, a deep thrum in the evening air. Aside from his gaunt features, made worse by the wars, his face betrays little. His smiles are rarer than England’s, but for that matter, his scowls are just as uncommon. A stony and mild-mannered man; perhaps that’s why he found success in commercial business. “I’m here at Wellington’s request.”

England sighs. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“I’m tracking down each of us; we are all to meet at an inn,” Netherlands explains, gesturing with his torch. “It’s just down the hill, at the centre of the battlefield.”

Prussia frowns, a knot forming in his stomach. “Did you say you’re tracking people down?” He could help; pushing past the soreness in his frame is no issue. However, there are several thousand dead in the field with night falling and he has neither horse nor light.

“How many of us are still missing?” England asks.

“Only a few,” Netherlands says. “Most are on their way to the inn as we speak, but I’m still looking for Scotland and Hanover.”

Prussia gnaws his lip. “Fuck, I saw them.”

Netherlands straightens, his gaze snapping to Prussia. “Were they near a farmhouse?”

“Yeah,” Prussia pushes himself to stand, ignores his creaking bones, and points to one of several brick buildings in the distance. “Not the one on fire, but the other one, on the left.”

Those tiny spaces saw incredible chaos, a screaming whirlwind of bayonets and musket fire boxed into humble kitchens, spilling out of windows and stable doors. It was no surprise that when Prussia arrived, darting through a gap in the infantry line, he found Hanover broken. Decorated in dust and bullet holes, wounds weeping blood, he couldn’t speak above a wheeze. In the heat of battle, Prussia could only stuff him behind a heap of straw, tell him to keep quiet, and scour the arena for a medical officer. He found one only after his men took the building and directed the soldier to Hanover’s location.

Hopefully, he didn’t succumb to his injuries.

Prussia relays this to Netherlands and the Dutchman gives a firm nod.

“Thank you,” he says, turning his horse to the farmhouse. “I must continue searching. Once I’ve finished, I’ll join you at the inn.”

“Very well, then,” England murmurs.

With that, Netherlands departs, his mare thumping across churned soil and his torch flame receding into the blue dusk.

England hands Prussia the pipe and gingerly pulls his jacket on, his torn shirt and bruised skin taking shelter under red wool. “You saw Scotland, too?” he casually asks, averting his gaze.

“Yeah,” Prussia answers, tapping his pipe, dumping out the ashes and spent tobacco. “Don’t worry. He had a few scrapes, but he’ll be fine.”

“I wasn’t worried,” England mutters. He glares at the buttons on his coat, wincing as he attempts to close them around his battered torso. Prussia busies himself by wiping a handkerchief over his piece, catching England’s subtle glances and the tension in his fingers. “How do you know he’ll manage?”

“Because when I asked him if he needed saving, he told me to ‘fuck off.’”

England’s grimace softens, his lips curling upward just slightly and Prussia can pretend he didn’t see that, because relationships between brothers can be complicated, sometimes. Stashing the pipe away in his haversack, he hefts the bag over his shoulders, its firm weight pressing down on his sore back. He huffs, stretching and shaking out his irritated limbs to wake them up. Then, he moves to help England stand.

“Absolutely not,” England snaps, gripping the cannon to pull himself up and steady his wobbly knees.

“You’re going to walk a whole kilometre like that?” Prussia snorts.

“Shut it.” Brow furrowed in concentration, England extends an arm for balance and delicately shuffles one foot forward. He’s stable for a moment, until he tries a second step and buckles, stumbling into Prussia, who catches him easily.

Prussia tuts. “Nah. It’ll be morning by the time you get down the hill, Herr Eyebrows. Come on, let’s go.” He swoops a hand under England’s arm, the one on his good side, and drags him into a walk assist.

“Oi!” England squawks as his arm is tugged around the back of Prussia’s neck. “Just wait a moment, you prick.”

Naturally, Prussia ignores his protests and they start hobbling towards the inn. England continues muttering half-hearted curses for a bit before settling into silence. It’s another minute or so until he leans on Prussia properly, and Prussia pulls his stubborn companion closer, guiding the awkward steps of their dirty boots through the fouled pasture. He can’t help thinking it’d be a lot nicer if he was carrying England out of a tavern instead.

A cool wind carries the scent of gunpowder and other burning things that overpower the rural air. Dim twilight transforms puddles of blood into ink and corpses into obscure, lumpy masses of shadow. Prussia directs their route through the quiet field, squinting in the dark at things that may be shakos or rocks, branches or muskets.

“Look at the state of it,” England grumbles. “I’ll kill the frog all over again for this mess.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind breaking military code for schnapps right now,” Prussia admits. And then, he has a thought, a twisting queasiness that’s probably nothing, but.... “Hey, are those drinks still on, in Paris?” Pupils flicking over Prussia’s face, England tilts his head and quirks a shaggy brow. Quickly, Prussia delivers a cocksure grin, switching to a more joking tone. “Did I scare you off with my war talk?”

A pause, then England exhales through his nose, turning so Prussia only sees his straw hair. “No, don't be ridiculous. I know what you meant.” His fingers curl around the shoulder strap of Prussia’s uniform and he glances back, face set in a haughty look, eyebrows up and lids low. “I’ll come. Just so long as you shut up about how much you love French generals.”

Prussia’s barking laugh fades to a sigh and his cheeks hurt from smiling. “All right, I can promise that.”

They go on, walking together through hell, burdens made milder in solidarity. Maybe Prussia is a hypocrite, he thinks, aweing at the genius of war, but also wanting it to be done, tiring of it and the stench of decay. How it drives splinters under his skin, bruises his friends and steals their respite, their freedom to while away time as they please.

Regardless, they will outlast The Emperor, his battles, and whatever comes next. They will earn their peace soon enough.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

Waterloo is currently located in present-day Belgium. However, in 1815, this land was officially controlled by the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. Belgium would become independent in 1830.

Many historians disagree on what time the Battle of Waterloo began, with some sources saying the fighting started at 11:30. I had England say “eleven” as a rough estimate based on his own assumptions, like the direction of the sun.

Blücher was the Prussian commander during the battle. Wellington commanded the Anglo-Allied army.

“We’d have lost the damn continent a second time!” This is probably not true. England is exaggerating because he’s upset and his stab wound makes him feel vulnerable.

Villinghausen was a battle that took place in 1761 during the Seven Years’ War.

Arschloch = Asshole.

Although Prussia wishes he could’ve seen Napoleon’s tactics at Waterloo, he probably would’ve been disappointed, since Napoleon made several strategic errors in the battle.

Hussars are a light cavalry unit. Shakos are a type of military hat.

After losing to Napoleon in 1806, the Prussian army went through a massive overhaul. Many improvements were made and commanders were instructed to study Napoleon’s tactics for future wars.

At Waterloo, the Prussian and Anglo-Allied armies defeated the French, which was a devastating loss to Napoleon. It eventually led to his abdication and final surrender, just weeks later.

[thefanbasewhore]

Accidentally Bare - Preference #2

Summary: A preference/snippet of pedro characters accidently seeing the reader in their underwear. Honestly, ignore the title I suck at them lmao. I also have no idea why I kept mentioning showers. 

Warnings/Content: A little suggestive, dirty thoughts. 18+ please. 

Paring: Din Djarin, Javier Peña, Agent Whiskey, and Frankie Morales/Female reader

I am also taking requests for head cannons and more preferences at this moment if anyone has any ideas!

Din Djarin

Nothing could stop the deep chill that created goosebumps that made your body shiver despite the thick wool of Din’s cape that was pulled tight around your chest. The walk back to the crest was freezing, clothes heavy and weighing you down with every squish your boots made underneath you, the temperature of the stupid desert planet plummeting at night into single degree temps, falling into the lake was definitely not on your to do list.

Water still dripping from your sleeves, fingers shaking where the fabric bundles in the middle of your chest to support the heaviness of the cape as the crushing on dense sand from heavy boots behind you let you know the Mandalorian is still there. He’s silent as ever, mad at himself for letting you even step on the ice but as soon as he saw you fall into the deep pit of water he dived right in after, forgetting the bounty, making the choice to let him escape.

The first step on the Crest is a relief, familiarity and warmness welcome you but it’s not enough to calm the numbing that took over all your senses, voiding any sensation in your trembling fingers. The breeze that falls over the crest as the ramp closes with a gush of wind but you don’t seem to care as the cape wrapped around you falls to the floor. The Mandalorian walks past you silently, which you guess retiring for the night because at the last second before the he climbs the ladder of the cockpit by the way his fingers start to peel of the beskar not caring as it trails and clanks against the floor of the ship, fingers rim the edge of his helmet lifting it just enough to see the ends of his hair curl and stick against the nape of his neck as it drips to his tunic before the cockpit swallows him. 

If it wasn’t for how freezing you were there is no doubt you would be taken back by his openness, even wet you weren’t expecting it to so wavy, a little messy but it touches the collar of the tunic and you honestly couldn’t move as the realization dawned on you. Eyes running over the length of the ladder that rattles due to deep hum of the engine, the imagine burning behind into them. 

The cool shiver reminds you of the current predicament, fingers burning and toes numb at the verge of turning purple. A frustrated huff falls from your lips as you pull at the laces of your boots, fingers too stiff to move but eventually get them off, not caring where they fall. Only functional thought is to feel the warm water of the fresher to regain feeling in your appendages.

Hands grasp the hem of your shirt, lifting it despite the cool air that nipped the skin of your stomach. With only one goal in mind and a stubborn button that just won’t latch from your pants, you don’t notice as the ladder shakes with the weight of the Mandalorian as he gains entrance back into the belly of the ship. He’s out of his armor, but the helmet had seem to find it’s way back onto his head but his upper body in a white, thin shirt, his pants hand dangerously low on his hips, they offer his body more warmth with no doubt lined with some kind of fleece, gray in color and a pair of socks. The wet pants stick to you, with your back turned toward Din who freezes the moment he notices you shimmy them down your legs, revealing the black pair of underwear the hugs your ass in the most delicious way.

He’s red, blushing, no doubt you can see the way his chest spots pink through the white shirt, hands forming fist next to his side as you turn to make a b-line for the fresher but the mass of the man catches your eyes, pausing.

Eyes never leave you, he just freezes up, unable to move as the situation seems to do the same to you. He tries, really tries not to look but can’t help it as he notices how thin the bra is, a pretty pastel pink, cute but the way your nipples harden against it is anything but, he’s speechless, mouth drying as eyes take in the smoothness of curves, drops down to the thinness of underwear, they leave little to the imagination, sticking against skin letting him see every inch and suddenly he wants nothing more than to rub his own -

His eyes lift back up to your own, the embarrassment that paints your cheeks makes him realize just how wrong it is. “I-I’m sorry.” He stutters, eyes casting down to the cotton that covers his toes, ashamed with red cheeks, horrified that it has even happened. “Just came down to use the shower -.”

Desire sirs deep inside his stomach, makes him awkwardly shift his hips as he turns to leave but the smooth hands that catch his fingers makes him pause, turning to face you once again.  “We can both use it.”

Javier Peña

Nothing can still your pounding heart, it’s racing, taking up all the space in your chest that it barely allows room for your lungs to expand, to take one good breath to sustain your frantic body needs, instead it’s broken up into patchy, erratic breaths that make you dizzy, vision blurring as a result. 

It’s a blur but there’s no mistaking the metallic taste of blood, it’s not yours but it seems like it should be by the way it covers every part of you. It dots your face, coats your hands with such thickness, soaks through the shirt to stain your chest pink. There’s so much of it, it takes over and fills all your senses. All you see is red, all you feel is hands rub your face to talk yourself out of this moment of weakness but the way it smears even worse across your skin, fills the pores of your skin, makes bile raise but swallow it down. 

It’s been an hour but fear still makes you shake, not bothering to even talk to anyone the moment you pull the trigger just driving home without a single word, not even to your partner Javi. The door of your apartment is even left open in your own wake, trying to yank the soaked clothes, not caring as your bloody shirt falls from shoulders staining the white carpet of your apartment. 

Finger fumble with pants as well, too shaky but none the less slowly shimmer them down flushed thighs. You suddenly can’t move, no matter how bad the shower calls you from the other room, shaky fingers press to the floor under you for support as you lower yourself to the ground until the rough carpet scratches the back of thighs but your thankful to feel something other then pure terror, relish in the scratch the spreads to the back of your knees as you bring them to your chest, lean against the couch for support with a shaky chest.

“I’m sorry.” You don’t realize how much time passes as the low baritone breaks through the sound waves, Javi averts his eyes, realizing the vulnerability on the situation. “The door was open, I just let myself in.”

“I-It’s okay.” Chest moves with the stutter, unable to realize your in nothing but a thin bra, that leaves little to the imagination and a matching black thong, that shows just how much the carpet irritates the skin of inner thighs, leaves a big rash just on the underside of your cheeks.

It’s not the way he intended seeing you like this the first time, beautiful doe eyes filled with tears that slip past beautiful, full eyelashes. It makes his heart stop, the low light of the lamp in the corner contour the dark shadows of your face, show the sharpness of cheek bones, outlines the shape of your jaw. He hates the way he can’t look away from your heaving chest, flushed breast barely fill the cups of the lacy bra, down the smoothness of skin, still stained a dark red from all the blood, down to the edges of inner thighs. 

You watch as his gaze falls between your legs but when they meet up at your face again, his lips fall, a deep sigh as a thick layer of tension fills the room. There’s nothing you want more then to forget this feeling, distract yourself with Javi.

Suddenly, he’s all that’s on your mind. The way his tongue runs over those perfect lips, wanting to feel the sensation of his moustache against your upper lip, the burns between your thighs. It’s what you think you’re getting as he lowers to his knees, finally give into the temptation of each other but the blanket that falls to your shoulders surprises you. His fist wraps around each end to ball it against your chest as his other hand reaches for a small piece of hair that frames your face, pushing it behind your ear as his lips ghost over it. “Let’s get you in the bath, cariño, yeah?”

Unsure eyes meet his, not trusting your own legs but his gentle fingers that fill the gaps between your own reinsuring. It’s a soft whine of surprise that makes you look up at him, a thankful sad smile that makes Javier return one that shows every scar of his soul, the feeling all too known to him. “I got you, honey.”

Agent Whiskey

It’s a mix up, an annoying one but none the less it’s not like you can kick Whiskey out of the hotel room and besides you’re both functioning adults, staying together in the room should be no problem but it’s a little difficult to feel comfortable with a stranger especially with one as pushy and touchy as the cowboy. 

He’s nice, very polite but smug. There’s always a tight smirk across his face, sexy eyes that test your every move as you bring the rim of the glass to your lips with a soft sigh. The bar of the hotel is loud, a thick cloud of smoke from the passerby's tickles your nose. You try to ignore it, but turn abruptly even catching Whiskey off guard as he adverts his gaze but he’s not as sneaky as he thinks. 

It’s hard to remember exactly why you turned when he offered a sweet smile, elbow against the bar while his hand wrapped around his own glass, other hand spraying over the thickness of his thighs, sitting to face you with that dumb smirk. You really can’t help it as your eyes fall between his legs, “What’s up, sugar?”

It’s either he chooses not question why or is just so used to women checking him out but your throat dries at his peering gaze, the way he wraps his lips around the glass after his tongue pokes out to wet them. It makes your face hot, averting his intimating eyes. “Nothing, thought I saw something is all.”

“Mmmm.” It’s a small hum, hesitant like he wants to ask more but settles with the answer. It’s quiet, not awkward but the tension is heavy, clouding the space between you both. Scooting to the end of the seat, eyes nervously looking at him as you shift onto your feet, standing and muttering. “I’m going to head back to the room.”

“Alright sweetheart. I’m gonna have a few more drinks, head up without me. If you need me.” Two fingers press against the shell of his ear, his way of saying I’ll hear ya. You try not to let it affect you but the heat that crawls up your skin makes you huff, closing the door of the hotel room tightly. 

A shower, to sooth the burning desire for your new partner, it was embarrassing, feeling like a teenage girl for a man that you barely know, all hot and bothered by him simply spreading his legs but it felt like an open invitation just for you. Hands reach for your shirt, pulling it up with little hesitation except for when it catches the onto the ear piece, stepping forward with a yelp as your foot comes in contact with the large bed frame. Pulling the ear piece off with not much thought, throwing it and the shirt onto the bed, fingers pop the metal from the buttonhole also discarding your pants. 

It all happens so fast, the door crashes open, hitting the wall. Pure instinct takes  over, despite only being in a very, very revealing bralette and a matching lacy thong fumbling for the gun on the night stand next to you, pointing it towards the mass of a man but let out a sigh of relief. “What is wrong with you? barging in like that, I could have shot you.”

It goes to deaf ears, smooth lines of your collarbones catching him off guard, dropping to the soft curves of your breast. He steps closer, shutting you up immediately as his fingers spread out across the hem of your underwear, warmness erupting to the lazy trail of his fingers. 

The cocky smirk that overpowers your own confused one as a tick falls from his lips, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes peering under that stupid cowboy hat, “Now If you wanted me to see you naked you didn’t have to pretend you’re in trouble, darlin’.” 

Frankie Morales

There was never a day Frankie thought he’d be in the deep end of the forest again. The memories are still fresh, the sun doesn’t quite sting his skin like the one in Brazil but it’s a close second, the aching memories still squeeze his heart but it’s a silent burn, one he’ll take to his grave and a life he thought he left behind forever.

Frankie is a man haunted by his past, the memories never let him forget that life he used to lead. He is anything but soft, he’s kind, caring, smart, passionate but a sucker for a pretty face. It’s shown in the way he shameless answers too quickly for his liking at your proposition. To rescue your father, a man that owed a bunch of narcos too much money but you had nothing to offer except to help a single father who seemed to be struggling. 

Maybe it was the way your sad eyes looked at him with an exaggerated expression, tiredness sag your face, large purple bags that crinkle with every sigh. There was no hope, and even if your father was alive, he kissed that life away a long time also, but then again here he is.

Deep in the jungle of Argentina, sun beating down and burning his skin, sweat beading on his forehead, between the valley of his chest as he swings the bottle of water back, the coolness soothing his raw throat. Your stance matches his own, shoulders dropped, heavy breaths but slower, the heaviness of the gun wrapped around your shoulders.

You were slowing him down, it was no lie. He told you multiple times he would do it but specifically didn’t want you to come with him, he would handle it all but sending a man alone to do something like this, despite how experienced he may be it didn’t seem right.

“Go.” You huff, fingers pushing against his shoulder. It had been the third time he stopped for you in ten minutes, clearly frustrated with a crinkle of his forehead, annoyed eyes looking for any sign of danger, even with the thick trunks of trees that camouflage into the color of face paint that decorates both yours and Frankie’s faces. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He looks unsure but nods lowly, turning as his feet to walk up the ledge of the tree as you take a deep breath, fingers trembling as you try to catch your breath, ass hitting the dirt harder then you intend to but it’s a relief to aching feet. It’s a blur of blackness, hand reaching up to pull yourself up but instead pull at something squishy?

Before you could react, big, black bugs by the hundreds run up your legs, crawl under your vest and shirt. The yell that echoes the forest is what catches Frankie’s attention, turning from his short distance ahead to find you. Face hot, fearing the worst as his heart pounds against his chest. Arms flaring frantic through the thick ropes and vines as he slips skillfully past above ground roots of trees.

You are no where in sight but the peaks of dark green clothes along the brush catch his eye, picking the fabric up, clutching your shirt between fingers. With one more look around he notices another piece of clothing, but the sound of splashing catches his attention. It’s not too far, just over a large tree that separates his view from you. It’s not what he expects, practically naked except for the nude bra and matching underwear that makes his eyes widen. If it wasn’t for the panic on your face he would have taken a second to appreciate the beauty in front of him, let desire burn deep on his skin but the way you frantically try to rub the bugs off makes him take action, hands catch your own, comforting eyes meeting your own. “Relax, relax, I’ll get them off.”

“It’s burns.” It’s a soft whine, as his fingers fall to your own, pressing them against his warm skin as he flattens his other hand down the skin of your arm, down your stomach with a delicious sting from the heat of his. 

“I got you, honey.” The words are low, sugary as the realty of the situation makes your own cheeks flush. The bugs are gone, scattering at feet but his gaze never leaves your own. Only inches away from your face, lips so, so close but what really makes you dizzy is the way his hand cups your waist, squeezing so gently as his hot breath fans your face, fingertips trail to the wire of your bra, something in him snaps, giving into the desire as his lips press against yours with urgency.

tags: @victias​ @altarsw​ @coonflix​ @mudhornchronicles​ @buckysalefty​ @capsheadquarters @godohammers​ @ilikemymendarkandfictional​ @rogertaylorsfalsettogivemehives @maileecabudol @itsfangirlmendes​ @mermaidbrina​ @nikkixostan​ @moonlightnumbsthepainifeel @dinsbeskar​ @est19xxshit​ @owloveyounever​ @engie115 @impala1967666​ @akatasukilove​ @nerdalert-andi​ @mailee420​ @you-and-i-deserve-the-world​ @thatonedindjarinfan​ @winter_rxn @Sporadicshoebailifffish

[author-morgan]

more halfdan, please? 🥺 he needs more love. could you maybe do something for Halfdan where he's traveling and meets and stays with a fem reader?

bless i am not alone in the simping. have a little fluff for Halfdan, as a treat. Halfdan x fem!Reader

THE HOUR IS late, but the storm raging outside makes it seem far later. Lightning streaks across the sky —Thor striking his hammer on anvil, the clash of iron echoing over the sky. The winds howl, and winds lash, shaking the planks and shingles of the wood and earth home. It’s been years since you’ve endured a storm such as this, and it shows no signs of stopping, having raged on since midday. It would be nearing sundown soon by your reckoning. You pity the poor souls who must endure Thor’s wrath without shelter and a warm hearth.

There’s a deceptive lull in the bedlam, the lightning and thunder subsiding though the wind and rain do not. Pausing in an attempt to tidy up after dinner, you take the moment to urge your daughter to bed. Þóra protests, with it still being so early, but there’s scarcely anything else to do on a dark and stormy evening. It takes a small bribe with half a honey cake and a tale of the gods for her to settle in, eyelids drooping shut —curling into the raised cot lined with wool and pelts. With a long sigh, you rise, having pressed a kiss to her brow.

Stripping down to your linen shift, you sit on the edge of your bed, fingers combing through the knots in your hair —watching water drip down into a bucket at the edge of the room, a leaky roof in need of fixing. You barely hear the knocking above the wailing wind, but when you crack open the door, you find a man looking up from under the hood of his oiled leather cloak. “Refuge from the storm?” The stranger asks. His stringy blond hair clings to his face —hiding part of the dark tattoos on his cheek and forehead— and his dark eyes are warm but dangerous.

Snapping from a trance, you move aside, opening the door farther for him to step into your home. “Of course,” you nod, offering a kindly smile. The gods often showed themselves as weary travelers. He steps over the threshold, untying his cloak, hanging it on an empty hook by the door. Out of the night and the storm, you recognize him as the brother to King Harald —Halfdan the Black— as he stands with water running off his sodden clothes and dripping from his hair. “I’ve some spare clothes,” you tell him, quickly moving behind one of the partitions blocking your bed from the rest of the home.

Rummaging around in the chest kept bedside, you return with a dry tunic and pair of britches in hand. Clothes you have no need of any longer but haven’t the strength to give away yet, so you keep them tucked away with part of your heart. “Please, take these” —you hold them out for Halfdan to take— “elsewise, you’ll catch your death.” He lowers his head in thanks and begins working the ties of his tunic and britches loose. Turning, as not to stare at the lithe muscle spanning his chest, you set the table with a bowl of the pot of stew still simmering over the hearth and a cup of ale. A warm meal always did the belly wonders after being soaked to the bone.

You motion for Halfdan to help himself to the stew and ale, taking his sodden clothes to string up to dry on a line spanning the low hanging rafters. “Far better than pickled fish and salted deer,” he jokes when you slide onto the bench opposite him.

“It’s been years since last I saw you and your brother,” you tell him, pouring a cup of ale for yourself and refilling his cup. You’ve rarely returned to Tamdrup in recent years, and the few times you had gone to market to trade livestock or buy fabric, Harald and Halfdan were scarcely around —too busy conquering and unifying the petty kingdoms under one crown. Once, you might have called the two brothers friends, but those days were long past, and many friendships were lost upon your marriage.

“Harald is why I am caught in this torrent,” Halfdan laments, none too happy about it. The two brothers are rarely parted from one another, but there are times when Harald only trusted one person, aside from himself, to deliver word and accept oaths of fealty. This is one of those times. It’s ill luck that his journey back to Tamdrup has been plagued by storms and exiles who unwisely mistook him for a simple vagabond.

“Well” —you reach across the table, resting your hand over his— “you are most welcome here, Halfdan.” His lips twitch upwards, his hand loosely curling around yours.

“Móðir?” A small voice calls, and then there’s the patter of small feet on the rough wooden floor.

“Þóra,” you sigh, knowing it was a fool’s hope to think she would sleep through the storm and night, especially given the arrival of an unexpected guest. She potters to the table dragging a ragged blanket behind her. Þóra stops, looking between you and Halfdan. Her wide amber eyes are glassy and still heavy with sleep.

“A little shield-maiden,” Halfdan notes, flicking his hair away from his eyes, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips. Þóra grins, giggling, swaying on her feet. She’s been bugging you of late about training with her cousins —pointing out if she’s to become as famous as Lagertha, she needs a sword and shield. “Or maybe a princess.”

It surprises you when she goes to him, but Halfdan doesn’t hesitate to lift your daughter onto his knee. He’s not particularly versed with children or women, but he tries his best to be decent company, at least. You see the sharp flash of light through the crack under the door; a heartbeat later, the house rattles —it sounds as though Ragnarök is upon you. Þóra jumps. “It is only Thor, little one,” Halfdan reassures her.

“Is it just the two of you then?” He queries, eyes darting around the single-room home for any signs of Þóra’s father —your husband. His quick search yields nothing besides hastily made arrows, a rusty sword, and a shield with fading orpiment and hematite paint. You glance at your hands —the first wrinkles beginning to show among rough patches from years of doing the duties of both a mother and father.

“My family is not far,” you answer, meeting Halfdan’s curious stare, smiling. It’s a rare occasion when your brothers do not come for a daily visit and to help with the farm labor. Your sister and her husband make sure to come weekly too, bringing their children for Þóra to play with. It’s not always easy, but you make do. Halfdan glances down at the little girl, holding her blanket tight as her head rests on the center of his chest, almost asleep once more. He’s met with your smile, wider than the last, and a silent thank you, though you still see the question lingering in his eyes.

“My husband was killed in the raid on Paris,” you explain, remembering how you waited in the central street of Tamdrup to see your husband return, only to hear he was taken to Valhalla. It was not a day you were like to forget, especially given the little girl holding tight to your hand, waiting to meet her father for the first time.

Halfdan nods. Many women were made widows by Ragnar’s pursuits against his brother. There’s a tingle at his shoulder as he remembers the crossbow bolt that could’ve killed him and the scar it left behind. “He waits for you in Valhalla then.” The encouragement somehow lightens a weight on your chest —that one day you and your beloved will be reunited, but until then, you must care for Þóra and maybe, in time, find someone to love as you once loved your husband.

Þóra is fast asleep by the time you and Halfdan finish reminiscing about the days when you were both younger and twice as foolish. Halfdan lays your daughter down in her small bed made of wool. “Thank you,” you breathe, lightly touching his arm before kneeling to cover her with a wolf pelt and her cherished blanket, parting with a kiss upon her cheek.

“I’ll take the floor,” he offers, reaching for the wool blanket and the pelt draped across your arms —he’s slept in far worse conditions than a warm and dry home.

You shake your head, extending your hand toward the bed. He has been on the road for many days and still has at least four more before. A good night’s rest would do him well. “You are my guest, Halfdan, I insist.”

Halfdan looks between the bed and down at himself —he’s never had the same breadth as other warriors, not even the same as his brother and given the size of the lumpy mattress. There’s mirth shining in his eyes. “I do not take up that much room,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. You laugh softly, knowing this back-and-forth banter could go on the rest of the night. Instead, you fold back the blankets, sliding between them, and gesture for him to take the space next to you.

THERE’S A GLIMMER of light and a low rumble of thunder —the storm is dissipating or at least moving farther away. You stir, feeling a heavy warmth draped across your middle. It takes a moment to remember Halfdan lays next to you, occupying a space that’s been empty for years. You’ve woken him too, or he has failed to find rest. His eyes shine with the embers still glimmering in the hearth, a warm amber —like dark honey or fresh soil. “What is it?” He asks, voice rough and low, hand curling unwittingly around your hip, warm breath hitting your neck and shoulder.

Your heart leaps at the thoughts crossing your mind, but you’re quick to shake them away —it would be improper. “It’s silly,” you whisper. Halfdan raises his brow, and though it’s dark, he can see the flush on your cheeks. “I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since my husband left for Paris,” you admit, eyes flicking down, unable to hold his intense gaze. A piece of him finds it difficult to believe —if he recalls, you had a fair number of willing suitors. He imagines the number has not dwindled should you wish to remarry. Halfdan’s fingers uncurl from your hip, tracing a long line up your arm until he pauses, cupping your cheek —thumb running just under your bottom lip.

He’s so close and warm and handsome, and you can’t help the fluttering in your chest or how your stomach twists. You press your hand against the bare skin of his chest exposed by the tunic’s open neck, unwilling to back down from the newfound boldness. “Halfdan?” He moves closer as if anticipating your next words. “Will you kiss me?” His dark eyes flit down to your lips, and he does. The hand on your cheek slides back into your hair until he leans your head back and kisses you, softly at first, then with a swift increase in intensity that makes you cling to him. His lips are warm and soft, opening you to his insistent mouth, parting your shaking lips, sending wild tremors racing through your veins, and you kiss him back with the same fervor and longing.

You part with a hazy smile —it is good to know you remember how to kiss a man. He presses his forehead against yours, fingers still trailing through your hair. For a moment, you draw back, tracing the intricacies of the blue-black tattoo on his brow and down his cheek, until Halfdan pulls your hand away and draws you into his arms, repaying your kindness by taking away the deep-seated loneliness plaguing your heart, if only for the night.

HALFDAN SLIPS FROM your arms at first light and dresses in his dried clothes, laying the borrowed tunic and britches at the foot of the bed. When he turns back, Þóra is awake and staring up at him with eyes that mirror his own and blond hair to match. Is this what my children will look like? He wonders, crouching down, level with Þóra, and lifts a brow as if to question her intentions. She grins, shoving him back and off-balance, and so begins a silent tussle with kindling stacked by the hearth as swords. “Our battle cries are heard,” Halfdan proclaims from the floor, seeing you emerge from behind the partition. He sits up, brushing back his dirty-blond hair. “This one is a fighter,” he says with no uncertainty. “She should have a sword and shield.”

Þóra clambers over to you, giggling, and you scoop her up into your arms as Halfdan rises, brushing the dust from his shoulders. “We’ll have to see if one of her uncles can fashion her a sword and shield that’s her size,” you concede, seeing no use in denying her dreams. She could be both a farmer and a warrior —just as her hero, Lagertha. Þóra wraps her arms around your neck, hearing the decision.

You share a simple breakfast of smashed berries and brown bread and soft sheep’s milk cheese made in yesterday’s morning hours. And afterward, Halfdan readies to leave, buckling his sword belt and replacing the cloak on his shoulders. He musses Þóra’s hair, leaving her laughing and grinning. “Maybe another storm will bring you back,” you think aloud, leaning against the doorframe, each of you looking at the clear skies left in the wake of the gods' anger.

“Only the gods know,” Halfdan tells you, a glimmer in his dark eyes. He steps toward you, his hand extended —the backs of his fingers brushing across your cheek. It’s unspoken when you both move at the same time, closing the distance. His lips brush yours, hesitant then firmly —unwavering. You draw him closer, hand at the back of his neck, thumb following a raised scar wrapping around his neck. “Though, I do not think it will take Thor’s wrath for me to return,” he whispers upon parting. Smiling, you watch him step back, turning down the path that will lead him to his brother and Tamdrup and the same path that will lead him back to you.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @charming-merlin (because i know you like Halfdan) ]

[thisisthehardestthing]

тоска, 18+ Tanaka x Reader, 2.2

Written for The Smut Pile Server Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

тоска tus-ka: Russian, noun It is a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases, it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, lovesickness.

Russian Mafia AU: Tanaka Ryu x A Reader OC Rating: E for explicit Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death, Masturbation, Oral sex, Public Sex, Grinding, Cheating, Denied Orgasm, Manipulation, YEARNING Word count: 9,328 Part 1 | Part 2

GLOSSARY

Enjoy the final part of this two part hell.

Special thanks to: @joyousandverywarlike for being my ride-or-die,  @pleasantanathema , @present-mel and @linestrider for hosting this collab, and everyone in the server for being amazing friends. I would not have been able to write this without any of you, and I truly mean that. @the-smut-pile​

2.2

6. Tanaka

Daichi, Sergei, Ryunoslav and Yuuri sit in the wooden banya, white towels wrapped around their waists as they sweat and speak about the Georgian trip. It smells of cedar, rich and woody, and sweat. Like men.

“Boss Vashadze is unwell,” Daichi muses, knees spread wide as he relaxes against the hot walls, facing the glass door. “It won’t be long until he retires.”

Tanaka sits perpendicular to him, on a lower step with one foot perched up and his leg bent. Yuuri is opposite Tanaka, and Sergei stands, lightly smacking his back with a Venik, the scent of eucalyptus and birch dispersing through the air with each tap against his skin.

“That is good for you, bad for connections,” Sergei says, “how is business there?”

He always talked numbers first, pleasure second. Yuuri laughs, reaching for the besom of herbs from Sergei’s hold to lash his legs.

“Fine. I am gaining more of a footing around the ministers... However it will still take some time before they trust me. There are rumors of a new political party rising. We have to keep an eye open for unrest in Eastern Europe.”

“Ukraine?” Sergei asks, rubbing some of the leaves that stuck to his arms into his skin.

Daichi nods, then his eyes slide sideways to peer at Tanaka. His shaved hair has grown out slightly, which will be trimmed tonight, and he picks at his toenail of the foot bent beneath him.

“We can discuss strategy after we eat. How was your weekend, Ryunoslav?” The Bulldog asks, eyebrows raised.

Tanaka lifts his head casually with a simple smile.

“Just what I needed, spasiba Boss.”

Daichi’s laugh booms in the sauna, and Yuuri joins in, slapping the wood next to his thigh.

“Tell us more, Ryu! When I saw the first prostitute leave after thirty minutes, I thought it was over. But then, when I saw a second one arrive at midnight, I thought you must’ve not enjoyed the first.”

Tanaka frowns, looking at Yuuri in confusion before realising who he meant. He had seen Valentina arrive late at night, although he didn’t recognise her, or so he hopes.

“She was banging on the door very loudly, woke me up. Tell me, was it the same one from before wanting a second round?”

With a glance to Daichi, who is scanning his every expression,Tanaka shrugs.

“It was the same whore. I must be very good in bed.”

All the men burst out in laughter, but Tanaka laughs the loudest in compensation. Daichi closes his eyes as he tilts his head back.

“Well, she stayed for a long time. I only saw her leave past five am.”

“Yuuri, are you stalking Ryunoslav?” Sergei questions, using the water the Venik was soaking in to rinse off his body, the liquid sizzling as it hits the warm floor by his feet.

“No, I just found it interesting that Ryunoslav will fuck someone twice in a single night when there’s only been one woman he’s ever wan-”

“Yuuri.” Tanaka growls, cutting off his closest friend who has had too much vodka before entering the sauna. The heat and alcohol is loosening his tongue too quickly. Daichi sits up at this news, leaning forward so that muscle bulge and inflate.

“Oh? Is this true? Who is this woman?”

Tanaka waves his hand dismissively as he glares at Yuuri, “I met her years ago, when I first started working for you, Boss. No one of importance now.”

“Surely she still means something if you don’t want Yuuri to talk about her.” Sergei chimes in, climbing past their heads to sit on the top bench next to Daichi. Tanaka avoids his gaze, but can feel the Bulldog sniffing at the faint nerves that climb up Tanaka’s spine, his ears blushing red from the heat. He feels closed in, backed into a corner.

“It is an unrequited love, so please, I would prefer not to speak about it anymore.”

The men all murmur in understanding, except for Yuuri, who says, “I will just have to get you drunk to tell us about her then.”

7 - Valentina

Daichi sits across from you in the chartered jet, the beige leather seats muted even further with the deep rumble of the engine and the third glass of champagne in your veins. He’s reading a newspaper, you’re staring out at the cotton-peach clouds as they pass by. To your left, Sergei Sugawarov scribbles in books filled with numbers, the taptaptap of the calculator permeating the heavy air.

“Refill, Mrs. Sawamurova?” the air hostess asks, her smile wide as she holds the Moët & Chandon bottle in her manicured hands. She’s trembling slightly, and you smile reassuringly.

“Leave the bottle, thank you,” your heavy Russian accent drips from your tongue as you answer in English, and the bottle is placed in a silver ice bucket on the birchwood table between you and Daichi.

Two hours have passed during the five hour flight from Ufa Airport to Côte d'Azur Airport, and you pour another glass for yourself as you watch Daichi turn a page. He glances up at you with a small smile, but his eyes are hard. Something happened while he was in Georgia with your father. With a small smile of your own, you turn your gaze back to the window, leaving red lipstick on the rim of the glass.

A phone rings, and you hear Tanaka’s gruff voice answer the call, the memory of last week shooting painfully through your core.

“Oi?”

Some silence, before the Khazak turns in his seat behind Daichi and whispers through the space between the leather and the wall of the jet. You can’t help the way you look at him, stormy grey eyes peering out at you as he whispers into the ear of your husband. Your brow furrows when Daichi jerks his head in a slight nod, tense.

Tanaka retreats back around and you’re left staring at the empty spot, snapping your eyes to the calculating gaze of The Bulldog.

“Is everything alright, my love?” you ask, deciding to stand from your seat and sit on his arm rest.

Daichi folds the newspaper away, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other takes a sip of the champagne straight from the bottle.

“It seems this trip will not only be pleasure,” he muses, eyes closing as he swallows. However, when they open, his face melts into the calm reassurance you’ve always known when he smiles up at you and places a kiss to the cream wool crepe of your blouse. “I have something to take care of, but it will only be a moment. Nothing to worry about.”

You nod, delicate hands stroking at Daichi’s hair, but Tanaka’s cologne wafts up, invading your nose.

“I understand.”

***

The drive to the private Villa La Vigie winds between grey and green rock mountains to your left with glimpses of the dazzling azure ocean of where the French Riviera gets its name to your right. You’re invited to stay in the home of your fathers dear friend, Monsieur Lagerfeld, situated on a private hill just outside Monaco. He will not be there, March being the month he spends in his apartment in Paris, so you and Daichi and the many bodyguards take residence for the week.

You’ve visited this house a number of times in your youth, in your adulthood, and yet it steals the air from your lungs each time you return. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon when you pull up the driveway. In front of you, the two story villa looms in it’s beautiful white-painted glory, the sun a beacon shining upon it. Light brick extends below to where there is a wine cellar, garage and access to the private beach club below.

The car parks, and Daichi kisses your cheek in the backseat before he exits the vehicle and strides up the steps and through the large glass double doors, answering his phone while bodyguards open the way for him. You see Tanaka grip the steering wheel, the leather of his gloves stretch and squeak. It is the first time you are alone with him since that night a week ago, and the heater in the car feels sweltering against your skin.

“Thank you for the drive, Ryunoslav,” you mumble, shifting to the edge of the seat to leave out of the side Daichi had.

“Val,” he starts, then his mouth shuts and his eyes catch yours in the reflection of the rearview mirror, “of course.”

The terracotta tiles of the terrace reflect a salmon pink up the walls of the villa, and you smile at the men as you pass by and find the master bedroom on the first floor. You can already hear Daichi negotiating in the connected office, and you decide to bathe. As the water runs in the porcelain tub, the water mists with the scent of lavende de provence, and you open the windows looking out over the meditterean ocean. The salt and trees wash over you as the sound of the ocean crashing against rocks floats up, and for an instance, you imagine jumping out the window and into that endless blue. The winter air trickles into the warm bathroom.

Notes of a waltz dance in from the direction of the office and you see Daichi’s shadow move around in the bedroom as he unbuttons his cufflinks and loosens his navy blue tie. He walks into the bathroom where you’ve already slipped on the linen bathrobe, your blouse and jeans folded neatly onto the clothes ladder leaning against the wall.

“Care to join?” you ask, clipping your hair up. Daichi peels his shirt off and drops it near your own in a crumpled pile, his thick muscles rippling with each movement as he undresses.

“Prosti, Gadyuka. I have to get to the board meeting before the gala tonight,” he apologises, turning on the glass door shower as he gets into it on the opposite side to the bath. You watch as the water in the faucet of the bath sputters, and your heart imitates.

“Ah yes, I forgot. What-”

“The car arrives at seven, Khazak will escort you.”

Your head whips around to stare at Daichi as he massages white suds over his body, large palms running over his chest where the Sawamurov crest is tattooed in a large circle. He raises his eyebrows. You clear your throat, standing to drop the gown and dip a toe into the water.

“Not you?”

“Unfortunately no, but I will be there waiting for you. I know the dress you are wearing and can’t have any man trying to steal you for himself.”

Daichi’s honeyed words wash over you as you submerge into the water, turning off the faucet and staring out to the sea, a stark sapphire against the lily-white of the bathroom walls and window pane. In the mirror above the sink, you can see The Bulldog get out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his defined waist while he shakes the water from his hair.

You laugh as you turn to observe him while he pats on the cologne displayed on the sink, before brushing his teeth.

“I doubt anyone will try to steal me away.”

He looks at you in the reflection, a curious expression in his eyes, before he spits and rinses.

“Yes, well, you never know. You might run off with a French vineyard heir by the end of the night.”

“Never, Daichi. No one can be my Bulldog but you.”

He snorts, turning to watch as you lather yourself in Chanel shower gel, the scent mixing with the lavender already clinging to the air.

“Da, no one is like me.”

He leans down to place a chaste kiss on your lips before he exits the bathroom and changes into a clean outfit waiting for him in the Master bedroom. The made-to-measure Chanel suit hangs in a black garment bag that he carries out with him as he leaves to join the council meeting of the European Casino Association before the Annual Art Auction tonight.

The interaction runs through your mind as you mull over the look in his eyes, the way he tensed before he kissed you goodbye, the faintest flicker of jealousy in his eyes that flared when he joked about you leaving him. Suddenly, you remember Ryunoslav’s lips against your neck and you squeeze your eyes shut.  With a deep inhale, you sink deep under the water to feel it tickle your nostrils and earlobes, before submerging your head.

Your fingers find the curves of your thighs, dragging up slowly to feel how the water moves around your hands and displaces against your skin. You lift your face slightly, until the edge of the water tickles your skin and you inhale, swirling the skin of your clit. In your mind, Ryunoslav’s kisses fall hot and wet against your body, skin red and heated in the bathtub while you press hard circles against sensitive nerves. You’re not trying to take it slow, coaxing the first wave of clenches quickly as you imagine a thick cock sliding over and over inside you.

Ryunoslav morphs into Daichi, and you sit up with a gasp, fingers not slowing, your hand gripping the handle of the tub tightly as your abdomen contracts. Uncontrollably, Ryu and Daichi alternate, their bodies shifting fluidly until a faceless man fucks into you.

You orgasm on the verge of tears, confused and aching. The styling team will arrive in an hour.

You stand, feeling the cold winter air touch your heated skin. Wrapped again in the robe, you close the window and bind your hair in a towel.

A Russian Waltz still plays on the radio inside the ensuite office, and you look around to filter the channel to a French songstress crooning over the small speakers. Next to the stereo, is Daichi’s small black book, open to his to-do list, and your eyes scan over it before you can stop yourself, reading the neatly scribbled words.

14 March 2006, 1:00 am, La Serpent Fleur

That was the name of the Superyacht you and Daichi are to go on after the gala for the afterparty to the auction. You frown, thinking of the myriad of reasons what he might do there, who he’ll meet with other than the ECA board today. It must be to do with what happened in Georgia and was whispered to him during the flight.

You turn, leaving the book just as you found it and unpack the suitcase that was brought to the bedroom in preparation for tonight.

8. Tanaka

Ryunoslav waits at the front door, facing the short five-stair foyer that branches into the stairwell leading to the first floor. The golden light of the sunset filters in gentle waves through the chiffon curtains of the entry hall.

The first thing he sees of Valentina is in the reflection of the large silver mirror facing the stairwell on the landing. A single leg slinking out from a thigh-high slit, while a heart shaped pump in patent black is clasped around her ankle. The metal YSL heel clinks with each step. Next is the black, silk crepe de chine perfectly draping to the floor–not clinging to anything but the curve of her hips–and the bodice tailored to her waist in a tight structure that pendulums side-to-side.

However, what steals the very air from his lungs, stops his heart, is the bustier covering her breasts. The dress is strapless, the neckline two rounded cups that trace down the sides of her cleavage and towards her ribs before turning and meeting in a gentle hill at the end of her sternum. The dress is Yves Saint Laurent. Ryunoslav watches as Valentina rounds the stairwell and stands at the top of the foyer, opera length gloves running up her arms and with one hand on her hip while the other clasps a small black Bulgari clutch. Around her neck is a pendant necklace, emeralds glittering amongst diamonds and silver, set in the shape of a viper head. Matching emerald drop earrings hang from her lobes, reflecting the golden sun and glittering green against her neck. Valentina’s hair is pinned up, and that tattoo that curls from her left shoulder down her arm disappears beneath the gloves, reminding him that beauty is a secret poison. He swallows, blinks, then climbs up the steps to hand her the white fur coat he was holding.

“Vot eto da… You look beautiful, Mrs. Sawamurova.” Tanaka whispers, mindful of the bodyguards and staff littering the villa.

“Spasiba, Khazak,” she smiles, slipping her arms into the silk lining and fixing the collar. “Is the car ready?”

“Da.”

“Good, let’s go.”

The exchange between them feels mechanical, and Tanaka rushes ahead to open the car door, waiting until she is comfortable before shutting it and sliding into the driver’s seat. It is nowhere near the low temperatures of Russia in March, however he can’t stop the shivers that travel up his spine, and the ugly twist of jealousy that stabs at his heart.

The Casino de Monte Carlo, where the gala is being held, is a mere five minute drive from the villa, yet the silence is heavy, weighted, and slows down time.

“I missed you last week,” Valentina whispers, looking out the window at the midnight blue sky. A traffic light changes from red to green.

“Me too.”

The conversation ends when Ryunoslav pulls the Aston Martin around the fountain, waiting behind a elder couple stepping out of their black limo. The statues on either side of the Casino name look down at him as he parks and climbs out, a porter beating him to her door.

Camera’s flash, the music of a quartet floats out from the massive wooden doors up the entryway, and Ryunoslav remains closely behind Valentina’s right arm as he escorts her inside, pulling the ticket for both of them from his inner coat pocket and handing it to the doorman.

The grand foyer of the Casino is massive, ceilings high with a stained-glass skylight and the floor a white tile with black triangles in a circular pattern. Posed around the room, mostly in the center of the circles, are the artworks up for auction: a variety of paintings, sculptures, artifacts and some vintage designer jewellery. The golden chandeliers light the air with a sepia filter that softens the chatter and noise within. On the first floor bannister across the long hall, is a banner exclaiming, ‘2006 Annual ECA Art Auction’. Couples mingle, champagne is sipped and the Hors d’oeuvres are ignored in favour of the alcohol.

“I will check our coats,” Tanaka murmurs low in Russian, watching as Val slides the white fur down her arms to hand it to him with a polite smile, the kind he’s seen her wear in the public eye alongside Daichi for many years now.

“I’ll wait here, then we go find Daichi.”

His heart thumps painfully, the curve of her shoulders delicate as they flex in passing the heavy coat, but he nods and heads to the coat check just off the side. In passing, he spots Daichi at the top of the red-carpeted staircase, head bowed to speak secretly with someone Ryunoslav can not see, but knows. Daichi’s eyes find the growing storm in Tanaka’s with a smile, and he straightens to bid the woman a goodbye and descends the stairs.

“Sir,” Tanaka nods, pocketing the number for the coats.

“Ryunoslav,” Daichi returns the greeting, casually clapping the man on his shoulder. “Enjoy the evening, I will see you at the yacht later, yes?”

“She could’ve seen you, sir.” Tanaka whispers, carefully keeping eye contact with his Boss. Daichi smirks cooly, glancing back up the stairs and at a retreating woman’s back wearing a deep green dress.

“She did not see me. Thank you, again, for keeping this secret. Now, go, enjoy the party. Hell, if you see something you like, bid on it. I will pay.”

With that, Daichi walks past his Head of Security, chest puffing up as he walks towards his wife. Ryunoslav watches as she gives Daichi a gentle kiss on the cheek before wrapping a gloved hand around his bicep and following him into the crowd.

9. Valentina

The evening passes by in a blur.

The dinner and speeches take up half the evening before the auction begins, and the gala attendees disperse throughout the Casino, while you and Daichi walk to the gardens. Heaters are spaced periodically, warmth sinking below while gentle lights litter the walkways and grass. The stone steps leading there are cool, and you see your breath misting with each exhale before you’re back under the warmth.

The area of the auction outside has statues, planted with lighting that bring the romantic and violent figures to life.

“This one would look beautiful in our gardens in summer,” you muse, studying a small mermaid brushing her hair, tail flicked up and shells covering her breast.

“Anything for you,” Daichi replies, writing down a number with his auction code and placing it in the poll box besides the statue.

You just laugh politely, aware of Daichi’s two bodyguards following the both of you.

“Let’s go back inside. I want to see how our bid on the Kandinsky is doing.” Daichi offers, but you shake your head.

“I’ll walk around here for a bit longer. It’s such a beautiful night and the noise inside was giving me a headache.”

“As you wish.”

You spend a few minutes admiring the remaining statues, finding a waiter that hands you a glass of champagne. With small sips, you hug an arm around your waist, looking over the stone wall at the beautiful, glittering scenery of Monte-Carlo below. You find yourself tucked away in a dark corner of the ledge, where the lights of the gala are few, the tree branches of the gardens overhang, and the city has come to life beneath you. You can hear jazz music from a bar down the road, and you wish you were sitting on a terrace with a glass of wine instead.

“C’est magnifique, non?” A heavy french accent sinks into you, and you glance at the man that leans with his back to the view, a deep purple suit contrasting against his tanned skin and sharp cheekbones. He smokes a hand-rolled cigarette. You look back out at the city.

“Oui, trop beau,” you reply softly, taking another sip, shifting onto the foot farthest from the stranger. He turns and offers you one of the smokes, tucking it away in his jacket breast pocket with a smile and a tap when you decline. His eyes travel down your breasts, before glancing back up to your arching brows and unamused eyes.

“Je ne parle pas de la vue,” I do not mean the view, “Emmanuelle Beauchant,” he offers an outstretched palm.

“Valentina,” he lifts your gloved hand to his lips, but hovers just above contact when you continue, “Sawamurova.”

“Desolee, I did not realise you were not French, or married,” Emmanuelle apologises in English.

You smile politely, lifting the glass to your mouth to down the last of the fizzing alcohol.

“An honest mistake.”

“Your husband’s Casinos are some of my favourites. Please, accept my apologies. Let me get you a new glass.” He waves down a waiter, plucking the empty flute from your fingers and replacing it before you can reject. “I am the coordinator of this petite soiree. Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Sawamurova.” With that, he leaves in a hurry, scampering off into the light much like he had appeared, leaving you alone again. Almost.

You feel the warmth of another body to your right, and you almost sigh from exhaustion when Ryunoslav’s gruff voice washes over you in comforting Russian. It breaks like the wave against the shore.

“I thought I would have to scare him away.”

Tanaka’s serious eyes beneath the shadow of a deep brow pulls the first real chuckle of the evening from your chest, and you see his shoulders somewhat relax as he leans with a hip on the stone.

“It was innocent, Ryu.”

“He wanted to fuck you.”

“He’s French,” you counter, placing the champagne glass down, sliding it away from your body and towards the party. “And everyone wants to fuck me.”

You spin, losing your balance as Tanaka pulls your hand towards him and twists you so that your back presses against the cool stone in a darkened alcove. His forehead is on yours, eyes shut, and breath fanning over your lips. Your own chest heaves with the sudden rush. His hands dig into your hips, yours into his shoulders. Your bag drops to the floor.

“You have no idea,” each word is punctuated by palms shimmying up the side of your waist, thumbs digging into the fabric, “how badly I want to fuck you too.”

He wraps his thick forearms behind your back hugging you tight and into himself as he folds over you and brings his lips to touch yours. It’s deep, and although passion usually pours from his kiss, this one is born out of jealousy, desperation, and desire.

Compliments drip like honey from Ryunoslav’s mouth as he mumbles them into your skin, words melting so that they become part of you.

“Ryu, Ryu, stop, we can’t. It’s so open.”

He shushes you, a palm snaking under the boning of the open neckline to cup the breast, nipplie erect from the night chill. “No one saw me come here.”

“But the people. They know who I am, mmpf.” A pinch to your nipple has you moaning under your breath, head tilting back against the stone, cold against heated flesh.

“They are all too busy with their own conquests, showing up one another.”

“You light a fire in my heart,” his onslaught of compliments don’t cease, and you realise that tonight is the tipping point. The intensity of his words drag you beneath his waters, much like the way his fingers find the high slit of your dress and sink into your folds. Your knee falls open to let him pull you deeper.

“Underwear?”

“Not with this dress.”

“Whore.” Teeth nip at your neck.

“Yours.”

An animalistic groan rumbles through your veins from his mouth, and you clutch at the lapel of his jacket as his fingers thrust shallow, over and over again. You want him–need him– inside you, and the thought of public sex no longer scares you. In this moment, only Ryunoslav exists, the smell of lilies and the fresh ocean fill you, devouring you with a hint of something darker that you recognise as human.

Sin. And something else.

A zipper comes down, his cock unfolds and stretches you out.

“I love you.”

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them, and even then, you don’t keep them in as you whisper, him thrustsing into your aching core. You vaguely hear him mumbling it back to you. His voice low and sincere, forehead against yours, lips against yours. Your bodies become one.

“Blyat, where can I?” desperation fills his voice, and you barely utter the words before he spills inside you, keeping you warm and plugged up, panting against his face, chin tucked down.

A hand rifles through his pants pocket, and he pulls out his regular small handkerchief, stained, but comforting. You take it from him, careful to keep your face hidden as he pulls out and you wipe yourself under your skirt.

“Ryunoslav.” His name feels like lava, molten on your tongue as it rolls down your body and ignites a fire over your skin, burning you. “We have to stop seeing each other.”

He tenses against you, arms shielding you from the world so only the two of you exist.

“Why?”

“We’ve changed. We’re not just having fun anymore, Ryu-”

“What do you mean we’ve changed?”

“Us. This.” You curse, gesturing vaguely to him and yourself, feeling the fire spread to your ears and your heart.

“Nothing has changed. I have always loved you.”

Your heart drops into your stomach, turning over and over as you digest it, painfully aware of how much truth rings in his words, and how you’re sure you’ve always loved him back.

“We have to stop. Or we have to tell Daichi.”

His lips connect with your forehead. You hear him swallow.

“Tonight then. Together.”

“Together.”

Ryunoslav stays close to you as he picks up the bag from the floor, handing you the mirror inside to fix your lipstick, your hair, before you dust the stone from your back and ass.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers to you a final time, stepping to the side so you emerge from the shadow, pick up your forgotten champagne glass and head back into where art dances together and people mingle.

10. Tanaka

Tanaka watches as Valentina saunters away, past the bodies to rejoin the party. With a heavy sigh, he leans against the stone, cooling his forehead and calming his thumping heart. His feet bump against something and with one eye, he squints at the ground and spots glittering emeralds in the dark. Her necklace.

Quickly, he picks it up, carefully placing it in his suit jacket pocket, and curses when he sees the time on his watch. He has to find Daichi and head to the yacht to do the final security checks before he arrives. Vines wrap themselves around his intestines, anxiety leaking into each step, the emerald necklace a dead weight in his jacket.

He finds the Boss surrounded by influential board members, holding a glass of vodka casually as they all laugh at his jokes. The Chanel suit drapes down his broad back perfectly, clean cut and sharp, the single seam a crisp line.

“Sorry for interrupt,” Tanaka apologies, English tangling on his tongue. He continues in a low Russian to Daichi, sweat beading on the back of his neck, palms clammy and therefore kept in his pants pocket. It’s better that way, his tattoos are less appreciated around the higher class of society.

Daichi nods, a loose smile along with his loosened tie. He hands Tanaka a paper that shows he won the bid on the Kandinsky painting. “Arrange this on the way out. Leave Valentina’s coat with mine.”

“Ya ponimayu.”

Tanaka turns to leave, but Daichi calls out one more time.

“Ryunoslav?”

“Da?”

“You have lipstick on your collar.”

Tanaka feels nausea bubbling up his gut, not from the proximity of your scent to The Bulldog’s nose, but from the thought of later tonight. He forces a cocky smirk and shrug, turning on his heel to head to the back office to finalise the paperwork for the painting and add the delivery address, before shrugging his thick coat on and stepping outside by the valet. The air has cooled considerably from the heat of the balcony and between your thighs. Once safely in the car, he rubs the stain furiously in the reflection of the rearview mirror, making it set even further into the white fabric. It blends into the threads like spilt blood. With a grumble, he drives to the harbor.

La Serpent Fleur is a sleek superyacht with three decks above water and one below, housing jet ski’s, a speedboat, storage and crew quarters. The middle and lower decks have outdoor and indoor seating, with main bedrooms for up to 15 couples to sleep in. The flooring and interior is light teakwood, rich brown accents amongst cream and white leather and fabric. It’s unmissable in the late night, lit up in silvery white, the name illuminated against a navy blue sky and pitch black water. It reflects stars in the meditterean sea.

Tanaka greets all staff, deploying his bratva across the yacht to inspect all rooms and inform the captain of the upcoming helicopter landing at 1:00 am. It’s not often that Mafia business mixes with Business business, but as money is always intertwined, this time, it is unavoidable. The pool on the top deck shimmers aquamarine, and Tanaka inspects that the bar is fully stocked for the upcoming meeting. Vodka and Campari. This floor is only for Daichi and a select few.

“It’s like I’m a fucking assistant,” he grumbles under his breath, withdrawing a small hand-gun strapped to his calf and securing it in the hidden shelf under the bar top. You never know, he smiles, tapping the holster against his back for comfort.

All checks are done by the time the first of the guests arrive, high-stakes rollers for the gambling about to happen. Tanaka keeps to the shadows, lighting a cigarette as he surveys the walkway leading up to the yacht, and it’s guests. They are all smiling, huddling together in their pair against the cool ocean breeze. He takes a look at the pack that was confiscated from Ukai with distaste, flicking the cigarette into the ocean water.

Daichi and Valentina are the last to arrive, and although he’s smiling, she is not, lipstick slightly faded and a smudge of mascara under her eyes. Tanaka watches as she disappears as soon as she set foot on the yacht, hurrying off to inside the cabin before anyone can stop her. Tanaka’s eyes follow her retreating figure, the white of her coat bristling, before he steps up to greet Daichi.

“Everything is ready for Kuroo Testuro to arrive, Boss,” he reports, murmuring low.

“Perfect, evening has turned into disaster. Make sure no one will disturb us except for emergency. It will not take long. What is his eta?” Daichi never lowers the corners of his mouth, but those brown eyes are hard mahogany. Tanaka checks his watch, the light above reflecting in the glass, shining in the storm in his eyes.

“Forty-five minutes. We have to set sail now, all guests have arrived and the poker tables inside have been set up.”

“I will wait upstairs.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Tanaka sighs, running a hand over his shorn hair, a shiver rippling down his spine. He hears his name, and he turns to face one of his brothers, following after to inspect a stairwell.

It does not take long for the party to fall into full swing. Continuing with free-flowing champagne is the key to keeping rich socialites and underground dealers happy and oblivious. Daichi stands near the railing, ice cubes in his glass clinking while he surveys the decks below and waits. Tanaka stands to attention off the side, the cool winter air breezing through his suit jacket, the veins on his knuckles and forearms almost frozen; he stuffs them into his pockets. The cool silver of Valentina’s necklace shocks him and he remembers he has to sneak it back to her. He peers over the edge, spotting her in the distance, smiling once more, makeup fixed and socialising.

His heart thumps, emeralds and diamonds cutting a hole in his jacket pocket, beating faster until it syncs up with the incoming helicopter blades. They whir around in a steady beat that consumes the noise below and thrums through his bones. Then, the wind hits him. Air cold as ice as the machine descends, the collar of his jacket whipping up and folding into itself. Kuroo Testuro has arrived.

The blades come to a halt and Tanaka steps forward, two men overtaking him to climb up the stairs of the helicopter pad landing and open the door. Long legs dressed in a black pin-stripe suit step out, a lopsided cocky smirk plastered on the Italian boss’s face.

“Ciao Daichi, it’s been a while!” Kuroo calls over the wind, arms stretching out while he’s patted down. “Khazak, you’re looking sour.”

Tanaka scowls, not entirely sure what The Panther of the Testuro family said to him. Daichi turns to face the man completely, walking until he stands next to Tanaka, waiting for the man to descend the white metal stairs to the upper deck. The Boss’s exchange a stiff handshake, their eyes piercing as one fights for dominance over the other. Daichi wins, his hand slapping against Kuroo’s back in a hearty greeting.

“Let’s get to business, something to drink?” The Bulldog offers, but Kuroo is laughing, already walking to the leather sofas around the pool, flopping down onto it with one leg crossed over the other. He waves to one of his bodyguards, pointing at the bar.

“Always so formal Daichi, tell me, how is Valentina? Still married to you?” Kuroo’s words tumble out quickly, Italian accent thick enough that Tanaka can only pick up on a few words. He registers your name, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention, ready to attack at Daichi’s order. The Boss takes a deep breath, his teeth gritting.

“She is fine. Enjoying party below.”

“Pity, I think she’d be happier up here with us. Won’t you call her?”

“Careful, Kuroo.”  Daichi warns, but the Panther just smiles his wicked Cheshire grin in return.

“Ah, I’m joking. I will just keep the fantasy of her lips around my–”

A hand darts out over Kuroo’s shoulder, interrupting any further explanation of imagination. Tanaka grabs Daichi’s arm, one that had tensed with it’s fist closed around a concealed gun in a holster on his back.

“Campari, sir?”

“Ah! Grazie!” He takes a sip, setting it down on the glass table beside him. “Now, we can talk business.”

Tanaka listens to the low conversation between the two bosses, the discussion of the new trade route of cocaine between Italy and Russia. It takes some time to adjust to the accent, but then he’s following along, standing with his hands in his pockets, a thumb gliding over the necklace. There had been an interruption along the coasts between Lecce and Albania, several different Sicillian Mafia’s holding up some of Daichi’s shipments due to unpaid ‘reparations’, a farce to ignite a turf war between the Families in Italy and their Russian connections.

“You must call off your friends in Italy. We keep up our end of bargain. I will not be so understanding in future.”

“Ah, but you see, they are greedy and believe you are not paying properly for the passage.”

“I assure you, I am.”

Tanaka stiffens, seeing how Daichi begins to inflate, irritation lacing his voice. Kuroo chuckles, taking a slow sip with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, I believe you. I can convince them but I’ll need some extra incentive from your end.”

Tanaka speaks up, eyes narrowing as he sniffs out Kuroo’s angle. “We can not give you that.”

“You are one of the largest groups in the world, surely you have some men for me?”

“No.”

Tanaka’s blood begins to boil, nails biting into the skin of his palms enough to draw blood. The gun strapped on his back heavy as it calls to be unholstered. His men are not dispensable. Kuroo sighs, then his eyes glance to the left where the noise of the party floats in the night air, and he smiles.

“Then maybe you have a woman.”

Tanaka turns to follow his gaze, and climbing up the stairs slowly is Valentina, a hand on the metal rail, the white fur coat hanging down her back as it drapes from her elbows, lipstick blood red. She’s drunk, giggling to herself but stops when a vor blocks the final step onto the deck. Then, she sobers, straightening instantly with narrowed eyes.

“Asahi,” she says, voice sharp but breathless.

“The Boss is in a meeting.”

Her makeup had been fixed, the tips of her nose and ears pink from the chill, her hair no longer pinned up but wild down her back from the wind. Tanaka glances at Daichi, his eyes muddy and lips tightly pursed.

“Oh, let her join, huh?” Kuroo grins, setting his glass down and leaning forward to interlock his fingers and rest his elbows on his knees. “Surely, you trust her enough.”

“Of course.”

Daichi and his guest battle in their stares, but ultimately the Panther wins. With a sigh, Daichi calls out to Alexei, “let her through.”

Valentina strides over to the men, coat dragging on the floor behind her. Surprising everyone, she stops in front of the cocky bastard, who stands to greet her, and their cheeks brush twice, left then right.

“Kuroo, how lovely to see you again. I hope my husband is kind.”

Tanaka holds back a wince, the feeling of her warm breath against his neck still teasing him in his memories. He has to admire her acting, even inebriated, she commands attention. Their eyes follow when she walks to the head of the table and flops down onto the chair, slit falling open with crossed legs.

“He’ll be kinder now that you are here.”

Valentina laughs, “yes, but I might not be.”

“Enough.” Daichi cuts through the jovial small talk, fists clenching and resting on his knees, his back straight. “I am tired of games.”

Tanaka thinks he catches a double meaning, heart racing as he readies himself for anything.

“You own Casinos,” Kuroo drawls, but he’s no longer smiling, still standing. Daichi gets to his feet, shorter than his counterpart, but thicker.

“We are getting nowhere. I will not be included in your battle for control, and if my next shipment continues to be held, God is not the only one that can turn water into wine. Capisci?”

Their stares are intense, and seconds tick by in eternity, before Kuroo nods with a sigh, a hand tucking into his pants pocket while the other extrends. They shake, curt and stiff, and Tanaka rolls his shoulders, loosening the knots in his upper back, eyeing Valentina curiously. She has her eyes focused on Daichi, pupils narrow and mouth pressed into a thin line; the same look she had when she boarded the yacht. She snaps out of it, lips curling up as she stands.

“It was a pleasure, although short,” Kuroo tells her, and they exchange polite kisses. Tanaka hears the rumble in Daichi’s chest, and he briefly wonders if she’s purposefully trying to anger the Bulldog. She’s always been unafraid of his bark, a viper teasing with her fangs.

They wait until Kuroo climbs back in the helicopter, until the blades whir to life with that beating drum that pumps adrenaline through his body and until it is quiet once more, the waves sloshing far below against the yacht. The air is crisp, and the silence heavy. Valentina turns to face Daichi, neck tense, mouth open but Daichi cuts her off.

“Don’t embarrass me like that again.”

Tanaka bristles, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He controls the need to step in front of Val, to shield her from his Boss. The weight of her necklace in his pocket keeps him anchored. His heart pounds in his ears, Daichi glances at him briefly before keeping an unwavering eye on Valentina’s fierce gaze. It’s odd. Tanaka always has a plan, knows what will happen next, and yet, he is at a loss. Unsteady on his feet as the boat rocks. He’s unsure of what she will do, how she will tell her possessive husband–

“I’m seeing someone.”

11. Valentina

Lightning flashes in the distance when the words leave your lips, the thunder rumbling in the silence that follows. You watch Daichi carefully, standing your ground even though parts of you scream to take a few steps back. You resist the temptation to glance at Ryunoslav. During your musings, you decided not to say who it was right away. Daichi glances down at your bare neck, the necklace he’d given you missing, lost somewhere at the gala when you finally lost yourself in emotion. You remember the fight with him when leaving the venue.

You expected Daichi to burst in anger, explode outwards and destroy everything with his fury. Yet he remains silent, eyes mattifying as he draws inward, no longer oiled mahogany but rather sanded wood. When he speaks, it’s so low you almost miss it, but it penetrates you with the next flash of lightning.

“Leave.”

White, hot anger burns through you at his command, your hands raising as though to grab his lapel. Quickly, you reroute to pulling your fur coat back onto your shoulders.

“You don’t want to know who?”

“You don’t want to know what I am thinking right now, Gadyuka.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Ryunoslav cuts you off, “take the boat, please.”

You stare incredulously at him, but he is already speaking in a low voice onto a handheld receiver, then back at Daichi, who’s body slowly begins to vibrate. However, Daichi is no longer looking at you. Instead, his eyes have shifted to Ryu, brows furrowed. Thunder claps. You feel the first spray of rain misting onto your eyelashes.

“Fine, we will talk more at breakfast.”

You turn on your heel, the sound grating against the wooden deck, and someone from the Brigade accompanies you down the stairs, walking just slightly ahead of you, silently asking you to follow.

You descend slowly, crossing the second deck with a practised smile, apologising to anyone that approaches you with an easy lie. Most of the crewmen begin to pack up and rearrange the party to continue on indoors. You enter the large cabin, and walk down another flight of stairs, to the first deck and then lower still. Here, the walls change from luxurious wooden, glass and metal to open beams, and white gritty flooring. It’s slightly wet, from the rain that batters against the open exit and the ocean water shimmering inside.

A small speedboat waits for you, not fully submerged, and a captain, yet his face is wary.

“Mrs. Sawamurova,” he holds his hat in his hands, a navy raincoat wrapped around his uniform, “wouldn’t you rather wait for the storm to pass? Please, enjoy the evening and when the water is still, I can take you to shore in an instant.”

“My husband wants me gone.”

“But not dead.”

You laugh, bitterly, feeling your intestines swirl, unsettled by those words. He’s brave.

“How long do you think it will take?”

“A few minutes, maximum. It is the winter rain, harsh but quick.”

“I will wait here.”

12. Tanaka

When the top of Valentina’s head disappears down the stairs, Daichi speaks, not looking at Tanaka. The first of fat raindrops begin to fall onto their shoulders.

“I will have to talk to her father, after I kill her.”

Tanaka’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, every bump dry and scratching against his throat. He can’t be serious. Slowly, Daichi turns to face him, eyes raking over his closest subordinate’s features, down his throat, and settles on the crisp white collar peeking out from his suit jacket, stained the same colour as Valentina’s lipstick.

“Khazak, who is it?”

“Boss–” but he doesn’t know what to say. The memories of the prison hospital bed, bare with just a sheet, an unsterilised IV drip stuck into his arm flashes in front of his mind. Daichi’s calm face that visited him before he woke up somewhere else.

“Tell me right now, or does your loyalty mean nothing?”

Tanaka winces, “nyet, Boss, you know I am loyal to you.”

He takes a deep breath, then reaches inside, fingers looping around diamonds to pull out the necklace, the viper head swaying back and forth. His heart claps with the thunder, the clouds breaking into a heavy downpour. Chill sets in instantly, his bones freezing beneath his suit.

“Supply snakes with a meal, and you will have them all by the fangs,” Daichi whispers under his breath, barely audible above the pattering of the drops against the floor, but Tanaka’s sensitive ears pick it up. “She played me for a fool.” Daichi’s wide-set eyes lift from the necklace to Tanaka’s.

“Mne ochyn zhal,” Tanaka begins to apologise profusely, but the hardened look shuts him up.

“I was wrong, Khazak,” Daichi interrupts, his hands moving to his pockets, Tanaka dropping his arm to his side. He starts to walk towards the sheltered area of the deck, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes. “You are the one that is going to have to kill her.”

Tanaka’s heart drops to his stomach, falling straight into the floor and sinking to the bottom of the unruly ocean. The Boss does not joke around, but he wishes for it to be one.

“I can not, Boss,” his head shakes, body vibrates. This is the first time he has ever refused an order from Daichi. The Bulldog watches with raised eyebrows, the question evident on his face.

“I am in love with her.”

The bark that erupts from Daichi’s throat echoes above the rain, above the thunder, and shatters inside Tanaka’s heart. He holds the cigarette to his lips, and Tanaka feels the rain drip down the rivulets of his shaved hair and under the collar of his suit and shirt. There’s a flicker of orange as the Marlboro tip glows.

“And you think she loves you back? Valentina is a snake, a woman. They know only two things: how to lie and how to fuck. You have fucked her, da? It’s magnificent. Was she the second whore of that weekend? Or was she first as well? How long have you been fucking my wife, Ryunoslav?”

Tanaka wants to answer, but it catches in his throat. His tongue refuses to mould the shapes, his lungs refuse to exhale the sound. Daichi sighs.

“It does not matter. Only one thing matters. Come.”

Tanaka walks towards Daichi, each step kicking water down his shoes, his socks wet. He’s never felt more like the ocean than now, swallowed by the rain, drowning. He stops when he stands under the partition, Daichi’s large hands cupping themselves under Tanaka’s chin to lift his head slightly, wiping the rain from his skin, the gold rings cold against his jaw. There may have been tears but Tanaka can’t tell, numb and expectant of Daichi’s next words,

“Tell me, do you love her more than me?”

Cigarette smoke tickles Tanaka’s nose, and he holds his breath. Without him, Tanaka would be dead. Daichi knows this, Tanaka knows this.

“I owe you my life, Pakhan.”

“Now, you owe me a life. I am not without mercy. You have been the closest brother to me. You have tasted the sweet fruit of sin, I can not blame you. You know I have done it too. But I am expected to sleep with someone else. She has embarrassed me. I can not have that. A Boss that can not keep his woman in line? No one will respect me, her own father will not respect me.”

Tanaka remembers the conversation in the banya, the plans to take over completely, the poor health Valentina’s old man is in.

“Are you loyal, or are you just another predatel, scum like the men you erase from existence?”

The storm in Tanaka’s eyes swirl around, clashing against the hard forest floor of Daichi’s. He is loyal. Strangely, in this moment, he remembers the lilies of his home, and their sweet, comforting fragrance, his mother making dinner, and his sister who ran with him to their new life before separating. The pain of losing her no longer stabs at him, maybe this pain someday will not either.

13. Valentina

The room is white and grey, the smell of oil and rubber and metal and salt clinging to the air, to your skin. All the alcohol consumed over the evening seeps from your pores, creating a pounding in your head. You begin to wonder if it was ever a good idea to tell Daichi. You wonder what happened when you left, and you wonder where your necklace is. Your fingers brush over your sternum, feeling the ghost of the viper head and of Tanaka’s mouth.

You taptaptap your toes against the floor, the rain echoing in time, the water drawing in and out rhythmically as you wait for the storm to pass. Only a few minutes, you were told.

“Few minutes, my ass.”

The walkie-talkie connected to the captain’s hip shocks to life, and broken Russian floats up, but you can’t make out the words. He answers, smiles at you, “please, wait here. I will be back soon.”

Then, he leaves, and you’re left alone with the brat that accompanied you. He sighs heavily, as though the inconvenience to him is all your doing, and you glare.

“Is there a problem, soldier?” you ask, standing straight, arms crossed in front of your chest. They seem to forget, Daichi married into your family, not the other way around.

“Nyet, Gadyuka, prosti,” he apologises quickly.

Silence settles over the hull again, claustrophobia leaching into your veins. If you look out at the open hatch, you can see inky blackness, and far in the distance, the faint yellow lights of Monte Carlo. You are about to ask for some water when footsteps echo against the metal walls, a familiar gait.

“Leave us, pazolvste.”

Ryunoslav says to his subordinate, who swiftly salutes him and walks up the stairs. The door at the top clicks shut. You’re speechless, and he is sopping wet.

“Ryu,” you whisper, walking towards him and draping your arms around his shoulders, uncaring at the feeling of water pressing into the fabric of your dress, dripping between the open gap of your breasts. He’s stiff when you touch him, but soon melts, nose nuzzling into your neck and breathing deeply. He still smells like crisp apple and fresh seawater.

“Why are you here?”

“Daichi knows.”

You’ve never felt colder, warmer, like a fever and frostbite all at once. You feel him rustle against your bodies, and you let go to watch him pull the Bulgari necklace out, lifting your hand to place it in your palm. Your fingers close around the jewels automatically.

“I told him I love you.”

There are no words that come to your mind in that instant. Emotions, many. Relief, nausea, stillness and rage, love for the man in front of you. You ache to feel his warm, corded muscles against your skin. He looks pained, eyes tormented as he looks into your soul.

“How did he react?”

“Not well.”

“And?”

He gives no space for continuation, pulling you tightly against his body, arms snaking around your waist as his lips fall against your mouth. His skin is cool, wet, pressing to your heated cheeks, but his mouth is inviting. There is passion unlike what you’ve experienced before. It tastes like freedom, like a new day and endless night. It’s the smoke on the fire, and the salt of the sea. He’s crying, you realise, and you open your mouth to lick up a tear on the corner of his mouth.

The necklace slips from your fingers when you grab him, pushing the jacket of his suit from his shoulders to drop to the already wet floor. There’s a faint crunch, but neither one of you pull away to look at the crushed jewel beneath your heel. It’s just so right to kiss him. In this moment, the world falls away and it’s just the two of you. His taste fills you with a feeling that rivals being whole, satiated. Something hard pokes against your hip, and you smile into the kiss, lips moving to his jaw to suck on an earlobe.

But you freeze. Daichi is at the top of the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Ryunoslav whispers.

You frown, his words not registering and when you pull back to ask what is happening, he ensnares another kiss from you, tears flowing freely, something hard, cold, now presses against your temple and–

.

.

.

End.

-----

Thank you for reading, truly. This fic honestly has so much of my heart and soul in it. I had so much fun writing it. I hope you’re not too mad about the ending lmao.

@dee-madwriter , @pleasantanathema​​​ , @lookslikeleese​​​ , @linestrider​​​ , @hisoknen​​​ , @mindninjax​​​ , @whats-her-quirk​​​ , @messwriting​

[catxsnow]

Hi, could you please write number 26 of the Halloween prompt list for Tim? I love the way you write him 💙🥺

26."Im cold" "I can think of a way to warm you up" 

Anyways this turned to 18+ because the people asked. 

Warning: smut, oral (Female receiving), lots of fluff in the beginning

Tim loved the transition to winter. He loved being able to stay in more and have an excuse to use an abundance of blankets. Hot chocolate and teas became a staple and wool socks were crucial. Most importantly, the cold gave him reason to keep you in bed longer in the mornings and throughout the day.

He didn't however, love when the furnace within his apartment was broken. Gotham was a cold city and without the warmth of the furnace, he was constantly left frozen. Space heaters were spread out in his home but it never quite seemed to be enough. Even with layers of clothes and far too many blankets than necessary, he was still frozen to the bone.

It was only supposed to be a day or two until it was fixed, but the loss of heat seemed to make the hours pass far slower. At night, the only reason he hadn't froze to death was because of you cuddled into him.  Getting close to him as possible and absorbing each other's heat. It was surefire way to keep somewhat warm on that frosty day.

The next morning seemed to be worse. Whatever remnant heat linger was completely gone. From the moment that he opened his eyes he knew that getting out of those blankets would me instant cold. It made him draw you closer, accidentally waking you in the process. The tip of his nose had been tinted red from the cold.

"Gotta get that furnace fixed," you mumbled, still half asleep. The wave of frozen air hit you when you woke. You tucked yourself into the crook of Tim's neck to warm up. It didn't seem to help. He shivered, not from the cold, but from your sudden feathery light kisses against his neck. "Not getting out of bed until it is."

"Fine by me," Tim kissed the top of your head and snaked his arms around you. His touch was warm as he rested his hands just under the hem of your shirt. "The more time I get to spend with you the better."

"In a bit of a sappy mood this morning, huh?" You poked your head out from the crook of his neck to meet his baby blue's. Tim leaned forward to kiss you, pressing you further into his chest - if that was even possible. With you, he was always in a romantic mood. Always trying to please you and make you happy.

"Love you, Timmy," You reluctantly pulled away from his kiss. The cold hit you as you snaked your hand out of the blanket to comb your fingers through his bed head. He hummed in content as you massaged along his scalp, easing the headache that always seemed to be there when he woke up.

Tim's eyes fluttered shut and he melted into your touch. He shuffled so he was lowering the blankets, making it easier for you to reach further up his head - a subtle way of saying he wanted more. Just as he moved, so did his hand. It no longer rested on the small of your back, but had slid down your pajamas and rested on the curve of your butt.

The headache that he once had disappeared and only the pleasure of your fingers working along the back of his head remained. Tim nearly moaned as you added an extra ounce of pressure just in the right spot. Instead, the grip he had on you tightened.

"Feel good?" You chuckled at his reactions. Tim nodded against you. "If it wasn't so damn cold I'd offer you a full body massage. Too bad, I guess," you teased.  Tim groaned in disappointment - but he couldn't blame you for not wanting to expose your self to the freezing temperature of his apartment.

He whined once more as you retracted your hand and slid it back beneath the blanket. Already he missed your touch. Tim could feel the coldness on your skin and the goosebumps that laced you. It couldn't have been much above freezing in there.

"Fuck, I'm cold," You complained.

"I can think of a way to warm you up," Tim grinned. He pulled you in for another kiss, this time filled with an eagerness that couldn't compare to the others. You found yourself quickly trapped beneath him, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Without missing a beat, Tim grinded his hips against yours.

Already you could feel the stiffness through his pajamas. He was so dire for your touch that a single motion had gotten him hard. Tim groaned as you arched your body to meet his. His lips trailed down your neck as his free hand explored up your shirt. Just as always, his touch lit a fire in paths, a huge contrast to the cold that once covered them.

His head slipped beneath your blankets and he wasted no time to peel away your pants. He kissed up your thighs, taking his time to reach the place you suddenly needed him most. His kisses turned to nips and sucks, eager to see the small bruises that would be left there. Marks left by him that only he was allowed to see.

Tim grinned as you tugged on his hair, pulling him closer your needy core. He obliged, dragging his tongue between your folds and moaning at how damp you were for him already. Tim hooked his arms around each of your legs, holding your down so you couldn't move your hips. Your sounds were muffled by the layers of blankets but he knew enough by the way you squirmed.

His tongue dived into your sopping pussy. If it wasn't for his hold on you, you would have been practically thrashing at his movements. Tim had learned every inch of you in your time together, knowing exactly what made you scream his name, and only his name.

"Fuck!" You moaned, wishing you could see him better. It was easy to imagine him - hunger filled eyes, your juices dripping down his chin. He loved you taste, and he would do anything to have it again and again. "Timmy, ugh - oh fuck. So - so good."

You tried so hard to pull out of his grasp but he was far too strong. Tim finally freed you - not because he wanted you free - but he needed his hands to please you more. His flattened tongue dragged up your slit one final time before swirling around your clit. He brought it between his teeth, making you cry out in pleasure.

He sucked against the sensitive nub while dragging a digit through your wetness. The pleasure of it was too much for you not to arch your back off the bed. He pushed against your pelvic bone to bring you back down.

"Tim, you - oh fuck don't stop please. I need more," you begged. He pushed his soaked finger into you, curling it up to hit just the right spot within you. He added another while continuing his sucking. Teeth grazing, tongue pressing, everything combined was just so perfect - he was perfect.

"So close, Tim!" You encouraged. He hummed against you, which had caused you to pulsate around him. With a grin, he did it again, please by the results that he was getting. "Fuck, please keep doing that, please, Tim." Your spasms continued until there were no intervals between and you were moaning out Tim's name.

You kept you pressed down against the bed as you rode out your orgasm, continuing his motions until your convulsions around his fingers seized. He could hear your heavy breathing, the grip on his hair loosening.  Tim lapped up the remaining of your juices, pleased by the jolt of sensitivity that you had.

He kissed up your body until peaking his head above the covers. The warmth that he had gotten was intense to the cold room. Residual moisture resided on his face until wiping it away with inside of his shirt. He kissed your lips as you were still trying to compose yourself.

"Warmed up?" Tim teased. You nodded your head. A line of sweat beaded your forehead and you no longer felt the coldness of the room. You rolled on top of him, kissing him once more. His hands rested on your hips, gladly accepting your delicate touch. "Breakfast? Shower? What do you want to do?"

"I wanna warm you up, baby."

[fandom-puff]

Muggle Contraption

Pairing: Newt Scamander x reader Requested by: anon Prompts: A8 (with toys), A14 (face sitting), from smut list Summary: Newt finds an intriguing muggle device while looking for some plasters... AN: The original request had like 5 of the smut prompts in it, so I’ve ended up splitting it between a few different imagines :) also this is my first time writing for Newt Scamander, so I hope it’s okay!!  Warnings: Toys, face-sitting, smut.

“They’ve got to be here somewhere,” newt mused aloud, searching through the drawers, careful not to drip blood on anything. One of his creatures had given him a little nip. He wasn’t angry with Roger, not in the slightest- poor little thing must be in terrible pain with that swollen ankle of his. He’d have to have a proper look at it tomorrow once he’d bribed him out of his little hollow with plenty of leaves...

Still, having run out of his own bandages, newt was looking through your makeup drawers- he’d seen you using cotton wool pads to remove your eye makeup a few times. they would do the trick. 

Aha! He found the cotton pads and picked them up, fumbling with his hand for a moment. He was about to put them back when he noticed something shiny in the draw. odd. You kept your lipsticks in the drawer above. He shrugged, picking up the item and getting ready to put it in the right drawer when he stopped. It was smooth metal, much too heavy, and a little too long and thick to be a lipstick. had you gotten a new one? he smiled, twisting the top. He hoped it was a new red one... you always looked so lovely with red lipsticks...

It was not a red lipstick. The little metal cylinder started buzzing angrily at him and he almost dropped it in surprise. “Finate,” he mumbled, but the buzzing didn’t cease. It was a muggle contraption then. He fiddled around with the top again, frowning as it only seemed to buzz harder, before twisting it the other way. He let out a sigh as it stopped, and he quickly set it back where he found it. he would have to ask you about this when you got back.

“How was your day?” you asked as you finished your dinner, moving to wash the dishes. 

“Alright,” newt replied. “Roger got a little nippy though,”

“Poor dear. Is his ankle still sore?” you hummed, setting the scrubbing brush to do its job by magic as you dried your hands and went to see newt. You picked up his hand and inspected it. 

“I used some of your cotton pads,” he said softly, looking up at you shyly as you kissed the little mark on his hand. It was healing over nicely. 

“That’s alright. They have something in them that stops them from irritating my face. Must’ve cleaned the bite mark up,” you mused, kissing his cheek. 

“YN... did you know your new lipstick buzzes?” he blurted and you looked up, blushing deeply. 

“New lipst-oh...” you whispered, shutting your eyes. 

“Is that magical too? Because I don’t think you need anything to enhance your lips, YN... they’re beautiful,” he said bashfully, trying to get you to look at him. 

“It’s not... It’s not lipstick, love,” you mumbled, shifting in your seat. “It’s... it’s a vibrator,” 

It was quiet for a second before newt asked “What’s it meant to do? Vibrate, obviously, but what for?” 

you blushed even more, burying your face in your hands. “For... to... it’s a toy, Newt,” he looked more confused than ever. “A sex toy. Wizard’s don’t really have them, there’s spells and stuff but, I... I like the muggle version,” 

Newt’s mouth formed a little ‘O’ shape. “could you... could you show me, YN?” he asked quietly, as red as you, possibly even redder. You shifted on the spot for a second before nodding, leading him to the bedroom. 

You drew the curtains and switched on the lamps, before retrieving the toy from its place. You turned to see Newt standing on the spot. “Lay on the bed, darling, next to me,” you said gently. “You can take your clothes off if you want. I’m taking mine off. It’s comfier that way, but I don’t mind if you-” 

“YN, relax,” he said gently. “Come here beautiful, lets get you out of that dress,” you blushed, flinging the toy on the bed and letting Newt slowly undress you. You clambered into bed next to him, pleased that he was shimmying out of his trousers and shirt. 

You nibbled your lip as you turned the toy on its lowest setting. “Okay...” you murmured, calming your nerves as you laid back, relaxing into the pillows, as you trailed the toy up your thighs, teasing them open, before running it up to your tummy and breasts. You repeated this motion several times, biting your lip and letting out little sighs as the vibrations ran through your skin. You turned it up to medium, paying close attention to your nipples, circling the buzzing tip around the peaking buds. You let out a soft moan, arching your back slightly, and Newt swallowed a groan

“M-May I?” he asked, and you looked over at him with needy eyes, pupils dark as you nodded. You handed him the toy and he smiled, kissing your temple and turning onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “You’re so beautiful, YN,” he whispered, copying your earlier actions on your nipples, ducking down to lick gently when the toy was on the other. You moaned quietly, spreading your legs, feet together. 

“newt,” you moaned quietly, stroking your fingers through his hair. “please... please use it on my... my...” you couldn't finish your sentence, because newt smiled and obeyed your every wish, holding the vibrating cylinder to you aching clit. You whimpered softly, tipping your head back. Newt hummed softly, reaching to kiss you, still holding the toy on you, but pressing just that little bit harder. You panted and wriggled, tangling your hands in his hair and-

You were coming. He swallowed your moans, kissing you gently, and soon eased off the pressure on your clit. You still jolted and spasmed, crying out softly. He chuckled gently, setting the toy aside and tugging you into his chest. “I imagine it must feel very... pleasant,” he said after a moment. 

“Would you like to try?” you asked, your voice soft and small, but already filled with longing despite your earlier release. 

He looked at you with wide eyes for a moment, before nodding. you pushed him gently onto his back and slipped his underwear down his thighs, tossing it aside. “YN... darling, I want... I want...” 

“Want what, darling,” you asked gently, knowing he often blushed and bumbled over his dirtiest requests. “Can’t give you what you want if I don’t know what it is,” he nodded and took a breath. 

“I’d like you to... to ride my mouth, while you do... it,” he babbled. “Please,” he added on the end, and your heart melted. you nodded, allowing him to hoist your thighs up either side of face, bending you in a sort of 69 position.

 “Ready?” you asked quietly, and he nodded, his tentative tongue already flickering over your sensitive pussy. You groaned quietly, switching the toy on and swirling it gently over his inner thighs, pleased to see his muscles twitch slightly. When you let it trace over the underside of his balls, right where they joined to his perineum, he let out a high groan, which vibrated against your entrance as he probed it with his tongue. You grinned slightly, trailing it up between his balls, letting it rest on the underside of his shaft for a moment, letting him feel the vibration as he swirled his tongue around your clit. You were both already throbbing, but neither of you were quite done yet.Swallowing back a whimper, you switched up the setting, letting him feel the hard buzzing on the head of his cock. 

That seemed to set something alight in him. He gripped your thighs hard, sucking your clit harder than he ever had before as you pressed the very tip of the toy to the head on his cock, teasing the slit slightly. 

“YN,” he moaned lowly against you, thighs quivering uncontrollably. 

“Let go, baby,” you moaned, sitting up and riding his face properly still holding the vibe to his cock, albeit a little clumsy now. He let out a cry against your soaked heat as he came, his come splattering your hands as he bucked his hips desperately. You whined out louder, as you came, clenching on his tongue. Tigether, you rode out your highs, quivering, shaky and panting as you flopped next to him, cleaning the toy and bedsheets, licking his come from your fingers as he wiped his mouth. You vanished the toy back to its drawer and nuzzled into his side. 

“That was... wow,” you murmured, hooking your leg over his as he drew the covers over you. He held you close, kissing your head gently. 

“You’re so very beautiful, YN,” he mumbled, already exhausted from the intense orgasm you had gotten out of him. You smiled and kissed him gently. As you settled down to sleep, you couldn’t help but imagine his face if you told him there were toys designed specifically for penises and prostates...

Tag List: @obsessedwithrandomthings​ @haphazardhufflepuff​ @diksy1112​ @zodiyack​ @axriel​ @hiddensapphic​ @samnblack​ @tinylumpiaa​ @in-slytherin-we-trust​ @thatoneasrastan​ @emmaloo21​

[hoodoo12]

Elegy (4/6)

These two’ll be the death of me, @clairjohnson . . . Home again, home again, jiggity jig, even if that home is a tomb. Despite drunkenness, something unexpected occurs.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

@turtlepated @thewolfisapartofmysoul @beejiesbitch @janitor-boy @angelicspaceprince @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice `

If she hadn’t been so focused on keeping him upright his words would have knocked her down. Maria had heard this man flirt a hundred times over, but nothing ever so flattering and eloquent. The most beautiful. Her stomach twisted at the compliment. Both unbelievably flattered and heartbroken all at once. Had he always thought this? Or had he really just gone overboard with the drinks tonight? 

She was about to respond, to express how completely touched she was by his words, when he started to talk again. Beej’s announcement of their arrival, and subsequent stumble, snapped her out of her thoughts. When had they gotten here? She hadn’t even realized they’d gone through a door. 

Didn’t matter. The Netherworld was a strange place, Betelgeuse was strange, it was easier just to accept things as they were. What was harder to accept, however, was his home. It was practically barren, save for a bed, table, and wooden chair. The only light in the room came from a few scattered candles that revealed debris strewn across his old wooden floor.

It looked like a crypt. It might be a crypt. 

“This is where you stay?” she asked, unable to hide the shock in her voice. Her place was hardly a palace, but it was clean. Bright. She couldn’t imagine ever spending a night here. Let alone however many hundreds of years he’d been dead. The mere concept made her chest tighten in pity. 

“Let’s get you over to the bed . . .”

"Gives me incentive to get top side," he muttered half under his breath at her blurted question. "Who cares anyway? I close my eyes and it's gone. I don't see it. No one else does either." 

She hadn't taken her arm from around his waist. With her continued assistance, he shuffled over towards his bed. The distance wasn't far, but as if to help bolster the fact his place was more fleabag hotel than the Ritz-Carlton, his foot caught a stack of Handbooks for the Recently Deceased--how did those get there? It couldn't be that he'd stolen them from recently deceased in order to con them--

--and he stumbled. The four walls around them did a looping dance. Automatically his grip over her shoulders tightened even as his other hand went for the rusty iron foot rail on his bed. He managed to remain upright, but had jerked her along with him. 

As he recaught his balance, the room settled back into place. 

She'd been close while walking with him, but there'd still been a detachment. He'd managed to scatter that with his ham-fisted, foolish misstep; Maria had been pulled right to him. 

With a jerky, unnatural movement, he lifted his arm off her. 

"Sorry," he apologized.

Top side. She and others, including Juno, had wondered for decades how he’d manage to find ways to the world of the living. There were rules. Passes you needed to apply for - but he, in normal Betelgeuse fashion, skirted by it all. 

She was about to snap back at his flippant comment when he tripped over what appeared to be a pile of handbooks. Maria reminded herself to inquire on those later. Thankfully Beej caught himself on the bed, saving them both from falling face first on the wood floor. In his effort to stay balanced the arm around her shoulder moved forward, effectively pulling her into his chest. One arm still wrapped around his waist, the other now flat on his chest, she peered up at him with embarrassment. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was sturdy, and she felt unusually small pressed against him. 

When he detached himself with a slurred apology Maria took in a shaky breath she didn’t need then helped him sit down on the bed. God, he looked so disheveled - more so than usual. His eyes were heavy, shoulders slumped, and his tie was loosened and askew around his neck. 

Without waiting for permission Maria slipped the loose tie up and over his head and hung it gently on the foot rail. Turning back she hesitated, just for a second, before helping him slip his jacket off. She ran her hands over his shoulders and under the jacket, sliding it down his arms. The beauty queen reached around him, leaning in close, and retrieved the jacket and reunited it with his tie. 

“From what I can see of your bed I doubt you take these off when you sleep.” She crouched down and angled his large black boots for him to see. “However, I can’t bring myself to see you place these nasty things on the mattress.”

Some quick finger work on the laces and a few short tugs had both boots off. She placed them neatly at the foot of his bed. Maria brushed some questionable dirt off her hands and returned to the older man, giving him a satisfied once over. Gently, she pressed on his shoulder for him to lay down. 

“Get some rest, Alborotador. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around again soon.”

He felt loose, like his joints had been separated. Maria's gentle guidance around the end of his bed to the side and helping him sit was appreciated, but that was nothing compared to her carefully removing his tie. At some point it'd become loosened, or even in his inebriated state he'd have slapped her hands away. Nobody touched his neck, that was a rule. But she was quick and efficient and the fabric never touched his skin. That would've been enough, but then, but then-- 

She assisted him out of his jacket. Any other time he'd have made some off-color comment or pushed the flirting so hard it would have bordered on desperate. But muddled by the booze and still feeling the deep ache of rejection from those people in goddamned Connecticut, just to have her be attentive, just to have her hands peel him out of his outerwear-- 

A small sigh slipped past his lips. If she heard it, she ignored it.  

Then she didn't leave well enough alone; she actually crouched in front of him in her cocktail dress and heels--everything about her was in stark contrast to the rat's nest he lived in, and he included himself in that melancholy assessment; he should have never brought her here--and worked the laces of his boots loose and pulled them off his feet.

The care and concern pained him. The simple act of touch took him apart. 

When she took his shoulder he almost moaned. Like a man dying of thirst in a desert, he wanted nothing more than to drink in that simple friendly touch. 

It took all his will power to not grab her hand. Not for anything inappropriate, but just to keep it there, so he could soak it in. Instead, he sat dumb and dull as she straightened her skirt and bid him farewell. 

"Why does everyone keep leaving me?" he whispered. There had been a time very recently he'd bellowed that, but here, all he could expend the effort on was something closer to a whimper.

Maria had started to make her way out of the room when he spoke, the sound of his broken voice pulling at her more than the words themselves. Not that the words didn't catch her attention, and in many ways, hurt her. He was drunk, she reminded herself, and sad. She could stay with him a little longer - just until he was unconscious, she already crossed a line by being here, and basically sprinted past said line when she helped him undress. 

"I'm not leaving you," Maria corrected while she walked back over to the bed. "I was just going home. I have no illusions that you won't be darkening my waiting room doorstep again soon." 

Gently, she sat down on the bed beside him, her leg brushing up against his own. 

"Now lay down. Go on." She pushed at him again, moving out of the way for him to lift his legs up. The beauty queen stayed seated beside him, her torso twisted slightly to look down at him while she spoke. 

"If anyone left, it was you, Beej." The words were soft and sad, and she reached out absently to adjust a crease in his white(ish) button up. "Got yourself in so much trouble that Juno had to fire you - and then you were gone. Disappeared like smoke for years, only to show back up in the waiting room looking pissed." 

Maria had been so relieved, and so unbelievably angry to see him after all that time. It was that absence, that complete cut from communication, that had brought her back to calling him Mr. Betelgeuse - a title she already found herself skipping again in favor of his nickname.

Maria appeared at his side again, and blearily he looked up at her. Her nudge wasn't rough but he was so unsteady it was almost enough to topple him. He managed to not just fall back like a drunk--haha--but only just barely. 

Her words came to him as if through cotton wool. Disorganized thoughts moved lazily inside his head; it was so much easier to be angry than this drunken, dazed state he was in. The fact that the beauty queen had even given him the time of day was almost too much to take and much too much to even try and puzzle out. 

In the reaches of his memory he did recall how upset she'd been to see him again, and her cool reception to him ever since the final incident that sent him packing--that he'd designed for at least the chance for freedom. Tonight was the first time in all the times he'd reappear she'd ever done anything more than nod politely and exchange chilly words. 

As she sat primly, lightly beside him, the bed frame buckled. It didn't startle him, he was more than used to it, but he could imagine the surprise on her face as the mattress sagged her closer to him. Her delicate attention to his shirt made him catch her hand. 

"Come here," he croaked out, before clearing his throat, giving her a half-hearted pull. "I gotta tell you something."

The unexpected dipping of the mattress when he laid back surprised her, and she ended up with her back pressed against his side. Maria might have just fallen on top of him, if he hadn’t grabbed the hand that had been adjusting his shirt. 

Deep brown eyes assessed him curiously at the request. He was quite capable of saying whatever it was he needed to say from where she sat now - but the pull of sympathy was still strong. Without a word Maria leaned down to him, her free hand bracing her body on the mattress next to his. Being this close, even closer than when she was helping him walk home, she could pick up the smell of moss and wet dirt that clung to his clothes and skin. There was also the faintest smell of roses - so subtle that she could have second guessed if it was there at all.

She did as requested, and leaned over him. A stray lock of hair escaped from its careful pinning, and tickled his cheek. Maybe if things between them had been different, maybe if he hadn't fucked everything over in that spectacular way that was apparently his specialty, he'd have permission to brush it back. To lift it and settle it behind her ear. A minor but intimate gesture. 

But he didn't. He let her hair stay where it was, because it was also nice to feel it on his skin. 

Now that he had her there, he was at a loss for words. Lots of things flitted through his head: "You deserve better than me." "I missed you." "Wanna go see Saturn? I know a safe place--" 

In the end, he frowned a little as he focused on her features. She was so close everything was blurred; he didn't think it was because of the alcohol. Why in the ever-loving hell did she put up with him? 

"Thank you," he whispered.

There was a long silence while his eyes searched her face. Maria could tell he was considering something - and the fact that it was taking him this much time started to worry her. Why? She wasn’t sure. 

At this distance she was able to get a good look at his face. It was round and scruffy, and strangely complimented by his Roman nose. Even in his current, sullen state his lips still had an upturned curl to them. She’d always liked his lips.

 Her attention was taken away from his face when he spoke, and she smiled at him in response. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Blame it on the alcohol, on their proximity, on the raw vulnerability he’d shown her - but without having time to process her actions, her face closed the distance with his. The kiss was soft, and her lips barely pressed against his own. 

It took only a few seconds for what she had done to register, and when it sunk in, she pulled back. Not all the way, but enough to give him a dazed, almost apologetic look. She hadn’t planned to do that, would have sworn up and down that she would never be kissing Betelgeuse right up until the moment she did. Maria started to sit up a little more and opened her mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say.

The brush of her lips against his was a shock that wasn't dulled by alcohol. 

His hand automatically went up to touch her, to slip to her jaw to keep her close, but the split second that it took for him to try she pulled back again. But the motion was in place; although he missed keeping her where she was, his fingers touched the junction of neck and shoulder. 

There was nothing more important in his existence than tasting her lipstick again. 

Eyes wide, his tongue swiping his bottom lip in a move he didn't give conscious thought to, Beetlejuice breathed out, "Mi hermosa emperatriz Maria . . ." 

With a little additional pressure from his hand he encouraged her back towards him as he surged up to her.

tbc . . .

[carboniteprincess]

Cat and mouse | Boba Fett/F! Reader | 1.8k words

Warnings: Explicit, minors dni please❤️

Crossposted on Ao3

Tags: Dominant Boba Fett, Semi-Public Sex, Rough Sex, Creampie, Sexual Roleplay, sort of? you want boba to chase you like a bounty

Description: When Boba finally agrees to fulfil your fantasy of hunting you after months of pestering, you find yourself on a backwater planet desperately attempting to avoid his grasp. What will he do when he catches you?

You knew you didn't stand a chance, when you proposed the idea he almost laughed in your face. How outrageous that you would willingly ask him to hunt you when many would ask for anything but. However, the idea of playing cat and mouse was far too delicious to ignore. He agreed, only to please you, always only to please you. 

You got two days' head start, allowed anywhere within the outer rim. Once those 48 hours were over, Boba was going to find you. The very thought of him tracking you, chasing you like one of his bounties sent a shockwave down your legs, pooling at the center. This was so very wrong, and yet, the excitement that bubbled in your stomach said otherwise. All you had to do was hide, that was the only rule. 

When the timer went off, you flinched. You wondered how long you could keep it up, hiding on some backwater planet before he makes chase. Two days apart had left you desperate and pining, part of you almost wanted to give yourself in. But this was what you wanted, and you know he secretly liked the idea. The thrill of the chase was often Boba's favorite part of bounty hunting, and knowing that his prize would be you, made it even better. 

And so here you sat hood up, in a random Cantina. You ate and drank little, not staying in one place for long. You knew better than that, you'll be happy if you avoid him for 12 hours, or perhaps a day. You had just about finished your drink when you heard the familiar sound of the Slave 1. He was here… already? How? That bastard must of been waiting for time to pass, sitting around in the atmosphere. You didn't have time to stop and think, throwing credits onto the table and bolting out the backdoor. 

You ran through the alleyway, seeing no sight or sign of him. This was of no reassurance, you knew he was watching. Waiting for the right time to strike, a perfect predator. The rain pelted against the dirt, this was the worst time he could've found you, as your boots sunk into the mud and left convenient tracks like a trail of treats, leading to his dinner. 

You needed to get off the mud, lose him in a crowd, you sprint towards a marketplace. Perfect, permacrete, and a large crowd huddling for shelter. You pinch a new cloak off a stand, sliding the vendor extra and dumping your previous onto the ground. Keeping your head down, playing the role of a simple window shopper. Maker, your heart is racing. This was exactly what you imagined and more. 

You hear beskar against the permacrete, freezing, you keep your head down. You know he's barely a foot away, praying silently that your disguise worked. As the footsteps grow distant, you allow a breath you didn't know you were holding to fall. A small smile playing on your face. Perhaps he was going easy on you, or maybe, just maybe, it worked. That was too close. 

You head in the opposite direction, pushing your way back through the crowd, as darkness falls. Hopefully, you could catch a ride off-planet, or at least find a hiding spot suitable to spend the night in. Your cloak is soaked, the wool weighing heavy on your shoulders. With great trepidation you poke your head around the corner of another alleyway, it seems clear. There's no one around, but you're vulnerable and it's putting images of all the things he's going to do to you when he catches you. It's making you so complacent, that you yelp as a hand grips your forearm, pushing you against the wall and bringing your face to face with Boba Fett. 

"Got you." His voice is like velvet, and you're already trembling with anticipation. You stare up at his visor, your eyes darkened with lust. "An easy mistake, little one. You didn't check the roof." His head tilts, taunting you. You swear you heard a tut escape his lips, distorted by his helmet. Dammit. "I guess I have little choice but to surrender…" You muttered, bowing your head in defeat. Two gloved fingers come under your chin, guiding your head back up to meet his gaze. 

A chuckle, but not a pleasant one, escapes him. Deep, dark, and wanting. "Surrender? I like the sound of that." Boba's grip on your chin tightens, his words rolling off his tongu. How easy you were, giving yourself to him with little complaint. You almost whined, feeling his knee separate your shaking legs. "Well— I will go back to the ship willingly—" You stammered, as he lets out another low chuckle. "The ship? Oh no, little one. I think I'll claim my prize right here." That was it, your hips rolled against his knee by their own accord, all inhibitions are gone. You wanted him, no, needed him now. 

Head rolling back against the wall as he dug his knee deeper, your cunt throbbing onto the cool beskar."Look how desperate you are, riding my knee in public. Making me chase you…" Boba trails off, palming himself through his pants. "I am desperate." You had no shame anymore, moaning your words as you grow needier for friction. "I think you'd let me eat your cunt right here, wouldn't you, princess?" Maker, just the sound of it makes you squirm, his chest roughly pressing into yours. "Please." You whine, uncaring about how wanton you probably sound. 

Boba takes no time pulling your pants down, one leg hoisted up and onto his shoulder as he falls to his knees. You hear the hiss of hydraulics and a thud on the ground below. Helmet now gone, Boba wastes no time, his tongue teas in your slit. Your thighs shake on contact, hearing Boba murmur about you tasting "sweeter than Corellian wine." 

By the time he begins to suck on your clit, you feel already far gone. He was right, you were needy, and you definitely would let him eat your cunt right here. Boba's large hands move to your hips, steadying you against the sandstone as you try to buck wildly into his mouth. His knees dirtied from the ground below, you feel one hand leave your hip, a gloved hand gathering your slick as he hums in approval. Stars, he was good with his tongue. 

When a finger enters you, rough and textured, you practically purr in delight. The small circles he tracing against your clit quickened as he feels you clench around his fingers, lapping up everything you were offering him. You stared down at his face, buried between your legs, framed by moonlight with dark eyes boring holes into your own. "Fuck— Boba.." The words do not appear, burying themselves as your throat lets out a strained whimper. 

Another finger enters with ease, you were dripping, the sight of him with your leg on his shoulders, the course leather teasing the spot that only he could ever find. In seconds you were gushing against his fingers, saliva escaping your mouth as he relentlessly worked your clit. Your vision faded, ears ringing as Boba pulled your high out for as long as possible until tears pricked the corners of your eyes, oversensitivity making you jump at the subtlest touch. His ministrations lessened, just holding you there at the hip as you fell back to earth. 

You looked down to see him, fucking smirking at you, licking his gloved fingers clean. His face glistened as the heat rises to your cheeks, the sudden embarrassment of acting in such a way where anyone could walk by and see you with your legs spread for the most wanted man in the galaxy, and the worst part was you worshiped it. You loved what he did to you, how he could work your body to bend to his will. 

Boba got off his knees, pulling you into a kiss, you tasted yourself on his tongue, groaning open-mouthed as you felt his hands return to your hips. He broke the kiss while he harshly turned you, your cheek now against the wall. You felt him rut into you as if asking you silently for permission. You granted it, meeting his movements with your own, feeling how hard he was through several layers of clothing.

"Please, maker, please!" Your request was more urgent than intended. Boba's hand reaches your hair, brushing away from the tendrils of sweat clinging to the nape of your neck. "Patience." He replies through gritted teeth. He's struggling too, you hear a clank, his armor. He rests his head on your shoulder, heated breath against your neck, chapped lips peppering kisses across your jugular. You practically cry in relief when you feel his cock, gathering your wetness before slowly, torturously pushing into you. 

Two days apart has left you both insatiable, an audible grunt of relief escapes Boba's lips. Your cunt bracing around him like a vice, you didn't know how much you needed him until this moment, oversensitive, face against the wall. He pulls out as you mumble something intelligible, the emptiness feeling as if it would last forever. He enters you fully this time, with such force you bounce against the wall. You take it all freely, delighting in how thick he is. "Such a greedy little thing. Begging me to chase you, begging me to fuck you." His voice low and raw, his hand now tugging your hair. The other finds your clit, swollen and sore. 

"You can give me another, I know it. Feel that? How tight you are around my cock? Let go, little one. I know you want to." He whispers like it's a prayer, lulling you into another orgasm. He tenses inside you, chasing his release. Fuck, he's so tempting. You meet each thrust eagerly, his fingers never leaving your clit."I— can't! I—" Tears began to fall down your face, subdued by sensitivity, you grip the wall for strength. 

You feel like a ton of bricks crumbled on you, crying out. Your eyes rolling back, mouth open, and back arched. The only word you knew was his name, nothing else in the galaxy mattered, the only thing that did was him making you come undone on his cock. Every muscle against you twitched, Boba's body was now taut. His lips caressed your neck, biting down with a shaky breath as he twitches inside your cunt. 

He kisses the spot where he bit you, his hand cradling the back of your head, brushing your hair tenderly. You feel a rush of cold air when he pulls out, a stark difference to before. Warmth seeps down your thighs, both panting and basking in the moonlight of afterglow. Finally, you separate yourself from the sandstone, taking all your might to stay standing. He covers you, pulling your pants up for you, whispering about how you'll need a trip to the refresher. 

Boba's lips graze your forehead before he places his helmet on, hiding from you once more. "Come on, princess. Let's go home." His arm slides under your knees, holding you firmly bridal, bundling you up in your cloak as he carries you back to his ship. You lie tired and spent against his chest, your heart swelling with devotion as you doze off in his arms. 

[vaguely-concerned]

The Mandalorian Chapter 11; the rewatch edition

I have found a bit more enthusiasm for this one on the rewatch, so here goes!

- din snapping ‘I’m trying my best here!’ in a vaguely annoyed tone as his entire ship is going up in flames around him because he mostly doesn’t get angry as much as sulky... the height of cinema 

- I love frog husband’s clothes, because they’re in a very similar style and colour scheme to frog lady’s but also incorporate the knitwear we see on the people of trask, so it both underlines his belonging with her and implies that he’s been on this moon for quite a while, they may have been apart for some time  

especially his scarf is a darling detail and there’s a bit of contrast in texture to it next to his wife’s, it’s nice. he’s wearing a similar kind of vest to what we see on the fishermen later, too 

- I think my favourite part of this entire episode (well second after din cradling the baby against him after nearly drowning) is just the design and Vibe of the planet and especially this harbour

for one I LOVE that it’s shown that even in the middle of the day it’s dark enough that the electric lights are still on when it’s overcast (it reminds me a bit of norway during the winter, actually, when dawn just never quite breaks and then slinks off in embarrassment before it’s even noon). and there’s also the... sails? nets? hanging around looking almost like flags, which are very Aesthetic but god knows what they’re for. maybe for drying fish on in the summer? 

I think the building in the distance behind frog husband’s back here is a lighthouse? or it could be one of those towers for loading you see when they scout out the empire ship too, I suppose!

and one for my strange obsession with Texture on this show: these fabric-covered crates!!! they look exactly as dingy and moldy as you’d expect them to be in this climate, I wonder what they’re for (& I vaguely want to touch them) 

- from the sound of it din’s vibroknife is uh ‘on’ when he pokes the squid thing, and he also goes for the tentacle the furthest away from the baby <3

proof the calamari flan have been scratched up a bit during all that time in din’s pockets! (the attention to detail in this show sometimes istg) 

- this is 100% me reading too much into things again, call the overthinking police I’ll do my time meekly lol, but the boat looks a little bit like the mudhorn signet from this angle: 

again din keeps his hand on or sooo close to his blaster in this entire scene, he knows this is sketch as all hell 

a) once again I want to praise the effects team for how GOOD the aliens look in this episode holy shit and b) the hell is this dude wearing on the straps of his overalls tho 

- the dude mando (axe woves) uses his little... wrist launcher thing to shoot with to finish two off the fishermen, so my theory that they can be loaded with other things than the whistling birds for slightly less effective use (maybe without the level of honing we’ve seen din’s be able to do?) is looking good!

- din actually has quite good form when diving into the water, I’m guessing he can swim at least tolerably when not in full armour, being stabbed at from all directions, having just had his son eaten by a sea monster and also being trapped in with said sea monster (I’m a strong swimmer and I can tell you that there’s a reason they make you swim with clothes on from time to time to see how hard it is, it sucks. with metal plates strapped all over you as well? yeah good luck) people don’t tend to hit the water that gracefully without some kind of training in my experience lol. might be some of the training with the jet pack has carried over too, considering he throws himself off that cliff in chapter 12 with similar confidence?

it’s interesting that they’re once again showing us a threat where the armour doesn’t help and even hinders him. we’re so used to the ways it can make him near-invincible, but it can also drag him down (literally, in this case. aha ha ha. well if I’m not here for my own entertainment then what am I here for honestly)

- din’s voice sounding like he’s just on the verge of crying as he cradles the baby (and the sound he makes as he realizes the baby’s alive) is my kryptonite, turns out. fucking breaks my heart into tiny pieces every time, I would die for this man and he wouldn’t let me

- in support of din’s paranoia: so far this season we haven’t been able to go five minutes without someone talking about peeling the precious beskar off a mandalorian corpse, I can see why his mind was primed to move in one particular way there

- I think the fabric of din’s cape has been treated with something that makes it waterproof; the water seems to pearl on top of it rather than soak in! can you imagine how heavy it would get if it did absorb water tho christ

(a bit hard to see at this size but that’s what it looked like to me close up anyway! could also be that it’s wool and that’s why it looks that way but I prefer an elaborate sci-fi explanation here, because it doesn’t look particularly weighed down afterwards) might also explain why he doesn’t seem worried about it catching on fire when he uses the jetpack haha, maybe this is something the mandos do with fabric they’re going to use for a long time 

I also enjoy part of the gambeson/undersuit thing poking up from under the shoulder pauldron and cape; I think this is about as disheveled as we’ve seen him since immediately post-mudhorn 

- the sound mixing in this scene, where din’s breathing is layered a bit over everything else so you almost feel like you’re in the helmet with him listening to what the others are saying........ oh my GOD, it embeds you so deeply in his POV but so subtly 

- not to be biased or anything... but din and the armorer’s armour design is so vastly superior to these guys it shouldn’t even be a competition lol 

din looks like an honest to god knight in shining armour except also sci-fi western and the armorer looks like a fucking war goddess from a time beyond memory; the clone wars mandos look like high end cosplayers (eh maybe it’s just my dislike for the boobplates that has me so 😒 lol. also a lot of dudes were very shitty about that whole thing and I don’t say anything but the ‘vaguely-concerned will remember this’ telltale message pops up in the corner every time) 

moment of saltiness over: I do like the differentiation between their individual character designs 

the differences in body type and helmet design is nice! they look like a unified team, but with individuality. I suspect the ladies have those belts and their armour plates on the hips instead of the front of the thighs to emphasize the ‘female’ silhouette, which. okay fine whatever

- bo katan looks very pointedly down at the baby after saying ‘a group of religious zealots who want to return to the ancient ways’ which makes me VERY nervous for reasons I can’t quite articulate

- the mournful guitar version of the mando theme as din watches the sunset...... hmmmmngh (this might be some Symbolism happening to us folks strap in for the identity crisis he still hasn’t processed) 

- I Cannot get over din being so unimpressed by and uninterested in bo katan’s ‘retake mandalore’ sales pitch from literally the first moment dfhasdkjfhsad sorry lady kryze this man just does not do main quest shit, he’s all side quests all the time and that’s why I love him  

- as someone who after chapter 8 wrote a whole-ass fic that was wholly & exclusively about din telling the baby he’ll always come back for him... some of the shit he’s been saying this season does feel like it’s been written to mercilessly victimize me, personally and specifically 

- guessing this structure in the background is the traffic control tower! doesn’t really matter, I just thought it was neat

- this part of the soundtrack is called ‘ship o hoj, mandalorians!’, which I found incredibly charming haha (it’s ‘ship ahoy’ except how you write it in swedish, good one herr göranson)  

- bo katan is vague about who exactly the new mand’alor would be if they took back mandalore to begin with, she doesn’t specify she is planning to be the ruler until she’s already got din on the ship and in no position to refuse to help. gotta respect the grift at least lol  

I do love her voice, though, it reminds me a bit of jennifer hale as shepard

- “I need to get back to my ship, with the foundling” your honor I uh love him so fucking much 

- frog lady stroking the baby’s back a bit as she holds her hand behind him to make sure he doesn’t fall backwards while playing with the tadpole ;___________;

and also frog husband and frog lady reaching out to hold hands and frog smooching as din and yodito leave ;____________________________________________;

- when din says the exasperated “mon calamari. unbelievable” line, the baby makes that little blowing a raspberry sound he does as if to agree ‘uh-huh unbelu -- unbelly -- unbelievable dad smh’ and it is very very adorable 

- there’s quite a bit of Stuff in the concept art that didn’t make it in this time around; I wonder if maybe they cut some stuff for pacing or whatever and that’s why this episode is so short? water leaking into the cockpit of the razor crest, something that looked a bit like whaling going on on the docks and more spaceships taking off (maybe there were originally meant to be some smaller ships defending the big empire one?), there’s quite a bit here  

[alexaplaysgames]

Can you Hear me, When I cry Myself to Sleep?

Fandom: Andromeda Six

Pairing: none

Warnings: non-graphic descriptions of human experimentation.

Description: June and Jules, and a laboratory childhood.

Notes: apparently I hit my drama bone when writing this one! Also this is a quite a bit more vengeful than I imagine June to be. But I do it for the angst.

I wrote this a long time ago and kinda hate it but we’re gonna post it anyway.

Taglist: @amlovelies @writersgonefishing @oatssss @kimberrrrr @femmeshep @serana-spring

“June?”

The small, frail voice resonates through the endless dark.

“June?”

“Go to sleep, Julian. They don’t like it when we don’t sleep.”

“Why?” Jules asks, and June can imagine his face, wide-eyed curiosity on features exactly like his own.

So juvenile. So sickly pale. A puzzle, one that would be achingly beautiful if it weren’t missing too many pieces.

June doubts that his twin is truly unaware of the answer to his own question, but he’s learned that this is a way of dealing with the things he cannot comprehend. To ask questions as a way to evade answers. Keep turning and turning to avoid running headfirst into the truth.

“I don’t know,” comes June’s response, dismissive. He rolls onto his side, pulling his blanket over his head. “Stop talking. They’ll hear.”

Silence. June shivers under the single, wool blanket. The labs are always freezing. The cold air bites at his bandages, amplifying the ache that has settled in his bones.

“Do you think we’re going to die?”

The question makes ice of June’s abused veins, freezing solid the little blood that hasn’t been extracted, mixed, tested, or analyzed.

“I don’t know.”

Words that taste familiar on his tongue. This time it’s not a lie; he has no clue whether their parents plan to kill them here. But he suspects. He suspects, based on the whispers he overhears when they think he’s unconscious. He suspects, based on how Jules’ skin looks paler every day, peeling from his thin form like pastry crumbs. He suspects, and he hopes he’s wrong, that Jules is going to die.

He’s only nine years old, and he’s struck by the realization that he’s going to be all alone. June always thought he had nothing to lose. As it turns out, he was wrong.

Jules speaks again. “But mom and dad wouldn’t do that to us... right? They wouldn’t...”

Would they? If they did, would he feel hurt? Could he mourn a life he never had? Miss a family he’s never known? June often wonders if this is simply how life works. This is, and always has been, his one and only reality.

“June. June, I’m scared,” Jules whispers, voice quivering like it does when his lower lip trembles.

Me too, he wants to say, I’ve always been scared.

There are no white coats to silence him this time, no gloved hands to shove another pill down his throat and tell him to shut up.

Before June can open his mouth to reply, or tell him to be quiet again, the white coats are there, pumping tranquillizers into their veins.

I told you they would hear, he thinks feebly.

Why do you never listen?

The white coats used to scare him. They look like people, but their faces are empty. He used to call them puppets, and wondered who pulled their strings. But June rarely feels scared anymore. He just feels hollow.

He understands the white coats now.

June tries to ignore the way Jules screams and thrashes and takes it, silently, jaw clenched and eyelids growing heavy with the weight of the drug.

When he wakes, the white coats are there to take him again. He bites back a retort when they bind his wrists and call him Subject A-645 instead of Juniper.

He doesn’t want to outweigh his usefulness with disobedience, after all. It didn’t take him long to learn you only live as long as they need you. Bleeding and beaten is better than ending up a nameless corpse, mourned by no one and forgotten by everyone.

Besides, he doesn’t have a name, not really. Juniper is just the product of a sad little boy trying to find happiness where there was none.

When it’s all over, when they’ve drained him dry of blood, sweat, and tears, he’s tossed back into the room like an empty can. Used and fragile and crushed.

His skin itches, scratched raw, and his stomach twists with the knowledge that each time, it leaves him feeling a little less weak. Each time, afterwards, for just a moment, his body thrums with something. He knows that he doesn’t like it, whatever it is. He hates what they’ve done to him. But it’s not like he’s ever had a choice.

And he knows that it’s not killing him like it’s killing Jules.

It’s making him stronger.

It’s terrifying, to consider the way it’s changing him, so June pushes the thoughts from his mind. The first thing he notices is that Jules is gone. The sheets on his bed have been hastily removed.

June’s mind swims with thoughts, explanations, questions, but mostly just frantic repetitions of no, no, no, no. Because he can’t think straight. Because he’s scared, because, because-

Because he’s still a child. Or he should be. Should have been. But he’s only ever been an experiment, as disposable as a plastic cup and as faceless as a mannequin.

“Where’s my brother?” he screams at the wall, the one he knows hides the white coats behind their one-way glass. Sitting with their coffee cups and their notes, perched on thrones sewn of bones and skin, he imagines. Unaffected by the misery and fear, pouring out from between cracks long sealed shut, that roll off of him in waves.

“Where’s my brother?” He repeats, softer, kneeling next to the bed, tears staining Jules’ mattress and mixing with the blood that soaked the fabric long ago.

That’s when he sees it. The bracelet, lying in the partial shadow of the bed frame on the cold, white stone floor.

Jules’ bracelet.

“Now we are connected,” Jules had whispered, eyes wide and his expression prideful as he gazed upon the matching bands of leather.

“Whatever happens, we’ll never, ever be apart.”

With trembling fingers, from rage or fear or sadness, he doesn’t know, June picks up the bracelet and ties it around his own wrist, pairing it with his own.

It is then that he decides it was rage, after all.

One day. One day I’ll use what they’ve made me to make them pay for what they’ve done.

And through his tears, his eyes glow a brilliant green.