#carrot idli

[suchananewsblog]

Weight Loss: 5 Quick And Easy Idli Recipes To Add To Your Diet

Idli is an all-time favourite breakfast option. This South Indian delight is often paired with piping hot sambar and coconut chutney. Steamed, light and easy to digest, idli is a favourite among fitness and health enthusiasts too. They are low in calories, rich in fibre and may also help in managing cholesterol levels, which makes them one of the healthiest Indian dishes. Not just this, having…

[maretriarch]

all of my hard work will pay off when someone drops the keys to america down a sewer grate and they need someone exceptionally svelte to slide in-between the bars and grab it and save this goddamn country

[morethansalad]

Handvo / Traditional Gujarati Fluffy Savoury Spiced Rice and Lentil Cake (Vegan)

[hebbarskitchen]

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Tomato Pickle Recipe - Instant Thakkali Thokku

[onaunconference]

Healthy Carrot Idli

[capslocked]

DIPLOMACY

male reader x kim minju

7k words

For those not paying attention - of which there seems to be an increasing number - it’s not that she doesn’t have the pedigree. But just shy of getting into that storied history or into the nitty-gritty of her curriculum vitae, the only thing that really matters is:

"This all seems a little beneath me." 

It’s another day of this. Of you, of her, of trying to gather the mien of someone who isn’t utterly disarmed by Minju’s usual, beautiful, challenging self. Which, let’s be honest, is always an uphill battle.

Minju nearly pouts, flipping through a copy of the dossier idly from the other side of the desk in a gesture that reads both bored and dismissive and every little thing it needs to annoy you.

"Look," you offer up, graciously diplomatic all things considered, "it's about finding the right springboard, to something else more… substantial."

"Or to something else, you know, beneath me." Her red lips turn down ever so slightly. She doesn't seem so interested in playing ball on this one. And, for you, amounts to something of a huge problem.

See, Minju doesn't quite understand how the working world really, actually works. That the carrot that's dangled in front of her is your carrot just as much as it is hers - that you stand to lose out just as badly. That it's both of your asses on the line if things fall apart and Minju's shortsighted insistence to only work those certain roles befitting a name like hers puts that all at risk.

"Maybe you can tell me something,” you start, coming across more curt than you possibly intended - but not by much, “how many of your former cohorts have had their career aspirations line up with reality, Miss Kim?"

“I’m picky, not naive,” she sighs, not missing a beat, and you watch her dark hair cascade gently down her shoulder when she reaches a hand back to unfix her loose ponytail from its hair clip.

“You might see how I can get the two confused.”

“Then spare me the lecture,” says Minju.

Though she says nothing else, an unspoken you already get paid too much for that hangs in the air.

The tricky part is that no matter what else Minju does, her contract has some non-negotiable clauses to them that no talent has before, or will likely get afterwards. Things that cannot be broken. Like the requirement of her making x number of media appearances, and she gets to approve all of them.

Or that her agent's take home comes from a fixed fifteen percent of her gross earnings, with further incentives when her roles hit specific milestones. But with her refusing projects like the ones in the dossier before you, it leaves you in the unenviable position of losing out on your guaranteed fixed income or trying to convince your diva talent to do what it is she ought to be doing.

The truth is that there’s quite a long list of things no one has had the guts to say ‘no’ to yet.

And, well, it's rather simple and obvious when you look at her:

Minju is that particular blend of A-lister gorgeous. The special look that’s all kinds of mesmerizing and magnetizing, in full bloom - that makes you feel like you're suffocating in beauty. Like if she said come here, you would go; the type where a single look is all it takes and then - just like that - she's got your number forever.

Because everything about her is tailored - from her clothes to her perfect porcelain features. And they made her that way for a purpose: to sell records. (Which, that's exactly what they did.) You can hardly blame the people in power over there, wanting what's best, in a position where everyone would kill for a taste, or even just a glimmer of possibility.

"I don't suppose the part of the governor’s neglected wife is capturing your imagination.” You push the dossier closer, and she doesn’t so much as look at it. “It’s this year’s big budget political thriller, a shoo-in for awards.”

“You mean the one who ends up in a lot of very steamy shots on the apartment’s rooftop pool. Maybe I’m mistaken, but you can’t really unshow your tits.”

"This isn't about being above, Miss Kim, it's about being well regarded; it’s about proving you’re easy to work with,” you argue. “We could-"

"Find a better use of my time?" she cuts in, closing the dossier shut. There's a long moment in which she's looking you over, her gaze sizing up every little inch.

"Your big break won't happen just because you ask for it." You grimace a bit, hating to tell it like it is, but not really wanting to just coddle her either. "But listen - we work together, one project at a time - we can build up to it."

Minju crosses her arms with a loud hmph. "And what are you going to do if I decide not to accept these projects?"

There’s enough edge in her voice that it gives you pause.

"If," she says again pointedly, a teasing little grin tugging at her lips.

So - actually, another thing: when you start digging into the details, there’s more problems than just what can be seen at the surface. Which perhaps it’s too reductive, but essentially everything between you and the talent sitting on the other side of your desk is not quite so straightforward. It was never about Minju doing the best she could for either of your careers; it was about Minju making sure her needs were taken care of, no matter what.

Months ago, thanks in part to the way Minju filled out this tiny black excuse of a cocktail dress, and as a compromise of sorts, there’s an uncharacteristic mistake you ended up making. Or two or maybe a couple.

Because there’d been the perfect backdrop - an end of year party, beautiful dresses and suits, lots and lots of champagne, the kind of jovial mood that inspired one drink too many - and then you and her, taking off down one of the hallways, towards the exit.

Of course, you ended up exactly where neither of you should have ever been - where the snow was falling gracefully and melting into the pavement, behind a private accessway at the back of the venue, somewhere dark and dingy and dripping with a smell reminiscent of garbage; somewhere your hands had gripped firm fistfuls of Minju’s waist before you shoved her up against the back of the building. 

In short:

You remember how she gasped when her palms hit the brickwork, how you figured you may as well give her everything she wants.

(So what, it was one time, you hear yourself explaining, mildly repentant, and to say that it’s complicated the matter is a massive fucking understatement.)

In the interest of full disclosure, you tell her, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

"That maybe," she hums, tongue flicking out over her lips before she purses them thoughtfully. "You should persuade me a little better."

"And let’s suppose, I don’t do any of that," you persist.

"It'd be a shame, wouldn't it, having such a promising future cut short so early? If word got out. From such a respectable agency too, of all places. Couldn't live with yourself," Minju remarks, leaning forward on her elbows until her eyes are level with your own. “Come to think of it, it’s the kind of thing that could totally, like, end your career.”

But as she sits there, arching that perfect brow again, you don't feel so good about the whole thing. You take another look at her - which, your mistakes start there, if nowhere else - at the girl that is somehow not the airheaded starlet she’s supposed to be. No, she’s calculating. A rarity, though you do know the type: here’s a girl who just happened to take her brains for granted in the years she was pampered by the industry - the same one that fattened on her only to later spit her out. And that thought, the look of cold intellect in her eyes and the slight upward curl at the corner of her mouth, has you frozen just a bit stiff.

She takes a key card from her clutch, and throws it onto the desk in front of you.

“Minju,” you caution, and there’s a taste of danger on each syllable of her name - more of a warning for yourself than you can conceive of it ever being for her.

"I'm only suggesting" - she’s watching you nearly fucking choke, amused - "what's best."

And when the lines get muddied between the two of you, that's exactly the issue. What's best. As though this was always Minju's aim. Maybe you've read it wrong, maybe you've gotten too lost in your own delusions, maybe - maybe, it doesn’t matter -

"For work," she adds, at which point her knee bumps yours playfully beneath the desk, leaving the suggestion open, and the implication unmistakable. "Whatever's required."

Here, you should definitely tell Minju no. Say no. Say: you're a professional, and getting involved with her, romantically, officially, personally - whatever - would lead to nothing but disaster. That’d be the responsible thing probably. It’d be generous to say you end up getting even halfway there:

"There's rules against this, you know."

Minju tips her head. “Why ever would there be rules in place against doing your job?”

She thinks that if she feigns being clueless, you'll bite, which -

“Against me folding you over this desk and fucking you until your forget your name.”

"My apologies," she practically coos, knowing that she’s not only made progress, but that she’s wrapping you around her finger. She is a bright girl after all. “You might see how I can get the two confused.”

At that, you figure, the only real move, to be perfectly blunt, is to play Minju at her own game -

To convince her to bend, just a little. To persuade her. So you lean closer, you start to promise, with your face just next to hers:

"You want me to show you how I might handle an uncooperative talent? Would that do it for you, huh?"

And now if that isn’t enough to earn you a whole look, one that’s equally a challenge and a triumph; you watch as she bites the inside of her cheek, not that she can help the smirk creeping across her pretty mouth, a grin full of want and need and all those dangerous, thrilling thoughts that're probably too predictable given your unique sliver of history you’ve already carved out.

She arches that perfect brow of hers once more, toying with the corner of her lip between her teeth. 

You navigate around your desk to hand her your pen, with instructions that are perfectly clear: "then for once in your life, be useful, and sign on the fucking dotted line."

And her whole act falls apart just like that.

She’s humming almost pleasantly to herself as you settle in flush behind her, sinking into you just a little when your hand arrives at her waist, another carding through her hair. “Here,” you point out, watching her name materialize in ink on the document - pressing your lips to the nape of her neck each time she finishes penning out an exaggerated curl of a u.

“And here.”

“And here.”

“And here."

She signs again - and again - and that merits a reward; she’s good when she wants to be. Persuasive when she needs to be.

You can hear her murmur your name when your mouth slips just beneath her jaw, when you mark your next path across the bare skin of her shoulder and when she gets started on the last page of the documents, it happens just like this -

The pen drops from her fingers at some point, tumbling onto the desktop with a clack that might as well be a round leaving the chamber of a starting pistol. The office door isn't even locked and you have half a mind to check on the blinds, but the idea of some desperate executive running face first into this scene - where you’re smoothing your hands down the fabric of Minju’s top, down the rise of her jeans, fiddling slowly with the button at her waist - it holds an unfortunate sort of appeal; those blinds, they're mostly closed anyway. And at this hour of the afternoon, well - maybe it’s a little more clear why Minju asked to reschedule this meeting in the first place.

At first, it’s just a  few of your fingers dipping under the waistband of her pants, following the curve of her hip, her thigh, then inward, and when you reach down to find her already burning up in anticipation, she inhales sharp, a noise that makes you groan in turn, low, right into the hollow behind her ear. Minju, to her credit, is absolutely willing, so very helpful and - as you pinch the soft, tender skin at her hip, she's saying something but you haven't quite paid it a moment's mind.

Her head turns, eyes looking up at you ever-so-slightly-more-vulnerable than their usual mischief and calculation, and there’s a hint of a demand dancing on her tongue, ready and waiting; she moves her leg upwards just a few inches, settling to rest her knee on top of the tabletop, a calculated little pose, angling her hips so you can sink your hand lower, closer, press your fingers into the lace over her hot cunt even deeper.

Here you figure you're probably ruining the fabric, drenching it in her own slick as you work two, then three fingertips in tight circles. You’ll ruin it, and you’ll ruin more - ruin everything and take what you're owed. As her breath hitches again, in some way that makes your senses come to life: you can feel her skin become taut and tense, gooseflesh rising when your hand untangles from her hair and slides up under her shirt, can hear the steady rush of blood in your ears, her pulse quickening, the heart in her chest beating rapid -

(She can pretend all she wants that this was an attempt at extortion. She can pretend she’s not an easy read; that she doesn’t like being easy for you, when she’s hot and whimpering and aching so wet, creaming on your fingers when you haven’t even gotten her pants off.)

- as if every part of her wasn't made for this, as you lay out your first real proposal:

“Do you remember what I asked you? The first time, right after you signed on, when you were so good for me up against the bricks in the alley?”

Minju chokes out an affirmative when you toy with her pussy where she’s craving the shape of anything, but, boy, are the rough pads of your fingers more than up to the task.

"I remember you almost couldn't answer, you didn't dare want to admit that it's what you needed - isn't that right?"

She moans with a voice thick as honey when a couple more fingers brush up against her wet lips and fuck, she does look breathtakingly good; she's exquisite, she's irresistible - the image of a living wet dream.

"Say it, baby," you croon, her voice beginning to melt a bit at the edges, her own heat burning her resolve up from the bottom up as you tug sharply at a string on her lace.

Minju sighs. Arches into your touch.

Because you’re settling into this torturous pattern, where you draw inwards, closer, so close to the little bundle of nerves, her cunt flexing and rippling hungrily when your fingers flick once or twice around it, only for her to wince just slightly as your fingers trace down towards her entrance to start all over again -

Minju steels herself, drawing in a heavy breath past her teeth. “You asked how rough you could be.”

There's something so painfully wicked, how her voice falters there - but then your own voice is rasping right back in a similar caliber of depravity.

“Hm. That’s pretty close to how I remember it.” After all, you are always taking care of Minju - her concerns, her contracts, her needs. So if she was interested, why the fuck would you hold back on providing exactly what she wants. “But help me out, what did you tell me?”

Another twist - another catch. Another push - another pull. She's going to break so sweetly if you're patient - and, ahh, patience - she's shuddering underneath your touch, squirming against you so nicely that you've already gotten away with a bit too much, this much, these fingers and you and Minju's breathy gasps.

"M-that you could be. That you could-" she stutters, all as you feel her folds start to swell, then quiver, as your thumb drags painfully over her clit again - 

And in that moment Minju starts to consider if this were a good idea or not, but her back is already arching against your chest. She's gripping your arm to get you right where she wants you, and the reality of this hits her - a rush of cold clarity through her head just as everything else threatens to spiral into something else, something frantic, something hot and animal and making the muscles at her core begin to clench up.

But you just ease out of her completely, a whine coming out from the back of Minju's throat - her thighs parting further in desperation.

And oh, the disappointment, the sound, it’s incredible - a high pitch - almost a sob -

You slide your other hand in her hair to make sure she's got an earful of your words:

"What was it you said, hm?" you whisper, nipping at the skin on her neck, the side of her jaw - she's shuddering with it when your mouth lingers so close -

“As rough as you fucking want.”

God, the little things that her voice does to you. “Exactly, sweetheart.”

And how's that boundary supposed to hold up and remain uncrossed then, really, if you just give her whatever the fuck she asks for - especially if you have your mouth working it's way around her pulse-point, toying with her as she starts to tense and soften all at once.

In fact, Minju can only stutter out an okay or two as you grind forward, the hard suggestion of your cock nestling up against her rear, just shy of the perfect spot between her legs, and even with still a few layers of clothes between you, the feeling - fuck, the friction, the sight - it’s enough to get you grinning.

Enough to form this near-half-coherent thought: that it’s what's always had you on edge with this girl. She is absolutely every bit your type. Everything about her, right down to the way that she was put together.

All her hard edges and soft curves that should've never really been yours to covet and now, somehow, have become exactly that. Oh, she's the kind of temptation that's better suited for the life of glitz and glamor and the time it requires for indulging in it. You never thought that you would actually ever get here, even as the years have begun to stack up and time starts to grind everything in the back of your head and turn it all over into something like resentment.

If only Minju weren't so good at making you a sucker for those pouty lips and big doe eyes.

Particularly when she's turned around - face to face now - she's the epitome of gorgeous, equal parts aphrodite and adonis; a fucking knockout, her body sculpted and lithe and athletic. Those lines curving out and away like they might tell time, like her thighs could count the minutes and seconds until she's straddling you in your lap with her ankles locked in at the small of your back and you're rutting up into her without reservation, without doubt.

(So what, really, is your goddamned excuse? Your pride? The nature of the beast in you that demands that you must have some degree of control over yourself? The power that your position, here, now, provides? But you can hardly be blamed, even when it's wrong and filthy and so fucking good.)

"You’re stalling." Minju’s leaning back against the desk, tilting her chin up, blinking lazily, and there’s a bit of bite in her voice again.

It takes a minute for it to dawn on you that it must be intentional, trying to get a further rise out of you, the same way your hands have risen up to trace the dips and elevations of her spine, her every vertebra, your fingertips mapping the hollows and rounds of her back. To learn the geography of her shoulders and where, and when, and how to get her breath catching in her lungs, each labored intake of air a little harsher, hastier, hotter than the last.

"You know," you start, spreading your palm across a soft plane of denim, fingers pulling onto the cheek of her ass, dragging her even tighter against you, "I always figured your reputation was a little overdramatized. Most everyone's bound to have a story or two."

She laughs, full of mirth. When the mood strikes, she's the picture of perfection, and she knows it. "Well? Were you disappointed?"

As she coils an arm around your waist to slide your shirt free from the confines of your pants, and as a deft hand slips its way in, you stop asking yourself about right or wrong, good or bad, or about the kisses that land playfully at the corner of your mouth - until you hold her tight and seize her lips, hard, like you mean it - it isn't long before she's fumbling and scrambling with the zipper at your waist. 

"That depends," you’re pulling yourself away long enough to say.

"I think I know the answer." 

And by the way she shivers a little when you shove up the bottom of her top, the way she's melting into your mouth and demanding more and more and more, Minju does. You think she probably has since the first night that your threads got all tangled up. Especially when she slides off her top - her bra - her jeans - leaving them in a pile that lasts barely a second where it started once you sweep everything off of your desk in one broad, efficient gesture -

There's a thud when a pair of binders and a couple of books hit the floor. Someone exclaiming in recognition, the muffled noise drifting through the office door, and, oh, this would probably be the best moment to remember how painfully thin the walls are; you consider whether to walk over and lock the office door, and when Minju’s fingers run up your sides, you decide you won’t.

Too little too late, you figure.

And before you can take a second to give it the more congruent thought it deserves, Minju opens her mouth: "which, in your professional opinion," a hum and a slur as her nails find their way to your collar, "is well, that the thing I should take," she gets out, unbuttoning you at the cuffs, loosening the last of your shirt, "really," her hands palming over the fabric on either side of the lapels, working their way downwards, "how - how do you think this goes?"

“Oh, Minju.” She’s all but begging you to fuck her and still has the wherewithal to be asking for terms.

Like her fingers aren’t completely down your pants, locking around your hard cock - pumping you with soft, lazy strokes - not too different from how you have her chewing on her lip every time your fingers circle over the entrance to her cunt, tenting the last of her lace all slow and careful.

It’s driving her crazy. She just bites into the edge of her thumb in response.

"Fine. Alright. Let me explain it clearly." You dip a finger into her cunt; the whimper is short-lived when she tightens around you and it hits home, the pressure so delicious that she can barely stutter to keep up.

“A negotiation, of sorts-”

“Yeah, sure, we can call it that.”

The mental picture you have of your length outlined against Minju's tiny fist - as she works it into her hand, steady - it's all almost more than you can possibly bear: the way her long legs stretch out so pretty in front of you, the way her wrist twists with each pass and every bump at the veins of her forearm that is such a damn perfect shade of porcelain white in the dim glow of the desk lamp.

This girl with her pert pink mouth and those lips, the ones that aren't quite touching yours but rather smirking the whole time. (If only you were to make her scream loud enough, because you know she could be so much prettier.)

The thought flits through your brain, unbidden and treacherous -

"Think, fuck - think of this, as a one-way track into your career. Think of me, a guiding hand - if you want to. The key to all this," you continue, spacing the words carefully so you don't falter under the pace Minju is picking up, "is that you're going to need to be compliant. Easy."

"Mm. And in exchange?" she bites, choking down an embarrassing moan.

"Here's the basics." And there, there's no fucking reason for you not to dip the tips of your fingers right on downwards, tap into her soft heat until her hips are arching away from the flat of the desk, searching for more. “Whenever you need me to take care of you, I’m there, however you need it: on my fingers, my tongue, my cock - I’ll make you fucking cum over and over.”

"That sounds," she gasps, losing track of the end of her sentence, rolling herself along the pads of your fingers, taking them deeper into her, "very-very-oh fuck-”

Her grip around your cock releases, arms throwing themselves around your shoulders, holding on tight as she starts to trust you implicitly - to give her exactly what she wants, what she needs - and give herself over to you, to your fingers, circling and circling and circling.

“See, tomorrow,” you start, “there’s an audition,” and when you pull your finger out of her cunt, Minju lets out this sound that’s between a whimper and a whine. Her pretty mouth has dropped open, like she's all out of words, lost somewhere, chasing this. Getting dire.

“It’s this teen soap; they need someone young, someone pretty, do you think you can do that for me?”

She doesn’t answer so much as grab and tug and pull you even closer as the heel of your hand pushes and presses over her clit, just about enough force behind it that, eventually, you begin to feel a certain rigidity through her limbs, how the lines of her face and her faultless features grow more and more focused, fixed and concentrated; her voice reduced to the high-pitched huffs and half-formed syllables of pure and utter desperation.

I can, I can - she’s murmuring - please, yes, I will - putting herself right into your capable hands.

When you feel Minju tightening, flexing around nothing, then seizing and shivering, her pussy throbbing hot and wet and clenching around your finger as it again works deeper inside her, an anguished groan finds its way out from her throat.

And from yours, well -

"Show up," you command, giving her another knuckle, curling it just right - watching as her expression contorts and twists up for all her worth. "Make a good impression. Don't make me fucking beg. Show up, Unreserved. Understood?"

And if her body wasn't making her pleas utterly transparent, she's screaming in agreement. It takes you barely a couple seconds, working up inside her cunt until she's all full-body, fully, blissfully spent. She starts to nod, needy, eyes screwing shut.

“And let’s say, something else pops up. A little racy, a little more gravure, just the right amount scandalous, I need you to keep an open mind.”

When it sinks in what you've said, Minju gives this wail, low and perfect - her cunt throbbing over the pulse at your palm - inches away from cumming and shaking and creaming on your hand. You could ask for anything, you think, and she’d give it to you -

“My PR team,” she gasps out, the consonants of her words fraying at the seams, “it’s up to my PR team.”

“Minju,” you say, priming a loaded question and a half. “Do you trust me?”

She nods, expression readable and open like a book. It starts to set in just about then, how you’re going to fucking ruin this girl.

Your breath runs hot, right against her temple, and you whisper the slightest affirmation, “good girl, I’ll take care of it.”

Because to be fair, you’ve not made it this long in your career without learning how to pull a string - how you might pull up on the sensitive skin straddling Minju’s clit and get her reeling; her pussy flutters in the tight, wet heat, muscles clamping, demanding as you work yourself in deeper and then, when the timing's right, pull out to slide a second finger past the slip of lace she has covering her cunt.

She's this tight, dripping, overwhelming fit - even more than you have yet to discover, to tease and then take, the heel of your wrist landing on her clit in a heavy pattern, circles - circles - circles -

- so you figure: fuck the PR team.

If only they knew how well and thorough you were going to fuck the rules right out of Minju.

That you were going to remind her who's the one in the driver’s seat of her life, of her career, that you would make sure she stays in her lane - the proper lane - that this, you think to yourself, might become a recurring sort of negotiation, the kind she's so shockingly eager to accept.

You'd be doing her a favor, fucking a couple good lines into her head, into her skin, into her cunt.

And soon, before long -

She's gritting her teeth around the shape of your name and giving one last heave against the hard wood of the desk underneath her. It's almost beautiful to watch how Minju crumbles into herself; the way she grinds back onto the digits in her cunt. How you’re dragging her underwear down her thigh, pulling your cock into your fist and twisting her leg around your waist until finally, you press yourself right up against the heat radiating from her cunt.

“I’m going to take good care of you, Minju, don’t worry, I’ll fuck this pussy of yours just right. I'm going to make you shake and cum all over me.”

“Please.” Fuck, she looks at you sincerely - no games, no bullshit - pupils so very blown out with want, with need. You watch her adorable mouth uptick into this faint lazy smile as she tilts her head into your collarbone, lips parting slightly to remind you: “as rough as you fucking want-” 

And you sink right in. 

It’s all skin-on-skin as Minju practically collapses in your arms; pushing deep past her soaking entrance - your hips slotting together just so, cock engulfed by her tight heat. Minju fucking wails when you drag back from her cunt, slow - so, so agonizingly slow.

You let her recover just a bit, watching her breathing quicken and shallow.

And the word on her lips becomes something reverent, the most indecent prayer, pleading please, please, please let me have it, please fuck me with your cock- 

You brace yourself, thrusting back in, and she doesn't wince this time, holding fast to you like you aren’t the one fucking her open and taking her apart.

“God, I - look, this perfect little fucking cunt, look at how you’re stretching around me, Minju,” you’re telling her - promising her really - all of which doesn't count for shit when, once, and then again, and a couple more times after that, your hips meet hers and she starts to break just so slightly around you. “I can’t believe - it’s like you were fucking made for my cock, baby, you’re taking me so fucking well.”

"Now, show me why - why the fuck everyone wants you - wants you to be their-" she's trying, in a fashion  all to her credit and her fault. She should probably care more about that raw, unhinged noise you’re making right into the crook of her neck when you bury yourself deeper into her pussy. But in the next moment, with another wild crash of your hips, the tables start to turn.

Slowly at first, and then all at once.

Because the sound you’re ripping from her chest when you start fucking her - truly fucking her - becomes far, far filthier than anything you've ever heard a girl like her make. All of it coaxed out from you working the edge of her pussy open, stretching her, hitting each and every sensitive spot inside her.

Minju tips her head back to stare at the popcorn ceiling and fluorescent lights, brow creasing in the middle, mouth gaping open. You find you might have missed something, when she moves to hold you down, hold you in place with an insistent leg, the back of her heel digging into your ass. As though there were somewhere you might possibly want to go.

It all comes down to something she's murmuring, quietly, harboring this smug lilt like you aren’t fucking her raw and senseless: how maybe the key to unlocking the rest of her potential isn’t all that dissimilar, not as off-brand as you may have been initially worried about. And the notion that both of you might actually be profiting off of this - how it shouldn’t sound as incredible as it does - is doing absolutely fucking nothing to slow the brutal pace you fall into.

"Fuck, just like that," and she's smiling, grinning really, nails biting into your nape - your name and curses and a fuck you or two falling out of her mouth as you pound each short breath right out of her chest. 

"The only talent I'm gonna need to show," she manages, dizzy, and with one arm hooking around your waist, she pulls the two of you close, right up against each other. The sound your skin makes, clapping against hers - her cunt tight, pulsing, quivering around you - "is my, my, my-"

Your thumb should have never left her clit, you realize, pressing down on where your cock is disappearing between her legs, pushing up against that bundle of nerves that can get her screaming. That’s how you’ll punctuate your end of the bargain, how you’ll make her cum and cum and cum -

"-talent for being such a-"

There's something ungovernable in you, something fumbling, as you find yourself drawn to her lips like a magnet - claiming them in a kiss that has you both growling with all the intensity you can muster, groaning as her jaw goes slack, surrendering to the fucking. To this hard, solid snap of your hips, a raw fuck forward that pushes Minju against the edge of the tabletop.

It doesn’t matter what she had wanted to say, though it must be evident how easy she can wind you up, and you do your best not to be too gentle. Pushing into her so rough that her breasts, oh-so-delicate, bounce up and down along her chest, nipples tight and rosy, begging to be tasted and played with.

You’re pressing your mouth on hers hard, fucking her harder - fingers digging into the flesh around her thighs and leaving marks and memories, all these reminders you’ll be sure to come back to.

But the fact is that this is your girl in so many ways: needy and a dream in all her curves, and how her waist rocks back, her body fitting so perfectly against yours - you're hooked on all of it. On her - she is temptation made real, in blood and bone and soft, supple skin, so exquisitely touchable, just like the sound that she makes, high and tittering when your thumb starts to work her clit over; each swirl and figure eight sending a jolt through her nerves and straight back into your own spine. It's difficult - hard to focus, you find - when all her exposed skin has these drops of sweat standing in saltwater relief, how it rolls down the plane of her chest and disappears where her waist flares wide.

Minju turns her cheek, mouthing falling open, and asks with a certain helpless pleading, “yes, can you-”

she sighs,

“right there,”

she hiccups,

“please, again,”

she begs,

“again, harder, i’m so close-”

Not before long, the desk is scraping loudly across the carpet, moving right into the next office over, all from where you have your hand trapping her voice back in her throat, palm over where she’s practically sobbing for you to let her cum. 

From where you’ve got her locked in tight, lifting her up into your arms, into some perverse, unspoken promise to carry her the rest of the way. To do with her whatever you want.

"I'm going to show you," you're gritting out, "exactly how a professional handles their star, the girl at the center of it all, their top draw - and it's so easy, isn't it? This is - fuck, sweetheart - you're nothing more than a - just a desperate little cockslut who's aching to cum, and it's good - oh so, fucking-"

When that next shiver courses down the length of her perfect form, it's entirely because of you, when her legs are still locked and clamped over you like this, as she sputters and babbles, totally cock-addled and barely managing a coherent thought. “Please, sir, please, fuck-”

And then a keening, sounding low, lost.

“Sir. Please, sir, please just - I just wanna-" Her lips are shaping all these words that never quite materialize - because her cunt is slick, the whole of it hotter and softer than anything else in this goddamn room. Maybe anything else in this whole building. Or in the entire world. It makes her whimper and ache, her voice rising and rising, belting out, need it, need it, please let me cum -

Which -

Minju, oh god, Minju cums, and you are fucked sideways to hell and beyond when her whole body convulses, shakes, every single part of her contracting, contracting - all at once - the way her hands claw desperately onto the blades of your shoulders as the room gets taken up with the scent of her; the sounds she's making are fucked and filthy. She starts to become undone as you double your pace, aiming true - thrusting, pounding, nailing Minju right into the finish.

“Minju, sweetheart, I’m going to cum in you,” you tell her, and it’s not even a question, or a concern. You’re dictating, not negotiating when you say it to her again, when you tell her you’re going to fill her perfect pussy so full with your cum, she'll be hung up on it for weeks.

One long, stretched out moan is all it could ever take; a split second, where everything runs blindingly hot, and you bury yourself as deep into her pussy as you possibly can.

Cumming so much, spilling out deep inside - this heavy flood of cum that pools warmly at the back of her cunt and fills every corner of Minju - she whines and sobs and tells you it's too much, please, all this hot and thick white cum pumping right into her -

As you throb into her, she's having a hard time saying anything beyond your name, actually, because if anyone can, if anyone would, if Minju can trust anyone and anything in this world more, it would be you.

Her chest shudders and shudders, and she kisses you in a vain effort to quiet her own body, to quiet yours. She has all this faith she's pouring right down your throat as you rock the last of your orgasm into her twitching heat, spilling and spilling and spilling, not caring about the wetness leaking onto the carpet. Not bothering to mask the obscene slickness, how everything gets completely fucking sopping between the two of you.

When she's practically drooling over you, eyelids growing heavy and fluttering, Minju sags heavily into the bend of your arms. In that shallow heaving and gasping for air that bathes the both of you - blissed the hell out, a lazy tangle of limbs - and without warning she turns to speak into your neck, her breath cooling, like a whisper of a dream:

“Okay, and already… I guess this isn’t entirely-”

“Completely terrible,” you offer after you swallow the dryness in your mouth.

Minju smiles into your shoulder. “And sir, in the spirit of honesty and transparency, I think I - I think I really did want - this - you - the entire thing…”

You stop her there, right in the middle of that particular train wreck. A drop in your voice, and the message is clear, when your mouth works its way to hers.

(No more of her talking like that.

Besides, she looks even better on your lips like this, and fuck, doesn’t Minju taste like you will have to remember, like a little bit like desperation, but only in the way that it has you both completely hopeless, hanging on to every whimper as your cock slides lazily about her well-fucked pussy, a bit deeper, a bit further.)

Like there is something far beyond professionalism guiding the hand with which you hold her hip and let her ass spill through the gaps of your fingers.

It’s all mixed up, how in this exact moment you figure this is a terrible, terrible idea, the worst kind of agreement, this pact - because no one could look at you, could look at either of you and have any doubts in mind now. But you can see it, how you’ll both wear this little agreement like the most beautiful stain in your histories. Even though it might, conceivably, cost one or both of you dearly at some point in time. 

And yet, still.

"Will you - can I - can you..."

She's clinging onto you with all her remaining energy, like she wants to see it through.

But her eyes - the poor thing - her expression is melting into this haze, her face contorted in something like pain and something else entirely: a different kind of satisfied glimmer. It's almost unreadable how that sharp mouth softens at the edges as her cunt gives this small flutter over the head of your cock, as you pump her so full, threatening to overflow.

And in your ear, you catch this little whisper. It says, “please, let me show you,” she's practically purring, “let me, let me - I'm gonna clean you up now, lick my cum right off you.”

It's true. Minju can act and perform and pose and make faces, for a shit ton of people - but she’ll play-act any facade you might ask her to, and she'll do it for you - because, this time around, all you ask her is this:

To be yours.

To be a good girl for you, an obedient little thing, in your private audience, away from the cameras and the lights, away from everyone.

When her knees hit the carpet, she is perfectly between your legs, palms on your hips and fingers splaying out against you.

And when she tries her damnedest like this, no one should bother ever pretending to think differently - least of all, you - and certainly, not while your cock is hardening again in the wet heat of her mouth, under the curl of her tongue, the gentle touches of her fingers -

How can anyone ever bring themselves to tell her that she isn't completely, indisputably the greatest.

(The very, fucking best.

And in every other way: the woman of your dreams. A woman, you realize, you ought to endeavor to keep, in all manners, and forever.

Minju, who could probably do anything, and you, who just might be able to give it to her.)

[utterlyotterlyx]

White Flag

Cassian x Rhys!Sister Reader

Summary - There had never been a moment where you and Cassian had seen eye to eye, despite his attempts to make peace and make a friend of you, it wasn't something that you wanted.

Warnings - angst, swearing, teasing, back and forth banter, mentions of blood

The Day Court had become your home from the moment you had decided that you couldn't bear to be around Cassian any longer. Luckily, Helion was a good friend of yours even if he wasn't overly fond of your brother and his inner circle. and granted you sanctuary before you had even finished asking him the question.

A part of you didn't even know how it had all started, that outlandish flare of dramatic hatred that passed between you whenever you were too close. Maybe he was threatened by your athletic prowess and strength, maybe you despised how often a new female ended up in his bed

Things had come to an abrupt head when you had punched him square in the nose for making a comment about your mood, asking if your cycle was drawing near. Blood gushed from his nostrils and he stuttered back a few steps, cradling the now broken bone and groaning as blood dripped onto the floor.

"Why is he bleeding?" Rhys had enquired after entering the room, sensing the stench of blood through the closed door of his office.

Cassian stood by the sink, bloody rag clasped around the injured affect, "Because he's an idiot," you replied with astounding calmness, feet propped up on the arm of the chair and your fingers flipping idly through the pages of your book.

"I didn't know that idiocy caused people to just start spontaneously bleeding from the nose."

You had hummed, a smirk pulling at your lips when you noticed Cassian's hazel gaze ripping through you, "I think it's a new phenomenon."

Rhys had usually kept out of your spats, like the rest of the inner circle, they knew your sass was not something to play with, it was unfortunate how Cassian skipped over that fact.

Then there were the countless family dinners that were interrupted, and sometimes ruined, by your joint fire.

"You know, Cassian," his ears pricked upward but his eyes narrowed, he'd like to believe that maybe for once you'd say something nice to him, to stop this feud between you, "Remember that one time I said that you were cool?" He nodded, falling victim to another one of your games as the room held a collective breath, Rhys already pinching the bridge of his nose, "I lied."

Cassian growled, slamming his fork down on the table and standing from his seat, the chair skidding along the wood with his brute force, "I can't help imagining how much more awesome the world would be if your dad had just pulled out."

You were smirking, that shit-eating smirk you always wore when you managed to get him to bite, "Please, save your breath, Cassian," you cooed obnoxiously, popping a honey soaked carrot into your mouth, "You'll probably need it to blow up your next date."

Azriel had choked on his wine and you spared him a sidelong glance, convincing yourself that if Cassian's red face turned one shade darker then he'd surely erupt in flames.

Then there were the missions that Rhys had assigned you and Cassian to, he thought forcing you two to work together would put an end to the nonsense that was your tiff. Azriel was the unlucky one who had to accompany you both so that you didn't wind up killing one another.

An ash arrow hurtled past your face, grazing the tip of your pointed ear, you had dodged its full puncture successfully and heaved out a sigh as you took cover behind a nearby tree, "Oh my gosh, did you see that?! I almost just died!"

Cassian had sauntered past you, sword coated in the blood of your enemies, strands of brown hair falling from his bun, and dirt dusting the side of his face, he grinned at you, "Tragic that you didn't."

Azriel audibly groaned, sick of both of you, it had been three full days of trudging around the outskirts of the winter court, he was freezing, Cassian was making his head pound with his constant complaining, and you were certainly catching a cold.

The Shadowsinger had finally had enough when he had heard you and Cassian arguing at the edge of the clearing, the latter had gone to bathe, to wipe away the blood and dirt from his skin, only to turn around and find that his clothes had been plucked from the bank.

"I didn't do it," you told him through laughs as Azriel approached, Cassian was stood in the water up to his impeccable v line, fists clenched and seething through his teeth as his body shivered from the cold.

"Then why are you laughing?!"

You were leaned against the trunk of a tree, clad in your warm clothing that Rhys had insisted you wear, badass or not, you were still his little sister, "Because whoever did it is a freaking genius."

Rhys had had enough of it. Of all of it.

An ultimatum had been delivered to you both, after being pulled into Rhys' office by the scruffs of your necks by Azriel, you had been told that one of you had to move out of the House of Wind permanently. Though, Rhys' plans of keeping you apart had completely backfired when you had stood up and told him that you were leaving the Night Court altogether, the words shaking the room enough that even Cassian felt guilty that your feud had become so severe that you actually wanted to leave your home court.

"And go where?" Rhys had rose, that power pulsating around him like a heartbeat, a drowning effect that made you all feel dizzy as his eyes darkened and jaw clenched.

"The Day Court," you stated like it was already decided, "Helion has offered me a place within his court and I accepted. I leave tonight."

"Over my dead body!" Rhys rumbled, it was deadly enough for even Azriel's shadows to cower behind him whilst Cassian looked at you bewildered.

Ticking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you quipped, "Well, go lay down and die then because I'm not going to be told what to do, especially not by you."

"You are my sister. You are a Princess of the Night Court."

"And I am allowed to make my own decisions regarding my life and future," you looked to Cassian and frowned, your eyes dipped with an emotion he'd never seen in you, "And, right now, my life is not here."

That was how you found yourself within Helion's court, doused in white and gold, with tanned skin from the bright never-ending sun, with your toes dipped in sand and the ocean breeze drifting through your hair.

It had been a year since you had left Velaris, and gods, you missed the City of Starlight so much. The Day Court was wonderful, beautiful in its own incredible way, but it wasn't Velaris, your home.

Helion had found you walking along the sandy shores when you should have been readying yourself for the ball starting in a few hours. Rhys and the entirety of your former family were visiting to celebrate the announcement of Feyre's pregnancy, stopping in every court bar Autumn and Spring to spread the joy, to signal a new age for Prythian after all of the torment they had been subjected to.

"I would have thought you'd be ready by now," Helion noted, watching your cream coloured dress float in the breeze, you held your shoes between your fingers and gazed outward to the ocean.

You hummed, "Part of me isn't looking forward to it," you admitted.

The time you had spent in the Day Court had made you softer, had given you a new perspective. There was much more to love in life than arguing and feuding, and you had spent a little over two weeks trying to figure out why you and Cassian could never seem to get along.

Helion draped an arm over your shoulder, his golden crown shimmering in the sunlight that was usually focused on you, focused on making your skin glitter and smile, "It's been a year since you left, I'm sure they're all looking forward to seeing you."

"Or telling me how much easier their lives have been without me," you laughed sadly, slumping into his side softly as he turned to lead you back up to the palace.

"You're a changed woman now, Y/N. I think that more than anything they'll just be happy to see you thriving."

Fuck.

You were so late. So late that it would be noted as disrespectful no matter how much longer you took. Helion was right, you should have been readying yourself much earlier rather than trailing your toes in the sand.

Helion had gone to great lengths to secure you the most spectacular dress anyone had ever seen. A rich gold garment that snaked tightly around your breasts and curved perfectly over your thighs and ass, no sleeves attached to it, but he had gifted you a set of matching arm cuffs and one for your thigh which was exposed by a high slit, as well as ear cuffs which gave a subtle nod to the Day Courts abilities to hone their gifts of invention.

You were practically running down the halls whilst putting your heels on and clasping your necklace around your neck, taking a sharp left which you knew would lead you to a more secluded entrance where you hoped you could slip in unnoticed.

Sliding through the small opening in the wall, you ducked your way along the length of the room, popping up and smoothing your dress out before reaching for the nearest passing tray of flutes, downing half of the liquid to make it seem like you had been there for longer than you had.

"Very smooth, Y/N," A familiar voice purred with amusement laced in his voice, you turned to find Azriel stood behind you, he looked surprised as he took you in, acknowledging the tanned hue and glow that had possessed your skin, your violet eyes seemed a shade or two lighter than Rhys'.

"Az," you breathed, placing your flute down on the table beside you and throwing yourself into his open arms, you both laughed, and he inhaled your scent, salted summer oceans and velvety rose petals.

Pulling back, you smiled up at him brightly, showing all of your teeth. It was like Day had thrown up on you, though, Azriel couldn't deny that gold most certainly agreed with you. Another force jolted into your side and you lifted your arm to find Mor bundled into your ribs, squeezing you tightly and refusing to let go to the point you had to physically unwind her from you.

"I've missed you so much," her bottom lip wobbled as tears gathered in her eyes, you reached for her, wiping the stray droplets with your thumb.

"You know I'm only like ten minutes away from you, right?"

"Not the point, Y/N," a deep voice drawled, it made you shiver, and before you could even properly move to find the owner, you were already gathered up in his arms, "Hello, little sister."

"Hi, Rhys," your eyes found Feyre stood a few feet away from you, a hand cradling her swelling bump, you moved to her, looking down at that bump, "Congratulations, I'm so happy for you."

Rhys couldn't deny that you seemed different, that you had changed since the night you had left Velaris after your argument, after the ultimatum he had wrongfully forced on you. Feyre had told him that you would be fine, that you deserved to see what life could be outside of Velaris, that you would one day come home to them a different woman than the one who had left.

They all watched as Feyre guided your hands to her stomach and you felt your nephew wriggling around and kicking, "Hey, stop kicking your mama," you had bent down to whisper, "She's been through enough," and the little thing within her halted, settling into a comfortable position and Feyre sighed with relief.

Straightening your posture, you took your flute and took another sip, feeling overwhelmed by all you had missed, "I'll be back in a minute," you told them, Rhys moved to follow after you but Feyre stopped him, she knew how much it must have been for you, she was always the understanding one.

Your usual haven was empty when you had reached it, a white stone balcony at the end of a secluded hallway that looked out onto the lapping waves colliding with the mountain upon which the Day Court Palace lay.

A single tear flowed down your face and you heaved in a breath, trying to control yourself by clutching onto the stone railing. Your hair whipped around your face, and the fire lanterns flickered in the breeze.

"I know that we aren't friends, but if you need me to punch somebody out, you know I can and will," the voice you used to grimace at called to you from a metre or so away.

Spinning on your heels, you saw Cassian before you, illuminated by the moonlight so that you could see his unbound hair and muscular chest that peeked out from his undone shirt, "Thanks, but I'm good," you sniffled softly, grabbing your flute and finishing off the sparkling liquid inside of it before placing it back onto the stone ledge.

Cassian frowned at you, his eyes roamed over your face and figure, smiling in approval at your bright eyes and tan skin, and the masterfully tailored dress and accessories you adorned. There was something soft about you.

"It's good to see you, Cassian. You look happy," the admission tugged sadly at that ball of bliss inside of you, the ball that had been enriched and glowed like starlight.

He approached you, stepping out into the night and understanding why you had blindly led yourself there, he had followed you, noticing how you weren't paying much attention to where you were going and simply allowing your feet to carry you there.

"I could be better," he expressed, taking another step closer to you and finding nothing untoward in your expression, no anger, no distaste, nothing but warmth, "It's weird seeing you not being mad with me."

A gentle laugh pushed through you, it crinkled at the corner of your eyes, "If it means anything, I don't think I was ever really mad at you."

"Yeah?" Cassian coaxed, wanting more of an answer from you.

The lanterns scattered light over the side of your body, the small speck of glitter in your jasmine body oil shimmering softly, "I think I was jealous of you if anything," you had turned away from him and propped your elbows up on the stone platform, staring up at the stars longingly, "You're a true Illyrian and I'm not, not since I lost them," your shoulders rolled, and Cassian saw the faint crescent moon scars ripple at the movement, "I think I saw you as reckless, you were making so many stupid moves that could end up with you being hurt or losing your own wings," you flinched at the thought, "I'm sorry."

"I get it," he told you, mirroring your stance and looking upward at the sky which held nothing on Velaris, "I think I'd be the same if I were in your shoes."

Cassian on some level had always known that you harboured some resentment toward them, for their privilege of not having to worry about having their wings clipped. It had broken them all when it had happened to you, that was the moment you'd turned cold toward him, causing more arguments than anything else.

"This court has changed me, I'm not that person anymore. I hope you know that."

Cassian grabbed your wrist as you moved to walk away, pulling you flush to his chest and tensing as his rough fingers ghosted over your cheek, "I never thought you were that person. I tried to fix it, you know, fix whatever I had done wrong. I was the one who made sure you always had enough strawberries in the house and made Feyre swear to take credit for it. I was the one who made sure your bathroom cabinet was always stocked full of bath oils and healing creams, not Mor. That gift three solstices ago you loved so much, the blanket made from the dresses of Selene and your mother, that was me too, not Az."

"But why? We hate each other?"

"I never hated you, the truth couldn't be more opposite," you could feel his heart beating through the silk of his shirt, through the satin on your dress, he grazed his fingers around the cuffs on your ears, "I love you actually, a lot, and I stupidly thought that if all the words I could get from you were teasing jabs then it would be enough, just to hear your voice."

"You love me?"

Cassian grinned, lowering himself and stopping only millimetres away from your lips, sparks of fire sparking between them, "Always have, Princess," when you didn't move away, he closed that gap between you and allowed the world to explode into a kaleidoscope of colour around your forms, you fisted into his shirts, pulling him closer, and his hands found the small of your back, leaning into you.

Panting, you pulled away, opening your eyes to find his hazel spheres pressing into you, his nose touching your own. You laughed, a laugh that send shivers of joy down his spine, "I can't believe we were in love all this time. I swore I would never become this trope."

Cassian chuckled, a rich a deep thing that made you yearn for him, he kissed you again, with more hunger than you had ever felt, "Who doesn't love a good cliché, my formiddable mate?"

Authors Note

I'm happy now x

[overstuffd]

So, feedee werewolf won, obviously, because you're all a bunch of bottoms (loving).

So here are some more thoughts.

When I find you in the woods you're cold, scared - and hungry.

I bring you back to my cottage, offer you some clothes to replace your soaked rags. They're a few sizes too big but you're grateful.

Slowly, you piece together last night. The transformation - the gorging yourself on chickens from the farmer a few miles over.

I smile and offer you a firm, gentle hand. Don't worry - I'm here to help. You're so relieved you don't notice how deep my nails dig into the flesh of your arm.

First, I want you comfortable. I draw you a warm bath to shake off the night before. The fire is crackling, and the incense I light leaves you feeling dozy and calm.

After your bath there are more soft, large clothes - you wonder who they are for - and a proper meal, you look like you need one, poor thing!

You don't realise how late it's gotten, but I've prepared a King's supper. A roast ham and a whole cold chicken, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, a huge tray of butter roasted potatoes, pumpkin and carrots, glazed in honey. There are soft fried eggs in a dish, and jars of cramy sauces and pickles. You set about making yourself a huge sandwhich, and you're almost done before you realise you didn't wait to be invited to eat.

You blush as you look up at at me, but I wave your concerns away. I set the table for you, enjoy it.

As you eat, I explain your condition, and the words are so distracting you barely notice how many brick sized sandwiches you're gulping down.

You're a werewolf, poor little lamb, I explain. The fellow with the dark eyes you let take you home from the bar a few weeks ago - those bite marks aren't the only thing he left with you.

Your curse is to transform every full moon into a creature controlled purely by desire and animal need - yourself in an unihinited, bestial form, with power to do as you will. I know, it must be scary sweet thing - here, try one of these custard buns.

The good news is, as you've probably guessed, I'm more than just familar with the arcane and supernatural. I'm quite a skilled practitioner of magics, and with your cooperation I can make the next full moon much less dangerous for everyone.

You're so grateful to hear - the memories of the night before that are flashning through your mind scare you, as much as they stir something else, deep at the root of your stomach.

I tell you to eat up and get some sleep, I'll begin your training - your instruction, that is - tomorrow.

-

You wake and breakfast is ready - cooked meats, more eggs and poetatoes, and pastries, fruit - you don't take it all in before you start eating, you're ravenous.

Your hair is longer, you notice as I idly play with it, and is spreading down you neck and across your shoulders. You shovel more eggs, another chocolate stuffed puff-pastry treat, not thinking it at all strange as I work out one of the stress knots in your shoulder.

After breakfast - the third plate of which you eat at my insistence - I start teaching you about herblore.

Your wolf form - I explain - is an extension of your self. Don't think of yourself and them as separate creatures, they are your needs and desires made flesh. The better state you are going into the full moon, the more docile your wolf form.

As I talk, you are distracted by my fingers rolling thumb-fat herbal cigarettes into tight cones. My voice watches ovr you as the repetitive movement makes you feel dozy.

Lavender, or course, and chamomile, for calm and stillness. Mallow root for dreaminess. Oatflower for - making you open to influence. My, postitive influence. Heather for appetite - you're going to need your strength. Mugwort to enhance sensation, to keep you in touch with your body. A few others from my garden - I'm passioante about creating potent cross strains.

I place one of the joints in your mouth and light the tip, flicking away the ash as your hungry mouth starts the cone before your conscious mind has time to realise what's happening. I pull the joint away and take a hit myself, you taking a moment to greedily gasp air, before I press my lips against yours and shotgun the herbal mixture directly into your neuro-cortex.

Your head swims, and your brain short circuits as I place a hand on your thigh. You stuggle to regain your composure, as a bell in the kitchen goes off.

Oh - lunch is ready!

As I sidle off to the kitchen, you realise how warm you feel between your thighs from the contact.

-

Lunch is a shepherds pie, and I make no move to serve a portion, just place the whole dish in front of you with a huge spoon breaking the crisp crust and fragrant steam spilling into the air.

You don't hesitate, you pick up the spoon and start digging in. The food smells delicious, and you're already ravenous despite the huge breakfast. You swallow mouthful after mouthful of rich, savoury food as I explain more to you, slowly and clearly like you've realise you need.

Fullness is important. I explain, gently. I'm across the table but my foot is playing with the inside fo your thigh. The hungrier you are, the more dangerous your wolf is. It's so important that you stay full. I'm going to do my best, okay, but you need to tell me as soon as there's any room in your belly, sweet thing.

You nod happily, barely looking up from you pie.

Good dog, I say, as I ruffle you hair.

-

Dinner comes, pinning you to you chair in the kitchen, and as you eat I explain how important it is that you indulge all your needs now, while you're still a soft, safe human.

You are barely listening, enjoying dragging more of the soft, fresh and heavily buttered bread through more of the delicious, spiced stew. It's one again full of my specially chosen herbs, but you don't need to know that. You've found yourself needing to know less and less all day.

You look a little pent up dear, I say, softly, walking round to your end of the table. No - you keep eating. I know just what to do.

I slide under the table and gently pull down the trousers I leant you. They're loose - for now - and come down easily so I can take you in mouth. I gently suck as you swallow more food.

I don't know if you realise how much you're moaning, but I suspect it has as much to do with the meal as it does with my fingers teasing your hole.

You finish your dinner before you finish in my mouth, already such a good pet. Tomorrow we'll have much more to do to make you safe, but for now I'll walk your heavy, drowsy form to the bed and rub your bloated belly till you sleep.

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

Pt. 2 of modern Wolf Hybrid! Katsuki Bakugou X Bunny Hybrid! Reader

This is part 2 of my last Wolf!Katsuki fic, and while not required to understand this one, I highly recommend giving it a read! This is about you, a bunny person, telling your family that you're dating a Wolf man, Katsuki...except they're extremely against dating between wolf and bunny hybrids. Womp womp.

words: 1.5k

Warnings: cursing, mentions of Kat and reader doing the horizontal monster mash, angst? I think? I'm not an angst writer, Pretty sure this is hurt comfort

"Ok, I have my water in case my throat gets dry, my tissues in case I cry too much, cookies in case I stress eat...My phone, where's my phone?! I can't call them without my phone!"

"In you're hand, bun."

"Oh...right..."

"You gotta chill out," Katsuki huffed, standing behind you and gently rubbing your temples with his strong, calloused hands. His tail swayed gently behind him, idly moving as he bent down and planted a kiss on your scalp. Why was he being so lovey, might you ask? Because you were about to make the biggest announcement of your life to your family: You, a bunny-person, were dating Katsuki, a Wolf-person.

Was it that big of a deal? Not to you, a young person living in a liberal area, but to your incredibly old fashioned family, it was like announcing you personally orchestrated the plague.

"But what if they disown me or something," you whine, leaning your head back to look up at him with a nervous pout. He frowned down at you, thumbing at the tips of your plush bunny ears as they pressed against your head. "You'll still have me, 's not like you'll be alone."

Katsuki wasn't the best at all of this, seeing as he was a wolf guy that had moved out at sixteen and hardly spoke to his parents yearly, but he loved you, and therefore was trying his best.

You appreciated that, obviously, but his words did little to comfort you...you were just so nervous!

After a moment of looking into your eyes, seeing the anxiety just behind them, he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. "They're lucky to have you, if they know what's good they'll stick around."

Did he hate your family and wish they'd all fuck off and stay out of it? Yeah. Would that get in the way of how much he loved you? Hell no. So why would they feel any different, why would they shut you out just because you loved a wolf man?

With a heavy sigh, you sat up straight, positioning your phone on the coffee table in front of you so you had a nice, clear angle. "Ok. I'm gonna do it. I'm calling them...get out of the shot, please," you asked of him, to which he begrudgingly obliged with a pout. He plopped down next to you, nearly putting his arm around you out of instinct, before remembering the whole point was to not be seen.

You hesitantly leaned forward, pressing the call button and watching the Video Call register, the music filling your stomach with anxiety. "Relax," he mumbled, taking your hand off camera and holding it.

After a couple rings, your parents picked up, big smiles on their faces. "Hey carrot cake!" Your dad said, using a nickname you've had since you were six, when you ate so much carrot cake you spent the night throwing up.

"How's my favorite firstborn doing in the big, loud, far away, dangerous, city," your mom asked, a twinge of worry in her wide smile. She always liked to bring up how dangerous St. Lupus was, a city densely populated by wolves. "Great! Everything's great," you responded, squeezing Katsuki's hand a little tighter.

"You know, I was talking to Barbra the other day, and I think you and her son would just adore each other," your mom gushed, your phone pinging with a picture sent from her. "Isn't he handsome? Take a look," she prodded.

Katsuki growled a little, a low rumbling coming from him as he scowled, ears flat against his head. You reached over a little and put your hand on his chest, calming him and reminding him why you were here. "A-actually, speaking of that, I've found someone else," you started, pressing your lips together and watching for a reaction.

"Oh! That's wonderful dear! What's his name? Is he from Hoppsfoot? Bunny burrow? Oh, don't tell me he's from Cottonridge."

"Uh, he's definitely not from Cottonridge," you assured, your mother sighing with relief. "Well, tell us about him," your father pressured, smiling gently at you.

"H-he's from St. Lupus..." you stuttered out, squeezing Katsuki's hand a little tighter. You thought they'd connect the dots from there, but...

"I've never heard of a bunny being raised in St. Lupus, not without being turned into Sunday dinner," your dad joked, nudging your mom with a laugh.

Who does this guy think he is, assuming wolves still ate bunnies? What a close minded asshole. Katsuki looked to you, wanting to exchange glances of exasperation, but saw just how scared you were.

You looked like you were on the brink of bursting into tears. His heart ached for you, he just wanted you to feel ok. He leaned forward, just enough to be closer without being in frame, and brought your hand to his scalp. Scratching his ears always made you feel better.

You glanced over for a second, a sweet but rather fake smile on your face, and began to idly scratch around the base of his ears. He quietly groaned into your touch, allowing himself to be a little more open about how good you made him feel so you knew he loved you.

"The thing is, well, uh..." You looked into your parents eyes through the screen, their kind, caring eyes, and then to Katsuki's passionate, loving ones. Fuck.

"I can't," you whispered, frozen in fear, eyes pleading with Katsuki to have sympathy. You wanted to, you just...couldn't break their hearts.

"What's that," your mother asked, getting closer to the camera. Katsuki knew what he had to do, he wanted to help. He grabbed your phone, turning it to himself, your hand still on his head, and stated, "I'm (y/n)'s boyfriend," firmly.

Your parents gasped in unison, jaws dropped. "This can't be!" "Tell me he's lying!"

"It's true," you said, your voice wavering but your tone firm.

Katsuki handed you the phone back, and you held it closer to your face.

"We raised you better than this," your mother shouted.

"He loves me," you mumbled back, tears dripping over your cheeks.

"He wants to use you," she scoffed, venom in her tone.

"Wolves don't eat bunnies anymore," you argued.

"So? That doesn't mean he won't use you for other things," she sniffed.

"Mom!" Tears were pouring down your face, you were definitely worked up. Katsuki brought his arm around your shoulder, holding you a little closer to comfort you. For once, Katsuki kept his mouth shut. You had this. You didn't need his help.

"I can't bear to watch him touch you, I can't imagine what you let him do when we aren't watching!"

"What we do is none of your business," you yelled, your voice shrill from the emotions raging.

"Don't come home until you've rid yourself of that...that...heathen!"

"Fine," you shouted back, not even thinking.

"Fine," she responded, equally as loud. You could hear your dad say "honey," to your mom just before she hung up.

You sat there in silence for a moment, Katsuki's arm around you, staring at your now black phone screen.

"You...Okay," Katsuki asked hesitantly, his voice riddled with worry.

You broke.

You started bawling, Tears gushing from your eyes as you leaned into Katsuki's chest, wailing and lamenting the possible loss of your relationship with, at the very least, your mother. Katsuki leaned back against the armrest of the couch, pulling you with him as you both lay down. He rubbed your back in broad strokes, up and down, his other hand behind his head for support.

"I can't go back," you whimpered between broken sobs, arms brought to be around his sides.

You don't need to. Why go back when I'm right here? Who would want to go back to assholes like them, anyway? All of these thoughts were racing through his head, yet none of them could be voiced, one were what he wanted to think. You didn't need that.

"I know, bun."

That was all he said, planting soft kisses along your hairline and smoothing your ears against your head over and over again, petting you to calm you down.

Your howling died down into sobbing, the sobbing into crying, and the crying into whimpering. After just 10 minutes, you were silent, and after careful examination, Katsuki realized you were dead asleep.

Gently so as not to wake you, he lifted you up as he stood, carrying you to his bedroom and laying you down. He got in with you, pulling up the covers and leaving little kisses on your wet cheek as he wrapped his strong arms around your waist.

He could hear your phone buzzing with text after text after text, phone calls with different ringtones (ergo different people), the dinging of notifications on social media.

He'd have to get up earlier than you so he could delete all the hateful texts and voicemails, but that'd be tomorrow him's problem. Right now, all that mattered was you.

His beautiful bunny.

Me? write A metaphor for the homophobia/racism/general bigotry that still exists today? noooooo, couldn't be. I hope you liked this comfy, angsty(?) little fanfic, please leave a comment with your thoughts!

[spacedace]

Lian Harper has an imaginary friend. Roy thinks her new friend is imaginary at least. Dani is very much not imaginary as he soon finds out.

Okay, so I don't know much at all about Roy & Lian, so I did some very fast searching to try and get an idea about them for this. Sorry if Roy is out of character!

Have some spooky very slightly eldritch Dani/Elle being a very polite unwanted house guest/imaginary friend:

When Roy had first noticed Lian idly chatting with thin air beside her, he hadn’t thought much of it.

She’d been playing with the latest batch of stuff animals Jason had brought with him last he’d visited, joyfully arranging her plushy hoard just how she wanted them in her overly full room - they were going to have to do another toy purge soon, it was starting to get hard picking a path through to the bed again - and happily talking as she did. It wasn’t anything exactly uncommon. She liked to introduce new plushies to the older ones, make sure everyone knew each other’s names and got along, the way that little kids did. He noticed she seemed to be holding each plush out as if showing it to someone beside her, which was a little odd, but still nothing of concern.

It wasn’t until the tea party - knees bent up to his ears as he curled over the tiny, brightly colored table Kori had gotten her a couple months back - that he was formally introduced to her imaginary friend and put some pieces together.

“Do you want some tea, Dani?” Lian asked, holding out the bright red child-sized tea pot to the one seat at the table that was not occupied by one of his daughter’s favorite plushies or Roy. He watched as she paused, head tilted to listen carefully, before giving a bright smile and pouring a healthy amount of imaginary tea into the cup in front of the seat.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve met Dani yet.” He said, offering out the tiny cup she’d put down in front of him for his own healthy pour of non-existent tea. “Is she a new friend?”

Lian smiled brightly, gap tooth smile bright as she launched into telling him all about her new friend Dani - with an I, Danny with a Y is her big brother! - who fell out of a hole in space right into Lian’s room and who was a ghost princess with superpowers who beat up evil ghosts with her big brother. There are surprisingly few elements from any of the shows she watches or books he’s read to her, and he’s delighted by how vivid an imagination she has in her creation.

It’s easy to roll with imaginary friend Dani. Lian’s friend Marcus had an imaginary friend last year and Roy had learned enough from Marcus’ mother’s exhausted research dive into the topic over play dates to know that Lian making a friend of her own was perfectly healthy. She had plenty of friends, was doing well in school, no bullies or isolation, just a bright creative streak and a boundless enthusiasm for make believe. In a few months to a year Dani the ghost warrior princess from space - green space! There aren’t any floors and everyone flies and there are floating islands and - would be set aside in favor of other forms of entertainment. Just a fond memory for him to recount when she was a little older.

But then things got…strange.

Things in Lian’s room shifted just out of place where they usually were. Then around the house - common areas only though, never his room. Small lost objects appearing on the kitchen counter where they hadn’t been before. A blanket that had been folded on the back of the armchair draped over him when he woke up after falling asleep on the couch. Lian munching on little healthy snacks - a peeled orange, her favorite rice crackers, carrot slices - that no one had made her and that she couldn’t have possible gotten herself. Glow in the dark stars that he had not bought pressed onto her ceiling in the shape of accurate constellations.

That last one had not been the last straw, exactly, but it had been noticed about the same time all the rest of the very concerning little things had been. Talking with Lian about them all only had her explaining that Dani was doing it.

“She said wants to help.” Lian explained, little legs kicking as she focused on her drawing. “She’s stuck here til her brother comes and gets her. She said she wanted to be a good guest while she crashes with us.”

There’s something about that specific phrasing coming from his five year old daughter - crashes with us, not a term Lian’s used before and that he’s pretty sure no one else has ever had reason to use in front of her - that makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Lian doesn’t notice his apprehension, little tongue poking out in concentration as she adds more green to the paper. He doesn’t much care for the strange shape of the spectral figure his daughter depicts, hovering over her squiggly rendition of herself in her bed, the ghost creature being shown holding a green star up to a field of others in what Roy realizes is meant to show Lian’s bedroom ceiling.

Lian pauses suddenly in her drawing, head coming up and tilting as if listening, eyes drifting to look at a point close to the ceiling. “Oh.” Lian says, turning to look back at him with a frown. “Dani says there are bad people coming.” Another glance towards the spot near the ceiling. “She says she’s gonna make em go away if that’s okay with you.”

His stomach cramps with anxiety at the declaration just as he catches a dark figure shifting on the roof of the neighbor’s house, a flash of metal in the yellow glow of the street lights. There’s something cold on his shoulder suddenly, almost feeling like a small hand, the vague impression of something not altogether human at the corner of his vision.

Fuck it. He decides. If Lian’s maybe-not-so-imaginary friend wanted to deal with the people that he was just now aware of surrounding his home and putting his daughter in danger, then he wasn’t going to stop her.

Roy barely has the word yes out of his mouth as he darts up to grab Lian and run her to safety before all the lights in the house - hell, the neighborhood - begin to flicker and he catches a flash of bright, glowing green eyes turning towards the people outside. Distantly he heard a cut off scream and wet crunch and pressed Lian’s face to his chest as he ran for the safe room.

He was going to have to call the League about this one.

[aforestescape]

more kidnapper simon, this time featuring light smut

content includes: gn!reader, dubcon, male receiving head, slight hair pulling. i’ll have the smut under the cut so you can skip that bit if you’d like

previous.

simon doesn’t like to leave you alone in the house for too long. beyond the fact that he always has that slight worry in the back of his mind. worried that you accepted your place with far less resistance than you should have and that you’re biding your time to try an escape.

it’s not you escaping he’s worried about. he’d burn a trail into the earth on a path to find you. drag you right back to your little cabin in the mountains. but if you had the chance and left it’d mean he was alone again. that everytime you cling to him, searching for salvation in his arms you were lying.

he’d never hurt you, he wouldn’t be like his father. sure he took you away from everything you knew but that was what was best. the moment he laid eyes on you he knew you were special. spent weeks stalking his little pet, finding out what you liked, what made you tick. he’d made sure his little home would be as welcoming as possible for you, for it to feel like yours too before he took you in.

the reason far greater than that small fear though was the fact that you’d be lonely. there were cameras installed in every nook of the home and some of meters of distance into the woods surrounding. whenever he checked up on you he’d catch you wistfully staring out the window. eyes darting over to clocks whenever you took a break from reading.

hugging yourself on the couch as the fire burned in the hearth nearby. he hated to see his pet so sad.

whenever he got back you’d offer him a smile, melting into his large, warm chest as he hugged you. face nuzzling into the cold fabric of whatever jacket he wore.

this was one of the days he had to leave for hours. he’s promised you that he’d have a surprise for you when he got back. it made you giddy, pestering him to give you a hint or two as to what it could be.

you didn’t expect him to come back hours later with a pet carrier in hand. a familiar green duffle with mesh pockets to let you see the cat on the inside. you were frozen in surprise as he opened the carrier to reveal the little black kitty inside, bright green eyes staring at you. a patch of white in the fur that made you almost think this cat was yours. the one you had before coming here with simon.

he huffs out a story about his days activities as the cat meows and comes prancing over to you. rubbing it’s body against you and yelling rather loudly.

he’d broke into your old house a few days ago apparently. just the front door really, left it open so your cat could escape. he’d went to the shelter today and adopted it after the workers let him know the family said the owner was gone. had them transfer the contacts on the chip and adopted your cat.

you listened to him as his story derailed to bitching about arguing with some grandma over the last cat stand on display at the pet store. your fingers trailing over long strands of fur as you took in the fact that he’d went through all that trouble to bring your child back.

to thank him you made a huge roast dinner. potatoes, carrots, greens, gravy to smother onto the beef. simon watched idly as you happily prepped and cooked the meal. smiles coming to your face everytime the cat came by to rub against your legs.

you thanked him again as he ate the hearty meal you’d prepared. sat on your knees under the wooden table, perched between his large, hairy, muscular thighs with his pants pulled down enough to free his cock from its confines. your hands running up his thighs, trailing kisses along the way to his center.

you took him in hand gently, peppering kisses along the length of him. he was a little bigger than average and thick, a defined vein running up the side of it and peaking from behind his foreskin.

you heard him let out a deep rumble as you held him former, moving your hands up and down the length on him. pumping him and pulling the foreskin back with each pull. watching as pearly drops of precum dripped from the head.

your giddiness was still there. you wanted to thank simon for all his kindness. you laved your tongue over the mushroomy head of his cock, moaning at the taste of him on your tongue. you glanced up to find him watching you and held your tongue out for him to see his cum collected on it. his brown eyes looked darker than normal, trained on you as you flicked your tongue under the head of him. swirling around the head and sucking lightly.

he went back to eating as you took him into your mouth. warm and wet wrapped around the first few inches of his cock. sucking lightly as you got used to the weight of his pretty cock in your mouth. keeping your breathing in check as you bobbed your head and licked the underside. one hand wrapped around the base and squeezing everytime you went back down.

you take your time. bobbing your head slowly, pulling off his cock to look at the trail of saliva you leave behind. kissing along the length, laving your tongue over him, pressing gentle kisses to the inside of simons thighs.

when you’ve finally got his full length down your throat, nose pressed against his greying pubes, simons hand reaches down to stroke your cheek. rough fingers tracing the shape of his cock inside your mouth. you hum around his length as you pull back. his hand moving to your hair and grabbing what he can into his hand.

you close your eyes and focus on your breathing and the scent of him, letting him take control. using your hair as reins to move you back and forth. your cheeks hollowed out and sucking him as you please. you glance up to watch as his chest heaves, his pace growing faster as he jerks his hips forwards. fucking into your mouth like he can’t help himself, bucking up to chase your mouth. you hum as you feel him twitch in your mouth, getting closer to his release.

he keeps up the pace until he’s spilling his seed down your throat. you moan as he does, swallowing everything you can as he keeps you choked on his cock. you keep your mouth on him as he finishes up the meal. you’re a little dazed as he lets you off of him, not before offering a kiss to his head. he helps you back up off your knees and you ask him if he wants a slice of the apple crumble you made.

he grumbles out a reply, leaning down to kiss you. slow like you, taking his time and letting his hands roam over your body. when he pulls away he makes you sit down and eat instead. you can share the pie once you’re done.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Pancakes For Brunch - William Afton/Steve Raglan X Female Reader

Title: Pancakes For Brunch

William Afton/Steve Raglan X Female Reader

Additional Characters: N/A

WC: 1,715

Warnings: Slightly suggestive, nicknames, slight mention of William's past, Post Five Night's At Freddy's movie, very brief mention of death, teasing, banter, and overall huge fluff

You awoke as a pair of lips pressed against the back of your neck, soft facial hair tickling your skin, making you smile sleepily. The bed squeaked a bit as William moved behind you, lifting himself slightly to peer over at you, his gaze roaming lazily up your bare shoulder, and neck, before finally settling on your face. Propped up onto his arm, he raised his hand to brush your hair away from your face, eyes trailing along your beautiful features before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the space behind your ear. Your heart fluttered as he did so. 

"Morning," You muttered, slowly turning to lay on your back, staring up at William as he stared right down at you. A gentle hand rested on your hip, his thumb rubbing circles into your warm skin, which was just barely covered by your pajama shirt - that may or may not have been one of his button-ups. 

William continued to stare, admiring you in the early morning light that sprinkled between the curtains, eyes taking in every feature of your face. You smiled sweetly at him, running your fingers lightly through his thick, graying locks; nails scratching at his scalp deliciously. He leaned in for another long, lingering kiss, and after a moment, he pulled back; his lips brushing against yours. His body heat washed over you as his breath mixed with yours. He let out a deep sigh as he finally spoke, "Morning, sweetheart." His voice was gravelly, rough with sleep; it sent shivers down your spine. 

Rolling back on his side, William tugged you into him, his arms wrapping around you and bringing your body close to his. You snuggled up under his chin as he laid back against the pillows and tucked his nose in the crook of your neck; inhaling deeply. He breathed in the scent of your shampoo, his fingers idly playing with the ends of your hair as you looped your leg over his waist, laying your head on top of his chest.

The two of you were quiet for a while, listening to the sounds of birdsong outside your window. You shifted slightly, raising your hand to allow your fingers to gently brush across William's bare chest, lightly caressing the scars along his midsection. You still couldn't get over how lucky you were, not only to have William in your life but to have found him alive, withering in pain in that corroding suit. But you didn't want to think or dwell on those thoughts and memories. Instead, you focused on the present, focusing on him, the warmth of his body against yours, the feel of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

"We're not going to get up for a while, are we?" You muttered, pressing your lips to his shoulder. Your voice was muffled from having your face buried in his chest; you were sure he could hear you, but he did not indicate it, simply pulling you closer into his embrace.

"Probably not," William replied, resting his cheek atop your head as he stroked your arm.

You smiled softly, shutting your eyes briefly, "Good." You sighed out, "I don't wanna get up."

You heard William chuckle, his breath ruffling the baby hairs on your forehead and temple. He tightened his grip on you as you relaxed further, "Well then, I'll keep you here all day if that's what you'd like."

"We will have to get up sooner or later," You reminded him, opening your eyes slightly to meet his gaze, "It's almost noon. And we need groceries."

Letting out a sigh through his nose, William spoke, "What do we need?"

Brushing the tips of your fingers through his short beard, you answered, "Milk, ground meat, bacon, carrots - preferably those baby ones, oh- and eggs..." You paused, thinking of other essentials, "... And maybe cereal." You finished.

"Alright," He murmured quietly, "When do you want to go?"

"Not right now, that's for sure," You let your eyes flutter shut, covering your mouth with your hand as you let out a small yawn. "I wanna cuddle some more. It's Saturday, after all." William chuckled, kissing your temple before burying his nose in your hair again. You smiled into his chest, relaxing into his embrace.

~~~

Soft music played through the radio as you stood at the stove, occasionally flipping some pancakes on a pan, humming along; softly swaying your hips to the beat. It was well past noon once you and William got out of bed, where the both of you had spent the remainder of the morning. You had been going back and forth on what to eat for breakfast before you and William both settled on pancakes, strawberries, and orange juice. Well orange juice for you, William took this time to make his coffee. 

Flipping the finished pancake on the empty plate, you grabbed the batter and poured the remaining thick liquid into the pan, your smile widening as you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Pressing your back into William's chest, you poked the cooking pancake with your spatula. You hummed happily as he kissed your shoulder before resting his chin on the top of your head. 

"How many pancakes do you want, honey?" You asked, flipping the pancake over. 

William couldn't get over you. Every time he saw you he felt the same way he did the first time he laid eyes on you - warm, fuzzy inside, and filled with so many feelings, yet completely overwhelmed by them. He couldn't explain it, but he felt drawn to you; there was something about you that drew him to you; call it love, or an obsession, or both. Whatever it was, he could never resist you; every ounce of his being wanted nothing more than to keep you close to him.

"Just one," He replied softly as you turned off the stove and gave William a quick peck on the lips before - reluctantly - moving out of his arms. 

You grabbed the two plates, bringing them to the table as William brought your orange juice and his coffee. Eating quietly together, William slid his knife into the pancake, picking it up a piece on his fork before dipping it in the syrup on the side of his plate. Looking up at you, he grinned lightly, raising his fork out towards you. Looking from him to the piece of pancake, and back, you raised an eyebrow. "Say 'ah,'" He said, his eyes glinting as you bit back a teasing smile.

"I have my own pancakes, Will." You said, gesturing to the pile in front of you. As expected, William just tilted his head slightly, gesturing to the slice of pancake on his fork with a short bob of his raised hand.

"Hmm, but I think mine tastes better." He said simply, making you scoot your plate to the side, allowing you to rest your forearms on the table as you leaned forward slightly.

Gazing over at the man you loved, you grinned right back, "Did I add too much love into it?" You asked playfully, only for William's grin to widen a fraction.

"See for yourself." His tone was laced with charm as he held out his fork, the piece of pancake on it coated in maple syrup. You leaned forward slowly, William lifting the piece of food to your mouth, letting it slip past your lips as you took a bite. His eyes watched as you chewed, your eyes closed - a hum escaping you - before you swallowed, opening your eyes and meeting his. Dropping his fork upon his plate, William reached out with his hand, his thumb brushing the sticky syrup from your bottom lip. You watched with bated breath as he brought his thumb to his lips, sucking off the remnants of the syrup; his eyes remaining on you. You licked your bottom lip unconsciously, tasting the syrup and hints of strawberry, watching as his eyes followed. A small smile curled up on his lips before he dropped his hand, leaning back against the chair. 

This man was killing you.

Letting out a shaky breath, you sat back in your own chair, chewing on your bottom lip for a second, before speaking, "Yeah, I definitely added a lot more love into yours." You couldn't help but crack a tiny grin at the end before a small silence fell between you. Clasping your hands together, you tilted your head to the side before resting your clasped hands under your chin, "I know what you're doing."

"Oh, really?" William mused as he glanced around the dining room, "And what am I doing, sweetheart?"

"You, Will," You sighed out, unable to stop the smile from growing on your face, "Are trying to get out of grocery shopping."

Feigning innocence, he asked, "And why would I do such a thing?"

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you continued to eat, swallowing your food before continuing, "You hate grocery shopping. And you think buttering me up will get you out of it. You're trying to distract me."

"Am I?" William questioned with a smirk, his blue eyes dancing as they met yours; he was greatly amused.

Rolling your eyes again, you pushed away from the table, "Yeah. Yeah, you are. And it’s not going to work this time. I’m craving Fruity Pebbles. Come on, let's finish eating and get going."

Huffing, William stood, picking up his plate. He hated grocery shopping but when it came to spending the day with you, he always went - unless he was able to distract you long enough that you forgot about it all together or just gave up. He just wanted you all to himself, to be perfectly honest. 

~~~

“But Clara, the baby isn’t mine!”

Cuddled up into William’s side, you ate your Fruity Pebbles thoughtfully as you watched one of your favorite shows that was playing on the television. 

“Do you think the baby’s his?” You asked William, sarcastic, obviously, as you watched the vampire’s baby flying around as a bat. 

William tugged you closer into his side, an arm wrapped securely around your waist, as the other was holding your hand in his lap. “Nah…” He grinned, looking down at you briefly with a small, toothy grin. “I doubt it.”

---

Main Masterlist | FNAF Masterlist

[morethansalad]

Quick Vegan Oats Idli

[starlightswordfight]

MORE ULTRA SPECIFIC RESCUE CORPS HEADCANONS BECAUSE I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THEM AGAIN YAY !!

not a lot because I don't feel very good but I really wanted to yap anyway

– shepherd doesn't get sick often but when she does it is catastrophic. happens once every million years and when she's down she's DOWN

– you know how some people have a stuffed animal that they've just had for literally forever and they are bound to it by their soul. yeah she has one. it is a dog and her name is rabbit, because that was funny to her when she was like three

– yonny has god awful handwriting

– I think they'd be a big lava lamp fan. looks ominous to him. they are, like, all over his workspace. he has more efficient lighting where he needs it but the lava lamps are really cool to him

– collin really likes minesweeper! he never wins

– he rarely feels genuine calm without underlying stress, so when he does he gets really tired really fast. will conk out. the number of times he's fallen asleep with next to no warning while with a friend is not even close to zero

– baking is a science! one that russ has mastered. he is like scarily good at getting the precision right. measurements, timing, everything

– do not ever ever ever give russ the aux. incredible mistake. he will expose everyone to his playlist and it will be so bad and he won't give it back

– dingo doesn't always have great balance!! stumbles and runs into things sometimes. this doesn't tend to fuck him up too bad but he does have a lot of minor injuries

– once bit directly into a lab specific pikpik carrot because "the normal ones aren't that bad" and he wanted to see what would happen. this was a mistake

– bernard is a fan of those glow in the dark stars and he put them all over the inside of the ship once and they're still there and like nobody can prove it was bernard but it was bernard

– he TALKS really loudly but he's very quiet when he moves around! people have turned and saw him suddenly in the area and jumped on many many occasions. bernard jumpscare

– pom hums to themself a lot idly! they just aren't talkative. they join in on the pikmin's songs, who don't instantly stop every time because pom is so quiet the pikmin don't always notice. poor volume control in the sense that they can't raise their voice too well

– REALLY good at not winning board games or card games or any games but they ALWAYS get second place specifically

[lorelune]

good soup

|| childe x reader || M || yandere tartaglia + force feeding || wc: 2.9k  || ao3 ||

Tartaglia brings you a meal and you must choose if you'll yield.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: sometimes. sometimes you title a google doc ‘good soup’ and the rest comes after <3 💕 i don't think i've ever posted a fic quite this dark so tread carefully and enjoy!!

CW: dark content, yandere tartaglia, force feeding, force drinking, restraints, threats of suffocation, violence, kidnapping, references to non-con

Tartaglia stares at you like he wants to eat you whole. Swallow you down, grinding bones with his molars and clawing you until you’re nothing but a bloody heap. It’s in his stare, the lack of light that reflects in his eyes. There are pools of something worse than human behind his irises, and around you, he has no reason to mask it.

He’s something awful, incarnate in flesh and all yours.

“Eat,” He urges, crouched down in front of you. He nods to a steaming bowl between you on the floor. A deep, wooden spoon rests on the edge. “I can practically hear your stomach growling.”

He gives you a smile that’s all teeth. You curb the urge to flinch forward and knock a few of them out. 

You are hungry. Famished and parched, you can see a flask of water tucked into Tartaglia’s waistband. The thought of a proper, hot meal and a full mouthful of water feels too indulgent, despite the reality that’s laid before you on the dirt.

You adjust, trying to prop yourself up higher against the wall you rest on. Your hands and forearms are bound in leather and chain, held against your lower back. It forces you to keep your spine straight, and rag-covered chest bared but doesn’t restrict your blood flow and you still have ample room to squirm. You hate him for it, Tartaglia’s uncanny ability to keep you on the edge of discomfort and pure suffering. You know he revels in it.

You swallow your dry tongue, refusing to look at him, and instead fix your gaze on the thick soup. You can see chunks of carrot and fowl, topped with Snezhnayan snow pepper. You know it's his mother’s recipe and will warm you up from the inside out.

It’s horribly tempting, and you jerk against your binds without thinking.

“Careful there,” You can hear the smirk in his voice. Tartaglia snatches up the bowl and stirs. “I’m sure you don’t want to get any more bruised up, do you?”

You bite your lip, holding back a quip that you’re sure will end any chance at a peaceful mealtime. He’s not wrong— there are abrasions and deep, dark wounds on your wrists. They’ve been there since Tartaglia first took you, though the chill tends to help with the ache of it.

You’re aware of your circumstances— not even the cold can chase that away.

You know there are two options in your situation. Go hungry, or ask Tartaglia for help eating. He relishes the opportunity, and you hate giving it to him, but it’s been far too long since you’ve last eaten. At least a day or two. Despite that, the idea of debasing yourself further, even in your bound (and kept, and stolen) state makes your skin crawl.

You can feel Tartaglia’s stare. He plays with the soup idly, humming under his breath. 

“You know how this works, sweetheart,” He finally says.”There’s an easy way or a hard way.”

“I’m aware,” You reply through clenched teeth. “I’d prefer if you’d, I don’t know, untie me and allow me to feed myself.”

He laughs and shakes his head, and you want to punch him. Knock him to the ground and bust his skull on the pavement. 

“Maybe one day! That’s a privilege you gotta earn,” He laughs, scooting even closer; your knees touch. “And you’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant any favors, my dear.”

You mean to curse at him, but you don’t get a chance to. Tartaglia’s gloved hand grabs your jaw, rough and hard, and holds you steady. You jerk against your binds, and strain your neck. Anything to get away from his touch. 

“Tartaglia—”

He cuts you off, swiftly and easily, “You had your chance. Now eat, and enjoy, I made this, especially for you.”

His thumb hooks on your lower teeth, and pulls. You know better than to bite him, or snarl, or do anything other than shoot him the most venomous glare you can muster. 

There had been a learning curve when Tartaglia had first stolen you away. You’d only known him as a charming patron of the tea house you had been employed at. He’d always leave a generous tip and good words with you. In retrospect, far too much flattery, but you’d always justified it. ‘He was like that with all of the servers,’ you had told yourself. His easy smiles and lingering chats were just unfamiliar Snezhnayan niceties and nothing more. 

You were so fucking stupid. 

You have too much time to think about it, really. You’re rotting in some tiny cabin in the bitter tundra and your only company is your captor. You’ve had an obscene amount of stew. Lamenting with your regret. Guilt, even. 

Maybe, if you listened to your coworkers when they said Child was getting too friendly.

Maybe, if you declined his advances more firmly—.

Maybe, if you never got into the habit of letting him walk you home.

Maybe, if you never went out for those drinks. 

Maybe, if you knew that the sedatives he slipped into your drink had the slightest, salty taste, you would’ve been able to do something—

Tears begin to bead at your water line, and your squeeze them shut and try to force yourself to relax as Tartaglia heaps the spoon with soup.

A moment later, he presses it past your lips, hard against your tongue and brushing the back of your throat. You gag for just a moment, before he lets you close your mouth around the spoon and swallow down the soup. 

It’s delicious. It’s warm and spiced. Creamy and thick with small chunks of meat and veg, you can tell it’s been simmered for some time. It heats you from the inside out and it’ll keep you full for hours. 

You lick your lips as Tartaglia pulls away. He beams you a smitten smile, scooting closer and stirring the steaming contents of the bowl.

“See? That’s not too hard.” His tone curls against you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. It is hard to give in to him, it’s as uncomfortable as the binds on your arms do, but you find yourself crumbling. 

Cold and hunger will do things to anyone, you suppose.

He taps your chin with the spoon, and you open up with only brief hesitation. 

How many times have you shared this song and dance? How many meals have you had in this little cabin, cold and near-starving, fighting so hard, and breaking regardless? You feel haunted by the questions. 

You’re tired. Maybe. 

Tartaglia feeds you another mouthful, just as intrusive as the last. You only swallow once he’s pulled away, horribly aware of the tears beginning to spill over your waterline. Despite all of the times Tartaglia has fed you in such a way, your body refuses to become accustomed to his methods. The prodding at your throat always yields tears and a broken voice for a few hours. Sometimes, Tartaglia brings you ginger tea and honey to soothe it, but only if you’re good.

You hate smiling for him and pretending that what you’re going through is anything other than torture. But to act like what you’re experiencing is torture, you only suffer more. Tartaglia likes seeing you put on a show. You’re sure he knows you’re lying when you speak sweetly to him and show any softness to him. But, that doesn’t seem to matter. The sentiment is hollow, what he really enjoys is when you squirm in your own skin, rife with discomfort. 

Thinking about it, all of it, too lucidly makes your head spin. Wires crossing, eyes burning. 

So, you quiet your thoughts. You focus on the action of opening your mouth, swallowing, and fixating on the dusty, wooden floorboards of the cabin. Tartaglia speaks, now and then, as he finishes feeding you your meal. Perhaps it’s praise, with the saccharine smile he still wears. With such an expression, it’s just as likely he’s being cruel. He loves his thinly veiled insults, crafted specifically to get under your skin and make you writhe. 

Regardless, you don’t listen to him. Can’t, even. His words sound like static and aether. Everything other than the thick soup in your mouth feels fuzzy. 

You fixate on the food. It’s a meal. A communion. Something you used to enjoy sharing with others. It’s one of the reasons you enjoyed your work at the teahouse. You didn’t mind the service aspect of it; seeing patrons enjoy tea and cakes while indulging with loved ones, companions, and acquaintances alike had made you so happy. 

(It had been so nice to be invited to tea yourself, back then. ‘Childe’s invitation had been a welcomed surprise, and your first meeting over sweet breads and black tea on the docks of Liyue harbor had been nothing but pleasant.)

(It’s a bitter, poisonous memory.)

“All done!” Tartaglia exclaims as he shoves the last bite into your mouth. You feel warm and full, and you try to sit with the feeling as he fiddles with a clasp on his belt. The sound makes you freeze, going taut in your shoulders and drawing back against the wall. 

Tartaglia raises an eyebrow. 

“Sweetheart, settle down,” He pulls the flask from his belt and settles on his knees in front of you. Without any distractions, you feel forced to fully regard him, disgust swirling in your gut. He gives you a toothy, sly smile. “You don’t have to get anywhere near my cock if you can indulge me a bit.”

“... Indulge you how?” You ask, voice cracking, rough from its earlier treatment. Your cheeks heat. 

Tartaglia tilts his head, “Well, Dottore was going on about something he tried with one of his little lab rats and it sounded like fun. Nothing painful, nothing that will bruise your knees... well, any worse than they already are.”

Tartaglia uncaps the flask of water and swishes the liquid, side to side.

You glare at him, still back against the wall.

“You’re thirsty,” Tartaglia muses. “And I’ll be giving you some water. Don’t bite me or I’ll ‘forget’ to bring firewood for the next week, ‘kay?”

You want to question him, but don’t get a chance to. He grabs your jaw in a calloused palm and holds you steady. You bare your teeth, flinching, but there’s no room for you to back up farther. Your knees press against Tartaglia, who widens his own position to cage you with his thighs. You’re trapped. And you don’t know what the fuck is spinning around in this fucker’s head.

“Don’t look so scared,” Tartaglia pokes your ribs. You wince. “Maybe, you’ll even like this.”

Tartaglia takes a swig of water, going fat in the cheeks. You open your mouth to question him, but what his ‘fun idea’ is dawns on you at that moment. Your thrash against your binds fruitlessly.

Tartaglia slams his mouth into yours, rough and with enough force to pin your skull to the brick behind you. He tugs at your jaw, forcing your jaw to unlock and lips to part just barely. He takes the opportunity and hooks a few fingers over your bottom teeth, holding your mouth wide.

And he spits the mouthful of water into your own.

Oh, the fucker. 

Though Tartaglia’s forced you to eat every meal he’s brought you in the same way, he’s never tried this shit. Water was something he tipped into your mouth from his flagon or made you lap out of a bowl if he was in a particularly vile mood. Fucking demoralizing, sure, but this? This—

You gag, choke on the liquid and try to spit. 

Tartaglia doesn’t give you the chance, he’s fast and predicts your reaction perfectly. He shuts your mouth with a snap of your teeth that rattles in your skull. He slaps his hand over your mouth, wrapping his grip around the lower half of your face.

“Swallow, dearest.”

Archons, you hate him. 

Bile builds in the back of your throat. You don’t swallow. Rather, you meet Tartaglia’s gaze, level with him, and refuse to look away. It’s a stupid decision, you know, it’s fucking fruitless to go toe-to-toe with him. But you can’t swallow either. Your pride has been in shambles for as long as you’ve been in this cabin since Tartaglia dragged you from Liyue by your scruff, but all the same, you can’t let him have this—

(You have to try, don’t you? Just to say that you did. Even if you know how much easier it would be to give in.)

It’s uncomfortable to be this close to him and see him. More than uncomfortable, even. Revolting, maybe. Like this, you can’t avoid examining your captor. You hate sinking into the color of him. A blue so deep and vast that it feels almost void. 

(You noticed it back at the tea house too. The first time you really looked at him as he walked you back to your apartment. You stood on your stoop to thank him and your words died in your throat.)

(You saw something so hollow about him. Like he’d been carved out and replaced with something eerie and wrong. He hid such a condition with a charming smile, glowing personality, and more mora than you thought an individual person could conceivably have.)

(At the time, you dismissed the feeling. It was too uncanny to indulge. An error in your intuition, perhaps. You were just paranoid, right?)

Tartaglia pinches your nose shut and his smile goes dull and his words grow sharper, “You’re not breathing until you swallow.”

(Your move.)

When you’re unbound, you’re going to maim him. You’re going to shove Tartaglia into a snow bank and give his broken body to the Snezhnayan tundra. You’re going to ruin him, and then you’ll back to Liyue, see your family, friends—

(You feel light-headed, fuzzy around your edges. Your body aches from strain. A sob cracks from your throat and you choke on it.) 

And you fucking break. 

You swallow, gasping as Tartaglia removes his hands from your face. Tears bubble over your water line and you cough around lungfuls of air. Tartaglia croons something sweet to you — “deep breaths now, go slow”—

Every time this happens, that you yield to him, you feel something in you shatter. Over and over again you squirm and thrash under Tartaglia’s thumb but the outcome is always the same. It’s humiliating and inescapable. 

You wilt over Tartaglia’s lap. 

You fall into your captive and can’t bring yourself to fight the gentle hand that begins to stroke along the back of your neck and shoulders. You don’t resist your restraints. You fall into them, and let them hold you up despite the pain that tears up your arms and back. A cry rips from your throat and tears dribble down your cheeks to your jaw. Snot bubbles at your nose, but Tartaglia doesn’t seem to mind. 

Tartaglia is patient as you fight your own cracks and wounds, letting you cry and half-wretch in his lap. He remains silent, only petting you like a house cat. 

You have half a mind to bite his thigh and tear out a chunk.

(You don’t.)

(You’re so tired.)

Your chest aches with each sob. Your back is painfully arched so you can smother your face into Tartaglia’s pants. You’re uncomfortably close to his half-chub bulge and you swear it twitches when your breath hitches with sobs. You should move or at least try to, but you can’t make yourself. 

You wallow. 

Eventually, Tartaglia loosens one or two of your restraints to give you more slack. He pulls you to rest against his chest, tucked under his chin and with your cheek nestled against his collarbone. He runs his nails along your jaw, squeezing the nape of your neck between your hitched breaths. It’s comforting, it’s comforting— and recognizing that only makes you feel dirty. He radiates heat that sinks into you, and god, you despise how much you relish it. 

(Even more, you hate how you need it.)

The familiarity of your thoughts almost physically hurts, and you muffle another wail into his skin. If you could use your hands, you’d be clutching at his shirt and trying to drag him closer despite it all. 

(How many times must you shatter? When will he be satisfied? When will you give up?)

Tartaglia hushes you. He whispers another sweet nothing like the sentiment is real. 

He lets you rest against him until your breathing evens out. With enough petting and placating, you’re nothing but a tear-dampened lump against his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind. He coos and keeps you close, lets you settle and you know that if you dared to look at him, you’d see nothing but adoration in his eyes. 

(This is the moment he covets.)

He eventually disturbs your brief ‘peace’, as he always does. 

“Dear,” He says gently, like a lover. He kisses your forehead. “You have to drink the rest of the bottle just like that. Then you can sleep, and I’ll hold you. How does that sound?”

(Awful. Revolting. You don’t want any more of him near you, let alone in you. You can’t—)

You fight back something between a scream and another round of wailing. You give him a misty nod.

You suppose, the warmth of him and the soup in your belly will make the experience tolerable. Biting the hand that feeds you when there’s not another meal on the way seems like a poor decision. 

You give in, and let yourself sink into the depths with Tartaglia. And, ever dutifully, he catches you.

[ratinayellowbandana]

having just come off a 10-hour bus i feel your boredom. prompts, mm, Imogen trying to explain why horses are so nice to Laudna (Gelvaan early days?) while Laudna plays with a barn cat?

thanks ever so much @xhopsalong for this lovely suggestion. sorry it took me a couple extra days to get around to it. I got out of the car and life immediately smacked in the face. I hope this is something like what you had in mind! I will take any excuse to bring up horse girl imogen

wc: 1358

~~~

Something was new to Laudna. 

Not the hardpacked dirt floor or the rusted bolts holding thick support beams in place. Those seemed quite old if she had to guess. Not the distinct scent of hay and grain and manure that was embedded in the walls of this place. Not the cobwebs delicately spun in the rafters. No, the barn itself was well-used, though rather impressively maintained for its age. 

Perhaps, then, it was the life that seemed to seep from the pores. The traces of human presence and domesticity that appeared in the saddle pads hung to dry on stall doors and the muddy boots stored beside the tack room. The unhurried shuffling of footsteps behind her. The muted thump of hooves on sawdust. The roof, newly repaired and still smelling of fresh wood.

Laudna sprawled on her back atop a bale of hay, limbs hanging limply off the ends. The straw stuck to her clothing, sharp and scratchy where the fabric was thinnest. Her long hair trailed on the ground, but she hardly minded. She kicked her feet idly, relishing the mild strain against the back of her knees and the swish of her skirt against her ankles. The world was pleasantly fuzzy, everything seen just a bit upside-down. 

Twilight had just begun to fall, slanted beams of sunlight having just disappeared below the loft window. Long shadows crept from the corners. Gentle orbs of glowing purple light held them off for the time being. The spheres of magic bobbed up and down slightly in the cooling evening air. 

The crickets had just begun their evening serenade when a horse whickered in a neighboring stall, and Laudna startled at the sudden noise. 

“He can’t get you,” Imogen teased in that light way of hers that instilled in Laudna a reverent desire to believe every word she spoke. 

Perhaps it was this, then, the new thing. A new friend. Her first in, well, she couldn’t quite recall, fuzzy as things are, but that was all right. Imogen was kind. She laughed with her belly and smiled with her whole face, and it warmed Laudna like a roaring hearth in the dead of winter. Imogen had one of those, too, in a house she shared with her father, and she let Laudna sit beside the fire and offered her tea and biscuits from a tin. She giggled at Laudna’s missteps and delighted at her stories, which was baffling. Laudna’s life wasn’t particularly interesting, but to Imogen, it seemed, half-baked tales of mushroom hunting were welcome interruptions to life in a rural town. 

Imogen ran a loving hand along the blaze of a bay mare and pressed a kiss to her snout. The horse’s eyes closed, relaxed, and she sighed contently. Laudna tilted her head, hair sweeping the floor. 

“You can say hello if you’d like,” Imogen said, “They won’t bite on purpose. Promise”

“On accident, then?”

“Only if they think your finger’s a carrot.” Imogen gave a lopsided grin. 

Laudna inspected one long, gray appendage, eyes crossing as she dangled it over her face. She squinted. “I think I must be an awfully rotten carrot.” 

Imogen laughed again in that easygoing manner that kicked Laudna’s sluggish heart into a flutter. Imogen blew a stray lock of purple hair off her nose and pouted when it resettled just above her lip. She went back to humming a quiet, jaunty tune Laudna did not recognize.

Something soft brushed against Laudna’s calf. 

A fluffy orange cat appeared around the straw bale, tail held proudly aloft. It rubbed its side along the hay, arching its back. 

Laudna froze as it approached. She eyed it warily. 

The cat, for its part, seemed entirely unbothered, but one could never be too cautious. Most of the Wildmother’s creatures steered clear of her. The domestic and prey animals, especially. Something about the scent of decay tended to attract only the scavengers and carrion birds. A morning’s overconfidence had earned her a nasty bite to the wrist and a talon to the shoulder. She made more of an effort to sleep in a shelter, however crude, after that. 

A small, wet nose investigated the inside of her wrist where it had been unceremoniously flopped. The tiny exhalations were cold against her skin, replaced by silky fur as the cat butted its head against her. Its tail trailed along her inner arm until an inquisitive, graying face met hers. Laudna sat up slowly, carefully swinging her legs around. 

“I see you’ve met Lady,” Imogen said. 

Two paws perched on the bale, chasing Laudna’s hand. Tentatively, she extended the back of one knuckle and gave two gentle strokes between the cat’s ears. It leaned into her touch, butting her hand in search of scritches. 

“She’s darling,” Laudna said, a little breathlessly. She reached out again, bolder having been met with one success, and Lady arched into the pointed tips of her fingernails. 

“He, actually,” Imogen corrected, shaking her head. Lady hopped up next to Laudna on all four paws, placing his front feet on her thigh. “The neighbor’s old cat had kittens a while back. We were told he was a girl when we adopted him. Only took our barn cat gettin’ pregnant to find out we were told wrong,” she chuckled quietly, “but the name stuck, and we love him, so. Isn’t that right?” Imogen cooed.

“He’s still darling.” Lady had taken up residency in Laudna’s lap, purring loudly. It was all rather peculiar. This warm, soft thing kneading her leg with pinprick claws. “I must admit,” she said, “I’m a little surprised.” 

Imogen made an inquisitive noise.

“Animals tend not to like me much, I’m afraid. At least the ones who don’t want to eat me,” Laudna confessed softly, determinedly looking only at the rumbling creature in her lap. 

“Lady and the horses seem to like you just fine.” Imogen paused her deft fingers where they had been working at a knot in the horse’s mane.

“I suppose so,” Laudna said, scratching one nail at the base of Lady’s ear. “I’m not entirely certain why that is.” 

“Well,” Imogen considered, “could be simple as they trust me, and I trust you. And if I trust you, they know it’s safe.” 

Laudna felt the color rise in her cheeks and redoubled her efforts to focus on her feline companion.

“Or,” Imogen continued easily, “it just might be because they know you’re a person worth likin’.” She resumed her untangling with her lower lip clasped between her teeth.

Laudna’s rhythmic petting faltered. “That’s… that’s very nice of you to say.” 

“‘M not just sayin’ it,” Imogen sounded almost affronted. “You’re one of the most likable people I’ve ever met.”

Laudna’s head swam. She looked up at Imogen. “I… We’ve only known each other a few weeks.” The corner of Imogen’s mouth curved upward into a playful smirk, and she raised her eyebrows. 

“My impressions of people are rarely wrong.” She tapped her temple, and Laudna flushed further.

Perhaps it was this, then, the new thing. Being known. Trusted. And, oh, that felt… well, felt like the weight of a creature, alive, warming her lap. Smelled like hay and grain and manure and, faintly, of ozone. It looked like straw clinging to her clothing and dancing lights and a horse lazily hanging its head over the stall door. Sounded like a rumbling purr that filled her whole chest and crickets in the evening and worn leather boots.  

Surely, that must be it. Not merely passing life, lurking at its fringes, but embracing it and having it embrace her in return. It was lovely, this new thing. Strange and foreign but familiar in the way one might recall a hazy childhood memory with forgotten fondness. Or come across an old favorite blouse packed away in a trunk. 

Laudna savored the feeling, the sensation that had made a home in her ribs, and she whispered a silent prayer that this might last. That the world might keep at bay just a little while longer. 

And as the sun sank fully below the horizon, Laudna reveled in the unexpected wonder of this newfound peace.