#echo: ... back 2 the drawing board

[ravawrites]

Invaluable

THIS IS UNIMPORTANT PART 2!!!!!!!

summary: your boss finally realises what you mean, and how he feels. warnings: smoking, drinking, sexual situations (not smut!) a/n: this is based on that time aaron SNATCHES that cigarette out of the unsubs mouth and it’s hot. If you want a smut part please comment or leave a thing in my inbox. love ya <3

wordcount: 4687

The next few weeks nothing had changed between you and your boss since his confession of you being important to the team. But at the same time, everything had. He had become less dismissive once you handed him the usual bitter black coffee he gets. Instead of the usual “Thank You,” just thrown your way without a sparing glance.

Now, you were still thanked. However, he turned his head towards you, making eye contact for a slightly lingering moment before continuing on with the case and turning back to the drawing board. It was pity, you assumed. Pity for the fact that you had almost been shot and killed in a police precinct bathroom.

Another small change was the way he asked for things. He had went from harshly barking orders at you to have papers ready, collect that box of files, prep the interrogation room. To coming up to you directly, asking you quietly and politely.

On the other hand, something completely different, never happened before, your boss, Aaron Hotchner had brought you a coffee on the jet. Albeit, the rest of the team were passed out in a deep sleep. Em had her head rested on JJ’s shoulder as they slept together. Spencer had a book over his face and Morgan had his music playing in his ears.

“You’re not sleeping?” He asked as he bent down to place the coffee on the small table in-front of you. Lifting it up you take a scalding sip from the mug. Boiling hot, burning your tongue but exactly how you liked it.

“How do you know which way I like my coffee?” You ask, the shock evident in your tone and get given pointed look because the answer to that was obvious. “I can’t sleep when something is moving, car, train, private jet.” Your mouth quirks up at the last one. You see him nod in understanding and he makes his way back to his seat and to bury his nose back into the files. “Thank you.” You whisper out loud enough for him to hear but not enough to wake the team.

The rest of the flight back to Quantico was peaceful. Silence after a long and hard case was always welcome, the calm after the storm.

-

Silky sheets caress your legs as the loud blaring of your alarm rings in your ears. The orange beginnings of daylight peek through a small gap through the curtains. Rolling over, the blue light from your phone glares in your eyes. New email. Meeting at 8:30. Urgent.

One thing you hated about your boss was his inability to elaborate when things were important. Rushing to get ready and throwing your work clothes on as fast as possible, your mind races. Skimming over every mistake you had made in the past few months that could lead to you getting fired. Or anything the rest of the team could have done to prompt an urgent meeting.

Arriving at the office the rest of the team stand in the bullpen, equally confused.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Emily asks you as you join the huddle at her desk.

“No idea.” You reply with a shrug and the six of you turn to look up into Hotch’s office. He has the landline up to his ear and seems to be talking intensely to the person on the other end. “What do you think that’s about?”

“No idea.” Spencer echoes your words from earlier. “He doesn’t look happy though.”

Then without a word Hotch opens his office door and with no more than a nod, orders you to the conference room. It wasn’t unusual for him to look that way. Stoic, serious and unmoving.

“We’re all fired.” Pen squeaked out with a determined nod. She then marched up to the conference room, the rest of you following in her stead.

The conference room was not a stranger to long intense silence. It usually happened when one of the team had made a mistake that Strauss wouldn’t let go. Usually a mistake that your unit chief’s job was put on the line for. Hotch is sitting when you enter.

“Have we got a case?” Derek asks with a nod to the remote in Hotch’s hand. The screen behind him lit up and he stood up.

“Not exactly.” A look of disgust was commonly shared around the circular table at hearing about the heinous crimes that the team solved regularly. However, a look of panic, was rare and was prominent at what Hotch said next. “We have been invited to the FBI christmas gala.” Groans and eye rolls were shared around the table.

“We are on orders from Strauss to not take any new cases until after the event,” He continued, “As we are most likely going to revive an award.”

“When is it?” JJ asks, her chin in her hands and her hair falls over her face.

“Next Friday. We all get a plus one.” Hotch finishes and gets up, striding out of the conference room and back to his office to stare at more files until late in the evening.

“You know what this means ladies.” Penelope starts, her body pretty much vibrating with excitement. “Dress shopping!” The huge smile on her face made everything more bearable. At least one of you was excited.

-

A few days later the girls and you were standing in some high-end boutique, browsing the multiple colours of dresses. Racks upon racks of different cuts, shapes and lengths are everywhere. Penelope was rushing through them at a speed you'd never seen, picking out what she thought would look best on the three of you.

"Em, you just have to wear red!" She gushes and hands Emily a stack of different shades of red. "Go try them on." Pen gives her a shove toward the fitting rooms. "Same for you." She says to JJ, her pile filled with a variety of blues, pinks and purples.

They both come out one at a time, showing you and Pen all of the dresses she had specifically picked out. Naturally, Pen loved every single one they came out in, smiling every time. Until they both came out at the same time and she let out a dramatic gasp.

Emily was wearing a deep red velvet dress that came down to her ankles and was tight-fitted down her body. JJ's was light pink with light lace flowers all over in lace. It flared out from her hips and draped over her legs. "Those. Are. Perfect." She squealed at the pair as they both did a spin. They both blushed at your and Pen's extensive compliments about how well the dresses fit them.

"You guys look amazing!" You say from your seat and Emily's look turns from appreciative to mischievous.

"Now it's your turn," Emily smirks and she and JJ take their place on the plush bench that you and Pen were just perched on. JJ hands you the pile of perfectly curated dresses Penelope had picked out for you, in many different colours. You pick out all of the colourful ones and leave them on the bench. You catch the girls confused looks.

"While a gala is a break for you, I'm still on the clock." You explain and shake the black dresses in your hands. "I have a dress code, black only." You watch Penelope's face drop.

"But, that green one would look so good." She says, obviously disappointed you wouldn't get to wear the one she had envisioned you in. "Try it on for me?" She asks and gives you a look you couldn't resist.

"After, I find my one for the night." You put emphasis on after as your friend was not one for patience.

A few dresses later, varying reactions from the girls as you came out. Some 'oohs' and 'ehhs' gave you a clear opinion of what they thought. Penelope had found her dress almost instantly, it was a silky champagne with black lace over the bust. Finally, you had thought you had found the one. It was black, of course, and didn't come down too low at the bust, stopping just before inappropriate. The fabric stopped at the floor and didn't restrict your walking movement.

"Oh, that's lovely," JJ says as you pull the curtain back to reveal yourself to them.

"That is the one!" Penelope jumps up and gives you a hug.

"I think I'm all dressed out." Emily slumps against the wall as you make your way to get changed back into your normal clothes and bag up your dress of choice.

Making your way to the till, you all pay for your dresses and head your separate ways home.

-

The fateful day had finally come. Hours upon hours of explaining that you are not a profiler to a part of the BAU team but their PA. Then having to listen for hours upon hours on why the BAU was favoured by the director as they had a private jet and a PA. Looking good was crucial if you were a benefit, you had better be a good-looking one.

If the dress had to be black and plain with a simple shape and a boring unappealing neckline. You'd dress it up with dainty jewellery and amazingly high heels in a matching black. You had turned a simple dress that was gathering dust in the back of the racks into a sublime sleek look. The ding from your phone catch’s your attention as you grab your clutch.

It read ‘We’re outside’ and quickly you smooth down your hair one last time and make your way out of the apartment building, seeing the girls waiting in one of the SUV’s for you. Emily at the wheel with Jj in the passenger seat and Penelope in the back.

“You look stunning!” Penelope shouts from the window as you walk towards the car and you can’t help but produce a huge smile on your face.

“So do all of you.” You say as you shut the car door behind you. The drive to the venue wasn’t long, small talk being the main focus of the conversation.

“Are any of you looking for a man tonight?” Jj asks, a smirk on her face. She had brought Will as her plus one and he was currently residing in the men’s car who were trailing not too far behind them. “Or woman.” She adds, casting a small glance at Em.

“If something happens, it happens.” Emily says with a shrug, knowing that she would be approached many a time during the night.

“I’m fine with my chocolate thunder.” Pen says, her face lighting up. “But you never know.” A few hums of agreement echo around the car. “And what about you, beautiful creature of the night?” Penelope asks.

“I’m working.” It was a short answer but you didn’t miss the simultaneous eye rolls of the three others. “What was that?” You ask with a scoff, looking between the three of them.

“Oh yes. ‘Working’” Pen says, “Until you go out for a smoke.” She smirks as she says this.

“You’re just jealous it works.” You snark back, as you pull up the the grand hotel that the gala was being held in. “I am now officially on the clock.” You say, getting out of the car and opening the doors for all of the girls. At the same moment the men’s car pulls up behind you. You do the same for each of them. Each of them thank you as you open their car doors.

“I hate treating you like this, you’re our friend not our employee.” Spencer complains as you walk in on his arm. “It feels strange.”

“It’s one night. And technically I am, your employee.” You smile up at him. “Your assistant.” The room you were in was huge, the carpet was a deep red plush, the cushions on the chairs matching. The ceilings held up by marble stone pillars that towered over everyone.

You and the BAU find their way to their large circular table in the middle of the room. Not a single corner of solitude where they could not be observed by the rest of the FBI. They place their, clutches and Jackets on the table and you turn to them.

“Drinks?” You ask looking around the table.

“You don’t have to.” Derek starts but you cut him off with a hand wave.

“I am being paid.” You say sternly, “Drinks?” You ask with a stubborn tone. “The usual?” You continue and receive nods from around the table. Making your way to the bar you rattle off the teams orders. “A whisky on the rocks, a neat whisky, two glasses of house red, a glass of house white, two jack and cokes and a lemonade. Please.” You receive a nod and wait for the poor bartender the make all of those drinks. “Oh and a tray please!”

You weren’t a stranger to the looks of envy from other departments as you carried the tray of drinks to the table. Or from the patrons stood at the bar fetching their own drinks.

“I come bearing gifts.” You say and hand out their drinks accordingly around the table. Whiskey on the rocks for Rossi. Near whiskey for Hotch. House red for Jj and Emily. House white for Pen. Jack and coke for Derek and Will and a lemonade for Spencer. “Now go socialise, you important people.” You say and they disperse around the room in pairs to go and talk to the other agents. That was your queue was to go and stand in the corner of the room as all of the people who thought better of themselves, boasted about their achievements in the field and out of it.

It took thirty minutes until it was announced it was time for dinner and all of the patrons made their way to the assigned seats. Wait staff flew out of every door, brining everyone the meal they had chosen a week prior. And that was your cue to go for a smoke.

It was dark outside when you push the door open. The pebbled ground crunches under your heels as you make your way to the back of the building and there is your solace. A bench. It was wooden and was sat in the middle of a small green patch of grass.

These FBI things had been few and far between with your with the BAU. The team rather spending their time on cases and saving people’s lives rather than spending time being paraded around by the director. However, that had meant that in the couple times you had been at these things, you had a tradition.

Men loved being saviours. So when they see a poor woman, sat in the cold, waiting for her cigarette to be lit. But in reality, you had a lighter placed in your bra. Dinner had just started so you pull out said lighter and light your first cigarette and take a drag. The smoke flaying out in-front of you in the light as you sit on the table of the bench, your feet on the seat.

-

The team sat around their round table, slowly eating and sipping on their drinks, longing out the process to avoid the socialising that was to come again next.

“It’s just not fair how she doesn’t even get a seat at our table,” Spencer huffs as he puts another forkful into his mouth. “The team would barely work without her. She’s a part of the team.” Everyone around the table nods in agreement.

“If it was up to me, she would.” Hotch says, also continuing to eat his food and sip his drink.

“Well you could push harder for it.” Spencer says, his mood sour and he fiddles his fork around his plate as he mumbles.

“Don’t worry Spence.” Emily said from next to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “She’s just fine.” She says smirking at Jj and Penelope from across the table.

“Pump your brakes, what does that mean?” Derek says with raised eyebrows looking between the three of them. “Is she with someone here?” His eyes flit between them and waits impatiently for one of them to answer.

“Not yet.” Jj barley whispers into her wine.

“And what does that mean?” Derek pushes again and looks towards Penelope. “Babygirl, what do you know?” He asks leaning towards her and she hides behind her hands. “Penelope.” Everyone around the table was interested in what the ladies of the BAU knew about your love life.

One thing about the team was they were nosy. Specially about the love lives of the other members of the team. Behavioural analysis made it easy for them to tell when a night was spent out of bed.

“I’m not supposed to tell.” Pen squeaks, her voice an octave higher than usual, feeling the pressure of all of the curious eyes on her. But her reddening face and the pitch in her voice getting higher and higher indicates that she was going to spill and soon. Even Hotch was engaged and listening. And spill she did. “Hot rich men carry lighters.”

“And what does that have to do with sleeping with other agents?” Rossi chimes in, his hand resting around his glass and his finger tapping against the side.

“When time comes to dinner and she doesn’t get a seat at the table, she makes her way outside with two cigarettes,” Emily starts to explain. “She lights and smokes the first one while dinner is happening.”

“Then after dinner, she waits for someone to come and offer to light her second cigarette.” Jj picks up from Emily. “It’s actually quite smart.” She smiles as she finishes.

“Then they get to talking then she’s got somewhere to sleep for the night.” Penelope finishes. “The FBI is so cheap, they don’t even book her a room.” She rolls her eyes and takes another sip, clearly getting tipsy. “She never tells us who she’s been with, i’m dying to know.”

“Who would have thought she had it in her huh?” Derek says with an impressed smile.

“Literally all of us.” Emily laughs at him and wait staff begin to collect in empty plates and people begin to stand and shuffle and talk about boring corporate nonsense.

They watch Hotch get up abruptly from his chair and stride toward the bar, he doesn’t order anything he just stands there and waits for the team to disperse around the room.

“He’s not as subtle as he thinks.” Will laughs out towards Rossi who gives a small shrug before turning around and shaking the hands of agents from all over the US.

-

The shine of your shoes caught your attention, the patent dark material reflecting in the light. Circular rings dance across them and reflect in your eyes. Your first cigarette had long been smoked and shoved into the stones beneath your feet. You’d began to wonder if you just hadn’t gotten lucky this time round. Maybe you hadn’t grabbed the attention enough for anyone to follow you outside. Your eyes hadn’t left the ground yet, and were now tracing the irregular pattern of the stones. Just about to give in to the temptation and time, reaching into your bra to pull out your lighter.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your head shoots up and your hand goes heck to its original position by your side. It was him, your boss. Aaron Hotchner,one of the richest and hottest men you knew. You hadn’t heard the stones rustle on the way over, he always walked quietly. His voice didn’t travel far in the large empty space.

“I thought you were meant to be a profiler, sir.” You say smiling up at him and scooting over, making room for him next to you. “Get tired of all the questions?” He sits down, mirroring the way you were perched.

“I’ve already told you.” He says, the lights that were wrapped around the leaf filled arch lit up his face in such a perfect way, you couldn’t describe it. “It’s Aaron.” He repeats from weeks ago and you see him turn towards you out of the corner of your eye. Now, it was time to test if your theory was correct.

“Ok. Aaron.” You put specific emphasis on his name with a laugh and you look over to him. “Do you have a lighter?” His eyes meet yours.

“You shouldn’t smoke, they’re bad for your health.” He says avoiding the question, maybe you were wrong. “But I do. There.” He pulls it out of the inside pocket. It was fancy, silver with an engraved pattern with his name next to it.

“This is a fancy lighter.” You comment as the orange flame shines on your face. Pulling the cigarette to your mouth you take a drag. “Lots of things are bad for your health.” Your hand passes the imaginary line between you and you hold the cigarette in front of him and you raise your eyebrow in question.

“Thanks.” He takes it from your hand and pulls it up to his face but pauses. He stares at the deep red circle around the paper. “It was a gift from Rossi, he just likes to spend his money.”

“That he does,” You smile at him and notice his hesitation. “It’s just lipstick.” Resting your elbows on your legs you tilt your head to the side, hair falling over your shoulders. “It’s safer than shaking hands or whatever Spencer says when he meets someone new.” You joke. He laughs deeply at that and finally takes a puff of the cigarette.

His face contorts in slight disgust. “Those don’t taste like I remember.” But he keeps it in his hand.

“That’s because they were incredibly cheap.” Giggling, you realise you are still holding his lighter in your hands and it shining in the light.

“So you won’t mind then?” He asks and you look towards him confused.

“Mind what?” You reply, the line between your eyebrows prominent.

“This.” He smirks and throws the cigarette on the ground and stamps it out. You make a noise of protest as you watch the small orange glow disappear.

“I’m in a right mind to keep this lighter now.” Looking down into your lap shyly where your hands lay. Fiddling and flipping open the lighter. He made you nervous, usually you were able to take charge of these men and lure them to bed without a word. However, this man, your boss, was terrifying to you as he sat there breathing steadily, while your heart raced erratically.

“You’re welcome to.” He says with a shrug and brings his hand up to adjust his tie.

“It’s beautiful out here, it looks like a wedding venue.” You were deflecting and refuse to even look in the man’s direction.

“It is.” His answers were getting shorter and shorter and your heart was getting faster and faster.

Adrenaline ran through your veins as the next words flew out of your mouth before you could spare a second to think about it. “Do you know the FBI don’t even pay for my room at these things?”

“Really? I’ll look into it.” He says and taps the side of his head and keeping it in there for later.

“Thank you.” The two of you sit in silence for a while, breathing in the fresh air and looking around the grand garden and taking note of the potted plants dotted around the place. The night was clear and the stars were out, looking close to the small fairy lights that surrounded the pair of you.

“You’re part of the team, just as much as me or anyone. They should get you a room.” He says, his pinky finger inching across to yours, laying millimetres away.

“You’re the Unit chief and they’re agents.” You laugh. “I’m just an assistant.” You continue. “I’m not-.” You realise you go to say important and your mind flies back to your conversation in the parking lot.

“Important?” He sighs and you turn towards him and he says your name in the same airy voice. His tone suddenly changes back to his normal firm one. “You know what?” He asks and you raise your eyebrows at him. “You’re not important.” He states.

Your face morphs into confusion. “What?” You scoff at him and you lean back, also pulling your hand away from the closeness of before. You stand up abruptly and start to quickly walk away from the bench, grabbing the bottom of your dress up and keeping it away from your heels.

He says your name again but this time it’s a shout. “Wait!” He shouts again and you spin around and shake your head at him.

“What! Sir!” You shout at him harshly and take a step towards him in anger.

“You’re not important because.” He starts and you roll your eyes and he takes a step towards you and the gap gets smaller and smaller. Your breath getting shorter and shorter.

“Because what?!” You shout again and wave your arms around in emphasis.

“Because.” He says your name softer this time. “You’re invaluable.” Your mouth hangs open and all of your air leaves your lungs and you stand there for a moment. Your boss had rendered you speechless once again. Staring at him with his perfectly tailored suit and that sexy fucking red tie and just his sexy fucking face. “You’re invaluable to me.”

Dropping your clutch on the floor you quickly walk at him, trying not to trip in your heels on the uneven ground. “You stupid, stupid man.” You say and the two of you hover close to one another. “Aaron Hotchner, you massive idiot!” You gasp at him and grab his tie and pull him down to you and kiss him.

It was quick and rough and you pull away after a few seconds. “Shit, you’re my boss! Fuck!” You exclaim and look up panicked, running your hands through your hair and take a large step back. Your chest heaves, as you look him in the eyes. “I’m invaluable to you.” You say dumbly and blink quickly in more confusion than before.

“Yes, you are.” He says and takes a large step forwards, putting you toe to toe. His hands run up the tops of your thighs and over your hips and land in the small of your waist. “Say my name again.” His nose runs up your neck towards your ear.

The realisation hits you then. “I’m invaluable to you, Aaron.” You say smugly and he leans into kiss you this time and he hums in agreement inside your mouth. You’re pressed up against him as his large hands on your waist have you pulled against him.

You’re own hands start to wander as his tongue enters your mouth, they slide their way up the back of this suit and into the nape of this neck and the top of his hair. “I’ve waited so long to do that.” He sighs as the two of you separated for breath.

“Me too.” You smile as the two of you hold each other. “Your room?” You ask and intertwine your hand with his.

“Definitely.” He says and you begin to walk to the back door of the hotel, you leading the way.

“I’m your invaluable assistant.” You smirk at him as you open the back fire exit door. You felt smug being invaluable to the man. The man you’d had a crush on since you’d joined the BAU.

“Yes, you are.” He repeats and reaches down to give your arse a squeeze, in your tight dress.

“Oi!” You reach down and smack his hand away with a laugh. “Just for that, you’re going up the stairs first.” You say and push him towards the staircase.

“I’ll have you know my eyes are always front.” He says and starts to walk up the steps to his room, key card already in hand.

“Mine aren’t.” Your eyes and centred directly on his arse as he walks up the stairs to his room.

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Lady - 3

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Eddie Horniman x Female Reader

Summary: After fifteen years away, a step-daughter returns for her Duke step-father's funeral, only to inherit a staggering 8 million pound debt and strike a risky deal with a criminal underworld figure.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Chap 1, Chap 2, Chap 3 , Chap 4 , Chap 5, Chap 6 , Chap 7.

Your ongoing support means the world to me! Reblogs are a fantastic way to help spread the word about my work. I'll do my best to reply to all your comments.

Thank you for your continued encouragement! ❤️❤️❤️

You slammed your hands onto the mahogany table, fixing Bucky with a disbelieving glare. "You want me to what?"

Bucky leaned back in his chair, a sly smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he looked you up and down. "I want you to put a small bomb into a cake."

You shook your head in disbelief. "This is the most insane thing I've ever heard."

Earlier, 30 minutes ago:

You hadn't anticipated any of this when you decided to pay Bucky a visit. Stepping into the nightclub he owned, you were met with a wave of pulsating music and flashing lights, a stark contrast to the quiet elegance of the estate.

"Your Grace, welcome!" Bucky's voice boomed over the crowd, drawing attention from every corner of the room. Rolling your eyes at his exuberance, you made your way up to the second floor, feeling eyes following your every move.

Bucky left the table where girls surrounded him, their eyes shooting daggers at you as if you were stealing him away.

Your thoughts echoed, 'I don't even want to be in the same room with him.'

As he approached you, Bucky flashed you a charming smile. "What do you think about this place?"

You shrugged nonchalantly. "It's nice, I guess."

He chuckled, leaning in closer. "The Duke's been turning a pretty penny with this joint."

"Really?" you replied, genuinely surprised.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you. "Let's talk privately. I know you hate being here."

You followed Bucky to a quieter corner, the thumping bass of the music fading into the background as you settled into a booth. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and cigarette smoke.

You arrived at Bucky's office, the room exuding an air of power and authority. As he gestured towards a board adorned with photos and plans, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease settle in.

Pointing your finger towards the board, you narrowed your eyes. "Five photos, five explosions."

Bucky snapped his fingers in agreement, a smirk playing on his lips. "That's right."

You studied the images closely, your mind racing with the implications of what Bucky was asking of you.

"What exactly do you do?" you inquired, your voice betraying a hint of apprehension.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady as he met your eyes. "When the police, lawyers, and bribes don't work, that's where I come in."

Your stomach churned at his words, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "Private executioner," you muttered, the realization hitting you like a ton of bricks.

Bucky chuckled, his laughter ringing out in the dimly lit room. "You make it sound scary. But you're right."

Bucky's words sent a shiver down your spine, his tone oozing with confidence and determination.

"But rest assured, Your Grace," he continued his voice smooth yet laced with an undeniable edge. "I won't let you do the dirty work."

As Bucky explained the situation, his hands moved with purpose, punctuating each word. His eyes glinted with determination, a silent challenge in his gaze.

"You see, this Duke owns a nightclub in the same area as me," Bucky began, his voice low but intense. "He feels threatened by my club's success, so he's been causing unnecessary problems for me."

You furrowed your brow, trying to process the gravity of his request. "So it's about business competition," you mused aloud, your arms crossed defensively over your chest.

Bucky caught your hesitation, his jaw clenching slightly as he sensed your reluctance. "Look, I know it's a big ask," he conceded, his tone softening just a fraction. "But this Duke needs to learn that he can't push me around."

As Bucky dropped the bombshell revelation, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting around the room to ensure privacy.

"And there's another thing," he began, his tone grave. "This person we're dealing with... he's a predator."

Your stomach churned at the revelation, a surge of anger and revulsion coursing through you. Yet, amidst the darkness of the situation, a glimmer of relief washed over you – knowing that your actions would be directed against someone so vile lessened the weight of your conscience.

"What kind of explosion are we talking about?" you asked, your voice edged with determination, ready to take on the task.

He clapped his hand "Finally, we're speaking at the same language."

Bucky's reply came without hesitation, his gaze unwavering. "A cake that could explode."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his seemingly flippant response. "Stop joking, please," you retorted, your words laced with a mixture of disbelief and incredulity.

Bucky chuckled at your skepticism. "I'm not kidding," he insisted, his expression serious despite the playful tone in his voice.

He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he outlined his vision. "I want it to be dramatic. When the cake explodes, I want him to be thrown back, like in those superhero movies where the hero sends the villain flying into a wall."

With a theatrical flourish, he mimicked the sound effect. "Whoosh..."

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his theatrics. "Whoosh, huh?" you repeated, mimicking a baseball swing with your hand.

Bucky grinned in response, playing along with your jest. "Yeah, whoosh," he affirmed, nodding in agreement.

As you watched Bucky's playful antics, a fleeting thought crossed your mind – if only you could open his head and see what was truly happening inside.

As the countdown approached its final moments, you and Bucky assumed your roles as waitstaff, blending seamlessly into the crowd gathered for the Duke of Langley's party.

Behind the bar, Bucky expertly mixed drinks while you diligently wiped down glasses, your eyes fixed on the unsuspecting target near the elaborate cake.

As the Duke began his speech, the guests gravitated towards him, leaving the bar momentarily deserted. Bucky stood closer to you, his presence looming over you as he leaned in slightly. "I still wonder why you wandered off alone to the U.S."

Bucky asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity, "Was the rumor true that your stepdad kicked you out?"

You shot him a sharp glance, mentioning your past hitting a nerve. Bucky quickly raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sensitive topic, I see. Just trying to make conversation," he offered with a shrug, his attention already shifting to his watch.

With a swift tug, he pulled you down to the ground just as the countdown reached its climax. His smirk was unmistakable as he whispered, "5... 4... 3... 2... 1."

And then, the explosion.

A deafening 'BANG' reverberated through the room, followed by startled cries and screams.

The force of the explosion sent a rush of wind through the room, causing glass to shatter and chaos to erupt. In the midst of the commotion, Bucky instinctively shielded you, his protective stance contrasting sharply with the panic unfolding around you.

As screams filled the air and guests scrambled for safety, Bucky couldn't help but chuckle lowly at the scene before him. Through the haze of smoke and confusion, he spotted the Duke of Langley sprawled on the ground, unconscious.

"Hahahaha," Bucky laughed, his amusement evident as he surveyed the aftermath.

But while he found humor in the chaos, you couldn't quite grasp what was so amusing about the situation.

For the next couple of days, you couldn't shake the memory of the Duke's unfortunate fate. Even as Hugo excitedly dragged you to a tennis tournament – a sport you cared little for, except when it came to Hugo's enthusiasm – you found it hard to muster any interest.

Seated in the VIP area, you watched the players enter the field without much enthusiasm.

"Something bothering you?" A deep voice interrupted your thoughts, and you turned to see Eddie beside you. Dressed sharply in a suit with a polo shirt underneath and sporting sunglasses, he smiled at you, his presence offering a welcome distraction.

You sighed, feeling the weight of recent events. "Yeah, just... recent events, you know?"

Eddie's smile faltered slightly as he picked up on your somber mood. "I heard about the nightclub incident. Quite the news."

Eddie's mention of the "sweet bomb" at Duke Langley's party caught you off guard, and you looked at him with a questioning expression.

He chuckled at your reaction. "That bomb reminded me of the time when you wanted to run away from the dormitory and decided to make a big scene."

You couldn't help but laugh. "You remember that?"

Eddie leaned in closer, his expression curious. "Is this related to Barnes?"

You nodded. "Yup. Seems like I've gotten myself into quite the mess."

Eddie's tone was somber as he addressed you. "Y/N, I didn't expect you to make a bomb for Barnes."

You sighed, feeling the weight of the situation. "8 million pounds, Eddie. Even if I sold my kidney and heart, it still wouldn't cover it."

He chuckled softly. "If you want, I could make him go away."

But you shook your head, remembering Bucky's enjoyment amidst the chaos at Duke Langley's party. "It's better if you don't get near him. For your own good, for your mental health."

"Duke of Langley had it coming," you added, your voice tinged with resignation and defiance.

Eddie's lips curled into a wry smile, a glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. "That's one way to put it. But you've certainly made a splash."

You arched an eyebrow, curiosity piqued by his cryptic remark. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Eddie's expression turned serious as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You've caught the attention of some dangerous individuals. Now everyone from petty thugs to organized crime bosses sees you as a valuable asset."

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If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

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[eldritchscribblings]

Ever At Odds

Thranduil X Reader

Part 2

Reader is an artist who has taken up a temporary residence in Mirkwood, but keeps bumping into an irritatingly handsome elf king. What happens when a late night encounter forces them together?

Word Count: 2876

Warnings:

swearing

part two will have smut

Notes: I'm sorryyyyyy I didn't want there to be a part two but it took me so long to write this part and I wanted to get it out asap for y'all <3 Pt 2 will be out soon, I'm moving across the country, so writing is slow rn.

A cold autumn wind blew through the halls of Mirkwood, biting into the very bones of those who dared set foot in the ancient woodland realm. In the ages past that bitter wind would have only howled, but its teeth had grown sharper in recent times. Not only did the wind sink its teeth into those unprepared for the woods, but it had turned its teeth upon its own people; the elves, as well. The time of elves on Middle Earth was drawing to an end.

You, of course, were well aware of that from your perch in Imladris, watching as elves dwindled and men rose to power. You were a long way off from leaving for the Undying Lands yourself, but you had already begun to feel that tug in your soul to move from your idle nest and wander towards the sea. And so you’d decided to bide your time by traveling middle earth and sketching all that was old and new among the elves; making a record of what you’d leave behind. It had been a comforting work to put your brush and pencils to paper and convey the millennia of love and sorrow that each individual stone and sapling possessed, and it had satiated you to know that once your work was completed you could leave Middle Earth with a contented heart. But as every tree must survive a storm at some point, your storm came in the form of an elven man with thick furrowed brows and a disposition that would make soot taste sweet; King Thranduil Oropherion of the Woodland Realm.

You’d arrived in Mirkwood nearly two years prior after being rescued from a giant spider by the guards and losing your favorite quill (poor Flutterflick) among the leaf strewn ground. After a quick interrogation, you were released into Mirkwood to do your duty, and yet everywhere you went for peace and tranquility you seemed to run into the Elven King. The first time it happened you hadn’t realized who he was until he threatened to have you locked in the dungeon for disagreeing with him on the best elven wine and whether charcoal was best used compressed or as a powder. You’d tried to avoid him after that, and yet this maze of a realm kept twisting you back towards him whenever you tried to get away. Which was how you found yourself sitting in an archway sketching your view of the vaulted ceiling within this particular area of the hall in the middle of the night, using a candlestick as a light.

It was the wee hours of the morning; a time you were certain the tall blond of your nightmares would be having one of his own, far away from where you’d secluded yourself. The only noises were the hush of a breeze blowing through an open window and the soft scratching of your pencil against the parchment you’d clipped to the thin drawing board in your lap. Your eyes darted seamlessly from the page to the section of empty hall you were drawing, your steady hand moving quickly to gesture in the wider picture so that detail could blossom with ease when you pulled out your softer charcoal. With the silent night enveloping you, it had been easy to fall into a trance of placing your pencil to paper and letting the world fall away into lines and values. You should’ve known the peace wouldn’t last.

“It’s a bit late for sketching fine architecture.” Thranduil’s voice echoed from behind you, and you sighed and pressed your lips together in irritation.

“My aim was to be uninterrupted, My King,” you spoke slowly and surely, presenting each word as nothing more than it claimed to be in hopes he would leave you alone. “It’s a bit late for anyone to roam the halls alone, don’t you think?”

“I am not alone, and neither are you now.” Realizing you had no intent to face him, he walked around and knelt in front of you with a disappointedly curious expression. “How fortunate it is that we can keep each other company on such lonesome nights.”

“Oh, please.” You met his steely blue gaze with a challenging one of your own, attempting to prove yourself unafraid and ward him off. “You and I both know that the two of us together always leads to disaster.”

“Only because you bring disaster with you everywhere.” Thranduil laughed softly and licked the pad of his forefinger before pinching out the flame of your candle between his forefinger and thumb. You were grateful for the darkness to hide a traitorous blush growing on your cheeks, undercutting your disturbed expression. “Finish your sketch in the daylight. You’ll make fewer proportional errors.”

“Is poisoning your kindness with insults meant to be amusing or alluring? Because it is neither.” The only reason you were so confident with your words was because the worst Thranduil could do is send you where you already planned to go ahead of schedule. Of course that was only in theory. In truth, a part of you enjoyed the little games you played together; the spiteful spitting of venom brought energy to your day, negative or positive. You couldn’t deny he was a handsome King, but you could deny giving him the satisfaction of knowing you held him in any regard.

“Have I misled myself on the quality of your mettle? Forgive me if I have caused any true harm.” The first sentence was a sharp retort, the same wit you had begun to expect from him. The second was genuine in a way that surprised you.

“Don’t delude yourself. The only way you could bring any harm to me is with a blade. And I doubt you’d want to stain this lovely hallway.” You responded with a similar genuineness that you hid within your humor, although by the look of his expression he seemed relieved enough to surmise he’d picked up your intent.

What the fuck was your intent? Half flirting with a widowed king? He was an elf who could toss you out a window or carry you down to the dungeons as easily as he’d carry a sack of grain. You inhaled and sharply shoved your charcoal pencil back into your pouch, looking away from Thranduil to shove the image of him carrying sacks of wheat like a handsome miller’s son out of your mind. Truth is you’d daydreamed about kissing Thranduil to shut him up as much as you’d daydreamed about killing him for the same outcome. It was strange to think of how a two letter difference changed the entire context of your fantasies.

“I am no mortal man so easily prone to violence. I take offense that you would think I am capable of such a thing.” Thranduil’s voice changed tone, causing you to look at him again. He was dead serious with a furrowed brow as he knelt before you, reaching forward to take your hand in his. “My guards brought you here and promised you safety. I will not make liars of them.”

“A noble, if impersonal, thought.” You responded with an equal amount of seriousness, gathering your supplies in one hand and placing the other in his as he helped you to a standing position. His intent mystified you, making you unsure of if you’d been wrong about him or if this was a lure to finally catch you when you least expected it. Either way, as you began to walk down the hall back to your rooms he walked beside you with the smallest hint of a smile on his otherwise serious face.

“Do you really think of me as cruel and unkind?” Thranduil asked softly after you had traversed a fair amount of the hall.

“Yes and no.” You replied after taking a moment to chew through your words. It was strange of him to ask the question, stranger still for you to answer honestly. You were friends, but it was a friendship that danced a fine line between confidants and the king and his favorite jester. “I think you capable of cruelty. I think your role requires unkindness. Your presentation fits the role you fulfill. I would no more expect a thatched roof on a palace than a wisened king to be tender hearted.”

“I don’t like the word wisened; it makes me feel old.” Thranduil interjected despite you being done speaking. “But I understand. And I appreciate your point of view. You’re insightful. It’s fitting for your role as an observer. I am curious, I always see you drawing and sketching instead of talking to your fellows. I’m curious as to what you draw when you’re not intending on showing it off to people.”

“Truth be told, it’s mostly animals and people. I carry around smaller sketchbooks for those and it’s idle work to do while I watch and listen to those around me.” You felt the words leave your mouth before you could stop them. Not even death would stop you from blabbing about your art when prodded. “Of course, for those sketches I prefer drawing with metals. You can use a stylus made of silver to make marks upon parchment as well as any charcoal. It’s quite beautiful in the light.”

“Then I must see them.” Thranduil stopped abruptly, causing you to have to turn around after several paces and realize he was at the door to your chambers. If you’d known you were close to your rooms you would’ve just stayed quiet. Having the Elven King in your bedroom, looking at your art, was a bad idea.

Art was your escape, your passion, your diary. There were notes about your feelings and poems about your life scrawled among the pages among grocery lists and drawings of cats napping in sunlight. There were also -you realized with sinking dread- one or two drawings of the King that you did not want him to see. You had to get out of this.

“Sire, it’s very late-“

“Nonsense, you’re up later than this quite frequently, as am I.” He stood by your door, waiting for you to open it for him. His excitement faltered for a moment as he seemed to consider the situation, and he then added; “If you truly do not desire it, I will not impose myself.”

“No, I simply hesitate because I am afraid you will not find my art as impressive as you hope.” Your eyes were firmly on the handle of your door as you opened it and allowed yourself and Thranduil into your rooms. He was very close to you as he entered behind you, and you caught a hint of his scent of petrichor and spices in a way that sent your head spinning. 

Your rooms were simple. Far from grand with books and papers strewn about haphazardly. As you entered you felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you at the state of your things, but you would not let it show. Your bed was in one corner, luckily you had remembered to make it up before leaving, but the bedside tables were covered in strewn papers and pencils. In the opposing corner there was a desk with your notebooks and sketches, and that was where Thranduil made his way to as soon as he entered.

“You live your life messily.” He stated, looking around the room before passively picking up one of your loose sketches from your desk. It was a picture of a young couple walking the halls together arm in arm, oblivious to any observer. Oblivious to you. “I do not question it. You prefer to be hidden away whenever you leave your chambers, so it must be comforting to have such things to hide yourself behind in your own dwelling.” He chuckled, glancing at you as he perused through your art, leafing through the piles of sketches on your desk. It wasn’t as if you could tell him not to, and although you were surprised at his understanding of you, you’d never admit to yourself or him whether he was right or not. 

“Or perhaps you simply collect too much and want it all near you, like a raven building its nest.” Thranduil continued despite your silence, unphased by it. He reached for a drawing closer to you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment that sent a shameful shiver down your spine. It was only when his gaze left you that you realized he had grabbed one of the drawings of him, but before you could protest, he had turned it over to look at it. It was one of the less embarrassing ones; he was sitting with his chin resting on his fist, staring off into some uncaptured distance. His face was peaceful and yet melancholy. It had been at one of the star celebrations that you had forgotten the name of last year; you had been sat at the sidelines happily drawing those partaking in the merriment when you had seen him. His sadness as he sat on his perch above his kin had captured your attention, and you hastened to put his likeness on your paper lest the spell of the moment be broken. He was beautiful to you in that moment, beautiful and wounded. The moment had ended with your eyes meeting and him sending a prideful smirk your way that left your stomach churning, but you would always remember how striking it was to see past his hardened exterior for one brief moment.

As you watched him then, taking in that art piece that had truly cemented your growing fascination with the widowed king, you could not decipher the emotions on his face. His brow furrowed as he traced the lines of his face as they were portrayed on paper, and he hunched over the drawing to better see its details. You almost made a joke, just to break the hideous silence, and yet something stopped you. Your words were stoppered in your throat with tenuous curiosity and something inside you told you to bite your tongue.

“I remember this night,” Thranduil whispered, tracing the roughly sketched embroidery on his portrait. “I was lost in thought, not one of them was pleasant, but my mind was determined to see the end of the chain. I could sense eyes on me, but there is always one person or another watching my every move.” He looked up at you, and the depth of his gaze was hauntingly sirenic, like a calm sea below a dark gray sky. “You were different. I saw your brow furrowed as you looked at me, always fiery and determined to find a flaw where no one else will.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face, no more than a twitch of his eyes, and yet it comforted you. 

“A gap in your personified stoicism is more so due to a lack of divinity than any flaw.” The words flowed easily from your lips, and you stepped closer to him so you could look at your art. “Truthfully, when I found you ‘lacking’, I found you more fascinating than I did when I believed you perfect. Like how a fly, when caught in amber, reveals the quality of the jewel.”

“Am I to be the fly in this metaphor?” He teased, lowering the drawing and stepping closer to you.

“You are aware of what I intended, my lord.” The tone of the conversation had turned lighter, but the air remained tense. It was taking all your might to will yourself not to look at his lips, or his chest, or anywhere but his eyes or your feet. You were afraid any slight unexpected movement would be perceived the wrong way and break the wavering thread of connection between you. 

“What if I were not? What if we were to spend another year misinterpreting each other? Dragging out your stay here in Mirkwood for no perceivable reason?” He seemed as hesitant to move as you were, waiting for some unknown signal to allow him to act.

“Then I suppose, should I be prevented from completing my work, I would need to stay here longer.” You were beginning to catch on. Perhaps there was more to this banter and teasing than you had originally thought. Perhaps the guilt-ridden attraction that had festered deep within your gut was mirrored in his own tumultuous emotions. You leaned slightly closer, taking your drawing from his hands and setting aside. 

“To properly record Mirkwood in such sketches as yours would take decades…” Thranduil drew out the idea, but did not finish it. Instead, he stepped forward and tenderly placed his hand upon your cheek, caressing you gently. “May I kiss you?”

The thought struck you like a blind man meeting a drunken bird, and you inhaled sharply as reality dug its cruel claws into your skin. He was the king. He had asked you to kiss him. But more than the king, he was Thranduil. Your playful nemesis who was the bane of all your existence and yet whose presence you yearned for in the darkest parts of night. Was this change in your relationship worth it? Was this a risk worth taking?

“Yes.”

[thegnomelord]

OMG CONGRATS ON 500 FOLLOWERS!!!!!! how about prompt 30 with trans!ghost? there'd be such a nice mix of battle scars & surgery scars too <3

Thanks! and Anon you have no idea on what kind of a Hyper-fixation fender you put me on with this prompt, like it's 2 in the morning and I've never written something this fast before lol. Play the game HERE.

Prompt: Kissing scars

CW: NSFW, Trans Ghost, Male reader but can be read as GN, afab language, kinda non sexual nudity, body worship, scar kissing, fluff, fluffy fluffy fluff, I'm a dirty tease.

You never know what you'll get when Ghost returns after a mission— Sometimes he'll return so hoped up on adrenaline he'll push you down on the nearest flat surface and ride you until he's satisfied, using you as a living dildo with a firm hand on your throat to keep you hard and quiet; Other times — even the barest brush of skin on skin will have him flinching away with a glare able to put you 6 feet deep.

So when you find him in your room, still fitted out in combat gear and staring off seemingly into space, you approach him slow and loud, making your footsteps echo as you draw close. You doubt he can even feel you brush your pinkies together through his thick gloves, but he jolts as if you're electric. . .but doesn't jerk away.

Creeping slowly until you're face to face with him you hold his hand loosely in your own, giving a gentle squeeze. It takes a few more squeezes before his eyes focus on you, the raging storm inside him turning them from honey brown to dark like blood soaked soil. You can tell his face is tense even with the mask on, the thin fabric helping to keep him together as his resolve slowly depletes like a fraying rope.

Something makes you move and before your mind properly registers it you're slowly taking off his glove, brushing the back of his hand with your thumb before you bring it closer to your face. His sharp eyes follow every movement of your lips as you kiss an old cigarette burn on the pad of his thumb and trail soft pecks across the silvery lines dotting his finger down to the meat of his palm, then back up to the pad of his pointer finger, kissing each knuckle as you go from finger to finger.

This doesn't stop or lessen the maelstrom in his mind, but each new kiss is like a new board to patch up the leaking holes in his boat. His other hand finds your shoulder by the time you're kissing the stab scar on the back of his hand.

His voice is so rough your name is hardly understandable, but gains your attention all the same. "Going soft on me now?" He growls, amused or irritated, you can't say.

Tempting luck you reach out to grab the zipper of his jacket, "Do you want me to stop?" You murmur against his skin.

His eyes narrow until you're staring into a dark void, a small and gruff sound leaving his throat. It's not a 'yes', but it's definitely not a 'no'. So like a miner without a canary, you slowly undress him, dropping to your knees to take off his boots and unclipping all his gear, stopping only when he's down to boxers and a long sleeve shirt when you feel him tense.

"Forgetting somethin' Sargent?" He asks, voice rough like he's ready to bark orders across the battlefield.

You look at him like a worshiper looks at a god, "Please, can I take these off Ghost?" You beg, sticking out your bottom lip for extra measure.

"Only because you look pathetic when you beg." There's no heat in his words, but you feel and see his muscles tense as you take away the last remaining articles of clothing. Only his mask remains, and you don't dare touch that.

He's dry as a bone and you can't blame him, this situation so far from normal for both of you. He lets you maneuver him until he's sitting on the bed, his knees spread just enough for you to comfortably kneel between them.

"That's bettah," He hums as you take his other hand and start kissing the rough patches of skin there, though you're a little surprised when he catches your tongue in his fingers. "You're like a damn dog." But he only brushes the his thumb against the flat of your tongue before letting go.

"Just for you, right?" You hum and start trailing bulletwounds and stab scars across his forearm.

"If yea know what's good for yea." He growls, though you can see him starting to relax, the cold edges melting slowly like the first thaw after a 1000 year old winter.

"Where do you ache, love?" You ask, reaching over to kiss a prominent scar on his bicep while you look at his abdomen. His front looks like a roadmap; full of long jagged scars from knives, dotted with small crates from old bullets, mottled with burns, and other unknown scars caused by god knows what. The only 'clean' scars he has are the two silvery lines beneath the curve of his pecs — the ones he never lets you touch.

"Will you kiss it better?" He mocks, like he doesn't believe you and looks at you like you're insane, but decides to humor you and briefly taps the fresh pink line on his abdomen. He watches you like a hawk as you lean down to lay soft kisses along the entire length of the jagged scar, a groan leaving his lips as your tongue tickles the frazzled beneath healing scar tissue, something like pleasure-not-pleasure sizzling wonderfully up his spine.

"Where else?" You ask, letting him place a heavy hand on your head and guide you where he wants you. His body aches in some way every waking moment, but for this night he can let you chase away the gnawing pain with your lips. He doesn't notice when he ends up splayed out on the bed and tugging you on top of him— another usually hard no with him —his mind growing strangely quiet as every lick and kiss on his damaged skin leaves behind shreds of warmth that build in his chest until he's boneless. It's almost like he melts into the bed, into your lips, his muscles more relaxed than they've ever been.

Then your lips brush against his top scars and a bucket of water gets splashed on his head. He barks out your name, raising his head as he scruffs you by the back of the neck before you can even react.

You don't resist his hold, "Yes, my handsome man?" You ask with a teasing lilt to your voice, your lips brushing against his top scars when he visibly shivers at your words.

"The fuck are you doin'?" He asks the question that's been plaguing both of your minds, but he doesn't sound angry and doesn't try to throw you off him, so you continue to gently worship his top scars.

"What's it look like?" You ask and feel his hold on your neck loosen as you trail from one scar to it's twin on the other side. His hand remains where it is, but his blunt nails lightly scratch your skin as reward for adoring scars like you're doing right now.

"Like you're doing something stupid." He huffs and you can finally see the dark clouds in his eyes parting, his chest rising and falling as he lets out a breath that's been weighing on his shoulders for a while. "But-" He takes your hand and moves it down between his legs, both of you groaning when you find his folds wet and pliant to your fingers, clit hard and pulsing against your hand. "-I can think of a few more places where I 'ache'." He gives a smug smirk that's obvious through his balaclava, his other hand lightly tugging on your hair, "Kiss it better for me, yeah?"

How can you refuse?

[sayafics]

Just For A Moment - Part 7

Sorry for the long, long wait my loves, but I hope this was worth it!

There are probably going to be around 2/3 more chapters as I start drawing this series to an end👀

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Masterlist

No one spoke for a long while, eyes darting over the wilting pair as Aurora avoided their gazes, and Jay ached for her own to meet his pleading one.

It was Aurora who broke first, voice hoarse as she forced a cough past her lip and broke out of her stupor.

"I'm going to grab the last of my stuff, and then we can head out." She looked at Voight as she spoke, not even waiting for him to answer before she turned away and returned the same way she came. It did not go unnoticed how Kim mirrored her every step, as though she was unwilling to let the girl get too far.

Jay's bloodshot eyes met Voight's, unable to even try and translate his frustration in the form of narrowed eyes, furrowed brows and a clenched jaw.

He was an open book of raw emotion, stumbling like a toddler learning to take their first steps as he grew unsure of how to navigate the circumstances held before him.

Was this not what he had wanted? Was this not what he had been asking for- pleading and praying for since the day she had left?

And yet, it felt as though he was drifting through a dream - like she was an echo or a ghost of the girl who once roamed this very office, who now haunted his home and his dreams. And now she haunted this office.

Voight looked solemn as he met Jay's gaze, "I would've told you, Jay. But I didn't know when you'd be back."

"Why is she here?"

It was all he could say. And it was all he could do to hope that perhaps she had come on her own volition, that she had come because she had missed him. That she had heard his voicemails, every single one.

That she saw his regret, that she felt his misery and his sorrow, that she understood his guilt and forgave him.

That she came back for him.

But he knew from the look in Voight's eyes that he was way in over his head, that his wishes were simply unkempt desires and she hadn't come back for him at all.

Her flinch and stoic expression were evidence enough.

Aurora hated him, he was sure of it.

But he was also sure no one could hate him as much as he hated himself in that moment. So undeserving and unworthy of her love.

"I needed someone to go undercover in the Volkov case - she's the best."

She is, of course she is.

But to know she came back for a case, and not for him, hurt.

To know she saw Voight's call and answered him, when she had ignored his every call, hurt.

Jay knew she saw every call, it was why he never stopped. He prayed she listened to his voicemails and saw his regret, recognised his remorse and heard his devotion and his love.

But she came to help Voight, not him.

And that was a sign of its own that perhaps he was too late, that perhaps Aurora no longer wanted him - that she no longer needed him.

That she never needed him, not the way he needed her.

Not the way he wanted her- not anymore.

Jay shook his head free from such thoughts, grounding himself in the present as he chanted in his mind - she's here. She's here, and he has a chance. He has to have one. He has one until she looks him in the eyes and tells him he lost every single one, and lost her too.

His mind had finally processed Voight's words - finally, he thought.

Finally, an emotion so foreign but familiar seeped through his blood. No longer was he full of misery and grief, regret and shame. His muscles stiffened with the familiar sensation of disbelief, something so small yet euphoric as it tumbled through him as though it was unsure of how to navigate in the confines of his tortured body.

"You want her to go undercover for him? To get close to him?"

Jay couldn't believe what he was hearing - they knew how dangerous Volkov was. His only casualties were not those who touched his tainted drugs, but men, women and children who dared to defy him.

A glance at the board near Voight's office proved his fears, the surface littered in a mass of photographs with the victims of his anger and his crimes.

This was the man they wanted to send her into the arms of, this was the man they wanted her to trap.

They brought her here, so close to him, only to send her to her death.

"She's a good cop Jay, an even better undercover operative," Adam spoke now, a supportive hand placed upon Jay's shoulder as he spoke consolingly, "if anyone can take this guy down, it's her."

Jay shook his hand off as anger bubbled through him, a comforting feeling that settled at the base of his throat as he struggled to fight off his nausea.

"Are you kidding me? We know how dangerous this guy is, how can you even think about sending someone undercover to get close to him? Especially her."

Adam put his hands up in surrender, "you're letting your emotions talk for you Jay - you know just as well as we do, with her track history she is the best person for this job."

Jay shook his head vehemently, "no, you're wrong. I know what I'm talking about, and this is too dangerous. She's going go get hurt."

"You can't stop her," Voight took a step closer, brows furrowed in disappointment knowing had Jay been here from the start they would've been able to ease him into the idea better and prevented such an outburst, "she knows the risks, and she's agreed to the terms. She wants to do this."

"She doesn't know what she wants!"

Jay's heart stuttered to a stop for a second, so sure that she would've heard his raised voice.

For a moment, he hoped it was enough to make her come find him.

His fleeting eyes were enough to confirm that it wasn't.

A scoff sounded before him, his shoulders stiffening as a familiar voice rang from behind him. He knew that voice, knew it so well from the hours she would spend outside his door or on the phone pleading for his attention, for his love and his heart.

But his heart wasn't his to gift anymore, it was Aurora's. It had always been Aurora's.

And if he had been in possession of the ill-fated thing, he was sure he would protect it fiercely from Hailey.

"Are you sure you're not just saying that because she decided she doesn't want you?" Her words were harsh, they were vile and brutal but true. They stung deeply because they echoed his greatest fears and resounded through the room.

He turned towards the blonde woman, green eyes flickering between her set of blue as he was taken aback again by just how closely they mirrored one another. How her thoughts reflected his own. How his fears were picked and pulled apart by her with ease.

And he wondered to himself why he had let her get close enough to him to allow such a thing to happen in the first place.

Yet, looking into her eyes and seeing a pool of misery and anger that matched his own, he knew he would never have been able to stop such a thing.

Jay Halstead was not in love with Hailey Upton.

He was never fascinated by her.

He didn't want to be her friend because he was a good man.

He wanted to learn her entire being thoroughly because had he been born a woman, he was sure it would be her face he saw in the mirror every morning.

They had lived the same life at different paces, faced the same horrors and the same setbacks, they navigated the same shortcomings and were plagued by the same nightmares. They had loved the same and lost the same and were so intimately designed like one another, it was difficult not to find distorted version of himself staring back every time he glanced at her.

And yet, she was so different to him.

Where he was filled with anger and fury, rules and stipulations, she was happy and joyous and free, she was optimistic and kind in a way he ached to be.

In the way Aurora deserved to have him.

Jay knew why he became her friend, he knew why he confided in her, he knew why he let her kiss him and touch him, and he knew why he did the same.

Jay wanted to be healed like Hailey. He wanted to be the man Aurora deserved. But such a reality was not possible, and Aurora did not deserve the twisted and broken man that he was.

But Hailey was a reflection of his own horrors, standing untwisted and preserved.

Jay didn't deserve Aurora, he wasn't enough for her. He never was.

At least he didn't think he was.

Not until after that night with Hailey, when he saw Aurora pull away and distance from him. Not until that night where she confessed she had always known and feared she was the reason he had done such a thing - that she was not enough.

It was then Jay realised that it didn't matter how alike him and Hailey were, because no one could understand him the way Aurora did.

No one could comfort him and hold him and love him like she did.

Jay didn't need to be fixed like Hailey was. He didn't need to overcome his past like she had. Because he wasn't like Hailey, no matter how many similarities they shared in their lives.

He didn't need Hailey to show him how to become a better version of himself, because he had realised much too late that Aurora had been the one that was mending his cluttered mind and brittle soul one fragment at a time.

He didn't know how to answer Hailey, he could only stare at her as he wondered how he had let their friendship twist upon itself to sour the bond they shared.

It was also then when he realised he would have picked Aurora every time. That he should have picked Aurora every time.

He blinked himself out of his daze, blinking furiously as he turned away from Hailey the same way he should have months ago now.

He met Voight's gaze, his own filling with determination as he spoke, "just let me speak to her-"

"Jay," Kevin sighed from behind him, a pitying look colouring his face, "we've been putting a plan together for days now. This is the only way we got to get this guy."

"Then let me go with her - let me go too, so she's not alone. So that he can't hurt her."

Voight clenched his jaw as he wondered how to navigate his way through Jay's volatile emotions, "you're not in the right state of mind, Jay. I can't have you risk this entire case beca-"

"Because what? Because I can't see the woman I love die? Because I don't want to think of her being hurt by the very man we're hunting down? I don't want her to end up as another picture on that board, Voight. Not when I've spent this long looking for her. Not when I've just found her."

Jay's eyes burned with fresh tears, his skin heating a deep red as he let his emotions bubble free, as he confessed and let his yearning out into the open.

She was so close. So close, only to feel like she was a lifetime away.

"You didn't find her," Voight's voice deepened, his tone stern as he crossed his arms over his chest, "I did. And she only agreed to come back for this case."

"Then let me go with her," Jay drew closer to Voight, eyes darting down the same hall Aurora disappeared. "Let me go, let me keep her safe. Let me be close to her again, just this one time. Just one more time before she leaves again."

Voight knew why he brought Aurora back, he had wanted this too. He had wanted to bring back Jay and Aurora together and see if they could heal each other.

But not like this.

He had hoped that after the case was done, Aurora might decide to come back and stay. That if she did, then she and Jay could once again navigate the parameters of their relationship.

He simply hadn't expected this.

He hadn't expected to see their raw wounds and conflicted minds, their silent longing and stubborn hearts.

But maybe this was exactly what they needed.

Maybe this was what Jay needed.

This could be the start of a new chapter for the pair, or it could be the closure they had denied themselves.

"Fine. Kevin's going to debrief you - you make sure you're ready for this Jay. You have an hour. If you're not, then it won't be Volkov you have to worry about, because you'll be the one that gets you and Gallo killed."

Jay nodded solemnly, a crushing weight lifted off his shoulders. He might have hurt Aurora, but he was repenting and would seek forgiveness until the end of time. Until then, he would not allow another to lay a hand upon the woman he loves.

Voight watched as Kevin steered Jay towards his office, turning to Adam to instruct him on getting an alias and outfit prepared for Jay. They didn't have long to prepare him, but they would do all they could to ensure the operation ran smoothly.

For now, Voight would have to break the news to Aurora and hope she didn't rescind her offer to help altogether.

Throughout it all, it did not go unnoticed how Hailey found her home in the paperwork before her once more, her harsh words once ignored and her burning gaze ceremoniously ignored.

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Hello!! Congrats on your 350 followers! I'm sure that number will just keep growing the more people read your fics! I'm so excited about your event.

You've written some of my favorite Hunter fics, so I'm going to stick with him.

Companion: Hunter

Luggage: Fluff and maybe Family? I wasn't really sure what the family would entail, but with Hunter maybe it could be something with Omega?

Destination: Hoth (I like the idea of the freedom and new beginnings, like maybe after everything is over and everyone is happy he can start fresh being a dad, not a soldier) and/or Pabu (relaxation and peace.)

Extra: If a female character could be included, that would be awesome also...maybe the fluff part...someone he could end up with that would be a great mom for Omega.

I'm not sure if that's possible, so take what you can use out of that and add in anything you need (just so it's Hunter and is a happy ending I will be excited!)

Thanks!

Carol (@clonethirstingisreal)

Thank you for booking with Soaring's Tours. We're now ready to board your flight. Please mind the gap between the transport and the platform. We wish you a pleasant journey!

A Place Called Home

Determined to leave the fighting and running behind now that your little family are all together again, you settle into your new home in Upper Pabu.

Pairing: Hunter x f!reader

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: spoilers for S3, clowning that CX-2 is Tech, fluff, sweetness, domestic goodness, happy family times, all the kisses, reader treats Omega like a daughter, flirting, quirofilia (a thing for hands), very small reference to knife play, sprinkle of innuendos, implied night together.

“I’m thinking forest green on this wall and leaving the other three as they are.” You muse, glancing around the room at the four white walls.

Between the credits Omega and Crosshair acquired during their escape from Tantiss and the credits you procured after tying up some loose ends on Ord Mantell, you all could afford a beautiful home in Upper Pabu. 

The boys and Omega had been excited to finally have a house – to have their own rooms. With your little family reunited and Tech’s memories starting to return, you’d put your foot down. There would be no more fighting, no more running. Echo had opted to stay with Rex and take care of Tantiss, and you’d received news last night that they’d successfully freed all of the clones being held captive and razed the place to the ground.

Wrecker was sad to miss the explosions. Echo sent him a holovid of them as an apology. 

“Whatever you’d like, cyar’ika,” Hunter answers, setting down the last box of furniture in the centre of the room. It had taken a few trips to bring all the newly purchased items back to Pabu, every bit of space in the Marauder utilised, and you couldn’t wait to set everything up.

Turning, you offer Hunter a soft smile as he approaches. A light breeze wisps through the room, the doors to the balcony overlooking the ocean thrown open. The early morning sun was already warming everything up and casting a golden glow across the tranquil island. 

“You get a say too, my heart.” You remind him.

Hunter draws you closer, wrapping his arms around you as you lean against his chest. Without his armour, he can feel the warmth of your body against his own through the thin layers of civilian clothing you’ve picked out for him - a new wardrobe for a new chapter of life. “I’m not bothered what colour you paint the walls, just so long as you’re happy.”

Pulling back from the embrace, you look up at the man you adore and reach for the small comms unit in your pocket. “Cross…” You speak as you flick it on. 

The line crackles to life a moment later. “Yes?” The familiar drawl comes through.

“Can you please pick up some forest green paint, too?” You ask sweetly, and you can almost picture the sniper’s eye roll in the following silence. He’d headed out a short while ago with a list of items to buy from the island’s stores, Omega and Batcher in tow. The lurca hound’s strength was being used, pulling a small cart for purchases.

“Anything else?” Crosshair questions.

Thinking for a moment, there was nothing else you wanted to add to the shopping list. But you did have a little surprise for them. “I slid some extra credits into the pouch. Make sure the three of you stop off somewhere nice and get some breakfast. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“Goody.” Crosshair deadpans.

Chuckling softly, you shake your head. “I mean it, Cross. No skipping meals.” You’d been trying your hardest to help him regain some of the weight he’d lost on Tantiss.

“Understood.” He replies, his tone more serious now. “We’ll grab something decent.”

“Great. We’ll see you soon.” You end the call and slip the comms unit back into your pocket.

“Spoiling them again, are we?” Hunter teases, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Playfully swatting at his arm, you offer him a grin. “Hey, they’ve been through a lot. They deserve nice things. You all do.”

“Fair point,” Hunter concedes, knowing that everything you do for him and his siblings is out of love and care. It was ingrained in your nature, and it’s part of why he’s been so drawn to you since you first met.

You smile up at him, feeling a rush of happiness and contentment wash over you. It still amazes you how far you’ve all come since the early days of the war. Back then, you never would have imagined ending up in this peaceful little corner of the galaxy, surrounded by people who care about you. “Come on, this furniture isn’t going to build itself.” You hate to break the moment, but you hadn’t been lying – it would be a long day to get the house ready to live in.

As you and Hunter assemble the furniture, the playful banter continues. Tools clink softly as you work, and occasionally, one of you laughs over a particularly amusing remark.

“You know, for a tough, stoic soldier, you’re surprisingly good at putting together furniture.” You tease, watching as Hunter carefully screws in a bolt.

He smirks, glancing at you. “I think you’ll find I’m a man of many talents.”

“And don’t I know it.” You murmur, handing him another piece of the dresser he’s assembling as your eyes rake over the length of his body before settling back on his deft hands.

Hunter can feel the weight of your gaze on him, smirk still firmly in place as he basks in your admiration. “Cyar’ika, you’re getting distracted.” He points out, voice low as his gaze flits across to you, nostrils flaring as he breathes in your scent.

“Can you blame me?” You ask, reaching out to slowly drag your fingers down his forearm towards his strong hands, enjoying the unrestricted access now he’s packed away his armour.

Hunter watches as you touch him, enjoying the warmth of the action. You’ve always been more physically affectionate - lingering hands and gentle caresses. It had taken some getting used to for his senses not to freak out at the contact. “I’m not even holding my vibroknife.” He teases.

“And now I’m thinking about that. Thanks.” You sigh, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips as your hand curls around his wrist.

Your joint laughter echoes around the room, and Hunter can’t help but lean towards you, stealing another kiss. Everything with you had felt so easy since the very first day. “Later. At least let me build the bed first.” He chides playfully, but a glint of desire shines in his eyes. 

You concede with a nod, earning a smile from him before you let go of his wrist. You focus on building the furniture, even though desire still pools in your belly. Each completed piece is placed in the middle of the room, and old tarps from the Marauder are thrown over it to protect it from potential paint splatters. 

As you work, footsteps climbing the stairs interrupt your progress. Glancing towards the door, you see Crosshair and Omega with paint cans, while Batcher has a bag hanging from her mouth full of brushes and rollers.

“We’re back!” Omega announces cheerfully, setting down the paint cans she’d been carrying.

Crosshair follows behind her with a hint of amusement as he observes Omega’s exuberance. “Got everything on the list,” he states, holding several other cans.

You smile warmly at them both, grateful for their efforts. “Thank you, both of you,” you say sincerely, moving to inspect the cans of paint - the perfect amount for the room. Reaching for Batcher, you pry a few brushes and rollers from the bag in her mouth, giving her a gentle pet of thanks afterwards.

“What colours did you pick?” You ask, handing one of the cans to Hunter as he finishes laying down some tarps to protect the floor.

“Purple.” Omega answers, pointing to one of the cans Crosshair was holding.  

“Grey.” Crosshair chips in. “Yellow for Wrecker. Orange for Tech.” He adds, lifting some of the other cans. 

Omega grins, patting her thigh, which prompts Batcher to return to her side, the hound sitting next to her. “We’re all doing feature walls,” she explains happily.

“Trendsetter.” Hunter nudges you, grinning. 

You chuckle, enjoying Omega’s lightness and enthusiasm - after everything that had happened to her, she deserved to be a kid and enjoy the innocence that came with it. “Alright, the sooner we start, the sooner we can get the furniture in place and spend the night here.”

With that, the room fills with activity. Crosshair excuses himself to deliver the other paint cans and start making progress in his own room, whistling for Batcher to follow. The lurca hound is more than happy to trail after her favourite human.

As the door swings shut behind the sniper, Hunter pries open a can of green paint, pouring some into three trays and placing a brush with each. He hands one to Omega, the other to you, and he keeps the third one. 

As you all begin to paint, Omega takes the lead, happily painting broad strokes of green onto the wall, only able to reach halfway up it. You focus on the edges, painting neat lines, while Hunter fills in the top section that Omega can’t reach. 

Continuing to work, it isn’t long until you and Omega are side by side. Feeling cheeky, you swipe a finger through the paint on the end of your brush, calling the young girl’s name to catch her attention. As she turns to look at you, you strike, smearing a streak of green across her cheek. 

Omega gasps in surprise, her eyes wide as she stares at you in disbelief. Then, a mischievous grin spreads across her face. “Oh, it’s on now!” She declares, dipping her finger into the paint and flicking it at you with a giggle.

Your laughter melds with hers as the paint splatters your bare arm, and Hunter watches the exchange with amusement, shaking his head fondly at the playfulness between the two of you. He appreciates how you always try to give Omega a childhood, even when you all fled the Empire and worked jobs for Cid. The way you doted on her warmed his heart. “Alright, let’s keep it civil, you two.” He interjects, holding up a hand in a gesture of peace, as if this were a serious fight, though the smile on his lips gives the game away.

You and Omega exchange grins, and before Hunter has time to stop it, you both smear green paint across his face, covering the bridge of his nose and his tattooed cheek. 

“Oops.” You mutter in faux innocence, batting your eyelashes.

Hunter blinks, looking momentarily stunned before a slow grin spreads across his face. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” He says, his tone teasing. Without missing a beat, he dips his finger into the paint tray and swipes it across your forehead, leaving a streak of green.

You gasp, feigning shock, before pouting. “Hey, no fair!” You protest, trying your hardest not to chuckle as Omega’s laughter fills the room.

Hunter steps forward, balancing the paint tray in one hand as he slides an arm around your waist, hauling you in. You’re radiant in the midday sunshine, eyes sparkling with mischief, the smear of paint across your forehead incredibly endearing. Dipping his head down, his lips meet yours in a tender kiss, tongue sliding against your lips teasingly before he breaks the connection, aware that you have an audience. Mouth ghosting across your cheek, he pauses as he reaches your ear. “I’ll paint you with something else later.” He rasps quietly, teasingly squeezing your side before he pulls away, heat burning in his gaze. 

Stunned into silence, warmth flushes through you. You watch, mouth agape, as Hunter returns to painting, completely unruffled. 

Omega calls your name, snapping you out of your. “Are you okay?” She asks, unsure what Hunter said to you, though she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know whatever it was. 

You blink, shaking your head slightly to clear your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m fine.” You assure her with a smile. “Just got lost in thought for a moment.”

“Mhm.” Omega hums. She loves seeing you and Hunter openly affectionate and is still proud of the little stunt she pulled shortly after you all fled Kamino, which led to the two of you getting together. She’d always been intuitive and knew from the get-go that there was something between you. “Good, then stop slacking,” she teases, turning back to continue painting.

You rejoin her, and the playful banter and occasional laughter continue as you work together to finish painting the wall. The forest green paint covers the surface quickly, leaving behind a fresh, vibrant hue that transforms the room.

A sense of satisfaction washes over you as you step back to admire your handiwork. The colour stands out against the remaining white walls, adding a pop and some character. “It looks wonderful.” You remark, smiling at Omega and Hunter. “Great job, team.”

Omega beams with pride, placing her paintbrush back onto the tray.

“How about we take a break and grab an early dinner?” Hunter glances towards the windows, making a rough guess at the time.

The idea of a break sounds appealing, and you nod in agreement. “Sounds like a plan. I’m starving.”

“How about a barbecue?” Hunter suggests, figuring it was worth the little extra time it would take compared to rustling something up in the kitchen. “We can grill some food outside and enjoy the nice weather.”

“Sounds perfect.” You agree. “Go fire up the grill. Omega and I will tidy up in here.”

Giving you a small kiss, Hunter heads out to the backyard to start the grill, leaving you and Omega to clean up the painting supplies and put away the tarps. It doesn’t take long, and once the room is tidied up, you and Omega make your way outside to join Hunter. The smell of cooking food fills the air, making your stomach grumble, and there’s already a small spread of food on the table.

“Looks like you’ve got everything under control,” you remark, stepping behind Hunter to wrap your arms around his waist as he mans the grill.

A huff of laughter leaves Hunter. “When have I not had things under control?”

“You do not want her to answer that.” Tech’s voice cuts through the moment as he steps out into the yard to join you all, along with Wrecker and Crosshair. Although Hemlock’s reconditioning had stolen most of his memories, he’d spent his life recording everything and was working through clips to see if they jogged anything in his mind. Between that and all the stories you all shared, snippets were starting to come back to him.

The boys and Omega slide into chairs around the table. You chuckle at the remark and the thin press of Hunter’s lips, knowing full well that there have been plenty of times when his plans haven’t gone smoothly. “Alright, everyone grab a plate,” you call out, gesturing to the spread of food laid out on the table as you place down another one. 

“I’m starvin’,” Wrecker exclaims, reaching for a few Nuna drumsticks. The rest of the group follows suit, filling their plates with delicious food and settling around the table. The atmosphere is relaxed and cheerful, and laughter and conversation fill the air as you enjoy the meal together.

As you eat, contentment washes over you. You’d fought so hard for this - moments where you could enjoy each other’s company and revel in life’s simple pleasures. Your little family deserves it after everything that’s happened, and you soak it in, feeling grateful that the Kaminoans assigned you as a liaison to the boys all those years ago.

Once everyone has eaten, Crosshair cleans up the grill while the rest of you remain around the table, enjoying the warm afternoon sun, and eventually, the conversation turns to plans for the rest of the day. “We should start putting the furniture where we want it in our room.” You suggest, glancing at Hunter.

“I’ll help with the heavy lifting!” Wrecker volunteers, already pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. The rest of you smile at his enthusiasm.

As a unit, you clear the table, gathering up the remaining dishes before heading back inside. With everyone pitching in, the process goes quickly. It also takes little time for Wrecker and Hunter to put the bedroom furniture where it belongs. The newly painted wall is mercifully already dry, thanks to Pabu’s heat. 

With a shout of thanks to Wrecker as the big man leaves your room, you let out a deep exhale. This is home now. And you can’t quite believe how lucky you are. 

Crossing the room, you step onto the small balcony overlooking the ocean. Your hands wrap around the warm metal railing, and you take a moment to close your eyes and let it sink in. As you stand there, basking in the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze, you hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching from behind. Opening your eyes, you turn to see Hunter stepping out onto the balcony, a small smile playing on his lips as he joins you. 

“Enjoying the view?” He asks, his voice quiet and gentle.

You nod, turning back to face the water, leaning against the railing as you see the endless ocean stretching out before you. “It’s gorgeous,” you reply, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Almost as gorgeous as you.”

Hunter shakes his head, flattered by the compliment but mad at himself for not seeing that you’d snatch the low-hanging fruit. He steps closer, pressing up against your back as he wraps his arms around you. You lean into his embrace, relishing the warmth and strength surrounding you.

“I’m glad we’re here.” He murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Me too.” You whisper, letting go of the railing with one hand to intertwine your fingers with his. “I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.”

For a moment, you simply stand there together, enjoying each other’s company and the moment’s tranquillity. The world fades away, leaving only the two of you and the gentle sound of the waves below. Even the boys’ noise around the table in the yard, teaching Omega how to play Sabacc, fades into the background.

Eventually, Hunter breaks the silence, his voice soft and affectionate. “I love you.” He says, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head.

“I love you too.” You reply. “More than anything.”

Happy, Hunter dips his head down, his nose finding the crook of your neck. In slow motion, he drags it up the length of your throat towards the back of your ear, breathing in your scent.

The sensation sends shivers down your spine, and you tilt your head slightly to give him better access, relishing in the moment’s intimacy. His lips brush against your skin, feather-light and achingly tender, sending a rush of warmth through your veins. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of his touch, his breath hot against your ear.

“Think it might be time to paint my favourite masterpiece…” He murmurs, his voice heavy with desire. 

You inhale sharply at his words, hand tightening around his own as desire curls through you. Turning in his arms, you press your lips to his in a passionate kiss, hands reaching up to hold his handsome face. 

Heat courses through Hunter as he grasps your rear, taking control of the kiss as he steps backwards into the room, drawing you along with him. 

There was a new bed to break in. 

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @starrylothcat @cw80831 @issa-me-bry-blog @leftealeaf @isaidonyourknees @padawancat97 @dangraccoon @jedi-hawkins @dreamie411 @sverdgeir

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[heyclickadee]

A couple things:

1. The thing is, I actually don’t really think we’re done with the bad batch, for a variety of reasons. There’s too much unresolved, for one thing, and “end of this chapter with these characters” is not how anyone says, “We’re never touching this again.” I really do think we’re getting an immediate follow up with more of a focus on Rex and Echo, but that the rest of the bad batch will still pop in from time to time, giving all of them a chance to round out the last little bit of their stories and character arcs—because they are all just a little bit undercooked. (For example: Crosshair doesn’t even get lines after Tantiss, and the last thing he says about himself takes him from implicitly to explicitly suicidal. The hug is beautiful and cements his place as part of the family, but we never get a moment where he forgives himself or no longer believes that he deserves to die. His redemption arc is magnificent, but it needs that last little push to feel fully resolved).

And, for another variety of reasons, I actually do still think we’ll be getting Tech back in one way or another. So much of what is left unresolved in TBB forms a chalk outline around a Tech-shaped void, for one. The writers aren’t committed enough to have come up with a decent reason for why he had to go in the first place—stakes does not cut it and is actively undermined by never treating it like a character death—for another. They were, at the very least, not committed enough to actually kill him. Tech is the only character in a show that loves making us watch who doesn’t die on screen, and the only one who’s “death” moves nothing forward and is never treated like an actual death. And we have no definitive proof he actually died, for another. (Even if he was CX-2—CX-2 got “killed” two other times on screen and popped up five minutes later each time like a daisy. If you do that you’re going to have to burn the body and scatter the ashes for me to think he’s dead, impalement or no. Besides, you can’t definitively kill a main character via subtext. You still have to be clear and direct.) And Tech has too many callback lines and potential survival foreshadowing for someone to never tug on them at some point, for another. You’d have to kill me to keep me from doing something with, “Better late than dead.” Basically, tl:dr, I think Tech will come back someday, whether they have plans or not.

Because I can’t really get on board with the idea that The Bad Batch was just always badly written. I can’t agree with that. It was never perfect, of course, but it was always remarkably well written and thematically consistent for 46 straight episodes and then tripped on the chalk of the finish line. Besides, I’ve never seen bad writing that was perfectly set up amazing writing if all they did was one simple thing—ie, follow through with what they set up. It’s not that the ending is bad, it’s that it’s bad in this particularly insane way. If it was just normal bad, I’d have dropped The Bad Batch like a rock by now and done my best to forget I’d ever watched it. But because it’s bad like this—basically, a non-ending that resolves nothing but Hunter’s Cut Lawquane arc, Rampart (which was good, actually), and the problem of Hemlock continuing to draw breath (which was just the last major obstacle in Hunter’s Cut Lawquane arc, so it’s not even a separate thing) and answers NO questions—I’m obsessed.

And I can’t get behind the idea that The Bad Batch ending is like this and that we got shorted a Tech return because they got shorted a season. I’ve seen many serialized animated shows that got shorted a season or more, and what every one of them did was cut out everything they could in the middle so that they could get to the resolution they wanted, squash the originally planned last season’s arcs into the actual last season—not leave those arcs undone and the resolution out. The only way them being shorter a season works as an explanation for all of this is if the creative team found out season three was the last at the same time we did. And even then, the solution there would have been to take out five minutes of fight scene and replace it with five minutes of resolving everything in the short and stupid but still THERE way.

For example: Give Wrecker and Crosshair one line each after Tantiss that tells us what they’re going to do. Unmask CX-2 as Tech after spearing him (or don’t spear him) and add one line where Hunter says he’s recovering and that it’ll be a long road, but they won’t give up on him. Or! If you don’t want to bring Tech back in the short and stupid but there way, add a line to the epilogue where Hunter tells Omega, “I see Tech when I look at you sometimes. I don’t want to lose you the way we lost him,” which seems like a no brainer, or, “Tech would have been so proud of you,” which is absolutely a no-brainer if you actually want to close things out for Tech. Tech would still be gone, but at least it’d be resolved, and that’s all short, simple stuff you could add to the very last episode to make it feel finished. If you’re shorted a season or even a few episodes, you cut everything that doesn’t matter, you do whatever you can to get your story resolved—unless you have somewhere else to put it. Which, given how open Star Wars canon is and how heavily it relies on recontextualization, is a very real possibility here.

What I think may have happened here is that The Bad Batch ended up being the first part of a longer story that had to be artificially cut in half. Whether it was always planned that way, whether it was something that unexpectedly happened partway through the production of season three, or a secret third option (the creative team set things up to to be resolved in three seasons but always wanted to do a longer version, but the longer version (in the form of another show) didn’t get greenlit until they’d already written most of season three, so all the payoff got schlorped over to that follow up show while the payoff stayed in this one, leaving us, the audience, with this incredibly unsatisfying mess of a finale in the meantime while whoever is in charge of announcing shit at Lucasfilm doesn’t see the problem). Put a pin in CX-2, slap something that looks like a happy ending on the rest, resolve nothing, do it all in the next thing.

(Slight sidebar: If it turns out that the reason we didn’t get Tech back is because something went horrifically wrong during the writer’s strike—basically, the finale got hit with extreme budget cuts and the script patched by AI—I think we’d still get Tech back. Tech in the first two seasons was something of a writer blorbo, and no one is leaving their blorbo dead over that. That’s a good way for them to bring back their blorbo and have that blorbo murder the hell out of a thinly disguised CEO insert.)

And if that’s what we’re looking at—well, okay. I can see wanting to give certain things (especially a Tech return) more time. If this is what’s happening I actually think it will be more satisfying in the long run, from a story perspective, anyway. I’ll be able to live with that.

That said….

2. If that’s the case—if what we’re looking at is a story artificially split in half one way or another and we are getting a Tech return and the rest of the resolution eventually in an immediate follow up, something that will ultimately work really well in the long run—that doesn’t mean I think it works now. Right now, it’s awful, from every angle. We don’t know for sure that anything else is coming, it makes for a deeply unsatisfying story right now because the “ending” we have is all we have to go on, and it’s unnecessarily stressful for most everyone but especially the autistic fans who relate to Tech.

And the thing is, if Tech were neurotypical? I don’t think we’d really be question the idea that he could still come back eventually. He’s a clear writer favorite to the point that they basically gave him the entirety of season two, except the two Crosshair episodes, great lines and moments in other character’s episodes, and they apparently liked using him so much that either CX-2 was Tech or they physically couldn’t stop themselves from writing and animating Tech in a season he wasn’t in. Killing off one of the writer faves and the fan favorite in order to bring them back later is something that happens. But it’s something that hits differently when that writer and fan favorite is also the only canonically autistic character in the franchise.

Which. Is I think where we run into a problem. You see, I never really got the impression that the creative team ever thought of Tech as The Autistic One. Does that mean I think the didn’t write him as autistic? Of course not—they absolutely did, and did so intentionally. What I mean is that that wasn’t the sum total or even the primary way in which they thought of him, otherwise I think we would have ended up with a terrible Sheldon-Cooper-esque. Instead, the Tech they wrote, and the Tech we got, is just a guy. A really amazing guy who’s noticeably different and autistic AF, but treated like any other character. And on the one hand, great! I know people have a lot of different ideas about this, but I personally want writers to deal with autistic characters that way—to just write us like we’re people. And if what they’re doing is bringing Tech back later and on a longer timeframe than what we expected—also great. It means that all the ambiguity, hinting, and complete and total lack of processing or closure makes sense, because that’s how you write a fakeout death. That’s textbook how you write a fakeout death. But—but—

The flip-side of just treating Tech like any other character and, perhaps, playing a long game with “killing” him off and bringing him back later like someone would do with a fan favorite, if that’s what they’re doing, is that you end up in the situation that we’re in right now. The interim situation where it feels like Tech’s sacrifice was never given the weight it needed to feel final or meaningful, where we’re given no closure and no opportunity to let go, where we DON’T know if anything is coming next even if we do get hints, where Tech got dropped, where nothing makes sense, and where the autistic fans in the audience who relate to Tech feel like Star Wars kicked them in the face and told them that they don’t belong here.

So.

I want this to be a long game, and I do think this could, one, be a situation where they team is having to work around some kind of corporate shenanigans to play that long game, and; two, could end up being a fantastic story that I love even more than the version I wanted.

But even if I’m right and that is the case, I also hate that this is where we’re at in the here and now, that it’s hurt people as badly as it has, and think that they should never do anything like this again, because the game stopped being fun a long time ago.

tl;dr: I don’t think we’re done yet, I think this is part of a longer story, I think we’ll get Tech back at some point whether it was planned or not, but I also hhhaaaaaatte the current situation and think it’s been mishandled.

[asleepinawell]

since i tempted a decent handful of my followers into fallen london i decided as recompense to make a guide/hints/tips thing to a few early on things that might not be as easy to pick up on. the first couple may be a little more obvious but some of the later ones are more obscure. enjoy, delicious friends!

1) Use Plans!!!! That little bookmark icon on the top right of an action will save it to your plans page so you can easily reference if you can't complete it now. great for remembering what you were doing and how many items you need. extremely good for ambitions

2) Use Your Opportunity Deck. It's easy to get caught up in the making your name stuff, but there's a lot of good and important things in your opportunity deck you can miss out on. Bronze cards often help open little stories even if it's not immediately obvious. You get a ten free actions card once a week in there too

3) Look Through the Social Activities. There's a lot of stuff buried in social activities, some of it not in the most logical places. You can resign from your current profession under send a message to a contact. If a friend sent you a letter to let you boost a skill you have to use it under epistolary matters -> sort through incoming mail. And more.

4) Training Professions. Enquirer, Minor Poet, Pickpocket, Tough. You don't have to do anything with these, they just give you a weekly boost in the associated stat when time the healer rolls around. Once you hit 70 on a stat the profession will no longer boost it and you can resign and pick up a new one for free. After you are a person of some importance you can look into getting a fancier job with more perks.

5) Favourable Circumstances. You may have noticed you get something called favourable circumstances every week with time the healer. This is an item in your inventory under curiosity. Its primary use is to force draw a specific opportunity card. When you're just starting out the best use may be to arrange a meeting with your contacts, which lets you draw a connected card of your choice (like urchins, hell, etc). This lets you get a favor right away so it's good to use it every week.

6) DON'T GO TO POLYTHREME. Look, I know the option is right there in the docks but it is a very confusing area and not that useful at low levels. I got stuck there once early on and may be slightly traumatized. Definitely go there later, maybe when you have your own ship and get the map for it.

7) Mrs Chapmans Boarding House. This is in Spite. The options there all give you a few of a resource that's often a pain in the ass to grind other ways. The amount scales with your base watchful. It is just a nice little free way to get some resources. The items available change every week on a four week rotation. See the season in soup guide on the wiki for more info.

8) Mr Chimes Grand Clearing Out Activities. This was an event that happened in the past but left behind a few activities that are unparalleled ways to gain some resources. These are: Descend to the Underclay Quarter in Spite, The Spider Symposium (head into the cellars) in the Singing Mandrake, Seeking Documents in the Sunken Embassy in Moloch Street, Hunt Bees in the University, Brawl with Dockers in the Blind Helmsman (not sure if the was part of mr chimes but the mechanics are similar), and LB Industries in the Blind Helmsman. They all work by gathering a certain amount of some item through the storylets and then handing it in for a resource reward. You generally get one nice reward and the rest is paid out in a low level resource, making it a decent grind for echoes as well (i use moloch st for that).

9) Expedition Supplies for your base camp. Descend to the Underclay Quarter mentioned in the point above is a fast way to get strong backed labor to cash in for supplies during your watchful making your name (and after). Go there, work with unfinished men, get 50 convincing falsehoods (the second option gives you 25 a pop) and send an unfinished man to spite for labor x3. This makes watchful myk so so much easier.

10) Buy Gear. All resources have a use so don't go spending them all like crazy, but it really is worth spending some to buy gear, yes, even +2 gear because if you have +2 in every slot that is a nice boost at a low level. Holiday events are also a great way to get a ton of very good free gear.

11) CP. Change points, basically XP. You need as much CP as the next level to reach that level. So you need 3CP to get to level 3, 4CP for level 4, etc (this caps at 70). You get more CP for succeeding in things that you have a lower chance of success for. 60-90% chances are a nice range to aim for. Also! You get CP for failing which also scales with your percentage chance of success. So if you have a 0% chance of success you may get way more CP than succeeding on something you had a high chance of success for (example: a 90% success gives you 2CP, a 0% failure gives you 4CP... this is why the weasel of woe is good).

12) What are the Bizarre/Dreaded/Respectable stats on gear used for? So you may have noticed that you sometimes get points of Making Waves. Once you become a person of some importance you have the ability to cash in making waves to get a stat called Notability. Notability can be used for getting advanced professions, upgraded lodgings, and more. BDR gear lowers the amount of making waves you need per level of notability. They're also used in checks later on much the way your base stats are and they have uses at the bone market when you get there. Basically, grab gear with them if you can but don't worry too much about how it all works now. It will make more sense when you get there.

13) Cross-Conversion Carousel. This is a slightly more advanced thing that you don't need to know about yet but can be very very useful even at low levels. You know how you can click on most resources in your inventory and combine a lot of low level ones into a few high level ones? There's a bunch you can also cross convert, meaning convert to a different category of item of the same level. These are: brilliant souls, tales of terror, compromising documents, memories of light, zee ztories, strangling willow absinthe, whisper-satin scrap, journal of infamy, correspondence plaques, mysteries of the elder continent, incendiary gossip, and memories of distant shores. You need 50 of one to convert it and you get 51 of the item you convert it to.

What this means is if you have 50 of ANY of these, you can turn it into 50 of any other by converting it around the loop until you get the one you need. This often saves you from having to grind items that can be annoying to get (mrs chapman gives several of these too to help you get the initial amount). ALSO if you notice some of the conversions give making waves which can be a decent way to grind them. See the wiki page here for more info.

14) Last but definitely not least: the wiki is your best friend. It has guides for everything. It tells you what every single action does. It tells you where to find resources. It has terrifying math graphs. Use it. Love it.

And there is also the fifth city wiki which has lore on it. It contains MASSIVE spoilers, but the lore of fallen london is obscure and spread out across multiple games now so sometimes you just wanna know wtf everyone is talking about.

15) Don't Look In Wells!!!!!!! Just. Do not. (Hunters Keep well is an exception. It is a very nice well).

[stelliestell]

gonna ramble a bit here

hearing all these allegations against Lily still hurts in a sense. i don't like Lily, and haven't for roughly ~2 years, but i really was a fan of her! i even was working on drawing her and Mikaila a while ago (permanently unfinished in part because it was on my old phone)

("trans women series" refers to me drawing all these trans women creators i like after seeing a crap ton of disgusting terf posts)

Lily greatly influenced the way i thought and, in a sense, still does. i think some of her older videos still hold up! (Blame and groom being one i still appreciate, I'm pretty sure Base Breaker was the eye opening one for me esp. i remember showing my mom a clip from it saying something in disagreement to it only for her to say she pretty much agreed with it)

Obviously, Lily is untrustworthy. This is just a fact; she constantly changes her stories and lies about things (whether purposeful or unintentionally) such as details in Steven Universe or creating false arguments/problems. Things are also factually correct, such as her writing Stockholm. Multiple things prove this. Because she's untrustworthy and blatantly lies about the truth, that's why I can't really trust what she says. That's why I believe Courtney. That's why I believe Britt.

Despite this, I find myself struggling to believe all these claims against her. I wasn't 100% sure on her being nooblord9001, and I think we all know that she actually isn't. Seeing people talk about her faking cancer or being abusive to Mikaila, it's hard for me to really get behind that. Stuff like that is EXTREMELY hard to prove or disprove, and I don't really know how to feel about it. This is not me trying to claim I believe Lily is truthfully a good wife and had cancer, but it's hard for me to really get on board with those claims.

In a sense, I also feel bad for Mikaila. I'm not sure if any allegations are against her, but before and after I was a fan of Lily, I really liked Mikaila. She seems sweet and I liked watching her videos occasionally. After seeing a recent post of hers, it kinda made me reflect. She discussed how people who claim Lily abused her haven't reached out to ask if she's okay, and I honestly believe her. I believe there's more than that, but i feel guilt. It's kinda like MO is a prop, and I feel bad about that.

I don't want to constantly hate on Lily Orchard. I do not like her, I find her extremely dangerous, and I honestly believe she is a predator. I greatly dislike the fact that she is still on the internet and has an influence over people. It's hard for me to listen to these horrible allegations that I fully believe and it's really hard for me to hear critics of her disagree. I don't want to be in an echo chamber. That's not to say I don't trust these people, it's just tiring. Everything about this is tiring. Claiming your "stalkers" are only hating on you because they are transphobic is exhausting. It seems pointless. I don't want it to be.

Around a year ago, I started a video script called "Lily Orchard has backed herself into a corner." Like practically all my other projects, this one will remain unfinished, and while I still think she backed herself into a corner (this title referring to her denying writing Stockholm), I'm losing hope. People have been critics of her for so long and basically nothing has come of it. It's frustrating. I hate being pessimistic, but I'm worried that nothing will come of this. In all honestly, I hope Lily sues her critics just for them to provide evidence against her.

Feel free to correct me on anything. I'm willing to be change my mind and I obviously want to know if something I believe is false. I'm tired.

[vinetae]

Park Jimin as the hot professor who finds his goodie too shoes of a student in a strip club. It's safe to say that the classes after the encounter will be interesting.....

Ahaha! Perfect timing! I just came down with a really bad cold so I've got nothing better to do than to just sit in my reading chair and let my groggy, drugged imagination run wild LOL

This doesn't really make a lot of sense with the grant talk and stuff but IT'S A FANFIC, NONE OF IT IS REAL.

______________________________________________________________

Genre: Smut, Angst, Fluff

Pairings: College Professor!Jimin x Student!Reader

Warnings: Angst. Sexual content, foul language, 18+

Summary: You had asked your Psych professor for his signature in signing off your volunteer hours. Only a few weeks later, you two are caught at the same club.

Strip club to be exact.

Where you work, to be exact.

______________________________________________________________

Find my main masterlist here

Find part 2 of this - here

______________________________________________________________

The clock's rotating tick echoes through the hushed, crowded room. Pages flip, textbooks slam, and the sound of pencils scratching against the papers could only be heard. The professor's hands clap, as he explains. 

"Let's go over the basics for this class." His hand follows up the path of the beautifully sketched cortex of the brain, showing his students their materials. 

"What is this?" He asks, turning his body towards the class. A few laughs and mocks enter, as he keeps his professional stance. He chuckles, shaking his head. 

"This is called the brain. Many of you seem to not have one, apparently." 

They all 'ooo' at his comment, as the chalk clacks against the blackboard. His hands draw a new image, as a smile tugs your lips. This had been your favorite subject for psychology. 

"Mental disorders, such as Anti-social personality disorder and Borderline personality disorder are in the category of.. ?"

The class goes silent. He sighs, flicking his chocolate irises towards you. A smile peaks his expression. "Miss Choi?" You take a stand, making your way to the blackboard as he hands you the little piece of white chalk. You raise the chalk to the board, starting to explain out loud. 

"Anti-social Personality Disorder and Borderline personality disorder is in the name. Personality disorders. Therefore, they would be categorized under personality Disorders." You finish filling in the blanks, as you continue. 

"Mood personality disorders are far more common. Such as the notorious; Depression. While other disorders such as anxiety and PTSD, would be filed in Anxiety Disorders." You set the chalk down, turning to the class as you noticed some had rolled their eyes. 

"Indeed, Miss Choi." He flashes you a smile. He watches as you return to your desk, sneaking a peak at the way your hips sway in your stroll. He clears his throat before continuing. 

__

The classroom bell rings, signaling for the rest of the bunch to hurry onto their next class for the day. You're quick to rush as well, throwing the ton of your things carelessly into your bag. You hear the clicks of shoes, eyes glancing to catch sight of someone's expensive Dr. Martens. 

"Leaving so soon, Miss Choi?" His voice was smooth like skates gliding on ice. The mixture of new-shoe-smell and his orange blossom cologne had almost stopped your senses. You straighten your back, flashing him a smile. 

"I've got study group today." He hums, as you watch the sole of his expensive-looking shoes tap on the hardwood. He takes in a deep breath, admiring the peace and quiet. "Well, get home safely." He's about to return to his desk to clean up his workspace, as he turns around, sending you a little smile as he adds; 

"Wouldn't want anything happening to my favorite student."

__

The beat had boomed through the darkened walls. The red and gold lights stream all around the expensive looking establishment. Your feet stride to the bar, greeting your favorite co-worker. "Well if it isn't miss priss" She comments, sending you a wink. You chuckle, taking a sip from your sparkling water she'd slid to you. "Do you really have to use that name when I'm off the clock?"

She chuckles, flipping the hand towel over her shoulder. "Do you really have to look like the mother mary when you come in here to clock-in?" You giggle, taking another sip from your bubbly water as you shrug. She smiles, sliding over your new outfit. "Kim's changed the theme. Tonight it's mystery and masks." You nod, taking the little pieces of cloth before making your way over to the changing rooms. 

You take a step back, admiring the seam work on your expensive looking attire. The golden, sparkling jeweled piece cups the curves of your breasts, blue butterflies clasp in the front to give a little peak to your cleavage. The matching sparkles trail down the front of your torso, meeting to clasp with the golden jeweled undergarments that barely covered anything. You sigh, slipping the final touch on before making your way out of the changing rooms. 

__

Loud music echoed through the place. Jimin's head turns to the side, looking to find an empty seat. His chocolate irises flick off-beat to the music pounding in the area. A soft female voice calls out, as his head cranes to the sound. "First time?"

He chuckles, nodding softly. She smiles, cleaning the inside of the shot glass. He watches, eyes narrowing on the way her breasts peak out to give him a little taste. His tongue unconciously comes out to lick the pad of his lips. She smirks, sliding the filled glass over his way. "I'm not part of the show, you know." He's quickly pulled from his trance, nodding before bowing slightly. "Sorry.." 

She nods, a smirk tugging her lips. "Anybody catch your eye yet? Well, besides me." He takes a look around, watching the women take a spin around the metal and golden hued poles, legs coming out to give hint to everything they hadn't even tried to hide. He internally cringes at the sight. Spinning his chair back around, he shakes his head. 

The bartender hums, before a wide smirk paints her darkened features. The red and gold lights bounce off her powdered face. "I've got just the girl."

___

His eyes take a second to adjust to the dimmed lighting, as the large framed man had lead him to a narrow hallway before opening the door to a large room. The walls decorated with splashes of reds and golds, with a hint of black to draw some in. "Here?" Jimin asks, as the large man had nodded, before shutting the door. He takes in a deep breath before walking over to sit on the red leather seats. He leans back, legs spreading apart just a bit to seem a little more experienced. 

He's never actually been to a strip club you see. 

Of course, this might've been obvious already..

He actually had to Wikihow how to act a strip club. Of course he knew the basic rules, but was he allowed to converse with them? No talking? How much would it cost? Even though money hadn't been an issue but still..

He didn't want to upset any of the.. uhh.. dancers.

The price wasn't bad at all. He had no idea what the hell he just paid for though..

This all seems confusing.

Don't worry.

He's just as fucking lost. 

The music starts to fade in, a familiar song echoes through the empty room. His eyes trail up, watching as a fit, young looking women had appeared on stage. Her body decorated in revealing gold and black laced jewels, her hips sway to the music beat, as she's now standing right infront of him. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. His eyes glance up to meet hers, but she's quick to dismiss the contact. Instead, her legs swing over, as she straddles his lap. He swallows the lump in his throat, as her fingers come to toy with the clasps of his white button up, her manicured nails scrape his adam's apple gently. Her body slides down before returning to the pole. The red lipstick that had been plumping her lips had smeared just a bit, giving her a more sultry expression. 

He watches the way her legs wrap around the pole, watching as her body gracefully spins around the golden pole. Her soft moves reminded him of someone he knew. The way her head follows the beat of her own rymth, eyes peaking through the golden mask that had hidden her features, adorned with a innocence he felt too familiar with. The bottom of his lip pulls in, biting on the flesh as his mind wanders around her body movements and language. She was excellent at hiding what she had truly been feeling. Yet, he saw something he'd seen too many times before. 

___ (Two Weeks Before) ___

The school bell had rung once more, another day complete. Jimin's eyes lay upon the only body left in his class, as she strides over, settling some papers onto his desk. "Can I help you?" Her smile beams with confidence, as she taps her finger against the papers she'd laid down. "I'd like to apply for being your assistant." He chuckles at her cute expression. It had been filled with so much confidence and determination. "I don't really have a need for a class assistant." She takes a seat in front of him, a pleading look plasters her features. 

"Mister Park, I know it's too early in the semester right now, but this is for a very good cause." He leans back, hand coming to run through his blonde locks before questioning her. "Is that so? What's this cause." His fingers come up to quote her urgency. She nods, sliding the papers closer to him.

"The mental institute that I'm applying for is wanting me to have more volenteer hours. I've already tried with the community service department, but they said they only take juveniles."

He hums, pondering her proposition. Her eyes burns his own with passion. He saw how much she wanted this. 

"What about your other classes?" She shakes her head. "Miss Lee already had an assistant." 

"Aren't you in humanitarians as well?" She nods. "Mister Im was quite upset at the request.." Jimin silently chuckles to himself at her formal language. He sits up in his chair, nodding.

"Alright."

Her face lights up as she watches him skim over the papers. "Really!?" She stands, excitement bursts in her veins. He nods, standing to settle her down.

"You can start today, actually." She nods, her smile being brighter than the sun. He packs the rest of his things, flashing her a quick smile.

"Start by organizing the class's extra supplies." She nods, as her hand reaches out to his. 

His hand comes to meet his, watching as her sleeve lifts to reveal a small, magnolia shaped flower wrist tattoo.

___

Fuck. Oh fucking shit.

Everything hits him at once. The small tattoo the performer had, had matched Y/n's perfectly. The lump in his throat growing twice in size. 

What does he do? 

He can't just pause this session and say 'Oh by the way, I'm your psych professor.'

Shit. 

If he knows it's her and she's wearing a mask, and he's not.. 

Does she recognize him??

Her walks strides close to him, her body standing tall between his legs. Her body sinks down, knees resting between the space of his thighs. Fingers trail along the zipper of his trousers before her head rises up to meet his. She watches the way his blonde locks fall to the front of his face, head tilting to the side. She leans up, whispering into his ear softly. 

"Are you nervous?" Her voice sounded like smooth honey. One he'd heard too many times before. Usually, just asking if he needed help filing the class's test sheets. He gulps, feeling the way her body turns around, giving him a beautiful view of her backside. Her torso rolls to the beat, hands coming down to hold herself in place as she grinds against his hardening cock. He groans, hands fisting at the sight. His head lulls back, trying to think of himself anywhere but here; 

Where his best student is giving him a lap dance. 

He couldn't do this. 

He's quick to gently push her off, rising to make his way to the exit. 

You pause, scoffing.

"What's his problem?"

Your eyes glance down, taking notice of a little ring settled in the crease of the club's leather couch. You reach down, admiring the expensive looking band. 

___

He takes in a deep breath before walking into his empty classroom. He smiles at the emptiness, setting down his  Prada briefcase. Just as he's about to start writing the lesson down on the board for the day, a voice calls out to him. 

"Mister Park!" She smiles, running over to his desk, setting her pink and blue backpack onto his desk. His jaw tightens, ignoring her. She pouts, standing in front of his body.

"Mister Park, I've completed the spreadsheets for this year's schedule." She smiles, taking a few steps back to stand at his side. Explaining her ideas, while he's writing today's lesson on the board.

"I've also come up with a new item list for all the students to follow so they can pass your class with flying colors! Here-" He turns away, checking his sheet of paper summary on his desk before continuing to jot down the lesson. Her eyebrows knit together in questioning.

"Mister Park..? Is something the matter?"

He finally turns to meet her frown features. Body slouched and mimics one like a puppy getting kicked by it's owner. He internally breaks at her pout. 

"Miss Choi, this is my class. You have no say in how I run it." 

"Yeah but I was thinki-"

"That's the thing! You don't think. You're here to clean up the gum from under the desks, and maybe sharpen a few extra pencils. The only reason I let you be my assistant was because it was for your resume so you could look like a perfect little straight A student." She backs away, a hurt expression paints her features. 

"I- I was just trying to help.." He scoffs, pointing at her desk.

"Take your seat, Miss Choi."

___

You knew you shouldn't have gotten too friendly with your professor. You just thought that he'd be a lot less stressed if he had a schedule for his classes. A few new pencils in line, and an organizer you'd bought him for secret santa a few months ago before winter break. You'd been in this class for almost two years, and he'd always been so kind and friendly towards you. You thought that returning those gestures would be the right thing to do. 

Apparently, he actually hated you. 

Your eyes screw at his words, the feeling in your chest tightening, remembering his cold tone.

'Little straight A student..'

You sigh, slamming your laptop shut. You couldn't get his harsh tone out of your head. 

___

Jimin lets out a deep breath, pinching the space between the bridge of his nose in frustration. Maybe he'd been a little too harsh on you. You'd just been trying to help.,

Hell, maybe you didn't even recognize him that night. 

He groans, plopping down onto the comfort of his bed, a hand coming to shield the light from his eyes. The room had gone quiet, as his mind gripes at him for ever saying those harsh things to you. The more he replayed the scene in his head, the more of a dick he felt like. He sighs, sitting up, reaching over to grab at the TV remote. Once he's settled in, he flips through the daytime channels that had been playing some stupid rom or sit coms. Just as  his eyes were about to lull asleep, the ding from his phone jolts his body awake. 

___

His leg eagerly taps against the marbled floor's flat. His eyes flicker around the restaurant, as he takes in a few deep breaths. The moment he'd gotten that text a few hours ago, he'd been nothing but a nervous wreak. He'd gotten a random text from an unknown number, asking for him to meet up at a nearby place to give his ring back. 

Stupid fucking idea to have your name emblemed on his ring. 

He mentally groans at the thought, taking another sip from his drink. The ding of the restaurant makes his heart drop, as his eyes set on you. Your mini-skirt that revealed your tight-covered legs had made him more drunk than fifteen beers ever could. Your black turtleneck had wrapped around your neck, a golden, small necklace decorated your neck gracefully. You're quick to take a glance around, before stopping on him. You smile, making your way over to his table. You slide in the booth, flashing him a professional smile. 

"I assume you're aware of why I asked you here." He tries to keep the atmosphere light and short. He chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. She smiles, straightening her back. "You seem to be in a better mood." She comments, as the waitress takes her order. 

"I was feeling a little sick this morning." He watches the way her eyebrows knit together in concern, hands coming to clasp on the table. "Are you feeling better?" He nods. 

"I went home to take a quick nap, but then you texted. How'd you even get my number, by the way?" She smiles, leaning down to quiet her voice. "That's a secret, Park." He chuckles at her cute expression. Your light rosy cheeks and lips had been stained by the winter's harsh blows. The tip of your nose had resembled Rudolph's. That made him melt inside faster than Olaf. 

"So." She starts once more, sliding a small folder over the table top. He takes a silent gulp. 

"This was what I was trying to explain earlier this morning. This schedule has everything for this semester. You've always complained of struggling with organization, so I thought this might better with that. It contains contexts, a glossary, an index, cards, empty spaces for students to write their own thoughts, a feedback page so students can also make any comments about how well they're understanding the materials. What would need to be improved about it, and what you could do to possibly help them through the semester so they can do more than just just skim by."

He'd been all ears with your suggestions, until from the corner of his eyes, a familiar gold and black band wrapped around her index finger. He pauses, taking notice of the diamond placed right in the center of the ring. 

His ring. 

"So, what do you think?" He's pulled out of his thoughts by your voice. His throat clears as he takes a few glances around. You frown, leaning closer.

"You can just say you hate it, you know. No reason to avoid me.." He shakes his head, eyes glancing back to you.

"No, I'm not ignoring you, Y/n." You chuckle at his words.

"Loosing formalities, Mister Park?"

He chuckles, trying to hide the nervous tone in his voice. You watch as his eyes take a glance to your hand. 

"That's a nice ring." You nod, trying to be non-chalant about the story as possible.

"Yep, got it from work. Someone left it in one of the booths.." 

"I thought you said you worked at an animal shelter." Your eyes go wide at the realization. 

Fuck. 

"I.. quit a while back. I work in a restaurant outside of town now." He hums, taking a sip from his glass. "You don't think it's owner is missing it?" 

You shake your head. "Like I said. No lost and found, so my boss says we can keep anything we find." You watch as he raises as eyebrow. "That's odd. I used to work as a waiter as well, but we never got to keep anything we found. Seems like rules more fit for a club of some sorts." You choke on your water, turning away as to not cough in his face. 

He chuckles, setting his drink down to hand you a napkin. "Like a golf club of some sorts." You laugh along, trying to cover the absolute terrified tone in your voice. 

"You.. caught me. Hah.." You chuckle nervously. He smiles, taking a bite of his salad before continuing.

"Funny, Y/n. There's not a golf club around here for miles." 

You pause, trying to think of an excuse. "My.. father owns one. We go every Saturday." You watch as he raises an eyebrow. "Your dad makes you work at his golf club?" You nod.

"Well- I volunteer. Been doing it since I was 14." He nods, downing the rest of his glass.

"Does the ring have any writing? You might be able to return it to it's owner. Who knows," He takes a look at your folder, continuing. 

"Might even get something bigger in return." 

___

You sigh, spinning the circular golden jewelry piece around your index finger. His words ring in your mind, as guilt sets in. Even though it had been fair game, you still felt bad for taking the ring. It's not like you were going to sell it on the market or anything. You'd really loved the designs, especially the clear diamond set in the middle. It had reminded you of flowers for some reason. You loved it..

But it wasn't yours. 

So now here you were, sitting at the bar, waiting for your brain to make a decision. On one hand, you knew how important something can be to someone, and how it must feel horrible to loose such a precious item. On the other, you knew the ton of the men that come in and out of the club had been filthy rich, and probably could buy a million of these silly rings. 

Taking in a deep breath, you spin around to scan the club. You tried to remember what the man had been wearing. Something of a white button up and black trousers. 

Well this won't be difficult at all.

You make your way around the club for a few hours, pushing past the crowded groups of horndogs and co-workers who are giving lazy lap dances. After a while passes, you groan, taking a seat away from all of the crowded groups. You sigh, toying with the little golden and black band that wraps around your finger. The diamond shines through the dark atmosphere, glimmering even in the darkest of places of the club. Your eyes catch on a pair of black shoes stand right in front of you. Your eyes glance up, noticing the same sandy blonde hair illuminating more than the red lights. His hand reaches out, face being concealed with aid from the dark area.

"Care to dance?" 

Honestly, you denied. 

At first.

Hey man, listen. 

... *insert cricket noises here*

Okay there was nothing to explain it. 

You just wanted to have some fun, okay? You're off the clock anwyays. What's a little dance?

His hands come to gently trail up your sides, as your hips sway side to side along with the deep beat of the music. His lips come to tease the skin of your ear, as you felt his large arms wrap around your torso. Your body had been perfectly slotted between his chest and forearms, as he guides you through the songs. You felt high. You'd only ever watched from above, seeing all the crazy people going at it on the dance floor. You'd always scoffed at it, wondering why people just couldn't keep it in their pants but now..

Now you knew. 

"So what brought you here?" His voice is drowned a bit by the blaring music. Yet, you can still make out what he says. You tilt your head, giving him more access to the side of your neck, yet; he doesn't go for it. 

"I'm here with a few friends." You're quick to lie, reaching back to try and guide his lips to your neck. Yet, he stays right where he is. It felt more like a loving embrace than a quick grind on the floor. 

"Friends abandoned you I'm guessing?" You nod, turning around in his arms, but he keeps you still. Something about this felt off. 

"Who brought you?" You question, pressing your ass into his crotch. His hips move away, as you groan at his deny. He chuckles, a hand coming up to pet the crown of your hair gently.

"Myself." 

You really weren't in a loving mood right now. You wanted to get fucked, and that's it. Yet, this asshole had the decency to keep his hands to himself. 

Little fucker. 

"So why are you here?" You ask, reaching back behind to palm over his crotch. Yet, he's as soft as a pillow. His hand takes your wrist, as he chuckles against your ear, guiding your hand up to cup his jaw.

"Why so many questions?" He smiles, twirling you softly before pulling you back into his arms. You scoff at the move. You pull away, as he lets you go.

"You came to a club to spin a girl around?"

He shrugs. "Would you rather me be a creep?" 

"I'd rather you act like a normal person in a strip club." He raises an eyebrow at the comment. "How I'm acting should be the normal for any guy." You roll your eyes, walking away. He chuckles, following in your steps. You huff, spinning back around to face him.

"Listen man, this isn't the ninth-grade school dance. Either fuck me or go find a virgin mary to creep to." His eyes roll at your comment, as he folds his arms across his chest.

"So you'd rather have an asshole fuck you in the dirty alleyway of this club for maybe, what? A few minutes at most, than to have a real man take care of you like how it should be?"

You groan out, pushing at his chest a bit as you let out all of your frustration. 

"I don't need a gentleman, I need a good fucking. And your little goodie two shoes self ain't what I'm looking for." He chuckles at the name. 

"Thought you'd have the most experience with being a 'goodie two shoes', Y/n." 

You're quick to back away, but stand nowhere near as strong as he had. His arm comes out to catch your wrist, pulling you back into his sight of vision. Your eyes flash up to meet his, the professional aura had slipped with each passing second. The internal clock inside your head telling you to hurry up was ticking with cold blood. 

A smirk plasters his face, as he takes a look around the place. "So this is your father's golf club?" Your throat goes dry at his sentence. 

"Obviously not.." 

He chuckles, nudging your body forward before letting you go. His eyes take a glance back down to your hand, admiring the ring decorating your left index. 

"Got a reason for my ring being on your hand?" 

"Obviously I didn't know that it was your ring.." Your face lights up with idea to turn the tables. Your arms cross over your chest, finally finding your confidence his aura had drained of you. "Got any reason for being at a strip club?" 

"I was just about to ask you the same thing." 

Even though the music was blasting louder than a rock concert, the silence between you two had been deadly. His eyes matched the same, fierce and confident look you'd been trying to give off. 

"You grinded with one of your students." He chuckles at the accusation. 

"Actually, I danced. You were the one trying to grab my dick, were you not?" Your mouth screws at that. 

Fuck. 

He was right. 

"Well you were the one to ask." 

"didn't recognize you at first." He bites back. 

"At first?" Hah. You've caught him. 

His smirk screws tight on his face, the red and black strobes illuminate his aura even more. "I didn't want to be rude." 

"So you knew that I was one of your students? Yet, you still asked me to dance." 

"To dance. Once again, you were the one trying to implement more." 

You huff, tightening your arms in frustration. "Because I didn't think my professor would be at a strip club!"

He chuckles, voice lowering to a deep tone. "You don't think I have needs?" Your heart drops to your stomach. His smirk only urks him on even more. He leans forward, leaning against the bar's surface, sporting a relaxed position.

"Wants?" 

His lips brush past your cheek, tickling the shell of your ear as you hear the husk in his tone. 

"Desires?"

You shake your head, pushing him away quickly. "Well if you knew it was me, why'd you continue?" 

He chuckles, tilting his head to ask the bartender -your best friend- for whiskey sour. His head cranes back to you, smirking. She could obviously sense the tension between the two of you, but she had her own problems to deal with right now. 

His finger lifts, pointing around the room before contuining; "Does it look like we're at school right now?" 

You scoff. "You're a pervert." 

"Oh really? How so? I was just here, wanting to take a beautiful woman dancing, and she kept trying to grope me like a drunkie." He takes a sip from his glass, before settling it back down on the bar.

"If anything my dear, you're the pervert."

He chuckles, taking the extra lemon between his lips, watching as you swallow at the action. 

"I mean really, who's that desperate for a fucking that they just go at it with the first guy they see? That's how you get kidnaped." He shakes the lemon, acting as if he's giving you a lesson in morals. 

"For a psych major, Miss Choi, you're not very smart." Your hands fist at your sides. His pride swells a little too much in his chest. 

"Why are you acting like such an asshole!?" His eyes flick to yours, scoffing. 

"Why are you acting like such a brat?" You uncross your arms to hit his side. He's quick to catch your throw, eyes baring into yours.

"Not very professional of you, Y/n. What would the club think of their employee hitting a customer?" 

Your eyes blow wide. You can see his cocky smile from miles away. He takes another sip, watching as your forehead peaks a little vein at the top, your face completely red. 

"If you tell anyone I'll-"

"You'll what, Miss Choi? I'm the only psych professor on campus, and no other college will accept you so late into this semester." Your teeth grind at his words. 

"You're stuck with me, My dear." 

"Fuck. You." 

He sucks in a breath, before laughing at your anger. "Seems like that was your plan, wasn't?" 

You sigh, giving up. You had to suck it up to this asshole, at least for the remainder of the year. Your eyes shift from fierce and vexed, to soft and calm. 

At least you tried to give that off. 

He takes notice, laughing at the quick change. "Are you seriously worried THAT much about me telling someone?" His demeanor switches to one that mirrors yours as well.

"Who would I tell, huh? I've got no grudge against you, Y/n. You're my best student." You take in a deep breath, kind of agreeing silently to his words. He pats the barstool parallel to his, motioning for you to join him. You take a seat, sipping on the sparkling water you'd ordered previously. 

"It's just.. I don't come from a rich background like the other students on campus. There only reason I got in was because of my GPA and SAT scores that were through the roof. I had a three-thousand dollar grant along with the hope scholarship but.." You laugh at the reasoning for your job. 

"But?" He questions, leaning in to give you his full attention. 

You lift the can to your lips, taking a swig before continuing. "Tuition was fucking expensive.. I can't afford things like-" You take a glance down before motioning to his black suede Louis Vuitton suit. 

"that."

He glances down, chuckling at your pout. "I have noticed your style to be a bit.. diverse than the other students." 

Your eyes roll in your head at his choice of words. Of course your walmart plaid skirt and clearance section white button up from the men's department you tailored yourself was unusual. It didn't look like the other students Armani and Gucci outfits..

"Thanks for that." You laugh sarcastically. He taps on the counter as Milana sends him another whiskey sour quickly.

"Do you really have a passion for this?" He motions for you to take a glance around, watching as your co-workers dance on the laps of men who looked like they could already be considered for retirement settlements. 

"Oh of course. I just live for twearking on old geizers laps for a few bucks. Who fucking wouldn't." Your hand reaches out to ask Milana for another bubbly water but she hands you a shot glass instead.

"Trust me girly, you look like you need it." She pours the dark, syrupy liquid into your glass as your hand hesitates to pick it up. 

"Well did you run out of time for applying for more grants?" He questions, watching your hesitation towards your drink. 

"No. When I tried applying for the five-hundred grant, they denied."

His eyebrow raises at this. "Well, how many did you apply for?" 

Your voice goes silent. He takes that as a challenge to question it.

"Ten?" 

You shake your head. He continues. 

"Twenty?" 

You take in a breath, laying your chin on the bar's surface. "Try.. fourty-two?"

His eyes widen like cartoons at that. "Fourty-two grants?! Holy shit- You must have the money for sure now though, right?"

You shake your head. "Have to live on campus for at-least two years, remember? That's an extra eleven-thousand I didn't have." 

He scoffs, getting annoyed by your situation as well. His eyes soften, laying his head down to match your own. "I didn't know it had costed you this much, Y/n." 

You nod, straightening your back before shaking your head. "No matter. It's just life, you know? Gotta do the shitty stuff to make your future bright.. or whatever the fucking board says." He chuckles, before nodding in agreeance. 

"You know if you were to ask, you'd been doing such an amazing job at being my assistant, I would've paid you for it." You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. 

"Wouldn't be considered volunteer work then, would it?" He sighs, nodding. "You're right."

He takes another sip from his refill, teasing the cherry stem between his teeth. "There's has to be a better way than just being these asshole's wet dream." 

You shrug. "It's not really something my professor should be worrying about anyways." 

He takes in a deep breath, glancing around the room before an idea pops into his mind. 

"I can just write it off as volunteer work. You only need my signature as confirmation, right?" You nod at his question.

"Wouldn't they be suspicious of it?" 

"They've got too many things on their plates than worrying if a teacher is paying his student to help out in his classroom." 

Your voice lowers, only really wanting the idea to be heard by you.

"Sounds like the beginning of a porno.." 

He however, is quick to catch on, chuckling.

"dirty way to put it, I would say." Your cheeks go red at his tone. His eyes glance up to yours, lips wrapped around the edge of his glass, giving you a teasing 'what?' look. 

He sets his glass down, holding his hand out to reach yours. 

"So, deal?" 

You extend your to meet his, giving a firm shake. 

"Deal."

____

Taking in a breath, his smile radiates confidence and joy as he walks through the halls of the corridor where his classroom is. Students crowd around the halls, splitting down the middle as he makes his way through.

He greets them all with smiles and hellos before reaching his classroom. He takes his keys out to unlock the door, walking in, his eyes set upon your little figure fitting up under the empty space of his desk. He chuckles to himself, walking over to set hi briefcase on top. He bends down, tilting his head at your knelt position. 

"Cleaning included?" 

"Ow!"

You're quick to jump, which makes your head bump on the desk's underside. You whine, scooting out from up under before rising to meet his level. "A screw was loose under here. I thought I could tighten it with my hand." A greasy smile spreads his face.

"Now that sounds like the beginning of a porno." 

You scoff, turning your body away to place the stacks of paper in front of him. He glances down with a confused look. 

"These are the index and glossary portions of the guides I talked to about at the resturant." He nods, flipping quickly through the pages before taking a look up to meet your eyes. 

"Very.. thick." He awnsers, scanning over bits of the papers. Leaning back in his chair, his legs spread wide a bit, carding a hand through his blonde locks. "Did you have breakfast?" 

He watches as your eyes glance down quickly to his lap before switching back up to meet his own. Your cheek sinks in a bit at his physic as you shake your head. 

"I don't usually eat breakfast." 

He hums, leaning up to push his metal bento box to your side of his desk. You shake your head in denial. 

"Come on, breakfast is the most important meal. Here," He sits up, extending his arm to hand you his sterile chopsticks. His eyes narrow in annoyance at your stubborness. He leans forward, picking up a small bite of rice and spam before holding it up to your mouth. "Eat." 

"I'm not hungry." 

He scoffs lightly, scooting his chair closer to yours. "Bite." 

"I said I'm not hungry-"

"Open."

It took you a few minutes to realize his knee was slotted between yours, body propped up, barely being a few inches from yours. He's sat on the edge of his chair, as you take notice in how large he actually was compared to you. 

"I-..I'm not hungry.." 

"Did I ask?" 

You're quiet. 

He takes it as a notion to edge you on even more. "It's not polite to ignore your superior, Miss Choi. Once again; did I ask?" 

Your throat dries at his words. He's seemed to keep his professional tone, yet there's something else lurking behind it's superiority. 

"N.. No."

"Then open." 

Your mouth slowly falls wide just before the bell starts to ring, as students start flooding classrooms. You're quick to rise from the chair, returning to your desk. Jimin sighs, closing the lid on his bento box before standing to write the lesson of the day. 

___

Your stomach starts grumbling quickly as soon as class had started. Students starting pouring in like fish as the seats had been quickly filled. You groan silently, hand holding your stomach in agony. Usually, you'd be fine right now. But ever since you got a whiff of his ham and rice meal, your stomach could not shut up about it. Your vision had even started going wonky only a few minutes in. 

"Young-il's mother has been suffering from hysteria, paranoid ideation, and hallucinations. Which of these could Young-il's mother be diagnosed with?" His voice is drowned out by your gurgling stomach. Your eyes wince in pain, tapping your leg on the floor as a vice to gain some relief. 

"Miss Choi?" 

Fuck you were hungry. 

"Miss Choi?" 

If only you had taken that damn bite when he offered!

"Miss Choi.. ?"

"Fuck!" You whine, watching as all of the student's attention flashes straight to you. 

Oh shit..

"Are you feeling alright, Miss Choi?" Your eyes glance up, as he watches you wince in pain. He notices your hand clenching your stomach.

"U-huh." Your eyes switch to the board, squinting to try and figure out what the fuck he was explaining. 

"Uhm- I think his mother's diagnosis would be stimulant p-psychosis." He nods hesitantly before returning to his board.

"Correct. The usual symptoms for stimulant psychosis are paranoia, disorganized thinking, hysteria, hallucinations, and many more. Very good, Miss Choi." You nod silently, patiently waiting for the bell to ring so you can get some food in your stomach. 

Having prayers anwsered, the bell comes quickly after as the students clear out as quickly as they had flooded in. You stand up in a hurry, packing your thinks before making your way towards the exit. His voice catches your attention before you're able to leave. 

"Are you alright? You look a little pale-" You turn around, nodding. 

"Lunch time." You hurry towards the door before turning around. "Are you not coming?" 

He shakes his head, motioning to his bento box. "Cafeteria's too loud a lot of the times. I just sit in here and grade papers." You nod before rushing to the lunch room. 

He chuckles, watching as you run for the exit, taking a bite of his lunch. 

_____

"Thank you." You bow before taking your tray of goodies, quickly making your way back to class. After you had a few bites of the rice, you felt a lot better. Your hand reaches for the knob, before you heard a giggle coming from inside of his classroom. You move away from the glass so that you're not seen. 

"I just wanted to thank you for last night. Those papers never would've been graded on time if it wasn't for you, Jimin." 

"No problem. I had a little extra time on my hands anyways." Your eyes peak through the glass, gasping silently, watching the way the woman's legs swing back and forth on the front of his desk. Her hand reaching down to tug at his loose button up, manicured nails trailing along the prominent line of his jaw. 

"You know, I've always loved pyschology as well." His eyebrow quirks, lifting his eyes to meet hers. "Really? You seemed more like a sorority type of girl." She smiles, flashing her pearly white teeth, brushing his shoulder. "Ah, you're so funny! So what, am I like a sexy cheerleader or something?" 

He thinks for a second before replying. "No, more like the girl from Legally Blonde." She straightens at the comment. "Oh, so the sexy lawyer?" 

He shakes his head. "Nope, just look like you belong in a sorority. You know, with all the glitter and stuff." She chuckles before pulling on his collar to straddle his lap. Her hands drape down to grab at his, to steady her by the waist. 

His eyes widen at the sudden move, eyes flicking to the classroom door. "Uhm Miss Kim I don't think is a good ti-"

Her finger comes to press against his lips as her head lowers down to his waist. "Think of it as a 'thank you'. You know, for helping me with the papers?" 

He clears his throat, as his body goes stiff at her touch. 

"It's lunch period right now and I have another set of students to te- oh fuck.." His hands grip the arm rests, head lulling back as her lips wrap around the tip of his cock. She moans, coiling her hand around the rest of his length before moving it up and down. 

His hand comes to tug at her loose bun, carding through her black locks. His head falls back against his chair, mouth parting to let a certain name slip from his lips. 

"Fuck.. Y/n.."

Miss Kim's too deep into her own thoughts to notice the slip up. 

"Mmm how dirty of you, Jimin. Getting blown in your classroom.. what if a student was to walk i-"

At that, your body flies forward, the door slamming open as your figure hits the floor. Your lunch tray spilling all over the cold flat as the two stumble to fix their clothes. 

"Oh fuck!" He yelps, pushing the teacher off to fix himself. Your jaw drops at the scene. 

"I..I-" You're frozen in a pile of cold wheat noodles, kimchi and rice. Miss Kim is quick to adjust herself before trying to shoo you out. Mister Park just sits there with eyes just as wide as yours. 

"What the fuck are you doing!? Get out!" She yells, stomping her expensive high heel on the floor. 

You stutter, trying to pick up your things as your mumble a string of sorries. 

Once you've got to you're feet, you rush out slamming into a few people on the way. 

____

The following few days were a nightmare. You'd been extremely silent, and honestly? Jimin didn't blame you. 

You watched your professor get blown by another teacher.

He groans stuffing his face into the palms of his hands, wanting to crawl in a hole and die. 

He watches from his desk as you bend down to scrape the last bits of gum from up under the tables. He'd been pretending to grade more papers for the last hour and he had enough. He quickly stands, packing the rest of his things into the pockets of his briefcase.

___

Once he's gone, you bang your head onto the floor, not caring if it was goin to leave marks in the morning. 

Stupid.

Fucking

Stupid. 

You groan, standing to finish the rest of your duties. You're just about finished wiping down his desk before your hip bumps into the corner. 

"Fuck.." You whine, rubbing at the raw skin before taking notice of the little crack that had appeared. Your eyes squint some more, seeing a little shiny thing hidden away from sight. Looking around the room for any witnesses, you let curiosity get the better of you. 

Your hand wraps around the metal handle, popping the drawer open easily. 

"Y/n?" You jump from your spot, quickly shutting the drawer to back away from his desk. Your eyes flash up, seeing his large frame sling his briefcase onto his shoulder. A concerned look paints his expression. "Why were you in my desk?" 

"I- Uh.." Your eyes trail around, trying to find anything to back up your story. 

Truth is, you didn't even know why you were going through his drawers. 

You'd never been one to snoop around other people's belongings..

His arms cross his chest, eyebrow quirking at your stuttering self. "You..?"

Think, Y/n!

"I was looking for a pen!"

He quirks, walking over to his desk to shake the pen cup in the corner. "You were saying?"

Your hands comes to clasp in the front, head bowing from shame as you avoid eye contact. 

"I.. don't know why I was going through your things.." 

He hums, leaning down to catch your eyes, bringing your gaze to follow his back up. "You don't know why you invaded my privacy?"

You huff, biting the inside of your cheek from frustration. "It was her fault! She should've locked the fucking door at least!" His eyes widen at your tone. "You mean Miss Kim?"

You nod, not even realizing that's why you were snooping in the first place. 

"That doesn't explain why you're going through my stuff, Y/n." Your hands clench into balls at the thought. "I don't know, okay!? I hit my fucking side on your damn desk and it popped open! When I tried to go and fix it, it opened even more and I saw-" You stop, not really remembering what you had seen. 

Until some remembered what was next to his desk.

"You saw... ?"

"I saw my papers." Your eyes glance up to his, your blood starting to boil. "I saw my papers.. in your trash can." 

He quickly leans over, seeing your once neatly folded and organized ideas for the classroom thrown carelessly into garbage. His eyes widen, reaching down to pull the folders out. His eyes take a quick glance back to you before continuing. "I didn't throw these away, Y/n. You remember when I said how much I loved your ideas." 

Your head shakes, tears starting to well in your eyes. You worked for hours on end trying to perfect those. You wanted to do good in his class, and maybe he'd even give you some extra credit points for having such a high work ethic. 

"You never said how much you loved them.." 

"What? Of course I did." 

You sniff, drying your cheek with the puff of your sleeve. "In the restaurant.. Before class.. You kept changing the topic." He shakes his head, trying to catch your gaze once more. 

"Y/n, I loved your ideas." 

Your cheeks flush red, finally looking into his eyes. Yours, being glassy and watery. "Why did you keep avoiding them, then?" 

He reaches over, handing you a tissue. "They're thick folders, Y/n. I've had three classes today, I just haven't had the time." You wince from his words, replying. 

"I gave them to you over a week ago.." 

His eyes widen, mouth dropping to the floor as he tries to find something to stop your crying. "Y/n- I- I'm sorry.." 

Your face burns as your voice amplifies. "I worked forever on those! The estimated reading time was only about an hour!" 

He chuckles. "Estimated reading time? I didn't know you put so much effort into them-" 

"Of course I did! I wanted you to be proud of me!" That makes him pause. His hands suddenly felt heavy, as everything in the room had felt like it was more noticable than before. 

"Y.. You wanted me to be proud of you?" He watches as you sniff, teary and glassy eyes delve into his. His voice felt faded and nearly gone. He searched for any words, but nothing came to mouth. 

You take a deep breath, wiping the rest of your tears away before finishing. "Guess it doesn't matter anymore." 

You reach down, slinging your backpack over your shoulder about to make your way to the door before his wrist catches yours, pulling you into his chest. Arms coiled tightly around your frame, as his chin rested atop of your head. 

"I am proud of you, Y/n. You're my favorite student, you know that." You half-heartly laugh at his words. Eyes glancing up to meet his. 

"Do I? You seemed pretty occupied with Eun-ji."

His eyes bare into yours. "You mean Miss Kim?" He chuckles, loosening his grip on you. "She's your superior, Y/n. We don't use informal with teachers." 

Your arms reach around to clasp his waist, pulling your body flushed against his. "Really? What will happen if I do, Jimin."

His throat swallow a large gulp at your words. Your grip doesn't faulter on his body. 

"Y/n I don't thi-" 

"No. Don't you fucking tell me about formalities when you're supposed to be calling me by my last name as well." He's frozen. 

Because you're right. 

He's let it slip one too many times. 

Fuck. 

He watches your frown slip into more of a smile-smirk at his silence. "Teachers don't pay their students. Teachers don't hug their students. And teacher for sure don't moan their student's name. Do they?" 

Your grip loosens to snag his tie, pulling his body closer to yours. He groans as you rub your thigh against the tent of his suit pants. 

"Fuck.." He chuckles, running a hand through his hair before giving you a smirk. "You were watching me?" 

You lean back, planting your ass on the flat of his desk, pulling him between the space of your thighs, guiding him like a puppy by his tie. "How could I not? You could practically hear her from the other side of campus." 

His hands comes to caress your waist, leaning his head further down to meet your level. "How dirty of you." 

"Mmm, taking dirty talk from her?" You bite back, watching as his jaw tightens at the catch. His head lowers, nose brushing the side of your neck, inhaling your flowery scent. 

"Don't like it?" He quirks, leaning back a bit to watch your expression darken. 

"I want you to use your own words." 

A smirk tugs the corner of his lips. 

"Alright." 

His hand comes to trail and back of your spine before reaching inside to quickly pop your bra apart. You gasp at the sudden movement, his hand coming to kneed your outer thigh. His breath trails along your cheek, brushing the shell of your ear. 

"On one hand, I want to stay true to my promise and take you on a date, eat out at a nice restaurant, and take you back to your place like the gentleman I am." 

You scoff, caressing the side of his cheek, whispering. "And the other hand?" 

His voice lowers to where not even an echo can pick it up. "I want to put you in your place for ever using informalities with me." 

You smirk, rubbing the inside of your thigh against his outer thigh. "So I'm not allowed to use your name?" 

He chuckles, pressing you further into the surface of his desk, whispering into your ear. "Only when you're moaning it." 

"Fucking fine by me." A light slap to your out thigh makes you jump. "Another thing. It's not very ladylike of you to curse like that, now is it?" 

"Oh? So you don't want, Oh Jimin! Oh fuck, Jimin! Oh my God." Your faked moans make a little deep growl emit from his chest. 

"Brat." 

Your tongue comes out to lick at your lips, sucking on your bottom one. "Yes?~" 

He chuckles at that, shaking his head. "Dirty girl. Was this your little plan all along?" 

You shrug, innocent look peaks your expression. "Maybe, maybe not." 

"Volenteer service?" 

"Oh, that's real. I've got 82 hours left." 

He hums, watching as your eyes flash a little with your cute demeanor once more. "And the money situation?" 

"Broke as shattered glass." 

He chuckles at the joke. "Cute." 

You pout, wrapping your legs around his waist tighter. "Not sexy, stunning, gorgeous?" 

He shakes his head. "More than appearance, my dear. Body language?" 

You scoff, loosening your grip from his neck. "Yeah? What does my body language say?" 

He quicks a smirk before tugging on your white button up collar, face flush to his. "Needy." 

You whine, hips unconsciously grinding up against his own. He chuckles at the motion. 

"Submissive." 

His hand comes to trail along the skin of your neck, using his other hand to support your back. 

"Aroused." 

You whine out, pulling at his neck to bring your body closer to his. -if that was even fucking possible-

"You take too long." 

He laughs, watching you fidget in his arms. "And you're too impatient." 

"You know, I think Eun-ji tried doming you." He chuckles, pulling you up with his body a bit to get more comfortable. 

"Still naughty of you to be watching." 

You shrug, contuingng. "Just saying. I think she was like a domnatrix or something." His eyes roll playfully. 

"Why? Jealous?" 

"Of you? hell yeah. I mean she's pretty hot teacher, not gonna lie. I mean I'm sure some of the other students have thought the same-" 

He scoffs, pulling away. "Then go fuck her." 

You pout, playing with the fabric of his tie. "I'm not gay, dude." 

His eyes narrow, gripping your wrists to pin on each side of you. "Call me dude again and I'll make your ass redder than santa's fucking sleigh." 

You smirk, wrapping your arms back around his neck to catch his anger. "Oh so it's fine for you to cuss? Yeah, cause that's fair." 

"I'm older." 

"Psh, by a few years." 

"six years." 

your eyes roll at his words. "Psh, ain't nothing." 

His hands slam onto the desk, reminding you of how trapped you actually were. "You know what?" 

He backs away, leaving you frustrated on the desk. He starts buttoning his shirt once more, fixing his tie before picking his briefcase he'd thrown down for a hot minute. 

"Hey wait where are you going-" He smirks, walking over to the door, acting like he's about to walk out before you yell out. 

"Hey! You! Come back here and fuck me like a man!" 

He turns around before sending you a wink. 

"I'm good." 

______________________________________________________________

Haha. Oneshots are the easiest AND hardest things to write. This took about three days I think? I've lost count with all of my works.

For the person who requested this, you can ask for a part two if you want. (AKA lots of smut lol)

I hope you enjoyed!

______________________________________________________________

©vinntaege 2023. I do not condone any translations, copies, modifications, or repostings anywhere for ANY of my works.

[badbatchposts]

Quiet Corners of the Galaxy, Chapter 9

While on a routine mission for Cid, the Bad Batch encounter a woman fleeing from the Empire. Crosshair suspects her seemingly free-spirited, nomadic existence is actually a cover for something else, but struggles to keep his attraction toward her in check as their personalities and ideals clash.

Relevant tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Periodic Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use

Chapters posted 1-2x weekly!

Read the full fic so far on AO3

Read previous chapters on Tumblr: Ch. 1 l Ch. 2 l Ch. 3 l Ch. 4 l Ch. 5 l Ch. 6 l Ch. 7 l Ch. 8

Chapter 9 summary: The Bad Batch debates what to do about Dara as they prep for a mission that will require them to go undercover.

Echo, Hunter, and Crosshair were drinking caf in the cockpit in silence—companionably for Echo and Hunter, grumpily on Crosshair’s part—when Rex’s message came through early the next morning. Brow furrowing a little, Echo summarized it for the others. “Rex says he doesn’t have much for us. Nothing on Dara from his sources or any of the databases he has access to—but he does know that nothing happened on Takodana like she described.”

Crosshair looked vindicated, but Hunter was hardly surprised. “Well, we already thought she was lying about that,” he acknowledged.

Tech joined them. “I have similarly been unable to locate any information on Dara.” 

 “Well, that is concerning,” Hunter admitted. For Tech to somehow come up emptyhanded was much more worrisome.

“Indeed,” Tech replied, eyes glued to his datapad. “While it is predictable that recent information may not be available—given her lifestyle—I am surprised not to have discovered more about her prior residences or activities.”

Crosshair’s expression crossed into triumphant. “See? Now can we get rid of her?”

Hunter hesitated a moment, thinking it through, but Echo interjected before he could voice his opinion. “I think we should keep her around a bit longer. This doesn’t give us anything we didn’t already know, and she could just be lying about Takodana because she doesn’t trust us yet. She showed us yesterday that she can be helpful.”

Tech nodded. “I am rather inclined to agree. Cid’s next task for us requires some intelligence-gathering. Dara is the least likely among us to draw attention while doing so.”

“And maybe we can find out more about her in the meantime to help direct Tech’s background check,” Echo added.

The sniper glared at them. “You all just want to sleep with her,” he accused.  

Hunter bristled. “Come on. We were just kidding around, Crosshair.”

“Is that what you were doing in your bunk last night, then?” Crosshair hissed back.

The pair were moving swiftly towards a fistfight, which was a semi-regular occurrence, although Omega’s presence among the squad had rather toned them both down. Not wanting to have to waste any time mediating or patching them up, Echo and Tech were grateful when they heard their last brother coming on board.

“Wrecker is back with the supplies. Let’s get things squared away so that we can go,” Echo said, a little sternly.

“Dara comes with us until we find a reason otherwise,” Hunter decided. With a final glare between them, he and Crosshair separated, and the squad set to work with their preparations.

The woman herself emerged from the cargo hold a few moments later. “Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

“We are quite alright. Our departure will take place in approximately 30 minutes,” replied Tech, who was overseeing the organization of their new inventory.

“In that case, I just need to pop out for a quick errand. I’ll be back in no time.” Dara exited the Marauder in good spirits, bouncing a little on her heels.

Hunter nodded to Crosshair, who was looking at him expectantly. “Go.”

Once again, Crosshair followed Dara through the city from rooftop to rooftop, trodding the familiar path to the curio shop. As insistent as he had been with his brothers about leaving her behind, a part of him knew that would mean never satisfying his curiosity—never finding out exactly who she was, what made her tick, what she looked like when all those careful walls came tumbling down. He got no answers from his observations; traveling through the city alone again, she was still guarded. Nevertheless, he did notice her amiability drop away, to be replaced with a seriousness and determination, something deadly but controlled. She walked through the streets like someone you didn’t want to fuck with.

Dara was inside the shop for no longer than five minutes before he saw her emerge, returning the way she came. He easily made it back to the ship in advance of her and was sprawled leisurely on one of the benches, a toothpick between his lips, when she arrived back on board.

“Have fun?” he drawled as she sank into the seat opposite him. She ignored him, studying her fingernails disinterestedly as Tech and Echo readied the Marauder for launch. Once they had entered hyperspace, the rest of the squad gathered nearby for their briefing.

Tech began with the background details. “We are heading to Caameris, which hosts the seasonal residence of Fait Prium, founder of Kumalon Laboratories—currently the most profitable pharmaceutical company in the galaxy. The scientific advancements behind Kumalon’s proprietary drugs and technologies are, as might be expected, closely guarded. However, Cid’s client has discovered that Prium maintains backup copies of this information—everything from drug formulas to manufacturing schematics—in a vault somewhere in his villa. Our job is to retrieve that information for the client, which I would surmise is a rival company seeking to discover their competitor’s trade secrets.”

Hunter took over. “The planet is sparsely populated, and the villa is located on a lake on the outskirts of a nearby town. Intel says that a good chunk of the town works for Prium—either in a small lab dedicated to his pet projects or at his estate. Apparently he has something against droids and will only hire organic beings. We’ll need to do some information gathering in the town and surveillance at the villa so we can find out what kind of security we’re facing, worker schedules, and the location of the vault before we finalize our infiltration strategy.”

The team nodded. As Cid’s missions went, this one seemed low stakes; breaking into a mansion was nothing compared to a prison or an imperial facility. Tech continued, “Dara, as you are the least likely among us to attract attention in the town, it may be best for you to attempt to acquire information from the locals while the rest of us conduct surveillance at the villa in shifts.”

Hunter regarded her seriously. “I’m not sure how I feel about you going on your own. There shouldn’t be any danger, but I’d feel better if one of us were there to watch your back.”

Dara smiled charmingly at him. “Of course. One of you can come with me, but it would mean getting out of your armor for a change. And maybe toning down some of your more…conspicuous traits.”

“Not likely,” Crosshair growled.

Echo grinned a bit sheepishly. “That might be a bit harder for some of us than others,” he pointed out, waving his scomp link.

“Fair,” Dara chuckled. “I personally think Tech is our best candidate. Wrecker and Echo are too memorable, and, well…” She traced a finger along the side of her face, mirroring Hunter’s tattoo, and winked at him.

Tech shook his head. “I will need to be with the surveillance team to assess the villa’s automated security systems.”

“I can just go alone, then. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Dara offered.

Hunter’s face remained thoughtful, as though he were seeking the most viable solution, but the sniper swore for a moment that he caught a mischievous gleam passing through his eyes before he ordered, “Take Crosshair.”

Seeing them both immediately open their mouths to protest, Hunter retreated to the cockpit before he had to hear their objections, leaving the pair glaring at his back.

Next chapter

Tag List: @stardusthuntress @skellymom

[lost-creatures]

"Hot Cougars in your area". She'd seen the ads a hundred times before, they were probably the only motherfuckers willing to advertise on these piece of shit message boards, and most of them were just scams anyway. This time though:

Reader Discretion Advised: Eaten Alive, hard vore, snuff, vomit, musk, yuri, t4t

So I do as I'm told and walk away from my campsite in the middle of the night without telling anyone. We didn't have to go far— just some state park in the mountains above the suburbs. An arid montane scrubland echoed across the rolling surface, its reds and yellows muted to grey and blue in the winter moonlight. Three ridgelines deep into the mountains already. Just the hike to the backcountry campsite beat my ass, so my legs are screaming as I walk into the cold.

/

it was an unlicensed app, right? but you know the website seemed normal enough and i figured that if this worked, i wouldn't really care what they did with whatever got left behind. enough debt to buy a house i guess? i thought i'd been fucked anyway, made a profile and went 2 weeks without a response or message. they're just gonna rob me, huh? this is even better than Lex.

i really needed a girl to pin me down and start tearing into me, nobody ever goes hard enough goddammit. if you want something done right i guess you need to find the real deal.

i almost deleted the app, told myself two days in a row that i should. then, a photo, a mass, the clash of textures between corded muscle and gelatinous organ, heaped onto the dust at night. the kind of thing you'd see on a trail cam, but the angle was wrong.

how can i reply? i can't just hit her with the keysmash, how many women like her can even admit they'd want to do this to you. prey have to stand out a bit more these days, predator populations are way down.

"hey um, is that your work? i really liek it ;3"

fuck goddammit its over im fucking blowing it

"thnk u for noticing meeeee!~"

i'll just kms i'm cooked

"sorry i, the composition of the piece is very strong. the way the textures of the corpse contrast with the dusty landscape, acts to draw your focus as much as the border of the spot lighting and surrounding darkness. the off center lighting creates an almost sfumato effect along the massing, creating beautiful shadow shapes. would you want a new subject? ;3"

"Hahaha, you're cute aren't you?"

my rizz is unlimited

"We should meet. Do you know Henry Coe?"

/

Going back down the 22% grade is harder than climbing it and made even worse by the loose gravelly surface and the too many gin and tonics I had after we made camp. My boot catches a rock as I leave the trail and my knees hit the rocks. It hurts, but I'm having trouble finding the meeting spot, maybe some blood on the trail will help her find me. It feels like she's already on top of me. There's a pressure in the air and it makes every crack and shift in the earth reverberate across the slope. In that moment I can hear every motion every breath under the scrub. There's nothing, just wind howling over the crest of Mount Sizer. But I can feel her boring into me. I keep waiting for her to collide with me, knock me to the ground. I want her I want her inside me.

I want to be ready so I strip my torn clothing from my body.

This has to be the spot, the singular tree matches the photo she sent. I sit, bare ass shivering on the stone under the tree and wipe the fresh beads of blood down my knees, only managing to make a big red smear reaching halfway down my shins. The premix gin and tonics from the campsite start to fight their way back up my throat.

"I didn't think you were gonna show." she's smiling. Her stare pierces through me like I'm not even there. Its entrancing.

Her amber felid form followed my same path along the mountainside and into this depression. A little bit of my blood already stains her muzzle.

"You're Eloise? You know you shouldn't give your real name out to strangers on the internet, right?" She stretches the last word out, lilting, like she's trying hard not to laugh.

I'm struggling to respond through the boozy haze, the biting wind, and the nerves I get just looking at her. "i didn't really think it mattered" I uncurl a bit and she finally gets a look at my face. "can i know yours?"

She jumps, pounces, closing the distance between us faster than I can react. The full weight of her body hits me square between the breasts. Between her body and the rocks beneath every last wisp of air is pressed from my lungs. Her scent hits me all once as I gasp for air, she's actually wild, fuck. Her stink is acrid, acidic, astringent, its the kind of smell that sucks the moisture out of the air and dries out your mouth. I don't gag so much as start panting and straining towards her. "Its Tiffany." Planted on my sternum she makes every breath a labor and I barely manage to whisper a reply.

"i… i…"

I've wanted this for so long but I never thought I'd get this far. I have no idea what to say.

She shifts her weight into my guts and the sick I've been holding back overtops the lump in my throat and pours weakly down my chin. I gag into my chest as my entire body contracts and the waves of my vomit splash flecks of evidence into the fur of her breast and forelegs.

"Its okay kiddo, you don't have to say anything"

"please," I'm coughing up the heavier stragglers stuck in my throat, "you're beautiful" It just burns now. "i need you to take everything from me"

She laughs and looks down, guiding my eye to her massive paws pressing into the plush of my abdomen. To the contents of my stomach emptied over my still flat chest and softening waistline, dripping off in chunks. The tips of her claws poke from their cuticle in their round furred sheath. Fully deployed, each one looks like a karambit, sharpened just for me. She runs her paws gently over my belly, the touch imperceptable over that of the scouring wind, and still, red and black beads follow in the trail she leaves. The roughness of her underpaw brushes past my aching nipples. I can't help but gasp at the burst of sensation attacking my touch starved corpus. She cups her mouth over my breast and gently rolls the small lump of fat around with her tongue, punctuating herself by flicking the tensed tip against my nipples. I can barely process how desperately horny I am. Between my love life sequestered behind a screen and my newly sensitive flesh, I was unprepared. Warmth spreads where my cunt should be and I can't help but grind weakly against her soft underbelly. The first hardon I've had in weeks, I'm almost crying. She pauses a moment and grins down at my weak erection to let me frot against her own growing studded clit. She pins my wrists against the stony ground and puts her hips into it. I'm screaming, the feeling is so intense it almost edges into painful. She's growling feral in my ear, gravel infiltrating her saccharine valley accent. God Fuck please I need it its fucking happening. I shoot; I didn't even know I could do that anymore. The thin mucus spraying from my tip coats the gap between us and she thrusts harder against my pelvis. When she shoots, it hits me in the chin so hard I yelp.

"You really are cute. I hope I can keep you." Her voice trails off and she looks down at me with pity or maybe resignation.

Held down by her impossible strength, she pulls open the soft flesh of my belly like a ripe persimmon. I scream and the sound is deadened and hurried away by the gusts up the windward side of the mountain. Her snout pushes into the freshly wet cleft and I feel her buried deep inside my guts. She works her way underneath my ribs, my chest swelling at the foreign addition. There is a new pressure in me as she nibbles at my liver, the taut wet bulge of organ fills her mouth. I feel her tugging at me with suction at the back her her throat. Her teeth sink into me and the shifting cords of her stiff neck pull with enough force to tear the dark mass free. I sit in a howling void, fully part of that world. I am pure energy bursting forth from a charred vessel. Steam rises around the internal heat bleeding external, a pocket in our frigid night. Spread thin over the earth, I hope she makes eye contact with me while she chews at the choice cuts. She looks back at me, almost bashful at the intimacy held in our stares.

She lays by my side devouring me. Her cum pools in my jugular notch, stained pink with flecks of blood. A tongue like a wave of sand cleans my blood from my outstretched hand. She works her way between each of my fingers all the way down to the webbing. Rolling them over and over with that wet muscle. She knows exactly what she's doing, she's still finding ways to tease me back to ecstasy. In one smooth motion she pulls the hand into her mouth, laying the wrist perfectly along her incisors, canines neatly out of the way. And she bites, gently at first, and then the muscles in her jaw tighten and contract. Blood oozes forth and then sprays from the base of the bite. The radiocarpal ligaments snap apart in suddenly relived tension and her teeth smash themselves between my many carpal bones. My hand spasms, articulated by pain, and she rolls her bite just enough. The back of my hand hits the wet of her hard palate and every nerve in my hand screams as it comes away in her mouth. She pins the arm under her while she sucks at the meat of my hand.

its too much its everything im scared i cant

I come to and the wind's died down a little, the moon's not quite where it used to be. I guess you can live a pretty long time with your guts out and no liver. Longer than I'd have thought anyway. A stump of a wrist bounces off a rock as she drags me. The edges are black with either dried blood or frostbite. I'm not sure how much longer I have left, but every second I get with her is an eternity.

[thebardostate]

Where Does Consciousness Come From?

(This is Part 2 of a three part series on consciousness. Part 1 is here. Part 3 is here.

A 25 year bet was settled last week when two rival scientific explanations for consciousness - Global Workspace Theory (GWT) and Integrated Information Theory (IIT) - both failed to discover any neuronal correlates of consciousness (NCC) in the human brain. Neuroscientist Cristof Koch and philosopher David Chalmers agreed that neuroscience can't yet explain how our brains produce consciousness.

I say "yet" because it is an article of faith among the disciples of Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett that consciousness (if it exists at all) will eventually be shown to be a mere illusion or "epiphenomenon" generated by biochemical activity in our brains. They argue that the mind is only what the brain does, so consciousness ceases when the brain dies. They dismiss as pseudoscientific "woo" fantasy any notion that consciousness might survive the physical death of the brain.

Source: @myjetpack

Materialist neo-Darwinism appears to enjoy broad support across the physical and biological sciences, in medicine, and from science popularizers like Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan. It can fairly be called the orthodox scientific view.

And yet, we see from the results of the wager that the origins of consciousness remain an open question. It is considered one of the greatest unsolved problems in science. Thus far, scientific orthodoxy has gotten us exactly...nowhere.

What is it Like to be a Bat?

Enter Thomas Nagel, a marquee name in the philosophy of mind and cognitive science. In 1974 Nagel published the widely influential essay "What is it Like to be a Bat?" in which he argued that there's a lot more to being a bat than just hanging around upside down in the dark. Bats perceive their world thru echo location. Nothing in human experience prepares us for what that must be like: bats don't "see" their homes because they're in pitch darkness, nor do they "feel" their way along in the dark because they're flying thru the air. We can speculate, but we humans don't have a clue what it feels like to be a bat. And yet, science knows a great deal about bat brains.

In his 2012 book Mind and Cosmos Nagel argues that the materialist neo-Darwinist conception of reality is almost certainly false, with far-reaching implications for evolution and quantum physics. He is incredulous at the just-so story that Dawkins, Dennett, et. al. are expecting us to swallow:

It is prima facie highly implausible that life as we know it is the result of a sequence of physical accidents together with the mechanism of natural selection. We are expected to abandon this naive response, not in favor of a fully worked out physical/chemical explanation but in favor of an alternative that is really a schema for explanation, supported by some examples. What is lacking, to my knowledge, is a credible argument that the story has a nonnegligible probability of being true.

However, Nagel is no sock puppet for religion, as some of his materialist critics have insinuated. In fact, he is an atheist:

I do not find theism any more credible than materialism as a comprehensive world view. My interest is in the territory between them. I believe that these two radically opposed conceptions cannot exhaust the possibilities.

Back to the Drawing Board

So if consciousness doesn't come from the brain, then where does it come from?

In Nagel's estimation it's high time science started looking for alternative explanations instead of continuing to double down on materialist neo-Darwinism, which by now has had ample time to put up or shut up (Karl Popper called these breezy we'll-solve-it-someday assurances "promissory materialism".) Nagel critiques the three basic approaches that materialists have pursued thus far:

Treat consciousness as a black box, and infer what might lurk inside the box by carefully observing its behavior from the outside. This is the behaviorist approach, whose sterility was so evident by the late 1960s that it sparked the cognitive revolution in psychology.

Systematically trace all mental events to physical counterparts "somewhere" in the brain. This is the approach that GWT and IIT take, using medical techniques like functional MRI to observe the brain as we carry out various activities. One of the problems with this approach is brain plasticity, the ability of the brain to rewire itself (e.g., after a stroke); plasticity makes it difficult to pin down exactly where in the brain mental events occur (to say nothing about how the brain pulls off the plasticity trick in the first place.) Another problem is that mental activities can interact and overlap, such as when we drive a car and talk on the phone at the same time. Sometimes we can multitask, and sometimes we can't. Where do those complex interactions play out in the brain? What about things produced by the brain itself but not experienced by the senses like imagination, the placebo effect and hallucinations? And finally, there is a world of difference between images from fMRI and the actual, subjective, first-person experiences we have when performing those tasks. They're just not the same. I'll have much more to say about this approach to consciousness research in Part 3 of this series.

Deny that there is any such thing as consciousness - this is eliminative materialism aka illusionism, whose most prominent proponent is Dennett. But if we buy into this, why should we stop at questioning our own consciousness? Why don't we just deny that anything exists at all, and go full-on nihilist atheist? Philosopher Galen Strawson called illusionism "the silliest claim ever made" while philosopher John Searle called it an "intellectual pathology." (Plus which, when you get down into the weeds of eliminative materialism, you find that it's just reheated behaviorism anyway.)

Nagel believes these materialist accounts are all incomplete because each in its own way fails to explain the familiar first-person experience of being alive and conscious. But even setting that aside, he points out a further problem for the neo-Darwinists.

Why Did Consciousness Evolve?

In its own way, materialist Neo-Darwinism is a "theory of everything" in so far as biology goes. As such, it must be able to explain why consciousness evolved in the first place.

It's quite plausible that natural selection could have produced organisms that adapt and reproduce without being conscious. We can imagine robot-like zombies that carry out a series of evolved instructions and reproduce without ever having experiencing first-person subjective consciousness, like little automatons. And yet, we are conscious. Why? What evolutionary purpose could first-person awareness have served?

A standard materialist explanation is that consciousness emerged as a byproduct of evolution (a "spandrel" as Steven Jay Gould called it) rather like junk DNA. If we are not satisfied with the just-so story that the mental comes as a free bonus to the physical, then we will have to look for our answers elsewhere.

Opening the Window on Consciousness

We landed in this situation because science has sought to explain nature entirely in physical terms, without invoking theism. It has been spectacularly successful - particularly in the physical sciences - but the cost has been excluding consciousness along with the gods. Eventually this exclusion was bound to be challenged. We cannot have a complete picture of the world without understanding our own consciousness that makes that picture possible. If consciousness isn't generated by the brain, the implications for evolution and quantum physics will be far-reaching. (Nagel, 2012)

In the concluding part of this series we'll take a fresh look at the medical evidence for certain so-called 'paranormal' phenomena. These have been systematically excluded from mainstream scientific consideration because, if they proved true, they would undercut materialist explanations of consciousness. What do medical anomalies like Near-Death Experiences and Terminal Lucidity imply about the nature of consciousness?

[readylovewrites]

how to rest (in a war)

Hyperspace is smeared white with the light of a million stars, a million planets and suns and moons and people. Hearts of kyber and fleshier things. Flares of life. Bugs on a windshield.

His spine aches and the ache pulls like the fingers of a grubby street child, like a grasping weed, draws his mouth into a thin line. Immeasurable.

The smears don’t blink out as they come out of hyperspace and that confirms his suspicions. He’s going to pass out. Maybe already has passed out and is surfacing, head above water, before the waves submerge him again.  Maybe it’s worse than that. He doesn’t think so; he’s grown remarkably good at knowing the limits of his body and feels certain that he’ll die without bacta and bone stabilizers but not immediately. That’ll have to be enough. Internal bleeding aside, his body is not riddled with shrapnel or tattooed with the burning ink of an explosion.

The Death Star fired on its own base and its only Bodhi that got them out. Imperial pilot. Defector. 

Cassian doesn’t allow himself to think the word friend.

The grating beneath him shutters, pitches, and he hears distantly K-2’s steady back and forth with Alliance flight control. It’s out of order.  An echo. K is dead. K is a square of data in his quarters. K is stuttering into the comms—stuttering—shouting Goodbye into an ever darkening vault. Bodhi is stuttering. Bodhi is alive. K is dead.

A hand bunches into his tattered shirt and presses down into his chest just beneath his collarbone. A shadow leans over him but the stars of hyperspace remain, dashed across the bridge of her nose, her eyes, her mouth. It’s Jyn, he thinks. She was next to him when they took off and Chirrut is a half-dead slump that Baze hovers over. Or was. Maybe now he is an all-dead slump.

This is the first time quiet has sung so loud.

“Cassian. S-stay.” It is Jyn. “You need to stay awake.”

He knows that. The majority of his career has been solo missions, regardless of the presence of assets, and though he’s never really had to call upon it much, he knows basic first aid. Knows how to bandage a blaster shot, a vibroblade wound. Knows that falling asleep with a concussion could mean never waking up.

He knows it but the stars are getting brighter and she’s fading to light.

The stars, suns, moons, the shades of hyperdrive are burned into his eyelids but he still turns his head towards her voice and reaches for her arm, desperate. When he finds it, he slides his palm down her sleeve until he hits exposed forearm and lingers. Presses two fingers to her pulse point. Lingers. Only for a moment. Even as her other hand comes to rest on his wrist, he slides further down to her hand that holds tightly to the clunky weight of the plans. She presses his hand.

“I’ve got them. We got them. Stay awake.”

Can’t, he thinks as his eyelids slip shut.  The stars are here. In the dark, and burning bright.

He turns his hand, feels the data drive fall away, and all that’s left is Jyn’s skin.

It’s odd how hungry he is for the touch. More than for the plans even. He remembers touching her hip where they originally hung as soon as he and Jyn were dragged bodily by Baze on board, not even out of atmo yet. Not safe, no promise of escape. Touched and gripped and thought it’s done, though really it isn’t.  And still, more than all of that, he wants to touch Jyn Erso and feel that she is alive.

“Cassian, stay awake.”

Maybe he is delirious from the concussion. It’s nonsensical.

He’s never felt an urge to hold a person without motive or prompting.

Cassian. Stay awake.

He won’t and he knows it but the corners of his mouth tighten with an effort.

Cassian. 

He’s more Cassian than he’s ever been.

She gives that to him. No aliases, no lies.

Cassian.

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

in these walls (beauyasha week day 2)

Prompt: home @beauyasha-week Read on ao3

At the end of a long, winding road is a house. 

The house is old, overgrown with vines and the plants that must have been confined to the gardens now overflow into the yard and over the brick path leading to the porch. Some of the windows are broken, some from storms, most of them probably from neighboring kids. The unbroken windows are clouded with a thick layer of dust or shuttered against the wind.

The wrought iron fence and gate are creaky and bent in places, the plants starting to swallow them into the earth. The boards of the front porch are warped and broken, the stain all but washed away. And even through the grim and plants covering the house, the faintest bit of blue siding can be seen. 

This is a house that is full of stories, as all houses are. It has been long since abandoned, but still stands against the wind and weather to deliver its stories to anyone brave enough to open the door. There aren’t many people like that anymore, people are much happier to wait and stay where it is safe than to venture into the unknown.

The second Beau sees it, she knows that this is the one. 

She can so clearly see Yasha tending to the garden on a spring morning. She can see Imdrin sitting in the bay window, doing his homework. She can see Cricket running about the whole place, her footsteps echoing through the whole house. She can see their family living here happily.

It’s big enough to host the Mighty Nein and their families and it’s close enough to the city that Beau won’t need Caleb to teleport her to work anymore. 

She and Yasha have had it in the back of their mind to start looking for a new house, big enough for the kids as they grow and to act as shelter for their friends when they need it. Yes, it will take lots of time to fix this one up, but it’s more than worth it to her. The second she tells Yasha about it, she is completely on board.

Later that week, Beau and Yasha sit the kids down in the living room. “So,” Beau begins with a smile, “your mom and I want to ask you something. How would you two feel about moving into a new house closer to the city? It’s going to be bigger and with an even bigger yard.”

Imdrin’s face slowly starts to break into a smile, “Would I be able to go to school in the city?”

Yasha nods, “You would and so would your sister. And it would mean your uncles Caleb and Essek get to visit more often.” Immediately Imdrin lights up, as the only other drow he knows, Imdrin has grown incredibly fond of Essek. And though he almost never says it, Beau and Caleb both know how good talking with Imdrin has been for Essek.

“What do you think, Cricket?” Beau asks, turning to their daughter. Unlike her brother, Cricket doesn’t seem convinced, in fact she seems incredibly concerned. Instead of answering the question, she gets off the couch and runs to her room, the door shutting behind her with a soft click.

“I’ve got it,” Yasha says, ghosting a hand over Imdrin’s hair as she follows Cricket upstairs to her bedroom. 

Cricket’s door is covered with drawings, one Imdrin drew of a cricket sits right in the middle. Yasha approaches quietly, rapping a single knuckle against the door. “Bug? Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Cricket responds softly. 

Yasha slowly pushes open the door and scans the room. Cricket is nowhere in sight, but Yasha knows her daughter well enough to know her hiding places. Which is why she just sits against the wall beside the bed, knowing Cricket has tucked herself underneath it.

“You know, long before I met your mama, I was part of a tribe that traveled all over. We were hardly ever in the same spot for more than a month. So I know that moving can be scary-”

“Not scared.” 

Yasha smiles fondly, though Cricket can’t see her. “What are you then?”

Cricket is silent for a long moment and Yasha can hear her fingers tapping against the floor as she thinks, “I’m nervous.”

“Why?”

“Leaving this house means going to a new one and then a new one and then there aren’t any more houses and then we’ll have to live in the mud. And you’ll have to leave me behind.”

Yasha is stunned into silence. As long as they’ve had Cricket, they’ve never been able to find out much of anything about her past, which led her to being alone in the Mudtop Ward. They had assumed she didn’t remember. It is clear as day that she does now.

“Cricket, can you come out so I can see you?”

Cricket sighs softly, but Yasha shortly hears her moving along the floor until her head pops out from under the bed near Yasha’s knee. She smiles and helps Cricket out, sitting her daughter down in front of her.

“You don’t have to worry about that. We’re going to be in the new house for a long time, I promise. And we’re never ever leaving you or your brother behind, okay?”

Cricket sticks her pinky towards Yasha with a serious look. Yasha links hers around Cricket’s and squeezes.

As the summer progresses, Yasha and Beau spend their days at the new house, tearing out floorboards, putting up wallpaper, fixing leaky taps and creaky steps. Despite the hard work, it’s very fun to have time together without the kids. More than a few times as they’re working, Yasha can’t resist pulling Beau into a kiss despite the paint or plaster on their hands. 

And on their last day of work, the day before they show the kids the house the first time and move in, the two of them find themselves standing in the kitchen with content smiles. Beau leans into Yasha’s side, pulling her partner’s arm over her shoulders. 

“It looks amazing,” Yasha says breathlessly. “They’re going to love it.”

“They better,” Beau laughs and Yasha pinches her shoulder playfully. “Seriously though,” Beau turns around and loops her arms around Yasha’s neck, standing on her toes to press a kiss to her lips. “This is fucking awesome.”

Yasha chuckles against her lips, “It is. It’s our house now and you know…the kids are with their uncles tonight.” She kisses Beau, forcing her to tilt her head up. “And I don’t think this house has been properly christened yet.”

Beau smirks, meeting Yasha’s eyes full of lust, “I think we should get to that then, don’t you?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Yasha whispers as she trails her lips down Beau’s neck.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Falling For Your Fools Gold: Chapter 2

A/N: And we’re back to pirate time babyyyy! Apologies in advance that this is a bit exposition-y, but I promise the excitement will pick up! There will be more heated exchanges between Nesta and Cassian! More of Nesta being a brat! More of Cassian already instantly deciding that’s his wife! It’ll be great! ;) TW for this chapter for thoughts of SA? Discussion of implied SA? Basically Nesta assumes the worst, but no SA actually happens. Idk what to label that as, but I want to make sure there is that warning. 

Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

“Raise the anchor!”

Two other voices echo Cassian’s shouted demand, and Nesta can do nothing but watch as the board connecting the pirate ship to her father’s ship is pulled back, effectively and completely cutting her off from everything she’s ever known. It’s not just a door slamming in her face, it’s the ominous click of a key in a lock, darkness roiling in and threatening to crush her from all sides with finality.

Various pirates shuffle back and forth across the deck, and Nesta can feel the curious eyes that burn holes into her and prickle along her skin, but she refuses to move or to turn her head. Instead, Nesta stays glued to her spot, gaze trapped watching the distance grow and grow between the two ships as the waves and current begin to push and pull them apart.

“And ready the cannons,” Cassian’s booming voice comes from over Nesta’s shoulder.

The words spear straight through Nesta’s chest, and she whirls around to face Cassian with wide eyes. The pirate captain won’t meet her gaze, though, his face all hard lines under the still shining sun. Nesta glances back toward her father’s ship, and her stomach sinks when she notices Captain Kittington still on the deck.

“You’d condemn an innocent man just like that?” Nesta asks, not bothering to hide her distaste.

“A good captain goes down with his ship,” Cassian tells her, his tone harsh and final.

“I can’t wait to watch you go down with your ship, then,” Nesta shoots back with a glare.

Cassian finally meets her gaze, a slow smirk tugging its way across his face. “Keep dreaming, sweetheart.”

The indignation that flares like a wildfire through Nesta’s veins at this man has her wanting to punch him in the face. She half wonders if she could get away with it, wonders what her punishment would be if she were to try it. To wipe that smug look off his face, it might just be worth it. From the way Cassian’s smirk morphs into an amused smile, he can clearly read the thoughts hiding in her scowl, and that just makes Nesta’s annoyance only deepen.

Before Nesta can make another snappy retort, the sound of cannons cuts through the air and seems to shake the wood beneath Nesta’s feet. She whips back around, watching in horror at the holes blown into her father’s ship, at the shattered pieces of wood flying into the air and water at the impacts. The ship crumbles and breaks apart with each cannon ball that tears through it, and one of the shots must hit where the gunpowder barrels are kept, a fiery explosion sending billows of dark smoke spiraling into the sky and flames licking across what remains of the ship.

It’s not long before the ship collapses in on itself and sinks fully into the waves below, Nesta turning away and unable to watch anymore. There’s no hiding from the still crackling sound of burning wood, the acrid smell of the smoke, though, and Nesta squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught to her senses. Perhaps if she tries hard enough, she’ll wake and discover this was all just a vivid, horrible nightmare. Perhaps if she tries even harder, she’ll open her eyes and be back home in Adriata.

“Baz!”

The shout from Cassian draws Nesta’s attention again, and when she opens her eyes, another pirate is walking their way. His hair is dark like Cassian’s but not as long, the strands ruffling in the sea breeze. His eyes are just as dark, a deep brown that should seem unsettling, and yet there’s a boyish charm to the man’s face, made even more so when he grins easily.

“Captain,” the pirate greets, his gaze only glancing briefly toward Nesta.

“Would you mind keeping our new guest company while I ensure our course is set?” Cassian asks, that infuriating smirk making a reappearance. “Perhaps you can give her the grand tour.”

The pirate snorts at the comment but nods his head in agreement nonetheless. “Sure thing.”

“Great,” Cassian says, turning back toward Nesta. “This is Balthazar, my first mate, and this is…”

He leaves the end of the sentence hanging in the air between them, both pairs of eyes looking at Nesta expectantly, but she refuses to give Cassian the satisfaction. Instead, she crosses her arms across her chest and settles the pirate captain with an unimpressed look, keeping her chin tilted up and her shoulders back. Daring him.

“Princess,” Cassian finally finishes.

“He’s not calling me that,” Nesta snaps.

“You’re the one who refuses to tell us your name, princess,” Cassian tells her, emphasizing the nickname in a way that Nesta knows is purposeful, knows is meant to get under her skin. “So it would seem we’re at a stalemate.”

The glare Nesta sends him would kill most men, certainly send them scarpering off, but Cassian continues to merely look amused, his own arms crossed casually across his chest. Realistically, Nesta knows that there’s no use holding out her name any longer. She knows that there’s no point since she’s stuck on this pirate ship either way, and her being Nesta Archeron makes no difference. And she certainly has no interest in being called princess the whole time.

And yet there’s another part of Nesta that wants to keep up the fight, some part deep within her soul that blazes bright, flames dancing in delight and anticipation, answering some long forgotten call. It’s the part of her that whispers to keep pushing, that relishes in the way Cassian doesn’t seem to balk at whatever she throws at him.

A completely absurd notion, really.

“Nesta,” Nesta finally admits. “My name is Nesta.”

“Nesta,” Cassian repeats like he’s tasting her name, trying it out against his tongue. He looks as if he might say more, but never does. Instead, Cassian gives a small shake of his head and turns on his heel heading toward the other end of the ship.

“Shall we?” Balthazar asks, extending his arm for Nesta to take, the gesture taking Nesta by surprise.

“Quite gentlemanly of you, Balthazar,” Nesta can’t help but comment, settling her hand in the crook of Balthazar’s elbow, allowing him to lead her away from the ship’s edge.

“You can call me Baz,” Balthazar tells her as they walk. “And I’ll have you know, I’m always a gentleman.”

“A gentleman pirate?”

“Perhaps pirates aren’t what you think they are.”

“Unlikely.”

Balthazar laughs at her statement, at her matter-of-fact tone, but he doesn’t say anything more. He leads Nesta along the deck, pointing out different pirates as they go; although, Nesta only half catches most of their names. They head below deck next, and Balthazar points out the galley and the cargo hold and the crew’s quarters. Nesta expects him to point out which of the hanging beds will be hers, but they continue on, Balthazar directing her away and back onto the deck.

Once back up in the sunshine, Balthazar leads the way up to the quarter deck and then down another set of stairs. Nesta realizes it must be the great cabin from the large desk that sits in front of the windows, various papers and maps spread out across the surface.

Balthazar opens a door off to the side to reveal a cabin. A decent sized bed, covered in red blankets, is built into the right wall, another, smaller desk in the center of the room, and a wardrobe with shelves and a water basin sits along the left wall. It’s spacious and nice, and cautiously, Nesta takes a step forward into the cabin.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” Balthazar explains, gesturing with his arm. “The water should be clean if you wish to freshen up.”

“Thank—” Nesta starts reflexively before realizing this is still a pirate she’s talking to.

The corner of Balthazar’s lip twitches up in the first hint of a smirk, and Nesta knows he’s clocked her hesitation and the reasoning behind it. It has her rolling her eyes and promptly closing the cabin door in the pirate’s face. She hears his quiet snort of amusement and his retreating footsteps, and then it’s just Nesta and her apparent quarters.

She makes her way further into the cabin, running her fingers along the blankets of the bed, the fabric velvety soft beneath her skin. She wanders over to the shelves of the wardrobe, touch dancing along the different spines of the books tucked neatly there. She tilts her head to read the titles, most of them appearing to be histories. It’s certainly an interesting choice for a guest cabin.

Even more curious is the desk. There’s blank parchment and writing utensils but also a golden letter opener and an abandoned letter. Nesta glances over her shoulder just to be sure she’s truly alone before picking up the letter, curious to see what the previous guest of this cabin may have left behind. Her mind is already concocking different scenarios and tales, each more outlandish and more fitting for one of her novels than the last. But her excitement is quickly quelled when she realizes the letter in question merely contains details of trade routes from someone named Azriel.

With a quiet huff, Nesta lets the letter fall back to the desk. She walks back toward the wardrobe and the basin of water there, washing her hands and splashing some of the cool water against her face. As more minutes of quiet pass by, Nesta dares to head to the door of the cabin, slowly pulling it open and peeking her head out. When she finds the great cabin still empty, she steps fully inside, sneaking over toward the maps on the desk. There are various markings on the maps, but Nesta has no idea what any of them mean, and it does little to answer where they are or where they may be headed. Much to her annoyance.

Determined to at least figure out which direction they’re sailing, Nesta strides up the stairs and back onto the quarter deck. She settles her hand over her eyes and peers up at the sky, the sun thankfully beginning its descent and giving her a solid reference point. Southwest. What was southwest from where her father’s ship had last been?

The unmistakable feeling of eyes on her prickles at Nesta’s skin, leaving the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She turns to find a pirate at the tiller, his narrowed gaze locked on her. The distrustful scowl marring his features leaves Nesta feeling uneasy, so she quickly spins back around and steps down to the proper deck.

She finds a place firmly away from any of the other pirates, leaning against the ship’s railing and peering out against the expanse of swirling blues and greens and whites that makes up the sea. She squints toward the horizon, hoping for just a glimpse of land, praying for a hint of an escape or at least a way to determine where she might be.

“I hope you aren’t planning on jumping,” a familiar voice speaks from behind Nesta, and she whirls around to find Cassian watching her, the sinking sun bouncing off the strands of his hair and leaving his skin looking extra golden. “It’d be quite the swim to the nearest port. If the sharks didn’t take you first, of course.”

“Better than being your prisoner,” Nesta shoots back, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at the pirate captain.

“Prisoner?” Cassian asks, amusement lighting up his hazel eyes. “Do you see a cage? You are free to go wherever you please, to do whatever you wish.”

“And if I wish for you to take me home?”

“Nice try, princess.”

Nesta huffs both at the nickname and the implication that she really is stuck on this ship. She can’t help but wonder what would happen if she promised to be just as insufferable as Cassian seems set on being, if his sentiment would remain the same if she truly became the princess he keeps teasing her of being. The idea is certainly tempting, and Nesta realizes she can start right now when her eyes catch on the glint of gold and ruby, the dagger Feyre gifted her still nestled in Cassian’s belt.

“What if I wish for you to return my dagger?”

Cassian pulls the dagger free, testing the weight of it in his hand. “Hoping to try and fail at killing me again?”

“Perhaps this time, I will try and be successful,” Nesta sneers, that voice from earlier whispering up her spine, daring her to take a step closer, to ignite that fire once again.

“Last I checked, weapons training wasn’t part of teachings to become a lady.”

“You don’t know me. For all you know, I am different from other ladies.”

“I certainly agree with you there,” Cassian tells her, extending his hand out toward her, the dagger nestled against his palm. “Go on then.”

Nesta reaches forward to take the dagger, but before her fingertips can even brush against the metal of the hilt, Cassian curls his fingers and pulls his arm away. Nesta’s eyes snap back to Cassian’s face in surprise, and of course, he’s smirking again. Is he capable of any other expression?

Nesta rolls her eyes, but before she can snap out a remark, Cassian holds his hand and the dagger out again, the same as before. Nesta eyes it carefully, narrowing her gaze and waiting for him to once again snatch the dagger away, but the seconds tick by with his hand outstretched and waiting between them. This time, Nesta tries to be more clever. She makes sure to give an air of disinterest, even turning her head to look away, before darting forward to grab at the dagger. But again, Cassian is too quick, pulling his hand back and away. The laugh he lets out in response just further grates against Nesta’s nerves, indignation flaring through her veins.

“Is this all some kind of game to you?” Nesta snaps, glaring even more when Cassian’s smirk pulls into a full blown, if not amused, smile.

“I am rather enjoying myself, yes,” Cassian answers easily, once again holding out the dagger for her to take.

Nesta lets out an annoyed scoff, but Cassian tilts his head, shaking his outstretched hand in encouragement. Nesta knows he’s just goading her, knows that she should walk away and let him mull on that for a bit, but if there’s one thing that’s always been true, it’s Nesta’s inability to back down from a challenge. Before she passed, her Mother always warned her it would be her downfall, but Nesta will be damned if she’s bested by some stupid pirate.

So Nesta throws out her hand once again, this time curling her fingers around Cassian’s wrist rather than going directly for the dagger. She intends to keep his hand from being pulled away so she can finally take the dagger, but Cassian still tugs, taking Nesta with his arm. Before Nesta can even blink, Cassian twists her, her back pressed against his chest. His free hand settles at her hip, the arm still with the dagger stretched from shoulder to shoulder and holding her firmly against him. It’s almost odd, the contrast between the coolness of the metal of the dagger against her collarbones and the heat that Cassian seems to radiate, and a shiver wracks its way up Nesta’s spine before she can stop it.

“Just as I thought,” Cassian whispers against her ear, breath tickling the hairs there. “You know, I’d be more than happy to train you, Nes.”

Nesta wriggles until she can pull free from Cassian’s grasp, spinning on her heel so she can glower at him. “I’d rather try my luck with the sharks.”

Nesta stalks away and back down to her cabin, determined to put as much space as possible between her and the pirate captain with his infuriatingly smug smile, his cocksure expression, his general air of arrogance. Once behind the safety of a closed door, she pulls down one of the history books from the shelf in the cabin, flipping through the pages and giving her mind any reprieve she can.

The sun has long sunk below the horizon, inky skies settling in a starlit blanket overhead and leaving Nesta to light a candle to continue reading, when the door to the cabin opens. Cassian strolls in without a care, not even bothering to look at Nesta as he closes the door behind him. Nesta can only watch confused as he walks over to the water basin, washing his hands and face, before he begins to unbutton his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Nesta finally asks.

Cassian looks down at himself before meeting Nesta’s gaze. “Taking off my jacket.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Nesta tells him, standing up and placing the history book down on the desk. “What are you doing here? In my cabin?”

“Your cabin? Princess, this is the captain’s cabin.”

The words are startling enough that the breath stutters in Nesta’s lungs, her heart lurching before it kicks up into a thunderous beat. It all makes sense, the spacious cabin, the books, the letter she had found on the desk. This is his cabin. She’s in his cabin, and yet—

“Baz said this is where I’d be staying.”

“And he was correct. This is where you’ll be staying, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up my cabin for you.”

Cassian turns away from her, goes back to unbuttoning the last buttons of his jacket. He slides the jacket off his shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks in the wardrobe, before fisting a hand in the back of his shirt and tugging the fabric up and over his head. For a moment, Nesta is distracted watching the expanse of skin revealed, watching the way the muscles of his back pull taut at the movement, but then she realizes what must be happening, what this must mean.

She supposes she should have known better, that she should have seen this coming. For all the verbal teasing that seemed good natured with Cassian, the gentlemanly kindness from Baz, the way no one truly bothered her on this ship, it’s still a pirate ship she’s on. Cassian is still one of the most feared men on the seas, the Lord of Bloodshed nickname well earned according to the stories. And Nesta is a young and vulnerable woman, with nowhere to go on this ship and in his cabin.

Suddenly, Nesta regrets all her barbed words and sharp remarks from earlier. Is this how he intends to punish her? Will he make it even worse, even more painful in retaliation? Nesta tries to keep her breathing even, tries to taper down her fear, in case he’s one of those men who gets off on scared women, but it’s easier said than done. It’s like stuttering on pins and needles with every inhale, her heart pounding an erratic beat between her ribs. Already, she can feel her hands trembling, and Nesta fists them in the skirts of her dress. She swallows once. Twice.

“Will you at least make it quick?” Nesta whispers, hating the pleading that drenches her tone but too scared to care.

Cassian pauses where he was unlacing his second boot, turning his head to glance up at Nesta. She isn’t sure what he sees on her face, but he stands up to his full height, a frown pulling down his lips. He takes a step closer to Nesta before seeming to think better of it and stepping back again.

“I would never touch a woman unless she asked me to,” Cassian tells her, his voice low but firm. “And neither will anyone on this crew lest they’re interested in losing a hand.”

Nesta doesn’t say anything, but she can feel that knot of tension in her body release at his assurance. Cassian continues to watch her for a moment before turning back to his boots, continuing to unlace them and kick them off.

“You’re welcome to sleep in the crew’s quarters if you’d prefer,” Cassian speaks again, walking over to the bed and lying back against the blankets. “I’m assuming Baz showed you where those are.”

Nesta can’t help the way her nose scrunches up at the memory of the crew’s quarters and the smell from below deck. She certainly has no interest in sleeping there when the other option involves a cleaner and much more private cabin. She has no intention of telling Cassian that, though. Instead she glowers at the way he lounges so casually, hands tucked up behind his head and body stretched out so Nesta gets an eyeful of the various tattoos littering his chest and arms.

“You know a gentleman would offer to sleep on the floor so the lady could have the bed,” Nesta informs him.

“Good thing I’m a… what was it you called me again? A dirty bastard of a pirate?”

“Will you at least scoot over so there is room for me?”

“There’s plenty of room,” Cassian tells her, gesturing with his right hand to the expanse of bed between him and the cabin wall and completely ignoring Nesta’s outraged scoff. “Now, blow out the candle, will you, princess?”

Nesta rolls her eyes, but she turns back to the desk to do as he requested anyways. It’s then that she notices that letter opener still sitting there. She chances a glance over her shoulder, but Cassian’s eyes are thankfully closed. As carefully and quietly as she can, Nesta reaches over, slipping the letter opener into the sleeve of her dress. Once it’s secure, she blows out the candle and toes off her shoes.

Nesta walks over toward the bed, making a big show of climbing over Cassian to get to the open space of the mattress. It gives her the perfect cover and distraction as she slides the letter open from her sleeve, but her fingers have only just curled around the handle when Cassian’s hand catches her wrist. Just like that first meeting, he squeezes until Nesta lets out a soft yelp, the sound of the letter opener clattering against the wood of the floor echoing in the cabin.

“I’m beginning to think you don’t like me,” Cassian teases.

Nesta lets out a frustrated groan and pushes off of him. And if her knee digs hard into his stomach in the process, then is that really her fault? She shifts until she’s lying comfortably, making sure she presses as close to the wall and as far away from Cassian as possible, pointedly ignoring his amused chuckle. She hears the shuffle of the blankets, the dip of the mattress, as Cassian shifts, but she can’t make out his face in the dark of the cabin.

“You know,” Cassian begins, and Nesta can practically hear his smirk. “That offer to train you still stands if you want.”

“I can assure you that I will never want anything from you.”

“Is that a challenge? I’ll have you know, princess, I happen to love a good challenge.”

—

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