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baddest-batchers · 4 months

Text

Learning All the Time

here is a Tech x fem!reader idea that’s been living in my head for the past few days. enjoy, loves~💕

SFW, brief description of kissing, fast feelings, mutual pining, lots of fluff

thank you @techwrecker for beta reading for me again and for the so needed encouragement to finish this and not scrap it!

As a mechanic, it made sense for you to already know your way around a modified Omicron class attack shuttle. And you did, for the most part, but this particular ship that belonged to the most interesting batch of clones you had ever met was just as unique as they were. Tech offered a datapad to you containing the Marauder’s schematics with all of the modifications he had implemented thus far in between his squad’s various missions upon your arrival to the hangar on Kamino. Upon a brief skim of them, you realized there was a lot to memorize before you would even attempt to repair so much as a door panel. In the weeks that followed your joining of Clone Force 99, you dedicated most of your time to committing the ship schematics to memory, however, you noticed this was beginning to become more precarious with every moment you spent with the Marauder’s resident genius and pilot.

Since joining the squad of unique clones, you quickly realized just how much you enjoyed each of the Batch’s company, but in Tech’s presence was by far your favorite place to be. He was exceptionally brilliant, quick witted, and oh so endearing with the way he was constantly pushing his goggles back up his nose every so often. You were smitten with him, quirks and all.

Swiveling in the copilot’s seat you dropped the datapad to your lap and brought your fingers to massage your temples, hoping to knead away the growing haze in your brain. Your thoughts continued to flit to Tech as you futilely tried to study. You realized that you had spent more time day dreaming about him than committing the ship’s schematics to memory.

If he was showing you something he happened to be working on you listened intently to him and silently hoped he knew you were genuinely interested in his work. Assisting him on repairs was by far one of your favorite pastimes, though. More often than not, Tech would ask for your thoughts on a particular modification and then you would end up working on it together. It was butterfly inducing to be wedged under the panels of the Marauder with him. On more than one occasion you’d end up brushing up against his arm or your fingers would briefly make contact with his gloved palms while handing him tools. All of this was more than enough to distract you from your studies of the ship’s schematics.

You didn’t hear Tech when he asked you about the ship’s continuing issue with its inertia dampeners. Still kneading your temples and lost in thought, Tech said your name again and this time his voice pulled you out of your daydreaming.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” You flinched, sitting more upright from your relaxed posture in the copilot chair.

“I asked if you had any thoughts as to what could be causing the issue with the inertia dampeners.” Tech replied as he turned to look at you in his seat.

“Are you quite well?” He asked, his entire body swiveling now in the pilot seat to face you while taking in your frustrated expression.

“I’m sorry, Tech, I swear I’ve been studying the ship’s schematics. I’m just—“ You let out a short breath, “I’m..a little distracted, I guess.” You say while swiping through the Marauder’s schematics once again and hoping that he couldn’t perceive the way he flustered you with so much as a glance in your direction these days.

“There is no need to apologize. Perhaps you should rest before we drop out of hyperspace and arrive at Kamino.” Tech said kindly.

Noticing his full attention now turned to you, your eyes found his face again. His eyes had that kind look to them that softened his faint smile lines. Before Tech could catch the growing blush that was starting to spread across your face, you hastily dropped your attention to the datapad in your lap.

“No, I’d rather stay here and continue to study, if that’s alright.” You offer back to him.

“And I promise I’ll figure out what’s wrong with the dampeners once we land, I just need to—“

“There is no need to do so right away, sarad.” Just as quickly as the Mando’a term slipped from Tech’s lips, he quickly turned his attention back to the ship’s controls. Before he could formulate an explanation for using the word, both you and Tech heard a familiar low chuckle from the cockpit entrance.

Crosshair’s lithe form leaned on one side of the entrance, arms crossed and a toothpick slotted between his lips.

“When are you going to tell her, Tech?” The sniper’s mirth was palpable. How long had he been standing there?

“Tell me what?” You looked from Crosshair to Tech.

“What did you call me, Tech?” You asked innocently, truly not knowing the meaning of the word he had used.

“He called you ‘sarad.’” Crosshair smirked while shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. He was definitely enjoying this way too much for Tech’s comfort.

Your expression didn’t change, you were not very familiar with Mando’a, knowing only a few words much to your own surprise being that you’d spent a considerable amount of time around clones.

“Ah, well, it means—“ Tech began.

“It means ‘flower’.” Crosshair cut to it before Tech could uncharacteristically stammer out his reply.

Your jaw went a little slack in surprise and the only word you could manage to form was a quiet “oh.”

Tech shifted uncomfortably in his seat before shooting his brother a look of annoyance that Crosshair waved off as he walked toward the back of the Marauder.

Something in your stomach fluttered at the realization of Tech’s use of the Mando’a word and it’s possible implication. Before he could begin to speak again, you smiled and tipped your head to one side, trying to catch his avoidant gaze.

“Tech?” You called his name in the sweetest voice he’d ever heard his name said. A sudden burst of courage moved your hand to gently rest on Tech’s knee, stopping him from facing away from you. Butterflies soared in your stomach at the feel of him under your hand.

“You know how I said I was distracted earlier?” You said slowly, your newfound courage pushing you further. Hesitantly, you removed your hand from his knee while inching yourself to the edge of your seat.

“Yes, I do recall you saying that.” Tech affirmed, eyes dropping from your face to his knees that were mere inches from yours.

“Well..it’s you..you are what’s been distracting me the past few weeks. The way you talk about the things you are interested in, with so much excitement and enthusiasm. How you are always willing to teach me something new while we’re working together. How kind you always are with your brothers…and with me.” Your words hit Tech like a gust of warm summer wind on Kashyyyk.

“If that isn’t a clear enough confession then here it is, plain and simple: I like you so very much, Tech.” You finally say, after all these weeks of mulling over how fast and hard you had fallen for him. It was out in the open, the ball was in his court now, and your heart laid bare for him to see. You knew he could see the blush that had spread over your face and this made you drop your eyes to your hands that were now planted firmly just above your knees.

Tech’s eyes slowly drifted over your features, as if to be sure you meant what you had just said. He pushed his goggles up the bridge of his nose.

“I rarely find myself at a loss for words, this time being one of few that I am able to remember.” Tech said slowly. While he had his suspicions, Tech was now fully faced with the pleasant realization that his own pining after you was mutual. It shocked him a bit at how quickly he had fallen for you and the circumstances surrounding your confession of affection was almost overwhelming him.

Looking up at him now in slight surprise, his admission pulled a soft giggle, a sound like music to his ears, from you which gave Tech the push he needed to finally close the gap between you.

Knees now touching, his thumb and forefinger placed just so on and under your chin, Tech tipped your face up ever so slightly so that your lips pressed gently to his. Warmth blossomed in your chest at his touch and kiss. You could hardly believe this moment was real. His mouth moved slowly, almost reverently, against your own. You brought your hands to rest on his chest plate, the feel of the smooth plastoid grounding you in this moment. You committed every sensation to memory. This was a moment you knew you’d never forget.

Tech finally, after what felt like a blissful eternity, pulled away slowly but not fully breaking contact with you, leaving his knees still touching yours.

“I believe my feelings for you to be mutual.” He said in a hushed tone, knowing Hunter could most likely feel the bubbling energy radiating from the two of you from the furthest corner of the Marauder.

You smiled at Tech while bringing your hand to your chest, feeling your heart pound inside your ribs. The silence was comfortable for a moment, just you and him looking at each other with love and admiration and mutual understanding.

After another moment, you finally broke the sweet silence, “Hey, Tech?”

“Yes, mesh’la?” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This Mando’a word you did know. It meant ‘beautiful’ and his use of it made the butterflies in your stomach soar yet again and a smile form on your lips.

“What kind of sarad do I remind you of?” You asked softly while leaning just a little bit closer into his space.

With your question, Tech lit up into a detailed explanation of a flower he once encountered on a brief shore leave several rotations ago. His voice was so soothing and the kindness in his eyes shown even brighter as he spoke. You knew you would never tire of listening to him or of seeing his eyes shine for the rest of forever.

•••

#the bad batch #star wars #tbb #tbb tech #tech x fem!reader #sw fic #baddest batcher writes

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rosyrosethings · 1 year

Text

Prince Harry.

Word count: 4,533

Summary:Harry is a prince who goes in disguise to a new local bakery in his town. Y/n is a bakery owner who is American and has no idea about the royal family.

A little smut, slow burn, y/n is black.

The soft chime of the doorbell announced a new customer at "Daisy's Confections". Nestled in the quietest part of Albridge town, the bakery was a treasure trove of sugary delights. Freshly baked croissants, intricate pastries, and a variety of cookies lined the shelves, filling the air with a warm and comforting aroma. Everyone in town loved Y/n’s baking. Day by day her baking became more popular.

Even the Prince of Albridge heard of the amazing treats Harry who cant go out with out being noticed. He put on his baseball cap and his shades and his hoodie. He proceeded to try to leave out the palace

"Umm sir where are you going?" Ethan asked him, his bodyguard.

"I am going out alone." He said.

"Looking like a burglar? You know, can get both us in real trouble when you sneak out like that." Ethan said, his job to watch over Harry.

"Ethan I am just going into the town, I promise i will be back soon. If my grandmother or father are looking for me. Just cover for me? Please." He begged, Ethan sighed. Even though he was his bodyguard. They were friends. Ethan nodded as Harry proceeded to leave and make his way to the bakery.

Meanwhile, Behind the counter, Y/n adjusted her bun and dusted flour off her apron as she looked up to greet the newcomer. What she saw took her by surprise—a tall man in a navy-blue hoodie, sporting dark sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low to obscure most of his face. When the skies were clear and the sun was shining. The guy looked as if he was going to rob a bank or something she thought.

"Good morning," she greeted with a bright smile, undeterred by the man's peculiar appearance. "What can I offer you today?" Her American accent clear and crisp.

The stranger cleared his throat. A bit taken back by her beauty. Her dark brown skin glowing with the hint of sunlight shining on her. Her smile radiant. "I've heard a lot about your bakery . And I wanted to know if I could try for myself." He offered, his voice soft and hesitant.

Y/n's eyes sparkled. "Of course!" She slid a fresh cookie onto a plate and passed it to him. "Enjoy!"

As the man took a bite, a sigh escaped him, his posture relaxing. "This is heavenly. Your reputation does you justice," he commented, still maintaining his hidden demeanor.

Blushing slightly at the praise, Y/n couldn't contain her curiosity. "Thank you. I'm Y/n. I haven't seen you around here before."

The man paused, seemingly pondering his response. "I'm Henry. I just moved to Aldridge for... work."

”Nice to meet you Henry,.” she said,

Despite the sunglass's criminal aesthetic Henry had going on. Their conversation flowed effortlessly—from baking to books to dreams. Y/n was drawn to Henry's mysterious charm, and he seemed equally enamored by her passion for baking.Henry became a daily visitor. He always arrived at the same time, always ordered the same cookies.

One day Inside the fragrant cocoon of the bakery's kitchen, Y/n, lost in her own world, worked meticulously on her next masterpiece. Each fold of the dough, each sprinkle of sugar, was a testament to her passion for baking. The warm glow of the kitchen lights accentuated the small puffs of flour that rose every time she kneaded the dough.

As she hummed a soft tune, the creak of the kitchen door interrupted her rhythm. Brianna, her vibrant best friend and invaluable employee, stepped in, her eyes dancing with a familiar mischief.

"Guess who's graced us with his presence again?" she teased, playfully tugging at Y/n's apron.

Pretending to ponder, Y/n smirked, "The mayor? Or perhaps the postman?"

"Very funny," Brianna laughed, "Your very own elusive admirer. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious."

Even though this had become a daily ritual, Y/n's heart still fluttered with anticipation. She hastily grabbed the closest reflective surface—a polished silver spoon—and tried to assess her appearance. "Do I have any flour on my face?"

Brianna chuckled, pulling the spoon away. "You're picture-perfect, as always. Though I'm sure he wouldn’t mind even if you did."

Y/n paused, gathering a breath before her next question, one that had been burning within her. "Bri, does it seem odd that he hasn't made a move yet? No number, no date invitation?"

Brianna leaned against the countertop, contemplating. "Y/n, every person has their pace. Maybe he's from the old school—likes to take his time, savor the moments. Besides," she winked, "anticipation can be quite... enticing."

With renewed hope, Y/n whispered, "Maybe today will be different."

"Only one way to find out." Brianna nudged her forward, propelling her toward the bakery's main floor.

As Y/n stepped out, her eyes instantly found Henry. He sat ensconced in his favorite corner, the overhead lights casting a gentle halo around him. Though his cap shadowed his eyes, Y/n felt them on her, their warmth reaching across the room.

She decided to create a special platter for him today. A medley of freshly baked cookies, each one a testament to her evolving craft, inspired in no small part by his daily visits.

Plate in hand, she approached his table, the world around them blurring into a soft haze. "Henry," she greeted, her voice holding a hint of a tremor.

His lips curled into that familiar heartwarming smile. "Y/n, your presence always makes the day brighter."

Blushing, she playfully retorted, "Smooth talker. Do you say that, for every baker in town?"

His laughter, deep and genuine, filled the room. "Only for those who've enchanted me with their culinary magic. And that list is quite... exclusive." She giggled in response.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, the world outside forgotten. Y/n shared stories of her family, her dreams, her love for Albridge. The town held a special place in her heart, with tales passed down from her grandmother about their ancestral bakery and the magic of this place.

Henry listened intently, his gaze never wavering. Every now and then, he'd share snippets of his own life, though always maintaining a shroud of mystery around his origins and profession. They soon transitioned to talking about the Royal family.

In a whispered confession, Y/n admitted, "Dont tell anyone but I might be a bit clueless about Albridge's high society. I wouldn't recognize the prince or princess even if they walked right in."

Henry's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Your secret's safe with me."

Their intimate bubble was punctured by the intrusive ring of Henry's phone. From Y/n's vantage point, she could see the caller ID read "URGENT." The color drained slightly from Henry's face as he answered, his voice hushed yet tense.

Y/n sensed his urgency, and although her heart sank, she quickly packed his cookies. On a whim, she tucked her business card inside, scribbling her personal number on the back.

"I have to go," he murmured, regret evident in his voice.

"oh. Okay," she nodded, trying to mask her disappointment. "Hope everything's okay."

He hesitated, then leaned closer. "I promise to explain someday. But for now," he glanced at the bag, then back at her, a soft promise in his eyes, "thank you."

With that, he rushed out, leaving Y/n with a myriad of emotions and questions. She clutched the empty plate, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

Upon returning to the palace, Harry gingerly placed the bag of cookies on his ornate desk. His princely duties called, and it was several hours of meetings and paperwork before he could think of relaxing. As evening fell, he retreated to the solitude of his chambers, his thoughts drifting to Y/n and the time they shared.

With a sense of anticipation, he opened the bag, his eyes drawn to a little card nestled among the cookies. Confused, he picked it up and inspected it. It bore the details of Y/n’s bakery on one side, and on the flip side, scribbled in elegant handwriting, was a number. A grin slowly spread across his face, his heart inexplicably racing.

Quickly he keyed in the number on his phone, pressing it to his ear.

A muffled shriek, followed by a giggle, sounded on the other end before a familiar voice answered, "Hello?"

"Is this the enchanting Y/n?" He teased, recognizing her voice instantly.

Her playful retort came quickly, "Depends on who's asking."

Feigning seriousness, he said, "I happened upon a card with a number in my cookie bag, and I must say that's a rather forward approach, don't you think?"

She chuckled, "Well, perhaps if a certain someone took the hint and asked for my number, I wouldn't have to resort to such tactics."

Henry laughed, "Has it been that obvious that my visits are less about the cookies and more about seeing you?"

She replied with a smirk evident in her voice, "Oh, completely. You make it so obvious by insisting that only I serve you. Though I must admit, I eagerly await your visits."

He could almost visualize her blushing. Taking a deep breath, he knew what he had to do next. "Y/n," he began, his voice suddenly more serious, "Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner tomorrow evening?"

Her response came without hesitation, "I'd love to."

Cloaked in the dim, romantic lighting of the restaurant, hidden from the prying world outside, Harry sat, bereft of his usual incognito accessories — no glasses, no hat. His heart thrummed a nervous beat in his chest, the absence of his familiar disguise rendering him more exposed than he'd been in a long while. "What if she doesn't see me the same way?" This fear looped incessantly in his mind, the vulnerability raw and unyielding. He was acutely aware that his royal identity held no sway with Y/n, her American roots placing her pleasantly outside the sphere of his family's fame.

The antique door hinges emitted a faint squeak, heralding her arrival. Harry's breath hitched as he pivoted to face her. Y/n was a vision — her red dress clung to her in all the right places, accentuating her graceful silhouette, the rich color gloriously offsetting her smooth, dark skin. Her hair, pulled back in a playful ponytail, featured a red ribbon that danced as she moved. It was a simple touch but one that showcased her attention to detail, her personal flair.

"Henry, you're... wow, you're so handsome," Y/n breathed out, a hint of awe lacing her tone as her gaze took him in, unshielded for the first time. The genuineness of her compliment eased the tight coil of anxiety in his chest, even if just a little.

He couldn't help but smile, the gesture reaching his eyes, bright with appreciation. "Thank you, Y/n. But tonight, you're the breathtaking one." He motioned towards her chair, their hands brushing during the process — an electric moment of contact that sent a jolt through them both.

As they settled into their seats, Y/n's curiosity bubbled to the surface. "Henry, I've always wondered... why the mystery? You have these striking features, almost like those runway models."

His laughter was a nervous flutter in the air. "Oh, thank you. I guess I value my privacy more than most," Harry admitted, the truth but not the whole truth.

She reached across the table, her hand an anchor in the sea of his uncertainties. "Well, you're downright gorgeous, Henry."

Heart pounding louder, he met her sincerity. "I feel the same about you," he whispered, the words thick with unspoken emotions.

Their connection deepened as they delved into further conversation. However, Y/n's next question caught him off-guard, "This place is quite upscale, Henry. What do you do, if you don't mind my asking?"

A pause. A rapid calculation. "I work with the royal family," he said, each word carefully weighed yet truthful within its own context.

"That's fascinating! What's your role there?" she pressed, excitement tinting her words.

"I handle their public relations," he replied swiftly, relief flooding him as he realized his answer remained within the bounds of his actual royal obligations.

Eager to steer away from the precipice of his secret, Harry shifted topics. "Y/n, you once spoke of the precise science behind your baking. What's been your greatest challenge in that regard?"

Her face transformed, the passion for her craft igniting her features. "Definitely the croquembouche. Mastering the caramel, achieving the flawless consistency... it was daunting but so rewarding to see the final structure."

Harry hung on her every word, her fervor, her dedication — it was enthralling. "You're a true artist, Y/n. Your commitment is nothing short of inspiring."

They wove through topics, from his 'studies' — a guise for his royal duties — to her culinary adventures. Laughter rang clear, opinions clashed and melded, and an unmistakable bond tethered them closer with each passing moment. Y/n's authenticity, her vivacious spirit, was a breath of fresh air in Harry's constrained, regal world.

As the evening's end drew inevitably closer, their departure loomed like a shadow, the joy of the night tinged with a hint of sorrow. Harry's heart felt heavy with unspoken truths, yet the warmth in her touch, the genuine affection in her smile, sparked a flicker of hope. Reluctantly, he escorted her to her car, each step punctuated with a silent promise to hold onto the night's magic just a little longer.

"Tonight was something out of a movie, Henry," she whispered, leaning casually yet alluringly against the driver's door, her eyes glistening under the starlit sky as she gazed up at him.

"And I, Y/n, am keenly awaiting the sequel," he replied earnestly, the depth of his emotions veiled beneath his words. He positioned his hand atop the car, his frame leaning towards her, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air.

"me too," she responded, her eyes briefly flitting to his lips, an action not missed by him. A subtle smirk graced his features; gently, he cradled her chin with his hand, drawing her in for a kiss. Their lips met, a perfect synchronization of breath and desire. As the kiss deepened, it surged with an intensity that was both thrilling and overwhelming, her arms winding around his neck, his finding a natural place around her waist.

Abruptly, Harry broke the kiss, the realization hitting him that despite the restaurant's exclusivity, they were still in a public place vulnerable to prying eyes.

"It's late; you should head home," he murmured, though the words tasted bitter, his own disappointment mirroring hers.

She gazed up at him, her eyes a mix of understanding and a hint of sadness. "Yes, you're right," she agreed softly, the reluctance evident in her voice as she slowly unwrapped her arms from his embrace.

"I promise, it's not about you," he reassured her, sensing her thoughts. His hand lingered on her waist for a moment longer before he stepped back, his lips pressing a tender kiss to her cheek. "I'm just a private person, love. But tomorrow, I'm all yours," he affirmed, opening the car door for her.

She nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, understanding yet yearning evident in her eyes. As she settled into the driver's seat, their eyes locked once more, a silent vow exchanged. With a final wave, she pulled away, and he stood there, watching the distance grow, their shared kiss a promise of what was yet to come.

The following day found Y/n in her bakery, the air sweet with the scent of pastries, but Henry was conspicuously absent. It was Sunday, and business hours were drawing to a close. Deciding to close up early, she sent her employees home, the clock ticking down the final ten minutes. Y/n tried to brush off the disappointment gnawing at her heart, but "a little upset" didn't begin to cover it. She felt a sting of abandonment. After a magical date, his absence felt like a stark rebuttal. Was he ghosting her? The thought nagged at her, an unwelcome lump forming in her throat.

The gentle tinkle of the entrance bell barely registered in her preoccupied mind. Without raising her eyes from the counter she was absently wiping, she called out, "I apologize, but we're closing. Please, feel free to visit us tomorrow when we—"

"But what if I'm acquainted with the owner?" a familiar voice interjected, its warm timbre instantly lifting her spirits.

Y/n's head shot up, her heart skipping a beat. There stood Henry, an apologetic smile playing on his lips. Relief washed over her, and she couldn't help but smile back.

"I was worried you'd decided to ditch me," she confessed, her voice tinged with residual concern yet a smile brightening her expression.

"Ditch you? I would never," he declared as he sauntered confidently toward her, coming around to her side of the counter. Without hesitation, he grasped the strings of her apron, tugging her gently but insistently closer, and sealed his words with a kiss.

"I've missed you immensely," he murmured against her lips, his breath warm and reassuring. "I haven't stopped thinking about you since last night, especially yearning for another kiss." He said, she pulled away slightly.

"How about we just retreat to my place and unwind with a movie?" she proposed, the corners of her mouth lifting in a hopeful smile. His response was a grin that didn't just reach his eyes but seemed to light them from within. "That sounds like an evening well spent, beautiful," he agreed warmly.

Thus, they transitioned from the day's close, with Harry lending a hand as Y/n locked up the bakery for the night. Together, they ascended the stairs to her apartment, nestled conveniently above her beloved shop. The door swung open to reveal a charming, intimately spaced two-bedroom abode, every nook a testament to Y/n's simple yet cozy taste.

Bri, her roommate, emerged from the kitchen, her attention glued to her phone screen. "Y/n, you're back earlier than I expected. I know you were upset that Henry didn't drop by today, but maybe —" Her words stumbled to a halt as her gaze flicked upwards, colliding with the sight of Y/n accompanied by an unfamiliar figure. The man's striking features were undeniably alluring, leaving Bri momentarily speechless.

"You're... you're Henry?" Bri stammered, her initial shock transitioning into a mix of surprise and immediate appreciation for his almost ethereal good looks.

"Yes, I am. It's a pleasure to meet you under more formal circumstances," Harry replied with a courteous smile. Though they'd crossed paths when he visited the shop, he'd always have on the shades, baseball cap, and a hoodie.

Flustered yet amused by the unexpected revelation, Bri quickly gathered herself. "Well, I'll just forget I was about to say anything. I’ll leave you two alone," she quipped, snatching a few snacks before darting a playful, exaggerated 'HE'S GORGEOUS!' mime to Y/n and scampering toward the sanctuary of her room.

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully, then gestured apologetically at Bri's retreating figure. "Sorry about her," she said, a sheepish grin tugging at her lips as she guided him to the living room sofa.

"Don't be. She seems wonderful," Harry reassured, his laughter a soft melody in the homely space. They settled into the couch, the familiar proximity a bubble of comfort. Y/n seized the remote, her fingers dancing over the buttons as she browsed through an extensive list of titles across various streaming platforms. Harry's gaze lingered on her, admiration evident in his eyes. Even in profile, she was a captivating canvas he couldn't draw his eyes away from.

"Alright, romance it is!" Y/n announced, her decision punctuating the comfortable silence. She selected a film known for its heartfelt narrative, the screen brightening as it played.

"You can never go wrong with a compelling love story," Harry concurred, his arm instinctively draping over her shoulders, drawing her into the curve of his side. Though she leaned into his embrace, her eyes were steadfast on the screen, a slight tension in her posture. He sensed a reticence in her, a vulnerability perhaps kindled by the day's earlier disappointments.

She was a tempest of emotions, desire mingling with the fear of rejection. So she fixated on the unfolding romance on-screen, a safe harbor in the storm of her heart — hoping the distance of her gaze would shield her from the urge to lean into the warmth of the man whose presence had become her solace.

Harry, intuitively attuned to her, couldn't help but notice the subtle rigidity in her posture, the way her eyes studiously avoided meeting his. He understood her unspoken hesitance, her internal struggle. Deciding to gently challenge the barriers she'd put up, he allowed himself a small, inward smirk before deliberately shifting his approach.

With a feathery lightness, his hand found its way to her thigh, fingertips grazing the fabric of her black leggings in a slow, reassuring rhythm. He could feel the minute stiffening of her muscles under his touch, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected contact.

"Is this alright, love?" he inquired, his voice low, a tender undercurrent beneath the words. She offered a mute nod, her gaze obstinately fixed on the flickering images on the TV screen, though he could sense her attention fracturing.

Respecting her boundaries yet wanting to bridge the chasm that had formed between them, Harry retracted his hand from her leg. With a gentleness that belied the strength in his fingers, he guided her chin, encouraging her face to turn towards his.

"I want to see your eyes when we're speaking," he murmured, the request uttered not as a command but as a plea laced with affection. The soft intensity in his voice coaxed her to swallow her uncertainties, prompting her to offer a timid nod and finally allow her eyes to meet his.

In the sanctuary of their shared gaze, he leaned forward, diminishing the space that separated them. And when his lips finally captured hers, it wasn't just a kiss but a communion, a silent reassurance that she was heard, understood, and cherished exactly as she was. His dominance making her wetter and wetter. His hand started to make its way in between her legs. Her pussy aching for his touch since last night. His hand slid in her leggings over her panties. His fingers slid over the slit. Feeling her wetness through the thin fabric. He pulled apart from the kiss and looked at her

"You're so wet love, all this for me?" He asked, there foreheads together. Looking into each other eyes.

"Yes, I've wanted you for so long." She said, he slid her panties to the side and he inserted his fingers into her. Causing her to gasp slightly.

"Mmm so wet and tight for me baby." He said as he slid in another finger.

"Ohh fuck. He-." He cut her off with a kiss. Not wanting her to say his fake name. He moved his fingers in her going a at a steady pace. Her hand found it way to his hair slightly tugging at his curls. She was so mesmerized by his fingers. She never had a man make her cum with his hand. His other hand slid behind her back. Grabbing her by her waist pulling her into his lap. Her to his chest as he continued to finger fuck her

"I-I'm gonna c-"

"Shh baby, just let it happen. Cum all over my fingers. " he whispered in her ear. She couldn't hold it anymore. She came all over his hand. He took his hand out her pants licking his two fingers clean. "You taste good." He whispered.

"Henry, you're so dominant. I wasn't expecting that at all." She said, getting off his lap right on side. Sitting on her knees to face him.

"Why didn't you expect it?" He asked raising his brow.

"You're very proper, you always look like you come from a polo match. And you speak like a thesaurus was read to you before you went to sleep." She said looking at him.

A genuine, light-hearted chuckle escaped him, the sound sophisticated yet endearing. "I can't decipher if I should be flattered or slightly affronted by that observation," he admitted, his lips twisting in a playful grimace.

"How about we forget what i just said pick up where we left off?" She said, leaning in for a kiss.

Their lips met, a brief but charged interaction. Harry, however, pulled back sooner than she anticipated. "I’m rather spent, my love. What do you say we retire for the evening?" His proposal was tender, his British lilt prominent, as he took her hand with gentle nobility. She nodded, laying on top of him. Her head snuggled on his shoulder.

The following day found Y/n steering clear of the bakery, opting instead for chores and errands — perhaps partly because she needed a distraction from Henry's absence. He'd informed her he wouldn't be around, tied up with obligations to the crown. The news had left a dull ache in her chest; she was already tumbling headlong into this unexpected romance.

While she was dusting, her phone hummed with an incoming email, pulling her attention. She tapped the notification hurriedly.

"Dear Y/n,

My name is Maria, and I serve as the primary event planner for the royal family. Your bakery has garnered quite the reputation as the finest in the city. We are thrilled to extend an invitation for you to showcase your renowned baked delights at the royal banquet this coming Saturday! Kindly respond at your earliest convenience so we may finalize the particulars.

Warm regards,

Maria"

Y/n's heart practically leapt out of her chest. Fingers flying, she crafted a prompt reply, her excitement bubbling over.

Meanwhile, Harry was waging a war within himself. He was drawn to her, undeniably, yet shackled by the weight of royal expectations. He understood all too well that his family would hardly endorse his entanglement with a baker, no matter her charm. They likely had grand matrimonial designs already in the works. However, in his mind's eye, it was a future with Y/n that he envisioned.

Dinner that evening was a formal affair, as always. Henry sat rigidly between his grandmother and father, his mind drifting incessantly back to the woman who was slowly but surely captivating his heart. He barely registered the meal served by the diligent staff, offering them a distracted word of gratitude.

The conversation inevitably veered toward his marital prospects. "Harry, time isn't on your side indefinitely. You must consider marriage," his father pressed, his tone brooking no argument.

But Harry, ever the "defiant" one in royal terms, wasn’t swayed. "The kingdom doesn't require a queen by my side to thrive," he countered calmly, though he could sense his father’s growing frustration.

"The royal banquet is this Saturday," his grandmother interjected with diplomatic timing, "We've arranged for you to be seated next to Princess Emma."

Henry exhaled slowly, a respectful bow of his head acknowledging her words, though it did little to quell the rebellion simmering within him. "As you wish, Grandmother." His acquiescence was polite, devoid of enthusiasm, his thoughts adrift with visions of a certain baker and the what-ifs she brought along.

#harry styles imagine #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #watermelon sugar #fine line #harrys house #prince harry

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katinkulta · 10 months

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scurrying to the tower, hastile putting on my armor pieces, a breadroll between my teeth, almost knocking over vinthund in the courtyard, making it to the rooftop

🗣️📯 ALRIGHT ITS RAPUNZEL AU TOO

🗣️GOOOOOD, YOU JUST DODGED THE BULLET OF BEING PUT IN THE STOCKS! Unlike this dude :'(

wait if you're a knight, and hundis is a knight, am I the court jester??? We can't all be knights you know 🃏

(and be careful with hundis! don't you dare knock them over 🤨)

#mournmourn my beloved <3 #knightposting #rapunzel au

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baeklination · 2 years

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a getup - a getdown

Date: 221028

Warnings: SMUT 🔞, general fucking, fingering

Pairing: Baekhyun x F. Reader

WC: 1158

Masterlist

¤¤

Baekhyun stops in the doorway when he sees what you're up to.

"What d'you think?", you ask with a playful twirl.

His tongue finds the corner of his mouth while he cocks his head.

"Not the half-naked sex-doll you had in mind, right?"

"I had a nurse as a neighbour when I was a kid. I thought she was fine as-"

"-You didn't grow up in the forties, Baekhyun."

"But her uniform was kinda like yours, so actually…"

"Mm, right…" Turning your attention back to the mirror you continue "But I can't figure out how to make this damn cap look good. I thought it was a ready-made thing, not a cloth I had to fold. It's impossible..!"

"Ouw..! Argh!"

Looking back you see Baekhyun clutching his stomach, walking towards the bed with a hunched posture, frowning in fake agony when he knows you're watching. His antics are nothing new, so you brush it off with a light scoff, laughing inwardly when you see his reflection; taking off all his clothes he gets into bed with the cheekiest bite of his lip.

"Nurse…", he faintly calls.

"My shift's ended."

"No it hasn't", he whispers, smothering a laugh. "Nurse… I'll die any moment."

Giving up on the cap, throwing it on the dresser, you humour him.

"If you're dying you should be needing a doctor, Baekhyun…"

"I meant…Ouw. A fever… You have to take my temperature."

Wagging his head back and forth, he opens one eye to see if you're playing along, but grabs your wrist when you reach out to touch his forehead.

"I heard there's a new technique for temperature", he whispers, glancing down at the bulge outlined in the sheet.

But when you place your hand on top of his hardened cock he objects again - albeit with a soft moan.

"Not that technique…", he says, putting his hand on your leg, running it underneath your skirt until he feels the hem of your underwear.

"Oh, you mean that holistic discovery…", you indulge him, sliding your underwear down as well as untying the white apron.

"Exactly. That hastilic way", he nods confidently.

"It's gonna get wrinkled", you frown, already getting on the bed.

"Yes, it will."

When you lean towards him he receives your kisses with eagerness, keeping them shallow but tight. Pulling your skirt up so it gathers over your backside, he strokes, squeezes, your cheeks while bucking, humming all the while.

"You don't seem very ill to me. Must've made a remarkable recovery, Baekhyun…"

"Nah-ah…" Placing his hands on your face, his thumbs grazing your earlobes, he pushes his tongue deeper. "If you don't get on it now it's gonna be too hot for you to handle…", he moans wetly into your mouth before yanking the sheet from underneath your body, fully exposing his.

His hands instantly follow when you sit up, going to your thighs while you raise his length and align it.

A deep sigh goes past your lips when he slides past the entrance as you slowly sink down, steadying yourself on his thighs. You take your time in letting his cock satisfy you, push with rich pleasure deep within when you press down on his body, tickle sweetly when it glides in and out.

His torso rises and sinks with his controlled breathing while he both enjoys and disfavours the extended teasing due to the tempo you've set.

"A-hh…"

His groan leaves his mouth open but tense. You notice his hold growing heavier, and it isn't long until his pelvis starts moving. Keeping you down for a few seconds longer, he pushes even deeper, alternating between sucking in air and grunting as he does.

"Come here…"

"No…"

You know what he wants is to hold you close to his body, allowing him to round his hips - and length - up into you with a fast pace. You don't really mind - you just feel like teasing him. He knows it too. Licking his lips, he repeats it as he sits up, wrapping your legs around his back.

"No..?"

When he leans forward he ends up on top, pushing himself into you with a mischievous I win anyway- moan right in your ear. He keeps going like that; groaning from the stimulation of his shaft, not moving from your side because he wants you to hear. Not as a dominance play, on the contrary; he knows it turns you on, plus he wants you to hear how you satisfy him.

When you bend your knee he's quick to grab hold and go from rolling to upward thrusting at a much quicker pace with one goal in mind.

"I think you're my sex-doll after all… A-h…"

The twisted and jumbled up fabric is taut around your waist and pulls with his movements, but it's not much compared to his sensually beating hips or heavy breathing.

A muffled curse trickles out of his mouth, then he leans against your face, his bottom lip dragging on your skin while he grips your knee tighter, pounding faster.

"U-hh…..ah……A-HH."

Thrusting as best he can control it, whining ferally, he comes, emptying his cum in you.

When he rolls to sit next to you, you open up the top buttons on the dress.

"Hot?"

Rolling your eyes you nod "yes" and turn back the twisted skirt.

"It's cool though", he asserts and helps you pull down and straighten it out, but stops when it's by the top of your thigh.

Instead he lowers his hand and pushes two of his fingers into you. Your breath makes him turn around, look at you with half a smile, then start pumping. Between your fluids and his cum he glides in and out with ease, watching intently as he knocks his knuckles against your entrance and pulls your folds apart with the other hand.

You're prepared but still jerk and scratch at his leg when he smoothly runs his fingers up to your clit. His hand bounces up and down where he rubs, drawing out whirs of pleasure to tighten both your stomach and grip on his thigh.

He doesn't have to look at your face to know that he's taking you where he wants to and so continues, switching to placing his fingers flat, rubbing side to side. Faster - until you groan. Then as fast as he can, pressing his delicate fingertips into your skin, turning your body tense while he pulls up your orgasm; closer…and closer…it spills over, right in his hand, shaking, pushing out his cum from clenching, whining - him groaning.

Slowly circling, he knows he's overdoing the come-down, so it's no surprise when you grip his underarm. Lying down on his side, he squeezes your waist with a hum of definite approval and a kiss on your neck, but then drops his head and grunts.

"What?"

"I don't feel too good… Just a heads-up…", he says and smiles "...I might need a nurse's touch in the morning."

●

#baekhyun #baekhyun smut #halloween

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qsmpficsarchive · 3 months

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First Place:

all i want for christmas (is to be loved) by hastill

Second Place:

My Dear, I’ll Know You’ll Understand by berry_flavored

#QSMP Fics Archive Awards #qsmp #qsmp fanfiction #qsmp frubbo #qsmp letterduo #qsmp fred #qsmp tubbo #frubbo #letterduo

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jakestabletop · 2 years

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Next in the queue for my Early Imperial Romans: the optios, literally “chosen” men, second to a centurion in rank. These are from Warlord Games and 2 of the 3 in the pack needed to be converted to fix their hastiles (the staff used as a symbol of authority as well as probably to shove or wack any soldier that needed encouragement).

The first in lorica segmentata had a thin staff cast in soft bendy metal that could barely be straightened, sticking out at an angle that made it impossible to handle the figure without mashing it out of shape. I cut the entire lower part away, drilled out the underside of the fist, and glued a steel replacement cut from a paperclip.

The second in lorica hamata (mail) actually lacked a hastile as well as the two plumes beside the crest that should mark his rank, and simply looked like any other soldier in a fighting pose with his shield forward. I left off the rectangular scutum and drilled completely through his left fist for a steel wire, then added greenstuff details to both ends. Maybe he’ll be in trouble for losing his shield, but now he looks like he’s shoving a reluctant rear rank forward. His mail armor will fit with an auxilia unit, without needing to sculpt an oval shield to match theirs. I decided against adding greenstuff plumes to the helmet -- perhaps he was only recently raised to the position.

The third also was supposed to be in a fighting pose, ready to thrust his gladius from behind a rectangular shield while holding the hastile behind the shield with his thumb. I simply left off the shield so his hastile is more visible, though it results in an awkward-looking sword arm pose. He also wears lorica hamata so he will lead another unit of auxilia with oval shields or with bows.

#Early Imperial Romans #historical miniatures #Wargames Foundry #Infamy Infamy #WIP #wargaming #miniature wargaming

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richardanarchist · 2 months

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Rosas

I Cabe a supremacia à rosa, entre o complexo das flores, pelo viço e pela pompa sua, e o aroma que ela traz sempre à corola anexo o coração humano excita, enleva, estua.

Quando essa flor se ostenta à luz tíbia da Lua, o luar busca enlaça-la, amoroso, perplexo, e ela sonha, estremece, oscila, ri, flutua e desmaia, ao sentir esse eteral amplexo.

Se é rósea lembra carne ardente, palpitante… Nívea – lembra pureza e nada há que a suplante, Rubra – de certa boca os lábios nela vejo.

Seja qualquer a cor, por sobre o hastil de cada rosa, vive a Mulher, nos jardins flor tornada: Símbolo da Volúpia a excitar o Desejo.

II Rosas cujo perfume, em noutes enluaradas, é um sortilégio etéreo a transpôr as rechãs; rosas que à noite sois risonhas, flóreas fadas, de cutis de veludo e tenras carnes sãs.

Sejais da cor do luar ou cor das alvoradas, rosas, sois no perfume e na alegria irmãs, e todas pareceis, à luz desabotoadas, a concretização dos risos das Manhãs!

Ó rosas de carmim! Ó rosas róseas e alvas! Há nesse vosso odor toda a maciez das malvas, a púbere maciez do pêssego em sazão.

Daí que eu possa gozar, ao vosso colo rente, esse perfume, a um tempo excitante e emoliente, numa dúbia, sensual e suave!

Gilka Machado

#rosas #gilka machado #arte #poema #poesia #soneto

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rjalker · 1 year

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Anyways just you watch Redbubble hastile backtrack from this shit and then in another month or two they'll come back with a "revised plan after carefully considering feedback from our valued artists" and then it's gonna be just as absurd but we'll be expected to pretend it's so awesome and great because they're tootally listening to us.

don't fucking fall for it.

#Redbubble #this is why all my stuff has already been deleted #fuck this shit #kill the rich #eat the rich

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girlwholovesturtles · 2 years

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Just taught a 12 year old about planned obsolescence, hastile architecture, and the general treatment of the homeless in America and his response was horror, concerned, and to ask why Elon Musk or some other billionaire doesn't do anything about it.

Oh, sweet, summer child.

#life

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penhero · 3 years

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This is an Aurora Hastil fountain pen made for Ferrari c. 1983 to late 1980s. The story is these pens were made in concert with the introduction of the “Ferrari Formula” branded Cartier watch collection introduced in 1983. There are at least three versions of the pen including all black matte and all silver color. One might not immediately realize this is a Hastil as the cap and clip design are completely different. There are no Aurora markings. This version of the Hastil is longer at 5 1/2 inches than the standard model, primarily due to the angled cap top. The cap is matte black, and the barrel is gunmetal colored, both accented with gold and red stripe decorations. The gold plated clip has FERRARI cast into the face and the Ferrari prancing horse logo is found in gold on the cap top and stamped on the nib face. It appears to use the same nib section as the Hastil with a different grip pattern and the nib appears to be gold plated stainless steel as it lacks hallmarks. The barrel end has the pair of black "brakes" feature that holds the cap securely when posted and has a gold plated end cap. It's a cartridge / converter model. #pencollecting #fountainpen #aurora #hastil #montblanc #ferrari #moma #penhero https://www.instagram.com/p/CTvI47ZvErK/?utm_medium=tumblr

#pencollecting #fountainpen #aurora #hastil #montblanc #ferrari #moma #penhero

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sapphicwhump · 2 years

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Passing Blues

Fandoms: Dungeons & Dragons, Forgotten Realms, Baldur's Gate Tropes: trans woman whumpee, painful healing magic, whumpee & caretaker fluff TWs: transphobic violence, nudity, self-victim-blaming, mention of rape/implied past noncon

It's the dead of night when a knock comes at Falathrethrael's front door.

He cracks one eye open from his trance, sitting cross-legged on his mat before his window-view of the setting moon. He isn’t quite sure what time it is, but it must be some early hour of the morning, when anyone who isn’t a drow would normally be fast asleep.

In a small, private way, he’s grateful for the interruption. The long hours of total darkness behind his eyelids are a discomfort he’s grown to live with over three hundred years, a nightly chore to be slogged through rather than enjoyed. At least an unexpected visitor gives him something to do.

He’s getting to his feet when the knock comes again more urgently, three hard and desperate raps. Still in his sheer nightgown, Falath opens the door to find a disheveled tiefling woman standing on the other side. Through the myriad of blood and bruises littering her face, he instantly recognizes his friend Bloom.

“M’sorry. I didn't have anywhere else to go.”

Putting an arm around her, he quickly ushers her inside. The young woman has clearly been brutalized, dried blood spilling from her crooked nose while tear tracks spill from her eyes. The agony is evident on her face, bruises leaving more of it black and blue than her natural tiefling orange. She's wearing one of her favorite dresses instead of her usual men’s attire, now bloodstained and hanging low on her shoulders, as if it was pulled on. She’s clutching her right arm tightly against her chest, the wrist and shoulder horrifically swollen.

She practically collapses into him as soon as he has an arm around her, only to yelp as the movement jostles her swollen joints. She’s unsteady on her feet, and as he holds her close, he catches the scent of cheap rum on her breath.

“You walked here all the way from Norchapel?” he asks, noting the heavy limp in her step. His apartment in Twin Songs is over a mile away and up four flights of stairs; in her condition, it’s a wonder she didn’t collapse within the first hundred feet.

She nods slowly. “Knew you wouldn’t be asleep.”

The single room of Falath’s apartment is cramped and filthy, and Bloom has never been more grateful for any sight. Between the couch, desk, wardrobe, bathtub, cupboards, and shelves for his armor and weapons, she feels a warm familiarity in the limited space. His sense of décor is spartan, the only feature of visual appeal being the small window from which he views the night sky. His loose blouses and skirts strewn about the place are just enough to make it feel like home.

Falath doesn't own a bed, so she’ll have to make do with his couch. Her face tenses as she sinks into the cushions, but the fresh wave of pain subsides quickly, and she finally allows her body to give in. Each injury still pulses like nails driven into her flesh and between her bones, but the long trek is over, and now she’s safe. She can sleep it off, and Falath will heal her, and she won’t bleed out in some rancid outer city gutter where no one will mourn yet another murdered tiefling.

“I need you to undress so I can get a look at your wounds.”

If she weren’t so pale with blood loss, Bloom would’ve blushed at that, although she’s still in far too much pain to worry over her modesty. With her one good arm, she starts trying to pull the dress from her shoulders, only to wince as the straps brush against the swelling.

“I, um… m-might need some help.” her voice is shaky and nasally, airways clogged with blood.

Falath assists without complaint. Reluctantly, she lifts her knees and allows him to slide the hem of her dress up her body. Sitting up with his support, he lifts it over her head, and she cries out softly as he pulls it free of her injured arm. Embarrassment cuts through the pain as he hastily unwraps her breastband, then pulls her underwear from her hips. There’s a compulsive urge to cover herself with her hands, although she really can’t be bothered to care right now. Despite being naked around a man, she feels safe in the knowledge that Falath won’t take interest in her in that way.

Bloom is fortunate enough that he’d already prepared cure wounds this morning. He only has one spell left for the day, the other used on a create or destroy water for his laundry. Grabbing his holy symbol from his desk, he wraps the silver chain around his wrist and grasps the icon of the longsword backed by the crescent moon.

“Hurts so f-fucking bad.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.” she whispers through gritted teeth, then gestures to her face. “Hard to b-breathe.”

Falath brings a hand to the break in her nose, his holy symbol hovering just above it. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can make this not hurt.”

“Do it. Please. ‘Least I’m still a little drunk for this.”

He taps her nose with the healing spell, and the air is driven from her lungs as the fractured bone snaps back into place. The pain burns through her whole face, every bit as strong as when her nose was first broken. She wails and jerks away from him, only to relax as the pain subsides to a dull ache only moments later. It’s still slightly crooked, although not nearly as much as it would be if it had healed naturally.

Falath darts over to the wall of cupboards that serve as his kitchen, pulling out a washcloth and wetting it with a waterskin. “There, it's fixed. You're alright.” he wipes at the blood encrusted under her nose. While alright isn't the word Bloom would use, not while it still feels like there's a blade in her side and a hundred more through her arm, she at least feels like she can finally breathe without choking on her own blood.

“I’m very sorry to ask this, but I need you to keep it down. If we wake up the hag who lives across from me, she’ll hex me again. I could get swarms of rats eating all my food, or a quickling running off with my next rent check.” They both know it's a cruel request, but Bloom just nods morosely.

“I’ll need to prioritize my use of this spell. What hurts the most?”

“H-hand.” her voice still trembles, but is significantly less stuffy now.

Her hand is so purple and swollen it looks like a stonemason’s cart ran over it. Her face screws up with pain as he takes the mangled appendage in his own, his holy symbol brushing against the inflammation.

“Most of the bones here are broken, and your wrist is badly sprained. This is going to be worse.”

Bloom feels queasy. “Y-yeah. He stomped on it pretty hard.”

Falath looks at her quizzically, before his gaze hardens with dire seriousness. He lifts the washcloth to her face, still bloodied from her nose. “Put this between your teeth.”

Even paler now, she complies, fitting as much of the fabric in her mouth as she can. Her own blood is metallic against her tongue. He releases the burst of positive energy into her wounded limb, and for an instant, all she sees is white.

The makeshift gag muffles her scream effectively, and she doesn’t crack her teeth or sever her tongue. The moment her hand is no longer engulfed in white-hot agony, she spits out the wad of cloth and sucks down deep, panting breaths, shivering from the residual pain still throbbing through her swollen flesh. This one is much slower to fade, but after a few moments, the relief is still palpable.

Falath brings the spell in his hands to Bloom’s chest, hoping to mend any internal damage he can’t easily see on her skin. He’s reassured when she only flinches under his touch rather than screams.

“Who was it? What did he look like?” he asks in a steely monotone.

“Uhh… a guy I was hooking up with. We met at the tavern near my place, 'n went back to his. Human, a bit older than me… m-maybe more than a bit. Looked Calishite, but I didn’t ask. He had a tattoo of the alchemical symbol for iron on his bicep. Why d’you—” the next closed laceration silences her with another hiss of pain through her teeth.

“He raped you?”

“What? No.” Bloom gives him a bizarre look. It’s difficult not to feel uncomfortable at the assumption, although knowing her, she can’t really blame him for making it. Both of them implicitly understand that what she really means is not this time.

“No, he didn’t want anything to do with me after he, uh…” she limply gestures to her exposed genitals. “It’s my bad. I was being stupid, and incorrectly assumed he could tell just by looking at me. Not sure how he didn’t realize, with my voice ‘n all.”

“I guess you pass better than you thought.”

“Heh, y-yeah.” Her laugh is weak and humorless, shuddering as he brings the cure wounds spell over her sternum and down to her abs.

Falath’s fingers brush over a particularly severe bruise on her side, and she sucks in a sharp breath that makes him pause. He presses down lightly, and when she flinches, he can feel something shift beneath her flesh. “Is there a sharp pain in this spot when you breathe?”

She confirms it with a quick nod.

“Broken ribs, then. Put the washcloth back in.”

Bloom has to contain her trembling as she reinserts the fabric into her mouth. She lays her head back and stares up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything other than the inevitable. She’s already crying before the spell hits.

When it does, it's like having the bones broken all over again. Falath struggles to keep his hand over the injury as she writhes and screams into the gag. The pulse of energy fades, and she's shivering, the sharp snap of bone leaving an after-image of agony bright in her mind. She pulls out the washcloth and gasps desperately, and the relief is indescribable when she finds that each breath has gone from an excruciating stab to merely a dull ache.

“I’ve almost used up the spell. Is there anywhere else that hurts particularly bad?”

“S-shoulder… ankle, ‘n tail.”

As he expected, her left ankle is sprained, and there are a few bad fractures in the vertebrae near the middle of her tail. Falath doesn’t want to think about how it must’ve felt walking all the way here. She bites down on the washcloth without being asked.

By the time the spell has faded, she’s shaking like a leaf, her face stained with fresh tears. There’s still one injury left to attend to, and he can already tell exactly what’s wrong from the misshapen protrusion of bone beneath her skin.

“Your shoulder is out of socket. I don’t have any spells left, but magic can't fix this. I’ll have to put it back in manually.”

Bloom's face is ghostly as Falath gingerly wraps his hands around her forearm and bicep, gradually bringing her arm to full horizontal extension. She has to choke back a scream as he moves the joint into position; even the gentlest motion is still nearly unbearable.

“I… I—” She sniffles heavily. “I dunno if I can do this.”

“This is the only way to make it stop hurting. If I don’t, you could lose the use of your arm.”

“O-o—” It’s difficult to speak through how much she’s sobbing. “Okay.”

“You're hyperventilating. Take a moment to calm down.”

It's easier said than done when he's about to jam her bones back together, but she still manages to slow her breathing somewhat, trying to focus on anything other than her rising panic. She can’t still the sobs that tremble in her chest.

“Ready?”

“N-no. Just do it.”

She reinserts the cloth, and with a quick twist and a sickening pop, she’s screaming again. In that one motion, her perception of the world narrows down into nothing but the raw, unadulterated pain ripping through her shoulder. It's all-consuming, immensely beyond her ability to bear, it’s—

The next moment, it’s gone. While her shoulder still feels like it’s on fire, the pain immediately reduces from utterly unbearable to merely excruciating. She’s still reeling from it, able to think of little other than how much everything currently hurts.

While the pain may be fading, her nausea continues to swell. She makes a horrible retching sound, quickly rolling off the couch and onto her hands and knees as soon as she realizes what’s about to happen. She spreads the washcloth out in front of her just in time to catch the mouthful of vomit as it comes up. The sting of alcohol and stomach acid immediately attacks her sinuses. A gentle hand strokes up and down her spine as the next fit of retching overtakes her, her tears mixing with the splatter of sick.

Wiping her mouth, and then her eyes, she drags herself up to a sitting position against the couch. She lurches towards the washcloth briefly, but once Falath is confident there’s nothing left in her stomach, he quickly wraps up the mess and dumps it into his laundry basket. The fire in her shoulder is beginning to fade, but she still wouldn’t want to move the joint anytime soon.

Falath looks her up and down, frowning at the dried blood, tear tracks, and flecks of vomit littering her naked body. “You should really wash up.”

“Not a lotta baths open at this hour.” she smirks up at him, still shaking and gasping for breath. “Are you offering?”

Despite it being gods-know what hour of the morning and having been interrupted halfway through his trance, Falath presses down his annoyance and picks a long dress and warm coat off the floor, then descends the four flights of stairs to fill a bucket from the well outside. It takes him over thirty minutes, and he loses count of the number of trips up and down the stairs before the tub is full. He’d ask for her assistance, but she still shouldn’t be walking on her ankle. She deserves to be clean and free of injury, and she certainly didn't ask for what that man did to her.

As he enters to pour in the third bucket, he finds Bloom sitting on her knees in front of the tub, holding a produce flame spell under the water to heat her bath. Her bare back and thighs are still dotted with the blue of bruises, but he’s confident they'll fade with time and rest. By the time he's filled the tub, she's brought it nearly to a boil, more than comfortable for a tiefling.

Bloom sighs as she sinks into the bath, the warm water immediately soothing the aches of her residual injuries. Falath hands her a bar of soap and a clean washcloth, but she gasps and clutches her swollen shoulder as she reaches out to take them.

“...Might still need some help.” This time, she blushes in full.

Falath says nothing as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress and sinks his hands into the near-scalding water. He can feel the stress release from her muscles as he works the soapy washcloth over her neck and back. The blood and grime are scrubbing off her in sheets. He's careful wiping away the blood from her shoulder, and hands it off so she can wash her own chest and lower body. He figures she’d want to keep contact below the waist to a minimum.

As he works his fingers through her mop of black hair, he catches her staring at him.

“You’re so pretty.”

“Hm?” Falath has rejected all of Bloom’s advances in the past, and he knows she respects him enough not to keep making them. He wonders if it's the rum, or deliriousness from her injuries.

She frowns and looks down at herself. “You just woke up, or finished trancing or whatever, and you already look like that. How are you more of a woman than me, and you’re not even trying to be one?”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. Obviously you were woman enough for your hookup, at least until he got your pants off.” He overturns a bucket of water on her head to rinse, smiling as her nose scrunches up. “It’s probably a human thing. Any elf would immediately be able to tell I’m a man.”

Bloom merely grumbles, accepting his offer of a towel to dry her face. The water is an earthen red as she steps out of the bath.

While she dries herself, Falath extracts a blanket from under the couch and tries to create as comfortable of a sleeping arrangement as he can. With her hair still damp, she eagerly slips under the covers, relieved beyond measure for this day to finally be over. She can feel behind her eyelids how incredibly late it is, and exhaustion is catching up with her quickly.

Once Falath is content with Bloom’s comfort, he has one final matter to attend to. As her eyes close, he silently moves for the shelf holding his armaments. The routine of donning his chain shirt and breastplate is a well-rehearsed one, his rapier and hand crossbow a comforting weight around his hips. He thanks the Dark Maiden for granting him the cover of night; it will conceal his movements while leaving his vision unimpeded. He welcomes the icy anger in his veins, bracing him for the task ahead.

Bloom peeks at him from under the blanket as he fastens the final straps, then heads for the door.

“What’s his address?”

“Falath, it’s the middle of the night. Stay with me? Please?” she extends an arm out to him.

With a sigh, Falath relents and begins undoing the sequence of straps he'd just finished. He isn’t quite sure why just his presence would help her feel better than teaching her assaulter a lesson, but he doesn’t have to understand. Bloom is asking for comfort now; retribution can wait one more night. Once his chain shirt and breastplate are off, he pulls off the dress as well, down to just his nightgown. Bloom lifts the blanket for him, and he awkwardly clambers in beneath it. It takes some rearranging of limbs to find a position in which they’re both comfortable, ending up with arms over each other and her head against his chest.

It’s been a long time since he’s tranced lying down, and even longer still since someone has held him during it. She’s hot like a Firenewt against him, her breath and heartbeat pulsing with a calming rhythm. He’s tried stuffed animals to ease his trance, but none could offer the warmth or vivaciousness of a living body. He’s starting to get why she wanted this from him.

He’s surprised again when the tiefling woman begins to softly cry into his chest. At first she emits only a tiny sob, but more are soon to follow, until she’s breaking down completely in his arms.

“I thought... h-he was gonna kill me…” she whispers through her tears. “It happened so fast, I couldn't get a spell off. He punched m-me to the ground, a-and wouldn't stop kicking…”

A cold, numb horror washes over her, one she's surprised hasn't come sooner. Since she’d picked herself up from a pool of blood in Norchapel and limped to Falath’s apartment, she’s been unconcerned with anything beyond the present moment; the next step to safety, the next mended bone, the next source of pain. Only now is the realization sinking in that she easily could have died tonight.

And whose fault is that?

The guilt crashes over her in waves. There’s a voice in the back of her head whispering all the things she hates about herself; the things she knows are wrong but still feel right to believe. Liar, fake, asked for it, deserved it. It’s too hard to argue against it right now, and that voice just cuts deeper and deeper until her insides feel rotten with its putrescent loathing.

At a loss for words, Falath just threads his fingers through her hair, hoping to offer some modicum of comfort. She immediately presses her scalp into his touch, and he takes it as a reassuring sign.

“I tricked him… h-he said I was a man, ‘n I tricked him. ’S m-my fault, but… I d-didn—” her next words are lost beneath her sobs.

“I didn’t mean to!” she wails into his chest. “M’so s-sorry. He didn’t deserve that. I’m so stupid, could’ve got m-myself killed…”

Falath looks at her strangely. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“W-what?” she sniffs.

He grips her arm tightly. “You didn’t deserve that. None of this is on you. Your existence isn’t a trick. He was the one who chose to beat you half to death; you didn't do that to yourself."

“N-no, it’s…” She searches for words. “I was being reckless, 'n took a stupid risk.”

“Even if that were true, it was only him who decided to hurt you. The responsibility for that decision lies solely on him.”

“Mmh…”

“Bloom, please tell me this wasn’t your fault.”

A long moment passes before she responds. “...This wasn't my fault.”

She still doesn't sound like she really believes it, but Falath isn’t about to press the issue any further. She needs her sleep, and he needs his trance, so he just slides his eyes shut and continues stroking her hair.

It takes a long while for Bloom to tire herself out. Falath holds her as she weeps, more softly now without the all-consuming guilt behind it. Releasing her sorrows onto a supportive arm is exactly what the girl needs right now. She only has so many tears to shed, and the energy gradually drains from her until eventually she’s too exhausted to keep being miserable.

Bloom wipes her eyes and clears her nose for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, then lets out a wide yawn. “I’ve got an evocation class in the morning.” she mumbles, then glances to her bloodstained dress and underclothes piled at the foot of the couch. “I’ll have to stop at my place to change into my boy clothes. Can you wake me up at seven?"

They both know it’s not nearly enough sleep, but Falath has no option other than to agree. “Sure.”

“Definitely gonna learn shocking grasp after this.” she murmurs, already losing her grip on consciousness.

Falathrethrael just smiles, and allows himself to slip back into his trance. With the warmth of her body pressed against his, the darkness is a little easier to bear.

#whump #lady whump #female whumpee #trans whumpee #dungeons & dragons #d&d #fanfiction #fanfic #baldur's gate #tw noncon

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aviinnit · 3 years

Text

Escape

Content Warnings

Character death, mention of death, depiction of death, depiction of blood, female-bodied reader, female pronouns used .. ?, implicit suicidal tendencies, self-deprecation, swearing, reader has depression if you squint

Characters

Petra Ral, Levi Ackerman, Sasha Braus, Jean Kirstein, mentions of Armin Arlert, Annie Leonhart and Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss

Genre

Angst

Word Count

1,7k

Author Note

Hello ! uh- so after careful consideration -not so- I decided to post one of the pieces of writing i have on here, i have plenty of them but keep them to myself, so i think it wouldn't hurt to share ! The writing is really bad I'm sorry, just a heads up, English is not my first language so the sentences probably won't make sense, if there's a correction or something I could do to improve feel free to tell me, I'll be more than happy to oblige ! Also, I’m so sorry I forgot the names of the guys -the one who Levi gives the patch to- so bear with me 🏃‍♀️

This side of paradise - Coyote Theory

0:35 ━❍──────── -5:32

↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺

VOLUME: ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇ 100%

Being the stubborn asshole you were, you wouldn’t take a no for an answer. That, and the fact your comrades were being even more stubborn than you, wanting to get Ivan’s body back as you were all retreating from the horribly failed mission, did not help at all…

So now, you found yourself riding August, your horse, fleeing from the fast approaching Titans, hot behind your trail, all thanks to your fellows, who had gotten Ivan’s body back,not thinking of the consequences it would bring.

The two guys went forward to attack the Titans, albeit the fact you found yourselves in a plain biome, no trees or building around, using the maneuver gear was challenging, and, as Captain Levi had said, the smartest thing to do was to simply flee and dodge the forthcoming beasts.

It didn’t go as expected though, after all, the chances of maneuvering swiftly in the meadow were low if not zero, resulting in a Titan getting hold of the scout, mercilessly trapping him between his gross digits.

The other guy did his best efforts in saving his friend, not wanting to lose another one in a single mission, yet it didn’t go as planned, his last memories of him being his blood splattering around, dirtying the Titan’s body and filling the momentarily air with the oh so familiar smell of death.

Now, without Ivan’s body, who had fallen off the horse in the attempt to escape, and his buddy dead, the poor guy found himself galloping as fast as his steed could go, desperately running for survival.

In the midst of all the chaos caused in a matter of seconds, Captain Levi ordered that, in order to move the carts faster and successfully get to the safety inside the walls with no more casualties, they had to get rid of the dead soldiers’ bodies.

They had to leave them behind.

But your recklessness wasn’t going to lay still, and, after hearing those words come out of humanity’s strongest soldier’s mouth, you stopped dead on your tracks, causing you to almost lose balance and fall off your horse, and, whipping your head around quick enough to give anyone whiplash, you spotted Petra’s resting body on the cart, about to be thrown out as if meant nothing.

“NO !”

You yelled, watching your dead friend’s body getting farther and farther away by the second, hot tears streaming down your burning cheeks, the mundane feeling of despair piercing your insides once again.

Between gritted teeth, you murmured to yourself the promise you had made before the mission. “I’m not abandoning you, you’ll get to rest properly, even if it costs my life.”

Without thinking twice, or even giving yourself time to do so, you jumped off your horse, weakly grappling your ODM gear to the Titan’s running body, and, in a brisk motion, you reached out for your friend, hugging her body tightly, your judgment clouded by emotions, decisions driven by your heart.

The Titan before your eyes was now reaching out to you, yourself trying to dodge it hastily.

And of course, this wouldn’t, and in fact, it didn’t go unnoticed by your Captain who, while steadily riding the horse, made use of his peripheral view, checking on your dumb self, making sure you weren’t the next dead person.

Hurried but carefully, you managed to let Petra down on the cart once more, giving a death glare to your fellows, warning them with your piercing gaze to not even think about dispatching her as if she was no one.

In spite of your efforts, the wire of your gear got caught in the Titan’s hand, throwing you harshly off, leaving you with no escape from the Titan’s grasp.

“Well fuck” You scoffed, just processing the fact those were going to be your last moments.

Throwing a quick glance at Petra’s peaceful body on the cart, your vision got blurry, tears pooling your eyes once again.

This is it.

You smiled, whispering your last words with a bittersweet taste in your mouth. “Until we meet again.”

In your mind, you were cursing at yourself for giving up so easily, although, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had been wanting to give up for a long time now, after realizing you had been fighting a lost cause, and, humanity could do nothing about their imminent fate, being erased off the earth by their enemy. After all, the strongest one wins, right ? And this was your escape, your excuse, your opportunity, your way out of the hell everyone called home.

Subconsciously, you had stopped running, unaffectedly kneeling down in your place, hoping, no, waiting for the worst. Only a single thought, a single person kept lingering in your mind : Petra.

She was the first person you had actually felt close to since you accidentally joined the Survey Corps Elite Squad. Petra was loving, selfless, and could always draw a smile on your face, even on the darkest of days; despite being trapped in in this hell hole, the ginger never lost hope, keeping on fighting bravely against Titans every day, being the ray of sunshine in the midst of all the gloomy clouds, shining brighter than any cloud could ever cry, and, even in her final moments, she never lost hope humanity would someday claim freedom.

Ultimately, unlike the fallen soldiers, you weren’t great, not even good at anything, let alone at going outside the walls and killing titans, sending yourself forward into enemy line. You weren’t extraordinary, you weren’t special, or smart, or quick witted, or strong, or at least that’s what you thought, you were just there, there by mere luck, it definitely wouldn't be a hard lose for the Survey Corps, according to your undervaluing thoughts, they wouldn’t even feel the weight of your death, let alone humanity, you would pass and, like many others, you would eventually be forgotten, the only memory left of you being ‘another victims of the monsters trapping us inside these walls’.

Yet, you felt the slightest ounce of regret about one thing, and one thing only : your friends.

Eren, Sasha, Jean, Mikasa, Armin, Krista, and once Annie, before she left for the Military Police; you would never get a chance to say goodbye to them, to thank them for spending 3 years of their lives training for a death sentence together, for defending and protecting you, for making you laugh, for showing you what real love was.

As the thoughts left your mind blank and tears rolled out your reddened eyes, time seemed to have stopped, each fraction of a second feeling like forever while you waited for death to come reclaim your meaningless life.

Levi, who was been fixated on the road ahead, forgot about you and your stupid, death-wish-antics.

The thing, or rather, the person who broke him out of his everlasting trance, was Sasha, Sasha Braus letting out a deafening scream, crying out for you.

“___ !”

He heard, muffled to his ears.

Snapping out, he promptly turned his head around, getting a hold of his blades, ignoring the excruciating pain extending through his leg, ready to kill the Titan before it could kill you.

“___ !” He caught once more, Sasha’s cries for your life breaking in her throat, tears escaping her eyes, a feeling of helplessness invading her as she watched the scene unfold before her very eyes.

It was too late.

He was too late.

Levi Ackerman, humanity's strongest soldier, couldn't save you.

Humanity's strongest soldier couldn't save a stubborn brat like you from the jaws of a mindless 7-metre-class Titan.

Knowing what was best for him and the Corps, he kept heading straight, aware he couldn’t do anything, anything but galloping away from the Titan and get into the safety the walls provided, the burning memory of you blood splattering all around, your lifeless body being crushed by a stupid 7 metre Titan engraving on his mind, ready to become to reason of more sleepless nights, nights when his regrets would have to be buried deep beneath him.

What had felt like an eternity, was in fact, matter of seconds, the rest seemingly oblivious, since they were too busy saving their own lives to look back at the cries of their comrades, too busy to notice the Titan had stopped chasing after them, too busy to realise the steed galloping riderless alongside them, too busy to realise that a singular body was back in the cart, in exchange of another life.

With no more casualties, they arrived ostensibly safely at the gate, the familiar bell ringing in their ears, filling the air, announcing their arrival after a heart-tearing expedition.

Your last moments weren’t as everyone described they would be.

You didn’t see your life flash before your eyes, you didn’t feel at peace, you didn’t see a blinding white light, you didn’t feel regret.

In fact, you felt nothing, nothing until you thought it was over, afore, in your last breath of life, you saw Levi’s eyes losing their oh so subtle gleam you loved, you saw Sasha breaking down, barely able to hold herself steady on the horse, you saw Jean, and how with glossy eyes, he cursed at himself, feeling guilty for not having done anything to save you.

In that moment, in that last moment, with your blood escaping your body faster than your heart could ever beat, you felt happy. Brushing death’s grasp, powerless, incapable to escape, you felt satisfied, you felt free, maybe there would be another life, a life you could actually live, a life without the terror of being ruled by them, a life where you could be free.

With your mind slowly turning off, you were sure your last thought, your last memory, your last experience was going to be a delightful one, a memory you would cherish in the so called afterlife; despite your friends, who couldn’t contain their tears, messily holding onto their horse’s leash, body numbed by pure shock, whos heart had been crudely torn apart, your reaction to that moment was quite the opposite. With a faint smile drawn on your now pale lips, you held onto that precise moment blissfully for the remaining seconds of consciousness you had left, because that moment, that instant, had shown you everything you ever wished for.

For the first and last time, you experienced love.

#attack on titan one shot #attack on titan #angst #aot #aot oneshots #attack on titan angst #attack on titan fanfiction #!angst

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