#so!!!!! there’s no need to fear!!!!!! just go in with an open mind and a closed-off heart!!!!!

[litsenn]

Safe touch

Pairing: Astarion x reader [no gender mentioned] Word count: 1.7K Summary: Astarion is starting to have a panic attack, will you find a way to help him? Read it on AO3

Jaw clenching, alarmed eyes, trembling lips; Astarion isn’t feeling alright. And you, you recognize the first signs of a panic attack.

Approaching carefully, you try to catch his gaze with your own, but it’s shifty, elusive. You know it would be pointless to ask him how he feels.

“Astarion? Maybe you should try to breathe slowly.” You suggests in a gentle whisper.

“I don’t need to breathe.” He snaps, his voice hoarse, bitter, and his fists clenching at his sides. You can almost hear the heavy, painful lump growing in the back of this throat.

You don’t recoil. You’re not letting him down now, but you know you have to proceed carefully.

Your chambers in the Elfsong Tavern are awfully quiet. The other companions are downstairs, and you’re both supposed to join them. But you already know it won’t happen this evening.

“You might not actually need it, but sometimes it helps.”

Astarion shakes his head, his movements sharp. The wince on his face, filled with fear and anxiety, breaks your heart. You never saw him like this before, but you should have expected this to happen. After all, you’ve been back in Baldur’s Gate a few days ago only, and after the spawns’ intrusion the night before, you can’t expect Astarion to feel serene.

You need to be patient with him, and you will. He needs you to be patient.

The tension between the two of you is so heavy you can almost feel its weight on your shoulders, but it won’t stop you. You slowly walk to the bed behind Astarion and sit down on the edge. He observes you from the corner of his eyes but doesn’t make a single move.

“Please, sit with me, Astarion.”

No answer. Your heartbeat quickens with anticipation as you silently beg for him to accept.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, Astarion finally turns around hesitantly and makes a few steps toward the bed. His features are still tense, but they’re also imbued with a disarming vulnerability. You give him a gentle, hopeful smile. When he finally closes the gap between you and sits at your side, his body is still agitated with tremors and he refuses to look you in the eyes.

With great care, you slowly reached out for his hand. As soon as your skin touch, Astarion freeze for a second, before relaxing slightly just enough to let you rest your fingers against his knuckles. Your touch is light as a feather, barely brushing along his fingers. A gentle presence, but not an overwhelming one.

Your eyes never leave his face as you start to take long, deep breaths, quietly encouraging him to mimic you. He hesitates again, frowning as he watches your chest rise and fall rhythmically, the sounds of your breath like a soft music only he can hear. He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. He breathes. You nod. One inspiration after another. He struggles to match your rhythm but eventually aligns his inspirations with yours. You’re breathing in synch, and you can easily see him relax, if only a little. Shoulders slouching slightly, his eyes finally finding yours. The moment feels precious, sacred almost. For a few long seconds, only the two of you exist, your featherlike touch on his hand, the air that passes between you, the melody of your synchronized breathing. You want to tell him it’s going to be alright. You want to tell him he’s safe. But you know words, right now, are meaningless. Your silent promises carry more truth than any grand declaration.

Another sparkle of relief rises in your chest as you feel his fingers react gently to your touch, intertwining with yours. You give a little squeeze, and he gives you sad smile that touches your soul so deeply you could have wept about it.

Breathing helps but Astarion is still unwell. No longer in panic mode, but clearly dismayed. His fingers are pressed against your palm, and another idea pops up in your mind.

Shifting slowly on the bed, you let go of his hand and sit against the bedstand. Astarion watches in confusion, a disappointed twitch of his eye as your hands part. Crossed-legged, you take a pillow and put it on your lap.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a raw whisper, as if rediscovering his breath was altering his voice.

“I’d like to try something with you, Astarion.”

He looks at you suspiciously, tensing up again.

“Nothing you’re not comfortable with!” You quickly add, desperate to reassure him. “Whatever happens, say the word and everything stops.”

The look on Astarion’s face is still that of suspicion, but you can already detect a few signs of curiosity in the way his lips curls, in the spark in his eyes. As for the tension in his body, that creeping anxiety, it hasn’t receded but it’s under control – maybe too much.

“I’m listening.” He says, his sharp gaze following your every move.

“Would you rest your head against the pillow?”

His eyes widen as he watches you pat the cushion on your lap. “I don’t understand, darling. Why would I…?”

“Please, Astarion. Can you trust me with that? I promise I won’t insist if you don’t like it.”

He lets out a laboured sigh, gazes at the room around you, taking in the quietness of the moment but also the looming threat only he can feel as the night falls upon the city.

You wait silently, until Astarion finally decides to lay down. Resting on his back, his head against the soft pillow, he’s looking up at you. Now you can feel the little tremors in his tensing muscles.

“Thank you…” you whisper, and you mean it. You’re grateful for his trust, for his willingness to give you a chance. “I’m going to touch your hair. Nothing more.”

A sarcastic chuckle leaves his lips. “And why would you do that, darling?”

“Try to relax, please. And let me know if anything feels wrong.”

He shrugs but keeps his eyes on your face. The pressure of his head against your lap is somehow comforting. It’s the first time you see his face from this perspective, and he looks as handsome as usual, albeit the anxiety still haunting his features.

“This is ridiculous.” Astarion winces, obviously unconvinced.

You don’t pay attention to that last remark, moving your hands instead, putting your fingertips against this scalp. Your touch is careful, and you watch Astarion closely, observing his reaction. The vampire spawn doesn’t react immediately, waiting for you to actually do something. Your heart is pounding hard, and you know he can hear it, feel it. You take the time you need to calm down.

When you feel ready, you start combing his silver locks with your fingers. His hair feels like silk, and you can’t help marvelling at its softness. Of course it’s not the first time you touch his hair, but you never really had the opportunity to focus on it before, to really appreciate how soft it is, to observe its luminous shine in the candlelight. For a short moment, you even forget to check on his reaction, your fingers gliding hypnotically through the silky strands.

When you focus on his face again, you instantly notice the change in his features; Astarion has closed his eyes in the meanwhile, the tension is slowly leaving his muscles, but there’s still a confused frown on his brow.

“Is it alright?” you ask hesitantly, as if afraid of his answer.

The nod he gives you is instantaneous, visceral. And it’s followed by a deep, content sigh.

You smile, you can’t help it, and you go on. You play with his hair, brushing ever so slightly against his scalp and forehead, your fingertips tracing his hairline down to his temples. Your nails aren’t that long, not after so many weeks of adventure, and some of them are even broken, but with the tip of them, you follow his hairline until your reach the nape of his neck. A gentle caress there at the top of his spine, and he shivers under your touch.

He’s smiling softly.

Your fingertips keep on travelling through his hair, combing the silver strands, and each time you brush against his ear, a little gasp escapes his lips.

He’s relaxing, progressively, slowly, but it’s working.

“Astarion…?”

“Hmmm?”

“May I touch your face?”

A moment of silence. His eyes are still closed but you can almost see the gears in his mind.

��Yes…”

Tilting your head, you carefully place your thumbs against his temples while your index fingers begin to trace his jawline, gliding down to his chin ever so slowly. Then back up again, across his cheekbones, tracing soft patterns under his eyes and from the corners of them up to his forehead. With infinite care, you let your finger glide along his eyebrows until the frown on his brow finally vanishes.

“Does it feel alright?” You ask softly.

“Keep going, darling… please.”

Your heart skips a beat. Astarion is enjoying this, and so are you.

The whole world around has disappeared, you’re both tucked in your own bubble, safe and finally peaceful.

It’s like a dance, your fingertips on his skin, sweeping away the tension, leaving goosebumps in their trail as they follow the line of his nose, the line of his lips and the corner of his mouth. You can even see that Astarion is trying not to smile, and suddenly, you want to kiss those lips. But you don’t. Not now. This is not about kissing or groping, not even about flirting.

It’s something else. Something that needs no word, no explanation.

Just your touch, safe and soft against his skin, in his hair, and Astarion’s precious mind released from the growing panic that was plaguing it just a moment ago. His body, bruised and abused so many times, finally rediscovering what tenderness truly means, finally understanding that a foreign hand is not necessarily a violent hand. All fingernails don’t scratch and cut, some of them can caress and soothe.

Before long, his features look perfectly peaceful, the fears gone, for now at least. You soon realize that he’s truly resting. Not trancing. Sleeping. You wonder if he’s dreaming, you hope there will be no nightmare, but the slight smile on his lips doesn’t vanish, and you smile with him.

[tw1sters]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ my boy only breaks his favorite toys

Jake Seresin has pushed through the worst of war, but nothing can compare to the fear of you saying I love you. So he runs.

▸ PAIRING: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally unregulated!Jake, he says a lot of things he doesn't really mean ▸ WORD COUNT: 2K ▸ A/N: jake pov of "the breakup" from flight risk, please note that he's just very emotional and not very good at dealing with said emotions

The hours after are Jake’s favorite. He will likely never admit it to himself, and especially not to you, that he enjoys the hours after the sex more than the actual sex. It’s strange – he doesn’t think he has ever felt that way. 

Sex has always been an easy escape for him. A medium to release the residues of his pent-up tensions from the day. 

But here with you, with the minutes ticking by slowly and you tucked into his chest, he finds himself content. Your fingers are on his skin, drawing invisible patterns as you continue to softly speak. He cards his fingers through your hair, feeling them slip through like sand. Your body is molded into his, curves fitting together like two pieces of the same puzzle. 

His favorite nights are when you tell him about your day. It’s nothing exciting. You tell him every time that it was a boring day like any other day, but he still asks you about it anyway. So you tell him about the regulars, about the new drinks you’re planning to add. Then you pause and appear bashful, once again telling him that he really does not need to hear you go on about such a mundane day, that you prefer to hear about the exciting things he has going on at the base. 

Jake only shushes you and proceeds to ask you more questions, maneuvering the conversation back to you. You don’t understand it, but he does. These hours are his hours of peace. The kind of peace that only exists with you. 

His work is a constant, relentless stream of adrenaline. Most of the time, he feels as if he’s about to burst from the sheer force that hits him in the air. Blood pumping aggressively through his veins as he swerves his planes. The engine roaring to life like the crack of thunder in his ears. Abroad, they are accompanied by the sound of explosives and missiles exploding. For a while, they did plague his sleep. He would lay with eyes wide open with the fear of a midnight ambush keeping him on high alert. 

But here with you, it’s quiet. 

His mind is quiet. All he hears is the softness of your voice recounting your day. The more questions he asks, the more you talk. He loves listening to the rises and dips of your pitch, it varies depending on the story you’re telling. When it goes up in excitement, supported by the wild gesturing of your hands, he finds himself smiling more. Those are his favorite stories. 

And when you’re done, there’s a stillness that blankets the room. The quiet doesn’t last long, broken partially by your soft snores, hot puffs of air against his skin. When he knows you’re asleep, safe and sound, only then would he let himself close his eyes. 

Tonight, your breathing does not even out and he can still feel your fingers tracing circles on your bare chest. It’s a habit, he notices, when something is on your mind. You tend to repeat the motions when you’re hesitant, wary of what you’re about to say. 

He doesn’t push you. He’s learned the best way to coax you to open up to him is to let you do it at your own pace.

“Jake,” you start. There is a subtle quake in your voice that he would’ve missed if he weren’t so familiar with how you sound. 

He hums in question. His hand is still massaging your scalp, an act of reassurance. 

Another pause. 

“I love you.”

For a moment, he does not process the words, still focused on the feeling of your fingertips on his skin. When the words sink in, his hand freezes. His heart stops. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for more words that never come. 

And then he feels it. The joy that spreads fast and thick across his entire being. It curls around every corner of his brain, bringing forth every memory he’s had with you. The shared kisses, the late-night laughs, and the feel of you wrapped all around him. Warm. 

It feels as if he has been holding his breath all this time and he’s finally freed. There’s a warm ache in his chest. The good kind. The best kind that gives him hope of better things to come.

I love you. 

Your words weave themselves into the deepest corners of his mind, embedding themselves into permanent spaces. 

His own response sits on his tongue, heavy. But the weight is strangely uncomfortable. He doesn’t understand why but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. 

I love you. 

Fear crawls up his spine, quick and ruthless. It tears that brief moment of happiness into bits, whisked away by the wind. His lungs constrict again, as if they’re protesting the reply that he so badly wants to say to you. And the voices are getting louder, surfacing to the forefront to drown out yours.

Will she really love you for long? Can you really make her happy? Look at all the messes you’ve created. All the people you’ve hurt. Is she going to be next?

When she knows who you truly are – arrogant, selfish, cowardly – will she stay? 

He swallows thickly, willing the questions away to no avail. You aren’t looking at him. Deep down, he knows that it took a lot of courage for you to be the first to say it. For all his bravado, Jake has never been necessarily brave. 

I love you.

And he wonders where your boldness comes from. He wonders what made you think that telling him you loved him was a good idea. He’s never been a gambler and never thought you were one either, but maybe he’s mistaken.

It sinks into him that maybe he doesn’t know you as well as he thought, and you him. You should know that it’s not the right time. He pointedly ignores the voice in the back of his mind that asks so when? 

His anger feels like an irrational rush but it consumes him all the same. Why would you ruin a good thing? Because it could be something great. Why would you risk what you already have? Because it’s worth it. 

But he doesn’t understand how you could even think about saying that to him when you barely know him. Being disappointed feels patronizing and he knows you’re smarter than that. 

Before he can wrack his brain for a proper response, he hears you say, “I know, you don’t have to say anything.”

Jake should feel relieved. You’re giving him an out, a chance to get out of dealing with his troublesome feelings. However, he feels worse – here you are comforting him when he should be the one who has the balls to tell you how he feels. To return those words that you’ve so carefully placed in his hands. 

His lack of response prompts you to continue, your body shifting away from his. The ache in his heart is undeniable, that loss of warmth akin to a sucker punch to his gut. “Look, forget about it. It was a mistake.”

Was it? Or was he the mistake? When he does finally find his words, he knows they’re only partially earnest, but they are not the words he wants to say. “You made it complicated, sweetheart. I told you I don’t do complicated.”

When they are out, he belated realizes how condescending they sound. He can’t take them back, not when he sees the hurt that crosses your expression. You respond to him coldly, your tone like sandpaper grating against his skin. “I get it. I’m not asking for anything. I just… it came out.”

Jake wrings his fingers through his hair. He’s hoping this entire thing is some form of sick nightmare the universe decided to play for him. But he knows when he feels the sting that this is happening. 

His question from earlier returns. Only this time, he makes the error of saying them out loud. “Why did you have to go on and ruin a good thing?” 

The look on your face now – Jake never wants to see it again. He wants to apologize but his tongue feels like lead in his mouth, bitter and heavy. Every time he opens his mouth, he can’t seem to find the right words to say. He’s angry and frustrated and a very small part of him holds on to that distant optimism. 

“I fucked up, I’ll admit. But you don’t need to be an asshole about it. There are probably worse things in life than to have someone tell you they love you.”

Of course there are. But, in this moment, when Jake can’t sort through his own emotions, when he’s forced to confront the consequences of his actions and the immensity of his feelings towards you, he’s not so sure. 

“Really? You think so? Because right now, it doesn’t feel like there is.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” 

“Well, I’m not the one that decided to fall in love with a fucking asshole.”

Shut up, shut up. He wills his mouth to stop moving before his brain does, for his heart to catch up and add in some fucking empathy. 

I love you.

He can’t tell anymore if it’s your voice echoing in his mind or if that’s his heart begging for him to just tell you the truth. That he loves you, loves how you love him, loves everything that’s happening between the two of you. 

“Love isn’t a goddamn decision, prick.”

He should stop this right now before it gets too far, but Jake’s never been great at emotional regulation. That’s why he’s an asshole. That’s why he ruins all the good things he has in life. Those past relationships, his bond with his squadron. Jake is the type to break all his favorite toys – particularly if he loves them too much. 

Now, fury is his armor. “Name-calling, darlin’? Not your best attack.” 

When you finally look away from him, Jake’s stomach drops. There’s no turning back from this. He can’t be here anymore. He can’t bear to watch the heartache that he caused on your face. 

He’s been thousands of miles away from you before, but the distance between you now has never felt greater. 

“I should go,” he swallows, reluctantly pushing himself to sit on the edge of the bed. His back is turned towards you. 

Your voice is soft again, dripping in kindness that he doesn’t deserve. “You should stay the night, it’s late. You can leave in the morning. Take the couch.”

You’ve always been the smarter one. He really is a fucking asshole. 

“You know that’s no longer a good idea. I’ll be fine.”

He can’t stay. He can’t hurt you anymore than he already has. You deserve better than this. You deserve someone who can be fearless in the face of their own emotions. You deserve someone who doesn’t hurt you like he does. 

Jake doesn’t even have the guts to look at you. He dresses quietly and makes his way downstairs. His feet drag across the wooden floors, intentionally slow so he could savor his last moments with you. When he opens the front door, he finally turns around. 

You’re standing so far away from him, arms wrapped around yourself. Jake could save this. He could get on his knees and plead for forgiveness, tell you how much he wants this with you. He could have a great thing. 

But Jake is nothing if not self-destructive. The opposite of a Midas touch, he breaks everything he touches. He can’t shatter you any more than he already has. 

“I don’t think we should do this again.”

And when you nod, he knows it’s done. There’s no turning back now. 

Your final words to him, “Be safe”, he carries with him. He knows he will think about them often when he’s back on the road. 

When he straddles his bike that night, your front door closed, Jake knows he has lost the one thing that might’ve been worth the risk. 

↤ Flight Risk Masterlist

[basically-neroland]

nero's depression headcanons‼️

i've got two requests sitting in my inbox but i'm too lazy to work on em rn (sorry 🥀), i wanna get something out for today (it's like 10:30pm) and this one's been sitting in my notes app so here you go lolz

g/n!reader, tw for dark thoughts (obviously). feel free to skip this one, take care of yourself 💙 this is a long one bc i think about it a LOT so buckle up!

most of it comes from bullied, neglected and rumoured about as a kid and as a teenager, but it also stems from survivor's guilt.

in deadly fortune, he talks about how kyrie and credo's parents died in a demon attack and says that it would've made more sense if it had been him and not saints like them. he was only 17 or 18 in deadly fortune.

nero really, REALLY hates talking about his feelings. he'll say he's fine when you ask him if he's okay. PLEASE call his bluff.

he struggles to be vulnerable, even with his partner because he's used to being the supportive one. it's honestly what he prefers.

he prefers to deal with his emotions on his own, mostly inwardly (despite his violent outbursts with demons and tiny crashouts that would suggest otherwise)

he might handle his anger outwardly, but not his sadness. never his sadness.

to be honest, all you can really do is give him extra physical affection and listen if he starts talking because sometimes he will. it's just rare and takes a while for him to start opening up

most of his tells are extremely quiet. not getting out of bed as early as he usually does, being extra quiet, spacing out more, stuff like that.

he still does stuff to make you happy, he's still cuddly (sometimes he even gets clingier), that doesn't change, but when he smiles back it won't quite reach his eyes. his laughs are more subdued and quiet

he doesn't like talking about his feelings, but the best way to support him is to just hold him and make sure he knows he can talk to you. he just needs you to make him feel safe, comforted and cared for

he also likes when you tell him that you appreciate him, love him, want him around and would be upset if he disappeared, even if he doesn't plan on actually disappearing. he just needs to hear that he's wanted.

when he does open up, he pauses a lot, just trying to gather his words

he gets teary, but tries not to cry. sometimes he fails, and he just leans into your hands when you wipe his tears

he'll talk about how he feels like it should've been him, or about something he experienced or had to do that haunted him, but he'll never ever tell you about how he sometimes just wants to disappear

he's happy you love him, but sometimes he wishes you didn't. he feels like he'll inevitably disappoint you or hurt you somehow, and it scares him.

to be honest, he is probably passively suicidal at times. he'd never want to leave you, but if he died fighting a demon, oh well y'know? that's his mindset some days. this translates into recklessness during fights

it's usually nico that berates him for it, she does worry a lot, but if you're also a devil hunter and you're along to see it, she'll stay quiet and let you do the fearful berating no matter how stressed she is about it

if nero gets reckless, nico always tells you just in case you didn't notice other quiet signs (if they were even there to notice)

if you notice signs, sometimes you tell nico so she'll go a little easier on him. as much as bantering and arguing is their love language, it isn't always good for him. if she makes any jokes about him "letting demons knock him around so much", he sometimes genuinely wonders if he's weak or just not good enough.

sometimes he gets genuinely angry during what's supposed to be playful banter and shuts down and it's just best to avoid that.

his coping mechanisms tend to consist of video games, sleeping more whenever he can, cuddling you and distracting himself with red queen and blue rose, even if he'd already done the routine maintenance. whatever got his mind off his sadness was good enough for him, he didn't really care what exactly it was.

you're honestly the only thing keeping him sane

he'd rather die than live without you. if you die, he'll be dead inside until he actually dies because of recklessness

[prythian-angel-doll]

You Are The Cause of My Euphoria (Azriel x OC fic)

Hi, beautiful peoples. I've written sporadically over the years but my love for ACOTAR and specifically one special bat boy has inspired me to put one of my own works out there. Please enjoy and leave me feedback, it will be a slowburn angsty fic with more to come so please be patient! MWAH

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Anwyn (On-win) is the younger bastard half-sister of the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand. She's spent the past four centuries sheltered and hidden in the Day Court, where she would assist her distant family when they saw fit. Now that the war is over, she has been invited to join the Court of Dreams in Velaris. A lifetime of rejection and isolation from her people leave Anwyn confused and unsure. These feelings are only complicated by her friendship with Rhysand's personal spy, Azriel, whomst Anwyn has always kept in the back of her mind. How will she navigate life in a new court, with different customs, whose people are closer to her own brother than she is?

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Thump, thump. My heavy luggage crashed against the cobblestone walkway as I exhaled deeply, regretting my decision to winnow in a distance away and walk the rest of the way to my brother and sister-in-law’s new estate. I needed that time to collect my thoughts - what would I say when they opened the doors? Hi, sorry I’ve been hiding away for the past three years, I didn’t want to complicate things for you further, Feyre! It’s so nice to finally meet you! Also, can I see my nephew? Or, I know my birth caused great shame upon my family but I would love to reenter your lives and act like nothing happened! I cringed and decided that neither option was befitting of the bastard princess of the night court and chose to go off the cuff based on whomever answers my knock. “Cauldron, where has the time gone?” I muttered at the ground, bouncing from one foot to the other, as I waited for a response on the other side of the manor door. 

The door swung open with a violent fury, hinges hissing and groaning despite the young age of their construction. The person on the other side of the doorway immediately drew an eyeroll from me. Cassian. He stood leaning against the frame, a wicked smirk plastered on his admittedly handsome and rugged face. “Well, it’s about time you showed up. I was beginning to think that you’d hide away in Helion’s chambers for all of eternity” he said, smirking wider and wider as the seconds droned on. “Funny. I’ve spent just about as much time in his chambers as you have. He should be so lucky to even have a shot at me. Glad to see you as well,” I retort. I kicked at my suitcases, a notion for the large Illyrian to take them inside for me. I had always found Cassian to be an attractive male - tanned, muscled, always ready for a challenge. He’d come and visit the Day Court when Rhys had sent him as my private instructor, teaching me the fighting style of the Illyrians. I wasn’t Illyrian myself - I had no wings, no blood ties to the fighting race of warriors. My mother was not one of them, one of Rhys’s mother’s kind. His mother’s death spawned a heightened fear in my brother and instilled an urgency to make sure I could protect myself should anyone discover my true identity within the Day Court. 

Cassian picked up my belongings in one fell swoop, throwing the trunks over each shoulder without so much as breaking a sweat. I followed him in, drawing in a breath as I entered the foyer. The estate was marvelous. I lived in a luxurious apartment in the Day Court, furnished how I liked and changed when I had even the slightest mood swing. I didn’t quite know how to feel about my brother’s home. This was a home, something I have never had. I could see myself calling this home, eventually. “Nesta and I thought about staying here, but two mated pairs under the same roof would probably reduce this whole block to rubble” Cassian trailed on, not bothering to make sure I was behind him as he continued through the entry hall, striding towards the stairs. I heard from Rhys that Cass and Feyre’s older sister Nesta had joined into a mating bond. Rhys’s icy words for Nesta coincidentally had brought me relief - surely she would be the one to bring his ego down a notch. That’s a perfect match in my book. “I’d love to chat with you about our love lives, Cass, but I would very much like to see Rhysand and Feyre. Where are they?” I said, looking around the hall. It was oddly quiet for a weekday afternoon, though I supposed the duties of High Lord and High Lady of the Court of Dreams required non-stop work and correspondences. Cassian sat the trunks down surprisingly gingerly. Two shadowy figures appeared in the shapes of women; they each collected a trunk and then disappeared once more. Cassian’s lack of reaction told me that these must be servants of a sort, or a cruel prank I’d have to sort out later. He bent his head to the right, motioning towards the long hallway. I peered down the expansive hall - portraits and landscapes adorned the walls in varying sizes and tones. People I knew - Mor, in her ephemeral grace; Amren, a non-chalant muse. “At the end of the hall is the family room - they’re waiting for you” Cassian said, “I’ll come by later on, I’ve got some business in a camp close by”. I nodded a thanks and he strode away and out of the house, no doubt wanting to use his wings to fly into the camp he had to attend to. 

I reached the end of the hallway in what felt like hours. So many images to take in - prized pieces constructed by my sister-in-law. The woman I hid from for two years, a drop in the water compared to the four hundred years in isolation. These past two years stung more, knowing that I couldn’t meet my brother’s mate, couldn’t be a part of their lives directly, continuing to live the same lie everyday. I helped in any way I could before that final battle. I gathered intel, scoured the libraries for any information, negotiated with any court that may have needed extra convincing. My position as an advisor to Helion assisted me with the latter effort. And when it came time to fight, I was there. I went against Rhys’s orders, but I arrived with Helion’s army and blended in amongst the hordes. I fought with all my strength and only informed my brother after the fact - after his resurrection. I shook those thoughts from my mind as I reached the door at the end, the family room. Well, here goes nothing I thought to myself as I wrenched on the door and pushed it open, much like ripping off the bandage you knew deep down you were scared to remove. 

Feyre sat in a settee next to the marbled fireplace on the opposite side of the room; Rhysand positioned next to her, leaning against the armrest. I walked into the room a couple of steps, not quite sure how to begin this reunion and first meeting. My sister-in-law broke the silence quickly, without awkwardness. A true High Lady. “Welcome home, Anwyn. It’s nice to finally meet you after all this time. Rhys has told me so much already” Feyre said, her voice carrying a melody that my ears relaxed at. I smiled - it was earnest, something I didn’t throw to anyone unless I also gave it with a kick in the balls or a punch in the gut. I dipped my head low, attempting to give my High Lady my respects, though it still felt so foreign to be here. “Thank you Feyre. This has been overdue and I have so much to say and tell to you,” I reply, shaking off the inkling of nerves I carried in. I felt more at ease as the seconds passed. “Maybe I should start with some stories about my and Rhysand’s drinking escapades in the Day Court a couple centuries back?” Rhys’s still face finally changed, switching out for a look that balanced between shock and embarrassment. “Anie. Please, let’s not spoil all the fun in one night. You surely have plenty of time to embarrass us all, including yourself. I’m glad to see you arrived in one piece. And, welcome home - this was indeed overdue” he said at last. I rolled my eyes and smirked as I closed the distance to embrace my brother. Centuries of distance and isolation saw that our relationship became strained and contentious at times. Two siblings with different hardships, different customs, different upbringings. Our mutual link proved to be more powerful than our differences and we reconciled with that - our father, the former High Lord of the Night Court, prowled our subconscious and shaped the personalities we formed throughout our long immortal lives. 

Rhysand and his court had sporadically me during my isolation over the creeping four centuries that have passed since I was brought into this world kicking and screaming. Bastard I was branded, the daughter of the High Lord of the Night Court and a handmaiden to the Consort. I will never know the whole truth of my conception. The story told to me countless times was that my father, freshly reeling from Rhys’s mother’s rejection, grew so angry that despite the intact mating bond, sought out my mother and bedded her for a month straight. I knew that my father loved Rhys’s mother - it had completely consumed him from the inside. My mother was a trusted friend of hers, she had confided in my mother many secrets over the years of her servitude. Sometimes I wonder if my mother welcomed him into her bed as a relief to the Illyrian queen - surely it was known that she had little love for the Lord of the Night Court. Thus, 30 years after my brother, I was born unto the world. We shared the same violet blue eyes, but not much else. My snow white hair and winter pale skin juxtaposed Rhysand’s dark complexion. I secretly admired the aura of his complexion, knowing that it must have been drawn from his mother - I would never see that hue on my own skin. 

We spent the next fifteen minutes catching up, making sure I threw in some playful jabs to Rhys and his court while I recounted my time in Helion’s court. Feyre listened with cheerful intent, soaking in all that I had to tell. I knew that we would become close sisters - solidified by her roaring laughter during my monologue about Rhysand stealing one of Helion’s pegasuses for the night. Or perhaps two. Helion came into my apartment in a rage, sending books and goblets crashing against the walls. The shocking bright lights exuding from Helion sent us into a blind frenzy but it couldn’t dull our laughter as we sat cross legged in front of the High Lord’s prized winged mare, which was grazing on the many carrots we had purchased at the market. These were the memories I had clung to during the time my brother was under the mountain, with Amorantha controlling him and so many others I had grown up to know.

 “Where is my nephew? Where is Nyx?” I asked eagerly. As much as I wanted to talk to Rhys and Feyre, I knew that I had eternity to swap stories and exchange information. To see my nephew as an infant, barely walking and babbling incoherently? I would only have a few years at most, given the maturation rate of High Fae. “Oh we’re so glad to see you as well, Wynnie” Rhys chuckled, shaking his head slightly. Surely enough, he had understood this as well. Feyre smiled and looked at him - I only saw pure love and devotion in their shared glance. “He’s upstairs with Azriel. Az has been entertaining him while we get some work done. His own tasks have come up fewer and fewer while we are at a certain level of peace, despite the unrest in Illyria”. Azriel I choked out in my head. Mother watched over me. I had taken many lovers within many courts during my time with Helion and his court - our travels took us to all the varying courts throughout the realm. Many men had the opportunity to share the bed with the bastard princess of the Night Court - though none of them were talented enough for me to keep them in my life. I'd never bedded Azriel. I’ve never engaged in anything with him besides the exchange of polite pleasantries when he would visit the Day Court. Rhysand would send him to me to glean any information which any of the vast libraries could have contained based on what was needed. Azriel spent a deal of time with me, gathering books, learning the weaknesses of the males from other courts - he didn’t ask how I had gathered that specific intel. I never thought of Azriel as anything more than my brother’s errand boy - that was, until that night many years ago. I shook the thought out of mind. Not now. We didn’t see each other for a year afterwards, and only on the occasional trek out to my ward would he grace me with himself. Years passed, and I pushed him out of my mind. A silly crush, very simple. Black and white. The strong and silent Illyrian warrior once blessed my dreams with soothing kisses and longing stares. Sometimes those dreams gave way to other interactions more primal, more seductive and toe curling. 

“I’ll go see him now then, while he’s awake” I said, glancing back towards the door I entered nearly an hour ago at this point. It was certainly not the time for those sorts of devious thoughts. I hadn’t seen Az in almost three years, but I had never seen my young nephew - and now I was growing impatient. Rhysand stood from his leaning position once more, resting his hand on Feyre’s. “Go ahead upstairs. Feyre and I have to finish some paperwork for a restoration project over in the Rainbow - we’ll give you the grand tour of Velaris soon enough. Nyx’s wing is to the of the staircase, at the end of the hallway” Rhys said, never moving a muscle away from his mate. I looked at them both - a portrait of not only love, but of immense power and tact. I would be lying to myself if I didn’t envy my brother. His found mate, his chosen and found family after such loss. Did he still consider me as a part of his family? Surely, if he invited me back here, right? I’m safe now, no more outliers to concern myself with regarding the plots against Rhysand’s life and his circle. “We’ll meet later for dinner. I was thinking we’d go to my favorite restaurant - the food is prepared and spiced to perfection by a wonderful woman” Feyre said. I smiled and crossed my arms “That sounds great to me - I’d love to judge the cuisine of Velaris against the Day Court. Helion would love to see that report”. The inner advisor of me found it hard to turn off my former role - reporter to the High Lord. He would be amused to see such a report cross his desk, though surely he would never concede to Velaris championing the better selection of culinary cuisine. Rhys chuffed a laugh and they winnowed out a minute later after exchanging formalities once more - it would take a week or two more for the familial links to set in, hopefully. 

Taking a deep breath, I climbed the sweeping stairs. By the mother, they really outdid themselves with this mansion. I can practically see my reflection in the floors as well, I uttered internally. I knew the wealth of the Night Court was immense, my own salary provided to me by Rhys was more than enough to allow me a life of pleasure and indulgence should i have chosen it. The river house was a testament to not only the power and intensity of the High Lord and Lady, but to their love and devotion to the city they called home - and would call home for eternity. I reached the end of the hallway once more as I unwrapped myself from my thoughts. I wondered which room was to be mine - where the shadowy women had dropped off my possessions. Unlatching the door softly, I slowly opened the door, peering into the bright lightly colored room. 

Nyx sat in the center of the room. He could hold himself upright in a seated position, and I kicked myself for not being able to be here earlier when he was smaller, more incapable of such feats. He was in the middle of a selection of toys; different shaped animals and rattles and orbs of moving light - all encompassed by meandering and dancing waves of pure shadow. I knew those shadows. They had once cooed around me, I felt their lingering presence many times over the centuries, never fearing them, always wanting to let them in closer. I did not allow them such liberties though. I took one step into the room and then I saw him. I was barely able to pick up on his scent, his presence nearly absent in Nyx’s nursery room. Azriel sat on a rocking chair behind Nyx. His dark short hair tussled haphazardly around, like Nyx may have given it a rapture while they played. His white tunic complemented the golden hue of his skin, only brightened by the sapphire siphons on his heavy gauntlets. He looked up at me, an unreadable expression on his face. What was he thinking of? Will I ever be able to tell? I stood there, half in shock of seeing my own kin on the floor, half in shock of seeing my brother’s trusted spy in here acting as a babysitter. 

“Hello, Anwyn” 

_____________________

End of Chapter One

[valentine-cafe]

YAYYY rqs are open if possible could we see how the Herrera hubby's deal w a skittish darling? Who knows what they do btw but their skittishness isn't bc of that but bc they're in love w them and are scared that they could get thrown away like all the other subjects once the Herrera's get bored of them ( yes darling has abandonment issues like me. ) so they keep rejecting the husbands™ advances as a result? Yes this can be NSFW if you want some freaky stuff like hypnosis or brainwashing even ahem ahem (sorry I just miss scary Herrera husbands and them being freaky and scary also yes I'm ovulating I'm sorry gang 💔💔)

🍒 𓂃 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑼𝑷 : red velvet croissants !! . . . mad doctor & mad scientist ⊹ skittish gn reader .

. ᘛ 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔​​​​​​​﹕verse 209 ꮽ  jingyi herrera & rishen herrera

 𐔌𖹭 ˖ ࣪  who's that ?⠀﹕a charming, snake monster mad doctor and his alluring spider-mantis-moth hybrid, mad scientist husband

ּ  ֗ recepit ℘ ... you really tried to keep away from them, keep yourself safe. but once you fall into their little obssession, there's no way out of their grasp. and if you refuse to become their darling willingly, they may just take actions in other ways. ⊹ cw ٬٬ dark content ahead, tread lightly .  brainwashing . yanderes . obsessive behaviour . possessive behaviour . reader is bound to a chair . mentions of the herrera husband's previous massacres with past darlings . needles and injections of serums .

ps: anon dear, ask for fucked up herrera husbands content and you shall receive TRUST ( I got a bit too invested in the eerie and fucked up freaky deaky parts. I missed getting asks like these, but if I make a smutty nd fucked up part two, would you be just as happy ? )

"You could run forever and we'd find ways to find you, darling."

The sick chuckle sends shivers down your spine. And your gut twists around itself a thousand times before recoiling. If it was possible, you'd vomit. But unfortunately, you'd only be able to dry heave. You've vomited your guts out long since.

"You keep rejecting our little invitations, my love." Doctor Herrera hums, pouting with his brows knitted together slightly. Your skittishness is so adorable, but also is becoming a problem.

What his husband and he wants, they take. And you seem so scared. Of them, or perhaps abandonment? The doctor could smell it on you every time you got close to someone. The way you clung, and distanced. Like a wave going back and forth on the shore. They wanted you to cling to them for dear life.

"I really need to get home," you stutter, flinching when Doctor Jingyi Herrera reaches out to you. His finely manicured nails like claws against your soft skin. Another flinch urges your body to step back and further away from the man.

Alas. You bump into professor Rishen Herrera instead.

You're familiar with their games. They find a darling and favor them until they grow bored. Breaking them. Metaphorically and literally. You bore witness to their last victim. Ribs broken open and heart ripped out for one of their jars to be forever preserved as their pretty past darling.

Slim, gentle but most deceiving hands find purchase on your shoulders. Maroon painted nails grazing your skin gently. "Stay a little while longer, darling. I'm sure you could get home in time even if it's just a few more minutes."

.

.

.

It wasn't just a few minutes. A chair had slid across the floor for you to sit in. Be bound in. Your hands clenched together from the cramps your body was producing out of fear. Every part of you felt like it was going to give out any minute.

Of course you didn't have a chance to run, nor make excuses. The sick and twisted minds that held you captive were well aware of your daily schedules. You didn't have anything to do after work hours.

Blood ran cold, when Doctor Herrera, brought in some sort of odd vial and put it inside of a familiar needle contraption. You've watched the husbands use time after time together when experimenting.

"Don't worry." He croons. "It only hurts for a little second. Then all the pains numb." The croons of twisted reassurance do nothing to stop your jitters and cramps. Neither does the smile that Rishen casts you give you any comfort.

No words come out of your mouth, not even a squeak of noise. Breath held back so tight in your chest you may pass out before they even inject the substance.

"You're adorable when you're this scared, you know." Rishen coos, taking great pleasure in the conflicted fear pooling to from each corner of your body. Perhaps, when all of this is over, it's over and you won't even remember it.

You hope the day they get tired of you that they're swift, more merciful than they have been with the previous darlings. Deep inside of you, there's a light that dies. Your dreams of a peaceful life crumbles to the ground, crash-landing into the dark streets of an ever lasting night in the city lights.

Moments before the needle moves to the back of your neck, you melt into Rishen's hands. They're warm, at the very least. Suffocating, but so warm. Comforting enough to let out a little sob. "I just want it to be swift."

They know exactly what you mean. Not just the injection, but the end of what is inevitable, too. You feel Jingyi lean against the back of the chair and press his cold lips against the shell of your ear in malicious affection.

"Oh I promise, as long as you comply. It won't be as bad as the others."

The pain stung your spine. Seared down section after section. And the two held you close until the serum was fully ejected. The needle gun withdrawn and tossed to the side carelessly. "As long as you remember you were always our little darling."

Fleeting memories of your life pass by your eyes in rapid shapes and colours. You hear your mother call for you, your friends laughing, toasting on your birthdays. The good memories erased, and the bad ones that promised you this moment to come. Until all you can remember, is that you're with your husbands, sitting in a room.

You don't register Jingyi is whispering into your ear: "We're right here, we're comforting you. Just stay with us for a little while. Why don't you?"

Rouge tinted soft lips presses against yours and melds together perfectly. "That's it." Rishen chuckles into the kiss. "Just lean into it darling. You're here with us now."

Their hands are everywhere, but it's a lovely, familiar feeling. What bliss, to forget.

꒰ ۪ ˖ ࣪ 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑢 ... info ꮽ mlist ꮽ verse ꮽ wiki .

[soulcarved]

@innategrief asked: SACRIFICE: for sender to kill someone who wronged receiver as a grand gesture. satoeito scream au :0 -> devoted, yearning & obsessive

he is not blind to what his boyfriend does. far from it in fact. though he tries so desperately to pretend like everything is fine, like their relationship is normal when it's anything but, he loves satoru. and maybe that makes him as sick and twisted as the man himself, turning a blind eye every time he shows up to eito's apartment covered in blood - a knife in the sink that does not belong and yet still, remains.

when blood stains the shower floor, the bathroom sink - when satoru climbs into bed and between his legs with an urgency that only ever follows a kill -- a murder -- eito turns a blind eye, welcomes his boyfriend with open arms and his name like a prayer from his lips as eito too, loses himself in the moment. it's only all too easy to forget the horrors that satoru subjects him to when they're wrapped up in each other. the sickness that sits in his stomach rests for just a little while longer as the hold on eito's thigh tightens, pulled over satoru's hip as he sinks into him, face buried against the crook of eito's neck and all but nonsense spilling from his lips.

it's terrifying, truly, at just how easy it is for eito to pretend that his boyfriend is everything that everyone thinks him to be ; sweet, kind, funny, playful - because he is all of those things. but he's also so much more than that.

"--satoru, i told you i don't want to go out tonight! i've got finals coming up soon and i need to study, remember?" and yet, his protests go in one ear and straight out the other, his boyfriend dragging him along to another party without a care in the world, the words just barely registering that eito needs to loosen up every once and a while, getting out and socializing would do him some good. it's an excuse, a poor one at that but god help anyone that tried to sway gojo satoru when he put his mind to something.

eito lets himself be dragged through the front door of the house party, holding onto his boyfriend's hand just that little bit tighter as they navigate their way through the crowds of people. he doesn't just hold on just for the sake of keeping satoru close, he holds on because he knows the real reason they're here - why they're always here. if he can keep his boyfriend by his side, keep him close then maybe tonight won't be one of those nights where he lays awake in bed, satoru sleeping soundly next to him as he's forced to relive the moment over and over and over again--

screams that would never truly leave his mind, pleading to live another day - for eito to do something instead of just standing there like some idiot. the stench of blood, the sight of it caked under his boyfriend's fingernails as he relishes in the bloodshed like it's all some little game, laughter that sounds deranged at times, mocking in the way he deals with his victims, plays with them like they're nothing more than a passing fancy -- a toy for his amusement.

is he a horrible person, a selfish person if he stands by knowing what satoru does behind closed doors? is it selfish of him to want to keep his boyfriend safe, to keep himself safe? questions that would no doubt haunt him for the rest of his days and yet, the guilt isn't enough to sway him otherwise ; he convinces himself that his attempts to stop satoru from hurting people are all that he's able to do even when they fail. it's a hard pill to swallow, but he fears that he's in too deep now and that if he steps out of line, satoru might turn that knife on him - a tragedy indeed, to be killed by the very man you love.

it's as if satoru knows that he's lost in his own thoughts again, stopping the two of them in their tracks in order to look at eito properly, a hand on his cheek as if forcing the artist to look at him like he's the only thing that matters. his gaze softens upon seeing the look of concern, turns his head to press a kiss against the palm of satoru's hand. "i'm fine, satoru." he murmurs softly, like he too knows what the other is thinking before he even says it. "get me something to drink?" he watches white hair disappear into the crowd of people and for a second, he relaxes against the wall behind him as he waits for his boyfriend to return.

it's not so bad now that they're here - sure, eito hadn't particularly wanted to go out, but when does he ever? he's far happier staying at home than he is going to all these parties - only goes to them because it's what satoru wants. sometimes sacrifices had to be made for love - this was one of them, he supposed. a sigh as he turns onto his side, shoulder rested against the wall now as he tries to peek over the crowd to see just where his boyfriend had gone off to. when arms circle his waist to pull him in close he smiles, figuring it's satoru. "weren't you meant to get drinks? did you get lost along the way?" the question is posed almost teasingly, eito looking over his shoulder expecting to see a familiar face only to be met with a stranger. his panic is instantaneous, hands working to pry himself from the stranger's grip only to be pulled in tighter. brown eyes dart across the room, desperate to find satoru and yet, he's nowhere to be seen. where in the world could he have possibly gone? he should have been back by now.

"--h-hey! let go of me!" his chest tightens in fear, in the unknown. the stranger says something to him but it barely registers in the moment as eito focuses on trying to get away. everything after is much of a blur ; he remembers getting pulled away, a flash of white hair in passing as he calls out for his boyfriend in a panic and then suddenly he's being thrown to the ground of some bedroom and satoru he's--

eito doesn't dare get between them, doesn't dare try to pull his boyfriend back as he throws punch after punch. even without the mask, without the knife it's easy to tell just what state of mind his boyfriend was in and that wasn't one that eito had any confidence in getting between - not now, not ever. a sickening crunch of bones, angry ramblings from a man that's too far gone, too blind with rage to even think about anything else other than the scum that had dared touch eito.

it's not the first time that eito has watched someone die, but it's perhaps the first that's been so brutal, so personal. maybe he was being conditioned to be okay with this sort of display because, while the sight of the stranger struggling slowly comes to a stop, there's a sense of relief felt when eito realizes it's over - that person can't hurt him. there's still fear as he's met with piercing blue eyes staring straight at him, but he doesn't recoil - he moves closer, meets satoru halfway as he's pulled into a kiss, desperate and reassuring in it's own special way.

i did it for you. i had to. he was going to hurt you.

"--i know. i know, it's okay. satoru, it's okay."

who knows what he would have done if i hadn't shown up. i had no other choice, you get that, right?

in moments where eito finds himself questions where his loyalties lay, in which direction his moral compass sits he'll remember his words whispered against lips, he'll remember the way that he clings to his boyfriend like the two of them are the only people in this world that matter. "--you saved me. you did what you had to do. it was self-defense. thank you, thank you, satoru--"

his loyalties, from this day until his very last would always, always lay with satoru -- and not a thing in this world could change that.

[dani-onearth]

Merciful & Misnamed [3]

Kylo Ren x fem reader

[Part One] - [Part Two] - Part Three Summary: Each time he saves you, his mask cracks a little more. And now, you really saw him. And he let you. Maybe the memory of who he was wasn't dead like he had insisted, just buried, needing a gentle hand to help him come back up to the surface. Warnings: More angst! Strong language. Word Count: 6.11k Authors note: Thank's for all the love on the first two! Wookipedia is my best friend now.

Is everything changing?

First, he took you out of the firing squad lineup. Then, he brought you to his quarters for a meal and stripped himself of his mask. Then, he cracked open when you showed him a real memory, and it haunted him. Somewhere in between the rage and the restraint, he looked at you like you still meant something to him. Like maybe Ben wasn’t dead.

Now, you’re back in your cell and it’s like none of it ever happened. 

You’re back in your cell and no matter how hard you try, you can't stop seeing his eyes change when he looked at you. 

You’re back in your cell and you want to blame the slab beneath your body for why you can't seem to fall asleep. Your skin itches and it won't stop crawling.

You laugh at yourself bitterly when you begin to fantasize about the hospital sheets like they’re a luxury. Maybe it wasn’t because they were soft and clean, but they made you feel like a person again instead of a captured thing on a foreign ship. 

The hum of the ship had a rhythm to it. It wasn't soothing, but predictable. You could count it. One cycle of the vent, one whir of the hallway lights… Once an hour, on the hour.

But the sound didn’t loop right tonight. Something rattled, and you opened your eyes, head lifting away from the crumpled jacket. It was a small noise—metallic and distant. Could've been pipes. Could've been nothing. You swallowed and laid back down, but something inside you screamed that you should show more concern. 

The air felt warm, unusually so. Maybe it was just you, finally getting used to the uncomfortable thing you have to call a bed. But there was another sound. Heavier this time, and you sit up. There was shouting down the corridor that made you slide to your feet, moving toward the slot in the door, breath fogging the panel. 

And then you heard, clear as day, “The detention wing’s been bombed!” And your mouth went dry. 

The hum of the vents was gone. The air was stale. The room was getting warmer by the second, a bead of sweat clung to your temple and the metal beneath your bare feet was radiating heat. 

Troopers ran to the exit, right past you, and you weren't a thought in their minds. Something glowed in their helmets as you watched.

Fire.

Smoke.

It rose up from the vents and the air inside of your cell was sealed like a coffin. You began beating against the door with your palms. “Hey! Someone! Please!” You could hear others screaming now, chanting the same sentiment, echoing all at once, cell after cell. 

You covered your mouth with your shirt and lifted a hand toward the door, willing it to move, begging the Force to listen to you like it used to.

All those years of training to be steady and focused and balanced were not living in you now. You were just full of desperation and fear, and the edges of your mind were splintering in the growing heat. 

The door groaned, cracking, just barely. You shoved an arm through it, groping at… nothing. There was nothing. 

Stars, your lungs were burning. 

You slid all the way down to the floor, coughing and trembling. You pressed your head to the ground where the air was thinner, tears streaming from the thick smoke that now clouded your vision. They were more than just a sting in your eyes, you were crying. You weren't going to make it out of this one.

You closed your eyes, inhaled ash, felt it fill your lungs and burn your throat. You called onto the Jedi before you, reaching out for help like a final prayer. 

And then, the door caved in violently. The steel clashed open with a shriek and the light poured in like the sun was in the hall. You coughed so hard you choked, hands clawing at the floor before arms wrapped around you.

Opening your eyes through the haze you saw Ben. No helmet. Face slick with sweat and brow pinched with worry. He didn’t say a word, just pulled you up with an arm around your back and ran. 

Your own feet couldn’t keep up and your head was lulling in any direction he pulled. The fire was everywhere and the doors were melting at their hinges, pained screams passing like shadows.

In the cells you saw faces. Hands reaching. Eyes wide.

“Stop—” you jerked his arm with a heavy cough, “Stop… we have to—” Your lungs were giving out, trying to expel everything that had found its way inside of them. 

He kept going.

You couldn’t help them.

He stopped where the smoke cleared, snapped off by a bay door. Ben stumbled through it and dropped to one knee, slowly letting you down, cradling your head so it wouldn't hit the floor. Delicately. His arm stayed wrapped around your shoulders, hand hovering at your waist like he was afraid to let go of you.

You continued to gasp in staggered breaths, eyes fluttering as you rattled a cough. Your hands weakly grasped his arm without thinking, and he didn’t pull away.

He was breathing hard. Shaking as his eyes were locked on your face, watching every wince, every sharp inhale. Your hand trembled against his covered arm, his own reaching up and brushing the soot from your cheek with the back of his fingers, just once, like muscle memory. His fingers twitched like he didn’t mean to do it.

Your breaths were larger now, and watching the rise and fall of your chest, something in him… unclenched. He closed his eyes briefly, lowering his head in some sort of relief. Then, he blinked, jaw tightened, and he stood.

“Medic!” He barked at the trooper that had just rounded the corner, spooking the soldier. “Get her a medic and take her to my quarters.”

The trooper hesitated, “Sir—all medics have been rerouted to the east wing—uh, blast damage, sir—it’s—”

“Get her a medic.” His voice turned slow and venomous. 

The trooper straightened clumsily. “I—I’ll find someone, sir—”

“No, you get her to my quarters now, and you get her there alive.” He stepped closer, towering. “She breathes wrong, you fix it. You get her water, you sit her down, and then you bring her a medic.”

The trooper nodded, stammering, and reached down to get you.

Ben watched your body shift in the trooper's arms and something in his eyes twisted. He didn’t like it. He didn’t trust anyone else to touch you. But he stepped back anyway, slowly, and then he turned. 

“Tell no one of this.”

He pulled his saber from his belt and strode around the corner, into battle. 

The trooper's grip was rougher than Ben’s. Not cruel, but nowhere near as careful. Your ribs ached, your lungs felt as if you were hacking up flames, and your wrist throbbed where the wound had definitely reopened. 

The ship was chaotic. Sirens and orders barked over crackled comms. Troopers marched past with blasters drawn, some dragging others. Blood on the floor. Marks on the wall.

Mercenaries, you had heard someone say. Not the Resistance. Something barbaric.

A body hit the ground behind you, and you didn’t want to look. Your legs were limp, half dragged and half guided through hallways you’d never been through. The trooper grumbled to themselves under their breath. You couldn’t make out any of it.

You were thinking about Ben. About his eyes. Full of concern. Morphing into something you had seen in the past. And his face flickered like it hurt to walk away. Like he wanted to stay beside you instead of running back into battle. The mask hadn’t been there, and he ran straight into the fire without it. 

The trooper stopped in front of a large set of doors. You knew where you were.

They tapped the panel and the door slid open to air that didn't smell like burning wires and rust. The trooper helped you stumble in, and he set you down on a bench with a grunt, legs folding beneath you awkwardly. The trooper stood stiffly nearby, fidgeting, glancing around the room and clearly not knowing if they’re supposed to stick around. 

“I don’t think I need a medic,” you rasped, voice fried from the smoke and dehydration. “I’m fine.”

You couldn’t see their face, but you could feel the blank stare. 

“Uh… Yeah… I’m gonna call one anyway.”

You snorted, which made you cough. Kylo Ren probably put the fear of the Gods in him. 

“Fair.” 

They shuffled on their feet. “So, uh, just… stay put.”

“Not planning a jog.”

With an awkward nod he headed toward the door, but paused like he forgot something. He shuffled over to a wall panel and propped it open; a recessed compartment stocked with large ration packs. He pulled out a clear cup of water with a foil seal stretched over the top. He set it down on the bench next to you.

He stiffly nodded.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

He lingered for a second too long before he turned and stepped out, the door sealing behind him with a quiet hiss.

You stared at the water and peeled back the seal. But when you lifted the cup to your lips, you flinched. Confused, you pulled it back and touched your fingers to the spot. The faintest streak of red painted in your index finger. 

The skin was raw and you hadn’t noticed. Now, it’s like your entire body decided to wake up at once. Your forearm throbbed where your sleeve clung to it, heat rising under the fabric. The pain in your wrist had a dull distracting sting. Your lungs were tight, coated in ash. Your hand was trembling. You could have died.

And not in a dramatic, heroic, noble way. No final words, or rescue mission to save the galaxy. You would have vanished; locked away, choking on your own breath. Just smoke. Fire. Melting. You would have stopped breathing and that would've been it. No one would have known.

But he knew.

He was the only one who knew you were still down there and he came for you.

He saved you.

Again. 

And it felt different this time. The first time was weakness. The second time was a claim. This one didn’t feel like either. 

He ran into fire with no helmet, no mask, just him. His own flesh. Hair curled with sweat, jaw clenched, eyes… worried. Scared. 

When he saw you on that floor with smoke swarming around your body, he went still for half a second. You felt the pull in his breath, the relief when you opened your eyes. He wasn’t a commander dragging a prisoner out because they needed intel, he looked like a man who had something to lose. He was frantic and disarmed. He rescued you like he couldn't help himself. 

You turn your head when the doors open. 

The medic that stepped in didn’t look like the others you’d seen before. A dark grey uniform with a slim utility belt and a medical bag. Their boots made clean and clipped steps as they approached you a little hesitantly, glancing around the room.

“You’re just a prisoner?”

You nodded once. It was true, but no one could really figure out what that meant in your case anymore. 

She crouched beside the bench, setting down a compact medical case that clicked open with one press, revealing rows of compartments with neatly arranged supplies, then quickly pulling out a scanner with one hand and typing notes with the other.

“Vitals unstable. Minor burns to the face, mild to the left forearm. Open laceration on the right wrist. Dehydration. Light smoke inhalation.” A neutral and practiced tone that felt uncomfortable. Their eyes flicked up towards the bedroom; to the sealed door. 

What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.

They didn’t say it, but they were thinking it.

They applied some sort of solution to the burn and it sealed the top layer. “It’ll help reduce nerve damage,” she said, “you’ll feel tightness and some heat.” The cool spray was jarring when it hit your arm and you winced. The area was covered with a dermapatch, warm and pulsing as it began regeneration. 

Next, your wrist. She peeled back the bloodied fabric to show that the cut was deeper than you remembered, enough to make the medic click their tongue. Without a word, they injected you with anesthetic, the sharp pinch made you turn away. Then, they applied a second skin. A transparent and flexible band that began to weave new tissue under it.

“This will scar. Try not to use that hand too much.” They packed up their things, leaving a few bandages and sprays with you before she stood. 

She tucked the datapad under her arm. Not leaving, just staring.

You looked up at her. “...Is that it?”

They didn’t answer, at least not right away. They watched you with a sort of calculation that made you shift in place. You felt like she was measuring you with professional unease. Evaluation. 

“Does he plan to keep you here?”

You blinked. “What?”

They didn’t repeat themselves as she slowly made her way towards the door. “I only ask because there are officers aboard who might not consider this kind of… exception rational for the Order.” One final glance and she was gone.

Her words clung to the air… you knew what she meant. You weren’t supposed to be there. Not in his room. Not alive. And the thought barely settled before the door hissed open again. 

It was Ben, no mask, breathless, ripped cloak, sweat-damp hair and a bloody, stark streak beneath his ribs. The adrenaline had worn off and he wasn’t walking cleanly. Slow steps, almost limping.

He stared at you, half curled on the bench. And you stared at the blood. 

“You’re hurt,” you almost stand.

He trudges closer now. 

“Are your burns bad?” His eyes rake over your bandaged body.

“Treated.” You’re focused on his giant wound. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He said, frowning.

You scoff. “And you obviously didn’t pass a mirror on your way here.” He said nothing. “Sit before you fall.”

He gave you a look and hesitated, but dropped down beside you like a bag of rocks, wincing with his whole face. You grabbed the medics leftover cloth and bactaspray from the corner.

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I said—”

“I heard you.”

You didn’t back away and he didn’t want to give in. There was a beat of silence before you spoke. 

“Lift it. Or I’ll tear it.” Your own commanding voice surprised you. 

He exhaled through his nose and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up halfway. 

The wound was shallow, but it was angry, leaking onto his exposed skin and staining the black material of his shirt into a darker shade somehow. You dabbed some of it away as best you could, he flinched in a way that told you he wasn’t used to being treated so gently. You pressed the cloth more carefully the second time, cleaning the edges first. Your hand moved with delicate ease, but your chest didn’t. Something about how close you were made your breath feel shallow. He was letting you clean his open wound and you could hear the subtle shift of his breath at every touch. He was holding himself perfectly still. Bleeding, scorched, tired and all… he felt peaceful. 

You caught yourself gazing at the curve of his stomach, the freckles on his ribcage, the sharp line of his waist. 

You weren’t trying to look, but it was impossible not to see him.

“Should I remind you that I’m the enemy?” He asked slowly, like he was testing you.

You blinked hard and focused on the wound. “Yeah? Well, you’re doing a terrible job at it.”

And you caught it. Just barely. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth—the threat of a smile. 

He didn't laugh, but he almost did. 

You didn’t say anything about it, just continued cleaning him up like he was fragile. Of course he wasn’t, he was anything but. You hadn't meant to be so gentle until the silence made it obvious to you. 

“You’ve done this before.” 

You glanced up at his shuttered sentence.

“Yeah…” You shrugged. “Resistance members need to know the basics. We’re not exactly swimming in medics—” 

“No, no, I mean… to me.” He looked down into your eyes, pulling a memory from somewhere in his mind. “Temple courtyard, we were thirteen, maybe.” And he looked away. “I cut my hand open during a drill trying to catch a training saber. Probably trying to show off.” For you. He didn't say it, but a faint scoff escaped him and he got really quiet. You could tell his mind was somewhere else. “You were the only one that didn’t laugh at me.”

You remembered. Only bits and pieces, but you remembered. 

“But, later that night, you looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If you were trying to impress me, you should have at least bowed.’” And he held back the chuckle a little less than he did the first time. 

And you smiled a little more than you meant to.

“Sounds like me.” You said quietly.

He huffed and looked at you again, just as softly as you pressed the bandage into place, lowering his shirt back over his torso. You didn’t move far, just slid onto the bench next to him, close enough that your knees nearly touched.

His gaze lingered on your profile longer than it should have. 

 “Everyone else saw what they wanted… the future Jedi, the legacy, the danger… but not you.” He said it like he wasn't sure if he meant it as a confession or not. “You always saw right through me. Even back then.” 

You didn’t look away. And you really looked. His voice was different now. More familiar. 

The moment stretched. 

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

And yet, somehow, you had gotten closer.

His leg brushed yours, arms touching now as they rested on the bench. No one was reaching, it was just a shift in gravity.

You weren't sure who leaned in first, but for a second you thought he might kiss you. And he thought you might let him. 

But then he blinked. Sharply. Suddenly. Like something yanked him away from the moment. 

“I have to,” his voice faltered, he cleared his throat, “I have to meet with Command. About the mercenaries. The attack.” Like he just remembered there had been an invasion at all.

He stood abruptly and looked down, stepping back without meeting your eyes when he grabbed his cloak. 

“Get comfortable.” He said, pulling his helmet on.

He just walked out. 

And you stayed where you were, your heart still pounding in your throat. You swallowed thickly and wondered how it managed to go as far as it did. 

What would have happened if he hadn’t remembered?

He should have stayed… Ben told himself that three times on his way to the meeting room, wondering what would happen if he just pivoted back and forgot his responsibilities entirely. 

The mask was back on; gloss black, voice filtered, impassive. No one could see the red in his eyes or how hard he was clenching his jaw. 

He was late, generals already seated around the long table with glowing datapads and reports flashing across projection screens.

Eyes flickered toward him as the door shut behind him. He just straightened his posture as he moved to his seat and stared at the blue light bleeding across the table. He tried to remember what they were discussing.

The Gaunt Division… coaxium theft… breached from the portside…

Every word they said strung together into a rumble in his ears because he wasn’t all there. He wasn’t there at all.

He was still back in that room… your knees touching… eyes wide… lashes dropping into a slow-lidded stare…

He felt like an idiot.

For needing to save you and running into a fire like a man possessed.

For wishing he had stayed for one more second. 

He should’ve just—said something. Anything. He should have touched you first. Let himself at least feel your lips before remembering who he’s supposed to be.

“Seems they bombed the detention wing because that's where most of our troopers are assigned. As you’ll see from the security footage—Commander Ren?”

A dozen heads turn. 

“Your evaluation of the breach?”

He paused.

“Yes.” He straightened. “I’ll review the surveillance and submit a revised assessment.” Not really an answer. He didn't care.

None of them mattered.

He was so distracted he didn’t see the gaze of General Hux, curious and calculating. Tracking every twitch of his hand, every moment he stared at nothing at all.

He noticed how Ben stood too fast when the meeting ended, the legs of the chair scraping angrily and impatiently. 

“You seem distracted, Commander.” Hux said, keeping his eyes on the documents in front of him.

Kylo stopped just before the door, everyone else filing out past his statued stance. 

“No doubt the chaos in the detention wing took a toll.” Hux’s voice was dry, almost bored. “So many troopers lost. So many prisoners.” He looks up. “How… unfortunate.”

Ben turned his head just slightly.

“Curious, though, if one were to survive. Well, That’d be a rather unique situation. Wouldn’t it, Commander Ren?”

Ben said nothing, face stiffening under the mask.

Hux gathered his things and stood. “It’s only a hypothetical.” Hux stops before passing him, only glancing at him as he says, “you seem awfully tense.”

The doors to his quarters opened and you looked up quickly. 

Helmet on and shoulders rigid, Ben streaked in. You straightened on the bench, smoothing a blanket over on your lap. You were still dirty, but washing up felt like an invasion somehow. As if you weren’t alone in his quarters. By his request. You’d taken one of his pillows, and that had felt sneaky enough when you slipped it from his bed. It had felt like you were snooping—which you totally could've—but didn’t for some reason. 

“Hey,” you said in a fragile voice. He didn’t answer. Just walked in, stood there, like he didn't know why he came back. “I didn’t take the bed… figured that might be…” You made a face to suggest a word you couldn’t place. An attempt at humor.

Still, nothing. And the silence pressed.

His back was turned, facing somewhere across the room. 

“I shouldn’t have brought you here.” He muttered, more to himself than anything, but you heard it scrape your ears like a blade. 

“What?”

“This was a mistake.”

You let out a bitter and incredulous laugh. “Uh, okay.” You stood, letting the blanket fall off your legs. “You spare me, and fight for me, and literally run into a fire to save me, and you look at me—like, like I'm not just some disposable memory from your past—like I matter to you, and now you come in here? Saying that shit?” He didn’t move. “What is wrong with you?”

He still didn't look at you. His mask made him worse. Made him a wall.

“You won’t even say what happened.” He mumbled.

“Fine. Alright.” You crossed your arms, staring at the back of his stupid helmet. “We almost kissed.”

His shoulder ticked, but he still gave you nothing. 

You continued, breath tight. “I wanted to. And you wanted it too, I know you did, so don’t act like I imagined that.”

He finally reached up and removed the helmet, setting it down on a surface next to him. He turned slowly, face pale, ash smeared across his skin, dried blood at his hairline. His eyes, tired and red. 

“I don't know what I’m doing.” He admitted, voice raw and trembling. 

Your expression softened. “You think I do?”

He exhaled, eyes falling shut. “You scare me.”

“Why?” The statement shocked you.

There was a pause. He looked at his shoes and shrugged, a small movement. “I don't know, I… I don't want you to look away.” He said it so sadly.

You stared into his eyes. Into Ben Solo’s eyes. Not the commander or the weapon. He’s just a man. And he looked wrecked and vulnerable and exhausted.

There was a terrible hope in his voice. 

Tears pricked your eyes, emotion got caught in your throat. 

You stepped forward. Close. Feet just a few inches from each other. 

Your fingers reached for his hands—gloved and clenched in a tight, tense fist. You brought your hands to his wrist but he was stiff.

“Let me see you,” you said softly, a slight wobble in your voice. 

He didn’t pull away, just watched your face as you unfastened the edge of the glove. Slowly, and carefully, your thumb brushed along the bone of his wrist, tracing a path all the way down to the end of his fingers as you pulled the leather down.

His hands were scarred and rough with callouses. 

You took the second glove off, and he let you. You pulled it free, discarding both garments on the floor without care or caution. 

You looked down at his bare hands, running your fingertips down the back of his knuckles to his fingernails, flipping them over and tracing something on his palm. 

“Do you even remember what you look like under all this armour?” You whispered.

His eyes were soft, brows knit like he couldn’t believe it. 

You were so close you felt his breath fan your face, to see the flecks of color in his eyes, how they were glossed over and affectionate. 

“You’re not gone.”

His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t.

And you leaned in. Centimeters away from him… and stopped… and waited.

Waited to see if he would run. If he’d flinch. If the impenetrable wall would come back up. 

But it didn’t. Because he leaned in too, so carefully. 

Your parted lips breathed into each other’s mouths, testing intentions. It was like your bodies were weighing the options. Just dancing around the moment, dancing around the question of if you should even close the gap. 

But then he kissed you. 

Gentle and searching. He was stiff and soft and weary.

But, his eyes closed, and he let the breath that was sitting on his chest out through his nose. 

And he kissed you. 

Like he needed you.

His hands left yours to touch your face. His bare fingertips grazed your cheek and he didn’t know something so soft could ever come onto a ship so brutal and cold. He didn’t know he could still want this. 

His thumb pressed against your jaw. It wasn’t rushed, it was deep, and personal. It was like he could breathe again.

You pulled away, but not all at once. Just an inch. And his forehead leaned against yours, fingers grasping at the back of your neck, needing the closeness to stay for only a little longer. 

He opened his eyes slowly and he saw yours. Looking into him, like you forgot you were ever apart. 

The memory of the mask flickered through his mind like broken static. The moment couldn’t hold forever.

“We shouldn’t have—”

“We did.” You breathed.

He exhaled shakily, hands roaming down to your waist just to hold you there. He didn’t want to let you go. You grab them and entangle your fingers loosely. You both lingered in the quiet, breath mingling.

The moment had frayed but not broken. You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes scanning the smudges of soot along his jaw. You smear it away with your own dirty thumb. “You should go get cleaned up. You look like you were dragged through a furnace.” A crooked smile found your lips. “You smell like it too.”

He huffed through his nose and then—blink and you’d miss it—a smile. Small and reluctant, but still there. He didn’t even try to hide it. 

You lifted your head slightly, delighted. 

“Go,” you urged, “I’ll still be here.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there like he wanted to remember this. The look on your face, the sound of your voice, the absence of fear. 

“You first.” He said. Quiet, but certain.

You peel away slowly, shyly looking down at your feet before you turn away toward the sealed door. Barefoot, bruised, swallowed in clothes that were ripped and seared.

His mouth twitched, and it stayed that way for a second before his throat worked a swallow. He watched every step. The swivel of your waist. The way your hand opened the door of the refresher. 

You looked back. “Hate to ask, but… do you have anything I could change into?”

He nodded once. “I’ll leave something by the door.”

“Thanks,” and you couldn’t help but tease him, “try not to give me something with a cape.”

Another one. Another glitch in his stoic face. Not quite a smile, but almost one.

You almost close the door, but you’re pulled to ask him for one more favor. “Don’t disappear again.” No wit or humor. Just a request.

“I won’t.”

And you believe him. 

You turn to close the door, but the buzz from the entrance makes you jump. Ben’s head lifts immediately and he notices your worried expression. 

“Stay in there, and don’t come out until I tell you to.” His voice was low and urgent.

You nodded silently and slipped out of view. 

He looked back to make sure you were really hidden before opening the door. 

“General Hux.”

Hux stepped in with hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable beside the faint amusement in his cheeks. 

“Ren.” He said evenly. “I trust you weren’t resting. Not after an attack of this caliber.” His eyes swept the room, lingering on the pillow and the blanket, but didn’t point it out. He didn’t need to. 

Ben straightened. “I was just about to use the fresher.”

“Hm.” His eyes ticked toward the open door quickly. “Well. A name has come up from the temple records. There has been chatter from intelligence command… said she was one of the padawans there when it fell. Would have been in your same year. Maybe a year behind.” His eyes wandered lazily around the room. “She was one of our prisoners. The same one that you questionably spared before the firing line?”

Ben didn’t move. “I thought she might still be useful. The force is unpredictable.”

“Useful…” Hux turned back toward the door. “Well, in other news, the Resistance outpost at Nakorr has been confirmed. Command has authorized a full eradication. No survivors.” A beat. “They won’t stand a chance.” His eyes flicked once more toward the blanket and pillow behind Ben. “Thought you’d like to know.” Then, a slight smirk. “Unless, of course, your priorities have shifted… Have they, Commander?”

Ben clenched his jaw but he couldn’t help the way his glare cut straight through the General. It burned with something dangerously close to guilt. He couldn’t respond. So he didn’t.

Hux’s smirk persisted. He wasn’t done. “Remind me again, how did we deal with the Resistance outpost in Mardona?”

Ben shifted his gaze downward and gulped, dry and subtly. “It was underground.”

“Civilians mixed in.” Hux interrupts. “Not unlike Nakorr, now.”

Ben glanced sideways. “We collapsed the tunnels. No way out. Buried them.” Voice flat and cold. A performance. 

Hux raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Efficient.” And he turned, satisfied as he took a step toward the door. “Do get some rest.” A final glance, like he knew. “You look like you’ve been through fire.”

And then he was gone behind the sealed door.

Ben hadn’t moved.

Hands clenched tightly.

He didn’t hear you round the corner and step back into the room like a shadow. 

“Buried them?” Your voice was cracked and trembling.

He flinched and his head snapped up. Tears left shining streaks down your cheeks, painted over the ash and soot.

He steps toward you instinctively.

“Don’t,” You bit, stepping back. “Don’t come near me.”

He froze, hands becoming stiff as they lowered back to his sides. 

“Nakorr… That’s the plan now? Another outpost full of communities—families—you’re going to wipe them out? Eradicate them?” 

He clenched his jaw, but he couldn’t lie. “You don’t understand what I’ve done.” 

“No, no I do.” And you snapped. “I knew people there, Ben, they were just people living simple lives. Hard working. Kind. Generous. They gave me food when I was hungry, gave me shelter and necklaces and… there were children. Mothers. Fathers.”

He looked stricken, like you had pierced him in the chest. 

“Did you hear them scream when you collapsed those tunnels?” You stepped closer. “Did you even think about it?”

Ben exhaled sharply. He was drowning. 

“This isn’t what you want to fight for, I know it’s not.”

“You think I get to choose?” He shouted, chest beginning to heave. “I lead armies, I build Weapons, I’ve slaughtered—”

“Then stop!” You begged, striding closer to him, so he’d look you in the eye. “Come with me. Right now. We’ll leave. There are ships on the lower dock, I can get us to the Outer Rim. No one would question you if you brought me down there. You and I—We can make it before anyone notices.” You stare at him, wide-eyed and wrecked. “You don’t want this war. Come with me.”

He pinched his face together and looked away. “They won’t want me.”

“What?” You blink.

He shook his head. “The Resistance. After everything I’ve done? They’d only see what I am—”

“—They’ll see what I see.”

You made him pause. And you reached for him again, slower this time. Your fingers brushed his chest, you rested your palm there, just over his heart. His breath caught and you both looked at each other. Glossy eyes. 

“I still see you.” You whispered. You stepped closer until the warmth from his body pressed against yours. Until he could feel your breath again. Your other hand curled lightly around the side of his neck, brushing his hair through your fingers. “You don’t have to keep pretending he’s gone.”

He exhaled a slow and aching sound, leaning into your touch, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

“Yes. I do.”

Your fingers curled just slightly against his chest as you felt his heartbeat quicken. Your nose brushed his, a nervous but steady breath, his hand lifting to your waist—grasping at it a little rougher than he probably meant to. Your eyes flicker up to see his eyes hooded, focused on your lips. 

I know you’re still in there, Ben.

He looked up at the echo of your thought, hearing it in his own head. And he gave you a look, into you, one that said everything you had wanted to hear.

Yes, I am.

And you kissed him.

He pulled you closer, his other hand holding your cheek, fingers trembling like he was afraid you’d disappear. He needed to feel your skin. His thumb rubbed at the bone at your hip and he held you tightly. But you held him tighter. Wordless longing.

Your hand snaked all the way around the back of his neck, leaving no room between your bodies to question how much you believed him.

His lips were cracked and rough and unloved for years, but so real. And here you were, tasting them for the second time today, showing him how much more he deserved. 

All this power never gave him something that mattered. Nothing he wanted to hold close like this. Nothing he could get lost in this. It’s like this moment had lived inside of him for years without realizing it. You had been there, in the back of his head, at every decision, regret, every ache he felt and shoved down deeper. 

It was a kiss. Something he wasn’t meant to have, but he took it gladly. He was showing himself to you, letting his emotions take over his body, allowing himself to act in desperation for closeness. 

When he pulled back, it was gentle, his forehead resting against yours with closed eyes, memorizing the feeling once more. 

He opened them gently, and they were clear. It was just a whisper, like he was scared for anyone else to hear him. 

“I’ll go with you.” 

Said like it broke him.

But he said it anyway.

Note: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I appreciate any interaction, or even just you reading and enjoying it silently. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read my stuff, I'm excited to write the next part!

[shaysplanet]

the results are in !

here’s all the cards i pulled on my first ever 2020 shift and how i interpreted them…

death upright — i was in a state of natural release. my mindset was already primed for transformation even though i didn’t realize it then. with the boredom of covid and online university, there was no clinging. i also wasn’t obsessed with results because shifting was still so new. i wasn’t controlling the process. i didn’t treat shifting with a lot of pressure. i was very neutral which worked in my favor. this card also says i was ready to let go of my old reality even if i didn’t consciously say it.

empress reversed — i didn’t try to manifest perfectly. i didn’t overly nurture the process. i didn’t think of shifting and how i’d approach it all damn day. empress reversed can also show that i wasn’t emotionally resigned to a single expectation. my attempt was very bare bones and just based in curiosity. sometimes too much “care” or trying to script it into perfection actually is a form of self sabotage. which is something i avoided that first time.

judgment upright — this was a calling moment. judgment shows a karmic or soul-aligned window opening up. i heard the call (literally off a tiktok lmao) and something in me said “yep. this is real. this is for me.” even if i didn’t say those words exactly, i energetically aligned with it because it felt right. and this is true because i don’t remember ever doubting the person who came up on my fyp for a second lol, i just wanted to do it.

5 of wands upright — sometimes people take this card as inner turmoil but i take it as it meaning my mind was just very active that night but not in a way that blocked me. this card shows mental stimulation. so i was very curious, bouncing from idea to idea but not stuck in resistance. i didn’t “fight” the process, i just let myself think and then let myself sleep. its actually a good thing i didn’t know about “symptoms” at the time because i wasn’t looking for cues on what to feel.

temperance upright + magician sideways — so magician landed right on temperance which is why these two are together. basically temperance says my mindset was naturally in harmony—body, mind, and spirit were loosely aligned without effort. and magician in the neutral position signifies accidental manifestation i think. my belief wasn’t full magician upright but it also wasn’t reversed. it was just open... ie “whatever happens, happens.” and that openness, paired with the state of harmony i was in, created the exact window needed for success.

strength upright — i wasn’t in a cycle of doubting. i wasn’t spiraling. strength upright shows i had subtle inner belief. a quiet confidence. i wasn’t faking confidence to achieve and i wasn’t secretly desperate. this mindset kept my nervous system regulated enough to receive.

king of wands upright — jesus i pulled a lot. okay. this card just comes off as a “bold energy”. i saw something cool on tiktok and said, “i’m doing that”. i took action on my impulse without fear. i embodied that natural, inspired king of wands leader energy.

the lovers upright — finally, my first shift happened because it was in resonance with me. i wanted to experience that world so genuinely. legend of korra was my favorite show at the time and i had literally JUST got done watching it. so there was a lot of alignment between my emotion, the dr i scripted, and the energy i was putting out that night. it was a match made in heaven fr.

and if y’all ever want a reading from me on literally anything dr related the link is right HERE and in my masterlist!!! YES THIS IS SELF PROMO LMAO

now that i’m thinking about my first ever shift, i’m bouta go do a reading on what my mindset was fr and what exactly made me succeed that first time fr. i have my theories but i’m very curious.

not even for myself but so y’all know. i think it will be interesting. will update soon…

[acid-waste]

I'm so mad actually I can't believe some people took this scene in chapter 3 and turned it into a who's right about their grief when the scene in chapter 4 literally has ivypool saying I don't mean to make it all about me- haven't thought much about how dovewing is handling her own grief- people read chapter 3 and to me it seems as if chapter 4 doesn't even exist and the rest of what ivypool says in chapter three after saying this doesn't as well

“Dovewing, I’m truly sorry that Rowankit died. But losing a sickly kit—a kit you’ll be reunited with in StarClan one day—is different from losing a full-grown cat who was just coming into her own as a warrior. A cat who doesn’t exist anywhere—who is just gone.”

ignored this and what was said and called it a day

[bleue-flora]

I didn't say they don't believe in the staged finale, but they think it's a retcon. A retcon is when something is added to the story that contradicts past information, rewriting it, so they think the finale was originally real and c!dream wanted to do all that, and only closer to the prison break, cc!dream decided to change that part of the plot or something

and it's funny because theories about the discs finale being staged started popping up literally right after that stream and a lot of c!inniters were making fun of or even harassing people who were creating such theories, and also, the content creators themselves admitted that it wasn't a retcon and that a limited circle of people knew about it, it was just kept a secret from everyone. I just really think it's pointless to talk to people who thinks everything is about c!tommy and who think that all of c!dream's actions are centered around c!tommy, that, well, they continue to believe that even though it's refuted by the plot and by the content creators and by the people who love and analyze the character.

it's just, ugh, what kind of conversation can you have with someone who believes that c!dream is a one-dimensional character who was only written to be obsessed with c!tommy and be the "perfect villain" for the "perfect victim", who believes that all characters are just an extension of c!tommy because to them c!tommy is all that matters in the plot. it's simple, these people hate dream smp and they don't care about the efforts of content creators to create interesting multifaceted characters, they are only interested in c!tommy. you can't get a sane dialogue from a person whose brain is so washed that he believes in the stupidest conspiracy theory in the world, and with some c!tommy fans the same🤷‍♂️

[context a & b]

Kinda the same thing isn’t it? Eh whatever. Regardless, you make a good point though I’d stray away from derogatory terms when talking about people’s opinions even if they aren’t based on fact. It’s honestly less of a conspiracy theory and more just ignoring the truth. Conspiracy theories are somewhat based on the unknown, in this case all the info we get comes from the same place - so you either believe streams and the cc!s and lore they make or you don’t and if you don’t then that’s not a “theory” that’s just an opinion based on misinformation and the lack of truth. Which you are right is rather unproductive to discuss if we can’t agree on the facts, but also we are on a public platform so I kinda see it as also having the discussion with all the other 400 something notes lol. Anyways, even if it was rather unproductive, I kinda came out learning something new and thinking about something in a new way, so I had fun which is the whole point of being here anyways. :)

Now what is kinda funny to me is this whole retcon, rewrite, discounting lore thing anyways, because for example c!Dream was originally supposed to fight with Pogtopia but because everyone was joining their side, cc!Dream had to switch to balance it out so they can even have a war at all and created the revive book so that it made sense for his character. So one of the moments I see used against c!Dream to show he is heartless and doesn’t care about friendship and stuff, is actually more so an instance of a rewrite… and yet we all take it at face value and base whole arguments on it, because at the end of the day, it is the lore we have. What’s interesting to me, is that part of the fun of the Dream smp is that it’s a mess, something cc!Tommy talked about recently. A mess, I personally like to take and look at things in a way to see if there are ways and angles where things can make more sense. That’s part of the fun of this crazy story telling. It’s why I started writing fanfiction in the first place, to fill in gaps or plot holes in lore. If you want a structured story more so centered around a protagonist’s specific suffering then go read Harry Potter (not to reduce that story to just that of course don’t come after me that’s not the point). But to take out things or not look at certain things in the context of other things that happened because they don’t follow the less messy dream smp timeline you’ve created in your mind, is to defeat the point. What will you decide wasn’t intended next, if Tommy burning down Tubbo’s house isn’t important, if staged finale wasn’t supposed to be a thing, then what about Tommy finding Techno’s house, didn’t cc!Techno say how that wasn’t supposed to happen? What about the revival book experiments, they were from a video not even a stream can I say those are a retcon and unimportant since the timeline doesn’t even make sense and actively contradicts itself? What about Tommy’s beach party, could the ccs just not come so they had to improvise and rewrite it so it’s empty on purpose? Like why are we deciding was is and isn’t lore or important lore? You wouldn’t discount a book or movie or tv show because it doesn’t make sense, you’d either try and understand how to make it sense or rewrite what you think would have been better - but at that point it is fanfiction it is your world now, you can do anything you want there but that doesn’t make it canon. Honestly to look at the dsmp as anything less than its entirety is a disrespect to the Tommy, to Dream, to Technoblade and everybody else c!s and cc!s alike. And that’s why I reblogged in the first place, because I felt like it was disrespectful to Technoblade and that felt very wrong to me. You can slander Dream all you want, but don’t discount or take away from part of Technoblade’s legacy.

[deus-ex-mona]

man this getsuyoubi sure can yuuutsu

[obligatory-name-change]

thinkbing about. him

[snippedstems]

Hey guys, I turned a new leaf (I was abused).

[freakalot]

gojo hates condoms ☆

not even in an ‘i can’t feel a thing’ frat-fuck way either. he just wants to be close to you. he’s touch starved as it is and being inside of you is quite literally the closet he can be to you. why would he want a barrier between his achy length and your silken walls?

he hates condoms. hates them like they’re pointing south on his moral compass. hates them like they hurt to use—which they do, in a way—the mental anguish feels real to him, at least. he picks up a fuss in the grocery store when you pull a pack of ribbed condoms from the shelf to try because why would you seek pleasure from artificial ridges when the protruding veins of his cock would feel just as good if not dressed in a condom?

sometimes he eats you out for twice as long as usual to get you really fucked out and dumb. he’ll make you cum hard and fast and so much that your mind is a mess in the hopes that you’ll forget all about your safety precautions and let him feel you from the inside out. but you always catch on. with a tsk and a finger pointed to the draw where he keeps the horrid things out of sight.

so when you let him fuck you raw for the first time, gojo is reeling. it’s on the condition that he promises to pull out, and promise he does—with a pinky finger hooked around yours and his lips to his thumb—he promises to pull out.

he decides on missionary, because as much as he loves the hundred different positions he knows how to wrangle you into, he wants to connect with you. to make love, not fuck.

and even your wetness against his tip is enough to jolt his stomach downwards. collecting your glossing over his angry head as he rubs himself up and down your folds—he would cum just like this if he wasn’t so stuck on feeling all of you. you’re warm and wet and tight as he pushes against your entrance and oh god he’s going to cum already.

“oh,” he stills, eyes deadset on yours as he slides into you. his tip is rubbing against that spot that makes your back arch upwards and it takes everything in you not to laugh at the distraught look on his face as he says “i have to pull out.”

“you’re joking, right?”

“i really wish i was baby,” he looks pained. he’s never felt something so heavenly and ungodly at the same time. he wants to do bad things, to fuck you into the mattress and breed you full of himself until you’re too weak to care about the aftermath of such recklessness. “i can’t pull out.”

“what?” you laugh, his balls tighten at the sound.

“if i move—” satoru has never looked so serious, “—i will cum. this was a bad idea. why would you let me do this?”

“you’re the one always—”

“actually don’t argue with me, you know what it does to me.” he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on anything other then the way you feel around him. he does math in his head, thinks about the people he’s killed, how much he loves you… how pretty you look right now… growing old with you.

“i swear you’re getting harder inside of—”

“imsorryiloveyoubutpleasebequietorelseyouaregoingtogetpregnant.”

it takes him a minute of mental gymnastics to feel confident enough to start slowly sliding out of you, but all hope dies when the heel of your foot presses against his ass and with a smile made of sin you pull him deeper inside of you.

he opens his mouth to protest, to tell you he is not joking and all that comes out is a beautiful strangled moan that makes you tighten around him. for a man who claims to be the strongest he is rather weak-willed when it comes to your pussy. he needs to cum so hard that it hurts, but a fear of maybe ruining your life and relationship digs his teeth into his bottom lip.

“don’t do this to me,” he whines.

but you’re smiling. you’re so tight and wet and beautiful and everything he’s ever dreamt of having and holding and you’re smiling. “satoru,” you say, and he’s weak. “cum inside.”

anything for you. it’s gorgeous: the way he lets loose, falling forward to press all his weight into you as he groans and his balls release in hot spurts that you can feel painting your insides white. it’s the connection, the intimacy, the tears that prick at his eyes.

and he doesn’t pull out. no, he presses his hips forward to fuck his cum as deep into you as he possibly can and he vows to throw out every condom in the goddamn house.

god he hates condoms.

part 2

[adiadagaki]

Since you and obsessive!satoru broke up, you haven’t felt safe. You are wary of what you wear, notice the men who leer at you with fear because who was there to step in if they decided to harm you?

Now you had dumped Satoru for being too full on, giving you no breathing room, no one.

You were vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been in years, and you hated it. The freedom Satoru’s presence offered you was something you had taken for granted, not appreciated.

He was always on standby, ready to fight, beat up or demean a soul who dared get too close. A blanket of safety. One you had thrown away.

Tightening your jacket, you sped up, heading to Satoru’s building on impulse as the guy behind you gained ground. He could just be walking home from the mall like you, but God if your mind wasn’t somersaulting with fright.

What you’d give for Satoru to be on your back like a bear now.

The footsteps got even closer, right behind you, you couldn’t help it, you started running, so fucking scared, most of it probably in your head.

But it wasn’t, the man started running too.

Bursting into the fancy reception of Satoru’s building, you fumbled with your bag to retrieve your access card to the elevator. The security guard looked concerned but you just wanted to feel safe, and there was only one place on this planet you felt that way.

The moment the lift doors opened into the foyer you banged on Satoru’s door, not having a key after throwing it away in a fit of annoyance.

Satoru opened the door after mere seconds, eyes widening with concern when he saw your watering eyes. “What’s wrong sweets?” Collapsing into his arms, you squeezed him tight, so relieved to be against the hard muscles of his chest with his familiar smell laced into his cotton shirt.

“Someone followed me… I am sorry I broke up with you, it was stupid. I understand now, you only wanted what was best for me and I saw it as overbearing and-”

“Don’t be silly sweetheart. I get it, I can be full on at times, but we have all this penthouse if you need a lil breather, yeah?” Shaking your face by a thumb and finger on your chin, he grinned at your teary eyed expression. “Yeah.” You agreed.

Cupping your face in his hands, he kissed your upset right off your lips, your fear melting away with his presence. Sweeping you up bridal style, he carried you to your shared bedroom, not having moved a thing.

Was it a horrible thing for Satoru to send a hooded man after you? Yeah, he was going to hell. But all he was trying to do was prove to you what he already knew, that you needed him to feel safe, and that was his duty and he prided himself on it.

That, and Satoru Gojo was never letting the love of his life go. Not for anything.

[your-internet-bf]

It's been a while since you've seen a doctor, and you're nervous as you follow the nurse back to my office. What's there to be nervous about, this is just a little checkup, right? You notice the nurse's manicured burgundy nails as she knocks sharply on the door. She turns to you, smiling prettily, and says, "the doctor will see you now."

You push open the door and enter quite a large room. The nurse follows, closing the door behind you. In the center is the examination table, off to the right is a small crowd of young adults, appearing to be made up of men and women, and on the left is me, seated at my desk. "Welcome," I say, standing and extending one hand. My voice is deep, warm, and smooth, and you fumble for a moment, blushing a little, before you remember to shake my hand. Your hand is dwarfed in mine, my strong fingers encircling you, and a thought flashes unbidden through your mind - what would those fingers feel like inside you? - but, come on now, that's really not appropriate...

"I have a few students with me, as you can see. Is that alright?"

"Well, yes, of course!" Why shouldn't it be?

"Excellent. Now, I'm pioneering this new full-body examination method - it's really quite extraordinary, the maladies I can detect this way - but be warned, it is, shall we say, unorthodox. Is that alright?"

Just for a moment, you see something in my eyes, something behind the genial smile and gentle, reassuring tone. Just for a moment, you feel like some specimen, some piece of meat, pinned down under the lights with nowhere to go... but just for a moment. Surely, nothing bad can happen, and I'm a doctor, aren't I? You can trust me. So you swallow your fear, and you acquiesce.

"Excellent! Let's have a seat on the table, if you don't mind, and we'll make a start. Nurse V, if you would..."

As you sit on the table, the clinical, sterile seating a little cold against your skin, the pretty nurse steps behind the table, facing you, waiting for something. From your right, I approach, and you feel again just how much larger than you I am as my broad shoulders block out one of the ceiling lights. With all these people watching you, it takes all you have not to squeeze your legs together, just a little bit.

We begin with a quick examination of your face - "you have beautiful eyes, you know," I purr into one ear. I place one hand on the side of your neck and tilt your head; god, you've been reading too much, haven't you, the way you want these strong, expert fingers to close around your throat.

"Now, open your mouth for me, please." You oblige, and I cup your chin and slide my thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. Your eyebrows jump in surprise, and you look at me questioningly.

I smile again, still inside you. "Unorthodox, remember? Now, close your mouth and try to swallow." From behind, the nurse strokes your cheek with the back of one hand, and you feel a sudden ache between your legs. You close your lips around my thumb and swallow. It tastes... clean, mostly, as one might expect from a doctor, but you can taste the sweat underneath.

"Very good, one more time for me."

You swallow again, and you feel me slide my thumb over the surface of your tongue, pressing down, swirling in circles.

"And, one more time... yes, that's it, good job, very good job."

The praise for this degrading task is more than you can bear, and you squeeze your thighs together. Fuck, it's humiliating, everyone just saw you do that... All these eyes on you, the beautiful nurse behind you, this big, strong doctor with these big, strong hands and that big fucking bulge... but no, this is just a checkup, nothing is going to happen, right?

While you were thinking, I dried my hand off and had begun speaking.

"I'm - I'm sorry?"

"No worries. I was saying, can you remove your top, please? We need to examine your heart and your breathing."

You stare at me. "Remove my - "

"Yes, remove your top. The fewer barriers between me and you, the less interference with my examination." My face is quite serious, almost bored - this really must be routine. You look back at the nurse, and she smiles slightly and nods. So you undress, your nipples betraying you, standing at attention. You blush as the crowd of students looks at you intently. The nurse lays one warm hand on your shoulder, slender fingers gripping you reassuringly, and your eyes are drawn once more to those burgundy nails.

I step in close, and you feel my breath warm on your chest. "Now, observe the stiffness in the patient's nipples - this is to be expected, given the cool air, and it's certainly nothing to be ashamed of," I say, smiling. I press my stethoscope up over your heart, the metal cold on your skin, and your mind is betrayed by the pounding of your heart. My eyes flick up to meet yours, and I grin, predatorily, and once again you feel like a piece of meat beneath the lights.

I examine your breasts, starting with your left. Enclosed in my big, strong hands, I squeeze and push, prod and pull, ostensibly feeling for any abnormalities, but the way my fingers brush over your nipples, the intensity with which I sink them into your soft breasts, heaving now as your breath comes faster... My practiced tongue rasps over one nipple and a tiny moan escapes your lips as you try desperately to hide how much you're enjoying this; try desperately, and fail.

Abruptly, I pull back. "Excellent! All seems well here." I rest one hand on your other shoulder and turn to the students. "Note the pleasure response during this section of the examination, and I hope you were paying attention to the oral technique."

I turn back to you, my eyes dancing as they meet yours. "Fully undress, if you would. The inspection must continue."

Your hands tremble as you slide your clothes down off your waist, and the nurse aids you, her lovely hands stroking along your thighs and calves as she does.

"And spread for us, please."

Obediently, your thighs open, exposing your cunt, your needy, aching wetness, to all.

"Note the beauty of the patient's sex, here. The shape of the folds," I murmur, tracing one finger along your sensitive lips, "the balanced ratio of the clitoris to the vulva overall," sliding two fingers on either side of your clit, squeezing gently between them, "the appropriate pleasure response in - "

You lose what I say as I plunge two fingers inside you, powerful and dextrous, knuckles slipping past your tightness easily. It feels so fucking good to finally have something inside you, after all this aching and teasing, and god, so many people are watching, they're all watching your pussy spread and toyed with by this big, strong, handsome older man, and now the nurse's slender fingers are across your throat and her lips are on your forehead, and she tells you that you're doing so well for me, you've been so good...

My fingers press up inside you, finding your g spot, and with my thumb rubbing on your clit, I start melting you. Waves of pleasure course through your body, you gasp, moan, whimper, and with your eyes closed you can't tell whose lips are so soft on yours, but it feels so fucking good, and all those people are watching and it makes you want it more, your back arching, chest heaving, melting under the attention, and finally, mercifully, you cum, contracting around my fingers, squeezing your thighs together, trembling, shaking, gasping for air. You hear me say something, but you're so overwhelmed with pleasure that all you can make out from my speech is "very, very good".

The hand withdraws from your throat, and I gently, gently, extricate my fingers, and settle my hand atop one thigh, fingers slick with your desire.

The nurse whispers affirmation in your ear as I address the class. "Stimulation in this manner, of the two most sensitive sex stimuli, brings the most consistent and powerful orgasms to those possessing these organs." I stroke the inside of your thigh reassuringly, before turning to you.

"The final part of this examination is seeing how well you handle penetration. I'm going to need your unequivocal verbal consent before proceeding."

The nurse leans in and whispers into your ear, "might I suggest 'please, sir, will you fuck me?'" You'd blush harder if you could.

You swallow, nervously, and there's a twisting in your gut as you say it. "Please," you begin, voice cracking. "Please, sir, will you fuck me?"

"Yes, that is sufficient. I must say, though," I warn, unzipping my jeans, "that I am quite large." I slap my cock down on your tummy, and the sheer weight of it shocks you. You've seen size like this in porn, sure, but fuck, you've never touched something like this. When you tear your gaze away from my cock, I'm grinning down at you, predatory again. "You can back out at any time, you know." My voice is low, teasing, challenging. "Should we continue?"

You nod shakily, and spread your legs a little wider.

One hand on your raised knee, one hand guiding my cock, I push against you. For a moment you realize the exam had to be done in this order; if you weren't so fucking wet, there's no chance you'd be able to take me. But all thoughts are blasted out of your mind as I push harder and slide in.

It's so fucking thick that you can't help but groan. You've never felt so full, so strained inside, being pushed in every direction; you're not built for this, maybe there's just too much, your body is rejecting me - and then I push again, another few inches, and you slam your head back against the padded table, a long, drawn-out "fuuuuuck" wrenched from your lips. You feel my strong hands brace at your hips, and with a final thrust, slamming your cervix up into your guts, moving your entire body, the ridges of my cock sliding deeper and deeper, sliding painfully, pleasurably past your walls, I'm inside you.

The nurse rests her hands on you again, and purrs in your ear, "you're doing so well for him, I know it's hard, it's so hard, but you're doing such a good job, pretty girl..."

Glacially, I pull out, allowing you a moment to rest, before thrusting in again, hands still at your waist. You sob once, loudly, and then you sink into it as I pick up a rhythm, deep, deep strokes inside you. You hear me grunting, whispering something, and I grow more frantic, impaling you a little harder, and through the wall of pleasure you hear me rumble, "nurse V, begin the overstimulation procedure."

"Certainly, doctor." She leans over you, lips fiercely meeting yours, and one of those slender hands reaches down to abuse your clit. An image of those burgundy nails on your cunt flashes through your mind as I continue pounding you, forcing you to spread for me, adjust to me, even as the nurse plays your clit like an instrument, and fuck, she's a virtuoso.

You sing a song of moans and voiceless curses under our combined mastery, knowing your audience is entranced, filled with a blazing, lusty pride. The deep bass of my voice, resonant in your skull, is saying something, but you cannot hear me; you're moaning, groaning, pleading, "yes, yes, oh my god yes" over and over...

The song swells to a crescendo and with two sudden strikes, two powerful thrusts into you, it ends with a thick, hot, sticky white wave of my approval inside you. You feel it pulse deep, deep inside, filling you, load after load delivered straight past your bruised, abused cervix.

You come back to reality with my cum spilling from between your legs, trailing thickly down onto the exam table. I zip up my jeans while the nurse helps dry you off, from all the sweat and saliva. She dabs caringly at your mouth, and you notice that the cloth is dyed the same shade as her lipstick.

"Now," I address the class, "I hope you were paying attention." I rest one hand on your aching, trembling thigh. How many times did you cum with me inside you? How long were all these people watching you writhe beneath me, begging, losing yourself in the pleasure? You have no fucking clue. "This patient has bravely volunteered for each of you to examine her, here and now, while she's available to us."

Your jaw drops. When did you agree to that? You would never - but you were begging, "yes, yes, yes" earlier, weren't you, while I was talking. You agreed. Everyone heard you say it.

"One at a time, please. And," I say to you, grinning wolfishly, "don't worry. I'll be watching the entire time."