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[alltheirdamn]

Lilies | dom!joel x sub!f!reader

Song Inspo: Lilies by Ethel Cain

Summary: Joel gives you everything, but you’re beginning to crave more. Rating: 18+ Explicit MDNI Word Count: 5.5k (sorry lol) Warnings: dom/sub dynamic, a teeny tiny bit of Stockholm syndrome, lingerie!kink, reader has long enough hair to braid, brat taming, jealousy, angst, names (little flower, sir, whore, slut), degrading!kink, anal play, anal sex, orgasm denial, oral (m!receiving), throat fucking, ball-sucking/worship, rough sex, creampie, slapping, spanking, aftercare, joel is kinda a meany but also kinda sweet A/N: this just kind of tumbled out of me and yeah… here we are lol very far out of my element with this dynamic, so hopefully i did it justice. (i am very horny for dom!joel right now, please don’t perceive me)

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

The rules were simple:

You were to be at Joel’s home at exactly four pm every Friday and stay with him until Sunday evening

Your hair must be in a braid at all times

You could only wear lingerie (selected and purchased by Joel)

That was your routine. 

You had been Joel’s submissive for half a year, and nothing had changed. You submitted to everything he asked without question. Yes, there were safe words in place and long conversations about wants and needs, but none of that mattered to you. All that mattered was Joel’s unwavering attention every weekend. 

As time passed, though, you started wanting more. Three days weren’t enough for you. The rules weren’t enough. You wanted all of Joel. Not just his commands. Not just his cock. You wanted him to be yours in every way. 

Nothing within Joel’s rules explicitly stated you could only see one another. As far as you were concerned, he only tended to one submissive at a time, and you had been with him the longest. Pride swelled inside you when you thought of that; Joel kept you because he wanted you. He enjoyed the pleasure you brought him, and in return, he cared for you deeply. But you wanted to see how deeply he cared about you and if he was as committed to you as you were to him. 

That's when you devised a meticulously thought-out plan to prove Joel’s possessiveness. The desperate need to make him realize there would be no one else to make him happy. 

You clicked the door open at precisely four pm and entered Joel's home. He kept it spotless, an immaculate representation of his attention to detail. Nothing went unnoticed, and everything had its place and purpose. Within his home, you had your purpose as well. 

Tip-toeing through his kitchen, you brushed your hand over the marble counter, the stone cold to touch as you walked into the living room. Floor-to-ceiling bay windows compromised the room's side wall, looking out onto the brick terrace. Joel’s view of the city was the best money could buy, and you spent most Saturday mornings curled up on the patio sofa, watching the sun rise over the skyline. 

The plush, gray couch in the center of the living room faced a large flat screen, one rarely used when you stayed on the weekends. Joel insisted on being present with you, whether it was fucking you into oblivion inside his bedroom or dotting over you with aftercare and affection. The lines blurred between strict rules and faltering emotions. He wasn’t a man of many words, but the feelings expressed through actions were enough to make your heart grow fonder. 

Joel was to arrive home in less than thirty minutes, giving you enough time to piece yourself together in the new lingerie he had purchased. Wandering into the bedroom, you looked over the sight of his king-sized bed, covered in a white down comforter and scattered with an array of luxury pillows. The sheets beneath the comforter were silky soft and cool to the touch, but the press of Joel’s body against yours during the night kept you wrapped in a blanket of warmth.

The master bath was beyond beautiful, with its white trimmed crowning and alabaster bathtub under the window. Two sinks were carved into a marble counter: one for Joel and one for you. Countless times before, Joel bent you over the counter, forcing you to watch him through the bathroom mirror as he ruined you from behind. You came to learn that was one of Joel’s favorite activities: making you watch him while he fucked you. You loved it, too. 

You loved everything he did. 

Setting your overnight bag on the counter, you laid out your lingerie piece by piece. The white lace bustier was practically see-through, with a detailed pattern that left little to the imagination. The only part of the top that wasn’t fully transparent was the fishbone wiring that traced the underside of the bust. The matching underwear was no better; your neatly trimmed sex would be fully seen under the lace that comprised the tiny bodice. In Joel’s words, he wanted you to look “angelic and ethereal.” Once again, the thrumming in your heart increased knowing he saw you as such. He worshiped you head to toe, and you were so eager to give him anything he wanted. Slipping the garment over your body, you worked on your hair, plaiting the strands into a perfect braid you had mastered over the last several months. You secured it with a silk bow—just as Joel had requested—and settled it between your shoulder blades. Admiring yourself, you smiled into the mirror. Joel would be pleased with you. 

But first, you needed to do something. 

Reaching into your purse for your cell phone, you adjusted the camera to capture your lace-clad body in a teasing portrait. The photo wasn’t for Joel. Scrolling through your phone, you found the contact of your latest man of interest—well, not a genuine interest, so perhaps, the latest victim? You were only using him as part of your plan, and you hoped it worked in your favor. 

As your finger hovered over the send button, you heard the unmistakable sound of the front door lock sliding open. A thrill of anxiety rushed through your body; you would do this. Pressing send, you ran to the bedroom and placed your phone on the nightstand. The ringer was on, which Joel did not favor during your time with him. 

His large frame shadowed the bedroom door as he stepped into the room. In all his glory, Joel Miller was yours for the next seventy-two hours. But if you had it your way, he’d be yours forever. Clad in his usual work attire, his broad shoulders and chest stretched out his business suit, the white button-down peeking out beneath the jacket. His thick thighs were covered in well-tailored trousers, and his shoes were pristine and polished as he liked. Gazing up, you drank in the neatly trimmed scruff along his jaw, the silver patches thickening as they neared his ears. The mustache over his upper lip was just as clean, the edges dipping close to the curve of his mouth—which was currently tipped up into a satisfied grin.

“Hello, little flower,” he greeted. 

Little flower. 

That had always been his preferred name for you. “You’re so delicate, like a little flower. I could marvel at your beauty but crush you in my hand in seconds.” 

Such a sentiment shouldn’t ignite something so visceral inside you, but it sounded so sweet when it fell off his tongue in honey-drench syllables.

“Hello, sir,” you smiled, your body situated on the edge of the bed. 

You watched as he shed his suit jacket, folding it carefully and draping it over the dresser. His eyes stayed trained on you, the rich brown of his irises boring into you with a softness so tender it toppled something inside your stomach. Working at the cuffs of his shirt, Joel rolled them in perfect sections until they hugged the thick muscles of his forearms just below his elbows. 

“You look radiant in the new set,” he said, his eyes dragging over your body. 

You preened at his compliment, a blush crawling over your chest and neck. 

“Thank you, sir. I love anything you pick out for me.”

Joel cracked a wide grin, pleased with your response. He curled his pointer finger at you, beckoning you closer. You obeyed his command wordlessly, stepping into his warmth. Rough, calloused fingers trailed over your bare skin, trailing higher up your arm until his hand came to cup your cheek. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as he rubbed a thumb over your cheekbone, the touch you craved when you weren’t in his presence. You craved tenderness at all hours of the day; you lay awake sometimes at night yearning for more. Always more. 

You craned your neck to kiss his lips softly, gently. If you could choose how you’d die, it would always be in this moment, where the world dissolved around you, and it was just Joel’s body against yours. 

The moment shattered away as your phone shrilled from the nightstand, the vibration rattling the wood. Joel broke from your lips, his eyes set ablaze and swimming in darkness. Disappointment washed over his features, the crease between his brow forming and his lips set in a thin line. Without a single word, he strode to the nightstand and stared at your phone screen, no doubt flooded with texts from the man you had sent the photos. 

Your heart thudded in your ears, the sound pressurizing inside your head. On bated breath, you waited for him to say something. 

“Kneel,” he ordered, his voice cold. He didn’t even glance at you as he said the word. 

You did without hesitation, your knees dropping to the carpet floor without a sound. The tension in the room was palatable as Joel walked into your line of vision. He held the phone in front of your face, his fingers tight around the edges. 

“Read.” 

Your eyes scanned the words on the screen, a slew of text messages… each more vulgar than the last. You didn’t want to say them aloud. 

“Read,” he repeated. 

“I—I don’t want to, sir,” you whispered.

Joel’s body was foreboding, a shadow swallowing you whole as you sat perched on your knees before him. He could do anything he wanted to you, and the truth was that you’d let him. You’d let him do anything because you wanted it. You wanted him so desperately. 

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to read it,” he said. “I am telling you to read it.”

You swallowed thickly, your voice barely above a whisper, as you began to read off the text thread.

Damn, I need to know what your pussy looks like.

Let’s meet up tomorrow.

Send another picture. I want to see your legs spread wider.

Bet you would let me cum inside you. 

Line after line, word after word, you were embarrassed. Embarrassed and afraid, neither settled well inside your stomach as it churched together. 

Tossing the phone to the ground, Joel crouched to meet you at eye level. It was the first time you felt terrified by the way he looked at you. Several times, he had been rough—almost always, as it was what he enjoyed—but there was always a glimmer of softness even when he hurt you. 

“You did this for a reason.” Joel didn’t ask; he said it like a calculated realization. 

You bowed your head, too ashamed to meet his eye. Oh, but he didn’t like that. Gripping your chin with merciless strength, Joel lifted your face to meet his. A breath apart, but so far away. 

“Explain yourself, little flower. I’m growing rather impatient.”

“I wanted to see you jealous, sir,” you admonished. “I wanted to know what you would do.”

“Jealous,” he echoed, rolling his tongue over his teeth. 

He ripped his hand from your face, letting your head fall between your shoulders. You started at the polished tips of his work shoes, the black leather shiny and without marks. No detail went unnoticed. 

“Undo my belt,” he instructed, stretching himself back to his full height.

Straightening your spine, you reached up to his belt and began to unclasp the metal, holding it tight around his trousers. Joel continued to stare down at you unamused. You worked at pushing his pants down his thick thighs, shoving them far enough to reach his kneecaps. 

“Take out my cock. Let’s see how well I’ve trained your throat.”

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, giving them a good tug until his thick cock sprung free. It bobbed against his stomach, the reddened tip weeping with precum. Your hand came up to grip the girthy base, but Joel tutted in protest. 

“Hands behind your back, little flower.”

Clasping your hands at the base of your spine, you peered up at him with an eager expression. Joel arched a brow, waiting for you to comply and give him his request. Shuffling your knees forward, you dragged the tip of your tongue over the slit, lapping at the salty precum that dripped down. You peppered him with kitten kisses, your tongue tracing the veins on the underside of his cock. Joel rewarded you with a satisfied hum, bucking his hips forward until the head of his cock parted your lips wider. 

Dropping your jaw open, you welcomed each girthy inch of his cock into your warm mouth, the faint smell of his body wash mingling with his musky scent as you took him deeper. The moment the head of his cock brushed the back of your throat, you sputtered softly and felt the tears begin to well in your eyes as you squeezed them shut. 

Joel ripped himself from your mouth, his hand coming down to squish your cheeks together. 

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, sir,” you said sheepishly. 

He released his grip on your face and adjusted himself back at your wet lips. Sucking in a deep breath, you wrapped your mouth around his cock once more. Joel jerked his hips forward, sending his cock to the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, keeping your tongue flat against the underside of his cock. Your nose brushed against the trimmed curls that framed his pubic bones, the hairs tickling your nose as he held you there. 

“I’m going to count to ten, little flower. Be a good girl, and show me how well you can take it.”

You nodded, your mouth suctioning tighter around him. Joel’s eyes darkened, his lips parted as he readied himself to count. 

“One,” he barked. 

You blinked away the tears springing in the corner of your eyes. You could do this; you had done it before. 

“Two.”

You unhinged your jaw, your senses invaded by his scent as you pressed further into his pubic hair. Somewhere between breaths, Joel counted three and four with a loud grunt, and you continued to focus on exhaling through your nose. 

“Five,” he gritted. 

The urge to gag around his cock grew harder to ignore, and the tears flowed freely down your cheeks. Your chin was coated in drool as you anticipated the next count, your eyes foggy as you stared up at him. Joel tilted his head, admiring how he stuffed every crevice of your mouth. 

“Six.”

“Seven.”

More saliva pooled in your mouth, and you hollowed your cheeks to avoid sputtering around him. Joel’s lips curled into a devilish smirk, and he nudged his pelvis closer until your nose smashed into his skin. You coughed around his length, the corners of your mouth dripping saliva onto your neck and chest. 

“Almost there, little flower. Doing so good for me,” he crooned. 

Joel brushed a finger over your throat, tapping the bulge protruding against your aching flesh. Eight and nine were a blur, your eyes barely staying open. Every flutter of your lashes garnered a dissatisfied tut from Joel, his body tense and throbbing with anger. 

“Ten,” he sighed. 

You tore away, coughing violently as you sucked in jagged breaths. Twisting your hands behind you, you squeezed your eyes shut to push the remainder of the tears down your cheeks. Joel wrapped a large hand around the base of his cock, stroking himself slowly and lazily. 

“Stick out your tongue,” he ordered. 

The words he said were far and few, which terrified you. Deep within yourself, you knew you had enraged him with your little act. It garnered no affection as you hoped, but he still gave you the attention you yearned for. Good or bad, you would take it. You would take anything he gave you. 

A trail of saliva, salty and thick, dripped from the point of your tongue as you did what he instructed. Joel rested the velvety skin of his balls against your mouth, the weight of them heavy on your tongue. You didn’t need his commands as you slipped one of his balls into your mouth. Above you, Joel shuddered and clenched his fists at his side. You worshiped each with equal measure, alternating between gentle caresses of your tongue and sloppy suctions of your mouth. 

“That’s it, little flower. Just like that,” Joel cooed. 

A desperate moan left your lips as you lapped up the salty wetness covering his silken sack, swallowing down the remnants of your drool. Joel pumped himself faster, the sound of his jagged breathing mixing with the lewd noises of your mouth. His release was nearing; you could sense it in the way his thick thighs flexed around your face. 

“Please,” you whined, your words muffled into the hair around his balls. 

Joel’s hand slowed around his length, his thumb brushing over the slit as more precum leaked out. Staring up at him helplessly, you waited for his release to paint your tongue. He gave you a stern look, nodding toward the bed. 

“Hands and knees. Now.”

“But—,” you protested. 

Joel smoothed his palm over your cheek before pulling back and delivering a sharp smack against your face. You jerked at the sting of his touch radiating through the layers of your skin. He undoubtedly left behind a reddened mark across your cheek and jaw. 

“You’ve already angered me once,” he warned. “Get on the fucking bed.”

Your knees scuffed against the ground as you scrambled onto the bed, situating yourself in the position he commanded. The unmistakable sound of the leather unsheathing from his pants ignited a new wave of fear through your body. Joel discarded it beside your face before coasting a hand down the center of your spine. 

“I’ll give you another chance to explain yourself,” Joel said. 

The bed dipped under his weight as he pressed a knee into the comforter beside you. You glanced over your shoulder, watching through teary eyes as Joel quickly unbuttoned his shirt. Dark chest hair scattered over his broad chest, spattered lower until it tapered into a thick trail down his pelvis. A thin sheen of sweat glistened over his golden skin as he discarded his shirt carelessly onto the ground. Careless…it wasn’t something you were used to with Joel. 

“I just wanted your attention,” you muttered, your head hanging between your shoulders. 

Joel tugged your braid, forcing your neck to crane backward. Despite the harshness of his words, his touch, his demeanor… your body throbbed with an unavoidable need. It throbbed at the apex of your sex, the lace rubbing against the slick that pooled between your thighs. Joel paid no attention to the way your legs shifted side to side, his unwavering stare penetrating you. 

“Do I not give you enough attention?” He questioned. 

“You do, sir,” you nodded, the strain on your neck growing uncomfortable. 

“Perhaps you don’t deserve attention at all,” he mused. 

He released his grip on your hair, your head falling forward and hanging low between your shoulders. Joel moved behind your body, his thick fingers tearing apart the lace hugging your ass. You yelped at the sheer force of it, the chill of the room skating up your bare sex. Joel’s fingertips traced over the back of your thigh, lingering close to the outline of your weeping pussy. Just one touch. That’s all you wanted—just one. 

His touch disappeared, leaving you whining and frustrated. Joel huffed a laugh before bringing two fingers to your mouth. 

“Suck. Get them nice and wet for me.”

You obliged, rolling your tongue over the thick digits as they pressed down into your mouth. He pulled them away, a web of drool connecting from the tip of your tongue to the pads of his fingers. Joel knocked your legs open further, and you waited in anticipation for his fingers to give you what you needed. Except, he didn’t. 

A gasp left your lips as he pushed the calloused skin of his fingertips against the tight ring of muscles above your slit. With one hand gripping your ass, Joel spread you wider, humming at the sight of you fully exposed. 

“Maybe you don’t deserve the attention you want. You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll thank me.”

“Please,” you whined. 

“No,” he growled. “Desperate little sluts don’t get what they want.”

Joel’s finger dipped into your clenching hole, prodding you open despite your whines of protest. It wasn’t the first time he used this way, but it felt different. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t meant to be focused on your pleasure. He was determined to prove a point, and you would comply because you were so greedy for anything he could give. He pressed the second finger to your hole, stretching you wider as he pushed them to his second knuckle. Wider and wider, he stretched you, uncomfortable but not unwelcomed. 

“I see how wet you are, little flower. I know how greedy this pussy can get, but you know what? You don’t deserve it. This pussy doesn’t deserve my attention at all.”

“Sir!” You cried. 

“You’re going to take my cock in your ass like the pathetic whore you are,” he growled. 

Joel curled his fingers inside you, slipping them deeper until they were fully seated inside you. If you felt full now, it would be nothing compared to the way his cock would split you open. The sheer thought of it sent a shockwave to your clit, the aching bud pulsating painfully. Joel laughed at the way you squirmed underneath him, rewarding your cries with a jarring smack against your ass. Fuck, it hurt. 

Tearing his fingers from you, Joel disappeared from the bed and riffled through his nightstand drawer. You heard the familiar sound of the lube squirting into his hand and the rough breath of Joel as he realigned himself with your loosened hole. The initial intrusion of his cock sparred stars into your vision, the tip of his cock tearing you open. Even in his angered haze, Joel was slow—careful. 

“Breathe, little flower,” he urged.

You barely managed a full gulp of air before Joel bottomed out entirely. A scream erupted from your lips as you adjusted to his size, each inch of his length stuffed inside your tightening hole. Your body flexed and tensed under Joel’s touch, one hand pressing into your lower back, the other looping a finger through the plaits in your hair. Beneath him, you were helpless, entirely at his mercy for whatever he wanted. 

With a slow retraction of his hips, Joel snapped his hips forward hard enough to send your upper body into the comforter. The rugged momentum of his thrusts tore you apart; piece by piece, Joel diminished you into nothing but a hole for his use. 

“Greedy fucking whore,” Joel grunted, each thrust weighted and heavy inside you. “How’s it feel, huh? You love being used like this?”

“I love it, sir,” you cried. 

Joel pulled out to the tip, a heavy breath expelling from your mouth. He ripped into you again, resolving you into a heap of tears and shallow whimpers. His finger in your intertwined hair tightened, pulling your neck back until you had no choice but to connect with his piercing stare. With blown pupils and curled lips, Joel was the epitome of carnal rage. You did this. You spurred him into this embodiment of anger. 

“Is this enough for you, little flower?” He demanded. 

Arousal dripped between your legs, the snap of his balls against your clit radiating pleasure through your body. You writhed under his hold, a pleading cry leaving your mouth as you stared at him helplessly. Usually reserved and stoic, Joel’s emotions washed over his features, speaking louder than his words. You didn’t just anger him; you hurt him. You questioned his role as a dominant, which was an unspeakable thing to do. 

“Answer me!” He raged. 

“It’s enough!” You sobbed. 

Joel fucked you into abandon, your asshole sore and pained with every cantation of his hips. He was tearing you apart from the inside out, unrelenting and punishing. Your safe word balanced on the tip of your tongue, yet you withheld. You knew Joel would stop the moment you said the word, but you didn’t want him to. You wanted to prove you could be everything and more. You wanted to prove yourself until he wanted no other but you. 

The pulse between your legs was unbearable. You were stretched out and gaping around his cock, void of any chance of release. Joel knew how your body responded; he was aware of how your hole contracted and flexed around him. Yet, he gave you nothing. He wouldn’t. 

“Taking my cock so well, little flower,” he muttered between labored breaths. “Swallowing every inch of me.”

“Please, sir. Please, I want to cum,” you babbled. 

The sting of his palm against your ass was his response to your pleas, a simple gesture to shut you up. You took it, though your body buzzed with pleasure in every limb. 

“I know you do,” he crooned softly. “But you don’t get what you want. Only what I give you. So fucking take it.”

The world was caving around you, your vision blackening at the edges. Joel wound your braid over his fist and quickened his thrusts. Your body sagged into the bed, limp and pliant. Guttural sounds fell off Joel’s lips as he fucked you into the bed. Your ears deafened to the noise, your mouth hanging open and dripping spit into the soft bedspread beneath you. The erratic drive of his cock was the only warning you had to know he was close. Jagged, deep thrusts speared into you as Joel toppled over the edge with an animalist growl as he pumped his release into your fucked out hole. You twitched under his body, your knees slipping lower as your body gave out. 

Despite the haze inside your mind, your lips tipped up into a satisfied grin. He used your body just as he wanted, and you proved fealty to him—ardent, unwavering submission to the one man who wove his way into your heart. 

Joel pulled himself from you, slow and gentle, until the roll of his release was falling between your slit. You clenched around nothing, the tight ring of muscles aching painfully. He reached up to undo the silk bow holding your braid together, his fingers working through the soft waves as they floated over your back. 

“Little flower,” he whispered, kissing your sweat-coated spine. 

You flinched at his touch, not out of fear but of shock that still radiated through your muscles. You hadn’t fully returned to your mind, and Joel took notice. Working you onto your back, he roamed a hand over your breasts; his hand pressed firmly against the thrumming pulse of your heart. You stared up at him blankly, the tears now dried against your cheeks. What had been the face of cruelty only moments ago had now morphed into the soft, longing gaze you always yearned for. Joel’s pupils had returned to normal, the flecks of amber and rich chocolate boring into you with a look of concern. 

“Thank you, sir,” you whispered. 

He bent over you, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead. Your eyes fluttered close, relishing in the softness of his lips on your skin. You wanted this. You ached for it fiercely but could not form the words to beg for it.

“Stay here a moment,” he said. 

You lay against the bed, your limbs twitching as you rolled onto your side. Curling into yourself, you fought off the tremors still wracking through your muscles, a steady pulse rhythmically beating within your clit. Joel denied you your orgasm, which he never did. It was your punishment for wanting too much—a miscalculated attempt at proving your worth. 

The sound of running water drifted from the bathroom, followed by Joel’s heavy footsteps nearing the bed. With a quick unclasping of your bustier and a firm hand under your knees, Joel lifted you from the bed. You became weightless in his arms, cradling you to his sweaty chest. Wrapping a shaky arm around his shoulders, you rested your head inside the crook of his neck and exhaled an exhausted sigh. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said softly. 

The pungent aroma of lavender and vanilla tinged your nose as Joel guided you into the bathtub. Immediately, your muscles unwound in their tension, a relieving groan expelling from your lips. The heat of the water soothed your tender flesh, the bubbles running over your bare skin in small clusters. Joel was dedicated to aftercare, especially after rougher sessions with you. This was no different. He always remained beside the bathtub, soothing you with praise as you tipped further into its warmth.

You blinked up at him, giving him a tired smile. He gave you a silent nod, then motioned for you to slide forward. He never bathed with you. It wasn’t a rule, per se, but he never granted it to you. This was different—foreign. 

You slid your body as far as it could go, your knees pressed to your chest as Joel dipped into the water behind you. Hooking a strong arm around your abdomen, he pulled you flush with his body and dropped his mouth below the shell of your ear. 

“You chose to anger me today,” he muttered. “I need the honest truth as to why you did it.”

You twisted your face around to meet his steady gaze, your bottom lip quivering while you debated if the truth was worth voicing. 

“I wanted you to be possessive,” you admitted. “I wanted to know if you cared for me the way I care for you.”

Joel’s eyebrows raised slightly, the words shocking him.

“Of course, I care for you. Do I not show it well enough?”

“No—no, you do, sir. I just…I want to be the only one you care for.”

“You have been, little flower. There’s been no one else the entire time you’ve been with me,” he insisted. 

You turned your body around, your knees bruising against the tile as you cupped his face. Never had you been so vulnerable with Joel, but you needed him to see your desperation. You needed him to see how committed you were to your role in his life. 

“I want to be the only one,” you repeated. “I don’t want you to have another.”

Joel’s hands rested at the curve between your waist and hips, prodding your flesh soothingly. 

“Is that what you want, little flower?” He questioned. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want, sir. What matters is if it’s what you want.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, creases forming near his temple as he shut his eyes. Silence fell between you, so loud it fractured your heart. No answer was an answer. You failed in your attempts to prove yourself. You failed to make him want you more. He didn’t want you, no matter—.

“My sweet, little flower,” he sighed. 

Fresh tears slipped down your cheek, and you made no effort to swat them away. It was useless when you knew you lost the one thing you wanted the most. Joel brushed his lips against yours, and you let a muffled cry escape. 

“Rules can be rectified,” he started. “If this is something you wish, I’ll happily oblige.”

“Really?” You asked, pulling away. 

You studied him for any sign of doubt, any stolen glance that may prove his words a lie. But he looked at you with complete devotion, irrevocable certainty.

“I want you just as badly. All you had to do was ask. There was no need for defiance or jealousy.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I think you’ve proven yourself more than enough today, little flower. Turn around so I can care for you properly.”

You slipped back into his warm embrace, your legs widening and pressed against his. Joel smoothed a hand down your stomach, his fingers tracing the swollen lips of your sex. You bucked into his hand, chasing the orgasm that still swam within your stomach. He drew slow, tantalizing circles over your soddened clit, muttering soft words into your ear. 

“Such a good girl,” he cooed. “I know what you need. I’ll take care of you.”

“Yes—yes,” you panted, arching into his touch. 

The pad of his finger pressed into the throbbing bud, the surging pleasure inside you growing agonizing. Bathwater sloshed around your body is rivulets, the push and pull of the waves crashing into the space where your skin didn’t touch. Closer and closer, he drove you to the edge until a delicious rapture tore through your body. Every muscle beneath your balmy skin seized upwards, a wail of relief echoing around the empty bathroom as you caved into your climax. 

“That’s it, little flower. So beautiful when you come undone for me,” Joel mumbled into your ear, his teeth nipping at the lobe. 

Shockwaves trembled over you as you slumped against his solid frame, your head falling back onto his shoulder. You had what you wanted. Body and soul, Joel granted your wish. Ecstasy wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the swelling inside your chest. 

“Stay with me. More than just the weekends. I’ll have your things brought here, and you can stay permanently,” Joel offered. “This house is rather lonely without you in it, anyway.”

“Okay,” you submitted, a grin stretching across your face. 

He was yours.

[theterraceinn]

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

[arcielee]

My body was bruised and I was set alight

Summary: You decide to pay your husband a visit. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 3.6+ Warnings: AFAB Reader, mentions of Targcest, infidelities, kissing, oral (f receiving), p in v, creampie, overstimulation. Author's Note: Thank you my beloved @zaldritzosrose for beta reading and helping me decide how this arc should end! 💜 This is part 3 of my Only If For A Night, my accidental short-series. I would advise you to read part 1 and part 2, but do what you want. I finished this WIP base on the poll created to celebrate hitting 2k followers! (Thank you, my loves! 💜) This is the final part for the Aemond arc. Title comes from Florence + The Machine. Valyrian translations: ābrazȳrys is wife and dōna ābrazȳrys is sweet wife

You were standing out on the terrace with an iron grip on your chalice, half-drunk, watching the slow rise of the moon and its silver spill streaking out over the dark blanket settling over the horizon. Below, you could hear the swell of the night life for Flea Bottom, the amber glow of manmade lights lining the streets, but your focus remained on the broken surface of Blackwater Bay, the salt air licking your face. 

Another somber sigh was followed by another swallow of bitter wine. Favor, you were learning, was something that could change as quick as the currents that now propelled the waters to crash white against the cliffside beneath you. 

It was an almost poetic view from your gilded cage, a place where your confinement began eight days prior after a misdiagnosis from the maester. Worry thrummed of your delicate condition, but you knew the only reason you fainted was caused by the constricting corset you happened to be wearing when your husband made his gallant return to the throne room. 

You had not seen him, much less spoken to Aemond since that night. It was something of a sinful replay in your mind, and it left you with an ache that the king could no longer sate. 

That did not matter since whatever was between the two of you, you knew that you did not love Aegon nor did he love you. It started as something more primal, more insatiable, but it also allowed you a new freedom within the castle grounds. 

It was a freedom you wished to keep, and the coupling was pleasant enough. It was why you cinched your waist on that day, another means to entice the king, to hold his attention while the lords of the realm paraded new skirts to try and sway his grace. 

You were lovely, but it restricted the air from your lungs, and what little you had was wrenched away with your audible gasp at your husband’s grandiose entrance.  

The doors swung heavy when his arrival was announced. Aemond was poised, as always, and his eye searched for you. You felt your blood searing to the surface and your vision narrowing to a pinpoint. The world pitched and you last saw his long gate crossing to catch you, the warmth of his palms moving to lift you into his arms. You felt the rumble of his chest as he called for the maester. 

As Aemond carried you back to your quarters, your head lulled against him, eyes fluttering, enveloped by his scent of dragonback and sweat, a woodsy musk that held onto his riding leathers. Your cheeks warmed from his intense proximity, from the steady beating of his heart, and the elder master–who struggled to keep with the prince’s pace–voiced his concerns of a possible fever. 

You felt your husband smirk, and you kept your eyes forward. 

The handmaidens were stunned to the stone when you entered, watching as Aemond moved to place you on the bed. He seemed well aware of the eyes on you both, and he reached to take your hand, bringing it to his lips, so close you felt his exhale, this ghost of a kiss. He then moved away to allow them to fret and your eyes followed after him, taking in his stilted posture, his hands crossed and rested on his lower back. 

The heat of his gaze was melting you into the linen. 

“You must rest.” The elder maester was flustering, mistaking the close scrutiny of the one-eyed prince. His skin was blotched with reds as he called crow that you were clearly with child; he was insistent on bedrest. 

The blood drained away from your blank expression, a scalding pour into your heart that was slamming against your ribs. You felt sick from his words, muted as the maester turned to offer his congratulations to your husband. 

Aemond kept his gaze fixated on you. His jaw steeled with a tension that spread to hold him in place. “You must do as he says,” his tone was leveled, tight, “ābrazȳrys.” 

You were commanded to remain in bed, left with a searing panic that stricken your bones and left you pinned to the mattress, a fear that throttled your throat of your paternal doubt for the babe you carried. There was ill-comfort in the memory, a silver haired child all the same–it only churned your insides. 

You were isolated as neither your husband, nor Aegon, visited you. Only once did the Lord Hand come by to express his pleasure at the prospect of another princess or princeling to be added to the growing lineage. 

No one else came. 

But you did not flourish with life. Instead your cycle came with a vengeance, and it was the same damn maester who returned with his sheepish admittance that he may have been wrong. “You can always try again, princess,” his eyes crinkled with his well-intentioned words while your insides curdled with its white-hot pain. 

Rest, he insisted once again, along with a cup of wine to help soothe your nerves. 

Alone again, the silence was near deafening until you decided to embrace the reprieve from the courts. Your days were spent abed while warmed stones were rotated from the hearth and pressed against your lower abdomen. You had a cup of Arbor Red for breakfast and supper, listening to your handmaidens' gossip about the latest skirts sent to the Red Keep to ensnare the king. 

You were not bothered by this, as you felt certain you could reclaim his affection again. And when your moon cycle finished, you requested a hot bath with oils from Essos and rose petals that floated on the milky surface. You asked for your silk finery, adding touches of exotic scents dabbed behind your neck and on your wrists. 

After you dismissed them for the night, you slipped on your robe and slippers, moving to the passageway Aegon had shown you. 

The torches were lit and low, a soft amber light to guide you. Your hand pressed to the cobblestones and cobwebs, your mind flitting to when Aegon first showed you this secret, how he pressed you against the very same wall, the heat of his body pinning you and his mouth capturing your own–

You blinked when you saw a Cargyll knight posted. 

“Forgive me princess,” he said with a pity that shimmered in his eyes. “The king has company tonight. I have been told he will not be interrupted, under any circumstance.”

The White Cloak then returned you to your room, leaving you to pour your sorrow in the chalice you now held. In truth, you were not mourning the inevitable end, but more so the freedom it had allowed you within King’s Landing. You would not fault Aegon–you knew firsthand that his passion was insatiable, notorious throughout the kingdoms. You also knew that the lords were desperate to catch his violet gaze, anything to align their house within the growing Targaryen dynasty. 

Your second cup soured your blood and you felt your vexation pouring into your heart, smoldering. You blamed Aemond. It was his fault that his infidelities pushed you to find your own pleasure, and his unjust jealousy kept you isolated–your own handmaidens had been shy to admit your lord husband guarded every entrance during your bedrest.

A dragon hoarding, you fumed. 

And for what purpose? He still had not even visited you since the day you were bedridden. 

This curiosity burned alongside your ire, something overwhelming that mixed with the wine that flushed your skin. You finished the last bit, grabbing your silk robe once more and throwing open your door to find the other Cargyll knight posted. 

He paled. “Princess.” 

“I wish to see my husband,” your tone was curt and left no room for negotiation. 

The soft clinks of his armor shadowed your steps, stopping once you arrived at Aemond’s door. It was unguarded and you recalled that fateful night. You were frozen, your muscles tensing and ticking before you regained enough control to give a sharp look over your shoulder. 

“You are no longer needed.” Your words felt thick on your tongue. The White Cloak was quick to leave and your skirt billowed with your final steps to move and open the door. 

Aemond was seated in a leather armchair placed in front of a large, oak desk. He was hunched over with his same studious furrow of his silver brow, a collection of parchment and ink, old books and tomes sprawled across. The glow from the hearth poured golden over him, touching the hard planes of his chest that peeked through his unbuttoned cotton nightshirt, and a yellow hue to his silver hair worn in a single braid, slung over his shoulder. 

He stopped and looked up to you, his bicolored gaze focused–one lavender and one sapphire–as though he had been expecting you.

You felt unnerved, the thought of returning to your room fluttering through your wine-addled mind. Instead, you closed the heavy doors behind you. “Lord husband.” It spilled thick from your stained lips, your liquid courage coaxing your steps closer towards him. 

He turned to face you, wood scratching the stone floor, his svelte slouch back in the chair that allowed you to see how far undone his shirt truly was. Your eyes trailed, your blood warming. 

He smirked. “Good evening, ābrazȳrys.”

It cut through you with the same acidity as the last night he sought you out. Now you were the one unforced in his chambers–pristine and dark and decorated with his ancestry–watching the cruel curl of his lips as he continued. “Perhaps you are lost? I know that the king handles your affairs these nights.” 

Your face twisted, blood rising and tears threatening with his chosen words. You managed to hold your tone. “I do not wish for the king,” your voice was soft, “but I wish for my husband.” 

He scoffed but it only emboldened you, burning hot through your veins and spilling from your lips. “I come to fulfill what is expected of us, but also for you to finish what you teased the last night we shared together.” 

Aemond looked at you, stunned by your boldness, a rose dusting across his sharp features and his lips pursed. 

You could not stop. The dam was bursting. “You dared give me a taste of something I did not think even possible within this marriage, and now I want it, I crave it.” Your tone rose. “I want that passion that you tormented me with. I want that same passion that you poured into the queen–!” 

You made a soft noise, your fingers flying to touch your lips, to scoop up what was said and swallow it again. The wine betrayed you and all you could do was watch, wide eyed, for how your husband would respond. 

Aemond held still, carved marble poised. His fingers touched his chin while his one eye flitted to you and then away. “You have no idea what you are saying–” 

It was your turn to scoff. You moved closer, your fingers touching the edge of the desk and following around, forcing yourself in his line of sight. “I saw you.” Your voice cracked with emotion, with a betrayal that ran so hot and so deep, surfacing again in the privacy of his quarters. “I saw you with her.”

You stopped yourself to gather the sorrow that threatened to release, pulling your anger back by the fistfuls and holding it tight behind your ribs; it burned. “I just…” you swallowed. “Well, it does not matter now. But know your actions are why I sought out my own comfort. I admit my sins, but I also know yours, husband.”

Silence settled thick, punctuated with the sounds of the embers, of the drawers opening and paper rustling, the clink of the top of the inkwell placed back. Your eyes were drawn to his slender fingers that fidgeted to straighten up the desk. When he finished, only then did Aemond look back to you, reconsidering you, his severity set beneath the red that now stained his cheeks. 

“What is it that you want?” He was not angry, but almost curious. 

You had not been asked this before. It was a torrid rush of sequential memories that poured over, pulling you to this moment–your initial optimism when you first came to King’s Landing, carrying your girlish idylls and romanticism that came knitted with the announcement of your betrothal to a Targaryen prince. You mistook his dutiful acts and his diligence for acts of devotion.

How you had wished, how you had hoped that it would become more–!

His touch grounded you, those same slender fingers wrapping around your wrist of the hand resting on the desk. You tilted your chin to look at him, a forceful rhythm of your heart trying to burst from your chest. 

You swallowed again. “I am your wife,” you moved closer, closer with your velvet tone. “I am yours, Aemond. 

You dared touch him, your hand breaking his hold and your fingers pressing to his chin, following the unmarred side. His lips parted, a moment to understand the affection shown and he surrendered to it. His face turned to your open palm, his breath tickling your wrist. You felt a heat that began to curl at the base of your spine, gooseflesh prickling your skin. 

His breath hitched as you leaned forward, allowing your neckline to dip, showing a hint of what was prepared beneath your silk. Your lips touched his ear. “I want you to show me what it is that you truly desire.” 

It erupted and he pushed from the desk, his composure cracking and his chest heaving, caging you to the edge with his hands pressed on either side until his knuckles showed white. You remained rooted, unflinching, unafraid to watch as the fire seared throughout, his nostrils flaring with whatever he battled within his mind. 

A decision was made with a kiss. Aemond crashed against you with a passion that you were quick to reciprocate. His arms moved to wrap around and pull you into his chest, his heat burning through the cotton, a clash of teeth and lips and his tongue–the same that carved into your cunt with a precision that allowed you a glimpse of the heavens, now curled to pull a moan from the back of your throat. 

His mouth moved, hot and demanding, open-mouth kisses that trailed your jaw and nipping on the curve of your neck. You were panting, you were alight. “What I desire,” his voice husked against your skin, in-between the assault of his lips, “I desire your taste on my tongue.”

You mewled, your fingers carving into his shoulder blades to hold yourself upright. His large hands roamed to the softness of your backside, lifting you enough to set you on top of his desk. You were breathless as his fingers dimpled into your plush thighs, splitting them apart to knit his slender waist between, claiming your mouth once again. 

Aemond settled into the cradle of your hips, pressing at his seams with a hardness that rubbed against your core. You moaned again, louder, your legs lifting to wrap around him and pull him closer, but he pulled back, kneeling in front of you. “Aemond–?”

His hands tore the silk so your legs would spread further, and you leaned back, propping yourself on your elbows. Your chin tucked to your chest, rapt to watch the black that swallowed the lavender of his eye, the slow rise and fall of his chest, his hummed satisfaction to see that you were bare beneath; the night air was cool against your cunt, your arousal surely glistening in the candlelight. 

You pushed up again, one handful of his shirt to pull him closer for another kiss, slower, softer, searching until he groaned against your mouth. You broke away, your lips swollen. “Who am I to deny my husband what he desires?”

His lips curled as he lowered himself, his hands slipping underneath your thighs to hold, moving close enough to lick up your slit. It jolted through you and you shuddered with his kiss to the bloom of nerves above. 

“Relax,” he breathed against your sensitive skin, and you rested back onto your elbows.

You watched the shimmer of his hair as his head tucked between, his tongue pressing to split your folds and curling upwards. You moaned, your back arching, and his fingers bit into your thighs, holding as he pressed closer, until his nose rubbed against you in a way that elicited a reborn passion that seared through your veins.

You lifted your legs to press the soles of your feet onto his broad shoulders, and he moved one hand, pressing to the inside of your thighs and trailing closer towards your heat. He suckled his fingers before they pushed into you, a new intensity that curled your toes into his skin. 

“Aemond–!” Your hands grasped to hold yourself closer, your fingernails combing through his hair with a light scratch against his scalp. 

He hummed against your cunt, pressing his fingers deeper with a delicious stretch, with a familiarity that made you whine. He touched something within you that reborn the very passion haunting you for weeks, something your core craved ever since that night… 

Aemond pushed you towards that precipice and your lungs ached with your bated breath, allowing enough for his name to spill like a fevered prayer, begging with your unabandon want. “Please, please–”

It was a delicious tandem of his mouth and tongue and his slender fingers splitting you open, a blossoming release that sparked at the base of your spine, a euphoria ripping through you and pulling you from your body. 

Your legs were still shaking as Aemond moved to drape them over the edge of the desk. He towered over you, his sharp chin gleaming from your release. He looked at you. “I believed I married a shy and demure girl from a noble house,” his tone was dark, but teasing. He leaned over you, his eye glittering like the sapphire stone in his scarred socket. “I tried to be careful and courteous, as though you would break.” 

You reached for him, your fingers carding through his hair and curling into the nape of his neck, pulling him close for another consuming kiss. Passion rumbled your bones with the taste of yourself on his lips, heating the marrow and pouring into your core once again. 

“Break me, Aemond,” you breathed against his lips. 

His drawstrings were loosened enough, shifting to press himself to your silken folds, his length spearing you through to the desk. Your body was pliant, wanting, but you still stretched to mold around him. Aemond groaned, another powerful thrust to sheath himself fully into your heat. 

You shuddered, your nipples pebbling, and you clenched. 

Aemond paused, his jaw tight as he looked you over. His silver hair spilled from the braid, cascading over his shoulders, and he leaned forward to kiss you again, his tresses tickling your skin. 

You sighed, you shifted, wrapping your legs around his narrow waist, and he pressed forward, pressed deeper. “Gods,” his head tucked into the curve of your neck, his words rumbling through you, “you were made for me.” 

You could only mewl in reply, overwhelmed with the powerful pace he set, sparking bright in front of your eyes as his hip bones bruised against you. It pulled something deeper and you swore it was too much. “Please, Aemond, I cannot–”

“You can and you will, until I am finished with you.” You felt his smile curving against your neck, prickling your skin with the pleasure that thrummed beneath. “But I promise, dōna ābrazȳrys, I will never let you go now–”

He pulled back, his hands grabbing into your hips to hold as he snapped against you. Your cunt suctioned to bring him closer and he complied, a brutal pace that sparked a new euphoria that simmered to the surface. You felt drunk on the pleasure threatening, a slickness that was spilling between your thighs. 

“I can feel you,” he taunted, breathless and flushed. His hand pressed to your lower abdomen, his fingers spreading lower until his thumb slipped between your folds, slow circles to your bundle of nerves that increased with his thrusts. “Have you been so deprived, dōna ābrazȳrys–” 

You could not hear him, not with how your blood roared in your ears as that passion imploded with a white-hot rapture. You shattered beneath him, a pleasure trilling through your nerves and your veins, spreading to every fiber of your being, a thousand pieces strewn across the oak desk. 

Aemond groaned above you, spilling hot, his cock throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. You blinked to focus, your lashes wet from your tears. He looked down at you, bending over until his face pressed to your chest, his lips littering you with careful kisses as he softened and slipped from your cunt. 

You felt the spill, sticky between your thighs, your skin aflame with every press of his lips. Aemond pushed up, but not before slipping his arm under the arch of your back, pulling you up with him. His hands moved to cradle your face, another kiss to draw your breath. 

“Stay,” he whispered, “but only if you want.” 

You nodded in a daze, watching as he moved around you: a damp cloth that wiped away his spend, his fingers curling beneath your chin as he placed another kiss on your forehead. He pulled away the last of your silk, and you nestled under his sheets, your body bare and molding to your husband, enjoying the heat that permeated from him and the rhythm of his heart against his skin. 

It was a new beginning with the same characters, that which included the damn maester who would later announce that you were, in fact, pregnant.

Only this time, you would hold no paternal doubt for the silver haired babe you were surely carrying. 

Only If For A Night masterlist arcie's navi | HotD masterlist

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Anyone interested in a Hobbit fixer-upper? Its roof has turned to hay, so the shire is in dire need of some sod. It has quite an oversized garage, though, doesn't it? (The 3rd bay is for an RV.) The 1988 hobbit house in Elverson, Pennsylvania has 3bds, 2ba, $450K.

This is nice, I like the curving stairs, and I'm a sucker for old knotty pine.

It actually looks like a normal house inside, but you can "shire it up." The living room is pretty big and gets lots of natural light.

Open dining area and kitchen. The carpeting has to go, though. Double sliders to the outdoors and some closets, plus knotty pine paneling complete the space.

The kitchen's dated and has the cheap laminate cabinets, but they don't looked chipped or anything. The tile floor is in good shape, too, and the appliances look new. Check.

Let me just show you my idea about how you can "shire it up." It's one of my favorite homes. This is the kitchen in Terri Windling's former home called "Weaver's Cottage," and if this isn't hobbit decor, I don't know what is. Isn't this cool?

And, this is the living room of Weaver's Cottage. Can you picture this home looking like it? If you'd like to see more, here's the link: https://www.terriwindling.com/blog/houses/page/4/

Bedroom #1 is off the the dining room.

This bath has typically retro tile. I've taken off the shower doors in one house I lived in, they're easily removed.

The bedrooms are pretty much the same. Blank canvases.

The upstairs bath has more hobbit-y cabinetry, but I don't know what happened to the one on the right.

This one has nicer tile.

It's nice up here. They working on that structure, and it looks like it may be for a wood burning stove.

There are sliders to a terrace, too. This is a nice space.

There's an RV in the garage. I don't know if it conveys or what the story is.

The house is on a 4 acre lot.

Seems to be a nice area. I don't know how this works in the winter, but there's no paved driveway to this home.

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (27) Jealousy

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter27)

Summary: Rosie and Timothy travel the Greek islands. An intriguing experience on Santorini, puzzles and irks Rosie immensely. When Timothy doesn't react to her liking, there's only one option on how to move forward.

Twenty-Seven Years Old

To celebrate my birthday and my new fulltime job as a political risk analyst, Timothy and I went island-hopping in Greece. Liwia and her girlfriend had done it last year, and it appealed to us both. Having nothing but the flights planned, made me feel a bit reckless but it was quite freeing as well.

The only thing we’d decided on was to stick to the Cyclades and we started our journey by taking a ferry to the small island Antiparos. Several people who let out rooms stood waiting on the quay as we disembarked. An elderly and friendly looking man caught our attention, and the room he had to offer was more than sufficient.

Our first breakfast is one I’ll remember forever. The small restaurant was situated by the seafront where the fishing boats came in with their catch. Faded coloured fishing nets hung to dry in the sun, the scent of salt weaving its way to our nostrils.

Freshly pressed orange juice and the fluffiest omelette I’d ever come across, ensured the perfect start of our day.

We hired a moped to explore a little. The trip took us through a landscape of olive trees and flowers we didn’t have in the UK. Our destination was the famous cave with stalagmites and stalactites. The stalagmite at the entrance is apparently 45 million years old, the oldest in Europe. 

We were warm and a bit sweaty after standing out in the sun, while we waited for our guide. The air inside was pleasantly chill and got even colder as we descended the 411 steps to the heart of the cave. It was a mesmerising sight, and knowing that this was the nature’s own doing, left me amazed and humble.

At a cosy taverna we ate the best Greek salad to date. The ripe tomatoes paired with the salty feta cheese, olives, onions, the rich olive oil and the homemade bread, almost made me religious for a moment.

The beach close to our quarters, was small, secluded and blessedly free of crowds. We had taken a boat to a famous beach the day before, but we’d barely found a free space to lay down our blankets, so this felt like paradise in comparison. 

Another short boat ride away was the bigger island Paros. We took the bus to the other side of the island. I don’t remember anything else from that trip than the hours we spent in Naoussa. Several boats painted in bright colours lay bobbing in the water close to the restaurants that encircled the bay. It may sound simple, but it was the most beautiful view, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. We sat there for hours, eating seafood and drinking Greek white wine. 

***

So far, it had been a “normal” vacation, or tedious as Papa would’ve called it. That all ended when we sat foot on Santorini. Getting a room was easy enough, and relieved of our heavy rucksacks we went for a stroll in the main street of Fira. Every other shop was a jewellery shop, and the necklaces displayed bore the resemblance to what pharaohs and Cleopatra wore. Heavy, massive and ridiculously expensive. For each shop they seemed to grow bigger and uglier. We had quite a laugh at that.

The most peculiar thing happened at the restaurant we had lunch. It was a terrace with a breathtaking view over the Aegean Sea. We’d decided to stay for a while and ordered more iced tea, making ourselves comfortable under the big parasol. We had both brought a book, and for a while we read in silence. A repetitive sound of paper being ripped, caught my attention.

An elderly woman had taken up residence at the table next to ours. She had short frizzy hair, more grey than brown now, her glasses were round with a white frame. The summer dress she wore had big patterns in green, red, white, and orange. On her feet were white flip-flops. 

“Stop staring,” Timothy whispered.

He startled me and I looked annoyed at him, but averted my eyes and took a sip of my drink. The moment the sound of ripped paper reached my ears again, my eyes were drawn to the spectacle at the other table.

The woman read a book too. A paperback. The curious thing I almost couldn’t fathom, was that whenever she finished a page, she ripped it out and placed it in a pile under her plate. Why would anyone want to do such a thing? What if you needed to go back some pages to look up something you’ve missed. It could never be read by another person, since she apparently left pages wherever she sat down to read. It bore no logic, and it irked me.

“Aren’t you curious about why she does it?” I whispered to Timothy.

“Not particularly. My book is far too interesting, and you won’t get an answer unless you ask her, and I guess you aren’t inclined to do that,” was his phlegmatic answer.

Timothy’s ability to turn off the world and disappear into his reading or writing, was admirable, but now it almost made me jealous of his book. I wanted to speculate with someone, solve this odd conundrum. There would be no more reading on my part after this, so I took out my phone instead.

Want to solve a mystery for me?

Pray tell! I’m bored to death and about to shoot the wall. P

Also available on AO3

Friendly warning: after 25 years the mystery is still unsolved. Don’t be shy about suggesting what the meaning of this appalling behaviour could be 🤭

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[shadowynn]

| midnight reveries | preview |

hi! so, i couldn't resist the temptation to start working on something new when a new idea hit me in full force. this piece is something that will probably be a bit of a wait before i fully start working on it, but just thought i'd give you a little taste of what's to come. full disclosure, though, things may change between now and later as i work further through ideas and plotlines, but i'm 99% the events in this preview will come to take place at some point in the story.

at the moment though, i'd probably best categorize this piece as:

yandere!poly!cyberpunk!gang! ateez x reader

also, this preview is just a roughdraft, typos probably abound and writing is a little rough and wonky, but i really wanted to share it all with you.

warnings: yandere behavior, kidnapping, mentions of drugging

wordcount: 1k

~~~

It was a struggle to regain your senses, brain muddled by the drugs that had recently flooded your system. Someone, somewhere was speaking, but it was impossible to make out, your mind not quite able to grab onto it in your current state. The only thing you were certain of in that exact moment was the way your entire body ached, with the majority of the pain centered at the forefront of your forehead, more intense than anything you had experienced before. 

You struggled to open your eyes, lids heavy from your previous unconsciousness, only to discover they had been bound tightly by some sort of cloth. Out of instinct, you went to reach for the blindfold, only to find your hands had also been bound behind you. 

A part of you knew the unknown situation was cause for panic, but you were too disoriented to allow the panic to properly build inside you. Your confusion overtook any and every other emotion that might have arisen, leaving you struggling to figure out just what had happened and where you were now. The last thing you remembered was heading out onto the terrace for some air, desperate for a breather after the fight with your father. There were hints of something else hidden between your thoughts, images of a man in a mask, but every time you attempted to grasp at it, his face slipped through your grip, fading from view completely. 

You had been tied to a wooden chair, wrists bound to the wooden posts supporting your back. The rope dug into your skin, each turn of your wrists causing it to bite into your skin, rubbing them raw. 

You could feel the panic rising as the weight of the situation finally began to sink in. You didn’t know where you were or how exactly you had gotten in this position, but that hardly mattered at the moment. The only thing that did was not letting your panic get the better of you and finding a way out of here. 

But that was easier said than, and it was near impossible for you to keep your chest from tightening as the panic continued to build. Your hands fumbled with their binds, attempting to find some way to slip them free, but the struggle only seemed to bind them tighter. You weren't Fi, which meant you wouldn’t be getting out of them anytime soon. 

Think, y/n, think. 

You forced yourself to take a second and breathe, clearing your mind to focus on taking in as much as you could of your surroundings in your given state. You might have been blind, but you could just make out the faint scent of oil and gasoline. This combined with the periodic rumble of the trains told you, you were being held somewhere downtown, quite probably near or in Arachnis.

The voices were getting louder now, growing clearer with each passing second. You stilled your movements, struggling to keep your breathing even, but you couldn’t make anything out other than the lower tone of a masculine voice. No, wait, voices. There were definitely at least two of them.

A door opened up behind you, nearly making you jump in your seat. The panic you had kept at bay up to this point hit you at full force, making it near impossible for you to keep your breathing even. You didn't want to show your fear, not wanting your captors to know just the state they had you in, but hiding your panic was impossible when a hand grabbed hold of your chin, tugging your face upwards and eliciting a gasp from you. 

“It appears our sleeping beauty has finally woken up.” The voice sounded from directly in front of you, causing you to attempt and shrink back to create some distance. His grip on your chin was tight, however, keeping you locked in place as he tilted your face to each side to inspect it. 

You were distinctly aware of how powerless you were at the moment, but did your best to not let the worse case scenarios run through your head. You couldn't afford to let them get in your mind any more than they were already.

“What the hell do you want from me?” You attempted to keep your voice even, but even you could hear the warble in it. Your head had cleared the earlier haze that had clouded it when you first awoke, but you were no closer to piecing together the events that had led you to this point. You had been at home, outside on the roof terrace and then… then what? There had been a man, right? Someone you hadn’t recognized and then a sharp sting at your neck before everything went dark. 

“y/n m/n l/n.” There was another man behind you, running through your full name with ease as he paced behind you, only serving to tell you your kidnapping hadn't been random. “Age: 22. Birthday: October 29th..."

You struggled to keep the shiver that racked your body as he continued to rattle off random facts about you, furthering your theory you were here for a reason. Just what that reasoning was, however, you weren't sure. Had one of your recent night trips to Arachnis with Fi angered someone?

"But, most importantly, you're the one and only daughter of our lovely Commissioner Hex.” His footsteps came to a stop behind you, arms leaning against the back of your chair to bend down to your level. Fabric tickled the side of your face, signaling he was wearing some form of mask. “Which is really quite the surprise, wouldn’t you say? He certainly has never made mention of you before, now has he? And why would that be, hmm?”

“So, you know who I am,” you replied, trying to keep your fear at bay once you realized this had nothing to do with you and Fi but everything to do with your father. He must have finally crossed the line and pissed off the wrong person. “That doesn’t tell me why you tied me up or why you brought me here.”

“It’s rather simple, really.” It was the man behind you who replied, fingers twirling the strands of your hair. “Your father has been a pain in our ass ever since he was elected and sadly, no matter how nicely we’ve asked him in the past, he doesn’t seem very keen on acknowledging just who runs this city.”

“That’s where you come in, princess.” The man in front of you continued, fingers tightening against your chin. “I’m sure daddy will be a lot more willing to listen once he realizes it’s not just his ass on the line anymore.”

“So, smile for the camera, sweetheart.” The man from behind leaned further down, fabric rubbing against the side of your face as he shoved it next to yours. “We’re about to have so much fun together.”

[redheadspark]

June prompt #6 with azriel would be 🤌😩*chef's kiss*

A/N - This one will be nice and short with some mushiness in it! Thanks for the request, anon!

Fruit of Labor

Summary - You remind Azriel of how important he is to Velaris, even over glasses of wine

Warnings -Just some cute fluff

“Ah, finally!”

“Sounds like you had a rough day,” 

“More like delinquents up at the camp, my love,”

You looked up from your paperwork, seeing your husband sink into the armchair across from you and rub his temples with a hint of frustration and fatigue.  You placed your paperwork down on the pile on the floor, folding your fingers in your lap as you watched him unwind in the armchair, you cocking your head at him as you noticed his wings were sagging to the floor on either sides of the armrest.  

“These new soldiers are not up to par, I take it?” You asked as he shook his head.

“No, they’re going to be fine soldiers.  We need to break them in and get them on board,” Azriel hummed behind his squinted eyes as he finally opened them and looked over at you with a tired smile.  You reached her to take his hand in your own, massaging his palm with your fingers.  

“Maybe you should take a break from being up there,” You suggested as he was watching your intertwined fingers hanging between your armchairs, “Cassian should be able to handle the new soldiers without you,”

He hummed, you knew he was thinking about it but he was still drained.  It was evident in his eyes and how he was sagging in the chair.  Sometimes he would come back from the training camp with high hopes, a pep in his step with plenty to tell you.  You never minded hearing him talk about it since he could barely telling you anything about his spy duties or placed he would have to fly to for Rhysand.  

Yet there were other days that he came home and simply wanted to not talk about his day. That was understandable, it was stressful to not just recruit new soldiers but to train them.  Those roughers days you would try to help him ease the stress he had.  Running him a bath, cooking him one of his favorite dishes, or even going on a long walk with him through the city.  

But this time, you knew what would help him.

“Come with me, my dear,” You said to him, pulling him out of his chair and guiding him over to the kitchen.  Azriel followed him, not letting go of your hand while you both were now in front of the small liquor cabinet.  You never were a drinker, nor was Azriel.  Yet it was a gift from Rhsyand when he offered you two the little home as a wedding gift, including a wet bar in the kitchen.  Arzriel thought It was unnecessary, yet he couldn’t say no to his brother and best friend. 

“Here,” said, letting go of his hand and pulling out two glasses and pouring yourself a glass of red wine, the same wine Mor gave you for your birthday.  But when you were about to grab the whiskey bottle that Azriel would usually drink on rare occasions, he took the bottle gently from your hands to place it back on the cabinet. 

“I’ll drink wine with you tonight,” He explained as you were giving him a confused look.  He poured the wine, you both taking your glasses and then walking over to the backdoor where you had a small backyard terrace that gave a great view of Velaris below you.

The terrace was gorgeous, planned and created by Elaine as part of your wedding gift.  Plenty of busses and flowers were outline the area, a small black iron fence made the outline as your house was nestled on a little hill.  The city was below you, showing off all the houses and shops that descended down into the bay with the massive mountains to the right.  You loved this part of the house, especially during a warmer summer night.  

Just like tonight.  

You both made it over to the bench that was perched in the grass, right in front of the bench to show all of the city.  Azriel sat first, then helped you sit next to him with his arm draped along the back of the bench to touch your upper back and neck.  You grinned, taking a drink of your wine as you both were watching the scattering lights of the buildings and shops.  The soft hum of the night, along with the bugs and insects that were active at night, made the mood lighter and simpler.

“You know, this is my favorite view,” you explained to him as he was watching the scene in front of you both, “Sometimes when I knew I’m stressed out with what we’re trying to do for Velaris, or how we’re going to handle any obstacles, I simply come out here and look at the city.  Do you know what I see when I do?”

Azriel stayed silent but looked from the city to you as you pointed out in front of the pair of you.

“I see a happy city, a safe city, but most of all I see a city that is thriving because of all that we have done over the centuries.  The hard work up at the camp or the planning with the Inner Circle is pulling off when I see the peace here in this city, in this court,” You explained, seeing his face going a bit soft as you spoke, “You have worked so hard to be where you are now.  These people are living their lives with no worries or fears, all thanks to you,”

“It’s mostly Rhysand..” He was about argue with you, you huffing and reaching over with the spare hand to making him stare at you intently.  His eyes went big from the sudden movement, though they weren’t afraid as you stared him down.

“You’ve done good, Az.  Take the credit where the credit is due, okay?  I know the work you have done and I see the fruits of your labor.  Azriel, you have done so much for Night Court, alright?” You asked him in a bolder tone, clearly wanting it to get through his stubborn mind that he was making get progress and doing great works for the city.  

He’ll never take credit when it was given to him.  Your husband would work int he shadows and not be seen, it was better for him sine he hated being in the spotlight or getting massive recognition.  But you knew that he needed to hear how big of an impact that he made, the ripple effect that happened because of him.  

Finally, your husband smiled, truly smiled for the first time that evening.  You placed your wine on the ground next to you on the ground, moving back to frame his face in both hands and kiss him under the stars.  He kissed back, leaning into you a bit as his hand behind your back moved to wrap around your waist and tug you in a bit closer.  You giggled, kissing him one more time before you pulled away and eyed him with love.

“Take the credit, okay?” You asked him, hearing him laugh as he nodded.

“Yes, ma’am,” He replied, you pecking him on the nose before you grabbed his wine glass from his hands swiftly and took a small drink.  Now he gave you a shocked look.

“You have your own drink,” He countered, though his smile was playful as you drank down the small sip and shrugged.

“You’re not gonna stop me,” You replied, seeing him then roll his eyes as you leaned back on the bench again .  

“Fine, give me your glass,” he said, holding out his spare hand with patience.  You knew he was back to his playful self again, the same Azriel that was filled with some aloofness and joy that he had when you two met. You knew you would try and bring that joy to him when he was drifting away from it, over and over.  

After you handed him your own glass, you both were sipping each other’s wine as you were watching the view go on and the stars glisten high above.  The peace of the city was evident and inviting, you leaning your head on Azriel’s shoulder as he was scanning the very city that he fought to protect and help thrive.  

Indeed, the fruits of his labor were evident.  

The End

June Summer Prompts

[aheathen-conceivably]

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[aneurinallday]

Green Eyes

Chapter 7: A New Life

By the time doubt began to creep in at the edges, it was too late - the promise had already been made, and Thomas Shelby had no intention of breaking his word.

As they departed Birmingham City on a cloudy afternoon in early April, Alec cradled the baby in his lap and stared out of the car window. He watched as the factories and terraces turned into semi-detached houses with little gardens, then into farmhouses and crops - urban rot giving way to suburban tedium and finally into open country.

“Look, Clara,” he said, lifting her up, “There are cows.”

“Ever been out of the city before?” Thomas asked.

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Maybe my parents took me when I was a child and I don’t remember.”

“Who were your parents?”

“Nobody worth remembering.”

“Dead, then?”

“Maybe. I don’t even know.”

Onwards they drove. Alec rested his head against the glass, and looked on as the only life he’d ever known disappeared out of sight, a new life beginning to creep in at the edges. Thomas was silent at the wheel. Nothing needed to be said.

At some point Alec dozed off, Clara fast asleep in his arms, until a bump in the road jolted him awake and he found himself surrounded by the wide fields and rolling hills of Warwickshire. He glanced in the rear-view mirror as if expecting to see the city in the distance, but saw only more sky. They were in the true countryside now.

“Are we almost there?” he asked.

“Need to piss?”

“No, but she will soon.”

“Just as well. Look to your left.”

Alec obeyed. The wild hedgerows turned into well-kept hedges, and the asphalt into gravel, and soon they turned a corner to see their destination awaiting them: a red-brick manor-house with a symmetrical facade of stone accents and mullioned bay windows, its roofs punctuated by neat rows of chimneys.

“This is your home?” Alec exclaimed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure what, though.”

Thomas parked somewhat carelessly - he knew a manservant would come and take the car to the garages - and they stepped out into the breeze. Alec breathed deep of the country air.

“It smells different,” he said, “It smells clean.”

“There’s not a steel foundry for miles,” said Thomas. “Just some rich people’s summer homes.” Relieved to be out of the car, he lit a cigarette and began to puff.

Holding the baby with one arm, Alec reached for his meagre belongings in the back seat.

“Leave it. The servants will bring everything up to your room.”

“My room? Not yours?”

Thomas wasn’t sure if Alec was teasing or not.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, and led the way towards the porch, gravel crunching under their shoes.

Alec turned to look back the way they’d come, admiring the colourful flowerbeds and carefully curated topiary. He wasn’t sure where the property ended and the surrounding farmland began.

“All this land - it belongs to you?”

“That’s right.”

“And those fields too?”

“Two-thousand acres,” Thomas confirmed.

Realising Alec was no longer behind him, he glanced back. Alec was lingering at the flowerbeds, trying to get Clara to pluck a blossom.

“Come on,” Thomas summoned him, “Let’s get inside.”

They passed through the stone-columned porch and into the main hall, over which loomed the grand staircase.

“Welcome to Arrow House,” Thomas sighed, “I’ll show you around, but I don’t have all day. Come on.”

He guided Alec around the downstairs in a business-like manner, unable to hide his disinterest in the trappings of his own wealth.

Alec followed him in awe, craning his neck to marvel at the high ceilings and glittering chandeliers. By the standards of the rich, it was a home like any other. But to him, it was a palace to rival Versailles. He soaked in every detail: the wood-panelled walls and gold-framed paintings, the fur rugs and patterned carpets, the figurine lamps on pedestals and little ornaments on mantelpieces. Despite its lavishness, it wasn’t gaudy like the Arcadia - these things had been chosen for their elegance, not for their shine.

“Look at that, Clara,” he cooed, “This is our home now. Mister Shelby is going to let us live here. Isn’t he kind to us?”

The baby was less concerned with their new residence and more with her father’s shirt. Oblivious to the opulence surrounding her, she grasped at his lapels with tiny hands, and attempted to put the buttons in her mouth.

“The building is from the 1830s,” said Thomas as they entered the parlour, “Or the 1840s, I can’t remember. You’d be better off asking the housekeeper, she knows more than - ”

“A piano!” Alec interrupted.

With the giddy eagerness of a child on Christmas morning, he hurried past Thomas to admire the grand piano that stood in the middle of the parlour. He reached for the black-and-white keys with one hand, but stopped himself before touching them.

“Do you play, Mister Shelby?”

“Not for the life of me. I bought it for my son.”

“I can play. Not very well, but I know how. The pianist at the club was giving me lessons, but Mister Cobb made him stop. He said my singing was hard enough to listen to without me subjecting people to an instrument too.”

“Sounds like an excuse. He probably didn’t want you learning another skill. Too many skills and you’d be able to find another job.”

“Maybe. He also said I looked better standing up, not sitting down.”

“Well, that’s Cobb’s business. You can play as much as you like.”

“Thank you.”

“Now come on, let’s go. I’ve got work to do.”

They continued onwards. Thomas pushed open the door of the library which served as his study. Alec gaped at the carven bookshelves which towered all the way up to the ceiling, stacked with antique classics.

“Here’s the library, and that’s where I do my work. You can read all of the books you want, but don’t go near my desk.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Good.”

They’d circled back around to the main hall, reaching the foot of the grand staircase.

“It’s so big in here,” said Alec, “I feel like I can finally breathe. We could go days without seeing each other, if we wanted.”

“Already avoiding me?”

“No, but you might get tired of having me around.”

Ascending the stairs, they passed a large family portrait: Thomas, Grace, and a baby boy.

“Is that your wife?”

“Yes.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“She was,” Thomas agreed curtly.

“How did you meet - ”

“Don’t talk about her.”

Alec was silent the rest of the way up the staircase. They passed the master bedroom - the door of which was firmly shut - and several guest rooms before reaching a south-facing suite.

“This is you,” he said, and watched as Alec stepped into what must’ve felt like a dream.

Like the rest of the house, it was richly furnished in dark rosewood and mahogany, with elegant lamps and floor-length embroidered curtains. There was a chaise longue where he could sit and read, and a soft rug to greet his feet in the morning, and a bed wide enough for two.

“All of this is mine and Clara’s?”

“All of it.”

“It’s twice the size of my flat in Saltley.” Alec ducked into the bathroom, and let out a wordless exclamation as he discovered the large porcelain tub, complete with hot and cold taps. “And there’s proper plumbing! Look, Clara! I won’t have to put water on the stove any more.”

Thomas snorted with amusement.

“Next door is the nursery,” he said.

“Nursery?” Alec re-emerged from the bathroom with a confused expression.

“She’ll need her own space, and so will you.”

“Oh.” Alec hadn’t even considered the prospect. With Clara in his arms, he sat down on the edge of the bed. As he looked around the room, the glow of excitement seemed to fade, and the overwhelming reality of the situation - that he was going to be living here for the foreseeable future - seemed to set in. He looked lost.

“Are you hungry?” Thomas asked.

“Yes. But tired too.”

“Get some rest. I’ll send food up for you, and fruit for the baby.”

“Thank you. Will the servants care about…you know…us?”

“No. They’re used to it by now. And I pay them too well for them to care.”

Glad to be done with the awkward business of the tour, Thomas retreated to his study. He attempted to lose himself in his work, but was unable to shake Alec’s presence from his mind. He tried not to consider the gravity of his decision, opening his doors to a near-stranger. The grand promises of a better future he’d made because he was rich enough to indulge himself in fleeting fantasies.

If things turned sour and he was compelled to eject Alec from his home, there was no question that Clara would have to go too - separating the pair was unthinkable. But why should a baby be punished, simply because its father had failed to stay in Thomas Shelby’s good graces? Even if Thomas let them go with a generous sum of money, the emotional toll it would take on Alec - having a good, safe home within his grasp and then losing it - would be cruel.

The potential for this arrangement to turn into a mess made Thomas wonder if it was even worth the risk. But then he remembered the chandelier-light falling on Alec’s upturned face, and the happiness overflowing from the young man in that moment, and his doubts subsided. Joy like that, even if it proved temporary, was worth any risk.

Thomas was so absorbed in his business that he didn’t realise the room had grown dark until a maid tapped on the door.

“Shall I turn the main light on, Mister Shelby? You’ll strain your eyes.”

“Hm?” Thomas glanced up at the grandfather clock, disorientated to find that he needed his glasses to tell the time. “No, no. I’m about to turn in. Thanks, Mary.”

He retired for the night, but along the way, stopped by Alec’s guest room. He found it empty. Alec’s belongings had been unpacked and were strewn haphazardly about, as if he hadn’t decided where to store them yet. Shirts with mended elbows, combs with missing teeth, a flapper dress whose tassels were fraying at the ends. Thomas took stock of how inadequate the inventory was, already half-planning to replace these tatty things with tailored suits and expensive perfumes, before remembering that he’d done plenty already.

On the spacious bed was a cold, half-eaten tray of food: fruit salad, Duchess potatoes, blanched and seasoned vegetables, and a game pie containing venison, hare, partridge, pigeon, and pheasant in a rich gravy, the pastry decorated with a braided design of leaves and flowers. The unfamiliar luxury of it must’ve sickened an already anxious stomach. Alec had probably never eaten deer in his life.

“I’m in here, Mister Shelby,” a soft voice came through the wall. Alec must’ve heard his footsteps.

Thomas found him in the nursery, standing over the curtained crib where he’d placed Clara, gazing down at her while she chewed toothlessly on her old teddy bear’s paw. Toys were everywhere: on the shelves and on the dresser and on the floor. Painted dolls with real hair, and carved soldiers with red coats. Wooden dogs and horses on wheels, with strings for pulling them around. More toys than Alec could’ve ever imagined buying for his daughter. By the window was a rocking chair, where he could sit with her on picturesque afternoons and look out across the gardens.

Without raising his head at the sound of Thomas’s entrance, he said:

“It’s lovely in here. Was this your son’s room?”

“Yes.” Thomas’s gaze fell on a folded blanket on the shelf - a crocheted baby blanket with Charles’s initials worked into the pattern, probably a gift from one of Grace’s friends. He quickly looked away. “Most of these things were his. Some are new.”

“I always…” Alec began, but then hesitated. “I always dreamed, but I never thought…Thank you for everything, Mister Shelby.”

He swayed on his feet, and gripped the side of Clara’s crib to steady himself.

“I don’t deserve her,” he said, “I don’t any of this. I’ve done nothing but bad things in my life. How could so many good things happen to me?”

“You’re tired,” said Thomas. “Go to bed.”

“I’m not sure if I should.” Alec didn’t take his eyes off the sleeping baby.  “I don’t like her sleeping alone. What if something happens?”

“Nothing will happen. She’ll be fine.”

“I know. I know, it’s just…We’ve always shared a room. Always.”

“You’ll only be a door away. You’ll hear her if she cries.”

“What if you hear it too? I don’t want her to disturb you. You might get…irritated.”

“I’ve lived with crying babies before. I’ll survive. Go to bed.”

“I will,” Alec promised, “I’ll wait ‘til she’s settled.”

“Suit yourself.”

Thomas left him standing there with his thoughts, and went to bed with his own. As he undressed in the lamplight, he felt - if only for a moment - a strange discomfort that he couldn’t define. Perhaps a sense of shame, but he wasn’t sure why. What did he have to be embarrassed about? His age? His wealth? His line of work?

He brushed off the feeling, dimmed the lamps, and climbed between the covers. As he usually did, he turned his back to Grace’s side of the bed. The darkness settled over him like a blanket.

Through half-asleep ears, he heard the door-knob turn and the floorboards creak softly. Grace, he thought. Then a voice whispered:

“Mister Shelby?”

Thomas jolted awake, reaching instinctively for the pistol in his bedside drawer, but stopped himself before he touched it.

Alec was standing over the bed in a white night-shirt, his curls tousled from a failed attempt to sleep.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Thomas was scanning the young man’s hands, searching for a weapon. Alec was unarmed. Of course. Thomas sighed at his own reaction. “What do you want?”

“Can I sleep with you?”

“You don’t need to.”

“But I want to.”

“Alright. If you insist.”

Alec eased under the duvet, and drew himself close until their bodies were pressed together. His feet were cold from crossing the floorboards that separated their rooms.

“You’re warm,” he murmured. “I’ve missed this. Have you?”

Thomas said nothing. ‘No’ would’ve been a lie, but ‘yes’ would’ve been an admittance of weakness he wasn’t ready to make.

“You can come to my room whenever you want,” Alec whispered, “Or I can come to yours - ”

“Just go to sleep,” Thomas interjected.

Alec dutifully fell silent. The gentle puffs of his breath against Thomas’s shoulder became slower and steadier, until he was fast asleep.

Thomas stared into the dark. The sensation of another body in his marriage bed was so familiar, yet so different it was almost disconcerting. The empty space where Grace had once lain had been filled, but by someone who didn’t belong there. It felt wrong, and yet…

The darkness grew heavier, or perhaps it was just his eyelids. Sleep came without warning and almost against his will.

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 11: Alone (Part 2)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: ANGST (like, hella angst), non-canon character deaths, descriptions of violence, animal injury/death (I’M SORRY), Reader experiencing Trauma TM, Obi doing his best.

Summary: While leading a clone battalion through a routine supply delivery, you suffer a surprise ambush. However, with Obi-Wan away leading the rendezvous as he simultaneously investigates new elements surrounding your being, you are left alone to make the hard-hitting decisions expected of leaders during The Clone Wars. But when the present meshes with the past, how will you perform as deeply buried struggles are forced to the surface?

Song Inspo: Alone — Neil Finn

Words: 9.1K

A/n: Oh boy, this one is gonna be heavy y'all. And that's all I'll say. Enjoy 😈

Previous Chapter

Series Masterlist

You lose them a thousand times in a thousand ways. You say a thousand goodbyes. You hold a thousand funerals — Sara Seager

“80% of the containers have been secured in the port bay with the rest being carried in as we speak,” Boil relayed, pointed finger strictly scrolling through his datapad that hummed a striking cobalt glow amidst Lanos’s softer, earthy tones.

He stood at the ready to your left with his helm resting under an arm, taking in each and every two-to-three digit number emanating from the device while you surveyed the array of pale blue repulsersleds bustling atop the port’s grayed, metal landing platform. Ferrying tightly strapped cargo into the bay alongside their clone guardians like a flawless, tapered conveyor belt adhering to a strict timetable.

Most notable, however, was the way this living machine collectively dwarfed the sporadic bands of clone lieutenants who, toting their own Republic-issued datapads, coordinated delivery logistics with counterpart supply port stationaries. Though the brighter energies that rippled through the Force certainly haggled for a higher podium, as the latter of those two, similarity garbed groups seemed all the more enlivened by the marginal increase in activity on such an otherwise docile planet.

“The station Sergeant is currently off-base engaging another matter—,” Boil mentioned off-handedly. “—but sends his regards.”

“Thanks, Boil,” you hummed, silver orbs drifting beyond the organized fuss that circled like bees calculating predetermined patterns long ago inscribed in their very DNA.

Those same eyes flitted by the steel, square-cut terrace’s narrowed path which assumed the shape of a bottleneck in its stretch through the far, inner bay. Then, past the raised, blocky, metallic structure trading in checkered viewports for highly reinforced paneling. One that every day offered the station’s clones a welcome retreat from the planet’s emphatically beating, yellow sun. Just as it shielded them from any other element posing as a threat to the Republic’s mission.

To its perseverance through this war.

“I suppose the next step is to finish the delivery before regrouping to return to The Negotiator,” you evenly deduced. “Right?”

The sharp-eyed clone offered a slight nod. “Affirmative.”

But even foreign structures that cried Coruscanti architecture and hammered down brutalist design amidst Lanos’s creamy breezes and florid expanse did little to hold your attention. Those motionless, gray confines battling against any root or creeping vine that dared to snake under its foundation or slither across its walls failed to yank at your outer lip’s muscles.

At least, not with a vigor comparable to the involuntary jolt you felt strike those same nerves just from the swiping flash of a certain bunch of saffron fur scampering by the tree line.

Though, in spite of the curious, fox-like creature’s daring attempts to acquire the title ‘Honorary Republic Recruit’ from afar, the attentive animal still maintained a devoted caution as they steered a wide berth around the manmade metals which, like a disease, thinned the once lusciously stretching trees bordering its walls.

Instead, the well-groomed critter found temporary solace in nuzzling their tail with cheerfully squinted eyes amidst the deeper, healthier greens and sturdier trunks carrying thicker bark. A microcosm of the wider forest’s hilly character, which rolled around the entrenched, and fairly hidden, compound before flinging back out again for miles, like massive waves frozen in time millennia ago to house a countless abundance of life.

“If you’re worried about that animal interfering with platform operations, I can send a few boys to scare it off.”

“No, no,” you quickly assured with a flicking wave of your hand, dismissing the no-nonsense clone while silver eyes strung to distant, peering yellows.

“That’s alright. They aren’t hurting anyone. Just curious.”

“Understood,” he asserted quickly before stretching back into his planned briefing with a muscle memory akin to the dash of his head toward the glowing datapad.

“Because the storm has cleared it should be an easy takeoff. The shuttles will be able to meet us at port.”

“Sounds like our legs will finally get a break,” you teased lightly, sending the horseshoe-bearded man a knowing glance.

A deep, throaty chuckle fell from his lips as you lifted a few fingers to flit away another droplet of sweat rushing down your forehead from the increasingly belting heat and weakening gusts whose dying breaths failed to chill the air.

“I certainly hope—“

A sharp, singeing thread tugged at your prickling senses from within the Force, snapping your neck toward the source of the sensation before the flaring, scarlet bolt rapidly consuming your vision launched your nimble body, arms fanned out, to roughly shove Boil out of the way. Sending you both tumbling toward the unforgiving ground as the steaming blaze just barely hurled above each of your heads.

“Ambush!” You screamed after sorely rolling off the rather surprised clone and onto a less bruised back, primary hand clawing for your belt.

Your madly thrashing heart reigned into a steady chill with the initial pulse of adrenaline beginning to wean. And by pure chance alone, it was in that very brief second, as blood rushed past ear drums, that you began to feel an unexpectedly sudden heat center on your left wrist.

Thrusting that very arm up and into your vision, you spotted the sporadic, bubbling crackles and scarlet sparks of a damaged wrist comm whose drooping, dark metal structure threatened to melt into your already itching arm.

Quickly, you scrambled to your feet, right hand tightly wrapped around your unclasped saber as you levied it to thwack off the sizzling comm, permitting the decaying device to clatter across the dense platform as it sibilated into spare parts.

Having freed yourself of that discomfort, you swiftly ignited the saber’s buzzing, gray glow before angling toward the damage-inflicting direction. Yet even still amidst such a swift spin, you couldn’t help but absorb just how the landscape’s bright aura, which once overshadowed the rear port’s barren metallurgic twilight, now hung moodier as peaceful woods suddenly turned not so serene.

Emerging from the left side of a large hill positioned before the facility appeared an ever-growing array of creaking and whining metallic beasts.

With the prickling hairs atop the nape of your neck, you felt as the rear clones rushed to their assigned stations while a line of at least ten… twenty….. thirty and counting mustard yellow, beaked droids carrying stringy arms and legs jounced through the ground’s apex with grimy, heavy-duty blasters secured in hand.

Interspersed within their ranks and towering at least triple their size inched forward a darker, all-encompassing model whose pointed soles shredded verdant grass into marred, brittle soil. Colicoid-like droids that commanded three jointed legs, two weaponized arms, and a spine contorting into some sort of red-fanged face that curved inwards, all behind a spherical shield which quivered a transparent blue.

That’s what must’ve nearly hit Boil, you surmised, when another one of those cold, rigid arms blasted off a similarly behaved bolt toward a far cargo container. Shattering it into scattering, hot white-and-red shards, and sending a few nearby clones flying by some feet as a cacophony of shocked yells stalked their paths.

And, unfortunately, it appeared that second blast was enough to effectively signal the rest of the progressively expanding battalion to finally commence their full-fledged attack.

Streaks of thick, fiery crimson, slender orange, and harsh blue beams coated the sky like violent patchwork, darkening the planet’s once stilled and luscious atmosphere into one of rising, smoky death. Filling your nostrils with the noxious scent of burning plasma and battering your eardrums with strained voices that desperately shouted all around you.

“Men, with me!”

“I need help over here!”

“Medic!”

“Move back! Move back!”

“You two, blast ‘em Rollies!”

Their echoes careened over the sharp buzz of your saber as it swung through the air to collide with showering beams. And while, foregoing your long lost wrist comm, you remained relatively unscathed, you still struggled to afford the men fighting alongside you that same luxury.

Far to your left, a quintet of clones gradually retreated through a clean, V-formation as blue spires erupted from their phasers. Only for the incoming brigade’s ceaseless fire to clip the far right soldier’s arm, tearing at his upper plate which oozed a deep crimson athwart its snowy glaze.

Another profuse liberation of deadly rain, and an additional victim emerged as a flaming, hot bolt dug its way through the stepping foot of one of the middlemen, eliciting a pained groan while smoke sprang from the blackening wound.

You tried to help them. Mostly by tapping into their interlinkage with the all-encompassing Force as you’d discovered to do in recent weeks. Relying on this riddled tactic to empower your connection against insurmountable odds as you shoved pre-fired blaster heads into non-lethal directions and tugged out the legs from underneath yellowed battle droids while their brethren marched on unfazed and unfettered.

It wasn’t a chief, battle-altering tactic, but it was sure to meet at least one goal you had in mind: doing everything in your power to give the clones around you those precious, few extra seconds needed to seek cover from this overwhelmingly multiplying attack force.

But you only had so much to give.

No matter what, you couldn’t take your eyes off the eternal task of reflecting away each bolt that careened toward your person. And that was all while making every attempt to reduce the droid’s numbers with a deliberate swipe of your saber or a dexterous application of the Force. But it was when you considered the added responsibility of aiding any nearby clone struggling to defend against perpetually growing enemy numbers that the muddling task became quite daunting.

Suddenly, the corner of your vision caught a familiar, garish tone, drawing your gaze back behind the gradually receding quintet and toward a clone marked by an unavoidable, olive-green circle. A symbol that would’ve blended with the planet’s wider greenery had the billowing plasmic smoke been given enough time to clear.

However, unlike the rest of the platoon, this particular soldier chose instead to steadily march forward, soon passing the withdrawing V-formation like passing ships in the wildest of starless space sectors as he covered their retreat with an azure floodlight of bolts flying from his blaster.

“Get back, Getter!” You commanded, saber swinging elegantly in a controlled retreat as you sent an occasional hard glance toward the disobedient clone.

“I’m Forward Line!” He shouted through the muffled feedback of his sound-amplified helmet, failing to spare any glance away from the threat that marched head-on.

His feet crept forward, indefinite tone communicating his plans while the increasing barrage of bolts threatened your versatility.

“I’ll cove—“

A dense, blistering flare of plasma swiped straight through the eye of Getter’s helmet, leaving a charred, flaky perforation in its place that stifled his body like an off-switch.

He didn’t even tense.

Instead, the moment gravity recalled its birthright, he collapsed like a rag doll. Simply becoming a jumbled pile of arms and legs.

Your jaw slackened as a pinprick chill consumed your body.

“Silvey! Orders!?” Boil cried from close behind as his blaster ricocheted into the panoramic mob.

Row upon row unfurled across the hill’s peak, spilling into the valley’s depths like loose marbles from an endlessly deep bucket.

Though the frigidity that repeatedly ripped down your spine seemed to momentarily disconnect you from its horror as your mind focused on the present threat.

Those larger, curved ‘Rollies’ could transform into whirling spheres, empowering them to rocket down the hillside. Treating anything you were unable to Force shove away in time, be it scattered equipment or Front Line clones, like loose pins for the taking.

And it seemed, as your brain dizzied at the lives being ripped out of good men’s hands, that such a manipulation considered effortlessly simple by any Jedi was becoming too much of a task.

“Get a comm to Kenobi that we need reinforcements yesterday!—“ You yelled somewhat hazily as your mind desperately centered a connective blanket around one of the barreling Rollies so to redirect it into another speeding down beside it, coercing their shields to interact and combust into blue sparks and stinging flames.

You heaved in another gasp of chemically tinted, plasmic smoke.

“—And to bring any ideas on how to cut off this slope! Else we’re sitting ducks!”

“Copy!” He called before you sensed him spin on his heel toward the rear command center.

Until your next words stopped him in his tracks.

Because Getter’s sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.

And you needed to do something.

“I’m getting in the trenches to try to cut these rolling things off!”

You creaked your neck sideways as another hot blast whizzed past your tingling ear.

“You’ll need support!” He advised with a hand cupping his mouth. “I’ll redirect a few boys your way!”

Another bolt diverted toward an unsuspecting set of droids smashed a few of the batch’s heads together.

“No!” You slammed, fending off another wall of vivid fire.

No more men die today.

They can’t.

Not during your first command.

Not ever.

Not after—

No.

“You focus on getting that message to the General,” you continued with gritted teeth, saber spinning into a swelling, pallid fireball. “If I need help, I’ll ask. Now go!”

His boots squeaked against the once sun-dried platform, now spattered with occasional streaks of thick, deep-crimsoned goop. Smattering the sound of his voice as the subtle scent of copper trailed in the air like itinerant pollen that clogged your sinuses and sullied your tastebuds.

“Comm to me in the bay!”

—

Oh, Anakin.

That was the repetitive acknowledgment encircling Obi-Wan’s thoughts as he silently observed Master Yoda, Master Windu, and Chancellor Palpatine’s shivering, blue holocomms occasionally snap out of shape, all while he stood casually in one of the ship’s empty, gray conference rooms to ensure a private meeting.

Calling from such distances was sure to elicit additional signal disturbances, and, sometimes, would even cause temporary blackouts. But fortunately, or unfortunately, for the General, none of those occurrences prevented Kenobi from discovering his former Padawan’s unsanctioned change of plans through a similar comm exchange a few hours ago.

Of course, it was his responsibility to ensure the arrival of the escort in Anakin’s charge. Maybe that’s because, whether tied to the mission or not, Obi-Wan always seemed to be the first to learn about Skywalker’s impulsive decisions. This time being his insubordinate choice to rope his own Padawan into a patched-together rescue mission following ambivalent reports regarding Master Plo Koon’s fleet.

He certainly always found a way, didn’t he?

Yes, technically, because it was just Anakin and Ahsoka redeploying, then the convoys would be unrestricted in meeting the arranged rendezvous with the rest of the fleet.

But still, Skywalker was a General now. Could that chestnut-haired man not go off on his own without at least informing another Jedi tasked with this mission first?

Anakin could have told him.

And, honestly, while Kenobi knew he would’ve put up a bit of a fight at the suggestion of such a change of plans, the Jedi Master still fully comprehended that, in the end, he had the trust to watch his former Padawan go.

Because, deep down, Obi-Wan knew that, despite the potential strategic sacrifice, it was the right thing to do.

Not that he had much choice to do anything else since Skywalker had already arrived at the attack site.

And now, consequentially, in his station as both military General and Jedi Council member, Kenobi was the one required to deliver this pesky news to the necessary officials in his place.

“Twice the trouble, they have become,” Master Yoda sighed, rounded eyes dribbling toward the ground in contemplation. “A reckless decision, Skywalker has made.”

The weary Chancellor’s snow-white furrow deepened. “Let us hope it is not a costly one.”

Palpatine exhaled gradually, dipping gaze giving room for the three Jedi hovering subserviently in his presence a moment to absorb the flickers of combat fatigue that affected the deciding politician. Though, despite the momentary pause, the Chancellor was quick to recover, flicking his far-out stare toward the trio with a manufactured smile that struggled to assure that he was, in fact, quite alright.

“I do apologize, gentleman, but I have another meeting with the Senator from Kestos Minor shortly, so I must leave you.”

“Of course, Chancellor,” Kenobi acknowledged for the Jedi in attendance.

And with that, the former Senator’s unstable image evaporated into azure sparks before fading into the room’s wider darkness.

“An eye on your former Padawan, you must keep,” Master Yoda noted, motioning a hand clasped around his irregularly curved gimer stick toward Kenobi. “An update, I request, next we meet.”

“Yes, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan assured. “I will keep track of him.”

But not before addressing the puckering questions that prodded his brain tissue all afternoon.

At least, ever since speaking with you.

“Do you have a moment, Master Windu?” Kenobi questioned, just as the Grand Master’s digital picture similarly flickered into cerulean specks of nothingness.

The older Master glanced at Obi-Wan out of his peripheral, torso still respectively angled toward the empty cavity where Yoda’s silhouette once stood before smoothly pivoting with a subtly tilted neck toward the inquisitive Jedi.

“I do,” he punctuated with taught features. “And what is this regarding?”

“Silvey,” Obi-Wan plainly replied, allowing his voice alone to carry him through the next few seconds so to disallow himself from failing to speak of these matters at all.

“I was made aware earlier today that they were not fully informed of their condition following the incident. As their Master, and the one tasked with notifying them in place of the Healer, I was hoping to inquire as to why?”

A blank stare of unreadable stillness crossed the thousand light years in a fashion only Mace Windu, complexion of secrets and answers, could achieve.

“As their advisor, I provided only necessary information,” he clarified simply with the gesturing support of his hand. “It was unnecessary to subject Silvey to the past when they successfully recovered.”

Obi-Wan’s lips twitched into an imperceptibly partial frown.

Perhaps Master Windu… knew more than he was letting on?

He talked of deeming certain details imperative to share, which could suggest that there were facts being kept secret, even from you, for reasons beyond the bearded Jedi’s current knowledge.

At least, that’s what Obi-Wan convinced himself.

It would be the only explanation for such a decision, he thought. For seemingly sending you on a mission without any concern for the unknown factors at play, and for this indefinite justification of why.

That would be the only thing that made any lick of sense.

And that also could’ve meant, maybe, just maybe, Kenobi wasn’t the only one beginning to sense remnants of your mind within the Force.

Perhaps Mace Windu already discovered this development. Or perhaps, it was even possible the elder Master had something to do with it.

That, as your ‘advisor,’ he was already a few steps ahead. And that, in your meditation sessions, he found something. Triggered something.

Knew something.

Either way, the General desired to understand.

“And how are we to know that?” Kenobi tested carefully, eyeing the strict Jedi’s cheekbones for any small, reflexive hint. “You yourself admitted to an inability to perceive their mind, the cause of these headaches, or the incident’s nature. By those facts alone, how can it be possible to assume that this is truly in the past?”

Pressing his lips into a thin line with arms confidently folded into themselves, Master Windu intrepidly spoke as broadened shoulders secured his stance.

“The Republic is in need of more Jedi on the field. You of all people are aware of that fact, Master Kenobi,” he stated. “I made the most reasonable decision given our circumstances. Such details are not of our immediate concern. We cannot afford it.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t help the taught string of confusion and wiry cords of astonishment that knit across his forehead, muscling down the rest of his features like a sudden tug on the loose end of an interwoven thread.

Mace knew nothing.

And, with that in mind, Kenobi never expected such indifference to be applied to a situation deemed incomprehensible by even the Grand Master himself a few days earlier. Toward a state of affairs clouded by the ever-living Force in a plum of enigmatic readings, which, to the Council, was always a less than desirable sign.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

Said the Code.

So then to brush this all off? And dismiss its repercussions to his own mentee, no less.

Obi-Wan raised a hand, curling a few knuckles to provide his chin a thoughtful rest. All in an attempt to imbue the Force with interim civility as his mind rapidly flipped through Mace’s words.

And it didn’t take long for him to realize that all this… Every decision made concerning you…

It was this war.

It was changing Windu like it was changing all of them. All the Jedi. Causing them to lose sight of what was once important in the days before the Battle of Geonosis.

But this wasn’t right.

Something was clearly influencing you. And, despite the Republic’s shifting priorities, Mace needed to be reminded that this situation, no matter how diverting, was just as important to the Council’s overarching mission as its efforts in this war.

To the Jedi’s purpose.

To peace.

These headaches and their culminated crisis may have evolved into a creature of the past. But it was their state of unpredictability, and the Galaxy-altering implications of a Guardian thrown from commission, which convinced Kenobi that the Council mustn’t lose sight of such solemnity. Especially not during a decade in which the Grand Master sensed the Force to have grown, in some pockets, indecipherable.

And no matter what, you deserved to know the full nature of these incidents.

Obi-Wan’s jaw released, poking away the useless support of bent fingers as his arm fell to the side at a rate equal to the blooming resolution which consumed the bearded man’s blue-eyed countenance. A visual marker, or signature stamp, of the Master Jedi’s acceptance that no war would stymie him from making these very thoughts known to the glitching holocomm across from him.

So much so, that he nearly missed the echoing chime of the conference room’s automatic door as its mechanics whirred open.

“General!”

Kenobi’s neck snapped toward the urgent inflection shimmering from Commander Cody’s tensed lips, just as brightly as the orange embellishments accenting his trooper armor reflected the white lights streaming overhead.

He was leaned into a forward stance, a puff of air proving him not a still-life statue as he caught his balance. All in an effort to suddenly halt a spirited sprint into the conference room that eventually, from the exertion alone, impelled him to expel the rest.

“There’s been a surprise attack on the supply port and the platoon left behind on Lanos.”

A dryness consumed Kenobi’s tongue as another simply armored clone dashed through the same whirring, mechanical door. Sprightly stepping up to whisper a few quick words to his Commander just before the aperture behind him buzzed shut once more.

“Reports of heavy casualties,” Cody parroted with an ear leaned toward the newly arrived lieutenant. “And they are requesting immediate reinforcements.”

“I will leave you to address this more immediate concern, Master Kenobi,” Windu relayed from the twitching holocomm image strikingly emanating from behind; his expression stilled except for the subtle twinge of disappointment drooping the outer corners of his eyes.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan affirmed, clearing his voice as moisture coated a tickling throat.

At least enough for him to sign off with one final message aimed toward his fellow Council member.

“I will see you at the rendezvous.”

—

A burning ache entangled each limb’s muscles like winding vines as you fended off the coming onslaught. Centering yourself in the lowest dip of the valley’s crease wasn’t necessarily the most strategic move given your current predicament. Especially considering it labeled your dodging figure as prime target practice for the ropes of Rollies that erratically spun down the hillside at spine-chilling speeds.

But you didn’t have any choice.

Not if you hoped to become an unbreakable barrier of pure might and agility, impeding a near three-hundred mix of droids threatening the platoon’s lives who hastily regrouped behind you.

Various squad formations would mark the best vantage points atop the port’s landing platform from which to lay fire upon the siege. Though that was the extent to which the battalion could effectively participate. Joining you in the, quite literal, trenches was a death sentence to any non-Force Sensitive individual hoping to take a stand against an attacking strength of this magnitude.

It was your ability, and your ability alone, to navigate the rapidly shifting elements of surrounding energies that empowered you to fight in their place while dodging and manipulating droids who shot walls of steady fire or suddenly sprung at you with their dense, steel bodies.

Yet, no matter your resilience, you still possessed the same weakness every other living being faced in adrenalizing circumstances.

You were growing quite exhausted.

“Reinforcements are almost here!” You heard Boil yell from far behind while he used a nearby repulsersled flipped into a makeshift shield to traverse the compound drowned in chemical fires and bloodied chaos. “You can’t stay there forever!”

You wrapped your fingers around the air as invisible claws shimmied their way around a Rollie barreling toward your figure before rapidly thrusting that same fist to the side, leading the machine’s suddenly bouncing trajectory to hurtle into a group of about eight battle droids.

One in particular sluggishly swiveled its head toward the oncoming sight with subtle reservation as it expelled creaky, undulating words.

“Oh no.”

Until they became another scattered pile of far-flung, broken parts, an explosion colored by blasting crimson and cobalt sparks.

“I’m gonna have to!” You called back, the swing of your saber nearly transforming into a cloudy blur of heat before your very, watering eyes as you deflected bolt after bolt while sidestepping through the uneven hollow. “We’ll lose our only advantage!”

“Excuse me for saying, Silvey, but I think that losing a Jedi will be cutting our advantage!”

You knew he was right.

But you were quickly learning that in war, there was no easy choice.

You weren’t going to lose anyone else.

Maker… you couldn’t.

You just… couldn’t.

A scorching, slash clawed into your left calf, electrifying all the way down to your ankle as a surprised yelp was drawn from your lips.

And it wasn’t long before that very foot and sorely exercised knee buckled under the shocking pressure, slamming both roughly into the dirt as you felt another breeze graze the touches of your back exposed by rips in the fabric. All from those quick tumbles against newly jagged ground with raised rock shards and disturbed mounds formed by the ongoing conflict.

You briefly glanced down to assess the damage, relying on your senses' contextual intertwinement and the dancing light of your gray saber to defend against the ongoing downpour of bolts. Showers that fell from the hilltop with such magnitude that you could’ve sworn the sky was crying smoky tears.

Speaking of bolts, it appeared one had cut you down pretty good as a severely bloodied laceration oozing black, bubbling soot stingingly throbbed the bottom half of your leg. Consuming your vision with its strongly contrasting, dark tinge even amidst your armor’s shadowy undertones.

So much for those Republic-tested shin guards, you internally grunted.

And, regrettably, with one leg out of commission, it didn’t take long for your wearied body and continuously fogging gaze to make another mistake.

Even if it was only for a split second.

While desperately side-crawling toward the landing pad, in an effort to impede an enemy group from its newly-angled, swift approach, you missed an arbitrary bolt that collided with the hilt of your saber. Snapping it out of your hand as its protective covering took the brunt of the blast, but still flung it a few meters out from your grip all the same.

Your head spun back toward the main invading Force, only to be met with an inky black blaster whose cold body was levied mere centimeters from your forehead.

Dark spots crept into your peripheral like a predator surveying its prey as your palms dug into the disturbed dirt below.

“Wow, look guys!” The titillated battle droid exclaimed. “I got a Jedi!”

Shades of flaming red exploded before your very eyes.

But not for the reason you thought.

No, whatever that was, it wasn’t blood.

It was much more…

Much too…

Fuzzy?

Scrapping at whatever strength you had left, you focused your shaky stare above. Only to be met with the strikingly pigmented fox of before, wrapped around the battle droid’s torso like a constricting tendril as it gnawed with growling rage at the mechanical thing’s armed skeletal limb.

“Ah! What is this?” The off-yellow machine bellowed. “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

He spun in unsteady circles, flinging his targeted arm as if fire consumed its nonexistent nerves, drilled feet stumbling over each other while the fox laid savagely into their assault.

Until the droid hoisted its other revolving hand, slamming it down once, and then twice, across the creature’s wet snout. A sickening crack, and its shiny, fur coat slung from the machine before landing as a mangled heap onto the ground.

You thrust a hand toward your saber, scratching at the Force to coax it to your fingers as it catapulted into your grasp.

A reflection of the blaster’s barrel stung your eye.

One squealing pop flung through the air.

And then another.

“Good riddance,” the droid mumbled while it drearily kicked the still warm, but entirely lifeless creature left at its feet.

You were too late.

You were always too late.

Qui-Gon’s paled skin. His glazed, breathless eyes.

And then you saw it.

You swore you saw it.

A flash of that horned, devil face harshly stomped across the fox’s barren throat.

And your blood ran cold.

So frigid, that an icy film must’ve shielded your eyes while they blurred in contest with an increasingly congested mind. The resonating cries of commanding clones, marching mechanical feet, and rushing metal clamoring against loose bolts all melded into a muddled echo of the past. Even Boil’s distended calls, which freely rang around inching droids as he laid down fire, melded into the rest of the world.

Instead, a high-pitched tone displaced their existence, slackening your jaw and dangerously slowing your breath while a weight unlike any other yanked down at your sternum.

And amidst all that drowning havoc, you barely noticed the large, gray shuttle with faint red accents descend before you.

Almost immediately, and with growing intensity, its engines were able to sweep away any nearby battle droids as they flung and tumbled across the grass like loose scraps. Even the Rollies found their maneuverability stifled as they transformed back into a legged form before being tossed away like loose credits via their curvature alone.

Yet, even though the vehicle landed between you and the incoming fire, its rear door descending as a fluttering ivory robe and flashes of white armor darted down its ramp, it was still not enough to rip you out from yourself.

It was only partially, that your awareness sparked, and for a moment oh so brief, as a flash of auburn tufts poked a hole in that stunned cataract.

“Silvey!”

A distant echo among muffled blaster fire, but the ringing tone did seem to partially subside.

“Silvey! Can you hear me?!”

You swallowed, vision clearing just enough to recognize a familiar pair of widened, bright blue eyes.

Though you had no idea how he got here.

“Obi-Wan?” You questioned hazily with scrunched brows.

“Let’s get you to the ship!” He declared firmly, eyes drifting toward your mangled leg as a hint of displeasure creased his eyes.

But he hesitated for only a second before quickly wrapping his fingers around your free arm to tug you that away.

And, truth be told, it was that moment, that single moment, the warm feeling of his grip as plasmic fumes assaulted your senses, that became the last instant of Lanos you truly remembered.

You recalled the gentle pressure of Kenobi’s fingers releasing your arm into the shuttle just before it lifted from the ground while he sprinted off, pearly armor catching the sun’s smoke-scattered glare as he joined the fight. And you could remember the stinging weight that dragged at your muscles as you stood for the first time after the hull abruptly docked at The Negotiator.

A feeling that haunted you with each step you traversed from the shuttle bay to your temporary quarters.

You could even recall the taste of the stale ship air that reigned menial against Lanos’s essence of fresh vegetation and untouched atmosphere. Though that particular memory was hard to forget, considering those same elements pervaded your quarters.

What you couldn’t remember, however, was what anyone had said to you. If anyone had said anything at all. You couldn’t remember when your injured leg was wrapped, or who did it. You couldn’t remember whether the battle was won. You couldn’t remember entering the lift to the residential section of the ship. And you couldn’t remember the familiar whooshing creak of your quarter’s automatic door.

Oh Maker, no.

You couldn’t recall whether that faulty sound tolled when the aperture opened.

You could only trust that the door had, in fact, shut behind you as you ambled into your quarters, deactivated lightsaber falling from your bruised fingers before rudely clacking across the carpeted floor. You could only hope that the walls, too, were thick enough to deafen the sound of your falling knees as they collided with the itchy carpet’s prickling texture.

And you could pray that the falling tears wetting your cheeks and soaking your tunic, and the hiccuping breaths stopping your heart, would somehow ease the agonizing burden that crushed your chest with the bodies of all you had lost.

—

“And the facility was secured?” Master Kenobi inquired once Commander Cody concluded his cursory report on the impromptu attack.

Both general and soldier ambled down the curved, tubular hallway of one of the ship’s upper decks, lined with identically placed doors and overhead lights that perfectly reflected the Republic’s preference for uniformed architecture. Still though, Obi-Wan’s wandering eyes would soak up their every detail, down to the personalized wear of certain entry panels or noticeable scuffs decorating the steel floor whenever he participated in such debriefs.

It allowed his mind to focus on the task at hand. No matter the aeonian tumult that bled into their essence or bordered his thoughts.

“Yes, General,” Cody assured evenly as his long-barreled, black phaser, still warm from battle, patiently hung from a confident grip; swaying with each step that fell in line with his superior’s steady stride.

“And we incurred far less casualties than anticipated,” he continued, with a hint of optimism so subtle that even Kenobi struggled to detect it. “My men report that the General is to thank for that.”

An unconscious hand hovered toward Obi-Wan’s chin, gently stroking his beard’s loose tufts while the Jedi Master continued to absorb his officer’s words like a Bluebell squish would sunlight.

Though his gaze still dallied across the ephemeral doors.

“Had they not stood their ground in the valley’s trench…” Cody liberated. “I doubt much of the platoon would be left standing.”

Kenobi’s chest rose and fell with a gradualness that seemed to suspend time itself. Still, his legs carried him onwards, as a shuttle set on autopilot would transport its passengers by endless star systems, and the beauties in between.

You certainly took a huge risk, he noted. Pushing yourself to the very brink to protect the lives of his own battalion.

But did you know just how close you came to the point of no return?

The Master Jedi considered that even Anakin would’ve deemed the act of entering and remaining in the trenches terribly reckless.

And that was saying something.

But you were Qui-Gon’s Padawan, after all. And Obi-Wan knew better than anyone that drilled into your being was the desire to avoid violence at all costs. To preserve the manifestations of the Force by protecting any and all beings who necessitated aid.

Though you were never prepared for a war that coerced Jedi to conform to a changed Galaxy.

And it coerced him to consider…

Should he say something?

“Sir.”

The General need not rely on Force-attuned senses to notice the Commander slowed his gate into a standstill from the corner of an observant eye. Leashing Kenobi to do the same as he angled to face the solider whose mollified shoulders stimulated satiny brown orbs to soften.

“Some of the boys and I would like to thank the General in person for what they did today,” he expressed somewhat awkwardly, hand jolting up to scratch the back of his head as his eyes dipped off to the side. “Any chance you could share a heads up when they may be up for it, Sir?”

An involuntary twitch tugged at the corner of the General’s tensed lips. Though his revelation after the fact choked the sensation before it had any chance of crawling up to ensnare his bright, cerulean orbs.

No. Not yet, the bearded man concluded.

He couldn’t share his worries.

Because Kenobi dreaded that doing so would risk metamorphosis.

It would be, conceivably, like asking you to transform into a different breed of Jedi. One who’d fail to touch the hearts of men with such infectious reverence and unity.

You were a being who would, no matter what, sacrifice each and every far-off particle of themselves if it meant preserving just one more life, or to cease the wands of conflict indefinitely.

The Way of Qui-Gon’s age, that felt so long ago.

Before its prime was sullied by war…

Suppressing his former Master’s Renaissance teachings in favor of this changed Galaxy, like so many Jedi of late, like Mace Windu, would fundamentally alter you.

And it was that very concept that sucked away the energy of his mind, like a siphon draining liquid gold down through his stiffened spine, and out through his toes.

“Of course, Commander,” Kenobi expelled fluidly. “I’m certain they would valu—“

A gust of pressurized mass flung by the duo with the brawn of a rushing wave, consuming Obi-Wan’s senses and depressing the hairs along his arms like a sudden shift in gravity as his once drained neck flicked toward the impression’s oozing source, located somewhere farther down the hallway.

But while the piqued Jedi Master’s piercing eyes initially saw nothing of concern, it was only a mere second later when the feeling quickly morphed into a troubling array as a pointed hole the size of a marble appeared to form in his ribcage, deliberately expanding into a bleak vacuum that nearly caught his breath.

Then came the pain.

An intense jab whose sharp instrument seemed to pierce the air with progressively afflicting shocks that were surely impossible for any Force-Sensative being to ignore.

At least, for him.

And while this sensation’s source appeared to stray from his inner being, Kenobi could still perceive its utter potency, shattering his thoughts with one, unavoidable clarity:

That, no matter the impenetrability of mental blocks or molecular hints of presence within the Force, the only other being in this sector at all capable of emitting this kind of energy, was you.

And that could only mean one thing.

Something was very very wrong.

Given that you’d nearly escaped with your life not even an hour prior, Kenobi could only fear the worst as he mentally recounted your previously noted injuries.

Unless…

That earlier hesitation…

“General!” Cody alertedly yet curiously called after his superior officer as the auburn-haired man’s once composed posture devolved into a notably rushed jog, his white shoulder and shin guards doing little in the ways of stifling the whipping surge of his ivory robe as it caught the ship’s manufactured atmosphere’s resistance. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m not certain,” he replied with a leveled tone, though never assuaging his gate or turning his chin away from the path ahead as he rushed by door upon equivalent door. “I will comm you if not.”

It was quite fortunate, Obi-Wan realized, that he’d already been returning to his own quarters when he sensed the shift in the Force as they were situated a mere few doors down from your own. Otherwise, given your mind’s weak presence in its endless flow, he may not have caught onto the displacement until long after the fact. Still, he couldn’t help but assign himself preliminary blame for whatever it was he began inwardly preparing to walk into.

He was too distracted to check in with you until now. Too preoccupied with leading reinforcements to turn the tide of that bloody sea of an ambush. And too absorbed in the logistics of determining just exactly how that Separatist attack force landed on Lanos without a lick of intelligence soaring his way. All while the General simultaneously ensured an on-track fleet rendezvous in the background.

But now, stood before your door amidst the heavy rise and fall of a stunted chest in which breath clutched its heels, the Jedi Master gravelly understood once again, fist hovering before its grayed coating in fleeting hesitation, that he had no choice but to rectify another mistake made in his task of certifying The Guardian’s safety.

His knuckles resonantly rapped the cold metal sheen separating you both.

“Silvey?”

But that empty, weighted crevice slithering within his deepest senses persisted, its stinging ambiance threatening to crack open his skin. Quite enough to convince the Jedi Master, as he reached a few fingers toward the door’s panel to levy a couple overriding taps, that your current well-being transcended any and all swirling discomforts rooted in invading your personal space.

Yet, even with such logic secured as firmly on his belt as his lightsaber, nothing could’ve truly prepared Obi-Wan Kenobi for the sight that patiently awaited the mechanical entryway’s opening swish, as his subsequent few steps into your thinly carpeted and modestly furnished quarters delivered an image not easily unseen.

Kneeled just a few meters before the stilled, auburn-haired man was your sternly bent-over figure, back hunched as strikingly as a shadow in a room simply lit by the vast array of stars that glimmered unbothered beyond the far wall’s viewport. Your wears were the same, with the various splotched, grimy stains and ripped, sagging ends of disturbed cloth still hugging your body like fearful younglings. Just as they had during the battle’s peak when Kenobi’s shuttle first landed.

Their drying crackles. Their stretching tears. They caught his gaze as fiercely as a spark of fire with each subtle quiver of your spine, an action which took his mind a moment to register as the trembling quake bedeviling enervated lungs.

From your blood-soiled calf bandage, ruggedly stuck, tussled hair, and sweat-adhered, dirt-crusted arms, Obi-Wan could only assume that you’d remained like this since your arrival. Submitting to your dark surroundings while lacking the inspiration to flip on a light.

And, most eerily, in a muteness that heightened the slightest creaks and far-off humming engines of a periodically groaning ship.

A recognition that deepened the already cavernous void threatening to swallow whole every vein branching from Kenobi’s chest into the muscle of each motionless shoulder.

This was nothing like the incident of days prior, which meant that the General was uncertain of what would help. How to fix this. Or even, what was wrong.

But he veritably knew that dropping a pin in the uncanny silence engulfing you both like a gaseous cloud would shatter his eardrums just as savagely as he assumed it would spiral whatever affliction you were enduring into a perilous state.

And that meant that, for the life of him. The Master Jedi had no idea how to proceed.

He could not breathe for apprehension that it would burst like a spark within an invisible hypermatter leak. Let alone speak a few words, nor your name, unless he knew that, without harm, he could.

So, Master Kenobi did the only thing he dreamed acceptable.

After idling by the entryway in perpetual uncertainty, the cautious Jedi adopted a lissome tread, leading his troubled brows and downturned cerulean eyes to finally seize a glimpse of your collapsed head as he rounded your form.

Your blotched countenance of stained tears and drained listlessness. Loose strands of hair soaked from sweat or anguish he did not know. Still, even your radiantly silver eyes seemed to gray in their moribund stare straight ahead, as if to watch a tiresome scene a thousand parsecs away run its course.

And it was that utter and complete stillness, a feeling invoking time to recede into long-forgotten history, that remained for a tense, immeasurable while.

Unsteady breaths continued to shudder your torso while eyes strung wide enough to perceive the whole Galaxy struggled to maintain their shape following the long sered, torrential flood. The cogs of overflowing thoughts crowding their rusting gears before the speechless man’s very eyes.

It felt near an eternity into the future or past had elapsed for Obi-Wan since he met your distant orbs. Yet their departed state, it seemed, never reflected your true awareness.

You were not trapped within your mind again.

“I spent my entire life on that barren planet,” you suddenly relayed hoarsely.

Or, maybe, in some ways, you were, Kenobi amended, as the sound of your strained voice heightened the General’s alertness all the way up to his hassled brows.

“And a decade of it in complete isolation.”

Laggardly, your jaded orbs lifted toward his own, neck barely shifting while you held his pursed lips and tensed jaw in a vice grip by the anticipation of your slowly spilling words alone.

“And yet—“

A single tear seeped through the dam, etching another stain into your storied cheeks as your chest quickened its heaves.

It was more than enough to have impelled Kenobi toward you. With a hand outstretched and a pulsing drive to somehow bring you any sliver of relief.

But Obi-Wan refrained from all that.

He knew he needed to listen. To understand first. So to learn how best to fix this.

He just wanted to fix this.

“—I’ve never felt… quite… so alone.”

But with those six words, the Master Jedi’s temperance seemed to wash away with the second droplet that traced a serene path down to your chin, proving another chink in the levee.

Promptly, but still with great care, Obi-Wan neared your body, both sets of eyes never severing while he lowered to his knees. Mirroring your form in complete and utter stillness as he encouraged you to continue with a reinforced, steadfast expression.

A tremulous exhale escaped your lungs, silver gaze breaking the connection before sinking to the wayside.

“Not as I do now,” you breathed. “Not when Qui-Gon is gone.”

Those two syllables, Kenobi registered. Two knocks that brought that dam to ruins.

“He’s gone!” You croakily sobbed, a glare that could only reflect betrayal by the Galaxy itself rushing to perceive Kenobi’s affected countenance with an intensity that matched the gushing rain.

You raised a fist, tightening it in the air through a paled potency so sheer that Obi-Wan worried with stitched brows about the sharp damage your fingertips could be afflicting upon the contorted palm. All while silver eyes squeezed shut as if disgusted by the waves of pure agony that surmounted your figure.

“He’s gone for good,” you gnawed breathily. “And nothing will ever bring him back.”

While heaving gasps brimmed the once noiseless, dulled gray walls, amplifying the hollowed suffering emanating through the Force, Kenobi felt his tensed spine and rigid limbs ease with the surge of conviction that steadily overcame him.

Doubtlessness that, like a good Jedi, he felt the need to ease your misery.

More than that. Your pain happened to affect him in such a way, that it felt distressing to do anything but lift his wrist to reach out a bracing palm.

For someone he appreciated as an admirable individual.

And for a being he was beginning to consider a good friend.

Gently, his palm graced the side of yours, signaling him to carefully wrap warm fingers around your strikingly frigid, raised fist. A gesture which relaxed open your tear-brimmed orbs while Obi-Wan cautiously lowered your languishingly trembling clutch. So gradually, that as both your and Obi-Wan’s arms reached each respective knee, the clasped hand was spurred to wholly unfurl, giving Kenobi room to relax his thumb against your flushed palm while he eyed you meaningfully.

“You are not alone,” Obi-Wan firmly assured, his own voice eliciting a momentary shock as he heard its baritone timbre crush the presence of such prolonged and confounding silence.

“He’s gone,” you repeated mindlessly with an empty gaze barely supporting your head.

Yet Obi-Wan’s persistence was as boundlessly unyielding as the grip he maintained on you.

“But, you’re not alone.”

“Obi-Wan,” you wept, nostrils flaring as you shook your head with thinned eyes; swallowing harshly. “Pleas—“

Rapidly, with any fret of heedfulness tossed out the airlock, the Master Jedi brought his unchained hand toward your tottering jaw. Resting a loose knuckle under your chin to lift your searching gaze toward his.

You needed this, he excused. You needed to hear this.

And as your damp, sparkling eyes absently met his, he knew:

Distance be damned.

“You are The Guardian. Anakin is forever tied to you. And you will always, always have the Order. Thousands of Jedi ready to stand by your side because of who you are,” he declared with unshakable conviction.

Until his orbs softened below shattered lips.

“Silvey,” he whispered pregnantly. “Drink in my words.” His fingers tightened around your own. “You are not alone.”

And for a moment, Kenobi could note a subtle lift in your features. A slight lightening of your irises that indicated at least some partial unshackling of an invisible burden. A development that began to stitch closed the gaping crevice nestled within his sternum as it was reflected through the Force, stabilizing against your releasing shoulders and loosening throat.

Though your mind appeared to travel elsewhere.

Still, they were all gradual indications of your calming thoughts. Hints that whatever he was doing was mending something. And signs that first appeared when he touched your hand.

Another theory that added substance to the sealing emptiness Kenobi first experienced through the hall in what felt like eons ago.

So, he leaned into it, gracing his once stilled thumb across your palm’s supple skin as he, bit by bit, traced a messy oval to soothe your thoughts.

And it didn’t take long for your continually calming presence to uncontrollably elicit the soft smile that gradually adorned his lips.

But, as soon as his gentle finger uncovered the aplomb to supply a deeper, more sustained motion of solidarity, it seemed, instantaneously, that this very transference snapped you out of whatever distance your mind had traveled with an unforeseen start.

Your suddenly surprised gape jumped out at Kenobi while a once relaxed hand instantly recoiled out of his own. Chiseling an equally confused expression across Obi-Wan’s face as his brows furrowed at you uneasily.

Still, that did little in forestalling your hurried launch to stand, all done in an effort to put a few strides between you and the bearded Jedi before crossing deeper into the dark shadows enveloping your quarters, a back of tattered robes separating you from Obi-Wan’s probing stare.

The older Jedi felt that hallowed void dilate within himself once more as he observed your sheltering arms fold into themselves, a familiar, throbbing pain emanating into the surrounding Force while he too promptly rose to his feet.

Especially as there was no denying that it was a feeling, Obi-Wan gathered, he’d somehow caused.

A myriad of thoughts swirled his mind as your quarters adopted that familiar aura of soundless reticence. One that rivaled the emptiness of its dimmed lightning that somehow felt far more barren with the presence of two beings blending into its grayed walls.

And the silence was deafening. Thunderous enough to fester a chest-displacing emotion Kenobi sometimes experienced, but knew no Jedi should long entertain.

Guilt.

“Silvey?” He questioned with indecisively parted lips, phonating barely above a whisper.

But you never spoke.

Instead, the Jedi Master received his answer from the tautening cross of your arms and intensifying dip of your head.

The clatter of heavy footsteps and low conversation echoed from the hall, cutting the still air like an endless barrage of saber swipes. Their passing din muffled by your quarter’s steel separation as Obi-Wan partially sensed the handful of clones retreat down the passageway’s other end until their overlapping noise whispered into a distant memory.

And it was following that minor rattle, the long, interspaced stretches of pure stillness, and a timeless affair of observing your statued figure for any hint of an imparting thought, that the General reluctantly accepted the inevitable as pivoted on his heel toward the long gone entourage.

Although he now ambled toward the metal door, he only moved with stalling muscles, still in anticipation that he’d sense some shift, some indication of lightening impressions through the Force. At least, any idea that maybe, maybe you’d say something to him.

But once Obi-Wan’s fingers reached for the green-rimmed panel, releasing open the aperture with a whoosh, he began to come to grips with the fact that his presence would facilitate no locution, and, instead, only make things worse.

Stepping beyond the threshold, Kenobi’s eyes drifted to the side, as if to glance at your enigmatic figure staring out the viewport from far behind.

Though, despite the effort, he never dared to fully turn. Instead, Obi-Wan simply allowed his reluctant features to subdue against the throbbing remorse that struck through his mind like an unruly blaster spear as he murmured through uncertain lips one last time.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

A soft exhale, and the door hissed closed.

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[6kate1bishop6]

the hatford family history, as made up by me

disclaimer: this is an entirely made up family history that is based solely off of really quick google searches on life expectancies and such, if its not compatible with canon in places that is my bad also i made this all up so i could write about my oc so just ignore the redacted part of the family tree for the time being, a lot of this is based more on creating a comprehensive family relationship as opposed to making it historically accurate so my apologies

okay so starting from the top we have henry hatford born 1853 died 1893, he is a husbandman in suffolk just outside of ipswich, a lot of land in suffolk was enclosed (common land, which is kind of like parks basically green spaces that are free for anyone to use, was taken by often the rich and wealthy and mostly turned into agricultural land) so henry hatford is a farmer of enclosed land that is owned by like a lord, the agricultural scene in the mid 1800s was in decline i think but the hatfords farm remained fairly successful or at least affloat, imagine they were farming whatever the most popular crop at the time was

henry marries betje hatford nee de boer born 1855 died 1897 and this is where we get to the crime stuff, betje is from amsterdam we're not gonna question too deeply how and why she emmigrated to the uk or how she met henry maybe they had a meet cute when she arrived in london or henry was visiting mainland europe and they met there but either way they met and got married yippee, betje is from amsterdam and thus has family there, as rotterdam began to supplant amsterdam as the most popular port her family became desperate, in 1875 the port of felixstowe was opened and as betje was uniquely positioned near the port and her family were desperate they began a smuggling business, the port was newly formed and as such it was easier to bend the rules, the hatfords are now committing crime! with their new income they are able to buy out the hatfords farming land from whoever owns it and it becomes the hatford family estate, they build a house, likely something that looks similar to bletchley park just not on such a big scale, a victorian house which is larger than a standard suburban victorian home and not terraced but still has the bay windows and all those bells and whistles

so betje and henry hatford are committing crime, whats next? kids of course! their first child is ivo hatford born 1879 died 1922, ivo is their only surviving child, they also have katja hatford 1881-1882 and godfried hatford 1884-1884, as ivo is her only survivng child betje throws her all into him and nurtures him to take over the family business

ivo marries jessamine hatford nee kemp born 1882 died 1828, jessamine and ivo only have one child ingrid hatford born 1905 died 1959, ingrid is raised as the heir to the hatford crime family because betje instilled gender equality for committing crime into ivo, ingrid marries michael hatford nee fisher born 1903 died 1943, michael is obviously not a hatford by birth but was welcomed into the family graciously and decided to take the hatford family name imagine ingrid and michael as a childhood friends to lovers situation, michael dies during the second world war when working on the raf base in woodbridge which is the third point in our triangle of ipswich and felixstowe, the base opened in 1943 and fixed faulty aircraft and we'll say he died in an accident on the base sure

ingrid and michael had four children, three of which survived, edwin hatford born 1924 died 1985, antonis hatford 1926-1930, paula williams nee hatford 1928-1974 and sofia hatford 1929-1980

so paula marries mark williams 1924-1969 and have one child rachel williams 1945-present or at least still alive as the books are taking place

sofia is more interesting sorry not sorry paula, sofia marries paul cranmer 1920-1952 and they have two children lucile hatford nee cranmer 1946-book present and gabriel hatford nee cranmer 1950-book present, when sofia discovers paul has been abusing her children she kills him and begins a rerlationship with her life partner carla samuels 1927-1981, the kids revert to using sofias maiden name and all is happy yippee

back to the main hatford timeline, edwin is ingrid and michaels only surviving son so he gets raised to lead the hatford crime family because the hatford feminist spirit gets lost at some point post ww1

edwin marries theresa hatford nee hardings born 1934 died 1999, theresa and edwin have two children stuart hatford born 1957 and mary hatford born 1962 died 2005 and now we are in canon land so things start to get a little iffy

this is what is canon to me but ive just made this shit up so

theresa is a very demanding mother and puts a lot of pressure and judgement on mary, stuart is raised to be the next hatford heir but when edwin unexpectedly dies in 1985 the hatfords are left a little loose footed, theresa pushes mary to marry nathan and the marriage goes ahead in 1986, the books sort of imply that this was a power alliance kind of marriage or at least not a marriage born of love so the marriage helps to ensure the hatfords stay in power, it probably provided them with some moriyama connections

we can probably expect that if they weren't from the beginning the hatfords are probably now enmeshed in the drugs trade as well as other smuggling endeavors, this new alliance is likely to provide them with connections within america to smuggle things there

so neil is born 1988 and they go on the run in 1998 when he is 10, the books state that neil and mary spent a week in england with stuart and mary didnt want to stay with the hatfords because they were still a dangerous crime family, but what we see of stuart is less violent crime lord and more devoted family man who is also the leader of a crime family

what i propose is mary did not want to return to her family because she didn't want to stay with theresa, who died a year after they went on the run

considering nathan would probably have staged people at all airports on his side of america as soon as he discovered what mary had done, the hatfords smuggling abilities would have come in handy to find a way to extract neil and mary from america under the radar, their smuggling connections within europe would help form the basis for marys european connections and arguably the people who helped forge documents for them

now stuart, as i was coming up with this storyline to flesh out stuart in order to interact with my oc i have i think biased myself to a more positive overall view of stuart personality wise

but anyway now to talk shit about him, i think stuart would be a new labour voter i cant explain why he just gives blairite vibes to me, i think he owns proprty all across the uk and could feasibly be a landlord but also i dont want to make stuart a landlord, of his london properties he probably uses the ones in soho and near canary wharf/greenwich the most

anyway this took me like two hours to write out and all of yesterday to plan, if you intend to use any of this family history could you please credit me, if its not historically accurate then my apologies my english history knowledge unfortantuely has a glaring gap when it comes to the 1800s

[onboardsorasora]

🥂Enchanted AU: Part 34🥂

Hello Lovelies! Can you believe this is the penultimate chapter in this Christmas arc????? I'm so floored I can't believe it myself

Part 1 | Last Chapter

Part 34

The drive to the restaurant was quiet, save for the sound of the engine. Max looked over at Daniel to find him nibbling on his cuticles anxiously. He reached over to rest his hand on Daniel’s elbow, getting his attention.

“You ok?” Max asked, looking over at him then back on the road. Daniel nodded.

“Yeah, just… a little nervous I guess?”

Max made a noise, “there’s no need to be nervous. It's just us, we already like each other.” His grin was teasing.

“I know! But it’s like…” Daniel covered his cheeks with his palms shyly. He looked over at Max with soft eyes. “I’ve wanted this for a while I guess?” Daniel admitted softly.

Max pulled into the valet bay of a posh looking restaurant. “Me too actually. I’m happy we’re finally able to.”

They got out of the car and Daniel worried that his sweatshirt (he went with the lilac because it made him the happiest) and jeans were too simple for how high end the place seemed on the outside. Max stepped up beside him, his white v neck and jeans were simple as well. Daniel felt marginally better. 

They entered the building and the hostess brought them to a rooftop terrace, the entire decor and ambiance of the place changed. It was cozy and comfortable. It looked more like someone's (upscale) back patio, rather than a restaurant. Their booth was in a secluded corner, by a fire pit. Daniel was in love, it felt so homey and he immediately felt relaxed.

Max slid into the U-shaped booth and sat beside Daniel, their elbows brushed together. Daniel widened his legs until his thigh pressed against Max’s. They smiled shyly at each other.

“This place is so nice. Thanks for bringing me here.” Daniel looked around, taking in the view from their spot. They could see the city, down to the harbour.  

“Always, Daniel.” Max smiled at him, Daniel stared at the happy scrunch of his nose. 

“I didn’t expect it to be so empty.”

“Everyone is, of course, partying. I was thinking we could watch the fireworks from one of the trails so it's not too loud.”

Daniel looked at him stunned before his face softened to an aching fondness. Max truly was perfect. Daniel wasn’t a fan of loud unpredictable noises, and fireworks always scared the animals. He tended to spend new years out in the forest trying to keep everyone calm until the fireworks shows ended. 

Their server came and broke Daniel out of his thoughts. Max ordered drinks for them, a glass of wine each and they were left to look through the menus. Daniel knew what he wanted; the fried chicken burger called to him. 

They ordered and chatted about nothing until their meals came. Daniel’s eyes widened comically at the size of the burger. Max burst out laughing.

“Daniel, that chicken is almost as big as your face!” Max snorted, “how will you get it into your mouth?”

“My mouth is pretty big…” Daniel said, dubiously look at the sandwich from all angles.

“If you choke I’m filming it for Michelle.” Max threatened, nudging Daniel’s fork closer. Daniel gasped, scandalized that Michelle had gotten her claws into Max as well. That wasn’t fair! He would need to keep Lily away from her, Michelle can’t steal his friends and use them for her teasing!

He looked at Max’s plate, his steak looked yummy, but it wasn’t a fried chicken burger. Looking at the enormous sandwich from all angles dubiously, Daniel decided to be safe about it. He didn’t want to ruin his shirt. Grabbing his knife, he cut it in half, ignoring Max’s chuckles beside him.

Daniel stuck his tongue out at Max playfully. So far, this date was lovely.

The view from the ridge was great, the city expanded beneath them on all sides. Daniel’s grin stretched across his face as he looked over at Max.. who was taking something from the backseat. Curiously, Daniel watched as Max unloaded what looked to be a blanket onto the ground.

“Max?”

“I thought we could sit– like a picnic. It would be more comfortable than standing the whole time, y’know?”

Daniel swooned, unable to keep his reaction at bay. Dinner had been amazing, he was full of good food, and wine and Max was perfect. Simply perfect.

They settled onto the blanket, staring out at the view for a little before Daniel leaned to rest his head on Max’s shoulder. Max’s arm settled around Daniel’s waist easily, pulling him closer.

“Tonight has been amazing, thank you.” Daniel whispered.

“Thank you for saying yes. I was worried you wouldn’t want to.” Max shrugged and Daniel sat up to look at him. 

“Why would I say no?” Daniel didn’t understand why Max would think that.

“You were so upset, and before all that– I didn’t know if you liked me.” He said it simply but it was anything but simple. They had been in the right book but on the wrong page for so long, Max had started to second guess himself.

Daniel scrambled to his knees to look Max in the eyes imploringly. He grasped Max’s cheeks in his palms. Max looked at him in confusion.

“Max, I love you.” Daniel said simply, he bit his lip before forging on. “I have for a little while, maybe. You make me very happy, I’m so happy I came here! Being with you and Jimmy and Sassy. I love you. I don’t want to leave– to leave you, I want to stay with you forever… if that's what you want too.”

Daniel felt the moment Max’s face went from soft to incandescently happy. His cheeks widened impossibly and his eyes turned to gleaming crescents.

“Oh Daniel.” Max said softly. He cupped Daniel’s hand with his own large palm. “I love you too. You being here is the best thing that's happened. Of course I want you to stay! Already I was preparing to email my manager to see if I could train in Australia!”

Daniel made a shocked noise before laughing merrily at Max’s silliness, he threw his head backwards in his glee. Max eyed the line of his throat.

“Daniel, may I kiss you?” Max asked softly. Daniel stilled with a soft noise, his smile softened to something shy and sweet as he dipped his head. Daniel nodded, unable to reply. Max pulled him in closer, stroking the sharp underside of Daniel’s jaw while their breaths mingled.

Max took him in; Daniel was soft and delicate. Beautiful. He whispered his praise and watched as Daniel’s blush rose. Daniel didn’t look away. Max smiled sweetly then pressed their lips together. Daniel made a low noise, hushed to Max’s ears. He smiled against Daniel’s lips.

Daniel felt as if the buzzing in his ears died down with the feeling of Max’s lips against his. He couldn’t think. He’d never felt like this before– no kiss had ever felt this amazing. He felt like he was floating out of his shoes. He felt warm all over, in the best way. He curled his arms around Max’s shoulders and leaned into him more, pressing deeper into Max’s kiss. 

Max pulled away slowly, only to gasp. Daniel was glowing!

“What?” Daniel hummed, quirking a brow at the awe in Max’s face.

“You’re glowing.” Max whispered and Daniel blinked before looking at his fingers. They were glowing.

“What–?” Daniel was surprised, his eyes expressed his shock. He turned his hand this way and that before tugging back his sleeve to look at his tattoo. The rose bloomed, blushing a bright red against his skin. “Max!” Daniel’s mouth dropped in shock.

He locked eyes with Max’s wide but happy ones. Daniel was overjoyed, but so confused. How? Why now?

“I don’t understand…” Daniel whispered in wonder.

“True love’s kiss.” Max murmured back. Daniel’s head tilted to the side and Max tried to explain what Michelle told him.

“So… you’re my true love?” Daniel bit his lip, holding back his sweet smile.

“I hope so. Because you’re mine.” Max shrugged in a matter of fact way and Daniel threw his arms around him again. Max fell backwards on the blanket laughing as Daniel kissed his cheeks and nose and forehead happily. 

In the distance, they heard the sound of fireworks, the night sky brightening with the pyrotechnics. 

“Happy new year Daniel.” Max smiled.

“Happy new year Maxy.” Daniel grinned back before surging forward into another long kiss. 

Next Chapter

[fatehbaz]

For those who know how to read them, the signs have long been there. Like the towering mound of 20 million oyster shells all but obscured by the lush greenery of central Florida’s Gulf Coast. Or the arcing lines of wave-weathered stone walls strung along British Columbia’s shores like a necklace. Such features, hidden in the landscape, tell a rich and varied story of Indigenous stewardship. They reveal how humans carefully transformed the world’s coasts into gardens of the sea -- gardens that produced vibrant, varied communities of marine life [...]. And in certain places, like on the west coast of North America in what is now Washington state and where the Swinomish are building a new sea garden, these ancient practices are poised to sustain them once again.

“I see it as a way for our people to be reconnected to our place, to be reconnected to each other, and to have a purpose, to have a responsibility that goes beyond us,” says Alana Quintasket (siwəlcəʔ) of the Swinomish Tribal Senate.

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Across the planet, Indigenous communities, from the Heiltsuk in British Columbia, to the Powhatan on the Chesapeake Bay on the United States’ Atlantic Coast, to the Māori in New Zealand, have successfully stewarded the sea [...]. These communities avoided diminishing their productive sea gardens despite, in some cases, seeing harvests that rival modern commercial fisheries.

The scale of historical Indigenous oyster gardening, for instance, cannot be overstated. On America’s southeastern Atlantic coast, in the modern states of South Carolina, Georgia and Florida, Indigenous peoples whose descendants include the Muscogee built gargantuan monuments out of oyster shells. These structures could reach 30 meters high or more. [...]

In 2004, scientists studying historical overfishing published a study showing how, starting around the 19th century, oyster stocks suffered a “moving wave of exploitation” that traveled down the Atlantic and Pacific coasts of North America and the eastern coast of Australia. The capitalist commercial fisheries that arrived with European colonization and settlement, Rick says, undid thousands of years of sustainable prosperity. “Within 50 years, 100 years, maybe even less in some areas, they’ve depleted that stock.” But to Rick, that modern narrative of rampant decline is only part of the story. [...] To fill in the rest of the story, Rick assembled a diverse, multidisciplinary team of researchers to revisit the history of oyster fishing in the same places [...].

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The work adds to scientists’ growing understanding of the diversity and value of Indigenous approaches to marine stewardship. Like the oyster gardens, similar systems show up again and again around the world, from Native Hawaiian loko i‘a (fishponds) and Haida Gwaii naw náaGalang (octopus houses) to the shi hu (stone fish traps) of Taiwan and corrales de pesca (fish traps) of Patagonia. These and other examples are being cataloged by a broad collaboration, known as the Pacific Sea Garden Collective, that is working to map this diversity of Indigenous sea gardening innovations across the Pacific Ocean.

In her own work studying historical Indigenous clam gardens on the North American west coast, which date back at least 3,500 years, Anne Salomon, an applied marine ecologist at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia, has noted some of the key techniques that led to these bountiful yet restrained returns. People would till the sediment, replenish shells in the water, and construct low intertidal rock terraces that flatten the shoreline and expand the farmable area. [...]

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To Salomon, who is involved in the Pacific Sea Garden Collective, the intensive nature of some Indigenous sea gardens is fundamentally different from the maximum sustained yield mindset of today’s capitalist commercial fisheries. Archaeological evidence, paired with Indigenous oral histories, Salomon says, shows how by focusing on common reciprocal, relationship-based principles and governance practices — ones that sustain individuals, communities and their environments — Indigenous communities often made decisions that led to huge harvests while also putting some limits on the scale at which that intensification was happening.

These gardening efforts included a continuum of features, such as seasonal or size limits on harvest, that may be invisible to the eye, Salomon says. And as Marco Hatch, a member of the Samish Indian Nation and a marine ecologist at Western Washington University who was involved in Rick’s study of oyster gardens points out, “These features aren’t just physical features, they’re cultural features and spiritual features.” [...]

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Inspired by sea garden restorations led by Indigenous communities in British Columbia, the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community has just received permits to start raking sediment and rolling rocks at a site on its traditional tidelands on Kiket Island, roughly 125 kilometers north of Seattle. For years, tribal members were chased away with guns and dogs and prevented from harvesting in the area, says Swinomish tribal member and shellfish community liaison Joe Williams (Squi qui). “It’s a very special time for us to be able to reacquaint with this particular location,” he says.

This sea garden should help address recent declines of butter clams, littleneck clams and Olympia oysters, and help those populations adapt to climate change. Historically, Indigenous peoples would shift the locations of clam garden rock walls as sea levels changed. Gardens also protect clams against ocean acidification and potentially against extreme temperatures.

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Text by Ashley Braun. This story was originally produced for Hakai Magazine. Braun’s text here appears as published/re-published by Crosscut with the title “Indigenous sea gardens fed communities, preserved ecosystems.” 3 August 2022. [Bold emphasis added by me.]