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cherry-leclerc · 2 months

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method acting ☆ cl16

genre: series, glimpse of angst, fluff, humor, strangers to friends/roommates to lovers, a bit of back and forth

word count: 4.2k

cherry here!...and it all comes crashing down.

ch. one ch. two ch. three ch. four ch. five ch. six

Chapter 5

Life, as you fear, is falling apart as you're confronted with a serious case of writer's block that puts your career on the line. As a solution, you're roommate helps you plan a solo trip to the Amalfi Coast for a much needed break but it doesn't take long for you to meet a certain Monegasque who lays passed out on the beach.

For years, you spent time behind a screen, mindlessly running after Eleanor with a notepad, messy hair sticking out like a madwoman. It must’ve been quite the sight for your fellow colleagues. A constant cycle of proving yourself to others—to your own fucking parents—that what you were doing was going to be all worth it at the end. It was only right that you were utterly exhausted.

Now suddenly, there’s this boy. He has the prettiest watercolor eyes you’ve even had the pleasure of admiring, the cutest dimples, a charming nose, most feathery lashes, pinkest lips, and above all; a heart of gold. You’ve been thrown the toughest battles—the kind you would’ve fought alone if it weren’t for Amelia and Roman—but the universe has rewarded you.

In the span of a month, Charles has completely won you over. From his boyish grin to his dominating smirk. There was just something about him that fell into place with you; like a puzzle piece. The Monegasque never failed to make you feel giddy all over, butterflies soaring freely inside your stomach.

Only now, there were a different type of eyes lurking back at you. Livid, you almost flinched at the thought of them turning red. Resentful, the kind you only thought you knew. Broken, like the glass plate laying at your feet.

But the worst had to be the betrayal, written all over them.

And you knew at that moment. This was the last and only summer.

“Wouldn’t it be scary if I just zip down because a shark bit my leg?” you ponder, gently threading through the tides. The green eyed boy tilts his head in amusement. If he hadn’t taken the time to understand your wild imagination, or dark humor, then he would’ve rolled his eyes and yawned. Instead, he slowly nudges your calf, lighthearted, droplets sliding down his face.

“Not so much as scary, but rather impossible. Sharks don’t swim near the Amalfi Coast.” You nod, though there’s a skeptical aura that lingers as you fix your snorkel. The brunette sneaks a loving glance, taking in your rosy state, scrunched nose when you swallow a gallon of sea salt water. He laughs. “You should keep an eye out for jellyfish, eh. Now those are a problem.”

“Jellyfishes and I are friends. They would never intentionally hurt me. C’mon, let's go back.”

The day had started early. Four fucking a.m. The Monegasque had hurled you out of bed, declaring that time was running out and he needed to spend all of it with you. The day prior, he had promised he would always text, call, and visit. It made your heart flutter and pounce all at the same time.

Hence, snorkeling. It was a fun and quick activity, so naturally you agreed with a killer pout as you squinted at the bright sun, despite it being the crack of dawn. Signaling to a glimmery oyster, you excitedly nod when he makes his way over. Once you reach the surface again, you clap with delight. “Can you open it for me?”

He doesn’t answer, but rather focuses his attention on snapping it wide. You can feel your eyes shimmer at the sight, an electrifying pearly white. Almost greedily, you pinch it in between your fingers, bringing it up to parade. “That is absolutely stunning. Oh my God, do you think I could turn it into a ring?”

His lips curl. “I’d say so.”

After that, you both settle into a comfortable silence. The sun was blazing hot at this point, and still there was a breeze. Just when your face would start to dry up, you would dip back in and beam at the Monegasque. He grins, crinkles, hugging the corner of his eyes. He allows himself to swoon when you wink up at the rays of sunshine. “So, I was thinking…”

“Mhm,” you murmur, orbs trained on your newly prize possession.

Nerves fill the brunette’s veins, sharp hands gently massaging his jaw, letting out a shaky breath. You furrow your brows, cocking your head to the side. Is everything alright? Charles sheepishly smiles. “Well, I, uh, was wondering…” He trails off when your lips wobble, hinting that you knew what this was all leading up to. “Would you like to go out on a date? With me,” he adds shyly.

“You were kind enough to seek me a gem,” you hum. “I would love to, Charles.”

“Wonderful,” he sighs in relief. “I-I-I know we sort of skipped a couple steps a few days ago,” he stutters anxiously. Your cheeks burn up at the reminder of him in between your legs. “So— but—I’m definitely glad that we’re able to—ouch!” he yelps in pain, teeth gritting. You fill up with panic, frantically eyeing the clear water.

“What? What?” you urge. “It’s a shark, isn’t it? I knew they would find a way!” The 26 year old barely had a chance to fill you in on what was really going on, but couldn’t really do much when you zoom out, popping the pearl into your mouth safely, floppy arms threading fast to the point that they became sore.

“There’s no—oh my word.” He grimaces, a painful expression mapped out as he, too, follows you out as quickly as he can. As he limps over to you, you scream, shiny jewel falling straight onto the ground.

“Charles, Charles, Charles.” Your stomach drops, fingers jittery, “There’s a jellyfish wrapped around your ankle…”

“You’re all caught up,” he grunts. “Get it off!”

You squeal when he lifts his leg up at you. “I can’t! Can’t you kick it off or something?”

He clenches his jaw, heavy pants filling the air. “And risk getting stung again? No, thank you. I drive for a living! I need this thing off.” He flings his leg and the transparent sea-creature disconnects, landing straight into the water. He stares back astonished and you simply laugh loudly and maniacally. You did it! “Yes, now pee on it.”

“Oh—hell no. What is this? A kink of yours?” Your nose scrunches up with clear disgust, as if you just caught a whiff of a baby’s diaper. Charles scowls. It’s supposed to help—do you think I want to do this? You gag, adamantly shaking your head. “No, no, I’ve read about this! We can add vinegar!” Briskly grabbing your essentials, you grip his wrist, already dragging him to his car.

He tears up—though, denies it—almost kicks you, and groans like a baby, but survives his injury. “Better?” Barely. Washing your hands, you share a stern glare. “At home remedies. Godsend.” He sulks deeper into his seat, wet hair trapping his face. Once you dry your hands, you plop down next to him, pecking his lips. “Grump.”

A beady eye pops open before snapping back shut. “I’d like to see you get stung.” You gasp theatrically, playfully swatting his shoulder. He chuckles, hauling you atop of him. You almost giggle like a teen, but manage to tune it out. “How ‘bout our date?”

“How about you rest? Cha, we can go out tomorrow.”

His bright eyes dim. “But we only have a few days left…”

Your mood comes crashing down as well, downcast eyes flickering like fireflies. “Then I should get ready, no?” His lips turn upward. “Meet me by the door in fifteen.”

It’s a rush, digging through your suitcase, trying to find the perfect dress, the perfect flats. You lose a good chunk of hair as you comb through it, due to the salty water, but manage. You briskly fly through your makeup routine, slather your body with perfume and lotion, and dash back downstairs, finding him already standing there.

Charles was at edge up until that moment. His tenseness slips away as soon as he sees you, looking as beautiful as ever. There’s a harsh tan going on, but even that makes you all the more breathtaking. He’s not too bad himself and you know it when you blush. From his linen navy blue shirt to his denim jeans, you swoon.

“You smell like honey,” he stammers. “You look lovely.”

“Grazie.” A beat. “You got a few new ones.”

He’s generally a cool guy, but you always strike him with some type of new feeling. He burns up, softly grazing his nose where a few freckles pop up. “That always happens when I’m out in the sun for too long. Ready?” You purse your lips, skipping towards him.

When you were eight, you had your first date. You suppose that really depends on how you see it. You mother had tried to become friends with a few ladies from the local book club and you always found yourself tagging along. Obligated, more so. His name was Joey and he had two missing teeth, so every time he spoke, a lisp would come through. It made you giggle cutely as you would lick your melted ice cream off your forearm. Eventually, your mother felt the right to storm out, pulling you away, and you never saw or heard of him again.

At eighteen, you had your last. You should've known from his name alone. James. He was tall, blond, a complete know-it-all, but he had noticed you. The crush slowly died the moment his eyes trailed to the next pretty girl, and the next, and the next.

Now, you’re mid-twenties and this feels like the right choice. He isn’t missing a row of teeth, he buys you ice cream and never once rushes you, he’s tall and proud, and has a set of chocolate curls. Most importantly, he has eyes for you and only you. It was as sweet as it could get.

“Can I ask you something?” Charles raises a brow, humming along. Twirling your pasta against the metal fork, you prop your chin on your palm. “What were you doing that day at the beach? Where we first met.”

Crimson red slashes his already burnt face as he chokes on his wine. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your perspective over me.” He drums his long fingers. “I was taking a nap.”

“Oh, well, I know that, but you were basically a goner!” You teasingly whistled. “I’m a curious little monkey, so please, enlighten me.”

The Monegasque tsks, relaxing his wide shoulders. He circles the restaurant instantly before leaning in across the table. “That day I was feeling particularly stressed. I was dealing with a lot of things and I don’t remember much after that. Except when a friend gave me a so-called magic potion.” He takes a sip to fix his dry throat. “Oh it did wonders, I tell you.” Absolute wonders, he mouths.

Your eyes widen. “Like…drugs?” you hiss, bewildered at the possibility. He cringes and nods, floppy hair bouncing. Your mouth forms a silent O, then nibble on your bottom lip, letting go. “I didn’t take you for a—”

“Me either.” You hear the sound of plates crashing down as you flinch and you both turn your attention to the apologetic waiter. The older couple look pissed, bitterly curse out the poor man, and blink as if they weren’t the vulgar ones. Charles rolls his eyes, then sighs. “I don’t think I could ever understand people like that.”

“Ruthless?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth. It’s ugly. Makes them look so out of touch with reality, which I suppose is true.” Green eyes flicker to the waiter once again before getting up to help. Tonight is really only the first time he’s gone out without his supposed disguise, so it’s obviously made your stomach flip at the thought of someone recognizing him.

Which they do.

“Charles Leclerc?” The accent is thick—and clearly Italian—as they step closer, phone already whipping out. The brunette turns, a lopsided smile drawn. “Holy shit! It’s really you! Can I please have a picture?” After a few minutes of chatter, the Monegasque excuses himself from the group, looking a bit suffocated.

“Being tackled in public? That’s what stresses you out, right?” His breath gets caught in his throat, but doesn’t make a move to shut the claim down. He answers by turning his attention to his lap. You sigh. “What did you take and who gave it to you?”

“You probably don’t even know him—Daniel. He’s quite the man, knows lots of people, and thought it would help. It did. Coke. I-it was my first and only try, I promise.”

You release a further breath. “You’re old enough to know your wrongs from rights. I trust you.” He eases up. “Doesn't mean you should rely on that.”

Charles looks up with a frown. “I feel like a fucking scumbag. I mean, does it make me a bad person to dread meeting fans sometimes? They’re always supporting me—it’s the least I could do.”

“You’re only human, Cha. You have your good and bad days. They would understand.” He shrugs, smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you remember what you told me that day you cooked that godforsaken meal?”

He nips the air. “You said it was delicious!”

You snicker, glad to see his humor coming back. “I lied. No, but you told me I had to stop pleasing everyone around me. Focus on myself. You said that. And I advise you to do the same.”

He’s heard this countless times. With Charlotte, which he only tuned out angrily, blaming her for not understanding his duties. Carlos, narrating how he of all people should understand. Pierre, smacking his head before walking away, already annoyed that too many people had tried to help, how he got called out on repeat. But with you, he simply nodded, somewhat agreeing. Not completely, but enough. That itself was a lot when it came to him and his stubbornness. Something inside of him told him he would do whatever you asked him to. It was a scary—liberating—feeling.

The last time he felt this was with…

A wave of realization slithers across his features. Charlotte. That last person he felt this familiar feeling was for Charlotte. And even then, their relationship felt foolish compared to anything he’s ever felt for you. There were sparks flying when you fluttered your doe eyes back at him, when you called him out on anything he does with a witty sense of humor…

He’s been fucked ever since the tiny ballerina kissed the hot-headed Stormtrooper.

“My words of wisdom are pretty clever,” he voices, smirking. “You’re right. I should focus more on myself.” Pause. “Thank you. For everything. For taking the time to get to know me. Not many bother these days.”

You want to cry at the gratitude written all over his handsome face, the sound of his disbelief, like a kid who genuinely thought they’d be picked last for a game of tag.

“You're very important to me, Charles.” You gently take his large hand into your smaller one. He stiffens. “You won’t ever forget that, right?”

“Not even if I try, no.” Then he presses a warm kiss onto your skin, and you feel him smile against it. “Anything you say or do would take me forever to overlook, to erase.” More pressure expands through your already firm chest, ragged breaths. “Something tells you’re a once in a lifetime type of person. How could I ever let that slip away?”

You excuse yourself in a flash, tears threatening to spill after his touch felt words. Just when you thought you couldn’t feel more two-faced, he somehow squeezes your heart around his fist, and you deserve every ounce of shame, of guilt.

After a round of paper towels that you dab as harsh as soft Kleenex, you force a bright smile in the mirror, shooting a quick thumbs up and storming back out to your date.

The 26 year old was concerned about the hazy interaction, perturbed eyes blinking as you got up as if you had just seen the Devil himself, unbeknownst that you felt like one. He’s left anxiously waiting, tapping his shoes against the shiny tiles, leg bouncing up and down with anticipation. Cursing underneath his breath, he stands up and makes his way to the women's restroom. He receives a few baffled glances when he bolts down the hallway.

“Jesus Christ,” you yelp, finding Charles right in front of you when you swing the door open. His green eyes narrow like knives, carefully analyzing your pink nose, red rimmed eyes. “You scared me—”

“What did they say to you?”

You frown. “What are you talking about?”

His hands make their way up to cradle your face, thumbs grazing your temples. You raise a neat brow. “Did anyone follow you? See you? Were they rude? My fans aren’t normally like this, I promise they’re sweet, but if they did anything to you, I swear to God—”

Instantly shaking your head, you let out a nervous giggle. “No one said anything, don’t worry. I just really had to pee. Promise.”

This is what he was most afraid of when he first opened up to you, to go out in public. Charles was terrified at the image of your privacy being invaded, much like his. For hurtful words or actions to be aimed at you. And then you blink up at him with a sour expression because he knows you just cried, he obviously grew protective. Leaning down, he meekly kisses your forehead. “What’s wrong then? You hate me that much?” he jokes.

You bite back a smile. “Something like that. How about we go somewhere dear to us?”

Added to the torment of what you were feeling, you didn’t think things could get any worse—and yet.

Today. By today. Get it done.

Aghast, your delicate fingers come up to your berry lips, pinching at them nervously before biting down on your thumb, re-reading Eleanor’s message. Friday. You originally had until Friday. It’s only Wednesday. Sure, only a forty-eight hour difference, but still. You wanted to hold onto the most valuable time possible if you could. You try convincing her to change her mind, but it was a worthless battle. You knew once she had her mind set on it, then that’s exactly what had to happen.

By today.

You’re sobbing, panting, your vision is blurry as you type on your phone, angry as you fiddle against the tiny screen. Who could you really be mad at? Eleanor? No. Charles? No. The universe? Tempting, but no. It was all you. If you hadn’t mentioned having a possible exclusive for the sake of saving your job, then you wouldn’t be tangled in this mess.

You can’t go down that way, it’s ladies only!

I’m terribly sorry, but I have to check on my wife.

You recognize his urgent voice, deep and raw. His words aren’t true, but it fucks you up just the same. Hurrying to slip your phone back inside your purse, you quickly fix your appearance before opening the wide door, finding Charles mid-knock.

“Jesus Christ. You scared me.”

“Back where we started,” the green eyed boy chirps when he spots the tiny pub that sits atop of the hill. “It feels as if we were just here yesterday. This is fantastic.”

“I didn’t think you loved it that much,” you poke fun, bumping your hip against his. His watercolor eyes flicker to yours for a brief moment, then focusing back at the old shed.

“Things can surely change in the span of a month.”

The implication was as clear as daylight, but it only flew past your head as you enthusiastically ran up, smiling back at him. Nico is still there, serving drinks with a cheshire grin, when he spots you. “I remember you! How have you been, cara mia? Is Italy treating you well enough?”

You buzz, tippy toeing as you sheepishly try to spot the main reason you came back. “Oh, definitely. I think I might stay. Do you, um, happen to have—”

“Got it right here,” he says, gloved hand wrapping around the familiar liquid. You blush, ordering a round—bottle—and making your way back to the Monegasque. As soon as the tray hits your table, he throws a dubious stare, thanking the older man. “Huge fan, Mr. Leclerc.” He extends his Ferrari merch with a timid grin. “Do you mind?”

Charles returns the warm smile. “Not at all.” He signs away sloppily, but professionally. Nico zooms cheerfully, eager to boast out to his co-workers. You giggle. Very nice, very nice. He shrugs nonchalantly. “Does my kind gesture get me a kiss?”

“We’ll see,” you mumble, looking away before he spots your pink cheeks.

He sighs dramatically. “Do you really think it’s for the best if you drink this crap again? Do you remember the last time you had a sip?”

“I’ll go easy. This shit is good.” Throwing your head back, you gulp down the sweet alcoholic drink, eyes squeezing tightly before you huff. “Exactly. Try some.” The brunette does, but steady, a careful eye always lingering onto you. You don’t get drunk this time—rather tipsy. You tell yourself it's because you don’t want to wake up with a killer headache tomorrow, but you know that’s far from the truth. It’s simple. You just didn’t want to forget the last moments you had with him.

His adoration would only last so long.

Clicking your phone open, you clumsily had it over to him. Record me. He huffs, but amusement colors his orbs. “Here we go again…” You snicker playfully, marching over to the lady at the piano. You’re back, she pronounces.

“I am.” You laugh. “Do you happen to play guitar?”

She shakes her head sadly before lighting up. “But Nico does. Nico!” she screams as the man rushes over. “You play song for pretty girl standing right here?” Volentieri, he chirps, looking for his rusty instrument. After a bit of discussion, you twirl back, walking to the center stage.

“I can still recall, our last summer. I still see it all.” Charles laughs, throwing his head back like a little kid as he reminds himself to keep your phone steady. “Walks along the Seine, laughing in the rain. Our last summer, memories that remain.”

The guitar is a lone act, but fills up the room as if there were a band. Occasionally, the keys of the broken piano fill the room as you smile gently. From the way you dance to the way you smile, Charles lives for every moment, taking in your happiness.

You should have seen the foreshadowing. The song. The plates that crashed during dinner. The stare. It was all laying right out in front of you, and you stupidly chose to ignore it until it was too late.

“Our last summer, walking hand in hand…” You trail off the moment his eyes turn dark, furrowing to the screen then back to you, as if trying to come up with a possible explanation. He stands up abruptly, chair squeaking so loud that everyone’s heads turn to look. “No,” you whisper in disbelief when he walks out, leaving you like an open love letter.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Flying down the stairs, you trip a couple of times, concerned glances shared between Nico and the older lady. None of it matters as you run after Charles.

Anger must give you wings because he’s long gone when you reach the open air. Dirt crunches underneath your heels as you desperately try to catch a sign that he’s around. When he’s not, you instantly call a cab, rudely directing him to your shared Airbnb.

He loves you; he's sure of it the moment you tuck a strand of hair behind your jeweled ear, slightly hesitant as you try to refresh Nico’s mind over what song you wanted. He even practices a few strings before winking over at you.

He knows it the moment you reach a certain note that makes your voice crack, smiling shyly, giggling through your singing.

And you loved him all too late.

Draft is perfect. Green light, publish it. We can talk about your promotion when you get back. Congratulations. Hard work really does pay off.

He recognizes the name as soon as it blares across your screen, still recording you, spinning across the stage without a care in the world. He feels inanely invasive when he clicks on the email, but pushes the feeling away with the fact that this appeared to be good news, and was there really any harm to that?

Charles Leclerc: The Man Behind the Helmet.

He reads through, spotting your name swiftly.

Sat down with him…

High on the beach—a desperate tactic to release some much needed stress during the off season…

Golden pin, prancing horse. Gifted from the late, Hervé Leclerc…

Fearful of what’s to come once Hamilton enters the picture later in 2025…

He’s skimming but it’s enough for him to wonder if he’s experiencing true headache right now. Your voice cuts off, turning pale as you blink back at him. Fury enters his veins as he storms out, not caring about what you must think. He hears you chasing after him, but manages to climb into the first cab he sees.

What he hates the most is that he still feels like a complete idiot for leaving you behind. For marching out without a single word.

For being so stupid.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire @alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar

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patricia-taxxon · 4 months

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synopsizing the movie that plays in my head every time i listen to nascent by alexander panos

this probably isn't as interesting to read as it is for me to imagine in my own head, but i wanted to write it down. maybe u will have fun imagining it too

1. Q Windswept

This is the intro to the album, you pretty much get every flavor of sound that the album has to offer in one short burst. This is the title sequence & opening credits, where all the nonexistent animators & vfx artists would go. I imagine big bunches of text popping into existence with each impact.

2. Cycles

This track is in a weird spot, it's the longest one & it was made much earlier. It sounds like it's in a different world, so I treat it as an establishing montage of the human world. We're introduced to the protagonist, who I'll call Alex for convenience but doesn't necessarily represent the real life producer behind the music, represented by a live action human actor for the time being. The track feels like writer's block, frustration, pounding on a desk, (the domp domp bit) pacing around the room, moments of existential fear in between the doldrums of solitude, the wubs and crashes are a transformation that is barely being held back. Twilight depression montage.

3. Sutter

Sutter begins the purely synthetic "internal" portion of the record. We enter a liminal/metaphorical space. Alex spasms and transforms into a 2D animated dog furry while floating far above a green field with too much synthetic blue in its hue. Huge wide shots of Alex's body flying backwards with the artificial landscape in the background, hitting with those massive manipulated vocal hits. The track ends with him slowing and coming to a gentle rest on the grass.

4. 36523_red/blue

Alex opens his eyes, sees only the pure "blue screen of death" shade of blue in the sky. Abstract glitches and squiggles zap across the screen in time with the music. Alex is beginning to ruminate, represented by him drawing patterns with his paws in the sky as the track begins to pick up a consistent tempo. The glitches and patterns are played with his fingers, building in intensity until the climax shows a vast mirror that fills the entire sky approaching rapidly, and then slowing, the dog boy in the reflection growing until it comes face to face with the viewer, and then a cut to black.

5. reasonsnotto

Lights are out, audio-reactive abstract animations shudder into being with the synthetic voice, warping and pulsing with the track's modulations. In the moments when Alex's real voice pokes through the synthetic mush, his dog form coalesces, still blurry and struggling to become fully contiguous until the very end, where Alex sings the album's thesis directly to the camera, against a pure black background.

6. Dream Extinction

He breaks the mirror here, the impacts are his fists striking the surface and releasing burning waves of fire and electricity. At the end, the part with the consistent bursts, he begins clawing at his reflection, screaming, seizure inducing flashing lights imply that this hurts him too. As the track calms down, the mirror disintegrates.

7. Equinox (Prelude)

This track begins the portion of the album that is trying to claw itself back into reality. He's not there yet, beyond the mirror Alex finds another liminal space, a primordial river, and as the track builds, more concrete images begin to flash into existence before crumbling again. He can't get out, he doesn't want to get out. He shields his eyes, cut to black.

8. Equinox

This is the bit where Alex says a poem to himself and runs back to reality with all his might. Emphasize the "You flake, you human life" line, he says it with gritted canine teeth and his doggy ears lowered, resolved to claw back to his humanity. After that exalted rush of light and color passes, he opens a door, and slams it behind him.

9. catch it

This track is resurfacing, coming back to reality. The synthetic glitches fall back completely, icons of a city street come into existence, populating the white void in time with those guitar chords. Alex isn't visible yet, but the images are revealed to be the view outside his window. The POV shot looks down, and he sees his human hands again.

10. re:Turning

Ok, this part is so cliched & shmaltzy that it makes me embarrassed to write it out, but there's only one conclusion this story can have. The glitches re-emerge, the synthetic elements that were previously contained come back again. It's his fur. The dog re-emerges, Alex transforms again like a magical girl before opening his front door & singing the final hook, walking through a live action environment with shapes and colors from his liminal space following him. The paradox is resolved. He is multitude.

thanks for reading.

#mini essay #cilantromixture #Alexander Panos

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bits-and-babs · 1 year

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⋆ 𝐏𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃

Dark!Commander Mills x f!Reader

word count: 3.7K

warnings: 18+ MDNI, Dead Dove Do Not Eat; this fic may be unsettling for some readers. Dark!Mills, Chasing Predator/Prey, fear, tense scenes. DubCon [Non-Con Themes?]. Mentions of body hair, Size Difference/Size Kink. Pussy slapping, unprotected p in v sex, tummy bulge, claiming, cream pie

➛ mills masterlist I| main masterlist |I send an ask I| taglist

Jagged bark digs into the skin of your back through the thin, soft cotton fabric of your shirt. You feel the amber tree sap seep into the canvas, sticking uncomfortably to your back and clinging to you as you try to ease your hyperventilation. The cells of your lungs vibrate with alarm, stinging as you suck in mouthfuls of oxygen.

Get away.

The sunshine thrashes you, your skin slick with the sweat that rolls down your temples. Heat ebbs at the edges of your mind, teasing you with the promise of unconsciousness. Rest. It urges you to let your knees slump, to ease your aching body down to the forest floor and close your eyes for a moment– you can’t. You can’t be certain how far ahead you were or how much of a head-start he had conceded.

It had been freezing when you awoke, the cold biting your skin raw even as it thawed. A low hum deafened your ears, subconscious tears frosting your coarse eyelash hairs together and forcing your lids shut. Panicked, you had pushed the heels of your palms to your eyes in an attempt to melt the frosty glue, feeling something slippy and thick smear across the skin of your cheekbone.

The metal tang to the scent that pierced your nostrils indicated you were bleeding, pain leaping forward in your skull and forcing your eyes open in your discomfort. Like a mallet smashed over your head, the sounds of your surroundings cracked through your ear drums. A deafening siren screamed, blurring your vision with the intensity of its volume. Glass tinkled against the metal shell of the cryogenic chamber as you’d wearily pushed yourself from the leather seat you had called home for an estimated double solar-cycle. Your limbs were stiff, unused and preserved in ice for twenty-four months.

Green flooded your vision as you rose to your feet, a flashing light on the data pad of your chamber indicating your apparent survival following defrost. You’d been thankful to see your vitals displayed across the screen– you had felt so awful upon waking that you were almost certain you had died.

Relief that had flooded your veins curdled into distress when the data pad beeped, a cursor swiping across the pixels to dismiss the notification of your stirring.

You hadn’t given the scene much notice from then, jittery fear shuddering over your skin and forcing your feet forward. The ship that had meant to deliver you to Somaris was nowhere in sight, but debris pieces of the vessel had lay strewn across the forest floor. Orange embers still glowed within the metal of some large slabs of metal.

The realisation had been slow to arrive, the throbbing remnants of a concussion sweeping nausea throughout your body as you stumbled over the fallen trees. The piercing ring of the alarm continues to circle your agitated mind, tormenting you with the sinking reality of your plight. Stranded on a planet far beyond the solar system you had come from, surrounded by alien creatures you hadn’t seen stored in information holo-pads and without a ship to re-enter orbit– all while attempting to avoid the person who you had no doubt was hot on your heels.

Initially, you had assumed that the scaly, lizard-like animals were causing the snapping of the twigs in the thick treeline of the forest. While some were humongous, you noticed some were of a smaller size. Even the creatures that reached your hips posed a significant enough threat for you to avoid them by ducking behind tree trunks and bushes, their sharp teeth dripping with saliva when they caught your scent.

Whipping around at the sound of another ‘crunch’, you’d caught sight of him. Long, ebony hair fell in strands in front of his face; his brows pinched together in a stalker's concentration. His lips set in a grim, thin line, recharge-blaster aimed directly at your calves. The amber sap that had coated your skin from the trees appeared to have drenched his eyes, irises burning a bright honey colour in the brutal sunshine.

You hadn’t stopped running since, chest heaving as the cells of your lungs screamed at the intensity of your pace. The thick fabric of your flight suit, coated in leather around the collar, was heavy to carry, your legs aching as you’d lept over each of the fallen trunks in your way.

Shuddering at the memory of the hours you have spent evading capture, you inhale shakily in an attempt to ease your thumping heart. It threatens to crack your sternum, bludgeoning the bone with its rapid pace. Even though you’d stopped for some time, dread kept your heartbeat thrumming like the wings of the birds on your home planet, your blood rushing in your ears and drowning out the squawks of the flying lizards, their beaks long and sharp, wings leathery with clawed hands at the joint.

A stream trickles nearby, the running water rippling around the surrounding rocks. The breeze is cool against your face, tickling your cheekbones in a soft kiss. Despite the rustling of the leaves, the babble of the small brook, and the distant hiss of the hot spring geysers, it’s utterly quiet.

Foreboding chills you to the bone, wringing you dry.

It feels off, this delicate balance of stillness. Trepidation crawls up the vertebrae of your spine and prickles your skin with goosebumps. There’s an ambience; thick with something sinister. It coats your surroundings and lingers in the air like unsparked lighting, threatening to pounce.

Your hair stands on end, blood freezing along with the beat of your heart when you hear it; the zooming charge of a blaster.

“You can’t run from me forever.” It’s delivered with an alarming deadpan, his even voice ricocheting off the tree line. You can’t tell where he is like this, your neck reeling on its shoulders as you frantically search the area.

Darting your eyes amongst the bushes, you spot him- his footsteps cautious as he picks each footfall carefully. He’s learnt from his previous mistake, ensuring not to reveal his position with a snapping twig.

You swallow back a whimper, skirting around the trunk of the tree. Palm pressed to your nose and mouth; you hear your trembling breaths as you attempt to smother them. It’s terrifying, the level of noise you make. You’re certain your pulse gives away your hiding spot- that the vibration of the very cells of your being is connected to an amplifier and blasting through the woodlands.

In contrast, your pursuer is almost silent, barely making a sound as he picks through the undergrowth. You wonder how it’s possible for such a large man to make so little noise. He’s so careful, so silent that you pause your breath to listen for him better. Where-?

“Sweet Thing…” you hear him coo, a slight taunt to his voice that makes your nails dig into the tree's bark. Your lungs threaten to scream, ankles promising to buckle beneath the suffocating pressure.

Crouching as low as you can onto the balls of your feet, you attempt to shuffle around the trunk's circumference. You’re careful to test each footstep, feeling for fragile foliage beneath the sole of your shoe before setting it on the floor. You swallow thickly, wincing as the dried leaves rustle quietly.

It’s as though time momentarily stops. The rubber of your heel catches on the roots of the tree, slipping down the curved surface and sending your foot crashing through the sun-baked foliage with a sickening ‘crunch.’

Oh.

Tensing up all at once, your muscles pinch with fear. You fail to suppress the heaving breaths that rattle through you now, sucking in mouthfuls of oxygen and wheezing in terror when you exhale.

“Hmm,” a hum sounds to your left, loud to your ears. You bristle, the seams of your person screaming that you need to move, to run. Instead, you stay rooted to the spot, fight or flight bested by the primal instinct to be still. To hide. The atmosphere shifts, the chill of the breeze twisting to an icy disquiet.

Don’t. Don’t move, be still. If you’re still, he won-

They crawl across the curve of your jaw at first, fingertips creeping along the line of the bone before gently grasping your chin. White hot fear holds you perfectly still as his thumb pushes into the soft flesh of your cheek, the scrape of his knuckles biting into your skin as they purse your lips together. With your feeble attempt to shake him, his grip turns solid.

“Got you.”

His gruff voice rasps against the shell of your ear, lips brushing the thin skin and raising goose pimples across your neck and down your spine. Breath caught in your throat, you barely manage a whimper of response– the sound cracks in your vocal cords and sounds more like a startled exhale.

Your resolve fractures into tiny shards as he uses the grip on your chin to tilt your head backwards. Tension cracks between your shoulder blades at the awkward angle, your muscles straining as he pulls them taut. There’s a tensity at your throat, too, the thew connecting your jaw and neck almost pained by the extreme flex.

Amber. The thin strips of gold lay stark against the pitch black of his dilated pupils, irises merely a slither as the abyss swallows them whole. An eagerness paints his expression, even as his thick, dark brows pinch together in concentration. The hulking frame of your hunter stands above you, neck practically folded over to stare down at your kneeling form. He’s scanning your face, assessing each aspect of your visage and taking in the details. The paw grasping at your face tilts it left and right as he searches for… something.

Again, you wail as you feel his thumbprint dig into the soft flesh of your cheek. It braces against the edge of your molars, prints embedding– branding itself into the skin beneath it.

“Shh-Shh,” He hushes you softly, voice somewhat soothing now as he sweeps his knuckles across your temple and over your cheekbone. “Quite the hunt. Chased you all over, 70652. ”

The five digits of your passenger number ring through your eardrums like the alarms that had alerted you to your crash landing. It flits across his expression, a smug, mocking look as the realisation strikes you between your ribs like a wet blade—the pilot. Commander Mills, you had been told before cryostasis, was a skilled enough aeronaut to deliver you safely to the destination of Somaris. It appeared he had failed his mission.

“I- I don’t-”

“Everyone in the cryo-bay is dead,” he speaks over you, matter-of-fact in his unwavering tone. Your eyelashes flutter closed, confident Mills can feel your pulse pump blood through your veins as he trails his fingertips down your jugular. It tingles, the feather-light touch, adrenaline rushing over your body in surging waves. “It’s just us.”

“Hngg-” you mewl as he crouches behind you, dragging his lips gently across your pulse point as he breathes you in- the scent of your evasion. Soil coats you in an earthy smell, the metallic tang of blood from the scrapes of the thorny undergrowth. Mills groans against your jugular, scraping his sharp incisors over the thrum of your heart while savouring you.

“Aren’t you lucky?” He whispers, gravelly voice barely registering at this volume. Mill’s hand slips down your throat, calloused fingertips tracing down your central points. Your throat, your sternum between your breasts. The deliberate trail has your breath quickening, an underlying threat of danger making the hairs on your arms stand on end. “Lucky that I found you before those creatures did? Hmm?”

The delicate intonation of his question is deceptive. He’s not being kind- he’s mocking you. Still, the enamel of his teeth sinking into the concave connecting your neck and shoulder has you crying out, wetness pooling between your thighs.

“Mhm,” he lathes his tongue over the indents his teeth leave behind, splaying his fingers wide as he trails his palm over your stomach. Need unfurls beneath the weight of his hand, twisting and coating your abdomen when his fingers dip just beneath the waistband of the joggers you had been provided before entering cryostasis. “This... Is thanks enough.”

Heat creeps across the apples of your cheeks as you feel his hand slip further into your pants and wedge beneath your panties. You can do nothing but turn your hot face away from him, squeezing your eyes shut when his fingers brush through the thatch of curls across the curve of your pussy. Mills hums softly, your only warning before he’s sliding the pad of his finger through your slick cunt.

“Shit,” he grunts softly, the tip of his nose trailing up the length of your jugular. “So wet for me already.”

Sinews in your jaw ache at the force with which you clench your jaw, trying desperately to swallow down the moans that threaten to bubble up from your throat. Mills is circling his fingertip just barely over your clit now, the delicate touch coiling a throbbing heat between your thighs.

It’s a subconscious response, one that bypasses your brain and jolts your hips forward onto his hand. You don’t mean to, your fingers sinking into the soil beneath you as your body tenses. It sends a bright, hot arc of pleasure through your body and you wail raggedly, the short-lived friction enough to blur your vision.

Mills leaps.

Ripping his hand from your pants, he grabs ahold of your waist in a bruising grip, flipping you over onto your back harshly. It’s so fast, the world careening sideways. When you land it almost winds you, your spine hitting the ground with a thud. Twigs and rocks dig into your flesh, but Mills gives you no real opportunity to complain when he pins your body down with the hulking weight of his own.

Urgency spurs Mills on, pushing his fingers under the waistband of both your joggers and your panties before yanking them down your thighs. He doesn’t bother to remove them, abandoning them over your shins. They bunch around your ankles, movements restricted by the fabric. Your body is trembling, buzzing with something far from the fear he had originally inspired in you.

Mills is huge. Broad and muscular, when he leans his body over yours he almost blocks your whole line of sight. His muscles shadow through the thin fabric of his shirt, sweat causing the material to cling to his damp flesh. The chase across the forest seemed to have had little effect on his athletic frame, the exhaustion that had afflicted you unapparent when he pushes your knees back against your chest.

“Just look at you. Trembling. Panting. It’s gorgeous.” Subtle cruelty drips from his tongue when he praises you, watching your nipples harden as your folds are exposed to the cool air. Honey irises drag over your sopping cunt, greedily lapping up the view. You shouldn’t be enjoying this, so exposed to a stranger you had been running for in fear of your life just moments before.

“Please,” you beg, pathetic sobs cracking in your throat at the desperation to be touched.

“You’re in no place to be directing me, Sweet Thing.”

Despite his apparent refusal, Mills is pushing the trousers of his flight suit past his hips to expose his cock. Again, he refuses to waste time in removing them entirely, removing just enough to ease himself out of the confines of the material. You only catch a glimpse of his cock before he hoists your thighs over his pelvis, but your heart seizes at the sight– an angry, red tip leaks precum that smears across the inside of your thighs, veins protruding across the large shaft. You can’t fit tha-

God, he pushes the pad of his thumb into your clit and you yelp, seeing stars. A steady, wicked throb of bliss pulses through you as he applies pressure to the bundle of nerves, swiping his print back and forth. It’s overwhelming, and you can’t help the way your hips jolt as you feel him attempt to breach your entrance with the head of his cock.

“Stop moving,” Mills orders, hand wrapped around his dick as he sweeps through your folds. You’re sobbing now, tears welling in your eyes as he continues to abuse your swollen clit. He slips again, dark eyes flicking up to your face when your hips jolt upwards to chase his touch, the build of your impending orgasm catching you off guard with how quickly it seems to blossom. The third time, when the tip of his dick notches the inside of your thigh rather than taking root, his patience snaps.

Mills suddenly draws back from you, removing his hand from your clit before bringing his open palm down on your throbbing cunt with a brutal slap. Pain bows through you, blending seamlessly with your bliss and causes a sharp, high pitched cry of his name to tumble from your lungs. In your shock, your hips momentarily still. Taking advantage of your dazed state, Mills quickly lines his pulsing cock against your cunt and drives home, swiftly ramming into you with an abrupt snap of his hips.

A haggard gasp rips through your throat at the sudden intrusion, the painful stretch of his cock cracking through you and making your eyes roll back. Dirt cakes under your fingernails as you grasp feebly at the damp soil, trying and failing to find any kind of purchase to ground yourself.

“Take it,” Mills orders, his gruff voice impossibly reaching lower octaves as he pushes his length further into you. He sits back slightly, his eyes almost pitch black with how his pupils swallow them up as they settle on your cunt. Fascinated, he watches your lips stretch around his girth and paint his protruding veins with your slick. “Make it fit— Shit!”

His crude growl scrapes your eardrums as he bottoms out inside of you, hips flush with your own. You can’t breathe, feeling as though he’s big enough to settle amongst your lungs. You heave shallow breaths, your head pulsing with mind-numbing dizziness.

Then he’s moving. He drives forward at first, reaching depths inside you that make your abdomen ache before pulling out of you. The stark emptiness he leaves you with is short-lived, thrusting forward and stealing what little oxygen you had swallowed down.

Heat simmers through you with each shred of the head of his cock against something blinding inside of you. It gives you no room to think, to move, the cruel pace Mills sets. It’s merciless, pummelling into you and driving you up across the forest floor. “Fuuuuck, that’s good,” Mills groans loudly, holding on tight to your hips to prevent you from sliding away from him. You sob brokenly, hitting his chest with the heel of your palm as you struggle against the orgasm that’s practically hurtling towards you. Christ, his dick is so hard, ramming through you and pushing up against your cervix and causing a delightful ache.

The wet sounds of him thrusting into you are obscene, slick and desperate as he begins to pull you down onto the snaps of his hips. Fat tears stream down your cheeks, collecting in your hairline as you sob his name over and over.

“Look at you,” Mills practically snarls, eyes set on the bulge in your lower abdomen and in awe of what he finds there. Fuck fuck fuck. You can see him, see the outline of his cock driving in and out of you through your abdomen. “Mine.”

Through your haze, you feel Mills press his giant palm against your abdomen, feeling himself twitch and thrust inside of you. His forehead drops against your shoulder, hips beginning to stutter as your walls flutter around him.

It’s overwhelming; the intense pace, the brutality of his thrusts, the way your clit brushes against the pubic hairs on his lower pelvis. You sound fucking wrecked, wails spluttering with each devastating rock of his hips.

“Aha-ah- ohfuck,” you babble, eyes rolling back as your body curls inwards. You’re burning, tightening, your orgasm creeping across the pit of your stomach. “I-I’m gonna-“

Mills groans loudly, and your back arches suddenly when he bites into your collarbone. His teeth sink into your flesh, hard enough to draw blood, and the pain shoves you right over the ledge you’d been dancing over. You cum with a scream of his name, clamping down around his cock as ecstasy surges through you from head to toe. Your vision blurs, hearing cuts out.

“Shit,” you hear him spit distantly, despite the close proximity to your ears. Mills’ hips push up deep inside of you, his body lurching and trembling as he cums inside of you. It feels, even in your altered state of consciousness, like it takes forever. Milking him endlessly, his breath shuddering against the wound on your clavicle as he gently grinds into you to ease himself down from the high.

There’s no movement, no sudden release of your body and flopping to the side. Mills stays stuffed within you, your mixed cum dribbling down the inside of your thighs as he squeezes the flesh of your hips with his palms.

Your sobs of his name had been loud, noisy enough to draw in all kinds of lizard creatures, but Mills seems insistent on remaining like this, scraping his teeth across the curve of your shoulder and beginning to rock into your swollen cunt again.

“There’s a few hours before nightfall,” he talks over your garbled string of noises, overstimulated and exhausted from the hours of running and the brutal way he had fucked into you. “You can take me again before then, can’t you, Sweet Thing? Before we head back to the ship?”

Your body resigns to his question, already far too wearied and submissive to argue what feels more like an order than a question— besides, bliss is already pooling in between your thighs when he pinches your clit with the pads of his forefinger and thumb.

“Good Girl.”

END

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ddarker-dreams · 8 months

Text

Nexus IV.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Explicit not SFW, alcohol consumption, Space Politics, possessive behavior, yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 15.4k.

Nexus index.

Time plucked away at the few petals still clinging to Kafka’s roses.

The insipid end brought an inexplicable sense of relief. An irrational foreboding cast suspicion upon the bouquet; you considered it an ill-omen. You observed it religiously as one would an upside-down hourglass. Waiting, anticipating, dreading. When the last petal fell, you breathed a sigh of relief. It was late by then, so you decided to throw the remains away in the morning.

Presently, you examine the vase.

The once wilted stems stand tall, pridefully lifting its crowning gem on a green pedestal. Ruby-colored petals burst forth, wickedly beautiful and fragrant.

Is this a practical joke? Some little parlor trick intended to unnerve you?

The latest developments in holograms include olfactory stimulation. Consider this, you decide to test its authenticity. You reach out, expecting your hands to glide through an incorporeal image.

Your fingers meet resistance.

You try again just to be certain — the results are the same.

You’re more determined to get rid of it now than ever.

You pick up the most vain rose by its stem. It delays its demise by pricking you, earning a temporary pardon along the white veneer of your vanity.

Blood pools into a crimson dome on your finger. You watch it, mesmerized, taken aback by memories that emerge alongside it.

The voice of a haughty girl echoes throughout your being.

“What’s wrong? It’s just a bit of blood. We all have it inside us, don’t we?”

The LOTUS-EATER has always been your home.

So long as it wasn’t open for business, you were free to run amuck. Of course, you refused to run amuck — how unladylike is that — but you did enjoy roaming. There were a lot of interesting things to look at. Anything was better than spending hours in front of that dumb blue screen with its stupid made-up people with stupid made-up problems. You didn’t get it. Everyone always said you’d grow up to be a super amazing Arbiter. You’d get tons of clients, make them all happy, get mountains of credits, buy the IPC, and then fire their staff.

Miss Calliope, your teacher when mother was busy, said it took most twenty years to get to where you’ve gotten in one. This reinforced an argument you’d practiced for many cycles. You thought for sure you could convince mother.

It didn’t work out that way.

Mother said you had to keep studying before you could make a link with an organic being. You really wanted to argue, but you chose to act like an adult and be angry in silence instead. She tried to win you over and offered a ride on the nectar guides. This bribe almost swayed you from your mission. To ensure she knew how serious you were, you said you’d pass, calmly enough for her to know you weren’t actually calm.

She went off somewhere to discuss boring things with boring people. You seized this opportunity to further refine your strategy and paced The Lounge’s hallways. Maybe if you broke the blue screen, mother would have no choice but to let you learn through experience. This idea greatly enthused you, until you remembered they could just get another blue screen. For this mission to succeed, you needed to cause the ‘collapse of supply chains.’ This was adult for ‘we can’t get the stuff we want’ from what you could surmise. The problem was, you didn’t know where these important chains were located. There’s Thelx, the good place, Ade, the weird place, Mele, the boring place, and Arc, the scary place.

You stood and contemplated. If you had to hide something important, you’d put it in the scariest spot. Arc it is then.

A mission of this magnitude would be unlike anything you pulled before. You’d need a… what was that term again…? Accompanied lice…?

Accomplice!

That’d be the crux of the whole thing. It couldn’t be any of the adults either, they’re all snitches. You required someone who would do your bidding. You closed your eyes and concentrated. There were three people around. Two on the first floor, one on the second. You sought out the latter.

A little boy with long blonde hair and dull blue eyes sat by himself in the break room. He hadn’t noticed you yet, he just stared off into space and halfheartedly kicked his legs. The workers sometimes brought their kids along and stuffed them in here, where there were snacks and games. He didn’t seem interested in either.

What resolve, you thought. What fortitude!

You walked in front of him, pointed, and loudly demanded, “What’s your name?”

“M-Miss Phaeales?” He squeaked.

“No, that’s my name,” you sighed. Maybe your intuition was off. “What’s your name?”

He hung his head and frowned.

“Oh, um… I’m Vincent.”

You squinted. “Huh? That can’t be right. Vincent’s the bartender. You can’t do that.”

“He’s my dad. We have the same name.”

You felt a strange feeling from tinier Vincent; the kind of strange feeling that made your stomach and head hurt. Mother said you’d be able to block it out as you grew up. You hoped you’d grow up soon.

“Well, that’s dumb. I don’t like that name,” you decided. He remained silent. “Pick a new one.”

“I don’t think I can…?”

“You can because I said you can. Pick a new one, or I’ll pick one for you.”

He stared at you like you had three heads. You did the scary thing mother does when angry — you counted down from three to one in a mean voice. Not-tinier-Vincent just sat there and looked confused. You scrunched your face up when your mean counting finished. You didn’t get it, that always worked on you. He must be immune to pressure… a quality your mission required.

Maybe he had his merits after all.

“Alright, I’ll pick one. From now on, you’re… hm… Lear.”

You placed your hands on your hips and nodded. This is a great name, you thought. It rhymes with so many things.

Lear tilted his head. “Uh… alright?”

“Great. Onto the next business order — how old are you?”

He put up five fingers.

What luck you have!

You grinned. “I’m seven, so according to the law, you have to listen to me.”

“The law?” He questioned.

“Yeah, the law. It’s what you have to do or you get in trouble.”

Lear processed this new information and nodded. “Okay. I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“From now on, you’ll be my ac—”

You covered your mouth with your hands. Wait a moment, you can’t tell him he’s an accomplice! He might not help you then. That was a close one. You considered alternative titles, but none of them sounded as cool as accomplice. What a shame, but it can’t be helped. Missions required sacrifice.

“From now on, Lear, you’ll be my best friend.”

…

A few cycles later, you convened on the balcony outside of mother’s office.

You liked the balcony. No one made you use the blue screen there. Sometimes, when you weren’t monitored, you’d grab a chair, pull it to the railing, hop up, and stare. This is Eris, you’d think. A cold planet far away from the stars. Stars are big fireballs that make everything nice and warm. I don’t think I’ll ever get to see one. It’d be cool if I could.

You displayed a vital object for the mission.

“Lear, do you know what this is?”

Lear stood still with his hands in his pockets. “A circle?”

“No. Well, okay, yeah, it’s a circle, but this is called a hair tie. You use it to tie your hair.”

“That’s cool.”

You held it out to him. “For this mission, full visibility is required. I’d cut your hair, but mother hid the scissors from me.”

His tiny hand grabbed it. Lear regarded your gift blankly and glanced back at you, his eyebrows furrowed. Did he not know what to do with it?

You sighed because that’s what mother did in these situations. You started to get why. You took the gift back, tied your hair up, then returned it. He managed to do it on the fourth try. Relieved that the trial was over, you clapped and smiled. Your effort has been rewarded.

“Good job, Lear.”

Lear’s head rose at that. “What?”

“I said good job. When someone gets something right, that’s what you say.”

“... It is?” He murmured. You nodded. You didn’t think you needed to teach him the basics, but an accomplice must be capable. Miss Calliope said that extra effort was always worth it. She changed her mind after you grabbed a stool to mix the adult drinks. You’d like to think she still meant it.

“Since that’s finished, we can get to the main event.”

You pulled out a paperclip from a pocket inside your dress. The object was subjected to your immense strength, manipulated, and reforged. It went from a boring shape to a useful shape. You took a deep breath, brought the paperclip’s edge to your pointer finger, then stabbed down. Lear released a choked sound when blood surfaced.

You cleaned the paperclip’s edge with your dress’ hem and handed it to him. This would go on to determine the rest of your life, you decided. It needed to be done well.

“I read that doing this makes your promises stronger. Since we’re gonna make an important promise, it has to be extra strong,” you explained. The color drained from Lear’s face. “What’s wrong? It’s just a bit of blood. We all have it inside us, right?”

Lear refused to take the paperclip. “A promise? Miss Phaeales, I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have to press hard. It barely stings, anyway.”

“B-But...”

You pursed your lips. “Lear, we have to, or the promise will be weak.”

Lear shook his head and took a step back. There were lots of weird feelings that came from him. They confused you, you couldn’t think of a word to describe them. It didn’t hurt, but it felt heavy on your chest. What did you do wrong? Were paper clips that scary? No, it had to be something else. Mother said you can’t focus on another person too hard because it’s unfair. If they don’t tell you it themselves, you shouldn’t know it.

“Lear…?”

He stood on his tiptoes and reached for the number pad. You revealed the top-secret passcode to him, since the balcony was to be your top-secret hideout. Every top-secret hideout had to have a top-secret password. The detective books you read said so.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” Lear apologized. His voice sounded tiny. “I’m really sorry.”

You didn’t know what to say to stop him or if you should try.

Was this what people meant when they called you pushy? You wanted to complete the mission, but you also didn’t want Lear to be sad.

The door opened and quietly closed.

With that, the first friend you ever made was gone.

…

The next time you were allowed on the balcony, you were curled up in a ball.

You hugged your knees to your chest and sniffled. Mom was mad at you. Miss Calliope was mad at you. Mister Caicias had scolded you. The other Arbiters were less nice too. You don’t think they ever liked you, but at least they pretended they did. It’s okay to hate you for now so they stopped pretending.

You could hear their thoughts. You didn’t want to, but you could anyway.

What a spoiled child.

If anyone else had done what she did, they’d never be allowed in this line of work.

I hope the Exalted Arbiter lives a long life, if this is to be her successor.

Your throat was sore, your eyes burned, and your chest hurt. You didn’t know you were spoiled. You never thought you were better than anyone. You hadn’t realized your attitude was awful. You just wanted to be confident like mom. That way, no one would be worried about the future. Everyone on Eris relied on mom. Everyone on Eris will have to rely on you eventually.

You looked at the black sky, the only sky you’d ever known. It always felt sad. The gray clouds were like little discolored tears.

You wondered if Noct ever felt bad that they made a planet where everyone was unhappy.

Someone’s coming, you realized. Is it moma?

It isn’t.

It’s the little boy with blue eyes and long, blonde hair. This time, it’s pulled back into a ponytail. You hadn’t changed the top-secret password, he must’ve used it to gain entry.

You hurriedly rubbed your tears away, and he looked elsewhere until you gave up on your task. Afterward, he sat down beside you. He hugged his knees to his chest as well.

“Are you okay?” He murmured.

You nodded and sunk your head into your knees.

“... Those kids are mean, anyway,” he reassured. “I dunno what they said, but it’s not true.”

“It is too. The adults think it but they don’t say it,” you whispered.

You know it’s true. Your mission to Arc almost caused what Miss Calliope called ‘a scandal.’

You snuck out of the LOTUS-EATER by yourself.

It wasn’t as difficult as you expected. You just borrowed a staff member’s lanyard, pressed it against the door, and it opened. You stuck to the shadows and navigated your way south. You could tell when an adult was close if you heard their thoughts. The thoughts were rarely happy. You pushed on until you encountered an alley, where some older kids were gathered.

You froze; you hadn’t accounted for kids. Their thoughts weren’t as loud and terrible. You didn’t hear them.

This bunch, though… they had a kid’s build and the expression of an adult. You counted four in total. One was tall, another was scrawny, the tiniest covered in dirt, and the last kid wore a tattered shirt that reached their knees.

The tall kid spat on the ground.

“This is our spot,” he said. “Get lost.”

You fidgeted.

“Hello, um… could I just pass over that fence? I’ll be quick,” you reasoned.

“Are you deaf or something? I said, get lost.”

The scrawniest kid squinted at you. “Hey, wait a sec, J. I feel like I’ve seen her before.”

“Really? When?” The tiny one squeaked.

“Y’know, during those big events for when Arc folk move over.”

“Huh, now that you mention it…” the tall boy trailed off, “You’re [First] Phaeales, right?”

He said your name like it was a disease. It made your heart hurt.

“Can you read my mind? What am I thinkin’ about, huh?” The scrawny kid called out.

“Hey, be careful. I heard those things can make your head explode with a single look,” the kid in a long shirt whispered.

The tall boy guffawed and stepped forward. “Really? Is that true?”

You took a step back.

“What? You gonna run away? Can’t stand to see people like us, huh?” He remarked. “Must be nice, getting everything you ever need handed to you. Yeah. Real fuckin’ nice.”

“I don’t—” your voice gave out. You ignored how they snickered and pressed on to finish your important sentence. “I don’t think that about you! When I grow up, I wanna help—”

The tall boy stormed over and lifted you by your dress’ collar. “Help? Help? You can’t do shit. You people never do anything! You promise and promise and never come through!”

You didn’t understand, there was too much to process. Anger and sadness mixed to become a storm that you were caught in the middle of. You closed your eyes and hoped the pain would go away. Maybe you prayed to Noct, maybe you cried out for your mom, you don’t really remember.

When you reopened your eyes you saw a music box. It was simple, small, and made of wood. There was nothing else around it. No ceiling or sky, floor or ground. You couldn’t speak, so you couldn’t scream. Nothing felt normal. This wasn’t Eris. Did you float into space? Can anyone save you? Would anyone find you?

The music box’s handle creaked; the lid lifted like a yawning mouth. No song was played. Voices came out instead, though they sounded far away. There was nothing else to do but listen.

“At this rate, she’s only going to get worse…”

“You don’t know that. I have a few more items I can pawn off, and then…”

“... Temperature of 102 degrees…”

“How much longer will this embargo last? Why can’t they just give in to the IPC’s fucking demands already? We all know they’re going to, but we have to sit and suffer while they play politics!”

“Honey, keep your voice down, the children are trying to sleep…”

“... Temperature of 104 degrees…”

“My wedding ring! There’s still my wedding ring! We have— we have to go fast, the pharmacy closes at 3400!”

“Jason, your mom and I need to run a very important errand. I need you to keep an eye on Iris, okay? Can you do that for me? I know it’s scary, but it’ll all be okay, I promise. We’ll be quick.”

“Hey… big bro?”

“You shouldn’t get up! Here, lay back down. There you go, take it easy. Mom and dad will be back soon. They’ll get what you need, and… and… it’ll be okay. They promised.”

“I’m sorry… for making everyone sad.”

“No, no, that isn’t true! When you get better, we’ll be the happiest family there is. We’ll— we’ll take a trip to the entertainment district, get tons of yummy food. I’ve been saving up my allowance so I can spoil you. You can have cookies, cakes, whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“... Pudding too?”

“Of course, pudding too. You’ll have so much, you’ll need an entire lifetime to eat it. A long, long lifetime. So… just wait a bit longer. They should be back any minute now.”

“You want to hear the music box mom gave you? That’s all the way in the— no no no, don’t look at me like that, I’ll go get it. See? Keep an eye on the door, lift your head just a little bit. I’ll be quick.”

“Hey, look what I found. Works like a charm too. Hm? Did you fall asleep? That was fast. It normally… it takes… normally takes… l-longer…?”

The music box slammed shut.

The tall boy — Jason — released his grip on you and staggered back. His friends ran to his aid. You squeezed your head in your hands, fell to your knees, and tried to disappear. It hurt, it hurt, oh, it hurt, a pain you’d never experienced before. It felt like your chest was stabbed over and over again with something sharper than a paperclip. This pain, his pain, it was too much.

A few guards that’d been dispatched to search for you overheard the commotion. They ran over, worried that you were injured. Nothing was wrong with you physically. The pain came from within. You thrashed and screamed when they picked you up. You wanted to be left alone, you wanted it to go away.

You looked at the tall boy one more time before they pulled you away.

Tears fell from his eyes and they couldn’t stop.

You don’t think those kids were mean. They were just really sad.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” the little boy said. His voice wavered. “I was scared.”

You felt numb. “Of me?”

His eyes widened and he waved his hands as if he’d caught on fire. “N-No, well, kinda, but not like that. You’re nice. You don’t tell me to smile or to stop looking sad.”

Your lower lip trembled. “But I made you tie your hair up.”

“I see better now.”

“And— and I said your name was dumb.”

“... I don’t like it,” he said. The strange feeling reappeared. “That name. It is dumb. You know that I guess, ‘cause of the mind stuff.”

“Isn’t that scary?”

“Maybe if you did mean things with it, but… that name made me sad. So you picked a new one. Lear is cool. It rhymes with stuff.”

You lifted your head. The little boy wasn’t lying, you could tell.

“Why’d you leave then?”

His little hands balled into fists by his side.

“I was scared. I was asked to make a promise before, and I lied. It was a promise I didn’t like,” he explained.

Then, he lifted his finger. A droplet of blood dripped from it. “I shoulda said something. I’ll try, I’ll really try, so please don’t be sad. It makes me sad. I want… I want to be best friends!”

A lump formed in your throat. Tears stung your eyes, the strength of his words pierced through your sadness like an arrow. A friend. You never had a friend before. You didn’t think you’d ever get to have one. Mom said it’d be difficult, that if you wanted it, you’d need to try harder than you’d ever tried before.

You launched at Lear, your arms outstretched, and wailed loudly. He caught you awkwardly with a gasp. You pressed your forehead to his shoulder and hugged him tight.

“I don’t want you as an accomplice anymore! You’re my best friend! I really mean it this time!” You exclaimed in between sobs.

“Eh? Accom-police?” Lear struggled to repeat the new word. Then, for the first time since you met him, he laughed. “I don’t really get you, Miss Phaeales, but… I wanna.”

That kid, Jason… is he okay? Did he ever go back home to his parents? You wonder. I used to think I could prove him wrong, that I just needed to grow up faster so I could fix everything. And yet, these past two years have been some of the worst economically.

You grab the rose by its petals and return it to the vase.

The crystal lotus shines beside it, its multiple surfaces flickering between brilliant hues. This gift, while beautiful, never particularly stuck out to you before. It wasn’t until Blade expressed an interest that it stood out more.

You sit in front of your vanity.

Mom… was I a good daughter?

You brush foundation along your face.

I always thought you never understood me, but…

Mascara darkens and thickens your eyelashes.

… I never tried to understand you.

You slam the makeup drawer shut.

It has officially been three months since the IPC instituted its travel ban on Eris with seemingly no end in sight.

Unemployment rates have crept up from 5.3% to a staggering 15%. We reached out to a financial advisor for Metis Mining from Mele, a company that has laid off one-third of its workforce.

“It’s an awful situation,” he said. “Essentially, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. I’ve been in this field for some 150 years — never have I seen anything like this. Thelx is our heart. If it stops pumping, we stop getting the blood we need to live. We need tourism. We need our heart to beat again.”

An advisor for Chrysus, however, is singing a different, more upbeat tune.

“We’re feeling optimistic. The negotiations have been going well. None of us want this to last longer than it has to. We’ve cooperated fully with the IPC’s requests, working endlessly to provide the necessary documentation for them to drop this unfounded charge. We ask that the people of Eris stand together. I will not be accepting questions at this time. Thank you.”

“What is Chrysus doing,” you groan. “The optics on this are terrible. ‘We ask that the people of Eris stand together,’ sounds like a bumper sticker for a spaceship.”

The comment section on the article expresses a similar sentiment. The most upvoted post is a picture of Eris on fire with bottom text that reads, ‘Don’t worry, just keep standing.’ The second is a screenshot of the advisor’s comment with the caption ‘me when i lie.’ To make matters worse, the user’s profile picture is the lead singer for Mushroom Mania but with a flower crown photoshopped onto his head.

You squint at the tiny text beneath it.

Your friend banona69 liked this post.

“Blade, can you cut my phone in half?”

He throws you a disinterested glance.

“Riveting conversation, as usual,” you lean heavily on sarcasm to reel him in.

“You’re working. I won’t interrupt,” he drawls.

Or maybe it didn’t, who knows, he’s as easy to read as an esoteric tome in a lost language. It is true that you’re working. Keeping up with clients, overseeing reimbursements for canceled appointments, apologizing for circumstances you have no control over; the usual. Your latest torment involved your bank’s servers going down when your employees’ paychecks were due. They’re testing out a new customer service android, but yours had a bug that caused it to repeat everything you said.

That predicament came to an end and five more popped up in its place.

You stretch your arms above your head. “If I handed you over to the IPC, do you think they’d lift the travel ban?”

“Find out for yourself.”

“Huh?” You swipe your monitors away so you can gauge him better. “What do you mean by that?”

Blade kicks himself off the wall and uncrosses his arms. “If you can subdue me, you can turn me in.”

That’s one of the biggest ‘ifs’ to ever if. You narrow your eyes, like that’ll help your ability to discern his intentions. He’s standing there, intimidating as ever, his countenance betraying nothing. You decide he has to be joking. It’d be a major inconvenience for Kafka and her cronies to break him out of IPC holding. You know precious little about Blade, but you do know he takes his job seriously.

Regardless, this cycle has raised your blood pressure to unprecedented levels, so you play along. A little fun never hurts.

“Didn’t Nona tell you about my mind-liquifying technique?”

“Screeched it, more like,” Blade dryly recalls. “It’s a bluff.”

You swivel around on your chair and get up. He remains perfectly still as you languidly approach, his burning eyes never leaving yours. An electrifying sensation courses through your body the closer you get. It’s unfair how beautiful he is. His dark hair that shifts into a crimson shade, broad shoulders, narrow waist, his surprisingly soft lips that are almost always drawn in a straight line; the wanted posters don’t do him justice.

You have to crane your head to look up at him, the man’s so ridiculously tall. You’ve never liked it when people look down on you — this must be the lone exception.

“And if it isn’t?” You challenge.

“You would never,” Blade insists. It isn’t your eyes he’s focusing on anymore, it’s your lips. “You’re too…”

On the occasions you can get Blade talking, he’s never at a loss for words. His cadence has a quiet confidence. If he’s in the mood, he’ll have a rebuttal for every possible sentence you could concoct. It’s immediate too, as swift as his bladework. It’s unusual for him to trail off for this long.

“Too…?” You encourage, tilting your head.

“Forget it.”

You don’t have the luxury of pressing the issue. He quite literally sweeps you off your feet, taking long strides to your office’s couch like he owns the place.

“You missed your chance,” Blade lays you down on the cushions and crawls over you. “Unless you’d still like to try.”

You glare at him halfheartedly and prop yourself up on your elbows. This guy must have a thing for manhandling you, because every chance he gets, he goes for it. You splay your hand against his chest and lightly push. He gets the message and moves back, allowing you the space necessary to lift up your blouse. He’s all over you immediately after, kneading your chest and trailing hot kisses down your neck. He stops at the spots with bite marks or bruises, giving them extra attention so they don’t fade.

“Maybe I could, who knows? Perhaps I’ve extended you mercy,” you breathe out.

Blade pins your wrists above your head with one hand, his amusement evident. “You’d be the first.”

He leers at your cleavage like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His lips are back on your skin, starting at your collarbones and then moving down. He lavishes your chest in lovebites, his teeth practically married to your skin. Your low-cut shirts will be collecting dust in your closet at this rate, he’s seen to that. He kisses down your navel and stops shy of your skirt’s waistband.

“Is this for me?” He plays with your skirt’s short hem, raising it to reveal your thighs.

You did choose this risque skirt to see how he’d react, but he doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing this.

“You’re not the only person I ever see,” is your cheeky reply.

He doesn’t look impressed.

“I’m the only one who can fuck you, though,” he says, as plain as someone describing the weather.

You frown and twist your head to the side. He picked up on that, huh? You don’t know if it’s definitive, but you haven’t conducted tests to find out. It is exhilarating to lose yourself in carnality without fearing the repercussions. Still, you don’t want him to believe that gives him an exclusive claim to you. You’ll both enjoy yourselves, he’ll get recalled from this job, and that’ll be the end of it. He’ll be nothing but a story you drunkenly recall to Nona. Nothing more, nothing less.

Possessive men are a turnoff. If they wanted to own the thing they stick their dick in, they could buy a sex android. You’re not a sex android. You don’t run out of battery power in six hours or incur hilarious yet painful-sounding reasons for lawsuits.

“Pouting again?” Blade taunts.

Long, gloved fingers lightly glide against your inner thigh.

“I don’t pout,” you sigh as his hand dips past your waistband. “I brood.”

“Mhm.”

His fingers are quick to find your clit. He rubs the sensitive nub in slow motions, applying minimum pressure. Your breath hitches and you look up at him through lidded eyes. His towering form cages you in. This couch is one of the few surfaces he hasn’t taken you on yet. Your bed, your office chair, your desk, hell, even the wall; he’s fucked you on almost every object with the geometry to permit it.

Your head tilts back as he steadily drags his fingers down the length of your pussy. His ring and middle finger barely slip in before he pulls them out, returning to their previous task of gathering your slick. There’s enough for each swipe to create audible sounds, despite the relaxed rhythm he’s set. This detail doesn’t go unnoticed by him. No, he grins at you, his eyes practically shining.

“Shut up,” you grumble, covering your face with your forearm.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to, it’s written all over your— ah!”

His fingers plunge into you without the slightest resistance, all the way up to his knuckles. You gasp at the abrupt intrusion. Normally, he takes surprising care when pushing anything inside you — whether it be his cock, tongue, or fingers — gauging how your face contorts to ensure you aren’t in pain. He couldn’t have been touching you for more than a minute and yet your body produced enough lubrication to easily suck him in.

“My what?” He probes, lowering his face close enough for your noses to touch. His soft black locks tickle your cheeks.

Blade curls his fingers as if beckoning you toward him, which is exactly what he gets; your back arches and you curl your arms around his neck for purchase. He’s noted this clinging tendency of yours and has taken great pleasure in pointing it out. You mewl as he carries on his ministrations, loving the contrast of the cold leather against your warm insides. He finger fucks you nice and slow. His lips find yours, kissing you in a way that can only be described as tender. You reciprocate, though the lustful haze permeating your mind desires something rougher. This is the sweet kiss of a lover, not a… whatever the two of you are.

Blade pulls back an inch when you run your tongue over the seam of his lips.

“Are you ever satisfied?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you huff. “Do you have any idea how much shipping Plan B to this planet costs?”

He exhales sharply in amusement. “You like when I finish inside.”

Your walls clamp down on him before you can protest this claim.

“Would you look at that,” Blade hums, his voice dropping in volume as if he were sharing a secret. “I can’t even move my fingers, that made you squeeze them so tight.”

You’d like to think he was exaggerating, but it does take a few seconds for him to comfortably slide his fingers in and out again.

“You’re delusional. That’s… an involuntary muscle contraction.”

He quirks an eyebrow.

His fingers abandon their prior creed. He embraces a new tenet — one that seeks to make your lips part in pure pleasure. You writhe beneath him at the unrelenting onslaught. He angles his palm so that it rubs against your clit with every thrust of his fingers. You’re quick to sync up with his sharp movements. Every time his fingers glide back in, your hips rise to meet him halfway. Soft gasps and moans fill the air as your peak grows closer.

Your walls start to tighten, promising that sweet ecstasy will soon be yours.

The second time it squeezes down, his merciless pace relaxes. He doesn’t stop entirely, he just slows down enough that you aren’t getting the stimulation necessary to come undone. You bite down on your lower lip. He hasn’t deprived you of an orgasm since this feverish passion began; he’s been more interested in seeing how many times he can fuck you to completion. He didn’t even subject you to this cruelty when you made a jab at his age that set him out to prove he doesn’t ‘have the refractory period of an old man.’

You don’t bother trying to move your hips for more friction. One night, during the afterglow of sex, you inquired after his sword. Among other things, he nonchalantly revealed its weight of three thousand pounds. You called his bluff. He was in an agreeable enough mood to summon it, allowing you to test the claim’s validity yourself.

Sure enough, you couldn’t even drag it an inch across the ground…

His breath is hot on your ear as he whispers, “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you love it,” he commands, his fingers massaging your walls. “Don’t be shy.”

“I’m anything but shy.”

“Hm. Dishonesty doesn’t suit you.”

You groan in exasperation when his fingers come to a complete halt. Is he really going to make you admit something so embarrassing…? Your face burns as hot as those faraway stars. You examine his expression, searching for some sign that he isn’t being serious. It’s a poor tactic. His countenance is stern, except for the blush on his cheeks from how aroused he is.

“I…” you inhale shakily, your lower lip trembling, “I like… when…”

“Love,” he corrects.

You turn your head to the side and squeeze your eyes shut. “I love when you… cum inside me.”

His clothed cock twitches against your leg.

“I know.”

Blade returns to the heavenly speed that has your mind all but floating away. His palm rubs down hard on your clit, his fingers searching out for that spot you love so much. Inhibitions gone, his name is the only word your tongue can form. Everything else that isn’t Blade has been erased from your lexicon. He makes you feel so good, it’s maddening. He’s addicted to your body and you couldn’t be more grateful.

To be wanted, to be desired… what bliss this brings.

Your muscles tighten and release as waves of pleasure devour you.

Your insides spasm around him, demanding that he doesn’t let up until you’re satiated. He’s happy to oblige. Once your orgasm-induced daze lessons, you yank him down to your lips into an open-mouthed kiss that has you swapping saliva. He swallows a whimper from you while pulling his fingers out, leaving the area he’s become so intimately acquainted with. The arm that he was using to hold himself above you snakes behind your back. You’re made to sit on his lap as he shifts upright, your skirt flaring out.

As always, it’s you who breaks from the heated kiss first.

Blade raises his gloved hand for you to see. You gape at how the onyx-colored leather has lightened, thoroughly coated in you. He parts his middle and ring, allowing dewy threads of your essence to form. Those crimson eyes go from admiring his handiwork to reveling in your embarrassed expression. As if you weren’t flustered enough, he slips his fingers into his mouth. His length hardens and he groans quietly while sucking off your slick.

While savoring your taste, he starts the familiar process of pulling your drenched panties down. You set to work on undoing his belt. He then hits an area that’s difficult to pull them over. He gives it one more try before frustration surges from him, hinting at his solution.

“Stop ripping my undergarments,” you chastise, lifting your leg to make it easier for him. “I’ll have to go shopping at this rate.”

Blade exercises a modicum of decorum and flings the scant fabric aside instead of eviscerating it.

“Quit wearing them.”

“That dream of yours might come true if I have none left. If that happens, I’m stealing your credit card.”

“It’s yours.”

You roll your eyes, focusing on freeing his cock. His length is flushed red and painfully hard. You wrap your hands around the base. Pre-cum leaks from his head in steady streams that flow down, coating him enough that it’s easy to glide your hand up. He hisses out through gritted teeth. Once your hand reaches the top, you rub his smooth tip with the pad of your thumb. The way he leers at you is borderline animalistic. You keep at your task, pumping him up and down.

“Does this count as me subduing you?” You muse, your voice taking a sickeningly sweet cadence, “Should I get handcuffs ready?”

“Watch it, girl.”

You would’ve if he hadn’t teased you so much earlier. But he did, and you must have some compensation. You sink onto the ground. Blade shoots you an inquisitive look, to which you flutter your eyelashes and smile. The realization of your intentions hits him when your lips place an amorous kiss on his leaking tip. The veins running along the length of his cock pulsate from the sight. Such a chaste way of going about a lustful act must do something for him.

“You…” He growls out, clenching his hands into tight fists, “God.”

You suck him gently, swirling your tongue along his slit. Meanwhile, your hand pumps him faster. He thrusts his pelvis forward to force more of his cock into your mouth. He isn’t immediately gratified — no, you take him in at your leisure. His gloved hand entangles itself in your hair and helps guide your head up and down. The wet sound of you sucking him off grows louder from the copious amount of saliva slathered along his cock. You reach for his balls, gently cupping and massaging them. Blade pants above you and throws his head back.

The telltale twitching of his cock starts.

You pull yourself off him. He glares down at you, silently fuming.

You suppress a laugh and climb onto his lap. His hand goes to your shoulder, a sign he intends to push your body down so he can fuck you. Rather than moving aside and complying, you undo your bra’s clasp. His enchantment with your bare tits distracts him enough for your scheme to carry on undetected. You align your entrance with the head of his cock and start sinking down, taking the initiative yourself.

Blade’s large hands fly to either side of your hips from instinct. Inch after inch slides in and stretches you. He maintains unflinching eye contact, the intensity behind his gaze is almost more embarrassing than the act of sex itself. Maybe he’s as pent-up as you are? Whatever the case, the tension in the air begs to be diffused.

“Have I earned your forgiveness?” You ask.

“You’re getting there.”

Your lips part in a silent moan when you fully envelop him. Blade grunts, pulling you down so he can go as deep inside you as possible. His thickness caresses your walls and sets your nerves ablaze. You gyrate your hips in one last little act of revenge. He squeezes your flesh, sending the unspoken warning that you’re truly testing his patience. Thinking it best not to test your luck any further, you rise off him and sink back down.

The legs in your muscles are sore from overexertion but the burden barely falls to you. Blade lifts you off his cock then back down again — you could go completely limp and it wouldn’t make a difference. He must’ve wanted to know you were ready before ruthlessly maneuvering your body for his pleasure.

What a gentleman.

This position has him consistently rubbing against a spot inside you that’s mind-numbing. He fills and stretches you like your body was molded with him in mind. Your gratification isn’t his goal at the moment he’s lost in the pursuit of what you snatched away. He’s greedy because he can be; he’s greedy because you welcome it. You’ve had so much to give and no one to receive it. You aren’t sure how much he’ll take. You’ve decided it’s better to be empty than bursting at the seams with ardor no one can swallow, lest their throat get scorched.

Maybe his premonition is right. Maybe no one will be able to fuck you but him.

So you’ll enjoy it while you can.

The rosy hue on his cheeks, his countenance reflecting the pleasure he derives from your body, the inhuman grip that mars your skin so beautifully; you take everything in. You want it all. You’ll gladly take from him too. You might not like possessive men, but passionate men are a different story. It’s boring if they aren’t a little frenzied.

“Not… going to last long,” he pants out, his voice strained.

Your nipples brush against the fabric of his shirt as you lean in to embrace him, your lips right by his ear.

“Cum in me then,” you whisper, nibbling his earlobe. “Cause I think we both know you love it even more than I do.”

Blade groans out a series of expletives. Some you recognize, some you don’t.

His cock throbs as he empties himself inside you. He thrusts upward in sharp movements, his pelvis hitting yours hard enough to sting. He’s drunk on the high you’ve brought him. Spurts of his cum slide out from your coated walls, an egregious act he remedies by fucking it back into you. By the time he finally stills, you’re both panting, sweat glistening along your bodies. You rest your head on his shoulder to regain yourself. His bandaged hand runs up and down your back, almost soothingly.

In a matter of seconds, his flaccid cock steadily hardens, still snug inside you.

“Who… who’s never satisfied again?” You breathlessly murmur.

His hand finds your clit and lightly brushes over it. You whimper, your walls tightening enough to give you both a jolt of pleasure. The pitch you hit is high enough to stupefy you from mortification. You slap your hand over your mouth, hoping it’ll dissuade any further involuntary infractions. He gingerly grabs your hand and pulls it away.

“Still you,” he says, grazing his lips along the pulse point of your inner wrist.

You don’t get the chance to bite back.

A robotic voice slices through the lustful atmosphere like a scythe.

“Miss Phaeales, incoming call, Miss Phaeales, incoming call,” it intones.

You stifle a groan. “Alright alright, I get that, who is it from?”

“Contact name: Lear.”

Your eyes widen. Though your limbs feel like jelly, you lift yourself off Blade, who doesn’t give much assistance. You mouth the word ‘sorry’ to him, snatch your bra off the floor, and start wobbling over to your desk. After some quick rummaging, you find the device you need.

“Put him through to my in-ears,” you order the virtual assistant.

“[First]? Hello?”

Relief surges through you upon hearing the sound of his voice.

“Lear, it’s been so long since we talked, I started to think you were a figment of my imagination,” you say whilst securing your bra back into place.

“I know, I’m— I’m sorry,” he sounds terribly flustered. You can picture his expression without trying. “It’s just, you’re busy, and then that happened and I—”

“Slow down, I’m only teasing. It’s alright. I get it.”

“Eh… you’re as bad as Nona,” he grumbles. “You just hide it better.”

“Don’t worry, it’s out of my system.”

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll leave it at that,” he’s quiet for a moment, before adding, “You sound like you’re in high spirits, [First]. You don’t know what a relief that is.”

You twirl a pen on your fingers. “I’ve dabbled with the alternative and found it lacking. It does help that some pesky issues have finally been resolved… which reminds me. Your paycheck came through without any issues, correct?”

There’s indistinct murmuring from two voices. Lear’s tone sounds chastising, while the other comes off as petulant.

“Hi Nona,” you greet, to which there’s a faint yet audible ‘Fuck!’ along with rapid footsteps retreating. “How fortunate is it that our paths have crossed like this? I noticed something very interesting. You can’t respond to my texts relating to your studies, but you can like a social media post from a few hours ago?”

Now, rapid footsteps approach.

“I’m taking a break from texting for my mental health,” Nona’s voice reasons.

“... Don’t people normally take a break from social media for that reason?”

“Check the DSM-106. It’s actually a thing.”

“Be that as it may, you’re making good progress. Your scores are consistent enough that you can take a few clients again when we reopen. You need to keep practicing so it stays that way.”

There’s a slight commotion. When it settles, Lear’s the one speaking again. “Sorry, she wanted me to say there’s still an issue with the paycheck coming through.”

In the background, you hear her cry out, “Teacher’s pet!”

“Allow me to once again request that you place aside your bias. Nona, whose birth name is unknown, was born and raised in Arc’s most hostile faction. At the self-reported age of 74, she submitted a request for Thelx citizenship. Your mother, in her benevolence, granted the request due to seeing Nona’s potential as a future Arbiter. Do you deny any of this?”

You quietly take a deep breath.

“... How does Nona seem to you, Lear?”

What should be such a natural question feels like speaking with glue coating your tongue.

“The same as usual. And, no matter what she says, she is studying the notes you sent. She just hates the training program. You were the same way, weren’t you?”

“I was, yes,” A heavy smile finds its way onto your face. “Has anyone been giving her trouble?”

The silence on the other line lasts longer than you’d prefer.

“It hasn’t… been directly at her, per se. There’s just a general atmosphere of unease. Thelx has the highest percentage of citizens integrated from Arc, so things aren’t so bad here. Occasionally, there’ll be a confused kid pointing and asking why her eyes are different, but that’s nothing new.”

The tension in your shoulders relaxes. “Alright, that’s reassuring. Please keep an eye out for her in my stead, okay?”

You refuse to believe Chrysus. Everything with him is a move, some preplanned tactic to achieve a goal that advances his interests. You’ve lived life with Nona; he’s read a few paragraphs about her from a .txt file. There isn’t time to be at war with yourself. If he felt comfortable enough to make an accusation like that, there’s no chance it’ll end there. You’ll need countermeasures set in place.

Countermeasures, countermeasures… there’s Caicias. He loathes ‘secret alliances’ and ‘bloated bureaucracy,’ preferring to keep everything as simple as possible. Depending on your approach, you might be able to sway the former principal. He’s always treated you as an uncle would their niece. While it feels infantilizing now, this soft spot could be an advantage if played correctly.

An in-person meeting would be your best chance.

“Of course,” Lear says, breaking you from your thoughts. Then he’s quiet again. “[First]?”

“Mhm?”

“...”

You hear him sigh.

“It’s nothing. I should let you get back to your work.”

“Hold on, you can’t ‘it’s nothing,’ me!”

A shrill alarm chirps and pierces your unsuspecting ears.

“Oh, shit, Nona set the fire alarm off while cooking again,” Lear sounds more exasperated than worried. “Let’s finish this another time, [First]. I… I promise that I will.”

“Wha— again? How often does this happen?” You demand. “Hello? Hello? Ugh.”

Irate, you tug your in-ears out and toss them on your desk. What could Lear possibly have wanted to discuss? The tone he used made your heart drop. It sounded so firm, so resolute. He’s always been on the more soft-spoken side unless provoked. He did promise that he’d pick it up ‘another time,’ an unintended callous sentencing. Your mind is going to play fill-in-the-blank with the most dreadful words possible until this burden is lifted.

You’re about to return to your office chair when you remember your present condition.

Tousled hair, a hastily put-on bra, a wrinkled skirt, and one of the most sought-after fugitives in the universe’s cum dripping out of you.

Ah. And said fugitive is still behind you.

You spin on your heels. “So, um—”

Blade isn’t anything like when you last saw him. He’s redressed, and composed, his expression a mix between indifference and boredom. He’s returned to his favorite position too. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with one knee slightly bent. Why he favors this stance so much, you’ll never know. You’ve offered him a seat more times than you can count. He comes across as less intimidating when he isn’t at his full height.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

“I’ll… be getting back to work, I guess?”

He doesn’t so much as nod and he says you’re the pouty one?!

You gather your clothes off the floor for what feels like the umpteenth time, your cheeks burning. It isn’t that you feel ashamed, rather, you think he could at least help instead of standing there like his portrait is getting painted. He’s not trying to hide that he’s watching you. His eyes have always had a physical presence, they weigh on you heavily.

You briefly consider making a snarky comment, but your maturity wins out. You’re above such petty drivel. You finish collecting your garments. Next, you pull up the bra strap that decided to go awol, straighten your skirt, and fuss over your hair. Are you doing this so he knows you’re not embarrassed and in a rush to scamper off like a wounded animal? Maybe. Who could blame you?

You make for your bedroom door, head held high.

Blade speaks your name in that low, dark voice of his, stopping you dead in your tracks. Your body erupts in uncontrollable shivers.

You stiffly turn around like a rusted cog.

“Missed a spot,” is all he says.

You blink. “Huh?”

Blade nods to the lower half of your body.

Sure enough, there’s a dribble of his cum caked against your inner left thigh.

…

You hurl your belongings at him, which he catches without so much as batting an eyelash.

Your very short-lived satisfaction dissipates when you recall how much you adore that blouse. The same blouse you just chucked at the immortal sword-wielding Stellaron Hunter who can kill people faster than the afterlife can claim them. He’s still holding it. You get the feeling he will continue to hold it.

“Could I… have… that… back?”

This appeal doesn’t move him in the slightest.

You shift your weight between your legs. “Please?”

“You can,” Blade starts, momentarily filling you with hope, “Come reach for it.”

There is no hope in this universe, you decide. Nihilism is the only plausible option.

Blade dodges all your valiant attempts. When you’re about to give up, he lowers the garment, dangling it in a silent taunt. It then ascends to the heavens the second you dive for it.

He leaves your office that night with a blouse he hadn’t owned hours earlier.

And your cute panties.

Lear

Hello

Lear

Are you awake?

You’ll scold me if I say I am

Lear

Historically, that is true

Lear

You focus on caring for others so much you forget to care for yourself

You make me sound like a better person than I really am I’m just doing my job

Lear

There you go with self-deprecation again…

It isn’t self-deprecation if it’s true >:)c

Lear

That isn’t how that works

Lear

You’ve always been hard on yourself

Lear

I know what you’re going to say so I’ll stop you preemptively

Lear

Anyone could’ve been born in your role and decided not to take it seriously. You didn’t choose the situation but you chose your response to it

Lear

… I swear I didn’t intend for this to become a lecture

I believe you What was your original intention then?

Lear

Our phone call

Lear

Nona decided to try a grilled cheese ‘hack’ she saw on the internet

Lear

She’s lost stove privileges for a week

Is it truly a punishment if she gets to eat your cooking?

Lear

Well

Lear

It’s either that or she starves

Fair point Bring me some leftovers or I’m docking your pay >:)c

Lear

I wish Nona never taught you that face. It brings something primitive out of you

>:)c

Lear

(ง •̀_•́)ง

Oh I forgot about those They’re way better

Lear

Yeah

Lear

ε (*´･ω･) з

Lear

… I got distracted again…

( ͡° ͜ʖ├┬┴┬┴

Lear

Okay okay enough with the emoticons

Lear

I wanted to ask if we could please talk one-on-one

Pick a date and time and I’ll do my best to fit you into my schedule. I make no promises. The current estimated wait list is five Trailblazer Years.

Lear

Do you accept bribes

Naturally. I am a government official.

Lear

I’ll bring you a slice of my galatopita

You’re in

Lear

Actually, I wanted you to pick the time

Lear

I know that person has to be around and I won’t ask about it

Lear

But there is something about him that unsettles me

Lear

Does he ever leave?

He’s always on the LOTUS-EATER’s premises He doesn’t have to be in the room though I can ask him to leave

Lear

You feel comfortable doing that?

Yeah, it’ll be fine

Lear

Even after what happened last time?

You could hit me in the head with a brick and I’d still trust your judgment If you think it’ll be okay I’ll think the same

Lear

(^◇^；)

Lear

What an extreme example

Lear

It’s very you though

I know a backhanded compliment when I see one

Lear

(;° ロ°)

Lear

Hey don’t say that

Lear

[First]? ?????

Lear

… You’re messing with me again, I take it?

>:)c I’ll send you the details

Lear

Thank you

Lear

Want to play a round of Connect Four?

Need you even ask

Lear has invited you to play Connect Four™©®.

You have accepted Lear’s invitation to play Connect Four™©®.

The break room has changed significantly since you were little. Gone are the sterile, eggshell white walls and beige furniture. The redone interior boasts bold greens and yellows, colors that aren’t commonly seen on Eris. This bright expanse was one of the few suggestions your mother took you up on. You even convinced her to get a terrarium imported that goes through a randomly selected flora’s lifespan in twenty-four hours. A few besmirched it as ‘watching grass grow but slightly sped up,’ until certain flowers got popular. The daisy with petals that burned was a LOTUS-EATER staff favorite. So is the dahlia that spins like a pinwheel.

“Was there something you wanted to ask?”

Lear places his cup of ice water down. “Does it taste alright?”

“It’s delicious,” you hum. “That’s not what I was referring to, though.”

You finish your dessert while Lear mulls over your words. The light, creamy taste of the egg custard, the dash of cinnamon strewn across the browned top; he’d do well if he ever started a dessert business.

“I know I said I wouldn’t ask about it, but…” Lear’s sapphire eyes flitter toward the door, the paper-thin barrier dividing you from Blade. “Has everything been alright during this… er…”

“House arrest?”

“That’s a way of putting it,” he sighs. “I know it’s for your safety, but being stuck in this building for weeks on end can’t be good for you.”

“It’s always been this way to an extent. Now it’s just official.”

He grimaces.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

This area utilizes the same technology available in your office or the private rooms. Sound waves cannot travel beyond a set point, or in this case, beyond the breakroom. This safety net allows you to comfortably speak your mind.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t stopped long enough to ask myself that. From my perspective, I have two choices — accept the current situation and carry on, or, get upset and carry on, only with less efficiency.”

Lear struggles to maintain a neutral countenance. It’s why you always beat him at card games.

“... Okay, that sounds a bit bleak. What I’m trying to say is that I can’t dwell on what’s out of my control. I’ll focus on what I can do and work from there.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t brooded at least a little.”

“Ha, I’ve done my fair share of that. I’ve just reduced it from boiling to a nice, tolerable simmer.”

Lear’s grip on his glass tightens. “You’ve matured a lot.”

“Eh? You think so?” You wonder. “If anything, I should’ve been this way to begin with. I had you as the premier example to follow.”

Lear’s smile doesn’t reach his tired eyes.

He inhales sharply. After a moment’s consideration, he comes over, pulls out a chair, and sits facing you. This is the closest you’ve been for a long time. He never wanted you to be afflicted with those visceral headaches, so he maintained his distance. For him to cross the bulwark he painstakingly built cannot be easy.

Slowly, he raises his palm. He stops at the halfway mark between you. You knit your eyebrows. Does he want you to…?

“It might not be a brick, but it’s similar,” Lear says, his voice soft.

His hand is calloused from years of cleaning dishes and tinkering with various contraptions. His fingers tremble, belying the nerves he’s trying to push out of sight. This trepidation isn’t for his sake, it’s for yours. The dire consequences that could be reaped. It’s a gamble where you’re the one forced to go all in.

Your heart pounds and pounds.

You’ll trust him.

You’ve always trusted him.

Lear’s skin is cold yet clammy. His hand overshadows yours, though not by much. They fit together as well as they used to. Unlike then, your touch is more hesitant than his. His fingers sink down and clasp your hand, an action you mirror. Nothing’s happening. Nothing hurts.

You expect a relieved exclamation or expression from Lear, only to receive heavy silence instead.

He squeezes your hand once then pulls away.

“Do you remember the ‘important promise’ you wanted to make when we were kids?”

You nod.

“I did want to make it, actually. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that.”

“It’s been so long, it’s possible I don’t remember, but… I don’t think you ever said that, no.”

“The promise I mentioned was one I made with my mom,” Lear lowers his head. “She made me promise that I’d forgive my father. I never planned on it, not while he was living and breathing at least. I knew that and still… I agreed for her sake. It might seem silly, but that ate at me. She never asked me for anything, and the one time she did, it was something I refused to fulfill.”

You lean forward, hesitate to put your hand on his shoulder, yet ultimately overcome the instinct. “You were just a child, Lear.”

“I know. The reason I’m going into this is that… even when I wasn’t a child, I’d sit there and judge my father. I thought he’d acted cowardly. Instead of acknowledging mom’s declining condition, he’d buy more equipment and supposed miracle cures. He worked nonstop. Mom didn’t want that. She just wanted to be with her family while she could.”

You can hear the lump forming in his throat. You pass him your water, which he gulps down. He gives himself a second and then continues.

“He wasn’t delusional. He knew, and still, he tried so hard to convince himself that he didn’t. There must’ve been some moment of clarity when it hit him,” Lear’s fair eyelashes flutter shut. “What you said to Nona… that was my moment of clarity. My punishment.”

Thoughts swarm through your mind like the Propagation’s reign of terror from eras past.

“‘Punishment?’ Why would you deserve a punishment?” You probe.

Lear doesn’t know how to respond. His lips open and close, words escaping him. What comes out next is interwoven with anguish’s thread.

“Mrs. Phaeales approached me about our relationship. I was so worried, I don’t remember her exact words… it was something along the lines of, ‘If you truly care about her, you need to end this before she gets hurt.’ She wouldn’t go into the specifics. It didn’t come across as a threat, just… a plea, maybe. Eventually, I agreed. It hurt, but I didn’t see any other option. How could I ever willingly do something that’d make you suffer? You, the person who matters to me the most?”

This torrential downpour soaks into your very being.

“It should’ve ended there. I thought it ended there. Then I saw you again, and god. You’re so… so confident, beautiful, and bright; I couldn’t do it. I was at a loss, and… then I had this thought. ‘I want to keep her even if it destroys her.’ I couldn’t shake it. That isn’t love, I-I don’t know what that is.”

“Everyone has thoughts they aren’t proud of.”

“But you didn’t know, because I was too ashamed to tell you,” Lear insists, each word growing quieter. “So instead, you thought you did something to me, right?”

He wouldn’t look you in the eye. His arms remained limp by his side as you unbuttoned his shirt, tense and strained. You pulled back. Something felt terribly wrong. A sharp pang shot through your skull. You ignored it and beseeched him to tell you what was wrong. He wouldn’t. The sharp pang ricocheted. Being close to him hurt. It was as if you were on the same side of a magnet. He repelled you and you couldn’t fight it. You tried to preserve, tried to claw through whatever barrier he’d put up.

… A barrier?

Had he not wanted this? Was the gravity of your desire too intense for an individual who isn’t trained to resist?

“I…” your mouth is dry. “Yes.”

“You didn’t. I knew you didn’t, and like my father, I tried convincing myself otherwise,” he reopens his eyes, revealing a glassy sheen. He wipes it away with his long sleeve. “I ran out of excuses.”

You don’t know how to begin parsing through this information. It undermines the rough understanding you’ve operated on for decades. The foundations haven’t just cracked, they’ve collapsed, and the materials are damaged beyond reuse. Anything you build will require a new blueprint.

“If it isn’t manipulation, what exactly is it?” You murmur, placing a hand on your chin. “You rightfully guessed nothing would happen if we came into contact. What made you think that?”

The direction you’ve chosen to steer this conversation toward surprises him. This must not be the response he braced himself for. Regardless, he’s quick to offer anything he can.

“Something just felt different, I guess? I’m sorry if that isn’t helpful, I can’t think of a better way to describe it.”

Mother must’ve known more than she let on, you think. ‘Before she gets hurt,’ she said. Shouldn’t it have been ‘before Lear gets hurt?’ She cared about him plenty too. So why…?

You pace around the breakroom, your heels clicking throughout the otherwise silent room.

Alister listened when he thought you were taking him to ‘Roze’, a significant other he created in past Synalinks. He tried to kill you after you took him outside and it became evident that wasn’t your intention. No link could be established past that point. Then there’s Blade. You thought you could manipulate him to rescue potential survivors. You were rushed, yes, but you made absolutely no progress.

“My mind has a will of its own,” Blade tells you. “It’s loud. Something about you quiets it down.”

What can psyches roughly be broken down into? Primary, unfiltered instincts; an individual’s rationality, or ability to reason; then their mortality, what lines they will or won’t cross. When properly aligned, the mind operates as a cohesive mechanism. However, if there’s friction, disharmony abounds. The resulting fissure causes strife until it’s plastered back together.

It hits you.

What it is that makes Exalted Arbiters so paramount, why your abilities far surpass others.

You’re a living, breathing conductor, amplifying raw, often questionable instincts. A lightning rod meant to attract the attention of what reason and morality try so valiantly to suppress.

You forgo your pacing and sit back down. “Lear.”

“Y-Yes?”

“All of us are stupid.”

“Eh?”

“Well-meaning and stupid,” you reiterate. “I know what you want from me. You’re not going to get it. You condemned yourself, I condemned myself… what good did that do? Did it change anything? Make it better?”

You shake your head. “We like to torture ourselves; we’re adept at it. Enough. It’s finished.”

“... You don’t need to make me feel better—”

Lear receives a flick on the forehead.

“Idiot, half of that spiel was for me. Maybe three-quarters.”

You grab his hand and give it a hearty squeeze.

He squeezes back.

You both sit there, in this room that’s changed throughout the decades. Where you played make-believe (or, to be more exact, coerced Lear into playing the princess role so you could be the knight), gorged on junk food until you both got sick, plotted how to blow up the IPC with a water gun; you never thought you’d be able to do those things. The dumb, silly things you’d watch in movies or read about in books.

Lear runs the pad of his thumb up and down your hand. “[First].”

“Mhm?”

“Everything you just said — I can tell you believe it.” His breath hitches. “So why… why do you look so sad?”

You force a smile.

“I think I had my moment of clarity,” you tell him. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Whoever coined the term ‘misery loves company’ deserves the 85th spot in the Genius Society.

Blade sits beside you on a sinfully comfortable couch in The Club. His legs are crossed and his arm finds its respite behind you; not touching yet close enough. He’s your perpetual shadow. You steal a glance at his side profile. His jaw’s set and his eyebrows crease inward enough for his otherwise unblemished skin to wrinkle.

“Would you like to talk about your innermost feelings, Mr. 8.13 billion?”

Nothing, not even a halfhearted grunt, which comprises 50% of his vocabulary.

“No? Okay. Let’s focus on mine then,” you motion to the empty bar. “My innermost feelings are telling me to drink until my brain becomes a gray matter slushie. Any recommendations?”

It’s as if you’re trying to communicate with a rock. Which, according to the latest journals published in Geo Elements Organized, might be possible thanks to an artificial intelligence translator who learned how to speak rock. Apparently, pebbles are prone to bigotry. Marble sings operatic arias but each note is flat. These cutting-edge discoveries justify your 10,000 credit monthly subscription no matter what your financial advisor says.

You exaggerate your sigh. “Fine, I’ll pick my own poison.”

“Baijiu,” he eventually says.

“Hm? What’s that?”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot.

“My, my, somebody’s touchy.”

You hop the counter and peruse your establishment’s expansive selection. Hundreds of brands slapped over uniquely shaped bottles line the wall, each displaying information about their inside contents. You squint. What if he just said a random word to get you out of his hair? Your liquor knowledge consists of the basics, you’d be none the wiser if that’s the case.

“Where might I find this— oh, fuck.”

Blade is right beside you in the blink of an eye. Your hand flies to your chest, and while you’re trying to process how someone can move so fast, he finds what must be his intended target. It’s a tall, green bottle with a script you recognize as belonging to the Xianzhou Alliance. How did he ever expect you to find that on your own?

He rummages around and finds little wine-shaped shot glasses. In the meantime, you scan over the various juices and additives available. It’s been rough, but not drinking-alcohol-without-a-fruity-infusion rough. Blade notices your scheming and shakes his head.

“Men are so pretentious about liquor,” you lament.

“You asked.”

“My mistake.”

He ignores you and returns to the couch. You do the same, up until the point where you’re about to sit down. His gaze grows heavier, more concentrated. It took millions of years of evolution to develop complex language and he still chooses to opt out. What a waste. An unofficial staring contest commences. What does he take you for? A mind reader? You technically are, but still, using your abilities for this is beneath you. Especially while you’re in the midst of a crisis that you’d give anything to stop thinking about.

Blade must have a mind-altering epiphany that he has additional motor functions at his disposal. He pats his thigh.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

You examine your black pencil skirt that stops above your knees. Hopping the counter in this was more of a way to pretend you’re in your early twenties again, not an invitation to test the fabric’s limits. You’ve lost multiple pairs of panties, a nice bra, and a blouse to this bodyguard who took the occupation’s prefix very seriously. This classy skirt isn’t going to be an addition to the clothes necropolis.

“I like this skirt,” you simply state.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

Your vision undergoes an odd change. One moment, you were standing tall and assertive, looking down your nose at him. In the instant that follows, you’re facing the bar, its black marble countertop and gravity adaptive stools coming into focus. What you’re sitting on isn’t a foam cushion that’s as soft as a cloud. It’s rigid and displeases your tailbone. You struggle to balance yourself, an issue that’s solved by Blade’s left arm curving snugly around your waist.

“Did you just—” You cut yourself off, unable to dredge up the energy necessary to get annoyed. He could throw you through the roof for all you care. Sitting you on his lap is forgivable enough. “Whatever, you’re pouring my drink then.”

He’s already in the process of doing so. He pops the lid and fills the specially shaped shot glass with clear liquid. An aromatic fragrance of fruits and spices wafts through the air. It’s a world captured in a bottle; another place you’ll never get to see. You have to settle for admiring pictures and reading firsthand accounts.

Does Blade have an association with the Xianzhou Alliance? It isn’t your place to ask, but you’re curious nonetheless. He’s been a silent spectator of your life for the past few months yet you know nothing about him. It should stay that way — getting involved with him physically is already questionable enough. Especially now that you fully grasp the phenomena that’s been haunting you.

The thought makes you wince.

You lean your head back and down the shot.

It burns as it travels down your throat. You cough, the unexpected strength hitting you with the force of a collapsing star. Maybe you should’ve worked your way up to taking shots. It’s too late to rectify the mistake, your hubris is irreversible. The bastard chuckles at your suffering. It’s the briefest chuckle you’ve ever heard, but it still counts.

“What is the— what is the alcohol content of that?” You rasp out.

“Eighty.”

You crane your neck to glare at him. “If you wanted to kill me, the sword would’ve been faster.”

He rolls his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes at you. He picks you up, sticks a little ribbon on your head, and delivers you to death’s doorstep only to disregard your valid concerns? The 8.13 billion bounty isn’t enough. They need to double it.

“I’d like to see you drink this. Considering your prehistoric age, it might short-circuit your cardiovascular system.”

Blade pilfers your empty shot glass. He refills it, swallows without any fanfare, and then resumes his staring regimen.

You don’t know if you should be impressed or offended that his tolerance is better than yours.

Ultimately, your competitive nature wins out. You manage two more shots before waving the white flag. The flavor itself isn’t that bad once you get past the initial shock, it’s slightly fruity. The alcohol taste packs a punch though. A version with a lower ABV would suit you better.

You sigh, lean into his chest, and try in vain to smooth out your bunched-up skirt.

Your inebriated daze hits fast. There’s no pleasant buzz accompanying it, only exhaustion. The kind that makes the prospect of sleeping for a few years tempting. Those cryogenic pod ads know how to sell their product. It speaks volumes how simple their marketing remains since they’re so high in demand.

You inspect your soulless business. There aren’t any clients traveling to and fro, well-dressed ladies having their fur coats removed by valets, or businessmen celebrating a deal by clinking their glasses together. It’s eerily quiet. There’s nothing but the sound of your slow breathing and the thrum of the oxygen generator.

This planet’s heart remains frozen with you at the epicenter.

“What’s it like to travel across the universe?” You ask.

“It’s just work.”

Just work. You’ve received variations of this response when you’ve used this question on clients. They’ll take your silence as a signal to prattle, complaining about jet lag, getting through customs, finding a hotel that isn’t ridiculously overpriced during busy seasons; on and on they’d go. You’d sit across from them, smiling and nodding along, verbally empathizing with their plight. If they went on too long, you’d temporarily excuse yourself before your agitation spewed forth.

“That’s it?” You murmur.

He’s silent.

You kick your heels off, lay your legs across his lap and the couch, then sling your right arm around his shoulders to hold yourself in place. He observes you with no discernible emotion as you make yourself comfortable.

“Tell me about it,” you implore. “The universe. Please.”

Blade considers your request. You take it as a good sign he hasn’t shut you down immediately. For once, you don’t needle him. You just sit there with high hopes and a pleading expression. A peculiar emotion surges around him. It whispers to you, requesting that you lean in and hear it better. You deny the impulse and swat it away.

This mental exertion almost causes you to miss his frown and pinched-together eyebrows.

It’s fleeting, but there’s no misinterpreting what you saw.

Have you ever seen Blade’s face reveal so much?

It’s a vault he doesn’t leave open long. The doors seal shut before you can catalog the contents inside.

“Nothing I’ve seen is worth telling.”

You part your lips yet no sound comes out. You retract your arms from him and lay on your back, resting your forearm against your head. The LOTUS-EATER’s dark ceiling becomes your latest intrigue. It’s a cool shade of gray, mimicking the joyless sky that hovers outside like a specter deadset on haunting the living. You hate it. Everything’s gray, bland, depressing, an insult to the vibrancy that accompanies sentient beings.

You close your eyes and all goes silent.

After a while, his deep voice rumbles, “Do you want to see it?”

“Hm?”

“The universe,” he clarifies.

“Oh. Of course. But…” you pause, noticing how draining an endeavor it is to string together a coherent thought, “If I could, I wouldn’t. Too much… there’s too much I hafta do… here.”

There’s Nona. You want to help her reach her full potential, she’s brimming with it, a never-ending source of energy and zeal. Then there’s Lear. Why he idolizes you to such a degree, you’ll never understand. He should turn that starry-eyed gaze inward. It’s ironic — he considers you confident, yet you’ve always shied away from ever revealing the fathomless depths of your care.

You were born to be an object and he made you a person.

How can you ever repay a debt like that? Why is it so awkward and awful to express anything you feel without theatrics accompanying them? You have to tell him. You know he loves you, and while the love you hold for him is different, does he know that? How could he, if you’ve been so hesitant to say those three harrowing words?

Man, you think. My head’s killing me.

“Tired?”

After you grumble in the affirmative, he lifts you up. You think you might be floating. Your head lulls to the side and comes into contact with something solid, which proves you aren’t. Gravity hasn’t quit its longstanding tenure. Your blurred journey begins when you’re laid down in a spot more cozy than the couch cushions. It feels familiar and safe. Tension melts from your body, slinking off to loan you a brief solace. The interest is set high, but you’re too blissfully content to care.

That night, you dream of an ocean dutifully guarded by the sun.

The waves rise and fall along the shoreline, the breeze carries the scent of saltwater, and aquatic birds caw from above.

Bright white sand is plentiful beneath your bare feet. It tickles your toes and tricks you into thinking you’ll sink with every tentative step.

As you walk along this esplanade, an object hidden amongst the sand jabs into your sole.

Blood pools from the wound, trickles down a steep slope, and infects the ocean.

The scarlet droplet corrupts and warps it, devouring any color it comes into contact with. It's insatiable, a bloody blight that proliferates until the sea is swallowed whole.

The moon eclipses a dying sun. Driven by vanity, it paints its likeness across red, shimmering waves.

Unknown

I have good news

Unknown

I’ll be recalling Bladie soon

Unknown

I located the party responsible for endangering your life

Unknown

Isn’t that great?

If you’re being honest, then yes

Unknown

Am I not renowned for my honesty?

Unknown

No harm will befall you, so rest easy

Unknown

I hope we can continue our mutually beneficial partnership ♡

If there’s anything your mother’s passing has taught you, it’s that time isn’t guaranteed.

You thought you’d have a lifetime to see eye to eye with her. Over centuries, the layers you cultivated would peel back. You’d then ask her the questions that have lingered on the tip of your tongue.

Did you want to have me, or was it out of obligation?

Is this the way you want to live?

Am I a daughter or a burden?

You don’t know what scared you more. The idea of asking her, or what the answers might be.

None of your blood relations are living, but you still have a family. You refuse to treat something as fickle as time lightly again. Nona’s past, Lear’s present, your future; you can only dance around it for so long. The tempo will inevitably speed up beyond what you can follow. Lear’s confession reaffirmed how dangerous this complacency is. By believing you’re sparing one another pain, you’re only sparing yourself.

Your tea’s gone cold. The remnants swirl down the basin’s drain.

The true nature of your abilities, the shackles it puts you in, you’ll tell them everything.

You shoot them a text, asking them to meet you tonight at the LOTUS-EATER. You then set your phone to Do Not Disturb and place it aside.

Blade won’t be on Eris much longer. Your chances to help him are limited and you still haven’t fulfilled your promise.

You’d like to try and remedy that.

“I may have been a bit prickly when we first met, but I want to express my heartfelt gratitude for all you’ve done. I’m sure you just consider this a job, which is just as well, still, I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. I don’t even want to imagine what would become of this planet in my absence. So please give me one last opportunity to deter your mara.”

Blade gives you a long, hard look.

“You’re talking like that again?”

“I’m trying to be professional.”

He walks over and leers down at you. You return his blank stare unabashedly. Eventually, he readjusts the collar of your ivory blouse.

“What was that for?” You ask.

“I saw something that isn’t very professional.”

Glancing down, you pull the fabric back, revealing a prominent hickey. Your face ignites and you frantically cover it.

You clear your throat. “Is it a contractual obligation for you Stellaron Hunters to get on my nerves?”

The glint in his eye makes you nervous.

“Actually, do me a favor and don’t answer that. Just tell me if you’re interested or not, I’m a busy woman.”

He thinks it over and nods.

Throughout the preparation and rites, you consider what you’ve learned. Individuals exposed to you become more willing to act or dwell on their subconscious desires. The exact metrics aren’t clear, but you can safely assume this effect amplifies the longer they’re around you. These desires have a wide range. It can be as innocent as causing an older brother who ran away from his grief to finally cry over his deceased sister, or fuel for justifying selfish actions.

Blade’s case feels different.

Unprecedented as the other examples are, you can understand them somewhat. If a person acts on their most innate wishes, their behavior will change accordingly. However, what you’re causing here extends beyond psychological — it’s physiological too. Is that even possible? What could he possibly want enough to alter the fabric of his very being?

If you can find out, maybe the revelation will help him.

And so you close your eyes.

“To dream is a sacred thing. Don’t fear it. Welcome it, rejoice in it, and shed no tears when it is finished. We’ve been granted your purest blessing. As you slumber, we find rest in you. Allow us the sweetest of dreams.”

…

Blade’s psyche has changed.

The grayscale composition is gone. Vitality has been crowned the new ruler, overthrowing the morose atmosphere in a successful rebellion. This change brings no alleviation to the undercurrents of grief that hang heavy in the air. Instead, it feels more erratic, like a heart beating wildly after waking from a coma.

The Shackling Prison stands beyond a straight path as if it's been waiting for you.

The first time you entered his mind, it rejected you. Now, it’s pulling you in, its gravity far-reaching.

You hesitate to proceed.

Is it his mara that’s responsible for this? You won’t be able to tell unless you keep going.

The invisible force that expelled you nudges you from behind.

You recall when Blade first appeared before you. Your physical eyes showed you a man while every other sense warned he was a beast. A carnivore that would devour anything, predator or prey alike. You believed it then and you believe it now. His condition has condemned him. Where he walks, destruction follows. It’d make sense for you to abandon him to fate’s whims.

This excruciating hunger digests him too. It’s destined to eat him alive while postponing merciful death.

Fate can be cruel, but you have an opportunity to be kind.

You make your way to the Shackling Prison’s gates.

The seal that’s served as a hindrance halts you. You examine the once bold obstruction. It has faded, its strength depleted, held together by nothing. At its peak, you think it would have pushed you out instantly. Now, as your incorporeal hand presses against it, there’s little it can do. The most it can muster is the resilience to delay you a few more seconds.

After that, it shatters and fades like weeping stardust.

A prismatic shard forms from its ashes, coalescing into a blurred, moving image. Distorted sounds crackle from it, which you soon recognize as garbled speech. The noise becomes clearer. You hear a low thrum in the background. Its timbre matches the oxygen generator standard in Eris’ buildings.

This must be one of Blade’s memories.

“I know you’re impatient, but play nice a while longer,” a saccharine voice hums. “She’ll be here any minute now.”

That voice…

The image sharpens and unveils a grand screen plastered against a wall. It sections off into numerous squares, each dedicated to displaying financial data. It’s bright, obnoxiously so, attesting to the owner’s tacky taste.

Chrysus’ office?

A door creaks. Hastened footsteps approach, ringing throughout the brightly lit room. The pair of eyes you’re viewing this memory from — Blade’s — shift to locate the source. The color they arrive at is familiar. It’s the same shade you see upon viewing your reflection, although the shape differs.

Mom? You wonder, astonishment hitting like pelting hail. What was she doing, meeting with a Stellaron Hunter in Chrysus’ office of all places…?

“Your message surprised me, Exalted Arbiter. Getting you to agree to a face-to-face meeting is normally like pulling a tooth. What’s the occasion?” The honeyed voice, which can only belong to Kafka, greets.

“Don’t play coy with me,” your mother replies. While her words are sharp, they aren’t warped with emotion. This is the demeanor she assumed when conducting business. Her sagacity is a trait you’ve never been able to fully emulate. “That thing’s leaving baubles on my daughter’s balcony. How many times have I told you to tighten your dog’s leash?”

“Oh? I thought I had.”

Your mother smiles thinly. “Should I add incompetent leadership to your list of defects? Deals are meant to be followed. Otherwise, why make them at all?”

“We draw lines to test them. So long as they aren’t crossed, there’s no harm.”

“Spare me your casuistry. I don’t want that thing anywhere near her.”

Your head feels like it’s being stretched in multiple directions at once. This sequence unfolding before you has a dizzying effect. Why is your mother so outwardly hostile to Kafka? The Stellaron Hunter isn’t your favorite person either, but this transcends simple dislike. It’s personal, raw. She’s maneuvered through diatribes that’d make anyone else go red in the face, her poise unruffled. Kafka’s little provocations pale in comparison.

Not to your mother, though. She’s a thinning thread close to snapping.

“As per our original agreement, there’s no harm as long as she doesn’t notice him,” Kafka dismisses. She leisurely sits on Chrysus’ desk, not bothering to move his papers aside. She then crosses her legs and smiles. Her eyes emit an unnatural glow. “On the topic of testing lines… let’s not pretend you’re innocent either.”

Your mother doesn’t so much as flinch. “If you’re going to make accusations, at least have the confidence to be forthright.”

“You’re fascinating to deal with, Exalted Arbiter,” Kafka croons. “This is why I look forward to our chats. You don’t cower or plead for mercy like our friend outside did. It’s a welcome change.”

“I’d rather you don’t compare me to Ophídion.”

Kafka drums her fingers against the table’s surface. For such a simple sound, it’s deeply grating. “Forgive me in advance, then, because I intend to one more time.”

Your mother remains silent, her lips taut.

“Still not afraid, hm? Let’s see if we can change that,” Kafka’s smile widens, which crinkles the skin beneath her eyes. “Chrysus’ shipments of ichor are exact, down to the milliliter. Always delivered on time as well. Comparatively, your end of the bargain is far simpler. You just have to grant Bladie ready access to Miss Phaeales’ vicinity. But, I heard something regrettable through the grapevine.”

Your mother’s eye twitches.

“You’ve been shopping around for a way to sneak [First] off Eris, correct? Tsk, tsk.”

All falls silent save for the generator’s dedicated hum.

Your mother stands unflinching, folding her hands in front of her. The two openly scrutinize each other. Calculating, strategizing. Her posture betrays nothing. There’s no guilt or apprehension, making it impossible for you to determine the credibility of Kafka’s words.

“It’s fear you devils can’t experience, correct?” Your mother queries. “Here’s a suggestion — try having a daughter yourself. You praise me for not caving to intimidation; that’s because I’ve experienced far worse. From their conception to our death, fear is the only thing we mothers know. Fear that they won’t become like us, or, even worse, that they will. What a funny juncture we occupy.”

Mom’s voice doesn’t sound right. It’s so… forlorn.

You don’t want to keep watching.

You can’t pull yourself away — the memory’s weight is heavy enough to pull you back in.

“Is that maternal dedication enough to condemn an entire planet?” Kafka ponders. “I’m not a judge who is eager to sentence. I’ve been lenient with you and would love to keep it that way. Leave Miss Phaeales in my care, no harm will befall her.”

For the first time since entering the room, your mother acknowledges Blade’s existence. Her eyes turn to slits as she scowls at him. Disgust, reprehension, and wrath; it converges in a maelstrom that could sink fleets of ships. You hone in on the emotions Blade experienced at that instant. There’s nothing. It’s hollow, save for blots of mild impatience.

“It wouldn’t be your care, it’d be his.”

Your soul convulses.

“Is that so terrible?” Kafka hums. “Separated, they’re essentially cursed, the poor things. They complement each other well, the more you think about it. One who incites madness and another who has the means to resist it. You of all people should understand that, hm? Or is Mr. Phaeales available to voice his dissent?”

Dad?

Darkness passes over her countenance.

You don’t understand and you’re afraid to. Kafka freely tosses around the most taboo topics as if twirling a poisoned dagger on her fingers.

One who incites madness. Is that what you are? A catastrophe patiently waiting for its chance? That can’t always be the case, but, more often than not, what a person covets most should never be fully realized. There’s a reason the sensible and moral components of one’s psyche stuff this risk down as deep as it’ll go. If everyone did what they wanted, whenever they wanted, civilization itself would cease to exist.

As for Blade’s role in this… Kafka must know whatever he wants would have a value that outweighs the potential drawbacks.

“I won’t let her be reduced to a retractable leash for your attack dog,” she seethes. “Let your Cancer of All Worlds do what it will. My decision is final.”

Electricity crackles in the air.

“It’s this script, then,” Kafka murmurs, more to herself than anything. “So many diverging paths, so many possibilities. To think that out of all futures you’d get to pick out specially for [First]...”

Kafka motions toward Blade, who readies his weapon.

“You chose one of the worst ones.”

some misc author notes for this one:

regarding the reader's condition, i didn't want to include a sigmund freud jumpscare in the story itself, so it gets to be down here instead. for those unfamiliar with his theories, what reader is referring to here:

'What can psyches roughly be broken down into? Primary, unfiltered instincts; an individual’s rationality, or ability to reason; then their mortality, what lines they will or won’t cross. When properly aligned, the mind operates as a cohesive mechanism. However, if there’s friction, disharmony abounds. The resulting fissure causes strife until it’s plastered back together.'

is a more abstract version of freud's concept of the id, ego, and superego respectively. originally, i used this exact terminology, but something about it just felt very immersion breaking to me 😭 all i could do was think about mr freud floating about in the honkai universe. consequently, the unreliable narration of reader trying to understand her condition + not using the widely known terminology made me worry it'd be a bit confusing...

so, in freudian terms, being continually exposed to reader's presence causes an individual's id to dominate their thoughts/actions instead of their ego and superego.

#blade x reader #yandere blade x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #not sfw #nexus #my stuff

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beardedalcoholic · 1 month

Text

Battle Gods

First Medical officer of the Galactic Union Revka Jihar looked on in awe as the human zipped from one console to other.

Sliding her chair from one side of the room to the other only to go back she displayed a true mastery of her job. Coordinating rank upon rank of human shock trooper forces into position, confirming approval of Human Medium Force Allowed, checking and double checking the health status of hundreds of humans, receiving reports from multiple divisions of engineers and mechanics about the status of one drop group or another…it was overwhelming to the Kalarian to watch.

“Shock Troopers stand by to stand by for final approval on drop, med squads confirm ready stations for injured, eng corps get those fucking launch tubes in the green before I come down there and fire you out one by one until I am satisfied my boys won’t hit atmo looking like strawberry jam, Hell Jumpers get to your pods and strap in we have yellow light on drop and I am not waiting for any Late Lucys should we get green.”

The rapid-fire communication of the humans had never ceased to amaze Revka, how they could say so much with so few words using only inflection, context, tone, body language and a myriad of other factors that they themselves seemed un-aware of.

Keys rattled like gunfire beneath First Rank Orbital Shock Drop Coordinator Amelia Hargrove’s nimble fingers, screens bloomed in thin air only to be replaced by others as they were dismissed. Within barely a handful of human minutes Frist Rank Hargrove sat back limply in her chair with her arms hanging down the sides as she breathed deeply in seeming exhaustion, Revka knew better though, he had seen this human go cycles without rest or nutrition.

An alert from the single remaining screen in front of the human grabbed her attention and her head snapped up from its slumped over position, the gleam of anticipation and sudden movement reminding Revka of the humans’ predatory lineage. Jumping to her feet with enough force to send her division command chair sliding back on tracks laid into the floor to the edge of the large room they occupied Amelia commed the captain of the ship.

“Captain Shelsa, Shock Trooper Command…I have green on all drop requirements, personnel and approval…Awaiting Final Command.”

Amelia Stood disturbingly still and focused as she awaited the order from her captain to release the humans upon the world beneath them. Revka stood in the back of the room next to the abandoned chair, furiously making notes upon his digital clipboard without even looking down at it.

Being the first species other than human to witness the deployment of Shock Troopers into an active battle field Revka was not about to miss a single documentable moment of what he was witnessing. The tension in the air radiating from the human in the middle of the large room was almost enough to choke him, the human had not moved in the slightest since her last communication, her muscles seemed to bunch beneath her skin tight command suit as the micro-cycles slid by, until…

“Shock Command, Captain Shelsa…you are green for trooper drop, repeat you are green for drop…Amelia!” First Rank Hargrove’s head snapped up at the sound of desperation and pain in the captain’s voice.

“Yes Captain? I am here.”

“…Amelia, these, monsters attacked earth…they struck down schools and hospitals…these invaders took my baby girl from me without warning or reason given…invoke the Battle Gods….”

First Rank Amelia went dead silent and painfully rigid from this last command. It was well known humans had music for all occasions and that they would perform different tasks with more or less efficiency depending on if music was being played to them and depending on the task or musical selection.

Revka felt his feathers bleach of all color at the last command…it was not a command given with hopes of leaving survivors, the Battle God Queen was something of a legend among different species due to the effect said music had on humans…but these last words were spoken with such cold venom Revka had to grip the deck plates with his talons to keep himself from bolting in fear. Revka watched as the Orbital Shock Drop Coordinator calmly answered in the affirmative, slipped an Augmented Reality Visor over her eyes and seemed to deflate as tension left her body.

Walking to the middle of the room First Rank Amelia began to glow softly as synaptic relays lit up across her suit, lines of light racing from her toes to her visor and everywhere in between, muscles slid with liquid grace beneath her suit as she stalked forward.

It started gently…hands lifting to flow through screens only she could now see through her visor…hands and arms moving like the conductor of a symphony Revka had seen on earth. With each movement a new small screen came to life around Coordinator Amelia, each screen containing a new face…the faces of her boys…the faces of humanities most feared ground-based battle troops…the Orbital Shock Troopers known only as the Hell Jumpers.

No words were spoken at first, Amelia simply stood there under the gaze of over five hundred trained, battle hardened, soldiers. Soldiers that were about to be dropped from orbit onto a planet light years away from home into a raging warzone with nothing but a small pod made to break away on impact to protect them from the heat and violence of atmospheric entry. None looked scared, no tears were shed in fear or pain, this was simply another good day to die for these individuals Revka realized.

“Kikiki! Kakaka!” The suddenness of Coordinator Amelia’s cry and movement nearly had Revka molting a full tails worth of feathers. Amelia slammed one foot down to her side so that she was bent at the knees.

“Kauana kei waniwania taku tara” Hands slapped into her thighs and stomach muscles in time to her chant.

“kei tarawahia, kei te rua i te kerokero!” Feet stomped and hands slapped as she continued her chant, voice raising to echo throughout the room.

“He pounga rahui te uira” Amelia’s voice rang with a clarion call to battle, it vibrated with the rage of an entire race that had been wronged as she raised a fist and slapped her arms.

“ka rarapa ketekete kau ana” Revka felt sorry for himself as he watched the display before him as he had not thought to make arrangements for his newly born clutch of whelps should he perish on this mission.

“To peru kairiri mau au e koro e!” Looking at the many images of the Shock Troopers arrayed before and around the still stamping and chanting Coordinator Revka could see that each one was focused upon her with a burning intensity.

” Hi! Ha! - Ka wehi au ka matakana,” Eyes narrowed, teeth were bared in rictus smiles, pulses throbbed in necks, nostrils flared in anticipation as the chanting grew somehow louder and more fervent.

“ko wai te tangata kia rere ure tirohanga” First Rank Amelia stamped and pounded her feet into the ground as if to defy fate to move her, as if she was seeing the future and challenging it to be anything other than what she demanded it to be.

“ngā rua rerarera” Hands slapped and struck with force that would shatter the bones of Revka’s species like she was trying to beat reality into submission and bend it to her will.

“ngā rua kuri kakanui i raro! Aha ha!” With one final strike First Rank Orbital Shock Drop Coordinator Amelia Hargrove let loose a sound that would haunt Revka’s rest cycles for the rest of his life.

The sound that echoed throughout the room seemed to contain all the suffering that had been felt at the hands of the enemy, all the pain of loss and the rage of those who could not do anything to seek retribution for those wronged. Screens lit up as each trooper dropped from the belly of the ship into the planet’s gravity well, each and every face pulled into a mask of rage and determination beneath face shields snapping into position.

Revka thought that perhaps the spectacle was over now that the humans had been sent planet side…until Coordinator Amelia’s arm snapped out and with a few deft movements brought up a simple non-standard screen.

The media screen floated barely a hairs breadth from the end of Amelia’s finger tips as she scrolled down a list of songs. With little more than a thought a song was selected and broadcasted to every shock trooper, soldier and crewman.

Drums beat and strings were plucked with a sense of anger lurking behind the sounds, after only a few seconds of this First Rank Amelia began to sing in a tone of voice unlike anything Revka had heard from the normally bubbly and flirty Coordinator, like gravel grinding in honey and rising into an angry cry tinged with desperation.

I feel the pressure is building in me

My stomach's sick, it's getting harder to breathe

I hear the screaming, I feel the disease

It's burning me up and there is nothing to breathe

Will you crawl with me

Will you stand with me

Would you follow me

Would you believe with me

Tell me you'll breathe with me,

tell me you'll die with me

Come on, get on, let me hear your war cry!

Yell it out, do or die

Let me hear your war cry!

The battle that followed after the start of this terrifying song was less a battle and more a chaotic slaughter of the enemy. Humans that had been forged of star matter and tempered over eons of living on a death world and driven by madness channeled from a world in pain through musical Battle Gods dark and ancient tore across the land. They fell from the skies in gouts of flame like avenging angles come to strike down the very gates of Hell, no enemy was spared, no mercy given nor asked.

The battle had been long and hard, the final count of the dead had come out to one hundred and seven troopers lost out of over five hundred…a small number but one that was felt like a hammer blow among those that knew them.

Revka had stayed and watched the entire time as Coordinator Amelia somehow split her attention between directing troop movements and battle plans all while continuing to dance and sing to various songs of battle and victory. When the final call of victory came over the open channels the music was allowed to stop and First Rank Amelia fell still. Her arms hung limp at her sides…screens showing haggard and haunted faces of her soldiers, her troopers, her boys signing off one by one as they went to seek medical aid or further orders, synaptic relays dimming from a fiery blaze to a pale glow until they too fell silent and dark.

Revka walked slowly from his position in the back of the room towards the silent and still figure of the human known among the crew as Battle Siren…the one human who was expected to endure the responsibility of coordinating hundreds of war machines, who was given authority to make decisions in battle and who had to carry the weight of those decisions. As he got closer Revka noticed a new taste on the air, sharp and salty…not sweat, he didn’t have sweat glands and the skin suit Amelia was wearing prevented her body from needing to sweat…tears? Yes, Revka could taste the salt of tears on the air.

Slowly coming around to face the Battle Siren Revka was somewhat surprised to find a river of tears slowly falling from under the AR visor. With a deep breath as if she was emerging from deep waters Amelia lifted the visor from her tear-soaked eyes and seemed to stare through the bulkheads and deep into the void, then in a soft whisper she said a single sentence that would be taken to the Galactic Council and repeated again and again among those who thought to strike out against the humans.

“They sowed the wind with their strike against our young and injured…so too did they reap the hurricane of our vengeance.”

With that single sentence spoken a new sound began to emanate from the Coordinator, a long drawn out note not unlike the tune of a bell. Revka backed away and made his way out of the room, the Battle Siren had begun to sing a new song but not one of war and conquest, rather a song of pain and history filled with conflict but also about seasons changing and hope prevailing. The humans may have had a great pantheon of voices to channel inspiration from when going into battle, but so too did it seem that they had ones for peace and healing.

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are weird #humans are space fae #humans are space oddities #ao3 fanfic

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winchester-girl67 · 1 year

Text

Cravings

Summary: The reader gets some intense pregnancy cravings when she smells the alpha next door cooking. She grabs a plate and knocks on his front door.

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!reader, Baker!Dean x pregnant!reader

Square: Baker au @spnchristmasbingo Love at first smell @spnaubingo

Word Count: 3,777

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, pregnant reader (Dean is not the father), unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy cravings, mentioned/implied one night stand, mature themes, language, pining, a little angst, mostly fluff

A/N: Inspired by a post on pinterest. First attempt at writing an A/B/O fic. Also written for @spnchristmasbingo and @spnaubingo. Enjoy!

_____

The best thing about this pregnancy was no heats. Your cycle took a snooze and although you still craved the touch of an alpha at times, it was something you could handle yourself. And you did handle it yourself since you wanted nothing to do with the alpha that did this to you.

He was a means to ease your heat that one time, but he was all kinds of selfish and everyday you thanked your lucky stars he didn't claim you that night. Although, if he knew you were four months along that might change things. Simply because alphas are territorial and not because he actually loved you.

You were a hopeless romantic. Emphasis on hopeless, every alpha you met was the same. Controlling, arrogant and conceited. And because of that, there was no way you were going to let just any alpha claim you. No matter what.

You always wanted to be a mom and you didn't need an alpha like that. One pup was enough. You would raise this pup right and if they presented as alpha when the time came, they would be different.

It was near the end of November and it was cold outside but the pregnancy had you running hot, so you had the window cracked open as you watched your favourite holiday cooking show on Netflix. Just the sight of the food on the screen made your stomach rumble.

Pregnancy cravings are a bitch.

One minute it was sweet like chocolate and the next it was savoury like meat pie with gravy and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce...

You raised your nose towards the open window in your living room and sniffed. Inhaling a deep intoxicating breath that went straight to your stomach and you felt your pup flutter happily.

Your neighbour was cooking something delicious and the pup wants what the pup wants. There was no use denying it, you'd be craving that smell all night if you didn't go over there.

You grabbed a chunky brown sweater from your room and tugged it on. Then padded over to your kitchen cupboard and grabbed a plate before you headed out the door in your slip-on boots.

This is ridiculous, you thought as you stood on your neighbour's porch.

You knew very well the guy next door was an alpha, you could smell him during his ruts and it was always the most intense musky scent. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was distracting and your heat usually hit around the same time. Still, you hadn't ever talked to him. He kind of intimidated you like any single alpha would to an unclaimed omega. So you kept your distance.

Until now.

You lifted your fist to knock.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

In the minute it took him to answer the door you didn't think twice about it. You only thought about that smell and you had to swallow to keep from drooling.

"Hi," you greeted, when your neighbour opened the door and you continued before he could get a word in, "My name's Y/N Y/L/N, I live next door and I was hoping I could have some of whatever it is you're cooking. I know this is really strange and kind of intrusive but the smell is making my mouth water and I just had to ask."

You held out your plate and pouted your bottom lip with big Y/E/C eyes looking up at him. He was taller than you thought, bigger shoulders too. And those green eyes of his stared back at you.

"It doesn't have to be much, just a little. Please?"

But then he smiled, "Of course. Come on in, neighbour."

He stood aside and held open the door. You only hesitated a moment before you stepped inside and let him shut and lock the door behind you.

"This way," he waved for you to follow him and headed down the hall.

You left your boots at the front door and padded after him with your plate in your hands. You stood at the entrance of the kitchen and inhaled with a big smile you didn't know you were wearing. Until you heard a chuckle from your neighbour.

"Here, let me take that." He said and you let him take the plate from your hands. You never felt this comfortable around an alpha before even when you were intimate with one. "Y/N. Aren't you going to ask my name?"

Oh right. "What's your name?"

"Dean," he smiled and set your plate on the counter. "Winchester."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Winchester. I really appreciate this."

He hummed and nodded, "No problem. And call me, Dean."

You swallowed again when he pulled the meat pie from the oven and dished out a couple of slices along with a scoop of mashed potatoes and a dollop of cranberry sauce.

Damn, pregnancy nose was spot on!

"I do have one condition, Y/N." He paused and looked up at your curious face. You started to get a little nervous this time. "I don't like eating alone, would you mind?" He asked as he placed your plate on the kitchen table across from his.

You froze and didn't answer. You just stared at him. Then Dean sighed and picked your plate back up. He slowly walked it over to you, still standing in the entrance, and handed it over.

"Thank you," you said and padded back towards the front door.

Dean exhaled loudly when you reached the entrance, still sulking in the kitchen and not bothering to see you out. You felt a shift and sniffed the air. The alpha smelt salty... lonely. Not dangerous. You paused at the door and looked down at your plate, then back over your shoulder at the entrance to the kitchen.

"It'll probably get cold on the walk home." You stated, walking back into the kitchen and sitting across from Dean at the table. You gave him a soft smile.

You didn't know why but you didn't feel threatened around Dean, despite the alpha within. You stabbed into the slice of meat pie with your fork and hummed around a bite. Savoury and buttery and flakey. It was perfect.

You started purring and Dean's scent changed again. He was happy. Really happy. You stopped eating and met his smirk.

"Is it that good?" He asked and you couldn't help purring a little louder as you nodded. "I'm glad."

Purring wasn't something you did often. Only when you were extremely content and you couldn't stop it even when it became embarrassingly loud. Dean didn't seem to mind though, he actually looked kind of flattered.

"Can I have some water?" You asked between purrs.

"I can do better, how about some wine? I have red," he offered and raised his eyebrows in question as he stood from his seat.

You couldn't drink but you didn't want to tell him why. It was still early to be telling people.

"Water's fine."

"Okay. Can you get me two glasses from the cupboard and I'll grab the Brita from the fridge." He asked as he pointed to the cupboard behind you.

"Sure." You purred.

You had to stretch a little to grab the glasses off the shelf, one in each hand, and your chunky sweater rode up a little when you did.

"Are these ones okay?"

Dean growled and snapped behind you. You started and spun around to see him baring his teeth and staring at your stomach. You stopped purring instantly and dropped the glasses to tug your sweater back down. You were just starting to show.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Dean shook his head and raised his hands. "I'm so sorry. I didn't-"

"Maybe I should go..."

"No."

"This is on me, Dean. This wasn't a good idea. I never should've barged in here. I'm gonna go." You said, holding a protective arm over your bump and stepping over the broken glass on the floor.

"You don't have to." Dean pleaded and took a step closer.

"I think I need to, thank you for everything."

"Omega. Sit." He ordered and took a deep calming breath. You hesitated at your title and sniffed the air, smelling his fear fade away. "I didn't mean it, okay? I'm just getting a lot of new scents from you, it's confusing as hell but I wouldn't ever hurt you. You can take my word on that." He glanced at the hand you kept on your lower stomach and added, "I won't harm your pup either, Y/N."

"New scents?" You asked.

That implied he scented you before the pregnancy but this was the first time you've ever interacted with him. So how could that be?

"You can smell me when I go into rut, right?" You nodded. "I can smell you when your heat kicks in." He exhaled and rubbed the scruff on his chin, "It's intense. Sometimes it feels like you're in the room with me, sometimes I wish you were... but most of the time, I have to keep myself from going over there. I don't like it when you need me and I can't do a damn thing about it."

Alphas naturally run a few degrees hotter so it wasn't a surprise to see the window in his kitchen open. And your houses were fairly close together, so it wasn't entirely impossible to scent each other during your cycles when your pheromone levels were at their highest. But because it wasn't a direct scent it made sense that a slight change in yours, like a pregnancy, could throw him off.

“You leave your windows open a lot, which I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. You know you shouldn’t do that, right? I mean anyone could just break in, especially when you smell as good as you do." He explained, probably a little more than he wanted by the way he cringed at himself. "I just want you and your pup to be safe."

You spent a long minute just watching him and sniffing the air. Still, he didn't strike you as a threat. He looked at you the way no other alphas did and he kept including your pup so you knew he cared about the both of you.

"I don't think anyone's stupid enough to try something when an alpha lives next door." You pointed out.

Alphas were primal creatures. It didn't matter if he claimed you or not. If he smelt a scared omega in his territory -next door, he would have the instinct to protect you or at least rip the throat out of whoever was threatening you.

"What about the alpha?" He asked.

"He keeps to himself."

"And what if he can't do that anymore?" He slowly slid into his seat at the table and rested his head in his hand as he looked up at you.

He looked defeated. Like he was tired of denying the connection he felt to you. You weren't sure what you felt. You didn't know what to say and you started to get nervous that he may want to claim you. Right here, right now.

"Then I guess it depends on what he does next." You answered, still standing and shifting your weight from foot to foot under his gaze. "I've had enough asshole alphas in my life, Dean."

"I won't force anything on you, Omega. I just want to be near you." He promised as if he read your mind.

"Don't call me 'Omega'. We don't know each other that well and I don't like it." You hardened your face and he nodded like he understood.

'Omega' was something you reserved for your mate. Future mate, someone you trusted completely. It made you feel primal urges when you heard it and you had been fighting the urge to sit down with him since he told you to.

"Please, stay." He whispered and stared at his plate.

Dean's scent was turning salty again and you soured your nose. You hated that scent on him and you would do anything to make it go away. You ignored the glass on the floor and slid back into your seat at the table across from him.

"Why does your house always smell so amazing?" You asked, poking at your food with your fork. You teased, "Are you like always baking or something?"

This hadn't been the first time you smelt something so delectable that you wanted to demand a piece of the pie, so to speak. You had to stop yourself many times and wound up stuffing your face with Oreos or bread instead. But the pregnancy made those cravings a hundred times worse, so there was no stopping you when they struck today.

"I own a bakery, so yeah," Dean smiled and followed your lead when you started to eat again. "I'm usually trying new recipes or whipping up a snack for fun."

"Wait, so you bake all day and then come home and bake some more?" You smiled and the alpha in Dean blushed as he nodded with a chuckle. "Well, if you ever need a taste-tester, you know where to find me. I'm always hungry these days."

You rubbed your slightly swollen stomach and took a bite of mashed potatoes. Creamy and cheesy and you shut your eyes for a moment as you savoured the taste in your mouth.

"I'm guessing there's not an alpha in the picture?" Dean alluded as he stirred his potatoes and licked his fork. "I should've asked earlier but I didn't know," he glanced down as if he could see your bump underneath the tabletop.

"There's not," you stated dryly and mixed the cranberry sauce into your mashed potatoes. Salty and sweet, a perfect combination.

"Must be an idiot," Dean muttered under his breath.

"Huh?"

"Not to claim you the second you took his knot." He explained and added a 'Sorry' when he smelt your unease.

You ate the rest of your meal in a silence that wasn't entirely uncomfortable, exchanging glances with Dean between bites. He smiled at you a bunch more times and when the meal was over he sent you home with half the leftovers.

The next few weeks felt more and more as if he was courting you. Twice a week he'd leave gifts on your doorstep; pies, bread baskets, mini muffins, donuts, gingerbread men, sugar cookies. Some stuff he made at the bakery and some were new recipes he tested in his kitchen during restless weeknights. Then on the weekends you'd join him for a meal, usually dinner and usually at his place since his oven was fully operational. There was an element burnt out on yours and he offered to fix it but you weren't ready to let him into your home; not yet.

You were so grateful for the alpha next door. Sure, because he fed you delicious treats, but mainly because he treated you and your pup with respect. He was everything you wanted your pup to be and more.

He even accompanied you to doctors appointments and bought the pup a Led Zeppelin onesie. He was acting like a mate without all the scary alpha undertones. He did things because he cared and he wanted you both healthy and happy.

You had almost given up hope that an alpha like him existed. And this whole time he was right next door.

You wanted to show Dean just how much you appreciated him, so you invited him over for Christmas Eve dinner; since you were both busy with family on the day of. You planned to cook him a big meal and give him a break, but he showed up a couple hours early to switch out your broken element for a new one. And after that you couldn't kick him out of the kitchen if you tried, so you relented and let him help.

"Do you wanna see the pup's room?" You asked after dinner.

You were too full for dessert, though you were positive you could go back for it in about an hour when your stomach made room. Dean started the dish washer and turned around to face you. You hadn't taken him on a tour of the house yet and he seemed content at the idea.

He tried to hide the smirk on his lips, "Are you sure you're alright with that, Om- Y/N?" He was trying to be respectful of your space.

"Mhm." You purred and grabbed his hand.

You tugged him along with you, up the stairs and into the first room on the left. The pup's room. You hadn't painted it yet and you weren't sure if you were going to, it didn't need it, but you did decorate the walls with posters of cartoon animals. There was a crib on the far end, and a bookshelf filled with children's books and plushie toys, and a La-Z-Boy recliner in the corner next to it.

"I already had a lot of this stuff. Except for the crib, that's new, and I've been collecting books since I found out. I still need a changing table and a dresser and maybe a few other things that I'm probably forgetting." You said and bit your lip as Dean scanned the room.

"This is awesome, I especially like the sleeping sloth poster 'Dream Big'." He chuckled, but walked over to the recliner when he spotted something. He picked up the large stuffed grey wolf that sat in it. Then smiled as he held it up to you, "You kept it!"

Dean won the stuffed animal at the carnival he brought you to last weekend by throwing baseballs at tin bottles. He wanted you to have it for your pup and he was really excited to see that it was in the room now. He really was the sweetest man alive.

"Are you kidding me?! Of course I did!" You said and walked up to him to plant a kiss on his scruffy cheek.

It was the first time either of you did anything intimate like that. Dean's neck flushed at the contact and the red crept up into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat nervously and set the stuffed wolf back in the recliner. His natural musky scent got a little stronger and you could feel his body heat radiating off of him.

"The pup's gonna love this, Y/N. I can help you get the rest of the stuff, whatever you want." He said and kissed your forehead sweetly.

There was no need to rush, you were only five months along and already better prepared than you ever were. "We have lots of time, Alpha."

You didn't mean to say it, 'Alpha'. It just slipped out but once you said it you couldn't take it back. It felt right. Dean was your mate and by the looks of it, he knew that well before you did. He was just trying to ease you into it.

"Omega," Dean growled, "Don't tease me."

"Do you want to see the master bedroom?" You asked and tilted your head to the side as you looked up at him. You already thought of your house as being his home too, "Our room."

You didn't go into heat since you were already pregnant and that just didn't happen with pregnant omegas, but you felt that flutter in your chest that told you he was the right one. The alpha you wanted to claim and have claim you back. You wanted to be his and he as sure as the moon was high in the sky, wanted to be yours.

You had no doubts that he would treat your pup as his own, he never acted otherwise and always wanted to be by your side. Feeding you treats that were 'Good for the pup'. You had a feeling that if you let him, he would get a whole lot more clingy and protective too. But you wanted a doting alpha and you welcomed it when he lifted you in his arms.

Dean pressed his nose to the crook of your neck where your mating gland was and inhaled, long and deep. He was scenting you for real this time and you scented him back as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He growled happily when your bump pressed to his tummy and you could smell his rut coming on strong. His skin was dewy and hot and you liked the warmth under your palms as you held onto the back of his neck.

Then he walked you out of the pup's room in search of yours.

"Which way, Omega?" He asked when he got you out into the hall.

"Last door on the right," you said, nibbling on his neck where you knew an alpha to be the most sensitive.

Dean gently dropped you on the king-sized bed and you crawled into the nest of blankets and pillows. He watched as you moved a few things and made enough room for him to crawl in after you.

"Come, Alpha. It's okay." You patted the open spot beside you in bed, but Dean hesitated.

"Fuck, this is the worst timing," he muttered to himself and you saw him visibly shudder. "I can feel my rut coming on fast, Y/N, I don't wanna hurt you or the pup. I should -I should go." He swallowed thickly and glanced at the door like he was trying to convince his feet to move.

An alpha would normally still go into ruts if his omega was pregnant, so it was natural and you knew he wouldn't hurt either of you. Even when things turned carnal and you knew he wouldn't claim you unless it was safe for the pup; that's just who Dean was. He was an alpha hardwired to protect and care for those he loved, not inflict pain or hardship to satisfy his own needs. He was different, he was a real mate, and you wouldn't leave him on his own when he needed you most.

"Alpha. Bed. Now."

Dean laughed and wiped the sweat from his forehead and upper lip. It wasn't common for an omega to order an alpha around but he listened to you and crawled into the nest beside you.

"Comfy?" You asked when he curled around your body and pressed his cheek to your bump. He shivered and placed a palm over your stomach. "I trust you, Dean. You won't hurt us, Alpha."

He didn't respond, instead he pressed his nose to your bump and scented the pup for the first time. Deep breath in, deep breath out and he stopped shaking. And started purring.

_________________________

Read part 2 here

_________________________ Dean/Jensen: @akshi8278 @laycblack @thoughts-and-funnies @mrsjenniferwinchester @crustycheeks @kazsrm67 @sexyvixen7 @lyarr24 @suckitands33 @eliwinchester99 @yvonneeeee @igotmajordaddyissues @djs8891 @leigh70 @globetrotter28

Forever SPN: @hobby27

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somekindofpoet · 1 year

Text

Like A Movie Part IX

Summary: Reader deals with big feelings and the movie is wrapped

Word Count: 5.4K

A/N: This feels like the natural end to this one, but I will probably write little one shot extensions on it in the future. All good things must end! There are several time jumps in this chapter, hopefully they make sense. If anything seems convoluted please tell me so I can fix it! Send me asks, message me, I love interacting with you guys.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII

To say you didn’t get jealous may have been a slight overstatement on your part. You didn’t generally get jealous in everyday situations. You were a fairly secure person, and Jenna gave you no reason to question your place in her life. In fact, she was overwhelmingly affectionate and reminded you of her feelings often. It was a “sweet little relationship” so to say.

But as the dreaded day of filming drew ever nearer, you began to feel the claws of the green-eyed monster in your gut. You had written five wives for Judas. FIVE. You cursed yourself daily for being such a smut artist. Obviously, you had never intended to be dating the person who would play Judas, but the universe has a funny way of enacting its karma on people. When you wrote the part, you wanted Judas to be a believable cult leader. And those fools always had a plethora of sexual encounters. So five wives it was. It may have even been a conservative take.

Luckily for you, A24 had decided she should only have a sex scene with one wife on screen, the rest would be implied. But that one sex scene was inevitably going to happen, and it was going to happen with your friend. You weren’t sure which would be worse, watching Olivia do it or a complete stranger. You tell yourself it’s fake because it is, but that doesn’t help much. You still feel the sickening vice of greediness in your belly, an unwillingness to share.

You don’t share these feelings with Jenna. You’re nervous it’ll rattle the skeletons in her closet and send her running for the hills. Your pride doesn’t allow you to tell Olivia, because that would mean admitting to the silly whims of your irrational feelings. It’s for the same reasons you refrain from telling your other friends, leaving you alone to dwell on how stupid your lizard brain is.

You’re not at your best when left alone with your thoughts, often spiraling into a vicious cycle of what-ifs. Dealing with the jealousy was the beginning; questioning whether your relationship with Jenna was only built on the excitement of making Secessus was the end result.

You’re sitting on your couch the morning of filming “The Dreaded Scene”, fighting yourself in a battle you can’t win. Jealousy has curdled in your stomach and turned into doubt. You drop your head into your hands, trying to talk yourself out of the mood you had put yourself in. But all you can think is what if? What if after filming wraps, Jenna realizes you’re terribly boring? What if the movie is a flop? What if the excitement dies down and you can’t sell another script? What if? What if? What if?

Your phone vibrates on the table, and you drag your hands down your face. It’s Jenna, she’d been texting you for over an hour, and you have yet to reply to her. You’re not upset with her at all, you’re scared that if she talks to you, she will know what you’re feeling. Over the months of knowing her, and the months of filming, she had learned you like the back of her hand. Sometimes she knew you better than you knew yourself. That fact brought you some comfort because if she knew you so well and still liked you, then she would like you after the movie was done. But that voice was much quieter than the one that said she would grow bored of you.

You sigh and pick up the phone, unwilling to force her to wait on you any longer. You are a grown ass adult, and you will handle this appropriately! Probably…Most Likely. You shoot her a text telling her you’re on your way to set, and you’ll see her in an hour. You flop back onto your couch, preparing your mind for the rollercoaster of emotions you’d go through that day.

Just as you’re about to get up, there’s a soft knock on your door. You recheck your phone, no messages. You’re beginning to get deja vu, reminded of the day you met Jenna. What a weird and wonderful day that was. You became so lost in thought at the cherished memory you nearly forgot someone was at your door.

You pull yourself off the couch as the person knocks again, yelling, “Yeah I’m comin, I’m comin!”

You open your door, half hoping it would be Jenna in a floppy boonie cap and pitvipers again. But it’s a kid trying to spread the gospel in a white button up and black tie. You look him up and down, then turn back to grab your sunglasses and car keys.

“Not today kid. I’m just leaving.” You tell him, stepping over the threshold and forcing him to retreat from your welcome mat.

“Ma’am, I just wanted to come to tell you-“

“Hey listen, I respect you man. You’re doing something you think is right. But I’m not interested in learning about your lord and savior or whatever.” You say over your shoulder as you lock your door.

The kid frowns at you, “I was coming to tell you your car is getting towed.”

“WHAT?!” You shout, running to the stairs looking for your Mustang.

Sure enough, a tow truck was parked directly behind you, the driver walking back to the cab of his truck. You sprint down the stairs two steps at a time, skidding to a halt as you reach the truck.

“No no no man you can’t take her! I’m right here I’ll move it, this is my child!”

The tow truck driver is old, and tired, and clearly not willing to put up with you. He takes his trucker hat off and runs his fingers through an oily tuft of hair before replacing the hat on his head.

“Look kid, you’re parked in a tow zone. You can come get the car tomorrow afternoon once you pay the fine.”

“If there’s a scratch on her I swear to-“

The man slams his door shut, ignoring you. The tow truck rumbles to a start, and you watch mournfully as your beloved car is taken from you.

You put your hands on your head and pace, at a loss. You needed to be on set NOW, you were already late. And now your baby was being towed away, taken by this big ugly truck to the big ugly impound lot. You had parked in a tow zone last night, thinking you’d go back out after you ran to the bathroom and move it, but with all the shit going on in your head you had completely spaced it. Actions meet consequences.

You text Jenna to tell her you’re not, in fact, on your way and you’re stranded. And you’re sorry for being an idiot who got their car towed. The sweet angel of a human being texted you back almost immediately, solving your problem easily. Phil was around Hollywood, and would come get you momentarily. You thank her and walk to the marking curb to sit down and review the life choices that brought you here.

The kid in the tie made his way down the stairs and walked over to you, eyeing you curiously. You look up at him with a raised eyebrow. He couldn’t be more than 13 maybe 14 if you squinted.

“Where’s your parents kid?”

He points to an apartment on the other side of the U-shaped building, “I live right there with my grandma.”

You frown, looking over to the door he pointed at, “I’ve never seen you before.”

He shrugs, not offering an answer. You shrug back, not really needing one.

“So…do you want to hear about Jesus Christ now?”

“Awh hell kid, seriously no.”

“Hell is where you’ll end up if-“

You laugh, “Boy, do I have news for you.”

By the grace of some holy entity, Phil pulled up before you could educate the kid on your “lifestyle” and the tree he was barking up. You wave the kid off and jump in the car, grateful for Phil’s timing.

“Man you just saved that kid from an education he wasn’t ready for.” You tell him as you settle into the back seat.

Phil doesn’t ask questions, just chuckles and drives off.

———

The set was in a frenzy when you pulled into the parking lot. People were running around crossing each others paths like a haphazardly choreographed dance. The set was almost always full of activity, but people were in more of a frenzy than usual today. You catch the arm of a PA you recognize, pulling her aside.

“Is there a fire I don’t know about?” You ask her.

There is panic in her face at being stopped, and she pulls her arm from you. “The director is NOT in a good mood today.” She says as she hurries off to continue whatever she had been sent to do.

Uh oh. Task one, talk Jenna down. Actually, task one, find Jenna. You stand on your tiptoes, looking for the area that was being avoided the most, knowing that was likely where she’d be. There was a careful path being cut around the trailers, so you make your way through them, figuring you’d check her trailer first. On your way there you bump into one of the other actors, and they silently point you in the direction of the makeup trailer.

Olivia is out front smoking a cigarette in a black robe. Seeing her stokes your anxiety, reminding you of what was on the shooting schedule for the day. She sees you and a visible level of stress leaves her body.

“Oh thank fuck you’re here.”

“That bad?”

She grimaces, “You’ll see.”

You hear before you see. You can hear Jenna’s voice in the trailer. She’s not yelling, but she is very clearly not happy. You hesitate at the door, looking back to Olivia with a fearful frown on your face.

She shakes her head at you, “Oh no, this is your realm my friend. Get your ass in there.”

You gulp and open the door delicately. You’re immediately met with silence. The makeup artists have vacated the premises, the only occupants are Jenna and her assistant. He’s trying to make himself small in the corner and his eyes go wide when you step in. Jenna is pacing the length of the small trailer, so you lean back into the door to let her pass. When she passes you again without speaking, you decide to take mercy on him.

“You should probably head to set Junior.”

He doesn’t dally and practically leaps out of the door when you move away from it. You hear it click shut and meet Jenna in the middle of the trailer, halting her pacing. She allows you to stop her as you pull her into a hug. You know better now than to try to solve her problems for her, and set your attention on what she likely wants.

Her hair and makeup is already done so you’re careful when you separate yourself from her and tilt her chin up. She’s not angry and that surprises you. Everyone was tiptoeing around the trailer like she was a fire breathing dragon, but here she was, clearly vulnerable and upset. You lean down and press a gentle kiss to her lips, which she reciprocates immediately. She grabs the back of your neck, pulling you into her.

Had it not been for your concern about her set makeup, you would have let her do anything she wanted to you right then and there. But there was a schedule to uphold and you were the only one who was going to hold her to it at this point. You pull back from her, rubbing your hands up and down her arms. You still aren’t sure what’s going on, but you have an inkling it has something to do with the very thing you had been freaking out about earlier. In all your self pity you had forgotten that there was a person on the other end of this situation, and that person probably had some strong feelings about it as well.

She closes her eyes and sighs, her posture dropping when she opens them again. She doesn’t make any signs that she’s going to speak, so you do it for her.

“Distraction or discussion?” You ask her.

“I want to say distraction, but we don’t have time.” She replies, her muscles starting to tense up again.

“Okay, discussion then,” you say, your hands still on her arms, “What’s got you all messed up?”

She chews on her bottom lip. You know if she had her rings on she’d be spinning the hell out of them right now, but she’s already in costume so they’re not there for her. She takes in a deep breath and follows it with an onslaught of words.

“I’m worried about the scene today. Olivia is a perfect professional and I am a professional and I know that we are going to crush it. But I…” she pauses and looks you deep in the eye, “Im so afraid it’s going to freak you out. It’s freaking me out. Can we do this? Are we okay doing this? What if-“

You cut her off with another kiss. You’re slightly worried it’ll irritate her, but you’ve decided a half distraction might not be the worst idea. There’s a couch in the corner where Junior had been huddled and you back into it, pulling her with you. You sit down and she climbs into your lap facing you. You kiss her again, her makeup and hair be damned. She leans into you, her hands coming up from your neck into your hair, just a touch less than frantic. You’ve forgotten the schedule now, you’re a writer not a director. Fuck the schedule. Your hands move to her hips, and she groans leaning back from you, her chest heaving.

Her pupils are blown out and her lips parted. You can tell she doesn’t want to stop, but she’s forcing herself. She rests her hands on your shoulders, her breathing slowing. You’re somewhat disappointed but you’re also proud of yourself for calming her down. She bends down to rest her forehead on yours, closing her eyes again. You let her gather herself and wait patiently before you say anything to her. When she seems to relax further, you decide it’s time you’re up front with her.

“Can I be really honest for a second?” You whisper.

She leans back, worry clouding her features. You’ve ruined her lipstick, but the rest of her makeup is intact. The beauticians would be proud of you.

“I’ve been freaking out about this-“

She interrupts you, “I knew it, I shouldn’t do this I-“

“Hey hang on let me finish.” You interrupt her interrupting you. She pouts and it makes you smile in spite of the situation.

“What I was saying,” you continue, “was I’ve been freaking out about this but not because I can’t handle it. I’m nervous and I’ve never been in this situation before. But me and you, we’re going to be fine. I’m not going anywhere and I will be in there supporting you every step of the way. It’s gonna be fucking weird, but exactly zero parts of our relationship have been normal up to now.”

She laughs and it’s like angels singing in the choir. Maybe the kid from earlier had a point. Only he was preaching the wrong religion. You were at the altar of her, and you should go to his door and tell him what divinity actually looked like. Or maybe you’d allow him to maintain his ignorance and keep this moment all to yourself like the greedy heathen you were.

She kisses your forehead and you can tell you’ve said all the right things. The worry is washed away from her and she’s looking at you like she thinks you’re the one who is divine. Oh the price you’d be willing to pay to hear her thoughts in that moment.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I know this is a lot and…wait a minute are you okay? Your car?”

You shake your head, “Oh fuck I forgot about my baby. She has to spend the night in impound.” You stick your bottom lip out, exaggerating how sullen you felt about the car.

She smiles and runs her thumb over your lip, “We’ll go save her tomorrow, don’t worry.”

The ‘we’ in her sentence makes your heart sing. It’s no longer a you problem but a we problem. You’re struck with the realization that you love her. The sudden awareness of the emotion makes everything better and worse simultaneously. The fear of losing her grows, and the joy of having her grows. They are feelings dependent of one another and can’t be separated. You reopen the feelings cabinet and stuff them in, you’ll have to deal with that tremendous hulking beast later.

You want to tell her you love her, but instead you smile and nod. “Yeah, tomorrow.” You answer, dazed.

She sets her jaw and dissects herself from you, moving off your lap to stand between your knees. “Okay JD. We can do this. Let’s go have sex on camera.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your stomach and shaking you. “Let’s not ever say that sentence again.”

She grins as she pulls you off the couch, clearly proud of herself for making a joke that would normally have come out of your mouth. You follow her out of the trailer and find Olivia waiting outside. She chuckles at the state of the two of you, not holding her tongue.

“Got Casanova to be your fluffer then?”

Jenna frowns in confusion and looks back to you. Her lipstick is smudged, so you lick your thumb and move to wipe it from her face, but she ducks under your hand.

“Oh absolutely not. We have make up artists for that, do not clean my face like my grandma right now.”

Her comment makes you laugh and you comply, putting your hands up in surrender. She turns on her heel and starts off toward the house with you and Olivia closely in tow.

Jenna and Olivia are completely different human beings when they’re in front of a camera. All playfulness and jokes are out the window and their serious work faces are on. You’re used to it now, having watched them work on the movie for over two months now, but it still impresses you every time when the switch is flipped. The assistant director is in Jenna’s chair, pushing the cameras in and giving them the cues to work off of.

The scene is set perfectly, even better than you imagined between the lines of your script. It starts off with them in a fight, which gradually progresses to them falling into bed together. You’re well aware of how the dance will go. They start and stop on the first few lines, getting the lighting and placement just right. You brace yourself for the impending doom you expect to wash over you the second their lips crash into each others.

But it never comes. You’re just as surprised as anyone when you find yourself with your jaw hanging open and your eyes wide. It occurs to you that you have watched Jenna do this before. Before you knew her at least. You’d seen all her movies, seen almost every scene she’d acted in. This was a completely separate person than the one who was in your lap only half an hour ago. This was the movie star you’d drooled over, tweeted about, chattered about to anyone who would listen. This was a character and you were fully willing to let it be just that.

You watch them act and you feel like you’re watching the movie in a theater. But you’ve got the best front row seat possible. You’re literally IN the movie set. Every time the assistant director cuts the scene you’re yanked back into reality and you recognize them again. It’s weird at first, obviously it’s weird, but you allow the movie magic to wash over you and it’s not nearly as difficult as you’d imagined.

Before you know it, Jenna is in a robe and at your side again, her eyes searching your face for signs of apprehension, but she can find none. You’re buzzing with excitement and she is shocked at your enthusiasm.

“That was…INCREDIBLE.” You say, hugging her and lifting her off the ground. She giggles as you spin around, only setting her down when you lose your balance and stumble into a light stand.

“So you’re okay?” She asks you.

“Okay? I can’t believe how good you were! And Olivia! Oh my god the passion! The aggression! Are you kidding me?”

Olivia yells at you from the other side of the set, “Settle down Casanova, or we’ll bring you into it next time!”

Your smile drops immediately and you scowl at her. You make a show of pushing Jenna behind your body and puff up your chest.

“You couldn’t handle me on your best day, home girl!” You joke, deadpan.

She blows a raspberry trying not to laugh at you and shakes her head, returning her attention to the assistant director. You’re riding a high, the realization that the scene is now over and your anxiety was for nothing lifts a weight off of your chest. Your mood is infectious and soon everyone is in high spirits. With this scene wrapped, the movie is almost complete. The schedule makes for another day or two of filming and then it goes into post production, where you play the waiting game and go back to your normal life.

You’re in too good a mood for that idea to really hit you yet, so you make room for it in your feelings filing cabinet, shoving it right next to the big L word that takes up most of the space in the drawer. Much like Scott Pilgrim, you’re terrified of that word and what it means for you. You let the thought go and enjoy the moment of relief.

————

“That’s a wrap!”

The moment the words left Jenna’s mouth the cast and crew erupted in cheers and whoops of laughter. Champagne bottles popped and the last remnants of the characters fell from the actors faces.

You watched the celebration in awe, the final moments of your first movie coming to a close. You couldn’t believe all of this had happened because you wrote words on paper and someone somewhere saw them and put them in the hands of Jenna. You allow the moment to swallow you whole, the pure joy radiating off of the crowd filling you up.

Olivia breaks free from the mass and runs over to you jumping on your shoulders and screaming.

“We did it Casanova! We fucking did it!”

You piggy back her around, running a short lap with her on your back. She slides off when you stop, smacks you on the butt and grins at you.

“Better go tell the director congratulations lover boy.” She says and runs back into the throng of bodies.

You laugh watching her jump on more people, enjoying her moment. A bottle of champagne pops behind you making you spin around. Jenna is holding two glasses and a now overflowing bottle, a huge smile plastered to her face. You make your way over to her and curtsy, then bow extending your hand. Instead of taking it, she hands you the glass and fills it to the top.

She fills hers and leaves the bottle on a table, clinking her glass to yours.

“Congratulations,” you tell her, smiling over the rim of your glass before taking a swig.

“This is all because of you, so I think the compliments go to you.”

“I could start a sickeningly sweet argument with you right now, but I don’t want everyone around us to suffer.”

“Let’s take it to my trailer then, you can tell me all about this argument of yours.” Jenna says, picking up the bottle again and holding her arm out for you to hold.

You loop your hand through the crook of her elbow and bend down to whisper in her ear, “Ooh yeah, debate team really gets me going, let’s go argue.”

She rolls her eyes still leading you away from the party, “Do you want to ruin this moment for yourself? Because you’re rapidly ruining this moment for yourself.”

“How about naked debate team. Now thats an idea.”

“You really think you could argue with me naked?”

You gulp, your voice cracking at the thought, “N-no. You’re right naked debate team is a terrible idea.”

When you step inside her trailer she sets the champagne bottle down on the table and turns to you. “Seriously though y/n, congratulations.” She wraps her arms around the back of your neck, looking up at you as she speaks, “I’m so proud of how far you’ve come these last few months and I can’t wait to see what else you do.”

Her words spread a rapid fire of warmth through your body, filling you to the brim with adoration and pride. You look down at her, a soft smile playing at your lips. You hadn’t planned on getting emotional, but here you were, unable to find a joke that could worm your way out of this complex situation.

“Thank you,” you say, “Thank you for everything. Thank you for showing up on my doorstep five months ago. Thank you for aggressively pursuing my movie, thank you for kissing me at that premiere and thank you for being the best director and star I could have ever imagined for this movie.”

Jenna’s expression is so soft it nearly hurts you. She pulls you down and kisses you hard, growing faster and frenzied quickly. She pulls you into the back of the trailer and into the bed.

———

Post production on most movies takes six months to a year. All the excitement of filming is done and the studio gets to work on compiling the footage and audio to create the masterpiece that people will see in the theater.

As the lead writer, you’re still called in to the studio here and there for a scene edit or a small rewrite, but for the most part, your job is done. You received a fat paycheck and cashed out, saving most of it. Jenna is in the studio nearly every day toiling over the imagery and reviewing every clip of footage and audio as it’s spliced together.

You had hoped she would spend more nights with you due to the proximity to her work, but often she commutes. Shes working a schedule that you had paled at when you saw it on paper. You’re not sure when she ever sleeps or eats, she works that much. You try not to let the feelings filing cabinet overflow, but one day a few weeks into post production, you’re really going through it.

You’d been trying to write all day, all week really, but nothing was good enough. You’d scrapped page after page, until you gave up on something new. You started unearthing old scripts, moving piles of paper around and re-reading them, trying to find one that could use a thorough rewrite.

It was in the midst of that activity that you found yourself lying on your back on your floor, staring at your ceiling. You had created a nearly perfect outline of yourself in screenplays, a writer’s version of a chalk outline around a dead body on the floor. The emotions were spilling out of your ‘orderly’ filing system and the only way to deal with it was to lay very still and hope they went away. You dealt with big feels like the kids in Jurassic park dealt with the T-Rex. Avoid avoid avoid, hold very still, avoid avoid.

Your front door opening and closing rouses you from an unintentional nap, and you’re confused as to why you’re still on the floor. Apparently, you had gone so still hiding from your own mind that you racked out amongst the mountains of your scripts.

“What exactly is happening here?” Jenna’s voice comes from above you and you prop yourself up on your elbows, yawning.

“I was dealing with some things and then the scripts tried to tie me down like Gulliver‘s Travels.”

“Uh huh.” She says, dropping her purse onto the table in the entry way and making her way over to you.

She shifts a few piles aside, removing half of the wall of paper from your side and lays on the floor next to you. The gesture is sweet and so typically Jenna.

“Do you want to tell me what things you were dealing with?” She asks, turning on her side to look at you.

You don’t want to tell her, you think. You do NEED to tell her. “I’m…feeling some big…things.” You say, halting between words as you think them through.

She doesn’t say anything, just raises her eyebrows and waits for you to continue. You puff up your cheeks and let the air rush out of your mouth. Here goes nothing.

“What if I’m boring?” You say to the ceiling.

Jenna snorts, “You are far from boring.”

“What if I can’t write another movie worth making?”

“You can. And there are plenty of movies worth making in this living room alone.”

“What if Secessus flops?”

“It’s not going to flop. And even if it does, we try, try again. That’s the business.”

You finally turn to face her, “What if after we’re done with Secessus, you figure out you actually are too good for me?”

She frowns at that, and thinks hard for a moment. She explores your expression, trying to work out if you’re joking or not. When she realizes you’re not, she sits up and leans over you.

“I am not dating you because of this movie.”

“Well, because of this script, we are dating.”

“Because of this script, we met. We’re dating because you’re a looney toon and I happen enjoy that about you.”

You sulk, “I’m not a looney toon. I’m a real boy.”

Jenna rolls her eyes and laughs at you, even in a serious moment you can’t help but joke. “When this movie is done, we’ll make another one. We’ll be like Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter.”

“They broke up,” you huff.

“Okay, we’ll be like Tim Burton and Johnny Depp.”

“Jenna, I’m in lesbians with you.”

She slaps your arm, her face serious. “Don’t joke like that.”

You sit up, forcing her to shift to your side and you take her hand. All jokes aside, you need to unpack that damned filing cabinet.

“Okay, the other L word.”

She shakes her head, not allowing you to get out of it so easily. “Which one, y/n?”

You sigh and look at your hands, her fingers intertwined in yours. No holding back now boys, here comes the full monty. You look back up and the sight of her nearly takes your breath away. At this point, you figure you have nothing to lose. Either she loves you back or she doesn’t, she’s still right there and you can’t keep it neatly tucked away anymore.

“I love you.”

The soft gasp that leaves her lips may as well have been made of the last breath of air to ever enter your lungs. Nothing would ever get better than that sound. Nothing except when she replies.

“I love you too. And it’s about damn time.”

You’re dumbfounded. She somehow always knows what you’re going to do. She’s always a step ahead of you. And you love her for it. You love her.

“About damn time?” You parrot back in mock outrage, “It’s been like six months dude we-“

You never get the chance to finish your sentence because she’s pushing you into your back and kissing you with a fervor you hadn’t yet witnessed. It’s soft and rushed, and it’s rough and sweet all at once. Your head spins but your hands have a mind of their own. They travel from her thighs to her hips to her ribs to her back, making notes of their journey all the way through. You stay like that for a while, telling each other everything that needed to be said without words.

One of you bumps a limb into a stack of screenplays and they avalanche down around you, spreading all over the living room floor and slowing your bodies adventurous touches. After a while, Jenna pulls herself away from you and sits up, resting on your hips. She reaches out for the closest screenplay and opens it, looking back to you.

“Which one are we making next?”

#jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday #tara carpenter #vada cavell #lorraine day #like a movie

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