Series summary: As strange and dangerous events start haunting Noah, he has no choice but to reach out to you. Your "gift" may help him uncover what, or who, seems to want him dead.
stop this series was so so so sweet (even if also a little horrifying). the balance of the terror of the haunting against the budding relationship between Noah and reader was amazing. the way that Noah sees reader for everything she is and still wants her. I'm deceased. also Nicholas being a supportive chaos friend is everything to me
warnings: mentions of war, arranged marriage au so beware of… arranged marriage stuff, ‘reader’ has a name
word count: 13.2k
‘dethrone’ masterlist
Truth; Duty; Kindness.
The crest stared at Elysande from the opposite side of the carriage. Taunting.
Although in reality, the words were more of a blur in that actual moment. The horses were making difficult work of the snowy landscape, and the steadiness of the carriage had become their victim. But Elysande had known those words since she was a child. She was surprised they had not been the first words to leave her mouth as a babe. A family motto that had been repeated in every meeting, at every meal, and in every contract.
One she was growing very, very tired of.
“Truth and duty cannot coexist,” Elsyande scoffed, picking at a loose thread on the plush carriage seat. When her guard did not immediately respond, she took that as her cue to continue, “If we were to be truthful about each and every detail of our hollow lives, then we would not be able to fulfil our duty. In fact, that truth would have our heads in a noose by morning.”
A chuckle from her side from Joakim came low and rough, his voice tainted from the change in weather, “Speak for yourself, Your Highness. I am the picture of perfection.”
Elysande lifted her eyes back to the crest, but not without landing an elbow to the man’s ribs. Even Joakim’s royal guard uniform could not protect him from such an underhanded attack. “You wouldn’t know perfection if it slapped you in the face, you oaf.”
“You wound me,” Joakim spoke with a grin, no real offence.
That was the moment the carriage chose to stop. Far too fast for Elysande’s liking, but she did not hesitate in taking her guard’s hand to climb out of the metal box and into the strange weather.
Elysande had never seen snow before. Neither had Joakim, she was certain, but he seemed less marvelled by it. Her feet wouldn’t respond when she told them to move, each and every muscle screaming that this was unusual. And it was, really.
This whole thing was unusual.
Two weeks ago, she had been perfectly happy tormenting her little brother in the sitting hall when a palace guard had entered with a letter from the Kingdom of Belgrave. One that was addressed personally to her father, the King of Aethelgard, rather than his council. It was not an unusual occurrence for correspondence to be delivered so late in the day, so she had planned to ignore it. Not her business, after all.
Elysande had never particularly heard of Belgrave, but in the books she read in the nights that passed, she learnt they were a Northernmost Kingdom with great power, great wealth, and an even bigger army. Everything Aethelgard had not.
But, what Aethelgard lacked in political power, it made up for in beauty.
Aethelgard was a Kingdom of warm climate, strong heat, and a once barren land that had been cultivated, nurtured and loved to its true potential. Where there was once only sand centuries ago now stood a small but proud territory in which people and animals alike thrived. Long lakes that lasted through extreme heats, greenery that would have once upon a time wilted now stood strong through tender care from the natives of the land. The sands shone in the sun and had been woven into a feature of each and every village, used as a map that led to the palace at the very heart of the state. A palace that everyone could come to when they were in need, for the beauty of the land extended to the kindness of its crown.
Every person in Aethelgard was listened to. It was said that the King knew each of his subjects by name, and Elysande could attest to such a rumour. What wealth the Kingdom had was shared, used to bring prosperity to more than just the royal family. And, in return, the people served the Crown well.
Aethelgard had many a time come under siege, and it was the people who rose together to help defend their Kingdom; it was the people who made Aethelgard the fairytale it had become.
But of course, none of that beauty would be worth a dime if they were to be successfully invaded by foreign powers that nipped at the heels every month in rotation. King Diomedes of Aethelgard had known this as well, that if they didn’t act soon, Aethelgard would fall into the hands of someone less worthy. They were not prepared to defend themselves against any attack that may be launched. The people would fight, of course, in defence of their King and country, but they would fall. It was a small price to pay to be at peace in your land, that others would see you as a weak force. But the Aethelgardians knew otherwise of their power.
And then came that letter. A letter with a solution.
It was a marriage proposal from the King of Belgrave himself. Well, not a proposal from him, but one for his Son.
In what Elysande had heard from the council meeting she had eavesdropped on (the kitchen vents were an excellent place to hear into the council chambers, she had discovered this at a very early age), the Kingdom of Belgrave had a serious issue regarding it’s heir.
The Crown Prince was due to take over the throne on his thirtieth birthday, but to do so, he had to be married.
The pesky little problem was: The Crown Prince was just about to turn twenty-nine.
And so the King of Belgrave had taken matters into his own hands. Decided that he would no longer wait for his son to choose a wife of his own and would instead seek one out from the Kingdoms abroad.
For some strange reason that was not actually that strange all at once, he had chosen Aethelgard to seek out his future daughter-in-law.
Elysande was not stupid; she knew deep down why her Kingdom had been targeted. Like others, the King of Belgrave clearly saw Aethelgard as weak. He knew that there would be little choice for King Diomedes other than acceptance, for denial of a Belgravian request would mean certain invasion. King Diomedes also knew that the power a union between Aethelgard and Belgrave would bring would protect his people for years to come against possible invasion. Belgrave was perhaps one of the biggest powers in existence, and protection from them meant protection from everyone.
Even Elysande knew her father would have been a fool to turn down such a proposal.
So, she did not loathe her parents for sending her here. She did not blame them for their decision, nor did she beseech them to allow her to stay.
She did, however, blame those words once more. The family motto that haunted her in her sleep: Truth; Duty; Kindness.
Duty.
She was here out of duty to her Kingdom. Duty to her people. Duty to her family.
Duty.
And she would be kind… She would hold herself with the grace expected of the future Queen of Belgrave, a political pawn in a marriage she did not ask for, but no less kind than before.
Truthful… Now that was impossible. It was probably an impossibility in any line of power, but in a marriage arrangement that was out of her control? Any grounds for truth went out the window the moment her father signed those papers.
And so she climbed the steps up to the Palace of Belgrave with a patient duty. She held her head high and let Joakim guide her to the opulent doors, and when they opened to reveal no one other than an older woman in servant's clothing, she did not let her chin drop in surprise. She was not prepared to let their decisions break her just yet.
“Princess Elysande,” the woman curtsied lowly “My name is Morgan. I am the Lady of the House. I have been assigned to show you to your chambers where your handmaidens await.”
Joakim was the first of the two of them to speak, his voice spelling confusion, “Is the Princess not expected to meet the royal family immediately?”
Morgan looked at the Princess for confirmation that her guard’s words spoke for her as well, and upon a small nod from Elysande, the Lady of the House answered with only a small sign of waver in her voice, “The King wanted to allow the Princess a moment to… rest, after her long journey.” The way Morgan fumbled with the linen of her skirt told that she was not one in a position to question the King “Her Highness will be presented to them tonight at the banquet being held in her honour.”
“Then lead the way.”
The two Aethelgardians were led to the left down a long, winding corridor, far too fanciful to be entirely taken in at the moment. Carved brick with golden accents melded to their curves spelled immediately of Belgrave’s wealth, or at least an attempt to show it off. There were portraits, too, hung at strange yet precise intervals that seemed more calculated than natural. Kings and Queens of times past stared down with cold eyes, their expressions more unwelcoming than the cold climate beyond the walls. The frames themselves were expectedly gilded things, heavy and ornate and dripping with the kind of excess that came from generations of unchallenged power.
The brick that had been painted instead of left exposed were a deep blue, with gold leaf tracing patterns that resembled waves crashing against an invisible shore. It was beautiful, Elysande supposed, in the way a storm could be seen as a thing of beauty. Impressive, certainly, but suffocating all the same, making her throat tighten with each step she took deeper into the palace. Where Aethelgard's palace had been open and airy, designed to let in light and laughter, Belgrave's seemed designed to remind you of your place.
Candelabras lit up each portrait and intricate stonework, their flames flickering against their subjects and creating dancing shadows that made the paintings seem to come to life. And the floor beneath their feet was marble, so obsessively polished that Elysande could see her own reflection staring back at her.
She hated that reflection. Hated the vulnerability it showed.
Morgan walked ahead and did not look back to see if they followed, for she knew they would. They had just as little choice in the matter as she did in showing them, after all.
Elysande leaned closer to Joakim conspiratorially, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. "A royal family not meeting the woman agreed to marry their son at the doorstep is strange to you as well, right?"
Joakim's jaw tightened, his eyes scanning the corridor as though searching for listening ears in the very walls themselves. When he spoke, his voice was equally low. "Strange doesn't begin to cover it, Your Highness."
"Jolly," she began again, using the nickname she had given him years ago when formality had felt like too much effort. "What does this mean?"
He was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Elysande thought he might not answer at all. Then, "It means they don't care enough to pretend they're pleased about this arrangement. Or it means something else entirely. Either way, we should be careful."
"Careful," Elysande repeated, tasting the word like she had never heard it before. She supposed she had not, for carefulness was never a thing of regard in Aethelgard. It was bitter on her tongue. "I'm to marry a man I've never met in a Kingdom I've never seen, and you think careful will keep me safe?"
"It's a start."
Morgan stopped abruptly before a set of double doors, also blue and gold, with handles shaped like roaring lions. She produced a key from somewhere within her labyrinth of a skirt and unlocked the doors with a click that echoed down the corridor. "Your chambers, Your Highness."
The doors swung open to reveal a room that stole whatever breath Elysande had been reserving in her lungs.
If the corridor had been what one may describe as abundant, this was something else entirely. The chamber was vast, far larger than her rooms back home, with ceilings that stretched up and up until they met centrally in an arch painted with scenes of battles and conquests. More blue and gold, of course, the Belgravian colours stamped onto every available surface like a brand that served to remind her she was out of place. The walls themselves were covered in rich tapestries depicting what Elysande could only assume was the Kingdom's celebrated history. Victorious kings on horseback, their swords raised high; defeated enemies kneeling in submission. It was a form of propaganda dressed up as decoration, and it made her stomach turn.
But the bed… The bed was something out of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, depending on how one looked at it. It was a four-poster thing, far larger than any bed had a right to be, with carved pillars that stretched from floor to ceiling. The pillars themselves were works of art, engraved with vines and flowers and animals Elysande had never before seen. They were gilded, of course, because everything in this cursed palace seemed to be gilded. The bedding looked soft enough to drown in, all silk and velvet and far too many pillows for one person to not get lost in it.
To the left, a window extended nearly the entire height of the wall, its glass so clear it would be almost invisible if not for the soldering pattern across it. Beyond the pane, from what she could see, the palace gardens spread out in neat, manicured rows. Even covered in snow, they were beautiful. It was the kind of beauty that came from a level of tight control, from bending nature to your will until it had no choice but to obey.
And to the right, a doorway led to what Elysande assumed was the bathing chamber, for she could see the edge of a porcelain tub large enough to swim in, and more godforsaken blue tiles lining the walls.
Standing in the centre of the room, looking somehow even more nervous than Elysande felt, were two young women in simple but well-made dresses.
"Your Highness," the presumably older of the two curtsied deeply, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun without a hair out of place. She was perhaps in her late twenties, all tight eyes and a mouth set in a line that suggested she took her duties seriously. "My name is Margaret. This is Eliza. We are to serve you during your stay in Belgrave."
Eliza, the younger one, could not have been more than eighteen. She had wide eyes like a deer and light blonde hair that fell in soft waves around her face. Her curtsy was less practiced than Margaret's, a little shaky at the knees, but no less sincere. "It is an honour, Your Highness."
"The honour is mine. I look forward to working with you both." Elysande forced a smile, the kind she had perfected over years of courtly functions where smiling was expected even when you felt like screaming.
Margaret nodded, wasting no time in getting to business. "Would Your Highness like us to prepare a bath? The journey must have been quite tiring."
"Yes," Elysande said, a little too quickly. The thought of washing away the cold and the snow, the week’s long journey and the strangeness of this entire day was almost too appealing to bear. "That would be lovely, thank you."
The two handmaidens curtsied again and disappeared into the bathing chamber, their voices carrying softly as they discussed water temperature and which oils to use. Morgan excused herself with a final curtsy of her own, promising to return before the banquet to escort Elysande to the great hall. And then it was just Elysande and Joakim, alone in this room of grandeur that felt so lonely.
The moment the door clicked shut, Elysande's carefully constructed mask crumbled. She crossed the room in quick strides and threw herself onto the bed with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. The mattress was as soft as it looked, perhaps even softer, and she sank into it with a groan that was half relief and the other half despair.
"This is a nightmare," she said, her voice muffled by silk.
Joakim, ever the dutiful guard, took up position near the door. But there was a softness to his posture now, a fondness that he only ever showed when they were alone. "It's not so bad. At least the bed looks comfortable."
Elysande turned her head to look at him, her hair splatting across the pillows in a decidedly unprincess-like manner. She supposed she would look comical from a distance, but the only sign of this was the small grin that tugged at her guard’s lips "Jolly, be serious for once in your life. A royal family that doesn't greet their future daughter-in-law at the door? A marriage arranged with less than a month's notice? This is madness."
"It's politics," Joakim corrected gently. "And you've always been good at politics."
"I've always been good at Aethelgardian politics," she shot back. "Where people are kind and reasonable and don't treat marriage proposals like business transactions." She paused, then added with a crooked smile and an accompanying gasp, practically jumping up into a seated position, "What do you reckon the odds are that the Prince is short, fat and ugly?"
Joakim's laugh was loud, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but his shoulders still shook with suppressed mirth. "Your Highness, that's…"
"Rash? Bold? Honest? Defiant?" Elysande supplied. "Because if I cannot be truthful out there, I will speak said truths to you in the privacy of this hellish chamber."
"I was going to say unkind," Joakim said, but he was still grinning. "But I suppose it's a fair question. Given our… circumstances."
That was one of her saving graces. That the royal family of Belgrave had allowed Joakim to travel with her to the strange land.
Joakim had been assigned to Elysande when she was ten years old and he was sixteen, a fresh-faced boy just out of training and terrified of making a mistake. On his very first day, before the sun had even fully set, Elysande had ‘escaped’ (she had simply walked out of the palace while he was checking the perimeter). He had found her on the beach, or rather, he thought he had found her, watching the horses that roamed free along the shoreline. He had been in such a panic, convinced that the young Princess would report him for his failure and his career would end before it had even begun.
Then she had jumped out from behind a rock and thrown a handful of sand directly at his face.
He had stood there, sand in his mouth and eyes, while she had laughed so hard she had fallen to her knees. And when he hadn't yelled, hadn't grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the palace, hadn't threatened to tell her father, she had looked at him with something like relief. Like she had been testing him all along, waiting to see if he would be another person who saw her as a duty to be managed rather than a person to be known.
The two had been friends ever since. Real friends, the kind that did not bow to titles or protocol when the doors were closed and the world wasn't watching. And truthfully, Elysande did not know what she would do without him.
"Exactly. A man nearing thirty, an heir to an entire throne who hasn't managed to find a wife on his own? Either he's unbearable, grotesque or…" She trailed off, not quite sure how to finish that sentence. Or what? Or he was like her; trapped by duty and expectation, a pawn in his father's game?
She didn't want to think about that. It was easier to imagine him as some sort of ogre, all bad breath and worse manners.
From the bathing chamber, the sound of running water began to fill the silence. Eliza's voice carried softly, asking Margaret something about rose oil versus jasmine.
Elysande closed her eyes and let herself sink deeper into the bed, just for a brief moment. Long enough to just pretend that when she opened them again, she would be back home in Aethelgard, where the sun was warm and the people were kind and her biggest concern was what book to read next.
But when she opened her eyes, she was still in the blue Belgravian prison.
Still waiting to meet the Prince who would become her husband, whether she wanted him to or not.
—
The dress the King had chosen for her was almost a mockery of modesty.
It was beautiful, of course, just like everything in the palace, but it was so unlike anything she had ever worn that it made her feel like a character of herself.
The gown was obviously blue, because the King of Belgrave seemed incapable of choosing any other colour. But it was a different shade than the decor of Elysande’s room, darker and somehow richer in comparison, one that reminded her of sapphires in tiaras. The material clung to her body in ways that made her feel exposed, the corset so tight and so low that she had gasped for air when Margaret had first laced it. It left very little to the imagination, pushing everything upward and inward until Elysande barely recognised her own silhouette in the mirror.
A thick cloak had been provided for the weather, lined with an even thicker fur she had never felt before. It fastened at her throat with a heavy golden clasp and plunged to the floor in ripples of fabric. At least it covered some of the damage, she thought bitterly, but the message was already clear. The King wanted his nobles to see exactly what kind of arrangement this was from the first moment they laid eyes on her. He wanted them to see her as something decorative, something to be displayed.
Elysande hated it. Hated the way it made her feel like an object rather than a person. But she wore it anyway, because what other choice did she have?
Margaret was putting the finishing touches on her hair now, incorporating small gold pins through the strands that had been twisted and pinned into an intricate style that had taken the better part of an hour. Eliza stood nearby with a pot of rouge, waiting for permission to apply it. They worked in rehearsed silence, all gentle hands and soft adjustments, and Elysande found herself grateful for their presence even if they were still so unfamiliar.
"My ladies," Elysande played with the front of her cloak, watching her handmaidens in the mirror. Both women looked up, startled to be spoken to so directly. "If you are to serve me, then, I wish for us to be friends. And of my friends, I ask honesty." Margaret's hands stilled in her hair and Eliza's eyes went wide, but it did not deter her. "So tell me, honestly," Elysande continued, "what is the Prince like?"
The two handmaidens exchanged a glance, a kind of silent communication that came from fighting for survival together in these courts. Margaret was the first to speak, her voice careful but precise. "We do not know him well, Your Highness. He does not often... interact with the household staff."
"But you must have heard things," Elysande pressed, her hands winding the cloak up around a finger and then letting it go as if to steady her unruly nerves. "Servants talk. I know they do. I grew up in a palace, remember?"
Eliza bit her lip, the fingers of her free hand twisting in the fabric of her apron. She looked to Margaret for permission, and when the older woman gave a small nod, she spoke. "We have heard from others who serve him more closely that he is kind. Quiet, but kind."
"Closed off," Margaret added, almost proddingly. "He keeps to himself, mostly. Spends a great deal of time in his chambers or in the stables. The servants who do know him speak well of him, but they also say he is... difficult to know."
"Difficult to know?” Elysande rquestioned, but she was given no further explanation. It was something, at least. Better than cruel or stupid or any of the other things she had been imagining. "Thank you for your honesty."
Margaret returned to her hair, and Eliza stepped forward with the rouge. The silence that followed was more comfortable than before, less loaded with expectation. It was a small victory, but Elysande would take what she could get.
A knock at the door interrupted them. Morgan entered without waiting for permission, her expression just as unreadable as before. "It is time, Your Highness. The King expects you in the banquet hall."
Elysande moved immediately, smoothing down the fabric of her dress even though there was nothing to smooth. It clung to her like a second skin. Margaret stepped forward to adjust the cloak around her shoulders, and Eliza handed her a pair of delicate gloves that matched the dress. She pulled them on slowly, delaying the inevitable for just a moment longer.
"You look beautiful, Your Highness," Eliza said softly.
Elysande wasn't sure she believed her, but she smiled anyway. "Thank you."
Joakim was waiting outside her chambers when she followed the Lady of the House, standing at attention in his new formal guard uniform of the Belgravian emblem. It was a strange sight after all those years in Aethelgardian robes. He turned when he heard her approach, and his eyes went wide. Very wide.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice strangled. His gaze flickered to the neckline of her dress and then very deliberately away, his chin moving as he coughed the final words out. "You look... that is... the King certainly made a choice.”
"That he did," Elysande said dryly. "Do not say anything, Jolly. I am aware of how I look."
"I wasn't going to," he muttered, but his expression said otherwise. He looked angry, actually, in a way that made Elysande's heart ache. Because Joakim was her friend first and foremost, and her friend was furious on her behalf, yet there was nothing either of them could do about it.
Morgan led them through the palace, down more corridors and past more rooms until they reached a set of doors so large they must have required a small army of men to build. Guards stood on either side, dressed in similar but slightly less grand garbs to Joakim, and they pulled the doors open without a word.
The banquet hall was enormous. Bigger than any room Elysande had ever seen, even with the shock of the bedroom earlier. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, already filled with nobles in their finest clothes. They turned as one when the doors opened, their conversations dying mid-sentence as they took in the sight of her.
Elysande kept her chin up, kept her expression neutral, even as she felt their eyes on her like daggers. Sharp, assessing, ignorant daggers, cataloguing every detail of her appearance to gossip about later.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, sat the royal family.
The King was exactly what Elysande had expected. Older, perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and a thick beard. He wore robes of deep blue trimmed with gold (of course), and a crown that looked heavy enough to give him a headache. His expression was stern, his eyes alert as they tracked her approach; this was a man used to being obeyed.
Beside him sat the Queen, a woman who might have been beautiful once but now looked worn down by years of courtly life. Her dress was even more elaborate than Elysande's, dripping with jewels and embroidery, but her smile was thin and didn't reach her eyes.
And then there was the Prince.
He sat to the King's left, and Elysande's breath caught despite herself and the situation.
He was tall, even sitting down she could tell that much. Taller than Joakim, probably, with broad shoulders and a posture that spoke of years of military training and duties. More of a shock was that he was handsome, far more handsome than she had allowed herself to hope, with sharp features that looked like they had been carved from marble. His jaw was strong, his nose well fitting, and his eyes... she couldn't see their colour from this distance, but they were watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. His hair was brown, a medium length he had tucked neatly behind his ears in a way that made him look almost casual as opposed to Princely. It softened his appearance, made him look younger than he was.
It was, however, the tattoos that truly surprised her.
Even from such a distance, she could see how they crept up his neck, dark lines and colourful but faded patterns that disappeared beneath the collar of his jacket. More decorated his hands where they rested on the table, visible even from across the hall. She had never seen a royal with tattoos before. Hell, she had never even heard of such a thing.
Morgan led her forward, through the gauntlet of staring nobles, until she stood before the dais. She curtsied deeply, the way she had been taught since childhood, and waited.
"Princess Elysande of Aethelgard," the King's voice boomed across the hall, silencing even the whispers that had started up in her wake. "Welcome to Belgrave. I am King Florian. This is my wife, Queen Reagan, and my son, Prince Noah."
Noah. So he had a name now, at least.
"It is an honour, Your Majesty," Elysande said, her voice steady despite the thundering of her heart.
"Please," King Florian gestured to an empty chair beside the Prince, "join us."
Elysande climbed the steps to the dais, acutely aware of every eye in the hall following her movement. Joakim took up position at the base of the steps, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. A comfort, however small, to know he was right there with her.
She reached the chair and lowered herself into it with as much grace as she could manage in such a tight corset. The Prince was even more imposing up close, his presence filling the space between them like something concrete. There was an air of smoke around him, perhaps imagined, probably not, and when she finally dared to glance at him directly, she found him already looking at her.
"Princess Elysande," King Florian's voice cut through the moment like a blade, forcing her attention back over to him. He was smiling now, but it was the kind of smile that came with a layer of threat in his eyes. "I trust your journey was not too arduous. The North can be unforgiving to those unaccustomed to its climate."
"It was an adjustment, Your Majesty," Elysande said carefully, "but your hospitality has been most generous."
The King chuckled, baring his teeth for a moment in a half smile as he digested her falsities. "Yes. Belgrave prides itself on generosity. We are a Kingdom of plenty, after all. Unlike some."
The barb was not subtle. Elysande felt her whole body stiffen, but she kept her expression bland. Beside her, the Prince shifted almost imperceptibly in his seat, so interceptibly she may have not noticed had his chair not scraped quietly along the floor.
King Florian leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Tell me, Princess, what do you think of our palace? Quite different from what you are used to, I imagine."
"It is magnificent, Your Majesty," Elysande said, because there was no other possible response, "The craftsmanship is… extraordinary."
The King luckily gave a satisfied nod. "Well noticed. Everything in Belgrave is built to last. Built with purpose. We do not waste resources on frivolous things." His eyes flickered over her dress, lingering just a moment too long on the low neckline. "We invest in what matters. In strength. In power. In securing our future."
The way he said it made Elysande's skin crawl. Like she was a resource to be invested in. A tool to be used. Which she supposed now… she was.
Queen Reagan spoke for the first time then, her voice soft and gentle but carefully modulated. "You must be exhausted, my dear. Travel is so taxing, especially for one so young." There was something hollow in her words, something rehearsed. Like she had learnt long ago exactly what to say and when to say it.
"I am quite well, Your Majesty. Thank you for your concern."
"Good, good," King Florian interrupted, waving a dismissive hand at his wife as though her concern was an inconvenience to his enjoyment of the evening. "We shall feast, then. In honour of our guest and our soon-to-be daughter." He snapped his fingers, and servants appeared from the shadows carrying trays laden with food. "I do hope you enjoy the meal, Princess. We have spared no expense. Nothing is too good for the future Queen of Belgrave."
The way he said 'future Queen' made it sound like a threat rather than a promise.
The King raised his goblet, and the entire hall followed suit, a sea of gold and silver catching the candlelight. "To Princess Elysande. May her presence bring prosperity to our great Kingdom."
"To Princess Elysande," the hall echoed.
Elysande lifted her own goblet, the wine inside sloshing slightly from the tremor in her hand. She took a sip and forced herself to swallow, even though it tasted like ash in her mouth.
When she finally dared to glance at Prince Noah again, she found him staring straight ahead, his shoulders tense. He had not touched his wine. Had not even lifted his goblet during the toast. And when his father turned to speak with one of the nobles who had approached the dais, Noah's eyes slid to meet hers for the second time.
There was something in his gaze. Something dark and warning and almost apologetic.
It was just for a moment before the Prince turned away again, but it was enough for Elysande to feel something shift in her chest. Something she couldn't quite name and would not be able to for a long time.
The first course arrived in front of her. Roasted fowl in some sort of cream sauce, vegetables that had been carved into decorative shapes, bread so white she could have been fooled that they had simply brought in snow from outside. It was excessive in the way everything in Belgrave seemed to be excessive, more food than any one person could possibly eat. Elysande picked at it with her fork, her appetite having abandoned her somewhere between the corridor and the dais.
She could feel the eyes on her. Curious stares and poorly concealed whispers, fans raised to lips as women leaned toward each other to share their assessments. The foreign Princess, the one from that little desert Kingdom. Look at what the King dressed her in. Look at how the Prince won't even speak to her. She kept her expression blank, that pretence she had perfected over years, and cut her meat into smaller and smaller pieces that she had no intention of eating. It at least gave her something to do.
Beside her, Prince Noah ate in silence. He did not look at her again, didn't acknowledge her presence beyond the occasional shift of his posture to reach for his goblet and the two passing glances at the beginning of the meal. His movements were impressively precise, like everything about him had been predetermined. It should have been comfortable, that silence. Two strangers with nothing to say to each other. But instead it felt heavy and oppressive, like the weight of all the eyes in the hall pressing down on them.
From somewhere in the hall, a burst of laughter rang out, far too loud and far too performative. Someone trying to catch the King's attention, probably. Elysande's fingers tightened around her fork.
King Florian was occupied with a group of nobles who had gathered near the dais, their voices low and sycophantic as they competed for his attention. Elysande could hear snatches of their conversation when the general noise of the hall dipped. Talk of taxes and trade routes, of villages that weren't meeting their quotas. The King's responses were short and borderline dismissive, like he was bored by the concerns of his own Kingdom. One noble, a thin man with a nervous laugh, mentioned something about the people struggling through the winter, and Florian waved him off with an irritated flick of his wrist.
"They always struggle," the King said, loud enough that Elysande could hear him clearly. "It builds character. Makes them grateful for what they have."
The nobles laughed. Laughed. It made her feel ill.
She couldn’t help but glance at Noah from the corner of her eye, wondering if he had heard it too. He gave nothing away in his face nor shoulders, but his knuckles were pale where they gripped his goblet. He had heard it.
Across the stretched table, Queen Reagan picked at her own food with the mechanical efficiency of someone who had stopped tasting it years ago. She smiled when someone addressed her, nodded at appropriate moments, but her eyes were distant and empty. She had learned long ago that it was easier to simply not be present, that much was clear. Elysande wondered how long it had taken for the Queen to perfect that look. How many years of sitting beside King Florian, listening to him dismiss the suffering of his people while nobles laughed at his jokes it had taken to wear her down.
And so Elysande and Noah sat in their bubble of silence, pretending the other didn't exist. She focused on the light reflecting off her goblet, on the pattern of the tablecloth, on anything that wasn't the asphyxiating awareness that she was being watched and judged and found wanting.
The plates of the first course were cleared, Elysande’s own a pathetic tableau of uneaten food. More wine was poured and the second course was announced to be arriving in due time with a flourish that seemed entirely unnecessary.
It was in this break between courses, when servants bustled about and conversation swelled around them, that Noah finally spoke.
"You look like a prize pig at a county fair."
Elysande's head whipped toward him so fast she would have given herself whiplash had he not been sat right next to her. "Excuse me?"
Noah took a sip of his wine, still not looking at her. His profile was sharp from this angle, all hard angles and controlled lethargy. He repeated, as if certain she must hear, "I said you look like a prize pig at a county fair."
Heat flooded Elysande's face, more than the rouge Eliza had applied, a combination of humiliation and fury that made her fingers tighten around her fork. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but that is perhaps the rudest thing anyone has ever said to me."
"Is it?" Noah finally turned to look at her, and his expression was maddeningly casual. Disinterested, even, in a way that made her shoulders stretch taut. "I didn't say you weren't beautiful. You are. But you're dressed up for an audience to judge you. Paraded about like livestock. It's grotesque."
Elysande opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. Because he wasn't wrong, that was exactly how she felt; like something to be displayed and assessed and bid upon. But hearing him say it out loud, hearing him acknowledge what everyone else in this room was pretending not to see, made her want to throw her wine in his face.
"Your father chose this dress," she said, her voice low and tight and as smooth as she could manage in spite of the force building in her stomach from the corset and his words.
"I'm aware." Noah's jaw tightened, sucking in his cheeks for a moment, the first real crack in his facade. "My father makes many choices. Most of them are reprehensible."
That surprised her enough that the anger drained out of her all at once, leaving only confusion in its wake. She studied him, this tall, tattooed prince who had just insulted her and defended her in the same breath. Still she said, voice clipped "You could have simply said nothing."
"I could have," Noah agreed rather easily. He took another sip of his wine, his gaze drifting back to the hall. "But then you'd spend the rest of the evening wondering what I thought. At least now you know I think my father is an ass."
Despite herself, despite everything, Elysande felt the corner of her mouth twitch - not quite a smile, but it was close. "That makes two of us, then."
Noah's eyes slid back to her, a vague element of surprise crossing his face before it disappeared as fast as it had arrived. He didn't respond, but he also didn't look away, and that was something.
The moment stretched between them, awkward and uncertain, until the second course arrived and they both turned their attention to their plates. Servants appeared like inconspicuous ghosts, whisking away empty dishes and replacing them with new ones. Some sort of fish this time, swimming in a butter sauce that probably cost more than most families in Aethelgard made in a month. Elysande stared at it, her appetite still nowhere to be found despite the long hours she had gone without food.
Around them, the banquet continued its performance. More laughter, more conversation, more wine being poured into goblets that never seemed to empty. A musician had started playing somewhere in the hall, soft and unobtrusive as a kind of background noise that was meant to be heard but not properly listened to. Elysande found herself focusing on that gentle pluck of strings, because it was easier than focusing on the man beside her or the hundreds of eyes that kept flickering in her direction.
This silence that followed was different from before. Still heavy and still uncomfortable, but with something else threaded through it. An understanding, maybe. Or at least the beginning of one.
They ate without speaking once more, the sounds of the banquet swirling around them. Elysande pushed food around her plate and tried not to think about how Prince Noah's words had felt like both an attack and a kindness.
To her side, King Florian's voice rose above the general cacophony, booming and self-satisfied as he recounted some story about a hunting expedition. The nobles around him laughed at all the right moments, their faces arranged into semblances of delight. Elysande wondered if any of them actually found him amusing or if they were all just terrified of what would happen if they didn't laugh.
The plates were cleared again. More wine. More waiting.
A woman in an emerald gown caught Elysande's eye from one of the lower tables. She was young, perhaps only a few years older than Elysande herself, and she smiled. It wasn't cruel or mocking, just curious. Friendly, even. Elysande tried to smile back, but she wasn't sure if it translated. The woman turned back to her companion, leaning in to whisper something that made them both laugh softly.
Elysande looked down at her hands, at the delicate gloves that covered them. Her palms were sweating beneath the fabric, and she wanted nothing more than to tear them off and excuse herself from this nightmare. But she couldn't. She was the future Queen of Belgrave, whether she wanted to be or not, and future Queens didn't flee from banquets held in their honour on their first night in the Kingdom.
It wasn't until the dessert course was being served, some fluffy concoction that Elysande was almost certain was pure sugar, that Noah spoke again.
"Tell me, Princess," his tone was conversational in a way that felt coerced. "Do you ride?"
Elysande glanced at him, caught off guard by the question. "I used to. All the time, back ho—" She stopped herself, the word catching in her throat. "Back in Aethelgard. Where I grew up."
She had almost said home. But Aethelgard wasn't her home anymore, was it? Belgrave was meant to be her home now. This cold, oppressive palace with its blue and gold everything and its complicated king. The thought made her heart ache.
Noah was watching her again, thoughtfully. He hummed, a low sound that might have been agreement or consideration. "I shall arrange a ride for us in the morning, then."
It wasn't a question. Wasn't quite a demand, either, but it also wasn't not a demand. Elysande set down her spoon and turned to face him fully. "Is that an invitation or a demand, Your Highness?"
For the first time since she had sat down, something that might have been amusement flickered in Noah's eyes. Even when he pushed it away, schooled his expression, she had seen it, and that small detail filed itself away in the back of her mind. "Whichever you choose it to be, Princess."
He turned back to his food, dismissing her as easily as he had engaged her, and that was the end of it. The conversation, such as it was, died between them.
Elysande stared at her plate, at the merengue of sorts that grew cold if it wasn’t already. She could feel the corset digging into her ribs, a constant reminder of her place here whenever she had to adjust her position to avoid it cutting off her airways entirely. But beneath all of that, beneath the discomfort and the anger and the fear, there was something else. Curiosity.
For Prince Noah was not what she had expected. Not at all. And she had no idea if that was a good thing or a very, very bad thing.
–
Much like everything else in Belgrave, the stables, too, were much grander than anything Elysande had ever seen. And she had spent a lot of time around horses in her home Kingdom.
The structure itself was expectedly enormous, built from the same stone as the palace but softened somehow by the presence of the animals within. Those same telltale high ceilings arched overhead, this time supported by thick wooden beams that had been carved with the same meticulous attention to detail as everything else in this place. The stalls themselves were spacious, probably even larger than they needed to be, with shining brass fixtures and doors made of rich, dark wood that had been polished until it shone. If hay could even look expensive, Elysande supposed that this would be it.
There must have been at least thirty stalls, maybe more. Elysande walked slowly down the center aisle, her boots crunching softly against the straw that had been dragged out of stables by boots and hooves alike as she tried not to feel overwhelmed by it all. Back home, the royal stables had been comfortable but practical, designed for function rather than a show of status. Here, it felt like even the horses were expected to live up to some impossible standard of perfection.
The air was thick with a familiar scent that came with the animals, cut through only by the sharp bite of cold that seeped in from outside. It was still early, the sun barely risen, and Elysande's breath came out in small clouds that dispersed almost instantly. It was fascinating, causing her to take a few purposeful exhales just to see it happen again. She had dressed warmly this time, in riding furs that Margaret had laid out for her before she had even awoken. Heavy wool, fur and lined boots that were practical and far more comfortable than that of the dress from the banquet. At least the King hadn't tried to dictate what she wore to go riding.
She paused in front of one of the stalls, watching as a dappled grey mare lifted her head to inspect the visitor. The horse's dark eyes were curious but calm, and when Elysande extended a gloved hand, she allowed herself to be petted without fuss. Her coat was soft and well-groomed, warm beneath Elysande's palm even through the gloves.
Beautiful, Elysande thought. I wonder if they treat you better than they treat people here.
The mare dipped her head once, as if she had read Elysande's mind and was confirming her suspicions, and Elysande felt the corner of her mouth lift into a small knowing smile as a result.
Movement caught her eye further down the aisle, and she turned to see a stablehand working near one of the far stalls. He was younger than she expected, perhaps in his early twenties, or simply with a youthful expression, with short dark hair that was longer on top and cropped close at the sides. What surprised her more than his age, though, was what he was wearing. Or rather… what he wasn't wearing.
He had forgone a proper coat in favour of a simple vest over his shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows even in the cold that had Elysande wrapping up in layer after layer. He moved with the easy efficiency of someone who had done this work a thousand times before, hefting a saddle onto one of the stall doors with barely any effort. The cold didn't seem to bother him at all, as though his body had simply adapted to the harsh Belgravian climate through sheer necessity.
It was his arms that caught her attention, though. Lines of ink traced up his left forearm and across his hand, delicate patterns that decorated his skin. They were somehow different from Prince Noah's tattoos, more intricate and woven. Where Noah's marks had looked bold and deliberate, these looked almost like brushstrokes, as though someone had painted them on with meaning etched into every line. They disappeared beneath his rolled sleeves, and Elysande found herself wondering how far they extended. Was it some sort of culture here? She had never seen people with such marks before, and now two in less than a full day…
He must have felt her watching because he looked up, catching her gaze across the stable. For a moment, neither of them moved until he offered a small nod before returning to his work. Not unfriendly, exactly, but not inviting conversation just yet.
Elysande turned away, oddly embarrassed to have been caught staring, and continued her exploration. She passed more horses, each one more impressive than the last, until she reached the far end of the aisle where a particularly large stall housed what could only be described as a giant.
The horse was black as midnight, with a coat so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. She was massive, easily the largest horse Elysande had ever seen, with powerful shoulders and legs that looked like they could carry her through a battlefield without breaking stride if it ever came to that. But, even with her size, there was something almost gentle in the way she moved, turning her great head to regard Elysande with intelligent eyes.
Elysande breathed, stepping closer to the stall as she reached out slowly, giving the mare time to decide whether she wanted the attention. When the horse didn't pull away, she let her fingers trail along the soft velvet of her nose, the motion of breath against her hand nearly pulling a giggle from the Princess’ throat. Up close, Elysande could see the subtle variations in her coat, the way the black seemed almost blue in certain lights; it was mesmerising.
"Beautiful, isn't she?"
Elysande jumped, her heart leaping into her throat as she whirled around to find Prince Noah standing directly behind her. How long had he been there? She hadn't heard him approach, and the realization that he could have been there for time left her feeling strangely exposed.
Noah stood with his hands clasped behind his back, dressed in riding clothes that were somehow both practical and impossibly well-tailored. Dark trousers and a heavy coat lined with fur not unlike her own, sturdy boots that looked like they had actually been worn before. His hair was slightly mussed, as though he had dressed in a hurry, and without the formal trappings of last night's banquet, he looked younger. More human.
Now she could see him standing, she could confirm her suspicions about him being tall. He towered over most objects, even that of the stable structure, and no amount of tailoring on his pants would be able to hide that they were just an inch too short for him.
"She's magnificent," Elysande managed, once her heart had returned to a reasonable pace. "What's her name?"
"Jolie," Noah said, and the way he said it was almost tender. Pretty. Elysande knew it meant that much, and she supposed the description was quite right of such a magnificent creature. "She was a gift for my twentieth birthday, a foal back then." He paused, then added, "From my mother."
There was weight in those last words, a hint of something heavy and complicated that Elysande did not understand just yet. She filed it away for later consideration and turned her attention back to the mare, who was now watching Noah with what could only be described as adoration.
"Your favourite, then," Elysande ran a hand along a nearby wooden beam. It wasn't a question.
"She is." Noah stepped forward and Jolie immediately pushed her great head against his chest, demanding attention with all the subtlety of a battering ram. He laughed, actually laughed, and the sound was so unexpected that Elysande found herself staring. It transformed his entire face, softening the sharp angles and making him look almost boyish instead of the Crown Prince he truly was. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm late. Forgive me."
He produced an apple from somewhere within the abyss of his coat and offered it to the mare, who took it with far more delicacy than her size would suggest. When she crunched contentedly, Noah turned his attention back to Elysande.
"I hope you weren't waiting long," he said, his tone polite but distant. The warmth from a moment ago had already disappeared, tucked away back behind that carefully controlled facade. "I had matters to attend to this morning."
"Not long," Elysande lied. She had been here for at least half an hour, but she wasn't about to admit that to him.
Noah studied her for a moment, a glisten in his eyes suggesting he knew she was lying, but he simply nodded once. "Good. I have had Caliban saddled for you." He gestured toward a stall a few spaces down, where a chestnut gelding waited with his head hung over the door expectantly. "He is gentle but spirited. I thought he would suit you."
Elysande wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult, as was seeming a recurrence with the prince, so she simply nodded and made her way over to meet her mount for the morning. Caliban was indeed beautiful, with a coat that sparkled even in the dim light of the stable and a white star between his eyes. When she reached out to stroke his neck, he leaned into the touch, and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease at such a simple action.
At least the horses here seemed kind, even if the people didn't.
Soon, in the blink of an eye, they were on the trail, the palace’s stables shrinking behind them as the horses picked their way along a route that wound steadily upward. The incline was soft but continuous, and Elysande could feel Caliban’s muscles working beneath her as he navigated the frosty ground with the sure-footedness of a horse born into this climate. Back in Aethelgard, ice was something you read about in books or heard sailors describe after long voyages north. Here, it was a natural thing threaded into the very fabric of their existence, coating every surface in a thin layer of crystalised threat.
But the Belgravian horses didn't falter. Caliban’s hooves found easy grip on ground that looked treacherous to Elysande's untrained eye, and beside her, Jolie moved with the confident grace of a creature who had walked these paths a thousand times before. The cold nipped at Elysande's cheeks once again despite the hood she had by now pulled up around her face, unforgiving in a way that the desert sun had never been to her skin that was accustomed to it.
The path was lined with trees on both sides, a type she had never seen before that stretched toward a sky so pale it was almost colourless. That same snow clung to their branches in thick layers, weighing them down to the point that some bowed under the load. It was beautiful in its own stark way, even despite the lack colours other than the deep green of leaves breaking through. It was silent, too, except for the steady rhythm of hooves against ground and the occasional creak of leather from the saddle and stirrups. Even the birds seemed to have been driven into silence by the cold, if there were any at all; Elysande was not entirely sure.
Through gaps in the trees, Elysande caught glimpses of the land beyond. Hills covered in snow once more, stretching out as far as she could see. Here and there, dark shapes broke up the monotony of white, clusters of buildings that she realised were villages. Small sections of houses with smoke rising from their chimneys in thin columns that disappeared quickly into the air just like her breath. They looked impossibly far away from here, isolated and vulnerable in a way that Elysande was not quite used to.
She had read about Belgrave's prosperity, of course. About its wealth and power and vast, vast territories. But from up here, riding through the frozen silence, all she could see was emptiness. Space… between things. Villages separated by miles of unforgiving landscape, connected by roads that were impenetrable even on a good day, probably impassable for weeks at a time during the worst of winter.
They rode in silence. Noah hadn't spoken since they left the stables, and Elysande found she had nothing to say to him anyway. What was there to talk about? The weather? The scenery? The fact that they were strangers bound together by a contract neither of them had asked for? So she kept quiet and focused on the rhythm of the ride, on the way her breath continued to cloud in the air, on anything that wasn't the tall, tattooed (handsome) prince riding beside her.
The path, if even possible, climbed higher, and the gaps between trees grew wider as the landscape became more sparse. More villages came into view, larger settlements this time, though still small in comparison to the standard of the palace. Elysande could make out individual buildings now, could see the layout of streets and the darker patches that might have been market squares, although they were barren at the current moment. Some of the houses looked well-maintained, their roofs intact and their walls solid. Others looked less sturdy, with walls that sagged and thatching patched with whatever materials had been available to their people.
One edge of the village in particular caught her attention. It sprawled across a small valley with what looked like a main road cutting through its center, but even from this distance there was something off about it. The streets looked too empty for a settlement that size. Too quiet. She could see smoke rising from some chimneys, proof that people still lived there, but there was none of the bustle she would have expected from a town of that scale.
She was still watching it, trying to puzzle out what felt wrong, when Noah finally spoke.
"They're starving to death."
His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, as though he were commenting on the weather or asking if she wished for more tea. Elysande turned her head toward him, but he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the village below where she had before been looking, his expression carefully neutral in the forsaken way she had noticed everyone in Belgrave seemed talented in.
When she didn’t respond, Noah continued, still not meeting her gaze. "Heathcote, it's called. They're starving. Have been for months now, maybe even years."
Elysande looked back at the village, at those empty streets and too-quiet buildings, and felt her stomach drop. "But how? Is Belgrave not supposed to be one of the wealthiest Kingdoms in existence?"
"It is." Noah almost chuckled at that, but it was devoid of any real amusement. "The Kingdom is wealthy. The Crown is wealthy. The nobles are wealthy." He paused, then added with something that might have been obvious as bitterness if Elysande knew him better, "The people, however, are not."
She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything at all. This felt like dangerous territory, the kind of conversation that could have consequences if the wrong person overheard. But they were alone out here, surrounded by nothing but snow and trees and the empty landscape of northern Belgrave.
"The taxes," Noah said, and it wasn't an just an assumption pulled out of thin air. He was telling her, giving her information she hadn't asked for but somehow needed to know. "My father believes in heavy taxation. Believes it keeps people in line, keeps them too busy surviving to cause trouble." His hands tightened on Jolie’s reins, and the mare tossed her head slightly as if sensing his tension. "The villages pay a percentage of everything they produce. Grain, livestock, goods. And when they can't meet their quotas, which is often considering the taxation, the Crown withholds supplies: seed for planting, materials for repairs, sometimes even food shipments that were meant to help them through the winter."
Elysande felt a pang of cold settle in her stomach that had nothing to do with the weather. "That's..."
"Evil?" Noah supplied, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were hard, challenging, like he was daring her to disagree. "Cruel? Yes. It is."
To the best of her ability, Elysande held his gaze, refusing to look away even though something in his expression made every nerve in her body scream that she must. This was a test, she realised, justas she had so often given those in her own life. He was watching her, waiting to see how she would react. Waiting to see if she was like his father, if she would defend the system or make excuses or, like many princesses, simply not care.
"My father always told me," Elysande said slowly, choosing her words with care, "that a Kingdom is only as happy as its poorest subjects."
Something flickered across Noah's face. Surprise, maybe. Or assessment. He studied her for a long moment, and Elysande got the impression she was being analysed, sorted into some category in his mind that she could not see.
"Your father sounds like a wise man," Noah said finally, and there was a whisper of something in his voice that hadn't been there before. It could not be called warmth, but it wasn’t quite the cold indifference of before.
They continued riding in silence once more, but the silence felt different now. The path eventually opened up into a clearing at the very top of the hill, a flat stretch of that same snowy ground, undisturbed by footsteps until now, that looked out over the terrain below. From here, Elysande could see for miles. A wider view of the villages dotting the valleys that made them look straight out of a toyset her brother had owned when he was younger. The palace was visible in the distance, its banners barely discernible from this height. She wasn’t entirely aware they had ridden so far away from it, but the distance spoke for itself.
Noah dismounted first, his movements fluid and proficient like the Crown Prince would be expected to be, and Elysande took it as a sign to follow suit. Caliban huffed softly at the movement, and she gave him a reassuring pat just below where his mane fell on his neck before following Noah to the edge of the clearing. The drop wasn't sheer, but it was steep enough that she instinctively stepped back from it.
"I come here sometimes," Noah finally spoke again, his voice quieter than before. "When the palace becomes too much."
Elysande glanced at him. He was staring out at the view, his profile once again settling into something sharp against the pale sky, but there was a gloss in his expression that looked almost peaceful. Almost. Not quite, but close. His eyes were brown, she realised now that she was seeing them in proper daylight. A dark but warm brown, like polished wood or the strong tea her mother used to drink in the mornings.
"It must be strange," Elysande found herself saying, "living in a place where you need to escape."
Noah's mouth twitched, still not a smile but something adjacent to it, creeping closer by the moment. "Is that not what you're doing now you’re here? Escaping?"
"I suppose it is," she looked back out over the landscape ahead. "Though I didn't have much choice in the matter."
"Neither did I."
They remained standing in an oddly comfortable silence for a moment, and Elysande was surprised to find that she did not mind it; his presence beside her, nor the quiet that stretched between them. It was strange, considering how much she had dreaded this arrangement. How certain she had been that the Prince of Belgrave would be insufferable or cruel or any number of terrible things. But standing here, watching the wind scatter snow across the clearing, she found herself thinking that perhaps he was just complicated. Trapped, like her, in a situation neither of them had asked for.
"Tell me about Aethelgard," Noah said suddenly, turning to look at her properly, fully, for perhaps the first time. Not just a glance or a passing inspection, really looked at her.
Something warm bloomed in Elysande at the question. No one here had asked her about home. They had all been too busy judging her Kingdom in their whispers for its lack of military might or dismissing it as insignificant.
"It's beautiful," she said, and she couldn't keep the fondness from her voice no matter how hard she fought to keep a careful neutrality. "Not like here. The opposite, really. It's warm and dry, and the sun shines almost every day. We have lakes that stretch for miles, and gardens that bloom year-round if you tend them properly. The sand is golden, and when the light hits it at sunset, it looks like the entire Kingdom is on fire."
She could see it in her mind as she spoke, unfolding behind the black of her eyelids like a storybook being opened for the nth time. The palace with its open courtyards and flowing water features designed to keep everything cool; the markets bustling with people and colour and life; the beaches where she used to ride with Joakim, where the horses would splash through the shallow water and she would laugh until her sides hurt.
"The people are kind," she continued. "My father knows every subject by name. We don't have much wealth compared to other Kingdoms, but what we have, we share. No one goes hungry. No one is left behind." She paused, then added softly, "It's not perfect, but it was home."
Noah was watching her with that same assessing look from before, his brown eyes wistful. "It sounds pleasant," he gave a small nod, although there was something in his tone that made Elysande's spine harden without really thinking about it. "Small, but pleasant. A simple life."
Simple. The word hung in the air between them like an insult, even if it had been offered with good intentions.
"Simple," Elysande repeated, her voice going flat.
"I meant no offense," Noah said, though his expression suggested he didn't quite understand why she had taken any in the first place. "It sounds like a peaceful Kingdom. Uncomplicated. The kind of place that survives on hope and luck in the face of adversity."
Hope and luck. As though everything her family had built, everything her people had fought for, could be reduced to something so thin and insubstantial.
Elysande turned her body towards him, eyes narrowing as she studied his stance. "Are you meaning to say weak, Your Highness?"
Noah hesitated. It was barely a pause, really. Just the slightest falter in his expression, but it was enough for Elysande to know that was exactly what he meant. That despite everything he had said about his father's cruelty, and his apparent disapproval of how Belgrave was run, he still looked at her Kingdom and saw something lesser. Something that didn't measure up to his standards of strength and power.
"Tell me, Your Highness," Elysande said, and her voice had turned sharp enough to cut. "Have you read much about Aethelgard?"
Noah blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in her tone. "I... yes. I have read the books they give on other Kingdoms–”
"Then you would know," Elysande did not allow him to finish that thought, taking a step toward him, "about the years my Kingdom spent under siege. You would know that Aethelgard has been invaded more times than I can count. That larger Kingdoms have looked at our land and decided they wanted it for themselves, consequences be damned."
Noah opened his mouth, but the Princess wasn't finished.
"You would know that I spent half my childhood hiding in tunnels beneath the palace while foreign armies tried to break down our doors. That I learned to sleep through the sound of battering rams and ongoing mutiny attempts before I learned to read properly." Her voice was rising now, anger flooding through her in a hot wave that burned away any pretense of politeness she had been holding onto before. "You would know that it was not our wealth or our army that saved us. It was our people. Farmers and merchants and craftsmen who you so easily dismiss as surviving on hope and luck who took up whatever weapons they could find and fought to protect their home. Who protected my family when we had nothing left to offer them but gratitude."
She was close enough now that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, but she refused to back down. Refused to let him see the true depths of how much his casual dismissal had cut.
"Aethelgard has survived because of the strength of its people and the bonds between them," Elysande’s voice was lethally quiet now. "We may not have your father's gold or your vast armies or your grand palaces, but we have something far more valuable. We have each other. And we have fought, bled, and died to keep what is ours."
Noah was staring at her now, his expression somewhere between shock and yet another thing she could not, nor did she care to name.
"So perhaps next time," Elysande finished, her chin lifting defiantly, "you will think before you are so quick to dismiss your future wife's Kingdom as simple and uncomplicated."
She didn't wait for his response. Did not give him the chance to apologise or argue or whatever it was he might have done in that moment to defend his words. She turned on her heel, marched back to where Caliban was waiting, and hauled herself into the saddle with signifciantly less grace than she would have usually liked, but far more speed than she thought she was capable of.
The horse responded immediately when she urged him forward, clearly sensing her temper and desperation to get away, and the two of them were moving in tandem before Noah could do more than take a single step toward her. She guided Caliban back down the path they had come up, grateful for the prints of their ascent that remained in the snow to lead her back to the stables. The last thing she needed was to get lost in this weather and have to rely on the Prince to rescue her.
Behind her, she could still feel his eyes on her back, could imagine him standing there in the clearing with that shocked expression still on his face as he fumbled to piece together what had actually unravelled.
Good, she thought viciously. Let him stand there and think about what he said.
If he even knew what he had done wrong at all.
The ride back down the hill was much faster than the climb, Caliban navigating the frozen path with the same confidence as before. Elysande's hands were tight on the reins, her teeth clenched together so hard that it made her face ache, and she could feel the anger burning hot beneath her ribs. By the time the stables came into view, she was practically seething under her thick riding furs, but she forced herself to take a slow, steady breath.
She would not give Noah the satisfaction of seeing her lose her composure. Not completely.
Elysande dismounted with a careful precision that contrasted the way she had climbed on the horse back in the clearing She tied Caliban’s reins to the post outside his stall with a neat, methodical knot, choosing to focus on the simple task to keep her hands from shaking. The gelding huffed softly, and she gave him one last pat on the neck for he, at least, had been a perfect gentleman.
Footsteps approached quickly from deeper in the stable, and the stablehand from earlier appeared, slightly breathless as though he had been in the middle of something when he heard her return. His vest was dusted with hay now, and there was a smudge of what looked like saddle oil on his left forearm, partially obscuring one of the delicate tattoos.
"Your Highness," he said, dipping into a quick bow before reaching for Caliban’s reins. "Let me take him for you."
"Thank you," Elysande stepped back to give him room to work.
She watched as he began removing Caliban’s tack with practiced efficiency, his movements quick but gentle. He murmured something soft to the horse, too low for Elysande to hear, and Caliban’s ears swiveled toward him attentively. There was a carefulness to the way he worked, a respect for the animal that reminded Elysande of the stablehands back home. She did not move to go back inside just yet.
The sound of hooves against frosty brickwork behind her announced Noah's arrival, Jolie’s heavy steps unmistakable even without turning around. Elysande heard him dismount, trapping her in here, but she did not turn or acknowledge his presence at all. Instead, she kept her eyes on the stablehand as he lifted the saddle from Caliban’s back and carried it toward the tack room.
When he returned, Elysande spoke before he could excuse himself once again. "What's your name?"
The young man blinked, clearly just as surprised as were all the household staff to be addressed so suddenly. "Nick, Your Highness. Nick Folio."
Elysande offered him a small smile, the first genuine one she had managed since arriving in this frozen Kingdom. "Tell me, Nick Folio, and do not lie and say you do not have one for that is always untrue, which horse is your favourite?"
Nick's eyes widened slightly, and a flush crept up his neck. He glanced past her shoulder, clearly aware of Noah's presence, before looking back at Elysande. "I... well, Your Highness, I suppose I'd have to say Ralph."
"Ralph," Elysande repeated, racking her brains for if she had seen a nameplate of such when she first entered. "Which one is he?"
Nick hesitated for just a moment, then gestured toward a stall near the back of the stable. "The grey in the end stable, Your Highness. He's older now, retired from work, but..." He trailed off, his expression softening in a way that told Elysande everything she needed to know about how he felt about the horse.
"He's special," Elysande finished for him.
"Yes, Your Highness." Nick's smile was small but genuine. "He is."
"I'd like to meet him properly sometime," Elysande said. "If that's alright."
"Of course, Your Highness. Anytime." Nick bowed again, deeper this time, a surprising glow of gratitude in his eyes as though simply being asked about his favourite horse was a kindness he hadn't expected.
Behind her, Elysande could still feel Noah watching. She turned finally, her riding cloak swirling around her as she faced the Prince. He was standing beside Jolie, nothing too worthy to report in his expression. It would have been considered entirely unreadable had his eyes not given him away. They were rather expressive, for a man who otherwise kept his feelings hidden behind a shield of sharpness, an obvious simmer of regret deep in them if you looked hard enough.
Elysande held his gaze for a long moment, this time puprosefully allowing the silence to stretch between them until it became uncomfortable. Then she dipped into a curtsy, slow and deliberate; the kind that was technically respectful but somehow felt like satire in its precision.
"Your Highness," she offered, her voice perfectly polite but completely devoid of any warmth that may have been there when addressing the stablehand.
She didn't wait for his response. Didn't give him the chance to speak or apologise or whatever it was he might have wanted to do. She simply straightened, turned on her heel, and walked out of the stables with her head held high and her spine perfectly straight as her ladies had taught her when she was a child.
The cold hit her immediately, but she welcomed the way it chewed at her cheeks and stung her eyes. At least the cold was honest, did not pretend to be something it wasn't.
Truth; Duty; Kindness.
The words echoed in her mind as she made her way back toward the palace. She had done her duty, hadn't she? Accepted this arrangement, traveled to this frozen Kingdom, sat through that banquet in a dress designed to humiliate her. She had been kind to Nick, to her handmaidens, to the people who deserved her kindness.
But truth? Truth was still the impossible one. The one that didn't fit, no matter how hard she tried to make it work.
Prince Noah thought her Kingdom was weak, no matter how he tried to play the role of being different. King Florian thought she would be easy to control. Everyone in this palace looked at her and saw exactly what they wanted to see, rather than what was actually there.
Well, Elysande thought as the palace loomed before her, perhaps it was time they learned the truth about the princess from that small, simple Kingdom.
If Belgrave wanted a woman fit to be a Queen, then that is exactly what she would give them.
a/n: hello!!! this came to me in a dream and i have been trying to write it for two months now but english is not my first language and grammarly hates me for writing in different tenses, half americanised and half english, and overusing the semi colon… so if it is messy please blame grammarly for not helping me out xxx
um so here is chapter 1? i hope it’s okay! i have never actually written anything that relies heavily on world building so i am sort of winging it as i go
if you have any feedback, comments, advice (corrections on my english welcome as well), then please feel free to leave it! i’d love to hear people’s thoughts!
i have chapter 2 written, i just need to edit it, so shouldn’t be toooo long. and if you want to be on my taglist (for this or any other works) you can find it linked below :)
love, aura xx
chapter two (coming soon…) || dethrone masterlist || taglist
hi yes hello i am immediately in love with this story. the way you write is just *chefs kiss*. particularly love the way you described the curtsey as technically respectful but feeling like satire. I'm so excited to see where this relationship between Noah and Elysande goes from here 👀
Never Thought I'd Love Like This (Fox x GN!Reader)
Summary: When the data systems go down at the Coruscant Detention Centre, you are sent to collect the datapad records until the problem is fixed. While you are there, you catch the eye of Commander Fox.
Word count: 3.3K
Warnings: None.
The grunt teeming at the back of Fox’s throat formed an irritated grumble. He jabbed at the monitor, cursing the infernal device as the same error message replaced the loading icon. He didn’t know why he thought another attempt would offer different results after hours of trying to send their morning reports. All he wanted was to submit the latest prisoner details to the network and get on with his day. Yet, that confounded crimson triangle halted every effort.
“Have you tried resetting the system?” Thorn asked, setting a steaming cup of caf on the desk beside him.
“Three times already,” Fox replied. “Kriffing reports just won’t send.”
“Nothing is going through,” Stone confirmed from the screens over the opposite side of the office, four displays returning the same failure code and a fifth buffering before it, too, responded in kind. “Could be a signal issue.”
That was the last thing Fox needed. More problems to clear up. Many assumed the Coruscant Guard had a straightforward job; corral criminals, a bit of correspondence and form-filling, and a cup of caf to top it off. But the core world of the galaxy relished trouble, throwing curveballs on a daily basis to keep them sharp. He would happily do without the added disquiet, especially with seven more arrests called in overnight and holding cells running out, but their line of work afforded them no such luck.
“Last time that happened, it only lasted an hour,” Thorn pointed out. “This has been going on all morning.”
The side entrance unsealed in a gasp and shut again once it had admitted Thire, a wearied slump in his posture. “Okay, I have good news and bad news.”
“Good news first,” Thorn pleaded.
“Headquarters assured me the problem can be resolved.”
“And the bad news,” Fox pressed, removing his helmet and ruffling out his curls.
“It’s going to take a while to fix,” Thire replied.
“How long?”
“They’re not sure.”
“Was the system hacked?” Stone asked.
“The engineers don’t know. They haven’t been able to find anything definitive yet,” Thire said. “Only thing they could tell me was that we are in this for the long haul, but they are sending representatives to each precinct a few times a week to collect datapads with the records and reports on them.”
Already depleted from a restless night and any chance of a quiet day quickly vanishing, Fox planted his face in his gloved hands. The rough fabric pressed into his forehead and the fans on the side of the data transfer system blew hot air onto his cheeks.
“Could be worse,” Stone offered. “At least we don’t have to write them out and deliver them ourselves.”
Fox rose from his slouch and frowned at his brother in arms, daring him to make another unhelpful comment. “Very practical, Stone. Thank you.”
“Anything to cheer you up, commander,” Stone replied. He snatched a free datapad from the holder on the wall and collapsed into a swinging chair.
“Our designated representative will be here this afternoon,” Thire said, handing the rest of the datapads out, “so we better get to work if we want everything correlated by the time they arrive.”
* * *
A yawning shadow clung to the corridor that admitted you into the detention centre, the tube lights from the office directing a feeble wedge onto the floor and the obnoxious buzz of the laser-blocked entryway beside it casting an ominous red glow. You coasted into the silence and peeked into the window, trying the button on the frame when you found the place deserted. Your call went unanswered.
Ruminating on what to do, you took a seat on the uncomfortable benches bolted into the wall facing the office. Nothing you could do without those datapads, and if the clones on duty were busy, the only option left was to wait.
As the minutes floated by inside the cold quiet, you pondered the possibility you’d arrived at the wrong precinct. Your job never usually required you to visit this part of Coruscant, and deciding to double check, you rose to your feet to call your boss. Half-way through dialling in the communication number, a red and white armoured clone entered the office and granted you a cursory glance.
“I was starting to worry I’d got the wrong place,” you admitted with an apprehensive chortle. The expressionless helmet stared, and you dropped the humorous approach.
“Crime report forms are on the side,” he told you, waving vaguely in the direction of the paper pile on the corner of the counter. “Put it in the box by the door once you’re done, and we’ll contact you when we can.”
“Oh, I’m not here for that. I’ve come to collect the datapads.” You wrested your identification from your pocket for him to verify. After a skim of the details, the lasers deactivated long enough for him to deposit the loaded crate just outside. You noted the symbol of the Coruscant Guard on his shoulder pauldron as he lifted himself back up. “Thanks. Have the requisition forms been completed too?”
“Everything you asked for is there.”
“Perfect.” A stable grip on the box, you hoisted the cargo up onto the counter and logged the pickup on your own datapad. With such sensitive information in your care, your superiors emphasised the importance of documenting where the records were at all times.
The clone guard returned to the office while you noted your location. By the time you finished, a second had joined him and stood expectantly by the window.
“Take it you’re our representative,” he said.
“That’s me,” you replied, introducing yourself with a pleasant smile and a friendly disposition.
“I’m Thire. That’s Fox.” Thire jabbed a finger at the clone who’d greeted you. “Don’t worry about him. He hasn’t had his third caf yet, so he’s still grouchy.”
Fox’s face remained obscured, but the tilt of the helmet conveyed the unimpressed scowl that undoubtedly lay beneath it.
“Nice to meet you both,” you said. “Do you need me to pass on any messages?”
“If the engineers could hurry up fixing the problem, that would be great,” Thire answered.
“I don’t think there’s going to be a quick turnaround on that, I’m afraid,” you told him. “Last I heard, two dozen server units were completely fried. It’s affecting droids too, so they’re prioritising getting their programming back up and running before the data systems.”
“What?” Fox demanded, abandoning the far monitor and storming to the window. He advanced so quickly and unexpectedly you intuitively retreated a step, and he reminded himself this was not your fault. “How long will we be waiting?”
You shrugged, wishing you had a conclusive answer for him. “A few weeks, minimum, by my guess. Depends how bad it is and if they find anything else in the meantime.”
Fox’s chest plate rose and fell in slow motions.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days,” you told them. From the top pocket of your jacket, you withdrew a contact card and passed it under the small gap in the window. Thire took it from the collection hollow. “I’m your personal intermediary with HQ, so call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Thire said as you hauled the crate of datapads onto your hip and departed from the detention centre with a modest wave. He turned to Fox and threw the contact card in his direction, the disgruntled commander catching it without even looking and flinging it on the desk with the discarded paper notes. “I’ll get some caf on. It’s going to be a long few weeks.”
In line with your duty, you arrived at the allotted time to collect the reports and ferry them to bleary-eyed administration assistants. Debates on the source of the shut down rapidly became incensed arguments at headquarters, the engineers at each other’s throats as they bickered over cause and solution. The people you had chatted with in passing or wished well on a birthday snapped at you and sent you on your way with a dismissive wave.
Due to the volatile air of the main hub, you dawdled at the detention centre during pick up. If your colleagues were only going to snap at you for doing your job, why would you not want to stick around the clone troopers making you laugh and telling stories about each other?
With each visit, they vied to impress you with tales and jokes, not that they needed to. You appreciated spending time with people who treated you as an equal. Regardless of the circumstances of birth or creation, the Coruscant Guard considered you one of their own. You were all on the same malfunctioning ship, and to them, you were another pair of hands stopping it from crashing.
You sank into the familiarity, soon offering your own stories. Tales of an undesirable date from years ago turned into the entire office vowing to locate the unfortunate soul who’d upset you and tidbits of gossip swiftly became points of discussion.
Over a month into your regular visits, you nudged the code into the panel with your elbow to deactivate the lasers and shuffled through before they revived into an electric buzz. Welcomed into the office, a fresh stack of records anticipated your arrival.
You made your usual greetings to the clones within and parked the larger box on the ground, situating the smaller, wrapped carton onto the side. You set about slotting the datapads into the designated ports in the crate, mindful not to disturb the protective packaging.
“What’s that?” Stone asked, motioning to the extra package you’d brought.
“A gift for you all.”
“What kind of gift?”
“Careful,” you warned as he reached for the twine keeping the decorated wrapping together. “It’s hot.”
He acknowledged your warning and plucked at the string, folding away the paper. Steam rose from the thin cardboard parcel underneath and the robust scent lured in the other troopers.
“Is that caf?” Thire asked, lifting his helmet and leaning over Stone’s shoulder to assess the contents of the box.
“Sure is,” you confirmed, securing the loaded crate. “You mentioned your caf machine had broken, so I got you all some on the way here. There should be some pastries in there too. I hope they didn’t get squashed.”
“Don’t care,” Stone said with a flaky treat already in his mouth and a cardboard cup in his hand. “Still tastes the same.”
While the others indulged in a fresh caffeine wave and some sweet desserts, thanking you with a mouthful and a grin, Fox hovered by the selection of cream-filled pastries topped with melted chocolate and bright fruit.
“I’d grab one of those if I were you,” you told him. “Otherwise, Stone might steal them all.” The clone in question wiped a blob of jam from his nose and, with a shrug, ate it from his glove, not one to waste food.
Fox stared at the confectionery. “Why did you do this?”
“Does there need to be a reason to do something kind?” you countered.
Your conversations up until that point had been limited, constrained to a few witty remarks to test each other’s mettle in the verbal sparring ground. A growing occurrence he silently relished.
As he sought a reply, a quip of some sort to fire back, he discerned the temperate lilt of your voice, the lift of your cheeks as you smiled at him, and praised his lucky stars he had his helmet on.
“Thank you,” he said, no snark or usual sarcasm. He grabbed the remaining cup of caf and beelined for the monitors before you could respond.
Your wrist comm beeped and with a hasty goodbye, you grabbed the crate and made yourself scarce. Last thing you needed was a late drop-off and more scorn aimed your way.
“You’ll have to remove your helmet to drink that,” Thire said to Fox as they waved you past the window and out into the Coruscanti chill.
“I know,” Fox replied. “I’m waiting for it to cool down.”
“Do you not want to because you’re embarrassed?” Thire teased. He bit into a cream pastry with a jibing grin.
“No.”
“I can practically feel the embarrassment from here.”
“Shut up.”
“Anybody would think you had a cru-“
“Not another word.”
At the slice in Fox’s tone, Thire surrendered with raised palms. “Just saying. There’s little room for actual joy in our jobs, and if you’re happy, why not say something?”
“For that exact reason,” Fox shot back. No point denying anything now, not when he stupidly made his predicament so evident. The others probably knew. Kriff, did you know? He hoped not. “We are clones. There is no space in our lives for that kind of stuff.”
Grumbling and wishing only to avoid the matter, Fox took off into the tangle of corridors behind the office.
Thire regretted pushing. He wanted his brothers to be happy in whatever capacity it presented itself. But some drank from the Kaminoan fountain far too often and ingrained the belief that they were not permitted an existence outside of the Grand Army into every second of their lives. Others dared not dream of that kind of life, deeming it beyond their reach, many desperate not to tempt fate.
Either way, Thire was no fool. He saw how Fox behaved around you and how you naturally lingered close to each other. He only hoped one of you would take that brave step towards happiness before you parted for good.
Weeks melted into months, a routine falling into place with the Coruscant guard. You spoke of sweet treats, and holo-dramas, and rumours from the senate, each visit ending in promises to find out more or watch a recommended show.
During one particular pickup, Thire proudly presented you with a keycard of your own, declaring you an honorary member of the guard. You never disclosed how you returned home that night and cried tears of joy, wiping them away while catching up on the news and spooning ice cream into your mouth to abate the heat beginning to overtake the cold.
Scanning your card, you trudged into the office and deposited the weighty box by the door. Vacant chairs and the meagre clack of the air conditioning greeted you. At the inactive monitors, Fox mulled over his datapad.
“Sorry,” he muttered, helmet abandoned by the printer and his dark strands dripping in front of his face. “It’s taking a while to complete this report.”
“No rush,” you assured him as you poured yourself a cup of cooled caf from the newly-acquired machine and drained half. “Could do with a rest. Management have had me all over the city this morning. Jaya called in sick and I’ve been covering her shift, and Daro has handed in his notice.”
“I thought he was up for a huge promotion?” Fox replied.
“So did I, but as soon as it was announced and he wasn’t on the list, he flung his resignation on the boss’s desk and stormed out. But there is some good news.”
“Oh?”
“The data system should be up and running by the end of the week, so this is my last visit.”
The datapad in Fox’s gloved grasp slipped a few inches, and the concentration nesting in his brow tightened. With a rough clearing of his throat, he straightened from his seat and set about transferring the other datapads into the empty crate.
Fox completed his task in reflective silence, evading your curiosity. You edged nearer and his movements slackened.
“Don’t tell me you’ve grown attached to me,” you teased, deterring the grin as his throat bobbed involuntarily.
With each repeated visit and every lengthier conversation, he eased into your company. In those hushed moments when the office was only occupied by you and him, you had both made admissions you never thought you would, speaking in confidence and reciprocal trust.
“Course not,” the clone trooper replied, sealing the box with a weighty click.
You pretended to go along with his guarded response and leaned against the side desk. “Have you got the requisition requests?”
“Yeah.” Fox reached over your shoulder to pluck the short list from the paper holder behind your head. “It’s just…” Realising his proximity to you, he paused. His amber regard lowered, meeting your own soft surprise. “Here.”
His body stilled. He smelled the caf on you, the faint aroma of springtime surviving on your clothing, and the apple scented soap you used that morning. Your eyes invited him in, the slim parting of your lips drawing him closer. His train of thought bashed through the wall at the other end and kept going, abandoning him completely.
You neither moved nor distanced yourself, locked onto him, powerless to look away. You tried, but that unarmed, tender expression that smoothed out the years of stress on his features held you captivated.
Unsteady on your feet, you urged a hand to his chest armour. “I’ll miss coming here,” you admitted into the muted air between you both.
“You can always call on us,” Fox replied, just as quietly.
“Only prisoners or authorised visitors are allowed in the detention centre,” you reminded him.
Head bowed, he acknowledged you were right.
With a whispered touch, you coiled one of his deep curls around your finger with a smile so serene that Fox craved a taste. Intuition assuming control and aware of the fact he was breaking at least a dozen rules, he captured your lips with his, delighting in the heady rush that surged through him. He cupped your cheeks as soon as you responded in kind, bundling you into his arms. There was every chance his brothers would return from their lunch at any moment, but he did not care. He wanted to hold on to this feeling for as long as he could.
Your lips remained slightly parted as you reluctantly separated, eyelashes fluttering open and drinking in the affection in his eyes. “The detention centre isn’t all there is,” you said. “We could meet up, right? If you have time.”
Time was one thing Fox had very little of, most of it spent working for the good of Coruscant and the remaining hours exhausted at the barracks, training, resting, eating. But for you, he would scrape every second afforded to him. “I’ll make time,” he promised. “As much of it as I can.”
* * *
Fox’s brow creased as he finished up the latest prisoner list, double checking the names and numbers before he submitted them into the network.
“Don’t know about you, but the logging system seems to be quicker than it used to be,” Stone commented from his own desk.
“I’m certainly not complaining,” Thire replied. “Although I think Fox wishes it had remained broken for a bit longer.” He aimed an arched eyebrow at his brother and snorted at the responding glare. “Lighten up.”
“Leave him alone, Thire,” Stone ordered.
“Oh, come off it. You were the one teasing him when we found out about the kiss, and he’s been moping for weeks.”
“Thire. I mean it.”
Thire sighed and reclined in his seat, landing his crossed ankles onto the surface and reclaiming his datapad to skim the news. Through the transparent screen and the protective window, he detected a flicker of movement. “I’ll be right with you,” he said, focused on more interesting matters.
“Funny, looks to me like you’re reading the news.”
At the sound of your cheery voice, the three guards scrambled to their feet, knocking into each other to check their ears weren’t deceiving them.
“Hey,” Fox greeted. “Have you…. come to report something?”
You met Fox’s surprise with a glowing grin. As stoic as he liked to act, a caring man lay beneath all that.
“Only that management have decided to put permanent representatives in certain locations around Coruscant,” you answered. “Obviously, there’s no need to be ferrying datapads anymore, but they found other matters during the systems outage that call for a much more hands-on approach, especially when it comes to data handling.”
“Does that mean you’re working here now?” Fox asked, the grizzle he normally carried softening.
You nodded, unable to contain your elation. “I’ve been promoted to Coruscant Detention Centre Representative, so it looks like you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”
TAGLIST (Message if you’d like to be added, 18+ only)
personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 9.1k
A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.
No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.
You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.
You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.
And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to.
Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.
There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.
He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.
And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.
As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.
You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.
And then there was Bucky.
With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.
Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.
So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.
And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower.
So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.
—
Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.
Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all.
“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.
You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day!
The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.
Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.
You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.
You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.
But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.
It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself.
You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.
You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.
But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”
You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”
He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out.
“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”
You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged.
But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.
“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”
He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”
You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”
“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.
“Correct.”
He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.
You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.
“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”
“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”
That felt like a punch to the gut.
You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands.
His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”
You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.
“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”
You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?
“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.
“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.
“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.
“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further. “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”
“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.
—
Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.
Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.
In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.
There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.
You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.
And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.
You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around.
But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.
You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.
You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.
It was a nightmare. And a daydream.
A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.
So you steeled yourself.
Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.
You nearly made it.
But of course, he noticed.
“Hey, wait—”
His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve.
He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”
A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.
“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”
The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.
It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.
God, you were pathetic.
Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—
He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.
“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”
“I’m running a bit behind today.”
“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”
“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”
He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”
You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem off.”
There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.
Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.
Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.
Maybe then he’d be yours.
Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.
“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”
His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”
“I’ll survive.”
Would you, though?
Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?
He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.
“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”
You blinked. “What?”
“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”
You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”
Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.
You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.
You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”
He paused. You could feel him thinking again.
Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”
But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity.
“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.
—
If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.
It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.
You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.
The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...
Of course he did.
Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.
“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.
Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.
“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—
You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.
It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.
This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.
“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.
Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”
“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”
He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.
Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.
You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Only going to get longer.”
You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.
And then your brain stopped working.
Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.
He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”
You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.
Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”
“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”
His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe?
“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”
The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”
Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.
“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”
You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”
She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”
You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”
The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”
Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.
“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”
You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.
“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”
The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”
You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.
From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.
“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.
The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.
Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush.
You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.
You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.
“Need a hand?”
You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”
You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”
“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”
You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.
You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.
“Sure,”
A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch.
The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.
He was savouring it.
His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.
“You’re trembling,” he commented.
You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response.
When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.
He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck.
“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.
You leaned in.
Only a fraction. Just enough.
He noticed.
You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.
And then he was gone.
He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.
The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.
You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.
—
Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).
You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.
The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?
No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.
Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.
You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.
Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.
The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—
Then someone slipped through at the last second.
Him.
Bucky fucking Barnes.
Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.
Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.
You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.
“Did I do something to piss you off?”
You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”
“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”
Shit.
He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.
“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”
The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.
“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.
“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”
“Bucky…”
“Please. Just tell me.”
You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”
And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.
“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”
He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.
“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”
His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.
“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”
“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”
Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”
“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”
“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”
His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”
“The bouquet you gave her.”
“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”
You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”
Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”
You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”
“Hey—”
“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”
He snorted. “You’re not serious.”
You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”
“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled.
“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”
“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”
His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”
“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”
As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.
You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”
But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.
And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.
The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.
Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”
“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.
“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.
He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”
You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.
And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.
“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”
You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.
He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.
“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”
Your breath hitched.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”
Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.
“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”
“Bucky…”
“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”
“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
And then his mouth was on yours.
Hot. Messy. Desperate.
You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”
Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.
It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect.
“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.
His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.
“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.
But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.
Right there. In the goddamn elevator.
You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.
Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.
Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit.
You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.
“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”
You whimpered.
And then, he peeled your panties to the side.
The groan that tore from him was obscene.
“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”
And then, his mouth was on you.
Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.
“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”
Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.
His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.
He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”
His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—
Bzzzzt.
A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.
“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”
You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.
Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.
He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.
Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”
Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.
There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.
“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”
You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.
Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.
You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”
Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.
A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.
“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”
The line disconnected.
The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.
Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.
“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”
You shattered.
It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.
Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament.
You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—
“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.
You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.
“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”
Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.
You nearly combusted on the spot.
“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.
You nodded quickly and wordlessly.
He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.
---
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Summary: You're at your limit with your job. But luckily, Crosshair is an unlikely source of comfort.
Warnings: Some talk of work stress, but the focus is on the very indulgent comfort.
A/N: HELLO TUMBLR!!
It has been a long time since I posted, but I am finally writing again. Thank you for your patience. And I'll ask for a little more. I'm writing again, but I am taking things slow to avoid overextending myself.
So I figure I'd start with a warm, comforting Crosshair fic. This was what I fixated on to get over my own work stress this week. So I hope you find it helpful, too!
It's been a long day.
No, it's been a long year.
Just a million different moments spread across each day that began to stockpile in the pit of your stomach. Stress building like bile until the thought of another rotation made you nauseous.
"Just quit."
The voice may have been rough, the tone dismissive. But you knew Crosshair only said it out of concern.
You could see it in the way he hovered. Hear it in the gruff clearing of his throat as he refilled your water again and again.
He didn't like problems he couldn't solve. And your toxic job was top of that list.
"You know why I can't, Cross," you sigh as you settle further into the couch. Your apartment was small, but you do what you can to make it cozy. Usually. Lately you've slacked when tidying up. Another worry for the pile.
"Excuses."
He tosses the towel used to dry the dishes from dinner before joining you. Without asking, he pulls you from your nest into his lap as he moves to take your seat.
The moment his arms lock around you, your body melts. Not fully. Not enough to fix anything. But just enough to take the edge of.
Somehow, that is sweeter than anything else you could imagine right now.
"No, it's reality. I pull in a decent paycheck and I'll never be fired. Those are invaluable benefits. Besides, every job has office politics and dumbasses in charge."
He huffs and tucks your head under his chin, curling around you. You're so glad he finally got over himself and let you get close. Crosshair was so touch starved his craving for physical reassurance was higher than yours.
Thank goodness, too. It was selfish, but knowing he needed you even when you felt like such a failure gives you strength.
"You're hurting yourself," he rasps.
"I can take it." Your voice doesn't waiver, but a current of uncertainty shocks you. You can ... but it leaves you so tired. You feel like a shell of yourself most days.
"You're strong. But you don't gotta prove it."
You feel his lips brush against your hair. He liked burying his face into you. It made you smile every time. You return the favor, shifting in his arms to press into his chest.
"Nothing to do about it now. Just ..." You trail off and press a kiss to his collarbone. "Can we just say like this until I feel better?"
He doesn't answer you. Crosshair only reaches over to grab the remote for the holoprojector.
He puts on your latest favorite drama. Something to get swept away watching. Something perfectly distracting to occupy your mind as the soft warmth of Crosshair's body against your own relaxed your muscles.
Eventually, you feel yourself begin to drift off. You resist, unwilling to sacrifice any time with Cross before he has to leave again. But you can't fight the overwhelm of comfort he brings you. And he wouldn't want you to.
You're lucky enough to feel his cool lips press against your forehead before sleep claims you.
No matter what you have to face tomorrow, you know his warmth will be there to welcome you home after.
a/n: my fic for @wannab-urs's event - dom that middle aged man! 💖 thank you so much for hosting this (and excited to share, I've always wanted to write sub!din!)
You’d liked this, when you first got together. His desire. How much he wanted to consume you. To take - the weight of his armor pressing into your back, as he drove you into the thin mattress of his bunk.
But this is what you like more. The leash he offers so willingly to you. Eager to obey, even as the collar tightens. Following at your heels.
After all, his duty is to his people. But it’s you that he serves.
His gaze has been on you all night.
You’ve learned the weight of it, even through his helmet. How his eyes find your form, again and again.
Lingering on your face - bare, as the traditions of your clans. On glint of silver against your throat, dipping down to your breasts.
His helmet tilting as he finds you again.
Knowing what he is thinking, for it is on your mind as well.
You’d managed a quick reunion. Lasting no more than a heartbeat, as you met him at his ship. Fingers tracing against your hip, as your lips pressed against the curve of his helmet. Bunching in the whisper-thin silk of your ceremonial dress.
Not finding what he was looking for. A growl, that was cut short.
All too eager to whisk you away, but even with his unexpected arrival, he hadn’t been able to escape his duty.
You’re too far away to hear the debriefing, but you can imagine your husband’s voice getting shorter. Impatient. Clipped.
That’s what two weeks away from you does to him.
Especially with the messages you sent to his holo, two days prior. Waiting until after the negotiations were done.
Giving him everything except what he wanted. Glimpses of flesh, where the gossamer robe wrapped around you. The soft curve of a breast, the fabric pebbled at shadowed peaks.
Glistening fingertips between plump flesh, swollen with desire.
The last was the only one with a message. A small, thin chip pinched between thumb and forefinger.
He’d know what it was.
Had been there when it was placed in your hip, his hand wrapped in yours as the needle pierced flesh.
Had talked about it often, late a night, a shared wish for the future.
One that has come, now.
Come home soon.
Din had been two days away.
After your message - he had made it in one.
He’s on you the moment the bedchamber door closes. Backing you up against the heavy stone. Gripping at your waist, as your face tips to his.
You’d liked this, when you first got together.
His desire.
How much he wanted to consume you. To take - the weight of his armor pressing into your back, as he drove you into the thin mattress of his bunk.
But that felt like a lifetime ago.
“Let me see you.”
There’s no hesitance in the way he reaches for his helmet, and you can feel the space between your thighs dampen.
His dark eyes blown wide with need, when it lifts off his head. Parted lips as he pants, brow furrowed. The thick curls, begging to be tugged.
But this is what you like more.
The leash he offers so willingly to you. Eager to obey, even as the collar tightens. Following at your heels.
After all, his duty is to his people.
But it’s you that he serves.
He moans against the press of your mouth. Once-clumsy kisses now practiced. Your teeth nipping at his lower lip until he opens willingly. Hips rocking against yours when you lick into his mouth.
Red painted against his mouth, from your painted ones.
It’s been far too long.
You’d never tell him, but you’d been waiting as well.
A sigh slipping from your lungs at the hands that skitter up your waist. Almost pawing at you as he mouths at your throat.
The pulse point beneath your ear.
Knowing better than to leave a mark.
That’s only for you - his skin your canvas.
His lips hovering at the necklace - a silver pendant tucked between your breasts. A soft and reverent kiss against it, as his legs start to bend.
Slowly lowering to his knees, as your thighs make room for him.
His nose ghosting against your belly. Down - tilting to kiss against your hip. Your mound, before he’s moving to inhale you.
“Let me.” It’s rasped out, as his eyes tilt up. Fingers gathering the hem that brushes your ankles, as his knees spread against stone.
“You were good?”
Din groans, his mouth pressing against your core. The silk dampening beneath his tongue, sticking the fabric against your slick folds.
His breath hot, and you have to resist the urge to squirm.
“Fuck,” His fingers inch higher. Stroking against soft skin, “You know I was, cyare.”
Your breath hitches, when his knuckles drag against your slit. Something akin to a whine sliding from his throat when he meets bare skin - his earlier curiosity finally sated.
“How did it feel?”
There’s a ragged huff of a laugh. His other hand dropping down to palm at his crotch. Teeth gritting, hips flexing.
Fingers parting you, letting the tip of his finger nudge at your entrance.
“You shouldn’t have sent those messages.”
Your eyebrow arches, your grin sly, “You didn’t like them?”
He makes another rough sound. A hand fisting on the hem of your skirt again - tugging it up until it’s gathered against your abdomen.
Baring you fully - the part of your thighs, where his palm curves against your core. Tongue dipping across his lip in anticipation.
An effort, in the way his eyes drag back up to your face. Voice rough, the scrape of stone against metal.
“You know what you do to me.”
You clench around his finger. Eager for him, though you’ve learned to school your face - a second mask to the one you wear.
How well your husband listens.
The verbal confirmation sending another hot rush of need. Your own fingers slipping down, past his knuckles. Fitting beneath the dip of his chin, petting between your slick thighs.
The tips coming back shining. His mouth parting automatically, as you slip two fingers against his tongue.
“And see what you do to me?”
His eyes slip shut - groaning, as he sucks. Tongue laving against your skin, thankful for anything you give him. Another shift of his hips, his own hand flexing against you, when you slide your fingers free.
Forefinger and thumb against his chin, leaving a gleam of spit behind, as you guide him where he aches to be.
You can feel the heat of his breath for a heartbeat, before his mouth meets you. The moan breathed out against your skin, tongue flattening against your clit.
Hungry, in the way he devours you. Lapping at the tight bud, while his finger remembers how to move. A second added, as his lips wrap around and suck.
It sends waves of bliss coursing through you. A tremble in your legs, before one hooks over his shoulder. A heel pressed against his armor, urging him closer.
He’s all too willing to obey. Losing himself in your pleasure, soft sounds slipping from his throat as he works you open. As his tongue flicks, again and again.
You can already feel it start to build. He’s always known how to touch you, his eagerness and your own self-restraint only fueling the fire in your belly.
“If only they could see you now,” You breathe out, in wonder. Tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck, but it only makes him moan, “On your knees for me.”
His eyes lift to meet yours. Giving himself to you, his mind focused on only one thing - the taste of you against his tongue.
“What would they think, knowing I keep their Mand’alor in a cage?”
A low oath slips from him. Another flex of his hips, as his fingers curl against a spot that makes you see stars.
Your next words coming as a soft command.
“Show me.”
You mourn the way his fingers slip from you. Gleaming, as they drop to his armor. Loosening the golden belt, removing the ven'cabur beneath. Drawing himself out.
The light catches on the beskar beneath.
Pretty and gleaming. Ornamental in its design, but your family did come from a long line of forgers.
It had been easy, to craft a piece to compliment him. An extension of his armor. A near-constant reminder of your absence.
For that is what it was.
Not to punish him. Din would never stray, you believed that with your whole heart.
Instead, it was to ensure that he did not spill himself needlessly. That every drop of his essence was spent where it belonged - deep inside his wife’s pretty cunt.
A shared idea. A secret.
He had almost been late in leaving, with the amount of time it had taken to lock it around him. The key left with you, along with his heart.
“Pretty,” You coo. Even better up close, you're sure - though you will have to wait.
He hums in agreement. Focused now, tracing your clit with a pattern he knows will make you cum. The hand leaving his armor to knead the flesh of your ass, tilting your pussy to his mouth.
But you can’t resist teasing him, even as your breath grows short. As your tone catches on an edge, needing to hear it.
The toe of your boot shifting just enough to nudge at him.
“Whose pretty cock is that?”
A groan is muffled against your skin. His rhythm knocked off-kilter, as he mumbles his reply.
“Yours, cyare.”
You’re nearly there. The edges of your vision darkens, heart hammering behind your ribs.
“You-,” You start, as your toes curl. As the pressure builds in your belly, threatening to burst, “You want me to take it off?”
Surely he must feel the pressure of the metal. The way his cock strains with desire against the cage, still held back.
“No.” He rasps.
“Not yet.”
The denial makes you come. A cry leaving your lips as you fall apart against his mouth. As he licks at you eagerly - fingers fitting inside you once more, to give you something to clench around. Feeling the tight pulse around them, against the flat of his tongue.
Letting you ride out your orgasm, the pleasure shared. Hips shifting involuntarily, meeting open air.
And only when your back relaxes against the door, does he allow you to lead him to bed.
You leave marks against his skin, as you move down.
His armor removed carefully. Ritualistically, set aside in the padded crate near your shared bed.
Streaks of red from your lips, their outline lightening as it transfers. Neck, chest, abdomen.
Halting at the one piece he still wears.
The metal encircling him, giving you peeks of swollen skin. A jerk of his hips when you trace against his sack, drawn tight with need.
Then, up.
“You’re dripping.” Your fingers trace against the tip, just brushing the flushed skin beneath.
Coming back shining, his eyes fixed on yours as you taste him with your tongue.
“Is it for me?”
His answer comes in a roughened rush.
“Always.”
You hum, lips curling. Pushing yourself up, letting him watch the way you tug the dress from your shoulders. Baring yourself - the soft sways of your breasts, shifting until your hips rest flush with his.
His hands twitching where you pushed them above his head, warning him not to move.
Your name gritted out, a futile warning, when you shift against the cold metal of the cage.
Letting it slide against your clit, slick with your release. With his need, so wholly restrained.
“Please.” It’s bitten out.
Your fingers play with the necklace. His reaction cataloged away, for later. Eyes fixed on his as you slowly dip back down.
“Should make you wait longer,” You muse, “But you listened, didn’t you?”
He has long enough - you can see it in the way his muscles string tight. The need written across his face, as he watches your movement.
“I would wait,” Din husks, “For as long as you wished it.”
The spark flares to life again. A kiss press against the metal, before your necklace touches against it.
A click as the cage unlatches - careful in the way you ease it from him.
His breath comes in a low hiss, when you touch him. The feather-light drag of your nails against sensitive skin, jerking to life beneath your fingertips.
Hardening, now that he was no longer restrained. Two weeks of that tight pressure eased, and it feels like a fresh breath of air.
He tastes like you, when your mouth presses against his. Tongue stroking against yours when you line him up against your entrance, your fingers struggling to wrap around.
Moaning against your mouth, when you finally sink down.
Finally home.
Finally where he needs to be, as you gasp at the intrusion. His fingers opening you up before, but it’s always a stretch.
Leaving behind a delicious burn, one you’ve craved. Hips rocking as you get used to the weight of him inside you, once more. Until that dull ache bleeds away to bliss.
And finally your hips lift - gliding up the full length of him. Clenching around the tip before you drop back down.
One, two.
Hands braced against his chest as you bounce on his cock, as his own curl into fists. Eyes glazed - lips parted as he watches you, his heart pounding beneath your flattened palms.
Three, four.
Stroking a spot deep inside you, one you’d chase if he wasn’t so far gone. His eyes greedy where he watches you take him, the shine of his cock before it’s buried in you.
Five, six.
It’s then that you lean forward. Lips ghosting against his, pulling back before he can chase after.
“Are you going to give me what I want, riduur?” You croon, testing your teeth against his throat.
His pulse spiking - a rough buzz beneath your lips as he exhales a sharp breath.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Picking up speed, as you nip at his ear.
“Fill me? Get me swollen with you?” A hand ghosting across your belly, as you sigh against him, “Let everyone who you belong to?”
Din growls, but it pitches long. Low, caught in his throat at he shifts beneath you.
“Gedet’ye, ner runi.”
Slipping into his native tongue, as his thoughts loose in his grasp. His begging is a symphony, combined with the slap of your skin against his. With the slick slide of his cock, his panting breath.
“I can’t-," Din husks, "Not going to last.”
Your lips stretch wide with your smile.
“Want you to,” You purr, “Give me what you were made for.”
Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen.
Once again, your husband comes early.
Forgetting himself - his hands coming to grip at the curve of your waist. Denting flesh as he tugs you down, holding you against the rut of his hips as he spills with a muffled shout inside you.
A ragged breath, each time his cock throbs. Wordless moans as two weeks of his desire is spent, filling you until it threatens to spill over.
Until the iron-grip of his fingers relax. Eyes left-heavy lidded. Only tightening when you make to move off him.
Keeping you in place, his cock still notched to the hilt inside you.
“I missed you.” You tell him, fingers tracing his jaw. Against grown-long scruff, flecked with silver.
A kiss pressed against the spot that never fills in all the way. More peppered across his cheek, until his breathing slows.
“Missed you.” It’s huffed out. The flash of teeth, as he draws your mouth to his.
Still hungry, even after all this time. Barely sated, even as he fills you.
“Did you-?” It’s murmured against your lips, when you break to breathe, “You meant it?”
Your eyes are soft, when you grab his hand to your hip. The still-tender spot, letting his thumb press against soft skin.
He groans, low and throaty. Flipping you beneath him, as his eyes drag down your form - as if you have changed, already.
As if it’s already taken, as your thighs widen to make room for him. Letting him slip from you, but his fingers are already there.
Sliding against slick skin. Gathering himself up - where he’s leaked from you. Fucking it back inside, working himself deeper.
Stroking against that spot, as his lips slot against yours.
He’ll make you come again.
Again, and again, if that’s what it takes.
Your husband was always good at giving you what you want.
thank you so much for reading! excited to start this year off like the last - domming our fave old men. 💖
mando'a translations:
cyare - beloved
riduur - spouse
ven'cabur - codpiece
ner runi - my soul
gedet’ye - please
Academy era Viktor x fem! curvy reader, 4.5k, no warnings only love in this house (ok there is a conversation about some people being idiots which can be interpreted as the reader getting unwanted attention at a party but it's nothing graphic or anything i promise and no-one is mean to her) also i made viktor horny and slightly subby because that's what the gremlins in my brain wanted. you're welcome.
yeah! hi! not sure what this is, but here you go. the reader is described as she/her here (and curvy, and soft, and she is wearing an evening gown, because i wanted to think about pretty dresses).
idk. have a thing. happy friday.
Viktor likes to think of himself as a person who's usually capable of focusing on things pretty well. On the task at hand. Give him a faulty circuit and he'll poke at it long enough to find the broken component, no problem. An error in the calculations? He'll find that missing minus sign or forgotten exponent, easy. He'll strip a wire in his sleep.
The task at hand now, though? The problem?
He had to sit through a whole evening of presentations at the academy end-of-year party, put on a polite face for the investors, and pretend not to care that one idiot after another was lining up to flirt with you while he was watching from the sidelines. You were wearing a dress that felt sinful to look at, and there was something primitive gnawing at the inside of his chest begging to be let out, and he had to just stand there and nod through the conversations, pretend he wasn't slowly boiling from the inside out.
And he was failing miserably.
He’d known he was in trouble from the moment he saw you that night – all expensive fabric covering smooth curves and soft-looking skin, sparkling eyes and easy smiles, and he’d been done for. Before this, it’d been much easier to compartmentalize his feelings; before this, it'd been easier to ignore them.
Before he’d kept his distance, emotionally and physically speaking, because, well, it’d been easier. He'd seen you around the Academy, all bubbling laughs and raw-honest radiant smiles and confident solutions, and he'd known that you looked…appealing, but he wasn't in the habit of holding up any illusions about what you might think of him in return. His place was in the dark dusty corner of the lab, turning over the ever-ticking problems, while you were out there shining like the sun. And sometimes you came by the lab, with new ideas or suggestions or just to borrow some equipment or ask about a shipment, and he had resigned to his role of staying at his desk pretending he wasn't burning to be closer to your orbit.
But when he sees you in the low lighting of the party, leaning to the bar and laughing, something just breaks in him. And then he can’t pretend to ignore it any longer. And sure, maybe he’s a little bit drunk, it was easier to stand these events that way, but it still feels like a solid-honest truth in his bones that he wanted to get closer to you, and suddenly he couldn’t stand the conversation he was in the middle of. Because one of them – the sour idiots he’d catalogued in his head for the whole night, the stupid people trying to impress you with their embellished stories and inherited wealth who weren’t worth your time – one of them was circling you like a hyena again, smiling.
You were wearing a dark, floor-length gown that wasn’t, on a purely technical level, much different from what about 50% of the other guests were wearing. However, it seemed to create a significant caveat that even though there wasn’t anything indecent in the dress itself, seeing it on you made him feel like maybe he shouldn’t look at you for too long or he might spontaneously combust. There was a slit on the side that revealed a more than generous amount of leg when you walked, and his focus kept wandering from that to your silhouette, the soft curve of your hips, your chest, your face – no, that’s worse, don’t stare, she'll notice – and truly, he had to force himself to keep his eyes at least vaguely on the vicinity of the person who was currently talking to him. Something about statistics and return investment. Yes.
He nods, pretending to look interested.
The dress drapes over your hips in soft little cascades, the fabric shimmering lightly as you moved, and something in his brain was itching, begging to run his fingers over it, to know what it feels like, to know what you feel like under it, all soft and warm and pliable under his fingers, and preferably sighing something into the crook of his neck, and–
“We'd like to get our investment back within a year,” the guy that's talking to him says – Viktor can't even remember his name, and he doesn’t really even care – and he just shifts his eyes back to the guy slowly.
“A year?” he repeats, with the barest amount of feigned interest, and the guy goes off in a whole new tangent. Viktor shifts his posture, and lets his eyes glide over to where you were again.
One of those idiots, one he thankfully doesn’t have the displeasure of knowing personally but who must be the son of some crooked diplomat, says something to you and you scoff through a smile, roll your eyes, and lean further into the counter at the bar. Viktor has to pretend to be present for his own conversation – yes, the new coating material for the wires was more heat-resistant, no, there was still the issue of mechanical stress, they were working on it – and you say something in answer to the current idiot (third of the night, he’d counted), and it is killing him that he doesn’t know what it is.
You’d turned down the first two, from what he could tell. But this latest idiot was still talking to you, like he was in any way entitled to your company. And it's making something inside Viktor raise its hackles, and he doesn’t especially like feeling like that, because he couldn't justify feeling like that to himself in any tangible way, and then it all just boiled down to a resigned even if she deserves better than that i have no business dictating that for her.
He's just about to focus on the conversation he was supposedly participating in again when something happens. He can't make out the details, but imbecile number three seems to lean way too close to you, says something, and smiles in a way that makes something cold creep down the back of Viktor's neck. And your expression coldens, too, and you say something to him, and turn away, more rigid than you'd been the whole evening.
“Excuse me,” Viktor is saying to the Investment Guy before he can fully think it through, his own voice feeling distant in his ears, and then he's walking to the bar.
You're alone – the idiot had had the sense to leave you alone quickly, at least. That's good. Viktor isn't sure what he's doing, but then he's leaning to the bar next to you and ordering another drink and trying to look like he isn't thinking too hard about what to do next.
“Whatever he just proposed to you,” Viktor says slowly, looking over the bar instead of directly at you, “I assure you you can do better.”
He can hear you take a deep breath, shift a little, and sigh it out with what sounded like almost a laugh.
“Yeah,” you agree, “I don't know what it is about people like that that makes them think they can just…” You sigh again, and make a hand gesture towards the room. ”You know.”
“Unfortunately,” he answers, resigned, “yes. I do.”
He gets his drink and thanks the bartender, and then leans to the counter too, mimicking your posture, holding the drink and letting it swirl around in his glass. “Have you talked with anyone actually worth your time tonight?”
You hmm. Then, “there was a little girl earlier that told me some fascinating things about insect metamorphosis.” You say casually.
And Viktor laughs. Without meaning to, he laughs, and you smile in response, visibly relaxing a little.
“I don't think she was on the guest list though.” You continue.
He hums in response, and rearranges his grip on the handle of his cane. “Sounds much more interesting than the conversations I've been in tonight.”
“I know,” you answer, and he can hear the smile in your voice, “you think we could swap out one of the main speakers with her?”
He hmms again, looking over the stage thoughtfully. “I think it would count as a public service,” he nods a little, considering the list of speakers yet to come, “what do you think, who'd be a good target?”
You shift in your place, looking over the same list of speakers, plastered over the walls on both sides of the stage. “The financial talk,” you answer, “Mr. Ross. I'd much rather listen to insect facts than another boring talk about investing.”
Viktor nods. “You distract him, I'll whack him unconscious?” he offers, and you laugh. You laugh, and it warms something in him.
“And then what?” you continue, still smiling, and he has to look away to keep his composure.
He shrugs. “Eh,” he answers, “we drag him to a bathtub somewhere and act like he just passed out there?" He shrugs, I happen to know three ways to get out of this room that I'm pretty sure we could use unnoticed.”
“Uh-huh,” you answer, “and then we just find the girl and ask her if she wants to talk about bugs for half an hour. Easy.”
“Exactly,” he agrees, “and then we congratulate ourselves for making the evening better for everybody.”
"Except maybe Mr. Ross."
"No," he counters, looking over the crowd, "I think he would prefer a nice little nap. Surely not even he wants to hear himself talk all the time." He takes a sip of his drink, "and I think waking up in a bathtub would be a nice change of pace to the rumors of other places he seems to have a habit of waking up in after events such as these."
“Good point,” you shift in your place, settling to lean to the counter a bit closer to him. “Perfect plan. But why'd you get to whack him unconscious and not me?”
Viktor blinks. Lifts one eyebrow. “Because you are by far more distracting than I am,” he answers, “and I thought the plan could use the distraction.”
“I don't think that's true,” you answer, “I think you're plenty distracting on your own.”
Now, he lets himself look at you. Really, properly look at you, and not even half-trying to hide it. You're smiling now, shoulders relaxed, holding your drink with fingers wrapped loosely around it, and in the warm lights of the bar there's a golden glow on your skin, and something breathless at the bottom of his stomach is aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to see if his hand would fit on your waist as well as he thinks it would, to see how you would react to that, if he could make you smile in a different way, what sounds he could get you to make for him–
“Agree to disagree,” he says, averts his eyes, and takes a sip of his drink.
Tries to tell that wild-hungry purring thing in him to behave.
Someone reasonable comes to talk to you – and it's about work, which is…something, probably, he has to stop himself from thinking it's better than those earlier idiots, because who's he to decide that for you? He gives you a casual wave and a nod as you depart with a smile and get swept up in the conversation about new ideas and solutions and this-new-thing you've been looking at. And he watches as you start talking excitedly, all golden and glittering, easy conversation and confident smiles, and quietly (not-so quietly) he concludes that maybe you hadn't had many worthwhile conversations with any of the guests that night because you were the most worthwhile person in there to talk to.
He stays there sipping his drink and wondering what would be the closest appropriate time to slip out. He'd made an appearance, and technically nothing could be expected from him beyond that point. Sure, Jayce might tell him he could've stayed a bit longer, he could use the support, but nothing dramatic would happen.
The party drones on, and he makes no effort to move – and really, he tries not to think about it too much, but that was at least in part because he wanted to keep looking at you. He promptly ignores this, even when you're laughing at something someone else said and that heavy-dark-purring something at the bottom of his stomach doesn't like it very much.
Someone comes to ask for his opinion on something, and with a tiny sigh, he lets them pull him into the loop of conversations again. Yes, we are trying to simplify the design, no we can't cut back from the materials, they are what they are for a reason.
Somewhere around his third ‘Why would you think that?’ of that particular conversation, he's had enough. People were stupid, and he's had enough. He's just trying to come up with ways to get out of the conversation preferably without starting a scandal of some sort, when he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turns around to look at who it belongs to, and then everything in his head is quiet for a moment.
“Hey,” you say, smiling, “sorry to interrupt, but can I steal you away for a moment?” you ask, slipping your hand feather-light down his arm, and he has to suppress a shiver.
Viktor furrows his brows and opens his mouth, and then, like an idiot, says nothing. But he turns to leave, thankful for the window of opportunity.
“You remember that thing we talked about before?” you continue as you steer him away from the earlier group smoothly, “I found someone who's interested in those three escape routes you had up your sleeve.”
“Who?” he asks, because that's the only thing he can think of. You've linked your arm with his, and you're leaning on him, and you're soft and warm and you smell good, and he doesn’t trust his ability to form a full sentence.
“Me,” you answer, “and judging by how you just looked out there,” you continue, “you.”
Viktor swallows, and something in his brain purrs at the idea.
“This way,” he says, nodding towards an old stage exit, and honestly, he doesn’t even care why you want to leave, he's just grateful for the distraction and the company and drinking in every warm square inch of skin contact that you're willing to give him, even if it is just walking with your shoulder pressed against his.
If it turned out to be a plot where you actually wanted to whack someone unconscious, he'd worry about that later. For now he was just happy to leave, and happier that you were leaving with him.
It's easy to slip away from the crowd, and into the space between the stage curtain and the wall, if you know where you're going. You effortlessly fall a bit further from his side but keep his hand on yours, letting him pull you along, and quietly he wonders how and why and holy shit. He decides not to question it though, and keeps walking through the dim space between the cold old wall and the cascades of warm heavy velvet curtains.
“Do you want to leave the party,” he asks, voice quiet now that the background buzz of people was muffled by the curtain, “or just get away from it?”
You hmm behind him, clearly through a smile, and he makes the mistake of looking back at you. Surrounded by the dark red velvet curtains and only slivers of light from each side, his head – and the rest of his body – get entirely the wrong idea of what you're doing in there, because you look like a goddess in the small dim space, and he might crumble into ashes if he keeps looking at you, or he might do something stupid like pull you closer and press you into the wall, to see if your eyes would widen, if you'd gasp from the cold wall, if he could find other ways to make you gasp–
so he turns his eyes away and keeps talking.
He quickly finds he has to clear his throat before he can do that. “There is a staff entrance that goes past the kitchen a little ways further,” he says, and motions forwards, “or there is a disused indoor balcony surrounding the stage. You would be able to see the party, but it'd feel…removed.”
You lean closer, close enough that when your voice is muffled by the surrounding velvet, it feels like you're speaking right in his ear, and he has to swallow and remind himself that that's just situational coincidence, nothing more.
“Why do you know so many ways to get out of here?” you ask, “You sneak out a lot?”
“I am a fan of interesting architecture,” he answers, “and not as much a fan of pretentious social gatherings.”
“Fair,” you answer, then lean your chin on his shoulder, and he feels like his spine might spontaneously melt. “In your expertise, what would you recommend?”
“Well,” he says, trying to make it sound casual and like he wasn't breathless at all, “I think the balcony has some fairly interesting architecture.” And the lights of the party would look pretty from there. And you'd both get a breather away from the crowd. And he'd get to keep talking to you a little bit longer. And, as selfish as the thought felt, he couldn't deny it; he'd get to keep having you to himself for a little bit longer.
“Show me the balcony,” you smile, and he obliges. Happily, he obliges. So he pulls you into a narrow staircase, and then, up.
At the end of it there is a room that could, only by technical definition alone, be called a balcony – it was more like a hole carved into the wall, having at some point been used for seating or equipment space at events and concerts, and now just served as half-forgotten extra storage. It had, he supposed, once upon a time looked like the banquet hall did, all smooth surfaces and warm lights and thematically switched-out decorations, but now it was mostly the standard red velvet and dark wood and light marble, forgotten by the party and some of the golden light from the hall spilling into it by pure coincidence. There were velvet curtains on each side of the room, and you drop his hand to go look over the railing, and down at the party.
His hand instantly feels cold without yours in it, but he tries his best to ignore this, and follows you to look down at the party, too.
It looks much smaller from up there. Less chaotic.
“I didn't know there was a space like this here.” You say quietly, “can they see us?”
“Part of the design,” he answers, “you're not supposed to notice these spaces unless people want you to. Good place to hide extra orchestra pieces and make it feel like the sound is coming from nowhere. And–” he looks over at the people, colorful and mingling, “no, they can't. Not unless you want them to.” Then, he smiles, just a little. “But they'll be able to hear us, if we direct our voices upwards and wait for things to quiet down there first.”
You turn to look at him.
“Sloped ceilings,” he explains with a shrug, “again, good for a hidden orchestra accompaniment.”
“But they can't hear us talking?*
“Not over themselves,” he answers, “ironic, I know.”
You hum thoughtfully and turn around, with your back to the railing, and then you look at him and he needs to kick his brain back in line. You were gorgeous in the dim lighting, all relaxed and smiling, and–
He grips the handle of his cane a little tighter.
“Good,” you say, and the way you say it – all quiet and warm and liquid – makes something in him purr again, entirely against his better judgement.
“Why is it good?” he asks, because he has to hold on to some semblance of logic here, because otherwise he might just vaporize out into the atmosphere.
“Why do you think?” you ask, slowly turning to face him, and oh that just isn't fair. You're just there, just a warm breath of space away, all soft and pretty and languid–
He doesn’t know what to say, so he goes with what feels like the safest course of action.
“In case we want to plot any more ways to violently derail the evening's program?”
You exhale a small laugh and lean back.
And then you lift a hand on his chest, and he's pretty sure his heart might be overheating soon.
“Sure,” you answer, “that.” You inch closer, and Viktor is having a hard time remembering how to breathe. “Or anything else we might not want them overhearing.”
“Like?” He exhales, careful not to break the moment, and then you smile, warm and private and for him, and his insides liquify into warm, honey-thick goo, and oh, he’s not going to recover from this.
“Like,” you repeat slowly, and then you push yourself away from the balcony railing, just slightly, into the side of the wall covered by the velvet curtain, and he lets you pull him with you, he's not stupid. His brain – along with the rest of his body – might be in the process of actively melting, but he's not stupid. If you wanted to pull him into a shadowed, velvet-covered corner, he would follow no questions asked, especially on a night like this when his insides were buzzing and you looked like that. When you looked at him like that. You smile again, and stop moving when your back hits a wall, and then you pull him just close enough to whisper into his ear. “...Anything else we might not want them overhearing.” you repeat, and, yeah, Viktor is close to becoming the best documented case of human combustion in recorded history.
In the dim lighting, he searches your eyes into his, and you watch him, waiting, radiating heat between him and the velvet-covered wall. He's not sure why you were acting like this, but all signs were pointing towards you wanting the same thing he did, and he's not sure what he did to get this lucky, but with his every cell buzzing and vibrating and keening over to get closer, he wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.
He wants to ask ‘why me’ or ‘are you sure’ but what comes out is a broken, desperate whisper of a “can I touch you?”, and you answer with a grin and with your fingers tangled to the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
“Yes,” you breathe, “please.”
And really, he wouldn't have thought it would be so simple, but it's the please that does him in – just one whispered word and his brain short-circuits in an overflowing flash of white-hot need. Need to trigger that again, need to please, and need to finally give in to the pleasure waiting to boil. And then it all comes rushing out; the hunger.
His hands are on your waist in an instant, and his cane clatters to the ground as he leans his weight on you and the wall and for a moment, he has the sense to hope the curtains don't come tumbling down, and they don't, which is good enough for him, because then he can let go of that particular worry and focus solely on finding your lips to his and making the most of every second of this that you're willing to give him.
The sensations hit his brain like flashes of bright light; how soft you are under his fingers, like he'd hoped, the fabric smooth and silky, giving away easily under his touch. How warm you are, warm and breathing in a fluttered little gasp, the dusty old velvet mixing in with your sweet scent, and then when he gets his lips on you–
After that it's just golden-dark-velvet-honey-thick bliss. You breathe out a small sound that drips down his spinal cord and goes straight to the purring pit at the bottom of his stomach, and he swallows it with a hungry, greedy, desperate groan that comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, and his head is swimming with warm and real and soft and for me–
He is happily overloading his brain with this, and he doesn’t even care. He presses closer to you and you exhale another sweet little sound that makes him bare his teeth, and then his lips are on your neck and he doesn’t know anything except that he wants you to keep making those sounds and he likes the way your hands tangle in his hair and tug.
“Tell me what you want,” he mutters to the skin of your neck, pulling you closer by the waist, and absolutely relishing in the way your chest rises and falls with short little pants he can hear you take in and out. In and out, and as he tugs at your waist again, just a bit closer, and drags his teeth against your pulse lightly, one of those exhales turns into a sweet little whine.
He grins against your skin.
He doesn’t waste the time or energy pretending he isn't an absolute mess over you, right now – his own breathing ragged and fast and his heart hammering in his ears, his whole body buzzing with want – but that didn't mean seeing you react that way didn't make him want to purr.
Didn't make his insides heat up with I did that. I got her like this. She made that sound for me. For me. It's mine.
You take a breath, slow and rugged, and then you tug him towards one of the velvet-covered seats. And he moves like he's floating, letting you guide him, because what else is he going to do? You tug him into the seat and he sits on it, gladly, and stays there looking up at you with his eyes wide and only half-lidded and his heart hammering, waiting for more.
You give him another one of those small, private, knowing smiles, your eyes hazy, and then you step to stand right in front of him.
And then you hover over him, just waiting for him to pull you into his lap. He does, because he is selfish and greedy and burning, and he's pretty sure he's going to implode if he doesn’t get that delicious pressure on him soon, and his hand fits your waist perfectly, and then when when you do straddle him, your hips pressing down on his, he whines. He lets out a breathless little whine, he can feel it in the base of his spine, and it makes that hunger in him want more.
“Only the voices directed upwards travel down there, right?” you ask, voice quiet and dripping right into his ear and pooling at the bottom of his stomach.
He swallows. “Yes.”
You hum thoughtfully, and press your body closer to his, all soft and warm and perfect, sinking your lips down to his neck and he shivers, instinctually tilting back his head with a sigh, exposing more of his neck to you.
Out of curiosity, would he want his partner to put them on while he watches? Or would he want to be surprised?
I’m so glad you asked, Alli! I’ve never opened a blank doc as fast in my life as I did when I saw this.
In the Matter of Marshal Commander Fox vs. the Stocking Kink, the Court Finds the Defendant Filthy.
A/N: Great news! The insomnia thotting hours are back. Now if I can just harness them to finish my WIPs.
Pairing: Fox x Reader (Fem; has hair)
Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)
Wordcount: 2.5k
Warnings and tags: SMUT; blatant misuse of diplomatic privileges; workplace sex; stocking kink; allusions to bondage and knife play; slight exhibitionism/voyeurism/objectification; minor predator/prey dynamic; oral sex; masturbation; spanking; cum marking; quiet dom!Fox.
Summary: Marshal Commander Fox requires your assistance.
Suggested Listening:
This fic smells like: Jasmin et Cigarette by État Libre D’Orange (condoms and cigarette smoke)
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You’d been reviewing the finer details of a proposed Senate bill for more hours than you could remember. The words seemed to shift and pulse before your gritty eyes, but you were in too deep to notice that you’d reread the same paragraph three times and still didn’t grasp its underlying meaning. A brief knock startled you out of your hyperfocus, and you glanced up from your datapad just as your aide leaned into the room.
“Sorry to bother you, Senator, but a priority delivery just arrived from the Coruscant Guard headquarters. It has a diplomatic seal. I thought you'd want to know right away.”
The kriff?
“You are absolutely correct. Thank you.”
The aide set the parcel on your desk and withdrew, discreetly closing the door on the way out of your office. You took a moment to stretch and yawn before you picked up the pouch and inspected it curiously. It wasn’t the seal that was unusual; the embassy received dozens of such secure deliveries every day. Nor was it unusual for you to receive missives from the Corries: security alerts; logistical updates; requests for information which you routinely ignored, to the chagrin of the Marshal Commander. But a diplomatically sealed delivery from the Coruscant Guard itself? That was unusual.
You broke the seal and dumped out the contents: an official memorandum printed on actual paper, and a small, plain envelope. Damn. If it’s sensitive enough to need to be printed instead of sent as a holo, my day is about to get complicated. You picked up the memo, clenching your jaw as you read the heading.
TO: Senior Representative, Planet Haneli
FROM: Marshal Commander Fox, Coruscant Guard
SUBJECT: Notice of Compulsory Testimony Under the Enhanced Security and Enforcement Act #192358691
Senator,
Due to the Haneli embassy’s persistent lack of cooperation in regards to my repeated official requests for information in the matter of CSF-32610/CG-854201, I have no recourse but to invoke ESEA. Please report to my office tonight at 2100 hours for debriefing. Failure to comply will result in your immediate arrest and detention, and an official investigation will be opened into the matter of your obstructive actions. I trust those steps will be unnecessary.
Regards,
Marshal Commander Fox
I’m going to murder him. I’m going to make him eat this goddamned sheet of flimsi. I’m going to—wait, what’s in the envelope?
Your hands shook with rage as you tore it open. Inside, you found a brief handwritten note and—you froze, mouth dropping open with shock as you stared wide-eyed at the item inside. Holy Force. You glanced at the clock. Kark, kark, kark. Eight o’clock already. I need to leave now.
You sent a terse comm to your aide to notify your driver that you would require transport immediately, then grabbed the memo and the rest of the delivery, made a quick stop at the refresher, and hurried out of your office. Traffic was kriffed, and you barely made it to the Corrie Guard HQ in time. Luckily, the Commander appeared to have notified his men that you were expected, because nobody stopped you as you strode through the corridors to his office, propelled by adrenaline.
You smacked the control panel to open his door, marched to his desk, and slapped the memo down in front of him.
“What the hell is this supposed to mean?” you demanded.
“Senator, he replied mildly. “So good of you to join me.”
“You didn’t give me much choice,” you snapped. “Threatening to arrest me? Really, Commander?”
He tapped a button on his vambrace, and the door slid shut behind you, beeping softly as it locked. “That was only half of my message. Did you read the rest?”
“Oh, I read it,” you replied in a dangerous tone. “Every single word.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to repeat myself.”
He stood and moved out from behind his desk. He walked deliberately, purposely invading your space, but you refused to back down. Once he was close enough that his chestplate nearly brushed against you, he stopped and removed his helmet and gloves, meeting your eyes with a hint of a smile.
“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” he murmured, stroking his knuckles lightly across your cheek.
“Thanks, it’s the looming incarceration. Really brings out my eyes.”
He laughed quietly and threaded his fingers through the hair at the base of your skull. He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a moment before his lips met yours softly. “You didn’t really think I’d arrest you, did you?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had me in binders.”
“Nor the last. But I have something else in mind tonight.”
“So I gathered,” you murmured, kissing him again and again as you began to unbuckle his armor. “Any particular reason we had to do this in your office instead of at the embassy in my lovely and very clean bed?”
“My office is clean.”
Your gaze dropped pointedly to a suspicious stain on the carpet.
“Mostly,” he added.
“If it’s an office hookup you’re after, we could have used mine. It has a sofa, you know. Very roomy. Very soft.”
“No good,” he replied as his lips traveled down your throat. “Has to be here. That way every time I look at my desk, I can remember what you look like spread out on it.”
“Fair enough.” You eased open the seal of his undersuit and pushed it off his shoulders, pausing for a moment to admire the view. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. I’ll never get over you.”
He rumbled in approval as you trailed your hands over his exposed skin, tracing the scars—both familiar and new—and lines of ink.
“What happened here?” you asked, flicking your tongue over a recently healed scar on his shoulder.
“Trando bounty hunter. It’s a boring story.”
“I doubt that,” you replied dryly.
“It was only a scratch, my love,” he murmured. “A bit of plastcrete shrapnel. No need to give me that look.”
“No doubt they gave you another medal for your display case.”
“Not this time,” he chuckled. “But it’s a good story to tell the shinies.”
“You take too many risks.”
“And you’re stalling,” he said in a low voice. “Take it off.”
“Take what off?” you asked, the very picture of innocence.
“Take it off,” he repeated, trailing his fingertips along your neckline. “I want to see you.”
“Say please.”
His fingertips reached the bottom of your neckline and slid beneath the fabric to caress between your breasts. He lowered his face to your shoulder, then grazed his nose along your neck, breathing in your scent before he whispered, “Take off the goddamned dress before I cut it off you.”
You inhaled sharply as your heart began to pound. That was tempting. Very tempting. But the thought of leaving Corrie HQ in nothing but the tattered remains of your senatorial robe was enough to persuade you to choose the wiser option. You began to unbutton the garment slowly.
Fox drew back to lean against his desk, intently watching the progress of your hands as they descended, revealing a hint more skin with each button that opened. At last, you reached the final button and allowed the gown to fall to the floor, fully exposed to his gaze and wearing nothing but the shimmersilk stockings he’d sent in the diplomatic pouch.
His eyes traveled lazily down your body, taking in the sight of you. All the oxygen seemed to disappear from the room. Your skin prickled with awareness, and for an instant, you felt like a prey animal caught in the grip of a dangerous predator. You swallowed as your pulse began to race, but you forced yourself not to cover your vulnerability in the face of his intense scrutiny.
“Turn around,” he ordered quietly.
You complied, resisting the temptation to look back over your shoulder at his reaction. He moved without a sound, and you nearly flinched when his hand slid around your hip and down your thigh, feeling the sheer, satiny fabric that stretched over your flesh. His breath ghosted over your shoulder, soft and warm, triggering a shudder of desire that raced down your spine.
“You did just as I asked,” he murmured, gliding his other hand up your abdomen to cup your breast, squeezing your nipple softly between two fingers.
“Your note was extremely clear,” you replied.
I don’t want to see anything but these when I get you out of that dress tonight. —F.
“And for once, you followed my orders,” he said. His lips grazed along your jaw. “I think that deserves a reward.”
He pulled you back against his body so you could feel his erection grinding against your ass through the stockings. He stroked back up your thigh and between your legs, and when he reached your pussy, he let out a low groan. “Fuck, love, you’ve soaked through them.”
“In my defense,” you said breathlessly, “I had plenty of time to speculate about what you were planning on my drive over.”
The soft puff of his laugh was warm against your skin, and he began to kiss a slow trail down your spine as he knelt behind you. When he reached your ass, he nuzzled against it, rubbing his face over the shimmersilk, kissing and nibbling, taking the fabric between his teeth and letting it snap back against your skin.
“So good for me,” he whispered. “Such a sweet little thing.”
He turned you around, guiding you with his hands on your hips until you stood facing him. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him on his knees for you, gazing up at you with naked desire in his eyes.
“Spread your legs for me, darling. I want to taste you.”
“Who am I to disobey the Marshal Commander?” you asked, your cheeky tone slightly less than convincing thanks to the noticeable rasp in your voice.
He shot you a lopsided grin, and then his hands slid up the backs of your thighs to grip your ass and pull you against his face.
“Fuck!” you gasped as his tongue slid over the gossamer fabric that covered your pussy.
He let out a soft, choked moan as he finally tasted you. The sensation was strange. It felt almost like a tease: you could feel every movement of his lips and tongue over your skin, but it was muted, subdued by the delicate layer between the two of you. His hands roamed greedily over your legs, massaging your flesh, tugging at the stockings, feeling the smooth, satiny fabric.
Abruptly, he pulled away and stood, gripping you by the waist and spinning you around to sit on his desk. He kissed you hard and deeply, then pressed your shoulders back until you were lying down with your legs dangling over the edge. He knelt once again and kissed a path up the inside of your leg until he reached the top of your thigh, then his hands slid up and tugged down the waistband just far enough for his tongue to plunge into you.
Tightening your legs around his head, you let out a hoarse whimper. A deep, satisfied rumble vibrated from his mouth into you as you writhed beneath him. Your fingers found their way into his hair, twining and tugging. All the while, his hands never ceased to explore and tease and play with you, gliding over your thighs as he reveled in the feeling of you wrapped around him.
He sucked and kissed and licked and teased, working you inexorably toward your orgasm, until at last your thighs locked and you clamped your hand over your mouth to muffle your scream of pleasure. With a grunt of displeasure, he reached up and tugged your hand away so he could hear you. He worked you through your climax as your body thrashed, and when you finally collapsed against the desk in exhaustion, he stood to lean over you, kissing you deeply, the taste of you still on his tongue.
“Let me come on your ass,” he whispered.
You nodded shakily, too spent to speak. He helped you to stand, then bent you forward over the desk and pulled the waistband of your stockings back up. His cock prodded against your thigh, and he took a moment to press and rub it against your ass through the shimmersilk before he began to stroke himself in a firm, steady rhythm. His cock and hand nudged against you with every movement, and his other hand squeezed and slapped your ass roughly. A deep groan tore from him, and his breath grew loud and ragged as his speed increased.
You heard a sharp gasp, and then the hot spurt of his cum splattered across your ass and back. A shudder wracked your body, and you desperately wished you could see his face as he pumped his cock until he had nothing left to give. With a soft grunt, he fell forward, catching himself on the desk with one hand just before he would have landed on you.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he panted. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, covered in my cum.”
He trailed his fingertips through the mess on your back, and then flattened his palm and smeared it across your skin, drawing an appreciative hum from you. Rolling over onto your side, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close. He melted against you, tucking his face into your shoulder.
“This desk is hard as kriff,” he mumbled. “I’m beginning to see a flaw in my plan.”
You laughed quietly. “Sofa is sounding pretty appealing right now, is it?”
“Mm. Next time.”
“I can’t wait to see what excuse you fabricate to throw my staff off the scent when that happens.”
“If your staff are anything like mine, they’ve already figured it out.” He kissed your shoulder and moved down your chest to suck gently at your nipple.
You brushed your hand up his back and neck to cradle his head against you. “I wonder what they’d say if they knew you were abusing the diplomatic seal to send me lingerie and overbearing demands for a hookup.”
“They’d either applaud my ingenuity or have me stripped of rank,” he chuckled. “I should get you cleaned up. As soon as my legs start working again.”
Later, after he helped you back into your gown, he wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss onto the top of your head. You leaned into his embrace, relaxing against his body with a tired yawn.
“That was a thorough debriefing, Commander,” you murmured. “I hope I was able to satisfy your curiosity.”
“For the moment,” he replied. “But the case is still open. I might need you again soon. Very soon.”
“Mm,” you smiled. “I’m sure the Haneli embassy will be happy to cooperate in any way you deem necessary.”
Omg congrats on so many followers! That's so amazing and so well deserved! Might I request Echo and Female reader and the sort of prompt is kissing as a disguise? (It can absolutely get a bit spicy too fyi :0) Oh also can reader just be someone who has been with the batch long enough to be familiar with them and such? Thank you!!! x <3
Kiss Me Quick*** 🌊
🫧 pairing: Echo X Female!Reader
word count: 2.7k
prompts: none
When you and Echo pair up to track a missing shipment for Cid, you both didn’t anticipate that it would end with you two finding somewhere to be alone.
warnings: Light NSFW, 17+ only, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Fake Dating Trope, Steamy Kisses, Neck Kisses and Bites, Touchy-feely, Minor Alcohol Consumption, Reader Wearing a Dress.
a/n: sorry for the wait @mezmatch, enjoy 🫧
“What does she want now?” you muttered, a familiar mix of irritation and reluctance bubbling up.
All you wanted was a rare day of relaxation, but fate, also known as Cid, had other plans.
“Probably to do her dirty work for very little credit,” Echo sighed, shaking his head in agreement.
After taking a moment to mentally prepare, you stepped into Cid’s cluttered office. The Trandoshan greeted you with her usual disdain, referring to you as ‘grumps’ and Echo as ‘killjoy’.
When you asked for details, she waved you off dismissively and activated the console in the center of her office. A large hologram of a notorious crime lord flickered to life. Cid began outlining the mission: gathering information on a shipment of weapons for a mysterious client. But you sensed there was more to it than she was letting on. There always was.
“This is a two-person job, and you two are the perfect candidates,” Cid announced, moving around her desk to take a seat. Her large claws tapped rhythmically across the surface. “And you two lovebirds get to dress up.”
“Could you not get—wait, what? Lovebirds?” You raised an eyebrow, glancing at Echo, who looked equally confused, albeit slightly more flustered.
Cid smirked, looking between the two of you. “Omega said you two were a thing.”
“No, we are not a ‘thing,’” Echo said, using air quotes and shaking his head. “But more to the point, what do you mean by dress up?”
“Don’t worry,” Cid said, her smirk widening. “Bolo and Ketch are on it.”
You folded your arms and stared down at Cid. “I don’t think taking fashion advice from those two is a great idea.”
Cid shrugged casually, waving you both off. “Don’t worry about it. Now, get out.”
Relieved, you left the office with the door hissing shut behind you. “Well, this could be interesting,” you sighed.
Echo agreed with a small mumble, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Uh, why do you think Omega said that about us?”
“You know what she’s like,” you chuckled, not thinking too much into it. “She sees Hunter speaking to literally anyone and asks me if I think Hunter fancies them. She’s trying to play matchmaker.”
“Fair point,” Echo chuckled, but your conversation was soon interrupted by the sound of bickering. Bolo and Ketch entered the parlor, making a beeline straight to you both.
What had Cid gotten you into now?
That evening, the Marauder settled into hyperspace as you and Echo dressed in the outfits Cid’s regulars had picked out for you. Surprisingly, they hadn’t done too bad.
You slipped into a sleek, form-fitting dress in deep sapphire blue, which shimmered with your every movement. It was a far cry from your usual battle-worn attire, but you felt unexpectedly good in it.
Entering the cockpit, smoothing out the dress, you spotted Echo struggling with his cufflinks. “Can I help you with that?” you offered.
Echo was seated at the controls, and as he looked up, he did a double-take. None of the boys had ever seen you dressed so glamorously before. For a second, he thought you were a completely different person. His fingers stumbled, dropping the links as he tsked at himself in embarrassment. “Getting dressed in this kind of stuff is hard when you only have one hand,” he admitted, bending down to pick them up.
You moved closer, gently reaching out to help. “Here, let me.”
As you fixed the links to his cuffs, you also adjusted his slightly askew collar. Echo took a moment to truly look at you, noticing how stunning you looked. Though he had always found you beautiful, tonight you looked especially radiant. He didn’t say anything, but the soft smile on his face spoke volumes.
“There,” you said, stepping back. “All set.”
“Thanks,” Echo replied, his voice a little softer than usual. “You look…”
Gorgeous.
Pretty.
Beautiful.
“…really nice.”
He inwardly cringed at himself but saw your eyes shine at his compliment, which was clearly enough for you. And surprisingly, enough for him too.
You smiled, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks. “You don’t look too shabby yourself, Sir,”
As you arrived, the grandeur of the event immediately struck you. Shimmering chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting a glittering glow over the sea of elegantly dressed guests. The room buzzed with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, opulent decorations reflecting the wealth and status of the attendees.
Despite feeling out of place, you couldn’t help but be intrigued by the luxurious surroundings. However, the mission was clear: infiltrate the event, locate the stolen shipment of weapons, and report back to Cid.
Moving through the crowd, you exchanged pleasantries with other guests, trying to get a sense of the situation. Your eyes continuously scanned for any sign of the crime lord or his associates, whose images Cid had ingrained in your minds. Despite the lavish setting, your nerves were on edge. You felt grateful to be teamed up with Echo; his presence gave you a sense of calm in case things went awry.
“I’m going to head right to see if I can catch a lead. Are you okay with going to the left?” Echo asked, his voice steady.
You smiled in agreement at his plan. He gave you a reassuring nod before you split up to cover more ground. You gravitated toward the bar and ordered a cocktail to blend in. The bartender handed you a drink that was a mesmerizing swirl of deep blue and violet, almost matching your dress. It had hints of citrus and a subtle sweetness that lingered on the tongue. You sipped it slowly, your eyes and ears open to any useful information.
As you listened to the murmurs around you, a light tap on your shoulder made you turn. Standing before you was the crime lord himself, tall and imposing in a sharp suit, exuding an aura of controlled menace. He offered a charming, if slightly unsettling, smile.
“Enjoying the evening?” he asked, his tone smooth and courteous.
You maintained your composure, smiling back. “It’s quite the event. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He leaned on the bar, his eyes gleaming with interest. “I’m glad you’re having a good time. It’s rare to see such beauty in these parts.”
From across the room, Echo’s gaze snapped to the scene. His posture tensed as he watched the exchange, a mix of concern and an unrecognizable pang twisting in his gut as he saw you speaking with the man. Without hesitation, he made his way over, weaving through the crowd.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with me,” you said, forcing a smile as you twirled the straw in your drink.
“And if I was?” he countered, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Or are you spoken for?”
Before you could answer, another familiar voice spoke up beside you. “Is everything alright over here?”
Relief washed over you as you saw Echo. When he reached you, you took a bold step, leaning into him, looping your arm through his, and resting your head against his shoulder. “This is my better half,” you said with a sweet smile, hoping the ruse would deter the crime lord from his advances.
Echo, catching on quickly, wrapped his arm around your waist, playing along. “Good evening,” he greeted, his voice steady.
The crime lord’s eyes flickered between you both, a calculating look crossing his face before he let out a chuckle. “A lucky man, indeed,” he said.
“I am,” Echo started, shifting his position before looking across at you. “Has my love asked you about our proposal?”
You stayed silent, allowing Echo to take the reins. Although you should have been paying attention, you couldn’t help but gaze at Echo, watching his lips move but not processing his words. His fingers gently caressed your waist, providing comfort and security. Had he always been so... alluring?
You felt breathless and almost flinched when Echo’s gaze suddenly locked onto you.
“W-What?” you stammered.
Echo raised an eyebrow at you, his hand slipping from your waist, leaving you feeling suddenly cold. “Did you hear what he said?” Echo asked, concern flickering in his eyes.
You blinked, overwhelmed, and took a step back as you realised you were in a whole different realm it seemed. You hadn’t even noticed that the crime lord had left. “Sorry, I... I think I blanked out for a moment,” you admitted, frowning.
He watched you curiously and politely took the drink from your hand, placing it on the bar. “Maybe lay off these?” he suggested with a soft chuckle.
You rolled your eyes, playfully nudging his shoulder. “I only had half of one,” you reiterated, not feeling up to explaining the real reason for your distraction. “Anyway, what intel did you get?”
“He said the shipment is being moved to the docks. I told him we were thinking of getting in on the score.”
You raised an impressed eyebrow. “And he even didn’t question it?”
“Not particularly, no. But it’s best we keep our wits about us,” Echo pointed out, scanning the surroundings before his eyes landed on you again. “We should still ask around or listen for more information, just in case he’s misleading us.” KKK
Agreeing, you and Echo split up once again. But you couldn't lie and say your mind wasn't elsewhere. Echo was definitely boyfriend material for anyone, but you never thought you'd find yourself wanting Echo to be your actual boyfriend. He settled into the role so easily that you wondered if he had done it once before in his 501st days.
Your thoughts were interrupted when a short yet intimidating associate of the crime lord blocked your path, his eyes sharp and scrutinising. “I hear you and your partner are interested in our operation,” he said suspiciously. “What’s your angle?”
“No angle,” you lied smoothly, tilting your head down at him. “It’s just business.”
“Well darling, your business is now my business.” He stepped towards you, but you didn’t back down and held your ground.
A smirk spread across your lips. “I don’t think it is. Besides, it’s your boss I have business with, not his little pup.”
The man’s eyes flared with anger at your words, feeling the sting of your insult. “I don’t trust you, or your little boyfriend. If he even is who you say he is.”
“If I had a credit for every time I didn’t care about your opinion, I wouldn’t have to do this,” you countered, placing your fists on your hips. “Now run along.”
The man muttered something under his breath and stalked off, and you couldn’t help but release the small breath you were holding. If that guy was wary of you and Echo, you were certain the others would catch on too.
You located Echo across the hall and swiftly made your way over to him, gently clutching his arm. “We should get going.”
“What, why?” he asked, looking at you and then scanning the area for any potential dangers. You told him that people were growing suspicious of you both. As you looked around, you saw the associates talking quietly to one another, occasionally glancing at you and Echo.
Your mind fell back to the associate's words, wondering why he would think you and Echo couldn’t possibly be partners. Was there anything you could do to sway their opinion?
Then, an idea clicked—a somewhat smart yet daring move.
You turned back to Echo, watching him as he scanned the environment, his hand resting on your hip. You felt a rush of wild emotions.
Letting go of his arm, your hand moved to his face, cupping his cheek and turning his face back to you softly. You met his eyes, slightly wide and curious but absolutely alluring. Leaning up, your lips landed on his.
You felt his faint gasp against your lips, but he quickly caught on to what you were doing. So, he brought you closer, his eyes fluttering closed.
At first, it started as just a peck, but as you went to pull back, his lips chased yours, not caring who or what saw.
Breaking the kiss eventually, your eyes silently spoke to each other. Without another word, Echo took your hand and led you to a quiet and secure area away from prying eyes. A flush of embarrassment suddenly surfaced, and you expected Echo to say you shouldn’t do that again. But as you turned to face him, ready to apologise, he approached you with steadfast determination and kissed you again.
Surprised, you were backed into a desk, his arm wrapping around you and lifting you onto it with ease. You gasped against his lips, holding onto his shoulders and pulling him closer. The kiss intensified, filled with pent-up emotions of the night and laced desire. His hand roamed your body, his scomp link gently tracing your waist, sending waves of shivers down your spine.
"Echo," you whispered between kisses, your voice low and gentle.
He responded with a soft murmur of your name, his lips leaving yours before trailing down your neck.
Each touch of his lips peppering on your skin made your heart race and your breaths come faster. Was this really happening?
"You’re so beautiful," he murmured against your skin, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes with a smirk. "And you look sexy dressed this way too."
The compliment sent a thrill through you, your cheeks flushing at his bold compliment. “Echo…” you could only respond again with a soft sigh, his name the only thing on your mind.
Echo's grip tightened around you, pulling you closer as if he couldn't bear to let you go. His lips moved back to your neck, and you couldn't help the small moans that escaped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as his warm tongue licked at your exposed skin, followed by a soft nip of his teeth.
"You're everything I've ever wanted," he breathed, his voice filled with sincerity and desire. Your eyes close, gasping at the realisation that Echo had had these strong feelings for you and only now is able to truly express them. You wish he had told you earlier.
His scorching kisses made you feel alive in a way you had never experienced before. The connection between you deepened with each touch, each whispered word. Tongue begging for entrance, you part your lips as soon as his lips touch yours, the passion burning through both of your bodies as your hands move up and down his chest.
“What if someone sees us?” You pant once you break for breath, physically melting as you watch his hand grasp the bottom of your dress, pulling it upwards to expose your legs.
“Then they don’t get to question what you are to me,” he mumbles, drunk in love eyes meeting yours.
His hand started to slip up under your dress, sending a shiver of anticipation through you when suddenly, a sharp beep cut through the haze of your passion.
Echo pulled back, slightly breathless, as his comm went off. Cid's voice crackled through, impatient and nagging. “What’s taking so long? I need details, now. You’re needed back.”
You both exchanged a look, a mixture of frustration and amusement, before Echo answered, his voice steady despite the interruption. “We’ll be there soon, Cid. Just wrapping up.”
He ended the call and looked back at you, his gaze softening. “We should get going.”
You nodded, feeling a bit shy after the intensity of the moment being ruined . “Yeah, we should.”
As you smoothed your dress out, you watched as Echo tried to fix his tie, which you had yanked on accidentally during the kiss. Smiling, you stepped closer and helped him adjust it. “There.”
When you were done, you both met each other's gaze again. Echo couldn’t help but place a gentle kiss on your lips. “Can we talk about what happened after the mission?” he asked softly, his eyes full of hope.
“Of course,” you replied, your heart fluttering. “I’d like that.”
You didn’t want to admit it, but you should thank Omega, and even Cid, for bringing you both together.
A/N: As much as I love fantasy smut, I was inspired to write some more realistic smut based on my own experiences lol. It’s a pretty niche story but I hope it’s still enjoyable!
Neither you nor Mayday could recall the last time you’d had sex. It was definitely less than a month ago, but between the stress of caring for your four year old and everyday life, finding time for intimacy was a struggle. Most evenings the two of you passed out cuddling in each others’ arms seven minutes after your heads hit the pillows.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want to have sex. The reality was you were both exhausted and, at least right now, the timing rarely managed to work in your favor. Fortunately it definitely wasn’t always like that. It came in waves; life would be smooth, your child slept well, work was good, and you could get a lot of quality time with Mayday. Then the stormy weather would hit and you would both only just be surviving day to day.
So when your child was finally adequately distracted with some blocks along with a children’s holocomedy and the two of you had gotten more than six hours of sleep the night before you both nearly sprinted to the bedroom.
You squealed as Mayday swept you into his arms, peppering your face and neck with kisses. You knew time was precious and you weren’t about to waste it. You giggled as you both undressed in record time and Mayday wasted no time in running his hands over your body. You were softer after having your child and some days your rounder tummy and less perky breasts weighed heavy on your mind. However, Mayday loved each change and took every opportunity to worship every inch with open mouthed kisses and worshipful words.
“Mmm my beautiful riduur…” his velvety voice rumbled as he squeezed your ass.
“MAMA!!”
“Kriff…” you hissed. You paused hoping your child would refocus long enough for you and Mayday to finish what you’d started.
“MAAAMAAAAAA!” The little voice hollered once more.
Mayday snickered as he handed you your clothes. “Better check on that,” he cooed as he lay down on the bed.
You grumbled as you hastily dressed. “Okay…okay hold this thought!” You squeezed your boobs together, teasing him. “You stay right there and these will be right back!”
Mayday laughed and winked, “Of course mesh’la. I’m a patient man.”
With a quick kiss, you dashed out to the sitting room. You refilled snacks and drinks and turned on the next episode of your child’s favorite holoshow. Once you were certain they had everything they needed to be adequately entertained, you gave them a kiss on their head and you bolted back to the bedroom.
“I’m back!” you puffed breathlessly as you ripped your clothes off once more. Mayday tipped his head back as he laughed before holding his hands out to you, guiding you to his naked form. You bit your lip as you straddled his hips, teasing the tip of his cock along your slit.
“Come here. I’ve missed you,” he growled warmly before lacing his fingers through your hair, tugging firmly yet gently. His other hand teased your nipple, thumbing lightly across your pebbled bud, sending jolts of electricity through your body.
His gaze burned hot with desire as his hand trailed up your chest and firmly grasped your neck just beneath your jaw. He pulled you in for a passionate kiss. You gasped and whined as he slowly pushed between your folds, the stretch intoxicating.
“I’ll never get tired of that,” he murmured against your lips, as he slowly pressed into you, hitting that spongy spot that had you seeing stars.
His fingers tightened slightly around your neck and you couldn’t help but moan. He pulled you in again, his tongue teasing your lip as he thrust up into you with a pace so languid you were nearly begging him for more. Mayday continued his easy pace, his hands maintained their grip on your neck and in your hair, holding your position over him. Your legs shook while every thrust of his cock had you gasping as pleasure surged through you with every collision against that perfect point inside of you.
A chuckle rumbled in his chest as you whined with each leisurely movement of his hips. “What’s that pretty thing? You want more?”
“Stars yes, Mayday. Kriff my brains out, please!”
Mayday groaned, pulling you in for a bruising kiss. His fingers gripped your hair and neck ever tighter as he relentlessly thrust into you, wetness and moaning becoming the only sounds that filled the room as you both careened towards your climaxes.
You came first, he always made sure of that. As your walls pulsed around him, he followed suit, grunting as he spilled into you. You collapsed onto his chest and his arms embraced you. You kissed his neck softly as he whispered, “Love you, cyar’ika.”
“MAMAAAAAAA!!!”
Mayday buried his face in your shoulder, his body shaking with laughter, “Just in time.”
You kissed him once more as you slid off the bed and began to redress. “Excellent timing. And I love you more.”
His eyes traced every inch of you as you dressed, his gaze adoring and soft. “I love every part of you, don’t you forget that, mesh’la.”
You glided to the bed, and kissed him again, this time deeply. He hummed into your lips as his fingers crept beneath your shirt, teasing your nipple again.
“MAAAAAAMAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!”
“Go on,” he chuckled with a soft swat on the ass, “Better find out what the emergency is.”
Your laugh was airy as you ambled to the door. You paused a breath to lean your head back into the bedroom and blew him a kiss. Mayday chuckled as he caught the kiss and held his closed fist to his chest. You wiggled your fingers in a flirty wave and hustled back to tend to your wee one.
Your home was messy, you were perpetually tired, and everything was a little chaotic but it was perfection with Mayday by your side.
A/N: I started this months ago but apparently never finished it. Whoops! So here it is :D
It's set in S3, EP 6+7 (Infiltration and Extraction), so very slight season 3 spoilers. Divider by @stars-n-spice
While at Teth, you decide to use Rex’s offered hospitality to finally wash your grimy clothes. But finding yourself without anything to change into, you steal Crosshair’s blacks. Just the top, though, as the bottoms don’t fit. It comes down just long enough to hit your mid-thigh.
Your clothes should be done, so you make your way across the base, not noticing several pairs of eyes following you.
You do, however, notice when Crosshair cuts across your path, glowering at you.
“What are you wearing?”
“Oh, my clothes are in the wash, so I had to borrow your blacks. Sorry, but my stuff should be done now. I was just on my way to grab them now.”
“Pants?”
“Yeah, in the wash.”
“No. From my blacks.”
You glance down at your bare legs. “They’re back on your bunk.”
“I’m aware. Care to tell me why?”
You shrug. “They wouldn’t stay up. The shirt is long enough, anyway. It’s fine.”
Crosshair grabs your arm, his grip firm but not tight enough to hurt.
“No. It isn’t.”
He drags you to one of the empty back rooms, pressing you against the door once it closes behind you and making you shiver.
“Wanna tell me why it isn’t fine, kitten?” he asked, nipping harshly at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.
“Cause – oh, fuck!” you hiss as his knee comes up to press firmly against your core. But when you try to rock against him, he stops you, demanding his answer. “Cause everyone could see.”
Crosshair growled and pulled you along his thigh, making you writhe on him. “Everyone did see. Saw their eyes track you across the damn room.”
It always surprised you when Crosshair’s jealousy got the better of him, but it never failed to light you up.
You nuzzle into his neck, pressing your tongue against his pulse point until his grip on your hips starts to feel like it’ll bruise.
“They didn’t see everything. That’s just for you.”
Crosshair’s kiss is demanding and all-consuming. His lips dance over yours, forcing them to give beneath his, before he bunches the fabric of his shirt at your sides, teasingly pulling his hands up slowly.
Warnings/Tags: Rated E, 18+ only (minors BEGONE), smut, PiV sex (protected and unprotected -- wrap 'er up, folks), oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, a lil finger sucking, a lil biting, inexperienced Wolffe (at the start), cum eating, alcohol.
A/N: okay FIRST OF ALL if you haven't seen @thiccumz art of thicc hairy wolffe, that is actually required viewing before this fic. i'm serious. with that out of the way, this is my first time writing smut (pls be gentle) so let me know if i need to tag anything else!
Summary: Your first time sleeping with Commander Wolffe is... underwhelming, but when you meet a few years later, he's extremely keen on making it up to you -- and damn, does he make it up to you.
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“Does that feel good?”
You pause. Does it? ...well, kind of.
“Yeah,” you say, already feeling guilty for the half-lie. “Yeah, it does. Can you, um —?”
You hold up your hand and make that “come hither” gesture — the one that you know if he does just right can redeem this whole night in a few seconds.
Wolffe looks up from where he kneels at the foot of your bed. He would be such a sight — mussed hair, broad shoulders, curled hair all down his chest — if he wasn’t radiating waves of insecurity behind the facade of a dominant, arrogant commander.
He hadn’t started out like this — the night had been everything you wanted up until you reached your bedroom. When you locked eyes with Wolffe at the bar, the only word you could use to describe him was rugged. With the clean reddish-brown patterns on his armour and the way he seemed to fill it out more than his brothers, he’d easily caught your eye. After you’d found your way into a seat next to him and started flirting your way through his gruff shell, he’d had eyes for only you. The teasing, the laughter, the flirting — it had all come so naturally that it felt like there was something tangible thrumming in the space between you.
And his lips — fuck, this guy could kiss. Making out with him had been nothing short of heavenly, Wolffe biting on your lower lip and leaving open-mouthed kisses all the way down your neck. It had all been electric —
—until the clothes came off.
It wasn’t a big deal when he told you that you were his first — surprising, sure, considering the way he’d gotten you so worked up in the cab ride back to your apartment, but nothing more. His inexperience wasn’t the issue. The issue was as soon as he crossed the threshold of your bedroom, he was less “Commander Wolffe” and more “macho cheesy holoporn star.” You’d let him take control but soon learned that he was more concerned with how he thought sex should be rather than what was actually happening.
Now, with you lying on your back and him standing at the foot of your bed, he curls the finger that’s inside you just like you showed him. It’s… not great, and it wouldn’t make you moan normally, but it seems like this guy could use all the encouragement he can get. Unfortunately, he sticks only to that motion, not quite there, and not enough for what you need.
It was time for a change in strategy.
“Wolffe,” you say, making sure you still sound a little out of breath. “Please, I need more — I need your cock.”
He stops moving immediately, withdrawing his finger and looking unsure what to do with the — admittedly little — arousal that coats it. You don’t hesitate. You take him by the wrist, lock your gaze on his dark eyes, and slowly take his finger into your mouth.
The groan he lets out is absolutely filthy. You smile up at him, swirling your tongue over the tip, intent on getting every last drop and hopefully hearing Wolffe moan like that again.
But it’s not to be — and not for lack of trying. Wolffe cuts himself off with a cough and pulls his hand away to wipe it on his underwear. Before you can tell him not to be embarrassed, he’s got that look in his eyes again — the phony one from earlier — and starts to crowd you back down on the bed.
Okay. You don’t want to embarrass him more, so you go along with it. At least he’s kissing you again, hot and intense and how the hell did he get so good at that? While he sucks at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, you run your hands over the planes of his back and under his waistband, unable to stop yourself from squeezing his ass. When Wolffe kneels and pulls the greys down from his waist, the band at the top accidentally catches on his erection. The two of you watch as his dick bounces up and down, and a boing! sound effect goes off in your head before you can stop yourself.
You can’t help it — you laugh.
Wolffe immediately tenses and you can feel him start to curl back into his shell. Fuck.
“I’m not laughing at you,” you promise, trying to catch his eyes again. “It’s just — it was just funny.”
Wolffe nods, but doesn’t say anything. Guilt wracking you now, you sit up again and start stroking your hands up and down his chest, weaving your fingers through the curled strands of his chest hair.
“Do you want to do this?” you ask, pressing kisses to his shoulder. “We can stop if you want, we can just—”
“I want to,” Wolffe practically blurts out, but you don’t stop your gentle caresses until he looks you in the eyes again.
“I do,” he repeats, his voice soft for a moment before gaining back some of its usual gravel. “I want — I want to fuck you.”
The last two words don’t quite land the way you think he wants them to, but you don’t really register it as he starts to kiss you again, dragging his tongue across the shell of your ear and sending shivers all down your body.
“Let me take care of you,” you murmur against his neck. If he would just let you lie him down, show him how good you can make him feel—
The stubborn bastard guides you down to your back and spreads your legs so he can kneel between them. He props himself up with a hand on either side of your head while he kisses you, this time — well, this time it’s a lot toothier. With one hand you rub circles over the peak of your breast, trying to work yourself up again, while the other reaches down to give Wolffe a few slow strokes. His hips jerk a little but you don’t stop, still slow and gentle as you work him closer to full hardness.
Wolffe looks like he’s seen a ghost when you pull out a condom packet.
“Can I put it on?” you ask, and thank the little gods that he nods. You put it on without issue, Wolffe grunting quietly in your ear as you stroke him again.
You hold on to your tiny semblance of control and bring the tip to your entrance, moving it back and forth just a little before taking his hip in your hand and guiding him down.
Fuck — if nothing else, he’s big.
You let out a sigh as he bottoms out, feeling gloriously full just before he starts moving. It’s not — it’s not great. It’s short, quick thrusts, and you bite back a wince from the small bit of discomfort that the slick condom couldn’t quite erase.
He falls out once but you’re quick to slide him back in, and this time, he seems more confident: he’s pulling back further, pushing in at a satisfying pace, and goddamn his cock is so big inside you, this might—
“Fuck,” Wolffe curses, his thrusts already getting erratic. “Fuck, you feel — I —!”
He cuts himself off with a low cry as his hips snap up and freeze. You can feel his cock pulsing against your walls — and another pang of guilt alongside your disappointment. If he’d just let you help him, let you show him what could have made this so much better for the both of you—
“I’m sorry,” he pants, pulling out of you and staring at the rubber sac filled with his release. “I—”
“No, it’s okay,” you say hurriedly with a small smile you hope is convincing. “You don’t have to be sorry.”
Before he can spill his cum all over your sheets, you nudge him to lie down on his side while you pull the condom off, tie it, wrap it in a tissue, and drop it in the bin by your bed. His breathing is still heavy when he reaches for you again, his hand sliding across your hips and clearly heading for your hole.
“Here, let me—”
“I’m fine,” you say as you take his wrist. “I’m good.”
Wolffe looks pained. “You didn’t finish.”
“It happens sometimes,” you shrug, which is true, but you usually still don’t have to fake moans and sighs.
You don’t even touch yourself when he leaves.
——
There’s no way around it: you’re having a bit of a dry spell.
It’s not like you haven’t had any opportunities. As busy as you’ve been, you’ve still had some stilted conversations with potential hookups, but something’s holding you back. Your friend is laughing at you and the plenty chances you’ve had with attractive, charming people, but what else can you say? None of them felt… right. You have better chemistry with your vibrator, or even your own damn fingers.
So far, tonight is shaping up to be more of the same. Your friend’s been pointing out different people all night, and while they seem nice enough, something in the back of your head kept telling you no. You’re just about to call it an early night and head back to your apartment when your friend taps your shin with their foot underneath the table, raising their eyebrows at something over your shoulder.
“You see him?”
Behind you, a few clones have just sat down at the bar, and while they’re all together, it’s not hard to figure out which one your friend is talking about.
He’s broad — so much so that his armour looks too tight to be comfortable. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a trooper in grey armour, but his is painted neatly with grey on his shoulders, chest, and arms. The shoulder nearest you has five crisp white lines jagged across it like a clawmark. He’s wearing kama, but this man is just so bulky that you imagine how thick his thighs are underneath it — maybe the plastoid is so tight on him that his thighs spill out over the edge a little. His haircut looks regulation, but there’s a bit of a shadow along his jaw that looks like it would scratch your skin in the most heavenly way possible. Most notably, though, is the deep scar slashed over a cybernetic eye — an eye which is staring right at you and your friend, scrunching up in a smirk as he notices you looking.
“What about him?” you ask as you whip your head back around, even though it’s already clear as day.
“I hooked up with him once,” your friend says between sips of their drink. “Best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
They shrug. “I gave him my comm frequency but I never heard from him. Wasn’t interested, I guess, but it’s still a great memory.” There’s a pointed pause as they take another slow sip. “Might be just what you need.”
Resisting the urge to take another look over at him proves to be futile. You can’t help but take another look at this mystery man, even though you have to crane your neck around to do it — so much for subtlety. He’s chatting with the men beside him, both of whom sport winged pauldrons on their shoulders. You know enough to know what that means — commanding officers of some sort.
You don’t get a second to let that sink in before his eyes are back on you, another cocky smirk lighting up his face when he catches you staring.
When you turn back around, your friend is laughing at you.
“Want me to see how many times he looks back at you?”
“Shut up,” you grumble.
“I’m serious. He’d already looked over here twice before I pointed him out to you.”
You take a swig from the glass in front of you. “He probably just recognized you.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” they say, and before you can ask what they mean, they’ve downed the rest of their drink and headed to the ‘fresher in the back of the bar.
You stare at your drink for a moment, lost in your own thoughts. It was silly to think you were getting butterflies from this guy already. You’d only so much as looked at each other. You’ve turned down dozens of clones and non-clones alike since your last hookup, and none of them had sparked anything close to this kind of reaction. It doesn’t make sense.
“This seat taken?”
Oh, good lord. How distracted are you that you didn’t notice him walk right over? You’ve hardly even had anything to drink and yet you’re already feeling dizzy as you look up at him, his thick frame taking up most of your field of vision. What was it about this guy?
“Not for the moment,” you say, face instantly flashing hot, and you’re rewarded with another smirk as he sits down.
“Were your ears burning?” you ask.
He cocks an eyebrow, stretching his scar a little. “What?”
You nod toward the back of the bar. “My friend was just talking about you.”
He laughs, low and gravelly, and you wonder what it might be like to kiss his throat and feel that deep voice right against your lips.
“Yeah, well, I guess there’s more than one familiar face here tonight.” The way he winks at you it should not light a fire in your belly the way it does.
Pushing it down, you roll your eyes. “A clone joke. How original.”
But instead of a shrug or a smirk or — gods forbid — another wink, he just looks at you. You think he might look confused, or something, but it’s hard to tell when his gaze is so intense it feels like he might be undressing you in his head. Clearing your throat, you introduce yourself, giving him your name and small smile.
Now he definitely looks confused. His brow is creased, his lips pursed as he idly rubs at the scruff on his face. It’s hard not to think of how it might tickle if he kissed you, especially on sensitive skin…
“I guess it’s been a while,” he chuckles, and now it’s your turn to look confused. The man leans back in his seat, looking almost… smug?
“Nice to meet you. I’m Wolffe.”
Wolffe.
It’s familiar enough — clones have pretty memorable names, and that was a pretty memorable night… in certain ways. But surely with millions of clones some of them had the same name, right? And surely any clone named after an animal would match it to their armour, you think as you look at the distinct wolf painted on his other shoulder. That was probably normal; common, even.
So why does he look like he’s laughing at you?
“Wolffe,” you repeat, trying to find any clues in his eyes. There’s no need.
“I suppose I would’ve forgotten that night too,” he muses, shaking his head a little. “Probably for the best.”
Oh.
“Your armour,” you say without thinking any further. Luckily, he gets your point.
“Had a little… situation with the battalion a while back. We changed our colours from brown to grey.”
So it is him. But he doesn’t even seem like the same person. Before — over a year ago, surely — his confidence had mostly been a front, a facade. Now, either he’s gotten really good at wearing a mask, or this self-assured bastard in front of you is actually all that he seems to be.
You clear your throat and take another sip to give yourself a moment to think. “This may sound stupid, but I didn’t quite recognize you.”
That’s when he gives you a look — sultry and challenging and confident all at once, and it goes straight to the heat already building in your core.
“Things change, sweetheart.”
And just like that, your nerves and confusion have been replaced with pure anticipation and wanting. It’s been so long since you’ve felt even a quarter of the amount of chemistry that’s between you and Wolffe as you stare across the table at each other. And if things in bed haven’t changed? Well, you can always make it up to yourself later.
But you have a feeling you won’t have to.
“I can tell,” you say quietly, eyes tracing back over the scar on his face.
“Can you now?”
“I’d like to think so.”
He laughs at that, and your eyes are back on his throat, wondering if his groans would feel any different if you were sucking hard on his Adam’s apple. If they’d sound any different. If you could make him sweat and taste the salt on his neck.
He leans in a bit, almost conspiratorially, and asks: “can I buy you a drink?”
——
“Wolffe—”
You feel his chuckle against your inner thigh, nearly a growl as his lips trail closer and closer to where you throb for him. He knows exactly what he’s doing — somehow knows exactly how to pull the strings that will leave you brainless, boneless, and utterly lost in him.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin. “Say my name. Gonna make you wear it out tonight.”
All softness disappears as he bites down on your sensitive flesh. You gasp at the sting of bursting blood vessels, only for Wolffe to soothe the mark with his tongue. He’s bitten and sucked his way up your inner thigh, reverting back to gentle kisses that barely graze your skin in between. Now, though, he’s so close that you can feel his cheek brush against the curled hair covering your pussy and you’re not sure how much more teasing you can take.
“Please,” you pant, tugging on his head just a little where your hand is tangled through his curls. You swallow down a cry of frustration when he pulls away from your skin, looking up at you with mischief in his eyes.
“So impatient,” he chastises with a grin. He’s so close to you now that you can feel his warm breath against your aching cunt — so much so that you can’t control how your hips jerk uselessly against his muscular arm’s hold across your hips.
He blesses you with two fingers trailing between your folds, the two of you groaning in unison at the slick sound. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but it’s something.
“You’re soaked, sweetheart,” he croons. “All for me?”
“Yes!” You can’t be bothered to be embarrassed over how whiny you sound, not when he’s still slowly stroking at your slit. “For you, Wolffe, just for you!”
He leans back on his heels and you’re about to start fucking begging until you see what he’s doing. He’s watching you, fingertips completely covered in your arousal raised to his lips. Wolffe shoots you with that intense gaze as he slips them into his mouth, but his eyes snap close at your taste. The noise he makes is so filthy that your legs widen for him even more, beckoning him in.
“Fuck,” he moans, and the way his sucking your tang off of his own fingers is so lewd that you can’t help but whimper for him. “Always knew you’d taste so fucking good.”
Like he can’t help himself, he starts lapping at your entrance, licking up every last drop of arousal that he can get his tongue on. There’s no more teasing now, just his hot mouth against your sopping cunt and waves of relief flowing through you.
From the way he kisses, you knew he’d be good at this, but it still makes you dizzy. Like a man starved, you’ve heard people say, but you never really understood what they meant until now — with Wolffe plunging his tongue deep into your cunt and licking fat stripes from your entrance all the way up to your clit. It’s like he’s been starving for you all this time, and you know what? Maybe it was worth it.
The way he flicks his tongue on the sensitive nub makes your hips buck, yearning for more, more, but his forearm pins you down to the bed. He pays attention to that, repeating the movement again and again until finally, blessedly, he wraps his lips around your clit and flits his tongue back and forth, relishing in how you keen for him each time. You’re so worked up — had been since he kissed you in the alley, since you pushed him up against the window in the cab, since he sucked on your neck while you unlocked your apartment — that it’s not going to take long at all before you’re climbing to that peak. Soon, his tongue is circling your clit, his spit making the motion smooth and seamless as he gets faster. He keeps the pace when your fingernails dig into his skull, his tongue dragging you higher and higher until you scream — actually scream — his name.
“Wolffe! F-fuck!” you cry as pleasure blooms outward and all throughout your body, shaking as he doesn’t let up with his tongue. It’s so much, too much, the way he suckles at your clit even as you come down from your high, and you wriggle underneath him, incapable of forming words.
“You’re not getting away from me,” he says between laps at your slit, surely tasting your release. “Not after I waited for you for so long.”
“You — what?”
Wolffe finally pulls his lips off of you, but starts running his fingers along your entrance again. Before you know it, he’s sliding two fingers into your cunt, so wet from his spit and your earlier release that they slip in without any resistance. You whimper as he scissors his thick fingers deep in your heat, only barely able to focus on his words.
“D’you know how much I thought about you?” he asks, his voice husky. “About that night? About how I wanted to taste this pussy? To make you moan for me, beg for me — to cum for me?”
All you can manage is his name as he starts to curl his fingers inside you. Oh, he definitely doesn’t have any trouble finding the spot this time. Each time he hits that spongy patch of nerves, your walls clench around his fingers, and fuck — has it ever felt this good?
“That’s it,” he praises, his other hand guiding one of your legs over his burly shoulder. “That’s it, sweetheart. You gonna cum again? All over my fingers?”
You nod, your head falling back against the bed and trying desperately to hold on, to ride this out for as long as you can — but Wolffe has other plans. He wraps his lips around your clit again, still so fucking sensitive from your first orgasm, and sucks on the bundle of nerves until your vision whites out. You’re cumming again, squeezing his fingers as they work you through your high. He hums what’s surely praise as he draws out your pleasure with his tongue, gently but intentionally drawing out your pleasure until your silent scream turns into gasps.
Wolffe slows his ministrations gradually until you’re all but whining for him, reaching for his shoulders to pull him up to you. He obliges with a wicked grin, crawling up your bed and lying on his side while he props himself up on his elbow. He looks so fucking smug like this, so much so that it might annoy you — if he hadn’t just given you the orgasm of your dreams.
Still panting and covered in a slick sheen of sweat, you think to yourself that you should be satisfied — especially after this long — but you’re not. No, all this has done is made you greedy. How could you not be when Wolffe lies beside you like this? He’s only gotten stronger since you last met, his chest completely filled out and covered in a thick expanse of dark hair. It trails all the way down the bulk of his belly, growing thicker and thicker the closer it gets to his waistband. Your juices soak his face all the way from the tip of his nose to the soft fat just under his chin — you could lick it all off, you think, kissing every inch of him and sucking where it sticks to his stubble. His strength might have been intimidating — his arms, so thick and strong that there was no chance for you once he decided to hold you in place — had he not been so gentle with you.
Unlike the last time, he didn’t instantly try to assert himself as the one in charge. Yes, he kissed you like you were his last meal, and yes, he’d shown you just how easily he could pick you up and press you against the wall, but he was so in tune to your reactions that he read you like a book, following the instructions laid out by your moans, your nips, your clenching muscles. You were doing this together, responding to each others’ touches like this was the hundredth time you brought him home.
How could you not possibly be greedy for more?
You ignore the exhaustion trying to rush through you and instead lunge to capture Wolffe in another heated kiss, making good on your promise and not stopping until you’ve lapped up every last drop of the remnants of your orgasm. With your momentum, you push him onto his back and straddle him, leaning down and grabbing his face. Not that you need to — he’s kissing you back just as fiercely, which is why you’re surprised when he presses your shoulder and pushes you back from him.
“What’s — is something wrong?” you ask, and he just smiles.
“Not at all,” he says as he leans up to kiss you. When he pulls away again, he lifts two fingers, still glistening from your wet cunt, and licks the tip of them.
You can’t help but grin. Without hesitating, and with your eyes locked on his, you take his hand and slide his fingers into your own mouth to taste yourself. Just like last time, the groan he lets out goes straight to your core, and he only gets louder as you suck on them. This time, he lets you suck as long as you want, and you can feel him getting hard beneath you. You’re struck with the memory of how big he is, and the thought has you running your hands up and down his chest until you slide them under the waistband of his greys, not wasting any time. Wolffe lifts his hips as you tug both of them down and shimmy them off of his legs.
You clench around nothing — he’s as big as you remember, his stiff cock framed by the thickest thighs you’ve ever seen on a person. You’re practically drooling for him, aching to take him so deep that your nose presses against the coarse hair at the base of his length, but the thought of him splitting you open is too tempting to resist.
Wolffe seems to have read your mind. “I have an implant,” he says as he sits up and wraps his arms around your waist, “and I’m clean, but if you want to use a condom—”
“I do too,” you say, pulling him back into another kiss. He sighs into your mouth and you roll your hips, grinding against one of his massive thighs.
“D’you still want to take care of me?” he murmurs.
“That depends,” you say as you leave open mouthed-kisses all down his neck. “Do you want me to? Will you let me this time?”
Wolffe laughs and chases your mouth for another kiss. “More than anything.”
You crawl forward until you’re hovering over his cock, already clenching at the memory of how he’ll fill you up. Taking it in your hand, you drag the tip through your soaking wet folds.
You do your best to keep your voice even, but it still comes out breathy. “I should tease you, like you did to me.”
Wolffe groans when you press the tip the slightest bit into your cunt, only to pull it away.
“That would — that would be fair,” he grunts. “I guess I would — fuck — deserve it.”
“Maybe next time,” you say with a smirk, but it doesn’t last long. You rest your hands on his shoulders and push him onto his back, watching his eyes darken with lust as you position yourself right over his cock. When you slowly slide down onto him, your eyes close in pleasure and your head falls back, every inch of him stretching you out in the most blissful way.
When he’s fully sheathed inside you, you open his eyes to see Wolffe biting down on his own lip.
“Fuck, sweetheart — no wonder I couldn’t last at all last time,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight, so good around me — shit!”
The last word comes as you slide almost all the way off of him, leaning forward and bracing yourself against his chest. When you sink back down, you’re more than inclined to agree — he’s filling you up so much that he can’t possibly have left any part of you empty.
As blissed out as you still are from your first two orgasms, you don’t spend time teasing. You’re both so worked up already that he doesn’t need your words — the way your sighs catch in your throat with every roll of your hips tells Wolffe all that he needs to know.
It’s slow, the way you ride him, so that both of you feel how you spear yourself on his cock, sinking down from the tip to base with every thrust. Maybe you’d go faster if you could — if your thighs weren’t still shaking from when he went down on you, or how his cock is shooting pleasure through all of your nerves. But you said you’d take care of him — you want to take care of him, to build up the sensation until he shatters, until you make him fall apart under you.
It’s easier said than done — your pleasure is climbing high already when Wolffe cups one of your breasts and brushes his thumb back and forth over the nipple. It’s so much — filling yourself up on Wolffe’s cock, curling your fingers into the hair on his chest, the sparks from where he circles the stiff nub on your chest.
“Oh fuck,” you sob. “Wolffe, I don’t know— I can’t—” Your rhythm starts to stutter, not quite rising up as far anymore as you start to lose control of your body.
“You gonna cum, baby?” he asks in his gravelly voice, looking at up at you with dark eyes.
“Yeah,” you sigh. “I’m gonna— I can’t—”
“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he says in a low voice as he tenses beneath you. “Been wanting you to cum on my cock for so long, thinkin’ about you — cum on my cock, baby, want to feel you gush all over me. That’s it, fuck, that’s it, cum for me.”
Every muscle in your body clenches around him, pleasure exploding from everywhere — your clit grinding on his belly, his cock in the deepest part of your pussy, the tips of your breasts under his thumb. He guides your hips as you ride out your orgasm, lifting you up and down while your walls flutter around him. You think you hear him moan every time your hips meet his, but your ears have gone cottony and you’re not so sure of anything anymore.
When you come down, Wolffe is sitting up, holding you by the chin and leaving hot kisses on your mouth and cheeks.
Between pants, you tell him, “Wanted… wanted to take care of you.”
“Shh.” Wolffe runs his hands up and down your sides before guiding you off of him and to lie down at his side. You lie on your side, one knee draped over his thick thighs, your head propped up by your elbow so you can still see his face.
“Wanted to focus on you,” he admits, taking in your expression.
“Well, you certainly did,” you say with a smile, still breathy.
He laughs at that before pulling you in for another kiss.
“I meant it,” he says after a moment. “That I thought about you.”
“You didn’t owe me—”
“Not like that,” he assures you, and you decide you could get used to hearing this voice, especially if it’s your name falling from his lips. “I just meant — it felt like we hit it off. And then…”
He trails off, scratching the back of his neck, and you settle a hand on his cheek. Ghosting your thumb over his bottom lip, you say, “I know what you mean.” You can’t deny the chemistry — both back then and tonight.
“I’m glad I got a second chance,” he says.
“So am I,” you grin, and he chuckles again before you continue. “And, if you want, I’m open to… more chances.”
The smirk comes back to his lips. “Yeah?”
You try to kiss that stupid smirk off of him, but try as you might, he’s still wearing it when you pull away.
“Yeah,” you say, unable to stop yourself from smiling. “And I think it’s my turn.”
They say third time’s the charm, but you and Wolffe know better — after all, practice makes perfect.
I am shook. This was so hot and awkward and charming and soft!!! Incredible writing.
From the frustration and disappointment of the first encounter to the earth shattering satisfaction of the second, the way you wrote the inner thoughts and emotions was so perfect.
And your description of Wolffe was absolutely mouthwatering 🥴 I loved both the awkward/ fumbling/cocky younger Wolffe and the much more confident and self assured older Wolffe… and thick, hairy chested Wolffe owns my whole heart and ass 🫣
Contents and Warnings: Insomnia, growing panic due to Insomnia, service animal (charhound), intrusive thoughts, swear words, soft Wolffe, potentially OOC Wolffe, fluff, hurt/comfort, soft sleepy singing
Summary: plagued by anxiety, you can't sleep. Despite your best efforts, Wolffe wakes up beside you. Instead of being angry, he offers you a Lullaby to try and help calm you down.
Author's Notes: The other night I had really bad panic Insomnia and I wanted a comfort fic tailored to my bullshit. I decided it would be a good idea to make a playlist of songs I felt like Wolffe would sing to me in a soft baritone while rubbing my back and trying to soothe me out of my panic. Now that I've made it through the night, I'm writing the fic to go with the playlist. Please enjoy both! I hope you get some rest.
You went for a run. You hit the gym. You walked your charhound. You read a whole book, from start to finish. Cooked meals for the whole week, cleaned the house top to bottom, The laundry was even folded.
You can't sleep.
It wasn't for lack of trying. You'd lay in your bed, but as soon as you'd turned off the distractions, you were alone, and everything else came rushing in to attack you.
"You left the stove on. No. Not the stove, the oven. What's that smell? Are you burning the house down!?" You jump out of bed, run to the kitchen, and there's nothing wrong. The place is just how you left it. That burning smell was the crisp charcoal smell of your service charhound, Soot. You mentally kick yourself, how could you be so stupid? You know that smell, you've known it since she was a pup...
Back in bed. Okay, you think, okay this time will be it. This time you'll sleep.
"You forgot to feed Soot. Useless stupid owner how could you do that to your own baby?" But Soot is asleep at your bedside, her belly warm with her meal. You lay back down. You try to sleep.
You. Can't. Sleep.
Tears well in your eyes and you scream. You're so tired. You can't believe how exhausted you are and yet not a single moment of rest finds you. Soot gets up and puts herself in your arms to keep you from getting distructive. Her higher temperature keeps you warm, but all you feel is cold. You don't sleep a moment all night.
You feel sick, you're sluggish all the next day, because of course. You couldn't sleep. It's been 52 hours. The first day you could hide it, the second it started to show, but today... today you're with the wolfpack. If Plo Koon doesn't bring it to anyone's attention first, you know that Wolffe won't let it slide when he sees you. You've never wanted to stay away from the steely eyed commander more than today.
"You look like hell." Wolffe actually takes his helmet off to get a look at you, and it makes your stomach hurt when you see the concern on his face.
You sigh, roll your eyes, "Thanks. Go away." and turn away from Wolffe, trying to focus on your own work.
"No." His voice is hard, and you want to lash out, but when he grabs your wrist and turns you around, all your anger dissolves at his orders, "Tell me what's going on. Now."
Tears welling in the corners of your eyes, you try to blink them away, try to act tough, but you break under his gaze. "I can't sleep!"
You sob, hard. Wolffe jumps when you rush forward to close the gap, pressing your face against his chestplate, arms clinging around him, and openly sobbing. He hesitates, but eventually puts his arms around you, rubbing your back. It's so comforting, but it only serves to make you cry harder. It makes you realize just how touch starved you've been...
"Alright Cyar'ika, why can't you sleep?" You didn't know his voice could be so soft...
"I d-dont- dont know!" When you pull back, he holds your cheek, rubbing away tears. You close your eyes, and try to breath a little more evenly, "I h-have Insomnia, a-and it's been a few days since-"
"Days?!" Wolffe barks, now holding your face in both hands, "Kriff- you're coming with me."
He grabs your wrist, hauling you through the hallways of the ship. He opens a door to reveal a vacant sleeping quarters, and your stomach drops. "N-no, Wolffe, you don't get it... nothing is going to help, and especially not without Soot here, I won't be able to fall asleep. It's hard enough with Soot, but alone, I can't-"
"Shut up." You do, looking away bashfully, until the door closes behind the two of you, at which point Wolffe starts to take off his armor, "Get in the bed."
You blush wildly, covering your eyes, "Wolffe I'm sleep deprived, not- not sex deprived, I'm really sorry if I misled you but- s-stop laughing!"
"Cyar'ika, we are not having sex. Just getting my armor off so I'm comfortable too. Get in the damn bed, you'll see." Wolffe takes your hands from your eyes and leads you over to a bunk.
He helps you down, takes off your boots, and guides you to lay down. Your face is still hot when he gets into the bed with you, and he earns a squeak from you when he handles you into a cradled position. Your head rests on a pillow between yourself and his arm, comfortable for both of you. His other arms curls around you and you feel his hand rubbing soothingly up and down your back.
"I could use a rest, and you definitely need one. Get some sleep... that's an order." He chuckles at the last part, and for a moment, you think this might actually work.
Unfortunately, as soothing as it is, Wolffe's presence did nothing to stop the panic Insomnia. As soon as it's quiet, your mind starts racing. Thoughts of guilt, of shame, thoughts that this is all pity, that he didn't want you because you're undesirable, that-
"Cyare, quit squirming. What's going through that head of yours?"
"E-everything..." damn it. You didn't even notice your movements, but they'd been enough to wake Wolffe, "Once it's quiet, I can't sleep... can't stop the thoughts..."
There's a long, painfully quiet moment where you think you've said something wrong, until you hear Wolffe take a very deep breath. He kisses your forehead, whisping on your skin, "If you tell anyone about this I swear..."
It starts as a hum, a familiar tune rumbling in his chest. Eventually it builds, and he's whispering the song to you. You pull away a little, looking at Wolffe in awe, "Are you... singing me to sleep?"
"If it works." He kisses your forehead, encourages you to get comfortable again, and then picks up his song again once you're secured to his chest.
You don't even notice when you fall asleep. And you don't know how long you slept, but it was peaceful. Restful. You don't even remember the dreams you had, if you had then at all.
"Hey there Cyar'ika, sleep well?" Waking up in his arms, that's what really felt like a dream.
Summary: After a visit to a late night caf shop, feelings develop between you and Wolffe.
Word count: 2.4K
Warnings: None.
-- -- -- -- --
In an effort to suppress the trapped yawn, you stretched your arms and let out a slow, lingering breath. The letters on your datapad started to blur, and you blinked a few times to regain some clarity. Had it not been for the gaggles of noisy, intoxicated citizens stumbling past the window, it would have been difficult to determine the time. One glimpse at the chronometer in the corner of the screen confirmed it was late. Frustratingly so.
On any other night, you would have been tucked up in bed, dozing and dreaming, but tonight, you were in an all-hours cafe, surrounded by the hum of hushed conversations and the clinking of ceramic mugs, as you tackled the longest requisitions request you had ever seen. Despite General Plo’s apology for sending over such an extensive list, it did little to alleviate the growing fatigue.
Your only saving grace was Wolffe’s presence across from you, his overworked focus fixed on the text on his datapad as he diligently documented the aftermath of the failed mission the 104th had returned from that morning. Every so often, his gaze shifted to the concrete walls and rustic photo frames exhibiting a tempting display of pastries and cake slices. One brown eye and one cybernetic swept the outdated decorations and upside down jars housing dusty bulbs. His brow creased, and he redirected his attention to you.
If it hadn’t been for the urgent nature of the recent requisitions, he would have insisted you go home and rest. You tried to appear upbeat, but he could tell you were flagging. Your lashes fluttered at a sluggish pace, and your posture slumped.
“I didn’t even know this place was here,” he confessed, stimulating your interest.
Observing the tranquil cafe, you set your datapad aside for a brief respite from the neon glare. “I only found it by chance,” you replied. “I try to come here when I have some free time.”
Wolffe remained unconvinced. Although he usually steered clear of civilian areas, the rich flavours of the caf and the enticing aromas tempted him to make an exception. And there was an encouraging hush that he was thankful for as he immersed himself in the mundane task of completing his report.
“Do we have a plan for the blaster replacement parts?” you asked after a gulp of your warm beverage. “I know Comet said that you found some, but should we keep the order pending, or would you rather I cancel it?”
“Might be best to have some spares on hand,” Wolffe suggested. “Considering what occurred yesterday…”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence; the culpability etched on his face silently completed it for him and you wished there was something you could do or say to provide some solace. “None of that was your fault, Wolffe,” you told him adamantly. “You exceeded your duty and despite an unsuccessful mission, you safely extracted all your men.”
Though he avoided contact, his brown eye twitched and his jaw clenched as your keen words sunk in.
As the earlier meeting had unfolded, your heart ached to witness the usually composed commander struggle as he reported one disaster after another. Despite the odds stacked against them, they had forged ahead and gave it their all. After learning about the events of their mission, General Plo’s only concern was their safe return, but you could see how it had troubled Wolffe. It was tough to watch him take responsibility for something beyond his control.
You reached across the table and gently grasped his gloved hands with your bare ones. Although the motion surprised him, he didn’t recoil, lowering the datapad to give you his undivided attention. His eyes widened slightly as they wandered over your features, taking in every facet, and contour, and the subtle details he had previously overlooked.
An uncomfortable silence drifted between the two of you, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t find the words you had wanted to say just moments ago. In the end, you retreated from him, sheepish and defeated.
Heat rising in his cheeks and not from the steaming caf, Wolffe took a slow sip of his drink. “I, uh… appreciate your faith in me,” he said, fidgeting with his datapad to distract from the urge to hold your hands again.
“As a requisitions officer, I get you what you need,” you replied with a light-hearted undertone, “and that includes a little boost when you’re in a tough spot.”
Words failed to capture the full extent of Wolffe’s appreciation, a sentiment he preferred to keep unspoken in that particular moment. Struggling to block out the feeling of your comforting touch, he scraped his nails against the side of his datapad and attempted to regain his focus.
* * *
Cars rushed by the lofty window in a haste, engines screeching and thrusters thundering as though they were trying to race the rising sun to the horizon. At that early hour of morning, you couldn’t imagine why. The lanes were mostly empty, allowing vehicles to cruise at a leisurely speed without the fear of being late.
But Coruscant never slowed. The capital of the galaxy hustled and hurried, bustled and buzzed, a constant hive of action. If you were being honest with yourself, you preferred the fast pace onboard the Venators. At least that rush was organised and structured. The incessant noise and commotion outside only served to annoy you, and you decidedly crossed your office and tightened the blinds to deter most of the vehicular surge while still letting in the climbing morning light.
You had barely got comfortable in your seat when a firm knock jolted you from your work. Disregarding the need to identify the visitor, you pressed the button on your desk to unlatch the door.
To your surprise, Wolffe walked in, helmet braced under his arm and a cardboard caf carrier in his grasp. “Apologies for disturbing you. I just came to drop this off.” He placed a cup down by your paperwork and you immediately identified the red and white logo. “I was walking by that cafe and picked up pastries for the boys and General Plo, so I thought I’d get something for you too.”
The thoughtful gift caught you off guard, but you managed to muster an affectionate smile. “Thank you, commander,” you said, mindful of keeping up the professional decorum while at work and reminding yourself to address him by his military rank. Not that anybody was around to hear you, but you were well aware of how important protocol was to Wolffe. “You have no idea how much I need this right now.”
“Still got a lot to do?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t if stuff stopped piling up, but we are in a war,” you shrugged, taking a mouthful of caf and savouring the warmth. “It would be strange if there wasn’t a mountain of tasks demanding attention.”
“You can say that again,” Wolffe said, a wry smile forming. “If the war ended tomorrow, I don’t know what I’d do next. I doubt any of my brothers would, either.”
Nursing the heated paper cup, the commander’s comments resonated deeply within you. You hadn’t given it much thought before, but you acknowledged the point. Prior to the outbreak of conflict, you had a life, and you hoped to have one after it, but for Wolffe and his brothers, war was all they knew. Bred for the battlefield. Raised to fight. Thrown straight into the hungry jaws of the beast.
Guilt welled in your stomach as you observed him, so brave and valiant, putting everything on the line with no control over the situation. And there were millions of others like him, trapped in the Republic system. “When the war ends, I am sure there will be a place for you and your brothers,” you assured him. “The galaxy always needs defenders, and there are plenty of worlds willing to offer a fresh start for anyone looking to leave the army.”
Wolffe didn’t have the heart to remind you he was considered property of the Republic, a mere cog destined to live a life dictated by duty. Instead, he lowered his head and cradled the helmet wedged between his arm and his hip.
You observed the way he paused, much like he had been doing for the past few weeks since that morning in the cafe. Every time you chatted, he retained a reserved demeanour. Although he had never been one for physical contact, he made a deliberate effort to maintain a distance from you and you wondered if you had done something wrong.
For a moment, he lifted as though to speak, but he quickly deflated and whatever he had in mind remained unspoken. “I’ll catch up with you later at the meeting,” he said as he headed for the door.
“Can’t exactly miss it,” you replied. “Thanks for the caf.”
He offered you a quick nod before scooting out into the corridor, the latch clicking shut again and the room falling silent.
You waited for a couple of extra seconds before sinking into your swivel chair. Wolffe seemed preoccupied, and it worried you. He had a knack for brushing things off, but this particular issue chipped away at him.
The quickly escalating desires that had been building up within you were certainly not easing the situation either. He had always treated you with respect and kindness, never hesitating to include you in the squad activities and ensuring you felt valued. You worked well together, functioning as a united unit, but lately he had been attempting to reach out only to retreat at the last moment.
Determined not to get overwhelmed by your own emotions when you had duties to attend to, you attributed his distant behaviour to the stress of his job and shuffled your chair back to the desk. That paperwork and all those requests wouldn’t resolve themselves, and you were thankful for the distraction.
* * *
You sprinted at full speed down the corridors of the cruising Venator, the assault of adrenaline drowning out all other sounds as you fought to maintain your balance around an abrupt turn. An irregular pant pulled at your breaths, but you refused to stop. As soon as you had received the message, you were out of your seat and bolting through the ship, blundering past clones and droids with only one goal in mind: reach him.
Bursting into the medical bay waiting room, you startled the medic on duty. After identifying the wolf sigil on your sleeve, he motioned to the door behind him. “He’s still having some scans done, but you can go in,” he said. “Wouldn’t stop muttering your name when he arrived.”
You locked eyes with the clone medic as though he was about to break into laughter and reveal a ruse, but he remained politely hushed. The news of Wolffe’s injury and stable condition consumed your thoughts, granting no chance for any other concerns. To hear he had been asking for you, it became clear why Sinker had been dispatched so urgently after the commander’s arrival. He wanted you by his side.
Smoothing your uniform and wiping the perspiration off your brow, you entered the medical room, the sterile scent of bacta hitting your nostrils. The lights were dimmed, creating a soft glow around the equipment screens that seemed to form a halo until your eyes adjusted. At the end of the singular cot, a medi-bot hovered, emitting a wedge of blue light.
The commander straightened up and met your worried gaze. His right side was covered with a large bandage, secured over his black under suit, and red-stained gauze spilled over the rim of a bowl on the tool tray.
The droid completed the scans and exited, appearing content with the results.
“You know you’re supposed to run away from the explosions?” you said in relieved jest as you perched on the narrow mattress.
“I was caught on the edge of the blast,” Wolffe replied. “A bit of shrapnel grazed me. Nothing major.”
“Really?” you challenged, elongating the word and fidgeting in anticipation of your next words. “Because your brothers told me you were in and out of consciousness. And according to the medic, when you arrived, you were whispering my name. Kind of explains why Sinker came to fetch me so quickly.”
Wolffe’s eyes widened, his deep hazel eye dilating and the cybernetics in his other rotating. If you hadn’t spent so much time with him, you wouldn’t have noticed the subtle change, but you learned his mannerisms early on in your assignment to his squad.
An apology or some sort of unneeded statement lingered on his lips and you silenced his doubts with a soft shush. “You don’t have to explain anything. Conserve your energy.”
“No,” the commander said, leaving no room for negotiation on the matter. “I owe you an explanation. I’ve been distant lately and I should have just told you the truth.” He shut his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them, he focused on the medical scanner attached to his fingertip. “I was bleeding out and all I saw was you. My brothers were calling out to me to keep me awake, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I might never see you again.”
A breath snagged, but you forced it down, mouth slightly agape and captivated by the commander’s confession.
“My squad have talked about the civvies they’ve encountered and formed connections with, but we made a collective decision not to let any relationships form. We’re soldiers. Every time we ship out, we don’t know if we’re going to make it home. But with you, I… I want to.”
“Wolffe, what are you trying to say?” you asked, hoping for a less evasive response to confirm your interpretation of what he was struggling to communicate.
Wolffe’s mismatched eyes shone with a love that spanned the entire galaxy, and you understood. You didn’t need him to speak it aloud.
Reaching over the bedsheets, he gingerly entwined his fingers with yours, a faint smile growing as you tightened your grip. He handled you with the utmost care as he lifted your hand and planted pecks to your palm, sowing his affection into each crease.
While he was distracted, you inched closer and coaxed his attention, leaning in. Your nose whispered past his and you captured his waiting lips. His hands moved fast to draw you nearer with each movement of the kiss.
“I was wondering if you would go on a date with me,” he said as you parted, sounding more nervous than you’d ever heard him.
You toyed with a fallen curl by his temple. “That depends,” you teased.
“On what?” he questioned.
“Buy me a caf and we’ll see.”
TAGLIST (Message if you’d like to be added, 18+ only)
Summary: Tired of seeing you miserable with one failed date after another, Crosshair takes matters into his own hands.
Word Count: 6k
AO3
You stepped onto the gangplank of the Marauder, and for the first time in what seemed like a long time, you could breathe.
It wouldn’t have been a particularly nice breath to most people. The ship held the air of being lived-in by five grown men in a cramped space, but it felt like coming home in a way your own apartment never did.
Unfortunately, the ship also appeared to be abandoned, the boys nowhere in sight. You turned to leave, stomach falling with disappointment, when a soft noise came from the direction of the bunks. Upon investigation you found Hunter there, splayed out on his bunk with an arm over his eyes.
“Headache?” you asked softly. He gave a grunt of affirmation, not at all surprised to see you there. He’d probably heard you coming from halfway down the block.
“79’s didn’t do me any favors.”
“Ah. Is that where the rest of the boys are?”
“Mhmm. Want me to tell ‘em you’re here?”
Your stomach churned again, but not with disappointment.
“No, that’s okay.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stick around until they get back.” He peered at you from under his arm, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Special occasion?”
“Ugh.” You glanced down at your attire. Black leggings, a tight skirt, and a halter top with a light jacket wasn’t your usual affair, but this wasn’t supposed to be a usual night. “Not anymore.”
“Something happen?”
You shrugged, wincing as you shifted from one foot to another.
fjdhfkkshfalfuf y e s this is delicious, you captured Cross's character so well, the depth of his feelings hidden behind the cold facade, his ability to cut to the heart of the matter, his co-- *shot*
Commander Mayday x GN!Reader — Rated M 💘— 900ish Words
Summary: Between missions, you and Commander Mayday share a quiet moment in a cozy cabin, and the L-word slips out for the first time.
Warnings: Nothing major… just some slight angst due to a secret relationship. But this is mostly just fluffy, and post-coital cuddling & kissing (nothing explicit is mentioned, just heavily implied adult activities.)
Masterlist - Taglist
Two days.
That was all the shore-leave clones were allotted while out on campaign… and only if circumstances permitted a break between missions.
That gave Mayday two days to relax and unwind, and to catch up on sleep and rest. And it only gave the two of you 48 hours to hide away and enjoy each other’s company without fear of prying eyes.
So you planned ahead and made sure that the two of you could make the most of every minute you had together. And you splurged. The credits didn’t matter, not when it came to Mayday. You wanted nothing but the best for him, and you did what you could to give him all the comfort and luxury that was denied to him on a daily basis.
But there never seemed to be enough time. That was one of the many, many things you could not give him.
By the time you arrived at the luxurious private cabin you had reserved, 40 hours remained until you both had to report back for duty. You were keenly aware of the time but, Mayday was quite eager to catch up with you and managed to take your mind off the chrono as soon as you you were alone.
Now that the two of you were thoroughly reacquainted, you laid quietly in the plush bed, wrapped up in Mayday’s embrace and gazing out at the crackling fireplace across the room.
Your mind was at peace, temporarily distracted from all your worries by his warm embrace. He curled himself around you, one arm beneath you and the other draped over your waist as he held you close.
You would be happy to spend every spare moment of your life like this, you thought idly as his hand slowly stroked up and down over your side. His large hand settled on your hip and he squeezed gently, before breaking the comfortable silence.
“This is becoming dangerous. All this sneaking around in expensive hotels…” he murmured and sighed deeply. You froze in his arms, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach as you waited for him to finish his thought.
“…I could get used to this sort of lavish treatment,” he chuckled and leaned into you, brushing his lips over the back of your neck. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Hah, well, it’s the least I can do,” you chuckled as relief flooded your body and you relaxed against him again.
“The least you can do? What do you mean?”
“Well… I—”
The words caught in your throat. You wanted to tell him how much he meant to you, just how happy he made you and how much you loved spending time with him. But you could never get the words out. So instead, you treated him to nice hotel rooms and delicious room service and hoped that would be enough… that he would understand.
“—I just wish I could give you more, y’know?”
“More?”
You felt Mayday shift behind you. He withdrew his arm from beneath your body and made room behind you, pulling you flat onto your back. The firelight bathed half his face in golden light, illuminating his burrowed brow as he looked down at you.
"I don’t need more,” he shook his head slightly, “I’d be perfectly happy curled up in a sleeping bag out in the forest, so long as you’re with me.”
“I—I know but… You deserve more. And all I can offer you is sneaking around in hotel rooms. So they may as well be nice.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, trying to play it off as a lighthearted joke, but Mayday didn’t seem amused.
His frown relaxed and his eyes softened, while his warm hand moved to cup your face.
“You’re all I need,” he said quietly, all while his thumb traced light circles over your cheek.
Despite the soft tone of his voice, his statement left no room for doubt or hesitation.
You were still processing that revelation when he continued.
“I love you.”
You blinked up at him, unable to move or breathe under the weight of those words. When you didn’t respond, his hand stilled and his expression shifted to a more guarded look.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that—”
“I love you too, May,” you cut him off and covered his hand with your own.
A small crooked smile curved his lips as his eyes darted over your face. When his gaze settled over your lips, he leaned down and kissed you gently. It was such a delicate thing—you were sure he’d never kissed you so softly before.
He didn’t say anything after your lips parted, instead just silently pulled you back into his arms and rolled the two of you over, leaving you laying on top of him. You laid your head over his heart and listened to his steady heartbeat, letting the slow rise and fall of his chest lull you ever closer to sleep.
But there was still something nagging at the back of your mind…something he had said…
“May?” you asked quietly, unsure if he was still awake or not. When Mayday hummed in response, you continued. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stick with hotel rooms instead of a sleeping bag out in the forest.”
He laughed brightly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath you. You peeked up at him, eager to catch a rare glimpse of his big smile, and you were not disappointed.
“Fine by me, as long as you’re there with me,” he said with a beaming smile.
Thank you to @/dystopicjumpsuit for the banners & @/saradika for the dividers!
Hi DJ! If you’re still doing the ficlet requests, can I get 24 (cuddles of reassurance) with Wolffe? Maybe fem!reader is having a hard time with sex and feels embarrassed/overwhelmed? (If that’s too explicit/uncomy feel free to ignore :))
Just a Little Bit More
A/N: Thank you so much for this request, Alli! I’ve actually been wanting to write a fic like this for a while. I feel like so much of the smut we see in fanfiction AND in published fiction/media in general is so idealized that even when it has elements of realism, it can present a distorted idea of what sex and intimacy can really be like. I’m certainly guilty of writing somewhat idealized smut, though I do try to maintain at least some semblance of realism (unless Sev is involved; all bets are off with that man). While there’s nothing wrong with having that fantasy, I think it’s healthy and important to also show the reality that it isn’t always easy or flawless, even with a caring, experienced partner who takes our pleasure seriously and does everything “right.”
Pairing: Commander Wolffe x Reader (Fem; has hair)
Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)
Wordcount: 3.3K of straight smut with some cuddles
Warnings and tags: cuddles; hurt comfort; language; SMUT; oral sex; PIV; nipple play; light/playful spanking; body worship; sex toys; fingering; exhibitionism; voyeurism; creampie; difficulty with orgasm. AKA, the return of SMUTKEA.
Summary: Wolffe is the best you’ve ever had. That doesn’t mean it’s always perfect.
Suggested Listening:
This fic smells like: Fruit de La Créativité by Grès (raspberry & leather)
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Wolffe gazed up into your eyes as you rolled your hips slowly, searching for the perfect angle. You knew you could find it: you’d done it before, countless times. His strong, warm hands glided up your thighs to your hips, pulling you closer, thrusting deeper, guiding you closer and closer to your pleasure. You could feel it building inside you, the tension gathering slowly.
Too slowly.
He smoothed one hand up your side, grazing along your rib cage until he cupped your breast, circling your nipple with his thumb. He knew exactly how much pressure you liked, and the way he touched you was perfect.
God, he’s so hot. Just focus on how hot he is.
Sweat glistened on your skin. The room hadn’t been this hot when he’d pulled you into bed, but after an hour and a half of vigorous activity, you were both slick with perspiration, saliva, arousal, and lube. He’d mapped your body with kisses, gliding his lips and tongue across your skin as he devoured you, bringing you right to the edge until you begged him to fuck you.
You’d wrapped your legs around his waist as he eased into you, a tormented groan rumbling from his lips as he felt your heat envelope him. Gods, he felt amazing, and when he started to move, you knew it would only be a matter of minutes before you came.
It took longer than you expected, and after a while, you realized something needed to change.
“Take me from behind,” you’d murmured, knowing how much he loved the way your ass pressed into his hips in that position.
“God, yes,” he’d replied, pulling out and rolling you over with enthusiasm.
You loved the way he handled you in bed. He was so fucking strong. He could toss you around so easily—it was hot as hell, but the best thing about it was the care he took to make sure you were comfortable and he didn’t accidentally hurt you. He lifted your hips up and positioned you exactly the way he wanted you. You heard a small click as he closed the bottle of lube, and then you felt his slickened fingers glide over your cunt as he ensured you were ready to take him from the new angle.
“Maker, that ass is gorgeous,” he said, squeezing your cheeks before giving you a playful smack.
Your mischievous giggle turned into a breathless moan as he sank into you, reaching deeper, stretching you wider, as his hand slid down your body to tease your clit. You loved the way he touched you, the way he caged you in with his body, making you feel incredibly safe and protected. And of course, you loved his cock. He knew exactly how to use it to ensure he gave you as much pleasure as he took—or more.
And still, your orgasm remained tantalizingly just out of reach. He shifted, and for a moment, his body rested heavily on you before he resumed his rhythm.
He’s getting tired. Fuck. Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. I need to give him a break.
“Want me to be on top?” you offered, hoping that yet another angle would be the one that finally pushed you past whatever mental block was keeping you from your release.
He paused, his hands resting on your hips. “Is that what you want?”
“Sure,” you replied. “If you do?”
He trailed his fingers down your spine before slowly withdrawing from your body. You turned to watch as he rolled onto his back and kicked the blankets off the bed. He reached for you with that sexy smirk that you loved so much, and you knew without question that he still wanted you.
He’s such a good man. Gods, he deserves the world.
“Hop on, darlin’,” he invited.
You crawled toward him with a smile, pausing a moment to kneel between his thighs. You traced your fingertips up his legs and over his balls, then ghosted a line up the underside of his cock. You glanced up to see his eyes fixed on you with an intense expression. Holding his gaze, you dropped lower and flicked your tongue over his tip, then slid his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue over him. You could taste yourself on his skin—salty, tangy, unspeakably erotic. His hips flexed beneath you, and you heard his breath grow ragged.
He caressed your head gently, stroking his hand over your hair and jaw before coming to rest on your shoulders.
“Not gonna last if you keep that up,” he said quietly. “Come up here.”
You gave him one last defiant, flirtatious little suck before you released him, then you began to crawl up to him, kissing a trail up his abdomen and chest. You straddled his hips, kissing and licking your way up his throat, and as you reached his lips, you whispered, “You taste like pussy.”
“Then I must be delicious,” he murmured, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and pulling you into a passionate kiss.
His tongue slid into your mouth as his cock thrust into your cunt, and for a moment you were overwhelmed with the sensations of him filling you. A fresh wave of arousal had flooded you as you’d pleasured him with your mouth, and he slipped into you easily, rocking into you with his powerful thighs. You braced your fists against the mattress on either side of his head, pressing down to meet his thrusts as you rode him hard and fast, chasing your pleasure with a desperation that started to border on frantic as release continued to elude you.
“Gonna make you come so hard,” he whispered. “And then I’m gonna fill you up. You feel so goddamn good. Can’t wait to feel you come around my cock.”
I’m trying, damn it!
“You feel incredible,” you replied breathlessly, and it was true, so why was this so kriffing difficult?
Your hips were starting to get sore from how long you’d been at it, so you shifted positions, bringing your knees higher and setting a slower pace to try to buy yourself enough time that you’d have the energy to make it to the finish line. Wolffe adjusted instantly, not even needing a verbal cue to understand the message your body sent. You found the angle that pressed his cock against the perfect place inside you, and you focused on trying to get as much stimulation there as you possibly could, cutting out all extraneous movement.
The longer it took, the more anxious and desperate you became. You tried to shut down the voice in your head that whispered, “He’s getting bored,” because you knew it was a lie. All you had to do was look into his beautiful, mismatched eyes to see how much he wanted you. And you were so close. So fucking close, if you could just get out of your own head long enough to let go.
You traced your fingertips across his cheekbone and along his jaw, grazing your thumb across his lips. You pressed gently, parting his lips to brush your thumb against his tongue, and then you leaned down and kissed him deeply, trying to lose yourself in the sensation of his lips and tongue against your own.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as you broke from the kiss and returned your hand to brace against the mattress. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”
Please stop talking. You couldn’t say it out loud; what kind of an asshole says something like that in response to a compliment?
“You’re so sexy,” you whispered instead. “You’re amazing at this.”
It was true; he was amazing. Unquestionably the best you’d ever had. In the time you’d been together, he’d learned your body completely, identifying every spot that made you shiver, testing different approaches until he knew exactly how and where you liked to be touched, kissed, caressed. He knew where to use his teeth, and where to use his breath; he knew when you wanted him to be tender, and when you craved roughness.
He knew you.
He knew you better than anyone ever had, and that made your current predicament even more maddening. Because sometimes it was easy. Sometimes you came so fast that your orgasm surprised both of you. But most of the time, it took more work. A lot more. And sometimes, like this one, you would get so close to the edge that you were only seconds away, only to feel the wave of pleasure ebb and be replaced with frustration and exhaustion.
Please, please, please. Just a little bit more.
Your wrists ached. Your knuckles were raw from grinding them into the sheets. You shifted your weight and lifted one hand off the mattress, stretching your fingers and trying to get the blood flowing to them. He glanced at your hand, then back up into your eyes.
“What can I do?” he asked softly.
“Just… keep going,” you said desperately. “I’m so close—I’m so fucking close, and I just can’t—I can’t—”
Abrupt tears stung your eyes, and you buried your face against his neck to hide them, kissing his chest to try to distract him from your distress.
He wrapped his arms around your body, still rocking into you at the pace you’d set. “Do you want to take a break?”
“No, I want you to come,” you snapped, disappointment sharpening your tone more than you intended.
He stilled immediately. You felt his hand slide up your back to stroke your hair softly.
“Hey,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. “Look at me.”
You shook your head and burrowed your face obstinately into the nook where his neck met his shoulder.
“Talk to me, little one,” he urged. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
The dam cracked and then burst.
“I’m so fucking tired,” you sobbed. “And I can tell you’re getting tired, and I just want it to be good for you, and every time I think I’m getting there, I lose it!”
Mortification swept through you that you were making a scene during such an intimate moment, and you tried to stifle your sobs, but it was too late. You felt him go soft inside you, and then he slipped from your body.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to ruin it for you.”
His arms tightened around you, and he rolled the both of you onto your sides, pulling you close against his body. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Holding you tightly with one arm, he began to run his hand lightly over your back, comforting you with his touch as he kissed your forehead.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he repeated. “You just got tired. It’s all right, love. It happens.”
“It’s so frustrating,” you confessed. “So many times, I thought I was there, and then something would distract me, and it was just gone.”
“Was it something I did?” he asked.
“No, of course not. It was just… I don’t know. A noise? Or a weird thought that popped into my head at a bad time?” You paused, feeling a little guilty as you remembered that, in fact, you had gotten annoyed at an ill-timed remark from him. “And then the longer it took, the more it stressed me out about how long it was taking, until I was stressing so much about it that that’s all I could think about.”
He moved his hand to your shoulder and began to glide it up and down your arm in long, languid strokes. “Why were you worried about taking too long?”
You paused, unaccountably hesitant to admit the truth. He waited patiently, still caressing your arm, until at last you replied, “I was worried you were getting tired. Or bored. Or—I don’t know…”
His hand stilled in its progress, then slid around your back as he pulled you even closer to him. “I would never get bored with you.”
“But—”
“I love you,” he cut you off firmly. “I love being with you. I love fuckin’ you. You’re gorgeous, and sexy, and kriffin’ amazing in the sack. Do you have any idea how lucky I am? Most men only dream of finding a girl like you, but I got you for real. How the hell would I ever be stupid enough to get bored with someone as goddamn perfect as you?”
You didn’t know what to say. You lay in his arms, clinging tightly to him as the tears finally stopped trickling from your eyes. You shuddered quietly.
“Yeah?” you asked in a tiny whisper.
He rolled you onto your back and moved to lie on top of you so he could look into your eyes.
“Yeah,” he replied.
You swallowed. “I love you, too, you know.”
“I know,” he said with a charming smirk.
He pressed his lips to your sternum as his hand slid lazily up your body to play with your breast. The weight of his body pressed you down into the soft mattress as you cradled his chest between your thighs. You took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, releasing the guilt and stress and self-recrimination you’d built up in your body.
He kissed you again, and again, then he began to work his way across your chest until he drew your nipple into his mouth, brushing his tongue over your skin as he sucked gently, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. You felt a spark of renewed arousal, but with it came a surge of anxiety that rose insistently in your mind.
“Wolffe,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I can. I really am exhausted.”
He looked up at you as he continued to tease your breast. At last, he released your nipple from his lips, giving you a devilish smile.
“What if we tried something else?”
You couldn’t help the way your lips curved into an answering smile when he looked at you like that. “What did you have in mind?”
He pushed himself up off of you and leaned over to rummage through your nightstand until he retrieved a vibrator—the one you’d once jokingly called “Old Faithful” for its uncanny ability to get you off like clockwork.
“I want you to fuck yourself with this,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly pitch. “I want to watch you make yourself come.”
Your breath stuttered to a halt, your eyes widening and your heart beginning to pound at the idea. Your gaze flicked from the toy to his eyes and back again.
“Wh—what about you?” you stammered.
“Don’t you worry about me,” he replied. He switched on the vibrator and traced it down your abdomen, making you twitch as its buzz tickled your skin. “Will you?”
“Yeah,” you breathed, taking the toy from him. “How do you want me?”
“Whatever way works best for you.”
You thought about trying to pose for him, to put on a show, but you knew instinctively that wasn’t what he was after. If he’d wanted to watch a counterfeit, staged orgasm, he would have just found a holoporn. No. He wanted the real thing. He wanted to see your genuine pleasure.
“All right,” you whispered.
You took the toy from him, and he moved off of your body to lie next to you, observing you closely. You adjusted the settings to your preferred speed and pattern, then took a deep breath and began.
The instant you touched the vibrator to your clit, your entire body tensed, and you gasped quietly. You glanced at Wolffe and found his gaze riveted to your pussy, his one good pupil dilated so wide you could barely see the amber ring of his iris around its inky depths. You felt a little self-conscious until you saw the way his lips parted slightly as his breath became heavy.
You pushed yourself back into the pillow and closed your eyes as you adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing it exactly as you needed it. With your free hand, you began to play with your breast, caressing and squeezing and rolling your nipple between your fingertips. You felt the warmth of his hand as it settled onto your leg and then slid up your thigh. Your opposite leg curled up to brace your foot against the bed, opening your stance wider as you moved the vibrator exactly the way you needed it.
“Fuck,” he rasped hoarsely, and you could feel the heat of his breath on your skin. His fingers grazed lightly over your pussy, but quickly withdrew.
“You can touch me,” you gasped.
He didn’t move immediately, and you continued to work yourself closer and closer to your orgasm, feeling the tension gather in your body and begin to tighten in on your center. Then his fingertips brushed over your cunt again, and you felt his lips and tongue descend on your hip. He didn’t try to take control, just touched you softly, kissing and licking and watching as you played with yourself.
You adjusted your position again, bringing your leg against his body, and you felt his slick, rigid cock press hard against you. You whimpered, so turned on you couldn’t even form words, and in response, he ground his erection against you. He kissed across your pelvis until he reached your belly, pressing his face into you.
“I’m so close,” you panted.
“Kriff, me too,” he growled.
His fingertip grazed into you, and your body jerked as you gasped sharply. He froze, and without thinking, you moved your hand away from your breast to grab his wrist and push him deeper. With an urgent grunt, he began to move his finger, stroking exactly where he knew you needed him.
Abruptly, your hips arched off the bed, and you let out an inhuman wail. If your brain had been functioning, you might have also heard Wolffe’s rough groan, but at the moment, you were aware of nothing but blinding, shattering pleasure as your body finally found the release it had been denied for so many hours. You jerked the vibrator away as the intensity suddenly became too much, and your body convulsed again and again until at last you collapsed onto the bed, utterly spent.
Wolffe covered you with frantic kisses, crawling up your body until he reached your face. His body hovered over you as his tongue brushed between your lips and flooded your mouth with his taste. Your arms wrapped around his torso as your legs tightened around his hips, and you pulled him into you. His cock slid easily, and he thrust hard and fast, fucking you through the last tremors of your orgasm.
He came within seconds, flooding you with heat as he thrust hard, one last time, burying his cock as deep as he could inside your body. He stayed there, his entire body taut, until at last he exhaled a hard breath and relaxed onto you. His lips broke away from yours, and he rested his forehead against the pillow next to your head.
“Fuck,” he panted, the word hot against your ear. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”
You stroked your hands up and down his back, digging your nails lightly into his skin. He groaned and slumped heavily against your body. You loved the weight of him on top of you, but before long, you began to wheeze quietly as you struggled to draw breath. He heard the shift and immediately rolled off of you, pulling you against himself as he came to rest on the bed.
“Thank you,” you whispered as you pressed your lips to his chest.
He laughed quietly. “Thank you. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Worth the wait?” you asked.
“Worth everything,” he murmured, drawing you even closer. “Everything, and more. You always have been.”
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I'm screaming at a pitch only dogs can hear. I love love love the sense of realism this has. The all-too-familiar frustration of reader, but also the unswerving patience of Wolffe. 10/10, no notes, outstanding.
