there's simply not enough octo!Cas x pirate!Dean AU fics out there; I also liked the idea of trans!Dean where his top surgery scars mirror cecaelia Cas' own gills... and so... this collaboration with @wolfiepyxie was born 💁
if a flag for this already exists, consider mine to be an alt.
flag made by alex (he/⦻/ark/it).
BPD doomed attraction - anyone with BPD who feels as though their attraction (of any kind) is doomed due to ones BPD.
[image ID: a rectangular flag with 6 horizontal stripes. the colours of the stripes, from top to bottom, are: almost-black dark magenta, very dark purple-indigo, dark muted magenta, very dark muted pink, dark muted red-pink, almost-black dark magenta. in the center of the flag is the hand of eris symbol for BPD, which is muted pink-red. end image ID.]
REPAYMENT WITH INTEREST. — m!Avery x gender neutral reader.
Description — Your dad takes care of you. All you want to do is show a little gratitude.
Content Warnings — Incest, daddy kink, reader has a cunt, unprotected sex, mild dubcon (reader surprises Avery with being forward but he ends up being into it)
Word Count — 2288
Getting your dad's attention has always been hard. It's a competition between his work and you, you and his work, and you are more of a fixed point in his life than the whimsy of the stock market, so he expects you to always be right where you're supposed to be. Occupied with your diversions except for when it's dinnertime, vacation time, or the odd occasion when he lets you join him for a social function.
It's the last one that you like best.
At first, you thought it was because of how exciting it is to go where all the beautiful, powerful people play, surrounded by glamour and excess. It's almost always nicer than going to school or work.
But in actuality, there's always one moment you return to: your fixed point in your relationship with him.
You were just being cute, hanging onto his arm with your head leaned against him; one of your not-so-subtle tells that you're finished for the night and want to go back to the hotel room. The conversation he was caught in kept dragging on and you knew better than to interrupt.
Someone else did that for you, though, slipping into the conversational circle with lighthearted greetings, and you offered whoever it was a polite smile that showed your tiredness around the eyes.
"Aren't you a sleepy thing," this new person observed with a laugh. "Avery, you should be spiriting your partner away to bed, don't you think?"
The question left your heart feeling so light in your chest it woke you up with a jolt. Your cheeks warmed and you couldn't think of a word to say in response. Your father, on the other hand, you could feel tensing.
"This is my child, actually. Not my partner," he responded in a well-practiced casual tone. He omitted mentioning that his wife, your mother, had died, and he would rather take his child along for a night out as a treat than attend alone.
Silence followed, awkward and uncomfortable for a couple beats before apologies spilled forth. Your dad waved things off, clearly eager to get past that social hiccup, and so it left you alone in thinking about what just happened.
Things played out normally that night, for the most part. You both left for the hotel, said good night, and settled into your respective rooms in the suite to settle in.
You were awake in bed, eyes on the ceiling, thinking about your dad. Obsessing over him. Thinking of how muscular his arm felt under your hands, the scent of his cologne, how confident he was. Heat stirred in your stomach and it was the first time you touched yourself to the thought of your dad's hands on your skin.
Certainly not the last, though.
And that's what brings you to him tonight, wearing something a little bold, a little daring that you bought with his money to show off what, exactly, he's been investing in. Distance made your heart grow desperate so that kicked off your impulse to catch him when he returned from a business trip.
You haven't seen each other in two weeks but you see him now, suit jacket slung over a chair in the home bar, whiskey in hand, the shadow of stubble on his lip and jaw and you can imagine the way it would catch on your fingertips and mouth.
He looks tired. Maybe even in a bad mood. It gives you pause but before you can begin to step back from the doorway, he looks over and catches you. Quietly assesses you. His eyes flit down your form and it makes you feel naked.
"...What are you wearing?" he asks haltingly, and it sounds like the most uncertain you've ever heard him be.
With little opportunity to escape that wouldn't just delay the inevitable, you steel yourself, raise your chin like he taught you. "Lingerie, Daddy."
There's a tick in his brow that makes you feel like you've made a misstep but you hold strong. You try to look as brave as you can, dressed in delicate lace and not much else. The important bits are covered but the cut and design draws attention to what's hidden rather than outright obscuring it all. Flattering. Custom-fit and tailored to you and you alone.
"Lingerie," he repeats after knocking back the rest of his drink and setting it down firmly on the bar top. "Would you like to explain why you're wearing lingerie?"
You invite yourself closer with a sway in your hips, looking almost demure aside from your outfit, with hands tucked behind your back and your eyes — you were always told that you have your late mother's eyes — dropping to the floor instead of meeting his.
"...Because I want you to look at me," you finally say as you come to a stop in front of him.
He's so tall. This close, you can smell his cologne. You want to feel the heat of his skin.
"I'm looking at you, sunshine, what is this abou—"
You drop to your knees on the cold, tiled floor, your hands on his thighs, and once again you feel him tense. Now, you look at him. And he dares to look back, to meet those eyes of yours, to see a sight that's so eerily familiar and yet so wrong all the same.
But he doesn't stop you as you pull the tongue of his belt free, leather sliding over leather. Nor when you unfasten the buckle, the button and zipper on his slacks, and dip your fingers past the waistband of his underwear. He's hard — that much is apparent, even in his reluctance — and you groan when his length bobs to stiffness once you tug his clothes down far enough.
"Let me take care of you this time, Daddy, you do so much for me," you murmur as you lean in to nuzzle against the velvety skin of his cock.
He jolts at your touch but he relaxes somewhat. A hand settles atop your head and you peek up at him, eyes hazy and pleading, heart skipping at how he's letting you continue. It's better than you could have ever hoped.
So you don't want to disappoint him or keep him waiting: you dip down to lick from the base of his cock up to the tip with the flat of your tongue. The taste of him makes your eyes flutter and you take him past your lips with a soft noise of pleasure. His hips twitch forward and you let him sink farther into your mouth with little complaint.
But you one-up him and keep going, slowly and steadily, until you take him down to the base. The effort has tears stinging in your eyes and your throat protesting against the intrusion, but you stay down for a few long beats. Eyes half-lidded. Getting wet between your thighs. Then you draw back in a mess of drool and precum all to go down again, throating him as best as you can.
"Oh, darling," he sighs out, petting at you as you go, hips rocking forward to match your pace. "When did you learn to do that?"
That makes you smile around the cock in your mouth and it encourages you to keep going, to speed up, to work until you feel him tense for a different reason this time.
He fucks your mouth in earnest once he's sure you can take it, drawing out sounds of choking and wet, making a mess of your face and neck and chest and lingerie and your eyes roll back from how good it feels to be used by him. You hold yourself down and let him do as he pleases until he drags you off his cock, making you whine once you're done coughing and clearing your throat.
Spit connects your mouth to him. He strokes your cheek, regardless of how filthy you've become, and you lean into his hand without hesitation though you keep eyeing his twitching cock with the intent to suck it again.
"I know you want more, sweet thing," he says soothingly, voice rumbling lower in his chest in a way that makes you purr in kind. "But let me take care of you too now."
He hauls you up into his arms and you smile and laugh in delight, only for your mouth to be taken by his — your father kisses you with abandon even with your mouth heavy with his taste, your face dripping with your efforts. The kiss continues even as he gets your back to a wall and rearranges your limbs to get your legs around his waist. Your lips meet with warmth and desire, breathlessness, an ache so close to being soothed.
Your clothes are shifted by his steady hand until your hot, slick cunt is bared to him. A whine is drawn from your mouth when he rubs roughly over your core to catch your clit and feel how turned on you are.
"Do you think you can take me?" he asks, voice soft and betraying a hint of concern.
"I know I can, Daddy," is your immediate reply.
The chuckle in his chest is reward enough as you feel it reverberate. He takes your word for it, out of trust and out of his own need to be sank as deep as he can inside you to sate you both, and lines himself up. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders to dig your nails into the fabric of his dress shirt and hold on as he rolls his hips up to bottom out deep into your pussy.
It makes you keen out and cling to him that much harder. He has to pause once he's settled, almost as if to school himself into not cumming already, you feel so good on his cock.
Savoring you. In disbelief that he's balls deep in you. When he pulls his hips back only to buck forward again, he's fucking you.
It's wrong. Deeply wrong. Blood and sex shouldn't mix like this. Past the fog in your brain as your father finds the perfect pace to fuck you at — urgent, firm, plunging deep into you only to draw out and bury himself inside again as quickly as possible — you blearily wonder if you'll both regret this. Tomorrow will come, and you worry that this might be all and this one illicit romp will be all you can claim.
Your father doesn't seem to have the same reservations when he noses against you to have you tip your head back, all for him to capture your mouth with a groan — your worried thoughts dim as you surrender yourself to his easy dominance.
All that matters is that he's fucking you. That you can feel him deep inside you. Raw and hot and yours for now.
Your cunt is a mess. It drips down the curve of your ass, down your dad's cock to stain his perfectly-ironed pants. It sinks in that he didn't even bother to undress further all in his eagerness to have you.
Pleasure deeper than what he's making your body feel lights you up inside and you whine out "Daddy" into his mouth in your exaltation.
"I'm right here, darling... You're being so good for me."
His head moves to tuck itself into the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. You're a breath away from protesting when you feel the graze of teeth on your skin, the suction of his mouth, and you're near-dizzy realizing that he's marking you. Always, always his. Always have been.
Always will be.
He grinds against your clit with every thrust and the friction sends you closer and closer to your peak. Futile, but you try to move your hips with his in your desperation to cum all over the cock that made you. It's clear to him what you want so he pounds you into the wall harder, determined to get you both there, kissing your skin and grunting with the effort.
You cum first. It's strong and full-bodied, making your back arch and has you clinging to him that much harder. Your legs around his waist keep him sank inside of you as your cunt squeezes and spasms around him without any chance of pulling out. It's not as if he tries to. So he's quick to join you with quick, shallow pumps as he fills you with his cum.
As you both come down, twitching and breathless, you nuzzle against him with a noise of contentment. He kisses your forehead and moves to let your legs down and have you stand but you protest. Laughing fondly, he fixes his pants then gathers you up in his arms and carries you off, up the stairs, pausing once he ascends to the landing.
Considering, between your room and his.
It occurs to you that you don't remember the last time he carried you to bed.
He turns and walks to his room.
It occurs to you that you don't remember the last time you both slept in the same bed.
This time, however, he sets you down and pulls the sheets over you. For a few moments, he's gone and all you hear is the sound of fabric rustling. The mattress dips behind you and you're drawn into his arms back against his bare chest.
When was the last time he had someone else in this bed?
A kiss is pressed to the nape of your neck and he squeezes you tight. Safe and sound. Questions were to be saved for tomorrow, but for the night, nothing more complicated than slumber.
The Miqo’te woman stood behind the parapet on the juggernaught’s observation platform, wind and clouds sweeping past her face, ice threatening to form on her armor.
She might’ve shivered, if she had remembered to do so.
An electric crackle in her ear let her know someone inside was about to speak.
“Nyx, we are near our flight ceiling and over the target area,” the voice crackled in her ear, coming from a small disc-like magitek device that was nestled there. “Second flight has eyes on the eikon and is softening it up with indirect fire support. Drop in thirty,” a pause, “we will not be able to stay. The aether is strongly split between the ice and wind aspects this high, and it’s interfering with the engines. You’re going to be alone.”
The miqo’te nodded, and stepped up onto the parapet itself. Her tiny form was silhouetted against a dark sky, nothing but clouds below her, nothing but stars above. She could not see, but she knew what she would find far down below those clouds.
The scourge of mankind.
She was hard to see out here, like this. Her armor was dark, and her skin was darker. As a result, her face stood out, with its one silvery-ringed artificial eye on one side of her face, and white face paint on the whole other half.
She counted down silently alongside a display in her vision, and at the proper moment, she stepped off the parapet as casually as any other may have stepped off a stair.
And then she was free.
The juggernaught and the starry night sky fell away from her as she re-oriented herself to be head down, using her arms and legs to steer herself as much as she was able. She strained against the wind as it whipped past her, and then she plunged into the clouds. Water condensed against her skin as she fell through the sky, unable to see anything except the dark pale gray of clouds at night.
And then she was through.
There were two cloud layers she had to travel through this night, and she had just broken through the higher one. The lower one sat several hundred feet below her. Two silvery gray quilts, billowy yet solid, each stretching as far as she could see. The moon was nestled in between them somewhere beyond the unseen edge, providing a silvery light to everything.
Here she was truly alone.
Here, she was truly free. Out of range of communication of the juggernaught, not yet in range of the ground or aerial forces that were already engaged with one of the dreaded eikons.
Just her, and sky, and wind, and moon, and clouds. She was in her element in this, completely at home in the place of her namesake.
It was a feeling she did not know how to describe but she loved it. She was full. Complete. Halfway between the etherial unknowable stars and the firmament, suspended in between two worlds.
And then she was through the lower cloud layer, and a minute later, the crackle of communications began in her ear. She rolled herself up into a ball, re-orienting herself to be feet down. Below, she could already see the path of devastation that the raging devastator of man had wrought, as well as the rockets and bullets peppering into it.
She pulled onto the aether that was flowing through and around her, finding the wind aspect, and focused, manifesting it, slowing herself before deploying her parachute.
The experience was brief, but heady. She would not forget it, as she never did, but it was time to fulfill her purpose.
“Anti-eikon infantry unit Nyx entering the combat zone,” she relayed over her communicator.
“The eikon is the enemy,” came back.
“And the enemy exists only to be destroyed,” she replied on reflex, as her feet touched ground.
