#soft waves threaded with sweat and sticking to his forehead

[littlelamy]

title: catching him cheating

warnings: 18+, language, angst, part 1 part 2 part 3 (mon)

your fingers trace the tiny locket sewn into the soft fabric of his ralph lauren sweater, the little heart stitched onto the chest like a secret. you’d spent hours threading it in, thinking of how cute it would be when rafe saw it—how he'd smirk, maybe tease you, then kiss your head murmuring 'i love you' because, despite everything, he was soft for you.

except he wasn’t. not really. because when you push open the door to his house, already grinning, already calling his name, all you hear is the wet slap of skin against skin, a low groan that is unmistakably his.

“fuck—sofia—”

it’s a wrecking ball to the ribs, a sharp inhale that never makes it out. you stand frozen in the doorway, your hand still mid-air from where you'd been about to wave, like an idiot. like the world hadn’t just caved in beneath your feet.

sofia is bent over the couch, hands gripping the leather, her back arching as rafe pounds into her, his fingers digging into her hips so hard they’ll leave bruises. she moans his name, and his head is thrown back, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, lost in the pleasure of it, of her.

then he sees you.

“fuck.” he rips himself away so fast sofia stumbles forward, making a choked noise. but your eyes are on him, the way his pupils blow wide in something that is almost fear but not quite—more like the horror of being caught, of knowing exactly how bad this is but being powerless to rewind time.

“baby—no, no, please, it’s not—”

you don’t hear the excuse because your ears are ringing, heartbeat a war drum against your ribs. the blood drains from your face, leaving only cold, only static, only the unbearable weight of betrayal pressing down on your chest.

sofia scrambles to gather her clothes, half-stammering apologies as if she weren’t just moaning his name, but she isn’t the problem here. he is.

“you don’t get to call me that,” you whisper, voice shaking but sharp enough to cut. you swallow hard, jaw tight. “you don’t get to fucking call me that.”

rafe moves toward you like he actually thinks he can fix this, like he can close the distance and make you forget the image already seared into your mind. “please, you have to let me explain—”

“explain what?” your voice cracks, eyes burning. “that you’re a liar? a fucking cheat?”

“it was a mistake,” he swears, desperation creeping in. “i fucked up. i'm drunk, i—”

“no.” your laugh is humorless, sharp. “you don’t just trip and land inside someone, rafe.”

his face twists, frustration curling at the edges, and suddenly the remorse cracks, something uglier slipping through. like a switch flipping.

“fuck, fine,” he snaps, raking a hand through his hair, voice laced with irritation now. “you wanna be a drama queen about this? go ahead. but don’t act like you’re fucking perfect.”

it’s laughable. disgusting. you shake your head, staring at him like you don’t even know him anymore. maybe you never did.

“you are such a fucking coward,” you murmur, voice quiet but scathing. you take a step back, one foot already out the door. “don’t ever speak to me again.”

and for the first time, he looks scared. really scared. because he knows you mean it.

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl

[becertainlust]

can you PLEASE write where law and reader are doing it raw for the first time and he’s struggling to last (they’ve done it many times before just with a condom)🌚🌚🌚🌚

PURE HONEY | Trafalgar Law

synopsis: 'Talm bout in it'

content: smut.

You both had done this before — over and over, across stolen moments carved out of time and space. Always with love, always with hunger. Law knows your body better than most things in this world. He knew the way your breath hitched just before you moaned, the shiver that rippled through you before your body seized. He was no stranger to the way you fit against him.

But tonight was different.

There was no barrier between you. No latex buffer, no flimsy illusion of distance. Just your heat — raw, unfiltered, and real — wrapped around him like it had always been meant to be there similar to that of a missing puzzle piece.

The moment he pushed into you bare, his mind blanked. You were everywhere. All heat and softness and this impossible tightness, pulling him in and locking him down. It wasn’t just physical. It never really was — but now, it was undeniable. This was something else. Something he was losing his mind to because the grip you had on him wasn’t just with your body — it was in his blood now, in his bones.

He tried to keep control, tried to keep the rhythm measured, deliberate, but he was failing— failing miserably. His hips faltered, stuttered. The tempo grew messy, erratic — a battle between discipline and pleasure, and pleasure was winning fast. You felt every twitch, every strained breath, every groan he swallowed down. You knew what it meant when his thrusts turned sharp, frantic. You knew him too well — and you weren't helping either.

You talked him through it all, filth spilling from your lips like it was scripture, like you wanted him to come undone.

And he did. Almost.

“Baby,” you breathed, your voice a velvet blade against his cheek. Gentle and devastating. “It’s okay. You can cum in me.”

His gaze dropped to your hand, hovering just above the faint bulge in your belly where he was buried so deep it was obscene.

A low, guttural sound tore from his chest— not just a moan, but something deeper than a groan. Something like indulgence. Something starving. He surged into you, deeper than before, chasing that high, the crash of need he couldn’t outrun. His grip tightened on your thighs as he shoved them back, folding you beneath him in a desperate mating press that had your ankles brushing your ears.

“Shit—fuck, fuck—” he gasped, the curse bitten between his teeth as he rutted into the tight, slippery heat that gripped him like a vice.

His rhythm was gone — lost to instinct and need. Sloppy, deep, punishing thrusts that drove him harder into the mess he’d made. Skin slapped against skin, loud and wet, your bodies sticking together with sweat and come. He never looked away from your face — not even when he bit down on his bottom lip so hard it almost split.

And then he broke.

He came with a curse, hips locked tight against you, emptying himself in hard, helpless pulses as he collapsed forward, forehead buried in your shoulder. His breath hitched against your skin, damp and uneven. you held him, fingers threading through his hair as his body trembled through it.

But even as the last waves of orgasm passed, Law didn’t move.

He didn’t soften.

Didn’t pull out.

Didn’t stop.

Instead, his hand slid under your thigh again, lifting it, spreading you wider as he rolled his hips slowly — deliberately — into the mess he’d just made.

Still hard. Still inside.

“…I’m not done,” he rasped, voice rough and dark against your ear. “I need more.”

The air between you both thickened. The kind of heat that didn’t fade with release, only rooted deeper. Law hadn’t moved far. His weight was still pressed to you, chest rising and falling against you, and yet his hips… they never really stopped.

Still buried inside you, he moved again.

You gasped — a sound half-shocked, half-wanting — as he rolled his hips again, deeper, slower this time. A grind that dragged him against every sensitive part of you, forcing your body to react even when you thought you had nothing left to give.

“You feel that?” he muttered, voice like sandpaper and honey, catching in the hollow of your throat. “How warm you are… how wet…”

You whimpered, nails digging into his back. He was still trembling — not from weakness, but restraint. Barely tethered. His heart beat like a war drum against your chest, and you could feel it — not just the physical thrum, but the storm it masked. The way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left.

His hand cupped your face, tilting your head so your eyes met. His gaze was molten, pupils blown wide and dark. The mask he usually wore — of control, calculation,— had cracked completely. Now you saw what lay beneath: hunger, yes, but something softer, something that scared him even more.

“I should stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “But I don’t want to. I can’t.”

You didn’t answer with words. You pulled him down into a kiss — deep, consuming, tongue meeting his in a way that said mine. And he groaned into it, hips stuttering again, this time less restrained.

He started to move — slow at first, then harder, like he was chasing the ghost of the last orgasm, like he needed to be closer. Needed to be in you, with you, as much as humanly possible. There was no space between your bodies. No light. No air. Just heat and the wet slide of skin on skin, his name on your lips like a litany, and his breath hitting your throat like a promise.

“I love you,” you whispered, because it was true and you needed him to know. “Even when you're like this. Especially when you’re like this.”

His body jerked — not from pleasure this time, but from the weight of your words. He stopped for a moment, just a second, staring down at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said it.

Then, with a growl, he melts his mouth to yours and drove himself into you again.

Hard. Deep. Like he was answering you without saying it.

He didn’t let up.

If anything, the need clawing under his skin grew sharper — raw and reckless. His hips rolled with a newfound desperation, grinding into the mess he’d already spilled inside you, thick and wet and obscene. The sound of it, slick and sinful, filled the room in time with your gasps.

And still, he stayed buried. Still pulsing. Still impossibly hard.

Your thighs trembled, overstimulated, but his grip was unrelenting — fingers bruising into the soft flesh just beneath your knee as he folded you deeper, pushing your legs up until your knees brushed your chest.

A mating press.

That’s what it was. He was fucking you into the mattress now, deeper than before, every thrust grinding into a place that made your vision spark. His body caged yours completely, chest flush to yours, the heat of his skin smothering, grounding, anchoring you to the moment.

“I love you,” he groaned into you chest. Like something sacred. His voice was gravel against your throat, and then his lips followed, dragging down your neck in hungry, open-mouthed kisses.

And then came the hickeys.

Hot, wet, possessive kisses that turned sharp — teeth grazing, lips sucking. He marked you without shame, like he needed proof that this was real, that you were his. A constellation bloomed along your collarbone, down the slope of your breast, over your ribs — his mouth everywhere, relentless, reverent.

He groaned when you arched into him, your body too raw to bear it and yet begging for more. The overstimulation curled inside you like a live wire — every thrust, every suck of his mouth pulled you higher, dragged you closer to the edge you thought you already fell from.

“You feel that?” he murmured against the skin of your throat, voice hoarse. “That mess I put in you? I can feel it too — every time I fuck it deeper.”

Your breath hitched — a broken sound. His words sank into you like a match to kerosene. You were soaked, swollen, trembling beneath him, your body betraying you with how desperately it still wanted, needed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — hair damp with sweat, lips parted, golden eyes blown black with lust. And he smiled. Just a little. Just enough to show his control was slipping.

“You gonna give me another one?” he rasped, rocking into you slow, deep. “Let me feel you tighten around me again, baby. Let me ruin you properly.”

You nodded, mouth too slack to form words, only sobs and yeses falling from your lips as he pistoned into you harder now — not fast, but precise. Each thrust angled, punishing, drawn from memory and need. He kissed you through it — messy, tongue-heavy, like he couldn’t get enough of you, not even now.

And just before the world shattered again, just before your body broke open a second time, he whispered:

“I’m not stopping until you’re leaking me for days.”

And then you did.

You came with a cry that ripped the air open, and he groaned — feral and low — following you over the edge again, hips locking down, cock twitching inside you as he emptied himself one more time. Less controlled this time. Sloppier. Deeper.

But still, he didn’t pull out.

His hand cupped your face again. Gentle now. Thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he kissed your forehead — slow, deliberate, grounding you as the aftershocks rippled through you both.

“…Still not done,” he muttered, more to himself now. “Not until I’ve filled you so much you dream of me.”

[waynes-multiverse]

Ok hear me out. I got this idea after the episode of Dean getting his "virginity" back and hooking up with the porn star when he's digging through her dresser and finds the DVD of her ANYWAY

Best friend Dean who's been pining after you for sooo long but doesn't want to fuck it up and lose you. You're hanging out when you ask him to go grab something from your room and he's digging through your drawers looking and accidentally comes across some lingerie and now it's days later and he's so hot and bothered cuz he can't think of anything else (the boy has a serious panty kink lets be honest) and you catch him in your room going through your drawers again and OH

A/N: As I warned y'all, this is a longer DD because, well, the prompt was long, so it's not really my fault. All that backstory took on a life of its own, but I think no one will be mad about it 😅 Again, I had tons of fun with this one! You'll see 🤣

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSWF, a ridiculous heat wave, friends to lovers (Wayne's Version), crack, a panty kink, some sneaky fluff, and some hot lovin' aka smut (oral f & face sitting)

Word Count: 4.5k (whoops)

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles

Cruel Summer

“You open the beaches on the 4th of July, it’s like ringing the dinner bell for Christ’s sake…”

As Jaws flickered across the screen in the Dean Cave, the green-eyed hunter adjusted himself in his seat. Usually, he had perfect control over himself and his feelings for you.

But on some days – like today – when you sat right next to him on the couch in nothing but a loose t-shirt and some short sweatpants, fanning yourself with an old magazine of Busty Asian Beauties as beads of salty sweat collected on your forehead and trickled down your neck, you made it hard for him.

“God, I’m so hot,” you sighed exhaustively and sunk further into the couch cushions, lifting your shirt from your sticky skin to let some cool air to your boobs as a heat wave ravaged through Kansas.

Painfully hard.

“Dean?” You pouted with your best puppy dog look at your best friend.

“Huh?” Dean was in trance, watching you more than the movie, always on the edge of getting caught one of these days.

“We’re out of Sour Patch Kids. I have more in my nightstand. Can you get them for me please?” you asked sweetly. “I don’t wanna move. I might actually die from heat exhaustion.”

Dean sighed and wordlessly rose from his seat. He knew you always kept an array of salty and sweet midnight snacks in your room in case you got hungry and didn’t want to wander into the kitchen in the middle of the night.

Moreover, he was grateful for the break. God knows he couldn’t stand to be around you any longer, or he would’ve been too tempted to rip your clothes off and really make you sweat.

I’ll show her a damn heat exhaustion, he thought with a scoff.

Hastily grabbing the desired snack, his green eyes then caught something red and lacy sticking out from the first drawer of your dresser. The hunter knew the decent and honest thing would’ve been to just keep moving and leave your godforsaken room.

Turn around, as Bonnie Tyler sang. But for some reason, his bright eyes couldn’t resist, his curiosity overtaking him.

Dean opened the drawer with the intention to push the naughty little clothing item back into its place and out of sight. Get rid of the temptation, so to speak. It sounded like the perfect loophole. He got to touch it and look at it, but for a very heroic and noble reason – not because he was a creepy perv, violating his best friend’s privacy.

On some level, Dean knew he’d never stand a chance with you. He wasn’t good enough. He had so much baggage all his suitcases wouldn’t even fit into the bunker.

A damn touch of a pair of panties you weren’t even wearing was all he would ever get from you.

But then his fingers touched the soft and see-through material, his pads tracing every delicate scarlet thread with precision and care. It was game over for him then and there, cursing himself internally for not resisting harder as his cock twitched joyfully in his jeans.

Dean had laid his eyes on you the second you strolled with swinging hips into that diner in Wichita for your very first case together, a werewolf hunt six years ago. And he had managed to get by without an incident for years since then, even when you moved into the bunker, being rather proud of that achievement. He never wanted to lose you as a friend and didn’t dare to cross a line. Ever.

Recently, though, it became more difficult to keep his distance and not let his thoughts wander. His feelings were magma that slowly had filled a volcano over the years. Each time you did something sexy or sweet or goofy or smart, another drop was added. And now, that damn fire mountain was overdue for an eruption – no thanks to that stupid heat wave.

“Thanks,” you said absentmindedly as the hunter handed you the candy but didn’t settle back down. Instead, he stood behind the sofa and leaned his hands on the backrest.

What you didn’t know, though, was that Dean was sporting quite the boner and wouldn’t dare to come into your line of view. He was surprised he could even walk up straight and not like a caveman early in the evolution.

A hunter gathering panties.

“I’m gonna hit the hay,” he told you with a somber clear of his throat. As the fan carried a breeze of your perfume to his nose, his grip tightened on the couch.

You turned in your seat and looked over your shoulder at him, raising a surprised brow. “Already? But the movie’s not over.”

“Yeah, I’m beat,” he excused and tried his best not to look strained. He forced a tight smile to his lips while his little dude celebrated Spring Break in his jeans. “‘Sides, we’ve seen Jaws like a million times now, Y/N.”

It was a cherished summer tradition between the two of you, watching it every 4th of July.

“I guess so.” You shrugged disappointedly, watching your best friend retreat to his room. Truth was, you loved spending time with Dean and held those little traditions close to your heart.

The Winchesters were your family, the only one you ever had. And while some families wore matching pajamas on Christmas morning, you watched the first two Die Hard movies. You would watch Dean’s favorite horror movies on Halloween. Sixteen Candles and High Fidelity on your birthday, Tombstone and The Great Escape on Dean’s, and some lame-ass foreign language documentaries that you both snored through on Sam’s.

Valentine’s Day was a dreaded non-holiday for all three of you, but for the past four years, someone would leave a box of chocolate in front of your door. The salted caramel ones would always be missing, and it always came with the same Forrest Gump quote:

I’m not a smart man, but I know what love is.

You knew the anonymous someone was Dean, and you knew he meant it as a joke. Still, you clung to those little traditions. They might seem silly and stupid to some, but to you, they were your lifeline in a world full of darkness.

So, you felt rather saddened Dean didn’t seem to honor them anymore. It wasn’t just Jaws, either. He’d been withdrawing from you for a while, and you didn’t understand why.

Unbeknownst to you, the green-eyed hunter had kept a lacy souvenir from your room.

Now, Dean had managed to avoid you for four days. Every night since his stealthy excursion, he would lie in his bed with your stolen panties in one hand and his throbbing length in the other, feeling goddamn pathetic for sinking so low.

It was probably so low that even his memory foam mattress would remember it.

With closed eyes, he then imagined how the perky globes of your ass would look like covered in crimson lace. How you would stretch out on his bed on all fours, with your ass high in the air and wiggling in front of him. How his fingers would push the wicked material aside to push into you, taking you deep and hard while you moaned his name.

As he ruined tissue after tissue, the guilt would wash over him as soon as he was done. Call it a post-nut epiphany.

Dean knew it was wrong to think those things. He knew he only made it harder for himself to ever look you into the eyes again. Hell, he barely could do it now, even though a part of him audaciously wondered what other treasures were hiding in that drawer of yours. And more pressingly, what ultimate wealth he would find beneath your clothes. If your lingerie was gold, he’d be a creepy-ass dragon sitting on it.

So, Dean tried to avoid you as best as possible. Mostly because, well…

“God, fuck me,” you groaned exhaustively and opened the refrigerator door, leaning against it as the refreshing cold hit you from behind. On top of that, you held a big bag of frozen peas to your sweaty chest. You already wore the bare minimum – some short denims and a white tank top, your hair up in a messy bun.

“I swear underboob sweat is the worst. Just be glad you don’t have tits,” you complained. “Guys, seriously, can we invest in an AC? This heat wave is killing me! This bunker is like one giant oven…”

You watched as Dean squirmed in his seat as he ate his cereal, looking as uncomfortable as you. Surely, the boys were suffering just as badly during those sweltering temperatures, already forgoing the usual flannels and opting for plain t-shirts instead. How they were still wearing jeans was beyond you. When you first moved in, you protested against Dean’s suggestion of Naked Tuesdays, but these days, you were actually giving it a second thought.

“Well, I’m gonna drive to Kansas City today and see if I can get us an AC. Apparently, they’re all sold out, but I figured maybe with a bit of flirting and some cleavage, I can still get us one,” you explained your plan with a bright smirk and wiggled your eyebrows. “What d’you guys think, huh?”

Dean then abruptly banged his fist on the table, spilling some milk from his bowl on the surface. “For God’s sake, Y/N!”

You frowned in confusion at his unexpected outburst. “What’s up with you? Are you having a heat stroke?”

“Flirting, really?!” the hunter barked, his brow shaped into a deeply furious v.

“What’s wrong with that? Double standard much? You do it all the time to get shit,” you countered and watched his jaw clench in anger.

“I do-... not,” he remarked snappily with a fierce finger drilling into the table, clearly lacking a good argument. Sam cleared his throat in agreement with you, but that only earned him a glare. “And Jesus fucking Christ, would it hurt you to put on some goddamn clothes? You’re not even wearing a bra!”

“Did you not hear my tits rant just now? Of course I’m not! ‘Sides, those boobs are gonna get you an AC, so be a little more grateful to them,” you retorted, annoyed with his attitude. You’d think of all the people in this world, Dean Winchester would understand. (And maybe even appreciate it.) “And how can you even tell, huh?”

“‘Cause science, Y/N! You’re literally cooling your tits! What did you think was gonna happen, huh? Nipples!” he vented outrageously. “This ain’t a strip club!”

“It’s 102 degrees, Dean!” you argued, throwing your arms up. “Look, if I could, I’d even go naked, alright? It’s fucking hot!”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Dean shook his head and stormed out of the kitchen without any further comment.

Confused, you blinked at the younger Winchester. “What’s up with him?”

But Sam only shrugged, shaking his head. “Uhm, I don’t know,” he replied, although he could take an educated guess, suspecting his brother’s feelings for you as the culprit.

“Well, alright, I’m going to Kansas City,” you decided without wasting another thought on the older Winchester’s strange behavior. “Text me if you guys need something. I can pick it up on my way home.”

Dean knew he was in deep trouble as his bow legs bolted down the bunker’s hallways. He tried so hard to keep it together, but when he saw you, half-naked and panting in front of the fridge, he quite literally lost his coolness in this goddamn heat wave.

The green-eyed hunter understood a thing or two about torture, but this was the worst of all. He’d rather have a demon repeatedly peel off his skin in hellfire than endure a day more of this fucking madness.

If the temperatures didn’t drop soon, it would be a cruel summer ahead of him.

As Dean heard the door to the garage close, he knew you’d left for your trip and exhaled a deep sigh of relief. At least he’d get a few hours of peace.

With the best intentions, he strolled to his bedroom, but as he passed your room on his way, he found the door ajar. Whatever good motives he had up until this point, went quickly out the window right then.

His hand twitched at the thought of more riches, worse than any trigger finger and competing with a California earthquake, and well, so did the dick in his jeans. It was an addiction at this point, an obsession he couldn’t resist nor get rid off. The fact that it was forbidden and wrong only made it even more appealing. The apple in the garden of Eden.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t an anonymous support group for this kind of sickness.

As unbearable shame and guilt collected in his stomach like rainwater in the gutter, his eager hands rummaged through your dresser drawer. There was purple lace and black satin, navy G-strings and white Brazilians. It was never ending, and the hunter couldn’t stop as he picked up each item and let his fantasies roam wild.

God, the things he wanted to do to you were as colorful as your rainbow full of underwear.

“Dean?!”

The green-eyed hunter froze in his place, a white lace panty still bunched up in his large palm. The hair in the back of his neck stood up in shock, a part of him refusing to turn around at the sound of your voice. He was caught red-handed, and he knew it.

“What are you doing in my room?” you prompted, suspiciously cocking an eyebrow. It looked fairly obvious what your best friend was up to, but you didn’t want to accuse him right away, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Frankly, it was quite unbelievable.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Dean replied and swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he held up his hands like a criminal during an arrest, the evidence still in his grasp.

“Well, it looks like you’re snooping through my lingerie,” you pointed out bluntly.

Dean nodded, guilt-ridden and reluctant. “I can explain.”

“Good,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m waiting…”

“Right, uhm…”

“Oh, before you scramble for an answer, you should know, though, that I’m aware a pair of red lace panties is missing, and I know the washer didn’t eat them,” you said and raised an expectant brow.

You had a feeling your pervy best friend was behind the mystery of the missing item. Now you knew for sure.

“Man, I always knew you were a kinky son of a bitch, but this is a new level, Dean,” you scolded.

Dean’s gaze dropped to the floor in shame, scratching the nape of his neck. “Look, uhm, there’s no good excuse. I know I fucked up here. I’ll sleep in a motel tonight until I find my own place. You can stay here with Sam, alright? I’ll move out and won’t bother you anymore.”

As he tried to brush past you, you blocked his exit and grabbed his arm. “So, you’re gonna leave? Just like that?”

“What other choice do I have? I don’t wanna make you more uncomfortable,” he stated without glancing at you once. He couldn’t bring himself to look into your eyes and see the disappointment and disgust there. “I know what I did was wrong.”

“Oh, so wrong,” you agreed. “I just figured you wouldn’t run away like a coward and take your punishment like a man, you know? Aren’t you at all curious what I’m wearing right now?”

That was when Dean’s juniper eyes slowly wandered to you and caught your gaze for the first time. You smirked as his breathing became heavy and his look darkened and filled with lust. It seemed like he wanted to rip your clothes off with his goddamn bare teeth like a wild animal.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or if I’m dreaming,” he admitted, his deep voice part harsh swallow and part nervous chuckle.

“Neither,” you said, biting your bottom lip.

Carefully, you leaned closer, your hands reaching up to cup his scruffy cheeks. Noses nuzzled as your lips ghosted against his with a daring grin. You wouldn’t go further; it was up to Dean to make that final decision.

And then, as no more than a mere second ticked by on the clock, the hunter crashed his lips against yours in a kiss so scorching it made the current heat wave look like an ice age. If you thought you were hot before, now it felt like you were burning in a wildfire.

Dean roughly pushed you against the door, his kiss all teeth and tongue in an uncontrollable frenzy. His dick was hard and thick, straining against his jeans and rubbing along your thigh. Pantingly, you gasped for air and grabbed his hand, guiding it down your body and into your shorts.

“Feel that?” you asked mischievously as his fingers dug through your soaked folds and collected the arousal he caused. A wanton growl left his plush lips. “All for you, baby. You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?”

“Shit, yeah, so bad…” Dean rasped huskily against your throat as he worshipped his path down your body, forcing your shirt up till his wet tongue rolled over your pert and still cold nipple.

“Gonna make it up to me, huh? Show me how sorry you are?” you prompted, your fingers raking through his sandy blond and soft hair, eliciting a groan from him every time you tugged a little harder.

Teeth pinched your skin, tongue cherished your taste, and lips left your throat bruised. It was equal parts hot, sweaty, messy, naughty, dirty, and sticky as your bodies rutted against one another, looking for dire release.

With swollen and plumper than before lips, he came back up for air and found your eyes. He kissed you with heated passion once more as if he couldn’t resist to touch you over and over again. He had to restrain himself to be able to speak.

“So, uhm, you sure about this?” Dean asked between labored breaths with an insecure gleam in his green eyes. “‘Cause if we go further, I don’t think I can stop. And I don’t mean just this time but ever… If you want this to be a one time thing, you gotta tell me, sweetheart, so I can mentally prepare myself. I mean, I’ll take what I can get, you know? Not that I care either way… Well, that’s not true. I do care. A lot… But, you know, you’re you, and I’m me, so I’m not delusional. I know there’s no way you would–”

You interrupted his babbling with a kiss, causing the hunter to lose his words. You looked deeply into his eyes and offered him a small smile of comfort.

“Dean, listen to me, okay? ‘Cause this is very important,” you urged, your hands gripping his shirt tightly.

He nodded, gulping anxiously. “O-Okay.”

“You’re incredible,” you said and watched him inhale sharply at your words, blinking at you in disbelief. “Absolutely fucking bonkers incredible. You’re right – you’re you. And thank God you are, because you’re the best, funniest, smartest, kindest, and goddamn hottest man I’ve ever met. I’m tired of you not seeing that. As my boyfriend, I really need to you to see that, alright?”

As Dean pensively took in your words, his brow began to furrow. “Boyfriend?”

The corners of your mouth rose to a beam. “Yeah, boyfriend,” you confirmed. “That’s what you want, right? ‘Cause I’d really like that, too.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah… That’s what I want.” Dean nodded eagerly before another swallow followed. “I mean, among other things…”

You bit your lip, smirking. “What other things?”

“Well, uhm…”

Dean didn’t finish his sentence, his lips impatiently claiming yours instead. He pressed you hungrily back against the door, massive hands sliding down your sides till they hooked into the hem of your denim shorts and ripped them down to your ankles, leaving you only covered in teal lace. He growled shamelessly at the sight, his thick digits eagerly diving inside.

“Wanna be inside you,” he groaned into your ear, thumbing furiously at your clit. “Every hour of every day…”

“We can do that,” you agreed with a giggle, your arms locking around his neck, fingers carding through his hair in the back.

“Wanna feel your mouth around my–” The last word was muffled as he ravaged your neck, but you understood where he was going with this.

“You can do that,” you said with a smile.

“And fuck, I want you to ride my face,” he declared. That demand left you speechless, making even Dean stop for a minute and look at you. “Too far?”

You shook your head and smirked. “I can do that.”

Before Dean’s mind could fathom your words, you shoved him onto the bed, his back hitting the mattress. When you stood before him, slotted between his muscular legs, his gaze trailed up and down your body, memorizing every beautiful curve. As your fingers curled into the waistband of your panties, however, the hunter stopped you.

“Leave ‘em on, sweetheart. Don’t you dare take those off,” he told you, his hands rapaciously reaching out to you.

You played with the hem of your top and smirked, your tongue licking over your lips. “What about this? On or off?”

“Off,” he shot back faster than a bullet leaving a barrel.

“You first,” you demanded and grinned. “Remember, this is still your punishment.”

“God, I love getting punished,” Dean mumbled and slipped out of his shirt. He then swiftly shimmied out of his jeans, discarding each item carelessly around the room.

He then took a deep breath as he tugged the waistband of his boxers, his erection already fighting its way out. “Well, here goes nothing,” the hunter said and pulled his underwear down.

You tilted your head to see his hard cock from a better angle as it sprang against his stomach. Your lips parted in anticipation, wondering what he’d taste like on your tongue and how deep you’d be able to take him. You guessed there’d be a struggle ahead, considering how huge and wide he was.

“Oh, I would not call that monster nothing,” you commented with a scoff, your pussy throbbing with need. “Explains all that BDE.”

Dean blushed. It was cute to watch. “Thank you.���

Giggling, you removed your shirt and tossed it at his face, blinding him for a second. You used that momentum to slide onto the bed and straddle his torso. As his eyes finally found you again, he almost choked on his spit when he gazed up at your perfect tits above him. A primal grunt escaped his throat.

With a mesmerized sparkle in his eyes, his hands trailed up your body and cupped your breasts, massaging them roughly as your panties grew damper by the minute. He then pulled you down to his lips and kissed you breathless before he left them with a boyish smirk on his freckled face.

“Hop on, sweetheart.”

And as if his words hadn’t been enough motivation, his hands wandered to palm your ass and hauled you closer to his mouth. He was an impatient one – or maybe he’d waited years for this and was finally tired of it.

Your knees sunk into the mattress on either side of his stubborn head. His fingers dented your flesh as they grabbed onto your thighs. Yours held onto the headboard for support. You tried not to look down, because then you’d see his big lopsided and full of excitement grin.

The same one he had when you found a diner in Kentucky that advertised the biggest burger in America (it wasn’t). The same one he had when he thought he had run into a member of Metallica at a gas station outside of Phoenix (he didn’t). The same one he had when you and Sam gifted him his own beer brewing station for his last birthday (which tasted horrible, but neither you nor Sam had the heart to tell him).

And now, he had that same grin when he was about to be with you.

As your pussy dripped above him, Dean couldn’t hold back his lewd groans any longer. You didn’t even have to lower yourself; he just dragged you down onto his face all to eagerly. His fingers swiped your panties to the side, and before you could even adjust your grip on the bedpost, his tongue darted into your soaked channel as deeply as he could and sucked you goddamn dry.

With several whimpers, you clenched around his wet muscle. If you were water in the desert, he was parched and drinking to survive.

His nose was buried in your folds, rubbing deliciously against your clit as he lapped your pussy in a vicious attack that left you squirming and moaning to a pornographic degree above him. Because Dean was just that – pure porn.

Instinctively and irresistibly, you ground your cunt against him, the vibrations of his keen groans against your sensitive flesh rocking you to the edge of your climax. He ate you out and devoured you like that damn gigantic burger in Kentucky. And as you dared to blink down and watch him in action, he had the audacity to devilishly smirk up at you with the crinkles around his green eyes alone, gauging your every reaction to his touches as if you were a goddamn movie on a silver screen.

You trembled and quivered and screamed as your orgasm electrified every molecule in your body. You white-knuckled the wood in your grip, your body only held up by Dean’s strong arms because God knows your weak legs were useless now.

As wave after wave washed over you, Dean drank every drop of yours, his tongue never getting enough of your taste. The sounds that filled the room were carnal and obscene.

“Fuck, Dean,” you sighed blissfully and lifted off his face and captured his swollen and red lips in a grateful kiss, your palms finding purchase on his broad shoulders. Your drenched and sensitive cunt settled on his thighs as an egregiously large erection poked your belly and tempted you further.

Dean smirked up at you, all satisfied and confident with his achievement. “I think we have a slight problem, though.”

Your brow knitted, your heart tightening with anxiety. Had you been as disappointing as the burger, beer, and that fake Metallica band member?

But Dean only grinned teasingly at your confused face. “There’s no way I learned my lesson here.”

You snorted and sought out his lips, the kiss giving you a taste of yourself. “We’ll work on that. I might have to nickname you Jaws after this,” you joked.

“Can’t wait for you to explain that one to Sammy.” Dean snorted, chuckling. “Now, how about you hop on again, but this time a little further south, huh?” he proposed with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a suggestive twitch of his cock for emphasis.

You giggled with a few nods. “I can do that.”

Was it worth the words? 😝

For all you newcomers and as a general reminder, Dirty Drabbles are always open. I still have quite a few left, but you're welcome to send more in, and we'll add it to the collection at some point 😎🔥

PUT YOUR DIRTY THOUGHTS HERE

TAGS:

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @imsapphine @globetrotter28 @mxltifxnd0m @lacilou

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

Aftercare

Summary: After a round (or more) of passion, your partner takes upon the great quest of making sure you're feeling alright and good.

Characters squid game: Hyun ju, Thanos, Namgyu, Gyeong-Seok, Young-Il, Gi-hun, Dae-Ho, Min-Su, Sang-Woo

Other characters: Roh jae won, Choi San, Kim seo wan, Kim Namjoon, Yoongi, JHope

Warnings: Slightly suggestive, post-sex

Hyunju

The mirror was fogged up. The air smelled like eucalyptus and the lingering sharpness of body wash, but it was the soft sound of water dripping from the showerhead that filled the room now—steady, gentle. Hyun-Ju’s fingers brushed down your back as she pulled a towel around your shoulders, her breath still slightly uneven from the passion that had echoed against the bathroom tiles just minutes earlier.

You were sitting on the edge of the tub, dazed, skin damp and glowing. She knelt in front of you like it was second nature, her thumbs carefully rubbing small circles into your thighs, grounding you.

“You okay?” Her voice was soft, the tone threaded with a vulnerability only you got to see. She looked up at you through wet lashes, hair sticking to her cheeks.

You nodded, and she smiled.

But that wasn’t enough for her.

She pressed her forehead to your knee for a second, exhaling. Then she got up and grabbed another towel, this one warmed from where it had been resting on the radiator. She wrapped it around your back, kissed your temple, then guided you to sit back against the wall as she ran warm water in the sink.

“I’ll clean you up,” she whispered. “Just stay there, baby.”

And she did. Tenderly. Reverently. With a soft cloth, she wiped away the remnants of sweat, her touch never straying from gentle. Each motion felt like a wordless vow: I see you. I love you. I’ll take care of you.

She even kissed the inside of your wrist after drying it, murmuring, “Still with me?”

When you nodded again—this time with a faint smile—she relaxed visibly, kneeling beside you once more, pulling your hand to her chest.

“Good. You did so well for me.”

Eventually, she guided you both to lie down on the bathmat she’d padded with extra towels, curling behind you, arms wrapped around your waist like she couldn’t stand the idea of being apart just yet. You felt her lips graze the back of your neck.

“You’re safe. We’re home,” she whispered. “No rush to sleep. We’ll stay right here till you’re ready.”

And with her arms around you, the soft light from the bathroom casting everything gold, you believed it.

Thanos

The kitchen still smelled faintly of spices and grilled meat, but now it was overtaken by something else—something warmer, headier. You sat on the cool counter, skin dewy, your breath still catching in little waves as you leaned your forehead against Su-Bong’s.

He was standing between your legs, shirtless, hair damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed the same shade as your favorite spicy gochujang. And yet, in all the intensity you’d just shared, he looked at you like you were something breakable, precious.

“You okay, jagi?” he murmured, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye, then down your cheek, then cupping your jaw. You nodded, still hazy, but his eyes searched yours like he needed more than that.

“I'm more than okay,” you finally whispered, voice a little hoarse. “You?”

He gave you a crooked grin, one of those boyish, smug ones he flashed when he was proud of himself—but it softened quickly. “Of course. But now I want to take care of you properly.”

Without waiting, he gently slid your legs around his waist and lifted you off the counter, ignoring your squeak of surprise.

“You’re supposed to rest during aftercare,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I’m strong enough,” he murmured, voice low as he carried you out of the kitchen and into the living room, grabbing the soft blanket off the couch with one hand as he went. He set you down carefully onto the couch, then knelt in front of you, tugging the blanket over your shoulders and tucking it around you like you were a delicate dumpling.

Then he disappeared for a second.You heard the fridge open, a soft curse under his breath about “how did we forget water?” and then the faint clink of a spoon. When he came back, he handed you a glass of cool water and a little bowl with cut strawberries drizzled in honey.

“For sugar,” he said, offering a shy smile. “And because you looked too good in the kitchen and I forgot dinner.”

You blinked at the sweetness—literal and metaphorical. “Su-Bong…”

He sat beside you, arm curling around your waist, pulling you into his chest as he guided the first strawberry to your lips. “Shh. Let me pamper you.”

Wrapped in his arms, the blanket around you, the strawberries sweet on your tongue—you leaned your head on his shoulder, and for a long, perfect moment, all you heard was the slow, steady beat of his heart.

Namgyu

The bass from Club Pentagon still throbbed faintly through the tiled walls, like a fading heartbeat. The stall door was shut, the world narrowed to just the two of you, and the heat still lingered—on your skin, in your breath, in the tight curls of your fingers around his shirt.

Nam-Gyu kissed your temple gently, his usual cocky smirk nowhere in sight. He looked so serious now, eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort, any trace of regret. His hand slid up your back, fingertips featherlight.

“You okay, baby?” he asked, voice low and hoarse, but full of concern. You nodded, still catching your breath, and he smiled faintly, brushing damp hair away from your face. “Wasn’t too much, right?”

“No,” you whispered. “It was perfect.”

Nam-Gyu tugged his shirt from his back pocket—somehow still miraculously clean—and dabbed carefully between your legs with the gentleness of someone who really cared. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured. “I mean it.”

The cool fabric soothed your skin, but it was his tenderness that made your throat tighten.

He kissed your knee, still crouched in front of you on the stall’s floor. “I got water in my locker,” he said. “And I’ll walk you out the side door. You don’t have to go back out there.”

You blinked at him. “But you’re working.”

“I’ve got ten minutes,” he said, and tucked your clothes back into place like they were delicate silk. “I can spare them. For you, I’d spare an hour.”

Nam-Gyu helped you stand, keeping one arm securely around your waist. He held your gaze in the mirror for a second, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You look beautiful like this. A little wrecked,” he added with a soft laugh, “but beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes, and he grinned, but then leaned forward and pressed your forehead together. “I love you, you know,” he whispered, just loud enough to hear over the thrum of the club outside.

“I know,” you whispered back. And in his arms, warm and cared for, you felt it too.

Gyeong seok

Your breath still came in shallow waves, chest rising and falling against the warmth of his skin. Gyeong-Seok's arm was wrapped tightly around you, and he hadn’t stopped touching you since the last time he whispered your name in a shaky gasp, grounding himself in the way you held him.

The room was quiet—save for the soft hum of the fan and the occasional creak of the house settling—but more importantly, Na-Yeon was still fast asleep in her room down the hall. A miracle.

You were on your side, legs tangled with his, cheek resting on his bare chest. He was still catching his breath too, fingertips tracing slow, soothing patterns along your spine.

"You okay, love?" he murmured, voice rough and gentle all at once. One of his hands cradled the back of your head protectively.

You nodded, smiling lazily against him. "More than okay."

Gyeong-Seok chuckled softly and leaned in to press a kiss to your temple. "Good. Still—let me take care of you."

He slipped away only long enough to grab a warm towel from the bathroom and one of his oversized shirts for you to wear. You watched him move—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, soft concern in his eyes—and felt like you could cry from how tender he looked.

"Arms up," he said gently when he returned, and helped you into the shirt with hands that were steady and slow, treating you like you were made of glass.

After he cleaned you up, he climbed back into bed and tucked you into his side, one arm around your shoulders, the other holding your hand against his chest.

“You’re always so good to me,” you whispered.

“Of course I am,” he said softly, lips brushing your forehead. “You give me everything. You take care of Na-Yeon like she’s your own. You love me like I’ve never been loved before. Let me give it all back.”

He reached over to grab your favorite lip balm from the nightstand and gently applied it for you. You giggled at that, and he grinned, satisfied.

“Hydration,” he said playfully, handing you a water bottle next, “Doctor’s orders.”

You sipped and settled into him, heart full. He rubbed gentle circles into your back, humming under his breath—a lullaby Na-Yeon loved. It was his way of soothing both of you, and you could feel your body relax even more as the warmth of his love wrapped around you like the soft sheets.

"Sleep now," he murmured as he kissed your eyelids shut. “I’ve got you.”

And you did. You slept, wrapped in the safest place on earth—his arms.

Young il

It was late afternoon on the island. The soft hum of the bug screen's fan was a gentle backdrop as Young-Il's office, with its open windows, smelled of salty ocean air. The muted sounds of the games filtered in through the mesh, but they felt distant—far removed from the warmth and quiet intimacy that enveloped the room.

You had just shared several passionate hours together, your body still humming from the intensity of it all. The chair—his chair, a large leather seat that seemed far too elegant for anyone else to sit in—had witnessed everything. You now leaned against it, feeling the gentle caress of his fingertips along your skin as he stroked your back softly, ensuring your comfort after every lingering moment of connection.

Young-Il wasn’t the type to rush through things. No, his love was slow, patient, and purposeful. His hand on your back moved in tender circles as he carefully wrapped a soft blanket around you. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low and smooth, a slight rasp from the emotions still thick in the air.

You nodded, your heart still racing, but you felt grounded in his presence. He could sense when you needed more than just physical closeness—he was always in tune with your moods and emotions. His lips, soft and caring, kissed your temple as he made sure you were settled against him.

He gently shifted you in his arms, not wanting to let you go just yet. "Drink?" he offered, his voice calm and reassuring. He always kept something on hand—water, juice, sometimes a little wine—but today, it was a cool glass of water that he passed into your hands.

The quiet of the room seemed to lull you, the only sounds now being the occasional rustle of the games through the screen. You both shared a peaceful silence, his hand resting gently on your shoulder as you sipped from the glass. His eyes never left you, always focused, always present. Aftercare with him was a ritual, one that spoke of trust and tenderness.

"How do you feel?" he asked again, pulling you closer into his embrace, careful not to disturb the blanket tucked around you.

"Perfect," you murmured, leaning into him, your body relaxing into the comfort of his touch. "Thank you."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he kissed your forehead. "I’ve got you," he whispered, his tone laced with sincerity. "Always."

He sat with you for what felt like hours, the light fading outside as he kept you close, his arms a constant source of safety. When you started to doze off, his careful attention didn’t falter. He would wait as long as you needed, always there, always ready to provide the care you deserved.

Gi hun

The bedroom was dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the streetlamp outside. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets and pillows, the remnants of a few rounds of intense passion. Gi-Hun lay beside you, his breath heavy, his chest rising and falling slowly as he tried to regain some semblance of composure.

You could feel the warmth of his body next to yours, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm. His touch was gentle now, the urgency of moments before replaced by a tender calm. He had always been attentive, but in the quiet aftermath, his care for you shone through in ways that went beyond the physical.

"Are you okay?" Gi-Hun's voice was soft, his usual light tone replaced by something deeper, more concerned. He turned to face you, his hand reaching up to brush a stray hair from your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I'm good... Just a little out of breath," you teased, still feeling the rush of adrenaline from the last few moments.

Gi-Hun chuckled, a low, affectionate sound that made your heart flutter. He moved closer, pulling you into his arms. "Good. I want you to be more than just okay," he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head as he hugged you tighter.

He stayed like that for a moment, letting the silence between you stretch out, the only sound the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then, he shifted slightly, pulling a blanket over both of you. His fingers delicately rubbed your back in soothing circles. "Let me take care of you," he whispered, his voice a soft promise.

You didn't need any more words. He was always this way—always concerned about you, always wanting to make sure you were comfortable and taken care of. His lips gently pressed against your forehead before he pulled back, taking the time to adjust the pillows behind you and make sure you were nestled just right in the bed.

Gi-Hun reached for the bedside table, his hands quietly rummaging through the drawer before producing a bottle of lotion. He gently massaged some into your shoulders, his touch tender, slow, giving you a sense of calm that made you melt into him. "I know you might be sore," he said, his tone soft, his hands working to ease any lingering tension in your muscles. "Let me help with that."

You couldn't help but close your eyes, letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of his care. He always knew how to make you feel safe, loved, and cherished. He worked his way down your back, his hands tender and deliberate, never rushing, always making sure you felt relaxed and cared for.

When he was done, he pulled the covers up over both of you, snuggling in beside you. His arms wrapped around you once more, pulling you close, and he pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. "I’m here, always," he murmured. "You don’t have to worry about anything when I'm with you."

The soft rhythm of his breathing was like a lullaby, and with the warmth of his body and the soothing feeling of being held, you drifted off into a peaceful, contented sleep. In Gi-Hun’s arms, you knew you were loved, in every way possible.

Dae ho

The room smelled faintly of nostalgia—old books, faint traces of vanilla-scented candles, and the fresh linen your parents always kept. The soft hum of the night outside filtered through the window, the gentle rustle of leaves, and the occasional distant car, adding a peaceful undertone to the space. Dae-Ho sat beside you, his chest rising and falling as he took in the lingering closeness between you both.

He gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering longer than necessary, as if trying to ground himself after the passionate, electric connection you had just shared.

"I’m sorry, I know it’s strange being here," you whispered, the vulnerability in your voice matching how you felt. It wasn’t the setting you had imagined for such an intimate moment—your childhood bedroom, surrounded by relics of your past—but with him, it felt oddly fitting. Safe.

Dae-Ho gave a soft chuckle, his hand resting on your shoulder, warm and reassuring. "There’s nothing strange about it." His smile was easy, but the tenderness in his gaze betrayed a deeper emotion. "You’re with me, and that’s all that matters."

He leaned down to kiss your forehead, the way his lips brushed against your skin sending a rush of warmth through your veins. Then, his hands, still slightly trembling from the intensity of the moment, began to trace gentle circles on your back. The slow, deliberate rhythm was calming, grounding.

"How do you feel?" His voice was quiet but full of care, and you could hear the concern underlying his words. Dae-Ho was always so attentive, so in tune with your needs, and tonight was no different. His fingers, now moving to trace soft patterns along your arm, felt like the perfect aftercare—nurturing, present, and so very him.

"I feel good," you murmured, the warmth of his touch making your body relax further into the soft sheets. "I just… I wasn’t expecting all of this. It’s different, but I’m glad it’s with you."

He smiled, his thumb gently caressing your skin. "I’m here for you. Always," he assured you, his voice soft yet steady. "And I’ll always make sure you’re okay."

His hands moved slowly, soothingly, as he helped you sit up just slightly, propping a pillow behind your back. The bed creaked gently as he climbed up beside you, draping a thick, soft blanket over both of you.

He reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, offering it to you with a gentle, reassuring smile. "Drink. You need to stay hydrated."

You took a sip, your fingers brushing his as you handed it back. "Thank you, Dae-Ho."

With a soft hum, he tucked the blanket around your shoulders, pulling you closer against his chest. His arms enveloped you in a way that made the whole world feel safe, like nothing could touch you here in this space with him. His fingers ran gently through your hair, each stroke slow, deliberate, comforting.

"I love you," you whispered, the words so natural and easy with him. He kissed the top of your head, a deep exhale of contentment escaping him as he responded with his own soft confession.

"I love you, too," he murmured, his voice deep and full of warmth. "You’re everything to me."

For the rest of the night, you stayed nestled together in the quiet comfort of your childhood room. Dae-Ho's aftercare wasn’t just in his touch; it was in the way he made sure you felt seen, cherished, and loved. It wasn’t just about the physical—it was about ensuring you felt completely taken care of, every part of you. And with him, it was easy to believe that everything would always be alright.

Min su

After a few intense rounds of passionate love-making, the room felt heavy with the lingering warmth of intimacy. The gentle hum of the night outside was the only sound that broke the silence, as you lay nestled in Min-Su’s arms. Your bodies were still tangled in the aftermath, sweat-slicked and breathless. The intimacy had been everything you’d dreamed of and more. It was tender and raw, full of vulnerability, and a depth of emotion that left your heart racing.

Min-Su pulled you closer, cradling your face in his large, steady hands. His eyes were soft, filled with care as they searched your face for any signs of discomfort. His touch was warm and soothing, as if trying to erase any lingering tension.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low, tender, and full of concern, a stark contrast to the intensity of what had just transpired. He kissed your forehead gently, brushing your hair from your face.

You nodded, your smile faint but genuine. “I’m more than okay, Min-Su,” you whispered, your fingers running lightly across his chest. The world outside felt distant and unimportant as you basked in the afterglow.

He smiled, a soft and reassuring expression that made your heart flutter. “Good. I want you to feel safe, to feel loved. That’s all that matters.” His words were simple but carried a deep sincerity. Min-Su had always been attentive, and tonight, that care was even more apparent.

He slowly shifted, pulling the blanket over both of you, and wrapped you in his warmth. The sheets were tangled between your legs, but it didn’t matter. His arms were your safe place, and you could feel your muscles relax in his embrace.

Min-Su kissed the top of your head softly, his voice a comforting murmur in the stillness of the room. “I’m here. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just let me take care of you.”

His fingers ran soothingly over your skin, caressing the marks of the night, and you felt each touch like a promise. He wasn’t in a rush to let go of the closeness you’d shared. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable, wanted to make sure you were alright.

As the night continued, he continued to whisper soft reassurances, his hands never leaving your skin, ensuring you were both emotionally and physically cared for.

In those moments, you felt completely and utterly safe, surrounded by the love and aftercare that made the night so much more than just passion—it made it something deeper, something meaningful. Min-Su had always been more than you could ever ask for.

And in this moment, he proved that with every soft kiss and gentle touch.

Sang woo

The air in the storage closet was thick with the warmth of what just happened, and the faint smell of dust mixed with your shared scent. The dim fluorescent light buzzed softly above, casting shadows over the both of you as Sang-Woo gently adjusted his shirt, smoothing out the creases like he was still trying to gather himself. You, however, sat back on the floor, still catching your breath, legs tangled with his.

For a brief moment, the office around you felt like a distant reality. The weight of work, the sterile quiet of his desk, the rigid professionalism that clung to him during the day, all of that seemed so far away. Right now, it was just the two of you—raw, vulnerable, and tangled in this moment that had ignited between you.

Sang-Woo, always the perfectionist, was already focused on taking care of you, even as his chest rose and fell with the remnants of exhaustion. His hand was steady as it brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his expression soft yet filled with a tenderness you rarely saw.

"Are you okay?" His voice was a low, gravelly whisper. His fingers hovered over your skin, tracing the outline of your cheek, like he was making sure you were still there—still with him after everything.

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his touch against your cool skin. His gaze searched your face for any signs of discomfort, his brow furrowing slightly when he noticed a small tear that had slipped from your eye during the intensity of it all. He immediately wiped it away, almost ashamed of not noticing sooner.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice suddenly tight with concern. It was a side of Sang-Woo that you didn't often see—vulnerable, tender, protective.

You shook your head, offering him a reassuring smile. "No, Sang-Woo, I’m okay. I feel... good. Really good."

He seemed to relax at your words, but he wasn’t done yet. His hands gently lifted you up, helping you stand as he carefully adjusted your clothes.

He never rushed, always taking the time to make sure you were comfortable, to make sure you felt safe. He had a way of making every movement feel deliberate, like he was both taking care of you and of himself, making sure the connection between you two remained solid.

Sang-Woo knelt in front of you, pulling your shoes off one by one with practiced ease, before massaging your feet. The tenderness with which he held your feet in his hands made your heart skip a beat. He didn’t speak for a while, just focused on making sure your body felt cared for, cherished. The simple, quiet moments of affection meant more to you than the intensity of the act itself.

"You always do this," you murmured, watching him as he worked. "Take care of me. I never know how to thank you for it."

His eyes lifted to meet yours, his gaze steady but filled with the warmth of someone who truly cared. He let out a soft sigh, a mix of amusement and tenderness playing at the corners of his lips.

"You don’t have to thank me," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "I care about you, more than you know."

With that, he finished the foot massage, moving up to sit beside you on the floor. His arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you closer into his side. You leaned your head on his shoulder, breathing in the calm, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"I’m here," he whispered, the words as much for him as they were for you. "Always."

And as you both sat there in the dim light of the storage closet, the world outside seemed to fade away. It was just the two of you, safe in this small space, where the only thing that mattered was the connection you shared.

Roh jae won

The air in the woods was cool and fresh, the scent of pine and earth mixing with the faint smell of rain that had passed through earlier. You and Jae-Won had taken a quiet walk, hand in hand, enjoying the solitude of nature. The peaceful sounds of birds in the distance and the rustling of the trees seemed to fade as you found a secluded spot by a small, babbling creek. There, beneath the canopy of trees, everything had shifted into something far more intimate.

A few heated moments later, you were lying in his arms, nestled in the soft moss and wildflowers that dotted the ground, your heart racing in the aftermath of your love.

Jae-Won’s chest rose and fell with his deep breaths, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your skin, soothing and calm after the intensity of the moments before.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his voice warm and tender, like he was afraid of disturbing the serenity that had settled between you two.

You nodded, unable to find the words for a moment. There was a quiet peace settling around you that felt as though it belonged only to the two of you. His hand ran through your hair, fingers gently massaging your scalp. His touch was careful, as though he was treating you with the utmost reverence.

“I’m perfect,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

Jae-Won smiled, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he shifted slightly to face you. His eyes sparkled with concern, but also affection, as if he couldn’t help but adore you in that moment.

He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “Let me take care of you, okay?” He sat up and, without another word, began to gather the warmth of your shared passion with thoughtful, deliberate actions.

He reached for his jacket, draping it over your shoulders to keep you warm, the fabric smelling faintly of cedarwood and leather. As he did so, you noticed the way his hands trembled just slightly, betraying the tenderness with which he was caring for you. Jae-Won’s aftercare was always gentle, a soft and caring contrast to the fire he brought in moments of passion.

He reached into the small bag he'd carried with him, pulling out a water bottle and handing it to you. "Here, drink some. You need to stay hydrated."

You took the bottle, grateful for his thoughtfulness, and slowly sipped, feeling the cool water soothe your throat. As you drank, Jae-Won positioned himself beside you once more, his arms pulling you into his side, his body giving you the warmth you needed to feel fully grounded again.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and peaceful, as the only sounds were the occasional chirp of a bird and the rustle of the leaves in the breeze. His fingers gently brushed against the scars on your arms, the ones that told stories only you knew. It was a small, intimate gesture, but it spoke volumes of his care for you.

“How are you really feeling?” he asked softly, his tone still laced with concern. He leaned back, propping himself up on one arm as he looked at you with his gentle, soft gaze.

You met his eyes, feeling the depth of his love and admiration for you. “I’m good. Really good. Thank you for being so… amazing.”

Jae-Won smiled, a slow, affectionate smile, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You deserve all the care and love in the world,” he murmured.

As you rested there, wrapped in his warmth, it felt as though the world had faded away, leaving only the two of you in this serene, quiet moment in the woods. There was no rush. There was no need for words. Just the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing in sync, his hand resting on your back, giving you the care and security you never knew you needed.

In Jae-Won’s arms, you felt truly safe.

Choi san

The hotel room was dimly lit by the glow of the bedside lamp, the faint hum of the city outside blending with the soft rhythm of your breathing. The sheets were tangled around you both, evidence of the heated moments you’d just shared. San was propped up on one arm beside you, his chest still rising and falling with the intensity of the moments that had just passed. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his eyes heavy with affection and care.

"San," you murmured, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw, still a little in awe of how things had unfolded. "You're running late."

He chuckled softly, a warm sound that sent ripples of contentment through your body. "I know. But I needed this... needed you," he admitted, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.

You smirked, knowing well the urgency of his schedule. But when San was like this—so present and gentle—it was easy to forget the world beyond this room. The warmth in his eyes spoke volumes, and you couldn’t help but feel cherished in a way that words couldn’t capture.

"I'll be quick, promise," he whispered, kissing the top of your head before slipping out of bed. His movements were fluid, a quiet urgency replacing the earlier intensity.

You watched as he hurried around the room, collecting his clothes, though his focus never wavered from you. You admired his determination to take care of you, even in the midst of everything he had on his plate.

When he finished getting dressed, he didn’t rush out the door. Instead, he came back to your side, kneeling on the bed beside you. His hands were gentle as he reached for your face, guiding your gaze to meet his. "How do you feel?" he asked softly, brushing his lips over your cheek, a comforting gesture after the intensity of the moments you’d shared. His thumb lightly traced your bottom lip.

"Good," you replied, feeling a sense of calm settle in despite the chaos of his schedule. "Better now."

San’s expression softened, his usual playful demeanor replaced with something more sincere. He had a knack for making you feel special, no matter the circumstances. "I’m sorry I have to leave soon," he said, his voice almost apologetic. "But I’ll make it up to you."

You smiled, reaching for his hand. "You already have," you whispered, squeezing it.

He leaned down and kissed you once more, tender and slow, before gently pulling away. "Get some rest," he said, brushing his thumb over your cheek once again. "And if you need anything, just call me. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of when I get back."

With that, he stood, giving you one last lingering look before heading out the door. As you settled back into the warm embrace of the sheets, you felt a wave of gratitude wash over you. San’s love wasn’t just in the moments of passion—it was in these quiet aftercare moments, where he showed you how much you meant to him, no matter how late he was running.

The sound of the door clicking shut was the last thing you heard before you let yourself drift back into a peaceful sleep, knowing that, in his own way, San would always make sure you felt loved.

Kim seo wan

The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow across the tiny university dorm room. The bed, small and unassuming, was tangled with sheets, the remnants of the night they had shared. Kim Seo-Wan lay next to you, his breath steady, his chest rising and falling with a peaceful rhythm as you both slowly came down from the intensity of the moment.

You could feel his warmth, the way he gently tugged you closer, his arms wrapping around you like a protective shield. His fingers brushed through your hair, the soft strokes reassuring, grounding you in the present as your heartbeat began to return to normal.

"Are you okay?" Seo-Wan's voice was quiet, tender, a gentle murmur in your ear. He always made sure you were okay—always paying attention to how you felt, never rushing or overlooking the smallest of details.

You nodded, feeling completely safe in his embrace. "Yeah... I’m good. You?"

He smiled softly, his hand continuing its soothing movements in your hair. "I’m perfect now." His lips pressed a soft kiss to your temple, and then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

The room was small, but it felt like the two of you were in your own little world. The scent of him—musky and warm—lingered in the air, mingling with the faint smell of the coffee you had both shared earlier in the evening. The dorm room may have been cramped, but it felt like home when you were with him.

Seo-Wan reached for the small bedside table, fumbling through the mess of papers, books, and a stray sweater until his fingers found the bottle of water he’d left there earlier. He sat up, handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

You took the bottle, the coolness of the water soothing your throat as you drank, feeling the last remnants of exhaustion and tension slowly slip away.

Once you had finished, Seo-Wan gently coaxed you back down beside him, wrapping you in the warmth of his arms once more. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling the covers up to your chin.

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” he murmured, his voice still laced with concern. Seo-Wan always made sure that you felt cared for, both physically and emotionally. He could be a little reserved at times, but when it came to you, he always made his feelings clear.

He reached over and grabbed the blanket from the end of the bed, folding it into a cushion before gently placing it under your head as an extra pillow. Then, with a small chuckle, he adjusted the bed to make you more comfortable, his hands so gentle that it felt like he was handling something precious.

“Let’s rest, okay? I’ll stay right here.”

You nodded, curling closer into him, your body finally unwinding after the intense connection you’d shared. Seo-Wan kissed the top of your head, his body offering a perfect balance of warmth and protection.

"You're everything to me," he whispered, just before you drifted off to sleep. And as the night stretched on, his steady presence beside you was the only thing you needed to feel completely at ease, knowing that no matter what, Seo-Wan would always be there to take care of you.

Kim namjoon

The concert had just ended, and the backstage area was buzzing with excitement as the crew wrapped things up, cleaning up the stage, and preparing for the next leg of their tour. But in the quiet corner, behind the heavy curtains and stacks of equipment, all the noise faded into nothing as Kim Namjoon, leader of BTS, gently pulled you into his arms.

The two of you had barely made it past the dressing room door before the tension between you finally snapped. After weeks of longing glances, stolen moments, and whispered conversations during his busy schedule, the night had finally arrived. His body had been aching for you, his heart thumping in rhythm with the beat of his adrenaline-filled performance. What started as a slow, lingering kiss quickly turned into something much deeper, more urgent. There was no time for hesitation, no time for anything except the overwhelming need to connect.

Now, as the remnants of his sweaty performance clung to his skin, he carefully helped you sit down on a nearby couch. The dim lighting cast soft shadows, and the quiet hum of the backstage area only highlighted the intimacy of the moment. Namjoon knelt before you, his large hands gently cupping your face, as he kissed you once more—tenderly, like he was savoring the aftermath of something beautiful, something sacred.

"Are you okay?" His voice was deep, yet soft, tinged with concern. His eyes, usually filled with the weight of the world, were now soft and warm. He seemed to radiate comfort as he carefully examined your face, making sure you were as well taken care of as he had promised.

You nodded, your fingers trailing along his arm, feeling the muscles tense and relax beneath his skin. He always made sure to take care of you, never rushing, always present in every moment. But now, after everything had settled, the way he looked at you spoke volumes. He wasn't just the powerful, confident figure you saw on stage. He was the man who cherished you, the man who wanted you safe, comfortable, and loved.

Namjoon stood up and reached for a towel, patting it gently against your skin to dry off any remnants of sweat, his touch featherlight. His actions were tender, thoughtful, each movement calculated to make you feel completely cared for. He guided you to lie down on the couch as he sat beside you, brushing your hair out of your face, his large, gentle hand soothing away any tension that remained.

"Rest for a bit," he said, his voice low, a hint of the leader slipping back into his tone as he arranged pillows around you. "You deserve it."

He retrieved a small bottle of water from the side table, offering it to you with a soft smile. Once you were properly settled, he lowered himself to the couch beside you, holding you close in a comforting embrace, his hand resting lightly on your back. He was the perfect balance of strength and tenderness. His fingers traced small circles on your skin, a rhythmic gesture that calmed any lingering unease.

Namjoon didn't speak for a while, letting the silence wrap around you both, but when he did, it was a whispered promise. "I'll always take care of you. Every moment. Always."

And in that moment, amidst the chaos of the world outside, it was just the two of you—quiet, connected, and deeply loved.

Yoongi

The soft hum of the studio's speakers echoed in the background, a quiet melody that somehow complemented the rhythmic beating of your heart. The air was thick with the scent of incense Min Yoongi always kept lit in the corner, the scent of wood and amber mixing with the faint lingering of sweat and his cologne.

Your skin was still warm from the passion of the night, the aftershocks of each touch leaving you breathless and blissful. You lay there on the leather couch in the corner of his recording studio, your legs tangled in the sheets, Yoongi beside you, his body still warm against yours. The lights were dim, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the desk lamps casting long shadows across the room.

Yoongi, ever the quiet but attentive lover, was the first to break the silence. His fingers gently traced the curve of your shoulder, the motion so tender it almost felt like a promise. His gaze softened as he met your eyes, a quiet reassurance in his touch.

“Are you okay?” His voice was a low murmur, the concern in it unmistakable. Despite his cool and distant exterior, in moments like these, he was all warmth and care, a stark contrast to the persona the world saw.You nodded, a smile curling at the corners of your lips. “Better than okay.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good,” he whispered. Then, he stood and moved towards the small fridge near the corner of the room, retrieving a bottle of water and a damp cloth.

His movements were gentle as he returned to your side, sitting down on the couch beside you. Yoongi handed you the bottle of water, watching as you took a long drink before taking the cloth in his hand, gently wiping away the sweat that clung to your skin.

“Let me clean you up,” he said, his voice calm and soothing, his touch delicate as he dabbed the cloth over your collarbone and shoulders. His fingers moved slowly, as though he were memorizing the feel of your skin, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes at the sensation.

When he was satisfied, he tossed the cloth aside and pulled you closer, your head resting against his chest as his fingers ran through your hair, soothing and methodical. You could hear the steady beat of his heart, feel the warmth of his skin, and in this moment, everything felt right.

“You’re perfect,” Yoongi whispered, his voice almost a hushed secret between you two. His words were soft but carried weight, the depth of his affection clear in the way his fingers continued their rhythmic strokes through your hair.

“You’re perfect too,” you murmured back, your voice muffled against his chest. You could feel him smile against your forehead, the corner of his lips tugging up slightly as he pressed a kiss into your hair.

“Let’s stay like this for a while,” he suggested, his voice carrying a hint of sleepiness, his fingers never once stopping their gentle motions through your hair.

You didn’t need to say anything. Words weren’t needed between you two in moments like these. Just the comfort of his presence, the softness of his touch, the quiet that enveloped you both as the world outside seemed to fade away.

In Yoongi's arms, you were safe. And that was more than enough.

Jhope

In the quiet of the dance studio, the dim lighting cast soft shadows on the walls. The floor, once polished and gleaming, now held the faint traces of passion. You and J-Hope lay on the mats, the only sound in the room your soft breathing as you recovered from the intensity of the moments you’d just shared.

J-Hope propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that contrasted the heat of your earlier encounters. His hair was a little disheveled, a light sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, but he looked at you with the warmth of someone deeply content.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft and caring, with a gentle lilt that always made you feel like everything would be okay.You nodded slowly, still feeling the lingering pulse of the emotions. "Yeah," you whispered. "Just… wow."

He chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of playfulness and affection. Then, without another word, he reached for a nearby water bottle, uncapping it and taking a long sip before offering it to you. You took a small drink, your hands brushing as you handed it back to him. He smiled, his thumb gently wiping a bead of sweat from your temple.

"You're amazing," he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. "You did so well."J-Hope carefully pulled you close, wrapping a warm, comforting arm around you. His fingers gently traced circles on your back as he kissed the top of your head, offering reassurance in the quiet moments following your connection. He made sure you were warm, pulling the edges of a spare towel around you like a cocoon.

“I’ll make sure you’re alright,” he whispered, his fingers gently kneading the tension out of your muscles. Every touch was gentle, deliberate, and kind. The aftercare he gave wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. His presence, his reassurance, the way he made sure you felt cherished, all spoke of a deep love and tenderness he always had for you.

J-Hope helped you sit up, guiding your body into his lap. He gently massaged your scalp, his hands working through your hair with a quiet, calming rhythm. It was as though he was trying to ease away any lingering exhaustion, letting the silence between you become a shared space of calm and trust.

“You did more than enough," he whispered, and you could feel the sincerity in his words. "You deserve to rest now, okay? I’ve got you."

He took a deep breath, pulling you closer still, holding you against him as if you were the most precious thing in his world. His lips brushed against your forehead, his soft chuckle vibrating through your shared silence. And there, in the quiet, dim dance studio, after all the passion, there was only love. Only the safe feeling of being cared for.

Only the connection that made every moment feel worth it.

[20skai]

Let Me Bear Your Burden

Wyll x Tav OC (Nemeia)

Wyll and Nemeia have a heart to heart about his true feelings being the Blade. She comforts him the best she can.

Tags: Angst, Fluff, feelings ✨some suggestive themes

Word Count: 1152

Nemeia wakes to thrashing about. Looking over she sees her bed mate, Wyll, with a grimace on his handsome face. Lowly muttering in his restless slumber. Not knowing what to do she begins to whisper soothing words and caresses to his cheek.

“Mizora. Father, help me. I need you! No!”

Wyll wakes with a start, sitting up from the bedroll. His heart threatens to burst out of his chest. Sweat is sticking to his forehead, torso, and limbs. Another nightmare. Godsdammit, he hoped he didn’t wake Nemeia. But to his shame he looks over to see her looking at him with concern. He turns away in self loathing, she’s always strong for everyone else why can’t he be strong for her?

“Wyll, do you need anything?” She threads her fingers through his and gives it a squeeze.

“No, I’m alright. Just a bad dream.”

A few moments of silence pass through them and Wyll hears her sit up beside him and places her other hand on his cheek to guide him back to face her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He looks to the ground, feeling nothing but shame. He made the deal and has to live with the choice he made. But why does he feel so disquiet about it now? Wyll wants to talk but Nemeia is always lending her ear to everyone and helping with their problems. What kind of partner would he be if he dumped his troubles on her too?

Nemeia can feel the anxiety rolling off Wyll in waves. She thinks of what she can do to help unburden him. An idea makes its way into her mind, she takes his hand in her and places it under her sleep shirt. There, Wyll feels a long scar on her abdomen. Looking at her in shock he sees a small, awkward half smile on her face.

“This was given to me by a Sharran. I’ll spare you the gruesome details but suffice it to say I was traveling and they ambushed me. It still haunts me to this day and I still have nightmares about it. I say all of this to tell you that you can always talk to me about anything. I care for you so deeply and I want to help if I can.”

Listening to her story has Wyll in a flurry of emotions. Anger, hurt, but most of all relief. Relief that she’s still here, still alive and with him. He pushes her to lay down on the bedroll and lifts her sleep shirt just high enough to see her wound. Gazing at the scar he sees the slightly jagged edges and can’t help himself to kiss the wound.

A gasp leaves Nemeia at the feeling of Wyll’s lips on her skin. His lips are soft and warm and only make her squirm in a strange mix of need and bashfulness. Continuing to kiss her abdomen Wyll looks up to his love’s face and sees the cute blush that formed on her cheeks, eyes closed and her bottom lip between her teeth. He shows mercy and stops to move his face up to hers, caressing her cheek he then places a gentle kiss to her lips.

Rolling off of her, Wyll lays back down on their shared bedroll and brings her body with him and holds Nemeia in his arms. She has her head on his chest and listens to the slightly elevated heartbeat right under her. A few minutes of silence goes by as the couple just hold one another.

“I feel that I’m a fraud.” Wyll begins. “When I made the deal with Mizora it was to save the Gate, my home. But now? I feel like I’m fooling the people of the Coast. They see me as a hero. A person to slay their monsters and protect them and their families. But I’m no better than the vermin who prey on them. How heroic can I be, being bound to a devil?”

Nemeia lays there contemplating what Wyll has just confessed to her. She feels sadness that Wyll believes himself to be a fraud and a feeling of anger almost takes hold because his words are a consequence of the years of abuse from his patron. But she stamps that down. No, he doesn’t need her thinking she’s angry at him in this vulnerable moment.

“You’re not a fraud, Wyll. You protect the people of the Coast because they needed a hero. You continue to be the Blade because you’ve grown to care and love them. I will not begrudge you for making the pact because in that moment it was the best option you had to save the people of Baldur’s Gate. And even still, after all these years, you still stick to your principles and morals, even though it would have been easier to abandon them.”

Nemeia lifts herself up off Wyll’s chest and looks him in his eyes with as much tenderness as she can muster. “I know my words won’t change how you feel overnight. But I want you to know I adore you and I’m with you until the end. And whenever you start to feel like this, don't hesitate to talk to me, I’m here to help you share your burden.”

Feelings of gratefulness and appreciation blossom throughout Wyll’s heart. This woman, his woman, is too good to him but he will spend every day of his life being the man she deserves. Pulling Nemeia back to his chest he strokes her back with one hand and holds her hand in the other. Contentment and affection swirl around the two as they bask in the silence of the room.

“I adore you too, Nemeia. Thank you for being strong and believing in me. And being just wonderfully you.”

Chuckling, the tiefling woman places a kiss to his chest and looks up with a cheeky smile. “Of course I’m me. Who else would I be?”

A short laugh escapes Wyll’s throat and he starts to tickle Nemeia’s side. She gives a squeal and begins to laugh; she begs for him to stop while trying to squirm out of his grip. A happy grin has made its way onto the warlock’s face basking in the happiness she brings into his life.

Ceasing his tickle-fueled assault, Wyll admires Nemeia coming back down from her laughter. Once her laughs die down to small chuckles he brings his hand to her cheek and delights in the way she nuzzles into his palm. He kisses her slowly and tenderly hoping it conveys how lucky he feels to have her. Seeing the same emotions reflected back to him in her eyes, Wyll brings Nemeia back to lay on his chest. The couple again settles down for the night to sleep and no nightmares plague either of them. Just happy dreams of a bright future ahead with each other.

[headkiss]

single thread

part 1, part 2, part 3

pairing: spider-man!steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve has a big secret and convinces himself he needs to stay away from you to keep you safe. that’s tough to do when you’re his neighbour.

word count: 8.2k

warnings: spider-man!steve au, some violence (r is attacked and a pocket knife is mentioned but nothing major happens), blood/injuries, strangers/sort of friends to lovers (ish?)

a/n: i really liked writing this one and i hope u guys like it too!!! spidey!steve is something i’ve wanted to try for a while and here it is!!!! he’s my baby <3

/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\

When Steve moved to Indianapolis, not once did he think he’d get bit by some radioactive spider and gain super powers. Yet, here he is, swinging through the city like something out of some comic book. Sometimes he doesn’t even believe it’s real, and it’s his life.

On his way home, he spots his building easily, the route embedded in his head. The corners to turn, the spots to shoot his webs.

Stuck to the wall beside his window, he tries to open it and realizes he left it locked. “Idiot,” he grumbles to himself.

With a groan he jumps down, landing in the alley. He throws his clothes over his suit and makes sure nobody’s around before slipping the mask off and into his bag. For once, he uses the actual door to enter the building.

He opts for the stairs and when he makes it to his floor he sees you in the hallway. He resists the urge to go back down and wait a couple of minutes.

His door is across from yours, and when he walks over, you’re quick to send him a smile and a ‘hello.’ He nods at you and faces his door, unlocking it quickly and going inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t like you, it’s that he doesn’t want to involve people in his life when it’s gotten so complicated. He has Robin in the city and that’s about it. And he already worries enough about her. If he’d met you pre-bite, things would be much different.

He’d return your kind smiles and greetings, he’d tell you when he likes your outfit or thinks your hair looks really nice (which is pretty much every time he sees you, even when you think it’s awful).

He’d rather not put you in any danger, though, so he doesn’t. He just thinks you’re pretty and keeps it to himself.

You don’t know any of that, however, so you’re convinced that Steve doesn’t like you and you have no idea why. Every time his only response is a nod or a limp wave, you wait until he’s out of sight to frown, to scrunch your eyebrows.

You try to think about what you might’ve done.

You first met Steve when you moved into the building, your hair held away from your face with a clip, baby hairs sticking to your damp forehead, and your sweatshirt hanging off your shoulder. Not your best look.

He must’ve heard the thump of boxes hitting the ground, the mumbled curses you kept uttering. Knuckling at his tired eyes, he opened his door and peeked his head into the hallway.

“What the-”

He shut right up when you turned around, smiling (almost wincing) at him.

“Hi,” you introduced yourself, and he repeated your name so quietly you didn’t even hear it. “Sorry about the noise. I have a lot of stuff.”

He nodded, looking at the few boxes in the hall, “you’re moving in?”

“Yeah.”

“You need some help?”

“Seriously?” He half nodded, half shrugged. “That would be great. Thank you so much.”

“Sure. ‘M Steve, by the way.”

Steve. He’s pretty, you thought. Brown, fluffy hair and soft eyes, a mouth you think must look even better when he smiles.

He carried the heavier boxes without complaint or breaking a sweat. His arms flexed with the actions, but his face was completely unaffected. You were amazed. And probably stared at him too much.

When every box was inside your apartment, you’d thanked him, and he’d brushed it off saying it was no problem and went back inside his own place.

No problem, like he didn’t carry box after box for you because you couldn’t afford movers.

Now, with your back against the inside of your door after seeing him in the hallway, you replay that meeting once again. You can’t figure out what you did. Worse, you think, maybe you didn’t do anything at all and you’re just someone who’s easy to dislike.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t so good looking. If he didn’t make you nervous whenever his eyes glanced over you, if you had actual friends to occupy your time, if you didn’t want him to like you so bad.

If, if, if.

You try to stop thinking about it and pick up the book you’d left on your coffee table. You have to reread passages, distracted and unfocused.

-

The bookstore’s been slow today.

You’ve been keeping yourself as busy as possible, even with an empty store. Dusting shelves, re-organizing sections that looked fine before, switching displays around. Eventually you gave in and sat behind the counter with a book, watching people pass by the front windows.

The sun set at some point, sinking behind buildings and leaving the city lit by streetlights and warm glows seeping through windows.

As boring as it can be, you wouldn’t be doing much different if you were at home. Finding things to do to pass time, sitting around aimlessly. At least here, you get paid for doing it.

When it’s time to close up you’re not sure if your sigh is from relief or disappointment. You’re lonely often, but it’s harder to ignore it when you’re all alone at home, no people around at all, even if they’re mostly just passing by on the sidewalk.

You go through the list, sweeping, setting the alarm, shutting off the lights, and locking the door.

The night air is cool, light wind blowing at your cheeks, ruffling your hair. The usual sounds surround you. Honking horns and tires rolling against pavement, indistinguishable voices and the click of the bookstore door locking.

You keep your keys in your hand while you walk home, one of them sticking up between your knuckles. Just in case.

One foot in front of the other, again and again, you walk along the sidewalk. Your footsteps a steady rhythm, hands tucked in your pockets to keep them warm, head bent to avoid making eye contact with any other pedestrians.

Only a couple of minutes from your place, you can hear someone walking along behind you. You shake your head, telling yourself they’re probably just headed in the same direction.

That reassurance disappears when the stranger whistles at you.

You don’t look up, you don’t turn around, you just keep your head down and walk faster, your heartbeat speeding in your chest. You’ve seen stories of what can happen to someone walking home alone. You never thought you’d have one of your own.

“Hey, cupcake! Where you going?” His voice is scratchy and scary. You pick up your pace even more.

At your ignorance, the man speaks again, “I’m talking to you.” His hand grabs your sleeve when he says it.

More afraid than you’ve ever been, you jerk your arm from his grasp and stupidly turn down an alleyway as a shortcut. It’s a horrible decision, but when you’re scared like that, it’s really hard to think straight.

You feel bad for being annoyed with people in horror movies. You get it now.

You’re almost jogging now, but it doesn’t deter the man. No, he catches up and grabs your wrist, twisting you around and pushing your back roughly into the brick wall of the building behind you.

Your wrist is slammed against it where he grabbed you, no doubt scratching your skin and making you flinch, your keys falling from your grasp.

This is it, you think. I’m gonna die here. Alone.

Your eyes water, a tear drips down your cheek and the man laughs in your face. You try to break away from his hold but he doesn’t let up. The only thing you manage is to knee him in the thigh, but it doesn’t do much.

“Nice try, cupcake. I’ve got you now.” he says. That’s when you notice the glint of a pocket knife in his hand.

“Please. Don’t,” is all you can say, trying and trying to get your arms out of the man’s tight hold. Tight enough to bruise.

Steve’s hair stands at the back of his neck, on his arms. Until now, his patrolling had been quiet. Easy fixes like an elderly woman not crossing the street quick enough or a man who’d locked his keys in his car.

Now, his instincts tell him this thing isn’t so small.

Without a second thought, he jumps from where he’d been perched at the ledge of a building and swings in the direction his senses take him. In your direction.

One second, you’re squeezing your eyes shut, thinking it’s the end, and the next, there’s the sound of someone landing in the alley and the thwip of a web.

The man is pulled off of you so fast you can barely keep up. There’s a flash of blue and red, hints of webbing being shot, and just like that, your attacker is knocked out and stuck to the opposite wall.

Your chest heaves and your back slides down the wall, landing on your bum on the pavement.

Steve turns around now that the man’s been dealt with and he thinks his heart stops for a second. He hadn’t realized it’d been you. You and your sweet smile, now turned to tears streaking your cheeks.

He thought, without him, you’d be better off. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should’ve been keeping an eye on you. For now, he’s sort of glad he hasn’t spoken to you much, only because there’s a better chance you won’t recognize his voice.

Steve moves to crouch in front of you, “are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His hands hover by the sides of your face, like he’s holding himself back from touching you. Restraining himself.

Spider-man is in front of you. Spider-man with his suit and white-eyed mask who just saved your life is right there in front of you. So much for a slow day.

You shake your head and wipe your cheeks with your palms, “no. No, just- um, just my wrist, I think.”

“Can I look?”

You hold out your arm for him to see, and he moves his hands down, one tugging back your sleeve and the other holding your wrist gently. The fabric of his gloves brushes against your skin lightly, careful not to touch you where you’re hurt.

“Doesn’t look sprained. Just scraped,” he says. He looks up from your arm to your face, the eyes on his mask narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re sure you aren’t hurt anywhere else?”

He sounds genuinely worried. Like, you can hear it in his voice. It makes you want to cry all over again. You’d always thought that when Spider-man dealt with the bad guys, he’d just move on. Now, you can see that he cares a lot more than that.

You shake your head, “I’m fine.”

As fine as you can be after what just happened.

He nods and stands, offering you his hands to help you up. You pick up your keys and accept, slipping your hands into his. He pulls you up and squeezes your fingers before letting go.

“Will you let me take you home?” He asks.

You’re sort of in shock, and you’d rather not walk anymore. So, you agree.

He opens his arms for you, picking you up easily with a single arm wrapped around your waist. Your own arms go around his neck, legs tentatively wrapping around his waist.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” you almost whisper.

He hears you loud and clear, your mouth close to his ear, his senses seemingly even more heightened than usual with you around.

“Hold on,” he says.

Then, you hear the whip of his webs and you’re in the air. Your limbs tighten around him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

The wind rushes all around you. In your ears, your hair, your jacket. The city does, too, lights flickering by and buildings growing distant over his shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“You okay?” He asks over the wind.

“Maybe!”

You can feel his chest rumble with a chuckle. You wish you could’ve heard it, too.

He swings you towards your building when he remembers he’s not supposed to know where you live, “where to?”

You tell him, yelling over the noise not realizing he can hear you just fine normally. You don’t know about those superpowers, focused on the ones that have him transporting you home.

He gets you there quickly, landing just outside the front entrance. You stay wrapped around him for a second before you realize you’ve stopped moving. You remove yourself from him so quickly he has to steady you with hands on your upper arms so you don’t fall.

“You okay from here?” He checks, his head lowering to catch your gaze.

“Yeah. Thank you for…” Saving my life, making sure I’m okay, taking me home. Everything since you landed in the alley.

“Just doing my job.”

“Right. Thanks again,” you turn to head inside.

“Goodnight. And take care of your wrist!”

“Goodnight, Spider-man.”

-

Steve sees you more often after that night. He thinks the universe might be punishing him. Making him see you more, making him work harder to keep his distance.

He tossed and turned the entire night after bringing you home. He wondered if you were actually okay, trying to listen in case you were crying or having a nightmare. He worried so much more than he would have if it had been any other person and he hated it.

He saw you the next morning. You were checking your mail at the same time as him. Your sleeve had ridden up, exposing the scratches on your wrist from the brick wall, the faint bruises of fingerprints, your eyes tired.

“Are you okay?” He couldn’t help but ask, gesturing limply at your hand. Maybe if you give him a convincing yes, he can finally stop thinking about you so much.

You look down at your arm when he asks, quickly tugging your sleeve back down to cover it up. “Oh. It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing. He knows it isn’t because he was there and he saw at least a part of what happened to you. He can’t let you know that, so he just nods and turns to his mailbox, listening to your footsteps as you walk out of the mailroom and back up to your apartment. His fingers twitch by his side.

Steve’s used to feeling protective over people, that’s not new, but to feel so protective over someone he barely knows hasn’t happened before. That night haunts him. Your tear-streaked face, the blooming bruises on your arm. He never wants to see you hurting again.

Maybe that’s why he starts returning your greetings in the halls, actually pausing to ask how you are, to smile back at you (they’re tight-lipped smiles, but it’s something).

He’s trying to be kind without getting any closer. No matter how much he wants to know you.

One day, as Steve’s heading out for the late shift, you’re just getting home from your own job, it seems. The clip in your hair has loosened since you put it in, strands falling freely around your face. For a second, Steve has the urge to tuck them behind your ears.

He pushes that down.

“Hi,” he says, his door shut behind him.

“Hi, Steve.”

“How are you?”

“Okay, thanks. Tired,” you fiddle with the frayed hem of your knitted sweater. “Had the opening shift today.”

“Ah. Any plans?”

“Probably just gonna take a nap.”

He nods. For a second you think he might’ve asked because he wanted to do something with you. It’s a stupid thought and you push it away.

“Have a good nap, then,” he gives you the close-mouthed smile that’s become more common between you, and heads towards the stairs.

The shift in his behavior towards you hasn’t been huge, but it’s been enough for you to notice it. He talks to you sometimes—always briefly, but still—he doesn’t turn away from you as soon as he gets the chance like he used to.

It’s confusing, but you’re happy about it anyway. Maybe he just needed some time to warm up to you a bit. Maybe he doesn’t hate you after all.

Inside your apartment, you change into sweats and practically collapse onto your couch, playing something mindless on the TV and pulling a blanket over yourself.

You really are tired, but it’s not only from working early. Lately, your dreams have been haunted by rough hands, dark alleys, and flashes of blue and red. You constantly feel like there are eyes on you, and when you walk home from closing shifts, you always search for a certain superhero at the tops of buildings.

You fall asleep at some point, and by the time you wake up, it’s dark outside.

-

Days seem to blur together. Repetitive and tiring all the same. The only thing you have to look forward to lately is your short conversations with Steve in the halls.

You’re not sure how many days later it is when you fall asleep on your couch again. This time, you’re woken up by noises coming from the hallway, right by your door. You get up slowly, feet hitting the cool floors as you walk over to your door.

You don’t know what time it is, but from the darkness of your apartment and the random game show that plays on your TV, you know it’s late.

Peeking through your peephole, you see Steve, fumbling with his keys and almost limping. You open the door.

“Steve?”

He shuts his eyes when he hears your voice, all sleepy and worried.

Like an idiot, he’d left his window locked again and had to use the door after a night of patrolling. A worse night than usual.

You gasp when he spins to face you, one of his eyes swollen shut, a cut on his eyebrow, his nose bleeding, and another cut on his lip.

“Oh my god,” you step forward a little, leaving your door open. “What happened?”

“I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”

“You’re bleeding,” you say. “Come on. Let me help you.”

You grasp his arm lightly in both of your hands, and when he doesn’t protest, lead him into your apartment.

Steve’s suit feels tighter now, scratching his skin where it sits because he worries you’ll see it despite his layers on top of it. Still, he could use some help. And he can’t bring himself to be upset that you’re the one helping him.

“You don’t have to,” his voice is scratchy.

“I want to help you, okay?”

You bring him into your bathroom, making him sit on the toilet lid. You leave him there for a bit, coming back with some ice in a dish cloth.

“Here, for your eye.” He takes it from you and sucks in a breath when he presses it against his swollen skin.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“‘Course.”

You pull out your first-aid kit from under your sink, setting it on the counter and taking out what you need. You grab another cloth, wetting it in the sink.

“Here,” you stand between his legs, using a bent finger to tilt his chin up towards you. You wipe the dried blood from his skin in silence, Steve’s eyes shut, yours running all over his face.

You’re surprised he trusts you enough to let you do this. You wonder if this is why he’s so closed-off. If maybe he’s involved in something that gets him hurt. Often.

An underground boxing ring, debt with bad people, so many possibilities cross your mind, not a single one being the truth.

Once his face is as clean as it can be, you move on to disinfecting the cuts by his eyebrow and lip. “This might sting a little.”

“S’okay.”

His face pinches a little bit when you dab away at his cuts, but he doesn’t make any noise. All you can hear is his deep breaths and the small sound of his leg bouncing.

His nose hasn’t bled anymore since you cleaned it, and he keeps the ice over his eye the entire time. The cut by his lip looks much smaller when there’s no blood surrounding it.

Only his eyebrow needs a small bandage, which you grab and unwrap. “Last step.”

He feels you press the bandage on, your fingers lightly pushing the sides onto his skin to make sure it’s stuck. The process, he finds, hurts much less when you do it.

He misses your warmth when you step away from him. “Thank you.”

“Are you in trouble, or something? What happened to you?”

“It’s not a big deal. I swear.”

He hates lying to you, but he convinces himself it’s better this way. For your own good.

You don’t look convinced but you drop it. “Okay.”

“I should go,” he stands from where he’d been sitting and waivers a little, leaning on the counter.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m fine, just got dizzy.”

“You can take the couch, if you want. It’s not a problem, really.”

“I live across the hall, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He steps towards the doorway and has to pause again. “Or maybe I’ll stay. If you’re sure.”

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t.”

You walk him to the couch, letting him lean on you whenever he needs to along the way. He sits down, and you go to get him a pillow and blankets.

This is the longest amount of time you’ve ever spent with Steve, and it pinches at your heart that he’s hurt during it. That he only needed help, not company. Even so, you fight a smile when you come back to the living room and find him laying down, already half asleep.

You spread the blankets over him. You take the pillow you’d brought him and guide him to lift his head. You’re convinced he’s asleep, so you let yourself push the hair off his forehead just once.

When you turn to go to your room, he catches your hand in his.

“Thank you, honey.”

Honey. That’s new.

-

Steve was already gone when you got up the next day. The only evidence of his visit the blankets he’d left folded up on your couch and the washcloth stained with his blood you used to clean him up.

Every time you pass his door you think about knocking and checking on him. About making sure he’s okay.

You’ve been worrying a lot more ever since the night you were attacked and saved by Spider-man, and that goes for more than just yourself. You worry about every person you see walking alone, about Steve being hurt again, about noises you might be imagining at night.

You probably look over your shoulder fifty times on your way home from the grocery store, your hands too full with your bags to be able to defend yourself if anything happens.

You breathe out when you make it in front of your door. You’re safe, you’re fine, you have to tell yourself.

In your rush to get your keys from your pocket, you drop two of your bags. “Shit.” Boxes and cans thump against the floor.

Steve hears everything, all of the time. He hears you curse and the sound of your stuff hitting the ground. He blames the fact that he heads to the door on boredom and nothing more.

“Need some help?” His voice startles you.

“Oh! Hey, Steve. It’s fine, just dropped some stuff.”

You set the rest of your bags down, kneeling to pick up things that fell out of the ones you dropped. Embarrassed, you keep your head ducked.

Steve can sense it, the way your pulse jumps a little around him. He doesn’t know whether to be glad or worried that he makes you nervous. Either way, he bends down beside you, helping you pick things up.

A bag of apples, a can of soup.

You both reach for the bags at the same time, fingers brushing before pulling away. Like there was a shock, a little spark where your skin met for the briefest second.

Before you can, Steve picks up the bags. “I got ‘em. You get the door.”

“I- Okay.”

You turn around and fumble with the lock, opening your door and walking inside. Steve follows you and puts your bags on your kitchen counter.

“Good?” He checks.

“Yeah. Thank you, Steve.”

“No problem, honey. Think of it as payback for you patching me up.”

Honey. Last time he said it, you chalked it up to his tired state. That excuse can’t be used this time, and the term warms you.

“Right,” you look him over. His injuries are almost gone and it’s only been a couple of days. At least, you think it has. “You’re feeling better?”

“You did a good job,” he says.

“I’m glad.”

He nods, rocks back onto his heels once, “so, um, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

He nods again and heads out, shutting your door behind him. With every conversation you have, Steve seems to warm up around you just a bit more. You don’t want to hope too much, so you push your hair from your face and turn to put your groceries away.

That evening, when you’re getting ready to cook dinner—a simple spaghetti and meatballs—you realize you’ve never seen Steve bring groceries into his apartment. Not once.

He must eat, you know that, but you wonder if he eats well, or enough. You cook for two without realizing until it’s finished. There’s extra of everything.

It’s probably stupid, maybe weird, but you make a bowl and head out into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door, three little taps of your knuckles against the wood.

He hears the knocks right away, listens closer to hear your voice mumbling to yourself. He knows your voice well. Sometimes, he can hear you humming to yourself in your apartment. He doesn’t try to listen in on you, but it’s like his ears subconsciously seek you out.

Steve opens the door and sees you in the same clothes as earlier, a shy smile on your face, and a bowl of spaghetti in your hands.

“Hey. What are you…?”

“I accidentally made too much food, and I thought maybe you’d want some?”

Actually, you made too much food for him, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh,” his heart does a stupid jump in his chest. You’re so kind and you don’t even seem to be trying. If anything, you seem to be embarrassed about it, like it’s a fault. “That’s really nice.”

“It’s just pasta. You want it?”

“Sure,” he takes the bowl from you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And I promise it’s not, like, poisoned or anything.” You wince at yourself, “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s not poisoned.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Okay. Um, enjoy.”

He stands in his doorway while you go back inside, his smile spreading as soon as your back is turned to him. He heads inside after you do, kicking his door shut.

He’s never smiled at a fucking bowl of pasta the way he does. It’s getting harder and harder to make himself avoid you, avoid that light in his chest that seems to brighten when he sees you.

He’s in trouble.

-

You bring him dinner often. At least twice a week, on days you don’t work or when you’re pretty sure he’s home.

He thanks you every time with a close-mouthed smile and brings back your dishes the next day, perfectly clean.

It feels like, over time, with every dish you bring him, a chip falls away from the walls he’s built up around himself. You can tell there’s a lot of them, and that they’re tall, but you don’t mind waiting for them to lower piece by piece. He’s worth that wait, you think.

You’re happy to cook for him—you’re cooking for yourself already anyway—and you’ve grown closer because of it. Something like friends, almost. The conversations seem to grow longer each time you see him.

Sometimes, on good days, he even invites you inside to eat with him.

You aren’t very close, but right now, he’s the only friend you have (besides your coworkers, who really only hang out with you because they have to). You’d think the way you get excited to see him would be sad if it weren’t for how nice he is, for how he makes you feel.

He listens to you when you speak, his eyes don’t stray, either. He always tells you he likes your cooking when you know it isn’t all that great. He even hugged you before you left his place once, his arms around your waist, hands running over your skin delicately before he pulled away.

“Thank you for dinner,” he’d said. “Again.”

“I like making it for you. Makes me feel useful.”

“Still. Thank you, honey,” he’d surprised you with it, moving close before you could really process it.

“Oh,” you’d stupidly let your arms hang limp for a second before wrapping them shyly around his neck. “I don’t think my cooking is this good.”

“It’s not just your cooking,” he’d told you.

He pulled away after that, leaving your body warm and your smile difficult to suppress.

You’re well aware you have a crush on him, but you don’t want to let it ruin the beginnings of the friendship you’ve built.

Steve’s not sure what the pull he feels towards you is, like one of his webs is tethered to you even though he can’t see it. It’s something his senses can’t tell him, no matter how much he focuses on them.

He thinks you’re the sweetest person and you don’t even try, all shy smiles and soft gestures. He likes how when you talk, he can really hear how you feel about something in your voice. He trusts you, despite not knowing you too well.

He also thinks you’re really pretty, but that’s not important.

Steve had another rough night patrolling. Some guy decided to play Wolverine—he’d made gloves with blades and everything—and scratched Steve pretty good on his upper arm. It hurts like a bitch, even though it’ll heal quickly. And he’ll have to sew up his suit.

He got the guy, which is something, at least.

Luckily, he actually remembered to unlock the window this time, so he’s able to sneak into his place with ease. He stripped out of his suit and took a shower before anything. Maybe not the smartest decision while actively bleeding, but he felt gross.

Afterwards, clad in plaid pajama pants and a plain cotton t-shirt, he searches his bathroom for his first-aid kit while keeping a towel pressed to his arm. A dark stain blooms on the fabric the longer he keeps it against his wound.

“Yes,” he cheers to himself when he finds the small white box.

He sits on the tile floors, back against his sink cabinets, and the kit in his lap. He opens it with one hand, the other too busy trying to slow the bleeding. When he gets it open, he’s disappointed with what he finds.

“Fuck,” he says. There’s barely anything left. A roll of gauze, a box of bandaids, and one tiny alcohol wipe. That’s it. He really needs to remember to refill this stuff.

He pushes himself to stand, winces when he has to use his injured arm.

There’s only one person close by that he knows for sure has a first-aid kit that has what he needs, because he’s seen it pretty recently. That person is you.

He hates that he’s dragging you into this again, that he’s gonna ask a favor of you that he really shouldn’t. One he doesn’t even think he deserves. He needs the help, though, so he walks to his door, into the hallway, and a few steps to your place across from his.

He knocks, his towel more red than its original color by now.

The sound doesn’t exactly wake you up. It’s late, and you’d been in bed, but you’d been having a hard time falling asleep. You were tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling.

You sit up, push your hair out of your face, and head to the door. You should, but you don’t even look to see who it is before opening it, keeping your body behind the door and peeking your head around. You certainly weren’t expecting this.

Steve stands in front of you, his hair damp and a mess, falling over his forehead. His face is pale and, when your eyes flicker down, you find that his arm is bleeding. A lot.

“Holy shit. What happened to you?”

He ignores your question. “Can you help me?”

You move away from the door. The cold air from the hallway combined with the way Steve’s eyes look down before quickly looking back at your face remind you of your attire. A sleep shirt and underwear.

“Fuck! Sorry,” you go to shut the door but remember that he’s literally bleeding. “Come in, you know where the bathroom is. I’ll just- um. Let me put some pants on.”

He’d laugh at the way you pretty much sprint into your room if he wasn’t so focused on the pain of his arm. He’d also be thinking a lot about the way your legs looked just then.

You meet him in the bathroom, legs now covered in a baggy pair of sweatpants. Steve’s sitting on the shut toilet just like he did the first time you helped him. You haven’t touched your first-aid kit since then, finding it exactly where you left it then.

“Sorry about that,” you tuck your hair behind your ears quickly before opening up the box, turning to him afterward. “Can I see?”

“Yeah.”

You take the towel from Steve’s hand, slowly moving it away from his wound to see how bad it is. Steve’s hands twitch where they sit atop his thighs. He’s holding himself back from touching you.

Three gashes break his skin. The outside of his arm, just below his shoulder.

“Do these need stitches?” You ask, the concern is clear in your voice, in how it shakes a bit. “Maybe you should go to the hospital-”

“No. Please. No hospital.”

“I don’t know how to do stitches, Steve. I don’t know if I can help you.”

“I don’t need stitches, I swear,” the look on your face makes him feel awful. The sadness in your eyes, the small frown you try to hide. “I ran out of bandages. That’s all I need.”

“Are you sure?”

He can’t tell you that his skin will mend on its own, that he’ll be fine in just a couple of days. “Positive.”

You nod and grab a different towel than the one he’d been using, pressing it against his arm to make sure the bleeding stops. He groans quietly when you do. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“I’m alright.”

When you’re almost 100% sure that the bleeding is done, you pull the towel away. You hold it under the sink, wetting a part of it that didn’t soak up his blood. You use it to clean away the dried blood on his arm, apologizing every time he sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing at the pull on his cuts.

One of your hands holds his arm up, the other occupied with the towel. You’re bent close, stood between his legs, your loose hair tickling his skin.

“Steve?” You whisper, still focused on his gashed arm.

“Mm?” He hums, watching you help him with the most careful touch he’s ever felt.

“Who’s hurting you?”

“It’s nothing.” He says it in a way that tells you it really isn’t nothing. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Maybe you don’t need to worry about him, but you do. You worry constantly. Anytime there’s a bandaid or scrape on his skin you wonder if it’s the same people that gave him that black eye and split lip weeks ago.

You worry because he’s so good. He’s a soft person under the invisible armor he protects himself with and he doesn’t deserve to be hurt. His skin is too delicate for it, his face too pretty.

You pull away and grab the roll of bandages you have in your kit. When you look at him again, his eyes are set on you, scanning your face.

“Please don’t worry about me,” his voice is quiet, and you hate the way it breaks on the first word.

He hates it, too.

“I’ll try my best,” you force a small smile at him, trying to lighten things as much as you can given the situation. You look back at his arm, wrapping it slowly. “Is that good?”

He looks at his arm, his wounds now covered with white wrappings. He looks back at you, “thank you, honey.”

“It’s not too tight?”

He shakes his head, standing when you step back to give him the space. You stand toe-to-toe, his head bent down to look at you, yours titled up.

“It’s perfect.”

Your breaths mingle in the air between you, growing thicker. Before you let yourself hope for something you shouldn’t, you move to the counter and grab the rest of the bandages you have.

“Here,” you hold them out to him, “for when you need to switch it.”

“You won’t need it?” He asks instead of telling you that by the time it needs switching, it won't be an open wound anymore.

“The most I use from that kit is the regular bandaids. I’ll survive without it.”

He takes the bandages from you, his hand brushing yours.

“I’m sorry for showing up the way I did.”

“I’d rather that than have you bleeding out in your apartment,” your eyes flick over to the bloody towels on your floor, your heart pinching in your chest. “If you need to talk to someone, or anything, I’m here.”

He leans closer, pushes a gentle peck into your cheek, and speaks with his lips still brushing your skin. “I don’t deserve your sweetness.”

He drops his head into your shoulder, just for a second, before moving away from you.

“Wha-”

“Bye, honey. Thank you,” he says, walking out of your bathroom.

You stand there, a hand lifting to press against your cheek in the spot his lips did. You pull it away and look at your fingertips, like you’d been expecting to see a physical residue of the kiss. Flecks of glitter, or the soft pink of the sky at sunrise.

You just see your skin, painfully normal.

-

After thinking and thinking and thinking, you determine that maybe Steve likes you more than you thought he did.

The way he calls you ‘honey’ in that voice of his, the softness of his eyes that he can’t hide no matter how cold he tries to keep his exterior, the way he kissed your cheek and let his lips linger when he spoke.

All of those things make you hope that maybe he likes you at least a little bit in the way that you like him, but if not, at the very least, he likes you more than you thought.

You think he tries to hold himself back from getting close to you at all, and you really don’t know why. All you know is that his shoulders were slightly slumped when he forced himself to leave after you'd bandaged his arm, after he told you he doesn’t deserve you.

There’s something in his life that makes him think that way and as much as you wanna know what it is, you hope that the best you can do is prove him wrong.

That’s one of the reasons you’re cooking dinner for two once again tonight. You also feel like, since this is sort of what brought you closer, the dinners are a tradition for you and Steve. Something completely yours.

It’s nice to have something like that with another person. You knew you were lonely, but you never noticed how much until you started talking to him more. With each meeting, the string between you both shortens.

You’ve never cooked this meal before. You’re extra attentive with it, tasting it to make sure it’s right, keeping your eyes on things closely to avoid burning it at all.

When everything’s done, Steve’s meal packed up nicely and your ponytail now a loose mess, you head to the bathroom to look at yourself in the mirror. The most you do is fix your hair before feeling silly for caring so much about your appearance.

He’s seen you tired-eyed and pantless. This is better than that, at least.

You haven’t brought Steve a meal since you patched him up and he thanked you with a kiss on the cheek and possibly, maybe, loaded words. You’ve seen him, yes, but this is different than a two minute conversation in a hallway or the mailroom.

It’s your way of checking on him.

Your door shuts with a click behind you, his meal in your hand as you step into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door in quick, small taps. You’re not sure why you’re nervous to be doing it this time.

The doorknob twists and you’re met with Steve’s smiling face. Like actually, fully smiling. You don’t think you’ve ever seen that from him before. Not like this. It’s like a beaming ray of sunshine, warm and beautiful.

You’d like to be the one to make him smile like that.

“Hi, honey,” he says. It’s then you notice his cheeks are slightly flushed, little pink blooms on his skin.

“Hey. I made you dinner again,” you hold the container up awkwardly to show him.

“You don’t have to keep making me dinner.”

“I like doing it.”

He nods. Steve knows that you do it as an excuse to see him, and if he were braver, or less concerned about involving you in his impossible life, he’d tell you that you don’t need to have food to knock on his door.

He’d tell you that you could knock whenever you wanted, that he’d happily open the door for you.

“Steve!” A voice—a female voice—calls from inside the apartment. “Who’s at the door?”

Fuck. Okay, he has a girlfriend. You probably interrupted something, you think, looking at his flushed cheeks, thinking about the smile he wore that most definitely was not for you.

You’re embarrassed for even thinking that he could like you, embarrassed for having read everything wrong, for hoping too much.

“Oh. You have company. I’ll just-” you pivot on your heel to leave and realize you’re still holding his dinner. You turn back around and hand it to him, awkwardly turning towards your door again and heading inside.

Steve stares at your door for a couple of seconds before going back inside. He sets his food on the counter and sits back on the couch.

“So, who was that?” Robin asks.

Robin, his best friend and the only person in the world who knows pretty much everything about him. Spider-man and all.

“My neighbor. She was bringing me dinner.”

“It was her? And you didn’t let me say hi!”

Yeah, Robin knows all about you. She knows that you make Steve dinner, that you’ve taken care of him without digging too deep for answers, that Steve thinks you’re the ‘prettiest girl ever.’ His words.

“She left pretty fast after you yelled.”

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“Nooo. I scared her off!” Steve is clearly very confused, so Robin huffs and continues, “she heard a girl’s voice in your apartment.”

“And?”

“God, you’re such a boy sometimes, it’s insane. She thought I was your girlfriend!”

“Why would that scare her off?”

“I know you don’t get out much, dingus, but seriously?” She literally facepalms. “She likes you! Why else would she be making you dinner and shit? She likes you and thinks you’re dating someone.”

“Oh. Oh. No, she doesn’t like me. Not like that.”

“You’re an actual dingus.”

Steve doesn’t want to think about that possibility because it’ll make it much, much harder to keep you at arms length. Though, even now, that arm is mostly bent, losing resistance.

“So what if she does like me? I can’t do anything with her.”

“Why not.”

“Because I’m Spider-”

“Spider-man, yes, I know. Who cares? You can't live your whole life ignoring every single romantic feeling you have because of that.”

“I don’t wanna drag her into this.”

“Did you ever consider that maybe she would want to be dragged into this?”

“I guess not.”

He goes quiet after that, and Robin, knowing him so well, drops the subject.

-

Steve thinks about what Robin said even after she leaves.

It’s hard for him to believe that you’d like him enough to worry that Robin was his girlfriend. You, a dream girl, liking him, with his unexplained injuries and past grumpiness towards you. There was no way.

But, on the slightest chance that it did matter to you, Steve decided he wanted to explain.

His crush on you isn’t something he should explore, isn’t something he wants to let grow because, despite what Robin says, his life is dangerous and you already worry about him enough without knowing that.

Still, the thought of you being upset because you think he isn’t single is enough to make him head across the hall.

While Steve wondered what he’d say, you stewed in your embarrassment. You’d sat on your couch in your sweats and tried to forget the girl's voice or the smile on Steve’s face. You were unsuccessful.

The knocks on your door have become a familiar sound—there’s only one person who actually comes to your apartment.

You walk over and muster up a smile that you hope looks genuine, “Steve, hey.”

He scratches the back of his neck and looks at you, “can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

You move aside as he walks in, shutting the door behind him. The apartment feels smaller with him in it, you think. His presence takes up space for you, it draws your focus.

“Thanks again for dinner,” he says.

“You’re welcome-”

“That wasn’t my girlfriend, by the way. The voice you heard,” he cuts you off because he worries that if he doesn’t say it now, he never will. “I mean, she’s my friend, and a girl, but we’re not dating. Her name’s Robin, she’s my best friend, that’s it. Promise.”

You’re not sure whether to be even more embarrassed at how obvious you were with your concern, or to be relieved that he’s not taken like you thought. You settle for a bit of both.

“You don’t have to- I know I was weird earlier but you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you tell him, tugging at the ends of your sleeves with your fingers.

“I wanted to make sure you knew.”

There could be a lot of weight in that sentence, if you let yourself look hard enough.

Rather than reply you confess, “you know, I used to think you hated me. Or, didn’t like me. Before we talked and stuff.”

Steve’s standing really close to you. Has he always been this close? You can smell his soap and feel the light puffs of air leaving his lips. It’s almost dizzying—like, if someone poked your shoulder, you might fall over.

You notice a lot about him from this close, especially when there’s no blood on his face. He has the lightest dusting of freckles over his nose, his eyelashes are dark, framing his brown eyes.

Steve reaches out with a hand to link his fingers with yours, loosely and slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle you. They fit together easily. His other hand brushes his knuckles against your cheek before cupping it gently in his palm.

His touch is so gentle, so much less guarded than his usual actions. You blink up at him and without even thinking, you push yourself into his touch, just a little.

“I never hated you,” he says. A murmur between your mouths.

“Oh,” is all you can say.

Steve’s strong, inhumanely so, but he isn’t strong enough to stop himself from kissing you.

The first brush of his lips on yours is so light that you think you might be dreaming. When you don’t pull away, he kisses you more firmly, his lips a little bit chapped but still soft as they land on yours.

You haven’t kissed a lot of people but you’ve never felt one like this. One that you’ve been dancing around for longer than you ever realized.

Steve’s hand squeezes yours, his thumb running back and forth against your cheek, his mouth moving with yours like a dance. He probably shouldn’t have let himself kiss you, because there’s no way he can fight whatever this is after feeling your lips on his.

He pecks you once, and twice, before pulling away. If he kept kissing you, the single thread left holding him back from you would’ve snapped. A clean break.

He leans his forehead against yours, and whispers so quietly you would’ve missed it had he not been so close to you. You could almost feel the words being spoken, lips still a breath apart.

“Never hated you.”

/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\

if you enjoyed, please reblog and/or let me know what you thought!!! it would mean a whole bunch <3

[meg-moira]

The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind

Sequel to Eindred and the Witch

In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.

-

-

Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.

“Think of all of time as a grand tapestry,” his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. “You might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - you’ll never understand the picture.”

Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.

“No,” she replied. “Time is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.”

And that was that.

By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his family’s home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.

His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severin’s same bleak thread.

He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.

Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.

Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.

I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.

He didn’t care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.

At seventeen, he was still all arms and legs, though his eldest sister had managed to tame his hair with a respectably sharp pair of shears. The wind, who had delighted in playing with his wild, tangled locks, did not thank her for it. Severin did thank her; in fact, he’d asked her to do it. He was of the opinion that his newly shorn hair made him look older - more sophisticated. And he left his family home with a new cloak draping his shoulders and a knotted wooden walking stick in hand, thinking himself very nearly a man. He was far from it, of course. But there was no telling him that.

He set out on a clear, cool morning to find his own way in the world, and was prepared to thoroughly deal with anyone who so much as dared to act ever so slightly in the manner of enemy or lover.

He discovered, soon enough, that this was not a practical attitude to take when venturing into the world. Severin spent his first months away from home making little in the way of friends and plenty in the way of thoroughly baffled enemies.

When you meet his gaze, you’ll know, the wind chided as it whisked in and out of his hood.

“His?” Severin said aloud, lifting a single dark brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

The wind whistled noncommittally in answer.

The wind did know something, as it turned out. At twenty, Severin stood on the warm, sun-loved planks of a dock. As gulls cried overhead, he pressed his fingers to his lips. The young sailor had touched his lips to Severin’s in a swift, carefree kiss before departing on the sea. And though the feeling was pleasant enough, Severin knew that his enemy-lover was not on the great ship cleaving a path through the cerulean waves.

“When I meet his gaze, I’ll know,” Severin said, golden eyes sweeping the horizon. The seaward breeze blustered in such agreement that the gulls overhead cried out in alarm.

What will you do? The wind asked, delighting in whipping the gulls into a proper frenzy.

“Get rid of him, of course,” Severin replied.

What if you don’t want to?

Severin thought that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “He’s going to stab me through the heart. Why in the world wouldn’t I want to get rid of him?”

People are foolish, the wind answered, shrugging the nearby sails.

“Not me.” Severin leaned on his stick and looked out at the sea. “I won’t let anyone get away with stabbing my heart.”

When he was twenty-two, Severin knelt at the bedside of a withered, wilting woman. She was a stranger, but the town’s herb witch was away, and Severin happened to be passing through. Though his true strength would always remain with the wind and the sky, the youngest of Severin’s two aunts had a special way with plants, and she’d taught him a fair bit about the many healing properties of the region’s hardy, windblown flora.

He boiled water, adding the few herbs he carried to make a rejuvenating tea. He helped the woman drink, his hand supporting her head and fingers tangling in her sweat drenched hair. After, he pressed a cool cloth to her head, and in the half dark room, she murmured, sharing delirious fears that she would accidentally speak cruel dying words and lay a curse upon him.

Kindly stroking her forehead, Severin assured her that he was not afraid of curses. Even uttered by the dying, a true curse was rarer than the superstitious soldier’s and barbarians liked to believe. Besides, she wasn’t going to die. Severin, who’d seen just enough of the world to have a taste of wisdom, was certain he could save her.

She died within the day.

Whether her condition had been beyond help, or Severin lacked the skills to twist the herbs to his bidding, he would never know. The wind rustled reassurances through the sparsely-leaved trees, but Severin was beyond consolation. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and by nightfall, great branches of lightning crackled across the sky.

He spent the next year and a half in the wilds. Beneath the jubilant light of the sun, he collected plants, acquainting himself with the earth. And beneath the soft, watchful light of the moon, he whispered to the wind and dared to wonder at the shape of his enemy-lover’s face. He could never seem to summon the slightest picture in his mind. Though it really didn’t matter, he supposed. Their eyes would meet, and Severin would know. And then he’d use all of the power at his disposal to send his enemy-lover away.

During this time, Severin sometimes saw bands of barbaric warriors crossing the plains. He kept his distance, but he doubted any of them were interested in either recruiting or killing a scrawny young man in a worn woolen cloak. Few he encountered ever suspected he had any great abilities, and Severin certainly didn’t go out of his way to advertise the fact that he could command the wind and sky when he wished. The barbaric companies had their eyes on more obviously lucrative targets, anyway. A handful of city states which spread across the great peninsula were openly at war with the barbaric tribes from the north.

It was when Severin was returning from his self-imposed isolation that he had his first real encounter with war. He held his sturdy walking stick in hand and carried a bursting bag of herbs, poultices, and leather-bound journals over his shoulder. Severin was so surprised by the sudden, brutal clash of metal and the primal cries that erupted nearby that he halted where he stood. His curiosity both outweighed and outlasted his fear, and after a minute or two of tense consideration, he pressed cautiously onward in the direction of the noise.

By the time he arrived, the battle was done.

It had surely been an ugly, bloody affair, if the splayed out bodies of the city soldiers and barbaric warriors were anything to judge it by. Holding a hand over his mouth, Severin gingerly navigated the carnage and valiantly resisted the impulse to be sick right there in the field. He was nearly on the other side of it when movement caught his eye. Squinting, almost afraid to look, he glanced from the corners of his eyes, sure that it was some grotesque remnant of warfare which awaited him.

Instead, it was a man.

Just a man.

The movement Severin had spotted was the rise and fall of his chest.

Only after turning a careful look around the terrible and silent battlefield did Severin approach the fallen man.

The barbarian’s eyes were closed and his pale brows drew together, as if reflecting pain. His face would probably have been handsome in a rough, simple sort of way if it weren’t smeared in dirt and blood. His light hair, braided and pulled away from his face, was bloodied as well, and Severin frowned at the sorry state of him. After a second wary look around, he knelt with a sigh.

The barbarian’s leather vest was cut, and his thick, scarred arms had earned several new slices as well. Severin, who had more than enough herbs and poultices on hand, reluctantly tore his only spare shirt into bandages. Within the hour the stranger was fully bandaged and muttering in fever addled sleep.

“Don’t worry,” Severin murmured, knotting the last makeshift bandage. “I’ve learned enough from the plants and trees to save you from both fever and infection.”

Behind closed lids, the barbarian’s eyes flitted anxiously to and fro and he mumbled something that sounded like no. Nose wrinkling, Severin leaned in. He heard the sleeping barbarian say, his voice low and cracking, “The curses will take me.”

Severin frowned down at him, unimpressed. “No they won’t,” he snapped, and yanked the bandage tighter.

The barbarian silenced then, and Severin stared at him a moment longer, pursing his lips in consternation. It wasn’t that he minded using his supplies to heal a stranger. But a part of him worried that healing a warrior made Severin responsible for whatever slaughter he resumed when he rose.

Severin abhorred warfare. It was such a terrible waste. But he supposed there was no helping what he’d already done. The barbarian was already on his way to recovery, and Severin certainly wasn’t going to murder him in his sleep. He reached out, intending to test the temperature at the man’s temple, but no sooner had Severin’s fingers touched his overheated skin than the world bled around him. In its place: a vision.

Shock echoed through him, because he was not like the women in his family, able to see phantoms in time. He’d always simply played with the air. The vision dancing before his gaze, however, didn’t seem to care.

Like droplets of ink spreading in water, a prism of colors twisted, threading together into nearly tangible shapes. From the chaos, rose a blond child holding a knit sheep. He was ruddy cheeked and pouting up at his mother. Then ink and water swirled and the images collapsed and shifted. Hulking shadows loomed over the child. The mother wailed her grief. The formless ink shivered, morphing from one scene to the next, nearly too quickly to follow, and Severin was swallowed up in it, overrun and overwhelmed by violence, blood, and pain. Beneath his fingers, Severin felt the movement of shifting, slipping thread.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the vision ceased. Severin’s knees ached where they pressed against the dirt and the barbarian’s skin beneath his hand was no longer overheated. How long had he been within the vision’s grasp, he wondered?

As Severin shifted back, the barbarian groaned. Severin watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered - and at once, the air turned heavy, as if the wind had drawn and held an anticipatory breath.

Dread flooded Severin and he rushed to stand. The barbarian had not yet opened his eyes, and Severin knew with a terrible nameless certainty that he must not be here when this man awoke. Severin could still feel those elusive, unknowable threads beneath his fingers, and his hands shook as he rose. Awakened by his urgency, the wind roared, lending him speed as he fled the clearing.

By the time the barbarian cracked open a single, world weary eye, Severin was long gone, heart still safely beating in his chest.

Severin endeavored to forget about the barbarian. He convinced himself that the vision had been the hallucination of an overexerted body, and that the sensation of inexorably moving threads beneath his fingers was nothing more than a flight of fancy. Severin did not think about how the threads had felt - certain and unyielding - beneath his fragile, very mortal hands. If he did, he feared he might ask the wind to whisk him away from the world altogether, and that, surely, was no way to live.

In a deep, secret place, however, Severin suspected the reason he was granted such a vision was because the stranger’s thread was woven perilously close to his own. Because of this, he set upon an easterly road, endeavoring to put a healthy distance between himself and the pale barbarian.

After nearly a month of travel, he arrived in a small village which sat nestled in foothills, tucked beneath the shadows of great mountains which stood like sentinels above. Severin hadn’t intended to stay, but when it was discovered he had some skill with plants and medicine, the villagers eagerly led him to a hut some distance from the village. It was empty, they explained, and had been for some years. A healing woman had occupied it, some years back, before she’d passed on. The villagers had been saving it, hoping the space would be enough to entice a new healer to make their isolated village a home.

Severin had nowhere else to go, and he supposed a distant, mountain village was as good a place as any to avoid a blade to the heart.

Two years passed, and Severin settled into his little hut. He spent his mornings taking long walks around the surrounding lands, collecting herbs and specimens. Returning home, he’d throw open the windows to allow his friend the wind a brief but wild rampage through the hut. With the air freshened, Severin spread plants across his square dining table and sorted them into jars to be sealed, dried, or preserved in vinegar. His neighbors in the village visited frequently, just as often for his company as for his medicines, and Severin delighted in visiting the town on market days and making the streamers dance in the wind for the children. Evenings were spent in his rocking chair, with a book in his lap and his feet pressed near to the low fire in the hearth.

He was happy, and hardly thought of the barbarian he’d found bleeding in the dirt. That is, until fate caught up with him.

One day, when he was foraging for moss on the hillside behind his hut, Severin felt the whisper-soft touch of thread against his palm. He sat upright at once, and turning and craning his neck, he absently rubbed his palms against his robes.

A company marched into the village. From up on Severin’s hill, they appeared a swarm of ants overtaking the miniature thatched roof homes. The slipping, shivering feeling beneath Severin’s palm intensified, and he stood. His heart drummed a frantic beat against his ribs, and Severin felt with a terrible certainty that fate, like a hunting hound on the scent, had sniffed him out at last.

When Severin called out, begging the wind’s help, it rushed to him, howling atop the hill.

I am here. I am here.

Cradled in the gale, he begged the wind to take him and hide him away, so that the tapestry’s relentless threads might cease dragging him toward the one he never wished to meet.

So be it, the wind said. If that is truly what you wish, I will take you and hide you away forever.

In that moment, nearly caught as he was, Severin was willing to do anything to avoid meeting this man who would kill him - until the screams rose from the pastures in the valley beneath his hut. Severin’s heartbeat was in his throat, on his very tongue, as he held up a hand to stay the wind.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, and turned bright, pained eyes toward the village. The terrified screams of his neighbors pierced him as surely as any blade, and with a mournful twist of his fingers, he bade the wind disperse.

By the time he reached in the pastures, the shepherd, the blacksmith, and Helvia’s two sons lay dead. At the sight of his friend’s bodies, grief and rage stirred within Severin, and the wind, always nearby to him, trembled in sympathy. Gaze sweeping the warriors, he marked the five whose weapons were stained red. Severin was not violent by nature, but if he was to die this day, he resolved to remove from the earth at least these five men, who with bloodied blades, uncaringly spoke of feasting upon the village’s few precious sheep.

When the warriors turned and finally noticed Severin, he lifted his chin and prayed his voice did not betray his fear. “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The men glanced at one another, eyes filling with a cruel sort of mirth. They laughed at him, and Severin steeled himself for what must come next. He was friends with the wind, but to call down the heavens was an entirely more serious matter. And he’d never done it. At least, not like this.

Severin turned his palms up and glared at the heavens, daring them to refuse him now when he needed them most.

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.

And then, the skies erupted.

He had never felt pure, visceral power in such a way, and as it whined and crackled, Severin, with splayed fingers, used all of his strength to tear the lightning from its home in the sky. It rained upon the warriors, screaming in wild, untamable fury. Severin watched the men cry out in agony, and he felt horror and satisfaction in equal measure.

When a single figure broke from the group, agile enough to evade the lightning and charge across the field, Severin could only look on in exhausted realization. It was the pale barbarian. The man from the battlefield. The child in the vision.

The barbarian charged like a beast, his thickly braided hair bouncing. His brows were drawn down in focus and his lips poised on the precipice of a snarl. It was with a hopeless sense of finality that Severin met the stranger’s gaze.

He met eyes of icy gray, the color of hazy, snow capped mountains in winter, and Severin knew, he knew with a certainty that was sunken into his bones and twisted in his marrow, that this barbarian was the shadow which had haunted him. And he knew, more than anything, the crude blade in the man’s scarred-knuckle hand was fate’s exclamation point at the end of Severin’s ephemeral existence.

Watching as the barbarian pivoted, drawing back his blade, Severin only wished he understood why the women in his family had persisted in calling this man Severin’s truest love. If this was love, the man had a spectacularly terrible way of showing it.

Time slowed to a crawl, and sunlight flashed, reflecting off the blade. As the jagged edge touched the fabric of Severin’s robe, the wind whispered at his ear. Let me show you a piece of the picture.

The wind around him froze, and so too did the world.

Look up, said the wind, a rustle within his ear.

Severin did.

The complexly woven image was shaped by currents in the air - all but invisible to any whose eyes are untrained to look for them. But Severin had a born understanding of the wind and sky, and when he looked up, he saw bits and pieces of an impossibly complex tapestry.

He saw scarred knuckles gently shaping wood. A small child that sat upon broad shoulders. Rocking chairs placed side by side before a glowing fire. Warm hands enveloping his own. Safety. Home.

It was...everything, and Severin’s heart ached with a strange and complex longing for a future that surely could never be.

It’s not impossible, the wind whispered. But the threads will have to tangle and untangle just perfectly so.

“How?” Severin asked, and wondered if he was a fool to feel so desperate a pull towards this life glimpsed in impressions and half images.

The warrior must weep and repent. And a curse must come to fruition.

“And if these things do not happen?”

Then your soul will fade from the earth.

Severin felt torn in two.

The blade has not yet struck your heart, the wind murmured, kind and conspiratorial. There is time still for me to secret you away. I could pull your thread from the tapestry altogether.

“But there would be no hope for that life,” Severin said with a last wistful glance at the scattered mosaic above.

No, none, the wind agreed.

“Okay,” Severin whispered, “okay.” And it felt terrifyingly like surrender.

The wind stirred, and a breeze like a kiss tousled his dark hair.

The blade struck.

It was an intense pressure and then swift, vibrantly blooming pain. Severin wavered on his feet, and looked up. For the second time, he met the warrior’s gaze. And Severin saw and understood that there was no malice in those wintry eyes. Not even frustration or anger. But, instead, an exhaustion deeper than Severin could conceive.

When Severin toppled backward, it was concerning to realize he could no longer feel the grass beneath his body. The man knelt down, and Severin blinked tiredly up at him.

It seemed as though the man were waiting for something. Severin’s slipping mind struggled to think of what - until he recalled the dying woman and her talk of curses. And hadn’t the barbarian said something about curses when he was fever addled and hurt? What had the wind said? Severin was struggling to remember. As his life trickled away in red rivulets which stained the grass and soil, he thought of the boy in the vision - lost and afraid. And he thought of the man he’d become, kneeling stonily over him.

And Severin knew exactly which words should be his last.

Swallowing, he mustered the strength to whisper, “-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over. In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

For the barbarian would have to stay if he were ever to show remorse. He couldn’t very well continue going about fighting and murdering his way across the peninsula. Which brought Severin to his final words. It took all of his remaining strength to lift his hand. When he reached out, the barbarian startled, as though he expected more lightning to spring forth from Severin’s fingers. But Severin merely tapped his chest and smiled. “May you live a life of safety and peace.”

It was a fitting curse, he thought, feeling particularly clever. And there, on the field, surrounded by sheep, Severin’s heart stuttered and stopped.

It was an abrupt, slipping sensation, like losing your footing on iced over earth. Raw existence rushed around Severin, and he was battered and blown about, like a banner torn loose in the storm. This continued for a dizzying moment, or perhaps a dizzying eternity - Severin really had no way of knowing which. But it stopped when a familiar presence surged around him, blowing and blustering until the wild chaos of existence was forced to let him be.

The wind could not protect him forever, Severin knew, and so he focused his energies until, like a wind sprite, he swirled about the hillside. Below him, he saw the barbarian, his great head bent. Severin, as incorporeal as a breeze, could not resist blustering over the barbarian’s shoulder and observing himself, limp and pitiful in death. Whipping around, he beheld the barbarian - because surely this sight would bring him at least to the verge of tears.

The barbarian frowned down at Severin’s body and rubbed a scarred hand over the patches of stubble on his chin. And then he rose with a great sigh and set off down the hillside, away from Severin and the village.

Severin, who was nothing more than wind and spirit, watched him and despaired. He could do nothing more than whip and howl through the hills as his murderer left him without a backward glance.

Months passed.

Severin did not follow after the barbarian. What good would it do? In this form, it wasn’t as though Severin could speak to him. And if he was doomed to fade and dissolve from existence, he would much rather do so here in the hills he loved than in some strange land trailing after an even stranger man. The wind kept him company, at least, and Severin spent his days whistling through the black, porous stones at the base of the mountains and blowing bits of dandelions across wild tufts of grass.

One day, long after Severin had begun to feel more spread out and thin than was entirely comfortable, the wind rushed to him, carrying with it the scent of dust and dirt and faraway lands.

The barbarian had returned.

Severin was an icy breeze that whipped around the edges of town, and he watched with cool distrust as the man trudged through the streets. His shoulders were slumped and his blond head was turned down. He looked utterly defeated, and any sympathy Severin might have felt was eclipsed by petty spite. He didn’t hold any of the pettiness against himself, though. He was dead, and therefore felt he’d earned at least a little pettiness.

When the barbarian crossed the field, stopping to stand before the place where Severin had fallen, Severin swirled around him, newly curious. The man didn’t look grief stricken, but his face was difficult to read. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Mostly, Severin thought he just looked tired.

When the man approached Severin’s home after having ignored the invitation for months, Severin had a second moment of pettiness and whipped the wind up on the other side of the door, sealing it closed as the barbarian tried to open it. Only when the man shoved it with his great, muscled shoulder did Severin retreat, allowing the door to swing open.

It was with a strange sort of melancholy that he watched the barbarian’s silver gaze sweep over the room. The man looked first at the damp, unkempt hearth before slowly making his way across the room. He glanced from Severin’s well-loved walking stick to the bookshelf built into the wall. He fumblingly ran the backs of his fingers along the spines of the books, as if he was unlearned in the ways of a gentle touch.

Severin was still very much put out about the whole being dead business, but as he watched the barbarian’s almost reverent inspection, he unthinkingly twisted the air in the room, drawing out the cold and pulling in a bit of sun warmed breeze.

By the second day, the man was sitting in Severin’s chair. Severin stewed, swatting at floating dust by the window as his killer rocked to and fro in Severin’s favorite seat. Later, the barbarian stood, stretching his strong arms overhead and twisted his back experimentally. Brows lifting in pleasant surprise, he gave the chair an appreciative pat.

By the third day, Severin had no more dust to swat about. The barbarian had rolled up his ragged sleeves and set about scrubbing every inch of Severin’s little hut. When the hulking man worked open the stiff windows, the wind rushed in, delighting in whipping about the space once more.

He’s done a better job of cleaning than you ever did, the wind sang, slipping once more outside.

He was dead and that meant the wind had to be nice, and Severin told it as much. It’s reply was a soft rustling of chimes that hung from the house’s eaves, and the sound was almost like laughter.

Days passed, and the man began reading Severin’s books. This was probably the most surprising development yet, in Severin’s opinion. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading, just - well, he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading particularly well. But the man seemed to be doing just fine, and sat in Severin’s rocking chair, putting a far greater strain on the sturdy wood than Severin ever had, as he thumbed carefully through the book’s smooth pages.

When little Mykela took ill, Severin knew it well before anyone else. He’d taken a spin through town and as he rode the wintry wind past where she played in the yard, he’d felt the rattle of air in her lungs. But at this point, Severin was little more than a memory on the breeze, and though his worry was agony, he could do absolutely nothing. He spent the rest of the day roaring about the mountain peaks, sending snow flurries spilling down the far side of the cliffs.

Two days later, Severin was idly observing the barbarian, watching the crease between his brows twitch as he slept, when a great pounding broke out against the door. The barbarian rose at once, and Severin watched him cast a brief glance at the walking stick before turning instead to the candle on a nearby shelf. With warm light cupped in his palm, the barbarian approached the door.

When Dormund, Mykela’s father, entered the hut, carrying a limp mound of blankets, Severin felt a spike of icy terror. As the barbarian poked and prodded the fire, Severin carefully stirred the wind to better feed the flames. Severin would have shouted instructions, had he lungs to shout, but the barbarian already had two jars in hand. He held them up, looking a little lost, before he hurried to the bookshelf and selected a thick book. Muttering under his breath, he flipped hurriedly through pages until he found what he was looking for. And then he was kneeling before the pot of water he’d set over the fire, and Severin watched as he scooped careful measurements of Severin’s dried herbs into the roiling water.

Mykela was saved, and as the barbarian sent the girl and her father off with a bag of herbs, it occurred to Severin that he wished to know the barbarian’s name. He wouldn’t learn it until two days later, when Old Cara arrived at the hut, seeking the barbarian’s help for her arthritic knee. After supplying her with the appropriate poultice, the barbarian helped her to the door, and looking up, she patted his shoulder and asked him his name.

Eindred, was his answer.

Eindred.

Severin wished he had lips to test the shape of the name.

Months passed, and was easier now to watch Eindred move about Severin’s hut. In fact, Severin had even begun to enjoy riding the soft breeze from the windows as it wafted around Eindred’s shoulders, curiously observing whatever small thing he happened to, at any given time, be doing with his hands. One day, Severin was surprised to find Eindred’s hands at work, deliberately whittling the curved back of a rocking chair. When the chair was done, Eindred set it carefully, almost reverently beside the first. At the sight, Severin had a bright, nearly overwhelming flash of recognition, and he thought of the image the wind had shown him - of the rocking chairs before a warm, crackling fire.

Severin was fading, he could feel it. To hope was to court a greater disappointment than Severin could rightly comprehend, and yet - he watched Eindred set out with Severin’s walking stick to join the festival, and saw when Mykela took his hand. The barbarian’s stony expression softened, then melted as the girl tugged him after her.

It was the strangest of sensations, because while Severin didn’t strictly have a heart these days, watching the great Eindred meekly follow little Mykela made something in Severin’s incorporeal being ache with unexpected warmth.

Whatsmore, Eindred had been reading Severin’s journals and he would sometimes stop and stare about the hut, as if trying to picture the ghost of Severin’s life there. Once, Eindred draped a thick blanket over the back of one of the rocking chairs and ran his rough hands over it as he frowned contemplatively into the fire.

Summer had come and gone and Severin feared that parts of his soul had already begun to slip into that other-place. And so, with a tender sort of weariness, he drifted on the sunbeams cutting through the clean window glass, and watched with only mild annoyance as Eindred carefully tore a blank page from one of Severin’s journals.

Lips pressing together in focus, Eindred wrote in with small, precise letters, what appeared to be a list.

Confused, Severin drifted closer.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

It was a list of curses, Severin realized. Morbid curses, by the looks of it. The last two, however, caught his attention.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

And,

May you live a life of safety and peace.

And Severin understood.

When Eindred set out from the hut, looking drawn but resolved, Severin began at once to gather his energy. It had been nearly a year since his death, and he feared that there might not be enough of him left to make a return. The second to last curse would help things along, but Severin knew it would be a mistake to rely on it.

And so, as Eindred entered the village, Severin stretched upward and out, calling wind and storm clouds with reckless, hopeful abandon. For his entire life, Severin had lived, certain in the knowledge that love and happiness were not meant for one such as he. How could they be? When a blade was foretold to make a home in his heart?

But Eindred had changed. And the patchwork pieces of tapestry were there, a life Severin had never dared to dream of, right there - if he could only summon the strength to reach out and grasp it.

Below, Eindred bowed his head before the townsfolk, confessing his part in the tragedy which played out on their soil. Above, Severin swallowed the skies and became the storm.

Severin felt it, distantly below, when the people in the village forgave Eindred. And he felt when Eindred’s bittersweet tears tickled the earth. He felt Eindred return to the hut, and then after pacing restlessly about, return at last to the pastures where it had all begun.

And then came Eindred’s pained voice, calling out from the fields below. “Severin!”

Eindred had never said his name before, and Severin, who was the clouds and the wind and the rain and the sky, rumbled his joy at the sound of it.

“It was my hand which ended your life,” Eindred continued. His deep voice was shaking. “And with your dying breath you gifted what I thought was a nightmare. Did you know that it would turn out to be a dream? I think you did.”

Just wait, Severin wanted to tell him, because he’d seen a future better still. The only question that remained was whether he had strength enough to reach it.

Rugged face upturned, Eindred called to Severin and the sky, which were one and the same. “Though it’s a dream, I’ll never know peace. How can I? When I live in the home of the one I so coldly murdered? I would leave, but the villagers have my heart - as they had yours. In this state, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know true rest or true peace - despite the great power of your curse.”

You will, Severin said, and lightning streaked across the sky. I will.

“Even now,” Eindred said, through wind and rain, “I’m not sure if you are my greatest enemy or ally.”

There it was.

His greatest enemy.

Severin, with every ounce of power he possessed, claimed the title. For he was the greatest enemy the old Eindred, warrior and killer, had faced. With his parting curse, Severin had forced the old Eindred to do the one thing he’d feared most of all: to live and face all he’d done.

Severin felt a rushing, coursing energy thrumming within and without and he knew that he must catch it and hold it, though he wasn’t sure how.

The tapestry threads, the wind whispered. Severin had spread so thin, his old friend was nearly a part of him now.

Severin listened, and felt for that thread which had teased and tickled his palm. And when he was sure he felt it, he wrapped himself around it and pulled. The sky around him screamed as he dragged himself forward toward something - something -

White light was all around him, and then it wasn’t. The air was cool and damp, and the evening sang with the wind’s gleeful gusts and the soft patter of rain on grass. Severin lifted a hand, and looked it over in tentatively blooming relief. Pressing the hand over his heart which beat with a strong, steady rhythm, Severin breathed a relieved, ragged sigh.

Eindred stood in the field, turned away from him. Drawing in a breath, Severin delighted in the sound of his own voice. “May your greatest enemy rise from the grave, Eindred, and never leave you alone.” He smiled as he spoke, and very nearly pressed his fingers to his lips to feel the shape they took when saying Eindred’s name.

Eindred turned. “So you are my greatest enemy then?” He sounded wary.

“I don’t think it’s so simple as that. Do you?”

Eindred’s expression shifted and he shook his head. When he next spoke, it was soft and fumbling, as if he still hadn’t fully adjusted to a world which was kind. “I made a chair,” he blurted out. “A few actually,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.

Severin wanted to say, I know. I saw. But that would require more explanation than he cared to give at the moment, so instead, he replied, “Do I get the new rocking chair or my old one?”

“Any,” Eindred stammered, “Either. Both?” He looked at Severin, and the earnest weight of his gaze held the promise of all the chairs Severin could want and anything else Eindred could possibly make with his scarred hands.

The fondness that bubbled up within Severin was so abrupt and filled him so thoroughly that he wanted to laugh with it. “Lucky for you, I only need one chair. You can keep the old one if you like it. I trust your craftsmanship.”

Severin turned then, because it was cold and every part of him felt so entirely bright and buoyant that he thought he might die if he didn’t move. However, when he realized Eindred was not following, he stopped. “Well? Are you coming?”

Eindred looked up, as if he’d been startled. “Where?” he called.

Standing there, sodden in the field, Eindred looked after Severin, as if he was afraid to hope - as Severin once had been afraid to do. And it occurred to Severin that Eindred would need to hear it said aloud.

“Home, of course. Where else?”

“Home,” Eindred repeated, as if confirming it to himself.

And when Severin turned again towards home, Eindred followed.

By the time they reached the hut, both were shivering from the cold, and as they crossed the threshold into the warm space, Severin swayed on his feet. He’d almost forgotten the immense power he’d used, and now the harsh ringing in his ears was a stark reminder. Warm, rough hands steadied him and when Severin tilted his head up, he saw that Eindred wore an expression of poorly concealed terror.

“I’m not going to die all over again,” Severin assured him. “I just used a lot of magic.” As he said it, he swayed once more, this time falling forward.

Eindred caught Severin again, one arm wrapped around his back and his other hand braced against his chest. Beneath where Eindred’s palm pressed, Severin’s heart thrummed. And Severin watched, curious, as Eindred’s expression twisted. He no longer claimed the title of warrior, Severin knew, but it was nonetheless with a warrior’s gravity that Eindred met Severin’s gaze.

“These hands will never again harm you. I swear it.”

“I know,” Severin replied, and pressed a hand over the back of Eindred’s rough knuckles. “Help me to a chair?”

Eindred did, and helped to remove Severin’s thick outer robe before Severin sank gratefully in front of the fire. Eindred left him a moment, and Severin closed his eyes. 

He intended to just rest them for a second - maybe two, but when Severin next opened his eyes, the room was darker and he was draped and bundled in blankets, softer and thicker than any he recalled owning. The fire was still crackling, and the warm light made soothing shadows dance across the hut’s wooden floor. The other chair was occupied, Severin realized, and he watched as the hearth’s orange light played across Eindred’s sleeping features. Compared to Severin’s mountain of blankets, he had just one draped over his lap, though he didn’t seem cold. Nonetheless, Severin shifted a bit, and peeled a soft fleece blanket off his own pile to toss it onto him. The blanket fell short, and with a quick whispered word, the wind slipped under the door and flipped the offending blanket up onto Eindred’s chest.

“That’s better,” Severin said.

The wind played a little with the fire before tousling Severin’s hair and departing with a sibilant, save your strength foolish human. You’re still recovering, and slipped out the way it had come.

When Severin turned back to Eindred, he saw the large man was sitting up and his eyes were now open. Blinking, Eindred rubbed a hand over his face and then, stiffening in sudden shock, he whipped to look at Severin. Heaving a great sigh, he rocked back in the chair. “Still breathing,” he said.

“I don’t plan on stopping.”

Something almost like a smile twitched at Eindred’s lips and Severin was enchanted by it.

“You were dead and now you’re alive. Forgive me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You’re the one who believes in silly curses.”

Eindred’s brows rose. “Silly? Says the one who was brought back from the dead by one.”

Severin waved a dismissive hand. “The curse might have set the stage, but I was director, crew, and cast.”

And there was another smile, like a glimpse of sun between clouds. Severin was beginning to fear there might be no practical limit to the lengths he’d be willing to go to see another smile.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eindred replied. “I get the feeling you know a great deal more about the world and magics than I.”

“Well Eindred,” Severin said, scooting his chair a little closer to both Eindred and the fire. “What do you know of grand tapestries?”

Eindred, looking more than a little lost, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”

“Well,” Severin said, and grinned. “What do you know of cheese?”

.

.

EDIT: A novel based on Eindred and the Witch and The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind is in progress! I will post news about it on my Tumblr and my Patreon as news becomes available :)

[frannyzooey]

Drive In

frankie morales x f!reader

rating: explicit

a/n: another installment of the Box Set Universe ❤️Happy Feral Frankie Friday!

——-

Let’s go to the drive in, he said.

It’ll be romantic, he said.

You thought it would be, envisioning cuddling close in the warm cabin of his truck or maybe laid out in the bed of it with a nest of blankets but this — this was so much more.

You’re struggling now to hang on to a thread of coherent thought, something that’s needed given where you are right now, but he’s doing his best to pull it from your grasp with every swipe of his tongue.

The lot was half full tonight — two terrible movies before the main show at midnight — and when he neatly slid into a spot in the back and parked, you had protested about how far away from the screen you were.

Lying together on piles of mismatched but soft blankets spread over the bed of his truck, teasing had turned into wrestling had turned into him pressing your wrists into the unforgiving metal above your head and when your eyes slipped into their half hooded gaze that he loves so much, that had turned into feverish groping over clothes and hot, open mouthed kisses.

His hand a neat fit between your thighs, he had cupped you through the thin fabric of your panties with a rough, needy grip of his fingers, had played with your pussy until he felt the cotton dampen and slide under his hold and eventually moved down to drag his mouth over the soaked fabric until you whined with an aching want.

You’re protesting just like before but now it’s soft, broken ones of pleasure, pleads of oh god I can’t frankie, and just like before he’s soothing away your worries with calm reassurance, this time pressed into the soft, delicate skin of your thighs.

The movie plays on, the light of it illuminating the other cars in the large grassy field but it doesn’t reach the bed of his truck. That is covered in pools of shadows, a secret sanctuary tucked away at the edge of the woods, the nest of blankets bunching now around you and you grasp at one in an effort to anchor yourself; your hips arching into the wet heat of his mouth.

It has to be hot under the blankets where he is, your limbs trembling in his firm hold, his forearm a band across your hips to keep you in place as you try to grind against his eager tongue.

You wish you could see him but you aren’t even sure you would be able to with the tears that blur your vision as he swirls around your throbbing clit and you faintly focus on the darkened tips of the tree tops, the twinkling stars and his mouth. Christ, his mouth.

He digs his fingers into your thigh to hold you open and you can feel sweat slip under his palm, can feel how tacky your skin is with it when he breathes against you before going back to his task and you slide your hand under the blanket to thread your fingers through his thick curls, the root of them damp.

You picture them sticking to the edges of his sweet face, curling over his forehead and collecting at the temples and you tip your face to the side to try to muffle the moan you let slip out at the image; at the intense, rapid glide of his tongue.

Come on, baby, come on, another one he coaxes, the words felt more than heard and when he slips three fingers inside with a slick, filling stretch, you instantly bear down on them, pulling them deeper.

Slow, curling thrusts in and out, his lips trailing over the well of your hip, his breath a humid fan through the soaked curls covering your cunt and then he’s back where you need him most; wide, savoring licks into your folds with a hum of contentment.

Your hips roll in time with his fingers, the tandem movements of his mouth and wrist increasing in pace and your thighs tense around the rounds of his shoulders, the cotton of his T-shirt felt against the inside of your knees.

I’m — , you beg, trying so hard not to be loud as you feel the waves roll through your center outwards and when he hears your hand drop heavily to the blankets to hang onto something, he quickly snatches it in his hold, bringing it to rest on the crown of his head.

You come, your fingers pushing desperately into his curls, tugging on them as you freely ride his face through it all and this is what he wanted: for you to lose yourself completely to him, the sharp sensation on his scalp a distant feeling as you fill his mouth with your taste.

Better than the popcorn he bought you at the stands, better than the Milk Duds he has in the cup holder, better than any movie — this is his favorite; to make you feel this good and to help you through it and to do it again and again, forever.

Limp and sated, you relax your legs and smile when you see his flushed face appear from underneath the blankets, the apples of his cheeks pink with heat, his mustache and beard dark with dampness.

“You still wanna watch the movie?”, he asks, the low tone of it vibrating against your skin. He nudges the hem of your shirt higher with his nose, pressing exploring kisses along the skin that’s slowly revealed.

“Would you let me?”, you tease, brushing his hair back and away and he looks up at you with a playful smile, running his tongue along his lush lower lip before slowly shaking his head no.

“I didn’t think so.” You reach down for him, guiding him to settle heavy and solid over your body, the cushioned weight of him molding with you just right and when he fits his face into the crook of your neck, you can feel how hard he is against the curve of your ass.

He grinds himself against you, your soaked curls sliding over the rough denim and his breath hitches sweetly at your throat before he braces his hands on the bed of the truck to do it again, again, harder this time.

You can hear the third movie starting but the sound of it is drowned out by the clinking of his belt as he opens it, the tug of his zipper being pulled down, his murmurs of let me put it in, baby, it’ll feel so good filling your ears.

And in the end, it’s just as romantic as he said it would be.

[fin.] ❤️

[solarwonux]

Crop Tops and Tattoos || Wonwoo

soccer player!Wonwoo x f!reader

w.c: 3.2k

warnings: smut, shower sex, wonwoo soft!dom, oral sex (female receiving), friends with benefits, friends to lovers, public sex (kinda) I think that’s all. 

note: another repost I’m sorry lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, honestly I literally have like a bunch of works that literally take place in the same soccer!svt/college!svt universe but really have nothing to do with one another except for like 3 and they’re all spicy lol. Let me know if you’d want them and also enjoy this one and lmk your thoughts hehehe :)

masterlist

“W-What?”

“Come to my practice tonight.” You rubbed the sleep from your afternoon nap out of your eyes, listening to Wonwoo’s soft voice through the receiver. “I miss you, come to my practice tonight, we can hang out after.” Wonwoo all but begged, and you can almost picture the pout that was on his face.

“Woo, I can’t I have to finish my half of the group research project.”

“Perfect, I’ll help you. You’re my partner anyway. Please love, I just want to see you it’s been forever.”

“It’s been two days Woo.” You rolled your eyes sitting up on your couch, retreating your phone from your ear, checking the time, 7:30PM it read. So much for a thirty-minute nap, you sighed.

“Precisely why you should come to my practice…hold on a sec,” Wonwoo pulled the phone away from his ear and gave the lost student instructions to where the art history section of the library was located at. “Please, it will be worth it, I promise.” He whispered, cupping his mouth over the receiver, muffling his words a little making you laugh.

“I’ll think about it, get back to work.”

“Okay see you tonight.” He said a little too excited and hung up the phone, a wide smile appearing on your face, making your stomach perform a whole gymnastics routine in the process.

The relationship you and Wonwoo had was interesting, it had started off as mindlessly flirty with one another, graduated to ghost touches and during a hot summer’s day. Where the air conditioning in the library had leaked and instead of Joshua calling everyone to tell them to stay home, he had made sure everyone showed up. Or else. His exact words.

The touches and flirting had escalated to the point that Wonwoo had dragged you to the forgotten encyclopedia section of the library and pinned you against the dusty bookshelves.

Since then your relationship grew more to just sleeping with one another to let off some steam. He would hold your hand underneath the reception desk at the library, mindlessly drawing patterns and phrases onto your skin. He would walk you to class when he could, sometimes with a bubble tea in his hand, other times empty handed. If you were scheduled to close on days, he had an earlier shift, he would wait and walk you home holding you close while the two of you talked about your day. And as of recently, after sex he had started to spend the night, claiming he slept better with you by his side.

In your head Wonwoo was your boyfriend just without the label. It was also a conversation the two of you needed to have, but it was also one you feared because you didn’t want it to ruin it.

You ran through the gates of the soccer field and started up the steps of the aluminum bleachers, earning weird stares from the guys and girls that decided to attend SVT’s first soccer practice of the season. You sat down, out of breath, holding your bag close to your body as you tried your best to regulating your breathing. A reminder that maybe hitting the gym every once in a while, wasn’t such a bad idea, because clearly having mind blowing sex with Wonwoo wasn’t helping with building your stamina.

“Woo your girl’s here now you can finally start playing.”

“Get your head out of your ass Jun.” Wonwoo scoffed shoving Jun lightly, earning a laugh from the other boy. Wonwoo gazed over at you a knowing smile evident on his face and waved at you. You felt your cheeks heat up and your eyes grew wide as you took in his appearance.

Wonwoo had sworn to you that he would never wear his old jersey again, especially since Seungcheol and Jeonghan had deviously cut it up after their last game last season. Yet, here he was in all his glory. The shirt stopping just above his belly button, the sliver of his toned stomach peeking through and you felt the beat of your heart start to raise. You warily waved back, before placing your cold palm against your forehead trying to cool yourself down.

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, lifting his hand up and threaded it through his dark locks. His shirt riding up, exposing himself more and you felt the air leave your lungs. It was stupid, you have been seeing him in a lot less clothing for months and in every angle. But for some reason now as he stood boring his soft eyes into yours as Jihoon shouted commands to his teammates. The sweat dripping down the sides of his face, his glasses fogged up slightly due to the humidity and a knowing smirk adorning his face, teasing you. And you felt like you were about to burst.

“Hey, Woo, stop ogling at your girlfriend and get into position.”

“I like your shirt.”

“Hmm, yeah?” A devilish snicker fell from his lips as he pushed up against the cool tile wall. You nodded dragging your nails across the sliver of teasing skin, leaving red marks behind in their wake making Wonwoo shudder. “So sexy.” He groaned lowly pressing his lips onto yours forcefully, his hands snaking around your waist down to your ass giving it a squeeze making you gasp. He pulled away from your lips and trailed them down your neck. He swiped his tongue over your sweet spot earning him a whimper from you.

“You gonna let me fuck you in the locker room showers?”

“If you ask nicely.” You breathed out playing with the elastic waist band of his shorts. Wonwoo laughed against your neck and bit down before pulling away. “Can I fuck you in the locker room showers please?” He pouted playfully, grabbing your thigh and wrapping it around his waist.

“God Woo, yes.” You wrapped your arms around his waist pulling him closer to you feeling his growing cock against your aroused pussy. “As you wish darling.” He mumbled pecking your lips repeatedly before pulling away from your body, making you whine at the loss of his body heat.

Wonwoo chuckled sinking down to his knees, your eyes hooded with pleasure, feeling the wetness between your legs grow. He left teasing kisses down your clothed thighs, his thumbs hooking underneath the waist band of your leggings dragging them along with him. “Woo my shoes.”

“I was getting there, you’re so impatient sometimes.” He mumbled sitting back on his knees tapping your calf silently telling you to raise your leg. “It’s your fault…how am I supposed to be patient when you always look so good.” You obliged watching as he slowly took of your shoe and throwing it outside of the shower stall along with your sock. He repeated the process with your other leg before attaching his lips against your clothed thigh and left gentle open-mouthed kisses up your leg.

“I guess it’s time I teach you how to be patient.” He smirked pulling down your leggings along with your panties in one go. He threw them aside, placing a kiss against your hip bone, where the small stick and poke infinity sign tattoo he had made after a long night of immoral rendezvous. “Still can’t believe you let me talk you into giving you this.” He mumbled giving it another kiss and stood up.

“I wanted a tattoo but didn’t want to experience the pain.”

“It still hurt you, I had to stop, that’s why it’s all crooked and unfinished.”

“But it’s my favorite.” You whispered, his dark lust filled eyes boring into yours as he slowly started to take off his shorts and underwear, exposing himself to you. No matter how many times the two of you slept together, the sight of his body always had your heart beating out of time. He was perfect, an Adonis carved out of marble and to your surprise he was all yours.

“Don’t take off your shirt.” You whispered reaching and grabbing a fistful of the cloth and pulling him to you. “I want you to fuck me with it on.” You eyed him, a teasing finger running down his chest. “You’re so naughty today.” He laughed grabbing your hand and moved it up to his lips kissing each of your knuckles his sensual gaze lingering on yours. You felt your breathing pick up, the heat trailing down your thighs. “Please touch me.” You whimpered pulling your hand away and taking your shirt of throwing it behind him.

“Not yet I need to shower, I’m all sweaty from practice.” He winked, his hand finding the shower handle and turning it. A gasp left your lips as you felt the cold start to coat your heated bodies. “Now behave princess.” He kissed you hard, running his tongue over your bottom lip asking for entrance in which you granted. His hips flirting with yours and all you wanted to do was get down on your knees and beg him to use you in any and every single way possible. He pulled away detaching the shower head sending you a wink before putting it against your clit. The harsh water jets sending a sweet wave of pleasure up your spine.

“You’re going to cum like this and then I’ll fuck you.” He mumbled, before sinking down on to his knees again. He kept the shower head in place and alternated in kissing your thighs. Desperate whimpers falling out of your mouth. Wonwoo hooked one of your legs on top of his shoulder and bit down on your thigh, sucking making you yelp. “Your body reacts so well to me.” He kissed up your thigh sucking another love bite next to your tattoo before pulling away, shifting the shower head slightly. The sensation sending a new wave of pleasure up your body making you moan.

“W-Wonwoo, mmm, please.”

“Please what?” He teased the sound of a smirk evident in his voice and you’ve never wanted to hit someone so badly before. “I-I need you please.” You cried out, the tip of his index finger teasing the entrance of your pussy. “Yeah…you need me baby?” He chuckled moving your arousal around coating his finger with it before pulling away and bringing it up to his mouth, moaning sinfully as he licked it clean

“Y-Yes need your fingers, or mouth anything p-please W-Woo.” You raised your hips trying to grind yourself against the water, searching for a release in every way you could. “I’ll give you what you want but you can’t touch me.” He tsked giving you a pointed look. You whined nodding your head grabbing onto the smoothness of the shower wall. He ran his hot tongue against the lips of your pussy, the sensation mixing with the coldness of the water sent shivers up your spine.

“You always taste so sweet.” He mumbled against you flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit. Your mouth hanging open as your fingers itched to touch him and push him against you even further. “L-Let me touch you?” You breathed out your nails digging themselves into the skin of your stomach. He nodded against you repeatedly licking strides up your lips before attaching his mouth on your clit. By now the shower head was long forgotten as it fell from his hand, hitting the shower wall with a loud clank making you jump.

You threaded your fingers in his short hair tugging at the roots making him moan against you. He wrapped his arms around your ass pulling you closer as he lost himself eating you out like a starved man. “B-Baby I’m close.” You moaned arching your back against the wall as he lightly bit down on your clit and pulled away. He licked his lips savoring you and adjusted his round glasses earning a lighthearted laugh from you. “Don’t laugh or I won’t help you cum.” He grumbled pressing his index and middle fingers against your entrance and slowly sinking them into you immediately curling them up in search for your g-spot. A satisfied smile etching across his face as you moaned out the second he found it.

Wonwoo attached his lips onto your clit again, this time wasting no time and sucking on it roughly, his fingers moving inside you at a fast pace. The coil forming at the pit of your stomach, your hands tugging on his hair, your hips bucking against his mouth and fingers. He moaned feeling your clench around his fingers, giving him the motivation to pick of his pace, the pleasure getting too much for your body to handle and before you knew you came undone screaming out his name. He helped you ride out your orgasm, desperately licking up your release making your body twitch from the oversensitivity.

“You did so well baby.” He mumbled before pulling away, licking his lips moaning in approval as the remnants of your arousal hit his taste buds. He thrusted his fingers a few more times before pulling them out making you whine, missing the way they felt inside of you. He chuckled licking them clean before standing up.

“Think you can give me one more?” He asked giving your lips multiple pecks and then your cheeks. You laughed pushing his face away resting your tired body against the wall of the shower.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something?” You crossed your arms in front of you holding up the towel Wonwoo had wrapped around your body. Wonwoo hummed handing you his extra t-shirt as well as the sweatpants you had left at his place weeks ago. How he knew to bring them along with him was beyond you, but you decided to save that question for another day.

“Why do the guys call me your girl.” You emphasized standing up from the bench and started getting dressed. Wonwoo closed his locker resting his back against it drinking you in slowly, making you feel a little insecure. “Jeonghan saw you leave my apartment one day and texted the group chat to share the tea.” He rolled his eyes using quotations around the last word of his sentence before pushing himself away from the locker. “Now the guys think we’re dating.”

“But you never corrected them?” You tugged his shirt over your head gathering your semi dry clothes and folded them. “Do you want me to correct them?” He placed his hand on your cheek moving your head gently to meet his eyes.

“I-I mean yeah, we aren’t dating you made it very clear that you weren’t looking for a relationship when this started.”

“I wish I could eat my words.” He whispered running his thumb over your swollen lips. “I think I’m past just wanting to fuck you; I want more.”

You felt the air leave your lungs; your cheeks heated up and you desperately searched for a new point of focus because the intensity evident in his gaze was overwhelming. “We should go, I need to finish my half of the project.” You picked up your drying clothes and your bag and rounded the corner of the bench you had been sitting at.

“You don’t want to be more?” Wonwoo caught up with you grabbing your free hand to stop you from walking and held it close to his chest. “I do, I’m just scared you’ll end up regretting it if we ever do try to be more.” You confessed trailing your eyes down his body and stopping at your interlocked hands.

“I won’t, you make me feel so good an—”

“Exactly, I make you feel good. All you’ve ever known is how it feels like to be with me naked. You don’t know what it’s like to actually be with me.” You pulled your hand away. A frustrated sigh spiraling out of his lungs as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Your worst habit is jumping to conclusions.” He mumbled lowly tugging at the roots of his hair. It didn’t feel nearly as good as it felt when you would do it to him, but that was something he would ever confess out loud. “I want to be with you in every way possible, I know what I said before and if I would take back my words I would because that was before I found myself falling for you.” Wonwoo closed the gap between the two of you holding you tightly. His confession had your mind running nonstop, the weight of his words making their way into your heart and finding a home. You hugged him tightly, burying your face into his chest. “Is that a yes?” Wonwoo asked confusion laced in his voice as he hugged you back running his hands down your back soothingly. You hummed nodding your head taking a whiff of his lavender body wash and somehow it felt like home.

“You can’t just say things like that so casually.” You groaned raising your head from his chest placing a kiss on his chin. “Give me a warning next time.”

“Would you have preferred reading the essay I wrote about it instead.”

“Wonwoo stop fucking around you didn’t do that.” You scoffed pushing away from him and started down the hallway to entrance of the locker room. “Yes, I did it’s fifteen pages long, I even used citations.” He yelled following you a few steps behind, the teasing tone in his voice made you doubt his word. But he did once write a whole essay on how Soonyoung was the worst co-captain in the history of co-captains because he had beat him in Mario Kart.

“You have two options I can read it for you tonight after you’re done with your half of the project or I can read it for you on your wedding day.” You choked on your saliva making him laugh. He patted your back gently before pushing open the door to the locker room.

“What the fuck Woo, our weddi—”

“Finally, we’ve been waiting out here for hours. I’m starving.” Hoshi exclaimed throwing his hands up in the air before starting down hallway. “I told you guys to leave.” Wonwoo sighed rolling his eyes and extended his hand for you to take.

“Half of us did once they heard you guys fucking.” Vernon shrugged shoving his hands in his pockets. Your cheeks started to heat up, you prayed to every god out there to do you a solid and open the ground up and have it swallow you whole. “And you guys didn’t?”

“Nah, you’re paying for dinner remember, plus we made a bet while we waited.” Vernon took two long strides over and placed his hand on top of Wonwoo’s shoulder. “I never expected you to have a daddy kink and now I lost fifty bucks to Jeonghan and Dino each, that’s a hundred in total.” He shook his head and walked away running to catch up with Hoshi.

“I don’t have a dad—”

“You know bathrooms have echoes right?” Dino pushed himself way from the wall and started walking away. “We heard the two of you loud and clear, so you can’t deny it, Jeonghan even took a voice note just in case you wanted to deny it.”

“Baby you’re going to have to visit me in jail cause I’m about to commit homicide.” Wonwoo placed a chaste kiss against your head and let go of your hand and charged over to Dino. He turned around laughing before running down the hallway leaving you behind with a smirking Jeonghan.

“Honestly, I just hope you guys disinfected the stall the two of you used.”

[shorkbrian]

Okay, soo can you write a pseudoincest one for Midoriya? I feel like he’ll be shy at first & the reader will be the one to approach him (in a non sexual way of course) but then one day he’ll just break & pin her against a wall. :> hehe

Okay okei ok lissen listen litsen

Midoriya and his sister are picture-perfect step-siblings. From the moment they met each other, the two have gotten along great, perfectly at ease with each other. 

Warnings! - NSFW, cunnilingus, dub-con. Pseudo-incest. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s easy to relax around the green-haired man, with how smiley and soft and completely non-threatening he is. You’ve met plenty of men that are the complete opposite; men that make your skin crawl when they look at you. But your stepbrother isn’t like that - you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know what a girl is, considering he’s never even shown interest in one. 

You like hanging out with him. Going with him to get coffee every Saturday morning (his treat), plopping down in the bean-bag chairs in his room and completely wrecking each other in Mario Kart, even doing mundane things like laundry or homework is always more fun with Izuku around. it doesn’t hurt that the man is a little too kind for his own good, always offering to do your laundry for you, asking if you need help on any of your homework. He’s always happy to drop whatever he’s doing and come help if you get frustrated with a problem. 

----

The two of you were watching a movie, parents gone out on date-night. Both of your gazes were zeroed in on the screen, you clutching at Izuku’s sleeve at every jumpscare, your brother leaning forward and mumbling about cgi and the mechanics of the fake monster suits. 

A sex scene came out of no where, gross. This always happens with semi-decent movies, and it was so awkward. Thankfully, it was just you and Midoriya in the room (if your parents were here, both of you would be red and embarrassed and suddenly interested in the thread count of the couch cover) and it wasn’t that long of a scene. You were still shy though, turning away from the screen to fiddle with your sleeve, look at the texture of the ceiling, pick at your nails.

A load screech drew your attention back, thinking that the movie had returned to the monsters and the chasing and the thrill. You were wrong. In full HD, there was a semi-nude woman, chest tastefully covered by her ripped shirt, a man kneeling in front of her. The man was moving his face against her, the shots being vague but not needing much brainpower to figure out what was happening. You frowned.

“What is he doing? That’s so gross.”

You felt Izuku shift beside you, the man looking down at you. It’d be weird if you looked at him now, saw your flushed, embarrassed face. Why was the man on the screen putting his face down there?

“(Y/N)...... do you..... do you not know?”

He was just as shy as you, stuttering over his words. Know what? Sure, you weren’t exactly experienced in the realm of physical pleasure, but you thought you knew the basics.

At your confused silence, you saw Izuku drag a trembling hand over his face.

“It’s uh... well, you see... when a man and woman love each other very much-”

“Seriously  ‘Zuku?”

You turned to look at him. He was blushing just as hard as you, movie now forgotten.

“Okay, uh, it’s-it’s oral. I guess kinda like a blowjob, but for girls.”

“How would that even feel good? There isn’t anything for him to even like...” You trailed off, regretting blurting out the first thing that popped into your head. Gosh, you sounded like a kid, Izuku probably thought you were so dumb. “Nevermind, let’s just forget it.”

Izuku was still looking at you, nervously shuffling closer.

“You’ve never....?”

“Of course I have!” You spluttered, rising from the couch. Now you were angry, embarrassed, humiliated. Izuku thought you were so stupid that you didn’t even know how sex worked. It’s not like you were currently seeing someone, not in the four short months since you moved into the Midoriya’s house. But you’d had experience in the past! Maybe nothing past penetration, but that still counted as experience!

Izuku rose with you, hands held out in front of him as he tried to salvage the conversation. “I didn’t mean! Not like that anyways...... I was just...”

He waved noncommittally with his hands. You crossed your arms, waiting for him to continue. Izuku was a bit on the shyer side, and you knew that talking about sensitive subjects made him stutter and blush, lose his cool and all. You were willing to be patient, expecting an apology. You got anything but.

“I just mean... I could like, uh... s-show you?”

Your jaw dropped.

Before you could speak, Izuku was rushing on, his words jumbled and breathless. ‘Y’know? It’s just like the uh, well the nice thing to do. It-it feels really good and I know you’d enjoy it, well, I-uh I think. I mean, I-I do... enjoy blowjobs! I could teach you how to do that too, if-well, if you want. We don’t have to do that toda-”

“’Zuku, no...”

You cut him off, staring pointedly at the ground. This was the weirdest situation you’d ever been in. You couldn’t look your brother in the eye, this was just too awkward. 

There was a beat of silence.

Automatically, your feet started carrying you towards the stairs, towards your room where you could play on your phone and forget this whole thing happened. 

Izuku grabbed your arm.

“Wait, wait, just.... c’mere?”

You grabbed Izuku’s arm, trying to pull yourself away from him. “Izuku, I really don’t think-”

“No, no don’t-don’t think. just... just let me...”

The man was pulling you back, giving you a gentle push onto the couch. This was so weird. A hand splayed across your chest, keeping you stationary as you tried to sit up, and Izuku was kneeling. The man pried your legs apart, despite you protesting.

“’Zuku, this really isn’t something I wanna do right now, please don’t touch me like that.”

Izuku raised a finger to his lips, before yanking down your shorts. You squealed his name in surprise. He groaned.

“Oh, oh, this’ll feel so good, just-just trust me, okay? You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

He was still pressing down on your chest with one hand, ignoring the way your panic rose as his other hand gently caressed your leg, climbing higher and higher. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you, but this was making you uncomfortable. The thought of your stepbrother doing oral or whatever made you squeaky. You didn’t know what to label the feeling - only knew it was bad.

You gasped when a finger pressed against the fabric of your panties; began tracing your folds, prodding at your mound. Your hands flew down to grab his wrist, to push him away, but Izuku wouldn’t be deterred.

Izuku was so much bigger than you, so much stronger. You couldn’t stop him when he pulled your panties to the side, shoved his face between your thighs, close to your cunt. A yelp left your throat when cool air blew gently across your pussy. He was - he was literally blowing on your pussy. 

You shivered.

“Hey, please I don’t wanna do this ‘Zuku, please let me up. Stop doing that, I won’t tell dad, I won’t tell anybody! Please just let me up.”

Your pleas were ignored

A finger began slowly brushing against your cunt, as if Izuku was afraid to touch, afraid to break. You groaned; never in your life had you given that area this much attention. “Feels - feels weird.” you whined, drawing Izuku’s green eyes away from your clenching cunt and up to your face.

“It’ll start feeling good In a second, don’t worry. I’m taking care of you (Y/N), just like I always do.”

Your stomach flipped. This didn’t feel like him taking care of you.

“I-I’ve been wanting to do this for so long... god, thank you.” He was almost whispering, you barely caught the tail end of his sentence before a hot, wet tongue was licking up the length of your pussy. 

“Ah! w-wait!”

Izuku didn’t listen. HIs first lick was slow, calculated. The green-haired man was savoring your taste, licking his lips before diving back in. The sensation was good, you were writhing and squirming in Izuku’s hold, but now for an entirely different reason. 

He quickly became feverish as he drooled over your pussy, pausing occasionally to gather the moisture in his mouth and spit. Then he’d let his tongue spread the wet around, flicking rapidly against your clit.

“’Zuku, ‘Zuku! I can’t - stop, stop!”

It was so wet, and so, so messy. It was downright filthy, the way his tongue was suckling and lapping and dancing against your sensitive pussy. You were losing your mind, trying to free yourself from Izuku’s grasp, escape the intense stimulation that he was attacking you with.

Your orgasm hit you so fast, you barely had the chance to gasp out a stuttered, weak “Cumming!”. 

It felt so good it almost hurt.

The hand on your chest stopped anchoring you to the couch, but you were defeated, boneless. You stopped pushing at Izuku, let yourself lay back and try to catch your breath, sweat making hair stick to your forehead.

The green mass of curls between your legs bobbed gently as Izuku gave short, teasing kitten licks to lap up your juices, loving the way you twitched and whimpered as he played with your sensitive cunt. You were too tired to fight him. 

When the man finally stopped, leaned back on his heels and wiping a hand across his face, you didn’t want to look at him. Instead, you buried your face into one of the couch cushions, hiding from your older step-brother.

“I love you.”

You had loved him too, but not in the same way. He was your brother, your friend. What was he now?

Izuku reached forward, slid your panties back into place so they covered your pussy, giving you some semblance of privacy. You felt the couch dip as he sat next to you, far too close to comfort. It was hard to believe what he had just done.

You couldn’t possibly know that he was going to do more.

[moonofiron]

I saw this one panel in the manga and lost my shit.

He looks so 🥵 here. This is the panel that has inspired this smutty fanfic. I also wanted to draw something related to this piece so I've thrown in an illustration between the story as well! Enjoy!

Jujutsu Kaisen, Chapter 78

Anime: Jujutsu Kaisen

Characters: Geto Suguru x (fem)reader

Genre: smut, bondage, kinbaku, edging, overstimulation, explicit sexual content, visual content thrown in too 🥵

Rating: M

Synopsis: Geto shows you his skills at kinbaku

Word count: 2.4K ~

Minors, dni.

Geto Suguru ties the last knot near your ankle. You whimper from the rope chaffing your skin but ease into the burn and position yourself the way Geto wants.

It has taken months for you to get to this point. 8 months back you had casually asked him where he disappears to for hours at end every Saturday. You couldn't hold it in and he couldn't bring himself to lie to you.

"I..I practice kinbaku love. It's to destress, really."

//

"Oh, what's that?"

"Umm, it's the art of tying knots. It's derived from the act of tying prisoners during the war but now it's a...a form of art."

"I see." After a moment's pause, you had asked, "So what do you tie knots with?"

"Three strand jute ropes. On manequins."

You didn't really get it and had pouted slightly.

To break the awkward silence, you had asked him, "Will you show me sometime, Suguru?"

His face had clouded and he had looked the other way. "Maybe. Maybe, someday I will."

//

"There, all done," says Suguru joyfully. He puts his hand under your chin and pulls your face up so you can look at yourself, his artwork, in the large mirror in front of you.

You gasp at how helpless you look. You're naked and your hair is tied up neatly in a bun. Suguru did your hair earlier and decorated it with the delicate pin he bought for you on your second date. You're pretty much bent into a ball and perched on the futon you both have fucked on on so many nights that you've lost count now. Your hands are tightly tied behind your back and your ankles are tied to your thighs. The knots go down from your neck all the way down to your clit and then climb up your spine. Your breasts perk up from the pressure around them. The knots are elegant and look complicated, and you can see your cunt swelling from the pressure of the tight ropes around your inner thighs.

Please do not repost or plagiarize.

Years of practicing kinbaku has rendered him into a master of this art that he's extremely private about. His passion leaks in the way his long fingers tackle the ropes around your body, almost as if he's making love to them.

You meet his eyes in the mirror and see him looking right back at you as he bites his soft lips. His eyes are dreamy and lustful, and he wears a look of pride that pushes all the buttons for you.

He takes out a small black ball from his kimono's left sleeve and your eyes widen. He walks around and sits in front of you so his face is inches away from yours.

"Open your mouth, love," he whispers.

You do as he says without even giving it a second thought. He pushes the ball-gag in your mouth gently and you close your eyes as you envelope it with your wet mouth. He moves closer so your nose buries into his chest as he clamps the ball-gag strap at the back of your head. When done, he sits back and strokes a finger across your jaw.

“I'll be back in sometime, baby. Be good. I'll be watching." He winks and kisses the ball in your mouth gently, his gaze never leaving yours. A soft gasp escapes his lips. And then, just like that, he's gone.

You panic. 'What? I thought he'll just be showing me how it's done. What does he mean he'll be back in sometime? When? How long?' you think. A flash of fear makes your stomach drop. But then you calm down.

The first few minutes are easy. You spend them admiring how beautiful you look, how lovely Suguru has made you. But, after a while you get bored and start looking around. There's nothing to do except wait for Suguru to come back. Perhaps he ran out of ropes. The thought excites you but you don't know how long he'll take. You don't know if he's locked the door. There's no way to tell how much time has passed. All you know is that there's a warmth spreading in your stomach from the anticipation of his arrival. You try to bend down to take a peek at your cunt and see that you've formed a small pool of wetness on the futon. And, you notice a strange little cube embedded in the knot on top of your clit. You instinctively reach with your hands for your clit forgetting you can't and let out a small moan as the ropes dig into your wrists. You look back at yourself in the mirror. You notice the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead and that your nipples are plump and hard. You look around frantically before you give up and enter a kind of peace that you've never known before. You look up at the ceiling, close your eyes, and hear yourself make a gurgling noise. The small cube has suddenly come alive and is vibrating against your clit, making you squirm and lose balance. Your entire body jerks and shivers as you moan out Suguru's name unintelligibly, the ball-gag stopping you from forming coherent sentences. You feel a wave of pleasure coming and then, just as suddenly as the cube had come alive, it dies, leaving you on the edge, helpless and slick and frustrated from being denied release.

//

Geto Suguru absolutely can not wait to get back home to you. He watches you through a curse, a little eyeball, he's placed in the corner of his room. He struggles to keep still and loses patience in all his meetings. He wants them to get over as soon as possible so he can focus on you. He finishes mission reports and some pending tasks as he watches you struggling and squirming, wet and waiting. His cock twitches at the absolutely stunning sight of you, wriggling on the floor, helpless and vulnerable.

//

//

You don't know how many hours it has been. All you know is that it's the 12th time that the small cube has come alive and you can't take it anymore. The threads of the ropes are wet and cold, the futon is completely ruined, you're hot and extremely bothered. Your thighs are sticky and slick. You need to cum. You can't take the teasing, the absolute relentlessness of this thing that's refusing to let you cum. You're not in an elegant stance anymore, either. Suguru, without even being here with you, has made you fall face-first into the futon, your back arched so your hips are in the air. You're uncomfortable and all you can think about is Getou's cock buried deep inside your throbbing cunt. Your hair has almost come undone and strands stick to your breasts. Your jaw aches and your neck and chin are covered in drool. You're focused on your release. You'll definitely get there before this damned thing shuts off again. But, you know that's wishful thinking.

'This is getting out of hand,' you think as you feel tears dripping down your flushed cheeks. You try to get a sense of balance but you're so disoriented that you can't think anymore. You breathe heavily and are about to close your eyes when you hear the low buzz of the vibrator again. You're grunt and moan and your entire body buckles again and again. In all your frenzy, you don't realise when Getou comes back and quietly sits on the floor behind you.

When the vibrator stops, you scream an unintelligible, "No, please!!" and drop face-first on the futon again. Your laboured breath makes it hard to concentrate on anything. When you finally calm down, you feel his presence. You look back and see his kimono loosly wrapped around his waist, the sleeves are halfway off his shoulders as he gently strokes his cock, already rock-hard and glistening. He watches you intently. You let out a sigh of relief and arch your back to let him know he can use you anytime. Amused and greedy at once, he pulls you to himself, and unclamps the ball gag. He shoves his cock in your mouth, grabs your hair, and maneuvers your head just the way you like it. He moans and grunts out loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He's extremely vocal today and this is new.

He suddenly stops and kisses your mouth hard.

“Such a pretty babe today. Eh? You look stunning.”

"Su..Suguru, pl..please fuck me. Please. Please. Please." You break down, you can't bring yourself to speak coherently. You start to lower your head so you can taste his cock - anything to have him inside you - but he pulls your hair hard and stops you.

He pushes you back and makes you lie down. He carefully unties only the knots near your inner thighs. His cool fingers give you shivers. He cups your nipples with his mouth and licks, nibbles, and bites his way down to your clit.

“Who are you so fucking wet for?”

“Suguru! You!”

“Yeah?"

“Uhun, please, just please, take me already."

“Yeah? How?"

“Suguru, I am begging you. I cant-"

Getou comes back up in a flash. He squeezes your face with his hand and roars, “I asked, how?"

You're crying again and he can't stop thinking how gorgeous you look, sweaty and flushed, begging for his cock.

You take a sharp intake of breath and say, “Getou I want you.”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn't let your face go.

“I want you inside me, I want your cock inside me. I'm throbbing and dripping and so ready for you. Just for you. For you to use and love and fuck. Please Daddy." you say, in a trembling voice.

Suguru lets go of your face and removes his kimono. He's naked underneath. He can't believe he gets to ruin a goddess like you. He starts to lightly flutter his tongue across your swollen clit. You're trembling and it doesn't take long for your whimpering to turn into screaming. You're so close to cumming, finally! Your eyes roll back as you feel his long and thin tongue lapping up your wetness. He licks it like a fucking dog before kissing it sweetly and moves back, leaving you on the edge again and you have such a violent reaction that he lets out a strong grunt.

You've never felt so helpless before. You realise that he's enjoying himself a bit too much seeing you struggle, at your body so bent before him. You're sobbing now, and he hovers over you.

“You're making me lose it with all this begging and squirming, baby," he whispers and thrusts into you in one deep stroke. You immediately bite his neck hard and moan deep into it. Clenching around his cock hard, you take in as much of him as you can. His touch on your arms and lower back is electrifying but he soon holds the ropes around you for leverage. He moves in a quick pace and it doesn't take you long to gush around him, giving him a cumsleeve that he bends down to look at. Your release is so so sweet, your toes are curled, your calves are flexed, your back is arched, and your teeth have left Suguru's neck with spots of blood.

“Please...do..don't stop, Daddy,”

“I won't baby, you've been so good. We've got all night.”

“Night?! How long were ...uhh..were you gone?” You pant.

“6 hours."

Suguru looks at himself moving in and out of your plump cunt as his long hair tickles your breasts. It makes his cock twitch and harder inside of you. He pushes your knees back and the ropes dig into your lower back. He grabs your hair and bends your head to your stomach.

“Look at me moving in and out of you.”

The sight turns you on even more. You didn't know that getting so hot amd bothered was even possible. It seems like you've been cumming for a while now and you're overstimulated.

Suguru pulls out. You gasp and your head rolls back. He turns you around and spends a moment to admire his rope-work, and, of course, your plump and throbbing slick cunt that he's going to fuck again.

“Look at how gorgeous you are," he gently holds your chin and pulls it up. You can see yourself, your face is flushed a deep red and you're bruised everywhere. Suguru towers behind you, holding his cock that's glistening with your cum. You can't believe how good he makes you feel. You wiggle your hips at him, inviting him.

He positions his cock to enter you but starts to rub it on your clit instead. Sensitive from all the edging before, your clit blooms from the rubbing and the warmth. You moan.

"Fuck, I love how noisy your cunt gets."

“Oh, oh, please don't stop. Let me cum all over your cock again."

Suguru bites his lip and doesn't take his eyes off you in the mirror. He can't help but admire how sexy you sound and look. He continues to rub his cock slow but hard against you and you collapse on the futon again, cumming. You've squirted all over the base of his cock and stomach and your screams are drown out everything else.

”Such a good girl. Cumming all over Daddy like that."

He thrusts his cock inside of your swollen cunt and continues to move inside you for what seems like an eternity.

"Daddy's gonna paint you so pretty, love," he whispers as he pulls out, grunts, and cums all over your back, on the ropes, in your hair.

He collapses on your side and looks up at the ceiling and then at you. He's out of breath as he gently plays with his drained cock.

You're completely spent and about to pass out when you feel him untying all the knots quickly. His face is tinted with concern. When you're finally free from the ropes, he tries to massage you lightly and helps you lie down properly. He brings you a bottle of water right away and kisses your forehead.

“I'll run you bath, princess. And then I'll get you something to eat. Okay?"

"Hmm," is all you can manage.

You hear the bath running and he comes back, picks you up and takes you to the bathroom. He bathes you and shampoos your hair, kissing you everywhere with sweet pecks. When you're both finally in bed, you snuggle up close to him and dare to ask -

"When will you tie me up next?"

[fictional-thoughts]

Poisoned

the mandalorian x fem!reader

warnings: smut, rough messy sex, slight dom/sub elements, sex pollen (dub/con), language, breath-play, fingering, one (1) spank

words: 6k+

a/n: this is genuinely the smuttiest thing i’ve ever written...enjoy

The Mandalorian is walking too fast, he’s gaining speed, leaving her behind in the foggy dark green forest. She’s desperately trying to keep up but her body’s seizing up and trembling and soaked in sweat. His cloak sways behind him and she’s try to not feel dizzy as the tanned colour of it clouds her blurry vision; but the planet is spinning in time with her twisting nerves and white hot muscles.

He’s clumsy, ducking under banches almost too late and his boots catch on thick veiny vines that litter the forest floor. The air smells damp and of pollen, of fluorescent flowers, dripping their sickly sweet scents and luring their prey. Deathly and dark violet the bulbous and puffy flowers hang in thick bunches, taunting the bounty hunter, teasing him with their lavender faces.

He should have known something was wrong. It was too silent. Too dark.

“Wait, wait,” she’s sweating under the thick and flexible armour, it feels as if there’s a million suns spanning the vast sky above her, burning down in fury from the gods. Skins slicked and her underclothes are sticking uncomfortably, melting to her frame. Her hairs a mess, damp and knotted and frizzy with humidity. “Damn it, Mando — somethings wrong.”

Mando nearly freezes in his tracks at her words voice high and broken; fuck, he knew it. She’s got it too, she has be feeling the same, weakened, chest constricted, halting breath in the lungs and skin burning like a forest fire, tongue parched and dry in the mouth, it’s death but only slower.

“What did you say?”

She coughs. The pit of her stomach is pulling towards an unseeable object, ripping through muscles in curling motions, thighs and hands trembling. The forest is so dark and bushy and green and lush she’s having trouble telling what is in front of her, eyes bleary and blinking in and out.

She hears the Mandalorian speak and nearly crash into the brushes under her heavy boots, the hot curls of pain unfurl inside her, a caged animal, clawing to be free and rid of her wretched body.

Something is really wrong.

Her hands find a mossy tree trunk and she’s barely keeping herself up, she’s holding her head in her shaking hand and has got her eyes screwed shut to block out the sight of the Mandalorian pushing his way back through the trees to get back to her, his long rifle catching on the vines and boots thumbing on the ground that seems to sway, a gentle and giant seesaw of lush greenness is the planet, twisting into a thousand vines.

He’s getting closer and it’s all she can do but not scream. Don’t, don’t come any closer.

“You okay?” He grips her forearm tight in his gloved hand and her skin erupts in goosebumps, prickling her skin with an override of electricity. Her mouth drops open as a thousand fluttering beings swarm inside her stomach as he’s connected to her.

“Don’t touch me,” she’s frantic and he’s pulling away from her, his gloved hands raised, almost in defence. Her own clammy hands are pulling at the thick straps and buckles of her armour, it’s too tight and she can’t breathe.

The Mandalorians mind is racing, thinking back to every single second they they’ve been on the godforsaken planet, it’s a slipping of details, they’re all a blur, pieces fell where they shouldn’t be and he’s so confused, why can’t he remember what happened to them? Why does it seem to be affecting her more then it is him?

Then he realizes.

The Mandalorian growls a soft swear, “shit,” and she whips her head to look at him, pupils dilated and forehead glazed with a sheen of sweat, she’s a breathtaking disaster.

“What?”

“This is your fault.” He’s harsh, condescending. He angrily snaps his rifle over his shoulder to free up his movements, he’s handling the weapon roughly and she’s watching with slight awe. Every second he’s in hot pain, it’s pulling him closer to her every second and now he’s absolutely certain. “Now —” he tries to explain but she’s already lashing out in that bright red anger.

“You bastard, how is this my fault?” She stumbles and nearly falls but catches herself with some dignity, ignoring the Mandalorians hand moving to help her, if need be. Her raised voice causes his chest to lurch and he’s trying not to look directly at her. He’s now absolutely certian and trying to remain calm.

-

They’d been wandering through the thick forest, stepping through shallow streams and climbing over moss covered rocks protruding from the planets crust. She’d been walking along, weapons slung across her chest, just absolutely entranced by the canopy of violet flowers that hung in thick and heavy looking bunches over their heads; the red suns of this planets atmosphere did their best to shine through the long winding leaves of the plants, but as the bounty hunters continued on, the darker their surroundings became.

She was ignoring the Mandalorian, angry at him once again for getting them lost, but his argument in retaliation was she had simply forgotten to pack the ships tracker back at base. Packed into a steaming argument she then proceeded to send him surly glares and refuse to speak.

The Mandalorian didn’t mind much, he liked the quiet, and quite honestly, he enjoyed it more when he knew she weren’t going to start speaking. He’d never been much of a talker, but going on this mission with a fellow (amateur) hounty hunter, he’s been forced to converse, pleasantly or not.

They had been walking under the flowers for ages, time didn’t exist there, a loop of the hours that dragged on forever. Then that is where everything was her fault.

She touched a small fluorescent flower, curled her slim fingers around the velvety petal she smoothed skin of the plant under her palm and turned to examine the bright pollen covering her flesh.

She caught his gaze for a moment, a hazed over kind of glint in her eyes, then looked down at her pollen covered hand, then back at the innocent looking plant, a light violet powder covered her hand, and imprinted on the large petals was her very handprint.

“It’s just a plant. We should keep moving.” He turned and strode away, pushing down the idea that she had looked beautiful, surrounded by soft colours, it was different than her usual aesthetic. She only smiled, her frustration melted away, and brushed the rest of the pollen from her palm, together they watched it soak into the air, soft and aesthetic it slid between the panels of sunlight that peeked through.

The faces of flowers watched the hunters leave the forest; poisoned and deadly.

-

“You gotta be fucking kidding. Fuck.” The Mandalorian sighs deeply and he’s trying not to stare as she’s stripping from her metallic armour, her hurried fingers untying the laced up straps of her chest piece he’s kneeling down and helping her before she can yell at him. His gloved hands graze the skin of her collarbone exposed between the laces of her white undershirt and she’s whimpering.

She can’t strip right here. He’s not sure what will happen if she does. “Stop.”

“I said don’t fucking touch me,” she’s pushing him away and glaring, dark and deep.

“Do you know what that was?” He’s cooled down, thinking of what to do, that pulsing and burning need is brimming within his chest, begging and a slur of sinful thoughts seep into his mind. “The flowers?”

She’s sunk down to the brushy forest floor amongst the fluffy ferns and little white dotted flowers with red cheeked and filled with fierce bemusement she answers him. “The hell should I know.”

His shoulders droop with his heavy sigh and he’s scanning the trees around them, wondering if it’s the pollen affecting his sight too or if the wooded plants really do look as if they are bending over them, creaking and contorting into an arch as if to protect the two hunters, watch over them. “I’ve heard of these before, and this has to be it — why you’re in pain.”

The Mandalorian makes no comment of his own deplorment, controling desire morphed into threads of pain. He’s keeping it under wraps but having her so close to him, so bare and soft, as much as she exists to him as an enemy rather than one he’s thought of in such a way its throwing his attention askew.

“I’m not in pain,” she’s snapping at him again, short words and a steely tone she’s already turning a cold shoulder, never accepting the fact that she’s not immortal.

Inwardly she knows she’s lying, but it’s a half lie, she’s in pain but it’s a familiar feeling, the warmth pooling inside her, trembling hands and thighs, she can just feel the dampness at her core, hot and slick she’s absolutely soaked.

“I’m just —” she cant string the words together, looking up at the stern Mandalorian she’s fighting back the urge, the longing and pathetic urge to crawl into his lap and have him fuck her till she can’t breathe; to sink himself deep inside her with a hand around her neck and to just fuck her senseless.

“I know.”

-

They’re back at the ship, the night air is cold and there are few stars alive in the sky. The Mandalorian and her are only feet apart, he’s across from her in his chair, back straight and unmoving, facing the dash. She’s sitting on the ground with her back against the rough cooling wall, the metal grated floor is hard and her ass is sore but if she’s sitting anywhere else she’s close to the Mandalorian and she can’t have that.

WInd howls outside and the huge trees sway in the darkness outside the Mandalorians ship.

She’s got her eyes closed, jawline accented in the semi darkness she’s leaning back to the wall, bottom lip caught under her teeth she’s biting down harshly and tapping her foot in an anxious beat as sweat drops past her sternum and slides over her skin between her breasts, she feels every milimeter of her skin crawl and its rolling in waves, the slick and pushing arousal, its sliding under her skin and got its grip on her chest so tight shes stripped her shirt off.

Her forgotten armour and boots lay in the middle of the open space within the ship.

This isnt ending soon.

The Mandalorian watching his fist curl and uncurl, the wrinkles of the leather gloves he’s wearing bend and fade, he’s unfocused and can only think of her, she’s ten feet away and hasn’t spoken to him since they made it back to his ship. He’s thinking of how she uttered a moan as he brushed her lower back, her eyes closing, slipping into a world where the affects of the pollen are taken care of. 

He’s wondering just how long the effects last when the she speaks up, her voice hoarse and taunt in her lungs. “How the hell is this not having any effect on you?” His fist clench one last time and he’s shifting in his chair, through the visor his eyes close momentairly, pondering of what to say.

“I never said it wasn’t.”

For all the wrong reasons heat pools within her core at the Mandalorians tender voice, smooth and rich its all she can do but imagine how he sounds next to her ear, telling her how good she feels around him, how wet and tight. “You feel this too?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s still blaming her, still wrapped in the idea she’s at fault. How could she have known? In turn, he was at fault as well, getting them lost and failing to recall the deadly flowers.

Then she’s saying something he’d never expect.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s muttering, rubbing the heals of her hands into her eyes, blurring her vision — childlike, innocent. “This is all my fault,” grimacing, she moves her legs to be more comfortable. “It hurts,”

An apology. In the moment the Mandalorian finds it amusing that it takes fucked up pollen fever to force her to apologize for something.

The Mandalorians chest is pinched, painful, and he sighs deeply, she sounds so wrecked, her voice soft, weak. He hears her shifting on the floor and his ears ring witht he rustle of clothing — everything is sensitive. “I know,” he says her name in the short sentence and she’s whimpering in reply.

They could be anywhere, planets away, flying past suns and stars, holed up in dingy towns or broken cities — no, they’re ten feet apart and both have managed to inhale sex pollen straight from the deadly plant itself.

“Mando,” she whimpers again, sliding her hands down her torso, her palms press over her nipples and her back arches; she’s forgetting her hatred for the Mandalorian, letting his annoyance to her everyday life slip from her mind — she’s opened her eyes and he’s there, standing, the shadows curved around him you can only see the outline of his form. Her eyes linger on his arms, his now bare hands and the warmth tugs somewhere deep inside her.

Eyes darkened and filled with a lingering prederatory hilt, she’s pulling herself to her feet, the Mandalorians watching her, a warrior, torn and wrecked, chapped pink parted lips and lashes fluttering over her bright eyes — unstoppable, seductive. He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about her beyond the dealings of companionship, of partners in they crimes they commit.

“We gotta do something about this, Mando.” Its killing her, she’s sure of it. Her eyes break into his beskar, drag over his bulky body.

“There’s nothing... we just wait it out.”

“I can’t,”

“I don’t care.” He’s back to cruel words in the place of his longing rule the flood of things he wants to say, to bend close to your ear and whisper. Fuck me.

She’s stalking closer to him, wetting her lip with her tounge its only moments before something has to happen, its damp and rushed in the hazy red lights inside the ship, they’re furious and watching the Bounty Hunters below.

“I hate you, you know that?” Her words are dripping burning silk — she’s never hated him. And thats her immortal demise, a secret, tucked away in her heart.

“Feelings mutual.” He turns his head to stare into her eyes, her widened and starlike eyes. His own dark eyes trail down past her collarbone and land on her breasts nearly pushed from her tight covering, rising ad falling in time with her breaths. His hands ich to just touch. 

She purrs. “We can hate eachother,” she’s stepped closer to him and he’s not moving, allowing her to invade all idea of personal space she’s so close he can smell her. She seems to forget where she was going with her sentence, looking up at him its like she sees right through him.

“Can we?” His voice breaks through the mask. She chews on the idea, wonders what kind of pretty words it would take to get him to fuck her. Her cunts soaked and throbbing, the push of the material of her pants aren’t helping.

 “Have you ever been with anyone?”

There it is.

“Dont ask stupid questions.” He’s turning away but she’s got a hold of his arm, her warm hand in contact with his is taking ridiculous affect, lurching up and and through his chest the Mandalorians heart is in his throat. “We cant,”

He’s thinking it too.

“Its not wrong,” she’s sliding her hand down to slip her fingers through his, stiring up the growing fire. Its hot and heavy, weighs him down. “Mando, please,” she’s begging, caught on whimpers she’s breathing heavier and heavier. The Mandalorin pulls his hand from her grip, raises it and he’s brushing a forlorn tear from her cheek.

Please. “I can’t stop it,”

He’s slowly going insane, at the touch of her skin something within him snaps and he’s pulling her close, pushing her to the wall of the ships interior, his arms trapping her in. Their breaths match, and she’s so close to him, her eyes softening her mouth opens to beg, of pathetic desperation and drunk on the flowers bitter poison. The Mandalorian stops her, a bare hand agaisnt her mouth he’s silenced her. The touch of their burning skin nearly has her dropping to her knees. She looks into the visor of the hemlet and searches of emotion, a flicker of life behind the face of a machine.

The Mandalorians body is pressed to hers, compact, brimming with the poisonous affections, they’re drowning in the stuff. She shudders in his grasp, the mix of metal and weapons, of leather and the soft material of his shirt, its all too much, burning and keeping her of air its not enough.

He’s looking away from her, forcing himself to keep his cool. Its a rippling fire, lurching and spreading as if alive, the thick coils are heavy. Mando tempts a movement, his cock hard against her and it’s so good — she whines info his hand, her leg slinking up his own, trapping him closer.

“You really don’t know what you do to me, huh?” The Mandalorian’s rough, distracted, caught in grinding out as much friction against her as he can, chasing away the clouding thoughts, screaming at him that everything is wrong.

But those fade, sink into pure silence when her free hand slides up his wrist, nails dug into his skin, she’s pulling his hand away from her lips, her heavy lidded eyes dance with seduction. He’s watching her turn his hand, help him cup her jaw, half spread over the side of her throat, his thumb glides over her lip, she’s turning her head, leaning into his grasp she’s taking the digit between her wet pursed lips, sucking, biting down.

Fuck.

“Please Mando,” hoarse voice in his ears and shooting a pool of warmth straight through him. She’s sinking into the wall, dark eyes pouring into him. Desperate. Longing. “What, you want me to beg?”

Mando freezes. A growl pushes its way through his chest. “No,” she’s ruining him, breaking him apart by the seams. Her brows knitted, eyes wide, pleading. A selfish, dark part of the Mandalorian wants to force her to her knees, maybe turn her front to the wall, press deep into her and fuck the burning urges away.

Her tones smooth and sinking into his skin, drugging him. “Wanna watch me get off? Maybe that’s what you’d like, Mando?”

She pushes him back, forcing stumbling steps, using what’s left of her strength. It’s wickedly wrong, she needs him so bad it hurts. She wants to drop to her knees, taste his cock on her tongue, strip the beskar off, drag her nails down his skin, make him moan her name.

Her words are nearly fucking unbearable. The burning sexual tension hangs in the air, choking them. The ships inside is warm and sticky, her half bare body is covered in sweat, her skin flushed and eyes dark, she matches what earthquakes seem and what passion wishes it could be.

The last dregs of self control fade, his minds hazy with greed and the absence of her burning fever touch has him desperate.

“Get on the floor.”

Quiet. Commanding. She’s obeying instantly and sinks to the floor of his ship, grated metal digging into her flesh, the ground is filthy and gritty and she’s biting back harsh words, only for the moment, thick and heavy need is in place of hatred. Her poisoned gaze burns into him, watching him pull away weapons and leather, heavy cloak and chunks of beskar — not all all of it though.

He’s over her, burning touch that’s melting to her skin. She falls into a moan, her stomach tense with arousal, spreading through her body, following his hands. “Fuck you need to touch me,” everything is begging her to delve into him, rip apart from their restraining history, make amends and build up something new, something in which he can fuck her and hate her at the same time.

And maybe he is.

Through the visor of his helmet, glitching into view, her body spread and displayed, his core deepens, eating him from the inside. Mando pulls her to his lap, her cunt right over his centre, throbbing over his cock. A hot moan drips from the helmet, he closes he eyes, letting her move against him, spine arched beautifully; Mando slides an arm around the small of her back, keeping her close with a spread hand. The other gropes her chest, further pulling down the tight material covering her tits.

“I need—” a whimper slides over her lips, her hands settle over his broad shoulders, drag him closer. “I need something...your hands — fuck — your lips on me.”

“You’re not getting that.” He promises, his helmets not coming off, he’s barely taken any armour off — and she’s bare over him, albeit tight underclothes. His hand slides down her skin, past her navel and dip down past her underclothes, shoving them aside. She gasps loudly, releasing her breath in a shaking moan as his fingertips brush her softness.

That aching pull, it’s deepening and she’ll surely run out of breath before the Mandalorian can properly touch her. She’s forgotten it’s not affected him as much as her — not that it matters, he’s got his hand on her cunt and his dick is hard and thick under her. “Please, oh my god.”

The helmet tilts, the coolness brushing her skin. He’s watching her, arched into his grasp, silently begging for anything. Then he’s curled two fingers into her, gathered in slick and crooked just right and she shrieks, shatters over him. Blood red lips and wild eyes, she’s moving, urging him to fuck her through the drug, bring the heavyness to an end. Its not enough.

She’s falling back, legs untanged with his, she’s gripping him and pulling him close, collasping onto the floor, his hand leaves her for a moment, tugging an empty ache back into her gut. “No, no --” she’s whimpering, “please keep going.”

His hand pushes the mess of hair from her face, looking right into her wretched eyes. Through the rush and anger, he feels a bit of softness, a bit of longing mixed with a likeness, she must be well under the drug, for she’s never been one to beg just that much. His bare hands slide back over her body, dipping past her hipbones and blunt nails dragging down her thighs. Her cunt glistens, Mandos caught in wondering just how she’d taste on his tongue, his head between her thighs, tight around his ears.

“Mando,”

The helmet tilts again and she catches a glimpse of skin, tan under the material and beskar. It’s the column of his throat, leading down where his collarbone would be. The sight sends her into fresh, delicious delirium.

“You need me to fuck you.” He’s buying time, seeing how far she can stretch, the looks of her all soft and longing is turning him on a little too much. It’s not the girl she normally is.

Half a sob curls up, painfully pushing at her throat. She needs him so bad. “Isn’t that fucking obvious.”

There she is.

Without warning he’s over her and his hand on her cunt, two fingers sunk deep in her wetness, pulling her into a painful arch from the grated flooring. She shakes, her hand finds his shoulder and grips tight, nails nearly digging into the thick material of his shirt. Living vicariously through the feeling of his fingers in her cunt, he’s back to thinking just how she’s taste, how she’d writhe and shiver under his tongue. The thoughts are burning through him and his dick is painfully hard — her thigh brushes him and he nearly comes right there.

He’s fucking her slowly, roughly; thumb brushing her clit through the plush wetness of her cunt, she biting down on moans and quivering, lithe in his grasp. “Mando please, I need —” she’s got her eyes squeezed shut, rolling through another wave of wanton poison, it’s bleeding into every nerve.

“I know what you need,” he’s got her. His voice soothes her, his rough hands pull her thigh up, three fingers slathered in her dripping elixir, they’re flat to her clit and pushing in short circles. His touch is chasing away the heat in her skin, derived under influences of lust, she’s collapsing under thick waves of it. She needs his hands, his lips his dick — anything. What the Mandalorian is doing is not enough.

“Mando, just shut up, please —” the slip of his fingers on her clit is sloppy, pressing hard and soaked in her honey. “I need something.” It still hurts, the pollens clamped itself inside her system, taking ahold of her hot muscles, her running heart and flushed skin.

He’s got her pinned, ragged sounds tear from him, the helmets speakers crackle with his breath. Mandos hovered above her, ire trained on her face, down her chest to her breasts rising and falling, pert nipples and soft curves. She’s so damn soft, angelic in a ruined sort of way. Mando groans, her hands found his cock, palming through the fabric.

“Take of the mask,” she’s panting, her free hand leaves his shoulder and slides down the metal, right where she imagined his cheekbone would be. His movements slow. “Wanna have your fucking mouth on me.”

“Helmet stays on.” He’s pulled her closer, sinking down to cover her bare body with his metallic and leather clad one, his right hand digs under her thigh, raises it to his side, slim fingers gripping her pretty curves. She’s frustrated, all that hate and anger comes back in droves, her hand leaves his cock, much to her displeasure and leaves him chasing the feel of it, she’s temping him, fueling a spark of anger.

“I don’t care.” She hisses, eyes scathingly dark.

Smack! His hand slaps the outside of her thigh, burning the skin a deeper colour and bringing a cry of surprise to the edge of her breath. Fuck, the spank shot the air from her lungs, swollen lips parted but not a noise leaves them.

The sudden sting and roughness of it was painful — she wants it again. Her cunts tight around nothing and she’s pulled on an edge.

“Could blindfold you,” the voice through the helmet is deep, it sends her further into an intoxicating trance. “That what you want?”

Fuck no. She’s biting her lip and pushing herself up and onto him. Her tits press to his beskar and it’s cold to her skin, covered in goosebumps and sweat, chills run rampant over her form. She whimpers, his rough hands find her cunt, dip into the warmth once again.

“I’m not putting a blindfold on, fuck that.” She’s panting, arched up to him as his fingers leave her cunt, slicked and tasting of her sweetness. She’s mewling and its not enough, she needs the real thing. She’s begging him to fuck her properly between the sounds of metal clinking, the heavy rustle of fabrics — he’s not wasting a second before he’s half torn from the beskar.

The Mandalorian smooths his bare hand over her cunt, watching her shiver — wretched art, she’s beautifully twisted. She’s palming her own breast, arching info the feeling, her body calling him, a siren luring.

Fuck it. He could do no blindfold.

“Fine,” he’s growling and grips her hips, hands dug into her skin he’s flipped her over, her chest pressed onto the dirty floor of the ship, the Mandalorian runs a hand up her smooth back, his hand curves around the back of her neck and she’s pinned down.

His free hand rips the helmet off, it clatters fo the floor beside her, the empty metal visor staring, watching. Basked in fresh air and the smell of sex, Mando leans over her, a large hand slides up past her tits and circles her throat. She whines and bends to his will. Mandos rough and unforgiving, a newfound freedom without the helmet has him pulling her body right to his broad chest, teeth scraping her neck, damp moans and mutters of curses fall from his hungry lips.

“Gods, gods you’re so good,” his raw and ragged tone is thick in the air, finally free of his helmet, still mysterious to her, it’s the sinking reality of just how attracted she is to him, how pathetically desperate she is, letting a man fuck her and never let her see his face; but the feel of his hardness pressed against her along with leftover leather and beskar mixed with his lips on the lobe of her ear is enough.

She wants the Mandalorian to show her how good she is. All that blinds her is pure need, flower drunk and trapped in the world of fever dreams.

Sliding her ass against him, his cock hard as fucking marble between them, she moans, ripping through another wave of arousal, she’s growing wetter by the second its evident on the inseams of her thighs, shiny and coated. The Mandalorian shoves harshly her down again, his knee knocking hers to the side, spreading her apart, bending over her his lips and teeth find her shoulder blade and between her yearnful sounds, stuck in the darkness of the fever, she’s struggling, eyes squeezed shut.

Then sliding past all that, pushing through shuddering breaths, Mando grips her tight and sinks himself into her. Its instant relief, a fall into icy rushing water and the world becomes clear again, everything is felt differently. She’s warm and wet, every inch delved deep in her cunt is pure bliss.

“Oh-h stars—” curling, tense pressure mounts within her, she’s sensitive and trembling, he’s breaking her open, it’s everything she’d been desperate for and more. She’s writhing in his grasp, tangled in pleasure, her form caved to his touch.

The Mandalorian moans, exilariated he’s pulling back only to slam himself into her again, arms supporting him he’s leaned over her, pressing messy and wet kisses to her shoulder, sinking his teeth into her soft skin he’s forcing her to cry out, to bend at his will and crave him only more. She’s stretched, a sleek feline, muscled and curved, her knees are spread and the metal of the floor is digging into her skin, its painful but she doesnt feel it in the moment.

At a loss of words, her lips part and she’s stuck, caught in thick webs of flowing pleasure, running in hot waves through her bloodstream, her nerves and bones. The Mandalorians pace is off, deep and hard, he’s sloppy and rough.

Its a race to the edge and she finds herself taunt, her thighs tremble and she’s already close, taking it hard she covers her mouth with her hand, pushing forwards as the Mandalorians movements twist into something other than, something primal and urging on what the poison called them to do.

Her body half broken under fatigue, Mando’s strong arms grip hers and gather her up, spine curved again, her ass pressed to his hipsbones, the new angles deep and he stutters his movements, head falling tight to her shoulder, resting for only a moment.

He’s fucking her harder, messier. One arm wrapped around her chest, hand clasped with hers and the other winds around her throat, forearm pressed over her chest. Fingertips pressing to the sides of her neck, he knows just what he’s doing — right amount of pressure, the slight squeeze, it’s got her gasping and hungry for adrenaline. She curled an arm back, holding the back of his head, fingers threaded through his thick hair, soft under her palm.

“Mando, fuck you’re good,” maybe it’s the drug, maybe she’s sunk under the influence, thick with lust but each show, calculated fuck against her has her wondering why they’ve never done this sooner.

He squeezes once, a warning. “Quiet,” and that’s why, she remembers, slurring thoughts mix through her foggy mind, he’s controlling, he’s rough and merciless — but it doesn’t matter now, she’s halfway to orgasm and the calling relief is so much better than her hatred for him.

She’s trembling on the edge, the Mandalorian fucks her hard and fast, chasing after release and turning the lust into something wickedly beautiful. Each hit has her breathtaking moans, a little gift to his ears, furthering his seeping arousal. She’s tight and hot around him, fucked out at a perfect angle and lashing against his grip, then it’s all blinding and his release comes from nowhere, coating and warm inside her she’s gasping at the feel, triggering her own fall from grace.

Slow and gutteral moans, shaking breaths and molten energy, they’ve fallen on the same brink of time, waves of lighting crash through her, the heavy coil snapping, evolving into sparks of rabid pleasure. She muffes shrieks into her hand. Mando’s never come harder, so unexpectedly torturous, she’s impossibly wet around him and it’s hard to keep a grip, her thighs shake. Three more leisurely thrust, deep in her cunt has him tripping through the moment, head dropping to her shoulder, teeth gritted tight, he’s a mess and it’s wrecking him.

“Fuck,” he bites down on the swear, she shivers as he pulls away, hands releasing her throat and waist she’s shaky and not able to hold herself up. Mando doesn’t speak, his mind filled with one thing.

Through the darkness of the Crest, the thick taste of sex in the air and sounds of her intoxicating whimpers, he sinks down and helps her lie back, her form shifting under him, she’s facing him in the darkness, breathing through the aftershocks. “Holy... shit,”

“Don’t move,” chasing the trembles down her ruined form, he drops between her legs once again, dangerous hands pawing at her thighs, her knees had knocked together, tensed in the throes of pleasure but Mando’s splitting them open and burrowing his head between.

She jolts back into reality, haven drifting into some kind of post orgasmic dream. His velvet tongue slides up through her cunt, finally having a taste of her, drinking all she has to offer. Wet and heavy moans shift from his lips to her slicked cunt, his whole body is pressing forwards, rebuilding the release. She’s choking on moans, the sensitivity is on the verge of pain, tipping past pleasure. The sounds of her cunt to his lips, his nose ridged against her clit, churning out a new rush, white hot and bathed in carnality.

“Yes, oh-h my gods,” her hands fumble, her form is numb to feeling, every nerve is retracting, drowning in the new burning coals and blackened skyes. It’s ruined daylight and broken stars. It’s only been seconds after the release, and another ones building. Hot tears threaten to escape, renagade and borne by exhaustion, sensitivity; and the Mandalorians not slowing down, sinking into her begs on the edge of sin, his tongue delves deep, flicking and curling around her bud.

She’s split apart, the half on verge of passing out, the other riled up, curling her leg around his shoulder, pushing him further and fuck she’s so close, pooling warmth and the rushed feeling of tightness, the burning coil taunt. Through the darkness, she’s wretched — faces of flowers coat her vision, blinking in and out, she’s lost off the world. It builds, stacking and mounting and she can’t control it. Shuddering, her spines arched and she feels chills climb the ridges of her bones — her thighs close tight, stopped by his rough hands, pushing her open but it’s too much, the fires alit and burning through her.

His mouth slants over her cunt, closing around in a wet kiss paired with slurred words, close to her slick the Mandalorians telling her to come on his tongue, that he’s got her, he’ll work her through it and then she’s suddenly shaking — pleasure rips through her form, unbearably shocked.

“Fuck, fuck, Mando —” she’s gasping and he’s addicted to her taste, sweet and sharp on his tongue, he’s breathing deep, his tongue slip against her core and he’s fucking her slowly through her release; she’s close to sobbing, the pressures releasing ever so slowly, the motions of orgasms bend and fade, twisted in her mind and body. Her hips pressed to the ground, keeping her still, large hands gripping, tight to her scalding skin.

His lips leave her, the urges come back.

The poison — cursed pollen, exchanged sinfully through their bodies, it’s not been purged, still thick in her veins and fogging her mind, she’s gasping for air as it locks into chest.

The Mandalorian feels it, somewhere deep and dark.

They’re right back at the beginning, her thighs ache and her hands feel numb, lips bitten red and skin coloured with marks, she’s an art form of desperation and need. Through the musky darkness, his hands find her body again, she’s in a daze, staring up at the red lights above them, watching them fade and glow. She floats back to the planet, back to the ship as his lips graze her neck, fresh with anew urge of ecstasy and hands smooth over her breast.

They’re going to be there for awhile.

-

feedback is always appreciated!

[tags / some of these are from the previous list, please tell me if you’d like to be removed or added] @x-wingwarriorbbpoe8 @fantasticwizardnerd @flipping-fan-tastic @thatoneemosithlord @dontbetricked @bamfkurt @m-is-for-mischa @otherthingsinhead @christiandior @ccordiform @darlingbravebelle @aj-2187 @boogiebunnies @charlotte-solane-writes @allihave-arememories @pedro-pascal-online @iprettybirdi @toasterking @jedi-dreea @s-v-e-l-t-e @http-user-eraser @fxcastle @titahnics @captianstartights @banana-batman @biolo-tea @raveviolet @aroseamongthestars @bitchasaurus @imconfused28 @rebelwriter95 @nyashi-kaages @bigtoughswordboy @stonertokoyami @sailorflowermoon @sleepingdeath007 @gothtechie @skys-luce-stellare @missalyssx

[plush-rabbit]

Mistletoe - LOV

A/N: I have feelings for all of them(⺣◡⺣)♡*

Bubaigawara Jin:

Jin will claim that he doesn’t care about the silly tradition but in reality, he really does. It’s cute and while he doesn’t have much experience being under one, he does know how to kiss. He’s loud and boisterous, bouncing in his place and narrowing his eyes through his mask when he sees one, turning his head to find you or even just to make sure that no one else is under one with you.

It’s a bit of a mixed bag with him, he’s eager to kiss you but he doesn’t want to. Kissing you would mean that he would have to pull up his mask and he doesn’t want to do that- even if it’s just a fraction that he’s raising and he doesn’t think you would enjoy a through the mask kiss. He wants the first kiss to be special- or at least not weird you out. It’s constant back and forth with himself where he’s just unsure of what to do if the time were to ever arise.

And the time does come. He’s underneath one with you, and you’re giving him a cheeky smile and he’s so nervous. His hands are clenching and unclenching, sweat is running underneath his mask and he wants to kiss- he’s even leaned down and resting his forehead against yours and he’s telling you to be quiet so he can think and he’s flinch when your hands tug on the bottom edge of his mask, whimper and whine and you’ll close the gap.

The kiss through the mask is sloppy. Its lips against fabric and his hands are hesitant around your waist, drumming along your clothes until they hold you tight and he’s breathing roughly through the mask and he’s jittery, bouncing his leg and he’ll pull away and take you somewhere private and he toys with the edge of his mask until your hands cover his and he’ll nod, letting your hands replace his and lift his mask past his lips.

Jin is so excited afterwards. He’s bouncing and wrapping you in a tight hug where he’ll spin you around, and just pepper kisses over your face until his mask is slipping past his lips and he’ll press a kiss against your forehead. He’s holding your hand and leading you around, sticking close to you and sharing a meal together where he’ll let his mask rise past his lips give you a quick peck before returning to his comfort object.

Dabi | T.T.:

Dabi finds the whole thing childish. He’ll participate, but he isn't exactly eager about it. He’ll roll his eyes, pull someone into the kiss, but that’s about it. He isn’t chasing you around, he isn’t forcing himself to move out of the way for a plant, if he rather not kiss, he’ll be upfront about it- a simple shove sends the message quite clear as he walks away without a second glance.

But then you’re under one- with someone else at that matter and he can’t help but narrow his eyes and stare. You wave our hands in a frantic motion, a nervous smile on your lips and he’s already peeling himself from the wall and walking towards you, only to be stopped when the other nods and offers a high-five. He stops midway and he just watches as you leave the spot and then you catch his eyes and you make your ways towards him, already hooking an arm through his and walking elsewhere.

For some reason, you both end up under one, he’ll stare blankly at it, slowly blinking and when he looks down, you have this devilish grin on your face, almost like you made sure you both stood under it and before he can accuse, your lips are against him, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him down, a smile stretching your lips and hands that smooth over his chest.

The kiss is hesitant for a moment, still lips against yours, his breathing shaky with half-lidded eyes and rosy cheeks. He’ll pull away, glance around and pull you away as you laugh behind your hand. He pulls you somewhere quiet, and his breathing is ragged as he looks around for someone and when you’re about to call out his name, his lips are on yours. It’s fast and heavy, breathing roughly above you, hands that hold on too tight to your hips and a body that forces you against a wall as you cradle his face or play with his hair.

After the kiss, Dabi keeps you close to him, a sly smirk on his face as you’re sat either next to him or on his lap. His hand is threaded with yours, only leaving to press against the small of your back or when you grab onto him. He’ll tease lightly, act aloof and call you a great kisser but with the way his leg bounces, eyes that drift towards your lips, you can tell he’s a bit nervous, sticking close to you and staying relatively silent other than the occasional tease.

Iguchi Shuichi:

Shuichi is a nervous wreck when it comes to the plant. He’s never been under one due to spending his life in isolation and others perceiving him to not be conventionally attractive so he stays clear of them. He’ll walk under one normally, not trying to let something as small as an old tradition dictate his life but if he happens to be under one with someone else, he’s raising his shoulders a fraction and walking away without a glance spared.

He’s close to you- he stays near you enough for a conversation to happen but as he notices the plants strewn about, he starts to separate from you, inching further away, still sticking near you, of course. He doesn’t want to risk standing under one with you- the rejection would sting a bit too much this time. He lets his insecurities show- subconsciously covering his mouth with his hand as you near another decoration, nodding along and not really speaking to avoid showing his canines.

When you two happen to be found under one, he’s still. He keeps his hand curled over his mouth, claws scratching against his scales, and eyes that are wide with fear. He mutters how you don’t have to, a slight shake of his head and he’s already backing away until a flash of hurt flashes across your face and he lowers his hand and takes a step towards, and he’ll lean, soft and barely an inch but it’s his consent and he gasps when he feels your lips against his.

The kiss is shaky- lips meeting scales in a bit of an awkward kiss. He freezes under you, shrinking in on himself, his hands balled into fists. He’s warm, and smoothing out his hair once you pull away and there’s this nervous tick with him, his eyes shifting around, the constant, repetitive motions of him playing with his hair and lack of speaking that just becomes overwhelming and he’s grabbing your hand and dragging you away to either his room or somewhere isolated.

Shuichi is clingy. He’s holding your hand and looking away from you, knees pressed against his chest and he’s just talking about anything that comes into mind. As the conversation continues, he’ll inch closer to you, legs that lower until they’re parallel to you and once the conversation dims into a whisper, he’s nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and asking for a proper kiss.

Sako Atsuhiro:

Atsuhiro is actually eager to get under the mistletoe with you. He keeps you close to him, not wanting to let others get near you and take a kiss from you. He sort of drags you around the place, hand in yours as he looks for one.

It’s a cute tradition- he’ll admit. He likes the idea of showing his feelings to you with something bold. Or as bold as you can get. It’s enough to know that you also have to accept the kiss, that you more than likely share the feelings and he’s just turning corners trying to find one and wishing he had encased one in a marble beforehand to plant the damn thing. When he finds one, he’s acting nonchalant about it, slowing his steps and hooking his arm through yours and talking about the most mundane thing until you both land under the mistletoe.

The kiss is a teasing one. He’ll lean close to you, fan his breath across your lips, a hand that is light against the back of your head, curving over to hold you steady and his other hand holding you by the chin as he inches close to you and he’ll kiss your cheek. His grin is wide as he sees your disappointment- face flushed and eyes that were half-lidded that go wide and narrow and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles out.

He’ll beg for your forgiveness- telling you that he couldn’t help it- that he just got nervous and he backed down once he was too close. He’ll lower himself, hands mimicking the position from before and he takes a gulp of air before he kisses you, light and sweet, leaning towards you and pulling away with a grin, giving you another peck.

Atsuhiro will not leave your side. More than likely, he’ll pull you away somewhere secluded and just hold you close while he plays with your hands, the mask off, and he’ll ponder if he should remove the balaclava but stops when you lower your head against his shoulder and just play with his own hands, looking up at him and calling him mean, sealing the sentence with another kiss.

Shigaraki Tomura:

Tomura finds the whole thing pointless. Granted, a lot of the feelings stem from the fact that he’s never experienced one before but he doesn’t see the need to so he sneers at the plant and walks along. He doesn’t care for it and even if his heart does skip a beat when he sees you under one, it means nothing.

He won’t avoid it but he doesn’t seek it out either. He just walks along and then you see him and walk towards him, pointing out the plant and asking if he knows what it means and he’ll give a silent roll of his eyes. His hands will twitch and he’ll give you the once over when you’re not looking and he’s internally groaning.You seem to be walking somewhere, pulling him along by the sleeve of his shirt and you hold this too wide of a smile that makes his suspicious until you both stop and you point upwards to a mistletoe.

The kiss is soft for just a second- lips hesitant against yours, nothing more than feather light and he pulls away for a second, licking his lips, muscle brushing against your lips, catching a taste of your chapstick and then he’s onto you again, rough and holding you tight like he’d drift away if he weren’t. He holds you close, hands nudging past your shirt until his index and middle finger are against the warmth of your soft tummy.

He pulls away with a gasp for air, chest heaving and lowered against your shoulder, face burning as he realizes what he’s just done and he’s still, shoulders jumping and he’s mumbling an apology under his breath, his arms slowly wrapping around your, a hand clenching a fistful into your shirt while the other pinches at the fabric and he’ll breath a sigh of relief when you kiss at the crown of his head.

Tomura won’t do much for the rest of the day except keep you close by him and just spend the rest of the day with you. He’ll have his face buried in the crook of your neck as he lies above you, a hand intertwined with the occasional brush of his lips against your neck, brushing over the pulse and nestling deeper into you when you scratch his head. He’ll ask for another kiss- hesitant and below a whisper and when you nod, he’ll rise above and dip his head down, pulling you into a softer kisser.

Toga Himiko:

Himiko is the one who put the mistletoes up. She thought it would be a cute idea. She’s participated in the little tradition before she fled society and actually quite enjoyed it. She likes the idea of the romance, thinking it’s a cute way to confess feelings for someone so when you come around, she’s getting as many as she can and placing them around the building- kitchen, hallways, living areas- even closets on the off chance that you’ll be there.

She doesn’t force you to be under one but she will nudge you- asking you to get her a drink only to follow you immediately and stand under one only to shy away once she meets your eyes. She grows flustered under your stare, a heavy blush dusting at her cheeks and she presses her lips against the tip of your nose and runs off, hiding her face and sliding down a wall. She’ll more than likely get teased by the other members of the League- Jin and Stushiro, being the ones to give her a comforting pat on the pack.

The next time she sees you under a mistletoe, she’s hyping herself up and calmly walking over to you, only to grow giddy once you both stand under the plant. She’s not shy, she’s just worried you won’t want to kiss her back- which is fine- but it’ll hurt considering that she does like you a lot and a rejection is something she’ll be hurt by. She’ll stand in front of you, her hands pulling on the bottom of her cardigan, pulling on her sleeves until she has sweater paws and twiddling them around while she rocks back and forth on her heels.

It’s a meet-halfway type of kiss. You both lean in and meet. It’s short and sweet, a squeak leaving her lips and she’s smiling into the kiss, pulling away with a wide grin, and grabbing the sides of your face and pulling you into another kiss. She bounces on her heels and leans into you, her smile still evident on her face and once she pulls away, she’s holding onto both of your hands and dragging you along.

Himiko is extremely giddy after the kiss. Constant bouncing, a wide grin as she plays with your hands and sits on your lap or vice versa- she honestly doesn’t mind which one as long as you’re close to her. She’ll be nuzzled into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around you with interlaced fingers and with speckled kisses placed against your face.

[nincompoopydoo]

DEBRIS AND MISERY

DOUBT MAKES THE STRONG WEAK ; PART 8 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.5k SUMMARY: From concussions to destruction, you find yourself developing an odd trust in the last two people you would even begin to have faith in and when the apocalypse seems unavoidable, you discover that there may be more to the mystery of the universe. A/N: Well, this chapter is long. And mainly pertains around the theme of 'doubt'. A lot more of Sylvie stuff and Loki just having heart eyes the whole time. I love this chapter and I can’t wait to write more as the story ends. Please tell me what you love, hate, anything (maybe theories lol). Thank you for showing so much love. gif from this gifset by @kamalaskhans WARNINGS: Swearing. Apocalypse. Injuries. Blood. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

You were once a fighter.

Hunter E-87 was the name you once knew, hollered through different fields and dimensions in time and space. You fought for what you thought was right, pledging allegiance to a cosmic establishment that held all power to a single timeline and never questioned the works of the Time-Keepers. The Sacred Timeline is indeed sacrosanct, too important, too valuable to interfere. You fight in the name of the single thread of time, the bark of a tree, forbidden to bare branches of a potential multiverse. You fight because the thought of alternate timelines used to scare you. Yet, if alternate universes were meant to be, the lives you took and destroyed are now in the grasp of your bloody hands. You hold the responsibility of the death of the innocent, taking part in mass genocide.

But promises must be kept.

The thought constantly haunts you in your sleep. You have dreams of death, war, destruction, and famine from across the universe. People seem to glide like specters in the world built by your imagination and mind. You have seen a lot, more than any being in the universe should, but no one talks about the aftermath of witnessing the tragedy of the universe as time goes on and on. No one talks about what it does to the mind. Music from cassettes and the wonder of human space exploration were distractions to cope with the grinding hole in you and the fact you might be turning truly crazy.

Sometimes, you would like to be human—Fewer problems and less time to live.

You blame the sickening and bizarre vivid images that come and go whenever you close your eyes as a symptom of being a hunter. The others are stronger than you. Well, they act like they are. Becoming an analyst made you sleep better but there was always doubt. Sakaar made you doubt.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

“You startin’ to have doubts?”

Green eyes. They watch you with curiosity with a hint of amusement. You hear yourself hum. “Would it be bad if I said yes?”

He laughs. It’s mighty. “Yeah. Definitely bad.”

A beat of silence. You feel your eyes start to sting. “I couldn’t even tell my mom.” A laugh escapes your lips despite the hurt you feel in your chest. “Did you tell anyone? Your wife?”

You see him now, blonde hair slicked back and deep-set eyes. He shakes his head. “Nope. Not even my wife.”

“She’ll be proud, you know.”

“I know...So will your mom. Jesus, you’re gonna be the first woman on—”

Wake up.

“—Is she dead?”

The voice is familiar. It pulls you back to reality but right now, your eyes are too heavy. Doubt is the first emotion that waves through your brain before the process of pain can even occur—uncertain if you are dead or alive.

You can’t feel your limbs, they are too weak.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

Maybe, you are dead.

“This is your fault! You’re the one who swung that sword of yours to her head! You’re careless—”

Sword...Sword...Careless? You remember a train, a fight.

“Oh, I’m the one who’s careless? You’re the one who’s drunk!”

Drunk...Who was drunk?

Then, your voice echoes in your head, images of a certain brunette with a deep frown. He called you a mewling quim. You quoted Hávamál. You then left him and wandered through the other cabins of the train. He blew his cover. He got you into a fight.

Loki. Loki Laufeyson.

Son of a bitch.

Your eyes are wide open now. All you see are the faces of Loki and Sylvie, looming over you. Just two floating heads. Then, the pain arrives, coursing through the entire back of your head. You wince in immediate reaction and the floating heads turn to you in an instant.

What a way to wake up from a concussion.

You remember everything now, but you certainly don’t recall being on the outside of the train. Must have gotten thrown out. The thought angers you, irritation practically boiling to the brim. Yet, it’s your fault. You hadn't thought to babysit the very person you wish were dead. As your palm grips onto the dirt beneath, muscling all strength left to lift yourself. Your head feels light and heavy all at once. Not good.

“Are you alright?” is the question that flies from Loki’s lips, tinged with an emotion you never knew he had for another but himself—worry. Whether selfless or selfish, you wish to ignore the complexity of Loki’s reactions and possible change in character, especially towards you. Ever since you stepped foot on Lamentis, all you felt was pain. You have never been injured so much within the last few hours than in your entire life and weirdly, you feel fine.

Sylvie is quick to stand, watching the two of you work in tandem. His grip finds the curve of your shoulders as you stick your hand out to grip him by the bicep. At your touch, you notice how his arm stiffens ever so slightly. You don’t say anything.

Some things about Loki are best left unknown and unanswered.

Today is filled with a lot of getting off the ground in the most unceremonious way possible.

A deep exhale leaves your lips, wisps of your hair drifting with the brutal breeze from your nostrils. Beads of sweat trail along the curve of your forehead and the back of your neck. Some entangled with the strands of your hair. Your hands feel clammy and dirty but you run them to push your hair back and away from your face anyway.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, pulling yourself away from his touch.

You finally get a good look at the two. Loki looks like complete shit but Sylvie manages to maintain the regalness to the locks of her hair despite her opposing overall behavior. It’s the Asgardian blood coursing through her veins. You cannot hide your ancestors' blood. It’s hard to believe the two are the same—one being. Yet, it's believable when you’re angry at the two of them.

The two messed up your career, that’s why.

Unbothered and uncivilized. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.

As your eyes shift along the train tracks that meander along a gorge with steep rocky walls that leer above it, you catch sight of a spark by your feet, glinting under the iridescent sky.

It’s the TemPad, shattered into pieces; you recognize the color gold of its border.

Your eyes grow wide, mouth agape. You don’t even feel angry anymore, it’s more than that. You stick out your hand to gesture towards the destroyed device, “Is that—Is that the TemPad?” you ask as your other hand lifts to hold the side of your head. “Or am I just seeing things from the concussion?”

Sylvie is the one to speak. “It’s not the concussion.”

You suddenly feel like you’re burning.

If it were possible, you could have instantly killed him with a look.

“You. You killed us!” you step closer to him and for a moment, Loki doesn’t exactly know what to do. “So, it’s my fault then? You were the one who left me alone in the lounge.” are the words that leave his lips. Completely useless. Trying to diffuse the tension is the exact opposite of what he does.

His silver tongue isn’t so shiny and silver anymore.

You don’t pull your blow this time. Your palm strikes his cheek, rocking his head to the side. Your hand is oddly soft. Loki winces and you stand your ground. “You’re a jerk and an asshole. You’ve probably been called that for all your life and yet, here you are. Still, the most insensitive and pathetic man I’ve ever met,” you articulate your words with frustration and rage. You don’t raise your voice like before, it’s low and frightfully intimidating. “And I’m not your babysitter.”

—

Battles, ruination, and fracas gave a sense of familiarity to Sylvie in a time of an impending apocalypse. When worlds end, benevolence is resolute. The tragedy of the end of lost souls—afraid to die. But as daunting as the apocalypse is, the beauty of their souls finally returning to the universe protrudes amongst the debris and misery.

She sees herself in the two of you, as much as she doesn’t identify as a Loki anymore, and her hatred towards the TVA. You have a temper and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

You’re mysterious in an almost enchanting way and possibly significant as you seemed to be at first glance. Sylvie is highly curious about you.

You don’t stray too far from the group, only to find rest by the edge of a pit made by a crashing meteor. You sit with your back turned against the very two beings you distrust as you watch the border where the bustling city of Shuroo is based. Your guard is down and you don’t care at this point. Everyone is about to die anyway.

Sylvie’s gaze finds Loki who seems to be only watching the back of your still figure, eyes glinting with an emotion unknown to her. Possibly regret? Sylvie doesn’t know what regret looks like. But fear and anger, she feels it radiating from you. She knows it. Something tells her you’re not solely angry at her and Loki.

She finds herself drifting closer to you. You don’t move. She cautiously settles beside you. “You’re not hiding a knife somewhere, aren’t you?”

You merely scoff, caressing your head, “You’re the one to say.”

Sylvie blinks. Fair enough.

Silence. Sylvie’s eyes shift to the handkerchief tied around your arm, stained with blood. “How’s the arm?”

You hum. “Surprisingly, fine.”

Oh, Sylvie knows it’s fine. She knows what Loki did. She decides not to mention the scratch she made across your cheek.

“Did the slap make you feel better?”

The question is hinted at near sarcasm, but genuinely, she wants to know.

“Yes, it did. You should try it sometime.”

She simply hums. “I would have but you beat me to it.”

A turn of your lips as they curve into a small smile. Sylvie watches with an odd sense of satisfaction. “You know, I’m still mad at you. For what you did to me.” Your words are slow. You find yourself swallowing. “But it’s nothing compared to what the TVA did to you.”

Empathy. Is this what empathy feels like? The moment when someone finally understands what it’s like to be alone for so long. Your lives are different but they reflect in certain ways. You have had your fair share of living in constant fear and constantly running. Sylvie finds herself wanting to tell you that she hadn’t simply pushed you into Sakaar. When it’s a mission, things are never accidental. She always has a plan.

Yet, she chooses not to say anything.

You speak again but merely whisper, fidgeting with your fingers, “Before Sakaar—did you enchant me?”

It's as if you're reading her mind.

“Are you seeing things?”

After a pause, the fidgeting stops.

“I’ve seen things all my life, images. Brief and insignificant. But ever since I was in Sakaar, it’s gotten a lot harder to differentiate a dream and a memory.”

“That’s because they aren’t dreams.”

Your hardened gaze finds hers for a brief moment, nearly growing wide at her words but in an instant, your guard is up once you hear the shuffling of feet behind you where Loki lingers. The subject is dropped immediately. He meets Sylvie’s gaze, the two share a knowing look.

Your anger is provoked and well deserved and yet, the last thing he wants is to be your enemy. Loki doesn’t know why. He has lived a life full of them.

You’re different.

He stills, wondering if you’re going to lash out at him again but when he notices your slow breaths, he decides to sit next to you anyway, awkward glances to you in his periphery. A deep sigh escapes his lips, fiddling with his fingers. “What now?”

Sylvie is the one to answer. “I don’t know. You broke the TemPad.”

“Well—”

“And that planet is about to crash into us.”

Loki looks up at the nearing planet of Lamentis. He blinks. “Well, yes, but—”

“Yes, but what?”

“Well, the entire moon is destroyed, right?”

Sylvie is trying to suppress your growing annoyance. “Yep. And everyone on it is killed.”

But Loki pesters on. “Including us.”

She raises her voice. “Yes, including us.” Loki glances at you momentarily. A pause. He furrows his brows in thought.

“What about the ark?”

���The ark never leaves because it's destroyed.”

Suddenly, an epiphany, his eyes light up. He turns to you and Sylvie, “Never had us on it.”

You suddenly scoff at his words. “Are you suggesting we hijack the ark and make sure it gets off this moon?” You turn to him to only spot a vague smile playing upon his lips. He nods in return. “Sounds like a good idea to me, Agent.”

You merely blink, watching the way his eyes shift across your face. First, you’re struck with uncertainty. It’s a risk, a huge one but you know, risks are meant to be uncertain. Risks are also vital in success. Hesitation, doubt—they make you weak. This time, you want to be strong. Strong enough for one last push to save your life.

“Okay.” is what you say, your expression reflecting his.

For the first time, since he took your hand in Sakaar, you’re starting to trust him.

—

The walk to Shuroo seemed endless. You trail behind the two, feeling like you’re about to suffocate.

“—To preserve the connection, I have to create a fantasy from their memories.”

Loki and Sylvie had been conversing about the science and functions of enchantment in a rather surprisingly calm manner. Loki hums, amused by her elucidation. “And you call me a magician.”

Her expression is unchanged as she continues to trudge alongside Loki, ignoring his previous statement. “That young soldier from the TVA, her mind was messed up. Everything clouded. I had to pull a memory from hundreds of years prior...before she even fought for them.”

Loki halts abruptly in his step, hand flying to grab Sylvie’s arm. “What? What'd you say? Before she joined the TVA?”

Sylvie blinks. “Yeah. She was just a regular person on Earth.”

His mind starts to reel, face muddled with confusion. “I was told that everyone who works for the TVA was created by the Time-Keepers.”

“That's ridiculous. They're all variants, just like us. Including her.” Sylvie gestures discreetly to you who has stopped to take a breather, hands on your hips as you blink up to the sky.

You, Mobius, all of them. All variants.

“They don't know that. She doesn’t know that.” he breathes a terrified expression.

Sylvie looks at you from afar. You’re now looking at them with a bewildered expression. “What?” you call out, voice echoing through the wide area, in a somewhat defensive tone.

She turns to Loki once more, voice nearly faltering. “I have a feeling she already knows it.”

—

Loki doesn’t realize the unfamiliarity of hopelessness. Throughout his life, he was constantly surrounded by those with unfaltering determination—His brother, family, friends who were warriors, The Avengers.

Never was it known that he would see it burning in your eyes as they reflect the growing fire of the Ark, crumbling down, tongues of fire engulfing it whole before you. His heart burns with it as Shuroo falls quiet—only the sounds of the metallic crashing of the disintegrating parts of the ship falling from above and the screams of the rich and deemed worthy to live. Every Lamentian still alive held their breath, a moment's silence for their lives must end. Everything must end.

So close yet so far.

Sylvie is gone by the minute as the city starts to descend in terror and panic. He stands behind your still form, just watching your only chance of making it out, swallowed by its own billowing smoke. He reaches out for you, tugging you by the sleeve. “We should leave,” he says with a sudden sense to protect you. There isn’t much to do at this point. It doesn't matter if you are hit by the falling pieces of the Ark because you are all going to die anyway.

But he considers it a gesture, as insignificant and small it is. The least he could do is to distract you from the end, whether for a mere second or minutes.

“I know things haven’t been the best between us and I concede I bring out the worst in you, but I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You turn to Loki with his sudden words. He watches the way your expression softens so gracefully, face adorned with gashes and wounds. Your mouth twitches as you respond with a gentle voice. “I forgive you.”

Three words. Very powerful words.

His heart skips a beat.

You find Sylvie at the brink of the city, sitting on a stretched slab of rock amongst the dirt, watching the horizon where the planet starts to meet the moon. Loki still has his hand around your arm, but you don’t complain. It’s your only source of support at the moment. It’s an unconscious move, but everything about it feels right when the two of you settle beside her, shoulders brushing against each other. It only makes sense to want to feel the nearness, the closeness of another as the light at the end of the tunnel begins to dim.

It’s impending. It’s scary.

“I remember Asgard.”

Sylvie’s voice trembles, her eyes are somber.

“Not much, but I remember. My home, my people, my life. Then, the TVA showed up, erased my reality, and took me, prisoner. I was just a child.”

You turn to her, guilt bubbling in your chest, but you don’t say anything. You let her speak. It’s only right.

“I escaped.” she breathes, blinking the brimming tears in her eyes away. ”Stole a TemPad and I ran for a long, long time, which really sucked. Everywhere and every-when I went, it caused a Nexus event.”

Sylvie turns to you with a melancholic gaze. “The universe wants to break free, so it manifests chaos. Like me being born the Goddess of Mischief. But to you and the TVA, I’m not supposed to exist.”

For so long, you hadn’t realized the consequences of your work at the TVA. You believed you were right. That erasing, resetting realities were meant to be. You cannot comprehend how it only occurred to you to question the authority of the Time-Keepers over time itself after Sakaar. All those years of being ignorant and selfish. You hadn’t realized. You never did.

But now you know.

Sylvie continues, gaze shifting away from you. “I figured out where to hide. And so that's where I grew up, the ends of a thousand worlds. Now...that's where I'll die.”

Then, silence. It sits heavily between the three of you.

“The universe—isn’t she beautiful?” Your voice is soft, eyes trained on the horizon—a fleet of asteroids, they reflect the end. But they seem to dance to the silence of the apocalypse, drifting across the stratosphere, lining the firmament. Loki’s gaze shifts to you, training on every curve of your face and the tears slipping down your cheeks. He agrees, the universe is beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

“She brings turmoil, agony, and destruction but in all her flaws, there’s beauty in her very existence.”

Your hands find Sylvie and Loki’s hands, holding on to them tightly as you fight the wavering of your voice.

“You...Both of you might be the epitome of chaos but you must know that you have such beautiful souls. All of us, we're her children...and if she is beautiful, so are we. And the Universe is always right. If she created you then we are wrong.”

Sylvie’s face is soft. Loki squeezes your hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I should have known from the start...that the TVA was lying to all of us. I should have questioned. I should have doubted—”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” she says, smiling with saddened eyes.

You laugh. You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe, it’s because you know you are a part of the problem anyway, even if you were just doing your job.

You find Loki’s gaze that’s already on you. You sigh and speak through a whisper. “I’m sorry for slapping you.”

His lips curve into a grin, eyes crinkling like your own. “It was well deserved, but I forgive you.”

Fingers entangled with the hands of two unlikely people, you finally realize what it truly feels like to not be alone. To be in the company of someone you want to be with.

“Now long now.” Those three words leave the very lips of Sylvie and your chest feels like it’s about to collapse.

You never knew you were afraid of death, yet here you are—terrified.

The ground shakes beneath you. It’s dark and there’s fire everywhere. A meteor collides to the ground just across the way, it sends smoke billowing to its surroundings faster than you can blink.

Even in the last seconds of your life, you have doubts remaining. What if the universe isn’t always right?

Then, through the growing dust, you see a spark, like lightning. A glint of a figure, standing before you. White, pure, and serene. You’re standing now, staring ahead. Sylvie and Loki cease to exist in your mind as they gaze at you with bewilderment. They anxiously call you by your name but you don’t hear it. There’s only silence now, you don’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

A voice, she speaks with dignity. A voice so familiar.

“Doubt makes the strong weak, my child.”

Then, you hear it. A soft hum—a Time Door glows warmth amid your impending death.

Suddenly, she’s gone.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

@the-maroon-panda

@kashasenpai

@nyxrae

@johnmurphys-sass

[forthehpfanboys]

Newest Helper

Pair: Charlie Weasley x Reader; he/him.

Summary: You find out a secret of Charlie’s even his family doesn’t know about.

Warnings: Not exactly smut, but definitely not fluff. If I forgot any, please dm me.

Note: I literally have no idea what I’m doing but here ya go.

Smut Prompts 13 and 25: “If you wanted me so badly, why didn’t you just say so?” and “Is that a tattoo?”

~DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE~

-

It wasn’t fair. It really just wasn’t. He got to parade around like the piece of artwork you knew him to be. Fiery red hair sticking in every direction, big hands covered in dirt and ash, shirt absolutely soaked with sweat, allowing his muscles to show even better. Honestly, a piece of work and he didn’t even notice.

Luckily for you, he also didn’t notice the bulge in your pants or how your eyes were absolutely glued to his marvelous ass. Fuck. If he looked like an actual god outside in the sweltering rays of the sun, what did he look like in the coolness of someone's bedroom. The idea had your dick twitching in your trousers.

See, you were new to the dragon reserve and were assigned to work beside Mr. Weasley to learn the proper ways to care for the scaly beasts. Since you met him and shook his hand, you couldn’t think properly around him. He was so smart and caring and passionate, but you’d give anything to see him act out, but he was your mentor. You couldn’t just waltz up to him and ask to choke on his dick. No, that’s improper, but at least you could dream.

He shifted the sleeves of his paper thin flannel higher up his arms for the fifth time in the past two minutes. He had rolled them up to escape some of the heat, but was just revealing the straining veins of his forearms. You swallowed hard and suddenly your mouth was dry. Oh, you were lucky, weren’t you? Most people didn’t get to see views like this everyday. He knelt down in front of one of the reserve's smaller, yet ungaurded nests. He was busy checking the eggs while you were busy.. Doing something else. Your eyes had locked on his thighs that looked ready to bust through the seams of his jeans at any moment. How was this man so well built? 

“(Y/n)!” Suddenly, he was snapping his fingers in front of your face, just inches from your nose. You didn’t even notice when he began talking to you. 

“Ah, yes sir?” You gripped the broom in your hands tighter. You were assigned with some of the smaller jobs, since this could get dangerous. Your wide eyes watched as he shook his head and grinned at you, a soft chuckle effectively stopping your heart.

“First, we’ve been over this. You don’t have to call me sir.” He licked his dry lips, his arm dragging across his forehead, whipping away sweat and leaving a smudge across his smooth skin. “Second, I was asking if you wanted to take a break after we go through the egg routine again.” He waved his hand toward the last nest that needed to be checked and took the broom from you gently. You nodded, your words dying in your throat. You walked over to the nest and knelt down in front of it, starting to go over the check verbally and not once did Mr. Weasel- Charlie need to correct you. 

Once you finished, and got his approval, you dusted your hands off on your own jeans and looked over at him. He was using the broom as an armrest, one foot crossed over the other as he watched you. You tried not to be obvious with your gaze, but it still flickered between the natural bump between his legs and his lazy grin.

“Nice job, (Y/n)! You’re picking this up really fast.” He grinned down at you. His eyebrow raised when your eyes shot back down. It may have been a millisecond, but he wasn’t exactly a stick. He had a brain behind his eyes. “Ya know, we’ve been working together for almost a good month now,” his tongue peaked out from between his lips, “,if you wanted me so badly, why didn’t you just say so?” His words had you floored.

“What? Oh, no!” You locked eyes with him as you stood up quickly, brushing the dirt off your pants. You hoped the heat coming to your cheeks was anything but normal. “No, no, no! I just um- I saw a bee?” Your voice wavered as he grabbed your wrist. You didn’t even notice when he’d set the broom off to the side or when he started dragging you to the unisex, one toilet bathroom in the barn. You watched him pull his wand out of his pocket and cast a spell. You chewed on your lip, running your hands together. “Am I fired?”

Charlie tossed his head back in a deep chuckle that reinstated in the square room. 

“No! Of course not.” He began stepping toward you, his fingers coming to the buttons on his flannel and slowly undoing the first two at the collar. “Just wish you’d said something sooner, love. I wouldn’t have kept things so professional.” He grinned wider as your eyes followed his long fingered through the process of undoing each button. Eventually the shirt fell from his shoulders, revealing freckle covered skin, tan lines and-

“Is that a tattoo?” You blurted out, your eyebrows shooting up to your hairline.

It was of a Romanian Longhorn, which made sense now that you thought about it. The dragon itself was strong, bulky and muscular, it represented him in the best possible way. The head rested just below the collar of where his shirt hid hit and it’s wings stretched across his shoulder and chest while it’s body curled and twisted all the way down his pec and rib. It didn’t move for the longest time, leading you to believe it was a muggle tattoo until it turned its head, basically locking eyes with you and blowing fire out of it’s mouth before scurrying down his back. 

“Yes, it is. His name is Connor but we’re not here to talk about him.” He had cornered you into a wall, his hands slamming against the brick on both sides of your head, causing a squeal to echo in the room. “We’re here to take care of some business, yeah?” He pressed his body flush against yours, grinding his growing bulge against yours. When you nodded your head and your eyes dropped to his lips, he took that as permission to slam his lips into yours while your hands threaded through the messy red curls on top of his crown.

You quickly learned there was more than one tattoo on Charlie’s body and learned the names of them just as quickly.

[yuzukult]

effortlessly pt. 4 || jungkook & reader

title: effortlessly  pairing: jungkook x reader genre: fluff, romance, school!au, smut (not in this chapter) words:  3.8k on the shorter side note: again, i may need to do some proofreading!!! enjoy :)

series: part one || part two || part three || part four || part five || part six || part seven || part eight || part nine || part ten || epilogue 

The sun shining through the blinds warms your skin as you groan while rubbing your eyes drowsily at the contact. Sliding off Jungkook’s body and cloaking your face into the pillow, you sigh heavenly. Although still exhausted, after confessing your feelings to the sleeping Jungkook the night before, you felt relieved. 

Jungkook? He thinks he hasn’t slept a wink. There may have been a moment or two where he dazed off to the point that he thought he fell asleep but in actuality, he could barely get himself to close his eyes long enough. 

Well, you did tell him you loved him last night. 

How else was he supposed to react? He spent the entire 8 hours with a billion thoughts running through his mind incessantly. Sure, he constantly showered you with affection, occasionally slipping in some pick up lines, and flirting ceaselessly but he never believed that you would ever reciprocate those same feelings... or even come close to the point of potentially realizing how you felt. A hopeful dream was what it was and the only way to prevent heartbreak was to prioritize his aspirations to become a swimmer. 

Regardless of that... he’d been in love with you for over a decade, so what does this mean now?

You confessed to his sleeping body, or well— “sleeping.” Does he tell you that he heard everything you said? Would that be too much? It felt like he was eavesdropping on a conversation he shouldn’t have listened in on, even if you were saying it directly to him. But you said those things unfiltered, assuming that he wouldn’t hear anything.

Chewing his bottom lip with his brows wrinkled, he pondered in silence as your body beside him is shifting constantly under the covers, switching in different positions. Edges of his mouth twitching into a soft smile at the sight of you, he runs his fingers through his messy locks, finally coming to a decision.

Jungkook is going to take this opportunity to tell you that he loves you. The proper way, of course, since technically he isn’t supposed to know about your confession. He’s going to make up for what happened with what should have happened.

“You’re awake?” You grumble, voice husky. He chuckles at the sound, pinching your cheek gently. “Yeah, been awake for a while. Getting up any time soon?”

Shaking your head, you drop your face back into the pillow, muffling your words. “I just wanna sleep all day. Did you have any plans for today?” 

He hums a moment in thought, glancing over at you. “I didn’t initially, but I think we should do something today. Did you have anything in mind that you want to do lately?”

Turning your head, you glare at your best friend. “You’re the one who wants to go somewhere.”

“True but I wanted to give you the option to pick.”

Rolling your eyes, you purse your lips in response. “Let’s get pizza and go to the beach.”

“Beach?”

“Yeah, you said you wanted to give me an option to pick. I heard it’s going to be nice and hot outside, and if you’re not letting me stay indoors in the amazing AC, you’re taking me to the beach to cool down.”

“Sassy,” He says, pushing a strand of your hair away from your face and behind your ear. “But okay. We can do that. I’m down for it.”

“Just us two?”

“Just us two.” You liked the sound of that.

The sun barely pecks your skin in the morning but it’s noon now, and the sun hates you. Toes digging into the sand as Jungkook leads to find a spot to put the umbrella, you’re weeping from the heat under your feet and the sun scorching your skin.

“Jungkook, I’m fucking melting.”

“Yes miss, we are all melting in this heat. We are all bitches to the sun right now.”

You’re grumbling, dragging your legs with you as you fix the straps on the duffle bag that sits as a crossbody on your frame. “Jeon, hurry up and pick a spot before I become one with the sand!”

“Quit being such a drama queen.” He rolls his eyes playfully, finally deciding on a spot that wasn’t too far from the water but wasn’t close enough to be swept in by the tide. “This seems like a good spot.”

“It only took months.” He flicks your forehead. “I said quit it, drama queen.”

After sticking the umbrella into the sand and setting up the rest of the necessities for the day, you throw your body onto the mat, groaning loudly in relief that the tasks had been completed. “I enjoy this, other than the sun burning my skin before I even got the chance to put on sunscreen.”

“You’re still in your denim shorts and T-shirt,” Jungkook comments, now shirtless with just his swim trunks on. “That’s why you’re sweating like that. Hurry and get ready, I’ll put sunblock on you.” Abiding by his instruction, you strip yourself from the shirt that clings to your body in sweat and the thick shorts that absorbed most of the sun’s heat. Left in your bikini, you turn yourself around to lay on the mat.

His breath hitches again— it seems to be a common reaction from him lately to anything that has to do with you. He wishes he could press butterfly kisses against your soft and supple skin but he shakes away the urges before squirting some of the sunscreen in his hands and rub your back.

“Hold on.” You say and he pauses, hands stopping in midair. Your arm reaches around to your back, pulling the strands of your black bikini to unravel, exposing more of your back and he clears his throat when he loses control of his breathing patterns. “What are you doing? We’re in public.”

“Tan lines,” you respond casually, resting your cheek on a folded towel. “Go on.”

Jungkook felt like he was having an inner argument with himself. Everything you did was almost in a teasing manner, and especially with the newfound knowledge that you’re in love with him— he can’t help but find you even more attractive than before. Maybe he was delusional, but he was starting to feel like you were doing this on purpose.

“Thanks.” Retying your top, you turn yourself around to lay on your back, lathering the lotion onto the front portions of your body. “You want me to do yours?”

“No.” He quickly replies, face flushed pink. The thought of your hands touching his skin... he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it. Realizing how suspicious he sounded, he corrects himself. “I mean, no... I’m okay.”

Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you tighten your grasp before pulling him onto the mat and forcing him to lay on his stomach, squirting a decent amount of the product onto your hands. He’s groaning at the sudden impact, face pressed against the toughness of the mat, rubbing his face with his hand. “What was that for?”

“You’re just being so weird today.” Applying the sunscreen onto his back, you move in motions as his body tenses under your touch. “Can you just relax? You’re starting to be even more weird. Weirder than usual.”

“Weirder than usual?” He reiterates, words a bit muffled from his cheek being crushed. “I’m not being weird.”

“Yes, you are.” You retort sternly, slapping his lower back to insinuate your completion of the task. “All morning. You said you slept, but I can tell you didn’t because well... look at your eyebags! Jeon, what’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t worry about it! Let’s enjoy the day.” He says, finishing up the rest of his body before giving you a wave and jumping into the water.

Jungkook is and always will be insufferable.

Your favorite part of any beach trip is when the sun begins to set, the breeze from the ocean kicking in, and the fragrance of the salty sea is inhaled into your lungs, bringing you a sense of peace and tranquility. The best view along with this is Jungkook, who sits in the sand, feet and lower half of his body submerged in the water, enjoying the weather. The top of the evening was that both your stomachs are full with pizza for dinner.

Standing up from the little area that the two of you had made for yourselves, you invite yourself into a spot beside your best friend, resting your head on his shoulder. “This is nice. The weather, the water, just us. We haven’t had this in a while.”

Turning his head to glance at you, a soft smile appears on his lips. “We’re always together.”

“Not alone, not like this.” You sigh, fingers drawing shapes along the sand. “We’re usually with someone. Your team, Yura... anyone, really. I miss when it’s just the two of us. It feels like you’re afraid to actually be alone with me or something.”

“We have sleepovers though, what about that?”

“Do we ever really talk during movies? Then we sleep right after.”

Lately, it had occurred to you that despite all this “time” that you had been spending with Jungkook wasn’t really any time. Lunch had been inhabited by engaging with girls who crushed on Jungkook, and the remaining times were dedicated to socializing with Yura and his teammates. Movie nights were great, but silence would burden the room, and afterwards, he’d be too tired from a swim meet that he would fall asleep instantaneously. There was no more ‘you and Jungkook’ time. It felt like only just you.

“I guess... I really never thought of it like that.” He admits, fingers threading through his dampen locks. He senses the tenderness in your voice at the topic, a tightening feeling in his chest knowing that he’s the one making you feel this way. “I never paid attention to any of that. Did you feel that way for a while?”

“It’s alright though, just something I have to get used to.” Tearing your head off his shoulder, you lay your body completely onto the sand. “Sometimes I forget that we’re not together. It’s hard because there’s...” Sucking in a deep breath of courage, you continue. “... there’s a fine line between friendship and relationship. That’s why I didn’t want to... you know, have sex again. It felt as though you only wanted to do this because of sex.”

“What?” He interjects immediately, head snapping in your direction. “That’s crazy. I wanted to do it again because I was afraid I ruined it for you.”

“I thought I told you it was good enough!”

“But ‘good enough’ isn’t good enough for me. I love you, and I want to make you feel good, I want to make you feel what you’re worth, and that it wasn’t just some deployment to get rid of our virginities. I meant what I said, I really wanted to give mine to you.”

“Jungkook, you know I love you too. But don’t you want to do it with someone else?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t think you know what it means when I say that I love you.”

Furrowing your brows questioningly, you prop your head onto your arm. “What are you talking about.”

Sighing frustratedly at himself, he positions his body down completely beside yours, head resting on top of his forearm. “I’m in love with you. I thought that you’d never feel the same way about me. I know you thought I was sleeping last night, but I heard what you said.”

Your body is stunned rigid. Jungkook doesn’t stop. “You were my best friend since grade school, and I enjoyed every minute I got to spend with you. Truthfully, I think the time I started to fall for you was when we hit early high school and I realized that guys were chasing you. I never noticed it before, but seeing it then sparked a fire in me. I hated every one of them, even if they were a friend. Then again, who was I to tell these people that they couldn’t have you? I didn’t even have the guts to tell you how much I love you.”

Mouth agape, you inhale deeply. “I... you heard me last night?”

“Of course. I just... didn’t know how to react because what if I make you uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable? You’ve vomited, farted, and took a shit in the bathroom as I was showering, and now you’re worried if I’m uncomfortable?” Sitting up with sand sticking to your skin, you ignore the discomfort and lock your gaze with his. “Jungkook, I really meant what I said last night. I... didn’t think you’d ever like me back because you seemed like you weren’t interested in any relationship, honestly.”

“And I meant what I said when I told you that you’re the only girl in my life.”

Lips pursed in the reticence, you dig your toes into the ground, hesitant about speaking. “What does this make us now?” 

Hair pushed back from swimming earlier and cheeks flushed pink from either being sunburned or from finally confessing his feelings for you, he watches your actions. “Would you like to be my girlfriend?”

Everything is marginally outlandish on Monday morning after spending almost every waking moment with Jungkook over the weekend since the confession. There had been heated kisses, multiple cuddling sessions, and deep conversations that lasted through the hours of the night until one of you fell into a deep slumber.

But Monday morning? This means that the time together will include other people. Maybe less PDA, sure, but the thought of people finally knowing that the two of you were an item was... exhilarating, and if you were being forthright, you wanted to show off to the entire school population who Jungkook belonged to.

He’s standing outside of your house, waiting patiently with his car grunting after the start, leaning against the hood with a bright grin spread across his face. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You look beautiful today.” You think he looks cute smiling cheekily like this. He actually looks like an idiot in other people’s eyes because of how dorky he is.

“I look like this everyday.”

“I know. That just means you’re beautiful everyday.”

Clicking your tongue at the cheesy comment, you make your way down the steps of your front porch as he opens the passenger door for you. “Well, this is new. You’ve never done this before?”

“I’ve also never had a real serious girlfriend before, and here we are.”

“If I knew what I was signing up for, I don’t think I would’ve agreed to this.” He’s in the driver’s seat at this moment, eyes still darting hearts in your direction as he gives your nose a gentle peck. “I’m just happy you’re mine now.”

“So... I take it as you told him you love him?” Yura’s doing the thing where she’s stuffing food in her mouth as she talks, but this time it’s some type of Japanese bread she raves about. “Yura... you’re getting bread all over my desk.”

She rolls her eyes in response, showing you her hand before swiping the crumbs off the surface. “Done-zo. So what now? You guys are dating? Are you going to be one of those girls who will wear their boyfriend’s varsity jacket all around the school? Possibly flaunting that you were able to claim the untouchable Jeon Jungkook?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“No, you’re not being dramatic enough. What? How long has he been head over heels for you and you had no clue? Not even an ounce?”

“A decade?”

“A fucking decade, my dude. Don’t you just want to show off your new relationship because you’ve waited so long for this moment?”

Pulling off a piece of Yura’s bread, you shove some in her mouth. “Stop talking please, this is so embarrassing.”

“What’s so embarrassing about it?” She accidentally spits a bit of the bread in your face as you scrunch your nose in disgust, wiping off your cheek. “Yura!”

“Sorry. Anyway, what’s so embarrassing about it? You’re acting like he’s some guy who has done bad things and you were desperate enough to settle for a loser. This is your best friend, a potential professional swimmer, who is now your boyfriend. What’s up?”

“I’m kind of scared that all these girls are going to hate me now.” Yura scoffs at your response, shoving the remaining portion of bread in your direction. “You need some sweetness in your morning if you’re going to have such negative thoughts this early in the day.”

“And what about you? Didn’t you also say you had some crush on a guy?”

She waves her hand in dismissal, grabbing another piece of the carb. “He’s my brother’s best friend, not even an arms reach. Let’s switch the topic back to you, though.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore!” You grunted. “Well, too bad because Mr. Stole-Your-Heart is walking here now.”

Shooting your head around, you’re met with a beaming Jungkook with his swimming duffle slung over his shoulder as Hoseok trails behind. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“We keep greeting like this.”

“So we have.”

“Am I missing something here?” Hoseok impedes into the conversation, perplexity written all over his face. “Why are you guys talking like you haven’t been friends for years now?”

“Well,” Yura begins, eying the male. “They haven’t been dating for years so it’s still fresh. Hence the awkwardness.”

“Wait— you’re dating each other?” Appalled, he stumbles onto a desk behind him, hand over his chest. “You actually told her you loved her? This is crazy. Does this mean that you’re also the girl he keeps talking about that he lost his virginity to?”

Blood rushes to your cheeks, glowing coral. “Potentially.”

Adjusting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders, he straightens himself before twirling his body around to exit the classroom. “Sorry bro, I gotta let the team know. I can’t believe you actually went through with it!”

“Hoseok—” Jungkook rubs his face tiredly when his friend leave before giving you an apologetic look. “I’m going to chase after him. I’ll see you after class?”

“I’ll see you after class,” You confirm, and surprisingly enough, he leans in to give you a quick goodbye kiss before waving at Yura.

Yura’s eyes bulged to the point it looked like it would fall out of its sockets. “He— he actually did that? How much did I actually miss? Did you guys do it again?”

“How many questions are you going to ask?”

“All of them. Any single one that pops into my head. How could I not ask you any of these questions? What’s the point of being your friend if I can’t!” Yura jokes and you retaliate by throwing a pen at her.

“Look at who has arrived! The woman who has tamed our special Kook’s heart!” Namjoon exclaims brightly at the sight of you entering the pool’s arena, backpack over your shoulder as you make your way to your designated spot in the bleachers. “Jesus, stop embarrassing her.” Jungkook counters, pushing the guys away from your seat.

“Aw, come on. We never got to interrogate her as your girlfriend!”

“Isn’t interrogating her as my friend enough?”

“No,” Jin chimes in. “We didn’t get to ask her the girlfriend questions yet.”

Jungkook scowls at his teammates who bluster him at five against one. “What are you going to ask? I’ll answer for her.” 

“Is she the one you lost your virginity to?”

“When did this happen?”

“Is Jungkook even good in bed? He just looks good but what about his delivery—“

“Whoa, whoa whoa!” Jungkook interrupts, dropping his bag onto the ground. “My delivery? You’re questioning my performance?”

“Performance?” Standing beside you at the bleachers, the entire swim team turns their heads in unison at the voice, faces gleaming at the owner of the voice.

“Taehyung!”

“What’s wrong with Jungkook’s performance?” He raises a brow quizzically, adjusting his own bag that hands across his chest. “He’s a great swimmer.”

Hoseok has his arm around the other male, leading him toward the locker room. “Our little Kook has a girlfriend now, and we’re trying to interrogate his girlfriend about his performance.”

“Jungkook has a girlfriend?” When Jimin responds with your name, Taehyung’s gaze meets your figure as you’re leaning comfortably in the spaces between the bleachers, legs pressed against your chest with AirPods occupying your ears and a book in your hand. 

He never said, but Taehyung always had a slight crush on you. The rest of the swim team, including you, had all been around the same age, but he’d be ahead of the crowd in regards to education, therefore graduated earlier than the rest. Earning a swimming scholarship to study abroad restricted himself from ever letting you know his true feelings, but coming back around meant he could take the opportunity to at least let you know how he felt.

But he was too late. Or so you’d think.

“I got this for you, from the States, that is.” 

“A mug?” Lifting up the Starbucks cup in your hand that he wrapped in a bow so carefully, you’re afraid that you’d accidentally unravel it. Grinning from cheek to cheek, your eyes meet with his. “New York?”

“I visited New York for a little bit before coming back here. Thought of you when I saw that. Figured you would like it.”

Gingerly placing the gift back into its bag, you pull out another item that Taehyun has packed for you. “What— what’s this?” He has a mischievous smile washing over his face, tugging at the bow tie around the plush in your hands.

“A sloth.”

“A sloth?”

Taehyung nods in return, hands slipping into the front pockets of his jeans. “You remind me of a sloth. Always so tired, moves slow sometimes—”

“Tae, are you insulting me?” Laughing at your reaction, he immediately shakes his head in discrepancy. “No, it’s a good thing really. You’re cute, and sloths are cute. Grounded, even though they’re in the trees, relaxing to be around, and you can’t help but to like them.”

Nodding in response, you hold the stuffed animal in your arms, content with his answer. “I’ll take that. I really like this, Taehyung. You didn’t have to bring this back for me.”

“Of course I had to bring you something back.” He bends forward, playfully pinching your nose. “You were always coming to our games to support us. Anyways, there’s a letter in the envelope when you get the chance to look more thoroughly.”

“Yep. Well, if you’d excuse me, they’re going to nag at me for leaving the locker room so suddenly instead of getting dressed to practice with them. I’ll catch you later?” You bow your head in agreement as you watch him run in the route of the locker room before searching through the bag before your fingers meet with a thick piece of paper.

Your name is written on the front of the pink envelope. Something makes your stomach churn at the appearance of the item. Inhaling deeply, you tear off the flap, a little too aggressively that the note falls out and onto the floor.

“What’s this?” Jungkook asks, picking up the mysterious paper, handing it to you. “Who gave you that?”

“Uh... Taehyung.”