lemon-popp

[lemon-popp]

Cherry Waves

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Minor Spoilers for Thunderbolts! Fluff, Mentions of low self-esteem/ self-deprecation, Smut

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (Y’all…You know the drill…Protect yourselves lol), Some hair pulling (very light hair pulling), Reader is being a little bit dominant (if you squint), Bob is being a softie (and it’s hot as shit), Fingering, Squirting, Teasing, Biting, and Some marks are left.

Author's Note: Had this boy lined up and really wanted to post it. Loved the little hint that Bob was not liking the blonde that Sentry had lol so this is definitely something that would probably have happened if he didn’t return back to normal in the movie 😅Also, y’all are awesome and I appreciate you guys for enjoying my little blurbs!❤️ Thank you.

Word Count: 14,094

You were buried under layers of sweat and crumpled tissues when the knock came against your bedroom door.

Three soft taps.

So quiet, they could’ve been the compound settling. It was hesitant–polite almost. It was the kind of knock someone does when they’re not sure if they’re allowed to be asking for anything at all.

You barely stirred in your bed. The flu had you pinned to the mattress like a paper doll, aching and clammy and convinced the walls were breathing in sync with you. Hallucinations had become your new roommates–so when you heard the knock, you assumed it was just one of them, wandering through your mind again.

But then came a fourth tap. Just one. Sharp enough to make your headache throb like it was answering.

”Y/N…It’s Bob…Can I come in?” You winced at the sound of his voice, even though it was always super gentle and timid.

Bob.

Of course it was Bob.

You’d almost forgotten in the haze of your sickness that you were technically on Bob duty. Because apparently being half-dead with the flu made you the least threatening option to keep an eye on the world’s most powerful man while the rest of the team went on recon. Bucky had said it so casually, like the fate of the planet couldn’t possibly unravel while you were tucked under three blankets with a thermometer hanging out of your mouth.

“All you gotta do is check in on him every hour or so,” He’d told you. “Make sure he eats. Make sure he’s not spiraling, and doing something to keep himself occupied. Y’know. Normal people stuff.”

It had been simple, at first. When the worst symptoms you were experiencing was a runny nose and a dull headache, you’d shuffle past Bob every so often with a thumbs up and a mumbled “You good?” While he nodded earnestly over his book, asking you the same thing back.

But once you started coughing so hard you felt like your ribs were breaking, and the chills that you were experiencing gave way to night sweats and dry heaving, keeping tabs on Bob Reynolds fell hard to the bottom of your to-do list–somewhere below “don’t die” and “get a new tissue”.

“…It’s open,” You rasped, your voice raw and thin from all the coughing you had been doing.

The doorknob turned slowly, like he was still asking permission even after you gave it. Then Bob stepped inside with that careful kind of energy that people only reserved for hospital rooms or museums–like one wrong step might unplug or break something important.

He hovered in between the doorway, not coming too close–being mindful that you had told him a few times to keep his distance because you didn’t want him getting sick, even though it was nearly impossible for him to catch anything. His baggy navy sweater hung off him like a weighted blanket, and the sleeves were stretched over his knuckles, worn from the way he would always pick at the fabric. He looked small in it–even though he was quiet muscular underneath all the layers. His posture was slouched, and his shoulders were drawn up like he was nervous about something. On top of all that though, he was wearing his new wardrobe staple–a dark brown beanie that he shoved his bleach-blonde hair under, he never came out of his room without it.

You stared at his figure through half-lidded eyes, watching as he avoided looking directly at you.

”You okay?” You croaked, reaching up to your face to rub the sleep off your face, attempting to sit up to get a better look at him. He glanced over at you, nodding quickly.

”Yeah. Of course…I mean…I’m good, I just…” He trailed off, the sentence losing momentum halfway through as his gaze drifted around the room.

He wasn’t just avoiding your eyes anymore, it was like his attention had been dragged elsewhere–behind you, beside you, and all around you. His brows twitched slightly as he took in your space for the first time, and slowly you connected the dots that Bob had never actually been inside your room before– the first time was always an experience for people who didn’t know you were a secret collector of everything.

His eyes swept over the cluttered desk in the corner that sported wires, pliers, circuit boards and half built gadgets, before going to the large overstuffed bookshelf beside it, which was packed tight with thrifted novels and comic books that were still in their original plastic sleeves. There was a milk crate of vinyls on the floor near your speaker, with the old record player you insisted on fixing instead of replacing, even though you would complain every few days about it.

There was a flicker in his expression–surprise, maybe. Or something quieter, like he’d just stumbled into a part of you that he didn’t expect to find. You saw it in the way his jaw went still and the way his shoulders shifted slightly, like he was dying to ask you questions about everything you had, but he was holding himself back.

”…Bob,” You said hoarsely, trying to draw his attention back to you. He didn’t blink, his eyes were fixated on something in the far corner where your posters were. You reached your hand up over your head, waving slightly, and snapping your fingers, “Earth to Bob. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He shook himself out of his trance, and glanced over at you.

”Sorry…Sorry,” He said quickly, his voice a little higher than usual, as he cleared his throat, “Didn’t mean to, uh…Y’know, snoop or anything. I’ve just never seen your room before, you’ve got a lot of cool stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at him with a small smile on your face.

”You’re lucky I feel like death. Otherwise I’d be giving you the grand tour right now…I also include a quiz at the end.” Bob let out a nervous laugh and looked down, picking at the loose thread on his sleeve.

“I’d definitely fail…So I’m kind of glad…Well I’m not glad you’re sick, I’m just glad I don’t have to do a quiz.” Your lips twitched, amused despite the ache that was still clawing at your skull.

”Very smooth recovery Bob, very smooth.” Bob made a quiet noise–somewhere between a breathy laugh and a groan–keeping his eyes pinned to the floor as his cheeks turned a soft pink. You pushed yourself up a little more than before, elbows trembling from the effort of holding yourself up.

”So…What’s going on? Why’d you knock on my door at…” You paused, glancing over at your alarm clock, “Seven fifty three in the morning?” Bob sighed.

”Well…I need to go to the drug store,” He admitted, his voice sheepish, “And I know Bucky’s not really a fan of me going out alone so…Thought I’d ask my babysitter.” You squinted at him through your blurred vision, feeling the room tilt slightly, as you brought your hand up to your face, pressing gently at your temples.

”Are you getting sick or something?” He immediately shook his head.

”No, no it’s nothing like that. I haven’t really gotten sick since I took the Sentry serum…” You quirked your brow at him.

”So…What’s the reason for the drug store trip then?” Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him loudly as he did so.

“I um…I need to buy something. For myself.” He responded, dancing around the truth. You stared at him.

”Is it serious?”

”No,” He said quickly, “It’s not like…Health-serious or anything, I’m fine physically, I just…” He paused, clamming up again, not knowing how to explain himself. You narrowed your eyes at him, coughing into your arm, clutching your ribs when a dull ache pulsed through the area.

”You do realize I’m gonna find out anyway if I go with you , right?” Bob sighed and dragged his hand down the side of his face, like he was physically wiping the resistance off of himself, letting his hand drop down to the hem of his sweater.

”Fine…Fine…I need to buy…Hair dye.” He mumbled under his breath. You tilted your head slightly, blinking through the fevered haze that clouded your vision.

”Hair dye?” Bob winced at the way the words left your mouth, even though you didn’t mean for it to sound like you were judging him.

”Mhm…” You stared at him for a second longer than he could handle, as his eyes began to wander again, his hands wringing the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling it.

“You woke me up at seven-fifty-three in the morning…For hair dye?” You asked again, trying to confirm what you were hearing once more, hoping that you weren’t experiencing an odd version of delirium at this point.

”It’s not just–“ He started, then shut his mouth again, biting the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, “I mean…It is…But I just…” The sentence fell apart in his throat, as his cheeks began to heat up. He looked genuinely embarrassed, and you could see himself curling even more into his sweater, “I just don’t like what it looks like anymore.” There was something raw about the way he said it, and you couldn’t help but feel empathy for him, your heart clenching at the way his words cracked in the air.

“The bleach… The whole look,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor, “It was for him. For the Sentry. That’s what they said, anyway– they said that it would help. That it would make people see someone new. Something brighter…Like it would somehow separate us…But I still have to live in this body when he’s not around.” Bob continued, his throat swelling with a lump, “I still have to see myself…And the longer I look like him, the harder it is to remember who I am when I’m just…Bob.” You didn’t say anything at first–not because you didn’t want to, but because there was something about the way he was talking about himself that made your chest cave in a little. The words hung in the air like mist, as he bowed his head even lower, keeping his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at you or anything else in the room.

“It’s not stupid.” You could see his hands stop moving at your words, watching his eyes glance up at you hesitantly. You gave him a tired but sincere look, hoping that it was enough for him to understand that what you were saying was coming from a place of care, “Wanting to see yourself again isn’t stupid Bob…It’s just you trying to cling to the one thing you have control of…I get it.” His mouth parted, like he was going to thank you, but no sound came out. He was relieved that someone was finally understanding what he meant, it was like he had been running around talking to walls when he would speak about how he was feeling, but with you in this moment…It was like he felt seen.

”So I’ll help…But I need to see what we’re working with first.” You added, motioning to his head. Bob looked like a deer in the headlights when you said it, caught off guard by your suggestion, but also scared to even follow through with it.

”W-What?” You sighed.

”That hat Bob…Just take it off…I haven’t seen your hair since we moved you in here and you’ve been hiding it like it’s some sort of radioactive test subject.” He felt his heart gallop in his chest a little bit, as the nerves began to build up in him.

”I-I really don’t think that’s necessary,” He stammered, already figuring out a way to retreat out of the conversation, eyeing the hallway that was in the far corner of his vision.

”Bob, you dragged me out of a flu coma to ask me for help…So let me help you…Let me see it.” The gentleness in your voice was always something that got to him. Even on your toughest days you would use that tone with him, and for some reason it was the only thing that truly had him melting like putty in your hands.

You could see the conflict playing out within him, like he was weighing out the risks, until a look of resolve appeared on his face, a small sigh escaping his lips as he gave in to your request.

Bob’s fingers trembled as he slipped them beneath the edge of his beanie, hesitating for a second before slowly tugging it off his head. The static cling made the knit fabric resist him just a little, like even the hat itself didn’t want to let go of the safety it provided him.

The moment it came off, a curtain of hair fell across his face. You blinked through your fevered haze, eyes widening slightly–not in shock, but in recognition. His hair was longer than you remembered–shaggy, uneven, the ends fried from months of bleach. The top was still harshly pale, the yellow-white of it stark under the low morning light, but underneath, near the roots, his real hair was coming back in–soft, and light brown, just like you recalled from the brief glimpses you got of him before it all got changed. But the line where bleach met natural color was harsh and jarring, cutting across his scalp like a bad decision frozen in time.

He looked like someone in between versions of himself, not quite Bob, not quite Sentry–just…Stuck. You studied him for a moment, your body heavy with exhaustion but your chest buzzing with quiet sympathy. There was something so tender about the way he stood there, hair falling into his eyes, his beanie clutched in his hands like a comfort object. He looked younger somehow. Not in age, but in vulnerability–like this was the version of himself that never got the chance to just be soft and carefree.

“It’s not that bad,” You started, the rasp still thick in your throat, “Really. It just needs some love, patience…Maybe a deep condition…And the right shade of brown.” Bob’s head immediately shot up to look at you, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying.

”S-So you’re actually going to help? Y-You didn’t just try to trick me into showing you my hair right?” You shifted yourself down to the edge of your mattress, groaning at the way your bones protested and pulsed with each movement.

”No I didn’t try to trick you… I’m going to help, but first, I’m gonna need you to come here and make sure I don’t fall, because I think my legs are going to wiggle like they’re made of jelly.” For a split second Bob wasn’t sure if you were serious or not about needing actual help, but he moved anyway, shuffling towards you with his socked feet sliding across the floor. He opened his arms hesitantly, elbows bending like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go, offering himself up into your space.

”Alright…Whenever you’re ready I g-guess.” He said softly, his voice cracking a bit on the ‘guess’ like he was more nervous about touching or dropping you than you were about falling on your own.

Your hands found his forearms instantly, fingers curling into the soft, worn cotton of his sleeves, watching him brace himself. He looped one arm under yours, while steadying the other against your back as you pushed off the mattress, feeling your knees buckling beneath you like a baby deer on ice.

“Woah–woah, okay.” Bob muttered quickly, tightening his arms around you without a second thought. He adjusted himself accordingly, trying his best to be gentle while still being secure enough to hold you upright. You ended up closer than either of you really expected, with his chest pressed against yours, and your cheek inches away from his shoulder.

Despite everything—the fever baking your skin, the chills clinging to your limbs, and the flu that had knocked you down hard enough to rattle the walls—you still smelled…Good.

Bob noticed it the moment you got within his arms reach.

It wasn’t some kind of artificial, pampered scent. It wasn’t perfume or lotion or anything curated. No, it was just you–fresh soap, soft worn cotton, and that barely-there trace of eucalyptus from the body wash and shampoo combo you swore by. He heard you muttering something about it being the only thing strong enough to trick your sinuses into opening, and Bob had thought it was actually going to work because the sniff you gave him from the bottle made him have a sneezing fit, but he heard your frustrated grunt in the shower when it had not been the case.

”You alright Bob?” You asked, feeling the tension in his body against yours. He let out a short breath, which fanned across the crown of your head. He didn’t say anything right away, he just gave you a quick nod.

”Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” You could feel how careful he was being, feeling his arms flexing around you, not too tight, and not too loose. He was warm, and steady, while trying so hard not to be in the way, even though you requested his help. You couldn’t help but think about how strangely nice it was to be close to him, despite the situation.

You stood like that for another moment longer, your body leaning against his, the rhythm of your fevered breathing matching the rise and fall of his chest. Even through the blocked sinuses you had you could smell his laundry detergent on his sweater–fresh from the dryer, another thing you seemed to like about the moment.

Though you snapped yourself out of your self-induced daze once the floor felt less like a rocking ship beneath your feet. You pulled back just enough to glance up at him.

”You can let go now,” You whispered, startling Bob with the cue. Quickly he stepped back, like he just realized he was touching a hot stove or something, trying not to seem like he had been enjoying the odd moment of closeness. Despite the warmth of his body leaving yours, his hands still hovered around you just in case.

”I’m good,” You reassured, wobbling slightly but managing to keep yourself upright, “Just give me a few minutes to brush my teeth and get my bearings so I don’t scare the public by looking like a corpse.” Bob nodded immediately.

”Yeah, of course, I’ll just…I’ll wait in the hallway. There’s no rush or anything, uh…Just take your time. Seriously, I mean it.” He said, backing away while he clutched his beanie in his hand, “Just call me if you need anything.” He added, slipping out of your room and pulling the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, you sat back down on the edge of the bed with a slow, rattling breath. God. Your whole body felt like it had been microwaved–sweaty, sore, and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes for a second, trying to reboot your nervous system. Not just from the fever, but from how close Bob had been. How soft he’d been. How good it had felt to be held with such warmth and gentleness even if it was for a fleeting moment.

You let out a sigh, before getting up again, dragging yourself into the ensuite bathroom you shared with Yelena, flicking on the bright fluorescent light. You let out a hiss, catching your reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, the damage was minimal, sure your hair was an absolute mess from spending the night tossing and turning, but you looked half-awake at least.

Quickly, you got yourself ready, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, fixing up your hair, and changing into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you were done, only fifteen minutes had passed–your new personal best. You cracked the door to your bedroom open, finding Bob sitting on the floor waiting with his back against the wall and knees drawn up. He looked up quickly when he heard the creak, and gave you a soft smile.

“Let’s get outta here.”

——————

Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder in front of the painfully fluorescent wall of boxed hair dye in your local CVS.

It was still early, so thankfully not a lot of people were in the store. You actually thought that it was just you and Bob who were customers and the rest of the people there were employees and managers. On the overhead speakers there was a faint crackle of old 2000s music groaning throughout the store. The air smelled like plastic and dryer sheets, which was an odd mix for a drugstore of all places.

Bob stood stiffly beside you, his hands jammed into the front pocket of his jacket, eyes wide as he took in the absurd variety of brands and colours in front of him. His mouth was parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide on what panic stricken sentence he was going to go with. So you spoke first.

“Well…We know what row we need to look at.” You said, motioning toward the more natural leaning colours–rows of caramel, ash, chestnut, and espresso–pushing the cart gently in that direction as Bob trailed behind you like a nervous shadow. Your eyes scanned over the various boxes and brands, trying to find ones that would do minimum damage to his hair while actually doing the job.

“I didn’t think it was going to be so complicated…” He murmured from behind you, “I just thought there would be straight forward choices…” You looked up from the boxes, seeing the way his jaw was clenched.

”It’s just overwhelming because all the companies who make this stuff create different versions of the same thing. See…” You pointed at one box “This one is ammonia free, and is semi-permanent,” Then pointed to the other one right beside it,”While this one is permanent and has argan oil infused in it so it doesn’t do a lot of damage, but they’re the same colour.” Bob squinted at the wall of labels, then back to the boxes you had motioned to, visibly confused, shaking his head.

“Alright…But what if I just want…Normal dye?” You looked up at him, one brow arching in mild amusement.

”Bob…This is normal dye.” He turned a sharp shade of red, as the heat rose to his cheeks, taking over the paleness.

“W-Well yeah but–but you know what I mean don’t you? It doesn’t have to be so complicated, just have one of every colour.” You let out a small laugh.

”Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, Bob. You want brown? Well, first you gotta pick from thirty-seven kinds of brown. Do you want cocoa chestnut or honey almond toast? Because those are apparently different.” Bob took his hand out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck.

”Okay…I guess you’re right.” He replied nervously.

”We’ll find your colour, I promise.” You said calmly, continuing to look over the boxes in front of you.

“Should I, uh…Take my hat off? Would that help?” You tilted your head at him, and nodded.

”It would definitely make this a much quicker process…But if it really bothers you, I’m pretty sure I could go off of memory.” Bob shrugged a little, his eyes flicking around the store for a moment.

”I don’t mind, it’s basically just us in here anyway.” You nodded, watching him remove the beanie again, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He tried to not make a big deal out of it, but you could tell he felt exposed, so you were going to attempt to make things quick.

”Alright,” You said, stepping a little closer to him, grabbing a few boxes from the shelf, “Bend down a bit, I need to get a good look at the roots so I can compare.” He obeyed, ducking his head so you could see the top of his hair properly. In doing so, he stepped closer than you expected—closer than he expected, probably. Your foreheads were nearly aligned, noses maybe a breath apart. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to get the right angle, and Bob found himself frozen there, inches from you, not sure where to look. So, he looked at you.

You smelled like cherry cough drops–sickly sweet and medicinal—and it hit him instantly, like a quiet little exhale in the space between you. He remembered the moment you popped one into your mouth earlier, halfway to CVS, saying it was the only thing keeping your throat from giving out. And now the scent lingered on your breath, mingling with the warmth of your skin and the faint trace of eucalyptus from before. Bob swore his brain short-circuited for a second.

You were focused, eyes narrowing slightly, as you held one box up beside his roots, then another. Your fingers brushed through the longer strands near his crown, gently separating pieces to get a clearer view of where the bleach ended and his real colour began. You were so precise about it, so tender, and Bob didn’t know where to put his hands or how to keep breathing without accidentally inhaling you.

Then you paused, lips turning up as you caught the way his chest rose a little faster, how his fingers curled and uncurled in his sleeves

A soft rattling sound reached your ears then–the kind of nervous, involuntary vibration that sometimes came from him when he was overwhelmed. You smirked slightly, brushing your thumb against his temple on purpose as you pushed a few more strands aside.

“Is the Sentry getting a bit flustered?” You teased, your voice still raspy from the flu but still playful. “Or is that just you rattling like a soda can?”

Bob made a noise–half sigh, half laugh–ducking his head a little more like it would hide the warmth that continued to spread over his skin, all the way down his neck. “It’s definitely just me. He’s, uh…He’s fine.”

“Good,” You hummed, still close, eyes flicking between the swatch and his roots. “Because I don’t think he’d let me manhandle his hair like this.”

“You’re not…Manhandling anything,” He mumbled, trying to cover up the wavering tone. “Feels…Kinda nice, actually.” You paused at that comment, your eyes glancing down to his, seeing little glints of sparkling orange through the sea blue that his irises normally sported. For a second, neither of you said anything. The store had faded by that point and all that was left was the faint scent of cherry and the feel of your fingers still resting lightly in his hair.

“…This is your shade,” You said finally, voice soft, motioning to the box in your hand. He didn’t move at first, it was as if his brain hadn’t caught up to the moment yet, or his ears were ringing so much he didn’t hear what you had said. Then you shifted your weight, easing back slightly, giving him some space as you cleared your throat, dropping the box into the cart with a clunk. He quickly slipped the beanie back on, shoving his hair up into it, sealing away the moment beneath it.

“Now we need to get you one of those conditioning treatments, and after that I’m grabbing some snacks, cause I’m getting hungry.” He looked away from you, nodding.

”Yeah, okay…Conditioner and snack. Got it.” You glanced up at him, seeing the way he was avoiding you eyes again, before turning back to the cart, pushing it down the aisle with him following close behind. You turned into the next section without fanfare–the shampoo and conditioner area–and skimmed over a wide array of labels until your eyes landed on the exact jar you were looking for: the rich brown packaging, the heavy text that scrawled out all the promises of repairing and restoring.

“This one,” You muttered, reaching up for it and dropping it into the cart with a soft thunk, “Will do miracles for the damage, you’re gonna love it, smells like sweet coconuts.” Bob glanced at the package.

”Does it…Sting?” Your eyebrows drew together.

”Bob…It's conditioner, not acid.” He bit his inner lip.

”No, I-I know, I’m just asking cause when they bleached my hair it really really burned…Then my head was super sensitive for like a whole week after, j-just don’t want to go through that again.” You could hear the way his voice tapered off, like he didn’t really want to talk about it, but he just wanted to let you know.

“I promise this will be way less abrasive.” You said, with a small smile tugging at your lips, nudging the cart forward again, “Now let’s get to that snack aisle before my stomach eats itself.” Bob chuckled softly at your words, following you again as you turned into the next section, noticing the sharp fluorescent lights had dimmed just slightly. The sterile smell of the store had completely faded by that point, being replaced with sweet confectionery items; gummy snacks, granola bars, marshmallows, anything you could think of really. You stopped your cart, feeling Bob’s chest bump into your back, as your eyes began to skim over the shelves, squinting at the shimmering bags, the look of contemplation drawing up into your eyebrows.

“So…What’re you craving?” He asked softly, watching your eyes dart around the wide variety, “Sweet? Salty?” You hummed.

”Might buy the whole aisle to be honest…” He laughed under his breath, the sound quieter than the store’s staticky music, but warmer than anything you’d heard in days.

”Seems like your appetite has come back.” You turned to look at him, letting your body sway slightly toward the cart to brace yourself.

”Yeah, I think the fresh air has put me on the road to recovery…Just don’t touch my lower back…It’s a little sweaty.” There was a beat of silence, before you continued “My stomach might also be trying to fool me into a false sense of security and I’ll end up throwing it all up after I eat it.”

“Well that took a turn…” You shrugged, plucking a bag of sweet chili chips, throwing it mindlessly into the cart.

”I like to keep you on your toes Bob.” You replied with a smirk.

—————-

Back at the compound, you retreated into your room to change, making quick work even though you were feeling a faint headache coming back, but it was more manageable than your prior ones.

You swapped out your clothes for a pair of beat-up black compression shorts and an old t-shirt from your days at training camp–frayed at the collar and speckled with faded bleach stains from when you touched up Yelena’s hair. The crooked letters on the shirt were faded but you could make out the words “I SURVIVED CAMP HAMMOND” on the front of it, a great memory of how long it’s been since you were actually training.

You grabbed your dye bowl and one of the brushes from under your bathroom sink, tucking them against you as you headed down the hall. Your bare feet padded softly against the cool flooring of the compound, reaching the bathroom that Bob shared with Bucky, seeing the door was already cracked open. You gave it a slow push with your knuckles, poking your head in.

Bob stood in the middle of the tiled space like he wasn’t sure where he was going to sit, clutching the CVS bag with both hands, wringing it in his grip, the sound crinkling plastic echoing off the walls. He already had taken off the beanie, fully prepared for what was coming.

“Alright,” You announced as you stepped inside, “Your hair hero has arrived.” Bob looked over at you quickly, his shoulders dropping slightly when he laid eyes on you and your outfit. The tension in him bleeding out of him in small waves.

”You brought your own bowl?” He asked, trying to cover up the fact he was staring at your bare legs for longer than he intended.

“Of course I brought my own bowl,” You replied, holding it up slightly before setting it down on the porcelain counter, “What kind of amateur do you think I am?” You asked jokingly, earning a small smile from Bob, motioning for him to hand you the bag.

You unpacked the contents onto the sinks edge–the dye, the conditioner, the gloves, and a couple of CVS coupons that the cashier had stapled to the receipt.

“Okay,” You said, flipping the box of dye around to double-check the instructions even though you were seasoned enough to know what you were doing without them, “Let’s get you situated hm?” Bob hovered behind you awkwardly, watching your hands move with precise, and practiced ease. You pointed at the closed toilet lid.

”Go sit on the makeshift barber chair, hope you like stiff seats.” You joked, watching him go over to where you pointed, sitting down without protest, seeing the way his long frame compressed itself into the small space. He looked over at you with a soft smile, his hands clasping together, as you slid on a pair of gloves.

“Uh…Just wanted to say thank you for doing this, especially with being sick and everything…I didn’t mean to be a bother.” You cracked open the box of dye, flipping the flaps back and pulling out the developer bottle and aluminum tube of colour, the gloves squeaking slightly as you did so. You opened the cap with a satisfying pop and reached for the dye bowl beside you.

”You’re not a bother Bob.,” You said, glancing over at him as you squeezed the thick brown sludge into the bowl, “I don’t mind.” He blushed a bit at the softness in your voice, letting out a sheepish laugh, nodding before taking his eyes off you, his fingers finding the hem of his sweater.

You turned and flipped the small ceiling fan on, letting it whirl to life with a soft click and hum, it was your little attempt to keep the room from smelling like a chemical spill before you started stirring in the developer with the dye.

It was quiet for a moment–peaceful almost. Just the faint humming of the fan and the soft scrape of the plastic bristles rubbing against the inside of the bowl. Bob’s eyes drifted down toward your shirt absentmindedly, reading the faded words that were scrawled over the fabric that was clinging to your frame.

”What’s…Camp Hammond?” He asked quietly, with genuine curiosity in his voice, as he looked down to his hands. You didn’t look over at him immediately–still focused on making sure the mixture reached that perfect pudding-like texture–but your mouth twitched slightly.

”Did you think I was born with the skills of a mercenary?” You asked, glancing over at him with a teasing glint in your eye, “Hate to burst your bubble, but I wasn’t that cool.” Bob felt his cheeks heat up as it spread to his ears and down his neck.

”So what is it? Like…A boot camp or something?” You shrugged, looking down at the bowl again.

”Kind of. It was a training facility for recruits who showed promise in their assigned roles. I was a teenager when I got scouted, actually. They stuck us in bunk beds and we ran drills at five in the morning. Sometimes we were able to go home to see our families but I spent about three years there just learning the ropes and honing my skills.” He leaned forward a bit.

”Was it…Bad?” You paused the stirring for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek when you heard the way he asked.

”No. Not always. It was intense, but not all of it was horrible. I met my first team there actually, so that should tell you something about the experience.” At the mention of your first team, the conversation had faded, because true to Bob’s nature he was observant enough to catch on that you weren’t going to answer any questions about them. He just nodded, and sat still, with worry tucked beneath his lashes. You cleared your throat, breaking the silence.

”Before I forget–you should probably take that sweater off. This stuff is probably going to stain it and there’s a really low chance you’re going to be able to get it out.” You said, motioning with the brush, “Unless you actually want brown splatters all over it.” You added, seeing him look down at himself.

“Oh…Uh…” He said, curling his fingers into the hem of it, hesitating, “I’m not…Wearing anything under it.” You paused.

”You could go find something you don’t mind ruining, I can wait.” Bob shook his head, not looking at you, avoiding your eyes.

”I don’t really have anything…I wear pretty much all of my clothes, and donate the ones I don’t.” You put your hands on your hips, biting the inner side of your cheek.

”Guess we have a dilemma then.” You said jokingly, looking around the bathroom for a towel–a solution of sorts.

”I mean…I could take it off, I just…Just promise me you won’t laugh.” You stopped your movements immediately, looking back at him, raising your eyebrows.

”Okay. I won’t laugh.” You said, feeling your chest tighten. Bob nodded once, his fingers finally tugging up the hem of the sweater. It caught slightly on the undersides of his arms—he had to peel it upward with a bit of a twist—and then suddenly, it was gone, crumpled in his hands and resting in his lap.

You froze.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught somewhere in your throat, stalling completely as you took him in.

The heat that burned inside your body hit you like a second fever.

He was…Lean. But solid. Not showy or overly built, but undeniably strong. His chest and shoulders were broad in a way that looked natural. There were fine lines of definition that carved down his sternum and stomach, soft traces of light and shadow where his muscles rested. His skin was fair, with scattered freckles that dotted across his collarbones and shoulders like sunspots. A small scar cut just under his left rib–thin and silvery and healed long ago–and there was a faint stretch of color along his ribs, a faded birthmark maybe, or it was the aftermath from the serum he was given. Tying it all together though were the very very small stretch marks that were scattered around the expanse of skin, which made your brows raise a bit in admiration…

And his arms–Jesus Christ, his arms–were gently corded with strength, biceps not flexed but still clearly shaped beneath smooth skin, dusted with barely-there hair in the hollows of his elbows. The veins on his forearms sat just under the surface, pale blue and almost glowing under the harsh light of the bathroom.

He wasn’t perfect. But you didn’t want perfect. This–this was so much better.

The heat rushed up your neck and onto your cheeks so fast it was like your body had short-circuited, and you were suddenly very aware that your own shirt was threadbare and clinging to your frame. You tried to clear your throat quietly, to ground yourself, but the sound came out shakier than you liked. Bob caught it immediately, and his cheeks went a dark hue of pink. Now you were able to see the pale skin of his chest matching the same colour.

You felt nauseous looking at him, but for all the right reasons. How the hell were you supposed to get close to this man now without passing out? And how the hell was he able to hide this so well from you– Or anybody else for that matter?

“Wow…” Was all you could say, and you didn’t even mean for it to come out of your mouth. Bob’s head tilted up at you, noticing the way your eyes were glued to him like he was some sort of museum exhibit. He clutched the sweater in his lap a little tighter, curling in on himself a bit as if he was trying to hide, looking down at himself.

”Yeah I know…” He muttered, tone awkward and clipped, like he was attempting to defuse the silence before it got worse, “I know it’s bad…The serum kinda…I don’t know made me grow a little too quickly, and-.” You raised your hand to stop him.

”Woah woah…Don’t even go there Bob. I wasn’t saying wow in a bad way.” He looked up at you instantly, his eyes glistening in the lighting, the soft blue still shimmering with those little flecks of orange.

”…You weren’t?” He questioned, his lips parting a bit.

”Bob…You’re built like a fucking house.” You said bluntly, the edge in your voice softening from the next wave of nausea that sloshed in your stomach. Bob made a noise like he was suppressing a laugh, his throat closed a bit.

”That’s…A very generous interpretation, but you don’t have to lie to me…” Your expression twisted slightly, not in offense, but in something rawer than that. It was as if his words scratched at a place in you that was already tender.

”Bob, I’ve never lied to you…And I’m certainly not starting now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered like he was processing your words, like no one had ever said something so plainly true to him in a long time. You could see the way he swallowed hard, almost like he was choking back his words, “You look amazing, and I mean it.” That was when you heard it again–the faint rattling sound, you assumed he was shaking something in one of the cabinets, it didn’t really matter at this point though. He drew in a shaky breath to quiet it, his fingers tightening around the bunched-up sweater.

Then you stepped towards him, taking up the space between his knees. You were close enough to feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, to see the smallest cluster of freckles that laid just beneath his collarbone, and to feel his breath against you. Bob tilted his head up, slow and steady, his eyes finding yours immediately, seeing more orange taking over his irises.

“…You’re really not going to laugh at me?” He asked, almost like he truly couldn’t believe it. You sighed, tucking a piece of bleached hair behind his ear.

”Bob, the only thing I’m going to be doing right now is wondering how I’m supposed to function with you sitting in front of me like this…Does that make you feel any better?” Bob let out a soft, startled breath–almost like a laugh or like he didn’t know what to do with the surge of warmth that spread through his chest.

His hands, still knotted around the sweater in his lap, flexed–then unclenched. The tension there began to melt, bit by bit.

“I…” He started, then stopped. His voice caught, his tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was trying to steady himself. His eyes searching your face, shining under the light “I think that makes it so much worse, actually.”

“Worse?” Bob nodded faintly.

“Yeah…Because now I’m trying really hard not to kiss you...” His voice was barely above a whisper when he said it, and all consideration for the flu you had been battling was thrown to the curb.

The rattling came back. Louder this time. Almost a tremor that ran through his chest–not violent, not dangerous, but charged. Like there was a wire humming under his skin that was just barely holding.

And still, somehow, he smiled.

The kind of smile that only showed up when he was trying to hide how badly he wanted something.

You swallowed. Your hand was still in his hair, fingers brushing at the soft edge of his temple. You could feel his warmth, his nerves, the small, careful gravity that existed between his body and yours. You let your gaze drop to his mouth, just for a second, and then back to his eyes.

“Well,” You said, keeping your voice low and playful, in an attempt to mask your heart beating out of your chest “You’re gonna have to wait until after your hair’s done. I’m not making out with someone mid-dye job–this stuff stains.” You added innocently, a smirk drawing up on your lips. You could hear Bob’s breath catching in his throat at the sheer mention of making out.

”Right, right, of course.” He said, trying to cover up the excitement that bloomed in him.

”Now, be a give boy and stay still, so I can work my magic.” You whispered tilting his chin up even more with your gloved hand.

”Y-Yes, ma’am.” He responded breathlessly, without even thinking–so soft, and so automatic that it made your pulse spike. You cleared your throat a bit before dipping the brush into the bowl, letting the creamy dye coat the bristles, then gently you began to cover the stark blonde lengths of his hair in the dark brown colouring. The scent of it—chemical but faintly sweet—mingled with the warm air drifting down from the little ceiling fan, and you tried to keep your breathing steady as you worked. Bob’s hair was softer than you expected, silken even after all the damage. And the way he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access made your chest ache.

He closed his eyes at the first touch, his jaw going slack as you parted the strands with careful fingers, keeping your brush strokes slow and methodical. You could see his throat move as he swallowed, the faintest tremble still present in his frame–but now it was quiet, more soothed than shaken.

You worked in silence for a little while. It wasn’t awkward—just thick with the kind of tension that lingers when two people are trying not to break a moment that’s humming with too much energy. You kept your movements fluid, coating each section with care, your free hand occasionally grazing the side of his neck or the curve of his temple to steady him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath.

“…Can I touch you?”

The question barely made it past his lips. His eyes were still shut, but his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t sure if he should open them yet. You paused, brush hovering midair.

“Touch me?” You asked, like you were confirming what he just said. He nodded, just once.

“Not in a weird way I just–I need to…To do something with my hands.”Your lips parted, the heat returning in full force, knowing that he was probably making an excuse to put his hands on you, to feel you, to take you in, but deep down inside, you didn’t mind one bit.

“Yeah,” You said quietly. “You can touch me.”

The second you said it, you felt his hands move. Slow, careful. The sweater slipped from his lap and landed with a soft thump on the tile floor. Then his palms came to rest on the sides of your thighs, just above the hem of your compression shorts.

They were warm. Gentle. And a bit shaky.

Bob exhaled like the contact untied something in him, his fingers curling lightly around your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold you like that. His thumbs swept slow arcs along the fabric, and then you saw it–his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes still closed like he was savoring every inch of sensation, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his palms.

You could barely focus on the hair in front of you. Your hands just kept moving, but your entire body was tuned to him–how he sighed when your knee brushed his, how he flexed his hands slightly when your knuckles grazed his cheek. How he chased what little touch he was getting from you.

“You okay down there?” You asked, voice low, and tinged with amusement. His eyes finally opened–heavy-lidded, and flushed with emotion, as his fingers stayed firm on your legs.

“Yeah,” He breathed. “Just…I think this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.” You couldn’t help but smile at the softness of his voice.

“Well, I’m glad I could contribute to that…Even though now you’re going to have to wait thirty minutes for this to set in.” He wet his bottom lip with his tongue, nibbling on the inside of it, as you placed the empty bowl and stained brush onto the counter, taking off your gloves and letting them drop in the garbage all while staying in the space between his knees. You set a timer for yourself on the speaker radio that was near the conditioner.

“…What could we possibly do to make the time go by faster?” He asked shyly, almost like he already knew the answer, but he just wanted you to initiate it, because he was too nervous to do it himself.

You weren’t going to give in that easily though.

“Oh I’m sure we could think of something.” Allowing your voice to be a bit more breathier than before. He blinked up at you, hopeful and unsure all at once, but he still didn’t say anything, he Just kept holding you like he was afraid that any sudden shift he did would scare you off.

You didn’t move much at first–just enough to lean a fraction closer. Just enough to let your shirt brush his bare chest as you planted your palms on the edge of the shelf behind him, caging him in without pressure, while also being mindful of his dye coated hair. Bob inhaled, and you felt the tremble of it, the way his breath shuddered as your faces moved closer.

You dipped in–slow, and teasing–until your lips were just above his. A hair’s breadth away from connecting.

But then you stopped.

Bob was dazed. His lips parted, breath warm in anticipation, waiting for you to do it…But you just stayed there, close enough for him to swallow the air you breathed out into him, and to smell the faint hint of cherry that was still clinging to your lips from the cough drop.

“…Y/N.” He whispered, his voice almost breaking off into a whimper. You tilted your head with a knowing smirk.

“What?” You asked quietly.

“Y-You know what…You’re driving me crazy…” He tried to lean up but you moved back just enough for him to lose the air you were giving him.

“That’s the point.” You replied, brushing the tip of his nose with yours. His fingers tightened a little on your thighs, but he didn’t move you closer, even though he could’ve. He stayed obedient. Soft. The way he was in his everyday life and you smiled down at him, leaning in again to brush your lips across his bottom one, feeling him shiver against you.

Bob let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering half-shut from the close proximity of your mouth. His palms on your thighs shifted upward, sliding under your baggy top so they could rest against the waistband of your compression shorts, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips.

“…You don’t know what you’re doing to me…God…You have no idea.” He said, his voice aching and on the verge of spilling over into begging.

”I think I have a pretty good idea,” You murmured back, trailing your lips across his again, feeling the wetness of his saliva this time before going to the shell of his ear “You’re the one shaking, Bob.” You whispered, your breath hitting against his skin.

”I’m t-trying my best to be good for you…But you’re making this so hard.” The heat between you curled together, tightening in your belly. You drew back just enough so you could look him in the eyes again. “…You can do whatever you want to me…” He whispered, “Just please…Please don’t stop touching me.” Your breath caught at his word, not just because of the desperation that laced them, but because of the truth that hung below them.

It was the kind of truth people usually only say in the dark, or when they were half-asleep or drunk, but Bob was fully sober, wide-eyed, and trembling beneath your hands as if he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. It was like you were pulling a loose thread from a shirt and it was completely unraveling the whole thing. You stared at him for a long moment.

”…The timer is going to go off in about twenty minutes,” You said softly, “And I think we’re both a little overheated, aren’t we?” Bob’s eyebrows knitted together, almost like he was preparing himself for you to stop this from going any further.

”W–What do you–“

”I think we should take a shower together when the timer goes off,” You interrupted, tilting your head to the side, “That okay with you?” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a choked little nod, as Bob’s fingers gently pressed into your hips on reflex.

“I’ll rinse out your hair, get the dye out…Then maybe–“ Your voice dropped into a whisper, “–I’ll let you kiss me…Think you can manage to wait?” Bob let out a small broken sound–between a laugh and a groan.

”I-I can try,” He whispered, not even sounding convinced by his own voice.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a kind of suspended quiet. You didn’t step away from him entirely–just retreated enough to clean the brush, rinse out the bowl, organize the conditioner and the towel you’d need for later. But the whole time you felt his eyes on you. And every time you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye, he was still perched on the makeshift barber chair, elbows on his knees, trying not to look like he was counting the seconds.

With five minutes left on the clock, you went over to the shower and reached in, twisting the handle on the built-in panel. The pipes groaned quietly as the water surged out, spraying onto the shower floor. Within seconds steam was curling out from behind the frosted glass enclosure. The room warmed fast, the mirror fogging slightly at the edges, the air heavy with moisture and the faint scent of developer and dye.

The heat from the shower stuck to your skin as you turned your head back to look at him–still seated, trying to play it cool like he wasn’t about to explode from the anticipation. Bob leaned back against the tank, making room for you without hesitation, his knees parting instinctively like muscle memory, like his body already knew what was coming. You crossed the tiled floor with quiet, deliberate steps, the steam from the shower weaving between you both, making the bathroom feel smaller, more intimate–like the air itself was folding in to watch.

You stepped between his knees again, standing tall in front of him, the light of the ceiling fan casting a warm haze on your skin.

Your hands found his shoulders again, fingertips skating lightly along the curve of them.

“Want to undress me?” You asked, your voice like a secret you were offering just to him. No teasing this time–just heat, thick and warm and sweet in your chest. He exhaled like you punched the breath out of him.

”Y-Yeah, o-of course I do.” He said, barely above a whisper. You took his wrists into your hands, and guided him to the hem of your shirt, giving him the signal to do it.

He took his time with it–not from hesitation but from wanting to tease you back just a little. His knuckles brushed against your stomach as he gathered the worn fabric up, pausing briefly just beneath your ribs, looking up at you just to make sure you were still okay with this. You gave him a nod.

He peeled it up off you, slow and careful, taking in the way the shirt slowly revealed everything he wanted to see in short increments. Your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts, your collarbones, your shoulders, all the way up until he was able to take the shirt off entirely. He let it drop to the floor behind you.

Bob’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, letting his eyes roam over you like he was witnessing something holy–like he wouldn’t blink in case you suddenly vanished. His mouth parted for a moment as he audibly gulped. He was silent, his expression flickering between awe and hunger, tangling up in the open and stunned way he drank you in.

He was memorizing every inch of your skin. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft curves and defined edges. Every freckle, birthmark, scar, or stretch of the skin, it was all there in his head, committed like it was a sacred text. You were completely unhidden, and you trustingly offered yourself to him with nothing but openness, and it was breathtaking to him.

“Jesus…” He said quietly, like your body was rewriting something inside him. He reached up and touched the soft skin of your stomach, the tips of his fingers tracing along your navel, before his eyes met yours again, revealing the beautiful haze of blue blurring together with the specks of orange that lived there. You brought your hand up to his face, caressing his cheek carefully, running your thumb just below his eye.

“You’re so beautiful…” You whispered, feeling Bob’s fingers curling beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“And you’re immaculate…” He responded, slowly tugging your shorts down, his eyes never leaving yours as he did it. He just wanted to look at you, to take you in, to hold you close until you didn’t want to be held by him anymore. He wanted you so bad he felt like he was going to explode, and the heat in the washroom wasn’t helping him control that. The shorts dropped around your ankles with a soft flutter, and you stepped out of them slowly, brushing your hand down to his jaw.

“I’ll meet you in the shower,” Your voice was low and soft like a promise. Then you turned, and walked behind the frosted glass, sliding the door shut in one swift movement. Steam swirled around you like a second skin as you stepped fully beneath the stream of water. It hit your scalp first, then your shoulders, pouring down your body in comforting waves. The warmth soaked into your tense muscles and melted along your spine, rinsing away the leftover ache of your fever and the lingering hum of restraint you’d been nursing for the last hour.

From beyond the frosted glass, you saw movement. Bob had gotten up and walked over to the alarm, clicking it off with a single beep–because what was a minute going to do for him. Then you heard the shuffle of bare feet on tile, followed by the soft rustling of clothes dropping. You could see his shadow moving, leaning down then straightening up again, seeing him step out of his sweatpants and his underwear before reaching for the handle.

He slid the door open and stepped into the steam. You could see him squinting at the change in scenery, until his eyes caught yours. Under the dimmed lighting that the shower had you looked ethereal, like a siren calling to him to come closer. You tilted your head at him.

”Remember, we gotta wash your hair out first.” Bob nodded silently, too stunned to speak or protest, and stepped closer to you until he was right against you, letting the water cascade down his body. You reached up without hesitation, brushing your fingers along the slope of his neck as you cupped his jaw gently, feeling the very faint stubble against your fingertips.

”Close your eyes,” You murmured, and he obeyed immediately, trusting you with all of him. You reached for the bottle of shampoo, flipping the cap open with a soft click. The scent was clean, crisp–something like cedar and citrus–and you poured a generous amount into your palm before lathering it between your fingers. He hunched forward slightly to help you because of the height difference, the muscles in his back bunching as he bent, his hands braced loosely on his thighs.

Your fingers found his scalp and began to move, slow and deliberate, massaging through the dye-stiffened strands with practiced ease. His breath hitched at the first touch–soft and barely audible over the rush of water–but he relaxed into you, the tension easing from his shoulders as you worked through his hair, your nails dragging along his scalp gently, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth of the shower that was smothering him.

He tried to peek down at you through his lashes, but flinched the moment some suds landed on his brow. You caught the twitch of frustration in his mouth and grinned faintly to yourself.

”No peeking,” You teased, your voice low and sultry, “You’ll get soap in your eyes, and that’ll just prolong the process.” You added, with a smirk.

”I-I’m not peeking,” He muttered back, clearly lying.

But while he couldn’t see you, you saw everything.

Your eyes dropped as your fingers moved through his hair, and your gaze caught on the rest of him–completely, gloriously bare under the water’s fall. And it hit you like a weight to the chest.

He was hard. Completely, achingly hard.

It curved upward from between his thighs, thick and flushed and dripping from the spray. Your breath caught in your throat involuntarily. He was…Big. The kind of big that made your pulse thrum deep in your core, the kind that made something flutter behind your ribcage. The kind of big that made you a bit nervous. His thighs were braced, strong and trembling slightly as the water poured down over both of you, and yet he stayed still–eyes closed, waiting, unaware of just how deeply you were watching him.

You swallowed, trying not to stare too long–but your fingers slowed in his hair for just a beat before you lathered more shampoo and brought it back to the roots, working it all through. You focused on your task, rinsing gently, letting the water carry away the suds and the last traces of harsh dye. As the dark rivulets streamed down and swirled at your feet, the natural color beneath began to reveal itself.

The soft brown, the colour that belonged to him, and only him. Not the Sentry.

You smoothed your hands through the damp strands with a smile on your face, and you could feel him relax further at the calmness of your touch.

”There you are,” You whispered, more to yourself than to him, “Back to you…” You could see his brows lift slightly at your words, still not opening his eyes.

”…W-What does it look like?” He asked softly.

”Like it’s all you…It’s perfect Bob…” You responded, seeing his eyes slowly flutter open, the soft blue still burning with those beautiful flecks of orange from the Sentry. When they locked on yours, something in him snapped completely, and he blinked a few times, steadying himself against you.

”…Can I kiss you now?” He whispered, breath catching in his throat.

You nodded.

And the second you did, he surged forward, his hands finding your face like he’d been aching to hold you there for days. His palms were warm and a little shaky, fingers threading gently into the damp strands of your hair as he tilted your head just right. He kissed you like it was the only thing that would quiet the trembling in his chest–deep, and full of the kind of hunger that had nowhere else to go.

His lips parted against yours with a soft sigh, molding to your mouth like he already knew every shape of it. You responded in kind, letting your hands press flat to his chest before sliding up, feeling the slick heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. One hand drifted upward to cradle the back of his neck, the other anchoring at his side.

Bob shifted, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping gently as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore–only quiet desperation, the need to be close, the need to feel you pressed against every inch of him. His thumbs rubbed slow, anchoring circles against your ribs as he kissed you over and over, his breath catching between each one like he couldn’t quite get enough.

You felt your knees wobble when he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, and he steadied you instantly, one hand sliding down to the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg to lift so he could hold you open against him.

You gasped softly into his mouth when he did it–because now you could feel all of him. His length, hot and heavy, brushing between your thighs. But he didn’t push it. He just held you there, breathing hard through his nose as his mouth broke from yours for a second, bumping his forehead with yours.

”I-I have to touch you…Can I p-please touch you?” His words vibrated against your chest, shaky from the kiss he had just pulled away from. Immediately you nodded, drunk off of the way he held you, the way he kissed you so desperately. You were his, and you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

He dropped his hand from your thigh, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he guided you back, each step careful, like he was afraid to rush a single second of this. The warm tile met your spine gently, as the steam curled around your shoulders–like it was dying to be part of the moment too. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the anticipation tugging at you like a puppet.

Bob’s hand, still curled gently around your hip, gave it one reassuring squeeze before sliding away. The loss of his hand made you let out a desperate sigh, wanting to feel him again. He looked down at you as he brought his fingers up to his lips, his tongue darting out of his mouth to coat the tips of them slowly, not for show, but for purpose. For you. His gaze never dropped from yours as he did it, and when his hand fell again between the both of you, he didn’t hesitate.

His knee eased your thighs apart gently, and then his fingers found your clit. The first contact made your knees buckle slightly, and he caught it, pressing in with his knee to steady you, his free hand braced against the wall beside your head. His touch was gentle at first–soft circles, slow and attentive. You gasped, head tipping back, exposing your throat without thinking.

That was all the invitation Bob needed.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the base of your neck, just where your collarbone met your shoulder. The kiss was wet and open-mouthed, like he needed to taste you and the saltiness of your skin. He breathed in like he could anchor himself in your scent. Another kiss, and another, working up the side of your neck as his fingers circled your clit with more confidence now, slick from the water and his spit, moving with practiced pressure.

”So…So soft,” He whispered into your skin, voice shaking, “So goddamn soft…” Your breath caught as his pace shifted. You could feel your body responding–arching into him, a wet heat building between your legs. You whimpered, and that sound nearly undid him. His teeth grazed your neck but didn’t bite, his lips returning to kiss it better as if he could soothe the tremble in your body.

Then his fingers dipped lower, and he felt it immediately.

You were soaked–slick, warm, and pulsing beneath his touch. His breath hitched at the sensation, at the way your body welcomed him without hesitation. And when he eased two fingers inside of you ever so slowly you gasped, arching into his hand like your body had been waiting for that very moment.

“F-fuck,” You breathed, the word slipping out as your nails found purchase in his shoulders. You clawed at him instinctively, dragging across the muscle there, needing something to anchor you while he pushed them in deeper. He didn’t flinch at the scratch–he moaned. A soft, broken sound that came from the back of his throat like he liked the way it felt, like it made him feel wanted in the most primal sense.

His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his mouth kissing along your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted the stretch of his fingers inside you. He mouthed at the skin there–kissed it, licked it, sucked until it was sensitive and bruised. He pulled back looking at the little love bites, each one tinged with hunger. Bob wasn’t the possessive type but there was this ache in his chest to mark you as his, and even if the water washed it away, he wanted to be sure he left something on your skin.

“Y-You feel so warm…” He said, his voice fraying at the edges. His fingers curled gently inside you, causing your knees to buckle again. Your body shuddered as the pads of his fingers dragged against that spot inside of you that made your entire frame light up. Bob’s hand moved to your hip, keeping you steady as his other hand worked in smooth, slow thrusts, each one more confident than the last. He found a rhythm, watching you, studying every moan and gasp like it was gospel.

And when you whimpered his name, when your body clenched around him so tight he had to grit his teeth, he gave a quiet, shaky laugh–utterly wrecked by how responsive you were.

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” he asked, lips brushing your ear, breath heavy and hot. “I can feel it…God, I can feel you squeezing me…”

You nodded, unable to form a word, your nails biting into his shoulders again as your hips rocked against his hand.

Bob adjusted his angle, changing the pressure, and that’s when you saw stars.

Your head dropped forward, forehead against his collarbone, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of him—clean, masculine, tinged with desperation. His fingers moved faster, wetter, the slick sounds between your legs obscene and perfect, echoing between the tiles. He was muttering praise now—soft, reverent things that fell from his lips like prayers.

“Just like that, baby—so good for me… You’re doing so good—feels like heaven—fuck, I want to see you fall apart…”

You felt it hit like a wave rolling up your spine.

A tight, burning coil of pleasure twisted inside you and then snapped. You gasped—loud, broken, as the climax ripped through you. You trembled, back arching hard into him as your thighs clenched and a rush of wetness gushed out around his fingers.

Bob stilled for a second in awe.

“…Oh my God,” He breathed, stunned, his eyes wide as he held you through it. You collapsed into him, breath heaving, skin flushed and shining under the steam. He kept his fingers buried inside you, not moving, just holding you close, letting you ride it out as you trembled against his chest.

He looked down between you both, seeing the slick mess on his hand, the way your body had responded so violently to him–and his mouth dropped open slightly. Not because of shock, but because of wonder and awe.

”You…You did so good.” He praised, his voice barely holding together under the weight of what he just experienced with you. His lips brushed your temple first, then your cheek, before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t hungry nor urgent, it was adoration in its purest form. His lips moved like they were tasting something he’d only ever imagined–careful and soft, like he was trying not to overwhelm you. He trembled against you, being crushed from everything unspoken between you. His hand was still between your thighs, cradling you like something precious, and you could feel how hard he was, pressed just barely against you, restrained only by the shivering line of self-control that hadn’t yet broken.

When he finally, carefully, slipped his fingers out of you, you let out the tiniest gasp from the absence–but before he could fully draw away, you grabbed his wrist.

He was still in his movements.

Your eyes met his, holding steady as you lifted his hand–and then you took his soaked fingers into your mouth.

Bob made a sound that almost didn’t make it out of him–a soft, wrecked sigh that died at the back of his throat. His lips parted slightly, eyes darkening as he watched you suck him clean, your mouth warm and wet, tongue dragging along the pads of his fingers slowly, like you were claiming every last drop of yourself from his skin.

He could barely breathe.

You kept eye contact the whole time. It wasn’t a power play–it was intimacy. Connection. And it unraveled him.

Once you were done, you let his fingers slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and he dragged them–slow and reverent–down your chin. Then your throat. The hollow of your chest. His fingertips were wet with saliva, and he trailed it down like he was painting you–smearing it across your sternum, over your ribs, and finally down to your hips.

“Y/N…You’re so…So perfect,” He whispered, in disbelief, shaking his head as his hands ran down your waist, going straight to your thighs, before lifting you effortlessly. You let out a soft breath as your legs bracketed around his hips instinctively, your arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the middle of your chest, and his voice came out barely above the noise of the shower

”Do you want to…Still have sex with me?” You looked down at him, caressing the side of his neck.

”Of course I do,” You responded instantly.

Your lips found his right after–soft and sure. You kissed him with everything you had, as if answering his question with your entire body. His breath caught, his hands clutching at your thighs with a startled need, grounding himself in the reality that you weren’t going to vanish, that you really did want this–want him.

As the kiss deepened, you felt one of his hands slowly slide down your thigh, tickling the skin, but this time there was a purpose in his touch. He shifted beneath you slightly, and then you felt it–the soft brush of his tip against you. Hot. Heavy. And trembling in his grasp.

You broke the kiss for just a breath, resting your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering shut as he lined himself up. His hand shook slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like he was terrified of getting it wrong. But he didn’t rush. And neither did you.

“I want you,” You said, your breath warm against his mouth. “All of you.” Bob let out a wrecked whimper from his mouth, before kissing you once more.

Then slowly he began to push in, moving his hips gently.

Your mouth parted in a silent gasp, your eyes flying open as your body stretched to take him. It was so much–thick and deep and slow. He paused when he was just a couple inches in, his forehead still pressed to yours, panting.

“Is that okay?” He asked, voice cracking. “I—I can stop if it’s too much…”

You shook your head immediately, curling your fingers into his shoulders, drawing him closer.

“No. Please don’t stop.”

Bob exhaled a breath that shook all the way down to his spine, then kissed you again–slow, sweet–before sinking deeper inside.

You both moaned at the same time, and your tongues met in between the space your mouths made.

It was like he was imprinting himself into every inch of you. His hands gripped your hips with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache, guiding your body until he was fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush against yours.

“Oh…God.” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, trembling as he held still. “You’re so…So perfect… I can’t–God–”

You kissed his jaw, whispering against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. “You’re okay, Bob. You’re doing so good…”

He began to move–shallow at first, rocking his hips into you in slow, reverent strokes. Each one pulled a quiet gasp from your lips. The water cascaded around you both, steam curling at your shoulders as you clung to him, your body humming in time with his.

He found a slow and steady rhythm, thrusting as deep as possible with each movement of his hips.

He kissed you everywhere he could reach–your cheek, your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder and his praise was neverending. Whispered fragments between kisses and gasps.

“You’re so beautiful…”

“You feel so good around me…”

“I want to make you feel everything…”

Your hands were tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet every thrust, until your forehead was pressed to his again and your breaths mingled in the tight space between you. Each slow movement of his hips sent sparks crawling up your spine and you rocked against him, chasing every moment, trying to keep it from ending too soon.

Bob looked completely undone in front of you though. His mouth open, cheeks flushed, hands gripping your waist like you were his lifeline.

Then his thrusts started to falter.

You felt it in the way he gasped–sharp and helpless–the way his hold on you tightened and his voice pitched higher.

“I—Y/N, I—oh God, I’m—”

You kissed him, hard, your voice hot against his mouth. “It’s okay. Let go. I’ve got you.”

He came with a broken gasp.

The lights flickered.

Just once–flicker, flicker, black–and then back on again. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, a hum that matched the pulse of his release as his hips jerked forward, holding deep inside you while his whole body tensed. You could feel the warmth filling you in thick ropes, his body instinctively pushing up into you as if he was trying to keep it from spilling out.

And then he went still.

Completely, and utterly still.

He stayed buried in you, face tucked into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged as the water pounded softly over your bodies. You felt the way he trembled, felt the heat of his skin and the wild thud of his heart against yours.

He didn’t move for a long time, he just stayed there, clutching you like you were the one thing that was bringing him down slowly.

And then you felt it–the slow exhale against your neck, the soft tremor that followed. His voice came out low, cracked with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, still breathless. “That was so fast. I didn’t mean to-God, I just couldn’t hold it…”

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, his brows drawn together with worry, his mouth still parted from the weight of what just passed between you. And yet, even flushed and wrecked, he looked beautiful. Lit up from the inside out, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

You shook your head gently and brought your hand up to brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear with the same tenderness he gave you. “You didn’t finish too fast, Bob.”

He blinked, lips parting like he didn’t believe you.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered against his skin, “You were perfect. I loved every second of it…Because it was with you.” His features softened at your word, that shy smile blooming across his lips, one you felt in your ribs. You saw the glow of it before you felt his body move. He kissed you again, this time gentler, slower–like he wanted to say thank you with his whole mouth.

Then, carefully, he pulled out of you. You both shivered a bit at the sensitivity, and you caught the way his brows knit together, like he didn’t want to stop touching you. But your body welcomed the shift, and your legs dropped from his hips as the moment passed, leaving behind only warmth and steam.

He reached for you instinctively, his hands skimming your waist like he was still trying to keep you close, like he couldn’t quite accept that you were separate again. You smiled at him, brushing your fingers along his jaw, watching the way he leaned into the contact, like it was his oxygen.

”You really like touching me, huh?” You teased lightly, watching his cheeks turn a deeper red, the corners of his mouth curling up shyly.

”…Yeah…I really do.” He admitted. You let out a soft laugh, then looked toward the water still streaming from the showerhead behind him.

“As much as I’d love to stay in here and get all wrinkly,” You said, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, “If we don’t rinse off soon, the compound’s water bill is gonna bankrupt Valentina.” Bob let out a breathy laugh, head dropping against your shoulder for a second.

“I guess you’re right, but once we get cleaned up…I want to just lay on the couch with you and hold you for a little while…If that’s okay?” You nodded.

”Of course it’s okay.” You replied, guiding him under the steady stream of water. You each took turns, helping the other wash up. He was gentle when he touched your body as if you hadn’t just taken him completely inside you minutes ago, and he ran his hands over the marks he had made on you, smiling proudly at his work. You matched his care, running soapy fingers down his spine, over his shoulders, through the strands of his newly darkened hair, rinsing the last of the evidence down the drain.

And when the water finally cooled, you stepped out first, digging around the towel closet for a spare. Bob followed right after, grabbing the one that he usually used, with steam rolling off his shoulders, making the air thick and warm as he wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing by the foggy mirror, wiping it off with his hand.

You watched from the side, pulling your towel around you gently, as he lifted his gaze slowly–like he wasn’t sure what would be staring back at him. When he caught his own reflection, something shifted in his expression.

A smile. One of relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

You stepped behind him, and gently kissed his shoulder, looking at the small little scratch marks you had left on him.

He turned toward you slightly, reached out, and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your lips–barely more than a breath, but brimming with emotion.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You smiled into him, nose brushing his. “Don’t thank me yet,” You whispered. “I hope you don’t get the flu from all of this.”

He laughed, his eyes shining as he bumped his forehead against yours.

“If I do,” He said, “It’ll be worth every damn minute.”

And then he kissed you again.

[lemon-popp]

Sick and tired of seeing these sinners fics with a very clear white chick

Like let's US have this damn movie as it is for us in the fucking first place

YALL HAVE TVD, INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE ALL THESE SHOWS AND MOVIES STOP

[lemon-popp]

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[lemon-popp]

well 🧍‍♀️ as a reminder this blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters but it IS a safe place for women, queers, trans ppl, people of color, undocumented people, and any marginalized group.

[lemon-popp]

Spending time with the sith: episode iv

Pairings: Qimir x Black! female oc

warnings: Unprotected sex, Fluff, swearing, pining, slight rejection, Typos (sorryyyy)

words count: 5k

masterlist

Luna’s body is lifted onto the elevated bed with Qimir aiding her every move as if she’s some hurt bird while lifting each of her legs. Although she deeply appreciated his tender help, it wasn’t really necessary, it was just a twisted ankle. She wasn’t ran over by a ship and left completely disabled. But despite these thoughts, she basks in this feeling.

Back home she has always working. Never had a break since the day she was old enough to join the workforce. It was tough at first, but eventually she got used to it…because she had to. It wasn’t enough just living off the salary her mom made at the apothecary, she knew she needed to help. Though much protest from her mother, Luna insisted, Sacrificing her freedom to give her mom even just the slightest break from being the sole provider. Allowing her to reduce her hours so they can spend more time together.

As of recently though, her mom quit. Not by choice of course, but because of her rapidly declining health that caused her to even have difficulty standing at the cash register. The day her mom returned home with the news, Luna knew that she had to step up. She knew that she had new responsibilities on her dainty shoulders, responsibilities to which she took on with no hesitation. She would do anything for her mom, which meant picking up multiple shifts, getting another job and taking care of her mom’s every need. So it’s safe to say this girl was on the clock 24/7. So yeah, she’s definitely appreciating this treatment, ignoring the guilt that sat in her stomach, just for this moment.

“I’m gonna go make dinner,” Qimir’s pleasant voice seeps through her ears like a musical melody. Her big brown eyes meet his, and she almost completely forgets about relaxing. Her workforce robot brain rebooting into action.

“Oh i can help—,” Before the eager girl can finish her suggestion, Qimir’s places his large and on the top of her thigh, as a means to stop her.

“No,” His eyes glare deep into hers, his eyebrows low and face straight as if he was scolding her. Luna’s eagerness dissipates almost immediately and she cowers like a scared puppy, but a heat swells up to her cheeks, ”I got it. You just lay there, looking beautiful and rest. okay?”

The dominance oozes off his tongue as every word that was spoken enunciated meticulously in a stern tone.

He meant it

Qimir wasn’t sure where this came from. Any of this. The hospitality. The tender words. Just being giving in general. He just wanted to give to her. Whatever she wanted. He even wanted to give her everything he never received.

Luna nods in agreement, sinking back down into the cotton sheets that covered his luxurious bed. Qimir turns on his heels and makes his way to the kitchen, his large figure disappearing from her view.

With him gone, Luna takes this time to ‘tame’ her hair, or at least that’s what the people at school and work would say whenever she wore her hair out. She loved her hair, her mom always encouraging her to have her on style and to feel confident. It just so happens that when she felt most confident was when her curls framed her face like an angel in the clouds. The brown lengthy coils that resembled a male lion.

But right now, as her hair was still damp from the bath, took the opportunity to make a slick low bun with her hands. She didn’t necessarily feel like Qimir was unwelcoming to her hair, or her self expression in general. Especially after the way he manipulated it in his large hand, careful not to entangle is fingers inside the thicket. She decided to style her hair simply because she still had no bonnet and didn’t enjoy waking up with knots, tangles and dry hair.

After fifteen minutes, the slick back bun was a slick as it could be and as if on cue, Qimir entered back into the bedroom with one ceramic bo in hand. Steam escaping from the dish.

Excitement rushes through Luna, preparing her taste buds for the delicious soup she had yesterday until the bowl finally arrived in her hands.

vegetables? really?

Qimir catches how her face that was just bright with excitement, dropped when faced with the dinner for tonight. Her thick eyebrows furrow in confusion and plump lips pouting. He shakes his head at her in amusement.

Funny that she wants the soup now.

“What’s the matter?,” Humor coats his sentence in a teasing manner, a smirk crawling across his face, knowing exactly what is the matter.

Luna rolled her eyes at him, taking the metal fork in hand to stab the sautéed carrots, broccoli and cauliflower in spite. Masking the slight disappointment in her face and her annoyance at him noticing this disappointment.

Truth is she felt bad for judging his food so early. Granted it did look like a boil of green thick bile, but nonetheless it was still rude of her to have act that way. Luna sighed lightly, bringing the fork to her lips consuming the vegetables, which were perfectly seasoned.

is this man a chef? holy cow this is delicious.

“mm, never a chef. just had enough patience to learn,” Qimir answered the question that rang in her mind for the third time that day. Not caring about hiding his power anymore. Who he was. He trusted her.

Well, he trusted that she wasn’t working with the jedi. She’s far too emotional to be with them and there’s no way she’d just freely let him roam her mind if she were.

Luna’s eyes flick up to meet his, her almond eyes burning into his with a dissecting squint. Her mind ran a million kilometers per minute, trying to once again understand how. The question repeats around her brain as it attempts to make up reasonable answers, but to no avail. The only way is to ask.

“Are you a jedi?,” Her voice clear, eyes locked as she takes another bite of her food, awaiting for his confession.

Him being a jedi is the only possible explanation. Well…besides the fact that he’s alone, on this planet.

Qimir surprising breaks the interrogating eye contact with the beautiful girl in front of him, his gaze dropping along with his mischievous smile.

He figured this moment would come. I mean, he fully expected it with how he was recklessly answering the burning questions that played in her head. But the feeling that washed over him as the words left her sweet lips, was something he would never expect.

His stomach dropped, heart slowing to a deathly rate and his skin grew cold, but he still broke out in a light sweat on his forehead. The thought of telling this compassionate, caring, and charismatic woman that he was a fallen jedi, who murdered and felt no guilt, crushed him. The thought of her possible reaction crushed him. Her eyes succumbing to fear at the realization that she has been living with an evil sith. He feared this. But why?

she’s not yours Qimir. she was not and never will be yours. if anything this is for the best. Telling her will drive her back home, back to safety, back to her mother and away from you.

A lump forms at the back of his throat, this prominent adams apple bobbling as his tries to swallow it away. It lingers anyway.

With a sigh, he reaches out to grab Luna’s injured ankle to which she slightly winces at, but doesn’t protest as he places it across his thick lap. His eyes focus on the bare skin of her leg, avoiding the intense chocolate orbs that stared at him with concern.

Qimir’s large calloused hands caress her injury, his fingers massaging the tender bone. At first it just felt like a deep contusion, but at the seconds went by the pain that was once there is completely gone.

he just—he just healed me.

Her eyes widen at her realization as she slowly circles her foot, testing whether she’s being delusional or not. The bleeding organ in her chest thumps harder, her brain buzzing with questions all while her fingers grip onto the warm bowl.

Qimir softens the grasp he has on her ankle, letting his hands fall off of her smooth skin. Taking her sudden change in demeanor as a sign to give her space.

The burly man sighs, the most defeated he has looked in their shared time together.

“I am not a Jedi, Luna. Not anymore,” Qimir sighs but spoke directly, firm with his words. His hands that now sat on his lap, fidgeted the the hardened callouses that formed on his palms.

Luna’s brown eyes light up at his confession and small smirk forming across her lips at the thought of being right. Or so she thought.

“I was thrown away by my master. I was unable to tap into the power of the force with their methods. I was unable to cut ties with my emotions. Unable to let go of the life i had before them. My family. They just expected me to just…forget about them. But i did, to the best of my abilities.”

Although Qimir’s strong voice doesn’t falter while telling his story, Luna can sense how heavy it weighs on his heart. The way his dominant eyes that never shy away from intense eye contact couldn’t even meet hers. The way his heavy shoulders slumped in an egregious posture.

Luna takes the bowl in her hands and sets in down next to her to instead reach out for his large ones. Along with his hands, she also take his gaze. His saddened eyes finally met her warms ones that reassured him.

“Q, im so sorry,” Qimir flinches at the nickname. It may have been something so small, but that small thing lit his chest on fire and warmed his cheeks. His natural confidence started to sprout again thanks to her.

“I use the force on my own terms now. By using my emotions. my anger, my sadness, my passion. my desire. I use it. i have used it on you. to heal you. to read your mind. and I have used it on others. on the jedi”

Luna’s compassionate smile drops for a second, letting the last sentence register in her head.

i have used on others. on the jedi.

To luna it seemed very clear what he meant by that statement. Of course he wasn’t reading their minds to flirt with them easier or using it to heal them like he was doing to her. He used it for revenge.

The thought didn’t necessarily scare her, knowing that she personally didn’t need to fear him. But coming to the realization that this man that she has given her trust to has possibly killed, did shock her.

This is the same man who carried her bridal style over a twisted ankle. Who comforted her while ranting about her mother’s sickness. Who fed her meals, bathed her, and pleased her like no other, including herself. So Qimir being a murder definitely failed to run across her mind.

However, this realization didn’t change anything. “thank you for telling me,” she spoke gently, almost in a whisper-like manner.

“Why aren’t you scared?,” Qimir chews on his pink bottom lip, confused on how such a sweet soul like her isn’t running away at his confession.

i read your mind. i lied about my identity. i killed. why is she still sitting here, staring at me with those gorgeous eyes.

“Why would i be scared of you, Qimir. From the sound of it, you were taken away from the purest love anyone could experience and forced to sever those ties. You were never allowed to heal from such a traumatic event. Unable to build a potential relationship to fill that void. You’re not a bad person. You’re just hurting,”

Luna’s rogue thumbs draws a soothing pattern on the back of his veiny hands, making sure that he not only heard her words, but felt them too. Feeling how much she truly sympathized with him.

“i do have one question though," A small smile spreads across her lips. Curiosity and intrigue forming. "Outside of revenge on the entire jedi, what is it you desire most?”

Although the question was meant to be light hearted, the air grows thicker as she awaits for his response. The previous sympathetic gaze they shared was soon washed away, replaced with something else. Qimir’s eyes scan the woman that sat in front of him taking in all of her beauty. The way the curls that were once free and wet, was now pulled back presenting the masterpiece of her face.

“The power of two,” Qimir brings his gaze back to her chocolatey eyes, locking them in an intense stare off that neither of them backed down from. A look that spoke a thousand words yet nothing at all. The hands that once held his were now overpowered as he gave her dainty palms a knowing squeeze.

Now it's time for Luna to take her bottom lip in her mouth, chewing it nervously. The thought of him referring to her in the sense of the 'power of two' sending her mind in an overdrive, but so did the thought of him referring to someone else completely. While rather fearless, Luna was no fighter much less a wielder of the force, it would foolish of her to think he was making such an implication.

“Q—I hav,” Luna starts but is interrupted with Qimir's full plush lips against her's, the had that were once holding onto hers found its way to the sides of her head, keeping her hostage. Confirming that he was indeed referring to her.

The girl only takes a second to recover from the surprise of his lips before joining his feverish kisses, allowing herself to let her hands wander over his cream robe. Qimir's lips sizzled with desire and he sucked on her juicy ones, all restraint he had leaving his massive body.

Qimir was extremely skilled at keeping his cool, that was what most fear about him. The fact that it was nearly impossible to detect what he was truly feeling, unable to predict his actions. However, when it came to Luna. Her loving eyes boring into his soul, reassuring him and showing such loyalty only after these short two days, it made him lose it cool, to put it lightly.

With lips moving in unison and fitting together like cogs in a clock, Qimir crawls towards her, his lengthy body hovering over her tiny frame. Luna peers at him through her thick eyelashes, admiring the way his biceps bulged against the linen long sleeve cloth, allowing her fingertips to follow her gaze up his arm up to drape hers around his neck.

The oversized robe that enveloped Luna parted slightly at the neck, exposing her impressive décolletage. The threatening unveiling drives Qimir to insanity as he attempts to hold himself from ripping the thin linen from her body himself. But Instead he opts for soft kisses that trail down tantalizingly slow, tasting the sweet honey of her skin.

Luna arches off the bed, her back forming a deep curve that’s practically begging for qimir to take advantage of. Her chest fully pushed out as a result causing the robe to open up even more. Qimir groans at her reaction. pleased

all of this over some kisses. she has no idea.

Qimir loops his arms through the gap between the sheets and her back, allowing his arms to wrap around the girl’s waist. His pink lips reach the hilt of her covered breast before using his teeth to tug at the cloth that barely covered her hard nipples.

Luna gasps at the cool feeling of air that caressed her nerve as she stared down at the man who had hunger written all over him. He was a starved lion. and she was a gazelle.

His eyes meet her’s, stalling at her newly exposed skin 1) to check if she was okay with this 2) to see the pure bliss on her face when he latches his lips around her stiff brown nipple. Qimir starts with gentle licks which later progresses into sucking and nibbling while he frees a hand to pinch the other.

Luna’s eyes roll back, her hands dragging its way to his hanging hair, gripping softly. Moans escape her lips, her back arching even more into his mouth which Qimir takes note of.

she wants more

Q detaches from her swollen breast to kiss down even further, using the force to untie the robe and open it up completely. Luna’s full body now on display.

Goosebumps litter her golden brown skin that burned under Qimir’s gaze. Which were filled with nothing but admiration. If she looked closely she could see the hunger subsiding for a second being replaced with awe as he observed her.

There was a goddess lied underneath him. Trusting him to please her. To serve her. And serve he shall.

Qimir swallows the sudden lump of shyness that formed at his throat due to the sight before him. The cocky confidence rushing back.

The burly arms release her from his unwavering hug around her waist allowing him to use his wide hands to wrap around her calfs, lifting them. Her legs now nearly reached her head, her womanhood fully exposed. At mercy to whatever he had in store.

Luna’s chest starts to pound in excitement, a toothy smile spreading across her beautiful face. Qimir looks down between the girl’s legs, catching her wide smile that caused him to grin with confusion. His thick eyebrows knit together at Luna’s untimely humor.

“What’s going on little one?,” He gives her a playful smirk as the hands wrapped around her calfs drag down the length of her legs, running over the developing goosebumps that littered her strong quads before stopping right at her inner thighs.

Luna's breath hitches at the back of her throat from the growing anticipation at feeling his warm hands touch her even warmer delicates, “I just— I’m excited.”

“Excited hm?," His lips latch on to her dangling legs, starting at her previously swollen ankle to which he littered clement kisses against before trailing down, his tongue slipping out to take the same path his hands took. The pink buds tasting the sweetness of her skin, only what Qimir could image to be just a snippet of what she really tasted like. The man stops only a couple inches away from her exposed core, the smell her dripping arousal filling up his senses. If he wasn't enjoying this teasing, she would've already been on her third orgasm. but the way her heart thumped in her chest, her mind already nothing but tv static and how she arched her back after every touch was something worth savoring.

Qimir inhales deeply, filling his lungs with her pheromone that sends him into a high to which he blows out with a dramatic sigh. The air that leaves his lips blowing directly onto Luna's throbbing clit.

Her body contracts, eyes shooting down to his with a pleading gaze. Begging to give her what she wants. Begging for his lips on hers. Qimir catches the sent glare, reveling in the power it gave him but only for second as his desire to please this gorgeous woman overthrew his need for power.

Luna throws her head back with aggression, her back lifting off the bed as if she was being possessed as she felt the way his tongue swirled and lapped at her bud. The hand gripping onto her left thigh moved to her core as he gently inserts two fingers in. The moan that escapes her mouth drives him crazy as he pumps his thick calloused fingers all while still obliterating her lit with his talented tongue.

Luna's hands find their way to his hair, pulling on the long hair that sat at the top of his head, begging for more.

It was nice feeling the way his lips sucked on swollen clit and how his fingers hooked inside of her. Hell, it was one of the best feelings she's ever experienced in her life. But somehow she craved more. She craved closeness. She craved him inside of her. She craved the feeling of them coming together as one.

"Q- Qimir, I nee-- I need you," She pants with closed eyes. the grip on his hair tightening attempting to lift him from his dinner. Qimir raises his head revealing his absolutely drenched chin and a slightly annoyed face. Luna giggles at his bewildered state before dragging him up by his wet chin to meet her eye level, "I need you Qimir."

Her chestnut brown eyes stare pleadingly through his oak ones, hoping that he would just use that awesome force power of his to read her thoughts. To save her from the humiliation that was starting to bubble up inside of her.

Lucky for her, Qimir didn't have to use it anyway, he knew what she wanted from her words alone. The playfully annoyed expression is replaced with a soft look as he takes in the current situation. He stares down at her, a swirl of emotions brewing in his chest. Lust, excitement, warmth, comfort…fear.

Qimir shakes the last thought out of his mind, narrowing his focus back on the beauty who was currently begging underneath him.

The distance is closed with a tender kiss to Luna’s full lips before pulling away just slightly.

“Are you sure?,” He asks just centimeters away, eyes locked in a unwavering gaze, both searching for signs of uncertainty. None arises and Luna nods, committing to her statement as the ache in her core grew exponentially.

Qimir mouths an ‘okay’ before sitting back on his knees to give him space to fully remove his robe. Unveiling his godly body that makes the woman shift up to get a better view.

A part of her felt like she needed to be pinched. That there was no way that she was experiencing the privilege of laying underneath him. His detailed abs and large biceps on display for her. His desire rock hard just for her.

Luna stretches out to run her delicate fingers down the length of his torso, feeling each ripple that decorated his abdomen in disbelief. He was real. Truly real. Too real.

A pleased smirk formed across Qimir’s pink, swollen lips, savoring the feeling of her fingers trailing down his body, nearing the lengthy member that throbbed for her. Qimir throws his robe off to the side and takes back his previous position hovering on top of Luna, as she continues her venture.

Without warning, Luna wraps her hand around his warm cock, taking in the size as her hand could barely fully wrap around him. Her jaw goes slack, mouth gapped open in surprise and Qimir’s smirk only grew wider.

He was going to enjoy tonight.

Qimir removes Luna’s grasp off of his member to instead pin it above her head by intertwining their fingers together. The head of his cock grazing her clit as he did so. She was ready for him.

and so was he.

Qimir takes his free hand, aligning his length with her begging entrance. He pushes in gently with a sharp inhale that is shared with Luna who tightens the grip on his hand. The thickness of his cock and the lack of experience on her end making it rather difficult to go fully in.

The burly man pulls out and pushes back in with the same technique as before, but this time Luna breathes out, fully relaxing into him. He slips in deeper than before, a strangled moan leaving Luna’s lips with an arch in her back.

Although he wasn’t fully in yet, it felt like she was full to the brim with him. The way his veiny length stretched her out further than anything else had ever before sent her to spiral. Her once strong eye contact, faltered with fluttering eyes that threatened to roll to the back of her head.

“You’re doing so good little one,” Qimir’s hips came to a stop, giving Luna some time to adjust to his impressive size. In the meantime, Qimir brings his free hand to her face, gently caressing the apple of her cheek with his thumb longingly. His eyes never leaving her just in case she shows any sign of discomfort before she mentions it.

While admiring her face, he is brought back to moments ago to when she comforted him. Validated his feelings. Understood him.

Heat starts to swell at his chest at the memory. A swarm of butterflies following right behind that choose to settle at his tummy. An emotion he longed to feel as a padawan in the jedi. An emotion he still denied himself of seeking until all of his business was taken care of.

Luna came back to her senses, catching Qimir’s lightly glossy eyes staring down at her so softly. Her breath hitching at the sight of him before giving a quick squeeze of his hands, bringing him back to reality.

“I’m ready,” She whispered between them with a soft smile. Qimir nods, pulling out and pushing back in repeatedly in a languid manner. Making sure he didn’t push too much of himself inside. At least for tonight.

His slow strokes drove Luna insane as they allowed for her to feeling almost every inch of him. Every throbbing vein raking the walls of her vagina.

Qimir dips his head in the space between her shoulder and head, his lips locking in on her neck. Kissing, nibbling and licking on her carotid artery.

He could kill her right now, the idea did cross her mind. He was a hurt, damaged man with nothing to lose, what would be stopping him from killing me? but that thought also drove her insane. That such a powerful, majestic man could end her like that, however chose to heal her. she felt like putty in his hands, at mercy to his touch. It made her wonder if it was because she was just an exception or he’s really just a good person. She hoped both were true.

Qimir’s thrust starts to pick up, his hand leaves her cheeks lowering to the round of her hip, his digits slightly digging into her skin. Luna wince at the increasing speed but soon adjusts with loud moans following suit.

“So perfect. So perfect for me,” Qimir gruff voice groans in her ear through his kisses. The compliment ignites a fire pit inside her stomach, A fire pit that eventually evolves into a lit stick of dynamite. Her walls grip onto him impossibly tighter, pulling a gruttual moan from him.

They were like animals. In their most primitive human state as they filled the air with strangled moans and heavy breathing. Bodies colliding like the moon and the stars. Moving in unison. Hearts beating in unison while their hands grip and claw at each other. Luna’s untangle their way out of Qimir’s possessive hold and make their way to his muscular back, her nails digging into his flesh, holding on for dear life.

Qimir gives one last lick to her neck before lifting his head to level with hers that struggled to stay still. Constantly being thrown back with every powerful thrust. His now lonely hand finds its way to her jaw, holding her still with a tender yet stern grip. He held her captive, forcing her eyes to stay on his.

The desperation on her face sent qimir into orbit. His confidence through the roof at seeing her fluttering eyes, gaped lips and flushed face. He found her absolutely breathtaking.

Qimir’s lips take hers by surprise and they kiss. Slow and sloppy. Lips crashing together, tongues exploring the inside of each others mouths. lips occasionally being bitten, but soothed by a loving kiss.

Luna’s mind was now obsolete. Head empty. no thoughts running. All she could possibly think about was Qimir and his touch. He was all she could consume.

The ignited dynamite reached its end point. At brink of explosion and with every thrust, his torso rubbed the nub of her flower. It was impossible to hold on. No matter how badly she wanted to stay in this moment forever. Her body begged for release, thrashing underneath him chasing her high. Qimir takes notice, breaking the kiss to egg his girl on.

“Come little one. Come for me love,” And with that she did. Her barely open eyes rolled to the back of her skull as her body convulsed violently as a strong orgasm rushed through her. Her nails dragging down the length of his back, deep enough to draw blood, well if Qimir wasn’t…Qimir.

The mix of the stinging of his back and the relentless pressure wrapped around his cock, only sent Qimir to meet his own release. With haste, he pulls out, coating her stomach with his seed. Luna too busy coming down from her own high to even notice.

The man reaches out to grab the nearest thing, which so happens to be his robe, to wipe his cum off of her. While delicately cleaning the girl, who now seemed so relaxed that she sunk deeper into the bed, a vision of his seed dumping inside of her popped into his head. Her smooth stomach eventually rounding as she carried their creation. Their love child.

Never in his life, or as long as he had been sexually active, had the thought of impregnating a partner made him feel such a way. Typically the idea would come from the mouth of the desperate woman he chose from the bar, who extremely overestimated the extent of their relationship. Not him.

Aside from the fact that he never found anyone worthy of carrying his seed, having a family scared him. He knew he wasn’t fit for fatherhood considering the lack of representation and love he has received.

Qimir removes himself from his thoughts, knowing that if he kept going it would end with him spiraling. So instead he keeps his focus on her, thinking how glad he is that she cannot read his mind or else she’d probably be off running too.

The man throws the robe back on the ground and rolls off the girl onto the empty space in the bed beside her, lying in his back. He opens his right arm out, inviting Luna to snuggle up next to him. An invitation she takes with great pleasure as she places her ear to his chest, wrapping her bare leg around his.

The laid there in silence, skin to skin, breaths per second decreasing reaching ultimate relaxation. Both of their eyes growing heavy, and their hearts swelling with pure warmth. Qimir rests his chin on her slicked back hair, inhaling the coconut smell that emitted from her.

Luna felt like she was neck deep in quicksand, officially unable to claw her way out. Every second, starting from the moment she was brought back to this cave unconscious, she was sinking further and further. There was just something about this man. Even though he is practically a stranger, sooo much stuff still left to learn about him, she felt compelled to him. A strong desire to know him, all of him, and to accept whatever baggage came with it.

Her moms voice rang through her head, wise words breaking through her own consciousness. The honey voice filled her mind with a quote that never really made sense, until this moment.

They were watching a movie in the living room, as they did every friday night if they were working a night shift that day. A movie about a princess and a knight having a terrible first impression, resulting in mutual disdain for each other to then being engaged and in love in the span of a day.

Young Luna scrutinized the legitimacy of the plot. Screaming that falling in love in a day was impossible. Someone would have to be crazy to do that.

Until her mom dismantled her entire argument with one sentence. The sentence that played through her head now.

“Love does not deal with time, but with the connection shared between the two,”

Luna closes her eyes, taking in a deep meditating breath to calm the racing of her heart. She can’t push her feelings down, her mom wouldn’t want that. Plus the fact that Luna always leaned towards being outspoken even in situations that didn’t really call for it.

With a huge exhale, Luna breaks the comfortable silence.

“Q…I think i— i think i love you,” Luna declares with a shivering voice, the first time she has outwardly expressed her nervousness around him, as she waited for his response.

Qimir’s breathing stops, every bone in his body turning into titanium too heavy to move. Her genuine words falling to a void of silence as the only thing Qimir could register was the pounding of his heart. Sweat pricks at his forehead, unsure of how to respond. Literally.

His mouth parts, preparing to return the sentiment, to confess all of the emotions that he tried to bury. But the hand of fear restricted him from doing so. Its grip tightening around his neck in a death hold.

“it’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. i just— i just thought you should know,” Luna reassures, a hint of disappointment coating her tongue.

She wasn’t necessarily expecting him to say it back. Of course she hoped for that. Hearing that the feeling was mutual and that he didn’t view her as some delusional little girl would’ve sent her to the moon. However, she didn’t confess for the purpose of it being thrown back at her. She wanted to tell him the truth, she wanted to live her truth because life is far too short to live a lie. To not take chances.

Qimir’s heart clenches at the sound of her tiny voice. Wishing there wasn’t some unhealthy trauma preventing him from chasing what he really desired. Wishing he wasn’t the way he was. A piece of trash. A failed Jedi. A murderer.

With heavy eyes, Luna shoves the sting of rejection towards the back of her head as she flips her body, her back now facing Qimir. Figuring that he would want space after her pathetic confession, ignoring how her body turned cold once she left his chest. How she longed to feel his bare skin against hers. she just wanted to respect him.

Little did she know that this was the opposite of what he wanted to happen. Luckily, his fear didn't restrain his ability move anything else of his body as he flips on his side, his front facing her back. His bulky arms reaching from behind her to pull her body into his, spooning her.

A small smile spreads across Luna's lips as she slowly drifts off to sleep.

episode v

[lemon-popp]

Spending time with the Sith: episode iii

Pairing: Qimir x Black! female oc

Warnings: swearing, NSFW smut (intense making out, fingering in the pool), fluff, mention of cancer and death. PROBABLY GRAMMAR AND TYPING ERRORS (not proof read)

Word count: 4,9k

masterlist

The sun has risen, the fiery ball shining its yellow hue through the length of the cave, giving it a dreamy glowy haze. The light creeps deeper in the cave, making its way to the bedroom in which Luna laid peacefully on her back. The wrapped messy bun that once sat atop of her head was now let loose due to the lack of a bonnet and her insufferable tossing and turning last night. Deep brown curls fell across her face and sprawled out against the pillow she used. As if her faced was framed by a chocolate cumulus cloud. Her body stretch out like a starfish, one leg hanging off the bed and out the duvet, the other bent like a hook. This was the best sleep she has gotten in a long time.

The planet's main light source finally reaches Luna's eyes, begging her to get up and start the day. She answers to nature's alarm clock with fluttering eyes, adjusting to the change of the darkness of behind her lids. A yawn escapes her as she stretches, a loud groan escaping her mouth. She was sure she had sleep marks littering her face as she sat up straight, immediately noticing the lack of presence of a certain someone. The spot next to her was vacant, Qimir no where to be found.

Luna furrows her brows with confusion, wondering if she illusioned him climbing into the bed last night. Conjuring the mahogany scent he carried after his bath in the pool. The warmth she felt radiating from him even though they were easily three feet apart. He was there. There's no doubt. Then why dd he leave?

Was I snoring? kicking him? Or worse...what if I stunk? I mean I haven't taken a decent shower since I was home.

Luna grimaced, lifting her arms up to take a shameful whiff of her pits. The smell wasn't awful, definitely manageable, but compared to his polished state last night it was probably way more noticeable. Luna cringed hard, noting that she must take a dip in that pool of his before being met with him again.

With one final stretch, Luna shimmies off the bed, lighting testing if she could put more pressure on her foot. Nope. The defeated girl sighs. Although she didn't want to admit it, hopping into the bedroom and changing clothes with one foot was a pretty demanding activity that she didn't want to go through for the rest of today. Especially with her helper randomly running off like this.

Luna's eyes scan his cluttered room, filled with various trinkets from different planets that gave the assumption of his being well traveled, searching for something to use to help her walk. After, a couple look throughs, her eyes catch something. A cane.

ha, gotcha

Luna hobbles her way to the wooden cane that leaned against the stone wall across from the bed. Dust littered the handle signifying its obviously very frequent use. The young woman slender fingers wrap around the handicap tool, feeling the smooth naturally carved ridges.

perfect

Luna leans on the cane, using it as a crutch to freely move herself about the stoned home, unbothered to change back into her tactical gear since she was alone apparently. Her short stature limped to the main room clad in her black tank top and matching shorts that rode up high on her plump butt.

Luna walks toward the stove, wondering if there was more of that soup to eat for breakfast. To no luck, the pot was empty causing a disappointed sigh to leave her lips.

i’ll make sure to ask for the recipe before i leave…if he ever returns

Her mind trails off of her growing hunger going back to the man that took her in yesterday. Where had he run off? How come he trusted her to be alone in his home. She could snoop. Steal his valuables.

Was he stupid? or did he just trust me?

“Trust is a strong word, young one,” Qimir’s deep, timber voice echoes off the walls into Luna’s not-so-sharp ears, causing her to jump. Her hand clutches at her chest feeling the race of her heart that thumps from being startled in such a way. Taking her time to catch her breath before processing what Qimir just said.

How did he-What? Did he just answer my question? How? How did he know?

Qimir smiles, with his signature smirk, from the entrance of the cave, his muscular arms crossing, taking in the girl’s confused face as her mind races. The man has been standing there for a while, watching Luna make her way to the stove in her undergarments that made her look ravishing. The black spandex shorts clinging onto the curve of her ass like a second skin. Ass that bounced gently with every crippling step she took. A part of Qimir. A rather large part, wants nothing more than to shove his face in it. But that wasn’t really appropriate at the moment.

So instead, he stood there broodingly, using the Force to read her mind. To gauge her true intentions. There was a an initial doubt in his mind when it came to her, that temporarily washed away with her (possible) ‘mom has cancer’ crying act. But the unsure feeling that was subdued quickly crawled back to the forefront of his mind upon waking up at the crack of dawn.

Qimir rushed out of bed, a strange feeling rumbling in his gut telling him to search the immediate area for possible jedi. He still believed this was a trap.

A girl this perfect. A heart so sweet, but careful fortified with fearlessness. A face and body that could entangle any man, woman or creature in a dangerous web. She’s too good to NOT be a trap.

After hours of trekking he found nothing. They were still the only ones on this planet, but he still had one more trick up his sleeve to find out her true reason for being here.

“I know. I just—that’s just how i felt,” Luna regained her composure with a grip on her cane, bringing Qimir back to the present. Instead of overthinking and coming up with impossible realities, Luna chalks up his strange statement to a recall of her sleepy words last night.

“I trust you” The words from the last night rushing back into her memory that Qimir reads.

If she was working with the Jedi she would know that he was reading her mind. Hell, she would even attempt to fortify her mind. Not give him easy access like an open book on a table.

Maybe she’s really not an enemy.

“Anyway, you bring any food back?,” Luna fills the silence with a large expecting smile. Hoping that he had returned with the ingredients to make that delicious goopy soup.

Qimir rolls his eyes reluctantly letting her brightness infect him. The way her lips curled into the smile, showing the straight teeth she had, it made his heart flutter. He reached into the bag he carried, grabbing a yellow banana to which he tosses across the cave in her direction, watching her stumble to catch.

“hopefully that’ll hold you over until dinner,” Qimir officially makes his way deeper into the main room. Dropping the bag that hung from his bouldery shoulders with a loud thud to the ground, taking a seat on the lonely chair. He gazed up at the woman in front of him who held the fruit in her grasp, clearly disappointed that this was all there was to eat.

“How’s your ankle?,” Qimir points his shoe covered foot towards her, motioning to her injury. Luna shakes her head slightly taking a bite from the banana.

“I don’t know. The pain keeps going in and out. It’s annoying,” The gorgeous woman sighs, clearly defeated. She wanted nothing more than to be better already and get her hell out of here.

Qimir takes in a deep breath hoping to ease the churning feeling in his stomach. Guilt rush over him from knowing that he could heal her with a quick graze of his fingers if he really wanted to. I mean, It’s not like he didn’t want to, the selfless part of him truly did want to. But his self-serving side overshadowed that thought.

If he were to share his power with her, it would require him to reveal who he really was. For her to accept him. To accept the arguably terrible things he’s done. To give him her trust. And for him to accept that trust.

He wasn’t ready to do that.

She’s just gonna have to wait until nature takes its course and heals her.

“You’ll be healed soon. I do have medicine,” The seated man swallowed trying to ease the sickening sensation that brewed in his stomach. Although he felt this way, Qimir did a successful job at acting cool and smug like usual.

Luna rolls her eyes at his nonchalant statement, heat rising from the passion of her chest to almond of her eyes.

“Soon?! I need to be healed now! She’s out there waiting for me,” She wailed with tears starting to stream out of her eyes, down the plump apples of her cheeks. Staining the brown porcelain skin of hers. Voiced quivering as her tone was now raised to a soft yell. Even when upset her voice still sounded sweet like a perfect jar of honey.

Qimir’s heart clenched, but he stayed silent. Unsure of what to do to help her. To soothe her. They meet each other’s eyes, sharing a look of sorrow before Luna’s suddenly becomes overcome with anger that is followed by her ‘storming’ towards the cave’s exit.

“And you’re off to?,” The powerful man’s eyes never left her, following her movements that seemed to be leaving.

Luna stops briefly.

“I’m gonna wash myself. care to join,” Her voice drastically less sweet than before now laced with malice as she spoke sarcastically, mocking his words from last night. It hurt Qimir at first, confusing him.

What did i do? I didn’t twist her ankle. Granted, i could heal her, but she doesn’t know that.

Thinking quickly, Qimir uses the Force to get into her mind once again. The words lingered in her head, feeling bad for the delivery but the statement holding true. She was on her way to take a dip in his ocean pool, hopefully to relieve herself from the intense emotions that filled her. Another statement held true as well. Well it wasn’t a statement but rather an invitation. Despite her awkward response to his inquiry last night, part of her wished she answered with confidence. That reflected what her body ached. So she mocked him. half doing it out of spite, the other genuinely open for him to join.

The ache that tortured Qimir eased upon acquiring this information. If she wanted him to join, he’ll join. It was the least he could do for her if he wasn’t going to heal her.

Qimir peels himself off the chair, sauntering his way to the same direction Luna has gone, immediately seeing her in the middle of the shore, back turned to him as she stared at the glistening blue water.

Luna begins with a drop of the cane, the thudding sound muted by the sand. Her delicate hands then grabs the bottom of her black tank, pulling it over her head. Her curls being ruffled even more with this action. Next were her black shorts which she climbed out of awkwardly, trying to avoiding damaging her foot even more.

The girl now stood bare. Only her backside unknowingly exposed to Qimir who stares unabashedly. Admiring the deep line that started between her defined shoulder blades and stopped right above the dimples of her back. Her ass even more perfect outside the shorts, so round and plump, like a nice pillow.

The extraordinary sight afar has a dramatic affect on our man standing ten feet away. All the blood that was used to function quite literally his whole body, rushed to his appendage that now strained against his briefs. He groans out quietly to himself to not disturb the clueless lady as he rubs the growing ache.

Luna feels the breeeze blowing against her nipples, causing her to shiver slightly before taking her first gentle, limping, steps into the water. The soft liquid wrapping around her like a warm blanket, her body melting into it, almost becoming one with the powerful element. Her eyes close, focusing on keeping her breathing steady to keep her emotions at bay. But not even this relaxing bath could help. Visions of her mom flashed through her mind. Visions of her worrying about Luna’s whereabouts. Worrying if her daughter was dead. The worrying ultimately worsening her condition, expediting the punch in date.

Luna’s chest tightens around her pounding heart, constricting the vital organ. Her throat closing slowly as if hands were clutching tightly to it. making it hard for her to breathe. Her head swaying from dizziness, until a large, calloused hand lands on her shoulder, pulling her back to the real world. Her breath hitches in the tight airway of her esophagus.

Luna’s head glances back at the hand that touched her, surprised that Qimir followed her especially after her tone. His towering presence burned behind her, a realization run through her mind that they were both bare. She wasn’t uncomfortable though by this realization though. Just surprised.

Qimir notes how her body slightly relaxes at his touch, fully expecting her to probably lash out again. He sighs, still seeing how her overthinking tormented her endless mind.

Sure he had no clue how it feels to go through a pain quite like this. To have a mother at all. Let alone a mother you’ve spent your whole life with who you’re about to lose.

Luna drops her head in defeat, letting drops of salty tears drop into the large cast of salty water as she cried silently. Qimir takes the opportunity to help her clean as her. His large hands cup together, gathering a pool of water to which he gently pours down her back, washing any grime that littered her deep skin. The water trickles down the line of her back. A line he desired to lick.

Qimir stood behind her. Decorated with perfectly carved muscles, strength used to kill anyone who cross him. However, the strength that was shown right now was his restraint.

Qimir has seen countless of women in a similar fashion. A fun past he did have indeed, but none of them had an effect quite like this on him. A woman suggesting anything remotely related to sex, he would pounce on her. Taking them quick and roughly, fulfilling his own pleasure. Although this was…different. Yes, he found her alluring, which was an understatement. He craved almost nothing more than to ruin her. key word being almost, what he craved more was taking care of her. protecting her.

His fingers massages her skin with his nimble fingers, starting at the nape of her neck climbing up to the curly thicket of her hair. His left hand takes a handful of her thick hair, making a makeshift ponytail to full expose the length of her neck. The other unused hand graze up her damp arm tantalizingly slow up to her shoulder, feeling her buttery skin on his tips.

The little action setting Luna’s skin on fire.

Qimir bends slightly at his waist, bringing his face next to hers, his pink lips centimeters away from the conch of her ear. Light breaths escapes his lips, breathes that make contact with her exposed neck. Her glossy eyes close to full take in his touch. To focus all of her senses on the gentle touch Qimir gave her.

“you will see your mom again,” Qimir’s deep voice vibrates into the shell of her ear, the affirmation soaring through her mind. A light smile grows across Luna’s face as she appreciates the reassurance, especially after just beating herself up minutes ago.

“you promise?,” She whispers with a rasp that resulted from how much she has been crying. Her eyes remained close fearing that once she’d open them her mind would go back to forging false realities of her mother. So Luna keeps them closed, opting for the relaxing touch of Qimir’s gentle but possessive grip on her.

do i promise??

In the very short time Qimir has known Luna, he has definitely grown to care for her. Even in his paranoia that she was a Jedi spy, he still took her in. Fed her. Offered his bed. Which terrified him. Caring for someone terrified him. Because caring led to betrayal. Caring leads to loss. it could lead to love…which, in his case, was a deep vulnerability. Him promising was a test, a test to see how far he’d go for her, how much he cared for this girl.

Qimir stayed silent to avoid answering, using the tips of his fingers that grazed down the side of her body to distract from the unanswered question. His large vascular hand untangles from her curls and breaks through the surface of the water, following the path of his other hand. His palms descend lower and lower down her body, feeling the deep curve of her waist, before landing on the protrusion of her round hips. The digits on his hand grip tightly, not one tight enough to cause the girl pain, but one that would require a skilled maneuver to escape.

Qimir twists Luna by this advantage point, forcing the beaut to now face him. A gasp emits from her lips, stumbling from the quick and sudden movement which inadvertanty send her falling into his chest. A fall that she breaks with gentle hands placed firmly on his defined chest. Feeling his hammering heart beat.

As her wet miniature hands made contact with his body, it was almost as if an electrical current punctured his heart and traveled down south. Inflating his cock. The hands that once had a gentle grasp on Luna’s hips to become much firmer as he pulled her lower half away from his growing appendage.

Luna's eyes climbs up the man’s upper body slowy, unabashedly taking her time to take in the detail of his olive skin and the scars that littered him. She wondered where they all came from, considering that he lives alone on this planet.

He probably hasn’t ALWAYS lived here, Luna. The man has a past.

The girl shoos off the thought, continuing her visual climb until she finally meets her destination. His eyes. His eyes that were already closed on her. Eyes that peered through his perfectly fallen strands of black hair that tickles her forehead. Eyes that were clouded, laced with a feeling way stronger than lust at the moment. Eyes that make Luna gasp.

Their eye contact doesn’t waver. Even with the fact that the water they stood idle in was crystal clear. Allowing a HD view to the others full front side. What Qimir’s v-line was pointing to underneath those black pants. Or the taut breasts that was covered by a flimsy tank top. Neither of their eyesight faltered. The passion and the intensity from the stare being more than enough for them.

Qimir gives her his infamous smirk, one that intimidates many, but was currently being used to hide the absolute control this woman has over him.

The left hand that was previously placed on her hip, was now under her jawline, his thumb caressing the silky skin of her face. Wiping the remaining streak of tears that stained her golden skin before placing his thumb flat on her pillowy full lips. Fighting to urge to part them, sticking it in, or anything else.

“Of all my years. You are the most beautiful woman i have ever met,” Qimir’s drops his voice down to whisper, as if it was a secret, as they literally weren’t the only two here right now. Similar to the affect of Luna’s touch on Qimir’s chest, The words the leave his mouth enters her hear and immediately reaches her womanhood which was already throbbing from the moment Qimir entered the pool. In an attempt to ease the pulsating, Luna squeeze her thighs together causing a soft moan to escape in turn before she could catch it.

“What do you say…when someone gives you a compliment?,” Qimir’s head dipped lower, finding the crook between Luna’s shoulder and neck and buring himself there. His breath tickling her with every spoken word. Dominance oozed out of him so naturally, dominance that lured Luna in like a worm to a fish. His pink lips first pressed gently on her thumping artery, laying continuous pecks up the length of her neck to her jaw, and across her cheek, just barely missing her lips.

He knows what he’s doing

“Than—Thank you,” Not only can Luna barely breathe, but apparently she could barely speak. Stumbling over her words once again like an idiot.

Qimir’s smiles grows, his control slipping completely out of his grasp due to her innocent stuttering. The wide gaze of her almondy eyes that sent him down a spiral and without hesitation he kisses her.

Their lips crashed into each other that the waves did in the distance to the rock shore. The feeling of Qimir’s lips on Luna made her lightheaded as he kiss with such vigor and experience. His hands gripping the back of her neck, keeping her in place as if she was trying to escape. Kissing him was a feeling like no other, a feeling she didn’t know she was missing out from all this time. The way his free hand caressed her body under the water, completely avoiding the places she deeply craved that he touch out of respect. The way he nibbled at her juicy lips and then licked them to soothe the pain. Luna was already fully at his mercy.

Qimir’s now busy hands, allowed for Luna’s hip to float freely in the water, which of course gravitates towards his body leaving no space inbetween. Their bodies clashed together, similar to their lips. Luna’s breast pressed tightly on Qimir’s brute pecs as she wraps her arms around his neck. Qimir’s cock know fully laid flat against her soft stomach, heat radiating off of him like a furnace.

The horny woman gasps at the feeling of his length on her, daring not to glance down to see just how big he really was. Instead using the sense of touch the feel how his base started at the top of her mound and the tip ended well above her belly button.

of course he’s big. i mean look at him. look at those arms.

His hands travel down the length of her back resting on the rounding of her ass as he grabs a handful with no warning. All while still devouring her stunning face.

Loud moans overtake what once was a quiet, relaxing evening as Luna’s body is sent into overdrive. Her skin burned as if gasoline was poured on her and she was sent to the sun. Her mind was foggy like and early morning in the forest, forced to only think about Qimir. She ached for him. She wanted him.

Luna breaks the kiss to flip around back to the position they started in. Qimir stands there partially upset at her abrupt ending of their make out sesh, but that quickly subsided when her plump ass push perfectly against his dick. A deep groan leaving his pink lips to let her know as such. He has the desire to insert himself from behind, taking her passionately in the water. But before he has the chance to, Luna grabs both of his hands, placing one of her full breast and the other on her throbbing mound.

Qimir’s eyes widened at the girl’s assertion, surprised that she had this confidence in her because the blabbering girl she was earlier didn’t show that one bit. His shock, however, faded away quickly, being replaced by determination. She had officially given him permission to touch her intimates. To fully please her. To claim her.

Qimir’s finger begin to work on the bundle of nerves down south. His middle finger drawing precise, agonizingly slow circles around her clit. Her knees buckle at his action, but it brought back up with a squeeze of her nipple.

“This is what you wanted pretty girl? For me to touch you like this?,” His teasing words makes her grind into his pleasing hand. She was already so close. So close to relieving all the aching she felt. Starting from the ache of her mother’s health, to the literal ache of her ankle, to the ache between her legs caused by a stranger she just met yesterday.

what am i doing? A doubting thought rushes through her head.

“You’re relaxing. Let me help you,” Qimir’s voices breaks through, answering her question once again. Her eyebrows furrow in wonder, mind completely unfocusing from the magical work going on under the water.

okay, once was a coincidence, but twice now? Something is up—

Luna’s thoughts were cut off abruptly by Qimir’s finger entering the hole that was already begging to be filled. He took his time inserting one finger, unsure of how far she was willing to take this and the amount of experience she had. A pleased squeal that escaped her lips give him reassurance as he continues to pump in and out, now using his thumb to rub her clit.

A knot formed in her stomach that was getting ready to snap, her precious moans growing louder and more frequent. Hands reaching to grab Qimir’s bulging biceps for balance.

“Q—Qimir. I can—i can’t. I’m cumming,” Luna buckles as an orgasm rips through her, tears running down her eyes, but this time not in sorrow. Her shaken body grows limp by the second, the grip she had on Qimir still lingered but very weak.

Their chests heave in unison, reeling from the events that had just occurred. Luna, finally able to catch her breath, stands dazed in the water with Qimir still wrapped around her. His single digit still inside of her warm cunt.

He didnt move. Still recovering from the hearing her angelic, heavenly moans. From how she placed his hands on her warm cunt and how she quivered under his touch. From the warm feeling of her wrapped around his finger, how he wanted nothing more than to feel her tightly hugging his cock that still throbbed for her.

The girl leaned her head back, resting gently on his chest with her eyes closed, her long eyelashes touching the top of her apple cheeks. She was in complete bliss and Qimir observes this, taking in the new glow this girl possessed. His heart swells knowing that he completed his task. He made her relax. He eased her mind.

Qimir slowly removes his lonely finger from her womanhood, afraid to disturb her from this pure state and lifts her up bridal style. A shocked sound leaves her as her body was now fully out the water, exposed to the breezy air, but Qimir pays no mind. His eyes stay trained on hers as he walks them towards the shore, neither of them speaking a word, a comfortable silence fillings the air as he wades through the water.

The couple finally reach the shore to which he gracefully places Luna down, avoiding her hurt foot. The sun was near set, golden hour doing its work on the gorgeous man that stood in front of her. The water no longer a barrier, his sculpted body was now in full display, the orange sun defining every shadow of his abs, the veins of his arms and the monsterous size of his dick.

that was what was underneath the water?!

The flutters start to make a return, but are quickly pushed to the side.

don’t get greedy now. this was just a one time thing. he probably only did it out of sympathy anyway.

Qimir reaches behind him, grabbing a cream robe that was laid out neatly on a nearing boulder. He opens the linen fabric towards Luna’s direction, offering to put it on for her. Her eyes meet his. The dark clouds that once lived in his irises vanished, replaced with a genuine softness that makes her feel…safe.

She turns around accepting his offer and he slides the thin material over her arms, bringing it to hang at her shoulders. His fingers tickling her skin the entire time, His breath lingering at her neck.

Luna takes over the finishing touches of tying the robe and in the meantime, Qimir wraps himself in one of his own. They both matched. Except one was perfectly fitted, tailored made and the other one extremely oversized. The sleeves ended way past her hands and then hemmed end nearly went over her knees. She looked like a nun.

Luna turns around to face Qimir with a smile and a funky pose, modeling the unique fitting robe. A laugh brewing in his chest at seeing how his clothes swallowed her whole. A laugh that is stifled, offering a humorous smile instead.

“Okay, let’s get you inside. I can hear your stomach growling,” Qimir shakes his head at the girl as he wraps him muscular arm around her waist to help her back into the cave.

episode iv

[lemon-popp]

I need this man biblically

MANNY JACINTO + shirtless

[lemon-popp]

Spending time with the Sith: episode ii

Pairing: Qimir x Black!female oc

Word count: 3463

Warnings: Fluff, Heavy flirting. little bit of tension. (probably typos) swearing

master list

A couple hours have passed since the masked man had taken Luna to his caved hideout, where he laid her down on his king sized bed. He took note of her small frame, wondering how did she get here, let alone survive.

She wouldn't even be able to bruise a fly

The man sat at the edge of the bed, continuing his analysis on the young one. Noting every detail of her face, from her full two toned lips to the tactical gear that hugged the curved planes of her figure. She looked peaceful as she slept, like a sleeping beauty.

That's enough, I look like a creep right now. He stands up from the bed, heading to the makeshift clothesline that hung from the stone wall. He had been in his clothes all day and deeply craved a nice dip in the ocean pool

Slowly, he starts to remove the black robe, starting at his waist before shimming the cloth from shoulders, leaving his back and chest out for display. The man reaches to remove his helmet until sounds of light movement is heard from behind him.

she's awake

"How was your little nap?", The masked man asked with a smirk, his back still towards her. His fingers move away from his masks reaching instead for his cream colored rob that hung on the clothes line.

Luna, still riddled with the drowsiness of sleep, shifts uncomfortably in the bed, wondering how she got here and who was the shirtless man who stood ahead of her.

She stayed quiet, observing her surroundings, looking for the escape route.

"I'm not gonna hurt you...well, not unless you give me a reason to," The man turned around swifty, toying with the linen cloth of the rob in his hand, nonchalantly.

Luna inhaled sharply, being met the the disturbing mask he wore.

Who is this guy?

"Who are you?" Luna doesn't hesitate, the uncomfort she felt quickly transformed into bold fearlessness. It was obvious he wasn't going to kill her, he would've just left her in the forest if that was the case. But no he brought her back and placed her on the softest bed she has ever laid on.

"I should ask you that. You are on my planet after all," Masked man quipped back. Luna rolled her almond shaped eyes and he couldn't helped but smile at her reaction.

"Your planet? Where's the deed," Luna claps back with a lack of fear that the masked man found impressive.

"I don't need a deed on a planet with nobody living on it,"

"Right, well, I'll leave you to YOUR planet," Luna attempts to climb off the bed, completely forgetting about her fucked up ankle, when her foot makes contact with the cold floor. A sharp pain rushed up her body, rushing up her throat like once before, but she holds in the yelp that threatens to escape, wincing instead.

The man tilts his head, his covered eyebrows furrowing in concern before making his way towards her, kneeling to meet her aching foot. Luna's eyes meet the slits of his mask that allows the man behind it to see. She notices his reaching hand, signaling to her ankle and with hesitation she allows him to hold her.

The man grabs ahold of her ankle, nothing how easily he could wrap his whole hand around it. Luna sighs at the contact partially in pain, but a part in an indescribable feeling. A feeling similar to before, but more tingly. One that starts at her foot and ends at her stomach. He pulls the tight fabric of her cargo pants up to expose the red, swollen flesh. Everything looked in place, nothing broken.

I might as well tell him my name if i'm gonna let him touch me like this

"Luna." He looks up, his golden mask nearly hitting her chin by how close they were.

"You can call me Qimir," Qimir nodded bringing his attention back to her possibly twisted ankle, rubbing it gently with his long fingers," How does it feel now?"

Luna attempts to move it around, it didn't hurt as much as before, but a feeling still lingered

"A little better," The girl nodded, using her new found mobility to move herself out of his grasp. Placing her foot on the ground softly, careful to not put too much pressure on it.

Qimir still kneeled before her, gazing at her through his thick mask. Observing her. She was easily the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes upon. And her demeanor. She didn't hold the same fear that others had when met with him. Then again, he was typically holding a light saber preparing to attack.

"Sooo, what's underneath this mask. Is half your face burned or something?," Luna brought her dainty hands up to knock on the skull of the mask gently in a joking matter. Her lips curling into a smile.

Qimir couldn't help but smile swell, glad that the mask did its job of hiding his face. But maybe he wanted her to see.

"Why don't you find out," the still shirtless man suggested, nodding the mask forward giving her permission to take it off of him. Luna raises an eyebrow, wondering if this was a test and he was actually planning to cut off her fingers at soon as she starts to lift it. However, her curiosity was too strong to deny. She wondered if his face looked as good or better than his exposed chest and back.

Luna reaches forward slowly with both hands, coming in contact with the strikingly cold metal that contrasted the heat of nervousness she felt.

Qimir let out a deep exhale, preparing to be unmasked for the first infant of someone. He doesn't know what gave him the sudden courage to do it now, with her especially. He just met her. But in the short amount of time he had spent with her, he was very intrigued.

The mask finally lifted, revealing his face which makes Luna's eyes widen and her heart race.

Oh, he's definitely not burned. Why would he hide such a gorgeous face?

The guy sported a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, nice pink lips and hair that had a mind of its mind, tendrils falling in front of his perfectly crafted face. Their eyes finally meet.

Qimir scoots closer, placing his hand on the bed, entrapping her between him. Their faces only inches apart. Luna almost stopped breathing. She has no clue what is going on. What she was feeling. Her heart raced and she felt the tingles once again. His eyes glance down at her luscious lips just for a split second, dragging them up impossibly slow to her eyes again.

"Like what you see?," Qimir teases, a mischievous smirk making it way on his lips. His eyes still holding the world's most intense eye contact.

cocky much, Luna thinks as she rolled her eyes, pushing herself back further onto the bed, creating a respectable amount of distance between them. She shakes her head, attempting to find a way to escape his question.

"I'm hungry," Luna says abruptly, adverting her gaze away from him with a defiant cross of her arms, like a toddler.

Qimir's smirk grows wider, enjoying the effect he had on her, regardless of how hard she tried to push him away.

The man stands up from his kneeling position, his pelvis now pretty much aligned to Luna's eyesight. Which is met with deliciously chiseled abs that led to an even more defined v-line. Her eyes dragged lower, wondering what the v-line could be pointing to.

Luna is brought out of her thoughts when a large hand appears infront of her offering her help, but obstructing the view she once had. She takes his right hand in hers, feeling his course calloused fingers gripping hers, right before he wraps his other around her tiny waist. Qimir presses the girl to him, insuring that her foot doesn't make contact with the ground, Luna drapes her clothed arm around his neck for extra support. That extra support However, led her to feeling the ripples of his upper back, a part of her craving to feel him skin to skin.

Qimir swiftly brings her to the main room, where he places her on the lonely cushioned chair that sat in front of an old steel stove to which the man makes his way towards.

On the stove, was a pot of soupy food, one of Qimir's favorite. He fixed Luna a bowl, bringing this dish to her. As it arrived, Luna saw a green unappetizing sludge. It looked like bile. Her face curls up in disgust and before she could say no, Qimir places the bowl in her lap.

"Just try it first before throwing a fit," He shakes his head at her, heading back to the stove to make himself a rather large serving. Luna plays with the gooey substance, icking herself out.

I cannot look at this any longer

Her eyes rip away, moving onto something actually quite pleasing to the eye. Qimir's wide back, detailed the meticulously crafted muscles. Almost as if he was designed by god himself. Her eyes traveled lower being met with a gnarly scar that adorned him. It looked intense and very painful.

"How'd you get the scar?" Luna ask with no hesitation, making Qimir chuckle lightly, not necessarily out of humor, but rather because of how blunt this young girl was. She had no clue who he was, or the things he have done, yet she held no fear. Not scared to ask him questions.

"What does it look like?," He says coldly, but genuinely asking for her interpretation, turning around slowly with a spoon in his mouth. He leans against the stove, awaiting her answer.

He wasn't insecure about his scar, no quite the opposite. He wore it with pride as he believe that its showed his strength and resilience. However, Qimir wasn't fond of how it reminded him of the ones who betrayed him, broken his trust and disowned him. The people he once called family. Ever since that moment, he has always craved an unbreakable bond. Someone who he could trust, who wouldn't betray him. Someone he could train. An acolyte.

Luna hums, actually taking her time to respond, "Looks like you got stabbed in the back." She says in the gentlest voice, not a trace of malice to be found. Qimir nods softly, affirming her guess.

The air becomes quiet, Luna sensing that this might not be a topic to press.

"How'd you get the fucked up ankle?," Qimir throw the question back at her, unintentionally lightening the mood. Luna smiles, almost forgetting about her stupid avoidable injury.

"I was climbing a tree, then I fell," The girl kept it short, being as vague as he was. Qimir shook his head knowing that there's wayyy more to the story.

climbing a tree huh. As if she can't do that on any other planet. There's something she's not telling.

"What are you, a child? Tell me the real reason," The shirtless man interrogates, his face hardening becoming suspicious of her sudden appearance. For as long as he has been here, no one has visited this lonely planet. What if she actually is with the Jedi.

Luna rolled her eyes at his quip, not appreciating the sudden turning on her. She didn't press on about his suspicious back scar, so why is he pressing about her climbing a tree.

Her eye meet Qimir's dark ones, who stared at her, waiting very patiently for her answer.

Oh, He is not budging. Luna sighs

"That is the truth. I was climbing a tree to get fruit," Luna brings her gaze to her swollen ankle, remembering the whole objective of this mission. She should be heading home right now, a bog full of the fruit, spending their last moments together as mother and daughter. But here she sat in a cave that apparently belong to this strange man of which she shared flirtatious gazes. With a stupid twisted ankle.

Tears threaten to pour from Luna's eyes, but she hold them back due to the company that stood ahead of her. Qimir notices the sudden change in her demeanor, feeling awful as he assumes that he's the one who caused this. The man rushes in her directions, sitting on his knees like previously, placing both of their bowls on the table beside them. Qimir uses his now free hand to place on her knee, rubbing soft soothing circles with his thumb.

Luna sniffles while the warmth of his hand consumes her, in the best possible way. Able to find the strength to continue.

"It's for my mom...S-She has cancer," Luna forces a painful smile, looking to be optimistic. Qimir's heart tugs. He rarely felt sympathy for people. Hell he rather enjoyed seeing others suffer in agony, especially from his hands. But Luna. It felt like a knife to the chest just hearing how her voice trembled.

Luna's full lips trembled, the dam holding her tear failing, streams fall from her dark almond eyes. Qimir freezes in space unsure of what to do. He rarely had contact with other, especially not in such an intimate setting. He panics.

Qimir reaches for her face, his course hand cradling her beautiful face. He holds her like a baby bird, afraid he might crush her with his lack of experience of holding something with such care. Her skin felt like cashmere on his fingers. A part of him wanted to hold her like this forever. Tears continued to fall from her caring eyes and Qimir uses his calloused thumb wipe it. Her eyes finally met his in which led to an intense eye contact. An intense understanding. An intense comfortable stare that causes both of their hearts to race in an unformed pace.

Eventually the sniffling and tears stop as Luna focuses on dealing with the concerning beating of her heart and heat that courses through her body. She brings a hand up, gripping onto Qimir's forearm for stability as if she's not already sitting down.

Qimir feels the trembling of her hand on his arm and pulls away suddenly, breaking the intimate gaze and he is reminded that she still hasn't eaten. Luna lets out a deep breath that she didn't know she was holding, letting her hand fall from his bare arm.

"You need to eat," Qimir brings the bowl back to her. Luna's face scrunches up in the cutest face he has ever seen as she is once again presented with that grossness. Qimir scoops a small bite with the wooden spoon, looking as if he was preparing to feed her himself. Luna raises an eyebrow at him.

There is no way he gonna feed me like a baby after I just got done crying.

"Luna, This is all I have currently and you need to eat so you can heal. So you can get back to your mom," Qimir pleads. Luna stares that the spoon, his words working on her. Starving would not help her. She nods, giving in.

He brings the bowl underneath her chin, the spoon following suit as if in slow motion. Luna's eyes stare up at him with a hint of fear like a little doe. For some reason, that arouses Qimir. The fact that she's afraid of this food and not him.

As the spoon itches towards Luna's thick lips which she begins to part slightly, Qimir finds himself leaning in closer swell. As if she is a siren luring him to his death. The spoon enters her gorgeous mouth, her lips wrapping around the spoon and Qimir can't help but imagine other things going in as well. Luna close her eyes, surprising pleased with what she tastes, a soft moan escaping from her.

Qimir smiles, shaking himself from his trance. He has no clue what has gotten into him. The most dangerous woman was one who didn't know the effects they had on a man. Especially a man like him.

Luna snatche the wooden bowl from the man becoming a Tasmanian devil as she scoops the soup into her mouth.

I knew she'd like It but Jeez, when was the last time this girl ate?

Qimir rose from hit squatted position in front of her, giving her space to enjoy the fish. He saunters off to the cave opening which lead to the ocean pool. It was now dark, the still water reflecting the full moon that shined bright above. The breeze blowing gently causing the temperature to drop drastically from earlier.

Qimir sighed in disappointment, coming to terms with the fact that he missed the opportunity to indulge in a warm, relaxing bath and now has to settle for a cold, chilling one.

“Where are you off to?,” Luna chirps up from inside the bowl that she now licked clean. Qimir leans against the rock of the cave, smiling at her ravenous hunger.

“I was gonna bathe in the pool. Care to join?,” The tall, easily six foot, man flirts not so subtlety. A cheeky grin growing on his face.

Luna freezes mid lick. Eyes shot wide. Unsure if she heard him correctly. She slowly lowers the bowl and gulps.

bathe? with you? don’t mind if i do Qimir.

“I—Uh. I don’t. I—Qim,” Despite the confidence of her words in her head. Nothing coherent comes out. It’s almost like a cork was stuck in her throat.

Luna has experienced flirting before, of course. She’s a beaut. However, she never entertained the ideas that men threw at her. If anything she always found it gross and disorderly. Even with school crushes, though she ‘liked’ them, their advances would make her uncomfortable.

Which is why this experience with Qimir is so…outerworldly. He made her feel things she’s never felt before. He made her STUTTER, when she typically held a true confidence when she spoke.

“Joking. Probably wouldn’t be a good idea to swim with a hurt ankle anyway huh,” Qimir winks. Seeing her react in that way to such vanilla request was wildly entertaining. so innocent

“hehe, right,” Luna forces a soft laugh to try and ease the embarrassment she felt. She felt so dumb for thinking he was actually offering. And she felt so stupid for being unable to form a sentence.

She places the empty bowl on the table beside her, just before a yawn escapes her.

“Well, I think im going to go to sleep,” Qimir pushes off the wall, rushing his way to her to help carry her into the room. That is, Until Luna stops him with a hand, “Don’t worry, i got it. Go enjoy your bath.”

Luna successfully stands up from the lonely cushioned chair, careful to keep pressure off of her foot. She smiles triumphantly at Qimir, showing him that she’s all good, before hopping on her one good foot to the bedroom.

Silence fills the air. A silence that Qimir has come accustomed to after being here alone for so long. But now the silence felt empty.

get it together. she’s just here until she’s healed. don’t get used to it buddy.

Qimir nods at his inner voice, facing back to the pool, preparing himself for his cold bath.

……..

Qimir returns from the pool with his night robe on as he tip toes into the bedroom careful not to wake Luna. Immediately, he notices the girl in his bed, the red duvet covered her bottom just stopping right below her breast. Bringing attention to the fact that she no longer wore her tactical gear, that now decorated the floor. She now only wore her undergarments of a black sphegetti strapped tank top that hugged the roundness of her breasts. The cold draft that enter through the cave entrance clearing hitting her as he nipples stood taut.

Q shakes his head, removing his eyes from the goddess in his bed.

stop being creepy.

The man returns to reality, taking the extra blanket and pillow from the bed to place camp on the floor.

“Qimir? We can share the bed,” Luna’s sleep ridden voice breaks the silence. She was watching him.

He stops making his own doggy bed on the side, staring up straight to look into her eyes, “Are you sure?”

The girl nods, "I trust you," her curly hair that now sat in a messy top bun, followed her nods.

Qimir took in a sharp breath. He hasn’t shared a bed with a woman in years. Too busy with his own endeavors to entertain such activities. So this was…something for him as he climbs into the bed next to her.

They lie face to face, Luna’s eyes fluttering in and out of consciousness. Qimir loses almost two hours of sleep just admiring every detail on her face. Admiring the frizziness of her hair. The curl of her lashes. The soft noises she makes in her rapid eye movement sleep. How she sleeps in fetal position all night. He had to restrain himself from wrapping his arms around her. Cuddling her through the night.

She’s such an angel.

episode iii

[lemon-popp]

spending time with the sith: episode i

Pairing: Qimir x Black! female OC

word count: 1,223

warnings: nothing really. just plot establishing

master list

"Hey. Hey, wake up," Master Sol attempts to wake a young woman, her body rocking back and forth with every soft nudge he gave on her shoulder. Sol has been at it for minutes now, his gentle nudges getting more urgent in worry.

Everyone on his team, Jecki, Yord, Osha and even Mae, sat around the bench in which the mystery girl laid upon. They found the girl on the unknown planet after being tipped off about an unidentified person targeting the four jedi, where she laid in the middle of the forest. Knocked out, but with no visible injuries.

The young lady sported an oversized cream colored wrap top, that contrasted her mocha brown skin. Her hair was slicked back in a neat curly puff, accentuating the beautiful features that adorned her.

She looks rather clean for someone passed out in the forest, Sol thought

Suddenly, as if on cue, the girl's eyes shoot open, followed by a sharp gasp that makes everyone surrounding the bench flinch back cautiously. Mystery lady pants in an inhuman way, her chest heaving as if she has ran a marathon. her eyes scanning the foreign area.

However, sol being masterful, rushes to comfort and question her.

"You're okay," Sol soothes,"You're okay. What is your name young one?"

Her breathing begins to settle into an appropriate rhythm to sustain consciousness. Now she is able to take in all the new faces that surrounded her.

She was face to face with a Jedi.

"I—Luna. My name is Luna," The girl, whose name now revealed to be Luna, exhales out, feeling a sense of calmness that's was still riddled with confusion.

"Luna. How are you feeling?" Sol inquires gently, bringing his soft hand to her forehead, knuckles first.

"Sol, we do not have time for this. We must find the sith," Yord interjects with a firm hand on the jedi's shoulder and a stern expression on his face. Anyone on the outside would believe that Yord is Sol's master and not the other way around.

"Yord please. If anything, she would know where to find him" Jecki now interjects the interjector, gesturing their hand to the quiet girl that sat still on the bench," Do you live here?"

Luna's eyes land on Jecki, whose eyes hold a pleading look. Luna figures whatever mission this group is on right now. It is serious.

"No. I-I don't. I just came here to get something for my mother,"

"Do you recall why you were knocked out in the middle of knowhere?," Mae suddenly speaks up. Her voice dry and cold.

Luna sits quietly. Trying to actively remember what led her to that moment. Rather who did that to her. Then it dawned on her.

"I just remember meeting a man. The only person i've ever met here,"

The team all shared knowing gazes with each other. That Luna couldn't help but feel left out of.

"Tell us more about this man" Sol focuses Luna's gaze back on him with a gentle touch on her knee. An urgent but concerned look glazing his soft eyes.

Luna nods, recalling everything she remembers. Starting from the very moment she had bumped into him on this lonely planet. Everything.

three days earlier

Luna landed on planet mystery, which is the name Luna and her mother had given this uninhibited place after visiting accidentally long ago. Though many would find that trait to be jarring, the two actually found it charming. The quiet sound of the forest, mixed with the crashing of the shore was a peaceful contrast to the bussing city-life of their home planet. They instantly fell in love with this place.

Way before they were introduced to the fruit.

Luna and her mother ran into this special fruit in a desperate endeavor. A rule in traveling that her mother always shared was,"Never eat their food"

But that day was an exception due to the lack of food on their rinky dink ship. Which is what led to the introduction to...THE FRUIT.

The fruit was a bulbous, pinkish white berry that hung from the large vined trees. It's was a pretty

treacherous task to retrieve it, but my god was it worth it.

The fruit was the sweetest and juiciest fruit of them all. Almost tasting like the most sugary candy of all. Ever since then, this fruit has been a treasure for Luna and her family.

Today, Luna was here alone to retrieve the fruit. She planned to bring it back home to her mother who laid in bed. Sick. Her mother was diagnosed with cancer just three months ago, progressing nothing but swift. Luna wasn't sure how long she had left with her mom, but she knew it wasn't long. A part of her felt fear for leaving home to do this trip, but the other side wanted them to experience the fruits of life together one last time before she's gone. Before luna is all alone.

Luna wipes a tear that stains her face and carries on the path to the fruit tree. Her big combat boots stomp on the dirt path ahead, occasionally hearing the crunch of leaves and sticks. It was strange being here alone, but she wasn't afraid. She's never afraid. The word fear barely existed to her. Unless it involved her mom's condition.

After two hours of trekking, Luna finally is met with the special tree. Throwing her backpack down, Luna starts her climb with no hesitation. It felt like a piece of cake after doing it over a dozen times. Her gloved hands grab the nearest branch, using her pure strength to pull herself up successfully. Luna now sat on the branch and used her arms to hug the stump for balance to slowly stand up to continue climbing. As luna starts to stand, her foot slips just slightly. but a slight slip send the girl falling from her position, right back onto the ground, landing awkwardly on her left ankle.

A stinging burning sensation starts at her foot, slowly making its way up to her chest, escaping its way out of her mouth is a deep cry. Luna wailed, reaching for her tender ankle, as if anyone is here. She is alone. on an uninhabited planet.

why? why me? i'm gonna die here

Tears streamed down her beautiful face, tasting the bitter salt. After what feels like hours of crying, that was probably only just a couple minutes, Luna passes out in this forest. injured and alone.

alone.

A man emerges from the forest. Pushing elephant plants out of his way. The man wore a golden-brown helmet with an eerie smile plastered on the face.

The man immediately noticed Luna. Her petite figure laying flat on the dirt. He presumes that she either dead or almost dead as he bends down slowly, hands near his lightsaber just in case this is a trap from the jedi. As of now, no one knew of him, but you could never be too cautious.

As he gets closer, The man notices the short and soft rise of her round chest.

She's alive.

Hesitantly, he picks Luna up bridal style with so much ease, searching for any hint of betrayal. He senses nothing and makes his way back to wherever he came from.

episode ii

[lemon-popp]

Spending time with the sith

Pairing: Qimir x Black!female OC

Warning: Fluff, angst, terrible star wars knowledge and lowk terrible writing. (i wrote this quick), and eventual smut. NSFW 18+

Summary: Luna is set on a mission to retrieve a special fruit that happens to grow on the same planet in which the mysterious sith resides. What happens when Luna injures herself on her endeavors, forced to heal herself in “Qimir’s” secret hideout.

master list:

episode i

episode ii

episode iii

episode iv

[lemon-popp]

your hands have made some good mistakes

“I kneel into a dream where I am good and loved. I am loved. My hands have made some good mistakes. They can always make better ones.” - Natalie Wee

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky has to spend six months locked up with a stranger.

His teammates went on an international press tour and left him behind. They hired someone to supervise him, per the conditions of his pardon— a roommate, they said.

A roommate?

In which: Bucky’s heart slowly thaws, he develops a soft spot for his idiot roommate, he discovers his vibranium arm is extra-sensitive, he rediscovers that whole ‘sexual attraction’ thing, he has Not Great mental health including nightmares and therapy, he has a complicated relationship with his ex, he reminisces about the 40s, he’s an absolute fluffy sweetheart, he really enjoys blow jobs, he deals with the backlash from his criminal trial, he addresses internalized guilt and shame, he gets laid for the first time in decades, he gets irrationally jealous, he realizes WHY he was irrationally jealous, he digs up old feelings, he rescues Steve on a mission gone wrong, he takes pain meds and traumatizes everyone in the room, he's a smug little shit, he considers getting rid of his metal arm, he's loved implicitly, he speaks to a journalist about his past, he celebrates birthdays, he’s stupid in love, he gets drunk on Asgardian whiskey, aaaaaand more.

Warnings (added as they occur): 18+ minors DNI, angst, Bucky’s mental health is Not Great, cursing, lots of awkwardness and banter, pining x100, SMUT, masturbation (m), alcohol consumption/drunkenness, needy!bucky (he gets a warning), not-so-dry humping, a Steve Rogers plot twist, hand jobs, slightly subby Bucky, vaginal fingering, oral (m and f receiving), outercourse, human disaster Bucky Barnes, angst (it bears repeating), legal proceedings, panic attacks, PIV sex, creampie, cum kink, possessive behavior, jealousy, semi-public sex, past/period-typical homophobia, ~complicated~ relationships, slight emotional infidelity, sexual fantasies about current partners & others, hurt/comfort, blood, hospital setting, medicinal drug use, premature ejaculation, metal arm kink, sex pollen trope/dubcon, voyeurism/exhibitionism, choking but in a soft loving way, cuckolding, mmf threesome, pre-poly, Bucky and Steve are a package deal

Word Count: 157.9k+ (phew!!!)

a/n: This is the xreader rewrite of my hands have made some good mistakes (yes, I think I’m clever). Told (mostly) from Bucky’s POV. Not really an AU, just not Endgame/TFATWS compliant (everyone is alive).

My Masterlist

Find me on ao3: dewystars

❤️‍🔥 = contains smut

✨ = personal fav

Send me asks, thots, requests, or drabbles about this series and I’ll love you forever 🥰

Summer

Part 1 - The Babysitter

Part 2 - Embroidery

Part 3 - Sergeant

Part 4 - Like the Tide

❤️‍🔥 Part 5 - Static on the Lines

Part 6 - The Nightmare

Part 7 - Celebration

❤️‍🔥 Part 8 - What If

✨❤️‍🔥 Part 9 - Back in Brooklyn

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 9.1 - Lovers' Lane

❤️‍🔥 Part 10 - Supernova

❤️‍🔥 Part 11 - Barnes Beach

✨❤️‍🔥 Part 12 - Spiraling

❤️‍🔥 Part 13 - Minefield

Fall

❤️‍🔥 Part 14 - Jealousy

❤️‍🔥 Part 15 - Jealousy, Reprised

❤️‍🔥 Part 16 - Samson

Part 17 - Just a Taste

Part 18 - Native Tongue

❤️‍🔥 Part 19 - Lucky

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 19.1 - Against the Sheets

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 19.2 - Stamina

❤️‍🔥 Part 20 - Shimmer Posted 3/04/22

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 20.1 - Blue Movie Posted 4/12/22

❤️‍🔥 Part 21 - Aphrodisiac Posted 3/22/22

❤️‍🔥 Part 22 - What Now? Posted 4/4/22

Winter

❤️‍🔥 Part 23 - Solstice Posted 4/25/22

❤️‍🔥 Part 24 - Remix Posted 5/9/22

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 24.1 - Holiest Posted 5/18/22

Part 25

Bonus Content

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable: a yhhmsgm collection - a series of standalone smutty incidents that fit into the yhhmsgm timeline. Will be posted horribly out of order. No thoughts, just thots.

❤️‍🔥 Bucky’s nsfw alphabet

Bucky character meta

Annotated playlist

Reader-curated playlist (submit a song!)

✨ Hot Mess - Bucky’s dance moves

❤️‍🔥 You Can Take It

Moodboard masterlist

[lemon-popp]

Almost Had Me Believing It Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: Fluff, angst, mutual pining, smut NSFW 18+ ONLY.

Summary: An undercover operation playing Bucky Barnes’ wife is a dream come true. Playing house in the suburbs while trying to take down a drug ring brings you and Bucky closer but a nosy neighbor causes trouble in paradise.

Updates and taglist: Updates for series will be made on Thursdays and Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction for update notifications. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

A/N: Divider by @whimsicalrogers

Almost Had Me Believing It Complete Series Masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12 01/17/2021

Part 13 01/21/2021

Part 14 01/24/2021

Part 15 01/27/2021

Part 16 01/31/2021

Part 17 02/04/2021

Part 18 02/07/2021

Part 19 02/14/2021

Part 20 02/17/2021

How it almost ended: the abandoned original part 2 ending

[lemon-popp]

your hands have made some good mistakes

“I kneel into a dream where I am good and loved. I am loved. My hands have made some good mistakes. They can always make better ones.” - Natalie Wee

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky has to spend six months locked up with a stranger.

His teammates went on an international press tour and left him behind. They hired someone to supervise him, per the conditions of his pardon— a roommate, they said.

A roommate?

In which: Bucky’s heart slowly thaws, he develops a soft spot for his idiot roommate, he discovers his vibranium arm is extra-sensitive, he rediscovers that whole ‘sexual attraction’ thing, he has Not Great mental health including nightmares and therapy, he has a complicated relationship with his ex, he remembers the 40s, he’s an absolute fluffy sweetheart, he really enjoys blow jobs (lol), he deals with the backlash from his criminal trial, he addresses internalized guilt and shame, he gets laid for the first time in decades, he gets irrationally jealous, he realizes WHY he was irrationally jealous, he digs up old feelings, he rescues Steve, he takes pain meds and traumatizes everyone in the room, he's a smug little shit, he considers getting rid of his meal arm, he's loved implicitly, he's stupid in love, aaaaaand more.

Warnings (added as they occur): 18+ minors DNI, angst, Bucky’s mental health is Not Great, cursing, lots of awkwardness and banter, pining x100, SMUT, masturbation (m), alcohol consumption/drunkenness, needy!bucky (he gets a warning), not-so-dry humping, a Steve Rogers plot twist, hand jobs, slightly subby Bucky, vaginal fingering, oral (m and f receiving), outercourse, human disaster Bucky Barnes, angst (it bears repeating), legal proceedings, panic attacks, PIV sex, creampie, cum kink, possessive behavior, jealousy, semi-public sex, slight voyeurism, past/period-typical homophobia, ~complicated~ relationships, slight emotional infidelity, sexual fantasies about current partners & others (imaginary cuckolding?), hurt/comfort, blood, hospital setting, medicinal drug use, premature ejaculation (positive situation)

Word Count: 127k+ (phew!!!)

a/n: This is the xreader rewrite of my hands have made some good mistakes (yes, I think I’m clever). Told (mostly) from Bucky’s POV. Not really an AU, just not Endgame/TFATWS compliant (everyone is alive).

My Masterlist

Find me on ao3: dewystars

❤️‍🔥 = contains smut

✨ = personal fav

Send me asks, thots, requests, or drabbles about this series and I’ll love you forever 🥰

Summer

Part 1 - The Babysitter

Part 2 - Embroidery

Part 3 - Sergeant

Part 4 - Like the Tide

❤️‍🔥 Part 5 - Static on the Lines

Part 6 - The Nightmare

Part 7 - Celebration

❤️‍🔥 Part 8 - What If

✨❤️‍🔥 Part 9 - Back in Brooklyn

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 9.1 - Lovers' Lane Posted 3/10/22

❤️‍🔥 Part 10 - Supernova

❤️‍🔥 Part 11 - Barnes Beach

✨❤️‍🔥 Part 12 - Spiraling

❤️‍🔥 Part 13 - Minefield

Fall

❤️‍🔥 Part 14 - Jealousy

❤️‍🔥 Part 15 - Jealousy, Reprised

❤️‍🔥 Part 16 - Samson

Part 17 - Just a Taste

Part 18 - Native Tongue

❤️‍🔥 Part 19 - Lucky Posted 2/18/22

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 19.1 - Against the Sheets Posted 2/22/22

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable 19.2 - Stamina Posted 2/26/22

❤️‍🔥 Part 20 - Shimmer Posted 3/04/22

❤️‍🔥 Part 21 - Aphrodisiac Posted 3/22/22

❤️‍🔥 Part 22 - What Now?

Winter

❤️‍🔥 Part 23

❤️‍🔥 Part 24

Part 25

Bonus Content

❤️‍🔥 Insatiable: a yhhmsgm collection - a series of standalone smutty incidents that fit into the yhhmsgm timeline. Will be posted horribly out of order. No thoughts, just thots.

❤️‍🔥 Bucky’s nsfw alphabet

Bucky character meta

Annotated playlist

✨ Hot Mess - Bucky’s dance moves

[lemon-popp]

To a Groovy Night Out

 Request: Can you do an imagine where it’s in the 60s and Bucky and Steve are invited to an underground nightclub by Sam and Bucky meets the reader and she teaches Bucky how to dance. Kinda like in Dirty Dancing but the gender roles are reversed. The song Stay by Maurice & The Zodiacs played on my playlist and I thought about how funny it would be to see Bucky’s expression with the reader grinding on him

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Black!Reader (60s AU)

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Nothing much really, the dancing described is a bit suggestive.

A/N: AHHHHHH!!! First thing written in months and I did it all within today. I feel like it's a good starting point for getting back into the swing of things especially taking the time to research and making the story as accurate as possible. I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH FOr giving me the encouragement to get through the semester and being so patient. Thank you for not giving up on me because it really helped knowing that when I started writing again the people I'm writing for would be right there with me. So, THANK YOU AGAIN! THANK YOU FOR GETTING THUS BLOG TO 1000 FOLLOWERS! I LOVE EACH AND EVERYONE IF YOU! I hope you all enjoy, and to the anon who requested this, thank you for being so patient with me. Love you all!😍💛❤️💛❤️💛

UNIVERSAL TAGS LIST: @beautifulwisdom2001 @iamzion-therealhabesha @thottio @jetaimeamore @mixedfandxms @here-for-your-bullshit

Masterlist

_______

   “You’re coming tonight, right?” Your best friend since grade school, Sam, asks over the phone. You continue to pick out your near perfect fro, which you're grateful for.

    “I have to. I need to meet these white boys you conned into coming.” You set down your pick and adjust the phone that was in between your ear and shoulder, sitting back in your chair and twirling the spiraled cord around your finger.

    “They’re cooler than you think.” Sam looks into the oval mirror hanging on his wall, admiring his above the shoulder appearance and unbuttoning the first few buttons on his shirt, showing off a good amount of chest hair.

    "I just know they better not flip out like the last white person that came through. You remember that? When Jack with the box cut and glasses brought some fridged white bitch that tried to bug Sheila about how she was dressed?" You scoff at your words and adjust your bust in your yellow flowy satin button up that you tied around your midriff then pick up your eye liner pencil.

    "They're hip, I promise. Like me, the only reason they went to training for 'Nam was because they didn't want to get impounded." He runs a brush over his growing hair then looks at the clock on his nightstand. "When do you think you'll get to the club?" He sits in a chair close to the phone and bends over to tie his Chuck's.

    "Quarter to 10, 11 earliest. You know I always arrive on the scene fashionably late." You smile for a moment then proceed to finish lining your other eye and pick up your mascara. 

    "11:30 got it." Sam roll his eyes before checking his upper body appearance one last time. "See ya there." 

    "Later." You bid farewell the hang up. Standing from your seat after applying mascara and some lipstick, you move over to your closet door mirror to admire your new threads. You had on a satin yellow button up tied at the waist and cinched at the wrists with a healthy amount of cleavage showing, black mini skirt, showing off your assets, and black go-go boots accentuating your legs. "Alright girly, time to show up and show out." You grab your small clutch and make your way out of your room.

_____

    "Wow, this place is a blast." The tall, inhumanly muscular blonde says, looking around the dimly lit nightclub, Higher and Higher by Jackie Wilson blasting through the building, loud enough to hear down the block. 

    "Hey where's this babe you were talkin' about, man?" The faux tough brunette asks taking glances at the door every ten seconds, reveling in each beautiful sight that walks through.

    "She'll be here. Why you flippin out over her anyway?" Before the man could answer you came up behind Sam and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. 

    "Hey boys! We havin fun yet?" You chuckle earning some smiles from the men around you. You remove your arm from Sam to get a good look at him. "Sam, looking groovy as always." 

    "And you, fashionably early this time." You chuckle and shake your head then turn to the two white boys, tucking your clutch under your arm and reaching yours out to shake their hands. "You two must be Bucky and Steve." 

    "I'm Steve. And my gawking friend here is Bucky." You didn't notice until Steve said something but for the past minute and a half Bucky has done nothing but revel in your presence. Even with the dim lighting of the club, your skin still shinned like gold, the red tint on your lips making him want to kiss you then and there, and you outfit highlighting your body's features in the best possible way.

    "I'm sorry. I'm James but my friends call me Bucky and might I say you look outta sight Ms…-uh-" He reaches out to shake your hand.

    "Y/F/N Y/L/N. But please, call me Y/N, Ms.Y/N is my old woman." You flash a sweet smile then look over to the near empty bar. "Welp it's not a good night out unless someone has the intention of getting blitzed. You guys want anything?" 

    "You know what I want." Sam tucks his hands into his pockets. Bucky and Steve both refuse allowing you to make your way to the bar. "You can put it on my tab!" Sam shouts to you.

    "I was going to anyway!" You turn around and grin then sway to the bar as Heard it Through the Grapevine by Marvin Gaye comes on.

    "You did not disappoint, Wilson." Bucky says, watching your hips sway almost subconsciously to the music.

    "Eh, don't let her fool you. She was a complete egghead in high school. Still is. She has a degree in engineering, a wiz with numbers." Sam leans on the high table standing next to them.

    "Oh that won't stop him. He's always been a kiss up to smart girls." Steve raises an eyebrow at his friend who was still looking at the dancing girl, who was now making her way back to the group.

    "An Old Fashion for the old man," you had the glass to Sam. "And a sidecar for moi." You take a sip from your glass. "And whatever he said about me… probably true." At that moment Uptight by Stevie Wonder comes on. "Oh well you know I can't be still with this groove." You set your drink next to Sam and grab Bucky's hand. "Let's dance, James." You pull him to the middle of the floor begin to move, doing the hully gully and the jerk while Bucky bobs his head trying to keep up. You couldn't help but bust out laughing.

    "Hey, cut me some slack! I don't go dancing all that often." He beings to laugh with you.

    "You just need to chill. Starting with your look." You take a step back and untuck his red polo from his dark brown pants and then reach up and pull a strand of hair from his slicked back hair-do. "Better. Now, for the dancing, uh-, here. Step side to side." Bucky does as told slowly stepping side to side. "No faster, with the beat." You grab his hands and show him with feet, your hands in his sending shivers up his arm. He trys to follow, tripping over his feet a few times. You chuckle. "Better, but not so… freaky. Smooth it out, make it look natural." He tries again, looking scarier than before, but just as you were about to give him another instruction, Stay by Maurice William & the Zodiacs flowed from the speakers and through the club.

"Ok, lets try this." You place your hands on your hips and move your hips back and forth slowly and sultry. Bucky tries to follow your movements but ended up being as stiff as a board. 

    "Like this?" You threw you head back in laughter, Bucky following suit. You shake you head and bring your hands to his hips, placing them on top of his hands, realizing just how big they are. 

    "Ok, now back and forth, back and forth, flu-id mo-tion. Good. Now…" you match Bucky's tempo and move closer to him, eventually straddling his left leg. "Put your hands," you take his hands which were hovering around your body and place them on your waist. "There. Now you keeping doing that and I'll do… this." You begin to circle your hips, your upper thigh dangerously close to his crotch. You reach your right hand up and around the back of his head, bringing his ear closer. "And don't be afraid to cop a feel, brother." You pull your head away and smirk. Then allow your left arm to hang at your side as Bucky's hands became more adventurous. His face on the other hand was still timid, and slightly surprised. Soon the song was over and you and Bucky were making your way back over to Sam and Steve who both seem to be chatting up a poor girl who had no idea which one she wanted.

    "You two were a sight to see." Sam grins as he hands you a fresh drink, and you take a sip.

    "Someone had to show this square how to chill out." You hip bump him. "I'll be back in two shakes." You take another sip of your drink and head back over to the bar.

    "Hey, uh, Steve? You want to shake that skinny bippy of yours out on the floor?" The girl asks, not making eye contact until Steve puts out his hand for her to take.

    "Let's dance." And with that, it was Steve's turn to humiliate himself on the dance floor.

    "So how was it? Dancing with Y/N? I've been told it's a religious experience." Sam chuckles, crossing his arms.

    "That's an understatement. I've never danced like that before. She's some teacher though. Uh, is she, um… carrying the torch for any one?" He rubs his neck and looks over at you, waving back after you wave at him from the bar.

    "HA! She is a catch, isn't she? Yeah, I tried to get her, but she said I was too much like family. But hey, maybe white boys such as yourself are her type." Sam shrugs and takes a swig of his drink, wincing at the burn then looking at his friend, who gazed hopelessly at you, then quickly panicked as you began to walk back over with four shot glasses in one hand and a bottle of liquor in the other. "Ah, come on. Don't be a candyass, y'all practically banged on the dance floor." Bucky's face turns red at the comment. "Hey come on. Just ask her out." Sam seemlessly changes from his whisper to taking a swing of his drink as you finally get back to the group. 

    "Alright! Now it's time to let it all hang out!" You set the glasses down on the table and pour the the liquor in three of the four glasses after grinning at Steve dancing with the cute dark skin girl a head and a half  shorter than him, even with her afro. You hand a glass to Sam and one to Bucky. "To new friends and a groovy night out." You intertwine your arm with Bucky's and then down the burning liquid, looking into Bucky's eyes before doing so. He takes his shot, lifting you on your toes a bit as he brings the glass to his lips due to your intertwined arms. He looks at Sam, who was tilting his head toward you, then slowly removes his arm from yours. 

    "Uh, Y/N… I was wondering, you know, if you would maybe wanna hang out sometime? If it's not a hassle, of course." Bucky messes with his glass, keeping his eyes low until the silence became too much for him. He looks up to see your eyes and are met with your smiling chocolate irises, red lips smiling in a similar way.

    "Far out!" You throw your arms around his neck, leaning back into his instinctual grip around your waist. "I'd love to James. Maybe sometime next week?" You lean in to his neck, taking in his scent then give hip a peck right below his ear.

    "Sounds like a plan." He hugs you tighter, tilting his head giving you more access to his neck. You accept and continue to kiss down his neck.

    "Man, if you guys are gonna neck, at least do it on the floor like everyone else." Sam points, the first thing catching your eye being  Steve's girl now pushing open the buttons on his long sleeve polo, sleeves now rolled up.

    "Well then color me gone." You grip Bucky's hand and lead him to the floor, his eyes on your swaying his hips as I Say a Little Prayer by Aretha Franklin floods the speakers, leaving Sam not so alone as a girl quickly comes up to him after you two leave.

    "Why have you been calling me James all evening?" He asks a few seconds of you kissing along his neck again, pressing your body to his and following your up tempo step and sway.

    "I like to call people by the name their mama gave them, if they allow me." You bring your right hand further up on his head and lightly scratch his scalp.

    "I love when you say my name." He says these words with an amount of confidence you didn't think could possibly come from him. He moves one hand down onto the back of your thigh and tightens his grip on both your lower back and thigh, then takes the lead in the movements, learning quickly how to move. You smirk up at him, running your gaze along his face, then pulling his head down to meet your lips in a heated kiss, nothing but a haze of lust and admiration coming from and surrounding you two, the music being the only thing part of your world.

[lemon-popp]

Could you like do more of peter and yn!stark smut like rough peter. i need moRE and youre so good at writing. So so good, there’s something about it just makes me want to curl up and ready everything u have to write

other requests: 

What did you think would happen if peter ever actually hurt y/n when they were having sex?? Like he went to hard or something. I feel like it would absolutely kill Peter and he would be so sad and y/n would probably try to hide it. Idk maybe write a blurb about it??

* * *

y’all are so thirsty omg

so for those of you who don’t know, this blurb is in canon with the series i wrote based off the ‘far from home’ including lil baby boy peter parker & our girl y/n stark. you can check it out if you’d like ! it’s completely finished & i’m just answering people’s questions about the characters since it’s been completed. there are no endgame spoilers in this series - all of it is based off the canon of what i originally wrote prior to the film coming out & research i’ve done from reading the comics

Spider-Man Writing Masterlist

Words: 4.8k 

SUMMARY: peter almost chooses robotics over sex, y/n blackmails peter with bagels & gracie is a funky little lesbian who calls it like she sees it 

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Bagels, Bruises, & Broken Thongs

Y/N: Maggie is gone for the weekend

Peter: What? Why?

Y/N: Her aunt is getting married or something idk 

Y/N: Zelda is spending the weekend at her conference and I just dropped Gracie off at the train station to spend her weekend visiting Cynthia

Peter: If you’re at the train station still can you pick me up some of those blueberry bagels from that shop like two doors down?

Y/N: Are you even paying attention to what I’m implying?

Peter: That you’re close to my favorite bagel shop?

Y/N: I hate you. 

Y/N: Do you wanna spend the weekend at mine?

Peter: Fuck me I have some stupid robotics exam on Monday. Blocked out this whole weekend to study baby I’m so sorry

Y/N: k

Peter groaned, tossing his phone on his bed and flopping back down onto his sheets. ‘k’ was never a good sign, and Peter knew that you understood why he couldn’t come over but you didn’t want to mask your disappointment. 

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he let out another groan and wondered what the actual hell he was going to do. 

Sophomore year of college was really rough. 

Keep reading

[lemon-popp]

Polaroids

(Peter Parker x stark!reader)

Summary: May gets Peter a camera for his birthday, and ever since then he can’t stop taking pictures of you. He always kept them in a box in his room, but one day someone finally finds them. 

Warning: SMUT, fluff, language 

Word Count: 4.1 K

A/N: Okay I’m sorry guys, just bare with me. I’ll open requests soon, it’s just I’ve got a lot of work and i don’t have a lot of time to just sit and write. But stay with me ;) Also if anyone finds a way for me to post smut on another link that won’t get taken down my tumbler, please hit me up!

Peter clicked the shutter button, capturing your pose. He continued to take pictures of you doing random stuff.

“What’s interesting about Chemistry homework Peter?” You asked, as Peter put the Polaroid down on your desk, letting the picture appear gradually.

“Nothing, but its you who’s doing it and you look beautiful,” Peter answers, sitting in front of you and continuing to snap pictures.

“I’m wearing sweats and hoodie,” you reply, as you look back down at your work.

“Your beautiful no matter what,” Peters says smiling brightly. Your cheeks heat up at Peters words and you lean in giving your boyfriend a kiss.

“Your cliche,” You mumble into his lips, Peter smiles against you.

“Anyways, I also need pictures for photography class.” He scoots back in front of you as you let out a whine, missing his touch.

“Can you just hold me,” You say, sounding a little too needy. Peter couldn’t help but laugh, your lips forming into a pout.

“One kiss,” he says, putting his camera aside and crawling back to you. He sits in front of you, his hands cupping you cheeks. You sit up a little, so that your back his straight against your bed. Peter leans in, connecting his lips to your soft ones. His tongue moves against your bottom lip, swiping across. You open your mouth, letting Peter slip his tongue in. A quiet moan escapes your lips. His hands slip under your hoodie, holding your bare waist, going up a little. Your arms come around Peters neck, pulling him down, closer to you. But before anything else could happen, Peter pulls away with a soft laugh. “Let’s stop here before we get off track.”

Peter tries to pull away, but you hold on tight. Peter laughs at your neediness, and kisses your neck. Your eyes close, as you feel Peters lips. God they were so soft and gentle and wet. “Baby, you have to finish your work, and I have to take pictures.” Peter continues to kiss around your neck, you letting out heavy breathes. But soon he snaps out of the trance that is you, and pulls away. You whine as Peters hands slip out of your hoodie and move back to his camera. You give him an annoyed look.

“Come on angel, we can do this later. Let’s just finish.” Peter says, moving into a comfortable position to take pictures.

“Fine.” You huff, laying on your stomach as you look back down at your chemistry textbook.

A few minutes past, and the feeling between your legs won’t go away. Peter moves to your desk, spreading the pictures he took of you, smiling at them as he did. That’s when you finally thought of a genius plan.

Peter comes back sitting in his spot. That’s when you start.

“Hey Peter?” You say sitting up. Peter umms a yes, not setting the camera down as he continued to snap pictures. “Is it hot in here?”

“No, not really,” he answers not thinking twice about it. You take your bottom lip between your teeth as you lift your hoodie over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You see Peters breathe hitch in his throat. The camera comes down, as he begins to stutter.

“W-what are you doing?” You shrug, looking back down at your work.

“It was just getting hot.” You look up at him through your lashes, his camera was on his lap and not up by his eye. “Is that alright?” Peter stutters more.

“Y-yea, t-that’s just-just fine,” he lifts the camera back up to his eye, as he takes a big gulp. Peters eyes couldn’t help but trace over your body. He found himself admiring the way your sweats hanged loosely on your hips, and the way your hair came perfectly around your shoulders, just drawing attention to your breasts.

You shifted again, this time leaning against your bed, discreetly pushing your chest out. Peter licks his lips. That’s when you move to the next step. You lift your hips off the ground, tugging your sweats down your legs until they were fully off.

Peter froze. “Y/n?”

“Yes?” You answer, as you look at Peter with pure innocence.

“N-nothing,” Peter says quickly. You look down trying to hide the smirk forming on your lips. You then lay down your stomach, Peter still in front. You wanted Peter to catch on what you were wearing. And he does. His eyes look over at your ass, you were wearing his favorite red thong, unexpectedly. Peter hasn’t taken one picture, since you’ve taken your pants off.

“Your not taking pictures?” Peters eyes quickly go to meet yours.

“O-oh y-yea,” you sit up slowly, letting your cleavage show as you get up. You sit on your knees, your head cocking to the side a little. Peter finally got to see the full piece clear as day. You were wearing the whole set, he didn’t really notice because of all your moving but now that you were sitting up, he saw it all.

“Hey Peter? Don’t you need some pictures of people posing? Not just random shots?” Peters eyes lingered on your body but ultimately looking at your eyes again. He nodded slowly, knowing exactly what you were thinking. “I can pose for you. If you want?” Your voice low, and seductive.

“Y-yea,” Peter says as he shifted in his position. As Peter moved a little, your eyes flickered down to the very, clear and evident bulge growing. You licked your lips, as you stood up.

“I’m going to lay on the bed. Ok?” You say turning around and swaying your hips as you made your way to the bed.

“Ye-yea o-ok.” Peter didn’t move an inch, his body frozen as you crawled on the bed, finally laying in the middle. You wait a couple seconds before turning to Peter.

“You coming?” Peter quickly gets up, pulling at his pants a little. He moves to the end of the bed, holding his camera up. “So what should I do?” You rest back on your elbows, your legs crossed at the ankles, and your eyes staring straight into Peters.

“A-anything,” you nod, laying side ways on the bed. Peter starts taking pictures, one after the other. You then move your hands up, entangling themselves in your hair. Peter moves around the bed, trying to get every angle, and finding the best lighting. Your roll around in the bed, giving Peter different poses, every now and then you’d bit your lips, and look down at his cock, making people shiver. Then you start to pose sitting on your knees, your legs spread apart and hands on the waistband of your thong.

“Fuck baby,” Peter says under his breathe. You look down, Peter harder then ever, and that’s when you move on with your plan. You stay in that position, your hands coming around your back, unclipping your bra. Peters fingers freeze, lowering the camera slightly. He watches as you let the straps fall down your arms, and throwing it aside. His eyes go over your erect nipples, just thinking of sucking them.

You then move into a different pose, Peter continues to snap pictures of you, but his boner making him uncomfortable. Every new pose your in, makes Peter want you more and more. And that was your plan. Finally your on the last step of your devilish plan. You lay against your headboard, lifting your hips up, and slowly slipping the thong down your legs. You move slow and careful, your eyes looking into Peters. And when the thong is off, you spread your legs out, as your finger trail down your heat. Dipping your finger into your core, you let out a quiet moan, which sends Peter to take his last photo.

“Fucking hell baby!” He slings his camera over his head, placing it on your nightstand, jumping on the bed. His body settles between you legs, his lips attaching to your nipple right away. Your head falls back as Peter sucks and bites on your nipple. You hold his head close to your chest as he moves to your other breast. You let out a moan, making Peter eyes shoot up. He quickly sits up, getting his sweater over his head then standing on top of the bed. He shakes out of his pants and boxers. His cock, twitching and you could already see the pre-cum forming at the head.

“Look what you did to me,” You smile up at Peter, as he sits down again.

“I was just posing,” You say teasingly. Peter lays you back down on the bed, as he kisses your neck, sucking on your sweet spot and grinding against you.

“Fuck Peter.” You moan as you buck your hips up, needing him. Peter let’s out a laugh, as he brings his face close to yours.

“So needy,” Peter says as he lowers himself down your body.

“Please,” You say quietly. Peter hands rubs your sides as he takes a bold lick up your folds. He then slips his tongue between your folds, sucking roughly on your clit, your hands holding his curls. He then dips his tongue into your core, as he tongue-fucked you. The feeling sent shivers through your body, bucking your hips up. Peter held your waist, pushing down a little.

“Stay still angel, I’ve got you.” You nod as Peter goes back to your throbbing pussy.

Soon enough, after a few more flicks of his tongue, you come. Peter takes in all of your sweetness, as he licks around, not living anything behind. Your chest is heaving, Peter coming back up. His thumb wipes the sides of his mouth, licking off what’s left. He then takes your lips into his.

“You taste so good,” he says into your lips. You look up at Peter, eyeing his very hard, very erect cock.

“Can I ride you?” You ask looking back up at Peter. He smiles at you, his cheeks flush.

“Yea.” Peter flips the both of you over, you straddle his torso, leaning down to kiss him. Your lips trail to his neck, taking the time to suck and nibble. Peter holds your ass, as your hands tangle in his hair. You reach over Peter’s head to the nightstand, grabbing a condom, your breasts in his face, Peter gives you a teasing lick on your nipple. You laugh at the gesture coming back and moving back to straddle his thighs. You pumped his cock with your hand then slipping the condom on Peters cock. He then helps you sink down onto him.

“Fuck y/n,” Peter moans, his head falling back against the pillows. That’s when you start to rock your hips, grinding into his dick. Finally picking up the pace. You move up and down his length, Peter holding your waist as you moaned loudly.

“Shit Peter!” Your hair falling to one side. Peter bends his knees, bucking his hips up meeting yours. Your hands hold his chest, moans leaving both your lips. “Ohh fuck Peter, fuck!” You then start to move faster.

“Y/n, shit baby!” The pace giving Peter a better feeling. He was so close, his head thrown back and eyes shut. “B-baby, come for me,” you continue to ride Peters cock. He then brings his fingers to your clit, rubbing rough circles, trying to make you come before he does.

“I’m close-Fuck I’m s-so close-“ You feel the familiar knot in your stomach. Peter continues to thrust up.

“Come for me angel, come all over my cock,” Peters words sending you over the edge. Your head goes back, your hands gripping his shoulder, letting out a throat ripping moan. Peter comes right after you, one hand still holding your waist as the other gripped the bed sheet tightly, so his super strength wouldn’t hurt you.

You both come down from your highs. Peters hands rubbing up and down your thighs as you pushed your hair back, your fingers combing through. The sweat on your skin seemed to glow from what Peter saw and his eyes widen. “Stay there!”

“What?” You hold still, afraid that something bad will happen. But that thoughts out of the window when Peter reaches for his camera. Peter’s soft cock is still inside you, the feeling relaxing. He fixes himself underneath you, tilting the camera up at an angle. The camera frame showing you from your torso up.

“You look breathtaking babe,” he says as he snaps the perfect shot. Peter pulls the paper out placing it on the nightstand. You then drop your hands, as they smooth over his golden chest.

“Thank you Peter.” You say leaning down, so your only inches from his face.

“For what?” His arm wraps around your torso so your chest is flush against his.

“For everything.” Peter smiles and captures your lips. Your noses rubbing together. Peter lifts the camera to the side, as he snaps a picture of the both of you kissing. You pulled away slightly, a teasing smile on your face. “Really had to ruin the moment?”

“It was just a perfect moment, and I wanted to have it forever.” He says with a small pout. You let out a soft laugh kissing his lips again. You then rest your head in the crook of his neck closing your eyes and wrapping your arms around his torso. You kissed his neck lovingly, as Peters fingers ran up and down your spin soothingly. “Can I take more pictures of you,” Peter asks softly.

You smile against his neck, “I can’t stop you,” Peter kisses the side of your head as brings the camera up this time snapping a pic of you laying on him. He continues to snap more and more pictures, placing each one on the nightstand. You sit up on his torso, as Peter snapped pictures of you. He cupped your breast, snapping one of his hand holding your breast as you closed your eyes. He also got pictures of you holding your breasts, and of you touching him. He also took many pictures, angled a little further down, showing your whole body, which showed Peter resting inside you.

“You feel so good around me,” Peter says, shifting underneath you. Your cheeks blush.

“Can I take pics of you?” Peter lowers the camera, raising his eyebrows.

“Yea sure,” he hands you his camera, you turn the lense so its angled down at Peter. Peter puts and arm behind his neck, the other ones continuing to rub your thighs.

“You look hot like this,” You say from behind the camera, Peter laughs at your words.

“Like this?” He repeats.

“Yea, your post-sex look is a major turn on.” Peter laughs as he moves both his hands behind his neck, looking up at you with a smirk.

“Is it now?” You roll your eyes, continuing to take pictures.

“Don’t have to be cocky.”

“I’m not being cocky!”

“Yea you are.”

“Fine I am, but that’s because your post-sex look is so much hotter than how I look.” His hands come around his head, dragging his fingertips up your thighs. “Your the hottest girl ever I’ve ever laid eye’s on. And the pictures of you are sexy as hell. Can’t wait to show them to my class.” Your eyes widen, lowering the camera.

“Nonononono, you cant show them the pictures of me, it’ll leak everywhere and what will happen when my dad finds out, and not just that, what about me, Peter! People will think I’m a weird seductive freak-“ Peters head falls back as he laughs. He lifts his body up, so he’s wrapping his arms around your body, his forehead against yours.

“I’m kidding y/n. I’d be damned if I let anyone see my girlfriend with nothing less then a shirt and pants on.” Peter kisses your lips. “Only I get to see all of this.” You smile against Peters lips.

“Ok, I trust you.” Peter kisses your forehead, your eyes closing at the feeling.

- - - - one month later - - - - -

“Parker, where’s your old suit, the one I first made you.” Tony shouted from the hallway. Peter was in the lab fixing his webshooters.

“On my desk, in the third drawer!” He shouted back, still focusing on what’s in front of him. Tony walks to Peters room, going over to his desk. He went to the third drawer opening it, and as like he said, there the suit laid. Tony picked it up examining the old suit, a soft smile on his lips. He was just then about ready to close the drawer before he found an opened box of polaroids underneath.

From the Polaroids he could see, they were cute and funny pictures of you, so he decided to take the whole box out, wanting to see more cute pictures of his daughter. He places the suit on top of the desk, as he collected all the Polaroids in a pile. Tony flipped through the pictures, smiling at Peters skills and the good pictures he’d captured of your laughs and smiles. He knew the two of you were together, he knew Peter was a good kid. But what he didn’t know is what happened in your relationship until now.

Tony froze, a picture of his daughter, with only her bra and sweats on. Tony shook his head, thinking of it as only one picture. Flipping to the next picture finding you wearing the same thing, this time the more he flipped the lesser clothes you had on until it was nothing. He doesn’t see the rest only going to the very end, finding the ones where Peter was holding your breasts, at least it didn’t show your breasts or below your torso, but the overprotective father feeling boiled in Tony. And then when he sees the pictures you took of Peter, showing your thighs straddling his torso, and Peter shirtless rubbing your thighs, he lost it.

Tony forgets about the suit, storming out of the room, moving down the hall. “Y/N IN THE LAB NOW!!” Your head shoots up from your card game with Bucky. You look at Bucky questionly, but he just shrugs, not knowing anything.

“I’ll be back, don’t look at my cards!” You shout, as you jog to your dad’s lab. When you walk in you find your dad standing on the opposite end of the table Peter was working on. You walk up slowly, your eyes furrowed together confused. You notice Peter has the same expression on his face. You turn your attention back to Tony, eyes moving between you and Peter, and one hand behind his back. “What’s up?” Tony doesn’t say a word. 

“Mr. Stark you good?” Peter joins in.

“Dad-” Tony takes a step forward, you and Peter on the other side of the table watching him carefully. 

“How old are the two of you?” Tony says, not acknowledging what you and Peter had said before. 

“Eightteen,” you both answer. 

“And what did I say?” You cock your head to the side.

“You say a lot of things dad, you have to be a little more specific.” Tony stares you and Peter down, you notice his chest heave. 

“What did I say about sex?” Your eyes widen, and Peter shifts in his position.

“W-what?” Tony rolls his eyes, getting the polaroids from behind his back, dropping them on the table between the three of you. They spread across the table, your eyes widening, at the actual nudes of you and Peter. Peter coughs violently, as his cheeks heat you. You feel yourself turn red, the embarrassment burning through your skin! 

“What’s this?! You had sex? You had fucking sex!” Tony points at the both of you with his index fingers. “And you took PICTURES?! YOU TOOK PICTURES WHEN YOU WERE HAVING SEX?!” 

“It’s not a big deal dad,” you say, trying your best not to melt right then and there.

“Not a BIG DEAL? YOU GUYS TOOK PICTURES WHEN YOU WERE HAVING SEX!” Tonys hands ran through his hair.

“T-techincally, we took em a-after we had sex,” Your heads snaps to Peter.

“Peter?!” Peter’s face was beat red and Tony could feel his growing anger. 

“Why? whywhywhywhywhwhyyyyyyy! Why have sex? Why?” You rub the back of your neck, as you rock on your heels. 

“We wanted to, and we’ve been together for almost a nine months now, and I’ve known Peter for like two years, and it’s not like it was our first time doing it together-” Your quickly shuts. Tony’s eyes widen.

“You’ve done it more than once!” Tony turns to Peter, “You did my daughter more than ONCE!” Peter was rubbing his hands together, feeling his sweat build up. 

“Y-yea,” Peter answers quietly, finally looking into Tony’s eyes. “But Mr. Stark… I’m not just having sex with y/n because of her- well I mean yea I’m having sex with her because its her, but not because I want her body- wait - no I mean yea I do that’s why we’re having sex because of that reason- but I mean like I’m not just having sex with her and leaving,” Tony cocks his head to the side, confused at Peter’s rambling, “W-what I’m trying to say is that I chose to give her that part of me because…because I-I love her.” Peter eyes turn to look into your wide ones. “I love you y/n.” His voice is soft. Your heart jumps out of your chest. Peter feels his nerves go up to a max, you were quiet, did he scare you, shit he shouldn’t have said that-

You leap into Peters arms, you hold his body close to yours, pulling back with a huge, goofy-smile on your lips. “I love you too Peter,” Peter’s bright, beautiful smile, takes up his face. He leans down connecting your lips. Your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It was the perfect kiss, his lips against yours and they were so soft and good-

“Hello???” You and Peter pull away, turning to look back at your father. “Not in front of me.” Both your cheeks heat up, “And you guys better be using protection, I don’t need miny Peters and Y/n’s running around.” Tony had to admit it, he loved the both of you. You were his daughter, and Peter was the greatest kid he’s ever met, he couldn’t think of a better couple. Peter nods his head frantically.

“Y-Yea obviously Mr. Stark, we have a lot of condoms, I bought a lot, and I always have one on me, well not like on me on cuz that’s weird but like I keep some in my bag and-” You elbow better in the ribs, he lets out a small groan. Tony shakes his head, as he rubs his face. When he drops his hands, his eyes go back to the polaroids, and quickly look back between the both of you. 

“Why take pictures though?” Peter cheeks heat up. 

“I-I had to take pictures for photography and um well, after uh, you can say ‘break’, she just looked so beautiful and I wanted to have that memory.” Tony shakes his head, trying to get the image out of his daughter and Peter doing it..

“Take these pictures, I never want to see them.” Peter quickly grabs the pictures. “And you better hide them better, because if these leak they will be everywhere.” Your eyes widen, and you turn to Peter. Tony laughs at the both of you. “Now scam.” Tony turns around going back to his work, shaking his head as the smile on his face can’t seem to get off. 

You and Peter run out of the lab, hand and hand. 

“You were really just about to expose our sex life like that?” You laugh remembering Peter’s rambling a few seconds ago.

“You know I ramble when I’m nervous or when I think your dad is going to kill me!” 

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Tags: @the–real-wombat @spiderlingsweb

[lemon-popp]

Not a Toy

Peter Parker x Avenger!Reader

Everyone is over 18 here!

Warnings: smut, sex toys, fingering, lowkey squirting, sexy times, confessions, fluff

Word count: 6.7k

Summary: Peter is working on a secret project and starts acting strange when you ask him about it. How do you explain to your best friend that you are engineering your spider suit to have vibrating fingers? And how are you supposed to react when she offers to be your test subject? 

Lazy days at the compound were not to be taken for granted. Between the high regiment training schedule, international travel, press conferences, and team meetings, it felt like you rarely had a minute to yourself. So when a day popped up where you could relax for a minute, you took full advantage.

That was the problem though, you didn’t know how to relax. Your body naturally woke you up at the crack of dawn and you instinctively went on a morning run. What was wrong with you. Every time you sat down to “relax” you felt restless, searching around for something productive to do.

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