#‘one thousand pounds on pressure on every inch or your body.’

[sofaeatspaint]

god. i wish there was a homoerotic 20k leagues under the sea musical.

[thegainingdesk]

Momentum

It was hard at first. John thought he knew exactly what to do - he'd read enough gainer stories, followed enough fat guys on twitter for years. All it would take was the decision to dive headfirst into gaining and he'd be as big as any of them in no time at all.

Once a day, every day, he'd eat something that would add at least a thousand calories to his diet. He'd barely even notice. A tub of ice cream, a pot of double cream, a whole cake, a second dinner - all very doable, all easily passing that thousand calorie threshold. Once that got easy, he'd start upping his intake - supplementing it with gainer shakes, or trips to fast food restaurants between meals.

It turns out that your average 12 stone man isn't really built to suddenly, rapidly increase the amount of calories he's taking in. Especially when most of those excess calories were dairy. He spent most evenings clutching his flat stomach as it churned with acid. Each evening he'd vomit it all back up, or have to miss meals, or feel nauseous the next day - constant signals from his body to stop.

He actually lost six pounds that first month. Maybe gaining wasn't meant for him. He watched enviously as his mates the same age succumbed to middle aged spread as they hit their mid-thirties, lamenting how lucky he was to still have his twenty year old metabolism as they patted beer bellies they couldn't shift.

John went back to his old diet, gained back those lost six pounds, and accepted he was just always going to be the skinny one in the group. He kept up a few old habits of course - still bought some of the ice cream flavours he'd discovered for the occasionally treat, kept up cooking with butter and cream where he'd found out how much they improved certain recipes, always made sure there were a few beers in the fridge for those nights when he fancied it. Nothing mad though, nothing that would cause any weight gain, just a few treats. You've got to enjoy life, haven't you?

John looked in amazement at the scales. A stone. An actual, whole stone. 14 pounds. On his body! He started noticing things - the tiniest pinch when he buttoned up his jeans, the slightest blur of softness on his stomach. It was nothing really, nothing anyone would notice, but it was there - solid proof that he could gain weight. He'd just pushed himself too far before, he realised with a laugh. Slow and steady and all that.

All those little habits became regular. Dessert every other night, then every night. Cooking with butter and cream no matter the recipe. A couple of six packs of beer a week. Nothing too intense, not that many calories, but it all started adding up, bit by bit.

Fancy coming for an Indian? the text read.

John's fingers hovered. The answer was obvious - thanks, I've just eaten, I'll join you at the pub after if you're going. But… his fingers traced that new curve of his gut, inching slowly bigger by the month. Not enough to be visible in most clothes really, not enough to be called fat, but there, sure enough. Was he really full? He could eat, couldn't he? What's a curry and a couple of naans?

You off to the Raj? he texted back. What time?

That old familiar feeling, of a stomach overly stuffed, too much food and beer. But different this time. The pain was there. The pressure. But there was a certain enjoyment to it. A pleasure. Warm, rather than acidic; heavy, rather than sharp. And god but didn't his gut look round? He stood in profile in the mirror, holding it almost like a pregnancy announcement. How long until it was always this size, he wondered? How long until it was bigger?

A second dinner became a weekly occurrence, then spread to two times a week, three times, four. After all, he'd proven to himself he had the capacity - why not? Eventually if he hadn't had four meals a day topped off with ice cream he'd be ravenous, his stomach biting at him in retaliation for his neglect.

He crossed 200 pounds. 210. 220. Clothes were bought, grown into, outgrown, and the cycle repeated. The general increase in size that had come before gave way to true signs of fatness. Soft pockets of fat at his chest, his arse rounding out, chubby cheeks, a real, honest to god, gut. It was happening. It was really fucking happening.

His mate Sam, the largest of the group, reached over and slapped John's baby gut after he took his coat off one night at the pub. "Fucking hell mate!" he said. "Never thought I'd see you with one of these!" There were some jeers, some belly pats, some comments - "At least you're not making us look bad anymore." "Welcome to the club, mate."

John looked around as he downed half of his first pint. How much more weight until he was the biggest there? None of them were that big, really, even Sam. Just a load of ex-rugby players with some overdeveloped beer guts. Another 30 or 40 pounds maybe? 18 stone? It sounded good, didn't it? And it would take, what? Six months at his current rate? A nice place to stop for a bit, enjoy his weight and new status as the big guy of the group.

He downed the rest of his drink and went to the bar for his next. "What we eating tonight then lads?" he asked them all, thinking back to the burger and chips he'd had just before coming.

It was all a lot easier with a definite goal in mind, he thought to himself a few weeks later, as he finished a tub of ice cream and placed it down next to four empty beer bottles. The sizes of snacks crept up, until they were meals in and of themselves, and he'd find himself convincing himself he was hungry almost as soon as he'd finished eating. He started stashing snacks everywhere that he couldn't reasonably expect a meal - the passenger seat of his car became reserved for a small mound of chocolate bars, the bottom drawer of his desk at work was filled with crisps and cereal bars.

His mates fell silent as he walked up to them a few months later, the next time he saw them, and he grinned smugly as he saw that, yes, he'd definitely become the fattest there. A couple of them even looked like they'd lost weight, the stupid pricks - didn't they know how good this felt? He put his pint and packet of pork scratchings down, and maneuvered himself down into his seat.

"Jesus Christ John," Sam said softly. "Are you… I mean… Is everything okay?"

John slapped the top of his gut and beamed. "Just enjoying life mate!" he replied, laughing. He tried to listen in as the others murmured around him, doing their best to not be too obvious.

"He wasn't that big last time, was he?" "Definitely not, he was smaller than me." "What's it been, four months? Three?" "He's not ill, do you reckon?" "Must be four stone, at least?"

Okay, so he knew he'd overshot his target and weighed in at 20 stone and change that morning, and yes, how fast it had piled on had shocked even himself, but really, it was all so hot, he was hardly about to complain. In fact, he'd made the decision that 285 felt a little small, really. Why not push for 300, when he was already so close anyway? Then he'd be satisfied, he knew.

"Mate," Sam whispered to him quietly, leaning in. "You've got a little uhh…" He gestured to his face. John took a finger and wiped the corner of his mouth.

"Cheers mate," John said, licking his finger. "Just a bit of cream." He spent the night making jokes about how fat he was getting, and eventually everyone else relaxed a little, content that he at least seemed happy with his shocking weight gain. Underneath his gut, his cock was rock hard.

300 pounds, it turned out, also felt a little small. Or at least, that's what John told himself a couple of months later as he saw 316 flashing on the scales. Maybe just a little bit more - a few more pounds and then he'd stop, once and for all.

But god, did it feel hot. Eating became its own erotic experience. It wasn't merely that he couldn't cum anymore without being completely, painfully stuffed (that point had long since come and gone), he now wondered why he would want to at all. Hook-ups became as much about being fed as they were about the sex. He didn't care who they were - if they had food and were willing to feed him, he'd take them.

John's body became unrecognisable. He was far beyond mere beer belly or dad bod now, his gut was now a globe that spanned out in every direction, wrapping around into thick cushions at his back, draped in inches of fat on top of the firm ball, before cascading off, a surprisingly cold apron of flesh that was slowly threatening to cover his ever shrinking cock. His tits sagged to the side and joined up to his back fat nestled in his armpit. His face, long-since fully rounded, began to elongate, his cheeks and chins sagging into new shapes.

John panted a little as he stood naked in his bathroom, doing his best to push his gut in with one hand as he peered over the top of it to see the scale read 363. "Right," he told the walls of the bathroom. "That's it, I'm stopping there." He struggled to lean down to pick the scales up, sliding them away to the side of the cabinet before straining to stand. "I only bloody wanted to be bigger than Sam."

Food, however, still tasted as good as it had before. And every meal he tried to scale back, every snack he tried to forgo, left him ravenous - each day he'd just end up gorging on more food than he tried to cut back on.

370. 380. 390.

His body began to feel alien. Every joint began to feel crowded, flesh filling the space before he could fully bend his elbow or knee. His arms sat awkwardly by his sides, pushed out by sloping tits. Manspreading became the default, as his thighs met all the way down to his knees which themselves began to inflate out, pillowy and soft.

400. 410. 420.

The gym, he decided. If dieting was out of the question (and there was no doubt at this point that dieting was very much out of the question), he could always exercise. He drove to a nearby gym, asked about personal trainers. Put down more money than one of his mortgage payments for their premium membership for a year, as much to force himself to commit as for the actual services.

His feet ached. His knees grinded. His lungs burned. Sweat poured off of him in quantities that he didn't know people could sweat - and he considered himself to be quite the expert on sweating these days.

Fuck it, he thought to himself after the first session, his circus tent of a t-shirt practically see-through, clinging to every roll of his body, showing off each crevice and valley. It wasn't that much money, really. He could afford to wave goodbye to it, if it meant never having to do that again. What did he have such a good salary for, if not to waste it on shit he'd never use? He'd have only spent it on food anyway.

430. 440. 450.

"My weight's plateaued recently, actually," he told Sam proudly over a pint.

Sam gave an encouraging smile. "That's great mate," he said, in the same tone he'd speak to a child or elderly relative. "Really great."

"Yeah," John said, opening one of the bags of nuts on the table in front of them. "I only put on like five pounds last month."

"Fuck," Sam said quietly, his face draining of colour. "Five pounds last- John, mate, that's still over a pound a week. What are you… how quickly were you packing it on before?"

John shrugged, and pointed to the rugby match on the TV in the corner of the pub, trying to change the topic. At least Sam had put on some weight himself recently - it blunted to criticism just a little.

"I'm over twenty stone now," Sam confessed later, his breath reeking of beer as he leant in close. "I don't know how I'm going to stop," he continued, his words slurring. He leant back and pulled his t-shirt up to reveal his hairy gut beginning to fill his lap and he slapped it. "Look at this thing!" he said loudly enough that people at other tables looked over and laughed. He began to rub it in slow, wide circles, and John could see the outline of his dick growing down the inside of his trousers. He leant back in, lowered his voice once more. "It's kind of fucking hot, isn't it?" he asked, punctuating with a burp. "That's why you've gotten so fat, right? You find it hot too?"

Forty five minutes later, Sam clumsily lined up his cock with one of the folds on John's gut, and slid it inside, grunting as he did so. Both of them held a kebab in one hand, and ate them as Sam's gut and John's whole body shook and quivered with Sam's thrusts, bits of meat and salad and sauce falling down onto their bodies.

"I can't stop," Sam moaned, as his thrusts became more erratic. "I keep on trying to lose weight but I just gain more and more." He spasmed and yelled out, one hand shoving the last of the kebab into his mouth, the other gripping one of his love handles hard, his fingers sinking in to the growing ball of fat.

"That's the thing about momentum," John said as he licked the last of the sauce off his fingers. "Once you get started, it just gets harder and harder to stop."

Sam slid off of John's body and John looked down at himself, surveying his acres of flesh. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to put on just a little more weight, he thought to himself. After all, Sam needed someone to set a good example.

[eksvaized]

Part Twenty Four

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The atmosphere in the living room is oppressively thick—charged with a stifling combination of fear, suspense, and uncertainty. It’s a tension so tangible, so palpable, that it feels almost suffocating, like a physical entity pressing down on your chest, making every breath a conscious effort.

The gun in your grip feels like an anchor, far heavier than you remember it being when you first stumbled upon it. Your palms are slick and clammy with a cold, nervous sweat that betrays your underlying anxiety. You struggle to maintain a firm grip on the pistol; your fingers tremble slightly, forcing you to use both hands to steady it - an awkward, unfamiliar position that exposes your inexperience.

Despite the pressure that feels like a thousand pounds pressing down on your eyelids, begging them to close, you keep your gaze steady. Your eyes dart back and forth, bouncing like a tennis ball, between Johnny and Simon, who stands a step behind him. Simon’s shoulders are tense, strung tight like a bowstring, and his hands are curled into tight fists, knuckles white with the strain. You’ve made your intentions crystal clear, your was voice sharp and biting as you demanded everyone to get out, to leave this house—to leave you alone with Simon. Yet, despite your command, no one moves. All the four men stand as still as statues, the soles of their boots glued to the ground.

A part of you wonders if it’s fear that is keeping them from moving. But then, another part of you, a more clever and observant one, realises that their stillness is not born out of fear. They’re not afraid of the gun or of you. Their defiance is deliberate.

“Are all of you deaf?” you snap, the words spilling out of your mouth like marbles rolling down a hill, too fast to catch. Your voice is now notably higher—an unmistakable sign of your escalating frustration and rapidly dissipating patience. You don’t know how much longer you can bear being the focal point of their scrutinizing stares; each gaze feels like a physical weight, pressing down on your shoulders and chest, making it harder for you to breathe.

“Y/N—” Johnny begins, his voice steady and calm. He extends his outstretched palm towards you once again. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants to disarm you. But you have no intention of handing the pistol over to him. The feeling of control that the firearm provides is overwhelming. It’s a power you don’t want to relinquish yet.

As Johnny dares to inch closer, your heart pounds in your chest. You can almost feel the heat radiating off his body; Johnny’s so close yet so far. Without giving it a second thought, without bothering to consider the vast array of possible consequences that could come tumbling down from your actions, you decide to do something. It’s a choice born of impulse, of desperation, of a wild, reckless courage that surprises even you.

You don’t want to shoot Johnny—mainly because you don’t know if the gun is loaded or not, and if it’s how many bullets there are in the chamber. So instead, you lower your arms and point the pistol towards the ground, aiming it somewhere near Johnny’s feet. Your index finger, trembling slightly, curls around the trigger. The metallic chill seeping into your skin does nothing to alleviate your mounting nervousness. Yet, you refuse to let your terror control you. Without allowing yourself any further hesitation or second thoughts, you press down, deciding that you can afford to waste one bullet—if there are any at all—because maybe then everyone will finally take your threats seriously.

The instant the trigger is pulled, you suck in a shallow, razor-sharp breath, as if you’ve just plunged into icy water. Your body reverberates with the sheer force of the action, shaking you to your very core, as a violent tremor ripples through your veins and sends a shiver down your spine. The sudden jolt throws you off balance. Your foot stumbles back in a hasty, almost frantic step as you scramble to regain your footing.

Then comes the sound, a monstrous roar that swallows all other sounds whole. It’s not just loud, it’s an oppressive, bone-rattling thunderclap that shakes the ground. The gunshot’s sharp crack reverberates through the room, a sonic boom that ricochets off walls, bouncing back like a rubber ball in a concrete box. It echoes in your eardrums, like a high-pitched siren that wails incessantly, a relentless alarm that drowns your thoughts. A throbbing pain begins to build in your temples, starting as a mild discomfort before slowly intensifying. Your wide eyes rivet to the floor, where the bullet has forcefully lodged itself into the hard wooden surface.

As you tentatively lift your eyes, allowing your gaze to traverse the space between you and the towering figures in front of you, you realize that Johnny is no longer standing in front of you. Simon has pushed him out of the way and thrust his chest against the cold barrel of the gun that you’re holding. Your hands wobble. A subtle shudder, almost imperceptible, ripples through your fingers, akin to a pebble disturbing a serene pond, resulting in an involuntary, subconscious lowering of your arms.

Despite the burning rage coursing through you, a rage so intense and fiery that it threatens to consume your entire being and leave nothing but ashes in its wake, you can’t bring yourself to harm Simon. He isn’t the one you’re angry at; he isn’t the one who made you feel helpless. He isn’t the one who pushed you to the very edge of your sanity, who rammed you into a corner so tight that you could barely breathe, causing you to believe that your only option was to come out swinging, to defend not only yourself but Simon as well.

“Give me—” Simon begins, his voice trailing off into a hush. Slowly, almost hesitantly, his fingers curl around the handle of the pistol that you’re still holding.

You refuse to comply with his request. Defiantly, you shake your head, your hand clenching around the gun like a lifeline. Your knuckles turn as white as bleached bone, stark against the dark metal weapon, the only source of protection you have. “I can’t,” you murmur, so only Simon could hear what you are saying. “I want them gone.”

Simon nods. He takes a step closer to you. The gap between you two shrinks, and so does the space between the tip of the pistol and his chest. “Y/N,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours, “give it to me.”

You want to comply, you really do. You wish you could hand over the pistol and let Simon take control of the situation. But as much as you want to trust him, uncertainty creeps in, its frosty fingers coiling around your heart, holding you back. You can’t let go, not yet, not until you see the men who have ruined your morning march out of the front door.

But standing your ground is taking its toll. The fear of accidentally squeezing the trigger nags at the back of your mind. It’s surprisingly easy to pull it, and the thought of Simon getting hurt because of your carelessness terrifies you. You can’t bear the thought of that happening. You can’t and won’t allow yourself to hurt him. So, after what feels like a lifetime, after another five seconds that may as well have been five gruelling minutes, you loosen your grasp.

Simon tucks the black, gleaming pistol under his leather belt. His dark eyes never leave your figure. They watch you with an unwavering gaze that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You suddenly feel like a misbehaved child caught red-handed, your guilt exposed for everyone to see. This feeling only intensifies when you notice the subtle yet unmistakable signs of Simon’s growing irritation. His jaw tightens, the prominent muscles of his face twitching slightly as he grinds his teeth together. You can almost hear the gritting sounds, like stones grating against each other.

“She’s crazy,” Gaz, if you recall correctly, says and, for a moment, everyone glances at him while he stands in the corner of the room, looking at you. “She needs help.”

You are aware that by ‘help’, Gaz isn’t implying Simon’s assistance. This realization causes your heart to plummet. An icy fear snakes its way through your veins. The question that arises in your mind is terrifying - What if these men, these strangers, decide that you’re to be taken away? They probably see you as a deranged woman, a mentally unstable creature in dire need of constant supervision and control. The idea of being whisked away to some far-off place, to a room with cushioned walls designed to muffle the cries of the ones inside, is a fate you certainly do not desire.

So, hesitantly, you gravitate towards Simon. Your stiff hands wrap around his arm. As he turns to look at you, you meet his gaze with a pleading look in your eyes. No words are exchanged, but your eyes are silently imploring him to intervene, to step in and prevent these men from taking you away.

“Can we talk? Alone?” Simon asks, focusing his attention on the Captain. Upon receiving a curt nod of approval, they exit the room. Once they’re gone, you’re left with Johnny and Gaz, who seem to have made it their mission to watch your every move. They keep their attention on you, their eyes refusing to venture elsewhere, even for a second. It makes you feel as though you’re under a microscope, every action, every expression being picked apart, analyzed and judged.

You don’t know Gaz, but you do know Johnny. Desperate, and on the verge of bursting into tears, you look at Johnny and with a shaky voice say. “I don’t know what you think you know—I don’t care that you believe Simon is holding me here against my will—he’s not, but… I—”

You start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt. Suddenly, a wave of vertigo sweeps over you, turning the solid ground beneath you into a tumultuous sea that swings back and forth. The room around you starts to spin in a dizzying whirl of dull colors. But even amidst this disorientation, you press on, resolute and determined to get every word off your chest.

“We are in love,” you continue, your voice quivering, thick with emotions you can barely keep in check, “and… and I know I’m sick, I know that sometimes my perception distorts, and I imagine things, things that I fully believe to be true. But the reality is that, in those moments of delusion, I just don’t know better. Don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”

Drawing a shuddering breath, you feel the strength in your knees ebb away, as if each breath you take is sapping the energy right out of you. A cold sensation rushes up to meet you as you give in to the weakness, surrendering to gravity and collapsing onto the floor; your knees landing near the lodged bullet. Hot, stinging tears start to prick at the corner of your eyes. A painful lump forms in the back of your throat, making it hard to swallow. It’s as if your body is rebelling against the tears, refusing to let them out.

“But the one thing I know for sure, the one thing that is real and not is my imagination, is the fact that Simon loves me…” you confess, your voice imbued with a raw sincerity. “…so, so much that despite all my flaws, despite all the pain and trouble that I put him through, he refuses to let me go.”

Tears, salty and hot, begin to race down the contours of your cheeks—you aren’t able to hold them back anymore—your body trembles and convulses with each heart-wrenching sob that breaks forth from your parted lips. You plead, your voice choked, “Please, Johnny, I beg you. If you truly are Simon’s friend—if you are my friend—don’t let anyone take me away from him. Please—don’t…”

A/N: btw, this story is nearing it's end. :(

however, if you have any ideas of what else would you like to see included in this fic, please let me know! because (I'm a bit selfish and) I'd love to keep writing this story, but I'm afraid that currently I'm clueless on how to continue & if I don't come up with anything else there's one more chapter left, two at most

[20k-leagues-speedrun]

CHAPTER XII SOME FIGURES

A moment after we were seated on a divan in the saloon smoking. The Captain showed me a sketch that gave the plan, section, and elevation of the Nautilus. Then he began his description in these words:—

“Here, M. Aronnax, are the several dimensions of the boat you are in. It is an elongated cylinder with conical ends. It is very like a cigar in shape, a shape already adopted in London in several constructions of the same sort. The length of this cylinder, from stem to stern, is exactly 232 feet, and its maximum breadth is twenty-six feet. It is not built quite like your long-voyage steamers, but its lines are sufficiently long, and its curves prolonged enough, to allow the water to slide off easily, and oppose no obstacle to its passage. These two dimensions enable you to obtain by a simple calculation the surface and cubic contents of the Nautilus. Its area measures 6032 feet; and its contents about 1500 cubic yards—that is to say, when completely immersed it displaces 50,000 feet of water, or weighs 1500 tons.

“When I made the plans for this submarine vessel, I meant that nine-tenths should be submerged: consequently, it ought only to displace nine-tenths of its bulk—that is to say, only to weigh that number of tons. I ought not, therefore, to have exceeded that weight, constructing it on the aforesaid dimensions.

“The Nautilus is composed of two hulls, one inside, the other outside, joined by T-shaped irons, which render it very strong. Indeed, owing to this cellular arrangement it resists like a block, as if it were solid. Its sides cannot yield; it coheres spontaneously, and not by the closeness of its rivets; and the homogenity of its construction, due to the perfect union of the materials, enables it to defy the roughest seas.

“These two hulls are composed of steel plates, whose density is from .7 to .8 that of water. The first is not less than two inches and a half thick and weighs 394 tons. The second envelope, the keel, twenty inches high and ten thick, weighs alone sixty-two tons. The engine, the ballast, the several accessories and apparatus appendages, the partitions and bulkheads, weigh 961.62 tons. Do you follow all this?”

“I do.”

“Then, when the Nautilus is afloat under these circumstances, one-tenth is out of the water. Now, if I have made reservoirs of a size equal to this tenth, or capable of holding 150 tons, and if I fill them with water, the boat, weighing then 1507 tons, will be completely immersed. That would happen, Professor. These reservoirs are in the lower parts of the Nautilus. I turn on taps and they fill, and the vessel sinks that had just been level with the surface.”

“Well, Captain, but now we come to the real difficulty. I can understand your rising to the surface; but diving below the surface, does not your submarine contrivance encounter a pressure, and consequently undergo an upward thrust of one atmosphere for every thirty feet of water, just about fifteen pounds per square inch?”

“Just so, sir.”

“Then, unless you quite fill the Nautilus, I do not see how you can draw it down to those depths.”

“Professor, you must not confound statics with dynamics or you will be exposed to grave errors. There is very little labour spent in attaining the lower regions of the ocean, for all bodies have a tendency to sink. When I wanted to find out the necessary increase of weight required to sink the Nautilus, I had only to calculate the reduction of volume that sea-water acquires according to the depth.”

“That is evident.”

“Now, if water is not absolutely incompressible, it is at least capable of very slight compression. Indeed, after the most recent calculations this reduction is only .000436 of an atmosphere for each thirty feet of depth. If we want to sink 3000 feet, I should keep account of the reduction of bulk under a pressure equal to that of a column of water of a thousand feet. The calculation is easily verified. Now, I have supplementary reservoirs capable of holding a hundred tons. Therefore I can sink to a considerable depth. When I wish to rise to the level of the sea, I only let off the water, and empty all the reservoirs if I want the Nautilus to emerge from the tenth part of her total capacity.”

I had nothing to object to these reasonings.

“I admit your calculations, Captain,” I replied; “I should be wrong to dispute them since daily experience confirms them; but I foresee a real difficulty in the way.”

“What, sir?”

“When you are about 1000 feet deep, the walls of the Nautilus bear a pressure of 100 atmospheres. If, then, just now you were to empty the supplementary reservoirs, to lighten the vessel, and to go up to the surface, the pumps must overcome the pressure of 100 atmospheres, which is 1500 pounds per square inch. From that a power——”

“That electricity alone can give,” said the Captain, hastily. “I repeat, sir, that the dynamic power of my engines is almost infinite. The pumps of the Nautilus have an enormous power, as you must have observed when their jets of water burst like a torrent upon the Abraham Lincoln. Besides I use subsidiary reservoirs only to attain a mean depth of 750 to 1000 fathoms, and that with a view of managing my machines. Also, when I have a mind to visit the depths of the ocean five or six miles below the surface, I make use of slower but not less infallible means.”

“What are they, Captain?”

“That involves my telling you how the Nautilus is worked.”

“I am impatient to learn.”

“To steer this boat to starboard or port, to turn—in a word, following a horizontal plan, I use an ordinary rudder fixed on the back of the stern-post, and with one wheel and some tackle to steer by. But I can also make the Nautilus rise and sink, and sink and rise, by a vertical movement by means of two inclined planes fastened to its sides, opposite the centre of flotation, planes that move in every direction, and that are worked by powerful levers from the interior. If the planes are kept parallel with the boat, it moves horizontally. If slanted, the Nautilus, according to this inclination, and under the influence of the screw, either sinks diagonally or rises diagonally as it suits me. And even if I wish to rise more quickly to the surface, I ship the screw, and the pressure of the water causes the Nautilus to rise vertically like a balloon filled with hydrogen.”

“Bravo, Captain! But how can the steersman follow the route in the middle of the waters?”

“The steersman is placed in a glazed box, that is raised about the hull of the Nautilus, and furnished with lenses.”

“Are these lenses capable of resisting such pressure?”

“Perfectly. Glass, which breaks at a blow, is, nevertheless, capable of offering considerable resistance. During some experiments of fishing by electric light in 1864 in the Northern Seas, we saw plates less than a third of an inch thick resist a pressure of sixteen atmospheres. Now, the glass that I use is not less than thirty times thicker.”

“Granted. But, after all, in order to see, the light must exceed the darkness, and in the midst of the darkness in the water, how can you see?”

“Behind the steersman’s cage is placed a powerful electric reflector, the rays from which light up the sea for half a mile in front.”

“Ah! bravo, bravo, Captain! Now I can account for this phosphorescence in the supposed narwhal that puzzled us so. I now ask you if the boarding of the Nautilus and of the Scotia, that has made such a noise, has been the result of a chance rencontre?”

“Quite accidental, sir. I was sailing only one fathom below the surface of the water, when the shock came. It had no bad result.”

“None, sir. But now, about your rencontre with the Abraham Lincoln?”

“Professor, I am sorry for one of the best vessels in the American navy; but they attacked me, and I was bound to defend myself. I contented myself, however, with putting the frigate hors de combat; she will not have any difficulty in getting repaired at the next port.”

“Ah, Commander! your Nautilus is certainly a marvellous boat.”

“Yes, Professor; and I love it as if it were part of myself. If danger threatens one of your vessels on the ocean, the first impression is the feeling of an abyss above and below. On the Nautilus men’s hearts never fail them. No defects to be afraid of, for the double shell is as firm as iron; no rigging to attend to; no sails for the wind to carry away; no boilers to burst; no fire to fear, for the vessel is made of iron, not of wood; no coal to run short, for electricity is the only mechanical agent; no collision to fear, for it alone swims in deep water; no tempest to brave, for when it dives below the water, it reaches absolute tranquillity. There, sir! that is the perfection of vessels! And if it is true that the engineer has more confidence in the vessel than the builder, and the builder than the captain himself, you understand the trust I repose in my Nautilus; for I am at once captain, builder, and engineer.”

“But how could you construct this wonderful Nautilus in secret?”

“Each separate portion, M. Aronnax, was brought from different parts of the globe. The keel was forged at Creusot, the shaft of the screw at Penn & Co.’s, London, the iron plates of the hull at Laird’s of Liverpool, the screw itself at Scott’s at Glasgow. The reservoirs were made by Cail & Co. at Paris, the engine by Krupp in Prussia, its beak in Motala’s workshop in Sweden, its mathematical instruments by Hart Brothers, of New York, etc.; and each of these people had my orders under different names.”

“But these parts had to be put together and arranged?”

“Professor, I had set up my workshops upon a desert island in the ocean. There my workmen, that is to say, the brave men that I instructed and educated, and myself have put together our Nautilus. Then when the work was finished, fire destroyed all trace of our proceedings on this island, that I could have jumped over if I had liked.”

“Then the cost of this vessel is great?”

“M. Aronnax, an iron vessel costs £145 per ton. Now the Nautilus weighed 1500. It came therefore to £67,500, and £80,000 more for fitting it up, and about £200,000 with the works of art and the collections it contains.”

“One last question, Captain Nemo.”

“Ask it, Professor.”

“You are rich?”

“Immensely rich, sir; and I could, without missing it, pay the national debt of France.”

I stared at the singular person who spoke thus. Was he playing upon my credulity? The future would decide that.

[ceativespray]

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[seijohsbabe]

omg imagine daddy iwa. like...he’s no longer with your mother meaning divorced, but you get to visit him every weekend! it’s so much fun and it’s your favorite part of the week because he stuffs you full of his load. 🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻

(mom gets suspicious everytime you come back home with a blush and grin)

canyouwritethisplease

a/n: Omg yes!!!! Thank u so much to be my first ask, it made me so happy c: Daddy iwa is 🥵 (I’m sorry if it’s kinda short)

Ship: Dad!Iwaizumi x f!Reader

Tw: incest, daddy kink, dubcon, choking, overstimulation, (Reader is in college)

Wordcount: 2,0k

When you were called down by your parents and they looked you in the face, you had expected everything except that.

"We're going to divorce." The words rang in your head to this day. When your father moved out and you stayed with your mother alone, you couldn't help but cry. He hugged you tightly and whispered in your ear, "You can visit me every weekend." And so you did. It's been like this for two years and you're always happy to go to see him. The weekends were full of fun. But at a certain time, you are looking forward to the weekends even more. Every time you came back to your mum, with red cheeks and a big grin on your face. She just raised her eyebrows at you, but your dad specifically forbade you to talk to anyone about it, and you did. It was also the reason you didn't want a boyfriend. You were safe with Daddy and that was enough for you.

This weekend it was time again. You packed your things and stood at the door to say goodbye to your mum. Since there were only two stations by train, you didn’t have to wait long until you finally see his face again. With fast steps, you jump from the train to bring the way between the house and the train station behind you. Excited you ring the house to which you have already been a lot. Long you did not have to wait until he opened the door. "Daddy!!" You screamed loud, while you hugged him. His strong muscular arms put themselves around your -in contrast to him- small body, while he buried his face on your head to smell your scent "Princess, I've already missed you." He muttered against your hairline, while he pulled you into the house, and sat us on the couch.

As he sat with two jars next to you and pat his thigh while smiling at you. "Come here Princess, I've missed you." The nickname let your middle tingle, while you crawled over to him, and placed yourself on his strong thighs, while you put your hands around his neck. His hands in turn placed on your thighs and drove up and down, well-considered that your skirt slipped higher and higher.

"I've missed you so much daddy, please take care of me." Your voice became more and more desperate, but Iwaizumi only chuckled while he continued to drive over your thighs with his big strong hands and put them on your hips. "Oh my little girl, I’ve missed you too, but your so eager today, aren’t you?" he said while pushing you down and rubbing you against something hard. Of course you knew what it was and it made you whine. All week you couldn't think of anything else but to be filled by him.

Very slowly he let your skirt go up until he could see your dressed cunny. When he tore your underpants with one hand, you were startled briefly. "Already so wet for daddy huh?" he said, looking at your glistening cunt which screamed literally to be filled. His finger grazed through your cunt to collect all your wetness.

"Yes Daddy just for you", you answered while you looked him in the eyes. His eyes, they had something that enchanted you every time.

He brought his finger up to bring it before your mouth. You knew what to do, so you took his finger in your mouth and licked it clean, while you looked him in the eyes. When he took his finger back to him again, he put his hand around your face and stroked you with his thumb. You leaned into his touch, the missing warmth of his touch. Without a word, he lifted you by your thighs, which made you scream briefly.

"Well I'm gonna fill you up real‘ good today Princess.“

Your lower abdomen tickled now, and you couldn’t stop the urge to kiss him, while he walked you two to his bedroom. Your hands grabbed his hair to pull him even more into you. It was a passionate kiss which the two of you shared. You knew all this was wrong, but since he asked you once, to make you feel better after a hard breakup, of course, you said yes because Daddy always made you feel better.

And since then you couldn’t stop thinking of him and his big cock which filled you always so nice.

Your kiss just didn't end, it was like time stood still until he put you on the bed and stood over you and looked down at you with a big grin on his face. Your eyes spoke a thousand words. You wanted him. Now. Of course, he didn't let himself be told twice and pulled his shirt over his head, and immediately afterward pulled your skirt off your legs. You were impatient and you didn't hid it either, because you were immediately on your knees to help him a little, but he just shook his head and let you get up again. Your questioning look at him made him giggle. "Oh baby, I've missed you, I just want to fill you up right now." While he pushed you back onto the bed, to let you lay on your back. His hands started moving over your cunt to go even higher until it got to your shirt and pulled it over your head. Your bra fell to the floor quickly too. Now completely naked, hair lying around you, cunt dripping, you looked like an angel to Iwaizumi, sent by the gods. His angel belonged only to him and gave him redemption.

Your gaze held Iwaizumi's while he took off his sweatpants, including his underpants. It was clear to see how much he missed you. His cock stood straight up, the tip leaking with pre-cum, while he gave it a few pumps until he laid over you, his strong muscular arms from years of training next to your head while he looked down at you, and entered you with one push. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your hands gripped his upper arms. After the first bump, he couldn't pull himself together and groaned. His tip kissed your cervix perfectly with every thrust. It made you moan and drive your nails down into its skin as your eyes rolled back.

Out of nowhere, he started pounding into you at an incredibly fast pace. It was unclear to you how he could bring so much power into his thrusts in this position, but it felt so good.

"D-Daddyyyy." You moaned as he got faster and faster. One of his hands had now moved further down to play with your sensitive nipple.

"Cum for me Princess, come on.“

It was just so much to feel for you right now. You could feel every inch of his length in you. And with a final snap, you finally came, pulling your walls tightly around him while you kept repeating "Daddy" until it was just a whisper. He let you ride your high while he watched your face with eagle eyes.

When you came back down he leaned over you and began to pick up his pace again. During this, he looked for your wrists to hold them together over your head with one hand. "Fuck your just so tight." he hissed while his pace quickened. The slapping of your skin echoed in the room, mixed with your moans, and Iwaizumi‘s groans.

"I'm gonna cum into you." Your walls clenched around him. "Oh, you like that? My Lil cumslut. Always so eager for my cum.“

His free hand pressed onto your lower belly. "Fuck, Do you feel that?I can feel my cock right here“ he pressed again, but you couldn't answer him because of his cock going in and out and your ever-growing knot that will soon explode for the second time. His hand continued to slide down until he reached your clit and put pressure on it. And with one more powerful push, you both came at the same time. Long white ropes splattered your walls white while your walls basically pumped him out. His hips rolled in and out of you at a slow pace while you were still too much in ecstasy to notice that he was rolling you over to let himself lay on the back while you were on top of him. His penis still inside you, he lifted you up to let you fall on him in one quick motion. Your eyes widened and a loud moan escaped you.

"S 'too much Daddy-" you've mumbled. His hands caressed your back while he praised you.

Slowly he lifted you to see you straight in front of him again. "Princess, I said beforehand I would fill you up, do you think I lied?" You shook your head. "Well then, ride me like a good girl come on.“

Your hands planted themselves on his strong chest to lift you up and sink you down again. You didn't have much strength but you were still trying to build up a pace.

But this was probably not enough, because Iwaizumi put his hand around your neck and squeezed it once. "So tired already? Come on you can do more.“ But you just shook your head. Being able to say something would not have been possible because your air supply was getting tighter. "You have to do everything by yourself," he mumbled to himself. And with that, he planted his feet on the bed, while he put his hands on your hips. Without being able to say another word, he pounded into you again. His length slid along your walls, you could feel each of his veins, even his tip which, as always, hit your point perfectly every time. Your hands tried to hold his shoulders while the stars came back to your vision. "Fuck- Daddy's so big" Your hands clung to his strong shoulders and it seemed he would never stop his pace at this rate.

His eyes tightened as you tightened your hands on his shoulders. "I'm cumming, I’m cumming, I’m- fuck." And that brought you to your third orgasm for today. Your senses were numb, your walls clammed around him while he was still chasing his climax. But he didn't have to wait long for it when he came into you with a final snap, and shot his second load cum into you, and immediately pulled himself out of you, to let you lay next to him in his arms. His cum just dripped out of you, but it felt incredible to have finally been filled again. Your eyes closed because you were too tired to move a centimeter now.

"Was it Good Princess?" He chuckled while he put back your hair that was hanging in your face. "Mhm, I've missed Daddy's cock so much." You mumbled into a pillow. But that wouldn't be the last time, because tomorrow was another day. When you come back home you have to make sure to walk upright after the many laps you two did over the weekend, because the last thing you two need is when your mum scoops up what you did.

[primasveraas-writing]

Captivating

Request: “Good day! I don’t know English at all, so through a translator, if you don’t mind. I would like to ask you to imagine a reader with Cassian where, during one of the undercover missions, the reader is dancing in a bar to distract the subject's attention, and Cassian finally accepts his / her feelings for her / him and is slightly jealous. After that, they have a serious conversation. You can add a light NSFW if you want. Thank you so much for earlier! I really like your work!))))”

Ahhh thank you so much for waiting so long! I’ve changed it a bit- they’re still in a bar and the reader is the subject of attention, but there’s no dancing and it’s a little tamer. Still- TW for alcohol and suggestive themes.

Reader is gender-neutral.

WORD COUNT: 1065

XXX

Cassian’s not sure why his throat feels so tight, or why his palms can’t seem to stay dry.

He trusts you- he knows that much. And it’s not like you’ve never been separated on a mission before, so that can’t be the cause for concern. But still, he sits in a corner of the dingy bar, hands clutched around some cheap drink, and watches you out of the corner of his eye, his heart pounding.

Through the tables of people and in the dim lighting, you’re barely visible, but Cassian can still make out the curves of your lips as you smile, and the way your eyes crinkle as you tip your head back in a laugh. His stomach turns as your hair falls back gracefully, and he forces himself to look down at the brown liquid in his glass instead.

He’s there as backup, that’s all, in case something goes wrong. You’re smart and capable, so there’s no reason for Cassian to be nervous. In fact, your target seems entirely clueless- she’s been smiling and laughing along with you all night.

So maybe Cassian isn’t nervous, he thinks. You’re not in danger.

Heat flashes through Cassian when he catches another glimpse of you. Your skin is practically shining, even in the semi-dark, and your borrowed outfit is made out of some sleek material. It’s low-cut and it hugs your form. You had picked it out yourself, laughing at Cassian’s bewildered impression at the idea of you wearing such a thing.

He had told himself then it was because he’d never seen you in anything other than grungy uniforms, rebel or otherwise, but as you readied yourself hours before, Cassian had realized that this might not be the problem.

It was an inconvenient revelation, especially in a burgeoning war.

Nonetheless- all the hours you had spent together, saving each other and watching each other’s backs- they meant something. The danger brought you closer, because sometimes, your mutual trust was all you had in this vast, cruel galaxy. You and Cassian work well as a team, so it only made sense that-

Cassian downs the rest of his drink, wincing at the taste rather than the burn. It was nearly water, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, given the general atmosphere of the establishment and the price of the drink in the first place.

A couple in front of him rises and leaves, slipping silently out the door and into the night, granting Cassian a clearer view of you. Your features are lit up, so genuine Cassian could believe your joy himself, and you’re-

His heart clenches. Maybe the timing is horrible, but the truth bubbles to the forefront of his mind before he can help or deny it.

You’re beautiful. Not just in looks, but in every aspect important to Cassian. And he cares about you. Not as just a mission partner, and not as just a friend, either.

So now there’s that.

Cassian raises his cup to his lips before remembering that it’s empty, and he mutters a curse into the empty glass and sets it on the table with a dull thunk.

It’s then he catches the hand signal- subtle and quick, but Cassian is sure. You’re getting up slowly, touching the subject on her arm and leaning in to whisper something in her ear. You linger, long enough that Cassian can’t ignore his heart thudding in his chest, before turning away with a smile. The mission, it seems, was a success.

He waits a full minute, watching the subject before he too leaves, slinking out the door without looking back.

***

Once you’ve rendezvoused and made it to your ship, you tell Cassian the information you’ve gleaned in a rushed tone. He’s quiet, more so than usual, something that his droid comments on snidely. Both of you ignore K-2SO, but he has a point. Taking Cassian by the arm, you guide him to the back of the ship where you can at least pretend there’s some privacy.

“What is it?” Your words are hushed, but if K2 could smirk at you, he would be doing so right now. Cassian shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Try again,” you say, eyes glinting. Cassian meets your even stare, but sighs after a long moment.

“You were very… captivating… tonight,” Cassian says slowly, as if testing out the words.

“Thank you,” you reply, a little pointed. “That was the objective, right?”

Cassian sighs again, a short huff, and tugs at his unruly hair. His jaw is working furiously, and you realize that your partner is literally grinding his teeth. But what-

Oh. It could almost be funny, if the two of you weren’t so frustrated. Cassian, in his own quiet, stubborn, backward way- is confessing to you.

You raise a single eyebrow. “Do you mean to tell me I looked nice tonight?”

“That’s what I just said,” Cassian grumbles, not meeting your eyes. He picks at a thread on his sleeve, and you’re very acutely aware of how close you are, huddled in the back of the cabin, you still clad in your rather scanty outfit.

“You think I looked good. Attractive, even.”

Cassian gazes at you, deadpan. “And if I did?” The words are defensive, a challenge. Like he doesn’t know how this conversation is going to end.

A thousand retorts flash through your mind, but only one gets to the point fast enough. Quickly, before you can lose your nerve, you grab Cassian’s jacket, bringing him closer. You can feel his hot breath against your bare skin- your lips are inches apart, and he’s looking at you, almost in awe, and hungry, but he doesn’t pull away- so you close the gap, kissing him.

His arms wrap around your body. You’re flush against him, he’s kissing you like his life depends on it, then it’s over. Your lips are tender from the pressure; your chin stings from Cassian’s unshaven stubble.

“I-” Cassian sounds flustered.

“That was nice,” you prompt.

“That was nice,” Cassian repeats. He’s looking at you, ever calculating, and then he smiles, and relief floods through you. “That was very nice.” His grin widens before his eyes sober. “We are on the same page, then?” he asks, extending his hand.

You take it, threading your fingers through his, and beam. “We are,” you agree, happy and content.

[jetaime-jespere]

Right Where You Left Me, Part One

Time can move in two directions. Until it collides in the present.

Rated M for smut/darker themes

Four hundred twenty eight days.

That’s how long it’s been since the day everything changed. Fourteen months, sixty weeks, or some ten thousand hours, but Aaron stopped counting a long time ago. Quantifying time in arbitrary measures - hours, weeks, days - is pointless now. It doesn’t make a difference, nothing ever will. The only thing that matters is she’s gone, and nothing has been the same since.

There isn’t much from that day in Newark he doesn’t remember in perfect, horrific detail. He remembers every moment, every second that brought them to the point of no return. It haunts him during the day, keeps him awake late into the nights that bleed into early mornings. He’s spent the last year with the events replaying in his mind, over and over again, trying to pinpoint where the hell it all went wrong.

The answer to that is the beginning, on a beautiful day in April just over a year ago.

…

April | Fourteen Months Ago

They never saw it coming.

It was their day off, a beautiful day in the middle of spring. The chilly morning was a quiet promise of a warm, brilliant afternoon, one they planned on spending together, without any obligations or commitments. They hadn’t made specific plans, but something Aaron has been meaning to do is take her to the Manassas Battlefields, one of the only things he appreciates about his mother’s hometown, along with the hole-in-the-wall Taqueria in Old Town. It’s just a short trip down 66, but Manassas is a different world from Arlington entirely. Yet it’s something he wants to share with her, a tangible piece of something that no longer exists.

Aaron smiles as he sits up in bed, shielding his eyes from the sun creeping through the windows. “I know you’re awake,” he murmurs to Emily. She stirs beside him with a soft groan at the offending light as he drops kisses on her bare shoulder and across her back. “Open your eyes.”

She does, shifting across the mattress to face him, smiling before she’s even fully alert, blinking a few times as her eyes adjust to the light. “What time is it?” Emily throws an arm over her face, stretching languidly as her head lolls around the pillows - the expensive microfiber ones he’d purchased when she started staying over more frequently.

“Does it matter?” Aaron pulls the sheets away further, thumbing the side of her breast, playing his fingers over the delicate bones of her ribs. “It’s our day off.” There’s a soft sigh of contentment from her upon hearing his words, visibly relaxing as her eyes flutter closed.

The moment that passes, one second to the next, is slow and unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world to do this. Emily winds an arm around his neck, letting him pull her into him just enough so he can nudge a hand between her back and the mattress, pressing his mouth to hers. He kisses her, licking the seam of her lips until she relents a little more, arching her back into him. His free hand cups her jaw, taking in the subtle traces of perfume that linger on her neck. He has to remind himself to breathe, because God, he can never get quite enough of her.

“Last night wasn’t enough for you?” Emily laughs against his lips between kisses, but she’s already started to lift her hips against him teasingly. “You certainly were … persistent.”

“Never.” Aaron uses his leverage to roll her to her stomach, then kisses his way down her spine. He lifts her hips up flush against his, anchors an arm around her waist, slipping a hand between her legs as he draws her close, bringing her to her knees to settle in his lap. Her head falls back on his shoulder; his lips brush her cheek as she sinks down on him completely, emitting a quiet moan when she’s fully seated. He starts to rock his hips, moving just enough to feel her need to respond with a sway of her own hips. She can’t stay still anymore, not like this.

Aaron smiles against her neck and reaches for her hand, bringing it up to press against her heart. With her back against his chest, Emily whimpers when his fingers find her clit, the pressure of his thumb making her hips stutter as her hands forming bruises into his thighs. Her body bows for him, overwhelmed by the sense of fullness, as he kisses the back of her neck, the blades of her shoulders. Her hips drive back against his, a coordination of push and pull that builds in intensity, blurs her vision. Emily can feel every inch of him like this; she whimpers at the way he times the pace of his thumb with the force of his hips, pushing her higher and closer.

“F-fuck,” Emily stammers, her legs shaking enough by now that he has to hold her upright. His name sounds like one long syllable when she says it, hardly coherent, slightly breathless. She’s close already, beginning to tremble in his arms. Her head falls against his shoulder as she tightens around him like a vice, so close she moans in anticipation.

“You should see yourself like this,” Aaron coaxes in her ear, rolling his hips up into her, full and slow and deliberately. “You’re beautiful.”

The low hum of his voice in her ear is all it takes to draw it out of her. Emily writhes in his lap, her spine curving almost painfully as he pins her hips down against him, only increasing the volume of her incoherent screams. Her release triggers his; Aaron follows her with a few hurried thrusts of his own, uncoordinated and frenzied. He gets both arms around her, holds her to his chest when he spills inside of her, biting a bruise into her shoulder as he does.

They stay like that for moments on end; Emily can feel the pound of his heart against her back. It matches her own as she gets her breath back, even if her legs are still shaking. Aaron smoothes her hair back from her face, gently turns her chin to the side to kiss her jaw. “Good morning.”

She laughs lightly, her eyes alit, an amused grin on her face. “Hi.” She practically crumples back into the pillows, dragging him down with her. A few more moments of quiet could lull her back to sleep, coupled with the warmth of his body beside hers, and she dozes at his side like she often does on mornings that start this way.

“Coffee is on,” he murmurs to her some time later, pulling her against him. “I’m going to start breakfast. You said you wanted French toast, didn’t you?” What he doesn’t tell her is not only did he get the necessary ingredients for that, but for Eggs Benedict too (he heard her mention it’s her favorite, once when JJ was pregnant), in case she changes her mind at the last minute. He’s learned in the last six months she’s somewhat indecisive when it comes to breakfast food.

Emily laughs, her fingers pushing into his hair, lightly scratching his scalp. “You’re spoiling me, you know.”

“Well, if it weren’t for me, you’d probably starve,” he chuckles. “I’ve seen your cabinets more than once. That’s all I need to know.”

Emily lobs a pillow at him, snorting with laughter. “You’re not wrong.” But there’s adoration in her eyes, a look that’s increased in frequency and duration over the last few months. Gaining her trust hadn’t been easy, it’s an ongoing work in progress, an evolution of small steps, one after the other. But there are moments, ones like that, reminding him that maybe he’s doing something correctly.

(Read the rest on ao3 here)

[ladyartemesia]

▨ FIC • PREVIEW ▨

The Mark of Yun-Ki

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Hybrid AU  • Royalty AU • Fantasy AU • Daechwita AU

Summary: For a thousand years the tiger god Yun-Ki has marked the heirs of the Min Empire and thus only a marked heir can inherit the throne. When the beautiful daughter of the Min Emperor’s loyal warlord rescues a mysterious tiger hybrid from the imperial prison, she unleashes a secret that the throne would kill to protect. The young emperor claims to be the chosen heir... but who really bears the Mark of Yun-Ki?

Word Count: (preview) 2280 (final word count approx. 7K)

Rating and Warnings: Preview is rated M(ature) but final fic will be E(xplicit) for heat sex among other thing. Warnings for the preview include sexual innuendo and mature themes.

Author’s Note: One of the reasons I wrote this was in response to a prompt given to me by @mindays​ like MONTHS ago (I have included the original prompt at the bottom of the preview) • I really hope you like it! Sorry I took so long.

“Why is he blindfolded?”

The guard beside you shifted uncomfortably. 

“The Emperor ordered that his eyes be covered at all times.”

Your gaze traveled covertly over your surroundings, assessing the dimly lit chamber with practiced disdain. 

“Leave us.” 

“My lady, I cannot-”

“Do you know who I am, soldier?”

Your voice slashed through the air like an icy whip. 

“Y-yes, my la-”

“Then you know it is unwise to displease my family.” One jeweled hand came to rest dramatically on your chest. “Your daughter is not yet 15...such a pity to orphan one so young.”

The soldier bowed almost too quickly. 

“I will be outside, my lady-” he bowed again and again as he backed toward the door, “I meant no disrespect-”

Then you were alone… save for the notorious prisoner bound and blindfolded in the cell before you. 

He was clearly aware of your presence, but made no move or sound of acknowledgement, not even when your footsteps brought you to the very edge of his enclosure. 

“Prisoner AG-D2... name unknown... crime unknown...” your hand travelled up to your hair to withdraw a long silver pin, “no date of birth, no date of arrest...”

The prisoner jerked suddenly when the sound of your pin tripping the cell’s iron lock reached his unnaturally sensitive ears. 

His nostrils flared as an almost familiar scent - buried beneath a decade of fury and fear - curled through him. 

“Who are you?” 

The words were more of a growl than a question, but the only answer he received was the sound of his cell door creaking open. 

“Why are you here?” he tried again. 

“I am here to tell you a story...”

The prisoner barked out an empty laugh at your strange reply.

“I love a good story,” he whispered bitterly. The corner of your mouth twitched a bit at his spirit. 

Wrists bound together, eyes covered… but still every inch the proud warrior. His clothes were worn, but well cared for and the body beneath them was sleek and strong. This was not a man accustomed to being bound. 

“You were not raised like the rest of our people... the tales of our customs and our gods were - deliberately - never taught to you...but it is past time that you knew of them.”

He grinned, granting you a wicked flash of razor sharp fangs.

“Are all of the Emperor’s captives tortured with fairytales?”

“Charming,” you snorted, dragging a small stool from the corner of his cell. The prisoner’s ears flicked curiously at the sound.

“Aren’t you afraid of me, storyteller? What if I’ve been imprisoned for devouring beautiful women like yourself?”

You shook your head in amusement as you settled onto the stool.

“Have you devoured many beautiful women then?”

“Oh absolutely-” his grin took on a decidedly sinful slant, “but I doubt that’s why I’m here.”

A strange fluttering stirred in your chest at his words, though you did not fully understand the cause. You could not afford to waste time dwelling on such things, however.

“So... why are you here?” 

The prisoner was silent for several moments as he weighed the risk of being honest with you. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered finally, “I was told the Emperor himself ordered my arrest… but I was never told why.”

Your fingernails dug painfully into the palm of your hand, but you offered no other outward reaction to his words.

“What do you know of the current Min Emperor?”

“Not much. I’ve heard he is young... Stories say he has the temper of a demon, but his people endure it because he is the favorite of an ancient god.”

Your jaw clenched.

“That is correct. Our citizens are privileged to serve and obey the Emperor because the great tiger god, Yun-Ki has chosen the House of Min as his sacred bloodline. It is believed that the Mins are descended from Yun-Ki himself...”

“How ironic,” the prisoner scoffed, “considering that the Mins despise hybrids. They claim we are the unnatural children of the spirit realm and the earth. Surely they would be ashamed to be the product of such… blasphemy.”

Feminine laughter filled the air. It had been so long since the bound man had heard anything so beautiful. The ache it stirred in him was nearly as foreign as the sound itself. 

“Yes it does seem rather hypocritical... especially in light of the events which bring me here.”

Your scent was stronger now. It tugged at the edges of his mind in broken pictures and flashes of sunshine. He knew it...

But he could not recognize it. 

Nor could he explain the heat it began to stir in him. 

“Yun-Ki’s chosen heir bears his sacred mark .... Every child of the emperor’s seed is checked for it the moment they are born. And no concubine or wife of the emperor is ever so exalted as the one who produces a marked heir... except of course, the mother of our current emperor.”

The prisoner leaned forward, fascinated in spite of the strange circumstances.

“The dowager empress is widely revered. I may not know your fairytales, but a hybrid’s ears are better than most. My guards speak of her often.”.

You nodded

“The dowager is indeed very highly regarded… but she is not the emperor’s true mother.”

“Lady…” the prisoner shook his head irritably. “What nonsense is this? And how could it possibly affect me?”

You chuckled softly and the small hairs on the back of his arms rose up in response. 

“Patience, prisoner, the truth I offer you is worth more than both our lives.”

“The fine jewelry I hear clinking around your neck is worth more than my life, lady,” he hissed. “Speak your peace and spare me these cryptic declarations.”

It took every ounce of self-control you possess not to flick him right in his arrogant nose. 

“As you wish,” you replied with heavily affected sweetness. “The story begins with our current emperor’s father. The old emperor was a man of warfare and his spies discovered that the Prince of neighboring PyonKang planned invade our territory, he marched his armies in and occupied the small kingdom without mercy…” (you paused here significantly) “He even took the Prince’s sister as his war prize...”

The prisoner snorted. 

“Did he know what she was?” He smiled coldly. “The royals of PyongKang do not share your nation’s distaste for hybrids or the pleasures of mating with one-”

There was a sharp spike in your scent when he spoke the words; a darker - richer essence than the one he detected earlier, but this time he had no trouble identifying it. 

Arousal. 

Blood churned chaotically beneath his skin, rushing to answer your body’s unspoken request. His mind clouded suddenly and for a moment...he could almost taste you. 

This is dangerous. 

The fabric of your gown rustled as you shifted uncomfortably in your seat - driven to relieve some of the unexpected pressure in your core. 

“He did not know. The lady bore no hybrid indicators. So the emperor assumed - quite incorrectly - that she was not a hybrid.” 

“I’ve heard of such things…” he sighed, sifting through his memory till he found what he was looking for. “A physician I met in Eastern Wei discovered that some hybrids manifest internally. They retain the outer shell of a human, but their inner parts reveal the truth.” His head tilted as he recalled the old doctor’s exact words. “The face of man could hide the heart of a snake.”

You drew your lip between your teeth and nibbled it nervously. 

“You are correct. Except, in the case of the emperor’s war prize concubine, the face of a beautiful woman hid the heart of a tiger.”

The man before you scrambled to his feet in a move so sudden and unexpected, you nearly cried out. 

“You mean to tell me that the current Min Emperor is a tiger hybrid? Surely I would have heard of it. The world would have heard of it.”

You drew a deep breath - almost as if to brace yourself for the words you planned to speak.

The prisoner’s eyes were covered, but he could still make out shapes and shadows through the rough cloth. Your shadow seemed unnaturally still. When you spoke again, your tone was softer and the sound of it resonated deep within him like the bells of the old temple near his childhood home. 

“The princess of PyongKang became pregnant, and gave birth to twin boys. The younger was strong and pale, gifted with the strange golden hair so many of the Min bloodline seem to possess. But his elder brother...”

Your hands opened and closed reflexively in your lap as you worked to calm your pounding pulse. 

“... The elder brother’s hybrid heritage was quite evident.”

You moved then, stepping slowly and carefully until you stood before the prisoner face to face. Your scent swelled erotically with every step until it wrapped around him like a velvet vice. The urge to lean into it - into you - was nearly unbearable. 

“One of the twins bore the tiger god’s mark... but not the one who sits on the throne now.”

Your hand stretched slowly toward the edge of the prisoner’s blindfold. 

“The emperor executed his hybrid concubine immediately, yet even he was not bold enough to kill Yun-Ki’s chosen heir...”

Your fingers hovered a hairsbreadth from his skin. Once you touched him, everything would change. The truth you chased for eleven years would be within your grasp. 

“He sent the child to a poor family of fox hybrids who worked and lived on the estate of his most loyal warlord. The boy was never to know what he was… who he was...”

You could almost feel the moment he grasped the implication of your words. The subtle bond that always hummed strangely between you remained strong despite the years of separation. 

“The warlord had a daughter who loved to ride her horse near the lake.” Your voice trembled ever so slightly as you continued. “One day the horse was startled by a snake and it threw her into the water...”

A single tear wet his blindfold as the alluring tendrils of your scent merged chaotically with the treasured echoes in his mind. 

“Tiger hybrids hate the water,” you whispered, gently drawing the cloth up over his head, “but you dove in to save me anyways.”

Your lungs and throat burned from coughing out the water you swallowed, yet the pain was far preferable to the finality of drowning. The heavy fabric of your gown weighed you down as soon as your body crashed into the lake. 

Death reached for you, but the strange boy cradling you tightly to his chest had pulled you back before you were lost to its embrace.

“Little one, can you hear me?”

His eyes scanned frantically over your small drenched form for signs of serious injury, but you were completely distracted from your almost untimely end by the two feline ears twitching conspicuously amid the boy’s sodden curls. 

“You’re… You’re a cat!”

The boy’s jaw dropped open indignantly. 

“I’m tiger hybrid! Not a cat.” He shook his head irritably. “Have you never seen a hybrid before?”

“I’ve only heard of hybrids. I’ve never really seen one-”

Your fingers itched to touch the soft fur of his ears and you stretched forward almost absently to do so till he lashed out and snatched your wandering hand. 

“What are you doing?!” 

“Oh… I was going to...pet you?” you murmured sheepishly, prompting an irritable growl from the boy. 

“Little One, you do not pet tigers.”

He stood to his feet abruptly, dumping you into a soggy heap in the process. It took considerable effort for you to pull yourself upright while wearing 4 layers of thoroughly soaked cloth, but you eventually managed to regain your bearings and scramble after him. 

“Wait! Come back please I EEP-” 

The water dripping off your dress made the grass rather slippery… Both legs flew out from under you and, for the second time in less than a minute, you found yourself flat on your back. 

After a few moments of gazing miserably into the sky, a familiar face hovered over yours. 

“What a strange girl you are, Little One.”

You grinned.

“What is your name, tiger?”

He sighed deeply and held his hand out to pull you up. 

“I’m Yoongi.”

“Hello, Yoongi.” You tried to manage a proper bow, but only ended up losing your balance again. Yoongi grabbed your sleeve just in time to prevent you from crashing face first at his feet. 

“You’re completely hopeless,” he chuckled, endeared in spite of himself. 

Then you smiled. 

It was a fierce, blinding thing and Yoongi became aware of a subtle yet profound shift deep within the recess of his soul; something his primal half recognized immediately, but his human mind could not begin to comprehend. 

“No one’s ever said that to me before, even though I know they all think it.”

“And why is that?”

You shrugged. 

“They are probably afraid of my father.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows raised in alarm. 

“You’re the warlord’s daughter?!”

“Yes,” you replied with all the haughtiness a ten-year old could muster, “and I’m quite used to getting what I want.”

Yoongi felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. You were such an adorable little brat. 

“And what is it you’re wanting now, Little One?”

You nibbled your lip for a moment, suddenly shy before the handsome hybrid boy whose beautiful feline eyes danced with unconcealed mirth. 

“I want you to be my friend.”

Thirteen years later, those same golden eyes locked with yours as a strangled sob bubbled up from the back of his throat. 

“Little One?” his face lit suddenly with pure joy “...is it you?”

Please let me know in the comments if you would like to be added to the taglist!

I would love to know any thoughts or theories you have! Thank you for reading! This story will be published on or around 7/31!

This is the original prompt which inspired this story...

[heli0s-writes]

I loved golden hour… it was so sweet and sexy…. Can we get one like that for Bucky???

Okay :) 650 words. Lots of Bucky loving. 18+ smut.

brooklyn after dark masterlist

midnight sun

He’s a wonder.

Brighter in the night—in those quiet hours when the world is asleep—away from the pressures of other eyes. Illuminated only by an open window, he’s a midnight flower in your arms, revealing all his secrets. You inhale the sweet scent of him, touch your lips to his, drink him down like nectar.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

The boy is a miracle. 

Breathing soft and slow with his face against your neck, chest to your chest. He’s folded and tucked against you, all his power and gravity nestled. A sapling in the shelter of your hold.

“Sweetheart...” 

He arches, brushing the tip of his nose against your chin, up to your own nose, mouth hovering but not quite touching, just feeling each other’s atmosphere. You cross the distance and kiss him, grip tighter now like he could collapse right into you and god, you wish he could. Let you keep every last bit of him forever.

You savor his lips, caressing the line of his cupid’s bow with your own, tongue flicking over the corners of his mouth, punctuating it chastely like a ritual. Bucky moans, hand on the plane of your back moving, fingers scrambling at your spine before he palms your thigh and slots you flush against his torso with one leg hooked around his waist.

It’s unspoken. He tugs at the waistband of your sleeping shorts before he changes his mind and his hands slip into the leg opening of the satin instead, keeping you right where you are. He rucks his own sweats down, just enough to spring himself free, shushing your whines, never letting you get too far, slipping upward, finding your heat.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

“Okay, Buck—ah—”

It’s hard to focus when he’s like this. Perfectly warm. Perfectly adoring. Perfectly fitted. So, so bright with the faintest pink bursting over his cheeks. His hips rock easily, stroking you in your favorite ways, angled to where every rub pulls out another gasp. Bucky’s breath soon matches yours in frequency and need.

“Love you, sweetheart. God, the things you do to me,” he rasps. “You make me feel so good.”

His eyes– pupils blown wide, half-hooded with lust and love– immobilize you, memorizing every inch of your face. He smiles. Christ, a smile that could launch a thousand ships. That could blind the whole world.

You curse quietly, blood pounding in your ears, your chest, your throat where Bucky latches on with his perfect mouth, marking you up with his spit and then his teeth until it’ll be obvious to everyone tomorrow what the two of you have been up to.

“Keep going—oh, don’t stop–“

“You want it like this, sweetheart?” He sucks on your collar, on your shoulder, taking every whimper and cry as a command to continue.

They flower all over your chest. Red and purple and swollen bright for everyone to see—just like him. And the very thought of him, of you, lost to it takes you over the edge, calling his name like you’re at an altar in supplication.

Bucky hitches himself deeper, grinding his hips, gripping your thigh, and fills you all the way up until the stars behind your eyes whites out your vision, making you stutter and keen and fall apart.

And then he stills, pulling you even closer, body slick with dew and starlight. The two of you lie in perfect symmetry, trembling in each other’s arms.

From his petal lips, you drink nectar and honey and his sweet, sweet love. And then he drinks from you, and the splendor of his irises blooms radiantly in the dark.

[babbushka]

Better Luck

Flip Zimmerman x Reader 

A late night bubble bath takes a deadly turn, when a face you thought you'd never see again comes crashing into your home. Lucky for you, Flip doesn't take too kindly to people trying to harm the most precious thing in the world to him.

5.6k ; Content warnings for home invasion, stalking, murder, graphic descriptions of violence, mild gore, blood, misogyny, implied/referenced past domestic abusive, and NSFW (Bathtub sex, murder kink, PIV)

(events of Hide Your Smile are mentioned)

Also available on AO3! 

                                              ----------------------------

It’s been a long day, you know. Flip was out late, was out for a real long time, but now he was home, and his muscles were sore, he was achin’ for a bath. So in the bathroom you are, naked and lounging among a pile of bubbles, fragrant and delicate as they pop in the air around you.

He’s looking at you with that doe-eyed expression of his, the one he gets when he’s had a couple beers or has been away from you for too long. This is the latter, you know, his eyes are clear with sobriety, just soft and sparkling with love. You look right back at him, admire the way his wet hair makes those ears of his stick out, admire how his dimples crease and crinkle around his goatee when he smiles.

“Penny for your thoughts, foxy lady?” Flip asks you after a moment of sweet eye contact that you reciprocate half hidden behind the suds.

“Just thinkin’ about how handsome you are, it’s unfair.” You reply, lifting your foot to rest it cheekily on his shoulder.

“Oh yeah?” He grins, huffing and puffing on the cigarette he’s got, blowing smoke towards the vent in the ceiling, turning to press little smooches against your ankle, “Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

“Come a little closer and I just might.” You nudge him towards you with your foot, and he stubs out the cigarette to move across the tub and cover your body with his.

His mouth is on yours teasingly. His lips are plush and full and just barely out of reach, making you work for it, making you giggle and grin and nip little bites at his cheek. He smiles and you cup his neck and hold him close, his wet hair shagging down around his face and enveloping you both in a curtain of brown. Your eyes slip closed and he gives in, breathes in deeply the scent of you and the soap and the suds and –

There’s a CRASH! downstairs.

Flip freezes, he hears it first, his reflexes attuned to the world around him ever so quicker than yours.

His voice is hard all of a sudden, jaw clenched together as he’s lifting himself out of the tub, grabbing a towel and ordering you to, “Stay here.”

With the thud of your heartbeat pounding behind your ears, you ignore him and follow him out of the tub immediately. The thought of leaving him to deal with whatever that crash was alone is simply unbearable, almost as terrifying as the thought of staying upstairs by yourself. Not now, you couldn’t sit in this tub alone now. You don’t even bother to drain it, only going so far as to blow out the candles so they don’t catch onto the curtain and burn your house down.

Flip sees you getting dressed hurriedly beside him and is already frowning, scowling deep and heavy as he tugs on the pair of jeans he was wearing earlier that day and a t-shirt from the hamper. You pull on a nightgown, just something to cover yourself up. Neither of you are completely dry, but there’s another crash from downstairs, and you can’t find it in you to care, not when your heart is racing as fast as it is.

You stand behind Flip silently, not daring to make a single sound, not going to make a single breath as he grabs his gun from the dresser and begins his descent down the stairs.

It’s dark, downstairs.

It’s quiet.

Flip avoids the creaky floorboard and you do the same, hovering just before that step, not wanting to make Flip angry by going any further. You’re lucky he let you go this far.

He goes farther.

There’s a SMASH! then, the sound of glass shattering, likely the little window above the sink in your kitchen, and Flip bolts.

He’s deadly silent as he runs through the pitch black of the house, Flip is. You can’t see anything, can’t hear anything, there’s no sound of struggle or gunfire yet, not yet. Just the heavy thud of boots on carpeting and wood panel flooring, and your heartbeat hammering hammering hammering in your ears. You’re trying not to scream, and the impulse is getting harder harder harder to hold back when you finally hear,

“Let me go! Let me – I’m sorry! I didn’t know!” It’s a man’s voice, a man who you recognize, and the blood drains from your face when you do recognize it – it seems almost like a lifetime ago, an age ago, since you’ve heard it.

The sounds of struggling are loud now, scuffling as Flip wrestles and wrangles the intruder to the floor. You descend the stairs slowly, in disbelief, your body going numb, going cold, as you hear the crunch of a nose being broken and the grunts that accompany it. You’re frozen, frozen in place as your eyes widen as far as they will go, vision blurred from the way you’re shaking. Are you shaking? You can’t tell, you’re numb, you can’t feel anything.

“Shut the fuck up.” Flip shouts, his voice louder than anything you’ve ever heard before, it echoes in your brain a thousand times. When you turn the corner you can see him standing over the man, pistol whipping him in the face with the butt of his gun, shouting so hard that his face shakes, that spit flies and catches in the moonlight, “I said shut up!”

You hug the corner of the hallway that faces the kitchen, where the sliding glass door is open and broken – not the window then, you think fleetingly – and Flip whips around to face you.

His face is deranged, eyes wide and black and filled with rage, blood dripping down from his fingertips from where the man’s nose was broken under his fist, his gun. The expression on Flip’s face is one that you’ve only seen once before, a long time ago when you were just a teenager, when he…well. You don’t need a reminder of what he did, how he saved you then.  

Flip turns to face you more fully, and you can see how your husband has this intruder pinned so beautifully underneath him. Flip has one big knee slammed down on the cavity of his stomach, bent over to grip him by his throat. The gun is in his other hand, and though Flip looks just shy of feral, the gun does not shake. Despite that, despite his calm, you feel something clawing up your throat, a scream, a shriek of terror when your eyes adjust and the familiar outline of the man’s face is revealed to you.

Time stands still.

He looks so different, and yet exactly the same.

It’s a little hard to tell, with his nose smashed in the way that it is, with blood dripping oozing flowing down onto his lips – but you know him, you know this man. A friend of…his, your ex. The very same one that Flip disposed of over a decade ago, that ex. This man, one of his cronies, you remember these features.

They’re as disturbing to you now as they were then, the face that haunted your every step. Standing outside your window in the dead of night, lurking behind parked cars in lots, always on the same side of the street – following, watching, waiting.

Hunting.

He’s older now, hardened, the man. But the thing that has yet to change, the thing that chills you more than anything else, is the look in his eye. That sparkle, the glimmer of madness, the vacant shine – like a shark.

“Alex? Is that you?” You stand in silence for too long, holding your breath. The words fall out of your mouth seemingly on their own, like you’re surprised you remember the name. But how could you forget? How could you, when he had done everything in his power to make you pay for what happened to Josh?

Alex's ribcage expands under the pressure of Flip’s knee, and he takes in a ragged breath, a strained one. He’s in pain, you can tell, he has to be in pain, but he doesn’t show it.

“Answer her.” Flip doesn’t shout this time, his brain working a million miles a minute. He looks at you, confused, concerned. He waits, his eyes on you. It’s easy for him, restraining Alex, the man is as thin and gangly as he was back in high school, like he never grew into his body.

“Long time no see.” Alex grins at you, blood on his teeth.

You come closer, one foot in front of the other as you enter the kitchen. Alex doesn’t struggle against Flip’s hold, he knows it’s of no use. But he’s slippery, a slimy bastard, he’s going to wait for an opportunity to get out from under Flip’s grip and then he’ll lunge for you.

You know this.

You know Flip won’t give him the opportunity.

“I thought they put you away for good.” You say, your voice entirely too calm.

“So did they.” Alex replies, his grin wider.

You give him a sparing glance, he’s still in his prison uniform, covered in filth and grime and muck. Irrationally, a flare of anger shoots through you for how you just mopped the floors. Flip seems to notice that at the same time, and he breaks his silence.

“You know him?” He asks you gently, calmly, a voice so laced with venom that it’s soothing and terrifying at the same time. Flip wants to rip him to pieces, his jaw is clenched so tightly that you’re worried for his teeth.

“He’s the one I’ve told you about, the one who wouldn’t ever leave me alone back in high school.” You reply, nodding slowly as you take a few more steps closer closer closer, inching towards the monster who has sought you out once again, “Remember I called the cops but they said they couldn’t do anything since he only stalked me? They found him trying to kidnap a girl at the college, found a padlocked cooler in his truck, knives. She was the fourth girl he had gotten to.”

“I remember.” Flip turns his attention back to the man underneath him, who is now starting to squirm, starting to get flighty. He’s waiting for his opportunity, he doesn’t know he’s not going to get one, not with Flip, not when Flip continues, “Liked cutting women up, isn’t that right, Alex? Liked hearing them scream for you, got off on it, right?”

“Maybe.” He’s struggling, the pressure on his lungs, on his throat growing too much for him. You watch watch watch, as Flip makes up his mind.

“Is that what you came here for tonight? To cut my girl up?” The questions are hypothetical, but they’re not at the same time. Flip knows what he’s going to do, he just needs Alex to say it so he has the permission.

“Maybe.” Alex chokes, and Flip doesn’t like that.

“Maybe’s not a fucking answer!” Flip shouts so loudly that the veins in his neck stand out as he grasps Alex's sandy blonde hair as tightly as he can and bashes his head against the floor, blood splattering out from the broken nose in an arc across the wood paneling.

“What are you going to do with him?” You whisper then, your heart racing, thudding hammering pounding in your chest.

“What do you want me to do?” Flip looks up at you with wide open eyes, his gaze imploring, near begging.

“I want you to kill him.” You say without even thinking about it.

You say it too quickly.

You’ve been wanting to say it for so many years.

But this…this is different than the last time. The last time you were both young, much too young.

The last time it was an accident, a mistake that had to be covered up.

The last time Flip hadn’t planned on killing the boy who beat the shit out of you.

(You don’t know, but yes. Yes he had.)

He’s a detective now, a lieutenant now. He could lose everything if someone were to find out. He could be locked away for the rest of his life, he could be put to death. They just reinstated capital punishment, just this year, you know. You know you know you know – and yet.

And yet, Flip cannot imagine doing anything else to this man, cannot imagine any other outcome for him.

“Honey-bunny?” He asks you softly, sweetly, as Alex begins to struggle more significantly underneath him, growing impatient, growing scared.

“Yes Phil?” You whisper, watching watching watching.

Flip looks at Alex, mulls it over for a moment before licking his lips and instructing,

“Go put a tarp down in the basement.”

                                                        ---------------

It’s surreal, doing this. The moment the words leave his lips you’re running, bolting down the hall and to the stairs that go down down down. As soon as you’re out of sight, you hear a gunshot, and a scream.

You don’t look back.

The basement’s not the most frequented place in the house, you almost forget that it’s there half the time. Nothing but storage, big cardboard boxes labeled with holiday decorations that it’s not time for.

There’s a single lightbulb that flickers on and off for a moment before settling on the low light of an orange glow. You have to search for a minute for where the tarps might be, eventually finding them in the back from when you had all those renovations done last year. Your friends playfully mocked you for keeping them back then, but who was laughing now?

Clearing a space on the floor, you put the tarps down, and as quickly as you can, you push all the boxes as far out of the way as possible.

It’s only a minute before Flip is kicking the door in, Alex screaming and thrashing in his hold. Your stomach churns when you see that he shot a hole through Alex's cheek, has hooked his finger through it and is using that to pull him down the steps. Flip doesn’t give a shit if his cheek tears clean through, he doesn’t care, he’s seeing red.

“You picked the wrong fucking house to try, the wrong fucking woman.” He throws Alex's body onto the center of the tarp and before he can even try to get up, he kicks Alex in the chest to knock the wind out of him.

The tarp is already going slick with blood as it gushes out of the bullet hole in Alex's cheek. Flip rips open the buttons of Alex's, taped to his body are knives that he must have smuggled out of prison. Makeshift torture tools, shanks and shivs that he spent who knows how long working on.

“Just kill me already!” Alex begs, but Flip shakes his head.

“No.” He grits out, yanking the duct tape off Alex's flesh as he tears the knives away from his torso. “No, that’s too quick, too easy for you. You don’t deserve that.”

It’s like an out of body experience, watching this. You step closer, placing a hand on Flip’s shoulder. He doesn’t recoil, he recognizes your touch, he knows it’s you.

“Flip, let me do the first one, please?” You ask, watching Alex's eyes widen far far far, so far that they’re almost popping out of his skull. You take one of the knives from Flip, slide it from his palm to yours as you whisper in his ear, “Please, I want to do the first one.”

“Go ahead, I’ve got him princess, my sweet girl, I’ve got him.” Flip encourages you, turns to kiss at your cheek, the soft skin by your jaw, your ear. Something about the praise, about the tone of his voice, the full faith he has in you, makes your pussy throb. Your thighs press together when he says, “Go ahead.”

Flip holds Alex in a headlock, and before the man can say anything, you’re stabbing him in the gut, hard.

The knife slips into his flesh easily, and you watch in morbid fascination as it sinks deeper deeper deeper, until it’s all the way in, piercing slicing serrated and cruel. You look up to Flip, half terrified for what you’re doing, and half enthralled. You’ve never done this before, you’ve never done anything like this before – not even the last time.

There’s no going back now, you both know. Not now, not now that there’s a knife embedded into his stomach.

Flip nods.

Alex screams.

“No one can hear you, no one will come for you.” Flip says lowly, dangerous and dark as Alex writhes shakes scream scream screams in his hold. “Do it again, ketsl.”

You yank the knife out and stab him again, a little higher this time. There’s muscle here, something, you don’t know, you never paid very close attention in anatomy class. You have to slam the knife in a little harder to get it through, the force of the impact blurring your vision for a minute.

“You’re doing so well sweetheart,” Flip’s voice is quiet, but loud. So loud in your brain, in your mind. He might be whispering, he might be screaming, you wouldn’t know. “Let me take over, you’ve done enough.”

You pass him the knife again, and he’s quick to continue what you started. Again again again, Flip stabs him, ripping the knife out and plunging it back in, slashing him up. You’re turned on, so turned on by the way Flip does this for you. It’s revolting, sickening, how wet your thighs become, but you love it, you can’t stop watching the way Flip’s muscles move flex tense as he kills this man for you.

The more Flip does it, the more cathartic it becomes, the more elated you feel.

Tears bubble up, well up in your eyes, but they’re not of sadness, they’re of relief.

“Remember how no one wanted you? How no one ever spoke to you because they thought you were a lunatic? Remember how I tried so hard to be a friend to you? I did everything I could for you, I stood up for you, listened to you, cared for you!” You don’t hold the words back, the volume of your voice growing louder and louder with each stab of this knife, the knife Alex had brought to use on you. “And this is how you repay me.”

Alex thrashes, rages against Flip’s hold. He kicks his legs out in fury, his eyes blank, blood choking up through the wounds in his stomach, pouring out of his mouth, of his cheek.

“This is your fault!” Alex screams, “Your fault! You – you led me on! You lied to me, I thought you were mine! You were supposed to be mine!!”

“I don’t belong to anyone.” You smack him sharply across the face for the audacity of his words, “But if I did, it wouldn’t be you.”

Alex hemorrhages on the floor, seizes, the toll of his wounds taking over him. The force he must have exerted in his screaming fit must have ruptured something, you watch him shiver and tremble uncontrollably on the floor, rolling in his own blood.

“I’ve had enough of your noise.” Flip says to Alex.

Flip grabs Alex's face, hooks one hand around his upper teeth, the other around his lower, and snaps the jaw clean off its hinges with a sickening crack!

It’s unsettling, the way that it hangs there, unattached by anything other than muscle, limp and weak.

He then reaches inside one of the cavities made by your stab wounds, and squeezes Alex's heart, strangles it, forces a heart attack, making him thrash and gurgle hot steaming blood in his throat, until it stops.

It all stops.

It’s quiet, again.

Flip lets Alex drop limply to the floor, the tarp crinkling, slick with blood. He pulls his hands away, smears the red against Alex's face to close his eyes. He doesn’t want him looking at you, not even in death.

“Holy shit.” You breathe, looking down at the corpse in your basement.

“Are you okay?” Flip faces you hesitantly. He’s covered up to his forearms in blood, chest heaving. He’s afraid of scaring you, afraid of causing you more stress, you can tell.

“Yeah, just,” You reach out your hands for him, your own blood-stained hands, hands that somehow, somehow feel more clean than they ever have before. Flip gently takes them in his own, you admire how broad and handsome the palms are as you look up at him and whisper, “I’ve been living with the fear of him finding me in the back of my head for a decade. And now thanks to you, it’s gone. Thank you – Philip, thank you.”

The tears are back, the intense relief of this nightmare being over hitting you like a ton of bricks. Flip crushes you to his chest, wraps his arms around you and lets you cry, lets you mold yourself to his body and tuck your face under his chin, lets you let him hold you.

“Nothing will ever hurt you, not as long as I’m around.” He caresses the base of your skull, pets your hair down, neither of you caring about the blood on his hands. He kisses your temple, “You understand me? Nothing, no one. I’ll kill them, I’ll kill anything that ever dares to try.”

You pull away slightly, just enough for you to look up at him with tears of love and relief in your eyes as you whisper, “Kiss me.”

He doesn’t hesitate, the taste of iron and salt on his tongue is intoxicating. He licks into your mouth and you sigh into his, exchanging silent I love yous in the way your lips move together. It’s slow, it’s unhurried, it’s careful yet fulfilling in all the best ways.

“I’m so wet for you Flip.” You mumble against his lips, bringing one of his hands to slip under your nightgown, for him to feel how much you want him, how much you want him to, “Fuck me, hard.”

“Not here.” He pulls your hand back up to kiss at your wrist.

“Phil,” you whine, worried for a second, but he just shakes his head sweetly and kisses your wrist again.

“No sweetheart, not here. Not where he can see you.” Flip leads you towards the stairs, bringing you away from the body, the corpse that bleeds slowly, steadily on the tarp. He doesn’t let you look back, pulls you slowly, gently up the stairs. “I don’t want him looking at you.”

“Take me to the bathroom then, the tub should still be full.” You remember suddenly, “Let me wash you clean.”

You smile at one another, Flip locks the basement door just for good measure, and up to the bathroom you go.

It’s strange, being back in the rest of the house. On your way up to the master suite you see the tracks, the mess that will have to be cleaned up in the morning. The glass from the sliding door, the mud, the blood. You’re too wound up to care right now, too focused on the ache between your legs.

But still, it will have to be dealt with.

Flip brings you to the bathroom, and the tub is still filled. He keeps the lights off, it’s so dark, dark everywhere in the house. Dark enough that this almost feels like a dream. The water, somehow, is still hot, and it makes you wonder how long you were even really gone.

It could have been ten minutes or a weekend, you don’t know. There are no windows in the basement.

Flip steps into the tub first, and you follow after, sitting with your legs straddling his thick strong waist. His cock is hard, it bumps up against your thigh as you settle yourself above him, trying to get a good position for you to sink down down down, the stretch filling you as his cock bottoms out.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. I’d do anything for you, anything.” Flip groans, dunking his hands in the bath water to quickly rinse them of their grime, before cupping your breasts as you sigh and moan softly above him.

“I know handsome, I know, I would do the same.” You bite at your lips, your hands bracing on his chest as he gets more comfortable in the hot water of the tub. You can only imagine that the water must be stained red, clear.

Something about that makes you anxious for a minute, so you unplug the drain and let it quickly empty, before plugging it and turning on the faucet once more. The pipes creak from the sudden demand for hot water, boiling hot, steaming hot, and Flip sighs happily as it soothes his tense muscles.

“You’ve got such a tight pussy.” He moans as he gets his purchase on the bottom of the tub and thrusts up slightly, pushing his cock further into you. “I could live here, I want to live here, ohhh fuck.”

You let out a little yelp from the feeling of it, of how he drags that cock of his in and out of you, how you can feel all the thick veins and ridges pushing and thrusting against your walls. You settle back against his thighs where his knees are bent in the tub, looking up at the small mirror that he bolted to the ceiling some years ago.

“Look how good we look,” You gasp as he thrusts faster, as you bounce on his cock, his hands on your tits and pinching at your nipples. “Look how nice we fit together, Flip, fuck – oh Flip!”

“So beautiful.” He sounds drunk, you think with a smile, drunk off your pussy. He watches his cock disappear in and out of you instead of looking at the mirror, and that’s fine with you because you can barely see straight as it is.

“Oh yes, yesyesyes, please, more, Flip!” You watch yourself get fucked, watch as your mouth drops open, as you bounce bounce bounce, his hands gripping you grasping you all over, holding you tight, fucking you fast. His hand moves somehow in slow motion to rub hard circles on your clit, making your body shudder, drooling all over yourself.

You come, and maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the relief, maybe it’s the sheer power and strength of the man underneath you, but when you come it’s like firecrackers in your veins, sparking up and shooting up your spine, making you gasp sharply, loudly.

“Say my name over and over again and, once you think you’ve said it loud enough, scream it.” He snarls, close to an orgasm himself, just teetering right over the edge.

You move your hips in little circles that make his head thunk back onto the rim of the tub, make him whimper and snap his teeth together as his thrusts fuck you through the bliss of orgasm.

“Flip, Flip – Phil! Philip oh, yes, yes!” You shout shout shout until your voice breaks and it goes up to a high pitched scream, the feeling of his cock throbbing pulsing spilling inside you enough to make you dizzy.

“Shit.” He groans low and dark as he bites down hard on your throat, hands squeezing and kneading your tits.

And then there’s nothing but the sound of heavy breathing once again. But this time, this time it’s bliss, sheer and utter joy that permeates from his body into yours as he comes down from his high.

You smile down at him, big grin, so happy, tucking his wet hair behind his ears as you shut the faucet off. The tub is filled to the brim, water sloshes over the side of the porcelain, but you don’t care. Your body is still tingling, nerves on fire, warmed inside and out.

Flip gives you that doe eyed look of his again, and you once again cannot help but think how handsome he is. You huff out a laugh, how surreal the entire ordeal was. You wonder if you’ll scream, if you’ll cry, if you’re just in shock.

You don’t feel like you’re in shock, you feel like you’re flying.

“Penny for your thoughts, foxy lady?” Flip asks, reaching up a finger to caress the bridge of your nose.

You both break out into absurd giggles, and you shrug, reaching across the tub to grab his pack of camels. The little match glows redorangeyellow when you light it, and the both of you stare at the small flame as you bring it to the cigarette you’ve stuck between your lips. It burns the edge of the cigarette, and when the tip glows red you pass it to Flip, to your husband.

There’s a sizzle as you drop the match into the bathwater.

“What are we gonna do?” You ask him, voice broken, barely above a whisper.

“About what, ketsl?” Flip hums, breathing smoke thick and heavy out of his mouth and nose on the exhale. It travels up up up and clings to the mirror on the ceiling, the mirror that’s now foggy with the hot steam of the bath.

“The body in our basement.” You reply casually, as if you were asking what he’d like for lunch.

He shifts a little, more water sloshes around. If there were more light in the bathroom, if it weren’t so dark, you might be able to watch it wash away the blood on the tile, thinning it out until it disappears.

“Don’t worry about that.” Flip whispers, his hands rubbing soothingly against your back, your sides. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You won’t get in trouble?” For the first time your voice wavers, the thought of anyone taking your husband away from you dripping like a cold terror down your spine.

“No one’s going to find out, I promise.” He shakes his head, assuring and reassuring you.

You have every reason to believe him, to trust him, so you do. Wholly and completely, you do.

                                                       ---------------

The next morning you wake up alone. It’s early, but that’s just because you’re used to waking up early with Flip and his job. The alarm clock is ringing, and you have to roll over to Flip’s side of the bed to turn it off. Carefully, you slip out of bed and tip-toe downstairs, blinking in surprise at what you find.

There’s no mess anywhere. Nothing, no mud no blood no prints or marks. You creep down to the basement, find it perfectly clean and empty. The only sign of trouble is the broken sliding door, but even that has been taped up with big pieces of paper, all the glass swept away.

Flip comes home then, the front door opening and closing softly. Tucked under his elbow is a brown paper bag, the smell of freshly baked bagels filling the living room as you go to meet him.

“Clyde knows a guy who’ll come fix the door.” He says after he kisses your cheek and wishes you a good morning.

“Clyde knows?” You take the bag from him and go over to the kitchen, him following hot on your heels like the duckling that he is.

“It was my turn for a cauliflower.” Flip smiles against your cheek as he smooches his favorite spot there again and again and again, as you pop a bagel into the toaster, wanting him to have at least something small to eat before he has to go to work.

“I’ll swing by the bar later, bring him lunch.” You resolve, thankful for your friends.

“Keep an eye out for the three o’clock news.” He whispers, even though there’s no one there to be listening. He turns you to face him, kissing you properly, soundly on the lips, “Love you ketsl, I’ll be home early tonight.”

You grin at him, not bothering to flinch when the bagel pops out of the toaster, and slather cream cheese and lox on it for his drive over to the station.

He’s got an icy cold Shirley temple waiting for you when you walk into Duck Tape, Clyde does. Clyde doesn’t ever really smile much, he’s too much like Flip that way, but he looks at you warmly, opens his arms up for you as you walk behind the bar and give him a tight hug.

“Hey darlin’, I was hopin’ you’d come round.” Clyde taps his knuckles under your chin playfully.

“Heard you helped my man out today.” You offer him a nicely packaged lunch and a smile.

“Wasn’t no trouble at all.” He replies. Even though there’s few patrons in the bar at this time of day, he still keeps his voice down. Thankfully Clyde’s always been soft spoken, no one pays it much mind.

The news turns on then, a breaking report just out of town. You and Clyde both force yourself to be as casually interested as possible, as a woman in a blazer stands just outside a line of yellow tape and police cars – cars you recognize, one car in particular that you recognize – explaining how a convict had escaped and was found mauled to death by a wild bear late last night.

“Damn,” One of the regular men at the bar whistles, “What kinda bad luck? Breaking out of jail and gettin’ killed after not ten minutes of freedom.”

“Pretty bad.” You reply with a nod.

“To better luck.” The drunk raises his beer and tilts it towards you.

You grin, pick up your shirley temple and clink the glass against his.

“To better luck.”  

[whats-rambled-rambled]

stuck in stories - badly hurt on a mission

Neil x Reader

summary: a routine mission goes south and you end up getting badly hurt, fortunately Neil is there to keep you company while you wait for the backup to arrive

+ songs: Mindy Gledhill - Anchor // Jim Croce - Time in a bottle

warnings: language

author’s note: the gloomy aura outside my window really helped to write this little hurt/comfort request. Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think!

This is a one-shot, but it works perfectly for Neil and Reader from Stuck in Reverse series as well.

___

You could hear Neil screaming your name from across the parking lot, where all of you found yourselves pinned down by your targets. Stopping them was supposed to be just a routine mission, but you were still quite new at that whole saving the world business, and nobody had told you there was no such thing as just a routine mission in your field.

You weren’t even sure where that bullet came from.

At first, you didn’t notice that something was wrong. You felt a warm sensation in your lower abdomen area, just below the bulletproof vest. You didn’t pay too much attention to it as you ran to take cover behind one of the cars, completely focused on providing a suppressive fire for your team.

When the location was finally clear and your squad moved on to secure the targets, you took a moment to catch your breath, trying not to give too much thought to a weird throbbing in your stomach.

You noticed Neil running up to you. His blue eyes were scanning every inch of your body and as they found what they’d been looking for, his face went pale.

“I’m fine, Neil, really,” you faked a smile and waved your hand dismissively. You didn’t want him to worry, and you definitely didn’t want to slow down your team.

Neil clenched his jaw and glared at you. “Shut up and let me take a look at it,” he said through gritted teeth, placing his hands on your hips as he knelt in front of you.

“Why are you so rude?” you scoffed and you reached for your shirt, tucked neatly in your pants. You pulled it up just to show Neil it wasn’t a big deal.

“Jesus, Y/N, this is not-”

“I’m telling you, I’m- oh fuck...”

As you leaned back slightly, a sudden wave of pain hit you like a train, making you groan and bend in half.

Neil wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I’ve got you,” he said quietly as he helped you sit down on the ground. He grabbed your hands, placed them on top of the wound and pressed them down.

Your mouth spurted a litany of cuss words as you instinctively tried to move your hands back, but he was keeping them still mercilessly.

Neil’s lips pressed into a thin line. He fixed his serious eyes on yours. “I know it hurts, but you have to keep pressure on it, all right? The backup is on their way, should be here any minute now.”

You nodded, trying to level your frantic breath.

“How bad is it?” you asked as you tried to switch into a more comfortable position, squinting from another spike of pain. Neil looked away for a moment, clearly trying to compose himself enough to say something reassuring, but seeing him that distressed was only adding to your torture. You quirked your eyebrow and forced a weak smile on your face. “Will I live, doctor?” you teased in a strained voice.

Neil’s eyes darted at you in disbelief. “Of course you will live, you dumbass,” he said and a corner of his lips twitched. “But keep being annoying and...well, no promises.”

You giggled and winced. “Don’t make me laugh, damn it,” you hissed, but seeing him joke made that whole mess feel more bearable.

Neil cradled you in his arms and you leaned your head on his chest. Your whole body trembled in another spasm, leaving you breathless. Trying to switch your focus to Neil’s heartbeat, pounding heavily against your cheek, you said under your breath, “Hey, if things go sideways, meet me at the bar, okay?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Neil scoffed and lifted your chin gently so he could look you in the eyes. He brushed a strand of hair from your face and his lips curled into a half-smile.“You know where I’m going to meet you though? At the debrief. And then at the combat practice, where I will kick your impossible ass again.”

You snickered. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling, I could take you down even now and you know...” the rest of the sentence got lost in a long whimper escaping your mouth.

Neil let out a shaky breath and wiped away a single tear rolling down your cheek. He bit his lip and blinked few times, his worried gaze locked on you as his mind was racing to find anything that could ease your pain even for a second.

“It hurts...” you sobbed quietly, closing your eyes so Neil wouldn’t see them welling up. You hated being vulnerable around people, especially at work, but it wasn’t the case. You’d been through so much together and you knew how much Neil cared about you. And how difficult it was for him to feel as helpless as he was right then. You wanted to be strong for him, but the agonizing, burning sensation coming from your abdomen was slowly becoming unbearable.

Neil pulled you closer and frowned, pressing his forehead to yours. “Shhh, I know, love, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, I promise,” he cooed, stroking your cheek with his knuckles.

You could hear the sound of a vehicle approaching from the distance. A sudden spike of fear hit you when you realized it might be your last chance to confess to Neil how much he meant to you. How you’d been feeling all those years, even though you always found a thousand reasons not to say a single word about it. But right then, you couldn’t stand the thought that you could just...leave without letting him know how much you loved him.

“Neil, I need to tell you something,” you muttered, trying to fight off the dizziness slowly clouding your mind.

“Hold that thought for me, okay? You’ll tell me on the way- hey, over here!” Neil waved at the medics who just got out of the van nearby. He kissed the top of your head and smiled sadly. “Just stay with me, please,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

[kettlequills]

Chapter 1: waking dreams: master of fate

Miraak is victorious against the Last Dragonborn at the Summit of Apocrypha, and reclaims his rightful place as ruler of Solstheim. However, the world he wakes to is not the one he left behind thousands of years ago. When the certainty Miraak once relied on is questioned, will he be able to adapt to this new world and the people within in time to prevent the destruction of all he has worked for? On A03 here.

Tags and tws: Blood and graphic violence, major death, mind control, Apocrypha, Mora.

“And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended.” Miraak’s words rang out bold and proud over the inky seas that surrounded his lonely tower.

He stood, gleaming and glowing, every inch the Dragon Priest he had been, unchanged and preserved in time like a moth behind glass, since Hermaeus Mora’s theft of him from his rightful place at the helm of Tamriel. He kept his back straight and his shoulders tall, let his voice thunder with echoes, and he looked down upon the Last Dragonborn fearsomely-masked, staff in hand. His show, his pride, his excitement, was for his benefit, and theirs, and the dragons that watched them, silent and monumental in this battle of the ages.

Sahrotaar, Relonikiv, Kruziikrel. His companions, his servants, through his torment – and now, the witnesses of his triumph.

As they would all witness!

“The hour of my freedom from this place and its fickle master draws near!” Miraak cried exultantly, fought to remind himself it was for moments more premature, “and soon I will be master of my own fate, once again. My time in Apocrypha is over. And soon, so will be yours.”

Hermaeus Mora’s thousand-fold eyes were unseen in the sickly green sky, but Miraak knew he was there. If he peered over the sheer edge to that liquid darkness, he knew he’d see Seekers clustered like crows, with their ragged cloaks like tattered wings tugged by no current save that of Fate and Mora’s will in airless Apocrypha. In the waters themselves, he would see Lurkers bleeding oil with steady pulses that sat upon the ink in fiery shimmers. Even the constant muttering of rustling pages hissed and whispered amongst themselves, as if placing bets. He heard the riotous wet slap of the ink against the base of the tower, the tentacles beneath squirming like blind worms to the light, and Miraak knew the whole of Apocrypha was watching.

In the tautness of the near-silence, his dragon- and man-heart stuttered in its restless anticipation, cried with each pounding beat the hope of a thousand years’ work swift-coming culmination: soon, soon.

Steady and sure, the Last Dragonborn that returned his gaze. Even now, on the eve of his victory, he drank in the sight; how he had craved the presence of another as the years worn on in his lonely imprisonment.

The air seemed easier to breathe scented by the freshness of Nirn they carried in their lungs, and their arms, their armour, were richly coloured, the most vibrant thing in this world of nightmare and books. No pallid greens or inkblushed blues for them, this Dragonborn wore handsome red and burnished steel. They were solid, made strong by the grain and meat of Skyrim, by the grape and grass of their sun-dazzled, Aedric-blessed life outside this cursed realm. Even now, their form was faint to his eyes, anchored to their real body on Nirn. As he soon would be real, and subject to the pressures of the wind and the rain, the sun and sky, once more.

They were no simple Seeker of Mora’s knowledge, this Dragonborn, with their well-worn sword held sure in their grip and their scratched shield in the other, no, they came to Miraak in the armaments of a warrior, the trappings of an empire Miraak had seen in illustrations. Their skin was browned by sun, their dark eyes watchful and shadowed beneath the owl-face of their wood mask.

Such cheap imitation though their mask was, he scoffed internally, of the mighty artefact they would have been gifted had they walked in Miraak’s time – but no, the men of this new age were weak and stumbling, and remembered not what they ought. No matter, though, he thought, and felt his lips twist to bare his teeth unseen, Miraak would teach them.

“You will die here, by my hand,” Miraak continued, promised, “And with the power of your soul, I will enact my glorious return to Solstheim.”

Unaffected, or perhaps he dared to hope, sparked by this threat, the Last Dragonborn rolled their shoulders with a metallic grinding and extended one gauntlet. They beckoned to him insouciantly, and their feet slid apart to a fighting stance, ready to leap in any direction.

“No words for me, Dragonborn?” Miraak taunted, too eager to let this fated confrontation end without a moment to savour its richness upon his tongue, and the Last Dragonborn growled.

“You waste your breath,” they said, in their raw, untrained Voice of thunder, “Better to beg the name of the one who will be victorious: I am LAAT-AAZ-IN!”

“A strong name,” Miraak allowed, grinning savagely under his mask as their Shout rocked the tower beneath them, shivers of that power in the soles of his boots, “You could have been mighty, if fate had decreed otherwise, Slayer of Alduin.”

“Might is unnecessary to win against a man who only talks.” Laataazin nettled at his pride, but though their weapon was held ready they waited for him to speak first, as the elder of the two of them. The note of respect for Miraak was beyond what he had expected – the Greybeards it seemed had bothered to teach their rare pupil some things. Miraak burned to know what else.

“Is that so?” Miraak murmured, and he could not hold back anymore, mortal words were soft as snow in his mouth and he needed fire. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

It was a mighty greeting, and Laataazin’s wide eyes vanished behind their shield. The plume of fire was brilliant and blinding-bright, and through it, Laataazin charged fearlessly at him. Blinking smoke from his eyes and too slow to leap aside, Miraak swept his staff across his chest. Their shield, glowing white-hot at the edges, smashed into him like a battering ram. The staff clanged hollowly at the brute impact.

They wrestled there at the summit. It was hot work. The thinner parts of Laataazin’s armour were molten and spark-bright, the flames that licked at the fabrics of their tabard smoking relentlessly. Miraak drove his heels into the soft leathery floor, refusing to back down even as he felt his staff begin to creak ominously and his muscles scream. Kruziikrel snarled – Miraak heard the snap of jaws, one of the other dragons harrying it. Sahrotaar? Laataazin had flown it to the summit. Their eyes burned in the firelight through the mask, behind the shield, glimpses of brown shimmering orange. Miraak met those fire-bright eyes, and saw in them a soul that mirrored his own.

Inexorably, Laataazin pushed him back.

Miraak gritted his teeth as he was forced back one step, then another. He had the height advantage, towering clear, he could see their skin bubbling and scalding under their armour at the intense heat, but Laataazin was strong. Cracks raced like fault-lines up his staff, and he had moments – moments, before it shattered in his grip.

They would disarm him? So be it!

He gave a giant shove, and Laataazin’s shield dipped as they staggered. He seized the opportunity and at once Miraak discharged all the magic in the staff. It exploded with a thunderous boom and crack of searing white light.

Miraak was blown clear, rolling quickly to his feet with visions of Laataazin planting their sword in his spine. He squinted around his arms protecting his head from the shrapnel flying everywhere, and hissed.

Laataazin had gone to one knee, but as he stared, they shrugged off the explosion and rose to their feet. Their mask had shattered on their face, and they swiped their metal-clad arm over the wreckage. Fresh blood splattered free from the splinters driven into the flesh of their face, but Laataazin did not pause a moment before raising their head to look for Miraak. Threateningly, their shoulders rolled back, their neck arched, and Miraak had just enough presence of mind to throw up a ward before Laataazin Shouted.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

His ward was battered by the strength of their fire, but held. Over the roar of the dragon-fire, Miraak could hear his actual dragons thrumming warmly in approval. Miraak’s fierce joy welled like a song in his heart. Laataazin’s Thu’um was strong, nearly his match. How long it had been, since he had had conversation with one of the Dov – true conversation, of magnificent fire and fury!

Miraak would not dishonour his opponent by holding back an inch. As Laataazin’s dragon-fire dimmed, Miraak shot a bolt of lightning into its heart. Laataazin cursed in a rumbling voice – either he’d surprised them or hit them. He followed it up immediately with a torrent of ice-storm. The cold was revitalising after the heat of their grappling, and even better, he heard the brittle snap of Laataazin’s armour. Thick mist descended, the hiss of his summoned snow spitting when it touched their searing hot armour, the tower.

Miraak drew his sword and spun it idly in one hand.

“Hiding is beneath you, Dragonborn,” he called smugly. Casting Muffle in one hand, he prowled around the column of mist and strained his eyes for any movement in the shadows inside. There – a flicker!

Miraak’s Cyclone Shout bolstered the speed of his limbs, until he was like a surging tempest. He rained down blows on Laataazin, their shield, their armoured shoulders, but Laataazin bore the vicious attacks like a fortress of stone. His oily weapon, the gleam of Mora’s eye dark against his wrist, spawned writhing tentacles that yanked and pulled at the ties of their armour. One strap frayed and snapped under his onslaught, and Laataazin leapt back as if they had just realised what he was about.

“Serpent!” they hissed at him, and Miraak smirked.

He turned his eyes to the crumbling pillars where the dragons snapped and snarled at each other. Relonikiv was tenting its wings, posturing at a growling Sahrotaar, whose finned tail lashed restlessly. Its eyes were dull and distressed.

“Weak that you are,” Miraak called up to it, “You may serve me again to redeem yourself.”

He summoned in a great breath to Shout, but Laataazin’s rung out first, with a crack like sundering worlds. All three dragons froze, the leash of Bend Will dropping over them like a lead blanket.

“Go!” Laataazin shouted hoarsely. They had pushed themselves to Shout sooner than they should have, Miraak could hear the cracks in their throat. No master indeed the Greybeards had raised.

Relonikiv was first, shooting up like an arrow from a bow, then Sahrotaar with a howl of “Thuri!” that sounded almost mournful. Kruziikrel fought, digging its talons into the pillars, but Relonikiv swooped down again to bite at its head until, roaring, Kruziikrel lumbered into the sky. Sahrotaar circled them in swooping lines, like a carrion bird over an army.

“Using my own Shout against me?” Miraak snarled, “They cannot help you up there!”

Miraak did not wait for them to recover but rushed to close the gap. He needed that shield gone if he wanted to close this fight and secure his freedom. Distracted by the dragons, Laataazin didn’t have time to raise their shield before he was on them.

“MUL QAH DIIV!” Miraak’s Dragon Aspect emblazoned him like a god, strengthened his attacks. He went for power this time, two hands clutching over the grip of his sword, blinding Laataazin with sweeps of his great spectral wings. They firmed beneath their onslaught, but their fierce eyes were looking at his face – and so therefore missed his tail lashing around to crack against their knee.

Laataazin stumbled, and Miraak wedged his sword under the shield and sent it flying. A well-placed lightning bolt had it soaring clear over the edge of the tower, and he retreated out of the range of their retribution. With how strong they were, he did not want to risk being caught beneath their blade. He imagined they must strike with the strength of a giant.

Facing him, Laataazin’s expression, marred by old scars and freshly-cut by the splinters of their mask, was a ferocious scowl. Their only reply was a wracking cough. They held their weaponless hand cocked protectively over their midriff, where the loosened strap had left their chestplate to sag on one side.

Relonikiv screamed anxiously.

They met with a furious clash. Evenly armed, though Miraak noted Laataazin had not once used magic, their struggle was one of bodies and clanging weapons. They drove notches into his sword with the force of their swings, jarred his arms all the way up to his shoulder. The fight was long, brutal, and messy. Thrice they cut him and once they just fisted a hand around his belt and headbutted him so hard his skull rang inside his mask.

The summit quickly became scarred with their tumultuous battle, smoking pits of dragon-fire and magical ice still crackling with the aftermath of lightning. The leathery spines of the books that made up this particular tower became waterlogged and swampy under their feet, making Miraak’s boots slide and slip when they bulled against him.

It was an intricate dance, and Miraak’s partner knew the steps well. Better, perhaps, than he, after all this time in Apocrypha with none but Seekers and Lurkers with whom to practice his skills. He praised their skill, and reassured them of the inevitability of his triumph. He could not lose. Miraak’s destiny was freedom.

Through it all, the ink swirled and sucked against the base of the tower, and the dragons circled far above it, their agitated roaring backdrop to the clashing of their blades, Miraak’s grunts when they pushed him back. Laataazin was quiet, but he heard the raspiness of their breathing, saw the sweat that dripped down their forehead and mingled with the blood on their face. He couldn’t stop himself from inhaling when they came together again, close as lovers with their breath misting the front of his mask. Their sweat was pure and human, untainted by daedra.

When they were so close he could feel the trembling of their muscles as they fought him not through their blade but through their brace against his chest, Miraak met their eyes. They were brown as earth, he noticed, narrowed in determination. Bloodshot, as if they hadn’t been sleeping well. He bared his teeth at them. How long had they spent, toiling at his stones? Were their bloody eyes his alone?

The tentacles of his sword oozing wetly down the guard of their own, Miraak leant all his weight on their arms. He bore down on them with all his height advantage, crowding the smaller Last Dragonborn until he could see the strain gritting their teeth.

“Getting tired, Dragonborn?” Miraak purred, ignoring the fatigue in his own muscles.

They flicked their gaze up to the dragons circling far overhead. Their arm shook. Miraak pushed harder, sensing an opportunity, and all at once their body trembled at the force of him and gave in. His sword punched into the gap in their armour and slid in to the hilt. Reflexively, Miraak tried to yank it free – but it had notched into bone, and all he achieved was making blood gush wet and warm from the wound.

Laataazin gasped.

For a brief moment, the both of them only blinked at the sword that speared from Laataazin’s chest, the blood that spurted steadily over Miraak’s gloves, but then suddenly, their weapon fell from nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

“NO!” Mora howled, “This cannot be!”

Laataazin fell, and Miraak caught them without knowing why. They were warm and real, heavy, in his arms. He sank to his knees to bear their weight, arrested by the sheer redness of their shocking-bright blood over their steely armour, his robes, his buckle. Exposed, Laataazin stared up at him, their ruined face mortal and small. This close, he noticed details about them he had not before; the grey hairs that stood among the close-cropped brown of their hair – older than Miraak looked, but centuries younger – the wrinkles around their eyes and mouth that told him they had loved to laugh, once. Laataazin did not laugh now. They coughed, a wet, rattling gurgle, and blood splattered over the scarred lips. They were trying to speak, he could see their lips fumbling, but only blood came out.

“This is the only way, Dragonborn,” Miraak hissed at them, “The only way I can be free.”

Their hand, weakly, curled into the front of his robes.

“This is not my design!” Mora shrieked, and Miraak was dimly aware of his tentacles racing over the floor towards them.

Laataazin’s wide eyes stared up at Miraak. Tears of pain glittered on their cheek. Their breath was shallow and rattling around the sword. They were going to suffocate on their own blood; Miraak had perforated their lung. But there was no time for Laataazin to die slowly in Miraak’s arms. Mora was coming.

Miraak gripped the Last Dragonborn’s jaw, and closed his eyes, his bloody gloved hand spreading red stains over Laataazin’s neck as he sought the softness of their temples, then the back of their head. He pulled on his magicka, that deep and verdant pool inside of him. And then as Mora reached them, Miraak cast the strongest lightning spell he knew.

A snap of burning flesh and Mora’s scream. Laataazin’s body convulsed in his arms, and Miraak roared in pain as the electricity shot through his own body, but they were dead before their stunned hand could untwist from their robes.

Mora’s tentacles wrapped around Laataazin’s chest and yanked. Miraak clung to their body doggedly.

“No,” he shouted, “NO! You won’t-“

A bolt of green magic struck his shoulder and Miraak cried out. Seekers – waves of them, coming up the side of the tower-

Laataazin’s flesh was beginning to glow, Miraak maintaining a death grip on them as the embers of their soul roared to life and surged into him. He felt their flesh dissolving against his fingers, felt the hungry jaws inside his dragon-soul rear its jaw wide, ready to rend and tear Laataazin’s soul into nothing but power for Miraak.

Another blast of magic rocked him, then three more in quick succession. It blew him onto his back and Miraak stared through eyes blurred with pain as the three dragons in the sky tucked their wings and dove. Fire blasted from Sahrotaar, immolating a wave of Seekers before they could fire on Miraak again.

Mora’s tentacles thickened like snake coils and with a mighty heave, the Prince yanked Laataazin’s body from his grasp. Miraak clung to the shred of the Last Dragonborn’s soul even as their body was ripped away from him. With effort, Miraak plunged his magic into the centre of Laataazin’s soul, and followed that tiny, tugging thread, back to Laataazin’s real body.

The air rent wide with a horrible Daedric scream. An unholy rictus of green light shredded open and Miraak saw through, warm darkness, firelight, Nirn. Mora was howling with rage, his thick tentacles wrapping around Miraak’s neck, his body, his limbs, trying to slow him down. The dragons protected him from the Seekers, rode flaming passes over Mora’s tentacles so they withered and popped with the thick reek of smoking oil, but Miraak felt himself being dragged back, slowly, into Mora’s embrace.

“No, no, no,” he gasped, desperation searing as tears in his eyes.

For a moment, Miraak felt a surge of something, as if some dying ember of the Last Dragonborn had heard his cry as he ate their soul, and then the glorious streams of gold and blue and green became fire, dragonfire, infused with all the colours of Keizaal’s auroras and hotter than its sun.  A rancid smell boiled up as Mora’s tentacles bubbled and burnt in the fire of Laataazin’s soul infusing into Miraak, their flesh into his, their will becoming his own.

Miraak forced his foot through the portal, then his shoulder. He struggled there like a fly caught in a web as the portal began to narrow and waver, his body wrenched between planes by Mora’s tentacles.

“Niid,” Miraak roared, “MUL QAH DIIV!”

His Dragon Aspect formed spears of spines that drove into Mora’s tentacles, causing the Daedric Prince to snarl. The tentacle hold loosed, just barely, just slightly, and Miraak stumbled forward, out, out, out, into Nirn.

Miraak collapsed to his knees onto Laataazin’s fleshless body, hearing their bones rattle within the casings of their armour at the force of the collision. With his last shred of strength, he reached back and hooked his hand into the portal, feeling Apocrypha’s fury shred into the bone and muscle of his hand. It was agony, agony, but first Sahrotaar’s blue snout wrested its way out, Relonikiv, slim and quick, and Kruziikrel, shouldering through with a deep bass roar at the tightening shred of Mora’s thorns.

The portal snapped closed with a resounding boom. Miraak felt Mora’s presence die, a last imprint of futile, terrible rage.

One of the dragons was howling, and droplets of dragonblood were stinging acidic on Miraak’s shoulders, his bowed head. His hand was a wreck, bloody ink gushing from the wounds, and Miraak was laughing, laughing.

He gripped Laat Dovahkiin’s empty chestplate until his gloves creaked. Their mask rattled free of their fleshless skull, blank white wood yet unbroken here, with no eyes, no enemy, no soul. Miraak gasped for breath around horrible laughter that wrenched at his chest as if it were possessing him, hot tears in his eyes.

Miraak was free.

(tags: @sumsaltysorceress @argisthebulwark)

[chokemeanakin]

First Kiss - Anakin Skywalker x gn Reader

Summary: Anakin treats you to your first kiss ;)

masterlist

Read it on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22469749

It happened on Tatooine. Anakin didn’t want to come back, but you had begged him to show you where he grew up.

“I grew up with Obi-Wan, travelling the galaxy,” Anakin corrected, a scowl clouding his face. “Not on Tatooine. I was just a slave there.”

“But it’s got your history,” you argued. “It’s where Qui-Gon found you. It’s where you build C-3PO. It’s where your--”

“It’s where my mother died,” he bit, jaw tense and eyes shadowed. “I know.”

“Maybe we could visit her.”

Anakin closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He did that a lot, ever since he came back from the dark side, to calm the anger inside of him. His hands clenched over the controls of the pod, then suddenly relaxed. When he opened his eyes, he was considerably less tense.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I think she’d like that.”

*********************

“I hate sand,” Anakin muttered as he hopped down from the ship. His boots landed on the ground, sending dust to cloud up around him. He swatted it away from his face.

“Oh, quit pouting,” you take his flesh hand, then raise it over your head with both of yours. “You’re home!”

“This is not my home,” he tried to sound angry, but his face softened when he looked at the smile on your face. He could see you were excited-- for what, he still didn’t understand. You would have to stay in the remote parts of the planet because Anakin would never be welcomed back after what he did to the sand people. You wouldn’t even be able to see the market or Jabba the Hut’s pub, or the place he used to live. Not that Anakin ever wanted to go back to any of those places, anyways. They came for one reason-- to see his mother.

Anakin led the way to the grave. It was just a plank of wood sticking up from the sand, so you weren’t sure how he even knew this was hers. But it was the only thing out here for hundreds of miles, and the somber look on his face was proof enough. This was his mother.

You sat on the sand in front of the wooden plank, drawing shapes in the course minerals. You didn’t say anything, and neither did Anakin as he sat down beside you. The silence was comforting, and just being there was enough. Anakin closed his eyes and his face was peaceful.

You watched him, his face unmoving, as you thought about Anakin and his past. This was where his life began, as a slave, working in a junk shop while his mother struggled to get by. He built his own pod and would race because he was good at it. He built his mother a robot so she wouldn’t have to work so hard. He could still speak the language, as sometimes he would mutter what you were pretty sure were swears under his breath in the foreign tongue.

This was where the sweet, unsuspecting, hopeful little kid who loved flying and wanted to be a Jedi grew up with his mother. He had left her to do just that, and that was the beginning of the end. He never got to see his mother again before she died in his arms. The Jedi Council consistently underestimated his power and belittled him. They alienated him from the one thing he was destined to be. No wonder he turned to Darth Sidious, who was the only person who seemed to trust him in those harrowing times. He had fallen, like Icarus from the sun, like an angel from heaven, and fell and crashed and burned.

But now he was back. He was here again, that same sweet, hopeful boy who just wanted to be a Jedi. And he was sitting before you, with his mother-- a family again.

You were there for hours, until the suns began to lower in the sky. A gust of wind blew sand in your direction, and Anakin cracked an eye open.

“We should get to higher ground,” he said, standing and holding his mechanical arm out for you to take. He helped lift you up, and then brought you in close so he could share his cloak with you, shielding you from the sand. “The wind should let up as the suns go down. For now, we can watch them set from the pod.”

The two of you climbed on top of the ship and sat with your legs dangling off the edge, watching the double-suns inch toward the horizon. The sky seemed to bleed when the lower sun crashed into the sandy mountains, but then melted into a melon-orange glow as the higher sun followed in its wake. Soon, the whipping sand clouds calmed and the sky turned to a deep purple, then black, dotted with thousands of stars. You wondered how many times Anakin had watched this sunset as a kid, and if it’s changed at all since then.

“You’ve come a long way,” you told him, breaking the silence. He lowered his head and looked at his hands.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

“But you always come back,” you said. He lifted his head and his eyes connected with yours, but they were far away. He was deep in thought, and there was something warring behind them. Guilt.

“I left you,” he said, and it’s barely above a whisper. “We were friends, but as soon as Padme came along, I left you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You were happy with her.”

“I was happy with you, too.”

The confession caused an eruption of warmth to blossom in your chest. You smiled at him, a genuine, delighted smile, and knocked his shoulder playfully with yours.

“You have me now.”

At this, Anakin lifted his arm and wrapped it around your shoulder. He pulled you close for a moment, then relaxed with his arm still around you. For once in your life, you didn’t move away.

Anakin was warm. You basked in the weight of his arm around your shoulders, the feeling of his torso pressed against your side. Your thighs were touching and you realized that this is what you needed, this is what was missing all along, this warmth. Suddenly, you felt complete.

“Why haven’t you ever been with anyone?” Anakin asked suddenly. You tried to fight back the blush from your face at both the question and the fact that his fingers seemed to be absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm. Suddenly he paused. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” you told him, and he resumed the patterns. “I just… have a hard time connecting with people.”

“Because of your mother?”

“Because of my mother,” you confirmed, and he coaxed every bit of information out of you on how your mother was strict and mean and cold and judgmental, and your father watched as she stripped your humanity away. He listened attentively as you told him of the suitors you’ve failed with in the past, and his arm tightened around you.

“I just get nervous,” you frowned, twisting your fingers in your lap. “Like the closer someone gets to me, the more they’re going to realize I actually suck.”

“I don’t think you suck,” Anakin said, his voice that sweet, comforting timbre with a gentle rasp that you loved so much. He always sounded like that when he’s spitting off orders to R2 when piloting, or late at night when he’s half asleep and doesn’t know what he’s saying. He also had that stupidly soft look in his eyes, and that half smile you’ve only ever seen directed at Padme.

God, he’s so pretty, you groaned inwardly, unintentionally tensing up when you realized just how close you were sitting. And he was looking at you so deeply, and man, his eyes can be so intense sometimes-- your face burned and you ducked your head so he couldn’t see.

He caught your chin with his gloved mechanical hand, cradling your chin between his index finger and thumb. He turned your face to look at him straight on, right in the eyes, and all you could see was Anakin. He was so close, and he was getting closer. Your eyes shifted to his lips, the same ones you had fantasized about for years, and hoped he couldn’t notice what you were thinking.

“Have you ever been kissed?” you could feel his breath on your lips, your heart pounding against your ribcage. You blinked madly, breathing erratic, palms sweating. Every single atom in your body was buzzing with energy-- excitement, nervousness, fear. You wanted to pull him in and kiss the living daylights out of him. You wanted to push him away and run as fast as you could until you got to a cliff high enough you could jump off and never wake up. You wanted to explode.

“You’re trembling,” Anakin’s eyes shifted across your figure for a split second. “Do you want me to let go?”

“No,” you begged him, your hands shooting out to hold onto him without your permission. They landed on his thighs, and your face burned harder.

“Do you want this?” his thumb stroke your chin. There was nothing you wanted more.

“Yes.”

You weren’t sure how he even heard you, as you barely uttered the word. But before you could do or say or think anything else, Anakin was leaning in. Your eyes closed on instinct and you felt, very softly, the brush of his lips against yours. The volcano was back in your chest, spurting lava all over your insides as you realized, holy shit Anakin Skywalker’s lips are on mine. Holy shit, Anakin Skywalker is kissing me!

The feather light touch tickled more than anything, and you could feel his mouth twitch into a slight smile as your hands’ grip tightened on his legs.

“This okay?” he pulled back a centimeter to ask. “You want more?”

“Yes,” you said again. It was the only thing you could manage to say, the one syllable word, and you began to wonder just how much of a lost cause you were if a simple brush of his lips against yours could render you brain dead.

He muttered an ‘Okay’ and then brought his flesh hand up to cup your face, fingers sliding along your neck and locking into your hair as his thumb stroked your cheek. You shivered, goosebumps staining every inch of your body with the touch. His gloved hand stayed on your chin, tilting it up toward him for easier access.

You closed your eyes again, and he leaned in, and this time he really, actually kissed you. He applied the slightest bit of pressure, then he did it again, shifting his head and capturing your lips in his, pulling back slowly only to do it again.

You were in heaven.

You forgot to respond at first. All you could think of in your short-circuited brain was how Anakin smelled so good and his lips were so warm and he tasted like the stars. Oh, he definitely knew what he was doing, with the way he was moving his lips and the confidence he did it with. You had no idea what you were doing, so you let instinct take control.

You unclenched one of your fists from his leg and raised it to place on his shoulder, pushing just a bit to get a bit of leverage, get a little bit closer so you could respond in earnest. You opened your mouth and closed it over his lips, your stomach cartwheeling as you hoped you were doing this right. It felt right. It felt good. So you kept doing it, and Anakin’s metal arm dropped from your chin and fell to your waist as you rose onto your knees, hands finally tangling into the soft curls of his hair, kissing him like you’ve wanted to kiss him for years.

When Anakin pulled back for air, you realized just how starved you were for oxygen as well. You didn't even notice. You panted, fingers loosening in his hair, lips tingling and burning. Anakin was looking at you like you were everything he wanted, and his eyes caught the twinkle of the stars. This is right where you belong, you realized, right here in Anakin Skywalker’s giving arms. Your breathing evened out, and you seemed to be thinking the same thing.

You leaned back in.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

DAYS OFF

Happy Lowman x Reader (Headcanons)

Anon asked: Hii ya, I just wanted to start saying that your fics saved my day, and if you're taking requests could you write some Happy fluff (maybe smutty if you feel like it)?! I just think that tumblr doesn't have enough of those. ANYWAYS, you're amazing and your fics are one of the best things I've read 😍💞💕 Sending love and good vibes

WARNINGS: NSWF, SMUT

Word Count: 1.4k

Author comments: This work wasn't re-edited, so I'm sorry if you find grammar mistakes! I hope you all enjoy. Gif isn't mine, credits to the author.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​@sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba @minnicelli @ottosuricato ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

Usually, when he comes back home, it's five or six in the morning. Your turn at the hospital is almost done, so he fights against his tiredness sitting on the sofa to wait for you. Even if you ask him for not doing it and going to bed, as soon as he's back, he keeps doing it every time.

Your fingertips touring one of his cheeks, while the other is above his palm and the elbow nailed on the armrest, leaving some soft caresses to wake him up. A smile getting drawn on his lips confirms you he's enjoying it, before opening his eyes to show those honey orbs that have you totally bewitched. You're squatting close to him, making Happy leans towards you to catch your lips with his in a lovely kiss. A slowly one. He loves to taste every single inch of them, proving you how much he has missed you, placing both hands on the sides of your neck urging you to sit on his lap.

“Now, I'm finally home”. He whispers, feeling your fingers getting tangled on his shirt, before taking you to bed.

You two sleep for more than ten hours with the phones off, and even the doorbell disconnected. Your legs intertwined, your arms surrounding each other's body tightly. No distance between you two. Happy likes to sink his nose and his lips on your neck, because he always says that's his favorite safe-place. He has a lot, actually, and all around you. But your sweet smell hushes his demons and all the bad things that run through his disturbed mind.

He usually wakes before you, taking the advantage of kissing your skin. Slowly, gently, taking his time. Happy wants to make you feel loved all the damn time, no matter who is near of you, nor where you are, nor when. It's like a necessity for him. He's always saying that you're the best thing that could happen to his life and he doesn't want to lose you. And even if you've told him thousands time that you're only for him, he needs to make you feel it in case you forget it.

His favorite pet-name for you is ‘love’. The only time he pronounces your name is when he's between your legs pounding you hard, fast and deep making quake your body under his, letting you know how much he adores you or every time he presses his lower abdomen against your nose with his delicious glans hitting the wall of your throat, until an arcade borns there. But this pet-name has a strong meaning when he's back after some days riding. He makes sure you hear him say it. He adds it at the end of every question, sentence (...). Happy needs to make you know you're ‘his love’, his one and only. He doesn't have eyes for anyone else. Only you.

“Do you fancy pizza or chinese, love?”

“Let's watch Tom and Jerry, my love”.

“Love, love, love. Hey, love! Look at that!”

“I think I broke all the barometers loving you, my love”.

Happy usually draws a bruise on the left side of your neck, using first the tip of his tongue to delineate where he wants to do it, while his waist moves against yours looking for some friction. He likes a quickly before cooking pancakes for you, even if it's time for lunch. When he wakes up, he's hard. He's so hard that even you hurt of feeling him rubbing your wetted panties, asking you to let him fuck you with some cute sobs. Totally needy.

“C'mon, love… wake up. I need you”. He's about to cry desperately, because he doesn't like to do anything without your consent, he would never do that. Not even waking you by eating you out. He wants you to be fully awake, with all your senses on every touch, every caress, every thrust and every kiss.

“You like it, uh? Did you miss it?” You tease him as soon as his abdomen presses your pussy with all his strength, growling hoarsely and his face sinked on your neck.

“Yes”. He just say, trying to go somewhat deeper if it's possible.

He always cooks for you. Whatever you want, he makes it for you. Before meeting, Happy didn't know a shit about kitchen, but he learned because of your first date. That night you were about to call the fire department three times and, even if it wasn't the best food you ever tried, he was freaking excited. Now, four years after, he's the best chef you ever met.

Happy likes to spend the rest of the day on the sofa, drinking beer and lying on top of you. Always among your legs watching Scooby Doo's episodes, having five-minutes-nap to recover from a week riding and sleeping for not more than four hours per day.

He must have a hand on you all the time. Holding yours, on your nape, on your waist, on your cheek caressing it, slapping or pinching your ass (...), kissing you every time he has the opportunity. But this day, he likes to do it slowly, with his tongue tasting yours dearly. Your saliva mixing with the beer' flavor, and making you feel all the affection he has for you.

At the end of the day, you two usually have a relaxing bath together. The back of his head on your shoulder, your arms wrapping his neck, eyes closed and your fingers leaving soft caresses all around the tattooed chest. You talk about your days away from each other, about long turns at the hospital and about the assholes who points him with a gun, before Happy breaking his fingers. Something pretty normal. He makes you laugh explaining it, because he always seems so excited telling you about his days without you getting scared, not judging him. Yeah, his mind works different, it's somewhat dark and perturbed and you're not romanticizing it, you could never. But he's Happy. That kind of things happens around the world every minute. Bad people doing bad things and sometimes someone like Sons' appears. They're not angels, but fuck that. Look how happy your boyfriend looks. And at the end, you give him a brief reward, because he still tired after riding.

One of your hands travel down, drowning in the water, while the other wraps tightly his throat. Your teeth biting gently the lobe of his ear, whilst Happy closing his eyes and focusing his attention on your fingers stroking his cock, getting harder every time your thumb caress and makes some pressure above the glans. One of your favorite things on earth is watching him fully relaxed, parted lips, caressing your forearms and letting you give him some pleasure without you enjoying it physically. Happy has that imperious need to make you feel satisfied, but this night it's just for him.

Your wrist moving a little faster, while he gets somewhat comfy over your body. You whisper somethings like “you like it?”, “do you want it faster?”, “fuck, I love when you're that hard, baby”, “you can't imagine how much I've missed you”. He just nods or replies a weak “yes” or a dry growl, close to fall into a cliff of pleasure, stirring under the moves of your hand. And when he cums underwater, he almost howls your name squeezing his closed lids whilst your lips draw an invisible trail of kisses from his temple down to his cheek until you find his sleepy mouth. His tongue licking your lips, before catching them between his teeth.

Let's be clear, Happy doesn't have any fears, if you don't keep in mind the fact of losing you. He's fucking crazy. He can stab, shoot, takes off the skin off whoever being alive… But he likes sometimes to be the small spoon at bed, feeling so much protected when your arms wraps him tightly into you. He loves feeling your kisses on his nape and his head, tangling his long fingers with yours, sinking his nose on the space among your forearms. He always falls asleep before you, because he doesn't have any worries. It's only him and the love of his life cuddling at bed.

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 6: Intruality (TW)

I’m sorry this wasn’t out on time. My dog was put down last night and I spent the evening with my family.

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 6: When your soulmate is injured you will experience pain in that area.

Trigger warning!!!

Content warnings: Graphic descriptions of self harm, dissociation/derealization, mention of intrusive thoughts, panic attack, blood, medication not working, stitches/needles, crying, implied PTSD. It’s dark, y’all, but it gets better at the end. 

Word count: 2.2k

The first few small twinges of pain, he ignored. Remus had a habit of getting himself hurt, trying to cook in the kitchen without supervision or falling off the couch in an effort to reach the remote without standing up, so Patton was more than used to those tiny bumps. He jumped as a hit to the side of his head surprised him, earning a concerned look from his coworker. 

“Soulmate,” He said quickly, waving off her concern with a wide grin and returning his focus to his patient, a grey kitten in need of her first shots. He’d probably need to give Remus another lecture on being on his phone while walking; this wasn’t the first time he’d knocked his head into a door frame.

Another sudden pain in his thigh shocked him, muttering Remus’ name under his breath like a curse. A very loving, concerned curse. This time the nurse laughed with him, reaching forward to take the now dewormed kitten and reaching in the crate for the next one of the litter. This one was a little white one with dappled grey spots around her head, and Patton couldn’t help the soft coo that escaped his lips when she curled right up and continued her nap on the table. 

But then another shock of white hot pain exploded across his collarbone and he gasped, dropping the needle onto the table as his hands flew up to the source of the pain. Whatever this was, it didn’t seem like it should be ignored. With an apologetic smile and understanding response from his coworker, he ducked out of the room and into the back, pulling his phone from his back pocket.

“C’mon, Remus, pick up, pick up…” Absentmindedly, his hand kept running across his neck and collarbone where the residual pain still resided, throbbing to the beat of his pulse. He couldn’t place his finger on what could have caused the feeling, but the looming weight of uneasiness in his stomach made him nauseous. 

No answer.

Just as well, he figured, since the ache from all three hits were all receding slowly, and there was no sign of there being a next one. Maybe this was just Remus being his clumsy self, and he’d worked himself into a panic for nothing. He’d bring it up when he got home, and his soulmate would laugh and press a kiss to his nose and tell him he worried too much. Patton would claim it was just because he loved him, and he’d kiss him, and they’d start making dinner together. It would be fine, just like how it always was. 

And then it wasn’t.

He’d just reached for the door back into his room to finish up with the litter when a sharp pain in his right arm caused him to flinch violently, bringing his hand to his chest. It didn’t stop after the first one though, the burning continued up his arms, until he was hissing in pain, struggling to redial Remus’ contact. 

This pain wasn’t new, per se, but it had been years since he’d felt it, and it was just as concerning as it had always been, if not more. 

“Pick up, baby, please pick up…” 

He was greeted by Remus’ voicemail again, and the next time he called, and the one after that. Every time it beeped, he hung up and redialed, unsure what to even say in a message. He needed to talk to Remus, now. 

Instead of answering, though, the stinging in his arm became more and more intense, until he was checking every couple seconds, fully expecting there to be physical evidence. Not that there ever was; just phantom touches that he could do nothing to soothe. 

Voicemail again. Resolute, Patton grabbed his jacket off the hook, and after explaining the situation to his secretary in as few words as possible, he sprinted out of the veterinary building and to his car.

“You’ve reached Remus, bitches. You know the drill. Who honestly leaves voicemails anymore, though?” A loud beep echoed through the speaker just as Patton started the engine. 

“Hey, Remus, it’s me. It’s Patton. Are you okay? I- ow, ow, ow, okay. That one hurt. Remus, answer the phone, call me back, okay? Please, baby. I’m on my way home, I’ll be there in ten minutes. Just… I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

He threw the phone onto the passenger seat as he pulled onto the highway, resisting the urge to bite down on his nails. It was a habit he’d kicked years ago, when Remus had also started working on his habit, and apparently the urge was connected. Instead, he dug his fingertips into his steering wheel, trying to direct the pain somewhere else. 

Every traffic light was red, every turn was backed up with cars, every minute a new burning pain cut through his arm or another hit exploded across his skull. He was hardly able to focus on driving. Patton wasn’t one to swear, but boy was he getting close by the time he pulled into their driveway, barely remembering to lock the car door before bursting through the front door, panting from both panic and pain.

“Remus?” He called, noting the surprising stillness of the house. Moments later there was another slash on his arm and he stumbled, clutching his wrist. “Remus, it’s Patton! Where are you?”

He took off down the hallways in a half jog, heart thudding loudly in his chest, and threw open their bedroom door, taking a wild guess. 

Wrong move. 

A startled Remus lunged back from the hunched position he’d been in on the floor, slamming his back into the wall just behind him, sending a matching ripple of pain up Patton’s spine. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, his thousand-yard stare aimed at the space beside Patton’s head. His collar bone was marred with deep scratches from where his fingers had raked down the skin, like he had had trouble breathing. He froze, watching Remus’ fingers curl into his hair and pull, before his hands curled into fists and started pounding the sides of his head, letting out a choked wail. 

Ignoring the echo of the hits in his own body, Patton started to cross the room slowly, when something clattered at his feet. Taking his eyes off Remus for just a split second to inspect the carpeted floor, he bent down and picked up a shard of glass, the edge stained red with blood. Where the glass was from, he didn’t care. Another shuddering breath from Remus brought his attention back to the present.

“Hey, Remus, it’s Patton. It’s just me. I’m right here, okay? I’m right here.” He knelt down in front of him, carefully avoiding the smaller glass slivers.

He was expecting it; he knew they would be there, but seeing the cuts littering Remus’ arms still made his stomach churn. There were… a lot… though most of them weren’t dangerously deep. A few, Patton could tell despite the bloody mess dripping onto Remus’ shirt and the carpet, were going to require stitches for sure, but none of them were life threatening. Now, the task at hand was to calm Remus down.

Words weren’t doing anything to break him out of his dissociative state. It had been a long time since Patton had seen him like this, and his mind seemed to have frozen… what did he used to do? His hands faltered in midair, just floating in front of Remus uselessly, until Remus jerked violently and raised his fists to his head again with a sob.

“Okay, nope, let’s not do that. Bad idea,” Patton grabbed his wrists gently before the hitting could begin again, avoiding the deepest slash carefully. Remus didn’t respond; he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad one, his glazed eyes still staring straight ahead, lost in his own mind. 

Murmuring to himself, if for no reason other than to break the unsettling silence, Patton grabbed a shirt off the floor and pressed it to Remus’ worse arm, staunching the blood that continued to ooze steadily. The only indication that his soulmate even knew he was there was the almost imperceptible flicker of his eyes towards the cloth on his wrist, but the far off look didn’t budge an inch. His breath continued to stutter, hands shaking as they struggled weakly to cause more damage, more pain, feel more real.

Knowing it would be useless to try and get Remus to stand, much less walk to the bathroom to get a better look at his cuts, Patton shuffled clumsily until he was next to him, tucking him under his arm in a way that made Remus look much too small. He kept the pressure on the shirt, which he only now realized was his own pajama shirt, and pressed a gentle kiss to Remus’ head.

“Breathe, hun, it’s okay. I’m here now, just focus on me. You’re okay.”

He continued to flinch under Patton’s arm, breath staccato and panicky, eyes lost in a fog of his intrusive thoughts and traumatic memories. The dull throbbing in Patton’s arms and skull was starting to fade from the sharp pain it had been when the wounds were first inflicted. It wouldn’t disappear completely, not until Remus’ did, but it was more manageable than before. 

He lost track of how long they sat there, huddled into the corner of the room in a tight huddle, until Remus started crying. Patton felt them before he heard them; deep, wrenching sobs that shook Remus’ whole body, desperate gasps for air between whimpers that made Patton pull him closer, if it were even possible.

“I- I’m sorry, Pat… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“I know. It’s okay, hun. I’m okay. Can you stand up?”

Getting to his feet was a lot harder than it should have been, his position on the floor for god knows how long had made his feet impossibly numb and he used Patton as a crutch, hobbling to the attached bathroom, all the while apologizing profusely for the blood he’d gotten on their clothing. The other only hushed him gently, helping him sit on the closed toilet seat and wetting a hand towel under the tap. 

“What happened, Rem?” He said it without a hint of anger or disappointment in his voice, just concern, and sat on the edge of the bathtub next to him. 

“I don’t-” His face twisted into one of pain as Patton peeled away the shirt from his arms, reopening the gashes that had dried shut on the cloth. “I don’t know.”

“Have you been taking your meds?”

Remus sniffled and nodded, albeit reluctantly, “I think I might need new ones.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll book an appointment as soon as we get these taken care of.” 

 He only winced a couple times, a victory in his book, as Patton delicately cleaned the dried blood away from the cuts, clicking his tongue at the deeper lacerations that hadn’t stopped bleeding. They hurt, a sensation he was sure Patton was feeling too, not to mention the pounding headache that had started festering. His knuckles were sore, and he had a feeling the two were connected. 

“We’re gonna have to go to the hospital and get these stitched up, and you might need a tetanus shot. Where did you get the glass?”

Remus screwed his face up before shaking his head, eyes downcast, “I don’t remember. It’s all really blurry.” He hissed as Patton brushed by a particularly deep one, earning a matching pained sound from his soulmate. “I’m sorry, Pat. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t even know you were doing it, hun. Don’t feel bad.”

“But I… I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. You deserve someone who doesn’t… do this.”

Patton sighed deeply. “Baby, look at me.” He did, eyes brimming with new tears that he choked back miserably. “Never, for one second in my life, have I regretted having you as a soulmate.”

“But-”

“Nope! No buts! As far as I’m concerned, our soulmark is a good thing! It means that I can come help you when you need help, when you can’t ask for it. Like today. Imagine what could have…”

Patton trailed off, eyes dropping back to his rag. He’d scraped off most of the dried blood, enough to properly see the extent of the damage, so he grabbed another towel from the rack and handed it to Remus.

“I love you, Remus. I always have and I always will. Nothing can ever change that.”

It seemed odd that that was the moment Remus decided to fall apart again, letting himself be pulled into a tight hug and burying his nose in Patton’s shoulder. In the back of Patton’s mind, he was aware that they needed to leave, to get Remus stitched up as quick as possible, but a couple more minutes couldn’t hurt. Later, they would hobble out to Patton’s car, passing the broken picture frame that Remus had knocked over in his panic, and turn on Remus’ favorite music. Patton would remind him to keep the pressure on his arms, and they’d drive down to urgent care. He’d would hold his hands when Remus turns away from the needles, pressing more soft kisses to his head, would tell him about the kittens while the doctor stitches him up, would tell corny jokes to make his soulmate laugh. Right now, though, all that mattered to him was the slowly calming man in his arms, the man that meant more to him than anyone ever had.

“I love you, Rem.”

“I love you, too.”