#and the bright green fluid

[whirlybirbs]

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

[whos-the-seme]

Shen Yuan is actually a cuddle bug. Had a ton of Luo Binghe body pillows back home not just for the merch reasons but because he needs something in his bed to squeeze when he's sleeping.

Since he started having weekly planning (boozing and bitching) sessions with Shang Qinghua, he sometimes accidentally sleeps over. After he's finished his paperwork and started on some of Qinghua's, sometimes the wine gets to him and he's just so sleepy. Or, sometimes, Shang Qinghua will let the other read some of the short stories he had written early on in his transmigration when fighting to not lose his mind. Shen Yuan would critique them, before harassing him to publish them anonymously.

("Oh, so you are capable of writing more than papapa trash."

"Aw, you like it?" "...it's good." 🙄)

But by the time he finished them, it would be so late, and it didn't make much sense to leave when a bed was right there. And Shang Qinghua had custom ordered goose feather pillows and blankets, which was so unlike his porcelain pillows, and Shang Qinghua himself is right there. Therefore. The man himself becomes his new object of comfort when asleep.

At first, Shang Qinghua used to just wave it off. Then he started to playfully complain and tease about how clingy Shen Yuan was in his sleep, and Shen Yuan would grumble and turn bright red and turn his back on him... only for them to wake up with Shen Yuan basically curled around the other like an octopus in the morning. And then it just became normal because, of course, they really only had each other, so like why not? It brought them both comfort and two people could totally cuddle platonically.

Before long, more than half the week, Shen Yuan was spending the night over, and some rare times, Shang Qinghua goes to the bamboo house. Shang Qinghua learns when to give up his piles of paperwork when his friend starts getting tired and to get more fucking rest himself. Otherwise, Shen Yuan will just walk in, curl up on his lap with his head resting on Shang Qinghua's shoulder, and fall asleep there.

("Really? I ordered those extra stuffed pillows for you, you know. Go to bed, I'll be done in a minute."

"Ugh, shut up, sleeping isn't the same when you're out here ordering new fighting posts for Bai Zhan Peak for the 5th time this month. I'll just wait here for you to finish."

"In my lap...? That's kinda gay--" 😏

"Qinghua."

"Shutting up and finishing the work." )

Those of An Ding Peak, being the peak that was basically the backbone of the entire sect and kept it running through sweat, blood, and some other bodily fluids, knew how to keep secrets from other peaks. You don't become a disciple there without knowing how to keep your mouth shut when outsiders are around. But between each other, whispers abound.

"I don't think Shen-shibo has left in two days," one disciple murmurs to another when they see Shen Qingqiu flouncing around yet again, ordering one of the disciples to bring some two small meals to their Shifu's rooms for a late dinner.

"Do you think they're... you know?" Another asks quietly after delivering some new contracts to their Shifu. The door to his bedroom had been slightly ajar, and through the cracks, green leaf-pattern outer robes were on the ground.

("I'm not sleeping in these, okay! You should have written in pajamas while you were busy adding in chocolate, and whatever else doesn't exist in Ancient China, to PIDW!" 😒

"Oh my god, just sleep in your inner robes, then! Better yet, borrow some of my clothes. But you're sure as fuck not sleeping naked on my silk sheets, bro!")

The disciples on Qing Jing Peak certainly notice when the bamboo hut isn't occupied for the night. At first, they just thought that their Shizun was extra silent in his house now, but once, Ming Fan had to go to Shizun for a small issue late in the evening, and he wasn't there. Nor was he there the next night, or the next. They're not sure where he is, or what he's doing, but he's always there in the morning, so they don't worry too much.

On the fourth night, Shizun was home, but Shang-shishu was also there. And... stayed there. The lights went out, and the disciples who were sent out to spy came back and reported that Shang-shishu had never left.

("He... is Shang-shishu still in there?"

"I think so. M-maybe he stayed in the extra bedroom?"

"..." 👀

"..." 👀)

The disciples eye each other and simultaneously agree to never let those outside the peak know about this. When crossing paths with A Ding disciples, there are discreet looks and nods of understanding, and they pass each other by with not a word.

(Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua?)

----

One bright and sunny morning, Liu Qingge slams his way into Shang Qinghua's office. He is followed by Mu Qingfang, and Yue Qingyuan, all needing to speak with Shang Qingqua to figure out Shen Qingqiu's whereabouts. He wasn't in his bamboo hut this morning, nor was he anywhere else that he typically frequented.

Mu Qingfang because it was time for his bimonthly check-up to ensure that his treatments with Liu Qingge were progressing as they should. Yue Qingyuan due to peak matters (though, technically, he could do it on his own, but if he got to see Xiao Jiu--). Liu Qingge because the beast that he had dropped on his doorstep yesterday afternoon had yet to be removed, which was odd. And also, he had ordered new fighting posts a week ago, and usually they would have been delivered by now, which was also odd.

Wei Qingwei and Qi Qingqi also follow along because they could smell drama. And also they were a tiny bit worried about their shixiong. Whenever he disappeared for too long, it was likely that he had gotten kidnapped or poisoned. Again.

Shang Qinghua scrambles out of his bed chambers with hastily thrown-on outer robes, blurry-eyed, screaming "Whoosit!?" He barely has time to open his mouth before he is instantly bombarded with several requests, most of them pertaining to the apparent missing peak lord. Liu Qingge also asks about his fighting posts, which Shang Qinghua pretends not to hear.

"We've not seen him in a few days," Mu Qingfang says to him over the noise, with an apologetic smile for waking up his overworked shixiong. "I know you two are somewhat friends, so if you see him soon, please tell him he really needs to come to Qian Cao for his next physical."

"Wait, who's missing? Ah, please don't touch that." The last part is directed at Qi Qingqi, who is combing through his shelves. "Shen Qingqiu is apparently missing, according to this bunch," Qi Qingqi says, smirking at him. She pokes the figurine he told her not to touch. Oh well, she'll realize why he told her not to touch it soon enough.

"Shen Qingqiu? What do you mean, he's--" Shang Qinghua instantly closes his mouth, hoping that no one heard that. "I-I mean, yeah, I'll let you guys know if he stops by! No problem, will absolutely send him your way--" "What was that?" Liu Qingge narrows his eyes at him. "You were about to say something. You know where he is. Tell me."

Shang Qinghua begins to sweat immediately. "Whaaat? No, you must have heard wrong. Seriously, I'll let you guys know if I catch him. Now, if you guys can be on your way--" He starts trying to herd people out.

Unbeknownst to him, his bedroom door cracks open and a figure, eyes barely open, shuffles out and heads towards him. Wei Qingwei, idling in the office, is the first to notice the person wearing another set of An Ding Blue outer robes over soft Qing Jing Green inner ones. His jaw drops.

"Qinghua?" A soft, sleepy voice murmurs in his ear, arms circling around his waist and a head laying on his shoulder from behind. "It's too early, come back to bed." A small yawn.

Shang Qinghua can feel himself freeze with a nervous smile on his face.

Shit.

[rizzcom]

trapped

pairing: robin (dick grayson) x catwoman apprentice! reader

tags: mdni, fem reader, reader is a year older than dick, enemies to lovers¿?, dick calls reader “cat”, reader calls dick “birdie”/“baby”, very hormonal teens, dry humping, enclosed space, forced proximity, making out, groping, sub dick, thigh riding, praise, handjob, p in v, cowgirl, unprotected sex, creampie, reader is more “experienced” (lmk if i missed any)

You had never known stability. Not in the traditional sense.

Your earliest memories were of cold nights and empty pockets, of learning that in Gotham, you had to take what you wanted because no one was going to give it to you. And maybe that was why Selina Kyle took you in—because she saw something of herself in you.

From the moment Selina took you under her wing, normalcy became a foreign concept. She never pretended to be a mother, never showered you in words of affection, but she provided. She gave you food, a place to sleep, and most importantly—a purpose.

Life with her was exhilarating. Nights spent darting across Gotham’s rooftops, breaking into places you had no business being in, taking what you wanted simply because you could. Selina taught you everything—how to move unseen, how to pick locks with delicate precision, how to manipulate, how to charm.

And, of course, how to run.

But no matter how good you were, they were better.

Batman and Robin.

They were always there, always a step behind, always chasing.

Selina handled Batman, slipping through his grasp time and time again, leaving only whispered promises and stolen kisses in her wake.

And you? You were left to deal with Robin.

The first time you saw him, you nearly laughed.

A kid. Shorter than you, all bright colors and attitude, wearing a mask that barely hid the smugness in his expression.

Not like you were a kid yourself, right?

“You’re kidding,” You had said, eyeing the small figure in bright red, green, and yellow. “You’re Robin?”

From the way Selina warned you about Robin, you expected… something else.

Not this short, flamboyant boy in pixie boots and wearing that shit-eating grin.

Robin bristled at your tone, crossing his arms. “Yeah, and?”

“You just seem… smaller than I expected.”

He scoffed. “You’re, like, barely taller than me.”

You hummed, amused. “Still taller.”

It should’ve been easy. You’d spent months training under Selina, learning how to evade, how to slip through fingers like water. He was just a kid—a kid in bright colors, a cape to slow him down, and all energy and attitude.

But Robin was fast.

And relentless.

No matter how quick you were, how well you knew Gotham’s rooftops, he kept up. Every twist, every jump, he was right there, like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

He grinned through it all, like the chase itself was the fun part.

By the time you finally lost him—ducking into a hidden alley, heart pounding, breath sharp—you realized something.

You weren’t annoyed.

You were excited.

For the first time in your life, you were looking forward to something.

And it became a game.

Every time Selina clashed with Batman, you and Robin danced around each other, locked in your own little battle. He was all quips and acrobatics, relentless determination wrapped in bright colors, and you matched him move for move.

And then, somewhere along the way, over the years, the game changed.

It was subtle at first.

The way his hands lingered just a second too long when he grabbed you. The way his breath hitched when you leaned in, voice low and teasing.

And then, one night, after a particularly close chase—

“You’re slowing down, Birdie,” you teased, perched on the edge of a rooftop, looking down at him. “Getting tired of chasing me?”

Robin huffed, rolling his shoulders, the movement fluid yet tense, like he was shaking off exhaustion—or frustration. He was older now, no longer the scrawny kid you used to outrun on Gotham’s rooftops. He’d grown into himself, his frame broader, his stance more grounded, more sure. The suit, once bright and almost ridiculous in its vibrancy, seemed different now. The red looked richer, darker under the moonlight, the shadows clinging to the fabric, emphasizing the sharp angles of his body. His cape, now black and lined with gold, draped over his shoulders with an ease that made him seem more intimidating, more like a real threat than just Batman’s sidekick.

And then there was his voice—lower, rougher, with an edge that hadn’t been there before.

An edge that reminded you of Gotham’s Dark Knight.

Gone was the high-energy bravado of a kid playing hero. Now, when he spoke, there was weight behind his words, something firm, something undeniably commanding. It sent a strange thrill through you, though you’d never admit it.

“Who says I’m not letting you get away on purpose?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Awfully generous of you.”

“Maybe I like the chase,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze sharp. “Maybe I like you.”

The air shifted.

Your smirk didn’t waver, but your heart did.

For the first time, you didn’t have a quip ready.

And then, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed.

He grinned again, all mischief and ease, like he hadn’t just thrown a wrench into your entire world.

You rolled your eyes, shoving down whatever had just coiled in your chest. “You really should work on your flirting, Robin.”

“Is that a challenge?”

You leapt off the rooftop, and this time—

You let him catch you.

You were nineteen now.

It wasn’t that you weren’t grateful to Selina—she’d taken you in when you had nothing, taught you everything you knew. But you weren’t a stray kitten anymore. You had your own ambitions, your own scores to settle, and it was time you made a name for yourself.

Tonight was supposed to be the first step.

A simple break-in. A massive corporation with deep pockets and even deeper corruption. You weren’t just stealing from them—you were stealing leverage. Blackmail, blueprints, the kind of information that could buy you power.

Everything had been going smoothly—until he showed up.

“Still breaking into places you don’t belong?”

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice—low, smug, and just the right amount of irritating.

Robin.

Or, as you liked to think of him now, Gotham’s Most Persistent Pain in the Ass.

You smirked, still focused on the files flickering across the computer screen. “You know me, Birdie. I just love a good challenge.”

“You’re getting sloppy,” he countered, stepping closer.

You caught his reflection in the screen—older now, taller. The bright colors of his suit had been traded for something darker, more tactical. His stance was solid, muscles tense, ready to spring.

You sighed dramatically. “You gonna fight me, or just lecture me to death?”

“I was thinking both.”

And then he moved.

You barely had time to react before he was on you, reaching for the drive in your hand. You twisted away, knocking over a chair in your retreat, and bolted.

The chase was on.

You darted through the office space, leaping over desks, twisting through narrow hallways, all while Robin stayed infuriatingly close. You could feel him at your heels, relentless as ever, and for the first time in a long time, you wondered if you might not shake him this time.

Then you saw it—a maintenance door left slightly ajar.

You shoved through, sprinting inside just as Robin reached for you. His fingers just barely caught the back of your jacket, and in his effort to stop you, he yanked.

Hard.

The force sent you both crashing through the doorway, tumbling down a short flight of metal stairs in a mess of limbs and curses.

You landed first, sprawled on your back against the cold floor. Robin landed on top of you, knocking the breath from your lungs as the door behind you slammed shut with an ominous clunk.

A silence settled.

“…Did you just tackle me down a flight of stairs?”

Dick groaned, pushing himself up slightly, bracing himself on his arms—his body still pressed against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek when he muttered, “You fell.”

“You pulled me.”

“You ran.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly beneath him—only to realise just how close you were.

The space around you was tiny.

Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with old equipment and cleaning supplies. The air was thick with dust and stale air, and the dim, flickering light overhead barely illuminated anything.

You and Dick were practically pressed against each other.

And worse?

The door wasn’t budging.

It’s like it automatically locked you both in the moment you entered.

Dick must’ve come to the same conclusion because he exhaled sharply, muttering a quiet, “Fantastic.”

You turned to face him, looking him up and down. “Aww. Trapped in a tiny, enclosed space with me? Try not to look so excited, Birdie.”

Dick clenched his jaw, shifting his weight, and—

Oh.

That was… interesting.

For the first time since you met him, he was the one who faltered. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against your waist.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice dropping to a whisper. “Never been this close to a girl before?”

His gaze flickered to your lips before he caught himself, schooling his expression into something unimpressed. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, tilting your head. “That’s why you’re still on top of me?”

Dick tensed. Then, with a sharp inhale, he pushed off you, moving to sit up—only to immediately hit his head against one of the low shelves with a dull thud.

You laughed.

Dick glared, rubbing the spot where he’d smacked his skull. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, of course.”

You pushed yourself up, stretching out your legs as much as the tiny space allowed. Dick was sitting against the opposite wall now, knees bent, arms resting over them. The space was too small for either of you to fully move without touching the other.

A slow smirk curled at your lips as an idea took root.

You shifted, closing the distance, swinging a leg over his to straddle his lap.

His whole body stiffened.

“W—What are you doing?” he asked, voice suddenly very unsteady.

“Getting comfortable,” you murmured, leaning in just slightly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

His breath shuddered.

This was new.

You’d spent years teasing him, pushing his buttons, testing his patience. But this—the way he was looking at you now, wide-eyed, breathless, trapped beneath you with nowhere to go—this was different.

You could feel the way his heart was racing.

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow and deliberate. “Still think I’m getting sloppy?”

Dick exhaled shakily. “I—”

He stares unabashedly at the way your plush thighs brush against his sides when you shift to make yourself comfortable, he feels the way heavier breasts push against his chest as you leaned closer.

Dick wasn’t an idiot.

He knew you were doing this on purpose.

You can feel Dick’s eyes, despite it being hidden behind that damn domino mask of his. It was all over your face, and for a moment—you saw the way his breath hitch when his eyes landed on your lips.

That only fueled you more.

And without a second thought, you kissed him.

The second your lips met his, the tension snapped.

Dick made a quiet, desperate noise against your lips, his hands grasping at your waist, unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away. You made the decision for him.

His hesitation lasted seconds before he gave in, melting beneath you, responding with an eagerness that sent a thrill down your spine.

You nipped at his lower lip, earning a shuddered gasp, and God, you’d never seen him like this—needy, breathless, completely at your mercy.

“Is this what you wanted?” you murmured against his lips, your hips shifting just enough to make him choke on a breath.

His fingers dug into your sides as he struggles to maintain control.

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “Fuck—Cat… no—” Despite the words, his body betrays his desire, hips twitching up to meet yours, his hands sliding up your back.

Dick kisses you again, soft and deep, pouring his desperation and desire into the embrace. And you didn’t waste a second to kiss him back, your hips slowly moving against his thigh, seeking out any sort of relief while also trying to provide Dick some.

And Dick—

He whimpered, soft and pathetic, adorable coming from him.

Your hand moved to cup his face, your thumb stroking along the soft skin of his cheek, leaning down to deepen the kiss.

"You're so pretty." You murmur softly, pulling away slightly to stare at him, your hand making its way to remove his mask. But Dick’s hand immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.

“N-no, wait, mask stays on, Cat. We can’t—“ He didn’t finish the sentence as you rolled your hips against him instead, body jerking in his hold. Somehow the gravity of the situation just stills in his head for a moment. “Shit, shit, wait—we should talk about this, right?”

“What’s there to talk about?” You mutter out, as you press kisses along his jawline. “You want this—I want this. We both want this, don’t you agree?”

You could feel his breath, ragged and shallow.

There was no escaping the sheer intensity of it. Every inch of his body was pushing into yours, and his movements—though tentative—were driven by an undeniable need. His hips, for all his effort to hold back, shifted instinctively, and for a brief second, you felt the unmistakable press of his body against yours. And in one swift motion, you removed his domino mask, tossing it aside as your eyes met his baby blue ones.

He looked at you with wide eyes, clearly torn between wanting to pull away and wanting more. You could practically hear his heart racing in the thick silence.

He swallowed hard. “I—” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw it. The boyish cockiness was gone, replaced by something more raw, more real. He was trembling slightly, unsure but wanting, and it made something stir in your chest.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingers brushing over the outline of his suit, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the fabric. His reaction was immediate—he let out a quiet, shaky breath as his hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer.

He kissed you again, this time with more force, his lips hungry, as if he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed, brushing against your sides, your waist, his fingers lightly pressing against the curves of your body. You could feel him struggling to stay in control, his movements growing more erratic, more desperate, but still so careful, as if he was afraid of pushing you too far.

“Damn it,” he muttered between kisses, his voice tight with frustration. “I hate that you’re making me lose control.”

You smiled against his lips, pulling back just slightly. “You don’t have to hate it, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, and there it was—vulnerable, unsure, but undeniably drawn to you. “I—” He paused, exhaling slowly, as if gathering his thoughts. “I want this. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to know everything,” you said softly, running your hand down his chest once more. “Just go with it.”

Dick’s body reacted immediately, the way his hands moved to your back, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough. You could feel the desperation in him, the way his movements grew more fervent, more insistent, as if the moment had finally overtaken him.

There was something so intoxicating about it—the way he kissed you with such intensity, like every second he spent with you in this confined space only heightened the tension between you. You could feel his body pressing against yours, his every movement a silent invitation, a challenge. His hands, once hesitant, were now roaming freely, touching you with a fervor that made your heart race.

Dick reaches up with one hand to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple through the fabric of your suit, and you let out a guttural moan.

“That’s it, baby, don’t hold back.” You mumbled, your hand grabbing a fistful of his hair, tilting his head up to meet his lips once more.

And don’t hold back he did. His hand fondled with your clothed breast, while the other made its way to the zip on your back.

Dick's gaze lazily makes its way up your form, greedily taking in every inch. He gently bites down on his lower lip, face starting to look flushed as he lets his guard down. Bending forward, you close the distance between your mouths, nipping gently and taking that plush lower lip for yourself. He gasps, but gives as good as he gets, tonguing into you with a little groan. When he tries to take control and deepen the kiss, you smirk and pull back, drawing a pouty little sigh from him.

"Ah ah, birdie—let me do all the work, yeah?" You scold him. His forehead came to rest on your shoulder, his warm breath mixing with yours.

“I’m sorry, I just—” You placed a finger on his lips, clicking your tongue.

“Don’t apologise.” You murmur, lifting his head up as you start to press kisses all over his jawline once again, trailing down to his neck. Dick whines softly at the sudden shift, mewling your name.

He grinds against your clothed cunt, the fabric of your suits making it easier to hurriedly slide against each other.

Dick wishes he could feel how tightly you’d wrap around him instead of this but he needed release now, and this was the quickest way to get it.

But you notice his neediness.

You noticed how much he was aching to be inside of you.

He was bucking into you desperately, moving his hands to grope your tits and roll your nipples between his fingers.

“There you go… Good boy, keep going.” You whisper, your hand trailing down to the hem of his pants, tugging at it.

Dick inhales sharply as he feels your fingers brushing against the waistband of his pants, his hips twitching in anticipation. He's breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“Ah fuck…” His voice is strained, torn between wanting to give in completely and the lingering hesitation. “I want to... but we should... shit.. but we should be careful.”

You tilt your head at that, your hand resting against his growing arousal, rubbing against it painstakingly slow. “And where’s the fun in that?”

Fuck.

Despite his words, his hips lift slightly, seeking more of your touch. “Please, just... let me...” He swallows hard, hands gripping your waist as he looks up at you with hazy, desire-filled eyes. “...let me make you feel good.” His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your bottom, brushing against the bare skin of your stomach, leaving tingles in their wake.

“Tell me what you want. I'll do anything... anything you want.” His voice is a needy whisper, one you knew you couldn’t resist now.

Your eyes darken with lust as you take in the sight of Dick beneath you, seeing the desperation etched into every line of his body. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his heart is pounding against your chest, the tremble of his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your suit.

Slowly, teasingly, you slide your hand lower, palming the growing bulge in his pants. You can feel him, hot and hard, straining against the confines of his costume.

Dick lets out a strangled groan, his hips bucking up into your touch, seeking more friction.

Boldly, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and slowly, torturously, begin to tug them down. The fabric resistive at first, but with a final, sharp tug, you yank them down, exposing his bare skin to the cool air of the room.

Dick's cock springs free, long and cute and perfect, the tip already glistening with precum. It twitches as the air hits it, and you can't help but lick your lips at the sight. You wrap your hand around his shaft, feeling the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses in your grip.

Dick is panting now, his eyes glazed over with lust as he stares up at you, taking in the sight of you looming over him, his cock in your hand. He looks wrecked, destroyed, completely at your mercy, and it sends a thrill through you, a rush of power and desire.

You stroke him slowly, teasingly, watching as he writhes beneath you, his body arching into your touch. You can feel him leaking more, his cock throbbing in your hand, and you know he won't last much longer at this rate.

So you lean down, your breasts brushing against his chest as you murmur in his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “That's it, baby... just like that. You feel so good... I can't wait to taste you.”

You take your time, stroking him with long, deliberate movements from base to tip. Your hand is soft and warm, encircling his thick shaft completely as you work him over. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way he throbs and twitches in your grip.

Dick's breath comes in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he struggles to maintain control. His eyes flutter shut, brows furrowed in concentration, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Soft, breathless moans spill from his lips with every upward stroke, the sounds growing louder, more desperate as you continue your ministrations.

As you pick up the pace, pumping him faster, his reactions become more intense. His hips start to lift, meeting your strokes, fucking up into your fist with a desperate hunger. Quiet, strangled moans spill from his lips, each one making your own desire peak in response.

“Fuck... Dickie, you like that, huh? Like how you’re fucking my fist, don’t you? Such a good boy..”

You watch, as Dick’s face contorts with pleasure. His brows furrow, teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to leave indentations. The tendons in his neck strain as his head tips back, throat bared to you in a silent offering. His eyes, when they meet yours, are hazy and dark, the blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

The wet sounds of your hand moving over his cock fill the small space, obscenely loud in the charged silence. You can feel him leaking more, his precum making your strokes slicker, easier. His cock is red and angry, the head an almost painful shade of pink, the slit weeping with his desire.

You lean down, your breasts brushing against his heaving chest as you bring your mouth to his ear. Your lips brush the shell of it as you whisper, your voice low and heavy with lust. “That's it, baby... doesn't it feel good? Doesn't it feel amazing to have my hand wrapped around this big and needy cock of yours? I can feel how much you want it... how much you want me...”

Dick shudders, his body wracking with sensation as he listens to your words. A broken whimper escapes him, his voice hoarse and wrecked as he manages to gasp out, “F-Fuck… please, (Name)… I need you so bad…”

You never knew how much you needed him begging for you until now. And god did it feel good.

You can feel his desperation, his absolute need for release. And you're going to make him work for it. Slowly, torturously, you increase the speed of your strokes, squeezing just a bit tighter, twisting your wrist on the upstroke.

Dick is panting now, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His face is flushed, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight as he tries to hold back. But you can see the way his body is tensing, the way his cock is throbbing harder, leaking more steadily against your palm.

“(Name)... I can't... I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna...” His words dissolve into a guttural moan, his entire body going rigid.

You feel his cock throb and twitch in your grip, and then with a hoarse cry of your name, he's coming undone. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt from his cock, painting your hand and his stomach with his release. His body shudders and jerks through each wave of pleasure, his hand gripping yours like a vice.

You work him through it, stroking him through each aftershock, feeling his cock pulse and twitch against your fingers until finally, he collapses back against the wall, chest heaving, skin sheened with sweat. He looks utterly debauched, hair disheveled, lips kiss-swollen and parted around shallow breaths. His eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, struggling to regain some semblance of coherence.

Slowly, you bring your hand up to your mouth, making a show of licking his spend from your fingers, my tongue swirling around each digit, ensuring he can see every last bit of him disappearing between your lips. Dick watches closely, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, a fresh wave of desire washing over his eyes as he takes in the sight of you licking his cum off your hand.

“Mmm, you taste good, Dick,” You purr, wrapping your hand around his re-hardening shaft, giving him a slow, teasing stroke. “I could get used to this view—you, all wrecked and wanting, cock throbbing and ready to go again already.” You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, “You really are an overachiever, aren't you?”

You can feel him shiver against you, his hips lifting slightly into your touch. You grin, pulling back to look at him with a wicked gleam in your eyes. Then, slowly, you reach back and unzip the rest of your suit, peeling the tight material down your body until you’re just left in your panties.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband and tug them down, baring your dripping cunt to his hungry gaze.

Dick's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you, his tongue licking his lips as he stares at your glistening folds. You grab his hand, guiding it between your legs, pressing his fingers against your aching clit. He inhales sharply at the contact, feeling the slick heat of your arousal coating his digits.

“Fuck, (Name).…you're so wet.” He breathes, his fingers starting to move on their own, stroking along your slit, feeling how ready you are for him. “Is this...is this because of me?”

You moan softly, rolling your hips against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. “Yes, birdie...it's all for you,” You gasp, your head falling back as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. “I'm so fucking turned on right now, and it's all because of you.”

You reach down and grab his wrist, guiding his hand to move faster, to press harder against your clit. You grind against him, coating his fingers in your slick arousal, your body trembling with need. You can feel how hard he is, his cock throbbing and leaking against your ass, and you know he wants you just as badly.

Without warning, you shift your hips, positioning yourself so that the head of his cock brushes against your entrance. You feel him gasp, his fingers pausing in their movements as he realizes what you’re about to do. You look down at him, your expression one of pure, unadulterated lust, and then you sink down.

You take him in inch by delicious inch, your walls stretching around his thick length, wrapping him in your tight, wet heat. You both moan at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces, made to be joined like this. You don't stop until you’re fully seated on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside your clit, pressing against his pelvis.

“Oh fuck, Dick...” You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual grind. “You feel so fucking good inside me.”

Your words seem to spur him on, and he starts to thrust up to meet you, his hips lifting off the ground to drive his cock deeper into your needy cunt. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and cries of pleasure echoing off the metal walls. You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate, and you know he won't last much longer.

“Come on, baby,” You pant, your voice high and breathless as you ride him harder, faster, chasing your own release. “Come inside me. I want to feel you come inside me, Dick. Please...please come for me.”

With a final, harsh thrust, you grind down against Dick. His eyes widen as he feels your walls clench around him, your words pushing him over the edge.

He pistons his hips up harder, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each punishing thrust. He leans in, burying his face between your breasts, his mask brushing against your skin as he suckles and nips at the soft mounds, leaving marks of possession in his wake.

“Fuck, (Name)...you feel too good,” he pants against your skin, his voice a low, guttural rasp. “So good...”

His words dissolve into a strangled moan as his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm as he teeters on the brink of climax. He's so close, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside your clenching walls, your arousal dripping down his shaft with each thrust.

“Ngh— fuck..” he hisses out, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he holds you down, making sure you take every last drop of his seed. You can feel the hot, thick ropes of his release painting your insides, dripping down onto his lap and the floor below, filling you up just as you'd begged him to do.

You're both panting hard, chests heaving as you come down from your highs. You slump against his chest, completely spent, your body still twitching with the aftershocks. Dick's arms wrap around you, holding you close, his face buried in your hair as he tries to catch his breath.

You can't help but smile, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him in for a slow, deep kiss. You pour all of your satisfaction, all of your desire, all of your growing feelings for him into that kiss. When you finally pull away, you're both smiling, both looking at each other like you can't quite believe this is real.

But then, Dick's eyes widen in realization as the final pulses of his release subside, his softening cock still buried deep inside your fluttering heat. A look of panic flashes across his face beneath the mask as the gravity of what just happened sinks in.

“I...fuck, I'm so sorry,” he starts, voice shaking with remorse. “I didn't mean to... shit, I shouldn't have...”

But you silence him with a searing kiss, your lips crashing against his in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of apologies. You pour every ounce of passion and hunger into the kiss, your tongue delving into his mouth, tangling with his own. For a moment, Dick is stunned, his body stilling beneath you as he allows you to plunder his mouth.

When you finally pull back, your chests heaving, you fix him with a stern look. “Didn't I tell you not to apologise?” you demand, voice low and firm. “I know exactly what I wanted, and I wanted this. I wanted to feel you come inside me, Dick.”

Dick swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “But I didn't use a condom,” he argues weakly. “I could have...we could have...”

You place a finger against his lips, silencing him once more. “Shh. I know the risks. But where’s the fun in not taking them?”

Dick's eyes search yours, a war raging behind those hidden depths. Slowly, hesitantly, he nods, your finger falling away from his lips. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Fine, you win, Cat.”

A slow, shy smile curves your lips as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his jaw, your body still nestled against his, his release cooling inside you. “Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I think we're going to be stuck in here for a while,” you say with a grin, glancing around at the small, enclosed space. “You’re going to have to deal with me a little longer, Robin.”

Dick laughs, a real, genuine sound that makes your heart flutter in your chest, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “You're insatiable,” he accuses, but there's no bite to his words, only a grudging sort of awe.

“But I think I can handle that,” he says, pulling you down for another kiss. “Especially if it means more of this.”

You nipped at his earlobe before soothing it with your tongue.

“You're just now figuring that out?”

—

Safe to say, Batman found you both a few hours later, and him and Selina lectured you both about the need for protection. (At least you were on the pill.)

All Rights Reserved © Works are exclusive to this Tumblr

[somnoir]

Children of Diana - Part 2

Part 1 | Masterpost

Diana had not intended to reveal the existence of her children so soon. But thankfully, Daniel and Dante seemed to agree that it would not be too troublesome for her colleagues to know of them.

She is grateful, at least, that no one suspects Diana Prince to be a mother of three. Instead, the world knows only that Wonder Woman has taken on two young male apprentices. The distinction, while subtle, grants her a measure of control over the narrative. It is, admittedly, a confusing time for some—especially her fellow heroes.

As expected, Batman is the first to approach her.

“You have partners?” he asks, his tone softer than usual, lacking the usual gruffness.

Diana smiles, tilting her head. “Yes. Though from what I understand, they are younger than your Robin.” She pauses, recalling the bright, determined child who first wore the mantle. “The older one is close in age to when Robin first came to be.”

Batman nods, understanding. “Do you require any assistance or advice on the matter? I am willing to offer guidance on mentoring young vigilantes. Though I must admit, I will be lacking in the powers department.”

Diana appreciates the offer. Even she struggles to fully anticipate the depths of Dante and Daniel’s abilities—so fluid, so unbound by the laws she has known. But she appreciates the helping hand nonetheless.

“Thank you, Batman.” She grins. His identity remains elusive, but she respects his privacy. More than ever, now that she has children of her own, she understands why he chooses to remain an enigma when so many of their colleagues have unmasked.

“It’s no problem.” He shakes his head, his cape shifting slightly with the motion. “You may bring them to the Watchtower at some point. Preferably once they’ve received enough training.”

Diana arches a brow, smirking. “The same way you brought Robin?”

Because, of course, Robin had not been formally introduced. The boy had snuck in, startling many before being caught by Kal—moments before he nearly ambushed his own mentor.

Batman grunts, displeased yet faintly amused by the memory. “Hopefully not.”

“I will try,” Diana laughs.

She eventually finds herself back home, where Dante and Daniel are suffering as per usual, trying to wrangle their adventurous infant of a sister to not float out the window. Like usual.

Diana steps into the room just in time to hear the chaos unfolding.

“Hi, Di!” Danny greets, far too cheerfully for someone currently wrangling a two-year-old with the strength and determination of a seasoned warrior. His eyes flicker green before he turns back to the little troublemaker currently biting the windowsill. “Can we borrow your lasso?! Or buy a leash?!”

Diana raises a brow.

“Ellie, stop biting the damn furniture! You’re too young to be traveling the world, damn it!” Dante shouts, trying to pry his sister away from the open window.

Ellie, utterly unbothered, swats at him with surprising force. “No! Wanna go to Greece! Lemme go!”

“You’re not going into the ocean, dammit!” Dante snaps back, only to yelp when Ellie plants a solid kick to his face.

Diana watches, unimpressed but unsurprised, as Dante stumbles. That moment of lost balance is all Ellie needs—wiggling free, she makes a determined beeline right out the window.

Diana sighs. Enough of that.

She catches Ellie by the waist with ease, pulling her back into the penthouse before she can so much as dangle a foot into open air. “Not yet, little one,” Diana says, tone firm but gentle. “As your brother said, you are far too young. Perhaps when you are eight, like Daniel, I shall permit it.”

Ellie whines loudly, puffing out her cheeks and attempting to push against Diana’s hold. It’s adorable, really—her tiny hands barely make an impact against Diana’s chest. Realizing resistance is futile, Ellie huffs and goes limp in her mother’s arms, a dramatic display of defiance.

Diana is unfazed. With one arm, she holds Ellie effortlessly, and with the other, she reaches out to help Dante up.

“Did I take too long?” she asks, amused.

“If you did, she’d already be by the coast,” Dante grumbles, rubbing his face and glaring at Ellie, who resolutely avoids his gaze.

Diana chuckles. It is never dull in this household.

Wraith and Phantom make their entrance as they always do—silently, effortlessly, and unmistakably theirs. They do not linger in the shadow of the League as sidekicks often do, nor do they stand beside any other hero. They are with her and her alone.

The League, naturally, takes notice.

Their presence is striking, their power undeniable. Even their attire contrasts sharply with Diana’s own. Where she stands adorned in gold, red, and blue, they are shrouded in black and white, their cloaks shifting like the cosmos itself. Danny—Phantom—wears the void, an expanse of endless cold that seems to devour the light around it. Dante—Wraith—holds within his cloak the heat of a dying star, the fury of a sun on the brink of collapse.

And then, of course, there are their abilities.

Dante calls forth fire from the earth with a mere flick of his wrist, the ground obeying his command as flames rage in his wake. Danny summons ice from the sky, turning the battlefield into his frozen domain. Opposites in nearly every way, yet when they fight, it is seamless, an unrelenting force that none can withstand.

Barry whistles, watching as Wraith effortlessly hurls the latest villain skyward, only for Phantom to snatch them mid-air and slam them back into the ground with a force that rattles the street. "Okay, lady, you've got two concerningly powerful kids there," he laughs, though the nervous edge in his voice betrays his unease.

Batman, ever observant, merely nods. "Exceptional technique," he notes. "Did you train them yourself?"

Diana crosses her arms, watching as Phantom and Wraith move with fluid precision, their synergy as natural as breathing. "Somewhat," she admits. "They had exceptional mentors before arriving in this world, but I had to reteach them certain things after their transition."

Superman drifts closer, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches the two finish subduing their opponent. Yet their work is not done—Phantom immediately turns to the civilians, kneeling to comfort frightened children, his expression softening. Wraith, meanwhile, sets to repairing the damage they’ve left behind, a flick of his hand mending fractured pavement.

"Amazing," Clark murmurs. "So they’re from another world?"

"Another dimension," Diana corrects, carefully choosing her words. "They were sent here for their well-being. It would be best if you do not pry into their origins. It has been... difficult for them. Leaving home was not their choice."

A quiet understanding passes between them.

After a beat, Batman hums. "Would it be beneficial to introduce them to the others? The Titans, perhaps? They are younger than most of our younger heroes, but it may help them to have peers outside of us."

Diana watches as Wraith floats down beside Phantom, producing a small, unharmed kitten from seemingly nowhere and handing it to a tearful child. The girl’s sniffles quiet as she clutches the creature, Phantom ruffling her hair with an encouraging smile.

A rare warmth spreads in Diana’s chest.

She considers Batman’s words, then smiles. "That would be nice," she agrees. "It would make my day knowing my apprentices are given the chance to make friends."

Althought the prospect would solely depend on the boys' decision. Ellie would join in the vigilantism soon enough but for now...

"Παιδιά! Ελάτε εδώ!" (Kids! Come here!) Diana beckoned them towards her and the two half-ghosts were quick to move. Wraith floated towards her while Phantom slipped into a portal appeared at her side.

"Batman suggested I introduce you to the younger heroes. The Titans—they are led by Batman's protoge, Robin."

"The colorful one?" Phantom's face was hidden but Diana could tell his face was already scrunched up.

"Yes," she sighed, "The colorful one."

"I wanna meet them!" Phantom eagerly said, "Isn't your sister there? Can we meet her too? Ooh! And a speedster!"

Again, Dante looked utterly aghast when the speedster was mentioned.

Alas, this will do.

Masterpost

[nerdygirlramblings]

more Adam, meeting Ren's family, setting up Simon's rut

a/n: getting to the best part of this idea arc is taking longer than anticipated. hopefully the rut and big talks next chapter 🤞🏻

cw: omegaverse biology (male pregnancy, ruts / knots), fluid sexuality

previous

Before you leave, you make sure to swing by the base admin building. The cold sterility of the grey hallways makes you sad, but Adam's desk near Price's office is always a ray of sunshine. He isn't at his desk, but his lemon cinnamon scent lingers and is perfectly accentuated by the succulents on the shelf. The space feels warm and bright despite being several halls away from a window. There are photos of several task forces tacked over the copy machine. The 141's photo is recent as you're in it, but you have no idea where it's from or how Adam has it.

He comes over as you're staring at the image. You point at it as he sits down and trip over yourself, asking, "Where is that from? How did you get it?"

He interrupts with a finger across his lips and whispers, "I never give away my secrets."

The train of thought barreling away seizes and you stop cold, a smile slowly breaking through. You chuckle and remember why you're here in the first place. "Hey, I wan'ed to thank ya for suggesting to Price I head home for leave."

He starts to wave off your thanks, but the words dry on his lips when you place a pint of Magnum Classic and two Flake bars next to his keyboard. He gives you a look of pure adoration as he stutters, "What in the...how did you know?"

You smile indulgently. "I listen, just like you do," you tell him with a wink. "Don't wait too long to eat that. 'S probably best if ya don't refreeze th' Magnum. And I know if ya try and wait 'til ya get home, Charlie will try an' steal it from ya." You couldn't count the number of times Adam told you about how he and his pack's alpha often fought over sweets around the house to the point where Bridget, the pack omega, kept separate stashes for them both. You loved hearing about Adam's pack. It made you miss your family a little less when he spoke about his.

Adam stands again and walks around the desk to where you are. He holds his arms open in invitation, and you step into the hug. He squeezes you tight for a moment before stepping back. Still holding your shoulders, he says, "Enjoy this time with your family. Be good. Have fun, but not too much. And come back safe, yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah, Adam. I'll be good." Your ride to town leaves soon, and then its a four-hour train ride home. If all the transportation runs on time, you'll be home for supper and can help Mum cook. You feel a little guilty about not letting Dad and the moms you're coming home, but you hope the surprise of your presence will make up for it.

The house doesn't look any different. The brick is a little more weather-beaten than when you joined up, but the shape of the house is unchanged. Three skinny stories with black shingles on top. The dormer windows on the third floor belie the open plan of that floor with the family nest along the back wall. That's where Dad is until the birth. From the curb, all you can see is the pale blue curtains. Somewhere in the back of the house, Mum is probably already starting on supper, Mama corralling your brothers and sisters.

You push the front gate open and step onto the flagstone walk. It cuts across a neat patch of green grass, though you notice the bikes tucked inside the front wall. Clearly with Dad on bed rest, your siblings are taking liberties with putting those in the garage.

Not for the first time, you second-guess the surprise of this visit. You know Mum and Mama won't say how worried they are about Dad and the litter, but you see it in their eyes when you call. Dad, too, teases about being on bed rest, but the last two losses weigh heavily on him.

You take a deep breath and knock. There's nothing for a few moments, but you hear scurrying behind the door and can imagine the triplets arguing about who gets to open it. Your middle siblings may or may not be home from uni, and if they are, they're not going to race for the door like the fifteen-year-olds. The door opens a crack and an eye peeks out. When it catchs sight of you, the owner squeals - must by Norah - and the door flings wide. "You're home!" Norah crows, throwing herself at you. "You're home! You're home!"

"I'm here," you echo, hugging her back. You look over her shoulder for the boys. Ben is making his way to you, but Davy isn't in sight. As he closes in, Ben pushes Norah out of the way and pulls you inside. "Mama was just going to call you," he says. "Or maybe she already called, since you're here?" You shake your head. "Anyway, the moms are going to take Dad to the birth centre-" Your gasp stops him mid-ramble, and his eyes go as wide as saucers. "Oh! No! They don't think this is bad. Mum said something about Dad's internal temperature increasing. They think the litter's ready."

You barely hear Ben's last words as you race to the back of the house and find Mama pacing the kitchen. She stops short when she sees you and flings herself into your arms. "Oh God, oh love, what are you doing here?" she half laughs, half cries, phone cradled in one hand.

"Had some leave coming and thought I'd surprise you. But it looks like I'm the one in fer a surprise!"

Mama's laughter is bright, light and happy. "Yes, you are. Mum's getting Dad's bag. They should be coming down now." She hugs you tight. "I know you just got here, but do you mind waiting here with the triplets?" she whispers into your hair.

Your laughter matches hers. "Not at all, Mama." You definitely owe Adam for suggesting you take leave and come home. You might have missed this otherwise. You shoo Mama to go grab some of her own things, listening for Mum and Dad on the stairs, while you pull together a small bag of waters and snacks for them. You toss in the crisps Mum hides but will want when she stress eats and the candy you know Dad will crave once he's allowed to eat again. You also put some healthy options in for all three otherwise Mama will scold the others the whole time and you do not want to induce that stress.

By the time the moms and Dad are in the front hall, you've pulled the car into the drive, put the snacks in the front seat, and opened all the doors. You help Mum get Dad comfortably into the back seat. Neither was as surprised to see you as you thought, so Mama must have given them a warning when she went to gather her things.

You kiss Dad's temple as you help him settle, then steady Mum with a squeeze to her hand. "Have ya called Michael or Helen yet?" you ask, leaning through the passenger side window. From the look Mama gives Mum you know they haven't. "I'll do it before you're out of the drive," you tell them. Mama puts the car in gear and backs out. You follow, shouting at them to keep you updated. You stand at the bottom of the drive long after their car disappears around the corner.

The team pack is pulling up to their house in the Lake District about the same time as your parents leave. Unlike your family's home in its neat little row on the outskirts of the city you grew up in, the pack's house sits on land nestled between the Irish Sea and the western edge of the Lake District. The cottage, or what was a quaint cottage before the pack expanded the buildings and outbuildings on the property, is a slight distance from any lakes or towns meaning they're fairly isolated. They're not entirely off the grid, but Laswell and Adam know not to reach them for the next week. They haven't told you to go no contact: though you aren't pack yet, none of them are ready to go more than a week without hearing your voice or seeing your face.

Price is already making plans for how long he'll give you before he reaches out to check in. His presence during Ghost's rut is more of a formality as the pack alpha. When they established themselves as a pack, Price's and Ghost's alpha-only ruts were rough. Both men bear a number of scars from the warring instinct to rut and to fight another alpha. Neither man was averse to a cock in his ass, but being bitched was another matter altogether, both alphas struggling to take the others' knot until they had first Gaz then Soap join the pack.

Price's role this week is making sure there is enough food and water for Ghost and whomever is helping him. There's a pallet of waters in the boot and a wholesale box of granola bars. While Soap and Gaz unpack the car, Price sets up the bed in the first floor master suite with protective pads. Price also makes up an air mattress in the second floor office. It's not comfortable, but for a handful of days, it's doable. He works hard not to think about his rut in a few months. How, if you're pack by then, he won't take his rut with Gaz or Soap but with you, sinking into your slick heat.

He knows Ghost's struggling with having you on the team but not part of the pack yet, which is why he brought a little treat for Ghost. As they rolled out of their barracks, Price grabbed the throw blanket from the rec room couch and shoved it into a plastic tote. It was a shared blanket, yes, but you'd been wrapping yourself up in it the last few days because the barracks were too cold for your omega. Despite your scent blockers keeping them from your true smell, there's a lingering scent of citrus from your toiletries. Any of them would recognize it. Price pulls the blanket out and leaves it in the middle of the master bed for Ghost, even though his own alpha growls and scratches about giving the scent of you away.

It's going to be a long week.

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden @mordacioust

[relia-robot-writes]

I'll fuckin do it pal don't tempt me

---

"Number three reactor's going critical! Repeat, cascade event imminent! Clear the bay!"

"Eject, 43!"

"Negative, command." 43 wiped blood from her eyes as she watched the countdown on the monitor tick. "There's still time to get it under control, but I have to be here to do that." There was an awful crunching noise from her left leg, the mechanisms finally failing after the beating they'd taken. 43 howled in agony as the force-feedback sensors let her know just how bad it was. She stopped for a moment, hunched and panting at the controls, sweat and blood dripping off her chin. She spat, and adjusted her reactor dials to give herself another precious handful of moments. She dragged herself forward, through a haze of pain and half-heard shouting over the comms. The lip of the bay turned out to be too much, and she collapsed, a long, drawn-out process she felt every inch of. Darkness pulled at her vision, and she tried to blink it away, to will herself to get back up, keep the reactor stable. She heard the sounds of laser cutters, and then suddenly there were hands all over her, disconnecting the force feedback systems, smearing the blood and oil she was covered in, tearing her hands off the controls. She fought back, kicking and screaming, desperate to get back to the monitor, to keep the countdown from finishing just a moment longer-

It stopped. "REACTOR STABILIZED," read the screen. "TIME REMAINING BEFORE MELTDOWN" was paused at 0:03.

43 collapsed, allowed herself to be pulled away, made small again. After some amount of time which might have been seconds or could have been years, a hand reached down to pull her chin up.

"You look like hell, 43."

43 tried to stumble to her feet, to salute, but only managed to fall off the chair onto her knees. Behind her handler, the ground crew was spraying coolant foam at the reactor casing they'd pulled out of her. A crane had been enlisted to move her shattered leg so the bay door could close properly, and the ground crew was already cutting and pulling at the twisted mass of metal that had been her left arm. 43 blinked, hard, and rubbed her biological left arm, trying to restore feeling to it.

Her handler ran her fingers through 43's hair. "You've had a rough day," she cooed at her. "Let's get you patched up, and then you can get your reward."

43 shivered.

---

The med room was bright - far too bright, after the warm soft red lighting of the cockpit - but the checkup didn't take long. Some dermis sealant for the lacerations taken when the cockpit caved in on her, and every other wound was psychological. Her leg still dragged behind her, and she had to remind herself not to hobble.

Her handler met her at the exit, holding a package. "Hit the showers, 43. You've earned it. I got you something to wear," (43 looked down at her flight suit, stained with every kind of fluid and sliced half to ribbons) "so meet me in the larboard lounge when you're done."

43's heart skipped a beat as she accepted the package. Larboard lounge? That was only a two-person space, nicknamed "lover's lounge" by the crew. What did her hander want from her there?

The shower, at least, was a godsend. The waters ran black, then burnt red, and finally, eventually, white with suds. 43's hair was short by necessity, but it felt like it had been caked with thick mud. Warm water ran over her, relaxing tense muscles and reminding her that she was in this body, here, at least for now. The package turned out to contain a luxuriously soft towel and, of all things, a set of soft green cotton pajamas, with slippers. 43 slipped them on and threw her old flight suit straight into the waste recycler.

She made her way to Larboard lounge, unsure of what to do. Should she... unbutton her top? A little? Was her handler expecting her to... or would she... 43 was red in the face thinking about the possibilities. It had never happened to her, but, she'd heard stories of... fraternization. Did she want that? Did she have a choice? And why these pajamas?

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she went right past the lounge. A hand on her shoulder caught her. "Hey, 43, you missed!"

Visions of leather and lace boiled up in 43's head as she slowly turned to see her handler... in the standard base uniform. Her handler was pretty, she thought, looking at her face, barely blinking, barely breathing. What now?

"43? You okay?" Her handler gave her a concerned look. "I got something for you, but if you're not up to it..."

43 shook her head, trying to clear cobwebs, embarrassment, fatigue, and the echoes of flashing reactor alarms all at once. "No, Ma'am! I- I'm fine!"

Her handler gave her a look 43 couldn't decipher, her head still half-full of fog, but dropped it. "Here," she said, steering 43 into the lounge. "This will be good for you."

Inside, 43 expected to find - well, she wasn't certain. Whips and chains? A school desk? A simple cot? All wrong, it seemed. Instead, there was a small table, set for two, and a lavish spread - real strawberries, fried protein rations arranged delicately, an artfully twisted nest of long noodles in a sauce that smelled of garlic and herbs, and a few other things set aside under metal domes for later. 43's stomach growled, and she blinked. "Wha?"

Her handler pulled out a chair for her and placed her hand on her shoulder to help her sit down. "Tada! I've been saving this stuff for a special occasion."

43 was at a loss for words as her handler sat down across the table from her. She managed to recover her tongue, but could only think to say one thing: "Why?"

"Why not?"

"I- I failed the mission, is why not! I didn't secure the objective, I got shot up so bad it'll take weeks to refit me - it - whatever! I lost everything! I should be punished, not-" 43 stopped, a hot feeling buzzing behind her eyes.

Her handler got up, walked to her side, kneeled down, and took her hand. "You came back," she said, softly. "That's worth celebrating."

43 resisted for a moment, then broke down sobbing onto her handler's shoulder. Her handler held her for a long time.

Eventually, she pulled back, and her handler offered her a handkerchief. 43 blew her nose, and then looked at her handler again. "Oh, your uniform..."

She waved off the comment. "I've got others. Let's eat, before it gets cold."

43 took a bite, and it was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

[monster-disaster]

[monsters] New Year's resolution

monsters x human!Reader Good to know: no warnings

Summary: Your New Year's resolution leads to a very intense week in the gym.

“She is the one.”

Kiron frowns. His dark eyes scan through the crowd, searching. “Which one?”

“That pretty girl in the black sweatshirt,” Diran replies, nodding subtly in your direction. “She just left the reception desk.”

“Oh,” Decar hums. The deep baritone of his voice barely rises above the monotone drone of the treadmills. “And she has a membership card. She’s serious.”

Kiron snorts, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. “Yeah, so is half the city. It’s January, after all.”

Decar’s lips curl into a slow, predatory smirk, just enough to show a hint of his canines. “Well, then, let’s make sure she doesn’t quit after a week, shall we?” His vivid green eyes gleam under the bright fluorescent lights as he watches you take a tentative step closer to a row of sleek, whirring machines. Your gaze darts around, clearly lost and unsure and so blissfully unaware of their scrutiny.

“Boys,” Nara speaks up finally. Her voice cuts through the clang of weights like a pleasant melody. “You will scare her away.”

“Well, do you have a plan?” the orc asks, arching an eyebrow in challenge, though, he already knows the answer, of course. Nara always has a plan.

The succubus flashes a sharp, knowing smile that lights up her face with an air of effortless confidence. “Just watch and see.” The promise in her tone is undeniable.

It is the first Monday of the year, and the gym is full of new beginnings. The air hangs heavy with the potent mix of sweat, disinfectant from the freshly cleaned machines, and the weight of resolutions.

The guys watch as Nara strides toward you. Her steps are confident and fluid as she easily waves through the crowd. The blue yoga outfit she likes so much clings to her in all the right places. The light shade looks like the summer sky on her pastel purple skin. Her black hair is piled into a messy bun, with a matching scrunchie holding it all together.

“What do you think she’s saying to her?” Diran asks, tilting his head in curiosity.

The tiger shrugs. The black stripes on his arms flex as he adjusts his stance. “Who knows.”

“I’m surprised they still have their clothes on,” Kiron remarks teasingly. The orc watches you with amusement glinting in his dark gaze. Your wide, timid eyes remain fixed on Nara. You seem caught somewhere between awe and nervousness as your fingers fidget with the sleeve of your oversized sweatshirt.

The minotaur rolls his eyes, though his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “We are in public,” he points out, glancing sideways at the orc, whose knowing grin only deepens.

“Exactly,” the male replies. “You know Nara.”

“Look,” Decar interrupts, nodding toward you and Nara when the succubus turns her head ever so slightly to glance back at their group with a sly curl at the corner of her lips. Your gaze follows hers, landing on them for a brief, uncertain moment. “It’s our time, guys.”

Every part of the gym buzzes with life. Seasoned members move around the equipment with familiarity while the newcomers wander around, watching and trying to get through their “newbie” embarrassment.

“Y/N,” Nara says smoothly before any of the guys can get a word in. She gestures toward the trio with a casual wave of her hand. “These are Diran, Kiron, and Decar,” she introduces them in turn. “Guys, this is Y/N. It’s her first time here.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Diran says first in a friendly and inviting tone, and the others only nod in acknowledgment. Their imposing figures are softened by their smiles, though, Decar's is more of a smirk, and Kiron's grin has a sharpness to it, but the gesture is there.

“Y/N just told me she isn’t sure where to start with her workout.”

The orc has to bite his lip to stifle a comment, his gaze flicking from Nara to you with a glimmer of mischief. “Is that true?”

You nod a bit meekly, feeling self-conscious under the weight of their attention. “It all looks a bit overwhelming,” you admit, gesturing vaguely toward the expansive gym filled with unfamiliar equipment and bustling energy.

“It’s understandable,” Diran says with a reassuring nod. He is calm and grounded, a stark contrast to the others. “We all started somewhere.”

“That’s what I told her,” Nara interjects, flashing a grin as she effortlessly reclaims control of the conversation. “So, I offered to help her out.”

Kiron raises a brow, a sly look creeping onto his face as he exchanges a glance with the succubus. “Oh?”

“I thought we could show her some workout routines,” the woman says, her grin widening. “I don’t start my beginner class until next Monday, but if you’d like, Y/N, you can come early tomorrow, and I will give you a private yoga session.”

Decar snickers at the offer, but the low rumble of his chest gets drowned by all the noises around them. Of course Nara would claim the first opportunity to guide the sweet, wide-eyed newcomer. It’s only fair, after all. “That’s a great idea, Nara." The humor in his tone is evident.

The woman smirks at the tiger. “I know, right?”

The male crosses his arms, his tail swishing idly behind him. “I could show you some boxing moves on Wednesday,” he offers. “It’s a great way to build confidence.”

“And I can show you around the machines on Thursday,” the minotaur adds. “They can be tricky if you are new to them.”

The orc’s lips curl into a slow, dark grin. His tusks catch the bright lights from above. “And when you are all stretched and ready, we can end the week with some weightlifting on Friday.”

_

[succubus] Nara - Your yoga session with Nara ends differently than you expected. Patreon/[tiger rakshasa] Decar - You learn boxing with Decar. And he has a reward for you. Patreon/[minotaur] Diran - Diran shows you the gym equipment. And more. Patreon/[orc] Kiron - Your last session with Kiron, so don't give up now.

[deakyjoe]

Absolution

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader (afab, fem)

Category: smut, sex pollen

Summary: Obi-Wan really should have let his curiosity go and avoided that flower.

Warnings: 18+, smut (!!), sex pollen, slight dubcon (because of sex pollen but all consensual), unprotected p in v sex, master kink, slight sub!obi-wan, slight dom!reader, reader talks obi-wan through it basically, suggestions of inappropriate use of a lightsaber, virgin!obi-wan, religious guilt, hints of reader’s past feelings, reader kind of ignores some Jedi rules, kissing, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, a lot of talks of fluids I feel, slight angst I guess, let me know if I missed anything!

Word count: 4.9k

A/N: Happy May the Fourth! Happy Star Wars Day! Wrote an Obi-Wan fic last year so thought I’d keep up the tradition this year as well. It’s not the best thing I’ve ever written, certainly not the best smut, but I did end up rushing it a little to get it posted today so… sorry! This is for @lightwxlker who I told about this over lunch at uni <3 (feel free to read but please never look me in the eye again if you do). Can’t wait to see you later to see The Phantom Menace!!

Consider buying me a coffee :)

Absolution:

(Noun)

Formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment.

Declaration that a person’s sins have been forgiven.

It felt like you'd been trekking through the dense forest for days. Really, it had only been a few hours. But with no end in sight, and Obi-Wan's continuous promise of almost there, you were convinced that the two of you had been lost for about a week.

The Jedi had told you that you were in search of a hidden community that had answers to some questions that the Council had about... something. You didn't know. You rarely paid attention when Obi-Wan explained these things. As much as you respected him, these briefings started to sound the same after a while. It was the thing he reprimanded you for most often.

"Can we-" You wheezed. "Can we stop for just a minute?"

"Soon." He called over his shoulder simply, pushing aside a leafy branch for the both of you to pass through.

You considered pushing him over, tripping him up maybe, and even just stabbing him with your lightsaber. Just to have a break for a moment. It was unclear how he managed to walk through dense forest for hours on end without even a hint of fatigue peeking through. You envied him for it.

Luckily, your prayers were answered when a clearing appeared. It was small, sheltered by the canopy of trees above you, but it was a good place to stop. You didn't even have to say the word, Obi-Wan already knew what you wanted.

"Fine, rest here for a moment." He sighed, pointing at a rock.

You collapsed quickly, thankful for the brief reprieve, and watched as the Jedi made a slow circle around the clearing. He was inspecting every little thing there was to see. If there was one thing you had in common with the man, it was your curiosity and thirst for knowledge.

"Rather fascinating." He mumbled to himself, ignoring the burning of your stare on his back as he moved, poking at a fungus of some kind with the tip of his finger.

"Be careful. It might be poisonous." You warned, stretching out your legs in front of you.

"I know my living organisms." He replied steadily, pulling up and moving on to the next one.

It was a flower. Rather large, with pinkish petals and an indigo centre extending on from a bright green stem. It looked vaguely familiar to you. You racked your brain, thinking about the botany books you'd spent your spare time reading when Obi-Wan had insisted that you should know more about the planets you were constantly visiting.

Nothing was coming to you. Maybe you hadn't seen it in one of those books. Your head tilted as you watched the Jedi stroke gently at the petals with the backs of his fingers, mumbling about how it felt soft, and something came back to you when the flower seemed to move of its own accord.

"Get back." You shot up from the rock you were previously sitting on and took a quick step towards him.

"It's fine." He insisted, not looking at you - too entranced by the flower as he continued to caress the petals. He didn't know this one. He found it intriguing.

You remembered where you'd seen the flower before. A book hidden deep in the archives, where you ventured when you knew no one was looking, part of a collection of things that the Jedi were not supposed to have interest in.

Your pace picked up as the flower curled in on itself, the fleeting look of disappoint clear on Obi-Wan's face, reaching for his shoulder to wrench him back.

"No! Obi-Wan, stop!"

But it was too late.

As you made contact with his robes to pull him away, the flower blossomed open. A bright cloud of purple pollen burst out and coated the two of you, settling itself over your skin and infiltrating your lungs, and therefore your blood stream, as you breathed it in.

You coughed, scrubbing at yourself to try and get it off. But you knew you were past that.

The Jedi turned to you, surprised to see the panic in your eyes. "It's just flower pollen, nothing a little water won't wash away."

Your voice was shaky as you spoke. "What have you done?"

He frowned and glanced back at the plant. It wasn't one he recognised, granted, but he also hadn't been warned of anything dangerous in this area. So he really wasn't concerned. "I don't understand. What's wrong?"

"It's a flos venerem." You whispered. "We need to find shelter."

As you turned around in a slow circle, trying to decide which way you were more likely to find somewhere to figure everything out, Obi-Wan watched you with a curious gaze.

"And what is a flos venerem?"

You scoffed over your shoulder at him. "Do you ever read?"

You knew it was an unfair question considering the place you'd read about the flower wasn't one he, or any other Jedi, frequented but you were angry and frightened. Angry at him for not listening to your warnings. And frightened for yourself since you knew what the flower was going to do to you.

He looked on as you closed your eyes, feeling out with the Force. "Now is not the time to insult me. Tell me."

You whirled on him. "It's an aphrodisiac. A powerful one. And if we don't find shelter soon then you're going to be doing some strange things to these trees."

Obi-Wan frowned, puzzled by what you were saying. "Is there a cure?"

You laughed humourlessly, turning away from him again. "Is there a cure? Is there a cure, he asks. Ha!"

"An antidote?"

"No, there's no antidote." You hissed.

The effects of the pollen were already weighing on you. You imagined Obi-Wan was also feeling something as well, just unaware of it. At least you knew what you were supposed to be feeling. The Jedi Knight had no idea.

Your mouth felt dry, like sand on your tongue, and your skin was hot to the touch. A dull headache was forming at the base of your skull too and you knew these sensations would only get worse if you didn't do what the flower wanted you to. There really was only one way to fix it. But you couldn't find it in yourself to tell your companion the solution. You were ignoring the heavy feeling in the base of your abdomen.

Sensing your apprehension wasn't overstated, Obi-Wan pointed back in the direction you'd come from. "There was a cave a little while ago. We can go there and you can tell me more about this... aphrodisiac flower."

You only nodded, lacking the strength to tell him that you wouldn't be able to listen to his voice out of fear of what bodily responses that would cause in you. Your existing attraction to Obi-Wan would only be increased by the influence of the plant. And you were scared what you'd do, or what you'd suggest, to ease the feelings.

You started marching in the direction the two of you had come from, jumping away from Obi-Wan as he fell into step beside you and his shoulder brushed yours.

"Keep- keep your distance for a while." You muttered, pushing away the lick of heat that had shot through you at his proximity.

He frowned back at you, feeling bad for making you so clearly uncomfortable. "My apologies."

"It's okay. I'm just-" You cut yourself off with a groan.

Obi-Wan's stomach lurched at the sound. "You're just what?"

"The flower is making it difficult to be next to you." You turned your head away from him, desperately trying to breathe in the clean forest air and nothing else. But all you could smell was him. The scent was so strong that you could practically taste him, his skin, and it was making your mouth water.

"You're already feeling the effects of the flower?" He hummed, pondering. "I feel nothing so far."

It wasn't true. But he was completely unaware of what he was feeling. He put the dry mouth and headache down to minor exhaustion, the hike through the forest finally catching up with him. And the stirring he was feeling... down below was foreign. The Jedi secretly believed that maybe he was immune to the flower's influence.

He was severely wrong.

You glanced back at him, instantly looking away when you caught his wide-eyed gaze. His eyes were so blue, so familiar.

You marched ahead of him, ignoring his quiet protests as you urgently sought out the cave. It came into sights quickly and your pace picked up, practically running towards it now. When you reached it, you discarded your top layer of robes, the heat your body was producing making it feel as if you were melting, and left your lightsaber by the entrance to the stone shelter. You feared what you may do with it when the flower's effects got even worse.

Obi-Wan followed closely behind you and watched with curious attention at your actions, slightly puzzled when you made your way towards the back of the cave and sat down facing the wall.

"Sit over there." You pointed over your shoulder to a spot far away from yourself. "I need to think."

"Trying to remember an antidote?" He asked, wondering what there possibly was to think about right now. And without his help as well.

"Sure." You sighed, closing your eyes as you took a deep breath. You weren't thinking about an antidote since you knew there wasn't one. You were considering your options. Even though you knew they were limited. Very limited.

He trusted your word however, which was mildly foolish of him, and took a seat where you'd instructed him to do so. He kept his gaze on you, fixated on the back of your head, as he observed your breathing pick up and then slow back down several times of the course of a few minutes.

What Obi-Wan failed to notice was how his breathing was in tune with yours, increasing when yours did and lowering when yours did.

It didn't escape him though when the flower's influence started to manipulate his body even more. The dry mouth, dull headache, rapid heartbeat, and hardened dick were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. And Obi-Wan couldn't stay in denial for much longer.

So he called out your name.

Big mistake.

You jumped at the sound, having to bite your tongue to prevent noise slipping from your lips, and glanced at him over your shoulder."Yes?"

"I believe the flower is finally setting in." He decided that was the best way to put it and not that the sight of you was making him think things he hadn't even considered since he was a lot younger.

You looked at him silently for a second too long, eyes flicking downwards before moving back up to meet his again. "Meaning?"

His brows creased for a moment. "You know."

You did. So you turned back towards the wall and stared at it. "I'm thinking really hard about it, okay? I'll work something out."

Lies.

Time progressed slowly, moving at a sluggish pace that had you wanting to claw your way out of the cave in temporary insanity, and you could hear Obi-Wan's condition growing steadily worse by the minute.

You were finding it a lot easier than him to control yourself, probably due to your more extensive knowledge on the subject of simple carnal pleasure. But Obi-Wan was losing it.

You kept your eyes focused on the stone in front of you, desperately trying to ignore the sounds that Obi-Wan was making behind you. The breathless whimpers that were leaving his mouth were heavenly to your ears, creating a pulse that shook through your body regularly. Despite the sounds making you feel good, it was getting harder and harder to stop yourself from giving in and crawling over to him. Especially since you could hear him tearing off at least one layer of his clothing.

"Obi-Wan, please be quiet." You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

To the Jedi your voice sounded husky, tempting almost. "I cannot help it. Please help me."

His voice was desperate, almost whiny, as he begged you for some sort of assistance. If only he knew what that assistance was.

You squeezed your eyes closed, resting your face in your hands. "I'm trying."

It was a lie. You knew that nothing could be done. The passage from the book you'd read about the flower had been very clear. Death was inevitable. Unless you engaged with someone... intimately.

It was the only method that would get your bodily reactions to calm down. If not, the next few days would be painful for the both of you. You'd be extremely aroused the whole time, heart racing at a million beats per minute, sweat would pour out of you and cause severe dehydration that would be impossible to remedy, and finally your body would give up from the sheer exhaustion of trying to handle it all. Then, you'd drop dead.

Just how exactly were you supposed to voice that to Obi-Wan, the man who'd boasted about his ability to follow the Order's rules for years, that the only way for the both of you to survive this was to sleep together? And how were you supposed to recover from possibly finally having the man you'd wanted for so long for just one night and then never again?

"I can sense that you're keeping something from me."

Your head snapped up at his statement. He was correct, sure, but you hadn't expected him to pick up on it in his state.

So you turned around to look at him, legs crossed in front of you and back against the wall to keep yourself as far from him as possible.

"There is one solution that I know of." You confessed, still thinking of a way to tell him.

"Just tell me. I know it's troubling you. It's okay." Obi-Wan's tone was soft and comforting.

You took a deep breath in. "You won't like it."

"Do we have a choice?"

You let the breath out again. "Death."

He released a tired and humourless chuckle. "I can assure you that I'll prefer whatever solution you have to death. So tell me."

You debated what words would spook the Jedi less. Were you clinical and informative? Or soft and subtle? The sweat dripping from his temple, begging to be licked away by the tip of your tongue, was telling you to be harsh and raw with him.

Your gaze fixed on his mouth. "We have to have sex, Obi-Wan. Multiple times probably." The last part was added on for emphasis, meant to draw a reaction out of him.

He gave it to you. His already flushed cheeks reddened some more, eyes darting away from yours momentarily. It's not that the antidote was unexpected, he figured that it would lead somewhere like this considering the two of you had been contaminated by an aphrodisiac, but he thought maybe that there would be another solution. Or that you'd at least beat around the bush a little more.

Obi-Wan didn't know how to tell you that he'd never done something like that before so wouldn't even know where to start.

Little did he know that you were already well aware of that fact.

"I'll guide you through it." You paused. "But once we get started I don't think you'll need much guidance. The effects of the pollen will probably lead you."

His eyes snapped back to you, a frown pinching between them. "And what do you know of it?"

"Obi-Wan..." You mumbled, tilting your head down slightly to give him a meaningful look.

He didn't look thrilled at the notion.

You scoffed, annoyance bubbling at his obvious judgement. "We all have a past."

He knew what you meant. Sure, everyone had a past. He just didn't realise you had that sort of past. Still, he realised he had no place to pass judgement against you.

Heat pulsed between your thighs at the sudden wide-eyed apologetic look he was giving you. A groan rumbled in your chest and you squeezed your eyes shut.

"I see that this is hard for you." He whispered and you attempted to hold back a laugh thinking that this probably wasn't the only thing that was hard. "So, how about you come over here and... show me what we have to do."

You looked back at him, surprised by the boldness he was showing. Yes, he wasn't a shy man by any means but you thought he'd have been a bit less confident in this situation. Or maybe the whole thing would just be so meaningless to him that he thought it'd be easy.

Obi-Wan could feel random muscles in his body clenching as you stared at him. He'd never felt like this before. He'd always known that you were beautiful, it was impossible to ignore, but he'd never thought much else of it. But now? He couldn't do anything else apart from think about it.

You slowly pushed yourself up from your seated position and fell onto your hands and knees, too tense to stand up, and made your way towards him steadily. He was surprised to find himself practically buzzing at the sight of you crawling towards him, a ravenous look on your face. You stopped about a foot in front of him, looking up into his eyes through your eyelashes.

A hand reached out for you.

You took it.

With his help, you settled yourself over Obi-Wan's lap, a leg either side of his thighs so you straddled him. You didn't let your weight rest on him just yet, wanting to check in quickly to make sure he was okay. It was taking everything in your power not to start touching him all over despite your overactive brain basically screaming at you to do so.

His eyes moved rapidly, taking you in as he searched across your body. A hand landed on either of your hips, encouraging you to move closer to him. So you did, chest pushing slightly against his and weight pressing into his lap as you sat down. The both of you let out a sigh at the contact, pain eased for just a few moments.

It was then that you noticed you'd sat on something extremely hard.

"Is that a lightsaber in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" You chuckled, about to reach down to remove the weapon from the inside of his robes.

But Obi-Wan's eyes flickered over your shoulder to somewhere behind you. Slowly, you turned to see what he was looking out, a small pinch between your eyebrows, and saw where you'd discarded your own lightsaber earlier. What you were surprised to find was his lightsaber resting up against a rock beside yours.

"Oh." You croaked and looked back at him, eyes shooting to his crotch for a brief moment. "You are just happy to see me."

"The flower." He grumbled lowly.

Your heart fell momentarily, your face along with it, before you recovered and looked downwards towards his chest. "Right, of course."

Realising he'd made a fatal mistake, Obi-Wan placed a finger under your chin and tilted your head up to make eye contact again. "A combined effect of the flower and... you."

Your mouth dropped open for a second, dazed by his statement, before a smile blossomed along your face. "There was one thing I forgot to mention."

"And what was that?" His eyes were fixed on your mouth now.

"The flower's effects are stronger and fast acting if you are already attracted to the person you're with at the time of exposure." You leaned towards him closer, the tips of your noses brushing against each other. "I expected to feel the influence at least an hour or two before you did, Master."

A soft sound, somewhere between a moan and a whine, escaped his lips at the use of the title. It surprised you, you hadn't thought he'd be into that kind of thing. You didn't give him a chance to give you a real response though, the noise he'd just made finally pushing you over the edge.

You cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, thumbs swiping over his cheeks to wipe the purple pollen away. He let out another sound at that, this one more shocked, but equally as unrestrained. Your mouth opened just in time to catch it and swallow it against your own moan at finally feeling his lips melding with yours.

Usually, in the past, you’d have some sense of patience in this situation. But it’s like the feeling of his skin under your palms and his lips against yours, your tongue in his mouth, sent the pollen vibrating in your bloodstream. And before you knew it, your hands were tearing at his clothes, absolutely desperate to get them off.

And while Obi-Wan was a little more hesitant than you, inexperience slowing him down, once he felt how eager you were he could only join in on the action. His hands were soft, almost silky, like they hadn’t ever seen a day of hard labour in his life, and they sent warm bursts of electricity through you as they slid against your skin.

All barriers between you were removed in less than a minute, although time seemed to be flying now that you’d actually gotten beyond just staring at each other and ignoring all feelings your body had been screaming at you to address.

“Do you know what comes next, Master?” You questioned, wondering how out of practice he really was.

Obi-Wan seemed to pause, taking a long thought, before saying anything. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I know.” You said and he seemed both embarrassed and surprised. “That’s not what I was asking. Do you know what happens?”

“I’ve heard things.” He admitted slowly.

Up until this point you’d been trying to avoid looking down at his naked body. Sure, the two of you had been pretty enthusiastic in taking the other’s clothes off but neither of you had verbally stated what you were comfortable with actually doing. That didn’t mean you couldn’t feel every inch of him pressing against you though. Somehow in the tumble of robe removal, you’d slid forward on his lap which had caused your torsos to connect. And you hadn’t bothered to move back again.

You searched his face for any sign of discomfort, finding none. “Can I touch you?”

He sputtered. “You already are.”

“No-“ You took a deep breath. “Can I touch you… down there?”

You were hesitant to say certain words to him, cringing at just the thought of them coming out of your mouth and entering his ears. You shouldn’t be shy about this, having done this countless times before. But now you were doing it with Obi-Wan, someone you admired with the deepest affection, it felt different. A good different but different nonetheless.

“Oh.” The flush he’d been sporting across his face stretched to meet the tip of his ears and you reached up to tuck some hair back away from them. “Yes, you can.”

You could see that the lust the flower caused had taken over all rational thought as his irises, usually so blue and bright, had been consumed by his pupils dilating. Was this a good idea, you silently wondered? Did he truly want this? Or was the flos venerem speaking for him?

Before you had the chance to ponder over that even more, the animal instincts in your brain took over and your hand was wrapping around his, pretty sizeable, cock.

He hissed at the sensation of your warm palm touching him and you observed his reaction with hungry curiosity. You liked the way his eyes fluttered closed and his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, the way his head snapped back against the cave wall and he didn’t even seem to notice that it should’ve hurt. He was too absorbed in the pleasurable way that you were touching him.

You were touching him.

Obi-Wan felt as if he were flying amongst the stars.

Your hand slid up and down his length, taking in every minor reaction he gave you to see what he liked. The answer was: he liked all of it. No matter the pace of your strokes, the pressure of your squeeze, or the angle of the twist, Obi-Wan revelled in it all.

Every sound he made caused what felt like a flood to pour from between your thighs, skin prickling with flames of desire. You increased the speed of the pumps against his shaft, feeling him twitch in your hand. Obi-Wan started babbling to himself, something you couldn’t quite understand but realised were certainly happy mumblings. It didn’t take much more until he was orgasming, cum spurting out of him in hot ropes and coating both of your stomachs.

You weren’t surprised to see that he remained hard. At least the botany books hadn’t lied to you about the multiple times thing.

“Need you inside me now, Obi-Wan.” You whispered, pleased when his eyes seemed to spark with something akin to excitement. Pushing yourself up slightly, you took him in your hand again and aligned him with your entrance. Notching him against you, you inched down onto him slowly, feeling your hips stutter willing you to go faster, and watched his face scrunch up in pleasure.

“Does that feel good?” You asked despite knowing the answer. You just wanted to hear him say something, even a noise of approval would work for you.

He nodded rapidly and whined. “Yes, yes.”

Pleasure rocketed up your spine, walls clenching around him and he whimpered again. His hips bucked up underneath you and your eyes rolled back in your head.

He did it again.

You came.

A shocked laugh escaped your throat as the orgasm rippled through. You hadn’t realised it would be that easy but given that you’d denied yourself any friction and stimulation for way too long considering the situation you were in, it only made sense.

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “Did you just-?”

“Yes.” You sighed and rocked your hips against his, thighs still trembling with the aftershock.

“Stars-“ He gasped, head falling forward to bury his face in your neck. You smiled at the feeling of his beard scratching against your skin and moved faster.

Time became a haze, multiple orgasms rolled into a blur, and before you know it you felt like you couldn’t move anymore. Your legs ached, your body dripped with sweat and your breathing was shaky and uneven.

But you were determined for one more.

Obi-Wan gasped about it being too much but couldn’t stop himself from continuing to thrust up underneath you. Which you were thankful for considering you could feel your thighs cramping up and barely managing to support your weight. His arms locked around you, trapping you against him, as he pounded into you urgently like he was chasing something. He was really. And you could understand.

“Come on, Master, just one more.” You murmured against his temple.

It took only those words of encouragement for Obi-Wan to spill inside you once again, the feeling of that setting you off as well. And finally the two of you relaxed, the pollen’s effects wearing away.

The two of you sat against each other breathless for a moment before you eased up off of him and settled beside him. He immediately collapsed against you, sliding down until his head met your lap. You placed a hand in his hair as his breathing slowed down to a normal pace.

Now that the high had passed, guilt was setting in.

“What have I done?” Obi-Wan croaked, burying his face against your thighs.

You froze, knowing you should be feeling this same shame but not finding it in yourself to care. At least not right now. “It’s okay.”

“No!” He almost wailed. “I broke- I broke rules. Sacred Jedi code.”

“You had no choice. It was either that or death.” Tears stung at the backs of your eyeballs, willing yourself not to crack and break down. He needed you to be strong. “There was no other way.”

He knew you were right, a small seed of relief buried deep in his chest. He didn’t have another choice. But then there was another matter…

You continued to try to make him feel better. "The council will forgive you, Obi-Wan. It couldn't have been helped."

The Jedi could only nod in reply. That wasn't what worried him anymore, your logical argument had been enough to reassure him of that. What did worry him is how much he wanted it to happen again.

He glanced up at you. "What about you? Can you forgive me?"

You paused, hand stilling against the side of his head. "There's nothing to be forgiven."

"Please." He whispered against your skin. "Please just-"

It hurt you to hear the break in his voice. A man, usually so confident, reduced to this. All because of something out of his control.

You took a deep breath, stared straight ahead at the cave wall opposite you, tears in your eyes and a hand combing through his hair. "I forgive you, Obi-Wan."

A/N: I listened to Star Wars ambience on YouTube as I wrote most of this. Hope you enjoyed!

[kimberly-spirits13]

I'm Too Pretty For This

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Word Count: 1995

Summary: After endless flirting while burning some bones of a disgruntled store clerk, you and Dean come to the realization that his flirting isn't a joke

Warnings: Unedited work, a tad bit of strong language, burning a body in it's grave

                  “Why did we agree to dig out the rotting store clerk?” You groaned, digging your shovel into more dirt. 

                  “Because we’re idjits.” Dean answered while popping his knuckles.

                  “Next time someone has to burn a body, it’s going to be Sam.” You started stomping down on the spot you reckoned would be a head, hoping to break into something, “This has got to be six feet.” 

                  “It’s getting to my head, so I’m gonna say we’re getting close.” Dean looked up, gauging how low you two had dug now.

                  “I love that you’re the human measuring stick for graves.” You laughed, “Only we would need someone for that purpose.” 

                  “What can I say sweetheart, I’m a useful guy.” 

                  You blushed seeing the lopsided smirk he gave you. Luckily it was too dark for him to see the flush on your cheeks. A dull crack sounded loudly after you started digging again in the pit and you sighed in relief.

                  “Finally!” You threw your head back, “I’m so fucking tired. Let’s light this bastard up.” 

                  Dean started digging out the lid of the coffin so that you could access the body inside. After making sure that there was plenty of space, the two of you threw your shovels out of the pit and started working to climb up. 

                  “You first.” He said, “I’ll hoist you up.”

                  “Why thank you.” You smiled, placing your foot on his hand and grabbing the ledge of the pit.

                  “Anything up there?” Dean looked up at you, locking eyes with you when you looked down and shook your head.

                  “All clear.” You answered.

                  You groaned pulling yourself up, crawling against the ground to leverage yourself. There was dirt all over you and grass stains on your jeans. The ground was wet with evening mist, and you were tired and uncomfortable. Usually, you’d be able to climb out of these holes with little effort, but tonight your muscles were tense and bruised, and you just wanted to sleep. With all your effort, you dug your hand into the ground and lifted yourself fully out. 

                  “Shit!” you flinched.

                  “Y/N, what’s wrong?” Dean yelled up in a panicked voice, “Y/N!”

                  “I broke my nail.” You looked down back into the pit, shaking your hand like you were trying to shake the pain off. 

You pouted and kicked some dirt back into the pit away from Dean, “I’m too pretty for this.” 

“Can’t argue with that sweetheart.” Dean pulled himself out of the pit and reached for your hand. With a bit too much effort, you hauled him up and he came crashing into you. 

The soft ground cushioned your fall and you landed with a thud. Dean was laying on top of you, quickly pushing himself up on his elbows.

“This is not how I imagined you being under me Y/N/N.” He grinned at you; bright green eyes somehow not being dimmed by the dark night. 

You stuttered a response before shifting to get up, “Get off me doofus” 

Your skin felt prickly when you stood up and a chill ran down your spine despite how hot your cheeks were. It was just now that you registered what he said before he fell on you on top of what he just said. Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear Dean calling for you from a few feet away.

“Earth to Y/N.” You heard.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Whatcha need?” You headed over and started digging through the duffel bag, pulling out the lighter fluid and matches.

“Besides you sweetheart, the lighter fluid.” 

You tossed him the lighter fluid and held the matches in your hand. The sound of running liquid splashing on the ground gurgled into the pit as you watched Dean spill the contents of it around the casket. 

“M’lady. Would you like to do the honors?” He gestured towards the hole in the ground as you stepped up with matches in hand.

“Why of course.” You swiped the match over the lightning strip of the matchbox and watched it ignite. 

A loud “woosh” swept through the dark, lighting the surrounding area in flickering orange light. Heat emanated from the fire, warming up your cold face. You looked into the deep pit and watched as the wood of the casket charred and burned away into ash. Wordlessly, you put your hands out in front of you and started warming them over the fire.

“That’s pretty metal.” Dean jokingly chided.

“Don’t act like you haven’t done it before.” You laughed.

“Warm my hands over a human barbeque?” “Yea, I totally have.”

“It’s effective isn’t it!” You laughed harder, dropping your hands back to your sides when you were satisfied.

“You’re not wrong.” “Alright, I’m famished.” 

“I appreciate that even though we just unearthed and burned a corpse to a crisp, you still want food.” The two of you packed up and started walking towards Baby.

“I’m always hungry.” Dean said honestly.

You threw the duffle into the trunk climbed into the passenger seat as Dean shut the trunk door and slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Should we call Sam and ask what he wants?” You asked, stretching against the seat.

“No, he said he wanted to grab some protein shake from that hippie store next to the motel. Food’s on us.” “I say we just go to that diner we passed on the way here.” Dean yawned, starting the engine and turning his head to look at you.

Suddenly, a burst of bravery came over you, “Sure. If it’s a date.”

You saw Dean ride through the emotions of the comment and begin to process what you had suggested.

“A date?” He said, a red strain spreading across his cheeks.

“Don’t get dumb with me, Winchester. Was all that flirting a joke?” Fear replaced the boldness you previously had, and you sank back into the seat, waiting for him to uncomfortable say that it was all just his sense of humor.

“No, no! It wasn’t a joke.” Dean noticed the change in your demeanor and grabbed your hand, causing you to sit back up, “I thought you didn’t feel any way about it.” “Seriously, you’re confusing me, woman. Every time I got close to flirting you brushed it off.”

“I thought you were kidding!” You exclaimed, “You do that to everyone!” 

“I don’t mean it with them though! I only mean it with you.” Dean answered with the same level of astonishment.

“You’re so stupid Dean Winchester.” You started laughing at him, “You know when you’re flirting with everyone, you aren’t very clear on any sort of signals, right?” 

“I mean I guess.” He scratched the back of his head and looked forward awkwardly, “I didn’t think about that.”

“You’re probably the smoothest guy I’ve ever met, and you didn’t know?” You started laughing harder.

“Hey, I’m not the one who warms their hands up over a fire!” 

“That has nothing to do with this!”

“Fine! Fine!” Dean turned away and wiped a hand over his face before turning back around in all seriousness, “Y/N. Do you want to go on a date with me?”

You threw your hand over your mouth and stifled a laugh at his sudden seriousness.

“Come on Y/N, you’re making this difficult.” he whined.

“Yes, yes, I’ll go on a date with you.” 

Dean smiled, his eyes lighting up at the same time, “Well then, we should be off.”

You arrived at the diner and became consumed in conversation and greasy food. The older waitress joked about your obviously budding romance, causing not only you, but Dean to openly blush bright red. After a few friendly quick remarks about your relationship to the friendly waitress and a good tip, you grabbed a pie to go and started the drive back to the motel. 

A small beam of light glistened through the window, indicating that Sam was still awake. 

“Thanks for dinner.” You said, giving Dean a quick kiss on the cheek and starting to walk towards the door.

“Uh uh.” Dean grabbed your hand and pulled you towards him before wrapping his arm around you and pulling you to his chest, “You missed.” 

Dean leaned in for a kiss and your knees went weak. Your eyes fluttered closed and you felt your heart rate spike. You were pretty sure that this was the moment you’d die, but you’d die happy knowing you got to kiss Dean Winchester. When it became too much and you needed to breathe, you pulled away and looked up to see Dean staring back down at you. His eyes shined in the parking lot light and his gaze was intense.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered sincerely.

“You’re pretty good to look at yourself.” 

Dean laughed through his nose quietly, “Wanna head inside?” 

You nodded and he pulled you alongside him, opening the door and walking inside.

Sam was sitting on his bed, reading something on his laptop. He looked up and raised a brow, “You two look suspicious.”

“No, we don’t.” You and Dean shot back at the same time before awkwardly looking in different directions, realizing what you just did.

“Sure.” Sam said exasperatedly, “Did you burn the bones?” 

“Yep. The bastard’s toast.” Dean answered, sitting down on his bed. 

You sat down next to him, leaving enough space to seem inconspicuous in your mind.

“Next time, you’re digging the pit.” You groaned, trying to rub the exhaustion away. You stood up and sighed, “Okay. I’m going to go back to my room and shower. I’ll see you two in the morning.” 

“See ya.” Sam said, throwing up his hand in a wave.

You looked at Dean before leaving the room and caught the wink he gave you, rolling your eyes as you closed the door behind you.

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

The door shut and Sam closed his laptop loudly, snapping Dean out of the trance he was in, staring at the door you just closed.

“You kissed or something, didn’t you.” Sam said, giving Dean a look.

“That’s none of your business.” Dean answered standing up and heading for the bathroom, “I’m going to drown myself. When I get out, we’re hitting the sack.” 

“Dean. I’ve known you this long. Did you finally tell her?” Sam crossed his arms, watching Dean come back out of the room.

“Yea.” He gave Sam a lopsided toothy grin.

“And she feels the same?” 

“Yea.” 

Sam rolled his eyes, “Took you long enough.”

“You can’t rush perfection Sammy!” 

“No, but you can kill the rest of us with suspense.” 

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

                  After your shower, you got out and changed into your pajamas. It was cold in your room, but the motel came equipped with extra blankets. You walked over towards the bed and started to climb in when you heard a knock at the door.

                  “Y/N/N!” You heard Dean from the other side.

                  Swiftly, you walked over and swung the door open. Dean was standing there in his night clothes with a sheepish grin on his face.

                  “What’re you doing?” You asked, rubbing your eyes again from the exhaustion you felt.

                  “Sammy kicked me out. Can I bunk with you?” He asked earnestly.

                  “I mean, I guess so.” You stood aside for Dean to walk in.

                  “Why’d you get exiled?” You asked after shutting and locking the door.

                  “Um-“ Dean paused, “Couldn’t stop talking about’cha.”

                  You stared at him before laughing softly, “You’re ridiculous.” 

                  “Only for you sweetheart.” He shot back.

                  You climbed into the bed and waited for him to get in and turn his bedside lamp off.

                  “If you talk too much, I’ll kick you out too.” You said.

                  “You wouldn’t!” 

                  “I would.” “Now go to bed.” 

                  “Not without one more of these.” Dean dipped his head to yours and kissed you once again, causing your heart to flutter.

                  With a strong embrace, he pulled you tightly to him and nuzzled his head into your neck. You sighed and closed your eyes again, beginning to fall into sleep.

                  “gd’night.” He whispered.

                  “night.”

[stealingyourbones]

Tim’s exhausted form, slumped over a well worn and torn office chair abruptly woke as the announcement of his 92nd attempt at bringing back his best friend failed in the computers robotic tone.

Tim slowly gets up, his back and joints aching from sleeping in such a uncomfortable position, trudging his way over to one of the many cloning pods, the swirling fluid within glowing a bright green hue as bubbles flit around the oxygenated tank.

His hands trace the glass, watching the bubbles rise for a few minutes, before his tired eyes glance back down and suddenly he wasn’t exhausted anymore.

Slightly floating from the bottom of the tank, laid a small glowing sphere no bigger than a marble. The tiny thing resembled glass or a very polished rock that seemed to both emit and absorb light at the same time.

Tim was up and alert, flitting between the many machines surrounding the cloning pod, calibrating the machines to start growth around the sphere. The computer reading off changes in the pod, saying errors on the origin of the sphere or what it may be.

Tim doesn’t care. It may be his friend, it might be nothing, it may be something else entirely. But for the first time since the first dozen experiments there’s progress. For the first time in so many months, Tim finally lets himself have hope.

[brainddeadd]

Neteyam had always known the forests of Pandora as his home—the thick, twisting roots, the towering trees, and the song of the creatures hidden in the leaves. But here, everything was different. He was surrounded by an endless expanse of water, the bright turquoise of the reefs so different from the dark greens he was used to. And as he struggled to adapt, it was you who captivated him most.

He noticed you one day, gliding beneath the waves like you were born from the ocean itself. Your teal skin shimmered under the light filtering through the water, each movement effortless and fluid as you twisted among the colorful coral and schools of fish. You belonged here, completely and unreservedly, and he was struck by your beauty and grace.

When you emerged from the water, droplets tracing the curves of your skin, your laughter like a melody on the sea breeze, he felt something shift inside him. You turned and caught his stare, an amused smile curving your lips.

“You must be Neteyam Sully,” you said, tilting your head with curious eyes. “The forest boy.”

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling unexpectedly shy under your gaze. “That’s right. I… I haven’t exactly mastered the water yet.”

You laughed softly, a sound that seemed to lift his spirits. “That’s alright. We’ll start small. The sea takes time to understand.”

Over the next few days, you became his guide, teaching him to move with the water rather than against it. You showed him how to hold his breath, how to navigate the currents, and how to dive deep without fear. He was a quick learner, but he knew the truth—you were the reason he wanted to learn.

One evening, as the sun began to sink, casting golden rays over the water, you and Neteyam floated side by side, watching the world dip into night. Silence fell between you, comfortable and deep, until he finally spoke.

“I never imagined I’d feel this way about… all of this.” His eyes shifted to you, nervous but unwavering. “Or about someone I barely know.”

Your expression softened, and you reached out, your fingers brushing his hand beneath the water. “Pandora’s full of wonders, Neteyam. Maybe you were meant to find this one.”

With a smile, he gently took your hand, pulling you closer, heart racing with a certainty he hadn’t expected. In that moment, beneath the fading sun and the endless ocean, he knew he was exactly where he belonged—by your side, a part of your world.

[scarsnfevers]

Nothing Happend. (18+)

"I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one." – "You must be thirsty." – "You're saying I'm wrong?"

synopsis: salt clung to your skin like a memory, the ocean's breath whispering secrets against your neck as the sun bled gold over the endless horizon. You wandered through the unpredictable tides of pirates and promises, each wave pulling you deeper into something you couldn’t quite name. And then there was him—sharp-eyed, carrying storms in his bones and ghosts in his gaze. You never meant to fall into his orbit. But here, aboard a ship caught between dreams and danger, you learned that some hearts don’t beat—they burn.

pairing: zoro!chan x crewmember!reader (mentions of jeongin as luffy, changbin as usopp and jisung as sanji)

genre: smut, nostalgia, semi strangers to lovers

warnings: mature/strong language, alcohol use, heavy smut, fingering, unprotected sex, dom. Chan, various positions, he just can't get enough of you

word count: 6,9k

!minors do not interact!

The sun was a molten coin suspended in a sky of polished brass, its light rippling over the crests of the waves in glittering shatters. The Going Merry groaned softly beneath your boots, the ship’s timbers shifting like a slumbering creature stirred by the sea’s slow breath. You leaned against the starboard railing, fingertips brushing worn wood, eyes narrowed against the blinding glint of sunlight on water.

You’d stopped trying to count the days at sea. The horizon had long since lost its shape—just an endless smear of blue on blue. But today… today felt different. The wind had changed. Subtly. Not in strength, but in mood. As though it whispered secrets just out of reach.

Behind you, the canvas sails fluttered like wings. Above, gulls circled—though you hadn’t seen land in days. That in itself was strange. Too strange to ignore. You tasted the salt in the air, sharper than usual. Brighter. Almost… seasoned.

A low thud echoed across the deck.

Boots.

You didn’t need to look. You knew that gait by now. Steady, measured, unhurried—as if time itself slowed to keep pace with him.

“Still staring at nothing?” Chan’s voice was dry, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of tone that made people listen closer, not louder. You glanced over your shoulder. He stood a few paces behind you, arms crossed, one hip tilted lazily against a barrel. The wind tousled strands of green hair across his forehead, casting shadows over his eyes. “Maybe it’s not nothing,” you said. He tilted his head, gaze shifting out over the water. “Doesn’t look like much.” “Exactly.”

A beat. Then he pushed off the barrel, slow and fluid, moving beside you. Together, you stared into the horizon—where, now that you looked more carefully, something was beginning to take shape.

It was faint. Faint enough that if you blinked, it might vanish. But it was there. A blur of color too vivid for open ocean. Not an island. Not a ship. Something in between.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Do you see that?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled absently around the hilt of one of his swords, the leather wrapping dark against his hand. You saw his eyes sharpen, his shoulders still. Watching. Calculating. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I see it.” “What do you think it is?” “No idea. But it shouldn’t be there.” He wasn’t wrong. There was no reason for a structure that bright, that… designed to exist out here. This part of the sea was supposed to be empty—open waters, unbroken tides, scattered wind currents and little else. But now the silhouette was growing. Slowly. Rising like a hallucination from the foam.

Somewhere behind you, a door slammed open.

“GUYS! GUYS!”

You turned just in time to see Jeongin—burst onto the deck, straw hat barely hanging on as the wind whipped through his hair. His eyes were wide with something halfway between excitement and curiosity. “Do you see that?!” he cried, spinning on his heel mid-run and pointing dramatically out toward the strange formation.

“We’re looking right at it,” you called back.

“It’s a floating—thing! It looks like a—like a—like a giant fish!” Jeongin grinned so wide it almost looked painful. “Are we going there?! Are we stopping?! Please tell me we’re stopping!” “You don’t even know what it is,” Changbin muttered from somewhere up near the bow. He had one foot propped on the rail and his slingshot looped around his wrist, though his posture was more cautious than usual.

“But what if it’s got food?” Jeongin argued.

That made everyone pause.

Food.

Your stomach twisted a little at the thought. Rations had been thin lately. Even your own cooking experiments had devolved into heated debates about whether boiled seaweed counted as “creative cuisine.” “...It does smell like something,” you murmured.

Now that you were closer, it was undeniable. The scent drifted through the air like a siren’s call: sizzling oil, roasted garlic, sweet smoke, grilled meat. And something else—lemon? Orange zest? Citrus notes dancing on the wind. “Is that... rosemary?” you added, blinking at how absurdly good it smelled.

Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Is that a yes?! Are we going?!” Chan grunted. “Doesn’t mean it’s safe.” “Come on, Chan.” Jeongin stepped up beside him, tipping his head back so his hat fell to his shoulders. “We can’t not check it out. What if it’s some kind of rare sea chef palace?” “Or a floating death trap,” Chan replied flatly.

“You always say that.”

“And one day I’ll be right.”

You held up a hand before they could start another verbal sparring match. “Look, we need food. We need a break. Whatever that place is, it’s the first sign of anything we’ve seen in days. We at least sail closer.”

No one argued.

The Going Merry creaked beneath the shift of wind, as if it, too, was ready to rest. The sails billowed, adjusting course. Water churned beneath the keel as the ship angled toward the strange floating structure now looming larger with each heartbeat.

As you approached, the full absurdity of the building came into view. It was shaped like a fish. A massive one—its mouth agape, its scales glinting in iridescent hues of blue, red, and gold. Architectural flourishes spiraled along its back like stylized fins. Windows blinked like curious eyes, and painted signs in languages you didn’t recognize swirled across the hull. Music—live, chaotic, jazzy—poured from the upper decks, mixed with bursts of laughter and shouting. The whole thing floated on a platform held aloft by massive pontoons, bobbing gently on the waves like it belonged there. Like it owned the sea.

A waiter in a pink uniform leaned over the railing above and waved nonchalantly with a white cloth. You stared up at him, speechless. “This is real,” you said under your breath. “Yup,” Jeongin chirped. “And it smells like steak. I’m going.” The gangplank extended with a satisfying clunk, attaching itself automatically to a small boarding dock that had unfolded from the lower deck. Someone on the fish-building had clearly been expecting guests.

Or just didn’t care who showed up.

Jeongin was first off the ship, practically skipping. Changbin followed reluctantly, muttering something about “bad vibes” and “trap music.” You turned toward Chan. He hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, brow furrowed. You recognized the look—the one that meant he was watching everything. Calculating escape routes, analyzing risks, memorizing exits.

You stepped closer. “We’ll keep an eye out. Together.”

His eyes flicked to you. For just a second, something softened in them. Then he nodded once.nTogether, you stepped off the Going Merry.

The dock felt strange under your feet—solid, but too smooth. Too clean. The music was louder here. Clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the sizzling of something being seared. The scent hit you like a wave—so rich your mouth watered involuntarily.

You climbed the curved entry steps, hands brushing a banister shaped like a fish spine. The doors before you swung open not with magic or machinery, but with the welcoming chaos of a place alive. And then, framed in gold script above the arch, you saw it. The name. Baratie. It shimmered in the fading sunlight like an invitation.

Or a warning.

The moment you stepped through the archway into the Baratie, the noise hit you like a wall. Laughter, loud and unfiltered. Glasses clinking. A woman’s voice shrieking with delight. Silverware against porcelain. Someone was arguing about a stolen lobster. Somewhere in the back, a piano tripped over a jazz melody that felt half-drunk but dangerously alive.

The space stretched wide and theatrical, ringed in color and opulence that shouldn’t have belonged on the sea. Deep cherrywood beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. Lanterns swayed on chains, their golden light bathing the room in warmth and the illusion of grounded comfort. Crimson velvet curtains framed windows you hadn’t noticed from outside. Every table was mismatched and deliberate—like the owners had collected them from shipwrecks and royal chambers alike.

It smelled like heaven. Like garlic butter and roast duck and citrus and sea salt and secrets you weren’t supposed to taste.bThe hostess barely spared you a glance. "Sit where you want. No brawling, no yelling, and if you break a chair, you bought it." Jeongin was already halfway across the floor, heading for a circular booth tucked against a curved wall, arms spread like he was claiming territory. Changbin rolled his eyes but followed. You and Chan moved slower.

His eyes scanned everything. Not just the people—though there were plenty. Pirates, rich merchants, fishmen, drifters, dreamers. But also the exits, the corners, the way shadows fell in places too carefully. It was second nature by now. He didn't trust easy.

You didn't either.

Still, the booth was semi-secluded. Good lines of sight. And the table was already set with gleaming cutlery and folded napkins shaped like roses. You slid in beside Changbin. Chan took the end, back to the wall. Always.

"Okay," Jeongin breathed, practically bouncing. "Tell me we get to eat everything." "That depends," you said. "On how much money you actually have." He blinked. "I thought you had the money." "I thought you did."

A beat of silence. Chan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

You were just about to start debating whether stealing utensils could be considered compensation when a voice cut across the space. Not loud. Not demanding. But effortless. Smooth as aged whiskey over ice. "Evening, gentlemen. Lady." You turned—and saw him.

Tall. Slim. Blond hair curled behind his ears in soft waves, his black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows with the casual elegance of someone who knew he looked good. A pristine white apron tied around his waist. One hand rested on his hip; the other held a small notepad he didn’t seem to need. Eyes like honey and heat.

"Welcome to the Baratie. My name is Jisung and I'm your waiter for the evening." Jeongin leaned forward instantly. "Do you have meat?!" The waiter arched an eyebrow. "We do. Though it comes in many forms. Be specific or you’ll end up with sweetbreads." "Steak! Big steak. With butter. And garlic. And..." He squinted, sniffing. "Is that rosemary I smell?" Jisung smirked. "Good nose. Yes, rosemary." "Then I want that!" Jisung scribbled something lazily into the notepad. Then his gaze flicked to Changbin.

"For you, sir?" Changbin crossed his arms. "Do you have anything... normal?" "Define normal."

"Like... a sandwich."

"We have duck confit with citrus marmalade on toasted rye."

"...Sure."

Another scribble.

Jisung leaned over the table with a charming—if slightly smug—smile, pen poised above his notepad. “And for you?” he asked, glancing at Chan. “Something strong, I bet.” Chan didn’t even blink. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Then he turned to you. He met your gaze, his eyes softening slightly. "And for the lady?" You tilted your head slightly, the candlelight catching in your eyes as you matched his gaze. Steady. Unbothered.

"Chef's recommendation," you said. His smile curled slowly, like warm caramel drawing across cool porcelain. Not cocky—just a little too confident. "Ah," he said, voice smooth. "Adventurous. I like that."

He took a slow step closer, his notepad lowering to his side. His eyes flicked from your face to your lips and back again—not subtle, but calculated. He rested one hand lightly on the table’s edge, leaning in just enough to drop his voice into something that felt private, velvet-wrapped.

"If you ever get tired of spice," he said, “I make a dessert that’s not on the menu. Sweet, rich… unforgettable.”

It hung there. The invitation wrapped in sugar and charm. He knew exactly what he was doing. You arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" you said lightly, voice dry as salt. "Do you serve it with flattery and disappointment on the side?" The line landed like a well-aimed dagger—swift, elegant, and without venom. His smirk faltered—just a flicker—and then he laughed, soft and surprised. "Touché," he said, scribbling your order without missing a beat. "I’ll stick to the specials, then." "Good idea," you murmured. He turned smoothly, striding away with a grace that said he’d recover quickly—but you'd definitely unsettled him more than he'd expected.

There was a beat of silence at the table.

Then—

"Pfft—wow," Changbin snorted, pressing his fist to his mouth. "Absolutely brutal."

"Did you see his face?" Jeongin leaned in, eyes wide. "He looked like you kicked his puppy." Chan exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes. He tilted his head toward you with something between admiration and mischief. "Didn't even flinch. Impressive." You could feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck, rising beneath your collar. You reached for your water glass and took a slow sip, if only to stall the blooming flush in your cheeks.

"I didn’t mean to embarrass him," you said finally, lips twitching despite yourself. "It just… came out." "Please," Changbin said. "You didn’t embarrass him. You educated him." "Yeah," Jeongin added, grinning. "Lesson one: Don’t flirt with someone who can outwit you before the appetizers arrive." You sighed “Can we all just agree I handled it with dignity?” "You roasted him with dignity," Chan said, voice dry. "With style," Changbin added.

You groaned softly, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. It bubbled out of you before you could stop it, half-laughter, half-resignation.

"Gods," you muttered. "I hate you all."

"No you don’t," Chan said without looking at you.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe, right here in this ridiculous floating restaurant filled with chaos and charm, you felt something you hadn’t in a while. Something that tasted dangerously close to home.

The last of the plates were cleared, leaving behind only wine-splashed linens and the distant murmur of satisfied guests. The scent of garlic, seared meat, and something faintly citrusy still clung to the air, stubborn as saltwater. Around you, the Baratie was beginning to hum again with the rhythm of the sea—a place never quite quiet, never fully still.

Jeongin had started entertaining himself by trying to stack the bread rolls on top of one another, with Changbin offering loud, mostly unhelpful commentary. You watched them for a moment, the simple joy of it pulling a smile to your lips.

"Think we’ve earned a drink?" Chan’s voice was soft beside you, quieter than the clatter around the dining floor. You turned slightly in your seat. He was watching you, elbow resting on the edge of the table, his fingers absently toying with a toothpick. His eyes were calm, but the way his brow tilted just a little upward gave him that look—thoughtful, focused, like he saw more than he said. You nodded. "Definitely."

He stood without fanfare, waiting just long enough for you to rise before the two of you slipped away from the others. Neither Jeongin nor Changbin paid you much mind, too engrossed in an increasingly unstable bread tower. The air grew cooler as you stepped outside. A light breeze drifted across the deck, carrying the scent of open water and something faintly floral from the lanterns hanging overhead. The sky above was ink-dark, streaked with the faint shimmer of stars, and the soft creak of the ship beneath your boots reminded you just how far you were from land.

Chan didn’t speak right away. He led you up the winding stair to the upper deck, where the night was quieter, the noise of the dining floor muffled beneath your feet. There was a narrow balcony railing along the edge, the perfect place to lean, watch, breathe. He gestured to a small table tucked beneath a faded lantern. Two wooden chairs stood opposite each other. He waited until you sat, then took the seat directly across from you.

He disappeared briefly into a corner bar station still manned by a yawning server. A few exchanged words, a small grin, then he returned with two short glasses, liquid glinting amber in the low light. He handed you one. "Careful. It's stronger than it looks." You clinked your glass gently to his. "Cheers." The first sip burned pleasantly, warmth threading down your throat and spreading outward, slow and sure. You exhaled and let your gaze drift over the ocean.

"So," you said after a moment. "Be honest. Did you think we'd make it this far?" Chan chuckled softly, his voice low and even. "I thought we’d make it somewhere. I just didn’t expect it to feel like... this." "Like what?" He paused, rolling the drink gently between his palms. "Like something I don’t want to lose." That made you glance over. He wasn’t looking at you, not quite, but there was something in his expression—an openness, rare and unguarded. The kind that made you sit a little stiller, listen a little closer.

"You don’t say things like that lightly," you said. "No," he agreed. "I don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like space being made—for thought, for meaning. The wind tugged gently at a strand of your hair. You took another sip. "You’re different up here," you murmured. "Quieter." He smiled faintly. "You're just noticing that now?" You shrugged. "I think... it's easy to forget you're watching. You blend in until you don’t. And then it’s like you see everything."

Chan tilted his head. "That’s a nice way of saying I make people nervous." You laughed, shaking your head. "No. It’s a nice way of saying you’re not easy to fool." That made his lips twitch. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice had softened, losing that edge of tension it so often carried.

"You held your own tonight. With the waiter." You gave a small groan. "Don’t remind me." "Why not? It was kind of impressive." "It was mortifying." "You didn’t look mortified." You sighed. "That’s because I’ve mastered the art of internal screaming." Chan chuckled, the sound like gravel shifting underfoot—warm, grounded. He glanced at you finally, eyes catching the lantern light. "You don’t let people push you around," he said. "I like that." You looked down at your drink, unsure what to say to that. So he added, more quietly: "It means I don’t have to worry about you the same way."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass. "But you still worry," you said. He nodded. No denial.

You let the truth of that sit between you a while. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the railing, soft waves lapping against the hull. Somewhere below, laughter echoed faintly. A violin began to play from the main floor, its notes drifting upward, fragile and wandering.

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on the table. "Do you ever miss it?" "What?" "Stillness." He was quiet a moment longer than you expected. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I think I’d miss this more." You nodded slowly, understanding curling in your chest like smoke.

When he shifted in his seat, his boot nudged lightly against yours under the table—subtle, but deliberate. You didn’t move away. The stars above blinked down, distant and watchful. You sat there, eye to eye, the sea in front of you and something quieter—gentler—settling in the space between your breaths.

The sea had softened with the setting sun, waves turning to gentle laps against the hull of the floating restaurant. From where you sat across from Chan, the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining area below drifted up to the upper deck. Lanterns swung lazily overhead, their warm golden glow throwing flickers of light across Chan’s face, dancing over the faint scar on his cheekbone and the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The table between you strewn with the remnants of your drinks—half-finished glasses of something spiced and warm, perfect for easing into the calm of night. Chan leaned back with the air of someone who rarely let himself relax, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, eyes gleaming beneath the fringe of his green-streaked hair.

“You ever play a drinking game?” he asked casually, but there was a glint of mischief behind the question.

You tilted your head, amused. “Is that your idea of a date?” His smirk widened. “Only if I win.” You raised an eyebrow. “And what do you get if you do?” Chan chuckled, low and quiet. “Maybe I’ll figure that out later. For now, it’s just about knowing you better.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the gentle way he looked at you—like he wasn’t really seeing the busy deck or the crew laughing below, but just you. The thought sent a small flutter through your chest. He leaned forward slightly, voice softening. “What are you carrying around that’s so heavy?”

You glanced down, the question brushing a little too close to places you hadn’t shown anyone. Your fingers curled around your drink. “You have no idea.” Chan’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “I bet I do. I bet I know more about you than you do about me.”

A small laugh escaped you, the tension breaking just slightly. “Yeah, right. You’re an open book.” “Care to prove it?” he said, straightening in his seat. “I guess something about you, you drink. You guess something about me, I drink.” You smirked. “Go ahead. Tell me all about myself.”

Chan took a moment, his gaze wandering as if he were replaying moments in his head. Then, “I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one.” You let the smile curl slowly on your lips, shaking your head as you lifted your glass. “You must be thirsty.” He blinked. “You’re saying I’m wrong?”

“I grew up in a small village. Barely a village. Just a handful of houses in the center of a tangerine grove. Drink.” Chan lifting his glass in mock defeat. “Alright, alright.” He took a sip, letting the flavor linger before setting it down. “Your turn.”

The wind brushed past, carrying the scent of salt and citrus from somewhere below. You studied him for a beat, narrowing your eyes like you were peeling back layers he didn’t realize he had. “Okay,” you said. “But I had you read all the way back in Orange Town.” You leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table. “I’ll bet you didn’t have any friends as a kid.”

Something in Chan’s expression faltered—not entirely, just a flicker of something behind the eyes. He hesitated. “I had friends,” he said quietly. “Swords don’t count,” you said with a wry grin. He huffed a laugh, then looked away for a second, letting his fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I had one friend.”

That surprised you. Not because you didn’t believe him—but because of how he said it. The weight behind those words wasn’t light. There was a history there, buried like the bones of a shipwreck. You reached for your own glass. “Hell, one more than I had.” The two of you drank, a soft silence settling in afterward.

You let your gaze wander for a moment, over the edge of the ship, where the ocean glistened like melted starlight. The breeze carried the occasional burst of music from inside the restaurant, soft piano chords and the muted thrum of voices. But none of it quite reached you—not really. Not with Chan across the table, watching you like he was reading lines in a book only he could understand.

“Your friend,” you said eventually. “Still around?” Chan’s jaw tightened just slightly. “No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t push. The look in his eyes said the story was too old and too painful to spill just yet. Maybe not ever. Still, the quiet hung between you like a thread, fragile but real. He cleared his throat, trying to soften the mood. “Alright. My turn again.” You gestured grandly. “Take your best shot.” Chan’s lips twitched. “You were the type of kid who stole books from libraries. Probably had a whole stash hidden under your bed.” You laughed, the sound startling even yourself. “Okay, yeah. That’s not fair. That’s cheating.” He held up both hands. “Does that mean I’m right?” You sighed, then took a slow drink. “Maybe.” Chan grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It went on like that for a while—quiet guesses and quieter truths. Sometimes you were right, sometimes he was. The drinks weren’t strong, but the warmth built slowly, buzzing beneath your skin. It wasn’t just the alcohol, though.

It was him.

The way he leaned forward when you spoke, elbows braced, chin resting on his hand like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way he laughed when you teased him, soft and a little self-deprecating. The way his eyes softened whenever you let a truth slip through the cracks.

The sky darkened gradually, the stars beginning to pepper the heavens. From your seat, you could see the moon rising over the horizon, casting a shimmer over the water. The kind of view that would’ve felt too big, too distant to touch—if not for the boy sitting across from you.

“I think,” you murmured, letting your fingers trail lazily around the rim of your empty glass, “that I should head back to the Merry.” Chan looked at you, his hand wrapped around the final shot—amber liquid catching a flicker of golden light. “You want company?” he asked, voice casual, but there was a thread of softness beneath it. Not insistence. Just the unspoken echo of I'd like to.

You met his eyes. Steady. Warm. “Sure,” you replied with a nod, the corner of your mouth curving. “You’re buying the last round, anyway.”

He smiled at that, tipping the shot back with a practiced motion. The glass clicked against the table with finality. The night air outside was cooler than you expected, salty and fresh from the sea, curling through your hair and coaxing a slight shiver from you as the two of you stepped away from the Baratie’s glow. The path to the dock was quiet—just the gentle lap of water and the distant echo of laughter from somewhere inside the floating restaurant. Your footsteps on the wood were slow, unhurried. Neither of you spoke at first. It wasn’t awkward silence. Just… comfortable.

You glanced at him, the way his arms swung slightly at his sides, the breeze ruffling through his green hair. He looked almost peaceful. “I think you cheated,” you said suddenly, turning your head just enough for him to catch your grin. “No way you guessed the book thing.” Chan’s brows lifted in mock offense. “Cheated? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent reader of people.” “Oh, sure,” you said, snorting. “Master of observation." “You said I was an open book,” he shot back. “Clearly, I’m just better at keeping things to myself.” You rolled your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his. “Next time, maybe I’ll bring books and test you properly.” He chuckled, a low sound in his chest, and for a moment, you just walked.

The Merry was quiet when you reached her, the familiar silhouette of the ship nestled at the dock like a waiting friend. Jeongin and Changbin were nowhere to be seen—still at the Baratie, most likely, or off exploring some corner of the floating restaurant. Chan didn’t seem surprised by the absence, and neither did you. You climbed aboard easily, the gangplank creaking gently under your steps. The ship rocked just enough to remind you she was alive. As you made your way across the deck, you felt your balance sway a little more than it should have—alcohol and sea motion conspiring to trip you up. You caught yourself quickly, laughing under your breath.

“Remind me not to drink with you again,” you said, half over your shoulder. “Oh, come on,” Chan teased, following closely. “We had fun.” “Dangerous kind of fun,” you replied, your voice light. “The kind that ends with someone falling overboard.” “Good thing I’m an excellent swimmer.” “Are you?” He grinned. “Guess you’ll have to push me in sometime and find out.” You snorted, shaking your head. “Tempting.”

“You ever think about it?” Chan asked eventually, voice low. “How weird it is… that we all ended up here. You, me, Jeongin… even Changbin.” Jeongin’s laugh rang out somewhere from the corners of the Baratie, bright and boyish. Changbin’s voice followed, loud and familiar. “All the time,” you admitted. Chan nodded slowly, then looked back at you. “You don’t seem like you’re running anymore.” The words landed somewhere deep.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out at the sea, felt the breeze brush your cheek, tasted the bittersweet flavor on your tongue. “Maybe,” you said. “Maybe I’m finally just… heading somewhere instead.” He smiled at that, soft and proud.

Your feet brought you to the hallway where the crew’s cabins were tucked away, the lanterns flickering gently against the wooden walls. The soft creak of the ship filled the silence, accompanied by your slowed footsteps as you came to a stop in front of your door. You turned, leaning slightly against the frame. Chan stood just a pace away, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in the soft glow of the lantern. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “For walking me back.” Chan tilted his head a little. “Of course.” The air between you shifted. Not tense. Just—charged. Like a breath held too long. Like the world around you had gone a little quieter, waiting.

“I didn’t expect this,” you admitted, almost more to the shadows than to him. “This?” he echoed. “This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Us. Talking. Laughing. Drinking stupid games on a floating restaurant.” He smiled slowly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

And then, just barely, he took a step forward. Only half of one, really, but you noticed it. The flicker in his eyes wasn’t just reflection. “Should probably say good night,” you murmured. “You should,” he agreed.

But neither of you moved.

The creak of the wood. The soft hum of waves. The warmth of that final drink lingering in your veins. You couldn’t quite breathe. Not properly. And still, his eyes stayed on yours.

Like maybe he couldn’t either.

Another quiet moment passed. Then he said, almost too casually, “You know, I’m glad you’re here.” You met his eyes. There wasn’t any teasing in them now—just something honest. Something real.

“Me too,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

You closed the distance, your hand finding his collar before he could answer. Your lips brushed his — once, then again, firmer, as if daring him to pull back. He didn’t. Chan stood frozen for half a second, breath caught in his throat. But then his hand came up, gently curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. And when he kissed you back, it wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

A sound escaped the back of his throat — something like a sigh and something like a growl — and he moved forward, pressing you back until your spine met the wooden wall. His body aligned with yours in a way that felt too easy, too right. Chans other hand landed on your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might vanish.

The wall was cool against your back, but his mouth was warm. Chan's kiss deepened with every passing breath, with the kind of quiet desperation you hadn’t seen in him before. You felt it in the way his fingertips brushed over your cheek, down your arm, anchoring himself in your presence.

When you parted for air, both of you stood there for a moment — dazed, breathing hard, the space between you charged and trembling. Chan leaned his forehead against yours. “You sure about this?” he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. You didn’t hesitate. “Are you?” His answer came not in words, but in the way his hand found the door behind you, pushing it open. The cabin swallowed you both, lanternlight casting flickers of amber across the modest room. It smelled faintly of salt and citrus, your coat slung across a chair in the corner, and the mattress soft against the far wall beckoning like something out of a half-remembered dream. But you didn’t reach for it yet.

Instead, you kissed him again — slower this time, more deliberate. His hands traced the curve of your back, steady and sure, and your own found the hem of his shirt. The cloth slid upward, your knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath. You felt him shiver under your touch, and it sent a matching wave through your spine. Piece by piece, clothing fell away — a glove, a belt, the fabric of the day shed like the weight of old armor. Each movement was unhurried, reverent, like unwrapping something sacred.

Your eyes searched his, and in the flickering glow of the lantern, you saw the storm of emotions raging there: want and wariness, hope and hunger. Chan's mouth was hot and demanding, but his touch remained tender, almost reverent.

His fingers brushed your bare shoulder with a feather-light touch, and even that sent sparks flaring under your skin. His eyes drank you in, as though he was trying to memorize every curve, every shade of want on your face. Chan hovered, his lips just above yours, breath mingling, warm and trembling with restraint. You closed the distance, pressing your mouth to his — a silent command, a desperate plea. The kiss deepened instantly, all softness turning to heat, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside, tasting, exploring.

Hands roamed. Eager now, hungry. His palms spanned the curve of your waist, your hips, your thighs — he held you like a man who had been starving, who now sat before a feast and didn’t know where to begin. He laid you back with slow insistence, your skin sliding against cool sheets, his body hovering above you like a storm about to break. Your legs parted willingly, thighs cradling Chan's hips as his hand slipped between your bodies. Fingers explored you — warm, calloused, precise — sliding down your belly, brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced ease. You gasped, your hips arching instinctively into his touch. He groaned against your throat, voice thick with need. “You’re already so wet.”

You answered with a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as he circled your clit, slow and rhythmic, coaxing pleasure out of you with devastating patience. His fingers slid lower, found you open, ready. He pressed one inside, then another, curling them just right — watching your face as you writhed beneath him, as your thighs shook and your breath quickened. “You like that,” Chan murmured, voice rough, reverent. “Gods, look at you…”

Your body sang under his touch, pleasure blooming fast and hot. He kept working you, steady and sure, until the heat coiled tight and unbearable. You moaned his name as your climax crested and broke — sudden and overwhelming. Your body trembled beneath him, thighs clamping around his wrist as your back arched and a strangled cry tore from your lips.

He didn’t stop right away — his fingers slowed but stayed inside you, drawing out every aftershock with gentle, teasing strokes. Your breath stuttered. You whimpered, already sensitive, already aching in a different way now. When Chan finally pulled his hand back, his fingers glistened with you. He brought them to his mouth and sucked one clean, watching you the whole time. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He kissed his way down your body, lips warm and slow — your breast, your stomach, the inside of your thigh — until he was kneeling between your legs, hard and ready. He didn’t wait long. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, and you reached down, guided him to where you wanted him.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you.”

With a low growl, he pushed into you in one slow, controlled stroke. Your breath caught. Chan was thick, stretching you inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His eyes fluttered shut, a groan rumbling from his chest. “You feel so good,” he muttered against your skin.

He began to move, slow at first — a steady, deliberate rhythm that pushed the air from your lungs. Your body welcomed him, still tender and sensitive from your climax, each thrust sending soft ripples of pleasure across already-spent nerves. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your nails grazing his back as his pace built gradually — deeper, harder, more insistent.

The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin against skin, his labored breath, your soft moans filled the space like music.

Then he pulled out without warning.

You gasped, blinking up at him — but Chan flipped you easily onto your stomach and coaxed you up onto your knees. One strong hand gripped your hip, the other steadied himself as he slid back into you from behind, filling you again in one deep, powerful stroke. You cried out, fingers curling into the sheets as he set a harder rhythm now, his thrusts fast and unforgiving, each one hitting deep. Your body rocked beneath him. Chan's hand slid up your spine, then tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat.

“You feel incredible,” he growled, biting softly at your neck. “I could lose myself in you.” His pace became relentless — his need taking over, raw and feral. You moaned for him, pleasure still humming low in your belly, a steady throb of sensitivity without the pressure of another peak. Your limbs trembled from the intensity, from the ache Chan left in his wake. He grunted your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he was coming — with a deep, broken moan and one last thrust that pushed you both to the edge.

He collapsed over your back, panting, chest heaving against your spine. For a moment, all was still. The only sound was the rush of your breathing, the beat of your hearts in sync.

Then, carefully, he withdrew. The absence of him left you hollow and sore in the best way.

Chan didn’t go far — just shifted to his back, dragging you with him until you were sprawled across his chest. His cock, still slick and flushed, twitched against your thigh, already beginning to harden again. “You’re insatiable,” you murmured against his throat. “So are you,” he said with a wicked smile, flipping you over in one smooth motion. Now you were straddling him. You grinned, reached down between your bodies, and slid him back inside you — slow and deliberate, savoring the stretch and fullness, the way his hands gripped your hips and his head tipped back.

You began to move — not chasing another climax, but simply because it felt too good to stop. Your hips rolled lazily, taking him deep, grinding down in slow, teasing circles. Chan groaned, his hands sliding up to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath hitched. “Fuck… you feel like heaven.”

You rode him like worship, like ceremony. Hips rolling, rhythm steady, letting the sensation build with every pass. His fingers slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the touch, hips stuttering. His eyes darkened with heat. “Don’t stop. You’re perfect like this.” You didn’t. You moved harder now, skin slapping against his, your breath rising in ragged pants. You weren’t chasing a climax, not yet—it was all about the movement, the slick heat, the way you were joined so deeply.

Then he sat up without warning, his arm around your waist pulling you against his chest. Chan's mouth found your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder—kissing, nipping, tasting. You wrapped your arms around him as he thrust up into you, your legs tightening around his hips. Each movement was deeper like this, more intimate. You felt every inch of him. When your pace began to falter, your thighs trembling from the effort, Chan gently reversed your positions. You expected him to take you from behind again—but instead, he guided you onto your side, facing him.

Spooning had its tenderness, but this—this was different. You lifted your top leg slightly as he slid into you from the side. The angle was unexpected, exquisite. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "Better?" he asked, voice dark velvet against your mouth. "Yes," you whispered. It was slow, languid, but deeper than anything before. He held your gaze as he moved, one arm curled beneath your neck, the other hand gripping your thigh, guiding your leg higher over his hip. He was fully inside you, filling you perfectly, every thrust pressing against your most sensitive place.

You were surrounded by him—his breath on your skin, his body wrapped around yours, his length buried deep. The rhythm was slower now, almost torturously so. But it built with maddening precision. Chan kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, your cheekbone, never looking away. Your moans were swallowed in his mouth, and you felt yourself unraveling—every thrust driving you closer to that edge again. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your lips. “So tight and warm."

But just when the crescendo seemed imminent, Chan pulled back slightly, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Turn with me," he murmured. He guided your leg further upward and gently rolled, until you were partially on your back, his body angled above you. With one swift movement, he hooked your leg over his shoulder, bending you open for him. Then he moved. Faster. Rougher.

The shift was jarring and breathtaking. Every thrust now hit with precision, deep and unrelenting, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your cries turned guttural, your hands gripping the sheets—or him—anything to keep you grounded. He groaned as he watched you unravel. "You take me so well... every time." You could only gasp, head tossing back as the rhythm pushed you beyond the edge of control. Chan leaned down slightly, the new angle making it even more intense, his chest grazing your breast, his mouth finding your jaw, your throat, whispering filthy praise against your skin.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Falling apart on my cock.” You felt the coiling heat in your belly begin to burn white-hot. Your muscles tensed, thighs shaking, the orgasm rising like a storm on the horizon. “Let go,” he whispered against your ear. “Come for me, love.” And you did.

The climax rolled through you in waves—deeper than before, slower, drawn out like silk unraveling. Your whole body tensed, then shuddered with release, and you sobbed his name into his mouth.

Chan kissed you through it, slowing just enough to let you feel every pulse, every aftershock. And only when you relaxed, body heavy and trembling in his arms, did he allow himself to chase his own end. A few more thrusts—urgent now, almost desperate—and he groaned, his release catching him hard. Chan held you tightly, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed to yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you. Nothing else mattered.

He didn’t pull away right away—just stayed there, buried inside you, wrapped around you, the rhythm of his breath matching yours.

Finally, when the trembling slowed and your hearts found their pace again, he brushed a kiss to your brow. “Stay here tonight,” you whispered. Chan looked at you, body still humming. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.” He smiled, the look in his eyes was something different now—softer, almost reverent.

And then he kissed you again—unhurried, like the sea brushing the shore, as if time itself had decided to wait a little longer.

Not an end. Just the hush before the next wave.

[thenixart]

[id: Three images: a banner and two pictures listing prices with sample artwork. The banner reads 'The Screaming Emu' in orange across a blue, black, and green bird monster.

The second image shows Andalite heads in varying levels of detail with prices listed: $10 for a sketch, $15 for line art, $20 for line art with flat colors, and $25 for line art with full coloring and shading.

The third image shows a dragon standing upright with lines marking off segments of its body listed with prices: No additional charge for the head, +$10 for a bust up drawing, +$15 for a waist up drawing, and +$25 for a full body drawing. /end id]

Hey! My commissions are open. For a lot of reasons I need more money than I’m currently able to make at my job. I would be incredibly grateful if you commissioned me.

Contact me via private message or ask through @thenixart​ or via my email: JayTHarris42@gmail.com

Payments through Paypal or kofi (ko-fi.com/nixkat > accepts card payment). Products are digital and will be emailed in .png format unless otherwise specified.

Extras!

-Additional characters are $5 per character. -Simple backgrounds like colored rectangles or circles or polka dots cost nothing. Complex backgrounds are $15. -Saucy/Suggestive art (T&A mostly and some kinks) has an additional charge of $25

I draw:

-Monsters, aliens, fantasy creatures -Animals and Furries/Anthros -Humans

I do not draw:

- Genitals, Body fluids, Sexual Acts - Incest, Pedophilia, Sexual Assault/harassment

Art examples:

[id: A digital painting of two women, one tall Black and with red hair and one shorter white and prematurely gone grey, on a hike in a birch-maple forest in autumn. They are on a wood planked path with a split in the path in front of them. The taller woman holds a map folded in one hand and points at the path directly in front of them while the shorter woman looks at her and looks to be speaking. /end id]

[id: A drawing of the head and neck of the titular Kaiju no. 8. The monster is mostly black with his scaley skin and armor plates being different shades. He has bright blue exposed tendons and connective tissues on parts of his neck and mouth corners. The front of his head is a white, horned, skull-like face./end id]

[ID: A simple drawing of Laios Touden from Dungeon Meshi as a wolfman-type werewolf with a tail. He’s drawn from the hips up and wearing his plate armor. /End ID]

[id: Digital art of a a dark grey spotted dragon posed mid landing from a leap against a grey background with a peach square behind the dragon framing it.

The dragon has a purple head with glowing green eyes. Its wings are very large with paler grey membranes. Its tail is forked and the end is pink with the prongs glowing pink. /end id]

[bumblesimagines]

Second Chances

Request: Yes or No

Summary: While the life of nobles has many privileges, politics and alliances spare no feelings. Deals are often struck.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical HOTD/GoT warnings, labor and death, age gap mention, death of lucerys mentioned, emotionally stunted father alert, Aemond (subtly) being a lil shit

~~~

It was a stormy night amid summer when (Y/N) Baratheon came to the gripping realization he was a widow at the age of nine and ten. The ear-piercing wails of the newborn babe in his arms, freshly cleaned by the somber midwife, mixed with the familiar pelting of the rain.

He wasn't sure what to make of the sight in front of him. He wasn't sure what to make of the wailing bundle in his arms. There were a lot of things, he realized, he wasn't sure of.

His wife, Lady Elowen Tully, was laying in their marital bed in the beige nightgown she loved so much because of the floral designs on the hems. It was a gory sight. And (Y/N) couldn't look away. 

Her nightgown was soaked and partially sheer from a mixture of sweat, blood, and other birthing fluids he wasn't familiar with. The blood was most prominent. There was so much of it. It was everywhere; her gown, her thighs, their sheets, on the midwife and Maester Edrick, on the floor. 

Elowen had always been a girl of shorter structure. How did she have so much blood in her?

The baby was still crying. He hadn't really looked at it- at her yet. He couldn't. There was so much blood. 

He knew the moment Elowen woke him up in a frenzy that it'd be a hard labor. She'd been frantic, sputtering about the blood between her thighs because nobody ever mentioned blood when her mother and his own spoke to her of childbirth. He thought it would be a small complication. 

There was so much blood. 

He barely processed the door opening and shutting, its stupidly loud hinges squealing like a captured rat. He was too busy looking at his wife, too busy staring at the blood dripping onto the dark stone floor when the midwife covered Elowen's lower torso. 

"(Y/N)," His father's voice rumbled like thunder. A Baratheon trait. Their voices were loud and hard and meant to pierce through the thundering of the storms that were a constant presence over their home. "Look at me." 

(Y/N) looked down at his daughter instead. She made him nauseous. She looked like her mother. "It's a girl." He barely recognized his own voice from how quiet it was. Shaky. Not a Baratheon trait.

His father looked grim, uncertain. "I heard." He nodded, his voice tight. "You're young. You'll have a son eventually." 

Borros Baratheon wasn't known for his emotional intelligence. He was a warrior, a man to be reckoned with on and off the battlefield. He didn't cry or get excited. Always somber, always serious. 

(Y/N) wanted his mother. 

Clearing his throat, Maester Edrick shuffled closer. His clothes were still stained red but his hands dripped with water. "Does she have a name?" He asked carefully, his weary green eyes watching (Y/N)'s face. 

Elowen believed the name would come to her once she looked upon their child's face. She'd been gone before their daughter could begin screeching. 

"Uhm," (Y/N) raised his head and set his eyes on the vase on the nightstand. Elowen always kept flowers on her nightstand. "Azalea." 

"Lady Azalea Baratheon." Maester Edrick nodded. "That is a lovely name." 

The blood felt neverending. The stench was overwhelming. 

His daughter was still crying. Her face was scrunched up and her toothless mouth was open to release her constant shrieking without stopping for even a second to catch her breath. His arms moved slowly, tentatively, bouncing her like he'd seen his mother do with his youngest sister. Azalea's face was bright red, and finally, she stopped.. only to suck in a breath and start her insistent screeching again.

He felt compelled to shake her into silence, to get her to understand that her mother's corpse was a more pressing matter but he only cradled her further into his chest.

"Please be quiet." He exhaled into her small ear, and the soft skin of her head pressed into his neck. Her tiny hands freed themselves from the golden-colored cloth she'd been expertly wrapped in to clutch at his tunic. Her crying ceased, and he felt relieved for a fleeting second. 

Maester Edrick's pity was suffocating. "The silent sisters will tend to her with the utmost care, (Y/N)." He spoke softly, his voice almost coaxing.

(Y/N) didn't understand at first until he realized everyone in the room was still and staring at him. He swallowed and moved forward, past Maester Edrick and his grimacing face and past the midwife who bowed her head to cover the sorrow on her face. He stopped near the nightstand where the candle had long gone out and stared down at the woman he'd married when he was a month shy from six and ten. 

Someone, one of the servants or Maester Edwrick, had the kindness to shut her eyes. She almost looked as if she were sleeping, if it weren't for the crimson staining her skin and clothes. Most of the color had already drained from her face, leaving her once naturally flushed cheeks a ghostly pale color. He willed her to open her eyes, to gasp for air and return from the dead, but she remained limp on the bed. 

He hadn't realized he was trembling until he reached out to touch one of her light auburn strands, frizzy and wild from all the frantic tossing and squirming. He rubbed the string of hair between his fingers. Her hair was always soft and vibrant, so bright against the natural darkness of Storm's End. Everything about her was so, so bright.

"Her grandfather-"

"A raven will be sent to Riverrun right away, I assure you." Maester Edrick's sounded closer than he expected. He felt that familiar bony hand rest over his shoulder. "But right now, you and the babe must rest, My Lord. The wet nurse and I will watch over her throughout the night, I promise." 

He kept Azalea cradled to his chest. His last piece of Elowen. "No, she- she'll stay with me." 

"My Lord-"

"She'll stay with me." 

Azalea stirred in his arms. She was so small. How could she be so tiny, so fragile? She was wrinkly and looked more like a balding old man than the toddlers he was used to seeing. Cassandra liked to say all babies were ugly. She was half right.

(Y/N) couldn't stand to be in the room anymore and so he walked away from their marital bed, from their room. The strikes of lighting outside illuminated the dimly lit hallway and the rumbles of thunder vibrated through his body. 

Azalea hardly flinched. A true Baratheon.

He stepped into the darkness of one of their many guest bedchambers, empty; Storm's End was never on the top of anyone's list when they considered which castle to visit.

(Y/N) moved toward the bed and maneuvered his daughter onto one arm, using his hand to tug at the sheets and blankets until they formed an oval shape just the size of his little girl.

Gingerly, he placed her in the center and crawled into bed beside her. Azalea didn't stir. Her chest slowly rose and fell and her balled-up fist tightly clutched at the cloth wrapped around her. 

Sleep would be fleeting, he knew that well. She'd wake soon enough with demands and shrieks until the wet nurse arrived but he'd tolerate it. Tolerating things was what he was good at. 

(Y/N) stared at her for a little while longer. Nothing felt real.

He loved his parents. 

His father was Lord Borros Baratheon, a man of few words and many actions. He was a warrior, a glory-seeker, a man with a permanent scowl and a love for battle. His father placed a sword in his hand the moment he was strong enough to carry it and was certain he'd every bit of Baratheon.

His mother was Lady Elenda Caron. She was what every noblewoman was expected to be; poise, peaceful, honorable, duty-bound. She completed her tasks as mother and Lady of Storm's end diligently. She knew Storm's End better than her husband.

He was proud of his parents. He loved them. He wanted to shove them into the raging waters that surrounded Storm's End and be done with their puppeteering. 

(Y/N) hadn't looked at his mother since they departed from Storm's End. He kept his stare forward and focused on his three sisters, partly to keep an eye on Azalea who sat comfortably on Ellyn's lap and partly to remind himself of his missing sister.

Ever since the dreary night when Prince Lucerys lost his life in their waters, their mother never failed to remind Maris it'd been her words that'd sent Prince Aemond into a rage. Their mother detested the embarrassment it brought onto their family. 

Maris wasn't known for holding her tongue. She was witty and clever and never failed to speak her mind, regardless of the situation. She was meant for great things, but she was her father's daughter and her anger controlled her. 

Their mother decided the only thing that would teach Maris humility was joining the silent sisters. None of them had been thrilled at the idea. 

As for the irritation he felt for his father... 

Exactly two moons prior, a letter arrived at Storm's End from King's Landing; a proposal made by the ruling regent Prince Aemond. He'd left before they could decide which of the Four Storms he would marry, and to make up for his lack of answer, he offered a better betrothal:

One between Queen Dowager Alicent Hightower and the future Lord of Storm's End. 

His beloved Elowen Tully was dead. The moment the air fled from her lungs and the life drained from her body, he was an eligible bachelor back on the marriage mart. It was an offensive idea and one that everyone treaded on lightly around him. 

But his father believed three years was an adequate enough time for grief, never mind the fact his granddaughter couldn't even read fluently yet. 

It was useless protesting or arguing with a man like Borros, especially once his mind was set on something, and (Y/N) could only huff and grumble about it whilst his sisters celebrated the idea of joining the royal court. 

He watched the three of them lean toward the windows with excitement and anticipation while the carriage made its way up the road leading toward the Red Keep, their eyes big and wide. Ellyn held Azalea in her arms and pointed out things for the little girl to see. It was heartwarming to watch, but his bubbling annoyance made it hard to focus. 

"Heir and future Lord of Storm's End, (Y/N) Baratheon, his mother, Lady Elenda of Storm's End, and his daughter, Lady Azalea Baratheon." The herald's voice shouted into the quiet bustle of the courtyard. The gates shook while they slid shut behind the carriage. "And his sisters: Lady Cassandra Baratheon, Lady Ellyn Baratheon, and Lady Floris Baratheon." 

Cassandra immediately straightened the skirt of her golden dress, her palm pressing eagerly over the wrinkles while Floris combed her fingers through the raven waves resting over her shoulders until they were perfect. 

"A smile would not kill you." His mother muttered, fingertips gently prodding at her hairnet until it straightened. "It is not every day a man marries a queen." 

(Y/N) said nothing and took Azalea into his arms so Ellyn could tug at the sleeves of her dress. His daughter settled comfortably in his embrace and observed her aunts curiously, too young to understand their franticness in ensuring their appearances were nothing less than perfect.

Once the door to their carriage opened, (Y/N) held his breath and stepped out, his hold on his daughter tightening until his feet were firmly on the ground. Azalea grasped onto his collar with uncertainty and her lips jutted out into an uneasy pout. 

He couldn't blame her. He felt the same way. 

His mother and sisters shuffled out of the carriage after him, their giddy chatter swiftly ending with a single look from their mother. 

"Welcome to King's Landing," Prince Aemond's sharp voice sliced through the air, his long legs carrying him in strides toward them. He looked pleased with himself. "I hope the journey was not strenuous." 

(Y/N) was beginning to wish his father had accompanied them. 

"Your concern is most gracious, Your Grace." (Y/N) bowed his head and felt his adams apple bob with a swallow. His mother looked satisfied with his answer, and he sighed softly with relief. "We couldn't be more grateful for your consideration." 

Prince Aemond's smile was anything but comforting. "My mother will be returning from Baelor's Sept soon. She is a pious woman. I do not recall hearing of a sept in Storm's End." 

"We have a godswood." (Y/N) felt tempted to shrug but his mother inhaled sharply through her nose, so he added, "We can have one built for Her Grace." 

Prince Aemond nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Good, good. We can discuss more once you have settled in then, My Lord. Your belongings will be taken to your bedchambers; Ser Arving will escort you to them."

The Red Keep was, as expected, undeniably red, but only when the sunlight peeked through the grey clouds overhead. The massive walls encircling the castle reminded him of Storm's End, but that was where the similarities ended. 

He found no joy in following the knight through the dimly lit halls of the Keep. The air was thick and dreary, hardly what he expected from the Crown's home but his sisters appeared in awe of everything. 

"His Grace hopes to host the wedding soon, My Lord." Ser Arving told him, one large hand pulling on the doorknob to one of the bedchambers and nodding his head toward his sisters. 

"Soon?" (Y/N) repeated with a side step to avoid being trampled by the three when they hurried into the room with shouts of who it would belong to. Satisfaction made his lips quirk when he caught sight of his mother's flushed cheeks. 

Ser Arving nodded. "His Grace believes it is best to have the wedding before the battles continue. He wishes for a private affair, perhaps in the coming week." 

(Y/N) almost choked on his spit. 

"Week?" He managed, voice almost wheezy from a withheld cough. Azalea looked at him and her pout morphed into a deep frown. His hand gently patted her back until she relaxed again. "Surely, Her Grace would rather have a peaceful wedding once the fighting is over with." 

Ser Arving shrugged but had the decency to look understanding. "Her Grace hasn't spoken of the wedding, My Lord." 

(Y/N) had a feeling they had similar opinions on the marriage. Perhaps that meant he could convince her to speak with her son.

"I see." 

His sisters and mother were given apartments in the same hall, roughly the same size as their rooms back home but they all seemed effortlessly thrilled with them. Ellyn and Floris were always the easiest to please. He presumed Cassandra was just eager to emerge herself in the life of a courtier. 

Ser Arving led him further away from his family and a gnawing anxiety in his stomach grew. He wanted to be home in Storm's End with his father urging him to use their army in a fight against Rhaenyra Targaryen's men instead of the Vulture King in the Red Mountains.

Truthfully, the Baratheons cared little for which Targaryen sat the throne. Prince Aemond had simply struck the better deal between the two parties whilst Princess Rhaenyra relied on an oath taken by his late grandfather. Prince Lucerys never stood a chance against his uncle.

Ser Arving stopped before two tall sets of doors and murmured a greeting to the man standing by them. He was tall with tan skin, coal-black hair, and equally dark eyes. Dornish. His father would've scoffed at the very sight of him. 

"Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Criston Cole, My Lord." He introduced himself with a humble bow, strands of his hair falling over his forehead. (Y/N) caught the small, quick smile he sent Azalea and decided he liked the knight. "Her Grace returned from the Sept recently, My Lord. She awaits your arrival inside." 

Gods be damned. 

(Y/N) held back a sigh. "Thank you, Lord Commander." 

The doors groaned softly when opened and he reluctantly stepped inside the bedchambers, his hold on his daughter tightening when the doors shut behind him. He pressed a kiss to Azalea's temple and gingerly placed her on the floor so they could properly greet the Queen Dowager. 

"Your Grace," (Y/N) bowed his head and observed Azalea as she grabbed part of his pant leg into her fist and clumsily curtsied. Her big (E/C) eyes peered up at him expectantly and he nodded approvingly. 

When he finally looked at his would-be bride, he first noticed her auburn hair which looked so strikingly similar to Elowen's. Everything about her was similar to Elowen; her fair skin that looked slightly flushed, the way her hair curled, the auburn color that was just a shade darker, and her slim figure. 

Grief constricted his heart and he averted his eyes to stare at the table she'd been sitting at. Bronze bowls filled with raspberries and blueberries, small biscuits and cakes placed expertly on scalloped-shaped stands, and steaming cups of tea. 

"My Lord," Queen Alicent greeted softly, her voice and dark eyes melancholy. She looked tired, and weary, as if merely standing was a chore. "I would have welcomed you to King's Landing sooner but I was busy." 

"It's alright."

He had an inkling she would've busied herself with something else if she hadn't visited the sept. 

(Y/N) reached down to give Azalea his hand, his shoulders forming an awkward hunch as they approached the small rounded table. Queen Alicent scooped a pillow from the nearby couch and smoothed it out over one of the chairs for Azalea. 

"Hello." She greeted warmly, her eyes crinkling with the delight of someone fond of children. She had grandchildren, he recalled as he helped Azalea sit. Were they to become his grandchildren? "You can have whatever you desire, My Lady." Her words had a lightness to them.

Azalea blinked her big eyes at him. She was quiet. His mother claimed she inherited it from both him and Elowen. They'd been very awkward children, almost too shy to function on most days. 

He took a plate into his hand and scooped the berries onto it with a spoon before cutting a slice of one of the cream cakes. As expected, Azalea dug into the cake slice first, smearing her lips and big cheeks with white frosting but it only made Queen Alicent smile wider. There was something sad lingering in it.

"Most lords would rather keel over than take such care of their children." Queen Alicent said gently, her attention largely focused on Azalea. She folded a napkin over her finger and carefully wiped the frosting on Azalea's chin.

"She's my firstborn." (Y/N) muttered and wrapped his fingers around one warm cup, strong hints of mint assaulting his nose once he lifted it to his lips. "She's everything to me." 

Queen Alicent nodded, understanding yet her eyes glided elsewhere, almost distantly. She'd been young when she had her firstborn to King Viserys, younger than he and Elowen. Five and ten, he believed. The news spread quickly throughout Westeros, with many softly spoken questions of Rhaenyra and her status as heir. Two more sons later and she remained grasping onto it until Aegon was abruptly crowned. He pitied her, somewhat.

"You are not much older than Aegon. That is a fact that... unnerves me." Queen Alicent revealed gently and leaned back into her seat, looking ever more regal as she set her arms over the rests and gazed back at him. "The Realm may be tearing itself apart but there are still eligible young ladies. Lord Jasper Wylde has plenty of daughters, many of whom are still without husbands."

(Y/N) took a delicate sip of the tea, mindful as to not burn his tongue, and set the cup back down on the table. "If I may speak plainly, Your Grace?" He waited for her to nod, and then took a breath once she did. "I am grateful that House Baratheon meets the Crown's expectations, and that we were considered to begin with, but I do not wish to marry. I know I will be expected to father many children to continue House Baratheon's lineage but.. I am content as is right now."

Queen Alicent nodded again. "It is to my understanding that you still grieve your wife. I cannot fault you for that." 

"I appreciate it, Your Grace. Everyone has expected me to pretend as if Elowen wasn't everything to me once. I only ever wished for... for sympathy. For understanding."

"For someone to say how sorry they are for what happened to you." Queen Alicent's voice sounded strained whilst she spoke as if her chest was constricting from simply uttering those words. Her fingers curled inward and formed tight fists over the armrests when he nodded wordlessly. "I'm sorry for your tragic loss. It is not easy losing a loved one."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I'm sorry about.. everything." 

Queen Alicent let out a breathless chuckle and raised her hand to run her fingertips over the edge of her eyebrow. Her shoulders lowered the slightest bit and her gaze softened, a newfound warmth emitting from her. "Aemond claimed you'd be a good match for me. He said you'd care for me better than my late husband. I was doubtful, for young men are often arrogant and impatient, but fatherhood and loss seem to have matured you." 

"Your Grace?"

"You do not want a new wife; I do not want a new husband. I believe, perhaps, we can save each other from much more unfortunate fates. We can marry and not consummate the marriage. Once you are ready to move forward, our marriage can be set aside by the High Septon and we will both be free of duties others wish to thrust upon us for their own gain." 

"That is... clever."

"It is." Queen Alicent smiled. "What do you say?"

[anything-pov]

request

Emily and Readers child colour in Readers tattoos while they sleep(w/ eyeshadow)

reader wakes up to beautiful art on her body

fluffy domestic blissssss

BANTEr

Enjoy...

The Tattoos ✨

The house was quiet in that soft, golden hour between dawn and morning chaos. Emily padded barefoot through the upstairs hallway, one hand wrapped around a strong black coffee, the other rubbing sleep from her eyes.

She'd already been up for an hour, habit, muscle memory, whatever you'd call it. The quiet was her peace before the world started asking for her brain, her badge and her patience.

But the quiet, as always in a house with a 5 year old, didn't last.

From the master bedroom came a faint whisper of sound. Not crying, not screaming, not the telltale thump of something broken. Just… soft humming.

A gentle, off key version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Followed by the squeak of what sounded unmistakably like...

“Is that…” Emily whispered to herself, narrowing her eyes as she stepped closer to the cracked door, “… glitter?”

She nudged the door open with her shoulder, peeking in. There, bathed in morning light and surrounded by an explosion of makeup palettes, markers, and god knows what, from Emily’s travel kit, sat Penny.

Their daughter. Five years old, curly haired chaos in a Star Wars onesie, tongue poked between her lips in concentration. She was perched delicately on Emily’s sleeping partner’s hips.

Straddling them like a careful little artist, completely focused on her canvas. And the canvas? Emily’s partner, dead asleep, one arm draped lazily over the blanket, mouth parted softly.

Their bare arms and torso were covered in tattoos, delicate linework, bold color, fluid shapes curling over muscle and soft skin. Or at least, they had been. Now they were… enhanced.

Their koi fish had become a rainbow trout. The celestial snake along their ribs now sported blue glitter eyeliner for eyes and fuchsia contour stripes.

The constellation map across their back had new stars drawn in Crayola. And the sun around their shoulder? Bright pink. Shimmering. And smiling.

Penny dipped a finger in Emily’s eyeshadow, brushing it gently across her parent’s collarbone with reverence, then leaned in and whispered, “You’re a unicorn pirate now.”

That was the moment their partner shifted slightly, brow furrowing, groaning low in their throat. Emily cleared her throat, biting back a laugh.

Their eyes cracked open slowly, pupils adjusting, sleep clinging to their lashes. “… Em?” they croaked, voice gravelly. Emily stepped in, grinning over the rim of her coffee.

“Good morning, Picasso's canvas. How’s your nap?” Her partner blinked, groggily trying to sit up, until they noticed the small human straddling them.

“Don’t move!” Penny ordered with the seriousness only a 5 year old could muster. “I’m not done blending.” Emily couldn’t hold it anymore. She barked a laugh. Her partner groaned again, flopping back onto the pillow.

“Should I even ask?”

“You’ve been… improved,” Emily smirked, setting her coffee down and kneeling beside the bed to press a kiss to their inked shoulder. “She got into my makeup kit. You are, apparently, now a unicorn pirate with a galaxy for a chest.”

Penny beamed. “I gave them galaxy freckles, too.”

“I noticed,” Emily said, brushing some green highlighter off their partner’s cheek with the pad of her thumb. “Honestly? It’s kind of a look.”

Their partner sighed, a sleepy smile finally breaking through. “Remind me why we taught her how to open the drawers?”

“Because she’s brilliant,” Emily replied, running her hand gently over their now shimmering bicep. “And also? Because watching the two of you like this is the best part of my whole damn day.”

Her partner glanced at her, soft eyed despite the glitter in their eyelashes. “You’re the best part of mine.”

“Even with the pirate makeover?”

“Especially with the pirate makeover,” they said, voice warm, gaze drifting to Penny. “She takes after her mom.”

Emily sat back with a sigh, brushing her hand through Penny’s curls. “God help us all.”

[conceptionsofconciousness]

The Nakshatra Colors

In Astrology, every Nakshatra has a color which it is associated with. The color of the Nakshatra works in two primary ways. Internally and externally. This article piece focused on the Internal.

On an internal level, the color of the Nakshatra has a psychological effect. According to color theory every hue, shade, and tone affects the spirit and consciousness. Every Nakshatra color internally takes on the psychological traits of color, integrating into the consciousness and personality.

The colors of Nakshatras internally are best applied to the Nakshatra placement of the Sun, Moon, Rahu, and Ketu. This is because all 4 of these planets relate directly to the internal consciousness.

The Traits of a Nakshatra Color brings the following traits into the inner self or personality:

Ashwini - Blood Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror Survival

Bharani - Blood Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror Survival

Krittika - White

Independence Youth Innocense Completeness Openness Blank Slates Possibilities Creativity Purity Virtue Cleanliness Simplicity Peace Tranquility Cleansing Efficiency Order Soothing Isolating Empty Boredom, Criticism

Rohini - White

Independence Youth Innocense Completeness Openness Blank Slates Possibilities Creativity Purity Virtue Cleanliness Simplicity Peace Tranquility Cleansing Efficiency Order Soothing Isolating Empty Boredom, Criticism

Mrigashira - Silver Grey

Fluid Sensitive Soothing Calming Restorative Reflection Intuition Clairvoyance Wealth Prestige Quiet Reserved Compromising Blending In Unemotional Indifferent Loner Isolated Depressing

Ardra - Green

Going Motion Equilibrium Balance Harmony Health Wellness Nutrition Vitamins Fitness Growth Fertility Prosperity Progress Wealth Freshness Renewal Stress Relief Relaxation, Nature Inexperienced Envy Greed Jealously

Punarvasu - Lead Grey

Intelligence Wisdom Dignity Experience Neutrality Balance Impartiality Clear Thoughts Compromising Faith Truthful Formal Modern Future Advancing Technology Protective Private Reserved Blending in Loner Isolated Background Existence

Pushya - Black Red

Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Lethargy

Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror Survival

Ashlesha - Black Red

Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Lethargy

Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror

Survival

Magha - Cream

Openness Seriousness Intense Respected Esteemed Admired Durability Sophistication Refinement Humility Athletic Ambitious Competitive Cautious Held Back Adversarial Sore Loser Antagonistic

Purva Phalguni - Light Brown/Tan

Natural Organic Warmth Comforting Cozy Calm Relaxed Logical Analytical Creative Artistic Security Luxury Elegance Conservative Dull

Uttara Phalguni - Bright Blue

Optimism Enthusiasm Bright Alert Peace Clam Tranquility Relaxed Meditative Zen Recharging Intelligence Concentration Focus Connection Strong Values Integrity Honesty Attractive Connection Helper Assister Rational Capable Composed Competent Precise Responsible Reliable Trustworthy Loyalty Social Cold Sad Down

Hasta - Dark Green

Bold Controlled Steadfast Conservative Edgy Fertility Drive Desire Money Materialism Hunger Indulgence Moody Oversaturated Overwhelming Flooded Overloaded Gluttony Excess Resentment Spite

Chitra - Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Letheragy

Swati - Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Letheragy

Vishakha - Gold

Optimism Positivity Charisma Passion Wisdom Understanding Enlightenment Success Knowledge Wisdom Great Understanding Triumph Achievement Reputation Wealth Quality Giving Compassionate Loving Selfishness Over-complexity

Anuradha - Reddish Brown/Maroon

Warmth Beauty Primal Emotional Passion Power Strength Determination Confidence Courage Spirited Depth Ambition Force Risk Creative Wise Spiritual Impulsive Anger

Jyestha - Cream

Openness Seriousness Intense Respected Esteemed Admired Durability Sophistication Refinement Humility Athletic Ambitious Competitive Cautious Held Back Adversarial Sore Loser Antagonistic

Mula - Bright Yellow

Happiness Positivity Cheerfulness Inspiring Illuminating Optimism Hope Promising Striking Insightful Wise Humerus Vibrant Stimulated Engaged Overpowering Intense Excessive Warning Caution Deceit Restless

Purva Ashadha - Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Lethargy

Uttara Ashadha - Copper

Down to Earth Warm Homely Wealth Comforting Impassioned Lively Energetic Strong Determined Supportive Genuine Classy Successful Accomplished Egotistical Cheeky Envy Hypocrisy Cynicism

Shravana - Light Blue

Feminine Welcoming Soft Comfortable Safe Calm Gentle Ethereal Peaceful Tranquil Soothing Refined Cultivated Stylish Approachable Concentration Focus Connection Strong Values Integrity Composed Competent Precise Responsible Reliable Trustworthy Superficial Delicate Frail Cold Sad Down

Dhanishta - Silver Grey

Fluid Sensitive Soothing Calming Restorative Reflection Intuition Clairvoyance Wealth Prestige Quiet Reserved Compromising Blending In Unemotional Indifferent Loner Isolated Depressing

Shatabhisha - Cyan/Aqua

Rational Liveliness Nature Healing Therapy Restoring Correcting Mending Remediation Stability Tranquility Clarity of Mind Emotional Balance Serenity Creativity Spirituality Dreams Fantasy Trances

Purva Bhadrapada - Silver Grey

Fluid Sensitive Soothing Calming Restorative Reflection Intuition Clairvoyance Wealth Prestige Quiet Reserved Compromising Blending In Unemotional Indifferent Loner Isolated Depressing

Uttara Bhadrapada - Purple

Power Wisdom Inspiration Creativity Imagination Fantasy Spiritual Devout Philosophical Future Minded Resourceful Selfless Humility Wealthy Luxury Nobility Extravagance Impractical Immature Arrogance Cynicism Melancholy

Revati - Brown

Sensual Sensitive Warm Comfortable Stability Reliable Secure Steadfast Natural Wholesome Dependable Structured Homely Sincere Reassuring Genuine Practical Supportive Dull Mundane Boring Predictable Inexpensive