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amiedala · 3 years

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SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 4: An Open Wound

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, canon-compliant violence, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of past abuse/trauma

SUMMARY: “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello my loves and happy Something Deeper Saturday! this chapter is truly a whirlwind, it's hard and sweet and intense and simple all at once. there are very graphic descriptions of violence and death in the one (in the form of Force visions, no one's actually dying, I PROMISE!!!), so please be aware that there is potentially triggering material in what you're about to read. it mentions past abuse and dives pretty deep into current violence, so please just read with caution! i hope you enjoy this journey—i certainly did writing it! more notes at the end!!! <3

Mandalore isn’t a ghost town.

Not how Nova originally thought, anyway. The throne room is filled with wary, armored people. Some are the guards that usually stand watch outside, through the giant palace doors. Nova recognizes Koska Reeves and Axe Woves from the brief, charged encounters she’s had with each of them. Bo-Katan is there, of course, regal and pristine, her shoulders pushed back, her red hair impeccable. There are a handful of villagers that Nova’s seen in passing, but besides the few faces she recognizes, most of the people gathered in the throne room have been hidden somewhere on Mandalore, away from this strange Capitol, away from the everyday. Half of them are without armor, without impressive beskar helmets to hide their wary expressions. Bo-Katan’s icy, measured gaze is clearly a popular currency on Mandalore, because every single person in this room looks skeptical at best and enraged at worst. Nova keeps her eyes on Din, who’s decided to stand at the helm of the dais instead of taking a seat on the beskar throne, watching his every movement to ensure he’s safe up there, and that he stays unharmed.

“I want...to be your leader,” Din says, his voice quiet but earnest. He sounds like he’s incredulous at his own words, like he’s reading off a script he’s never seen before. But there’s power hidden underneath whatever’s scaring him, an undercurrent that Nova knows is unfettered, genuine passion. “I wasn’t raised in the way of Mandalore. Not in the ways that you were—”

“Clearly,” Koska whispers, and the Mnadalorians standing closest to her proximity offer uncharacteristic smiles and snorts. Nova steps forward, but Bo-Katan raises her sharp hand at her side, and they immediately fall silent.

Din looks back at Nova, and for the first time, she can see the fear in his eyes. She nods, encouragingly, even though she has absolutely no clue what point he’s trying to make. Every time she closes her eyes, even if it’s only for a heartbeat, she sees the strange, young hologram of her face, with the word MURDER, MURDER, MURDER flashing back at her, a ceaseless and terrible pattern. Nervously, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, realizing that she’s the only person in this room who isn’t outfitted in Mandalorian regalia. Her black shirt has remnants of dust on the sleeves from the amphitheater. Her pants saw their best days weeks ago. Her shawl, the only proof that she wears any sort of allegiance to the throne, Mandalorian blue and regal, is thrown haphazardly over her rounded shoulders. The boots on her feet are older than her relationship with Din, picked up planets and planets ago, somewhere sunny and warm and an entire lifetime away. When Din’s panicked brown eyes find hers again, Nova smiles, taking a half-step forward, trying to portray anything other than her own frenzied state, the hammering heartbeat that could likely be heard outside of the palace.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Din finally continues, turning back to the crowd. Even from this angle, with most of his face obscured, Nova knows how hard it is for him to stand here, in front of dozens of people, without his helmet, how many rules he thinks he’s breaking, how this must feel like agony. He reaches for the Darksaber hanging on his belt, and when it ignites, every single face in the room is on Din, on that horrific, captivating blade of electricity and death. “I won this in battle. Twice. Both were accidents,” He inhales heavily, studying the flickering, wicked blade. “But they still happened. I wasn’t born on Mandalore. I wasn’t raised here, either. I’ve given some of you this speech before, when I first took the throne.” He exhales through his nose, and Nova wets her dry lips. Her throat feels like the middle of the day on Tatooine, parched and treacherous. “I...I am not a Mandalorian in the way that you’re Mandalorians.” Nova chances another half-step forward, letting the captive, tensioned room blur in her vision as she just focuses on Din. There’s a tremor in his voice, something alive and unsteady, something she only notices because she’s spent over a year studying every inch of him, memorizing Din right down to his bloodstream. “I follow a Creed that you don’t. I’ve spent most of my life trying...trying to be a good soldier, a true Mandalorian. I know I’m not the leader you wanted. I’m not even sure if I’m the leader I wanted. But I’m the one we’ve got, at least for right now. And—” Din exhales sharply, his breath strained, and Nova knows he’s suppressing a sigh, “I swear, I will try my best to do right by this planet. But—but I’m not only the reigning Mand’alor. I’m—”

“Right,” Axe interjects, but there's no malice in his tone. Nova stiffens, crossing her arms over her chest, staring over at him. But he doesn’t look threatening. His smile seems genuine, like he;s just attempting to get Din to lighten up. “And a bounty hunter. A damn good one, at that. He’s caught me twice.”

“Three times,” Nova corrects, and her eyes go wide when she realizes that everyone’s attention is now on her. “But,” she continues, rather nervously, trying to square back her shoulders in a shoddy imitation of Bo-Katan to not display that nervousness, “Din hasn’t been just a bounty hunter in a long time.”

Din sheathes the Darksaber, and instead turns his outstretched hand to Nova. Heart pounding, she slides her hand into his large, gloved one, trying not to show the massive tremble in her fingers. Quietly, he reaches for the Skywaker lightsaber hanging from her belt, and when Nova hesitates, he lets her hand close over the grip instead. Bo-Katan moves forward, so quickly Nova doesn’t even notice, and when she ignites the crisp, illuminated blue blade, half of the people gathered in the throne room draw a weapon. Nova’s expecting Bo-Katan to do the same, but she raises one impeccable eyebrow and turns back towards the room.

“Stop,” she says, and immediately, the majority of the room lowers whatever weapon of choice they’re gripping. Nova manages a tiny, stuttered breath. “She’s not going to hurt us.”

“She,” a voice says from the back of the room, “is wanted by multiple parties. Contacts all over the galaxy will pay a pretty price for Andromeda Maluev, you know. I accepted the cult member as Mand’alor. I accepted you standing down from the throne, Bo-Katan. I will not accept harboring a criminal,” he continues, voice as icy as Hoth, “and a Jedi, at that.”

Din moves forward, all tension, all rage, but Bo-Katan holds up that same, steady hand, and the man making his way across the foreground halts in the same beat that Din does. Nova pulls her own lightsaber back, pocketing it, pulling the shawl higher over her shoulders, trying to unclench her jaw before all of her teeth break off in her mouth. She’s tired. So tired. Exhausted, slogging through this conversation, her heartbeat accelerating, stars shooting out behind her eyes. And still, this time, when she closes them, all she sees is MURDER, MURDER, MURDER.

“Her name,” Bo-Katan returns, measured and cool, “is Novalise Djarin. And yes, she is wanted by both the scum that still survived after the Empire’s demise, and a middleman somewhere in between which we cannot identify yet. Yes, she is a Jedi, or at least is certainly heading in that way. Yes, I stood down from the title. But that wasn’t because I was weak, or because I wanted them on the throne.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Nova,” Bo-Katan interjects, “I’ve got this.” She steps off the lowest stair on the dias, posture perfect, right arm curled around her distinctive helmet. Everything in her screams royalty, regality. Behind her eyes is a fire so much stronger than the ice in her voice. “I didn’t want this. Neither did you. But Din won the Darksaber, fair and square. And Mandalore isn’t what it used to be. None of us are, either. We’re good at surviving, but we’re even better at fighting. And I believe,” she says, pointedly, glancing over at Din, who’s still coiled in an attack position, “that was the point our Mand’alor was getting to. So let him finish. With your mouths closed.”

The man who spoke, wizened but grizzled, exhales angrily through his nose, but his mouth stays clamped shut. Bo-Katan stands at attention, nodding back at Din.

“War is coming,” Din continues stiffly, and half of the people crowded around the room roll their eyes or mutter under their breath.

“War is always coming,” another woman enunciates, “it’s what the galaxy knows best.”

“War is coming,” Din repeats, and Nova has to force herself to unfurl her palms. Before she can even try to jump to his aid, though, he walks down the steps and presses his flat palm against the holotable. Reflected in the glittering dome above them is thousands of pixels of blue light. Nova’s juvenile mugshot is up there for the entire room to see, but so are statistics from every mission they’ve engaged in, anything even remotely related to the Order. Hundreds of faces swarm the screen, all with interwoven lines connecting them to other profiles and rotating planets. There, at the center of the screen, is the First Order’s name in menacing, large letters. Underneath are the silhouettes of Luke, Nova, and Grogu. When Din opens his mouth this time, his words are vivid and clear. “I know that Mandalore has been razed and sieged. I know that in your eyes, I’m not one of you. I know that none of you signed up for another battle. But I also know that fighting,” Din says, his voice weary, but his dark eyebrow raised, “is what’s in our blood. All of us.”

“I won’t follow a ruler who isn’t a true Mandalorian,” the same man finally continues. He steps towards them, and his face is angry and ghastly in the flickering blue light. His rage is barely concealed, and Nova’s hand flies unconsciously to the lightsaber hanging from her belt. “And I certainly won’t protect a Jedi who doesn’t belong here.”

“Well, then,” Nova says, and she’s so bone-dead tired that she doesn’t realize she’s the one who’s speaking until the second word is out of her mouth, “good thing I can protect myself.” She chances a glance at Din, who could very easily be aggravated at her stoking the fire. The only thing written across his face, though, is pride. Nova’s eyes flicker over to Bo-Katan, who is somehow, unbelievably, wearing the same exact expression.

Din slams his fist down on the holotable, sending all of the blue light back into the atmosphere it came from. The low light of the war room is returned to its usual state, but no one speaks. “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

Still, no one moves.

“Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan snaps, icily, all of her usual vigor and venom back in her voice, and it’s like she’s given an order no one can deny. Half of the Mandalorians nod in wary agreement, and the other half keep their low mumbles close to their chests, all of them shuffling out of the throne room, presumably to disperse outside. When the heavy door closes shut, with only the three of them remaining, Bo-Katan turns back to Nova. Din is already climbing the steps back up the dais where the menacing beskar throne sits to retrieve his fallen helmet. When he pulls it back over his handsome face, it’s like closing an open wound.

Nova looks at Bo-Katan, who doesn’t look nearly as threatening in this low light. Her hair is slightly ruffled, and the hard set of her jaw is tense, electric. “Bo-Katan,” Nova whispers, and her gaze snaps impeccably back to Nova’s. “Thank you,” Nova continues, earnest, “for defending me. Defending us. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Bo-Katan counters, but there’s the ghost of a small smile on her beautiful, cold face. “They were wrong, and they needed to hear that. See? I’m not always a total bitch.”

The word—so commonplace, so foreign—sounds absolutely ludicrous coming out of her mouth that it makes Nova laugh out loud. The sound is both musical and jarring, and the tension held in Bo-Katan’s shoulders evaporates, even if it’s only momentarily.

“Noted,” Nova says, smiling. Maker and all the stars above, she’s exhausted. Bo-Katan glances back at Din, armored and impenetrable, and then back at Nova.

“You need sleep,” Bo-Katan allows, pulling her own helmet back over her head. “Both of you. I’ll stay down here and monitor any incoming correspondence. I’m too wired to go to bed anytime soon.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and her usual edge is back in her tone. “And I will. Go.” She raises that commanding arm again, and Nova’s too exhausted to resist. She wants to take a shower and wash the last few days off of her, and then sleep for three more. Her scar hurts. Her shoulders ache. Her head feels impossibly heavy. Silently, she lets Din lead her over to the heavy double doors, her ears buzzing with fatigue, but before they step into the hall, Nova hears her name chase her across the war room. In tandem, she and Din turn, watching Bo-Katan ignite the blue holotable. There’s something unreadable about her, even under the helmet. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Bo-Katan says, finally, and the heaviness of her words is louder than the doors when they close on her impenetrable face.

Steam from the shower fills the entire fresher. It’s wet and hot, the humidity seeping deep into Nova’s skin, burrowing under the residual ache from the last few days, nestling between her cold bones from the chill back on Ahch-To, the frigidity back on Hoth. Din joins her once he wrestles off the rest of the armor, and before Nova can explain she wants him, but it’s impossible right now with how exhausted she is, how she can barely keep her eyes open, Din wordlessly lathers up his hands with her favorite, clean-smelling soap, gently raking the suds through her hair.

Nova sighs in the silence, letting her shoulders hunch over, her body weight alleviated by sagging against the warm shower walls and by the soft grip Din has on her arms, making sure she stays upward. For what feels like years, they stand together under the warm running water, reveling in the steam, the heat, without either of them needing to say anything. Din wraps Nova’s long hair up in the freshly washed towel, while she dries off the residual runoff down her arms, her thighs.

The room is cool and dark in the blue twilight, that same fog and haze sinking over the horizon. Wherever the rest of the Mandalorians went, they’ve all but disappeared off the face of the planet. Everything is an eerie kind of quiet, no bugs, no animals, no clamor, nothing that signifies any kind of sentient life outside of the castle. Most nights, that kind of awful silence makes Nova wired, like it permeates even into her dreams, but not here, not now. She has what feels like years’ worth of sleep to catch up on, and the second that Din pulls back the fluffy, silk comforter on their giant bed, Nova steps out of the towel and into the soft cocoon. Din’s barely even settled up behind her before she drifts off somewhere peaceful, somewhere that’s not here.

She sleeps. For hours, maybe days, Nova sleeps. It’s dreamless and empty, warm and safe. Usually, nightmares flicker and flash through her mind, her legs sprinting away from whatever menace or threat is chasing her, but not tonight. Nothing wakes Nova up, not the strange quiet, not Din tossing next to her, not the immeasurable weight of saving the galaxy on her shoulders. She sleeps, uninterrupted and powerfully, swaddled up under the light blue blankets that are somehow keeping all the bad things away.

In the end, it’s not a nightmare that startles her away, nor is it Din’s unshaven face pressing into the crook of her neck. It’s the sleepy, quiet beeping of her commlink, which has somehow been removed from its usual place on her wrist and is buried under the extra pillows that stand sentinel over their bed when neither Nova or Din is there.

Din, at this very moment, is also nowhere to be found, and Nova rakes a hand through her hair, tries and fails to suppress a yawn, and digs through the array of pillows on the floor until she can see the bright, red light. “Hello?” she asks, her voice still off somewhere in dreamland, and she rubs sleep from her eyes as she collapses down on the bed, body still stuck in sleep.

“Hey,” Nova hears, and it’s halfway through another yawn before she realizes it’s Cara calling. “Listen, I’d love to actually catch up, but—”

“You have news?” Nova asks, suddenly wide awake. She smooths the comforter out under her hand, crossing one of her legs underneath the other. Outside, the sky is dark.

“I have news,” Cara confirms, grimly. “I know Wedge called you to Hoth a week or so ago because there was a prison break somewhere outside of my jurisdiction.”

Nova nods before she remembers Cara can’t see her. “Yeah,” she adds, belatedly. “Yeah, but no one seemed suspicious or in league with the Order, and it was a holding cell full of minor offenders, so it was kind of a dead end.”

“Well, it was,” Cara sighs, “until it wasn’t. We were right, kind of, because no one who escaped was linked to the First Order. But the night after that prison break happened, your photo with your old name and manufactured crimes popped up as a hit from the Guild.”

Nova’s heart sinks. Something suffocating is blocking her airway, and she tries to swallow past the feeling before she can exhale. “What does that mean?” she manages, barely, hand fluttering around her necklace, pressing into the embossed star.

“Someone’s setting you up,” Cara continues, and her voice is gentler than Nova’s ever heard it. “Someone who likely knows you or Din, knows how to get under your skin. The reason why this is so dangerous is because whoever did it knows exactly what they’re doing. I’ve tried, and Karga has tried, but we can’t even identify where the hit originated from, let alone who put it out. We’re not going to stop looking, but it’s going to be hard to figure out who did it. And because the warrant is for you alive or dead…” Cara trails off, the silence buzzing and dangerous.

Nova closes her eyes before she fills in the blanks. “I’m going to be in danger anywhere I go.”

“Listen,” Cara tries, but it’s too late. Nova’s still exhausted, she’s in pain, she has no idea where Din went, and all she wants to do is to bury her face in Grogu’s head and smell his sweet, reassuring baby smell. Her heart aches. “Novalise, I’m not going to let them get to you. You have some of the strongest forces in the galaxy who’ve got your back.”

“Yeah,” Nova whispers, “and I appreciate that, Cara, I do, so much, but—but Mandalore isn’t exactly a safe haven, either. The planet knows I can use the Force, and besides that, most of the people Din’s supposed to be ruling hate our guts. I’m not scared of being left to defend myself, because it’s kind of what I’ve learned to be best at. But with what you’re telling me, there’s not a single safe place left in the galaxy for me right now.”

Cara’s silence is deafening. Nova’s heart sinks just a little bit deeper, swimming around somewhere in her stomach. “It’s not forever,” she says, but her voice is a little too glum to be anywhere near reassuring.

“I’m so tired,” Nova admits, feeling tears bubbling up at the corners of her eyes. “And I can’t rest, because that’s when someone can get me. I mean—what would you do, if you were me, Cara?”

Nova can hear Cara moving, a soft rustle underneath the comm. When she speaks again, her voice is low and clear, like she’s telling a secret that only Nova can hear. “I would do what we both know you’re going to do. You’re the rebel girl, remember?” She pauses. “So rebel.”

Nova watches as the comm clicks off, everything in her body electric, a live wire. Before she can bolt to Kicker, or try to find where Din’s hidden in the chambers of the palace, or call Wedge and tell him she’s coming back to Hoth, the door opens, and Din walks in.

“Hi,” Nova breathes, suddenly very aware she’s not wearing any clothes, which is completely ridiculous, because Din has seen, ravaged, and worshipped every inch of it. “Where were you?”

She watches as Din crosses over the floor, the low light of the day catching on his armor. He sighs, moving closer to Nova until he’s standing in between her open legs. Halfheartedly, he hooks his fingers under the rim of the helmet, but gives up completely the second Nova’s hands reach to pull it off instead. Underneath, his mustache isn’t manicured, his hair has been weighed down by the metal, and he looks about as exhausted as she feels.

“Ruling,” Din says, tiredly, and there’s a flint to it Nova hardly hears. He lets out a small scoff in the silence, and she reaches out the smooth palm of her right hand for his cheek to nestle against. “Trying to get the people of this planet to recognize I’m not here to destroy it, or that you—we’re not the enemy.” He catches his slip almost as quickly as it comes out of his mouth, but still, Nova’s heart sinks deep down in her chest again. “I didn’t—look, Nova, I’m not blaming you—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, even though they both know it’s not. For a second, Din just stares at her, and then he presses his forehead against hers. The warmth his skin gives off is almost enough to make her forget about where they are, about the people that refuse to see her as an ally, about having to save the galaxy from forces that want her dead or for their own malicious intent. “They’ll come around,” she offers, her voice barely there, and Din shakes his head, his hair rustling against Nova’s forehead.

“What if they don’t?” Din asks, and by the weight in his voice, it’s clear he’s not just talking about Mandalore accepting her as the Mand’alor’s riduur, as an ally, as on their side, but about the infiltrated Guild that’s out to kill her, and the First Order that’s out for worse.

Nova’s quiet for a long time, just listening to him breathe, trying to map both of their heartbeats, yearning for the constellations hiding above the hazy Mandalore sky. “What if we can’t do it?” she whispers, her mouth hollow, her head aching. “Any of this? What if we can’t pull this off, Din?” She doesn’t point out the specifics, the weight of planets hanging over both of their heads. They both know what she means. The silence is horrible, but Nova keeps her eyes closed, just like she used to, predicting every move Din will make in the dark.

“Then we don’t,” Din breathes back, and Nova’s about to resist, tears springing back to life in her eyes, and then Din’s mouth is on hers and nothing else matters. She lets him sprawl her back on the bed, the smooth satin coaxing and cool under her skin. Stars are burning out behind her eyes, the same celestial imprints that flood through hyperspace, something more, something deeper, something beyond this planet, this moment, this darkness. When Din’s mouth leaves Nova’s, her eyes stay shut, and his lips trail down to her ear. “I’d give everything else up but you.”

They both know he’s lying—Din’s heart is too big, Nova’s purpose is too bright—but neither of them say it out loud. Nova keeps his words in the hollow of her mouth, something shiny and devastating, a supernova or a pearl.

Din kisses Nova like he’s never had her before, low and desperate. It’s an echo of what happened in the amphitheater just hours ago, but it’s sustained, huge, warm. His mouth is made to devour, and if he’s whispering anything to feel the silence, Nova can’t hear it. She’s focused on where his kisses are trailing, desperate and hot and everything she didn’t know she needed. It’s freezing in here, but he’s so warm, his body heat louder than the cold.

“Kiss me,” Din whispers, his voice rough, a plea. One of his hands comes up and braces against Nova’s chin, not an order, but a question. She reaches towards his neck, trying to pull him down, to anchor their bodies together. It’s dark in their room. Without the stars shining above, it’s even darker.

She’s so tired. Still, even after all that rest, it’s like the exhaustion has permeated Nova straight down to her bones. She shudders and sighs as Din moves down her naked body, his lips planting kisses that she doesn’t know she needs until he’s already there. It’s easy and devastating and wonderful and crushing all at once. When Nova tries to return the favor, Din gently pushes her down, mumbling something about taking care of her.

It’s sweet. So sweet, even, that she’s on the verge of tears. Nova would do anything to stay here forever, to feel her husband’s lips on her bare skin, washing away all of the horror, the trauma, the darkness. She doesn’t open her eyes, even though she wants to. Din’s spent so much time without his helmet to appear like one of the people that call themselves Mandalorians, and she wants to give him back every single second of the time that prying eyes stole away.

Before long, Nova’s already close—her orgasm bubbling up quietly, without fanfare, without dramatics, just because Din knows exactly how to make her body sing—and when she taps at his arm to let him know, his mouth unlatches from the small hickies he’s leaving on the terrain of her bare stomach, and moves in between her thighs.

Effortlessly, he hold her legs up, hooking both of them around his shoulders so that his tongue can stay anchored in place. Nova moans, a quiet, radiant thing, and Din’s tongue finds exactly where she needs it to go. It pulses there, on the sweetest of spots, over and over again until she’s finished.

Breathless, she claws at his pants again, but Din shakes his head, his mouth dropping to her forehead as he pulls her into bed. “Rest, Nova,” he whispers, his voice faraway, a deep rumble. He pulls her in against his body, warm and soothing, and both of them are out before their heads hit their pillow.

Din’s asleep next to her, his slow, even breaths barely anything even in all the silence. Nova wants to fall back to sleep, but she knows she can’t. Her heartbeat is running itself rampant, and she’s a tangle of wants and needs, everything pulled in opposite directions. As quietly as she can, she slides herself out from the protective warmth of Din’s arms and the comforter, gently placing her feet on the floor. Even in the cool darkness of the night, her wardrobe, sleek but huge, has nothing but clothes in the same shades of Mandalorian blue, of beskar silver, but right now, Novalise doesn’t want to be a Mandalorian. She doesn’t want to be royalty, doesn’t want to be a figurehead. She doesn’t exactly want to be a Rebel either, because both titles mean the ultimate fate of the Outer Rim and beyond in her hands, so she settles for somewhere in between.

When she’s all dressed—black monochrome right down to her scuffed boots, in a weak imitation of the Luke Skywalker style—she braids the top half of her hair back, sleek and functional, and chooses a shawl buried at the back of her closet, underneath all of the Mandalorian haze of clothing. It’s a stormy grey that shimmers with the silver her husband wears when the fabric catches the light. If you pay close enough attention to the shawl, small, intentional stitches of rust and orange are woven into the fabric, hidden, furious, tiny flames.

Not exactly Mandalorian, but not entirely Rebel, either. And when Nova looks at herself in the mirror, studying the way her eyes flash with all that fire she was so certain was gone a few minutes ago, she sees herself right down to the quick, the high wire in between—she looks something like a Jedi.

So she pulls the Skywalker family lightsaber out of the hook on her door and pulls it to her belt loop, watching as the metal sways and dances in the low light. The weapon seems ancient, like something from another world. Something holy, even though she knows Luke Skywalker is a man and not a myth.

When she closes the bedroom door behind her, Din doesn’t even move. Usually, Nova’s the loud and clumsy one, worlds more obnoxious than Din’s practiced quiet, but she’s grown into her stealth over the last few weeks, especially living here, in a palace that has more rooms than the planet does people. It’s strange and eerie here at night, down the sprawling marble stairs, and she takes the first corridor she can find, just trying to walk off some of the pressure, to put her head back on her shoulders.

It’s lit only by candlelight, an archaic, flickering warmth, so in contrast to the rest of the steel and metal that Mandalore is made up of. It’s like she’s stepped into something that’s been around for years, even though she knows that it’s not possible. Mandalore was sieged, usurped, sieged again, razed and brought to the ground, destroyed. The planet’s atmosphere is mostly ash and haze, all that leftover war from years ago. But this part of the palace looks older, like a tomb that somehow survived.

It’s too creepy, Nova decides, even though the curious part of her is itching to explore it. She wants to pore through every aspect of it, try to find remnants of lost Mandalore, like her father used to unearth texts, like her mother used to excavate history. Before the war, before the Alliance was necessary, before all this death and darkness. When Nova comes out the other end of the corridor, she’s right next to the intimidating double doors of the war room, the holiest place Mandalore has. She pulls her shawl a little closer to her body, trying to retain the warmth she left back upstairs, trying to hold onto a memory more than anything tangible.

Nova isn’t intending to slip into the war room, let alone walk towards the sprawling dais that holds the beskar throne, but she does. It’s still quiet, so quiet, and the dark is coaxing her closer, pulling her up the steps, something beyond a simple want or need. She has the sneaking suspicion that she’s not supposed to be in here, not this late, not without Din, not when she has no legal or physical right to this place, but when she sits down on the throne, something deeper echoes out from within her chest.

It feels like a hymn and a battle cry. Before she has a second to adjust, to rationalize anything, everything becomes starry and disconnected. It’s been so long since she had a Force vision this immediate, this intense, and it hurls her through the proverbial hyperspace, everything dropping away.

It takes three steps forward in this strange, terrifying liminal space before Nova can even identify what’s scaring her. It’s the same kind of evil she felt way back on Takodana, before she was married to the ruler of a planet, before she even knew it was her destiny to be both Rebel and Jedi. There’s a mask she doesn’t recognize, twisted and devious. Behind its menacing, blank expression is something horrifying. Looking into the visor, it’s like her own soul is being fractured into pieces.

It’s humanoid until it’s not. The figure wearing the mask of destruction is tall, easily a foot taller than she is, horrible and menacing. But when the lightsaber they’re using ignites, it’s scarier than the vision of the person at all. It’s awful. It looks like it was forged out of lava, menacing red, the blade flickering and hissing in a way that’s somehow even more terrifying than the stark contrast of the Darksaber’s blade. Nova gasps, the light too bright, too sudden, and she can feel the residual thud on the floor, even in the vision. She knows when she comes out of it, she’ll be hurt, but the blade is getting closer. It looks like a giant rapier, a sword made only for evil things. At the hilt, spraying out in both directions, the blade extends. When the figure in the mask swings, it’s without remorse, so quick, so terrible.

But Nova’s not the target. She rolls away, out of the strike zone, and then she hears Luke Skywalker’s voice cutting through the darkness. She turns, and suddenly she’s not in the horror of the vision, anymore. She doesn’t know where she is. The ground looks icy, like Hoth, but there’s red powder spit everywhere, vomited across giant salt deposits. It’s so bright that her hand comes up in front of her eyes, and when she lowers it, Luke is gone. She’s gone, too. She turns around, hair whipping in the furious wind, trying to find where her name is being cried, and she trips over a mound on the salty ground, and when she falls to her knees, it’s a person, newly slain. The blood is so red, redder than the powder, redder than the evil lightsaber. It drowns through the lines on her hands, slips through her long fingers. She screams, trying to back up from the body, and then she realizes it’s Bo-Katan, gurgling through the slit in her throat, and when Nova tries desperately, in vain, to buffer the blood spilled, Luke Skywalker calls her name again.

But it’s not Luke. It is him—for a second, for the tiniest fraction of a moment—but then it’s not. His lightsaber floods with red, cancelling out the green light. The hallway flickers, once, twice, and then Darth Vader is charging towards her, and all Nova can hear is her blood pounding frantically in her ears and his heavy breathing through his mask, the sound that used to fill all of her nightmares. She’s slamming on the door at the other end of the hallway, and when it opens, the only person standing there isn’t a person at all, but a small alien baby all of two feet tall, green and adorable, and Nova drops her body around her son, protective and sobbing, curling every single inch of her around his tiny little frame, trying to shield him from Vader’s wrath, but when she cries, the vision changes again.

She can feel the motion sickness bubbling up in her stomach, horrible and nauseating. When Nova lands, she doesn’t open her eyes. She’s seen more than enough. Even right now, in the middle of her Force vision, all she wants to do is go back to sleep. She can feel the ache she slept away burrowing right back into her bones. Her scar is pulsing, enraged and angry. The headache she spent the last two and a half weeks fighting off is back, radiating straight down to behind her left eye. It’s all too much, and she can’t look. She doesn’t want to see anything else.

“Novalise,” she hears again, and the only reason she opens her eyes this time is because it’s her mother speaking. Her mother, who only ever called her Andromeda. Her mother, who spent half her life in the stars. Her mother, long dead. Her mother, who never got to know this version of her daughter, this Jedi-in-training, royal Rebel Girl that just desperately needs a hug from her mom.

“Mom,” she cries, and it’s so white. Everything here is antiseptic and deafening. It doesn’t even look like a planet, or even a room, or anything at all. She’s not even sure if there’s a floor, but Nova starts running like she’s never ran before in her life. Her breath is ragged and coming out in bursts. The jiggle in her chest and thighs burn under her speed, but she doesn’t care. She’s racing towards her mother, towards open arms, towards everything she’s been cheated out of for the last ten years.

It lasts for a second. Just a second. The figure is Piper Maluev, her skin dark and radiant, her hair down to her waist. Her lips are wide open and welcoming, her eyes crinkled at the seams. She’s tall and radiant and strong, and she’s everything Nova’s missed for nearly half her life.

And then it isn’t Piper. It’s not Luke, either, or Darth Vader, or whoever the dark, terrible, masked figure was. It’s not her usual nightmare transformation of Jacterr Calican. It’s not Bo-Katan, convulsing and dying. It’s Din. Just for a moment, a tiny fraction of relief, and then it’s not Din, either.

It’s a woman Nova’s never seen before, and her hand is clamped firmly around Nova’s windpipe. Like it’s nothing, she pulls her right off the disappearing floor and choking the life out of her. Her eyes are light but so terrifyingly menacing, her hair is a mess of a dark blonde. She’s pale and awful and her face is gleeful as she pulls the life out of Nova, a sucking, open wound.

She can’t talk. She doesn’t even want to plead for her life. If she’s this close to death anyway, and she just saw her mother, Nova figures there’s a pretty damn good chance that both of her parents are just over the other side. The woman is so happy to be killing Nova off, she doesn’t want to fight it. When her grip recedes, just for a half a second, Nova chokes out a confession that makes everything else grind to a halt.

It’s four words. Barely anything. Tears are streaming down her cheeks when her lips finally open. “I want my mom.”

Then she’s being dropped onto the floor, which very much exists now, and the light room filled with nothingness curls away, receding like it’s being burned. It’s dark in here, the tiled floor slippery and treacherous. In the background, there’s a makeshift trophy made from what looks like bones. Nova’s gasping for air, fighting back with a newfound vigor, kicking her legs helplessly to try and get some leverage on this woman who wants her dead, when, suddenly, she’s at eye level with her.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she seethes, a terrifying smile still spread across her horrible, beautiful face. “When I find you, you’re going to be begging for your life instead of your death.”

“Who—who are you?” Nova manages, through agony. Her shoulders hurt. Her headache feels like it’s trying to split her jaw in half. Her scar feels like it’s being reopened. Everything is torture, and she can’t even breathe.

“You’ll see,” the woman whispers, and her voice is so deadly that Nova internally corrects every time she’s ever called Bo-Katan venomous. Bo-Katan Kryze is a flower. One of the iridescent, gorgeous ones, that lined all the brush on Yavin, the ones Nova’s spent years pressing into the pages of every journal she’s ever owned. She’s kind and lovely and Nova’s very best friend, and when she gets out of this alive, Nova’s going to tell Bo-Katan that. “I’m going to enjoy killing you, Andromeda.”

Nova heaves one giant breath into her lungs, trying to muster up anything that she can, even if it’s just more air. “I—” she starts, and the woman smiles again, loaded and dangerous. “I—I already did that, you miserable bitch,” Nova manages, and when she’s slammed into the awful floor, it’s worth it. There’s some kind of desperation behind the woman’s eyes, now and when her hand finds Nova’s throat again, she spits in her face.

And then she’s out of it. Hurtled out of it, actually, like a dying starfighter in the middle of space. She gasps and heaves on the floor, and as her sight comes back, her breathing does, too. Her head is still killing her. Her shoulders feel like they’re trying to carry the entire weight of Mandalore. Her scar is awful, white-hot and painful to the touch. Somewhere, distantly, her knees hurt like she’s fallen to them, and when she gains back her sense of sight and the feeling of her life being choked out of her body subsides, Nova realizes she has fallen to them. She’s fallen a lot, actually, down multiple steps leading to the floor from the raised platform where she was once sitting in the beskar throne. Nova shudders, inhaling through a terrible wheeze, curling her legs up close to her chest, trying to shake off the absolute shitshow that just hurtled her through the most traumatic Force vision she’s ever had.

“You,” comes a booming, rueful voice, and when Nova’s eyes flutter open, she’s expecting it to be the malicious, purple-haired woman from her vision. Her eyes take a second to adjust, her left one throbbing from the horrid ache pulsing behind it, and when she finally locates the source, it’s the miserable man from the gathering earlier.

“Can I help you?” Nova asks, her voice shooting up at the end, on the verge of tears.

“You aren’t supposed to be up there,” he spits, and Nova squints up at the throne she’d just fallen from.

“I know,” she whispers, dully. She presses a shaking hand to the ache behind her eye, trying to shut out this conversation like she wishes she’d ignored the vision. She tries to stand up, but her knees are too bruised to sustain pulling her to her feet, so she just slumps back against the step she’s on, trying to muster all the strength she has in her exhausted body to not break down. “I’m sorry,” Nova tacks on, the words barely there. “I—I wasn’t intending to sit here, or even come in the room, it just—”

“Happened,” he finishes, oddly calm. His voice sounds closer. Much closer. Nova opens her right eye, and he’s only at the bottom of the staircase. There’s something so wretched and dangerous about the energy he’s giving off, and she wants to run, but she’s in no position to even stand, let alone fight him off, so she just sits there, curling her knees into her chest, pulling her shawl as tight as she can against her upper body. “You’re an abomination.”

A laugh, the traitorous thing, bubbles up inside Nova’s throat. It’s not funny. It’s not. It’s pathetic, and likely racially motivated, but she can’t help herself. Her ribs ache, like they got banged up in her distant fall down these sharp, steep marble steps. “That, surprisingly, is not the first time I’ve been called an abomination in my life.”

“Do you know what the Jedi did to our people, little girl?” He’s angry. Nova can hear it in his voice. And normally, it would scare her, trigger her fight or flight reflex, keep her moving, but after her paranormal face-off with two of the scariest figures she’s ever seen, this one isn’t really that high up on our list. “I do. You were eradicated for good reason. You scorched our planet down to nothing, and now you and your cult leader husband come back here and try to take over? Not on my watch.”

Nova can feel him getting closer. He’s so much bigger than she is, up close, tall and buff, menacing and taut. She weakly pulls her hand away from her eye, trying to at the very least give him her full attention, but she’s so fucking tired. It’s in her bones, at this point. She doesn’t want to be royalty. She doesn’t want to be a Rebel. And, in contrast to what the man in front of her is screaming, she doesn’t want to be a Jedi.

She wants to be the Novalise she was on Naator, with nothing but domesticity and yellow leaves and pink skies. She wants to be the protector she was out there in hyperspace. And, for the first time in ten years, she wants to be Andromeda Maluev, fifteen and gleeful, running around Yavin knowing the stars were her destiny and that evil could always be defeated.

“I don’t even want to be here,” Nova whispers, finally, and it’s like something inside her breaks.

“Good,” the man spits, “then we’re in agreement.” And then his hands are yanking away the hood of her shawl and tangling in her braided hair. Nova’s scream gets cut off as she’s thrown down the rest of the stairs, like her body’s giving up. She chokes out something horrible, fighting to get to her bruised, banged up knees, sore from the fall, aching from the blissful time riding Din’s face less than an hour ago, but she can’t summon the strength. Somewhere, she knows Luke Skywalker is yelling at her to use the Force, but Nova’s had enough force today to last a lifetime. When she’s kicked in the stomach, brutal and awful, she just curls in on herself, hoping her death isn’t a slow one. He startles towards her again, ripping her shawl off of her body, clawing at the meat of her upper arm, and something snaps inside of her. If she’s going to die, really die, it’s not because she succumbed to the injuries this rabid Mandalorian is giving her to try and put the blame on her shoulders. She survived Moff Gideon. She survived Din and Grogu leaving her. She survived her parents dying. And she survived the abuse of Jacterr Calican’s awful hands. Novalise can survive this.

When her lightsaber roars to life in her hands, it’s not only Nova swinging. She can feel the weight of what it being the Skywalker family lightsaber, of Luke and Leia before her, of his father before him, of all the generations yet to come to wield this weapon, this holy sword, this impossible thing. It takes all of her energy, a brilliant beam of blue light, and then she falls to the floor, knowing that even if this is where it ends, that she fought back.

Everything next comes in flashes. It’s in these tiny fractals like what happened when the Crest had died right over Dagobah and crashed to the surface. She sees a blade ignite, and in between the rhythm of her fading in and out of consciousness, Nova thinks she’s just watching herself fight the man back. Suddenly, he drops to the floor, his body nothing but dead weight, and she wants to scream, but she’s back out. It’s horrible and deafening. She’s being scooped up, she can feel that. She’s crying. She’s definitely crying. There are voices, loud ones. When she has enough strength to open her eyes again, Din is slamming his gloved fist against the airlock on Kicker, his voice frantic. She can’t make out what he’s saying, though, and another face appears above her. Din gently transfers Nova’s limp body into someone else’s arms, and when Nova looks up, it’s Bo-Katan, her face so panicked it’s almost impossible to recognize who it is.

“Nova, you gotta stay awake,” Bo-Katan whispers, her palm slapping softly at Nova’s cheek. “C’mon, I mean it. If you die here on this planet you hate, I will haunt you in the afterlife. I swear, you have to stay awake.”

“I don’t—” Nova starts, and Bo-Katan shakes her head.

“You literally should not be talking,” Bo-Katan says, her eyesight dipping to Nova’s neck. Her eyes widen for a second and then her smooth fingers ghost over the outline. Nova coughs at her light touch, and she realizes that the marks from the vision she had of being choked within an inch of her life are here, that they followed her back out of the vision and into this moment. “Nova, no, shut up, I’m serious—”

“I don’t—don’t hate Mandalore,” she manages, her voice sounding like shards of glass, and Bo-Katan offers her a hasty, worried smile.

“You do,” Bo-Katan argues, but her voice is so gentle. “But don’t worry, princess, we’re getting you the hell off of it. No complaints now that you’re off Mandalore, you got it? The second you got here, I knew both of you wanted to leave.”

Din’s at her side again, and Bo-Katan kneels down, gently placing Nova in her familiar tangle of blankets and pillows. Nova’s eyes close again, and when they slide back open, Bo-Katan is standing, trading worried glances and hushed tones with Din.

Nova’s head hurts. So bad. It’s splitting down the middle of her skull, actually, but all she can do is press a hand over her eye and try to block out the familiar low light of the ship that smells more like home than this entire planet ever had.

“Listen, about what I told you back on Hoth—”

“It’s fine,” Din cuts her off, and his next few words are warbled. “I get it. Your allegiance is to Mandalore, not to us.”

Nova can’t hear Bo-Katan’s answer. In fact, she’s not even sure if there’s even words being spoken, because the next time she looks up, Bo-Katan is just staring down at her, incredibly concerned, such an obvious change from her usually stoic expression. Nova’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. She’s exhausted. Bo-Katan kneels down again, just for a split second, to pull the loose end of Nova’s shawl over the rest of her folded body. Nova wants to cry.

“Flower,” she garbles, nonsensically. She’s trying to tell Bo-Katan that she’s sorry for all the animosity, that she trusts her, and more than that, she likes her. It doesn't make a single lick of sense to anyone outside of Nova’s head, but Bo-Katan offers a tiny smile anyway.

“Here,” Din says, stiffly, holding out the sheathed blade of the Darksaber to Bo-Katan. Nova’s eyes flutter closed, just for a beat, and when they open back up, Bo-Katan is pushing the weapon back into Din’s grip.

“It’s not mine,” she insists. “Besides, you’re not getting out of it that easy. You’ll be back.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Take care of her,” Bo-Katan interrupts. Nova blacks out again until they’re up in hyperspace. Din’s body is shielding her from the cold, his limbs draped all over the places that hurt the least. When she opens her eyes, they’re floating through the cosmos, and all her eyes can see is sweet, sweet stardust.

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harrywritingsbyme · 4 years

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Hi my love, do you think you can write a quick smut about Harry fucking me from behind while I’m on my stomach and like he’s whispering to me about how good I feel and how much he loves me or just something that will make my pussy quiver and maybe he makes me squirt too🥺👉👈

Sunday Smut Concept #17

A/N: This was probably one of the easiest thing I’ve ever written! Like, everything just clicked together instantly and the juices were flowing and it was just great. Anyways, it’s filthyy and I HIGHLY suggest you getting a 2 liter of holy water before reading. Enjoy🙃

There is no doubt in my mind that this would be Harry and Y/n.

Harry had always been a big fan of teasing; only if you were the one on the receiving end. He hated it when you took the opportunity (whenever you had it) to just tease him. But when he was the one who would do all the teasing, he loved it. And tonight was anything but an exception to that.

You and Harry were very deep into a heavy make-out session. It was filled with sloppy, tongue filled kisses and muffled moans. You two were down to just your underwear, and hands were everywhere. You could feel Harry’s hands glide up to your chest to grasp and massage your breasts in his hands, and back down to latch onto your hips to grind you down harder against his cock. Your panties were beyond soaked too. You were so wet that your arousal had not only gone through your panties, but it was starting to seep through the material of Harry’s underwear too. Feeling this, along with feeling your hips moving faster against his cock, and hearing your moans getting louder were all signs that you needed him bad. These were also his queue to pull away from you.

He thought that this was the perfect opportunity to tease you. And he knew just how to do it.

When he pulls away from you, out of habit, your head pushes forward to push your lips back onto his. When you don’t feel them against yours, your eyes shoot open to find Harry tilting his head back against the headboard with a smug smirk spread across his face.

“Why’d you stop?” You pout at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Because I wanted t’mess with you. And because I have an idea.” Harry explains, bringing his head down to look at you and pulling your arms down from your chest. He wanted to enjoy the view.

“Would you like to tell me this idea?” You ask. You were starting to get annoyed with him. All you wanted was for the throbbing between your legs to go away, and for Harry’s cock to be deep inside of you. You thought that Harry had the same idea, but apparently he had other plans.

“So my idea was that we play a little game.” He begins, resting his hands on your thighs. When you give him the ‘hurry up and finish’ look he continues on. “The game would involve, you, one of your toys in the closet, and my book.” You didn’t even have to hear the rest of it to connect the dots. “I want you to lay on the bed in front of me with those damp panties on and the toy on you while I read up here. If you can hold off on cumming until I finish reading this chapter, I’ll fuck you nice and hard the way you like it.” Harry explains. Harry wanted to spice up his nightly reading.

“What if I can’t do it?” You inquire.

“Then I won’t fuck you tonight, I won’t push my cock into you tonight before bed, and you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning to see if I feel like fucking you.” Harry lists. You were too needy for him to wait until tomorrow morning. So you were going to try your absolute hardest tonight.

“And how hard are we talking about?” You ask suspiciously. The reward sounded good and all, but you just wanted to make sure you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. If you were going to be teased to the max, you wanted to make sure that you were getting as much of a reward as possible.

Without any type of warning, Harry lifts his hand from your thigh and wraps it snugly around your throat.

“Pin you against the mattress, pound my cock deep into you, which is very deep, and make you cum and scream as I do it hard. Is that hard enough for you?”

Your heart rate was already at 500 just from him wrapping his hand around your throat. Hearing him tell you just how hard he was going to give it to you only made the throbbing between your legs stronger and your hear pound right out of your chest. When you take too long to answer, he tightens his hand that was around your throat.

“Is that hard enough?” He asks again. You quickly nod yes through his grip and he releases his grip on you with a slight shove. “Now go pick out the toy you want to use.” He instructs. Without wasting anymore time, you hop right off of the bed on your already wobbly legs and you go straight to the closet.

When you choose the toy that you want, you choose the one that wasn’t too powerful. You and Harry had tried out many toys, and the both of you agreed that this one wasn’t strong enough. This was the only time you were excited to use it. But it didn’t last long because when Harry saw what you chose, he wasn’t having any of it.

“You really chose that one.” Harry says amusedly, pushing himself up from the headboard. “You can do better than that. Go back and choose a better one. If you don’t pick right this time, I’ll pick for you.” Harry continues, sending you back into the closet. It’s funny how the one thing you had control over was no longer under your control.

When you go back into the closet, you already know which one you needed to choose. You pick the one that Harry deemed as his favorite. It was almost as big as his cock, and it had the most powerful vibrations out of all the toys in the box. With this one, the tiny bit of confidence you had in being able to hold off for Harry was dwindling very quickly. You put the box back onto the shelf and you go back into the bedroom to Harry.

“Now that’s a good girl.” Harry praises when he sees your new selection. When you get closer to the bed, you hand him the dildo, and Harry instructs you to lay on the bed facing the headboard. Once you’re in this position, Harry kneels between your legs, pushing them far apart so that you’re completely exposed to him. “Need yeh t’get it nice and wet f’me.” He says, bringing the toy up to your mouth. Without hesitation, you part your lips for him and he pushes the toy into your mouth. He watches as the toy disappears into your mouth, and down your throat. He continues to push it in until he hears you gag a little bit around it. He pulls the now coated toy from your mouth and you immediately try to catch your breath. “Always good at takin’ a cock down that throat of yours.” Harry praises, reaching in with his other hand to pull your panties to the side. When he does this, he can see the thick, and sticky strings of your arousal stretch from your pussy to the material of your panties. Seeing this immediately made his cock stir in his pants. When you see him bringing the dildo inbetween your legs, you lift your head up to watch what he’s doing. This doesn’t last long though, because once you feel the toy on you, and then pushing inside, your head falls right back down against the bed.

“Oh my god.” You moan loudly. You could feel the ridges of the toy, gliding against your walls as it went deeper inside of you. It wasn’t Harry’s cock at all. But in this moment, you’d take just about anything.

“Make all y’noise now because when m’reading, y’gonna have t’be quiet. The quicker I finish the chapter, the quicker I can fuck yeh.” Harry reminds, pushing the last bit of the toy into you. He doesn’t even give you time to calm down before he turns it on. He starts off on the lowest setting, gradually increasing it to the second to highest speed. He wanted to be a little nice since you were already throbbing for him. He pulls your panties back over, covering the dildo and keeping it securely inside of you. There were times where you were so wet to the point that the toy would just slip out. And that’s the last thing that Harry wanted. He watches you squirm and try to keep your moans at bay for a little bit before propping up a few pillows on the headboard and lying back against them. He pulls your body up so that his body is between your legs and he gets prepared to read. He puts his glasses on, and picks up the book he was currently reading. While you were picking out your toy, he flipped to the chapter he was on to see how long it was.

Luckily for him and unfortunately for you, it wasn’t by any means a short one.

“Gonna need you to be a good girl for daddy and keep quiet while he reads.” He reminds you once more while he goes to where he previously placed his bookmark. When he says this, you quiet down a little bit.

This entire time, you thought that he’d be simply reading to himself. But once again, you were sadly mistaken. You had to not only endure a vibrating dildo that was pushed all the way up into you and pressing right into your special spot, but the sound of Harry’s smooth voice as he read! He was trying to make you fail. But, you weren’t going to let him win. It was so hard to do though. The feeling of the toy vibrating deep inside of you felt amazing. They were radiating throughout your body and right to your clit as well. It didn’t help at all that Harry’s voice was doing things to you that you didn’t even think were possible. This happened to you more times than you could even count. You would hear Harry speaking about god knows what, and you get turned on beyond belief. But even though this was the case, you were managing to keep your moans low and to a whimper. You were holding back so much that little streams of tears were falling from the corners of your eyes.

And Harry watched as it all played out.

As he was reading, Harry managed to sneak little peaks here and there of you (it was more like what was left of you). After every period or page turn, he would watch you squirm and moan below him at the sensations of the dildo inside of you. You were feeling so good that at some point, you were digging the heel of your foot into Harry’s thigh, all the way up to stomach. To which Harry wrapped his hand around your ankle to stop you from going further up. Seeing you in this state, which was a complete mess, was beyond difficult for Harry to watch. He could even see your arousal dripping from your filled panties and onto the bed. His cock was beyond hard (it was actually throbbing) and he knew that as soon as he pushed into you, he was going to explode. You looked so pretty when you were all pitiful and begging for him. He wanted to just throw the book down, flip you over and just fuck you both to mind-blowing orgasms. But he held in there and kept reading.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Harry was finished reading the chapter. Harry barely finished the last sentence before he was pulling his glasses and throwing them along with the book onto the bedside table. The primal instinct and desire deep inside of him completely took over. Before either of you knew it, Harry had shover his boxers off, and flipped you onto your stomach. He ripped the thin, damp panties you were wearing off of your body and pulled the drenched dildo from you. He then proceeds to waste no time in replacing it with his even better (and bigger) cock. Instead of letting out sighs of relief, you and Harry let out cries of relief instead. This is the moment the both of you were desperately needing. You screamed out at the feeling of his cock plunging into the deepest part of you. You knew that you weren’t going to last long at all.

And neither was Harry. Feeling your spongey, and warm walls squeeze his cock after each thrust was a lot to handle. It became so much for him, that he rested his entire upper body against your back as he continued to slam his cock into you. When he did this, his mouth was right at your ear, prompting him to pant little things into your ear.

“Feel so good ‘round me baby.” Harry pants. Hearing this only pushed you right to the edge. Having him put his weight on you like this, only pushed you deeper into the mattress. Causing you to feel his cock moving deep inside of you even better. What Harry does next sends you completely over the edge. He manages to snake his hand beneath you and right between your legs, stopping right at your clit. He doesn’t even have to move his fingers for you to just let go around his cock.

“M’cumming!” You scream out to him. As if your release was infectious, Harry follows right behind you. Your releases crashed down onto you two extremely hard. As the both of you let go, a part of your bodies went numb. One of your legs was already numb to begin with, so the rest of your body just followed suit. The both of you were screaming and panting messes as you rode out your orgasms. Every time Harry thought he released every drop of cum into you, more spilled out. It was like your walls were milking his cock for as much of his cum as possible.

Once you two were done for sure, Harry manages to roll over onto his side, pulling you along with him. He keeps his hips tightly against you to keep his cock, and as much of his cum as possible inside of you.

“I love you so much.” Harry slurs, nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck before falling off to sleep with you.

Neither you or Harry needed a bedtime story to fall asleep when you had this.

Masterlist

#Harry Styles #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles writing #harry styles writings #my harry writing #concepts of h #harrywritingsbyme

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ironwoodprotectionsquad · 3 years

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I know its been a few days since I’ve done one of these but it’s been a hectic few days and these tend to be kind of long. So today I’m going to discuss my thoughts regarding how to make Ironwoods fall believable. Full disclosure, this won’t be as detailed as my previous Ironwood rewrite idea because well I don’t like fallen hero stories, especially when they end with the character dying and I don’t want to spend more time thinking of all the finer details then strictly necessary. But as much as I don’t like Ironwood going full on evil, I can’t deny that technically the idea isn’t a bad idea or a wrong one to write. Personally I think it’s a little to copy and pasty of the whole Haven fiasco and I would recommend against it, but again its not wrong to write. So as much as it hurts my soul, let’s dive into this.

So, one of my biggest issues (besides it just existing) with Ironwoods fall was how rushed it was. He just did a sudden 180 from someone who cares about Atlas and Mantel and it’s citizens to just totally cool with bombing them to get what he wants. It is just a very sudden and painful whiplash and not in a good way. Now for this arc to work for me, a few things need to happen.

One, all of the ableist crap needs to go. Immediately. He can still lose his other arm in the Watts fight but just have him continue to dress like normal and cover it up. No using it to try and show his fall into villainy or symbolize it in any way for any reason period.

Two, the fall ideally needs to start happening in Volume 4 but running on the idea that this wasn’t planned from the start as they claim and this was more a volume 7 idea it needs to at least start in volume 7. This would unfortunately come at the cost of some of my absolutely favorite scenes but this isn’t about making me happy this is about trying to make this arc actually work. Please know my soul is dying inside while writing this.

While starting in this arc in volume 4 works best having it start in Volume 7 works ONLY because of the time skip. Why? While normally I think having character's develop off screen with a time skip is lazy writing, it works for Ironwood because he isn’t a main character. It makes sense why we couldn’t be seeing what was going on with Ironwood between Volumes 4-6 because we needed to be focusing on the mains, and having the mains discover Ironwood has changed drastically since any of them had last seen him would work really well in this instance because the audience would be just as shocked to see how much has changed as well but we can fill in the blanks of what happened thanks to skipping away. Have RWBY/JRN/Qrow all be shocked to see the state Ironwood is in when they reach Atlas, have them express confusion and disbelief. Really lean into them having come to Atlas despite them being angry at Oz because they knew Ironwood could be trusted from his actions at Beacon. I am not saying however he is full on evil yet, just having slipped even deeper into morally gray and making questionable decisions.

Most of episode one can remain the same with them getting arrested and all that jazz. The big change would start happening in volume 2. Instead of Ironwood releasing them all immediately have him only release Qrow and maybe Weiss because he knows Winter will keep on insisting and have the rest of the kids taken to be locked up. Ironwoods fears should really be what’s causing him to fall, let his fears be ruling his every choice and having him not be trusting of anyone anymore. Having him immediately trust everyone no questions asked really only shows that he is a trusting and good character and for him to do a totally flip by the end of the season...that is just not how this can go.

So have Ironwood tell Winter to take Weiss somewhere and Ironwood ONLY take Qrow to his office because Qrow was a member of the inner circle and trusted Ironwood at his lowest so he feels at minimum he owes Qrow for that. So Ironwood only briefs Qrow on some of his plans. Have him hint at a large and critical project he is working on that could help with the fight against Salem but refuse to give Qrow any details of it. Qrow is hurt and shocked someone he considers a friend is keeping secrets from him and wonder what is going on so that he is the one to make the call to not share everything with Ironwood. Have him be wary that something is wrong and maybe fear that something similar to Leo is happening with James. It never sat right that Ruby was the one who decided to keep Ironwood in the dark, so if we’re going to keep him in the dark, the decision should come from Qrow, one of his friends, who see’s something is wrong and wants to figure out what before he says anything else. This is important to really lean into the trust theme this volume was trying to shove down our throats.

Eventually and reluctantly Ironwood would release the other kids but he would tell Qrow he can’t tell the kids anything and maybe Qrow could make some comment about how Ironwood didn’t really even tell him anything to which James could respond something about keeping information away from Salem or something like that. Qrow would explain everything to the kids and how he thinks for now its best to not tell Ironwood anything. Let this really not sit well with any of the kids and have them be torn up and confused and not sure what to do. They hated being lied to by Oz and doesn’t want to lie like he did, but they also know something is wrong but they’re not sure what.

Throughout the rest of the Volume Ironwood needs to start making more and more morally gray decisions when a less gray option was available. This is important because before then though his decision's where morally gray their never really seemed to be a much better option available. For his fall to work, he needs to start making more and more questionable decisions throughout the volume in the name of stopping Salem.

I will admit I don’t have a ton of ideas for this and really I don’t have the energy to come up with stuff since this is getting really longer then I wanted it to be in the first place but basically have the team and Qrow try and get him to see reason and make the better choice but slowly it becomes harder and harder until eventually he starts ignoring them. Maybe he slowly loses what little trust he had or could have gained in team RWBY and co thanks to major meddling from Cinder and Neo or Watts and Tyrian. Have one or both groups really fuck with James’s head, make him think RWBY and others really are against him, manipulate footage to make him think they’re responsible for the deaths of Mantle civilians. At first he doesn’t believe it and thinks maybe they’re being framed but then it happens again and again and his faith just slowly gets more and more shattered.

Maybe as a last ditch effort they tell James what they know to try and get him back on their side but it is the straw that breaks the camels back and he snaps believing that they all betrayed him and secretly work for Salem. This leads to their arrest on the spot and when Qrow finds out he confronts James about it and demands to know what he was thinking to which James informs him that he had no choice that he has to stop Salem even if it means abandoning Mantel and which makes Qrow realize how far gone he is and decides he has to try and break his aura thinking it’s what’s causing the problem, it has to be.

They fight and maybe in the scuffle Clover comes and tries to stop the fight but at some point is killed. Maybe his aura is broken and he tries to protect James from a killing blow or in all the shooting he gets hit. Either way Qrow blames his semblance and Ironwood accuses him of murder and he firmly believes Qrow is also with Salem and any trust he had left is broken.

IDK how good this is I don’t tend to do these kinds of things but I wanted to give my two cents. But what are your thoughts? How would you write this?

#RWDE #RWBY #James Ironwood #I can't really tag this pro #I think?#IDK

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ofmythsandmadness · 3 years

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don’t leave so fast | d.h

You don’t always have the chance to have him to yourself. But you still want more. (or, post s2!diego has a hair kink. but make it subtle & intimate.) WORD COUNT: 1.3k WARNINGS: i don’t think there’s anything bad. feel free to correct me. A/N: This is a gender!neutral fic, as usual. This is the only productive thing I’ve done today and it feels stupid but eh. In the state of pain I’m in, I guess that’s something I’m going to have to live with. I don’t know how to title or label this mess, I haven’t even read through this (if it’s bad, I’m sorry, I cannot concentrate on literally anything).

IT’S RARE THAT YOU GET A MOMENT ALONE. Much less an entire night. You half expect the next blink to reveal that it’s all a dream and that somewhere out there, cold and alone is your boyfriend. That the soft sounds of the television program you’re half-watching will swing to instead the harsh whistling of wind and honking cars beneath your apartment that always keep you up at night.

You let your eyes shut for a second. When you open them, your hands still and you glance around the tiny living room just to make sure this isn’t some elaborate dream sequence. That he’s still there.

“Baby? You okay?”

He must have realised the fingers you had been tugging through his long locks had stopped and taken that as a bad thing. His head perks in your lap; for a moment, you catch the soft honey brown of his eyes peering up at you, trying to reassure himself that you’re okay.

Your heart aches, at that.

“I’m okay,” you reassure, and resume your soft work. “Just lost in thought.”

He settles back against your legs. One of his hands drapes lazily against the couch but the other’s found itself cradling your right thigh. He squeezes gently, making you squirm. “Good, or bad kinda lost?”

You hum, absent-mindedly twisting a strand of almost-black around your index. There really isn’t a right answer there. You don’t want to interrupt the moment and tell him how bittersweet it all feels, knowing this kind of night probably won’t happen again, but lying is a tricky battle to win against Diego. He always likes to joke the one thing he picked up from the Academy was the ability to read a person -- and he might be kidding, but you’re not when you think he could see right through you, twenty-four-seven.

“Babe?”

Your fingers pause again, before picking right back up. “Sorry. I...I was just thinking about your hair.”

He adjusts again, staring up at you at an awkward half-turned angle that’s almost funny. His lips pucker, then fall lax again. You wonder if you reach down far enough, if you could kiss them. “My hair?”

“Yeah. You know...I know you said you want to cut it, but I like it.” A gentle smile pulls; you let it sweep the uneasy frown once worn back under the rug. “It’s soft. I like playing with it.”

“Oh, well in that case…”

You chuckle, patting the sides of his face as he turns. “I know, I know you have your reasons -- but it’s just been so long since I’ve had someone’s hair to braid. N’doing your own hair isn’t nearly as fun as playing with others.”

Diego contemplates your half-joke, half confession with more thought than you expected. “Huh.”

“But, of course, if you wanna cut it--”

“--it does feel nice.”

You stiffen. Your hands fall from his hair as he half-lifts from your lap; his body hovers in the most awkward angle right in front of you, but neither you nor him notice.

“Yeah?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, and a bashful grin threatens to poke through. “I-I mean, it feels nice enough. Relaxing.”

He’s pretty then. He’s always pretty, but he’s a painting as he watches your face twist up in thought; the television’s flashing lights illuminates his cheeks, his skin lighting up into a million different shades of colour in a way that makes you wish you could kiss every centimetre of it and tell him how it tastes. His eyes wash with emotion and look almost wet -- whether that be the shadows or his own unshed tears, you cannot tell.

He presses forward and his forehead comes to rest against yours. Slowly, his slender fingers interlace with your own, moving them up to his lips. You shiver as he kisses your tips.

“You’re a wonder, y’know that?”

“D’aw,” you scoff, but it comes out breathless and shaky as he kisses down your hands. “Baby...it’s really nothing.”

“I don’t just mean the hair.”

You fall silent as he works against your skin. Soft kisses press into your wrists, your elbows, up your arms and they fall like butterflies against the available skin around your shoulder. His hands fall from yours so he can press against your waist, holding him closer to you. He still cranes his neck in the awkward position he sits in, but somehow he manages to nuzzle your collarbones, up your neck, taking his fluttery pecks up until he reaches your jaw.

“Baby…”

He smiles against your chin; you feel his expression shift and vibrate slightly like he’s holding back a laugh. He kisses your cheeks, lingering on the blushing apples before kissing up your nose to your forehead, then down before his just parted lips rest above your own.

It’s a cliche you as a couple has never experienced. Hell, you’ve barely ever had a quiet moment -- your relationship is built off flashes of romance and intimacy you have to hold onto for hours after he’s gone, wondering when the next good moment will come. He usually kisses fast and rough and never with the delicacy of a painter, addressing the last final touches of his newest masterpiece.

Your breath comes stuttered, soft as he pulls you in. His nose brushes against yours; you almost squeak, somehow unsure about what the hell’s gonna come next.

He smiles wider, huffing the slightest hint of a laugh again. It’s a beautiful sound; you wish you had the capabilities to frame it and hold it forever against your skin. “You want me to keep my hair long?”

“S-yeah,” you mutter back. “If you - if you do.”

“Will you,” he hesitates then, and a shadow of nervousness flashes against his skin before he continues, “will you play with it? Like you are, or did?”

The smile that overtakes your face is like a forest fire; it floods your senses, leaving your mind in overdrive as you fold against his skin. You wonder if the flames licking up your limbs burn him too, but the thought dies just as you lift your hands to his hair, tugging lightly at the lowest locks just at the nape of his neck.

“Like this?” you wonder, barely brushing your lips against his. “Or -- like this?” Your hands fold into his hair, running across his scalp and everywhere you can touch before --

-- you’re both a tangle of limbs and smiles as he pushes you down into the couch, your hands still tangled up in his glorious mess of grown out tresses. His lips graze once before swooping in, taking you with a deep, hot kiss that makes your toes curl. But there’s more as he licks at your bottom lip, making you moan as he drives deeper into your mouth and his hands crush into your waist. There’s more than just desire, then the feeling of need that usually leaves both of your feeling empty and lonelier than before.

“Just like that, baby,” he moans softly, and he cannot hide the smile that you embrace, kissing you with a warmth you’ve never felt from him before. Not in that way. He’s clumsy as he plunges down again but you take him anyways, giggling as his tongue snakes across your bottom lip and his teeth follow. He’s slow with his motions, slow from moving from just kissing you, he’s savoring every second that he gets to touch you and that, that is what gets you the most.

You marvel at the fact that you even have this. That any of this is happening, that he’s yours, holding your waist to him and pressing kisses into your jaw that make you shiver and cling tighter.

But there’s time for this intimacy between you, for that feeling of love that spills from his lips and soak through your own. Maybe there’ll be more times like this, too.

REMEMBER...if you liked this, please like, reblog, let me know what you thought. follow, if you feel like it; i do from time to time, remember how to string words together and post stuff like this (generally for tua, but can do for other fandoms too). check out my kofi in my bio if you feel generous! x

#diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves drabble #tua x reader #diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves imagine #mine

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ahkaahshi · 3 years

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1:32 AM [hirugami sachirou x reader]

pairing: hirugami sachirou x fem reader

genre: fluff with sprinkles of angst

warning(s): descriptions of catastrophic thinking/anxiety, brief mentions of death, swearing

word count: 2.5k

overview: when hirugami’s old habits of rumination come back to haunt him, there’s only one person who can bring him peace

By the time it’s 1:32 AM, Hirugami has spent no less than a half hour staring at the digitized numbers of the alarm clock cutting through the darkness, watching the precious seconds and minutes of sleep tick away before his eyes. A strange haze hangs over him, and it’s as if his ears have been stuffed with cotton, amplifying all the thoughts pounding against his skull. For a moment, there’s an eerie silence in his head, during which he can hear the leaves whispering in the breeze outside of his window, and he thinks he’s finally falling asleep, but the quietude is painfully temporary.

With a heavy sigh, he turns on his back and stares up at the ceiling, giving his thoughts a moment to surface individually, like bubbles rising to meet the daylight shining down on a body of water.

When will what I do ever be enough?

Did I really choose the right path in life?

Would I still feel this way if my life had played out differently?

When will these thoughts stop?

Rumination is nothing new to him. Despite being able to keep the habit tucked away for a majority of his high school years with both yours and Hoshiumi’s help, he finds that it often comes back to haunt him at the most unexpected times. His week at work had been as smooth as it could be given he was a busy veterinarian, yet he’d felt a knot of something—uncertainty?—forming within him over the course of the past few days. Where it had originated from he had no clue, but it was proving to be a formidable opponent now, in the late hours of the evening while the rest of the neighborhood slept.

The journal on his bedside table catches his attention, and as much as he knows he should take a moment to pen down his troubles in an attempt to put them to rest, his hands feel too heavy to move. Just making the simple trip from his chest to the table feels like the most effortful task in the universe. He does, however, find the strength and motivation to reach for his phone lying beside him where he’d tossed it in agony after realizing he was using it far too long after bedtime.

His eyelids instinctively narrow at the sudden influx of light that spills onto his face from the screen when he turns it on, even though the brightness is at its lowest setting. Lazy drags of his fingertips find him face to face with your smiling contact photo, and sluggish taps compose a more to-the-point text message than he usually sends asking if you’re still awake. Gray dots appearing, then promptly disappearing along the bottom of his screen proves that you are—and in an instant, he’s answering a call from you.

“What’s up, Sachi?” you ask, voice more chipper than he’d expect at this hour.

“Nothin’ much,” he lies with a yawn. Hearing his voice weighted so heavily with fatigue makes your heart sink in your chest. “What’re you up to?”

He can hear rustling through the phone as you readjust the blankets ensconcing you to pull them up to your shoulders again. Gazing at your glowing computer screen, you respond, “Just watching a movie,” before asking, “Everything okay?”

“Just having trouble getting to sleep, is all,” he explains, the words leaving his mouth in another exasperated groan, “So, I thought I’d talk to my favorite person if she was still awake.”

Jokingly, you comment, “I won’t tell Kourai you said that, yeah?”

He chuckles. “Thanks.”

A comfortable moment of silence passes, during which you shuffle your feet beneath the covers to warm them up and he allows his eyelids to flutter shut so he can focus his full attention on the sound of your voice when you speak again. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Don’t you get tired of it, (f/n)?”

“Of what, baby?”

“Of listening to me talk myself in circles when I’m like this and hearing about the same issues over and over again?”

Though there’s a hint of irritation laced in his tone, you know it’s directed at himself rather than at you. “Sachi, you can talk about whatever you want as much as you want. I know how much you keep to yourself, so it’s okay. I just want to help, since I know how exhausting it must be for you to deal with.” There’s a short pause, and you know from experience that his mind is most likely distorting your words, forming them into daggers he sinks into his own heart. “I promise, it’s okay to talk to me about it. Trust me.”

He blinks slowly, takes a deep breath, and agrees, “Okay.”

Pursing your lips, you glance around the darkness of your room until your eyes settle on the bag you’d already packed, ready to take to his house for your scheduled weekend visits. “Would it help if you could see my face?” you wonder, your mouth curling up into a small grin regardless of the fact that he can’t see it.

“Well,” he hums, dragging his long fingers through his chestnut brown hair, “you know I’d never turn down the opportunity to see my gorgeous girlfriend, but you’ll have to give me a minute to touch up my makeup.”

With a snicker, you retort, “You’ll have plenty of time to pull yourself together if I just come over instead.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, sweetheart. Not at this ungodly hour.”

“And you didn’t,” you reaffirm, “but I want to, so, will you let me visit a whole—” you interrupt yourself to check the time before continuing—“eight and a half hours earlier than we’d originally planned?”

“I would love that,” is his answer given without hesitation despite his initial, intrusive thought of being burdensome to you by allowing you to drive over so early in the morning.

And even though he feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into the spiral of negative ideas swirling around him like the raging waters of a whirlpool, he doesn’t regret accepting your invitation when you arrive about twenty minutes later. Upon opening the door to your car for you, he’s greeted by your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him close for a tight hug that instantly engulfs him in a warm feeling of comfort that he can’t liken to anything else he’s ever felt before from anyone else. He holds your body flush against his—even after he’s felt your grip loosen in a signal to pull away that then tightens once more at realizing he’s not quite finished yet—and acknowledges the guilt that suddenly rises within him.

How could I ever want to know how things could’ve been different when I have her?

“Thanks for coming,” he whispers, craning his neck to press a kiss to yours before finally releasing you and slinging your bag over his shoulder. The wave of cold air that rushes between your bodies at their separation nearly makes you reach for him again, but you settle for latching onto his hand instead while the two of you make your way up to his apartment. “You made it here in record time, speed racer.”

Chuckling, you joke, “Drove like I was answering a booty call.”

“I’m truly flattered.”

The gentle smile across his lips has your heart skipping a beat in your chest but doesn’t hide the fatigue clearly present on his handsome features. His hand on your back gently ushers you inside the familiar warmth of his home when he unlocks the door, and you make a beeline to his bedroom once you’ve kicked off your shoes. A look of amusement glimmers in his eyes at how quickly you settle yourself down in his bed and bury yourself under his comforter and blankets.

As he climbs into bed beside you, your hands move to the sides of his face to pull him towards you for a gentle kiss. “What’s going on, Sachi?” you murmur after your lips part. He sits on the mattress beside you, and the sinking of the bed naturally draws you closer to one another until your arms are wrapped around his torso and his draped over your shoulders.

“Just the usual,” he sighs, fingers absentmindedly grazing the fabric of your sweater, “You know, the whole wondering if I’ve done everything right bit. My mind just loves reminding me of my mistakes and going through how I could’ve handled things differently, even if the thing in question happened, like, five years ago.”

You hum understandingly and nod, focusing on his words to keep yourself awake—which is a challenge when his body feels like a lullaby.

“I’m still hung up over that dog we couldn’t save last month. Every day, I find myself thinking of the moment when his heartbeat just… stopped. And the look in his owner’s eyes when I told her he hadn’t made it. And I just wonder, what could I have done differently to keep him alive?”

He swallows thickly and breathes out a somewhat frustrated sigh. “And I replay the arguments I’ve had with people—and with you—in my head, wondering what I could’ve done to prevent them. But I know that hindsight’s twenty-twenty and that if I’d have known the answer or what was to come beforehand then it never would’ve happened to begin with. It’s so frustrating because I know this, I’ve been able to accept mistakes and let them go, yet I still beat myself up really badly over things every now and then.”

Moving away from him slightly so you can look up at him, into his weary but kind and welcoming gaze, you place your hands on his shoulders and give him a small smile. “Baby,” you say with an affectionate squeeze to his muscles, “these shoulders of yours are so strong, but they’re meant for carrying backpacks, me when I want a piggyback ride, or any kids we may or may not have in the future; not the weight of the world.”

He tilts his head to the side so he can lower his cheek onto one of your hands, spreading heat across your skin. With the way he’s watching you so intently, you can tell how much he values your words as well as the fact that you’re here, sitting in front of him instead of gazing at him through a screen.

Slowly, speaking as the thoughts enter your mind, you assure him, “It’s okay to fuck up. How would we learn if we didn’t?” You stroke his cheek with your thumb before your fingers move to his head of waves tousled haphazardly from whatever restless sleep he’d been able to get.

“Just remind yourself of the way you usually deal with mistakes. Acknowledge them, say yeah, that happened, and it sucked ass, but I’ll do better next time, and let go of them. I mean, I know it’s way, way easier said than done, but you’re really good at it. Remember all those times in high school I came to you, freaking out over the smallest things that I’d done? Who am I kidding? I still do that; but, anyway, it’s always been you who’s helped me. Give yourself the same permission to mess up.”

Your boyfriend of many years heaves a deep sigh as he lets the truth of your statements pass through his internal filter that does a fine job, unfortunately, in this case, of sifting through only the ideas he wants to believe. Though they’re met with initial resistance that only manifests as a defense mechanism, all your words manage to remain after the process like the smallest pieces of gold hidden amongst layers and layers of sediment.

Taking your hand in his, you tell him, “There aren’t really any right or wrong decisions, and I know you know that. They’re just choices you make. Mistakes are gonna happen no matter what, but you’re gonna be okay. I know you, Hirugami Sachirou, and I know how strong and determined you are. You can do what you set your mind to and with that smile on your face some people find annoying—” the grin in question appears on his lips, making you laugh—“Yeah, that one. So, get it into that big brain of yours that you’re doing your best or I’ll have to rough you up a bit.”

“I’m shaking in my boots.”

“As you should be.”

In an instant, the heavy layers of worry that had restricted him before unravel at your definitive statement, and he’s laughing while he pulls you into his arms once more. As always, his laughter is contagious, and it’s not long before you’re doing the same, body shaking against his. “Don’t unleash your wrath on me, baby; I’ll listen, I promise. And I’ll make your favorite for breakfast tomorrow,” he concedes with a teasing tone, a yawn whisking some of his words away.

“We have a deal,” you chirp, “Now, let’s go to sleep. It’s way past your bedtime, gramps.”

He complains, “You callin’ me old?” as your bodies sink down onto the soft mattress, his head pausing in its natural course towards your chest so it can hover above yours. “’Cause I found more gray hairs than I’d like to admit when I was doing my hair yesterday, so I’m actually really self-conscious about it.”

Sticking out your lower lip in a sympathetic pout, you comment, “I said you were old, but I didn’t say that you weren’t hot.”

“So, I’ve still got it, huh?”

“You’re basically a silver fox.”

A soft hum of contentment rumbles against your lips when he presses his to them to shower you with a few, affectionate kisses. Eventually, he pulls away and pecks your chin on his way to your neck, where he nestles his head as your arms readjust to accommodate his body coming to rest against yours. “Thanks, (f/n),” he mumbles, voice suddenly heavy and lethargic compared to how it had been moments earlier, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

Your fingers card through his hair softly as he takes a deep breath and slides his palm along the back of your thigh to coax it around his waist so he can move his body even closer to yours. While the two of you lie together, surrounded in warmth, feeling the gentle beating of each other’s hearts against your bodies, Hirugami finds he has nothing left to worry about—no thoughts left to disturb him. And, because his mind is finally quiet and still, the ruminating beast within him quelled by your honest words and gentle touch, sleep finally comes just as easily to him as loving you does.

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@why-aminot-dead, @yamagucji, @toutorii, @shibayamasbae, @tsukkisbean, @devlovesiwa-channn, @captain-shittykawa, @ghblh, @postsfromthe6, @omibaby, @deerixiie, @oikawoahh, @stormlights

#haikyuu x reader #hirugami x reader #x reader #reader insert #hq x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #hirugami sachirou x reader #fran writes hq!!#ahkaahshi//wnf

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

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The Heart of Admiration - Part 3

Charles Vane x Reader - slow burn

Part One -- Part Two

The activity never ceases on a ship, but it does get a bit quieter at night; there are less crewmen out and about, and their voices are softer on a calm night like this one. You’ve got the highest deck to yourself, and the heavens are clear and brilliant with stars. The measurements will be easy tonight, the ocean rolling in only gentle swells beneath the ship. You take a breath and feel your tension melt away under the crystal light of the Milky Way, and the sliver of the crescent moon.

With one hand to steady yourself against the railing, you let your head fall back, looking straight up at the expanse of the sky. You’ll start your measurements in a moment, but there is no rush. You’ve always loved looking at the stars; it’s the reason you wanted to learn them, the passion that carried you through all the charts and figures and drier things that come with navigation. Somehow your profession cements your relationship with the awesomeness of the heavens. The calculations connect your place on earth to the celestial bodies, and make any place that you might find yourself in feel like home.

You hear boots on the stairs, and some sizzling spark inside you has already made a guess who it is. You allow your eyes to flit in his direction without altering your posture, refusing to appear flustered by him. Captain Vane ascends the steps. He has washed the blood from his face, his hair smoothed and half pulled back in its proper place again. He’s got a clean shirt on, and so there’s no reason at all for you to be thinking about the bloody horror he made on the deck not too many hours ago.

His momentum hesitates when you do not react to his approach. He strides across the deck to lean his back against the railing by your side. “Evening.” The one word is said pleasantly enough, though the particular character of Vane’s voice makes even an empty pleasantry sound significant.

“Good evening to you, Captain.” You speak formally, and wait for him to say more.

He doesn’t. His nearness makes you vibrate with an unfamiliar tension, his silence making you notice the sensation all the more. It’s not fear, not exactly, and it is not even entirely unpleasant, but it makes you feel restless and your hands seek your instruments. Time to get to work, your captain is watching.

And he does; he watches. You busy yourself lining up sights and marking down measurements, and in the colorless light of the moon and stars you try to read his face in the briefest of glances.

He looks about as calm as the seas that surround you on all sides, but there are hints that something is simmering underneath. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then draws a thick cigar from his pocket instead. He steps over to the hooded lantern you’d brought up to write your notes by, stealing a bit of the flame to get it lit. You hope he didn’t think you watched him too long as he brought his face close to the flames, furrowing his brows in concentration. Then he steps back to lean against the railing, the very picture of a man enjoying the night air. The captain puffs away contentedly as you track the movement of the stars.

“We on course?” he finally breaks the silence to ask.

“Appear to be,” you answer, running figures in your head. “Though we might want to adjust the heading a little more westerly.”

Smoke erupts from his mouth as he speaks. “You don’t need to consult the charts first? Some books full of tables, check your figures twice?”

Your hands come to rest on your hips. “That’s always better,” you agree, “but you are the one that asked what I thought at present.” You shrug. “I’ve basically got the tables memorized. I know what the numbers mean as I’m reading them.”

“Impressive.” Something about the way he says it makes you feel like a braggart, and you turn away from him awkwardly.

“I like the feeling of knowing exactly where I am,” you say, feeling some odd pressure to explain yourself now. You feel more than hear him coming closer behind you. The breeze shifts, carrying his warm tobacco smell over your shoulder. “Measuring the heavens… grounds me.”

“I can understand that.” He says it low, almost wistfully. You are struck all of a sudden by how very little you know about him. His reputation, yes, but the man himself… he seems to have layers deeper than what was spoken about in the streets and taverns of Nassau.

“It’s probably what brought me all the way to the West Indies,” you continue, “to see new stars, to see the same stars in different ways… what brought you here?” It’s a clumsy transition, but you’re curious. You turn to face your enigmatic leader.

He stiffens, a brief scowl darkening his features. “I have never not been here,” he says, frustratingly terse as ever, and takes another puff from his cigar. “How’s your head?” He reaches up while he says it, fingertips brushing just above the nape of your neck, to check the lump left by the attackers. You should say something sharp about him taking the liberty to touch you so boldly, but in this moment, alone under the stars, you’re too tantalized by the feel of his fingers in your hair. It doesn’t even hurt when he finds the knot that has risen at the back of your head. “It doesn’t seem too bad.”

“It’s not bothering me.”

His fingers trail away from your injury, his final touch along your scalp not feeling strictly diagnostic. Why is your heart suddenly racing? His hand falls back to his side, but he does not step away. There is a surprising uncertainty in his eyes, even as he continues to speak with confidence. “So now you find yourself under the West Indies stars. Have you found your place? Or do you miss your home?”

Is Vane curious about you too? You cross your arms as you contemplate your answer. “My home? My home is on the waves, now.” you look up at the glittering sky above, “my home is under these stars.” Vane smiles. “My home is… apparently, with your crew.” You say it slowly, trying on how it tastes on your tongue.

Vane’s smile drops. “You still feel that I forced you.”

“You feel that you didn’t?”

He actually looks pained, the fearsome Charles Vane who has never hesitated to reach out and take exactly what he wants. The one who has earned, through his easy comfort with violence, the right to do exactly that around the port of Nassau and anywhere else where lawlessness and reputation were the only rules. He looks away from you, across the open water. “I never want anyone to feel caged.”

“A bargain… is different from a cage.” You’re not going to deny your own responsibility, the mess of Captain Fisher’s plan that led to your service on this vessel. It could have ended so much worse. “I am not ungrateful for your mercy,” you say, finding it difficult to meet Vane’s eyes as they smolder down at you now, “it was a price that I am glad to pay.”

“Sailing with us is a price?” He’s choking on that, somehow, though you fail to understand why. He was the one who set the terms. “Pirates have killed for the privilege of joining my crew. I liberated you, from a mediocre life.”

“You have a fine ship, Captain Vane. And a decent crew, with a fearsome reputation. But you took me from my family.”

His scarred brow arches skeptically. “Your brother-in-law? A captain with no vision, always going after the lowest-hanging fruit, the most convenient prizes. I understand that you have to make your start with the connections that you have, but”—he leans in, putting his face fully in the way of your gaze—“you can’t look me in the eye and say that you were satisfied by that.”

Vane might have a bit of a point, but he’s missing yours. You meet his eyes levelly, leaning in even closer toward him. Then you all but bite off each word. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

The wound reappears behind his eyes. He rocks back, blinks once. His cigar has stopped burning, forgotten between his fingers, and he contemplates it for a long moment before answering. “The prize you led us to today is rich,” he says, slower, softer. “Consider the bargain fulfilled.” He’s thinking about every word, as if he’s deciding each one only as he utters it. “If, when we get back in port at Nassau, you’d like to take your share and seek out other employment, I will not hold you.” He tucks the remainder of the cigar into his pocket, stepping past you toward the stairway. Before leaving the deck, he looks up at you though, eyes ferocious even while he’s backing down. “But you won’t find any crew better than mine.”

~*~

The prize was rich indeed. Eleanor Guthrie was furious that the Ranger was the crew turning it in, of course; apparently she had already assigned the lead on this particular ship to another captain, one more squarely under her thumb, but she paid out all the same. And then everyone stayed to drink their first round in her tavern, just on account of the look on her face.

You don’t know this crew well enough to celebrate with them. They seemed amicable enough during the hunt, but with the reputation Vane’s men have for carousing, drunkenness, and petty violence once their purses are full, you’ve deemed it wise to keep a little distance, and just observe what plays out on this evening.

You don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed when the first man to take a seat on the bench beside you isn’t Charles Vane, who appears to have taken up his own brooding, isolated little position at the other end of the hall. Instead it’s Jack Rakham, your new quartermaster, who settles in with a flourish of his coattails beside you. “Cheers.”

You clink your rim against his proffered mug and you both drink deep.

“Without your skill, we likely would not be celebrating this victory,” he adds. “You have my thanks.”

“We were only lucky that the storm pushed our prize off its course in the same direction as it did our own.”

“And without your competence, we would not have been able to compensate so well even for that.” Jack shakes his head with a conspiratorial smile. “What use is humility in a place such as this. Claim all the credit you are owed, I say. And then however much more you can get away with beyond that, too.”

You give a thin smile to the cheerful bravado of his advice, a smile that sours when you see the look that Miss Guthrie is shooting you as she crosses the room.

“Speaking of owed,” Jacks says, distracting you from wondering why she’d be singling you out for her ire so specifically, “the Captain asked me to write this out for you right away.” He produces a slip of paper and presses it into your hand.

There’s not much written on it, aside from an impressive sum of money and Rackham’s flourishing signature. “Is this—”

“Charles was quite insistent that I calculate your share without delay.”

You risk another look at the man in question, across the crowded room. Captain Vane is quite decidedly not looking at you, though his body is angled such that he could glance in your direction as often as he pleased. Right now, he seems pleased only by the barmaid, who is clearly attempting to make her excuses and move away from his table. Poor thing probably won’t have a job for long if Eleanor Guthrie thinks she’s flirting with her ex-lover. You look back down at the figure Jack had passed you. “It’s generous.”

Rakham shifts, making sure he’s caught your eye before speaking. “There will be more prizes, rich as this one, should you choose to stay on with us.”

You contemplate the man’s earnest face. So he knows why Vane asked him to rush your share, or at least he has surmised it.

“Don’t let Charles’ rough edges turn you off to this crew before you get to know us. I don’t know what he said to set you off, but I promise you, with time you will find his tendency to put his foot in his mouth quite endearing, really.” His wide smile beckons an answering warmth in your own face.

Perhaps the matter is settled now, between you and Captain Vane. But that’s not the only trouble you’re having with your current position. “It’s the crew I’m worried about, more than him,” you admit. Jack just seems so easy to talk to; you can see why he’s a good fit for Quartermaster. “It’s hard for a woman to get respect.”

Jack takes a long pull on his ale. “I know the reputation we’ve acquired. I can’t even say we don’t deserve it. But they’ve adjusted to Anne’s presence on the crew just fine. it won’t be as hard as you are thinking. All you need to do is find your niche. Which brings me back to my point about laying claim to all the credit that you can. Come.” He tugs on the sleeve of your jacket, standing up from the bench and looking toward the main throng of the Ranger’s crew, gathered around a group playing dice at one of the long tables. “It’s high time I made a toast.”

~*~

“That lead was not given to you.”

Charles stares across the desk at Eleanor, her eyes flashing bright with indignation, her cheeks coloring already although she had only just got started in on him. “And yet,” he squares his shoulders out of habit, “I took it first.”

He watches her fume, just as prettily as ever, in exactly the way that he knew his flat tone would incite her. “Yes, and how exactly did you do that, Charles?”

He sits down in the chair in front of her desk, not because he wants this conversation to take a long time (he still has plenty of celebrating left to do) but because he knows so well the show that he is about to have to sit through. He figures he might as well be sitting down. “I outmaneuvered you.”

Eleanor’s head tilts sharply, her knuckles going white as she thinks of a suitable retort to his simple statement of fact. He used to think she looked so glorious when he got her this riled up. But today, she just looks… petty. “You went behind my back. And here I thought we were finally getting comfortable with the new arrangement.”

“What, the one where you fuck my crew on leads and I don’t even get to fuck you back?” He feels just a simmer of the old rage, the one where she used to make his blood boil until he could think about nothing else, but it sputters and dies about as soon as the retort has left his lips. His fingers find the stump of a cigar in his pocket, the one he forgot he was smoking last night because he was so distracted by you.

Eleanor’s lips turn down into a scowl that’s truly ugly. “Or maybe, when I’m no longer playing favorites, coddling you, it’s just clear that you and your crew are an inferior operation.”

“Seems to me, the only thing that’s clear is that my crew got the prize.” He puts the cigar between his lips. Somehow, it’s easier tonight than it has ever been, to ignore her attempts at riling him. All she’s making him feel is…caged.

“Don’t smoke in here,” Eleanor snaps.

He lifts his brows, then sighs heavily and starts fiddling with it between his fingers instead.

“I don’t believe you can credit yourself or your crew for this one, anyway,” Eleanor says, sitting down primly with a smugness behind her eyes. “I know that you stole the Starling's navigator. Who you absolutely needed, in order to pull this one off. How long have you been planning to undercut my wishes? And who do you think you are, anyway, disbanding crews, stealing ships, banishing people like you’re some sort of king?” Her composure hadn’t lasted long. Her eyes wide, she’s leaning over the desk at him again.

And yet Vane still finds he feels only annoyance. “The strong eat the weak.”

She barely acknowledges he spoke, and only with a roll of her eyes, before she barrels on to her next point. “And you think the other captains will stand for you poaching their talent at the end of a sword?”

He flits his hand through the air. “It isn’t like that. She made a deal.”

“Yes, a deal during which her sister’s husband was about to have his head parted from his shoulders. I interviewed Captain Fisher before he complied with your…request…that he leave Nassau.”

That irks him. Who does she think she is, “interviewing” people. Why did she have to talk like that, like she’s a goddamn queen. And painting him like a monster in your life, to boot. “He betrayed our partnership,” he growls. “No one on this island would say that he deserved any better than what he got, when I caught him red-handed sneaking onto my ship.”

“Fisher said you were holding out on splitting up that cargo fairly between you, and he was only intending to secure his fair share.” That smug look is returning to her scheming eyes. “If you had only turned it over to my warehouse as soon as you got in, as is the usual way business is done around here, I would have made sure that you were both paid fairly.”

“Because you have been nothing but fair to me and my men, of late.”

“Charles.” Her eyelids lower, just a fraction, just enough to not make him think she’s doing it intentionally, giving him an echo of her bedroom eyes. She draws herself up with a fluid grace in her movements that wasn’t there before. He can barely believe that this actually used to work on him. “I know it’s hard to accept that things are changing between us.” And if you’re a good boy, the roll of her hips says as she steps around the desk, they might even change back for a night. “But you are still one of my top earners.” She sits on the edge of the desk on his side now, close enough for him to reach out and grab, deliberately calling to mind those times that he pushed her right over that desk, just in that spot, and—“Do not give me any more reasons to cut you out of Nassau’s business completely.”

And although perhaps her threat even has teeth, Charles finds that he barely cares to even pay proper attention to what she has been saying. Ever since the first mention of you in this conversation, he’s been distracted by that damnable nagging doubt that perhaps he has not treated you fairly from the start. Even Eleanor seems to think so, and he finds that bothers him more than anything else the woman has said. And watching her try to work her seduction on him… he’s much more interested in pondering how you might go about trying to ensnare a man that you desired. Would you act like you could barely hide a wicked grin too, or would you be softer, more artless but nevertheless endearing…

Eleanor is still glaring at him, waiting for a response.

“We done here?”

Her frown deepens, with a cast of what might even be confusion at his lack of reaction. “Excuse me?”

He climbs to his feet. “Have you said everything you wanted to say.”

“I’d like a promise.” She stands too, a little closer to him than she would have stepped to anyone else. She’d excluded him from her bed, but Charles can see now, clear as day, that she intends to keep controlling him by dangling the possibility he might one day get back in. “That you won’t go against me again. This doesn’t have to get ugly, Charles.”

“Go ahead and keep tightening your fist around this island, Eleanor,” he says, stepping decisively toward the door. He hopes you haven’t left the tavern yet. “See what bends, and what breaks. There’s only so much free men will tolerate.”

On to Part 4

More of my work here

Feel free to send me interesting dialogue prompts that might advance this story. Taglist is open: @acebreathesfire @kind-wolf @the-roci @ladyhubris @summertimesadness1017

#charles vane #captain vane #charles vane x reader #charles vane imagine #black sails fanfic

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jalapeno-princess · 4 years

Text

Before You Go

Mark Tuan X Reader

Genre: Angst

Warning: Mentions about mental illness, depression, anxiety, insecurities

Word Count: 3.5K

Summary: When Got7 has a break during their world tour, Mark rushes back to Korea in order to return home to you. However, when he comes home to an empty apartment, he isn’t too surprised. Although he didn’t know about your condition, you were no longer acting like yourself a couple of weeks before. After reading the letter you left him, he realizes that you were suffering and he never hated himself more for not doing anything about it sooner.

A/N: Hey guys, I got inspired to rush this very sad imagine after listening to the song “Before you go” by Lewis Capaldi and I could not stop listening to it. It’s such a heartbreaking song and I remember seeing a tiktok about Got7 with that song and I actually cried. Hearing that he wrote this song about his aunt who committed suicide made my heart hurt. I’ve suffered from both depression and anxiety for quite some time and at one of the lowest points of my life, I just so happened to stumble across of the 7 most wonderful human beings and my life changed for the better. I’d be lying if I said I don’t have my bad days, but watching their videos or listening to their songs really helps uplift my spirits. I’m so sorry if you have any sort of mental disorder but I hope you know that you are so beautiful and so loved. The pain doesn’t last forever and if you ever need someone to talk to, my messages are always open! And please, don’t make someone the main source of your happiness. It isn’t someone’s responsibility to make you happy. Everyone suffers something we don’t know and the minute that person does something to upset you, it never once leaves your mind and they no longer make you happy. With that being said, read with caution and enjoy.

I fell by the wayside like everyone else I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, but I was just kidding myself Our every moment, I start to replace 'Cause now that they're gone, all I hear are the words that I needed to say

When you hurt under the surface Like troubled water running cold Well, time can heal, but this won'tSo, before you go Was there something I could've said to make your heart beat better? If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather So, before you go

Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting? It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless So, before you go

He knew it was coming whether he liked it or not. Your smile no longer reached your eyes whenever the two of you would FaceTime, your contagious laughter than he loved so much didn’t sound genuine like it used to, you would always respond with short answers to each and every one of your messages.

Mark didn’t have to see you in person to know that you weren’t yourself anymore; that you weren’t happy anymore and he hated that he didn’t realize something was wrong until it was too late. When he first walked in to your shared apartment, he didn’t think that anything was out of the ordinary. It was natural for you to not be at home.

Being a full-time college student with a full-time job took up most of your time and you’ve told him being occupied with all these responsibilities helped take your mind off of his absence. As soon as he walked in to the bedroom, he was quick to notice how empty the room was. Your vanity was cleared of all your makeup and jewelry, the table that your books and laptop occupied was empty and when he went to open your side of the closet, it was empty.

Mark didn’t know if he wasn’t responding to the fact that you were gone because he was in disbelief, because he thought this was a terrible nightmare that he was soon to wake up from or because he didn’t want to accept the fact that you actually left. It took him a few minutes to recollect his thoughts, but once he accepted that this was actually happening and that you took all of your things and moved out, he found himself sinking to his knees and let out the most heartbreaking, gut wrenching sob.

Being a KPOP idol wasn’t the most easiest job out there, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love traveling the world and getting to perform in stadiums and arenas alongside of his six best friends. Other than the rumors made about him, the mistreatment he and the rest of Got7 experienced from their company and the unnecessary hate he’d receive on a daily basis, the only other thing he hated about being an idol was having to go months without being with you; his soulmate, the love of his life, his person.

If Mark had the choice, he’d take you on tour with him. He was happiest whenever he was with you and each time he had to go on tour or travel around Asia for all the different photo shoots or reality tv shows he’d star in, he couldn’t find it in himself to completely enjoy the opportunity in its entirety. The love Mark had for you was stronger and deeper than anything in the entire world including his career.

He’d tell you time and time again that he would give up all the fame and success if it meant getting to spend every possible moment with you. You were his safe haven; his home. Every time something went wrong in his life or he felt like things weren’t going his way, he’d always run to you in search of comfort and salvation. Sure, he’d find confidants in his members and some of his family members, but nobody understood him the way you did.

Nobody knew what to say to make him feel better like you did. Nobody’s embrace and the sound of their heartbeat against his chest made him feel calm and at ease like yours did. It was in that moment of self pity that he realized, he was the reason why you left. When the two of you first met over four years ago, you were suffering from both anxiety and depression at the time.

There were days where you would get sad and even cry for no reason and sometimes you’d end up hyperventilating or feel like you weren’t able to breathe and not know the reason. From the time you were younger, you had a tendency of shutting people out of your life completely before they even got to really know you. Your parents never understood why you hardly ever had any friends, up until the day they got a call from your 8th grade counselor suggesting that you go see a therapist.

Although you hardly ever talked to anybody unless you really had to, it was hard not to hear about the countless rumors about you being mysterious and weird on top of receiving the nickname “ghost girl” because it was as if you didn’t even exist. On the fateful day you were introduced to the devastatingly handsome idol, your life changed entirely for the better.

You were interning at a hospital as a receptionist when he came storming in to the emergency room trying his best alongside of BamBam to help carry Yugyeom inside. It was in that moment that you learned the youngest boy sprained his ankle while practicing some choreography and you were quick to register him in the system and luckily the emergency room wasn’t all too crowded when the three of them arrived.

Both BamBam and Mark stayed in the waiting room for a couple of hours until BamBam decided to get some food for the two of them. When he left, Mark found himself walking over to you with the intention of getting to know you. He was too busy focusing on trying to get Yugyeom medical attention to really talk to you, but once the nurses took over, he got to admire your beauty and took the chance to see if you were interested in going on a date with him. You were extremely beautiful; there was no doubt about it.

Mark had a hard time keeping his eyes off of you and snuck some looks here and there to prevent BamBam catching on to his attraction to you, but once the younger boy was gone, he planned on making it aware that he admired how well you worked under pressure and how you did whatever you could to make sure Yugyeom was in the right hands and that he was going to be okay. In the hour that BamBam was away, Mark learned that you were currently in the process of becoming a registered nurse.

Not only were you going to school full time, but you were also a resident assistant and worked as a receptionist to help pay for medical school. You also got to learn that Mark was a KPOP idol and that he and the rest of Got7 were in your hometown for two weeks for a concert. The two of you immediately hit it off; you fell for his charm, his gentle personality and his gorgeous looks. He fell for your passion, determination, strength and your beauty was just a bonus. In both his free time and yours, you both went on multiple dates.

Since it was his first time in your hometown, you took him to places that you loved visiting and hoped that he would end up loving each and every location just as much as you did. There were a few kisses shared, whispers of interest and adoration for one another, a couple of hugs and many cuddles. You knew you should’ve told him about your mental state, but you were afraid of scaring him away before you really got to knew him.

With everyone who tried to befriend you and actually wanted to be apart of your life, you let them know right off the bat that you weren’t normal. You didn’t want to make friends with someone only for them to judge you for your mental disorders but for some reason, Mark was different. He made you laugh and smile so effortlessly. His smile sent your body in flames. For the first time in a very long time, you were genuinely happy.

A few days before they went to fly to the next country, Mark asked you to be his girlfriend. He told you that he was falling for you faster than he’d like to admit and that he’s never felt this way about anyone before. Deep down, you knew you should’ve said no. He already had so much on his plate; dealing with someone with so much baggage was not what he needed. The last thing Mark needed in his life was to become a babysitter and personal therapist to a grown women suffering from both anxiety and depression. But you couldn’t.

You were selfish. You wanted Mark just as much as he claimed to have wanted you; which is why you weren’t surprised when you found yourself saying yes while immediately smashing your lips against his. Mark informed you that dating an idol wouldn’t be easy, especially since the two of you would be in a long distance relationship; but he promised you that he would try his best to contact you as much as he could and that the two of you would plan to visit each other when time permitted you to do so.

Since Mark was the first boyfriend you’ve had, you weren’t used to the idea of a long distance relationship. You didn’t know what to expect. The idea both worried you as much as the thought of dating him excited you. There were millions of girls who adored him and he was surrounded by so many beautiful idols, actresses, models and singers. What if he realized that he could do so much better than you and that you were a mistake; a brief lapse of judgement he made because he was lonely and you were one of the only girls that weren’t throwing themselves at him?

Your conscience always tried to make you feel bad, no matter how happy you were or how good things were going in your life. Right now, Mark was the only thing keeping you going and you tried your best to push the negative thoughts to the back of your mind, but it was only natural for you to thing negatively. Mark in more or less words was the perfect boyfriend. Even if he was extremely busy, he made it a point to contact you twice a day; once he woke up and right before he went to bed.

If he had more time, he spent all of it talking to you. As much as you would prefer to see him on a daily basis, you could still feel so much love from him through computer and phone screens. When he didn’t have any schedules or when you went on vacation, you’d fly up to Korea or he’d fly down to spend time with you. The more you got to spend time and physically get to see your boyfriend, everything seemed to be okay.

You were so focused on being in the moment with Mark that you didn’t have time to be sad. However, when he would leave, or when you’d have to return back home, you could physically feel your chest get heavy. It was your fault; you made him the only reason for your happiness. You and Mark hardly ever got in to arguments but when you did, it got really bad for you mentally.

Each and every time you’d fight, you would always blame yourself even if it wasn’t even your fault. Mark had a tendency to get jealous and in the first few months of your relationship, you became aware that Mark was extremely protective over you. You didn’t understand where his insecurities came from; if anything you were the one who should be envious and insecure.

You’d see the way he flirted with other idols every now and then. He was also very flirtatious with his fans and you knew it was all apart of the idol image, but that didn’t make you feel any better. As much as you wanted to voice how you felt, you were afraid that it would spiral in to a conversation you weren’t ready for. You were afraid that he would find out about your illness and look at you in a different light. You were afraid that he would finally come to the realization that he deserved so much better than you.

You were afraid of losing him.

Dating Mark had its ups and downs, but you loved him with every fiber of your being. He was your safe haven; your favorite hiding place; an escape from the real world and you knew you’d be okay as long as you had him in your life. Things were going very good for the two of you for the last few years. After graduating from college over two years ago, you applied for a working visa in order to move to Korea and be able to see Mark more often.

He asked you to move in with him before you could even arrive and you were honestly over the moon. Time and time again, you’d find yourself daydreaming about getting to go to sleep in his arms and waking up next to him. He was the definition of a gentleman and made sure to remind you just how much he loved you and thought the world of you on a daily basis. On multiple occasions, Mark would bring up marriage and how he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with you.

There was nothing more you wanted in this world than to marry Mark; the only person that meant anything to you; the only source of your happiness, but you were afraid that you’d ruin your relationship somewhere down the line like you ruined everything else. During your entire relationship, you did your best in hiding your mental illnesses; you’d suffer alone and cry whenever he wasn’t around. You would go and see a therapist while he was working; you really wanted your relationship with Mark to last and in order to do so, you had to change yourself to be someone Mark would be proud to date.

Unfortunately, there was nothing that could help you. When Got7 went on tour again, this time it would be for an entire year. You didn’t think you would be able to live without him for an entire year. Sure, he’d have some breaks and return back to Korea every now and then and you could visit whatever country they were in, but it just wasn’t enough. While he was away, the voices only grew louder and so did your insecurities and negative thoughts.

You’re too fucked up to be loved.

You’re crazy for thinking a guy like Mark could ever like you.

He can do so much better than you.

He’s probably cheating on you.

You’re only holding him back from so many things.

If he knew how insane you really were, he’d leave in an instant.

You tried your best to ignore the voices; tried to pretend as if there was nothing wrong with you. Tried to pretend that you could maybe one day actually become normal and be able to live without a care in the world, but that kind of life could never be yours. Mark was a blessing; an angel on earth; a beautiful distraction and you would be selfish if you allowed to let this relationship continue.

The thought of no longer having Mark in your life felt like a stab in the chest. A life without Mark was not one worth living, but you couldn’t keep doing this. You were only hurting him the longer you dated him for. While he was gone, you decided you would pack your bags and leave him completely. It took a few weeks to come to that decision, you were so stubborn and you knew you’d regret it one day, but you wanted to leave him before he could leave you.

Since you were still so in love with him and would probably always be in love with him, you kept in contact with him and did your best to make sure that he didn’t sense that something was wrong. He would call you and tell you all about his day, how much fun the concert was and that he missed you, but he never asked you how you were doing. He always sent you pictures, but he no longer asked for any. You felt as if he was slowly falling out of love with you. He didn’t have to say it and even if he was great with reaching out to you, it felt like you were more like a friend to him rather than his girlfriend.

When you moved out completely and made your way back home, you cried for what felt like hours. If being away from him was already so upsetting, what more now that you were running away from your relationship; from him? You thought it was what was best for him; but it was slowly killing you. There were so many times where you wanted to tell him the truth.

For all you knew, he could be extremely understanding and would want to do whatever he could to help you; yet the chance of him laughing in your face were even higher. Mark had problems of his own and was very vocal about anything that was bothering him. Shouldn’t he have felt as if something was wrong since you never complained once about anything?

You were a licensed nurse, studying to get your bachelor’s degree in a country you weren’t familiar with. You were all alone when Mark was in and out of the country. Wouldn’t he think that there was a chance you were struggling and having a hard time? Even if you didn’t say anything, did he not have the smallest amount of common sense to put two and two together? As the days went by, you no longer felt butterflies swarm in your tummy when you looked at him.

The thought of him no longer made you smile like an idiot. He wasn’t the same man who told you silly hospital puns to get your attention all those years ago. He no longer made you happy and that’s how you knew it was the end. When the only source of your happiness no longer made you happy, there was no point in staying with him anymore. Mark was in a fetal position, crying on the floor for almost the entire day.

Where did you go? Why did you leave? You were just talking to him a few days ago, how long were you planning on leaving for? He wanted to call you to get the answers of his many questions. Did you no longer love him? Did you grow tired of the distance? Were you okay?

When his sobs slowly settled down, he stood up with the tiny amount of energy in his body and went on a search for his phone. He didn’t know what he was going to say to you; but he just needed to hear your voice. He wanted you to tell him something happened with your family and you had to go be with them but that you’d come back later. In that moment of self pity, your last phone call came back like a slap in the face. At the time, Mark didn’t think your words meant anything but now that you were gone, they made so much sense and he hated it. Hated himself.

“You know if one day, we’re no longer together, I want you to know that I will always love and support you. You will always be my person Mark, even if you find someone else and I’m no longer yours.”

Why didn’t he realize the distance earlier? There was obviously something different about the way you would talk and the tone of your voice. It no longer had that sweet, bubbly intonation it used to have. You also never contacted him as much as you used to. Whenever he told you he loved you and he missed you, he felt as if you said it just to say it. Before he could continue searching for his phone, it was then that he saw the tiny little post-it note on his pillow and once he finished reading it, he released an ear piercing scream of frustration.

“Dear Mark,

I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this anymore. I’m not happy, I haven’t been for a long time. I don’t thing I ever was genuinely happy once in my life until I met you and honestly the only moments I experienced happiness were when I was with you. Unfortunately, nothing made me happy anymore; including you. I felt as if I was preventing you from reaching your fullest potential. I wish you nothing but health and success. I’m going to miss you so much Mark. Thank you for showing me so much love and happiness for the time being. You’re an amazing person Mark and I meant what I said when I told you I’d love you forever. Please don’t come looking for me. It’s for the best.

Sincerely, y/n.”

Would we be better off by now If I'd have let my walls come down? Maybe, I guess we'll never know You know, you know

Before you go Was there something I could've said to make your heart beat better? If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather So, before you go Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting? It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless So, before you go

#got7 imagines #got7 #got7 mark #mark tuan #mark tuan imagines #got7 angst

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ahgaseda · 4 years

Text

wolf boys || chapter 13

⇥ synopsis : being the young alpha female over a pack of misbehaving werewolves is no easy task and is made even more complicated when the time comes to choose a mate...

⇥ warnings : this story in its entirety includes but is not limited to strong language and dialogue, recurring violence or mentions of blood, and explicit sexual content, and is intended for an adult audience only!

“I’ve made my choice,” you spoke firmly. “My first.”

Jaebeom glanced at you through strands of hair fallen into his eyes.

“The feelings you have for me…,” you hesitated, lowering your voice. “You know I feel the same way about you.”

“But you’re in love with him,” Jaebeom interjected, words like a knife.

You stood your ground and replied gently but firm, “I am.”

It was nice to see Jaebeom back on the edge of sanity. He had been rather ornery and aggressive with the others since the first sign of your heat. Now, you both were in the midst of a moment of clarity and you had to make the most of it while you still could.

“You’re my alpha,” Jaebeom said, fire seething beneath the surface. “I respect your decision.”

You blinked. “Thank you.”

Jaebeom crept closer, cradling your face in his hands and stroking your cheek. “But don’t think for one second I won’t fight for you when the time comes.”

“I know,” you sighed, meeting the intensity of his eyes and leaning into his touch.

Golden irises gleamed at your approval. Jaebeom stroked his thumb over your lip, wanting desperately to kiss you but knowing it wasn’t the right time, and whispered, “If he hurts you, I’ll destroy him.”

You simpered, knowing damn well he would make good on that promise.

Jaebeom leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your breath hitched, expecting more and your hormones spiked at the thought, but Jaebeom pulled away and turned for the woods. The man became a wolf and sprinted into the shadows, and not until he was out of sight did you finally return to the house.

Jinyoung ambled about the living room, anxious at what the night held in store. When you came inside, he raced to meet you, eyes wide with expectation. “Should I even ask why you wanted to be alone with me?”

You chuckled, sensing his nerves. “I need you to make me a promise.”

He took your hands and pressed a kiss or two over your knuckles. “Anything.”

You moved forward into his arms, shivering at the feel of them wrapping tightly around your waist. Placing your hands on his chest, you peered up at him and murmured, “Tonight is about us. I won’t let them in and I don’t want you to either.”

Jinyoung realized you meant the bond shared within the pack. You wanted - and needed - intimacy, to feel as if only you and Jinyoung existed in the world when you gave yourself to him.

He bowed his head in a single nod. “I swear.”

You smiled and took his hand, leading him with you to the bedroom.

The short walk was quiet and the weight of anticipation hung in the air. Your heart thumped at an uncontrollable rhythm, skipping a beat at the thought of sharing a bed with Jinyoung. There had been all too many nights you dreamed of this, fell asleep to the thought of making love to him.

He was the boy you had chosen to be your first mate.

Once inside the bedroom, you locked the door and turned to Jinyoung earnestly. His hands never left your waist and he was quick to lean down and catch your oncoming kiss. You longed for a taste of him, needed to feel his chest against your own.

Jinyoung slipped his fingers into your hair, tangling the strands around his fingers. There was a small catch in his breath whilst he kept up with the urgency of your kisses and you smiled against his mouth.

Suddenly you pulled away, panting, “Promise that you’ll fight. Even if you don’t win. Don’t give me up so easily.”

He didn’t hesitate to swear, “I will fight.”

“Heat isn’t far away. We can feel it in our bones. This… lull, whatever it is, is the last chance I will get.”

Truth was you felt like you were living on the edge of madness with every passing second. Heat had made itself known and then ebbed away, but you knew it was there, waiting to take over when the time was right.

You took it as a sign that you would choose your first, not from a place of lust, but out of love.

Jinyoung spoke hurriedly, “I don’t want you to rush into anything because of…”

You were quick to silence those doubts with a stern tone of the alpha you were becoming, “I’m not rushing, Jinyoung. I’ve thought about this, about you, for a long time. And you know that.”

Jinyoung smiled and his eyes lit up.

You grinned, relieved to see him so happy.

Reaffirming his hold around your waist, Jinyoung glanced around and teased, “Should I put on some music? Light some candles?”

You appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, but you answered, “No, I just want to hear and feel you.”

“You will feel me,” Jinyoung whispered, heady with desire. “Only me.”

You sucked in a breath when he lifted you into his arms, but wrapped your legs around his hips without a second thought. His arms and shoulders felt so firm to the touch, rock hard as they flexed to support you, and you couldn’t help but roam your palms over his muscles while you kissed at his neck.

Jinyoung groaned at the wet warmth of your lips on his flesh and you chuckled, sucking intently at the base of his throat to mark him as yours.

You whined his name when he dropped you on your back in the bed, freezing under the heat of his gaze as Jinyoung began unfastening your pants. Your heart throbbed wildly, coming to pulse between your legs. Jinyoung took his time stripping you to nakedness, one piece of clothing at a time.

Spreading your legs invitingly, you couldn't take your eyes off of him. Jinyoung pulled his shirt over his head and his chiseled body made your mouth water. You reached for him, chilled at the loss of his warmth, and Jinyoung was quick to mold himself on top of you.

His kisses were warm and soft, but full of hunger and desire that raced uncontrollably through both of you. He sucked on your tongue in his mouth and smoothed his hand down your thigh, steering your leg higher up his waist.

You kissed him for what felt like an eternity, letting your hands rest at the lowest curve of his back. When you were ready, you began pushing down his pants.

Jinyoung pulled back to look into your eyes, staring into your soul. He didn’t break from your golden irises when he guided his hard cock to your folds and started to push forward.

Your lips parted and you gasped for air. You let your legs fall from his hips and spread your thighs farther apart to alleviate the pressure of him entering you. “Jinyoung…,” you sighed breathlessly, face tensing.

Jinyoung stopped, lilting back and moving slightly to penetrate you slower. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your open mouth.

You whimpered, feeling your arousal slipping to the sheets as he rocked shallowly inside and coated himself with your wetness.

Jinyoung spoke your name and said, “Relax, baby.”

You set your nails to his back and moaned in the back of your throat. You wanted him so badly you couldn’t stand it. Jinyoung bit his lip, watching where your bodies met to see himself sheathing inside you.

You cried out in a mix of pleasure and pain, overwhelmed. Without a word, Jinyoung gathered you in his arms and lifted you up. You held his shoulders tightly, face-to-face, as he sat on the bed with you in his lap.

He wanted you to have more control for your first time.

You felt yourself adjust, your walls swallowing his cock and relaxing with every passing second. The arousal replaced your nerves and you tentatively rolled your hips.

It was Jinyoung’s turn to suck in a hard breath at your movements. You were a vice around his length, threatening to milk every last drop out of him.

Your hair tumbled down your back when you howled his name, setting out to ride him until you filled him with ecstasy and he filled you with his release. You held his face intently, making sure he looked nowhere else but you.

He was even deeper than you thought. It was all you could do not to cry at how perfectly he filled you. Jinyoung breathed heavily against your neck. Every inch of his restraint was to keep from finishing without you.

His sweat dropped to your skin and mingled down your neck. Your body was on fire, dripping with moisture. Wolves were fire incarnate, after all. Two of them together, bound like this, cradled a fire in their midst.

“Jinyoung,” you whimpered, eyes closed. Fingers lost in his hair. His arms flexed around your waist, muscles rippled and bulging.

This was how it felt to be one.

The two of you moved in sync, bodies on a perfect rhythm. He rolled his hips into you, bouncing you in his lap, desperate to coax the release from you. And you met his pace with every collision of him between your thighs.

Pain was long gone. There was only pleasure. You raked your nails down his back, leaving wounds down his spine that would heal all too quickly. You would love to lick a path up those marks to soothe the sting when you were loose from his grasp.

Something stirred within you, provoked each time the head of his cock pressed deeper and stroked that sweet spot. Your thighs quivered. Little nothings fell from your tongue like music to his ears.

Jinyoung chanted your name, his voice sinking lower and lower. He could feel you clamping down on him and knew he couldn’t last much longer. In all honesty, it was a miracle he had endured this far. “Come with me, baby. Please…”

The moan of your name that spilled from his lips was your undoing. No one had ever spoken your name in such a way and white hot arousal coursed up your spine and shot to every nerve in your body. Only you could draw such a sound from him. Only you could give him this high.

Your mouth opened in a silent scream when you reached the edge of your climax, the hot coil finally releasing at the apex of your thighs. Then, you moaned for all to hear. This was like nothing you had felt. Nothing could compare.

Jinyoung bit down on your neck, desperate to hide his whimpers and groans as your walls kneaded and clamped on his cock. All he could do was hold you close, riding the rest of your high as you bucked your hips roughly into his and pushed him past his sensitivity.

You cried for mercy, going limp in his arms and Jinyoung carefully set you on your back over the messy sheets, his cock still buried inside your tightening warmth. You blinked away the droplets between your lashes, focusing on his face and the flushed redness of his cheeks.

He had never looked more beautiful; panting, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. All your doing.

“I love you,” Jinyoung groaned, leaning in for a wet kiss.

You loved him even more and for a night, he was all you knew.

chapter 12 ⇤ chapter 13 ⇥ chapter 14

Hey there, beautiful! If you enjoyed this, please leave a like or reblog or follow me! Or maybe buy me a coffee so I can keep writing? Or check out my masterlist here for more stories! Thanks for reading :) - Katya

This work is fictional and for entertainment purposes only, but is licensed and protected under a creative commons attribution-noncommercial-noderivatives 4.0 international license. Any instances of plagiarism will be dealt with accordingly. Do not re-post or translate without my permission.

#got7 fanfiction #jinyoung smut #got7 smut #park jinyoung smut #got7 wolf au #got7 au #jinyoung fanfiction #got7 imagines #jinyoung imagines #jinyoung au

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writerrachelspangler · 4 years

Text

A Hierarchy of Tops

What the actual hell, y’all? Nothing to see here, except Katherine Hepburn giving us all the look that makes our collective gay insides instantly clench up then immediately liquefy.

What is that gut incinerating reaction? I can’t say for sure, but I have been thinking about it a lot, and I’m going to offer 3 possible suggestions:

Attraction (obviously).

But there are many levels to attraction. There’s like a woman walks by and turns your head attraction, or A-list celebrity beautiful-person attraction, and then there’s THIS. This feeling I’m talking about goes so far beyond the “you’re attractive” sort of attraction to like “laws of physics” sort of attraction. The kind of attraction that registers not just inside your core but also psyche.

It messes with my head in ways that have turned me around ever since I was old enough to be aware of such things, and I’ve come to sum it up as “The great queer question.”

Do I want to be with you, or do I want to be you?

It’s hard when you’re young (or even not so young) and you’re hungry for role models, but also thirsty for something else. And the whole issue gets complicated by the way those two feelings register in similar places of your body. The first time you see a woman step into full ownership of her God-given gift of giving zero fucks for conformity it lights a fire in the deepest regions of your gut. And as the warmth spreads outward from that low guttural place it can cause things to heat up in areas right below your core, too. You know the ones I mean, right? Those body parts are very close together, sometimes it’s hard to separate the two types of attraction.

And I’ve made peace with that, the not always knowing which came first, or which takes precedent, because ultimately it doesn’t matter. As fun as it can be (and by fun, I clearly mean disorienting) to try to figure out if I want to be with someone or be like someone, I am non-binary enough to realize the answer can be, and often is:

Attraction and aspiration are both cool, they’re both fluid, and they totally intersect. I’m comfortable with that. I’m more than comfortable with it. I dig it.

So if there’s no great conflict around attraction, why should that photo of ole K. Hep and her butchly furrowed brow still make my tummy so. damn. squimbly? Could it be something deeper than attraction? Something more complex? Something more elemental? Something like...

Recognition.

You see, over the last few years I’ve gotten into the concept of ancestral echoes, or the idea that memories and the knowledge that comes from them can be passed down through our DNA. That you can, on some level, know about things you’ve never experienced for yourself, and you can recognize the same sort of knowledge in other people.

Example: Folks way back up my family tree were sea-faring explorers. It’s been like 15 generations and I am super susceptible to sea sickness, but I am still so drawn to boats and the ocean. Not just like I find them pretty, but like I’m freaking Moana or something. There’s a pull there that goes beyond all reason and logic. I know that if I get on a sailboat there’s decent chance I am going to lose my lunch, but I can’t stay away. Even as I go green in the gills and my stomach does summersaults a part of me is still like:

I feel the same inexplicable connection when I look at that picture of Katherine Hepburn. There is a gay DNA level kind of recognition. A big queer ancestral echo. Whatever part of me that makes me gay senses its mirror in her.

Now I don’t know what part of me that is, nor what part of her trips that recognition trigger for me. The insolent stare? The turn of the mouth? Those gay AF eyebrows?

I’m not sure, but I feel certain it would exist even if I didn’t know the words gay or DNA. Something queer in me honors something queer in her. It’s inborn, liike gaydar on steroids boiled down to its most primal level. It runs through the generations on double helix rainbows. It vibrates across my chromosomes humming through the lowest, most animal regions of my brain.

I know you.

We are the same. Whatever this thing is, it builds an unbreakable bond. A shared ..something. Brotherhood is too gendered. Personhood too vague. A queersterhood. A ... wait for it ... Listerhood?

You didn’t really think I’d make it through this gay ass therapy session without her did you?

Well I didn’t, because I can’t. I am physically incapable of looking away from this paragon of queer top perfection. And while I get that this is exactly the point where I should be able to tie this post up neatly on some note about our foremothers of the past living on through our legacy, that’s not going to happen.

As much as I would like to have some spiritual or academic conclusion for the things I feel when I see this, I don’t.

Nothing about my reaction is academic, or hypothetical or high minded.

I’ve looked these photos it so many times, trying to figure out what is bigger than attraction and deeper than recognition, and there’s only one word that comes close to capturing the experience for me:

Reckoning.

Reckoning involves looking something in the eye and taking stock of it and you at the same time. It involves taking weight and measures, taking inventory of your totality, and checking receipts on the things both utterly unquantifiable and yet indisputable.

And when I look at those women, I am forced to reckon with a fundamental truth:

They are better tops than me.

Katherine Hepburn is a better top than me. Ann Lister (as played by Suranne Jones) is a better top than me. There’s no way around it.

No matter how much I like to think I have some natural predication for topness, they have more. Clearly.

Sometimes you look at someone and you just know they know things. Things you are desperate to know. They possess a command and understanding you do not possess. They have skills you can only, and probably only ever will, aspire to.

I am not ashamed to admit it. It’s just the natural order of things. Did Joe DiMaggio feel shame at not being Babe Ruth? Or for you non-sportsball people, does Lizzo feel ashamed for not being Aretha Franklin? I hope not. There’s no shame in having your greatness fall just below that of divine master. Not everyone can be the GOAT. I’m okay with that. It’s not a competition. I don’t need to best anyone.

But I do need to make peace with that reckoning in other ways. Like a wolf who just met the new pack leader, or pirate captain whose ship just got overrun, there’s a new world older that must be acknowledged in those moments. There is a hierarchy of tops and topness, and it’s just been indisputably altered.

I am not the top top, not even in my own mind. I can’t ignore it, I am the one who acknowledged it in the first place. I could run from it. At least in theory. I could look away, close my eyes, or banish those understandings to vast reaches of the unfollowed internet, but I am not a coward.

As fluid as I am, and as secure as I am in who I am, I can feel gratitude at the the opportunity to look upon greatness. To indulge my awe. To relish my vast appreciation of the most transcendent of beings.

And then, of course, as is only right, I feel compelled to roll over. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone could feel compelled to do anything other than roll over when they look at that picture. That is the great tremble in my gut: it is all the scripts being flipped.

Does that make me a lesser top? Maybe. Does that make me a bottom? Perhaps sometimes. Does that bother me?

Not at all.

Cause really, what’s the use of recognizing a hierarchy to tops, if you don’t intend to enjoy every possible aspect of your own position on that spectrum?

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airiustide · 4 years

Note

Zutara writing prompt request- Zuko and Katara hook up after a fire nation ceremony... short while after she finds out she’s pregnant?

A/N: Hey, anon! So, instead of doing what you requested, this whooooole thing turned into fluff, (with a few hints *whink whink*) nonetheless, it turned out sweet, with the right amount of flirtiness, and zuko giving lots of kisses.

Summary: Three months after a one night stand and Zuko doesn’t know how to face Katara. Not enough alcohol could give him the courage to confess just how much that night had conjured dormant feelings. But it just might be enough to take in what he learns next.

He couldn’t concentrate clearly with everyone conversing so loudly. Space invaded by acquaintances and strangers alike. The grand ballroom was occupied by guests, a summit held with the world’s highest officials and leaders. Weeks of endless meetings and settled treaties finally moved to an evening filled with loud music and gourmet food. Every face he came across was a blur. His eager gaze sweeps across the extravagant room, draped in the gold and red of his nation’s colors.

Where was she? He repeated to himself, looking around anxiously, palms sweaty. There was a thundering in his ears and Zuko’s heart drummed in his chest. He swallowed the remaining contents of his ninth cup of wine, swiftly dismissing anyone who attempted to grasp his attention whilst he maneuvered the room in search of the one person he had been working so hard to find since this whole thing started.

He could very well be kidding himself. Selfishly thinking that after all this time she might have a semblance of feelings for him as he did for her. Or perhaps sleeping with her before confessing only made him come off pathetic.

He was going to lose his mind thinking about it. Zuko rubbed a hand down his face, starting to feel shame swell in his chest. Why? Did he really fuck things up that bad? He’s always done his best not to let things eat at him, but Katara wasn’t just anything or anyone, for that matter.

If she wasn’t there when he was at his lowest; vulnerable and despondent, maybe things would’ve turned out different. Day after day spent between the throne room and his chambers only to end it with...himself. The loneliness settled in like a dark mass, weighing heavily on his person. And on the anniversary of his mother’s disappearance, it all came tumbling down with a tall glass of fire whiskey and the lips of the waterbender who shared it with him.

She tasted sweet despite the heat of the liquor. His name hit his lips hotly from her mouth, a pleasant mewl that coaxed him closer and closer. Wiping away the heaviness that tore him day in and day out. Whether it was the alcohol or it was a fleeting act of emotions, Zuko couldn’t accept either. Though, he couldn’t speak for Katara. Maybe he was the only one reading deeper into this than necessary.

The thought had him needing to replace his empty cup of wine for another. Reaching out as a waiter crossed him with a gold-plated tray filled with goblets, Zuko didn’t calculate the proper distance between him and the tray, accidentally knocking it over along with the waiter. In his hazy state, the young Fire Lord attempts to stop the waiter from meeting the floor by grabbing his collar and, instead, falls right on top of him.

Wine spilled, and goblets clanged. Zuko’s face goes red hot, utterly horrified at his clumsy, drunken state. With the aid of nearby guests both him and the waiter were helped to their feet. A quick apology and a bow, and Zuko rushes out of the room, clinging to the chest of his soaked royal robes.

“Woah, there!” A familiar voice stops him in his tracks. A gentle hand flattening against his strong chest ignites a well known spark. “And where do you think you’re going in that state, Fire Lord?”

He looks down to find Katara’s teasing smile, the smile reaching her radiant eyes and accenting the glow of her features. The dress she wore was lined with fur and embroidered in tribal designs. Her hair was left in chocolate waves and pinned to the side to fall over her left shoulder. It steals his breath and suddenly all his nerves go haywire. “I-I-”

Katara’s face turns into concern. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

Zuko inhales, gathering his composure and bows formally to Katara’s surprise. “Ambassador Katara. Welcome back. How was your visit home?”

“Umm, I’m not against formalities, but I don’t think now is the time for that. We should get you cleaned up.” She takes his arm, nodding her head at Zuko’s guards who witnessed the scene of their Lord’s incident, taking the indication that they should return to their post and that the Master waterbender had it from here. “Geez, Zuko, you smell like booze.” She pointed, lifting his arm around her shoulder and leading him out of the ballroom.

“Well, I did just take a bath in wine.” He scoffed.

She rolls her eyes. “I mean your breath, silly. You smell like you consumed a winery.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He quipped, a slur left his lips, causing Katara to laugh.

“It is when you do it without me.”

Zuko’s temperature spiked, pulsing in the center of his stomach and leaving a tingling in the pit of his abdomen. Katara cleared her throat, feeling his skin go hot and squeezing his arm to get him to calm down.

“Getting a little too excited, I see.” He was terribly adorable when he was flustered. She blushed as well, repeating the words in her head and recalling the events that led from a single bottle to his bed. His hot touch; his tongue in her mouth, on her skin, her palm, her thighs, her-

She comes to when they approach his chambers, her first thought was to take him to bed but changed her mind when she’s reminded of the dried wine sticking to his clothes, skin and hair. “Bath.” She tells him, getting Zuko to help work their way to the washroom because he started to get heavy.

The stonework to the large room took Katara’s breath away. It was as big as a pool in a hot spring. A set of doors led to a private patio, closed off to the outside world and surrounded by orchids, arranged stones and luscious green leaves. Probably a good place to mediate, Katara thought.

She lays him carefully on a lounge chair, removing the armor from his shoulders and wrists. Zuko doesn’t take his eyes off her; taking in every touch of her hands as she removes his sash, and unwraps his outer robe. Fingers unintentionally brush his collarbone as they work open his tunic, coming down to remove his boots. Katara catches him staring as she goes to release his hair and crown from his topknot.

“Soft.” He hums, a lopsided smirk directed at Katara.

She chuckles, cupping his cheek. “Don’t get flirty, Fire Lord, only one of us is inebriated.” He hisses when her fingers hook into his trousers and jerks them off with a tug.

“Katara!” He shrieked, provoking the waterbender to lose it after he instinctively went to cover his crotch. The jolt of cold air and the realization that he was now naked knocked him slightly sober.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before. Aside from already having had a good look at what’s between your legs, on numerous occasions, mind you.” She grinned. “Being a healer means I’ve seen plenty of the male anatomy, more than I can count. Let’s get you clean, shall we.”

Katara helps him to the bath, holding his hand as he submerged himself in water, still covering himself with his free hand. Coming back up, he wipes his eyes and slicks back hair away from his face. Once he’s seated, she removes her slippers, lifting up her dress and dipping her feet in the water with a sigh. “Now that’s better.”

A quiet falls in the room as steam rises; thick, most likely from Zuko’s embarrassment. He’d never looked so red from the face down.

“You never wrote back.” He murmured, so low that Katara didn’t catch it at first.

He watched her shift uncomfortably, ruffling her hair of water droplets, the steam making her tresses thick and wavy. Zuko half expected her to ignore the subject, or a part of him hoped she would. What if he was coming off too strong? Or worse, desperate.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to…” She started. “A lot has been going through my mind. I needed some time to...process.”

Zuko swallowed thickly, casting his gaze down to the water, watching as it tinted red from the wine that clung to his skin and hair. “I get it.”

“Do you?” She asked, tone serious and brow furrowed.

“I-” He looked up at her, confused. Her expression was that of disappointment. “No, I guess I don’t. Not from your end at least. Yet, I had some hope you would clarify that for me, so I'm not here thinking that the last three months you had come to hate me.”

“What?!”

“It’s unfair to expect me to empathize with you after sleeping together then never hearing from you again. I’m not very good at reading between the lines, Kat. Yeah, sleeping with me was probably the dumbest thing to do. But I have feelings t-”

“I’m pregnant, Zuko.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I- come again?”

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, eyes squinting as though she might start to cry. “I’m pregnant.”

Zuko’s voice caught in his throat, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “It’s-it’s mine?”

She shot him a glare.

“It’s mine.” He repeated. “It’s mine.” In a daze, he crosses the water toward Katara, first reaching out to grasp the hand covering her mouth, lacing it in his own. Blue eyes finally look up to find a smiling Zuko. How can he take the news without an ounce of worry?

“You’re drunk.” She excused for him, dismissing his overly happy expression.

“I’m drunk, that doesn’t mean I’m incomprehensible.”

“You might change your mind in the morning.”

“I won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“How do you?” Zuko countered, brow arched. “Want to know how I know?”

Katara cocks her head, unsure of what he was getting at.

“Because of this.” He leans in to brush a kiss below her ear, eliciting a spark on her skin. “And this.” His smile widens when he kisses her forehead, a gasp leaving Katara’s lips. “And this.”He hums, pressing his lips to her cheeks, chin and then, finally, lips; an airy kiss that left her wanting more.

His mouth makes a path to her right arm, stopping to display an especially sensual one to the palm of her hand. “Zuko.” She moaned, shaking all the way to her knees.

Logic screamed at her that this was her best friend. And though their one night stand opened up the truth to how she felt about Zuko, getting pregnant was not in the cards. The first thing she wanted to do upon her return from home was confess but fate had other plans. Every thought, from the possibility that Zuko might think she was trying to trap him to her resigning from Ambassador to raise the baby in secret, ran through her head. It took more courage than she cared to mention just to show up at the summit. She was an Ambassador, regardless of her situation, she couldn’t not show up.

As she tried to make sense of this, all the while, Zuko had lifted her dress just above her belly, gently pushing down on her shoulder, coaxing her to lie on her back. It was like he was in a trance, hands caressing the flat of her belly. Pregnancy was hardly noticeable at this stage. He didn’t seem to care, pressing butterfly kisses all over until it was too much and Katara started to giggle from the ticklish pecks and breathy whispers he made to the little one in her belly. Expressing how he couldn’t wait to meet them.

“You’re out of your mind.” Katara teased, combing her fingers through his long, silky hair. The panic she experienced moments ago began to dissolve.

Zuko makes a goofy grin, resting his cheek on her stomach. There weren't enough words or actions to express how happy he was. Only an hour ago, he was just a lonely man with little to look forward to. Now he has gained a family. “Only for you. That is, if you’re all in.”

Hurdles were bound to be faced. Katara’s life would change drastically. They didn’t have the first clue on how to make this work, but by the Spirits they would figure this out. This was them after all, Zuko and Katara. That’s all they needed to get a head start. “I’m in.”

#zutara #zutara fanfiction #zuko #katara #zuko x katara #alta #fanficiton #request #anon #drabble #steam baby

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caughtupinmyfeels · 3 years

Text

Every night at 12 o'clock on the dot, it never fails, you call me up. Talking 'bout you had a bad day, so you're pullin' up. So I pour up a cup of just what you need, 'cause I know what you need. | #WhenWillILearn?

You know that kind of sleep where you’re straight up dead to the world? The kind of sleep where you can just turn over and fall even deeper into slumber because your body was so relaxed and needed the chance to recharge? I was in that place and it felt fucking amazing. I stretched with feline-like precision, my bare legs tangling in the bed sheets as I pulled them up over my shoulders. The room had dropped in temperature overnight, a subtle chill in the air making me want to bury myself deeper into the comfortable warmth. I wasn’t even sure what time it was, and frankly I didn’t care. Morning, noon or night, I had nowhere to be in that moment and I was glad. I turned onto my stomach, my lips parting in a soft yawn as my brain stirred, starting to fire up. It was so quiet. So peaceful. It was either really early, or really fucking late. The fact that I couldn’t hear music of any kind or the sound of movement outside my door had me reaching under my pillow for my phone. Holy shit. It was late. Had I really slept the day away? It was a natural reaction to feel the stirrings of what the fuck, but I reminded myself that it didn’t really matter. I lifted my head, glancing towards the window, the darkness comforting. My phone screen brightness was at the lowest setting, the sleep cycle app that was running blocking all notifications so that I wouldn’t be disturbed. Thank goodness for small mercies. My eyes flickered shut again, another yawn escaping as I shifted onto my back, pulling my hair over my shoulder as I dismissed do not disturb, my stomach twisting into a knot when I saw the multiple missed calls and text messages on my screen. Immediately, I swiped left to clear them, but the damage was done. My mind had gone from being gently awoken to firing on all cylinders. Fuck. I sighed, dropping my phone before my hand lifted to rub at my eyes, making a face when I saw the black smeared across it. I’d forgotten to take my make up off again. Getting home so late had me just kicking off my heels, peeling off my jeans and diving into bed. Sometimes, you need that. To not just give a fuck. Lately? I had run right out of them.

Whipping back the covers, I swung my bare legs over the side of the bed, standing to my feet. A shiver ran down my spine as the cold hit, pulling my T-shirt as far down over my ass as I could. I needed coffee and a hot shower. Pulling open my bedroom door, even though I knew nobody was here, I still tiptoed from my room to the bathroom. Slipping my hand behind the shower curtain, I flipped the shower on, turning it up to get the temperature nice and hot. While I let it run, I sought out the nectar of the gods. A soft snicker escaped as I saw the post it note ontop of the Keurig. ‘Just hit the button’ was all it said, @Dillon’s perfect handwriting making me laugh. I did as he suggested and leaned against the counter as the machine started to brew, the scent of French vanilla filling the kitchen. Heaven. I grabbed my creamer from the fridge, watching the coffee flow in a steady stream into my cup. When the machine stopped, I loaded my cup up and took it to the bathroom with me. Steam was billowing out of the shower, the warmth taking away the chill of the apartment. Taking a sip from my cup before I set it down, I groaned as the sweetness of the creamer hit my tongue. So freaking good. Pulling my shirt over my head, I let it drop to the floor before I pushed my panties down and stepped out of them. I wasn’t even daring a glance into the mirror before I got into the shower. I had no doubt I was a hot mess. I let the steam envelop me, the heat of the water hitting my skin with welcome pressure. A sigh of relief escaped as I lifted my hand to run through my hair, the other resting against the cool tile wall. My mind was racing. It always did when #Noah decided he had the balls to come back round again. It was always the same old routine. The phone calls and texts would start. When he realized he was getting ignored, he would hang round outside the bar, hoping to get at me that way. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. It had been nearly six months since I last saw him. Six blissful, quiet months in which nobody had tried to play with my head or my heart. It was complicated. In fact, that was a bit of an understatement. We made complicated look pretty simple. No matter how hard I tried to stop myself from reminiscing, I never could. I had learned to detach myself from the memories, but the echoes of the feelings were still there. I closed my eyes, image after image assaulting my mind. When you love someone, it never really goes away. It burns for the rest of your life or it changes you. There are so many different types of love that you’re never really out of it. You’re just in a different state. Six months ago? My wounds had been reopened. The stitches that I’d sloppily inflicted on my heart never had the hope of healing. Yet, I kept on doing it. I’d swore it was the last time and in my mind, it was. I’d made it clear, hadn’t I? We weren’t good for each other. We never had been. If we were? Our relationship would have worked out the first time around. #Noah didn’t agree. The second, third and fourth times weren’t much better and each of them did a hell of a number on my heart. It was the back and forth, unsteady steps and uncertainty that finally had me calling time on us. Every time I got pulled in, he played to my weaknesses. I love you. I need you. Poof went my sense and down went my panties. We would fall into bed and I would tell myself that it was just a one time thing. We would fuck and fight. Swear to stay away from each other. Then the texts would start. The late night phone calls that would go on for hours. We’d promise that we could be friends. Date other people. It would work for a while. Then, the cycle would start again.

I miss you. Can I come over? I would get stuck thinking about the crappy date I’d been on that week, or remember that night I got too drunk and ended up with a noname who needed a fucking map to find my clit. Every time, #Noah would swoop in and make me feel like it was the first time all over again. He would kiss me and the fire would start again and need would take over. It didn’t matter if we were in the middle of a bar or in the backseat of his car. It was impossible to resist. His hand would be in my panties while he whispered dirty little things into my ear. It was like an addiction that had no cure and I had no will to fight it. Except the last time -was- the last time. I’d fallen for his sweet talk yet again, my cooch and heart doing the thinking. I’d gone into it legs open and got fucked in ways I wasn’t prepared for. The one thing you don’t want to hear from a guy when you’ve spent most of the afternoon with his dick in your mouth and his head between your legs? I’ve met someone. It was like a switch had been flipped in me. There were no niceties. We didn’t part as friends. We didn’t part as anything. It was done. I’d come to the realization that he’d never made an effort to let me go because he loved me, he just didn’t want anyone else to have me. I was just too stupid to see it. Dicknotized. I wasn’t falling for it again. Squeezing a glob of shampoo into my hand, I lathered up my hair, before I reached for my puff and body wash. No matter how many times I scrubbed myself, I could still feel him on me. Inside me. The memories felt like fingertips gripping my hips. Like bruises that never faded. Painful. Everlasting. Yet invisible to the eyes. I thought that they had healed, but clearly, I wasn’t quite there yet. I hated the scent of the body wash. It reminded me of him. Of the one too many times that Dillon had caught us in here, loudly proclaiming that we were fucking animals who should be on display in a zoo. He was one of the main reasons why I’d stayed away from #Noah. Every time I had a moment, he’d remind me of the ten pounds I gained from inhaling nothing but Ben and Jerry’s in the days that followed our last go round. He would remind me that no dick was worth gaining a double chin for. Especially dick that drove a truck and said y’all far too much. He was my saving grace. My best friend. The one who put me to bed after too much wine and knew my coffee order off by heart. He said everything I needed to hear without saying a word. If he was straight? I probably would’ve fallen head over heels for him. All the best ones were gay. Thankful that my mind was turning around, I rinsed my hair and washed my face, determined to leave #Noah locked up tight at the back of my mind, where he belonged.

My coffee was still warm when I got out of the shower, and I chugged it back before I decided to eat something more substantial than the poptart I’d crammed after I got home last night. I turned up the air in the apartment, rubbing a towel through my wet hair after I got dressed. I was nothing but nipples in this ice box. Dumping the towel in my laundry basket, I grabbed my phone and took it with me into the living room. Getting comfortable on the sofa, I saw several more missed calls, blowing out a breath at the way it made me feel. Nervous. Apprehensive. The thing that surprised me the most? The lack of my heart skipping a beat. There was none of that weird energy that usually filled me, making me feel like I couldn’t sit still. Maybe I really was finally getting over Noah. Letting go of all the hurt, resentment and frustration was good for my soul. So was Chinese food. Muting Noah’s number so he would fade into the oblivion of missed notifications, I ordered dinner, firing off a text to Dillon to tell him I’d ordered his favorite orange chicken and was planning to eat it all. The minute my phone pinged with his response, I was laughing. “You’re going to die alone and fat. With a dozen cats that will eat your face.” I set my phone down, grabbing the Apple TV remote from the coffee table. Every girl needed some McDreamy on a Friday night. Dillon had already spoiled it for me, so I knew my days with Derek Shepard were numbered. Meredith Grey was a lucky bitch. I needed all that pick me, choose me, love me crap. Men like him didn’t really exist and it gave women like me unrealistic expectations. It was probably why I kept going back to a guy who could promise me nothing but multiple orgasms. The sigh that left my lips was real. I’d heard every pick up line, every cheesy come-on. Working at a bar had served me well over the years. I’d been a therapist, agony aunt and a consoler of the heartbroken for years. Heard every kind of scandalous story you could imagine, and seen more bathroom stall sex than I cared to. I’d also been hit on so many times that I was immune to it. I could shoot the shit with just about anyone without a single dent in my bumper. Well, except for the Noah sized one, and I was looking for a good mechanic to pop that out. I got swept away in the show, jumping out of my skin when the doorbell rang. Shit. I grabbed some cash from my purse, counting it as I went to the door. Yeah, I had enough and then some for a tip. I went to pull the door open, soft laughter escaping when I realized that Dillon had double locked the door. Flipping the latch back, I pulled the door open, my breath hitching in my throat when I saw #Noah on the other side of the door. “We need to talk.”

Story first published on Twitter. Find me on @GiveMeAThrilI.

#storytelling #emotion #love #words words words

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the-dragon-hearted · 3 years

Text

Hunt

I got bored so here - a drabble from an Avenger's Dream SMP AU I just thought of. Look, I just wanted the Foolish & Dream brotherly bonding, and that one scene in Thor: The Dark World just spoke to me.

~~~

Her eyes were closed. There was some solace in that, though not enough. Foolish clenched the folded hands of his father and swallowed the sob stuck behind his teeth. Her hands were cold now... pale, like her expression that sat so peacefully on her face.

Puffy looked so calm, even in death.

It wasn't fair.

"Foolish," Eret's voice soothed as a hand fell on Foolish's shoulder. "It's time."

Foolish breathed for what felt like the first time that day, wincing as tears slid down his cheeks. His Father lay in a rowboat, flowers of all kinds tucking her into this final bed. Niki had picked them from her garden, the eternal garden of Spring, and Foolish felt Puffy would've liked it.

Niki was somewhere behind them, with the scores of other Asgardians who'd come to see their great King's funeral. Everyone else had said their final goodbye, whispering words into the dead woman's lamb-like ears that would never twitch again.

Foolish clenched her hands tighter and before Eret could lead him away he leaned closer and felt the anger hiding under his grief bubble up.

"I'll find who did this," he whispered to her. "I'll make them pay for this."

He watched her face, knowing there'd be no twitch, no amused laugh, no tired sigh. Her expression sat still in that sea of wool that sat around her like a cloud, an ethereal look for the King of Asgard.

What would she say? How would she comfort him? She'd probably smile painfully, wrap him in a hug, and promise that it would all be alright. He'd bury his face into her wool and she'd whisper, so softly no one would hear it, but she'd whisper into his ears... she'd tell him to take care of himself... and of Dream.

He squeezed her hand and took a long breath.

"And... I'll take care of Dream," Foolish breathed so that no one heard him. "We'll avenge you."

He was an avenger... he was good at that.

Eret helped him shove the boat into the water, pebbles scraping against the bottom of the boat until it took to the water and started flowing out for the edge of the world. Foolish watched it go, standing ankle-deep in the water as that boat drifted out further and further.

Eret was speaking... she was always better at Eulogies and speeches. She could at least talk without breaking into sobs.

In the back of the crowd, Niki raised her bow. The fire at the tip of her arrow glimmered in her eyes with something dark and vengeful. As Eret finished his eulogy the arrow was released in a snap. Foolish watched it fly, like a shooting star that easily found its target at the foot of the boat drifting further and further away.

The hungry fires of Asgard took to the wood and the flowers quickly, an inferno building up before the boat reached the edge.

Eret bowed his head. Niki lowered her bow and let her own tears fall. Sam, ever watchful, stood at the Bifrost, refusing to blink as he watched the finishing of a great King's reign.

Foolish just watched. Watched and cried and simmered.

"I'll avenge you," he whispered to the wind as his father's pyre drifted to the very edge of Asgard and then plunged into the stars.

~~~

The prisons of Asguard were not cruel, though some wished them to be. Sam had always believed that they were too lax on the worst of people... Foolish had never really cared. He strode past cell after cell, deeper into the depths of this hell of boxed horrors and caged maniacs. They called at him, jeered at him, laughed at Asguard's new 'king'. They were all thrilled that Puffy was dead and had no reservations about sharing those opinions.

They were lucky he had other things on his mind.

In the lowest level of the prison, in what was likely the most lavish cell, sat the prisoner he came for.

Well... lavish was the wrong word for it now.

The books had all been torn apart, their pages a new carpet for the cell. The furniture was strewn about, at least the furniture that wasn't ripped apart. The cot was torn apart too, ripped and torn, its feathered stuffing leaking out like white blood. Foolish stoo before the cell and slowly let himself look at the man sitting in the back of the cell.

Cold green eyes met light emerald ones and Foolish thought he saw a bit of agony in those dark forest eyes of Dream... for only a moment though. Those eyes grew firm and grateful.

"Foolish," his name in his brother's tongue was poison and venom all at once. Dream rolled his name around his fanged mouth before a sneer built up on his un-masked face. "It's been a while. Finally decided to pay me a visit?"

Foolish took a breath and looked cooly at Dream, like Father would've. She was never offset by Dream, never hurt by his sharp words or thrown off by the hatred in his eyes. She had always carried a stern hand but loving eyes and Foolish wished he could understand how she did it.

Dream stood up from where he sat and strode to the wall of the cell, leaning forward ever so slightly to glare down at Foolish.

"Why come now?" he hissed. "What - to gloat? Is that it? Or have you come to mock me - "

Foolish blinked once as he stared up at Dream. He clung to that agony he'd first seen in his brother's face and prayed, prayed that Puffy had been right and that Dream had some sort of love in that twisted chest of his.

"Enough," Foolish sighed. He stared at Dream and let his shoulders relax. This was Dream... they'd played together, laughed together, fought together, killed together. For a moment Foolish remembered the expression Dream would carry when he was trying to hide a wound. That tight-browed, clenched jaw look made him snap in anger: "I'm fine!" he'd say until Foolish grabbed his shoulder at watched a full-body flinch seize his brother's body.

Dream had that look now.

"Oh - so you've come to try and make peace for dear old Father - " Dream began to bite.

"Stop lying to yourself," Foolish ordered. It wasn't cold, but it was far from warm either. They looked at each other for a long moment and, surprisingly, it was Dream that broke away first.

He ripped away from the eye contact and kicked the remnants of a chair so that it cracked into the opposite wall and splintered apart further. He screamed in anger and then whirled around to face Foolish again, a crazed look in his eye and a smile that sat too wide of his lips.

"Stop lying... stop lying!" Dream laughed, madness laced in his words. "Alright - Alright, sure, I'll stop! You get to see me as I am, good for you! You get to see what a mess the great Dream is! Lying to myself - yes, yes how do you think I've lived this long, brother?"

There were tears in Dream's eyes as he paced around his cell like an animal.

Foolish kept his mouth shut and watched him. Watched him as he kicked a small table, punched a wall, and slid to the ground, holding his head and hiding his tears. For a moment, he had to look away as the first sob emerged from Dream's lips. He looked to the floor, at his shoes, at the intricate markings carved into the stone floor. He looked anywhere other than Dream who seemed to get some control over himself in the next moment or two.

"Did - Did she suffer?"

Foolish looked back up and found Dream's eyes. They were larger now, pleading...

"Mother - I mean Puffy... did she suffer?"

Foolish swallowed a lump in his throat and felt anger in his chest. Puffy had killed swaths of their crimson invaders before she was finally felled. Suffering hadn't been the question but that did not make it easier.

"No... not entirely," Foolish managed.

"Who did it?" Dream breathed.

Foolish clenched his jaw and forced himself to speak. "I didn't come to grieve. I came to offer something more... satiating."

Dream slowly sat up, his eyes narrowing. "Go on..."

"I know you, Dream," Foolish muttered. "I know you want vengeance... likely as much as I do. I can get it to you... but you're the only one who knows the in's and out's of the galaxy. You're the only one who can get us to the Crimson's layer. You get me to the place of our parent's murderer, and I'll get you out of this cell."

Dream seemed to ponder this for a moment behind cloudy eyes. Then, a smile lit up his face... not a cold one or a crazed one, but a light sort of smile that used to decorate his face on a summer day or an entertaining battle. He smiled and looked to Foolish, something... familiar in his eyes.

"You... you must be desperate to come to me," he murmured, shaking his head. "What makes you think you can trust me?"

"I don't," Foolish bit quickly. It was his turn to pace. "Any trust I had for you disappeared months ago... but know that every time we've fought I've done so with the hope that somewhere in there was my brother... and that somehow I'd get him out."

"So... what? You've gotten used to disappointment?" Dream asked.

"I've gotten used to you," Foolish muttered. "The hope is gone, just as my brother is. If you betray me, I'll kill you."

Dream's eyes glimmered at that... glimmered with mirth. Another real smile touched his scarred face and he looked... happy?

"Good... then you're learning," he smirked. "So... when do we start?"

"Now," Foolish stated as he put his hand on the lock and had it shatter apart. The cell walls fell apart and Dream looked at his surroundings with a wider smile.

He was at Foolish's side in seconds, one side of his smirk higher than the other as a laugh bubbled in his throat.

"Oh... oh... this'll be fun," he snickered.

Foolish pulled the familiar mask out of his cloak and handed it to the hunter. Dream's smirk melted away into... shock? Yes, it was shock on his face as he gingerly reached out and took it.

"Your mother wanted you to have this," Foolish muttered.

"She kept it?"

Foolish nodded in response. He hadn't understood why his Father had kept it... but Puffy refused to let it go. Now... it was back where it belonged.

Dream blinked a few times as he stared at the carved bone mask in his hands. Then, with adept fingers he put in on, tying the strap behind his mess of golden hair.

"Don't trust me, brother," Dream muttered as he finished tying the mask on. "But trust my rage."

Foolish nodded and looked towards the mess of a cell his brother had destroyed.

"It's the only thing I can trust," he breathed.

With that the two of them made their way towards the door, Foolish thinking of all the scolding Puffy would've given him while Dream thought of all the ways he would torture his mother's murderer.

Vengeance would be theirs.

#Dream smp fanfic #dream smp oneshot #Drabble #I guess #C!Dream #C!Puffy #C!Foolish #Dream and Foolish are bros #Avengers AU #Dream is Loki #Foolish is Thor #Puffy is both Frigga and Odin #idk I just thought of this #Word vomit POG #Dream SMP AU #Fanfiction

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kurowrites · 4 years

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Snow - Chapter 13

Entire fic. AO3.

Since it’s chapter 13, I’ve prepared something special for y’all. :D

---

Wei Ying sits there for a while with his head in his hands, trying to collect himself. He has just made a complete ass of himself, and as if that isn’t enough, he’s done it in Lan Zhan’s own home. He’s sent Lan Zhan out of his own bedroom. He’d be surprised if Lan Zhan ever wanted to see him again. Couldn’t he have been nice about it, at least.

But maybe it’s better like that. This is the perfect moment to end whatever relationship they have, learn some lessons, and go back to their lives before it all happened. No, it’s even better than that. Because now, Lan Zhan doesn’t have to worry and feel guilty about Wei Ying anymore, and he’s finally able to get those rabbits he’s been wanting since he was a child. It all works out perfectly.

Wei Ying feels a stab of guilt. He promised Lan Zhan to help him with picking the rabbits.

Oh no, what a thought in retrospective! The person who has been keeping Lan Zhan from getting the rabbits offering him help to pick them out! He wonders just how many times he’s inadvertently hurt Lan Zhan because he didn’t know. About anything.

He really should leave. The sooner, the better. He doesn’t want to face Lan Zhan again, and he certainly doesn’t want to face Lan Huan. He doesn’t want to think about what Lan Huan thinks about him now.

The thought comes too late, however. The door opens, and there stands – Lan Zhan, with a large mug in his hands. He doesn’t look at Wei Ying, not directly, but he enters the room and walks straight to Wei Ying’s bedside. He makes sure Wei Ying is sat up properly, with a pillow at his back so he’s sitting comfortable, and then hands him the mug with hot tea.

“Drink,” he only says.

Wei Ying quietly wonders if Lan Zhan is trying to poison him in retribution for all the hurt he’s caused, but he raises the mug to his lips and drinks, anyway. The tea has the perfect temperature, and the taste of it is smooth and calming, because like everything else, Lan Zhan excels at brewing tea. The warmth of the beverage loosens the knot in his chest slightly. No painful death for Wei Ying, then. Not yet.

After all, Lan Zhan is here, and he isn’t throwing him out on his ear like he really should. It’s reassuring in a way Wei Ying really doesn’t deserve. Lan Zhan should be angry at him, if anything. Not brewing him tea.

“Have you calmed down?” Lan Zhan asks after he’s drunk half of the tea. “Are you ready to listen?”

Wei Ying lifts his eyes from his tea in confusion. Listen to what? Everything that needs to be said has been said, he thinks.

But Lan Zhan still isn’t looking at him.

“Do you have any idea,” he asks, “how I felt?”

“You said it before, no?” Wei Ying replies, still confused. He isn’t sure what’s happening right now. What exactly Lan Zhan is trying to imply. “You were shocked when you saw me at the bus station. And you felt guilty.”

But Lan Wangji shakes his head.

“I said ‘How could I not take care of you, after all that has happened?’” he says. “Have I not taken care of you before? Even when you were being a brat about it, arguing with me that a slightly squashed peach does not constitute theft.”

Wei Ying tries to object to that, but Lan Zhan quells his protest with a single look. He closes his mouth and lets Lan Zhan go on.

“There was never a feeling of guilt needed for me to want to take care of you. I would have done it even if we had parted amicably.”

Wei Ying has finished his tea, and Lan Zhan takes the mug out of his hands and places it on the sideboard. And this time, he looks at Wei Ying directly.

“Do you have any idea, Wei Ying,” he asks again, “how I felt?”

“No,” Wei Ying whispers. He can only be honest, now. He has no idea how Lan Zhan has felt – is feeling – any longer.

He crushes the bedcovers in his hands. This is all so confusing. What is Lan Zhan trying to say? Why does he want Wei Ying to know?

Lan Zhan reaches out and gently peels his fingers off the no doubt expensive silken fabric, one by one.

“The person that I thought I lost so many years ago unexpectedly returned to my side,” Lan Zhan says as he does so. “I will not lie – I was gratified that I was able to take care of you once again. I was happy to finally be able to do what I was unable to do back then. It was selfish of me, perhaps, to feel that way, but I will not lie about it. But even more than that… do you have any idea what I saw? The last time I had seen you, you were living on the streets, malnourished and evidently neglected. And now that I had found you again – you looked good. Healthy, once you had recovered from your fever. Your memory of me seemed to be gone, but… You seemed happy, Wei Ying. Do you understand what that meant to me? I left you at your lowest point, and you returned as a healthy, happy adult. And you looked at me with affection, with playfulness, with desire. I–”

He is holding Wei Ying’s hands in his own now, squeezing them. With surprise, Wei Ying notices that there are actual tears in Lan Zhan’s eyes.

“You were whole, Wei Ying. Your suffering was gone. To me, you shone brighter than any star in the night sky. This was the very person I had hoped to see one day, all those years ago. I wanted to do everything in my power to keep it that way. If you didn’t remember all those terrible things from back then, how could I be the person to remind you of these things? How could I justify causing you pain, again? You have moved so far beyond everything I have hoped for you. You are so much better now. I wanted to protect that, and give you every chance to flourish even more. And I had fallen in love with you once. It needed nothing more than a touch and a smile for it to blossom into something deeper. How could I resist you, when you had finally returned to me? How could I not want you? You, who are everything?”

Wei Ying is speechless. Is Lan Zhan– is Lan Zhan actually telling him that he’s in love with Wei Ying? That he wanted him, desired him all along? Did that just come out of his mouth? He must be gaping at Lan Zhan, and it must all be rather unseemly, but he can’t help it. He’s currently trying to remember how to process words. He cannot be blamed from looking like a fish out of water right now.

“Lan Zhan, I–” he stutters. “Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan–”

He takes a deep breath. Tries to centre himself, and fails.

You were whole, Wei Ying.

Oh, Lan Zhan, Wei Ying thinks to himself. How wrong you are. I was breaking to pieces all the while.

He takes another deep breath, and then looks Lan Zhan in the eyes with determination.

“You should have told me.”

He reaches forward and flicks him into the forehead with his fingers. Lan Zhan jerks back, surprised.

“You stupid, stupid man!” he cries. “How are we supposed to get anything right if we’re not seeing eye to eye? What pain, what selfishness, Lan Zhan? I don’t care about the pain! But I care about knowing that you’re that Wangji! I thought the entire time that you see me as nothing more than a sugar baby!”

This time, it’s Lan Zhan’s turn to stare in shock.

“No,” he says eventually, empathically. “No, Wei Ying, I would never–”

“I know that now,” Wei Ying sighs, and he takes Lan Zhan’s hands again and squeezes them. “I know that now, Lan Zhan.”

Both of them fall silent for a moment, staring at their joined hands. It still feels right, somehow, even now, when everything is brittle and cracking.

“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan,” Wie Ying says, eventually. “I want to take it all back. I’ve said so many awful things and I didn’t even mean them. I didn’t mean them, believe me. It’s me who was selfish, trying to protect myself by hurting you. If I take it back… can I have a hug, please?”

He’s just exhausted right now, and he wants some kind of comfort. And if Lan Zhan really loves him, then he can’t possibly mind hugging Wei Ying… right?

He’s suddenly attacked with a wave of insecurity. What if he got it all wrong? What if Lan Zhan just said that to clear everything up between the two of them, before he finally lets him go? What if–

But then Lan Zhan moves closer to him and leans in, and a moment later, his arms wrap tightly around Wei Ying, holding him fast.

“I am sorry, too, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan replies. “I only wanted to keep you safe and happy. Instead, I caused you pain.”

“You fool,” Wei Ying says, but it’s not said meanly. He smiles into Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “When I’m with you, I’m always safe and happy, aren’t I? You are allowed to tell me about things that distress or concern you. In fact, you should. You are required to! I’ll be fine! I’m not that delicate! I’m a real workhorse! I’ve gone through worse. You should now that!”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees. “Wei Ying is strong. But then, Wei Ying has to do the same.”

Ack, he walked right into that one, didn’t he?

Wei Ying sighs. He can only acquiesce here, can he?

“I promise. And while we’re at it, I reserve the right to challenge your uncle to a fist fight. He kinda deserves it, you know.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lan Zhan assures him. “I will speak to him personally.”

Wei Ying doesn’t debate it, but secretly, he decides he’ll simply have to do it when Lan Zhan isn’t looking. There’s just no way he’s going to let that slip.

They fall silent again, and Wei Ying does his best to melt into Lan Zhan. There are things he should do and say, but he really doesn’t have the energy for it right now.

Lan Zhan likes him. Lan Zhan told him he likes Wei Ying.

“Do you really like me, Lan Zhan?” he asks. He needs the confirmation, just once more.

“Hn.”

“Do you love me?”

“Hn.”

“That’s good, then. ‘Cause I love you, too.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t reply, but the arms around Wei Ying hold him tighter, and there it is – a kiss pressed his temple.

It’s Lan Zhan’s way of telling him he loves him, Wei Ying realizes. He’s been doing it for such a long time. He’s probably wanting to do it for an even longer time.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, eventually, once he’s swallowed back the tears. “Tell me about the rabbits.”

Lan Zhan does.

---

As nice as it would be, they cannot keep hiding away in Lan Zhan’s bedroom for the rest of the day. Lan Huan is still there, no doubt still waiting for them. And the food that Lan Zhan prepared is still there, as well, waiting to be eaten. Indeed, Wei Ying is starting to feel rather peckish.

“The food is no problem,” Lan Zhan assures Wei Ying as they leave the bedroom. “I can reheat most of it.”

They find Lan Huan waiting for them in the dining room. He looks up from the book he’s been reading as they enter, and smiles up at them as if he hasn’t been made to wait for the continuation of his meal for at least two hours.

“You’ve returned! Have you managed to resolve your misunderstanding?”

“Hn,” Lan Zhan says decisively, guiding Wei Ying to his seat. “I will reheat the food.”

Lan Huan waits until Lan Zhan is out of the room before he gives Wei Ying another smile.

“That’s good, then. I’m very relieved. Just remember that next time you hurt my brother, I might not be inclined to sit by and look on.”

Wei Ying sends him a considering glance. Those are harsh words from a man like Lan Huan.

“There won’t be a next time,” he replies with conviction.

Well, if he’s honest, he still can’t quite bring himself to believe that Lan Zhan could truly want him, not as a sugar baby, but as an actual lover. Partner. Whatever. The sheer thought, the presumption is too great for him to really be able to believe it. The doubtful voice in his head is still there, hammering away at his confidence. But if he can’t trust himself, he can trust Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan wouldn’t have said all that if he hadn’t meant it. He wouldn’t have committed everything to Wei Ying if he wasn’t sure about it.

He can trust Lan Zhan.

And Lan Zhan evidently chose him years ago.

Lan Huan seems to be able to read Wei Ying’s determination for what it is, because his smile grows bigger and more genuinely happy.

“Excellent. I wish you all the best.”

Lan Zhan returns with the warm food, and this time, they have a pretty good time decimating the food without any sudden revelations of a traumatic past.

Wei Ying keeps looking over to Lan Zhan, trying to make sure that Lan Zhan is still there and hasn’t suddenly changed his mind about Wei Ying. Isn’t going to chuck him out onto the street, anyway.

But every time Wei Ying looks over, Lan Zhan is already looking back at him, and there’s a small smile on his face that never wanes. Wei Ying could melt.

Lan Zhan must really like him a great, great deal.

I love you, he mouths to Lan Zhan, and laughs a little when Lan Zhan’s ears turn red.

So he does it again and again, delighting in Lan Zhan’s steadily spreading blush, until Lan Huan delicately clears his throat and sends both of them a look.

“Hehehe,” Wei Ying laughs, because he has no shame. “You can’t blame me, Lan Huan. After all, your brother is the best.”

#kuro writes #the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #mdzs #snow fic

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sinner-as-saint · 5 years

Text

Longing

(Post Endgame) Bucky x Reader

Requested by Anon.

“Hi hun so could you please do a bucky reader where you borrow his sweater and then he walks past your room and over sees you masturbating and you are wearing his sweater and he gets so turned on??? Xxx”

Themes: masturbating, smut, dirty talk

A/N: I hope I did well, Anon. ILY!

“Hey Buck! Say, can I borrow a sweater?” you asked, walking into the kitchen.

Bucky looked up from his enormous cup of coffee and simply nodded, flashing you a smile.

“You steal all my clothes. Why?” he asked, not really caring why you did so; he just wanted to talk to you.

He noticed you blushed right after he questioned you. It was no secret that you did, indeed, steal the soldier’s clothes – mainly sweaters and hoodies. He caught you doing the laundry once, and while you were getting the clothes out of the dryer, you picked out his grey, NASA sweater and put it into your basket purposely.

He smiled and decided not to confront you about it. Secretly, he liked seeing you in his clothes.

“They’re much more comfy than mine. You have at least twenty-five of them, can I borrow one, please?” you pleaded, leaning against the door frame in PJ shorts and a tank top.

“Fine. Take whichever you want, doll,” he shook his head smiling, his metal hand picking up the coffee mug once again and brought it to his lips.

You yelled a quick ‘thanks’ as you ran back upstairs. The compound had been rebuilt; but not many lived in it now.

There was no denying that you had feelings for the super soldier. And you were almost 70% sure that he felt the same towards you.

Everyone visited often, but it was mainly just you and Bucky at the compound; which meant that you spent most of your time together. And it only further confirmed that you were slowly, but surely, falling for the super soldier.

You loved sleeping in his clothes. Not just because they were softer than any other material, but because despite being washed – they smelt like him. His cologne lingered in the fabric long after he wore them, and sleeping in it gave you a weird comfort that there was someone else here with you.

Before being an Avenger, you had nobody. Then you found a family, but then Thanos happened and even that was snatched from you.

Now all you had was Bucky. And you couldn’t risk your friendship with him by confessing your feelings for him, so you kept your one sided love hidden.

Rushing into Bucky’s room, you went straight for his closet and pulled out a random sweater. It was a beige one; simple and cozy. You sniffed the soft material in your hands, you were aware how weird the scene would look from another person’s point of view, but you didn’t care.

Bucky’s cologne infiltrated your senses; his signature rosewood scent, mixed with just the slightest hint of nicotine.

Happy with what you found, you made your way back to your room; hoping that Bucky would forget about the sweater because you planned on keeping it.

You stepped into your room and immediately discarded what you were wearing; the shorts and the tank top. Once bare, you slipped on the sweater.

The soft material rubbed against your nipples and a soft whimper escaped your lips, your eyes widening right after the sound left your mouth.

What was that?

You had trouble sleeping that night, you tossed and turned in a desperate attempt to find a comfortable position so that your body could shut down and allow you a good sleep but, nothing helped.

You tried reading but you had already read each and every book you owned at least twice.

You laid in bed, absolutely still; until you finally figured out what the problem was – you were horny.

Instinctively, your hand slipped under the sweater you borrowed from the super soldier and flew straight to your erected nipples.

You pinched and rolled the buds in between your fingers – back arching off the bed in the process, as soft whimpers left your lips.

Your blood rushed to your face as you thought about how much better things would be if it were Bucky’s hands instead of your own.

You thought about how his cold, metal arm would feel against your warm skin, and how skilled his tongue would be against your body.

As your sinful thoughts carried you away in a haze; mind clouded with lust – you didn’t notice that a certain metal-armed super soldier was watching you from outside your bedroom; through the door which was left ajar.

^^^

Bucky couldn’t sleep that night, perhaps because he had too much coffee in the evening. Wanting to tire himself out a little bit, he decided to make his way to the gym downstairs.

Often, he would drop by your door, knock and ask if you wanted to join him as well because he knew that on some days – you had trouble sleeping as well.

He soon reached the hallway which lead to your bedroom, and he noticed that the door was slightly open and the dim light from inside could be seen.

She must be reading, he thought and made his was to your bedroom – glad that he got a partner to work out with.

The soldier had feelings for you, but so as not to make things awkward between the two of you; he decided not to tell you about it. He believed that you only thought of him as a friend, nothing more.

As he approached your room, he thought that his ears are playing tricks on him because he could’ve sworn he heard a soft moan coming through the semi closed door.

His heartbeat increased as he steadily approached the door, soundlessly.

His breathing stopped for a good 2-3 seconds when he saw the enticing sight in front of him.

The lights in your room was dimmed to the lowest and you were lying down on your bed; hair sprawled around your head messily, legs parted, whimpers escaping your lips and your hand rubbing lazy circles over your core.

His lips parted as he took in deeper breaths. He couldn’t believe he caught you in such an intimate act. He knew he should leave just as soundlessly as he came, he knew he should leave. But he couldn’t.

You had him under a spell and his body refused to turn away.

Bucky watched you intently; your head was turned the other way so you couldn’t see him as he inched closer to the door.

He watched how your fingers toyed with your wet folds, and he was so close that he could even hear the obscene sounds – and it made all his blood to rush to his lower abdomen.

He watched how your back arched off the bed and how the delightful sounds left your mouth. Your breathing quickened as your fingers sped up against your core.

His hungry eyes raked all over your body; drinking in your ethereal appearance. He smirked when he noticed that you weren’t wearing anything but his beige sweater.

It was lifted up till you chin so it gave him a clear view of how you toyed with your breasts; it was the first time he noticed how perfect they were.

Sure, he checked you out all the time; but this was different.

Bucky watched how your fingers slipped in and out of your folds and how the palm of your hands rubbed your sensitive bundle of nerves.

He was shamelessly enjoying the show, but his entire body froze when he heard the most pleasing sound ever – you moaned out his name in your haze.

“Oh . . . Bucky,” your breaths came in shreds as you moaned his name again.

The sound of his name leaving your lips, right as you were indulged in a provocative act; aroused the wildness in him.

The starved animal in him surfaced once he heard you moaned his name a couple of times more, and he wanted nothing more than to just replace your fingers with his, and attach his mouth to your nipples and touch you wherever he wanted to – marking you as his.

His preying eyes watched with more alertness, taking in every single movement; the rise and fall of your chest as your release got closer, the muscles in your thighs twitching as you pleasured yourself.

His cock twitched in his sweatpants, and his hands itched from holding back from touching you. Bucky wanted nothing more than to just walk in your room, settle himself between your legs and just rock in and out of you until you could no longer bear another stroke of his member against your pulsating walls.

Something in him flipped like a switch. He no longer wanted to you work out with him, he wanted to thrust his cock into you relentlessly until you begged him to stop.

He closed his eyes, and tried to calm himself down; knowing that he shouldn’t be invading your privacy like this.

But the way you were whimpering his name wasn’t helping at all.

Damn you, doll.

Intuitively, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. You were much too preoccupied with pleasuring yourself that you didn’t even notice the arrival of the super soldier.

Bucky approached your squirming body with caution, until he reached the foot of your bed. He watched you with nothing but lust and an insatiable hunger in his eyes.

His sweater being the only thing which barely covered your naked body added to his need to have you. Your eyes were closed, and your lips parted as ragged breaths came through.

“So, this is why you steal my clothes. So, you can think of me while you touch yourself, huh, doll?” his voice rang in your ears and the sound of it immediately halted your actions.

His voice was deeper than usual.

Embarrassment washed over you as you wanted to just disappear. You immediately reached out for the covers and tried to hide your bare body from his hungry eyes.

He smirked as you buried your face into the blankets.

“Shit!” you screamed into the blanket and it came out muffled.

Bucky chuckled darkly.

“There’s no need to hide, doll. I’ve seen it all now. Come here,” he sat beside your covered body and pulled the blanket down, revealing an embarrassed girl whom he had just caught masturbating while she thought of him.

Messy hair, flushed cheeks, and a certain dampness flowing out of your glistening folds – he thought you were the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen, yet he couldn’t wait to ruin you. He couldn’t wait to be buried deep inside you. He couldn’t wait to stretch you to your maximum as he took you, over and over again.

His hands cupped your face; his metal arm felt soothing against your flushed skin and you sheepishly looked at him smiling down at you.

“I bet I feel better than those pretty fingers, doll, don’t you think? ‘Gonna let me touch you? Let me fuck you to sleep?” he asked sternly, sending chills all over your body and his words didn’t help the non-stop flow of desire which escaped your folds.

You nodded.

“Speak up, doll. I know you weren’t shy when you were moaning my name out loud just now. I wanna hear you, tell me, will you let me have my way with you? You’re gonna let me make you cum over and over again around my cock?” he asked again, his vulgar words making you dizzy with lust and the need to have him.

“Yes,” you whispered and he wasted no time in connecting his lips with yours.

His mouth moved feverishly against yours, claiming your lips as his and he pushed you down on the bed; his hands running along your sides as he slowly took his sweater off of your body.

He got rid of his clothes in no time and focused back on you. His lips trailed all over your skin, kissing and biting your neck, collar bones and breasts.

His mouth latched on to your soft swells and he instantly fell in love with the raw taste of your skin.

“Bucky . . .,” you moaned as you felt his tongue gliding downwards on your skin. He stopped right above your dripping heat and placed a kiss over your wet folds, your slick coating his way too pink lips.

The sight was sinful; he never broke eye contact as his mouth latched on to your core. His tongue circled your clit and trailed down to your entrance, teasing the tight hole.

You cried out as his teeth slightly grazed your clit. Your body squirmed under his touch and he loved each and every second of it.

He believed you tasted divine, and he couldn’t get enough of your taste, but he knew he had to be in you soon because he was having trouble controlling himself.

“Gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he spoke, lips wet due to his previous assault on your heat.

His hair was messy and the hair band could barely contain it as your hands ran through it multiple times, tugging at his roots every now and then.

You moaned out loud as he roughly wrapped your legs around his waist, his rock hard member pressing right onto your core.

You started removing the sweater but he seized your wrists.

“Leave it,” he said sternly.

You panted, sighing at the friction caused by his member as he abruptly moved.

“Why?” you whined as you grew more and more impatient for his touch.

“Like it. Like seeing that you belong to me,” he replied, his gravelly voice signaling how possessive he was and you liked it.

Wasting no time, he aligned his tip to your entrance and slipped into you with ease. He immediately started thrusting in you, allowing you very little time to adjust to his size.

Like he fantasized, he stretched you to your maximum; and the sight of your tight hole wrapped around his thick cock was driving him more and more feral with each passing moment.

He rocked into you, and gradually increased his speed as your moans got louder and more and more improper.

“Fuck . . . Bucky, I’m-,”

“No you’re not! Not yet, doll,” he growled and moaned out loud as well as your walls milked him perfectly.

His head dipped down and his lips found yours, roughly kissing you while he pounded into your tight entrance.

His mouth moved to your ear where he whispered the filthiest words you had ever heard. He voiced out all of his vulgar thoughts and you listened in delight.

Your hands found their way into his hair yet again, you pulled at his roots and he groaned in pleasure, and sped up into you even more.

“Fuck . . . God, baby, you feel so g-good,” he moaned out, his breath coming through in shreds as he panted right in your ear.

You cried out as his thumb found its way to your clit; he rubbed the little bud and you were a moaning mess within seconds, squirming under him like he imagined you would. Except, you were better than his imagination.

He groaned and his thrusts got more and more rough, his tip caressing all your sensitive spots as he brought you closer and closer to your orgasm.

Soon, you came with yet another cry of his name. The waves of euphoria washed over you and tears accumulated in your eyes at how good he felt, his thick cock throbbing inside you.

Bucky came right after; pulling his length completely out of you and slamming into you one last time before he fell limp into your arms.

You were both panting, too worn out to move; so you just relished the feeling of having each other.

You felt Bucky’s cum shoot at your walls; his cock pulsating against your walls – dragging another moan out of you.

“Be mine,” Bucky spoke and your previous embarrassment washed over you again.

He lifted his body up and hovered over yours, his hair falling out of his messy man bun.

You smiled shyly and reached out to tuck his hair behind his ears. He was so close that his body heat warmed you as well. And it was something you could easily get used to.

“I’m all yours,” you pecked his nose, causing him to smile down at you. You started getting up to go and get cleaned up, but he stopped you.

Bucky stopped your actions by pushing you back down on your bed.

“Who said I was done with you, doll? I bet you look ravishing on your knees, don’t you, baby?”

His voice sent chills down your back yet again. And the tone he used had you wet all over again, but you weren’t complaining.

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