#if I ever just dip from tumblr let it be known it’s because I’m being properly socially fulfilled elsewhere

[aenaxes-moved]

momentum

[hunter x afab!reader] hunter thinks it's a good idea for you to learn hand-to-hand. and if it's a way for you to see him sweaty, sleeveless, and in close quarters, who are you to turn down the perfect opportunity?

warnings: unprotected vaginal sex

w/c: 4.7k

a/n: i'm a simple creature—i see the sexual tension of hand-to-hand combat, and i am brought low. also the marauder has a cargo hold for literary purposes, now. anyways enjoy my first nsfw fic on this blog. reposting bc tumblr censored me :/

“Try again,” Hunter orders as he crouches down beside where you lie sprawled, chest heaving and arms limp on the training mat. “Just like I showed you: trap the wrist, lock the arm, twist and throw.”

“Unlike you,” you wheeze, struggling to lift your head off the floor, “I’m not exactly built to throw people around.” You forego your weak attempt to get up, and you swear you feel your teeth rattle as the back of your head hits the mat with a dull thud.

You turn your head, meeting the sergeant's piercing gaze with a weary half-grimace half-grin. There’s a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes—maybe incredulity—that he might be training a half-fledged jedi in the brutally graceful art of floorslamming an opponent over a shoulder while the others had taken Omega on a trip to meet the natives. It’s something you should know well, having spent your youth under the wild and unrelenting martial acrobatics of master Voss, but at the end of the day, you would choose swordplay over brute physicality without hesitation.

Especially if you’re facing off against an opponent who can and has hefted you high above his head and practically launched you across the training mat.

If Hunter’s amused at all by this knowledge, he only makes it known with a huff.

“Empire’s out for your head; you need to learn to fight in more ways than your fancy jedi training. That includes hand-to-hand just in case you lose your lightsaber. Again.”

“That was once, Hunter!” you whine, warmth spreading across your cheeks. But he’s right. Loathe as you are to admit it, no amount of force pushing would have gotten you out of that mess on Onderon, and it was a miracle (otherwise known as Echo) that you’d found your lightsaber at all.

It’s an embarrassing memory and, deeper down, a dangerous one that could have ended in more than stray blaster fire. Petulant as you would like to be, Hunter has a point. So you reach up, flapping your hand about until you feel Hunter’s hand wrap around yours, callused and firm, and yank you up to your feet. You stumble as you regain your footing, but as soon as you’ve collected your bearings, you’re shaking your hands out and bouncing on the tips of your toes.

“Fuck it. Let me try again.”

“Do you want me to go slower on the approach?” Hunter asks, this time, a sure note of playful teasing dancing over his tongue. The corners of his lips curl up, imperceptible to most, but you’ve flown long enough with the crew to pick up on his slight giveaways. You narrow your eyes, fixing him with an accusatory frown.

“‘Imps won’t slow down for you y/n,’” you parrot his words with a sour expression, begrudging theatrics complete with an exaggerated eye roll.

Hunter laughs, but he’s already drawing back into a low crouch, arms raised and muscles coiled, ready to strike. You take the brief moment of clarity between your warm up and readying stance to admire him, his hair tied with his bandana, piercing eyes set in a razor focus as his chest rises and falls, even, steady. The sharp clarity is made complete, authentic, with his garb. Having swapped his standard blacks for a sleeveless top, a sheer veil of sweat glimmers brushed over the toned muscle rippling under his skin. It’s an appealing point of motivation, a reward for the small price of being thrown around for the past hour.

“You’re learning,” Hunter smiles, small and crooked, but a smile that breaks past his stolid stoicism nonetheless. “Attagirl.”

Your heart flutters, and you lunge.

Two rapid steps, and you’re meeting Hunter in the middle as he rushes towards you. Right foot, anchor heel, pivot, and the sharp wind of his arm shooting forward nearly knocks the breath from your lungs as it just barely brushes past your cheek.

He’s fast. But you’re faster, you challenge, and you shoot your left arm up, closing your grip with your right hand and trapping his forearm in your hands just beneath the hem of his glove. And when you find secure purchase, confident enough that he can’t counter, you yank with a sharp, vindictive shout. For the first time today, your grip holds.

You feel him roll over your shoulder, guided by your hand, compelled by gravity, and you’ve won. After all the blocks and parries and attacks-turned-scrambling-defenses, you’ve got Hunter exactly where you want him. Hunter may have size, bulk, experience—well, everything other than the Force—that you don’t, but if he’s taught you anything during your time with the batch it’s that timing is king.

You whoop as you feel his back roll off yours, squeezing your eyes shut as you claim your victory into the empty cargo hold.

You forget, however, the unspoken and very important step of letting go.

As soon as the split-second of simple victory flashes through you, you yelp, pulled off your feet and centre of balance flung off to the far reaches of the room. You’re reduced to an ungraceful flail of limbs and panicked disorientation as you fall, bracing yourself for an imminent collision and a sure promise of a bruise the day after. But instead of the forgiving, plasticky foam of the floor, you land with a soft oof on something else, harder than the mat, damp, bony…?

When you open your eyes, you’re propped up on one elbow, your other shoulder dipped close against Hunter’s chest, and your nose just a breath away from his collar, and, Maker help you, you can see his collarbones, sharp and clean through his blacks, rising and falling rhythmically with his heavy, straining breaths. You lift your head just in time to meet Hunter’s eyes, lightly curtained by one single swath of perfectly mussed stray hair, pupils blown wide with pride, wonder, and—

Shit.

“Uh, yay me?” you offer weakly, hoping you can blame the tremble in your voice on bone-deep exhaustion, not the blooming heat roiling in your gut.

“Yeah,” Hunter says, eyes trained on yours, steady and still.

It doesn’t take force sensitivity to feel the tension buzzing high in what little space separates your faces, the boundaries of playful sportsmanship bowing under the weight of testing curiosity, circling, prodding. The breath that passes your lips quivers, of which you’re only aware when you see Hunter’s eyes flick briefly to your lips. He lingers a moment, and you swallow hard, almost audibly, when you catch a flash of his tongue darting over his lower lip.

It might be an adrenaline high—his dilated pupils, the wild thumping of your heart against your ribs. High velocity combat and being thrown flat onto your back would do that.

You hope it isn’t.

The silence is enough to steal the sound from your tongue, just low breathing as you hover above him. It demands to be broken, something to be the first push back into the rhythm of which you have become so accustomed, the comfortable banter and competition devoid of anything more than meaningless flirting. Because for his ruggedly handsome looks, his commandeering presence, an aura that had men and women sending him drinks from across the bar, you had never let yourself seriously entertain the idea of being able to have him.

It’s hard to entertain attraction, much less romance, when you and the batch are high priority on the Empire’s list to shoot on sight, but the possibility has kept you awake at night, fingers shoved between your thighs while he sleeps two doors down. The fantasy of having, breathing him in like air, makes you feel alive, makes you feel the rare and fleeting feeling of safety. You, exiled jedi. Him, one of millions, the dedicated soldier sworn to a cause.

And yet, here you are.

Hunter lifts one hand from the floor, reaching up to brush the hair from your eyes, and you find yourself having to bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from turning your head and nuzzling into his palm, from pushing close and staying, indulging. And while your mind blurs in the frantic flurry of fighting it, he gives in freely, turning his wrist to run his gloved thumb over your jaw. It’s the softest you’ve ever found standard issue blacks to feel, but more importantly, it’s the closest he’s ever been.

“Yay you,” he whispers.

Hunter leans forward, sliding his hand across the side of your neck, his thumb soft at your ear as he curls his fingers into your hair and closes the distance. One moment there’s a vast breadth of space between you; the next, you feel Hunter’s nose brushing over your cheek, his breath ghosting over your skin for that last moment of separation. Then you’re moving with him, meeting his lips with soft motions pleading for more as you slide one hand up into his hair and press your chests flush.

He doesn’t taste quite like your dreams, all smooth, sweet freshness dancing over your tongue. Instead, there is raw exhaustion and strain bitter and heady on his skin as he licks over your lower lip. But no matter; it is real and present and Hunter all the same.

The training room silence is broken when he nudges a knee between your legs, pressing close between the want pooling low in your belly, as you barely manage to muffle a whimper into his mouth, breathy and high as you break away to gasp. Hunter grants you that moment of rest, and he’s pulling you back down against him again, holding you tight.

“I’ll stop if you want,” he mumbles against your lips. “We stop, and we forget this ever happened. But.” He pauses to nip at your lips. “You give me the word, and we take this as far as you want, y/n. Understood?”

You nod, too busy chasing his tongue to feel his gaze fixed on you. And, as always, your blissful ignorance does not escape Hunter’s watchful eye. You whine as you feel his fingers close around your chin and lift, pulling away just enough that you can see his dark eyes steady on yours.

“I need to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

“Please,” you whimper, reduced to little more than pleading submission, doe-eyed and dreamy as he slowly runs his thumb over your lip. “Want you, Hunter. Need you.”

“Attagirl.”

He makes a noise that sounds like quiet laughter, but all you care about is that he’s nuzzling against your skin and holding you close. Hunter kisses you with a trembling restraint that you practically feel vibrating under his touch, the excitement of being able to have, the roiling fear of intimacy, vulnerable and open under your palms.

It’s something you know well. You feel the same.

“We should really wash up,” he murmurs into your mouth.

“‘Fresher’s big enough for two,” you say a bit cheekily.

“You really want it all, huh?” Hunter chuckles, squeezing the back of your neck as he presses a fleeting kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Never get anything if you don’t ask,” you smile against his lips.

“Can’t disappoint the lady, then, can I?” he grins, dropping his head back down onto the training mat. You sigh, resting your cheek on his collar for a single breath before you feel him shift beneath you, pulling you into his lap as he sits upright. Hunter offers you a final peck, a promise for more in just a short while.

You silently promise you’ll return to the hold come morning and clean up the mats before Echo can chew you out for any sloppiness, but cleanliness is the least of your concerns as you stumble with Hunter towards the threshold, all soft laughter and kisses strayed off their mark. Whatever concerns about anything other than the bliss of the now are even more obscured as the refresher doors slide shut behind you. You laugh as Hunter twists out of his blacks, which almost has you tripping out of your own, but he’s there to catch you, sturdy arms and warm skin to pull you into the stall and under a startling shock of cold water.

Maybe it’s that brief shock of cold before the showerhead runs warm that offers you a moment of clarity, the space and quiet to realize where you stand and take in the man before you. You’re no stranger to proximity, having spent more than one mission squeezed up against Hunter’s side, but closeness doesn’t begin to describe where you stand now, bared to each other beyond simple undress.

A smattering of scars stretches over Hunter’s skin, an organized chaos of milky pockmarks and slashes so often hidden under his armor. You recognize a few, blaster fire and frightened memories of blood and acrid fear, and the rest you save for a later night when you’ve sated the flutter in your chest as your eyes drift lower.

It would be embarrassing, how your mouth waters when you catch sight of his cock, half-hard and framed by a dark thatch of curls. But any need for shame is dismissed by the sheer gravity of want because he’s thick. You had always imagined him to be big—that isn’t much of a surprise—but your stomach churns delightfully at the thought of him stretching you open, making you feel him for days after.

“You’re staring,” Hunter huffs softly.

“Can you blame me?” you breathe.

Hunter laughs, rich and resonant over the patter of the shower spray, and he reaches that short distance forward, gently taking your hand in his and lifting your palm to his lips. You step backwards, letting him crowd you between the wall as you cup his cheek.

His hands, rarely bared to his brothers, let alone you, are strong and weary with scars of war, and he lets them follow the slope of your arm, tracing down your shoulder, your waist, and coming down to your hips, seeing in full clarity under his fingertips.

“Hold on tight.”

“Hunter, wait—ah!”

You yelp as he slips his forearms under your thighs without warning, hefting you up against the cool metal. In your hazy delirium, it occurs to you that you’re both exhausted from sparring and that him holding you up would only wear him down further. You want to tell him you’re perfectly fine on your feet. But whatever protest you may have had planned dies on your lips with a choked sob when you feel his fingers knead into the soft skin of your thighs and tug.

You arch off the wall, breath catching in your throat when you feel Hunter shift his hips forward and anchor you in place as he grinds his cock over your clit. Any hope of forming coherent words, let alone sound, is completely beyond you, now. Heat coils in your gut, all-consuming, white-hot tension pulled tight and ready to snap with each slow motion he makes.

And—the bastard—he’s good at it, too, leaving you squirming under his grip when he shifts away, cruelly aware of the brief moment just as your pleasure crests. Hunter lets you whine, filling the space with firm, insistent kisses over your collar: enough time for your high to ebb, enough time for him to stoke the frustration, the need tight in your core. Then he’s pressing your hips against the wall again and chasing you forwards, hips flush as he nips over your jaw.

All you find yourself able to do is dig your nails into his shoulders and sob.

“Shit, are you crying?” Hunter gasps, nearly dropping you down into a helpless heap under the warm water.

You shake your head wildly, locking your ankles around the small of his back as you keep him in place. It’s enough to startle him back into stillness, and he readjusts his grip on your thighs, the weight of his cock heavy against your throbbing cunt as you gasp for breath.

“I just—I’m fine,” you laugh, bordering delirious as stray drops of water catch on your tongue. “Just fuck me, Hunter. Make it better,” you breathe, chest heaving as you lick your lips. “Please.”

You know the expression that flashes across his face, the need to tease and prod, making gentle light of a dire situation. But this time, Hunter does not entertain it with his signature deadpan drawl, instead meeting you with a soft, imploring kiss.

“So pretty when you beg,” he whispers.

You open your mouth to offer a snappy retort; even in your desperation, there must be some dignity. Instead, your ears fill with the sound of your stuttering gasp over the water pattering against the refresher walls as, finally, finally, you feel the blunt head of his cock dip into your cunt.

Hunter pushes into you with a maddening slowness, one that reduces you to breathless whimpering broken between what gasps you can take. You dig your heels into his back and meet him with a straining moan because Maker, he’s even bigger than you thought, and it’s everything you’ve ever needed.

“Gotta breathe,” Hunter grunts, sinking deeper into you.

You’re not entirely sure whether it’s a reminder for you or for him, but you manage to slip in a gasping breath before he’s nudging up against a spot that has tears blurring your vision in dizzy euphoria. And when you come down from that high spark, legs jerking over his arms, he’s still pushing impossibly deep into you.

You watch him in a dazed trance, fixed on how his brows furrow with each quiet, flinching gasp that passes his parted lips as your cunt flutters around him. And how, through it all, his eyes never leave yours, boring into you with a fierce intensity, devotion, demanding your attention and pleading for your touch. It’s more than pure physicality, sex under the crushing uncertainty of a bounty and the shadow of conquest at your heels. He reaches for you, as open as he’s ever been, and you reach back.

“Hunter, I—”

Your words give way to a long, aching moan as you feel the sharp dip of his hips finally press up against your ass, filling you like you’ve always been meant to take him. (And you have, you swear, to him, to everything you know.)

“Gonna start moving, okay?” Hunter says through a shuddering sigh. He trails one hand up your side, thumbing over your chin while you tremble in his arms. “Cyar’ika, tell me I can.”

“Please,” you whimper.

And he delivers. You whine, feeling the slow drag, the toe-curling burn as Hunter eases almost completely out of you then pushes back in, just as slow as the first. He’s measured in his motions, and if you could see past the tears welling in your eyes, you’re sure you would see the razor focus over his features. There’s a tense edge you can barely make out from your slack-jawed disorientation, a restraint behind each careful thrust. He’s savoring it, you think as you bite down on the inside of your cheek.

But when Hunter jerks forward, punching the breath from your lungs as he drives up hard, pulling an obscene noise from your lips with a stuttering apology, you realize it’s not some way to draw this out as long as humanly possible. And as good as it is now, it’s not enough.

“H-Hunter,” you start. “Hunter, you—you don’t have to hold back—!” Your voice rises to a wavering pitch when you feel his thumb trail down your stomach, nestling close above where you part around him as he starts to rub gentle motions into your clit.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps sharply with you when he presses deep again.

“You—you physically threw me across the cargo hold—like an hour ago,” you laugh through hiccupy sighs.

“That was different,” he chokes out a soft chuckle. “I want this to be good. For you.”

Trembling wildly, you muster the strength to lift your hand to his cheek, stroking over his wet skin as the refresher patters down around you. The aching stretch of Hunter’s cock between your thighs ebbs into something sweet, warming your chest when he turns his head to kiss your palm.

“You are good to me,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over his skin. “I want this. I want you.”

You hear him inhale sharp, holding his breath as he meets you with dark eyes, wide and searching. To his gaze, you offer him a soft smile. And it’s enough.

You barely have enough time to loop your arms around his neck and hold as Hunter shifts his grip, firm and high up on your thighs, and starts a brutal pace that has you near screaming into his neck. Your legs jerk helplessly with every relentless thrust, and you find yourself knotting your fingers into his hair, cradling his head for some—any—purchase you can find.

It’s reminders like this that while Hunter doesn’t have the imposing stature or towering height of his brothers, his sheer presence alone is overwhelming, surrounding you and consuming you whole in ways the others simply could never. The power is intoxicating, crushing in its pressure, the submission and release to pleasure it demands of you, and you sob, a whiny, choked sound you barely hear over the frantic, wet slap of Hunter’s skin against yours. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and it’s so, so achingly good.

“Fuck, I’ve always—” Hunter gasps, craning his neck to nuzzle up against your jaw. “I’ve always wanted to do this. To have you like this.” You turn your head, meeting him in a lopsided kiss, all tongue and shared breath. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“More,” you whine, crying out when he pins you against the wall, just so he might reach between your thighs again and thumb insistently over your clit.

Even with the water showering over your skin, you’re distinctly aware of the tears streaking down your cheeks, only fitting for the overwhelming sensation building in your core, cresting in blinding heat with every drag, every ridge of his cock moving inside you.

He fucks into you with soft noises, low enough that they might be drowned out by the sound of water if you weren’t pressed so close. It’s fitting, that the stolid discipline of a sergeant might follow him off the battlefield and into the bedroom, but as characteristic of him as it may be, you can’t bring yourself to particularly care—not when he’s holding you up like a ragdoll and bending you to his pleasure. You cling tighter to him with a muffled sob.

It’s nothing like your nights alone in your bunk, wishing for a warm body and something more than hopeful fantasy. Where your fingers only offered you a shot of momentary bliss, this feels like you’re falling apart in his hands, utterly powerless in only the best of ways as the coil in your gut draws tight.

“‘m close,” you croak as the heat seeps bone-deep, spreading down your spine, blazing in the tips of your fingers, and finding home in the buzzing haze between your eyes. “Hunter, I’m—I’m so close.”

“Let go,” Hunter croons, bearing the rough pad of his thumb harder against your clit, pressing firm with every thrust forward, soothing as he draws back. Your cunt squeezes down around him with the spike in want pooled in your gut, drawing a low moan from his lips, and he meets you with a thrust hard enough that you squeal. “Doin’ so well, cyar’ika.”

Trembling, you bury your nose in the juncture of his neck, but you’re pressed backward instead, a light, unyielding pressure at your neck before the back of your head is guided against the metal wall. Hunter holds you at the throat, nothing but a hovering presence of his warmth over your skin, but enough that he commands your attention, steady gaze, pupils blown as he thrusts up against you, pushing you higher and higher against that mindless gap of pleasure with every intent to pull you apart.

“Look at me, y/n,” he murmurs, low and hoarse. “Look at me when you come.”

He drives into you once more, hard, and the tension mounting in your gut breaks like a dam, flooding over your tongue in sweet, simple pleasure that pulses and shudders through your core. You feel it like your body, your visceral pleasure, is not your own, floating in a mindless state of bliss no longer anchored to anything but your rapidly beating heart and the shivering tremors buzzing at your fingertips. Lips parted in a silent cry, your lashes flutter as you let yourself be swept up in the peak of your pleasure, swept up in him, his gaze trained firm, fond on yours.

And you’re too fucked out to do more than gasp, breathy, stuttering inhales as Hunter settles his hands around your waist and starts a pace impossibly faster than before. Somehow, through the aching tremor in your legs and your limp form pressed up against the wall, you manage to keep your grip steady and keep your arms wrapped snug around Hunter’s shoulders. He pulls your pleasure, agonizingly long with no end in sight, chasing his high as you whimper and plead unintelligibly into his ear.

“C-Close?” you manage, digging your fingertips deeper into the sinew of his back.

Hunter hums, a feeble attempt to keep what little composure he has left, but you feel his movements lose the steady rhythm he had maintained thus far, forgoing fluidity and grace for the raw and primal need to satiate. Lucid sensation beyond you, you simply let him take his fill, lazily running your tongue over his lips and holding him tight as he continues to fuck into you with erratic, stuttering thrusts.

And not a moment later, Hunter bears your hips down hard on his, gasping like he’s taken his first breath of air as his climax thunders through him. You squirm in his hold with a thready groan, reveling in the warm spurts of come filling your cunt and oozing down the curve of your ass onto the refresher floor. For all your exhaustion, you curl your fingers at the base of his neck, pulling him close into a slow, lazy kiss, more languid touches than an actual kiss, but a promise of intimacy all the same.

Hunter tips forward and shifts one arm to wrap snug around the small of your back, propping you both against the wall with the other as the tension drains from his coiled poise. He sags forward with a final, shuddering sigh, pulling out of you and setting you on your wobbly feet, to which you promptly pitch forward against his shoulder.

He laughs and catches you with breathless ease.

“I have no idea how we didn’t slip,” you gasp through heaving inhales, shuddering as you feel warm rivulets of come dripping down the skin of your inner thigh. As the pleasure subsides, you return to your surroundings in a haze, faintly aware of the running showerhead, the steam, and you drop your head forward, knocking your forehead gently against Hunter’s.

“Neither do I,” he laughs and nuzzles close. “Next time, we’ll pick somewhere with less water.”

“Next time?” you prod, knowing full well that neither you nor Hunter were particularly fond of mindless flings.

“Next time,” Hunter grins, tipping his head forward and brushing his lips over your brow.

“If you two are done in there!” Echo’s voice, exasperation weary and gruff, cuts through the patter of water against the metal paneling with a bang, nearly sending you and Hunter scrambling apart if the refresher stall wasn’t already so narrow. “We need showers!”

“What do you mean ‘you two?’” Omega chirps from outside the door. You have to clap your hand over your mouth to keep from laughing aloud as you watch the rosy pallor drain from Hunter’s face as you hear her muffled protests as someone (likely Wrecker) coaxes her away.

“Not it—you’re giving her the talk,” you quip, biting back a smile as you peck his cheek.

“Maker help me,” he mutters.

[thesunicarusfellfor]

Hello my beloved! ( Can I call you that? And people it's platonic!) I have an idea and this is for pogtopia wilbur and ghostbur! Can you do a reader who loves painting and one morning they find a picture of them with a note about the reader confessing to then but they didn't do it in person because they were really nervous? Thank you!

And please take as much time as you want also could it be a long story? Thank you!

- Your beloved Moosh 🥺

Moosh, darling! Hello! Yes, you have my full permission to call me that, thank you for asking! This is the third time I've written this story because Tumblr just really enjoys screwing me over...

Also. You never clarified whether you wanted fluff or angst, but it's Pogtopia Wilby so I kinda just went with angst? If you want a happy end to this, I'll rewrite this no problem! But it won't be as long because... Well, you'll see. Also also, I didn't exactly know where to throw the Ghosty Bur in, so... Yeaaaah? He's at the end tho!

THE FIRST PART IS LIKE NEW NEW POGTOPIA WILBUR

TW: (Sorry it didn't save the first time) C!Schlatt, bruising, threatened hanging, self doubt

Perfect Picture of Imperfection (Pogtopia!C!Wilbur x GN!Painter!Reader)

Maybe you painted Schlatt's horns the wrong colour? Or his jawline was off? He was furious when you finally showed him your art piece... It was the best you could do with the few hours you were given! Paint physically couldn’t dry as fast as Schlatt wanted it to you… He didn’t seem to care when he threw the wooden frame of the torn canvas at you, giving you a dark bruise right above your eye, or when he started yelling at you and threatening to burn your art studio down to the ground.

Or even when he grabbed you and suggested to Quackity to hang you at the gallows for insulting the emperor of Manberg.

The man you had once been friends with grinned widely and nodded happily, “Yes, sir! Yes, sir!” He said, without a single care that you were a living human being, only giving a cheer as he picked you up so your feet were dangling on the ground, leaving you silent in terror. Tubbo only averted his gaze.

“Aww… You’re like a little fawn, caught in the torchlight of a traveller.” The ram hybrid smiled in a sickly sweet manner, causing the colour to drain from your face, “Come now, darling, I’m not a monster… You’re the only one of Wilbur’s sweet little subjects that he hasn’t gotten back, and here I thought you were his favourite… Or maybe he left you here to act as a sacrifice so they could all be off doing their own thing... Guess he prefers Niki over you…” He whispered as he dropped you, chuckling softly as you scurried out of the building as you quite literally ran for your life.

You called Wilbur when you were safely hidden in your house, gasps and sobs leaving your mouth quicker than tears could pool out of your eyes…

“(Y/n)... You can’t be calling me when-”

“Wil…?” You whispered into the communicator, your voice shaking enough to shut him up immediately, “He… He’s going to…” Hiccuping meekly, you curled in tighter on yourself as you heard Schlatt’s loud and pompous voice come over the speaker system he had hung up all around the once beautiful country, “I think I’m going to die here…”

The dead silence that followed through the line was sickening…

“Is it true…?” You couldn’t help but find yourself wondering aloud, “Is that why I’m the only one left here? Am I a sacrifice so you can live happily elsewhere? ...Is that why you haven’t come to get me?”

“(Y/n), I want you to never utter those words again.” His voice was dark and steely as there was a bit of crashing around that came from the other side as well as faint mumbles which were clearly from Tommy judging by all the swearing, “You are not a sacrifice. Now... Get your Enderchest and Inventory packed up, I’m coming to get you tonight, and then I’ll explain in person…”

The line cut off and you slowly lowered the communicator down from beside your ear. Your heart was sinking one minute, but soaring the next… A terrible feeling really. You were saved! But… He could get caught trying to come to get you… You couldn’t let that happen for sure. With a heavy sigh, you rubbed your eyes free of tears before standing up and beginning to shove any necessary equipment into your Enderchest, including your finished painting of Wilbur that you were going to give to him when he won the election… And finally, confess your feelings…

When midnight hit and the lights of the city finally died down, you climbed up onto your roof and looked around for the president, fear and paranoia flooding through your veins as your mind went wild. What if he got caught? What if he was trying to give you false hope? What if. What if. What if. These sort of questions buzzed around in your mind for an hour as you waited for your saviour to arrive…

Finally, when enough became enough and you decided he wasn’t coming, you stopped pacing and slowly sat down on the roof as the tears began to start again. You could practically hear Schlatt chiding you in the back of your mind, telling you that you were a fool for holding out hope.

“(Y/n)!” A low hiss came from beside you and a hand touched your shoulder. You certainly would’ve screamed bloody murder if another hand hadn’t quickly wrapped around your mouth, “Sh, sh, sh, it’s me… It’s Wilbur.” The voice soothed softly as the hand left your mouth, quickly allowing you to turn your head.

It didn’t feel real… Seeing him after so long… And in an outfit other than his uniform. “Wil...bur?” You repeated, staring at him for a while before giving him a soft smile filled with relief, “You really came…”

“Of course I did!” He almost seemed offended for a moment before his eyes softened as he realized what Schlatt must’ve drilled into your head. Wilbur easily caught you as you flung your self at him, quickly wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your (h/l) (h/c) hair, “I missed my artiste…” He whispered, donning a temporary french accent for the word ‘artist’.

Holding back a sob, you quickly grabbed his extended hand and followed him as he jumped off your roof, safely landing in a bed of hay that you used to feed your old farm animals that Schlatt confiscated before following him out of this damned country.

After that, things seemed to change between you and Wilbur. He always seemed to be at your side, choosing to personally train you rather than letting Techno train you with everyone else, or even running over ideas on how to expand Pogtopia with you rather than with Tommy. His touches always lingered longer or he somehow wound up leaning closer to you than originally necessary, but you never caught yourself complaining. He would watch you paint beautiful designs along the armour he had gifted you, knowing full well it would chip off and was heavily unnecessary, but he only smiled and let you continue doing it as long as it didn’t interfere with enchantments.

Each day with Wilbur became better and better, but your heart physically couldn’t take it any longer, you had to tell him that you felt this way for him… The way that you had to fight back the reddening of your cheeks when his chest pressed against your back as he adjusted your stance in training, or the way you had to struggle to regulate your breathing every time he complimented you on how far you had come…

He was going to be the death of you…

Your already calloused hands were bruised and blistered, but somehow, you were still able to hold a quill, pinched in between the fingers of your dominant hand. Wilbur had come to your Pogtopia home this morning, but upon realizing that he had knocked you to the ground a little too hard yesterday as you were incredibly stiff and sore, he let you have the day off of training.

This was at least a little chance… You had torn a page from your notebook and sat down at your handmade desk with a bitter sigh. Trust me, you wanted to tell him in person, but you were just too scared… Plus, maybe you could play it off as someone pulling a prank on him if it went south.

Biting your lip, your fingers treated the quill as a brush, delicately running the ink dipped tip over the top of the paper, letting your heart control what words you wanted the ink to form.

Wilbur,

You don't realize how much you mean to me. Although we've been friends for only a year, I feel as though I've known you my entire life. My connection to you is already so deep, and my love for you is already so strong that I can't remember what my life was like before we met. Even more, I can't imagine my life without you now. I can't imagine the future without you, either.

You have saved my life several times already. You have even saved me from myself several times, too! I am so thankful for your guidance and care. Whenever I'm having a bad day, I know that I can just give you a call. I know I can depend on you and, with your help, everything will turn out well.

I want you to know how I really feel. It's time for you to know that I'm ready to admit how much I care for you, how much you mean to me. I know, this isn’t the best timing in our lives, but I trust it will get better through your leadership. I love you, Wilbur.

Please, don't ever forget how much I love you.

Love, (Y/n) (L/n)

Sighing, you put the quill into the inkpot and put your head in your bandaged hands. ‘This is going to work. It will work. Go on. Have faith in yourself, as Wil said…’ You took a few deep breaths and stood up, picking up the letter once it was dry and reading it over as many times as you physically could before your mind couldn’t handle it any longer.

Walking to the door, you cracked it open to search for any sign of your president, sighing again as you realized he was likely out helping gather resources. “Is… This enough?” You mumbled sadly as you stared down at the simple letter before looking at your Enderchest in thought. Surely you could give him a few emeralds or some gold… Yeah! That’s what you’d do! Smiling in victory, you quickly wandered over to the chest and opened it, digging through it for a few moments.

It was sort of empty…

You groaned as you remembered that you haven’t really been one of the miners or forgers for Pogtopia. Instead, you were one of the warriors, focused on protecting others instead of gathering supplies.

Going to shut the chest, you suddenly paused as you saw something colourful resting at the bottom. Pushing aside your old L’Manberg uniform, you gasped as you found your old painting of Wilbur from a few months ago. It was old, yes, and a little dusty but you were still proud of it even now! Perfect.

Pulling out the painting, you began to lightly brush the dust off of the picture, smiling at the splashes of paint and colour forming a picture. It was your magnum opus.

It was a painting of Wilbur holding up a massive L’Manberg flag against the sunlight with a wide smile and hope in his eyes… This was the day that L’Manberg won independence from DreamSMP…

Standing up again, you quickly hurried out the door and walked to Wilbur’s room, silently creaking open the door and looking around, even though you were well aware that he was gone for the day. You walked over to his desk and gently setting the painting down on top of the countless sheets of work, making sure not to mix up any of the papers, then putting your letter on top where he could see it before hurrying out before you could change your mind.

Thankfully you got out when you did because, by the time you pulled an already baked potato out of the furnace, Wilbur came down the stone stairs, looking extremely exhausted, “(Y/n), my artiste…” He murmured with a smile, “I’m glad to see you’re still up and going… I was worried we would have to make you a healing pot.”

“It’s not too bad… It’s mostly just my hands that hurt.” You chuckled and held up your shaking bandaged hands, “You want me to cook you up some potatoes and carrots? Or I could maybe try and get some steak cooked up before you go to work?”

Wilbur tried to smile a bit, deciding not to question why your hands were shaking so badly, taking everything out of his inventory and placing them in their designated chests. “No, no… It’s alright. I’m going to go get ready for Tubbo’s report… I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”

You gave him a small wave before Wilbur disappeared into his office. Taking a sharp intake of breath, you quickly followed after him and peeked through the tiny crack in the door where he didn’t close it all the way. He stood in his room silently for a moment before throwing his hat off at a wall, screaming into hands, muffling it heavily to the point where you wouldn’t have heard it if you were still near the furnaces. Wilbur threw off his jacket before plopping himself into his chair with his head in his hands for a few moments, then lifting it to stare at the painting that you had placed.

He was still for a long time, then he slowly picked up the note, his eyes softened slightly before his face broke out into a wide and genuinely happy smile before his mouth twitched and the smile began to fall, tears bubbling into his chocolate coloured eyes. Wilbur held the note up to his chest and slouched back against his chair, sobbing into his hand, whispering ‘I’m so sorry’ repeatedly.

Frowning, you realized that he physically couldn’t return your love because of the stress of caring for Pogtopia and trying to win back L’Manberg. With a sad smile, you stood up and walked to your room, putting your head down as you saw water droplets hit the stone below you, “It wasn’t a no…” You tried to tell yourself, ignoring the tears running from your eyes as you shut the door, sliding down to your knees.

The next few weeks after that were hell, the complete opposite of the Utopia that you were blinded by for the past month. Wilbur asked Techno to pick up your training, and he never even spoke to you about it again… It was the Piglin hybrid that awkwardly told you. During dinner, Wilbur would practically eat as little as possible as he ignored you, trying to make any situation where he would be in the same room as you as short as possible.

“Wil-...” You reached out to the president but watched as he only gave you the saddest gaze before walking past you as if he never saw you. But he would have no problems talking to Niki, or anyone else! It wasn’t fair!

Time ticked by in a haze of fog and you quickly watched the man you had once fallen in love with becoming a complete shadow of his former self… It was sickening… He… Lost it… His mind was becoming twisted… And all you could do was watch in horror…

You knew something was wrong when he crept away from the festival and the celebration… But you just decided that he was going to take a break from the excitement. He was quite old after all…

Then the ground shook with booming roars as TNT blew craters into the earth, sending debris scattering and people screaming, scattering for their lives. Gasps of terror escaped your lips as you realized the cause of it all… You hopped over gunpowder scented broken stone and batted the smoke away as you saw the final picture to paint the last stroke of horror in your heart.

There was a blond man with massive avian wings holding a diamond sword glimmering with enchantments as the brunet clung to his clothing, slowly sinking to his knees. With a sob of despair, you watched the man you once loved so dearly, get stabbed through the chest by his own father.

“WILBUR!” You shrieked, your ears ringing from the blast as you sunk to your knees, sobs racking your frame violently. Wilbur’s head lazily rolled to look in your direction…

And in his last dying breath… He smiled…

-

“That painting…” A light airy whisper echoed through the darkened stone halls of your home, “It’s familiar… Yet so foreign...”

You gave a hum as you hung your netherite armour on your stand before turning to stare at the spectral figure floating in your doorway, “Which painting, Ghostbur? There’s many… You have to elaborate.”

“Right! Because you’re an artiste!” The transparent male chirped happily, not seeming to notice your flinch, “I mean the one hanging above the fireplace, of Alivebur.”

“Right…” You nodded, following behind the eager sweater-wearing ghost down the eerie hallways and into the office, "I'm going to take it down... I think it's doing more harm than good..."

Ghostbur didn't seem to understand your reasoning, but he didn't say much, knowing that Alivebur hurt many people... But he didn't think he hurt you, "It's pretty though... But your art style has changed, in a good way though!" He smiled softly as you opened the large dark oak double doors.

You walked past your grand dark oak desk to stare at your former magnum opus, dangling above the unlit fireplace. "Hey, Bur, if you have a flint and steel, could you light the fire please?" You glanced over and watched him nod as he dug through his pockets. In the meantime, you climbed up onto the mantle and began to struggle to pull the canvas off the wall. With a bit of hassle, you managed to pull it down and toss it onto the ground before climbing down, just in time for your ghost friend to light the fire.

"Don't damage it, (N/n)! It's still really good!" Ghostbur scolded you with a pout once you hopped down and picked the canvas up, "And you used to be proud of it!"

"I'm not, don't fret too m-" You paused mid-sentence as you saw a letter tucked into the bottom corner of the back of the painting. Frowning in confusion, you slowly picked it up and turned it over into your hand, only to discover that it was addressed to you in fancy cursive, sealed with a light red and white wax seal, "What's this?"

He looked over at you and tilted his head, seeming almost as genuinely confused as you were. Ghostbur shrugged as you propped the painting up against the wall before sitting at your desk, using your letter opener for its purpose, "Love letter, perhaps?"

"I doubt it..." You mumbled softly as you carefully unfolded the paper, recognizing that it was probably a few years old, "Let's see... Who wrote this..." You hummed before beginning to read.

My darling artiste... I'm sure by the time you read this, I'm either dead or... Well, most likely dead, if all goes to plan...

I am writing this letter to you to let you know that life without you is not the same. Life without you is very sad and lonely. I have realised that it was you who keep me alive and cheerful.

I thought I would get used to your absence from my life, but every day has been harder when I think of all the good times we spent together.

There are so many things which I want to confess. It's killing me because I don't want you to go another day without knowing how I feel about you.

And I'm not able to tell you I'm in love with you.

What an idiot I am.

And for the past few days, I've been trying to figure out, why there aren't some words to describe it. I want to tell you exactly how I feel but there isn't a single goddamned word in the entire dictionary that can describe my love for you.

But I need that word. I need it because I want you to hear me say “I love You". I want to make the sweetest gestures in front of you which make you feel even more loved.

Trust me... I know... I act like an absolute ass towards you. I'm so scared of your life being in more danger than it was... I really did love you, and still do, but I didn't want it to hurt you more when I blow up L'Manberg...

Darling, I could have simply called you on your communicator and took you out on a surprise date but I couldn't have expressed my feelings. You have become an integral part of me. I want to give you all my love throughout my life.

The painting you made me is beautiful and I will cherish it for as long as I'm alive... It's a perfect picture of imperfection...

I Love You, (Y/n), even if by now you'll never love me back.

- Wilbur Soot

"That... That idiot..." You whispered, holding your head in your hands in an attempt to hide the tears from Ghostbur, "He planned blowing up L'Manberg from the beginning... That's why he refused to acknowledge me after I... He wanted me to hate him..."

Ghostbur held a bit of blue in his hands tightly, avoiding your gaze as you murmured to yourself, "Yeah... Most of my happiest memories involve you... That's why I couldn't understand when you said Aliverbur hated you..." He glanced away again as he saw you look at him.

"(Y/n)... Are you ever going to move out of Pogtopia?"

"Probably not for a long time, Ghostbur."

[1kook]

card swiped (4)

→ jeon jungkook x (f) reader

→ “I’ve known Jungkook was a virgin since he first tried to tell me he wasn’t,” you tell him, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows.” GENRE romance (romcom?), eventual smut, teensy angst WARNING mentions of a hand job, talk of virginity OTHER college crushes, volleyball player!jk, student council president!oc, idiots to lovers, besties to lovers, childhood friends au RATING m (18+) bc brief sex ment WC 1.6k

NOTES (!) sorry for taking so long to update </3 school be kicking my ass. anyway here they are! an idiot couple. lmk what u think!!

[ masterlist ] 

In the past, whenever something had bothered you, the first person you ran to was Jungkook. Low grades, fights with your parents, boy drama— as your best friend and number one confidant, Jungkook was always your first choice. He was always willing to lend you a shoulder to cry on, even if that meant staining his white t-shirts with streaks of your mascara. He was always ready to go beat up a mean boy who had hurt your feelings during lunch, even if he’d miss his favorite special. And he was always down for some good old fashion i hate my parents ranting, even if he adored your parents. He was a great listener, an even better best friend, and had rightfully won you over from a very young age. 

That being said, how were you supposed to talk to Jungkook about something that bothered you when that something was him? 

You could easily tell any of your numerous girl friends, those of which would probably understand your predicament better than Jungkook or any man ever could. But after years of vehemently denying any notion of a romantic relationship between the two of you, you get the feeling your call for help will be met with more unimpressed glares than actual assistance. Besides, as much as you bring up Jungkook, none of them really know Jungkook to truly offer you any worthwhile advice. 

Your next option: Kim Taehyung. Now, Kim Taehyung held a similar background as Jungkook (translation: he also went to the same high school as you). He knows both you and Jungkook—frankly, more than you’d like him to—so he would be able to dissect the issue easily and offer trustworthy advice. The problem with Kim Taehyung, however, is that aside from knowing you at your embarrassingly dorky teenage prime, he doesn’t know how to keep a secret. Anything he knows, Jungkook knows. So if you were to, hypothetically, ask Taehyung for advice on Jungkook, well. Chances are, you’d probably get a rather confused text from Jungkook two minutes later. 

Which leaves you with one option— Park Jimin. There’s a reason Park Jimin isn’t your first option, and that reason presents itself now as you glare at him from across the empty room. For as long as you’ve been in university, Jimin has always lingered around the student council meetings, giving everyone he sees the prettiest, meanest stink-eye. You suspect it’s because he waits around for Min Yoongi, your Vice President (which isn’t an issue; Jungkook also frequents student council meetings while waiting for you), and doesn’t really care for anyone else. Your problem with Jimin doesn’t lie there but rather with the fact he’s adamant on taking up space and not lending so much as a finger to help. 

Today he is sitting with his feet on the table, dirty volleyball bag tossed on the floor. He’s watched you for the last fifteen minutes wrestle with the broken copy machine and hasn’t said a word since. He pretends he doesn’t see you struggling, because if he does, he’d be obligated to help you. 

To summarize, Park Jimin may be the fastest libero your university’s volleyball team has seen in years, but he’s a good-for-nothing bum everywhere else. 

And despite all that, he’s your best choice. There’s no one quite as blunt and honest as Park Jimin. There’s no one in this world who truly doesn’t care enough about anyone’s problems to gossip about them as Park Jimin. You plop down beside him, rumpled papers in hand. Without warning, you jump straight into it. “Jungkook is going to take my virginity,” you announce, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. If any of your fellow student council members heard you, you’re certain you’d shrivel up and die. 

Jimin hums. “That’s nice.” His eyes don’t leave his phone, thumb hovering over his screen. It’s a testament to how much he truly does not care. His extended silence plants a seed of doubt in you— was this the right person to tell? you begin to worry. But after a beat, Jimin’s thumb taps against his screen and he says, “Jungkook is a virgin.” 

You clench your jaw. “I know.” 

The thing about Jimin is, with the right wording, you can get him interested in something. Not interested enough to genuinely care, but interested enough to at least listen and offer his own piece of straightforward advice. His thumb comes to a standstill over his phone, eyes momentarily going blank. It’s a minute gesture, one that’s taken you four years of paying attention to catch. Just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. “Really,” Jimin sighs, back to, you now realize, playing CandyCrush on his phone. “You’re gonna let a virgin take your virginity.”

Not a question, but you nod anyway. “Yup.” 

There’s sweat building on the back of your neck, nerves at an all time high, but you’re trying to play it off. Just a little bit more and you know you’ll have caught him. Beside you, Jimin’s jaw twitches. 

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of trying to act calm, Jimin clicks his phone off and turns to you. He’s as intimidating as ever, ash blonde hair pushed back today to reveal his forehead and dark eyes. “You’ve known Jungkook was a virgin this whole time?” he asks, has this calculating look in his eyes that makes you feel like you’re being questioned by an officer of the law and not the shortest person on the volleyball team. 

With a practiced air of nonchalance, you shrug. “I have,” you confess, and it’s the truth. 

While you may have been initially fooled that night two years ago, you weren’t that oblivious. Oh, you knew clear as day that Jeon Jungkook was still a virgin, just as well as you knew that he religiously washed his sheets every weekend or that he had a specific color coded system for his underwear drawer. Jungkook was a fool to try and lie to you, not only because you had found out, but because you had found out that very next morning. 

It had been subtle. The night at the party, you had watched on with a throbbing heartache as some pretty girl led Jungkook up a set of stairs, had barely fought off a wave of emotion when he returned twenty minutes later, his hair a rumpled mess. “Did you… ?��� you had mumbled, pressed closely against him by the back door. Your eyes had been glassy, from your emotions and from the drunken stupor you had gotten yourself into while he was away, wondering what he was doing. A sense of jealousy you would never admit to had curled around your heart. His hand had landed on your hip then. He smelled like flowers and vanilla, a smell unlike his own. Your heart clenched, hand mindlessly reaching up to cup his jaw, so drunk and heartbroken, you couldn’t stop yourself from trailing your fingers along his pretty cheekbones. 

Jungkook had graced you with a simple nod, and then, “do you wanna leave now?” 

You’d left, stumbling down Greek road on your way back to his dorm. Jungkook had held your hand the whole way, tucked you into his twin bed, and then promptly knocked out on the floor between his and Taehyung’s beds. The latter was nowhere to be found, wouldn’t appear until the next morning when he’d accidentally step on Jungkook’s ankle and wake both of you up. 

Jungkook had yelped, and your eyes had fluttered open. You remember debating rolling over, checking on him like you wanted to, but Taehyung was already there doing just that. So you had laid still instead, listened as the two boys clattered around the room. They chatted mindlessly, about the party and tomorrow’s practice. Taehyung had been bragging about some girl he’d slept with last night. “What about you?” he had asked, and your breath caught in your throat. “Did you and…”—a pause, the distinct ruffle of fabric—“finally?” 

“What— no,” Jungkook had said, and you felt the bed dip as he sat down on the edge beside you.

Taehyung pushed on with a snort. “Well, did you get lucky at all?”

Jungkook groaned, placed one warm hand on your back soothingly. You tried your best to level out your breathing, relaxed your facial expression as you clung to the sound of his voice. “Just a handjob. Some girl I didn’t even know. Does that count?” You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, felt it beneath your fingertips when you fisted the sheets. 

And that curt admission sat in the back of your mind everyday for two years. 

You turn to Jimin. “I’ve known Jungkook was a virgin since he first tried to tell me he wasn’t,” you tell him, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows.”

Jimin lets out a low whistle. “You’re smarter than I thought,” he grins, this conniving little smile that is a genuine cause for concern. “So you’re letting him think you don’t know?” You nod. Jimin’s smile grows. “My, my. If I had known you were this evil, maybe we would’ve hung out more.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not evil,” you insist, flicking him on the nose. Jimin huffs indignantly. “I think what he’s doing is sweet…” you confess, feel your entire body heat up as you recall that wide-eyed look Jungkook had given you just yesterday afternoon, your kiss print fresh on his cheek. “And, well,” you look down at your shoes. “I used to dream about him being my first.” 

Jimin groans. “You two make me sick.”

Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[angry-geese]

hello, how are you? so i don't remember very well how it went, but yesterday i found your tumblr and i was amazed and you write so well 🥺💗

but then i'm a bucciarati simp (i will never get over your end) and i would like to know if you can write a scenario where the reader is just an ordinary citizen who admires bucciarati (because he helped her a while ago) and wants to join the passione and he's just against it because he doesn't want to expose her to danger, he just wants to know her real reason, so he uses his ability to find out if she's lying, which is very helpful as there's a sexual tension there and well, everything ends up in sex.

ok that was very specific lmao maybe if you want to change or are not willing to write, that's fine with me.

anyway thanks, you are amazing 💗💗

aww thank you <3

don't ever worry about being too specific, I always love seeing what other people come up with :)

Tomorrow - Bruno Bucciarati x Reader

warnings: nsfw/minors do not interact. mutual pining, fluff. minor mention of violence. unprotected sex, quickie, fingering, hickeys, hair pulling, body worship (??? if you squint???). afab reader.

word count: 1.7k

It's hard to believe it's almost been a year.

Your shop had been open for barely a month. When you first moved to your neighborhood, it was made known to you it was a dangerous place. But rent was low, and the building was just too perfect to pass up on. Not many places had room for a bakery, and a space to live upstairs.

You were in over your head. But you were too stubborn to admit it.

It had caught his eye the moment he saw it. Maybe it was its cozy nature; a small shop tucked away, full of plants, a cat dozing off in the window. Or it could have been your inviting smile, the way you lit up as the door opened.

Every day he got the same order. By the end of the first week, you made sure to have it ready for him.

From the very beginning you faced issues. A business like yours attracted a lot of attention; good and bad. The local gangs knew you were bringing in money. They wanted a cut, and you weren't willing to give it to them.

You should have given it to them.

You were warned. They told you they'd come back. You were warned but didn't listen.

They trashed your shop. You swept broken glass from your floors for weeks before it finally came out. They were persistent; more than you ever thought. When you stood up to them, they threatened to kill you. They probably would have, had Bruno not stepped in. While you were willing to lay down your life for your business, he wasn't going to let you.

You're not quite sure what Bruno did, but you never saw those men again.

You never charged him for food again. If it meant he would keep coming back to your shop, you would do a lot of things. You said you owed him. At first, he was willing to accept. Weeks went on as you still refused his money. It got to the point where he felt bad. He hid money around your apartment hoping that you'd take the hint. But you never did.

You could never pay him back. Bruno claims you already have—with all the free food—but truly it's a debt that can't be repaid. Putting it lightly, you owe him your life.

The mess was cleaned up, but you'd never feel safe in your home again.

Over the past few months, Bruno had become one of your closest—if not your closest—friend. His little free time was spent at your shop. The two of you could talk for hours about nothing in particular. Business would come and go, but he was always there. If you called, he'd come running. You really didn't have to call. At the first sign of problems he was by your side.

Bruno's influence only works so much. He could only pay off those thugs for so long.

He was worried when you missed his call this morning.

His stomach sinks as he sees the broken glass.

You're not crying. You really don't look too upset. To you, this is the final nail in your coffin. You only notice him as he stops. You motion for him to sit next to you on the steps.

The people in this town are like vultures. They can sense any bit of fortune. Any money you have can't be kept for long. Stashing it away is never a good idea.

"What happened?" He asks.

"I didn't get my protection fees paid in time."

He takes a seat next to you. For the first time in his life, he feels speechless. As far as he knew, he'd taken care of this. Those thugs would have hell to pay.

"I want to join." You say.

"What?"

"I'm taking Polpo's test." You say. "I want to join Passione."

"Why?"

It's finally occurred to you how close your faces are.

You ball up your apron and toss it aside. You don't have a better answer for him. As much as you wish you did; you don't. You want to tell him anything but the truth. Really, he feels betrayed. Has he not done enough? Has this all gone to waste? He's tried all he can to keep you away from the gangs.

It seems it wasn't enough.

His grip on your arm tightens. You don’t dare look him in the eyes. As if you couldn't be more obvious. You nearly jump out of your skin as he licks a long stripe up your cheek. Instantly your face goes red. Your cheeks burn at the heat that sends right to your core. You're stammering out a few nonsensical sentence fragments.

"That's the taste of a liar, y/n."

You whip around to face him. "I want to be able to defend myself!"

The look in his eyes isn't what you expect. It's more a look of betrayal than anything. To be honest, you didn't expect him to have any reaction at all. He's rather adamant about keeping you away from Passione.

"I can protect you." His voice has gone oddly soft. "I'll take care of you."

Bruno's grip on your arms loosens.

He leans in for a kiss. It's soft, but his warmth lingers on your lips long after he's pulled away. He smells like fancy cologne, and almost like a restaurant, strangely enough. It's a weird, comforting mix of cooked food and expensive men's cologne.

He's wanted to do this since he first met you.

His hands move to cup your cheeks. They're so warm. It's hard to resist his touch. He looks at you with such longing that it makes your chest swell with affection. The heat in your face returns, but it's in less of a lewd manner. He admires every dip and curve of your clothed body; how your waist is cinched in whenever you wear your apron, how your strong hands work pastry dough into shape.

He leans in for another kiss. It's deeper this time, and leaves a longing ache in your chest. The rough muscle of his tongue presses past your lips. He tastes faintly of alcohol.

You're too impatient to get to your room. He'll settle on bending you over your apartment's kitchen counter. He wants to take his time with you, but for now, he's content with this. Maybe there'll be a second time.

His long fingers work to undo the buttons of your pants. You don't take a lot of prep work. You're already soaked. Two of his fingers press into you. They’re long, but fairly thin, and slide right into you. His fingers stroke against your g-spot as his thumb works circles around your clit. It doesn’t take him long to figure out just what makes you weak. Bruno has you a shaking, moaning mess in no time.

You lean against the counter, propping yourself up on your elbows. He wastes no time in freeing himself from his pants. His cock is built like the rest of him; long and dark. It’s girthy, but not intimidatingly big. The hairs towards the base are neatly trimmed, and the same color as the hair on his head. A vein runs up the bottom, only getting more prominent as he gets harder. He shoves your pants down to your knees.

Bruno groans as he sheathes himself in you. The feeling of your warm, wet cunt is intoxicating. Maybe he’s a bit more pent up than he thought. His hand buries in your hair. He leans forward to nip at your earlobe. Bruno coos words of praise into your ear, telling you how good you take him, how good you feel around him.

He rolls his hips against yours in desperate, quick motions. Bruno can't decide what to do with his hands. They're gripping your breasts, then your hips, then settling in your hair. He’ll have you like this again, he’s certain of it.

Heat pools in your stomach. His touch leaves you with an aching need for more.

"Fuck- I've wanted this for so long," he says, "you’re so beautiful.”

His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He sucks a dark mark into your shoulder—one where you won’t be able to see it. It sends a whole new heat to your core. While his cock isn't the biggest, it curves in just a way that makes your toes curl.

He makes it known just what he thinks about you; babbling about how good you feel around him, about how long he’s wanted to do this.

The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room. If you had any neighbors, you'd certainly be getting noise complaints. Your moans are like music to his ears. You don't worry about being quiet. Let others hear you, what do you care?

"Harder Bruno!" You cry out.

He can't resist something as beautiful as you.

His free hand moves to your clit, tracing circles around the bundle of nerves. He works you up in a way you never knew possible. Your skin feels feverish, and sensitive to the touch. The heat in your stomach only gets more unbearable. You want to beg him to cum inside. You need him to cum inside. Your mind is too hazy to think of much else but him and the way he fucks into you. He leaves none of your sweet spots unstroked.

Something in you snaps. There’s not one specific thing that sends you over the edge; it's everything. You clench around him as you cum, crying out. The way you suck him back in is almost enough to send him over the edge.

His thrusts get sloppier as he nears his own orgasm. He scrambles against the counter for purchase, gripping the edge of it so tight his knuckles turn white. He doesn't want to risk cumming inside. He pulls out, giving himself a few pumps before cumming into his hand.

Bruno presses a kiss to the exposed flesh of your shoulder. Your skin is sticky with sweat. A tired, but pleased look spreads across your face. His hair tickles your neck. The sight of your shaky, sleepy form is almost enough to make him hard again.

You lean back into him, giggling. “We made a mess…”

“Want to make another?”

"Are you suggesting a round two?” It’s a joke, but you carry some seriousness behind it.

"Anything for you,"

[huenjin]

love and paint.

pairing — bang chan x reader | painter!au

word count — 6.000 words

ratings — 18+

genre — smut, includes groping, grinding, fingering, blowjob, deepthroating, cunnilingus, love making, paint sex (?), a lot of inclusion of paint because that's the concept. they use the love and paint kits.

note — this is an old smut from a fic of mine that i will never post on tumblr again because it is that close to my heart. but here's one of the smut scenes from that, chan version! happy reading! only posting this because i got the cutest ever request for a chan smut and the way anon wrote it made me laugh and made my whole day that i wanted to give her a fic right there and then!

Your art room is your safe haven. It has seen you breakdown and stumble and fall and weep and spending this moment with Chan here thrills you. Chan sits on the chair you've pulled out for him.

"Baby, can we not do this?"

You frown. Chan pulls you into his lap and you push the hair that falls before your eyes. You try your best to make your voice not sound disappointed, "Do you not like this? I get that it can get pretty lethargic with you just sitting while I paint your back but I really wanted to make art with the one I loved."

"No, no," he's quick to cover up. "I didn't mean it like that. I wanted you to be involved. I want us to be involved and I want to make art. I want to show how much I love you and I want it as a proof through art."

Your eyebrows quirk upwards and your hands are flat on Chan's chest as you push back, "What are you insinuating?"

His face turns to the side, gaze on the corners and eyes trailing towards the Love And Paint kits you have. He looks back at you with a slight pout and having pursed his lips, he brings you closer to him, tugs at the skin underneath your ear before letting go and whispering huskily, "Can we? Please? I want to make art with you."

"When you look at me like that, I can't exactly say no," you laugh. He catches your lips, pulling you in for a kiss.

"If we're going to do this, we're going to do this well," you let go of his hold, and get off of his lap. "And by well —" You walk to the corner of the room grabbing the kit and dangling it in your hold. "— I mean, I'm going to give you the best sex of your life and you're going to give me a masterpiece."

You throw the kit at Chan who catches it effortlessly. Chan spreads the wide plastic foil over the ground neatly before placing the white wide canvas over it. He sits back on the chair as you guide him to do so and he listens. You remove the white t-shirt slowly as you prance back towards your boyfriend.

"You look like you're going to give me a lap dance and I'm not even going to object," his voice is airy and you laugh, stopping mid track in your seductive strutting. He sits with his legs apart properly and you jump onto his lap, your legs dangling on the sides, toes touching the ground.

"Too bad your girlfriend can't dance for shit," you peck his nose. The way his lips lifted upward. The way his one dimple crinkles. The way his teeth are perfectly aligned. The warm glow his happiness gives. His smile is a ray of sunshine, and you are a sunburn. Ready to howl in the effect he brings upon but ready to succumb because he is worth more than everything you have achieved.

You lower yourself on him, his half hard being rubbing against your crotch and you move against it. Chan's head tilts back at the sudden, unexpected friction. You tug at his lower lip with yours before letting go and telling, "But I can grind on you like a goddess."

His thumb is on your hip bone, drawing out perfect circles over and over again. Chan moans — unfiltered, raw words that spew out along with those epiphanic whispers — and he begs for you as he bucks into you, every time you move your clothed core over his growing bulge.

Your hand moves under his shirt, tracing the lines and grooves of his abs before tugging the black shirt away. Chan complies and helps you out. His hands grasp on your hip bones and bring you further down onto him. You gasp at the fiction and your head drops forward, resting on Chan's shoulder. Your core tightens unknowingly, circling his growing bulge and feeling yourself grow wetter by every passing second.

Your voice is trembling. You can feel the sensation in your centre, spreading and vibrating through your whole body. You hold onto Chan's shoulder tighter than you already were. Your brain is slowly releasing oxytocin and endorphins and you feel blissful.

However, that's not your plan. You get down from Chan's lap and take a stride backwards. Chan whines, holding onto your arm reluctantly.

"Can you sit on the canvas?"

The left corner of his lips perk up. It's exhilarating and he considers this to be one of the best things he has done with a lover. He nods. He stands up and you halt him.

"Pants off, pretty boy."

"All this authoritarian talks and I swear to God, I wouldn't mind you dominating this arse one day." Chan comments and it's a joke in this moment that he wishes would happen.

"Not today," you laugh, clutching your stomach and throwing a wink at your boyfriend. "Not today."

Chan removes his cargo pants and on your command, his boxers too. He sits with his legs folded on the white canvas and watches you, take three white ceramic bowls closer to the white cotton canvas. He crawls towards your squatted form and observes how you pour the organic paints — aquamarine teal, carmine red and coral pink.

"Those are pretty colors," he adds in and you turn to look at him. You dip your index finger into the bowl of red paint, swirling your finger in a circle before lifting it up and drawing a heart in the centre of his chest.

"Those are the colors I think that define our relationship or what we, individually, are in this relationship."

You lift the teal slightly and pour it gently over his shoulders. The paint drips as a mess over his chest and in a straight line on his arms before they fall onto the white canvas in drops. Your hand grips on that arm as you crawl on top of Chan and sit on his lap.

"Teal for reliability, peace and tranquility. You've a hidden artist within you and you bring the best out of me."

Your hips gyrate over his cock that is hard and the girth is thick just as you have known. Chan tugs at his lower lips as his hand grabs at the canvas. The teal paint underneath spreads messily over the white cotton canvas.

Your hand reaches for the red paint and you drip it over his chest heavily. The paint also falls on the white canvas, splashing and you giggle. You crawl back and kneel as you watch the paint dripping down on Chan. You remove your shorts and your underwear, throwing them to some corner of your art room.

"You bleed red. Red is assertive, daring, determined, impulsive, and exciting," Your palm is pressed against his chest, on the paint and you spread it over the surface. "Red represents physical energy, lust, passion, and desire. It symbolizes action, confidence, and courage. Everything you are and everything you trigger in me. You make me want to sin. You make me want to be bad, just for you."

"Y/N," the whine sounds painful and you notice how Chan's cock twitches and begs to be touched. "Just touch me already, please."

"But I am touching you already," you snigger and Chan shuts his eyes, wrinkles forming by the forehead indicating how hard he has pressed it shut.

When Chan opens his eyes minutes after, he sees your face hovering over his, your hands dipped in the pink paint. You cup his face, drag your thumb over the corner of his lips and kiss them.

You mumble against the corner of his lips, "And I'm pink. It's innocence meets lust. You drive me to insanity, fill my thoughts and all I can do is crave for you. You give me hope that I'm worth it and I can be it for you. You make me feel like a goddess."

"Ah, fuck it," Chan swears under his breath and he pulls you close to him. Your clothed core pressing onto his thick cock. His mouth comes crashing on yours, his body against yours as the paint gets on your lingerie and your skin.

Chan's hands dip into the bowl of pink paint that is the closest to him and they slide down your body, feeling every curve and every mark before his hands land on your breasts, squeezing them. He unhooks your bra and throws them away before spreading the pink paint over your breasts. You moan into his mouth of which Chan captures — every single one of them — and makes it his.

He pulls away and looks at you. Your lips, plump and parted, tongue resting on your lower lip, eyelids half open and covered in pink paint — he knows this is his favorite look of yours. He asks your permission to remove your shorts and underwear and upon approval, he helps you out of it.

You look down at the valley of your breasts and your stomach and you notice the paints mixing — the teal, red and pink forming an art on your bodies and slowly on the canvas.

Chan gets reckless and spills the paint — first, teal and then, red and then, pink — in discontinuous lines all over the two of you and you watch him in awe.

You also watch Chan's cock for a while, it twitching with every unadulterated thought of his. Your mouth is parched and your tongue pokes out through the seams of your lips, running across the expanse of your lower lip and wetting it.

You reach forward to take him in your hand — the link of his head looks so inviting that you couldn't stop yourself. Chan's hands roam up your arms, his thumb carressing the underside of your breasts before they’re resting on each of your shoulders. He grips at the tense muscles of your shoulders, the mixture of teal and red, spreading over your back.

“You’re tense,” He vocalizes, a glance of worry that fills his eyes.

“You’re fucking large, fuck,” You shoot back, eyes wide and mouth salivating at the heaviness in your grasp.

It’s pretty, with the paint threatening to spill over but it doesn't, just coating his happy trail and looking so deliriously inviting as you swipe a thumb over the head and Chan hisses above you. When you look up at him, his dark eyes are speared to your movements, teeth gritted. He needs to know of your movements, of your plans, your ideas. And yet, at this moment, with you hovering over him, he can't seem to be more than thrilled over how excited he is like a little pubescent boy. You begin moving your hands up and down his length.

“You can take it in your mouth, can’t you?” He gets cocky, throwing an air of pride around and you raise your right eyebrow as you look up at him. The tone in his voice insinuates a challenge and your ears nearly perk in interest, the competitive, overachieving spirit in you coming alive.

You lean forward in response, Chan's broad hands leaving the expanse of your shoulders to slide up the sides of your head, getting the paint to stick to your hair. Your whine turns to laughter. His fingers comb your hair back, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail. Ah, so Chan likes having the reins still, you ponder. The movement flexes the muscles on his inked biceps and as you look up from your point, you can't help but find him incredibly attractive.

It's like a child waiting for his favorite toy. Chan watches you and is all too eager, his hand on your hair a bit tighter than it was a second back. The flat of your wet tongue sticks out to lick around the rim of his hot head. He fights back a groan, choking and sputtering, grip on your hair tightening. You stretch your mouth as wide as you can, hollowing it, experimentally which leads profanities spilling from his pretty mouth, even though it's a discomfort to your movement as you engulf the whole of his head with your tongue. Deep down you did wonder if this was actually possible. Chan inhales a sharp breath, fingers threaded into your hair, massaging the scalp when you relax around him as he eases you down to take more of him.

You wrap your lips around the velvet tip, beginning a slow suction. Your tongue licks around the base, pulling up a fat stripe over the throbbing, prominent vein.

“Fuck, fuck,” Chan mumbles, shifting on the canvas, paint spreading and smearing as he watches you. “Open wider, please, baby.”

You do as he has asked of you. Your jaw is already sore and the joints ache from the girth of his head alone. He pushes his hips off the canvas in the slightest without your awareness; his grip on your hair is strong as he thrusts more of himself into your mouth, your lips wet around his length.

The teeth do not graze over the skin of his cock and you try your best for it to be pleasurable for him as your fingers tighten around his length before you start to twist your wrists — with a click of your gliding joint — and continue sucking. Chan is careful to be gentle with you, very tenderly urging his cock to fill more of your mouth. You feel the care and passion as he pats your hair with his paint-smeared hands, cooing sweet nothing out loud. It shocks you when you feel the blunt of his head hit the cap of your airway, eliciting a gag.

Chan's eyes widens, the reaction from you exciting him as you feel him twitching in your mouth. He pulls out barely before he’s pushing back in, teeth gritted and eyes focused. Chan watches you taking him so well and he knows it's a sight to behold — your pretty lips wrapping around his length, taking him so well as if your mouth was made for him, crafted to perfection. It's just as pretty as it was when he stuffed you to the fullest on top of his precious car.

Another gag rumbles out of you as you fight the reflex. The vibrations against his member is felt and he grips on your hair tightly, pulling you into him, your nose rubbing against his pruned pubic hair. Your finger trails the underside of his shaft before rolling his balls between your fingers. The time round, it is Chan that moans your name so loud that you're sure your neighbors have heard the two of you. His hips stutter in shallow thrusts into your mouth and you feel the sting of tears threatening to blur your vision as you oppose your gag reflex.

The sounds of your gagging bounces off the walls of your bedroom, followed by the deep moans and sighs spilling through Chan's lips as he fucks your mouth. Each thrust of his hips causes the head of his cock to push past your airway, your throat constricting and eliciting a groan from him.

You release your hold around his length, fingers thickly coated in your own saliva and barely dried paint as you find purchase of the flesh of his thighs. Your mouth is stretched as wide as you can physically make it and tears roll down your cheek continuously, while you willingly take him completely in your mouth. You look up through the flutters of your eyelashes, enthralled to see the Adam’s apple in Chan's throat bob up and down while his head is thrown back in pleasure and his hand is guiding you over his shaft, your mouth moving and maintaining a constant rhythm.

Chan pulls your head back; his cock comes out from your mouth with a light ‘pop’ followed by you gasping for air. The tear stains are prominent in the shallow lighting of the room and you look around at the canvas around you that is slowly being filled with marks in teal, red and pink.

Using his hold on your hair, he jerks your hair back so you’re forced to look up at him. "This is a fucking sight to behold. Would frame it if I had the opportunity," he groans. Chan hungrily latches his lips onto yours — after chasing yours in a hurry — sloppy, messy and wet but neither of you seem to mind it.

"Why did you pull back?" Your words barely fall and Chan sniggers at your worn out expression. "You didn't —"

"Need to be inside you," he mutters and it almost sounds like a growl. It's animalistic and Chan pushes you back, your body touching the white canvas and the paint drizzled everywhere around. You feel it on your body and you're excited.

Chan's lips find home in the crevices of your neck as he lays delicate kisses over the surface of your paint covered skin. Your hands are gripping on the canvas, paint smearing over you and the white sheet underneath the two of you.

"You're so addictive," his mouth trails down and hovers over your breast before he takes the nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, tapping at the apex for stimulation. You think you'll go crazy every time he does this — every time he makes you feel special. He trails down, dragging his lips against your skin, coating the base with pink paint. His nose nudges at your pubic mound and you gasp, hand covering your mouth.

"Spread your legs, baby," he commands and you did as you are told. It's an instinct to please Chan, to see him smile — to see him smile for you. Grinning, he grabs you by the calves, his blunt nails digging into the vast skin, and pulls you closer to him. You turn your head to see how lovely the paint slides down with you; the teal mixing with the red and pink in a way you didn't know would complement all three of them so well. Chan kneels and bends just in front of your sex, and without another word, dives right into it, tongue darting out to lick a long, thick stripe from your center to your clit, causing you to shiver. Your left hand finds its way back to his hair after grabbing at his shoulder intermittently. Chan simpers to himself, overwhelmed by how well your body reacts to him and just him.

You felt the thickness of his tongue lapping up your seeping wetness, which in turn causes a rush of arousal to leak and drip down your ass and all over the paint filled canvas — your masterpiece along with Chan. Your fingers instinctively tighten around his hair and you pull him closer to your cunt. He groans, hands gripping your thighs tightly — the paint smearing all over your skin and around you — locking your legs in place.

Burying himself further, his tongue dips deep inside you, nose nuzzling and rubbing against your clit with every thrust. His eyes are piercing and fixated on the rise and fall of your chest and the beautiful splashes of paint around the two of you as he eats you out with fervor.

"I doubt I'll ever get bored of eating you out. It's fucking divine," Chan mumbles against your slit and the vibrations have your core clutching onto nothing. You mewl, unable to stop yourself from wriggling within his hold, the grip on his hair tightening.

Your walls grasps around his tongue, pulling him further into you as he laps up every single drop of your arousal, passionate as if it were an aphrodisiac. One of his hands travels upwards to latch itself on your breast, hands momentarily falling onto the white canvas to grab some paint before mixing it as he messily touches you, squeezing gently as if anchoring himself to you, soft and reassuring.

“Chan,” you moaned softly, your voice trembling over the sensations that ride into you, toes curling. He responds to your calling, withdrawing from you slowly, planting soft and gentle kisses to your inner thighs, over the almost dried paint.

“Yes, baby?”

“Fingers, please. I need your fingers.”

He chuckles at your desperation. His hand on your breast moves lightly across the skin of your stomach, tingles rushing down your spine and his short nails leaving goosebumps in their path. You squeeze your eyes shut and Chan seizes the opportunity to slide two fingers into you easily with his other hand, taking you by surprise. Arching your back off the canvas, your lips release out a long, drawn out moan as his fingers curl knuckle-deep inside you. Your mind is fuzzy and you cannot think straight but the euphoric rush you are floating in stimulates your heart to beat quicker and you are living the best in this moment.

“Shit," your hand moves around trying to find something to grip on really hard. "Oh, fuck, that’s good, so fucking good." It finally rests on his scapula, your grip tight on it. "Chan, baby, please give me more — ah, more,” you beg, toes curling at the slow, sensual pace Chan had decided on, his fingers are being slowly dragged out, rubbing against the walls and discovering every spot of yours. He kisses your inner thigh, lightly nipping at the supple skin.

"You’re so needy,” he teases with a tiny chortle, raising his eyebrow at your form. You respond with a huff and a jerk of your leg, before pulling them apart wider. Laughing, he kisses the same spot again, turning it into a dark purple bruise that compliments the teal and red paint around. "It's flattering, don't worry."

You laugh, feeling a third finger of his sliding in carefully. You take a deep breath, “I know. It's a talent.”

With a smile, Chan bends down to attach his lips to your clit, fingers still curling inside you as his tongue brings you to heaven and back just as he has always promised. Slowly, intimately, he eats you out with leisure, not even thinking about the passage of time, or even bothering with his surroundings. You move your body to match your need for him and to satiate it. There's a growing feeling of content that you know this is the best of both worlds — you have Chan and you get to paint.

Soon enough, the promise of an orgasm begins to manifest and build within you as a strong tightness within your lower regions, creeping into your abdomen, ever growing with every passing second. Chan's steady rhythm is strong enough to carry it over the edge and as your climax looms closely, your hips rock and gyrate slightly against his face, his fingers plunging deeply as it rubs and presses against that one spot that has you seeing stars in a blanket of darkness.

“I’m close,” you gasp for air, panting heavily. Without hesitation, he increases the speed of his thrusts, long fingers stretching you wide, occasionally spreading apart and stretching your core, preparing you for his cock. You bite your lower lip and burst the skin, the copper taste of blood filling your mouth but you are oblivious as the pleasure courses through you and your walls clench around him.

“Are you going to cum for me, baby? All for me?” Chan murmurs against your core, tongue flicking your clit rapidly. You nod and respond with a whine, gripping his hair in your reach tighter than you already were with your hand. He loves how you react when you're close. Your body moves on its own will, chasing after something in reach. He loves how you tug at his hair harshly and try to keep your sanity. Chan's eyes close in order to allow himself to focus on your taste as he brings you to your orgasm.

And then, you come undone; pleasure spreading through your entire body as your clit throbs under his touch. You squirm under his strong grip on your coxal bones and your legs squeeze around his head while he laps up your release. The pace of his fingers slows down as he helps you to ride out your high. You are screaming profanities and Chan's name. Droplets of sweat coat your skin and it helps the paint shine, the teal turning a beautiful aquamarine in the small light.

"Going to make love to you," he mumbles as he hovers over you, catching your lips in for a kiss, his tongue licking a stripe over your lower lip before slipping into your mouth. It's soft and delicate, as if he were holding a piece of glass. You worry if it's a temporary madness for a second, but that's when it hits you.

You and Chan were two ordinary people. Two people that could fade away in the passage of time but you'll be happy when you do so, because you've been loved and you have loved with the entirety of heart and soul and for now, this is enough. He is enough. Bang Chan is more than enough.

"I'm going to love you so much and this canvas will be the result. I'm going to love you so much that you cannot pull away from me," Chan's voice is husky and your heart fills with sentiments before you groan at the feeling of his cock brushing against your slit and hitting your clit.

"Fuck, I love you so much," he whispers into your ear and plunges into you. You scream Chan's name out loud, holding onto him as your body jolts. However, he moves out slowly, dragging his cock out at an excruciating pace that has you hold onto him for the life of yours.

It's soft and passionate, like emotions spread out on a paper, like the first snow that falls or the cherry blossoms that rain pink. He cups your face and locks his gaze with yours as he thrusts into you again slowly, grunting under his breath. He kisses you, like a snowflake touching your lips at first. He draws the kiss out, trying to memorize everything of yours in his head.

"Chan, yes," you moan when he hits that spot that has you seeing wonders. Your hand wraps around his neck as if you were slow dancing with him. Chan kisses you, angling your face and swallowing every single one of your moans.

His hand trails down your body, squeezing your breast and playing with your nipple in between his thumb and forefinger. It's slow, like he teases your bud, rolling it in between his thumb and forefinger as he draws every single moan out from you. The emotions intoxicate you more than Chan's actions — his confession and his slow pace to show you how much he loves you — have you begging for him to devour you.

Slow in the way he moulds himself against you, his lips moving against yours just as he is as a whole against you, the groans that echo in his chest falling into your mouth. When you break away, Chan chases it, pink petal lips not wanting to lose the taste of your tongue on his, just wanting to delve in it forever and more.

“Fuck,” Chan pants, pressing a kiss against the corner of your lips and into the heat of your skin, hips slowly picking up momentum that is still paced out well as he drills you into the canvas, the paints on your body printing against the canvas and spreading the ones on it. You can’t help but claw at his back, hold him tight and close to you, keeping you warm as you take the relentless thrusts helplessly, his name slipping from your tongue seamlessly.

“Chan, fuck!”

The curve of his cock hits a spot that has your vision blurring, the knot in your gut pulls tautly. You can feel it building up again, now a lot bigger than before. He presses another kiss to your cheek, mumbling something underneath his breath that you don’t hear over the sound of your lewd meeting. You gaze down and watch in awe of how well you devour his being completely. You brush the thought of another confession aside, nerves sparking under the piston of his hips. It’s soft and drawn out, yet it hits hard, and precisely and has you breaking down slowly with every thrust, just like you prefer it to be.

You know Chan is holding back and that the two of you needed this. You want all of him. All of it. Every single thing he has to offer. You pull him into you for a hard kiss that you plant on his mouth, dragging your fingertips down his back. The nails on his back dig deep, but from the groan he lets out, you know Chan likes that. You've known it for a while. His hips falter, a rough groan tumbling from his mouth as he pushes into you deeply. Your head falls back and hits the canvas.

It’s desperate, the way your bodies mould together like you’re attempting to limit the concept of space between physical bodies completely, searching for a way to be one and the same. You want all of it. All of him. And you want him to stay for as long as you can have it.

The dream that you had seen weeks back pops up and you slightly frown at the possibility of losing him, of going back to where you could have originally come from. You didn't want to. You didn't want to ever leave Chan. He is your safe haven, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He is your biggest treasure and you could never let go.

You kiss him instead, forcing your attention on how well he moves into you, angling in such a way that has him hitting your spot over and over and over again.

Unbeknown to you, Chan is on the same wavelength, the same frequency. He wants to say you're gorgeous like this, taking his cock like you're meant for him. Him alone. He wants to call you his. He wants you to call him yours. He wants to tell you that he loves you over and over again, even if you didn't tell it back to him. He wants to kiss you awake in the morning. He wants to fall asleep with you in his arms. He wants all of it too. He wants all of it for a long time. He wants you by his side for years to come, to be with him and to be there for him.

He burns the way you fall apart around his length into his memory, etching every sigh and moan you let out into his mind. You look beautiful. You always do.

"It's scary how much I love you, baby," he mumbles, as he buries his head into your shoulder, hoping you don’t see how much his body trembles as his high descends onto him, the short deep thrusts he gives in to your heated core almost too much for his system to handle. You break him apart, but he doesn't mind as long as you are there by his side to put him back together. He spills into you as you clutch around him desperately and he continues to thrust into you.

It ascends on you a minute later, the build up bursting and the white that spreads underneath your eyelids. Chan kisses you passionately, tongues moving against each other. Your core tightens around his cock desperately as he helps you ride out your high.

You are still holding onto his shoulders when he pulls out of you and Chan falls on top. You huff and laugh, as he rolls over to your side, watching your eyes shine bright. He watches your swollen lips and the small purple bruises occasionally scattered over your body. But beyond everything, he watches you covered in paint. Chan hasn't ever considered himself as an artist or one that could paint but as he looks at you, eyes filled with adoration, he thinks you're his greatest muse and this moment with you covered in paint is his greatest artwork.

"I think we did a good job," you chuckle and Chan holds you, pulling you into his side and arm sneaking around your waist. He stares at you for a whole minute that has you giggling and asking him, "What?" Chan doesn't respond. He kisses you on your lips, and then, your nose and your closed eyelids.

"Chan," you giggle under his hold as he puts more big, sloppy kisses over your face. You struggle against his grip and you're laughing. This is why couples do this, you realise. This is why they paint together. The memory attached to that painting, that artwork, is worth much, much more.

"I want to see our work," you sit up. Chan whines and tries to pull you back but you do not budge. He pouts and you laugh, "Don't you want to see what it turned out as?"

"I do, but I want to cuddle with you more than that." Your heart does a whole backflip in your thoracic cavity and you stare at your lover. Chan gets up and steps onto the plastic foil beneath the canvas. You follow him and the two of you stare down at the white canvas.

"I've got an idea," you laugh. "This could either end well or end terribly." Chan watches you walk to get some white paint and a brush. Dipping the brush into the paint, you snap your wrist and the wet paint falls like a string in waves on the canvas. It highlights the teal, red and pink and you think it looks pretty cool. A modern artwork ready for hanging.

Chan wraps his hands from behind you and you poke his cheek with the brush hairs, staining his cheek with white paint. He doesn't bother, still snuggling into your warmth.

"Chan, baby, let's clean up before the paint dries really badly," you suggest, kissing his ear. He doesn't budge and you purse your lips. "Fine. Let's go wash up and maybe, we could go for a round two there."

Chan's arms drop. He spins you around to face him and his eyes are darker, but still soft. He grunts, "You do me so dirty."

"I already did you dirty," you laugh, high-fiving yourself for the joke that sounded a lot better in your head. "And let's wait till the paint dries on the artwork so that we can hang it up."

"Fine," Chan pulls you by the arm and drags you out through the art room and into the closest washroom. He kisses you as he backs you against the tiles on the walls in the washroom and turns on the shower head, water streaming down the two of you.

"You promised a second, sweetheart. You're going to totally regret that."

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 8

Helmetless + Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary:  “You have become the only one in the universe who can claim to uniquely know him.”

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,002

Warnings: fluffy fluff, some plot, swearing, reunions, soft!Din, Kuiil thinks Cupid is a fool, Kuiil’s backstory from canon, surprisingly little angst (it shocked me too)

Author Note: I want to apologize to those on the tag list not getting notified. I have no idea why Tumblr isn’t cooperating and I feel horrible about it. I love each and every one of you who spares time to read this segment/series and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season.

Links to Part 1 and Part 7 and Part 9

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

The next morning you find Kuiil outside welding together two pieces of metal at his workbench. IG-11 tends to the small herd of blurrg the Ugnaught keeps in a large pen, feeding the two-legged creatures their breakfast. Although you were initially wary, the former assassin droid has been nothing but kind to you, if not a little obsessive about checking the bandage on your head every few hours.

“IG was explicitly warned by Death what would happen if your health declined in his absence,” Kuiil had informed you the previous evening when your attempt to stop the droid’s incessant fretting failed.

“He’s such a worrywart,” you muttered as IG-11 scanned your temperature, heart skipping a beat as it always does when you think about Din’s protective nature. There’s something unbelievably attractive about him making threats when it came to your wellbeing.

“A worrywart who left his gunship in my yard.” Kuiil aimed a sharp look towards the entrance of his home, as if he could see the Razor Crest from this distance.

You snorted a laugh at him calling Arvala-7’s desert landscape a yard of all designations, only for the rest of his sentence to register a beat later, making your eyebrows rise to your hairline. “Wait, what? He seriously left the Crest here? Why would he do that?”

“The quicker his trip to Nevarro, the quicker he returns to your side,” was the response, accompanied with a shrewd look implying you were a fool for asking such a question.

Your Ugnaught host reminds you of a grandfather figure; a bit prickly and blunt at times, but ultimately kindhearted and selfless at his core, wanting only what’s best for those in his care. Between his insistence you keep resting in his bed and IG-11’s nurse programming, you no longer wonder why Din chose to leave you with them, thoroughly convinced you’re receiving better around-the-clock care than most people experience in medcenters.

Kuiil turns when you approach him, pushing his goggles back to the top of his cap as he clicks off the welding torch, eyes giving you a cursory once-over. You feel better than you had yesterday, both headache and dizziness gone, and he must sense that since his head dips in a firm nod, satisfied with what he sees.

“Good morning,” you greet, smiling.

“Morning,” he replies. His expression turns repentant, eyebrows lowering. “My apologies for waking you, but I could not let these repairs remain unfinished.”

“It’s okay.” You tilt your head up towards the sky, enjoying the warmth of the early sunshine after spending the entire previous day cooped inside his home. “I’m supposed to report back to headquarters later today, so I needed to be up anyways.”

Hearing the words out loud grounds the upcoming meeting in reality. It’s really happening. Hours from now, you're going to have to tell your bosses everything, now including your new title as Din’s soulmate. Maker, you can just imagine Hess staring you down with those beady, rat-like eyes of his, asking question after question about you and Din.

And if Hess was serious before on the comlink—and you highly doubt the bastard’s ever told a joke in his life—then there is also the very real prospect of Moff Gideon being there to take part in your interrogation.

“Are you alright?” Kuiil asks, noticing how pale you’ve become. Without waiting for an answer, he ushers you over to a nearby stool. You sit, mouth opening to reassure him you’re fine, only to be startled by the knowing glint in his eyes. “I recognize your anxious face from my years as an indentured servant. You fear punishment from your superiors.”

Your eyes widen, stomach suddenly feeling hollow. “You were a servant?”

“From my birth until my hundredth year, yes.” The nauseous feeling intensifies. You knew Ugnaughts typically lived up to two-hundred years, meaning Kuiil had lived half of his lifetime in servitude. “Earning my freedom did not occur without harsh discipline.”

You draw in a shaky breath at that. It feels wrong, being worried about meeting with your bosses when there are others, such as Kuiil, who have endured far worse horrors.

“Those with power think it comes from weapons and control over others through means of fear and violence,” he continues, returning the welding torch to its proper placement in his toolbox. “True power comes from the strength of one’s hope. It allows you to believe in a better future for yourself and so long as you cling to it, no enemy can break your spirit.”

His rumbling baritone washes over you, calming the worst of your worries. You press your thumb against your soulmate marking, a nervous habit that has developed since you first saw it yesterday. You’ve become addicted to the warmth the mark emanates as it reassures you you’re not hallucinating its appearance.

“I just keep thinking about what their reactions are going to be when I tell them about me and him being together,” you confess, feeling shy as you duck your chin to avoid eye contact.

“Are you embarrassed of Death being your soulmate?”

Your head snaps back up, shocked by his bluntness. ���What? No. Din means everything to me.”

The words seem too loud against the quiet atmosphere of the planet. They reverberate off seemingly every surface—the desert rocks, the Razor Crest’s steel paneling and the metal roof on Kuiil’s home—echoing for miles in every direction. Despite knowing that isn’t truly possible, you are unable to stop yourself from wincing.

“You gave Death a name?” Kuiil’s bafflement is visible in the way his head tilts, looking at you in a way that is reminiscent of Omera’s puzzled expression back on Sorgan.

"I didn’t.” You shake your head, for some reason feeling the need to clarify, “He named himself. It’s just something for me to call him when we’re around mortals.”

“I have known Death many decades now,” he begins, sounding no less confused despite your explanation. “He’s quite...particular about the mortal traditions he chooses to adopt, such as appearing as a human male and piloting a gunship.”

“Yeah, I know how picky he can be,” you say slowly, not understanding what his point is.

“Not once has he ever felt compelled to use a mortal name because, in his opinion, names establish ties."

“What does that mean?”

“Without a name, he is but another stranger amongst trillions of beings, unrecognized and unmissed,” Kuiil explains, and you find yourself leaning forward, elbows on your knees. “By giving you a name to call him by, he has tied himself to you in a way he has not permitted anyone else. You have become the only one in the universe who can claim you uniquely know him.”

“Huh.” You let out a long exhale, suddenly aware of your heartbeat pounding deafeningly in your eardrums as it begins to sink in just how monumental the gift of Din’s name truly is. “Well how bout that.”

And the shrewd look from last night makes a reappearance, conveying once again how foolish he thinks you are.

“I have spoken.”

~~

People tend to forget a Cupid’s bow is first and foremost a weapon of defense. Comprised of wood from a Brylark tree, sinew from orbaks, and a thin layer of a mudhorn’s horn, it can be compared to Din’s armor in that it is virtually indestructible. A Cupid carries two types of arrows: one made from kyber crystal meant to lighten one’s emotions or, on rare occasions, induce lust, and the other one made from a kyber crystal coated in ichor, meant to inflict harm against enemies. Once a target is hit, the effects are instantaneous and the arrow vanishes in a burst of sparkling light, regenerating in your quiver seconds later.

You underwent rigorous training to learn how to become a master of archery. Your bow is bound to your Cupid abilities, capable of being summoned to your aid and dismissed with a mere thought. You were taught how to control your breathing, learning that the expanding and contracting of your chest cavity during a shot can ruin your aim. Missing a target is one of the worst mistakes a Cupid can commit, meaning you must make every single shot count.

All that to say, Cupids are fierce archers as much as they are dedicated matchmakers.

They are also dangerous when startled unexpectedly.

You’re in the middle of tidying up Kuiil’s tiny kitchen space, a task you had insisted upon after he’d served you a delicious lunch, humming to yourself quietly as you scrub at the dishes when hands wrap around your waist, pulling you backwards towards someone’s chest.

You react completely on instinct, teleporting out of their hold and reappearing on the other side of the room, bow ready with an ichor arrow aimed directly at the assailant. It is only when the meager light of the nearby lantern reflects off their beskar helmet do you realize who you’re facing.

Immediately you lower and dismiss your weapon before pressing a hand over your chest where your heart is fluttering like a trapped bird. “I’m so sorry, Din,” you tell him, limbs trembling as it sinks in just how close you were to shooting him. “Maker, you scared me and—and I thought I—well, I don’t know what I was thinking, just that I had to—”

In between blinks he appears in front of you, yanking his helmet off with such ferocity your words catch in your throat. You have only the slightest of seconds to glimpse the arousal darkening his brown eyes before he slips a hand behind your neck and crashes your lips together.

He kisses you as if you’re gravity and he’ll float away if he dares to spare a moment to breathe, sending a current of warmth surging through your body. You thought the mere touch of his hand had been life-altering, but it is a mere candle compared to the wildfire his lips spark. Your eyes fall shut as you kiss back with an equal amount of fervency, bringing him closer by wrapping your arms around his neck, grinning at the groan the action spurs from deep within his chest.

There is the heavy thud of his helmet striking the ground before he’s wrapping his hand around your waist, slotting a thigh between your legs to ensure every inch of your bodies are touching. Your cheeks rub against the scratchiness of his facial scruff, an invigorating burn you think you could easily become addicted to.

An embarrassingly high-pitched whine escapes your lips when he pulls away a minute later. He’s never looked more attractive, mouth swollen and hair disarrayed from your roaming fingers. His hands cup your face, and it occurs to you as he swipes his thumbs over your cheekbones he isn’t wearing his gloves.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, sounding slightly hoarser than usual and out of breath. His gaze roams your face, like he’s trying to re-familiarize himself with your features after the time spent apart. “Especially with your bow. When you pointed that arrow at me, there was this...fierceness in your eyes I’ve never seen before. Fuck, angel, you looked so gorgeous.”

“Seriously?” you say, raising an incredulous eyebrow, because of-kriffing-course he’d be the one being in the whole universe who is turned on by a weapon being pointed at him.

“Seriously.” He leans in, forehead pressing against yours, noses brushing. It’s hard to focus when he’s this close, like you’ve again entered that separate realm where it’s just you and him.

“Din, look,” you whisper, fighting the magnetic pull insisting you kiss him again long enough to show him your marked hand. “It’s real. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

The smile that stretches across his face when he sees it is nothing short of breathtaking.

“Angel,” he says, tilting your head so the words are spoken right against your lips. “I’ve wanted to hear you say those words ever since I gave you my name.”

Tag List: @leilei-draws​, @theocatkov​, @vintagesaph​, @stardust-and-starlight​, @adrieunor​, @remmyswritings​, @gallowsjoker​, @rhiannon-russo​, @randomness501​, @sylphene​, @softly-sad​, @maytheglitter​, @melobee​, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives​, @eleinemk​, @captain-jebi​, @aerynwrites​, @promiscuoussatan​, @stilllivindue2spite​, @coaaster​, @lin-djarin​, @becauseican2, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @nicotinebirds

[princesssarcastia]

2021 Harry Potter Fanfic Primer

im here to point fingers at the incredible authors that have enabled my new interest in HP content.  im still conflicted and upset about it, tbh, but for now we’re leaning into the curve.  we’re getting out our shovel and finding out just how deep we can make the hole we’re in.  hand in unlovable hand my beloved <3.  anyway, these fics are wonderful, their authors are wonderful, and you should go read their stuff. if there’s a star next to it that means im losing my mind over it and always will be.

Creatively Maladjusted, by elumish on AO3, 101k  (they also have a wonderful writing advice blog on tumblr, @elumish, which I recommend following if you are a writer) 

A very excellent re-telling of harry’s first year at hogwarts if he were sorted into Slytherin, plus some more not!fic or piecemeal re-tellings of his second and part of his third year.  Harry, in this, has a slightly different trauma response to growing up with the Dursley’s.  He’s a bit quieter, and the signs are a bit more obvious to the people around him, and I enjoyed that immensely. 

Honestly, if you’re going to get sucked into something you have absolutely no business getting sucked into, elumish is the way to go, their fic is incredible. their teen wolf fic is also immaculate, if you’re so inclined. 

Dissonance, by ImpishTubist on AO3, 2.5k (@impishtubist on tumblr)

Set during fifth year.  Oblivious!Harry has always been a delightful trope when well executed, and this is well executed.  Plus, some angst between Remus and Harry over what Umbridge has been doing to him.

I would certainly recommend a lot of ImpishTubist’s other hp work on AO3, like Lacuna.

blow us all away, by rexcorvidae on AO3, 23k (@rexcorvidae on tumblr)

In progress (like, updated last week in progress).  Currently in the beginning of Harry’s first year.  Fem!Harry, Indian!Harry.  Hagrid puts Harry in touch with Remus when she has questions about her parents, and they become reluctant, traumatized, angst-ridden pen pals who keep missing each other’s true intentions like ships in the night.  hot DAMN do I love this fic.  there’s hints of the way the dursley’s treat Harry peaking through in her letters, and I appreciated the attention to “hmm, her experience as a girl of indian descent in britain under the thumb of a bunch of white people who like being Normal may not have been gucci”

Definitely comb through the rest of their HP fic, too, I may or may not have gone feral over it.

Where the Heart is, by silver_fish on AO3, 15k (@kohakhearts on tumblr)

Woof.  This one said, “hey, harry was probably SUPER depressed in the summer after fifth year.  like, clinically.  maybe someone should do something about that.”  Fuck yeah.  Then this one said, “that someone was Snape.”  You all know my opinions on Snape; generally, Bad.  But damn if this fic didn’t wholly convince me by the end of it.  I thought it was a very realistic way for Snape to start seeing Harry as a person all on his own, and not a proxy for Snape’s angst over James and Lily, respectively.  The angst is wonderful, the ending is even more so.

*bernie sanders voice* I am once again asking you to read through the rest of the author’s HP fic.  a lot of them have similar themes; there’s actually a great one with Molly that i’m not reccing here, Wonder.

☆Bindings, Bindings, by Quietlemonhush on AO3, 60k (@quietlemonhush on tumblr)

WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS TO YOU HOW MUCH I ENJOYED/AM ENJOYING THIS.  If I had to pick a single fic and say “you, it’s your fault I’m stuck here,” it would be this one.  Anyway Lily in the afterlife is So Very Angry about how Petunia is treating Harry, and how Sirius is rotting in Azkaban, and how Remus is alone, that she literally brings herself back to life and drags James and Regulus with her.  All three of them are there to chew bubblegum and fix everything that went wrong after they died—and would you look at that, they’re all out of bubblegum!  There’s only Fury left.  That inciting premise is very crack, but every moment after that is very much not crack.  Lily and James love harry more than anything, the way a child should be loved; James and Sirius have the epic friendship of a lifetime; Sirius and Remus have staggering amounts of resolved sexual tension and take turns keeping each other in check; Regulus, though he realized that Voldemort and his family were shit before he died, is still unlearning all his racist bullshit and, also, years of trauma.  Actually, they’re all traumatized, but hey: now they have one another again and not a damn one of them seems inclined to let go anytime soon.  Quietlemonhush went, “hey, HP has a lot of Awful people in it, and a lot of Righteous people in it, and many of them are Very, Very Powerful; also, love is the most powerful force in the universe” and i said “hell yes tell me more right now.”  And then they did!

Quietlemonhush writes Sirius/Remus in a way that makes it sooo much fun to devour, so the rest of their HP fic is most certainly worth a look, if that’s your thing.

Rebuilding, by Colubrina on AO3, 113k (@colubrina on tumblr)

Hermione/Draco (*shrug emojis into the abyss* yeah, yeah, like none of us have ever been there before).  Takes place during Hogwarts 8th year, and while the beginning is, IMO, a little unfair to Ron, it gets much better.  Tells the story of Hermione and Draco clearing the air, learning to like each other, having some hormones over each other, and then falling in love.  Also tells the story of Hermione and Theo Nott becoming friends; the story of how every single 7th and 8th year student is fucked to hell by the war and the Carrows; the story of how they start an emotional support group about it and all become friends; and the story of, what the hell do you do with yourself after that kind of trauma?

I’ve been dipping in and out of Colubrina’s HP since before I was even on tumblr; I actually found them in those dark yesteryears when the only fandom interactions I had were on fanfiction.net.  Of such fame as Green Girl, which is an HP fic staple, and has also written a lot of wackier, crackier, and darker things than that.  If you don’t take yourself too seriously, I highly recommend many of their big HP works, though I imagine it’ll press some people’s buttons.  Colubrina’s work really does take up a corner of my mind whenever I’m in an HP mood, and will take up yours if you let it.

☆ all waiting is long, by shuofthewind on AO3, 149k ( @shu-of-the-wind on tumblr)

This is so well written that I can’t stop thinking about it.  It is occupying my mind when I lie awake at night, you know?  It’s one of those.  Hermione messes with something she probably shouldn’t have in Grimmauld Place, so when Sirius is sent through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, she gets thrust into an alternate universe...in 1975.  Instead of handwaving it away, shuofthewind actually gets into the mechanics of it in a way that makes sense, to emphasize that hermione is never going home.  ever. The world she finds herself is shifted slightly to the left, quite a bit darker, but in a “the author is treating the idea of a society-wide conflict over blood purity much more seriously than JKR ever did” way, not a sensationalist way.  Now, Hermione has to grapple with all her grief at losing everyone she’s ever loved or known, the moral/ethical/magical implications of sharing what she knows about her future in an alternate world, and, you know, a goddamn war with people who want to murder her for being who she is.  This Hermione is smart, and she’s kind, and she’s powerful, and she’s making real friends.  If you hate JKR’s guts I’d go read this right now, because it delivers in all the ways she failed us.  It’s plotty, its got great world-building, and it pulls back the white curtain on the wizarding world to show you that, like real life, it’s multicultural and full of queer people...and the discrimination that comes with both.

shuofthewind write epics, mainly for the MCU, and I’ve read some of them a looooong time ago, so this fic kinda seemed out of left field for me but im SOOOO GLAD it exists.  If you want MCU fic you can sink your teeth into, go for it, but alas, they do not have any more HP fic (.......yet?)

Speak Now [+] Listen Now, by mrsfrizzle on AO3, 33k altogether

Harry reaches out to Remus for support because Umbridge is getting to him with her literal torture.  Remus, being a former professor, former mandatory reporter, person who loves Harry and has since he was born, and all around good man, tells Harry he has to tell someone, or Remus will.  It’s everything any adult looking back on that time in HP canon ever wanted, which is for an actual adult to say “what the fuck, those are literal chidlren” and then do something about it.  Then, a far more dangerous task: Harry trusts Remus enough to go to him about the Dursleys.  Harry and Remus’ relationship develops SO WELL, and there’s a bit of exploration about how Sirius may not exactly be guardian material, because he did in fact spend 12 years of his life getting tortured instead of growing up.  I think I’m actually going to go reread this right now, because it speaks to my id.

they do have some other HP fic which did not appeal to my hyperspecific wants, but may appeal to some of yours.  I think they’re also a published author, there should be a link on their profile page.

chase the stars, by Duskglass on AO3, 101k (@felix-duskglass on tumblr)

When Harry is five years old, a picture of him ends up in the Daily Prophet, and Sirius Black, Terror of Ministry Officials Touring Azkaban everywhere, gets a hold of that issue.  He then, in order: breaks out of Azkaban; crosses the countryside to Surrey; Finds Harry: Kidnaps Harry; Breaks Into Remus’ Apartment; starts processing (or maybe just acknowledging) his trauma from Azkaban, the war, and his childhood; and pines after Remus.  It’s a little plotty, and deals a lot (sometimes through flashbacks) with the specific awful things that happened to Sirius—largely because, after years in the constant presence of Dementors, those are nearly literally the only memories he has left.  It’s a wonder he’s got the strength to love Harry and Remus at all.  But then, maybe it isn’t.

This is a Very Serious Fic, but the rest of Duskglass’s HP work is actually just cracky enough to tickle your funny-bone, while still making you think “okay but why couldn’t we have done that in the first place.”

So!  That’s it for recs, for now.  These are all things I’ve found and read in the last month; if any of y’all are interested in my old HP recs, let me know and I can make a post for that, too.  While I’m still very conflicted about my choice of current fandom, I am not in ANY way conflicted about my taste in fic and authors.  Send these guys some love, read their fic if you’re so inclined, and leave some nice comments at the end of it.

[jackson-t-escobar]

Call it magic

 ~ Chapter I ~

Pairing: Ivar x Heahmund (Modern!AU)

Word count: 1.1 k

Summary: How to deal with a breakup? Ivar still doesn’t know, even after a few months. And when he meets his ex again one day, the chaos is perfect - between immature brothers, sex with the ex and the decision whether to forgive or to forget.

Tags: hurt/comfort, fun, smut, fluff, family bonds, brotherly love, age difference, jealousy.

If you want to be part of the tag list (or be removed, doesn’t matter xD), just send me a DM. I will not post this on AO3, this will be a tumblr story only. I hope you enjoy this!

@youbloodymadgenius​ @jadelynlace​

Ivar stared out the window, watching people scurrying past with umbrellas or something else over their heads to escape the thick drops. They were almost all running, and the street was slowly filling with the cold water - the lights of the cars reflected in the rain, almost bathing the surroundings in a magical, warm atmosphere. Ivar was glad to be inside - his fingers clawed more fiercely into his hoodie, and he rested his chin lightly on his folded forearms while his blue eyes followed the drops on the window.

It had been a few months since Heahmund and he had parted ways. And although Ivar had enjoyed the time off for a very long time, really letting off steam - he was slowly getting to a point where it didn't seem to be going any further. It was now autumn, and the days were increasingly overshadowed by rain and cold; the time when you sat in front of the fireplace in the evening with your partner, in front of the TV, watching Netflix. Autumn days were cuddling, baking cakes and cookies, watching the bad weather. Preferably with a warm arm around the middle of your body, pulling you closer as soon as there was even a slight shiver at the thought of being outside.

The breakup had only really hit Ivar consciously a few weeks after the actual breakup. They had been together for almost a year, but not publicly - since Ivar had still been 17 at the time, and not even close to being of age. It had been best to lie in bed with Heahmund in the evening, while Hvitserk - the only one who had known - had covered for him. Had told their parents lies about why Ivar was gone so often on weekends. And why his grades had gone down just before he graduated from high school, because he had only had the older man on his mind all the time. Heahmund had been 30 when it had ended.

"Hey, do you plan to watch TV like a normal person again sometime, or is someone out there running around naked?" his brother Hvitserk's voice interrupted the silence; Ivar didn't flinch, but cursed inwardly because he had bitten his lower lip slightly when he was startled. He did not say anything at first, but tried to remove his slightly sad expression from his face. After all, Hvitserk didn't necessarily have to know that he'd hit rock bottom once again.

"I like to look outside. Of course, you uneducated cretin don't understand that because your IQ also only lasts from morning to noon," Ivar said quietly; he released the clasp from his hoodie and with a casual movement turned to Hvitserk, who also sat down on the wooden floor with his younger brother.

For a moment they looked at each other, then Hvitserk snorted softly. "Is it still because of him? You need to forget about him for once, honestly."

"How am I supposed to forget him, huh? Unless you mean your tip that you use 90% of the time," Ivar snarked, and Hvitserk raised his eyebrows with a grin.

"Fucking is the best cure for everything, Ivar. Headaches? Fucking. You're late? Never mind, one more round will do. You actually have to work? Lay the colleague." he said, amused, and Ivar rolled his eyes with a slight click of his tongue.

"I'm surprised you get so many women anyway. They must smell your stupidity - stupid fucks well, as we all know. It almost can't be anything else."

"Ah, is that so? And you?"

"Me?" Ivar said quietly; his gaze went back out the window for a moment, then he sighed softly. "I've been trying out, haven't I? You know that, too. But somehow... somehow, they're all... shallow. And stupid, like you."

 "That's no reason to mope, after all, when you can blow something else," Hvitserk said, earning a juicy kick from Ivar against his upper arm in return, which he merely commented with a slight "Ouch!" and a laugh, while Ivar himself couldn't help grinning. Sometimes his brother was really annoying, but his big mouth usually managed to get Ivar back on track. Or at least distract him for a few moments.

"What do you say... We go out for dinner and figure out where we can get drunk to death this weekend. Okay?" Hvitserk suggested, and Ivar took a deep breath in and out.

"Mom will kill me if I still don't know what I want to study after this weekend."

"Dude, I've got a cure for that: fucking a professor."

"Hvit, man. Be serious for once!"

"We'll do it when we drink. That's the best idea, that way we can do both in one go. Ha! Call me genius, my little brother."

Ivar rolled his eyes but slammed into Hvitserk's hand. His incisors dipped slightly into his lower lip again, and Hvitserk snorted softly.

"What was so great about him, please? Besides you being into dilfs, which is really disgusting. Forget him, he broke up with you on fucking Valentine's Day. What guy does something like that?"

For a moment, that sentence hit Ivar deep in the heart. He had repressed that day well all these months, but he couldn't forget it. Deeply it had been burned into his mind; he had planned so much for that day, had wanted to surprise Heahmund. But all he had gotten was an ice-cold breakup on the grounds that he hadn't been sure how he felt. And it had been Ivar's hate day ever since - never again would he feel good about Valentine's Day, and was already planning to poison happy couples in the park. He hadn't been able to explain to his mother why he had cried constantly through two weeks, and why he had hardly eaten anything in the evenings. Even his other, almost terroristic brothers had sensed something, and had left him alone that week.

"All right. You're right. The last time I saw him was a while ago, anyway," Ivar said, letting Hvitserk help him to his feet; and it wasn't until he was standing that he grinned slightly as Hvitserk's warm hand passed lightly over his shoulder.

"Exactly. He's probably grown fat, and much older. You won't recognize him if you ever meet again - unless Gandalf the Grey is suddenly standing in front of you on the dance floor, asking you for a drink."

For a moment the brothers stared at each other, then they both snorted and laughed. It was painful, yes - especially because it was the first time he had been truly in love. But it had to go on, and somehow Hvitserk was right - even if most of his suggestions and advice ended up with having sex with someone somewhere. Ivar took one last look outside before following Hvitserk into the kitchen; the streets outside were almost deserted, and the lightning of thunderstorms could be seen behind the city's skyscrapers. Oh, how Ivar loved autumn.

[elvish-sky]

Hope {Aragorn x Reader}

A.N: So no prompts done today cause I was working on this, but I’m proud of it and will get right on prompts tomorrow! This is the completely reader-insert version! I honestly had so much fun writing it and am honored that this person wanted me to do so. I hope y’all like it!

Requested by @ask-the-elf-stuff on Tumblr

Pairing: Aragorn x Reader

Word Count: 1,799

Warnings: Kissing, fluff, the smallest bit of angst.

****

Hope

“You’re really leaving?” You gazed into Aragorn’s eyes, hoping that it wasn’t true.

    “I have to, Y/N. The fate of Middle-Earth depends on it.”

Your head dipped in understanding, but also sadness. 

“Do not fear. I will return.” He cupped your chin with his hand, tilting your head and kissing you. It was a light kiss, nothing like the others you had shared before. This kiss was the hope that you’d see each other again.

Breaking away, you forced a smile as you hugged him, trying not to cry. Stepping back, you waved as he followed the rest of the newly formed Fellowship through the gates of Imladris. Your father stood next to you, and as Aragorn passed through the gates Elrond drew you into his side. 

“He’ll be back, hína (child),” Elrond said as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Nodding, you rested your head on your father’s shoulder as you watched the man depart.

Weeks later, you were pacing your room, determined to do something. Arwen stopped short in the doorway as she saw you pack open on your bed as you shoved things inside.

     “Y/N? What are you doing?”

“I do not know why, but I have felt a pull to follow. An ache, almost painful in its strength, has settled inside me and so I knew I must follow. We have not heard from the Fellowship in weeks, Aragorn could be hurt, or someone else could be, or he could be,” your voice broke, “dead.

The elf nodded in understanding. “The ache is telling you to be with the one you love.”

She then clasped your hand. “Y/N. Look at me.”

You looked at her, unshed tears of worry clear in your eyes.

“If he was dead, you’d feel it. And I know as your sister I should be telling you not to go, but I cannot help but notice the pain you’ve been in these last weeks. So go, find him.” She spread a map out onto a small table nearby, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Do you just carry that everywhere?”

She shot you a look, and you quickly clammed up, peering over her shoulder as she pointed things out. 

“After crossing the mountains visit our grandmother in Lothlorien, the Fellowship had planned to pass through there, and she will know where they are.” 

You took it all in, remembering the route to Lothlorien from visits to your grandparents you had made before your mother went west. 

“Thank you, Arwen.” You smiled up at your sister.

She clasped your wrist before pulling away, placing her hands on your shoulders as she looked into your eyes. “Stay safe, Y/N.”

You nodded, shoving the last things into your pack before slinging it over your shoulders with your bow and quiver, daggers sheathed on your thighs, hugging your sister one last time before leaving your room.

   You strode down the hallway, dressed in leather hunting clothes as you made your way to the gates of Imladris. You had stopped by the kitchens to gather food supplies, making sure they thought you were only going for a hunting excursion. 

Entering the courtyard, you saw your father standing in the center, clearly waiting for you. Silently cursing Arwen, as you had hoped to slip away unnoticed, you made your way over to him.

“I should not let you do this.”

You frowned at his words, drawing breath to protest, but before you could Elrond spoke again.

“But you are free to go. I feel the ache and have felt it every day since your mother departed. I know that nothing but being with the one you love can ease that pain, and it would hurt me to know you are experiencing it. Go to Estel. I give you my blessing.” 

You hugged your father before turning and mounting your horse, brought from the stables. Turning to wave to your father one last time, you leaned down to whisper, “Let’s go, Daeroc. Let’s go find Aragorn.” The horse broke into a trot, and you left Imladris behind.

Weeks later, you led Daeroc into Lothlorien, waiting for the sentries to appear. One dropped down from a tree, and you smiled at him, recognizing the face.

“Haldir,” you greeted him with a smile.

“Y/N. It is good to see you again. I assume you are here to see the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn?”

You nodded, “Yes. I have not seen my grandparents in a long time. But before we go to them could you find someone to take care of Daeroc?”

Another elf came into view, nodding to you as she took the reins from your hands. 

“Thank you,” you smiled at her.

Later, you walked into the courtyard, bowing to your grandparents standing on the stairs above. 

“Y/N, my daughter’s daughter. What brings you here?” Galadriel smiled at you, descending the stairs with her husband to greet you, each clasping your wrist. 

“To see you, of course, and seek news of the Fellowship that I assume has passed through here.” 

Your grandmother smiled. “It seems you are in luck, for they are here as we speak.”

Your eyes widened. “But they should have been long gone by now. I wonder what has caused the delay?”

Celeborn’s face softened. “Then you do not know.”

“Know what?” You were beginning to grow quite worried. “What has happened?”

“They could not make it through the pass of Caradhras, so they turned and went through Moria, costing them the life of Mithrandir.”

You gasped, heart aching at the grief that must have caused them and the grief you now felt. 

“May I see them?” All you wanted now was to see your friends and the man you loved.

“Of course.” Galadriel beckoned you to follow her, and you did, softly conversing with your grandmother and updating her on the lives of her family in Imladris, as well as others she knew.

Stepping into the clearing, you turned to thank Galadriel, watching her fade from view behind you for a moment before continuing. 

There he was. Tall and handsome still, even grimy with dirt and dust from his travels. You debated casually walking up and greeting him more sedately, but watching him you just couldn’t hold back. All your elvish instincts left you, and you sprinted towards him, leaping into his shocked arms as kissing him for all you were worth. He kissed you back for a moment, and then pulled away, the surprise on his face clear.

“Y/N! What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you.”

His eyes widened. “You did?”

You smiled at him. “Of course I did, meleth.”

He smiled back at you, and drew you in for another kiss, hands holding you up as your legs wrapped around his waist. Deepening the kiss, he moved so your back was pressed against a tree and his hands were free to slide up your back, tangling in your hair as you lost yourselves in each other.

Sometime later, you sat with the rest of the Fellowship after the nighttime meal, talking. It was good to see them again, you had grown fond of all of them, even the dwarf, during their time in Imladris. But of course, the only person you really had eyes for that night was Aragorn, who sat next to you with an arm around your shoulders. 

Legolas had seemed puzzled with how comfortable you were with affection, it was rather un elf-like. You had explained to him that because of your father’s past, he was slightly more affectionate than a normal elf, and showed it. You hadn’t missed the wistful look on Legolas’ face as you spoke and recalled what you knew of his family, feeling sorry for him. 

Later that night, you sat by the dying embers of the fire alongside Legolas. Aragorn had gone with the hobbits to wash up, and Boromir and Gimli were sleeping, so it was just you and the elf.

“Legolas?” The older elf looked at you. 

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded, and you continued, “I was just wondering, do you know of something like an ache? It began right after the Fellowship departed Imladris, and only subsided when I arrived here. What does it mean?”

He smiled. “Y/N. That was the bond between your soul and Aragorn’s, pulled taught with your fear of losing him. Now that you are reunited, it has gone because you are together. It is every elf’s greatest dream and worst fear to have that feeling.”

You smiled. “Have you?”

The pain in his eyes told you that maybe that was not something to be asked of others.

“I am not sure if it is in my destiny to ever feel that.” He gazed into the distance.

The two of you sat in easy silence for a long time, after that. 

“Y/N.” You turned to see Aragorn beckoning to you, and with a nod to Legolas, you rose.

“You do not have to come with us. It will be a journey of great peril, and I do not want to put you in that much danger.”

You gazed at him earnestly, “Aragorn. I shall be there when the crown is finally placed on your head. I shall be with you until the end.”

He smiled at you again and clasped your hand as you walked through the towering trees.

You had left Lothlorien the day after with the Fellowship, having officially joined up. Lots had happened after that, including almost dying with most of Middle-Earth, but months later, all was finally well. Frodo and Sam had destroyed the ring in Mordor, the forces of Mordor had collapsed along with the Black Gate, and today was the coronation of King Elessar, also known as Aragorn. 

You watched, standing next to Gimli on the dais, as Gandalf lowered the crown onto Aragorn’s head.

“Now come the days of the King!” Gandalf declared before Aragorn turned to face his kingdom. Everyone cheered as he stood there, silencing quickly as he spoke. His words were wise and sincere, and you couldn’t help but fall in love all over again. As petals began to fall, he started singing, the words quickly fading as he turned to you. 

You walked down to meet him at the bottom of the steps, gown trailing behind you. Once you reached him, he grabbed your hand, wrapping an arm around your waist as he dipped you into a spectacular kiss. Unlike the one you had shared in Imladris, this was not a kiss of sadness. This was a kiss of hope, peace, and promise. As the cheers rose around you again you knew that everything you had hoped for had come true.

Everything tag: @entishramblings @itgetsatadhazy @boyruins @anjhope1 @wellofeternalthirst @kumqu4t @katbby16

[holycatsandrabbits]

Love's Endless Light

A Good Omens serial romance

READ FROM THE BEGINNING: You are here! NEXT

Chapter 1: Calm Every Fear

2007 BC, Crete

The first time a human tried to warn Aziraphale about Crawly, Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Aziraphale’s favorite perk about being stationed on Earth was that he got to meet so many humans. Aziraphale made friends easily, perhaps because humans were drawn to the angelic aura he gave off. That might explain why humans sometimes didn’t care for Crawly— or maybe, Aziraphale mused, watching Crawly’s human legs morph into a six-foot-long snake tail on the beach in broad daylight, it was because he tended to do that.

One of Aziraphale’s human friends grasped his arm and started tugging him away. “It’s a monster!” he cried. “Run!”

“Yes, you should run,” Aziraphale advised him. “I’m going to— to check the beach for anyone else.”

The man looked at him with fear in his eyes. “No, come with us! It’s too dangerous!”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how to explain to a human that a Naga demon was still just a demon, and therefore quite inferior to an angel of the Lord. “I’ll be right behind you,” he promised, and when Crawly made a loud snarling noise, the human dropped Aziraphale’s arm and fled.

There was a splashing sound, and Aziraphale turned to find Crawly amid the breakers, salt water waves crashing over his hips and tail, turning the ends of his long scarlet hair dark against his pale skin. Crawly was— Aziraphale could never deny this— quite surprisingly attractive for a demon, with a lithe form that moved in a fascinating serpentine manner whether he wore legs or not.

Well, usually. Right now Crawly was romping about wildly in the waves with a silly grin on his face. It faded the instant he noticed Aziraphale standing on the beach. “Oh,” he said, with a tremor of anxiety in his voice. “It’s you.”

“It is,” Aziraphale confirmed. “So if you were planning to eat any humans, I’m afraid—”

Crawly made a shocked noise. “Eat— are you serious? When’s the last time I ate a human?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Never!”

“Then what are you doing? Why have you—” Aziraphale waved a hand in Crawly’s general direction.

Crawly looked down at himself, as if he had forgotten that at the moment he was a very large monster. “Wanted to go for a swim,” he said. “Didn’t feel like sharing the beach.”

“You terrorized a hundred humans just so that you could swim.”

“Wasn’t a hundred,” Crawly said. His eyes kept darting from Aziraphale’s face to his hands, and Aziraphale realized that Crawly was expecting Aziraphale to be holding something— a flaming sword, most likely. “I’ll go,” Crawly said, starting to leave the water.

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, and then slowly folded them together, lacing finger against finger, leaving no room for a weapon.

Crawly watched this with a sort of hopeful bewilderment. He rested half in and half out of the waves now, against both the cold of the ocean and the heat of the sand. It was nearly noon. The sun was high, set where God Herself had placed it, and it shouldn't have been the case, Aziraphale thought, that it could shine so flatteringly on a demon, making his skin and scales glow. Just as there was no way that Crawly’s golden eyes should have always reminded Aziraphale more of that loving sun than the punishing fires of Hell.

Aziraphale approached Crawly cautiously, letting his sandals start to make tracks in the wetter sand. “Have you— how have you been? You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you for—”

“Thirty-two years,” Crawly said, and then he looked away, as if he were ashamed to know the exact number.

Aziraphale knew the number, too. As much as he adored his human friends, there was something rather comforting about being able to speak with someone who’d known you far, far longer than any human ever could.

“Been good,” Crawly said. “Well— been bad, I guess. Doing evil deeds, you know.”

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale said.

“Not eating people, though.”

“Yes. I’m sor—” Aziraphale cut himself off sharply, shocked at himself for attempting to apologize to a demon.

Crawly was staring at him, looking half-surprised and half insulted. “I’ve terrorized plenty of people,” he said.

“Of course.”

Crawly waved his hand at Aziraphale. “Suppose you’ve been doing the opposite, whatever that is. Comforting?”

“Um— yes, comforting.” Aziraphale watched as the edge of a wave reached the toe of his sandal, splashing drops of cold water onto his heated skin.

“Come for a swim,” Crawly said.

Aziraphale looked at him in shock. “What? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not taking a swim with a demon.”

Crawly was grinning again, and it always made Aziraphale a little unsettled to see him do that, to see him look happy. Demons shouldn’t be happy, they should always be miserable. And yet sometimes it seemed like Crawly could forget all of that, forget that his soul was damned, that there was an empty cavern in his chest where God’s love should be. Crawly could somehow focus on the moment, taking pleasure in earthly things.

Crawly’s voice fell low and mesmerizing. “It’s fun,” he said. “Innocent fun, swimming in the ocean. You’ll enjoy it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I can tell when you’re trying to tempt me, you know. And I have told you that it doesn’t work on angels.”

Crawly looked unexpectedly delighted. “You can’t swim,” he accused. “Never learned?”

“I float,” Aziraphale said, disappointed that he sounded rather morose. “Angels, you know— we can walk on water. We— we have to walk on water. Can’t sink even if we want to.”

Crawly burst into laughter and collapsed back into the ocean, letting the waves rush around him. He put up a clawed hand to slick his hair back out of his face, and Aziraphale could not look away from him. “Angels being denied one of life’s greatest pleasures,” he exclaimed. “How poetic.”

“The light of Grace,” Aziraphale informed him, “far outweighs a dip in the sea.”

“Take your word for it,” Crawly said. “I was never much for that.”

“You—” Aziraphale felt cold inside. “You don’t miss God’s love?”

Crawly shrugged, looking away. “What would a demon want with love?”

“But it— it’s your punishment, to want what you can’t have—”

“Seems to me you’re the one who wants what he can’t have,” Crawly countered. “Can’t even go for a swim.”

Aziraphale gave him an exasperated look. “Crawly, honestly. Look, I should get back to the city. Comfort the people you frightened.” If Aziraphale expected Crawly to look remorseful for having emptied the beach, he was disappointed. Crawly looked at peace with his serpentine tail floating in the waves. “I want you gone by nightfall,” Aziraphale warned him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Crawly gave him a smile that was part sadness, almost as if he was going to miss Aziraphale, when he didn’t even miss God.

********

READ FROM THE BEGINNING: You are here!

NEXT

Why a serial fic? Because I wanted to make a Tumblr comic like all the cool kids do, but I can't draw, so here it is in prose. Updates Fridays on Ao3 and Tumblr.

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous Good Omens serial: Mr. Fell’s Bookshop

*********

Image text: Love’s Endless Light by Dannye Chase (HolyCatsAndRabbits) Chapter 1

As Aziraphale and Crowley slowly fall in love over the millennia, Crowley discovers that Aziraphale is keeping a very dangerous secret.

My Carrd

[seita]

— little miss perfect | tamaki amajiki (m.)

pairing: tamaki amajiki/f!reader

genre: angst, fluff, smut

wordcount: 𝟼,𝟷𝟻𝟷

tags: forbidden love!au, high society!au, rich!au, arranged marriage!au

note: i posted this a little bit ago but tumblr took it out of the tags so i had to delete it ): i hope it doesn't do it again...

— the life you lived was one of rules; who you hung out with, what you ate, how you sat at the dinner table. nothing was under your control. but when you find yourself falling in love with a man you shouldn't, you find yourself desperate to break the rules.

masterlist | rules

© all content belongs to hshinso 2020. do not modify or repost.  

You sighed, letting your eyes wander around the ballroom packed with pretentious people wearing expensive gowns and suits. The chatter was too loud to hear even your own thoughts and you scowled, feeling a headache coming on. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the familiar looming figure of Enji Todoroki making his way in your direction. Before he could reach you, however, you slipped between the numerous people to make your way to the bar that was set up on the opposite end of the room. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you let out a sigh of relief when you realized the man wasn’t following you. 

The bastard had been trying since you turned 18 to arrange a marriage between you and his youngest son Shoto Todoroki ― even though the two of you were vehemently against it. But the man didn’t know how to take no for an answer and proceeded to harass you every chance he got, which was typically at functions such as the one you were currently attending. 

You had long since lost sight of your parents, not that you cared. Typically they would keep you by their side to show you off and introduce you to potential suitors in hopes of making connections through marriage. 

The very idea made you scoff. 

As you took the drink offered from the bartender, you gave him a soft thanks before turning around. Spinning on your heel, you let out a sharp gasp when you bumped face-first into a firm chest. The jolt caused your drink to slosh over the rim and onto your hand. 

You cursed, stepping back as you looked up at the wide-eyed man before you. He wore a rapidly reddening blush that burnt all the way up to his cute elf ears. 

“I-I’m so sorry!” he cried, reaching into his pocket to fish out a handkerchief, taking your glass from your hand to quickly wipe the mess on your skin away, “I didn’t realize I was standing so close, I’m sorry.”

“I-It’s okay…” you whispered, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth at the sight of him.

He was tall with indigo hair that stuck up messily on the back of his head. Typically such a thing would be frowned upon ― people in high society desire to look their best, after all. Despite that, he wore a perfectly tailored tux and an expensive gold watch on his wrist. As he gazed down at his task of cleaning your hand, you noticed how long his eyelashes were as they brushed against his cheeks with every blink. 

“There...I think I got it all,” he breathed, tucking the handkerchief away into his pocket without a care that it was wet with wine. At least it was white wine and not red, you mused, “You should probably wash your hands or it’ll dry your skin out or something.”

You raised a brow, not sure if such a thing could really happen. Still, you smiled and thanked him, breezing past him to find a bathroom. You still smelled like alcohol now so you needed to wash it off anyway. 

When you returned to the ballroom, there was no sign of the attractive indigo hair colored man anywhere. Part of you was disappointed but you brushed it off as something silly. No point in pining after a man you spoke 10 words with after all. 

You brushed off that chance meeting, not even paying it a second thought. In fact, you were certain you were either never going to meet him again or that you wouldn’t remember him even if you did. 

It was wishful thinking on your end, however, because at yet another pointless high-society function, you caught sight of the messy haired man once more.

“Hey,” you greeted, making him turn away from the conversation he was having with a pretty periwinkle haired girl and tall, blonde man. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he smiled, gaze softening from the guarded look he held when you’d greeted him. 

From that look alone, you knew he was from a prominent family similar to yours. The type of family where you had to hold your tongue and be on guard for any shit that might come your way. It was an unpleasant, stressful existence. 

“It’s me,” you smiled, nursing your glass with two hands, unsure of where to go from there, “I um...wondered what your name might be?”

He looked surprised for a second before smiling an ever-so-gentle smile, “Call me Tamaki.”

“I’m ______,” you introduced, reaching forward to shake his hand. 

His grip was firm and practiced but his hand was a bit calloused from what you didn’t know. It still felt nice. His hand was bigger than yours, strong with long longers. 

“These are my friends Nejire Hado and Mirio Togata,” he introduced, motioning to them. 

You smiled in greeting, recognizing only the Hado name. Her family owned one of the biggest shipping companies in Japan. You wondered what Mirio and Tamaki did. 

“Can I ask what your last name is?” Nejire asked. 

Just as you were about to open your mouth to answer, you heard your name being called. You felt your blood freeze in your veins. You cringed, your distaste clearly written on your face to the three people standing in front of you.

“Mr. Todoroki,” you beamed fakely as you turned around, “How nice to see you!”

“My Shoto is looking for you,” he grumbled, arms crossed over his chest as he glared down at you.

“I doubt that,” you breathed.

“What was that?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“I said that’s great, I’ll go find him!” you bowed briefly before brushing past him to disappear into the crowd. Looking over your shoulder, you rolled your eyes when you were finally out of sight. 

What a pain in the ass that man was. 

-

You hummed as you swung your shopping bags by your side, enjoying the setting sun beaming on your skin. It was a rare day you got to have completely for yourself with no escorts or stupid functions to be seen. In celebration, you went out shopping with your parent’s credit card ― not that they’d ever even notice. 

“Excuse me!” a soft voice called from behind. 

On reflex, you paused and turned around, eyes wide as you caught the familiar form of Tamaki jogging towards you. He seemed surprised as he stopped in front of you, realizing who you were. 

“You…” you mumbled, “You’re not stalking me or something right?”

Immediately his eyes burst red, shaking his head wildly, “N-No of course not! Why would you think that? It’s just coincidence I swear―”

“I’m kidding!” you laughed, patting his shoulder to calm him down, “What’s up?”

“You dropped this back there,” he sighed, scratching the back of his head almost nervously as he held up your folded handkerchief.

“Oh! Thank you!” you beamed, taking it from his hands.

There was a beat of silence, both of you standing there awkwardly unsure of what to say or what to do. 

“Hey, you wanna get dinner or something?” you asked suddenly, obviously startling him.

“Wh-What?”

You shrugged, “You don’t have to. I figure since we’re both here, it’s almost dinner time...why not?”

He was quiet for a second, thinking it over before smiling with a soft nod, “Sure. Lead the way.”

“Oh, a gentleman,” you teased, enjoying the way his ears turned red in response. 

He was a cute thing, wasn’t he? Shy and soft spoken yet still holding a strong disposition due to no doubt being raised in high society. 

By the time the two of you were seated in the fancy restaurant, the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. The sky was cast a deep orange that was rapidly vanishing by the minute. The bright chandelier in the center of the room cast a relaxing light over the both of you. You moved automatically to fold the napkin over your lap with your hands folded over it. Tamaki moved the same way, flashing you a sheepish smile once the two of you were left in silence. 

What you planned to be a nice, pleasant dinner ended up in a way you hadn’t expected. 

In his bed. 

His hand felt like heaven wrapped around your throat, giving just the smallest bit of pressure that made your head rush. He stared down at you with heated eyes, lip tucked between his teeth as he listened to the way you whimpered beneath him. You squeezed around his cock so tight he swore every time you came you almost took him with you. 

Sweet Tamaki turned out to be one of the best lays of your life. 

Little did you know, it was that little tumble in the sheets that would send your entire way of life ablaze. 

You had no idea how it happened; what went from a casual one-night stand grew into weekly outings together to have lunch or dinner, sometimes breakfast if you could manage it eventually morphing into what you could only describe as love. 

Whenever you laid your eyes on the messy-haired man, your heart raced and you felt a smile that you had no hope of fighting grow across your face. He seemed to be in the same boat, always having a deep need to touch you ― holding your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your forehead, or simply holding you in his lap. 

The night you brought him to one of the famous, high-society functions as your date was the biggest mistake of your life. 

“Are you nervous?” he asked teasingly, squeezing your hand in his larger one. 

You beamed up at him, shaking your head, “No, of course not!” In fact, it was the opposite ― you were more than a little excited to finally reveal your relationship. Truthfully, you hadn’t thought about the possibility of it being something that could end badly. Your parents hadn’t known you were seeing anyone, it’s not like you were close enough to them to actually reveal much personal information about yourself. 

Usually whenever you did, it turned into a lecture that ended with you crying into your pillow feeling like shit with their harsh words echoing in your mind.

However, that night, you found yourself torn from Tamaki’s grasp. Your parents held the most hateful scowls you’d ever seen them wear as they regarded Tamaki’s parents who glared in the exact same manner.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” your mother hissed, yanking on your arm to pull you away from your boyfriend.

“Wh-What?!” you cried, struggling to get out of her iron grip, “Let go!”

“Don’t make a scene,” she hissed, tugging you harsher.

“We’ll talk when we get home,” you father hummed, voice colder than usual. 

You glanced over your shoulder to see Tamaki being dragged in the opposite direction with a similar look of despair on his face as he watched you vanish from sight ― the both of you locked in a state of confusion.

Once home, the air around both of your parents was terrifying. Instinctively, you sat on the couch in the lounge with your head down as the two of them paced back and forth, collecting their thoughts.

“How dare you make a fool of us like that, _____?!” your mother cried, making you flinch.

“I-I’m sorry but I don’t understand,” you muttered, keeping your voice meek to keep from angering them further.

Your father scoffed, “Do you even know who that boy was?!”

“Tamaki Amajiki…” you replied quickly.

“Are you dating him or something?” your mother grilled, hands on his hips as she halted her pacing in front of you.

You nodded, not seeing a point in lying, “W-We’ve been together for about 6 months now…”

Your father scoffed, “You are never to see that boy again, do you understand me?”

“But why?” you asked, finally looking up.

Your parents looked bewildered, “You know we have nothing to do with that damn Amajiki family, ______. You are never to speak to their kind again.”

With that, they both stormed out of the room, leaving you more confused than before. You didn’t know that you were supposed to have nothing to do with them. It wasn’t like your parents told you anything, your older brother was the one in line to take over the family business so you rarely ever even got word of the goings on behind the scenes. 

Your heart was aching as you went to bed that night, not sure what it was you were meant to do. You had texted Tamaki, seen he read your text but he never responded. It only made you hurt that much more and before you knew it, tears were dampening your pillow. 

You had just about cried yourself to sleep when the sound of your balcony doors clicking open startled you upright.

“It’s just me,” Tamaki whispered, closing the doors as quietly as possible, drawing the curtains so no one could see in.

“Tamaki!” you whimpered, bolting out of bed to wrap your arms around his middle. He immediately wrapped his own around you and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “They said I can’t see you anymore!”

His eyes softened, cupping your tear-stained cheeks to press a kiss against your forehead, “I know. Mine said the same to me.”

“I don’t understand why!” you whimpered, fresh tears falling down your cheeks.

He shook his head, “Our familiar apparently had...some old rivalry that turned sour.”

You scoffed, “That’s stupid. It doesn’t affect us, why should we suffer for it?”

He sighed, leading you towards the bed, “I agree. All we can do is fight it, right?”

“You mean…?” you looked hopefully at him with wide eyes and he smiled.

“I wouldn’t let something like this take you from me, _____,” he promised, moving to lay beside you, pulling the blankets over your forms, “I’ll be gone before the sun rises but for now...sleep, okay?”

You nodded, burying yourself in his chest, taking in the sweet scent you grew to adore. With his heart hammering rhythmically in your ear, you fell into a peaceful sleep you were sure you weren’t going to get that night. 

Tamaki’s effect on you was just that; a sense of security. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to live without it now.

Things were a bit different with you and Tamaki once you discovered you weren’t supposed to be together. It was more difficult to get away in secret, your parents for once paying actual attention to what you did. Tamaki’s were doing the same. 

You found yourself sneaking out of your window in the dead of night more than you ever thought you would. It was worth it, to see the sly grin on Tamaki’s face when you texted him to warn him you were outside. 

The two of you made it work, though. Six months blossomed into ten; the two of you edging on a whole year together.

One night, however, as he crawled onto your balcony, you could tell something was off. 

“What’s the matter?” you asked as he sat stiffly on your bed, your hand held tightly in his trembling ones. 

“______,” he sighed, head hanging low. 

Your heart ached in your chest through your anxiety. You waited for him to talk, watching the way he opened his mouth several times only to close it when he changed his mind.

“This is…” he sighed, shaking his head, “This can’t work anymore.”

Those words shattered your heart in your chest and you pulled your hand from his grasp. He didn’t fight to get it back, avoiding looking at what he knew were your tear-filled eyes. 

“Wh-What happened?” you whispered, voice trembling.

He shook his head again, “All this sneaking around...what’s it going to get us?” he stood up, his back to you, “Whether we’re together for a year or 5 years...are we going to sneak around forever? We can’t do that.”

“You’re...you’re breaking up with me?” you asked pitifully.

He hesitated for a moment before nodding, “Eventually I need to be with someone I can be with. Our parents won’t let us do that...so there isn’t a point anymore. I’m sorry, _____…”

He moved to make his way to your balcony doors again when you bolted out of bed, wrapping your arms around his middle to keep him in place. He halted, letting you sob into his back, his heart breaking at the sound. 

“Please don’t do this, Tama!” you cried, fisting his shirt, “I don’t want to lose you. You’re the only good thing I have ever gotten in my life. You know what this life is like! Everything about it is controlled and revolving around a stupid image but...with you I don’t have to worry about anything. I’ve never felt more free with anyone than I feel with you...Tamaki...please…”

Your brokenhearted confession spurred him into turning around, cupping your cheeks to pull you into a loving kiss. It made your head swim, your eyes fluttering shut as you deepened the kiss, losing yourself in the feeling of his arms around you.

He held you so desperately, like you would slip away from him any second. Part of you knew that that was exactly what would happen. Once the sun rose, that would be it ― he wouldn’t get to hold you in his arms ever again. 

You pushed that thought out of your head, instead choosing to slide his shirt up until he had to break away from the kiss to tug it off. 

He picked you up by the waist, spinning to deposit you on the bed. He crawled on top of you, burying his face in your neck to press soft kisses there. You angled your head back to give him all the room he needed.

He wanted so badly to mark you up, to leave you with something of his, but he couldn’t. Squeezing your eyes tight, you fought back tears as you clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders. 

He reached down, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown over your hips. Sucking in a breath, he felt his cock harden rapidly at the sight of your pretty panties. 

“You’re so pretty,” he breathed, meeting your lips for another kiss. 

You cupped the back of his head, pulling him even closer, arching your hips up to grind against him. He let out of stuttering breath, gripping your hip to urge you to grind rougher. 

“Please, Tama,” you begged, breathing ragged at the teasing pleasure you were receiving. 

“What do you need?” he breathed, a tone you knew only you got to hear. 

To everyone else, he was a timid and shy young man who had trouble maintaining eye contact for too long. But with you, being closed doors, while you shared sweet kisses and heated touches, you got a side of Tamaki no one else would get to experience. 

“I need you, please,” you begged, reaching forward to pull at his belt. 

It was obvious he had come straight to your place after being somewhere — perhaps dinner with his parents. 

He nodded, leaning back to clumsily strip himself of his pants. He stumbled a bit, making him mutter out embarrassed apologies with bright red cheeks. Soon enough, he was on you again. 

With experienced fingers, he helped strip you from your own clothes. Your nightgown came off to reveal your bare breasts, a sight Tamaki couldn't help but whimper at. 

Leaning down, he enveloped one of your perked nipples in his mouth. You tugged at his head, letting out soft sighs as he switched to the other one. Wet with his saliva, the cooler air caused them to harden even more.

Feeling impatient, you began to push your panties down your hips. Tamaki, sensing your urgency, helped pull them free of your ankles, tossing them to be lost somewhere in the darkened room. 

He cupped your cheek, bringing you in for yet another kiss. His lips were so soft, his kiss pouring every ounce of love he felt for you. His free hand found its way between your legs, parting your folds to graze over your clit. 

You gasped into his mouth, arching your hips at his teasing touch. He smiled against your lips, circling the bud until your thighs trembled before easily sliding two digits into your clenching hole. He paused, letting you adjust to the minute stretch before angling his fingertips up to hit your sweet spot. He had long since memorized your body ― every erogenous zone, every sweet spot, it was all committed to memory. 

Your body was a temple just for him and he treated it with so much care. 

You were sure you would never have anyone like Tamaki Amajiki again. The thought made your heart ache and you squeezed your eyes shut to keep from crying. 

He pulled his fingers free, holding them up to his face to see the way they glistened with your slick. Popping them in his mouth, he whimpered at your taste, wishing he could get on his knees and eat you out for this last time. 

But the way you reached between his legs to bring the tip of his cock to your entrance let him know how desperate you were for him. Not wanting to keep you waiting, he easily slipped in with your assistance. 

He sunk in to the base, let out a sharp groan as your walls squeezed him. Neither of you were willing to wait long ― he set a quick pace that brought you both great pleasure. Sweat coated your bodies and caused you to stick together. Neither of you really care, however.

You reached down to grab his hand, bringing it up to your breast. He smiled, thumbing your nipple before descending down to envelop its twin between his lips. 

His tongue swirled around the bud, relishing in the way it made your walls squeeze him. 

“F-Feels so good!” you whined, clawing at his back, no doubt leaving behind red scratches. 

“Yeah?” he breathed, making sure to angle his hips just right to hit that spot he had memorized. 

Your reaction was instantaneous, a sharp cry so loud he had to reach up to cover your mouth with his hand. 

“Can’t be too loud,” he warned, his cock throbbing at the teary, pleasure-filled gaze you fixed him with. 

He could feel your moans vibrating beneath his hand as he continued his sweet pace. Your walls squeezed him tight and he groaned, dipping down to press his face to your neck. 

“Gonna cum,” your words were muffled but he managed to catch them. 

He nodded, sitting back on his heels. His grip on your mouth moved to your throat, the long digits wrapping around your neck just the way you liked. In an instant, his pace doubled and his other hand found purchase on your pelvic bone, thumb extending out to rub at your swollen clit. 

The hard bud throbbed beneath his touch as he circled it in time to his thrusts. His hand tightened against your throat, feeling your moans vibrate against his palm as you reached your high. 

Your back arched and your eyes rolled back before fluttering closed. The pinch in your brow and the way your mouth hung silently open sent him over the edge, your own euphoria being enough to make him cum. 

You squeezed his cock tight, milking everything he had to fill you up. 

Everything came to a slow halt, Tamaki slowed his grinding before allowing his softened length to slip free. His cum dripped from your still spasming entrance, making a mess of your bedsheets. Neither of you cared, however, as he laid beside you. 

“I love you,” you whispered against his chest, eyes fluttering with sleep.

“...I love you too,” he replied, kissing the top of your head.

As you drifted to sleep, you missed the flood of tears that dripped down his still flushed cheeks. 

The next morning, the birds chirping from your open balcony door woke you up. Immediately, images of last night came to mind. You sat up, holding your sheets to your chest as you looked around. 

Your nightgown and panties Tamaki had stripped you of were folded atop your dresser and there was no sign of your boyfriend. 

Or rather...ex-boyfriend.

The thought made your heart clench and you couldn’t stop the stinging in your eyes.

It was really over.

-

Your parents miracuously, and unfortunately, noticed the rapid change in your demeanor. They grilled you on the cause, although they already knew it was related to your feelings for Tamaki. Over the course of the month since he disappeared from your bed without another word, you’d grown more withdrawn and lonely. The everyday, boring rule-filled life you lived losing the tiny glimmer of happiness Tamaki once provided.

“Is this about Tamaki’s engagement?” your mother asked one evening, making everything around you come to a screeching halt. Your eyes fell to her at the other end of the table. She wasn’t looking at you, shaking her head as she cut the steak on her plate, “It’s silly to be upset over something like that. I would have expected you to be over him by now.”

“I love him…” you confessed tearfully. 

Your father scoffed, “don’t be ridiculous. Love is pointless, you know that.”

“But I…” you were cut off by your mother’s sharp glare.

“You think your father and I love each other?” you fell silent at those words, “You’d be wise to let go of that stupid fantasy of marrying for love right now.”

“We’ll take care of that soon, don’t you worry,” your father threatened with a glare that let you know the conversation was over.

The man certainly lived up to his threat because the following week, you found yourself sitting at a table with Enji and Rei Todoroki. Shoto Todoroki sat stiffly to your right, fisting his dress pants with a cold look on his face.

“I’m glad you’ve finally seen reason,” Enji spoke in that ugly, superior tone that made your face morph to one of disgust. Glancing at Shoto, you saw his eyes narrowed at his father.

At least he seemed to hate him as well.

“Well, our daughter seems to need it,” your mother spoke in a sickly sweet tone, “She’s got this foolish idea of love in her silly head. So we decided your offer for marrying young Shoto couldn’t have happened at a better time!”

Enji nodded with his arms crossed over his puffed out chest, “Excellent. You won’t regret your decision. I’ll have the proper paperwork filed as soon as this weekend and we can begin the proper preperations.”

You heard Shoto sigh beside you as he stood up, placing a hand on your shoulder. You looked up to find a sorrowful look in his eyes that almost made you cry, “I’m sorry…”

With that soft sentiment whispered soft enough that no one could hear him, he held his hand out to you. You sighed and took it, allowing him to help you to your feet.

“_____ and I will take a walk,” Shoto announced, “I’d like to get to know her a bit more.”

“Excellent idea, dear,” Rei praised, though you couldn’t help but think the smile on her face was more than fake. 

Shoto squeezed your hand, leading you out of the room. Once the two of you were safely away from the prying eyes of staff, hidden away in the garden, he released your hold.

“You fell in love with someone you weren’t supposed to, huh?” he mused, making you look up at him in shock. He chuckled softly, “Don’t worry, whatever you tell me is safe with me.”

“Yeah…” you whispered, frowning at the cobblestone ground, “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be with him until we were already together. My parents keep telling me it’s stupid to be in love…”

“I understand,” he sighed, starting a slow pace walking around with his hands clasped behind his back. When you looked up at him, he was gazing at the moon, the light making the glassiness of his eyes even more visible than you would have thought, “I did the same thing.”

“Really?” you couldn’t help but ask.

He nodded, chin wobbling slightly before he spoke, “Her name was Momo. We were together for almost 3 years before she was married off to some guy before I even knew it was happening. She told me that it was never going to work between us anyway so we shouldn’t have even bothered,” he sighed, “I was pretty heartbroken.”

“It seems you still are,” you mused softly. 

He chuckled, looking over at you finally with a sad smile, “That’s the life we live, isn’t it? Sad and lonely...nothing is truly ours, not even our love.”

Those words resonated in your heart, making you bite your lip to fight back tears. He stopped, taking your hand in his similar to how Tamaki had that last night you were together.

“Regardless of whether we are married or not,” he breathed, “I will never expect you to love me but...I will make sure you at least enjoy my company. I won’t let us become like our parents. We can at least have that bit of happiness to ourselves, right?”

“Shoto…” you breathed, the tears you had been fighting back finally coming forth. 

He cupped the back of your head, bringing you in for a sweet hug, “Who knows...maybe if we’re lucky we’ll be able to love each other in the end…”

Those words faded into the night, neither of you sure if such a thing would ever be possible. Both of your hearts already belonged to other people. It was a painful existence but you could have wound up arranged to be wed to a worse man. 

Shoto wasn’t bad, you knew that. He managed to make you feel happy when you were together ― which became more frequent the closer your wedding date grew. Of course, he didn’t make you anywhere near as happy as Tamaki did. 

You desperately missed the closeness you felt with him. How it felt to be wrapped up in the strong arms of a man who loved you. Almost every night, you found yourself sleeping on a wet pillow. 

The night before your wedding, you found yourself sitting in your bedroom with a dual haired man standing in the middle of it. It felt so strange; he was going to be your husband in just 12 hours but you still had another man on your mind.

You remembered how it felt to have Tamaki sneaking into your room late at night too.

“What’re you doing here?” you asked softly.

“You’ve been crying,” he pointed out, making you wince.

“I’m sorry…” you apologized, unsure what for.

“Why are you saying sorry?” he chuckled softly, walking closer to you.

“I’m crying because I’m marrying you tomorrow, that can’t feel very good,” you sighed.

He shook his head, hands tucked in his pockets, “I get it. That’s why I came here.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, wiping a stray tear away.

“_____,” he sighed, “Is it really worth it? What do you get out of doing what they say? You’re an adult...there’s nothing they can do to stop you from leaving. You have a good education and I’m sure Tamaki does as well,” his words had you pausing, “You might not wind up with as much money as you have now but at least you’ll have the freedom to be a person. I lost my chance by letting my parents control my life and take Momo away from me. But you still have a chance.”

“Are you saying…?”

He smiled, placing his hand on top of your head, “Be with Tamaki. Even if it’s just for a few months or a few years, you’ll know what it’s like to live your own life. I can’t even imagine what they could feel like. Aren’t you tired of living like this? With all these rules...they tell us who we can be friends with, what to eat, how to sit at the damn dinner table...we’re barely even people. We’re just a means of obtaining power. Our parents marry us to the most powerful families they can in hopes of getting an heir worth a damn. It’s bullshit.”

“Shoto…” you whispered, a new sense of life flowing through you, “What if he’s not willing to leave it all?”

He shrugged, “Then at least you can say you tried and...in the morning if it didn’t work then you can marry me and we’ll adopt a damn dog or something.”

“I’m allergic to dogs,” you countered.

“A fucking cat then,” the uncharacteristic curse had you giggling into your hand. 

“Thank you, Shoto,” he took a step back as you stood up, “I’ll see you around.”

“We’ll see,” he replied, watching as you wrapped a measly bathrobe around yourself, not a care in the world about getting properly dressed.

You were out of breath by the time you made it to Tamaki’s. Your car was parked down the street to avoid attracting any attention. Tamaki’s bedroom light was on and you eagerly climbed the lattice that decorated the side of the house. 

Peeking into his room, you could see that he was sitting at his desk, writing something. He tensed when he heard his balcony door open, spinning in his chair to gape at you.

“_____?” he gasped, jumping to his feet to shut the door and close the curtain. He gripped your arms, hissing when he felt your temperature, “It’s freezing out what the hell are you doing wearing that?”

You beamed at his care for you, throwing your arms around his shoulders. Immediately, his hands found purchase on your hips to hold you against him.

“Run away with me, Tama,” you breathed.

He froze, pulling away from you with wide eyes, “Wh-What?”

“Run away with me,” you repeated, fisting his shirt, “What’s really keeping us here? We can make it on our own, we have good educations and can get good jobs. We can be together and be happy without outside voices whispering in our ears. We can be normal people, Tamaki.”

He was quiet, loosening his grip on you to take a few steps back. He ran his hand through his hair with a sigh. The happiness and confidence you had built up quickly crashed and you found yourself feeling foolish. 

Why would he want to leave everything behind for you? He was in the same position as you; due to be married soon. Hanging your head, you let out a sigh.

“It’s alright,” you whispered, shrugging your shoulders, “I get it’s something really big to ask. You don’t have to take me up on it. I just thought...I would see.”

He still didn’t say anything and you turned on your heel to make way for the balcony, “I’m um...getting married tomorrow so...I just thought you should know that I love you so much, Tama. Being with you was the best thing I ever had...even when I’m married with Shoto, I’ll never stop thinking of you, okay? I wish you the best in your own marriage.”

You got out to the balcony, swinging one leg over the rail to climb down when two strong arms pulled you back. You gasped when you fell to the ground, your weight pressed against Tamaki as he buried his face in your neck. It didn’t take you long to realize he was crying. His tears wet your shoulder as he squeezed you tight.

“Don’t go,” he cried, “The idea of you being with another man...it’s too much.”

“Tama…” you whispered, holding onto him in return.

“Let’s do it,” he sniffled, pulling back to gaze into your eyes. He leaned forwards and pressed his lips to yours, “I’ll pack a bag. Have you got a bag?”

“No,” you replied sheepishly, “I wasn’t sure if you would say yes so I didn’t want to assume.”

He chuckled, untangling himself from you before moving back into his room, tossing all sorts of clothes and valuables into his suitcase. You laughed as he talked about selling stuff for money. 

Before long, he was packed and ready to go. 

Once you were sitting inside your car, the heat blasting as you warmed your cold skin, he reached over and took your hand in his. You looked at him, finding that familiar look of love in his eyes that never failed to make your heart soar.

As he squeezed your hand, you just knew that everything was going to be just fine.

[im-lad-ris]

Keep Your Face to the Sun: Meludir X Reader

Prompt: “Could I request a Meludir and reader where she is good friends with Legolas and is always hanging out with him and Meludir is jealous. Somehow, everyone gets to know (even Thranduil) abt it except her and they always tease him. So once when he sees her walking with Legolas he gets frustrated and just kisses her? Basically just FLOOf ”

Submitted by: @lespaceboi​

Words: 1.5k

A/N: Wow I am really behind in my writings. I hope you can forgive me for being so late, especially considering everything that’s been going on. I’m going to work to write more often! Besides that, I’ve never written for Meludir before so, kinda nervous about this one. Also adding a keep reading line to this one to kind of make my tumblr look a little nicer.

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"You know… You're staring again"

Meludir could not help but to jump at the voice that had come from behind him. His back went ramrod straight before he turned and bowed, "My King Thranduil" he said, his lips drawn in a tight line. He had not heard the king approach him from behind, and he had certainly not expected to be called out for his behavior.

"Pity they are so oblivious, isn't it?" The king remarked before moving away from Meludir, his robes flowing behind him as he made his way across the banquet hall. Meludir let out a huff before returning to the activity he had been doing before being interrupted, looking at you.

He had spent the better part of the evening watching you from across the room. Still, he could not help the way his blood boiled every time the prince laid a hand on you, or smiled at you, or even looked at you. It irked him, and even though he swore to himself he was not jealous, the tightening of his chest every time he saw you and Legolas together was unbearable.

An hour had yet to pass since Meludir had seen the king before Tauriel had passed by him as well, giving him a knowing look. All Meludir could do was roll his eyes and try to hide the blush that had been caused by her look. It took all his willpower to not cover his burning cheeks.

Not even 10 minutes after Tauriel had passed by him and made her way to the other side of the room, a council member had given him a look as well, something akin to a mix between sorrow and joy. He had met the man once or twice, and yet the look he was given brought another blush to his face.

Was he so painfully obvious to everyone in the kingdom? Well, obvious to everyone but you. Was he that transparent with his feelings that even those who did not know much of him could see how he felt? He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, hoping that this night would soon end. He could not bear one more look from another person. Well, except for you. But you never seemed to look at him in the way his heart desired. He had once considered that maybe he was invisible to you, an ant to be crushed underfoot, but the kindness you treated him with suggested otherwise. Maybe it was that his personality, his looks, his everything did not compare to that of the prince, the one who you spent almost every day near.

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Things continued like this for Meludir for quite some time. He would receive looks from those he knew, and some from those he did not. These looks were especially frequent when you were in the room as well. It was almost as if they pitied him for not being able to express his feelings to you. But what could he do? He felt as though you were the sun, a star to be held in reverence, and he was only the moon. He was only magnificent because you were there behind him, guiding him, shining through him, whether you knew it or not. Your radiance was the thing that kept him going. And if he told you that he felt this? Would the sun no longer appear behind the moon, would it no longer shine and bring light to a darkening sky? Would the stars fall, their brilliance scorching a path through the sky as they crashed to the earth? He could admit he did not know, but that did not mean he was not fearful all the same. For whom would not fear the unknown?

Meludir stood and pondered on these things for quite some time, leaning against a corridor wall. He was so lost in thought he did not hear the footsteps coming towards him and was shaken out of his internal reflection when a voice spoke up.

"Funny seeing you here Meludir. I thought for sure you would be somewhere staring at Y/N." Meludir's cheeks turned a bright red, and as he turned, most likely to lash out at whoever had spoken to him, all angry words turned to mush in his mouth. The prince, Legolas, had spoken to him. Meludir clenched his fists at his side, he could not let fly his nasty words upon the prince of the realm.

He grit his teeth together, his cheeks still burning before trying, and failing, to calmly respond. "I do not see how my affections are your concern," he seethed, before remembering his place and adding a quick "my prince" to the end of his sentence.

Legolas smiled at him, and Meludirs' teeth clenched so hard he thought they might have cracked. "I may not be king, but most things in this realm are still my concern, and not beyond my sight. Besides, your affections are so plainly obvious I would not be surprised if all of middle-earth were privy to them"

Meludirs eyebrows shot up in surprise before he raised his hand to point at the prince. Just as words were about to leave his throat, another voice came from behind him. "Legolas! Meludir! What a pleasure to see you both!"

He recognized your voice immediately, and the way you said his name made him shudder before he brought his hand back down to his side and turned to face you. You smiled at them both before grabbing Legolas's hand and dragging him out of the corridor, muttering something about his presence being required elsewhere.

Meludir felt his blood boil, his insides were an inferno, and he swore his vision had been tinged with crimson. Just as you were about to round the corner of the corridor, Meludir reached out, pulling your hand from Legolas, and yanking you towards him.

He spared no thought for the prince as he used his hands to cup your cheeks and pull you into a kiss. Your noses bumped together for a second before he found the sweet spot, and your mouths melted together.

He felt ethereal. He had eaten many sweets in his life, yet your lips were the sweetest thing he had ever tried. He felt as if warm honey was falling past his lips and down his throat, and it was a feeling he never wanted to end.

He was surprised when you sighed against his mouth, your hands reached around his neck, tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck. After a second standing still, he kissed you with a renewed vigor, dipping you backward as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth.

After a few moments, he stood back up, feeling out of breath. Even though he wished to never let you go, he removed his mouth from yours and rested his forehead against yours. When he opened his eyes, he spotted tears brimming in your eyes, wetting your eyelashes.

"What is wrong, Nin Meleth?" he asked, using a finger to wipe your tears away. As he did, he looked back down the corridor, yet Legolas was absent. He thanked the stars the prince had left and did not have to witness the childlike admittance of his feelings.

"I thought," you started, his eyes turning back down towards yours, "that you didn't feel the same for me." He was taken aback and pulled you into a tight hug.

"I'm surprised you never noticed how I felt, even when everyone else did. I was often teased for never taking my eyes off you…" he said before placing a kiss on your forehead.

You stepped back in surprise, your fingers tangled with his, "That cannot be true! I was teased for the same reasons. How surprising it must be to know that not once did our eyes meet." you stated, a smile gracing your lips. Meludir blushed, his face a dark red at your admission. You had been looking at him too? You had seen him as he had seen you?

He smiled down at you, wanting to melt when your eyes met his. They were burning bright as they beheld him and he could not help but smile even wider, letting his happiness be known to you.

As it turns out, when the sun loves the moon, just as the moon loves the sun, no stars rain down from the heavens, and the reflection of the sun's love leaves the moon to shine twice as bright in the midnight sky.

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Tag List: @writing-fortolkein​ @your-pixels-are-showing​ @emastrangee​ @abbiesthings​ @bilbo--watson​

Remember to send an ask if you want to be added to the tag list!

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

So We Refuse To Take it Tragically

A/N: I’ve just accepted my fate is to be obsessed with this man, so here’s yet another Obi-Wan fic. There will be a second part to this, and I’m thinking a mini series of in-between moments. I won’t give spoilers, but this is NOT my normal type of fic, but he’s an exception to every rule in my book, apparently. Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv​ for being my beta on this, I don’t know where this would be without you!

Thank you also to @beskars​ for her post here that birthed this. Always blessing us with fuel for the thirst. 

And to the one I know IRL that found my tumblr, one I will refer to as Top Voice, this is your final warning to gtfo before feasting your eyes on unprecedented filth and sap. 

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force sensitive! Fem Reader (no Y/N)

Warnings: SMUT!!!  Cumeating, hair pulling, Comfort Sex, ANGST!! (It has a happy ending later, I promise, but it starts after ROTS, so it’s par for the course) If you’re gonna write not-particularly-pertinent-to-plot-porn, might as well make it unnecessarily detailed, right? As usual, too many feelings for porn,  More warnings will be in the tags to prevent spoilers 

Title from one of my favorite quotes: 

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

Tatooine is no place for a baby.

 There are no soft surfaces, nor comforts, nor surplus of anything. It’s desolate and deprived and oppressive, but you watch as Obi-Wan shields the child from its harsh, sand-pelting winds with his whole body, despite the fact the child fits in the space between his wrist and elbow. It’s overzealous, but you don’t say anything of it.

 The past two days have ripped away nearly everything he held dear, insisting on devastating every tender place. Nothing sacred has been left untouched.

 He broke the code long before he met you, and you know part of why his love for you came so easily, why he had no qualms with breaking his vows, was because he’d long since loved the man that became his family in every way that matters.

 Love and Light so tightly knit together the fabric of his being one could not be separated from the other. 

 And you could take on the entire Force with your two fists for how it had rewarded him for it with Hate and Darkness coming from someone so close it shattered something foundational in Obi-Wan. 

 Yet even now, there isn’t Darkness surrounding his signature. There’s brokenness and his ever-present equilibrium has been replaced by jagged shards. But despite it all, those rugged pieces still reflect light erratically in their shine.

 It’s a loss and betrayal that spans many different planes: on one level, there’s nowhere you look in the galaxy beyond just the two of you that isn’t marked by the Empire’s rise in power, marking the end of the Republic he fought for and the fall of the Jedi, his community, comrades, and only home he’d ever known. And on another level, you’ve seen the weight of war and worse in Obi-Wan’s eyes, but nothing, nothing like this.

 The pain is panoramic, but it’s also profoundly personal.

 Even still, his attention isn’t on himself, but on the fussy bundle in his arms.

 You wonder: is it the galaxy that doesn’t allow this man time to heal? Or is it his own choice to throw himself into the need of others so he has a tangible reason to avoid his own torments?

 When he places the baby into the arms of the young couple, you know the times ahead will give the answer to that.

 Because there aren't the cries of the past few nights to wake either of you, there’s silence. 

 You long to fill it, to try to bridge this insurmountable void with something, anything you could say. But you know it’s bigger than you. So, so much bigger than you.

 Monumental obstacles and tremendous loss find themselves standing in the threshold of an abandoned hut smaller than your flat was on Coruscant. 

 “Well… it’s not much to look at, certainly. But the moisture vaporator seems to be in repairable condition, and we’re just far enough from town to avoid any curious neighbors. What do you think?” He turns to you, and his eyes, dark circles under and all, turn sharp in their assessment of your response. 

 “I told you. I’m going wherever you are so long as you’ll let me.” Your voice is gentle but adamant as you remind him. 

 He walks up from the living room to the threshold of the kitchen where you are, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. “Be that as it may, I’m asking your input on where we’re going, or living, as your happiness means a great deal to me.” 

 There’s still no smile, but it’s the brightest his energy has felt since the last time you saw him before he came to your door in Coruscant days ago, whispering a rushed, heartfelt farewell, which you quickly countered with an emphatic, unshakable, “I’m coming with you.”

 You look up at him, gliding your hand across his cheek into the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s Darkness at the door of his soul that he’s fighting off every moment, and he has the audacity to speak of your happiness. 

 You don’t dare bring up his. It’s irony, at best. 

 So you smile, timid, knowing the gesture in itself might be blasphemous to the tone, but genuine all the same. “We can make a life here. I know we can.”  

 He scans your eyes, looking to find the authenticity in your statement. “Are you certain?” 

 He’s not asking about the hut anymore. Or, at least, not just the hut. 

 “Obi-Wan, I never had any delusion that any life I had with you would be easy. I thought I’d only ever be getting you in secret, sparse moments. Although I’d never, ever wish for it to be under the circumstances that it is, having you like this is better than I ever hoped.”

 There’s silence as he processes your words, then a wry twist of his features. “How I wish that your expectations needn’t be so low.”

 “No, no, that’s not what I meant.” You incline your head, trying to find the words to convey what you mean. 

 “Nothing any person or any planet anywhere has to offer me holds a candle to what I’ve found in you, nor will it ever. I’d never trade unshakable wholeness for the transience of materialistic happiness.”

 You know this has to resound with him. Is it not within the core set of values he was taught to forsake comfort in any avenue for something far greater? 

 His eyes flick between yours, gauging, and you can feel him reaching out to feel at your signature to solidify the truth. 

 If you knew him any less, you might be insulted at his questioning of your trustworthiness. But it’s not you he doesn’t trust. It’s something good willingly giving itself to him that causes his wariness. 

 The Force can have your middle finger along with your fists. 

 Then he’s relaxing into you, letting out an exhale that seems heavy with more than just air, and burying his nose in your hair for his next inhale. 

 ****

 By the end of the day, you’ve gathered enough supplies for basic necessities and to start on the repairs of the hut. You both snarf down a ration bar before shortly thereafter clearing the blown-in sand off what must have been the bed of the home. It’s a half circle indenture in the wall, and it has a dip obviously made for a mattress or cushion of some sort, but as all that’s available are the blankets bought in town today, you set to fluffing them to some semblance of comfort. 

 Fatigue pulls you into it far sooner than the suns setting. Last night was your first night without Luke, spent in a room you rented in town. Today was spent traveling to and from the hut, discussing details on what needs to be done, and you? You are absolutely exhausted. You can only imagine what he must feel like. 

 Obi-Wan secures the lock on the door before sitting on the side of the bed, looking off into nothing for a long, long moment. 

 You push up to your side, placing a hand on his back. “Obi…”

 His shoulder nudges toward your hand, but he cuts you off. “It’s going to get quite cold when the suns set, and since the stove isn’t properly ventilating yet, we’re going to have to work with body heat.”

 “I’ll try to mask my reluctance,” you retort.

 He turns his face to you then, and just a smidge of humor sweeps across his eyes before he sheds his cloak, followed by everything else until only his pants remain. You’ve long since stripped down to your own sleeping comfort level, so before he can fold his cloak along with the rest of his discarded clothing, you take it and cover yourself with it. 

 He shakes his head a little at you once he’s done, settling down next to you, throwing the covers over both of you. 

 “Tell me what you need.” You’re face to face with him, but his expression is unreadable. 

 “I… I don’t know.” He considers you as if you held the answer to the question you just asked him.

 “What about want, then? What do you want, Obi-Wan?” You wish he didn’t have his shields perpetually raised these days. It’d be so much easier to just read his energy. 

 His hand reaches up so he can stroke your cheek with his thumb. “You’re tired, darling. Rest.” 

 Ah, there it is. If the answer to the question of desire is him counter offering his own response with the fact you’re tired… 

  “So are you. But you still want.” You press your body fully against his, dropping your voice down to a whisper. “And so do I.” 

 You won’t push anymore than that, letting him take or leave the invitation. For you, it’s not even a question. It’s been four months since you last saw him. Since you’d last felt his touch.

 You’d spent the last few nights in each other’s arms, but between Luke's shrill cries and the deafening devastation of the events of the days prior, it’d been just that: sleep. Or, what tousled, disturbed counterfeit the circumstance offered you both.  

 For him, though, there’s an abysmal weariness that digs far beyond lack of sleep, and you don’t dare infringe upon him in any way.

 But there’s still a longing present, and even without his Force signature to guide you into his feelings, he can’t hide his eyes. 

 You watch the moment he makes a decision solidify across his countenance right before he presses his lips against yours. You sigh into it, letting the draw of his skin on yours pull you into orbit.

 Because that’s exactly what happens. It’s a kiss for a kiss’ sake, for flavor and fervency and the fullness of each other, but it quickly gains its own momentum when his tongue parts your lips truly. 

 It’s an acute absence. Not having his energy surrounding you with his shields so far up. But it also gives sharp attention to the press of skin against skin, makes it an anchor and an outlet for all that is still too tender to even acknowledge.

 You find grip in his hair, purposefully running your hands the opposite of the way he combs it as he takes your face in both hands and pulls you into him all the more. 

 When you both need to breathe, he only moves so far away that his lips still brush against yours on every exhale. “I..” he starts, then stops. 

 The hand still in his hair rakes through it gently, scratching your fingertips against his scalp as you wait for him to complete his thought.

 “Let me taste you,” he says at last. You know it's a question from the way he stills, waiting for permission, but it’s phrased as nothing like it. 

 You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a rhetorical quest…”

 “Oh, hush.” He’s already nudging you over onto your back, situating his body over yours, claiming your lips again. You allow yourself to sink into it, cherishing his weight over you, his hand roaming your ribcage, before pulling back to speak. 

 “I’m sorry, are you now getting on to me for my sass? Because… oh!”

 He finds a nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt, pinching softly with a small tug. 

 “By all means, continue. I was most intrigued.” His smirk is back, but it fixes you with a tinge of worry when it again proves to be a smile only skin deep.

 You place two fingers just shy of his forehead, but he catches your wrist in an almost painful clasp. The alarm casted by his expression quickly is washed away by a carefully constructed impassiveness, and your heart sinks. 

 He has to see it, because he bows his head in apology. “Not tonight.”

 And before you have any room to respond, he’s shifting himself down as he lifts your shirt up, placing a single taunting, wet kiss on each nipple before moving even further down, nipping at the skin right below your belly button. 

 He’s distracting you from what he’s not allowing you access to, and you know it, and you let him anyway. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Distraction from the barrage of the mind. If that’s what he needs, that’s what you’ll give.

 As he toys with the hem of your underthings, and you lift your hips to assist their removal, you realize it’s exactly what you need too.

 Except he apparently isn’t planning to remove your underwear at all. With a casual flick of his hand, your legs are parted and held like that with a no-nonsense sprout of Force energy. Then he’s simply pulling the cloth to the side and brings his mouth torturously closer, but stops just before contact. 

 You push up to your elbows to tell him you can’t take much of those teasing breaths he’s taking, blowing hot air against sensitive nerve endings. But when you hear his breath stutter as he just looks, unhurried in admiration, you decide against it, even as you flush at the undivided attention. Sprawling his palms out over your inner thighs, he dips down to press his mouth between his fingers, sucking not-so-gently into the soft skin, sending the flesh into tremors before he’s even really done anything to you.

 He says your name as he opens you up with his fingers, parting your folds so everything is bared to his view. You start to squirm, the exposure starting to feel a little too heady, and you’re starting to appeal with the beginning of his name when he leans forward, straight away connecting his lips to your clit. You try to thrust up into it as some shameful noise leaves you, but there’s only so much movement you have with your legs still pinned. 

 He loves to tease, so you don’t expect him to retract the energy that constricted your legs at the first resistance. Instead, he slides his hands under your ass, pulling you on to his tongue and lets you push your hips into him unchecked.

 He hums at your enthusiasm, the reverberation sending your hands into his hair again, which gifts you with even more noises from him. 

 It doesn’t take long at all, and you’re coming undone on his tongue, biting into your forearm to dampen your cry. 

 He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder, signaling your tender surrender. He obeys, looking up at you from between your thighs, absolutely besotted, eyes shining a shade brighter than before. 

 Then. Obi-Wan Kenobi keeps his eyes on yours before dipping his head and tilting his jaw, running his beard right where you’re still open and vulnerable, abrasion grating in a way you know you’ll be feeling all day tomorrow. 

 He licks his lips as he moves back up to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on him. 

 He goes easily when you gesture for him to lie on his back so you can straddle him, carefully avoiding any contact where he’s throbbing for you. His hands fall right to your waist, stroking gently as he waits for you to initiate. 

 You focus your study on the section of his hair that’s fallen in his face, twirling a finger in it, happy to have anywhere to look but his eyes. 

 He’d normally at least be in your mind by now, and even though you understand it, well, the drought of it is as appropriate for the planet as anything. 

 You remember too late to raise your own shields against any accidentally too-loud thoughts, as Obi-Wan cups his hand on your chin, forcing your gaze to his, saying your name quietly in calling.

 “You have to know, it isn’t anything to do with…”

 You interrupt him. “No. No. I won’t have you addressing my insecurities of all things in light of…”

 “Please listen, love. I need you to know, it hasn’t anything to do with the love I have for you. That hasn’t changed and never will. I think I need… “ He pauses, solemn in thought. “Time,” he finishes finally.

 You knew this already in the pit of your stomach, but hearing him say it, hearing him affirm that it isn’t you insufficiency… you hate that you needed it as much as you did. 

 And if he needs time? That’s what you’ll give. But he also has a want, evidenced by the brush of him against you when you scoot yourself down his torso. 

 You take the hem of his pants with you when you continue down, ridding him of them and his shorts. But when you wrap your hand around him and begin to lower your mouth, he grips your chin again, shaking his head. 

 “I can’t… please, just.”  It’s always an anomaly when he’s at a loss for words, usually ever-so articulate.  

 A gasp chokes out of you when you feel the phantom of his mind. Not in full, no. With barriers, and it’s projected out, not at all the same sensation to being within it. 

 It’s desperation. For how long it’s been, for how drained he feels, how he’s not sure how long this will last, and how much he yearns to be inside you.

There’s not even a second of debate in your mind as you take your position on his lap again, lifting your hips, intention apparent. He takes his cock in hand, holding steady so you can start to seat yourself onto the thick push of him. 

 The hitch in his breath is your only warning before he seizes the undersides of your thighs, halting you from taking him any further.

 His eyes are tightly shut, and you know from watching him before that his facial expression is an attempt at borderline meditation, except it’s several long seconds before he achieves anything resembling calm. 

 It’s as good a time as any to push his hands off you and squirm around to take him a little deeper. You plan on rubbing your victory in, but your smirk is wiped away with a whine at the elation. Instead of stopping you again, he almost imperceptibly thrusts up, and it’s your turn to falter, slamming your hands into his chest, nails digging in, working against your weight trying to pull you down onto him. 

 It goes on like that, until you’re both bordering on hysteria before you’ve even fully taken him. You can’t figure out if it’s a worse torment to keep delaying or continuing. 

 Obi-Wan seems to have come to his own conclusion to that, as he finally opens his eyes, locking them with yours as he places his palms flat on the tops of your thighs and pushes down until your skin is flush with his.

 You pull a hand up, biting on your fist, trying to stifle the exclamation in your throat.

 He pulls it away, voice ragged as he speaks. “I want to hear you, little one. We needn’t hide anymore.”

 It’s a dimensional statement. For one, no one is around for miles, a stark contrast to your quarters on Coruscant where you at least attempted to be considerate of your too-near neighbors when it came to noise. For another, it’s the irony of being in hiding from the Empire, but being allowed to be open in your relationship with each other finally.

 And the deepest irony is that you both have your barriers up so firmly right now all you can concentrate on is bared skin.

 Oh, but what a beautiful spanse of bared skin he is. Freckled and almost luminously pale, bending and curving with the strength of the form underneath.

 He sits up slowly, generating a breathless plea from both of you at the new angle. A search of your eyes asks you a question, and you’re nodding, kissing him with the full brunt of your craving. 

 You slide up and then down again just as he drives up, and you’ve found your rhythm, just like that. 

 His hands push you onto him every time you pull up, and his tongue laves your breasts, sucking and biting along your collarbone, as you rake your nails down his chest, over the backs of his shoulders, his scalp, anything you can touch. 

 It’s enough to send him into a chorus of groans, shoving himself hard up into you.

 He doesn’t even speak it aloud, just projects the apologetic warning that he’s on the edge.

 When his thumb finds your clit, everything in you goes tense despite the relief. You clench around him, hard, and he instantly moves his hands to your shoulder blades pulling you flush against him as he lets out an unrestrained sound against your breasts. 

 You push his thumb away from where it’s stilled against you, replacing it with your own. His fingers twitch in their bruising grip, and you can feel him throbbing inside you.

 You stay like that for a moment, just letting him ride out his bliss, whispering sweet affirmations into his hair.

 When he looks up at you again, his eyes are glassed over. You wonder if it’s ecstasy that is the cause, or something from the bedrock boiling to the surface. 

 He doesn’t give you a chance to elaborate, flipping you over on to your back. The moment he withdraws, you can feel the mess dripping down your inner thighs. 

 It takes everything in you to not come at the sight alone as Obi-Wan dips further down your body, parting you and lapping his tongue right where you’re weeping evidence of desire. 

 You know you have to be making a mess of his face and beard, but he certainly doesn’t seem to mind, indulging on his own spill infused with yours. 

 When he adds two fingers in you and curls them strategically, searing heat shoots through your lower stomach as you arch against his mouth, his name a high whisper with absolutely no suppression, echoing across the empty stone walls of the home. 

 He leaves a final tender kiss against you before lying down next to you, pulling you into his arms, and you pull him into yours right back when your limbs remember how to function.

 His head drops against yours, and his eyes flutter shut, taking a deep inhale, like he’s trying to fill his lungs with more than just oxygen. 

 Nothing is fine, and the world is crumbling. But right now, as the suns finally leave the house in dark, as you clasp each other in tight embrace, as sleep pulls you under, you can pretend it’s fine. If only for a moment.

 *******

  There’s a flash of feeling that startles you awake and into the disorientation that comes from waking in a new place. The sensation worsens when you feel the reverberations of the equivalent of a slammed door in the Force. 

 You sit up quickly and look over to Obi-Wan, who sits on the side of the bed, head in his hands, fingers brutal in their grip.

 You move toward him, and he turns around at the sound. “Go back to sleep, darling. it’s nothing.”

 When you fix him with a gaze that essentially translates “bantha fodder,” he just lies back down, pulling your back into his chest, and you doubt the fact you can’t see his face like this is a mistake. 

 The rhythm of his breathing betrays the fact he is nowhere near sleep, but you find yourself fading off soon again anyway.

 ****

 When you wake in the morning, you’re alone in the bed, which is no surprise. He’s not one to lounge, and if the height of the suns peaking through the window has anything to say, he’s already been up for a while.

 His cloak is still tangled in the blankets, though, and you wrap yourself in it, padding outside after doing something about your morning breath. 

 The hut is situated on a cliff, overlooking a barren valley. The suns glare with their unrelenting eyes of heat even so early in the day, and you stare back as best you can without squinting, daring them to do their worst. They know nothing of the misery that’s already visited this home. They have no hope of competing. 

 You find Obi-Wan cross-legged near the edge of the cliff. Cross-legged and levitating. 

 Of course, you know he can do things like this. It’s just such a different thing to see him doing it . You’ve never had a proper morning with him like this, seeing his routine. He was always up before the sun, you with him, gathering moments and soaking them in before he had to leave again.

 He looks almost peaceful now, not at rest, but peaceful. 

 How?

 How does he still have so much trust in the Force? 

 A more lighthearted thought emerges through the grim train, as you notice he’s opted to not put his tunic back on yet. 

 It doesn’t matter out here, you suppose, there isn’t any other living being for miles around. For that matter, you wonder why he even left the pants. 

 His voice damn near startles you, not even opening his eyes to address you. 

 “Although that may be the case, there are some locations more bearable to get sunburn than others.”

 You blush at being caught, and gently ensure your thoughts aren’t accidentally projected again, but he doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it.

 “Join me?”

 As he opens his eyes and descends the couple inches down back onto the ground, you feel your heart do the same. He’s taught you little things, here and there, and you’ve enjoyed it, learning to tap into that constant humming you never had the tools to channel before.

 But now? 

 What interest do you have with The Force that failed the man who served it without fail? You could burn it down for the atrocities it’s committed even in negligence against the man you love.

 But there’s been enough burning.

 Obi-Wan won’t speak of what transpired on Mustafar, but you’ve caught glimpses. Last night wasn’t the first night you’ve had him back, and it wasn’t the first you’d woken to a severe troubling in his aura. 

 You’re still not sure if Luke is a fussy baby or simply a very responsive one, as it seemed Obi-Wan was already awake before Luke started crying. 

 It was only mere seconds before his shields came slamming down, firmly in place, every time. 

You can’t tell if he’s trying to shelter you from his feelings or blockade them away from himself.

 Maybe both.

 But those seconds? They’re long enough. For just a flash of a charred, severed body. Of hateful, pleading, golden eyes. 

 There’s been enough burning. 

 “I can’t ever be a Jedi, Obi.” 

 “That’s not what I’m asking of you.” 

 He knows your criticisms as well as your compliments over the Jedi. You’ve both discussed it at great length many times, always over a firm understanding and respect, but you’ve never really had long enough to have a conclusion. But you’re not going to push now, not with the fall of it all still so close behind him. 

 “I should think our relationship itself is testimony that I don’t inherently agree or adhere to all Jedi teachings.”

 You drop your eyes, trying to ignore the sweat starting to trickle down your skin from the relentless heat. “I thought maybe you were with me in spite of your better judgement.”

 His brow furrows. “At first, that’s what I may have thought too, but it made itself clear that although what transpired between us was forbidden by the Code…” he trails off for a moment, almost hesitant. “...the way Light was and is exemplified any time I have you in my arms presented a solidified case that not always is the Jedi way synonymous with the will of the Force.”

 He says it wholeheartedly, but you can tell it pains him. It’s easy to never speak ill of the dead, either of individuals or groups. To glorify and wipe away any transgressions to ensure their memory sparkles as you grieve it. 

 The harder thing is to grieve everything, both the good you lost and the bad you experienced from the same source.

 And there’s another level there. Something that has him patting the spot beside him and giving a heartbreakingly forced smile.

 Even through it all, wariness of aspects of his own religion included, he seeks unity with the Force without reservation or resentment.

 You don’t fight him anymore. 

 The war is over, but the battle has just begun, and so help you Maker, you’re going to fight for him to have the chance to heal. 

 So you sit, mimicking his position. 

 When he smiles again, it’s much smaller but not at all fake. 

 “First, clear your mind.”

 *****

 The days are afflicted with an underlying gloom, full of work that busies the hands but leaves the mind to wander, which wasn’t at all a luxurious thing. 

 But the nights are filled with unclaimed time, time in an abundance you never had with each other before. 

 Sometimes it’s shot with silence from the weight of the day, reveling in the presence of another as you work together on the supper dishes.

 Or sometimes there’s almost an excitement, despite the labor ahead, of the plans for the place that’s now your home. 

 “Wouldn’t we have to have some sort of larger equipment to hoist that over the cliff edge?” You wonder aloud to Obi-Wan, speaking of the replacement unit for finally getting some very basic temperature control for the hut. “The way around back is too rough and would scratch it up, and I, for one, wouldn’t want to try pushing it up manu…”

 You stop at his smirk he’s trying to hide with tilting his tea cup higher over his lips. 

 “...Or there’s a Jedi solution to this problem that requires neither, and you’re just letting me ramble on anyway.” You punctuate the end of your statement by tossing a pillow his direction, which just stops. Midair. 

 There’s so much legend surrounding Jedi, you haven’t really been sure what’s factual and what’s fairytale. 

 You certainly knew of some of his abilities, but he didn’t tend to elaborate on details of his missions before, and you never argued, knowing it was a liability for you to have that kind of information if anyone ever found out what you meant to Obi-Wan.

 He chuckles, not even trying to look a little guilty. 

 Once you remember to shut your mouth, you get back to planning. “And that same principle just applies to objects of any size?”

 He nods. “Same principle, just more concentration required.” 

 You tuck your feet under you on your chair as you think on that for a second. You’ll have to ask him to teach you that one next. Mediation alone could get rather dull.

 “So, for instance, if a great amount of concentration is being spent Force-lifting an object up the cliff, it would leave a Jedi vulnerable to, say… projectiles thrown?” You throw another pillow at him, which just as easily halts next to the other, gravity defiant. 

 He could have lowered the first one by now. You raise a brow at the knowledge he’s putting on a show for you. 

 “You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.” 

 More often than not, the time of the evenings are spent loving and lounging in sheets, savoring the difference of unhurried lovemaking, with no heart-wrenching farewell on the horizon.

 But every time you gently ask to reach his mind, he pushes the request and your hand away.

 *******

 Obi-Wan’s visits to see Luke are met with a level of hostility. The man, Owen, seems wary of him, doing everything he can to cut the visit short as you and the woman, Beru, if you remember correctly, look silently to each other for some relief in the tension.

 They already likely know his actual name, but you’re careful to only address Obi as “Ben” here, along with everywhere else that isn’t your hut. It’s precautionary, but if it’s for the sake of protecting Luke and Obi-Wan himself, you’ll do it without any further questions.

 But Luke seems to be doing well, and that is ultimately what matters most. It’s hard to believe how quickly he’s grown in the mere weeks that you’ve been here.

 The boy might be by far Obi-Wan’s greatest purpose being on this planet, but it’s not his only. 

 Master Yoda had given him Jedi texts, yes, but also another task for his time here. 

You’re thankful to talk about either, as it seems to be one of the few things he’ll open up to you about as it pertains to himself. 

 But when he goes to meditate alone, calling for his mentor, his father in every right of the term, he comes back more empty than he left. 

 When you look at him with a too-knowing look, too infiltrating for his comfort, he easily slides into a quip.

 “My old master, it seems, won’t appear unless on his own terms. I’m not sure what else I expected, honestly.”

 ******

 You also learn that the man does not cook. Not that you consider yourself an expert, but at the very minimum, you know how to use spices, which on Tatooine come as hot as their weather.

 “Is it a Jedi thing to have tasteless food, or is that just you?” You tease as he dices some sort of root at your direction while you sift through the cabinet. 

 His eyes are full of mischief when he’s quiet for a moment before speaking up. “I would argue there’s concrete evidence that I’m quite happy to indulge in the pleasures of taste.”

 You can’t help your blush as his very pointed look. 

 Dinner is long forgotten after that, but the night is delectable all the same.

 *****

 Something has shifted in your own Force signature. Something you can’t put your finger on. 

 It doesn’t seem harmful or threatening in essence, but it makes you wary in a way that makes your skin itch with more than the dryness. 

 You try not to think much of it. After all, there’s plenty to do between tending to the vaporator, hunting, fending off the Sand People, and your learning to wield the Force.

 After rumors of Tusken raiders being nearby, you ask Obi-Wan to teach you combat.  This would be starting long before he normally would teach someone, he explained, but he does it anyway. It’s not exactly using the Force at first, having to start with how to even move your body in the event of attack, slowly enhancing those skills with the Force as you become more confident in them. 

 You look forward to it more than any other task. It gives you a strength you haven’t had before, and it’s a whole different level of connection to the Force when you trust it physically, not just in your mind. 

 It’s also another level of trust with Obi-Wan, knowing he’d never hurt you even as he enters the role of a potential threat, guiding you through how to handle it.

 So you don’t know why today your stomach won’t agree to the way you want your body to move. You push through it anyway, despite Obi-Wan’s concerned questioning. 

 You lose your lunch into the rocks, and you really wish he wouldn’t pick you up to take you back into the hut, because the shift of what’s up and what’s down doesn’t help at all. 

 And you wish he wouldn’t dote over you the rest of the day, as if you didn’t feel useless enough already, as if the illness didn’t leave as quickly as it came. 

 You make a mental note to ensure you don’t let yourself become dehydrated again to that point.

 *****

 The trips into town are kept to a minimum, trying to keep curiosity away from the new couple. Also, there wasn’t much to do except barter and spend credits, something you both tried not to do a great deal of. 

 Obi-Wan was sent off with enough Republic credits to get you started here, but it was hit or miss if the vendors took them that day, and he also didn’t want to spend too much at once.

 Nothing was more suspicious than surplus here.

 The woman you brought the limited produce available from seemed… different this trip. 

 Obi-Wan was a couple of stalls down from you, negotiating with a man who had obviously jacked up the price on the items needed. Poor man didn’t know what he was in for. 

 You turned your attention back on to the woman in front of you, and tried to decipher what was different this time and why it felt so familiar. 

 As you pointed to a basket of hubba gourds, inquiring of the price, she gave you one that you knew for a fact was higher than last time. 

 You counter offered the same price as last time you were here, and she firmly stated her price again. Ready to stand your ground, you go to state your price again, she puts her hand to her belly, bringing her skirt in around, revealing a small bump. 

 “Can’t afford your low-ball offers with this one on the way, understand?” 

 The sky suddenly falls around you in thunderous clamor as the physical realm around you moves on, unaffected and unreachable. Almost mechanically, you place the credits she asked for on the table, not even capable of addressing the obvious manipulation.

 Understanding drenches you in its brutal weight as you realize the source why she felt so different this time. 

 Your hands shake in their clasp on the basket as you pull yourself into a side alley, heaving your breakfast up. 

 Because you recognize the same difference in her is the exact same one that has changed your Force signature.

 It’s because there’s a flickering light of another being’s Force signature within you. 

  Tagged as requested: @maybege​

[lacetulle]

Hi, love your blog, you're a beacon on Tumblr, and I've found some of my favorites through you. Aka Iris van Herpen and Richard Quinn. Do you ever do plus sized designers? Especially plus size in their sort style? Thank you!

First off, thank you! I love hearing about people finding designers through the blog!

Secondly, I’m going to answer your question and expand on what other anonymous questions have asked in the last couple of days.  I’ve mentioned before that I answer questions in the order I receive them and this one was next on the list.  However in the last 48 hours I’ve gotten five messages about plus size fashion, so in effort to not make a bunch of repetitive posts, I figured I’d combine a couple answers here. So as a warning, this is going to be a long answer, and you might not care about all of it.

As for your question, Iris van Herpen and Richard Quinn are more avant-garde on the runway compared to other designers, and I personally have not seen any plus sized designers doing what they do. Obviously the fashion industry is so deeply skewed towards thin models, that any designer that showcases plus size models on the runway are typically put in a nice gown or a day dress. That’s how far behind the industry is in making fashion for plus sizes…just to put a plus sized model in a simple dress or gown is groundbreaking. And it’s ridiculous, really. It’s long overdue.

In regards to Iris van Herpen: the great thing is that she does couture. And couture is made to order with the client’s measurements.  So there’s no reason why anyone who isn’t a sample size couldn’t wear something from her. That being said, I haven’t seen anyone curvy wearing her designs, but there’s a first time for everything. As for Richard Quinn, he has fun runways and other fun runways that have inclusive models would be Chromat and The Blonds, but they don’t sell every day fashion the way Quinn does. Chromat has always been big on inclusivity, especially on the runway. But the brand is geared towards swimwear, bodysuits, and some sports wear.  At times they’ll put out casual wear, but it’s not always guaranteed. The Blonds have started showcasing plus size models, however the brand isn’t mass produced. I grew to know them by seeing the bodysuits they’ve designed for big names in the music industry. I think you have to do custom orders with them. It’s interesting because I’ve noticed they were inclusive, due to the clients attending the shows - they were all shapes and sizes - but it wasn’t until a few seasons ago that they showcased a plus sized model in a show.

(The Blonds Spring 2018, Chromat Spring 2018)

As for specific designers, here’s a small list:

Courtney Noelle is a brand who caters to plus sizes and Courtney has some beautiful designs. She’s not afraid to use color, patterns, or sequins.

Adrianna Papell is a great designer for more dressy styles.

Ashley Nell Tipton won her season of Project Runway and her runway show was made up entirely of plus sized models. Her designs are specifically for plus sized women.

Good American launched in 2016 with inclusivity in mind and they even let you choose what model you’d like to see their pieces on. I believe they launched as a denim company, but have quickly expanded into active wear, as well as jumpsuits and dresses. (Side note: I am by no means a Kardashian fan and I know Good American was co-founded by Khloe. Good American might be the only tie to the Kardashians that I like.)

Savage X Fenty by Rihanna is a fantastic brand for lingerie for people of all sizes. Plus, when she does her shows, she stays true to the brand and makes sure the shows are inclusive. It’s always been refreshing to see.

I find most of what I post from runway shows and collection lookbooks. Christian Siriano, Tadashi Shoji, and Cushnie are the biggest names I know of that regularly showcase plus sizes and I’ve definitely posted them on here during their respective fashion weeks. But of course, these models few and far between in the grand scheme of fashion week, so they get buried in the mix.  

Christian Siriano and Tadashi Shoji have been known to design red carpet looks for stars who don’t fit the sample sizes. They’ve both spoken about how they’re happy to take the business from other big name designers that refuse to dress non-sample sized women. Cushnie is one of my favorites for a number of reasons, but I’ve always loved that Carly Cushnie has always been inclusive.  She even released a special collection at Target and it still stays true to her brand of designing for people of all sizes. Alexander McQueen and Michael Kors are known for having a plus sized model or two in every show. Tommy Hilfiger has also jumped on the inclusion train as well in the last few years and he’s pretty great at having a number of models rather than having just a token one.

(Cushnie Spring 2019, TOMMYNOW Spring 2019, TOMMYNOW Spring 2019, Alexander McQueen Fall 2020)

Other people have asked me about plus sized gowns/dresses and the biggest names are the ones I mentioned above: Siriano and Shoji. They always have gowns for plus sized women in their shows. These are just a few of my favorites.

(Christian Siriano Spring 2018, Christian Siriano Fall 2018, Tadashi Shoji Fall 2020, Tadashi Shoji Fall 2019)

These websites have great options for plus sized fashion from a variety of brands:

In terms of swimwear, Swimsuits for All is a great source. Ashley Graham even has a swim line through this site.

City Chic has plenty of options ranging from day wear to gowns.

Eloquii was started as line from The Limited and then became a huge independent brand (although Walmart acquired them a few years ago, so so much for independence). They’re great for casual wear to work wear and all that in between.

Saving the best for last is 11 Honoré. They have changed the game in terms of having designer clothing for everyone. They work with brands to provide inclusive sizes. They’ve partnered with Siriano, Kors, Prabal Gurung - all brands who had already dipped their toes in the plus size market.  But 11 Honoré is also willing to work with designers who want to integrate their collections into more inclusive sizing but don’t know the best way to go about it. I believe Mara Hoffman went into extended sizing with the help of 11 Honoré. There are some big names on 11 Honoré.  Monique Lhuillier, Badgley Mischka, Jason Wu, Carolina Herrera, Marchesa, and Marc Jacobs are just some of the few you can find on the site. I honestly cannot say enough good things about what they’ve done to get designers on the ‘inclusive sizes’ train.

I know this was all a really long read, but while the industry has taken strides towards being more inclusive in sizing and representation on the runways, it still has a long way to go. Hopefully showcasing these designers, websites, and brands are a stepping stone to finding pieces that make you feel good!

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Puppet Strings

Please don’t police the shit out of me for this one (I’ve read and seen all of what’s happening in Tumblr with the talented authors 😭😫---either way, I DGAF if I get judged for writing this. Y’all are getting this for free. LMAO. Welcome to my freakin’ kinky world. 😭

MASTERLIST

Characters: Stephen Colley x Reader

Summary: You’ve had Stephen wrapped around your finger by using your family’s kindness to your advantage---keeping him guilty and complying over whatever wishes you wanted---he was giving it due to your manipulative, cunning persona. You were being head-over-heels for him that made you have your reasons, thinking that being the way you are was fine for your strong obsession. 

Warnings: NSFW 18+ Manipulative reader. Obsessed reader. This is quite dark for me because she’s using our puppy to her benefit (somehow?)---using Stephen as if he’s her boy toy. Spitting. Sub!Stephen. Porn with a plot. (Though, this was planned to only be porn without a plot LMAO) Dub-con. Exhibitionism. Angst? Thirsty ass reader. Not connected to the plot of the movie.

Words: 3,810+

A/N: I didn’t know what happened that this ended up this way. Please don’t judge my soul for this.I was all ‘oh my baby stephen’ to writing this filthy shit. Also, Stephen’s 20 in this and the reader is 19, okay? So, legal. (In my country it is) ENJOY, FILTHY LADIES! This made me pout because of how soft Stephen is and the reader is quite...Eh. 😭 I think this will be a 3-5 part fic. Heehee. Or maybe not----lmao. We’ll see. 

Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS PART! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB!  

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and this fanfic is definitely from moi.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

THE SMELL OF BLUEBELLS WAS ARDENT AND SWITH, it's scent thoroughly withstanding and wafting through your nose with the odor of sweat. Stephen's earthy and musk scent adding more stimulation to what was being given down south and around the canvas of your breasts.

An ample amount of slime trailed a path from the swell of your knockers through the meander of your neck, feeling a pair of soft, delicate lips having its way and paving to have a suck; thrilled and exploratory over giving you a mark that you surely ordered him around to.

You've felt the tiny nibbles on your neck, feeling full over being filled by the cock of your family's lackey who happened to be under your manipulative, presumptuous fingers. Stephen was having his way with you, as he was commanded to do so in the middle of harvesting crops; all sweaty, dirty and masking in his domestic labor as your fingers hooked along his belt hoops, pulling him away from the field towards a veiled place where bluebells were filled.

The first time you've had sex with Stephen, he was beyond hesitant. His rosy cheeks fueled as if it was on fire from the moment you've asked him for more of his services; to be the one to take your virginity rather than a rich, middle aged man who had terrible mustaches that crept the heck out of you.

Stephen and his pure innocence understood your favors of help by wanting him to accompany you in the city while you buy things for yourself or stuff that your mother asked to buy.

Much to your dismay for his lack of apprehension, It wasn't the type of aid you were asking for.

How pretty his face flushed a lot more from how you've frankly told him that you needed a different type of assistance to satisfy that curiosity of yours made you giggle, the desire pooling more in the pit of your stomach, filling in the prurient passion as if it was enough to stimulate you.

Stephen Colley was utterly pretty, beyond God's work as he was sculpted with a face of a Greek God as people have been saying. Your family even admiring God's work of art by how he was created; enough to be painted and inspired to be sculptured in the museums. He was the first boy in your fantasies and the only one that could make you breathe deep breaths in between rubbing the itch in your mound as you explored your body by yourself that nobody ever had yet.

He was your fantasy. The boy in your dreams that you would gladly want to have in your life for years end.

After welcoming the afterglow of an orgasm, such debauched thoughts came into your head in the same time you've wanted to rub onto that button again for thinking about him.

You were going to have him. You wanted him, you've mindlessly convinced yourself. Stephen was a plague that could infect your precious little mind---the facade of an innocent, kind and shy sweetheart that your family has been seeing from you was ruined when you've reached puberty.

It wasn't helping that Stephen walked around the house with clothes that you surely want to ruin. Your mind being influenced by your older sister's experiences with men and how her sex life have been.

She was a wild one and deep inside---no matter how much you tell yourself that it was a deed that people respectfully hold onto, the untamed part of you wanted to experience it with the boy who had adorable rosy cheeks and a gorgeous accent that could make you gush.

Being in line with the heavens, you were lucky Stephen was quite naive despite being a year older than you and with all the plans you had inside your head, being manipulative and guilt-tripping him till he would obey was the only answer for him to accept your offers because the boy was beyond nice and respectful, innocent---delicate as he may seem in being a rose without thorns amongst the bundle of daisies growing along the field.

You weren't his first to be honest; hearing that he had his virginity taken by a lady when he was taking a trip to the city, the woman being older than him and enamored by his beauty, she was very pretty as Stephen saw her the first time---growing a little crush before the lady has offered him a night filled with pleasure, leaving him alone the next morning and a ton of cash that has left him heartbroken by expecting a number or a sweet filled morning with her.

Was this obsession you had for Stephen? you couldn't tell while having the luck of being boffed by him no matter how tentative he may been. The phrase you've been telling whenever he was reluctant held a powerful will for making him capitulate over your wishes.

'You're working for us---I'm your miss. Shouldn't you always follow what I have to say, Stephen?'

Guileful and conniving for you, but you've had no other choice especially when you've heard your sister gossip about how he was starting to take a liking over a girl across the neighborhood, the lady living in a castle---going way back with him and her family because they've known each other since they were kids until they've moved away and came back to their hometown.

Cassandra. That was her name. It was a name that should be left forgotten in Stephen's mind.

Your boy shifted in between your opened legs, your dress hiked up and his trousers unbuttoned; stopping on the end of his derriere as he stuck his swollen cock inside your tight folds, kissing and licking along your throat and breasts that had you mewling beneath him.

Begging him to take you in the middle of the grass to relieve that fantasy only he could satisfy, you've laid beneath him and promised that he could take his time and do whatever he pleases. Exploring every inch and depth of your body with your dress being in a bunch and unfastened by Stephen. Today, you've just wanted to feel him, touch him and let him be inside you because of certain feelings that can't be resisted.

He was patiently taking his time, both of you basking in the afternoon glow before dusk and never bringing in a gas lamp before night even arrives. Stephen was licking your taut nub, his mouth close to your nipple as his hot breath was fanning along his own saliva, bringing pleasure and satisfaction. Another weak whimper erupted from your mouth, watching his eyes closed; tongue darting out to flick your other hardened nipple before deeply moaning out his approval as he devoured your breasts with a tight, strong suck.

The lewd action was enough to make your spine and toes curl.

You've flexed your cunt, tightening around his girth and you've heard him lowly groan with your nipple in his mouth. He immediately pulled his mouth off your breasts with a pop. Innocent, lust-filled baby blues stared above you, the flicker in his eyes asking and waiting for your next behest.

"Stephen," was the only word you managed to croak out, sounding like you were being choked as you felt him slowly pull out of your thirsty cunt. He leaned his head to the left, dipping his head and giving you a kiss which caught you off-guard; it was plain and enough to take your mind off his throbbing cock that has slithered in. After being explored by his mouth on your body, Stephen's lips that landed on you to give a peck surely felt unfamiliar because you both rarely do share kisses in the midst of intercourse.

His crimson colored lips on yours felt divine. The sudden smooch probably involuntary in his part because of how sexually intimate you were being with him. You've swallowed the moan forming in your throat by feeling him wholly pull out, moaning and whining from the lack of imbue and by forcing yourself not to have your way with his lips---wanting nothing but to dance your mouth with his.

You knew this was a one-sided affection and he didn't entirely adored you like how you do for him.

Your fingers gripped onto the grass on either side, it traveled and clasped around Stephen's neck that felt balmy beneath the pad of your fingers. Drops of perspiration smoothening out as you watched him pant above you, breathless and in a daze. His cheeks turning rosier and crimson from such scabrous act you've brought him in.

He was heavy and scathing on your thigh. His hand grabbing onto the growing base of his throbbing, uncut, hard cock as he looked between you both, a shaky breath leaving his lips as he was feeling his cock on his hands, fingers enclosing around his girth to give it one jerk that made you salivate.

His neck was sweating, drops of perspiration falling along his temples and to distract yourself, you've darted your tongue out to sweep the sweat off his face, catching him off guard that made him throatily groan and cast you a look, his eyes withdrawn and thoroughly focused on what taboo you tried to help him be accustomed with.

The place you decided to be ravished on was rather risquè but also getting you more thrilled to know that your sister knew this spot as a location you always spend time with whenever you were reading. You've heard tiny shuffling of bushes which made Stephen look away and observe whoever that was with his eyebrows knotted together---distracting him and pushing the worry away just like you always do, you've quietly whispered in his ear.

"Put that cock in me, Stephen. Please,"

At the sound of you pleading, it was enough to pull his thoughts away from being concerned over your family catching you both in such a raunchy moment. Their daughter laid amongst the land, being ravished by their worker who they've trusted for all their heart---a boy whom they didn't expect to be salaciously connected with you.

The both of you were in for a tough scolding if caught.

Pointing the head of his cock in your entrance, he'd swiftly drove in. You were wet enough for him to slip inside with the right tightness of your cunt that pushed him to grunt as he filled you in one go. Your back curled from the penetration, the thirst for sexual gratification being answered by Stephen when he started to thrust his hips, experimenting over the pace that could make you moan around his arms before pummeling like how he wanted to.

"Oh yeah---yeah---yes, just like that," you've choked in your own moans and pleasure, licking your lips and watching how he was defiling your cunt with his cock, your slick moisturizing his---the filthy sound of your juices coating his, thrusting in and out of your folds; becoming music to the sound of insects probably watching how you were both sending each other raptures.

Stephen knew how thrilled you were becoming by the audible sound of how filthy he was making you feel. Being aware of the obscene sound whenever he tries to fasten the pace, slowing down to let you both appreciate the erotic sense of debauchery has gotten you biting your lip up at him.

You were his miss and whatever you wanted was his job to give.

He'd slip a hand in between you, the pad of his thumb finding your clit and when he did, Stephen started rubbing that throbbing nub of yours in rough, circular motions making your core jerk, your hips chasing his hand with each thrust he gives; entirely accepting and embracing the sheer pleasure he was giving.

Your boy was deeply grunting with each shove of his hips, his cock befouling your scheming soul and you were loving every moment---cherishing the sounds he create that only you could muster.

Only you, not Cassandra---not anyone.

In the midst of such onslaught and currently trapped in your own bliss, you've never took heed of Stephen panting out your name; thinking that he was bemoaning his desperation for continuously prodding your hole in a greedy pace, his carping had a flicker of perturbation in his diluted, lust-filled baby blues as he tried to catch your attention.

"Miss---Miss," Stephen couldn't stop his smutty assaults. Too concentrated on reaching both of your highs as he peered down at you with his peepers growing larger when he heard your name being called from afar; being an echo of warning that what you were both caught up with was utterly unchaste.

"---your family---ugh---they're seeking for you," he grunted with every word and plunge; his pace never stopping and his fingers reaching further down to polish your clit. Your leak being spread all over your folds as he licked his lips, admiring how you were writhing beneath his body---how you reacted to his ministrations.

Their voices echoed from afar, alerting you both that they were closer than you imagined them to be. It was the dead of the night already, the time after nightfall as you both welcomed the sins of passion that you have gotten Stephen to be involved in again. Being in the shadows of the night, the moment was easier to covert from your family as you laid to satisfy your mania. The ruffle of grass being stepped on repeatedly actually has been the sound of Stephen ardently violating your cunt along the land of dew.

You've both turned your heads to see light coming from the far distance. A buzz of incomprehensible words of unknown from your sister who was mindlessly telling her hunches as to where you both went; remembering that Stephen was also not around for her to ask if he could buy stuff around town because it was already night time.

"Oh, yes!---don't mind them!---just do me,"

He slowed down his pace, skeptical over being caught but never stopping his thrusts while his features turned conflicted over being dubious and also feeling like he was floating for the twist of elation written on your face from his drives. You've grabbed onto his hair, roughly turning his head to face yours as he loudly grunted and groaned above you, the sound made you slip a finger on his lips to shush his moans.

"You're not going to get caught---we're not going to get caught. Just stifle your moans. You can do that. You're a good boy---our good boy and you'll make me cum, right?"

The whispers you've managed to slip past your lips made him stare down at you, understanding what you were trying to point out and it has not been seconds before he'd nodded before you, starting his relentless pace that made you sigh as he was trying to build up your orgasm again, grabbing onto your ankle and hooking it around his hip as he continued to forge himself in you; his breath hitting your face with every push---grunts being uncontrolled from the actions.

You've heard a twig break from behind, not wanting Stephen to be distracted---you've grabbed onto his face and forced him to look at you; your heart beat never ceasing to run fast whenever he stares into your eyes. The fast heart beat also being the cause of your orgasm coming.

He'd shifted in between you, your hips bucking to meet every thrust he offered. Mewling out lewd moans whenever he hits that spot that felt so heavenly. Reaching for his hand, you've guided him back to where he has been flicking---your clit that he immediately rubbed on as you were approaching your high.

Loud, rough grunts came from his throat, feeling his own coming as your cunt gripped him hard for the sounds he was creating. Your mouth and face contorted in sheer pleasure when you've violently thrashed against his hold. Stephen's unconscious response was to grab onto you, keeping you closer to his lean, muscular body---a wiry sculpted body from all the hard work that he does for your family; convulsing in his arms as you gushed around his penetrative cock.

Rambunctious ugh's came from the both of you, especially from your boy who was in the midst of coming. Your sensitive cunt was jolting as Stephen went on in propelling himself, his face of bliss bringing you ecstacy as it was hot for a beautiful face to be debauched like that. You've forgotten your family who was in search for you when he wholly pulled out just in time for him to spill his warm seed over your torso, his load shooting out in spurts as he breathed heavily above you.

You've both shared silence after a moment of paradise. As a habit you've held Stephen accountable, he'd delicately held onto your jaw with his calloused fingers, pinching them together to set forth over opening your mouth. It was an understanding and idea that you told him about after an act of pleasure. He was against the idea at first before you've basically convinced him that there would be no moment as if you were being degraded. But, he somehow has become used to it after quite some time.

Besides, it was one of your wishes. His miss surely needed to have it when she wants it.

Gradually opening your lips, Stephen has lined his mouth on you. Drawing down a line of spit and aiming to shoot it inside; thoroughly not bothered about the fact of it already as he spat inside your mouth, making you grin as he gathered his spilled cum on your torso with a finger, slipping them inside your vermillion, his eyes in a daze as he concentrated over the mouth that has sucked on his cream-filled fingers---swallowing the mixture of his saliva and release like it was food for your tainted soul.

He certainly didn't expect you to be ribald and deceptive from such a religious family---But, considering your sister and her liberated moments, maybe it was probably in the blood.

"Was it how you liked it today?" he simply acknowledged, tone curious over the fact of being caught by your family was thrilling you which is why you've dragged him along the meadow while he was working, asking him for a quick frigging in a deserted, furtive space.

Stephen helped you wear your dress after snapping his breeches back, keeping himself decent. He still wore his white, dirt-filled tank top. Slipping over his suspenders on his shoulders, the latter remained sitting on the grass as you stood up. The expression on his face mixed with a look of a puppy who was blushing under the moon light, his hair utmost unkempt and clothes looking rumpled as if he had a wild night.

"It was everything, Stephen." you softly muttered, flattening the stresses of your dress with the back of your hand, erasing any proof or evidence that you had a nooky with your family's beautiful helper. A sigh left your lips as the ache of thirst was probing your spine, yearning for more than once today.

"---But, can you do me one more favor?"

"Anything, Miss Y/N."

Stephen waited and watched for your response, seeing you ogling at his beauty as he sat silently, catching sight of those suggestive flicker of your eyes under the night.

You've knelt before him, having your height differences obvious from how you tried being eye to eye as he was still taller than you. He'd simply studied your face, changing into an expression that he wouldn't get to reject---not that he ever does because he had no other choice but to follow what you wanted because you were still his patron.

"Can you visit my chambers after dinner?"

He was quick to become uncertain over the service being asked. His thoughts hastily going to what happened in the middle of fornication a while ago; the risk of being exposed by your family for what you both decided to tumble through the afternoon, "But, Miss---"

His protests were cut short when you've distracted him with a delicate kiss to the lips, using it to your advantage as it left seeing him swallowing his apprehension down in the pit of his stomach. Kissing you back with a soft peck that got you sighing when he pulled away to wait for your answer, his complains never being risked to be told. Currently disoriented from the kiss you've given him out of the blue and from the feeling of being confused over what he should feel for letting you have him explicitly.

"My family won't be awake in the middle of the night,"

"Would...you wish to be ravished again?" he understood what you wanted. Another part of his services that he only gives you because you were artful enough to manipulate him into thinking that the idea was fine---that giving you his body and soul was fine.

Stephen had his utmost respect for everyone in your family because he was thankful for them to be employed in the household. Which is why he was even helping you in this part of favor that he surely could have no say about.

"Yes. Can I have you for the night?---I need you tonight,"

He gave a small smile, his fingers reaching for a couple of bluebells from behind. Completely helpless to be under your demands, "If you are in need of it, then I suppose it is fine. Will it help you sleep at night?" the latter slipped the flower behind your ear, his beam so precious with a soul valuable enough to be exploited or influenced by your manipulative ploys.

"Yes---Yes, it does. It'll keep me in deep slumber rather than sleeping like I never have slept at all,"

"---Then you can have me again if you want to---all night if you wish so,"

You've let him tuck the flower, appreciating how handsome and charming he sweetly smiled when you've taken his fingers and kissed every pad of it.

"Thank you, Stephen. You're amazing,"

"Anything for you, Miss."

There will be no place for Cassandra or any other women in his mind. You were determined to swarm his thoughts with only you---where he would worship no other woman nor let him have the desire to feel pleasure over others. From the moment he came into your lives, you've already marked him as your person when you were younger; having this toxic affection for him from the moment you've seen his sweet, seraph face. His personality and characteristics being adding more to your fixation when he was so kind to be gullible---fastening him in a physical-venereal connection that would aid to your benefit.

Stephen Colley was only yours and a puppy---your puppy that you would gladly take care of forever even if it means to be the bad guy in the house.

So, what’s cooking? LMAO. Leave feedbacks to give me power to write the second part. HA!

General taglist for Henry and his characters: @agniavateira​, @iloveyouyen​, @rahdaleigh​, @silverkitten547​, @henrythickcavill​, @kaatelyyynn​

[owillofthewisps]

unspoken

notes: shout-out to tumblr for not being functional - this was originally a response to an ask from an anon asking for eskel smut! hi anon!! i hope this was what you wanted/is something you find sexy!

i feel like you weren’t quite looking for 5k of smuff (smutty fluff) but it’s uh. what you’re getting. sorry about that. and i could have written a whole nother scene.  that’s probably show up down the line.

i’ve never written eskel before and hooo it shows. sorry anon!!

pairing: eskel/fem reader

rating: explicit (warnings: fingering, oral (f receiving), brief handjob, slight overstimulation, some self-esteem issues referenced/briefly mentioned. i think that’s it.)

word count: 5.3k one day, you think, Eskel will be able to hear the words you’re already saying.

You hear the galloping hoof beats too late.  

They’ve been obscured by the churning rhyme you’re humming, the slow, steady song of home.  

“Lil’ Bleater, no!” Eskel calls, his deep voice edged with a hint of panic.   From the sound of him, his rambunctious goat has left him behind in a quick burst of speed.  She’s a nimble little thing, you know, liable to dance around the broad Witcher as he tries to corral her.    

There’s no time to turn, and you shriek with laughter as the small goat butts against the back of your knees.  Her horns catch in your skirts for a moment, tangling like river reeds caught in the current.  It sends you stumbling forward.  You catch yourself against the heavy churn, still giggling despite the small sting of her horns, blunt though they are.

“I thought we were friends, little thief,” you tell Lil’ Bleater, who merely bleats at you around the mouthful of verdant green alfalfa sprouts she’s knocked from the pocket of your apron.

“Lil’ Bleater!” Eskel says, practically tumbling into the lean-to in his rush.  The goat prances away, eyeing him warily as she continues to munch on her prize. “Don’t you - oh.”

“Well met, Eskel,” you say, turning to face him with a soft smile. You wipe at your brow with the back of your hand, knowing that you are likely shining with sweat from the heavy work of churning. “You were right, I shouldn’t have let her know I have alfalfa in my pockets.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, not meeting your eyes.  You wish he would. You so often yearn for the sunlight of his gaze, the way his amber eyes go soft for you, like butter melting. His fingers flex.  He scrubs a hand over his face, and you know his scars are pulsing.  They’re vivid against his skin.  It reminds you of the meadow near your birthplace, where the sorrel grew wild, leaves streaked with crimson veins.  They are terrible scars, you know, but there is beauty in them too.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just a little sore,” you say. It’s a soft kiss of pain, something summery in it, the ache of slipping from a tree branch when you’ve climbed just a bit higher than you should have.

Eskel shifts, and you know the slight hunch of his shoulders. Before Eskel, you never thought a Witcher could look so small. You shake your skirts loose from their tangle and cross to him.  His large hands flex, rising slightly as if to touch, and then he drops them back to his side.  You catch your sigh between your teeth and swallow it down.

The Path takes him from you often, and you bear him no grudge for it, but sometimes he returns to you with unsure hands, as if he worries that you will fade away like a dream should he touch. It is still new, though, this thing between the two of you, a sprout unfolding into a stem, stretching closer to the sky. You are not patient, but for him, you will be.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he sounds oddly helpless.  “You’re sure you aren’t harmed?”

You trace a hand over the bulk of his shoulder.  It’s a light touch, a gentle summer breeze ruffling through the wildflowers, slipping over their petals like silk, and something in him eases.  

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” you say airily.  “I’m hardier than you think. Though Lil’ Bleater may need to apologize to the chickens for stealing their treat.”

“I’ll get you more.”

You raise a brow. “I’ve a whole field of it,” you point out.  “Besides, if you truly wish to make amends when none are needed, you can greet me with the kiss I’d like to have.”

That finally draws his gaze to you.  In the light filtering into the lean-to, his eyes gleam amber, translucent like summer honey.  His eyes always leave you greedy, feeling gold-drunk, a dragon coiled around her hoard.

“Only if you’d like,” you remind him, because you will take nothing that he does not wish to give.

Eskel cups your face in his large hands, draws you close, and drinks from your lips.  You hum into the kiss, your eyes fluttering closed.  His fingers gain surety, the rough pad of his thumb dragging over the sweep of your cheekbone, and you drape your arms around his neck.  He’s so broad against you, steady and grounding, an ancient oak firmly rooted.   You tease a sharp breath out of him with your tongue.  

When you pull back, his eyes have darkened to the golden glow of a mostly-set sun. His hands slip to your waist, his fingers tight on the plush curve of your hips.

“I missed you,” you admit boldly.  Sya often tells you that you have a brazen tongue.  You aren’t quite sure of that, but you know you tend towards bluntness.  A hammer instead of a blade, Sya tells you.

Eskel makes a soft noise that you can’t quite place.   He slides the tips of his fingers into the small gap between your skirts and your bodice, his amber eyes tracing over you.  You refuse to be embarrassed.  It’s true, after all, and you will tell him until it is not.  But you do not think it will ever be untrue.

He pulls you in for another kiss, and this time, you can sense the teeth in him.  The hunger.  Eskel kisses you breathless, the pads of his fingers slipping higher on your bare skin.  He kisses you until the world fades around you, until it feels quiet despite the chirp of the birds and the rustle of the breeze.  

You press closer still, tangling your fingers into his mahogany hair. He rumbles out a noise that arrows through you. You can feel his hand trailing up the ladder of your spine, leaving a blazing trail of heat behind it. Your bodice loosens as he tugs at the laces.  The sweetly embroidered neckline dips low, catching on the thin fabric of the chemise, and you pull in a tight breath.

“Eskel,” you murmur.  He dips his head to your neck, his breath whirling warm over your skin, and then - Lil’ Bleater makes herself known with a bleat and a headbutt.  She mouths at your apron, trying to pull the pocket open for more alfalfa.  

“Lil’ Bleater!” Eskel hisses as you laugh into his shoulder.  He leans down as she butts against you again with another faint cry, dismayed to find your pocket ransacked and empty.   She turns her attention to him, butting against his large hands, and even though Eskel is swearing under his breath, he is gentle as he shoos her away.

The goat squawks her displeasure and flounces out of the lean-to.  You’ve no doubt that she’ll take her revenge against the rolling hills of your herb garden, particularly the large stalks of sweet fennel she favors, often gnawing them down to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel says, looking sheepish, but at least there’s a smile lingering in the corner of his mouth.  

You press a kiss against the skin peeking over the neckline of his shirt.   He’d shed his armor before coming to find you, clearly, and you hope he went into the cottage this time instead of leaving them outside, too polite to enter without you there to let him in.  “It’s for the best,” you say with a low laugh.  You nip at his skin, taste the salt of him.   “Been a while since I’ve been tumbled in the hay.”

“A shame, that,” he says, and you are glad to hear the tease of it, to hear him start settling back into familiarity. His fingers trail low on your hips as you step out of his grasp.  You catch his hand as it falls, wind your fingers between his thick ones like tendrils on a trellis.  He makes a perplexed little noise, almost too quiet to be heard, and you glance back at him.  

Eskel is sun-drenched, the light streaming through the window to bathe him, to swallow him in its incandescent touch.  His deep brown hair gleams dark under the light’s touch, a shadow of a crown, and sometimes you think you will never have words for the color of his eyes.  They are too many things at once: the soft shimmer of coin glinting in low tavern light, the glory of a sun peeking over the horizon, the golden drip of a noblewoman’s necklace. He shares them with other Witchers, you suppose, but you think you would find his different still, a treasure all your own.  

Many women would not call him handsome, you know, too distracted by the scars carving canyons across his face.  It is not something you understand.

You find Eskel attractive always, but like this, touched by light, gilded by the sun, he is something else.  Your breath catches in your throat.

Eskel doesn’t seem to notice, his golden eyes fixed on where your fingers twine around his.  You realize then.  The breath caught in you grows thicker, and you ache for this man.

You tighten your grip on his hand.  When his eyes flit up to you, a darting little glance that reminds you of the nimble flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, you smile, soft and slow.

“Come,” you say.  “As I said - I’ve missed you.”

His fingers tighten around yours, and then he follows you out into the warmth of the afternoon.

The short walk to your cottage takes longer than usual, the two of you swept up into each other’s current more and more, like shells caught spinning in the ocean’s waves.  Eskel kisses the breath from you, pinning you against your front door, his knee between your thighs, tugging you close until your clothed cunt drags across the length of his muscled thigh, until you can feel the hard length of him against your hip.  

You fumble with the latch as he palms your breast, slipping his large hand down the front of your chemise.  He kneads at the flesh as he mouths at your neck, scraping his teeth against the column of your throat. You whimper as he strokes a thumb over your nipple until it pebbles, the barest hint of lightning starting to flicker down your spine, like a summer storm still sparking on the horizon.

The door unlatches, and you yelp as you go stumbling backwards.  Eskel moves like water, his large form impossibly fluid, hooking an arm around your waist and steadying you.  

“Careful now,” he says lowly, a grin flickering at the edges of his lips like hearthfire.

You swat at him, but lean up to kiss him with a laugh as he sets you back on your feet.  He nudges the door shut and pulls you back to him.   You’ve never known a man so steady.  There are moments where he reminds you of the stalwart rocks of the coast, unmoving despite the ocean’s howling waves, standing firm against the water’s pull. Instead, though, he is more the tide, sweeping into your life and then out again, an ebb and flow always.

“Stop thinking,” Eskel says softly, and promptly kisses the thoughts right out of your head.  You clutch at him in the haze of it.  He enfolds your senses like fog, the taste of him sweet on your tongue, the prick of his teeth catching on your lower lip spreading through you.  It’s the heat of his hand that brings you back to yourself, his large hand slipping under your skirt and between your thighs to cup your cunt.  

“Fuck,” Eskel groans, because you’re already wet enough to soak through your smallclothes, the cloth clinging to your cunt as he presses up against you until your hips jolt forward, chasing the friction of his palm.  You grasp at his hair as he ducks his head to suck at your nipple, mindless of the barrier of your chemise, his mouth closing wet and hot around the stiff peak.  His cheeks hollow slightly, and you can feel the rasp of his stubble.  The sensation arcs through you, spitting sparks like forgefire.

You wind your fingers into his thick hair and pull him tight against you with a quiet moan.  Eskel rocks his palm against your cunt, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit.  You clench, feeling your cunt pulse around nothing.  “Off,” you say, tugging at his shirt, deeply grateful that he’d shed his jerkin earlier.  You catch at the hem, start to lift it as best you can with him curved around you like a fern.  

You can feel the smile on his lips as he tightens them around your nipple, his tongue tracing over the pebbled furl of it.  He pulls back and the damp fabric goes chill without the warmth of his mouth.  Gooseflesh rolls over you like a fogbank, skittering across your skin.

“Impatient,” he chides.

“Always,” you huff, because you have long demanded satisfaction in all aspects of life, and have long learned that sometimes you must push to get it.   You shrug out of your loosened bodice, let it slip down you like a water drop slides across a leaf. Eskel pulls back to undress, his hand dragging across the length of your cunt, but you have greedy hands, and you don’t let him go far, slip your hands up the loose fabric.  Your fingers skate against the defined planes of his stomach.  The muscles jump beneath your fingertips, rippling, your touch a stone skipped over their surface.  

Eskel’s thick fingers slip into the ties of your skirts.  They give with one quick tug, puddling around your feet.  You step out of the froth of them and into his arms, catching the hem of his chemise once more, urging it up until he finally strips it off.  

He’s a sight, all coiled muscle, scars scattered across his torso like constellations.  You corral him back towards your bed until he’s laid out on your linens, sprawled out like a feast.  

You peel off your chemise and let it drop to the floor.  Eskel pulls in a sharp breath, the sound like whistling wind.  Heat rises into your cheeks as he gazes up at you with something perilously close to reverence, a supplicant at your altar.  

“Beautiful,” he tells you, and you feel the same, gazing down at him, at the glow of his eyes and the carved sculpture of his body, and mostly - the tilt of his lips into something soft and sweet. You know better now, though, than to speak your thoughts aloud, at least for now.  It turns something in him to stone.

“Oh?” you say instead, crawling over him and settling on the washboard of his abs, your wet smallclothes sticking to skin. “I think you’re too kind, good sir.”

“Nay,” Eskel says, and though he’s playing along, there’s a quiet solemnity glinting in his eyes. His scars burn bright against his skin, and gods, he is so lovely it makes something in you twist.  “I only settle for beautiful as there are no adequate words.”

That shakes you.  Oh, you think. Oh. You hide your fluster in his skin, leaning down to sink your teeth into the thick pillar of his neck. Eskel groans, his immense hands coming up to bracket your hips, and you push forward to suck marks into his tanned skin, to ruddy his skin like red wine lingering on lips.  One hand slips down to palm your ass roughly, his blunt fingers squeezing and kneading.  He rocks you forward with his grip, lets your cunt slide against the ridges of his muscled stomach.  

The gasp spills from you like wine, and Eskel drinks it from your lips as he pulls your soaked smallclothes to the side.  He swipes his thumb over your clit, sends sparks skipping through you, the pleasure going from strikepoint to strikepoint, lightning caught in your skin. He circles your hole with a blunt fingertip, teasing against the sensitive, wet silk of your skin, and you catch his lips once more as he sinks a thick finger into you.

You can’t muffle the whimper, and he moans against your lips at the sound of it, your voice thickened to slow honey.  Your cunt pulses.  Eskel kisses the curse off your tongue as he starts to thrust, each slide of his fingers rolling you against his hard muscles until you’re keening.  The pressure of his abs against your clit makes you tremble, and then he sinks another finger into you, and then a third.  You spasm around the fullness, dropping your head onto his chest to pant against him.  

There’s sweat gleaming on your skin as you push back against Eskel’s fingers, driving them deeper in the clutch of your cunt.

“That’s it,” he murmurs.  “Fuck, that’s it.”

He scrapes his teeth against the ridge of your shoulder.  He pulls you down against him, your breasts soft against the hard plane of his chest, and the change in position grinds his fingers against a spot in your cunt that makes lightning arc up your spine.  You clench, dripping around his fingers spreading you wide.

“That’s it,” Eskel says again, his voice silk rasping against stone.  “So pretty, sweetling.”

He twists his fingers in the way you like, deft despite the size of them, and his other hand drops down to slip against the slick of your clit. White heat streak through you, pleasure like a falling star in the sky of your body, plummeting through you to burn hot in your cunt.

Your voice breaks on Eskel’s name as you shake apart on top of him.  He pets at your back as you tremble against him, slowing the thrust of his fingers as you pant.  Vaguely, beneath the ringing in your ears, you can hear him muttering sweet things to you.

He pulls his fingers from you.  It sends steel-edged pleasure cutting through you.

You can feel the heat of his cock radiating against your inner thigh.   Eskel catches your wrist as you start to reach for him, wanting to feel the weight of his cock in the palm of your hand, to feel the velvet drag of his skin against yours.  

“Not yet,” he tells you, and he tilts you off of him with a shift of his powerful hips.  

The yelp spills from you as you topple over onto the mattress with a small bounce. Eskel rolls over on top of you, cages you in.  The corner of his lips is soft with a secret, and you squirm beneath the silk of his eyes, the way they trace over your features as if you are art.

“I want your cock,” you say, at the edge of a whine.

Eskel grunts at that, his eyes going dark.  “I want to see you cum again,” he tells you, and then his mahogany hair is brushing against your collarbone as he ducks lower, pressing a biting kiss between your breasts, his mouth hot and sharp with pleasure against your skin. He licks and kisses his way down your stomach before setting his teeth against your hip bone, finally peeling away your sopping smallclothes.   Your nerves buzz under your skin.

“Eskel,” you sigh, and he dips his mouth to your cunt.  His stubble scrapes across the delicate skin of your inner thighs.  He shifts your legs wider with a nudge, the barest hint of the strength that lies just beneath the sweetness of him. The flat of his tongue sweeps through your soaked folds and you grab at his hair without thinking.  The sizzle of sensation is sharp-toothed, digs into your bones, and when you buck, you can’t quite tell if you’re pushing forward or pulling back.  

He swings a heavy arm over your hips, presses you down like a flower between the pages of a book.  You know you cannot move him with anything but your words.  He peers up at you over the curve of your stomach and the swell of your breasts.   “Okay?” he asks, and his lips are reddened and shining in the sunlight leaking through your shutters.

“Yes,” you gasp, because you have never shied from keen edges.

You can feel him smile against the wet of you.  He leans back down and then his mouth is tight around your clit, until the pleasure cuts into the marrow of you.  Eskel works you with his talented mouth, licks and sucks at you like summer fruit, the smallest hint of teeth gentle against your cunt. You jerk against the anchor of his arm, hips thrusting up as you toss your head back, sweat slicking the hair at the nape of your neck.  

“Please,” you babble, fingers fisting tight in his hair.  “Eskel, Eskel, please.”

He hums against your dripping folds, and the way it resonates through you makes you think of how you’ve imagined the snap of magic against your skin, prickling and intoxicating.  Your skin feels too small.  The sensation of Eskel lapping at you, one thick finger deep in your cunt, rides the knife’s edge, half-pain, half-pleasure. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and it snaps through you.

“Fuck!”

Your trembling thighs clamp around Eskel’s head as you cum, back arching as much as you can beneath his firm arm over your hips.  He lets you ride your orgasm out, still gently licking at you, just enough to keep the sparks rolling over your spine.  

He kisses the junction of your hip and thigh as you calm.  

“Gods,” you gasp.  “You are a menace.”

Eskel laughs into your skin, low and sweet.

“Come here,” you demand.

“Impatient.”

“Always.”

He slinks up your form.  You lean up to catch his lips, taste the tang of yourself on his tongue.  You cradle the back of his head as he sighs into the kiss.  Some part of you wonders if all Witchers are soft at the core of them, or if it’s just Eskel, kind, giving Eskel, who thinks he has little to offer based on the map of scars scrawled across his face.

His cock is heavy in your palm, all hot, silken skin.  You stroke the length of him, relearn the heft and girth of him.  Eskel moans into your kiss, his voice a deep rumble of noise.  You huff a laugh against his lips, delighted at the noise, and twist your hand before thumbing at the head of his cock, smearing the wetness there down his length.  

You trace your tongue over the pulsepoint in his neck, feel the slow, lazy river current of his heartbeat.  His cock twitches in your grip.  You feather your fingertips under the ridge of the head before dragging your thumb against the same spot, relishing the soft hiss that flows from Eskel’s reddened lips.  

“You’re so good,” you dare to say, giving a quick upward stroke.

Eskel moans, his thighs trembling.  

“Look at you,” you murmur, pressing your lips against the blade of his collarbone.  He stiffens, just slightly, and you catch yourself, change the words before they leave you.  “Always make me feel so good,” you say, and his shoulders unwind, the muscles of them shifting.

You would like him to weigh heavy on your tongue, close your lips around the thickness of his cock, to gaze up at him from under your lashes until he gushes hot into your mouth.  Eskel shies from it, though, and you are wary of pushing him too hard.  You know that your bold mouth sometimes hammers where delicacy is needed.

You can feel his abs flexing against your knuckles each time you drag your hand up the length of his cock.  When you nudge at him, Eskel sits back on his knees.  His amber eyes gleam gemlike in the light, and you are again struck by the beauty of him, the strong sculpture of his features.

Eskel’s brow knits as you push to your knees as well, your legs quivering like a newborn fawn. “Are you sure?” he asks

You drape yourself over him like a silken cloak, settling just over his hips.  “Yes,” you say, guiding his cock to your cunt.  “I told you - I want your cock.  I rarely change my mind.”

The way the head of his cock spreads you knocks the breath from your lungs.  Your nerves sing with starsong, something bright and vast trickling through you, crackling just under your skin.  Eskel steadies you as you sink down on him, as he splits you around his cock.  He gazes up at you with his sungold eyes, so stark against the deep brown of his dark hair, and you think of how the sun gives life, how it shines on others to nourish them.  

He closes his eyes as you lean down to press your forehead against his.  His lips part slightly, and you drag your thumb over the curve of them.  Eskel turns just enough to press a kiss against your palm.  Your stomach twists with something you can’t quite think about as you are filled with him, as your cunt flutters around his cock.

“Eskel,” you say quietly, softly sweet, but you lose the rest of your words as he kisses you, his mouth fervent and consuming.

You shift your hips.  His cock drags against your walls, warms your veins with that biting pleasure, and his hands tighten on your hips.  You remember the girth of him well, but the memories pale compared to the feel of him spearing deep, until it feels like there is nothing but him.  His cock pulses as you flutter around him, clenching down tight on the weight of his cock.  

“Please,” you breathe, catching his lips in a kiss, rising onto your knees until just his tip is caught in your hole, the thick head stretching you wide.  You drop back down onto his cock and you are already trembling.  Lightning crackles beneath your skin.  Eskel huffs a breath as you tighten around him, your cunt velvet around his length.

You lean forward and press your face into the junction of his shoulder and neck.  The rhythm of your hips is a slow current, rising and falling like the ocean tide.  Your breath is shaky against Eskel’s sweat-slick skin.  His hand nestles into the hair at the nape of your neck, and he guides you back up so that you are looking down at him, a witness to his worship.

“Eskel.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, gazing up at you as if you are the stars, something vast and unknowable above him.  His fingers tighten on your hips, the pads of them digging into the plush flesh, and with a flash of that intense strength, he moves you.

Eskel rocks up into you, fucks up hard into the clench of your cunt.  His hips are steady with each hard push. He feels immense, as if you are molten metal in his forge of his desire, his to mold and reshape.  You can feel each throb of his cock, feel him swell inside you.  Hazily, beneath the fog of it all, you think that Eskel will always be under your skin, will line the edges of you for the rest of your life.

You set your teeth against the salt of his skin, some part of you desperate to see that you sink as deeply into his skin as he has into yours. He grits out a moan.  You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you down into his thrusts, rolling his hips to catch the head of his cock on the spot deep inside your cunt that slides a knife of pleasure through you.  

“So good,” you mumble breathily against him, tightening around him with each push of his hips.  “Gods, Eskel, please.”

He whispers something you can’t quite hear, and then his hand is slipping between you both.  You sob as he draws a tight circle over your clit, your nerves singed beneath the heat of his touch.  Eskel presses a soft kiss against your lips as you clench viciously around him, the velvet of your cunt unrelenting, and you shatter.  

“Fuck,” Eskel hisses, and underneath the lightning strike of your own consuming pleasure, you can feel the way his abs tighten against you.  He pulses inside of you, each twitch of his cock searing through you.  He spills hot and thick in you, your cunt fluttering around him, his thighs tense beneath you. His groan is long and heated, a bonfire of sound.  

He catches your face in his hands, pulls you into a heated, messy kiss.   There are little strikes of lightning still flickering across your skin.  Eskel is throbbing in you, small spurts of cum still spilling into your cunt.  The coiled muscles of his thighs flex and quiver beneath you.  

The two of you spend a moment just breathing.  He brushes his fingers against your jaw, his touch delicate.  

“Menace,” you tell him, voice soft.  

Eskel pulls you into another kiss to hide his smile.

It’s easy to get lost in him, to be carried off in the steady kindness of him.  He kisses you sweetly, the corner of his mouth soft with something secret.  You groan when he pulls out of you, the blade of sensation a true cut now.  

Eskel coaxes you to curl up on the bed.  He rises, and you only have enough energy to voice a wordless complaint, trying to catch him by the wrist and pull him back to you.

“Just a moment, sweetling,” he says, but you can hear the laugh lining his voice.  You crack an eye open to glare at him.

You’d thought he would know, considering his enhanced senses, but you don’t think he’s expecting your gaze, considering the look on his face.  Eskel is perhaps the most reverent lover you’ve had, but softness painted across his visage as he peers down at you steals your breath away.  It’s something gossamer, a thin, shining spider’s thread woven into an intricate web of emotion that Witchers aren’t meant to feel.

He doesn’t seem to realize it, though, that he is laid bare to you for just a breath, and you close your eyes as he turns away.  He returns to the bed with a cloth and you wipe each other as clean as you can.  

You collapse back onto the bed, already aching, and peer up at him.  Eskel slips into the bed and curls around you.  His scars shine red in the afternoon light, and he is beautiful.  You hope that one day, you can tell him that.  But today, you cannot, so you simply say: “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Eskel says, his voice petal-soft.

You drowse in the patch of sunlight illuminating your bed, your fingers tracing soft circles on Eskel’s skin, feeling contentment settle over you like a blanket.  It is quiet, and sweet, and in the silence of affection, the two of you are united.

At least until Lil’ Bleater expresses her annoyance with the front door being closed with a series of particularly loud bleats.

All you can do is laugh.

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