#please. I beg. give your stories good and satisfying endings instead of dragging them out to high heaven

[secondstar-acorn]

mandalorian and grogu movie.

[ahtsumu]

目送 ; oikawa tooru

「alt. title: five times oikawa didn’t look back and the one time he did」

↳ pairing: oikawa tooru x f!reader

↳ synopsis: you spend a lifetime watching him go, sometimes with your stomach tied in knots, sometimes with tears in your eyes, but always with love.

↳ genre(s): angst, fluff, basically an emotional rollercoaster, non-linear storyline

↳ warning(s): profanity, depiction of a panic attack, suggestive themes

↳ length: 5.4k words

↳ a/n: hq fam how we doing after 402 ?? LOL anyway this is my birthday gift to oikawa tooru: my sun, moon, and stars, second to none, yadda yadda. the title is taken from a book with the same name, in case you were wondering. please pay attention to the roman numerals ahead of each section!! enjoy!

v.

“This is the last call for Japan Airlines flight 717 to Buenos Aires, now boarding at gate number twelve. This is the last call…”

Goodbyes are hard when you know they’re forever. Or at least a while.

The clamour of Haneda airport dims to a faint buzz as the two of you continue standing with touching shoulders–– facing the jetliner instead of each other–– in futile hopes of delaying the inevitable.

Oikawa knows that you’re holding in your tears by the light tremors running through your body. Permitting himself to steal a look at your side profile, he notices the familiar tensing of your jaw and hard-set look in your red-rimmed eyes.

Tch. You said you wouldn’t cry.

Impulsively, he unzips his backpack and pulls out a familiar turquoise banner. It feels like just yesterday the team handed him the silk fabric with everyone’s farewell gifts wrapped inside.

Out-of-sequence memories of the Spring High qualifiers flash through your mind. The orange-haired Karasuno player’s spike ricochets off Oikawa’s forearms. The numbers on both sides of the scoreboard slowly inch up like they’re taking turns. Oikawa’s white knuckles against the metal basin. Red eyes. Heaving chest. Something soft against your skin. Rule the Court.

And just like the last time, he gently drapes it over your shoulders, brushing his fingers against your neck as he does so. God, how he wants to kiss you.

“But it’s yours,” you protest weakly, making no move to give it back.

“It won’t be for a while.” His voice cracks when he speaks. But it will be mine again when I come back for it.

He wants to kiss you. One last time.

He wants your mouth against his like absolution to a sinner because he knows that what he’s done to you, what he’s doing to you right now, is comparable to desecration. But he remembers the look on your face that night he broke the news to you. How your megawatt grin caved into a wince when the length of his contract with Club Athletico San Juan finally registered in your mind.

You swallow your feelings of betrayal. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Five years is an awfully long time to be apart,” you say after a while.

Oikawa bites his lip. He doesn’t have the heart to say that five was just the starting number. If he does well there, he’ll probably stay longer. He’ll probably do well there. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

Seconds drag into minutes. The cavity in his stomach festers as he waits for your response, but he has a feeling that he already knows your answer.

So instead, all he can do when your floodgates finally burst open is cup your face in his calloused palms and wipe away some of your tears before offering you his own watery smile.

Through your blurred vision, you watch as the boy in front of you steels his resolve and disappears from your life through the jet bridge, ignoring his heart as it begs for one last look over his shoulder.

Oikawa nods numbly when the old man sitting beside him asks if he’s leaving home for the first time. Home, he realises, isn’t anywhere with walls, isn’t an address, isn’t even a person. When someone says they want to go home, it’s not a space that they yearn for, but rather, a time.

He watches Japan grow smaller through the window and feels himself yearn for the time he still had your heart in his hands. It felt like he was holding the sun.

i.

You wouldn’t consider July 21st to be a special day. Nothing special happened earlier that morning when you woke up without your usual alarm. Nothing special happened when your friends texted you four simple words–– come to Azukihana beach!–– during breakfast. But (and this will come to you much, much later) something special happened when said friends left you to guard their things as they dashed to the supermarket for more snacks.

For now, it’s just July 21st, and you’re lying with your back against a towel on the first day of summer break, soaking in the sun, peacefully flipping through a book.

“DON’T FUCKING DO IT, YOU COLOSSAL PIECE OF SHIT!” The familiar voice tears through the beach. Was that Iwaizumi? You set the book down and sit up to check.

And suddenly, the yellow and blue volleyball that had been leisurely rolling your way halts perfectly before your toes. Behind it jogs a shirtless brunet you’ve definitely seen around school.

Oikawa Tooru stops right behind the runaway volleyball and peers at you through half-lidded eyes. “Sorry about that,” he says, flashing you a charming smile.

After casually picking up the ball with one hand, he flexes his abdominal muscles as he straightens back up. Chestnut irises attempt to discreetly sweep over your features but you catch his gaze in the act, quirking an unamused brow. You also catch the intrigued twitch of his lips that follow.

You’re not stupid. Despite having never met him, you know a lot about the Grand King (as many call him). He’s the constant subject of Iwaizumi’s ire and you’ve heard a lifetime’s complaints about him at joint-family luncheons.

But here’s what’s important: you know that he tears himself apart to be the player his team needs him to be, that he sometimes makes Iwaizumi wish he’d passed the Shiratorizawa entrance exam, and that he fiddles with hearts like origami and sets fire to those beautiful fragile trinkets right after.

And in the interest of self-defence (but against what the devil on your shoulder begs), you choose to not place your most prized possession on the table.

A simple “no worries” passes through your lips. You return to your book. A page turns.

Oikawa Tooru is dismissed.

Though your gaze is trained on the page, you can feel his presence at your feet for a few seconds longer. You wonder what his next move is. Much to your surprise, instead of trying to strike up another conversation, he simply lets out an airy hum and strolls back to the sand court where he came from without a second glance.

Iwaizumi wonders why Oikawa is smiling so victoriously after watching the whole ordeal, but your tan family friend has, unlike the calculating Grand King, failed to notice one important detail:

your book is upside down.

And, as if in a trance, your eyes have followed Oikawa all the way back to his sandy kingdom.

Once the sun has set, Iwaizumi checks his phone and notices a text he’d missed in the afternoon. It’s from Y/N. Unease digs itself in his chest when he realises it can’t possibly be for anything except…

hey what was that about?

This can’t be good. Thumbs rapidly typing a response, he races to quash any interest you may have budding in Oikawa. You… you’re good. Nice. Smart enough for UTokyo. A bit naive, but he’s been around your overbearing parents long enough to see it’s not entirely your fault. And even though you run in different circles at school, he feels obligated to protect you from monsters that hide beneath pretty surfaces. He’s known you since the two of you were in diapers.

just trash being what it is

Iwaizumi watches the three grey dots on your side appear, disappear, reappear, and disappear again. And that’s when he realises that he cannot help you. The villain in this arc of your story has already sunken his teeth in your tender, unsullied flesh.

trash?

He sighs.

oikawa

It isn’t a surprise to Iwaizumi when summer break ends and Oikawa’s chestnut eyes start hunting for someone in the cafeteria during lunch. He doesn’t raise a brow when he hears that the second-year captain has been sneaking into Class 7, sometimes with flowers in his hands, and strolling out with a dazed look on his face. He slaps his teammates out of shock when Oikawa mentions his troubles with pursuing some girl–– but not before slapping himself first. Because the Oikawa he knows is not a chaser.

“Her name’s Y/N,” the brunet says, suddenly realising that he has never introduced any of his temporary interests to the team. But it’s been well over two months and he’s starting to think he’s been friend-zoned. Or worse. “I think she hates me.” He laughs melodically, then cocks his head in contemplation. “Is it weird that I kinda like that?”

Iwaizumi hides a satisfied smile behind a sip of water. Oikawa’s revelation has cleared the unease your name brought to his chest. Just a little. Perhaps he’d misread you. You have a bite of your own.

iii.

It’s routine for Oikawa to slink into Class 7 with a dazzling grin during morning break, but he’ll sometimes show up with flowers instead just to remind you that his affections, along with his modus operandi–– haven’t changed since he first started visiting you in September.

The girls in your homeroom have grown used to seeing the six-foot-tall volleyball captain hovering around your desk like a butterfly. Most treat him as part of the scenery nowadays. To them, Oikawa Tooru is no longer the mysterious, out-of-reach deity the rest of the school still paints him to be.

So when he strolls into class on a chilly January afternoon with your name a tune on his lips, they leave him be. Recently, the ladies of Seijoh have focused their attentions on some fellow on the swim team, anyway. Oikawa doesn’t feel as upset as he thinks he should about his shrinking fan club, but when his gaze finds yours already steady, expectant, utterly adoring on him, he understands why.

“For the lady,” he says like he does every time. A cluster of yellow flowers wrapped in brown kraft paper plop onto your desk. He pulls a chair up to your side, purposely ignoring, again, how two certain grooves in the wooden floor keep growing deeper with his visits.

You remember the first time he started bringing you flowers.

A posy of pink flowers sits awkwardly on your desk, untouched.

“I tell you I’d rather take your serve to my face than attend the bunkasai with you and your response is to give me weeds?” you reply with your chin in the palm of your hands, amusement blossoming over your features.

“Stop being a tease, Y/N-chan, they’re flowers,” he huffs, crossing his arms on your desk. “And I know you want to take them. The florist even said I have immaculate taste.”

“Really? Then what do these mean?”

Oikawa falters.

“Hmm?”

“Pink camellias,” he finally says, carefully enunciating the flower's name, “means that you’re a fucking tease. And that you should come to the bunkasai with me.” You snort and tell him to quit volleyball and join comedy club, feeling a strange warmth in your chest when he laughs.

The two of you fall into the same rhythm as always, talking a little bit about this and that, throwing in witty remarks where they belong, never passing up the chance to make fun of each other’s little idiosyncrasies. He’s enraptured by the way you string words together to describe the story behind your class’s bunkasai performance and all the gears in your brain whirr when he explains the strategy he’s using against the team Seijoh’s playing later that day.

When the bell rings, he reluctantly drags his chair back to the desk he stole it from. Just before he slinks back out the door, though, you tell him with a stern gaze that the Ushiwaka from Shiratorizawa he just spent the break shit-talking doesn’t hold a candle to Seijoh’s Grand King.

It’s like you had just stepped under a new light. Oikawa pauses in front of the doorway, trying to decipher what it is that’s different about you. And suddenly, the roses in his cheeks are in full bloom. Delighted and puzzled at his own realisation, he turns around without a second glance your way and strides back to Class 5. Oh, man, he muses as he passes through the emptying corridor. Oh, man. Iwa-chan is going to love this.

Your phone buzzes later that evening.

seijoh v. shiratorizawa 1-2, the text reads, quickly followed by, GAH.

Your lips twitch, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. Tapping your fingers against your phone screen for a response that’ll cheer him up, you suddenly remember a phrase Oikawa said earlier that day. It drew a laugh from you when it came out his contorted face.  He was obviously still hung up over with the words of the opposing team’s ace. Hopefully, it makes him feel something else coming from you.

you should’ve come to shiratorizawa, you send, grinning.

His response is immediate.

l m f A O

what flowers would you like at your funeral?

And then you’re reminded of his petalled gift on your desk, now comfortably sitting in a glass vase at your bedside. Pink camellias, he said? Curious, you open your laptop and type in the name for its meaning.

Longing, you remember, watching your boyfriend chatter about something–– probably aliens–– animatedly. The yellow flowers on your desk, you realise, are ones you’ve never seen before.

“Oikawa, what’s the name of these?” you suddenly ask. He stops in the middle of his sentence (he was definitely talking about aliens, by the way), and grins smugly.

“Jonquils,” he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “spelt J-O-N-Q-U-I-L-S, means that your boyfriend’s going to colonise Mars one day. And if you’re lucky, you can be the first queen of Mars. How ‘bout that?”

It doesn’t mean what he says it does, by the way.

ii.

Splashes of pink and orange have already settled into the blue sky above when you step onto the rooftop of Seijoh’s humanities building. Despite the breeze that has swept through the air, the flame of curiosity in your stomach burns just enough for you to turn a cheek to the cold.

Come to the rooftop at 6 PM.

It’s 5:59. Impatient, you study the note in your hand again. Maybe you’ll be able to glean something from the laconic letter this time.

Much to your irritation, no one had seen the author of this note. They had expertly placed the unsigned card on your desk with a single rose and Hershey’s chocolate kiss on top during lunch. Elegantly scrawled, their seven words have had your brain running circles all day around their identity. Could it be…? No–– he seemed completely normal earlier today. Still, you can’t shake your suspicions. They borderline hope.

Who else…

You inhale the cool air deeply and lean back against the rooftop railing, eyes burning a hole into the metal entrance. The door swings open with a high-pitched groan. Your breath catches in your throat.

… if not him?

Time briefly stops when Oikawa Tooru steps through the entrance, still in his volleyball uniform, sweaty from practice, cheeks the same colour as the setting sun. There’s an unusually tentative look on his face, though it’s immediately wiped off and replaced with the realisation that this is real when he sees you slightly slack-jawed, blinking once, twice, three times before letting out a breath.

“You look surprised. Expecting someone else to confess today?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his uniformed chest. Despite how his features are contorted by his poorly hidden jealousy, you can’t help but feel a flood of blood rush through your veins, lighting every inch of your skin on fire.

Because whether he knows it or not, Oikawa, the Grand King of the Court, prettiest boy in all of Miyagi, has skipped the table and placed his heart straight into your hands.

“Of course not,” you retort. “I just didn’t think you’d… well, do something like this.” And I didn��t want to get my hopes up. Iwaizumi’s words still find their way into your mind sometimes. I didn’t want origami made from my heartstrings.

Oikawa’s demeanour changes and his eyes dart away from your face. Shoving his hands into his windbreaker’s pockets, he admits, “I’ve honestly never done something like this before.” A faint blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Really? You’ve never stepped foot in the fourteenth shrine of Sendai?” you tease, referring to how Seijoh students have claimed this very rooftop as one of the God of Love’s many temples. You both know he holds the school record for the number of visits to this rooftop. At this rate, he could be one of its caretakers.

“That’s not what I meant,” he replies with a scowl, though the awkward tension between you two dissipates. And it feels like the two of you are back at your desk in Class 7, snickering uncontrollably while throwing playful jabs at each other. Sensing the change in atmosphere, Oikawa finally steps forward to join you by the railing.

Humming softly, he rests his elbows on the metal bar, props his head up with his hands, and sets his gaze on the lowering sun.

It’d be unfair to say that you didn’t at least try to enjoy the moment of peace with the boy beside you. But there’s a burning question on your mind that you can’t put off asking any longer.

“Why me?” you finally blurt out. “You could have any girl in this school. What made you choose me?”

The brunet whips his head around, disbelief written all over his face. “You think I chose to chase after the most annoying girl in all of Miyagi?” He laughs. “Ridiculous. I’d never willingly put myself through that unnecessary angst.”

You scoff and cross your arms.

“I think that when you like someone, it’s harder to explain why,” he quickly adds. “‘Cause it’s not supposed to make sense. I bet that the inability to explain your feelings is a prerequisite for true feelings, actually. It’s logical to say that you’d date Person A because they’re smart, or Person B because they’re hot, or Person C because they’re rich. But I’m pretty sure that that’s not… that’s not falling for someone. When you fall for someone… you just do. No logic required. You weren’t an option I ultimately settled on, Y/N. One day I just woke up and thought, if not you, then no one else.”

A beat passes. A flurry of words floods through your brain, only to evaporate when the devil on your shoulder decides that words aren’t quite adequate for what you want Oikawa to hear.

So instead, your feet take you one step closer into his space. Impulsively, your fingers find their way to his nape and your eyes flutter shut and suddenly–– suddenly, your parted lips brush against Oikawa’s. Instantly, he deepens the kiss, soft lips surging against yours like a pulse under pressure. You barely register his arms snaking around your waist, tighter and tighter until the space between your bodies is completely closed off.

Breathless, you finally detach your lips from his. Oikawa, who still has you encircled in his arms, pouts at the loss of contact, though he sulky façade only lasts a second before it gives way to a grin that stretches from ear to ear. He looks magnificent. Cheeks red, lips flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide with excitement. You want to kiss him again.

“One more.” It’s as if he read your mind. “To celebrate that last one.”

When Oikawa finally detaches himself from your lips, it’s to respond to the buzzing in his pocket. Noticing your raised brows, he explains that it’s an alarm for practice. The Spring High Prelims are just around the corner and he doesn’t plan on graduating without never having taken his team to Nationals.

“That’s my cue,” he states with a warm–– read: not apologetic–– smile. He doesn’t grab your hand or look imploringly into your eyes in hopes that you understand, never mind that you just shared your first kiss, never mind that you just became his girlfriend.

If Oikawa’s looking for any sign of your objection, he won’t find any. Instead, you step out of his space with an acquiescent nod. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Play well,” you say softly.

But before he heads for the creaky rooftop door, he presses one last kiss to your lips. And then he turns around, whistling as he goes, leaving you beaming behind his back with the light of a thousand suns.

iv.

When Matsukawa hands you the turquoise “Rule the Court” banner after the team lunch with a shit-eating grin on his face, the only resistance you offer is a resigned sigh.

“I’ve been dating Oikawa since we were second years,” you say flatly.

“Sorry, Y/N-san, but it’s the team’s hazing ritual,” he replies, not appearing sorry at all. “And you’re the only one who hasn’t done it.” He jerks his head at the blonde girl standing a little farther from the group with Hanamaki. “Emiko-san did it at the last game.”

“Plus, it’s the Spring High qualifier semifinals!” Kindaichi adds. “It’s an even bigger deal for you to do it now, especially since you had to miss our games on the first two days for school.” The team murmurs in agreement.

You shudder at the thought of your impending distress. Sit in the front row of the cheer squad and raise the banner with a scream every time your boyfriend serves? Fleeing from the Sendai City Gymnasium back home in an expensive taxi suddenly becomes very appealing.

Seeing the expectant and hopeful looks on the rest of the team’s faces, however, you begrudgingly place the banner in your backpack, signalling your acceptance of the horrible, cringe-worthy tradition.

“Where is Oikawa-san?” Kindaichi asks, rotating his turnip-shaped head around rapidly. “He was just at the team lunch. Iwaizumi-san’s missing too…”

Kunimi shrugs, pulling out his copy of the team schedule. He starts herding the team towards one of the courts. “Our game against Karasuno starts about an hour, so we should start warm-ups in around fifteen minutes.”

Worry creeps up your spine. For the past few days, all Oikawa has talked about is this match against his bratty kouhai’s team. And in the past two weeks leading up to today, you haven’t been able to even catch a glimpse of his face outside of break or lunch. To suddenly go missing before warm-ups doesn’t seem like Oikawa. You’re about to ask the team if he’s ever done this before, but your phone starts ringing a familiar tune and the question is set aside.

“Iwai––”

“Third-floor bathroom by the orange pillar. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. Emergency.” Through his harsh and abrupt tone, you pick up traces of fear.

“What––”

“It’s Oikawa.” The call is cut before you can ask any more questions. Heart suddenly racing, you tell the team that your mother just called with questions about your new smart blender and excuse yourself to “explain what the manufacturers mean by salsify”. No one sees you bolt towards the nearest set of staircases with Oikawa the only thought on your mind.

There are very few things in this world that scare you. Stray hairs in the bathroom, the dark, essays longer than three pages… but the terror that short-circuits your brain when you find your boyfriend in the bathroom–– knuckles white around the sink, chest heaving violently, frenzied pupils surrounded by broken blood vessels–– trumps any fear you’ve faced before.

Iwaizumi stands helplessly beside him.

“Is he having a panic attack?” you question, still unable to move your feet. You’ve never seen Oikawa like this before. He’s the Grand King who hums while he walks, who spams your phone’s camera roll with peace-signs and funny faces, who winks and flirts and teases without regard. But watching the long-deified setter crumble like a measly human before you, you realise that Oikawa is also the guy who tore his meniscus from overexertion, who trades sleep to study his opponents play, who works his body to the bone just to stay a hairline above a certain Karasuno setter.

“A scout for the Schweiden Adlers said that Kageyama will soon surpass Oikawa in skill.” Iwaizumi explains how they had overheard the conversation lowly in your ear. “I got us into this bathroom just before he completely lost it. 5-4-3-2-1 isn’t working. And he won’t listen to a word I say.” What’s 5-4-3-2-1? Well, if it isn’t working then don’t focus on that right now.

Your eyes dart to Oikawa’s quivering body again. “I don’t know how to pull someone out of a panic attack.”

“The goal is to ground him. So use physical touch, make him feel something with texture, and get him to talk,” he responds instantly. Mechanically. Like he’s all-too-familiar with this set of instructions. A heaviness grows in the pit of your stomach when you realise what that means for Oikawa. And yet, from that very dread sprouts strength.

Slowly, you tread over to Oikawa and place a hand on his arm. His muscles tense under your touch but when you murmur over and over that it’s “Y/N, your girlfriend, the most annoying girl in Miyagi”, his fingers loosen ever-so-slightly from the metal basin. He lets you lead him to the bench by the door. He lets you drape the Seijoh banner over his shoulders like it’s armour and wrap your arms around his waist. He lets you press your cheek to his sweat-drenched back.

Get him to talk.

“Remember that quote you showed me from that interview of yours? What was it again?” you question softly.

No response.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks,” you say into his ear.

Through the mirror, you see his eyes widen with recognition. In the brief moment of lucidity that washes over Oikawa’s glistening face, you repeat the original question again, followed by his own quote.

Again and again.

And Oikawa finally says back.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks.” Focus re-enters his gaze. He blinks as if just waking from a spell.

“That’s right,” you say as firmly as possible. “So don’t you dare break first, Tooru.”

An unreadable blend of emotions scrawls itself over his features. While Oikawa washes his face with cold water, you remember rumination and resolve but can’t decipher the rest, giving up anyway when Iwaizumi pushes open the bathroom door. When the light washes over Oikawa, his face shows no signs of the episode he just had. It’s just like how the sky moves on after a storm, how the sun beams to say, “I’m here now. The rain has gone.”

But sometimes it still rains in spite of the sun.

A sunshower. It sounds so beautiful. But it’s wonderfully sad.

The three of you wordlessly make your way to the court where the rest of Seijoh is likely getting ready to warm up. What are you supposed to say after that? What can you say?

Once the smell of air salonpas and sweat finally greets your nose, Oikawa slips the Seijoh banner off his back and hands it over to you. Guessing that’s your cue to leave, you tell him to play well like you always do before starting to head for the upper deck. Softly, Oikawa asks you to wait.

“Stay for warm-ups,” he adds. “Please.”

From your spot behind the Seijoh divider, you carefully watch for any signs of another breakdown. To your relief, he goes the entire half-hour without a single crack in his disposition, exchanging laidback grins with the team, bantering with Iwaizumi. At one point he even has the audacity to taunt the Karasuno setter Tobio-chan, as Oikawa often says with a sneer.

Sunshowers, Y/N. Sunshowers.

Just before the referees call for the teams to line up at their ends of the court, Oikawa jogs over to you, eyes folding into thin crescents when he smiles.

He pulls the Seijoh banner out from your hands and gingerly cloaks it around your shoulders. Oikawa presses a quick kiss to your lips and murmurs, “Thank you.” Something in face tells you that it’s supposed to mean more than gratitude. Before you can read more into it, he turns back around and jogs to the line where his team awaits. Oikawa grins ferally.

Knowing that your luminous eyes are fixed to his back like his own set of wings, the monster crows on the other side suddenly look more like humans.

vi.

Oikawa isn’t surprised that his text is still unopened. At twenty-seven years old, he’s had his fair share of dead-ends when it comes to love. But he hadn’t expected radio silence from you of all people.

After closing all the tabs of Team Japan’s latest matches, he powers off his laptop and checks his phone again to reread what he wrote to your old number one last time. Still nothing. It’s highly probable you’ve changed phone numbers at least once in the last nine years, but the disappointment’s still there after he powers his phone off for the night. Tomorrow’s a big day and he’s not the same victim of self-destruction he had been in high school.

Or so he thinks, realising that texting the last person he loved the night before the 2021 Olympics volleyball finals might have been slightly irresponsible on his part. A thought arises in his head, though he quickly quashes it. Asking Iwaizumi to pass the message along would be a little overboard, wouldn’t it? Oikawa chuckles, imagining he response he’d get from his best friend (and Team Japan’s team trainer, that traitor).

“Go the fuck to sleep or I’ll put you to sleep, you dumbass simp,” he hears in Iwaizumi’s gruff voice.

He convinces himself that you’ll be there like you’ve always been. After all, he’s spent a lifetime with your pair of watchful eyes on his back. Satisfied, he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

The volume in the Ariake Arena is astronomical. Blood pounds against his ears as he sets the ball in the air, a monstrous grin carving into his face when his teammate José spikes the set straight down the net, drawing a wave of oohs and aahs from spectators on both sides.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at the flashy Team Argentina setter and finishes taping up Ushijima’s arm.

Oikawa turns haughtily towards the opposite team, gaze zeroing in on Team Japan’s raven-haired setter and the shrimpy ginger beside him. It’s been a while since he last saw them this close in person–– the chance encounter with Hinata in Brazil happened well over three years ago and he hadn’t had the time earlier in the tournament to say hello. Of course they’re the final boss in this arc, he muses, though the thought is void of vexation. Instead, begrudging pride blossoms in his chest. Truthfully, he had expected nothing less from his kouhai.

And he expects nothing less than finally tasting the ambrosia of victory against that monster–– no, an entire generation of monsters–– today. Monsters who happen to be the kids he grew up beside.

He wonders what you’d say at the sight of Japan’s greatest players all gathered on one court. On instinct, his eyes dive into the bleachers, searching for your face. Knowing he’s not likely to find you like this, he tsks, deciding to look for Iwaizumi instead. Maybe he knows where you are.

The referees signal for both teams to line up at their ends of the court. As he steps onto the white boundary line, he notices Iwaizumi’s gaze transfixed on someone in the upper deck on Team Argentina’s side. The neutral expression on his face morphs into shock, then recognition. And then he glances at Oikawa.

The latter’s brows furrow before everything clicks in place.

Who else…

All your memories together hit him at full force–– your face shimmering with tears in front of gate twelve in Haneda Airport, the feeling of your shallow breaths against his neck, the savvy lilt to your voice as you speak.

… if not her?

For the first time in his life, Oikawa Tooru looks behind his shoulder.

And there you are, leaning against the railing with the old Seijoh flag draped over your shoulders, a tender, splendid smile on your lips.

“Play well,” you mouth.

And Oikawa feels the sun rise back into his hands.

[dracosathenaeum]

Great Love Story | Part 2 | D.M.

A/N: I will apologise that this took so long. This is honestly 70% smut but don't worry part 3 will fix all the loose ends and should come out faster than this did lmao

Warnings: cheating, smut, angst

Word Count: 2,858

PART 1

“I thought I told you to keep quiet.”

You stared open mouthed at the sight of Pansy pushing a blonde against the wall of a hidden corridor. Moans poured out of her mouth as Pansy nipped at her neck; fingers underneath the blonde’s skirt moving in motions she recognised all too well.

A mixture of embarrassment and anger flooded through you; the same kind you felt watching Draco that day in the great hall. How was this fair? Pansy had taken everything from you, but she didn’t even want him. Had she taken him from you just to prove a point? You weren’t good enough for him and you knew that; but it didn’t mean you didn’t love him any less than he deserved to be loved.

Was she toying with the both of you? You had seen the way he had looked at her in the great hall but when you thought back you hadn’t even bothered to focus on Pansy’s expression or actions through your jealousy tainted vision.

You pulled your eyes away from the two lovers, rushing towards your common room once you realised, you’d probably been stood there a second too long. It would be more than embarrassing to say the least if they had caught you staring at them.

You kept your head down, eyes cast on the floor as you mulled over what you would say to Draco if you decided to say anything at all that was. As it happened you had far less time to deliberate than you had thought, you had been so worried about whether or not to tell him that you didn’t notice him standing in your path.

“Running late to your dick appointment?” A sneer had ripped out of Draco, a side of Draco you were used to seeing but not receiving.

You stopped dead in your tracks and let loose your guilt without a second thought.

“Pansy is cheating on you. With Luna. I’m really sorry.” It doesn’t matter if he didn’t want you back, he deserved to know. You were just being a decent human being; well that’s what you told yourself anyways. He looked at you with a hint anger in his eyes but at least you knew he had believed your words, well, at least you had hoped.

He had quickly schooled his expression into a blank stare, nothing to betray how he truly felt. “Thank you, I’ll speak to her about it.” Curt and to the point, no openings for further conversations. He walked away from you this time and it was clear what this had meant.

As a heavy weight in your stomach overpowered the hammering of your heart, you realise it was hope you had been feeling; hope that had fuelled your heart but maybe now your traitorous heart would realise he was gone for good. How many times would you allow yourself to hope before finally realising he wasn’t coming back to you?

//

You were going to go mad. A 7-page essay due the next week and you couldn’t understand half the divination gibberish laid out onto the pages in front of you. Usually Draco would be sat with you, both teasing and teaching you.

He’d mock Professor Trelawny; impersonating her to the point you had tears in your eyes and stitches in your sides. Though most of his impressions had been meant to be a mockery; half of what you had managed to scribble down plus pages of waffle would usually get you one of the top grades in the class. This would only feed Draco’s ego, so you never told him but as you sit swimming in tea leaves you realise, you’d do anything to hear his stupid words again.

“Uh I don’t mean to interrupt but do you need some help?” You look up, red flushing your cheeks as you remembered you weren’t alone in the library, casually ripping at your own hair.

“That obvious I’m struggling?” Theo only replied with a soft grin before instantly delving into some story from 4th year. Conversation flowed easily between the two of you and you were glad for a change in atmosphere from a friendly face.

That was how Draco had found you; head tilted back, a look of pure enjoyment across your features. He hadn’t heard your laugh in a while, and he hadn’t realised how much he missed it; though his reminiscing only lasted so long before he realised who you were sat with.

Theo Notts. He had the same friendship with Blaise as with Theo and he trusted him. He really did. But it didn’t matter that he had been a lifelong friend, what mattered was the way he looked at you as you laughed. The same way he knew he looked at you. Or so his brain convinced him.

“You’re welcome.”

“Welcome for what?” You wiped the tears from your eyes as you asked, still trying to catch your breathe. You had spoken to Blaise and Theo a hundred times before but never as a friend, only as Draco’s girlfriend. He had made you laugh harder than you had in months with one simple story about your loony professor.

He didn’t have to answer before you found yourself dragged out of the library. You had been so focused on not tripping over your own two feet that you hadn’t seen the wink Theo had thrown at Draco and the scowl Draco had thrown back at him.

You didn’t have to look up to know who had pulled you away, the familiar feel of cool fingers around your hand and the press of his signet ring was enough to know it was Draco.

Once you had steadied your footing (and gathered the courage to look up) you saw the familiar door of the room of requirement opening for the both of you. He slammed the door closed behind you before pushing you up against it, trapping you against it with his body.

“Was he the one you’ve been shagging?”

You laughed. Perhaps even harder than you had with Theo just seconds before hand, laughed so hard Draco had to pull away to give you room to breathe and to clutch your sides as you doubled over. The irony in this was concerning; this was the second time he had acted out, as if returning to the role of jealous boyfriend that was no longer his to fill out.

Your wiped at the tears falling from your eyes for the second time that day; evening out your breathes to reply, “Who does it matter who I shag when you’ve probably gotten every STD out there from Pansy?”

You barely finish your sentence before he has you against the wall again, mouth angrily moving over yours. It was like listening to your favourite childhood song where the lyrics would come back to you without having to even think about it. Your lips moved together the same as they had done a thousand times before, your arms finding themselves linked around his neck whilst his own rested on your waist pulling you flush against his body.

“Draco wait-”

“You don’t get to talk without my permission, understood?”

You nod as his lips move over the column of your neck; you were too far gone to worry over him feeling your pulse practically jumping out of your neck.

“Use words.”

“Yes” you all but moan.

He gathers your wrists in one hand to pin above your head as he brings his mouth back to yours; his free hand gliding up the thigh that’s hiked across his hip, hand dipping under the skirt with ease as he’d done so many times previously.

Just as his fingers reach where you needed him the most they stopped. Your lips stop their movement against his; worried he’d suddenly snap out of what was happening and realise what was happening. Worried that he’d leave you. Again.

His hand leaves your skirt to tilt your chin to face him as he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting your lips. “Do you want to stop now, or do you want to keep going?”

Your heart skipped a beat, consent was the bare minimum and you knew that, but it was the way he had looked at you as he asked, the softness in his tone and in his eyes that made you think the old him had come back to you. That made you want to beg for him not to stop.

You opened your eyes again once his lips started their ministrations back on the column of your neck. You had wanted this for the past month, you had wanted his attention and his love so why is that when you were finally getting it you weren’t so sure anymore.  

“If you’re uncomfortable we can stop but don’t feel guilty about Parkinson.” It was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over your fevered body. Pansy. How could you have forgotten he was a taken man?

You knew that this was so wrong, knew that in your bones but some sick twisted part of your brain thought that if she could have Draco and throw him away to be with Luna and Merlin knows who else; this was just you claiming back what was rightfully yours. Right?

“Are you going to give me an answer? Consent would be greatly appreciated.”

“Please” your eyes held steady as you answered, this was it, this was you winning him back. You ignored your brain; the thoughts that caused a weight to hang over your brain. And instead you focused on full your heart felt; of how comfortable your body felt to be back in his arms.

“I need a yes or no.”

“Yes.”

The switch was suddenly flicked back on as Draco wasted no time, two fingers dipping into your mouth that you greedily sucked on without a moment’s hesitation.

His other hand had reached down and back up your skirt, you had thought he’d simply pull the cotton to one side, but he instead tore at it, throwing the scrap of fabric carelessly beside you.

“I liked that pair!” Was what you had tried to say but with two fingers caressing your tongue it was more like incoherent dribbling.

Once he was apparently satisfied with you, his coated fingers swiftly moved to part your folds before slipping inside of you. His hand that have previously ruined your favourite pair of underwear drew circles around your clit as his other set a merciless rhythm inside of you, deliberately avoiding that spot inside of you that would have you keening over.

Draco kept his head close to yours, but each time you’d try to reach up to join your lips he’d pull away slightly, “I want to hear you.”

You clenched hard around his fingers at his words, it had been so long since he had touched you in any way and your fingers just weren’t enough for you anymore. Not after getting used to what Draco would give you.

“I’m so close. Please don’t stop.” His fingers kept at their pace, but just as your stomach tensed, just as you were about to fall over the edge. He pulled both hands pull away from you, wrapping around your waist to pick you up instead.

You didn’t have time to be angry at him, half a groan falling from your lips before his mouth claimed yours, hands ripping at the rest of your clothes as you fell backwards onto the bed, Draco falling on top of you. Your own fingers fumbled with his belt and tore at his shirt when the buttons refused to undo.

“Get on your knees and face the mirror.” You didn’t need to be told twice; hands resting on the end of the bed as your knees spread to accommodate him, eyes finding his in the mirror.

You watched his eyes as they traced up and down your bare body, appreciating the view of both sides due to the mirror. He lined the tip of his cock with your entrance; your lips trapped between your own teeth as you waited for him to give you what you had been waiting weeks for.

He slid in with ease, but you winced slightly at the pain that followed the pleasure. He stilled, allowed you to adjust, hands running across your body and mouth at your neck trying to reduce the stretch as he bottomed out.

You clenched around him as a sign he could move but he instead brought your upper body up with him, so your back was to his chest. You could both see everything in the mirror in this position; his hands that cupped your breasts and supported you as well as the place his body joined with yours. You couldn’t feel anything but him; surrounded by the scent, feel and taste of him and there was nowhere else you’d ever want to be.

His first thrust had moans falling from your lips, the same you had heard Luna try to muffle the same morning.

The second had you trying to squeeze your legs together at the pleasure, his tensed thighs not allowing you to move an inch. You had gone so long without this, so long that the pleasure was too much.

The third had you falling apart, head falling forward as you came hard; the build up from weeks on unsatisfactory orgasms and him not letting you over the edge before had you coming in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

Draco had continued his thrusts throughout your orgasm but as you looked into the mirror the cocky smirk on his face gave away his true feelings. Cocky bastard.

“Good girls don’t cum without permission.” You whimpered. You were so sensitive, but you weren’t done yet, not by any means.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be good I promise.” He apparently liked that answer as he shifted his hips slightly to angle his hips to repeatedly hit that one spot he had been avoiding so far. You let out a sound you didn’t know you were capable as his continued his thrusts that had your thighs shaking and thoughts empty.

“No one else could make you feel this good, I’m the only one aren’t I love?” You let out something between a cry and a moan when he stopped his actions, waiting for your answer. You were half delirious, hips shifting against his as you tried to bring back the friction that you needed.

When it was clear he wouldn’t be moving again until he got the response, he wanted you w

racked your brain, “Only you, it’s only ever been you I swear.” If your mind was slightly clearing you might’ve seen the irony in this, the idea that he was it for you, but he had someone else waiting for him in bed.

Sharp teeth nibbled at you ear, warmth breathe washing over it as he whispered, “If you’re good I’ll let you cum again.” If you weren’t so embarrassed from how quickly you had cum before you might not have been so successful in holding back your second orgasm from those words alone. He knew exactly which parts of your body to touch, to kiss or to simply breathe on that would have you shaking from overstimulation.

His hips suddenly snapped back up, quickly regaining the brutal pace before. You threw you head back against his shoulder, if you looked into the mirror again you were worried you’d cum again; the sight of him, thick and hard disappearing into you over and over again as his eyes would find yours, his fingers and mouth marking you as his.

You couldn’t bear to watch yourself anymore, not tonight at least, but you believed you would have an infinite number of opportunities to do so in the future.

“Oh, god-”

One of his fingers had slipped down to your most sensitive part as you got lost in your thoughts, his mouth once again asking you to look in the mirror.

“Cum.” The built-up coil in your abdomen suddenly let go and you couldn’t stop yourself from falling forward, leaving your entire body weight in his arm that wasn’t still on your clit working you through your orgasm.

“Good girl.”

//

He had taken you a further three times, finishing only twice himself compared to your five. Your entire body ached; head clearer than it had been in weeks but so content that you couldn’t stop yourself whispering the three words you had longed to hear from him again.

“I lov-”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.” There would be time to say it again is what you told yourself as you laid beside him. Usually he’d throw an arm around you and bask in the afterglow with you, softly tracing shapes across your back. Instead, you found yourself waiting for the tell-tale signs of his changing breathes before slipping under his arm and resting your cheek on his chest; telling yourself he’d still be there when you woke up.

//

You woke up to cold sheets and a heavy heart.

PART 3

TAGLIST: @bbeauttyybbx @pipppaaaaalouisee @theslytherinprincessworld @fangirl-3d2y @tttyrus @scriptingslytherin @justmimithings @purpleskymalfoy @minigigglybabi @505weasleys @secretaccshh @obbrssession @whatwoulddracodo @thatoneniceslytherin @thehumanistsdiary @mariah-can-dream @futureofanthropology @ccabian @tobarmaidswhodontcount @dray-cookies  @xuckduck @dreamyginny @dracofeltonmalfoy @lord-byron @inglourious-imagines @audreythehufflepuff @beiahadid @moonlightorbit @imonlyherecauseimbored @dracosgoodgirl @dreaming-about-fanfictions @goldenxreid @avengers-end-me @sad-bitch-h0ur @zhangyixingxing1 @yourenotafailureoverall @pastelpuffbar @miso-tang @pixiedustsupplyco @harry-and-draco-loves @tsukibaby @dracoswhore007 @hogwartslut @mischiefisbeingmanaged @raylovessarcasm @drxcomvlfx @dracosballs @standingandstaring @its-chickenwing-450 @iamproudtobeaslytherin @mischiefisbeingmanaged @pxroxide-prinxcesss @slytherinxraven @jinnbie @lunalovegoodsgirlfriend @Utzelh8 @gloryekaterina @capkatie @jquick-18 @imcedricdiggorys @osterfieldnholland @explxsion @big-galaxy-chaos @malfoycrave @softlyqoos @krazykendraisnotinsane @minsuuwu @lumlfy @mllzhxrrs44 @weasleyis0urking @slytherinwh0re @sydnee-kom-spacekru

People who asked for a part 2!: @america0105 @lana-isabelle​ @persephone-archives @tomhollandisabae @dracoxmgg @babydol @youknowiloveyou-so  @swiftingday @joselyn001 @sushiims @fuyumiworld​

[marvelouspeterparker]

A small imagine where singer!reader is dating tom and releases a really sexy song about him and tom watches the music video and he's like 🥵🥵🥵 plsss

this took me forever to respond to but i feel like with ari’s new album the timing is perfect now

18+ under the cut u know the vibes

i took a page out of @hollandbaby‘s book and used an ari song for this, but the music video concept is fictional! listen to ‘nasty’ while you read this if u want :)

–––

he didn’t even know you had filmed a music video recently, and he hadn’t even heard the song yet. he was in for quite the surprise. 

your music video was dropping at 12pm est and it was currently 11:55pm. you were currently on your way to his house for the next few months to spend the weekend. he was about to film the next spider-man film and luckily you had some spare time before work took you elsewhere. you were ten minutes away from his house and smiled as you felt your phone buzz with a notification, knowing exactly who it was from.

when you reached a red light, you opened it.

tom: ‘so excited to see you love :)’

you smirked as you typed out a response.

y/n: ‘you have no idea how excited i am to see you too tommy’

as the light turned green you set your phone aside and stepped on the gas. you smiled as you looked up and noticed a billboard with your album cover on it. you were excited for the fans to hear your new music, but especially tom. the entire album was essentially dedicated to him anyway. 

when you hit traffic you looked at your phone and realized it was already 12pm. you sent the link to tom with no comment before posting it to your story and set the phone aside. 

tom smiled to himself when he heard the notification, thinking you were telling him that you were close by but his brows furrowed when he noticed what you had sent. when he noticed the title of the song, he shook his head, that little minx. he decided to search it up on his tv instead, wanting to see it as clear as possible. he’d never pressed the controls on his remote faster. 

as the video started up he could feel his heart pounding. 

you got me all up in my feels in all kind of ways, i be tryna wait

the song started and the camera panned up your legs slowly to show you walking along a hallway in a house, your body shining thanks to some body glitter, a beautifully revealing gown on you, with two slits on the side to show your smooth legs. you glared into the camera lustfully and tom felt his pants tighten as he clenched his jaw, his mouth suddenly feeling dry but somehow salivating at the same time. 

i just wanna make time for ya swear it's just right for ya 

the way you were singing the song was so sensual, it felt like you were singing right to him. and the way you were looking into his soul through the camera, he could tell you really were. 

like this pussy designed for ya

you got down on your hands and knees and crawled to the camera slowly, like a predator alluring it’s prey. “christ––” 

don't wanna wait on it tonight, i wanna get nasty (yeah, yeah)

he licked his lips, his eyes completely entranced by you and the way you were moving. the camera panned to you laying on a bed in the prettiest lingerie he’d ever seen but then again, anything would look that pretty on you. 

what you waiting for?  what you waiting for?

you were staring up at the camera, mouthing the words as your hands ran up and down your body and tom could barely contain himself, he wanted to pick up his phone and ask you where you were because he was getting impatient but he didn’t want to miss a thing on the screen.

don't wanna wait on it tonight, i wanna get nasty 

for the whole rest of the video, tom’s mouth was wide open, his eyes completely hypnotized as he watched you, wondering how on earth he got so lucky. 

you slowly made your way to his house, unlocking the door quietly with your own key as you heard the song playing through his speakers. he felt blood rush to his heart and his cock when he saw the dedication at the end, ‘dedicated to my love.’ you chuckled to yourself when you stepped into the living room behind the couch and saw tom wordlessly replay the video. 

you stepped back and took your phone out to record him, enjoying the way he was completely focused on the video, sitting up with his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to see everything as much as he could.

after you posted to video to your story, captioning it ‘my inspiration approves of the song ;)’ you couldn’t keep in the laugh anymore. you set your phone and jacket aside before taking your shoes off and walking over to tom. he perked up instantly, looking at you in awe, almost as if he couldn’t believe you were real. 

his hands reached out for you and pulled you in to sit in his lap, your arms going around his neck as you looked down at him lovingly. “you gonna replay it for a third time?” you teased.

his eyes lit up playfully, “i think i deserve to, it is about me, after all.”

you nodded, a bright smile on your face as you leaned in to kiss him. he moaned into the kiss, his arms squeezing around your waist as you arched into him. 

he pulled away for a few split seconds, between kisses, not wanting to lose your lips or your taste. “that––” he licked his lips, trying to contain himself, “that lingerie you were wearing in the video––” he looked up at you hopefully. 

you interrupted him, amused and nonchalant, “oh you mean the one i’m wearing right now?”

you’d never seen his gaze darken so fast. he stood up immediately and you squealed as he practically dragged you to the room, one thing on his mind.

he stripped you down and when the lacy fabric came into his view he traced his hands over your skin softly, memorizing the look and the feel of you under his hands. he pushed you down to lay down on the bed and the way you were looking up at him, just as you were in the video made him curse as he tugged his shirt off. 

“you don’t have to give this back do you?” he asked as he played with the waistband of the bottoms. 

you bit your lip as you shook your head, “nope. it’s all mine.”

he grinned, “good, cause i’d really like to fuck you in it.”

he positioned himself between your legs, slid the fabric to the side and swiped his thumb between your folds, pleased to see how wet you were. seeing him all riled up because of a music video of yours did wonders to your ego and your sex drive. 

he spread your wetness around, making a proper mess between your thighs, before rubbing his thumb over your clit. you sighed and rolled your hips into his touch, yearning for more. when you became too needy, he slid a finger in, then when you begged for it, a second one. he was giving you everything you wanted, you more than deserved it after the treat you gave him.

soon he was pumping two fingers into you, rubbing against your g-spot just the way you needed as his thumb rubbed your bundle of nerves. you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut, your body arching and tensing as you tipped over the edge, your thighs trying but failing to shut closed. 

“that’s it, such a good girl.” 

when you came to again, your eyes opened to find tom scanning your body, his two fingers inside his mouth as he cleaned your wetness off of them, clearly enjoying the taste and the sight of you. 

he shrugged his sweats off, along with his boxers all in one go and quickly made his way back over to you. his hand rubbing your thigh soothingly as he positioned his cock at your entrance. he slid in easily, the two of you fitting like puzzle pieces and he bottomed out instantly, the both of you moaning into the sultry atmosphere of the room. 

his hands held onto you tight as he thrusted into you, eyes never leaving your body for a second. you looked like a goddess lying there underneath him, your body covered in that intricate lace design. he would never be able to get enough of you. 

“had me bulging through my boxers since i started the video, love. you know that?”

you looked up at him, your eyes bright as you pulled him down and locked your lips together. “couldn’t wait for you to see it. was thinking of you the whole time we filmed.”

he bit your lip smugly and turned his attention to your neck. he wanted these marks to last even after you left in a few days. “all mine,” he mumbled into your skin and your breath hitched as he sped up his movements. 

“gonna make me cum tommy, want you to cum with me.” your fingers gripped his curls, your other arm tightening around his back as he pounded into you.

“yeah baby? i’m close too, please cum with me, darling. that’s it.”

several thrusts, moans and curses later, tom was panting on top of you, the both of you trying to catch your breaths, as you lied there sweaty and satisfied.

he pulled out and lied next to you, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief. “that video was really something, love.” 

you smiled cheekily, “wait until you hear the rest of the album.”

he let out a loud breath of air before pulling you closer to him by your waist and leaving a kiss on your forehead. “you’ll be the death of me, darling.”

you giggled but sat up when he got off of the bed. you tilted your head as you watched him, “where are you going?”

he turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “gonna go get the speaker. think i have the perfect album for us to listen to while we...” he looked you up and down, licking his lips teasingly. “get nasty, as you put it.”

[kyoka-suigetsu]

Ephemeral

⚠️ NSFW FANFIC ⚠️

Ephemeral: lasting for a very short time

[this is an alternate AU where Aizen is a professor and you're one of his students in which you have a relationship in secret]

(Note: Aizen is about 27 and the reader is 23 and this story is still under revision)

~

It was a simple date, really. Have fun at a festival and return home, with your incredibly handsome professor of course. However, his request changed the innocent nature of your casual outing.

"I have a small request of you, Y/N."

That deep, smooth voice of his said as he sat in a swivel chair just behind his desk, one leg crossed over the other. That look in his eyes said it all, he had a devious idea and wanted to test it out on you. You stayed with him after his lectures were over, since he was your last class of the day. His idea no doubt involved getting aroused and teased by him. That was his nature after all.

"What is it?"

You asked, knowing you'd end up complying to it in the end. His ideas were always torture, but in the end, it was enjoyable. Hell, you were daring yourself but he's never let you dominate him once despite your attempts at doing so. He motioned for you to come to him, his long finger beckoning you to do so as he pulled something out of his pocket.

A vibrator of all things.

"What's wrong? You seem perplexed. Perhaps I'll have to put it in you myself," he teased, a smug look on his face as he watched you stand there, baffled by the object. Surely he didn't want you to attend the festival with that inside of you, right?

You snapped out of your thoughts, sighing softly and shaking your head with a deep blush. "N-no, you don't have to do that..." you said softly, slowly approaching him as he beckoned you. He was a huge tease, and he knew that. One of the many things he did that made you flustered. Effortlessly, he pulled you into his lap.

"No, it'd be quite fun actually. Seeing as though you were hesitant to comply to my request. Think of it as a pleasurable punishment." He said evilly, one hand lifting your skirt and the other pushing your panties aside as he placed the small vibrating bullet inside.

You moaned softly at this, shifting a little in his lap which resulted in him groaning a little. He moved his hand away from your panties, kissing behind your ear and letting out a satisfied sigh. "There, give me a few moments and then we can leave for the festival." He whispered in your ear. Oh how that made you flustered and aroused, whenever you sat in his lap and he held you there while whispering things into your ear.

Your eyes shifted to the rather organized brown desk, the desk Aizen had bent you over on and made love to you multiple times. Sometimes he'd even have you lay on it while he pounded into you mercilessly, all while giving you that I-knew-you-couldn't-resist look. If you dare disobey him, he'd have you bent over his lap and he'd spank you until your rear was red. But it was risky when you had sex when still in the building, so he'd either silence you by tying his neck tie around your neck or simply by kissing you while the tie kept your hands restrained. You snapped out of your thoughts when he leaned back in his chair and pulled you closer to him, his attention now focused on his paperwork he had to turn in before he leaves. He didn't have much left, so you figured it won't be long before the two of you left for the festival.

...

You finally arrived at the festival with Aizen, excited for what lies ahead, that is until you felt a low vibration coming from within your panties. You gasped, obviously not expecting the sensation as your legs wobbled. You glanced back at Aizen, furrowing your brows only to see him with a remote in his hand and an evil glint in his eyes. "Let's go over some rules before we walk, hm?" He said in a sultry tone, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close to his chest. "No releasing until I say so."

"But—"

He raised his finger, silencing you immediately as he gave you a dangerous look. "Do not interrupt me, princess. I'm still talking, you wouldn't want me to discipline you out in the open, would you?" He asked, a serious expression on his face as he gazed down at you. You shook your head with a slight pout, knowing he would've done it if you didn't reply.

"Good. Now, the vibrator will stay on and you will not remove it, is that understood?" He inquires once more, his expression shifting into that same smug one as he moved his free hand to grab your chin tightly, the remote pressing against your cheek.

"Y-yes, master..." You spoke, giving him the nickname he insisted you did whenever you had sexual intercourse. Oh how you wish for once you could tease him instead, but he always saw right through you and found a way to get you on your knees while humiliating you for what you tried to do. Not that you were against his tactics, he knew just how to get you aroused. Hell, one look from him left you shaky. He finally let go of you, nodding his head approvingly before holding a hand out to you.

"Wonderful. Come now, there's many things you wanted to try, yes?" He said, a wickedly kind smile on his face. It was as if nothing seemed to be wrong. You placed your hand in his, letting him guide you through the area. Bright lanterns hung from lines above the carts selling things such as food and what not. You felt the vibrations from the bullet get more intense which caused you to let out a small choked moan, your legs wobbling as you clung onto Aizen's arm. "A-Aizen...!!" You breathed out shakily, looking up at the man with need.

Aizen, being the tease he was, merely hummed as his olive brown eyes glanced back at you. "Hm? You seem deprived, princess. Perhaps a little higher?" He suggested, making your eyes go wide as you shook your head aggressively. However, he didn't listen to you and already pressed a button which made the vibrations become even more intense. He tucked it back into his pocket, giving you a devilish smirk as he practically dragged your aching body.

Every time you felt the pleasurable bliss of your high inch near, the vibrations would stop or lower. You didn't dare glare at him or say what was going on in your mind, but you'd let out a small whine each and every time he toyed with you like this. Before you knew it, he had taken you to a secluded area to watch the fireworks. It was a nice view of the sky and no one seemed to be around.

Which meant he could do as he desired with no one looking. He hummed ever so slightly, his gaze focused on the sky as stars reflected off his glasses. "What a stunning view." He said, seemingly ignoring your cowering form directly beside him. He sat down on the grass, smiling as he pulled you down into his lap and focused his attention on you. "But I must admit, you cowering just for me is quite a sight." He evilly said from behind you, licking the shell of your ear which further aroused you.

You let out a moan, your hands instinctively gripping the material of his pants as you leaned back. "P-please..." you begged, just wanting him instead of this torturous object. Aizen ignored your pleas, merely humming to himself  as he placed his big hand on your inner thigh, slowly kneading it as he tilted his head up to the sky when a lone firework bursted in the sky, several others following. "They're quite beautiful," he commented.

You, on the other hand, couldn't enjoy the fireworks show since you were trying your best to keep it together and not cum like Aizen said. Displeasing him came in many forms, especially many kinks.

The volume of the vibrator increased, this time to its full potential. "Are you listening, Y/N-Chan?" He asked with no change in his baritone whatsoever.

You began sweating, the urge to release becoming greater which made you think he was doing this on purpose, just so he could amuse himself and discipline you. "Y-yes, I am...!" You shakily spoke, a knot forming in your stomach and suddenly tightening. Your eyes widened when he slid his hand underneath your skirt further, a singular finger rubbing your clitoris from the outside of your panties. It was starting to become so overwhelming....

BOOM!

Just as soon as the firework crackled after exploding into the air, you released right then and there with your chest heaving up and down as you tried recovering. You felt so dizzy yet so good after finally being able to release and ride out your high. That is until a deep voice snapped you out of your guiltily bliss.

"My, my, what a mess you've made. A naughty daredevil you are.." He said, an amused chuckle escaping his lips as he spun you around in his lap. "I gave you rules, did I not? It seems I have to punish you for breaking them." He added, a mischievous smirk decorating his features.

You couldn't protest since it'd come to no avail. He knew what he was doing by putting that vibrator in you, needless to say, he wanted to make you release and you did just that. He removed his glasses, placing them down on the ground.

He began slowly loosening his neck tie, leaning in and kissing you passionately. Your face was a deep red hue at this point, but you kissed back nonetheless, aching for this man's touch. Aizen hummed with satisfaction and approval, his tongue licking your bottom lip for entrance. You decided to tease him and keep your mouth shut. Aizen reached his hand down and rested it on your rear, giving it a hard smack which made you gasp. He slid his tongue into your mouth and began exploring it. He pushed you down, his hands trailing up your arms and to your own hands.

Once he pulled away from your mouth, you found that your wrists were tied together by his tie and your skirt was already off. However, the upper half of you remain clothed and Aizen was currently peppering kisses along your pale, delicate neck. Soft moans escaped your lips when his kisses became rougher, leaving a trail dark hickeys down to your collarbone.

Slowly, he began unbuttoning your shirt, unclasping your bra to reveal your (chest size) chest. He pulled back and admired your body for a split moment, watching as you writhed underneath him with pleasure, although the neck tie was a setback for you. "Oya, what a needy little kitten you are." He commented, his eyes practically undressing what was left of you. You drooled ever so slightly, the blood rushing to your face which left you a blushing mess. "M-master..." you mewled out, longing for Aizen's touch.

Aizen chuckled, the sound resonating from within his chest as he leaned back down and pecked your lips. "I suppose I can't leave you like this. That'd be cruel." He stated, almost as if pitying you although it was more of teasing. His hand began fondling your right breast while Aizen sucked at the other one. He kissed your bud before licking over it and sucking, doing the same to the other.

You moaned with every action he did, your back arching as your womanhood ached for him. His tongue against your sensitive nipples made more drool come out of your mouth, his mouth working wonders on your body. You could feel your womanhood getting wetter and wetter by the second. If only he'd focus his attention there...

Aizen suddenly stopped, pulling away from you and smiling, but not a kind one. More like a devious deceptive one.

"Beg." He commanded, sliding off your panties and turning on the vibrator once more.

Your eyes widened when he pulled away and commanded you to do so. You were about to argue but the vibrator was back on which meant Aizen was about to toy with you until you did what he said. He had spread your legs to an angle where he had a view of your womanhood. This was his way of humiliating you. He had an exact way he wanted you to beg, and it always left you red and flustered. You moaned as the vibrations increased, snapping you out of your thoughts as you squirmed from the feeling. Finally, you gathered the courage to say it,

"P-please f-fuck me, m-master...I w-want your cock to fill me..."

Aizen nodded his head approvingly, smirking as he began stroking your hair. "Mm, what an obedient princess," he praised, humming a little as he removed his clothes and finally slid off his boxers. He removed the vibrator inside you, your womanhood already so sensitive from contact with his finger. He gave you no warning and pounded into you mercilessly, which left you moaning loudly due to how sensitive your womanhood was. Aizen lifted your legs onto his shoulders and gave you a smoldering look from above.

He switched positions suddenly, turning you onto your side as he laid down beside you and pounded into you from behind. You were a moaning mess and his monstrous pace left you flustered and red in the face once more. You were also embarrassed by the fact you were out in public doing this, but that didn't seem to bother Aizen whatsoever.

You closed your eyes and felt his huge member stretching you out although you've had sex multiple times. He began whispering dirty things in your ear as you were getting pounded into. "My naughty little pet..it seems you need to learn some manners.." he said, nibbling at the outer shell of your ear. His hands made its way to your perky nibbles, him roughly pinching and rolling them between his fingers.

Your back arched once more as you leaned back into him while breathing shakily with elicit moans. "A-Aizen...~!" You moaned out repeatedly, almost near your high until he pulled out again and switched positions. This time he pounded into you from above, only now moving his hands up to wrap his big hands around your delicate neck. "You look truly stunning like this, my hands wrapped around your fragile little neck and your cute sounds of pleasure," he said with delight, continuing to ram into you all while choking you.

"C-choke me, master..." you said, wanting to earn his praise as you felt him hug your g-spot. This made him smirk in return as he angled himself a certain way and began hitting that spot consecutively while letting out small grunts and low groans. You felt his grip increase on your neck, a handprint almost forming from the tightness. You gasped a little as your lips parted from being choked by him, the sensation of him pounding into your g-spot all while he did that made this all the more pleasurable.

A knot began tightening in your stomach as Aizen's grip on your neck began loosening, his thrusts becoming noticeably sloppier which symbolized he was near. A few more thrusts and the both of you released, a relieved sigh escaping your lips as you began catching your breath the moment Aizen released your neck.

"I taught you better than that, Y/N. If one round exhausts you, you won't be able to handle your punishment." Aizen said as he sat directly above you with a slight smirk.

"Come, let's go home so I can teach you not to disobey me."

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ FUDDY-DUDDY ❜

with Che ‘Taza’ Romero.

Warnings: nsfw, smut.

Word count: about 1.7k

Aurora says: This is just something I needed to write, that's all. This writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: to my wonderful @sonsofeorl ✨

Masterlist. You can subscribe to my broadcast list, to be notified whenever I post a writing!

One of his hands roams your thigh, while the other arm has wrapped your waist. Sitting on his lap, you're enjoying another long talk about funny stories that happened in different runs with the crew. The yard is starting to get emptied deep in the night, until left the original Mayans and some of Vicki's girls. You are a little bit drunk as a skunk, just like Taza who is enraptured on the way his fingertips get slided over your bare skin.

“Hey, Vice”.

A mexican girl interrupts Bishop's story, walking towards the sitted group, swaggering her body and trying to be sensual. You are about to laugh, Angel and Coco too.

“I thought I could give you a… ‘goodbye’ before leaving”. She says, stopping some inches away from your position.

Now, you are laughing, getting up to roll to Bishop's lap. Che frowns at you, before leading his angry orbs to the other girl.

“No, thank you… I prefer to waste my time trying to fuck her, instead of fucking you”.

Silence. He is drunk, but he's talking seriously.

“C'mon, kid, get that dick”. El Presidente breaks into laughs, pushing you away from him back to the Vice, as if you were a ball and they were playing.

“GET THE APACHE D! GET THE APACHE D”.

The people left in the yard start to sing in chorus, making you flush, puckering your lips at the oldest man there.

“What? My mother didn't raise a liar”.

“Do I look like a drunk-one-night-stand for your pleasure, Che?”

“I didn't say that”.

Rolling your eyes, you already know that your night has ended. Staggering a little, you go to the inside of the clubhouse, looking for your bag and your leather jacket to leave for your house. If you are so close to him is not to get the ‘Apache D’. Not at all. You have true feelings for him and, if this kind of relationship is enough for you, now you are pissed off by knowing that he just wants a night with you. As if you were a trophy for him.

“You are not leaving”.

You hear his voice behind you, upset and with a light tone of sarcasm in it.

“Yeah, I'm fucking leaving, Che. I don' wanna see your fucking face right now”.

Turning around, you try to pass him away, but he takes you off the keys of your car.

“You can't be this dummy, can you?” He says narrowing his eyes, and stretching the hand over his head to pull the keys away from you. “I don't want just a… whatever night you said. I'm too drunk to repeat again your tongue twister, Mary Poppins”.

“I'm gonna punch you in the face”.

“Respect your elders, chamaca”. He tries to look offended, surrounding your waist with his free arm. “C'mon… (Y/N). Why is this hard to believe that I love you, ah? I'm nuts about you”.

“Do you even know what you are saying?”

“Kinda like. I heard that from the prospect, and I wanted to use it with you, 'cause you like squirrels”.

You can't help but chuckle, while Taza takes off your bag and also grabs your jacket.

“Stay with me, please…” He whispers, pulling himself away to place your things on a sofa. “Look, I'm a traditional man. I will bring you breakfast at bed, even having a hangover”.

“Yeah, you're a fuddy-duddy”.

“The fuck is that?” He laughs loud, putting his hands on you again to embrace your body against him.

“Nothing, forget it”. You reply almost hiccuping, noticing that he is leading you backwards to the dorms hallway.

“Look at you, so drunk to drive”.

“Yeah, what a shame”. You laugh reaching his dorm, opening the door behind you to tuck you in.

As soon as he closes it, his mouth meets yours, devouring it lustfully while your hands travel to the folds of his kutte to take it off. Leaving a trail of clothes to the bed, he urges you to lie down over it, settling himself between your legs. Drawing a way down from your jaw to your breasts, his tongue finds one of your nipples, tasting it as if it was the best thing he has ever tried. Your gasps break the silence installed inside the room, stirring under his touches in the meantime that his free hand paws your abdomen, running it down to your center. Slamming two curved fingers into you, making you arch your back, you can't help but close your eyes and moan loud. Probably, the crew has heard you, but you don't care.

“Shit, baby girl… you're fucking drenched”.

He purrs against your nipple, speeding up the moves of his wrist, hitting your pussy with his palm and provoking a dirty sound rhythm your begs. And when you think he can't worship your body better, he bows until his lips strongly suck your throbbing clit.

“Oh, fuck!” You cry out with a sob, putting your legs over his back.

His warm breath bristles your whole anatomy, determinate to make you cum in his mouth, adhered to your sensible skin. Adding a third finger without expecting, Taza makes your thighs vibrate on his shoulders, fixing his eyes on yours, rolled back to your head. Your vocals getting louder, flood the room and half-part of the hallway, not wanting to contain yourself after so much time desiring it. His tongue licks your entrance, over his fingers, drinking your juices and tasting them, until he feels your wet pussy twitching under every stroke his lips make.

“Cum for me, chamaca, I wanna hear you screaming my name”. He demands among your legs, before catching again your clit with his lips.

The sensation of sucking the air out of your lungs so desperate, that provokes a lash of heat hits your backbone leaving a trail that flows into your belly. Tangling your hands on the gray hair, you can't help but press his face more closer to your center. Pulling out his hand from you, Taza nails both on your hips, putting his arms under your legs. His tongue moving faster itself among your lips, tasting on purpose every inch of you, you find the purest orgasm, crying out his first name; so uninhibited that it ends up ripping you throat.

You can feel his chuckles making your skin vibrate, going up until finding your lips. Getting more comfortable between your shaky legs, the Mayan kisses you, tucking his tongue inside your mouth to let you taste your own flavor mixed with the tequila you two have drunk. And it's really delicious, feeling his waist slightly swinging against your throbbing and satisfied center, but wanting a little more. Sliding down a hand between both, he guides the head of his cock straight to your pussy, not giving you a breath; when he's already thrusting it to your limits.

“Fuck, Che”.

You whisper running out of air onto his lips.

“I'm going to do it every night, mi amor”. He replies, noticing how deep his voice sounds right now, enchanting completely your brain. “Feels good, ah?”

You just nod with your throat totally dry, gulping and intertwining your legs with his.

“You will enjoy it much more, you will see…” He says then, with his mouth over your ear, biting your lobe before starting to swing his hips.

Every move is accurate, hitting your g-spot with no mercy, looking for your pleasure totally enraptured in the way you have to grunt his name. One of his arms is placed under your body, holding you tightly, while his right hand is wrapping your neck making some pressure over your skin. His pace is fast and constant, not giving you the chance to mold your walls to his thickness, in the meantime that Che drags his teeth on your collarbone until biting you. Your nails tour his back, almost scratching it superficially, begging for more as he pounds you against the mattress.

Grabbing your wrists with his right hand, to fix them on the pillow over your head, he speeds up as much as he can, giving to your body a reason to squirm because of his anxious lunges. Feeling how warm your soaked pussy, it's driving him crazy. And maybe the alcohol plays a part of it, but it's insane the way he has to mark you everywhere, anyhow possible, as if he was needed for making everyone know that you're only his. Only for him.

“Fuck… I'm close again”. You sob, with his teeth nailed on your neck and his tongue doing some circular moves.

He knows it. He can feel it, that's why he hasn't slowed down his pace. Che wants to put you in your sweetest dreams after being fully pleased. Wrapping his waist with one of your legs, you try to push him a little more into you, burying deep his cock in your wetness. A knot growing up inside your belly, leaving your mind blank, blows up your senses. Loosening the grip on your wrists, you clings your arms around him. Your moans echo matching his, as your core continues engulfing his hardness until you feel his heat filling you up, drowning a hoarse howl in the gap of your shoulder.

Taza holds his body against you, pressed strongly, emptying himself inside you. Mixing your ecstasies and melting yourselves in one. Collapsing onto your chest, he hugs you with a sigh stuck in his vocal chords, drawing the same relaxed smile on his lips that you have. Pulling himself out, feeling his seed spilling by your thighs, he lies down trying to catch back his air. After some seconds and leaving a soft kiss on your cheek, the man gets up without a word wearing his boxers to step out of the room. You can't even move a single inch, resting your hands on your belly, until he comes back. Helping you to clean up all the mess with a warm wet towel, Taza falls down on the bed, holding you onto him and filling your face with sleepy kisses that make you laugh.

“Congratulations, you had the whole Apache pack”.

Your laughs become loud, stirring softly under his arms.

“You idiot…”

“Ranch included”. He tosses in, adding more gasoline to the fire.

“Che!”

Now, you can't stop laughing, infecting him and shaking your head.

[notapaladin]

Obsidian and Blood, an overview

Do you like fantasy? Do you like mysteries? Do you like Mesoamerican mythology? Do you like ALL OF THOSE THINGS TOGETHER, set against the lush backdrop of Tenochtitlan in 1480? (Or maybe you just want to know more about the series I have been going feral over since August.) Then buckle up, because oh boy have I got a series for you!

*drumroll, please*

OBSIDIAN AND BLOOD, written by Aliette de Bodard (better known for her Xuya and Dominion of the Fallen series)

There are two kinds of people: Those who see the words “Aztec fantasy/murder mysteries set in very well-researched 1480s Tenochtitlan BUT WITH MAGIC, investigated by the HIGH PRIEST OF THE GOD OF DEATH” and immediately ran off to buy them, and those who clearly need convincing. So here I am, shamelessly plugging my new hyperfixation!

Obsidian and Blood consists of three semi-standalone novels and three (free!) prequel short stories, all featuring 30-year-old Acatl as our first-person POV mystery solver. Acatl is not, however, your average historical detective; aside from being set firmly in Tenochtitlan in 1480 with all that implies re. the acceptability of slavery and human sacrifice, he also is the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli in a universe where the gods regularly meddle in mortal affairs and magic spells are powered largely by rituals and blood—animal, human, or your own. You’d think this would make Acatl really, really good at solving murders, but you’d be wrong. He is the least of the Triple Alliance’s three High Priests, and his god doesn’t come at his servant’s beck and call. Not to mention the other gods, who have their own deadly agendas. That’s not even getting into the people around him, who might be the most dangerous of all. Luckily, he has more allies than he thinks—if he has the strength to actually reach out to them and admit he could use the help!

(He doesn’t need to reach out to his student Teomitl. Teomitl, a confident young warrior of imperial blood, keeps volunteering. This gives Acatl roughly one heart attack per book.)

You will like them if…

I did just say “magic murder mysteries in 1480s Tenochtitlan,” right? It’s real Precolumbian Mexico hours up in here! The history of the Aztec Empire and their Triple Alliance actually forms multiple key plot points throughout the series!

you’re into Aztec history/culture in general

if a DnD fan, you are REALLY into the Raven Queen

you think blood magic is super cool and wish it wasn’t treated as the realm of The Bad Guys

you get incredibly hyped over lesser-known mythologies treated respectfully but also very awesomely (the thing where the Aztecs thought human sacrifice kept the sun in the sky? Yeah, in this universe it is literally true and plot-relevant)

you are big into chaste heroes, lots of snarky asides, highly opinionated narrators who let their own prejudices destroy them, “from an outside perspective this is cosmic horror but for the characters it is a Tuesday,” mysteries with twists you will NOT see coming, and themes of trauma/memories/family legacies

you love reading about dysfunctional family relationships in various states of repair/further destruction

you’ve ever thought “hey this historical mystery is cool but what if there was MAGIC”

you like noir detective stories but want them with magic

you like urban fantasy but want them to have historical settings instead of vaguely modern-day ones

Plot/character summaries below!

SHORT STORIES (prequels to the novels, blurbs by me)

Obsidian Shards

Warriors have been found dead in the town of Colhuacan, obsidian shards embedded in their hearts. Acatl, priest of Mictlantecuhtli, suspects a creature of the Underworld—one he already calls a foe, for it slew his first and last apprentice.

Beneath the Mask

In the Tenochtitlan suburb of Coyoacan, Acatl’s childhood friend Huchimitl begs him to save her only son’s war captive; the man whose sacrifice will make the boy a proper warrior is paralyzed from an unknown curse, unable even to rise from the floor. But who could have cursed him, and is it connected to the mask Huchimitl now wears?

Safe, Child, Safe

A toddler is slowly wasting away, the mark of the Underworld on him, and Acatl is tasked with finding the cause. But no creature of the Underworld kills so slowly, and so Acatl must turn his investigation to the living.

THE BOOKS (blurbs taken directly from the book listings, you don’t HAVE to read them in order but I do recommend it)

Servant of the Underworld

Year One-Knife, Tenochtitlan; the capital of the Mexica Empire. Human sacrifice and the magic of living blood are the only things keeping the sun in the sky and the earth fertile. A Priestess disappears from an empty room drenched in blood. It should be a usual investigation for Acatl, High Priest of the Dead—except that his estranged brother is involved, and the more he digs, the deeper he is drawn into the political and magical intrigues of noblemen, soldiers, and priests—and of the gods themselves...

(Neutemoc: I didn't mean to sleep with her! It was an accident! Acatl: I don't understand. Did you trip?) (Acatl: I don't want a new apprentice! Teomitl: :D? Acatl: ...I will make an exception)

Harbinger of the Storm

The year is Two House, and the Emperor of the Mexica has just died. The protections he afforded the Empire are crumbling, and the way lies wide open to flesh-eating star-demons—and to the return of their creator, a malevolent goddess only held in check by the War God's power. The council should convene to choose a new Emperor, but they are too busy plotting against each other. And then someone starts summoning star-demons within the palace, to kill councilmen...Acatl, High Priest of the Dead, must find the culprit before everything is torn apart.

(Teomitl: I've only had Acatl and Mihmatini for a year, but if anything happens to them I'll kill everyone in this room and then myself) (Quenami: Playing With The Big Boys.mp3)

Master of the House of Darts

The year is Three Rabbit, and the storm is coming. The Mexica Empire now has a new Emperor, but his coronation war has just ended in a failure: the armies have retreated with a paltry forty prisoners of war, not near enough sacrifices to satisfy the gods. Acatl, High Priest for the Dead, has no desire to involve himself yet again in the intrigues of the powerful. However, when one of the prisoners dies of a magical illness, he has little choice but to investigate. For it is only one death, but it will not be the last. As the bodies pile up and the imperial court tears itself apart, dragging Teomitl, Acatl's beloved student, into the eye of the storm, the High Priest for the Dead is going to have to choose whom he can afford to trust; and where, in the end, his loyalties ultimately lie...

(Teomitl: I am no longer Baby I want Power) (Acatl, to Teomitl: What have you got there? Nezahual, gleefully: A coup! Acatl: NO!)

THE MAIN CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)

ACATL “By my face and by my heart, I’ll bring you justice.” High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, god of death and the underworld. As such, his duties include both the obvious ones of arranging funerals and standing vigils for the dead, and the less obvious ones of investigating magical crimes and keeping the boundaries between the heavens, Earth, and the underworld intact. When Servant of the Underworld begins, he’s only recently been promoted and hates it. Has a strained relationship with his living family, due largely to not having lived up to his (dead) parents’ desires for him to become a warrior like his brother Neutemoc. Bitter, cynical, and grumpy, but devoted to justice and fairness.

Has an official character sheet.

CEYAXOCHITL “Everyone has to grow up and take responsibilities. Even small, humble priests.” Guardian of the Sacred Precinct and wielder of the power of the Duality (Ometeotl), which makes her the sworn protector of the Mexica Empire and its Revered Speaker from all sorts of mainly-magical threats. Somewhat past middle age but still very strong in her magical abilities, and something of an antagonistic mentor to Acatl. (She nominated him for the position of High Priest. He is not appreciative.) Serious and devoted to her duty, with a keen eye for potential in others. Dies in Harbinger of the Storm and you WILL cry.

NEUTEMOC “Priests hide and run away. Warriors don’t.” Acatl’s older brother, a Jaguar Knight with five children and a failing marriage. Resents Acatl for not helping to support their aging parents by becoming a warrior like he did. The central suspect during most of Servant of the Underworld’s plot, though by the end he and Acatl have begun to repair their relationship. He is strict, stern, and bitter, but truly loves his family. (In the case of his younger brother, that love is buried very deep down.)

TEOMITL “If we don’t believe in ourselves, who is going to?” Acatl’s student, an enthusiastic warrior who yearns to prove himself worthy of his power and noble rank, as well as live up to the memory of the mother who died birthing him. During Servant of the Underworld he swears himself to Chalchiuhtlicue, goddess of fresh water and lakes, gaining (among other things) command over the man-eating water monsters called ahuitzotls. He is courting Mihmatini during Harbinger of the Storm; by the time Master of the House of Darts takes place, they are married. He is abrasive and proud, but also honest, loyal, and brave. And very, very ambitious. You will want to punch him several times. This is normal. (Also, I will swear that it's not just my ship-goggles being on too tight that has me thinking his relationship with Acatl is much more weighty and personal than the one he has with his ACTUAL WIFE.)

MIHMATINI “Better laugh, and smile at the flowers and jade. Life is too short to be spent grieving.” Acatl and Neutemoc’s youngest sister, a powerful magic-user who finds herself thrust into the position of Guardian during Harbinger of the Storm. Though she has no great ambitions herself—she mostly just wants to be a mother and raise children—she is ferociously protective of her family and will fight anything that threatens them. Even themselves. (Especially themselves.) Kind, caring, and light-hearted, but her acid tongue and sharp temper are not to be dismissed. "Fuck Around And Find Out" given human form.

ACAMAPICHTLI “We have always endured.” High priest of Tlaloc and a reoccurring thorn in Acatl’s side. Though he’s primarily out for his own gain and has no patience for Acatl’s refusal to play on the field of Imperial politics, they eventually form something like an uneasy truce following the end of Harbinger of the Storm. He is snarky and sardonic, but truly cares for his clergy. During Master of the House of Darts he somehow became one of my favorite characters.

TIZOC "I've always known that priests couldn't be trusted. You have just exceeded my expectations." Teomitl’s older brother, first Master of the House of Darts and then Revered Speaker. (Look, it’s not a spoiler if you can Google it.) He is cowardly, ambitious, and the closest thing this series has to an overarching antagonist. Among other things, tries to have Acatl executed during Harbinger of the Storm. Events at the end of that book only manage to make him measurably worse. "Ah There He Is, That Motherfucker, What A Tool" #1.

QUENAMI “Oh, Acatl. Such lack of tact. You are so unsuited for the Court.” High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, appointed by Tizoc between Servant of the Underworld and Harbinger of the Storm. Comes from a noble family, and is much better at diplomacy and playing politics than he is at magic. When push comes to shove, however, he can display some surprising determination. He is arrogant, scheming, and takes joy in cutting Acatl down, but presumably has some good qualities...somewhere. "Ah There He Is, That Motherfucker, What A Tool" #2.

Maps of the series’ primary setting

Setting Primers

Official Character Index

Glossary

[gehayi]

It's possible that Tom Riddle seduced Merope Gaunt & later on she lied to get him to marry her or more likely she had symptoms of a false pregnancy & believed she was pregnant which led her to tell him she's with child. Given the social pressures of the time he left with her & the 2 likely eloped with Merope becoming pregnant later on but when Tom learned of this it lead him to abandon her anyways. What is your view on what really happened between Merope Gaunt & Tom Riddle Senior?

It’s possible, sure, that Merope could have lied about being pregnant or could have read the symptoms of false pregnancy wrong . But...well, I’ve been to school with rich privileged kids, and I find it more believable that Tom Sr. found the silent adoration of the ugly daughter of the local hermit amusing enough to exploit. 

I could see him having a bet with his friends about how far he could push this and for how long. I could even see one of his friends dressing up like a minister and Tom going through a mockery of a marriage both to reassure her and to make fun of her. She thinks that it’s strange, of course, but what does she know about how Muggles do things? And meanwhile, Tom Sr. is looking oh-so-serious and he wants this and he wants her and for once in her life, it seems like she has what matters.

Meanwhile, Tom’s friends are stifling their laughter and trying not to meet each other’s eyes for fear that they’ll lose it.

After the fake marriage--who knows how long?--Tom convinces Merope to come with him to London--in April 1926 at the latest. He drives them there, or they take a train. Either way, he arranges the transportation and pays for a hotel room. Maybe he tells her that this is going to be their honeymoon. Maybe he says that they’re going to set up their own house in London. It doesn’t matter to him, as long as the lie works.

Merope isn’t familiar with Muggle cities, Muggle tech of the 1920s, or Muggle money. (She may not even be fully literate; we know that she never went to school and that her father taught her and her brother nothing.)  London is an incomprehensible maze to her. And the hotel room is clean and warm and has soft carpets and pictures on the wall. There’s a box that produces music and stories and news. Lights come on with the touch of a button. And she doesn’t have to cook or clean anything. It’s luxury that she’s never dreamt of. 

To quote the very wise Ursula Vernon, “Relief feels like happiness, if you don’t know the difference.” 

Tom is pleased that she’s so easily satisfied; he doesn’t have to explain to anyone he knows why he’s with this ugly woman. He pays for clothes for her, but he doesn’t take her anywhere. When he’s bored with Merope, he tells her that he has to go out and then parties with his friends. She doesn’t question him. She doesn’t even consider doing so.

In May 1926, there’s a general strike. 

Roads all across Britain become impassible.  Buses have to barricade their windows. The strikers derail the train the Flying Scotsman in Northumberland. The government declares martial law. It even sends a warship to Newcastle. The world has turned upside down.

Merope hears about all this on the radio; it’s her main form of entertainment. She starts peppering him with questions. Why is the strike happening? Why is everyone so angry?

Tom is shaking and tense and can scarcely think coherently. How can these creatures, these underlings, rebel against the orderly system he’s been part of since birth?  And how can this--this daughter of a mere tramp question him?

He yells at her to shut up. He apologizes afterward, and Merope accepts his apology. But the bloom is off the rose now. She knows now that he can be pointlessly cruel, just like her father and brother.

She tries very hard not to know this.

The general strike ends after nine days. Martial law, however, drags on and on. So do transportation problems. And 1.7 million strikers are now out of work. This is not the bright, fun city Tom wanted to visit. 

June arrives. By now Merope’s adoration isn’t as intriguing to Tom, and her pregnancy is starting to show as well.  Like many men and boys of privileged backgrounds, Tom thinks of pregnancy as something that only happens if the woman wills it. He is sickened and outraged that Merope has gotten pregnant--to trap him, he’s sure--and he chews her out for this.

Merope, though, was painfully isolated while growing up. She knew only her father and brother. Her father warned her repeatedly  not to let a Muggle touch her...but he didn’t provide any clarifying details. She had no mother, no sisters, no female friends. She had no education to speak of. Porn was not conveniently available. And she could not read. 

So, faced with Tom’s rage, Merope is at sea, for nothing he says is making sense. She doesn’t know how menstruation, conception and pregnancy work. The world hasn’t bothered to tell her.

Also...partying would have eaten into Tom’s money anyway, but the general strike and its disruption of transportation has made goods like food much more expensive. Though Tom doesn’t want to admit it, his funds are running frighteningly low. He needs the good will of his parents to acquire more cash, and quickly He also needs to square matters with the  rich, upper-class, utterly suitable young woman he’s actually going to marry while assuring her that the Merope situation is no fault of his. 

Arguments begin breaking out daily, then hourly. Tom starts them, taunting Merope’s wall-eyes and ignorance. She despairs when she hears this--after all, mockery and derision are all she’d ever heard from her father and brother.   She loves Tom desperately, but he doesn’t love her.

She doesn’t yell, because she’s been trained since childhood not to. Instead, she begs him frantically, frenziedly not to leave her, because he's the one who knows how to handle this incomprehensible city.  But her panic repels Tom, who sees it as clingy manipulation. It’s only London, after all. There’s nothing to fear.

So one day he returns home--without telling Merope. She's escorted out of the hotel room shortly after that.  He didn’t stiff her with the bill, but not out of kindness. He simply doesn’t want anything, even a bill, tying him to her.

Merope is now alone and adrift in London.  No money. No marketable skills. No transportation beyond her own feet--she has no way of paying for buses or cabs, and she may not even know the Underground exists. And no home.  It’s August, maybe September of 1926.  A rainy August, a mild September.  She’s five or six months along.  And winter is coming.

It comes in October, with freezing cold for most of the month and a snowstorm on the 28th.

She’s been living rough for a month or two. The clothes she’d worn earlier that year aren’t warm enough for October, and the cold has begun to gnaw at her bones. She's starving, too, and by now she knows that countless Muggles, all more qualified for any job than she is, are also out of work, thanks to May’s general strike.

She doesn’t ask anyone else for help. She should, but Tom was the only Muggle she ever really knew--and he betrayed her. She can’t bring herself to  trust another.

And oh, she doesn’t dare go home. Even if she knew where it was and how to get there, her father would beat her to death for polluting the pure line of Gaunt with a Muggle’s get. And her brother Morfin would join in. Happily.

She begs--for food, mostly, though sometimes people give her money. Sometimes, too, they give her advice--to go to a church or a shelter or some government office. Merope nods and smiles and ignores the advice. She’s not going to trust the Muggle government after this past May, and she won’t shelter with dozens of Muggles. That would be suicide.

November 1926 is one of the wettest on record in the UK. Merope falls ill halfway through the month. She’s starting to have trouble breathing, and she’s tired and achy all the time. 

December is filled with bitter, Arctic chill. 

Merope has little strength left. She’s not getting enough air, somehow, and she’s constantly shaking with heat or cold, she doesn’t know which. Her vision is blurry, and even when she can obtain food, it’s hard to keep it down.

You’re dying, a voice says deep inside, and she knows the voice is right.

One day, she spots a building with lots of people caring for babies and children. She asks meekly, and someone--whoever tossed her a sixpence? another beggar?--tells her it’s an orphanage. Merope doesn’t know what that is, but she knows her baby would be better off inside the building than outside it. 

December 31, 1926 is a mild, sunny day. Merope thinks of it as a good omen...until the pains start.

Merope doesn’t know anything about childbirth; she simply feels as if she’s being ripped apart from the inside out. She screams, not even caring if the Muggles hear. 

Somehow, somehow, she manages to limp and crawl to the orphanage. She knocks on the door, which is the bravest thing she’s ever done. But her baby can’t survive a winter on the street. Maybe the Muggles will take care of him if they don’t know his mother was a witch.

She doesn’t even notice that she’s thinking of herself in the past tense.

A woman named Mrs. Cole answers the door and bustles her into a spare bedroom. It’s still unbearably cold, so cold that Merope thinks that her bones will shatter from shaking so hard, but there’s light and color and oh, it reminds her of the hotel room before everything went wrong. And Mrs. Cole is speaking to her in a kind, soothing tone and letting Merope grip her arms when the pains are bad. For the first time since Tom, Merope feels valued. Safe.

Her son is born at a minute to midnight, a scrawny scrap of humanity. Small wonder. Merope’s had little enough to eat for months. He has good strong lungs, though, which pleases her in a dim way. The world seems to be fading away, but that’s all right. She just wants to sleep.

She hears Mrs. Cole asking her something. Not her name--she told Mrs. Cole that before. Oh! The baby’s name.

There’s only one name she could give him--the one Muggle name that means anything to her. 

“Tom,” she murmurs. “Tom...Riddle...Jun--”

And a soothing darkness claims her.

[achubbydumpling]

Alright, I just finished Destroyer (2018) and a bottle of wine and I have some thoughts about this movie and lots of thots about Chris. Why am I writing this? Why not! I love reading other people's opinions, so here are mine.

Let's get into it!

(if you just want ~800 words of chubby kink brain rot skip to the +++ under the cut)

Thoughts and semi-serious movie review

(I don't know nothing about movies, so this is very subjective, but I'd love to hear your opinions, if you disagree with anything or just have something to add)

First, I went into this film completely blind. I had no idea what this film was about, I only knew that Seb was in it.

It starts off promising. Alcoholic detective who knows more than she lets on, an unidentified body and an old antagonist from our detectives past reappears. Plot is being set up, we get to know Erin, the story advances at a good pace and then 15 minutes in everything grinds to a halt.

The movie is very good at building tension, but has trouble reaching satisfying conclusions. Almost every scene just fizzles out into an anticlimactic or abrupt end. The characters seem static, with no real development apart from a few pieces sprinkles throughout, which makes emotional scenes feel unearned.

The movie drags on through it's 2h runtime. By the end I was honestly wishing for Erin to just die already, which probably wasn’t the intention with this character-driven film. We’re told that she is consumed by anger, but to me she just seemed bored most of the time. Like she was trudging from plot point to plot point.

Most of the characters in this movie felt like less than side characters, even Chris, who’s death is the inciting incident for Erin wanting to get revenge on Silas. Arturo was the only other character that stood out to me, but he only really got to shine in the Russian Roulette scene.

The flashback scene at the end was probably the best part of the movie. Not just because we finally got to see Chris for a bit longer, but because Erin finally has someone to play off of and even though she still seems quite stiff in her acting, this is in my opinion her best performance in the movie. 2/5 stars

"omg Sebastian Stan is so hot in this movie"-review

And now let's talk about Seb's look in this movie, because damn does he look good. Stuff I liked in no particular order:

the beard in the flash backs

the shaved head in the less far back flash backs

smoking. doing drugs! cocaine!!

rings

fake dating?? yes please (giving me ideas)

Seb's fucking silent movie acting, hmm jaw clenching and intense staring (his line delivery wasn't the best in this, but it might've been the phrasing)

"Nice ass." "It's all yours."

the grey sweater

rings

Chris' body language being all loose and open, going with where Erin pulls him, draped all over her back, arm around her waist

hnng Erin pulling down the big sweater and showing of his chest-shoulder-collarbone

+++ (weight gain, belly kink and more feedist nonsense from here on out) +++

that shirt is pretty big on him though, isn't it?

and his jeans are way too loose as well, "Nice ass"?, yeah, it'll be real nice with about fifty more pounds on him, when those jeans look painted on

he could maybe hide his double chin under the beard, but his love handles would be peeking out under the hem of that grey sweater, his belly creasing his waist band where it hangs over it, his lower belly hanging out as soon as he moves his arms and he constantly has to pull his shirt down, otherwise it works its way up until the entire spare tire around his hips is on display

idk if everyone is just short, but Seb looks so tall in this movie, imagine he's so tall that he starts out at 230lbs looking jacked, all brawn, functional strength, low insertion muscles, all stretched out, y'know?

and then he packs on weight, still working, still moving, but putting half the time he used to spend exercises, into eating, he eats what you put in front of him and then some

it's not like it's a burden, eating until he's full and then pushing himself a bit further, but your encouragement and the obvious lust on your face whenever you watch him eat, is an added bonus

when Erin suggests he steal the money with her, he refuses, he's got you and you'd never ask him to risk his life on the off-chance that you might be able to pull this off, so he gets out, back to being an FBI agent, back to you, and finally back to eating what he wants

ohhh he'd thought when you first explained to him how you liked bigger guys that he'd be doing this just for you, settling down, putting on a few pounds, it was probably inevitable anyway, but once you started, once he actually gained weight, he liked it, he really liked it

Chris caught himself sneaking his hand under his sweater to play with the tiny bit of fat that was starting to hang over his waistband

he'd always been confident, but feeling heavier made him feel more powerful, instead of rushing everywhere he took his time, long, unbroken strides, nothing could shake him

he was an excellent fighter, not easily swayed, but they take him out of the field when he gains more weight, he gets out, gets a job as private security instead and keeps gaining

300lbs and he's finally getting a real belly, but you could still see some muscles moving under his ribs when you trailed your fingers over them, he's tall, so all the weight has lots of places to settle

350lbs and his legs are straining aganist his jeans, the fabric between his legs thinning from the constant friction, looking at him you'd guess he was 250lbs, maybe 280lbs

but you didn't care too much about him looking smaller than he was, because when he got on top of you and let you feel all the weight you'd put on him, how heavy he was and you were just struggling to catch your breath with 350lbs of absolute beef cake on top of you, you couldn't really form a single coherent thought

it didn't take long for him to reach 400lbs, and you were all over it, you kept him pinned to the couch by the weight of his stuffed belly every night, riding one of his thick thighs until he'd finally digested just enough, that he could think about anything besides the dull ache in his stomach, you could see his eyes lose some of that hazy fog, his body going from boneless exhaustion to pressing his thigh up into you, matching your rhythm

as much as you loved Chris weighing you down, you had learned the positive sides of being on top of him over the last 50lbs he's gained, he was an impressive man, quietly commanding every room he was in, but you could make him fall apart, come undone beneath you and make him give up all this control

he didn't just do it for you, when you saw his eyes flutter shut and his jaw work to deal with all those overwhelming sensations, you could see him get lost in it, going elsewhere and yet giving himself up even more completely to you

he'd beg for you to touch him, to fuck him, to "please make me come, baby", even though he could easily take all that he wanted from you, he only ever asked for it and how happily you gave it all to him

lotsa text, but he's just too hot in this movie, like you can just imagine undressing him and finding a nice little belly under all those baggy clothes

[heyyy-hey-babyyy]

Forever After All

Summary: Dean's sure of two truths in this world. 1) Bert and Ernie are gay and 2) nothing lasts forever. It isn’t until you come back into his life that he begins to have second thoughts. Maybe some things last forever after all. 

Based on the song “Forever After All” by Luke Combs (lyrics italicized).

Pairing: Dean x fem!reader

Warnings: Mentions of drinking

5,100 words

B/N: I really liked writing the flashback, childhood portions of my previous series “When We Were Young.” This isn’t the same reader I was imagining there (I know I shouldn’t imagine reader inserts...), but I’d like to do some similar ‘reader grows up with Dean and Sam’ type of plot with this story, so if you liked “When We Were Young” I’ve tagged you here too! 

Sam was drilling Dean again for reasons why he wouldn’t find someone to settle down with. They were sat at the war table nursing a few beers, and Dean kept shifting under his brother’s gaze. 

“Dean, come on.” Sam stated with a huff, noticing his brother’s irritation, but he wasn’t going to back down this time. “You know that I have always thought the same way you have. But then I met Eileen, and I don’t know man,” Sam took a long swig of his beer to hide the smile from his brother that crept onto his face, as he thought of Eileen. “Some things just change.” 

Dean scoffed, downing the last few swigs his beer and rolling the empty bottle between his hands, really taking in his brother’s words this time. He let out a long sigh, “I don’t know, Sammy. Nothing lasts forever. Hell, a good beer’s got 12 ounces, a good cars got maybe 300,000. You only get so much until it’s gone.” Dean shrugged simply, lost in his own head this time, considering the words he was telling his brother. Nothing lasted forever, so why bother, right? Sam stood up from his seat, defeated, when a different smile jumped to his mind, just for a moment, giving him an idea of how he might convince his brother that some things last forever after all. 

“What about, Y/N? Seems as though you’ve continued to think about her? Maybe she’s your forever?” Dean perked up hearing your name but settled his face into a scowl, not having a clever retort for his brother this time. Sam smirked back in victory, but it didn’t matter. Dean was already lost in memories of you. 

You, Dean, and Sam had grown up together. You were closer to Sam’s age, but hung around Dean whenever you and your dad happened to be in the same town, following the same monster John was. John and your dad would go out and get drunk, and you’d be stuck in your hotel room, so Dean and Sam would sneak over, smuggling whatever snacks they could and watching old reruns of I Love Lucy on the staticky tube TV. Seeing you became one of the only constants in Sam and Dean’s life, and as he got older his excitement seeing you changed into something more. Sam adored you because you gave him the attention he craved, giggling at his newest ‘knock, knock’ jokes and putting up with his nerdiness. But Dean’s feelings were more complicated. When Sam left for Stanford, you really had become the only thing worth a damn in Dean’s life, and running into you during a hunt was the only thing keeping him in the passenger seat of the Impala, letting John drag him across the country. 

Dean smiled simply into his empty beer bottle, forgetting there was nothing left for it to still be attached to his lips. He hadn’t spoken with you in so long, it seemed like you were really only in his memories. Like he was simply imagining you. 

Last he heard, after your dad died, you continued hunting for awhile, mostly spirits easy salt and burns, like your dad used to. The brothers had ran into you about six or so years back, and Sam had begged you to hunt with them, citing your research expertise and describing the bunker, but you merely shrugged him off, eyes locked on Dean while you reminded both of them that you had grown up on the road, and the bunker was “no place for a girl like me.” Dean loved how wild you were, so he didn’t say anything one way or the other to convince you. And with a small flourish, you got into your beat up Jeep and sped away. That was the last time Dean saw you. He had heard through the grapevine that you ended up with some sort of journalism job that allowed you to travel, and keep up with some of the cases that might attract hunters. Dean wasn’t sure if you still participated in the hunt, but he knew from their small hunter circle that you passed on the occasional case to other’s when you were on your way out of whatever town had the latest breaking news. 

Thinking back on these memories had Dean pulling out his phone and scrolling until he found your name. Wanting more than anything to hear your voice he hovered over your contact, but decided at the last second to send you a text instead.

<<Hey. I know it’s late. Up for a call? 

He waited for a few minutes, staring at his screen before you responded, his phone making an excited ping sound. 

<<Hey you! :) You know I’m always down for hearing from you, Winchester. 

Dean smiled, hearing your voice ring through the text, always calling him Winchester, emphasis placed on the chester, almost like it was his first name. Before he could think too much, the picture he had as your caller I.D. popped up on the screen, [Y/H/C] hair wild, eyes squinting at the sun, while you gave him a questioning look. It was his favorite picture of you. Dean pressed the green button on the phone screen and waited for you to speak. 

“Called you first.” Dean could hear the teasing note to your voice, and he felt himself grinning like an idiot. Something about you had all of his walls crumbling down around him. 

“I miss you, Y/N.” He blurted out, his mouth and heart working faster than his mind. There was a pause on your end, but you spoke before Dean could regret telling his truth for too long. 

“Oh, love. You know I miss you always.” There had never been anything physical between you and Dean, but the feelings seemed to always exist, growing as you realized what having feelings for another person felt like. There had been a few rare moments, mostly when you were younger, that you had fallen asleep across Dean’s chest and he kept you close to him throughout the night. And it was no secret to anyone that you and him were the only people the other completely broke in front of. You when your dad died, and him after Sam went off to college, and when John died. You had always held a special connection where you were safe to be yourself with the other. Dean loved you with everything that he had, and after what Sam had said, he knew you were his one chance at a forever. 

“Come see me.” Dean blurted out again, adding a quiet, desperate ‘please,’ to the end, which made you breathe out a soft laugh. 

“Alright.” You responded, trying your best to sound like you were resigning to Dean rather than sounding happier than you’d been in awhile thinking about seeing the older Winchester. “I get the room right next to yours this time, though. The other room was cold, and you were way too far away!” Dean smirked at your request. Anyone else would sound desperate, but you had a way of unintentionally making the people around you compete for your attention, and you were never shy about who you did and did not want to see. 

Dean could hear your pout and he smiled, promising and leaning into your demands. You sounded satisfied, but weren’t ready to let Dean off the phone. He heard shuffling as you moved around whatever hotel you were likely staying in, stuffing your belongings into the same white and black polka dot duffle bag Dean had bought you for your thirteen birthday. When you spoke, you sounded far away, but Dean caught your order for him to “tell a story” while you packed. 

“Okay,” Dean said thinking about what story he should tell, when a specific memory jumped to his mind. “Do you remember that time we boosted the Impala to go see the Northern Lights?” Dean could hear you giggling from far away, before you approached the phone openly laughing, “and we got it stuck in the mud and had to call John to come help us! What were we 15?” 

Dean scoffed, feigning annoyance. “Maybe you were 15, I was almost 18!” You scoffed back in response, and Dean heard the rustle of fabric, knowing you were throwing your clothes into the duffle rather than folding them because ‘they just get wrinkled either way!’ He decided to continue telling the story whether you were listening right now or not. 

“It’s one of my favorite memories because while we waited for my dad, we just sat on the hood of the car and looked up at the stars...” He trailed off remembering feeling like nothing in the world mattered but Y/N in those moments of peace. Dean had been young then, but he knew what he wanted and you were it. It just happened that your lives drifted a part shortly after that. John went on more risky hunts, desperate to find yellow eyes, and you and your dad kept taking care of the salt and burns. You two hadn’t crossed paths much after that. 

You hadn’t responded to what he said before, so he figured you were away from the phone, but suddenly he wanted to remember more of that moment. 

“I hated the world so much during that time. Dad was desperate to find the thing that killed mom, and I could tell Sam wanted more and more out of this life. My family felt like it was falling a part, and I remember thinking that you were one of the only solid things in my life.” It was all true, and though Dean didn’t keep things from you, it wasn’t something he was entirely open about before. The line was silent, so Dean cleared his throat of any lingering emotions, hoping in that moment, that you hadn’t heard what he confessed. 

“Okay, Y/N! Enough packing. Get into your car and drive. There’s still plenty of the night left to drink together.” Dean heard you giggle on the other end and you promised to drive safe before hanging up. 

He grabbed another beer from the fridge and sat back down prepared to wait in the war room so he could see you as soon as you stepped inside the bunker. You were only about an hour or so away, and with Sam back in his room, there was plenty of time to think through his thoughts. Sam would be ecstatic to see you, and Dean decided to keep it a surprise, hoping you weren’t texting Sam or something, promising to watch his nerdy movies with him when you got here. Though you had been one of the only static things in Dean’s life, you had also constantly been there for Sam. Dean remembered the anger he felt when Sam let slip about a time you had visited him at Stanford, confessing that both him and you talked often, when he couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone for Dean or John. Dean got over it quickly, because he didn’t blame Sam. You weren’t someone that either of them could just forget about and move on. And Dean knew that you and Sam still talked, even though it had been years since Dean picked up the phone himself. He didn’t know what stopped him from reaching out, now that the smile was plastered on his face thinking of you walking through the bunker door.

Dean glanced down at his watch, a half hour had passed with him lost in thoughts, his beer warming on the war room table. He hoped you were driving fast as he chugged the warm beer, and rose to get another, when Sam emerged into the room. His hair was dripping into his eyes from his recent shower, and he glanced at the two empty beers on the table in confusion. Sam knew that he had been in his room on the phone for almost an hour, and had taken a shower, and Dean had only drunk one other beer? Sam figured it was turning into a ‘drowning himself’ type of night for the older hunter, but when he caught eyes with Dean, they almost sparkled, excitement evident on his face. Sam couldn’t help but smirk at how happy his brother looked.

“What’s going on?” He asked quietly, coming fully into the room, trying to keep a sense of awareness, hoping his brother wasn’t about to prank him. Dean quickly changed his face to look more brooding but the creases at his eyes gave him away, and Sam wasn’t buying it.

“Dean, what did you do?” Dean looked offended, openly gaping at Sam in mock horror, making his younger brother roll his eyes.

“What?” Dean asked raising his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything. Can’t a guy just sit and enjoy a beer?” He sat back down, even though Sam was witness to him attempting to grab another beer from the kitchen a second ago.

“Sure,” Sam replied, a little bit of a drawl appearing on the ‘r.’ “But one beer? I figured from your mood before you’d be at least a six-pack deep by now.” Sam kept talking as he walked to the kitchen and grabbed a beer from himself and one for Dean, returning to sit across from his brother where he left a few hours before. He uncapped his beer and took a swig. “Or did I have you thinking too much about Y/N and you got lost in your own thoughts?” Dean glanced around clearly about to lie to his brother, and Sam chuckled knowing he was right.

“I told you she was your forever.” 

Neither brother heard the front door open as you expertly snuck into the bunker and leaned over the railing to stare at the two men below. They looked exactly how you remembered them, just a bit older, and Sam looked like he maybe cut his hair shorter. You wanted to let them talk a bit more, clearly lost in their own conversation, but you were too excited to see both brothers and your mouth opened before you could stop it.

“Y’all aren’t talking about me, are you?”Dean just about dropped the bottle he was raising to his lips, instantly getting to his feet as you stumbled down the stairs just as quickly, suddenly needing the older Winchester’s arms around you. People could say what they wanted about Dean Winchester, but he was, and always had been, your comfort. Dean met you at the bottom, catching you easily as you launched yourself into his arms, avoiding the last three stairs. You felt him chuckle lowly as you clung to him, your entire existence missing the man holding you just as tight to him.

Sam was still sitting, a crease forming between his eyebrows, and you gave him a lopsided smile, scrunching up your nose, as Dean released you.

“What, I don’t get a hug from my favorite Winchester?” You asked, poking Dean in the ribs with your elbow when he pouted loudly at your words. Sam still looked shocked, but his mouth was moving into a huge smile, and he stood opening his arms. You hugged the younger Winchester back softly as he wrapped his arms fully around you. You barely reached to Sam’s chest, but he rested his head on top of yours and you squeezed him back, communicating silently that you missed him too. Sam released you, almost reluctantly, and you glanced between the two brothers who were clearly having a silent conversation of their own.  

“Well, Winchesters,” You began interrupting the weird looks they were giving each other.

“You have me for a few days! What’s first?”

------

You had only meant to stay a few days, then return to your life. Turns out that was harder than you would have ever thought. 

The first night in the bunker, Dean grabbed you a drink and ushered you and Sam into the aptly named ‘Dean Cave,’ which was complete with a large couch and recliner, the latter of which Sam claimed instantly. You grumbled jokingly about having to share with Dean, but you caught the small smile Dean wore when you sat next to him and curled your legs up under you. Sam begrudgingly let his brother choose the movie and you were both in hysterics as Dean acted out every scene in Die Hard, including donning a horrible German accent for the Hans Gruber parts. 

It was about halfway through the second movie when you shifted to get more comfortable, leaning naturally into Dean, and he pulled you to his side, tucking you under his arm, a large smile on his face. It wasn’t the first time you two had been cozy like this, but between Dean’s impressions, Sam’s giggling and eye rolling, it all felt like home. You snuggled deeper into Dean’s side, and knew in that moment it was going to be impossible to leave these two. 

That was almost a month ago, and you were getting into a comfortable routine with the boys. They hadn’t returned to hunts, though you encouraged them to, knowing you had plenty of work you should be doing yourself. But Dean shut down the conversation the first time you brought it up, the anger from years of loss and pain that he hadn’t let go of exploding from his body in one loud yell. He had stomped off right after to work on the Impala in the garage, where you found him an hour later. 

He had calmed down and was willing to talk through the fact that he didn’t want to leave you alone yet, afraid that you’d leave. You had smiled at him and promised you wouldn’t ever leave like that, but he had wrapped you in his arms carefully, like he wasn’t going to see you again, and you knew he didn’t believe what you were saying. 

The conversation was put high up on a shelf after that, and neither you or Sam mentioned it to Dean again. But you knew that that singular conversation wasn’t appeasing Dean’s irrational thoughts of everyone leaving him. You knew he didn’t believe anything was forever. 

But the longer you spent at the bunker, and the more you spent time with this Dean that you didn’t quite know as well as his younger version, the further you were falling. 

Dean was many things, but the Dean that had been through so much in the time you were apart had emerged caring and passionate. You caught glimpses of the man he was when he made himself a sandwich and one for you and Sam while you were busy marathoning some Netflix true crime documentary, knowing you both wouldn’t eat otherwise. Or when he offered his expertise freely of any hunter that called one of his phones, no questions asked.   

The hot-head from days past was replaced with someone who was open to conversing and sharing his feelings. Whereas you saw frustration and lack of patience from the Dean you knew years ago, this one has grown to feel the brunt of his emotions, and was willing to take the burden away from others. You would have been lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have feelings for Dean all along, but the cocky, sure of himself young man had turned into a person who was filled with empathy for others; a selflessness you had never seen in any human. This Dean Winchester loved with all of him, and you felt it every time he looked at you. You were just waiting for him to act on what he wanted. 

Could he believe that some things last forever after all? 

Dean tags

@akshi8278

“When We Were Young” Taglist (thought you might like this too)

@vicmc624 @woundedxsmile @supernatural3002 @imaginationisgrowth​ @thoughts-and-funnies

[justanother-unluckysoul]

Working My Way Back To You 10/11

Killian gets captured. When Emma finally rescues him, he’s traumatized and nearly broken from the torture he endured. Thankfully Emma is close at hand to help him through it.

Heavy on the hurt/comfort, with some whump because I couldn't help myself lol

A/N: Some fluffy comfort for the prompts “hugs” and “kisses.” Short and (hopefully) sweet! We are almost at the end of this story, just a quick epilogue to go. I can’t believe it! Thank you, all my lovely readers, for giving my little story so much support! Epilogue will be up early next week. It’s all finished so there’s no point in making you wait a whole week for it.

Warnings for this chapter: brief and vague mention of rape (though i’m sure if you’re still reading this story you don’t mind that)

Unbetad as always so mistakes are all mine.

Tagging @cocohook38 as requested.

Read this chapter on AO3

Working My Way Back To You

Hugs + Kisses

After their wonderful time together in the forest, the complete bliss and contentment Killian felt while cuddling with Emma under the blankets lingers for some time. He makes the most of his rediscovered confidence with her at night, making love until they are both exhausted and sated (and gods he missed this; the feel of her around him, the expression on her face when he begins to thrust into her, and the way she can take him apart and put him back together so easily, leaving him worn out and absolutely satisfied). And Killian assumes – he hopes – that his mind has finally given up on tormenting him with the memories of his torture. Perhaps he’s even cured of that PTSD thing. He’s certainly less jumpy now, less prone to startling and he hasn’t had a nightmare in a while. His broken hand has healed – Stacy’s not-so-gentle methods have helped return the strength to it, so Killian is able to spend some more time on the Jolly Roger with Henry, properly preparing the ship for a much-needed day out on the water.

“A family outing?” Emma asks with a smile.

Killian’s heart soars and his stomach does a strange sort of flip at her casual use of the word family in this context. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

“Aye, we’ll take her out far enough that it’s just us and the sea,” he says.

Henry is practically bouncing up and down in excitement as they make their plans. It’s been too long since they’ve done this. Emma checks the weather forecast and they schedule a sailing day. Killian tries to conceal the fact that he’s just as excited about it as Henry is, but the way Emma’s smirking at him in that way makes him think he’s not doing a good job of doing so. So he gives up on hiding it at all. It doesn’t matter anyway, because they both already know how much he loves sailing his ship. There’s just something about being on the water that is both exhilarating and calming. And to be out there with Emma and Henry? Even better.

-\-

A few nights before their planned outing, Killian’s nightmares return. And it’s as bad as ever. He’s not sure what triggered it, but it’s nasty combination of what was and what could have been, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s dreaming but he can’t seem to wake up. He tries to call out to Emma so she can help him. The words stick in his throat. He can’t move. His captor has Pan’s face, which seems wrong because Killian knows this setting isn’t Neverland, but he doesn’t have time to contemplate that because Pan is grinning evilly and pushing him back against the wall, and Killian knows what will happen next.

“This isn’t real,” Killian tells himself, desperately trying to wake up. His voice trembles and breaks.

“Are you sure about that, Killian?” asks Pan, his childlike voice sickeningly sweet in Killian’s ear, too close, too much, “Does this not feel real to you?”

Killian’s breath catches in barely concealed dread, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin at Pan’s unwanted touch. And it does feel real, terribly so, and Killian wants to fight, wants to resist, wants to wake the hell up, but his limbs stubbornly ignore his commands. He squeezes his eyes closed tight instead and braces himself for what’s coming, but then Pan is Rumpelstiltskin, and Killian’s on the Jolly Roger, lashed to the mast with ropes that are squeezing the breath from his lungs. The crocodile cackles at him, holding Killian’s heart in his hand.

“No,” Killian whispers, “Please.”

“Reduced to begging so soon, Captain? I thought you were stronger than that.” His hand tightens around Killian’s heart, the agony of it blacking out everything but the crocodile’s next taunt. “But it seems you are a coward after all.”

When the pain in his chest abates Killian finds himself back in the cellar, bent over a table, trying to support himself on his elbows because his hook is gone and his hand is broken and everything hurts and his captors are laughing and he can barely keep his feet from the rough thrusts of the man behind him. Tears roll down Killian’s cheeks but that’s wrong, he didn’t cry, he wouldn’t…

Killian, wake up.

The fingers on his skin feel different suddenly, skittering light and gentle across his forehead and dragging a little heavier across his chest and now that is real. Movement returns to his frozen limbs in a rush. And then he’s falling, and the landing is hard, rattling his bones, and he’s nearly choking on his own breaths in his panic as his stomach strongly suggests it might like to purge itself. He’s shaking violently, his skin crawling, and it’s so bloody dark he can’t orient himself.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m- Damn it. Killian, are you okay?” Emma.

At least he assumes it’s Emma, and not another trick of his mind. He is awake now, right? Emma switches on the light while Killian’s swallowing against the nausea between his ragged gasps, knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around himself, rocking slowly back and forth, trying to calm down – the way his body is trembling, he doubts he has the strength to get to the bathroom in time if his gut really rebels. The sudden brightness burns his eyes but he doesn’t dare close them lest he find himself back in the dreamscape.

“Hey, it’s okay, Killian, you’re safe,” Emma says, and she slowly kneels on the bedroom floor in front of him and doesn’t touch him, “I’m right here.”

“S-swan.” He meant sorry, but her name is apparently the only word he’s capable of saying right now.

He forces himself to reach out and lay his hand on her arm, just to reassure himself that he’s actually awake. That she’s really here. That he’s not alone.

“I’m here,” she repeats, “Let me help you, Killian.”

She always moves slowly when he’s like this, waits for his permission to touch, always careful not to startle him and scared she’ll make things worse. But Killian’s teeth chatter when he tries to speak, so he clenches his jaw and nods instead. With careful, deliberate movements Emma shuffles closer and lifts her hands to his cheeks. His face is wet. It seems he had been crying in the real world too.

“That’s it. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She wipes the tears away gently as Killian sniffles and swallows and tries to pull himself together.

“Do we need to move to the bathroom?” she asks softly, knowing him so well.

But thankfully, the rolling of his stomach has begun to settle, and he’s quite certain he will not actually vomit. Not this time. He shakes his head, shifts his legs to a more comfortable position away from his chest and runs his unsteady hand through his hair.

“M-my apologies,” he mumbles, embarrassed by his reaction, “I’m…” He swallows hard. “I didn’t…”

Gathering the correct words and ordering them out of his mouth is a challenge, and he decides to give up on it for the moment. Bloody hell, he is pathetic. It’s been a while since his nightmares were this intense. At least this time it seems he’ll be able to find calm before his panicking turns into an actual attack, his breaths already starting to slow down as Emma moves closer to hug him.

“Shhh. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I w-woke you,” Killian points out.

He’s clinging onto Emma now, curled close against her with his head on her shoulder, and even with how ashamed he feels for this blatant show of weakness, he can’t bring himself to let go. She’s rubbing his back soothingly, cradling his head against her, her embrace comforting him, pushing away the remnants of his dream.

“Yeah, you did,” she says softly, “But it’s okay, I don’t mind. I just wish I’d woken up sooner, really. I tried to wake you up, but I guess I was a bit late. That was a bad one, huh?”

There is no point in lying to her.

“Aye.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. His heart is still beating too fast, his throat dry from his gasping.

“Do you want some water?” Emma asks, as if she can hear his thoughts, “I can just… magic a glass up here. We won’t have to move.”

“That would b-be nice.”

Emma moves one hand off him to use her magic and momentarily she’s holding a glass of water, which she carefully passes to Killian. His hand trembles a little, but he’s able to bring it to his lips and quench his thirst without spilling any.

“Feeling better?”

Killian nods.

“Thank you, love. But perhaps…” He winces at the thought but presses on anyway. “Perhaps I should sleep on the couch for a while. So I don’t disturb your rest again.”

“Absolutely not,” Emma says, a bit severely, though still hushed so she doesn’t wake Henry who is sleeping in his room just down the hall, “I’m not letting you deal with these nightmares on your own.”

Killian pretends he’s not relieved about that.

“Now, let’s get back into bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

They untangle from each other and climb back into the bed, where Killian immediately pulls Emma close again to keep his anxiety at bay. The light is still on, and that helps too. He hopes Emma won’t turn it off yet.

“You okay?” she murmurs, settling with her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart.

“I just…” Killian sighs deeply, his frustration coming to the forefront now that he’s less frightened. “I hate this. I hate that I can’t… I can’t move past it. It’s been months, Emma.”

He doesn’t know why it affected him so much – Archie said it’s likely a culmination of the burden of unresolved trauma he’s been through in the past, this most recent simply one too much for his mind to handle. And that’s also why his nightmares often included such old events along with the new. Pan and Rumpelstiltskin featured tonight, but sometimes Hades makes an appearance, mutilating him with his own hook and threatening to drop him in that accursed river.

“You are doing better though. This is the first time you’ve had a nightmare in a while. And the flashbacks aren’t happening very often anymore either, are they?”

“No, they’re not. But it’s not good enough,” Killian says bitterly, and the disgust he feels for his continued cowardice is so strong it could drown him. I’m not good enough.

He should be the one protecting Emma, comforting her, not the other way around all the bloody time. He’s so tired of it. He can feel himself retreating, if not physically then at least in his mind, the terrible weight of not good enough pulling him down, down, down…

“Hey, stop it.” Emma props herself on her elbow so she can plant the softest of kisses on the furrow between his brows, pulling him back to himself and to her. “You’re healing. It’s a process.”

His hand may be healed now, only the scars remaining that will fade even further with time, but at times like this Killian fears his mind may be beyond repair, despite the assurances from both Emma and from Archie that he’s healing. But Emma continues to pull him out of his morbid thoughts, kissing the scar on his cheek next.

“I never want you to think you aren’t good enough, Killian,” because of course she heard the true meaning behind his words, and there’s a feather-light kiss for a faint line of scarring on his shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut and his lips parting on a quiet gasp, “You’ve been through…” Emma’s lips find another old injury. “…so much. You just need some time.”

Killian thinks this would probably be arousing if it wasn’t so soothing. He can feel how much love she has for him – she’s pouring it into every touch, every word, every press of her lips. Perhaps she’s using a little of her magic to do it, or perhaps it’s simply because he’s still fragile from his nightmare, but the sensation is powerful and wonderful, his very nerves seeming to hum happily under his skin in response.

“Emma.” It’s little more than a helpless whimper. Desperate. Though for what, he can’t be certain. It’s not that he wants her to stop. “What are you doing to me?”

“Loving you,” Emma says, in a voice that means he has no choice but to lie back and take it, “Now sshh, I’m not finished.” She curls her fingers gently but firmly around his bicep, anchoring him in place.

She’s slowly kissing a path across the scars on his body between sentences, the knots and lines and hollows that map out a lifetime of surviving, too many lifetimes really. Her tender affections feel like they’re filling a void inside his soul with warmth and love and it’s almost too much to handle. All he can do is keep his eyes closed and wrap his arm around Emma’s waist as she continues.

“You take all the time you need to heal, and I’ll be with you all the way,” she takes his left arm in her gentle hand, and he knows where she’s going next, “However long this takes. However many bad days, or nights, that you have. You just need to…” Her lips brush against his sensitive inner wrist, just beside the ugly and numb scar tissue that covers the blunted end of it. “…to let me help you. I love you, Killian. Please, don’t pull away from me.”

“I won’t,” his voice breaks, and if she doesn’t stop smothering him with all this kindness soon, he’s going to start crying. Again. “I promise I won’t. Emma, I…”

She moves and takes his right hand from around her waist and softly kisses the scars on his fingers and across the back of his hand, and there’s a feeling of all the broken pieces of him being drawn together, sharp edges smoothed over by Emma’s love and it’s too much. A tear slips from under Killian’s lashes and his breath shudders, his heightened emotions too intense to be contained any longer.

“I love you,” he breathes, looking up to see Emma’s own eyes glassy with tears as well.

“I know.” She smiles down at him, raw and open and honest as her thumb brushes the tear from his face. “And I mean what I said. I’m with you, Killian.”

Her next and final kiss is granted to his lips, and she takes her time there, her palm resting against his cheek while his fingers tangle in her hair, allowing him to reciprocate before she settles down into his arms again, and Killian wants to stay in this moment forever. Comfortable and safe, basking in the wonderful feeling of being so wholly loved. How does his Swan always know what he needs?

“What have I done to deserve you, Emma?” he asks once he’s regained control of his emotions.

“What have I done to deserve you?” she counters.

He smiles, and lets the silence stretch on, his limbs feeling heavy and his thoughts turning sluggish as sleep pulls him away. It almost claims him, his eyes closed and his breathing even, when the light he could still just barely see behind closed lids suddenly goes out and he startles, eyes flying open as he pulls himself back to reality with a jolt. He’d turned over onto his side in his almost-sleep, and now Emma’s pressed against his back with her arm around his torso, squeezing a little tighter to combat his flinch. She’s switched the light off, he realizes, plunging the room back into darkness.

“Sorry, I thought you’d gone back to sleep,” she whispers, “Is it too dark?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Hang on a second, I’ve got an idea.”

She moves her hand, a casual flick of her wrist in a way that Killian recognizes – so at ease with using magic these days – and the curtains glide open, letting the nearly full moon cast its light into the room. The tension flows out of him almost instantly, coaxed away by pleasant memories of nights aboard the Jolly Roger with the bright moon shining through the windows of his quarters.

“Better?”

“Aye, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

He can’t find the words to convey just how thankful he is for her, for everything she does for him. He hopes she knows. She probably does. She’s quite perceptive, he thinks with a smile. He closes his eyes again and sleep finds him quickly. When he dreams again, it’s of the sea, and of Emma, and of the moon shining down upon the deck of the Jolly Roger where they’re lying entwined in peaceful respite.

[vesperstalksclones]

Wrecker x Mando Femme OC

The Naked Truth

(18 +) explicit

So this is a gratuitous smut snippet of a Wrecker centered Bad Batch story, post Order 66. But of course, I'm writing the juicy parts first lol. I wanted to post because who knows if I'll finish it, and tumblr needs some Wrecker smut! So, following is unprotected sex, a difficult first coupling, ample fondling, and one surprisingly gentle guy, which is still pretty rough since he's built like a draft horse.... and hung like one... 😳

Quick synopsis:

(OH please pardon my lazy editing, I forgot to go spell check my Mando'a, so I kriffed up a few things 🤨)

The crew have been hiring themselves out to make $$ to fuel the Maurauder, buy supplies, etc. They take a job as armed support for a Mandalorian cell on a rather obscure outer rim planet, who have been clashing with the local crime syndicate. He meets Kessa-Lan, a stoic female warrior with a knack for explosives and an excellent rifleman. Of course our big goofy boy is smitten instantly, but her voice! Its all husky and full of pepper (think like Demi Moore) and he is going to die from loving it. But.. she refuses to take her helmet or armor off in his presence, but not because of strict code; Kessa was injured badly several years ago when her village was attacked by several of the crime family's enforcers. The burns resulted in the loss of her right arm, and her neck, shoulder, and face on the right side are terribly scarred. She has no ear on that side, and half her face is covered by cybernetic skin, with a replacement eye as well. She grows her hair in to thick braids, woven with beads and mementos, so that the locks can hide some of the disfigurement. She is ashamed and afraid that he wouldn't be so enamored if he saw her properly. So some stuff happens… pew pew, boom, pew, etc,etc. Wrecker ends up captured by the crime syndicate's local cell, with a few of Kessa's Vode, and he recognizes their sigil as the group who destroyed Kessa's village and harmed her so terribly. He manages to trick them into bringing him to a meeting hall alone, so they don't use the others as human shields to keep him in check. He taunts the leader in to a one on one fight (they think he's heavily sedated) and when they've uncuffed him, he visits some terrible hell on the three odd dozen elites, but suffers serious injuries in the process. The Bad Batch finds him and rushes off planet to an old friend with a bacta tank and the medical skills to save him. Upon returning, the Batch proceeds to obliterate the criminals and Wrecker seeks out his love interest, hoping she is at least a little bit happy to see him.

 

       OOOOO Here's the good stuff OOOOO

Wrecker Circled her silently, looking her up and down with a quiet intensity. A few times he stilled, and she felt the calloused pads of his fingers ghost over a scar or a patch of freckles. Stopping behind her, his hands came to rest on her shoulders, thumbs caressing for a moment before they slid to her wrists and gently lifted her arms to the air. She felt him shift, no doubt examining them as he had done the rest of her, running his fingers along the lengths, assessing the differences between the one, flesh and bone, and the other, cold cybernetics. 

"Beautiful." He whispered so low she could barely make out the word.

"Hmmm?" 

"Beautiful, Mesh'la." He reached for her wrists again, raising her arms higher and positioning them around his neck, "You're a dream come to life." 

She leaned against him as his lips brushed her undamaged shoulder, nibbling a gentle path towards her neck. 

Retracing the path along her arms, he splayed his fingers wide and his great hands smoothed along her sides and over her hips, climbing up over her abdomen and ribs in slow circuits. When his lips reached her cheek, she turned her face, catching them with her own, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her torso, pulling her as flush against him as he could manage. He sighed into her mouth, kissing and licking at her softly. 

For a moment Kessa was able to appreciate that no matter how brutally strong this behemoth may be, he had an inherently gentle heart. She had half expected to be flung down and ravaged by Wrecker the moment she bared her skin to him, as eagerly as he had flirted with her and as hungry as his eyes always were. She certainly hadn't expected this sensual caressing as he savored her in his arms. Despite the tautness of every muscle she could feel against her back, and the slight tremor in his hands, he held himself quiet and steady.

He broke away from her, turning his gaze back down her body, thoroughly enjoying the view. He slumped backwards, leaning against the crude table, hands full of her breasts as he arched her against him, and she hissed as he toyed with the dark peaks of her nipples. He experimented for a few moments, weighing her in his hands, varying the force of his grasp, rolling and pinching at the buds until he found just the right movement to make her whimper.

"That's right Sugar, sing for me so I know what you like…." he growled low in her ear, his voice growing impossibly deeper. One of his massive paws had crept to the juncture of her thighs, and he traced the crease thoughtfully. "Spread your legs, Dala. I want to touch you". 

She obliged, wiggling her hips as she did so, feeling his hard member ride up against the small of her back. Wrecker hummed in appreciation, as his fingers crept into her warmth and, finding her slick and eager for him, dove right in. Seeking out the bundle of nerves at the front, he stroked with two fingers, trapping the delicate flesh and sending marvelous tingling sensations through her belly. 

"Remember… my tongue was here before…" he whispered, ".. but you hid the rest of you then, all tucked away in that armor and that helmet… killed me to have to listen to you through a moderator." The two fingers flexed and curled, and then plunged inside her, and she clamped around them with a ragged moan, her jaw dropping open from the sudden intrusion. " Kriffing hell! That's nice!" he gasped into her neck.

He thrust into her eagerly, dragging his thumb across her clit each time, spurred along by Kessa's mewls and cries. 

"Fuck! That voice ad'ika! Just listening t'ya could finish me!" He scraped his teeth along her jaw, and she could feel him trembling against her, his breath warm and moist at her ear. "So many times, all I could think was what you'll sound like when you take my cock."

She squirmed, rocking her hips and riding his hand. "Ah.. Wrecker! I want you inside me cy'aire, please!"

"Not yet, doll. Ladies first, then we'll see what happens." He couldn't ignore the burst of sensation brought on by her plea, begging for him to stuff himself between her thighs, and he couldn't help but to roll his hips against her, finding small satisfaction in rutting against her lower back.

"So tight, love. I'm giving you another…" he ground out hoarsely, before adding a third thick finger to her besh, groaning in satisfaction as she arched against him with a sob. "I'm so 'fraid I'll hurt you." 

He felt her relax after a few thrusts, her slick running down the back of his hand. Her sounds were growing more frantic, and she was moving against him with purpose… "Are you there Sugar? Give it to me doll, come for me…let it go..." he pleaded gently.

She pulled his hand roughly to her breast, and he massaged and plucked at her roughly, causing Kessa to yelp and tighten around his knuckles. He stroked her only a few more times before she stiffened and shuddered, giving a broken cry. Wrecker watched in awe as the climax washed over her features, feeling her body contract around his fingers, her nails scraping at his shoulders. He could have wept at the sight, her lashes fanned over her dark cheek… the slight chatter of her teeth as her head lolled against his shoulder.. She drew out such profound feelings in him, his beautiful, pepper voiced, warrior goddess… that is if he wasn't so insanely desperate to pound her 'til her bones rattled.

Chest heaving, Kessa made to move away and he withdrew carefully. She turned and plastered herself against his chest, beaming up at him, one soul-less cybernetic eye blazing red, the other an explosion of green and gold and brown, a swirl of starlit colors as stunning as the glowing gas nebulae he had seen in his travels. 

 "Now!" She gasped, breathless still, "I want you on top of me!"

"Hmmmm.. mesh'la I don't dare."

Her eyes widened in confusion.

"Kess'ika, there isn't a soft surface anywhere in here; I'd beat you to hell darlin. I know my strength and I know how stupid I'm gonna get." 

He rose from where he leaned against the rough work table, considering it carefully.

"But this'll do, I'll break this instead!" He shoved it back hard against the wall with a soft chuckle and turned to reach for her. She came to him eagerly, and he scooped her up, grinding her against  him a few times with a satisfied groan, and he deposited her on the surface. 

"You're ready for me?" He asked, drawing himself close between her legs.

"Um-hmm. Wrecker, take this off." She demanded gently, tugging at the skin tight black shirt he wore. He obligingly peeled it upwards and felt her hands on his skin before it cleared his shoulders. Flinging the garment away he admired the look on Kessa's face as she explored his chest and abdomen. 

"These look terrible." She whispered, her fingers ghosting over the newly healed blaster wounds. 

He gently butted his head against hers. "They're worth it if it means you sleep better at night." He grinned as he kissed her; she framed his face with her hands, deepening the kiss, and when he opened for her, Kessa's tongue brushed over his, making him see stars. 

He jerked his trousers down his thighs and pressed her backwards upon the bench. Wrecker grasped her knees, spreading her wide before him and rolled himself against her, gliding his rigid cock through her wetness for good measure. She pushed up on her elbows, watching him thoroughly wet himself, before fisting his member and aligning himself with her opening.

Seven hells, he was big, well proportionally correct anyway for a man the size of a mountain, and she realized his purpose in using his fingers first... it would have been difficult without some preparation. He pushed against her, gritting his teeth with strain. Her jaw fell slack as he stretched her, his rounded head easing its way in. 

"Is this alright cy'aire?" He hissed. "Hurts?"

He paused, shaking against her as he struggled with his overtaxed libido. 

"Yes, love, I'm alright," she held his gaze, wanting him to see clearly that she wasn't lying for his benefit. She groped for his hands where they held her hips tightly, clinging to them for stability. He continued to push in to her, pausing to withdraw and return to claim another inch of her space. Her muscles burned as she took him, but it wasn't unbearable and each gentle motion felt better than the last. 

"Give me all of you, Wrecker. I'm ready," She gasped. 

He watched her for a moment, sweat beading on his forehead from the tension, and then flexed his ass and plunged forward, landing flush against her thighs and she wailed under him.

"Fuck! Kessa, I'm sorry! I'll stop…" 

"No! Wrecker don't you dare!" She dug her nails into his wrists. "Just hold still a moment." She drew a deep breath willing her protesting muscles to relax, as he gently kneaded her hips.

"Kessa, we don't have to do this, love..."

"I'm ok cy'aire. It's just.. it's been a long, long time, and you're… well… you!" She gave a tug at both arms. 

"Again, just start slowly, I was made for this, you know."

"To be mated by a bantha??"

She burst out laughing, and his eyes rolled back in his head from the contractions it caused around his cock. 

"Jengo's bones woman! Kriffing HELL that feels amazing!"

"You said before you liked my voice enough to get off on it," She quipped, a coy look settling on her face.

"No doubt."

He stooped and kissed her hungrily, before bracing his palms on the table and tentatively moved his hips against her. Gradually he withdrew and then returned, filling her to bursting. She felt him drag against the most deliciously sensitive places, and each one sent hot electricity up her spine. Catching his honey brown eyes, she nodded and he quickened his movements, breathing raggedly from the sensations. 

"Kessa… " he uttered her name again and again, like a prayer. " Oh… Kessa... Gods… you feel so good, woman.. I can't…  I can't believe .. you let me … touch you like this!" Wrecker gasped, punctuating his words with sharp thrusts. "Wanted you for so damn long. Want you for myself… keep you…  My woman.."

"You'd better ruin every other cock for me then" she replied, the words turning in to breathy moans. 

With a sound somewhere between a groan and a snarl, he roughly gathered her up in his arms, his kiss pressing her into the table, his thighs slamming forward harshly against the wooden edges - and they were vaguely aware of the sound of something breaking. She mewled into his mouth, clawing at his back and neck, desperate to pull him closer than he already was. 

"Are you going to come on my cock, love?" He growled. She couldn't do much more than whimper. "Come on mesh'la, scream for me. Wanna feel you!" He reared up, cradling her hips in an iron grip as he rammed into her, feral noises curling from deep within his chest. Kessa dug her nails against the table, watching his member disappear within her again and again, shining with her slick. She knew that she only ever wanted him. No other man should ever have her this way. 

"Wrecker… I love you cy'aire, only you.. I'm yours however you want me.." she cried as her tension built, her release looming. "Come inside me cy'aire, I want you to…" something shattered within her and her climax washed over her. The world turned upside-down and the stars exploded in her eyes, and she screamed, just like he'd asked..

Seeing Kessa coming undone beneath him, her hot tight muscles contracting around him proved his undoing. A hard thrust, and another, and the third had him surging into her, her cries ringing in his ears; a more beautiful sound he had never heard, and his own climax claimed him, drawing blackness across his eyes. 

He didn't quite faint; he was still sailing on the ripples of the best orgasm he had ever had, and his vision slowly came to focus. Kessa was watching him with a look of immense satisfaction, like a proud loth-cat who had just eaten the proverbial song bird.. He was trembling still, with the occasional harsh shudder as she continued still to tighten and relax against his softening cock. 

He reached for her chin. "Kessa, did I hurt you sweetheart?"

"Yes." She groaned. "It was amazing. Do it again."

He wasn't quite sure what to make of that, when she grabbed his neck and pulled him down for a wet kiss.

 "I meant what I said. Wrec."

He grinned crookedly and kissed her back. "We need to find a proper bed darlin'. 

Pretty sure this pic is by Mollo101; whose Star Wars art is AMAZING!! Sorry so dark and melancholy, but there is a lack of Wrecker fanart out there!

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Walk Me Home - Ch 6

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension. 

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level), swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 1775

Author’s Note: All my thanks @mskathywriteswords​ , @fangirlxwritesx67​, and @cracksinthewalls​ for making this story way better than it started. Thank you to everyone who read/reblogged/liked the first chapter. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I do. Also, hang on to something. This chapter is short, but it packs a bit of a punch.

I’m working on a follow-up to my Dean story Dear Mr. Fantasy that I hope to post sometime in the next few weeks. Check it out, if you haven’t, and let me know if you’re interested. 

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY. 

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 6

“I think we can officially call this morning a bust,” Kimber declares, collapsing into her office chair. Dean sighs, rubbing his forehead with one hand, the other propped on his hip. He doesn’t disagree.

“We checked the grad student office where I found Allen,” she says, checking off her mental list as she goes. “You checked out the stairwell where Helen fell. We found zilch in Dr. Lawrence’s office, and nothing here, as well. What’s next?”

“I’ll check in with Sam,” Dean decides, pulling out his cell. “Then maybe some lunch, and if Sam’s done, we’ll meet him at your place so we can start there. Sound good?”

She nods as Dean hits a button on his phone, raising it to his ear and turning away. Kimber’s eyes follow him as he paces the front of her small office, waiting for his brother to pick up. She stretches in her chair, feeling drowsy after the morning’s exertion, and she realizes she’s going to have to get up if she doesn’t want to fall asleep at her desk.

She moves towards the door, mouthing, “Bathroom,” to Dean, who nods as he listens intently to Sam. The brisk air in the corridor is bracing after the still warmth of her little office, and she takes a deep breath before turning towards the restrooms. The hallway is as close as the department gets to being crowded, with several classes letting out simultaneously. 

She pushes through the throngs of chattering students, smiling at a few of her own, intent on getting to the bathroom before it fills up, when she feels a light tap on her shoulder. Kimber turns, but before she has time to register anyone’s face, she feels something thrust into her outstretched palm.

…

Orange and red leaves flutter around her, joining the dense carpet of their brethren beneath her feet. Footsteps crunch before her, and she can see Dean just up ahead, her backpack slung over his shoulder. Dean never carries a backpack of his own, so they must have just finished a study session. He glances back, eyes alight with mischief, grin firmly in place.

“You comin’?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just continues his casual saunter down the path as autumn rains down around them. “Wanna show you somethin’.”

She hurries to catch up, waving a stray leaf out of her face. The ground feels strange underfoot, too firm, her footfalls too loud for such a thick layer of leaves, but she’s too focused on Dean to pay much attention. Someone calls out behind them, but she’s determined to not be left behind a second time.

No matter how fast she runs, though, he stays a few paces ahead with his steady, cartoonishly slow pace, and she grits her teeth in frustration. 

Molasses would be an improvement.

“You’re gonna love this, sweetheart. C’mon, it’s just up ahead.” 

Their pursuer calls her name, closer this time, but Dean is right there, and if she can run just a little faster, she can catch him. She swats several leaves from the air, her mouth twisted in a frustrated frown, reaching out to Dean. 

“Kimber! Stop!”

A voice echoes from behind her, but then Dean turns, holding his hand out, and she stretches her fingers, her feet leaden as she drags her body forward. He smiles encouragingly, curling his finger to beckon her closer, his other arm spread wide to reveal his surprise. 

The trail ends abruptly at a sidewalk that leads to a house very similar to her parents’ old place (“They moved years ago,” she thinks), a house that was definitely not there before Dean pointed it out. The front door stands open wide, welcoming, as a sleek, black muscle car pulls up to the curb out front. Her eyes track the car’s approach, and she registers the name “Winchester” on the mailbox. 

Breathing suddenly becomes very difficult.

As she watches, a couple slides out of the front of the Impala. Kimber’s eyes widen in shock as she recognizes herself and Dean, though not older as they are now. Younger, maybe just a few years out of high school. 

But that’s not right, she thinks, her eyes flicking to seventeen-year-old Dean standing before her, urging her closer still. We’re not...we’re in high school, we aren’t grown...

The Dean before her holds his hand out silently, waiting as she struggles towards him. So close! she thinks. The voice behind her, so familiar, calls her name again, but her mind is foggy, distracted by young Dean and the phantom scene before her.

The couple embraces next to the car, blissfully unaware of their audience as Dean sweeps Kimber off her feet and carries her up the walkway. As they disappear into the house’s interior, she can hear her other self squealing happily as the door swings shut.

“I...can’t…”

Dean smiles at her, that sweet, just-a-touch shy smile that won her over so many years ago.

“It’s my dream, Kimber. We could still have it, if you want?” His eyes, so earnest, beg her to take just one more step. “Take my hand. It’s not too late for us. I’m right here.”

“Kimber, stop! Listen to me!”

She almost turns, the voice behind her is so desperate and beseeching, but Dean shakes his head. His smile widens, and he opens both arms to her, offering himself fully. 

“It’s our last chance. Come to me, Kimber. This can be ours, sweetheart. You and me, just the two of us. Just take that last step. You can do this.”

She wants to, so very badly. Her mind pulls towards Dean, smiling and hopeful, and she wants with almost every part of herself to take that step, take his hand, and live happily ever after.

But deep in her heart, she knows none of this is true. The Dean before her left, no matter how unwillingly, and she hasn’t heard from him until yesterday. Neither of them are seventeen any more, and this dream was never possible for either of them, no matter how much they wanted it.

“No...no...you’re not…”

He frowns, his expression suddenly cold, alien, and absolutely furious. His features harden, and he turns to her completely, squaring himself and giving her his entire focus. 

“Come here, Kimber. Take the damn step. Now.”

“No!” She doesn’t know where this reserve of strength is coming from, but she welcomes it. The fog begins to lift from her mind a little, and she manages half a step backwards.

Dean’s lip curls in a snarl, and she wrenches herself away, fighting to move in any direction but forwards. She throws herself back, expecting to fall, hoping the leaves will cushion her, planning to roll away.

Instead, she finds herself supported by strong arms that flood her senses with immediate relief. Something is jerked from her hand, and the autumn scene complete with the monstrous teenage Dean vanishes. The wind whips Kimbers hair in front of her face, and she looks down to see…

Nothing.

Arms pull her back from the edge of the building, and she chokes on a scream. Her self-defense training kicks in, and she throws her head back, trying to catch her assailant’s nose. 

“Kimber, it’s me! I’ve got you, don’t fight!”

It takes a second for Dean’s voice to register, and by the time she realizes she’s safe, she’s already planted her elbow square in his gut. He releases her with a pained wheeze, doubling over, holding up a placating hand towards her. She realizes in a detached sort of way that she is breathing way too shallow and fast, but she can’t seem to stop.

“Breathe,” he wheezes at her, trying to straighten up. Something about the ridiculous sight of Dean telling her to breathe when he can barely pull in his own breath cuts through her panic for a moment, and she almost laughs. Her head whirls, colors starting to blur together. 

From the view and the drop-off, she guesses they’re on the roof, though she’s never been up here before. She looks to Dean as her vision tunnels and a rushing noise fills her ears.

“Dean...Dean, you were...what did I…you said it was…”

Dean struggles upright and takes her face between his hands, forcing her to focus on him. “Breathe, honey. You’ve gotta breathe right now. Can you do that for me? Breathe with me. Slow, deep.”

She struggles to imitate him, and her lungs finally unlock enough to let in a reasonable amount of air. 

“Kimber, I’ve gotta burn this thing. I don’t know if it can affect you from a distance. Just...here. Sit down right here. Keep breathing.” She drops where she’s told, lowering her head between her knees as she focuses on counting her breaths. 

She can just make out Dean on the edge of her vision, crouching down. He pulls a lighter out of his pocket, flicks it, and lowers the flame to something on the ground before him. The object lights up with a whoosh of flame, and Kimber gasps as a searing bolt of pain flashes through her entire body before vanishing, leaving her feeling weak and shaking but finally, finally, back in control of herself.

Dean rises, stalks back over to her and drops to one knee, his fist pressing hard into the gravelled surface. He glares at the ground, his jaw clenching in a way that she’s glad is not directed at her. His nostrils flare, and his face flinches as he reaches some decision.

“I should never have let you go on your own. I’m not letting you out of my sight again until we gank this son of a bitch.”

She shrinks under the burning intensity of his words, and he closes his eyes for a second, wrestling with control of his anger. He holds a hand out to her, and she almost recoils, remnants of the vision burned in the back of her mind.

But this isn’t some sinister phantom leading Kimber to her death. She knows exactly who this is, and she trusts him implicitly.

Dean’s entire body relaxes when her palm touches his, and he drops his forehead to their joined hands. When he finally looks up at her, his eyes are green flame.

“I almost lost you. You were so close, Kimber, you were on the edge. I...”

He trails off, searching her face for a heavy moment. Without warning, he slides forward, releasing her hand to pull her face to his, kissing her with a fierceness that steals her breath and leaves her glad she’s already on the ground.

…

Chapter 7

[lorei-writes]

Fairy Tales for Bedtime

Two-Faced God

Kennyo x MC ( with a twist at the end) Fantasy AU (Fairy Tale-ish) Choose Your Own Ending*

Content Warnings: animal attack, injury mention (non-descriptive) Respective trigger warning are added before each ending. The story can stand on its own without them, so fear not.

Hello, friends! This time, I come to you with an unexpected story. I know Kennyo... Isn’t exactly popular to say the least. But, if you enjoy fantasy - I urge you to give this story a shot. I believe you may like it regardless.

*- Fluff or Angst

Winter days came, sun hiding behind the horizon seemingly not long after dawn. Yet, there she was – the sole survivor of banishment, even if self-imposed. She tore her way through the wilderness, hungry and dizzy from exhaustion. The snow that year had fallen earlier than usual.

Long, long ago, in a land hidden behind a thick veil of mist, there was a city. It stood proudly in-between rivers, hidden in the cooling shade of nearby mountains, secluded from any and all outsiders. Life there was peaceful, or so would the citizens say – although nobody cared enough to see their faces and understand the emotion behind the sullen eyes they all had.

The city was governed by its own set of rules. Do not question the officials – do not speak ill of them. The prince shall be obeyed, his word being that of god. Be thankful for what you get and, most importantly, never seek a better day, for you’ll be rewarded according to your contribution. Never – never – venture out into the forest, least you wish to get banished – and then, your fate will be decided by the nature itself. Perish, as many would say, the woods being hostile and seemingly stretching up to the very horizon. It was never discussed whether it was good or bad, the very thought of even doing so being an offense of sorts. Fear rules stronger than compassion, as they stated – so fear it was, keeping them from ever aiming up higher, the few ones daring to reach for the sun being burned by the flames, their example serving as grave warning. After all, the familiar sorrow always seems safer than the unknown.

Yet, that isn’t to say that people wishing to disobey the order had ever ceased to exist. The reasons were many – poverty, being unable to meet the impossible expectations, lies stopping to satisfy, just to name a few. She was no different, the threat of impending betrothal stopping her studies  hanging low over her head. She knew better than to rebel, letting the anger simmer inside of her soul – until she couldn’t contain it anymore, her feelings boiling over, choking her like molten tar. Dishonesty could carry her only so far, the disgust with her very own being overwhelming her. To loath yourself is a cruel fate – and so, she decided to stand against it. In secret, she collected her belonging, all fitting nicely in a tight bundle, and  departed, abandoning her home of so many years.

The route outside of city led through shadows – although darkness she did not fear. Step by step, she came closer to the outer gates, cursing people responsible for her fate. Why was she the one running, while it was them, the system, who hurt her? When was she at fault in the dispute? She gritted her teeth, mourning all that she had to leave behind. Her entire old self – her studies, the books she cherished, countless hours of research – was all for nothing, as she was born a woman. The choice was hers only up until a certain point in time, and it appeared she had reached it.

Road stretched outside of the city and she followed it to the woods, never once looking back until stones under her feet turned to grass. She glanced around herself, assessing her surroundings carefully, eyes – or much rather, countless pairs of glowing eyes – staring back at her. She gulped, swallowing her fear. Holding her head up high, she ventured deeper into the forest.

The following days proved milder than she could have ever expected. Although certainly cautious, the wildlife appeared not to be hostile in the slightest, her tracks never once crossing with the predators. Wasn’t there any violence? She couldn’t believe that: cats hunt mice, smaller animals fall prey to the bigger ones. Nature needs carnivores equally to herbivores, all the species balancing each other out. How could a place where that wasn’t the case exist? She was soon to find out.

Winter days came, sun hiding behind the horizon seemingly not long after dawn. Yet, there she was – the sole survivor of banishment, even if self-imposed. She tore her way through the wilderness, hungry and dizzy from exhaustion. The snow that year had fallen earlier than usual, leaving her with little time to prepare for the cold – and so, she suffered the consequences of it. Forward and forward, she dragged her feet through heaps of white, dreaming of warm fire. Her vision reduced to but a narrow tunnel, she noticed a doe. She stopped in her tracks and prepared to shoot an arrow, her breathing slowing down as she focused what was left of her.

Some things she was unable to notice. A roar. She fell, tremendous weight crushing her against the ground as pain set her nerves on fire. Icy snow burning her cheeks, she looked up, thinking it would be the last time she’d do that – and yet, she felt something being lifted off of her. Golden light overwhelmed her, a tall figure stepping in front of her. The last thing she saw were hair black like wings of ravens, warm water pooling around her lulling her to sleep.

***

Who knows how many days had passed before she came to. Her head throbbing, she woke up slowly, too confused to comprehend anything. Instinctively, she tried to get up, pain instantly flooding her senses. “ Please, don’t move. You have to rest,” someone said, a gentle hand pushing her by the shoulder down onto the pillows. She let out a sigh, a sudden sense of peace calming her body. “ Where am I?” she asked in a weak voice, squinting her eyes in an attempt to see anything. Second by second, she forced reality back into focus. “ In my camp. You’re safe here.” “ Who… Are you?” she uttered, but didn’t hear the answer. Having just became clear, the world began to fade out, only a face with a scar letting itself be known to her.

***

Within weeks, she began to walk again, the man having spent all his energy nurturing her. He’d feed her fish and pigeon stew, never letting the fire die out, as to keep the cave warm. He’d redress her wounds with careful – although clumsy and unpractised – care, the ointment making her skin itch, its herbal aroma filling her nostrils whenever the jar was opened.

At first, she lacked balance and strength, dizziness overwhelming her just after few steps. However, she was able to sit up again – she wouldn’t let herself be discouraged by anything. Progress, even if gradual, was still progress… Perhaps she didn’t mind the company as well.

The man, Kennyo, claimed to be a pilgrim from a land far away, traveling in order to reach the state of harmony. Generally reserved and hardly radiant in his ways, he appeared to be grim, the scar splitting his face in halves seemingly supporting the notion. Yet, had somebody cared enough to truly look, they’d see something odd – a dim, almost shy, aura of tenderness surrounding him at all times. She couldn’t understand it at first either, his demeanor causing her to wonder what had happened to shape him like so. Yet, despite sitting with her by the fire each night, he never gave her a clear answer.

No less confused, but certainly stronger, one day she decided to test her limits and go for a walk. Slowly, she dragged herself up to the exit of the cave, holding firmly onto the wall with one hand. She squinted her eyes, outside world being brighter than she remembered – or was it? She blinked away any soreness, surprise taking its place instead.

It appeared spring had come while she was still in recovery, thousands of buds spread over the tree crowns preparing to finally grow and develop fully. She gasped in awe, first fresh flowers emerging from within melting snow. She looked up, but something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the sun that initially blinded her – no, it could hardly compare, its light coming from too far away. Her brows knitted together, she took a step forward, swaying as she tried to uphold her balance. Holding onto side of the mountain, she came closer and closer to the source of brightness.

She stopped, the scene unraveling before her seemingly begging her to just stand and watch in silence. There, a couple meters in front of her, was Kennyo, kneeling on the ground with his back towards her. A broken branch in his arms, he tilted his head back and said his prayers, liquid gold leaking from his scar, falling straight onto the dead plant. Her body froze mid-step – what was happening? She could only see so much. His shoulders moved. Kennyo dug out a hole in the ground with his hands and put the branch inside of it.

A gasp, one she couldn’t hold back. A tree began to grow, the cycle she observed for so many years occurring right there in the matter of minutes. Taller and taller, budding, blossoming, just for the leaves to turn red, whither and fall down, over and over again until it stopped, standing no different from its surroundings. Only then she managed to turn her attention away from it – and to notice him staring at her with regret in his eyes. “ Kennyo, what are you?”

***

If he could have chosen, he’d rather never tell her the truth. To be a pilgrim was easier than to be a god – much more one of two faces, at that.

His face was split in halves – well, at first glance. If somebody looked just a moment more, they’d see that one was bigger than the other, perhaps they’d understand that so was his nature. What they would miss was hidden deeper inside: which one was the dominant, that was his choice, for he, Kennyo, was god of compassion and ruthlessness alike. Yet, the other never perished, which he was gravely aware of.

They sat by the fire, spring winds humming outside their shelter. “ So, you were a god all along?” she sighed, at loss to what else she could say. “ But why are you here? Why do you live in a cave if you’re a god? Why didn’t you heal me and moved on?” “ Restoration steals time, and you humans already have little of it. I have nowhere else to be regardless,” he claimed, shadows playing over his face as he  stared into the flames. “ You could live in one of the cities, right? Even…” she trailed off, averting her gaze from him. “Mine was more comfortable than the wilderness.” “ I can’t.” “ Why is that?” Kennyo inhaled deeply. Storm growing inside of him, his eyes became darker, black like asphalt lakes. “ Cities are created in the image of gods, one for each – but I have two and can enter neither of them,” he stated, covering one of his eyes with his hand. “ At least not anymore.” “ I don’t understand.” “ It’s only an ancient story of a being that is no longer there.” “ If it involves you, I have to know. I want to know.”

Only fire could be heard buzzing, even her breaths being muffled by the heavy atmosphere. “ Gods wage wars and so did I. I was fighting against the Lost God, the devil himself. I lost and he marked me so that I would never forget. The wound never healed and so, I became the Two Faced God. It split my city into two – perfect mirrored reflections of each other, both in values and structure. But I am fully neither of them, so both stay out of my reach,” he sighed, seemingly calming down. “ You should go to the other one once you recover. Many had taken refuge there.” She stood up, just to walk up to him and sit by his side. “ You know… If you don’t mind, I’m fine staying here. It must be lonely.”

Dream:

Content Warnings - Dream ending: implied impending death of partner, from natural causes (old age) - does not happen in the end.

Years passed and she did along with them, maturing and growing – and then, slowly beginning to wither. Her sight began to diminish, her hair turning silver as wrinkles spread over her face. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not quite yet.  Sometimes, she’d ask him to lay besides her and she’d trace his scar lovingly, her fingers showing her his face. “ Have I told you of what I did back at my city?” she’d say more than anything, already knowing the answer. Yet, she’d wait for it all the same. “ You can remind me,” he’d hum in reply. “ I was a student. At first, I learnt at a school and then moved to a university of sorts… You know, I loved studying – science and culture and everything in-between. Well, maybe I enjoyed learning, not studying itself…” she sighed, but, to his surprise, picked up her tale again.

“ There was one thing I’ve read about and never quite forgot, though. You see, there’s this technique, I’m not so sure how it works anymore… But, the general idea, was to connect broken pieces of porcelain with molten metal, so that it could become whole again. To think, I can’t even recall its name,” she laughed. “ This metal was ornamental.” “ I see. Interesting, indeed.” She seemed tired. Thinking she’d fall asleep soon, he kissed her forehead and was just about to leave when she burst out into laughter again. “ You silly, silly man. I’m not going anywhere, stop acting like it’s my last day.” “ You’re old, ____. Eternity…” “ Eternity can wait,” she cut him off. “ I’m only growing old to stop and grow young again – in this form or in other, I will return and haunt you until you’re sick of me.” “ I think you’d need plenty more lifetimes for that.” “ And I intend to use them all. Trust me, you’ll just blink and I’ll be back again. And again. And again.” “ And if I granted you life that never ends?” he suddenly spoke. “ Then I’ll take it all the same. You’d just have to blink a little less.”

A genuine smile lit up his face, one she so craved to see for so many years. “ Then so be it. Tomorrow,” he said. Kennyo got up and was just about to leave when she stopped him: “ Hey. You know… I think you’re like broken porcelain. One day you’ll be treated… And then, you’ll be even more beautiful. The god of acceptance...”

Wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps, perhaps all along you were just her.

Nightmare:

Content Warnings - Nightmare Ending: lethal injury, death of major character, death of lover, bad ending

She fell, icy snow digging into her cheek as something warm began to pool at her side. She blinked, not quite understanding what had happened to her – who? Hadn’t she experienced it all already? Her fingers curling up into fists, she looked up from her spot. Humans. She screamed.

Her shout tore air apart, causing the hairs on his arms to stand up. Perhaps he knew on his way there, perhaps he knew the moment he had heard it – and yet, he still prayed to whatever deities that were above him to spare her. Indeed, he was the tainted, the broken, god… But he only asked for her to be safe. Could that be too much?

His eyes rested upon her, his mind beginning to wail. Only half-aware of his movements, Kennyo took a step forward, golden aura surrounding him as he crouched beside her. He couldn’t hear the commotion around nor see the terrified figures. The world was red, covered entirely in thick aroma of blood. He took her in his arms, hugging her body to his chest. “ Kennyo,” she uttered. “ Don’t talk. Rest. I will …” he stopped, her hand touching his cheek. “ You’re changing.” A drop. Thick and black, it fell onto her face, just to slowly drip down her jaw. “ You can’t. Please,” she begged. “ Don’t. We need to…” And yet – no answer came, none was ever to come again.

Kennyo rose to his feet, letting her body, just an empty shell, fall to the ground. Substance alike to molten tar oozing out of his scar, he glared at the huntsmen in front of him. He looked, he looked deep into their souls, he searched for reasons, for answers… But whatever he came across, he could not believe. Only hurting himself, he let his tears evaporate before they spilled – and he hardened his heart, swearing he would never let it be torn apart again. Not after that day. “ That woma…” “ ____. You’ve slain ____,” Kenyo said, devoid of any emotion other than rage “ We..!” the voices stuck in their throats.

They couldn’t know and neither could you. However, even if by accident, even if none of that could have been prevented – it happened. Even more broken and with no desire to get better, that was how the god of revenge was born.

Tag list: @datenoriko, @nad-zeta, @tsubaki3192, @choi-jiyu, @missjudge-me, @ikemencrossedmyth, @plumpblueberry, @i-sleep-like-napoleon, @nimeryaa, @nuttytani, @thesirenwashere, @milas-imaginarium, @kisara-16, @yukas-clover, @alerialumina If you want to be tagged under my future works, let me know (any way works)! ^^ Also, if you have some preferences (for example: you’d rather not be tagged under some series, etc.), please, tell me. If you don’t want to be tagged anymore - please, do not feel bad about it, just say so :)

[thecleverdame]

The Oath - 11

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Master List

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

Support my Patreon and get access to exclusive stories.  CLICK HERE

-

“What are you doing?” 

You freeze in place with the  blade to your throat, turning to find Sam staring in simmering anger. After his initial shock, he closes in on you, grabbing the knife and twisting it from your hands. 

“You were going to slit your own throat?” He’s fuming, fury seeping from his pores as his nostrils flare. When you don’t respond, his face sets, jaw locking. “Answer me now!” 

“Yes,” you admit, tears falling as you begin to sob. “Let me, please, give the knife back to me. I beg you. Let me leave this world!”

“What’s wrong with you!” he yells again, stepping back. His hands clench into fists at his sides. For a moment you’re sure he’s going to hit you, but instead, he runs a hand over his face and turns away toward the fire. He’s fighting to regain control of himself. Sam takes a moment, his back rising and falling with the intensity of his breath. Turning back to you he places a hand on each of your shoulders, moving backward, forcing you to sit in the chair as you cry harder, shoulders jerking while you sputter and choke. “Stop crying,” he barks. 

You both know it’s a ridiculous command. You’re in no state of mind to follow orders or control these sorts of emotions. Your hands shake at the thought of the repercussions for further disobedience as you look up at him with wide, wet eyes. “I-I c-can’t.”

With hands on his hips, he waits, watches you heave and cough and then slowly collect yourself. It takes a while but you do find a way to calm down. You wipe your cheeks with the sleeves of your dress.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest,  waiting until you’re staring at the floor, seemingly matched in a silent standoff. 

“Tell me why you had a knife at your throat.”

“I told you. I want to die,” you whisper, unable to look at him. Your voice shakes, tremors of fear shooting from head to toe. “Please don’t be mad at me. I tried to stop crying, I couldn’t-”

“I don’t care about that.” He crouches down, placing a hand on your thigh. You nearly jump out of your skin. “Why do you want to die?”

You sniffle, wringing your hands together in fear and anxiety. “I’m afraid to tell you.”

“You don’t have a choice. Tell me.” Sam’s Alpha leaves no option to remain silent. 

“What sort of life will I have?” Your eyes flutter up, sneaking a glance. “Before all this, my life was nothing special but I was a person. A human being. I was allowed thoughts and emotions and opinions. Here I am nothing more than what’s between my legs.”

“You would rather take your life than be an Omega?” His eyebrows shoot up as if he’s realizing for the first time just how desperate you truly are. “You’d rather end your life than lie in my bed?”

“It is what comes after you that I’m more frightened of,” you admit. 

His head tilts to the side, interest piqued. “What comes after me?”

“Other men, other Alphas. Your brother told me about the plans. When you’re done with me Dean will take his turn and then I’ll become a prize for the Alphas, likely at your father’s discretion. I would rather die than subject myself to that.”

Sam is quiet, sighing deeply and getting up to take a seat in the chair across the table from you. He thinks for a spell, studying his palms before responding. 

“My brother told you these things?”

“Yes. And I know what happens with the other Omegas. What their lives are like. Tilda has soured, I can hardly stand the smell of her, she’s rancid. When we’re mistreated we...rot. I don’t think I would survive it. I wouldn’t want to.” 

“I see.” He pours himself wine, before sitting back to watch the fire. “And what if there was no after me?”

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“My brother spoke out of turn. I know I’ve made a comment when I wanted to keep you in line, but the truth is I have no plans to give you to anyone else. You’re mine and I intend to keep you.”

Barely able to wrap your mind around this new revelation, you stare at him. Sam Winchester, a sworn enemy of your family, a man who vowed to slaughter every member of your family, wants you for himself. 

“You want me?” you ask again. Perhaps you’re delusional.

“I do,” he explains calmly. “You’re a perfect Omega. Your scent, your body. You obey orders, keep your mouth shut. No one else will have you as long as I'm alive. If you are loyal to me then I will return that loyalty.” 

“Will you claim me?”

“One day,” he nods in confirmation. “I’ll marry when my parents find a suitable match. Once that happens, I’ll claim you. It’s part of the Gilead wedding ceremony. No Beta will be able to do what you can. You’ll take my knot, give me children. It will be the best life of any Omega in Gilead. It might not be your old life of milking cows and making bread that you seem to miss so much, but you’ll have a place. Your rightful place. I’ll let you decide what you want.” He gets up, laying the knife on the table in front of you. “Slit your throat, or take your clothes off and come to bed.” 

And with that, he strips down and readies himself for the night. You listen while he washes himself, the water in the basin sloshing over the sides. You could do it, end it all right here and now. But that would mean giving up on hope, the hope Sam has just offered. Life could be bearable and perhaps someday down the road you might be presented with a chance to escape. To find your way back to freedom. 

And then there’s Sam, as much as you hate to admit it you've grown accustomed to him. His scent, the feel of his hands, the heat of his skin rubbing against yours. While given the option to go back home or stay, you would certainly choose your home. But right now he’s your best option. 

The decision is seemingly already made. 

Pulling your dress off over your head, you walk naked to his bed. Sam is on his side, watching you in curiosity as he pulls back the blankets to allow you to slide in beside him. 

“Let me see your neck.” He props himself up, finger trailing over the thin line left by the blade. It broke the skin but barely. It’s little more than a cat scratch. “You could have done irreparable damage.”

His finger carefully moves over the clammy skin, pressing down gently around the edge of the mark. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” you whisper in the fading light. Your body takes over, excitement fluttering fast as his skin brushes over yours.  

“Take care it doesn’t get infected.” 

“I will,” you confirm, gazing up at him. “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

From time to time you forget who he is and where you are. Tonight for instance, you nearly reach up to caress his jaw. It would be such a comfort to be able to give and receive easy touches, gentler affection than he seems capable of.  

“You’re no good to me broken,” he grunts. His fingers splay out, wrapping around your neck but not squeezing. “If I catch you trying to hurt yourself again, you’ll be punished. It will be painful, do you understand?”

“Yes,” you confirm. 

“I’m glad we’re clear.” His eyes dart to your breasts before relinquishing his hold and rolling onto his back. He yanks the blanket away from his cock. He’s hard, standing at attention as he strokes himself. “Come here and sit on my cock.”

You do as you’re told. The night's events have drained you of every last vestige of energy. But it’s important, now more than ever, to ensure he’s happy with you. If taking his knot once a night is the price of your life, it’s one you can pay.

Climbing on top you stroke his cock a few times before guiding the leaking head of his manhood into your cunt. You sink down slowly, letting your body stretch for him. Sam’s eyes flutter, big hands and strong fingers curling into your hips. You try to ride him but he holds you down.

“Stay like this,” he instructs and brings his thumbs to your clit. 

“Alpha,” you breathe, eyes closing as you concentrate on his touch.

For what seems like a lifetime you sit straddling him as he rubs you soft and slow, building pleasure from a quivering foundation into bursting sparks that threaten to take you over the edge. 

He’s quiet, watching and touching, grunting softly at each moan and whimper that falls from your lips. Just when you're getting close to your peak, his hand falls away and you feel him shift, sitting up with you still his lap. 

You open your eyes to find his face unnervingly close, his breath warm on your cheek as he reaches around to hold your backside. 

“My great-grandfather married an Omega, back when it was still acceptable. She died before I was born but he talked about her all the time. He told Dean and I how special she was. That there was no one that could compare to her in any way. I remember him explaining the bond between them, he had to make sure she was satisfied, that they were connected in order for her to flourish. She didn’t belong to him as much as she was an extension of him.”

You look at each other and he carefully lifts you up only a few inches before letting you slide back down his length. You draw in a breath and his hand curls back around your throat. 

“I’ve never met an Omega like you, little bird. Most are nothing more than bitches in heat. But I could see from the moment my brother dragged you into the tent that you were different. I can’t have you souring like old Tilda. If we need to bond to keep you healthy, then that’s what we’ll do.”

He lifts you up and down again. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his cheek while his cock splits you open. He moves faster and you can barely handle the sensation, gripping his shoulders tightly. 

“Alpha,” you moan. Your eyes flutter, head lolling back as the pleasure builds. At this moment there is no fear or pain or worry, there's only your body and the Alpha who’s making you feel this way. 

“I’ll ever be able to give you the kind of bond you desire. I’m missing that piece of myself. But we can have this...physical closeness. It should be enough.” 

Your body hums with pleasure as you look into his eyes. What sort of man walks around without a soul? Is it possible to have any sort of moral compass when he’s hollow inside? Will this be enough?

You don’t have the answers to any of these questions. 

“Do you like the way this feels?” he asks, scraping his teeth along your throat. 

“Yes,” you hiss long and low. Your clit is throbbing, aching as his hand wedges between your bellies, rubbing up and down over the swollen bud. 

“Open your eyes and look at me.” Snapping to attention, you find him right there, so close you can feel his breath on your mouth. “Now ride me, up and down, nice and slow.”

You lift yourself up slightly and lower back down feeling the drag of his cock. Breasts crushed against his chest as he holds your hips, keeping you close. 

Eyes crinkling around the edge, he breathes in hard through his nose. Two hands slide under your backside again, helping to lift you up and down on his dick. 

“Alpha,” you whine loudly. Ultimate pleasure is coming like a rush, you’re teetering on the edge. This is a wholly new experience, wrapping up in his scent and skin and pleasure. For these moments the outside world fades away and you’re safe in the arms of a man who should do nothing but terrify you. 

You cum the instant his knot pops. It's the coming together of two bodies in perfect timing. You shudder against him, trembling while your cunt is still squeezing around his cock. One hand holds tight to the back of his neck, the other wrapping around his shoulders, not willing to let go of him or the moment. It’s hard to imagine that amidst all this sorrow and desperation you’re able to feel such intense pleasure. 

“Will you hold me for a moment longer?” you ask as your lips brush over his ear. 

Sam doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t let go. He sits with you in his lap until you’re the one to pull back and away. And when you lay down he curls around you from behind. You fall asleep surrounded by a man’s animal heat and the fragile idea that this space is a safe one. 

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 13

AO3

Beta reader is @thesnadger!

Jon walks Martin home.

As expected, it's still cold outside.

By 11:30, Martin had locked up the lighthouse and walked out into the night with the others. It was a nice walk to start. Tim was set on distracting them both by having Martin guess between real and made-up work stories, with a few of them even involving the supernatural. It was almost enough to settle the anxiety bubbling in Martin’s stomach, but every time his eye caught on Jon the feeling would surge and keep him from being more pleasantly occupied.

Eventually, the group split for their separate destinations and said their goodnights. Tim warned Jon to get Martin home safe like a parody of a television father, and all too quickly Martin and Jon were the only ones left on the road home.

Whatever confidence or wishful thinking had possessed him to let Jon walk him home, it had abandoned Martin entirely.

Several blocks went by without conversation. Martin refused to look at anything but the ground, because how else would he avoid a fall? That was the whole point, right? Forcing his eyes down and away from anything else was obviously the safest way forward. So was keeping his mouth closed, can’t go wasting his breath, and if he just kept quiet for long enough-

Jon cleared his throat “So. You came up to get some air?”

Martin squeezed his eyes closed. “Yeah, I did.”

“Is there any particular reason or-”

“Okay, I know what you’re getting at so, yes, I- what we talked about, I did it.” Martin opened his eyes and focused on the road. “It’s done.”

“Oh,” Jon breathed out, as if he’d been holding it in. “Good. You, um, you did the right thing.”

With Jon apparently satisfied, or at least with nothing else to say, a more companionable silence stretched between them. Well, that was nothing, he thought. He’d worked himself up for what ended up being a simple transaction. Of course Jon wouldn’t need to dig into the emotional details of the event when his interests lay elsewhere.

Martin’s relief was short-lived as his foot snagged on a pothole. He only just managed to stop himself from plummeting face-first into the pavement. “Shit! That was-”

“Are you okay?” Jon asked, grabbing Martin’s elbow. “Was it the-”

“N-No, no, I’m fine! There was a hole in the street.” His heart pounded from the adrenaline. He shook his head, trying not to think too hard about Jon’s hand tugging him upright. “Just zoned out and didn’t see it.”

Jon frowned, releasing his grip. “You’ll want to ice your head when you get home. Probably should have before we left.” The last part he muttered to himself like a curse.

“My head is fine. No fuzziness or anything, I swear.”

“Hmph.” Jon eyeballed the mark on Martin’s forehead, unconvinced.

They resumed their walk, and Jon began to sweep his eyes across the street ahead of them. The turn of his profile was stern, almost comically absorbed by this new preventative measure. His fingers laced and unlaced themselves with a strange energy, most likely to keep warm.

The corner of Martin’s mouth twitched upward. The man so ridiculously, unintentionally endearing. It really was unfair of him.

Finally, Martin’s heart returned to its normal speed. He laughed, the day’s events settling into his bones. “I hope this was the last of the excitement for today.”

Jon smirked. “Sure you wouldn't like to run a marathon tonight? Maybe hunt down a local vampire.”

“No, I’m completely exhausted,” Martin replied. He wasn’t ready to do anything until he got a good night’s rest.

Jon’s face fell slightly. “I was- Right, no, I’m sure it’s been a lot.” He scratched at his neck.

Ah. Martin had missed something, hadn’t he? Whatever it was, there was no figuring it out now. In front of them was the end of the road and the start of the cliff side descent.

“I think I’m feeling all right. It’s been long enough,” Martin said. “You should head back to your hotel. It would be-”

“A long way back up, yes. I recall from this morning.” Jon glanced into the trees with disdain. “But that would go against the whole point of me being here. If anything is going to give you trouble, it’s a twisting downward slope.”

Martin opened his mouth to argue, then reconsidered. With Jon’s stubborn posture, all folded arms and rigid shoulders, arguing would just mean forcing an ill-equipped man to stand outside longer.

Seeing he’d won, Jon nodded. “Let’s continue on, then.”

Down they went, the gentle curve leading to the main path. Jon held his phone out in front of him to light the way. Every once in a while, he would point out some obstruction and give warning. This, paired with Jon only seeing the way once in the light of day, made for an incredibly slow process. Eventually Martin had to beg him to just please keep walking.

However, without Jon’s interruptions there were only the sounds of crunching footsteps and whistling wind, hollow whispers through the trees that Martin’s ears couldn’t parse. The ground sloped down into the waiting dark like a tongue dipping into the throat of a beast. Martin was no longer moored by the view around his feet as it swerved and sloped ahead of him. Instead he clung to the visual of Jon’s outline, glowing in the phone light, steady and consistent.

Halfway down Jon paused again, but before Martin could urge him forward, he turned around and asked, “Is everything all right?”

Martin braced himself for whatever this was. “...Yes?”

“Are you sure there isn’t something you’d like to discuss?” With the phone illuminating their feet, Jon’s face hidden save for the flash of his eyes and outline of his jaw, but his voice gave away his frustration. “When you showed up earlier, I thought maybe-”

“Like I said, I just-”

Jon talked on, running his fingers through his hair. “Because if something happened that you’re confused or worried about I can try to-”

“Jon?”

“-help, given I was the one who told you to do it in the first place. If there’s-”

“Jon.”

Jon clamped his mouth shut, waiting.

Martin dragged a hand down his face. “It’s… It was a lot for her. She needed some space, that’s all.”

With some hesitation, Jon asked, “But she… did she know about it?”

“Yeah.” Martin stuffed his hands into his pockets and kicked at a rock. “Yeah, she knew.”

“Oh.” Wrapping his arms around himself, Jon stared at his feet. It was almost imperceptible, but a shiver passed through his shoulders. “That wasn’t the scenario I’d expected. I’m sure it was an intense moment for both of you. If I’ve... pried too much, I apologize.”

“It’s… it’s okay.” Martin exhaled. “If you hadn’t pried, she wouldn’t have it now. That’s worth something, I think, but at this point, it’s just… it’s family stuff.”

“Right. I understand.” Jon rubbed his forearm. “If there’s anything you’d like to know or talk about, though...”

“You’ll be the first and probably only person I’ll ask.” With nothing left to add, Martin began to walk ahead. Jon seemed to get the message and was quick to put himself back in front, dutifully shining his light ahead onto the dirt. “Jon?”

“Yes?” Jon didn’t turn or stop walking, keeping to his task with renewed determination. Stupidly endearing.

Martin opened his mouth and then closed it again. He smiled to himself. “You really should get a thicker coat.”

His reward was slumped shoulders and crotchety grumbling about Tim’s bad influence.

--

They reached the treeline without any problems. Perhaps low light had helped, or having Jon’s back to fixate on. Whatever the case may have been, Martin was blessedly close to being off his feet and in his own bed without further incident.

Jon, however, would have a long, lonely walk back to his hotel. Despite the reassurance that it had all been no trouble, Jon’s hunched posture betrayed how poorly he was doing in the night air. At least his head was covered.

Tapping his foot, Martin stared at his home. There was… a lot, there. On any other night his mother would be fast asleep. There was no light on in her bedroom window, but that didn’t necessarily mean things were the same as usual.

From Martin’s left, Jon coughed. “I should get going. If anything happens, be sure to text the details to Tim so we’ll all be aware.”

“Sure. Thanks for walking me down. I think it helped,” Martin said, his mind already halfway up the stairs.

Jon nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it.” There was an extended, empty moment before Jon moved to leave.

At the sound of Jon’s steps, Martin shook himself to the present. “Wait a minute. You should at least warm up inside.”

With a scowl, Jon said, “Listen, while I understand you’re part of this inane inside joke-”

“No! No, it’s not like that. You’re just… you’re shivering, as we speak.” As he spoke, Martin saw Jon stiffen. “As long as we’re quiet, it should be fine. Frostbite isn’t a joke.”

Jon glared at the rocky beach, where the fog had already settled in thick. “...Fine.”

Martin raised his eyebrows. It had been much less of a fight than he had expected. A small grin spread across his face. “Great! Let me just make sure everything is okay first.”

He led Jon to the front door, then stepped inside. Keeping his steps light, Martin inched over to his mother’s slightly open door, just as he had left it. Through the crack he could see the rising and falling outline of his sleeping mother still tucked into bed. Martin carefully closed the door and exhaled.

Like nothing had happened, he thought, ignoring the jelly sensation in his knees. What would he have done if she had been awake? What would she have said about him leaving the house so late? Would she have said anything?

There were other things to think about. He walked back to the door and let Jon inside, leading him to the kitchen. Neither of them spoke, but the tension seemed to seep out of Jon’s shoulders as warmth returned to them.

Jon kept his hands tucked under his arms, eyeing one of the kitchen chairs. He kept his voice to a low whisper. “Thank you for inviting me inside. I won’t need to stay long.”

A pity. Martin bit his tongue at the thought. “You’re welcome. Feel free to sit down.” With some reluctance, Jon took the offer and sank into one of the wooden chairs. In spite of himself, he relaxed just a little.

With that out of the way, Martin glanced at the doorway and asked, “Actually, could you wait here a moment?”

Before he got an answer, he slipped back into the hall, toeing off his shoes before making the climb up the wooden stairs. Once he’d crept into his room, he faced his skinny chest of drawers with a sudden determination. There had to be something.

The first articles of clothing were definitely wrong, both too big and not the right material. Everything would be too big, really, but he could at least figure out the best options for blocking out the cold.

After some sifting, Martin fished out an old thing of stretchy fleece that had managed to retain its size better than some of his other pullovers. Still very Martin-sized, but that meant it would fit over other clothing just fine. On top of that, it was a dark grey material, nothing so bright as some of his other windbreakers. He could at least spare Jon from his own very retro fashion choices.

When he returned, Jon was standing near the kitchen window and staring out into the night. Without looking away from it, he said quietly, “The fog is much thicker down here. Is it always like this?”

“Not always, but it’s pretty normal? Mum likes it.” Martin fidgeted with the pullover in his hands. With every passing second, he was losing time to throw it out of sight and forget the idea ever came to mind. “Makes it sort of eerie, sometimes, like it’s just the house.”

“Hm. My phone light should still be fine, I suppose.” Jon pivoted away from the window, and his eyes landed on the thing in Martin’s hands.

Just get it over with, his mind desperately hissed. “I found this upstairs and figured it might be helpful. It’s, um, it’s a bit big, but it should slip over what you’re wearing just fine.”

Instead of responding, Jon stared at the pullover, sparing a single glance for Martin’s face before returning to the object in question.

“You don’t have to use it, obviously,” Martin said, squeezing the fabric. “I just thought, since you came down here because of me, it was the least I could do. But, yeah, it’s probably too much? I’ll-”

“Okay.”

Jon seemed as surprised by this was Martin, whose feet were now rooted to the spot on the kitchen floor.

“Um. Good? Good.” Martin held the pullover out in front of himself, his elbows locking him into a position that begged Jon to just take the damn thing.

Jon walked over and pulled it to himself. With almost robotic motions, he slid the garment over his jacket, pushing up the sleeves so they weren’t flopping over his hands. Gosh, it absolutely swamped him. It reached down to his mid-thigh in a way that might’ve been considered fashionable when worn with something other than work trousers and scuffed formal shoes. If Martin hadn’t been stricken with a lead tongue he would’ve let out an inappropriate giggle.

“Well. It’s not as if Tim is going to see me,” Jon sighed. “Thank you. Now I really should get going.”

Though attempting to put on a veneer of calm formality, Jon was clearly distracted by some thought as they walked to the front door. He couldn’t seem to stop pulling at his sleeves. Martin should’ve been thankful for the silence considering the awkwardness of the whole exchange. If Jon never brought it up again, it would be a boon to them both.

Once Jon had exited the house, Martin held the door halfway open. “Careful on the way up. Maybe have Tim text me when you get there?” Or Jon could just text him, if they exchanged numbers. Martin stomped that thought out of existence. No, there was no way he’d be able to ask for that when he’d just barely survived the pullover situation.

Before replying, a weird look crossed Jon’s face. Something between irritation and intense concentration. “Yes, I’ll let him know to do so. Good night, Martin.” And he was off, shoving his hands into his new pockets.

Martin shut the door. That was that, he thought. Jon wouldn’t freeze to death, and the day was finally over. As if a string above him was snipped, Martin slid against the front entryway and sat on the floor. What a familiar location. Who needed chairs?

It was a few minutes before he could will himself up and forward, his legs barely cooperating. As he passed his mother’s door, the urge to check inside, to see if she still clutched the skin to her chest or if she’d thrown it aside for reasons beyond him, it itched in his hand and begged him to turn the knob. The door stayed shut, and with the last of his energy he reached the top of the stairs and stumbled into his room.

His bed was before him. Without changing, he flopped forward onto the mattress, ready for sleep to take him, but it came so achingly slow he was still awake to see the flash of a notification on his phone.

Tim: boss said to tell you he made it back

Tim: at this rate youll have him wearing long johns by friday

Ah. He pressed his face into his pillow. Tim had caught Jon in the pullover after all.

At least he’d kept it on. With that thought, Martin’s mind finally showed mercy, and he slept.

--

No dreams made for a quick jump to morning, and Martin was unfortunately awake.

Checking his phone, he found that his barely awake self from the night before had responded to Tim’s text.

Martin: just in time for you all to run from the cold weather

Tim: i wouldnt say its much warmer in the city

Tim: and hey were still here

Tim: so i hope youve got some oversized fuzzy socks to complete the set for our brave leader

With a snort, Martin pushed himself upright. It hadn’t been enough sleep, not for the day he’d had, but there was no helping it. He got ready and began collecting his things together, including his work contract and the sketchbook buried in his bedside drawer.

If nothing else worked out, he would make sure this thing was out of his hands with Peter none the wiser.