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noclue32 · 2 years

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New Auras Ch.2 (Poe Dameron x Jedi!Pilot! Reader) (She/her Pronouns) Slow burn

Hey you guys! Thank you so much for the love and support on the first chapter of "New Auras"! I wanted to thank you guys for the support to try and make this chapter longer, but I ended running out of time and cutting it in half. Though, it is significantly longer then the last chapter! And we meet Poe :) Again, reblogs and any kind of notes are greatly appreciated. As a little headcanon, if I had to pick a song to give a general vibe of my Poe, I would pick Moving Out by Billy Joel :)

The master list can be found here

WC: 2,322

Chapter 2, The Meeting

General Leia Organa’s eyes finally opened. “Alzubith,” she thought swiftly, trying to find a folder to begin crafting out the plans for the mission. Considering the danger of the planet, it was important that the mission be completed with stealth and speed. Leia contacting you caused your connection with the force to grow stronger, signaling those near its presence. It was of utmost importance that the situation be dealt with as fast as possible. She knew who to contact.

Commander Poe Dameron, the best pilot of the resistance, jolted awake at the sound of his holopad ringing. Lazily, he rubbed his face before reading the message. “Meet me in my office at once,” it read. This prompted him to change into a presentable shirt, pants and jacket before rushing out the door. He became increasingly anxious, his boots clicking in the almost empty hallway making his way to the office. It was unusual for Leia to call him at such an ungodly hour. Swinging the door open, he made his presence known, “Ma’am?” Dameron called.

On the other side of the room, General Organa sat behind her desk with a datapad placed on it. “Come sit down commander,” she spoke before he followed the order. “I apologize for calling so late.” The general shifted, sitting relaxed in her chair.

The commander felt quite the opposite, sitting quite literally on the edge of his seat. “Don’t worry about it commander, I can never sleep much anyways,” Poe chuckled. “Is everything okay?”

The woman opposite of him slid the datapad to face him. “Yes, although I have a bit of a task for you. I need you to retrieve a pilot for me.” When instructing him on his mission, she thought it important to not mention your sensitivity to the force, even though she knew he himself also had a sensitivity. The top of the pad read, “Y/N Y/L/N, twenty-three.” With a couple years old public record image of yourself.

Poe picked up the pad of information and soaked it in, he was sure you were one of the most attractive people he had ever seen. General Organa noticed his reaction, and tried to keep her smug smile in. "What's the catch?" He looked up to his superior, questioning why he of all people was assigned to the chore.

Sighing, Leia looked around at the empty walls. "Besides her being on Alzubith, I'm not sure how willing she will be to join the Resistance. Not to mention that this must be completed as fast as possible." Meeting his eyes once more she assured, "I know you are capable of completing this. I've seen you do the impossible before." The commander twitched, thinking of what to say. "I believe she can be found in some sort of repair shop, otherwise it's up to you to find her."

Dameron thought of anything that could specify the location of the subject that she might know. "Does this pilot have something they fly often?"

"From what I know, a T-65 X-Wing."

"She must be into flying classics then, correct?" This drawed a slight laugh from Leia.

"Most likely not. Considering Alzubith, it was probably the only thing she could get her hands on." This sparked an idea in Poe's crowded mind, "Don't think about anything spectacular. This mission must be completed with stealth as well." She answered as if she was reading his mind. Maybe she was.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Entering the hangar, Dameron considered flying his famous “Black One” starfighter, alas, he did not want to take the risk of losing something so valuable to him. After about ten minutes, he found the perfect ship to take with him. A beat up T-70, he could kill two birds with one stone. Impress you, and get the ship fixed at one of the many mechanic shops on the planet. Though, the thought of it breaking down or it being spotted by a first order soldier was an easily believable reality. Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the droid beeping towards him until his friend rolled into his leg.

Poe turned down to find his friend and smiled, “BB-8, weren’t you being repaired!?” A series of excited beeps seemed to answer his question. “So you’re ready to go?” Crouching down on his knees he examined the orange droid further with a quizzical look. BB-8 spinned, beeping loudly as he answered the man once again. “Okay, okay I get it. I was just being cautious.” The man looked up to the ship again, and before he could even invite BB along he was already trying to push themself up into the droid port of the ship. “Alright I guess that means you’re coming with me BB,” He laughed and nudged his friend into his seat before pushing himself up into his own and pushing his helmet snug on.

Landing a couple hours later on Alzubith, Poe shortly noticed a presence of First Order soldiers that townspeople questioned and stared at. This planet was out of most First Order bases reaches, making himself confused as well. He took his time flying throughout space to make sure he was not spotted by any suspicious cruisers, although it was now the early morning. After throwing a sheet over his ship, he continued his journey to the nearest shop, BB-8 following closely behind. “Don’t wander..” Dameron’s raspy voice ordered his friend, approaching a Twi'lek. “Excuse me, ma’am!” He called, jogging towards the woman. The man stopped in front of her, prior to asking her a vague question. “I’m looking for a pilot, have you got any of those around here?”

Her brows furrowed, “For hire? We’ve got plenty,” she responded, pulling a communicator from the front pocket of her overalls. The Twi’lek looked down at it before pausing, “Did you mean for transport or for smuggling?”

The clearly lost resistance fighter shook his head, “No, no I was looking for someone in specific. Would you know of anyone flying a T-65 around here? I’m trying to buy it off of them.” A terrible lie, he knew. Everyone who had ever experienced a lie from Poe could tell of his fibbing from the moment after it left his mouth. Unfortunately, he could barely tell a lie to save his life, although he at least had to try and cover why he was really looking for you.

“A T-65? That piece of junk? Bovdip owns it, his shops a half a mile east from here,” She said before pausing. “Are you sure you want to buy that thing? I can sell you a Radiant VII that’s in twice better the condition the X-Wing is in, and it's missing an engine. ”

“A half a mile? Okay, thank you very much,” Poe interrupted, before exposing his signature smile and starting to make his way to the direction he was informed of, much to the confusion of the stranger. They walked in silence before a few beeps erupted from BB-8. “What is it buddy?” His attention turned to his friend, whose metal dome was directed to the sky. Specifically the elusive X-Wing they had been searching for, speeding through a thin canyon passage. The veteran pilot’s jaw dropped to the floor examining how fast and comfortably you flew, with the wings nearly scraping the walls of rock.

Turning your fighter plane to the right you made sure to hold on to a side of the canopy, fearing you might become unconscious of reality like you had the day before. You were already running late to deliver a special part to your work you had to retrieve from three towns over. Finally making it out of the claustrophobic canyon, you untensed and arrived at your destination. Slowly and cautiously you landed, afraid the relic you flew could fall apart at any moment.

Bovdip, a Rodian, awaited your arrival at the hangar. This was unusual, since you usually dropped whatever he needed off at his office. After pushing yourself out of the ship, you watched your boots smack the hard ground and looked up to your superior.

"Sorry about the wait, sir." He opened his palm and you rested the part in it. "The Jawas were taking forever, I swear to the maker I wasn't slow on purpose," you quickly explained, afraid that was the reason he met you.

He grunted, starting to speak his native language, "I have to find better sellers anyway.." Bovdip sighed and shook his head. You could roughly translate whatever he said. "That's not why I'm here. Someone requested you by name to fix their ship," Bovdip pointed his head in the direction of a human man standing by an orange droid. The visible heat made it hard for you to make out who it was.

A weird feeling hit you, you could feel his presence, his aura. It was weak but there nonetheless. "Alright, I'll catch up with you later." You pulled off the slightly tight helmet you were wearing before handing it to him, it was his property after all. Your hair unraveled from it, blowing back in the wind.

Making your way towards him you thought of the possibility of his being here to cause you harm. After yesterday's scare, you were sure to arm yourself with a blaster, which hung on a clip to your coveralls. As you got closer, you were able to identify his features. The man's curly black hair framed his chiseled features, complemented by sparkly brown eyes. He seemed familiar, especially because of the way his hands rested on his hips. His face was also notably plastered with a dumb grin. "Was he on a resistance poster…?" You thought to yourself preparing to face whatever might happen.

Poe watched as you pulled yourself from your seat, and talked to the person he had asked for you. His hands landed on his hips as he looked down to his droid, "Don't worry BB, I'll work my charm and we'll be out of here in no time." BB-8 bleeped out a phrase of doubt. When looking up, he could finally see you clearly. You looked even more beautiful in the hot Alzubith sun then you did in the picture he was shown, your hair blowing back in the wind and the dark blue coveralls you wore zipped down enough to show your dark tank top. Sweat dripped from where the unmarked helmet once was, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand from your eyes. The pilot felt his smile slowly form, but then reminded himself that he was there for business.

“Hey!” He mustered out, as you became closer.

“Hey!” You paused, “Do I know you?” You two were now close enough not to yell at each other. Squinting your eyes you examined his face again, he was definitely familiar. Looking down at BB-8 you smiled, he was an amazingly well made droid, especially well intact. You interrupted your admiration by remembering the conversation you were in, and looking back up to the stranger.

Shaking his head, he answered your query, “No, no, I heard you know a little something about X-Wings, is that true?” Poe crossed his arms and leaned in with his stupid smile.

“I know ‘a little something’ about the T-65 if that’s what you’re referring to,” you asked suspiciously, closely inching your hand to your blaster, which he noticed.

He quickly responded, making sure you weren't to use your weapon, “Just come with me, the underbelly of my ship is just scraped up revealing some wires. Trust me.”

“‘Trust me’.” The phrase ran through your head for a moment. You were not sure the last time you were really able to trust anyone. Maybe since your padawan days. The school you served under taught you to trust some, but be weary of most. Ironically, that school burned down because of trust, with the main master never to be seen since. Skywalker. “Fine,” you answered with your best customer service smile, something inside you told you this man was telling the truth. Though how could your gut always be correct?

His face seemed pleased with the lie, at least. After telling him to wait a moment, you went to grab a creeper, a fancy name for a wood panel with wheels to check under the plane.

Upon your return, he started to guide you towards his plane, which was a little bit of a walk away. His droid, a BB-8 following closely behind him. You admired the droid some more as you walked along. “Do you get him tuned up around here?”

He looked back to you, before shaking his head. “No, no, I work on him myself, along with a few other specific mechanics. You like what you see?” Poe laughed and followed himself up, “I don’t trust just anyone to work on my buddy, we’ve been through thick and thin together…. You got a droid yourself?”

Responding by a shake of your own head, you continued, “Sometimes I’ll work with some droids from the shop or fix them up, but usually I’m able to work by myself well enough.” The man opposite of you nodded shortly before arriving at a covered plane.

You both stopped for a moment, while it seemed like he might have taken a deep breath. Grabbing a side of the sheet, he stopped again before pulling it off with great speed. You could not believe what was in front of you. A T-70 X-Wing. More importantly a T-70 X-Wing with resistance decals painted across its body. Your breathing hitched and you quickly tried to think of some sort of excuse. Was this who called you yesterday? No, it wasn’t. Was it related? You couldn’t be sure, but getting away from this strange…. stranger, was your biggest concern. Of course, he was able to notice your surprise, “My names Poe, Poe Dameron. I’m a resistance fighter.”

Again, I would like to reaffirm this is a SLOW burn :D So romance yet to come. <3 Until next time

#poe dameron #poe dameron x force sensitive reader #poe dameron x y/n #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x female reader #poe dameron x jedi!reader #poe dameron x pilot!reader #the force awakens #oscar isaac #star wars sequels #star wars #slow burn #friends to lovers #mutual pining

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rollibar · 2 years

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Are you aware of any update or that the appliance needs of the operating system installed? If so, complete the upgrade so that plugged into the computer.Replace the battery of the device and let it boot.

#Blackberry link not recognizing q10 Pc

Connect to the PC and launch the BlackBerry Desktop Software.

Please HELP as I can't use my phone and its my business phone!

#Blackberry link not recognizing q10 software

I have a Curve 9350, and I received a notification this morning that I got a software update, so I accepted and he is trying to do the update on my real mobile, (not the Manager Office via a PC), but is currently blocked to save the social stream 0% and 9% in all data, and he was blocked for about 3-4 hours. Thank you.īlackBerry Smartphones Software Update Fail Disconnection and reconnection to BB-Link, is more which indicates that an updated version is underway. I moved the app restored in a unused applications folder as you suggested. I had deleted one of the pre-installed applications. Is this a known bug that BB-Link is not check that version is already installed on the device? But this version is already on my device. Software BlackBerry software update available (q10) - is it a known problemīlackBerry link reports that there is a software update available for my Q10. If you performed the update OTA or otherwise circumvented the backup data, then you are indeed no chance.

KB18776 Back up and restore BlackBerry smartphone data on a Mac using BlackBerry Desktop Software 2.0.

If you use a MAC, I don't know how he does things, but maybe this KB is useful:

#Blackberry link not recognizing q10 how to

KB10339 How to use BlackBerry Desktop Manager to restore the data to a BlackBerry smartphone from a backup file.

created more recently is your best candidate and if all goes well, it was created at the time you did the update. If you're on a PC, then look for in your entire hard drive to a file with the extension of the IPD (*.) IPD). If you did the update via your PC, then in the early stages of the process should have been a backup of your data (assuming you do not defeat this feature). Good job on the recovery! But all is not lost for your data. Software of office says "cannot communicate with the device. it's good for something hahahahaīlackBerry software update failed Smartphone, cannot use the phone, but can attach to the computer access to the Internet. Nevermind found the solution me, had using Internet exporer. Please check your internet connection or try again. "This keeps popping up and my internet is on all the time! Why would he do that? the so-called 'pop-up' on the site of BB to run the update from the web is not pop up! it so im so tired of this! Please help me! IM really need a hero of BB! As soon as possible! Problem is that the update maintains not! "An error occurred when downloading software for your device. PLEASE HELP ME! My Blackberry z10 has to update the software and I can only be updated via the BB link or web. Z10 Z10 blackBerry software update failed! :( I recommend using the BlackBerry link to device software update, so there were no interruption as long as the usb cable is not disconnected. I recommend not preforming a more air day because they tend to miss from time to time due to the fall of the signal. It makes me crazy! Someone else had this problem? Have you found a solution? Any comments will be greatly appreciated. Hello world! I am trying to update the latest version of the software on my Z10 using WIFI BT, but he arrived at 34MO and continues to be paid to "interrupted update", I did that there is enough storage space in my camera but still the same events. BlackBerry Blackberry Software Update Fail on Z10 10

#Blackberry link not recognizing q10

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cellophaine · 3 years

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Lingered Affection (Chapter VII)

Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV, Chapter V, Chapter VI

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 4236

Series Summary: You thought breaking up with Matt was the right thing to do. For his sake and yours. Life went on as you navigated through it with the lingered love and affection you still had for each other, neither of you could let go.

Chapter Warnings: Brief medical procedure.

Author's Note: Surprise! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

As always, any likes, comments, reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated! :)

Taglist (open): @juniebugg , @lov3vivian , @chocokaylarobin , @allthecurls-misc , @janesofia7 , @pantaeudaimonia , @mysticaltwoface <3

GIF Credit

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The wind was howling, whipping hard at you. You tugged the collar of your coat even closer to your exposed face while trying to move as fast as you could. The snow and the sharp wind pulled on you, dragging you back as you resisted, drawing yourself in to make it easier to run. The sidewalk was barren since no one would be brave or stupid enough to go out headfirst into the snowstorm. You guessed you were drunk enough to be both tonight. In your frazzled state of mind, the alcohol only amplified your fear, and that fear was eating at you. You drew in a breath, feeling the cold air swirling in your chest. Matt's place was only five blocks from here, but it felt much longer when the weather worked against you. It didn't help when all you could think of was Matt; the dread in the pit of your stomach grew larger with every step you took.

This couldn't be it. Matt could not die. You wouldn't know what to do if you turned up at his door right now, and he was already dead. You knew that you had exiled his existence from your life, but to you, at the very least, he would be alive and eventually, move on from you. In that reality, he would continue living his life, and even though you would be miserable on your own, you'd be happy for him still.

The last conversation you had with him kept stirring in your head. You regretted your last words with him, every single one of them. You wished it didn't escalate to that point, but the damage had already been done. Your poisonous remarks were like hot water. It kept boiling and boiling; the hot foam spilled out of your control and burned you both. It was not a competition who got hurt more. The outcome was the same; the scorching heat marked you and him in a similar fashion. Those words were meant to keep him away. You were willing to bear the burn on your heart if that meant he could finally move on from you. But what good would that do if he was dead?

The tears silently slipped out from your eyes at the thought. The ravenous cold licked at your face as if it was on the hunt for misery and hot tears, and you were the perfect target. You wiped at the tears to avoid the sting on your cheek, but you regretted that as your hands were numb and freezing. You rubbed them together in the hope of relieving the aching cold, pulling the sleeves of your jacket down to cover them. You started to build on your speed again, ignoring your body's signal to stop. You were heaving hard; your breaths came in and out at an uneven and rough pace. The anxiety churned in your stomach, making you nauseous as the burn in your legs intensified. The snow started to rise with every step you took, making it harder for you to keep balance. When you ran through a crosswalk, you tripped as the toe of your boot got caught on the edge of the pavement.

With a hard thump, you fell onto the hard concrete; the soft snow gave in quickly under your weight and didn't minimize the impact. Your knees bore most of the damage, but you didn't stop. You scrambled to stand up and kept going, brushing the pain aside. The ache made the first few steps shaky, but you pushed on. The snow was slippery underneath your boots as you dragged yourself through another block. You were so close. You could see the top of his apartment at this distance. You quicken your pace despite the pain, biting your numb lips to keep the whimper from falling out. The cold in your chest expanded with every breath you took, and you felt like you were dead already.

You uttered a relief breath as you saw the sight of Matt's building front door. Pushing yourself into the entrance, you made a beeline for the stairs and climbed upon them, skipped a few steps at a time. That probably wasn't the best idea you had; as your legs trembled, the exhaustion clawed at your remaining strength, but you didn't have any other choice. You leaned on the railing for support and kept on ascending the stairs. By the time you reached Matt's door, your body was shaking hard; your heart pounded wildly in your ears. You gathered what was left of your energy, knocking and throwing your shoulder at Matt's door. You opened your mouth to call, but all that came out was barely a whisper, raspy and hoarse. You coughed sharply, tried again.

"Matt?? Elektra? Open the …"

Your sentence was interrupted by the tiny crack the door revealed. You shoved yourself through and made your way to the living room. His furniture was all over the place, and amid the mess, Matt was in only his trousers, laying face down on the floor, unmoving. You let out a broken sob, rushed to his side, ignoring the throbbing pain in your body. As you come closer, you could asset the damage. While the hole on his back was small, the amount of dry blood that remained around the wound was anything but. Accompanied that was bruises and few minor cuts that needed to be covered up. Your hands moved to flip him over, but the ring of Elektra's voice halted your movement.

"Don't touch him. Let him stay in that position."

She came to where you kneeled with a bowl of foul-smelling water. You scrunched your nose at the smell as Elektra put the bowl in your hands.

"I gave him some of this already, and he seems to be more stable now. You have to keep pouring this onto his punctured wound until the edges shrink and close up. Then you can patch him up."

You stammered over your words as your thoughts were all over the place.

"What … what happened? What caused those wounds and why?"

Elektra stood up, moving around the place, picking something long and shiny up from the floor and fastening it on her leg.

"Dead ninjas attacked us. He was shot by a poisoned arrow. It got into his system and slowed him down. That's all you need to know. If you don't keep pouring that liquid on his wound, the poison will spread, and he'll get worse."

You followed her instruction, tipping the bowl to release the fluid onto his wound. Matt's body shook violently, his face scrunched up as he gasped out loud in pain. You winced, feeling awful that you were doing this to him, although it was supposed to help him. His body stopped spasming as you righted the bowl.

"Are you sure this thing works? And dead ninjas? What the hell is going on?"

Elektra pointed at you with another identical thing from seconds ago.

"Keep applying the liquid until you run out. And I'm not sure. But I'm about to find out."

Looking up, you saw Elektra pulling on a thick coat over something that looked like protective gear, with the pointy things strapped to her thighs. You panicked.

"Wait, are you leaving? I don't know what to do if he gets worse."

Elektra gave you an assuring smile.

"He's in your hands. He'll be fine."

"I don't know jack shit about the poison and the true extent of his injuries, Elektra. Why are you so casual about this? Didn't you say on the phone that he was ... dying?"

Your voice grew smaller as you sensed something was not quite right. Elektra was alarmingly calm. Her smile only grew wider.

"I told you the truth. Matt's conditions were critical, but I got it under control. Then, after he became more stable, I called you."

"So ... he's not dying right now? Are you fucking serious? Why would you tell me that he was?!"

You raised your voice as your anger bubbled. Elektra only shrugged.

"The fact that you're here right now shows that you care deeply about him, despite all the bullshit you said. Let's be honest. You're not very good at hiding your emotions when it comes to our dear Matthew."

You hated that she was right. She continued.

"Besides, he needs to stay put for the next few days because he might be stable now, but the poison has weakened him. So someone has to watch over him, make sure that he's not going to put himself in danger the moment he gets up. And I have a feeling he'll listen to you."

You chuckled bitterly.

"You want a babysitter to look over Matt. So you're free to do whatever you want without him in your way."

Elektra pulled her hair back in a neat ponytail.

"Hmm, I was hoping you didn't catch on. Don't worry, I'm just getting some information, in a slightly unconventional way."

You frowned, lowering your voice.

"Please, don't kill anyone. And be careful out there. The storm is picking up."

She nodded.

"I'll ... try. Don't worry about me. I have a ride waiting."

Elektra disappeared through the door, and it clicked shut after her. The apartment became quiet; only the ragged breaths of yours and Matt's remained. You kneeled next to him and poured the rest of the liquid on the arrow wound. His face contorted in pain, his mouth gasped out in distress, his body convulsed uncontrollably, then slumped down again. You sighed wearily, standing up and removing your coat. After hanging it up on the coat hanger near the door, you looked for the medical kit. It stayed at the same place as the last time you patched him up in this apartment. You picked out a large bowl and filled it with warm water. In the sink were some dishes, but what stood out to you the most was two empty mugs, one of them had the faintest trace of pigment on the rim, resembled the bottom lip. Your mind started to wander. Had … Elektra spent the night here? With Matt? Did they sleep together? Did he make her tea in the morning, just like he did for you? The thought filled you with a fit of awful jealousy, although you knew you had no right to feel that way. It wasn't your place to question his actions as he owed you nothing. He said nothing happened between them, but who were you to judge?

You examined the arrow wound on his back. The edge seemed to shrink, just like Elektra said, and the damage looked smaller. You dabbed the clean cloth over the excess water, wiping away the traces of blood from his wound, allowing you a better look. After being satisfied with the clean slate, you grabbed the gauze roll, cut a square and secured it over the wound. You moved onto the minor cuts, repeating the same process. When the injuries on his back were taken care of, you turned him around cautiously, grabbing a pillow from his bedroom to put under his head, hoping he would feel more comfortable. You studied the damages at the front. There was an open cut on his chest that needed stitches, along with minor bruises on his abdomen, shoulders and arms.

You cleaned the blood from the cut, sterilized the needle and got to stitching with little hesitation. You had done this so many times, for yourself, for him. Your hand remained steady throughout the process; your breathing calmed to the very last stitch. After securing the cut, attending to the lesser gashes, you searched for the jar of medical salve he always used for bruises. Opening the pot, you found it almost empty. You tried to get the last of it out and applied it to the worse bruises. When the storm was gone, you would head out and get him another jar since he'd need it. You stopped yourself at the thought. Why would you do that for him? You were nothing to each other, as what he said echoed back to you. He could be irritated if you did that for him. But you couldn't pretend that you didn't care anymore. This hoax you carried didn't pass Elektra's knowing gaze, and it hadn't fooled Matt. You were here, stitching him up, taking care of him. You had done more than you were supposed to do. After all, you cared deeply for him, because you still loved him. You were aware of the love you had for him, deep-rooted in the center of your heart. It lingered around like the aroma of smoke that wouldn't leave your skin. You ventured too far, and the road leading you back to where you started had vanished. What harm a jar of salve could do?

Pouring the tinted red water down the sink, you filled it up again with warm water. Settling beside Matt, you started the work on his face. Making gentle pats on his face, you cleaned the blood off his forehead, pushing his hair out of the way. You missed running your fingers through his hair as he cuddled even closer, with his head on your chest. The happy little hums coming out of him were endearing. Then, on a different occasion, when you pulled on it just hard enough to draw pleasure, the moans he made were better than anything you'd ever heard. You blushed at the inappropriate thought, scolding yourself for thinking about that when he was lying on the floor, heavily injured. You moved onto his cheeks; the red bump on his left cheek was punctured with two tiny cuts, but overall harmless. He would only need ice to reduce the swelling. You dipped the cloth in clean water, dyed it in a translucent red. You wiped at his lips, rubbing the dry blood off his stubble. You lingered there longer than necessary; the warm fabric lingered on the arc of his cupid's bow. The alluring curves of his lips were recited in your sketchbooks, in your paintings so many times, like a regular occurrence. Your hand moved the fabric to trace the line of his jaw, the movement gentle as if you were afraid that you'd wake up from this confusing dream.

His eyes fluttered open. You startled, pulling your hand back in an instant, afraid that you woke him. His unfocused eyes darted around slowly, looking like he was trying to get a grip of what was going around him. His lips parted, his voice croaked out in confusion.

“E … Elektra? Is that … you?”

The last word left his lips was full of uncertainty. The effect it had on you felt like a burn, and you retreated your hand in a flash. Somehow, you felt like your chest opened, letting your heart fall to the ground, ended at his feet, and he mercilessly crushed it.

You swallowed the tears that threatened to spill out, speaking softly.

"No, it's me."

He cocked his head, his eyes unfocused, blinked in recognition. He uttered your name softly before slipping into unconsciousness again. You let out a shaky breath.

'He thought of her first.'

Of course. You had seen how close they were. You pushed back the bitterness that was eating at you. You would make sure that he was okay, then leave. That was the least you could do. You took the cloth, squeezing the water out, and cleaned the last of the blood on his neck. When you felt like he looked decent enough for someone who almost died from fighting dead ninjas and a poisoned arrow, you made your way into his bedroom, getting a spare blanket in the drawer. The sight of a photo frame of you and him caught your eyes: a happy memory, another bitter moment. You turned your head, walking away from it.

After draping the blanket over him and fixing his pillow on the floor, you stood up with a bit of difficulty. The pain was getting duller, so you didn't mind it as much. You rolled up the leg of your pants, the skin on your knees looked red and puffy, but other than that, there was no sign of bleeding. You might just have to apply ice on them.

You put the medical kit away and looked at the apartment for the first time that night. Elektra was right. Almost everything you'd left here stayed at the same place. Your hairpins sat neatly in a decorated dish with some other small items with Braille tags. When you walked past the fridge, a glimpse of a photo stopped you in your track. You took a closer look. A picture of you two was pinned with a magnet on the fridge, with you pressing a kiss to his cheek, and the broad smile on him was adorable. The picture's edges slightly curled, as if Matt's fingers had run over them repeatedly, following a pattern. You looked happy then, when you thought you were deserving of his love. But, things had changed since then, and only for the worse. Now, you weren't so sure how you would move forward.

You moved his furniture back to where they were, putting some stuff back to their place, cleaning up the debris scattered around his living room. You did your best to clean up with your wounded knees. You saw more of your stuff when you were doing so. You wondered if you should do him a favour, gathering and taking all your items back so they won't take up his space. You didn't know what to do. You were exhausted and confused. And all you wanted to do was taking a break from moving and thinking. So that was what you did. You settled down on the floor near Matt, monitoring his breathing and keeping a close eye on him. Literally.

The sun came up, hidden behind the raging snowstorm that seemed to grow stronger. The weak light filtering through the giant windows in his apartment. You'd always liked how bright his living room was, even with the obnoxious neon lights across the street at night. The bedroom was a different story. The lights did bother your sleep whenever you stayed the night, making it harder to fall asleep and easier to wake up. For that reason, Matt had black-out curtains installed just for you. He surprised you with it, and you, not being used to small but meaningful gestures, almost burst into tears right on the spot. That was who Matt was, sweet and caring. He didn't change at all after you broke up. You were unkind to him while he approached you with patience and love. You'd wait to see how he would react to your presence here when he woke up. If he wanted you to go, you'd go. No matter if there were a snowstorm waiting for you outside, even with the fatigue scrawling slowly into the corner of your eyes, you would leave because it was his wish.

You spaced out, gazing at Matt, trying to commit the sight of him into your chest when he stirred from the floor, and you sat up straight like a spring.

"Be careful."

You helped him up, letting him leaned on the chair behind. He hissed in pain, leaning into your help. His hand lingered on your arm, warm and comforting.

"How are you feeling? Do you want any painkillers?"

He let out a ragged breath; his brows scrunched up in discomfort.

"No, I'm fine."

He forced out a smile in an attempt to soothe your nerves. But you could see under his exterior. You knew him. You braced a hand on his shoulder, angled him toward you.

"You're not fine. I patched you up when you were out cold. You almost died, Matt. You have no idea how scared I was."

He blinked, surprised at your confession.

"So please, listen to me. You're not going out there in the middle of a storm. I will not allow it. So get into your bed and just get some rest for once."

The air between you stirred with your breathing mingling. Finally, Matt spoke up in confusion.

"Did Elektra call you? Where is she?"

You hesitated for a moment.

"Yes, she called me here. She went out … to get some information."

You recalled your conversation with Elektra. Matt recognized what you meant immediately. You rushed to get the words out.

"I told her to not … kill anybody. That helps … right?"

The last word wavered as you didn't believe in it yourself. You continued.

"Do you want Elektra here? You know, you called out to her when you woke up earlier. I figured you wanted her here with you. I can call her right now —"

Matt put his hand on yours, squeezing gently.

"No, I just want you here with me. Please, stay."

The simple sentences carried so much weight. It tugged at your heartstring like a desperate plea, and you weren't sure if it was only a fabrication of your mind. You nodded; the words floated between you two, small but full of assurance.

"Alright. I'll stay here with you."

You helped him stand up. He held onto your arm tightly as you guided him to the bedroom. After sitting him down on the bed, you cleared your throat.

"You should change into something more comfortable. I imagine that trousers are not the greatest thing to sleep in."

The corner of his lips lifted in an appreciative smile.

"Yeah, alright. I'll change."

You stepped back, clasping your hands behind your back.

"I'll… let you get to it."

You stepped out, pulling on the bedroom door. Before you could close it entirely, you saw Matt pulling his pants down, revealing himself in a black boxer with his back to you. The material hugged the curves of his firm buttocks perfectly. Distracted by the sight, you shut the door on your fingers, creating a painful thud on your hand. You instantly pulled your hand to yourself and blew on it as if it could help relieve the sting while biting back a pained whimper.

Matt's voice called out to you; the sound grew louder as he made his way to the door.

"Are you okay?"

You immediately shut the door close before he could reach it and responded.

"I'm fine. Just get into bed. I'll be back with some water."

You quickly walked away, cradling your hand in the other, cursing yourself for being distracted. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water, bringing it to the bedroom. Matt had crawled under the blanket, lying awake, face up to the ceiling. You placed the glass of water on the side table.

"Let me know if you need anything. I'll be right outside."

You were about to leave, but your movement was stopped short with the rustle of the blanket and Matt's hand shot out to hold your wrist. He was shirtless; his skin was a tapestry of scars and injuries, making itself visible in front of your eyes. The expression on his face was earnest as he bared his vulnerabilities and uncertainties to you.

"I … I know that we're not okay. Things between us have been rough. I know we have a lot to talk about."

He swallowed.

"But can we pretend that we're fine for just one moment? We can talk after we get a good rest."

You drew your lips together, accepting the fact that you couldn't hide from the inevitable conversation anymore.

"Yes, I would like that. We can do that once you get up."

His hand moved down to hold yours, lifting it to his lips, kissing your pained fingers. The barest touch of his kiss made you blush. He pulled on your hand, lifting a corner of the blanket.

"I can tell that you're tired. Would you like to join me?"

You were exhausted. The soft bed with Matt in it, along with his soothing appeal, broke your guards down, and you agreed without much resistance. Matt nodded towards his closet.

"Your clothes are in there if you want to change into something more comfortable."

You pulled the door open, getting out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that were folded neatly next to his clothes. After changing into the soft materials, you climbed into bed with Matt. He made room for you, creating a distance between you two. You appreciated that he respected your space, giving you all the authority.

Fuck it. You were in his bed already.

You reached out with your hand, caressing his face, brushed over the bruise on his cheek. He closed his eyes at your soothing touches, the corner of his mouth raised in a soft smile. You trailed down his jaw, following the same pattern you went through earlier. His lips parted slightly as you held his chin between your thumb and pointer finger. Your hand fell to the soft mattress, finding his in the space between you two. He intertwined your fingers, squeezing your hand tenderly, with a lot unsaid. You closed your eyes; the heavenly sight of his face was the last thing you saw before the sweeping current of fatigue and comfort whisked you away into the best sleep you'd had in the past few months.

#lingered affection #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil imagine #daredevil au #matt murdock au #matt murdock fic #elektra natchios #matt murdock imagine #elektra #marvel imagine #no use of y/n

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lfthinkerwrites · 2 years

Note

If I may make a request 🧐

Could you make an alternative version of your small lingerie fic where they hide from gordon until he leaves and eddie doesn't get taken in could be smut could just be bruce being a flustered mess

Here you are, you filthy bastards. Light smut and Bruce being a mess ahead.

"Riddle me this," Nashton purrs. "Is that a Batarang in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" Bruce stands still, not sure whether to punch him, push him, or...something else.

(In another world, Gordon arrives at the rooftop, Nashton is taken into custody, and Bruce locks himself into his room, Nirvana at full volume, trying to forget that any of this ever happened. In this world, Bruce is slightly swifter on the uptake.)

Bruce snapped his attention to the still-lit Batsignal. Gordon will be any minute. He can stop this, subdue Nashton (on his knees), get him out of that get-up and-no. No. This is a serial killer. He killed the mayor, Pete Savage, Gil Colson, countless people in the flood, Alfred almost, there is nothing Bruce could ever want from this man, would ever want from this man-

He heard the sound of a throat clearing and saw that Nashton had pulled a small bottle out of one cup of the bra and a packet of condoms out of the other. "I came prepared," he said brightly.

Bruce had to take a step back at how forward the man was. Then he glared, trying to take back control of the situation. "You really are delusional if you think that's going to happen."

Nashton just smirked. "Oh, if you had any intention of rejecting me, you would have by now." Nashton placed his items back into the bra, which Bruce did NOT watch him do, and traced his fingers against Bruce's chest. "You're letting me touch you," Nashton continued. "If you wanted to hit me, you would. But you won't. You're hesitating because you want this as much as I do. You just needed a little more time to accept it."

When was the last time someone had touched him? Selina? Selina's gone though, and Nashton is right here, and he's soft, and he's willing, he's desperate, and the dam broke. Bruce roughly grabbed both of Nashton's hands and dragged him towards the edge of the roof, towards the shadows, and pressed him up against a support beam of the building, both hands pinned above his head. He looked into Nashton's expectant, flushed face and hesitated. "What am I going to do with you?" he murmured.

Nashton let out a small moan, one that goes straight to Bruce's cock. Bruce looked down and saw that Nashton was already erect. "Oh," he laughed. "I think you know exactly what you're going to do to me."

Before he could think of just how bad an idea this was, Bruce surged forward, pressing his mouth hard against Nashton's. For someone who came to a rooftop dressed in lingerie, Nashton's a sloppy kisser, sloppy like the virgin he probably was. The thought of that makes Bruce harder and he dropped one hand to pull down Nashton's panties, which judging by the groan the other man let out, was greatly appreciated. Bruce moved his lips to Nashton's neck, biting hard at the same time he began to stroke the other man's cock. Nashton almost shrieked at the sensation and Bruce let go of his wrists to cover his mouth. What he wouldn't give for some of his duct tape right about now...and that shouldn't arouse Bruce as much as it does.

"Anybody up here?"

Bruce froze mid-stroke. Shit. Gordon. Shit shit shit shit. He heard the man's footsteps on the roof, around the signal, and internally cursed. He should have grabbed Nashton's coat and boots too.

"What the fuck?" he heard Gordon say and he knew he must have found the clothes. Bruce glared at Nashton, only to see that the man only looked irritated at being interrupted.

"Don't make a sound," Bruce hissed, clamping his hand even harder over Nashton's mouth. Nashton's eyes crinkled, and Bruce could tell he was smirking.

"If anyone's here, come on out!" Gordon shouted, his steps coming closer to their hiding spot. Bruce stood still, blocking Nashton from view. How chivalrous, he could just hear Alfred drawl, and oh God, he should not be thinking about Alfred when he's got a nearly naked man pressed against him. He can feel his heart beating in his chest and something else bucking into his upper thigh. It's Nashton, rubbing insistently against him as if he doesn't care that Gordon's less than six feet away and could stumble on them and...wait. Is that a turn-on for him?

Bruce heard a sigh and receding footsteps. "Some dumb kids must have gotten up here again," Gordon muttered. Bruce could see out of the corner of his eye, the lieutenant turning off the signal and retreating to the elevator.

As soon as Gordon's gone, Bruce releases Nashton, and the man lets out a sharp breath. "Well," Nashton said. "That was fun. Now where were we?"

Bruce just stared at him. "What in the fuck is the matter with you?"

Nashton giggled, then pointed downwards. "Same thing that's wrong with you." Bruce followed his gaze down and realized that he was still hard. Nashton giggled again, then pulled the condoms and lube from his bra again. "Well?"

Gordon's arrival should have been a sign that this was a bad idea. It should have been, but Bruce returned his teeth to Nashton's neck and once he remembered how to take off his pants, gave them both what they wanted.

When Nashton is returned to Arkham in a cheap t-shirt and jeans, six hours later, no one commented on the dark bruises on his neck, the fact that he couldn't quite walk straight, or that Batman couldn't meet Gordon's gaze. Or that Nashton's new 'friend' seemed to find the entire thing hilarious.

One thing remains universally consistent. Bruce returns home, turns Nirvana up at full volume, and tries to pretend that the whole thing didn't happen. When he's not contemplating breaking Nashton out again, and bringing duct tape.

#riddlebat #first time going smutty for these two #and it's the most grungy disgusting pathetic versions of them #go figure

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booppooo · 3 years

Text

Tired of Waiting: Chapter Two

Ellie Williams x Fem! Reader Series

AN: these chapters are gonna take a little longer to come out purely bc I'm pullin' out all the stops LMAO, tryna sound poetic n shit I guess

Warnings: swearing, I think that's it???

Ellie swung onto her horse bitterly.

She briefly spotted the scowl on Y/n's face as she mounted her steed, and the frustration behind the flick of her reigns. The packing of snow beneath the horses hooves replaced light-hearted banter. Snow fell in large families making the temperature nip their red, raw cheeks. Ellie squinted to see the horse quickly trotting in front of her, heavily blurred by merciless snowfall.

Another lookout was stationed in a library Dina and Ellie had discovered; Maria welcomed the idea by making it a permanent post. A particular couple awaited to be relieved from the sea of books, luckily spotting no infected.

That week, Dina and Jesse had claimed to go their separate ways - most were convinced their time apart wouldn't last. Until then, Dina was unapologetically flirtatious with Ellie, especially when Jesse's eyes were prying. The night before transitioned the flirting to a 'situationship,' leaving the bronze woman excited and the pale woman distraught. Kissing before the town at a dance made a bold statement. Though Y/n wasn't there to witness it - nor Jesse - they both shared feelings of jealousy and resentment. Neither would admit their thoughts, basing logistics off of technicalities: Jesse and Dina weren't together, nor Y/n and Ellie - no need for resent. Still, it hurt.

While trading off, Dina hugged Ellie and brushed her lips against her neck. Ellie returned the embrace lacking fervor and turned crimson. Her unwavering stare at Y/n only served as a catalyst for her racing heart, once fond eyes became dark. Dina's smaller hands traced Ellie's lean arms before lacing their fingers and redirecting her focus. Her gaze of fearful green shifted, but Dina ceased her indecision with her guiding palm on Ellie's cheek. By tucking an auburn strand away, Dina solidified her intimacy with tacit pride. She whispered something to Ellie's sultry lips but no avail, for Ellie's mind had clouded and her body buzzed.

"Y-yeah, okay," Ellie mumbled thoughtlessly. A set of eyes were melting her skin and made her muscles tremble. Jesse's voice boomed Dina's name from the entrance where he sat proudly on his horse, his expression mirroring Y/n's.

Freckles caressed with a kiss signaled Dina's farewell and she swayed her hips hoping to earn a last glance. However, Ellie was imprisoned in a storm of emotions reducing her to unsteady hands and tingling skin. She didn't dare peel her eyes from her beaten, brown boots. The cold puffs streaming from her lips came in quivering spirts weaved with piquancy.

A slammed door followed by several stories tumbling from their shelves ripped Ellie from her fog. The pure excitement whirring was squashed with dread. She released the simmering irritation with a sigh and inferred Y/n's desire for solitude by wandering. "Fuckin' Dina," she mumbled, unsure if she cursed or praised her name.

Unbeknownst to patrollers, a cellar some stairs away offered a haven to copious amounts of marijuana and adult films - a man's paradise. Although Ellie wasn't male, she greatly appreciated the tranquil atmosphere...along with the joint between her lips. The burn didn't have her brows furrowing and a stale taste tickled her taste buds, but even if it lapsed the principle of smoking humbled the furious blizzard outside and upstairs.

Dong of the Wolf. Smash Brandy's Cooch. Binging porn without selfish intentions seemed ethical. Ellie melted into the dusty couch and awkwardly chuckled at the men and women. She scribbled in her journal about seeking calm in chaos and it's guilty undertones.

Should I go talk to Y/n? I don't want to argue about Dina, she's just trying to make Jesse jealous. Maybe I do like her? Fuck, I hate this.

A phony orgasm cued calloused fingers to power off the VHS. Honey hair lolled against the stiff couch arm and her body stretched its length, eyes heavy. Too exhausted to fight her dwindling sight, she let the rest of her aching muscles ease and sink into the cushions.

"Are you fucking serious?" - Y/n had uncovered the cellar and Ellie's smoked joint - "We're here to keep an eye out for infected and you're smoking bunk weed and watching porn? Not to mention straight porn."

A peeved groan chorused Y/n's insistent nagging. Countless times the unique youth would fantasize patrolling with Y/n: what they'd quip about, the endless lingering touches, a hopeful kiss. Perhaps she dreamed too hard.

"Are you even listening to me? Get up!" Fussed Y/n.

The furniture jolted from Y/n's tempered bunt and Ellie fell to the dusty floor with a livid grunt. Spitting insults, she stood and faced Y/n:

"The fuck is wrong with you?!"

Albeit being friends for years, there wasn't a situation demanding directness. The barking had Ellie's chest tight and vision delayed, moreover the proximity delivered no solace. In her ears her heart hammered, sending the blood to her speckled cheeks and nose.

Belligerence thawed from Y/n's brows and jaw leaving uncertainty to flush her expression. Contrast to Ellie's ruby skin, her's had gone ghostly; and while Ellie couldn't wrangle her throbbing heart, Y/n's stopped. The world had faded only sparing the panting girl and the few inches between them. Air was trapped in Y/n's closing throat which froze with the muscles battling to sustain composure.

A sheer miracle had Ellie grumbling, "Let's just fuckin' get this done." Her hands shook with vigor as she grabbed her bag, fleeing past Y/n. Another second and her world would've been swallowed by flames. Y/n saw smoke.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us

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bumbleflyyouknow · 3 years

Text

My best friend broke both of her ankles a few nights ago. One so badly that it'll require surgery to put back together. She's looking at an 8 week recovery period. Many in the rp community should be familiar with xirishais and her work.

We will be organizing a meal train as well for when she gets out of the hospital. But for now if you're in a spot where you're able to contribute we're passing the virtual hat/boot around to help her cover whatever insurance doesn't and have a little peace of mind money.

Every little bit helps guys. And signal boosts are greatly appreciated.

PM me if youd rather send something through the mealtrain.

Thanks all!

#gofundme #emergency #mealtrain #xirishais

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moonsaes · 4 years

Text

Take Care

pairing: choi seungcheol x fem reader

genre: royal!au, fluff, smut

warnings: oral sex, penetrative sex, dirty (but kinda sweet??) talk, creampie

word count: 6k

summary: as king, seungcheol often forgets to take care of himself. your job is to remind him.

note: this has been my baby for the past 2 months, and now she’s finally ready!! this is also the longest piece i’ve ever written, so feedback would be greatly appreciated!! all my hugs to @127vevo for looking over it.

Your nails are red again, raw and cracked from the counsel that saw too much dispute and too little compromise. Ryujin always reprimanded you for the habit, the steady cluck of her tongue stopping only to order you to dip your hands into the medicinal bowl. She would nearly faint if she saw the current state of your fingers—you’re grateful you let her retire early tonight.

The bath would normally be drawn by the time your foot crosses the meeting room’s threshold. Tonight, the basin sits empty, polished and shining in the dim candlelight. You’re not sure why the girls insist on polishing the wood for it to only get wet again, but they press forward every morning with quick feet and low bows, so you let them.

The bin hanging on the hook to your far right looks as if it can fill the basin in five turns, four if you’re lucky enough not to spill on the way back. You don’t mind walking to the well; it’s a path you rarely have the opportunity to walk alone, so the quiet may do you some good. Maybe you can steal a sweet pancake from the kitchen on your way back—one for Cheol when he returns tonight.

Your fingers tighten on the handle at the thought of him. It’s not often he’s away for so long, but when he is, you’re too aware of how bare the kingdom feels. He had been the first to jump at the prospect of visiting the bordering villages after reports of outside raids, the humanitarian in him bursting out the moment Councilman Lee had read the beginning sentences. His fervor could be misinterpreted as inexperience to some—a young king eager to carve his legacy deep—but you know better. You know the responsibility he’s taken to the very core of him, the duty he lives by to serve those around him. It’s noble, the way he leads for others, far more noble than you had seen from anyone in the court. But it’s also the heaviest burden one could place on oneself. Cheol never reveals it, but as his other half, you can sense it. The long days and even longer nights, finger rubbed to a hard callus from his quill—he loses himself. And it hurts you far more than you could’ve anticipated.

The nearby call of a loon pulls you from your thoughts. Your feet must’ve taken you down the pebbled path to the mouth of the hot spring. It doesn’t come as a surprise, with how the route is well worn in your mind after years of travel, but you hadn’t realized how long your mind had wandered for.

You squat and dip your fingers in the water, a pleasant warmth in the night chill. It teases at the future of a basin full and steaming, ready to knead at the tension living in your body. Your fingers inch toward the bin at the thought, and it’s not until you’re raising the filled bin to your head with wobbly arms and aching back that you realize how greatly you need this bath.

Six minutes at an otherwise leisurely place is pushing ten with the nearly overflowing bin perched on your head. You didn’t account for the steady decline down to the spring, but the uneven rocks that line the path up are catching under your feet now. Every groove and ridge is impressed onto the soles of your feet—your shoes are much too old and worn—and it’s only after several stumbles and a few near accidents that the ground beneath you turns to the fine dirt of the garden walkway.

It’s inevitable that your feet will bear some marks of the journey; you’ve always bruised easily, much to the girls’ dismay. But now you have an excuse to keep Cheol busy outside of the council room, occupied with rubbing your feet as your husband instead of the king.

You follow the short path through the firs before you reach the steps to your living chambers. With careful slides, you kick your shoes off at the base of the steps, paying particular attention to the full bucket on your head. You’ll have to remember to get the thicker-soled boots from the side closet before heading back out. Maybe the lynx coat too, to set out for a dusting. It won’t be long until you’ll need it, from the way the air feels.

With cautious steps, you shuffle down the hallway, turning the first corner and continuing down the stretch toward the bedroom. One of the screen doors is crooked, what looks like a jam along the cracks. It’s something that happens when you’re preoccupied and forget how gently you have to maneuver the doors. And though it’s been a long day, you don’t remember leaving for water with the door open.

It only takes a well-aimed kick at the base for the screen to lurch back into its tracks. You slide the door just wide enough so the width of the bin can fit through, making it a couple steps before your eyes land on a body sprawled on the bed. Your mouth opens, ready to signal the guards, but a small sigh stops you. You can recognize that sound from across the palace.

“Cheol,” you breathe, a smile breaking across your lips.

He sits up at your voice, a little slower than usual. This trip must’ve been hard on him. He gives no indication of such however, getting up and walking toward you with a wide grin.

“My love,” he says, cupping your face in his hands, and you’re once again reminded of how his touch stabilizes you. Your body warms as his eyes trace over you, landing on a drop trickling down the slope of your nose. He notices at the same time you remember the wooden bin perched on your head, but his hands beat yours in lowering it to the ground.

Only with the weight from your head gone do you realize the tension creeping up from your shoulders. Like a bow pulled taut, the muscles breathe with the sudden relief, and you tilt your head forward to massage at the back of your neck, a stray droplet tracing down the slope of your nose at the movement.

He leans close to catch the water at the tip of your nose with his lips. With him so close, you can smell the heady hints of sandalwood, light with the hours of rain and travel. It’s become habit to tuck yourself into the crook of his neck, and when you press forward to settle in the familiar spot, you feel the soft roll of laughter rumble through him.

His lips rest on your temple before traveling to your hair. “Go get ready. I’ll get the rest of the water.” He’s gone with the bin before you can object, leaving you to undress. It’s late enough in the season that the cold has started to creep in through the cracks. Your skin pimples when you slide the jeogori off your shoulders, and you rush to step out of your skirt and underclothes to get to the warm haven of the bathroom. Now fully bare, you can feel the autumn chill as deep as your bones, and you wonder if Cheol is cold from all the travelling. You’ll have to check his toes when he returns.

There’s already a pleasant steam hanging in the air from the first binful of water when you enter the bathroom. Looking into the basin, it’s barely enough to cover your legs, your hips if you try hard enough, but you step in to sit anyway. You’re right—it laps only halfway up your thigh, but the warmth is such a friendly welcome to your worn muscles that it makes no difference.

The heat must’ve lulled you into a drowse because a small thud has you blinking your eyes open to Cheol, kneeling by the foot of the basin. He looks up when you shift in the water.

“You looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you up,” he says, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

“So you were just watching me? Should’ve called the guards,” you tease. But you can’t resist kissing the inside of his wrist.

He flicks your nose with a playful huff before standing up and reaching for the bin next to him, a bigger one he must’ve found along the way. He rests it on the side of the basin, and with your nod, he tips it over to add to the water pooling at your legs.

“Oh,” you sigh as the water creeps higher up your body. The level now rests right below your breasts, high enough that you can bend your legs and sink down to your chin.

“Nice?”

You hum, letting your eyes drift to where he’s standing. His eyelashes cast shadows under his eyes in the dim light, and you wish you could trace them, kiss them until there’s no hint of them left.

“Join me.” You raise your arms from the water to stretch them towards him. “I miss you.”

He smiles and bends to set the bin down. “Well, we can’t have that my lady.”

He’s quick to shuck off his undershirt and pants, turning to place them on the side table. You take the quiet moment to look over his shoulders, waist, thighs—bends and crooks of his you’ve been able to imprint into your memory with an unusual ease. The thought of being able to feel him again after so many weeks makes your toes curl.

“Come here.”

He carefully fits himself in the space that you’ve made, mumbling something incoherent when he stretches his legs alongside yours and leans back against the basin. You follow suit, pushing back onto his chest until you can feel his arms dip below the water and wrap around your waist.

“Have baths always felt this good?” His lips trace at the shell of your ear, travelling down to give your lobe a quick suck.

“Mmmm,” you breathe, tilting your neck to give access to his wandering lips. “Only with you.”

You stay like this, quiet except for the occasional ripple of water. It’s as close to a sanctuary you think you may get with the looming thought of meetings and scrolls, but you push that to the far corner of your mind, running your hands down Cheol’s thighs to his knees.

“Long day?” he asks, gathering the pieces of hair that have fallen from your clip and slipping them through the teeth.

You can’t help the small snort you let out. “The absolute longest,” you say, skimming the surface of the water with gently pruning fingers, “it never fails to surprise me how stubborn old councilmen are.”

“Hey,” he murmurs into your skin, “that’s going to be me someday.”

“You’re more handsome.”

His hand finds yours to bring to his lips. You can feel the curve of his mouth against your palm, and the feeling makes you settle closer into the breadth of his chest. The water laps gently around your knees as you lean back, little kisses of warmth to exposed skin.

Cheol must see the beginnings of gooseflesh because he lifts an arm to place his hand over your knee. The action makes you smile—he never liked seeing you cold, even when there’s nothing but a comfortable glow all throughout you.

Your hand pulls from his grasp to rub up and down his now-exposed arm. He’s relentless in his quest to keep you warm, but you’re also aware of how his toes curl towards your calves whenever a morning snow hits. “Do you want to talk about your trip?” you ask, massaging his bicep.

He sighs softly enough that you wouldn’t have known if not for the stuttered fall of his chest. You press deeper into his arms, as if you can push every bit of strain out of him.

“Not tonight. Tomorrow?” A small squeeze on your thigh serves as a tacit appeal for no questions, not tonight. It’s late anyway, nearly midnight if you’re thinking correctly, so you nod your head in agreement. Whatever can wait until the morning.

Lips fall to the base of your neck, following the drying droplets to trace down the length of your shoulder blade. It’s a silent thank you for the reprieve he most likely didn’t get from the villagers, the advisors. It’s a silent thank you for being his sanctuary—he’s told you as much—even though you’re a mere attempt for what he is for you. You still try anyway.

One hand grabbing his, the other gripping the edge of the basin, you stand up, grimacing at the rush of cold air. Cheol is still sitting down, eyebrows raised.

“It’s not hair washing day?” he questions.

“Mmmm, did it the other night,” you respond, letting your eyes wander over his chest. “Come out. I’m getting cold.”

He stands, careful not to splash any water over the side. You bear down onto your right hand to give him stability as he steps out, his wet feet joining yours to make a small puddle on the floor.

“We’ll wipe it up later,” he promises. You’re not one to argue when he’s wet and naked, so you nod and lead him out toward the bedroom.

The chill sweeps over you nearly instantaneously, and you can barely contain the shiver that cascades through you. “Cheol, it’s c—”

His hand leaves yours to cup at your hip. He taps twice, a signal you’re more than familiar with, for you to turn around. You take a look at the sly smile on his face before looping your arms around his neck and jumping. He catches you with a practiced ease, though he stumbles a bit from your added weight onto his slippery feet.

“Easy. I’m trying to get both of us onto the bed alive.” His words are stern, but the beginnings of a laugh are pushing through his lips, pulling one from your own.

You cling on tighter to tuck your head into the notch of his neck. “Just get there quickly so you can warm me up.”

He squeezes your thigh in acknowledgement and walks the last steps to your bed. You’ve begun to pepper kisses around the base of his neck, your eyes nearly shutting on their own accord at the feel of his steadily hardening cock between the inside of your legs. It reminds you that you haven’t had him for weeks, but even after all that time, your body responds as if he had never left.

You raise your head when his feet stop at the foot of the bed. “Don’t want to let go,” you say, your lips brushing against his own. His teeth catch your bottom lip for a gentle pull.

“Who says you have to let go?” He sucks your lip with a smile before you feel one of his hands hike your hips further up his, the other moving to brace the back of your neck. The movements are quick, and you only just process the change before he’s leaning forward to guide you down onto the bed. It squeaks in protest at the sudden weight of you two, retaliating with a small crack somewhere towards the center of the headboard.

A few moments of wide eyes pass before laughter peals out, catching in each others’ mouths.

“That’s been there for the last century and we managed to break it in two years,” he giggles, tickling the traces of your lips.

“You managed to break it,” you correct with a poke to his side. “I didn’t steal extra of Mrs. Jung’s dumplings today, so it couldn’t have been me.”

He leans back to fix you with a discerning look. “Hmmmm,” he muses, eyes roaming from across your face, lingering a little longer at your lips. “Whatever you say, my lady.”

You lace your fingers in his hair to tug him back to your mouth. “Exactly what I like to hear. Besides, they were all gone when I passed by the oh—” you groan at the sudden thought. The sweet pancake.

“The sweet pancake!” You pinch the inner corners of your eyes. “I was going to get a sweet pancake on my way back from the spring! I know for a fact that General Yoo doesn’t let you stop at that bun stand in Seorabeol, so you must be so hungry. I can’t believe I forgot, and—and you’re laughing?”

When you blink open, you see that he is.

His fingers rub the space between your brows until the wrinkle disappears. “You look very concerned,” he laughs, shifting up to place a kiss where his fingers were. “And I do love those sweet pancakes, but General Yoo broke off with half the men to do evaluations in Ungjin, so I was left with Commander Pyo, who you know loves those buns as much as I do.”

You wrap your arms around his middle with a relieved sigh. “So you’re not hungry?” you ask. “And you’re not going to have to leave bed?”

“Definitely not going to leave bed,” he confirms, repositioning your legs to bring your core even closer to him. “As for whether I’m hungry or not,” a swipe of his tongue across the seam of your lips makes you let out an impatient whine, “haven’t tasted you in far too long.”

His mouth sears a trail down your neck and across your collarbones before you can kiss him, can poke fun at the sudden forwardness that still somehow makes your fingertips itch for him. All you can do is gasp and let him suckle at your nipple. His tongue is a welcomed heat on your skin, and you can feel it prickle with every swipe.

He grounds himself to move downward by holding your sides, a sight that in it of itself makes you shiver. You can always feel the roughness of hands—have essentially memorized how every ridge and callous move on you—but seeing them, large and reverent in their handling, makes you want to do everything in your power to keep them there. He’ll always take care of you. His eyes say it first, and his body never fails to assure it.

But you need him to feel the same unwavering devotion. Even when he’s gone and especially when he’s not. He never asks, never will, but there’s no one more deserving of something so unconditional.

“Cheol,” you murmur, while he kisses over the soft spot on your stomach. “Stop.” You tug gently at his hair.

His lips pull away, and his eyes are on you. “Everything okay, love?”

“Yes, of course,” you assure with a small nod. “I just—I want to take care of you.”

“You want to take care of me?” he asks with furrowed brows. His hands are still heavy at your sides, and you reach down to grasp at his wrists. He lets you guide him onto his back, lets you straddle his hips and hover yourself over where you need him most.

He’s looking at you through half-lidded eyes as you bring yourself onto his cock, using your anchored hands to slide him back and forth between your lips. You’re already wet—have been since the moment he carried you to the bed—so he slips through with an easy slick. The head of his cock kisses your clit on one rock of your hips, sending a tingle through your core that makes you bow your head. He groans too, responding with a buck that shifts you higher up his pelvis.

“Love,” he sighs before pressing forward to kiss your lips. When he speaks again, he does so softly. “Let me taste you.”

“Mmmm,” you mumble, trying to temper your voice from whining. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you remember?” You squeeze his wrists in reminder, though you know he could easily break free.

He smiles at the same thought. “I remember, but—” he wriggles his hands from your grasp to settle at your hips. “I think the best way for you to take care of me—” he lets out a small hiss when he lifts you off him, guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him. You lick your lips at the sight of his heavy cock straining against his stomach, but you’re cut off by a swift tug that pulls you back.

“Is to give me what I want.” The last few words are hummed against your skin as his lips trace the inside of your thighs. He’s taking his time nipping around the soft skin, tending to each mark with a soothing hum. Every movement is slow, purposeful, too much so for your growing impatience. You reach to run a light finger over a vein on his cock in hopes of provoking him, but he only tightens his hold on your legs. Even with you closer to his mouth, he’s still lingering around where you need him the most.

“Cheol,” you whine, pushing your hips back. “Don’t tease.”

He licks a quick stripe up the length of your lips, making you gasp and buck your hips back. His mouth is gone too soon, leaving only his hands to anchor you from seeking his tongue again.

“What I want, remember?”

“Fuck.”

It sounds like a promise he would make when he’s feeling indulgent, with no other goal than to get you begging. So it comes unexpected when he pulls your body down at the same time his neck cranes up. His mouth lands hot on your center, tongue pushing through to lick at your core. You blink your eyes close with a moan as his attention moves to your clit, his tongue landing quick flicks on it. The pressure’s delicious, a burning heat that makes your toes curl into the sheets. You feel as if you can cave in on yourself and still remember the imprints of his mouth. It’s so generous—the way this bliss always consumes you—that you don’t realize that his hips are moving in tandem to yours, have been for some time.

His cock is somehow even harder than before, following the path of his hips with a heaviness that makes your mouth water. You know tonight is for him, but you also think you won’t make it to see to his pleasure if you don’t feel him on your tongue.

And you can’t help the pride that streaks straight from your core to your heart when he groans at the welcome of your mouth. You start off slow—kitten licks across his slit to hear more of his muffled sounds until you wrap your lips around his head. He sucks your clit in response, thrumming over your bud with an insistent tongue when you begin to guide him further to the back of your mouth.

You begin a slow bob up and down, easing your mouth further down him each time. Your hand works his base, twisting up the smooth skin with help from the wetness dribbling from your mouth. He’s thick enough that you can’t wrap your palm completely around him, but you try anyway, eager to not leave any part of his cock untouched.

He breathes it into your thigh, where you can already feel slick smearing. “You taste so good, love. Love when you let me taste you like this. Want you just like this when you come.”

All you can do is moan around his cock and hope he can taste how wet you are. You ease your mouth off to catch your breath, your hand replacing it to set a steady rhythm up and down his cock. It’s a comfortable pace with the wetness from your mouth, and for a few moments it’s just this—the sound of your hand and his tongue warming the room.

Your whine breaks the tempo at the feel of his fingers joining his tongue before slipping into your core. He enters easily with two fingers, pulling a quiet squelch when he’s up to his knuckles. His fingers aren’t moving, waiting for you to adjust to the fullness, but you need him to move. Need him to curl his fingers and sink back and forth into you so some of the tension in your lower stomach can be relieved. He’s taking his time however, pulling out until he’s mid-knuckle and pushing back in as if trying to gauge how much you can take.

You fit his cock back into your mouth in hopes of encouraging him to move. He must get the hint the moment he hits the back of your throat because he pushes both fingers into you with a groan and begins a punishing pace. If his other hand weren’t still secured on your hip, you would’ve squirmed away from how he’s hitting that one spot with practiced expertise. With the way your thighs are beginning to shake, you don’t know how much longer you can handle before you buckle under his fingers and tongue.

You pull off his cock to release the whine that’s pushing past your lips. “Cheol, too—too much,” you moan. It is too much—his fingers fucking into you as if his tongue weren’t already undoing you from the core. Your forehead lolls to rest on his thigh, your hand around his base nearly forgotten because you’re so close. Just the sounds of his wet sucks on your clit could have you coming with a cry. They make you greedy, make you want to bury his face deeper into your core until he can’t remember anything but the taste of your slick on his lips.

His mouth leaves your heat at your words, though his fingers maintain their steady thrusts in and out. “Too much?” he says, words muffled by your thighs. “Want me to stop?”

“No—I.” Your hips push down to find his mouth again. When he flicks at your clit, you mumble into his skin. “Just want you to make me come. Need you to.”

His hips jerk at your voice—a seemingly unspoken acknowledgement to your request by the way he adds a third finger into your pussy with a squelch. You feel full, as if you’ll always have a reminder of him in the pits of your lower stomach, and it makes you drunk to imagine what his cock will feel like. Stretching you somehow more than his fingers, dragging out of you until you can see what a mess you’ve made on him. Your hand tightens around his cock at the thought.

He groans when he feels your pussy mirroring your hand, clenching around his fingers. “I got you. You can come for me.”

You mewl at his words, moving your hips in time to his thrusting fingers. He curls them to a new angle that makes you drop your head to his leg again, and when he meets the spot with a suck of your clit, the bubble in your lower stomach bursts into hot white. Your legs give out beneath you just as his fingers pull out for support. With his hands keeping you stable, you tremble against his tongue for several thuds of your heartbeat, until you can lift yourself upright onto your forearms.

You know he’ll keep you like this, wave after wave of pleasure thrumming through you until you can’t distinguish the beginning of him and end of you. So you untangle yourself from him as quickly as your sluggish limbs will allow. You turn to face him, not quite letting yourself press into his pelvis.

“Good?” he asks, cheeks flushed and lips wet. Even after all these years, you’ll never quite get over the vision of Cheol stained with love.

You can’t resist leaning down and kissing his cheek, which warms underneath your lips.

“More than good. Always my favorite.” Your hand brushes a strand of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. “Want to make you come though.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle at your words. “Want to make you come again though.”

You shoot him a warning glance. “I’m taking care of you, remember?” you say, raising onto your knees and placing your hands onto the planes of his chest. The skin’s smooth and taut, and when you run your palm over the left side, you can feel the unmistakable beat of his heart—a stamp you hope will never fade from your memory.

“As if I can forget,” he replies with a smile. “Not every day the queen takes care of you.”

His hands squeeze your waist to signal he’s ready, so you still your roaming hands. There are still traces of your orgasm on your thighs, along with pinkened reminders of where his lips travelled. You know the moment you tuck him between you, you’ll be even more sensitive, your pussy snug around the part of him you’ve missed so much. So you lower onto his cock with care, gaze locked on how he disappears beneath your hair. A quick glance at his face shows that he’s focused on where you’re joined as well. His teeth are worrying his bottom lip as you sink down, welcoming him with a slow slide. There’s a soft squelch when you near his base, and you can see wetness already gathering by his curls.

“Cheol,” you let out a shaky breath as he bottoms out. He’s deep, deeper than you remember him being, but it’s been a few weeks since he’s filled you like this. You lean into your hands to lift yourself up, but his hands grip your thighs before you can shift.

His lips are parted enough so you can hear his sharp exhales. “Love,” he says, cutting off when you lean forward to place your forearms on either side of his head. A low grumble vibrates through his chest, and you can’t resist dropping a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You have to stay still for a little or I’m going to come.” He grits his teeth when you settle your hips further back, somehow taking even more of him.

A warning flashes in his eyes, stopping your movements. “Okay, okay,” you whisper, the traces of a smile forming on your lips. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

You hide your grin by taking his mouth, pushing your tongue in to try to distract yourself from the fullness you feel. His lips are giving, letting your mouth take the lead to nip and sip. He tastes like you, something that makes your center flutter. You wonder if he tastes himself on you, if he likes it too.

He kisses you for a few more moments, momentarily diverting your attention from the ache in your core. The gentle bite that lands on your bottom lip however, makes your hips twitch forward. It’s a small motion, but the way his cock shifts in you has you moving one hand down to grip at his bicep.

“Please tell me I can move soon,” you mumble with a squeeze to his arm.

Cheol’s mouth moves to trace over your cheek, toward your ear. “Yeah, yeah,” he breathes, tickling the hairs on your neck. “Move, baby.”

You place a kiss on his jaw before bracing your hands on his chest to lift up. His hands are stroking around your hips, digging into the little notches for a better hold. He’s not guiding you so much as grounding you, making sure that every sink of your hips has you meeting his curls.

There’s nothing rushed about the first moments he’s in you. It’s not until his hands begin to wander, or the ache between your legs begins to throb, that your pace starts hardening. In the nascent bits though, you’re relearning how his body fits in yours. So you take your time raising yourself until only his tip remains in you, and sliding down slowly enough to watch your wetness trail down with you.

He doesn’t demand more from you than this gradual pace, but you can sense his growing sense of urgency by his hands. Once again, they begin their journey of the terrain of your skin, leaving a searing trail in their path. Up the smooth of your stomach, over the swell of your breasts to tease at your nipples, up the length of your collarbone to the base of your neck. It makes it difficult to concentrate on him, when there’s so much of his focus on you.

Intent on his pleasure, as well as soothing your burning thighs, you brace your hands on his stomach and push your hips forward instead of up. You feel his body cave in in surprise at the sudden change, your body now grinding against his with a purpose.

“L—love, so good,” he groans. “Feel so good when you’re like thi—.” He cuts off with a moan when you squeeze yourself around him.

“Yeah?” you breathe, arching into him with a moan when your clit bumps against the base of his cock. You grind back to press forward again, chasing after the familiar tingle up your spine. Back and forth you rock, the slick leaking down between your thighs and onto Cheol’s skin fueling you to keep going despite your protesting legs. “Think you can come like this?”

“Y—yes,” he gasps, trailing his hands back down to your hips to help you move against him. The added strength of his hands angles your clit to rub against him.

You’re struggling for breath, trying to stay upright by planting your palms against his chest, but the sight of him beneath you with eyes glossy is almost too much to bear. You can easily come just like this, have every urge to with the building pressure in your core.

He can too. From the little dent that’s formed between his brows to his stuttering thighs, he’s nearly there too. It’s a chase for his orgasm that you will never be able to deprive him as long as you’re the one who can guide him to it.

So you push your own wave down and focus on having him come undone within you. You slow your hips just enough to lean over and rest your forearms by his face. Your pace quickens again to one almost punishing, the resounding thud of skin ringing through the air.

When you bend to kiss him, it’s gentle in comparison. Just a ghosting of lips, but it feels far more intimate.

“Come for me, baby,” you say against his lips, feeling how his breath hitches in his throat. “I want to feel all of you.”

He breathes in response, tongue poking out to taste your lips. You purse your lips and suck at the tip while you push back with one last thrust, deeper than the rest, and he comes with a cry. A sticky warmth fills you up as you continue moving on him, hoping you can take everything he can give in the moment. His thumb makes its way to your clit and rubs in tight circles, persistent until you feel yourself quiver around him. You come with his thumb asking more from you, and you have to pull his hand away once you begin to feel too sensitive.

Your head hangs forward while you catch your breath. His cum always makes you feel dizzyingly full, and that paired with the flutters still radiating through your body, you’re relieved when he helps you off his cock. You don’t realize how heavy your limbs are until you topple over trying to swing your leg over his side.

“You’re going to kill me one day,” he laughs, bringing you into his arms so he can kiss your temple. His skin, as well as yours, is slippery with a sheen of sweat, and his cum has started to drip down the inside of your thigh.

You throw an arm over his torso to pinch his side. “As long as it’s a good death,” you muse, smiling into his chest when he slaps at your hand. “Feel good though?”

“Mmmmm. Thank you for always taking care of me.” He places a kiss on your forehead. “Makes me want to take care.”

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unholyplumpprincess · 3 years

Text

Your Mark

For anon who asked: what if reader gets the tattoos on their fingers right as BH leaves for the Games, and when they come back, the tatts are healed and they get really excited and spend a solid amount of time just holding reader's hands delicately and softly tracing the runes and notices one of their fingers not-so-subtly reads 'prey'?

You made it correct and horny so u get the Treat. Although no rune nor symbolism exists for ‘prey’ that would be in the nordic branch, HOWEVER I did improvise and added a lil treat that leans into their Paganism AND their breeding kink. Bone apple teet!

Reblogs > Likes. Must have your age (18+ only) in your bio before interaction or you will be blocked.

Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Bloodhound/Reader

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Reader is gn and ambiguous so no specified parts, however oral is performed on them, Bloodhound headcanons + their body mods mentioned ofc, tattooing your own body to mark yourself as Theirs, aaaand a bit of primal play/ d/s stuff! And an implied breeding kink bc it’s Hound.

Words: 1.3k

_____

It was a surprise.

You’d been excited—well, not excited for Bloodhound to leave your shared little home on Talos, no, but you’d been excited to be able to schedule the appointment with the tattoo artist. You’d done it under their nose, normally telling Bloodhound about things that excited you, it had been so painful to be so giddy and to see them curious. They had wrapped their arms around you the day before, kissing your forehead once you leant down for them to do so and questioned you with a soft, dimpled smile of, “My love, what has you so excitable recently? Do you wish for me to leave so badly?”

It had been a tease, but you’d quickly yelped out, “Of course not! I just...have a surprise for you when you come home, that’s all, baby.” To which they’d raised their brows, curiously backing you up against the wall and crooned in your ear that they had ways of making you talk. Despite your flush, you were firm that you wanted to keep it a surprise, and they respected that with a playful pout to their expression.

When they had left that morning, you had kissed them goodbye and let them rest your foreheads together. They murmured to themself before calling for Muninn to follow, whilst Arthur stayed behind with you and happily crooned. Because he knew he got to get babied while they were away for the month.

~Rest under the cut~

The bot that had worked on your skin had done a beautiful job, and you’d been careful about the healing process. Diligently keeping moisturized and wrapping your hands up, although it was a touch difficult when it came time to harvest the vegetables and fruits outside in the garden. Your little two-story cottage in the middle of the woods was always such a comfort with the bugs humming and Arthur’s familiar croaking overhead or nearby.

At the end of the month, hiatus hits for the week. And your love you had seen participating in the bloody sport of the Apex games would return to you that day. You were excited, all healed up and taking the time to clean up around the house. Making sure that the stack of furs and quilts were returned to the bed so Bloodhound would not freeze at night. Your poor puppy, always so cold no matter how warm it was outside. But they weren’t a ‘poor puppy’ when they were sticking their cold fingers against your back at night.

The first signal of their return is Muninn’s much softer croaking. Her voice lower and gentler as you see her land from the window on her perch on the porch. The season made the outside look beautiful in oranges and browns of Autumn’s return, and why you yourself had bundled into sweatpants and a comfortable, large black hoodie with the little Apex symbol over the left breast. Thieved from Hound’s closet.

Your beloved comes dressed in civilian clothing through the path in the woods. Their fiery red, kinky tight curls pulled up into a ponytail to reveal the shaved underside of their head and their various ear piercings. A lower black face mask with white sharp teeth on the front like a demonic mouth and their red lensed, large circular glasses rest on their nose. They come bundled in a large jacket with a fur collar, tactical pants, gloves, and boots. Clearly trying to burrow under the neck of their jacket from the chilled air.

When you step outside to greet them, you note the quicker pep in their step to reach you. They’re a bit shorter than you, something that always delighted you, even more so when they scoop you up by your waist and twirl you once in front of the door. “I have missed you greatly.” They practically croon out, allowing you to guide them inside where it would be much warmer.

From there you let them settle in. Their boots and mask coming off, instantly seeking out a kiss from you that you grant, cupping their chilly cheeks with your warm hands and hearing them hum in appreciation. And as always, they reach up to gently grab your hand, turning their face to kiss your palm affectionately. Moving your hand so they could kiss your knuckles, only to pause.

You can’t stop the big grin on your face as you announce, “Surprise!!! This is your surprise- I know it’s probably not like. You know, a gift or anything but uh- I wanted to get something that made me think of you.” Their eyes flicker up to you, this warm expression behind their red lenses. Bloodhound’s full lips quirk upwards, taking both your hands now to inspect the black inked tattoos across the backs of your hands. “I just thought it’d be...you know, uh, kind of romantic if I had your markings on me. All the time?”

Bloodhound- you knew they were sappy in their heart, always so fond of affection- they can’t help but smile brightly now. Showing off their double canines as they look at each rune. You had been careful on your research. Strength on your thumbs, protection on your indexes, blessings on your middles as a quiet joke. But then on your ring fingers, you had Bloodhound’s eye, the symbol they used in the arena and as a symbol of marking you. But on your pinkies? You had an outline of a rabbit for prey, with a small rune in the center of each for Fertility.

Those last two you finger their thumb brushing over the most. Quietly holding one of your hands and looking over the runes and how your fingers have matching stripes going above and below each knuckle. The artist did a wonderful job, you were very happy with the outcome.

“Are you tired, puppy? I know your trek must have been long, especially in the cold.” You murmur softly, raising your free hand to tuck a few loose curls behind their ear. The gesture makes Bloodhound’s eyes raise from your hand, their thumb smoothing over your pinky’s knuckle idly.

“I am not any longer. Not when you have shown that you have permanently marked your body like this,” Bloodhound’s voice is lower, their eyes dropping to make a point of lifting your hand to kiss your ring and pinky knuckles. “How am I to keep myself from you now?”

“Who said you had to?” You can’t help but reply with a breathy little laugh in your throat. Dizzy from how hungrily they look at you.

“Is that an invitation, my love?”

“Always.”

That’s how you end up in bed with them. Them stripped down to their pants, socks, and low-necked t-shirt, you completely undressed and your thighs on either side of their head. Your fingers rest in their curls, curling in at the roots to tug their head where you wanted their mouth most. They offer it to you without much fight, mindful of their sharp canines when they part their lips and take you in again and again and making you shake with your third orgasm.

Bloodhound swallows and licks you through it with their split tongue, each dual drag and the bump of their piercings making you twitch and whimper. But every time you try to get up, their nails press into your thighs and their strong arms hold you right in place. This time when you try to pull yourself back up with soft whimpers of, “Please, please- I can’t- Hound, baby, it’s t-too much-” They pull their mouth from you, pressing hungry kisses to your inner thighs instead.

“You are not done until I am done. Are you not my gift, beloved? My little prey to do with as I please?” Their voice is dangerous, their good eye, golden and bright looking up at you with their pupil blown wide and hungry. You sob out, spreading your legs further with a terrible tremble to your body and watch as that devilish mouth curls into a satisfied smirk. “Good. Stay still for me.”

Before their mouth licks you up again, sealing their mouth back around you and making you keen in overstimulation.

Perhaps they liked their surprise a little too much.

#Bloodhound #Bloodhound x Reader #apex legends #apex lemons #nsft #lemon #princess writing

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undertaker1827 · 4 years

Text

Oh wow. Well hi there.

There’s four huNDRED OF YOU PEOPLE??? All following my blog?? I mean- wow. Thank you all so much!! This really has made my day. So, in honour of 400 followers I have written an Undertaker x reader which is different to what I normally do. Undertaker is still with Dispatch at this point in time and the reader is also a reaper. Also, fem!reader rather than my usual non-gendered reader as it just worked best for this story, I hope you enjoy it!

❗️Warnings; injury (not graphically described or anything, this is nice and fluffy) and minor manga spoilers. I’m about to start talking about Othello so if you don’t know what happens in chapter 149, stop reading now!

So all I’m going to say is that obviously Undertaker wasn’t called that during this time period and ‘136649’ seemed incredibly harsh and uncaring to me, so I’ve called him ‘Fox’ in this story, idea from Othello calling him ‘Silver Fox’. But that’s enough of me talking away, hope you enjoy the story!

Masterlist

You sighed deeply, quickly scanning over the top page of the research documents sitting on your work surface. Fox had gone out on something of a dangerous excursion this morning and you still hadn’t heard anything about him. Really, they should have sent other reapers out as backup, but they needed someone to deal with the problem quickly and he was the only person who would be able to put up any sort of fight against this mysterious adversary. HQ were doing their utmost to not give out any details whatsoever, and thus far they had been doing a pretty good job at it. You were just starting to resume your blood analysis when you heard someone talking in the hallway outside your lab.

“...136649 went into Intensive care.” You stopped what you were doing immediately. Fox was in intensive care? Impossible. You tried to convince yourself that you had misheard the number.

“136649? What the hell could’ve put him in ICU?” Your hopes were shattered as soon as they formed.

“Don’t know. That’s all I got told. I guess the top brass are trying to keep things under wraps so as not to spook the newbies.”

You barely deliberated a moment before leaving your microscope abandoned on the desk, your lab coat ripped off and left in a heap on the floor as you stood. You burst through the double doors and out into the hallway to confront whoever was talking out there. Your sudden appearance made both tense slightly; evidently they thought they had been talking more quietly.

“136649? Are you sure?” Your tone was sharp and cold, something you were known for throughout dispatch. As the only female reaper not condemned to sit behind a computer every day, you were forced to keep up a harsh demeanour. Your all-black suit was pressed into distinct lines, you wore mid weight boots to give you a little extra height and bearing and your dark red eyeshadow coupled with eyeliner ending in precise flicks all helped with the impression of ferocity you had been building around yourself from day one. The reapers both turned to face me.

“Unfortunately so, Miss,” one replied. “It’s definitely him.” You sniffed a little, then narrowed your eyes in a show of pretending to work out if he was lying. Regrettably, you already knew he wasn’t.

“It’s true, Miss,” the other chipped in, “You can go see him if you don’t believe us.” You were well aware that the comment was made in jest, but it was exactly what you had been waiting for.

“At this stage, I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” You spun away on your heel and strode swiftly down the corridor, barking at a few dawdlers to get out of your way before either of them had a chance to say anything.

It was another few minutes before you arrived outside ICU, slowing your pace and gently pushing the door to the ward open so as to not disturb anyone attempting to recover. As soon as you stepped inside, you were met by a short, brown haired nurse whose glasses were at a width which just amplified the size of her eyes enough to make them look disproportionate to her face.

“Can I help you?” She asked timidly.

“136649. Where is he?” You gestured to the row of beds in the ward. She nervously adjusted her glasses, gripping her clipboard so tightly that her already pale knuckles had turned sheet white.

“I’m really very sorry, but-“

“Whilst your apologies are appreciated, they are unnecessary. I have been sent by my higher ups to check on him, I merely require you to tell me where he is.” It only took a few seconds of her wilting under your fiery gaze for her to relent and tell you he had been allocated the bed in the private, enclosed room at the opposite end of the ward. After giving her your thanks, you walked down quietly and slowly opened the door that had been left ajar.

In spite of yourself, you sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the pitiful creature laying before you. Bandages crossed his arms and shoulders, almost entirely covered his torso and wound around his face to cover one eye. Another formed a hideous decoration around his neck and his skin was sickly pale. Frankly, you had no idea how he was still conscious. That said, Fox wasted no time in flying around at the sound of you entering, single uninjured eye spearing you to the wall you were standing in front of and no doubt preparing to give a quietly devastating speech about how the reapers here were all severely injured and needed silence in order to recover. He held back when he registered it was you. You pushed the door closed behind you, then faltered in the entrance anyway, slightly unsure of yourself. The other reaper inclined his head slightly, inviting you in, then spared a glance over your shoulder.

“Close those,” he murmured, indicating the open blinds covering several windows present in order for the nurses to ensure any occupants were not in need of assistance. You did as he said, then walked back over to him and took a seat on the edge of the bed, attempting to give him as much space as he needed. Despite this, he held out a hand for you to take and gently drew you towards him, resting his forehead against yours. His single unharmed eye sought out your gaze, reading the emotions you had to keep buried from your colleagues.

Fear for him was most prevalent, followed closely by shock at the apparent turn of events out in the field and raw astonishment that something had managed to hurt him this badly. He gave a small nod of encouragement for you to say whatever was on your mind.

“Fox...” your voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “What happened?” He paused a moment, deciding what to tell you.

“Would you leave it be if I said not to worry about it?” The fear must have spiked in your eyes again, and his expression softened greatly as you shook your head.

“Alright.”

He explained everything, from the moment he was told to prepare for one of the most difficult fights of his life to how he had barely managed to drag himself back to HQ after eventually defeating his opponent, since no backup had ever been sent out. Those who met him were shocked he had managed to get back at all and had quickly taken him inside for urgent medical treatment. By the end, you had carefully wrapped your arms around him, trying to avoid the multitude of injuries and provide some weak sense of safety. Whilst you doubted it did much, he seemed to appreciate it. You didn’t speak for a long while, just enjoying each other’s company.

Eventually though, you did try to pull away, suggesting Fox should attempt to rest. You were quite surprised to find that even in this state, the other reaper was still stronger than you by far. Although it took very little resistance on his part to make you stay, you knew full well that he had only used a fraction of said strength to hold you in place. It made your mind wander back to what must have been the immeasurable power of the enemy that managed to put him in this condition.

You stayed in a comfortable silence for a while longer after that, you having settled down more after Fox gently guided you to lean on his chest, despite your protestations of his injuries, and with his hair draped over your shoulders like a protective blanket as rested his chin on top of your head. You were enveloped in a potent sense of safety that you only ever felt when you were curled up with him. Even severely injured, you knew you would only ever feel truly safe in his arms.

“You came as soon as you found out, didn’t you?” He asked softly, long after dispatch’s quietness had signalled that night had fallen.

“Yes,” you confirmed, “but it was only by luck that I found out.” At the questioning raise of Fox’s eyebrow, you continued. “I overheard some reapers in the corridor outside the labs saying that 136649 had been injured and was in ICU. I won’t lie - I didn’t believe them at first.” A huff of breath moved your hair a little as he let out a small chuckle.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“Damn right. Apparently, the superiors’ superiors are trying to keep it all under wraps so the new recruits don’t freak out.” He let out a disbelieving snort. “I mean it, you know. Everyone looks up to you.” His embrace tightened, but you felt him shake his head.

“I do my job. I’m efficient, yes, but I do my job. That’s all.” You tilted my head back to look at him, only to find yourself incapable of keeping your eyes open as he gently ran a fingertip across your cheek.

“Yeah...” you muttered, “you do your job. Perfectly. Every day. Without fail. People look up to that. People respect that.” He shook his head yet again, but said nothing further.

“I left my lab in a huge mess.” The thought suddenly came into your head, and you continued to think out loud. “I wonder if Othello sorted it out for me.” Fox tensed slightly.

“Does Othello know?” There was a slightly more serious tone when he said the name, belying casual interest. You glanced up at him to be met with a neutral expression.

“No... Well I assume not anyway. I guess I’d like to think he’d tell me if he knew. Why?” He shook his head, saying it didn’t matter. After another few minutes, you checked your watch only to find you had talked until gone 1am.

“You know, I really did ought to get going...” you started, watching the other reaper carefully to try and catch what he was thinking. He just grinned.

“What’s the matter? Am I not good enough company any more?” You laughed with him, quietly to avoid waking up the others recovering in the ward.

“Of course not. Regrettably I have work tomorrow, unlike someone I can think of who’s using injury as an excuse to bunk off.”

“Now a few minutes ago, you were singing my praises. Let’s go back to that, hmm?” He shifted a little and gave you a tight embrace, beginning to smile again and eye sparkling. “Sure you won’t stay?” You paused, in absolutely no hurry to leave this sense of warmth and safety.

“How can I?” The smile widened to a smirk in a split second.

“Quite easily.” Fox quickly slipped down in the bed until his head was resting against the pillow he had previously been leaning against, managing to pull you down with him and also angle you so your legs landed on the bed as well. Still laughing, you half-heartedly tried to push yourself away from him and back into a sitting position, but put up no fight when he retaliated. He held you tightly this time, and you gave up fairly quickly.

“Fox…” you whined playfully, wide grin giving you away entirely. He shook his head in a joking manner.

“Just lay down,” the other reaper murmured, enjoying having you close to him and knowing you were alright. You did just that. Deciding the best course of action was to use him as a pillow and just not bother with going home, you fidgeted about until you were more comfortable - you would be back in a few hours anyway. Fox seemed fairly pleased with the decision as well, finally feeling able to settle down and rest for the first time since he had got back.

#black butler #undertaker #adrian crevan #kuroshitsuji #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader #adrian crevan x reader #undertaker x reader fluff #undertaker x reader #black butler reapers #undertaker black butler #black butler undertaker x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader #reaper!reader #fem!reader #anime #manga

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always-andshewrites · 3 years

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Another Way Out - Chapter 2 “Sneak Peek”

Hey guys, I thought I’d give a little sneak peek into Chapter 2. I am also still looking for a beta/or anyone wanting/willing to pre-read for me. Just a heads up, so far my chapters have been MASSIVE, coming in at around 13-15,000 words. So any help would be greatly, greatly appreciated!!! Here you go....

| Katniss |

“Katniss, Kat, wake up.” I hear Peeta’s voice before I’m fully awake and slowly open my eyes. Except when I open my eyes, everything is pitch black and there is something covering my face. When I reach up to remove whatever is blocking my sight, Peeta gently places his hands reassuringly on top of mine.

“What the— why can’t I see anything?” I demand, tensing up at my sudden blindness.

“Good morning beautiful.” He says, placing a kiss to my cheek and then pulling me into his arms for a moment.

“It’s a surprise.” He whispers into my ear with one hand on my back, the other pulling on my arm as he helps me to a sitting position. I have never been the kind of person that enjoys surprises; I like to know everything.

“I don’t like being left in the dark; pun intended.” I scowl, unsure if he can see it because of the blindfold that’s covering my face, as well as not knowing how much light is in the room. I know today is tour day, and who knows what surprises it has in store for me, so I’m not sure I can handle anything extra. Not to mention that the inability to see takes me back to the arena, back to the tornado. Back to when the gamemaker’s distorted our sight, blinding us all. Back to when they tried to get us to kill each other.

“You’ll like this one, I promise. Just . . . trust me. You do trust me, right?”

“You know I do.” I tell him, fighting the smile that is forming on my lips.

“What time is it anyway?” I ask as Peeta guides me through the house and down the stairs. With the blindfold securely over my eyes, Peeta has helped me get dressed. Once it became clear that the blindfold was more trouble than it was worth, Peeta finally allowed me to remove it, but only in the bathroom.

Thankful for the absence of the blindfold, I take my time in the bathroom. I do my business, wash my hands and face and then brush my teeth. All the while, wondering what Peeta has up his sleeve. As soon as I open the door, Peeta is waiting for me with that damn blindfold in his hand. He secures it around my eyes, folding it in a knot at the back of my head.

“Is this really necessary?” I snap at him, scowling once more.

“Katniss, I promise you’re going to love it.” He trills. How someone can be so chipper this early in the morning is beyond me.

“What time is it anyway?” I ask, conceding to the fact that he intends to keep me blind until he shows me this “surprise.”

“Really early. Sun’s not even up yet.” He informs me, helping me get my jacket and boots on and then leads us out the door.

Peeta interlocks our arms together once we pass through the front door, never releasing me from his grip. Together, we stomp through the foot of snow that covers the ground, making our way to Peeta’s surprise. Using my remaining senses, I intuit that we are headed into the woods. Or maybe it’s the meadow, I can’t be certain without my sight.

Finally, after what feels like an hour of walking through the snow, Peeta pulls me backwards into his arms and gently removes the blindfold. Even though I complained about not being able to see from the moment I woke up, I keep my eyes closed for another moment, inhaling the sounds of mother nature. I pick up the sounds of tree branches scraping against each other from the force of the wind; the scampering of chipmunks racing up a tree as they hop from one spot to another. I hear the symphony of birds chirping their morning melody, signaling the start of a new day. The mockingjay’s are not far away, mimicking the bird’s song, and then there is something else that is slightly out of place. Something that is not of mother nature’s doing. It sounds like . . . like the crackling of a fire?

The anticipation is driving me mad, so I slowly open one eye, and sure enough we are in a small clearing in the meadow, surrounded by trees. Peeta has prepared a picnic, surrounding us in my favorite things. Trees, nature and him.

The entire district is covered in a blanket of white, minus this one tiny spot in front of me where Peeta has shoveled the snow into a heaping pile. He must have done this days ago, allowing the sun to soak up any remnants that he was unable to scrape away because the ground isn’t even wet.

There is a blanket spread on the ground for us to sit on, as well as an additional blanket to cover up with. Less than a foot away, he has built a small fire to keep us warm, which means he must have woken up hours ago, made the trek out here to start the fire and then walked all the way back home to wake me up and bring me out here. Now, I feel guilty for giving him such a hard time this morning.

I turn around to face him, my eyes filled with tears at his thoughtfulness and wrap my arms around his neck. “PEETA! When did you— how did— oh my god Peeta, this is incredible, it’s just . . . it’s amazing!” My mind is blown at his creativity, at his thoughtfulness. He has transformed a day I have been dreading for months into something . . . better. No matter what happens for the rest of the day, I will always remember the incredible way it began.

“I just thought it would be nice for us to get away from everything. You know, spend a quiet day in the meadow, with just the two of us before we are bombarded by our prep teams and . . . everything.” His cheeks pinken, and from the way he’s looking at the ground I know it has nothing to do with the frigid temperatures. A smile forms on my lips at the thought of a bashful Peeta.

He kneels onto the blanket, lifting the lid to the picnic basket and pulls out a plate and two cups. Then he looks up at me, extending his arm, his eyes twinkling with the setting moon. “Come have some breakfast with me.” He urges, inviting me down to him.

He doesn’t have to ask me twice as I drop down next to him, joining him on the blanket. We feast on all my favorites; strawberries, oranges, and somehow, he even managed to acquire some grapes. Where did he even get all of this from; and better yet, when? I have to give him credit, I never knew he could be so duplicitous.

I wonder if all the secret phone calls with Effie was actually him scheming to create this perfect date for us. Normally, he orders what we need from our local grocer; I know it’s only to give him business, but all this food . . . it couldn’t have come from anywhere but the Capitol.

“Oh my gosh Peeta, this is delicious!” I moan with a mouthful of oranges, sighing with pleasure from the tart, juicy fruit in my mouth. His eyes meet mine and they darken slightly, before a mischievous glint appears in his eye. Maybe it’s not mischievous, but more like . . . seductive. Whatever it is, I like it.

Before I know it, he pounces on top of me, pinning me to the ground. He intertwines his fingers with mine; trapping my hands above my head. He leans down to kiss me, dipping his tongue into my mouth.

“Mmm . . . you’re right. Mouthwatering—” He says, suckling on my lower lip, “Scrumptious, absolutely—” He leans down again, giving me another kiss, “—insatiable—” Forgetting altogether about the delectable food, I lock my arms around his neck and savor his lips. Vulnerable to my kisses, I wait for the perfect moment to flip us over so that he is the one pinned to the ground. Straddling his hips, I never break our connection and cherish this moment, wishing with all my might it never had to end.

Finally, we come up for air, never breaking our gaze. The love in Peeta’s eyes is so prevalent, I think I could stare into his striking blue eyes for the rest of time and be completely satiated. His hand reaches up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “I love you Katniss.” He tells me with so much sentiment that I can literally feel the love emanating from his pores. It is in this moment that I know; without a doubt how absolutely, completely, irrevocably I am in love with this boy.

His eyes sparkle under the moonlight when he looks at me. Looking at me, no— into me, as if he has a direct link into my soul. He looks at me like I am the most beautiful thing in the world to him and I love it.

Eventually, I slide off his hips and curl my body next to his. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady sound of his thrumming heart. It is the sound I fall asleep to each night and it quite possibly could be my most favorite sound in the world.

We lie here for a while, watching the miracle of another sunrise bleed its beautiful array of colors into the sky, as it does every other day. Except today is not like the others, today is tour day.

A shudder runs through me when I suddenly get a flashback of the other night. When Peeta and I were kissing, and it just wasn’t enough anymore. My conversation with Madge comes to the forefront of my mind when I remember the want I felt.

Peeta and I wanted— no, we needed more as we explored each other’s body’s more intricately than we ever have before. There was a time when simply being in Peeta’s arms and kissing each other was enough, but now; I always feel like I need more. It’s like no matter how close I curl into him, no matter how much of our skin is touching, it’s just never enough. I think about needing him inside of me, wondering if that would be enough. Would it satisfy that hunger?

I begin lightly trailing my fingertips along Peeta’s abdomen and instantly feel the goosebumps appear on his skin.

“Stop . . . you know what that does to me.” He sighs, shivering before he begins to supply me with my own form of torture and begins trailing kisses down my neck until he reaches my collar bone, sending a shiver coursing through me.

My body is filled with electricity for Peeta which sends my mind back to the last time it felt that way; when Haymitch barged into Peeta’s house and caught us in a compromising position. I am so glad we are out here alone, with no Haymitch to interrupt us. Oh god, Haymitch!

“OH CRAP! Haymitch!” I yell out, my eyes opening to see the sun perfectly straight up in the sky, meaning it is getting close to noon.

“You’re kidding, right? You’re thinking about Haymitch right now?” Peeta groans, giving me those sad, pathetic eyes and pouting his lip. He reaches out to pull me closer to him.

“No Peeta,” I begin, removing his hands from underneath my shirt. “—he said not to let him oversleep. Come on, we need to go wake him up.” I sit up, scooting away from Peeta. I know that if I do not remove myself from his touch, I will be incapable of saying no for long and proceed to button my shirt back up and tame the stray hairs on my head back in place.

“I um, I’m going to need a minute.” Peeta tells me, shifting uncomfortable on the ground.

Embarrassed, I look anywhere else but at Peeta and simply nod. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll um . . . I’ll start packing up.” I say, thankful for something to do.

Peeta takes a few deep breaths and then he is by my side, helping me consolidate our remaining food. We throw some water on the fire and fold the blanket before heading towards Victor’s Village. While Peeta has mastered walking with his new leg on solid ground, making this trek in the snow is a challenge in itself and it takes us much longer than it normally would to get to Haymitch’s house.

Once we reach Haymitch’s front door, I brace myself for the putrid stench that normally fills his home. However, when we enter his house, I am surprised that it smells . . . clean. Or, well, cleaner than it usually is. I wonder if he hired someone to help him tidy up since he knows Effie is coming today. The clock above his stove reads 10:30, meaning we are not as late as I originally thought. He still has at least an hour before Effie arrives.

Haymitch is passed out at the kitchen table, as usual. He is snoring loud enough to rumble the house, and his head is hidden in the crook of his arm. Most likely, he passed out drunk earlier this morning. Even twenty-five years after his games, Haymitch still refuses to sleep in the dark. I probably would too, if I didn’t have Peeta. He is my light in the darkness.

“Haymitch, come on. Wake up Haymitch, it’s time.” Peeta says, gently nudging our near comatose mentor. Having been on the other end of waking Haymitch up from an alcohol induced slumber, I don’t even attempt to wake him up. Instead, I spot an empty cannister and grab it, making my way to the sink. I turn the faucet on and fill it slightly over halfway, leaving just enough room so that it doesn’t slosh around during the walk back to Haymitch.

‘Watch out.’ I tell Peeta, motioning for him to move out of the way. Slowly creeping next to Haymitch, I dump the entire contents of the cannister onto his head and quickly jump back, bracing myself for his swinging hands that are most likely clutching onto at least one knife.

“What the hell! Why am I all wet?” Haymitch grumbles once he spots Peeta and I in front of him.

“You said to wake you up; it’s tour day. Effie will be here in about an hour.”

“I said to wake me up, not give me pneumonia.” He scoffs, reaching for a towel to pat his face dry.

“Well, you’re awake now, so mission accomplished. I suggest you take a bath first—” I say, grabbing Peeta’s hand and making our way to the door. “—and you might want to clean up a little, you know how she is.” I finish, slamming the door behind us.

“I just did!” I hear him grumble from the other side of the door.

Peeta and I both look, first to my house, and then to his, not sure which one to go to first. Once our prep teams arrive, we will be separated until the cameras arrive, a moment I am dreading. I do not like it when Peeta and I are not together, but I absolutely detest it when we are forced apart.

However, when we turn our heads to Peeta’s house, there is a sleek, fancy black car that is most certainly from the Capitol camped out in his driveway; making our decision for us.

Tightening my grip on Peeta’s hand, we sprint over to his house, wondering who our guests are, yet something in my gut says I know exactly who it is.

#The Hunger Games #everlark #tour day #katniss everdeen #Peeta Mellark #haymitch abernathy #fluff

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ladyreapermc · 4 years

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Fic: Play to Win (Keanu x F!Reader)

Summary: you make a bet with Keanu. Whover loses has to get naked. The only problem? You had no clue on how to play pool.

Pairing: Keanu x F!Reader

Author’s notes: this one came to me after seeing those gifs of baby Keanu playing pool in a interview. Feedback is greatly appreciated.

Wordcount: 2108

Warnings: alcohol; smut (unprotected sex)

This had to be one of the worst ideas you had ever had in a very long time. Challenging Keanu to strip pool? How could that ever end well? Especially when you barely knew how to play. You used to watch your dad play when you were little. All your knowledge came from there. It definitely didn’t give you any ability to pull this off.

You could blame the alcohol and the building sexual tension that you had been trying very hard to ignore whenever Keanu came over. He was friends with the owner so he would hang at the bar, talking to Owen while you served tables. Whenever you took a break, he would buy you a beer, chatting you up.

You didn’t usually do clients, but it was really hard to resist that boyish smile, warm brown eyes, and dark hair that kept falling over his face. Plus, he was the perfect gentleman, sweet and funny. It was hard to resist.

So here you were after the bar was closed and Owen went home, playing pool against Keanu and losing shamefully. You could barely stay standing without swaying from side to side. The world seemed to be spinning because you just had three shots of tequila. One for each lost match. One for each piece of clothing that left your body.

First your boots. Then your belt and your button-up. Keanu had lost one – probably out of pity – and had ditched his own boots, but that was all.

“Your turn.” He flashed a smirk, taking a step back from the table after sinking three balls at once. You stumbled forward, setting the cue on your shaky hand, your vision blurry as you tried to aim your play.

“Here, let me help.”

Your body was engulfed by the heat of Keanu’s as he draped over your back, large, strong hands covering yours, steading them, his cheek pressed against yours and you could smell the sweetness of the agave in his lips.

He guided your arm, pulling it back and hitting the white ball with perfect strength for it to roll smoothly over the green felt until it hit ball five, sinking it in the right corner pocket. Keanu’s small, victorious chuckle vibrated all through your back and you felt the loss of his heat the second he pulled away.

“Let’s make this more interesting,” you said moving to the table and pouring yourself another shot. Liquid courage for what you were about to propose. “Loser takes off all.”

“Alright,” Keanu agreed with a smug smile, stealing the shot before you could take it and swallowing in one go, barely making a face. “Winner gets to pick the song the loser has to strip to it.”

“Deal.”

“Still your turn.”

Setting the bottle aside, you moved back to the pool table, evaluating your shot despite the dizziness fogging your brain. You had to come up with the perfect angle to get the white ball at least in the vicinity of the sixth ball, but it was a shot you couldn’t make it sober, let alone half-drunk. Might as well throw the shot.

You lined your cue, hitting the white ball and watching as it missed the right ball by several inches and you groaned, standing back and letting Keanu make his play. You watched as he bent over the table and couldn’t help but tilt your head to get a better glimpse of the perfectly shaped ass and the muscled legs clad in tight jeans.

The noise of a ball hitting the pocket made you snap to attention, gaze returning to the game just as Keanu straightened up, cue in hand, one eyebrow arched at you. He had just sunk the ninth ball.

“Ops,” he said almost as an afterthought, putting his cue away, hands coming to the buttons of his shirt “Guess I lost this one. Wanna pick the song?”

“This one is fine,” you said, hanging your cue too, lower lip caught between your teeth as you watched glorious golden skin being exposed inch by inch at every button undone.

Keanu was taking a step towards you with each motion until he had you cornered against the pool table as his shirt hung open framing strong, chiseled chest, marked by a vertical sunken scar on his middle.

You let your hands slide up the plains of his torso, until their reached his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms and to the floor as Keanu bent down to kiss you, mouth hot and demanding, tasting sweet and sour as his tongue tangled with yours, his long, nimble fingers coming to the hem of your top, tugging up slightly.

“Nops!” you pulled away from the kiss with a smirk, stilling his hands. “You get naked and then I get naked. Maybe.”

“Pretty sure you will.” He smirked too, taking a step back from you and kicking his socks off.

“I wouldn’t be so cocky,” you commented as Keanu undid his jeans, making you nearly choke when he pulled it down and showed he wasn’t really wearing anything underneath.

Your eyes landed on his large erection, nestled among dark hairs, standing proud and heavy, despite being only semi-hard and it enough to make your mouth water and arousal pool between your legs.

“You were saying something about being cocky…” he teased smugly, and your glare lacked any real heat because all you wanted was to have his dick in your mouth. “Now you.”

You couldn’t help the shyness that overtook you as you reached for the hem of your top, hesitating slightly. Here you were, standing in front of a real Hollywood hunk and what exactly did you have to offer?

Maybe Keanu sensed you sudden uncertainty because he closed the distance between the two of you, his palms closing over yours and when you tilted your head up to look at him, his mouth found yours for a deep kiss that chased away all thoughts from your head as he undid your jeans and shoved down your legs.

You were still lost in the heaven of his mouth as you kicked the garment aside, your arms coming around his neck as Keanu pulled your closer to his body, kneading your ass, making you moan against his lips at the feel of his hard cock pressed against your belly. You only broke the kiss when he tugged your top off, pausing to look at you on your underwear, his lips drawing into a smile, his eyes softening.

“So, fucking beautiful!” he whispered, before claiming your mouth again, hoisting you up until you were seated on the edge of the pool table and Keanu stood between your legs.

“You know I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you?” his mouth was hot and harsh against your neck and chest, biting and sucking, leaving marks all over your skin.

“Why didn’t you say something?” you asked, leaning back to give him more room to work, his teeth scraping over your belly, making you jolt and giggle.

“Because Owen said you didn’t date customers,” he mumbled against your center, his hot breath against the soaked fabric of your panties making you shiver.

“I usually don’t,” you replied, your hand coming to his dark mane, tugging just enough to get Keanu to look up at you, meet your gaze and see your smirk. “Not unless they are Johnny fucking Utah.”

And how did he managed to sound adorable with that embarrassed little laugh when he was about to eat you out, you didn’t know. One of the many wonders of Keanu, you guessed.

“Besides, this isn’t dating,” you said as you laid back and he pulled the cotton of your panties aside to expose your folds to his hungry gaze and wandering digits. “This is fucking.”

That last word dragged out like a curse at the first touch of his tongue against the heat between your legs. Keanu dragged his tongue over your slit, the broad muscle gathering your juices like it was the sweetest treat, before coming to flick on your clit.

Should you be surprised he was this good? Not really, from what you heard, Keanu was great at everything he put his mind to it and right now he seemed keen in bringing you to the brink as fast as possible because he was working your pussy like a starved man faced with his last meal.

Rivulets of pleasure gathered at your center, building up like a dam ready to burst; You could feel the surge starting to overtake you, you just need a little more, a little harder. You needed to be filled and stretched and taken for all that you were worth.

“Fuck me,” you gasped, tugging on his black locks so you could meet the darkened eyes. “Right now. Please.”

“Turn around,” he commanded, voice throaty, eyes hooded as he manhandled you in position, your chest pressed against the green felt, your ass in the air as Keanu pressed two fingers inside you, making you moan. “Damn! You so fucking tight.”

“Ke, I don’t want your fingers, I want…”

“I know, darling,” he cut you off, lips pressing against your back as he fingered you hard and fast, once again chasing away coherent thought. “But I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Your body responded for you, moving back against his fingers, trying to chase the high that they offered. You could feel the small cracks eating away your self-control, leaving you at Keanu’s mercy.

A pathetic little whine fell from your mouth when Keanu pulled his fingers away, but before you could muster the will to complain, you felt the head of his cock finding its way between your folds, pushing inside and you had to bite down your arm to muffle the loud cry threatening to leave your mouth.

You felt speared in half, his thick length pulsing and twitching against your walls as you tried to acclimate to the intrusion. It hurt a little, but the good kind of ache that you welcomed and signaled the beginning of bliss.

Pushing back against him, you babbled pleas for Keanu to move and when he finally did, all of your senses were reduced to the feel of him, fucking you, his pace slow and steady at first. His strong arms pulling you against his chest, one hand coming to caress your throat, teasing you with the possibilities of what it could do to you, the other moving south, swirling your clit as Keanu started to thrust faster, harder. He panted, cursed and grunted against your ear, his hips slapping and slamming against your ass, his digits rubbing fast, slick with your wetness.

There it was it again, the surge, wavelike, building and growing. All you could focus on was it. On the way it spread through you, making your body tense and shake, tearing a breathless cry from your lips as it swallowed you, blinding and deafening you to everything else.

“Yes! Just like that…” Keanu growled, mouthing your jaw, his voice sounding distant in the depths of your orgasm. “You’re squeezing me so tight. Fuck!”

You were barely aware of the way he sped up, pushing you down again, one hand on your back, the other on your hip as he fucked you hard and fast, chasing his release against the pulsing walls of your pussy. You were still too lost in your own bliss that seemed to stretch and evolve, building all over again, even faster this time.

Keanu cursed harshly as he stilled and spilled inside you with a long groan, his cock pulsing and twitching inside you as he kept working your clit, flickering and swirling.

“Come on darling,” he asked breathlessly. “Give me one more.”

And like your body was just waiting for that request, another orgasm rushed through, making you cry out and your fingers dig into the hard surface of the table as your pussy throbbed around him and Keanu groaned and chuckled against your sweaty back.

“That’s it,” he sighed. “You feel so fucking good.”

He pressed soft kisses against your spine as both of you tried to recover from your high. You were thankful he was holding you down because, your knees were weak, and you were pretty sure you would slide to the floor if Keanu let you go.

“We should play pool more often,” he mumbled against your back, making you giggle and turn your head to try and look at him.

“Are you gonna let me win again?”

“If it’s in my best interest…” he smirked, resting his chin on your spine. “Probably. Yeah.”

xxx

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#keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #fanfic #smut fanfic #oneshot

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter One; Lifeblood.

Author: @punk-in-docs and @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3

Trigger warnings; This is a slow burn story. NSFW comes later, but there is gory descriptive violence in this later on- I’ll tag the chapters with warnings-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilisations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Hampshire, England. 1816.

Winters here were always of the bitterest kind.

Everything hardened by frost. All of nature slaughtered and gnarled and made ugly by it. Everything deadened and driven away until yellow spring sunshine butters it all up. The ground wintry solid and as unyielding as the bite of stinging chill in the air.

Every loud footstep from under her cracked boots crackled and crushed with ice-crusted mud. Her treads echo off about her in the oppressive silence of the air.

Iris Ashton walked along the lonely pale road. The path ahead scattered with linen-white snow, thick like cloth, settling down in ghostly sprinkles - like fluttering ash.

Snow comes from a sky as thick and as soft as a eiderdown. Graphite grey smeared all over the horizon signaling the worst yet to come. Sky is heavy and blotted with it. Flecks already kiss and cling at her hair and her blue wool coat collar.

She can feel them land and melt on her cold numbed lips. Feels her raspy silver breath run them away.

The trees in the dark wood surrounding her on either side of the ribboning track and the pallid ground; stand majestic and strong. Like a darkly Prussian-blue swathed army standing silent attention. Frost crawls determined up their sturdy trunks. The horizon peeping through the trees is white, like a puff of spilt flour. The craggy black tips of the regimented trees scrape at the thick churning sky.

One hand laden with her heavy wicker basket. Hanging solidly down by her thigh. Handle creaking so under her glove from it’s heavy contents. Her elbow is locked straight and aching fully from the strain of it.

Mother had sent her off on one of her errands; paying calls to give some wrapped linen food parcels to the church. Cold meats and half-loaves of day old bread to give to the poor and needy. And on the way back she’d stopped and called for tea with her doddery great Aunt Lavinia. A more belligerent old dragon never drew breath.

Iris was her favourite of all the Ashton girls. All three of them. Unfortunately the lot of being the eldest and families general paragon of hope, fell onto Iris. Next was her sister Flora who is fifteen, and then there was Posy, at sixteen.

A whole compliment - a bouquet - of Ashton ladies. As the gossip columns always so proudly and wittily declared.

Iris was the level-headed, sensible elder sister at three and twenty. The one who was seen and never heard. The one with unremarkable grey eyes and fair skin. Her teeth were supportable, and her conversation was, well, fine, really.

She didn’t have dazzling honey blonde hair or a sultry head of brunette curls. Her hair was brown. Not chestnut. Not sizzling auburn blaze. Just. Brown. Like mud. Like bark. Like flat Turkish coffee.

The sensible Ashton girl, with eyes as dull as dust, and hair the colour of twigs.

She was pale, with a oval face and a stout figure that was passably pleasing. She had a fine bosom that some men liked to gawp at, and mother insisted she had a touch of child bearing hips. Which would strongly come into her favour when she’s married. As she had once said;

“Your future husband will be much delighted with such a valuable commodity, Iris.” Her Mother remarked once when she was a young girl and she was tugging and yanking her long hair into a plait ready for bed.

Iris can remember how badly she wanted to do something out of spite purely to ruin that chance. But really she couldn’t alter the shape of her skeleton with much ease.

Maybe she wasn’t a diamond of the first water. She’ll never be one of those girls who glide elegantly through a ballroom like a bevy of silk swathed swans. Preening, poised and primly perfect.

To her own mind and credit she was just - plain. Tolerable.

Adequate.

She is sometimes remarked to be too acerbic with her tongue, or her remarks. She’s certainly got a backbone and another quality that stumped men of the ton - a mind of her own making. She doesn’t suffer fools and she likes to venture that she is a blue stocking with a decent and level understanding of this world.

She’s sufficient- she supposed. Simply that and nothing more. She’ll never have poems written about her, or have a man declare he fell wildly in passionate love with her with one glance.

It suits her well enough. The fact that she looked like a dusty dull unrefined ornament next to her polished preening sisters. She’d rather fade into the wallpaper than be a dazzling spectacle of ridiculousness, like that of her two siblings.

Her simpering, inane sisters. Who flirt with any man donning a scarlet coat in the Militia. Flora and Posy, who worry obsessively about ribbons, and seek to pay no mind to anything, of any real consequence.

Iris is never one for fits of jealousy, but she is sometimes envious of their light-hearted puerile, worries. About making up their bonnets or, the next ball, or the most unbecoming stain on their new pelisse.

Aunt Lavinia greatly despised the merest sight and intimation of the younger Ashton ladies too. Iris is usually requested to go to tea with her Great Aunt, alone.

“Silly chit of a girl. The pair of them.” Was her relative’s most favoured and overused phrase.

She’d cackle it as one of her clawed elderly hands - talons - gripped her teacup. And she wouldn’t be happy until she’d griped and moaned and complained about every beast and man put on this earth. For they’ve all been put there with the sole purpose of vexing her greatly -Naturally.

Tea today was no different to any other occasion she pays a visit.

Iris sits with the sniping old matron in her freezing-cold front parlour with a piffling fire barely going. Her Aunt is always bedecked in enough black muslin to cover all of Hampshire.

A black lace matron cap staunchly on her head. Black fichu covering at her shoulders. An inky shawl on her arms and on each of her skeletal fingers sit glimmering gleaming rings which clackclackclack and scrape when she moves and points that every disapproving finger. Big fat stones of amber and ruby and topaz weighting down her frail claws.

Iris always teeters politely on the most uncomfortably hard settee opposite her. Cradling the hot spode bone-china cup of tea that her Aunt shoves in her hands. Sugar staining sickly saccharine on her lips - she never let her guests have unsugared tea.

Quite why she is the favourite Ashton, Iris has no clue. She is always interrogated by the woman as she barks nosy question after nosy question at her.

“Yes, Aunt. No, Aunt. I don’t believe so, Aunt.” As the harridan gripes about beef or sugar or candle taxes, or the local Reverend, or the gaudy new fabric on display in dressmakers window.

A whole ream of grudges being spewed out that wrinkled puckered mouth. Face pale, craggy and screwed up with lines like a sheet of crumpled parchment paper.

Her dark eyes shine forth like raisins sunk deep into scones. Glittering black and always always always dissatisfied with the whole world, and determined to find fault with everyone in it.

Iris brings her the ointment her Aunt asked for. She was suffering a hacking cough that worsened in the winter. Lavinia insists its a damp affliction brought on by unclean air.

Iris bought the woman a bottle of liniment rub, spiced with rosemary oil, camphor and spirit of wine. Her Aunt harrumphed at her offering. Stabs her walking cane into carpet in disfavour. Shoves the bottle away and insists Willow bark tea is what will cure her ailment.

Next she’ll be insisting on leeches and blood letting to balance out the humours-

Iris doesn’t fight her stubbornness - it’s a battlefield over which she will never win or hoist a flag of victory.

She drinks down three more cups of the cloying tea, interrupts the interrogation and insists rather bravely that she must be on her way - for Lord and Lady Hearst are throwing a ball this evening. On their vast estate. And she needs to scurry home to ready for it. That earns her another harrumph in response. Lavinia detested balls.

“Breeding ground for senile men and stupid women. And all that inane leaping about they now call dancing...” She grimaces.

The whole county is in uproar for this ball - little else to recommend or appreciate in this bleak dull midwinter. Whispers flourishing around town seemed inclined to favour that a mysterious Lord from the continent is in attendance tonight...

A Lord. From Bavaria no less. Apparently he owned a vast castle high up in the snowy forest smothered mountains.

Quite why he’s bothered to travel the length of Europe to this savage spit of society in the Hampshire countryside, she cannot fathom. If she was lucky enough to live in a castle, she’d never be seen again.

She recounts that scrap of gossip about the prospective Lord to her Aunt. Who thunks her cane loudly on the floor and scoffs in derision;

“Foreigners are always a grave source of disappointment - and they are so riddled with lice and ill bred manners.” So wisely declares Aunt Lavinia.

She says that about anything to do with anything and anyone not born or formed on good british soil.

She had said the very same thing last week about the pews at Church-

She leaves the little bustling hamlet. Shuts her Great Aunt’s warped cottage door. The wood shuddered, catching on the doorstep. Her arm shot through with needles of pain. Aches slipping up her back, her neck and sparking her shoulders. She hooks the heavy basket onto the crook of her elbow and sighs as she plods homeward.

Away from the small tudor, mouldy mustard walls of Lavinia’s cottage. A pretty little house. Always cold. Formed of thick stone walls and mahogany creaking stairs. Austere bare furniture sparsely filled every room. Wedged into a street with crossed glass windows and a petticoat brown tiled roof.

It was a meagre six miles from here to home. And she appreciates the walk. Or atleast she might be more inclined to favour it, were her coat more substantial.

As it is the blue wool thing is possibly a might too small for her now. It tugs and pinches so across the shoulders. And the hem ends right up her calves. Pebble-grey Kidskin gloves on her fingers, knuckles knotted stiff and her fingertips are tingling with cold.

The hem of her plain cotton voile dress, is dark with damp from the snow. The bluebell cobalt of it leeched darker at her hem. She’s shivering because her stockings aren’t the warmest wool. Her legs are trembling cold and she only wore her lightest chemise. However she is glad she bothered with the scarf.

She hadn’t put on a bonnet today. She can’t stand the fuss of one. Ribbons flapping at her ears. It was uncommon - but she went without.

Simply tied her hair back into a low coiffured bun secured with a snip of wheaten muslin. By now and with lugging this basket across all of the Hampshire countryside, some straggles of hair have come loose. Flopping uselessly to her shoulders.

She ducks her chin into her scarf to escape the exposure of a battering bitter gale, and continues trudging on with wearied, aching determination. She always trudges on. She has too. Is always the one who must endeavour to continue, no matter how bleak she feels.

It gets tiring, carrying great tonne boulders of expectations on her shoulders. She likes to think she bears the task nobly.

As her Mother takes great pains and lengths to always endlessly remind her; she is the vessel in which all hopes for the survival of the Ashton family, are stored.

She will make a good marriage match; to a gentleman of high rank or fortune - preferably both. She will save the estate from destitution. Her sisters from ruin. And her father from debtors prison. She will be the one to keep her family in the moneyed style to which they are accustomed. They will not lose Westwell to the bailiffs.

They have risen far within the ranks of society. And they will not lose their clutch or their pride. Or their respected place among it. Her fathers estate is not a vast one; but it is more than his father before him had. A meagre merchant selling spices and furs out of Putney during the Restoration.

Now the Ashtons are country gentry. With a modest dwelling of an estate, abutting a working farm. Westwell. A manor house of not much splendour and merely thirteen rooms.

Built of gold cotswold stone with huge white windows looking out onto a self-effacing garden of some prettiness. There was a pond where swans flocked in summer. Enclosed wilderness all around. A plank of wood swing hanging off one big oak chestnut that stooped over the front of the house. To the back the garden is walled, full of sculpted beds and privets and the wide green lawn is rather uninspiring in this decimating winter

They had one gardener. Two maids. A cook and a Housekeeper. They live comfortably and hardly ever exceed their income.

Her mother hopes to change that this calendar year. She wants her eldest daughter promised to someone upstanding and rich.

Iris thinks her shrew of a mother would settle with wedding her to any man . So long as he looks pleasing in a cravat, and still has all his own teeth.

She treks on through the snow. Hoping. Dreaming. Dreaming for so many unattainable things.

Wishing her basket was lighter. Wishing her parents had sired a son. So that this evening she wouldn’t have to be bound into a pinching dress, and paraded around the Hearst’s ballroom as if she’s some prized slaughter pig at a county fair.

Wishing that she could instead stay home in her untrimmed, plain nightgown. No laced stays crushing her ribs. With a hot brick at her feet. A dog-eared Swift novel in her hands. Cracked open to the good passages. She’d read by tapered candlelight and be perfectly contented, poised to encounter spinsterhood.

Instead, a painful evening of savage society awaited her.

Poison filled smiles from nasty debutantes or their matronly mama’s. Sniping at her dress or her hair or her pale skin, or her lack of fortune. Crushed mangled toes from dancing with some portly red-faced Lord-whoever-from-wherever. One who stank of port, had bad breath, and tried to pinch her bottom with fat lecherous sausage fingers, when he thought no one was looking their way.

She has no aspirations for marriage or love. She’s not a fool. She doesn’t have her head swimming with fancies from novels. No rapturous desires of tall, sable-haired men, with chiseled marble bodies seducing her astray. No cloaked villain sweeping her away in the dead of night to send her to ruin, to then have her dashing savior ride in on horseback to rescue her.

If she’s one thing at all - it is sensible. She doesn’t like to reflect on the proposition of marrying some stranger simply to arrange the business of money and bearing him heirs. She’s not a broodmare-

She’s a woman. She has a thumping proud heart and a strong-working brain and she hopes there’s more measure to her life, than submitting her body and weak will over to be governed and quieted by a future, faceless husband.

She’s sure many girls of three and twenty have felt this way. She’s sure many generations upon generations of them will continue to do so, until women cease to be sold like chattel - or like cattle at market.

Sold solely to men for the priceless untarnished commodity that lay between their thighs. And based and viewed purely on that frail scrap of fleshed dignity, alone.

She wraps her coat tighter around herself. Distinctly feeling a sense of dread starting to slither sickly cool up her spine from the prospect of the evening ahead.

Mother will wrangle her into her finest restrictively crushing silk gown. Have the maid tug and pull her hair and wrench it into a pleasing style. Jabbing hair pins in her head. Mother will see to it that she splash plenty of Yardley’s water of jasmine blossom, orange and lavender on the pulses at her wrists, and at her neck.

Then, she’ll be practically shoved into the chest of every single eligible gentleman in the room tonight in the hope they deign her to be pleasing. She’ll be pushed and prodded and maneuvered and pummeled-

And she’s exhausted. She only hopes she finds the strength to endure such torture-

She kicks through the frosted ground. Pebbles scatter and skit in her wake. She nudges the sparkling white stones with the toe of her cracked brown boots. Her feet were slowly growing numb. Toes stinging with cold. She should have worn some thicker stockings. Then again, money was not exactly a moderate opulence at home. They had to husband their resources as a family very carefully- which meant Iris couldn’t have some new leather half-boots for romping about the wilds of the countryside.

But she could have as many new hair combs, fans, or gloves and embellished stockings as she wanted. Anything that might help snare a man into visions of matrimony. Not wasted on such a thing as a new wool coat to help keep her warm in winter; or boots that didn’t let the muddy puddles seep in.

For appearances sake, the Ashton’s wealth went solely into ballgowns, perfume and finery for their girls. Some household money of course went into sensibilities like candles, meat, flour and soap. Iris was taught that she should be hugely grateful for everything that was lavished upon her.

Flora so often griped at her that she was so lucky to have such amounts spent on her. She got new gowns of printed cottons and muslin and silks and whatever she wanted. Where her and Posy had to make do with alterations and hand-me-downs to their dresses and bonnets.

Flora was so blinded by jealousy and immaturity that she didn’t quite look - really look at her sister - and realize that Iris didn’t really want any of those things-

She ruminated on all tonight might bring her. She wondered what kind of state her silly sisters would both be in when she gets home. Already donning their paper curls, lacing each other into their stays and chemises already. Arguing over who wore the best pair of silk slippers they had between them.

Mother will be in one of her bitter moods. Trying to determinedly order all her girls ready for tonight.

Moods sour with each other already and they’d be seething and spitting nasty fury at Iris. She had new things especially for this ball tonight. New pair of satin gloves and a printed silk dress. They did not. They never did.

Iris would lend Flora her old reticule - the one Mother had bought for her from Bond street. And she’d give Posy her pearl hair comb to slide into her auburn coiffure. A little balm to both of them to gently encourage some sisterly affection. She didn’t want to be at war with them all night.

She’s halfway down the narrow pale road, kicking snowy stones, when an almighty sound kicks up over the horizon, barreling in her direction. She turns her head back and hears the distant rhythmic rumbling of hooves hitting track and the clack and creak of enormous coach wheels.

Hardly surprising when this is the biggest road leading back to Pembleton, her little village.

She sees through the fog of snow, a huge black shape dominates the road. Moving fast. She lifts her skirts and steps onto the crunching grass so that the raring coach might pass her safely by. At the tremendous speed it’s going she reckons she didn’t have long before it caught up to where she’s walking.

She hears it gaining, closer and closer. Wood and hooves and snorting horses eating up the distance of the road. She dares a glance at the impossibly loud and fast carriage.

It’s a beastly thing. All looming black wood. A black liveried driver in grey wool coat. Two footmen clad the same, on the back stand. Black sturdy luggage safely stowed on the roof. Two hulking beasts of shimmering onyx shire horses are stamping and galloping and heaving the great thing along with no difficulty. Silvery wisps of air pour from their nostrils and the dripping whites of their eyes look nearly devilish past their full cupped blinders. The tack of black leather lost on their gleaming coal coats.

The noise is deafening now. It’s almost passing her. Kicking snow and frosty gritted mud out from under the churn of the hungry wheels.

She’s curious as to who could possibly be residing in such an opulent coach. No one from these parts, she’s certain of it. The richest Lord from here was two villages over on a vast estate. Lord Hexham. Who was one and eighty and had a hunched back. And he was a doddery old recluse. He hardly went raring around town in such an imposing manner.

When it draws level with her she dares a vertiginous glance up at the small arch of the door. A crest is splashed there in gold and scarlet. Like a splash of blood on a gold sword scabbard. Or a healing wound.

It’s no shock that the crest there is unfamiliar to her. It’s entwined with wolves and scarlet banners, and a shield crossed with swords. Some monstrous carnivorous coat of arms perhaps? Maybe this person’s ancestor’s had won victory in some ancient bloody battle dating back to the Normandy landings.

She looks up from the door and to her very great shock, she glimpses a man’s face.

It was a dark carriage, drawn to privacy with scarlet velvet curtains covering at the windows. But the one this side closest to her is peeled back.

Her heart thumps loud in her neck and her chest claws with slight panic and embarrassment having caught this gentleman’s eyes.

Such savage, unyielding eyes.

Bitterly black. Slicing outwards from an alabaster pale face. She barely made out features of a full proud face. A blunt roman nose, full pouting lips, and raven sable hair. Length; rakish.

It makes her inhale a sharp breath. Quickly averting her gaze. Embarrassed. Lowering her eyes.

Gawping openly at the upper echelons was never a good idea. They probably held her in the same standing as that of the mud on the bottom of their very polished boots.

He was probably some uppity Duke or Earl who didn’t wish to be gazing at the common stock. She looks to her feet. Feels the wind whip at the tendrils of her hair. Unfolds them from her scarf and whips them back over her face. Baring her neck. Snow lands on her skin. Flecks of it melt ripping like bee stings onto her hot throat.

Pale, corded, thrumming throat. Bared to the wind and the snow and the cold-

He can hear her pulse and it’s like a sweet sirens call.

She feels the strangest sensation then; no one was looking at her. But it feels like they did. It feels as if eyes are pinning her down. Raking over her skin and assessing her.

When she looks back up, dazed, the rattling loud coach is past her now. Off into the distance, into the snow.

Foggy white and smeared and blurring into the horizon. Roaring away up the track road. Away from her sight. She blinks after it’s wake. Snow tangling into her lashes. She’s shivering now if she wasn’t before, and she can’t fathom why.

She switches the basket into her other arm. Let’s it take the painful strain of the still heavy thing. Items within clunk and thump around. She steps off the crusted grass and back onto the stony pave of the hard road.

She continues on; winding homeward. She thinks about her silk gown, and new pearl earrings. And then of darker things; like devilish horses, and eyes. Eyes darker than inky shadows and deeper rich, like charcoal.

As the coach thunders off into the snow. Rutting and cracking over every bump on the road, Kylo shifted back on the scarlet bench seat. He lifts the curtain on the back window with a suave flick of his fingers, and set his black gaze once more back down the track road.

Looks back upon the lone girl in the blue coat who was walking there.

The scent of her still cloyed up in his throat - Oh, and in all the best ways.

He scented her from a mile down the road. Lavender, clary sage and sharp heat of bursting peppermint on salty skin.

The musk of her made him pant and his chest ragged. His arousal and bloodlust stirred in his chest. The drooling gnashing hell hounds of his appetite waking up and baying to be fed.

He watches her hair sway over her neck. A big gust of frosty wind blew her flavour right into his path.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he savoured her.

It made his mouth water. He’d all but outright moaned. It’s been a few moons since he last fed. His nails dig into the upholstered scarlet bench. Muscles strained. Veins corded tight in his body. Pulled taut.

His butler, Jomar. Speaks up from where he is sat opposite.

Blue silk Dastar covering his silver hair. His goatee beard was arrowhead shaped and always neatly trimmed. It stood out all the more from his bronze skin. His Punjabi cadence Kylo always thought was like cinnamon dashed in milk. He had a comforting warm voice.

“I wonder, shall you like the society hereabouts, your lordship?” He seeks curiously. Melting walnut eyes finding Kylos over his gold half moon spectacles, and looking past the small red leather backed Voltaire, open in his hands.

Lord Ren smirks. His eyes glimmer. Cool and hungry. Silver black like daggers.

“Absolutely.” He wets his lips. “The local cuisine looks delicious.”

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

#Kylo ren #Kylo ren x oc #vampire!kylo #adam driver #vampire au #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes 🕊#Lord Ren vibes 🐺#Draegan vibes 🥀#vampirelovestory #vampire #demon #ao3fic #lovestory #angst #smut #slow burn #regency era

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