#tremors ii

[spockvarietyhour]

Tremors II: Aftershocks (1996)

[worldwarriorandfriendsbracket]

Mortal Kombat Tournament - Round 1B - Match 9

Kitana - Mortal Kombat II (1993)

Tremor - Mortal Kombat: Special Forces (2000, debut), Mortal Kombat X (2015, playable)

[selene-ella]

" Relics of the Past | III "

Pair: Qimirxfemale!reader

Summary: still unable to face your hidden feelings, Qimir offers you a solution.

Warnings: mdni, slow burn, mind reading(?), improper use of the force, fingering, unprotected piv, sensory deprivation(?) I still don't know how his helmet works like, possible typos.

Notes: excuse my English. That's it.

Part I , Part II Part IV (final)

Word Count: 3.7k

Qimir’s fingers traced the jagged seam of his cortosis helmet, the metal cool against his skin. The helmet had saved his life more times than he could count, but now it lay broken—a reflection of his own fractured existence.

As he worked, the dim light of the lantern cast shadows across the cave’s walls. .Repairing the helmet was a distraction—an attempt to silence the racing thoughts that filled his mind.

Beside him, you stirred in your sleep, caught in the grip of visions. Your murmurs were unintelligible, a language spoken only in dreams. Qimir glanced at you, concern etching lines into his weathered face. The Force had always been unpredictable, but earlier, it felt like a revolt tearing at the fabric of reality.

Your mind remained clouded, the aftermath of opening the Sith holocron. Qimir had asked you if you wanted it—the ancient artifact held power beyond comprehension. It was meant to reveal glimpses of the future, but its whispers had become a cacophony, mingling with your own fears and desires.

And then came the dream—the one that shook you awake, gasping for breath. In it, Qimir stood before you, lightsaber drawn, facing a faceless force being. Its eyes glowed like dying stars, and its intent was clear: to end him. The vision left you trembling, your heart racing.

As you tried to piece together what had transpired, your ears buzzed, and your head spun. The holocron’s influence lingered, a phantom weight on your soul. You remembered Qimir’s offer to help you unlock its secrets, the way he’d guided you through the process. But afterward, everything blurred—a haze of fragmented memories.

Now, as you lay there, puzzled, your gaze shifted to Qimir. His back was to you, hunched over the helmet. The marks left on it told stories of battles fought and lost. Did he sense your wakefulness? His focus remained on the helmet, meticulous and unwavering. Was he able to see more of in that short amount of time?

You wondered if he regretted helping you with the holocron. If he knew the cost—the way it had woven itself into your mind, a tapestry of prophecy and emotion. And what of the faceless being? Was it a harbinger of doom or a warning? Qimir’s fate seemed entwined with yours, and the Force whispered secrets neither of you fully understood.

As dawn approached, casting a pale glow through the cave’s entrance, you debated whether to speak. Would Qimir welcome your questions, or would he retreat further into silence? The helmet sat before him, a puzzle waiting to be solved. But perhaps the real puzzle was the connection between you—the one who left to forge her own path—and the man who danced on the edge of darkness.

And so, you watched him, wondering if he sensed your gaze, if he felt the tremors of uncertainty that echoed through your very being. The next steps were unclear—the path veiled by visions and the remnants of a shattered holocron. But one thing remained certain: Qimir held answers, and you were determined to uncover them—even if it meant risking everything.

The cave seemed to hold its breath, cocooning you both in a fragile intimacy. Qimir’s hands—once skillfully repairing the helmet—now hung still, forgotten tools resting on the crate. His hair, dark and unruly, fell across his forehead, framing the edges of his face. You watched him, as if drawn to him by an invisible thread.

Your gaze dipped, tracing the movements of his body. There it was—the scar that marred his lower back, a testament of his first betrayal. As he lifted his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, the scar peeked out, a raw reminder of how those who are the closest, can hurt you the most. You wondered how many nights he’d spent alone, nursing both physical and emotional hurts, after you've left.

Closer now, your breaths mingled in the close space. Inches apart, you reached out—a hand resting on his shoulder, the other finding its place on the small of his back. The scar tissue was rough beneath your fingertips, a map of resilience etched into his skin. He remained still, as if afraid to break the fragile closeness built between you.

The silence spoke volumes—a language of longing and restraint. Qimir didn’t pull away; he allowed your exploration, a silent invitation. Your hand moved upward, tracing the contours of his the scar adorning his back, memorizing each imperfection. His shirt yielded, riding up as your fingers ventured higher. The rest of his skin felt warm and soft and made you wondered if he felt the heat radiating from your palm, if he sensed the ache that mirrored your own.

And then, as if guided by a force beyond reason, your other hand joined the first. You circled both arms around his middle back, your body hovering above his. The cave walls seemed to lean in, conspirators in this clandestine dance. Qimir’s breath hitched—a barely perceptible tremor—as if he, too, craved the closeness.

The helmet lay forgotten.In this moment, it was just you and him.

And so, you held him, your heart echoing the rhythm of his. The whispers of what's to come are still echoing in your mind, indifferent to your vulnerability. But here, in this hidden sanctuary, you dared to touch the edges of something profound—a longing that transcended words, a shared ache that defied fate.

You bent down, your cheek grazing his shoulder, replacing the weight of your hand that of your cheek. The fabric of his shirt coarse against your skin, as your eyes traced along his pulse points.

This intimacy was uncharted territory—a map drawn in stolen moments and shared glances. If something happened—some unspoken confession or desperate kiss—it was always a distraction from sorrows too heavy to bear. For both of you, this closeness was a fragile bridge between survival and surrender.

The dim light of the lantern painted Qimir’s skin in a glimmer. His jaw clenched, and you wondered what battles he fought within.

You let yourself immerse in this feeling—the warmth of him, the salt-scented air. His skin glowed, and you wondered if he felt the same pull.

Qimir’s gaze met yours—a galaxy of uncertainty. But there, in the dim-lit cave, he was pleased with this side of you—the unguarded vulnerability, the ache that mirrored his own. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was enough—a chance for redemption, a reclamation of all the feelings they’d lost.

Remaining silent, his hands searched for yours, joining them as if he wanted to pull you closer. You broke the embrace, one of his hands still gripping your arm, fighting for attention. You shifted, changing your position, and found yourself guided to match his level—seated on his thighs. His curious gaze lifted to you.

His voice, rough and deep, sliced through the silence, laced with anger and desire. “Want to kill me, still?” he asked, his gaze unyielding. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and memories surged. Everything connected to him weakened your resolve. You wanted to sob—to release the weight of it all.

“No,” you managed, your voice a fragile whisper. It was your first word, a denial that held more truth than you cared to admit. He traced the faint red shadows on your skin, and you flinched.

"You know," he began, gaining back your attention " unlike others, I cannot read minds", but he could read guilt—the way it clung to you like a shadow.

His hand moved toward your neck—a threat or a promise, you weren’t sure. Big accusations had been thrown, and now, with clarity returning, you realized you’d projected your guilt onto him. The lines blurred—the boundaries between right and wrong. But he was right about one thing: you’d have to talk.

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted your spiraling thoughts. “We’ll get there.” His other hand reached past you, fingers closing around his helmet. Sternness filled his tone. “Put it on.”

“What? Why?” Confusion colored your question. His demand cryptic.

“You like to push your limits,” he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Battle with the unknown. Put it on.” His eyes never leaving yours.

And so, you hesitated, torn between fear and curiosity. The helmet sat before you. You wondered if it would reveal truths you weren’t ready to face. But then again, perhaps it was time to embrace the unknown—to confront the guilt that still bound you to him.

"It's gonna be just you and the Force. Nothing from me, or any outside source to cloud your mind" he gently pushed a few strands of hair behind your ear, "trust yourself."

Once the decision was made, the helmet settled over your head, its weight heavy, pulling you into darkness. Thoughts retreated, replaced by a quietude—an emptiness that both unnerved and intrigued. All your senses diminished, as if a veil had been drawn between you and reality.

The Force surged—a river of energy coursing through your veins. Your heartbeat quickened, a counterpoint to your breath, which slowed, muffled by the helmet’s confines. It was as if the very air conspired to keep you breathless.

Tension unravelled. Your body relaxed, surrendering to the heaviness of the Force. You fell back, supported only by Qimir’s workbench—an anchor in this shifting tide. “Qimir…” The name escaped you—a breathless sigh, a plea for understanding.

His arms—strong and unyielding—pulled you closer. The proximity was both intimate and dangerous. You felt the heat of his groin, the magnetic pull that defied reason. His voice—close yet distant—commanded you. “Focus.”

And so, you did. The helmet’s darkness became a canvas—a place where guilt and longing danced. Redemption or damnation? The Force held the answer, and Qimir was your guide.

The air crackled with tension as Qimir's hands moved with

deliberate precision, unraveling the layers that shielded you from his touch. The foreign heat intensified, searing through your veins, and you wondered if it was the forbidden thrill of your yearning for him or the real touch of his fingers that ignited this wildfire within you

All of his focus was on you--the fabric slipping away, revealing skin that trembled under his touch. The imagined caresses you'd conjured in your mind merged seamlessly with the reality of his hands mapping every curve, every hidden desire.

Your top pooled at your feet, forgotten, as Qimir's palms replaced its confines.

His voice, low and intimate, sent shivers down your spine. The room seemed to close in, the air thick with anticipation. His hands, deft and purposeful, worked on your belt.

You had no idea which Qimir was to blame for this pleasure--the one from your fantasies or the one standing right in front of you. The room seemed colder now, and you sensed him shifting.

His breath hovered inches from your heated core, his hands tracing a tantalizing path up and down your body. "Ready to give in?" His voice, low and intimate, accompanied a kiss placed on your inner thigh.

The air crackled with anticipation as you struggled to form a restless “yes.”

“Good,” you heard him murmur, the command a velvet thread weaving through the charged air. You struggled to lift the helmet, your fingers trembling as you carefully placed it on the surface behind you. Qimir remained knelt before you, his gaze intense. “As much as I’d like to have you in that state,” he said, voice low, “I wouldn’t be a fan of hearing muffled moans.”

He straightens himself, his body molding against yours. As your senses return, a newfound confidence surges within you—a desire to assert control, to match his intensity.

"I used to dream about it years ago,” you confessed, “but I never dared to pressure you into anything.” Your slender fingers worked deftly, untying his white shirt. You pushed the fabric away, revealing the contours of his chest—a canvas waiting for your touch.

“Now where were we?” you questioned, your touch both deliberate and gentle as you guided Qimir back to his seated position. The air hummed with anticipation, as you placed your mouth to his.

Qimir’s eyes traced every nuance of your movement. His gaze, intense and unwavering, mapped the contours of your form—the rise and fall of your chest, the delicate curve of your neck. In that charged space between desire and restraint, he drew you closer, his fingers entwining in your hair. The strands yielded to his touch, a cascade of midnight silk slipping through his grasp.

You, too, were not passive. Your breath hitched as you tugged at his hair, unraveling the facade he wore—beneath it all lay vulnerability, a raw ache that mirrored your own. His neckline yielded to your exploration, revealing skin still unmarked by your teeth. The pulse at his throat echoed your own racing heart.

And then, with a hunger that defied reason, you leaned down. His scent enveloped you—a heady blend of leather, sweat.Your lips met the exposed skin, a silent confession etched in the press of flesh. Each kiss was a revelation, a promise whispered across the expanse of his collarbone.

In that stolen instant, you both surrendered. Not to the dark side or the light, but to the desire swirling in the air. And as your lips molded to his skin, you tasted the bittersweet truth: lust was the most dangerous game they played, and yet, it was the only one worth winning.

A trail of kisses ignited along the contours of his chest, each one a whispered promise of desire. And then, as if the force itself conspired, a soft touch slid upward, finding it's trajectory against your inner thigh. The sensation was both fire and ice, a paradox of pleasure and anticipation. Your breath hitched, caught between surrender and resistance.

His dark eyes, twin black holes of need, pierced into yours.

The kiss resumed—filled with hunger and longing. His lips mapped your skin, leaving trails of fire and memory. The holocron’s hum echoed in your veins, a symphony of fate and desire. And as his touch ventured higher, closer to the heart of your vulnerability, you surrendered to his pull.

His touch was a solar flare, searing through the fabric of your resistance. Fingers, calloused and unyielding, found their way into your core—the epicenter of longing and vulnerability. The tightness that welcomed him brining a faint smirk to his face.

You gasped, in mixes of pleasure and surrender. Your body trembled, caught in the gravitational pull of his action. Your existence narrowed to this singular moment.

“Qimir,” you breathed, the syllables a prayer and a plea. Your grip on his arm was desperate, a lifeline in a tempest of sensation.

And then, with the precision of a cosmic clock, his fingers worked on your needy cunt. Their curling motion unraveled you, leaving you gasping for air, for sanity, for something beyond the boundaries of flesh and bone.

You had no time to breathe, eyes fluttering closed, you surrendered to the tidal forces of pleasure.

His fingers retreated all of a sudden— bringing part of your sanity back . The hiss that escaped you was not pain; it was desperation, a plea for more, for everything. And Qimir reveled in your unraveling.

Your gaze shifted toward him. Brows furrowed, you sought answers in the depths of his eyes.

He brought those same fingers to his lips, a siren, and licked them clean. The taste of your arousal lingered—a blend of spice and sweetness. His gaze searching for yours.

“You think,” he murmured, his voice deep “that I’ll let you go with mere fragments of pleasure?” His fingers caught the length of your hair, swirling it around them. “Can I read your mind?” he teased, “No. But your actions,” he pointed at your hand gripping his hip, “they betray you.”

His head tilted, and a mischievous smile curved his lips. He had you where he wanted, drenched in your rawest want. Toying with you was an art form at this point.

“Now,” he murmured, his voice a velvet tremor, “do me a favour.” His hand caressed your face—a touch that could bring you to your knees. “Turn around,” he breathed, his lips grazing your ear, and your years started buzzing. In that whispered command, you surrendered to his demand pulled by the thread of his desire.

You turned, back facing him. His fingers traced a line along your spine, memorizing each spot of your bare skin. "Qimir, please", cave’s walls absorbed your breathy plea, echoing it like a sacred hymn.

“It’s funny,” his voice low, interrupting your thoughts “how you brought me to this state.” His hand gripped your nape, anchoring you. “You fled,” he chanted, “leaving me a prisoner to my own want.”

Guilt swirled within you, a black hole devouring reason. “Always eager to face your trauma,” he said, his words dripping with invitation, “yet avoiding pleasure and desire" the hardness of his arousal pressed against your back.

His touch was teasing your entrance, waiting for you to finally break. “I won’t go further,” he murmured, “unless you tell me what you want.” His fingers danced around your sweet spot, drenched in your early release.

You both loved and hated this game—ot filled you with desire and frustration.

“By the looks of it,” he hummed, his hand palming your cunt “you won’t even be needing my cock.” His palm pressed against your skin.

“For the Force’s sake, Qimir,” you groan, frustration echoing through the cave. “This is torture.” Your words loud.

He pulls you into his embrace, “then,” he murmurs, his lips a comet’s trail against your skin, “what would it be, hm?” His voice is a sweet chant. “Do you want me to fuck you right now, right here?” His breath fans your neck. “Or perhaps,” he continues, “you feel bold enough to show me?”

You turned, your heart racing inside your chest, and took a breath—a gulp of courage. “Qimir,” you began, your voice a quivering, “I—” The words hung in the air, as his chuckle brings back your attention.

“Okay,” you said, “I never dared to go further because—” another stop, “Gosh,” you continued, “I feared your rejection, Qimir.” His name on your lips was heavy this time.

“You were so deep into your head,” you confessed, “about plans and creating your new legacy.” I felt like a threat,” you admitted, “to your grandiose scheme.” Your feelings swirled within you. “I didn’t want,” you paused, “my feelings for you to hold you back.”You hid your face in your palms.

He listened quietly, his finger tracing across your lips once your face peeked out from behind your palms. “What about the jealousy outburst from earlier?” he asked.

“Risking your cover?”

“Hm,” he considered, “understandable.” But there was more. “I wanted someone to teach and make use of,” he continued, his grip on your hips accentuating “Do you think I wanted an acolyte so I can fuck her?” His mocking tone was making you feel stupid.

“Still,” he hummed, his voice light as a breeze, “this is not what I want to hear from you.” His eyes not leaving yours.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “what you want from me.” The words hung in the air.

"Still, this is not what I want to hear from you, your jealouseness. Tell me what you want from me"

He peers into your thoughts:

I want you to strangle the light left with me. I want to break me. I want to consume me until you can only hear me screaming from how good it feels to finally have you pull me apart and leave me aching for more- ...

The realisation hits you.

"That will do do" You hear him say. "You have no idea how long I've imagined being inside of you like this," he admits as he toys with your entrance.

You feel a surge of excitement as he pulls you into his lap, toes curling when you feel him press against you, hard and throbbing.

You lick your lips, whimpers leaving them as he sinks deeper, filling you all the way in, hot breath hitting your face. "How does it feel?" He breaks the silence, "finally having me fill your warm, needy cunt?"

You tighten your legs around him, gripping his shoulders, nails leaving red marks behind, and you hear him speak " no need to tighten up sweet thing" he adjusted your position.

"Who would have thought you feel this good and welcoming" his voice coarse.

Your mind was a blur. His steady thrusts were clouding all of your fields of perception.

" I want to have you filled up, filled up with me, make a mess out of you, and repeat it all over again"

Were you in his mind? Or is he in yours? It didn't matter anyway.

"Feels good right? I want you to let me make you feel good, lose the grip on reality. I'll give you everything"

Your mouth was dry, head fallen back, supported only by Qimir’s hand, arms pulling you back down on him.

You feel a wave shattering inside you. Not pain, but ecstasy. Your legs locked around his hips, chasing your high, a pool of heath soaking your insides.

You feel Qimir’s breath hot against your skin, consciousness falling back down into your body.

His mind, a quiet nebula, observed the aftermath.

"You still have a bit of me left in you" he said, referring to the energy he passed you earlier to aid you with your task.

"I think I have way more than a bit of you left inside me" you laughed while pointing your eyes at the place your bodies connected.

He kissed your shoulder, slowly sliding out of you. "You know- you still have a mark"

You quickly started to inspect your body.

"No" he pulls your attention back to him" it's on your back, near your shoulder blades" he pointed. "Does it feel... like it changed something?" He asks while making his way to the hot pool in the middle of the cave.

"No." , you shrugged, "It's just - there. I don't feel different" you confessed.

"Good" he follows, "then care to join me for a bath, or will try to fit your sticky body back into your clothes?"

He offers you a hand, guiding your steps into the warm water. An urge to have him closer fills you up, and you don't resist it this time. You place your head on his chest, arms pulling him closer.

"I love you, Qimir."

"I know.”

[eratosmusings]

Loyalty (II)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: your husband returns to consummate your marriage

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, smut, oral (fem receiving), piv, arranged marriage, manipulation, abortion allusion (moon tea), lot of religious references

word count: 2.4k

previous chapter / dividers

Daemon takes more than an hour to return. Handmaids came in his absence. They take the pins from your hair, bring fresh water and fragranced soap for a quick wash before leaving you in a single shift made of silk. You pace the stone floor as it grows cold from the dying fire. Why has he not returned?

The fire dims and dims until it is no more than a low red glow in the hearth. The silk is frigid against your skin. It chafes against your breasts in a way that has you squirming. Your husband finally returns. It appears he too has bathed and changed. Gone is his embroidered jacket and red sleeves, replaced with a simple white shirt and a simple robe hanging off his shoulders. His hair is damp and a floral scent wafts from him as he approaches.

“I’d thought you’d be in bed,” he says. 

You attempt a smile, though you fear it appears more as a grimace. Guilt weighs too heavy on the corners of your lips. The wait was intolerable but as is knowing how imminent the act is. Knowing what you must do on the morrow. “Is that where you wish me to be, my prince?”

He frowns. “I had only meant I’d thought you’d be asleep.” His eyes dart over you, only to return to and linger where the peaks of your breasts stab into the shift. "Is that all they gave you to wear, jaesa?" He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You must be freezing.” He pulls the robe from his shoulders and comes to drape it over your own. 

More kindness that you do not deserve. You bow your head. “Thank you, my prince.”

He tisks and turns his attention to the dying fire. “Such formality.” He lowers and begins to arrange new logs over the embers. “We are married now, you must call me something more fitting. Daemon would do well.” He takes a piece of kindling and allows it to catch fire before placing it on top. “Or dear husband, perhaps.” He looks back at you. “Valzȳrys if you’d like to truly capture my heart.”

“Valzȳrys?” It slips out before the rest of his words register as you meet his lilac gaze.

“Wonderful pronunciation,” he murmurs approvingly, standing. “It means husband in Valyrian.” The fire spreads, growing brighter and casting him in its warm glow. It strikes you, rather harshly, that Daemon Targaryen is unparalleled in his beauty. You've always thought him handsome, but in the light of a blaze he is breathtaking.

“I shall try to remember,” you say through the lump in your throat. If you can never allow him children, at least you will give him the allusion of a good, dutiful wife.

His head cocks appraisingly to the side. “Come.” Your feet obey. The warmth of the fire joins the heat beginning to prickle across your skin. His gaze is searching as you come to stand in front of him and you can’t tear your eyes away. “Why wait for me to return?”

Your brows furrow at the question. It’s answer so obvious. “We have yet to consummate our marriage.”

“I did not consummate my last.” His hand comes to toy with the collar of the robe. “I refused the bedding ceremony this evening.” There’s humor in his tone. “Perhaps I did not intend to bed you at all.”

You try to match his easy banter, though there's a tremor in your voice. "Perhaps the sun will rise in the west and set in the east."

He laughs and the sound sends a flutter through your chest. What a beautiful sound. "Do you think I as wanton as a whore?”

"No!" Your hands reach for him, taking hold of his arm. It is solid in your grasp.  "I am sorry, my prince, I did not intend offense."

He laughs again, eyes crinkling. "I merely jest. Your only offense is your continued use of ‘my prince.’”

"Valzȳrys," you offer with relief, letting go of his arm, “I shall do better.”

“My sweet wife,” his other hand comes to hold your face as the first continues to fidget with the robe, “so eager to please.”

Your lips part, but the words die as his fingers follow down the edge of the robe and brush the raised peak of your breast. The sensation, torturous and intoxicating, has you gasping. He takes the distraction as invitation and captures your mouth in a harsh, bruising kiss. Your fingers curl against the cloth of his shirt. Neither to push him away nor pull him closer, but to find a tether in the unfamiliar depths his touch has plunged you into.

He pulls back slowly. Lips plush, pupils blown wide. Hands cupping your breast, thumbs stroking the peaks. Overwhelming, sinful need steals your thoughts. Your eyes squeeze shut. You can't breathe. Your entire focus is on remaining standing. 

"Tell me, jaesa, have you ever touched yourself here before?"

Speech is too difficult. Your head shakes.

"Have you ever dreamt of it?"

Another shake. You had not known it could be used for pleasure. Air greets your lung like a knife when one of his touches disappears.

"How about here?" A hand dips under the hem of your shift, skims along your thighs.

You shake again.

His nose edges along your jaw. "Here? His fingers glide along the apex.

You jolt. No. Never. The words don't make it past your lips. They're trapped somewhere in the shock, the pleasure.

"No?" He speaks for you, his voice low, laced in fond mockery. "What a pure, untouched thing you are, jaesa." His mouth meets yours again. This time his kiss is slower. A whimper leaves you, unbidden, when his tongue sweeps against your bottom lip. His touch continues to move along your most intimate of places. It’s intoxicating.

He draws back, forehead pressing against yours. His breathing is heavy, matching yours. “Now I wish for you to be on the bed.” 

The air feels like ice as he steps away, leaving you bereft of his warmth. You turn, seeking the bed, and stumble forward. Your toe catches on the edge of a table. The pain is sharp and you nearly drop to the floor.

Daemon's arms wrap around you. "Careful."

His touch is maddening. "Yes, valzȳrys."

There's a sound that seems to stick in his throat. Your feet are no longer on the ground. "The bed, jaesa." A surprised giggle leaves as you fall back on the bed. It's plush, more so than your own. And warm. Daemon climbs over you, bracing his weight on his forearms. The firelight casts his features in a soft glow, giving the illusion of gentleness.

He presses his lips against yours, hungry. Your hands cling to his arms. A small moan vibrates from him. There's a firmness pressing into the apex of your thighs. The pressure is nearly as wonderful as his fingers had been. You arch towards him. He presses back.

Then he's gone. Your mouth falls open in protest, a small sound escaping. Daemon sits on the edge of the bed. He’s smug as he tugs off the simple shirt. He stands and drops his trousers, revealing more of his toned physique. Your cheeks burn. His member, juts up proudly. You swallow and avert your gaze. Surely, that cannot fit inside of you.

"Does my cock offend you?"

"No," you say quickly. "It is," your mouth sticks like you'd eaten too much honeyed bread, "large."

He laughs boisterously. "You will find, sweet wife, that it is a gift." He kneels back on the bed, his hands grasping at the hem of your shift. Your eyes snap up. His dance with mischief. "May I remove this?"

Your throat is dry. You nod. The fabric lifts. Your limbs move as they're told. You help him rid you of the silk. The air is cold.

"Beautiful."

Your body trembles under his gaze.

"Lie back."

Your body obeys. His hands slide down your thighs, pushing them apart. Then he is between your legs, kissing his way up your inner thigh. Your mind reels. No one had told you this part. When his mouth finally meets the place his fingers had toyed with earlier, you wonder how anyone could not enjoy this.

A gasp fills the air. Your hands fly to his head, tangling in his hair. Divinity lies between his teeth.

"I have decided," he whispers against your flesh, “that your taste is far better than any berry’s.”

Your hips roll of their own accord. He groans, his grip tightening on your thighs. Then he is back to licking. Your eyes screw shut and your hands grip tighter. There’s a pressure building. The tightness nearly unbearable.

"Valzȳrys," the plea is breathless. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but he must. 

He hums and the vibrations have you bucking. His mouth continues its silent prayers. Your eyes beg to close, but the glow of his lilac gaze refuses such a sin. He watches, equally as enraptured, as he pushes you higher and higher. Ecstasy. You cannot breathe, cannot move. His name, his title, every version of him, is on your tongue, begging. The pressure cracks your walls until they crumble and it is blasphemy that leaves your lips. A moment passes with the wave that follows and then another, your body trembling. The pleasure is slow to subside. His tongue has eased, but continues with languid strokes. Warmth tingles across all of you. His eyes have not given you leave.

Slowly his mouth leaves your sex. A whine leaves you at the loss. "Are you well, sweet wife?" His mouth glistens and the bed shifts as he crawls over you.

"Mhmm," you reply, letting your hands fall from his hair. More than well.

His lips curve, pleased, as they meet yours. They taste nothing near as sweet as a berry. Something presses against you. His member—his cock as he called it. His lips travel down your neck. "Are you ready?"

This is where the pain shall be. Perhaps so terrible it makes all you've done forgettable. There's no other reason you can think of that women would hate it after the pleasure you'd just received. But it is duty. At least, you must keep the appearance of it. You take a deep breath and nod. "Yes, Valzȳrys."

He presses forward and the stretch is uncomfortable. He pushes and a burn begins that makes you squirm. There's a pause."Forgive me," he breathes then his mouth returns to yours. A sharp, awful pain tears through you as his hips slam forward. Your vision blurs with the sting of tears. Your nails dig into his arms.

"The worst is over," he promises

You nod at his falsehood, still unable to see, and attempt to slow your breathing. It is for naught as the pain continues with the movement of his hips. The gods punishment for your sins, even the ones you've yet to truly commit. He whispers something that could be an apology and kisses the tears from your cheeks. You do not say anything. To suffer this for him is your duty.

"Breathe, jaesa. Just breathe."

You force yourself to match his rhythm. Breathing deep, his steady strokes begin to dull the ache. The tenseness in your muscles begin to release. There is some pleasure hidden beneath the discomfort.

"That's it," he encourages, his hand snaking between you.

You cry out as he circles his fingers sending a new wave of ecstasy through you. It spreads like Wildfire. You don't understand. It's supposed to be awful. How can it feel so wonderful?

"I am not a man of patience," he lets his forehead rest against yours, "but these sounds were worth the wait."

"Valzȳrys," your eyes shut and the pleasure builds. It drowns out any lingering discomfort. Only cries of prayers and profanities filling the room as his movements grow more erratic.

His breath stutters. It sounds as if he curses in Valyrian, though you cannot be sure. Then he stops, retreats, and leaves you painfully empty. Something warm and heavy falls across your stomach in thick strings. Your eyes open to his. Breathing ragged. Hair damp with sweat. He presses a kiss against your temple. "I shall bring the basin."

Your brow furrows. "Are we done?" Your body still tingles, tense again. Anticipation rather than pain.

His eyes crinkle but he says nothing, climbing from the bed. Your eyes stay glued to him. It's an enticing view. He returns to the bed with the basin in hand and sits beside where you lay. You know that the seed should sit for a while before it's cleaned away to ensure it takes. That's what the Septa had said. You do not repeat it to Daemon.

The rag is cold and your gasp at the contact leaves your husband issuing a humored apology. He wipes between your legs first, tinging the rag red, before cleaning the seed from your stomach in short, slow swipes. When satisfied, he sets the bowl on the floor and lays beside you. You wonder how you'll be able to sleep when your body still pulses with desire.

"Straddle my face."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Straddle my face," he repeats, "as if you were mounting a horse."

You think you understand the intention, but it seems unnecessarily dangerous. Could he not simply lie between your legs again? "But I will hurt you." Or suffocate him

"You will not."

He helps guide your leg across him, settling your knees on either side of his head. "Lower yourself, do not deny me your taste," he commands. His hands grip your thighs and you obey. He groans. The sound is muffled and then his mouth is back on your sex.

It is different. Not better, not worse, but different. Your body sings and hands fist in his hair. Your husband's tongue is skilled. A blessing instead of the curse you'd been told. For he has you quaking in only a few flicks. Pleasure courses through you like lightning. Yes, his years in pleasure houses were as divinely ordained as your years kneeling in the Sept. Your chest heaves as he coaxes out a final shudder.

When you can breathe again, he grins at you from between your thighs. The image deserves its own depiction in stained glass. "Now, I believe we are done."

any commentary & reblogs are appreciated! 🌺

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[hwallazia]

WE KNOW II – 박성화

synopsis . in which you should’ve known better before messing up with park seonghwa. | PART ONE

pairing . park seonghwa & fem! reader

genre . smut (mdni!), some fluff at the end (yes i’m guilty), mafia!au, strangers to acquaintances?

taglist . @bro-atz @hrts4nohee | apply to join my taglist ♡

word count . 3k

DISCLAIMER! mean dom!seonghwa, sub! reader, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), slight degradation (reader is referred as “slut” & “whore” only once), nicknames (baby, beautiful, princess, darling & more), daddy kink, bulge kink?, oral sex (m & f receiving), non-explicit aftercare, cowgirl position, lmk if I missed anything!

NIC’S NOTES and here she isss! sorry I took so long, I swear I literally dug that idea out of my head also, this may have a ridiculous amount of mistakes, but I’ll reread it soon and correct them. but well, the important thing is that she’s finally here! so I hope you enjoy it ♡

Your instincts and little motor ability guided you, as your legs were severely numb from the number of sensations that overwhelmed your body. A gentle grip on your waist kept you sane and stable, making your feet advance in confusion without knowing their destination. Your eardrum was becoming more and more sensitive to the warm air that Seonghwa released through his mouth and nostrils. Little by little, you were melting into his touch.

“Don’t faint just yet, beautiful,” His intoxicating tone of voice flushing your skin. “We have quite the night up ahead.”

Your dizzy head tried to send a warning signal to your vague and rather sleepy neurons. You were about to plunge into an even bigger problem than the one you already had on your back and you weren't realizing it.

Your nervousness and numb limbs were fogging your brain up, leaving a very submissive you as a result, vulnerable to Seonghwa’s touch.

You suddenly stopped walking, your head and trunk wobbling slightly from the abrupt stop. You watched as the man’s hand reached for the door handle to turn it and lead you to a dark, cool room. The cold air condensed your tremors and you blinked a few times to allow your eyes to get used to the darkness that surrounded you and thus try to decipher Seonghwa’s intentions.

You heard the lock and instinctively turned around, finding yourself with the closed door and the masculine and slender silhouette of Seonghwa, his face being blurred by the lack of lighting. “Hm, it’s been a while since I’ve done this,” You heard his hoarse, deep voice. “Looks like I’m in luck.”

You watched as he approached you dangerously, a devilish smirk adorning his plump lips. Your breathing hitched for a few seconds as you felt him rest his long hands on your hips, his penetrating gaze peering through your soul and stabbing daggers into it. Your eyes were caught in a funny loop between seeing his eyes and his lips.

“Where should I start?” His hands went up from your hips to your back, one of them rubbing your bare shoulder and the other playing with the zipper of your elegant dress. Both making a collective effort to strip you of the silk fabric. “Normally, I’d ask if you’re okay with all this,” He tilted his head slightly to let out a soft sigh. “But you didn’t come here with good intentions, didn’t you?”

“I can’t give you a nice night if you didn’t either, love.” Finally, your dress slid down your body smoothly, your divine figure at Seonghwa’s mercy. Chills ran down your spine when you felt him curse under his breath, but you went icy the moment he abruptly brought your lips together in a kiss. There was so much hate in it and so much lust and a lot of things that weren’t exactly said and wouldn’t be if it were up to the two of you.

The abruptness of the kiss made you release a gasp, perfect for Seonghwa to insert his tongue into your oral cavity, a whine coming out of you in response. That kiss left your head spinning and a dangerous pool of heat was starting to build up down there. Your lips parted for a second to catch some breath, “Do it again. Please.”

Your request caused a shit-eating grin to decorate Seonghwa’s face. Some sense of power filling his ego up. He wasted no time in picking you up, placing his hands on your buttocks for support, and guiding you to the large bed in the meantime. A faint whimper was heard, as with your legs partially spread Seonghwa was likely to notice the embarrassing wetness staining your underwear, which you knew he would soon remove with his own hands. However, you had already made a home in his arms, you felt comfortable and immune to any harm in his strong arms.

Once he left you spread out on the bed, you resumed the sizzling kiss and the desire that had been on hold for a few seconds soon dominated your behavior. Your arms had already caught the sides of Seonghwa’s neck, and his hands had already taken up the habit of groping your waist and breasts.

“Fuck, I can do this all night long. Touch you like this,” He whispered breathlessly, a cool breeze making your skin crawl even when the atmosphere was suffocating enough for a normal person to sweat. “Wanna taste you so badly though..”

A soft whine from you was heard, causing Seonghwa to smirk. You were so vulnerable to every word, sigh, command. That man was becoming your new addiction, one you never wanted to get out of.

His hands ran all over your leg, creating a new constellation as he dragged his phalanges over every single mole and mark he met at the moment; your breath hitching every time. Seonghwa absolutely loved how pliant you were under his fingers, how submissive you could become if he pushed the right buttons. And how your thighs shuddered in excitement when his mouth was finally positioned in front of your cunt? His sanity was gone by then.

And speaking about buttons. He pressed the one that made your lips release a satisfied sigh. 

“S-seonghwa,” You squirmed under him, his arms flexing at your breathless cry. “Please.”

“Hmm, you’re not very patient, are you?” A silent whimper was heard as just a vague breath as his lips pressed a kiss against your inner thigh; his hands stroking it fondly. “Behave. And then I’ll give you what you want.”

You nodded vigorously, your senseless state preventing you from formulating any coherent sentences. But Seonghwa was apparently not satisfied with your answer, his palm flattening against your outer thigh after mercilessly smacking it; a loud moan coming from you in response. “Answer me, you bitch.”

“Y-yes! Hmgh, yes daddy..” You stuttered under your breath, your mind being too fucked out to realize what had just left your lips.

“You into that?” A low chuckle coming out of him, not believing your words. “Fine, I can work with that.”

Finally, he dived in, his tongue starting to swim in your wetness; a nasty sound resonating all over the room. The only possible reaction for your body was to arch your back, stretch your legs, and open them even more; surrendering to the malicious pleasure that was being provided to you by Seonghwa. That’s when you decided to give in to desire and Seonghwa and his dirty fantasies.

His tongue swirling and lapping your clit made you see stars; you swore you could hear colors. Its tip was reaching spots you didn’t even know existed, his tongue pressing exquisitely against your pleasure button. Your hips studdered in attempts to move away from the mattress, but Seonghwa’s strong hands restricted any movement.

Your hands clung to the silk sheets as if your life depended on it; your knuckles turning a pinkish white. For some reason, you didn’t dare to tangle his silky hair between your fingers, something was stopping you. Seonghwa was doing an excellent job of making you see the stars and planets, you couldn’t ask for more. Right?

Your moans gradually grow louder and the wet squelching sounds of dripping center bounce on the walls, “More, Hwa. Please.” You released a broken sob; your breath quivering, nails now digging into your palm.

“So fucking greedy.” His husky voice and dark chuckle resonated inside your eardrums, “What do you want, love? My fingers?”

A bothered and childish mhm from you was heard. “Want your cock.”

You glanced down at him, meeting his dark gaze. You almost fainted when you saw him between your legs, his large pupils dilated by the ecstasy, the corner of his lips stained by your wetness. He looked so docile beneath you, but you knew that with just one command from him, you would get on all fours and a dog collar would magically appear around your neck. 

‘If I come out of this alive, it would be interesting to try it’, you thought.

“Well, aren’t you a needy little whore?” He separated from your cunt to move up to your lips and seal your protests. His tongue, once again, dominating your thoughts and mouth, “But you’re not in control tonight, sweetheart.” 

You felt how, in an agile movement, his hand grasped your hair, taking a fistful of it, forcing you to stand up and allowing Seonghwa to manipulate you like a doll. 

“On your knees, doll.” His hand grabbed your hair in such a way that you could observe every feature of his face; of course it hurt you, but you were so lost in studying those irises, deep like the ocean, that nose, perfectly sculpted, that frown that you even considered cute, and those lips, so hot that you could burn yourself to hell with just one caress.

The pain began to get more intense, so you knelt and sighed internally as you felt his grip loosen up a little. You were face to face with his prominent erection, struggling to come out of the uncomfortable fabric that had imprisoned it for so long.

Your eyebrows fluttered as you looked up at him. His frown and swollen lips constituted his twisted face; his hands working hard and desperately trying to remove the garment. His pants pooled down his ankles and his length shot out, hitting and bouncing against your nose.

“Come on, baby. Suck it like a good girl.” His fingers traced a funny line all along your scalp, holding your hair in a ponytail; his leaking tip right on your lips

And you were more than happy to oblige. You parted your lips widely enough so that at least half of his length entered your oral cavity; you were well aware that there was no physical law or mathematical rule that would allow you to put his whole cock in your mouth, but you would do everything you could to return the favor and make him feel as good as he made you feel.

You heard Seonghwa hiss and curse under his breath. The pressure he kept on your ponytail grew stronger, but you couldn’t care less. Your hands and mouth were too busy satisfying Seonghwa’s big, hard cock. Your doe-eyed gaze looked up at him and met his tensed jawline, your pupils suddenly turning into pink, shiny hearts.

“Come on, doll. You can do better than that.” His praise was followed by a deep groan, his hand guiding your head further, “You can take it all in. Right, princess?”

You closed your eyes tightly like a scared child, trying not to gag around it. You had to show him that you were a good girl, and you would do it by giving him the best blowjob of his life.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Show me what that pretty mouth can do,” He praised through gritted teeth; his breath hitched, his muscles tensed, “Work for it, love. I’m almost there,”

You complied with his order, sucking harder with greater force. You wanted his mind to melt with all the pleasure you were giving him, for his body to surrender to yours. He hissed as soon as he noticed how you complied with his command.

“So fucking pliant. God,” He heaved a sigh. His free hand running through his silky, now sweaty hair, “You love sucking my cock, don’t you?”

“Yes, daddy,” You yearned, your lips forming a cute smile, without showing your teeth. Your glaze-over eyes caused Seonghwa to utter some profanity you couldn’t quite understand.

“Can’t wait anymore,” You heard him say breathlessly. 

His hand caught your shoulder and gently pulled it up, indirectly ordering you to stand up. Once on your feet, your knees felt partially sore. His hand guided you towards the bed again, but you stopped when you saw that he was the one who lay down first, his back flat against the headboard.

Seonghwa analyzed your state from the bed; messy hair, messy lipstick, mascara dripping from the sides of your eyes, exquisitely erect nipples, neck and thighs marked with bites and red hickeys. ‘A sight for sore eyes’, he thought.

He patted his lap a few times and locked gazes with you, “Get in here and ride me, doll.”

Your body quivered in excitement and you quickly climbed onto the bed to straddle his lap, his hardening cock making contact with your wet folds. You unconsciously began to move against his length seeking relief or some sort of friction. Seonghwa was quick to catch your hips in his hands, stopping your desperate movement.

“Desperate, are we?” He whispered, almost dismissively, “What did I say earlier, love?”

“That I have to behave,” You repeated as if you had studied his words.

“Good girl,” He grabbed almost tenderly your cheek and joined your lips once again in a feverish kiss. You were so immersed in the feelings that kiss caused you that you didn’t realize the moment in which Seonghwa slid his fat cock inside you, a broken moan pouring out of your lips.

“F...Fuck, Seonghwa. Be gentle- mgh!” You stumbled over your words as you felt him so deep inside you, a perfectly formed lump in your belly. Your breath hitched the moment you felt him shift in his place, his cock deliciously reaching unknown spots.

The way he threw his head back due to the tightness of your walls made you squeeze him even more. He had his eyes shut tightly as he breathed in heavily, large beads of sweat rolling on his temple and hanging on for dear life on his sharp jawline.

Yes, that mere vision had you moaning and your throwing your head back.

Exactly a minute passed and Seonghwa hadn’t performed a single move. Your desperation was beginning to overflow and you found no other way to show him your impatience other than by whining like a baby.

“Daddyy, please move,” You cried out; doe-eyed as you stared at him.

“Show me how badly you want my cock, doll.” He muttered faintly in a low voice. 

You had said unimaginable things that night. It couldn’t hurt to lose a little more dignity.

“Pleaseee, daddy. I need your cock so badly, need you to fill me up and fuck my brains out,” Your heart was intensely hammering your ribs; your heartbeat deafening your eardrums.

“If you don’t shove your cock inside me, then I’ll do it.” You protested.

“Do it then. Fuck yourself on my cock, silly girl.” 

And he didn’t have to tell you twice. You began to bounce on his cock as if your life depended on it, your hands using his broad shoulders as support. Shattered moans and husky grunts filled the room up, the clash between your skins being the main sound of the symphony. 

“S-seonghwa- Nghh, ahh! You’re so.. sooo- ugh!” You had lost the ability to formulate intelligible sentences the moment Seonghwa started hammering his hips into yours.

“So what? So deep that you can’t even think straight anymore?” A weird combination between a strained moan and a chuckle left his lips, “I really did fuck your brains out, huh?”

Seonghwa asked you and you didn’t even have the time to agree before another loud cry left your swollen, red lips. Accordingly, he abruptly shoved two of his fingers into your mouth, muffling your moans and keeping them at an ideal volume —low enough so that no one would think he was killing you.

Your mind was completely mush by then; his thrusts grew harder, faster and sloppier, his fingers eventually leaving your hot mouth. You were sure that with a couple of thrusts, Seonghwa would open the doors of an unknown heaven for you, pushing you into an eccentric abyss of pleasure.

“Right there! Ugh right the fuck there..” You sobbed brokenly, “I’m gonna- c-cum, ahh! Please daddy, can I? Pleasepleaseplease,”

“Cum, pretty girl. Make a mess all over my cock,”

And with no delay, you squirted like champagne, staining his cock and the expensive sheets with your fluids. You let Seonghwa manipulate your body as he pleased to reach his high as well. Overstimulation being very sensitive and toe-curling but with your priority being Seonghwa’s release, you couldn’t care less.

“Fucking hell, you’re squeezing down on me- ah! so hard..” His breath hitched for the last time that night; his muscles tensing with your recent release, “Gonna cum inside you and fill you up so fucking good. Gonna be walking with my cum dripping out of your pussy for a week,”

And he did. He filled you to the bone the moment he hammered his hips against yours for the last time. He remained still for a couple of seconds as he felt his cock twitch inside your warm, squishy walls.

You caught you breath after a few minutes in silence, finally settling into bed; both of you lying down while Seonghwa wrapped his arms around your waist, keeping you close to him.

“Well, wasn’t that supposed to be a punishment?” You question.

“Are you complaining?”

“No,” A cute giggle came out of you, ”So, what do we do now?”

“We both go back to our lives, of course,”

You knew it would end like this. But why does it hurt you a little?

A moment of uncomfortable silence came in. Until Seonghwa decided to break it, “Let’s exchange numbers. Maybe we can keep on talking? You know, I could help you with your work and you could help me with mine.”

A fond smile decorated your lips, your iris suddenly turning into shiny bulbs, “Sounds good to me,”

You settled back into his arms, finding warmth in them. A warmth and security that you haven’t felt in a long time. His calm breathing numbed your eyelids, which were beginning to close little by little. Finally you were immersed in a soft, ideal world of dreams and stars, surrounded by Seonghwa’s arms.

Maybe, after all, your boyfriend was something you could get over with

| masterlist

[saradika]

— BLEED FOR ME | part ii

[masterlist]

mand’alor!vampire!din djarin x f!reader

rated e - 3.4k

haunted hoedown prompts: vampire!au + “i would burn the world for you.” + vampire has a taste for specific blood + revenge + (one-sided) enemies to lovers (+ 1 to be revealed!)

tags: vampire!au, drinking blood, reader has scar on shoulder, mentions of death, shared memories, light angst

He fills the doorway, as silent as he was downstairs.

Lingering there as you try to keep your breathing under control. A second where you wonder if he saw, if he suspected - your hands clasped together on your lap to stay the tremor.

Preparing for his wrath.

Not ready for the way he waits, his low voice asking for your permission to enter the room.

For the way he comes quietly to you after - the glove that finally reaches, touches. Tipping your chin up again, like she had.

So carefully, a knuckle curved under your chin. As if he’s afraid you’ll break.

His helmet tilts, the smallest movements as he takes you in.

“You don’t have to do this.”

The Mand’alor’s voice is low - soft and distorted through the helmet. Not what you were expecting, but the words make your blood turn to ice.

Don’t have to do what? Your stomach churns as you think that he did see you - the twitch of your hand as you wonder if you could manage, if you could reach-

“I chose you,” His voice breaks the silence again. “But if you’re unwilling, I won’t feed. If it’s money you need, I’ll see that you’ve taken care of. I’ll find someone else.”

It’s so entirely unexpected. A nervous glance sent his way - and for a second, you wished there were eyes to meet. An opportunity to truly read him, for why would someone so heartless offer an alternative?

But you need him to take it. To take you - his armor shed and his defenses down, so you can put an end to this.

You deserved it, didn’t you? Revenge on the man who had stolen your home from you. The cozy life you had led, in the little cottage at the edge of the village.

It’s just a pile of stone, now.

Too much time had been spent getting to this moment for you to accept his offer, even as tempting as it is.

Because you couldn’t live here, surrounded in this finery. Playing a pet, while they depended on you.

The ones who had found you. Choking on smoke and half-dazed at the edge of the forest. Helping you up from where you were slumped against the base of that old, oak tree.

Swept until their wing after the destruction. There had been no place left for you, as the morning dawn creeped into afternoon.

You had barely escaped with your life.

And soon after, the plan was formed. If you could take down their leader, the rest would fall. Their whispers reeking of vengeance, sinking its talons into your skin.

Convincing you that you deserved it, didn’t you?

Uncertainty has kept you awake, in those days as you had thought it over. Because things could be rebuilt. The world was a vast place - you could start over.

But then they told you that this happened, often. That the vampires would crush small towns like yours, looking to feed. Leaving behind only silent memories and ghosts.

That is what got you. And it’s that thought turned into a knowing, a certainty.

You can’t let that happen to someone else.

Days of training turned into weeks, and then months. Then, a year.

Because it had to be you - there was too much history for any of the Slayers to do it. They’d be recognized a mile off.

Learning how they fight, until the weight of the silver dagger on your hip brought comfort.

“Wait until he’s distracted.”

“Do whatever it takes, just make sure-”

“Make sure you don’t trust him.”

“Not a single word.”

And finally, it had been time. You had three moons - until the winter solstice. After that, the vampires would keep inside for the Long Sleep, and not be seen until Spring.

If you did not complete your task in time, then you’d be trapped with them. If you succeeded too late, you’d freeze in the cold before you got far.

The sharpened piece of wood had been shoved into your hand, this morning.

“Run this through his heart.”

“Rip off his head. Burn him.”

“Trap him with the sun.”

Their advice hummed beneath your skin, as you had approached the castle. Your plans had been a heavy weight in your stomach, twisting with the unease at what you have to do.

To offer yourself up to a vampire was no mere feat.

But when that vampire was a Mandalorian, encased in that shining armor, it was all but madness.

It was no secret that he sought blood. That offerings were brought to him, almost always turned away.

No one could sate his thirst. He had paid no mind to the others that were ushered in with you. You had wondered if he could smell your deception, clinging to your skin.

But he had chosen you.

And if this is how you had to pay them back, you would.

Your head shakes, as you make your decision, "I… I am willing."

There's a second of silence, as if he wants to press. As if he's not sure, himself.

But then he's carefully tugging off the rust-tipped gloves, lowering himself onto the ottoman near the desk. Leaving the leather to rest on his thigh armor as his hands come into view.

You hold your breath.

But there’s no sharp claws, no blood caked under nails, no fur or scales.

It's just a hand. Tanned skin and human, as far as you can tell.

It eases some of the apprehension, though your heart still races from almost being caught. At the thought of this next part - the pain of the bite and the fire in your veins.

You had been told to be brave. To grit your teeth and work through it - that it was something you'd have to learn to bear, if you were to get close to him.

But the thought of it, that anticipation, has your muscles strung tight. It takes more effort than you'd like to admit for your head to tilt to the side, for you to bare your neck to him.

He takes your wrist, instead.

A large hand wrapping around, his thumb pressing against the place where your pulse pounds. Something hot and electric arcing through you at his touch, though his skin is cool against yours.

"Thank you." The Mand'alor tells you, and there’s a depth to his words as he's lifts the edge of his helmet.

Just to his nose, and no further. He's human here, too - a pretty curve of lips framed by dark facial hair. Your eyes linger, realizing this is a sight that near-none had seen. Curiosity sparking, until those lips are parting.

And the two sharp fangs come into view, instead.

It has you tensing, as his grip tightens - that thumb smoothing over your skin. Almost soothing in its movement, though you can't comprehend why.

"Just a pinch." He murmurs, "You'll be alright."

You huff a breath at his words just as his head dips down to your wrist - and then, he's biting down.

There's a sharp ache as his fangs pierce your skin, and you wait for more. For the feeling of being sliced open, the burn of the venom, for your bones to crack beneath his teeth.

But, none comes.

Just the sensation of pulling, the buzz of his mouth against your skin as he groans, deep in his chest. The sound sends heat to your cheeks, it feels too intimate a noise for someone you just met.

For someone so cruel.

The pain was no more than the accidental prick of a finger against a dagger. That brief pain soothed by the continuous sweep of his thumb. A strange sort of contented drowsiness passing over you instead, tempting you to close your eyes.

And then, you do.

There's flashes. The pulse of lights that glitter like stars, mimicking the beating of your heart. A snapshot of images, flickering briefly in your mind.

Some, you recognize. Your old bedroom, the garden outside. Tulips swaying in a summer breeze. A second later and it's tilting - crumbling beneath your steps.

There's a child, their eyes round and black. The flash of something black, crackling with a bright light. An ocean, beneath the ground - dragging you under.

A sensation of being lifted. The warmth of your cheek pressed against ice. A soft bed of grass, the bark biting into your shoulder.

The pulse in your throat drops down, down, down. Settling somewhere low, between your thighs. Your breath feels trapped in your chest, and when you let it loose, it's a soft moan-

You gasp, then - and your eyes are opening. He's pulled away, fingers smearing red across his lips - the peek of a pink tongue as he licks them clean. Hiding himself away again under the mask, as your wrist lies limply in your lap.

"You did well," He tells you, "I know that was a lot. It will get easier."

The images are still flashing in your mind. Ones that you know well blending with others. Had you been sleeping? Was more of your memory from that night unlocked?

There's a soft pressure against your wrist, and you jerk. Coming back from your thoughts, looking down to see him swipe a cream across puncture marks that were still raw and oozing.

An opened jar sits on the table, indentations in the pale salve where his fingers had been. Your mind feels hazy as you watch the way he works it into your skin - as the residual bit of throbbing wanes, the deep marks seeming to lessen before your eyes.

"They'll be gone in the morning." He tells you. There's a rough edge to his voice that wasn't there before, as he pushes himself up. Leaving the salve where it is, as his hands disappear behind the gloves.

Extending one though, to help you up. A little wobble to your step as you take it, as you let him guide you to the bed. It's soft beneath your touch, the mattress dipping as you sink back into it.

"Would you like anything?" The Mand'alor asks, "Food? Water?"

You feel... drained. Which is a humorous little thought, in your exhausted mind. A small smile, an echo of that low, thudding pulse as your legs push together, as you stretch.

"No, I'm just-" A yawn splits your face, coming from deep in your chest, "Sorry, just tired. It was a long journey."

It's easy to play the willing companion now, when you're fighting exhaustion. Your shields down with the promise of sleeping in a real bed, knowing you're not strong enough to fight tonight.

Tomorrow, you can try again.

"Of course." He stands at the foot of the bed. In your current state he almost looks awkward, with the cocked tilt of his hips. Looking as if he's ready to bolt, "I'll have Fennec bring you food when you wake."

Fennec. It must be the woman you met earlier. She had never given you her name.

Your nod is slow, a cracked open eye fixing on his helmet. In the light of the hallway he doesn't seem quite so big as he did before. Still broad, but you're no longer fearing what lies beneath.

"I'll be back tomorrow night." He tells you, "Not to feed, but to check on you."

You don't answer this time, already toeing the line of sleep. Missing the way he lingers for a long moment in the doorway. Before the heavy wooden door is closing, and you're left alone to dream.

Leaving you to wonder, as your eyes close - as you slip beneath the blankets, curling up. You knew he'd keep you alive. How else was he to feed?

But you never anticipated this, this...

This kindness.

You keep waiting for that veneer to crack - for that monster to be released. But it never does.

There is breakfast, the next morning. Then, lunch.

The skin on your wrist is smooth again by mid-morning, almost as if it never happened. A seamstress in your room by the afternoon, her eyes glittering as you’re measured for new clothes.

“You can’t be seen with the Mand’alor with only these,” Vera had all but giggled, a manicured finger flicking towards the small pack of clothes you had brought.

Too plain. Too worn.

You dress in soft linens now, in shades of crimson and slate. That brass rack along the wall filled to the brim with new finery.

Intricate beadings and rich fabrics and when the Mand’alor visits you that night, he’s quiet.

And with the new clothes, soon you do not look so out of place when you wander the empty halls during the day.

Unable to sleep while the sun is shining. Refusing to board up your pretty windows, to mimic a semblance of night.

You live stubbornly between two worlds. Out of sync from the rest of the castle for your first week. Bidding a good morning to Fennec as she eats her dinner. Skirting around her shadow - a broad man in dark green armor.

He no longer startles you, like he did in the beginning. Another Vampire Lord from across the sea, though there seemed to be no end to his visitation.

His eyes were always dark, always watching. He did not wear the helmet as the Mand’alor did - you would watch each expression flicker across his face, before it flattened.

A different kind of mask worn.

It has you curious, in spite of everything. Even though it takes you a few more days to pluck up the courage.

“Did Boba chose you, too?” You ask Fennec one evening.

Morning, for you now, you suppose. You have been trying, lately. The bread soaks into the dregs of your soup, as you swirl it along the bottom.

“In a ways.” She smiles. That rough edge softening over the days you’ve been here - her hackles lowering when it becomes clear that you were a little different than the others.

That you were the same you as you were before.

If only she knew in what way.

“It wasn’t like yours. And it was years ago.” She continues - an elbow digging into the wooden table, a palm cupped under her chin, “I was dying, and he found me.”

It’s not what you were expecting, the hunk of bread lying forgotten in your bowl.

“I suppose you could say he saved me.” A shoulder raises, and then drops, “I’d mistrusted someone. Slipped up, and found myself nearly gutted. No one could survive a wound like that.”

You don’t think you’ve take a breath since she started speaking - there was so little you knew about vampires. Only what you had been told, the bit you had gleaned from the books in your room.

“Boba found me, and he gave me a choice.”

“But,” You blink, “But you’re human, still?”

She ate, like you did. Did not stand with the same eerie stillness, not even taking a breath.

“He did not change me.” Fennec confirms, “But his blood healed me. And I’ve followed him since.”

“I did not… I did not realize vampires cared that much for humans.” You admit with embarrassment.

She gives you a knowing look, one that you do not understand. But a voice joins yours, low and laced with humor.

“We were all human, once. And you have not seen her on the battlefield, ad’ika.”

She smirks, as Boba fingers tap against the table, where he’s come to lean.

“Yes, it’s not my charming personality that has you keeping me around.”

He huffs a laugh, and there’s something like camaraderie between them.

A friendship.

It leaves you more confused than ever.

It’s morning, when he comes next.

The gentle knock at your door startling you awake. Most of the castle was asleep by now. You’re still trying to reset your internal clock - thinking that by now, you should be making an effort.

Not expecting him to be outside, as you pulled your robe a little more tightly around yourself.

It's been four days since he last fed, though you've seen him often in that time. The dip of his head when he passes you in the corridors. Watching him from the plush seats in the throne room - his helmet just barely tilting your way when he's not being spoken to.

You wonder if he's been watching you, too. If he thinks you will bolt - if he harbors any suspicions.

"Forgive me for not thinking of this sooner." He tells you, as you step aside to let him in, "I should have been doing this from the beginning."

"Doing what?" You frown, as you move to the bench by the window. A spot you've occupied the last two visits, preferring the wide bench to the narrow wooden desk chair.

"You're still getting used to this. Visiting you as the evening falls isn't helping you adjust." The Mand'alor explains, as you tug up the sleeve of your robe, baring the skin of your wrist.

His suggestion is thoughtful. As time has passed you've grown stronger, more used to the feeling. No longer sleeping right away, able to fight that sense of drowsiness.

It extends to the during, as well. If you concentrate hard enough, parts of those visions that flashed behind your closed eyes come into focus. And if you try really hard, the images fade to just sensations.

You couldn't explain if, if you tried. It certainly hadn't been something divulged during your training. In fact, a tiny part of you wondered if any of them even had knowledge of being a companion. Everything so far has felt... off.

Distorted by a degree, as if the road you were traveling had split, but still followed their path.

"You are the Mand'alor," You shrug, trying to brush off his consideration, "I am bound to follow your wishes."

He makes a sound, a low hum. It's as close to a laugh as you've heard, as he lowers himself to the bench next to you.

"I think we are past titles, seeing as I've tasted you." His voice is low, rough behind the helmet, "You may call me Din, when we're alone."

There's a heat in your cheeks at the innuendo, though he can't possibly mean it that way. His hands are already bare, fingers pressing against your skin. Feeling how your pulse had jumped at his words.

His helmet tips higher, this time. Resting on the bridge of his nose, his full lips on display.

It’s still too hard to watch - your eyes closing as he bites down. A small inhale of breath in anticipation, but you’ve gotten used to the impact.

Your eyes fighting to stay open this time, to stay in your own head. Unable to help risking a glance, then.

At the wash of red against full lips. The scruff of his jaw, the patch of hair missing - you imagine your thumb pressing against it.

Wondering if his face would feel like face, or it would be cool marble, like his hand.

His throat bobs, with the softest groan.

It’s natural, you tell yourself. You’ve groaned while eating the freshly-baked bread in the kitchens. Though it’s funny to think of yourself as the meal.

Idle fingers play with the edge of the heavy curtain, slipping through the fringe.

It’s then that the thought hits you. How distracted he was, at this moment.

How it’s morning.

How the whole castle is asleep.

Your fingers pinch down on the tassel. Testing the tension as you eye your desk, across the room but no more than a quick dash away.

All it would take is the slightest tug.

The morning sun would pour across his bare neck, the lower half of his face. Burning him, enough of a distraction that you could go for the stake. Fit it between his ribs, in that soft spot under his armpit.

You inhale a breath, to steel your nerves.

At the movement, his fingers stroke against your wrist. A means to soothe you.

And you find…. that you can’t do it.

Not right now. Not yet.

And this morning marks the beginning of that funny feeling that starts in your stomach. An unease, though it feels like you’re drowning in it.

Is it from wearing his colors? Is it your visions, or the echoing thud that tipped towards something carnal?

Is it because the thought of your revenge was so much easier when he was nameless?

Or is it because you’re still not sure what stayed your hand?

It’s not something you can think about, now.

You just need to play your part.

thanks so much for reading! 🥀💕 if you’d like to be tagged please let me know!

(tags: @dameron-grant-spector, @sugadolly, @writingsofestella)

[drapopia]

hard day's work

pairing: papa emeritus ii x reader

warnings: some small mentions of getting hot and heavy, the usual mention of secondo and the reader having a healthy sex life

summary: For a man who boasts of a plush king sized bed, Secondo surely loves falling asleep in an armchair with a good book, to the despair of his back the next day.

word count: 1.4k

authors note: whoa buddy, here's another ghost drabble! i have a hard time with secondo's personality, especially in softer, domestic spaces. i just hope i've done a sort of okay job? with time comes improvement! hopefully ya'll enjoy it, feedback is highly appreciated! :)

————

The room is silent, save for the hum of the central heating and the occasional flip of a page. 

Well, it’s almost silent. Secondo sits in the corner of the room in his armchair made of lush velvet, a dark green that stands out against the muted gray robe he wears. You can see the slow rise and fall of his chest, his head reclined back against the chair at an angle. You can tell that if you don’t wake him soon, he’ll wake up tomorrow with a grumble and a hiss, and you would have to rub the knots from the base of his neck with a coo and a kiss. Not that you mind, but you don't want him in pain, even if he enjoys the feel of your hands on his sorest spots. 

His hands rest on his lap, the book he was reading was slowly but surely slipping out of his hands. His breath is still light and even, a far cry from the usual deep snores he lets out when he’s checked out for the day. From your spot on the loveseat across the room, you can see his nose twitching in the cold air. Although being curled up in the fleece blanket on the couch is appealing, the thought of leaving him in the cold, even while dozing, makes your heart twinge in distress. How many times had he roused you from your sleep after a long movie, picking you up gingerly and tucking you into your shared bed? You couldn’t count, you couldn’t help but feel comfortable around him. You always had, even when you first entered the Ministry. 

With a sigh, you pull yourself up from your sitting position, walking as quietly as possible towards him. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you got closer to him, standing beside and gazing down at him. His face was bare of paint, his eyes only holding a small smudge of black at the tightest corners of his crows feet. His nose was still twitching with the rise and fall of his chest, his breath light and slow. As quietly and gently as possible, you reach for his book to pull it from his loose grasp. Your hands close around it, and mark it to keep his place. Turning it over, you inspect the cover with a small smile. He was re-reading Crime and Punishment. You had teased him many times about it, how he would scoff and roll his eyes about his distaste for older Russian literature. How he felt it went on and on, was repugnantly repetitive, self pitying and obnoxious. But here he was, turning the pages once more of a book he ‘despised’. 

Shaking your head, you turn towards him once more and place your hand on his cheek. You feel the harsh contours of his face, thankful that you couldn’t feel any tension in the apples of his cheeks. This week had been hard on him so far, and it was only Wednesday. You had found him earlier in his office when you stopped with a teeny-tiny quick pick-me-up espresso. While he had thanked you with a kiss and a light squeeze of your hand in his, you had seen the way his shoulders remained bunched with tension, how his hands had a tremor as they held the tiny cup in his hand. And now here he was, as docile as the lambs he spoke of in his captivating sermons at Mass. 

Leaning forward, you press a kiss to his cheek and pull away a fraction, noticing the way his eyelids twitched and his small mustache scrunched up. Smiling, you pepper kisses on his cheeks, as delicately as you can muster. A soft huff of breath hits your neck from where you’re positioned. 

“Cara, what are you doing?” He murmurs, a ricochet of heat hitting your stomach at the deliciously rich timbre of his voice. A large hand, free of his gloves and comfortably warm, hits your hip. You pull back slowly, meeting his gaze as he blinks his syrupy eyes to clear the sleepiness. 

“You know you can’t sleep here, you’ll be groaning all day tomorrow. This armchair doesn’t look all that comfortable, to be quite honest.” You whisper softly. 

“That’s what you think.” He says quietly, the corners of his lips barely noticeable and curling into an almost imperceptible grin. Secondo was more permissible, a tad bit more open when he was slowly slipping from sleep. His eyes held a softness, his words losing their bite. And while you loved the cold charm of him in the day, it always made your heart skip a beat to see him so delightfully unguarded when he woke to the sight of you. 

You pat his chest softly with your hand, raising up with a soft puff. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you into bed.” Your lips turn up at the corners at his small huff of exertion, extending your hands in an inviting gesture towards him. He slides up the armchair, stretching out slightly as he grabs your arms to pull himself up with a groan. And just as he rises from the chair, his arms come to wrap themselves around you, gazing down at you. 

He looks at you, a fond smile on his face. Without the guards of papal paint or his sunglasses, his face was so kind. So much easier to see the way the creases on his forehead melted, the way his eyes crinkled with barely concealed adoration. “Sleep? I suppose we could.” He rasps, leaning in to press a kiss against your lips. HIs accent was deliciously thicker in the throes of sleepiness, and you felt the hair on your neck rise. 

You return the kiss, your lips moving in a well practiced synchronicity. But unlike the passionate nights you shared and the lascivious words he would whisper in your ear with no shame, there was no heat behind the kisses you were exchanging now. Even as his hands curled behind your back, tracing the curve of your spine with dedication and reverence. You smile against the kiss, breaking it as you pull back. 

“Come on,” you whisper and press a kiss to the tip of his nose before he could scoff in mock distaste. “I’ll warm up the heating blanket, maybe give you a back rub? Read you some more of that delicious Russian literature you like so much?” You say teasingly, grabbing his hand and walking towards your large bedroom the two of you found respite in every day. In each other's bodies, words, and simple gestures. 

“I hate Dostoevsky, you know this.” He grumbles, ambling beside you to wrap his arm around your waist and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as your feet hit the plush carpet of your room. 

“Of course, of course. And that’s why you fell asleep with it in your hands.” You smile, rolling your eyes. You reach the bed, pulling back the duvet. Slipping in with a sigh, you pull the covers up to your neck and nestle in, much like a rabbit in its burrow. 

Secondo slips off his robe, completely naked. Before you can admire him, he slips into bed beside you and pulls the covers over himself. Maybe tomorrow you can catch a quick peek, but for tonight, you'll be content with the heat of him beside you.

“I had to bore myself, send myself off to sleep, no?” He leans back against the pillows, gesturing lackadaisically for you to lay against him. You shuffle closer to him, his warmth a soothing balm to the unease of the day. 

“Just come curl up with me instead, problem solved.” You murmur, and Secondo chuckles at your comment as he leans over to flick off the lamp on his nightstand. 

“What do you think it is we’re doing here, amore? I want you here with me, not the dreadful pages of a self pitying bastard pouring his heart out.” He says softly, his eyes falling closed. Papa is still tired, the rise and fall of his chest becoming more even. Your hands reach out instinctively, patting his tummy with as much care as possible. 

“That almost sounds like an ‘I love you’, Secondo.” You say quietly, the tease barely noticeable under your exhaustion, feeling your own eyes slip closed under the weight of the darkness over you both. His hands pull you closer, his chest hair a cushion on your cheek. 

“I do love you.” He says softly, the soft silence around the two of you relaxing the both of you quicker than you’d like to admit. “Now shush, amore.” He says firmly, but with no bite. You smile to yourself, and all you hear is the soft breathing of your Papa, your best friend beside you. 

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Also again no pressure to write but you know I'm a sucker for a happy end and for Lorcan so his sister being mad at him kills me 😭💜😂

I knew you would fall victim to this😂

Part I here

The light we cannot see II

His ego was bigger than he was. Not an amazing asset to have at times. So Lorcan stuck to what he knew best. Beating the life out of a practice dummy as if there was no tomorrow. Letting his anger flow through him. Growling at himself each time the punch didn’t meet his standards. “You will harm yourself”, the voice made Lorcan jolt slightly. His nostrils flared as he looked at the man he least wanted to see. “If I was you I would go the fuck away”, he grunted, turning back to throw another punch.

“She’s back, safe and sound in her room. Thought you might want to know that”, Rowan tapped his hand on the doorway arch, before inching to step out of the training grounds. “Why?”, Lorcan called out into the night. His back was to Rowan but he could tell that the male stalled as well. “Why her? Even more so how and fucking when?”, turning in full force Lorcan glared at the male who was oozing calmness. “I can’t help my heart, I wanted her from the moment I saw her”, Rowan stated firmly. “Is it only your heart?”, it was a low dig. Out of them all Rowan was the last to sleep around. “I haven’t had sex with your sister if that’s your way of asking”, Rowan started, “I’ve been seeing her for a couple of months. She hasn’t even agreed to be mine, not until you approve”. Lrocan swallows thickly. Eyes burning into Rowan. He wanted to hate him. To find nothing but bitter frustration. “You know Maeve and you willingly put her in danger”, Lorcan points a finger at Rowan. “Don’t you think that it keeps me up at night? You think I’m not scared for her?”, now the tone picks up as he steps closer to Lorcan. “News flash, that thought alone kept me away from her for decades but I can’t…”, Rowan’s voice dies down, “I…”, his eyes burn into Lorcan and he knows exactly where this is going. Knows that if that word leaves his mouth then no power will be on his side.

“I think she’s my mate”, Rowan runs a hand through his hair. And Lorcan can see the tremor there. “She doesn’t know and I won’t just drop it on her but… I… Put yourself in my shoes, Lorcan”, Rowan shakes his head. Lorcan closes his eyes letting his head drop. The silence stretches between them. “She is the only good thing that came out of our fucked up family, Rowan”, the males stand there looking at each other, “She is too good for this world, and if you…”, “I would rather take my own life than watch her hurt”, Rowan cuts in, “I love your sister. I want to give her everything”. Lorcan simply nods. “I hate you, for now at least”, the dark wielder point out, dropping his gloves he slips out of the training room.

He stands outside your door for almost an hour. Losing the number of times he had lifted his fists to knock on your door and backed out. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t take back the things he says. He’s never wrong. But it’s different when it comes to you. “For fuck sake, just come in”, the door swings open, your tiny frame barely filling the frame. “How did you…”, he trails off before his sibling instinct prickles as well. A gift your mother had left you on her dying bed.

“What do you want?”, you grunt, crossing your arms over your chest. “I talked with Rowan”, he hopes that would win him extra words to say before you’re kicking him out but your expression doesn’t change. “I’m sorry about what I said”, he sighs, “I… I shouldn’t have brought our mother’s fate into this. You’re not her and Rowan isn’t our father”, he states firmly. Your sadness crushed his soul as he watched your sad eyes. “I understand your fears but…”, you trail off shaking your head.

“I know and I am sorry”, he reaches out, pulling at your hand, “You know that I’m a bastard. I suck at communicating”. You huff, “Tell me about it”, “I just want you to be happy and if Rowan makes you happy then so be it”, Lorcan squeezes your hand. “I’m still pissed at you”, you point a warning finger at him before letting yourself be pulled into his arms. “I’m selfish, I don’t want to share my light with anyone else”, Lorcan kisses the top of your head. “Just because I found a partner doesn’t mean I’ll stop being your little sister”, you reach up flicking his nose. Lorcan rolls his eyes, “Maybe I should just ship you out to Rowan”, you let out a fake gasp, “Don’t threaten me with happiness”.

[spockvarietyhour]

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Homelander being obsessed with his sister HC IV

Warnings: heavy siblingxsibling implications, Homelander being such a narcissist that he falls in "love" with his own sibling, dubcon, noncon, manipulation, stalking, basically all the horrible parts of HL come out to play, MC has blonde hair and blue eyes like HL, different plot than 'All I Ever Wanted, All I Ever Needed', kidnapping,

I II III V

With you and Homelander demolishing the top floor of Vought Tower with your fighting, the rest of the floors are forced to evacuate.

You're younger and smaller than Homelander. Worse was your inexperience with fighting against another supe of his pedigree.

I imagine that somehow you manage to escape and get away but it's only a matter of time before Homelander sniffs you out. But both of you are battered from the fight, each tired.

He doesn't try to fight you. instead he sits down next to you, heaving out a sigh. You're scared, you won't lie. At any moment HL could just turn to you and grab you.

"I'm just. . . terrified to lose you again." HL finally admits. You've heard how he was raised. That isolating loneliness along with the terrible trials they put him through must have really fucked him up. You couldn't even fathom what he'd went through.

That was still no excuse for him kidnapping you. He understood what he had down in keeping you against your will. How else would he be sure he'd ever see you again?

There was obvious desperation in his voice, a tremor in his blue eyes as he has a death grip on your hand. He was just a child. An overgrown, murderous child that had never experienced genuine love and affection.

Don't get me wrong, you are fucking furious. You were kept against your will. You felt like his goddamn canary in a gilded cage. You'd never felt so powerless in your entire life. You hated that feeling. Was that how civilians felt around you?

All that time left alone in his apartment gave you a lot to think about. You'd rolled the situation over and over in your head. Analyzing all that you knew and all that you were still learning.

Both of you spend hours there, just talking. More than you had during your entire captivity. It was difficult for Homelander to be honest about his feelings. He told you all the fucked up shit he'd done. You tell him your own fears and he really listens.

By no means though have you forgiven him. You point that out but say "I suppose the only way you can ever get my forgiveness is if you prove to me that you're truly sorry."

You knew, in his twisted little head, that he loved you. More than anyone has. Maybe a little too much with the way he looked at you sometimes or certain things that would slip from his mouth every now and then.

If you wanted him to prove himself to you, that meant that you were willing to see him again.

You set boundaries, though a few of them you noticed him grimace at. If he wanted you in his life, willingly, he had to abide by them.

You were not going to be anyone's prisoner ever again. No matter how nicely they treated you

He wasn't going to like not having you easily accessible. This was how healthy and normal relationships worked. If there was any chance of getting you to trust him again, he'd have to go along with it.

At least it would give him the opportunity to see you and perhaps have you warmed up to him once more.

[wing-ed-thing]

Foul Creature (Tobirama x Reader) Part VI

Synopsis: You would say that you grew up together. From children, to teenagers, to young leaders, you did nothing but be who you were and Tobirama would forever name his love for you as the reason he hated the Uchiha.

Word Count: 6k

Tags/Warnings: Warning for dark themes ahead, including physical child abuse, violence, and non-con elements. Fem!Uchiha!Reader. Please consult AO3 for more specific warnings.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI

Notes: IT IS HERE! YES! i purposefully make it long and full of drama to make up for the amount of times I pushed the release back. I also put a lot of my own thoughts in the end author’s notes so please enjoy! I most definitely could not have written this content a year ago let me tell you—

The memory of you struck him like lightning, electrocuting him to his core with panic and disgust. He revoked his touch from you as you began to sit up on the riverbank in acute panic. 

He just stared at you. Tobirama had no idea how he remembered you, yet he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Yes, you were older, but as he considered the shape of your face, he could see the unmistakable look from the forest back then. You had the same nose, such a familiar laugh, and your eyes… even without your sharingan.

He had thought of you as a foul creature. 

That morning when he first saw you in the woods. 

Tobirama had come home much earlier that day in defeat. He hadn’t wanted to stay and train after his encounter with you. He tried to continue, to find another spot to collect himself, but he ultimately couldn’t help but feel that you were still there, watching him. Knowing an Uchiha lurked around in the woods, it was probably best that he didn’t go off alone for his safety.

He remembered how his father stormed toward him when he returned to the compound. Butsuma’s jaw was clenched as tightly as ever, battle-toned arms swinging with each step of his furious gait. He swooped in on his son, grabbing Tobirama harshly by the arm. Tobirama was tugged along awkwardly, his legs too short for the angle at which Butsuma dragged him.

“Where have you been?” his father scolded lowly between gritted teeth. He paid no mind to the Senju meandering down the same dirt road, and they paid no mind to him in turn.

The question nearly made Tobirama’s heart drop in his chest, the memory of you spreading terror like wildfire across his skin. He looked into Butsuma’s gaze with wide eyes, wondering how his father could have possibly known he had made contact with an Uchiha. His fingers unconsciously rose to the space under his right eye, almost trembling. He was sure that his father could feel the tremor through his hold.

“Training, Father,” Tobirama answered earnestly. He almost crashed into Butsuma as his father stopped suddenly, the child only tripping for a moment before he was pulled into a nearby stable. 

“Tobirama, where have you been?” Butsuma barked, repeating his question more harshly. He jerked Tobirama away by the grip on his arm, allowing him to stumble back into the hay. All Tobirama could do was stare, ashamed that he had disgraced the Senju name and that his father could see it painted on him. Promises piled up on his lips: if he saw you again, he would surely kill you that time! He would immediately set out and— “You better answer me now, boy, or I’ll beat you within an inch of your life.”

“I was training with Grandfather’s kunai, Father! On the east end by the mountains like you taught me!” He nodded profusely, scrambling into a deep bow. Tobirama’s eyes knitted closed. 

The silence above him felt like it lasted for an eternity. Tobirama didn’t dare to look, and for a long moment, he couldn’t even meet his father’s eye. Somewhere between the seconds, he found himself mindlessly observing the small population of livestock grazing at the stable's far end. Tobirama glanced at them and their troughs. 

“You were not with Hashirama?” Butsuma spoke slowly, and Tobirama’s head carefully rose with a shake. 

“No, I was not.” Tobirama flinched as Butsuma’s hand came firmly down on his hair, placing just enough weight on his skull to ensure that all of Tobirama’s attention was on him. “I assure you. I was practicing my skill with the kunai.”

“Your elder brother has been acting suspiciously as of late. I want you to find him and report to me what he has been up to.” Butsuma landed a harsh pat on Tobirama’s back, ushering him away. He scrambled away as quickly as he could back into the forest, still gripping the pack of weaponry on his back.

***

It made more sense after that evening. 

Hashirama knelt on a cushion beside him, the two sons before their father. 

“About this boy you have been meeting up with. I looked into that young man and learned that he belongs to the Uchiha clan. Hashirama, you understand what that means, do you not?” The brothers stiffened, forcing on stoic faces so as not to let their discomfort show. Butsuma’s gaze narrowed. “If you do not want to be suspected as a spy, then you must shadow him after the next time the two of you meet. And if he should notice you… kill him.” 

Tobirama eyed his brother nervously. Undoubtedly, the conflict between the Senju and the Uchiha would mean this was the only way to rectify things. Tobirama stared down at his lap, guilt weighing down on his shoulders. 

There was no way for anyone to know about his encounter with you, and even if his father found out, Tobirama was different. At least he tried to kill you. That was enough, wasn’t it? Unlike Hashirama, he at least tried to do the right thing and kill the Uchiha on sight, no matter his level of success.

After a moment of preponderance, Hashirama spoke again,

“Are you completely sure he is an Uchiha?” 

Tobirama gulped, bracing himself for the heavy hit that awaited Hashirama. But it didn’t come. Butsuma studied him with crossed arms, bubbling rage mounting in his chest. He gritted his teeth.

“You trust a member of the clan who killed your brother?” Butsuma simmered. Tobirama stewed, praying for the moment that he was allowed to leave. Hashirama sat confused and still deep in thought on his cushion, not appearing nearly as worried as he should, in Tobirama’s opinion. “If he has been tricking you, you are putting every single Senju in danger.”

Despite Tobirama attempting to convince him otherwise, Hashirama was reluctant to comply. But after a lengthy beating from Butsuma, Hashirama finally agreed to be followed. As they eventually left the room, Tobirama couldn’t help but avert his gaze from the deep bruises and the forlorn expression on Hashirama’s face. 

***

“I am an apothecary,” you had told him. 

He didn’t ask you where. With the tumultuous clan wars, Tobirama assumed you were part of a smaller, nomadic group. As the more prominent clans and clan alliances fought, non-combatants traveled to safer ground, ironically forming their own larger herds for protection.

That was Tobirama’s first mistake: assuming.

“An apothecary,” Tobirama repeated. You wore his fur, curled up against a bed of river glass and hidden between a mess of boulders. He sat on a nearby rock, the headband you had confiscated and returned to him clutched in a ball in his hand. Tobirama cocked his head. “Is that a healer?”

“A woman healer?” you asked, hardly restraining the tiny smile that graced your lips. Your eyes glowed with wonder as you leaned forward, having never heard of such a thing. “No, I am afraid I only collect herbs for medicine. Although our current apothecary is very old, he taught me how to create medicines when we used to live by the coast. A rare honor.” Tobirama’s eyebrows rose on his forehead with an impressed blink.

“That is admirable. Your work takes a keen eye and a sharp mind.” You shifted against the grass to sit with your legs crossed as you leaned forward. A patch of small river flowers grew in a cluster where the gravel of the riverbank began. The white petals grew sporadically down the length of the land. You weaved your fingers through the tiny stems, the pure light color glowing against your skin. 

“You know about medicine?” you mused.

“Yes, my clan is well renowned for our knowledge of various medicines. The children are taught about these things at a young age, although, I possessed neither a keen enough eye nor a sharp enough mind for healing, to the disappointment of my mother.” You drew a bent knee toward your chest, rearranging your long robes as you gently collected the tiny flowers.

“Was she a woman healer?” You scooted forward to sit in front of him.

“No,” he said, letting you smooth back his hair. “She was a warrior like my father. Wove baskets—beautiful baskets— when she was with us. My grandmother was a master healer, though.”

“A woman master healer,” you breathed in awe to yourself, weaving the flowers into Tobirama’s hair. You couldn’t help the giddy smile that crossed your lips. “That is fascinating.” 

“My grandfather used to take me fishing in the northern streams before he passed. He always brought her herbs. Perhaps I could find some of her formulas. You may find them interesting.” 

“Really?” You leaned back on your ankles, admiring the little white flowers that adorned Tobirama’s crown. “I could not ask you to do such a thing.”

“If you are not allowed to learn of medicine and herbs, how else will you pursue being a great apothecary?” You blinked at him in disbelief, taken aback. “That is your dream, is it not? You speak of it often.”

“Do I?” You let out a light laugh, sheepishly averting your gaze. “I apologize. My good friend from home often tells me I speak too much.” Tobirama scoffed.

“Some friend,” he muttered, but his gaze softened as he adjusted the fur over your shoulders. “You do not speak too much. Especially when it concerns things you are passionate about. Therefore—” Tobirama plucked one of the flowers out of his hair and tucked it behind your ear. “Tell me about this flower.” 

You instinctively opened your mouth but quickly closed it when you noticed Tobirama’s expression chance. He held a glint in his eye and the beginning of a smile on his thin lips. He leaned forward, brushing your hand along another patch of little petals.

“I know you know this one,” he said softly before leaning back against the boulder behind him. His bright red eyes met your own. They held softness in them. “Please, I would like to listen.”

You almost laughed, your nervousness almost causing you to forget all your knowledge as his touch left you.

“They call this purity flower. It is incredibly delicate, and they only grow this big.” You stared down to where Tobirama had placed your hand. “You can do quite a few things with them. They are wonderful for sore throats, sanitizing wounds, upset stomachs…”

You brushed through them, and a few flowers crumpled under your fingers.

He would never forget that. The way your face fell as the flowers at the center of the cluster began to shrivel.

***

He was smarter than Hashirama. 

Tobirama wasn’t a traitor to the clan. Tobirama wouldn’t be caught fraternizing with an Uchiha like his foolish brother. He was stern, calculating. He was so careful. 

He had carried his prized Uchiha-killing kunai with him the entire time. 

It was strapped to his leg when he first chased after you. 

It was with him as you adorned him with blossoms. 

He held the same knife he had once held up to your neck as he screamed in your face that he would carve out your eyes the entire time. 

And he had another chance.

It was right in front of him, as you blathered on about the daylight. Your lips moved, but nothing came from your mouth. 

He had another opportunity to redeem himself. 

The moment of his childhood that haunted him for many nights could have been corrected. Tobirama was a true warrior now. He could have killed you. He could have carved out your sharingan, sinking his kunai into your skull as you screamed and kicked under him, just as he promised long ago. No one would hear you out here. 

He could do anything he wanted to you.

But he hesitated again, and now his only weapon was lost.

The time you had been sneaking around had hardly been long; the days in sum dwarfed compared to a year. 

And now he watched you in the morning sun, his heart and head doing a double take as his eyes hurriedly searched for the kunai he had pushed into the river. But it was long gone. 

“It is morning?!” You exclaimed, scrambling to your feet. Startled, Tobirama scurried up with you, stumbling back until one of his feet sank into the rushing water. You lurched forward instinctively to steady him.

“Do not touch me!” he barked, and the gruffness of his voice made you recoil. He faltered, sputtering with a vigorous shake of his head. Tobirama balanced himself as the cold, rushing current pushed at his knee. He looked up at you, staring into your wide, confused eyes. 

Looking upon you in the daylight made him view you in a way he never had before.

Yes, he could see it now. 

He could see the Uchiha in you… and it was ugly.

Every part of him burned. It was as if he had been coated in mud, leaving his skin irritated, itchy and inflamed. He wished he could scrub every inch of himself of you. Slice, scratch, and claw into himself to erase the ghost of your lingering touch. 

Tobirama burned with shame. 

You shifted, moving to speak, when something covered your eyes. You snatched it slowly in confusion, but as the silk ribbon slid from your hair to drape over your fingers, your eyes quickly widened even farther than they already were. Tobirama stood in the water, watching you with a pounding chest as you, too, stumbled back. Your gaze darted from the Uchiha crest to Tobirama, who, for once, did not hold any softness in his expression. 

“Oh.” You held your shaking hand up to your lips. You took another step back. Tobirama didn’t move.

He looked angry, the tension of his clenched jaw just about making the entirety of his body shake. His brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and rage. And all he could do was stare at you with fists balled up in mounting fury. Tobirama’s eyes turned glossy as he held back the burning tears that threatened to spill over his waterline. 

You weren’t thinking, not as you stepped forward and spoke his name.

You wanted to go to him, tell him it was all a misunderstanding. Something. You tried to tell him something, anything.

You stepped forward, and Tobirama planted his second foot in the water.

“Do not come closer, Uchiha!” he spat. His words halted you in your stride. Tobirama stumbled back, splashing in the shallows. His clothes were drenched with dark patches which adorned his legs and sides. He held his hand up, almost as a buffer between him and you. He shook, and droplets fell back into the rushing current of the water. 

His father’s words to his brother repeatedly played in his head. 

Tobirama had been endangering his clan all this time. He had been reckless and naive, just like his brother. He sat as the current rushed by, stuck and frozen like a cornered animal, trying to calculate how many of his kinsmen could have been saved if he had been more sparing with his tongue. 

You spoke in a meek voice,

“Tobirama—”

“Get out of here! Do not dare show your face back here, foul creature; I will kill you!” he screamed with all the weight of his guilt. Tobirama rose to his full height, hulking shoulders squared. You didn’t wait a second longer before you ran. You ran straight into the brush, and in an instant, you were deep into the forest. You could still hear Tobirama shouting behind you. “I will kill you, Uchiha! I will carve out your sharingan! I—”

He choked the moment he lost sight of you.

Tobirama dropped to his knees, splashing again down into the water. He heaved, his throat burning as he threw up into the river's current. Tobirama uttered a strangled cry, mucus dropping from his mouth and nose. Hot tears poured down his face as he gasped into the surface, nearly drowning himself in the water and his own mess. 

You continued to run. You ran through the woods, paying little mind to the scrapes you collected as you rushed back toward the Uchiha colony. Your foot snagged against a fallen branch, causing you to smack face-first into a nearby log. You scrambled to your feet, heart pumping as you continued back home, your breath rasping rhythmically in your ears. Wetness streamed down your face, combining tears, snot, and blood to cake your skin. 

But as you grew closer to your colony, the scent of smoke grew stronger. And as you looked up between the branches, you could see a dark cloud rising into the air. 

The weeping became clearer. Agonized weeping. 

You burst forth from the trees to your family’s garden. 

To where the garden should have been, but the garden was gone.

Your home was gone, and a smoking pile of charcoal was left in its place. 

A few structural beams shot out from the pile of char, like pleading limbs reaching up toward the heavens for a salvation that would never come. The paper walls were gone. The engawa had been reduced to rubble. The engawa that you and Madara stood on just hours before while your parents discussed your union.

…

Your parents.

You shouted for them, rushing straight for the ruins of your home. Large masses of char littered the streets, marking the resting places of other houses just like yours. Your eyes darted about in a frenzy, making eye contact with the mourning Uchiha, who littered the dirt streets for any confirmation that your parents had made it. 

“Where are my parents?” You cried to people who averted their gazes. One woman covered her child’s ears, holding him close to her chest. “Have you seen my parents? Please! Someone! Did they make it? Will you not answer me?” 

But no one answered you. 

There was just weeping.

You didn’t see their faces or those of your family. 

You raced toward the rubble, rifling through the mess with tears blurring your vision. You were howling something, letting words spill and tumble from your lips with the same liquidity as the water pouring from your face. Your fingers began to sting. Debris cut your skin, forming abrasions that filled with soot and dirt as you clawed at what used to be your home. 

A muscular arm looped under your torso. You kicked your legs as you continued to wail, pounding your fists at the back of red armor. You could only watch as you were slowly carried away from the wreckage of your home, the reminisce of other ruined buildings gathering into your blurry view with every step. 

You went limp about halfway down the road, hanging upside down with your cheek smushed against a bloody backplate. You cried, the compilation of mucus stuck in your nose, causing your sinuses to burn. You coughed, fist pounding a last time against armor before you were dropped back to the ground. 

Your knees gave out under you, and before you stood Madara. 

Tall, hulking, and imposing Madara with a somber expression on his face and a gaping wound on his side. He still held you by the hand, your fingers just barely hooked on his. His feet were stained with blood and caked with dirt, and sitting in the disturbed dirt road sat vials of herbs and a collection of your supplies from the apothecary. 

Only then did you notice what he was surveying behind you, letting your hand drop from his.

Bodies of the injured were splayed out on salvaged blankets in the middle of the street. The able-bodied scurried around with what little medical supplies could be salvaged from the remains of your village, tending to warriors, women, children, and elders alike. Your head snapped back toward Madara.

“You must make medicine,” Madara said in a voice barely above a whisper, although it was by no means gentle. He held a gruffness in his voice. Frustration laced his tone. You heaved yourself up, something about being on the ground making you feel more vulnerable than you already felt in your confusion.

“Madara, I—”

“What?” Madara snapped, jerking forward at you. You recoiled, lips closing instantly. “What now, woman? Can you not see the crisis laid out in front of you? You have received exactly what you wanted and yet remain stubborn even when a man is giving you direct instructions.” You were still dazed.

“Where is Makihara?”

It wasn’t hard for Madara to wrestle you back to the ground. Your head slammed against the dirt, the vials of herbs and medicine sideways in your vision. Madara’s lips touched your ear as he spoke venom directly into your skull. His words sent a submissive chill directly into your heart.

“For the sake of the gods, make the goddam medicine and cease your difficulty. Your clan head bids it.” He released your head, which was engulfed in his wide-handed grip. You stared dizzily at his back as he walked away, his form wavering in your vision.

“Clan… head?”

***

Madara was officially deemed the head of the Uchiha clan later that night, bare except for his loin cloth as his body was painted with sacred symbols. He sat like a king on the ruins of the Uchiha village, looking pensive and severe.

The ceremony was intimate, traditional, and without frills.

Somber.

What was left of the village wasn’t made to attend, but most showed their faces in the torchlight, gazing upon their new leader as Madara was adorned with red and white paint. The population of Uchiha gathered around him, squishing together to watch the decoration of their new leader. 

Madara sat amongst the ruins of what used to be your colony, looking solemn in the warm glow of the flames around him. He stared ahead. A surviving elder smeared two lines of red paint under Madara’s eyes with shaky fingers. Bandages covered the elder’s eye, wrapping all the way around his head. Another elder brushed his frail hands over Madara’s cheeks with white before anointing his forehead with his thumb. 

You had made that paint. You admired it from the back of the crowd. 

A few children had been sent to gather pigmented clay while you exhausted the rest of your herbal supply on medicinal remedies. Even with what you made stretch, you barely had enough to treat all the wounded. Burying the dead had taken all day. 

Madara stood in front of all the Uchiha, bare-chested and painted in holy symbols as the clan revered him. He barked, the deep, powerful sound resounding from his chest. His colored abs flexed with the call, and the Uchiha chanted back, filling the surrounding forest with spirited howling. 

He stood as the new leader of the Uchiha clan, yet the colors that adorned him were yours, as were the herbs that decorated his wound.

***

Your parents were dead.

It was a fact that you recalled often during the mindless time you spent crushing herbs, beseeching the weight of it to sink in. But instead, you were met with numbness, even as the mourners around you grieved their lost loved ones. 

You sat under your makeshift canopy on a rug of simple woven threads. The three sides of your new apothecary were draped with fabric, acting as a buffer to the light night breeze. And there you thought, pulverizing medicine with your pestle to replenish your depleted medicinal supply. As the clan’s only apothecary, you could no longer collect herbs. In a strike of irony, this in turn meant that you were too important and no longer allowed to leave the Uchiha’s new territory.

You hadn’t noticed Madara’s presence. Only when the torchlight from outside no longer filtered into your tent did you think to even blink. He stood over you, harsh shadows cast across his face from the lone lamp that lit up your workspace. Madara’s colors had faded from his skin, but the stain from the dye remained as the faintest of hues.

You could just barely see the holy symbols.

“Does the new location please you?” 

You stopped, the moment of distraction allowing the ache in your hands to set in. You nearly dropped your pestle, recoiling slightly as the tension froze your fingers. You had been working since daybreak.

“I cannot say I have been able to see much of it, Madara.”

“Come, then.” 

To your surprise, Madara extended his hand to you. You looked upon him with exhaustion, almost to ask if he genuinely meant what he spoke. He waited patiently for you to place your hand in his before whisking you into the surrounding woods. 

***

The Uchiha had retreated farther inland, upstream to the higher ground by the mountains. The trees were large in these parts, far larger than you were used to. They extended twice the height compared to the ones in your previous territory, towering large fans of leaves up toward the starry night sky. Even the vast constellations appeared brighter in these new parts. 

Madara walked a step or two in front as you strolled across the rocky terrain. You panted as you struggled up a steep incline. Madara hadn’t bothered to help you, instead moving along onto the level above. Small stones that littered the surface of the earth slid under your sandals.

“I am—” you huffed —“I am not as agile as I used to be.” 

Madara laughed somewhere above.

“You are in your prime. What is this talk of agility?” 

You pulled yourself up onto the dirt with the help of an exposed root. You fanned yourself, wiping the sweat off your brow as Madara chuckled somewhere in front of you.

“I meant that I no longer climb trees every day, Madara. Perhaps that is something you do, oh great clan head, but not I.” 

You turned to stand, suddenly struck by the view before you. Madara stood just ahead, holding up a branch with his forearm to expose the landscape. You hurried over, framing yourself in the window of leaves that Madara created. From up so high, you could see how the trees covered the land for miles, bisected by one of the Land of Fire’s many rivers in the distance. 

“Are you able to say if the new land pleases you?” You caught Madara’s eye for a split second, quickly averting your gaze at the sight of his sentimental expression, your aloneness suddenly growing palpable. You nodded.

“Moving the clan here was clever. Having the high ground and access to fresh water will only serve to be prosperous.” You offered him a gentle smile and a nod, glancing back at the scenery. “I know you will make a great clan head, Madara.”

“We will see about that,” Madara admitted in a rare moment of self-doubt. The confession made your forehead crinkle instantly. You cocked your head, taken aback. Madara sighed, almost as if reading your thoughts before you spoke them. “The elders— the remaining elders— believe that I am still quite young to be taking up the mantle. They still hold power when it comes to making decisions on behalf of the clan. At least, until they deem I have grown into my title as clan head.”

“Why make you leader at all if they are going to make such fuss?” you scoffed, knowing very well the answer. 

You sat down at the cliff's edge, watching the moon in the distance, and Madara came to sit next to you. He shifted, having more difficulty getting situated than you. The branch he had been holding up came down to smack him on the back of the head. 

“I have had similar thoughts.” Madara looked off with a troubled frown. “I worry for the future of the Uchiha. Our numbers dwindle with every battle. And with this last raid, the women will be forced to join the militia.” 

“Is this true?” you nearly exclaimed. You withdrew into yourself, brushing a finger across your bottom lip. The news rattled around in your ribcage. “How unorthodox!” 

Madara sneered, and it hardly took his admission of “I am against such things” for you 

to understand his stance on the matter. You let him grumble to himself, once again lost in a daze, as you took some of the dry dirt below between your fingers. 

“Madara,” you called softly, and he perked up with a hum. Between the chaos of the last few days, you were hardly allowed to give anything proper thought. Of all the terrible things to sink in, you only had one worry on your mind. “Do you believe I might be sent to fight the Senju?”

You stared into Madara’s eyes. Tobirama’s fearsome expression flashed across your mind as you recalled his promises to take your life. They made you shiver. 

“I would think not, given that you are acting as the lone apothecary of the Uchiha,” Madara answered, his voice deep and soft. “Besides, I forbid it.”

You didn’t know what to say as you let the bit of relief Madara’s words brought you to wash over your thoughts. Whether you intended it or not, you had made yourself invaluable to your clan. They weren’t about to put you on the front lines anytime soon. 

Madara spoke your name.

“Do you like it?” he asked. You weren’t paying attention again. You blinked to yourself, his deep voice cutting through your thoughts.

“Do I like what?”

“The new land, does it please you?”

“It is… not home,” you admitted. “But the landscape does please me, yes. I am certain it will be home soon enough.” Madara closed the space between you before gingerly placing two fingers under your chin. He turned your face toward him.

“I am clan head now.”

“Yes, Madara, I am aware.” You tried to subtly turn your chin away, but he held firm, boring into you with vigilant eyes. Nocturnal insects chattered in the forest behind you.

“No other bachelor in the Uchiha can provide better than I.” You had no other choice than to meet his dark gaze. He spoke to you earnestly. “Will you not reconsider marrying me?” A frown tugged at his lips. Worry swirled on his face.

“We are far too young, Madara.” You took his hand, gently removing it from your skin. You folded in on yourself, backing away from the edge as you bashfully gripped the fronts of your robes to dry your sweaty hands. Madara pivoted, leaning back to keep you in his sights, the moon’s slow, enshrining him in a silver silhouette. You curled into the earth. “Besides… too much has happened for us to think about such things.”

You could feel it: the urge to fight you on the tip of Madara’s tongue. Indeed, other Uchiha have married at your age and younger. Sometimes, young girls would be considered ready for marriage after their first menstrual cycle. But to your surprise, he didn’t fight you at all. Instead, he came to sit next to you. 

Madara could’ve fought you on several things. He hadn’t yet forgotten the mystery beau he was convinced was keeping your affections from him, nor was he thrilled that you had been named as the clan’s sole apothecary through a simple process of elimination.

You hadn’t forgotten his attempts to strongarm you into marriage or the terrifying outburst that caused you to run away. Although, with your parents gone, you were placed supremely in charge of your fate. Try as he must, not even Madara could force you into marriage. 

But when it came down to it, with your family dead and your lover disgusted by your bloodline, you were left again with Madara. That had been how it always was. Having lost so much during the clan conflict, you were always left with each other, weren’t you?

As you began to weep, Madara scooted backward to be with you. You leaned against him, placing your head on his shoulder as you continued to cry, holding his arm to bury your face into the sleeve of his robes—dark, round spots soaked into the fabric.

Madara held you in the dimness as the surrounding clearing filled with your sobs. It had been the first time you were allowed to cry. The first time you truly had to confront the regret that haunted you from the few days prior. For his capriciousness and overall little patience for sentiment, Madara nurtured your vulnerability. 

His fingers trailed lightly over your hair, rounding up stray strands behind your ear. He pressed his temple against the top of your head, caressing down your jaw to clear away the tears that slid down your cheeks with his thumb. Madara lifted your face, his second hand cupping the other side of your face as he continued to swipe away the wetness from your face. 

You held his wrists in your ginger grip, as he laid a tender kiss on your forehead. He gazed into your teary eyes in the moonlight, casting away another stream of tears as he offered a gentle kiss to your right cheek, and then your left. 

His nose nudged against yours, staring into your glassy eyes. You let them flutter shut, causing more droplets to splash against your face. Madara placed his lips on yours, holding the sides of your face as he kissed you with earnest. 

You kissed him back for a moment, only for a moment. The shape of his face was different than Tobirama in a way you couldn’t quite place your finger on. He had rounder cheeks. A longer bridge to his nose. Madara’s hair draped over his shoulders to tickle your skin.

You pulled away, just the slightest distance between your face and Madara’s before he leaned in again. You pushed against his chest, but his movements this time were more forceful. He held you firmly in his grip, his fingers pinching against your cheeks as he lowered himself on top of you, pinning you against the earth and his larger body. 

Your eyes went wide, the entirety of your body going frozen as Madara moved against yours, his once gentle motions now a gnashing of lips and teeth that made you press your head into the dirt. You tried to gasp his name in protest, but your words were muffled. His forearm rested to the right of your head, his breath hot against your skin as he smored your airways. His fingers tugged awkwardly at your hair, causing you to wince as he pulled the strands. You pushed on his chest again, kicking your legs under him, but Madara lowered more of his weight on top of you. 

A line of saliva connected the two of you when he finally ceased his assault on your lips. He gazed upon you with lidded eyes before he continued, tucking his head in the crook of your neck. You screamed as he sunk his teeth into your flesh, tears pouring from your wide eyes as you stared up at the pitch black night sky. Madara’s hand swiftly came over your mouth, to muffle the shrieks that tore from your throat.

You flailed violently, limbs lashing in adrenaline-fueled terror to no avail as Madara kept you pinned to the earth with his larger, heavier frame. And then you felt a hand dip into your robes, tugged the top material from your shoulders to grope at your chest. You cried harder, squealing like a pig at the slaughter as you finally managed to squirm an arm free.

You thrashed it around in a flurry of scratches and strikes. Your hand snagged on Madara’s face as you tried to scoot out from underneath him, causing him to shoot backward. Blood dripped from his nose, forming a nasty pool of red in tandem with the jagged gash that sliced diagonally across his upper lip. 

He looked at you in confusion and anger; blood streaked across his fingers. You scrambled to your feet, darting down the mountain and back to the new colony. 

You would never speak of that night again.

Madara dropped all speak of marriage.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Lots of fun author’s notes: I hated the pacing of this fic. It used to have really low notes in the early days so I think I got a little sloppy with it, and now it’s exploded out of nowhere! I hope this “retcon” fixes some of the plotholes!

I would like to think the teen years were made purposefully vague and dreamy so that the transition to the dark content is more impactful. Yes, yes we’ll say that!

I don’t always imagine what Reader looks like in my stories (I usually don’t) but this one I do! I usually picture Lupita Nyong'o. Not sure if that adds or takes away for any of you. Who I picture ultimately doesn’t matter

I’d also like to think the whole scene where Tobirama scares Reader off is like any movie where a protagonist has to scare off a loyal dog. Like, “Go on, boy! Git! You’re not welcome here! Git!” while like throwing rocks or something.

Also a reminder that I am not a smut author, so please withhold any thirst comments or requests. Thank you. 

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI

@gracefulbumblebee @norasincubi @rahatake​

[peachdues]

Kinktober 2023 update

Werewolf!Sanemi x Red Riding Hood!Reader NSFW

In the Netherwood (Part I) will be uploaded tomorrow.

CW: NSFW preview below the cut • Monster fucking • werewolf fucking • Sanemi half-transforms mid-fuck

Get ready, you dogs (though he won’t fuck her until Part II).

Sanemi’s thrusts stuttered as his body suddenly seized. His head was thrown back, the tendons and muscles in his neck rigid with strain, while his chest heaved, struggling to take a breath.

The fingers digging into your hips tightened and you cried out at the sharp prick of nails sinking into your soft flesh. At the sound of your voice, Sanemi’s hands pulled away to reveal fingers now with long, curved nails.

His claws.

A choked, strangled noise that was somewhere between a groan and a howl ripped from Sanemi’s throat as he shuddered violently above you. The tremors sent faint vibrations right to where the two of you were connected, sparking new yet short-lived waves of pleasure rippling through your core. you mewled at the loss of stimulation as the huntsman stilled once more, desperately wanting him to start moving again to ease the burgeoning friction between your legs.

Your hips involuntarily twitched up against his and Sanemi’s head snapped down, his attention now wholly focused on you, writhing below him.

The first thing you noticed were his eyes.

No longer did they reflect the soft lilac that you’d come to find comfort in; that regarded you with a curious gentleness that often contrasted with Sanemi’s gruff and scarred countenance.

Now, the eyes that watched you from above had faded to a startling silver that glowed nearly as bright as the fat moon which hung just outside the mouth of the den.

But his eyes were nothing compared to the fangs that had formed on both his upper and bottom rows of teeth.

Sanemi’s incisors had lengthened, the upper pair extending nearly to his lower lip. The teeth tapered out to sharp points, glistening in the moonlight with a promise of violence to anyone who might find themselves at their mercy.

He had warned you that it would be difficult to keep himself from shifting while he mated you, but you’d assumed that the presence of your cloak would keep him in his human form. It seemed, however, that the magical protection afforded by the Ruby red wool draped around your shoulders, still could not fully temper the beast within.

Especially when that beast was in the thick of his heat and claiming you as his mate.

Still embedded deep within your heat, apparently oblivious to the growing friction that caused you to squirm, Sanemi’s nostrils flared and his eyes dropped to the sides of your thighs. His pupils contracted, a deadly glint igniting within his silver pools, as he beheld the thin rivulets of blood which had gathered and crested beneath the marks left behind by his claws.

A growl, low and dangerous built in his throat at the sight of the crimson, but the arm wrapped around your waist tightened in silent apology.

His free hand rose to cup your jaw and he squeezed, forcing your mouth to fall open. Sanemi leaned over you, his tongue falling out of his mouth where you could see he’d gathered some of his saliva, and he let it drip past your parted lips. You accepted the fluid, warm and slightly sweet, as it pooled in your mouth until all that connected his lips with yours was a single, clear string of saliva that broke as Sanemi spoke once more.

“Swallow,” his voice was gruff and tinged with an animalistic snarl.

You obeyed, and Sanemi huffed in approval, his eyes lowering once more to your legs, waiting.

The skin around the marks left behind by Sanemi’s claws grew warm and then tingled before the sensation quickly faded away. Curious, your hand fluttered to your outer thigh, fingers seeking out the tender, bleeding skin. With a soft gasp, you realized all that remained on your flesh were drying flakes of your blood.

Your eyes flew to Sanemi’s in surprise, and the wolf nodded.

“Healed,” he confirmed, tongue darting out from between his lips to lick alongside your neck. “Healed.”

@monster-october-kny-2023

[mpregandproud]

Isaac II (Part 8)

Isaac started to remove his clothes immediately, though when he had only his underwear left on he stopped abruptly. “Are you sure you want this? You're not even due yet honey, do you really want me to speed all this up for you?” he asked. “Get these kids out of me now, I can't take it anymore! I've been in excruciating pain for three days now and I know I'm in labor, but it's not progressing because of whatever. I've been through this five times already, so I know very well what I'm asking you. Induce my labor, I need it now”, I yelled desperately.

Telling him this was enough for Isaac to get on with his task of inducing my labor. He pulled off my underwear and pushed me violently so that I fell onto the bed. He put his hand on my milk-filled breast and made me fall face up on the mattress. I stretched out my arm to tightly grip the headboard of the bed. He pulled off his underwear revealing his huge erection and climbed onto the bed getting on his knees. “Here we go, let's bring these four kids into the world!” he said to me with his charming smile and a look of mischief befitting a teenager who knows he is about to do some mischief.

He spread my legs, allowing him free access to my private parts. With the size of my belly it's impossible to see what this man is about to do down there, but let him do it already, my imagination will already put the images in my head.

Isaac bent down and took my penis in his mouth. He was able to get it all the way in. A tremor of genuine pleasure ran like a current through every millimeter of my body. The babies began to move at an accelerated pace. Kicking and punching inside me. Isaac kept thrusting my manly member in and out of his mouth.

When I cum for the first time, Isaac sat up and began to slowly kiss my right leg. He started at my crotch and worked his way down to my feet. He repeated this on my left leg. The babies wouldn't stop, I had a rugby game going on inside me, and this had only just begun.

He took my right leg with his hands and put it on his shoulder, and the same with his left leg. He put his right hand on my belly. “These here are begging for action”, said the scoundrel of him, letting out a little laugh afterwards. With my legs up he grabbed his penis and slowly pushed it inside me. Centimeter by centimeter he pushed his huge cock in. I was panting and sweating, the babies wouldn't give me a single second of respite, and neither would my husband. He kept pushing his cock in again and again and again, harder and harder. I had to take my other hand off my belly and hold on to the headboard with both hands to cushion the force with which Isaac was pushing into me.

He cum once, twice, three times, four times. I can't count the number of times I came between the pleasure my husband was giving me and how excited I was that the boys wouldn't stop inside me.

When Isaac finished he pulled his penis out and immediately followed it with a river of a liquid that came out of me. “My water broke, they're coming, Isaac, you did great, but go get some towels, they're not going to wait!” I yelled.

Isaac came out of the room without wasting a second, opened the door running to get towels from the bathroom. I got up and got on all fours on the bed to start giving birth. I rested my arms on the headboard of the bed and felt the urge to push. I couldn't stop sweating and my body demanded my strength. I started screaming from the pain. Isaac came back and the first thing he did was scream out of fright. “You can see the head already, Dan's here!” he said it as he stood behind me to pick up the boy when he came out.

Ten minutes it took me to deliver the first of the four boys. I don't know what Isaac did but I don't remember with my previous deliveries the first child being so easy to get out. Andrew was already here. A boy who weighed 12 pounds and was the spitting image of me.

Isaac picked him up and handed him to me to breastfeed, but before I got there I started screaming from the pain again. “Forget about it, the next one is coming. Fuck, they won't even give me a second's rest”, I complained. If the first one was really fast, the second one was a real record. In only five minutes I was crying my eyes out.

It is clear that the third and fourth have more patience than their older brothers to come to our house. So I took advantage of this moment to breastfeed Andrew and Adrian, the first boys of this new litter. If the first one was a copy of me, the second one was just like Isaac, his spitting image.

After fifteen minutes of recess I had a terrible contraction, and my body went on alert again, the third offspring was about to come. I could tell that those previous minutes he was gathering strength because the bastard of him, the biggest I had ever given birth to, didn't stop for a second. He started pushing from the inside and ripped me open. If the neighbors on the other side of the neighborhood hadn't heard about a man giving birth on their street they would have with the third child. The pain was somewhat unbearable, and without being in the hospital I can't relieve it with an epidural. At what point did I ask Isaac to go all out in his efforts to speed up my labor?

“Come on, honey, you're doing phenomenal,” Isaac encouraged me. Half an hour of pushing and I finally delivered Jon, Isaac's fifteenth child that I have given birth to. This child has really exhausted me. Without the strength to sit up in bed, Isaac helped me to lie down for a moment to regain my energy. In the meantime I started to breastfeed Jon. He lived up to his size, because he drank with a eagerness and strength that in 20 years of parenthood I had never seen. “This boy has come out to you, Isaac, he sucks me with an incredible passion,” I would be exhausted, but I always have a little bit of energy left for a racy joke.

After another short break came the final push, the last push. Luckily, Jon opened me up so wide that it took Michael two minutes to come out since the contractions started again. From the most complicated labor to the easiest. That's life, unpredictable.

Finally, two hours of labor, blood, sweat and tears later, I finally have my four boys by my side. I am exhausted, but there is nothing to match the feeling of giving birth, nothing compares. And I've been through this with 21 children, no more, no less. More than one for every year of my relationship with Isaac.

We melted into an embrace, skin against skin, with our four children in bed sleeping. The fruit of our love. Our family was definitely complete with Andrew, Adrian, Jon and Michael, four boys who will soon become uncles too. That's the magic of our family, it just keeps growing.

Go to Part 9

[aziraphales-library]

Hello lovely people! Sorry if im a bit vague but do you have any fics of the 14th century?

("I really didnt like the 14th century")

Preferably with some 'not very nice on the mental health' for Crowley?

With some comfort or not

Cheers!

Hi! Here are some fics about why Crowley hates the 14th century...

Fish-Mesh Trap by Alina_writes (T)

It's the 14th Century, Pestilence walks the earth, and Crowley finds himself in an extremely unfavourable situation. Inspired by the tear-jerking art by fireflysummers and 10yrsart on tumblr.

trapped within an abstract from a moment of my life by midnightdragons (T)

"How long have you been sick, Crowley?" Aziraphale pressed, keeping the tremor from his voice as he steadied his hands, brushing back sweaty hair from the demon's clammy, too-hot forehead. This was not the first time Hell had punished Crowley like this; they were cruel, far too often, and not in the passive-aggressive ways Heaven was, but in the ways that left Crowley shaking and crying out in pain, just as he was now. 

Aziraphale is helping people in the 1300s during the Black Plague epidemic in Europe, and finds a familiar face hiding in the shadows of a sick house ... in need of help of his own.

all hope abandon by morningstar921 (T)

It's the 14th century and the Plague runs rampant through London. It's innocuous enough until the demons start catching it too. Until Crowley catches it. "I'm not helping them. This is medical malpractice, angel. Do you really think a few leeches will cure them?"

so don't go (where i can't follow) by liber_solis (M)

"Angel. What have you done? Answer me!" Crowley shouts. "I'm dying, Crowley." Or There's a reason why Crowley hates the 14th century

A Short History of the 14th Century by agent_p_94 (G)

"You win," said Aziraphale miserably. "I'll go to Scotland." Crowley snapped, and the manacles around Aziraphale's feet broke open. "Shake on it?" "Oh, I suppose." Aziraphale shuffled across the cell and took Crowley's hand through the bars. "This is a one time thing, alright?" he said, looking Crowley straight in the eye. "Due to, ah, unique circumstances." Crowley grinned. A snake's tongue flickered in and out of his mouth. "Course," he said. "Wouldn't dream of asking again." (Spoilers: He asks again) To understand why Crowley hates the 14th century, you have to go back to the beginning of the Arrangement...

The light that is coming in the morning by WoodsWitch (T)

Europe in the 14th century was bloody awful: plagues, famine, century-long wars...no wonder many humans mistakenly thought the apocalypse was already upon them. The only positive, as far as Crowley was concerned, was that Aziraphale was starting to seem comfortable with their Arrangement, even if that was rather torturous in its own way. Unfortunately, their first true, if initially accidental, collaboration goes down like a lead balloon. Guest appearances by Petrarch, John Ball, Watt Tyler, Richard II, and some Cambridge students attempting to do the Faust thing. Can be treated as a prequel to "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition" *TW: References to most of the expected medieval unpleasantness, including antisemitism, messy execution techniques, the black death, etc.

- Mod D

[netegf]

violet chemistry (ii)

pairing: aged up!ao'nung x f!metkayina reader

plot: you and ao'nung attempt to regain control in your lives by fake-dating. the irony is… this is fated.

word count: 2.7k

a/n: the next instalment in my fake-dating!, friends to lovers!, best friend’s brother!au - once again, this takes place roughly 10 years after atwow - some pining + flirting, made-up rituals, attempts at comedy, & angst (WILL be resolved)! i really hope you enjoy part 2 🥹💖

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In all honesty, Ao’nung has been trying his hardest to avoid you. Only, that impulse is very quickly thwarted when he considers how many clan gatherings and rituals courting Na’vi couples attend together. Sitting before you and the azure clay bowl of paint you hold in your hand, for the first time in a long time, Ao’nung has a single thought. He really hadn’t thought this through.

“Stop moving.” You hum, brows pinched together in concentration as you swirl the coal-coloured paint with a brush much like the baleen of a whale’s mouth. Sitting with the feelings he’s been having, a part of him wonders what it might be like to be suspended in water and consumed entirely into the jaws of a sea beast. He listens almost immediately, then realizes that’s slightly out of character for him, resorting to a slight narrow of the eye that makes him look younger than he is.  

“You’re strangely quiet.” Your eyes bore holes into him, but he has a gift for escaping confrontation – staring somewhere off in the distance until his vision blurs.

Ao’nung hopes he looks nonchalant when he shrugs, but knows you. Knows that your keen. He doesn’t know how many times he’s come to communal dinner with a face he thought he’d fixed, but you'd been able to tell there was something off. A mediator of energy; you might as well have been able to smell it off him. But this wasn’t something he could let go of. He might’ve saved his favourite kills for you during the hunt in childhood, but this was profound. Pandora spins on a different axis. Everything looks like it’s in a different colour. How long had he loved his friend?

“Yeah.” He admits, chewing on his bottom lip. “Just worried you’re gonna, y’know… ruin my face for life?”

You roll your eyes with emphasis.

The ritual he refers to is one in which courting Metkayina couples draw facial tattoos for each other in paint, emulating what might one day be permanent. Unfortunately, Ao’nung has known you long enough to know that artistry has not been one of your most obvious gifts, and you pinch your eyes at him as the smug words leave his mouth.

“Shut up.” You hiss. “Or I’ll draw Lo’ak on your cheek.”

“Ambitious goal for an amateur.” He punches back, then nearly recoils.

Ao’nung can feel himself being mean – meaner than usual – and it casts a cloud of shame over him. He really thought he’d passed that point in his life where he masqueraded around his feelings and hacked them up alone until his throat bled. Childish, it felt. Something that gave him grief and gratitude – annoyed at his immaturity, but a strange sense of happiness at the fact that he could afford it. Still, you deserved better, and that pained him.

You grant him a small scoff then continue your ministrations.

Naturally, his eyes come to focus on your eyebrows knitted together, your tongue darting out of your mouth ever so slightly as the artistic vision you have in your mind comes to fruition, the subtle tremor of your careful hands. Instinctively, one of his hands comes up to stabilize yours, gripping the joint of your wrist.

Breath hitching just slightly, you quirk a brow. “You know… if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look like you’re enjoying this.”

“Gotta get you to my mom.” He mumbles, hand dropping to his side like a dead fly. “Get your eyes checked.”

After a few more strokes of the brush, and a couple dozen eyerolls, the design is finished.

“Done.” You say happily, fingers holding Ao’nung’s chin as you admire your handy work.

The pattern isn’t particularly complex or striking, but it decorates the high points of his face, each dark shape a representation of his achievement and growth as a hunter, as future Olo'eyktan, and your favourite – boy that loves the water.

Ao’nung’s eyes widen when he takes in his reflection.

“It’s, uh… more subtle than I thought it would be.” He says finally, clearing his throat, heat colouring his cheeks a new kind of colour.

He had to admit, it was pretty. He must have imagined what this would feel like a thousand times in his life. That one day, he’d rise to his rank, wear his adornments, and feel completely different. Feel like he was worthy of his position in the clan. To his surprise, time moved fast, but he very rarely did. All Ao’nung felt over the years was a lot of sameness – but today, wearing your tattoos on his face, he felt a sense of pride pang in his chest. He looked the part, and maybe that meant something.

“Well, we can’t have the clan forgetting you’re handsome. However would they stand your prickly temperament?”

Ao’nung feels prepared to roll his eyes at the diss, but then he catches himself. Better yet, he catches you, saying something you hadn’t exactly meant to reveal, but knew to be true nonetheless. He looks at you cautiously.

“You think I’m handsome?”

Chewing your bottom lip, you contemplate for a moment. Was there really anything wrong with admitting it? Just about everyone on the reef thought so, he had to have known that.

“Everyone thinks you’re handsome, Ao.” You try to soothe over the slip-up. “People line up to see you when you come back from the hunt, I think someone fainted when you tamed tsurak, this information can’t be surpris-,”

“But you.” He says quickly, eyes excruciatingly earnest. “You think I’m handsome?”

“Yes…I do.”

Ao’nung supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, and yet he is. He wasn’t a stranger to be being praised for his looks, but this was uncharted territory – a line that had never been crossed, and maybe intentionally so. Since when did you think so? Since when did a compliment for him fall so easily off your pretty lips and tongue like you were the only one he was meant to receive such words from?

You must have noticed his slow blinks and slightly gaping mouth as he thinks through it all, because then you’re saying something that has him absolutely reeling.

“Eywa, if that blows your mind, how are you going to react to the fact that I had a crush on you half my life?”

There’s a hint of humour in your tone, but Ao’nung is having a hard time understanding why it’s so funny – eyes nearly bulging out and erratic breaths practically choking him.

“Had?” He stammers, past-tense poking a hole in his heart. “When?”

“When?” You snort. “Like, forever. Well, until I grew out of it.”

He must look insane, brain jumping from thought to thought, zoning in on words that illuminate a fire in his gut, and others that just as quickly put the fire out in a wade of water that he, for once, does not welcome. A revelation, and the revocation of it. A sparkling jewel in his palm mere seconds before it disintegrates, leaving no trace of what once was, as if it were merely a tantalizing mirage and nothing more.  

“When the Sully’s arrived?”

“Yup.” You say too casually for his liking, popping the ‘p’. “And before… and after.”

“But I was so mean.”

He bites his tongue almost bitterly, almost incredulous. He had admirers over the years, sure – but those were souls that knew him from great distance, and there was comfort in that. But you… you knew him. Not just the great triumphs, but the pitfalls which were equal in magnitude and not for the faint hearted. He had to admit, his concept of love was more superficial. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel it, at least not in the way his parents did – in his eyes, they got lucky, and his future partnership was bound to be more political than it was anything else. And maybe that was his crutch, the lack of feeling. Maybe that was the reason he’d never crossed this line, never entertained having you as his.

Because that would be all-consuming. That would be the truest thing he’d ever felt – really a fish out of water like everyone pegged him to be. Painfully new, and painfully beautiful, and completely unrecoverable if it ended up not working out.

Though at this moment, he hates himself for that careful distance between you – the way this is a wound you’ve presumably healed from, while he bleeds out right before your eyes.  

“What can I say?” You smile, teasing him in the way you do, the way he loves. “I like a challenge.”

“Right.” He manages, breath still shaky, but the corners of his mouth slowly lifting.

The tide was changing and he needed to find a way to make it stop.

Apparently, his father was right. All those years spent build levees would finally coming to good use.

The night’s festivities are an especially generous feast and a series of dance rituals that you, while hesitant to admit it, know like the back of your hand.

Ao’nung sits with his father and other seasoned hunters in the clan, nodding absentmindedly to their spirited conversation about tracking game, which he admittedly knew very little about.

Really, he smiled when they smiled, stroked his chin when they seemed to debate something, and when he really hadn’t a clue what Tonowari was saying, gave a pretend laugh followed by a silent prayer to the great mother that he wasn’t being informed about someone’s death.

He had more important matters to mull over. Like you, sitting across the fire pit, engrossed in a conversation with his sister.

Entirely too receptive to his gaze, you momentarily stall from your speech to meet his eyes, lips curving into a small smile and hands giving a tentative wave. Ao’nung opts out of waving back but holds his piercing stare, convinced that the rounds of your eyes are more illuminating than the fire – and unlike its embers, your luminosity will stay.

“My son,” Tonowari’s voice booms over the overlapping chatter. “What are your thoughts on the matter?”  

Ao’nung nearly chokes, the tips of his ears turning an endearing shade of purple as he realizes he’s been gawking for far too long, and the last topic he recalls listening to was three conversations ago.

“I think, uh… everyone has made some important points.” He mumbles, while you and Tsireya snicker at him from across the fire.

Tonowari quirks an eyebrow at him, but luckily, chooses not to harp on it. He slaps a hand over Ao’nung’s back as if to excuse him from the conversation – not that he was contributing much anyways.

Ao’nung smiles gratefully and quickly makes his way over to you, scratching the back of his neck.

“Was that as embarrassing as I think it was?”

“Even more.” You laugh, scrunching your nose in a teasing kind of sympathy. “But it’s okay, we still love you.”

The ease to which the word ‘love’ falls out of your mouth makes him wince a little – this wasn’t the kind of love he’d found himself craving from you as of late, tossing and turning in his marui when he’s meant to be sleeping, very much aware that he’s awake behind those closed eyelids. He turns to Tsireya.

“Can I borrow her?” He asks as his sister’s eyes swell with intrigue. He feels the need to explain. “For a dance.”

Tsireya nods, a small smirk on her face before she dismisses herself.

“Duty calls?” You ask, shivering as his hands find their place on your hips, the pair of you slowly swaying back and forth to the beat of ceremonial drums. This is a practice for all courting Na’vi couples – they surround you at all sides, clumsily moving their bodies and giggling together, their love almost something physical in the air.

“Something like that.” He mumbles, eyes sheepishly raking over you. “You look nice.”

“I don’t have any extra food, Ao.”

“What? I don’t want your food.” He erupts. “I’m being serious.”

“Oh, okay. In that case, thanks. You look nice, too.”

Ao’nung’s ears perk up, toothy canines peeking out from under his lips in a sideways smile. He hopes the budding violet colour on your cheeks means what he thinks it does.

“So, what have you been up to?”

“Since I saw you this morning?” You repeat, eyebrow slightly raised.

“Yes. I mean, no.” He breathes shakily, rubbing his face in dismay. “Or, you know, in general.”

“Nothing too crazy.” You say softly, a certain lamenting in your voice. “I kind of live in a box, remember?”

Ao’nung nods. He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking for a moment, the heels of his feet burning as he tries to think up a way to make that sad look in your eye disappear.

“But I’m here.” He offers.

“Yeah. You’re here.”

The way your eyes soften as you say words has his heart soaring. He leans in a little closer, the rhythmic buzzing of the percussion reaching a peak. Your mouth parts slightly. It feels like it means something.

But you’re soon interrupted when the music stops and all the couples come to a halt, just the painful empty air of what could’ve been filling the space between you.

Ronal appears from just across the fire-pit as she pulls her son in for a conversation he’s sure he won’t listen to. He mouths a gentle ‘sorry’ before disappearing, leaving you with your thoughts and Tsireya, who takes a seat on the log next to you.

“You two look friendly. Or should I say, more than friendly?” Her grin looks like it could reach her ears it’s so wide.

“It’s pretend.” You remind her dejectedly. “Just because you and Lo’ak are going strong, doesn’t mean you can bring your loved-up vibes over here.”

Tsireya scrunches her nose in displeasure at the English word. It didn’t mean much when Lo’ak used it in conversation, and it didn’t mean much now.  

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but my brother pretends very poorly.”

Your gaze shifts to where Ao’nung is standing, eyes trained on his mother with a far-away look in his eyes – you have to force yourself to bite back a laugh.

“He doesn’t see me that way, Reya. He never has.” You sigh, chewing on your bottom lip. “And besides, even if he did… I can’t be the mate he needs.”

“You love him, do you not?” She asks, clearly puzzled.

You look at Ao’nung again, now speaking in a small circle of Na’vi.

One member in particular makes your tender heart ache. A young Metkayina woman. She’s a skilled weaver and even better huntress. Beautiful, reliable, eager for leadership and responsibility. Not weighed down by strangeness. Not heavy with unbridled emotion. Strong and loving, in the way he needs – more palatable.

“Maybe love just isn’t enough sometimes.”

“Maybe,” Tsireya’s voice breaks through your spiral. “You are scared.”

Perhaps Tsireya has a point, or perhaps she doesn’t. Regardless, the constricting in your chest is hard to shake off. Even when she softly cups your cheek before walking away. Even when Ao’nung finds a way to escape whatever boring topic of discussion that has it’s claws digging into his sides, and his lips, yearning for yours, again. Small smile teasing at his mouth, he tugs at your hand.

“Hey, maybe we can get them to play a little more? Have another dance?”

“Ao… I think we need to stop. I-I don’t want to do this anymore.”

More than the words, it’s the pain in your eyes that punches him hard in the gut, leaving his lungs gasping for mouthfuls of air that don’t seem to dull the stinging. Your breaths do something similar, chest heaving, fighting every instinct in your body that tells you this is wrong because protecting him feels more important. It’s in that moment that Ao’nung realizes he doesn’t like comparing you to fire. It’s born to die. Warm and hungry, but it’s not for touching and it’s not forever.

His hand leaps forward to catch your shoulder, but you’re bolting before he can follow-through – fingers flinching back from the heat on your skin.

a/n: reblogs + tags are always appreciated 🪐🩷🫶🏼 i hope you enjoyed! how do we feel about part 3? 🤭