#wanted to draw something from chapter 7 of pulse

[clownandout]

[luminetti]

𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 ༺♡༻ Chapter 1

༘⋆ Summary: In the world of Faerûn, a new season of love begins for the upper echelons in the nation's capital Baldur’s Gate, gathering a plethora of unwed Lords and Ladies from across the nation. For Miss y/n Neredras, the season only promises another disappointing series of suitors and failed courting, until one night she suddenly finds Lord Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep on her doorstep with a gunshot wound through his stomach, seeking discreet refuge and recovery after a devastating duel. ༘⋆ Pairing: lord!gale dekarios x fem!reader/tav, brief wyll x reader, mentions of (previous) mystra x gale ༘⋆Warnings: blood and bullet wounds, eventual hurt/comfort, mystra's weird predatory behavior (fuck mystra) ༘⋆Notes: set in the regency era and very loosely inspired by bridgerton (I’ve never watched it). i had to make a lot of edits to make this work out how i want so keep in mind that the following changes have been made: - Faerûn and Waterdeep are neighboring countries - Baldur’s Gate is the capital of Faerûn - Mystra (and all the gods) is human - Mystra lives in Waterdeep - Gale is 21 and reader is around 19 (something something, regency age for marriage, something)

༘⋆ Chapters: ┆[1] ┆[2]┆[3]┆[4]┆[5]┆[6] ┆[7] ┆

ao3

You cursed yourself for getting in such a position as you heaved a bloodied body onto your goose down bed sheets, dark sticky crimson clinging to your skin and the front of your white nightgown. The body landed with a soft flump, leaving a suspicious looking trail of blood towards the center of your bed. Normally you were against opening the door for strange men in the middle of the night, but a gunshot wound to the stomach usually prohibited acts of violence, unless the attacker wanted to bleed out to death, so you deemed it safe enough. You made sure to grab a fire poker from the fireplace on your way back from the medicine cabinet, just in case.

Blood was beginning to pool underneath the man, signaling that if you were to do anything, it had to be done with haste. Fighting back a gag at the tangy metal aroma, you undid his vest and undershirt, pulling it off and discarding it somewhere on the floor. The bullet had thankfully wedged itself near the surface of his flesh making it an easy grab with a pair of tweezers. The wound itself proved to be more of a challenge. Stitches were required to stop the bleeding, but the needle slipped around between your fingers, and attempting to wipe the slick blood off your hands just made more of a mess. After a bit of adjusting, and a lot of wiping, you finally managed a messy line of seven uneven stitches.

For the first time in the past half hour, the thumping of your heartbeat began to fade from your ears, allowing you to process what had just happened.

You took a moment to look him over. He looked around your age. Around twenty– no, twenty-one? It was hard to tell with so much hair in his face. From what you could make out, he appeared to be a reasonably attractive man. Perhaps a bit unkempt, you thought, but as to be expected at this time of night. With his chestnut brown hair, he vaguely reminded you of Clyde, your childhood dog. Though intended as a compliment, you made a mental note to keep that one to yourself when–if ever–he awoke. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that was drawing you to the curve of his jawline, but with a start, you realize you had been staring for far too long. Blinking away your daydreams, you see the scene in front of you as it truly is.

There was a body in your bed.

You frantically reach over the bed to press two fingers firmly against his neck, feeling around for a pulse. Was he even still alive? A slow and faint periodical throb against your fingertips pulls a heavy sigh of relief out of your weary body, and you slump against the side of the bed. Thank the gods.

Unfortunately, the fact he was alive did not solve the strange-man-in-bed issue. Once he had been securely wrapped in several layers of bandages–any more and he may appear mummified–you weren’t sure what else there was to do. So, you recruited the only person in the household that could keep their mouth shut. Your older sister, Euphemia. 

“By Jove, sister… you’ve killed a man…” Euphemia looked pale-faced and wide eyed in horror at the seemingly lifeless body and blood adorning your room.

“Stop it.” You hissed under your breath, closing the bedroom door behind her. “He’s not dead. And would you keep your voice down?”

Euphemia looked from you to the body, then to your crimson hands and nightgown. “Are you to tell me he is… sleeping?” She asked, incredulously, her voice quavering.

You sighed, exasperated. You grabbed her wrist, much to her resistance, and forcefully pressed her fingers against his neck. “There. He is very much alive. Now will you please help me?” 

Your sister sighed in relief. “Gods… He looks mauled.” She eyed your butchered stitchings. “Not a slight on your abilities, of course. Spoken from a place of love.”

“Mock me all you want when we break fast, sister.” You toss her a wet washcloth. “As for now, make haste and wipe down the headboard. I’ll deal with the floor.”

“I merely jest.” She replied, rounding the bed beside the body.

As she approached the unconscious man, she froze, the cloth in her hand dropped to the ground as you heard a sharp intake of breath. Startled, you jump up from your knees.

“Hells, are you hurt?” You turned, expecting to see a splinter or bruise. Alas, Euphemia just stood shell shocked, staring down towards the body. You looked at the man yourself, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Euphemia leaned closer to the body and swept the hair from his face. “I’ve seen this man’s portrait before.” She crouched beside him, studying his features. “It was in a museum of art from other nations.” Closing her eyes, she recounted the museum. “It was a family portrait. So this must be…” Euphemia turned back to you, mystified. “The Viscount of Waterdeep.”

You stared at her. “...Who?”

“The Viscount, Lord Gale Dekarios.”

✣ ✣ ✣

The rest of the night–technically the early morning–passed surprisingly peacefully, with the only hiccup being a lack of bed space. Euphemia made sure to chide you thoroughly for even suggesting that she take Gale to her room instead. In your defense, he had a larger bed than yours. After some back and forth, Euphemia declared that she’d be ruined if someone found her alone with a foreign Viscount, and her hopes of being courted would be gone. You, however, were newer to the season and very much single–which she didn’t hesitate to enunciate–and therefore could afford a scandal or two.

Cursing her under your breath, you reluctantly slipped under the covers, a good sixteen inches apart from the supposed Viscount. Despite everything, you easily drift off into a sound sleep.

A sudden shift in the bed startles you awake. Groggily, you sat up to see early morning sunrays softly beaming through your windows. Your mind clouds with exhaustion as you attempt to recall the night prior. In your fatigue you barely manage to picture a sharp jawline and soft brown hair. A dream, you conclude. Just another fantasy to forget about. You were about to lean back down when you heard the soft squeak of your bed spring from beside you, followed by a hushed murmur.

“Shit.”

Turning towards the voice, you came face to face with a pair of warm chestnut eyes, staring straight back at you. Lord Gale Dekarios–very much not from a dream–stood with one knee on your bed and his other foot on your floor, attempting to leave without a sound. His face was tense with pain and his hand pressed over the wet bandages covering his wound.

You made no move to stop him, merely watching as he gawked at you dumbstruck like a child with his hand trapped in a cookie jar. “What are you doing?” you asked.

It was as if you had two heads with the way he stared at you.

“My deepest apologies for the intrusion last night,” he managed to stammer out, quickly collecting himself and beginning to stand from the bed. “By Jove, I will leave right away-”

“Why?” You cut him off.

He choked out a confused sputter. “Pardon?”

You gestured to his bloodied bandages. “You are injured. Are you not?”

His eyes flicked to the wound before returning to your questioning gaze. “I am.” He replied, slowly.

“So sit. Unless you mean to walk home.” Standing from the bed, you scoured the room for the remainder of the bandages you brought from before.

Gale hesitantly perched himself on the edge of your bed frame, unsure how to proceed. After a couple moments of watching you flit around the room, he cleared his throat. “Pray tell, which residence am I in the company of?”

Upon gathering the materials and medicines, you sat across from him, laying out the paraphernalia in between you both. “This is the Neredras Manor,” you replied, beginning to work on replacing his dark, oxidized bandages.

From up close you could finally make out his facial features in detail. His jawline was as you remembered, but his hair was finger-combed back against his neck, almost brushing against his shoulders. His atmosphere had changed as well. Despite his grim injuries, a warm feeling surrounded him, almost like an aura of liveliness. You leaned into him, passing the bundle of old bandages around his body as you unwrapped. In such close proximity you just barely manage to make out faint traces of spicy cinnamon, crisp parchment, and freshly lit firewood.

You froze and pulled back sharply. You had completely forgotten yourself. He hadn’t noticed, had he? You glanced up briefly, only to be immediately met by chestnut eyes that bore into you with a thousand-yard stare, and lips ever so slightly muttering to himself as if he was lost in thought. 

“...Pretty.” Gale whispered, barely intelligible.

“What?”

Upon realizing you were staring right back at him, he quickly averted his eyes, finally breaking out of his stupor. “Sorry?” He cleared his throat, struggling to meet your gaze.

“Pretty?” You repeated, confused.

Gale sputtered, seemingly caught off guard before a look of mortified realization crossed his features. “Morning,” he declared abruptly. “Y-You are morning.” He paused. “I mean, it is morning.” He paused again. “I mean, It is a pretty morning,” he finally managed, eyes settling back on yours as a pale flush of pink crept up his neck, threatening to wrap around his cheeks.

You attempted to raise the back of your palm to feel his forehead, concerned, only to be intercepted by Gale as he caught your wrist and brought it back down to your lap.

“I assure you, I am perfectly well,” he took a deep breath, composing himself. “And usually better at this.” He added, pressing a customary kiss to the back of your hand. “All this and you don’t even know my name.”

“Well, actually–” you began.

“Gale Dekarios,” he vaunted, chest almost puffed, and you swear you’ve seen images of birds of paradise performing similar moves during a mating dance. Knowing he was a Viscount made the visual match far too well and you failed to stifle a chortle.

“Pleased to make your–” Gale faltered slightly at your reaction. “Did I do something?”

Struggling to pull yourself together, you shake your head breathlessly. “No, it’s nothing. It’s just, I know who you are already.” 

He looked puzzled. “You do?”

Nodding, you let out a deep breath, overcoming your brief laughing fit. “My older sister is quite the socialite. She recognized you from your portrait.”

From his impressed expression, you caught yourself wondering if they would be a good match. Euphemia was always fond of the idea of marrying a Viscount, like your mother had, not to mention she was up to date on all the drama of the ton.

An unfamiliar sensation twisted in your gut, unnoticeable until you focused on it. You hadn’t had breakfast yet so it was likely just hunger. But strangely, this hunger was creeping up from your stomach, almost residing in your chest with a faint pang.

You stood up sharply, pushing down the strange feelings. “You must be hungry, my Lord.”

Gale’s eyes flicked around your face, almost as if he was studying you. “I could eat,” he finally spoke. “And please, just Gale.”

Nodding quickly, you turned on your heel and briskly left your room, closing the door behind you. The twinge in your chest finally simmered, leaving your cheeks slightly flushed and blood nearly warm. You let yourself fall against your door, breathing deeply.

Suitors had come and gone before, and once he healed, Gale Dekarios would be nothing more than a man you met for a day.

[yuujispinkhair]

Kabukicho Love (Chapter 10 – last chapter)

I don't wanna check into the Tokyo Love Hotel. I just want your love all to myself

Successful but lonely businessman Sukuna gave up on love. Why put his heart on the line when he can just as easily buy "love" from the prettiest escorts of Tokyo? But why does this supposedly fake love feel so real when he's with the new boy he booked?

Chapter 1 ++ Chapter 2 ++ Chapter 3 ++ Chapter 4 ++ Chapter 5 ++ Chapter 6 ++ Chapter 7 ++ Chapter 8 ++ Chapter 9

Pairing: Sukuna x Escort!Yuuji Genre: Escort AU, smut, fluff Word Count: 6k Playlist: Sukuita Escort AU Warnings: 18+, smut, sex work, age gap (Yuuji is 21 and Sukuna 30), oral, fingering, rimming, anal, cumshot, cum eating, alcohol, light angst, mention of a side character's death, mutual pining. All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

There is art now for this series! Thank you so much to @/silverink58 for drawing this beautiful picture of Sukuna and Yuuji for me! I'm so happy that you let me commission you!

And thank you so much to @/cometcoffee103 for making this beautiful moodboard for the AU!

The elevator doors open, and Sukuna steps into his apartment. He is greeted by the warm glow of lights and the soothing noises of the tv playing softly in the background. It makes him falter for a moment. After all those months of coming home to a dark and ghostly-silent apartment, it is almost a shock to find the comforting signs of someone living here.

His gaze lands on Yuuji, standing with his back to him at one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out over the rainy city, still wearing Sukuna's too-big training hoodie and sweatpants. He looks over his shoulder when he hears Sukuna, golden eyes meeting Sukuna's, and a small smile plays around his lips, tender and sweet.

"Hey, Sukuna. Welcome home."

Sukuna forgets to walk for a moment. His mouth feels dry at the onslaught of emotions washing over him. 

Home.

No luxuries in the world managed to turn this penthouse into a home. Not when it was always empty and silent upon Sukuna's return. It was a place to sleep but no home, Sukuna realizes with surprising clarity.

A home is something different. It's a feeling. It's a feeling of comfort and security. A feeling of belonging. A feeling of love and warmth.

The feeling Sukuna experiences when he looks at Yuuji.

He can't function for a moment and just lingers in the middle of the room and stares at the beautiful boy standing by his window wearing his clothes and watching the raindrops run down the window, greeting him after a long day of work, waiting for Sukuna in his apartment like he belongs here.

And he does belong here.

It is almost overwhelming how much sense everything makes all of a sudden. This is right. This is how it always should be. How Sukuna wants it for the rest of his life.

He quickly crosses the few meters between them and wraps his arms around Yuuji, hugging him tightly from behind before he presses a gentle kiss to the side of Yuuji's neck.

"Hey, darling. How was your day? How are you feeling?"

"I'm ok, I think. Better than yesterday. You helped me a lot, Sukuna."

Yuuji leans against him, resting most of his weight on Sukuna, trusting him to hold him, trusting him to be there for him. And Sukuna's pulse flutters. He has so naturally taken on the role of taking care of Yuuji. Offering him his strength and reassurance when Yuuji needed it. And Yuuji allows him to do that. It makes Sukuna's head spin how good this feels.

He would lay anything he has at Yuuji's feet just to make him happy. Strong, powerful Sukuna, the CEO of a successful company, a rich and influential businessman. But as powerful as he is in every other aspect of his life, Yuuji is the one who has power over him. Yuuji has a hold on Sukuna like no one else. On Sukuna's heart, on his feelings.

It's a thought that scared Sukuna just a few weeks ago. It's the kind of thought that made him run and shut himself away.

But now it's not scary anymore. It feels right. This is what he wants. This is what gives his existence meaning. This is what makes him feel alive. Caring for Yuuji, loving him, and letting himself be soft for this beautiful man, no matter how vulnerable it makes him.

Suddenly it's all clear as day. Suddenly it's easy.

Sukuna loves Yuuji. He is in love with Yuuji. And he doesn't want to fight it or run from it. He wants to love, he wants to trust, and he wants to give his all.

And now he finally has to get those words out and say them out loud to the one they are meant for.

Sukuna's arms tighten around Yuuji, holding him safely as Sukuna rests his chin on Yuuji's shoulder. A soft smile tugs at his lips as he gazes outside the window, looking at the endless glittering lights of the city beneath them. A sea of light, an array of millions of people living in this huge city. He wonders briefly how many of them have found a true home. How many of them are holding the one they love in their arms right now too.

And then Sukuna finally says those magical words, his voice low and soft against the warm skin of Yuuji's neck,

"I love you, Yuuji."

He can hear and feel Yuuji's sharp intake of breath. And then Yuuji turns his head, and his pretty honey eyes blink at Sukuna, wide with surprise. His lips part in an inaudible "oh."

But before he can say anything, Sukuna quickly adds,

"I owe you an apology. I hurt you, and I have regretted that every day since then. I am sorry for pushing you away and running away from my feelings. I am not sure I can be the right man for you, not after acting so childish and putting you through all that. I'm not sure I deserve you. But I don't want to run anymore. I want you in my life. Not as an escort or just an acquaintance. I want you officially by my side. As my partner, as the man I love. I understand if you say no, and I will respect any decision you make. I understand if I am just a former client to you. But I want you to know how I truly feel about you. And if you let me, I will always be there for you, even if you say it was just business to you."

Yuuji stares at him, his eyes full of wonderous astonishment. Tears glisten in those pretty eyes and spill over as Sukuna watches. Two thick drops run slowly down Yuuji's cheeks, and Sukuna wants to lean down and kiss them away. But he stops himself. He waits patiently for Yuuji to tell him it's ok. To tell him Sukuna is allowed to do that, that he is allowed to stay in Yuuji's life.

Yuuji turns around in his arms, standing before him in Sukuna's clothes, tears running down his beautiful face. He reaches out to cup Sukuna's cheek with his hand, caressing it tenderly with his thumb. A touch as tender as the expression on his face.

His voice is thick with tears, but not the way he sounded yesterday. Not stricken by grief. This time he sounds happy.

"You haven't been just a client to me for a long time, Sukuna. I... I thought I messed everything up because I was so bad at hiding how much I like you. I thought you were uncomfortable with me having feelings for you. I thought it was too obvious how I felt. That I am...that I am so in love with you."

Sukuna's heart skips a beat at Yuuji's words, warmth flooding him, and relief washes over him that is so intense that he feels like a heavy weight was finally lifted off his shoulders.

He looks deeply into Yuuji's eyes while his arms circle around his waist. Holding him in his arms, but in a way that allows Yuuji to pull away at any time.

"Consider it carefully, darling. You have all the time in the world. I don't want you to feel pressured."

But Yuuji shakes his head vehemently,

"I don't need time! I love you, and I want to be with you! You are good for me, Sukuna! Can't you see? You were there for me when I needed you the most. You are a man who lives up to his mistakes and who takes responsibility. And we both messed things up. I should have been more direct about my feelings too. And my job was to fulfill my clients' fantasies and give them the illusion of love. Of course, you were reluctant to take a step further. But you haven't been a job to me for months. I daydreamed about us dating for real for a long time already."

He looks at Sukuna with big honey eyes and a cute blush on his tan cheeks. There is a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. And so much warmth. Sukuna feels like he will drown in those warm golden eyes. And this time, he doesn't want to turn back before that can happen.

"I'm glad we managed to work it out, baby. I promise you I will always be open with you from now on. No more hiding how I feel. I will be a better man. I will take care of you and give you all I've got from now on."

"You already do, Sukuna."

Yuuji's voice cracks, and he quickly presses his strong body tightly against Sukuna, capturing his lips in a firm kiss.

Sukuna's arms wrap tightly around him, caressing Yuuji's muscular back through the hoodie he's wearing, kissing him with deep, tender caresses of his tongue, smiling when Yuuji melts against him, warm and strong. 

When they pull away again, Yuuji looks dazed.

"So that means...we are dating now? Wow! This feels like a dream. I never thought I could have you!"

His cuteness makes Sukuna laugh softly, reaching out to pet Yuuji's soft pink hair affectionately while his other arm is still wrapped around Yuuji's waist, still holding him in his arms, not willing to let go.

"And I never thought I could have you."

Fresh tears run down Yuuji's cheeks at Sukuna's words, and this time Sukuna really kisses them off his face. His lips lift in a gentle smile when he cups Yuuji's cheek and lets his gaze travel over that beautiful face, those pretty honey eyes that always hold so much warmth, those soft lips that taste so sweet and say such cute things. He can't stop himself from getting drowned in affection for his sweet lover.

Sometimes home is a person, he realizes. And that person is standing before him right now.

A matching smile spreads over Yuuji's face, brighter than the sun. They both grin at each other, and a laugh bursts out of Yuuji's mouth, happy and sweet. His eyes sparkle at Sukuna with so much happiness and excitement that it warms Sukuna from the inside.

And finally, Sukuna is truly home for the first time in his life.

They finally got it right. Yuuji is his. And Sukuna is Yuuji's.

December, a year later.

A low groan escapes Sukuna's mouth as the zipper of his suit pants gets dragged down expertly by Yuuji's teeth. His hips buck when his boyfriend nuzzles his warm cheek sweetly against the throbbing bulge in Sukuna's black boxer briefs.

"Ah, Fuck! Can't get enough of my cock, sweetheart?"

Sukuna smiles as his gaze slips down to where Yuuji is kneeling between his spread legs on the floor of Sukuna's office. He cups Yuuji's cheek tenderly, trailing his thumb over the smooth, warm skin before his fingers wander into Yuuji's hair to caress it gently.

Yuuji is a sight for sore eyes with his flushed cheeks and the horny look on his pretty face. His tongue darts out to wet his pretty pink lips, licking them seductively before he nods and smiles sweetly back at Sukuna.

"Hmm yeah, baby, I can never get enough of you."

The first tender kiss lands on Sukuna's cock, making his breath catch in his throat and his hand tighten in Yuuji's soft pink hair.

Yuuji's firm hands caress Sukuna's thighs, kneading his muscles gently as Yuuji takes Sukuna lovingly into his warm mouth.

And then Yuuji sucks on Sukuna's tip, and Sukuna's head falls back against the headrest of his office chair while a low groan escapes his parted lips.

For the next few minutes, the room is filled with the sounds of sex. The wet slurping noises of Yuuji bopping his sweet mouth on Sukuna's cock. The cute mewls in the back of Yuuji's throat. And the low moans and soft curses falling from Sukuna's lips. And all the while, Yuuji's pretty honey eyes gaze up at Sukuna with so much love and adoration that it makes Sukuna's head spin.

Outside his office room, the annual Christmas party of the S.H.R.I.N.E Group is in full swing. An event Sukuna dreads every year because he loathes the fake smiles and stupid small talk he has to make with his distant family members who only ever come into his headquarters if they get something for free, like the exquisite banquet and the luxurious gifts everyone receives at the end of the party.

But this year the Christmas event is much better. Because this year, Sukuna has Yuuji with him, and his sweet boyfriend is helping him take the edge off in the best way.

They only have a few stolen minutes here after they managed to sneak away from the party, but they make good use of them.

Soon Yuuji is on Sukuna's lap, riding him on his office chair while their lips meet in a heated needy kiss.

Sukuna smiles in between kisses, his lips brushing over Yuuji's neck and his jaw,

"How long have you been planning to fuck me in my office, sweetheart?"

"For months, actually. And when you told me about the Christmas party, I couldn't resist the opportunity. But can you blame me? I just want to give my boyfriend some sexy memories to think about when he gets bored at work. You'll never look at this chair the same again after tonight. I'll make sure of that, baby."

Yuuji smiles that stunning sunshine smile and cocks his head cutely, winking at Sukuna even as a loud gasp falls from his lips when Sukuna rolls his hips to fuck deeper into him. Somehow he manages to look cheeky and innocent at the same time when he adds,

"Merry Christmas, Kuna."

Sukuna can't help but laugh softly.

"Merry Christmas to you too, darling. You give the best presents."

Actually, Yuuji is the best gift himself. Sukuna's sweet and sexy boyfriend. He braces himself on Sukuna's pecs, digging his nails into the firm muscles, leaving his marks on Sukuna's body as he bounces so cutely on his cock, moaning Sukuna's name in that shaky way that always drives Sukuna wild.

Before he knows it, Sukuna already grabs Yuuji's black tie, the only piece of clothing he is currently wearing, wraps it around his wrist, and tugs firmly on it to pull Yuuji into another deep kiss.

Their soft moans fill the room, followed by whispered words of praise and love when Sukuna's fingers sprawl over Yuuji's hips, guiding him up and down on his cock as they both ride out the last waves of their orgasms.

Sukuna has never enjoyed any Christmas party as much as the one tonight.

A few minutes later, Sukuna is strolling out of his private bathroom, tugging himself back into his pants and buttoning up his dress shirt after wiping Yuuji's cum off his skin.

His gaze drifts over to his desk. Yuuji is still naked, sprawling in Sukuna's office chair in all his glory. A fond smile spreads over Sukuna's face. Yuuji is a mouth-watering sight with all that smooth tan skin and strong muscles on display for Sukuna's admiring gaze. His muscular thighs are spread, and his gorgeous thick cock is softening gradually between them. Milky threads of cum are glistening on his defined abs and pecs.

And Sukuna knows that more cum is seeping out of Yuuji's cute hole and onto Sukuna's fine leather chair. Sukuna's cum. A thought that still blows his mind. That he is allowed to claim Yuuji so completely. That he is allowed to pump him full of his warm seed, to be as close to him as possible, without anything between them.

The smile on Sukuna's face grows even wider. He knows how he must look right now. His usually smug smirk replaced by a lovestruck smile, his poker face gone and replaced by a tender expression. Here, with Yuui, he can be soft. He can be just Sukuna.

His heart feels so full anytime he watches Yuuji after they make love.

Those pretty golden eyes meet his, and the beautiful sunshine smile spreads over Yuuji's face. Laughter bubbles out of his mouth,

"I am sorry for making such a mess, baby, but I think it was worth it, wasn't it?"

Sukuna chuckles as he leans down to gently clean Yuuji with the wet towel he brought from his bathroom before also wiping away the small pool of cum on his office chair.

"Very worth it. I hope you will sweeten my boring office days more often from now on."

Before Sukuna can straighten up again, he gets stopped by a strong hand on the back of his neck, warm fingertips gently playing with the short hair of his undercut as Yuuji pulls him closer for a sweet kiss.

When he pulls away again, his sunshine smile is even brighter,

"I will give you all the sweetness you need, baby. And you have a very fancy office...I might come by here more often now that I know how comfy this leather chair is. And you look so sexy in it, sir."

"Not as sexy as you. Especially when you are naked while sitting on it."

More laughter falls from Yuuji's mouth, genuine and loud, and his honey eyes sparkle with so much happiness and love that Sukuna can't help but reach out and ruffle his pretty pink hair.

This is the man Sukuna loves more than anyone or anything in this world. His lover, his partner, his everything.

Sukuna and Yuuji return to the party five minutes later. They both look immaculate as they walk back to the large conference room where the festivity is being held. Two gorgeous tall men in black designer suits and with matching pink hair.

Sukuna knows they have all eyes on them when they enter the room. Each of them looks good on their own, but together they are stunning. He can't help but feel a wave of pride wash over him. Pride that Yuuji is here with him. Sukuna makes no secret about the fact that Yuuji is his date. His official partner, the man by Sukuna's side.

A confident professional smile is on Sukuna's face as he steps into the room. His arm is loosely wrapped around Yuuji's waist as they both take a glass of champagne and sip it while they mingle with the other party guests.

This is the most dreaded part of the evening for Sukuna. The small talk, the useless gossip, the unfunny jokes, the fake smiles. But tonight, he finds it isn't as bad as he expected. If he is honest, he is even enjoying himself.

It's all thanks to his personal sunshine. Even a boring business event is bearable with Yuuji by his side.

Yuuji is good at these things. His natural charm and kindness make him the perfect party guest. And the training he went through before working for Infinity Escorts added to that. Yuuji knows how to hold a conversation, no matter how mundane the topic is. And he can talk business too, always up to date with what is happening in the world. It's something Gojo insisted was necessary for a high-class escort like Yuuji. He isn't working as an escort anymore, but the habit remains that he reads the news. Sukuna can't stop looking at him, and he knows that everyone else is doing the same.

Yuuji is like the sun. He shines so brightly anywhere he goes, filling the conference room with his cute laugh and his pretty smile. Charming and magnetic. Sukuna can see his business partners hanging on Yuuji's lips. He is hit by an almost overwhelming feeling of affection.

A fond smile tugs at Sukuna's lips as he watches his man over the rim of his champagne glass as Yuuji makes conversation with two of Sukuna's business partners.

Yuuji's laugh is genuine and sweet as he shakes his head when Sukuna's business partner assumes Yuuji works for the S.H.R.I.N.E. Group too,

"Oh no. I don't work here. I have my own business. But you can see some of my work here tonight."

He points at the magnificent Christmassy flower arrangement on the large table in the middle of the banquet.

"If you ever host an event at your company and need it to look good, you should place an order at Tiger Flowers. And if you are nice to my dear Sukuna here, I will even give you the family and friends discount!"

His eyes sparkle as he smiles broadly at Sukuna, leaning closer to kiss his cheek before he turns to look at Sukuna's business partners again, raising his champagne glass to propose a toast to Sukuna and the S.H.R.I.N.E. Group. Sukuna's business partners join in on the toast, both laughing with Yuuji.

Sukuna doesn't even try to hide the big grin on his face as he clinks glasses with them and adds in an amused voice,

"You should absolutely check out Tiger Flowers. They only deliver to the best addresses in the city, and the owner is very charming, as you can see."

After he stopped working as an escort, Yuuji continued his studies to become a movie director one day. But he also went back to the flower shop he had worked at prior to Infinity Escorts, saying that he had always enjoyed the job there and that the old owner was probably happy about the help. But it turned out that the owner was about to retire. That's when Yuuji stepped up and asked to take over the shop from him. And Tiger Flowers was born.

Sukuna and Gojo insisted on investing some money in renovating the old flower shop, giving Yuuji a chance to design it exactly the way he wanted. And he turned it into a beautiful modern flower shop with two very lucrative business deals. A contract with Infinity Escorts to deliver all the flower arrangements for the clubs and bars and the roses for the dates. And a deal with the S.H.R.I.N.E. Group to provide all flower arrangements for the office in Tokyo.

Tiger Flowers is a place for everyone. The average guy next door and the members of Tokyo's elite who need pretty flowers to decorate their glittering offices and penthouses.

And after this Christmas party, Tiger Flowers will have even more customers. Sukuna already knows that.

The whole group chuckles softly, and Sukuna's arm around Yuuji tightens affectionately as he grins at Yuuji and then back at his business partners. They continue their little casual bickering, small talk, and jokes, little teasing comments interlaced with business talk about the plans for the following year.

Sukuna walks out of the conversation with a new lucrative deal in his pocket and a warm feeling in his heart.

An hour later, Sukuna and Yuuji stand on the rooftop terrace of the office building, taking a small break from the festivity to get a breath of fresh air and sip another glass of champagne while gazing over the nightly city.

Sukuna smiles as he swallows the drink, and his eyes wander over the twinkling city lights.

"I'm glad that you joined me for the party, darling. It's a lot more fun with you."

Yuuji's answering smile is bright and sweet as he leans against Sukuna's side,

"Aww, come on, baby, it's a nice party! I love the flower arrangements..."

They both laugh at that. Despite the chilly temperatures out here, Sukuna feels warm. That familiar warmth he associates with Yuuji. It's a feeling that never really leaves him since that day he and Yuuji became a couple. Since that day when they both finally laid all their cards open and admitted their feelings.

And now, this warmth surrounds Sukuna even when his personal sunshine isn't standing right next to him. It's a permanent feeling of love. A feeling of belonging. A feeling of home that he carries with him everywhere he goes.

Standing here high above the city, watching Tokyo's seemingly endless sea of lights as the cold December air brushes over his hair, Sukuna can't help but reminisce about the year that will soon come to a close.

A lot has happened in the last 12 months. A lot of wonderful things.

Yuuji went back to college and also opened Tiger Flowers. He moved in with Sukuna, turning the penthouse into a home for both of them. They established the blissful familiarity that comes with sharing your life with the person you love.

A year of getting to know every facette of the other and falling even deeper in love because of it. They both grew into a new version of themselves, a happier one.

Sukuna learned to open up again. To lay his heart into someone else's hands, and trust this person, trust Yuuji, to keep it whole. He learned to give all he's got to Yuuji, just as he promised, and found that it was the most rewarding thing he has ever done.

Nothing has ever felt so right as taking care of Yuuji and letting Yuuji take care of him. He thinks maybe he figured out the meaning of life.

They became each other's home, each other's safe place. Sukuna never thought he would love like this again. But he does. Oh, he does. He loves Yuuji with all of his heart.

His tender thoughts get interrupted by the loud clicking of high heels on the marble tiles. Sukuna turns his head only to groan inwardly as he sees who is marching toward them.

His cousin from Kyoto.

She looks furious as she stops in front of him and Yuuji, not even trying to hide her disapproval. Her gaze is shooting daggers at Yuuji, eying him with obvious disgust on her face as if he is some vermin she wants to get rid of.

It makes Sukuna wrap a protective arm around his angel and pull him against his side. He fixes his cousin with a challenging stare, daring her to say something.

Her voice is harsh when she spats out,

"Do you have no shame at all, Sukuna? You got the nerve to bring one of your little whores to a company event? Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me to stand there and watch this? I don't care what you do behind closed doors, but displaying that fetish of yours here is disgusting!"

Sukuna can't help but chuckle darkly. He should have known that she would cause problems. So far, the reactions to his relationship with Yuuji have been positive. Of course, some people knew about Yuuji's former occupation. But none of them had a problem with it. Especially not after meeting Yuuji in person and talking to him. He had easily managed to wrap everyone around his finger.

Except for Sukuna's cousin, apparently. She is glaring at him and Sukuna, shaking from anger.

Sukuna sighs. When he answers her, his voice is dripping with fake sweetness and a condescending tone,

"Good evening to you too, my dear cousin. May I introduce you to my boyfriend Yuuji? You may have mixed things up a little. I don't have any whores. I used to meet some lovely escorts, though. And each one of them was much more classy than you could ever dream of being. But Yuuji here isn't my escort. He is my partner. Something you would know if you showed even the slightest interest in what is going on in my life or my company apart from showing up at my annual Christmas party to get free champagne and a luxurious gift package."

He can't help a smug smirk from spreading over his face when he hears her sharp intake of breath.

"Tsk, I can see what he is! A pretty little whore who spreads his legs for anyone who pays him! And you bring him here and parade him around, making a fool of yourself! A hooker isn't a suitable partner for the CEO of a company like ours. You drag our family name through the dirt and don't even seem to care. I am appalled!"

Sukuna's hand tightens around the champagne glass he's holding. Anger is surging through him. Cold rage upon hearing how this woman talks about the love of his life. Sukuna can feel Yuuji stir in his embrace, obviously uncomfortable. And that's when something in Sukuna snaps.

He fixes his cousin with a deadly glare. His voice is low and dangerous,

"I forbid you to talk about my fiancé like that. Yuuji is worth a lot more than you and your whole branch of the family. He deserves to carry our family name more than you do."

He can see the moment his words register, and his cousin's eyes widen in shock at the same time as a soft gasp escapes Yuuji's mouth. Sukuna can practically feel Yuuji 's eyes on him and imagine the astonished expression on his pretty face.

Maybe Sukuna got carried away a little bit. The fiancé part isn't true. Not yet, at least. Yuuji didn't know about it until now, but Sukuna has thought about it a lot during the last few months. He knows what he wants.

He has it all planned out. He has already booked the getaway over New Year at the same beach resort Sukuna and Yuuji had been to on their first weekend together.

The same hotel suite, this time during winter time, to watch the magnificent fireworks paint the ocean into a bright sea of color. And during that moment, when the fireworks begin, Sukuna wants to get on one knee and ask Yuuji to become his husband.

That is at least how Sukuna planned to tell Yuuji he wants to marry him. Not here on the rooftop of his office building, with his fuming cousin in front of him. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

His cousin's eyes are almost comically wide as her head snaps from Sukuna to Yuuji and back again.

"Fiancé?! You have really lost your mind, Sukuna. How can you even consider that? He is just after your money! He is a whore! Excuse me, an escort... It doesn't matter what you call him. The facts stay the same! He lets anyone fuck him if the price is right! How many people at this party has he already offered his services to? And you want to make him your husband? This is the peak of unprofessionalism! This company isn't in good hands with you!"

She screams the last part, sounding as furious as Sukuna feels too. But his voice is calm, a dangerous whisper, when he retorts,

"Oh, is that so? Do you think you would be better for the company? So why didn't you take it? Where were you when my dad died and we needed someone to take over the CEO post? Know your place. Don't come here to my office, to my Christmas party, and talk shit like this, especially not to the man I love. I've had enough of you. I expect you to hand in your resignation on Monday. If not, I guarantee I will make your life in my company hell. Now go and get your good-for-nothing husband and get out of my sight. If you aren't gone when I return to the party, I will have you kicked out by security."

He watches her open her mouth and close it again several times, eyes wide as the gravity of what he just said washes over her. She gulps hard.

"Fine! I'll leave. Fuck you, Kuna!"

She storms off, banging the large glass door shut behind her, leaving behind a stunned Yuuji and a victorious Sukuna.

Yuuji's voice breaks the momentary silence,

"Oh my god..."

To Sukuna's relief, he sounds more amused than hurt. As if he is watching one of his movies and commenting on the drama that's happening. Sukuna huffs and turns his face to press a tender kiss on Yuuji's cheek.

"I'm sorry about this, baby. Don't listen to her. She has always been a bitter person who is envious of everyone else, especially me."

Sukuna feels Yuuji shift in his arms, and then amused golden eyes gaze at him while a small cheeky smile plays around his lips,

"So, I'm your fiancé, hm?"

Sukuna chuckles softly,

"Well, I had to say something so she would leave you alone. But you know... it wasn't really a lie. Not for me, at least."

"Huh?"

Now Yuuji blinks at him. His big beautiful eyes gaze at Sukuna with a puzzled look. Those pretty eyes that offer Sukuna so much love and happiness every single day.

And suddenly, Sukuna knows that it doesn't matter that they are at his company's Christmas party and not at the fancy beach resort. It doesn't matter that there are no fireworks or that Sukuna doesn't have a ring.

He promised himself and Yuuji to never run again. And so he will just improvise and do what he knows in his heart is the right thing to do.

And so he gets on one knee, takes Yuuji's hand in his and smiles up at him.

"I wanted to do this another way, and I don't even have your engagement ring with me. It's at home, hidden in our closet, waiting for our little New Year trip. But it doesn't matter, because what I want to ask you doesn't need a specific time or place. All that matters is that you are my everything. You make me happier than I have ever been, and my goal is to make you happy too. I love you, Yuuji. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So, would you please do me the honor of becoming my husband?"

Yuuji's loud gasp is the cutest thing Sukuna has ever heard. He feels Yuuji's hand flexing in his, clutching at Sukuna as tears form in those pretty golden eyes before they spill over and slowly run down Yuuji's beautiful face.

And then, instead of pulling Sukuna up, Yuuji gets on his knees too, joining him on the floor with his bright sunshine smile and a happy sob falling from his trembling lips.

"I never...oh Sukuna, I never expected this..."

A tender smile spreads over Sukuna's face.

"You are so cute, darling. You are worth the whole world. You are worth everything. My company, my money, my car...all of those things don't matter. I would give anything I have away just to have you forever. I love you, Yuuji."

"I love you too, Kuna. I love you so much."

His hiccup at the end of the sentence makes Sukuna's heart clench affectionately. He reaches out with his free hand to cup Yuuji's cheek, tenderly wiping some of the hot tears away.

"So what is your answer to my question, sweetheart? Do you want to marry me?"

Yuuji smiles at him while more happy tears stream down his pretty face, and he nods enthusiastically.

"Yes! Of course, I want to marry you!"

He makes a cute sound that is a mix between a sob and a chuckle and flings himself at Sukuna, almost knocking him over, wrapping his arms tightly around him and capturing his lips in a tender kiss.

And Sukuna laughs too, happy and carefree like never before, as he wraps his arms tightly around Yuuji and smiles into the tender kiss they share.

He never thought he would have this. Not after he had given up on love years ago. But now, on the floor of his office building's rooftop terrace on a chilly night a few days before Christmas, he has everything he wants right here in front of him.

He has Yuuji.

And Sukuna knows now that you can open your heart again after it has been broken. You can find happiness again, no matter at what point in your life. He certainly did. Even after he gave up on love, even after he decided to shut all his feelings away. He let himself feel again. He let himself love again and let himself be loved in return. And he thinks this is the best decision he has ever made.

He doesn't need fake love anymore. He has true love right here in his arms.

- The end -

Aaaahhh, this was the last chapter!! So many tears were cried while writing this. I hope you liked it and I could give Yuuji and Sukuna the happy end they deserve!! Thank you so much to everyone who read this story until the end! Your comments and all the love I received for this story means so much to me! This AU really is my baby, I was so invested in this love story, and I am so happy that I could finish it. I think I packed some of my worst qualities into both Sukuna and Yuuji, and it feels like therapy to give them a happy ending like this and to say that it's never too late to find love even after your heart has been broken.

It's bittersweet to post this last chapter. On the one hand, I am happy I could tell the whole story. On the other hand, I will miss this AU so much! But Yuuji and Sukuna are happy now, and I am sure they will have a wonderful time at their little getaway over New Year and at their wedding soon after, so they don't really need me anymore :)

Thank you again for all the love!! I am so grateful to everyone who read this story and gave nice feedback! I hope to see you again when I start posting my next Sukuita story :) I am sending you lots of love! Thank you!!

[danibee33]

Excerpt from chapter 7 of my medieval au cod fic,

The Queen’s Guard🖤

“No, little queen.. I want to take my time with you. I want to taste every part of you, starting here-”, a sharp gasp fills the void around you at the sensation of his tongue just above your pulse point, still hot and wet when he kisses it with a smirk on his lips, “and here..”

He gently pushes your hair out of the way, exposing your shoulder so that he could mirror the action there as well, drawing yet another breathy little whine from you,

“Stop it, you insufferable brute..” You speak the words through clenched teeth, and yet, your hands pushing down on his shoulders give an entirely different story- but he does stop, standing again to tower over you, completely unfazed by the daggers in your eyes.

And the cocky grin on his lips turns into something much warmer, his eyes not so ravenous anymore, “Believe me,” he savors your name, letting it sit in the air between you before continuing, “When I say I intend to replace every memory of him, or anyone else, I mean it. I want to show you what it’s supposed to feel like, in every way.”

+++

AO3 link 👈🏻

[mazegays]

could've followed my fears all the way down

i have been listening to ttpd on repeat since it released and like. i thought listening to this is me trying on repeat while writing multiple sections was as angsty as it could get, but i was wrong. this could have been worse than it is, and depending on who you ask it's already too whumpy lmao

Chapter 24

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23

“Thomas, you need to eat something.” Minho shares a look with Gally. Thomas isn’t doing it on purpose— he’s thrown up everything but applesauce for the last week— but they don’t have any left and he needs to get something other than water in his system.

“Don’t want to throw up again.” Thomas hasn’t moved from the bed much in days. With the vomiting he’s been doing, he’s at risk of re-damaging his ribs and diaphragm, and no one wants that.

Thomas might know the risks better than anyone but Anya. Someone’s been bringing him the extra tablet they picked up, and when he’s not sleeping, reading on it is all Thomas has been doing.

Minho doesn’t want to take Thomas’s only source of entertainment away, but he’s not sure it’s a good thing that Thomas has daily access to all this information. What if he just stresses himself out more?

“Try a slice of bread. Please.” Gally tries, and Minho knows that he’s remembering when he had to feed Thomas to a mostly-healthy weight. He’d never quite gotten there, and now he’s starving.

“Okay.” Thomas eats the bread slowly, taking nearly twenty minutes to finish the whole thing, but Minho doesn’t care how long it takes, he just wants Thomas to be able to eat again.

Not being able to eat will affect the rest of his recovery as well, and Thomas has already complained about  how  he’s going to be in bed for a few weeks already, just to be on the safe side. 

At least during Gally’s few weeks in bed, Minho had been there with him most of the time. And now Gally can move around, as long as he uses his crutches.

Thankfully, it stays down long enough for Thomas to fall asleep.

“How long has he been sleeping for?” Anya asks, holding the tablet that’s been dedicated to medical records. Including their old WCKD files, though Minho’s still not sure how he feels about that.

She’s been adding to them. WCKD shouldn’t be able to access those additions, and it’s good to have records.

“Maybe fifteen minutes? He managed to eat a slice of bread and keep it down before he fell asleep. It’s more than he’s eaten lately.” She types it in and then checks Thomas’s pulse and breathing rate, and draws some blood.

“I’ll check to see if there’s an electrolyte imbalance. Hopefully, it’s not too big, because we don’t have supplements here.”

“What else can we try? This is the first time he’s been able to eat the bread,” Gally asks. Minho knows he’s been going through Thomas’s file, trying to figure something out. He still spends time in the kitchen, but not nearly as much as when they thought Thomas was dead.

Minho  hasn’t been working much, either. If he could work up some emotion other than relief, he might be a little upset about it. Not too upset, though. He’s perfectly fine with not having to work hard another day in his life.

He will eventually, he’s sure, but since they’re here, it’ll be something he enjoys. Hopefully.

Thomas had told them both to take on lighter tasks here and there, though, so that’s all Minho’s been doing. He doesn’t want Thomas to feel crowded or too closely watched.

“The bread is a good idea. If he handles that well, a little jam might not be such a bad idea. Water, of course. Nothing significantly solid for a while. I’m concerned about his throat and esophagus getting damaged with all the vomiting he’s been doing. His lips and mouth are already showing signs.”

Gally nods. When she leaves, though, his shoulders slump and he lowers his head.

“Minho, how can we help him with this? It’s not something we can fight. I’m scared that he’ll start thinking it’s better not to eat again.”

“We’ll make sure he doesn’t.” Truthfully, Minho’s not sure those thoughts have really left Thomas’s mind, but he had been gaining weight and was better about eating— at least around them.

He’s not sure that there’s been a time Thomas hasn’t had those thoughts. Minho still doesn’t know the full story about what happened with the storm and the river and everything, but he knows Thomas has scars that don’t come from the Maze.

When did he make those? How old was he when he started?

Chances are, he’s never going to know the answer. He doesn’t think he wants to.

“I’m worried too. I think there’s something he’s not telling us.”

“Like what?”

“Not anything too big, but I noticed he was a little weird after Rosa visited. She might have said something to him.”

“I didn’t even notice,” Gally mumbles, likely not intending for Minho to hear. “I should have noticed.”

“Gally, you’re still healing yourself. It wasn’t a crazy difference, I just… I’ve been watching Thomas for a long time.”

Gally at least laughs at that. “Sounds creepy when you put it that way.”

“Maybe a little, but it’s true. I knew after he announced that he was going to sacrifice himself that I either wanted to strangle him for saying that or kiss him so he couldn’t. Never decided which I wanted to do more.”

“He told us he’d built the Maze and you wanted to kiss him?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t have done it. Especially not the way he did. Alby was acting all weird from the Changing, still, and Winston wouldn’t shut up. And then he goes and says he should be the one to go in, all noble-like. But then when he said why… that’s when it got really heated.”

“I don’t think anyone liked that one.” Gally agrees. “Newt was pissed.”

“Yeah, he pulled me aside later and told me to keep an eye on him. Didn’t want Thomas going off and doing it anyway because he felt guilty about it.” Minho had been kind of tempted to make Thomas stay in the Slammer so he couldn’t pull a stunt like that again, but if he’d said that to Newt, he would never have heard the end of it.

“He still does. He told me a little about it, how if he hadn’t built the Maze we wouldn’t all be here. Like a kid could control any of that.”

“He wants to save everyone.” Minho figured that out when he ran into the Maze for two people he didn’t even know. At the time, he’d just thought Thomas was an idiot, because he had also been that. But then he’d put more work in to save Alby than Minho had, and managed to keep himself alive, too. “Sometimes it works. Most of the time, it doesn’t.”

finish on ao3 or keep reading

Minho kisses him on the forehead— something he’s still trying to get used to— before he heads out for the day. Gally is learning to make bread (or trying to), so he’s going to be gone most of the day; despite rising times, he can’t risk his leg by moving back and forth a lot.

So really what Gally is going to be doing is sitting.

Thomas is left alone a lot more than he’d thought he would be. Sure, Harriet or Anya pop in every few hours, but now that he’s out of danger and healing well, they don’t have to come by as frequently. Sonya visits, too, but she’s busy running the greenhouse.

Minho left him some strawberries, but he’s not sure he wants to risk it. As horrible as throwing up in front of other people makes him feel, if he gets sick while no one’s here and hurts himself, he’s out of options.

He’ll just wait for someone to come and visit. That’s his best option. Jorge had mentioned coming again this week, if he wasn’t too busy, and he knows he’s due a session with Jamie. She’ll insist on talking about this, even if he doesn’t want to.

(He really doesn’t want to.)

“Hey, Thomas, you up for us?” Rosa knocks on the door. Frankie’s with her, probably.

Now, he doesn’t think he wants visitors anymore.

“Yeah, but I might fall asleep on you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that!” Rosa takes the seat closest to the door— Gally’s chair, though Thomas knows he’d prefer to be able to see the door— and Frankie takes the one on the other side of the bed.

Thomas is very glad she doesn’t take Minho’s chair. Only Sonya and Minho have actually sat in it so far, and he doesn’t know why but he wants it to stay that way.

It would feel wrong to have someone other than them sit there.

“What have you been doing, all cooped up in here?”

“Reading, mostly.” Some of the WCKD files weren’t files, but books. Thomas knows he’s read some of them before, but he’s bored. “Sleeping. Eating what I can. Minho and Gally are good at keeping my mind off of things.”

“Thomas, you know they moved you, right?”

“Yes, I do.” He’s in his cabin— their cabin, now, but they haven’t actually talked  about that— and not the medical cabin. “It’s perfectly fine with me. The medical cabin is smaller and I’m going to be in bed for a while, others need to use it too.”

He eats a strawberry to avoid saying anything else.

“Thomas, you don’t have to stay here.”

“Again, Rosa, I’m not scared of them. They don’t hurt me, and they’re not going to.”

He can tell that Rosa is still convinced that the bruises she’d seen, even with explanations, are from Minho and Gally.

Of course, his not being found earlier didn’t help Minho’s case at all. Maybe she’s going to try and say that Minho missed him on purpose.

As if Minho would do that.

“I mean it, Thomas. Frankie and I can handle it for you if you want.”

“No, Rosa.” He eats another strawberry.

He should really tell Minho and Gally about this, or at least Jamie.

“I know you’re trying to help, but you’re really not helping at all. If this is all you want to talk about, then leave.”

Maybe they’re good for something, though, because Thomas is on his fifth strawberry now.

“Thomas, I’m not leaving. You might be safe for now because Anya is monitoring you twenty-four/seven, but you’re not always going to be safe. If I have to, I’ll take extreme measures to make sure you are.”

Miyoko’s actually been talking to him now. Maybe he’ll tell her, and she can decide to tell Harriet and Sonya if it’s bad enough. 

She used to be their leader, after all. Thomas doesn’t know what WCKD did to her, only that the others were surprised to see her alive.

He'd like to think that that means that maybe more Gladers survived than they know about, that they're safe somewhere.

“Frankie, please tell her I don’t need help.” Frankie reaches out to take his hand.

“You do, Thomas. You can’t see it yet, but we’ll help you. Even if it means we have to kidnap you and take you into the forest.”

Are they… threatening him?

That feels like a threat.

He pulls his hand away and eats another strawberry. He might get sick later, but probably not because he eats too much: the rising panic at the thought of going into the forest again isn’t going to be something he can ignore for long.

“I don’t really want to go to the forest anytime soon. If you’re going to mention that again, just leave.” He can’t force them out, he can’t even get out of bed. What is he going to do if they refuse?

He can’t do anything.

He’s helpless, and there’s probably no one close enough to hear him if he screams.

Well, if they do kidnap him, they won’t get away with it for long. Someone is always coming to check up on him.

He eats another strawberry and fumbles the bowl on purpose when setting it down.

“Are you okay? Should we get someone?” Frankie asks. He thinks she’s just going along with Rosa at this point, but he isn’t sure.

“Just tired.” Thomas has been using that excuse a lot lately. (Usually he’s not faking, either.)

“We’ll come to talk to you later, Thomas.” Frankie stands up first, and she has to pull Rosa out, but at least they’re gone.

He really has to tell Minho and Gally about this.

<- 23 25 ->

[lubdubsworld]

Change of Heart ( Taehyung ) ( Complete.

Chapter 1   Chapter 2    Chapter 3     Chapter 4     Chapter 5   Chapter 6  Chapter 7   Chapter 8    Chapter 9

Summary : Times are changing. After years of being oppressed, werewolves are taking a stand against humans , demanding equal rights and fair treatment. Heading the movement is Kim Taehyung, the breathtaking heir to the Kim fortune and one of the few remaining Alpha werewolves in the country. His disdain for the human race is well known and well warranted. They killed his family after all….. He wants to change the world , to put humans in their place but when his five year old daughter takes a shine to their very human neighbor , maybe he has to start with a change of heart , first.

: Pairing : Taehyung x OC / Werewolf AU!!

Genre : Romance, Explicit Content

Chapter 10

“Baby....you up?” Taehyung sleep heavy voice against my ear made me stir, blinking groggily as I tried to make sense of where I was. The window was still dark and I groaned. 

“What time is it?” I whispered and I felt the press of his lips against my shoulder, gentle and wet. 

“It’s a little past five in the morning.”

I whined in disbelief.

“Why would you wake me up so early?” 

I could barely see him in the darkness and I felt my breath catch when he moved to straddle my hips, hovering over me before grabbing the back of my thighs, spreading my legs apart and leaning down till the head of his cock pressed right up against my entrance. I felt myself clenching in anticipation and my body thrummed with the need to be filled, although I was still so sore from last night. 

“I’m sorry.... I need to head out but i wanted to...” Taehyung whispered, and I moaned when he kissed me  lightly, groaning when he slid right in, cleaving a way inside me, my walls pulsing around the hard length of. I flinched, the dull ache of it making me whimper a little and it took some effort to ground myself, to relax and not seize up against the intrusion. I could feel my heartrate speeding up, the last vestiges of sleep fading into the air. 

Taehyung, pressed gentle fingers to my waist, stroking my skin before running them up my torso, soft little touches to my ribs and up to my breasts, cupping the warm weight of them before rubbing his thumb over the tip till my nipples hardened. 

“So pretty...like this...” He whispered, pulling out and pushing back in and the movement jarred my insides , drawing a pout onto my lips. 

“you’re too big..” I complained and he responded by moving his hands to my knees, gripping the back of them and drawing them up and apart till I choked, spreading me so wide that my thighs screamed in protest, and he laughed at the look on my face .

“We should join a yoga class or something. Your flexibility is atrocious.” He commented mildly and I gasped, affronted. 

“What on earth-” He cut me off with a kiss, before grabbing my ankle and throwing my leg over his shoulder and pressing in closer, his cock sliding in even deeper. I choked out, laughing in sheer disbelief because I wasn’t made to bend like that. Nobody was. I was sure of it. 

“You’ll get used to it...” Taehyung laughed, “ Get used to me... Get used to my kisses and of course get used to my fat cock in you every damn night. ” he growled and the filthy words made me clench down on him, so hard that i almost cramped up. 

He kissed me slowly and I wrapped one arm around his neck, trying to breathe through the stretch of him fucking into me, each push and pull abrasive but amazing. . 

I stared at his beautiful face, trying to drink in the features, and I felt myself fall deeper, the look of affection in his gaze somehow so much more arousing than the things he was doing to me. And i realized how badly I wanted this...This and him for the rest of my life. 

And in the wake of it came the reminder that +my father was out there. 

A powerful man. 

A dangerous man who wanted Taehyung gone.

“Are you going to be in danger?” I whispered, pressing my palm against his face and he chuckled. He lightly grabbed my wrist and pressed a kiss to my palm before bringing my hand down to his shoulder and kissing me gently. 

“I always am.” He reminded me , lips brushing mine . It was far from reassuring and I gripped his shoulders harder, trying not to let the anxiety take over. 

“But you’ll be safe, right?” I demanded, willing him to look me in the eye and Taehyung gave me a soft smile.

“Would you miss me terribly if I was gone?” He grinned and I felt my entire body go ice cold at the very prospect of it , my lips parting and my mouth going sandpaper dry.  Taehyung’s smile faded at once, his arms tightening around me. 

“Hey...hey... I was just joking...baby. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have joked about that. Rae, I’m going to be fine... Look at me. ” He whispered urgently and I curled my fingers into his shoulders, trying to breathe. 

“Hey...Come on, Rae.. Don’t look so scared. ..” He pressed kisses to my cheeks and I swallowed.

“Don’t underestimate my father. Tae....“ I said hoarsely.” He has so much more to lose than you do. He’s desperate and I don’t want you to be blindsided by anything. “ I whispered. 

He nodded.

“i know. i won’t. Now come on, let me make you feel good, yeah?” He kissed me again and I hugged him. He picked up the pace, thrusting into me faster and I closed my eyes, gripping his waist and hanging on as he sent my senses into overdrive. 

My mind was still too worried to experience any sort of overwhelming pleasure but I liked this. 

Liked having him like this, over me, inside me and wrapped all around me,. 

It meant he was safe. At least for this moment, he was here and he was safe. 

I felt the moment his orgasm hit him, warm wetness spilling into me and I closed my eyes at the sensation, blushing for some reason.

This time i felt him swelling inside me again and I froze, panic starting before I could stop it and he hugged me closer, lips pressing soothing kisses as he stroked my skin, gently soothing. 

“it’s okay baby... You’re mine... You were made for me. it won’t hurt... I promise.” He whispered, holding me closer, and I swallowed, bracing myself . 

“Oh, God, Taehyung... “ I whispered, burying my face into his shoulder as he pressed in a little deeper and he was right. It didn’t hurt, it felt overwhelming, like it was too much and like I was going to absolutely explode but it didn’t hurt. ....

Taehyung trembled a little, as he tried not to move, his knot lodging itself deep inside me, so deep that the smallest movement sent pin pricks of sensation all over my body. It didn’t even feel weird or animalistic anymore I thought , awed. it felt normal. Felt like us. Him and I locked together. Felt natural.  Or maybe the early morning grogginess was making me mellow. Maybe once i had my head on straight, I’d be more terrified. 

He groaned into my shoulders, body going lax on top of me and I choked a little because he was heavy, but there was a dull throbbing pleasure in it, the weight of him grounding me. 

I stared up at the ceiling, stroking the back of his head as he shuddered a little inside me. 

Time seemed endless as he stayed inside me and I felt my eyelids growing heavy, even as I heard his breathing even out.

Wasn’t he supposed to leave? 

But I couldn’t bring myself to wake him up. 

For a few more minutes, I stayed still, watching the windows grow lighter and as the first rays of the morning sun began spilling into the room, I felt sleep take over. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I won’t be going in at all. The Narcotic department is going to handle the whole thing. You know Namjoon and Seokjin right? They’re the one who’re going to be there and they’re going to make sure things go smoot. I’m going to be safe ...in the comfort of my luxurious office .... “ Taehyung’s voice  sounded completely steady and firm through the phone and i willed myself to trust him. 

Luna sat in my lap, happily sketching on a drawing pad as we sat cross legged in front of the huge French Windows in Jungkook’s apartment. Jungkook himself was in the kitchen, whipping up some milkshakes for us. 

I sighed deeply.

“ Can we come over today then? It ends today right?” I asked urgently. I buried my nose in Luna’s hair and the sweet scent of green apple and strawberries made me melt. She turned around to flash me a wide grin, eyes dancing with happiness. 

Taehyung didn’t respond for a few seconds. When he did, his voice was low and soothing. 

“I’m not sure Rae. These men, they aren’t the kind of people I can take lightly. There are going to be repercussions and I don’t want anything to happen to you or Luna. You’re safe there. Jungkook’s going to stay with you till I come get you and I’ve hired enough men to keep watch. I just need to hang around long enough to make sure we end this cleanly. “

“Okay. I love-”

“Don’t.” He said softly. 

I blinked.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the first time I’m hearing you say that. I’d rather hear it in person.” Taehyung said softly. 

I laughed.

“You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you. Now, what is my feral daughter upto?” 

“Luna, Dada wants to talk to you...” I handed the phone over to her and she squealed.

“Hi Daddy....” She said cutely. “ When are you coming home daddy?” 

I couldn’t hear his side of the conversation but the pout on her face told me that she wasn’t pleased.

“But that’s soooo long....”

“I was drawing . RaeRae showed me how to draw a wolf. It looks angry like daddy.”

“No daddy, I’m being a good girl. I ate a bowl of rice and veggies too.” 

“I don’t miss daddy because RaeRae’s here.” 

And then she giggled.

“Of course not daddy...you’re both number one.” 

A sound at the door made me look up and Jungkook held the door in place with his leg, flipping the doorjamb down before carefully carrying the tray of milkshakes in. 

I gently maneuvered Luna off my lap before moving to help him. 

“Smells delicious, Mr. Jeon.” I grinned, taking a sip of the chocolate concoction. “Ooh..that's really good.”

“Its a premade mix I added water to.” Jungkook grinned. I laughed. 

“ Still a great cook !” I turned to watch Luna who was now flat on her back on the rug and going on about how Jungkook had let her borrow his sketching tab. 

“She’s adorable.” He commented with a smile and I hummed.

“When are you heading back to the preserve?” I asked gently and he shrugged.

“Not for a while. Taehyung told me they’re not yet sure how far this whole drug thing has spread. There’s going to be a lot of arrests and protests in the next few weeks. Messing with a wolf’s ability to scent his mate...that’s terrible stuff, Rae. Wolves are gonna be fucking furious. There’s going to be a huge fall out over this and we can only hope it wouldn’t be too violent.” 

I swallowed.

“Do you think I could get my job back, at the preserve?”

Jungkook looked surprised.

“You’re not gonna be with Tae?”

I turned to stare at Luna.

“Of course I’ll be with Tae but.. i love my job. I made a difference there. I’m not going to make a good trophy wife. I want to be able to help people in someway, not just hang around in the backdrop.” I said desperately.

Jungkook looked worried. 

“I’m not sure if Tae will agree to that Rae. You know how he gets about his job. As his wife you’ll have plenty of stuff to do as it is..,....”

“I’m not his wife...” I muttered under my breath, although it was kind of a useless statement.

“ Umm...you know he’s going to ask you to marry him as soon as possible? You’re already wearing his mark. in fact , in our world you’re already married as far as we’re concerned,” Jungkook pointed at my neck and I rubbed the small scar on my shoulder where he’d bitten me. 

“I can still do the things I want to do right? Taehyung isn’t going to lock me up , is he?” I laughed.

Jungkook tilted his head, watching me carefully.

“You don’t know him very well, do you Rae?” He said quietly. 

My heart flipped over in my ribcage at the words and the tone with which he said it. 

“What-What do you mean?:” I asked , nervous. 

Jungkook opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Luna’s laugh. 

“RaeRae!!! Daddy wants to talk to you!!” Luna came bounding over with the phone held out and I took it from her.

“Tae?”

“I’m going to head in now. We’re going to be coordinating with Seoul PD and they’ll send the guys in around 2 hours. You’re going to  okay right? I’ll call you when it’s over?” 

“Okay, Tae. Stay safe.” I whispered.

“I’ll be just fine. Don’t worry about me. Love you. Both of you. ”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jungkook and i sat on the couch, eyes glued on the TV as the news played out watching the entire country erupt in chaos. 

“Fire broke out today on a popular resort in Jeju Do, owned by  Hotelier Cha Eun Woo..... Interestingly, the resort had been closed for the weekend with minimal staff and only a few VVIP customers . So far there have been reports of nine casualties, all of them guests including billionaire philanthropist Yoon Jae hyun....”

I felt the breath shudder out of me, equal parts relief and disbelief. Taehyung had closed the whole thing down with minimum fanfare and with no one any the wiser. I knew that the eight men were the major distributors in the entirety of Korea, and that with them gone, it would only be a matter of time before the entire racket collapsed. 

“These guys are good.” Jungkook commented mildly and I stared at the screen, fascinated... The whole thing was being written off as an unfortunate tragedy, a gas leak or something.  

A small crowd of people in uniforms stood huddled in a corner and I squinted, grinning when I caught sight of Kim Seokjin’s golden blonde head and Kim Namjoon’s tall figure, dressed like waiters. .

I felt my lips quirk at that. 

The phone rang just then and I exhaled, “ Taehyung...”

“Did I do good?” He whispered. 

I laughed. 

“ I think I know now, why you’re an amazing politician Kim Taehyung ssi. “ I said softly. 

Taehyung chuckled.

“Real life isn’t like the movies baby.... I suppose you were looking forward to some good old fashioned action sequences and a lot of alpha posturing?” He teased. 

I smiled.

“I’m just glad you’re safe. “ I whispered. 

“I’m sending a limo to Jungkook’s place. You should  come over to my condo.  I have a present for you. Will you come? ” He said gently. 

Curiosity piqued, “ Of course. I’ll be there. What is it?”

Taehyung laughed softly, his voice deep. 

“I think you’ll like it.”

I stared at Jungkook, who could probably hear the conversation.

He had a very odd expression on his face. Part resignation and Part worry. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.. I’m just thinking that I’m lucky...”

“Lucky?”

“That I didn’t think about pursuing you. “ 

I laughed. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying. i wouldn’t want to be on Kim Taehyung’s hit list.” 

I rolled my eyes. 

“Don’t be dramatic.” 

“I’m not. Be careful Rae. He’s a very dangerous man.” Jungkook said quietly, picking up the smaller glass of strawberry milk and lifting Luna up into his arms. i watched him laugh and carry her to the balcony. 

And i wondered what that was about. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So , what’s the present?” I asked impishly , wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. He hugged me close, reciprocating with fervor and I moaned into his mouth. I could kiss him forever.

“Patience , little one. It’s on the way. First , tell me is your brother alright? I’ve been trying to reach him but i can’t.” He sounded worried and i felt warmth bloom in my chest.

“Yuggie’s fine. He left his phone somewhere ...i spoke to him on the way here. He’s upset of course but for now, he’s not going to come anywhere near the family business. My father handed things over to his nephew a few years ago is what I heard. Yuggie’s heading back to the States after the funeral.”

“What’s his name? This nephew...do you know? ” Taehyung asked thoughtfully.

“Kim Ji Hoo. He owns a bunch of casinos across the country. When I was in college i once heard him talk about getting girls from somewhere to my dad. I don’t remember where .... ” I said apologetically. 

“That’s fine angel. Thank you for telling me... I’ll keep an eye on him.” Taehyung said with a smile. 

“So this is it? The drug racket is down??” I asked nervously and he sighed.

“Hardly. We don’t know a lot of things but the Narcs caught a lot of evidence today from these idiots and their laptops and phones. Seokjin and Namjoon are going to head the investigation. We’ll probably not reveal anything to the public until we know the true extent of the operations.”

“Which would be once you get to the local dealers.”

“Yes.... but that is out of my jurisdiction so I’m going to respectfully step away and let them do their job.” He smiled. 

“And the whole sex trade thing in Eun Woo’s hotel..What about that?”

“We rescued the girls earlier. There were seventeen of them, three of them underage.” His voice shook a little. 

“He’s a monster. I’m glad he’s dead.” I whispered. 

A knock on the door made us pull away from each other. 

“Speaking off, your present’s here...” He smiled. 

Grinning , i turned to the door.

And then the smile froze on my face when I saw who it was. 

Seokjin stood framed in the door way, dragging another man in front of him. I couldn’t see who it was because of the black bag over his head. 

“Special delivery for Alpha Kim.” He grinned, shoving the man forward till he crashed to his knees in front of me. Seokjin pulled the bag off . 

“Taehyung.” I froze in disbelief, staring at the familiar man in front of me , on his knees , bloodied and battered, wrists caught in handcuffs and face swollen and gagged..

Cha Eun Woo was almost unrecognizable. 

Taehyung stepped right up behind me wrapping both hands around me in a warm back hug, chin resting on my shoulder as he peered down at the beta wolf. 

“Do you like your present?” He whispered, kissing my neck gently. 

“Taehyung, what is this?” I said , my fingers shaking a little, my skin icy cold because of how cruel Taehyung looked and sounded, talking down to Cha Eun Woo. 

“I thought you’d enjoy a little action, angel... Life get’s boring sometimes if I don’t indulge my wolf once in a while, don’t you think, baby?” 

 “Tae, no.” i said desperately. “ Let him go. please don’t...”

Taehyung hummed. 

“Are you sure baby? You don’t wanna see how us wolves solve things?” 

I shook my head frantically. 

“No.. No I don’t wanna see you kill another man.” I laughed, voice just a little hysterical because why did this even have to be said. When Taehyung said present I was thinking a bottle of champagne and some roses.... not the prospect of cold blooded murder..... . “ Please.,.just... Don’t.” 

Taehyung pulled away from me and moved forward. I stumbled back and away, watching as he reached Eun Woo, hand reaching out to hold the man by his hair, the veins in his hand pulsing from how tight his grip was. 

Eun Woo whimpered, moaning out slurred syllables that were impossible to understand because of the gag in his mouth. 

“Are you sure angel? “ Taehyung pouted, holding one hand out.. I flinched when his claws popped out , three inches long and sharp as razors. 

My throat went dry as he grabbed Eun Woo by the shoulder, claws digging straight in with so much force that blood spurted out .

I whirled around, looking away , pressing my hands to my eyes, a scream forming at the back of my throat threatening to spill out.

Taehyung groaned in disappointment. 

“Fine. I won’t kill him.” He said boredly. “ Seokjin...” 

I turned back around , staring at him. Taehyung looked as he always did , a soft smile playing around his lips, eyes kind and warm ,  his voice even tempered and gentle. 

But the unconscious man at his feet, the pool of blood spreading out over the carpet , the mangled shoulder..... they didn’t fit into the picture. 

And suddenly, I understood just why everyone was afraid of him. 

Seokjin appeared at the door. He glanced at Eun Woo and wrinkled his nose.

“Did the bitch pass out again? i swear to God, my grandmother has a higher tolerance for pain than this fucker...” He glanced at Taehyung.

“Tie things up yeah?” Taehyung said evenly and Seokjin nodded, dragging the prone body away. 

“You look terrified.” Taehyung smiled, moving to the mahogany sideboard and grabbing a bottle of water. i watched as he casually washed his hands , getting rid of the blood. 

“You... Would you have killed him? If I didn’t ask you to stop?”

Taehyung stopped scrubbing under his nails, giving me a look.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you.. do you do this often? Kill people?” I said shrilly. 

Taehyung laughed. 

“You were plenty happy when I killed your father.” He pointed out. 

I swallowed. 

“That’s...That’s different.. He’s... He deserved it...” 

“And Eun Woo doesn’t? Come on , Rae...what he was doing with those girls was filthy.” 

“Yes.. yes but...” i was so confused, my brain refusing to come to terms with the fact that Taehyung, the man i loved, actually killed people. Personally. 

“Anyway... you told me to stop and i stopped. Didn’t kill him, right?” He smiled. 

I nodded. 

“Thank you for letting him live.” I whispered , turning away . I could feel a head ache come on. .

“Oh, i didn’t let him live.... He’s still going to die.” Taehyung said casually. 

I whirled around , gaze clashing with his as my lips parted in surprise. 

“You.. You said you weren’t going to kill him...” I said hoarsely. 

Taehyung blinked at me, looking confused. He grabbed a pure white towel, wiping his wet hands carefully. 

“Yes, I said  I  wouldn’t kill him. Seokjin will.” He said casually. 

My entire body went cold at that, sweat gathering on my hairline because of how scared I suddenly was. 

“Taehyung ...this isn’t... this scares me.” I whispered, taking a step back. 

He laughed at that, moving closer and reaching for me.

“Come now, angel. You know i have to right? Men like Eun Woo don’t change... He’ll find something more vile and awful to do , probably even try to get back at me by trying to hurt you or Luna... i can’t have that can I?”

“So you just...you kill people who get in your way?” I felt like I had been dipped in a vat full of cold water. Taehyung drew me into his arms, hugging me close.

“Only when I am protecting something i value.” He said softly. “ I can’t afford loose ends, Rae. They get tangled together and trip me up. As my wife, i expect you to trust me. Trust that i won’t do anything without reason.” 

“I’m not your wife.” I said dully, feeling just a little overwhelmed.

“Semantics.” He brushed my words off easily, pulling back to rub his fingers across my cheeks.

“I’m being sworn in officially, tomorrow. I want you by my side on the podium. You and our daughter. I know its going to be new to you... My world. But I think you’ll like it. I’m the king there and I want you to be my queen. ” He kissed me gently. 

I stared at him, this man who i loved because of the side of him I had seen so far. The kind, considerate father, the passionate leader and the tenderly sweet lover. 

But then i remembered the cold cruelty with which he had dug his claws into Eun Woo, who was after all a childhood friend of his. Was this the other side of Kim Taehyung’s perfection? Was he also a ruthless , heartless man who would do anything to protect his interests , destroy anyone who got in his way?  

I pulled back an away . 

“Taehyung are we rushing into this? I... do you think we should slow down? Maybe date a little and-”

He didn’t reply, his face unreadable. 

“And where do you intend to live?” He said quietly. “ You don’t have a job.”

“The preserve....”

“....no longer hires humans. The law came through last week.” 

It was like a knife slashed right through my insides. 

“What?” i whispered, confused. 

Taehyung inhaled sharply. 

“We talked about this? There are a lot of qualified weres who don’t have a job, who cannot find work here in the mainland.”

“And what about me? The preserve is the only place where there’s a laboratory studying werewolf microbiology which is kind of what I’ve majored in. I can’t work anywhere else .” I said softly.

Taehyung sighed.

“Baby, hear me out... As my wife, you’ll be heading charities, working with the most intelligent people in the country , running organizations that directly help improve quality of life for underprivileged weres everywhere. It is so much bigger than anything you could accomplish in that tiny laboratory in the island. “

“So, I just move in with you right away?” I asked quietly, already knowing the answer. 

Taehyung gave me that same, maddeningly rational look. 

“The customs department is going to go through your father’s assets... Everything he owned is going to come under scrutiny and I’m sure his wealth is going to dwindle to nothing once they’re through with him. As it is, I know he wrote you out of his will. If you’re going to insist on working some minimum wage job , living in a dilapidated apartment somewhere just because you think, we’re going too fast...” He smiled, “ I’m going to have to put my foot down.” 

And in a moment of startling clarity I just knew exactly what he’d done. 

“You planned this didn’t you? “ I blinked at him. “ It’s surreal, all these pieces falling into place so perfectly..... You knew I would want to  go back to my job in the preserve . That i would never agree to marry you so quickly. Why else would you rush a law like that? “ 

Taehyung didn’t reply. 

“i know how laws are passed Taehyung. You must’ve put quite the pressure on your bosses, to pass such a mundane law so fast...” 

He stared back at me without an ounce of guilt in his gaze. 

“I won’t apologize for wanting my mate by my side.” He said evenly. 

“Will you apologize for being a cunningly manipulative bastard, then ?” 

“you’re over reacting...” He said calmly. 

“Am I, Taehyung?” I said sharply. “ It’s been a week since I found out i was your mate. A week.... And now suddenly, i have your mark on my neck, no possibility of getting my job back and no other option but to cling to you.... I’d say I’m reacting how any woman would react.... You played me like a fiddle and I’ve been dancing to your tune all along. “ 

Taehyung sighed. 

“You make it sound like I’ve done something terrible. “

“ Haven’t you?? “ i demanded. 

“ No, I haven’t. I love you. I care for you deeply and so does my daughter. She needs you as much as i do and she loves you so much. Your own family is almost non existent right now. your brother is three thousand miles away and I am here offering you my love, my home and the chance to be a part of my family. Tell me what are you losing out on? Tell me what it is I’ve taken away from you?” 

 My choice,  I thought with clarity. You’ve taken away my right to make that choice. 

 He held my face gently, thumbs brushing across my cheeks. 

“I know you’re frightened. But trust me. I’m going to be here by your side. Eun Woo dies today, not because of those girls he destroyed but because of  you. Because he dared touch you , knowing you were mine . Tomorrow the whole country will know it and no one will dare to even breath wrong in your direction. Because they know what your mate is capable of.” 

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and I let him hug me, staring over his back at the opposite wall. 

The painting on the wall caught my eye. 

A beautiful, dainty gazelle, cornered against the edge of a huge cliff,  staring down the barrel of a hunter’s gun. And on her side, a big beautiful wolf , gorgeous and tempting as it seemed to call for her. And it was obvious that in her panic , she was going to run into the arms of the wolf. 

Not knowing that the wolf was just as dangerous, just as deadly as the hunter and the cliff edge. 

I closed my eyes hugging him tight. 

I was so tired. 

“Tell me you’ll marry me. “ Taehyung’s hypnotic voice wove its spell over me, soft and soothing and filled with all the reassurances a naïve young girl would ever need.  

I took a deep breath, trembling in his arms when i exhaled. 

And then I replied. 

The End 

~~~~~~~~

Author’s note : Tell me how much you hate me. 

Taehyung isn’t a saint wbk. So of course there’s going to be a sequel.

Soon. Hopefully. 

Taglist : @veronawrites

@ladyartemesia

@bumb1e-bee

@jeonlovescoffee

@bonyg

@unicornbabylover

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

[andypantsx3]

statistically significant | 6 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

Mina, Kaminari, and Bakugou did not waste any time.

No sooner had Bakugou spoken than he had you on your feet, shepherding you to the door. His movements had completely changed--no longer was he loud, aggressive, the most volatile thing in the room. Now, he slipped behind you like a shadow, his body pressed firmly and protectively over you, lithe armor at your back.

Mina and Kaminari moved with you, looking solemn.

“We’re going for the surveillance room,” Bakugou growled, “Need to see what the fuck is happening.”

The hall was barren as you emerged into it, silent and still until another explosion rocked the foundations of the building.

“And fast, we need to get Y/N out,” Mina added.

You didn’t protest. You didn’t know what the hell was going on, but you knew distant explosions couldn’t mean anything good.

The surveillance room made it all too clear exactly what was happening. Tens of people were pouring into the top levels of the building, smashing through windows on the business floors, blowing the sides of the building clean open near marketing. A few men dressed in dark coats appeared to have the gall to waltz straight through the front entrance. Everywhere, Miruko’s civilian employees were fleeing in all directions, uncertain of where to run in the chaos.

Your pulse spiked wildly and you watched as Bakugou’s gaze narrowed to scarlet pinpricks as he seemed to spot something familiar to him.

Kaminari made a choked noise. “Is that--?”

“Sugimoto,” Bakugou growled, tapping the image of a tall man surrounded by some kind of glowing purple forcefield quirk. A crackle of sparks lit off from Bakugou’s palm, hot and sharp, and you jumped in surprise.

“What’s Sugimoto?” you asked, looking up into his face.

His lip curled disdainfully. “He’s head of a crime syndicate. Miruko agency raided them a couple months ago in coordination with the police, took down almost the entire syndicate in one straight shot. Miruko killed both of his brothers during the firefight--I’d bet anything he’s here for revenge.”

You suppressed a shiver. Either the man was incredibly confident in his own ability to take on the number seven hero and her entire agency, or he was fucking insane and desperate for revenge. Either way, you did not want to be caught in the crossfire.

“Raccoon, Pikachu, get up to the business level,” Bakugou commanded, a calloused hand closing around your arm. “I’m gonna get the nerd out first, and then I’ll be back to roast Sugimoto in his fucking skin.”

Kaminari nodded and Mina gave you a smile and a reassuring pet over your hair. “Don’t be too late or we’ll get to have all the fun,” she said to Bakugou, winking.

And then she and Kaminari were gone, disappearing in the direction of the stairwell. Your heart rate stuttered nervously, watching them go. Mina’s confidence was reassuring--she was fucking terrifying when she was in her element, and Kaminari was powerful too. But there had been so many people flowing into the building, like the rising tide of a sudden tsunami. You hoped they would be okay.

“You in there, nerd?” Bakugou’s voice cut through your flurry of doubt.

You looked up at him, steeling your features. He was still streaked with dirt and scratches from the training room. You hoped having trained so much already wasn’t going to disadvantage any of them in their fight. “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”

He considered you, blonde brows turned down. “You’re gonna be fine, nerd. I’ll kill anyone who fucking looks at you.”

A small strangled noise like a laugh escaped your throat. He was so bad at being reassuring, it was almost reassuring in and of itself. He still was going to be entering the fray several hours into using his quirk already, however. You wondered if his self certainty was going to be enough.

“You don’t think I will?” he demanded angrily, looking absolutely incensed. He looked like he might storm out of your office again, like you had just said the word help to him.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you said. “When you go back in, just--be careful, okay?”

His eyes picked over you curiously. Then a small, mortifying smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I fucking knew you had a crush on me, you little freak.”

Your face heated as you gabbled out a protest. “This is so not the time. And I didn’t say that.”

Bakugou rolled a strong shoulder, looking far more relaxed that he had any right to. “Yeah, whatever. You’ll be singing a different tune when this is over.” He watched you for a long moment, his expression looking strangely contemplative.

And then he leaned down and kissed you on the mouth.

Your brain went empty. This could have been just another day at the office for all the thought you were giving the fight upstairs. This could have been any day anywhere, because suddenly you couldn’t remember where you were or what the fuck was going on at all. Bakugou’s mouth was hot and insistent, and he curled a strong arm around your waist to draw you closer, biting down gently on your lip.

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt for dear life, knees going strangely weak, as he swore into your mouth and pressed you into him harder.

“Fuck, I’m not finished with you,” he said when he released you, pressing one last hard kiss to your mouth. “You’re gonna stay right the fuck where I put you, got it?”

You nodded dumbly, trying to will your fingers into unclenching from his shirt. “Y--yeah.”

He smirked, looking far too pleased with himself. You felt your eyebrow twitch reflexively, despite everything that had just happened. “Alright, stay close, nerd. I’m gonna get you the fuck out of here.”

You nodded again. He pulled you behind him, letting you fist your hands in his shirt again, and then lead the way down the hall, keeping close to the wall, the line of his body tense and alert. Some of your earlier uneasiness settled back over you, oppressively heavy, weighing down your every step. The training had been truly terrifying but this was much, much worse, the dread and anticipation coiling in your gut until you thought you might be sick.

You made it to the stairwell and flipped up several floors without incident, though you could hear with some clarity the scuffles ongoing on the floors above you. You encountered no one, not even fellow heroes or civilians, until you hit the ground floor.

Bakugou reached behind him, pressing you even closer to his back with a firm hand. “Alright, nerd. Stay close while I move. If I stop, stay still and trust me, alright?”

Your blood pounded in your veins and you took a calming breath. You could hear the sounds of a fight just beyond the door, but there was no other way out of the stairwell. You’d just have to go through the main floor. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good girl,” he said. And then he kicked open the door.

Your brain short circuited and you had just enough mind to register that he was moving, scrambling to keep up with him as he stalked forward through the doorway. You held on to the back of his shirt, pulse spiking wildly, and not just because of your apprehension.

There was a deafening boom like thunder and the hall in front of you went up in a flash, the walls splintering into pieces. Over one of Bakugou’s broad shoulders, you could see the explosion blowing two men straight through the window at the end of the hall, glass shattering around them.

From down the hall came Miruko’s harsh tone, her breath a little labored. “Katsuki, fucking watch it! That’s my window.”

“Yeah yeah,” Bakugou growled, not sounding the least bit chastened. He pulled you to the side as something cold went sailing past your left shoulder, firing off another blast from his palm to shoot the person right through the hole in the window he’d just made.

The two of you crossed through the halls slowly but surely, Bakugou sending anyone who came across your path straight through the wall. To your surprise, he ducked into rooms as he went, demanding that the agency employees hiding under their desks “stop acting like little piss babies and get a move on.” Soon there was a small squadron of people following after his back, and Bakugou had you out of the building and blinking in the sunshine before any of the villains caught the group escaping.

“Stay with these extras,” Bakugou commanded imperiously, shoving you after the group of employees towards the end of the street where the growing swell of sirens could be heard. “I’ll see you soon, nerd.”

He paused, fingers brushing over your mouth for a moment. And then he was gone, shooting himself straight back into the fray. The sirens at the end of the street got louder, and soon several squad cars were pulling around the corner. You joined the flow of people streaming out of Miruko’s agency towards the police, though you couldn’t rip your eyes from the agency building.

The windows had been blown out tens of floors up, and you could hear the crackle of quirks in use, see the flash and bang of Kaminari’s lightning, the blue glow of an unknown quirk on the fifth floor, a tangle of vines wrestling several men out of a window on the fourteenth floor. Mina appeared at a window briefly, covered in acid hardened to an armor, easily deflecting what might have been a devastating blow and kicking a yakuza straight through the glass.

You bit down on a whooping cheer. Now wasn’t the moment.

You tried to keep sight of what was going on as the police shepherded you behind a makeshift blockade, cordoning off the area and sweeping the nearby buildings to help evacuate. The crowd of people around you chattered and shifted restlessly. The longer the fight dragged out, the more anxious you became, your senses heightened to the point of strain, looking for any sign of Bakugou and the others.

Then, to your horror, detonations went off on several of the floors, blowing out the remaining windows, and the building itself shuddered and groaned. A chorus of screams went up from inside the agency as pieces of the building began to detach themselves, crumbling to the ground. Your heart leapt into your mouth, blood icing over in your veins.

A few terrified looking civilians appeared at the windows on the top floors, clinging to the window frames as the foundation lurched. You went still, hardly breathing. Oh my god, were they going to jump? They were several stories up, odds were low they would survive if they did. But--the building shuddered again--fuck, they weren’t going to make it if they went back inside.

Oh my god you were going to watch people die right in front of you.

No sooner had you had the thought than someone was rocketing straight up at them from the ground. Your heart rate spiked, recognizing that mess of blonde hair--Bakugou. Without ceremony he grabbed two people and leapt back off the side of the building, using his explosions to slow their descent. They’d barely met the ground before he was up again, catching another two around the middle and hurtling straight for the ground once more.

Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt, watching him anxiously. There were just a few more, just three more people and he would have everyone. You willed your breathing to slow, eyes glued to the scene before you.

Then there was a purple glow, and Sugimoto appeared behind the civilians.

You stopped breathing.

Sugimoto kicked one of the civilians in the back of the knee, sending him out of window, careening head over heels towards the ground. Bakugou had barely just enough time to react, tackling the man in mid air and hitting the side of the building hard with his shoulder before he was able to correct their trajectory.

The building gave another rattle as he did, a crack splitting straight up the middle, spiderwebbing into a thousand smaller fissures.

A blur of pink appeared at the base of the building, Mina materializing just as Bakugou hit the ground with the civilian. A crowd of heroes dragging injured civilians followed her, several of them immediately grabbing onto the people Bakugou had gotten to the ground and towing them out of arm’s reach.

You looked back up to the top floor where Sugimoto had the last two employees in his grip, the edges of that forcefield rippling and roiling over him. His mouth moved like he was saying something but you were too far to hear it, though you could guess the implication. He had a forcefield quirk in a building he’d engineered to collapse. The heroes could choose to go after him but the building was seconds away from imploding, and there wouldn’t be enough time to grab both him and the civilians. Even if Bakugou went up, he only had enough capacity for two people--he’d have to pick between the civilians if he also wanted to grab Sugimoto. And besides that, he wasn’t indestructible. Bakugou didn’t have a quirk that could shield him the same way Sugimoto did as the building went down.

The idea hit you at the same time it appeared to hit Mina and Bakugou. The people around you began to murmur in alarm as Bakugou sank back on the concrete, laying down flat on his back like he was going to take a nap in the sun. In the midst of a crisis the visual was certainly out of place, and a soft “what the fuck is he doing?” from behind you reaffirmed it.

Quick as a flash, Mina had coated herself in hardened acid, and then she was stretching out over Bakugou’s lean form, her vicious smile visible even from where you stood. Bakugou raised his hands to her stomach and called something to the heroes nearby. They all went stumbling back, tearing away from him as fast as they could.

All was still for a second. And then a blast of heat and fire ripped through the street, a roar like thunder rendering you deaf for a moment. You closed your eyes against the wave of hot wind and dust Bakugou’s explosion kicked up, and when you managed to crack one open, Mina was hurtling through the window like a rocket, hitting the edge of Sugimoto’s shield and driving him straight back into the building.

The civilians dropped from his grip.

Bakugou braced his hands against the ground and let off another massive explosion, propelling him straight upwards. He met the civilians in seconds, managing to grab them and flip around in mid air, aiming another series of blasts at the ground to control their fall.

A shocked cheer went up behind you when they hit the street, and you couldn’t contain your own gleeful noise that escaped you, though you couldn’t tear your eyes from the spot where Mina had disappeared.

Bakugou barely had time to get the civilians clear before the top floor began to crumble as the building shook, plaster dislodging itself from the ceiling and slapping down in loud thuds you could hear even from where you stood. You watched anxiously, waiting for Mina’s reappearance, as the building gave one final shudder and then caved in.

The second it did, a head of wild pink curls appeared and Mina flung herself off the top floor, just as the floor gave out underneath her. Bakugou was already moving, breaking into an all out sprint. He flung his arms out behind him, explosions ripping up the ground underneath him, and he collided with Mina mere feet from the ground, wrapping an arm around her and blasting them both back up just as chunks of the building slammed down where they had been.

The entire building came crumbling down in a shower of grey dust, shaking the street and sending a wave of car alarms sounding. Bakugou and Mina came down in a semi-controlled spiral, managing to hit the street just beyond the police barricade, Bakugou rolling in the same move he’d done with you earlier to disperse some of their momentum.

A wild cheer went up and you shouted too, elation rising in you like a flood, crawling through your limbs like a slow shiver.

Miruko hopped the barrier beside you, rushing over to where Bakugou and Mina lay. They were both panting, covered head to do in grey dust, looking worse for wear but alive.

“Sugimoto?” Miruko demanded.

Bakugou pushed himself up on an elbow, the red of his eyes bright against the dust covering him, like a spot of blood on a tissue. Mina popped up next to him, nosy bloody, but grinning.

“Unconscious,” she announced. “Shoved him out the back of the building before it collapsed. I melted the floor under him and he lost focus for a second. That’s all I needed to hit him and encase him in acid. He should be a little injured from the fall but alive.”

Miruko grinned savagely, leaning down to ruffle both of their hair. “You did good work, brats.”

“Get the fuck offa me, hag,” Bakugou complained. You noticed he made no move to dislodge her hand, though, and you stifled a laugh at how obvious he was. Mina had said he had a thing for girls who fucked with him...

Then Kaminari was bursting past Miruko, throwing himself onto the two of them in a whirlwind of tears and flailing limbs.

“That was the coolest shit I have ever seen!” he declared at a deafening volume. “You launched Mina through a building! It was fucking awesome!”

“I’ll launch you through a building if you don’t get the fuck off me,” Bakugou growled, shoving Kaminari’s weight straight onto Mina. He rolled to his feet before Kaminari could come back for more, cocking his head to look into the crowd like he was looking for something. An EMT to patch him up? An officer to make a report, maybe?

Then his eyes locked onto you, and you realized.

Oh, he was looking for you.

He was on you in seconds. You didn’t have time to even squeak out his name before he was swallowing it up, pulling you close to him. He tasted like ash and dust, frankly kind of gross, but you were so disturbingly relieved that he was okay that you didn’t even care, pressing even harder against him as he kissed you.

And okay. So maybe you did have a thing for him, you thought. Maybe. Just a little.

He was still annoying as hell, but he’d just saved a ton of people. Just now, you hadn’t even seen him engage in combat except to rescue people, he’d saved dozens of people including you and Mina, and he’d pulled off the most awesome assist that you had ever seen, letting Mina take down the big bad instead of haring in after the dude himself.

He could, maybe for now, totally get it.

Bakugou smirked down at you when you finally separated, red eyes and white teeth bright against all the grime on him. He leaned in, placing a hand on your cheek.

And in the haughtiest, most migraine-inducing tone ever, he said: “Now who’s the fucking best?”

You made no effort to conceal your eye roll. Well, you supposed, there was only so much about a person that could change in a month.

Instead of complaining, you let him kiss you again.

[cuddlesslut]

Beginnings

Chapter Ten of Home

Atsumu x fem reader, Suna x fem reader, Hinata x fem reader

Summary: a glance back

Warnings: some NSFW elements in this chapter

AN / so it looks like the chapters are going to be shorter than before but that’s just because I can only keep my energy up for so long. I really do enjoy writing but it’s easier for me to write smaller chapters rather than like before. Also I know Suna hasn’t been as present I promise we will be getting more of him soon! UNEDITED SORRY

Part Nine: Closure

You collapsed onto your bed immediately after getting home from lunch with Atsumu and you haven’t moved for at least half an hour. Emotionally you were exhausted. Seeing him and thinking about him still caused a pang in your chest but that reunion was needed. You needed to start moving past him, that much you decided. He was your first love and he wounded you in a way that may never fully heal but now there’s two amazing guys trying to help you move forward.

You let a long grown rubbing your hands over your face. This were complicated enough when you were still coming to terms with your felling with Hinata. God he must be wondering what the hell is going with you leaving with his teammate. Maybe Bokuto and Sakusa have already started filling in the blanks for him. You could see those idiots snickering to themselves when you had encountered the group earlier. A soft smile graced your lips thinking of those two. You missed those two, and their constant bickering. You had become close to the the team over the years. Having hosted several victory parties at your and Atsumu’s shared home.

A small tear slipped down your cheek running down your face as you lay staring at the ceiling. Just another thing you had lost because of the setter. You released the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Shaking that thought from your mind it did no good to dwell on those things now. Thinking back to your favorite orange haired man you felt slightly nervous about having to explain everything to him. Sho is nowhere near as dumb as most think ,yes he tends to get a little over excited missing some details but he’s really quite clever, so he’s probably figured out most things. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of your past you had spilled that too him a lot quicker than you had planned. You can remember that moment clearly. It was the moment your feelings for Hinata had first started becoming deeper than you had intended, even though you denied them for a lot longer.

You stretched sitting up the soft cotton sheets falling your lap as you yawned searching searching the room for the familiar sight of Shoyo’s bright orange hair. You rose your brow at the lack of his presence. The small apartment was silent. Which made you draw the conclusion that he was not here, he’s to rambunctious to be home and not make any noise not that you minded. You had a clue where he could probably be and your suspicions were confirmed as you heard him enter through the front door. It surprised you the first morning it had happened but by now you are used to Hinata going for morning runs.

He stood in the door smile spreading across his face upon seeing you awake in this bed wearing only one of his old game shirts from Brazil. Your hair still a mess and the purple marks he left last night peaking out from the collar of the crew neck. It was certainly an amazing sight for him to come back to. He leaned against the door frame lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe some sweat from his face. Now it was your turn to appreciate the view. His abs and delicious v coming into sight. Grazing your eyes down to his workout shorts that fit nice and snug against his defined thighs. God his thighs were a blessing in and of themselves. After your quick glance you look back up to the eyes of the man in front of you.

“You know I’ll never understand how you can have the energy to go running in the morning after the nights we have,” you chuckle.

A wide grin sneaks his way to his face “ sorry I’m not the one who can barely walk in the morning,” he winks.

Your jaw drops at his cheeky comment. “ oh yeah we’ll have to change that,” you state smug unsure where all of this confidence came from. Although you weren’t expecting his response.

His eyebrow quirked at your insinuation, before smirking “ alright that can be arranged sometime soon!” He chuckled enthusiastically.

Your eyes widened the scenario playing in your mind quickly.

Hinata loved the shocked but curious expression painting your features. The next thing you new Sho had bolted from his spot jumping into the bed knocking you onto your back as he hovered over you. His hot breath tickled your neck his lips grazing your pulse before giving a nip. One hand had sneaked under the shirt you wore grasping onto your hip while the other kneaded your breast. Your breath grew shaky. He lowered his head to the valley between your breast before looking up to you. Peering at you through his orange waves that dangled in his face.

“You know I still have plenty of energy to take care of you,” he teased his voice dropping an octave. “ so baby tell where do you want me.”

“I want you,” you bite your lip looking at the sinful man in front of you. Your hand grips his chin pulling him up to you face to face, your eyes drop to his lips before returning to his darkened eyes. “In the shower, now get your sweaty ass off of me!” You push his Lunky body of off you before standing.

He groans looking over at you “tease!” He yells.

You turn back sticking your tongue out at him, “ go shower loser im going to make some coffee and breakfast,” you yelled over your shoulder as you headed to the kitchen. Hinata enjoyed the view of you walking away before sighing in defeat, he was really grimy from his run, plus he could use a cold shower right now.

———

You moved around his small kitchen with an air of familiarity. It was about a little over a month since your agreement of friends with benefits began. After fixing a small breakfast and some coffee Shoyo finally emerged fully dressed and cleaned. Taking a sip from his mug and surveying the food you had made. He smiled.

“Damn Y/N this looks amazing!” He smile his signature smile. “You know it surprise me how a girl like you is single!” He doesn’t sense the mistake he had made immediately. You had never talked about why you didn’t want to date before. Not feeling your tragic history with love was appropriate pillow talk. You froze at this statement. Unwanted thoughts and memories swirling in your mind. All of your insecurities starting to surface. Hinata noticed the shift in the air immediately. It was hard not to as your hands grabbed at the counter for some stability. Your eyes trained on the surface, voice caught in your throat. How do you respond to that.

If there’s one thing about Hinata that is certain it’s that’s he’s incredibly caring. He moved around the corner of the counter standing next to your side placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey Y/N are you okay! Was it something I said? I’m real sorry ya know!” You turn to him tears brimming in your eyes. He doesn’t speak again or ask you to just pulling you into him as you bury your face into his chest as you sob. He places a reassuring hand your back rubbing soothing circles onto your back hoping to help calm you.

It feels nice and it helps a lot more than you expected. Although guilt starts to build as you realize your crying in front of a man you only know through sex. God this is embarrassing. Before you can try to retreat. Sho navigates you to his sofa. After relaxing into the cushions you look up at him. While he’s trying to look calm and reassuring you can sense the worry in him.

He takes this moment to speak. “ you know you can talk to me Y/N I’ll listen to you about whatever you have going on, no judgment.” You sigh looking up at him. Looking up into his eyes you don’t know why you aren’t more hesitant but it honestly feels like you can tell him anything. And so you do. You tell him almost everything. Leaving out names and some of the more gory details. You tell him all about your heartache. And he sits and listens to you intently. Although he didn’t show it he was furious with how you had been treated. But he didn’t want to interrupt your venting. It felt really nice to actually talk to someone about everything and how you feel and Sho was amazingly supportive throughout the whole ordeal.

Wiping the mostly dried tears from your cheeks you gave Hinata a soft smile. “ thank you Shoyo I’m sorry I dropped all of this on you, it probably not what you signed up for.” You gave a nervous chuckle.

He returned your smile, looking at you earnestly, he gripped your shoulder gently making you look up at him. “Hey none of that non sense! You can always talk to me no matter what!” He smiled.

Your eyes shinned up at him with a forgotten emotion. “Really?” You questioned

His smile grew even bigger “Yeah! Absolutely! What are friends for!” He beamed!

Friends.... why did that word give you a pang in your chest.

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[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm

Masterlist here 

AO3 link here

Author’s Note: And we’re at the penultimate chapter! Am rly excited to hear what you guys think - so please, drop me an ask, a note, a comment, anything!!! Thank you for following this fic with me <3

He stays away from her over the next two weeks. He still picks Shino up from childcare - he’s never leaving his little girl again - but takes Osamu’s advice to duck into the kitchen the minute he hears the bell chime to mark her entrance into the shop. 

‘Is everything alright with Atsumu?’ he hears her ask Osamu after a week of radio silence from him. 

He imagines Osamu just shrugs, because his twin later gives him a look of askance that he ignores. 

‘Meet me on Sunday afternoon? Was hoping to have a quick chat and pass something over to you since my arm is out of its sling.Osamu agreed to take Shino for a couple of hours, so don’t worry about her’, he texts her. 

‘Fine’, she texts back. ‘Works for me’. 

‘Hey’, he greets her as she opens the door, fighting the impulse to scruff his shoes into the ground like a nervous schoolboy on his first date. 

‘Hey yourself’, she responds without heat, slipping on her shoes. ‘Shall we?’ 

He nods, turning on his heel and she follows suit, their footfalls matching in pace, though they angle their bodies to avoid each other’s gaze in the lift. They do not exchange a single word until they reach the car park, and he leads her past all the cars to a dim corner, lit by a single flickering electric bulb.  

‘Atsumu - what’s this?’ she says, staring uncomprehendingly at the motorbike parked in front of her, the exact replica of the bike she sold when she got pregnant with Shino, albeit updated with a shining coat of new paint and the latest modifications, top of the line. 

‘Surprise?’ he tells her, unable to hide a grin when she runs a hand reverently over the seat of the bike. 

‘I can’t accept this, ‘Tsumu. It’s too much’, she demurs but he knows she’s fallen in love when she’s unable to tear her eyes away from the bike.

‘Sure ya can! I registered it under yer name, and paid for the parking fees for the year, and look! It even comes with a helmet!’, he assures her, crossing his fingers behind his back. ‘Ya can ride it whenever ya have time to yerself - I’ll make sure I or ‘Samu will take Shino-chan for a couple hours every weekend so ya can go break some speed limits on the bike!’ 

‘This isn’t a bribe, right? Or some attempt to trick me into agreeing into something I don’t want to do?’ she asks him suspiciously. 

‘No - no tricks, I swear on my life. Look - I’ve signed the divorce papers, they’re in my bag. I just wanted to give ya the bike as a partin' gift’, he says, keeping his voice deliberately light. 

She stares at him, searching his face for any sign of duplicity, but he holds her gaze until she turns away, satisfied. 

‘You never do anything by halves, do you ‘Tsumu? But thank you anyway’, she laughs breathily and his heart lurches to a start when he sees her slowly start to glow whilst fussing over the bike, exclaiming to herself as she admires the paint job and the extra compartments he’d gotten the mechanic to install. 

Watching her brings back memories of their adventures together before Shino came along. She’d pick him up for a ride to the outskirts of Osaka on their rare days off, in search for a spot to lay their picnic mat down and shoot the breeze. They’d never found that perfect picnic spot, but that just meant that there were more places to explore, more roads to traverse, more adventures for them to go on. That’d all stopped once Shino came along, and he wonders if they wouldn’t be in such a state if he’d put in more effort to carve out more time for them.   

And even before that - there was the time she’d surprised him by turning up in Kobe for one of his matches, sweeping him away from his confused teammates right after the match to celebrate over egg mayo sandwiches at 7-11. He suspects that was the day he’d fallen in love with her, half realising that she was probably the only person crazy enough to burn hours on the road on the back her rusty old bike right after an exam, just to stay up all night sitting cross-legged in a dim combini with mayo in her hair, listening to him ramble about his volleyball match. 

Wow. 'Samu's right. Even the reason he fell in love with her was fucking selfish. 

‘Hey ‘Tsumu’, he hears her say after a while and he looks up. ‘Wanna go for a ride?’ she asks brightly, twirling the keys around her finger. 

‘Huh?’ he responds, genuinely perplexed. 

‘A ride, you idiot. Don’t you want to find out how the bike feels on the road, especially since you’re the one who paid for it?’ 

‘Sure’, he says, a little lost - but then again she’s always found ways to keep him on his toes. ‘But there’s only one helmet’. 

‘I still have my old one upstairs. Give me a second so I can get it!’ she rushes off, a spring in her step he’s sorely missed seeing and despite the ache in his heart, he smiles. 

His smile vanishes the moment she kicks the bike full throttle and hurtles through weekend Osaka traffic at breakneck speed, making such sharp turns he almost falls off the bike if he weren’t already clutching her waist for dear life. ‘Oi! Look out!’ he yelps, as she weaves her way through narrow gaps between cars, seemingly deaf to the horns of outraged drivers behind her - and fuck he wants to puke but can’t because there’s no way that doesn’t end badly for him. 

‘Slow down, you fuckin' maniac’, he manages to shout when his stomach gives itself up for dead, but the wind swallows his words and she only whoops in response. The neon city lights blur into a mess of colours and he runs through his repertoire of curse words. He swears she’s evil - it’s not enough that she’s killed him once by divorcing him, her insane riding is going to make sure he’s doubly dead.

They burst onto the highway in a squeal of tires, the city skyline fading into a sea of lights, and they’re both so focused on the road ahead of them, well – she is, at least, he’s trying his level best to stay on his seat - that neither of them notice the dark clouds gathering above until the first splatter of raindrops on the road. 

The sky is threatening enough to make her swerve off the highway into a quiet neighbourhood, screeching to a halt at the nearest park with an empty shelter large enough to fit both of them. They jump off the bike, helmets dangling over their arm, and she catches hold of his hand as they splash their way through muddy puddles in a bid to escape the incoming storm. 

‘That was amazing!’ she laughs when they reach shelter, twirling on the tips of her feet, cheeks flushed pink with excitement, looking so happy and bright and alive -  like a bird spreading its wings to fly high in the sky, the way she used to be before their marriage broke her wings and shackled her to the ground. 

If only he hadn’t been blinded by the false allure of his dreams to appreciate what was right in front of him - a woman bold enough to whisk him away from the clutches of deranged fans on the back of a motorbike, fierce enough for Osamu to assign her to deal with his bullshit - and most of all, crazy enough to marry and have a child with him. And he knows she isn’t his, not anymore, but he's a greedy, selfish man, and he wants her one last time, so he throws his jacket over her shoulders as a pretext for drawing her close to him, slanting his mouth gently over hers. 

She stills for a second, and he’s about to pull away when she melts into him, tilting her chin up to grant him greater access to her lips. An unexpected heat coils in his stomach when she tangles her fingers in his hair, scraping her nails against his scalp, a thrill running down his spine as he loses himself in her familiar softness and warmth and groans.

She gasps, jerking away from him, tracing her bruised lips with her fingers, looking up at him with wide eyes.

‘Tsumu’, she begins to say, but he cuts her off, frantic with worry that he’s scared her off before he’s had the chance to say his piece. 

‘I’m sorry - I know I shouldn’t have but I just...can I just say what I meant to say to ya before this?’ he asks, banking on the fact that she hasn’t slapped him yet, and to his relief, she nods. 

‘I’ve thought about what ya said, and yer right -  I’ve taken so much from ya I don’t deserve to ask ya for anything else, not when I should be the one making it up to ya for the rest of my life,’ he says, his heart cracking beneath his ribs (so it’s true, a heart can actually break) – because he knows now she’s lost to him, has been the second he'd forsaken his vows and stormed out of her life, but he gulps a breath to calm his pulse, forcing himself to continue on. 

‘All I want is for ya to be happy and free - and if signing these papers is the price I have to pay, I’ll do it for ya’. Then he draws the brown envelope from his bag, holding it out to her with shaking hands. 

She makes no move to take it from him. 

‘Do you even love me, ‘Tsumu?’ she asks, her voice feather light, a wisp in the wind. ‘Be honest with me, you don’t have to lie’.

There’s a searing pain in his chest and he closes his eyes, losing himself to the undercurrent of regret pulsing in his mind. 

‘I do’, he manages to choke out, peeling aside the rotting layers of vanity and greed and selfishness and pride to flay his chest open to present his heart to her, in all its bleeding, broken glory. 

‘Yer everythin’ I could’ve ever asked for, and it’s killin’ me to watch you walk away - but I deserve it cos I’m a fuckin’ idiot for not realisin’ that sooner, and ya have no idea how fuckin’ sorry I am for hurting ya so badly and making you think that I don’t love ya - because I do, gods, I do, I love ya so goddamned much.’

‘Does our marriage mean that much to you?’ she stares at him, her eyes clouded with an emotion he can’t make out. 

‘Yes’, he says simply, his response both a confession and a prayer. He makes no move to touch her, fearful that any misstep might tip them both over the edge, the storm of emotions swirling within him already threatening to swallow him whole. 

‘Then ask me again, ‘Tsumu’ she whispers, her fists clenched, trembling by her side.    

He blinks at her, but his confusion morphs into elated disbelief when she takes the brown envelope from him and rips it cleanly in half. 

Oh. 

‘Ask me again, ‘Tsumu’, she repeats, the clouds in her eyes clearing into pools of light. He wonders if it mirrors the rush of warmth and love and most of all - hope, overflowing in his heart. 

‘Wanna try jumping off a cliff again?’ he asks, voice shaking, echoing the request he made of her years ago.

She steps forward into his waiting arms, her smile like golden sunlight spilling through grey rain.  

‘Only if you promise to jump with me’, she says softly against his chest. 

He catches her forgiveness desperately in his hands, and seals his promise with his lips. 

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 17

I can honestly say I did not know I had it in me to finish this beast of a fic.  Couldn’t have made it this far without you all.  So, cheers.  And thank you.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Seventeen: Ever-Long

"What else is there to follow, but spring? What else is there to follow, but a beginning?" - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

The morning of Daenerys Targaryen's execution, Jon watches Aegon leave the dungeons with a drawn face and an exhaustion about his shoulders that is anything but kingly.

Aegon stops when he sees Jon, lips pursed tight. He blinks, shutters his gaze away, takes a long, shaky breath, and then walks away down the corridor, his boots clicking hollowly along the stone, echoing faintly into eventual silence.

Jon doesn't know what words are passed between his brother and aunt in their last meeting. And he doesn't care to know. He supposes he doesn't begrudge his brother his farewells. Jon doesn't pretend to understand the relationship between Aegon and Daenerys, nor does he pretend to understand the sort of affection that Aegon has for her. All he knows, and all he cares about, is that Aegon keeps his promise.

That afternoon, Jon breathes his first breath of relief since laying his ultimatum at Aegon's feet. And when they cut Daenerys' head from her shoulders, he does not look away.

Neither does Sansa.

He hears the sharp intake of her breath beside him, feels her grip tightly to his hand in hers, but he does not look away, not until the executioner hauls Daenerys' severed head up by the hair in show, not until the crowd's cheering has dulled into a vague pulse, not until Aegon leaves the dais with a hand over his mouth, his shoulders trembling.

Not until Sansa releases his hand.

He turns to her then, finds her standing with her eyes closed, tears collected at the corners, and her mouth parts, a tearful sigh leaving her. She braces her hands to her face.

Jon turns fully to her, reaching for her wrists, pulling her hands gently from her face. "Hey," he says, his voice thick with emotion, and he has to clear his throat at the unexpected break. "She can't hurt you anymore," he says in reassurance.

She nods, eyes slipping open, leaning into him. "She can't hurt us," she corrects, eyes shifting between his.

Jon nods, his throat flexing with his control, and he pulls her into him, braces a hand gently at the back of her head, presses his lips to her temple. "Us," he agrees, swaying with her.

She curls her hands along his back, bunching in his tunic, and just breathes with him.

And still she shakes. Still she tears her gaze from the gruesome sight before her. Even wounded as she is, Sansa does not celebrate death, does not relish in it.

Jon holds her tighter.

Just over Sansa's shoulder, Jon catches sight of Rhaenys. His sister stares unblinkingly at the crumpled body of Daenerys, shoulders bunched tight, a thick swallow parting her trembling lips. The rush of the crowd drowns out everything else when she flicks her gaze to his from across the dais.

She holds his gaze for a moment, face giving nothing away, and then she draws in a bracing breath, picks up her skirts, and moves to follow Aegon. He watches her leave without a word.

And maybe it's this image of her, alone there atop the dais, that finds him at her door the morning of his and Sansa's departure.

Maybe it's a lot of things, really – the memory of her smile, or her shuddering sobs, or the foul satisfaction he'd felt when he had his hand around her throat – like words you can never unspeak.

Jon stills with his hand before her door, held mid-knock, sucking a sharp breath between his teeth.

He closes his eyes, breathes deep, opens them again. And then he brings his hand to the wood.

"Come in," she answers, and he doesn't have a chance to rethink this, because he's already swinging her door open, already stepping through the threshold.

She stands from her seat along the window, a look of surprise fleeting across her features. "Jon," she exhales, sounding uncertain.

He closes the door behind him, head dipping down. He makes his way into the room.

Rhaenys steps toward him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. "I... I hadn't thought to see you before you left," she says, motioning toward the two cushioned chairs at the edge of her solar.

Jon shakes his head at the invitation. "I won't be long."

She nods mutely, hands folding before her. She glances to the floor.

A beat of silence passes between them, and Jon aches with it. He clears his throat, glances toward the wall a moment, and then back. "I came to say goodbye."

Rhaenys looks up at that, a slow, understanding nod offered.

Jon looks at her. Just looks at her.

She curls a hand over her wrist, keeps her arms tucked into herself.

"I..." Jon stops, his voice dying in his throat.

She offers him the faint quirk of her lip, eyes already tearing. And then she sniffs, tears her gaze away, a hand wiping over her eyes.

Jon moves to her instantly, but she steps back, gaze falling again. He stills. And he remembers.

He does not resent her for her distance. How could he, after all?

Jon swallows thickly, a hand rising hesitantly.

She watches him with uncertain eyes, doesn't step away when he closes the distance between them – slow and measured, careful not to send her skittering away. She draws a shallow, quick breath in when his fingers light along her throat, hesitant and careful.

Jon's gaze is fixed there, his touch stilling just under her jaw, and then curling back, fingers bunching into a loose fist as his voice comes out like gravel. "If I hurt you..."

She looks away, mouth clamped tight, jaw quivering.

He pulls his hand away fully now, trembling with it. His eyes rove her face. "If I hurt you, Rhaenys, I..." His words trail off, fracture away. He drops his head. "I'm sorry. I never – I never wanted..." He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to voice it, and he stumbles back a step with the weight of it, the regret.

Rhaenys blinks up at him, watching him, a hand coming up to curl in the silk folds of her dress above her heart, anchoring there. And then she releases an abrupt laugh, broken off and tear-laced.

Jon glances up at the sound.

She sighs heavily, a hand wiped over her eyes. "Gods, Jon, how can you..." She shakes her head, eyes slipping closed. "You shame me," she says woefully, brows bunching in pain, her hand curling tight in her dress.

Jon opens his mouth, finds no words adequate enough, and so he just swallows the air back. He just watches her.

Rhaenys opens her eyes, staring up at him. Her jaw quivers beneath the threat of tears. "You shame me so utterly," she gets out on a rough exhale. "After everything I..." She clamps her mouth shut, glances away.

"Even after everything," he begins, voice soft, "I should never have laid hands on you."

She shifts her gaze back to his, keeps his stare for long moments, just breathing, a slither of pain echoing across her face, an ache of remembrance. She blinks it away quickly enough, hides it behind a disbelieving laugh. "Gods, Jon, but you make it impossible to hate you."

Something about the admission hurts more than it heals.

Rhaenys seems to grow somber at the words, a heaviness drawn over her features, and she licks her lips, stares up at him unblinkingly. "Perhaps that's always been the problem," she whispers, almost to herself.

Jon's brows furrow down in confusion.

"You were always... too good, Jon," she says at length, a heavy sigh leaving her. "Too good to me when you shouldn't have been. When I shouldn't have let you be. It wasn't your job to take care of me. I was – " She stops, swallows, tries again. "I am your older sister. And I... I should have taken care of you." Her face crumbles with the admission. "Not the other way around," she chokes out, backing away, a hand drawn to her mouth.

Jon wants to follow, but he doesn't know how, and so he just stands there, staring at her, aching. A heavy breath rakes from him.

Rhaenys shakes her head, hand falling from her mouth. "I don't - I don't think I understood. Not until we were here in this room, and Daenerys was spitting her vile words and I realized – I realized, Jon – how she used me. How it felt. How utterly lonesome and abandoned and wretched it felt, and I – I did that, Jon. To you. I did that! I... I used you. I did. Gods, I did, and I – I'm so sorry it took me this long to understand. I'm sorry I ever – ever made us into this... this... gods, I'm so fucking sorry, and I don't - I don't know how to get us back," she cries out, shuddering beneath the weight of her words, arms wrapping in on herself, curling back like she's expecting a strike, tears falling freely now.

Jon reaches a hand toward her, hesitates, holds it there in the air.

"And I think..." she says, voice catching. "I think maybe I'm too late."

Jon's hand retracts at her broken exhale.

Because yes. Even if it pains him to admit it.

(There is no going back now.)

"It is," he gets out roughly, hand falling back to his side. "It's been too late for a while now."

Rhaenys takes a shuddering breath in, wiping a hand across her eyes, and then her nose, unable to look at him. She takes several moments, collecting herself, learning to breathe again, and Jon gives her nothing but time, nothing but silence.

He lets her come to him on her own.

Rhaenys sniffs loudly, eyes flicking to the far wall as she straightens finally, eyes still wet, nose still red. But she isn't shaking anymore. Her brows draw down harshly over her eyes when she croaks out, "Can you ever forgive me?"

But he has no answer for her. Not even an answer for himself.

Seven years ago, her attackers never asked for forgiveness. Stannis never asked for forgiveness. Their own father never asked for forgiveness. He doesn't think any of them deserved it in the first place but just – to acknowledge it. To own your wrongs. To recognize how deeply and precisely you can hurt another being. This was all she wanted, after all. Even if it could never be taken back.

Even if 'sorry' could never be anything more than lip service.

Just to know – that what she felt was real, and valid, and deserving of care.

To not be forgotten.

But she never got the chance to be heard. And Jon knows this, he does. Knows this better than anyone. And he does not begrudge her that wound.

But neither can she begrudge his. And maybe, in the end, it's only more hurt that they can promise each other. Maybe this is the best thing for each of them, even if it's a hard realization to come by.

"I don't know that I can forgive you," he tells her honestly.

Because – he finds – he still loves her just enough to grant her the truth.

Rhaenys turns from him then, unable to look at him. She draws a steadying breath in, fingers flexing tightly over her arms where she holds herself. She takes another long, drawn out moment. Another steadying breath. And then she turns back to him, tries to meet his gaze, tear-laced as hers is. "I wish things had been different," she says earnestly, lip pulled tight between her teeth. "But I understand." Her voice cracks at the end of her exhale, and she clears her throat, tries again. "I understand," she says, more sure this time.

Jon stays watching her.

Rhaenys blinks away the tears, draws her shoulders back. "Aegon needs me right now. I think I'd - I'd like to be a big sister for once," she says quietly.

Jon only nods, his voice tight in his throat. And then his brows furrow, a thought piercing him. "Is he..."

Rhaenys blinks up at him, a moment passing, before she recognizes his worry, the reassuring lilt of a smile touching her lips. "Aegon has no intention of taking me to wife," she says.

Jon doesn't bother masking the breath of relief that escapes him.

"And even though I've advised him to take a wife from the Stormlands or the Westerlands, I don't think he'll be quite up to another marriage so soon," she says knowingly.

They share a bout of silence at that, neither bothering to voice what they each understand.

Rhaenys rubs her hands along her arms, sighing. "I'll be with him, for a time."

"And then?"

She looks at him, weighing her words. "And then he's on his own." Her hands slip from her arms. "He's given me leave to travel, to leave King's Landing, at my own leisure."

Jon lets out a sigh at the words, inexplicably lighter at their utterance.

Rhaenys gives him a knowing look, brow cocked. "A decision urged by you, so I hear."

Jon offers her a half-smile, concern still etching along his face. "Where will you go?" he asks.

Rhaenys draws a steadying breath in, seeming to ease with it. She gives him a small smile. "Dorne. To be with my mother's family."

Jon nods, a slow, reassuring calm settling over him. "That's good," he says, voice rough.

Tears bead at the corners of her eyes once more, but she wipes at them cleanly now, her smile an earnest, genuine thing this time. "Yes," she says. "Perhaps I'll find a cousin of my own to love."

Jon looks down, his chest tight. "I think the distance will do us both good," he says quietly.

He feels her slow, resigned exhale more than he hears it. "Yes, I think perhaps you're right," she says.

He stays watching the dark tips of his boots for long moments, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides. Words crest and swell and fall away on his tongue – useless. "Then..." He lifts his head, intends to say his farewell, to wish her well, and mean it. But she's staring at him – staring at him so intently, and then she steps toward him, eyes imploring, but the tears are gone, and he sucks a breath in at the sight, at the nearness of her, suddenly longing and hopeful and sad, like the boy he used to be.

"Do you... do you think we'll ever see each other again?" she asks breathlessly, a soft thrum to her voice, like the slipping of night into day, like the slow grind of dawn, in its quiet realization.

Jon feels his chest constrict, even as his answer comes honest and inevitable. "No, I don't think we will," he says.

Her face falls at his words, her nod a painful and slow thing.

Jon takes a short, resolute step back, still lingering along the edge of proximity. "You will always be my sister. But you need to live your life. And I need to live mine. And I think we need to do that separately – to ever live rightly," he tells her. And then his hand slips up to her jaw, cradles it but a moment, lets her press her cheek into the warmth, a last lingering affection, something pure and unhindered by their past grievances – a sibling's love, heartfelt and uncomplicated – before he lets his hand fall away. She nearly follows the heat of him, but stops herself, swaying back with it, eyes on his, mouth a tight line.

She knows. As well as he. She knows.

"It is not something to mourn," he tells her, voice cracking, even as he offers her a quaking smile.

She nods, fervent, unwilling to let the tears fall. She nods.

Jon sucks a soldiering breath in, wiping a hand down his face as he shutters his gaze away. "Take care, sister," he gets out shakily, moving to turn from her, to leave the room entirely, shoulders bunching with the weight of it.

"I didn't mean it," she calls to him suddenly, and he stills with his hand on the door knob.

She shifts behind him, hands wringing before her, and he turns, just enough to catch sight of her over his shoulder.

She takes a breath, doesn't bother hiding the tears now. "When I said I was glad it was dead."

Jon clenches his jaw, muscles ticking. It's a vibrant, new wave of grief that washes over him.

She makes her way toward him, knuckles white in her grip, face an open, anguished thing. "I just... I need you to know. I didn't mean it," she whispers. "I wanted to hurt you. Hurt you more than I've ever wanted to hurt you before and I – I didn't mean it," she implores, voice constricting. She swallows the break back, doesn't turn her gaze away. And then her lip quivers, her eyes tearing. She sucks a sharp breath in. "Your babe was an innocent," she says on a broken exhale, a strangled sob escaping her.

Jon barely manages to keep his own sob smothered at the words, his feet rooted to the floor, his eyes never leaving hers.

Rhaenys cocks her head, a sorrowful look to her features. "And it's always the innocent who suffer our sins, in the end. Isn't that right?"

Jon's gaze dips to the floor, the breath raking from him.

"But I don't want to be that person anymore," she whispers tightly, voice quaking.

Jon looks back up at her.

She's crying again, but it's with a shaky smile, her shoulders drawn back. "Whatever happens in the future, for you and Lady Sansa, for our brother – whatever happens," she promises, hiccupping through the tears, hand stretching out toward him, palm up, "I will never be that person again, I promise."

Jon stares down at her hand, his voice strangled in his throat. He looks back up at her.

Rhaenys takes a breath, lets it rattle from her. She keeps her tear-filled gaze on him, keeps her hand outstretched between them. She does not ask for more.

Jon's gaze falls back down to her hand, his brow furrowing. And then, slowly, like the first breath of spring, he takes it in his own. Her palm is warm against his, and he wonders, suddenly, why he's never held her hand before.

Why he's never simply... held his sister's hand.

She smiles tearfully at him, her fingers locked in his.

"Thank you," he whispers in the space between them, eyes still fixed to their joined hands.

She gives him one last, firm squeeze, before she pulls away entirely. "Goodbye, brother," she says.

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

(Not something to mourn.)

"Goodbye," he says, with one final nod her way. And then he's making for the door, and then he's all the way down the hall, and then he's alighting the steps of the Keep.

Up and up and away from there.

When he glances back up the way he came, one hand on the door to the carriage where Sansa and Bran await him, he catches sight of Aegon atop the golden, gleaming steps. The steps where it all began. The steps where it now ends. His brother does not wave. He does not give any motion of a farewell. He simply watches, still and immovable – a lonesome silhouette against the backdrop of the Red Keep's shadow.

Jon slips into the carriage wordlessly.

It isn't until they are hours down the road, Bran slumbering easily across from them, that Jon first feels the tears along his cheeks.

He sucks in a wet sob, shaking with it, a disbelieving gasp escaping him, dragging along his throat.

"Jon," Sansa says, soft and sure at his side.

He brings his hands to his face, mouth gaping on a tearful choke. "I don't know why I'm crying," he says brokenly. And then it rushes over him in one long, wrecking sweep – bleeding him dry, tearing the wail from his throat like skinning a beast. Rending him wide. Peeling him open. All his gruesome little insides there for all to see. Crying and gasping and never knowing how to stop.

"I don't know why I'm crying," he sobs into her neck, curling in on her, grasping at her, the golden haze of King's Landing growing ever dimmer over the horizon behind them.

"Shh," Sansa hushes into his hair, a hand on his neck, her lips at his temple. "I've got you," she says, cradling him.

"I don't know why I'm crying," he gets out, head shaking, teeth gnashing.

Except, he knows exactly why.

By nightfall, King's Landing has disappeared entirely over the distance.

"I've got you," Sansa promises him, over and over, her whisper pressed into his flesh like a salve. "I've got you."

* * *

It isn't until Sansa is safe in her mother's arms that she truly lets the grief wash from her.

She thinks her mother knows, somehow, in some way that language has no words for, when she first glances upon her there in Winterfell's courtyard. One hand bunches in her skirts as she lifts them to exit the carriage, the other held in Jon's as he helps her to the ground. Snow crunches beneath her boots, and the sound seems to crackle all the way along her skin – crisp and startling. She sucks in a breath.

Cry later. Cry when you are safe.

It all froths to the surface, unbidden, and a keen whimper sounds in the back of her throat as she strangles it back tightly.

(Winterfell. Home. Safe.)

Her mother's brows furrow at the look on her face, and she wonders how plainly she must wear it now – this grief of hers. Or perhaps that's just what mothers do.

They know.

Even when you wished they didn't.

"Mother," she gets out on a shallow exhale, stepping toward her.

"My daughter," Catelyn says, the wisp of tears playing at the ends of her words, and it's like a long-sought welcome, like an embrace Sansa finds herself already leaning into.

Her face crumbles, her sob breaking past her trembling lips, and Jon squeezes her hand, just the once – quick and fierce – before he lets her go.

She moves into her mother's open arms familiarly and desperately, her own arms winding tight around her, eyes squeezing shut, tears already hot on her lids, another sob choked out into the hollow of her neck when she buries her face in her shoulder.

"My daughter," Catelyn sighs into her hair, one hand patting the back of her head tenderly, and they stay like this for a time, rocking.

Hours later, after Catelyn has tearfully left Bran slumbering in his room, and the rest of them have settled into their own chambers. Sansa sags into a chair in her mother's solar and finally tells her of the grandchild she almost had.

"Oh Sansa," her mother sighs, gripping tightly to her hands. "I'm so sorry you lost it. I'm so sorry I wasn't there to help you."

She can only nod, gaze dipped low, sniffling back her recent tears. And she thinks of the many nights Jon lay beside her along their journey here, tucked into her, their breath mingling in the space between them, hands clasped, as he waited. As he simply... waited. For words she still hasn't been able to say aloud. For whatever release of emotion she'd been tightly leashing all these long weeks. For her to simply come to him, when she was ready.

"It's going to be alright," he'd say, his voice warm and breathy in the quiet of their tent, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

And she believes him, she does. Or at least, she hopes she does. But she'd not been able to say it any of those nights. She'd only been able to nod silently, or to tuck her head beneath his chin, or to kiss him recklessly.

Those nights were the hardest.

Just the familiar pressure of his mouth on hers, how her need came flaring back, swallowing her up, only this time, it was a different kind of hunger. A lonely kind. A needful kind. And she'd grab at his shoulder, nails pinching his flesh as she trembled, as she kissed him hard and open-mouthed, pressing her body tightly to his, panting, gasping, before pulling away abruptly, sob catching in her throat and –

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not -" She'd shake her head violently. "I'm not – "

"Shh, I know," he'd say, curling around her, hand sliding up the length of her back, tucking her into him, letting her nails dig half-moons in his chest. "It's okay. We don't have to. We don't have to," he'd whisper into her hair, shushing her.

Another sob would catch along her tongue, the frustration stopping the tears before they could truly fall, the bite of their salt-sting lingering in the corners of her eyes.

Gods, how she just wanted to be over this. To just – be over it. Through with it. Done with feeling wronged. To set this pain aside and try again. To hold her husband at night and not feel this angry and unfathomable sadness.

She wants to want again. To do it freely and whole-heartedly.

Not to shrink back into the cage.

"It's going to be alright," Jon would tell her, his own voice shaking.

(But it's just so hard.)

"You are helping me," she assures her mother now, finally looking up at her. "Here. Now." She pats their joined hands. "This helps," she says tearfully.

Catelyn reaches up and brushes a thumb tenderly over her tear-tracked face. "You must have been so scared in the attack. I can't imagine the horrors you saw, or what danger you must have been in, what harm came to you." Her eyes search her form frantically, as though to find some new, invisible wound upon her, even now. She looks back up at her daughter, eyes saddened. "I'm not surprised you miscarried, dear. It couldn't have been helped. It's not your fault, you hear me?" She cups her cheek reassuringly, before dropping her hand back down to their joined ones.

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it. She takes a breath, eyes fluttering shut. "I know that."

Daenerys' poison must still remain unknown, after all. The peace of the realm depends on it. Though her execution is in the name of treason, of her crimes against the crown and the king, secretly, in the quiet recesses of her heart, and in Jon's as well, she knows – Daenerys' execution is in the name of her child.

Though no others may ever know.

The resentment is tart along her tongue, her teeth grinding behind her cheek. She opens her eyes, wipes at her tears. "I know that," she says again, more sure this time. Because it's true. Even if some small part of her feels as though she's failed.

"I just... don't know how to get back," she begins, head shaking. "To get back to how we were – Jon and I." A sigh escapes her, rough and exhausted. "He's been so... so patient with me. So steady and reassuring, and I know he's hurting, too. I know it, but I can't seem to – to let this go, when I'm with him. I can't seem to just... let it go."

Catelyn rubs a thumb quietly along Sansa's knuckles, watching her.

Sansa sighs exasperatedly, reaching up to dig the heel of her palm into her eye, brows scrunching. "Gods, but I want to be with him again. To hold him and let him hold me. To not... be scared of hurting for it." She drops her hand, her tear-laced gaze meeting her mother's once more. "I don't want to be scared anymore, Mother."

Catelyn offers her a watery smile, head cocking as she watches her. "My dear girl," she says, looking down at their joined hands, taking a long, heavy breath. "Sansa, you know, I – I've lost a babe myself."

Sansa blinks at her, mouth parting slightly.

Catelyn looks back up at her, a mirthless smile tugging at the edges of her lips, gaze already wet. She clears her throat, blinks it away. The ends of her smile now are softer, more fragile. "After Robb, I lost a babe. And your father took it very hard. I took it very hard. I couldn't bring myself to be intimate with him for weeks afterward, and he, in turn, drifted further and further away himself. I felt as though I had failed him, failed the both of us. And yet oh, how I missed him. Even living in the same castle, even sleeping in the same bed, I missed him more than I could rightly describe – most days so badly it hurt."

Sansa sits riveted to her mother's story, the rare confession spilling out between them, taking all the air, setting her lungs to clenching as she stays stock still.

Her mother hangs her head, sniffling softly.

The fire crackles lowly in the hearth before them, a log falling to cinders like an exhale.

"What happened?" Sansa asks tentatively, her whisper breaking the quiet like a gale.

Catelyn takes another heavy breath, drawing her shoulders back when she finally looks back up at Sansa. "We missed each other, missed what it meant to be together, and so we did something about it. We stopped running from each other. We talked. We... we spoke about it. Said some things neither of us wanted to hear, but we didn't hide from the hurt. We didn't lie to each other or keep each other out or pretend it never happened. It was hard. It was the hardest thing I ever did – building back a love I never should have let wither. But it was worth it. Because you know what happened when we did? You know what happened when we stopped trying to take care of ourselves and took care of each other?"

Sansa shakes her head, mouth trembling, eyes tearing anew.

Catelyn settles a hand at her cheek, smiling through her own tears. "You," she says, brushing a strand of hair behind Sansa's ear like she used to when she was a girl. Her mother's smile widens. "You happened," she tells her, a firmness to the affection, her hand falling back to clasp over her daughter's.

Sansa sucks a sharp breath in, the whimper catching in her throat. She hangs her head as the tears come again. And she just can't stop them this time.

(But she finds she doesn't want to, either.)

"Come here," Catelyn says, releasing Sansa's hands to wind around her instead, holding her head to her breast.

The sob that escapes her ricochets all the way through her, her body racked with it, taking the breath from her lungs. It crashes through her, wave after wave, the cries tumbling from her mouth as she grips at her mother.

"Thank you for being born," Catelyn says at her temple, a gentle hand gliding down her hair. "Thank you for coming to me when I needed you."

Another wave rushes through her, and Sansa is gasping with it, her throat raw, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping at her mother's sleeves as she slumps into her embrace. She cries and cries and cries. And her mother only rocks her, smiling tearfully into her hair.

It takes ages, it seems. Eons and epochs and the long stretch of a weary exhale, before Sansa's cries settle, before exhaustion overtakes her and she's sighing tremulously at her mother's shoulder, pulling from her embrace. Catelyn wipes at Sansa cheeks, smiling indulgently at her, and Sansa cannot help the soft, embarrassed chuckle that escapes her then, her gaze drifting down, and she lets her mother fret over her, taking comfort in the touch.

"You're going to be alright, Sansa," she assures her, hands cupping her cheeks.

Sansa glances up at that, nose red, eyes still wet.

Catelyn nods at her, smile softening. "You're both going to be alright."

Sansa stares at her, aching and breathless.

Her mother's thumbs brush along her cheeks, her gaze firm, certain. "You know, it isn't enough to just be in love. You have to have courage enough to stay in love, too. It can be a messy business, after all."

The kind that lays you bare. The kind that doesn't look away in turn.

Sansa's mouth parts, her chest aching at the words.

Catelyn cocks her head as she watches her with a fierce tenderness. "But I see that in you, Sansa. I always have. And I see that in Jon, now, too." Her palms slip from her cheeks, settling instead over Sansa's own bunched hands in her lap. "He loves you, I know. It's easy enough to tell," she chuckles.

Sansa's cheeks warm, even now, even after everything. She doesn't think she will ever tire of hearing it, after all. "He's a good husband," she agrees, sniffling back the tears. "He's a good man."

"I'm glad to hear it," her mother says, hands tightening over hers. "All the more reason to fight for him. And for yourself." She smiles once more, close-lipped and gentle. "This pain will pass, as all things do. And you will still be a wife, in the end. You will still have time, and hope, and chances." She inclines her head toward Sansa's, gaze fervent. "Do not let this take that from you as well."

Sansa takes a deep, steadying breath, keeping her mother's fierce gaze. She nods – tight and sure. "I won't," she promises, and means it, she finds. Means it more than she's meant anything.

Because she knows now that she deserves being fought for. And there's no settling for less. Even from herself.

Time and hope and chances –

Do not let this take that from you.

She deserves it, after all. She deserves to keep the cage door swinging wide – forever empty.

She deserves a soft-hewn happiness – an ever-long embrace.

Time and hope and chances. She deserves it.

And she's tired of telling herself otherwise.

"I won't," she says again, voice catching. She clears her throat, lifts her chin. "I won't."

"Good." Catelyn pats her hands.

But then a new kind of grief anchors in her chest, a sharp inhale stealing through her lips. Her mouth dips into a frown, brows furrowing. "Mother, about Bran..." She hangs her head. "I'm so sorry, Mother. I'm so sorry to bring him home to you like this." Her voice catches in her chest, wavering there on a shamed exhale.

Catelyn sighs, her smile falling. She blinks back the wetness, shakes her head, looks off to the far wall. "He told me..." She clears her throat, swallows the ache back down. "He told me you protected him."

The scoff that leaves her is an exhausted, self-deprecating sort. "Hardly. He was the one who – " She stops, the words stalling at the tip of her tongue. Memories from that bloody day flood her vision – Bran wailing in the dirt, screams echoing all around the stone courtyard, the lance of pain across her cheek from her assailant's hand, but also –

"I have never been so proud of you."

Jon's words are warm at her ear, settling the tremor that quakes through her at the violent recollection. The tug of something tender and resilient tips the corners of her lips up. "I suppose we protected each other," she tells her mother.

Catelyn nods sagely, eyes crinkling at the edges. "That you did." She stays staring at her for many long moments, a fondness creeping over her features, smile returning softly. She tucks a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear, sighing.

Sansa gives her a questioning look, head cocked.

"I think you're going to make a wonderful mother, Sansa," she tells her earnestly, eyes never leaving hers.

Sansa feels her chest constricting once more, but it isn't painful this time. It's a comforting ache. A warmth that blossoms beneath her skin like a fist unfurling. "Well," she gets out, clearing her throat, a teary chuckle tumbling out after it, "I had a great teacher, you know."

Catelyn laughs, bright and tear-lined and unrestrained. She braces her forehead to Sansa's, eyes slipping shut. "My dear, dear girl."

Yes, it isn't until Sansa is safe in her mother's arms that she truly lets the grief wash from her.

But it's also in her mother's arms that the first inkling of hope finally begins to take root.

For winter has always been the herald of spring, and Sansa is ready for the bloom.

* * *

"May I join you?"

Ned looks up from cleaning Ice to see Jon standing before him. He grunts an acknowledgement, a nod of his head toward the stump near him indicating his welcome. Jon takes the offered seat beneath the weirwood, unsheathing his own sword.

It's many moments before either of them speak – a steady, even silence overtaking the men as they each clean their respective blades. The soft, crisp breeze of winter filters through the godswood and Jon is at ease – inexplicably. Here in his wife's home. In his mother's home. He's at ease in a way he's not sure he's ever truly felt before, except perhaps, when waking in Sansa's arms.

He lets a fond smile touch the edges of his lips at the thought, his gaze focused on the blade in his lap.

"Theon Greyjoy has been rather close-lipped about why you sent him racing here, you know."

Jon looks up at his uncle's comment, only to find the man still working his blade, almost nonchalant in his motions. But the slight furrow in his brow and lock of his jaw look to be anything but nonchalance.

Jon clears his throat. It's a conversation a long time coming, after all, ever since he and Sansa rode through Winterfell's gates a sennight past. And he doesn't mean to run from it. "He was my guarantee."

Ned hums an acknowledgement. "Guarantee for what? Or whom?"

Jon stays quiet for a moment, and then, "My guarantee of your daughter's safety."

Ned's hand stills over his blade, the oiled cloth bunching beneath his fingers. He glances up to meet Jon's gaze.

Jon sighs. "From my brother," he finishes.

Ned only purses his lips, brow furrowing further. "And that missive? The missive you and Theon burned upon your arrival? What was written in it?"

"Something that could start a war."

Ned sighs, a hand going to rub exhaustedly at his eyes.

Don't ask these questions, Jon thinks. Don't ask. Because he doesn't want to lie to him. And he thinks he might just tell him if he asks.

"I know you haven't told me everything that happened in Stannis' attack," Ned says, hand dropping from his eyes. "I know it's not as simple as Sansa says."

Jon stays quiet, gaze never leaving Ned's. The two men stare at each other for many long moments, the faint whisper of snow beginning to fall around them.

Ned looks away, dropping his cloth along the log beneath him with a sort of resignation that is not accusatory. "But you're not going to tell me, are you?"

Jon licks his lips, a heavy sigh leaving him. His eyes drop down to the sword in his hand. "My brother let us go in peace, and I mean to keep that peace. For however long I can."

"War is already coming, boy," Ned says with a clipped voice. "The Targaryens' hold on the seven kingdoms is waning, their sovereignty shaken more and more with each passing year." Ned cuts a hard look Jon's way. "You think the other kingdoms haven't noticed?"

"I know."

"There's blood in the water, now. It's only a matter of time."

Jon squares his jaw, grip tightening over the hilt of his sword. Because he knows. He knows the measures he's taken will only ever be temporary. He's not simple enough to believe that he and Sansa can live out their lives peaceably in the North. He's a prince, after all. His brother's only heir, currently. Holding enough political weight to tempt others to use him – he understands this. He can hardly expect to live out his days in Winterfell, untethered from and irresponsible for the world around him. He cannot bury his head in the sand and shut his eyes to life's passing.

He cannot pretend that the future he knows is coming, simply isn't.

And he doesn't want to be the sort of person who would, anyway.

(If he has learned anything these past moons, it's at least that. It's at least himself that he has learned – sometimes even with the sort of clarity that cuts. But he would have it no other way.)

Ned lets out a heavy breath beside Jon, his head shaking. He sets Ice to the side, leaning it along the edge of the log where he sits. "Whatever... 'peace' it is you've bargained for," he gets out gruffly, "Whatever time you've gained, though it may be little..."

Jon looks up finally at Ned's pause, his slate grey gaze meeting the older man's steadily.

Ned purses his lips, a grim but grateful acceptance settling into his features as he continues. "I know it could not have come easily. Or without its dangers."

A frown mars Jon's face at the words.

Ned shakes his head, glancing away, out into the wood – past the snow and the red shade and the shadowy haze of Winterfell's towers just behind the tree line. "Even if you may never say it aloud, I know what this move must have cost you."

Jon's lips part, a shallow breath leaving him. His chest constricts suddenly, his words cracked and rough on his tongue. "I'd do it again."

Ned's gaze drifts to his boots, silent.

"Every time," Jon says, fervent suddenly, throat tight. "I'd do it again – every time. For her."

With eyes slipping shut, Ned lets out a weary exhale. "You love my daughter," he says, and it is more a statement than a question. More a confirmation than a clarification.

"Very much so," Jon gets out raggedly.

And how common, he thinks. How completely understated and lacking – to think that 'very much so' could ever accurately articulate what he feels for Sansa Stark.

But what else is he to say?

That he loves her desperately, and darkly, and daily? That she has worn out a hollow in his heart in exactly the shape of her? That nothing else may ever fit there rightly again, but her? That he is better for having loved her?

(That that would be enough, even if she never loved him back?)

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep.

No. There are no appropriate words. Never will be.

'Very much so'.

Jon nearly laughs at the thought.

How utterly and immensely inadequate.

"Thank you," Ned says, voice gruff – nearly strangled. He swallows thickly, clears his throat. He meets Jon's gaze unblinkingly. "Thank you for protecting her."

"We protect each other," he responds without thinking, the words already alight on his tongue.

Ned's brows rise at the correction, the slow tug of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

Jon lets out a low chuckle, his cheeks warming as he drops his gaze. "That's what the pack does, right?"

Ned leans back as his own chuckle ripples through him, his hands bracing to his knees, grin spreading wider.

Jon flicks his gaze back to his uncle, his own grin losing its hesitancy, branching further, more sure.

"Aye, that's right." Ned clamps a hand on Jon's shoulder, firm and warm.

(An ease he's never truly known, but is finally learning to, now.)

Ned's face sombers as he looks at Jon, his hand never leaving his shoulder. His exhale comes out shaky and worn, his voice wavering just a touch when he tells him, "You might not have my name, but you have my blood."

Jon's jaw tightens, his breath strangled in his throat.

"You will always have a place here, son."

Jon looks away, wipes a shaking hand down his face, pausing over his mouth. In his other palm, the hilt of his sword hangs heavy.

He thinks of Robb and Margaery's wedding. He thinks of sparring with Arya in the courtyard. He thinks of a snow-touched morning in the godswood, Sansa on his arm.

He thinks of all the years he hadn't known to even miss, given the chance.

And he thinks of the resolution he came to well before he ever set foot in his mother's lands.

(From the first moment Sansa cloaked him, her hand-stitched direwolf pressed to his chest like a brand.)

"I'd like to marry your daughter, my lord," he says.

Ned's brows dip down in confusion.

Jon licks his lips, his hand falling from his mouth. He looks back to Ned. "Here. In the godswood. Before your old gods." He swallows thickly, a determined set to his jaw.

Ned blinks at him, mouth pursed tight. "Sansa doesn't hold to the old gods."

"No," Jon agrees, "But I... I think I might."

Ned raises a brow at him.

"If you'd teach me, Uncle."

Ned gives him an appraising look, one finger tapping along his knee, his other hand slipping from Jon's shoulder. "And you want a union blessed by them?"

"I want to marry Sansa here in her home," he says in answer. "In my mother's home." He opens his mouth, closes it, tries to swallow back the break. "I want to be home," he gets out in a strangled voice, eyes wet suddenly. "With her."

You have my blood.

With family.

Nodding slowly, Ned takes in a single, even breath, and lets it wash from him like snow coming off the boughs.

Jon sits in keen anticipation, his whole body tight. Waiting, and waiting, and hoping.

The corner of Ned's lips quirk up into something tender, something quietly affectionate.

Jon feels the breath rake through his chest like waves rolling out.

"A wedding, huh? Well," Ned says, head cocking as he watches his nephew, "I suppose her mother will be happy to not miss this one."

Jon laughs. He laughs until his throat aches, braces his hands to his face, catches the sob at the tip of his tongue, expelled into his palms, and he shakes with it, tears hot at the corners of his eyes.

Steady and unyielding, Ned's hand returns to his shoulder.

(It never truly leaves.)

* * *

It gets easier, Sansa finds. In the days that pass, it gets easier.

Arya is still a menace, and somehow that is a comfort. Rickon still steals her lemon cakes. Her mother still prays to the Seven every morning. Bran still smiles at her singing.

And Jon still holds her in the night.

It is not a lonesome life at all. And day by day, Sansa finds new reasons to smile.

The snows fall heavier now, winter truly setting in. She spends her hours sewing, when she can. A new set of gloves for Father. Mending Robb and Theon's tunics when they inevitably rend them after sparring. A Southron-styled handkerchief for Jeyne.

She takes to wine in the evening with Margaery, and she laughs again, she realizes. She laughs and laughs and laughs. Here in her home. Before an ever-lit hearth. She laughs.

"I'm telling you, Sansa, I never would have agreed to this marriage if I knew how the man slept," Margaery tells her one night, giggling behind her wine glass.

Sansa shakes her head, jostling the embers in the fireplace before them with a poker, hoping to reignite some warmth. It's late, and she really should be in bed, but it's been too nice a night, talking here with Margaery, and there's still wine in the tableside pitcher, and the moon is achingly beautiful, silver light slanting through the thin windows of the Great Hall, and the blanket draped over her form is warm, her stockinged feet tucked under her lap, and she is – she is –

(Day by day, it is easier.)

She is content.

Sansa sighs, settling back in her seat, resting the poker along the side of her cushioned armchair. She glances over to Margaery with a grin. "That bad, huh?"

Margaery groans, taking a swig of wine. "When I tell you it's like going to war every night..."

Sansa barks a laugh, hand held to her mouth to smother the sound, the unladylike guffaw escaping past her palm, and Margaery grins at her, sharing in her mirth.

"I wake up with his arm over my face, his knee in my back. And the snoring. Oh, if only you knew."

Sansa bites her lip to keep her laughter at bay, hand still held at her mouth. "He snores?"

"Like a bear," Margaery deadpans, taking another sip of wine.

Sansa's smile is brilliant, the warmth branching through her. "He's lucky you love him."

Margaery scoffs. "I don't know why I do."

Sansa chuckles again, reaching for her own wineglass as she tugs the blanket further up her curled form. "Yes, you do," she says.

Margaery stops, blinks at her, and then her gaze shifts to the hearth, softening somewhat. A knowing smile tugs at the edge of her lips. "Yes, I do," she whispers, almost to herself.

Sansa beams at her.

"You two are setting a terrible example for Arya, you know," Catelyn says suddenly, coming up behind them with a disapproving look, her skirts held gracefully in her hands.

Sansa glances around the edge of her armchair at her mother's approach, but the wine has made her too warm and the night has made her too comfortable to feel any inkling of shame. "Mother," she greets affectionately.

Catelyn stops between them, hands to her hips. "All I hear now is 'Well, Sansa gets to stay up late'."

Sansa pouts dramatically at the rebuke.

Margaery laughs at her expression, raising her cup to the Stark matriarch. "Tell her to get married, then," she teases, "If curfew's her gripe."

Catelyn rolls her eyes, but there's an amused smile tugging at her lips. "Aye, that's the solution, is it? I have my work cut out for me, then."

"Oh, but I've got a brother or two," Margaery waves off, grinning as she takes another sip of wine. "We'll wrangle that one yet," she promises with a wink.

Sansa hides her chuckle behind her wineglass, glancing up at her mother.

Catelyn only sighs, eyes raised heavenward, hands dropping from her hips.

"Mother," Sansa urges with an amused fondness.

"Come," Margaery interrupts, standing abruptly, swaying only slightly, and Sansa reaches out a hand instinctively, going for her hip to steady her but she bats it away with a laugh. "Join us, Lady Stark." She goes to pour a third glass of wine from the tableside pitcher.

Catelyn raises a brow at her newest daughter, taking the offered cup gingerly.

"Really, Mother," Sansa says, leaning back in her armchair. "It's been too long, and I miss you." She looks over to Margaery, a warmth branching through her. "I miss this."

Catelyn looks at Sansa for a moment, rolling the base of her wine glass between her fingers. And then she nods, offers a tender smile, and takes the seat across from them.

Margaery smiles triumphantly and settles back into her own seat, scooping her fallen blanket back up from the floor and draping it over her lap. She motions for a cheers. "To Sansa's return."

Catelyn raises her glass without hesitation, clinking Margaery's, a fond smile sent Sansa's way. "I shall always drink to that," she offers warmly.

Sansa beams, clinking her own glass with the other women's. She sighs, and it seems to take all of her. "To home."

"To home," the other women echo.

Sansa takes a long, slow drink – savoring it. She settles her glass along the edge of her armrest, fingers thrumming along the wine stem, and she looks up into the high-vaulted ceiling, eyes trailing the grey arches and wooden beams. They seem to stretch farther than she remembers, open wider.

"You know," Margaery begins, grabbing Sansa's attention once more, "When we parted after the wedding, I... I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Sansa glances to Margaery then, quiet as she watches her.

Margaery purses her lips, nodding silently to herself. She looks to her wineglass, turns it in her hand. Her voice is soft and quaking when she speaks again. "I'm glad I was wrong."

Sansa's chest tightens at the words.

"Letters are all well and good," she continues, sighing wistfully, "But I missed you, dear girl. Seven, did I miss you," she laughs, smiling tearfully. "I never had a sister before, you know. It was terrible of you to leave me," she admonishes playfully.

Sansa laughs, her own eyes wetting. "It was rather terrible of me, wasn't it?"

Margaery sniffs dramatically, shaking her head. "I forgive you."

Sansa leans over her armrest toward her. "How gracious of you."

Catelyn snorts into the rim of her wineglass, seeming to surprise even herself.

Sansa's brows rise into her hairline at the noise, her grin breaking free.

Margaery leans in conspiratorially toward Sansa, a hand covering her mouth from Catelyn's view, though she does nothing to quiet her voice. "Don't let her fool you, she adores me."

"You've a rather high opinion of yourself, don't you, Lady Margaery?" Catelyn muses, head cocked, though there's amusement to her tone.

"Of course," Margaery agrees easily. "Grandmother always said a rose was meant to bloom."

"Seven help me," Catelyn mutters into her wine glass, chuckling.

Sansa laughs again, finishing her own wine.

Margaery sighs across from her, and the sound is so acute it draws Sansa's attention instantly. She glances back up at the other woman, finds her face fallen a bit, her gaze set to the stone floor between them.

"Margaery?"

"I know you won't talk about it." she says suddenly, a solemnness to her tone that throws Sansa.

She swallows tightly, watching her.

Margaery raises her head, meets her gaze. "I know you won't talk about why you really came back."

Catelyn stills in her seat, eyes shifting toward Sansa.

(Day by day, it is easier. The words are easier.)

"No, I don't think I can," Sansa says, her hands falling into her lap, cradling the empty wine glass there.

Margaery watches her quietly, lips pursed into a tight line.

Catelyn clears her throat, shifting in her seat. "Margaery..." she cautions.

"That's okay," Margaery says suddenly.

Sansa glances back up at her.

She's watching her, open and undemanding. She licks her lips, nodding stiffly. "It's okay if you never do. But should you want to - should you ever...want to..." She offers her a comforting smile, head dipped toward her.

The breath rakes through Sansa's chest, her fingers gripping the wine glass in her lap. She nods fervently at Margaery. "Thank you."

Margaery leans back into her chair, a reassuring nod sent her way. And then her face settles into something uneasy. "But I fear that whatever your reasons for it, this may only be the beginning."

Catelyn shifts forward in her seat, setting her wine glass down along the side table. She looks determinedly at Sansa. "I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that your father fears the same," she says cautiously.

Sansa takes a steadying breath, glancing between the two other women. "You're right. This is only the beginning," she says lowly, a heavy sigh leaving her. "Jon may have bought us time, but... that's all it is. Time. I don't trust King Aegon to honor his promises if he's pressed."

Catelyn takes the statement with a quiet concern, settling back into her seat, eyes drifting to the fire.

Sansa looks to her hands, a weariness overcoming her then.

She's just so tired, she finds.

Margaery sets her glass to the table with a sureness, turning fully to face Sansa. "Then we make promises of our own," she says firmly.

Sansa blinks at her.

Margaery licks her lips, eyes intent on Sansa's. "It's why Jon brought you North, why he secured your safety even against his own interests as next in line for the throne. He knows that war is coming. And he's chosen his side."

Sansa straightens in her seat, mouth parting. She looks to her mother, finds her watching Margaery with a cool gaze, a knowing look.

"So, we make our own promises," Margaery urges. "I've already made mine – when I married your brother. I already swore The Reach." She glances to Catelyn then, a swift, shared look of understanding passing between them.

Sansa blinks at the quiet exchange, floored by the unspoken intimacy of it.

Margaery turns back to Sansa. "What were our marriages for, then, if not for alliances of power?"

Sansa sucks a shallow breath through her teeth. "Margaery..."

"It's not treason. It's practicality."

Catelyn scoffs with a sort of grace Sansa thinks she will always be envious of. "A fine line to tread."

A roguish grin breaks across Margaery's face, a sudden levity stealing through the conversation. "Come now, Lady Stark," Margaery teases, "I simply cannot believe that the only thing you expected from my marriage was grandchildren." She raises a brow with the words.

Catelyn huffs, a retort on her tongue, silenced suddenly when she glances to Sansa, a flicker of concern in her gaze at the words.

But Sansa finds they don't hurt nearly as much as she'd expected them to.

In fact, they spark a glimmer of hope.

Sansa expels a low laugh, shaking her head. "You seem to have her all figured out," she says with a nod toward Catelyn. "My mother's sentimentality is only balanced by her pragmatism." She shifts her gaze to her mother then, a teasing grin of her own gracing her features. "Though, I'm sure 'grandchildren' was the deciding factor there."

"Is that so?" Catelyn gets out, lips pursed into a frown.

Sansa pulls her lip in at the expression, biting her laugh back.

"I suppose it's best I deliver, then," Margaery says on a shrug, leaning back languidly in her chair, a charming grin spreading across her features. "On alliances, and grandchildren."

"I should so like a niece or nephew," Sansa chimes in fondly.

"Is there more wine?" Catelyn asks brusquely, hand holding out her empty glass with an exasperated expression.

Sansa and Margaery share amused looks, before Margaery reaches for the pitcher, and it's well into the night by the time they make their way to their respective bedchambers. A quiet, adamant promise settles between them. A surety, and a confidence.

And Sansa remembers that winter is about perseverance.

The next day she greets her husband at the edge of the courtyard when he returns from a hunt with her family.

His cheeks are pink from the cold, his grin blinding when he catches sight of her, and he dismounts from his horse with an urgency that sets her to giggling, tugging the furs tighter around her form. "Welcome back," she greets when he makes his way to her.

Jon reaches for her face, cradling her cheeks in his gloved palms, and he kisses her there in the courtyard unabashedly.

Sansa laughs against his mouth, hands braced at his chest, and when he pulls from her, his breath fanning out over her lips in a puff from the cold, she thinks she can still feel the imprint of his smile – fervent and fierce.

"A good hunt, I gather?" she chuckles.

Jon's hands slip down to her arms, holding her to his chest. "I've got something for you."

Sansa peers at him curiously, a brow raised in question.

He releases her to pull the sack hanging at his hip forward, digging into it carefully.

"Sansa, Sansa!"

She looks up at the call to find Arya bounding toward her, a bundle of something furry and grey in her hands. "I'm naming mine Nymeria!"

Sansa blinks at her incoming sister, gaze shifting toward her husband when she hears a soft yipping coming from the sack. Jon grins brilliantly at her when he pulls a young pup from the sack at his hip, one hand fixed at its scruff, the other cradling its bottom.

Sansa stares at the presented offering with wide eyes.

"Sansa, aren't they beautiful?" Arya asks breathlessly once she makes it to her side, fumbling with her own pup against her chest.

"Direwolves," Jon supplies, when Sansa continues to stare dumbly at the scraggle of fur in his hands. "We found them in the woods. The mother was killed by a stag," he says sadly, fumbling with the wriggling cub.

Sansa reaches out on instinct, steadying the small thing in his hands.

Jon smirks at her reaction, pushing the cub fully into her arms. Sansa welcomes it without thought, cradling it to her chest, staring wondrously down at it. The pup yawns wide, its tiny paws reaching out, before curling into her chest, nuzzling into her warmth.

Sansa's mouth parts, her eyes wetting instantly. She settles one hand at the base of its head, scratching a nail gently behind one of its ears. It whines softly, stretching beneath her touch, and Sansa expels a tremulous laugh, staring down at it.

Distantly, she remembers Arya at her side, and she glances up to meet her sister's gaze.

Arya's watching her with thrumming excitement, her own pup squirming in her arms. "What are you going to name it?" she asks impatiently.

Sansa shakes her head, looking down at the pup again. "I don't know."

Arya struggles with her own restless direwolf, grunting when it nearly careens out of her hold and onto the floor. She grabs it back, tutting at it. "Nymeria, stay still."

Jon laughs at Arya. "I think that one quite suits you."

Arya narrows her eyes at him. "She's just young, is all. But she's smart, I can already tell – oof, Nymeria!" she shrieks, fumbling with the wild direwolf, sucking a sharp breath through her teeth as its nails dig into her arm for purchase. She peers unimpressed at the gentle cub in Sansa's arms, a brow raised when she tells her, "Well, yours is awfully calm, isn't it? Why not just get a bird then, for all it acts like a direwolf," she snorts.

"She bites well enough for a direwolf," Jon chuckles, raising a blood-tipped finger in show. "Nipped me when I tried to drag her from under the mother's body."

Arya smirks at that, satisfied.

Sansa rocks the near slumbering cub in her arms. "She's sweet, Jon. Thank you," she sighs out contentedly.

Jon cocks his head at the cub, reaching out to rub at the bridge of its nose. "A lady for my lady," he says with a grin.

Sansa looks up at him. "I like that," she says, "Lady..." She turns back to it, scratching at its ear again. "I think I'll name her that. 'Lady'." She smiles widely down at Lady just as the tiny thing yawns, white teeth glinting in the late afternoon sun that slants over the courtyard.

Arya scoffs, adjusting Nymeria in her grip. "Gods, you two were made for each other. So unoriginal – the both of you," she disparages.

Sansa cocks a brow at her in silent question.

Her sister only nods at Jon with a deadpan look. "Guess what he named his."

Sansa looks back at Jon, excited and expectant, and watches as he reaches once more into the sack he'd been keeping nestled carefully at his hip, without her notice. Out comes a pure white bundle of fur – fitful and red-eyed.

"Meet Ghost," Jon says proudly, holding his own pup out.

Sansa lets out a laugh, growing tender at the runt's whimper.

Jon pulls Ghost to his chest, scratching at his stomach with gloved fingers. "He's small now, but give him time." He smiles down at his new companion. "He'll grow."

"As all things do," Sansa says sagely, sharing his smile.

"I'm going to go show Mother," Arya gushes then, bounding off across the courtyard and leaving them to their own pups.

Jon steps closer to Sansa when Ghost stretches toward his litter mate curled in her arms. He nudges his tiny head into Lady's, yipping and fidgeting in Jon's hands. Lady unfurls a bit from her comfortable sleep, batting at Ghost's nose, and Jon and Sansa laugh, heads bent as they watch, their faces close, arms brushing up against each other.

"Are you happy?" Jon asks, a faint edge of hope to his voice.

Sansa glances up to meet his eyes, warm simply at his proximity. Her smile is instant and honest. "I am," she tells him.

Jon nods as though to himself, glancing back down to the playful cubs between them. "Good." He swallows, clears his throat. "I don't... I don't want you to be sad anymore," he says roughly.

Sansa blinks at him, her shoulders slumping slightly.

He finally looks back up at her.

"Jon..."

Jon shrugs, ruffling the fur along Ghost's back, the quirk of a smile at his lips. "I don't want you to be sad anymore, Sansa." There's a sense of delicacy to the sentiment, eclipsed only by the sheer, childish earnestness with which he says it.

Sansa's lips part, her eyes shifting between his. Her lungs clench in her chest – suddenly, and ardently, taken by him.

"But I'll be with you for however long you are, and then longer still," he tells her. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Sansa lets out a soft, disbelieving breath. Her eyes sting with wetness. Blinking it back, she hangs her head, takes a steady inhale. "Jon, I ..."

"So, marry me."

Sansa's head snaps back up. A short, curious laugh breaks from her. "My lord, we are..." Another laugh. "We are already married."

"I know that but..." He sighs, stroking a gloved thumb along the back of Ghost's neck. "I want a ceremony here – in the godswood. Nothing big, just the family maybe. Something for us."

Sansa purses her lips, considering. "Something for us," she muses quietly.

Jon heaves a breath, dark eyes never leaving hers. "Marry me this time because I'm asking you – not our parents, not our kingdoms. Even if it means nothing to the world. Even if it's just going through the motions. I want to marry you, Sansa. And I want it to be because we chose it for ourselves. So... please," he gets out on a strangled breath, eyes blinking furiously, chest rising and falling rapidly. "Choose me."

Sansa stares at him, mouth parted on a wonderous sigh, and then she's shifting Lady in her arms, keeping her to her chest with one hand, her other rising to Jon's cheek, and he leans his head into the touch, almost unconsciously, she thinks, and then she's laughing – bright and breathless and disbelieving. Her hand slips up his jaw, his beard rough along her palm, and he's so warm, she realizes.

(Warm enough to weather any winter with her.)

Her smile is shaking, her eyes salt-sheened, when she tells him, "I choose you, Jon. I always will."

Jon lets out a tremulous breath and leans toward her, bracing their foreheads together. Lady and Ghost yap as they're pressed together suddenly, limbs tangling. They try to squirm out of their holds, and the couple breaks apart in laughter at their struggle, Sansa's hand falling from Jon's cheek to steady her direwolf at her chest. She raises Lady to her cheek, pressing into her soft fur, nuzzling while the tears gather in the corners of her eyes. "And I am happy," she assures – resolute. She smiles tearfully at him, lowering Lady back down. "I am."

Jon smiles boyishly at her, gaze dipping back to the cubs in their arms. He wiggles his fingers playfully into Ghost's stomach. "Good."

And she doesn't need to hear the words, to know that he is as well.

(Day by day.)

* * *

Sansa Stark is brought to the heart tree by her father and brothers, a train of smiles in her wake, and it's the first glimpse of spring Jon has ever truly seen.

He weds her in the height of winter, after all. What else is there to follow, but spring?

It is a short ceremony – words exchanged, a cloak adorned, chapped lips pressed together in half-laughter, half-sigh. They leave the godswood hand in hand.

Lord and Lady Stark have arranged a small feast following the ceremony. Some of the lords of the North have made their way to Winterfell upon Ned's request, to speak of the situation they now find themselves in, with Jon in Winterfell, a new king for the seven kingdoms, and Daenerys' recent execution.

The winds have changed. And they must prepare. But for now – now there is a wedding, silly as it may seem to some of the lords, their gruff demeanor announcing their dismissal of such sentimentality, but they raise their glasses nonetheless when Ned offers a toast to the couple, and Jon finds the lords more open in their speech to him, more upfront with their concerns. He takes it as a sign of confidence.

'Lyanna's boy', he'd been once, upon his first visit to Winterfell. 'Lyanna's boy', he is still, except maybe it means something different now – something more.

(Sansa still lays winter roses in the stone hands of his mother's statue, and Jon is grateful for it, always.)

It is enough, he finds, to wed the woman he loves, here in his mother's home. It is enough to steep his roots into the snow. Because he claims more than just Sansa this day. He claims it all – past and future. It claims it here.

In Winterfell.

(Perhaps where it should have always started.)

Jon asks Lady Stark for a dance, hand outstretched, and Catelyn accepts it gracefully, taking to the floor with him. She is not Lyanna, and never will be. But she loves her children fiercely, and this, he thinks, they must share.

He is proud to call her 'Mother' now. And even from their place on the floor, twirling amongst a sea of bodies, he catches the glimpse of Sansa's grateful smile from where she sits at the head table.

It's not long before Sansa takes to the floor with Robb, their twin smiles flashing bright as they whisk about the floor, a holler from the lords going up at their energetic dance, even when he trips her up and they stumble a moment, laughing as he braces her. Not far away, Margaery rolls her eyes at the display, turning round in Ned's arms with a precision and elegance that has Jon's brows rising into his hairline.

"Thought my husband couldn't dance, did you?" Catelyn asks him when she catches his expression.

Jon snaps his gaze back to Lady Stark in his arms, a blubbering answer failing upon his lips.

But her smile is teasing when it crinkles her eyes, and Jon sighs in barely restrained relief.

They trade partners on and on into the night. No one asks for Sansa's hand more than Rickon though, and she is tender and gracious with him. He'd missed their wedding in King's Landing, after all, and he'd not forgiven them for it. Sometime through the night, Jon ruffles his hair, stepping in to steal his wife away, but Rickon only grumbles half-heartedly, already releasing her hand unto him.

Back at the head table, Robb and Theon are sharing mugs of ale, and Catelyn is watching the dancefloor with a contented smile. Margaery pops a puff pastry into her mouth with a devilish smirk, whispering conspiratorially with Arya while they watch the guests. Ned stands at the end of the table, chatting with Ser Rodrik, a quiet, solemn pride gracing his features. And then Sansa stills in his arms, and they fumble to a stop. He glances to her, worried, before following her gaze, settling on Bran as he pushes himself shakily from his seat, both hands braced to the table before him. The music never stops, and the dancing never stills around them, but a careening sort of quiet overtakes every Stark as they turn to stare at him, breathless, before he raises a cup, eyes fixed to Sansa, and she dashes out of Jon's arms then, barreling toward the head table.

She makes it to him just as his legs give out, and he slumps against her side, one arm hooked around her shoulders, the other still holding his cup, and he smiles gallantly up at her, sweat lining his brow. "You wouldn't turn down an offered toast on your wedding night, would you, Sansa?"

Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and she shakes her head, gasping, even as she's laughing. "Never from you," she says.

Catelyn is at Bran's other side instantly, staring at him wide-eyed, hopeful and cautious all at once. He nods to her. "I'm alright, Mother." He settles back into his chair, wincing only slightly at the ache in his legs when he does. He glances back up at Sansa, grin pulling wide. "I just... I wanted to stand for your wedding, even if it was just the once."

Sansa throws herself around his neck, arms hooking at his shoulders, gripping him fiercely. "You did well," she tells him, voice quaking, grip shaking. "You did well."

Catelyn settles a hand at the back of his head, smiling down at her two children. From the edge of the open floor, Jon watches, couples still dancing past him.

Arya scoffs from her place down the table. "You're so dramatic, Bran."

He beams a bread roll at her.

Margaery laughs at Arya's affronted expression, and the solemnity dissolves instantly. Theon joins her, and then Robb, and even Ned from his place at the end of the table, watching fondly.

Sansa unwinds herself from around Bran's shoulders, chuckling herself as she wipes at her eyes. Catelyn tuts at Arya, but it goes unnoticed, and Rickon pilfers the offending bread roll, stuffing it in his mouth, before Arya can rightfully retaliate.

Jon's smile eases slow and sure across his face.

(He weds her in the height of winter, after all, and what else is there to follow, but a beginning?)

It's long into the night before Jon finds himself alone with Sansa in their shared bedchambers, the candles burning low, her dress hanging over the back of a chair, the leather tie for his hair abandoned on the edge of the desk. Before the fading hearth, Ghost and Lady play lazily, and Sansa chuckles at them from her seat at the vanity, pulling pins from her hair. The ribbon she'd so delicately tied around Lady's neck for the wedding ceremony is all but shredded now between Ghost's teeth, tangling around them as they tussle.

Jon leans his arms back along the bed where he sits at the edge, watching them. "I told you that ribbon wouldn't last," he chuckles.

Sansa throws a playful glare his way. "Well, it wasn't my direwolf that ruined it."

Jon scoffs, but it's a teasing sound, no hint of ridicule in it. "Yes, of course. She's as innocent as you."

Sansa turns in her seat to face him, one arm hooked around the back of her chair. "And what's that supposed to mean exactly?" she asks with a raised brow.

Jon laughs, beckoning her over. "You know exactly what it means."

Sansa purses her lips, but the hint of a smirk is clear enough at the edge of her mouth, and she rises from her seat easily enough to walk toward him, the thin material of her shift catching pockets of shadow between passing candlelight. Jon reaches for her, and she settles comfortably in his lap, her side pressed to his chest, her arm resting around his shoulder. "Yes, well," she begins with a smack of her lips, "I suppose I do know rather more about the marriage bed this time around."

Jon sighs contentedly against her, a rumble easing from his chest, and he holds her in his lap with one large hand hooked around her thigh, kneading the warm flesh there, while his other slips up her back and braces at the nape of her neck, her copper hair spilling over his arm. "That you do," he gets out roughly, craning his head up toward her, catching her mouth with his.

Sansa sighs into his kiss, fingers curling at his shoulder, her other hand sliding up his chest, settling in the loose ties of his undone tunic. She opens her mouth to him, moans as he slips his tongue deftly against hers, kissing her slow and languid and wet. His grip on her thigh tightens, pulling her closer, and she shifts over his lap, eliciting a throaty groan from him.

Jon breaks from her on a heavy pant, his fingers flexing over the nape of her neck. "Sansa," he moans.

Her hands slip up his neck, cradling his jaw as she presses her forehead to his. Her breaths come quick and shallow at his mouth, and his lips part unconsciously, ready to taste her again, to draw her into him and keep her there, eyes slipping shut as he breathes her in.

"Thank you," she whispers, thumbs arching over his bearded cheeks.

His eyes flutter open at the tremulous exhale.

She offers a shaky smile, head still tipped to his. "For tonight."

Jon grunts his acknowledgement, still not trusting his voice when she's this close, and this warm, and this pliant in his hands. He takes a steadying breath, hand gliding up her thigh, his thumb brushing just under the edge of her shift, and then slowly he draws it back down, hooking at the back of her knee, keeping her cradled in his lap. He licks his lips and pulls his head back just a touch, just enough to look her in the eye. "Of course," he tells her, voice hoarse.

The corners of her lips tip up in an appreciative smile, and then quickly back down, a hesitant frown marring her features. "I don't know how long it may be again before we can..." She trails off, gaze drifting past his shoulder, settling along the far wall. She takes a deep breath, seems to hold it there in her chest a moment, before releasing it. She shakes her head, her hands slipping from his face.

"I know," he tells her, his own gaze growing solemn as he watches her, his thumb starting to rub soothing circles at the base of her neck, her shoulders easing out some of their tension.

Sansa clears her throat, looking back to him. "I know you're just as worried."

He nods, throat tight. "It would be a lie to say I wasn't."

She slips her arm back around his shoulders, nestling into him. "If Father has called the Northern lords to Winterfell, it won't go unnoticed by the capital."

Jon's face grows grave, a heaviness tugging at his gut. "Lord Stark will not be the first to break the peace."

"No, but," she begins, catching herself, before continuing, "But you believe Aegon will have no such qualms."

Jon shakes his head, gaze drifting down. "Rhaenys may temper him for a time but..."

"But then?"

His eyes slip shut, a regretful sigh leaving him. "But Aegon has always been better at making enemies than making allies. And if he rules at all like Father did, he won't care for the opinions of his small council. I'm afraid there will be no one left in King's Landing to guide him." And then he scoffs, eyes opening on a weathered glare. "Or to leash him," he hisses, a pain behind his eyes. It eases somewhat at the gentle kneading of Sansa's fingers at his shoulder.

"You think there will be war." There's resignation in her tone, a breathy soft of sadness escaping with the words.

Jon's hand stills at her neck, the soothing circles halting, and he cocks his head to look at her, gaze intent. "I think whatever comes, we will face it together."

The flutter of a smile tugs at her lips, hesitant and weary as it is.

Jon lets his hand fall from her neck, settling at the curve of her hip instead, anchoring there. "Whatever it is," he gets out lowly, brows furrowed, gaze never leaving hers. "You and me, okay? It's you and me."

Her eyes shift between his, her mouth parted on a quiet inhale. Her hand tightens over his shoulder, her nod coming slow but determined. "You and me," she agrees on a heated whisper, never blinking.

Jon's gaze dips down to her mouth, watching her lips as she licks them, his chest rising steadying, and then falling on a tremulous exhale. His eyes flit back up to hers. "You and me," he mutters, already lost to her. He leans in.

"Jon," she whispers, the short, fervent expel of his name stopping him just before he kisses her again.

He stares up into her face, body tight and still against her. But something in her gaze softens him, makes his chest ache, and he notices the wetness dotting the corners of her eyes just a moment before she sucks a watery breath in, quaking with it.

"Jon," she chokes out.

His hand moves from her leg to her cheek instantly, holding her face to his, eyes shifting frantically between hers. "Sansa, what..." "I want a babe," she says, the words tumbling out like a gale, rushing from her as her chest heaves. "I want... a family with you, Jon," she cries, shaking in his hold. "But can you... can you wait for me? However long that may take. Until I'm... until I think I can..." She sniffs back a sob, a hand wiped at her nose, blinking tearful eyes at him. "Can you wait for me, Jon?" she moans out desperately.

"Oh Sansa," he says, voice rough, pulling her into him, bracing her to his chest, her face pressed into his shoulder as he lets her shudder against him.

"I don't even know that I can conceive again," she hiccups into his neck, pulling from him to meet his gaze, hands settled on his shoulders. "What if Daenerys' poison did irreconcilable damage? What if my womb... never bears a babe again? I don't know that I can even..." She trails off, voice cracking, eyes fluttering closed on a ragged exhale.

"Come here," Jon says, moving her gently off his lap as he rises, settling her on the edge of the bed instead, kneeling down before her. He brushes her cheeks dry, and then grips at her hands in her lap, staring up at her from his position on the floor. "Listen to me."

She nods, eyes drifting open to watch him, voice caught in her throat.

Jon stares down at her hands in his. "Do you remember asking once whether I would welcome a child born of our union?" He looks back up at her.

She sniffles softly, nodding even as her brows dip down in confusion. "And you said you wouldn't. Not as an expectation."

"No, not as an expectation," he agrees lowly, licking his lips when he continues. "But... with you..." He stops, voice catching. He tries again. "Because I want you, I want a family with you now, too. And we get to choose that family now, Sansa. We get to make it on our own terms. And that means that however long it takes, however much time you need, I can wait. I can wait until you're ready, until you're well. I can wait because you are my family now, Sansa. And that I will always, always welcome, do you understand me?"

She shakes her head, chest heaving. "But what if I – "

"Maester Luwin said he didn't think the damage was permanent, right?"

She stares down at him, lip drawn between her teeth. "No," she gets out roughly.

Jon squeezes her hands in his. "Then there you have it," he assures her. "It's not over for us."

"But how can you be so sure?" she whispers brokenly.

Jon's brows furrow, a heavy breath leaving him. He glances to the half-asleep direwolves lounging on the rug before the hearth. "You see them?"

Sansa follows his gaze, a question stalling at the tip of her tongue.

Jon looks back to her, offering a worn smile. "I take them as an omen. A sign of what's to come."

Sansa stares at him, breathless, gaze riveted to his. "And what's to come?" she gets out on a swift inhale.

(What else is there to follow, but a beginning?)

Jon's smile slips away, his mouth thinning into a tight line, an urgency and solemnity overtaking him when he reaches up to cradle her jaw in his calloused palm. "The wolves will come again," he tells her firmly, hand cupping her jaw. "House Stark will come again," he assures, gaze dark on hers.

Her mouth parts, a slow, steady breath leaving her.

He thinks of the direwolf sigil adorning the cloak she'd gifted him. He thinks of the heart tree on a crisp, clear morning. He thinks of the long stretch of snow out past Winterfell's walls – endless and white.

"You and me," Sansa whispers as though in recollection, nodding to herself.

Jon keeps her gaze, his thumb etching across her cheekbone. "You and me," he swears. "Together."

She reaches for him, hands going for his face and tugging him up. He follows her lead instinctively, leaning up to meet her mouth with his, a kiss so seamless and sure, like the meeting of sea and sky.

She pulls back on a sigh, eyes flicking between his. "Tonight, will you...will you just hold me?"

He smiles against her mouth, pressing a last, swift kiss to her lips. "Of course," he answers her.

Jon stands to help her settle back along the bed, crawling in after her once he douses the candles in the room. Darkness blankets the chamber, but it is moonlit and soft, and Jon knows now how to recognize where the light gets in, how to make out the outline of her anywhere.

He winds his arms around her, pulls her back into his chest, and just –

Holds her.

He braces his warmth to her back and stays there, pressed to her, from mouth to throat, from chest to spine, from instep to heel – the line of him fixed exactly to her – like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow –

Embracing, ever-long.

[hardcasey]

Party Hardy

Won’t Fade into the Background - Part 7

Pairing: Boost x Reader

Summary: The Wolfpack attends their first house party and an accident brings you closer to one of them.

Word Count: 3.2k

Ratings/Warnings: T, warnings for alcohol consumption and smoochin'

A/N: This is a follow up of sorts to the last chapter with Sinker. It was inspired by the story of how Alan Alda met his wife, which is very funny and cute. I thought the premise fit our resident stinky boy, Boost, which is how I ended up with whatever this is. Enjoy~

They could feel the pulse of the bass two floors below their destination. The Wolfpack - sans their leader, who was too busy ‘writing reports’ (aka being a party pooper) - climbed up the narrow stairway to reach the party Sinker’s girlfriend and her roommates were throwing in their apartment.

They all could tell what door it was without Sinker even telling them the room number, the lights flashing under the door were a dead giveaway. There was a couple outside the door, a human woman leaning up against the wall and chatting up a pretty green-skinned twi’lek. They didn’t spare a second glance at the passing troopers, save for a quick nod that Sinker returned.

He was about to knock when Comet piped up, “Uh, are you sure this is a good idea? We could just head back to the barracks, it’s not too late.”

“What, are you scared?” Boost teased, nudging his brother with his shoulder.

Comet pushed Boost away before replying, “I’m not scared, I’m just… We’ve never been to a civvie house party before. I don’t know what to expect.”

“Just think of it like going to 79’s, only with less rules,” Sinker reassured him before knocking on the door. It swung open immediately, one of the people near the door opening it and inviting them in.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Comet muttered under his breath as he followed his brothers through the doorway.

The party was packed, humans and non-humans alike crammed into every available space, chatting and drinking and dancing to the loud music that blared through a set of speakers. The air was slightly hazy from the group of people tucked in a corner and passing around a joint. The three troopers stood in the doorway for a moment, stupefied as they took in their surroundings.

“Alright, I just messaged my girlfriend to let her know we’re here. She said to meet her at the bar,” Sinker informed them.

“Wherever that is,” Boost sighed, standing on his tiptoes to try and see over the sea of people.

Comet decided on a different tactic, instead flagging down a nearby Mirialan who had a drink in their hands. “Hey, do you know where the bar is?” He asked, having to shout to be heard over the music.

The Mirialan pointed towards the back of the room and gave Comet a cheeky wink, the rest of their friend group giggling behind them. Comet blushed and was about to respond with something flirty when Boost grabbed him by the collar and started tugging him towards the bar.

It took a while as the clones squeezed through the crowds of people, but eventually they made it to the bar, which was really just a fold out table stacked with booze. Sinker’s girlfriend was nowhere to be found, so the group decided to grab a drink while they waited.

~~~

You stood behind the makeshift bar, bouncing in place to the beat of the music as you mixed up a drink in the cocktail shaker. One of your roommates had shoved a pair of huge novelty light up sunglasses onto your face at some point in the night and you had a bunch of plastic bead necklaces around your neck, your collection growing as more and more people offered you them.

You had volunteered to work the bar tonight, hoping to show off the skills you’d picked up after taking a mixology class you’d found a coupon for. You thought you’d be tired of making drinks by now, but it was surprisingly fun. You got to chat with everyone as they waited and you’d even gotten a few tips. There was also the added benefit of having access to all the booze you could want, and even though you knew you weren’t really supposed to get drunk off your own supply, who could blame you for taking a few shots here or there?

Maybe you were drunker than you realized, though, since you swore you were seeing double all of a sudden. Wait, make that triple. A group of three identical looking men moseyed up to your table, and you blamed the alcohol in your system for how long it took you to not only realize they were in fact three separate people and not one guy, but also that you knew one of them.

“Hey, Sinker! How’s it going?” You greeted the white-haired clone loudly, straining to be heard over the thumping bass.

Sinker greeted you and introduced you to his fellow clones, his ‘brothers’ as he liked to call them. The two of you had interacted only a handful of times - usually he was too busy macking on your roommate in her room - but he’d always been polite and kind.

“This is Boost,” Sinker pointed his thumb towards the clone sporting a set of wild-looking double mohawks, “and this is Comet,” he pointed to the clone with a shooting-star tattoo on his temple.

You waved at them with both of your hands. “Well, Comet, Boost, and Sinker, can I get you anything to drink?” You motioned to the chalkboard listing all the drink specials you were offering, each one of them complete with a little drawing to go with it. It had taken you much longer than you cared to admit to make it, but it had been worth it in the end.

The boys crowded around to get a better look at the drinks listed. “Naboo Sunset… Jedi Mind Trick… Outer Rim… These are some fancy drinks, I’ve never heard of ‘em before.” Boost commented as he read the names aloud.

“Well what liquor do you prefer? The Naboo Sunset and Outer Rim are tequila based and the Jedi Mind Trick has vodka.” You’d had this same conversation several times tonight, enough you could recite what was in each drink without thinking.

“Which one is the prettiest one?” Boost asked after thinking about it for a second. He wasn’t choosy with his liquor, couldn’t afford to be when all he had access to was whatever someone put in front of him at 79s.

Comet raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Really?”

“C’mon. You’ve seen some of those crazy drinks people order at 79s! The ones with all the colors. This could be our only chance to try one for free.” His head shot up all of a sudden as if he just remembered something, “Wait, these are free, right?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at their antics. “Yup, totally free. Though I do take tips in the form of credits or in particularly cool bead necklaces.”

“Sweet!” Boost pumped his fist in excitement, making Comet roll his eyes, though he couldn’t contain the smile on his lips.

“If you want something colorful you should try the Naboo Sunset. It has a bunch of different colored liquors layered on top of one another. Very pretty,” You suggested.

“Okay, I’ll have that one,” Boost agreed. “What are you getting, Com?”

“I’m torn between a Jedi Mind Trick or an Outer Rim. What about you, Sinker?”

Sinker considered for a second. “You get the Jedi Mind Trick and I’ll get the Outer Rim and we can share them.”

“Okay, one Naboo Sunset, one Jedi Mind Trick, and one Outer Rim coming right up.” You told them as you started grabbing bottles.

Just as you began mixing Boost’s drink, you saw a flash of red in your peripheral vision as your roommate ran past and all but tackled Sinker. Had he not been a soldier you were pretty sure he’d be flat on his back right now, but he was strong enough to catch her with one arm as she launched herself at him.

“Hey, babe,” he said with a lopsided grin as he spun her around, “I brought the ice you asked for.”

“My savior!” She said as he set her back on her feet, pecking him on the lips before taking the ice from him and quickly handing it over to you to deal with so she could go back to hugging her boyfriend.

You rolled your eyes at them as you cut open the bag and dumped the ice into the almost empty ice bucket. When you turned back to your task, you caught Boost and Comet’s eye and the three of you exchanged a look.

“I’m really gonna need that drink if we have to deal with this all night,” Boost quipped, making the three of you burst out into laughter.

“I’m on it, darling,” you reassured him as you hurried to make their drinks.

The boys kept you company as you worked, sharing silly stories that had you nearly crying with laughter. You had the three drinks ready in record time, though by the time you finished it didn’t seem like SInker would be able to pry himself away from his girlfriend long enough to take a sip.

“Well, I guess you get both drinks then,” you told Comet as you handed him his and Sinker’s drink.

“Be careful mixing alcohol, vod,” Boost warned before taking a long sip from his brightly colored drink, layered with shades of pink, orange, and yellow. His eyes had lit up like a toddler being handed a cookie when you gave him his glass, and by the way he was sucking it down he was enjoying it immensely.

“Or… you could go and bring one over to that Mirialan over there.” You pointed with your chin to motion towards the Mirialan they had met when they got here. “They’ve been making eyes at you this whole time. Plus, I know they really like the Jedi Mind Trick,” you offered with an eyebrow wiggle.

The two clones both turned to look at where you were pointing, and the Mirialan gave Comet a little wave. Comet waffled around for a bit until Boost elbowed him in the side and told him to go live a little.

“You’ll be alright without me?” Comet asked.

“Yup, I’ll be hanging out with our new friend here. Now go get ‘em, tiger.” With that, Boost shoved his brother towards the Mirialan. Once the two of you were alone, he turned to you, “Hope you don’t mind me keeping you company. The only other people I know here just ditched me!”

You laughed at his choice of words. “Of course not. If you want, I can teach you how to mix drinks.” He’d had a lot of questions for you as you prepared the drinks, wanting to know what every item did or what every step was for, so you thought he might find it fun. Plus, you could use a buddy at the bar now that things were slowing down somewhat. It seemed like everyone who wanted a drink had already gotten one and you only had to deal with those coming back for seconds.

“Sure! That sounds fun,” he said, rushing over to join you on your side of the table.

~~~

You weren’t sure how many hours had passed, but you and Boost made a countless number of drinks, some for the partygoers and some for yourselves. At some point in the night the two of you had sunk to the floor behind the drink table, both tired of making drinks and too busy talking with each other.

“What is this party even for anyway?” Boost asked between sips of the water you had forced him to drink. You’d given him your big light up sunglasses and the rim of the glass clanked against them as he brought it up to his face, knocking the glasses askew and making Boost frown dramatically.

You adjusted them for him before answering. “Uhh, I think it’s a birthday party.” He gave you a look as if to say how could you not know so you added, “It’s for a friend of a friend and I’m four Naboo Sunsets in, don’t give me that look.”

Boost nudged you with his shoulder as he laughed, and you were suddenly aware of just how close the two of you were, snuggled up together with your head on his shoulder. When had that happened? Not that you were complaining. All of the clones were attractive, but something about Boost was especially so. He was unapologetically himself, loud in both personality and looks. You’d asked him about the mohawks at some point and he’d told you they started off as a dare but he’d gotten attached. His brothers apparently liked to tease him about his crazy hairstyle but he wore it with pride. He said his hair made him stand out, which you could guess was important when you shared a face with millions of others.

The area behind the bar was a flurry of activity as your other roommates scrambled around grabbing snacks to pass out to everyone. One of them grabbed a cake from the fridge and started putting candles in it.

You got Boost’s attention and pointed it out to him. “See, I told you it was someone’s birthday.”

Not ten seconds after you said it, your roommate grabbed it off the counter and was ready to bring it out to whoever it was for when someone else bumped into them from behind, sending the cake flying. Everyone in the vicinity watched in horror as it sailed through the air before landing upside down on the floor with a splat. There was a chorus of shouts as everyone realized what had happened, the person who caused the accident apologizing profusely while others lamented the loss of the cake.

Once everyone got over their initial reactions, things settled down and your roommate rushed out to explain what had happened to the cake’s intended recipient. Everyone else in the room started debating what to do with the ruined cake.

“Are you really just gonna throw it out?” You asked sadly. You’d been eyeing that cake all morning and couldn’t wait to try a piece.

“Well yeah, it fell on the floor,” someone else responded.

“But there’s still a bunch of good cake left!” Not all of it was touching the floor, just the top portion. From your side you could hear Boost agree with you.

“If you want to eat it, be my guest.”

You thought about it for a second and looked over to Boost. “Wanna eat some floor cake?” He asked, handing you a fork.

You grabbed the fork and smiled at him, the two of you shuffling over to where the cake had fallen before digging in, careful to only eat parts that were safely away from the floor, and since it was a triple decker cake, there was a lot to choose from. You grabbed a big piece, making sure the cake to frosting ratio was acceptable, and held it out to Boost.

He gobbled it down in one bite. “Mmm, gourmet,” he joked, flashing you a huge smile before offering you a bite. “For you, my dear.”

You giggled in between bites of cake. “The dirt really adds a certain something.”

The two of you carried on like that for a while, ignoring the stares sent your way. You wished you could have blamed your suspect judgement on the alcohol, but you knew you would have probably done this when you were sober too, so you had no excuse. But you were happy you had someone by your side who was just as weird as you.

~~~

Sinker nudged his girlfriend. “Hey, I should check in with the guys. Just to make sure they are doing okay.” He hadn’t checked in with them in a while and was feeling a little guilty for abandoning them for so long.

“I think I saw Comet making out with someone a few minutes ago.” His girlfriend offered with a yawn. It was getting late and the party was starting to wind down. It was far less crowded now and there were people passed out on the couches nearby.

Sinker looked around and sure enough he found his brother in a corner, wrapped around the Mirialan they’d encountered earlier. Good for him, he thought, happy Comet had been able to come out of his shell after being so nervous about going to the party. He hated having to be the one to break them up, but it was getting time to head back. Wolffe had kindly reminded them they had an early morning training drill the next day as they were leaving for the party, his way of telling them to be home at a reasonable hour.

Once he had collected Comet, he set off to find Boost, knowing that out of the both of them Boost was way more likely to have gotten into trouble. After asking around a bit, they were pointed in the direction of the kitchen. Sinker ducked his head in the doorway only to find what felt like the worst case scenario, his brother surrounded by a huge mess. It took a second for his brain to process the fact that you and Boost were feeding each other bites of cake from the floor.

“Please tell me you didn’t cause this,” Sinker sighed.

“Nah, we’re helping clean up. Didn’t want it all to go to waste.” Boost explained from his position on the floor, his legs sprawled out and tangled with yours. That was an interesting development. He’d met you a few times and thought you were very nice, but he’d never in a million years have put you and Boost together. You seemed too… normal for his brother, though apparently that wasn’t actually true.

Sinker’s girlfriend poked her head in as well. “Awe, cute! Now smile you two, I want a picture,” she said before snapping a quick photo.

“It’s time to go, Boost. We gotta get up early tomorrow.” Sinker told him.

Boost turned to you. “I should help you clean up first. Like actually clean up.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble with your C.O. Don’t worry about it,” you assured him.

“Okay,” He hesitated for a moment before starting to get to his feet.

“Wait!” You called after him. He turned back towards you and you took the opportunity to snatch the front of his shirt and drag him into a kiss. It started off tense, with you catching him by surprise, but he melted into it, his lips sweet with the taste of frosting. When you broke apart you added, “I had fun tonight. We should do this again sometime.”

“Y-yeah,” Boost agreed, stumbling to his feet. Sinker and Comet were all but dragging him away but he resisted long enough to ask. “Wait, I don’t have your number.”

“I’ll give it to Sinker,” your roommate offered, and that was enough to get him out the door. She closed the door behind them before joining you on the floor. “I’m gonna show that picture at you two’s wedding,” she teased, a shit eating grin on her face. “Y’know, you have me to thank for introducing you. I expect you to name your first child in my honor.”

“Shut it,” you told her, taking a piece of cake and mushing it onto her cheek.

[whenimaunicorn]

Playing House - Chapter 9

Here’s the second half of Ivar’s scene! If the kinks were getting too hard for you in the last chapter, they’re all done now so you can get back into the story here, other than full-body bondage (without any more scary teasing though. Just comforting and sexy rope bondage now)

Thanks again to @that-was-not-supposed-to-happen​ for the cover image! There were too many good ones to pick from so now you all get to see all of them.

Words this chapter: 3934 Content Tags: rope bondage immobilizing arms and legs, sex toys, oral sex Catch up:   1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

You feel his breath, heavy and hot, as he traces his mouth over your skin. You’ve never felt this from Ivar before. He’s not maddening, not trying to tease. These kisses are tender. His palms slide over your body like he’s never felt anything so beautiful in his life.

Your own breathing starts to deepen, finally letting go of the tension from the overwhelming part of this scene, now ready to sink into pleasure. The contrast is thick and heady. Ivar pulls himself up until he’s spooning your bound body from behind, wrapping his arms around you and lavishing kisses along your shoulder. You make a soft sound, to try and let him know how much you’re enjoying this.

Strong fingers massage your contorted arm, above and below the elbow. “Still comfortable like this?” he checks in.

You wiggle around a little, feeling the bonds against your wrists and waking up your joints. “Still good for now.” You have no interest in giving up this bondage, especially when he breathes praise into your ear and fingers the rope that wraps your stacked forearms together like it delights him as much as you. You can’t hug him back, but you can wiggle your butt, and press it backwards against his body.

Ivar makes a pleased sound against your neck and lets his hand trace lower, rubbing fingertip circles over your exposed ass, and letting you grind yourself into his hip for a moment. As well as you can do with your arms and legs tied, at least. “You’ve done so well,” he murmurs into your skin. “You deserve a reward before I let you go free.”

His spiraling fingers come closer and closer to your core, drifting over the exceedingly sensitive skin at the back of your thighs before pushing in to find the pussy lips nestled in between. You breathe a little moan and do the best you can to give him a good angle for access with your legs tied together.

Still he takes his time with it, fingertips swirling, working you up until you’re positively drooling to be penetrated already.

And yet, that’s not exactly what you want tonight. Even while Ivar is playing with your pussy you cannot forget what you wanted to give to him. “Can I pick my reward?” you blurt.

Ivar’s fingers slow down, but do not stop. “I’m listening,” he says.

You wish you could see his face right now. “Please, let me…” you trail off, and try again. “I still want to do something for you.”

Ivar makes a reassuring sound. “You do so much for me, kitten.” He nuzzles at your skin. “Are you not the thrall here? Isn’t everything we do solely for my own amusement? If you happen to enjoy it, it is only because that is what I want to see.”

You’ve started to have your doubts about that. Ivar is more of a giver with you than he wants to let on. “Yes, I am the thrall. And as your thrall, I wish to be allowed to service you.”

You listen to Ivar’s breath suck in softly between his teeth, and you know you have him. “Don’t be shy,” he croons. “Tell me what you mean. Exactly.”

You take a breath. “Please, let me suck you off. Sir.” He’s never asked you to call him anything like that, but maybe it will push him over the edge.

You feel him start to reposition behind you. “Is that what you want? The only reward for all your patience and perseverance this evening? My cock down your throat?”

Just hearing him say it makes you groan. “Yes.”

He sits up more squarely near the head of the bed. He grasps your shoulder and hip and rolls you onto your back. You look for his face as soon as he comes into view, while bracing your arms so they can handle being stuck underneath you like this. Arching your back helps too, and you can only hope that you look really sexy right now and not at all like a flopping fish.

Ivar looks excited, but he also looks like he’s thinking really hard. He assesses your body, and leans across you to the nightstand.

He comes back into your line of sight with a vibrator. Not the one from the other night, something more traditional; a hot pink dildo that will fill you up quite completely. “I know how you are,” he teases. “Can’t leave that pussy empty for too long.” He rolls you onto your other side, so you’re facing him and the rest of the bed. Again, he makes certain no part of your bondage is too strained. Then he sits back, and cups himself through his pants about a foot away from your face. “You really want this?” he asked, stroking the outline with his thumb.

“Mhmm,” you moan.

“In your mouth?”

You tear your eyes away from the bulge in his pants to catch his eyes with your neediest look. “Oh yeah. Please.”

The smooth, pink length of the vibrator is suddenly hovering in front of your nose. “Show me what you’ll do if I give you my cock.”

Another test, is it? Well, you plan to ace this one. Stretching your neck, you extend your tongue to swirl it daintily around the oblong tip of the vibrator. You make sure to keep eye contact with him while you do so.

You are rewarded with a slow smile, and a gleam in Ivar’s darkening eyes. You continue to work the tip like a porn star, accepting exactly what is given, as you watch Ivar’s face fade into that flushed look of arousal that, when you’ve seen it on any other guy’s face, usually means rational thought is about to depart completely. He presses the dildo deeper into your mouth. “Get it nice and wet, so we can fit this inside your pussy.”

You push as much saliva onto its length as you can, knowing that with your legs bound together this is going to be a tight fit.

It buzzes in your mouth as Ivar clicks the vibration on unexpectedly. You jump, but it’s not entirely unpleasant for your lips to be left tingling as he slowly withdraws it.

He leans over your body, using one big hand to pull your asscheek up out of the way so he can better find the vibe’s destination. He teases your pussy lips with it, just a little, and thumbs the vibration up another notch. He presses it flat against you, pushing forward until the tip finds your clit. He knows when he’s gotten there by the way your body jolts and then leans into it, hungry for the direct stimulation.

“Are you certain of what you asked for?” he mocks softly, pulsing the vibe against you in slow, rocking waves to drive you even madder.

It does feel amazing, and you’ve been turned on for so long without even the slightest chance to come. But what kind of good girl would you be if you changed your mind now? “Yes, Ivar,” you choke through your own lust. “I want you, in my mouth, right now.”

He hums his pleasure, just loud enough to be heard over the vibrator’s higher buzz. You feel him slide the tip down, along your folds, until it slips into your needy hole. You gasp and twist to help it get the best angle.

It takes a few progressive thrusts to work it all the way into you. The vibration helps, drawing out your own lubrication until you can feel Ivar’s knuckles brushing your skin, when the toy is finally sunk about as deep as it’s going to get.

He wiggles it just a little more, to make sure. “Is that enough for you, needy thing? I want you moaning around my cock.”

You groan an affirmative noise, then open your mouth wide for him, pressing your tongue against your bottom lip and showing how eager you are to finally get a taste of him. The steady buzz inside your pussy just makes you feel more desperate for what’s next.

Perhaps it’s only due to your needy state, but it feels like Ivar is really taking his time getting his cock out of his pants. He reveals his underwear first, black and tight against a bulge that looks like it needs you just as badly, too. You wish your hands were free so that you could help him, make this first reveal even more special. To show him how much you care.

But if Ivar wanted your hands free, they would be free. That’s how this works. There is not a doubt in your mind that everything is unfolding according to his own very particular plan. He knows he can have exactly what he wants from you, doesn’t he? Exactly how he wants it.

His hand dives behind the tight black fabric. There’s a hitch before he scoops his fingers around himself.

He hesitated. You saw it. Your heart wants to leap out of your chest. You want to tell him it’s okay, you’re not trying to rush him if he’s not ready for this…

Before any words leave your lips, Ivar pushes his waistband down, revealing the pale pink cock thrusting out of his fingers. Your mouth dries up in lust at the sight of it, tall and proud and already weeping at the tip. He strokes his fist loosely up and down its impressive length.

Ivar doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. You look up at his face and just try to let everything you had been thinking show in your face. You want him, but only on his own terms. You’re here for him, for this gift, and he can trust you with it.

Ivar keeps stroking himself, staring down at you with his darkened, wrought eyes. His lips fall apart softly as his gaze travels over the rest of your body, his hand moving faster and faster over himself, his wrist cocked in a tight, controlled little angle that is as precise as the way he does everything else.

Some intuition tickles at your mind as you watch him looking at you. “If you just want to cum on me, that’s okay too.”

He freezes and stares at your face, some façade dropped away from behind his eyes for a long, vulnerable moment. You meet his gaze without hesitation. The only sound between you is the buzz of his vibrator buried to the hilt in your body. Then he smirks, regaining his usual sardonic composure. “I would love the look of that.” His eyes travel over your skin, likely imagining it streaked in his seed. “But I really want to feel that thing I saw you do with your tongue.”

You lean in, as much as you can, while Ivar repositions his body so that his cock can reach your mouth. Keeping his own grip around the base of his shaft, he gives you just the tip, bestowing it on your lips so that you can swirl your tongue around its head just as you did with the vibrator.

His precum tastes almost sweet, and tantalizing. Is that just a sign of the altered state of consciousness that you’re in right now, that even cum tastes good? You close your lips around his spongy, smooth head and try to suck more out of him.

Ivar moans above you, and lets you have just a little bit more of him. He’s still stroking himself along the shaft, but his fingers retreat to make more room as you suck him down inch by inch. You have enough leverage in your bound position to bob your head just a little bit, swirling your tongue around him as you do and really trying to show him your best work under such restrained conditions.

You’re blessed with many signs of his approval. His other hand strokes along your cheek, over your forehead and against your hair. When you peek up at his face, his eyes are wide and wild, almost amazed as he stares down at the sight of his cock slowly disappearing into your mouth, in and out, a little deeper each time. He’s too overcome to talk to you anymore. The sounds he makes are raw, the sort of breathy, unself-conscious noises that might not make the cut for a porn film but are so sexy and precious because they are his; they are utterly and completely genuine.

Before you feel like you even really got started, he’s pulling away from you. “Fuuck, y/n,” he’s hissing, and working his cock frantically with one hand while pushing your face down with the other. You feel warm spurts stripe across your cheek, your neck, your shoulder and ribs. His breath is shuddering; his thumb is across your eyes but as he comes down he turns his grip on your face into something more gentle. You feel his cock tap against your mouth. Ivar’s breathing too hard to tell you what to do but you part your lips and clean his last few spasming spurts up with the tip of your tongue. “That’s my good girl,” he finally chokes out.

He wipes the head of his cock against your clean cheek, then tucks himself right back into his shorts. He pets your hair softly while you both catch your breath. He’s leaning too far forward for you to be able to see his face. “Thank you, Sir,” you softly say, feeling like you should say something. The vibrator buzzes on inside you.

Ivar murmurs an acknowledgement of your thanks. His fingers card through your hair, his other hand scooping up along your body. He crumples over you, just about cradling you in his lap. He’s pressing kisses against your hair. He still doesn’t seem to be able to speak, although the throaty sounds and adorable little growls he makes as he struggles to embrace you while you’re bound and sticky tell you everything you need to know about how he’s feeling. “…amazing,” he breathes into your hair.

So that’s what it’s like to give Ivar Lothbrok an orgasm. You feel like you could be happy to lay there forever, even tied up and streaked with his seed, so long as he keeps loving on you like this. With your head scooped up onto his thigh, Ivar leans over you, his hands tracing down your arms and across the ropes that bind your wrists together. With just a little tugging he’s able to set them free, the ropes loosening around your forearms enough for you to slide your hands out through the loops. With a little help from him.

“Slowly,” he cautions. He massages at your arm muscles as they come back to life. You’re stiff, but it’s really not too bad. You bring your elbows down to the bed so that you can finally lift yourself up and get a look at his face.

His eyes are huge; pooling depths of raw, blown-out presence. You feel like you’re looking at the real him, the guy usually tucked deep behind the walls of sarcasm and command. Instinctively, you’re also sure that if you in any way acknowledge what you’re seeing, the walls will go right back up. You’d try to kiss him, but your lips are sticky and that doesn’t feel polite, either.

“Look at you,” Ivar marvels. His smugness starts to return as his eyes travel over your face. “What a mess I’ve made of you.”

Any urge to come back with a smart remark dies as his fingers trace along the rope harness that still binds your torso. The way you’ve lifted your chest from the bed has pulled the crotch rope tighter, which has changed the angle of the vibrator inside you, pushing it a little bit deeper. That combined with the painting of cum striped across your cheek and shoulder is just all too distracting for you to be able to formulate any intelligible words.

“Should I let you come now?” Ivar muses. His fingertips spread his seed a little further across your skin. “You look just about wrecked enough to deserve it.”

You moan and nod your head quickly. Definitely not above begging when you know it will please him.

“On your belly, then. Stick that gorgeous ass in the air.”

You assume the position, finding that the tight binding around your legs gives you only enough balance to hitch your hips up a little, although you’re mostly lying flat on the bed.

Ivar says “good,” though, and so you must be doing what he wanted. He leans forward and takes one of your ass cheeks in each hand. He makes an appreciative sound and squeezes, pulling them up toward him. Which does interesting things to how the vibrator feels where it’s wedged between your pussy lips.

He grasps the base of the vibrator and rocks it inside you. A moan instantly bursts from your lips. When it was motionless it had become a sort of background stimulation, but now all the delicious nerve endings in your core are waking up again. Especially when Ivar switches the intensity setting up another notch higher on it.

“Reach down and touch yourself,” he instructs. “I want you to have the best orgasm you can possibly have.”

You groan your eager agreement as you work your hand down underneath your prone body, desperate to touch yourself just exactly how you like. Ivar softly thrusts the wedged vibrator, ensuring that your orgasm starts building before you even get your own hand down there.

“You look so good like this. Bound up so prettily, covered in my cum…”

He knows exactly what those words will do to you. For some reason you hold your breath against the cresting wave of pleasure, and come violently and silently as your body spasms and just about fights the vibrator stretching you so deeply inside.

Your gasping and progressive relaxing, one muscle group at a time, are your only indications to Ivar that you’re coming down from your peak. He seems to know it, however, slowing the pace at which he rocks the vibrator inside you, easing it out gently before you collapse and sag against your bonds.

Ivar lies down to spoon himself along the side of you. While you catch your breath, he dabs at the mess on your face with what you soon realize is his own shirt. You accept the care dreamily, staring at his face as he inspects your skin quite seriously to find every last stray droplet.

“Are you ready to get out of the ropes?” he asks when he’s satisfied that you’re clean. His hand is tracing across your back, idly jumping between the little windows of skin between the knots and loops.

You wiggle your body against them, savoring the feel of their comforting embrace for just a little bit longer. But, it will feel nice to get your freedom of movement back. “Yes.”

Ivar chuckles softly, reading your reluctance. “We will do this again soon,” he promises. “You seem to really like it.”

“I do,” you sigh, eyes still closed. “I really, really do.”

You breathe deep and even and focus on the feeling of every loosening knot as Ivar slides the ropes free as carefully as he had tied them on. It’s like you’ve been hovering in orbit, high above the earth, and now he’s taking you in for a smooth, gentle landing back home. When he finishes, you’re on your back, blinking your eyes and looking around the room just to ground yourself back into more mundane reality.

Although nothing is mundane when Ivar is around. Even when the ropes are all clear, his arms are still curving around you, stroking at your limbs and checking your skin everywhere for rope burns or any other problems. “I’m fine,” you assure him. “I feel…wonderful. So fucking good.” You tip your head back and sigh, scarcely able to believe what an amazing experience you just had. You always kind of knew you would like that kind of bondage, but really there was no way to guess the way that it would totally knock your socks off like that.

Ivar seems to be feeling something similar, though you’re not sure it would be for the same reason. Surely he does this sort of thing all the time. And yet, his fingers and his lips are still tracing your skin, positively worshipping you. “You’re so amazing,” he whispers, almost as if he’s afraid for you to hear it. “I mean…” rather than finishing he buries his face under your chin and just clutches you tightly.

Your response is small, and self-conscious. “I am?”

“You have no fucking idea.”

And that… is the truth. You really don’t. You want him to open up, tell you what he really means, but you also don’t want to push him. Ivar’s definitely not the type of person to be pushed, on anything.

He’s still murmuring into your skin, sounding almost half asleep. “So lucky to have you.”

You feel lucky to have him, to have even a small portion of his interest, for as long as you have already. It barely computes that someone like Ivar Lothbrok might feel the same way about you. And yet, it really feels like he cares about you. Could this be turning into something more than an exercise in fun and shared kinks?

The thought makes your breath catch with the kind of joy you hardly dare to let yourself feel. But then, where would Ubbe fit in to that happy picture? Ivar’s palm traces over your ass and you can’t help but picture the bite mark, and wonder how Ivar could possibly be okay with his brother fucking you when he seemed barely even ready to show you his own cock.

And maybe that last bit is something you should talk about, too. “I uh, I hope I didn’t rush you. I didn’t mean to. I’m happy to take things at your pace.”

Ivar grunts, an affirmative little noise, and pulls you in against his body harder. You wish you could see his face. But maybe he’s glad he doesn’t have to make eye contact during this topic.

“But… it was… good?”

Ivar rouses himself enough to lift his head when he hears that tone in your voice, and look you straight in the eyes while his dark hair cascades around his face. “Kitten, it was so good.” His head shakes a little incredulously. “I don’t think I’ve ever…” You wait, but he doesn’t finish that sentence.

It’s awkward, but now that you’ve started talking about your concerns, you can’t just stop here. “And you really don’t mind that Ubbe and I… took things a lot faster?”

Ivar answers with an arrogant smile. It’s sexy, but it also means that the wall is back up, that little vulnerable part of himself that you had glimpsed now safely hidden away. “As I said before, y/n. Anyone can fuck. I'm not threatened by that.” His finger traces over your mouth; you open your lips to him but he only plays with the bottom edge. He watches the way even his simple touch makes you shiver. “Nothing he can do will touch what we have, will it.”

You shake your head ‘no,’ captivated.

Ivar leans in, until you are both shaded by the curtain of his hair. “And whenever it is that I do take you in that way… it will be worth the wait.”

Part Ten

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[avengerscompound]

It’s You and Me - Chapter 7

It’s You and Me: A Hawkeye Fanfic

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Clint Barton x  F!Reader

Word Count:  1948

Rating:  E

Warnings:  Smut (MF, interrupted sex, pegging, vaginal sex, (Mentions of anal fisting i guess, but this warning is more graphic a mention of it than happens in the fic))

Synopsis: You and Clint Barton go way back.  Since you joined the circus as a child, he took it upon himself to keep you away from the people who really wanted to hurt you.  For years the two of you danced a line between dark and light.

When he chooses light the two of you go your separate ways.

Fifteen years later he tracks you down.  Those feelings the two of you shared never went away, but now he is not only an Avengers but a single father.  Can the two of you make it work after all this time when your lives have gone in such different directions?

A series told in flashbacks and current day.

Chapter 7: Now

Things between you and Clint had always been all or nothing.  Before you were a couple there was no pining and wishing that he’d notice you.  After you broke up, there wasn’t any holding on to the hope he’d come back.  It just was on and then it was off.  0 or 100.

You were all in now.  You’d gone back to his place with your cat and your things high on adrenaline that not even an afternoon hanging with his kids and going to see Aladdin on Broadway had been able to kill.  When he’d finally gotten the kids into bed and Jasper to stop bothering Lucky, you’d pushed him down onto his bed and ridden him through four orgasms.

All in meant all in.  It was that drunk on adrenaline passion that led people to get married to strangers in Vegas mixed with the undeniable real connection of close friends who can go forever without seeing each other just to pick up where they left off.  It has only been a handful of weeks but if he said, let's go get married right now, you'd do it without thinking twice.  Even if it didn't work out, it would work out because in the end you and Clint always would.

There were moments when you were out and he’d dragged you along to some Avengers thing because that idea that maybe you be a good guy for a change was one he wouldn't let go of, and you'd think - this was it.  Clint Barton was your person and fuck it, why not get married?  Maybe you’d ask him and the two of you could elope somewhere and spend your honeymoon fucking your way through every position you could find on the internet.  Then the whole domesticity of it would come crashing back and you'd chicken out.

Clint Barton might still be everything you remembered about him, all the things that had made the two of you work and made him love you so much, but he was also a dad - and that scared the shit out of you.

It was something you tried not to let bother you.  Or at least you tried not to show that it did.  It wasn’t a case of you regretting missing your chance of having that with him, or any jealousy that he got it without you.  The concept of family was as alien to you as the concept of living in an undersea biodome.  You had no frame of reference for it and felt awkward and out of place anytime you were included in that.

So you did your best to not draw attention to yourself and make the most of the time when it was just you and Clint and there was plenty of that.  Especially after the kids had gone to bed at night.

You turned to Clint, tightening the straps on your harness as you smirked down at him.  He lay naked on the bed, his arms tied to the bed head stretched out on either side of him.  Even with his seemingly permanent collection of cuts and bruises, the man looked good naked.

“I am going to ruin you for any and all future partners,” you teased as you climbed up on the bed.

“Bring it,” Clint said, grinning at you.

You crawled up over him and kissed him hungrily as you used the lube to slick the toy strapped into your harness.  Clint’s hands opened and closed and he flexed the muscles in his arms, making his biceps and the veins in his forearms pop.

The door opened a crack and a small voice broke the spell over the two of you.  “Daddy, I don’t feel well.”

If you had moved any faster you would have broken the speed of sound. You jumped off Clint pulling the blankets over the two of you as Clint flicked his wrists, quickly slipping the knots you’d tied and sitting up.  “Hey, buddy,” he said, way too calmly as he grabbed his boxers from the floor beside him.  “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my tummy,” Nate replied, rubbing his eyes.

Clint jumped out of bed and grabbed a robe that was hanging on the door handle of the closet and shucked it on.  He picked up Nate and cuddled the boy as he almost draped himself over Clint’s shoulder.  “It’s alright.  Let’s get you back to bed.”

He looked back at you and mouthed ‘sorry’ as he carried his son from the room.  You groaned, rubbing your eyes with the balls of your hands, and got up.  There were few bigger mood killers as effective as being walked in on by your lover’s toddler.  You got up and started packing up the toys.  First cleaning and packing away the strap on and then unfastening the hemp cords you’d used to bind Clint to the bed.

By the time Clint returned, you were in a sleep shirt and panties dozing under the covers.

“Aww, no,” he whined as he hung his robe back up.  “What happened?”

“Your kid walked in on us,” you snarked.  “You remember?  Talk about a boner killer.”

Clint climbed in bed beside you and spooned you from behind.  “I can get it back pretty quick,” he whispered, nipping at your earlobe.

“Clint,” you whined, pushing him back off you.  “What if he comes back and I’m elbow deep in your ass?  I’d traumatize him.”

“Well, a,” Clint said, stifling a laugh.  “I never agreed to doing that, and b, he’s not the first kid to ever walk in on his parents having sex.  Shit, he’s not even the first one of my kids ever to walk in on me.  He’s too young to know what’s going on, and the other two are old enough to know to knock.  Besides; he’s asleep now.  It’s gonna be fine.”

You grumbled and pulled the blanket up tighter around you.  Clint pushed himself up on his arms and looked down at you.  “This whole ‘me being a dad’ thing is really getting to you, huh?”

“Well, when you’re kids walk in on me while you’re tied to the bed and I’m wearing a strap-on, yes… yes it does.”

He caressed your jaw.  “I’m not expecting you to be their mom, you know?”

You rolled over and looked up at him.  “But if this works.  If we’re actually a couple again, that’s what I’m going to be.  I can hate it and rail against it, but I’ll be responsible for making sure their childhood isn’t shit.  Even if that is just by, not getting in your way while you take care of all that.  They’ll call me their step-mom and … they’ll know… they’ll know that I never wanted this for myself and they’ll hate me for it.  I can’t be the reason some kids’ lives get fucked up.”

“What are you saying?”  Clint asked.  “You want to break up?”

You shook your head.  “I don’t know.  But maybe I should move out until I know for sure what I want to do.  I feel … you know… about you, Clint and that’s never going to change, but I always said the last person in the world who should be a parent is the person who doesn’t want to be one.”

Clint frowned.  “I know.  And you’re right.  But where will you go?  Whoever is working with Zelda is still after you.  You won’t join the Avengers.  It’s not safe out there for you alone.”

You shook your head.  “I don’t know.”

“Then,” Clint said, leaning down and kissing your neck.  “How about we forgot this even happened for now, and we do something fun to take our mind off it.”

You looked over to the door and ran your hands down Clint’s neck.  “You’re sure he won’t come back in.”

“Almost 100% certain,” Clint said, grinning down at you.

“I’m not going to peg you,” you said.

“That’s okay,” he chuckled.  “We can do it vanilla style.”

You started laughing silently and nodded.  “Okay.  But I’m traumatized, just so you know.”

“Who here isn’t?”  Clint teased and brought his lips to yours.  You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and kissed him deeply.  He rolled on top of you and began to grind down against you.  You spread your legs, welcoming his weight between them, and moaned into his lips as you felt his cock begin to harden against you.

You hummed, letting yourself warm back up to him, and shake off the incident from earlier.  Slowly your cunt began to drip as your arousal grew.  You both rolled over, and you weren’t sure if he initiated the position change, or you did, or if it was some organic movement to share control.  He began to rub your clit in slow teasing circles as you rolled your hips, grinding down on his cock in a lazy figure-of-eight.

Clint kissed down your neck and sucked at the dip of your collarbone.  You arched your back, and let your head fall back, moaning as a warm buzz spread through you.  He moved lower and pulled your t-shirt up over your head.  You tensed for a moment, worried that you’d end up with some other visitor, but as soon as Clint began to suck on your breast, you moaned, and all thoughts of intruders were pushed aside.

Your cunt flooded, soaking through your panties and slicking Clint’s cock.  He began to buck up into you, making you bounce in his lap.  You pushed him down and rested your hand on his throat.  Raising yourself up, you pushed your panties to the side and lowered yourself down on Clint’s cock.

He groaned as his cock penetrated you and you hummed as you pulsed your walls around his shaft.  He looked up at you, taking slow, deep breaths and you began to slowly swirl your hips.

“Fuck, you’re sexy,” he hummed.

You smiled a little.  “You aren’t too bad either, Barton.”

He chuckled and rolled you both over, holding you down into the mattress as he began to fuck you.  He started slow and deep, rolling his hips in the same way you did when you were riding him.  The base of his shaft dragged over your clit with each roll of his hips and you arched your back and pulled his hair, wanting to increase that pleasant buzz that was rippling out from your cunt.

He curled down, keeping one hand on your throat as he pulled a nipple into his mouth.  You lifted your knees, resting your heels on his shoulders and angling your hips up so that with each thrust of his hips the head of his cock would hit your g-spot.  You moaned loudly and pulled the pillow down over your face to muffle the sound.

Clint began to rub your clit again so that every one of your pleasure centers was being hit at once.  It was too much and all at once your muscles clenched and your cunt spasmed as you came.  “Fuck!”  You screamed into the pillow as you bucked up hard under him.

Clint’s hips began to stutter and he gripped the bed head above your head.  You clenched your walls, squeezing his shaft, and grabbed his hair, pulling it.  He grunted and with a hard jerk, he emptied inside you.

You let your legs slip back down as he relaxed down on top of you, his body a comforting pressure against yours.  Slowly he slipped out of you and rolled on his back.  “Told you it’d be fine.”

“Yeah,” you said.  “But we need to put a bell on that kid.”

Clint started laughing.  “I’ll think about it.”

// NEXT

[oliviaillustrations]

Garden of Eden

my piece for the @grishaversebigbang ! this is based off of the lovely dark academia ninej au fic written by @kugisakigf and @emdrabbles titled Garden of Eden

you can find my gang members and their amazing pieces below! 💗

Materialki: @landryaugust (here and here) @oranges-and-stuff (here)

AO3 Link: here!

Summary:

Nina is doing just fine as a directionless art student—she goes to class four times a week, struggles to get oil paint out of her clothes on laundry day, makes sure to dodge her landlord when he asks about rent, and dreads the day she has to graduate. Maybe she feels as important to the grand scheme of things as a stray brushstroke, and she's no closer to any shred of a clue about what she's going to do with her life. But it's fine. She's fine.

Except when Nina’s painting class gets a live model, she spends more time staring at this very pretty, very intimidating newcomer more than she does at her own canvas. Inej is gorgeous and terrifying and has her life together and now Nina can’t remember the last time she was able to think about anything but her. Pressure starts to ramp up and the world she's tried so hard to hide herself from keeps pounding at every wall she's built to protect herself, and now she's left wondering if she'll ever amount to anything. Will history forget Nina Zenik? Will she ever do something worthwhile with what little she's been given? And does it even matter, when Inej Ghafa seems to draw her ever closer, an Icarus to her blazing sun?

First Chapter: Nina Zenik is crumpled in a mass of blankets, shivering and bone-tired, when she realizes that sometimes, living in the attic of a church is worth it. She can deal with the rotting wood that creaks and rolls under her feet, the sounds splintering out across the room as she walks. She can forgive the smell of must and cobwebs, the heavy fragrance of mold and must and incense lingering around every corner, even on the rare occasions when she has time to clean. She can almost ignore the deep ache of wintertime, the heat barely making its way to her with long, spiraling fingers, the cold permeating through every crack in the walls that let in the sharp December chill. She's made her peace with the occasional mouse that sprints underfoot, the moths spending weeks on the windowsill, the shitty water pressure and gas stove that only works once a week if she was lucky.

Because mornings like this seemed to make everything worth it.

The rising sun, shallow and shy in the pale morning light, would reach out and glance off of an ancient stained glass window, just at her bedside. The sky would sing, and the carefully laid image of The Virgin Mary would glow, sweet features framed in green and violet. Nina would wake to vibrant shadows dancing across her skin and colors pooling on her floor like spilled blood. Sometimes, she would just sit there, hours before classes would start. The world faded to a hazy gray, and all that was left was the sunrise and her. She'd just look at the sun, and she'd pause for a moment, and just breathe . It never quite felt like she could get a full breath of air anymore. She would just take a breath, and she'd stop thinking, and she'd just be . She wasn't Nina Zenik, right now. She was sunlight and morning air and that particular shade of crimson shot through with gold when the light shines in.

She blinks, and the sun has moved. She's washed in pitch again, deep blue drowning the lines and arches of her body into a loose silhouette. She's empty, again, just a fragile body in a silent room. The floor dips and bends beneath her feet as if to sing a hollow tune in some form of an answer. It does not feel like enough. It never does.

She wipes a smudge of dust off the windows, her finger stained red even in the fading light. Her heart beats in concert with the pulsing of her head, and she winces, hard. Lack of sleep is catching up to her, it seems. The last few nights—weeks, if she's being true—have been short and restless, a sick sort of fear settling in whenever her eyes begin to close. It burns like every word she's never said and it spoils like a promise in her stomach. Everything is too much, and it's all she can do to stand on two feet and will her fingers to curl around a pencil. And even that's a pretense.

She hasn't been able to paint in months. Everything she makes seems twisted and wrong , an abomination of oil paints and a mockery of everything she's worked to accomplish. (She buries the voice that says she hasn't truly accomplished anything deep in her chest and tries to forget it can still breathe). She's felt stuck, a broken record that keeps skipping the same line of a song she's heard a hundred times. She can feel everything falling away from her, but doesn't know how to hold on to it all. She's losing it all with nothing she can do to stop it.

Nina doesn't have time for this- this crisis , something hisses in her ear, teeth grazing against her neck. But the problem is, she never has time for any of this. It all keeps piling up and then she’s buried under the weight of it and then she's having a panic attack in a public restroom and turning in late assignments and making excuses and she can’t do that . She can't do that again. So she compartmentalizes, picks out tiny little problems, and thinks about them for a short while, washes it down with wine, and calls it a night. Everything she doesn't deal with disappears in the morning. And she likes it that way.

But morning has come, and she still feels like a goddamn inside-out sock and she doesn't know what to do about it. Nina has been floundering for years, though, so this isn't any different than anything else.

Her phone flickers and the curling numbers read 7:49. Shit. She has a nine a.m. class and she's still in bed. Normally, she'd get to rot into her pillows for another hour at least, but she needed it for her major, and by the time she'd finally finished agonizing over which courses to take, it had been the only time slot open. So, here she is, aching limbs and sunburnt eyes, stepping onto the cold embrace of hardwood floors. She shivers, and the weak threads of sunlight that weave through the windows don't make the room any warmer.

The shower isn't warm, either. She bears the wet chill anyway. The water is soothing and it washes away the dregs of sleeplessness from her eyes. She stands under the spray, lets it drip down her back, and feels something like comfort as the soap slips down around her ankles and the room begins to smell like lavender. She waits for the water to finally run low, and steps out, puddles tracing her footsteps as she makes her way to her dresser.

Her hair lies damp on her shoulders, thick strands tangled and dark against her skin. It started curling, lately, and she's not sure why, but she doesn't quite mind. Sometimes, she closes her eyes, and imagines vines and leaves woven through the loose curls. A vision of Dionysus with dirt-stained fingers and violet stains under her eyes. A fairy twined with sumac and oak, wings that glow gold in the sunlight. She's always wanted to be special. She's always wished to be more than she is. But now, her own haggard reflection is what stares back at her. She's not sure if she likes what she sees.

She's not sure that it matters.

Nina gets dressed, rifling through her closet in search of something warm. It’s not like she’s obsessed with how she looks, but she does try and pick something nice. Today, she settles on a pink sweater patterned with strawberries, and earrings to match. (She’s nothing if not consistent.) It’s soft and thick, and it smells like summertime. It’s perfect for this, the kind of day that soaks through your skin and wears away at your bones. She slips into thick boots and a pair of jeans, and she's gone.

She takes the spiral staircase outside of her apartment one creaking step at a time, counting as she goes. One, two, three, four, avoid the loose nail on five, six, seven, eight. She should get that fixed, she thinks. But that would require seeing the landlord. And no one wants to see the landlord. The thought whispers away as fast as it came.

The staircase spits her out in the church vestibule. It’s all dark wood and low ceilings, pale morning light filtering through the narrow windows. Soft music floats through the heavy doors separating Nina from the nave of the church, and if she listens closely, faint chanting is woven between the notes. The song sounds familiar. She’s unsure if it’s a psalm drilled into her from middle school bible camp or because the organ drums the same tune beneath her floor every day.

Nina stands a moment longer, eyes momentarily fluttering closed as she listens, grasped by an unnamable sensation equal parts reassuring and paralyzing. And then she’s out the door, down the marble steps, and on the street.

The cold air stings her cheeks and her shoulders wince against the wind. She really should've grabbed a coat before she left, but it's fine. She still hasn't eaten, and she has a class in half an hour. If she turns back now she'll be late. So, Nina grits her teeth, ignoring how hard they're rattling against each other, and tugs the sleeves of her sweater down to cover her shaking hands. The coffee shop’s only a five-minute walk, and it'll be warm inside, and that's the only thing that keeps her moving forward. Her feet beat on the concrete with a steady rhythm, and she focuses on that instead of the aching cold.

The awning of the Dregs greets her, bold block letters on top of old red brick. Scuttling through the door, she’s welcomed by a gust of warm air. The barista looks up at the gentle tingle of the bell and flashes her a quick smile before resuming their work. They don’t look familiar. Must be a new hire. It feels like every time she gets comfortable around here, something changes. The world rolls and ripples under her feet, and she doesn’t remember the last time she’s caught her balance.

Nina takes a deep breath and rubs her hands together, which are now bright pink, then places them on the tips of her ears, which are also bright pink. The morning is quiet, with only a scattering of patrons to be found in the mixed-matched chairs. Some of the dark red wallpaper is beginning to peel off the plaster behind the counter. The Dregs she knows and loves.

“Good morning.” Behind the counter stands the barista, hands fidgeting with a dishtowel.

Nina blinks. “Mornin’,” she croaks, voice weak. She takes a look at the drink menu, even though she’s been here every morning since freshman orientation, because she needs to look busy and not as if she’s more burnt out than a pile of ash. Thankfully, the barista notices her quiet plea and doesn’t try to strike up any more conversation.

A few beats of silence pass, only interrupted by the occasional clink of coffee mugs. Despite already knowing what she’s going to order--the same damn caramel macchiato with far too much sugar than she should start her day with because why would she ever change the habits that hurt her the most--Nina stares at the menu overhead. Her eyes slowly unfocus, not actually reading the menu so much as wondering if she should even try to, so she doesn’t realize how much time has passed until the barista clears their throat with a little more vigor than necessary.

“So…” they start, rocking on the balls of their feet and making a point to not look directly at Nina. “Can I get you started or…?”

She snaps her head back down. “Oh, shit - sorry, yeah.” She allows herself one more moment to reconsider, then orders the caramel macchiato, but not before fumbling with her change. A cascade of pennies and nickels and dimes all crash to the floor and all noise in the cafe ceases at once. Nina doesn’t need to turn around to know how many pairs of eyes rest on her.

“I’ll, uh - get that for you right away.” The barista couldn’t have shuffled away any faster, disappearing into the back.

Nina swears once, loud, then stoops down and collects her change. Fucking figures. This morning has felt awfully representative of life in recent years - bitter, shitty, reliant on loose change. Yet her pride, or perhaps self pity, leaves her stagnant, unable to change. She refuses to get her hopes up about the coffee. With her luck it’ll be bitter and shitty, too.

The barista comes out soon after, coffee in one hand and muffin in the other. They set both on the counter and offer Nina a meek look. “Muffin’s on the house.”

“Oh. Thank you,” she says, scooping both into her hands. And she means it.

“Of course,” they say. Then they lean over the counter and point across the cafe. “And, uh - the drinks in the case over there, the orange ones. Yeah, those. They’re good for hangovers.”

Nina looks from the barista, to the case, then back to the barista. So that’s what this is. She scrunches her face into a weak smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace, and takes her drink without another word. Of course they think she’s hungover, because who would have such a shitty morning if they were sober? That thought is chased with a wave of guilt, heavy. They were being nice. Why can’t she just say thank you and move on? She pushes the door open and the bone chilling day greets her with a sting of cold that bites at her cheeks, her nose, ready to greet her next misfortune.

[intubatedangel]

Cold Snap: Chapter 7

Story Index - All my stories in one place.

Chapter 1 |  Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |  Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

***

As soon as the camera angle changed, presumably someone in the news control room had realised they were showing a possibly dead woman under intensive CPR and had cut away, Anna and Carl started to get prepared. Carl called out for his team to join him in Trauma 4, the other rooms already claimed by those doctors who were scheduled for today. There was fewer of them than normal, a few of the nurses already occupied with minor injuries or the other trauma rooms. Zainab was also occupied by the cubicles, sheer practicality making her more useful with the minor injuries that don't need a fully qualified emergency doctor to double-check.

Anna and Carl were joined by Kirstie, Roger, and Trish. It would be enough for now; they could also call for additional help if they needed it when their patient arrived. Carl looked at them, figuring out a plan.

"We all saw what we're dealing with. Cold water drowning, clearly no pulse. Don't expect it to be any different when they arrive here. Our priorities are maintaining artificial circulation and oxygenation while we warm her up. We need to go fast, but careful. The last thing we need is to trigger rewarming collapse. Kirstie, I want you get in touch with Cardio-thoracics and with Nephrology, I want an ECMO or a dialysis machine, both can heat her blood directly, so either will do. We'll also need warmed saline, a lot of it Roger, I want to get a warmed gastric lavage going as soon as we can and depending on her temperature, we may need to consider a thoracic lavage too."

Anna cringed slightly at that. A thoracic lavage would involve sticking tube through their patient’s chest wall. It was brutal, but effective. Carl was continuing.

"Anna, Trish, get the temperature vest set up too, warm her from inside and out. Remember everyone, we have time. We do not give up until she is warm, understood?" The team all nods. "Ok, let’s get ready people." Carl finished, the others all going about their tasks. Trish went to get the temperature vest from Trauma 1, giving Anna a few moments alone with Carl.

"You sound confident." Anna told him as they stepped out of the way of the others.

He shrugged. "We have every reason to be. We have the equipment, the skills, and the circumstances favour us. Cold water drowning discovered almost instantly? It's not a guarantee, but in our line of work? It's the best damn odds we could ask for." He looked at her seeing her far off gaze. "Are you doing ok?" He asked.

She nodded slowly, then looked back at him, with a sharper nod. "Yeah. Just doing what you said." Her voice went quieter, just between the two of them. "Accepting it. Using it."

Carl nodded slowly. "Ok. Let me know if it gets too much. You can take a step back if you need to." He told her, keeping his own voice quiet.

Anna slipped her hand into his and they gave a mutual squeeze. Then, Trish came into the room with the bulky vest and Anna went to help her. They laid it on the trauma bed, spread open, ready and waiting for them. To Anna it looked inviting, and she couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to be wrapped up in it. At this point she would normally feel ashamed and try to bury the thought. This time, she didn't try to eradicate it. Instead, she filed it away. Something to think about later, maybe...even do later. She thought back to her unit on psychology during nursing school. Using rewards to encourage behaviour. If they succeeded, she would ask Carl if he could 'tinker' with one over the rest of the weekend, they were his experiment after all, maybe they could be her reward.

She shook her head, dispelling the fantasy and disguising the small smile on her face, as if she were trying to shake a stray lock of hair out of her eyes while she was setting the control panel on the pump unit, which they had hooked to the end of the bed. The had just finished arranging the hoses so they wouldn't be an obstruction when a receptionist stuck her head into the trauma room.

"We just got a 2-minute warning on the casualty." She announced.

"Thanks" Carl dismissed her, looking to the rest of his team. Kirstie was still on the phone in the corner, and she shrugged at Carl's questioning look. "Keep trying, everyone else, let's get out front."

* * *

Lucy kept on rocking her body weight forward and backward, keeping her shoulders and elbows locked, hands planted between Shona's pale breasts. Each time she leant forward, her hands pressed down the drowned young woman’s sternum 2 inches, squeezing Shona's stopped heart, pushing blood out of it and around her body. When Lucy rocked backwards, Shona's ribs sprang back also, releasing the pressure on her heart and allowing it to refill with blood.

Lucy did this over and over and over again, keeping the blood flowing. Keeping hope alive.

She'd heard the driver call out the minute warning. She was aware of Dave hooking things to the gurney and moving around her. She was also aware of the burning in her arms, the lead weight feeling of lactic acid build up. It was a long, excruciating minute. But Lucy never faltered. Shona's ribs bent inwards 100 times in that minute. Each perfect compression forced her abdomen to roll and her shoulders to pop. Her feet swayed and her head bobbed as the force of the compressions translated through her body. It was brutal, what her body was enduring. But that brutality was the only chance she had.

Lucy felt the entire ambulance tilt as it swung into the hospital grounds, felt the inertia tugging her as the brakes squealed and brought the ambulance to a stop. She ignored it all, maintaining her compressions until she saw the blur out the corner of her eye as Anna mounted the gurney, straddling Shona's unresponsive body. Just like they had done two days ago, and so many times before, Anna gave a short countdown before Lucy drew back her hands, Anna planted her own, and Shona's chest continued to be compressed.

The gurney was pulled from the back of the ambulance, Dave squeezing the Ambu-bag regularly, and was rushed towards the emergency entrance. Lucy let them go. She dropped onto the bench, flexing her aching fingers and breathing deeply to pay off the oxygen debt. She shook her arms out, then looked at the man beside her. Jones was still wrapped tightly in the blanket and was staring out after the gurney that had already disappeared around a corner and vanished from sight.

"Come on Jones, you need to get to checked over." She told him, dragging herself to her feet. She helped him from the back of the ambulance, despite the exhaustion she was feeling, and led him toward the entrance. An observer would have struggled to tell which was helping the other, and Lucy was grateful to the porter who ran over with a wheelchair, easing Jones into it before she pushed him into the busy triage area, leaning heavily on the handles herself.

* * *

 The wind had eased to a stiff breeze, though it still cut straight through you, in the hour since Shona had fatefully boarded the now sunk Beetle. Yet, none of the team that had assembled outside the sliding door was shivering. Their collective adrenaline rush banished the cold. There was a tension, but it was that invigorating kind of tension, rather than a panic fuelled one. They knew they were up to the task. Their determination was written all over their faces. So, they stood, filled with an anticipation that grew in intensity as the sirens of the ambulance grew louder. Like the legendary warrior, calmly waiting to enter an arena, their own kind of battle was about to begin, and they radiated the same serenity. The same clarity of purpose. The same capacity to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

The siren reached a crescendo, with an accompaniment of squealing tires, as the ambulance pulled into the emergency bay. Anna waited a beat, then stepped forward, giving Roger and Trish just enough time to pull open the rear doors of the ambulance, before she planted her foot on the step, lined herself up, and vaulted onto the gurney. Her knees made the metallic blanket crinkle as she landed softly and shuffled her knees forward. She gave the countdown, and as soon as Lucy's hands left the patients sternum, Anna snapped hers into position.

Even through her blue gloves, Anna could feel just how cold the young woman was. Her ghostly pale skin seemed to pull the warmth out of Anna's hands in an instant. It did not deter the nurse. She began her initial round of compressions. The first press was firm and harsh, to gauge the resistance of her patient’s chest, then those that followed were perfectly judged, pushing in the ideal two inches and drawing back fully in under a second. The gurney moving beneath her had no effect on Anna. She was in her zone. This, this was what she was born to do, and nothing, internal or external, could disturb her rhythm as she put all her effort into delivering the best chest compressions she could to the young woman who lay pulseless between her legs.

As she settled into her task, she became more aware of what was going on around her. She heard the whistling of the flatlined monitor, and she heard Carl say something loudly. He was clearly asking for details, as Anna began to hear the response from the paramedic who was pushing the gurney with one hand, while he squeezed the Ambu-bag that was connected to a breathing tube with the other.

"This is Shona. Trapped and immersed in near freezing water. Immersion resulted in asphyxiation via drowning. Due to the water temperature she's profoundly hypothermic, skin temperature of just 23C. She's been in respiratory and cardiac arrest for between 18 and 25 minutes, confirmed asystole for 5 of those, but likely much longer.  Resuscitation attempts started 14 minutes ago, with no response. She also has a closed fracture to her left tibia. We cleared her lungs and intubated 8 minutes ago, applied chemical heat packs and warmed saline as much as we could. Throughout she's had a palpable pulse with compressions, so major internal bleeding is unlikely."

Carl nodded through the report, and Anna knew he was taking in everything, filing it away in his mind, able to recall every detail at a moment’s notice, to the point that the chart Roger was making notes on would be for later doctors, not for the ER team. At the edges of her vision Anna saw black tarmac turn into the marble effect veneered flooring that ran through the ER and almost every other hospital, school and government building in the western world. During those moments Carl was processing what he had been told, and then he began to give orders.

"Right, let's carry on as planned. Get her into Trauma 4 and get her in the TMV. I want a central line in addition to those bilateral IVs, and I want wide bore access in one of her legs, ready for extracorporeal warming. Let's get an NG tube inserted too, bi-directional for the gastric lavage. Let's get a core temp before we consider surgical intervention though." Carl briefly held his fingers against Shona's femoral pulse point, his wrist resting against Anna's calf. "Good pulse with compressions Anna, keep it up, but let's also get a Lucas ready, this could be a long one people!" He said, a tone to his voice that instilled confidence and re-doubled their determination.

They were going to get their patient back. Shona, Anna reminded herself, looking at the girl beneath her, forcing her name into the front of her mind.  She had a cute face, even with pale skin and blue lips, that much was clear. The tape holding the ET tube also pulled at the corner of her mouth, forming a grimace, as though she could feel each brutal compression that Anna delivered.  Not that Anna was deterred. She was going to do everything she could to get Shona back. To see those lips pink instead of blue. Smiling instead of a forced grimace. She wasn't alone in those thoughts. The whole team was feeling the same way as they guided the gurney into the Trauma Wing and crashed through the doors into Trauma 4.