#you draw a breath; you cannot rest just yet;; [ musings ]

[reastless]

a kitchen knife taught you the secrets of the universe, and then you had to bear it

ooc: howdy, drabble about luke killing his father, tw for that and implied child abuse !

Your whole entire world was waiting for what you would do. It did not hold its breath, but you became aware that it politely was giving you a chance.

Your mother wept in the kitchen and didn’t touch the landline, and she waited for what you would do. Your father had his hands squeezed around your broken throat so he could break it more, and he waited for what you would do. By all logic, you should’ve just died like they thought you would. It could have been over then if you’d frozen, but despite everything, you didn’t freeze.

And for the first time in your miserable existence, even if only for a moment, you were hungry. You were insatiable. The universe was about to feed you.

Because despite swallowing lifetimes of torment by your teens, you have never wanted to die. You only wanted relief. You wished it upon an uncaring horizon only because it brought you comfort to pretend it was listening. You wanted so badly to live, and you had never felt it more fiercely than then, when death was sitting on top of you and life was a split-second decision away.

You were never anything but dust on your father’s shoes. So, when you wrapped your small fingers around the discarded handle of the kitchen knife, you hadn’t much time to think, but you distinctly remembered two things, though you only articulated them later: The first was that your father did not believe you had the guts to grab that knife, or else he never would have left it where he dropped it. The second was that by all logic you had ever known, this would feel good. You weren’t afraid to grab the knife. You were only afraid of what would happen if it didn’t kill him.

He might have died proud of you for the first time. You did not care to think about it.

You don’t remember much about killing him. It was as if you were ripped from your body and your soul commanded its movements without need for any presence of thought. You stabbed him. You kept going. You did not stop, because you were smart. You wanted this, and you weren’t going to do it halfway. That man was dead on the kitchen floor with red light from the sunset soaking through the curtains long before you finished bringing down the knife. You only stopped because you exhausted yourself and could not afford to be out of breath.

When it was over, you were covered in blood, and it didn’t matter who it belonged to. You looked upon your work, upon the puncture wounds turning your father’s chest to raw meat.

The thought that came to you was a piercing clap of thunder, the kind that scared you so badly you cried when you were young (before you learned to do that quietly because your mother could not help you). You looked into his wide, dead eyes with your own wide, dead eyes of the same shape and color, and you saw all the evil in the universe broken open and bleeding on the floor. It didn’t feel good.  

None of it felt like your thought it would. It was supposed to feel good. Why didn’t it feel good? If your existence was anything, it was consistent, except for now when all you understood suddenly broke apart in your hands and left you to figure out the repulsive implications. But you didn’t want to figure them out. You didn’t even want it to feel good anymore. You just didn’t want it to feel unbearable. But you have never gotten anything you wished for onto a sky that you knew was never listening, and you suddenly hated it viscerally. You hated every wish you had ever made onto that uncaring vast emptiness that fell upon deafness. And it did not even have the decency to let you scream with the pain of it.  

It was evil what your father had done to you, and what he had demanded of you tonight. And you had never been more horrified because you did not feel good. If you had a working throat and weren’t wheezing for scraps of air, you could have wailed. You could have torn your hair out and choked up bile and wailed for your mother, for not your mother, for the world to eat itself quickly before you had to live with this knowledge for another second. Before you had to risk anyone ever finding out the truth like you, because surely no one else could know. How could they endure it? You have seen the most terrible monster and it is not dead. It would never, ever die. You knew then that this would eat you forever. You would be saddled with this burden until you died and it would outlive you. It would kill the world and everyone inside of it and eat the earth hollow, and it was so patient. You were helpless against it. Everyone was.

Still wishing you could scream, you heaved rattling, horrible breaths, and it hurt. You collapsed on your back, tears flowing unbidden from the corners of your father’s eyes. You suddenly did not know if living was what you wanted after all. The splatters of blood beneath your body looked like wings.

[skyscrapergods]

has being fucking Massive and Immortality changed the alicorns’ perspective on regular ponies? I imagine they’d get more condescending and distant and stuff

You are surrounded by flies. If you pause, and look closely, you realize the flies are iridescent, with deeply colorful eyes, and beautiful wings like stained glass. It cannot see the colorful windows of your world, but you can try to describe them. But know that doing so take up the creature's precious time. Years to them is mere hours to you. In a long conversation about the stars, you and the fly share ideas and perspectives. You come away delighted with a new view on constellations and what they mean to the common folk.

The fly comes away dazzled, haunted, and halfway to the grave. What was to you a wonderful conversation was years of study, communion, and dedication on the part of the small creature. He gave up any other pursuits, he constructed his life around this cause. He lost his friends, family, and home. You lost your lunch break.

You love this creature. You love the small being that you once were. You want to talk to him again. You want to tell him of the stars, of dreams... but to speak with him twice, at least meaningfully, would take from him the rest of his life. Could you demand that from him for the sake of your own curiosity? Years passed for him already. In the time it took you to draw a breath, his childhood ended. Do you summon him again? Or do you let him go to live his life, what's left of it?

It is painful for everyone. It hurts something in your chest, it breaks the heart of a god. It wounds his family to watch him leave them behind for the sake of what? A mere whim? He had ambitions! He had a story! It's all gone now. Rewritten for your musings.

You leave him. He cries for you but he needs not a goddess. He needs to live, to turn from the sky to his fellow bugs.

That's what he is. A fly. A mere insect to you. To hold him down is to pin him through his soft center, and display his corpse as a record of his extinction.

So look away. Forget the color of his eyes, the sound of his voice, and the intelligence that stirred you to pluck him out his world and keep him in yours. There, he would be a wildflower with a cut stem. He would be beautiful, but he is so small, and so quiet. He would be just a decoration on your table; made to dance and sing for your amusement and then tossed out with the rubbish when he breaks.

You miss him. You love him. But he is a crawling worm and you are the rain. There are many others like him, but you must be careful to only speak a few words to each. Or better yet, say nothing at all. Let them fade and mix into a writhing blur without name, stories, or opinions on stars.

You are surrounded by flies.

[callioope]

The fire crackles in the hearth, just feet away from Essek and yet distant in his mind as he scans the papers splayed out across the coffee table. Somewhere in that background land, a spoon clinks against ceramic. The familiar scent of hot cocoa wafts in the air around him. Footsteps, both human and feline, pad across wooden floorboards and braided rugs. 

Essek shuffles the papers, brow furrowing and finger tapping his chin. “We’re missing something,” he murmurs. 

A mug settles before him in a small patch of bare coffee table, thudding softly against the wood, and the scent of chocolate wafts closer. He doesn’t reach for it yet, but the motion draws his attention towards the nearest papers and he pulls them closer, skimming once more the notes of the smartest mind he’s ever known besides his own. 

“Take a break,” Caleb says, near his ear. Essek wrinkles his nose as the breath tickles his ear, jingling his earrings. 

“We are this close—” Essek protests.

Caleb reaches for the quill from Essek’s fingers. “You haven’t written anything in twenty-seven minutes. Take a break.”

With a huff, Essek pulls his hand away before Caleb can steal the quill. “I am about to,” he protests, putting the quill to the last paper he’d been looking at. A small dot bleeds into a larger spot as he places the quill but doesn’t move it further. His mind stalls at Caleb’s proximity — yes, that’s the reason. Certainly not that he is stumped. No.

“Come, dear, before the cocoa is cold.”

Essek tuts. “Hardly a concern in this household.”

Caleb merely hums, and Essek hears him sip his own hot cocoa. “Mmm,” he adds, to which Essek snorts in response.

But five minutes later, the pages hold no answers — just endless runes, numbers, and letters, rambling musings that circle around the problem but don’t strike at the heart of it. Essek twitches his fingers in the start of somatics, but they fizzle without intent and without the finishing gestures. 

“It is practically easier than a cantrip,” he says, dropping his fist heavily against the table, which rattles the mug. One of the cats glares up at him from her spot by the fire place, her green eye resentful for the disturbance. 

“For you, maybe. We all have our special tricks.” He takes out a polished stone and sets it down on a pile of papers, just as the unnerved cat leaps up from her place on the floor and darts past, rustling the papers before Essek. “I can’t say I could distill this into a spell that any wizard could replicate. And other transmuters know this trick. The same cannot be said for yours.”

“Precisely the problem,” Essek says, resting his elbow on the coffee table and settling his chin into his palm. Entirely uncouth behavior, he thinks idly. Nothing he ever could have done in the parlor growing up. In fact he never used to noodle over problems like this — or use the word ‘noodle’. No, in the before times, the century plus that stretched out before he met the Nein, he properly pondered problems in his meticulous, organized lab. Oh great, now he was alliterating in his own internal monologue.

With a sigh, he sets down his quill and fingers the amber stone dangling from his right ear. “I invented the ability in the first place. I should know how to make it a spell.”

He stands suddenly enough that Caleb jerks in surprise. “Where are you going?” 

“To organize spell components,” he says, maybe a bit haughtily, gathering up the papers to take them to their shared office. He tuts as he enters it, for the first time noting how small the space is compared to the office in his towers, and this new one is shared by two. He knew some lower staff at the Bastion shared office space like this, but he never had. 

He putters around their filing drawers for components, reorganizes his desk while harboring restraint at the urge to organize Caleb’s, and debates the merits of a new cataloging system for the bookshelf.

He has no idea how much time has passed before Caleb tugs him back down to the ground from his float to reach the top shelf, where he was sure he’d stowed his original developmental notes on defying gravity. 

“Liebling,” Caleb pleads, again nuzzling Essek’s ear so that it twitches in response. “Your cocoa is getting cold.”

With a sigh, Essek relents, allowing Caleb to pull him back into the living room. This space is small, too, but that’s not usually the word he thinks when he settles into the threadbare sofa and drapes the quilt over his legs. Cozy is the right word, he reminds himself. And whenever the shared office feels claustrophobic, he must remember that the other mind that uses it frequently expands the ideas of his own. 

He rubs his face, only now noticing the ache in his eyes from reading too many words without blinking. Caleb settles in next to him on the sofa and elbows him to hand him the cocoa, reheated with a signature fire cantrip. 

Essek takes a sip, savors the richness of the cocoa, the steam that fills his head and spreads out to the tips of his ears, and the burn at the back of his throat.

“Oh!” he exclaims, the taste of the whiskey bringing him back to an entirely different time.

“Surprise,” Caleb says.

“This will not help me think,” Essek says, wrinkling his nose but then taking another sip. It reminds him of trust, and friendship, and reunions in a lonely, cold place. But also it reminds him of great feats of magic.

“We altered the fabric of time to rejuvenate our resources,” he says, practically whining. Compeletely unacceptable back home.  “Why can we not create a simple first level spell?”

“Do you ever find writing a one page essay more challenging than a ten page term paper?” Caleb asks, as if posing a philosophical question to his class. Essek huffs. “Well, my students complain of it often.”

“I am not so young and inexperienced as them,” Essek says. 

“And you do not have the deadlines they have, either,” Caleb retorts. “The problem will be there in the morning.”

Essek leans his head against the back of the sofa and stares up at the wooden rafters. “We are on the cusp of breakthrough,” he says. “Is that not what you said to me last week? Hmm?”

Caleb turns and rests his elbow on the back of the sofa, leaning sideways to look at Essek straight on, although Essek does not turn to meet his gaze. “I believe a wise old man talked some sense into me at the time.”

“Impertinent youth.”

With a chuckle, Caleb nudges Essek’s shoulder. “How is the cocoa?”

“Delicious, of course. Did you use Caduceus’ blend? It tastes like—Oh!”

The memories of Aeor jolt something in Essek’s brain, discoveries they had made in the depths there. He reaches for the quill, and his spellbook, and spare parchment, this time sweeping the quill across the paper in flurried strokes as his other hand flips through pages to find his notes from their travels. 

Caleb leans over to read his writing and point out a discrepancy in an equation jotted down too quickly. “I think, though, that you are on to something…” 

He stands and disappears into the office, bringing back several tomes brought back from the ruins. Essek quickly finishes the cocoa as they flip through pages and refine their notes until they coalesce more or less into something resembling a spell.

When several papers spill out onto the floor, Caleb says, “You know, next time I will just summon the tower, we’d have more space, maybe a chalkboard—”

“No,” Essek says, writing the last line of runes and setting down his quill. He stares at it for a moment, the piles of paper sprawled out across the coffee table, the cats curled up in front of the hearth, the mismatched furniture taking up most of the space in the room so that Essek and Caleb have to squeeze into narrow space between the couch and table. He breathes in the smell of cocoa and the hearth. He looks to the dark window where snow accumulates atop the green bean planters. He looks at Caleb’s shining blue eyes, the excitement of crafting a new spell bright with them. 

Essek reaches out to touch Caleb’s forearm. “I would love nothing more than to be here with you.”

With a wide grin, Caleb takes Essek’s face in his hands, and kisses him.

[wyrdle]

An AI Clavell + AI Arven AU i’ve been musing, but will probably never draw to its fullest. Snippets under the cut:

CW: character death, grief, poor mental health, suicide (OG Clavell’s)

Summary: A young Arven tragically dies from falling at the steep cliffs of Cabo Poco. With no reasons to stay at their new home, the Zerotrio stay holed up in Area Zero. Despite Clavell's initial hesitance of the project, and even desire to leave the place post tera orb project... Being above ground hurts/reminds them all but especially Clavell of what could have been.

So. The three profs dive into their research, it's still focused on bringing Pokemon over, but there is a hint of a hidden hope that they could find and save Arven. ( It's a fool's dream, they know, what with the complications that would follow... but they hope regardless.) Area Zero becomes both a  prison and sanctuary for all of them... though it's probably the worst for Clavell. Eventually, the respective Miraidon and Koraidon’s kill Sada and Turo, and Clavell is left all alone in his self imposed prison.

He eventually makes AI versions of himself, and even AI Arven (no memories, just an approximation). Imagine: Young Arven’s haunting laughter throughout Area Zero, since it’s his playground. AI Turo and Sada are harder to finish, and OG Clavell eventually succumbs to his grief via suicide. Survived by him is his AI, and of course, the time machine that needs to be stopped. PPP is a manifestation of a grieving professor Clavell, not fuelled by personal ambition, only desperation to have his family back.

Additional dialogue bits of AI Clavell I wrote:

AI Clavell: " The professor... was not always like this. He once wanted to leave the crater to live out the rest of his life. He had wanted to be a part of the academy even, with the dreamy goal of becoming director."

AI Clavell: "I think the professor would have much preferred to live with Arven away from the crater... had the boy..." AI Clavell pauses, as if to collect himself. "... had the boy not died."

AI Clavell: "Although I am not the professor, and that is not his son, he is as dear to me as he was to the grieving professors. "

AI Clavell: "Arven's death made leaving the crater hard, and I think... being in isolation with professors Sada and Turo affected his judgement. After witnessing their deaths firsthand... ruined his heart."

AI Clavell: "Now I carry with me the professor's memories, and boundless love for the rest of Paldea's people and Pokemon. I cannot comprehend the intricacies of human guilt and emotion, but had the professor not been consumed by his grief and trauma... I do not think he would want the time machine to destroy Paldea's ecosystems."

AI Clavell: "It is your right, of course, to judge him and cement that as your opinion of him. But please understand, Professor Clavell was ultimately a kind man... trapped first by his grief for Arven, then his love for his dearest friends. Area Zero is as much a prison for me as it was for him."

AI Clavell: "I sincerely hope you will assist me in destroying the time machine... and allow the original Professor Clavell to rest in peace. Please... for Arven's sake and the Professor's late memory, defeat me."

PPP CLAVELL: I 4m s0 cl05e t0.... t0... brinGIng them b4ck.. y-y0u wi11 n0t st4nd in my w4y!

PPP Clavell upon defeat: I 0nly ever w4nted them b4ck... whY is p4r4dise s0 cl0se yet s0 f4r? The AI w4nt5 to le4ve thi5 pl4ce, but we c4nnot, I- c4nnot, I mu5t n0t.

“I ju5t w4nted- my friend5- my f4mi1y- b4ck. H-help me- “

Slowly, the AI professor crumpled to the floor, knees hitting the obsidian tiles with an anticlimatic thud. The small robot boy who had been hiding by Nemona's side let go of her hand, dashing forward to tackle the now powerless protection protocol in a hug.

"4rven-" it manages to sob, mimicking shallow breaths and shedding crystalline flecks till its light blue eyes were restored.

-----

I have some other stray notes about how Paldea’s very different in this au too, but eh. This isn’t going anywhere besides my vivid imagination haha

[lunarxdaydream]

🥱 - for my muse to yawn loudly . Iomhar to Anna, after a night of partying. (Uh, reversed though, so Iomhar is the one yawning)

( misc action memes )

🥱 - for my muse to yawn loudly . [ reversed ]

"My legs are sore!"

Anna drops on the nearest settee of her chambers. Her coat practically thrown aside, wishing nothing more than to relax. Too bad the spell of music has yet to ebb from her veins. Ah -- how long has it been since she danced the night away? Or simply just enjoyed the company of another?

Often times she must concern herself with decorum and the like but with Iomhar, a breath of freedom is allowed. He did not care for propriety. Did not possess any ulterior motives for some secret plan. In all honesty, Seelie's king did not give her the impression of a cutthroat ruler who used his gentry as pawns in a long spanning game.

-- And for that, she cannot help but to envy her friend.

"You are free to stay.", Anna remarked with laughter. "I doubt the Ardell's are expecting you back so ... uh ... early," Dawn is hardly 'early' considering they had left just at the peak of sunfall. "Not with me at least."

Fingers clutch the blanket tossed over the armrest. What little energy left in reserve used to stand, the ache in her legs returning. His dark locks are a mess threaded with violet are faintly a mess. Though surely none of the patrons from the bar would have minded when faced with the rest of him. She had known Seelie's guests would be popular but as ever, Iomhar knew how to draw eyes upon him without so much trying.

Taking care to drape the blanket over him, Anna cannot help but gently pat his head for humor's sake.

"I do hope you enjoyed yourself."

|| @arcxnumvitae ||

[alleviatiion]

what is your underlying motif?

the bread / whether it’s your ability to rise against the odds, provide comfort, or be a staple in lives, your undercurrent is bread. you’re made from love and you carry it your whole life, to give on to others in any way you can. you’re delicate and it doesn’t take a lot to break you, but still you rise up and that is more important than what took you down. be careful with your heart, it’s so full of love that it needs to be treated delicately. you’re a staple in lives, a necessity, but not always as appreciated as you should be. so here is a thanks to you. m.f.k fisher said “ the smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, is indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight” and that my friend, that is you.

tagged by: @crestazul <333

tagging: you !!!!!!

[alleviatiiona]

you could tell what she was thinking just by looking at her. she’d tell you anything—didn’t know what a secret was. if she was unhappy, she cried. if happy, she smiled.

Michael J. Sullivan, The Rose and The Thorn

[yesimwriting]

The Needs of Pain (part 2)

A/n since y’all liked part one!!

... i think i could make a part 3?? we’ll see lol 

This is the LONGEST thing i’ve written on here wow,, and the smuttiest 

Warnings: teasing, oral, unprotected sex (pls this is my first time writing full smut be gentle lol)

-- 

Exhaustion is an odd result of pain. I didn’t think I was that tired after the burn. I certainly didn’t feel sleepy while Kirigan cleaned my shoulder and brushed his soft lips and sharp teeth along my neck to distract me from the pain. Why am I even thinking of that? Of the way his breath felt against my skin, the way his tongue soothed any bites he left against my skin. I breathe out flatly. 

Stop thinking of him. Stop thinking of him in that context--that’s why he did it. He enjoys getting under people’s skin, that’s why he’s always insulting the way I see the world. My hand reaches to my neck, touching my skin where I can still feel his lips on my skin, tracing the faint marks I had seen in the bathroom mirror.

I should have asked the healer to get rid of them before they fully formed, but the thought of showing them to anyone was too embarrassing to bear. I force my hand away, dropping it onto my pillow. 

He had acted so strange today, he had been so blunt. It was a tactic. He wants to be in my head and I’m giving him what he wants. I sigh, rolling over and pulling my duvet further up my body. It’s too hot for this. Ugh. I kick the duvet off of my legs, letting my nightgown wrinkle up my body. Strong hands could pull the fabric up in a similar, yet much more euphoric way. 

No. Who’s thoughts are these? The fact that I picture the same hands that dabbed at my burn earlier today has me questioning my sanity. I can’t sleep like this. Kirigan wanted to be in my head and now he is. Damn him. I can’t stand him which means I can never have him.

Desire has nothing to do with tolerance. The thought leaves my face warm and stomach twisted. 

I sit up sharply, sliding out of bed tiredly. I’ll get some air and everything will be fine. The moon will clear my mind.

The Little Palace is strangely twisting at night, all long shadows and yellow lantern light. I slip out of my room quickly, but my thoughts are not immediately banished with the change of scenery. I must be ill. Infection must have set in regardless of my efforts and the healer sealed it beneath my skin and now it’s impacting me. Fever. I’m delusional with fever. 

“I didn’t take you the kind for a late night trist.” 

His voice leaves the hairs on the back of my neck standing like soldiers at attention. I manifested him the same way people manifest the devil. “Air.” My defense is childish. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get some air.” 

The sound of even footsteps leaves me frozen in place. “What keeps someone like you awake?” It’s like he can read through me. “Thoughts of me?” 

He can never know. “Obviously.” 

My sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, he lets out an almost humored breath. “Or perhaps it’s pain.” 

The comment is so confusing I almost don’t realize he’s bringing up my shoulder injury. How had I let him see me so vulnerable? Why did he seem somewhat concerned in his own way? 

“My shoulder’s perfectly fine.” Good. A normal direction for this conversation to head. “It took the Healer all of two minutes.” 

The touch on my shoulder is so sudden I almost jump. Kirigan doesn’t shy away at that, fingers firmly brushing down the skin. “It feels the same.” 

I could scream. His strange observation means nothing to me, but the implication is enough to drive me mad. The implication that he knows my skin well enough to be able to judge whether the healed skin feels different is sickening. I’m tired of this. 

I turn on my heels, all of my tiredness and irritation twisting in me. “Even if it didn’t, it’s none of your concern.” 

“I didn’t realize you were extra irritable when you’re tired.”

Every conversation with him leaves me feeling petulant. “I’m not tired.” I cross my arms, keep my expression set. “I just--I wanted to get some air.” 

“Hm.” He takes a step forward, preparing to close the small distance I’d managed to create between us. “And why is that?” 

The question leaves me irritated in an odd way. A flat way. There’s a narcissistic entitlement in that question. An entitlement to my thoughts. I shrug. “I hoped it’d make me tired.” 

Kirigan draws his eyebrows together, curiosity and something resembling amusement playing at his expression. “If you’d like to be tired, I think I know a few ways to be of assistance.”

A faint, aggravating warmth comes to my face. Not only did my lie earn me a ridiculous innuendo, it’s also trapped me in a corner I cannot escape. Healing from the burn had left me pathetically drowsy. There’s no way he can’t see through me, a tired haze has to be visible on my face. My eyelids feel weighted and I’m too distracted by my deep longing for sleep to hold onto irritation. 

“I’m sure I’ll manage on my own.” The words are not meant to be a challenge, just a way to dismiss him. I don’t think he takes them that way. 

He draws his eyebrows together, eyes threatening to lose that curious quality. Kirigan steps forward, I step back blankly, desperate to keep enough distance to keep what’s left of my wits about me. He ignores my reaction, taking another step forward. I take another step back. My back touches the wall. I am a mouse and he’s an excited cat. 

“You don’t have to,” his voice is too low, too intimate, “I’m not sure that’s something you want to understand.” 

My chin raises just slightly, a silent protest. “Dependency is a fatal flaw.” 

“So is desire,” his reply is much too quick. “Desire is worse, because one can resist dependency based on pride...but desire, that is something that one sacrifices for.” 

Maybe if I was less tired I’d bother to interpret his words a little more. But all I can focus on is his tone--the quality of it. “You sound heavy.” My voice is as light as the night breeze I was craving moments ago. “But you always sound heavy.” It’s the wistful observation of someone slowly disappearing. “At least you’re pretty,” I muse, falling more and more distant by the second.

Something soft breaks across his features, his lips quirking. “Pretty?” 

I rest my back against the wall comfortably, eyes shutting without permission. “I’m sure I’ll regret that comment in a moment.” 

He stays silent, but his presence does not disappear. I can’t tell if I’m glad for it. The warm touch on my shoulder startles me out of my drowsy trance. Panic has me ready to jump off the wall, but Kirigan brushes his thumb up and down my shoulder. His touch sets any skin that comes in contact with him aflame. I shouldn’t find the gesture so comforting. My eyes flutter shut again, my body relaxing against the wall. When my protest dies out before it begins, Kirigan shifts closer. I’m confused, but too at peace to answer. Something velvety and warm brushes against my collar. Soft and warm and electric. He’s kissing my skin again. 

My lips part in hopes of arguing, but when his teeth graze the skin he already marked earlier I’m gone. My eyes shut again, but this time it’s different. Pleasure and drowsiness clear me of all inhibitions as his touch becomes more and more assured. I let him test me, his mouth moving against any and all exposed skin. I don’t even stop him when I feel his hands graze the hem of my nightgown, wrinkling it the way I imagined earlier. 

“Kirigan.” I need to find my strength, but what’s the point of strength when his touch leaves me so warm? The only acknowledgement of my protest he offers me is the lingering squeeze of my thigh before his long fingers begin to graze towards the inside of my thighs. I have no choice but to let his lips brush up my neck, his teeth grazing my skin the way they did earlier today. “Kirigan.” I try to sound firmer, but he destroys the rest of my sentence before I have the chance to get it out. His teeth nip the base of my neck, ruining my protest for a second time.

 Maybe if I was less tired I’d be able to fight him off a little better, but I’m so drowsy I had trouble thinking before he started touching me. My eyes shut in both bliss and exhaustion. His thumb presses into my hip. Something in me stalls as his fingers brush the hem of my underwear--testing me, challenging me. I open my eyes on instinct, but he remains unbothered, slipping his thumb beneath the only fabric that divides us in order to better grip my hip.

I stiffen because of how badly I want to melt. This is bad. This is insane. We’re in a hallway in the middle of the night and he’s General Kirigan. Whatever attraction I feel is another tactic to manipulate me. 

“We need to stop.” The command is weak, my voice as dry as my resolve. 

He angles his head in order to regard me a little better. His expression is one of mock confusion as he smirks. Actually smirks. “Stop what?” False innocence drips from his voice as he leans towards me, expression amused as his lips near my own. “I haven’t even started yet.” My eyes widen, something that amuses him. “Y/n?”

I’m left on edge. I’m left wanting. My lips part flatly, but words feel so distant. “Yes?” 

“What happened earlier?” His voice is the kind of sinful that’s meant to coax. Kirigan brushes his thumb across my shoulder, eyes watching mine cautiously. “How did you get burned?” 

I push against the sultry quality of his voice. “I told you--an accident.” 

“Hm.” His eyebrows draw together in a surprisingly soft way. I stare at him freely, but he ignores my gaze, eyes locked on my newly healed skin. Is he truly that concerned? “Whose accident?” 

I swallow once. “My own.” He still isn’t looking at me. “I’m not exactly the most coordinated person, you’ve witnessed my clumsiness yourself.” 

Kirigan is not convinced. Perhaps he will never fully buy my partial lie. His grip on me hardens. Restraint. I may not be able to win against his paranoia, but I might be able to distract him. Cautiously, I move one hand forward, touching the hand that’s on my shoulder. I hesitate. Touching him without prompting almost feels too intimate. I’m being ridiculous. I brush my fingers against the back of his palm, letting my touch trail up his forearm. 

“Y/n.” My name borders on a warning. 

I suppress a smile, playing into my sleepiness as I tilt my head to the side. “Yes?” 

He doesn’t reply, expression tightening as my hand snares around his wrist, pulling it off my shoulder with more care than I thought myself capable of. The intensity of his gaze is enough to burn me. I turn my full attention to his hand. I’d never admit this out loud, but this isn’t the first time I’ve thought about how objectively attractive his hands are. I kiss each of his knuckles slowly, brushing my lips against his skin tentatively. 

To my surprise, he allows my indulgence. I glance at him through my lashes. Kirigan’s eyes are shut, expression bordering on pained. “Kirigan?” 

He opens his eyes but his expression does not ease. His other hand leaves my thigh, grabbing the low collar of my nightgown with such a fierce speed it takes me a second to realize what’s happening. He pulls me away from the wall in a way that borders on violent. 

“I don’t know who you’re protecting, but I guarantee you they’re not worth it.” The words are acidic. He’s seething. “I grow tired of your resistance.” 

If he hadn’t transformed into something so untamed, I might have had enough gall to tell him I grow tired of being toyed with. I say nothing, instead I take in the abrasiveness of his anger, the tension of his grip on the thin fabric that clothes me. I am unflinching in my assessment in the most tired way possible, eyes struggling not to shut and body desperate to rest, but even more desperate for him. His eyes stare into mine, searching for something I am too far gone to offer. He must realize my sleepiness is genuine because he soon drops his gaze, taking his time in analyzing the even rise and fall of my chest as well as the hint of cleavage his grip on my nightgown is exposing. Pure heat finds itself in my face, chest, and worst of all---core. His staring lacks any shame. 

Kirigan parts his lips as if to speak but then instead takes a moment to lick them. The thought of his tongue in relation to lips only makes the burning in me worse. It’s practically an ache. A needy one. 

“I grow weary of your lack of understanding.” 

Understanding? “What is there to understand?” 

His head angles itself to one side but he doesn’t meet my gaze. The hold he has on me loosens just enough so that his hold on me is no longer taut. That should not disappoint me the way it does. I wait patiently, ignoring the bundle of unexplained nerves in my stomach as best as I can. Something strange colors his features when he finally looks at me again, something almost vulnerable. 

“I brought you here.” He sounds farther from me than ever. “I…” His exhale is gentle, but his expression is quick to harden. “Who are you so willing to protect?”

I must be really tired because his voice sounds like it borders on heart ache. If I didn’t fear Arthur’s safety I’d tell Kirigan everything if it meant his pain would dissipate. I never thought Kirigan’s potential pain would bother me, but now that I’ve seen him look stricken by something so weighted--now that I’ve seen the way he wears pain--I don’t want to be the one to give him that. I want to be the one to give him some kind of sanctuary. The thought leaves me with a desire to flea. 

“Will you just believe me when I say it’s no one?” In a way that’s the truth. Arthur is not particularly significant unless you’re a young Grisha female with a desire for heart ache. “No one worth mentioning at least.” 

He’s quick to retighten his hold on my nightgown, leaving the fabric taut and more of me exposed. “You being desperate to protect them makes them worth interest.” A different response than I expected. 

My lips thin. “Only because it was a small accident. They don’t deserve to be punished over the briefest loss of focus.” 

I take his silence as an indicator that he is considering my words. His free hand finds my shoulder as he pulls me even closer to him by the fabric he’s gripping. “And if I were to revoke the threat of punishment?” His voice is the definition of temptation, low and promising and coddling me with its sinfulness. I still as Kirigan leans forward so that his lips are practically on my ear. “Then would you tell me? If I released you from the binds of your nobility?” My lips part but I have no words prepared. Before I can think of what to say, his lips graze the side of my jaw before his teeth nip at the end of my ear. “Tell me just to humor me.” 

The command doesn’t make sense to me, but from his lips it feels important. “You won’t hurt them for what happened?” 

His voice seems rougher than before, “Would that make a difference?” 

“It would make all the difference.” I don’t like the honesty of my words. 

Kirigan allows one hand to trail down my waist--a gesture I consider obscenely intimate when paired with the soft brush of his lips on my collar. “I already know who.” His voice is a dark hum. “I was always going to know one way or another--but it’s good to know you would have told me.”

My stomach lurches, dread pouring into me like tar. Before fear can force me to take action, Kirigan begins to leave open mouth kisses from the top of my jaw to the bottom of my neck, taking his time to assault any spot of skin with his tongue that he wants. This reminds me too much of earlier--touches meant to distract from pain with the use of pleasure. 

“Are you--” His mouth is now on my collar, threatening to destroy my question. “Are you going to hurt him?”

At that Kirigan straightens. The sudden lack of contact leaves me cold. I shouldn't be thinking of him. Of his touch. “I’m curious,” he draws out each syllable, delighting in my nerves, “Would you bear his punishment?” 

I’m not sure. I hate that. I haven’t known Arthur for that long, and while he’s kind, he also seems to see all women as replaceable. That isn’t reason for him to endure Kirigan’s punishment but I don’t know him well enough to just blindly agree to that. I loathe myself for not being noble enough to take Arthur’s punishment instantly. 

“What kind of punishment?” 

Kirigan’s expression twists into a greedy smile. He pushes me back easily, pressing me into the wall with more confidence than ever. I’m silent in my confusion until he presses himself against me and I feel something hard and bulging press into where I’m neediest. I stifle a gasp of surprise and something similar to pleasure. “I’m sure I could think of something for you.” I’d care more about my confusion if hot need wasn’t flooding my thoughts and my body with undeniable desperation. “I haven’t even spoken to him.” I exhale, untrusting relief desperate to escape me. Kirigan is quick to lean forward, lips brushing my ear as he prepares to whisper. “I’m more likely to harm him because he has your favor than anything else.”

Warmth burns my face. “He doesn’t--he’s not exactly the one that holds my favor.”

The heat of his breath adds to my burning as he presses his bulge into my core again. “And who does?” 

I’m not sure what he considers favor, but if it has anything to do with wanting he wins. But he can never know that. “There are some contenders, but no one yet.” 

His hand moves off my hip and nears my throat. “Would it be too bold to assume I’m on the short list?”

He’s two steps away from taking me in an open hallway, I doubt he finds much bold. “Do you want to be?” 

Kirigan’s hand tightens on my throat. “I’ve made it clear from the beginning what I want.” His words are lethal and each syllable has him restricting my airflow a little more. Something in me must be broken because my neediness only worsens. “I brought you here because I see all that you could be. Forget being a Saint, we could be gods.” The sentiment is so raw it’s almost harder to bear than his tight grip on my neck. He leans close again, his scent only adding to my budding lightheadedness. “Say the word, and I could have you praising me like I’m already a god.” My stomach knots in both nerves and insatiable hunger. “Though I’m the one that would be doing the worshipping.” 

My resolve is shattered, leaving me broken and twisting. He releases his hold on my neck in order to move his hand beneath my chin. There is nothing gentle about the way he jerks my head forward, forcing me to look into his eyes. Something about the look he gives me has me melting. His eyes are searching for something in me.

He must find whatever he’s looking for because I feel his touch against my heat, fingers pressing against fabric. I bite my lip on instinct, suppressing the sound of my undoing. Kirigan’s eyes never leave mine as the hand on my chin moves to brush against my bottom lip. 

“I can only give you what you want if you tell me what that is.” 

He exhales slowly, pressing his thumb against my lip downwards. My mouth parts on instinct, something that he takes well. His thumb enters my mouth slowly, taking in my reaction as I taste his skin on my tongue. Kirigan pulls his thumb away from my tongue slowly, a thin string of saliva connecting him to my mouth. With one swift tug, his free hand pulls the only fabric separating him from where I want him most down my thighs. His expression reveals nothing as his thumb, still wet with my saliva, is pressed against my core. His touch teases my clit, just barely brushing where I need him most. The whine that escapes me is so desperate I’m ashamed I can’t help it. 

“So wet already,” his appraisal is gentle, the praise whispered against my throat as his lips brush against my neck. “So wet, so needy that you’d let me take you in this hallway and I’ve hardly touched you.” His finger presses further into me. I let out another pathetic breath. “A pity, someone like you--so painfully under cared for.” I’m reduced to nothing by his words and touch. “What I’d give to undue you here, against the wall--I’d have you crying so loudly everyone would know that I’ve claimed you, that I’ve made you mine.” Before I can reflect on his words, he steps back, pulling my underwear back up as quickly as he yanked it down. 

I let out an instinctual whine. My hand moves to his arm, grabbing him like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. “What--” 

Kirigan squeezes my hand, a predator’s smile on his lips. “I want to feel all of you,” his hand squeezes my hip, “I can’t exactly do that against a wall, dove of mine,” he leans forward, lips brushing against my jaw in a way that leaves me chilled and melting at the same time, “At least not the first time.” 

His whisper forces my breathing to hitch, a fact that he notices with an amused look as his thumb brushes against my collar. Kirigan pulls me away from the wall easily. Even the causal touch feels electric against my skin. 

The walk towards my room is tense, his hands never leaving me as if he’s aware of how necessary it is to keep me distracted to ward off my better sense. When we reach my door, Kirigan opens it like it’s his. Entitled. Typical. 

I step into the room, his touch lingering on my arm. A brief shyness pushes itself into my chest. I had let Kirigan touch me in a public space and lead me back to my room. The door closes. I don’t turn. 

Kirigan’s hand squeezes my shoulder. “Shy, now?” His question is teasing, rekindling the fire beneath my skin as he places an open mouth kiss on my neck. He plays with the thin strap of my nightgown, pushing it off my shoulder. He kisses down my neck, collarbone, and shoulder. My inhibitions are melted away again. “When your breathing stalls like that,” his whisper is enough to elicit a desperate shudder, “I am left desperate.” 

He leans forward, mouth trailing down my chest, coming dangerously close to my breasts. The electric current of his touch is all consuming and addicting. I press my back into his chest. His hands are the opposite of shy, touching me everywhere except where I’m most desperate. Kirigan’s hand places itself between my thighs, using his thumb to tease my entrance. I let out a needy sound. And then he retracts his hand, grabbing my shoulders and turning me in one swift motion. 

“Kirigan.” 

His eyes are dark, clouded by something I don’t understand but am too aware that I reciprocate. “Tell me that I have your favor.” His words are taut, bordering on snapping. Kirigan’s grip on me tightens hard enough to bruise, an assertive need taking over him. “That you want me.”

Desire, pride, and rationality twist in my stomach, leaving me too distracted to form words. My gaze drops to the ground on instinct, something Kirigan clearly finds unacceptable because he’s quick to grab my chin and force my eyes to meet his. 

I swallow once, courage withering beneath the look in his eyes. It’s as twisted as a spindling shadow, but the look is fierce admirational, appreciation so deep I could drown in it. It scares and consols me all at once. “I want you.” There’s something pained about such powerful emotion. I loathe and am empowered by it all at once. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” The words leave my throat scorching with their sincerity. 

As soon as the words leave me, he’s closing the distance between us, the slightest exhale of tension leaving his lips before they meet mine, prepared to devour me. I reciprocate his actions on instinct alone. There is no hesitation, no space, and yet it is not enough. Not enough and yet I don’t know how to be closer. But Kirigan does. One of his hands cup my cheek, coaxing me towards him as if I could possibly have the will to leave him. He steps forward, guiding me to step back. I obey fluidly until I feel something hit the back of my legs. It’d startle me if I wasn’t so consumed by his touch.

His mouth begins to move away from my skin. I chase after him, desperate to keep him touching me. He stops me by placing a hand on my shoulder, a warning about my neediness. I pout, but as he studies me I pant. Maybe the excuse for air was a good idea. I don’t fight the uneasiness of my breathing as I hold Kirigan’s gaze. He regards me with a patience I consider unbearable, taking in the determined look in his eyes, my swollen lips, disheveled hair, and the top of my night gown that’s half falling off. 

It’s in this moment I realize how much more vulnerable than him I am. 

If Kirigan notices any shift in me, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he adjusts his hand on my cheek, his thumb brushing the hot skin gently. “You are everything.” His voice is cracking glass. “Everything that’s good, at least.” 

Maybe he did notice my initial reaction because I am no longer certain that I am the one that’s most vulnerable. “You’re better than you think.” I only say this because it would only weigh on me more to stay silent. “I see it and you don’t want me to.” 

His hand continues to stroke my cheek. “I want you to see all of me.” The heavy beating of my heart seems to stall in my chest. Kirigan drops his hand before grasping the hem of my nightgown. He pulls the fabric upwards easily, bundling the fabric above my hip. “I want you to…” He exhales flatly, pulling the fabric upwards even more. Nerves flood my stomach as he leans towards me, kissing down my jaw. “To know me,” he whispers against my throat.

I am nothing but uneven breaths as he mouth moves down my chest, stalling only once he’s reached my breasts. He pushes me forward easily, guiding me so that I’m laying on my bed. He’s quick to move over me, kissing up my neck as he adjusts so that I’m against the headboard.

When he pulls away again, I’m left pouting. He grins, fueled by my disappointment. “Don’t worry,” he breathes, fingers hooking around the waistband of my underwear before tugging it down my legs easily, “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.” 

Being so exposed has my doubts flooding back, but Kirigan is quick to fight against my instincts in a way only he seems capable of. He squeezes the inside of my upper thigh before leaning down, pressing his mouth onto the skin his fingers just touched. His kisses here are meant to leave me even more desperate, each nip and fleeting pass of his tongue is lazy yet intentional. I am incapable of doing else besides letting out pathetic whines. 

He ignores where I need him most, kissing up my thigh, across my lower stomach, and then down my other thigh. Kirigan continues the pattern across my skin, ignoring any pleas I swallow my pride to give. He is not rushed by my words or cries or the occasional desperate adjustment of my hips. 

Kirigan lifts his head slightly, releasing my inner thigh with an obscene ‘pop’. “Patience.” His fingers trail up my thigh and over my core, teasing my entrance with his lithe fingers. “Unless you’re ready to beg?” 

It’s a challenge, like everything else. The urge to give him my pride to satisfy the electric desire I’m not sure I’m capable of bearing. But then I note his tense hold on my thigh. A sign of restraint, of want. 

“And if I want you to beg for me?” I don’t know where the words come from, but they charge the room with potential. 

Something strange crosses his fingers before his lips tilt upwards in a dark way. “Would you like the strength of that? To have someone like me powerless before you?” My face warms. Kirigan leaves a lingering kiss on my thigh before he moves off the bed. I sigh at the loss of contact, but my tired neediness stalls at the sound of his belt coming undone. “I want to see you on your knees.” I sit up carelessly, desperate to obey him. I’m kneeling in front of him in an instant, taking in his length. The size of it has me gaping. “Open your mouth.” 

I take the order more eagerly than I should, but I make no move to take him. This is just another challenge. I keep my eyes on his as I stick my tongue out before licking the bottom of his member all the way up to his tip. The sound he lets out is pure sin. I lick his tip slowly, each motion of my tongue is strategic as I finally place him in my mouth. I hollow my cheeks, moving up and down slowly. 

The pace is not enough for him, he grips my hair from my scalp as he thrusts into my mouth. The motion is more powerful than I expected and I am left unable to breathe. My slight gag does the opposite of discourage him, he repeats the motion again and again, pushing himself into me until I can feel him in my throat. 

The sounds he lets out are a chorus to me, but it’s not enough. I need more control, I need a way to make him beg. I raise a hand, wrapping it around the base that I cannot fit into my mouth. I stroke him once slowly, making a point as I try to push myself back in order to make him want me more. 

He groans again. I make a point of pushing myself off of him. Precum protrudes his tip. I lick it off of him slowly. I lick up and down his member in the smallest way possible. 

“Y/n,” the restraint in his voice fuels my teasing, “Tease me and you’ll still be overwhelmed by want when the sun rises.” 

A pout tugs at my lips before I open my mouth again, taking Kirigan to my limit. He lets me set the pace of my bobs at first, but then he becomes desperate, holding me in place by the roots of my hair as he moans and thrusts into me without restraint. He ignores my choking as he continues until he throws his head back, letting out a quick praise of my name.

He finishes in my mouth and I swallow all he offers me greedly. I back off my knees slowly, throat burning as his member leaves my mouth. “On the bed.” He’s turned into something insatiable. “Now.” 

I move back to my bed, laying in the same position as before. He takes his time approaching me. When he finally gets to me, he kisses my thighs easily. I let out a small breath before something that’s pure pleasure meets my core. His tongue laps upwards lazily, grazing my clit but not quite touching it.  My hips thrust towards his face, but with hand he holds me down. A coil in my stomach continues to build as he angles himself more purposefully, tongue finally taking care of my clit. My gasps become less and less reasonable as he continues to lap at all that my body has to offer. The coil tightens, I see stars--and then, like cruelty personified, he pulls away. His absence leaves me ready to cry out. 

My desperation only fuels Kirigan as he lines himself with my entrance. Concern twists my stomach as I consider how full my mouth felt when he was in me. I expect some level of warning, but he thrusts into me with no warning. I let out a pathetic cry, but that means nothing to him as he pulls out just to thrust into me with full force again.

“Only I can hurt you,” he demands, thrusting into me as I call out his name. My eyes water at the sensation of such fullness, pleasure and pain combining themselves in a way that leaves me incapable of thought. “Your tears,” he muses, one hand moving to wipe at a tear rolling down my cheek, “Are mine.” 

His thrusts become more and more brutal, less and less even. Each movement of his body in mine leaves me begging for more and less at the same time. He continues until the coil in my stomach tenses to the point of breaking. 

“Kirigan,” I manage, voice far away, “I’m going t--”

“I know,” he offers, “finish with me, dove.” His hand finds my throat, adding the slightest bit of restrained pressure. “And do not hold in your cries.” 

Two more sharp thrusts have us both finishing, calling out for each other as we try to draw out the high of our orgasms together. 

We stay intertwined like that for longer than we should, but then Kirigan stands. I envy his ability to do so. I don’t call for him even though I still don’t want to be alone here. A moment later, I hear him approach. I’m too drowsy to ask what he’s doing as a damp towel is wiped against my forehead and inner thighs. 

When he’s finished cleaning me, some raw emotion settles in my chest. “Are you leaving?” 

Kirigan hesitates. “Not if you don’t want me to.” 

I roll over, the motion leaves my body aching. Kirigan accepts my invitation, crawling beneath my sheets and adjusting our bodies so that he can rest his hand on my back. 

--

Tags: @luminous-99 @voyevoda-thejoy @voidmalfoy 

@i-padfootblack-things

 @all-art-is-quite-useless @buckverse @mandowh0re @benbarnes-supremacy

@we-love-our-bandz @fire-in-her-veinz @weirdowithnobeardo @bvudzsoo @kaque @ponyboys-sunsets @coldlilheart @granillx @dreamohlittledreamofme @sanna2020 @zaynzierulez 

@ive-died-everday-waiting-for-you @xxaerynxx @ralesera @tea-effect 

@tranquillitymoon

[reastless]

[crimsonophelia]

hi! could i request for an imagine involving childe and a gn reader? the reader is childe’s longtime childhood friend who’s more or less been in love with him since they were young—and they document the extent of their feelings in a diary (complete with embarrassingly detailed paragraphs planning out theirs and childe’s wedding, gushing over every little thing about him, incidents where they felt petty and jealous over childe showing interest in someone else, etc etc.) that they accidentally end up mailing to childe in liyue thinking it was the book they bought him as a gift.

when they realize the mix-up, they try to make a run for the post office to stop it from being sent to him, but it’s no use—it’s already been shipped out and sent off. how childe ends up responding, doing, or reacting is completely up to you! (i apologize if this request was a little long aha; i hope you have a wonderful day!)

featuring: childe x gn!reader

warnings: none

published: april 22 2021

form: imagine

a/n: thank you for requesting!! this is so cute~~ i love wholesome, bashful childe www

you couldn’t believe it. oh my god, you were such a huge, fucking idiot. how could you have gotten the letters mixed up with the bank documents??? the whole point of keeping your ridiculously embarrassing letters to tartaglia separate from the rest of your documents was just so something like THIS could never happen! 

the eleventh fatui harbinger had requested a few copies of official documents from northland bank to help zhongli with some funeral parlor legal paperwork, and you happily obliged, jumping at the opportunity to be of help to the boy you’ve admired for so long.

but for some reason, you were feeling particularly airheaded today. the night before, you had written yet another “letter” to tartaglia in your diary, much like the countless other sheets of paper clipped together, filled with endless words of yearning that will never be read by their intended recipient. you wrote:

“my dearest ajax,

i hope life as a harbinger is going well. i quite miss when we were back in snezhnaya as children, but i suppose i should thank celestia that fate brought us back together in liyue. i still cant help but to miss you each and every day, though. it feels like its been so long since we last got together and talked. i remember last time we had an actual conversation was at wangshu inn— was it three, no, four months ago? i cant quite recall. you looked so lovely, as usual. your smile never fails to make me laugh, especially with that one crooked tooth. i still love to bully you about that, you know. hopefully we can meet again soon, sincerely. im tired of being just friends, tartaglia. not when you look at me like that, and not when you always love to put your arm around my shoulder and pull me in to you every time we meet. i dont know how you feel about me—sometimes it appears as if you might feel the same, though i can never be sure. but i digress. life is rather lonely without you, and yet i manage to get by, somehow.

always yours,

[y/n]”

you tucked the letter amidst the stack of all the others, confident that they would never see the light of day. but somehow, somehow, your foolish, sleep-deprived brain mixed the letters in between the documents from the bank, and now tartaglia would know everything. all your foolish musings over the years, fawning over his rogueish charm like a child, yearning for your friend with such humiliating naïveté. this cannot happen. you have to get to him before the mail can, somehow. he was currently staying at an inn nearby the funeral parlor—there’s gotta be a way to be quicker than the mail deliverer.

you hurried out of your office and hailed the first rickshaw you see lined up on the street, and ordered him to drive you to the inn, as soon as humanly possible.

upon arrival, you leapt out of the seat, tossing an indiscriminately large fare at the driver before stumbling onto the sidewalk, almost dropping your things. slamming open the door to the inn, you reach the front counter. asking breathlessly, “which room is mr. tartaglia staying in?”, you hurry to the room the doorman indicates to be the fatui’s residence.

but before you get the chance to even look for the room, you turn the corner and slam into a taller body. to your dismay, you look up and see the face of a shocked tartaglia looking down at you, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. shit.

shit shit shit. this cannot be happening right now. maybe he hasn’t read the letters yet? slim chance, though—he’s always been nosy.

“[y/n]...” Childe looked at you with a pained glint in his eyes. he reached out for your arm with his free hand.

ah. so he knew.

you tried to jerk away, feeling your cheeks heat up with embarassment and the pressure that always comes before tears. things are never going to be the same again. all because of my stupidity.

you felt yourself colliding with the wall of tartaglia’s chest again, as he abruptly dropped all he was holding. a pair of arms wrapped themselves assuredly around your waist, so familiar, yet so foreign. not able to hold yourself together for any longer, you let yourself go, crying into tartaglia’s chest, your voice racked with harsh, humiliating, childish sobs.

“why did you hide it from me for so long?” you felt tartaglia whisper into your hair, his breath grazing your scalp. his warmth was so delicious, something youve been craving for so long finally being satiated.

looking up, his usual charming smirk was much more sad, almost guilt-ridden. “i care about you so much [y/n]. you know you can tell me anything, right?”

gasping for air, you felt so ashamed for making such a scene in front of him. “i was so scared, ajax. scared that i would drag you down, or scared you would leave me behind.” you couldn’t bear to meet the pained gaze of the boy yoy so hopelessly fell in love with.

his rough hand smoothed over your hair, comforting you like he used to, back when you two were children in snezhnaya. drawing you effortlessly closer towards him, until you felt his lips plant a chaste kiss upon your forehead.

“you know i love you, [y/n], don’t you? i always have and i always will.”

you clung on to him tighter, fearing what the world might return to if you ever let go. you couldn’t let him slip through your fingers, not again.

“i don’t want you to suffer because of me anymore, my dear.”

a/n: to clarify YES THIS IS A HAPPY ENDING READER AND CHILDE GET TOGETHER i just didnt wanna go any further and do a complete 180 on the tone lolol i hope this is okay!!

[vibraniumwing]

the truth in your eyes.

a bucky barnes x fem!reader blurb wherein the reader shows bucky that someone does trust him.

WARNING: TFATWS SPOILERS, bucky having flashbacks, aside from that nothing else. (maybe a dash of angst if you squint just enough)

A/N: so as you all know, episode four was a rollercoaster of emotions for everyone and well that one scene where bucky was finally set free tore me into a million pieces, making me sob so hard (the hardest since the last episode of wandavision) and gave me so much muse. listened to hate to see your heartbreak by paramore while writing this. totally didn’t cry while re-watching those scenes for this fic. (sobbed even more when i listened to safe and sound bye)

beta read by these two lovelies: @anchoeritic and @harrysweasleys but mistakes are all mine!

---

“...Hail HYDRA” was all that left Bucky’s lips as he easily snapped the neck of the man that he pursued in another mission as the Winter Soldier. His face was blank and cold as he stood there, eyes gazing over the lifeless body of the man in front him before looking at the other man standing by the end of the hallway, practically frozen with fear.

The sound of his boots were resonating in the hallway, overpowering the clatter of the keys of the man as he tried his best to unlock his hotel room. Panic consumed him as he felt The Winter Soldier’s presence draw nearer to him, “P-Please, I didn’t see anything,” He begged, avoiding the super assassin’s intimidating gaze.

Fear creeping into his system as he knew he was facing his untimely death as the stare of the man made him cower even more in fear, his breath staggered as he spoke, “I- I didn’t see anything.” He repeated profusely, unable to control his sobs as the gun was easily pointed to him, eyes closing as his demise came with a loud

BANG

Bucky jolted awake, sweat accumulating on his forehead, his body flushed despite the cold air that drifted through the room. His head turned to the cause of the sudden sound only to see your water bottle on the floor and your siamese cat, Steve, replacing its spot. He shifted his attention to you, wanting to make sure that you weren’t disturbed in your sleep.

The corner of his lips turned into a smile to see you deep in your slumber, your plush tiers slightly ajar as soft snores escaped. You looked so snug and harmless in his shirt, its size making you seem smaller as you were drowning in the clothing piece.

He slowly made his way out of your bed, slipping away to the kitchen to grab some milk to calm down his nerves. His steps were quiet, creeping around the apartment, scared he might accidentally wake you up and the last thing he wants is to disrupt you from your good night’s rest.

Bucky knew the layout of your apartment’s layout like the back of his hand, easily making his way towards the fridge where he grabbed his carton of chocolate milk that you bought especially for him, knowing about the secret love for sweets the man has. Grabbing a mug, he poured the cold drink and placed it inside the microwave, heating it up.

He then leaned back into the kitchen island, arms crossed together as he was still deep in thought, the terror of the innocent man that The Winter Soldier killed haunting him as he knew he had to make amends with his father once he gained the courage to do so. His right arm covering his mouth as he let a frustrated groan, wanting nothing more than to have these dreams stop haunting him.

“It is time” Ayo said from across the fire, spear in her hand as she looked at Bucky with a determined look.

He was less than half of the man he was at present, broken and lost as the Wakandans took him in and helped him regain control over his mind, hoping to give him some sort of stability in his life. Hiis eyes cast down and was focused on the fire in front of him, its warmth giving him a sense of comfort, “You sure about this?” he questioned, voice laced with a mixture of despair and hope.

“I won’t let you hurt anyone” The warrior reassured, staying silent for a moment to give way for Bucky to ready himself. She walked towards him slowly as she started off, “желание” her voice the only thing heard aside from the gust of wind and the crackle of the campfire. “Ржавый”

“...семнадцать” and that’s when he felt it. Flashbacks of him and Steve’s fight along the highway of New York coming back to him, the first time he encountered him after years of no contact; he didn’t even know himself when Steve called him Bucky. His struggle as Zemo got a hold of the infamous red notebook that holds his trigger words, activating the Winter Soldier that caused disruption amongst the avengers.

“добросердечный, добрый. девять” Ayo continued, watching him intently, seeing the struggle that was clear as day on his face. Bucky continued to have his memories thrown at him, seeing the destruction he caused as something he wasn’t, causing him to erupt in tears.

“Один” His torment under the hands of HYDRA causing him great pain as he fought everything under his willpower to keep everything contained. Bucky’s tears were uncontrollable as realization hit him.

“грузовой вагон” Ayo finished, looking at him with a warm and proud smile, relief evident in her demeanor as she spoke, “You’re free.” causing him to erupt into a sob.

Those two words echoing in his mind as he finally felt free, a heavy weight lifted off from his shoulders, feeling himself gain control over the monster that lived inside him; overjoyed and relieved that he can start the journey of being free from there. He was finally James Buchanan Barnes again.

“Bucky!” a voice disconnected him from his train of thought, head whipping to the side where he saw you, clad in just his shirt as you hugged the pillow with one arm, the other raised as you rubbed the sleep off from your eyes. “Your milk is cold again.” you stated, dropping the pillow as you walked in front of him, wrapping your arms around his bare torso.

He was quick to reciprocate the hug, holding you close to him. “You shouldn’t be up yet, doll.” His voice was gruff, trying his best to hold back the tears that welled up in his eyes, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of your head before burying his face against your neck, inhaling your scent that he found comfort in.

“The cold is bed without you.” You mumbled softly, feeling drowsier than ever as the heat from his body was enough to lull you back into slumber. Your jumbled sentence made him chuckle, further proving his point that you should be sleeping.

But you knew Buck like the back of your hand, he would only drink his chocolate milk hot if there was something he wanted to clear his mind so you pulled away just enough for you to look at him, your e/c orbs meeting his icy blue ones that showcase so much emotion that his face couldn’t convey. “What’s wrong, James?”

His brows furrowed for a second upon your use of his real name, knowing that you were serious about your question, “Nothing, baby. I’m fine.” He reassured, squeezing you lightly in his arms, hoping that you would buy his alibi but you weren’t fooled despite your sleepy state.

“You only drink your chocolate milk warm if you have something on your mind, so please, James. Tell me.” You pleaded, your innocent state tugging Bucky at the heartstrings as he flipped your position, easily lifting you to sit on the kitchen island as he positioned himself in the middle of your legs, his arms not leaving your frame.

“I… I had another nightmare.” Buck started off, his voice was still as low as before, but it was laced with a hint of brokenness as he recalled the horror of his dream. “You know the recurring one I’ve been dealing with? That one.” he didn’t want to go into detail about anything, finding it hard to find the right words to use. “I… I still feel like a monster.”

You shushed him, pulling away to let your hands rest on his shoulders, your eyes meeting his once again. “You’re not a monster, Buck. You never were.” Which was true, you were the few who believed that he was innocent and not a cold-hearted killer like everyone believes him to be. “You didn’t have a choice一 so please don’t blame yourself for any of this,”

Your smaller hands found its spot on the sides of his face, wiping the tears that glistened on his skin as the moonlight hit him, highlighting the beauty of his eyes even more. “It would take a person with real empathy to see the truth in your eyes. Those beautiful eyes that have shown me nothing but love and adoration, you have my trust Buck. You have me, Sam, and… Steve. You have us.”

Bucky was silent, taking in your words before nodding, his larger hands engulfing yours as he held them, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you, Y/N. For always believing in me, for trusting me.”

“Always, James. Always.”

---

TAGLIST: @https-bvcky @luana @harrysweasleys @weasleytwins-41 @anchoeritic @lunalovecroft

those whose usernames are in bold, i cannot tag you for some weird reason. join my taglist! it's located in my main masterlist!

[mothandpidgeon]

Ok but since you are writing a Regency piece...could you imagine having Din Djarin and Marcus Pike fighting over you? Each of them is so different and you can't help it because you're attracted to both of them because Din is the brooding yet kind introverted man that quotes to you poetry and takes you on long boat rides (with someone else of course because he cares about your image) and you're head over heels in love but then Marcus comes along and he's dashing and sweet and a little introverted but mostly talkative whenever he has to be and although he doesn't read to you poetry, he does gush about how none of the Greek and Roman and Etruscan sculptures and Italian works of art come close to your beauty and he takes you on long walks in gardens and even invites you to go to Versailles one time with him and then the three of you run into each other during one of the balls and the two are begging just for a moment with you and you're dancing with no one else but them during the entire night and when you try to go to the garden to get some fresh air, you're bombarded by the two men and they get into a heated argument to the point where they say that they will duel for you but you stop them both because you don't want either of them to get hurt and then...oh my sweet lord...and then, you take each of their hands and kiss their knuckles and fuck you shouldn't be doing this because what if someone sees and your reputation and no no no...but they both grow even more shy and you smile at them and-

"How about you invite us over to your estate Captain Djarin? I'm sure we can all...come to an agreement. Right?"

And the two are so confused but when they look at each other and return their gaze to you, they finally realize what it is you're talking about and they're both appalled by your offer but their shock slowly subsides because they fucking crave you and they nod and you throw each one of them a wink and-

"I'm looking forward to the invitation, good evening gentlemen."

And AHHHHHHHHHHH I DIE!!!!!!!!

Ok, Maggie, you went SO HARD on this one. Phew. You really know how to torment me!!! You are always welcome in my inbox. Considering the tale you wove, I really hope this lives up to it and you’ll have to forgive me I could go on but I was already approaching 1.5k words!!

Also I hope you don’t mind (and apologies to Regency!Din) but the mention of Versailles just screamed late 18th century (an important distinction in my nerd brain) so…

A/N: 18+! This ribbon bit comes from Barry Lyndon so apologies to the ghost of Stanley Kubrick.

It was a shame that Misters Djarin and Pike detested one another so when they had so many similarities. Both of them were kind and sweet and terribly handsome.

Mr. Pike accompanied you to the opera on more than one occasion. In the privacy of your box, he would whisper sweet words into your ear and nudge the soft skin of your neck with his nose. Mr. Djarin was more of an outdoorsman. He took you riding on his estate. When you were far enough on the grounds, he would help you down from the saddle and recite poetry to you beneath a shady tree.

And yet seeing them side by side now in Mr. Djarin’s parlor where you’d just shared a very awkward tea, tension straining the air between them, they couldn’t be more different. Mr. Djarin, so reserved, dark and modest. Mr. Pike, flirtatious and warm, cheek always dimpled with a smile.

You knew it wasn't going to be easy to break the wall between them but you’d been wise enough to plan for it.

“It seems I cannot force an accord between you but I know how men like their sport. I propose a wager. Nothing like a friendly competition to encourage affection,” you said.

Marcus cocked his eyebrow. He had wanted to win you since he’d met you last summer, pursuing you endlessly and yet this other man still stood in his way.

“I wonder which of you is a better hunter,” you said.

“And how would we prove that?” Mr. Pike asked. Din’s brow creased. He didn’t know how hunting had anything to do with your ludacris proposal, the one that they had both scoffed at at the ball. He wouldn’t have agreed to contemplate the thought if he hadn’t been so afraid of losing you.

You rose from your seat and both pairs of brown eyes watched you intently.

“I have devised a test. I’ve hidden a white ribbon somewhere on my person,” you said, trying to bite back your smile. “The better man finds it first.”

Both men looked at you in a stunned silence. Your heart was racing nervously but you were savoring their expressions. Mr. Djarin collected himself first.

“You’ll forgive me for being unfamiliar with the ways in which women amuse themselves but I hardly find such a suggestion to be entertaining,” Mr. Djarin said, his cheeks turning pink.

He couldn’t pretend that the idea of undressing you didn’t make his heart pound but he hated how easily you would give yourself over to Mr. Pike. He disliked the way Pike flirted with you so openly. Of course, he knew some of it was envy— he had never been a charmer.

“I do not speak in jest, sir,” you told him.

“That is what you want?” Mr. Pike asked, his soft eyes already slipping lower. He was already thinking of places to explore.

You watched Mr. Djarin look away from you when he nodded.

“And the better man, does he win something?” Pike asked, enjoying how flustered the other man had become.

“My highest regard,” you answered coyly.

Marcus chuckled.

“Then the lady should get what she wants, don’t you agree?” he asked Mr. Djarin.

Din cleared his throat.

“Very well,” he said.

Pike came to your side and took your hand to escort you to the couch where you sat between him and Mr. Djarin.

“Perhaps you should take the first turn,” you suggested to Mr. Djarin who was looking at you with a mix of fear and yearning in his eye.

He’d been so careful with you, always so cautious not to overstep or do anything at all that might invite scandal save a few soft kisses. And here you were laying yourself out for him. He swallowed dryly and met your eye with a shrug of surrender.

“Is it in your hair?” he asked, eyes darting up to your coiffure.

You smiled at him, nearly reached out to put your hand on his cheek. That protective nature was what drew you to Mr. Djarin in the first place. You knew what he really wanted, you could see it in his eyes, but he was too polite to take what was being offered. Not without convincing.

“I believe this requires a more thorough search, Djarin,” Pike said from over your shoulder.

He cupped your hands and turned them over as in a playful inspection, then lifted both of your arms. “No. Not there.”

You laughed and the noise made his heart jump. He’d found that he would make himself a fool if it put a smile on your face. Marcus was happy to take the opportunity to move in closer, to claim you with his touch. He brushed your neck so gently, his fingers tracing a ljne from your jaw to your shoulder where the bodice of your dress began. Goose pimples broke out on your skin and Marcus put his lips against your earlobe.

“I wonder,” he mused, leaning your back into his chest.

He hooked a finger under the fabric and followed the line down from your shoulder to the swell of your breast and you gasped. He had so often admired the rise and fall of your chest, Marcus couldn’t help but caress your skin with his thumb. Din felt himself stiffen as he listened to the soft moans Pike was drawing from you as he put a kiss on your skin. Watching your lips part, Din was frozen in place.

Marcus moved his hand down the straight front of your bodice and you felt yourself pulsing beneath your skirts.

“Perhaps under here?” he asked.

You allowed him to work the front of your gown open, the silk parting to reveal the creamy ivory stays below. Din felt twin aches in his chest and his groin as he saw the other man slide the bodice off of your shoulders.

Neither had seen you in such a state of undress before. Marcus took a moment to steady himself, admiring the figure below and sliding his hand across your middle. You were hardly naked, still clad in your stays, shift, and skirts but your underthings made his cock twitch.

“Now you see how the game is played and that Mr. Pike has been so far unsuccessful,” you said to Mr. Djarin, your voice more breathless than before. “Would you care to try, Mr. Djarin?”

You encouraged him by bringing your foot to rest beside his knee, leaning back into Mr. Pike. Din licked his lips, staring at the floral pattern on your delicate shoe for what felt like a century. Finally, he gave in to his longing.

He ran his fingers up your ankle over your silk stocking, revealing the smooth line of your leg. His large hands encircled your calf as he inched your skirt up further. You let out a shaking breath, squeezing your thighs together. You could hear Mr. Pike’s jagged breaths in your ear as he watched with anticipation. He had half a mind to release himself from his breeches to relieve the torment building there.

Din was careful not to reveal any of your skin, stopping just above the spot at your knee where your stockings were tied with thick ribbons.

“These are blue,” he said, running his thumb over the bow.

You were looking down at him flushed and breathing heavy and it took everything in his power to stop from taking you then and there.

You leaned to him, putting your lips against his and letting your mouth fall open to invite him in. You heard him whimper and he clutched onto your leg. Then you turned to Mr. Pike who kissed you hungrily, his wide palm kneading at your breasts.

“I’m quite disappointed in the both of you,” you said once you could speak again. Your whole body was thrumming with arousal.

You raised your skirts up around your hips and felt both pairs of eyes lustily watching. There, tied around the thickest part of your thigh was the white ribbon. But they only noticed the slick shining between your thighs.

“We shall call it a draw. But I’m afraid that means you’ll have to share me, gentlemen,” you said.

And from their twin growls, it was clear that they didn’t mind.

[author-morgan]

Could I request a sub!Halfdan please? Its such an underused trope in this fandom

of courseeee. ♥ hope you enjoy this little fluffy-filth ficlet with Halfdan. :) Halfdan x fem!Reader

HARALD FINEHAIR LEANS against one of the dock posts, his arms crossed, though a kindly smile graces his countenance upon hearing the good news. Soon Tamdrup would have another young child running about, causing trouble for the townsfolk —just as he and his brother had when they were younger and wilder. He can’t help his eyes from darting to your middle. It is still too soon for the signs to show, but there is already something different —a new spark in your eyes, Freyja’s soft glow surrounding you. “You’ll have to tell him sooner or later,” Harald muses, rubbing the dark whiskers on his chin.

“I know” —you look up from the knotted fishnet laid across your lap, smiling sheepishly— “I know, Harald.” You’d been searching for the right moment for almost a fortnight now. If not for Harald catching you leaving the medicine woman’s hut with a pouch of herbs for morning sickness, he wouldn’t know either.

“He’s going be happy,” he assures you, recalling the warm spring evening you wed his brother —a crown of wildflowers upon your brow. That must have been some six years ago, in the weeks before sailing to join Ragnar Lothbrok in his raids on Frankia and Paris. Harald doesn’t think he’s ever seen Halfdan so happy as when he first called you his wife, but he suspects his brother will be just as ecstatic when you share the good news.

“We’ve waited years for this day to come,” you almost whisper, still disbelieving at times. Over the years, you had begun to fear the worse —even before your marriage to Halfdan. All the times you lay together, there was never a child, never any signs life would take root, and it certainly was not for lack of trying. He swore it did not make a difference to him. Halfdan loved you, child or no —but as the years crept by, you couldn’t deny your desire for a family, especially seeing him play at swords with the children of Tamdrup. Alas, the gods finally heeded your prayers. Harald moves from the post to the small sandy shore, sitting next to you, helping unknot and repair the fishnet. You nudge his ribs with your elbow. “You’re going to be an uncle.” Harald smiles again.

THE WOOD PLANKS creak underfoot just outside your chambers, iron hinges creak and groan when the heavy door is pushed ajar, you lift your gaze from the heddles of the loom, glimpsing your husband’s reflection in a cloudy silver looking glass as he nears you. His arms snake around your waist, pulling you away from your work and into him. He’s been on a hunt the last three days —the scent of moss and fresh soil still linger in his clothes and beard. It’s always a good feeling being held like this, but you cannot forget your resolve. You were supposed to be upset with him, and the soft kiss on your shoulder and neck won’t be enough to get him out of this. “I’m not speaking to you, Halfdan,” you remind him, wiggling from his embrace.

He lets you go, laughing under his breath. “You just did,” he remarks, lips kinked into a playful smile, half-hidden beneath the golden whiskers on his upper lip and chin. Halfdan knows this bout will pass —quick as a summer storm— neither of you can stay angry at each other over trivial things. “Still mad?” It’s a teasing question and one he already knows the answer to when you glare at him, arms crossed.

“Yes,” you lament, “you ate the last honey cake.” You saved the last little honey cake from supper, knowing how much you’d begun craving them of late, but when you woke the next morning, Halfdan was already off to help his brother, and the plate on the table tucked away in the corner of the room was empty save for crumbs.

Halfdan grips onto your arms, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your biceps through the wool sleeves of your dress. You know when he’s trying to be charming —his smiles are wider, he flicks the hair falling over his right eye to the side, and his eyes, dark and warm, take on a glint of mischief. “And I regret it, deeply,” he confesses, embellishing his apology. His hands slide down your arms, fingers interlocking with yours. Halfdan lifts your hands —placing a quick yet lingering kiss on your knuckles, drawing you closer. “What can I do to make it up to you?” He asks.

“Trying to seduce me?” You ask, brow raised —feigning annoyance. But it’s close to impossible when he cranes down, lips hovering over yours. He’s so close you can almost feel the tickle of his beard.

“Maybe,” he muses, letting your hands go and seizing you by the hips, fingers twisting into the green wool of your dress, “it’s worked in the past, hasn’t it?” You shake your head, smiling, unable to resist his charms or your desire to fall into his arms after he’s left you in a cold and lonely bed.

At first, he tenses when your hands slide up his chest to his shoulders, then relaxes when your tilt your chin up, pulling the two of you closer. “Kiss me, husband,” you whisper —it’s a command and one he is happy to oblige. His lips brush against yours, teasing when he pulls back a little before surging forward again. You sigh into his kiss, hands moving to rest on his neck and jaw. His tongue parts your lips, and you welcome him with a soft moan, pushing your hand through his hair.

He draws back, just long enough to take a deep breath and move his hands from your hips and to your face, cupping your cheeks as he kisses you again —this time with more fervor, and it sends heat rushing to the pits of your belly. Frantically, you pull at his tunic, hands sliding beneath the hem to feel his warm skin and the muscles of his abdomen ripple under your touch. Halfdan groans when he breaks away, pulling his tunic overhead and tossing it aside without care —eyes dark with lust when you run your hands across his pectorals.

“I want you, Halfdan,” you tell him, pushing his shoulders back toward the bed, “now.” He falls onto the mattress when the back of his knees hit —the wooden frame creaking at the sudden impact of his weight— and watches as you slide your dress off your shoulders, letting it pool around your ankles. Halfdan groans at the sight of your newly naked skin as your stride to him, a playful and teasing glint in your eyes.

Leaning over him, your hands go the laces of his britches —quickly untying them— and fingers hook underneath the waistband, tugging them off. Halfdan helps you, lifting his hips, hurriedly shimmying them off for you to toss to the side. You sit back, really taking in the sight of him. Half his face shrouded behind his wild blond hair, his eyes are glassy and half-lidded, pupils blown wide with want. You smile, enjoying having him like this —with a dusting of a pinkish-blush all over, from his cheeks to his ears and even down his neck. His lips are wet and bitten pink from your kisses, mouth hanging open slightly as his chest —a smooth plane of taut muscle— rises and falls with his labored breathing. Then your gaze darts to his cock, painfully hard and resting against his stomach.

Halfdan isn’t one to give up control easily, but he’ll let you have your fun for now —he owes you this at the very least for eating the last honey cake. His gaze is like burning embers when you straddle him. His hands drag down the arch of your back, thumbs catching in the creases of your hips and thighs to push you back towards his cock, but you won’t let him win so easily. You reach for his hands, pulling them away from your hips, and press them into the mattress on either side of his head. Straightening, you let his hands go but give him a look of warning —one that tells him not to move. The defiance flares in his eyes, but you smile, bending down to lick a stripe across his chest and are rewarded with his low groan.

Moving back up, you press your lips firmly against his, offering him little control —nibbling light on his bottom lip— enjoying playing with him for as long as you can. Opening your mouth to his, Halfdan attempts to push forward with a moan and deepen the kiss, but you pull away, hands resting on his chest. “I see why you like this so much,” you tease, lightly raking your nails down his ribs, watching him shiver. “Do I make you beg too?” You ask, looking down at him with a raised brow.

“Kjære min,” he warns, voice a low rasp, but whatever he means to say next dies on the tip of his tongue as a strangled groan. His hips press up off the bed when your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him from base to tip, thumb following along one of the throbbing veins on the underside. You shuffle back, eagerly, guiding the weeping head of his cock between your slick folds until it catches on the entrance of your aching cunt, and you press back further until the slight resistance gives way, sinking onto him with a lurid moan —echoed by his own strangled groan and a string of curses.

You fall still, not moving —torture for you both— but seeing Halfdan’s hands twist into the patchwork of pelts below is worth it. Alas, you end the torment, slowly rocking and twisting your hips, building a pleasant rhythm, working yourself on top of him. His lips are parted, breathing heavily as he watches you use him —watches how your cunt takes him in over and over again, a sight that drives him to oblivion and paired with how you whimper and moan, hands fondling your breasts, he thinks he could finish then and there.

But then you lift yourself, pulling off him just far enough that only the tip of his cock is left inside you before sinking back down, hips meeting his again. He digs his heels into the bed, attempting to aid you as you bounced and twisted atop him. “Halfdan,” you whimper, knowing you need more than this —you need his touch. He’s quick to answer the soft pleading, hands squeezing against your hips, arms flexing to lift and drag you across his cock himself as his hips roll upwards, pressing deeper it feels than ever before.

Leaning down, you press your lips to his —panting against his mouth as your chests move against one another, hips rolling and filling the room with the unceremonious sound of flesh slapping against flesh and a chorus of low moans and breathy praises. You rest your forehead on his, hand tanging into his hair as the knot in your belly tightens, a familiar warmth starting to take old at your extremities. Halfdan hears the subtle hitch in your breathing, feels your walls flutter around him, gripping onto his cock —a greedy vise, but he won’t relent until you’re both spent.

It doesn’t take much longer for Halfdan to let go, his hips stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you —filling you with warmth. The way you move, rolling against him, causes your clit to catch on his pubic bone, just right, giving you the friction you need to fall too, calling out his name like a prayer. You don’t have the strength to keep going. All your energy sapped away —shoulders shaking, elbows ready to give. Halfdan urges you down to rest on his chest, and you tuck your face into the underside of his jaw, breathing heavily, smiling against his neck when you feel the tickle of his beard against your cheek. His arms come around you, heavy and secure, holding you close and tight. Other than the sound of your breathing mixing with his, there is only the drumming of your own heartbeat in your ears and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.

For a handful of precious moments, you stay like that —too sluggish to move— the pads of his rough fingertips tracing a crooked path up and down your spine. It isn’t until you feel his softened cock slip from your warmth and his seed trickling down your thighs that you clench and sit up again —knees still jelly. Then you look over Halfdan. He’s ruined —hair in a mess, clinging to his sweat-slick forehead, cheeks flushed red with exertion. But his eyes are closed, and his breathing relaxed. “Still mad?” He asks, one warm-brown eye popping open to look up at you —skin glowing in the mix of daylight and firelight.

“No,” you laugh, leaning back down —nose just barely brushing against his, your breaths mingling. Halfdan’s hands follow the curve of your hips, along your waist, and across your shoulders before taking your face in both his hands. You smile, balancing your weight on one forearm, reaching to brush back the strands of yellow hair clinging to his face, pausing for a moment to trace the lines and twists of his tattoo. He tilts his chin up, surprising you with his kiss, and rolls both of you onto your sides.

“Halfdan,” you breathe, reaching for his hand resting on your hip and twining your fingers with his. His gaze is focused —intent— he’s close to asking if something is wrong or if he’s done something else besides eating your last precious honey cake when you smile, squeezing his hand before bringing it to rest on your stomach. There’s a spark in his dark eyes like he knows but is still unsure if this means what he thinks. “I am with child,” you tell him, watching his dark eyes widen with the announcement.

Halfdan falls silent; his lips parted, brow furrowed —wrinkling the blue-black ink on his forehead— almost disbelieving that after so many years, he would be a father, that you would have a family together. “Mine?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper and filled with wonder.

Your smile widens. “Of course, it’s yours, silly man,” you laugh, scooting closer to him —pressing your forehead against his, resting a hand on his neck, and letting your thumb stroke over the raised silver scar there. “You’re my husband.” Even after the years gone by, it still feels good to call Halfdan your husband.

He smiles, eyes crinkling, wrinkling the dark tattoos on his cheeks and brows as he leans into you, closing the small space between your lips. It’s soft, exceptionally so, and sweet —far sweeter than most of his kisses. Halfdan kisses a line across your cheek, pulling you close, his hand still resting against your stomach, wondering how long it will be until your belly begins to grow and if he would make for a good father. “I won’t eat your honey cakes anymore,” he breathes, earning a huff of laughter from you as you nuzzle your face into his chest, feeling your heart swell, falling further in love with him.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @ahotmesswithprivilege @naaladareia @charming-merlin @certifiedlittleshit @pat-talks @gossamarnie ] if you want to be added to my Vikings (Harad, Halfdan, and Ragnar) taglist, just let me know! if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you.

[alleviatiion]

[alleviatiion-a]

Just because luke is heartbroken quite often does not detract from the pain he experiences or uniqueness of each occasion

[alleviatiiona]

Luke seeing literally anyone: Oo!!!! They look,,, like a really nice person, I want to !!! Be their friend oh man, I wanna hug them aaaa