#NEWS x MUSE

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Sydney Sweeney Talks Latest Horror Film Immaculate

[lady-phasma]

Don't look away

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x F!Reader

Stand alone, cross posted on AO3, app 2,800 words

Warning: 18+, NSFW, others I should add but it's Feyd

Summary: Feyd lives rent free in my head now. I’m working on an unrelated piece with an ofc but I wanted to share a pwp because this man is essentially walking and talking sex. Enjoy. Please ignore typos. This was a rush job LoL

my gif

You hold your breath as Feyd-Rautha circles you, appraising. His head is tilted down and he looks at you from under his brows. Your chest is tight. He is almost exactly what you expected after watching him in the arena. Yet, not quite. He steps in front of you.

“She’s acceptable,” he says to the Reverend Mother without looking away from you. You begin to slowly exhale. His eyes slide down to your parted lips. He slowly licks his.

“Leave us,” he growls and the Reverend Mother, the younger Bene Gesserit sister, and his Harpies slip out of the room. You glance over your shoulder as the door slides closed behind them.

“No,” he whispers as he turns your head back toward him, guiding you with his hand on your chin. His blue eyes flick from your eyes to your mouth then back again. As he smiles, you see the tips of his blackened teeth for the first time and catch yourself staring.

“‘No’, my lord na-Baron?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. He is standing close enough to hear you regardless. He nods once and drops his hand from your chin, grazing the backs of his fingers down your neck. He impertinently flicks the hood of your cloak off your head before dropping his hand to his side.

“You won’t look away from me. You will watch everything I do. No looking away, no closing your eyes.”

You swallow and attempt to nod but you feel like you cannot move. You want to move. You almost want to run for the door but you can imagine Feyd blocking your path with speed and stealth. You look at his mouth again, the lips curling, black teeth catching the light, and his tongue…

Feyd’s grip on your upper arm snaps your attention back. He undoes the clasp at your neck and slips the cloak off your shoulders, tossing it on the floor. You feel the goosebumps spread up your arms as the cool air of the room hits them. You are suddenly aware of the low neckline of your dress as you inhale. Your cleavage swells and you feel exposed, like prey out of cover.

He licks his lips, slowly. You fight conflicting urges to stare and to look away. You let your gaze travel up to his eyes. He isn’t looking at your face. He is stalking around you again, this time stoping behind you.

His hands are cool on your upper back and you shiver. Feyd makes a sound in response, a satisfied groan that is so low that you think you may have not heard it at all. His hands slip under your dress and are no longer gentle. He rips your dress down the back along the seam. He slings the shoulders of the dress down and you feel him step closer.

Feyd licks your neck, slowly, from the top of your shoulder to your ear. You bite the tip of your tongue to hold back a moan. You don’t want to like this, you don’t want to want him, but your nipples are hard and your body is a furnace.

“Let it out,” he growls in your ear, lips brushing against the lobe. “I want to hear you.”

You do. The sound comes out as a sigh and a moan. His reaction adds fuel to the fire in your core. Feyd growls next to your ear. His exhale tickles your cheek and you shiver again. Then you feel the fabric of his shirt press against your exposed back. Longing rolls over you as you realize you don’t want his shirt against your skin. You let the smallest groan escape your lips, a whining sound.

Feyd leans down and drags his lips over your shoulder. You almost relax into the feeling until you feel the pain as he bites down into the muscle. You gasp. It surprises you more than it hurts you. He releases his hold on you but his mouth stays against your skin.

Almost as unexpected as the bite, you feel the weight of his smooth head rest against your neck. He leans his weight in the crook of your neck and sighs. His hot breath makes you ache. His teeth are still grazing your shoulder. You want to relax into this feeling but he is too unpredictable.

Your mind races in an attempt to understand this man, to glean some insight. His sighs and groans make your core hot and tight. But the press of his teeth against your skin conflict with the gentleness of the press of his head against you. You can’t sort your thoughts and you can’t focus.

Suddenly, Feyd grunts and pushes away from you. Before you can decide to turn to look at him, he pulls your dress all the way off your arms and pushes it down your hips, leaving it in a puddle around your feet. You can’t think straight. You instinctively cross your arms over your breasts but it’s a fruitless action. He is behind you and you cannot cover the lower half of your body. You aren’t sure but you think the whimper you make is too quiet for him to hear.

“Stay,” Feyd growls. You do. You don’t move. You stare straight ahead at the wall opposite you and focus all your attention on listening, trying to decode the sounds Feyd is making behind you.

You hear cloth moving, one light thud, followed by another, then more cloth. Then you hear what is unmistakably bare feet on the stone floor. Then you feel him, not pressed against you (yet), but just behind you. He is still taller than you and though you cannot see him he feels like a monolith, looming and intimidating.

Feyd doesn’t speak as he runs his hands over your shoulders and down your biceps. He presses your arms against your sides and you acquiesce. Then his large hands cup your breasts as he steps forward into you, pressing the length of your bodies together. You feel lightheaded and sag slightly against him.

“Yes,” he hisses and somehow you can hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, my pet, that’s it.” His hands slide down the rises and hollows of your belly and hips. There is too much stimulus for you to focus on any one thing. The cool heat of his palms against your skin, the silkiness of his chest against your back, and the press of his erection against the curve of your buttocks.

This bliss is fleeting and you remind yourself of who he is, what you have seen him do. But the images of the arena can’t push the feeling of him on your skin out of your mind. You are almost powerless in his hands.

He guides you to turn and face him. You look up at him and involuntarily lick and bite your lower lip. For the first time you see hunger in his eyes. His head dips down and you fight the instinct to close your eyes as his lips press against yours. Not until you see his eyes close do you do the same. His mouth is bittersweet and gentle at first. Then his teeth nip and pull at your lip, his tongue pushes into your mouth, and he growls. You can’t stop yourself from pressing against his chest. Your hands find his arms as you try to get closer to him. As you pull him toward you the taste of blood crosses your tongue.

Feyd pulls his mouth back and you open your eyes immediately. The red on his lower lip is a stark line against the white skin. He slowly drags his finger across it. He gazes at the red on his fingertip as if he has never seen anything so entrancing before. Then he presses his finger against your lip and you pull the tip into your mouth. He moves before you can understand what is happening. His hand is in your hair, wrenching your head back. His other arm encircles your waste and he looks down at you, black teeth glinting in the pale light of the room.

His sneer is terrifying. Your fingernails dig into the flesh of his arms as you grip him. You don’t push him away; you can’t move. His eyes dart around your face searching for something. For defiance? He finds none and his mouth crashes against yours in a rough kiss that is mostly teeth and breath.

Something inside you gives way and you claw desperately at his arms. You kiss him back, finding his tongue with yours, inviting him into your mouth. His body is warm stone in your arms. You search for purchase, some place to anchor yourself, his chest, his arms, his neck. Then you push your hips forward, almost without thinking. His cock presses against your belly and he growls again. That sound draws wetness from between your legs and you moan back into his mouth. His hand begins to loosen its grip on your hair and you feel him smile against your lips. When you look at him you see it isn’t a kind smile.

“So that’s what you want, pet?” His smile is mocking, almost cruel. His voice is low and deep. His hand slides out of your hair to the side of your face. He caresses your cheek with his palm and rubs his thumb across your lips, lulling you with his touch.

“You want me to fuck you now?” Your response is the most undignified whimper. You are surprised by the desperation in the sound. As he straightens up to his full height you immediately miss the feeling of his skin. His smile softens briefly. Then he grips the back of your neck, hard, and walks you to the bed. Your heart pounds and you fear you won’t be able to keep your feet. If you trip you have no doubt he will drag you.

You look away from him, glance at the bed. He catches you and turns you to face him as you make the last few steps to the bed. It presses against the backs of your knees and you nearly fall. Feyd doesn’t let you. A brief flicker of understanding dawns on you: he doesn’t want anything to hurt you, only he can do that. It’s a perverse comfort, but his control is seductive. You don’t let yourself think “protective” but that’s the closest word. Then all words leave your mind as he lets go of you and you sink back into the bed.

Feyd kneels on the bed, spreading your legs with his knees. He isn’t gentle but his touch is soft. Every part of his hairless body is smooth and cool and graceful. His giant arms frame your field of vision as he props himself above you. His lower lip glistens and you want to risk defiance. You press yourself up to meet his mouth, to suck at that lip, bite and tease.

His reaction is quick. His hand presses you back onto the bed, wrapping almost entirely around your neck. You lick your lips and sneer up at him. His eyes flash with understanding. He grins. Using his hand on your neck and his legs to hold his weight he slips a hand between you and finds your slick center. He trails his fingers through your wetness and your last vestige of pride falls away. You actually whine as you raise your hips to find more of his fingers. He obliges for a moment and lets you press against them. Then he pulls his hand away.

The pressure on your neck is not yet uncomfortable. You let out panting breaths. Your mouth hangs open, eyes locked with his. Before you realize his hand is gone from your neck, you feel his wet fingers in your mouth and taste yourself. Without needing to be told you suck gently on them. You watch his face soften with pleasure. Barely opening his eyes, Feyd slides his fingers from your mouth, down your body, and under your thigh. He guides your leg onto his hip. As he leans his weight onto his other arm he guides his cock into your slick folds. You hold your breath. You don’t stop watching him and he notices. He looks at you, lewdly, as he strokes himself through your dripping cunt. You feel yourself blush, a bit too late for embarrassment, but there it is anyway. He groans as he presses the tip of his cock against your opening.

“Please, Feyd,” you groan. “Oh please.” His eyes widen at your words, at the sound of his name.

“Beg for my cock, pet. Tell me how much you need it,” he commands, his face only inches above yours.

“I need it so badly it hurts, na-Baron,” you watch for his reaction to the use of his title and you aren’t disappointed. “I need to feel you. Please.”

Feyd groans and his head dips lower, almost resting his forehead on yours as he begins to slide into you. The feeling is intense as he stretches you. You open your legs a bit wider, sliding your foot up the curve of his ass to his lower back. He presses deeper, harder, and you exhale his name. You don’t dare close your eyes yet but his are closed tight and his brow is furrowed. You gingerly slide your hands over his head and grip the back of his neck. You pull him to you slightly, giving him permission to rest his head against your neck. He rubs his head against you like a cat and you smile to yourself as you close your eyes.

Feyd’s hips press into yours, spreading you wide as he buries his face against you. He pulls out slowly and slides back in, so you can feel every inch of him. His free hand searches up your side to your breast and squeezes. His thumb grazes your nipple as he starts to pump into you. You gasp as he pinches your nipple, twists it slightly. You moan and press your lips against the smooth skin of his head.

“You take me so well,” Feyd mutters into your chest. “Such a good girl taking all of me.” The gravel in his voice makes you shiver and mewl. On his next stroke in, you slip your other leg over his hip and circle your legs around his waist. You pull him into you, as far as you can take him, the head of his cock pressing against your deepest core. He makes the most satisfied sound imaginable. You feel his lips, then his teeth against your collarbone. Your grip on his neck tightens as he slides out of you and rams back in, hard and quick.

With the next stroke, Feyd raises his head to look at you. You let your hands slide to his shoulders, still holding tight. There is no softness on his face now. His lust-blown pupils have swallowed the blue of his eyes and his brow is furrowed as he focuses on fucking you. He squeezes your breast quickly then moves his hand to your hair. He holds your head still and leans down to kiss you when he thrusts. You dig your fingernails into his skin and groan.

His control starts to falter and he exhales into your mouth. His hand in your hair gripping tighter as his strokes shorten and his pace quickens. You slide your hand down from his shoulder to touch yourself. His facial expression changes momentarily as he feels you grip tighter around his cock. You grin up at him.

“I need it, Feyd,” you whisper, holding his eye contact. You wait a beat and arch your back as your fingers and his cock bring you closer to your climax. “I need to feel you cum.” You groan. The wave of your pleasure begins to crest, your eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then you feel his teeth clamp down on the flesh above your clavicle. Your orgasm overtakes you as the sharp sensation clashes with the low, throbbing pleasure between your legs. You murmur his name through clenched teeth.

Feyd pushes through your spasms around his cock. Growling and grunting but not releasing you from his bite. He fucks you through your orgasm. His rhythm stutters and his grip loosens. He lifts his head, a string of spit pulled from his bottom lip. He grabs your head with both his hands and, panting just above your mouth, he cums. The heat fills you and you moan his name again. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours as he presses into you one last time.

Then he stills, his forearms holding him up, but lets some of his weight press you together so he is almost lying on top of you, not pulling out yet. He exhales deeply and raises his head. He looks down at you.

You can’t catch your breath and your legs are heavy. You let them slide down his hips. Your neck throbs where his teeth marked you. You want to wrap your arms around him, pull him into you, stroking and soothing this wild animal. Instead, you grab the back of his head and pull him down to your mouth and kiss him until you taste red.

[revasserium]

Why does this scream second chance romance?

reqs are open!

at first sight

hayato suo; 6,284 words; fluff, slight angst, fem!reader, no "y/n", passing mentions of divorce, childhood friends to lovers, hurt/comfort (a little), the slowest of burns, suo is a simp, introspection, more plot than not

summary: and isn’t it strange, that a person doesn’t have to be dead to serve a haunting, how there only need be absence and sorrow and the utterly world-ending ache of what used to be?

a/n: this was not supposed to be this long or this self-indulgent but welp.

He sees you sometimes in his dreams, in the spaces right before he falls asleep — that sweet, weightless, liminal space where anything and everything is possible, even probable. He sees the shape of your laughter, feels the weight of your breath, can almost taste the sugarplum sweetness of your smile. He’d lose himself, then, in the firefly lights of your eyes.

On those nights, he wakes up with a scream curdling up the back of his throat like soured milk.

Because no matter how hard he tries to hold onto the good memories, the ones bathed in the precious, pale gold of summer sun, truth always slips through like a sharp, silver knife. Cold. Ruthless. Unrelenting.

“— so, I know we don’t know each other very well but… you’ve done so much for our shop and my grandma is so grateful and… it always makes me so happy to see you come by —”

The girl in front of him is pretty, in the delicate, unassuming way that all young girls might be called pretty. She is dark, pin-straight hair and thin-rimmed glasses. Suo can tell that she’s put on a sparkly sheen of lip-gloss just for this occasion. Her cheeks are tinted sunset pink; there’s a letter in her hands.

“Thank you,” he says, dipping his head, his hand linked behind his back, his expression schooled into one of polite affectation, the most gentle rejection. He listens to her run herself out, babbling on about visits and admiration and the shape of him outside the shop window, how her heart would skip a beat. He finds himself, wistfully, thinking about the shape of you — when you were small enough to wiggle under the fence in his backyard, dirt caked under your nails, your hair always chopped short, one of your front teeth missing as you tossed pebbles at his windows.

“I’m… sorry,” he says, finally, when the girl presses the letter into the center of his chest, bowing low enough for her long silky hair to cover her face. He slowly folds his fingers over the letter, giving her hand a squeeze as he presses it back towards her.

“B-but…” she looks up; there are tears in her eyes, “why…?”

“I suppose,” he says, voice light and conversational, almost as if he were remarking on the weather, “I’m just not the dating type.”

The girl mumbles something before sniffling and wiping at her eyes. She is, Suo admits, not a very pretty crier. But then again, he thinks, most people aren’t. She nods again, as if to herself, clutching her unopened letter to her chest before dropping into another deep bow and dashing off. Suo can hear the clipped echoes of her sobs as she races down the near empty streets, and he sighs.

He turns on his heels and makes his slow way back to his own house, the place small and empty, but clean. The single wooden shelf is lined with books, alphabetized. His futon is folded neatly in his closet. He goes through the motions of making tea, pouring the boiling water over the dried leaves, watching them unfurl. He breathes in deep and thinks of you —

You were the one who first taught him how to brew tea, your small hands not yet big enough to hold a teapot proper, but whatever you’d lacked in skill, you made up for in determination. He’d always admired that about you, the sheer recklessness of your nature that bled, somehow, into courage in his young mind.

“Careful! It’s hot…” he’d warned, reaching out to catch your wrist, but too late, the water had already spilled a little and you wince, but you don’t let go, your arms quaking as you set the scalding teapot down, biting down on your lips to keep from crying out.

“I know it’s hot! But you gotta use hot water if you wanna make good tea!”

And there, through the misty haze of steam rising from the pair of cups, sitting across the table from you, Suo thinks you’re the most beautiful creature in the entire world.

He loses you, he reflects, the same way he loses most things in his life — accidentally and to the well-tempered beat of fate from which no one can escape. One minute you were right there in front of him and the next, well…

“Moving…?” he says the word as if he’d never heard it before. You sigh, nodding, staring listlessly into empty space, your knees curled up and pressed into your chest, your chin propped on your crossed arms.

Suo blinks, “But… where are you moving to?”

You shrug, “Tokyo, I think,” you say the word with a soft resignation only found in those who have seen and lost, seen and lost again. Suo thinks he understands; looking back, he’s not sure he did just then.

“Because of… your dad’s work?”

“Yeah. He says that if his company does well there, we’d be ‘set for life’ — whatever that means,” you say, picking at a bit of invisible lint on your sleeves.

“But… what about your mom? And the teashop?”

You purse your lips, mulling over your words as if you’ve got a sour cherry pit caught beneath your tongue.

“She says… she can’t leave it. So… she’s staying here.”

“Oh,” Suo says, sitting back against his bedroom wall. Even back then, he was smart enough to understand the implications.

You nod.

Judging by the look on your face, so are you.

“So… when…” he can’t really make out the words; there’s something stuck in his throat that feels oddly like an entire handful of sand.

“End of the month,” you say, finally looking up at him to catch his eyes. And there, he sees the insurmountable sadness, the longing he’d sometimes catch a glimpse of in the slanted summer light. As if you’re waiting for him to do something, to say something. He could never figure out what exactly it was you’d wanted him to do. To say.

Stay.

He’d later realize.

Please.

He’d repeat the words to himself in the encroaching dark, lying on his futon, watching the light cast on his walls go from white to gray to gold, and slowly, sinking into cool, hollow blackness.

Don’t go.

He mouths the words until he can almost taste the shape of them on his tongue. He swallows around them like a fistful of sand, flips onto his side, and tries to go to sleep.

You appear before him like a daydream, a near mirage in the summer heat. One second, he’s laughing with Nirei at something Sakura’s said, and the next, he’s standing stock still, staring at the end of the street where he’s sure he’d just seen you —

You look older now, but then so does he, and your hair is longer, but the shape of your laughter, the light of your eyes — he wouldn’t miss those anywhere. Not then, not now, not ever. Even after all these years.

“Suo-san…?” Nirei peers up into his face, tugging on his sleeve.

“Hm? Oh sorry — I just thought —” he glances back at the end of the street. Just a large van and a few young workers, hauling things out from the back.

“Oh, there’s a new teahouse opening in town! That must be them, moving in!” Nirei says, cheerful and oblivious as always.

“What’s a teahouse do, anyway?” Sakura asks, picking at his ear and flicking something off the end of his pinky.

“Uhm… make tea?” Nirei offers.

“Yeah, but don’t we all know how to make — where the hell’s he goin’?”

Suo takes off down the street, whipping passed their usual haunts, the taiyaki shop, the okonomiyaki stand, Pothos cafe, to the corner of the street, just where the sidewalk threatens to curve into some more residential place —

“Oi!” Sakura calls after him but he doesn’t listen.

There — that sound. Sugarplum and silver bells.

The space is undone, the door propped open with a wooden crate, the young men with the moving company tutting as they grunt and step around Suo to carry more boxes into the space, setting them down along the walls.

“— there’s good, oh no — not that one — that one goes… oh here’s good! Thanks!”

You.

He sees you like something from his wildest daydreams, the shape of you in smoke and stardust — the light twisting and twining around you as if it knows, treating you differently than it might all the other people and objects in the room, focusing around you to paint you in richer tones, in brighter lights and deeper shadows. The air seems to gather around you like a held breath.

And for a moment, Suo himself forgets quite completely that he himself might need to breathe as well.

You turn your eyes on him and the world seems to shift focus like a camera lens shifting zoom. Everything blurs, sound slows, drags, distorts. The room around you fades until it’s nothing more than a suggestion of shapes and space.

Suo sucks in a breath.

“Sorry — we’re not quite open y…”

Your voice trails off, and vaguely, Suo thinks that you sound different than you did before. But there’s still the same lovely cadence to your words, the rounded edges, the crispness of your diction, the sheer weight of your conviction in the things you say and how you might will them into truth.

“It’s… been a while,” he says. His own voice is weak, wavering, dry and scratchy and sounding nothing like himself but he sees the moment you recognize him, wholly and completely.

“H-Hayato-kun!”

“Oi, Suo — who’re you —” Sakura rams a shoulder into him at this exact moment, Nirei pattering close behind, trying to hold him back. Sakura blinks at you, his head flicking between you and Suo as if watching an invisible tennis match. And then, some understand seeps into the depths of his eyes and his cheeks go a ruddy shade of pink.

“Uh — sorry, I didn’t — who —” he looks bewildered and awkward all at once.

“We’re Suo-san’s friends — from Boufuurin!” Nirei cuts in, finally succeeding in tugging Sakura to one side and peering around the rather narrow door frame. He bows slightly before jumping half a meter in the air as a mover clears his throat loudly behind the group of boys now clogging the door way.

You jerk out of your reverie and point the mover towards an empty corner before making your way over, your steps steady. It takes everything in Suo’s being not to move, to neither shift forward, to press into your personal space just to make sure you’re really real, or to turn tail and run till he doesn’t have the breath to keep running any more.

He can’t tell which he’d prefer more, but he knows that neither is the best option right now.

So, he forces himself to stand still, to wait for you to come to him.

And you do, drifting over in a cloud of light linen and a flower patterned apron.

“Hi! Long time no see!”

Suo registers faintly that though your hair is longer, but your bangs are still choppy, and the ends of your hair badly cut, as if you’d gotten annoyed one day and tried to do it with kitchen scissors. He bites back a smile at the image. But there are other subtle changes too — the round babyfat on your cheeks slimming out to a sweet, heart-shaped face, the hugeness of your eyes, almost alien-like in your child years, now balanced out by the depths of your features. Your lips are small and plush as an overripe plum — that, at least, hasn’t changed in the slightest.

“Yeah… what… are you doing here?” he asks, still struck dumb by the sight of you here, in Makochi.

You raise an eyebrow and Suo almost feels the motion like a gut-punch, the familiarity of it overriding your older features until he can’t really tell if he’s living in the present or if he’s been suddenly and unwillingly shunted into the past.

You scoff, “Opening a teahouse, duh!”

Nirei laughs and Sakura lets out a snicker that kicks Suo out of his stupor. He clears his throat, having the decency to at least look abashed.

“Sorry, yes — that much is obvious. Is there… anything we can do to help?” he tries to ground himself in the established notions of aiding the citizens of Makochi. At least here, he knows what he has to do. His voice evens out, his smile returns.

You regard him with that same, questioning look before casting your eyes around the room.

“Sure! Plenty to do if you guys have the time —” and then you start pointing to the various tasks they might help with.

Nirei and Sakura jump to, already used to the pattern, with Suo trailing behind them, moving slower than usual, his limbs feeling heavy, as if they’re full of lead. It takes them the better part of the afternoon to help you set up most of the bigger pieces of furniture. And somehow, by the time they’re done, a good chunk of the freshman class is there, chattering and laughing, lounging at the newly built tables.

“Alright! Who wants some tea? Fresh and on the house — consider it payment for a job well-done!” you clap your hands, grinning as the boys all cheer.

Suo keeps quiet, sitting at a corner table with Sakura beside him, Nirei across. It isn’t until Sakura digs his elbow rather painfully into Suo’s ribs that he turns his face towards them, hitching a smile to his face.

“Hm?”

“What’s with you?” Sakura asks, never one to mince words. Across from them, Nirei nibbles on his lips as if debating on whether or not to add on to Sakura’s line of questioning

“What do you mean?” Suo asks, folding his hands carefully on the table. He’s not fooling anyone; he knows, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t at least try.

Finally, impulse wins out and Nirei blurts out —

“You’ve been staring at that girl all afternoon and — and I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that before. And you’re the one that gets the most confessions out of anyone in our year, so it figures that if this girl c-can capture your attention like this, she must be someone really special.”

He finishes slightly out of breath, before ducking behind his little notebook, even though he’s holding it upside-down.

Suo lets out a helpless laugh.

“I didn’t know you were keeping track of how many confessions all of us got — that statistic seems irrelevant to our fighting abilities, no?”

“Quit tryna change the subject,” Sakura cuts in, loudly.

Suo sighs, nodding, “I was getting there. We —” he cuts off, clearing his throat as he feels his entire body catch on the edge of the confession.

He takes a deep breath and starts again, this time, pressing a slight smile between his lips, taking on a tone as if telling a story about someone else.

“We were neighbors growing up.”

Nirei blinks, “Is… that it?”

Suo’s smile goes a bit stiff and plastic, “More or less.”

“Liar,” Sakura folds his arms, frowning as he stares Suo down. His cheeks are still pink, but there’s a determined glint behind his eyes that never bodes well.

“Ah… well,” Suo weighs his options, but then lilts his head and shrugs, “you caught me — we were a bit more than just neighbors… more like childhood friends.”

Sakura narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. Suo looks down at his hands, laced carefully on the wooden table before he speaks again.

“We… spent a lot of time together and… her mother owned a teashop like this one.”

“Oh! A family business!” Nirei says.

Suo opens his mouth to correct him but your voice cuts him off.

“You still have them!”

A finger slips along the long tassels of his earring and Suo nearly jerks away, casting his eyes up to find you, a familiar teapot in your now steady hands, your eyes somehow bright and dark at the same time as you look down at him.

“Oh… yes, I —” again, he feels his throat catch, “of course I did. You were the one who made them for me.”

You let out a light laugh, setting a few teacups down at their table and prepping their tea.

“You didn’t have to — I’m surprised they held up after all these years. You know I bought the red beads at the craft store right?”

“Yeah, you… you used your New Years money. I remember…”

“And you helped me pick out the tassels from the lady who sells lucky knots at the market!” you say all this as if it weren’t one of his most precious memories, as if he hadn’t gone to great lengths to make sure the earrings you gave him (one of the only things you’d ever given them, other than perhaps a broken heart) never came to any harm.

Across from him, he can see Nirei putting the pieces together. Next to him, Sakura seems stunned still by the same revelation.

“If I’d know you’d like them so much, I would’ve made you a few more pairs. At least that way, you can try to match them with your clothes,” you grin, leaning down to seep their tea. Suo watches as the hot water washes over the dried leaves, rehydrating them till they each unfurl into their own shape. A deep, floral fragrance fills the air and he feels his stomach both twist and settle in the same motion.

“Jasmine green,” he says.

“Mhm. Your favorite. It’s a little basic but I love it too.” You shoot him a surreptitious wink. Then, you pause, “Ah — but it might not be your favorite anymore, I guess —”

“It still is,” Suo says before you can second guess yourself.

The smile that re-alights your face is nearly blinding in it’s brilliance.

“Anyway, I’ll leave the water here for you guys, yeah?” you set the teapot down next to Suo’s elbow, flash them all one more smile before twirling around and going to serve the next table.

It isn’t until much after dark that everyone leaves and Suo, having made up some vague excuse to linger, finally has you to himself. You hum as you flit from table to table, wiping them down and pushing in the chairs. Suo watches you for a solid minute before moving to help.

“Thanks,” you say, as he helps you push in the last chair and you wipe a forearm across your forehead with a long breath, “phew! Ma really made it look easy back in the day, but this is hard work! And we’re not even officially opened yet!”

“We’ll come by to help whenever we can,” Suo says, the response automatic.

You nod, folding the tablecloth neatly into a square and setting it on the counter.

The silence thickens around you, swirling and charged. Suo grasps for something to say, anything to say. He wishes you’d do something — turn on a light, hum another song, say something strange and outlandish, punch him, perhaps.

You do none of those things. Instead, you wipe your hands on your apron and turn to look at him, your eyes huge in the darkness.

“I’ve missed you.”

It nearly knocks him from his feet. The quiet force of your words, the raw-edged honesty behind them. The way your voice doesn’t waver. The way you say them not like an accusation but an admittance. He thinks he really would’ve preferred if you punched him instead.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling breathless, heat cresting up his chest, and suddenly, he’s thankful for the darkness within the not-yet-opened teashop.

“I’ve missed you too.”

He feels hollowed out by the confession, as if just speaking the words had carved him clean, so clean that the words echo through him, reverberating through his bones till he feels it down to his marrow. He hadn’t known that missing a person could feel like this, or that the word could mean so much until he’d said it out loud.

Missing. The lack thereof. A nothing where there used to be something.

It is a wrongness in the matrix, a hole, an abnormality.

It’s as if he’d been sleeping on the mattress from the Princess and the Pea ever since the day you’d left, a subtle incorrectness that permeated every single moment of every day, so obvious in it’s presence that it had folded back into itself and become something.

That the lack of you was a presence in and of itself, a living ghost that had loomed over him, slinked behind his shadow, hovered over his shoulder until —

He reaches out to touch you, fingers skimming against the skin of your cheek.

You lean into his touch, the motion slight but he catches it almost immediately, and the force of it is the catalyst that propels him forward. He tugs you into his chest and holds you there, burying his face in your hair.

“I — I’ve missed you…” he says again, and you nod, fingers crumpling in his school uniform as you press your forehead into his chest.

“Y-you’re so much taller than before — it’s not fair,” you say, your voice muffled by his shirt. He laughs, ruffling your hair for a second before his fingers so soft and he’s running them through from root to end.

“If I had a sister, I’d tell her to keep her hair long, so I could braid it,” he’d once told you when the two of you were barely in elementary school. You’d tugged at the ends of your chopped short hair and frowned.

“Ugh — I could never grow my hair out long. It’ll just get in the way!”

“It’s longer,” he says now, tugging at the ends even as he takes half a step away, releasing you from his embrace. You glance down at the uneven bits, crinkling your nose in distaste.

“I — I tried to grow it out but… I kept getting annoyed.”

“Yeah, I thought so but… I’ve always liked your hair short.”

“You have?”

“Yeah —”

I’ve always loved everything about you.

He swallows, “Short hair… just fits you.”

You stare up at him for a second longer before nodding, your eyes flickering away.

“Yeah. Guess it does, huh.”

Something clunks in Suo’s chest.

You turn away and he has to physically beat down the panic rising in his chest.

“W-where do you live now? I’ll walk you back. It’s not safe to walk around alone in the dark,” the words tumble from him like a bag of spilled marbles, scattering across the hardwood floors.

You turn back to regard him with a curious look.

“I — I live above the teahouse. So…” you shoot him a lopsided grin, a finger pointed up towards the ceiling of the teahouse.

“Oh. Right.” Suo blinks, watching you watching him before he notices the flight of stairs behind the open door in the back of the room.

“You wanna walk me to the stairs?” you ask, grin slanting sideways till its positively devilish and Suo feels a shiver kiss it’s way up his spine.

“I mean, it’s dangerous to walk alone in the dark, right?” you tease, before turning and slinking towards the back room door. Suo hesitates for a second before he sighs, shaking his head and following behind you.

He pauses at the foot of the stairs just as you pause on the step right above him. You twist around to face him, and the sudden closeness catches his breath in his lungs. Like this, he can feel the heat of your skin, can smell the shampoo in your hair — the same one you’d used when the pair of you were still kids, apple blossom and aloe.

You cock your head, your faces now on a level, your eyes searching his.

It’s so dark, but even in this lack of light, he can make out every single feature of your face.

“I think I can make it up the stairs by myself,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, conspiratorial and low.

Suo lets out a small laugh, nodding, “Good. It wouldn’t be right for a gentleman to leave a lady feeling unsafe at this time of night.”

Your head slowly cocks the other way; he’d almost forgotten that habit of yours, like a sparrow listening for the rustle of leaves or the first breath of autumn wind.

“Since when’ve you been a gentleman?” you ask, still in that soft, whisper-voice, the kind of voice that compels the listener to lean closer, to tip forward until they’re falling into something they don’t even have the name for —

“And… more importantly, since when have I ever been a lady?”

He kisses you then. Or perhaps, you kiss him first. It doesn’t matter — or perhaps it does, or it will. But not now, not in the soft, nebulous darkness that surrounds you, not when your fingers are curling into his hair and his palms are settling at your waist.

And there are no fireworks, but there is light — electricity coursing through his body and yours, neurons firing and firing and firing. A cataclysm of yes and more and finally.

The first time you break apart, Suo is breathless; the second time, he feels punch drunk; by the third, he’s determined that this must be what it’s like to be thoroughly inebriated. His head is spinning, his face is hot, he has to remind himself of where his hands might be — oh, there — one in your hair and the other pressing you to him so hard he’s certain it’ll leave a mark.

The thought pleases him more than it should. Or perhaps it pleases him just as much as it should and always will.

“H-Hayato…"

“Mm — stay — please…” his voice is nearly broken as he drops his had into your shoulder; he takes a shaky breath, “don’t go.”

You let yourself be held, the pair of you propped awkwardly on the first few steps of the stairs, your fingers threading through his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere… this is my house now.”

Suo nods, vaguely aware that there are questions he wants to ask you — how’s your mother? Where’s your father? How are you here, alone, opening this teashop by yourself? Living here, by yourself?

But he will get to those later, tomorrow maybe. Right now, he forces his head up and regards you with hazy, blown-out eyes and kiss-slick lips.

“If I sleep on the floor, can I —”

You laugh, running a thumb along his cheek.

“We’ve shared a bed before and nothing’s happened. You don’t have to sleep on the floor — bed’s big enough for the both of us.”

Suo presses his lips for a second before shaking his head.

“It’s not that. I just… don’t think I could trust myself.”

There’s a hoarse, ragged edge to his voice that has you chewing on the inside of your cheek. He glances up the stairs and offers you a weak smile. You consider him for a second more before nodding.

“Yeah, c’mon. I’ll show you where the futons are.”

Upstairs, your bedroom is silver and alien with moonlight. It seems too bright, too sharp. But you step into it and suddenly, everything is alright again. You both wash up in silence, and you dig up an ancient band t-shirt from somewhere in your closet. He wonders how long you’d been here already — how many days and night he’d spent mere minutes from you.

He lays down in the futon after you slip beneath your sheets. He watches the shape of you as you shift this way and that.

Finally, you say, “Night, Hayato.”

“Sweet dreams,” he says.

And he falls asleep counting the sound of your breaths against the rhythm of his own, thundering heartbeats.

“Y-you what?!”

Sakura’s face is tomato red and Nirei looks just about ready to go into anaphylactic shock. Across the classroom, Kiryuu, who’s obviously been listening in, catches Suo’s eye and gives him a cheeky thumbs up.

Suo smiles, cheery and unabashed.

“I slept over.”

“B-b-but — you — I — she just —” Nirei seems to be fighting against some invisible force inside himself even as Sakura continues to gape.

Suo chuckles, nodding.

“Yeah, she moved here last week — it’s a total coincidence that we met up again. She had no idea that I was even here.”

He thinks back to the quiet moments of the morning, of waking up to find you sitting up in bed, staring out the window, your hair mussed and a little frizzy. He remembers the way the morning light had dappled the soft of your skin, how you’d smiled and asked him how he slept.

“Well. Better than I’ve slept in…” he clears his throat, suddenly self conscious of the gravel there. And here, in the unforgiving light of day, the night before seems miraculous and distant. Had he really held you in the dark like that? Kissed you till you’d said his name like something of a prayer?

Had he really held your hand all the way up the stairs?

You catch his eyes and smile, and like this, looking up at you as the rising sun halos itself around your shape, Suo wonders if he still might be dreaming. Because surely, surely — heaven couldn’t have been so close as this.

“So, what do you want for breakfast?” you ask, swinging your legs out of bed, your pale feet pattering against the fresh tatami floors. Suo is momentarily stunned by the sight of your bare legs, the large shirt you wore to bed now somehow terribly short and insufficient as it brushes by the middle of your thighs.

He swallows and forces himself to look away, to shake his head and focus on the words you’d said.

“Whatever you want to make,” he says, by way of an answer.

You hum as you cook, putting a bowl of rice in the microwave and putting on a pot of water to boil. The kitchen here is smaller than the one up front, in the main body of the teahouse, but it feels more homely, every surface effused with a sort of lived-in quality — clean, but rounded at the edges as if worn down by the love of days and weeks and months.

“How long…” he tries his voice again, only to find it wanting. He lets his words trail off and hopes that you understand.

“Hm? How long have I been here? Just a week. It was weird — my mom had bought this place a while back, and started the renovations, but I’d never had time to visit.”

“And where…” again, his voice trails off, his palms pressing flat to the thin counter, his eyes tracking the shape of you as you flitter through the small kitchen like a bird or maybe just a trick of the light.

“She’s not here,” you say, your movements slowing as you take the boiling water from the stovetop and pour it over some rough tealeaves, letting them seep for a few minutes before straining them out and tossing them into the trash.

“She’s… in Tokyo, finalizing the divorce with Pa.”

“Oh.”

His mind makes several inferences at once, even as he watches you soak the rice in the steaming hot tea and split the ochazuke into two bowls.

“I thought they’d… already done that,” he admit, nodding his thanks as you hand him a bowl and offer him a container of store-bought furikake. He takes it and shakes some over his bowl before handing it back.

“Yeah. Most people did.” You don’t offer up anything more and the both of you eat in silence. He polishes off the entire bowl and feels the heat settle in his stomach like a gap being filled.

“So… will she come after… everything is settled?” he choses his words carefully, peering up at you over the empty dishes. You slurp noisily at your own breakfast before licking your lips.

“Yeah, but who knows how long that’ll take? Might be weeks, might be — years, or something…” you drag the back of a hand across your lips and reaches over to pluck the empty bowl from his hands, dropping everything into the sink to soak.

“C’mon, don’t you have school or something to get ready for?”

“So… she’s here to stay?” Nirei asks, his eyes a bit overbright as Suo relays a version of the story, skirting tactfully around the more tender parts.

“Yeah, as far as I know. I promised we’d come by after school today to help her set up some more — you don’t mind, do you?”

“Nope! Not at all!” Nirei beams, but Sakura’s eyes are narrowed. Suo turns his gaze on Sakura and tilts his head with a questioning smile.

Sakura’s cheeks redden, “It’s just — ah, whatever — never mind!”

And no amount of prodding or teasing could tantalize him into saying more.

Time passes by strangely after that — at times slugging by slow as molasses, at others jumping forward in great leaps and bounds. Suo spends nearly every waking moment when he’s not at school or on patrols with you, sometimes simply sitting in the corner of the teahouse, flipping through a book, watching as you served your growing roster of regular customers, at times helping you catalogue new shipments of tea and organizing them by type, brew time, and temperature.

Sometimes, when the light catches you in just the right way, Suo finds himself arrested by the sight, and it’s times like these when he’d tug you forward, a finger under your chin, his lips gentle on yours till he can taste the tang of your smile.

“I heard you’re quite the lady’s man,” you say, casually one day, brewing a test batch of a new varietal of white tea.

“Oh? And where might you have heard such a thing?” Suo grins, pillowing his chin on the heel of his hand, watching you as he always does.

“Just the baker’s granddaughter — she goes the prep school I do, you know the one in the next neighborhood over?”

“Ah… that.”

Your grin goes lopsided as you carefully blow on the top of your teacup and take a dainty sip.

“You got your hair cut,” he says, smiling as he rakes his eye over the cut of your bob, tickling just beneath your earlobe. You go slightly cross-eyed as you tug a strand down over your forehead before blowing it away again.

“Yeah. Figured it was about time I got a proper haircut.”

“I liked it the way it was before.”

“You did?”

“Sure I did. I’ve always loved everything about you.”

Between you, a single column of steam rises in a slow, lazy spiral from the surface of your half-drunk cup. And like this, Suo thinks you’re still the most beautiful creature he’s ever, ever seen.

Your blush is quick and brilliant. Your eyes cut away; you push your hair behind your ears.

“Don’t changed the subject — so what’s this she said about you not really being one for dating, hm?”

Suo shrugs, “I’m not.”

You quirk an eyebrow.

“Then…” you blink at him, cheeks flushing darker and darker, “what do you call this?”

Suo fixes you with a steady look, and now, his voice doesn’t waver when he speaks to you, because he knows that he’d never let the certainty of you slip away from him again. This time, he knows the words to say — knows without the shadow of a doubt his truth, and yours, too.

“I don’t know what I’d call it but… I know that I’ve never really believed in dating.”

You lick your lips, setting the cup down with a soft clack.

“Then what do you believe in?”

Suo doesn’t miss a beat.

“I suppose… I’ve always just believed in soulmates.”

Your mouth falls open ever so slightly. Suo smiles as he reaches forward to tug the strand of hair free from behind your ear just to run his thumb over the smooth, silken ends.

“And, I’ve always, always believed in love at first sight.”

[kaitlinamberxo]

“Would you like to hear my story, Bella? It doesn’t have a happy ending – but which of ours does? If we had happy endings, we’d all be under gravestones now.”

kaitlin's 100 favorite female muses — 19/100: Rosalie Hale

[nanenna]

Title: Welcome Home Fandoms: Danny Phantom, DC Comics, Batman AUs: Demon Twins Warnings: Discussions of Death, Canon typical Violence, Secrets (most of those aren't applicable to the first chapter, but will happen)

Summary: When Danny accidentally catches his parents plotting against him he does the only thing he can think of: flee to the birth family he's been intentionally avoiding. Now he's got to balance getting to know them and reconnecting with his lost twin while keeping his own secrets from a family of detectives.

[expectiations]

Is it just me or does the phrase "dumb Darillium River" make your ears ring too?

That phrase hurts me like crazy because it takes away how the post-Manhattan events affected her so deeply. And now that we have the added knowledge that she gets to see her parents in New York even after Manhattan, THORS now presents itself in a different light.

River's resounding "the Doctor does not and has never loved me" cements the implication that she and the Doctor had a huge row after Manhattan. What would you feel if the love of your life told you he "does not and has never loved" you? Certainly not happy.

Do you know what grief does to one's mind? No matter how brilliant you are, grief changes you. Grief makes you a different person. I would know, having experienced it myself. And River, in her grief, jumped into a headspace that shut out (or tried hard to) the Doctor.

Yes, she should have recognized it was him she had unknowingly dragged along on her space Robin Hood quest, but for her, it isn't him. It wouldn't be. Because that was the last thing she had heard him say.

Grief and pain clouding her mind, she proudly asserts that no, the Doctor isn't there. He won't show up for her. He has never loved her. But of course, she loves him. She's never denied that. But he proves her wrong soon afterwards. Because she is the Woman The Doctor Loves.

So, yes, on the surface level, "dumb Darillium River" seems to be what THORS had made River to be. But no, it wasn't. It isn't. It was about a grieving River and a chance for the Doctor to right his wrong. (And yes, we were robbed of that kiss. Homie here quite clearly wanted one.)

originally posted over on twitter.

[biteofcherry]

What you had with him was a little wild, a lot of reckless. Both of you so young, only starting to figure out what you want in your life and how to achieve it. And your goals were so very much on opposite ends of the scale.

Both of you ambitious, both dedicated, but when you searched for light, he craved to rule the darkness.

He started as an errand boy, then earned himself the right to carry a gun and be a driver on certain jobs. And you tried to convince him (and yourself) that you were appalled, that you didn't get a tad wetter when he came to you late in the night and fucked you on a rush of adrenaline.

As predicted, your paths parted. You were off to get your degrees and secure yourself a solid, respectable job. What he did, if he even survived the dangers of the underworld he chose, you had no idea.

Time passed and your memories of him faded in a locked chest of your memory; even if sometimes your body seized with longing as another of your boyfriends couldn't deliver the thrill he used to give you.

Until almost fifteen years later, when a friend of yours scored invites to an elite, invitation-only nightclub in the city. You never expected him to be there. You had no idea he owned the place. No idea he now owned the whole city.

No idea he was going to own you, too.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

I know I should be working right now, but I was kissed by the muse today and decided I could leave the end-of-school year treadmill for a sweet moment of respite and write…

And actually, it’s really not my fault. I just stumbled upon this screencap a few days ago and couldn’t get it out of my head since.

I mean, I know the scene. They have just shared a hug and now they are loosening the embrace, but all I could see was him leaning against the wall with one hand, slightly bent down to hear what she is saying above the noise in the room…and then the story basically just wrote itself.

Might I interest anyone in reading it once it is finished?

Here you go then:

[lady-phasma]

Release

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x his Harpies

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Feyd and his Harpies, cannibalism, pain, blood, oral, and our favorite: black cum (Okay, look, he thinks of them as objects, not me. I just can’t get him out of my head.)

Summary: Brain rot about that last warning. I had to write something from his POV. I enjoy writing from the male POV but don’t get enough practice. I hope it works. Just over 800 words.

Feyd tossed his dusty, bloody clothes on the floor. He ran his hands over his head. The practice sparring simultaneously cleared his mind and got his blood pumping. He didn’t have a ritual after fights but often needed to release the excess energy. His darlings, waiting, always starving for any scraps of attention, would enthusiastically be the targets of that release.

He listened to their soft breathing behind him. The man whose blood stained his clothes had provided them with an indulgent meal. When he had walked into his room they looked at him but with drowsy eyes. They were accustomed to waiting for his attention, rarely demanding it.

Not all the blood on his hands had come off when he washed and the red in the creases looked almost black against his skin. He flexed and fisted his hands, replaying the fight in his mind. His muscles had begun to ache already and it would be much more intense by the next day. He rubbed the shoulder that had received a particularly hard blow and smiled faintly as the pain radiated.

Feyd turned toward the bed and his Harpies. Their eyes were a bit livelier now that they noticed he was naked. One licked her lips as she narrowed her eyes, watching his growing erection. He stood next to the bed evaluating them, a look of pride on his face, pride and hunger. He petted the head of the first Harpy to sit up. She gazed up at him as he cupped her cheek in his palm. He looked at each of them in turn as they slithered closer to him. He didn’t require it but preferred that they were naked. It pleased him when he didn’t have to wait for them to undress.

He gazed at half-opened mouths, pert nipples, and hairless clefts between thighs. He continued to absentmindedly pet the one woman but began to stroke his hard cock. Another Harpy moved closer to him, sitting up on her knees. She gently ran her fingers up his thighs, along the line of his hips, up his belly. She stretched up to meet him part way and Feyd obliged and kissed her parted lips. Her tongue lapped at his black teeth. Slowly, she replaced her hand with his and squeezed and stroked his cock. He moaned.

He squeezed her breast with one hand, grabbed her head with the other. The abandoned Harpy whined and followed his hand. She licked at their ears, dividing her attention between Feyd and the woman. The third Harpy managed to insert herself into the kiss and turned his face to her. He let her and only opened his eyes enough to see the disappointment on the other Harpy’s face. He smiled into the lips on his. He enjoyed their competing desires as much as he enjoyed their bodies. Feyd pulled back from the kiss. Smiling down at the woman stroking him he pressed firmly on the back of her neck.

“Open your mouth for me, my darling,” he growled. She did. His moved her hand and slid the tip of his cock along her bottom lip. Black pre-cum coated it and he sighed. She opened wider and pushed her tongue out, making room for him. She looked up at him, expressionless except for searching black eyes waiting on her next direction. None came.

Feyd grabbed the sides of her face with both hands. She closed her lips around his cock as he fucked into her mouth. He groaned softly as the warmth enveloped him. He closed his eyes and images of the fight he had won earlier flashed in his mind. He felt hands on his thighs, his ass, and his balls. A tongue licked his ribs and down his side. Fingers teased him from his lower back to the back of his thigh.

Sweet, lovely sounds filled his ears. The wetness of the Harpy’s mouth on his cock. Her muffled moans and occasional gasps when he would pause to let her catch her breath. The mewling of the other two as they tasted and teased him. They rarely spoke anymore, only his name occasionally, no louder than a whisper. These sounds were what he craved.

One of them squeezed his balls and he pushed his full length into the woman’s mouth. She groaned around him and the vibrations made the tightness in his core unravel. He pulled out just enough to spill his black, thick load over her tongue. He opened his eyes and watched the corners of her mouth twitch up in a small smile. His deep groan turned into an exhale and his shoulders slumped. He released her head. As he moved back he wiped the head of his cock on her tongue.

“Swallow. All of it,” Feyd commanded. The Harpy obeyed. He wiped black from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and pushed it between her lips. Her tongue lapped it from him.

[jmdbjk]

Movin'... comin'... lovin'... yeah, yeah, yeah.

That's it. That's the post.

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Soooo where are all of the Furina simps? Because she's so babygirl 👀

[kaitlinamberxo]

“I've been looking out of a window for eighteen years, dreaming about what I might feel like when those lights rise in the sky. What if it's not everything I dreamed it would be?”

kaitlin's 100 favorite female muses — 8/100: Rapunzel

[jaymz-het69]

February 8 1984

Jammin

[mango-mya]

Hnnggg.f.fds.d.a...... do NOT look at me rn..... Soooo embarrassing...

[shittybundaskenyer]

✹ ▬ 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒

rating: Explicit pairing: Female Shepard x Garrus Vakarian summary: the Mako breaks down in a snowstorm on Noveria. Shepard is stuck with her turian friend after some things went sideways in one of the research labs. warnings: first time gone wrong (but then so right), sex pollen, so much kissing, just pure smut (what do you want from me??), does doing it in the Mako is considered car sex?, interspecies sex, love confessions, so much fluff, Garrus is too sweet for his own good word count: 3831  

a/n: I had Mass Effect Legendary Edition on my PC for like a year and I'm now cursing myself why I've waited for so long to play the trilogy. The Bioware brainrot took me once more under its influence so I guess I'm going back to my roots. This is almost entirely is pure smut, I guess I can't write anything else nowadays but I'm embracing it now. So have this very rusty, messy love scene I wrote in a frenzy after finishing the trilogy. <33

MASTERLIST   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

Noveria is cold and white and still beautiful in that strange way only death can be. It became the noose woven around Garrus’ own neck too, when it twirled his fate and Shepard's own together in form of a messy string. 

It only started becoming strange when Shepard started to tear her armor off of her body, but by then all common sense was out, laying dead in the relentless snowstorm. She became feverish, smelling so sweet, like summer, like sun-warmed earth, like arousal that Garrus had realized all too late. They were warned by the dangers of the labs surrounding Peak 15, the tower that was like an old pine ringed by fungi, all the rot and unethical discoveries blooming under the disguise of neat little buildings that twinkled in the darkened landscape—a constellation hiding in a thick cloud of dark matter. 

He knows she was curious. He knows she only wanted to help, but Spirits, it will be the death of her one day, N7 or not, she’s only human. And she’s fragile, a goddamn glass cannon that can blow up the whole universe and crumble from hands that grip her a bit too tight at the same time. 

Liara’s warning came too late, they had to cut to the chase and there was no time to think about the consequences of Shepard's stray shot breaking open the containment cell of an unnaturally lush, succulent little flower in one of the labs. It didn’t set in until they were in the Mako and she steered the dumb tank even more recklessly than she did it stone cold sober. A boulder came, then the half of the mountain too, raining down thick globes of fresh snow until the Mako was good and well stuck. She was sweating by then, skin hot and wet and her eyes wild and Liara offered to get help from one of the nearby labs, leaving Garrus to protect his commander with his life. From what, he didn’t know. There was nothing, only snow and wind and Shepard’s warmth all around them for miles. But time trickled by like water on a glass window after a storm, slow, sluggish, and Shepard couldn’t keep herself in line anymore. 

She pleaded for a caress she always wanted from him and he wanted to give her everything instead. 

(Maybe he loved her all along.)

And now, now Liara is gone and has been gone for hours, and Garrus pushes Shepard into the Mako's seat, his forehead meeting hers, something akin to a kiss only lovers do. Her skin is damp, her hair sticking to her face in messed up crimson ribbons and he tries to trace the constellations under her eye with a blunted talon when blood floods her cheeks, making them twinkle like stars adrift a sea of nebulae. The Mako is dark but not dark enough to hide the fire flickering in her gaze, shielded by a series of curved, dark lashes. Humans and their strange hair—eyebrows and lashes and thousands of fair fuzz that stand up as he moves his hand lover, to the vulnerable skin of her throat, swiping a thumb over her pulse that jumps wildly at the touch. 

"Kiss me," she whispers, barely audible for the translator to pick up, and it almost sounds like music like this, a series of hisses and high notes, so he nuzzles his way closer to hear it once more, now pleading, the sound buzzing in her throat. 

It's beautiful in a way.

"How?" he whispers against the side of her jaw, warm plates against cooler skin, and she puts a hand to his face, five fingers splaying over his colony markings, urging him upwards until her lips can brush over his mouth. It's strange. It's unbelievably soft. Then— wet as her tongue darts out and tries to coax his mouth plates apart. 

He takes the leap and lets her in. Even if he has all the sharp teeth, even if it's wildly different from his own experiences. And Spirits, it feels good. It's tender—even though they started to tear at each other's armor before this, even though he has to clench his fingers into a fist before he scratches her in his hurry. This has to be gentle where nothing in the world is. 

His tongue meets hers, and now he understands why humans like kissing so much. He does now too. Shepard makes a sound as he tastes the inside of her mouth, the blunt edge of her teeth and sucks in a breath when Garrus pulls back to gaze down at her and find her looking dazed. 

"Alright?," he checks, always, afraid of fucking this precious thing up and Shepard has the audacity to smile. Full of teeth and curving lips, a flash of white in the darkness. 

"I'm good," she knocks her forehead against his, nuzzling him, "really good."

Garrus kisses her again as an answer, bolder now, so much braver, and he kisses and kisses her until there's no more left to give, until there's no air in her lungs. Something new shines in her eyes, in the pool of darkness that is her pupils, dilated beyond belief, ringed by a thin strip of wild green, a black hole with a halo. Want. Need. Something more. Something unbelievable. 

Garrus rumbles deep in his chest, a sound so low she can only feel its vibration against her sternum, the crook of her neck where his face finds a home. His subvocals sing so many things at once, a confession she can't understand, not yet. Contentment. Gratefulness. Lust. Love.

(Maybe I love you.)

She drags her hand across his face again, that delicate, soft hand that is only calloused in places where wielding a gun made the skin harder. She touches his fringe, and under it, where plates turn into the most vulnerable patch of hide he has on his body. His voice grows louder, more like a growl than a purr, and she smiles again, so pretty something under his keelbone jumps and bursts and flickers—a star being born. 

"That's—," he starts and he's not proud of the way his voice trembles. "That's one way to give the night a quick start."

Shepard's fingers stop in their movement, but before she could pull away he takes a hold of her forearm and soothes a thumb over the inside of her wrist, guiding her back to that spot. 

"Am I hurting you?" 

"Spirits, no," he flicks a mandible at her, his way of smiling, and Shepard puts her mouth to his jaw as her confidence grows. Garrus can feel the plates at his sheath slowly parting and somehow he's hyperaware of her body trapped against his, her knee brushing his own, warm even through metal and ceramic plates. 

They have to strip down that damn armor, like, right now. 

But Shepard knows this, feels this too, and her hand disappears so she can grab the waist of his pants and tug on it, even though turian armor is not designed in a way that it could make it come off easily. 

"Help me, will you?" she asks against the side of his mandible, face and incredibly soft lips still so close, her eyelashes brushing his jaw as she looks down between them in the dark and Garrus desperately wishes that he could feel that fluttering. Instead, he's stripping. The rest of his undersuit that was hanging by his hips goes lower when he unfastens every little clasp and belt he has around his spurs. 

Shepard licks his mouth. He rumbles again, louder when the thin fabric of protective weave finally pools on the Mako's floor, and he's right up there against her, pressing close, so close, until his keel digs between her breasts and his side is framed by her knees and he kisses her the human way, with so much tongue and want it leaves her breathless. 

"How much time do we have?" he asks against the underside of her ear, finding a soft spot there, one that pulls a whimper from her. 

"Barely any," she hisses and lets him nibble on the curve of her neck. "Gonna make the most of it?"

"Trying to," he smiles, mandibles catching her messy hair, blood red on silver, hands going up to cradle her nape, to get lost in that soft sea of crimson. 

Shepard likes this, likes the feel of his hide on her skin and she wants more, wants no barriers in those minimal, quiet gaps the differences of their bodies create. Negative space filled with heat and some unintelligible emotion, something like summer, something like home. She melds her body to his and Garrus can't help the low resonance his subvocals start to make. 

"Am I hurting you?" she whispers as she lays tiny kisses on his neck, just beside the edge of the plates shielding his spine. "You're trembling."

"No, I just—," his breath hitches as those kisses turn into gentle nips. Right where a bondmark would go. Spirits, he's slipping. She can't know this, she can't— "You just found all the good buttons to push."

He feels her smirk on his hide. He wants to have her mark here, even though the thought terrifies him.

(Maybe I love you.)

"You know I'm good at pushing buttons."

Garrus chuckles but it comes out rasped. He doesn't care. Not when he can feel her body vibrating, shivering as his hands finally roam downwards, onto her sides, her hips, the soft of her belly that is so blessedly bare. 

He slides a talon along the muscles leading down, around the small divot in the middle, lower still where Shepard's already lifting her hips up to let him free her of her undersuit pants. There's still some fabric that remains, covering her most intimate parts but she grabs his hands and makes him grip the fabric of it in a hurry. 

"Pull this down too," she whisper-commands and he obliges, skims the tips of his blunted talons over the jut of her hipbones, a feature all too familiar on a body made of infinite curves. It traps his gaze, the small hills and valleys, freckled here too, and hairy when he gazes lower, a trail of tiny red curls disappearing between lush thighs as he reveals more of her skin. 

The undergarment only gets down one leg, dangles on the other by her knee when he pries apart her thighs, makes himself at home right in the cradle of them. This is all too fast and all too hot, but none of them complains as they meet in another heated kiss. She smells different like this, stronger, sweet and tangy and something else, pure arousal he realizes, and Garrus can't hold himself back any longer, can't will the swollen edges of his sheath to stay closed. 

"Show me how to touch you," he asks, almost pleads, because damn, he can't be selfish with her, not when he trusts her with his life and wants all the happiness the world can offer for her. That too, is a confession he's not ready to make, not for himself and not for her, but Shepard stops him in his thoughts as she puts her hand back right under his fringe, driving him wild. 

"None of that right now," she pants, breathless as his hands go bruising on her hips. "I just want you inside me."

Fuck, this was not the way Garrus thought he would die.

"I don't want to hurt—" she interrupts him with another kiss, then a hand on his stomach, low enough to almost graze the plates on his groin. 

"Please, Garrus," it's a plea. Broken and rasped. Raw, like a fresh wound. Why is she suffering? 

"Don't let me hurt you. I could not live with myself and the consequences."

"You're sweet," she smiles quietly, looking up at him from under the shadow of those long lashes, eyes burning with fire and want and that same thing that eats his heart alive, while it still beats a wild rhythm only for her. 

Garrus touches a hand between her legs, follows the trail of fascinating hair to where it parts in a seam of flesh, soft folds hiding a hot, wet warmth. It's familiar enough, so much more slick and so much smaller, but there's give in the muscle lower, where his finger finally dips inside her. Spirits, that’s—

She angles her hips, and moans, right beside his ear when his finger slips deeper, almost to the last knuckle in one go and damn if that's not something he'll remember for the rest of his life. 

"C'mon," her lips brush the word against his mandible. He puts his forehead to hers and pulls his hand away, moving her instead, three fingers splayed on the jut of a hipbone. 

It takes a little more shuffling, a little more angling and gripping for him to slot himself right at the apex of her thighs, her warmth scorching here, a sun, a red giant star, her wetness smearing on the bare hide of his stomach and then he's holding her firm and letting his sheath finally, blessedly open, his cock sliding out and into her in a slow, perfect motion. 

Shepard doesn't breathe. She can't. Garrus can feel her shuddering against his keel as he keeps filling her, making way for himself inside her even though there's barely any. He never thought she could— that she would have all of him, like this, with her leg cramping up around his hip, with her throat full to bursting with unsaid curses and whimpers. His subvocals scream, his mind fogged by the feeling of her oh so close, so perfect, so beautiful like this, with her hands bruising his neck and her lips open on some silent shout. 

"Fuck, Garrus I—," there's a hitch in her breath, then a fluttering squeeze right on his cock, her muscles clenching up. He's gonna lose his mind just like how he lost control of his voice. 

(I love you.)

“I got you,” he murmurs instead, eyes half-closed, hands still gripping her waist. “I got you sweetheart.”

Shepard squirms, pulls his face right down to her, then lower, into the crook of her neck and a deep urge surfaces in him, an instinct buried deep under centuries of civilized life and culture, yet it was never erased from his genes. He evolved like this, with the want, the need, to bite, to mark something that he wants to forever keep his own. Turians mate for life. If she leaves now, he thinks he will die. Can another soul be ripped from his own? He would gladly lay in a cold grave with her. Would follow her to the end of the universe and back, just so he can protect her. Shield the one that wants to keep the world from crumbling. Travel through all the stars and Mass Relays laying dormant, see all the wild emptiness and beauty of the galaxy and it would still be nothing compared to the way she looks up at him now. 

There’s water collecting at her pinched brows; sweat, he remembers, and he lifts a hand there to swipe it away. Her eyes are wet too, glossy, glinting in the low light like a starry night sky over home.  

“Garrus—” she presses out between her teeth, her face scrunched up in a frown of pain-pleasure he assumes, because she never makes a move to push him away, to halt this perfect joining. He hopes it’s okay. He hopes he’s not fucking this up. Losing her after this would be a killing blow. A heart-shaped bullet hole right on his heart. 

“Just tell me how,” he takes her cheek in his palm, angles her so that he can kiss her. Slowly. Softly. It’s a fleeting thing that ends with her nipping on his mouth, his tongue, just to get his attention. Like his every nerve was not focused on her anyway from the start. 

“Please move,” she murmurs against his mandible, her body squeezing him tight, making him groan. He pulls back a little, testing, careful, always so afraid of hurting her, his tough girl, but Shepard smiles and it’s enough to make him thrust shallowly into her. “Yeah, you feel so good.”

Garrus’ vision whites out for a second as her insides tug him back inside, so warm and so wet that a messy patch is already forming between their bodies, his sheath hitting her folds, the friction blinding, and the sight even more as he looks down, fringe tangled into her hair, and in the darkness he finds himself nestled deep, her cunt stretched around him, glistening in their combined want. 

He moves, spirits, he moves. And his chest rumbles and his hands shake and his mandibles twitch at her cheek and his heart aches so damn hard it makes his breaths get stuck in his lungs like trapped creatures in a bone cage. 

(I love you so damn much.)

She moves with him like a tide, like water rising on an endless black ocean alight with stars, then falling back, and even though he knows she's the most horrible dancer the galaxy has, she follows the steps of this tango by heart. Maybe because it's wanted. Maybe because it's with him. He desperately wishes that it would be true. 

"I won't last long like this," his voice is barely picked up by the translator and he knows this, hopes that she doesn't mind the sounds he makes. They're real. So perfectly clear in their meaning, so sure in expressing something he's not yet ready to say when she can understand. 

(I love you, I love you, I love you.)

She puts a palm to his stomach, just above his sheath, five lithe fingers mapping out the narrow lines of his sides, and damn, it makes his cock twitch, makes him thrust in roughly for the first time. There's a sound of delight. It comes from her, head tipped back and lips smeared with spit and red strands of hair, like fresh blood after a good brawl. 

"Yes," she breathes out, dragging him down to her, clinging to him tightly as he finally moves his hips in a hard, steady rhythm. His knees are gonna kill him later but it doesn’t matter because he’s with her, joined like lovers, like mates.

She takes his hand, leads it over her body, to the divot of her collarbones, her sternum, the dip of her stomach, then the soft of her belly where she makes him press down a little, makes him feel the distinct shape of him moving inside her. That's something entirely new. 

It makes him even more aware of the fact that this small, fragile woman would take up a krogan in a fistfight and come out alive. It makes him lose his mind. It makes some sick, posessive part of him growl and rumble and hold her so tight he's sure her hips are gonna bruise. 

"Shepard," he hisses, one hand gripping the seat behind her to find more leverage, her sounds getting louder, out of breath and high-pitched, his name a silent mantra only muttered with gaping lips. “Show me how to make you come.”

She whimpers, clutches his fingers tighter on her navel. The talons of his other hand tear the Mako’s seat behind her. She drags his palm over the mound of hairy flesh where they join, and he enjoys carding his talons through the curls, then she takes a thick finger and places the pad of it just above where he’s stretching her open with his cock, on a small bundle of swollen flesh that instantly makes her tighten around him. This is something he could never get used to—the tight warmth clinging to him like a second skin under Palaven’s unforgiving sun. He swipes his thumb over it, then draws a slow circle. The tightness becomes almost unbearable. He keens.  

“Damn clever turian,” she hiccups, grinding into his touch, into his unsteady thrusts, her hand gripping his wrist instead, not guiding but trying to steady herself. “I’m so close, Garrus.”

He nuzzles her jaw at that, forehead meeting forehead after, then lips with plates, tongue with tongue. The kiss breaks off in a series of desperate gasps, and Garrus murmurs against her, “let me come with you. Senna, please I—”

“Love you,” she pants into the crook of his neck, teeth grazing him, and then biting in when he pushes his whole length into her, the stretch unbearable, her words ringing in his ears like endless echoes in a hallway made of dark matter and stardust, and he claims her, puncturing her shoulder and filling her cunt, his tie growing, the taste of her blood bursting on his tongue. Sweet. Salty. Iron. Just like her. 

She tightens on him impossibly so, and then there’s a fluttering, her muscles spasming violently in an orgasm that makes her legs shake and her stomach jump. His thumb slowly stops moving on the bundle of flesh she showed him when her short nails dig forcefully into his forearm. 

(I love you, I love you, I love you—)

Subvocals screaming, his whole body trembling, he finally releases her flesh, knocks his nose against hers until her eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused, brimmed with tears, pupils dilated to infinity. She smiles, blunt teeth flashing white and blue in the low light, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s his own blood on her lips. 

He leans down to lick it off, to embrace her tighter, to feel the taste of her tingle in the back of his throat. She bit him. She marked him for life.

“I love you so damn much, baby.”

It’s out and it’s his own shot right through his heart, a shard of metal carved out just in the shape of her, and Garrus knows that nothing ever will be the same. The marks, the blood, his tie cradled by her fluttering warmth, his heart laying bare out in the snow, thawing in her warmth. 

Turians don’t like the cold, but Shepard scorches and it's just the right way.

“Thank you,” she whispers, weak now, entirely spent, but not influenced by the poison of want anymore. “I know this was… not how a first date should’ve happened but…” she bites the bruised swell of her bottom lip and he smooths a hand over her cheek, brushing away sticky hairs from her face. “Can we… have a next time?”

Garrus flicks out his mandibles in a smile and hugs her tighter, reassuring, eyes full of hope and wonder and her own disheveled reflection, “I want all the next times with you.”

“Good,” her grin tickles his hide, mischievous now. “I’m looking forward to it.”

(I do too. I do, I do, I do.)