#Then Beta Readers I think
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tanjir0se · 6 months ago
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Disclaimer these are just a small sampling of some possible writer traits I’ve noticed either in myself or in fics I read. Also consider a rb for sample size !
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nordlichtgeschichten · 9 months ago
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Only one more chapter to edit and then Finding Magic's 4th Draft is gonna be finished :D
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ylangelegy · 16 days ago
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is it casual now? (teaser) 🫀 seungcheol x reader.
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★ seungcheol x makeup artist!f!reader. ★ teaser word count: ~8,000 ★ genre/warnings: mdni. 18+ content. situationship/friends with benefits, light angst, use of pet name ('love'). soft dom!seungcheol, making out, biting/marking, protected sex. let me know if i missed anything! ★ footnotes: this has been on my backburner for months. it's admittedly a full-blown story in need of hard editing, and so i'm posting this in hopes of bullying myself into working on the whole thing. should it come down to it, though, i like to think this can stand on its own. enjoy. <3
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Seungcheol has been in the industry long enough to know that everybody had vices.
Trainees, rookies, veterans. It didn't matter. There were dangerous, risky vices. Alcohol, drugs, smoking. There was dating, too, of course. Dating fans, dating fellow idols.
Seungcheol didn't do drugs. He smoked socially, but he would rather not. And he drank, sure, but never to an unhealthy amount. Dating, however—
Did it really count when there was only really ever one person he treated like a vice?
You've been in his life since the group debuted. Nine years, give or take. And then, at one point, he just... tried something with you. And it clicked, fell into place, and now you've been sneaking around for the better half of three years. It's the one place Seungcheol feels like he can breathe, can get away. But it's also the biggest secret he's kept.
You're his makeup artist, after all.
When the two of you started off, you both insisted on nothing serious. To 'keep it casual'.
That worked perfectly for Seungcheol. He likes to think it's still working for him, as he raps at the door of your apartment and waits for you to open up. His wristwatch says that it's midnight, but it doesn't matter. He knocks a little louder, growing a touch impatient.
You open the door, and you're greeted with Seungcheol looking reproachful. "Yah," he chides. "Why haven't you been answering my texts?"
When you rub your eyes with the back of your hands and look over your shoulder to glimpse at your wall clock, Seungcheol almost feels apologetic. Almost. “Cheol,” you say exasperatedly, slowly. “It’s the middle of the night.” 
"So you were sleeping then, hmm?" Seungcheol says. The corner of his lips tilt up, just slightly. He leans against the doorframe, taking a brief amount of time to glance you over. As he does, a small wave of tiredness finally washes over him— just how late had he kept himself up working on new music? "I sent you texts hours ago."
"You didn't even read them." He reaches up, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He sighs, the sound almost exaggerated. "How cruel of you."
You let out a low hum at Seungcheol’s fingers brushing against your skin. “Mmm, I fell asleep with my phone in my hand,” you admit, the words coming out more like a soft sigh than anything else.
You seem to finally drag yourself out of your sleepy state to give Seungcheol a once-over. He knows it shows all over— the exhaustion in his eyes, his stance. He’s tired, and you can tell. You’ve always been able to tell. 
You step aside a bit and he takes that as his cue. Seungcheol moves past you, a small hum in the back of his throat. He toes off his shoes and shuts the door behind him with a soft click. In spite of himself, the moment he's inside, he reaches for you. 
One arm is loosely slung over your shoulders, pulling you in close. He rests his chin on your shoulder, the tip of his nose against your neck.
"You fell asleep..." he gripes. "Do you know how many texts I sent you? I sent five.” 
“Five”” you repeat as you bear Seungcheol’s weight. Your hand instinctively raises to stroke the base of his hair behind his neck, and he thinks he could melt then and there— your soothing touch, your light tone. “Oh, how ever will you live?”
Seungcheol huffs into the crook of your neck. The feel of your fingers in his hair does wonders to combat the tired, stressed part of himself. Slowly, his shoulders relax, and he sighs, the sound long and deep.
"Don't get snarky with me," he mutters. But there's no bite to it at all, just a quiet sense of contentment in his voice. "You could've at the very least read the messages." He moves, presses a kiss to your neck. "Would've taken ten seconds."
“I was asleep,” you protest, but— whether or not you notice— your head is tilting around a bit to press a lingering kiss on to the side of his face.Seungcheol's stomach flutters. You're sweet like that. Always have been, always will be. He hums under his breath at the kiss, his hand that's on your shoulder moves up to cup your cheek.
“That’s my penance,” you say drowsily. 
"One kiss isn't nearly enough," he tells you. 
He pulls back from your shoulder to look at you, now. The eye contact, the way he regards you, has a more focused weight. He takes a moment to look you over again— hair mussed, face still flushed faintly from sleep. "Two,” he says in a tone that brokers no argument. 
“Greedy,” you mumble, but both of you know it doesn’t matter. 
Not when your free hand finds purchase at his side and you use your fingers in his hair to pull him down so you don't have to stand on your tiptoes. Not when you press your lips together into a kiss that's soft and sweet, almost sleepy.
All it takes is the sound of your voice for Seungcheol to be pulled in— when you tug at his hair, he follows, his chest against yours. He bends down, his own hands coming up to the sides of your face.
He melts against your mouth, his eyes closing in an instant. But it’s done as quickly as it started. You pull away, your face still inches away from Seungcheol’s, as you smilingly mumble to him, “There. Two kisses.” 
His eyes open again once you pull away, his grip on your face tightening just slightly. "Three," he mutters back, and then he leans back in. 
You hum against his mouth, the sound breaking free from the back of your throat. You’re both so tired from your respective work and it shows in the kiss. No heat, no fire. Your tongue swiping over his lip makes Seungcheol hum, quiet and low in his throat. He's usually so used to being the one who takes control, making the first move, but here with you, in the early hours of the morning— there's something else to it.
He pulls you closer against him, his hands moving down to your hips. Against your mouth, he murmurs, "Four," before his tongue slips in, just to get a taste. Just to linger, just to savor, but not take over.
“Cheol,” you huff, though your reprimand is tempered by the way Seungcheol is intent on keeping the kiss going. “You’re— mmph— being greedy—” 
"Five—" he sighs against your mouth. "Let me be greedy a second more."
One of his hands moves to the back of your head, fingers tangling up in your hair. This is what he likes, this is what he always comes to you for. Something that's simple. This, he can deal with. This, he can handle.
It’s never a second more with Seungcheol. He’s always out the door when he can go, when he has to. He’s never been a glutton for time, and so it’s enough for you to sense that something is wrong. 
You break away from him. 
Seungcheol has to resist a whine when you pull back, his eyes fluttering open in a daze. Your hand has moved to his face and you’re looking up at him with a small frown and a quiet query. “Long week?” 
He lets your question hang in the air for a moment, the hand in your hair loosening its grip, fingers just idly combing through the strands.
He glances at your face— the furrow of your brow, the hint of concern in your eyes— and it makes him sigh. He turns his head to press a soft, quick kiss to your palm.
"Long year," he corrects.
You look like you want to say more. Seungcheol almost begs you not to. This— whatever the two of you have— it’s an outlet that won’t break him, won't ruin him, won't tarnish him or the group's name. He just wants— he needs—
You know exactly what he needs, even if he doesn’t always know himself. “How do you want your fifth kiss?” you ask instead of commenting on his obvious fatigue. 
Your question makes Seungcheol's head empty out in an instant.
It takes him a moment to think, to consider. His mind, hazy and tired as it is, struggles to come up with an adequate answer. All he knows is that he's comfortable, that he's tired, that you're here. And that's all he really needs, in the end.
He lets his hand fall from your hair, to the nape of your neck. "... Soft," he murmurs. "Soft and easy."
You’re back up on your tiptoes to give him what he asked for. A sweet, slow press of your lips against his. It’s a kiss that lovers give each other, even though you’re the furthest from that. 
It's easy, easy, easy for him to fall into the kiss just like that, a shudder running down his spine when your tongue doesn't invade him. It's sweet, it's chaste, it's simple. It's exactly the kind of kiss he needs after a week of work.
His hand on your neck moves to your cheek, his thumb brushing over the skin there. He breaks away for a mere second, a fraction of a beat, to catch his own breath, but he kisses you right back after. 
"Six," he whispers desperately. "Again."
This time, you laugh against his mouth— a slightly muffled sound, not any less amused— but you give in, still. When you separate for air again, one of your hands rests on his chest to keep him away. “You have to let me breathe, Cheol,” you huff. 
Seungcheol has to resist groaning outright when your palm on his chest keeps him from coming in for another kiss. You're adorable like this, in the middle of the night, with sleep in your eyes and annoyance in your voice.
He knows he's being needy, taking advantage, but at the same time? It's all he seems to be able to do. Greedy, he hears you call him, and it's true.
"I'll let you breathe when I get my seventh kiss, then," he grumbles.
He can see the annoyance blooming on your expression, but he’s saved by one thing and one thing alone: The fact that you can get pretty greedy sometimes, too, especially when Seungcheol was involved. 
"Fine," you say haughtily, feigning annoyance. "Just one more kiss."
Seungcheol's eyes glimmer with something akin to mischief. His hands move to your face again, his own lips curving up in a smirk. You give him an inch, he wants a mile. It's his style. "One more kiss. That I can work with."
He brushes a thumb over your cheek again, his grip in your hair loosening only to brush some stray strands away from your face. "Only fair that I get to pick the way, then," he says, his tone low.
He's going to make the most of this opportunity, and you're letting him.
His tongue darts out briefly to lick over his bottom lip. "Open your mouth."
When you let out a noncommittal hom and oblige, parting your lips, he knows he’s gone. Seeing the obedience in your face makes Seungcheol's stomach do a little bit of an excited flip. You're like this, this, even when you're tired, when you're barely awake.
It's a little addicting.
"Good," he says softly. It's all the warning you get before he's got his mouth on yours again.
He kisses you— devours you, his tongue parting your lips, sliding into your mouth, taking. The kiss is almost bruising and seems to throw you off balance, but you quickly recover by pressing flush against Seungcheol and holding the sides of his arms. If he were a better person, Seungcheol would let this be the last one. Would let this kiss end and call it a night. 
But then the smallest of sounds escape you. A whimper, a soft noise that only makes all sense fly right out of Seungcheol's head. It's not fair, he thinks, that you still have a hold on him even in the middle of the night.
All it makes him do is pull you closer— press you up against the wall with his entire body, his hands still gripping your face as he kisses you deep. Harder than he usually would, rougher than he normally did.
He swallows the sound, his tongue still in your mouth.
Your fingernails are pressing into his biceps now. Your tongue is sinking into his lower lip; not quite biting, but enough to drag his focus away for a moment. "Seung," you sigh, and it’s like music to his goddamn ears. 
He was Choi or Seungcheol when he was in your makeup chair. Cheol, when it was just the two of you. But Seung was something different entirely. 
A small moan, low and quiet, gets caught in Seungcheol's throat when you bite into his lip, when you whine out his name like that. He knows what it means when you call him like that— knows what he's in for.
He relishes in it. In moments like these when he gets to be like this. When he doesn't have to be responsible, when he doesn't have to be a leader. He gets to be just Seung.
There isn't a single part of his body that's not on fire right now, not when he's got you pinned against the wall, not when you're all satin and soft against him. His grip on your face tightens, and now his lips are no longer on your mouth, but on your jaw, moving down to your neck, your throat.
A quiet, needy little ah falls out your lips when he nips at that spot on your pulse point, and there, there is exactly when he knows that he's got you exactly where he wants you. Pinned by his body, shaking and shivering like he's touching you for the first time.
If he was feeling a little less riled up, a little less needy, he'd keep up the teasing. But he can't, not now. His hands move from your face to your hips, moving under the satin of your pajamas. It's not enough, never enough.
Every sound that leaves your mouth, every little please, just, already sets a fire in his brain. Every part of his mind turns to static, white noise, as he keeps his lips on your throat, your neck, biting and nipping at your skin.
“Seung,” you hiss, your hands flying to his shoulders as you press your back on to the entryway wall, willing yourself not to crumple. “I’m going to get a noise complaint again—”
“I'll pay the fine,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips against your collarbone now, his hands still on your hips. His brain is starting to grow fuzzy, his thoughts less coherent, but this was the goal.
To get you like this. Soft and shaking and desperate. To make you his for the night, for just a little while. To hold some sort of control over something in his life.
“You can't just keep paying for— ah— the fines,” you’re babbling. “They're going— t-to kick me— Seung, fuck!"
Whatever you’re trying to say dies out when Seungcheol nips at your warm skin. The rational part of him, somewhere deep, deep inside, knows that you're right. He can't keep paying your fines for complaints of loud music and loud sex.
The part of him that's currently working on painting a bruise on your collarbone doesn't seem to care all that much.
"I'll pay," he repeats, between leaving a few more marks on your skin for good measure. "As many times as I have to—"
“Jesus Christ,” you cuss, your chest heaving as Seungcheol’s hand moves higher and higher up your shirt. “My neighbors are so fucking sick of me, and it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?” Even through the haze in his head, Seungcheol can't help the low scoff that he lets out. He wants to say that he couldn't care less about your neighbors— wants to say that your pretty mouth makes up for the noise, but something else catches his attention. The brush of his fingers on bare skin. 
His eyes go wide, his brain suddenly clearing.
"You're not wearing anything underneath your pajamas," he deadpans, his voice coming out in a low drawl.
Of course, that adds up. You hadn’t been expecting Seungcheol, after all, so he can’t blame you for foregoing the underclothes. Still, it only stokes the growing flame in the base of his stomach. Especially when you move your head back against the wall so you’re looking right up at Seungcheol, the ghost of a smirk on your face. 
“Wanna check for yourself?” you taunt. 
A low groan falls out of Seungcheol's mouth as soon as you ask that. Like clockwork, his hands go to the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up slightly. Just a little bit, just to see if you're really not wearing anything beneath.
"You always like to tease," he says, his voice low. That hint of a smirk on your face is only serving to drive him that much crazier. "Go on, then. Show me, since you want to act all cocky."
You give him half an eye roll that’s more affectionate than anything else before reaching over to the back of your pajama collar. You pull the top over your head in one deft, swift movement. Seungcheol's eyes go wide for just a moment, taking in the sight of you, undressed, in front of him. It never stops shocking him, never stops making his heart thump a little harder, his breath coming out a little more labored.
“Happy?” you half-joke, your voice low. 
He looks at you, up and down, before his eyes go back to your face. His hands move from your hips to your waist, fingers tracing over the sides of your chest as he shakes his head.
"Not yet," he says. "But I will be."
His hands keep tracing over your skin, his touch light— almost feathery, as he keeps his eyes fixed on your face. There's something about seeing you so exposed like this that's driving him absolutely insane, something about you being entirely at his mercy that's making his eyes grow dark.
He leans in, bringing his lips just past your ear. "Turn around," he murmurs, almost like a command.
He sees how you swallow hard, how you take in the familiar darkness in Seungcheol’s gaze. You know him, have known him for years, and that comes with trust. Unflinchingly, you twist around in his arms to press your chest against the wall. 
He has you practically trapped, all against his chest and the wall. His eyes look at you up and down, taking in your bare shoulders and back, the way you've submitted to him so perfectly.
His hands go to your hips again, and his eyes look over your back, following the line of your bare spine. "What do you say we find a use for this wall besides me just pushing you up against it," he murmurs. "Hm?"
“Yes, please,” you whimper, and as soon as you agree, Seungcheol's hands tighten on your hips, his grip almost bruising as he pulls you a little closer to him. You're not going anywhere, not when he's got you like this.
He leans in, his body practically pressing up against your back, his chest against your skin. He bites down on your shoulder, pulling a strangled whine out from somewhere deep in your throat. "You look so goddamn pretty like this, love," he murmurs against your skin.
His hands move from your hips to your chest, tracing the skin there before he brings them up to your throat. He presses his fingers against your pulse point, feeling the thump thump thump of your heartbeat.
He can feel your heart thrumming against his hand, can practically hear you shaking. It's driving him absolutely insane— you, underneath him, trembling for him. The knowledge that he's got you like this, the fact that you're letting him take control, letting him do whatever he wants.
He moves his mouth to that spot on your neck again, the skin that's so sensitive that it makes you whimper and shiver. He always finds it so easy to tease those sounds out of you, and always relishes in doing it.
His hands stay at your neck, his fingers still pressed against your pulse point. This had always been one of Seungcheol's little habits— a single finger on your pulse point, as if he liked seeing which actions would make your heart rate spike, which words would have it hammering.
Seungcheol presses his lips on your skin again. "You're so loud."
He marvels at the way you ball your hands into fists, the way you shake all over with poorly concealed want and need as he keeps nipping and marking. "‘M not," you gasp, lurching forward against the wall. "‘M perfectly— hng!"
Everything is working in his favor.
You're shaking, and your heart is racing, and every noise you make is just more fodder for him. God, he loves it. Loves being the one to make you absolutely tremble and shiver like this. Loves the fact that he's the only one to make you feel like this.
"You're mine," he says again, bringing his mouth closer to your ear. He bites the shell of it, hard, before letting out a low hum.
This is his favorite place in the entire world— right against your back, feeling your body heat against his chest, his tongue running over your skin. He loves how reactive you are to him, how sensitive you are, how your body just melts under his touch.
"Say it," he mutters against your skin. "Who's in control?"
There it is. The million won question.
The whole reason you started these rendezvouses in the first place. He had been spinning out of control, and you had been lonely, and you clicked into place like magnets. 
You give in, like you always do. The words are a soft whimper, almost a shout in your otherwise empty apartment. "You. You're in control, Seung."
That's all he wants to hear.
He digs his fingers into your jaw and wrenches your head so it's turned to look at him, his lips inches from yours. Even if there's a little pain, nothing in him is stopping. "Good," he mutters, his breath hot against your lips. "Good girl."
The kiss that follows is absolutely messy, the kind of kiss where it's just tongue and teeth and raw need. It's worlds different from the soft and easy kisses that Seungcheol asked for earlier, when he first came in complaining about five unanswered texts.
"Seung," you groan as you pull away for air. "Please—" 
When you moan his name, it's like something snaps.
He growls low, his fingers slipping into the waistband of your shorts, gripping the fabric hard enough that there's a very real chance of them ripping. "Please what?" he mumbles against your neck. "You need to tell me what you need, love. Use your words."
"I hate you," you whine, and Seungcheol nearly smiles. He knows you’re not fond of begging, but he needs to hear it from you. At least, he wants to. 
"You know what I—" you’re saying, but dammit, his control is already razor thin as is. He rips off the last fabric of clothing on you until you’re completely bare, pressed entirely up between the wall and him. 
Somehow, your mind still has some shrivel of coherence to complain, "I liked this set, asshole!"
He grins against your skin at your words, chuckling at your whine, at the way you're just reacting to him. You can act annoyed, you can act like you don't need him, but he knows. "I'll buy you a new one," he hums, finally letting go of your shorts and letting them fall to the floor in tatters. "One for me to rip to shreds all over again."
That thought alone makes his blood sing.
It takes you a great effort to turn around, but somehow you manage. Seungcheol is still fully clothed and so your bare chest presses against the front of his shirt. The sight of you, naked, his hands at your hips, pressed right up against him, against his chest like this— he's gone.
And then you’re asking him, low and sweet as he has you caged in, "Where are you going to fuck me tonight, Seung?"
He can't even manage a word for a moment, his hands holding you so tight that he's definitely going to leave marks on your skin, his eyes fixed on your face.
He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry at the question. "You want me to say it out loud, hm?"
You go to steal the upper hand for a minute or so, and you do it so effectively. Your hand rises almost lazily to his neck, your finger instinctively finding his pulse point. He feels his heart rate speed up as he watches, just watches, you do it. You stand on your tiptoes to raise your lips directly to his ear. 
All he can feel is the thunder of his heart racing against your hand. You seem to notice it, too, if the smile on your face is any indication. 
"How about you just show me instead?" you say, and he’s convinced he’ll pass out then and there. 
"You're a brat," he mutters through gritted teeth, his hand moving up from your hips and up your spine. "A brat who needs to be taught a lesson."
He takes a shuddering breath, almost completely lost in your little game, before he snaps back to himself. Seungcheol's hand leaves your hip and goes to your hand, gripping your wrist hard. "On the sofa," he says, and it’s nothing short of a command. 
He practically drags you on to the piece of furniture, watching intently as you fall back with a small oomph. Seungcheol stands on the edge of the couch as you prop yourself up by the elbows to watch him right back. 
The sight of you underneath him— your hair splayed against the cushions, your eyes half-lidded and fixed on him? It's absolutely perfect. It's the kind of thing that he wants to keep in his mind forever, the sight he wants to always be able to remember.
He lets out a noise under his breath as he undoes the button of his jeans, the sound of the zipper going down obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Gorgeous,” he breathes. 
He gets his jeans undone and kicked off, his shirt following them not long after, and then he's on top of you, caging you in, his hands either side of your head, staring down at you.
The look in his eyes isn't something he really gets to show often— that raw need, that want, how desperate he is for you. He wants you, God, he wants you so badly, and you're letting him have you.
He dips his head to your neck, his lips against your skin, his breath hot against your pulse point, still absolutely obsessed with that spot. His hands find your wrists, pinning them back against the couch, while his knee finds its way between your thighs, pressing up against you.
You arch and squirm underneath him, visibly distressed with the facsimile of friction that you’re getting from his knee. “Seung,” you pant, grinding your dripping core against his knee. It sends a jolt of electricity through him. “Please— don’t wanna wait any more—”
“Where’s all that snark now, hm?” he teases, his teeth running over the skin on your neck. But he’s not any better off, his own self-control slipping through his very fingers as his hips grind down against you desperately. 
"Been driving me insane, love," he whispers, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your neck. "Been dreaming about this for days. Missing you—” 
A low keen escapes you, and he can only echo it as you tug at the last piece of material separating you. “Can we get this off already, please?” you huff as you hook your fingers at the waistband of his boxer shorts. 
He groans against your skin, his teeth finally letting go when he lifts his head to look down at you, the expression on his face looking like he's fighting for control. "God, yes," he groans, lifting his hips just enough for you to tug them off him.
He kicks them off once you’ve yanked them down, and his hand— which has instinctively gravitated to your pulse point— feels how the beat absolutely skyrockets. One of your arms goes around his shoulder and the other, surprisingly, clutches his jaw.
You’re looking right at him as you say, "Fast and hard, Seung."
"Yeah?" he says, just the slightest hint of a surprise in his voice. "You want me to be rough with you, love?"
Seungcheol was usually a sweet lover. He liked taking his time, liked being gentle and responsible even in bed.
But there were particularly rough weeks, terrible days, where he just needed a means to an end. Where the sex was an outlet, where the best thing you could be for him was his. 
He waits for your permission, because he still always remembers to ask no matter how far deep you’re in. The agreement comes in the form of the best three words. 
"Ruin me, Seung."
You know him too well. You know how he works, you know how he thinks, and you know him better than anyone.
He groans in response to your words, his head dipping down to drag his teeth gently over your collarbone. He's trying to hang on to his control, he is, but it's a losing effort.
"I will, love." His breath is hot against your skin, his hands finding your hips. "Just give me a minute—"
He shifts, just for a moment, to find the condom in his jean pocket. He goes through the motions until he's back on top of you again, one hand coming up to grip your hip again, the other coming up to rest against your throat. He looks down at you, his eyes almost glowing. 
"You trust me?" he mutters. His hand at your hip tightens; his hand at your throat barely clenches around your pulse point, his eyes never leaving yours.
You can feel it, see it. The way the little threads are beginning to unravel and fray. The way this was no longer Seungcheol of SEVENTEEN; not the leader, not the idol. This was something different entirely, someone else completely.
"I do," you whisper back, your eyes so full of adoration for him that he has to bite back the urge to scream. "I trust you, Seungcheol."
His full name is what really does it for him, because then he's pushing in, and you’re gasping, whimpering, trying to adjust around him and the fact that you’re practically clenching him on the get-go. Seungcheol eases in, nice and slow, because you’re too tightly coiled for him to do more than carefully bottom out. You’re both heaving, your breaths coming out as gasps; your own breaths are sharp, harsh, because Seungcheol is still choking you a little. 
His head dips down to your shoulder because he needs something to hold on to, anything, while his mind spins. His head is dizzy feeling you like this, feeling you around him so tightly. He's trembling, his thighs shaking, but he's holding himself back as long as he can.
When Seungcheol gets as far in as he can possibly get, you let out twin groans. He’s completely sheathed inside of you and you’re fluttering around him in a way that’s dangerous. 
“Y’can move, Seung,” you reassure him after a moment, the words coming out strained with desire. “As fast and hard as you want.” 
You sound strangled, just like he feels, and it's taking him a mammoth amount of control to hold himself back. He groans against your shoulder at the sound of your voice, the words you say. He wants to move, to thrust, but he's trying to have some semblance of composure. 
"Love," he says, his voice wrecked. "I—"
His voice breaks. It breaks, because there is only so much he can take, and he's beyond that point now. There's a tremor in his thighs, his hands clenching in the cushion below you.
You drag him right back down, with the sound that you let out that’s halfway a whine and a sigh. One of your hands goes to rest in the space between Seungcheol’s shoulder blades, as if to steady the two of you. 
Your voice is surprisingly firm when you speak. "Let go," you command. And then, softer, "I need you."
Your words, your voice— it's in complete conflict with the situation you're currently in. And yet, it works. He lets out a sound, one that's somewhere between a growl and a whimper, his breath hot against your skin. And then he's moving and he's holding nothing back.
He's hard, brutal, and he's taking. His teeth on your shoulder; his breath against your neck; his nails digging into you.
It's a relentless, dizzying pace. Seungcheol bullies into your weeping cunt, fast and hard, and it draws out the most obscene sounds from you. Gasps, whines, an occasional scream when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. What has him seeing stars is the fact that you can't seem to settle on a name to moan. "Seung— Seungcheol— Cheol—"
Yes, you're saying, yes.
Seungcheol loses himself, utterly and completely, in you. You're on the edge, he can hear it; he can feel it, and God, he wants to hear you say his name. Every single one of them. 
It almost sounds like a mantra, your voice, as he takes and takes and takes, his breathing harsh, ragged.
You go through all of the names you have for him, breathless and wrecked, until you can't even say anything because his hips are snapping into you with a ferocity that's rare but not unwelcome. Your pornographic moans reverberate in your otherwise empty apartment, and Seungcheol thinks he might go insane. 
"'M close," you choke out. "Cheollie, baby, I'm— ah, fuck— Seung—"
His breath catches at your words, his eyes closing for a moment as he groans. You, you, in all your perfect, glorious, undone state. It’s a sight he wishes he could capture, freeze in time.
He lets out a whimper, his words almost slurred when he responds. "Love— I—"
He's never been this rough, never this intense. You're the only one, the only person he's ever let himself go like this with. The only person who he's ever let see everything, take everything.
He's on the edge, he's there, he's—
"C'mon," he whines, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand clenching hard around your hip. "With me, love, please."
It's a miracle that you can even nod, can even find your voice as Seungcheol keeps on going with his erratic, stuttering thrusts. "With you," you gasp. 
He snaps into you, then, and you arch up with a scream of his name. There’s the familiar white-hot flash of pleasure; the impossibly tight clench of your walls around him.
He stays buried in you for several long moments, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears. He has never felt so utterly spent in his entire life, never been so completely, utterly drained of energy. He's weak against you. He’s weak because of you. 
"God," he finally manages to mutter.
He lifts his head, just enough to be able to look at you, but he can't even muster a grin. He's spent and he knows you know that.
His hand comes up slightly, to brush the hair off of your forehead. "I think..." he says, his voice thick and hoarse, "I think I ruined you, love."
You let out a breathless laugh, one that you have to push out of your heaving chest. "You—" you try to say, but the words don't form, not at first. You take a few moments to take in some air, to gulp past the lump in your throat. "You're a fool."
His lips twitch into a tired but genuine smile at the sound of your laugh. It’s a soft sound that he's always thought sounds beautiful, especially coming from you.
A hoarse, broken laugh of his own escapes; his hand coming up to rest at your jawline, his thumb gently tracing over the warm skin there. He's still catching his breath, but he's slowly gathering himself.
"Am I a fool?" he asks quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. "What does that make you, then?"
You’re a fool, too, he thinks to himself. For letting me have this. 
Instead of answering him, you press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s the only answer he’s going to get from you for now, it seems. 
He lets out a soft huff, moving his head back just slightly, his eyes closing. "You're beautiful, you know that?" he says quietly, his voice still rough with fatigue.
"Every time," you respond. Your own voice is strained, almost tired, but there's a hint of amused exasperation. "You say that every time, Cheol."
His eyes opened once again to look at you.
"Because it's true," he says simply, his voice soft and sincere, the hand resting at your jaw moving to brush your hair back from your face. "It's always true, love."
He lets out a soft sigh, his eyes tracing over your face, taking in every inch of you. His eyes pause at your lips for a moment, his tongue gently wetting his own, his gaze finally moving back up to meet your eyes.
You thread your shaking fingers through the back of his hair and answer his unspoken question. "Kiss me soft and easy, Cheol," you whisper.
The moment the words leave your mouth, he's in action.
He leans forward without a second thought, the hand not buried in your hair going to rest on your hip, his lips meeting yours in a soft, gentle kiss.
There's no heat in it, no want or need. Just a soft press of his lips against yours, gentle and slow. 
It's languid and unhurried. Like there's nowhere either of you have to be after this. For a moment, you can pretend that this is normal— that Seungcheol will not have to leave, and that you’ll not have to change into new pajamas because he'd broken yours, and that you can be... well, something, anything aside from what you are now.
But it's wishful thinking, you both know, so all Seungcheol can do is kiss you. He lets out a soft sound, almost a sigh, as his tongue slides into your mouth, his hand on your hip tightening slightly. His other hand is in your hair still, his fingers gently tracing over your scalp, his body almost melting against yours.
He will have to leave. He always does. But for now, he's here, with you, and you feel perfect, and—
Five minutes, he bargains. Five more minutes.
And then things end, not really by your own accord.
The sharp, shrill sound of Seungcheol's phone ringing breaks through your haze. You pull away, a bit jolted at the foreign sound— at something other than your words, your breathing, reverberating in the room. It takes you a beat too long to realize someone is calling him— his phone in his discarded jeans— in the godawful middle of the night. 
He lets out a loud groan, the sound tired and drawn out, and he can't help but rest his forehead against your shoulder once again, letting out a resigned sigh.
"God, save me," he mutters, his voice rough. "What time is it?"
You chuckle lightly. "Go on," you urge softly, not because you want to but because you have to. "Answer."
Seungcheol lets out another loud, drawn out sigh, his shoulders slumping in obvious defeat. He reluctantly lifts his head from your shoulder with a grumble, but he can't quite stop himself from pressing a kiss to your cheek just before he shifts up and off of the couch.
Once he’s reached down to grab his phone from where it's stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, he answers without looking at the caller ID. "Yeah?"
"Hyung!"
It's Soonyoung— of course it's Soonyoung— calling.
"Are you still at the company?" the younger member asks. "I think I forgot my headset in one of the practice rooms, and Minghao said you didn't go home with them."
"It's midnight, Soonyoung." 
You shit over on the couch, careful not to make any sound. Not to give Soonyoung any suspicion that Seungcheol might be somewhere where he shouldn't be. You press a small, reassuring kiss to Seungcheol's hip as Soonyoung goes on to whine, "Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's the expensive headset, hyung. If you're still there, could you check? Please?"
Seungcheol lets out a huff— a mixture of resigned affection and irritation— at the feeling of your lips against his skin. He can feel the exhaustion deep within his bones now, and all he wants to do is go back to snuggling into you for the night.
But he can't say no to Soonyoung, especially not at this time of night.
"Fine," he grumbles, letting out a huff. "Which practice room?"
You can hear the moment Soonyoung practically brightens with triumph.
"Third floor!" he says happily, and you bury your face into Seungcheol's side to keep yourself from laughing. "You're the best, hyung! I'll buy you a meal tomorrow for the trouble!"
He reaches down with the hand not holding his phone, pressing his palm to the top of your head, pushing lightly down. A warning of don't laugh. "Just be thankful I'm your hyung, kid," Seungcheol grouses.
Soonyoung ends the call soon enough, saying some things about sending Seungcheol a photo of his headset so he knows exactly which one is missing. When it's back to just the two of you again, you tilt your head up to look at Seungcheol. 
"You're really going back for it tonight?" you ask, even though you already know the answer. 
The corner of his lip twitches into a half smile at the way you look up at him. His eyes takein the sight of you— his hand on the back of your head, his fingers gently twisting strands of your hair.
"Of course I am," he sighs. "I can't say no to him, love."
You shift upward so you can sit side by side with Seungcheol. Both of you have yet to put on any clothes, but you’ve at least gathered your bearings enough to form coherent words now.
"You can't say 'no' to any of them," you tease as you press a gentle kiss to his cheek. There's an almost blinding affection in your tone as you say, "You and your goddamn boys."
Seungcheol reaches out, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you closer to him. Briefly, he presses his lips against your hair. His eyes are almost tender as he speaks.
"They're my boys," he says, his voice soft.
You let the words hang there for just a moment. It’s an admission, one that both of you have known for the longest time, but it's also a reminder. It’s the reason why you and Seungcheol can never be more than this—because he has his boys, and he would never do anything to jeopardize them.
You press your face against the column of his neck for just one more precious moment. You’ve never been selfish about Seungcheol, but there were nights when you thought about it. Just… thought about it.
The thought never wins.
"Let’s clean up, get dressed," you whisper into his skin. "So you can head to the company sooner."
He lets out a soft, almost painful exhale. He knows what you're thinking, what you're feeling; he's thought about it himself, as well. He hates having to leave you, hates having to say that he has to leave you. But his boys are his boys, and one day all this will be over, and then...
He can't think about it right now, though.
Instead, he nods, pressing a light kiss to your temple. "Yeah."
It takes about ten minutes or so for you both to gather everything together. Seungcheol still looks tired, though for different reasons now. He’s essentially traded one exhaustion for another.
As he puts on the shoes he left in your entryway, you lean against your doorway with your arms crossed over your chest. "I’ll be holding you accountable for my pajama set," you warn him. "And for tomorrow’s noise complaint."
"Yeah, yeah," he huffs, taking a step toward you. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten."
His face softens as he reaches you, his hands coming up to grab your elbows, gently pulling you closer to him. "Sorry," he says. "Again."
 "You’re not sorry, " you sigh pointedly, more out of spite than anything. It’s the truth—he’s not really that apologetic about losing control every now and then, about your neighbors knowing you’re being pulled close every so often.
When you bury your face into his chest, he lets out a low, gruff chuckle, his chin resting gently against the top of your head. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against him, just like every single time before.
"You’re right," he murmurs. A quiet, affectionate admission. “Not sorry. Not even a little.”
He holds you there against him, his eyes fluttering shut as he allows himself just a few more moments before he has to leave. You both stay there, allowing yourselves that moment, until the tension in Seungcheol’s shoulders fades and your annoyance at your torn pajamas ebbs. It could’ve been five minutes, maybe less, but then Seungcheol’s phone pings with a text—surely Soonyoung asking if he’s found his headset.
You’re the one who takes the step back, putting some distance between you. "Drive safe," you tell Seungcheol. "Text me when you’re there."
Resigned. That’s the only way to describe the smile that tugs at his lips. "Yeah," he says. "I will."
True to his word, Seungcheol does indeed send you a text about an hour or so after he'd arrived at the company, informing you that he was there and had found Soonyoung’s headset.
He's still exhausted, and all he wants is to be back. Back inside of you, back with you. But he can't do any of that. At least, not right now. Not at this point.
I miss you already, is the only other thing he adds to his text.
Your text comes in only moments later, like you had been waiting by your phone. 
you're a fool. head home. take care.
A soft sigh escapes him the moment he reads your text, his eyes flickering over the words you'd typed, the harshness of it. It's another layer of protection for the both of you, but it's still not easy to read.
He's about to respond with something snarky, some light-hearted joke to tease you a bit, but he stops himself at the last moment. He knows that you're right.
He needs to head home. He needs to take care.
And he’s an absolute goddamn fool, in more ways than one. 
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tusks-and-claws · 1 year ago
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Cold Love/Hot Blood
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Miguel O’Hara x female reader
Summary: “Between teeth on a broken jaw/following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw”
Miguel is struck with something that he’s never experienced before
Tags/warnings: smut (18+), oneshot, dubcon by way of pheromones, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, rough sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, size kink, feral Miguel, biting, marking, blood drinking, paralytic venom
Wordcount: 3k
Ao3 link here
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You opened your eyes, blinking at the soft light from the bleary haze. Wincing, you raised your hand to your head. It didn't necessarily hurt, but it definitely felt wrong. What had happened? You were on a mission. That's right. And it had been going so well, until… until the anomaly villain threw something at you and Miguel. What was it? It had such an awful smell to it. And, where was Miguel?
You traversed the rubble of the abandoned building you were in. You couldn't see him. You shouted out for him.
"Here, I'm here," you heard him from the distance. Following his voice, you found him under some pieces of sheetrock from a collapsed wall. He was pinching the bridge of his nose through his mask.
"Geez, Miguel, are you alright?"
"Been better." His voice sounded strained. "Got a transmission from Jess that she's got hands on the anomaly. We'll meet her back at HQ. You go on ahead of me."
"What? No, we have to-" you started grabbing at the rubble to pull it off of him. He caught your arm before you could keep lifting.
"Please," he said, trying to meet your eyes from behind his mask. "Just go."
"What the hell is going on, Miguel? You're not… you're not acting right. We have to get you out of here."
He brought his hands up, holding his head in frustration. "Please, just do it. Don't make me beg."
"LYLA, please check him," you said, the avatar popping up and saluting you.
"No, don't-!" He tried to catch her in the air but she evaded him.
"His heart rate is really elevated but he seems okay otherwise. I think he's being dramatic. I don't detect any major injuries," she reported. You thanked her and she disappeared.
You crouched down to where he was. "What's going on, Miguel?" Your tone was serious.
He tried to hold your gaze for a moment until he swore and looked away. "That bomb that the anomaly threw… it affected me in a way that it clearly didn't affect anyone else, alright? Are you happy now?"
You furrowed your brow. "I don't understand."
He sighed, his breath shaking ever so slightly. "Itwasapheromonebomb." He said it so quickly and quietly.
"...What?"
"It was a pheromone bomb. Just leave me here so I can wait it out. This is so shocking humiliating- I," he sighed again. "Don't make me explain any further."
You blushed, not sure what to say. But you couldn't leave him like that, half-buried and vulnerable. "Can I at least help you up…? I promise I won't make fun of you. I just can't leave you defenseless like this."
He seethed for a moment, considering your offer. "...Fine. Grab this stupid sheetrock."
You did so, lifting it off of him with some effort. He did his best to stand up quickly. Despite his best, though, you could see the source of his embarrassment. He had a rock hard erection, and a particularly desperate one, by the looks of it. It laid upward, reaching towards his abdomen and pushing up against the tight fabric of his suit, straining. The size of him was nothing short of impressive.
You turned your gaze pointedly towards the ground as he moved away from the pile of rubble. Don't react don't react don't react. Could you pretend like you didn't notice? Even though not noticing was impossible, even from a single glance? You swallowed a lump in your throat, your head swimming with unprofessional thoughts.
Miguel turned from you, crouching down, hissing out a slow breath. "Fuck, it's getting worse," he whispered to himself, his body starting to tremble.
You took a step closer, reaching a hand out to his shoulder.
"Your proximity isn't… isn't helping." He admitted without turning around.
You stopped, silently moving your hand away from him. Touching him would surely make things harder.
"Miguel, I don't think waiting it out is an option for you. You just said it was getting worse."
He swore under his breath to himself. "I didn't mean for you to hear that. This is- shock it- this is completely foreign to me. Never been hit by anything like this before, it's s-so intense."
You winced at that, you'd never heard his voice so pained. But, what was the other option? You shivered just to think about it, your body reacting in ways that surprised you. How could you possibly propose helping him without making him think less of you? Would he even want help from you? Across from you, he was in turmoil, on his hands and knees trying desperately to control his breathing.
“Miguel… how can I help you?” It was a foolish question, a loaded question.
“You know the answer,” he replied from over his shoulder, his tone cold. He cried out again. “I- I can’t- can’t do that to you.”
“What if I’m offering?” You asked, a little too quickly, pushing down your fear and embarrassment for even thinking such things.
He turned further to meet your eyes, though you still couldn’t see his from behind the mask. You didn’t even need to see his eyes, his body language was communicating perfectly on their behalf. His muscles were pent up and quivering. Every breath rocked his massive shoulders. “Why?”
You didn’t think he’d ask that question. You searched your brain for an answer. “Because it isn’t your fault. And I respect you enough that this won’t change my mind.”
His thoughts seemed to be diverting to his baser instincts, his voice becoming a growl. “Need you… to be sure. Don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
“I’m sure,” you said.
In no time at all, he pounced, bringing you to the ground. He was on top of you, his taloned fingers caging in your wrists against the cracked concrete of the floor, your arms above your head. You landed with your legs apart and with him between them, his hips desperately close to yours. Your eyes widened at his feral energy, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. He brought his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling. His exhale was shaky. “You smell so good… always smelled so good.”
Your body grew hot upon hearing that. Always? Had he thought about you in that way before? You smiled to yourself as he nuzzled the nose of his masked face into your neck, his hot breath coming through and ghosting over your skin. You could feel his huge frame shaking around you. He brought his hips down to your pelvis, seemingly being as cautious as possible as he began to grind his hardened length against you. His breath quickened at the contact, and he met you again with fervor, stimulating himself on you. His cock was unbelievably hard and hot, the temperature of him coming through both of your suits to meet your skin and overwhelm you. The feeling of him against you was sending shivers down your spine, the pleasant pressure made even sweeter by the promise of more to come. He positioned himself on top of you in such a way that each rhythmic, grinding rock found your clit and teased it with clothed contact.
You moaned lightly, the sound of it causing him to growl into your neck. You lifted your hips up, meeting him with the same tempo so he could grind into you more thoroughly, your bodies now writhing in tandem. His heavy breathing became panting. "Need to… need to touch you." He picked up his head and released your wrists, one hand steadying himself on the concrete, the other reaching down eagerly.
You got the memo, quickly slipping the pants of your suit down and throwing them aside so he wouldn't rip them off for you. You had at least enough hindsight to know you couldn't go back to HQ looking so disheveled. He dismissed the gloves of his suit and retracted his talons as his fingers found you immediately, honing in on the wet heat of your sex. Two plunged inside as he loomed above you, his muscles shaking again as he wet his fingers with your arousal. You shook right alongside him, your reaction bodily, as your back arched and your legs closed instinctively to hold his hand in place and not let him go. His fingers hooked inside of you, already relentless.
"Soaked," he whispered, almost to himself. The word resonated with a deep, animalistic hunger. Without removing his fingers from your warmth, he sat back on his knees and used his free hand to pry your legs open. "Need to see," he said. He watched the length of his fingers disappear over and over. The large hand that kept your legs wide was squeezing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, and he seemed fixated on the way it was yielding to his rough touches. Nearly everyone was small compared to Miguel, but you… you were different. He had his hands on you, inside of you, the comparison was tangible. You were small, soft, and his. His mind swam with how he would take you, how he would sheath himself inside of you until he bottomed out, how he would desperately fill you with his hot cum and hold your hips up to keep any precious drops from leaking out. It took everything in him to not reach down and start rubbing his impatient cock through his suit, but his fevered brain convinced him to keep his free hand on your leg so he could watch you fall apart from his fingers alone.
He was delirious as your walls started to spasm around his fingers, white hot pleasure pooling in your core, threatening to overflow as he kept up his efforts. The constriction of your muscles bolstered him, and he began to go faster and harder, starting to overstimulate you. You threw your head back, hands wildly trying to grasp at something on the concrete floor but coming up short. He removed his hand from your throbbing sex to start teasing your clit with abandon, and you moaned as your body lifted up off the floor.
"H-holy shit, Miguel," you gasped out. "It's- it's so much."
His hand moved so fast against your swollen clit that you could hardly think. The feeling was electric, and your orgasm was dangerously close. Your legs started to shake and tried to close around him again, but he kept them forced open as he intently watched, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. You came and it utterly racked you, your body shuddering as you cried out, hot liquid spewing from you and drenching Miguel's hand and forearm. You squirted on him, because of him. You thought you should be embarrassed, but he gave you no opportunity.
As your head just started to clear, he recalled his mask into the neck of his suit. You quietly gasped at unexpectedly seeing his face. So strong, angular, and handsome. His red eyes looked wild, his mouth was open, his fangs fully extended. He studied his hand, turning it over so the mess you made could catch the light. As it started to dry down on him, he brought the two fingers that had been inside of you up to his mouth, and he licked them both clean. You gaped at him, almost fully unable to process what was happening.
When he was finished, he turned his gaze from his fingers and back onto you, as you sat up on your elbows to watch him. You saw that his cock was still as hard as ever, still pushing to break free. As if reading your mind, he recalled that part of his suit too as he grabbed your legs and yanked you toward him. He rested his cock over your abdomen, once again reveling in just how much bigger than you he was. The hot weight of his manhood on your skin set you ablaze once more and you eagerly awaited him. He thrusted but without penetrating you, sliding himself over you and wetting his cock on your cum. His exhales quaked with anticipation until he could wait no longer. Even on his knees, he towered over you, and so he needed to tilt your hips up further so your entrance could meet the head of his leaking cock. He shifted his grip to your waist, holding firm as you steadied yourself on your elbows and looked to him with bated breath.
He slowly pushed his hips into you, his cock sinking deep into your pussy. The steady penetration had you reeling. You needed to feel him, all of him. Every inch, all at once. It felt like it took ages for him to finally reach the hilt, but when he did, he waited inside of you for a brief, merciful moment. You basked in the feeling of being so full, so complete. He began to pull himself out of you, leaving you cold and empty for a split second until he slammed his entire length back into you, repeating and repeating at an unwavering pace.
Each powerful thrust reached so deep inside of you that it was nearly painful. Immediately, the head of his cock found your cervix and was hitting it with each hard pump that Miguel delivered. Your eyelids grew heavy as your eyes began to roll back towards your skull. His onslaught was so thorough, every smack of his hips against your pelvis reverberating through every inch of your body. The overstimulation of when he fingerfucked you had carried over, and you were already close to losing control all over again. He felt it too, as he growled in response to your pulsating walls.
"This cunt…." He snarled through his fangs. "This cunt is mine."
"Yours," you moaned, meeting his words a little too quickly.
"Going to mark you… so everyone knows."
"Mark me, Miguel." You agreed, not quite realizing what he meant. He started to lay you down onto the ground without removing himself from you, continuing to fuck you in missionary as he brought his face down to the crook of your neck. Your pulse quickened with excitement. He opened his mouth, his breath making your skin somehow even warmer. You wished that you could've seen the flash of his fangs before what came next.
He bit down on you, hard, and you could feel the course of his venom like molten lava through your veins. When the searing heat reached its crest, a soothing wash of warmth followed in its wake, leaving your muscles loosened and relaxed. Blood started to drip down your shoulder, the wet trickle quickly cooling as it made contact with the atmosphere. Miguel stayed latched to you as his tongue met your skin, lapping at the red stream, determined to consume it all.
You submitted to him fully, allowing him to position you how he saw fit so he could fulfill his feral need. His strong hands snaked around your torso to your back, lifting you up with him as he rocked back onto his knees. He helped you to swing your legs around his slim waist and to drape your arms over his huge shoulders. You let your face settle against his neck, the clean musky smell of him overwhelming your senses. His hands found your hips and he effortlessly lifted you up and down on his cock, fucking himself with your pussy like you weighed nothing at all. You moaned into him as you clenched around his cock, your limp body succumbing to the overpowering feeling of him. You started to shudder as your orgasm claimed you with a white-knuckled grip. You whined into Miguel's neck as it hit you with shock after shock, your vision going spotty while your cunt tightened around him.  
He couldn't hold it any longer, and his cock jerked inside of you as he came. You were still getting hit with aftershocks of your own climax, your muscles bearing down to milk every drop of cum that he filled you with. He held you closer and he thrusted himself as far into you as he possibly could, instinctively trying to make sure as little seed would have the chance to leak out of you as possible.
Your muscle control started to slowly come back to you as you and Miguel were chest-to-chest, both of you sweating and heaving. You weakly raised your arms so your hands could tangle with the hair at the nape of his neck. You lingered there for a bit, his strong arms holding you in the place as you played with soft locks of chocolate hair. You finally leaned back to see clarity slowly returning to Miguel's expression, and he looked utterly mortified. He held your gaze as he turned red, removing one hand from your body so he could cover his face.
"Oh my God," he whispered. "What the shock came over me?"
You were struck with sudden fear. "Do you… not remember?" The fact that he was still buried inside you should've been a dead giveaway.
"No, I do," he said, nervously. "I remember getting hit with that stupid bomb, and you helping me, then me wanting to split you in half."
You couldn't help but giggle at that.
"I tried to make sure I wasn't too rough with you. I was still in there, the whole time," he said, taking his hand away from his face to smooth your hair. He stopped when he reached your neck, seeing the bite marks he left. "Guess I didn't do all that well, did I?"
"It's fine. I can take it."
"Clearly," he said, raising his eyebrows, mildly impressed. "Thank you. I… don't know what I would have gone through if you hadn't been so… generous. But… for God’s sake, let’s not go around telling people what happened. We have reputations.”
You agreed, the secret safe between the two of you, the puncture wounds on your neck a silent souvenir.
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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago
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Ok this is very random but how do you think Ghost would deal w an s/o who is still a virgin at a very big girl age 🥴 maybe they’d be seeing each other for a while, and when things heat up and she confesses, how would he deal? Would he be honored and accept being her first or would he reject her altogether bc she is inexperienced?
(Because I’m in my 20s and safe to say on top of everything else in my life except this, I haven’t come across anyone with whom I’d like to be intimate with yet and though I try not to let it get to me, some part of me sometimes feels like a freak or like something is wrong with me)
I hope I did not cross any boundaries or make you uncomfortable by sharing this, if I did I apologize and please feel free to delete this ❤️🕊️
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Ghost x FVirgin!Reader Word count: 2,9 k Tags/warnigs: Mild smut, light angst, fluff, comfort, praise & size kink Summary: Reader tells Ghost they’re a virgin while things are about to go down. 
A/N: Oh anon!! No boundaries crossed here at all! Your request (or at least I took it as such and got inspired to write a brief oneshot about it) was very sweet. This of course is my HC but Simon would only and only take pride in being your first. He would get a huge ego boost from this and feel absolutely privileged to hear he's worthy of such trust.  I think he would want to imprint himself in your head as the best man and the best sex partner you will ever have – he would do his all to eradicate even the very thought of wanting to try others after him. Again, an ego thing, but also a desperate wish to please his partner and make them feel safe. This man screams service top to me. I think Simon has a wild side – not mean, just wild, as in he might be into rough sex and certain types of kinky stuff every now and then but only if his partner is willing. He would be very gentle and considerate (passionate as hell though), knowing you're inexperienced, he would make you feel as safe as possible and wait until you were ready and willing to explore things further.  Also, I can't help but be moved by what you told me in this message. I understand where you're coming from with these "is there something wrong with me" thoughts, because gosh, I feel you! And speaking from experience… it's 110 % worth it to wait for the right person to come along! Sex can be awesome, mind-blowing, one of the best things – with the right partner. Not worth it with just whomever, imho. Stay safe and trust yourself! And I hope you like this short drabble I made for Ghost x Virgin!Reader ❤️❤️❤️ much love 😘
Simon Riley was a one of a kind man. 
He put every guy on every dating app to shame, and not just with his size. He was manly, in a word, even if you never knew you wanted such an overly masculine man. At least, not until you met him. 
Simon was not only sturdy and mature – he was armed with calm rage and dark humor. Just one look in his eyes told you he was not the life of the party. Actually, he was Death himself: one of those four horsemen that heralded the Apocalypse.
Perhaps unintelligibly, the same man was also extremely considerate. A true gentleman if there ever was one. He always placed you and your needs first. But underneath the calm, cynical surface you sensed fierce intensity: fire and smoke, something that screamed Danger, high voltage.
And you could not keep away. Quite the opposite, really. The combination of a wildfire and a tornado roaring upon this solid bedrock of a man was simply alluring.
Things had gone a little too far without you meaning them to. You were not a woman of one night stands, actually, you had never had a stand. But Simon changed that, too. Because now you were thinking about sleeping with him. 
After years and years of waiting for someone sensible to come along, you had begun to lose hope, especially when people seemed to fuck left and right while you wanted something real.
A bedrock. 
With that wildfire. Perhaps a tornado thrown in as well.
After weeks and weeks of flirting, the man asked you out, and after weeks and weeks of going out, you came to the conclusion that if someone deserved to be your first, it was Simon Riley. If there was any guy you wished would take you against a wall until you begged for mercy, it was him. At least in your fantasies, which were starting to get out of hand.
In real life, things were not that breezy.
Because what would he say if – no, when – you told him you were a virgin at this age? What if he would be bothered, what if things would get awkward between you two? 
What if he decided you were simply too much trouble than you were worth? 
It seemed like a miracle that the guy was still around, having been left blue-balled date after date. Either he was hellbent on conquering you, or then… Well, you didn't even dare to think about or's and then's and what if's. Especially when your own feelings were getting equally out of hand as those fantasies.
He probably had plenty of experience, and the thought certainly didn't make you feel any better. How would you compare, being not only inexperienced but a whole goddamn virgin? And it would probably hurt on top of everything. This man must be pretty damn big downstairs if 6 '4 feet and large hands were any indication.
Still, all fears flew out the window in record time every time he pulled you into a kiss. Your body molded into his already: the broad shoulders closed in around you, and it only felt thrilling. His warmth, his arms and scent enveloped you like the sweetest prison, and you held onto him as tightly as you could. Not because he wasn't clutching you with the same–if not greater–fervor, but because you wanted to make sure he was real.
And you realized what the allure of Simon Riley was. 
He felt safe.
In fact, he was safe. He represented safety in all its aspects. 
Who would've thought that death and wildfire could feel so good, so reliable?
You wondered if he thought this was some game; that you kept him waiting. The unwritten rule seemed to be that it was ok not to jump into bed on the first date. If anything, it was only a decent move. But what did the rules say about the second, third or fourth date? Not to talk about tenth? 
Things were starting to resemble some prudent high school romance. Well, perhaps not prudent, the way you two practically ground against each other while making out after every date. Without being vocal about it or pressuring you in any way, you could tell he wished for things to go further. Hell, every fiber in this man begged for more. He would soon burn your clothes off simply with that searing gaze alone. 
Watching the door close on that heated stare after at least 15 minutes of wanton, wicked kissing followed by clumsy Good night's and shy, apologetic smiles just wouldn't do anymore. The poor man was left breathless and puzzled in the cold night with nothing but a hard-on and the crumbs you gave him to keep him warm. 
Things were getting ridiculous, criminally so, and you felt pity for those pants trying to keep him in confinement. You felt pity for your own soaked underwear as you climbed to a lonely bed all hot, bothered, and wet.
Which was why this evening would end with you asking him to come inside. 
.  .  .
Lately, his hands have started to roam; they even cup your ass as he moans in your mouth – and hearing that raspy, low sound leave him forces the final decision. It's the final prophecy that tells you he is the one. You should’ve known it was only a matter of time with him.
The man hides his surprise well as you invite him in.
"Thought you'd never ask," he gives you a soft chuckle before stepping over the threshold to not only your apartment but also your life and privacy. 
You barely get out of your shoes before his shadow engulfs you and strong hands lift you in his lap like you weigh nothing at all. You instinctively reach for support by clasping your hands behind his neck. 
"You really know how to torture a man, don't you?" The brown in his eyes is nearly swallowed by warm darkness as he carries you to the bedroom. 
"I'm sorry," you whisper, and he gives a short laugh of gravel.
"Don't be. This has been fun." 
He sets you down next to the bed, and your heart is thumping so bad you fear he can hear it banging against your chest. 
"But it's about time I torture you, right?"
Oh God…
Things happen so fast that it’s hard to tell who undresses who, but somehow, you find yourself standing in your bedroom with nothing but knickers and a bra on while he's taking off his pants. The man has definitely waited for this to happen for god knows how long, and it only makes your stomach lurch.
He thinks you know what you're doing, your brain offers when it should know when it’s time to shut the hell up. You can see the generous bulge this man is packing, and while perhaps compelling to other women, to you, it mainly looks intimidating. Threatening, almost.
He doesn't take his boxers off, seeing you're just standing there like some statue, still in your underwear and almost shaking from thoughts running rampant. 
His form swallows you as he steps closer; wide hands slide up your arms, then draw you against him – against that demanding pulse that gets trapped between you two. Even through the black cloth, you can tell he's thick and big, just like you feared.
The man is blazing, and seems to have grown another foot in height as he towers over you with all that muscle. His shoulders are almost the size of your head, and you already know the hand that runs down your spine is experienced in crushing windpipes. It makes you breathe in shivers, and of course he notices something is wrong.
"Everything good?" He's eager and breathless, the erection pressing against you like a threat. He’s a man who has fashioned a weapon out of himself, so it shouldn't be a surprise that everything in him speaks violence.
"Yes," you try to assure him – a lousy lie only punctuated by the audible gulp that leaves your throat as you try to swallow your nerves back down.
"You afraid…?" 
"Just a little nervous," you tell him, a half confession.
"Mm. That makes two of us." 
He draws down into a kiss, the hands of a soldier and a killer nearly drawing you up from the ground as he pulls you close. You don't really buy his claim of being nervous too: you can feel how he throbs between you, heavy and impatient. 
Hesitantly, you reach to hug him as well, and you feel so small, so insignificant when wrapped around this… giant. The knowledge that you're about to be trapped under all this crushing weight leaves you both faint and needy. 
He’s a good kisser, but as he moves to devour your neck, you start to freeze from the middle.
"Alright… Come here."
He half carries, half lays you down on the bed, then crawls between your legs and changes his tactic a little. Gentle kisses are ghosted down your throat, and soon, he's at your breasts, soft as a whisper. But as he draws the fabric of your bra aside, your nipple is caught inside a hot, wet mouth, and the wildfire surges forth. There’s no way out from under him anytime soon, and you realize the colossal body is already spreading your thighs wide. 
The way he already looks so damn good there between your legs: big, the epitome of raw, masculine power… It's almost sinful that a man like him is here with a virgin. It's a whole new hell how he's kissing you gently as fuck while blazing like a bonfire about to engulf and devour you. You want to wrap your legs around his middle, attach yourself to him in any way you can, but your thighs are weak pudding. 
You feel both lost and found with him. In him.
He sucks and kisses your breasts like they're the only thing he's here for – and it feels good, heavenly, to be honest. But then he starts to travel down.
Shit… You need to tell him – and soon, or else there will be no time to say anything before the last of the shielding fabric is gone.
"Simon…?"
"Mm-hm?" 
He doesn't even stop with the kissing, merely hums on your skin as his mouth reaches your stomach.
"You're my first," you finally force the truth into the night; a soft and desperate fact. It's only the faintest breath, but he halts abruptly like he has been stabbed between the ribs.
Great… 
Here comes the awkward.
He rises. Softly, slowly, like a shadow, just a second away from getting to what's between your legs.
"Is that so?"
His voice is hoarse and dark from arousal. The whole man is intoxicating, and your heart is hammering in your chest, both from hunger and dread.
"Yes…?" 
A broad hand comes to rest on the dip of your waist; gently, like you're some frightened animal about to dart off from under his touch. 
"Love… Are you sure you want to do this?"
Are you? You almost ask, then bite your lip.
He just called you love, something he has never done before. You can see your breasts rising with the breaths you try to calm down with sheer willpower. 
He lets out a small sigh, then crawls beside you and takes you in his arms. The bed sags and wails under his weight before your body is pulled into a delicious bear hug.
"Sweetheart."
His voice is so smooth, so different from the intense, rough smoke that has followed you up until this point that you feel vehement tears burn your eyes. First love, and now, sweetheart…
"There's no need to rush things," he says while keeping you close. Ever the gentleman, but you fear that you've ruined everything.
"We haven't exactly been rushing," you mutter somewhere in the plates of his chest. You both feel and hear how another sigh travels up his throat and is breathed into the crown of your head.
"Now… listen to me, ok? I've wanted you ever since we met. Can't deny it. But the last thing I want is to force you to do something you don’t wanna do."
You squeeze your eyes shut from what he says. Ever since you met… You can remember the lingering gazes, the way his eyes lit up with something hopeful and pure, how it drove away the exhaustion that seemed to have made a home in this big, brooding man. You remember how he stole a few stares up and down your body, too; remember the hunger he never even tried to conceal – not until now.
He is the most enthralling being you have ever seen, a mystery and a force of nature, an indomitable man, and to say that you haven't thought about him that way ever since too would be a lie.
"But I want it," you look up at him slowly, feeling much safer now that he's holding you like this.
I want you.
You realize you're pouting when the warm look in his eyes gains a playful glint as he laughs softly.
"You want it?"
"Yes."
That little twinkle turns into a downright gleam as he looks at you like you're the most adorable thing he has ever seen.
“You want it with me?”
“Yes.”
"How much do you want it?" The charred voice is so soft now: it washes over you in generous waves. His hands keep you in safe custody – and you're the most willing prisoner there ever has been.
"Pretty badly?" You breathe into the air between you and see the corner of his mouth tug.
"Well, in that case…" His hand sweeps down your back and comes to reside on the swell of your hip. "I'm glad I'm here to help."
Pale eyelashes drop to your lips just before he kisses you again. You arch in his arms, like a flower leaning towards sunlight; your mouth, your whole being unfurls under his leadership. He rolls partly on top of you, then moves to kiss you all over as you lie on your back: he kisses your chin and neck, your collarbones and the hollow little crevice between them. The hand on your hip brushes down your thigh, then back up, up, until his fingers meet the folds already soaked through the fabric of your underwear. 
His touch is soft, but gains more weight as he sweeps slowly up, then brushes a thumb over the exact location of your clit.
"Oh–" 
He knows what he's found, even without the evidence of your voiceless shake of a breath. He brushes another stroke over it, and it doesn't matter that you still have your undies on – you can feel his weight, the gentle pressure he applies as he draws a circle to usher another soft moan out of you.
"You like that?"
"Mhm," is the only thing you are able to answer.
"That's it…" he cheers you on with calm assurance. "Gonna make you feel good. And that's a promise."
You catch a hint of ego in that promise, but there's something else, too. A fervent devotion, a bottomless need to please you no matter what. The right man, definitely: not someone who is only after their own satisfaction. You don't exactly need the answer anymore, but you ask the final, burning question nonetheless.
"Simon?"
"Speak your mind, love."
"Are you disappointed…?"
He stops again, a breath away from you. 
"Disappointed?" He sounds quite shocked, almost appalled. "...Disa–"
He huffs, then reaches to cup your face. You raise your eyes to his and see that he's…ardent, and very, very serious.
"Love, I'm honored."
You can only blink at the solemn vow, and he slowly shakes his head.
"Silly little thing…" 
It's something he muses almost to himself before he drags his fingers over your sternum and down your stomach, reverently, like you're a piece of precious porcelain. But the heat in his eyes is back, and your fingers curl to grasp a fistful of sheet as his hand disappears underneath the cloth, when he finally touches you with nothing in between.
You suppose it's his middle finger that sweeps over your clit this time, then slips between your folds without effort. It coaxes your thighs open to give him better access, and access he has: he curls the finger until it almost dips inside. Your lips part with a quiet sigh as your chin climbs toward the ceiling.
"Look at that… All wet and sweet for me already."
The way you expose your neck is like an invitation: he buries his face in your neck, tries to drown in the scent and feel of you while gliding across the wetness down below. He spreads moisture on the tight bud, and you jerk a little from how sensitive it is – he huffs a smile in your ear. It makes you release the sheet and reach out to grasp him by the neck, to make him stay precisely where he is, close like this, so close…
"Do ya even know how bloody sweet you are?"
The last of your wits make a vanishing act as he breathes more praise on your skin. You're languid in his arms, feeling both weightless and heavy, like you're sinking into the mattress, and then his hand moves lower; one thick finger is plunged slowly inside. 
Oh God oh God–
You feel him, all of him, filling and spreading you. And it's not enough… not nearly enough.
"We'll take it nice and slow, alright?" He whispers in your ear, and you tighten around him like on command. "Got all night to make a mess of you. That sound good?"
You can't help it: your lips draw into a smile when thinking about all the things he will do to you, all the sweet things you've always waited to happen. 
"Yes."
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destinationtoast · 2 years ago
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traumawhomst · 2 months ago
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The Songbird
Yandere Adoptive Fae King Dad & Child Reader
Part One
King Solaris was in a foul mood, today marked three years since his youngest daughter left to go study with the Northern Sea Witch and he missed her terribly. While three years is not much long to a fae, for a father it seemed an eternity. His court was as it always was, laughter and screams, dancing and bleeding, the same faces, the same smells and he was bored of it all.
“Father,” said his eldest son, watching his father’s tail lash back and forth as he sat on his throne, “might I suggest that you might go for a walk? How long has it been since you’ve been in the crossroads? Surely better to patrol them then stay to stew in your restlessness?”
The King sighed heavily, his flame orange cape draped over the left side of the throne. “Your sister hasn’t written yet,” he said, eyes still on the writhing mass of his court in front of him. His hand moved from propping up his chin to covering his heart, “I should go and see her.”
“Father,” said the eldest son, struggling not to implore the sky herself, “She has not missed a single day of letters, we both know that it will come. Stop sitting like a house cat and find something to take your mind off it until it comes.”
The King sighed even more loudly because he knew his son was right, with a flick of his wrist his cape turned into an emerald green hunter’s jacket standing up. He turned to face his son, seeing the crowd in the reflection of his eyes. His son was taller than him now and it brought a great pride to him. “I leave you to watch til I return my son,” he said with a slight head bow.
His son fully bowed his head, laurel green curls falling past sharp black horns, his hand over his heart, “Thank you for the honor father,” he said.
Solaris couldn’t stop a soft smile thinking of the same boy he brought home all those years ago. He reached out ruffling his sons hair, laughing at the slightly annoyed look his son gave as he stood up height again.
“See you soon father,” said Callan, a touch more dry than before. The King laughed again, turning and completely disappearing from the court.
It had been a while since he’d been in the cross-lands where human and fae territory overlapped. The human area changed from time to time, no one knew where the crossroads would be, and when that would change. When he reached the other side, he found it to be in he same place it had been about fifty years, he counted the years in a tree nearby. It was an early summer day where all the birds and insects were singing together but they knew well enough that the King was not in a fair mood and so went silent in respect.
The King stalked forward hands in his pockets as his mind wandered over the state of the forest, feeling how much closer the humans had settled nearby. He could smell them, even this far away and it irked him more with each passing second. It was odd for the boarder to stay for so long, usually half the time it had been here. He hadn’t cursed a town in quite a while. It might be a good way to bring back respect the humans seemed prone to do.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a thin reedy but full hearted singing. He clicked his tongue out loud, listening closer to realize it was a human whelp that was singing.
A child should know better than to be loud when the forest is silent. Where is it’s guardian to keep it safe? Or do the humans think we so weak to not show our teeth?
It was an easy task, show himself and play with them a bit, see if they were smarter than their parents. Maybe he’d turn them to a songbird since they seemed to love their voice. A lesson to neglectful parents about teaching your child to walk around the forest alone, as if they owned it.
He did admit that the child did have a rather sweet voice, and he had thoughts of shaping them something into more than just a simple songbird, maybe one that could also speak and mimic. Something he could put in a glass birdcage and listen to when he was bored.
The child was bent over in the dirt, singing some old folk song, hair loosely back dirty and sweaty. Who knows when they last had a bath, the King scoffed internally. Their clothes not much better much too big, covered in a thick layer of dirt. It all only strengthened his resolve to turn them to a songbird they would be treated much better than they were currently.
He stepped into the forest clearing, the air around them both growing thick and wild, a smell of hot summer grass hung like a cloud. The King watched motionless with a smile as the hunched figure froze in place, smart child to know when they were outmatched, no grand heroics or disrespect. The child lifted their face, and the King was oddly pleased, it was cleaner than their hair and he could that the child had spent most of their life facing towards the sun. Their eyes looked the same as a fawn caught in the sight line of a wolf, but their mouth was turned into a hesitant smile.
The King cocked his head to the side at the child’s smile, before he could say a word the child spoke.
“Hello,” they said, their voice soft with a slight tremor but a distinct note of hope, “what’s your name?”
With those simple four words, the Solaris knew that this was to be his third child. A neglected songbird, but with a quick wit and curiosity that spoke of greater things than their tiny village. He wanted to scoop them up, and tell of all the great things they would see and do. But this was not his first time bringing a child of his own. So he smiled as he knelt to be closer to the eye-line. of the child.
“You, songbird, may call me, Solaris, may I know what you to call you songbird?”
When the child’s face brightened, any hesitation was gone, this child was his and he couldn’t wait to bring them home.
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simping-acefully · 11 months ago
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"Better Luck Next Time"
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Laios Touden/Reader Not poofread, I blacked out and this was on my phone notes. English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes No warnings 600 ish words?
You took out the small notebook out of your apron pocket and braced yourself to go to the table where your regulars had just taken a seat. You couldn't help but stare in spite of yourself. You were capable of appreciating a handsome face, and Laios was rather dashing. In fact, if he would slow down on his rambling, you'd almost want to ask him out. Almost.
There was a certain charm to him, he carried himself with grace and had gained a certain reputation over time- After all, the Touden siblings were an odd pair. You had served them before, they seemed nice enough. Decent tippers, polite. Almost too educated to be mere gold peelers. You had been tempted to ask, but everyone had their own reasons to enter the dungeon.
Now, in the perceived privacy of their table, Laios Touden was happily chatting his sister's ear off, talking about monsters and ghosts. Falin had a dopey grin on her face, matching her brother's energy effortlessly and adding observations of her own in regards to the nature of ghosts, unnerving the nearby patrons.
With an amused huff, you walked towards the oblivious troublemakers and interrupted them by clearing your throat and flashing them your best customer service smile. "Welcome to the Laughing Wolf, what can I get you?"
The knight seemed to jump within his armor seemingly taken completely off-guard by your presence- His posture shifted from relaxed to stiff, back straight as ramrod. The cleric, on the other hand, gave you a placid smile. "Ah, it's the Baraselia lady!"
You blinked owlishly at the bizarre nickname. "Pardon?"
Falin simply tilted her head and pointed at her own head, around the place where your updo was. Your hand reflexively reaches out to the side of your head, grazing the hairpin that held your bun together, and the flower charm that hung from it. "Is that what this is?"
The woman simply turned to look at her brother, your gaze shifted to follow hers. Poor Laios seemed to be shaking in his seat, face beet-red. "They are a… A plant in the dungeon. They trap things and use them as fertilizer and are strong enough to crush bone…"
"Huh?- Is that a good thing?" You took off the pin, hair cascading free as you brought the item in front of you and scrutinized the delicate ceramic flower charm. You hadn't given it much thought when you bought it, in all honesty. It just was a cute white flower with purple accents.
"Yes!" The knight startled you out of your trance with his zealous response. "It's beautiful and strong, and it's… It does- That is…"
You never thought you'd see the oldest Touden so flustered, much less when it came to talking the inhabitants of the dungeon. He was, after all, known to be enamoured by monsters and rather oblivious- To the point he would infodump any bystander that showed an iota of interest on monsters.
Your brow furrowed in concern. "Are you feeling okay? You look…off. Are you sick?" The thought made your chest tighten. These siblings were already wearing clothes in such a rough state, they didn't seem like they could afford proper medical care. "Hang on! I'll whip you up something."
And with that, you stormed away, slamming your little notebook shut and shoving it inside your apron's pocket.
Once you were out of sight, Laios' body slumped, not unlike a puppet getting its strings cut, face first into the table "Hnngg".
His frustrated (and rather pathetic) whine elicited a small chuckle from Falin, who gave her brother a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
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aelwynrights · 7 months ago
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my dealer: got some straight gas. this strain is called “election night” you’ll be zonked out of your gourd
me: yeah whatever i don’t feel shit
five minutes later: dude i swear i just saw some ping pong balls on the ground
my buddy riz pacing: the ratgrinders are lying to us
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comethead · 1 year ago
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Wrong Number
MDNI // smutfic // Jason Todd x Reader
“You accidentally take an edible laced with sex pollen, and unbeknownst to you, you called Jason instead of Ivy. Smut ensues.”
(gender-neutral reader, no use of y/n, recreational drug use, sex pollen, missionary, creampie, aphrodisiacs)
Ao3 Link
[dedicated to @fcthots ]
Your breaths come out in short puffs, sweat beading on your forehead. Your skin is on fire, and there’s an undeniable ache between your legs you can’t ignore anymore. Stripped naked, you laid on your bed, legs squeezed together to try and alleviate your burning desire. Dammit. You reach out to your phone, sweeping your hand over your sheets until your fingers make contact with the smooth surface of your screen. Opening it, you scroll down your contacts. F, G, H, I, J. You hit Ivy’s contact, and close your eyes while you let it ring. Hearing it connect, you groan, “Ivyyyy, I don’t know what was in that damn edible you made but I feel- I don’t- ugh.” You smack your bed in frustration, tears welling up from the tension in your stomach. This was embarrassing. You were high, and then horny, but now the high has worn off and you’re still trying to get off. “You know what- never mind, I’ll talk to you later.” You clicked the end call button, and rolled onto your back. Okay, time to try and finish.
Jason stared at the phone in his hand, the screen on ‘call ended’. What the hell was that about? Shit, you weren’t in trouble were you? Edible, huh… He heard from you that Ivy was dabbling in making some after growing weed, which, whatever, she’s not destroying city blocks with her plants anymore so he’ll take that any day. But by your words, it seemed like she’s up to something, he’ll have to check on that later. Or…
“Hey, Oracle. Do me a favor and look into Ivy for me?”
“Sure, what for?” came her reply.
“Mmm, well my friend took one of her edibles and-”
“Wait. Edibles? You better not be doing some stupid prank Hood, or I swear-”
“No! No, it's-,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose,”She just sounded like she was in trouble, but whatever, I’ll deal with it.”
“Oh.” He could hear through the comm link the way her voice softened, which he’s not sure if he hates or is grateful for. “Alright, I’ll send someone over to Ivy’s location.”
“Thanks.”
He shut off the link and looked over to your fire escape. Parking his bike in the alley that ran next to your place, he scaled the wall and clambered onto the escape. It was dark in your room, but you left your window open. Pulling the screen aside, Jason stepped into the room and onto the little welcome mat you put there as a stupid joke. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped.
You were on your side, moans muffled by your pillow as you worked your fingers faster, the slick noises accompanying your voice. His eyes widened, heat shooting through his body as he felt his dick twitch in his combat pants. Fuck, oh how he’s thought of you like this for some nights now. But not now, he thought, must’ve been some of Ivy’s aphrodisiac in that edible. Clearing his throat, he stepped closer. You squeal, and bolt upright, looking at him with wide eyes. “Wha- Jay, what are you doing here?”
“You called me,” he shrugged, ”Wrong number, I guess.”
You stared at him, gears turning in your brain. Maybe, maybe not ‘wrong number’. He could help you, couldn’t he? He’s always been on your mind like that, you might’ve had some unholy thoughts about your best friend.
“Jay,” you whisper, crawling on your hands and knees toward him, “Please,” you’re reaching up to his face now, settling your hand on his mask, “fuck me”.
“Uhh.” It’s his turn to stare at you, eyes trailing over the slope of your chest. “I- I mean, no, you’ve been dosed with some aphrodisiac-” You’re taking his mask off now, sliding your other hand down his chest- “And- and I can’t-”, his breath catches as your hand is placed right on top of his tummy, “-you don’t know what you want,” he finished, glancing from your hands to your half-lidded eyes.
“I don’t?” You gaze back into his eyes, looking down to his lips as you move closer, ghosting your hands over his body and placing them on his shoulders. Your lips connect, and he deepens the kiss, placing his hands on your waist. You pull him closer to you, shifting back until you can bring him down to your level, lips still on each other as he runs a hand through your hair. Your hair catches on his fingers and it pulls, but it feels so good the way he’s bringing his hand through from your scalp and grabbing a fistful of your hair at the back. You moan into his mouth as your kisses get sloppier, as he releases your hair and his hands wander down over your nude body, caressing your thighs. You don’t know if you can take it anymore. Pulling back from his kiss, you breathe,”Jay, please, I need you so badly, I- I can’t-”. You gasp as he suddenly grips your thighs and curses.
Straightening, he starts to strip as you watch, flushing as you spot his happy trail and finally, as he pulls his pants down you can see the bump of his bulge in his boxers. You rub your thighs together, scooting back onto the bed to give him space to mount you. You can see him tracing the shape of your body with his eyes, finally locking onto the wetness between your legs. Jason pushes his boxers down, letting his cock spring free and you can see he’s already leaking precum, which threatens to snap that tight band in your stomach. Throwing your head back, you moan and spread your legs for him. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Yeah I’ll fuck you alright,” as he looms over your needy body. He kneels on the bed, lining his stiff cock with your entrance and begins to push in.
“Fuuuckk, baby you gotta relax,” he moans, pressing into you slowly as your mouth gapes from how he’s stretching you open. You swear you almost cum immediately from his intrusion, but your arousal heightens as he thrusts all the way in. You cry out in pleasure, gripping your sheets and squeezing your eyes shut as he starts to fuck you, slowly at first but quickening his pace as to seeing how desperate you are. You were practically rolling your hips onto his cock until he held them still and fucked you at a punishing pace. He groaned, his ear tickled with your pleading and moaning. It felt so good, the burning feeling turned into pleasure as Jason rocked his hips into yours, and you were sure you were going to finally cum.
“Fuck, you’re so good for me aren’t you?” he moans, the sounds of your sex filling the room.
“You’re close, aren’t you baby? C’mon then,” he lowers his face towards your ear, “Cum for me sweetheart,” he whispers, and finally that tension snaps and you cry out, your orgasm forcing your eyes shut as you cream around his cock that’s still pumping hard into you. You pant as he curses and thrusts into you faster, chasing his own high until he’s spilling his cum into you, the warmth making your belly tingle. He’s panting too, as he pulls out of you and stands up, reaching over to grab a towel from your dresser. He cleans you up and you stare up at him, eyes half-lidded and the only sounds that fill the room are of you two breathing hard. You don’t talk and neither does he, and you move over on the bed to give him room as he lays next to you. He moves onto his side, propping his head up with a hand as he smirks, “Not bad, huh?”
You snort, and snuggle closer to him.
“Not bad at all, Jay.”
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bakugames-fr · 1 year ago
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Wait what's up with them??
they made a ancient dragon with a headdress that lives in a remote part of the world and have such exotic existences they can barely communicate with other dragons beyond baby speak until the elements get fucked up and now their babies can talk like normal. and their entire story is just some random dragon being vaguely condescending to their real fear of losing the connection of language that they have with their children
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pretend-i-don-t-exist · 1 day ago
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hm more heavenly demon!sy thoughts,,, i am invested
the system had an error bc sj's body and soul are still very much together bc he hasn't even experienced a single qi deviation yet, so it tries to find a good substitute to throw sy's soul in
when it can't find any, it decides to make a body that sy is most familiar with (it should be a human, but the system was impressed by sy's very passionate rants about lbh's heavenly demon abilities) so boom. heavenly demon sy
he wakes up in the endless abyss. the system has to hibernate bc the body has taken too much of its power so: here is sy, with an almost invincible body, alone in the endless abyss. oh, and he doesn't know about his heritage. all he knows is that he's in the abyss of pidw
ofc sy immediately geeks out over the demonic beasts and all the plants!!! look he could never visualize what a wyrm-mule looks like or how a porcupine-quail could possibly work, and now he gets to see them! irl!!
well not irl exactly, but if this isn't a very weird dream and he's really transmigrated into some background npc, then it's all well and good. his knowledge of the endless abyss should be enough to keep him safe
he does get very weird urges tho like wdym he's suddenly not squeamish with blood?? why is tearing off his arm now a good strategy to get out of the jaw of a black moon python rhinoceros??? sure his body weirdly could regenerate (tested and proven when he keeps tripping over roots that just keep popping up in his way somehow) but he should be a bit more against that, right?
he also gets the urge to bare his teeth when aggressive beasts crowd around him. his teeth are suspiciously pointy when he feels them, and somehow, the beasts are... intimidated? just like that? when he snarls at them. things also bend to his will for some reason? he was irritated with a swamp (he does not want to wade through that), and then the next time he looks back at it, it's gone???
the demons he came across are very polite, too. completely unlike his expectations. sy thinks he's lucky to meet civilized demons with human-like mannerisms, and does not notice that they're batshit terrified of this one heavenly demon conspiciously leaking out so much demonic qi that it's a miracle he hasn't passed out (which is even more scary bc that is a heck ton of qi)
then because sy is sy, he wifebeams the terrified demons. he talks so animatedly with them, asking questions about their customs without judgment! his smile is so pretty and charming! even in his dirty clothing and unkempt hair, he still looks like a beauty!
then sy takes a bath when he arrives at the demons' village and takes offer to wash up, notices his reflection, and promptly freaks out
is he tlj??? no, tlj does not look like this in pidw's official art, but demons can shapeshift, right? has he messed up the plot??? what date is it even?? is lbh even born yet?? is he lbh's grandfather?????
the demons are rightfully frightened but also worried when sy accidentally destroys a wall of the bath in his haste to get out and get some answers. luckily, this is the demon realm, or his tendency to wear only inner robes will be heavily scrutinized!
sy then plans to get into the human realm (he knows of a few ways) to change the plot! he can't possibly leave lbh to suffer like in pidw if he has the ability to change it...
except lbh is not even born yet.
he does meet tlj, and woooo the demon is so chill and has an entire library full of the worst novels sy has ever read in his entire life (still better than pidw). tlj seems like a sweetheart, how could he possibly wage a war against the human realm that led to his imprisonment? smth is fishy here!
(behind him, tlj kills an entire horde of demons for daring to plan to capture sy. sy is now his little brother. sy does not have the choice of refusing)
and so they travel to the human realm together. tlj immediately fucks off to the nearest bookstore, and sy would have loved to follow him except he has Seen the Plot. then he's suddenly trying to pass off as a wandering cultivator that forgot most of the human customs (very suspicious) bc he's spent most of the time researching plants and animals (ok, his infodumps make that believable) in front of cang qiong cultivators
and then cang qiong offers him to become a teacher in the beast taming peak bc why not (they heard of rumors of a kind wandering cultivator with incredibly accurate portrayals and info about demonic beasts, and also sy is acting Very Sus so they kinda want to keep an eye on him)
(tlj is laughing at him so hard he dislocates a shoulder)
look i just want sy to have the time of his life exploring the endless abyss without the system or the plot breathing down his neck and then i want to throw him into the most stressful situations of his life (coexisting with the disciple versions of the peak lords, and also not getting himself killed for being a heavenly demon, and also tlj's steadily increasing panic on how to court a cold human cultivator who could bodyslam him and throw him over her shoulder and walk off to the sunset)
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fumifooms · 7 months ago
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"Marchil? I guess I can see it on Chilchuck’s end, but what about Marcille’s? What makes you think she could develop feelings for him?" I’m glad you asked!
The first thing to note is that she does think highly of him
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In the page on the right, literally defending his virtues and literally comparing him to Dalclan. And oh…
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She does love a brooding mysterious guy who closes himself to love. But surely, Chilchuck isn’t her type at all, right? He’s not princely or knightly at all. In apperances certainly not, both looks wise and demeanor wise, but then that’s why she seeks to know him on a deeper level, to not only look shallowly.
And hmm. Chilchuck really is quite selfless isn’t he? Always looking out for others, and saving specifically her often, always making sure himself and, staying in or even running towards danger for her sometimes. Modesty is often considered heroic…
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And can we talk about that drowning one… You can definitely frame the special attention as him knowing she tends to hesitate or be clumsy, and then his insistance on pulling her out of danger that she’s the healer aka the most important to keep alive, but. From the one who says that he just keeps his ass out of fights and won’t help this is a lot of risk to take, and he does die trying to pull her to safety in the dungeon rabbits chapter. And the drowning bit??? That’s when the dungeon collapses. The only reason they DON’T die of drowning here is that the water then gives way to outside. There was NO hope of pulling her to safety here and resurrections would likely not work either, he truly preferred to die with her than try to survive himself.
Sit your ass back DOWN you are in no state, self-sacrifical hero much damn
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And Marcille definitely noticed this imo, after all she loves learning all she can about him, remembering things like how he hates waiting on people too. She pays attention to him and what he does and what he says. This to say that it’s notable, whatever reason for it you may think (though we know by this point at least she was already aware he was an adult though it wasn’t internalized), out of everyone it’s Chilchuck’s bed that she wants to sleep in during the Golden Kingdom stay. He’s safe and comforting to her: dependable, the defining trait in her view of him as is shown by the relationship chart in the Adventurer’s Bible.
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^ Lending handkerchiefs is a romance trope btw and handkerchiefs have irl history of being used for courting. Especially in old English literature and plays like Shakespeare’s Othello, and personally I do see a lot of Shakespeare in Dalclan (nobility political drama with some romance). There’s how his cowl is a dearly beloved souvenir from his family too, there’s a lot of aesthetic tropes you can apply to him.
All this to say you can 100% romanticize Chilchuck into a princely noble guy if you try and that’s exactly what Marcille does with the wife roleplay. She doesn’t need much in the first place, she latches onto crumbs and makes aesthetic narratives out of details, give her an inch she’ll take a mile.
But what’s interesting about the shift throughout the arc of her and his relationship is that she starts out idealizing him into a little angel of a kid (shapeshifter), and she ends it idealizing him as a virtuous husband and family man instead.
And what’s doubly interesting is that in the former, she’s actively warping who he is personality and demeanor wise to fit the aesthetic, he doesn’t have that bitter pride of not asking for help and the edges have been smoothened. But what she does during the wife roleplay is something else, she acknowledges the flaws and just… Accepts them, rolls with them. She’s aware of his flaws and implements them into the narrative, but the reason why his wife left doesn’t capitalize on them even, rather Chil is chilblivious and his wife loves him very much still, she’s just testing him after having had a night of feeling out of place at his side.
And this is what separates the idealization vs romanticization, she’s not twisting him into someone else she’s just uplifting what he is and focusing on the good sides.
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Marcille: "he has a shitty personality sometimes but if he was my husband I’d still cherish him" "If I were your wife I’d be overjoyed to go out with you and would get myself prettied up while you complain about me taking a long time, your friends would tell me that I’m nice and that’d make me happy, but I’d also be sad because you wouldn’t tell me that you love me enough"
He’s angry and his wife left him, he’s *flawed*, but he’s still worth hyping up, still worth having his own romance story, still has a shot of winning back his beloved. She sees him for what he is, human and real and not a carefully scripted character that fits an aesthetic, and she thinks it’s still worthy of love and admiration and fighting for
And what’s funny too is that you might expect her to cool down on him once she learns more about him but actually she only gets increasingly into his business. You tell her your age and next thing you know you promise to introduce her to your family. Give her an inch she takes a mile. And too the thing is, Senshi is equally mysterious but she doesn’t pester him like at all, asks him ONCE about his succubus and he doesn’t even answer and that’s like… It. With Chilchuck it starts off innocently enough with her wanting to know his age, hometown, the stuff she mentions having asked pre-canon. But it just keeps and keeps going and escalating. Think she’ll be satisfied now knowing you have a wife and kids, maybe she’s disillusioned now? Wrong! She wants to know their names and ages and occupations and hey how did you propose to your wife? Do you think she’ll stop after meeting them? What’s next? What will she want to know next????
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She’s… Like it’s not a reach that Marcille is all over him. Like it doesn’t mean it’s romantic but she just is. She is not normal about him idk. Can you not ask him about what tongue technique he used when first kissing his wife, give the man breathing room
Marcille could literally go "if I was Chilchuck’s wife" having deeply pondered and thought out the hypothetical and people would still ask where anyone sees any romantic potential between them. Oh wait
There’s a platonic explanation for everything (almost?) in Dungeon Meshi don’t say I’m saying otherwise, but it’s definitely not like there’s nothing here to read into lol
Going off a bit more under read bc it’s my fave topic
Marcille has a whole theme with the charming prince trope with her idealization and storybook motif and Chil is kinda the "Well someone perfect like that isn’t very realistic and romance is usually more complex and that’s ok and good and flawed people can still be ✨virtuous✨" catalyst
Do you see do you see she starts canon thinking the most romantic thing is a prince charming but her arc in the end has her romanticizing an average, flawed, real and realistic family man, who’s on the poorer side and is on the verge of divorce. And that’s what he needed, too, seeing the positive of himself and the situation instead of focusing on the negative is explicitly what inspires him to hope that he might be able to reconcile with his wife, gives him the courage and self-esteem to shoot his shot.
He IS a prince figure instead that now it’s not about idealizing the grand and overt it’s about romanticizing the small things in real life!! About finding joy and beauty in things that seem normal or mundane and uplifting them to make the world feel kinder!!!!
He’s the devoted virtuous man that she wantsss not the storybook prince that’s unrealistic and could crumble like a script at any time. He’s the perfect example of a flawed realistic but virtuous & devoted & loving man. Far from a prince charming, but not fully detached from it either. Something worth fighting for despite the flawed cracks. Like literally, flawed romance being worth fighting for is literally the finale of Chilchuck and Marcille’s arc on the matter, where their separate arcs and issues intersect at the most crucial moment.
Marcille is important to Chil’s arc not only because of her optimism, but also because of her interest and knowledge in romance & matters of the heart, and that’s what he needs to both open his heart up to hope and to try to reconcile with his wife, like idk sounds gay
Their arc together is literally learning to 1) see each other for how they are and not undermining their qualities capacities etc etc while still not leaving flaws unchecked either and 2) opening up to people. Marcille LITERALLY makes Chil open his heart up to hope like idk man. What do you want from me. He’s literally the guy helping her through deconstructing novels and fantasy and rose tinted glasses and like. Deconstructing the prince charming figure into something more real but still romantically beautiful like KUI KUI STOOOOP STOP I’M ALREADY HOOKED I’M ALREADY-
 Ok fine that’s me reading into the tropes too much forgive me for being storybook brained but like. Speaking his heart out to a lone woman on a balcony, Romeo and Juliette shit, asking if she, too, doesn’t want to meet his family, madly blushing. And like she’s learned with Chilchuck it’s all in the little things, all the implications he cannot speak aloud. She does reciprocate, does blush madly back, and the first thing she does is shower him in flowers and jewelry and what in her heart is coded as romantic gifts
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A lady, stashed away in a high tower by her lonesome, waiting for someone to call out to her from below… Romeo courting type shit with an offer, a heartfelt spiel, implicit confession from underneath her balcony. Offering him flowers because he succeeded in calling out to her heart…….. And they have to climb to her too…. Crazy
Doesn’t it sound like a proposal. One that’s both so storybook-like and not, contrastedly real and grounded, all about the implications rather than in your face grand gestures, "Don’t you want to meet my family?". They literally have an arc about the topic of romance and this is the climax/pinnacle of it like god?? This is @ the woman who said "Chilchuck is a shy/bashful man so I know he wouldn’t tell me he loves me, but…" btw
To quote a friend, truly the shiny secret unlockable dating sim capture target : THE DUNGEON LORD BIT WAS SO FUNNY BECAUSE HE KNEW SHE'D TAKE IT HOOK LINE AND SINKER HES THE ONE WHO GOT HER TO TURN AROUND COMPLETELY SHES LIKE. WIDE EYED FLAG RAISED???? FLAG RAISED WITH CHILCHUCK 👀👀👀‼️👀👀‼️👀
And the way that this is the culmination of their arc together… Like people are not ready for the ‘Chil calling out to dunlord Marcille on the balcony has Romeo and Juliette romance novels imagery’ take. Or the ‘their arc is about growing to see beauty even in the non-idealized, in the flawed and in the real’ take which makes it so so perfect if she were to lower her ideal from a charming elven prince to a virtuous halfling man (which she does end up romanticizing)
So there, you got to witness in real time what happens when I think about marchil for longer than 2 minutes, there are so many layers it’s a deranged rabbithole. I saw the necronomicon of subtext and it’s driving me to madness with forbidden knowledge that no one else sees
……. Like what if I told you she implicitly picked Chilchuck over a "unrealistic prince charming who’s actually disingenuous" much earlier in the story already. If she was given the choice to think through going with a guy that seems perfect and chivalrous like her succubus she’d pick Chilchuck over the other actually. If I sound insane rn tune in for my full analysis on them coming this month hopefully thank youu. Interwoven arcs of fantasy vs reality and idealization vs pessimism I love youuu
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So now you know the general thesis of my planned analysis about the importance of the prince charming figure in Marcille and Chilchuck’s arc, where she romanticizes things to a sometimes worrying degree or idealize people into something easy and digestible and poetic (like Chil being a kid, and then him being a virtuous ✨✨✨husband), and how she needs to value aesthetics less and actual acts and facts more, be more grounded (like seeing people for what they are flaws and all, and accepting that people need money and not pulling through on principles of honor or unity shouldn’t get Namari shamed) and a part of that is accepting that Chilchuck is BOTH flawed and virtuous, a loving husband that still has shitty moods and fumbled his marriage so bad etc etc. So it’s like, her image of perfect prince charming that will whisk you away on an ethereal romance -> realistic flawed middle aged dad with personality issues and a failing marriage but he still is worthy of love and having his cute grand romance story and his happy ending. Ik I keep repeating the same point through this but I need it to be burned into everyone’s brains it has its grip on me I can’t do this. They are so special……
#Someone did ask (on discord) btw i’m not just being a smartass though I do love being that too#This is stuff I cover in my upcoming marcille & chil arc analysis except here I can go full romo and don’t keep the strictly platonic angle#It’s at like 15k words rn I think. The 30 pics limit is killing me which is why I started asking my friend to do collages of panels for me#Sob#I keep alternating between it and the Falin analysis save me. Should be dropping soon idk i might test out having a beta reader for that on#Marchil foreplay is 2 years of being coworkers and slowly worming personal questions out of him until he blinks and she has#a key to his house#Dungeon meshi#marchil#marcille donato#chilchuck tims#like they’re so so funny look at this shit. Nonconsensual romanticizing of you as a person. Obsessive interest in your personal life#She’s latched so hard onto the “mystery” of him they’re deranged#MAYBE ITS ALL COMPROMISES MAYBE ITS ALL SWEET INBETWEENS <3#maybe we'll take our vision of what we thought we could be and make something new together. something for just us#Fumi rambles#Maaan Marcille’s ‘idealizing him into liking him even for all his flaws bc his personality is often kinda shitty’ arc’#and Chilchuck’s ‘prejudice against elves and mages and optimism into respect and trust’ arc are everything to me#Meta#Spoilers#Dungeon meshi manga spoilers#Tagged this so late oops#It’s so funny. She’s canonically wondered how Chil would be like as a lover#No no but like do u see. Fantasy is a key part of her chrcter and arc and he’s the foil to that he’s the thing that comes challenge it
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jetii · 2 months ago
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Event Horizon
Chapter Eleven: Normalcy
Chapter WC: 11,172
Chapter Tags/Warnings: none
A/N: This chapter is 95% dialogue, and yes I could’ve cut it but…I didn’t want to.
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After a fitful sleep, one fraught with nightmares, you wake early the next morning. 
You’ve taken to writing down your dreams when you wake, no longer confident that the nightmares are truly that and not something more prophetic. After Felucia, you know better. 
You don't write down much, just the barest of details, and a vague recollection, but it's enough. And, when you read them back, a pattern emerges. Ever since you awoke in the medbay, you've been dreaming about golden fields, dust and smoke, and a searing pain in your chest so intense, you wake up gasping. 
There's no one else, just the grass, and the dirt, and the wind, and, above it all, the feeling of something horrible about to happen. It's the same every time. Over and over again in a loop, and you're growing tired of it. And despite your efforts, you're no closer to understanding it.
You haven't told anyone, and you're not sure what to do with the information. So, for now, you've decided to keep the details to yourself, at least until you figure out what they mean.
You set the dream journal aside, and you dress quickly, slipping into a fresh pair of robes and leaving your quarters to resume your duties at long last.
Overnight, there was a fire in the Undercity, and the Council dispatched you to investigate the issue. It's far from the first time such an event has occurred, and after a quick debriefing, you head out. The fire had originated in the abandoned warehouse district and had spread to several nearby structures, making cleanup tricky. You spend the better part of the day assisting in the recovery effort and meeting with the survivors, taking note of their injuries and asking questions where you can.
The next few days pass in a blur of activity, and, before long, you've forgotten about your conversation with Obi-Wan and your evening out together. He doesn't bring it up, and neither do you, and the two of you continue on, acting like nothing ever happened. 
It's not exactly a healthy choice, but some things are better left unsaid. It's not like either of you have had the time to talk about it, either. There's always something going on, and the War keeps everyone busy. It's easier, and safer, and the Council doesn't need any more reasons to scrutinize the two of you. Well, mostly you, but you were doing your best to make sure you were on their good side.
By the end of the week, you and the Coruscant Guard are able to catch the arsonist. A local crime boss, known for his use of black market chemicals, had set the blaze in an attempt to cover up the evidence of his operation. You bring him and his crew to justice, and after a long debriefing with a Senate committee, another subcommittee, and then the Council, you're finally dismissed.
With the issue resolved and your report completed, you find yourself with some unexpected downtime. And for the first time in a long time, you're able to enjoy a bit of a break. 
It's still early when you decide to go for a run, and you're out of the Temple and onto the streets in no time. The weather is mild, and the sun is shining, and despite the constant buzz of the traffic, it's pleasant. You've missed running, the only thing that seems to actually clear your head these days, and it's not long before you're lost in thought, the city fading into the background.
It's been weeks since the incident on Felucia. And since then, you've barely had a chance to process what happened. In fact, aside from the nightmares, the only time you've really been able to stop and think was the night you and Obi-Wan snuck off to the cantina. 
Now, as you jog through the city, the air crisp and cool, and the noise of the world dulled, the memories come rushing back. The conversation with Rex in the woods, the pain of the explosion, and the way the Force had screamed at you. You'd been trying to forget, but, somehow, the memories are clearer than ever. As though the alcohol had stripped away the fog, and now, all you're left with are the images.
The war has intensified in recent months. More troops, more missions, and the losses have only increased. Every day, there's a new report of another battle gone wrong, another platoon lost, another planet captured. 
It's getting harder and harder to keep up, and you can only hope that when you return to the frontlines, you're ready. You can’t afford to let yourself panic as you did on Felucia, and the consequences of your failure would be even worse.
The thought makes you grimace, and you force yourself to run faster, pushing the memories away. There's no use dwelling on what's already happened, and you need to focus on the present. And on what’s yet to come.
Your run takes you through the Upper Levels of the city, and as the day progresses, the crowds thicken. Soon, the streets are full of people, and you're weaving between them, ducking and dodging, apologizing under your breath. 
You’re not sure where you’re going, but you keep moving, not paying attention to your surroundings. Until, eventually, you stop in front of the clone barracks.
You look around, and when you realize where you are, a frown tugs at your lips. The building looms in front of you, and you stare up at it, more than a little stunned. You hadn't intended to come here. Or maybe you had. You're not really sure.
Wiping the sweat from your brow, you watch at the entrance for a few moments before shaking your head. There's no reason for you to go inside, and there's certainly no point in bothering him. He's busy. So are you. The two of you don't need to worry about the other. And you certainly don't need to complicate things.
"General?"
You jump and turn. Rex is standing a few feet behind you, his helmet tucked under his arm. He looks exactly as he did the last time you'd seen him, only this time, his eyes are wide, and his cheeks are flushed.
"Captain," you say, smiling. You wave and nod toward the barracks, trying to keep your voice casual. "I didn't expect to see you here. Are you on leave? I thought the 501st was still stationed on Devaron."
Rex doesn't respond, his gaze drifting down momentarily before he quickly refocuses on your face. He looks a bit startled, and more than a little flustered. 
It's only then that you realize you're still wearing your workout clothes, a sleeveless shirt and shorts that reveal quite a bit of your body, your windbreaker tied around your waist. You're not really one for modesty, but Rex has never seen you like this. In fact, none of the clones have. And it's obvious that he's struggling to keep his eyes on your face. 
Your cheeks heat slightly, and you cross your arms, arching an eyebrow. 
"Rex?"
"Yes?" he mumbles. His widen before they snap back to yours, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. General. It's...you...look good—healthy. Healthy. It’s good to see you looking healthy."
"Well, thank you," you say, your amusement growing. He looks so embarrassed, and yet, he hasn't stopped staring at you, and it's making it hard not to laugh. You shift your weight and tilt your head. "Are you alright?"
"Oh, yes, sir," he stammers. He blinks a few times and clears his throat. "I'm fine. Just wasn't expecting to run into you. Here. At the barracks."
"Right," you chuckle. You take a deep breath and shake your head. "I was just taking a run. Got a bit lost. Guess I was distracted."
"I see."
"Mhm." 
The two of you stand there for a few moments. You're not quite sure what to say. Rex is cute when he’s flustered, but the tension is awkward, and you can tell he's not comfortable. So, after a few seconds, you force a smile.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your morning. I'm sure you have a lot to do,” you say, giving him a friendly nod. You glance over at the barracks and then back at him. "I should get going."
"No, no, you’re not interrupting," he assures you quickly, and he shrugs, his eyes meeting yours. “I was actually on my way out."
"You're leaving?"
"Yeah," he replies, and he gestures to the door. "We got in last night. Just finished debriefing. They're giving us a few days of downtime. Figured I'd take a walk, see the city."
"Ah.”
You look down and fiddle with your jacket, biting the inside of your cheek. This is exactly why you shouldn't have come. Things are too complicated, and you're making it difficult. 
You let out a quiet sigh and look up. He's still staring at you, and he seems genuinely happy to see you, his eyes bright. He's always been so kind, and attentive, and respectful. And he's never once asked anything of you. He's just...Rex. Rex, who treats you like a person, and not just a Jedi.
And, selfishly, you like that. You like having someone who doesn't see you as an asset, or a tool, or a weapon. Someone who isn't afraid to challenge you, and who makes you laugh. Who gives you his full attention and doesn't look at you like a disappointment or a disaster waiting to happen.
While it might be the height of foolishness, and you know that nothing can come of it, it doesn't mean you have to cut yourself off from him completely.
“Would you...like some company?" you ask slowly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. "On your walk."
Rex blinks, his eyes widening, and a hint of red creeps up his cheeks. He looks so surprised, and a little pleased, and a warm feeling blooms in your chest.
"I'd be happy to show you around," you continue. "If you'd like. I know the city pretty well."
He opens his mouth and then closes it. He looks a bit like a fish, and, again, it's cute. Really cute. You find yourself smiling wider, and you wait patiently, the awkwardness dissipating and your confidence returning. 
When he doesn't say anything, you roll your eyes. 
"Unless you don't want to hang out with me, and then I'll leave you alone. You know, I can take a hint. I won't be offended."
Rex chuckles and shakes his head. "No, I...would love some company. But you must have better things to do."
"I'm off duty.” You shrug. "And I've been meaning to get back to the city. Besides, you could use a guide. The last thing you need is to get lost in Coruscant. Not a great look for a representative of the Republic."
"Right," he says, laughing. He takes a step toward you, and he smiles, his eyes warm. "In that case, lead the way."
You grin and turn, heading down the walkway. Rex falls in step beside you, and you set off down the street, a comfortable silence settling over the two of you. You lead him down several winding pathways, weaving through the crowds, the buildings towering over you. The sun is high overhead, and the air is warm, and the city is filled with noise, the hum of the traffic, the sounds of the people, the buzz of the air.
You point out various sites and monuments, telling him a little about each, and Rex listens intently, his eyes moving from one structure to the next. He doesn't ask any questions or press for details, and he seems content to let you ramble, his gaze focused on the city.
You continue like that for a while, chatting and strolling through the streets. The city is beautiful, and it's nice to have a bit of a break. A chance to do something, anything, normal.
As you walk, you sneak glances at him, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He looks a bit more relaxed, his shoulders less tense, but you’re starting to notice he’s making a concerted effort not to look directly at you. 
You wonder if he thinks you haven't noticed, but it's impossible to miss. Anytime he catches your gaze, Rex looks away, his cheeks turning pink. It's not a bad look on him, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't find his efforts to cling to professionalism as frustrating as they are amusing.
You decide to take pity on him and put on your windbreaker, zipping it up to cover your exposed skin. As soon as the fabric is covering your chest, his shoulders drop, and his eyes flick back to yours. He smiles, and you smirk back before turning to point out a statue. The conversation resumes, and his gaze never leaves your face.
You spend the next hour wandering the streets and taking in the sights. It's been a long time since you've gotten to enjoy a day without the weight of responsibility and duty, and even longer since you've been able to show someone around. You almost forgot how much you love this city. Or how much you used to.
At one point, Rex stops and tilts his head, looking up at the tall spires of the skyscrapers, the sun shining down on him. He looks so relaxed, so peaceful, and it makes your heart ache. He doesn't get a chance to do this. None of them do. They're constantly fighting, constantly at war, and, if it weren't for the fact that he was wearing his armor, he would look like anyone else out for a stroll.
He deserves this. To feel normal. To live a life that isn't dictated by the needs and wants of others. To know freedom, and happiness, and joy, and love. And you don't know if he ever truly will. You hope he will. But the chances are slim, and it's hard not to feel a little guilty.
"Something wrong?"
You blink, realizing you've been staring at him, and you smile. "No, I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." You look around, taking in the scenery, and you try to distract yourself. "It's just...been a while since I've been able to do this. I forgot how much I loved this city."
"I can see why," he says. "It's beautiful."
"Yeah," you agree. "It is."
You watch him as he takes in the cityscape. He looks so at peace, and so carefree, and the sadness that had overtaken you disappears, replaced by a different kind of ache. An ache that you're all too familiar with. One that you've felt more than once since you were brought back together.
You push it aside and clear your throat. 
"So...where to next? Got any place in particular you'd like to see?"
"No," he replies. Rex turns his attention back to you and grins. "Just thought I'd follow your lead."
"Are you sure?" you tease as you nudge him with your elbow. "You don't have a hidden desire to visit the Museum of Fine Arts? Or the Opera House? You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an all-Bith performance of the Cantina Cantata. It's a Coruscanti classic."
"Ha, ha," he says dryly. "Very funny."
"What?" you ask. You bat your lashes in a show of innocence, and he scoffs. "It's a legitimate question."
"No, thank you,” he says, rolling his eyes, and he gives you a look. "I'll pass. Unless, of course, you want to."
"Force, no," you groan, and Rex lets out a laugh that has your heart fluttering. You smirk and start walking again, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "There is one place I'd like to go, if that's alright with you. Are you hungry?"
"Starving," he admits with a sheepish smile. "We've been eating rations for two weeks straight. Haven't had real food in ages."
"Perfect."
You're getting close to the industrial district, and you take a left down an alley. It's a narrow path between two towering buildings, and the air is hazy, and there's a smell of smoke and fuel. The street is mostly deserted, and you're careful not to trip over any loose stones or stray bits of scrap. 
It's not the best area of the city, but, if there's one thing you've learned, it's that the best places are often in the worst neighborhoods. And this one was the best.
"You sure this place serves clones?" Rex asks warily as he follows you. He's looking around the alley, his hand resting on his blaster. "Seems a little rough."
"Trust me," you tell him. "This place is great."
The alley ends abruptly and you're greeted by the familiar sight of the small diner. It's an older building, and it's been there for a long time, a relic of the old days. The rounded durasteel walls glint in the afternoon sun, the neon sign blinking in the window, and the door is open, the sound of conversation spilling into the street. A few patrons are standing outside chatting, their eyes watching the two of you, but no one says a word as you enter.
"Hi honey," a cheerful voice calls. A waitress droid wheels over, her round eyes shining. "Welcome. Welcome. What can I get for you today?"
"Table for two, please," you say. “Thanks, FLO.”
"Right this way," she chirps, and she spins around, heading toward the back of the diner. 
You nudge Rex, who's looking around the room nervously, and you nod your head toward FLO's retreating form. "Come on. She won't bite."
"I've never been to a place like this," he mutters as he follows you, staying close. "It's so...normal."
"That's kind of the point," you laugh. You glance over your shoulder and give him a reassuring smile. "Everyone deserves a little normal."
"Fair enough." He takes a deep breath and gives you a half-smile. "Thanks for doing this."
"Of course," you say.
You follow FLO to a booth at the back, and you're about to slide into the seat across from him when a large shadow falls over the table. Rex tenses immediately, his hand moving to his weapon, and you whirl around, expecting the worst. But, instead, you're greeted with the wide grin of an old friend.
"Hi Dex," you say warmly. "Long time no see."
You wince as you're immediately wrapped up in a hug, four arms squeezing you tightly and lifting your feet clean off the ground.
"Hey kid!" he booms. "How the hell are ya?"
"Good," you squeak. "And yourself?"
"I can't complain," Dex says. He releases you and sets you back on the floor, his hand on your shoulder to keep you from toppling over. "Can't complain at all. How've you been? Haven't seen you in forever."
"Busy," you reply with a shrug. "You know how it is."
"Always working," he sighs. He looks around, his eyes landing on Rex for a moment before focusing back on you, a frown bisecting his face. "Where's Obi-Wan? Not used to seeing one without the other."
"Offworld," you explain. "The war’s keeping him busy."
"Ah," Dex says. "And this is...?"
He nods toward Rex, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a hard line. Dex isn't an aggressive man, but he's no pushover either, and he doesn't suffer fools. You have no doubt that, should the need arise, he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And you're equally certain that he won't hesitate to put a few bolts in anyone who threatens his customers.
"This is Rex, captain of the 501st Legion," you tell him. "My friend."
"Your friend," Dex echoes. He stares at Rex for a long moment, his gaze scrutinizing, before he grins and offers one of his hands. "Dexter Jettster. Welcome to Dex's Diner."
Rex hesitates before he takes the offered hand and shakes it. "Thanks. It's a nice place."
"It's a dump," Dex laughs. "But it's mine. And it's been a good place for years."
"Well, it's a great dump," Rex replies. He looks around and grins. "Very welcoming."
"Glad to hear it," Dex chuckles, and he glances down at you and gives your shoulder a squeeze. "Don't be a stranger. You’re always welcome. You tell Obi-Wan, too.”
"Thanks, I will." You smile and watch him go before turning back to Rex. "You good?"
"Yeah," he says. He lets out a deep breath and gives you a wry grin. "For a second there I thought he was going to throw me out."
"Nah," you tell him. You slide into the booth, and Rex does the same across from you. "He has a very strict 'no questions asked' policy. As long as you're a paying customer, he won't bother you. Unless, of course, you're bothering someone else. Then he'll break your legs."
Rex snorts. "Noted."
FLO comes back with two menus, and you both order your caf, the droid zipping away on a squeaky wheel.
"You two are close," Rex says, his eyes scanning his menu.
"Dex? Yeah," you agree as you do the same. "He's a good friend to have."
"I meant you and General Kenobi."
"Oh." You're taken aback by the question, and the tone in his voice. There's no judgement, no accusation, but the statement still manages to catch you off guard. You set your menu down and meet his gaze. "I suppose we are. Why?"
"Nothing," he shrugs. He glances at his menu and then back at you. "It's just...the two of you seem like a good team. That's all."
"We've known each other a long time," you reply, not entirely sure what he's trying to get at. "And we're good friends."
"I've noticed," Rex says quietly. His expression is guarded and unreadable. He's not being hostile, and his tone isn't rude, but the conversation feels oddly...tense. You desperately want to reach out and sift through his thoughts, but you don't, your curiosity not enough of an excuse to cross such a line. So you wait, your hands clenched under the table, your eyes searching his face for some clue as to where this is going.
Rex seems to sense your apprehension, and he sighs. He puts his menu down and leans forward, his eyes fixed on yours.
"You're different around him," he says carefully. "Around everyone else, you're..."
"Distant," you offer. Your voice is soft, and a bit sad. You're not proud of the fact, and you're not sure how else to describe it. "Unfriendly. Cold. Difficult. Take your pick."
Rex is quiet for a moment. He's not judging, and he doesn't seem angry. In fact, if anything, he looks a bit hurt.
"I was going to say intimidating," he corrects, frowning. He tilts his head. "Is that really how you see yourself?"
"Isn't it how everyone sees me?" you challenge.
"I don't."
"Liar.” You scoff. You lean back in the booth and arch an eyebrow. "We barely know each other."
"I think I'm beginning to understand you pretty well," he argues. "And I don't think I've ever met someone more selfless or compassionate." 
"You should get out more."
"Seriously," Rex says. He sits up and holds your gaze. "I’m not the only one who thinks that way. Everyone else, they just...don't know you well enough."
"You don't know me at all," you tell him. "Not really."
"Maybe not," he says. "But I'd like to."
You stare at him, unable to believe what you're hearing.
"Why?"
He's silent for a few moments, his brow furrowing. His jaw is set and his eyes are focused on the table, his fingers tapping against the surface. Finally, he looks up at you, and he sighs.
“Because I think it’s important to know who you're fighting beside," he explains. "And I'd rather die knowing the person standing next to me."
"That's a pretty bleak outlook," you mumble. You can't argue with the sentiment, but the words still sting. You've never been much for talking about yourself, and even less for sharing personal information.
You pick up your menu and hide behind it, pretending to look over the lunch options. "And there’s not much to know."
"I find that hard to believe." Rex reaches out and gently pulls the menu down, his eyes meeting yours. "Look, I didn't mean to offend you. Or pry. I just—"
"I'm not offended," you say, and you shrug. "Just surprised."
"Why's that?"
"It's just rare to hear someone say they'd like to get to know me," you explain. You pause, and then, after a moment, you decide to continue, "Most people either already know who I am or don't want to know. There's no middle ground."
"That's unfortunate," Rex replies. He picks up his menu again and looks it over. "And unfair. You're not all that bad."
"Not all that bad," you repeat with a small smile. "I'm flattered."
"You should be," he says. He glances up at you, and his face is serious, but his eyes are shining with mischief. "I'm an excellent judge of character."
You chuckle, and the tension breaks as FLO returns with two mugs and a carafe of caf. You manage to persuade her to leave the pot, and Rex can't hide his delight at the first sip, his eyes closing as he takes a deep drink, a content sigh escaping him. You bite your cheek in an effort to disguise your smile as he practically moans.
"I take it the stuff in the mess hall isn't as good as this?" you tease.
"Nothing's as good as this," he murmurs. He opens his eyes and gives you a sheepish grin. "Sorry. It’s been a while since I've had a proper cup of caf."
"I can imagine," you laugh, and you nod toward the pot. "There's plenty more."
"You're my hero," he jokes. He picks up the carafe and refills his cup, taking another sip, his eyes fluttering closed again. He shakes his head and smiles at you. "Best cup I've had in a long time."
"I'm glad you approve," you say as you pour your own drink and spoon sugar into it, trying to hide your amusement. 
You're not sure why, but you like watching him enjoy things, even something as simple as a mug of caf. There's something sweet and charming about it, something almost innocent. He's seen far too much for someone his age, and yet, he still manages to hold onto his optimism and his spirit. He's not jaded or cynical. He's a good person, one of the best you've ever met, and you're finding it hard not to admire him. 
You pick up your mug and lift it in a toast. "To proper caf."
"Proper caf," he echoes. He knocks his cup against yours, and the two of you drink. He sets his mug down and leans back in his seat. "So, what do you recommend?"
"What do you like?"
"Honestly? No idea," he answers. He gestures toward the menu. "I'm a bit out of my depth here. Never had real food. Only rations, or whatever the mess serves."
"Right," you say. You take a sip of your caf and scan the page. "How about I order a few things, and we can share?”
“That would be great,” he says, sounding relieved. “Don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“Oh, please," you snort. You wave a dismissive hand and give him a smile. "No worries. It'll be our secret."
You flag down FLO and order, and Rex falls silent, his gaze focused on the window, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. The droid wheels away, but he doesn’t look back over. He takes another drink and sighs, his fingers drumming the table, his brow furrowed slightly. 
You tilt your head, waiting, and he lets out a breath, his expression becoming neutral as he turns back to you. 
"If I ask a question, will you answer honestly?"
"Depends on the question."
"Fair enough."
He drums his fingers on the table again, and then he squares his shoulders and clears his throat, his eyes focused on your face. His expression is calm, but you can feel a hint of apprehension. Whatever he's about to say, he's nervous. And that makes you nervous.
"The last time we spoke, you seemed certain that the Jedi Council was going to punish you," Rex says slowly. "And you knew how they were going to handle Ahsoka. Like you were speaking from experience."
You stiffen and take a sip of caf, avoiding his gaze and hoping that he doesn't notice your sudden discomfort, but it doesn't take a genius to know that you've been caught off guard. And that you're not particularly keen on talking about the subject. 
You'd thought you'd done well to avoid the topic of your past indiscretions during your time with the Order, but apparently, you hadn't been as subtle as you'd hoped. Rex was too smart for that. You should have known better.
"That's not a question," you tell him. It's an obvious deflection, and the way his eyes narrow makes it clear that he's not buying it. But it's a deflection nonetheless, and you're not inclined to give him an honest answer. 
"Would you be willing to answer if I asked it?" Rex asks cautiously. He hesitates, and you can feel him probing, trying to gauge how receptive you are. 
You give him nothing, your face a carefully constructed mask of polite indifference. It's the expression you'd perfected as a youngling, and the one that has served you well for years. It's kept people from asking questions, and it's kept you from having to answer them. 
Rex seems to recognize it immediately, and he lets out a breath, a rueful smile on his lips. He leans back in his seat, his eyes studying your face, his jaw clenching and unclenching, and he lets out a low chuckle.
"What?" you ask, your brow furrowing.
"Nothing," he says. He shakes his head and shrugs. "Just starting to understand why you and General Skywalker get along so well.”
"Meaning?"
"Meaning the two of you are both stubborn," Rex chuckles, and he picks up his mug and takes a sip. "He does that same thing, the whole stone wall routine."
"Does he?"
"Yeah."
"Good for him."
Rex scoffs and shakes his head again, but he doesn't say anything, his gaze drifting back to the window. There's a slight crease between his brows, and you can tell he's debating whether or not to drop the subject.
“Look,” he starts. He turns back to you and meets your eyes, his face serious. "I can tell you're not comfortable talking about it. I just...want to know what to expect. What I can do. How I can help."
"I don't need your help," you tell him. It's a knee-jerk response, one that has always been your go-to, and you know it's not exactly true. You sigh and shake your head. "I mean...it's not that simple."
"Okay." He nods, his face patient, his eyes kind. "Can you explain?"
"It's...complicated." You hesitate, and you pick at your nails, staring at the table, your mind racing. You're not sure how to begin, or where to start, or what to say. How to put into words the shame and guilt and regret. You open your mouth, and the words are there, but they're stuck in your throat, refusing to budge.
Rex watches you for a few seconds, and then he sits forward and picks up the carafe, pouring more caf into your mug. You blink, the spell broken, and he pushes the cup toward you along with the sugar you’ve been using.
"Here.”
"Thanks," you reply, grateful for the interruption. You add the sweetener, and stir, your eyes on your mug. 
"It's okay. You don't have to tell me,” he says softly. His hand is resting on the table, his fingers tapping the surface. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pressed."
"It's not that I don't want to," you tell him, the words tumbling out. “Well, okay, it is, but...not for the reasons you're thinking."
"Then what are they?"
You sigh, and you rub your eyes, the exhaustion from the night before settling in. You don't want to lie, and you're tired of secrets, and he's been nothing but understanding and supportive. If there's anyone who might understand, it's him. 
"I'm just...not a very good Jedi."
"You can't be serious," Rex says. He looks appalled, and a little indignant. He shakes his head, and his mouth presses into a thin line. "Of course you are.”
"Hardly." You scoff, and you gesture vaguely in the air, not meeting his eyes. "I have a very complicated relationship with the Council. One that involves me doing the opposite of whatever they want me to do. On multiple occasions."
Rex smirks. "Another thing you and General Skywalker have in common."
"Maybe," you admit. "But I've been on their shit list longer than he has."
"And what have you done to earn that?" he asks. His tone is light, but his words are direct, and a little pointed. He's not judging you, but he wants an answer. A real one. And you're not sure you can give him one, but you try anyway.
"I...have a lot of opinions. And I'm not very good at keeping them to myself, as you know. The Council doesn't appreciate it, and neither do some of the other Jedi."
"That's hardly a crime," he points out.
"Maybe not," you concede. There's a moment of silence, and then you take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There's...something else."
"Something else?"
"It's not just the opinions."
You fiddle with the spoon, trying to find the right words, trying to figure out how much you should tell him. But the truth is, you don't want to have any more secrets. You trust Rex, perhaps more than you should, and the idea of sharing this particular secret with him is oddly appealing And maybe, just maybe, it will help.
"I'm...not always in the best place, mentally," you finally confess. You keep your voice low, and your eyes on the table, afraid to look at him. You've never said the words out loud, you’ve never had to with Obi-Wan, and he’s the only one you’d ever spoken to about this. The only one still alive, anyway. "Obi-Wan's been...kind enough to overlook it. For the most part."
"For the most part?"
"He has his limits," you explain. You run a hand through your hair, your eyes still downcast. "There are certain things that are...not permitted. Or rather, certain ways that Jedi shouldn't behave. And, as far as the Council is concerned, my behavior has crossed that line on several occasions."
"What sort of behavior?" Rex asks quietly.
"You mean besides arguing with them and disobeying their orders?" you counter.
"Yeah."
You hesitate. You've come this far, and you know you've already said too much, but there's no turning back now. You take a deep breath, and you push aside your pride and your anxiety, your eyes meeting his.
“This doesn’t leave this table, alright? If I tell you, it doesn't go any further. No one can know. You understand?"
"Of course," he agrees immediately. "I won't say a word."
You take a long drink of your caf and let out a sigh, your gaze falling back to the table. It's now or never.
"When I was a youngling, I was apprenticed to a Master," you tell him, keeping your voice low, even though the diner is mostly empty. "Her name was Yaddle. She was one of the High Council members. By that point, I’d had a...history. Of trouble. Of making trouble. I was a handful."
"A handful?" Rex asks, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Oh, yes." You roll your eyes, and you can't help the smirk that crosses your face. “Starting fights, running off, talking back, getting in the way, breaking rules. Anything and everything I could think of to get attention."
"And why would a kid like that be apprenticed to one of the most important people in the entire Order?" he asks. "Didn't anyone else want you?"
"No," you admit, and you laugh, a bitter, hollow sound. "Not really. Most people didn't want anything to do with me. The Masters all thought I was too much of a problem. Too difficult."
"Why'd she take you?"
"I don't know," you confess. “At first, I thought it was a punishment, but...after a while, I realized it wasn’t. She genuinely wanted me. And she was the first person who did. I mean, really wanted me."
Rex nods, his face solemn. "What happened?"
"She died," you answer bluntly. You stare at the table and shrug, your eyes burning, and you bite the inside of your cheek. "After the Naboo incident, I’d gone to attend the funeral of Obi-Wan’s Master. She was supposed to come with me, but she said she needed to stay on Coruscant. She said she'd catch up later. But later that night, I felt it. The moment she was gone. I just...felt it. It’s hard to explain if you haven't experienced it. The severing of the bond."
"That must have been rough," Rex murmurs.
"It was," you agree. You swallow hard and look up at him, and the concern and sympathy in his eyes almost breaks you. "And the worst part was, no one believed me. They told me it was my imagination, or a trick of the mind, or a hallucination. But I knew what I felt. She was gone.”
"That's terrible," he says, his voice quiet. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I can’t say it was entirely unwarranted." You let out a bitter laugh and take a drink of your caf. “After she was gone, I was...angry. Really angry. And the Masters and the Council were so busy trying to keep the Order together, no one paid any attention to me. Which meant no one noticed when I started investigating. On my own."
"Investigating what?"
"Her death." you say. You finish your caf and set the cup down, turning it between your fingers, and you let out a long breath. You glance around and lower your voice even more, and Rex leans forward, his brow furrowed. "It was murder. I know it was. I managed to find a few clues, but nothing concrete, and I…”
You trail off and stop, suddenly unable to continue. Your mouth goes dry, and you feel sick. You know what you did. You know what you've done, but saying it out loud makes it real. It means you're acknowledging the worst thing you've ever done, and, while you've done some terrible things, this was different. This was personal. And it hurt. More than anything.
"You did something." Rex's voice is soft, and gentle, and there's no judgement, only understanding. You don't deserve it. You know you don't. But it's hard to ignore the warmth that fills your chest. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. "What was it?"
“It wasn’t intentional. It wasn't like I'd planned to do it. It just...happened," you explain. Your hands shake slightly, and you curl them into fists to steady them. "Obi-Wan and I had an argument, and I stormed out. I went off alone to the Undercity, and I was angry, and hurt, and...and I wasn't paying attention."
"You weren't paying attention?" Rex repeats, his brow furrowed. He sits forward, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth is a tight line. "What do you mean? You weren't paying attention to what?"
"I let my guard down," you tell him. You hesitate, and then continue. "I should've known someone would be after me. After what happened. But I was too busy trying to figure out what to do next that I didn't even think..." 
You trail off and close your eyes. You can feel the tears threatening to spill over. You open your eyes and force yourself to meet his. "I was tricked into entering a trap. By the time I realized it was a set-up, it was too late.
"I found some of Yaddle’s things planted there, and then I was attacked. They used the Force to restrain me," you say evenly. "They put me in a chokehold somehow. I couldn't move or speak or fight back. They told me that I should've stayed away. And then, they..."
Your throat closes and your chest tightens as the memory flashes across your mind, as fresh as the day it happened. You can feel the cold, damp air of the Undercity, the pressure around your neck, the sound of their voice in your ear, the taste of blood in your mouth. 
The rage and fear and shame are just as strong as they were back then, and you have to clench your hands into fists to stop them from shaking, the urge to scream and break something almost overwhelming. You take a few seconds to calm yourself, and when you speak again, your voice is hoarse.
"They tried to kill me," you say. "And something inside me…clicked. A power I didn’t know I had. I lost control. I nearly collapsed a building on us both. The attacker escaped." 
You pause and take another deep breath. "I don't remember much after that. I was barely conscious. All I could think about was getting out. I don't know how I made it back to the Temple. I only found out later that some civilians were caught in the collapse."
Rex doesn't respond. His jaw is clenched, his mouth set, and his eyes are focused on you. You’re taken aback by his reaction, the force of it a surprise. You had expected sympathy or concern. Pity, maybe. But not anger.
"What?" you ask.
"How long ago was this?" 
“I was twenty, so...about ten years ago."
"Ten years," Rex repeats, his expression darkening. "You've been carrying this around for ten years?"
You sit back and fold your arms across your chest, watching him. You can’t help but feel defensive, and more than a little irritated.
"You seem upset."
"You almost died," he snaps. He lets out a huff and shakes his head. "Someone set a trap for you, and you almost died."
"That's generally what happens when you're careless." You try to keep your tone light, but the look he gives you is fierce. His eyes are hard and cold, his jaw tight, and his shoulders are tense. He's furious. You frown. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
"What?" Rex asks. He blinks, and his face softens slightly. "No. No, I'm not angry with you. I'm just...concerned."
"You don't need to be."
"I think I do," he counters, and he leans forward, his eyes searching your face. “Who was it? The person who attacked you?"
"I don't know," you say honestly. "I never saw their face. But I have a few theories that I’m still trying to confirm."
"Any suspects?"
"One."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Maybe."
Rex's frown deepens, and he leans back, his expression wary. "What aren't you telling me?"
"A lot." You shrug, and he rolls his eyes, which makes you smile. "I'm not trying to be coy. There's just a lot of information that isn't relevant to the current situation. Or your job."
"I disagree."
"You would," you scoff. You sit back and cross your arms over your chest. "Look, this is...really hard for me, okay? And I'm not exactly eager to relive the whole thing. Especially with someone who could easily report me."
"I wouldn't," he says, quick and earnest, and his brow furrows. “I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it. But, if there's someone out there who wants you dead, we should be aware."
"There are a lot of people who want me dead," you reply with a huff of laughter. “That comes with being a Jedi. We tend to piss people off."
"This was personal," Rex argues. He sits forward, his eyes narrowed, and his hands folded on the table. "You said the attacker told you that you should've stayed away. They knew you."
"I did."
"Which means they're likely connected to your investigation into Master Yaddle's death," he points out. “Potentially even the murderer themself.”
"Maybe."
"So who do you think it was?"
You give him a long, hard look, and he meets your gaze. His eyes are unflinching, and his jaw is set. He's not going to back down. And, even though you know you shouldn't, you can't help but admire him for it. He's stubborn and tenacious, and it's hard to refuse him. Harder than you'd like to admit.
You sit forward, folding your hands in front of you, and your voice drops to a low whisper. “Dooku.”
"Count Dooku?" Rex repeats. He blinks, and his eyes widen. He glances around, leaning forward and keeping his voice low. "Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"Dooku," he whispers. His mouth sets in a grim line, and he shakes his head. "That's...that's a pretty serious accusation."
"I know." You sigh and lean back, running a hand through your hair. "Look, I've had a lot of time to think about it, and it makes sense. Dooku has the resources and the ability. Plus, he has a personal connection to Yaddle, and he was missing from the funeral the night she died, despite Qui-Gon being his Padawan. The only thing I’m still shaky on is the motive.”
"That's a solid theory,” he admits, his tone resigned, as he rubs the scar on his chin with his thumb. “On Geonosis, you wanted to go after him. I stopped you.”
“Yeah, well, it turned out to be a good call." You snort and shake your head. “If I had, I'd be dead. He probably would've killed me before I even got close."
"Still," he insists. He takes a deep breath, and he studies your face. "So what happened next?"
"Next? I tried to forget it ever happened. And, for a while, I succeeded," you answer. You can't keep the bitterness out of your voice. "I didn't tell anyone. Not the Council, not Obi-Wan. Nobody."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't have proof. I had a necklace and a few vague memories."
You shrug, and he raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. You let out a frustrated sigh, and you drop your gaze to the table.
"It was easier, alright? I was afraid. If I told them the truth of what happened, and the power I used, they'd send me away," you confess. You pick at your nails, and your voice is quiet. "The Council was already looking for a reason to get rid of me. If they found out what I'd done, that I'd nearly killed civilians, even if it was an accident...I’d have been expelled or sent to rot in the Citadel."
"They'd do that?"
"Without hesitation," you tell him. "They're not exactly big on second chances when it comes to the Dark Side. And they were already convinced I was going to fall."
"That's absurd."
"Is it?" You glance up at him and smirk. "They were right, in the end."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true."
"No, it isn't."
"Rex—"
"No," he says firmly. He reaches out and gently tugs your hands away from where they're picking at your nails, and he squeezes once before dropping them. "Whatever happened, whatever you did, it doesn't define you. You're a good person."
You bite the inside of your cheek and shake your head. "I’d hold your applause until the end."
"I'm serious."
"So am I," you snap. You sit forward, your hands curling into fists. "You're acting like I didn't do anything wrong, or that I'm somehow an innocent party in all this. I’m not. What I did was terrible. And the consequences were severe."
"I understand, but—"
"You don't," you say flatly. "You can't."
He opens his mouth, and you hold up a hand, stopping him. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, forcing yourself to calm down.
"Sorry," you murmur. You rub a hand over your face and shake your head. "This is a lot harder than I thought."
"You don't have to explain anything," Rex says quietly. His voice is warm and soothing, and when you look up, his eyes are kind. He offers a small smile, and you try your best to return it.
"I know. But I want to."
"Are you sure?"
"No," you sigh. "But I'm doing it anyway."
Rex nods, and you let out a breath. You can feel the anger and shame and guilt still simmering below the surface, but it's tempered by his reassurance. 
"So," you continue. "Where were we?"
"After the attack," he answers, his eyes on your face.
"Right. Well, things were...awkward, to say the least," you admit as look out the window. "For a while, no one would talk to me. They avoided me, or looked the other way, or pretended not to see me. Which was fine, I guess. I wasn't exactly keen on talking to anyone either."
"What about General Kenobi?"
"Obi-Wan? No. Not really." You hesitate, and then you shake your head. “Actually, no. Not at all. He didn't say a word to me."
"That doesn't sound like him," Rex remarks.
"No, it doesn't," you agree. You can't hide your bitterness, and Rex seems to notice.
"Did he say why?"
"Not at first. We didn't really speak to each other for the next decade, actually," you say, your tone dry. "We kept our distance. He was busy training Anakin, and I was busy..."
"Busy what?"
"Busy trying not to lose my mind," you answer, your voice hollow. You swallow hard, and force yourself to look him in the eye. "The isolation was hard. No one wanted anything to do with me, and I was...paranoid. I thought everyone was watching me. Waiting for me to slip up. So I kept my head down. I did my duty. I served, I waited.”
"Waited for what?"
"An opportunity." You let out a slow breath, and you can't stop the bitterness from seeping into your words. "Turns out, that opportunity was the Clone Wars. You know what happened on Geonosis, but later, before we were…reunited, I was sent on a mission. I encountered the man who lured me into the trap, and, when I realized it was him, I...lost control. Again."
"You lost control." Rex frowns, his eyes narrowing. He leans forward, his hands on the table, his gaze locked on yours. "What happened?"
“I left my charge to track him down. He didn’t have much to offer, just that he was paid anonymously to lure me into the Undercity." You rub your temples, the memory flashing through your mind. "While I was interrogating him, the Senator that I was protecting was attacked. 
“I hurt people that day saving her, and when I returned to Coruscant, the Council decided that enough was enough. They suspended me from duty and placed me under constant supervision. I was a liability, and an embarrassment. They told me that, if I continued to act like a child, I would be treated like one."
"That's harsh."
"It was fair," you say, and he scoffs. "They didn't trust me. I didn't trust myself. I was angry and reckless and out of control, and I hurt the people I was supposed to protect. The only way I could protect anyone was by staying out of the field and away from the war. I'd failed. I'd let my emotions get the best of me, and it had almost cost me everything."
"That doesn't make it right," he argues. "What you did, losing control, it was an accident. They shouldn't have treated you like a criminal."
"I was a danger," you remind him. “And the Order can’t afford to have unstable Jedi. It's our job to maintain order and peace. We can't do that if we can't control ourselves."
"You weren't dangerous. You weren't unstable," he argues. He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "You were scared. I may not be a Jedi, but I know what fear does. It's a survival instinct. And, sometimes, the body does things to protect itself that the mind doesn't understand. You weren't in control of yourself. It was an accident."
"It doesn't matter," you reply. You sigh and run a hand through your hair, a wave of exhaustion washing over you. “We’re supposed to be able to control ourselves. Our feelings, our actions, our thoughts. We're trained to use the Force, it's not supposed to be the other way around. What I did...what happened...it was wrong. And it can’t happen again. Not ever."
Rex falls silent, his brow furrowed, his eyes fixed on your face. After a moment, he nods, and he sits back in his chair, letting out a long breath. 
"Okay."
"Okay?" you repeat incredulously. "That's all you're going to say?"
"Yes," he answers. His mouth twitches, and his eyes meet yours. "What did you expect me to say?"
"I don't know," you confess, and you can feel a small grin forming. "Kinda expected you to lecture me, honestly. Maybe argue with me a little bit more."
"Do you want me to?" Rex asks, the corner of his mouth turning up in a wry grin when you roll your eyes. "Because I can. You seem to enjoy arguing with me."
"It is fun," you admit, and his lips curve into a full-blown smile, his eyes sparkling. "And you are good at it."
"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He chuckles, and it's such a genuine sound that you can't help but join him. The tight knot in your chest loosens slightly, and you let out a breath, a wave of relief washing over you.
You feel lighter, as though a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. There's a quiet calm in the air, and you allow yourself a moment to relax. You can't help the small flutter in your chest when Rex’s eyes meet yours, his smile bright.
He looks younger when he smiles, the stress and tension gone from his face. You like seeing him this way. Happy and relaxed. It suits him.
"Thank you. For trusting me,” Rex says, voice soft and sincere.
"Well, thank you for listening." You take a drink of caf and smile at him over the rim of your cup. "And thank you for not judging me."
He shakes his head. "You don't need my judgement. You're doing enough of that yourself."
"I am not," you protest. He raises an eyebrow, and you scoff. "Okay, maybe I am. But only because it's true."
"Maybe," he says. "But, if you don't mind me saying, it's also unnecessary."
"I do mind,” you mutter. "I was reckless and arrogant and stupid, and a lot of people got hurt because of it. Including me."
"You made a mistake." He shrugs, and his smile fades, his expression becoming serious. "Everyone does. That doesn't make you a bad person. Or a bad Jedi."
"Then what does that make me?"
"Human."
You snort, and you take a long sip of caf, trying not to roll your eyes. Rex chuckles and ducks his head. "All right, that was cheesy, I'll admit. But it's true. That's what makes us different from droids. We're flawed. We make mistakes. It's how we learn."
"Some of us more than others."
"True."
"You're being too nice to me," you tell him, only half-joking. You finish your caf and set the mug on the table, folding your hands in your lap. "You're making me uncomfortable."
"I'm not," he argues. He tilts his head, studying you. "I'm being honest."
"Same difference."
Rex huffs, exasperated, and his eyes roll up. "Why does everything have to be a fight with you?"
"It doesn't," you say. You smile, and it's a real one. "Just most things."
He starts to reply, but FLO returns before he can, rolling to a stop beside the table with a tray floating beside her. It's overflowing with food, and the smell is incredible. Your mouth waters. You're hungrier than you realized.
"Here you go," she chirps. She lowers the tray onto the table, and she starts unloading the plates. Rex's eyes are as wide as yours, and the both of you sit in stunned silence, watching as the diner droid arranges the food with a flurry of mechanical arms. "This is the breakfast platter, the lunch platter, and the dinner platter. Enjoy."
"FLO, wait," you call, but the droid is already rolling away. "There's way too much food here."
"Not a problem," she says cheerfully. She stops and turns around, her mechanical arms whirring. "Anything for you, honey. You just let me know if you need anything else."
"Thank you," you say, smiling. She lets out a pleased beep and rolls away, leaving you alone with Rex and more food than either of you could possibly eat. "Wow."
"Wow," Rex echoes. He's staring at the table, his eyes wide, and you're pretty sure you've rendered him speechless. He shakes his head, his mouth hanging open, and he meets your eyes. "Is it always like this here?"
"I mean, yeah, but this is a lot, even for her," you say. You glance at the tray and let out a low whistle. "She must really like you."
"Lucky me," he mutters, and you snort. He frowns at the pile of food, his brow furrowed, and he glances at you. "So, how are we doing this?"
"You need a strategy for everything, Captain?” 
"No."
"Then stop stalling," you tease, and he fixes you with a flat look. "Just try what looks good. If we can't eat it, she'll pack it up. Don't worry."
"Right," he says. He hesitates, and you roll your eyes and snatch a slice of toast from the plate. "How are we splitting this?"
"I don't know. You pick first, and I'll grab whatever's left." You take a bite of the toast, and Rex gives you a long look. You shrug, your mouth full. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Then quit looking at me and eat."
He sighs, but he reaches for a bowl, and for a few minutes, the two of you eat in companionable silence. You keep an eye on Rex, watching him from the corner of your eye as he tries everything FLO has given him. His expression is thoughtful, and he takes his time, trying to decide what he likes best. He's savoring every bite, and every time he takes a sip of caf, his face relaxes, his shoulders sagging. 
It's kind of endearing, in a weird sort of way. And, as you watch him, a small, traitorous part of your mind wonders if it'd be so bad to have this every day. This quiet. This calm. You quickly banish the thought, and you shove another piece of bread in your mouth.
You can't think like that. You can't allow yourself to become attached.
You don't realize you've been staring until Rex looks up, catching your eye. His cheeks flush and he puts down his fork.
"Sorry," he says, a little sheepishly. He gestures vaguely at the food. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't be sorry," you cut in. You shake your head, and the words come out without your permission. "It's cute."
Rex's eyebrows shoot up, and he lets out a short, sharp laugh, the corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. "Cute?"
"Yes," you say, and you try to sound confident, but you can't quite keep the edge of embarrassment out of your voice. You duck your head and take a bite of fruit, keeping your gaze focused on the table. "Relax. You're fine."
"If you say so."
"I do."
You can feel him watching you, and you resist the urge to hide behind your hands. Instead, you take another bite, and you're careful not to look at him, afraid you'll make things even more awkward than they already are. You can still feel his eyes on you, and the heat rises in your cheeks, your ears burning.
"So," you start, the silence suddenly unbearable. "Any big plans while you're on shore leave? Aside from eating.
"Not really," he admits. He takes a long drink, and he leans back in his seat. "I was just going to rest, honestly. Catch up on reports. Maybe spend some time in the sims."
"You can't just spend a day relaxing?" you ask. He shrugs, and you can't help but smile. "What do you do for fun?"
"Fun?"
"Yeah." You gesture vaguely in the air, and you tilt your head, watching him. "Like, something that doesn't involve work."
"Oh." Rex frowns and stares at the table. His expression is thoughtful, and you get the sense that no one's ever asked him that question before. He meets your eyes and shrugs. "I don't know. I read, sometimes. Watch the holonet. Train. Nothing exciting."
"You like to read?"
"I like to learn," he says. He gives you a half-grin, and he picks up his fork, poking at the scrambled eggs on his plate. "You can learn a lot from military history. And there's not much else to do on a starship other than train or sleep. Reading's a good way to pass the time."
"Fair point."
"What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah," he says. "What do you do when you're not on duty?"
"Honestly? The same thing as you," you confess. He snorts, and you shrug. "I'm not exactly a social butterfly, if you haven't noticed. Most of my free time is spent in the library, or the Temple gardens."
"I have noticed."
"Well, there you go."
Rex smiles, and he shifts in the booth, stretching out his legs. His knees brush yours under the table, and you ignore the rush of warmth that courses through your veins. It's strange. He's wearing armor, and the touch should be cold, hard, uncomfortable. Instead, it's the opposite. His armor is warm and solid and sturdy. Comforting, even. 
You shift your legs away from his. You need to stop.
"Tell me," you start, and Rex glances up. He's still smiling, and he's watching you intently. You gesture at the empty plate in front of him. "Was that better or worse than the rations?"
"Better," he answers immediately. He grins, and his eyes meet yours, soft and bright. "Definitely better."
"Good." You smile back, and you can't help but be proud. Your foot nudges his under the table. "I'm glad."
"Thanks for this," he says, nodding towards the tray of food. His gaze meets yours, and his voice is warm and sincere. "For bringing me here. It's...it's nice."
"Of course," you say. You duck your head and try to ignore the sudden rush of warmth in your chest. You swallow hard and focus on the table, pushing down the feeling. "We can come back again, if you want. There's plenty more I can show you. If you're interested."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," he says. His smile is gentle, and he tilts his head. "I'd like that."
"Me, too," you say. You smile back at him, and his lips twitch. His foot nudges yours, and, this time, you don't move away.
The rest of the meal passes quickly. You finish eating, and the two of you sit for a while longer, chatting about everything and nothing until the sun begins to dip lower behind the buildings towering over you.
Eventually, though, it's time to leave. You pay for the food, ignoring Rex's protest with a quip about the Republic’s illimitable pocketbook, and you head outside into the late afternoon sun. The street is busy, filled with the bustle and noise of people going about their lives, and the two of you stand on the sidewalk, unsure of what to do next.
"So," Rex starts, and he rocks back on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. He looks awkward, almost nervous. "I guess I should go."
"Yeah," you say, and, despite the fact that you've been telling yourself all day that this is a bad idea, your heart sinks. You gesture vaguely toward the Temple looming in the distance. "Me too. I've got some things I should probably deal with."
"Right."
The silence stretches between the two of you, and neither one of you moves. After a few seconds, Rex clears his throat, and he meets your eyes.
"Thank you again. For bringing me here," he says, his voice soft. "And for the food."
"Don't mention it," you reply with a small smile.
You look down at the ground and kick at a stray stone, trying to bury the sudden pang of sadness. You'd had fun. More fun than you'd had in a long time, but you're not naive enough to believe that this is something that can happen again. Your schedules are far too erratic, and you're not sure you can trust yourself around him. The brief physical contact is already beginning to wear on your resolve. 
"I'll see you later then," you tell him, forcing a casual tone.
"Later," he agrees. 
He takes a step forward and hesitates. For half a second, you think he might hug you, which is a ridiculous thought. He wouldn't. And you certainly wouldn't let him. But there's something in the way he's looking at you, the way his eyes flick down to your lips, the way his hands flex at his sides. 
For a moment, everything feels frozen. Neither of you move, and neither of you speak. The noise of the crowd seems distant, and the world falls away. It's just the two of you, standing there, waiting. Waiting for something, anything.
And then Rex nods stiffly, his hands resting on his hips, and he takes a step back. "Take care, sir."
"You too, Captain."
You turn and walk away.
When you finally make it back to your room in the Temple, you flop down onto your bed, your head buried in the pillow. You let out a long sigh and close your eyes, the sound of Rex's voice still ringing in your ears. 
He'd been kind and charming and sweet, and he'd listened to you and laughed with you and made you smile. And, for a brief moment, you'd forgotten all about the war, the Order, and everything else. You'd just existed.
It was stupid. You were stupid.
But you'd had fun.
It'd been nice.
Really, really nice.
"Shit," you mumble into your pillow. You roll over and stare up at the ceiling, and you groan.
This is going to be harder than you thought it would be.
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susartwork · 24 days ago
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Wait neither asgore nor toriel knew healing? I'm a little surprised they died to a simple shank. Whoever that guy was, fuck him. Azzy was to soft to let Chara get revenge. He's going to be even sadder if he remembers as flowey
Excellent question!
At first I wanted Toriel to try healing them, failing, but then I though "OH WAIT, what if Tori decided to learn healing magic BECAUSE she couldn't save her child?"
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But even if she knew healing magic, it wouldn't have worked.
That shank hit Chara's chest, where their soul is, which is basically like a headshot in my AU. Plus they bled all the way up the Mount Ebott... (Asriel was holding up only to see their parents... before collapsing).
About that guy, we'll talk about him in Chapter 1 °cracks knuckles°
And yes! The whole plot will revolve around Flowey trying to "fix his mistake" and make it up to Chara. One way or another =)
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But was it all his fault...? =(
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miguel-owhora · 3 months ago
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thinking about bill williamson and how pretty he'd look all red and flushed, pretty pink color spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, swimming down to the rest of his body like the ripples of a lake. how stunning he'd look underneath you, plush body out on display with not an article of clothing to hide such beauty away from you.
fat spills from his belly and from his thighs, stretch marks all over like the unique and stunning stripes of a large tiger, only rivaled by the season old scars and the hair that litters his body; so thick and plush, it reminds you of a bear. because that's what bill is, isn't he? a large, burly, strong bear in need of some good loving.
kissing him so nicely he can't help but squirm underneath you, each sound that slips from his mouth - whether it be a groan or a breathless moan - has him growing even more flustered, and though embarrassed, can't find it in himself to stop nor push you away. though the thought does cross his mind when your hands, calloused and scarred over, gently open his thighs, he doesn't shy away.
well, doesn't try to stop you. he does, however, look away, biting his bottom lip and sending you a flustered smile with hazy eyes when the spreading of his thighs reveals his pussy.
just like the rest of his body, his cunt is flushed, fat, and hairy. his fat lips are pinned by his fat thighs, the hair on his inner thicker, thickening and darkening as it spreads to his cunt, like the barrier of a pretty garden. his cunt glistens with slick, cock swollen and throbbing.
both his cock and bill himself twitch when you circle his cock with your thumb, spreading his lips open and watching, mesmerized, as he slowly grools. he looks so pretty, flushed and wet and fat and plush, all for you, staring at you with round eyes, unbelievably flustered and needy.
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