#a strong gust of wind would break all of his bones.

[fated-normal-767]

drawing ares looking fucked up and pathetic is so important. he’s too good at acting normal so I need to draw him as fucked as he actually is so that all of you know .

[jetii]

I love love love your style of writing, I’m so happy I discovered you. As I see you are well on your way with writing a bunch of fics for the bad batch already I would very kindly request a smutty fic with my favorite reg Wolffexf!reader maybe with “only one bed” 🥹

That's so lovely to hear, thank you so much! 💙 I've never written Wolffe before so I hope I did him justice. This started out as pure smut, but my angst goblin brain got me in the end.

For One Night

Pairing: Wolffe x Jedi!Reader / Wolffe x fem!Reader

Words: 10,745

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, reader is Plo Koon's former Padawan, protective!Wolffe, mutual pining, forbidden love, love confessions, smut, unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise kink, underwear kink maybe, biting, marking

Summary: When you and Wolffe are stranded during your first mission together in months, you're forced to confront the feelings between you that have been threatening to break through the surface.

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You’ve never seen a storm this bad.

The clouds are roiling and thundering above, but they aren't the typical gray you've come to expect. They are an ugly shade of yellow-green, as though there's an eerie, toxic glow coming from within. Lightning flashes across the sky, and with each successive burst you feel the rumble deep in your bones. The air is thick and wet, and the rain that pours down is torrential, but it isn't water.

The acid rains from the toxic atmosphere are a blessing and a curse. It washes away the filth of the world, but at the cost of further destroying the planet's natural ecosystem. It's the reason why all the humans are locked inside a walled city, why most of the animal species are extinct.

It’s also the reason why you and Wolffe are stuck here.

You've been assigned on a scouting mission, the first one for you since you were knighted. There was a group of battle droids sighted near the wall, and the Council didn’t want to take any chances. If there was an attack, the city would be completely defenseless.

A normal scouting mission would be simple enough, even during a storm. It would just require a couple hours of searching, and then you could report back. But you weren’t prepared for a storm this strong. The rain is so thick that you can barely see a few feet in front of you, the only light from the occasional flash of lightning. There are no signs of the droids, which means that the mission has become a fruitless endeavor. And with the acid rain threatening to burn into your skin, you can tell that it isn't safe to be outside for long.

Your comms have been down for hours, and you and Wolffe have no choice but to make your way back to the city.

"We need to find some sort of shelter," you say, shouting over the roar of the storm. "At least until this blows over."

Wolffe doesn’t look pleased. "We need to keep looking. Those droids—"

"They've either been washed away by the rain or they're gone. We'll head out again when the weather clears." You're the General now, so the mission is ultimately your responsibility. Wolffe grunts his displeasure, but you know that he'll obey.

There's a flash of lightning, and you shield your eyes from the glare. The rumble of thunder is louder than before, and you feel the vibration of it under your feet.

You shiver as another gust of wind cuts through your robes, the heavy material doing little to protect you from the elements. "I don’t have the protection you do, Wolffe. I can't stay out here much longer."

The tension in Wolffe's form eases, and he gives you a nod before turning. He begins to walk away, and you have to jog to keep up with his long strides.

The two of you stumble through the storm for what seems like ages. There are no natural shelters nearby, no caves or overhangs, nothing. You've made it back to the area where the droids were spotted, but you haven't found anything of note. Just dead trees, trees, and more trees. It's starting to become clear to you why no one has made an attempt to reclaim this part of the planet.

Then you notice a glint of metal in the distance.

"Wait." You hold up a hand.

Wolffe stops immediately, his hand dropping to his blaster.

You step closer, peering through the storm. There's definitely something there. You reach out, trying to get a sense of it. The Force is murky and turbulent, but you manage to get a vague idea of what you're dealing with.

"I think it's a bunker," you tell him. "And it's unoccupied."

Wolffe grunts, and he starts off towards the glimmer. You follow behind, trying to keep your footing on the muddy ground. The rain is starting to become too much, and you can barely see where you're going.

Finally, the entrance comes into view. It's a hatch in the ground, the metal rusted and corroded by time.

You're already kneeling down and reaching for it when Wolffe pulls you back.

"Let me go first," he says.

You huff and stand back, crossing your arms. You don't bother to protest. It's not worth the energy, and it's obvious that Wolffe won't be persuaded.

Wolffe kneels down, and you watch as he lifts the hatch, yanking it open with a grunt. You can see him hesitate, but after a moment, he lowers himself inside.

There's a long pause, and then he calls up. "Clear."

The ladder is slick and rusted, and you cling tightly to the rungs as you descend. You finally make it down, and your feet hit the concrete floor with a soft thump. Wolffe is at your side as soon as you're stable, his helmet sweeping over you from head to toe, his hand on your elbow.

You roll your eyes, but your annoyance is tinged with fondness.

"I'm fine," you say, trying to brush the hair out of your face. Your ponytail has come loose, and the wet strands cling to your face.

Wolffe just nods, but he doesn't move away. Instead, his hands come up, and he gently pushes the hair out of your eyes. His thumb brushes over the curve of your cheek, and he lingers for a moment before he drops his hand.

The movement is quick, so quick that you're not sure if you imagined it. But Wolffe's thumb was warm against the skin of your cheek, and the feeling lingers.

You're about to say something, but he's already turning away, moving to inspect the bunker. You let out a breath, and then shake yourself, pushing down the feeling in your chest.

The bunker is small and dark, barely illuminated by the faint glow from the emergency lights. There are crates scattered around, and a couple old terminals along the far wall. You can see the silhouettes of worker droids, but they're so covered in cobwebs and rust that they've long been rendered inoperable. A thick durasteel door is on the opposite wall, leading to another part of the facility.

"Stay here," Wolffe says, heading for the door.

You frown. "Why?"

"There could be enemies in there," he replies, already pulling his blaster.

“There isn’t,” you insist. You try to peer through the doorway, but it's too dark to make anything out. "If there were, I would sense it."

"I still need to check."

You cross your arms, letting out an annoyed sigh. You hate feeling useless, especially when you're a general, but you can't fault Wolffe for wanting to be cautious. It's the exact kind of behavior that has earned him his reputation.

"Fine," you mutter. You walk over to one of the terminals, trying to get it to turn on as you hear Wolffe wrench the door open.

It takes a few moments, but the terminal finally hums to life, the screen flickering before glowing a dull green. There's a few old files on there, some reports and logs, but you can't access them without the proper password. You didn’t bring your slicing kit, and even if you did, the terminal is far too old to use it.

Wolffe's voice floats in from the other room. "Clear!"

You stand and stretch, wincing as the rainwater sloshes in your boots. "Anything interesting?"

"A few things," Wolffe replies. "Looks like they were testing some kind of weapons system."

"Weapons? On this planet?" You raise your eyebrows. "Who would be stupid enough to do that?"

“Stupid enough, or desperate enough," he says. He walks back into the room, prying his helmet off his head and tossing it on a nearby crate. He looks at you, and his expression softens. "Find anything useful?"

You gesture to the terminal. "Some logs. I can't access them, though. Do you have the data drive? It’s a long shot, but it might be compatible.”

Wolffe pulls the data drive out from the pouch at his waist, handing it to you. It's a slim cylinder, the silver metal shiny and unblemished. You plug it in, and the terminal makes a faint beeping noise, the screen flickering before a login window appears.

"Got it," you say, typing in a command.

"Good work."

“Don't sound so surprised."

Wolffe huffs, and you hear the sound of footsteps as he comes up behind you. He stands next to you, and the two of you watch the progress bar creep along the screen, the connection to the nearest satellite weak, but stable.

"Looks like we might have to wait a while," he says, resting a hand on the edge of the terminal as he peers over your shoulder. His voice is deep and rough, and it rumbles against you. You're pressed up against his chest, and you can feel the warmth of him, his body heat soaking through his armor and into your skin.

You swallow, trying to keep your breathing steady. "Looks like."

It's almost unnerving how quickly you fall back into this pattern. Wolffe hasn't even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels too tight and hot. You're hyper aware of him, every movement, every breath. You've never wanted him this much, and it scares you.

The two of you have a complicated history. Before you were knighted, you and Wolffe were... close. Not lovers, but not quite friends, either. It was difficult for the both of you to define the nature of your relationship, but you were certainly more than coworkers. Master Plo had always said that you were a good influence on him, that you tempered his rough edges, but the truth was that he had tempered yours. You were reckless and impulsive, and Wolffe grounded you, kept you focused. You needed each other, in a way.

But when you were knighted, you were sent away, and you haven't seen each other since.

And now...

Well.

The progress bar continues to crawl across the screen, the green light flickering and casting an eerie glow. Wolffe lets out a frustrated sigh.

"This is taking too long," he says, stepping away from you. He turns, and his gaze falls on the crates scattered around the room. He goes over and begins inspecting them, his fingers prying the lids open.

"You're such a grouch," you tell him with a laugh, leaning against the terminal and watching him work.

He snorts. "And you're a brat."

"I didn't choose the mission, Wolffe,” you say, rolling your eyes. "Besides, there are worse places we could be."

"This place is a shithole."

"Maybe, but at least we're not in the storm."

"Hm."

There's the clang of a lid hitting the floor, and then the sound of metal scraping. Wolffe stands, a couple of water canisters in his hand.

"I found some water," he calls over. "And some ration packs. Enough to last us a few days, if we have to."

"Well, hopefully it won't come to that," you say as you turn back to the terminal. "I'd hate for you to have to put up with me for that long."

"It's not so bad."

You smile to yourself, ducking your head so that he can't see. "Don't lie. We both know you'd rather be anywhere else."

"I didn't say that,” he says, and his tone is oddly serious.

"Oh."

Wolffe doesn't say anything after that, and the silence stretches on, the only sound the whir of the terminal as it processes the data. There's a sudden loud crack of thunder, and the sound of rain drumming on the roof of the bunker is louder than before. You wince at the sound as you start to parse through the local files on the terminal, searching for a map. 

It's difficult to focus on the task at hand. The room is small, and you're hyper aware of Wolffe moving around. He's still investigating, and you hear him rustling around in the crates, the sound of the lids being opened and shut. You try to pay attention to the screen, but you're not able to concentrate.

"You okay?"

You blink and realize that Wolffe is standing right behind you.

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?" you reply, turning around to face him.

He crosses his arms, his brow furrowed in concern. "You've been staring at the same file for ten minutes."

You flush, embarrassed, and quickly exit out of the menu. "I was just..."

You trail off. You were just what? Trying to figure out what you're doing? Trying to decide how to act around him, when everything is so different now?

Wolffe doesn't seem convinced, and his frown deepens.

"I'm fine, Wolffe," you mutter.

He scoffs, shaking his head. "Don't bullshit me, jet'ika. I've known you for too long."

Jet'ika. Little Jedi.

The nickname was given to you when you first met, and Wolffe had called you that ever since. It didn't matter that you were already an adult back then, nearly twice as old as he was, or that you were a full-fledged knight now. It was just part of the banter the two of you had, and the fondness in the nickname made your chest warm.

"I'm not—" you begin, but the words die in your throat as you meet his eyes. His stare feels like a physical weight, and your stomach clenches as your gaze flicks over his face. The scar, the dark circles under his eyes, the harsh lines of his face. All the changes that time had wrought.

You've thought about this man almost constantly since you left, but now that he's in front of you, you feel almost... intimidated.

"You look tired," Wolffe says after a moment, his voice low and gruff.

"That's... a little rude," you say.

"I'm just saying." He shrugs, and then reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand lingers, and you let out a quiet sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing.

"Fine," you huff. "I'm tired, and I’m freezing, and these robes aren't exactly made for the weather. But we're stuck here, and it's not like there's anything we can do about it."

"Thought so,” he replies, his voice smug. His hand drifts down to take the hem of your robes between his fingers. He gives them a little tug. "You know, you could always take off those wet robes."

You know he's teasing, but the suggestion still sends a jolt of heat through you. You glance up, meeting his eyes. There's an intensity in his gaze, and you have a feeling that he knows exactly what he's doing.

"Oh yeah?" you ask, unable to keep the husky tone out of your voice. You grin, giving him a sly smile. "You think so?"

"Yes, sir."

You let out a breathy laugh, and Wolffe's mouth quirks in a half-smile. It's been a long time since you've flirted with him, but it seems like he hasn't lost his touch. You can feel the tension crackling between the two of you. It's always been like this, and you can't deny that there's a part of you that wishes he would just pull you into his arms and kiss you senseless.

But you know it wouldn't be that simple. There are complications, complications that the two of you can't ignore. It's why you haven't acted on the feelings between you, why you've tried to forget them.

You're a Jedi Knight now. And Wolffe is a Clone Marshal Commander.

Neither one of you have the freedom to be together.

Still, though, you can't help but tease him.

"Well," you say, slowly taking off your robes, "if you insist."

It’s not as if you’re revealing anything by allowing your outer robe to slide down your shoulders. You’re still wearing armor, after all. But the effect is still the same, and you can see his eyes roaming over your body, lingering on the way your leggings cling to your thighs, the curve of your ass.

You smirk and set the wet material aside. "Better?"

"Yeah," he replies, his voice a low rasp.

You're tempted to tease him further, to see how far you can push him. But you know that there's only so far you can go before one of you breaks, and you're not sure either of you are ready to face the consequences.

So instead, you turn back to the terminal, trying to distract yourself.

The storm rages on, the thunder shaking the bunker. After a few minutes, you start to shiver. The room is cold and damp, and the temperature has dropped as the storm worsens. You wrap your arms around yourself, and the armor on your forearms isn't doing much to warm you up.

Wolffe steps closer, and his hand brushes against your arm.

"You're shivering," he says, frowning.

"Yeah, I'm cold."

He doesn't say anything. He just takes off his gauntlets and tosses them on the floor. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he starts undoing the straps and buckles of his armor, pulling it off and stacking the pieces on the floor next to him. You don't understand what he's doing until he pulls his chestplate off and drops it, and then wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest.

You don't resist, allowing yourself to lean into him. The undersuit he wears beneath his armor is made from a thick, insulated material, and the heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of your tunic. He's so warm, and you relax, letting out a content sigh.

"That better?" he asks, his breath warm against your ear. You shiver at the sensation.

"Yeah," you say, closing your eyes. He snorts, his breath fanning over the top of your head. You can't stop the small smile from tugging at the corner of your mouth. "Thanks."

The two of you stand like that for a while, his arms wrapped around your waist. You try to keep working on the data, but it's difficult to focus with him so close. His chest is pressed against your back, and every time you breathe, the soft swell of his pecs is against your shoulder blades. You can't help but let your mind wander, imagining what he looks like under the armor, the planes of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen. You've always had a fascination with the strength of the clones, and Wolffe is no exception.

Wolffe doesn't move, his arms staying looped around your waist. His hands rest on your hips, and he shifts occasionally, his thumb stroking over the jut of your hip. After a while, he rests his chin on the top of your head, his stubble scratching at your scalp.

"Are you warm enough?" he murmurs, his breath stirring the hairs on the top of your head.

You hesitate. Wolffe runs hotter than most humans, his enhanced genetics making him a living furnace. You started to feel warm a while ago, and the air inside the bunker is stifling. But you can't deny that you don't mind having his arms wrapped around you, and you're reluctant to give up his touch.

"Not yet," you say, a hint of cheekiness in your voice.

He huffs, and his arms tighten around your waist. His fingers press into your sides, the pressure sending a shiver down your spine.

"Don't test me, jet'ika,” he grumbles, and his breath fans over the shell of your ear.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

His words send a jolt of heat through you, and you squirm against him. You feel his grip tighten on your waist, his hands flexing to keep you in place.

He’s right. You do. But down here, away from the prying eyes of the Council and the GAR, it's easy to forget all of the reasons why you shouldn't be with him. You can almost imagine a future where the two of you could be together, one where the war doesn't exist.

Almost.

"I know," you murmur at last, and you feel him relax slightly.

"Good."

There's a pause, and the air grows heavier, the tension becoming more palpable. You can feel the press of his chest against your back, and his hands have moved, his fingers tracing idle patterns over the skin of your hip. His nose finds the curve of your neck, and you can feel him breathing, the tickle of his breath on the sensitive skin of your nape.

You let out a sigh, letting yourself sink back into him. Your eyes drift shut, and you relax against his chest, giving in to the comfort of his touch. He's so warm, and it's so nice to be held. You can’t help but imagine what it would be like if things were different. If you weren't a Jedi, and he wasn't a clone. If the two of you had met in another life, another universe. If the two of you could just be.

You spend a long time like that, standing in the circle of his arms. The storm is raging outside, and the bunker is dark and cold, but his presence is enough to make you feel warm and safe.

Eventually, Wolffe pulls away, and the two of you move apart. The chill in the air is sharp against your skin, and you miss his warmth immediately. You want to lean back into him, to bury yourself in his embrace, but you resist.

You turn to face him, and he meets your gaze, his eyes dark.

"Come on," he says, his tone gruff. "Let's see what else we can find."

You nod, trying to ignore the way your heart clenches as you watch him put his armor back on, his back to you. You know it's for the best, but it still hurts. You shake yourself, pushing down the sadness. It's not a productive emotion, and it won't help the situation.

"There could be old tech down there," he continues. "It could be worth checking out."

"You're right," you say, forcing yourself to smile. "We might as well see if we can find anything useful."

You follow him deeper into the facilityy, taking note of the way his shoulders are tense, the way his helmet constantly sweeps the corridor, searching for any sign of danger.

The bunker is even colder now, and you shiver as you descend further underground. Wolffe leads the way, his flashlight cutting through the gloom and outshining the light of your saber.

After a while, you come across a door, the metal rusted and caked with grime.

"Think this is worth checking out?" Wolffe asks, looking at you.

"Could be," you reply, inspecting the door. "Looks like an old storage area. We should be able to find some supplies in there, at least."

Wolffe nods, and he grabs the handle, wrenching the door open. There's a faint creak of metal, and the sound of dust being disturbed. He nudges you aside, his arm brushing against yours.

"Wait here," he says. "Let me check it first."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Really, Wolffe?"

"Really."

"Fine."

Wolffe gives you a look, his helmet dipping down toward you. He doesn't move until you nod, and then he's stepping forward, disappearing into the darkness. You hear his footsteps receding, and then the sounds of crates being shifted and opened.

A few moments later, he comes back, his flashlight sweeping over the doorframe.

“What is it?” you ask, your eyes tracking his movement.

“Looks like a med bay. Nothing useful, anyways. Just a cot and some storage lockers. We should keep going, see if we can find anything else."

"Yeah," you say, and you let out a sigh. "Yeah, okay."

The two of you continue to search, but the other rooms are just as empty and abandoned as the first. The bunker seems to be a relic from the past, a forgotten piece of history.

Finally, after what feels like hours of searching, the two of you make your way back to the entrance. You can still hear the storm raging above, the thunder rattling the metal hatch.

"We'll have to wait it out," Wolffe says, and you can hear the frustration in his voice. "The ship can't land until the storm passes."

"Great." You groan, rubbing your forehead. "I'm sorry, Wolffe. I know this is a waste of time."

"It's not your fault, jet'ika. It's the kriffing weather. It'll blow over soon, and then we can get the hell off this planet."

You let out a breath and turn away, trying to quell the frustration that's bubbling up inside of you. You can't help but feel as though you're failing at your first official assignment as a general, that you're letting Wolffe down. It was a simple mission, and you can't even complete it properly.

"Hey."

Wolffe's hand lands on your shoulder, and he gives you a gentle squeeze.

"We'll be fine," he says. "It's not your fault. These things happen."

"Yeah, but—"

"Stop," he interrupts, and the harshness of his tone makes you jump. "Just stop."

"Okay, okay," you mutter. "Sorry."

He shakes his head, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. His thumb rubs soothing circles against your skin, and you feel the tension start to drain out of you.

"You're always too hard on yourself." His voice is softer now, and his grip on your neck loosens. "This is hardly the worst thing that could've happened."

You huff, leaning back against his chest. You can't deny that the contact is comforting, that his touch is grounding.

"Maybe," you murmur, and he lets out a sigh, his fingers digging into the skin of your neck.

"No 'maybe'. We'll be fine, and we'll get out of here as soon as the storm passes."

"Okay, Wolffe," you whisper, letting yourself relax into his hold. "You're right."

"Of course I am."

"You're also insufferable."

"And yet, you put up with me."

"For some reason, I do."

He snorts, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "Must be my winning personality."

You laugh, and Wolffe's hand slides down your back, coming to rest on your hip. You shiver at the contact, your skin tingling where his palm presses against you, and you can feel him tense up behind you.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but he doesn't remove his hand.

"It's okay," you reply, and the two of you stand in silence for a long moment. The only sound is the storm outside, the thunder rolling and the rain pounding against the metal hatch.

"Are you still cold?" he asks eventually, and the rumble of his voice against your back sends a shiver down your spine.

"A little," you reply, and he sighs.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you warmed up."

Before you can ask what he means, he's pulling you back down the corridor. He leads you back to the first room, the one with the bed and the storage lockers.

"What are you doing?" you ask, and he lets go of your hand as he moves to one of the lockers.

"Found something earlier," he replies, and he pulls open the door. There are a few blankets and pillows inside, and he starts gathering them up. He tosses them onto the bed before he starts to unclip his armor, and your cheeks flush when you realize what he's doing.

"Wolffe, I don't—"

"Get over here," he says, and there's no room for argument in his tone.

You hesitate for a moment, but then he shoots you a look, and you obey. You cross the room, and he helps you remove your armor, placing the pieces carefully on the floor alongside his. The sight of the plastoid strewn about together makes something inside of you stir, and you quickly turn your attention to the bed.

The sheets are thin and worn, but they're soft and clean. Wolffe takes one of the blankets and wraps it around your shoulders, his hands lingering.

"Thank you," you murmur, and he nods, stepping back. He turns away and busies himself with the bedding, fluffing the pillows and spreading the blankets out. It's strangely domestic, and it makes something inside of you ache.

After a few minutes, he's finished, and he gestures to the bed.

"Come on," he says, his voice rough.

The mattress creaks as the two of you climb in, and it's not as uncomfortable as you expected. Wolffe lies on his back, and you tuck yourself against his side, resting your head on his chest. He pulls the blankets up over the two of you, and the warmth is immediate.

"Better?" he asks, and you hum in agreement.

"Yeah, much."

"Good."

You can hear his heartbeat, strong and steady. You rest your hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. He's warm and solid beneath you, and you can't help but enjoy the sensation of his body against yours.

"This is nice," you murmur before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah," he replies, his voice a low rumble.

You nuzzle into him, and you feel his arm wrap around your shoulders, tugging you closer. The two of you lie like that for a while, neither of you saying anything. The sound of the storm is muffled, and the quiet is almost peaceful.

You know you shouldn't be doing this, that it's crossing a line that shouldn't be crossed. But it's hard to care about that right now, not when you're warm and comfortable, wrapped in his arms.

"I'm sorry I dragged you out here," you say, your voice soft.

"It's not your fault," Wolffe replies, his fingers absentmindedly stroking your shoulder. "I volunteered. We're soldiers, jet'ika. We go where we're told."

"Still."

He huffs. "Still, I've been stuck with worse people."

"Gee, thanks, Wolffe." You roll your eyes.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, yeah."

The two of you fall silent again, the only sounds the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. You know you should leave it there, but the words are on the tip of your tongue, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt them out.

"Why did you volunteer? Why didn't you send someone else?"

Wolffe's hand stills, and you shift, pressing your cheek to his chest. You can feel the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat, and it picks up speed.

There's a long pause, and then Wolffe speaks again, his voice gruff.

"Because I wanted to see you," he admits, and your heart skips a beat.

"Oh," you say, your throat tightening. "Oh."

He clears his throat, his hand starting to stroke your shoulder again.

"I haven't seen you in a long time, jet'ika."

Your stomach twists, and the ache in your chest grows stronger. You press your lips together, trying to hide your reaction.

"You shouldn't have done that," you murmur.

"I know."

You sit up, propping yourself up on your elbow so that you can look at him. His face is half-shadowed, the dim light from the corridor casting strange patterns on his skin. His eyes are dark, and there's a vulnerability in them that you haven't seen in a long time.

"Wolffe, we can't do this. It's—"

"I know," he interrupts. "I know."

He sighs, reaching up and cupping the side of your face. His palm is rough and warm, and the calluses scratch pleasantly against your cheek, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw.

"But I had to see you," he says, his voice rough. "Even if it was just once. I've missed you."

Your heart clenches at his words, and you feel tears stinging at the corner of your eyes. You can't deny that you've missed him, too. That the thought of being with him has kept you awake at night, has made you ache in ways you can't name.

You lean into his touch, unable to resist. "I've missed you, too," you whisper.

He pulls you closer, his hand moving to the back of your neck. His grip is firm, and you can feel his desperation in the way he holds you. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, and the two of you breathe in sync, the air thick between you.

"Wolffe," you say, your voice strained.

"I know," he replies.

His fingers trail down your neck, his touch sending sparks of electricity across your skin. His hand moves lower, his thumb brushing over the curve of your collarbone. Your breath catches, and you can't stop the small sound that escapes you.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he murmurs. "About what it would be like, if we could..."

"If we could be together," you finish, your voice barely a whisper, and you reach up to trace the line of his jaw. His stubble is rough under your fingers, and you can feel the heat radiating off him.

"Yeah," he says, and the sadness in his voice breaks your heart.

You want to tell him that it's not possible, that there's nothing either of you can do, but the words die in your throat. He's so close, and the longing is too strong, too powerful.

"Me, too," you whisper, and then his mouth is on yours.

Wolffe's kiss is desperate, hot and demanding, and you can't stop the moan that slips out as the ache inside you finally, finally eases. Wolffe's hands move to your waist, and he pulls you into his lap, the blanket falling to the side. Your thighs bracket his hips, and you can feel the press of him between your legs, the heat and hardness of him.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue swiping against the seam of your lips. You part for him, allowing him entrance, and he groans, the sound rumbling in his chest. His hands move lower, his palms splayed over the curve of your ass, and he grips you tightly, his fingers digging into the flesh.

You arch into him, and his touch sends shivers down your spine, goosebumps erupting on your skin. He's everywhere, his scent and his taste overwhelming, and you're lost in the sensation of him, his kiss driving away all rational thought.

You know you should stop this, that this is crossing a line that can't be uncrossed, but the thought is fleeting, and soon, all you can think about is Wolffe, the heat of him and the feel of him under your fingertips.

You grind down onto him, and the two of you let out a groan in unison, the friction sending a spark of pleasure through you. Wolffe's hands tighten on your hips, and he rocks up, his erection pressing into the apex of your thighs.

"Fuck," he growls, his hand tangling in your hair. He pulls your head back, exposing your neck, and he presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, and you feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin.

He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping along your pulse point. You shudder, the sensation overwhelming, and your nails dig into his shoulders.

"Wolffe," you breathe, and he pulls back, searching your face.

"What do you want?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

You swallow, and his eyes track the movement, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

"You. I want you," you gasp, and his grip on your hair tightens.

"Be specific," he growls, his eyes blazing.

You squirm in his lap at his command, grinding down on his cock. He hisses, his jaw clenching, and you can see the tendons straining in his neck.

"I want your mouth on me. I want you to touch me. I want— fuck, Wolffe, I want everything." You can't stop the words from spilling out, and you feel a flush creeping up your cheeks. "I want to pretend that you're mine, just for a little while."

He lets out a shaky breath, his chest heaving.

"Yeah, jet'ika. Fuck. You can have whatever you want."

"Kiss me," you whisper, and his lips crash onto yours.

His kiss is even more frantic now, and you can feel the heat rising between the two of you. He bites at your lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, and you moan, your hips jerking. You're overwhelmed by him, his scent and his taste and the heat of his body.

You feel as though you're burning up, the heat of him searing through the fabric of your clothing, and the urge to rip the layers of cloth between the two of you away is nearly unbearable. You break the kiss, panting, and the two of you stare at each other, both of you trying to catch your breath.

Wolffe's eyes are dark and hungry, and there's a flush high on his cheeks, his pupils blown wide.

"Take off your shirt," he growls, and you don't hesitate.

You yank your tunic off, and the cool air of the room is a shock against your bare skin. By the time you've thrown it to the floor, Wolffe's pulled off his own.

His chest is broad and muscular, and the sight of his naked skin makes your mouth water. You've always known him to be bigger than the other clones, but seeing him like this is different. You've never seen him like this before, and the desire coursing through you is almost primal.

Wolffe seems just as eager, and he stares at you with blatant hunger, his eyes raking over your form. You reach out and run your fingers through the hair on his chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch, and he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away.

"Jet'ika," he murmurs, his eyes hooded. "Let me see you."

You nod, swallowing thickly, and then the two of you are moving. He reaches up and undoes the bindings around your breasts, letting the fabric fall to the side. The air is cool against your nipples, and they stiffen, the sensation sending a shiver through you.

Wolffe's eyes darken, and his hands move to cup your breasts, his palms rough against your sensitive skin. You moan, arching into his touch, and his thumbs brush over your nipples, the friction making them pebble.

"Fuck," he mutters, and he pinches one of the stiff peaks, making you gasp. "So pretty. Look at you."

He continues his exploration, his hands roaming over your skin. He kneads your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples, and you let out a shuddering breath. You can't stop the whine that escapes you as he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging and squeezing. It's a delicious sort of pain, and you grind down, your clit throbbing.

Wolffe smirks, his eyes dark and heated.

"And so sensitive," he murmurs.

"Please," you whimper, arching into his touch.

"Patience," he says, and he pulls you closer. He wraps his arms around your waist and shifts so that you're lying on your back, and he's looming over you, his knees straddling your thighs. "If we're going to do this, I'm going to take my time with you. I've been waiting a long time for this."

You're tempted to tell him that it's the same for you, but the words are lost as his mouth finds your nipple. He teases and sucks, his tongue laving over the sensitive flesh. You moan, your hands gripping his shoulders. His hands are everywhere, touching and stroking, and you're lost in the sensation of finally having him so close.

It's only when his teeth nip the underside of your breast that you're jerked out of your reverie.

"Wolffe," you hiss, and he chuckles, the vibration sending shivers down your spine.

"Sorry," he mutters, pressing a kiss to the spot. His tongue soothes the sting, and the dual sensations make your head spin. "Got a little carried away."

"It's okay," you pant. "Feels good."

"It'll bruise," he warns.

You shrug, running your hands over his back. "I don't care."

He looks up, his gaze searching. You meet his eyes, and he gives you a crooked smile.

"In that case..."

You whine as Wolffe presses his teeth to your skin again, and the pain makes your cunt clench around nothing. You've never been into this before, but the idea of Wolffe marking you, of being able to look down and see evidence of his claim, makes your blood sing.

"Fuck," you gasp, and he hums against you, his mouth hot and wet.

"Gonna mark you up, jet'ika," he mutters, and then his teeth are sinking into your skin, and you keen, his name tumbling from your lips.

"Oh, kriff. Wolffe!"

His mouth travels across your chest, leaving a trail of bruises and bite marks in his wake. The storm outside is a distant rumble, overpowered by the sounds of your gasps and moans, the slick sounds of his mouth against your skin, the harsh pants of his breath.

The heat of him is overwhelming, and your senses are on fire, the pain and pleasure intertwined, the two of you lost in a haze of lust. You can't stop the urge to rock your hips, desperate for some kind of friction, and you grind against him, his cock hard against your stomach.

"So good," you moan, and his hand slides between your thighs, cupping the heat of you.

"Impatient," he mutters, and he nips at the soft skin below your navel. You shudder, your hands fisting in his hair, and he gives a low chuckle.

"Need you," you plead, and he looks up at you, his expression heated.

"You have me," he murmurs, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut. You swallow thickly, trying to ignore the way they make your heart skip a beat, and the ache inside of you grows.

Wolffe leans back, his eyes roaming over your body, his gaze burning. He strokes the skin of your stomach, his fingertips tracing over the scars and marks. Even in the low light, the evidence of his attention is evident, and the sight of the red and purple marks against your skin makes something possessive flare in his eyes.

"Such a pretty little thing," he murmurs. "I've always wanted to see you like this."

"Wolffe, please."

"Shh," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the crease of your hip. "I'm getting there."

His fingers dip below the waistband of your leggings, and you lift your hips, helping him peel the fabric off. You're left in just your underwear, and you can feel the wetness soaking the fabric, the need inside you almost unbearable.

Wolffe sits back on his heels, and he swears under his breath as his gaze settles on the apex of your thighs. He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes dark.

"Look at you," he breathes, and his fingers ghost over your sex, the feather-light touch making you shiver. His thumb hooks into your underwear, and he tugs, the silken fabric brushing over your clit. “I don’t think this is GAR regulation, jet'ika,”

"It's not," you admit, your cheeks heating.

He groans, his eyes falling shut. "Fucking hells."

He tugs again, the fabric slipping between your folds. It's damp, and you whimper, the sensation almost too much. You can't remember the last time you were this aroused, this turned on. The sight of Wolffe above you, his gaze dark and intense, is almost enough to make you come, and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"Soaked," he mutters, and the rasp in his voice sends a shudder through you.

"For you," you gasp, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

He leans down and presses his mouth to your clothed sex, the warmth of his breath fanning over you. His stubble is rough against your inner thighs, and you moan, his name falling from your lips.

He pushes the fabric aside, and then his tongue is sliding along your folds, the flat of it pressing against your clit. You cry out, and he groans, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you. He licks at you, his tongue hot and slick, and the sounds are obscene, his mouth wet and messy.

"Taste so good," he rasps, and then his fingers are joining his mouth, spreading your folds. He flicks his tongue over your clit, the tip tracing the sensitive bud.

You cry out, your hips jerking, and he groans, his hand wrapping around your thigh and holding you in place.

"Needy little thing," he murmurs against you.

"Only for you," you whimper, and the truth of it hits you like a slap to the face. It's never been like this with anyone else, the need for release so intense, the urge to give yourself over to him so strong. You've never felt like this before, and the thought scares you as much as it excites you.

"That's right," he mutters, and then he's pressing his mouth to you again, his lips sealing around your clit.

The pleasure is white-hot, and you can't stop the string of curses that spill from your lips. He's relentless, his tongue working over your clit, his lips and teeth adding a delicious edge of pain to the pleasure. It isn't long before you're trembling, your orgasm coiling tight in your belly, and you gasp his name, the sound falling from your lips like a prayer.

"Close," you manage to say, your breath coming in ragged pants.

He pulls back, and his thumb replaces his tongue, his mouth moving to your inner thigh. You whimper at the loss, and he nips at the sensitive skin, the sting making you jump.

"Not yet," he murmurs. "I'm not done with you."

You groan, your hands tangling in his hair. You tug at the strands, trying to pull him back, but he's stronger than you, and he ignores your attempts to get him to move. He bites at your thigh, his teeth leaving more marks on your skin, and then he's pulling away, slipping two fingers inside of you.

You gasp at the sudden stretch, the feeling of being filled after so long without it making your toes curl. You're so wet that there's almost no resistance, and his fingers slip in easily, the glide smooth.

"So fucking tight," he rasps, and you groan as his thumb presses against your clit. "You're going to feel so good around my cock."

The thought is enough to make you moan, and your inner walls clench around his fingers, the muscles fluttering. He chuckles, the sound rough and low as his lips trail across your hip.

"You like that, jet'ika?"

"Yes," you hiss.

He adds another finger, and the stretch is almost too much. It's been so long since you've had anyone inside of you, and his fingers are thicker than yours, his hands larger. You clench around him, and he hisses, his forehead resting against your thigh.

"So good," he murmurs, and he starts to move, his fingers sliding in and out of you. "Look at you, taking my fingers like such a good girl."

You whimper, the praise going straight to your clit. You rock your hips, matching the rhythm of his fingers, and the sound of his palm slapping against your cunt is almost enough to make you come undone.

"Just like that," he whispers, and his mouth returns to your sex, his tongue pressing against your clit. He swirls the muscle around the swollen bud, the pressure just enough to make your head spin. You're so close, the heat in your abdomen threatening to explode, and he can tell.

"You're going to come," he mutters, and his fingers speed up, curling inside of you. The angle changes, and the tip of his finger presses against a spot that makes you cry out. "You're going to come on my fingers, and then I'm going to fuck you until you're screaming."

"Yes," you moan, your head falling back. "Yes, please, Wolffe. I'm so close."

"Then come," he growls. "Come for me, jet'ika."

And you do, his command sending you over the edge. Your climax crashes into you, the pleasure blinding, and your whole body trembles, your inner walls spasming around his fingers. You sob his name, and his mouth moves, sucking at your clit, his fingers milking your release.

The sensation is too much, and you try to twist away, but his free hand moves to your hip, holding you in place. He works you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and oversensitive, the sensation almost painful.

"Stop, please," you beg, and he does, pulling back and sitting up.

"Okay, okay," he pants. "That's it. Good girl."

Your cunt clenches at his words, the muscles still twitching. You take a few deep breaths, trying to regain control of yourself, and Wolffe slips his fingers out of you, the movement slow and gentle.

"Good?" he asks, and you nod.

"Yeah," you sigh. "Yeah, I'm good."

He brings his fingers to his lips and sucks, the sight making your cheeks heat. He groans, his eyes closing, and he savors the taste of you, his tongue licking away every drop.

"So fucking good," he murmurs, and his hand cups the back of your head, pulling you into a bruising kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, the flavor salty and sweet, and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.

The kiss is rough and hungry, the two of you clinging to each other, and the urgency returns, the need for more rising up inside of you.

"Please," you whisper against his lips. "I need you."

"Yeah," he rasps. "Yeah, I know."

You can't help the whine that slips out as he pulls away, his hands reaching for the waistband of his blacks, and he chuckles, the sound strained.

"Soon, cyar'ika. I'm right here."

The promise makes something inside of you clench, and you can't tear your eyes away as he pulls his briefs down, his erection springing free. He's thick and long, the head leaking pre-cum, and you swallow hard against the saliva pooling in your mouth. You want to taste him, to feel him stretching your throat, but that's not what either of you need right now. What you need is him buried deep inside you, fucking you until you can't remember your own name, until you can’t remember the world outside the two of you.

He kicks off his clothes, and he kneels between your legs, his hands moving to your waist.

"Let's get you out of these," he says, his voice a low rumble.

His knuckles brush against your clit as he slips his fingers into your underwear, and you gasp, your hips arching up. You feel exposed and vulnerable as he peels the damp fabric away, leaving you bare and naked before him, but the look on his face is one of reverence.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, and the raw emotion in his voice makes your heart clench.

You reach up and cup his cheek, the gesture tender, and his eyes fall closed, his breath hitching. He turns his face into your palm, his lips brushing against the skin.

"Wolffe," you whisper.

"Jet'ika," he murmurs against you.

"I'm ready."

He opens his eyes, the gold of his iris gleaming in the dim light. There's an intensity in his gaze, a fire that burns, and he wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself. You watch, transfixed, as he teases himself, the head turning purple and shiny with pre-cum.

He reaches out and presses his hand against your stomach, his palm flat and hot against your skin. He rubs it in circles, and the touch is soothing, the ache inside you easing. You take a deep breath, and his nostrils flare, the muscles in his neck tensing.

"Tell me if it's too much," Wolffe says, his eyes searching yours. "I won't hurt you."

"I know," you murmur. "I trust you."

He leans down and presses his mouth to yours, the kiss soft and tender. It's a stark contrast to the urgency from before, and the gentleness makes your throat tighten. He pulls back, his hand still pressed against your stomach, and he reaches down, lining himself up.

"Ready?" he asks, and you nod.

"Yes."

He slides in slowly, the stretch almost too much. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to relax, and he kisses your temple, his other hand rubbing soothing circles on your thigh.

"Easy," he whispers.

It takes a moment, but you adjust to his size, the pressure lessening as your body accommodates him. He's hot and heavy inside you, his length reaching deeper than anyone ever has, and the fullness is delicious, the pleasure-pain making your eyes water.

"Good girl," he rasps, his hand moving up your stomach, his thumb brushing against the underside of your breast. You whine, and he hushes you, his hand continuing its path up to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands.

"Kriff," he groans, and the sound is pained. His eyes flutter shut, and his head drops down, his forehead pressed against yours. "You feel so good. Like you were made for me."

"Wolffe," you breathe, and he kisses you again, the contact searing.

He pulls out and then pushes back in, his movements slow and controlled. He's trembling, the tendons in his neck standing out, and you can see the effort it's taking him to hold back.

"Faster," you beg, and his hand tightens in your hair, the bite of pain making you moan.

"I don't want to hurt you," he grits out, his hips stuttering.

"You won't," you assure him, and the lie sits bitterly on your tongue.

Because it's not true, and you both know it. No matter how gentle he is, how careful he is, the fact remains that this is temporary, that the two of you can never be anything more than a stolen moment. You're going to hurt, and he's going to hurt, and the truth of it is enough to make you want to cry.

But Wolffe doesn't point it out, and neither do you. He does as you ask, his thrusts speeding up, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the small space. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer, and his lips find yours, his tongue tracing the seam. You part for him, allowing him entrance, and his kiss is desperate and hungry, his fingers digging into your skin.

He fucks you with abandon, the two of you lost in a haze of pleasure and lust, the years of pent-up desire finally coming to the surface. He's everywhere, surrounding you, his scent and his taste and the weight of him pinning you to the mattress. You feel claimed, possessed, and the thought should scare you, but instead, it makes you feel safe.

His pace is punishing, the force of his thrusts rocking the bed, and you cling to him, your nails raking across his back. You can feel the sweat beading on his skin, the slick slide of him against you, and the pleasure is building, the heat in your belly threatening to consume you.

"Fuck," he growls, and his hand moves to the side of your face, cupping your cheek. "Look at me. I wanna see you when you come."

Your eyes flutter open, and his face is inches from yours, his eyes locked onto yours. There's an intensity in his gaze, a raw emotion that threatens to undo you.

"Wolffe," you whimper.

"That's it, cyar'ika," he says. "Let go."

And you do, the orgasm hitting you like a shockwave. It crashes over you, the pleasure white-hot, and your inner walls clench around him, the feeling of his cock rubbing against your sensitive spots enough to make your vision blur. You cry out, and his name is a chant on your lips, the syllables falling from your mouth over and over. The bliss so intense that it's almost painful, and you're lost in the feeling of him, the pleasure consuming you.

"So good," he mutters. "You're so good for me."

He fucks you through your release, his fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and his thrusts become frantic, his rhythm stuttering. You can tell he's close, and you tighten your grip on him, urging him on.

"Come on," you plead. "Come for me, Wolffe. Make me yours."

He groans at the desperation in your voice, and his hips snap forward, the force of his thrust pushing you up the mattress. You whine, and he grunts, his grip tightening.

"Say it again," he demands, his eyes burning.

"I'm yours," you repeat. "Yours, Wolffe. Always."

The sound that leaves him is a broken thing, the anguish in it clear. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, and then he thrusts himself to the hilt. He groans, the sound muffled, and you feel his cock pulse, his release spilling inside you. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt, and you feel yourself coming undone again, a smaller, softer orgasm washing over you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl.

You cling to him, the two of you gasping and trembling, and the aftershocks roll over you, the pleasure making you shudder. You can't stop the tears that leak from the corners of your eyes, the realization that this is it, this is all you'll have of him, is too much to bear.

You feel him tense above you, his body rigid, and his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head as he presses his mouth to your temple.

"Wolffe," you whimper, and he murmurs something against your hair, something soft and sweet.

You don't hear him, but you can feel the shape of the words, and it makes the knot in your chest tighten, the pain threatening to consume you.

The two of you lie there, wrapped in each other's arms, and the minutes tick by, the only sound the rain pounding against the roof and your breathing. Your heart is breaking, the grief and sadness threatening to overwhelm you, and you close your eyes, the tears falling freely now.

Wolffe brushes them away, his touch gentle, and he pulls out, the loss of him almost unbearable. You whimper, the sound soft, and he kisses you again, his lips brushing against your forehead.

"Don't move," he murmurs.

You watch as he gets to his feet, his movements slow and stiff. A few minutes later, he returns with a wet cloth, and he wipes the evidence of your coupling from your skin. He's careful, the strokes gentle, and the act is so intimate that it makes the knot in your chest grow. He tosses the cloth to the floor, and then he's pulling you into his arms, his hands smoothing down your back.

You let out a sigh, your head resting on his chest. "Wolffe, I—"

"Don't."

You look up at him, and his expression is grim.

"Don't say anything."

"Wolffe—"

"This was a mistake," he says, his voice strained. "We shouldn't have done this."

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to argue. "It's too late now," you murmur.

"No, it's not. We can still pretend it didn't happen. Just..." He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just don't make it harder than it has to be."

The pain in his voice makes your heart ache, and you bury your face in his chest, unable to hold back the tears. He holds you tight, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, and the tenderness, the protectiveness, only makes you cry harder.

"Jet'ika," Wolffe says, his voice soft, "please. Please don't cry."

"I'm sorry," you choke out, "I just..."

"It's alright," he replies, and he cups your face, tilting your head back. His eyes search yours, and you can see the sorrow and regret in them, the pain he's trying to hide. "It's alright."

"I'm sorry," you say, wiping at the tears that are rolling down your cheeks. "I'm sorry, Wolffe. I can't... I can't do this. I can't pretend like this never happened. I can't keep pretending like I don't care about you."

He lets out a ragged sigh, and his thumb traces the line of your jaw.

"I know," he murmurs.

"I love you," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I've always loved you."

His eyes widen, and the two of you sit in silence for a long moment, the confession hanging between you. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and you wait for him to react, to say something.

"You don't mean that," he says at last, his voice hoarse.

"I do."

He swallows hard, and you can see the conflict on his face, the war between what he wants and what he thinks is right. He closes his eyes, his fingers trailing down the curve of your neck.

"Fuck," he whispers.

"Wolffe," you say, and his eyes open, the gold of his iris burning.

"This is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever done," he mutters.

"What?"

"This," he says, and his hand comes up, gripping the back of your neck. "This is the dumbest thing I've ever done, and it's probably the worst decision I'll ever make."

You're frozen, his words hanging between the two of you. The room feels as though it's been turned upside down, and you're spinning, the world around you tilting.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying..." He hesitates, and then his expression hardens. "Fuck it."

And then he's kissing you, his lips hard against yours. The kiss is bruising, his teeth catching on your lower lip, and the sting is enough to make you gasp. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and his fingers tangle in your hair, his grip tight. When you part, both of you are panting, and his gaze burns into yours.

"Wolffe," you breathe, "what—"

"I'm saying I love you too," he says, the words spilling out in a rush. "And I'm done pretending like I don't. I'm done lying to myself, to you. I'm done."

The words send a shock through you, and you stare at him, speechless. You open and close your mouth, and he gives you a rueful smile, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"You love me," you say, and the words are thick in your throat.

"Yes," he murmurs.

"Even though..."

"Yeah," he replies, his voice low. "Even though."

"What do we do now?"

Wolffe sighs, and his fingers trail down your jaw, the touch gentle.

"We make the most of whatever time we have," he says. "And we don't look back."

"It's going to hurt," you whisper.

"I know."

"Can you live with that?"

"For you?" He looks at you, and the tenderness in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat. "Yes. I can."

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. The two of you sit there, your breaths mingling, and you take comfort in the warmth of his skin, the weight of his hand against the nape of your neck.

"Okay," you murmur. "Okay."

He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you let out a shaky breath.

"Go to sleep, jet'ika," he says, his voice soft. "It's been a long day."

"Stay with me," you plead.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.

He pulls the blankets up over the two of you, and you close your eyes, letting the exhaustion take over. His warmth is comforting, the sound of his heartbeat a steady rhythm in your ear.

The rain continues to fall, and the room is filled with the sound of you breathing together. It’s peaceful, and for a brief moment, the two of you allow yourselves to believe that everything is going to be alright. That the universe isn't falling apart around you. That maybe, just maybe, the two of you can have this.

The truth, however, is a far more complicated one. And come morning, when the sun rises, you'll have to face it.

But as you drift off to sleep, held tight in his arms, you can't help but hope that maybe, just maybe, things will work out.

After all, there has to be some kind of a happy ending.

Even in a galaxy as cruel as this one.

Taglist: @baddest-batchers @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @bruh-myguy-what @qvnthesia

@kindalonleystars @cw80831 @totallyunidentified @heidnspeak @lovelytech9902

@frozenreptile @chocolatewastelandtriumph @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana

@resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild

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@anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @ghostymarni

[ohworm-writes]

「✰」 ━━ AS GOOD AS I DO

RATING R - Restricted [ Content warnings : 18+ mdni, smut, dom!Nikolai, fem!sub!virgin!reader, alcohol consumption, strong language, thigh riding, heavy make-out session, praise with heavier degradation, oral fixation, fingering, size difference, loss of virginity, corruption kink, p in v sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, spanking ]

SYNOPSIS You didn't know that it was a military bar, so you had no warning about all of the pent up soldiers that have their eyes on you and your friends. As most of them leave to have fun of their own, you don't. Why? Because you're a virgin. To your luck (or loss), a particular Russian pilot has his eyes set on you, and he intends to make the most of your first time that will have you crawling back for more.

WORD COUNT 11.3k (Too fucking much.)

The cold air bites harshly at your exposed skin, sinking its fangs in deep, forcing a shiver up your spine that makes you tense and makes way for goosebumps to break out all across your skin, the hairs on your body standing on edge as you roughly rub at the areas in hopes that the friction will do its job properly in warming you up.

It does, if only momentarily, give you a small sliver of reprieve and the opportunity to bask in the warmth before it’s cruelly yanked away the very second you halt your movements, letting that frigid cold seep right back in and settle deep into your bones, comfortably making a home for itself there.

From the exterior, the bar hardly looks... appealing, should we say? The exterior reeks of piss, stomach acid, and sex—a combination of scents that makes you scrunch up your nose in disgust and discomfort—and the building itself is hardly any better, the paint chipping and cracking all over the place with the brick looking as if it’ll crumble with so much as a gust of wind.

So, with a deep, heavy breath, you push open the old, creaky wooden door and take a step inside, immediately being greeted with a rush of warmth and the smell of fresh food and liquor. Lively, half-drunken chatter fills the air from the bar’s patrons, with some groups seated along the bar and others at tables scattered across the hardwood floor; nearly everyone within the establishment has one or more people to be paired with, leaving nobody alone.

The people, though, aren't exactly who you expected to see. When your group of close friends initially invited you to come out with them for a night of drinking near one of their flats, far off along the outskirts of the bustling city, you really had no reason to refuse the extended offer. After all, you hadn’t seen some of them in months, so this would be the perfect opportunity to catch up, no?

Well, it is. But nobody thought to tell you that you’d be walking right into a military bar.

Apparently, according to one of your friends, there’s a base just a few kilometers down the road, and, given that this is the closet bar in the vicinity of it, it’s where every active-duty soldier and veteran comes. They make up ninety percent of the bar’s patrons, too, so you and your friends are some of the few groups that aren’t associated with the military. Well… yet.

And not that there’s any issue with it being a military bar, of course! It’s just that… you aren’t exactly accustomed to dealing with such… bold personalities. 

While your friend group does, in fact, consist of a few colorful characters and then some, the other patrons at the bar are a little too much for your taste. You’re used to your friends making crude jokes, being loud and rowdy, and playfully flirting with you and everyone else, but when it comes to others? You aren’t exactly prepared.

You and your friends are sat around a large wooden table near the very center of the bar, a number of large splits cracking down the length of it, with one of the legs being propped up by a book due to it not being long enough to reach the floor. At least the chairs are somewhat comfortable, even if they’re nothing more than metal barstools with a bit of cushion on them.

The alcohol is fairly cheap, to everyone’s delight, especially when it’s actually good. You’d think, with the state that the bar’s interior and exterior are in, that the drinks and food would be equally as abhorrent with mold or bugs or something disgusting, but no! The food is cooked through and seasoned well, and the drinks are as they should be. So, none of you can really complain when the main attraction is enjoyable.

You all talk about anything and everything: who is sleeping with whom, what co-worker or boss got exposed for something or other, whatever celebrity drama is happening at the moment, what show or movie someone saw recently that you just have to watch. It’s a mixture of small talk and deep discussion, with the conversation flowing smoothly as everyone enjoys their food, drinks, and the company that surrounds them.

Until the first soldier approaches.

He’s young, no older than twenty-two—even that might be a bit of a stretch—dressed fully in uniform, the green camo pants he wears tucked neatly into a pair of black boots with a fitted shirt clinging tightly to his skin, emphasizing his physique. He isn’t bad-looking per se, but he definitely isn’t your type. 

He walks over by himself with a smug, self-assured grin plastered on his face as he approaches one of your friends who sits directly across from you, giving you a perfect view and earful of the interaction as you take a sip of your liquor, watching as he puts his hand on the back of her chair, speaking in a hushed whisper.

“Hey there, pretty girl. You look bored over ‘ere with all of y’r friends. I could make y’r night more interestin’, y’know. You interested?”

Okay. Wow. Starting off strong.

And before you even know it, she’s giving a sheepish smile to the rest of you, apologizing and excusing herself from the table as she grabs her coat and purse from the back of her chair, waving you and everyone off before turning and hurriedly trailing behind the man like a lost puppy and out towards the car lot outside, no doubt ready and willing to get in some action of her own before the night is through.

And that’s just the beginning. After another half hour, all of your friends have either grabbed their things and said their goodbyes to go home with the soldier of their choice for the night, or they left to the bathroom or back alley, only to come back with a limp to their gait, bruised lips, marks, tousled hair, and fucked-out eyes. And if it’s the latter, it only takes them a few minutes before they leave, just like their formers.

It’s not like you haven’t had your fair share of men and women alike trying to court you, either. In fact, there have been four different people who have come up to you throughout the night and have tried their hand at seducing you, whether it be shitty pick-up lines that they use or bold flirtatious remarks, some even trying to trail an eager hand across your shoulder or back as a means to further entice you.

But you haven’t failed to turn each and every single one of them down, polite as you may try to be. It’s for two separate reasons, you deduce. One is that the people who are coming up to you aren’t exactly your type, be it in terms of the way that they look or their personality, while the other reason is… slightly more straightforward.

You’re a virgin.

So, to you, it’s no surprise that you’re adamant on turning down everyone that comes up to you to try and, for lack of better wording, try to get into your pants. Your other friends who have already been approached and taken up their offers for a good fuck, be it bent over the bathroom sink, pressed up against the brick wall in the alley outside, or going home to enjoy that ecstasy in a bed, intend to spend their nights well.

They’ll be having more of a “good night” than you will, even though they’ve all wished you well with some variation of that phrase.

So, here you sit at an empty table, nursing your drink with a soft sigh, bored out of your mind as you trail your pointer finger around the rim of the glassware in a slow, calculated manner. You can’t help but feel a bit left out. Again, not as if you haven’t already been given a multitude of chances and offers that you could have taken up hours ago, but none of them—to you, at least—seem to be someone worthy of taking something as intimate as your virginity away from you.

To hold it in their palms like a trophy or medal to display with smug, overzealous pride. To flaunt, to brag about, and then to ultimately forget, because to them, your virginity doesn’t matter. It’s something that can boost their ego for a momentary period of time before shrugging off and away because it didn’t matter and wasn’t important.

So, no, you decide. None of the overconfident, liquid courage-fueled bastards are worthy of taking your virginity away from you. Thus, you only have yourself to blame for your “lack of action," so you can’t complain about it any longer when you’ve dug in your heels and chosen to stick firmly by your decision, now can you?

That is, until a particular Russian man donning aviators and a brown leather flight jacket downs his shot in one go and stands, beginning to take slow, confident strides in your direction from his previous seat positioned at a small table in the far back corner of the bar from behind you, with four men urging him on with a few whistles and cheers.

Not that he has any need for encouragement or prayers, of course.

You don’t even notice him as he approaches, because you’d assume with a man of his size and stature that you’d at the very least be able to hear his footsteps, but no. He’s completely silent until he’s right behind you, one hand holding onto the back of your chair in a casual manner while the other splays out right beside your drink as he leans into it, both next to you and behind you all at once.

You can feel his hot, vodka-soaked breath fall heavy against the exposed skin of your spine even when his mouth isn’t anywhere near you yet, still maintaining some level of control over himself and his actions. You’re unable to see the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he grins, thoroughly amused with the way a shiver crawls up your spine, right to where you had felt the ghost of his breath just moments ago.

That, and the flames of desire that flare up and burn behind his eyes.

“I cannot help but notice that your friends left you behind all by yourself. So cruel to do that to someone like yourself.”

You can only assume that sarcasm laces his tone with the way he puts emphasis on certain words or the way he speaks with a specific lilt, but that couldn’t be the furthest thing from the truth. He means every word he says, so, if anything, it’s pure and unbridled amusement and honesty that lace his words and the way that he speaks.

Because he does think that it’s cruel that all of your friends have left you alone with nothing more than a quick, uncaring, departing word or phrase before they rush out to follow behind and fuck some other mindless soldier who, more than likely, has already had their fair share of the bar’s civilian patrons. Your friends don’t mean anything special to those soldiers, as unfortunate as it is, but that fact in and of itself is what separates him from those men.

Even if, yes, he’s in just as much of a desperate need to get off as they are.

You have to fight against the urge to roll your eyes at his words, your pointer finger continuing to drag lazily along the rim of your glass as you work to ignore him, not exactly up for trying to craft another excuse as a means to reject whatever proposal of having sex you assume he’s come up with, content with picking up your drink and finishing it off with a slow, steady breath, letting the liquor burn down your throat with indifference.

But, unfortunately for you, that only furthers his intrigue. So, with a smirk that slowly begins to spread out wider across his lips, even if you still don’t turn to see it, he chooses to take his shot and make a move. Or, rather and more accurately put, he makes an executive decision that he won’t allow you to refuse.

“Let me buy you a drink, да? Keep you company.”

And, just as stated, he doesn’t allow you to refuse him or turn down his offer like you had done with the others, already waving and making a few hand gestures at one of the servers, calling out to them for a refill of whatever you had been drinking and to place whatever your tab had been under his card, pulling out an empty chair, and taking his place in the seat beside you, getting to see that smug smirk for yourself for the first time.

And now your in it.

He’s… surprisingly pleasant to be around, you come to find out as you begrudgingly begin to converse with him. At first, you still try to ignore him, not even touching the new drink as it’s set in front of you just yet, keeping your eyes trained on and tracing the different rings in the wood table, but, in coming to the conclusion that he isn’t going to leave you alone, you start talking.

The conversation is forced when it begins, consisting of quick responses from you that lack any emotion or indication that you want to keep speaking. But he’s patient, and he waits, and he shifts his approach to asking questions that you can’t just give one to two word responses to, forcing the conversation into something of value. And only then does it begin to flow, slowly blending into something smoother—something that you can enjoy.

You learn his name, Nikolai, tasting it on your tongue with a sip of your drink, letting the flavors and tastes seep into your palette and glide down your throat until you feel it pool and fester in the depths of your stomach. The way you say his name makes his own cheshire-esque grin wifey further, his eyes crinkling with a flicker of undeniable mischief. It’s dangerous, but it draws you in just like a siren to a sailor.

He keeps the conversation civil at first, not wanting to scare you off just yet when he’s barely captured your attention, asking a few generic questions and molding them into something of substance, giving a few answers of his own and straying away from keeping them vague, trying to be as specific as he can afford to allow as a means to keep your attention drawn in on him. 

But after you finish your drink and he moves to order you another without question, he gets bolder.

Brushes of his fingers against your bare skin, remarks and words heavy with innuendo, heavy heated breaths that fan across the space between you both, and purrs that make your head spin in the best ways possible. It’s equally overwhelming as it is underwhelming. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s doing it better than you could have ever anticipated, drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

You’re in over your head before you can even comprehend what’s happening.

“Come on, лапушка … let me give you a better night than your friends could ever even dream of having.”

His voice is heavy, as is his accent, his body turned to look at you with his face no more than a few centimeters away from your own, one of his hands busied with trailing his fingertips lazily up and down the exposed skin of your forearm, barely even touching it at all, while the other rests atop your thigh, the warmth from his skin seeping through the fabric of your pants as his thumb brushes back and forth in a methodic motion.

Nikolai’s staring down at you with these half-lidded eyes that you can barely even make out through his dark aviators, his breathing coming out in slow, shallow exhales, weighing heavy in his chest as he drags his tongue across his bottom lip, gently cocking his head to the side with that same smug look that hasn’t left his face or lips since he first started to speak with you, danger dancing behind his eyes.

A warning and a question wrapped into one, questioning if you’re ready for a man like him.

You look up at him, searching for as much as a flicker of that same cocktail of overzealousness and egotism that you so easily caught in every other person’s eyes as they presented you with a similar offer, seeing you as nothing more than a warm body to accompany and please them for the evening. To be able to decline him, turn down his offer, and go home for the night… to be able to forget about him and this before you let it get out of hand.

But you can’t find it. He wants you, yes, that much you can tell, but not in the same way that they did.

“Okay. Yeah… sure. Yes.” You tell him, stumbling over your words messily, but he doesn’t seem to care about it in the slightest. That smile of his edges with danger as he effortlessly moves his hand, grasping onto his aviators, taking them off and hooking them onto his shirt, his other hand leaving your thigh as he moves you in front of him, moving his hand to the small of your back to guide you around the bar towards one of the bathrooms near the back.

He stands tall from behind you, confidence radiating from his very being as he casually walks, uncaring of all the eyes that stare down at the two of you from all across the establishment as the watch, knowing full and well exactly what’s about to transpire, even if you don’t. His friends, the four, sat at the table just a few feet away from the bathroom door, sending him sly smiles and nods of approval. One of them, a bearded man wearing a bucket hat, holds up his wrist and taps at his watch, sending Nikolai a knowing look even as he grins just like the rest. You don’t exactly know what it means, but it doesn’t seem to phase the Russian in the slightest, rolling his eyes as he opens up the bathroom door, the hinges creaking loudly as it arches open, ushering you inside as he follows suit, letting it close with a groan, the lock clicking.

He’s on you in a second.

He turns you around, pressing you back roughly against the door as he crowds you against it, one of his knees wedging itself in between your thighs, shifting them apart, and one of his forearms moving to lie against the door above your head so that he can lean over and look down on you, giving you a crystal clear idea of how much bigger he truly is than you, bucking his knee up against your cunt.

A moan threatens to spill past your lips at the action, eyelids fluttering as the noise bubbles up… but he’s quick to catch it. Before it can boil over, Nikolai presses a bruising kiss to your lips, groaning into it, the sound rumbling like an earthquake from deep within his chest. A long, drawn-out “fuck” passes through his lips as he pulls away momentarily, trying desperately to catch his breath, his actions filled with lust.

His eyebrows knit together, and he bucks up his knee once more as he looks down at you, watching and relishing in the way your lips part and allowing for another sweet moan to drip past your lips, breathing stuttering, catching in your throat as he brings one of his big hands up to hold at your hip, urging you to grind against his knee, a high-pitched keen from you filling the empty space, occupied only by his heavy breaths.

“Look at you." Nikolai mumbles out, almost mockingly, taking in the sight before him of your parted lips, your shoes just barely touching the floor as he supports you on his knee, guiding you to grind along the length of it, the half-liddedness of your eyes. The sight is intoxicating, one that he desperately wants to photograph, frame, and keep to himself for as long as time allows, because, God, you’re a vision.

Nikolai dives back in for another kiss, this one lasting far longer and being much heavier—nothing short of tongue and teeth—as he loses himself in the taste of you. You aren’t much better. If anything, you’re in so much worse of a state than he is right now. You can feel your own composure crumbling apart in his hands, held together only by the taste of his lips. You can’t even fight it—not that you’d even want to in the first place.

You bring your hands up, letting them glide across his shoulders, fingers splayed, taking in the expanse of them before they go up further, tangling into his hair. The sensation forces another groan out of him, the sound trickling down your throat without a single ounce of shame, freely showing to you just how deep his need and desperation are to have you run within his bones.

“Have to… have to have you… You understand, да? You’ll let me?”

Nikolai breathes out between kisses, unable to decide whether he wants to lose himself in the feeling of your lips against his and nothing more, or if he wants to map and memorize every part of the inside of your mouth with his tongue. It’s a tough decision to make, so he opts simply to alternate between the two. It’s the best he can get of both worlds, he decides.

And your mind is finally allowed the space it’s ached for to remind you of exactly what this entire situation will lead to. 

He didn’t intend to bring you to the bathroom just to have a quick, hot and heavy make-out session with you, as nice as that would be. No! That’s not what you signed up for, dummy! The second you agreed to be led back here by him, you were giving him permission and consent to fuck you, and you know it!

“Imavirgin!”

The words come flowing out past your lips like water as you pull away from him, the back of your head falling back against the wooden door as you gasp desperately for air, breathing in quickly and out brokenly before you can even process what you’ve said, trying to regulate your breathing from the way he had taken the oxygen straight out of your lungs. And when it does catch up to what you’ve said, you feel your face burn white hot, completely flushed.

You’re looking at him with wide eyes, something akin to a deer in headlights, while he looks back at you, now in the process of catching his own breath, with nothing more than a slightly confused expression as he works to pick apart your hurried, panicked words. And when it dawns on him as to what you’ve said, his pupils blow wide just a fraction, minutely, and just barely noticeable.

He doesn’t look disgusted or weirded out by your words, to your surprise, having expected that exact response from him and being wildly confused when you can’t find an inkling of that expression on his face. “That wasn’t what I asked, лапушка.”

Nikolai mumbles out to you, pressing his forehead against your own as he allows his breathing to slowly but surely level out, his dazed, lust-filled eyes boring into your own, fingers loosening gently around your hip as he watches you intently.

He doesn’t care that you’re a virgin. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest, and, if anything, it turns him on. But what he's saying now is that he wants you, but he’s asking at the same time if you’ll let him, allowing for that decision to lie completely within your control. He isn’t forcing himself upon you, still giving you the ability to say no and withdraw your consent before he pushes anything further, simply asking if you understand what he means and if you’ll let him.

So, now you’re faced with a decision. 

Do you withdraw your consent and tell him that, no, you won’t let him go any further with this? Because, quite frankly, you aren’t ready. Not ready to have sex for the first time in your life, not ready to lose your virginity, and certainly not ready to give up such an intimate part of yourself to a man you only met less than an hour ago.

Or... do you take a leap of faith without sparing a single glance beforehand and tell him that, yes, you do understand what he means, very clearly comprehending it and recognizing what’s to come with the acceptance of his proposal, and that, yes, you will let him have you and your body? That you’ll let him do whatever he wants to you, to be the one to take your virginity from you… and maybe then some.

It’s an important decision for you to make, one whose answer determines whether or not you lose your last sense of innocence. And, for better or for worse, far beyond your better judgement, you don’t spend too much time weighing the pros and cons before making your decision.

“I… ah… I understand. And… yeah, yes. Please.” Just like before, your answer comes out laced with hesitation and apprehension, both emotions undeniable, especially with the way your voice cracks and strains, leaving you to stumble and stutter over your words as you give him your answer with a shaky voice. Your hands are still tangled into his hair, albeit much looser now, but still present, the tremors that wrack through them gently tousling the dark strands.

And, after a moment, allowing his space to process what you said, Nikolai’s fingers resume their tight grip on your hip, the thick fingers bruising the skin, no doubt, even through the layers of your clothes. Never breaking eye contact with you, he pulls his head back, removing his forehead from its spot pressed against yours, his eyes shamelessly looking you up and down, his tongue gliding over the skin of his teeth.

“Умница.”

Nikolai mumbles out with praise, his voice barely louder than a whisper, though gruff and gravely beyond belief, a testament to his desire, moving his hand down for your hip to cup and grope at your ass through your pants, the other quickly following suit as he hoists you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his hips so as not to fall. Even if he wouldn’t ever let that happen in the first place, of course.

With your legs wrapped so tightly around his hips, you can very easily feel the hardness of his cock, even through all of the layers of clothing that separate you. You feel your breath hitch and stutter as it comes out shakily, your eyes boring into his own with parted lips and an open mouth, so unaware of what he has in store for you.

Oh, sweetheart, he’s going to fucking ruin you.

Unlike before, his footsteps are heavy as they move against the tiled floor of the bathroom, the thuds filling the space between the two of you, mixed with your own shared heavy breaths as he moves to, rather unceremoniously, drop you onto the long sink that lines one of the walls. Your legs dangle over the edge of it, and your thighs spread apart so far that you can feel your pants straining to accommodate them and the burn of your thighs as he stands between them.

He brings you back in for another kiss, his body towering over your own as he forces you to lean back against the cold mirror behind you, a shiver crawling up the length of your spine as you moan into his mouth, earning a pleased groan from him, just like before. His hands move, hooking into the loops of your pants as he forces them down, not even requesting for you to lift up your ass to make it easier, doing all the work for himself.

Nikolai’s tongue glides along your bottom lip, teasing its way into your mouth. His teeth clink against your own, and the kiss is sloppy and messy in a way that makes you moan out, whining softly. They’re two sounds that he eagerly swallows from your lips and drinks in like wine. He roughly shoves your pants the rest of the way down, moving them around and off of one foot so they dangle off of the other, the leg dragging against the floor.

Pulling back, Nikolai chuckles darkly at the way you try to cling to him, gently and desperately tugging at his hair with a whimper, trying to urge him back down for another kiss. He clicks his tongue, tutting at you with disapproval, shaking his head as he does so, giving you a warning look that quickly makes you remove your hands from their position, letting them come to fist at his shirt, gripping onto it with desperation.

“Нет. None of that. You're so eager for something that you have never even had. You don’t know how to act. We have to fix that, да?” It’s condescending that the way Nikolai speaks, mocking you and making fun of you for how desperate you are when he hasn’t even done anything of real substance yet—nothing more than a bit of making out and thigh grinding—has you acting out of line. Granted, you don’t really know where that line stands, given that you haven’t ever done this before, but he’s here to show you. To teach you and ingrain into you the role that you play beneath him.

Nikolai brings one of his hands up, cupping your chin and holding it tightly and firmly between his thumb and forefinger, the others pressed against the side of your throat, tilting it upwards as you strain your neck to keep up with the action. He inches his thumb up further, looking down at and watching you with narrowed eyes, cold and calculating as he presses them against your lips, feeling the way you exhale shakily out of your nose.

“Open.” It’s not a request, as you can tell, so you don’t waste any time looking at him with confusion, simply parting your lips for him and opening your mouth, just as he’s requested. He doesn’t even give you a moment to fully comprehend what's happening as he pushes his thumb past your lips, presses the rough pad down onto your tongue, and hooks it behind your teeth as he pulls you closer to him.

Drool begins to pool inside your mouth as you look up at him with wide eyes, trying to speak, to whine, and to say something, but he tightens his grip in response, growling lowly. It’s your second warning.

“I thought you were a smart girl? Didn’t I say that? Умница, Да? Act like one.”

His other hand, the one currently positioned near your calf, not having moved since pulling your pants roughly down your legs, inches its way upwards, brushing against the exposed skin and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Teasing, maybe, but it further ingrains his point into your head that, if you don’t start to behave and let him do the work, you won’t be getting any satisfaction or pleasure out of this.

He doesn’t care if this is your first time or not, and it’s not in a dismissive or cruel way. He’s simply treating you like he would any other person that he was going to have sex with, so it’s a mixture of equal rights and equal opportunity, you suppose. Whether or not that’s a good or a bad thing is… undetermined.

His palm presses against your thigh, fingers splayed as they continue to inch upward, branding your skin with the heat they exude, and, as much as you want to buck your thigh up into his palm and beg for him to rush and hurry up, you don’t. Because, lucky for you, that critical thinking skill is starting to work, the gears in your head are turning and allowing you the space to think. You have to be patient and good if you want what he can give you.

So, rather hesitantly, you wrap your lips around his thumb, gently gliding and swirling your tongue around his thumb, covering it in the slick, sticky saliva that pools in your mouth, looking up at him as you wait, playing that role of the smart girl that he wants you to be. Not rushing, not hurrying, and not begging.

And, oh, are you rewarded for it.

Nikolai lets out another deep and heavy "fuck," but this time it’s shaky and strained, the heat and movement of your tongue against his skin lighting up fireworks in his body that go straight down to his cock. His composure slips, if only momentarily, before he picks it right back up, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down onto it roughly, shakily breathing as he watches you with half-lidded eyes and a twitching grin.

“There you go. Much better.”

Nikolai’s fingers brush against the fabric of your panties, his eyes breaking away from your face as he looks down and leans his body back slightly, watching his own actions as, with one finger, he moves them to the side, exposing your glistening cunt to his wanting eyes, pushing it until it touches your other thigh, using his fingers to spread out your folds, listening to the squelching sounds they make.

He gently presses his thumb to your entrance, not yet pushing inwards, simply moving it around the area with purpose, listening to the sounds that it makes—a perfect symphony, if you were to ask him. He drags the pad of it upwards just as slowly, letting it glide and trail over the length of your pussy until he reaches your clit, his eyes flickering up at you as he presses down against it, making slow, gentle circles around it, watching you.

Even with your mouth wrapped around his thumb, you let out the prettiest moan, muffled into a hum as your hips jerk upwards unintentionally at his actions. Your eyelids flutter, twitching and arching your back in a quick spasmed motion, and he drinks in the sight of it with greed, his breaths so hot and heavy as he watches.

You’re going to put him in an early grave, Nikolai thinks to himself. How is he going to survive when you’re so good and so eager for him? Letting him play with your pretty pussy like this, toying and playing with it as if the action were innocent in nature without arguing, whining, and begging for more?

He’s being so mean to you when it’s your first time. He should be treating you so sweetly and nicely, shouldn't he? He should’ve sunk his cock into you a while ago, broken you in, and given you the soft lovemaking you deserve to have. He should’ve made you cum already; feel you squeeze him and listen to you make more of those pretty sounds that he’s starting to crave like a drug.

But that isn’t the man Nikolai is. But, then again, he can still recognize and appreciate your actions. He can still praise you and give you something of substance before he lets himself take away your innocence and let his most perverse thoughts run wild.

Taking his thumb out of your mouth and watching the drool drip down from it, Nikolai places it into his own mouth, sucking your taste from it until it’s clean. Only then does he bring his middle and ring fingers to your lips. And now, you know exactly what to do without instruction, leaning forward and taking them into your mouth, gagging softly as you take them as far back as you can, your tongue drooling and licking all over them, wetting them thoroughly.

And this time when he removes them, he quickly moves on to shift them to your other set of lips, smearing the saliva all over your cunt, right near your entrance. He teases the tip of one of his fingers around it, pressing in gently and slowly, taking his sweet time. His fingers are so much thicker than your own; one of them is akin to the width of two of your own.

It doesn’t hurt, nor does it strain too much. It’s bearable—something you can handle. That is, until he works to ease the second finger in, letting you get used to the feeling of one of his fingers inside of you for only a few moments before pressing the second one in. And this time, instead of your breath simply catching in your throat, it’s as if the wind has been knocked out of you, leaving you gaping and gasping. "O-oh, fuck, please."

You whisper out softly, your voice breaking into a whimper as your back fully arches against the mirror, your jaw slack as you moan out pathetically, closing it only to swallow the saliva in your mouth down harshly, making an audible gulp, before opening it once more, breathing out heavily with whimpers falling from your lips as he eases it in further. The burn from the stretch has you dizzy in the head—a mixture of pain from the sting of it and the pleasure of being filled so well.

Nikolai smiles slyly, pushing in all the way until his fingertip brushes against your cervix, cooing to you in a degrading manner as you cry out, your thighs instinctively squeezing together, trying to urge him away.

“What? Do you want me to stop?” Nikolai muses with a smug grin spread out across his lips, taunting you with the way he spreads his fingers out into a v-shape. He struggles against the tightness of your cunt, feeling your walls gripping onto him like a vice, but not stopping either way. He’s pushing you to your limits, maybe even far beyond them at this point, but everything he’s doing is sending your mind into a blurry haze of pleasure.

So much as him mentioning stopping makes you want to sob.

“No! No, no no no, please no. Please don’t stop. Please.”

You beg him with your breathing bordering on hyperventilation from how quickly you’re inhaling and exhaling, with a tone raw with emotion and desperation, just as it was before, but the contexts feel so different this time. You spread your legs impossibly wider, that burn from before feeling like nothing in comparison to the way he’s stretching you out right now, his fingers knuckle deep into you.

Nikolai lets out an amused hum in response, slowly closing his fingers, feeling the way you squeeze him and force them back together, before spreading them out wide once more, his thumb creeping its way up towards your clit. You can barely notice it, too busy moaning for him and trying your best to keep your legs spread as much as your body tries to fight it. Unshed tears brim at your eyes, a testament to how good it all feels.

And when his thumb eventually makes its way to your clit, applying pressure as it moves in slow circles, you swear on everything you hold dear that you could cum then and there. Your eyes roll back into your head the second he presses his fingers back together and starts to curl them upwards, hitting that gummy spot that makes your body go rigid with tension.

“Good. I need to get you ready for me, after all. It will not do either of us any good if you cannot take all of me.”

If you had even half of your brain working, you might be able to formulate some kind of response to his words, but, with your mind so overwhelmed with pleasure, all you can do is squeeze his fingers tighter and moan like a whore. He continues his motions of pumping and curling his fingers inside of you, his thumb gradually picking up its pace, swirling tighter, quicker circles around your clit.

You’re mouth is perpetually open, and all the sounds that rise up deep within your throat are bubbling up without a single barrier to block them, your hands gripping tightly onto his shirt with no intention of letting go. Nikolai takes them all in with pride, every sound fueling his ego and his desires, only encouraging him further to quicken his motions. With the way your whines get higher in pitch and the way your body tenses, he can practically taste how close you are.

His free hand moves up your chest, slipping underneath the fabric of your shirt and hooking his thumb beneath your bra, pushing both upwards. He stuffs the fabric of your shirt into your mouth, muffling your moans, and, while it isn’t necessarily his intention to do so, he just has to get a look at your tits.

He can see how hard your nipples are and the way your tits jerk and bounce softly with every catch and stutter of your breath, and the sight drives him just as wild as the picture of his fingers stuffed inside of you with a mixture of your drool and slick smeared messily around your cunt and all over his knuckles.

Nikolai can’t stop himself as he leans forward, ensuring that you meet his eyes with a gentle tap of his fingers against your cheek when he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, his tongue swirling around it and his teeth gently grazing against it with a teasing bite. That sight and those sensations, combined with the way he’s been abusing your poor, puffy clit and pussy with his fingers, are all it takes to push you over the edge.

Your orgasm hits you with the force of a truck, completely knocking the wind out of you. Your breathing catches in your throat before stopping altogether for a moment, all of the blood in your body seemingly rushing to your ears. Your thighs snap shut, squeezing tightly around his wrist, and your eyes roll back into your head as far as they can go as you cum around his fingers, gushing and leaving them covered in your essence.

He lets you ride it out without saying a word, simply watching with a grin as you lose yourself in ecstasy—the pleasure that’s thrumming through your veins like nothing else you’ve ever experienced, and he knows it. The very sight of you like that has him gritting his teeth, growling out a low “yeah, there you go" against your chest as he detaches his mouth from your nipple, watching as you come undone, slowing down the movements of his fingers and thumb to let you ride out the waves of your orgasm undisturbed.

Your breathing stutters, that familiar glossy haze covering your eyes as you come back down to earth, blinking up dumbly at him as you regain your sense of awareness, opening and closing your jaw. All of that tension dissipates from your body with ease, fizzing out, leaving you practically boneless atop the bathroom sink, working on catching your breath as you try to remember how to think.

As you do that, looking down, Nikolai slowly pulls his fingers out of you, his eyes completely blown out as he watches the way your body tremors with aftershocks, shivering once he’s completely pulled out. Just like he knew they would be, his knuckles are covered in a ring on white, and the length of his fingers smeared with your cum and slick, soaked.

He wants to taste it; truly, he does, but that would just ruin what comes next.

Blinking, slowly coming out of the fog that the afterglow of your orgasm covers you in, you watch as Nikolai pulls back, bringing his hand away from your face as he brings it down towards his lower half, mumbling under his breath in Russian as he makes work of his belt singlehandedly, loosening it just enough that he can unbutton and unzip his pants. He doesn’t even shove them down his legs to kick them off fully, simply maneuvering the waistband of his boxers beneath his balls to free his cock.

And the sight of it sobers you up quickly.

How the fuck does he expect you to fit him inside of you?

“You’ll take it.” He tells you without missing a beat, confident, practically reading your mind because he’s become well acquainted with that very look that crossed over your features when you saw it. It makes him chuckle, if anything, using his hand covered in your juices and smearing it all across his length, and you can’t help but watch greedily at the sight, understanding exactly why he’s so obsessed with sound with the way the smearing of your slick and cum fills the air between you.

Nikolai takes a step back, not yet bringing his eyes away from the sight of his cock as he mixes your juices with his own pre-cum, eyebrows knitting as he loses himself in his own thoughts. After a moment, he clicks his tongue. The sound immediately catches your attention, effortlessly making you perk up and shift your eyes from his cock to his face.

“Get down from there and turn around. I want you bent over this sink.”

Oh, fuck. This is really happening.

You nod at him, gulping down harshly as you shuffle your body towards the edge of the sink until your ass is to the very edge of it, pressing the tips of your toes against the floor as you hop off of it. Granted, you nearly collapse, not having anticipated the force of your orgasm to leave you incapable of standing on your own, but, thankfully, your tight grip on the rim keeps you standing.

Nikolai lets out a huff of amusement at the sight, making no move to assist you as you awkwardly turn yourself around while still holding onto the edge, legs wobbling and shaking as you stand in front of the sink. Now, with the change in position, you can truly see just how fucked-out you look in the mirror, just like your friends had been once before on the chance that you saw them before they left tonight.

Your hair’s a mess, strands stringing out in every direction, fuzzy with static, and your lips are completely swollen and bruised from how hard Nikolai kissed you. Drool dribbles past the side of your mouth and down your chin, eyes red from unshed tears, pupils blown out and darker than you ever would have imagined they would be. You look like an entirely different person in some ways, but in others, you look exactly the same.

But Nikolai doesn’t exactly have time for you to admire yourself in the mirror, so, with a grumble, he takes a step forward, moving his hand to your upper back, seemingly sweet and intimate with his actions, before roughly pressing you down against the sink, your nipples coming into contact with the cold surface of it, making you moan out and shiver. With his free hand, he pulls your panties down to your thighs, ensuring they won’t be in the way or an issue, before moving his hand back to hold onto his cock.

“You can admire yourself when you’re wrapped around me, лапушка. I gave you a command, so… I expect you to listen to it. Поняла?”

He kicks your feet further apart with his boots, gliding his hand down the expanse of your back and moving your shirt up the slightest bit so he can admire your ass. He taps his cock against the curve of your ass, obsessed with the wet sound it makes, letting out a deep, gutteral groan as he trails his tip along it lazily, tilting his head to the side. His thumb gently caresses the skin, rubbing up and down in a small area before suddenly removing it, only to bring it down with a harsh smack against it.

The sensation makes you lurch forward, yelping out loudly, completely caught off guard, not having expected it in the slightest. As much as you want to say that you don’t like it… the way that your cunt clenches around nothing in anticipation combined with the breathless moan you let out is undeniable. It’s an easy indication of your desires and how much you truly enjoy the sting it leaves behind on your ass.

“I said поняла?”

Nikolai growls out, breath fanning along your neck as you hear his voice right next to your ear, his hand pressing down into your lower back to support himself as he lines himself up with your entrance, bringing his tip to glide up and down through your folds, the squelching sound it makes causing you both to shutter in anticipation. You let out a pitiful whine at the feeling, one that earns you another harsh smack against your other cheek, forcing tears to your eyes.

“I don’t know Rus-”

He doesn’t even let you finish your words before he’s plunging his cock into you, pressing through your entrance and bottoming out in one swift thrust, enveloping himself in your soaked heat.

“Ебена мать!”

Nikolai curses out, muffling himself as he bites down hard enough on his bottom lip to taste blood. The squeeze of your tight pussy around him is enough to make him feel lightheaded and dizzy, gasping as he takes in a shuttering breath and pressing his forehead between your shoulderblades as he pants.

He fills you up completely with his cock, stretching your already sore cunt far past its limits as his tip presses against your cervix. Your eyes are forced to screw shut tightly as you try to grasp onto anything, but, alas, the countertop that spreads out along the edge of the sink is completely smooth, leaving you helpless.

You dig your fingers into your palms as a solution, your knuckles turning white as you press your forehead against the cool surface, trying desperately to ground yourself as a means to combat the stinging pain that comes with the stretch. The sensation is overwhelming, with all of your nerves feeling as if they’ve been lit ablaze.

It makes you want to writhe—to wriggle yourself out of his hold and scramble away from just how much it aches and burns. But, as you wait, your breath coming out in strained, stuttered breaths, you realize that he isn’t moving whatsoever. He keeps himself buried inside of you, completely still, his chest pressed against your back, as he breathes in with considerable effort and breathes out with just as much strain.

So, as the both of you lay there waiting for the pain to subside, you’re able to focus on and enjoy the feeling and be completely and utterly full. When Nikolai had his fingers inside of you earlier, you thought that that sensation was the most full you were going to feel. But, with the way that his cock leaves no extra space inside of you, filling you to the brim in a way where you can feel him bulging out against your tummy, you realize how enjoyable the sensation is.

It’s intimate and almost comforting, in a way, to have someone fill you up completely.

So, as you lie there, focusing on that sensation, you can feel that initial discomfort and overwhelmingness dissipate, leaving you solely with that fullness. It feels good, you come to find out, much better than anything you’ve ever felt before, and all you can think about is how much better you know that Nikolai can make it. So, you choose to gently press your ass back into him, taking him in impossibly deeper and giving him the subtle indication that you’re ready.

You feel him suck in a sharp breath that fands out against your skin. In a slow, fluid motion, he draws his hips back, pulling his cock out far enough that only the tip of it is left inside of you, before giving a gentle thrust to his hips and plunging himself back into you. The two of you moan out simultaneously, the sound he makes being more of a groan in nature and yours more of a whine, feeling the way he moves his hand to hold at your waist.

“Nik…” You whine out to him, your voice cracking into breathlessness as you feel him thrust slowly in and out of, the desire to beg for more threatening to pass through your lips, but the harsh squeeze he gives to either of your hips shuts you up instantly, listening to the way he strains to breathe and speak, rolling his hips with each thrust, ensuring he can get as deep inside of you as he can, his tip brushing against your cervix each time without fail.

Nikolai lets out a particularly heavy breath, grunting as he snaps his hips with a bit more force into you. Steadily, he begins to pick up speed with each in and out of his cock, much to your delight, losing himself in the wet, squishy noises it makes with the motion.

“I am going to fucking ruin you. Mold you to my cock so that nobody will ever be able to make you feel as good as I do.”

He mumbles it out, primarily to himself, even though you can clearly hear it, standing up and leaning back slightly. He lazily turns his head to the side, eyes focused on the sight of his cock disappearing and reappearing with each thrust he makes, trailing up the length of your back and looking into the mirror, getting to witness it from a different perspective. The vision makes his cock twitch inside of you, forcing another groan out of him.

Taking one of his hands away from your hip, Nikolai reaches it upwards, finding the base of your neck, fingers splaying out as they cup the back of your head, before reaching forwards, tangling themselves into the strands of your hair, and pulling. The motion forces your back to arch, your head lifting away from the expanse of the sink, your eyes boring into… your own, the mirror giving you a perfect view of yourself.

Jaw slack, drool dripping past your lips, tongue out, eyes blown wide, hair a mess of strands, tits out, bent over with the prettiest sounds freely falling from your lips as you get fucked from behind in a shitty bar bathroom by a man you’ve barely met an hour ago. Nikolai takes in the same scene, his eyes watching yours as you focus on yourself, grunting out with each thrust, shamelessly making noise to properly translate just how much he’s enjoying this.

“But you would like that, да? To be unable to enjoy anyone else fucking you because I’m the one who took you first.”

Another slap to your ass leaves you reeling, your eyes rolling back into your head as he thrusts himself in deep, snapping his hips with a roughness that forces the air out of your lungs before you can even take in another breath. You feel him readjust his grip on your hair, forcing your back to arch even further as he growls, bouncing you along the length of his cock as he fucks into you with vigor.

The coil that resides in your lower stomach begins to slowly but surely tighten with each thrust, accompanied by your own pathetic moaning, whining, and keening—those beautiful tears falling down the length of your face without anything to hold them back. Your eyes glisten, flickering away from your own expression as you opt to watch his own, seeing the way he bites onto his bottom lip to hold back his moans and whines, even as he fails to do so without any resistance.

“Such a desperate whore for my cock, aren’t you? It is amusing how you’ve never had sex yet act like a slut.” Nikolai coos out cruelly, emphasizing his words with a particular harsh thrust that has you drooling, letting his own hand grip at your waist as he pulls you back into each thrust, ensuring he bottoms out each and every time without fail. The obscene sound of his balls slapping against your soaked, sticky cunt fills the air. You can feel his tip slam against that spongey spot on your inner walls—the one that makes your toes curl and leaves you feeling boneless—and when he hears the sound you make, he’s relentless in focusing all of his attention right there.

God, it makes you see stars. You feel so unbelievably full in a way you’ve never felt before, each thrust of his thick, fat cock ripping the air from your lungs, leaving you sweaty and breathless. It’s overwhelming, yet in a way that makes you never want it to stop. Drool drips onto the counter from your tongue, hanging off in stringy globs, flicking back and forth with each thrust. You can feel yourself getting close, your walls closing in on him with a grip that leaves him groaning and growling, completely pussydrunk off of you as his eyes catch on to all of the different telltale signs he’s coming to learn from you.

The way your eyelids twitch when your eyes roll back, the way your whole body tenses up with anticipation, and the way your noises get so much higher pitched

He’s never letting you go after this, he decides. Nobody is going to get to have you once he’s done with you—once he’s claimed you. He was your first, and he’d be damned if he let anyone other than himself be your second, your third, and so on and so forth.

“Come on, красивая вещь. Cum on my cock. You can do it.”

Nikolai growls out, his fingers bruising against the flesh of your waist as he holds on to tightly, as if you’d slip through his fingers if he were to loosen it, if only by a fraction. And you’ve learned from your lesson before that, being a smart girl and knowing to do what he says when he says it, so your body instinctively reacts to his command. Blinding, white-hot pleasure courses through your veins, ever nerve ending in your body, feeling like it’s on fire when you gush around him. You feel your entire body go rigid with tension,your, heart stopping for a moment, unable to breathe or see from just how hard you cum.

Oh, you feel like jelly. If you thought you were boneless before, the way his grip on your hair is the only thing keeping you up right now really shows you what “bonelessness” feels like. 

Your entire body convulses, spasming and twitching and jerking you as you fight the overstimulation of him still ruthlessly pounding into your pussy, whining and keening as you babble out incoherently at him, everything making you so dizzy with pleasure. Nikolai himself isn’t that much farther behind you, the squeeze of your pussy bringing him teetering over the edge, barely able to pull out in time with a strained grunt of your name as hot, thick cum spurts from his twitching cock.

Ropes of it leak from his cock, painting pretty white lines against your ass as he groans out gutturally, leaning his head back as he basks in his own pleasure. He pants out heavy, each breath strained with effort as he blinks, chest heaving as he struggles to regain control over his own breathing, letting his eyes drop back down to admire the scene before him. There’s this dazed, lopsided smile that’s spread out across your lips, your eyes glazed over with ecstasy, just like before, but the difference in seeing your fucked-out face cockdrunk off of him. Oh, that just makes it all the better.

He blinks a few times, his jaw slack as he swallows down his own saliva and pants, his hand moving to smear his cum messily along your ass, rubbing it into your skin as if it were lotion. He knows it’ll stick to his own clothes if he does, but he can’t help himself nor care as he leans himself against you, bending over you, allowing himself to rest his forehead between your shoulder blades as his body comes down from such an intense high.

Seeing you like this, having you like this… it’s something he doubts he could ever leave.

His breaths come into sync with your own; the steady breathing, lungs filling with air, and breathing out, expelling all of that air, is an action that the both of you focus on as one, uncaring about anything else but this moment. You feel him mumble something against your back, unable to make it out through the haze of your afterglow, unable to hear all the whispers of praise he allocates to you, pressing gentle kisses against your shirt.

The moment is undeniably intimate, something you may not suspect from him, especially given the way that he treated you. But it makes sense, the way he has this imposing and overwhelmingly dominating persona that he leans on, yet can be equally caring and loving when the situation requires it. It’s a delicate balance that he maintains, further proving the extents of his own control, both over his partners and himself, and you can’t help but appreciate and admire it.

But unfortunately, the calm atmosphere that begins to settle between the two of you is so rudely interrupted by the sound of multiple harsh, sharp poundings against the door to the bathroom. Even though the door remains locked, which, thank God, Nikolai had done, the handle still gets jiggled with haste. Muffled, barely audible conversation can be heard happening from beyond the door, but it doesn’t seem like, according to your actions, that each of you cares all that much.

“Nikolai! Hurry up in there. If you don’t come out soon, we’re taking your truck back and leaving you here.”

A gruff, deep Scouse accent barks out, muffled only by the barrier of the wooden bathroom door that continues to shake from the sheer force of the pounding the knocks have been making against it. Nikolai groans out with a mixture of frustration and annoyance against the fabric of your shirt, still working to catch his breath as his pants begin to slow down, the heat of them seeping through the fabric and sticking to your skin.

“Maybe I should let him…” He mumbles out for only you to hear, his palm gently rubbing up and down the curve of your ass, working to soothe that ache that lingers from his harsh, sharp smacks. He presses a gentle kiss between your shoulder blades, trailing his lips upwards as he follows your spine and the curve of your neck, leading him to make his way to press them along the edge of your jawline. The sensation makes you let out a shuttering breath, which is uneven and shaky in nature.

The afterglow of your orgasm still lingers, mixing in with the dull ache left behind by the rough way he treated your cunt, your mind hazy as it swirls with pleasure, focusing on those sensations and nothing else, not even his words. You let out a soft hum in response, still fucked out and dumb without a single thought occupying the space in your head, not even knowing what it is exactly that you’re acknowledging. It makes him chuckle.

“Good first time; I take it, then?” He muses smugly, knowing full well that you won’t be able to give him a proper answer. But, with the look that shines behind your eyes and the state that he’s left you in, he doesn’t even have to ask that question to know the answer to it. 

So, with a heavy and reluctant sigh, pressing one last kiss to your jawline, he pulls himself back. Gently, he moves to rest your head back down against the sink, turning his gaze downward as he tucks his softening cock back into his boxers. He pulls back up his pants, re-buttoning and zipping them, and fastening his belt through the loops. He composes himself after doing so, smoothing down his clothes and checking himself in the mirror. 

Well, as composed as a man who just fucked can, you guess. Then he moves on to you. He presses gently kisses along your exposed skin, helping your boneless form readjust your bra and pull down your shirt, pulling back up your panties and pants, ensuring they’re all situated as he gives you a once-over from behind, pulling you against him as he checks you out in the mirror in front of you. A kiss is pressed to the side of your neck as he looks at you in the mirror, his eyes still half-lidded and a smirk adorning his lips.

“Come on, лапушка. Focus. It will be hard to walk if your legs don’t work, да?”

He teases lightheartedly, helping bring you back to reality as he helps you stand, your knees buckling instantly, but he never lets go of you once, remaining patient as the pins and needles slowly but surely dissipate, and you’re able to stand on your own, finally able to string a sentence together and cultivate coherent thoughts Still leaning into him, even if you don’t need his support anymore, you let out a soft whine laced with disapproval.

He hums, wordlessly acknowledging you.

"I don't want you to go." You complain, drawing out the last syllable as you voice out your thoughts to him, not at all ready to depart and go back by yourself. To, quite possibly and realistically, never see him again once he leaves. You aren’t ready for that, as selfish as it might be to admit. He chuckles at your words, not out of malice but out of loving amusement, gently turning you around so that you’re facing him, tilting your head up with one of his fingers curled under your chin. 

“Well… I suppose my comrades can find their own way home, don’t you think? They’re capable enough. You, however…”

He trails off with a chuckle, wordlessly acknowledging your state with raised eyebrows and a shit-eating grin, to which you can only whine out into the air between you both, clearly not amused as he is by his words. But once you’re actually able to register what he means by that, you look up at him with parted lips, that dumb expression still on your face, but now it’s more endearing than anything.

He leans forward, the scruff of his facial hair scratching gently against your skin as he presses a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger around the area for a few moments before ultimately pulling back.

“Let me take you home. You might have lost your virginity, but… that was only in one position. I think it’s only fair I help you lose it in all of them, don’t you think?”

It’s cocky and overwhelmingly confident—exactly what made you turn down the others who had tried their luck convincing you to have sex with them earlier in the night—but, coming from Nikolai, it’s a trait of his that has you hooked. Be it good or bad, you can’t find any part of yourself that’s inclined to refuse his open offer. So, with a dopey, lopsided smile that spreads out across your lips, you nod, accepting.

Because he’s right: it’s only fair.

Умница - smart girl

апушка - sweetheart

Нет - no

Да - yes

Поняла - understand

Ебена мать - holy shit

Красивая вещь - beautiful thing

[myosotisa]

i'm starvin, darlin - e.m.

Eddie Munson x Reader

ǁ summary: Since coming back from the Upside Down, Eddie has slowly been changing. Each week seems to bring something different and he finds himself doing things he never thought he would.

ǁ tags: gender neutral reader, no pronouns, no y/n. nickname used (sweetheart). mentions of season 4 final episode and what occurred. canon divergent (every one lived). it's not smut, but smut adjacent. it's sexy

ǁ word count: 2k

ǁ notes: i sat down and wrote an entire one shot in one sitting again. and i am also not going to edit this one. and i do not feel bad for lowercase hozier title, so don't even try me like that. if y'all really like it, i can add a part 2 with smut, but this is it for now

-

There are still a lot of things Eddie is having to come to terms with since the night his heart stopped.

That night in the Upside Down, laying in Dustin’s arms, he had died. Without a doubt. Dustin had felt his pulse and there was nothing there. And though he didn’t know CPR, had no idea what he was doing, Dustin had laid him down on the ground and started to beat against his chest. Like maybe if he hit hard enough and in the right place, his friend would come back to life.

Somehow it worked. No one bothered to ask why.

But they all knew something was wrong two days later. Eddie, barely breathing and with a weak heartbeat, had been dragged back to the surface and hidden away in the RV they had stolen. Someone watched him round the clock as they debated what to do. If they should try to get him to a hospital, how they’d be able to explain it. But then something miraculous began to happen:

Eddie started healing. All on his own. Way faster than any person should have been able to.

His skin stitched itself back together faster than should be possible, leaving less scar tissue than it should have behind. His chest began to rise and fall in more steady breaths, his heart beat getting stronger, bones resetting themselves with slow and quiet creaks as he laid in that RV bed and slept. He’d been asleep since they brought him back.

The day he woke up, his body had almost entirely healed itself. From the brink of death, having even stepped over to the other side, and now he was almost back to before it ever happened. It had only been a week.

Everyone rejoiced, refusing to question anything weird that may have happened in the Upside Down and just thinking they finally won for once. Max had casts on both her arms but was otherwise unharmed, Steve had recovered from his own injuries at the rate of a normal human and now sported a scar around his throat that he sometimes felt self conscious about. Dustin was on crutches with his broken leg for another month at least. Eddie was alive and whole and back to himself. They’d made it, everyone had made it.

He began to notice more and more things that were different as the days went on.

The first thing he caught on to was that he had the capability to be strong. Way stronger than someone who had recently been bed ridden should be. It was like in the comic books with the Hulk – if he wasn’t paying attention or if he got too emotional, he could easily break anything. A walkman destroyed, a ceramic bowl reduced to shards, a metal pipe bent beyond fixing, the wooden handle of a hammer shattered in his grip. The boys were all present for the hammer incident and sighted it as one of the coolest things they had ever seen. They swarmed him, asking him how he did it, what else he could do, how strong he really was.

Only the other teens, Steve, Nancy, Robin, you, started to look a little bit closer.

When the next few changes became apparent, it was clear something unnatural had happened to Eddie that night in the Upside Down. He could feel other people's feelings. They brushed against his consciousness like ghosts whenever he looked at someone. Happiness like warm rays of sunshine, fear like a shuddering gust of wind, anger like hot coals pressed to his skin. It wasn’t a conscious effort – in fact, there were a lot of times he wished he could turn it off. Whenever he looked too hard at someone, it’s like his brain adjusted to a different frequency and their emotions reached out to him, no matter what they were. And he didn’t struggle to make sense of the sensations like he thought he might, his brain completed the dots easily at first, but then he began to recognize them consciously. It was certainly useful sometimes, especially when it came to you, but it still felt a bit invasive. When he’d explained it to a few people, he assured he tried to ignore it whenever he could, but sometimes he couldn’t help but react. The icey spike of terror he felt when you woke up next to him from a nightmare. The velvet comfort that enveloped you and him when he held you after.

The first time he spoke into someone’s mind it was an accident. Steve had whipped toward him, breath catching in his chest, eyes wide and mouth open in a gasp. Eddie felt it like ice down his spine. “Did you… You did that?” He’d asked breathlessly. It had been so shocking, Eddie wasn’t even sure what’d he said, or projected, or whatever it was.

“I - I don’t know.”

Steve stepped closer, suddenly looking determined. “Try to do it again.”

It was a slithering feeling when he dipped back into Steve’s mind. Like sliding his way in between cracks to a place he didn’t belong, seeping into the forefront of his thoughts to plant one of his own. It made him feel dirty, uncomfortable, and wrong. But it worked. Steve explained it as having a thought like his own but it came out in Eddie’s voice instead. An intrusive thought but not an uncomfortable one.

As with all of the other discoveries, a meeting was called. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Max, Will, El, Robin, Jonathan, Nancy, Steve, and you. Steve did most of the talking while Eddie sat and looked at his hands. These meetings, while he acknowledged were important for everyone to keep track of his progression into… something, it still made him feel a bit like a zoo animal in a cage. A magician with a magic trick. All the boys immediately begged him to do it to them, they wanted to see what it felt like, wanted to see how easy it was for him to do it. 

Nancy and Jonathan had shooed them, catching on to how overwhelmed Eddie was, their excitement and curiosity battering against him like a whipping wind of too much. Once it was just the older people in the room, you crossed over to where he was, kneeled down in front of him, reached out to hold his hand.

Pity felt like someone was pissing in his pants.

“Are you okay?”

How could he say no? How could he admit that he was scared, confused, and feeling more and more like a monster with the passing days? “It’s just a lot. To deal with.”

Your smile was pained as you pushed yourself up onto your calves and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His came around your waist on instinct, the breath feeling like a wheeze in his lungs as he held tight. Face pressed into your hair with his eyes squeezed shut, he inhaled deep in relief.

That was when the next thing changed.

It was a desire. A need. One he couldn’t place a name to. Like he was desperately missing something, desperately craving something and he didn’t know it was. It crawled under his skin like ants and sent him scratching for a feeling that couldn’t be satiated. No matter what he tried: eating, drinking, masturbating, exercising. The feeling wouldn’t go away. It got stronger day after day, his mind focusing more and more on the void it left behind until it was all he could think about.

Steve threw a little get together at his house once a month or so. Just time for everyone to get together, eat some food, listen to music, play board games, maybe watch a movie. This was the first get together since his hunger began.

He was sitting on the couch on his own, decompressing. While normally he was right in the middle of everything, today it was a lot to handle when he was hyperfocused on the crawling beneath his skin. He had his legs spread wide, hands resting on them, leaning deep into the cushions of the couch in Steve’s basement. While he had initially tried to close his eyes, hang his head back, maybe stare at the ceiling – he couldn’t stop his attention from drifting back to you.

You and Eddie had been friends for a long time. Understandably, you’d gotten much closer after the events in March. The two of you had helped each other through hard nights of nightmares, panic attacks in parking lots, flashbacks in public. You’d been a great comfort to him since he came back. But today your laugh sounded like music. The smell of your perfume hit him even across the room. Each emotion crashed over him in waves, pushing and receding like the tide as he tried to get off your frequency, unentangle himself from you before he did something he didn’t mean to do.

I’m starving.

Your back stiffened, the grip on your plastic cup getting just a bit tighter. A moment of fear quickly shifted to mellowed surprise, curiosity. He’d never spoken into your mind before, hadn’t meant to do so now. But you still shifted, your eyes slowly coasting across the room until you caught sight of him on the couch.

A shock of electricity shot down his spine as you made eye contact, his hands tightening over his thighs in reaction. Unsure exactly what to do, he settled for projecting again. Slithered his way into your ears and settled a respectful distance from the area he’d never been brave enough to venture. Sorry, he offered with a wince, didn’t mean to.

What he didn’t expect was the utter flood of feeling that hit him next. Like a drip of warm honey settling into the space between his hips, pooling there in a subtle swirl as the warmth from it started to diffuse outward. You realized you’d been staring and your eyes flit away, but the feeling didn’t cease. In fact, it only got stronger. Your lower lip caught on your teeth as you shifted between your feet. Things that would be completely normal to see, wouldn’t have anyone looking twice, but Eddie could. Your desire. The want that poured from you like water when your eyes first met his.

Was this the first time? Had something changed between you and him? Or had he just never caught on before?

The ants beneath his skin began to vibrate as he narrowed in on the feeling, on you. Like the part of him that had slithered into your thoughts was now bearing down, digging in for purchase, wanting to stay awhile and feed on this new feeling, what you were offering. It didn’t even occur to him what he was doing, how invasive it might be, how wrong he normally would have felt. All he knew is that it felt like licking at the thing he’d been craving for so long and he was helpless to chase after it.

Sweetheart. It came easy as breathing now, teeth sunk into your consciousness from where you stood across the room. You whirled on him again, another flood of warmth hitting him deep as you leaned your hip against the counter you were standing next to and focused on him. What’s got you so worked up?

He couldn’t even consider how bold he was suddenly being, the fear that he might ruin this friendship well out of his grasp. Especially when your embarrassment spiked along with the want, the pool of warmth now suddenly coming to life to have a heartbeat of its own. Your eyes widened, shifting on your feet again as you broke eye contact. It only took a few moments before you couldn’t help but look back at him again. The buzzing settled further, now like a purr beneath his skin. It was bearable as long as you kept your eyes on him.

You wanna do something about it?

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thanks for reading, please reblog and leave a comment if you liked it!

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 18

Steve Rogers + title kink (daddy, sir, etc)

Reader kinda inspired by Wolverine in this.

Kinktober 2023 masterlist

You couldn’t remember the first time you had met Steve Rogers, when you had lived for over a hundred years, you had a habit of losing track of such things. But you remembered he was a small scrawly asthmatic little thing, ready to take on any injustice that crossed his path even if it had him put in the ground way more times than he ever actually succeeded.

You had already been over a hundred at the time, you had taken part in multiple wars, seen how America was built from the ground up going from colony to country, and you had settled down there just for somewhere to be. You still traveled the world, you didn’t really have anything else to use your time on, but you always found yourself returning to what was now Brooklyn.

You had just returned to Brooklyn from a trip across the pond, that meaning you had returned from Europe. It was all experience that told you that war was brewing again, you had taken part in the first and felt no interest in being part of the second, you just wanted to take a break. Now, the war hadn’t broken out yet, but you could feel it in your bones.

That was how you found yourself in the alleyway for the first time, as a couple of guys were ganging up on some scrawny pale blonde who looked like a strong gust of wind was gonna knock him over. You acted on instinct, never standing much for injustice, knocking the fellas on their ass and sending them running from your size and glare alone, before you pulled the skinny guy to his feet.

He had looked like he was ready to start swinging on you too if you tried anything, you had liked that, that spark in his eyes. One thing led to another, and the two of you found yourselves sitting on a curb in some less populated street, sharing a bottle of alcohol. Now, alcohol had never had an effect on you, but you liked the taste, but it had left Steve stumbling and red faced.

He hadn’t told you where he lived before, he got too wasted to tell you, but you hadn’t wanted to leave him there on the street. That was how Steve found himself waking up in your apartment, which was spartan at best as you had little care for physical possessions. Your relationship with Steve bloomed from there, you even met Bucky who didn’t seem to know what to do with you the first time he saw you.

But time passed, and you felt drawn to Steve in a way you hadn’t felt for anyone in a long time, and it was clear to your knowing eyes that Steve felt the same. He wasn’t gonna tell you that though, you could tell, unlike him you didn’t have any doubts about yourself and your sexuality though. One night when it was just the two of you, you had leaned in and kissed him, the scrawny guy almost jumping out of his seat.

But as it seemed to hit him that you were kissing him, he had thrown his skinny arms around you and crawled into your lap with a desperation you’d rarely find anywhere else. He had little experience as he kissed, Steve having to disconnect your lips at multiple times so he could catch his breath, his asthma making it impossible to kiss him as deeply as you wanted.

His health made it impossible to ever truly go too far in you relationship, as you didn’t want to push his already weak body further than it could take. It didn’t keep you from kissing all over his frail ribs or licking out his hole as he shivered and moaned in that gasped raspy way only Steve could.

That was the first time the title left his lips, a gasped short cry of “daddy” as he came against his chest, his hands grasping onto your wrist as you rubbed his chest with your thumbs. He seemed embarrassed for about a second, unsure of how you would react, that was until you dove in with even more gusto than before, leaving him to tremble even more as you pushed him over the edge again.

After that, that title became something important to the two of you, something muttered behind closed doors when no one was around. Even after he entered the super soldier program and almost rivaled you in size, he was still your boy, and you were still his daddy. You hadn’t wanted to join up in the second world war, but seeing him run off on his own, the protectiveness in your chest as wailed and you followed.

It was only after everything, after you lost him to the ice that you realized you had never actually told him about your powers. You hadn’t said anything before he got the serum because it was unbelievable and you wanted to keep him safe, and after the serum, everything had moved too fast, and it just never seemed to be the time.

And so time passed once more, you sold your old apartment and the few things inside, except for the sketchbooks left behind by your boy and ring he has said was his mothers wedding ring, when one night you had been cuddling in bed dreaming about a world where men could marry one another. You started wearing it on a chain around your neck, as a symbol of your loyalty to your boy, even though your time was short.

There was no reason to join the X-men, it was just something you did. Logan was like yourself, and youd run into each other multiple times over the years, so when he asked if you wanted to join up, you thought “why not” and became part of the group of mutants. You weren’t as active of a member as the others, rather sticking to the background and doing your own thing, joining the fight when you needed too.

At some point the X-men became too much for you, maybe it was because you were so used to always being on the move, so with a farewell party, you parted on good terms. Youd come to their aid if they needed it, but you knew it wasn’t where you were meant to be, and so, you started traveling again.

You were in Asia at the time when you saw the news, Captain America coming back to life, saved from the ice. It was hard to tell how you got from Asia to New York, or why you even went back, maybe he didn’t want to see you again or was ready to move on to the future. It wasn’t hard to find the apartment they had set him up in, Stark, that was, not SHIELD. It wasn’t a secret that SHIELD wasn’t to be trusted, it was why you disappeared into the wind when Stark and Peggy started building it.

Maybe a part of your brain had given out, the logical part at least, as you knocked on his door, almost nervously brushing your fingers through your beard and hair. You hadn’t styled it in a while, there hadn’t been a need too as you traveled the world. But now that you were standing here you felt inadequate to appear before you boy.

He seemed cautious as he opened the door, and it took a moment for recognition to flash through those pretty blue eyes of his. His eyes widened and his expression softened in disbelief, it wasn’t your name that left his lips, but a tiny whispered “daddy?” that did, tears welling in his eyes as he didn’t seem to believe what he was seeing.

Stepping towards him, the door fell shut behind you as you wrapped your arms around each other, holding on with the strength only a super soldier and mutant like you could, deep sobs leaving Steve as he cried into your shoulder, a shaky “daddy, daddy, daddy” leaving him as he tried to get as close to you as possible, like you were gonna disappear if he let go.

His hair was soft between your fingers as you ran your hand through it, kissing him deeper than any kiss in the past had ever allowed, letting him suck desperately on your tongue as he seemed to grow restless, his hands finding their way up under your jacket and into your shirt, rubbing at your hairy scarred torso.

You guys didn’t even make it to the bedroom, or even the couch, clothes pulled off or even ripped with little care as you tumbled to the floor with a thud, Steves noises as high and whiny as you remembered him all those years ago. A deep part of you felt desperate for his touch, you thought you had lost him forever but now here he was, healthy and bright as the day you lost him.

Steve almost looked like he was gonna start crying again when he saw the necklace around your neck, still carrying the ring you had saved all those years ago. A warbled “daddy” was drawn out of him as he kissed the spot on your chest the ring rested on as he clambered on top of you.

After all these years he could finally have you inside him, and it was all you both had waited for as he rode you, as inexperienced he his kissing had once been, but neither of you seemed to care as you just gripped his hips to lead him. You were over 200 years old, but never in all your years had you seen something as beautiful as Steve on the woes of pleasure, moans and whines of pleasure, “daddy” being repeated almost like a prayer.

Even as he came Steve didn’t seem to want to stop, and your mutant genes and his super soldier serum allowed you to keep going for multiple rounds, giving your boy all that he had missed during the years he hadn’t been able to take you because of his health, hands grasping, and lips locked in passion that the future finally seemed to allow.

It took a while, but you got the two of you dragged to his bedroom and onto his bed, holding your boy close as he sighed a soft “daddy” against your neck as he clutched onto you like he still didn’t dare to believe that you were truly there. You guys would have to talk about it all at some point, some time soon, but right now all that mattered was holding your boy, and all that mattered for Steve was being held by you, his daddy.

[westeroslive]

𝘈𝘙𝘊  𝘐𝘐,  𝖶𝖠𝖱  𝖥𝖮𝖱  𝖳𝖧𝖤  𝖣𝖠𝖶𝖭  :  𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝘄𝗼.

the  hour  of  the  wolf  has  passed,  darkest  shades  of  the  night  stain  paler  as  the  city  still  sleeps  peacefully  beneath  luminous  moon  —  only  servants  and  common  folk  have  halted  slumber  for  duty.  the  torches  in  the  tower  of  the  hand  flicker  ever  so  often,  never  dimming  as  the  small  council  members  appear  to  be  the  only  nobles  still  awake  in  the  red  keep  ⸻  obsequiously  serving  her  majesty.  hour  upon  hour  filled  with  discussion  -  to  elect  their  new  leader,  the  next  hand  of  the  queen  ...  but  who  is  worthy  of  such  prestigious  position  ⸺  there  is  no  unanimity,  midnight  exists  of  strained  colloquy  and  biting  emphasis  on  covert  self  -  interest  disguised  as  wishes  of  the  realm's  greater  good.  it's  a  tale  as  old  as  time,  from  the  day  aegon  conquered  the  kingdoms  until  the  end  of  the  targaryen  dynasty  -  one  only  has  own  interests  at  heart.  strong  currents  pick  up  across  blackwater  bay,  mighty  winds  roar  harshly  above  the  waters  as  it  nears  the  city  ⸺  a  storm  in  spring  brings  unrest,  a  bad  omen  for  the  rest  of  the  year.  if  only  the  council  members  could  pick  up  the  faint  sounds  growing  louder  with  each  passing  minute,  their  voices  drowning  out  the  tempest.

reunion  between  siblings  -  unexpected  yet  with  bare  bones  of  recent  events  carried  over,  message  shared  changes  the  course  of  diplomacy  between  two  kingdoms.  letter  by  raven  revealed  new  development,  crimson  -  hued  flames  grazed  city  -  states  of  the  empire  as  damage  was  done  by  breath  of  dragon,  not  a  final  kiss  of  death  but  wounded  by  fearsome  attacks.  all  politeness  and  rigidity  in  statecraft  gone  as  the  emperor  only  has  one  goal:  sail  back  to  essos  and  unite  his  lands  during  these  dire  times  of  war,  he  must  go  back  to  pentoshi  soil  and  lead  the  empire  from  his  seat  in  imperial  castle  -  to  be  a  united  front  against  the  enemy.  dagareon  royals  leave  the  quarters  as  servants  are  dispatched  to  gather  all  essosi  nobility,  they  must  set  sail  quickly.  freshly  -  lit  fire  warms  the  room  with  sullen  orange  glow  as  dawn  slowly  paints  the  outside  sky  in  lighter  tints  of  deep  blue,  the  emperor  stands  tall  in  the  midst  of  his  people  -  dragon  mosaic  in  black  and  red  underneath  his  feet.  they  will  overcome  the  challenge  of  the  three  -  headed  dragon,  victory  shall  taste  bitter  iron.  in  all  his  glory,  he  commands  the  essosi  to  leave  the  soil  of  king's  landing  in  exchange  for  the  lands  of  their  upbringing.  it  becomes  a  clandestine  mission,  operation  incomplete  as  not  all  enter  the  ship  on  time  -  some  will  forcefully  stay  behind  in  the  capital.  in  safety  according  to  the  emperor's  brother  -  danger  has  not  reached  the  shores  of  westeros  and  even  if  they  would,  they  are  weaponed  against  the  worst.  a  dance  of  dragons  will  protect  their  own  nobility  and  leave  the  targaryens  vulnerable,  creating  a  power  vacuum  ⸺  for  the  best,  for  the  greater  good  of  the  empire.  heartfelt  letters  written  by  quick  brushstrokes  explain  the  path  chosen  as  they  are  scattered  amongst  the  quarters  of  the  essosi,  their  kin  leaving  on  the  ship  cloaked  in  the  dark  as  dawn  begins  to  break  -  like  fugitives  they  leave  and  tear  apart  diplomatic  relations.  too  caught  up  in  everything  to  notice  the  faint  lights  on  blackwater  bay  as  they  go  deeper  into  the  narrow  sea  facing  the  heavy  gusts  of  wind  in  the  storm.  the  rumble  of  thunder  is  deafening  as  it  intertwines  with  dragon  roars  ⸻  their  loved  ones  safer  in  king's  landing  than  the  damaged  lands  of  essos,  to  be  brought  back  when  all  turmoil  has  been  eradicated.

gusting  winds  have  picked  up  above  the  waters,  thunderous  claps  of  dragon  wings  flying  low  near  the  waves  -  limbs  with  sharp  claws  touching  traitorous  sea  ⸻  it  starts  all  over  again,  at  the  mouth  of  the  blackwater  rush  with  three  dragons,  as  they  conquer.  magic  is  strongest  with  dragons  around,  long  fruitful  summers  with  short  winters  lightly  dusted  by  snow.  it  is  not  any  different  now,  something  in  the  air  shifts  -  thickly  coated  with  prophecies  and  the  fiery  iron  taste  of  fire  and  blood.  loud  roars  fill  the  empyrean  atmosphere  -  familiar  cries  of  dragons  that  do  not  wake  commonfolk,  but  to  the  trained  ear  it  is  foreign  ⸺  not  the  dragons  housed  in  the  pit.  finally,  the  three  dragons  in  shades  of  black,  silver  and  copper  fly  over  the  city  -  wings  large  enough  to  bring  entire  city  in  darkness  of  the  night  yet  again.  loud  uproar  shocks  the  castle  dragons  that  remain  unclaimed  ⸺  apprehension  of  the  unknown  causes  their  panic  as  limbs  push  them  away  from  the  dragonpit  toward  the  dome,  breaking  free  as  they  leave  their  home.  wings  carry  them  across  the  skies  toward  safety  -  castamere  and  dragonstone  within  their  reach  if  they're  fast  enough.  king's  landing  knights,  gold  cloaks  of  the  east  barracks,  watch  the  escape  of  dragons  with  mouths  wide  open  -  rare  phenomenon  before  they  are  brought  back  into  reality.  the  word  spreads  across  the  city  that  all  must  stay  inside  -  enough  warning  of  their  fellow  lowborn  as  they  run  toward  the  nearest  outpost  of  the  red  keep. 

                                                                                 ⸻  ring  the  bell.

the  bond  between  a  dragon  and  their  rider  strong,  together  against  the  world  even  when  all  odds  are  not  in  their  favor  ⸺  no  one  to  stand  in  between,  till  death  do  them  part.  the  dragonriders  wake  up  drenched  in  sweat  as  they  sense  the  fear  instilled  in  their  dragon  —  it  was  clear  that  something  was  wrong.  but  what  was  it  ?  heart  pounding  fast,  the  blood  rushes  to  the  head  as  everything  around  becomes  dark  and  fuzzy  ⸺  too  many  sensations  all  at  once,  connection  with  dragon  overwhelming  as  the  world  spins  out  of  control.

the  city  begins  to  wake  up  under  pale  orange  and  grapefruit  tinted  heavens,  the  soft  epilogue  that  all  deserve  -  dreamscapes  painting  homes.  the  terror  of  the  nightfall,  haunted  by  the  heat  of  dragons,  reappears  in  the  heavens  as  three  dragons  enter  the  battle  scene.  gruesome  near  reincarnations  of  balerion  the  black  dread,  vhagar  and  meraxes  as  they  curse  king's  landing  into  absolute  darkness.  together  they  set  the  capital  ablaze  with  dragonflames  escaping  mouths,  not  as  powerful  as  the  fires  from  trueborn  grown  dragons  but  still  a  devastating  blow  ⸺  alleys  and  houses  burned  to  the  ground,  charred  to  coal.  their  sights  now  turned  to  red  keep  after  the  city  parallels  the  field  of  fire,  a  relic  from  aegon's  war  of  conquest  -  only  the  targaryen  reign  has  fallen  victim  now.

heat  of  licking  flames  scorches  the  royal  gardens  into  a  wasteland  of  ashes,  now  a  palace  of  bruised  flowers  -  unable  to  grow  in  tarnished  ground.  while  castle  dragons  have  escaped  dragonpit  before  it  becomes  their  mausoleum,  bonded  dragons  arrive  on  torched  down  territory  at  the  foot  of  the  red  keep.  dragons  are  fire  made  flesh  ⸻  immunity  against  fire  as  the  royal  dragons  wait  on  their  riders  -  cannot  be  separated  as  their  roaring  cries  warn  the  queen's  children  of  the  imminent  danger  they  are  in.

the  raging  inferno  is  strong  -  waft  of  smoke  fills  every  corner  of  the    castle,  every  breath  taken  corrupts  lungs  with  sulfur,  the  smell  intense  that  nobles  of  court  rouse  ⸻  realization  dawns  upon  them,  trapped  in  the  keep.  visibility  at  all  -  time  low,  last  vision  is  dark  soot  as  flesh  is  burning  with  the  heat.  it  is  impossible  to  escape  -  screams  of  anguish  and  tears  of  despair  only  weaken  bodies  before  they  succumb  to  eternal  sleep.  the  royal  palace  now  their  grave  if  only  they  knew  they  are  the  lucky  ones.  heat  becomes  stronger,  melting  the  structure  of  the  last  resting  place  of  many  -  large  blocks  of  pale  red  stone  fall  as  it  burns  down  to  rubble.  some  casualties  of  the  morning  are  caught  under  the  weight  of  the  walls,  suffocation  as  it  becomes  harder  to  respirate  -  gasping  for  air  as  they  try  to  survive,  but  deep  down  they  know,  their  cries  for  help  will  not  be  heard  ⸺  death  welcomes  them  as  the  sweltering  heat  of  dragonflames  no  longer  burns  skin.

the  outcries  of  the  three  serpentine  dragons  is  loud,  it  nearly  engulfs  the  connection  between  dragonrider  and  dragon.  however,  it  is  the  prince  commander  who  feels  the  pull  strongest,  he  gathers  his  siblings  as  he  analyzes  the  situation  ⸺  the  spare  of  the  spare  knows  what  must  be  done.  with  quick  words  and  a  natural  commandeering  presence,  the  youngest  princess, little viserra,  is  tasked  with  seeking  out  nobles  and  fly  them  out  to  dragonstone  toward  safety  while  prince  daeron  secures  the  red  keep  before  doing  the  same.  three  other  targaryen  royals,  with  dragons  made  for  the  task,  are  entrusted  with  defeating  the  foreign  reptiles  ⸺  and  so  prince  aelyx,  princess  daenaera,  and  prince  calyx  climb  into  their  saddle  and  prepare  for  war.  they  must  be  defeated  at  all  costs,  even  death  of  their  own.

imposing  and  fearsome,  prince  commander  makes  the  first  move  as  he  scares  the  holy  trinity  of  dragons  away  from  the  red  keep  ⸺  with  great  speed  tyraxes  challenges  them  toward  the  mouth  of  blackwater  rush,  far  away  from  the  commoners  and  the  fleeing  court  that  refuse  to  be  entombed  for  eternity  in  the  ashen  debris.  as  the  oldest  dragon  of  the  royal  children  scares  the  trio  away,  it  allows  zeokas,  calaellis  and  balerion  to  follow  and  each  claim  their  own  adversary.  it  becomes  a  battle  of  serpentine  creatures  -  a  dance  of  dragons  above  blackwater  bay  ⸺  a  century  old  tragedy,  as  they  burn  across  the  sky  with  claws  intertwined  and  biting  jaws  filled  with  sharp  teeth.  it  draws  the  danger  further  away  from  the  city  while  the  few  volantene  ships  watch  on  -  scions  of  old  blood  have  signed  the  death  warrant  of  the  targaryens,  all  is  well.  the  acrid  smoky  air  envelops  the  city,  bright  fires  near  the  gates  and  markets  while  the  royal  castle  is  swallowed  alive  by  the  dragonfire  coming  from  purgatory.  the  distressed  screams  of  westerosi  aristocracy  and  queen  rhaena's  welcomed  guests  will  be  the  key  melody  in  the  ballads  immortalizing  the  victory  of  volantis  and  the  true  valyrian  descendants.  the  perfect  backdrop  as  the  dragons  fight  high  in  the  skies  -  the  sunrise  matching  the  bloodshed  in  the  capital,  the  sea  of  flames  as  times  of  peace  are  officially  over.  it  is  with  grotesque  surprise  that  the  essosi  delegation  realizes  what  fate  they  narrowly  escaped  -  the  images  engraved  into  psyche.  but  bombshell  only  builds  on  as  they  realize  some  of  their  loved  ones  are  still  in  the  city  -  sleeping  peacefully  in  their  quarters,  their  deaths  imminent.  inconsolable  grief  finds  roots  on  the  ship  but  there  is  no  turning  back  ... 

                          one  can  only  go  forward  and  pray  to  their  gods.

through  speed  and  endurance,  tyraxes  and  iridessa  bring  most  nobles  to  safety  ⸺  a  reconnaissance  mission  happens  to  find  the  missing  aristocrats  but  a  mournful  aura  paints  the  castle  of  dragonstone  in  even  more  somber  colors,  unremovable  mist  of  gloom.  the  entirety  of  the  small  council  gathered  at  the  highest  floor  of  the  stone  drum  with  eyes  on  the  carved  map  of  westeros  -  dreams  of  revenge  ...  and  for  once  the  queen  shall  agree  without  help  of  her  precious  hand,  there  is  no  more  liege  hand.  but  how  does  one  rage  war  against  an  invisible  enemy  ⸺  what  is  a  noble  to  a  dragon.  nothing.  the  queensguard  protects  her  majesty  as  she  overlooks  the  battle  happening  over  blackway  bay  ⸺  three  of  her  blood  risking  their  life  -  she  may  lose  another  one,  grief  that  nearly  killed  her  last  time.  is  this  another  punishment  from  the  gods  ?

the crown  prince  seeks  out  frantically  for  the  dagareon  royals  in  the  hallways  of  his  own  keep  -  impulsive  decision  made  as  he  flies  away  from  the  sanctuary  that  is  dragonstone  to  the  tomb  of  king's  landing.  his  duty  forsaken  to  find  more  survivors  but  the  palace  is  nothing  more  than  a  pile  of  ashes  and  melted  stones  -  harrenhal  was  nothing  compared  to  this  ravage  -  the  targaryen  ancestral  castle  no  longer  stands  tall,  brought  to  the  ruins  by  dragons  similar  to  their  ancestors.  dragons  do  not  burn,  but  he  weeps  at  the  fallen  nobles  in  the  midst  of  the  cinders  ⸻  too  many  faces  he  recognizes.  purple  gaze  is  drawn  to  the  body  of  a  sibling  of  the  ruling  lord  stark  -  figure  bloodied  and  bruised,  halo  of  crimson  surrounding  head  as  fire  still  licks  at  the  stones  around.  he  pulls  the  noble  away  from  the  slowly  -  dimming  flames  and  continues  the  quest.  near  the  gardens  the  ground  is  scorched  and  the  sulfur  scent  is  strong,  another  member  of  a  great  house  fallen,  this  time  a  young  rose  plucked  away  from  highgarden  too  soon  ⸺  young  with  a  future  ahead.  the  path  ahead  is  dark  -  howls  of  highborn  in  pain  are  everywhere  and  nowhere  at  once,  it  never  stops  like  they  are  in  the  walls  and  beneath  his  feet.  the  dragons  roar  on  -  rumbling  and  loud  enough  to  shake  king's  landing  to  the  core  with  ground  moving  and  stones  falling  all  around.  he  sees  the  first  sword  of  braavos  in  the  distance,  pushing  against  heavy  structure  to  save  the  lives  -  and  yet  another  loud  cry  from  the  reptiles  causes  rocks  to  topple  down  on  top  of  him.  hard,  painful  and  heavy  enough  to  break  through  the  ground  straight  into  the  secret  tunnels  ⸻  the  sword  joins  the  ones  he  tried  to  save  in  death.  finally,  eyes  meet  the  dead  stare  of  the  imperial  crown  prince,  nighttime  robes  kissed  by  dragon  fire  with  valyrian  steel  sword  melted  to  his  hand.  foolishly  brave  to  fight  the  dragons  on  his  own,  a  noble  mission  that  became  his  death  as  flames  scorched  his  flesh  -  swallowing  him  alive  in  heat,  but  it  is  the  fall  from  great  height  that  was  his  end.  perhaps  the  enemy  did  not  win  when  it  came  to  prince  kusa,  the  final  blow  not  serpentine  blazes  but  a  freefall  from  the  highest  tower  with  broken  neck  and  eyes  wide  open.

the  confrontation  between  dragons  rages  on  above  the  waves  of  the  bay,  dragonlords  holding  onto  tightly  to  their  reins  as  they  steer  toward  fatal  clashes.  with  careful  glances,  prince  calyx  notices  the  barely  -  there  lights  on  the  water  as  he  redirects  balerion  toward  the  volantene  ships  watching  the  burning  city  ⸻  oh  how  they  go  up  in  flames  with  practiced  ease,  what  a  tragedy.  calaellis  and  princess  daenaera  go  after  the  smallest  dragon  of  the  enemy,  brutally  strong  jaw  biting  into  other's  neck  until  their  limbs  no  longer  move  ⸺  after  a  long  battle  the  copper  dragon  is  no  more,  crashing  into  the  water  to  have  a  sealord's  funeral.  the  shyest  royal  of  them  all,  the  prince  of  summerhall,  with  zeokas  made  for  combat,  fights  the  two  largest  dragons  at  once.  narrowly  avoiding  death  until  the  claws  of  the  silver  dragon  and  his  own  copper  intertwine  into  a  tango  ⸻  allowing  the  black  dread  to  escape.  a  slight  turn  of  his  head  to  find  the  black  monster  again  -  easily  found,  but  then  he  watches  him  dive.  with  horror,  prince  aelyx  watches  the  balerion  -  reincarnate  bite  maegor  in  half  as  his  brother,  prince  rhaeys,  sits  on  top  of  the  crimson  reptile.  and  like  magic,  onyx  serpent  disappears  into  thin  air  ⸻  like  he  never  existed  before,  gone  with  the  wind.  nonetheless,  there  was  an  operation  to  be  fulfilled,  he  was  not  going  to  abandon  the  ship  and  together  with  calyx  and  his  beloved  balerion  -  the  two  siblings  defeat  the  silver  moonlight  beast.

𝘈𝘙𝘊  𝘐𝘐,  𝖶𝖠𝖱  𝖥𝖮𝖱  𝖳𝖧𝖤  𝖣𝖠𝖶𝖭  :  𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿.

and  with  this  final  part  of  the  plot  drop  we  conclude  our  time  in  king's  landing  and  move  toward  a  new  location  as  constructions  are  underway  in  the  capital.  as  soon  as  the  three  dragons  were  defeated,  court  was  allowed  to  go  back  home  -  since  then  three  months  have  passed,  making  it  currently  mid  to  late  summer.

the  ruling  lord  tyrell  has  opened  the  doors  of  highgarden  and  welcomes  court  inside  his  home  ⸺  some  may  wonder  if  it  is  a  bid  to  push  his  heir  as  hand  of  the  queen  since  the  spot  is  yet  to  be  filled.  her  majesty  has  accepted  this  arrangement  to  push  forward  the  betrothal  proceedings  between  her  second  -  born  and  the  lady  tyrell.

there  is  no  immediate  celebration  upon  the  arrival  of  the  guests,  so  threads  may  be  written  in  and  around  the  grounds  since  is  the  first  time  court  meets  again  after  three  months  filled  with  raven  -  sent  letters  and  mourning  of  the  deceased.

after  the  events  in  king's  landing,  with  the  fresh  realization  that  a  strong  alliance  with  the  dragonlords  is  of  utmost  importance,  the  emperor  has  decided  to  send  a  small  delegation  of  essosi  nobles  to  westeros  as  ambassadors  -  official  envoys  of  the  essosi  empire.  therefore,  all  existing  essosi  muses  will  be  diplomats  for  the  kingdom  while  the  open  positions  are  back  in  their  respective  lands  unless  they  are  deceased.

if  our  current  members  wish  to  drop  any  muses  and  pick  up  new  ones,  you  are  welcomed  to  create  a  ticket  in  the  server  for  easy  back  -  and  -  forths.

we will be posting the full list of the deceased as soon as we have most of the character drops confirmed in the server.

moreover,  members  have  until the next activity check  to  post  at  least  once  in  -  character  on  all  their  muses.  there  is  an  exception  for  members  on  hiatus,  for  those,  we  kindly  request  to  confirm  if  you  wish  to  stay  with  us  within  48  hours  and  with  which  muses.

there  is  a  lot  of  information  in  the  plot  drop,  so  please  ask  us  any  questions  you  may  have  in  the  server  or  on  the  main  -  we  will  happily  clarify  the  situation.

[guilty-pleasures21]

After watching Tombstone, I can't help but wonder what Dara or Ali (both if you're up to it) would think of a reader who's like Doc Holiday.

Sick as a dog at a CONSTANT but remains hella strong and fierce in combat. Dies sometimes, but always comes back, and is always ready for a fight. Like- lemme grab short scenes

https://youtube.com/shorts/9tjNYAQLhM0?si=xwbCP5qaXK4V1nMb

https://youtube.com/shorts/c0zP2QRXkrg?si=qTKrMlQkuUdfkld-

https://youtube.com/shorts/bEymttt_6T4?si=pj7eV9JQHPmim86q

What makes it better is that Doc beat everyone's ass.

Hey hey! So nice to hear from you again @queen-shiba ! 🥰

I watched the clips and OH MY GOD I LOVE this guy!!! He's so cool, I think I might just watch the movie myself!

I did my best to try emulate his character in the form of a female reader and I really hope it works, but I'm always happy to try again if you're not happy with it!

Also, I'm going to split what I've written into two parts, a) so it isn't too long and b) because I added some smut (with my love Dara, of course 🥺) and I'm not sure if you want that, so I'm separating it into a part 2 just in case you don't want to read it (if you do though, just let me know and I can tag you when I release it 😊).

The end of this town

Part 1

Part 2

Warnings: depictions of violence

----------------------------------------------------------

Ali followed behind Dara as he led X into the tavern. He still couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed, especially when he glanced over at X and saw the way she stumbled over to the table Dara had found. Ali took the seat across from them, his curious gaze still trained on X as she slumped over the table tiredly.

“Delam?" (My heart?) Dara bent over to catch X’s eye after ordering them some food and drinks - she needed to get her energy back after all the magic she’d just spent on helping them escape. “The food will be here in a bit. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.” Ali leaned over the table, eyes wide with disbelief.

“She’ll be all right?!” he repeated incredulously. “What about the entire village she almost decimated?!”

They’d chanced upon a quaint settlement whilst on their way to find X’s mother - the great Banu Manizeh. Of course, Ali had made his objections to the quest, his first priority being to return to the city he’d been exiled from by his own father - it was still better than chasing after a ghost, after all. But Dara had simply left him with the choice to join them or stay behind and starve to death in the desert - a choice that hadn’t really been a choice at all, Ali had grumbled quietly as he’d jumped onto the horse X had left for him. They’d reached the village soon after - a reasonably sized oasis with food and water and a proper bed on which they could rest their aching muscles. But then someone had recognised Ali and the entire population had grabbed whatever weapons they could find so they could kill him and get the reward money. Dara had tried to fend them off for long enough that Ali could take X and make an escape, but they’d found themselves in a dead end - trapped by a solid brick wall on one side and a crowd of frenzied villagers on the other. Ali had recited a prayer as he’d raised his zulfiqar, ready to go down defending his honour, when suddenly, the entire mob flew backwards like a gust of wind had blown them off their feet. Those of them who hadn’t been knocked unconscious by smashing their skulls into the surrounding buildings had curled up in pain, bloodcurdling shrieks clawing their way up their throats along with the blood that oozed out of their mouths and nose. Ali had turned to grab X and seize the opportunity to make their escape, but she hadn’t seemed present anymore. He still remembered the cruel twist of her lips and the dangerous glint in her eyes, like something truly wicked had taken over her. Ali had watched in stunned silence as she’d taken a step forward, the sickening crunch of bones breaking following after her as she'd swept past the villagers. She was doing it, he’d realised with horror; she was using her healing powers to reach into their bodies and twist around their insides however she liked. The thought had made him sick to his stomach. Thankfully, Dara had quickly reappeared and bundled X up in his arms, his emerald eyes glowing with concern as he’d brought her out of her trance. X had returned to herself soon after, then collapsed against Dara, leaning on him for support. And that was how they’d ended up here: surrounded by a roomful of vagrants who at any moment do something to set X off. How had he landed himself in this situation again?

“I’ll go get us some rooms for the night,” Ali decided, pushing himself off of his seat. Dara shot up immediately, his thick brows twisted into a frown as he stared Ali down.

“Maybe if you’d kept your headscarf on, you marids-cursed sandfly,” Dara growled at him in anger, “we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we?!” Right. As always, everything bad that ever happened was his fault. Great. Dara ignored the tightening of Ali’s jaw as their waitress returned to set their food down on the table, his attention focused entirely on guiding small spoonfuls of food into X’s mouth. X sighed wearily and took the spoon from Dara to begin feeding herself. But Ali saw the way she continued to sneak glances at him, her full lips curling at the ends every time she saw the concern etched onto his features. His heart cracked at the sight.

“You will stay here and keep yourself hidden,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll go book the rooms.” He looked down at X then, already smiling up at him sweetly, and his expression softened. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, then trailed his fingers down the side of her cheek.

“Make sure you finish everything, jaaneman,” (my soul) he told her softly, his voice gentler than Ali had ever heard it before. X rolled her eyes affectionately, then turned to gesture to the numerous platters spread out across the table.

“You practically ordered me the entire tavern, jaane delam!” (the life of my heart) she exclaimed, her snickers quickly turning into weak coughs. Dara grabbed a glass of water and lifted it to her lips to get her to drink. She obliged, then grinned again when he’d set it back down. “I’ll explode if I try to finish all of it! Here, have some, Ali. You haven’t eaten anything either.”

Ali looked to Dara for permission - not that he needed his permission for anything - and found the warrior’s green eyes boring into him threateningly. X sighed again and nudged Dara with her shoulder, forcing him to look at her and see the frown on her face. Dara clenched his jaw, but silently relented, turning around to go get them some rooms. X pushed one of the plates over to Ali once Dara’s back was turned and he cautiously accepted it.

“So,” Ali cleared his throat once the silence around them had become too awkward to bear. “Are you all right? After … everything?” X shrugged and continued munching on the rice and vegetables laid before her.

“I’ll be fine,” she dismissed him nonchalantly. “Magic follows emotions, right? And I have pretty powerful emotions.” She tried to give him a mischievous smirk, but the effort required to raise her head seemed too much at that point, so she continued to remain slumped over the table as she ate her food.

Right. Was that why she seemed so tired all the time? Because her magic was so powerful that it drained her whenever she tried to use it? But she hadn’t seemed to be as sickly when he first met her - she’d probably been holding back then; hiding the true extent of her power so his father wouldn’t deem her too dangerous to keep around. Ali startled as a metal cup slammed down on the table in front of him and he looked up to find a grizzled, middle-aged man taking the seat beside X.

“You must have been working hard today to work up such an appetite, princess,” he murmured, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Think you can ‘squeeze in’ one more customer tonight?” The man glanced over at the table behind them to exchange delighted snickers with his friends.

“Leave her alone!” Ali demanded, leaping to his feet and holding a hand out in warning. He rested his other palm on his zulfiqar, wanting to draw it instinctively, but knowing it would be dangerous to reveal himself here. The man eyed him up and down, then let out a disgusted snort.

“Mind your own business, crocodile,” the man insulted him before returning his lecherous gaze to X. He raised a hand to her head, meaning to reach out and twirl a strand of her hair between his sticky fingers, but she stopped him immediately.

“Don’t touch me,” X told him, her soft voice so at odds with the vice-like grip she had on his forearm. The man sputtered in shock as he tried to free himself from her grasp and X let go of him to continue eating her food. The man rubbed his wrist as he stood up, his eyes still wide with surprise. Then his expression hardened.

“You insolent whore!” he screamed, raising his hand to smack her with it. “I should- AHHHHHH!” He shrieked in pain and crumpled to the ground as he felt his blood pounding against his own skin, fighting to break free. Every face in the tavern spun around to face them at the commotion and Ali felt his heart start hammering in his chest with the fear of being discovered. He had to stop her before she gave them away! Or hurt someone! Or hurt everyone!

“Did you not have a mother or was she too busy crying over your cheating alcoholic scumbag of a father to teach you any manners?” X asked, pushing herself to her feet. Her tone was lazy, her movements slow and exhausted, but Ali saw that same terrifying gleam in her eyes as she looked down at the man.

“How dare you!” one of the man’s friends exclaimed as he shot to his feet. He swayed as he marched over to X, clearly inebriated, but delusional enough to think that he could take her in a fight. X sighed and placed a hand on his chest when he approached her, stopping him easily. Then she grabbed onto his shoulders and pulled him down as she raised her knee to slam it into his stomach. The man gasped, then began wheezing for breath as he sank to his knees beside his friend, still bleeding out of his nose on the ground.

“Anybody else want me to ‘squeeze them in’?” X asked, spreading her arms and spinning around to give the rest of the tavern a questioning look. “I’m feeling generous tonight, so I’ll even offer you a two for one special if you’re interested!” She let out a snicker, then stopped to cough again, the movement causing her to bend over so she could catch her breath. Ali took the chance to rush over to her side and lead her back to her seat so she wouldn’t cause any more of a ruckus than she already had. Ey khuda (oh God), did that goddamned Afshin have to teach her how to fight? When she was already so dangerous?! Ali held onto X’s arm as she lowered herself to the seat, but then he almost fell over when a fist struck the side of his head.

“Wha-” Ali turned around, dazed, and was met with the two other members of the man’s entourage. Was this never going to end?!

“Y-You … f-freaks!” One of the men wagged a finger in his face, his words slurred from all the alcohol in his system. He swung a fist at Ali but he caught it easily, holding the man in place.

“Sir, trust me, you don’t want to do this,” Ali warned him, more concerned about the drunk man than about the young woman happily munching on her food behind him.

“Sh-Sh-Shut up!” The other man yelled at Ali before smashing his glass down on the table. Then he held the jagged edges out before him, waving them around wildly as he tried to focus on his target. “Get out of the way, s-s-sandfly! We want that b*tch, not you.”

Ali winced at his words, knowing that it had been the wrong thing to say. X pushed herself up and turned to face the men, her lips pressed tight with anger. She grabbed the wrist of the man holding the broken glass and tugged him towards her with more force than she looked capable of wielding right then. She glanced at the man's companions, still curled up helplessly on the ground, then pulled her gaze back up to her current target.

“Why is it that the most unintelligent of men are always the loudest?” she asked, not bothering to wait for a response before punching the man square in the throat. He dropped his glass to clutch at his throat and staggered backwards as he desperately gasped for air. The last man standing howled with fury before charging at X, but she just bent over and calmly picked up the broken glass lying on the floor. The man tripped over her hunched form, flying across the room and landing on the table he'd previously been sitting at.

“Wha-” He appeared disoriented for a few seconds, but then shook himself out of his daze and ran at X again. She held the glass in front of her as he approached, letting him ram his stomach right into the sharp edges. The man shrieked in horror as the blood began to trickle out of him, then he, too, was writhing around on the floor in agony. X smiled at the sight, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, then she lowered herself to her knees.

She was insane, she was actually insane! Forget about Ali accidentally giving away his identity and putting them all into danger, X might actually just get them all killed sometime soon! Ali knelt down beside X and shook her shoulder, trying to get her to abandon the man whose chest she'd placed her palms upon.

“X,” he hissed at her, his gaze flickering around the tavern discreetly to take in the aghast faces of the people around them. “X, get up. We have to go!”

X didn't listen, choosing instead to stay in position and continue healing the men she'd broken. She hadn't injured them that badly - it only seemed worse because they'd probably already downed half of the tavern's monthly supply of alcohol by the time she'd gotten there. But she'd sober them up now; fix their wounds and clear their minds so they'd know never to treat another woman with disrespect again. Honestly, the state of the world astounded her sometimes: how dare all these pathetic men beat and abuse the very beings who brought them to life, who nurtured them and gave them everything they could ever wish for. Dara would never treat her that way. Or allow anyone else to, for that matter.

She stood up, finally, and the men jumped to their feet at the same time. The four of them stared at X with a mixture of disgust and fear, then they began scrambling over each other to race out of the tavern.

“Finally!” One of the waitresses turned to grin at X, delighted by her show of bravery. Well, ‘foolishness’ was probably a more appropriate word for the situation, Ali thought to himself. “I thought we'd never get rid of the ‘furious four’!”

“‘Fumbling four’ is more like it,” one of the patrons added in jest.

“Or what about ‘frightened four’?” another suggested, waving his cup in the air in agreement. The crowd burst into laughter, all of them throwing their own coins into the pot, and Ali allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Maybe they really could be safe for one night; just one.

[melancholymirth]

@astarablaze // you know what we talked about...

Perhaps there was want in him: want greater than need, yearning greater than logical thought; his sense of self-preservation, pale beneath years of seclusion, smothering his heart, snuffing out all hope for change. As such, it was not hope that had him cast this circle of salt and sit well within it, but a desperation felt even in the marrow of his bones. He feared not the consequence of a rite gone wrong or his mind long gone, and so he threw almost all caution to the four winds in his sad pursuit of a simple human right. But the candles were lit, the oils applied, his athame to his right to carve a sealing sigil—or stab whatever ne'er-do-well that may have thought to come through after hearing his entreaty. Indeed, the room was blustering intangibly—no gusts nor sounds to speak of—with magic that was hot and violet at his fingertips.

There was want in him, roaring louder than any demon that had protestations for being summoned hither. To be a warlock who dabbled in the diabolical was a lifestyle fraught with peril and promised eternal damnation, but V supposed that to be damned in the hereafter would never compare to the damnation he served against himself in life. And maybe it had been too late, too little, too late, to try to escape this monotony, this prison he'd built slowly over the years. It was his heart more so than his body that was caged, and he wished it free: to fly and to sing like a bird in flight, and to bleed from the cherub's arrow.

Rather an infantile thought, but he could not blame the poets who molded his heart after theirs. Besides, it is against human nature to keep from one's own kind. Man seeks the company of his neighbor, thrives in it and benefits the other in so doing. For V, however, that may not ever be. Man was as wicked as he was nurturing, and often did this little black sheep feel the lash of abandonment, the fangs of villainy. Thus, he turned to the darkness and the devils therein, and sometimes there were ghosts in the fog he chose to entertain. Be that as it may, his apartment was good enough for tonight. On his tongue was a wish that was simple, uttered into the darkness surrounding from a hollow hunger, not the hope, for fulfillment. He wished simply for companionship, protection, love—basic human wants that were denied him for one reason or another.

It came down to the strength of will and the sorcery that sent it through the cosmos. And when he least expected a response, he felt it forming through a tear in the fabric before him. Strong and alive, hotter than the air round his fingers, but oppressive in a manner that alarmed the warlock into prying open his eyes. He did not count on an answer tonight, nor had he prepared himself to see a full, material form spill from the spatial tear onto his living room floor. It took his breath and snapped his concentration, but it seemed that he'd done all he had to. The magic began breaking up, the air around him cooled, and before his staring eyes was a thing disoriented, much after man in shape and visage, but growling, and...

His heart was drumming; he knew he'd done wrong, he remembered where his athame rested. He'd cast no summoning circle for a demon, and yet one had come! Had he really been at fault here, then, or had forces beyond his reckoning brought this upon him by their own designs? In any case, it fell to none other than V to deal with the door he'd opened, and to deal swiftly. He rose from the floor, ritual blade in his right hand while his left was a fist, and frowned at the uninvited. "Demon. I called not upon thee." Truly, the hardness of his voice belied the apprehension swirling within his bosom. He knew little, if nothing, of that with which he engaged. But he had defenses, if the need should arise for them, and the salt on the floor encircling him had to have been good for something.

[kata-sans]

The Tale of the Immortal Tweek

Part2

In South Park Elementary every kid has a thing. The thing as, everyone knows, is what people use to put a lable on someone. It's hard to believe but it's understandably true especially for the fourth grade students.

Tolkien for instance has more money than he knows what to do with. His lable, "The Rich Kid". Jimmy will never pass up an opportunity to crack a joke, labeling him "The Comedian". Even PC Principal is self evident.

Now some kids were known to have more than one lable and Tweek is a great example. His loud outbursts earned him his first lable of being a "Crazy Freak" among peers. He soon earned the title of being a "Trouble Maker" for his fighting skills. Above all he is most known for his "Gay Kid" label. Would it surprise anyone to know he was even labeled "Immortal" at one point?

Wait! How does someone earn a title like that? Well it's not like anyone in South Park is able to die and come back to life, right. Well luckily for Tweek, he didn't need to die to receive such a title. In fact it's an interesting story...

On an uneventful day in South Park, Kenny and his friends were at Stark Pond skating down the hills surrounding it. All the students had gathered at the pond to enjoy the break from school. After their third trip the boys were becoming bored until Cartman devized a plan to speed up the boards with fireworks. Despite Stan and Kyle's initial objection, soon for $2 Kenny was strapped to a rocket firework sitting on the skateboard. How does this relate to Tweek?

Well at the moment Tweek and his boyfriend Craig were walking hand in hand to join their freinds. Tweek was ranting about his newest concern about participating in boxing match.

"GAH! COACH SAYS I NEED TO START BOXING WITH REAL OPPONENTS BUT I CAN'T!! THAT'S TOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

"Tweek, honey, calm down. You have been boxing for three months. This was bond to come up sooner or later. Coach knows what he's doing."

"NO WAY MAN! ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN TO ME ON THE RING. WHAT IF I DIE ON THERE WITH ALL MY FRIENDS WATCHING."

"Babe it's not gonna kill you to practice boxing with another person.Besides, I think you need to start being more adventurous. You can't live life fearing "what ifs".

Suddenly something flew between them at high speed. The gust of wind knocked the boys down and caused Craig's hat to fly on to the street. Tweek noticed immediately and ran to retrieve it. Craig was horrified as he noticed a car speeding on the road.

"TWEEK!" Craig cried as he tripped while trying to stand up. His eyes shut in pain as his knees began to sting from the impact.

Everyone present shut their eyes to avoid witnessing the imminent tragedy. They heard the sickening sound a car hitting a body and continue without stopping.

Craig quickly gathered the strength to reach his boyfriend who was laying on the other side of the road. He quickly assumed the force of the car must have thrown him in that direction. Tweek would be massively injured and in need of assistance pronto. Craig was shocked as Tweek began to sit up before he could reach him. He frantically began to search him for injuries.

"t-tweek stop, you might... you're injured... don't move. Oh God! What hurts! Are you bleeding! Did you break something! Tweek! I-i..."

"CRAIG! I-i'm fine. It doesn't really hurt. H-honest."

Craig was shocked, and he wasn't the only one. Every kid in the vicinity had run towards the couple when they head the car impact a body. The sound had been so loud, everyone expected to see a bloody mess on the pavement.

"Honey...h-how are you...the car! Did the car hit you?"

"I...think so. MY EYES WERE CLOSED BUT I-I FELT A HIT. OH GOD! I-I'M ALIVE!!!"

The crowd of kids were bewildered by the news. Wild theories began to spew from different sides of the crowd. Strong bones? Time Travelers? Aliens? Even Clyde had a theory, and not being one to keep his mouth shut, proceeded to shout out loud, "Dude you must be immortal or something!"

His best friend's words alerted Craig to the increasing crowd. Not wanting to cause Tweek's nerves to worsen, he quickly began to disperse the nosy onlookers with a middle finger and a few threats to vacate the premises.

As the crowd left the two, Tweek's anxiety subsided enough to process Clyde's theory. Was it possible? Tweek had faced off against death and emerged victorious. Could Tweek really be immortal?

He didn't fuss when Craig pulled him up and started heading back home. Craig clutched Tweek close to his side and proceeded to lead them home. They walked in silence completely disregarding the mangled corpse of Kenny McCormick, which had landed on the top branch of a tall tree. Unbeknownst to anyone, he held a familiar blue chullo hat in his hand.

[the-twisted-tales-tavern]

Punishing Sex 1F: After failing to trick the guards outside the Malleus Key, Imogen finds herself at the mercy of a Reiloran Juggernaut who is all too eager to put the rogue exaltant Ruidisborn in her place…

~Spoilers for Campaign 3~

The harsh dust storm roared like a beast on the outside of the tent. Wild winds whipped at the thick canvas, sending dust and debris scattering across the rough ground through the barely fluttering opening. Every second it felt like one strong gust would be enough to rip the structure from the ground and send it sailing away—leaving the duo inside helpless against the raging elements…and on some level, she hoped it would.

At least then, her suffering could end.

The tent held fast, though, and so Imogen could do little more than gasp and pant for mercy as the powerful reiloran looming over her held her down against one of the abandoned cots. His enormous hands—made for crushing and breaking bone and sinew—were wrapped around her soft tanned thighs, folding her in a half-mating press and keeping her pinned as he thrust and bucked downward—every thrust echoed with a hard smack to her hips.

§Take it, you bitch~ take every last inch~!§

The reiloran juggernaut’s voice echoed through her mind in a deep and bassy growl, making the sorceress gasp and groan in return. As if she had much a choice in the matter—even if she tried to fight it, the alien warrior outclassed her both in strength and raw mental power. It wasn’t hard for him to sink every last inch of his behemoth cock into her—the massive member stretching her out like nothing else ever had, and grinding her walls into submission.

“P-please~” she whined, finding the strength to speak again. Her arms wrapped around herself, trying to hold herself together against the relentless assault—her large and plump breasts streaked with lightning scars bouncing lewdly with every thrust. “Please~ no more~ no mo-ohhh~”

Her pleas were cut off by a firm thrust downward, and she gasped as she felt one of the large skull-crushing hands drop to smack her across her tits and then wrap around her slender neck—holding her forcefully down against the bedroll. She shuddered, groaning as she felt his cock pierce her womb, shoved so hard and deep into the very core of her being—and her eyes locked with those dark all-black eyes of the reiloran that grinned so wickedly down at her.

§Oh, you poor little bitch~§ the juggernaut growled into her mind, and she shuddered as she felt him slowly drag his hips back, the ridges and bumps grinding away. §We haven’t even gotten started on your punishment yet~!§

[ohgodsalazarwhy]

lambskel almost freezing to death

One of the suggestions from kind anon.  Sorry I’m rusty but it felt good to write again.  I’ll probably do some of the other ones too.

--------------------

He was late.

He was fucking late because he was fucking greedy and needed just one more contract before heading North.  Lambert shielded himself with a held Quen but it wouldn’t be long before the blizzard overcame his sign.  He needed shelter and he needed to wait out this initial storm to finish his trip up to Kaer Morhen.  Geralt and Eskel were probably already there, drinking mulled wine and eating freshly baked bread while this blizzard pounded on the gates.

Those miserable sons of bitches.

Lambert grit his teeth, feeling blood trickle from his nose as he forced himself to continue holding Quen.  His signs had never been as strong as Eskel’s, or even Geralt’s, and it was taking everything he had to maintain even this measly barrier against the onslaught of snow and freezing wind.  Without it he would almost certainly die.  Lambert slogged through the deep snow bank, leaving the road and taking a chance on a cave he thought he remembered in the area.  It was his last chance.

His jaw hurt from clenching it, his mouth and chin were covered in blood as his nose continued to drip.  Lambert imagined Kaer Morhen.  He pictured Eskel laughing as he played cards, a wry smile stretching the scars on his face.  He pictured the hearth chasing away the merciless cold, the smell of food cooking in the kitchen.  Even Vesemir scolding him for some bullshit.  Lambert had never asked to be a witcher, and he’d swear up and down every day that he’d rather be dead than live this miserable life.

Yet he couldn’t give up, either.  One foot in front of another.  Each step more laborious than the next as Quen sucked up all his strength and left him trembling from exhaustion.  There was shelter ahead, he was sure of it, he just needed to reach it.  Eskel was at Kaer Morhen.  Eskel would give him a hard time for setting up the mountain so late, he’d say Lambert you moron you should have stayed away, spent the winter elsewhere.  But for all his bitching and moaning, Kaer Morhen was where Eskel was, so it was where Lambert always returned.

The wind howled like a wolf and the violent gust shattered Quen and sent Lambert crashing into the snow.  It almost immediately began to bury him, but the breaking of his sign had been the final blow.  He stared blearily up into the darkness, the snow almost hypnotizing.  No witcher ever died in his bed, but this wasn’t how Lambert had pictured himself dying.  So close to the only home he’d ever known.  So close they’d probably find his body as they returned to the Path in the Spring.

Fuck he wouldn’t wish that on them, but he was so tired he couldn’t bring himself to get up.  The cold was seeping into his bones, his armor growing wet and heavy.  The snow was so soft under him... his eyes drooped.  Lambert thought he heard a snort but the storm was so loud it was probably his imagination.  The last thing he felt before he gave up consciousness was something brushing his forehead and a soft whinny.

Cold.  So fucking cold it was like being stabbed with a thousand knives.  Lambert flinched away as he was grabbed and a familiar, deep, voice swore and said, “Hold still!”

“Eskel?” Lambert slurred it out, his lips felt frozen shut and when he tried to open his eyes he realized they were iced shut.  He shakily reached up to rub the ice away and saw Eskel leaning over him with a scowl.  

“What the hell, Lambert?”

“What the hell yourself!”  Lambert tried to sit up but his wet leathers were stiff and frozen and he struggled to fight against them.  Eskel didn’t let him, shoving him back into the dirt and angrily undoing belts and ties to start stripping him naked.  Lambert didn’t fight him, didn’t really have the energy.  He wiped at the tacky blood on his mouth and chin, smearing it into his beard and over his hand.  

“I wasn’t even going to go up the mountain until I saw your tracks!” Eskel said, when he was really furious he would lower his voice.  It made him sound like thunder in a summer storm.

“I thought you were already up there,” Lambert said defensively.  “And I didn’t know this fucking blizzard was rolling through.”

Eskel glared at him, tossing aside Lambert’s jacket.  “It’s too late in the season, you would have died if I hadn’t followed you.  You don’t even have a fucking horse!”

“Horse died, didn’t bother to get another one.”  Lambert felt a little nauseous, overusing his signs did that to him.  Being hungover without any of the fun.  Eskel got him naked and wrapped him up in a woolen saddle pad and only then did he leave Lambert’s side to pile up some dry wood stacked in the back of the cave and hit it with an Igni.  It flared up into a powerful fire in an instant.  In another lifetime perhaps Eskel would have been a sorcerer.

Lambert shivered and tried to snort congealed blood out of his nostrils.  Eskel’s horse was standing towards the back of the cave, tail swishing lazily.  They were in the middle, couldn’t be too far back with a fire and couldn’t be too far forward without freezing.  Snow was piled high at the front of the cave and they’d no doubt need to keep at least some part of the entrance dug out to prevent the smoke from the fire asphyxiating them.

Eskel was soaking wet as well, his expression stormy as he dug through his saddle bags, pulling out dried meat and fruit.  Lambert thought about asking if he had any booze but thought better of it.  Contrary to what they all thought, he did know when to keep his mouth shut.  He usually just chose not to.

“Can’t believe you,” Eskel was muttering under his breath, Lambert could hear him clear as day.  “Going up here this late.  You know better.”

“Oh shut up and take your clothes off before you freeze in them.”

Eskel curled his lip but Lambert was right and they both knew it.  He angrily stripped and stormed over to sit next to Lambert, dropping the food at his feet.  “Eat.” he said curtly.  “And keep your mouth shut.  I’m furious.”

Lambert unfolded the woolen saddle pad and it just barely covered both their shoulders as they were forced to huddle in close.  Eskel’s skin was cold where it met his but as the fire crackled and Lambert devoured the fruit and meat, he could feel himself, and Eskel, warming.  Only once he’d finished all the food did Lambert speak.

“The storm’ll clear, we’re passed the halfway point in the valley so we’ll be fine.”

The look Eskel gave him told Lambert that his seemingly diplomatic statement had somehow been the worst thing to say.  He preemptively bristled defensively, preparing for a blow out fight only for Eskel to deflate and look away.

“You were dying.  A few moments later and maybe...”

“...and maybe a dragon would have swooped down and carried me back to its lair.”

“I’m being serious,” Eskel snapped.

“So am I!” Lambert snarled, lips pulled back from his teeth which were stained red with his own blood.  “For fuckssake, Eskel! Pull yourself together!  Maybe this, maybe that, blah blah blah! I’m fucking fine because you followed me.”

“You’re such a piece of shit,” Eskel growled.  He dropped his head into his hands and gripped his hair tightly.  Lambert could tell he was one push away from starting a fight.

“You like that about me,” Lambert taunted, leaning in until his lips were brushing Eskel’s ear.  He slid one arm around Eskel’s waist, fingers trailing along a scar on his hip.

“No one likes that about you,” countered Eskel, turning his head so their noses brushed, foreheads pressed together.  “I should have left you in the snow.”

“But’cha didn’t.” He grinned and closed the distance, kissing Eskel just like he’d dreamed of doing since they’d parted ways last Spring.  Every year he fought to survive and it was because of this big bastard.  

Eskel groaned into the kiss and in a second Lambert was shoved down, the pad trapped beneath him as Eskel pinned him.  He was so fucking strong, even for a Witcher.  Lambert didn’t care that he felt like shit, didn’t care that he’d nearly died; he had Eskel’s naked body draped over him and that was all that mattered.  The kiss broke all too soon, and when Lambert tried to sit up for more a hand on his throat pinned him down.  Eskel’s expression was serious, only the slightest flush over his cheeks.  

“We’re only going to sleep.”

“To hell with that,” Lambert growled, sliding one leg up between Eskel’s thick thighs.  “I’ve waited all fucking year for you-” he grunted as he was rolled onto his stomach and pinned down by Eskel’s greater weight.

“You’re exhausted and so am I from following your dumbass up the mountain in a blizzard.”  Eskel leaned down and nuzzled gently against Lambert’s temple.  “Please,” he whispered.  Eskel wasn’t fighting fair.  Lambert had a hard time denying him when he got all vulnerable and honest and shit.

“Fine.” He huffed and turned his head to the side, looking at Eskel from the corner of his eye.  “Let me up, I’ll be a good boy.”

Eskel’s expression was wry as he pushed himself up just enough to let Lambert roll onto his back again.  He settled down against him, their warmth and the warmth of the fire chasing away the deadly chill.  Lambert shifted until he had his head pillowed on Eskel’s chest, listening to his slow heartbeat.  This was home to him.  He’d made it.  Survived another year despite himself.  He fell asleep to the sound of Eskel’s gentle breathing and steady heartbeat.

[sam-glade]

He Didn't Mean It

@flashfictionfridayofficial gave me an excuse to practice writing arguments, since most of the time my characters are too good at communicating.

Characters: Lissan, Gullin Setting: Sunblessed Realm WC: 570 CW: just some swearing

Please help me get these characters out of my head; I should be writing stuff with the TTT cast.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, he did!” Lissan snapped back before seeing the averted eyes and the tightening of the jaw. Gullin’s tone was also wrong - it wasn’t the raised, argumentative tone that Lissan had expected at this point. No, it was quieter, and pitched low with tension, not hostility. The realisation stopped him from further angry words. For now.

Gullin wasn’t replying though, and he wasn’t looking at Lissan. He probably searched for a way to escape the conversation. Tough, Lissan wasn’t going to let him slip away this easily.

“Okay, fine, he didn’t mean for his words to hurt you, but they still did,” he elaborated.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s fucking not!” Lissan shouted at the side of his face.

Finally Gullin looked at him, taken aback - by his tone or words, Lissan wasn’t sure. Maybe Lissan shouldn’t have shouted like this, but hell, nothing else was getting through to him. Gullin’s mouth opened then closed again. The wind picked up, cold and ragged. Go on, scream at me, Lissan wanted to say. Tell me what you really think. Gullin’s hands balled into fists; Lissan didn’t think that Gullin would punch him, but if he did, so be it.

Gullin looked away again. Damn it.

“You’ve known him for decades, so I thought fuck it, I should trust you two to work it out between yourselves. I’m now realising: no, that won’t happen. Because you’re an idiot!”

Gullin’s eyes flashed at the insult. Good.

“Lay off,” he warned in the tone of a senior officer expecting nothing but obedience.

“No.”

The wind was strong enough to make Lissan squint. He crossed his arms and faced Gullin straight on, keeping his shoulders squared. Gullin’s mouth twisted into a grimace.

“You’ve correctly observed that you’re butting in, and that this is between me and Ianim. So lay off.”

“But he keeps hurting you! Unintentionally. And I’m sure he’ll stop as soon as you tell him why. He’d want to. I mean, to stop and to learn that–” That what to Ianim sounded like utter misery was way more than Gullin could have dreamt of as a kid. That Ianim was so gratingly oblivious at times. “He’s the fucking Prince Successor! He shouldn’t be this oblivious, and you should stop enabling him!”

“No.” The gust of wind, laced with Gullin's energy, chilled Lissan to the bone. "Ianim believes that the world's beautiful. He'll look at the pitch-black sky and point out the one visible star, however dim. So you'll not say a word to him about this. You will let him be wrong. Do you understand?"

The wind pelted Lissan’s face with dust and grains of sand. The warning was about to become a threat. Lissan braced himself against it, but it was Gullin’s tone that made him pause. Elements, he’d meant every word, and Lissan didn’t dare to imagine how much it would break his heart, if Lissan went against his wishes.

“All right,” he conceded with a sigh. “I’ll agree on one condition.” Gullin glared. Lissan took the lack of protest as an agreement. “You can hide from him whatever you want, but you’ll always be honest with me.”

Gullin worked his jaw, still glaring. Lissan’s heart fell.

“Just… don’t lie to me?”

He waited with bated breath for a few more seconds. Gullin grabbed his wrist and shook it not at all gently.

“Deal.”

Days of Dusk taglist: @acertainmoshke

[icedwatersupremacy]

January 1905 Dear Carrie, I’m sure that by now you’ve heard of the nasty cases of pneumonia that have been going around. It doesn’t surprise me that something like this would happen, there’s been a right chill in the air all Winter, and a few days ago, it actually snowed. I don’t remember if I’ve ever seen snow here before! I’ve been feeling sorry for our village doctor, Calvin Mullins, who’s worked his fingers to the bone all season. Luckily, he’s been sent some doctors from London to help. Not so lucky that we needed extra doctors at all, but I’m sure Dr Mullins appreciates them.

I’m writing to you to tell you some frightful news regarding the outbreak. While it was affecting some people dreadfully, it hadn’t been deadly, until yesterday — I read it in the newspaper. She was the grocer’s mother, I believe. It’s no surprise; she’s over 80, and I think a gust of wind could’ve sent her to the grave. Still, I don’t think the young and strong are doing much better, I’ve heard the doctors are mostly visiting children. People were telling me I was stressed over nothing when I told Charlie to spend Christmas outside of Henford, but it seems my fears were right. He can afford to miss one Christmas so he doesn’t become ill, I believe.

Part of me was considering taking the rest of the family to a different village so we could certainly avoid the pneumonia. However, David and I decided against it, as we don’t have the money. Still, we’ve made some lifestyle changes to avoid the disease as much as possible. Everyone is barred from leaving the property unless they need to, in cases such as Arthur’s errands. The one exception is when I go into the village centre for the weekly newspaper, which isn’t necessary, but I feel it’s the best way to know whether it’s safe to loosen the restrictions. Arthur’s certainly had the most change to his routine, as he is no longer allowed to spend time with Beatrice. Matilda, on the other hand, has had barely any change to her regular schedule. This may be different when Winter break ends and she’s expected to return to school, but she’s content with reading. I’ve been encouraging her to try something new, but in vain.

In the midst of this crisis, the village has come together to help the sick. It’s common knowledge that some families have no means of income when an adult is sick, so we do what we can; we provide food, kindling, and anything else we don’t need to those who do. I personally bring some eggs and milk that David and I didn’t end up selling, but the other people involved have brought meat, bread, vegetables, and so much more. I’m sure that all these families are eating like kings, and it feels good knowing that I’ve helped feed many families in Henford.

I’ve also heard, although I can’t verify this, that the pneumonia has spread to some neighbouring villages. Nowhere near as serious as here, but I thought I should tell you, just so you know to take extra care. 

Yours sincerely, Laura

[erabundus]

❝  hmm?  ❞   there's  something  truly  exquisite  about  watching  the  realization  wash  over  him.  kunikuzushi  stops  walking  just  as  cyno  does  —  head  tilting,  inquisitive  hum  rumbling  in  his  throat,  eyes  glittering  with  undisguised  interest.  as  though  the  other's  shock  is  entirely  UNEXPECTED.  as  though  he  hadn't  just  casually  dropped  that  fascinating  little  scrap  of  information  like  a  trail  of  intentionally  placed  breadcrumbs.  briefly  he  debates  whether  he  should  remind  the  other  of  his  place.  the  general  mahamatra  is  lowlier  than  the  lowliest  vermin  of  all  —  he  is  worth  less  than  the  dirt  beneath  his  shoes  and  the  repulsive  worms  that  writhe  around  in  it.  yet  there  is  hardly  any  amusement  to  be  found  talking  in  endless  circles,  and  the  balladeer  would  much  rather  watch  what  new  flavors  of  horror  the  truth  might  be  able  to  produce  instead.  he'll  acquiesce,  just  this  once  —  no  theatrics.

❝  it's  hard  to  say.  to  be  honest ...  you're  practically  USELESS  right  now.  ❞   hand  waves;  gaze  sweeps  up  and  down,  as  if  to  draw  uncomfortable  attention  to  the  other's  appearance.  ❝  i  could  order  you  to  go  and  snuff  out  an  innocent  life,  ❞  a  sarcastic undertone  still  bleeds  into  the  words,  as  if  to  ridicule  the  pointless  cruelty  of  it  all,  ❝  just  to  make  you  suffer ...  but  you  would  probably  get  killed  yourself ...  assuming  you  even  make  it  that  far.  ❞  how  troublesome  —  and  he  thought  his  ordinary  subordinates  were  USELESS.  at  least  they  could  withstand  a  strong  gust  of  wind  without  coming  apart  at  the  surgically  made  seams.

❝  i  can  only  imagine  this  has  to  be  a  PUNISHMENT.  ❞   the  balladeer  continues  aloud.  he  doesn't  specify  who  it's  for  —  and  though  circumstances  might  lead  one  to  believe  he's  referring  to  the  human ...  it's  obvious  he's  actually  talking  about  himself.  tongue  clicking  in  annoyance,  lavender  gaze  flicks  away  only  for  a  moment  —  glaring  furious twin  holes  in  the  adjacent  wall.  ❝  the  doctor's  idea  of  a  sick  joke ...  or  maybe  it's  revenge,  for  all  bones  i've  broken.  ❞  it  was  just  one  leg.  it  could  have  been  worse  —  he  could  have  ripped  something  off  and  left  him  with  an  even  more  troublesome  issue  to  fix.  turning  back,  kunikuzushi  taps  his  chin  with  a  finger.  lips  curve  in  a  thoughtful  frown.  he  wonders  if  this  could also serve as  a  thinly-veiled  lesson  in  restraint  —  and  how  he  can  possibly  circumvent  it  without  BREAKING  the  rules  outright.

❝  guess  that  means  my  only  choice  is  to  build  you  back  up ...  so  i  have  something  to  RUIN  all  over  again.  ❞   is  the  conclusion  he  eventually  comes  to  —  childish  in  its  simplicity  and  cruelty,  yet  chilling  in  its  genuine  intent.

Each word and declaration stung like the crude lash of a whip into flayed muscle. His ' compliance ' was hardly compliance at all - all but a mere product of enforced control that stipulated his adherence to every word or order that came from anybody capable of utilizing the device that now conveniently adorned the space behind his right ear.

Cyno's expression only darkened exponentially as the Harbinger saw fit to turn and continue his tirade face to face. ABSURD as it was to compare - at the very least, the Doctor never saw fit to mock or TAUNT. In such a way was his cold pragmatism just as much a relief as it was unassailable cruelty.

Better to be a valued subject than a toy.

Still, there was a faded sense of elation in being allowed to walk ( unsteady and limited as he was in both gait and stride ), in being privy to the world beyond the walls of his cramped cell, of immersing himself in air that smelled of more than cold sterility and the LEADEN piquancy of his own blood.

"Your what." He stopped in his tracks. It would have been easy to dismiss the phrase and label, to chalk it up to yet another of the Balladeer's eccentricities as he chose to wield them in malice. But Cyno had been around for long enough to know not to dismiss anything so readily, lest he be faced with the unpleasant surprise of their manifestations in the not too distant future.

But there were an array of implications to dissect in that one statement alone. Firstly - whether the Balladeer TRULY retained some measure of his supervision, and secondly - whether he was to be allowed out of this god-forsaken facility, and all the grave inferences that might spring forth as a result.

"WHAT are you planning to do with me." It was less of a question and more of a flatly intoned statement. He knew that the answer could be nothing but insidious. "Spare me the THEATRICS."

[phoenixsbby]

All This Time - Hangman x WSO!reader

summary: the one (and only) time you fly with Hangman, your plane goes down and you’re forced to rely on each other for a lot more than moral support. 

WC: 4.2k

a/n: forced proximity, forced proximity, forced proximity.

warnings: slight mention of blood, swearing

If there was one thing said about you around North Island, it was that you rarely held animosity for others. You were a nice person. Sure, people managed to piss you off occasionally and you may have a quick temper but, holding grudges? It wasn’t really your style. That being said, you’re convinced it’ll take years if not centuries to forgive Lieutenant Jake Seresin for this. 

You’ve lost feeling in your toes, there’s warm blood trickling down from your nose, and your one ride out of enemy territory is a fiery ball of scrap miles away but, all you can think about in that moment is how good it was going to feel to finally punch this guy.

He deserves it, really. If he had just listened to your instruction, broke right instead of left, remained above 1000 feet, simply did anything you told him to do ... you’d both be back on the USS Voyager by now. But, you’re not. You’re on the side of a snowy mountain with popsicle feet and a bone to pick with Hangman. 

With your fists clenched tightly at your sides, you get close enough to make out his face and falter slightly. He looks concerned? Helmet long discarded, his forehead is wrinkled and his shoulders are hunched in. This is the first time you’d ever seen Hangman look so ... small. He would always carry himself with so much confidence, so much swagger, to make it seem like not even the biggest guy in the Navy could take him down.

But now, it’s like one strong gust of wind could come by and he’d topple over. And that in itself jars you enough to freeze you in your warpath and just stare. He must have caught sight of your movements or heard your crunchy footsteps because his head whips in your direction and his whole demeanor changes. He lets his head fall back and tilts his face up, muttering something to the sky before locking his gaze back on you.

Then he’s moving, quickly, with a determination you’ve seen from him so many times before. He’s getting closer, you open and close your fist a few times, mentally hyping yourself to take the swing. But before you can get the nerve, his arms are encasing you against him, so tightly it almost knocks the wind out of you and you have to let out an involuntary ‘oof’. 

What the hell is happening? Yeah, you’d crash landed in enemy territory, but the world was not ending. Your beacons would signal the ship your whereabouts and Search and Rescue would come (hopefully with warm ass blankets and a stiff drink) to grab you. The world was not ending.

So, why was Jake Seresin holding you like any second the ground beneath you would give way?

And why are you enjoying it?

He’s warm and solid and there. And for a split second, you succumb to the comfort of those facts. Just as quickly, your mind reverts back to the other facts. Hangman disobeyed orders and ignored your guidance; this is his fault.

So you push against his chest, hard. You break away from him with a huff and throw your hands up.

“Are you insane?” You bark at him, trying to catch his eyes as they roam over your figure.

“Are you hurt?” 

“I told you to fly away from the peaks and brace right! You did the exact opposite-“

“Are you hurt?” His tone is much firmer now, cutting you off and shutting you up instantly. He’s taken a step closer too and his eyes can’t seem to pick a place to rest, still scanning, scanning, scanning. 

“No! I’d say I’m fine, but I’m stuck on a mountain with you!” You can see the insult doesn’t even stick because his face goes slack again with a look of relief. “Explain yourself, Bagman. Because you said you’d be able to handle flying a two-seater. You said you could handle having a WSO in your back seat, yet ...” You break off, flailing your arms around to emphasize your predicament, you know, in case he forgot. 

“Okay, I get that you’re upset-“ you roll your eyes, “but, as the pilot, I saw the open opportunities in front of us. I had a window and if it wasn’t for that SAM Rooster missed with his flares-“

“That I told you how to avoid!”

“then we would have been fine.” He’s grinning and the urge to punch him is back and stronger than ever. It was risky, to allow Hangman to step into the box as a replacement for your usual front seater who had been sick for weeks. But, leadership was insistent that you, a heavily trained and highly accomplished WSO, needed to be on this mission. 

And Lieutenant Seresin rarely backed down from a challenge. 

You two had never gotten along, not really. There wasn’t an open hatred, or too many overly heated exchanges in your past. It came down to some small comments made here and there, some sharp insinuations that you weren’t as good or as valuable to the squadron. Or at least, that’s how you took it. 

Your history and lack luster personal connection with Hangman was all you needed to know to be sure that you two would not make a good team. One test flight, one mission simulation, and you’d both be grounded from the assignment. For the first time since you’d known him, Seresin proved you wrong. You ended up making good numbers during the sims, hitting the target more times than not and with a lower risk mission, that was all the Navy needed to green light the change and to seal your fate to his.

And fate had brought you here.

You wipe the blood from under your nose and avert your eyes from his figure before actually getting violent to survey your surroundings. There was nothing but snow and trees and your broken down parachutes. A ways away, you can see smoke rising, the sad result of the crash but a beacon of hope for potential radio communication.

“Well, Seresin, because you ever so gracefully did not avoid the SAM, we need to hike to the crash site and see if any part of the jet is recoverable.” You gather up the line and disconnect his parachute before starting up toward the jet.

“If we hike at a brisk pace to keep warm and conserve our energy by not talking, we’ll make it there in no time!” You say loudly over your shoulder, not waiting for your partner to catch up. 

You don’t even have to see his face to know there’s a grin on it, it’s dripping in his tone when he replies, “Yes ma’am.”

——

The jet is utterly destroyed, though you can’t say you’re surprised. The radio is far too gone for any chance at sending out a message so, you have to assume the beacons on your suits will provide enough of an exact location for a helicopter drop. 

The dwindling twilight from the sun setting is outlining the peaks of the mountains surrounding you, casting your figures and the tundra in an indigo glow. Complete darkness is enviable and with darkness comes the cold.

You and Hangman had been trained on this throughout your careers, basic survival strategies. Both of you agreed that even though Search and Rescue would come, they would take a bit and freezing temperatures plus wet clothing can be a lethal combo, even for a short period of time. So, you scoured the land and the trees before collecting and creating the most pathetic fire a couple of US Naval Lieutenants could manage.

But a fire was a fire and you almost bent over to lay one right on Jake when he finally got the flame to catch. The sudden desire to kiss Hangman was almost as unsettling as the whole concept of being stranded in enemy territory. Almost more unsettling was the fact that you couldn’t say it was the first time the desire had come over you ... that didn’t make it any less unsettling every time it occurred though.

Just like all the other times, you averted any and all eye contact with him and shoved the thought away deeply in the back of your brain. Just like it never happened.

Sitting across from him now, both huddling dangerously close to the open flame, it’s almost impossible to not look at him. You manage to avoid it until he opens his mouth, of course.

“Is your nose okay?”

“What?”

“Your, uh, nose?” He shifts, raising his hand to wipe under his own nose. “It was bleeding earlier.” 

“Oh.” You self-consciously raise your hand to your nose and feel nothing fresh. Then you blanch because you’d forgotten about that situation. You’d forgotten about pretty much everything other than your anger at him and getting out of there asap. It wasn’t uncommon for your nose to bleed when you change altitudes rapidly. Pretty shitty circumstance for a fighter pilot but, you’ve always managed. You go to tell him it didn’t even hurt but, then you blanch again because you didn’t even ask him if he was hurt.

He had to eject from a rapidly descending jet just like you, probably took an equally rough landing from the parachute, and you didn’t even check if he was okay?

Some partner you are.

Guilt floods your system, almost as shocking and uncomfortable as ice beneath you. He had messed up, yes, but that didn’t make him less of a teammate, less of a person. And suddenly you remember why you don’t hold grudges. Everyone made mistakes. In the end, you’d both be okay.

That’s if he doesn’t have a life-threatening injury that you brushed over.

“It stopped bleeding. I get them occasionally while flying, no biggie.” You clear your throat. “Are you hurt at all? I should have checked before, I’m really sorry. I was slightly blindsided by our situation and well, some rage ... but I’m over that now and I realize I should have asked you that question way earlier but-“

“Y/N.” Jake cuts you off, stopping your rambling short because he used your name. Not your call sign. Not Lieutenant Y/L/N. Y/N. It’s rare to be called by your first name around the base, around all of North Island really but, it’s nice to hear it once and awhile. Nice takes on a whole new meaning when Jake uses it. It’s like a shot of espresso, waking you up and sending a jolt of awareness that spreads to every inch of you.

You like the way it sounds rolling off his tongue.

There’s another thought to tuck so, so deeply away.

“I’m okay,” he continues “no harm done.” Your gazes settle on each other and there’s a lull in the conversation spent simply looking at one another. You shamelessly let yourself drink in his features while you can only hope assume he’s doing the same. He has skin so smooth and tan, you wonder what it’d taste like. The lines that stretch across his face when he smiles are so prominent you wonder what it would be like to feel them under your fingertips. His hair, sun streaked and a little tussled from his helmet looks inviting, like he’s begging you to pull your hands through it and fix it.

The thoughts are as intrusive as they are all-consuming. You know there’s no place deep enough, no corner of your brain dark enough to hide them away. 

“Can’t say the same for the F-18 and my pride though.” His grin grows and you’re forced to refocus. 

“I think you could use the ego check.” You try to grin back.

“Just a reminder that it takes two to tango, m’dear. As a WSO, I thought it was your job to defend incoming threats.” 

And he’s back.

“Believe me, I tried my best. But you were pretty insistent on flying however you deemed fit. My input meant little to nothing.” 

“It was a little hard to focus with your constant corrections. Do this, not that. Maneuver left, your other left-”

“That’s my job!”

“If you had just trusted me-“

“I trusted you with my life!” The volume of your voice startles both of you into silence. You don’t mean to raise it but, it was always the same game with Hangman. A push and a pull until something snaps. You exhale a small, sharp breath and force yourself to look at him.

He’s watching you closely, a glassy look in his eyes illuminated by the orange lick of the fleeting flames that separate you.

“The minute I got into your backseat, I trusted you. Flying a two-seater, it means being a part of a team. And you’re right, at the core of any team is trust. I gave you that, completely, but you didn’t do the same.” 

Jake opens and closes his mouth a few times and you wait on batted breath for what he might say. You know you’ve stumped him, thrown his words right back in his face and he had nothing left but to admit that you were right. At that point you didn’t care about being right. All you cared about was going home and never stepping foot outside the warm San Diego climate again. 

“Why’d you even take this mission? It was out of your comfort zone. You probably could have even flown a solo dagger if you really wanted in.” You take your eyes off him and focus them on the fire, picking at it slowly to try to keep it alive. You know what he’s going to say, you weren’t even sure why you asked. You’re sure he’ll say, ‘I wanted to push my comfort zone, prove I’m the best, most versatile pilot they’ve got.’

What you do not expect him to say is, “I wanted to be close to you.”

The words have your snapping your head up to look at him directly only to find his eyes still glued to you. His stare is unnervingly strong, you feel yourself start to crack under the weight of it mixed with his words.  

“...what?”

He scoffs, a sarcastic, annoying, how-do-you-not-already-know scoff.

“Ever since I’ve met you, I wanted to get to know you.” You furrow your brows, open your mouth to respond then just as quickly close it because ...what? All he’s ever done is bicker with you, poke fun at your quirks and taunt your skills. You may have not hung around him long enough to give him a chance to do anything else but, why would you?

Maybe because you secretly longed to be in his presence. A sensible person would take his seemingly negative attitude regarding you and stay far away. Instead, you found yourself drifting back toward him only to be pushed away time and time again. Clearly you lacked sensibility when it came to Hangman. As much as you wanted to blame the pull you felt to him on his undeniable attractiveness, you knew it had more to do with your desire to impress him, to prove him wrong. He was a painful cavity yet, you constantly caught yourself wrist deep in the candy jar, craving the sweetness of his validation. 

At your prolonged silence, he continues, “All you ever do is give me one word answers or roll your eyes at my presence. I get it, you hate me and I’m pathetic for hoping that if you ever gave me a chance, you’d change your mind about me. So yes, I volunteered for this god awful mission just so I could spend some time with you in the box.”

No way. “You belittle me at every chance you get.”

“I admire you. I push you because I want you to grow, to be better and because you always push me back.”

“This is not elementary school where you pull a girl’s pigtails because you think they’re pretty. We’re adults, you could have just told me!”

“Would you have listened?”

The answer ‘yes’ dances on the tip of your tongue but your mouth remains clamped shut. 

“Like I said, I was taking any chances I could get.” 

It’s all too much at once, you start to rethink every conversation you two ever shared, relive every look, pry open every feeling - was it always hate or something else? It never truly felt like hate, but it was an unknown feeling that bloomed beneath your breastbone, an uncomfortable one.

“Search and Rescue will be here in any minute. We should conserve our energy, try to find a way to stay warm.” At this point you’re shivering (and pathetically trying to divert the conversation), wrapping your arms so tightly around yourself to persevere your own body heat before anymore can seep out.

Jake’s lips look blue and you’re sure yours look similar because they prickle when you release a deep sigh or run your tongue across them. He’s shivering too and your fingers twitch involuntarily, desperate to reach out to him. Not because you want to feel his body pressed against yours, thank you very much. It’s simply a survival instinct, in weather like this, to huddle for warmth. 

“You okay?” You must have been staring at him, cause he’s looking at you with slight concern. 

“Just cold.” You nod weakly, the condensation from your warm breath against the stark temperature around you displays itself in a puff of grey before you.

“Come here.” His voice is thick as honey and coated in so much tenderness it sends a quiver down your spine.

You’re still staring at him, hesitating even though the offer is so tempting. Just the mere thought of becoming a couple degrees warmer in that moment has you aching for the contact. 

Wordlessly, you shuffle your way over and plop down beside him. Your bodies connect, from your shoulders to your toes, and instantly you feel the heat emanating from him persuade you to lean closer. You feel a hand dip in-between your clasped ones and let it pull them apart because it’s warmer than both your hands combined. You keep your eyes glued in front of you, worried if you turned to face him, he’d see an additional heat creep across your cheeks. Not a heat from sitting too close to the fire or potential frostbite. No, this heat was a pure, instinctual reaction to having your skin grazing against his. 

God, how is he so warm?

“God, you’re freezing.” He murmurs before the hand pulls away. His body disappears from beside you and immediately, you miss the force of him against you and the relief it provided. You watch questioningly as he rises and moves behind you before dropping down into the snow. Before you can look over your shoulder, his legs are spread out on either side of yours and his hands wrap tightly around your shoulders.

He guides you back, pulling you flush against his chest. It takes all of your willpower not to moan at the connection of your back against his front and the immediate rush of heat that the new position provides. He shifts closer, if that’s even possible, trailing his hands down your arms before wrapping them securely across your chest and around you.

“Is this okay?” His hot breath cascades over your ear and down your neck, leaving a ripple of goosebumps in its wake.

“Yes.” You breath back, raising your hands to wrap around his arms. You let your head fall back, cheek nuzzling into his, desperate to get closer. You’ve never felt such a desperate urge to be close to someone. It’s like no matter how close you do get, it’s not enough. You want to burrow yourself into his skin and into this feeling. You don’t know why you’re doing it, if it’s again, your survival instincts, or something more but it’s like you’re drunk off of his heat, intoxicated by the molten feel of his body on yours.

He’s quiet, tentative, like he’s worried one wrong move or word and reality will seep back into your peripheral.

“I admire you too.” You whisper, this comfort coaxing the words out. “You’re stubborn, annoyingly confident ... but you’re so brave. Nothing seems to faze you.”

“Not nothing.” His grip seems to unconsciously tighten around you.

“You’re intimidating, almost unapproachable, even when I thought I wanted to, it seemed like you didn’t want me around. Just a WSO ...” His words from one of your first interactions bounced around in your head constantly. You feel him lean his head heavier against yours in response. 

He huffs out a laugh, “Believe me, I wanted it.” He shook his head. “And I never should have said that. What you do is important, so important that they’d send you out with me just to ensure that you’d be out there.”

“You’re not so bad.” You snicker and squeeze his arms lightly. 

“I’m sorry if I ever hurt you.” His voice grows quieter, heavy with sincerity.

“It’s okay.” You shake your head thinking about it. “In the end you did,” You shift in his arms, turning to look up at him. Your faces are so close it takes almost all of your inner strength to finish your sentence “make me better.”

His stare is dizzying, it simmers on your skin almost as much as his body heat itself. It’s dark and it’s deep and you never want him to stop looking at you that way.

“Maybe next time, if you want me to know that you like me, just tell me.”

A smirk breaks out across his lips and it’s so him that it makes you want to simultaneously punch him and smash your lips against his.

He nods ever so slightly before replying, “I like you. I like your drive and your refusal to take shit from anyone, including me.” You bite your lip to hold back the wide grin threatening to burst out as his hand rises to cup your cheek. “I like how you’re effortlessly beautiful and take my breath away. I like you so much that I’m afraid I’ll burst if you don’t say you like me too.”

For a second, you’re worried you may have actually caught on fire because your insides feel liquified. There’d be a puddle of your former self in the snow if it weren’t for Jakes arms keeping you together, upright. 

“But, I’d understand if you didn’t, I was a dick to you and I’m so-“

Without giving it much thought, because fuck that, you tilt your head up and connect your lips to Jakes with enough force to both shut him up and to convey a clear message - you like him too. 

He reacts immediately, kissing back with an equal amount of force. His lips tenderly yet hungrily engulf yours as his other hand digs its way into your tight military bun to cradle the back of your head. A strangled noise escapes from your throat when he swipes his tongue along your bottom lip, prying to dive deeper inside of you. 

You oblige, allowing him to swirl your tongues together while he greedily swallows any whimpers his hands illicit from you. He’s pulling, pushing, skimming, squeezing every square inch of your body that he can reach. From your jaw to your neck, down your hips, to the tops of your thighs while you sit in between his. He can’t settle, seemingly wanting to take all of you in.

“You have no idea,” he grumbles as he pulls his lips from yours, quickly reattaching them to the sensitive skin under your ear, “how long I’ve thought about this.” He sucks and nips his way down and across your throat, causing you to dig your nails deep enough into him to leave half-moon marks through his suit. “This skin,” he drags his bottom lip up until it reaches the corner of your mouth before pulling away just enough to peer down at you through hooded eyes.

“That smile.” He rubs a thumb over your mouth, eliciting a grin from you which he promptly returns with one of his own, “that’s the one.” 

“All this time? You did a shit job of showing it.” You let your own fingers dance across his face, selfishly giving into your own longing. “If you really wanted to see me smile, you could have let me win at pool or not always ate the last of my favorite fruit in the cafeteria, or I don’t know ... said good job.” You snicker as he rolls his eyes playfully and buries his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Fine, so the hard-to-get, bad boy persona didn’t work the way I hoped it would.” Except, it totally did. He pulls back and gives you a natural smile, his eyes twinkling. “When we get back, I’ll hand feed you those strawberries,” he pauses to kiss your cheek, “the next game at the Hard Deck is yours,” another kiss, “and you’ll receive endless praise from me. Okay, sweet girl?”

He never intended to hear your reply, not giving you time to before capturing your lips in a searing kiss. Screw the fire for warmth, screw your clothes for warmth, you suddenly had a very good idea of a new activity that would keep you both plenty warm. If it weren’t for the blinding white light of the helicopter prying you apart, you were certain your F-18 wouldn’t be the only thing to get wrecked on the edge of that mountain.  

——

[goldenavenger02]

Hmmm...

I wish you would write a fic where we get a look into Lloyd's (likely long) recovery after S5 (bonus points for the worried ninja being horrified after seeing all his injuries and general state)

Maybe with his hair falling out too

They had thought he was getting better.

He had been able to leave his bed and had wanted to train with the others, although they had all protested to that due to his still weakened state. So, he watched; studied their every move so when he was strong again, he could keep up.

Some called it a surge, when a person regains their strength before getting way worse, if they died afterwards, it was terminal lucidity. His father would’ve most likely preferred the term “the calm before the storm”. That brief period where things were good before they crashed down like a house of cards in a gust of wind.

If they had asked Lloyd, he would swear up and down that he really thought he was getting better. If they had asked Kai, however, who had staked out his room every day since it had happened, he would just sigh before explaining that he pretended that it wasn’t happening.

But no one asked; they carried on their training together, trying to move on together, and any outsider would have said that they looked like they had put back together the pieces.

Cole had taken a break; he had been training since the sun peeked over the mountains in the bounty while waiting for the others to wake up, and he couldn’t help but be exhausted. So, he made his way below deck to the kitchen before letting his back rest against the wall.

But as he swallowed, he heard a loud ‘thump’ that couldn’t have just been something falling over due to turbulence; the sound chilled him to his bone and he felt his stomach drop because the last time he had heard that similar thump was when his mother…

He made his way into the hall, pushing away the thoughts of dread; but before he could call out a “hello?” and clear up a misunderstanding, he fell to his knees beside the person on the ground, his green gi hanging off of his body.

“Lloyd,” Cole’s voice came out shaky as he pressed his palm to the boy’s neck, feeling a weak flutter of a pulse under it, “Lloyd, stay with me,” he begged, pulling him into his arms before standing up and sprinted above deck while calling out, “I need help!”

…

Lloyd’s lungs burned as he coughed himself awake. His eyes stung, his lungs burned and his body ached. It was times like these he had almost wished Morro had taken him with him.

“Hey.” An obviously tired voice interrupted his slow, painful awakening and he blinked a couple times before realizing that it was Cole with the all too familiar green glow around his body. Lloyd kicked himself mentally for taking a moment to shut his eyes and repeating the mantra he had created after being rescued.

“You’re safe. You’re okay. It’s not Morro.”

“How are you feeling?” Cole’s voice sounded exhausted, like he didn’t have the strength to speak but needed to anyway.

“Sore.”

“Yeah, that’s not surprising,” Cole murmured as he approached him slowly, but Lloyd’s panic in his chest wasn’t from the ghostly glow as he was approached; rather, it was knowing fully well that he was keeping a secret from all of them. He had noticed it after he had showered that first night after being back, and as far as he knew, it wasn’t noticeable unless someone got too close.

“Don’t ruffle my hair.”

But luck was the exact opposite of what Lloyd had and Cole’s cold, ghostly hand softly touched his scalp which was all it took for the emotions to be too much and tears to take over in violent, shaking sobs with murmurs of “I’m sorry” over and over and over again spilling from Lloyd’s mouth.

“Oh, Lloyd,” Cole’s voice was the softest it had ever been as his strong arms held him just tightly enough to be comforting but loose enough that it didn’t make every part of his body shake in agony, “how long have you-”

“I don’t want it to be real,” The ramble past the tears was shocking, even to him, but once it started, he couldn’t stop, “I don’t wanna be in pain, I don’t want to lose my hair… I don’t wanna be here without my dad.”

After that, the tears came so heavy down his cheeks that he couldn’t form words or even think properly, his head buried against Cole’s chest.

Cole just held him tighter against him and slowly rocked him in his arms, thankful for the deepstone enforced gi he was wearing.