#biting his own tale

[adragonsfriend]

Upon reflection, having it implied that saying "Anakin can both be traumatized and responsible for his actions, (which is not the same thing as blaming him for his trauma)," means that I don't like his character, or that I think anything along the lines of "he's inherently bad," is actually hilarious and I'm no longer mad about it. Like,,,

My dear critics, I did not write over 100k (so far) of fanfic about him going on a time travel redemption arc, in the relatively famous in SW fandom "Anakin actually was already redeeming himself thru stories and being a double agent and is possibly the coolest character ever AU" because I think he's inherently bad person. I am so incredibly down for the fact that he is capable of so much good. For 24 years he makes literally the worst choices possible, and then he is still capable of making a good one. That's the WHOLE point.

His potential for good is why it's sad that he makes bad choices. No one gives a fuck when Palpatine does war crimes because he's presented to us narratively as a force of nature, not as a person. Anakin IS presented to us as a person. He could always choose differently.

But he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't.

AND THEN HE DOES!!!

Writing a fix it centering on him is largely just a matter of choosing any one of those "And he doesn't"s, and changing it to an "And then he does!"

[kaurwreck]

not to be too achingly literal or to transpose rodya over bsd!fyodor's ivan, but i will bear kafka asagiri a child for him to strap explosives to as his heart demands if we learn that when fyodor looks at aya, he sees sonya.

[lxvvie]

Not many people can corner Simon Riley and live to tell the tale.

Not many people would even consider doing so, sweetheart, but you're not many people. You're in a league all your own.

It's you welcoming him home by trapping him against the wall, knowing full well your soldier was very capable of freeing himself, but what was the fun in that? Simon's interest is piqued. What did you want from him? What were you going to do to him? Did you want to see him fuckin' feral, embarrassed and turned as he stroked his cock again for you, darling? You want him naked on your bed, kissing on his tattoos and the newest set of bruises, your soldier blushing as you loved on him like no one ever has before?

Bloody hell, just... just say the word. He'd do anything for you, baby, you know this, just—

Fuck.

It's Simon, falling apart at the seams again when you kiss him.

And you take control.

You take control, sweetheart. Your lips are firm. Soft. Softer than his, and you taste better than any fuckin' drink, food, or ciggie he's ever had in his life. It's Simon and those hands of his, hands that have held weapons and taken lives, holding you like you're the most fragile fuckin' thing because he'd never forgive himself if he'd hurt you, especially when you feel so good in his arms.

It's you deepening the kiss, claiming whats yours, exploring just about every part of his mouth that you can, being a fuckin' tease and playing tongue tag, and fuck, Simon's breathless. Lightheaded, euphoric, hard. Whatever the fuck you wanna call it. He'd call it heaven if he ever believed.

But Simon would be damned if he said you hadn't made a believer out of him.

It's you pulling another coup de grâce, biting down on his lower lip before you pull away completely, enough to break skin, make his cock jump in his pants, and have him feening for more like some fuckin' schoolboy with a crush. Goddamn.

Fuck are you doing to him, sweetheart?

It's you and Simon staring each other down, pupils blown, panting for air, pressed so tightly against each other you might as well merge bodies, and you don't wanna put a name to what you're feeling. Not yet. Simon doesn't let go, doesn't wanna let go, and you're not complaining, not when you're busy taking in your masterpiece of a soldier, flushed and desperate and hard and Jesus fucking Christ.

Mine.

Your soldier who never breaks eye contact with you and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, over your mark, and the slight sting makes his heart skip a beat and his cock jump again.

Yours, sweetheart.

And Simon is in heaven.

[adragonsfriend]

Going for this with my Amatakka back translations:

(Original English)

Listen close child, for this is a story from the very beginning.

Early on, there was a storm. It swept across the land suddenly, and nearly caught in its grasp a very small creature whom no one had ever seen. The creature was clever though, and it sought shelter in the first place they saw. Instead of rough stone like a cave or prickly branches of a japur tree, this place had square walls and didn’t sway in the rising wind. Though it had seen such structures from afar, the creature had never tried to enter one before.

The entrance was covered by a heavy cloth which was pinned shut to block out the windblown sand. There was just enough give in the fabric for the very small creature to squeeze around the edge, and inside. It skittered into the cool, quiet space, and looked around. In the center of the building, there was a woman so old that her back was round, and her hands had worn down to little more than skin and bone.

(Back-translated from Amatakka)

Listen now, my child. My story is from the oldest spirits.

One day, there was a storm. The winds of the storm were mighty, and the sands of the storm were quick, and the heart of the storm rent everything in its path. The storm did not rend Scurrier the Unseen, even though she walked too close to be wise. The Scurrier was clever. She entered the first shelter she found. The shelter did not have rough stone like inside a cave or the prickly branches of a jappor tree. It had square walls that did not waver in the changing winds. The Scurrier had seen shelters like it before that day, but never wanted to enter one.

Thick fabrics covered every entrance, even the heat-windows. They stopped the sand being blown inside, but sand is large compared to the Scurrier. She went inside. She found a cool and quiet place. Inside the room, near the center, there was an erdasil person. The Erdasil was very wrinkled, and her back had been rounded by time, and her hands were rough as sand.

(Amatakka almost no one will be able to real lol)

Daiulu e-vikka. Ep-kan-beranaa mas Erdriamun nel.

Erd mu umakkar. Keh Umakkarak erd mu lei, zi umanan Umakkarak erd mu lesh, zi lev Umakkarak erd umva teral tett-rilaj rij. Umakkar du umva Skutzu ar-tevedu es shu erdabu reeva Umakkar kan-naal masa shmu. Skutzu mu ubu. Shu erdabu sesdva tsekik taa jiiva. Taa mu tedarar rahsh imerbaar sip ba leratn shilntenin japuur mil. Ed arlava umekbaaran ar-tekarin es karikehren. Skutzu erdanud vedva taan darar ede kashkelu te pul shu erdanud jantakva sesda.

Amnal patalan erd hibrva nuut imasip, lashaldiriin kittil. En rutva uman sesikar sip, pul uman mas nu Skutzu. Shu erdabu sesdva. Jiirva di zi tuttu jan. Dethibr sip, kehrved naal, mu erdasil. Shu erdaba mu kan-eevu, zi ul-irikke erd mu dethu, zi ular-riimin erd mu rahsh.

———

These translations are so fun but they take me fucking forever cuz I get caught up on making up some of the words I need lol

"The best translations into English do not, in fact, read as if they were originally written in English. The English words are arranged in such a way that the reader sees a glimpse of another culture’s patterns of thinking, hears an echo of another language’s rhythms and cadences, and feels a tremor of another people’s gestures and movements."

— Ken Liu, Translator’s Postface to The Three-Body Problem

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

A/N: My comms are discounted for a limited time for Black Friday btw. This is a kofi request, so if you want more then send me a Kofi~ it’s a snow leopard hybrid ^^

Being abandoned by your owner in the middle of winter was already not ideal, but being caught in a record breaking blizzard was definitely worse.

You could sense it coming. Being a cat hybrid had its perks, but you almost wished you were blissfully unaware of your imminent demise.

It had been a few hours since your owner drove off, leaving you in a torn hoodie and your thin pajama pants. He hadn’t known the risks of owning a cat hybrid such as yourself, and when you went into heat and started rubbing your scent on everything and biting him to try and claim his as your mate, he abandoned you.

It really hurt. You adored your owner, thinking he was different from other humans who simply saw you as a pet.

But you were wrong. He tossed you away without a second thought, leaving you to die. Had you really meant that little to him?

Despite your sadness, you curled up under a bench, shivering as you tried to keep yourself warm. Even being in heat wasn’t helping much, the ache in your belly only adding to the discomfort and pain you were feeling.

You wanted to be warm, to nest and be properly bred by a kind male. Maybe that was too much for a house cat hybrid such as yourself to ask. Thinking you were worth something led you here after all…

As the snow only continued to fall, you tried your best to stay warm. It was only to try and find the most comfort you could while waiting for your death.

You weren’t accustomed to taking care of yourself. Ever since your birth, food had been handed to you, beautiful clothes and jewelry adorning your body when it came time for you to be presented before humans for sale.

Before this, you had never worried about warmth or sustenance, simply relying on your owner.

What else could you do?

As you thought all hope was loss, a scent other than the cold and wet smell of snow wafted through the air, a familiar yet strange one.

It an instant the bench was ripped from its foundation, a figure bending down to examine you.

Your vision was a bit blurry, but you could smell it.

This was a wild hybrid.

In the past you heard tales of such beasts, hybrids that fled to the wild to escape human subjugation, but because you were a pampered house cat hybrid, you had yet to encounter one.

“Lost, little one?”

Your tail puffed out as you let out a weak hiss, watching as the hybrid’s face got closer to yours. He smelled like blood, perhaps he had just procured a fresh kill and was looking to add to his winter stockpile.

At least if he killed you, it would be a quicker death than freezing. Perhaps this was some kind of twisted mercy…

But you never felt his fangs puncture your throat, instead your hoodie was being bitten, your body lifted and carried by his strong jaws.

He was taking you somewhere. Where? You could only guess back to his den. It would be easier to kill your there instead of risking the scent of blood being left on the snow, leading back to his home.

Although you were afraid, the big cat was warm. His breath fanned against your neck, and your body reacted against your will, producing enticing pheromones that told any hybrid nearby that you were in heat.

He was soft, and for some reason you felt something being wrapped around you… some kind of furs from one of his hunts. Why would he bother to keep you warm? Did he prefer his prey fresh and didn’t want you to freeze to death?

None of this really mattered to you. You were cold, hungry, and exhausted. If you slept now, perhaps you would be unconscious when the time came and pass on in your sleep.

So you passed out, too tired to even notice how his pheromones responded to yours.

When you awoke, you were in bed. Your owner had never allowed you to sleep with him, so this was the first time you had been in a human bed and not one for pets.

The blankets were made of the same furs you had been cloaked in before. You sat up slowly, still processing what led you to this.

Being abandoned right before a blizzard… nearly freezing to death… a wolf hybrid taking you with him…

It was a lot to think about, and even with a now well rested mind your head was still spinning. Maybe a meal would help you make sense of this…

“You’re awake…”

You stiffened at the voice, your blood running cold. When you finally found the courage to turn and look at the source of it, you nearly passed out again.

In the doorway was a snow leopard hybrid, his cat ears flicking as he stared down at you. He was nearly twice your size, and thoughts of you beating him in a fight went down the drain immediately.

“Thought you were a goner for a bit. Tougher than you look.”

He spoke slowly, his eyes on your plump form. You weren't sure what he was thinking, and before you could respond your belly rumbled.

“Hungry, huh?”

His long, thick tail swayed behind him as he approached. Although he was tall, he was thin and lean, not the same type of terrifying a lion or tiger hybrid would be, but still holding the same predatory glint in his eye.

“Kittens in heat such as yourself have to eat.”

You felt your cheeks warm. Of course he could tell you were in season, your scent was probably overwhelming at this distance.

He tilted his head. “Not wild, are you? What’s a little thing such as yourself doing all the way out here?”

Your lip wobbled. All the pain, all the anger and confusion came bubbling to the surface.

“My owner… he just… he left me all alone… a-and it was scary, I…”

The snow leopard stared at you, letting you cry before he leaned down to lick away you tears before beginning to groom you.

This calmed you significantly, a soft purr rumbling in your chest. This was a comfort you had been denied since you had been separated from your litter as a kitten, and you couldn’t help but lean in as he licked back your hair.

“It’ll be alright. You’re mine now, my property. You won’t be cold or scared anymore.”

He rubbed his cheek against yours, moving his face to your neck and giving a harsh bite to your sensitive flesh, a clear marking of his territory.

While you ate, it was clear he was holding himself back from something. His golden eyes followed your every move, his tail swaying behind him almost sending you into a trance like state.

You usually ate whatever your owner did, even if it made you sick or upset your sensitive belly, but tonight you had stew, made with cat hybrids in mind.

Once you had your fill, your body was able to recover enough to start producing more pheromones. It was well aware there was a male nearby and that you were fertile, so it made your cunt grow wet and hot, ensuring you’d be easy for the average male to penetrate.

But unfortunately your stupid body didn’t understand the male before you was twice your size. He could sense your heat, knew that your body was trying to stir him forward.

He sniffed at you. This was the scent that had interested him. It wasn’t like he was cruel, if a female such as yourself was in need he wouldn’t just abandon you in the cold, but the fact you were plump and in heat certainly made taking you in much more enticing.

You let out a startled mew when he approached, his face burying itself into your neck. His tongue lapped softly at the scent gland there, his hands moving to hold onto your hips.

From the moment he saw you, he knew that you would be his mate. The bond had been formed before you even noticed he was there, and the snow leopard was eager to confirm it.

You smelled like heaven, a mix of your natural musk and some kind of sweet perfume your owner had you wear. Tearing off your clothes was child’s play for his sharp claws, and his body vibrated with purrs once he laid eyes on your naked form.

Already he was imagining your belly heavy and swollen with his kits, his hand gently pressing against the fat of your tummy. Being fat and plump was good for surveying the harsh climate where he lived, and it was important for females to be fed fresh meat throughout the winter.

His cock hardened, it wasn’t going to be easy fitting into such a small cat hybrid. Compared to him you were like a mouse, easily positioned however he wanted.

His fingers dipped into you, making you mewl and arch your back. You had already been bucking your hips like a needy little thing, your body desperate to be mated before your heat was over.

His cock stretched you out. It was unpleasant at best, almost painful as you struggled to take in something too big for you.

Even though he was being gentle, nothing would help when you were never meant to be bred by a big cat such as himself.

Despite this, your heat ridden body made it work, beat pooling into your abdomen as your gushed around his fat cock. Your tail twitched as he slowly pulled out and pushed back in without warning, a bulge forming in your belly from the sheer size of him.

The feeling of being ravished by him was… exhilarating. You were too small, too weak to do anything besides moan and writhe underneath him, letting the snow leopard use you as a living flesh light to be filled with his seed.

Even though it felt like you were being torn apart at first, his finger slowly rubbing at your clit and his tip hitting your special spot over and over has your cunt clenching around him before you could even think.

If you hadn’t been in heat, you most likely would have died during the mating session, but while you were in season your body produced so much more lubricant and pheromones that helped you take him inside of you.

You felt so warm when he came inside, thick ropes of hot and sticky cum filling your little womb. Your heat eased a bit as you were thoroughly bred. You knew that this would ensure pregnancy, even if all you had to go off of was instinct alone.

“Little one…”

He purred into your ear, keeping his cock inside of you to make sure none of his cum leaked out. His tongue licked at your neck and hair again, grooming you out of affection now.

“My mate, my sweetheart… I’ll take care of you, alright?”

And that was enough for you. Now all you wanted was a mate and somewhere warm to sleep with three meals a day. It was clear that he could provide that.

So you slept without worry, curled up with your mate, your new provider.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko

[adragonsfriend]

Amatakka: A Learning Guide!

For anyone interested in learning Amatakka (or just about the language & culture) but finds the various spreadsheets either intimidating or incomprehensible, Learning Amatakka: Berim Takkarie is a written guide designed for learners! It includes recordings of spoken Amatakka, notes on Amavikka culture, neat charts, and more.

From the Preface:

"Learning Amatakka is a guide designed for a learner of Amatakka to be exposed to the depth and breadth of Amatakka vocabulary and grammar, and with a little luck, become somewhat conversational."

"Berim Takkarie means Song Dialect [referring to the dialect endemic to much of Tatooine], for the language of hearth and home, which recalls the musical stories of the very eldest grandmothers, and an endless search for water."

Chapter 1 is currently posted, and it focuses on learning to introduce oneself, and a whole bunch of notes on gender. Many more chapters are in the works, and the guide is open to comments and questions!

A guide to @looseleafteeaves dialect of Amatakka is linked within this one.

Many thanks to @emotionalsupportjedi, who accidentally inspired this entire project by asking 'teeaves if they could recommend a place to start learning Amatakka! Please enjoy this ongoing textbook. And even moreso thanks to 'teeaves and @whywouldiknow-that for their contributions so far.

[swordgrace]

𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!targtower!reader.

SYNOPSIS: as the youngest daughter of alicent hightower, you are wed to the young wolf, cregan stark. what many believe to be a union of strife, such a notion is proven wrong very quickly.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 6.7K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), arranged marriage, reader is a targtower with pale hair & lilac eyes, skin color unspecified, first time sex (for reader), loss of virginity, p in v sex (unprotected), massive breeding kink, all stark men have a breeding gene, oral sex / cunnilingus (fem!rec), face-sitting, biting/marking, making out, lots of touching, missionary position, talk of having a child, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: There’s been a ton of Cregan requests, so I hope that this satisfies a lot of people until I post another! ❤️ Thank you all so much for the incredible requests and support of my work, it means the world to me and I am extremely grateful for all of it. See you guys soon!

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 — 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐜𝐞.

The North was often regarded as a harsh and unyielding environment, with bitter, stinging winds and snowfalls that could bury men alive beneath their might. Such tales were often told to scare children or dissuade them from leaving the roost.

It was untamed and savage, according to your mother — she who vehemently fought against your betrothal to Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. A marriage steeped in wariness and discord, you had been pleasantly surprised by your husband’s kindness and warm stoicism.

Piety was a rarity in the bleak, bloodsoaked world you lived within — innocence was a quality as uncommon as a diamond in the rough. When Cregan had been offered such a sacred proposal during the last days of King Viserys I, he nearly scoffed at it.

A Targaryen, a Hightower — he almost imagined that the both of you would not do well together, and that it would become a sour union, made only to please families and uphold duty. His advisors, old men with embittered grudges against the South, cautioned him away from it, imploring him to wed a girl from the Vale or the Reach.

When Cregan Stark met you, clad in pale shades of sage and ivory, with lilac hues and a smile that could melt even the toughest of ice, perhaps it would not be a dreadful marriage after all.

Even with a dragon at your heel, there was something positively resplendent about you — Cregan could feel it within his marrow, a feeling seldom felt by any man locked in an arranged betrothal.

It was your innocuous, tenderhearted nature that beguiled him, as if you unconsciously drew him in with your honey. Your very first meeting happened to be to seal the marriage pact itself before you would be shipped away to the North, to be his wife and the new Lady Stark.

Cregan rarely found himself charmed by anyone, yet you possessed an inner beauty that flourished in his presence. You were your own flame, burning through his hardened exterior. He did not mistake your docile nature for weakness — you possessed a dragon, where he did not.

You were rather taken with him, perplexed by his outward ruggedness and gruff accent, the way in which he carried himself, massive physique clad in the thick trappings of a wolf. He was a mountain of a man, yet he handled you as if you were some precious jewel, sacred and worthy of admiration.

Alicent begrudgingly watched as you, her youngest daughter, untainted by her own fractured morality, was sent away to the North in the hands of some brute. For the good of the Realm, Viserys had told her, but it cut deeper knowing that it was you, her beloved flesh and blood.

Yet, as you found yourself beneath the crimson leaves of the Weirwood Tree in the Godswood, hands bound with Cregan’s own, you forgot about your mother’s bitterness entirely — and you were happy.

The first kiss was one that would make a permanent residence within your memory for lifetimes to come. He had cradled your face, towering over you as if he were a solemn statue, but even you could see the softening within his visage.

King’s Landing was suffocating, more often than not. The animosity that festered between your family smothered you, crushing you beneath its sharp heel. You were no longer surrounded by bitterness and resentment, and instead, cloaked by the protection and warmth of your new husband.

The feast held in honor of your blossoming union was one of merriment, the mood lighthearted and blissful. You sat beside your husband, stomach tumbling with a coil of nerves. Everyone seemed foreign to you, unfamiliar faces with their northern attitudes and odd indifference.

You could not fault anyone for having their suspicions, given your heritage. Being a Targaryen, pale-headed and violet-eyed, bringing your dragon from the South — it must’ve been jarring. Growing into your station as the Lady of Winterfell would be a long and arduous process, but you hoped that Cregan would show you the way.

Oblivious to your Lord-Husband’s smoldering stare, you politely consumed bites of the sugar-dusted fruit cobbler, admiring the vibrant aura within the room. Your wedding gowns were as pure as the driven snow, accented with silver embroidery and lined with pale fleece to keep you warm, given the cold gnaw of winter.

If it weren’t for Cregan’s steadfastness in providing you with a new wardrobe fit for winter, the icy chill would’ve consumed your extremities from the inside-out.

Leaning over within his seat, Cregan reached for your hand, stormy-gray hues churning with a kindness reserved for you. “How are you faring, wife?” He inquired, voice a low rumble; a soothing timbre that sent shivers down your spine.

“Very well,” Warmth crawled along your flesh when he referred to you as wife so openly and affectionately. You weren’t accustomed to having someone be so attentive to you, hang upon your every word, treat you with such courteousness. “This is so wonderful. I must thank you and your Keep, for your kindness.”

If you were anyone else, Cregan might’ve treated you with a stalwart cordiality found in most formalities, but you were not anyone else. You were good, sweet, and kindhearted — above all, you were quite innocent. He would’ve been telling himself a bold lie if he hadn’t thought about taking you to bed several times already.

The colors of the North suited you — his home suited you. Not many men of his position were so lucky when it came to betrothals, but he felt as if he was beyond fortunate to have married you. Cregan only hoped to be a good husband to you and to your future children, heirs to Winterfell, with the blood of the dragon and the wolf in their veins.

He had forbidden a bedding ceremony, content to guide you to your chambers once the festivities ceased, instead. Cregan enjoyed observing you and your demure mannerisms, from the way you made small talk with those around you, complimenting the choice of food and drink. It warmed his heart to know that his wife was an amiable soul.

“You needn’t worry, Princess. It is my duty as your husband to show you a bit of Northern hospitality.” Cregan mused, a ghost of a smile tugging at either corner of his mouth. He rarely showed any emotion, let alone treating his subjects with a smile given his hardiness, but he did show a sliver of it for you. He didn’t want to scare you away.

With a delighted smile, your hand shyly curled around his, your skin unblemished and soft. Cregan hadn’t touched a woman as silky as you, and it made his blood run hot — an inopportune time, given that it was in the midst of his wedding feast. “Thank you, my Lord.” You weren’t sure if you were permitted to abandon formalities just yet.

Cregan huffed, gaze twinkling with amusement as he let your smaller hand hold his own, digits tenderly caressing over your knuckles. “I would hope that you only call me ‘my Lord’ if you’re angry with me,” His chest rumbled with an affectionate sound. “You aren’t in King’s Landing anymore.”

Embarrassment rippled through you, but before you could correct yourself out of anxiousness, Cregan gingerly squeezed your hand. Instead, it evoked a smile from you, the very same tender expression you’d given him when you were proclaimed as his wife. “I will call you husband when I am pleased with you.” You mused, bright as could be, and so blissfully naive.

Often regarded as a brooding, serious man with little traces of humor, Cregan found himself letting his guard down just enough with you. Of course, to any observer, he still seemed rather stoic, but the brief, fleeting looks he gave you, the threadbare smiles — it suggested otherwise.

As the excitable buzz of the feast began to simmer, Cregan stood from the table, wood scraping across the stone floors of the Great Hall. He stepped away from you, sparing the servants and guardsmen a word before he returned to your side.

“Is there not to be a bedding ceremony?” You whispered, stomach still tight and festering with nervousness. It was something you feared since you last saw Aegon and Helaena be hauled away for such a thing. The concept of it frightened you, twisted and unusual.

With furrowed brows, Cregan shook his head, offering his thick arm out for you to take. “No,” He grunted, noticing the swell of anxiousness etched into your features. “I would never subject you to such a thing, or myself.” He murmured, feeling you take his arm as he led you from the Great Hall.

Relief flooded through you, and you finally relaxed, seemingly appreciative of Cregan’s thoughtfulness in the matter. “Thank you, husband.” You sighed, gripping onto his arm as he led you into a warm corridor and towards a massive spiral of thick, stone steps.

Though, you still had a duty to perform — consummating the marriage, creating an heir. Part of you feared what it all entailed, given that Helaena never seemed pleased with any of it. Would he hurt you? You were uncertain, but you wanted to believe that your new husband would keep you safe.

Cregan welcomed you into your marital chambers, tidied and polished for your stay. Whatever belongings you brought with you, they were situated near a set of fine, wooden chairs circled around a stone table. Everything seemed warm and comely in his quarters, the direwolf aesthetic heavy-handed, the hearth crackling and bursting with ripples of fire.

“If there is something not to your liking, inform me — I will have it rearranged,” Cregan rumbled, following in your footsteps as you neared the open hearth, warming your hands and basking in its glow. He stood close to you, towering over you with his bulk and might. “How are you?” He asked, ensuring your comfort above all else.

There was little need for the hearth when Cregan was near, radiating a natural heat that drew you in. His countenance seemed softer, not nearly as impassive as he’d been before. “I am more than fine, I promise.” You assured him, hands wringing together. “I thought that I would miss home, but I do not. Isn’t that terrible?”

Perplexed, Cregan seemed inclined to listen to your elaboration, chestnut tresses framing his face. “It isn’t a terrible thing, princess. I would imagine that it must be freeing, to be somewhere else. You’ve never left the capital.” He replied, knowing that you were quite sheltered for most of your life.

A soft sigh escaped you, and you tried not to think about it anymore. You didn’t want to sour the mood with talk of home and the past — this was now. “It is liberating,” You confessed, craning to look at him with a semblance of wonder and affection. “I am happy that I’m here with you.” You spoke with genuineness and finality.

It was pleasing to hear you say such a thing, and even better to know that you truly meant it. One thick, burly arm slowly encircled your hips, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest. “Good,” He murmured, expression steely. “That pleases me greatly.”

To know that Cregan valued your happiness was a wonderful feeling — you felt cared for and seen, shrouded within his protectiveness. You imagined that it would be a blissful marriage. “Thank you, Cregan.” His name slipped from your perfect tongue, and he thoroughly enjoyed the sound it made.

A low rumble vibrated through Cregan’s chest as he drew you as close as he could, tracing his calloused digits along the soft curve of your jaw. “You are very beautiful,” He murmured, timbre edged with a delicious husk that made your knees buckle. You shivered, something that he took note of. “Are you cold, wife?”

You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath when his lips neared yours. “I am.” A squeak escaped you, followed by a steady exhale. You had been kissed before, but the extent of your experience abruptly stopped there. You imagined that you wouldn’t be cold for much longer.

His lips met yours, the kiss tender yet passionate, deepened by your husband. Cregan found your mouth to be most pleasant, pliant and perfectly soft, yet malleable. You reciprocated his kiss, hands moving to press against his chest.

“Will it be painful?” You whispered, likely in an attempt to soothe your gnawing nervousness. Agony was something that didn’t coexist with pleasure, in your mind. You wanted this moment to be special and sacred, binding yourself to your husband.

Cregan hesitated, gently cupping your face with his rough palm, tenderly stroking along your cheek. “I wouldn’t dare harm you, princess. You have my word.” He assured, and it confirmed his suspicions — you hadn’t been with another before. “It might be painful, but I will be gentle. We don’t have to start tonight.”

Admittedly, it was quite the opposite for you — you wanted to start tonight, but you longed for clarification first, and he gave it to you. You shook your head, hands slipping toward the front of his tunic, as if silently pleading with him to stay. “I want to.” You insisted, looking like the picture of innocence.

As much as he liked you sweet and pious, Cregan had a feeling that it would be somewhat different after this. His gray hues swirled with a heavy desire, dropping towards the delicate curve of your mouth. “May I?” It was all that he needed to ask, and as soon as you nodded, he brought you in for a heated kiss.

Despite his appearance, a stone-faced wall of muscle and Northern strength, he was incredibly gentle with you. He held you against him, never tight enough to cause you discomfort, hands softly kneading into your hips. You kissed him back as best as you could, feverishly hot, butterflies erupting within your stomach.

His beautiful wife — Cregan could not imagine another, now that he had you in his arms. The way you kissed him was innocuous and tender, as if you were also terrified of making a mistake. Your purity, a precious thing indeed, would be tarnished and dissolved after this evening.

The thought of you, round and swollen with his child, was both tantalizing and tempting — well within his grasp. Cregan wondered if they would take after you, pale-headed with lilac hues, or perhaps himself. If the Gods were good, they would be a blend of the both of you, a dragon and a wolf.

You shivered again when your burly husband curled his hand into the back of your wedding gown, fingers slipping between the gaps, feeling inklings of your bare skin beneath. “I’ll keep you warm, wife.” He rumbled, pressing a kiss against your jaw. It wasn’t from the cold, he knew this, but his honeyed words made you flustered.

He dropped his cloak, allowing the thick curtain of fur to land against the floor. He was impossibly broad, as thick as stone, tunic loose yet snug enough to accentuate his brawn. You felt your breath hitch within your throat, swallowing another barrage of nerves.

Cregan’s mouth assailed your neck, hand peeling away the collar of pale fur in order to reach you. Every kiss was passionate, wrought with need, yet maintained that air of gentleness. Roughness was in his nature, but he wouldn’t dare fall into that pit on your wedding night.

You tasted ambrosial, sweet velvet beneath his lips, which peppered themselves wherever they could. He listened to your soft gasps and needy whines, your hands having curled into the coarse material of his tunic. He wanted to show you just how perfect you really were.

Suddenly, your gown felt much too tight and constricting, as if you would drown within it. You alleviated such sensations by loosening the bodice, tugging on the ivory strings. The fur became unraveled as Cregan gently draped the garment over the back of a chair.

Left in the thin, humble trappings of your smallclothes, nothing more than a corset hugging a linen slip, he silently appraised you with the hunger of a wolf. You appeared to be shy, somewhat coy in his presence as he looked you over, large palms settling against the swell of your hips.

“Why do you shy away?” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together, tone one of genuine concern. You were the prettiest creature he’d ever seen — most Targaryens were known for their beauty, but you possessed it both ways, inner and outer, and that only made you more incomparable in his eyes.

Swallowing your nerves, you chewed at the inside of your cheek, hands fidgeting together. “I suppose I worry about what you’ll think,” A sore insecurity, to be sure, but something most young maidens possessed. Cregan’s gray hues softened, one hand stroking along the length of your spine. “That I won’t be suitable.”

A huff escaped him, a threadbare chuckle as he shook his head, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “You worry too much, princess.” That deep, thunderous timbre of his, husky with his Northern accent, shook you right to your core. “You are my wife — and you are perfect.” He assured, kissing along your jaw.

You exhaled, hands reaching for his tunic, wanting to see him without his clothing. There was a rush of warmth that crawled across your flesh, surging through your blood as Cregan pressed endless kisses against your skin. He trailed from jaw to collarbone, hands loosening your corset.

With a brusque tug, your gruff husband tore it from you altogether, tossing the bodice aside. “I will show you how perfect you are.” He rumbled, voice a low, heavy caress near the shell of your ear. You shivered, gaze half-lidded as you tugged insistently at his tunic.

The message was unspoken, but conveyed nonetheless as your mountain of a husband let his hands drop from you, only to tug the coarse, dark linen over his head. He was burly, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his face.

Amusingly enough, Cregan possessed more of a cherubic, youthful face than you expected, yet his nose was slightly crooked from having it broken, faint scars upon his face. His eyes seemed wisened, old beyond his years. He reached for your slip, gathering the material within his hands as he looked to you for consent.

With your confidence rejuvenated, you nodded, breathless and wanton as you assisted him in maneuvering out of your thin smallclothes. The brief lick of chilled air dragged across your bare flesh, causing your nipples to harden, pebbling with the chill.

Fire danced across your physique, tantalizing and gorgeous, beautiful beyond compare. Even Cregan seemed speechless for a beat, throat reverberating with a low grunt as he motioned toward your shared bed.

You half-expected him to pounce on you, grab your hips and stake his claim, but he simply resorted to watching you slide onto the bed, covered in furs of all varieties. The frame rustled slightly, and you laid down, a picture of true perfection. Your crown of pale tresses seemed to stick out amidst the darker pallor of the furs.

Anticipation churned violently within your gut, arousal slick and mounting between your thighs as Cregan stalked closer, removing clothing in the process. You watched with bated breath as he loosened the ties of his breeches, removing them altogether.

It was to be expected — a man of his indomitable stature likely had the assets to accompany it. You nearly choked at the sight of him, terrified that it really would hurt, even if he was gentle. You sucked in a sharp breath, bewildered when he had reclined beside you instead.

“I won’t bite, my Lady.” Cregan rumbled, soothingly patting his lap as you crawled closer. He effortlessly picked you up, letting you straddle his hips as he admired you from below. “Hm.” With a hum of approval, he caressed along your form, stroking from your thigh to your breasts.

It was agonizingly deliberate, made to explore and study instead of acting upon salacious impulses. Cregan observed you closely, palm gently cupping your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple. You gasped, careening into his sensual embrace.

A flurry of desire bubbled within him when you planted your smaller hand atop his, as if encouraging him to knead and grope at his leisure. He seemed pleased, and so did you, a low hum escaping you as he caressed your silky flesh.

He made sure to show that same amount of attention to your unattended breast, slowly kneading into you. Those tempestuous gray hues never tore themselves away from you, boring into you with a searing intensity.

Warm slick coalesced between your thighs, only mounting and growing when he continued to touch you, hand lifting to cup your chin. You absentmindedly leaned into his touch, eyes becoming half-lidded as you rocked forward within his lap.

The sensations you felt were new and exhilarating, goosebumps dancing across your spine, heat pooling between your legs. “May I touch you?” You asked, tone delicate and sweet, a display of your piety and innocence. He quite enjoyed your desire to explore alongside him, and he gave a nod of his head.

“You don’t need to ask, princess.” He soothed, jaw tensing as your soft palms settled against his chest. Cregan’s stormy eyes didn’t leave you, carefully tracing each plane of your curves, the downy texture of your skin, the lilac glint of your eyes.

Your fingertips dragged across his musculature, committing each scar to memory, features becoming hot beneath his incendiary stare. He was your husband now — you imagined that scenarios like these would become commonplace. “You are so handsome,” You whispered incredulously, lips curling into a gentle smile. “Perfect.”

Cregan appeared perplexed, a soft huff escaping him as he trailed his calloused palm across the small of your back. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had called him perfect and meant it — and he knew that you did. He neglected to act, allowing you to explore as much as you pleased.

Awestruck, he watched with silent hunger as you leaned down, lips pressing against his own. A soft grunt escaped Cregan as he caged you in, mouth passionate as it tangled with yours. He enjoyed the feeling of your body snug atop his, your skin resplendent, like velvet against the grating bite of stone.

Dragging a hand from the swell of your hips to the nape of your neck, he gripped the base of your skull, gingerly kneading into your pale tresses. He kissed you again, oozing with desire as he stole every wisp of air from your lungs.

He pulled one leg up into a v-shape, supporting your back to keep you upright atop his lap. You could feel the thick girth of his cock nudge against your backside, causing you to shiver at the foreign sensation. “Do you trust me?” Cregan murmured, roughened fingertips dragging over the pliant flesh of your thigh.

There was an indiscernible look within his eyes, chestnut brows drawing together slightly. Your breath hitched as you nodded, and Cregan settled against the furs, strewn on his back. Those strong hands of his continued to nudge you forward, bringing you from his warm lap to his chest, and then a touch closer.

“What are you …” Uncertain yet filled with exhilaration, you had no idea what Cregan was planning. Your slick cunt neared his mouth, and your Northern paramour did little to slow the process, bumping you forward until you hovered above him. “C—Cregan, C —” Your voice tapered off into a whine.

His tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that immediately made your knees buckle. You used the headboard to brace yourself, mouth tearing open as a strangled gasp escaped you. Part of you feared sitting down entirely, but Cregan coaxed you down, hands digging into your haunches.

Your reaction was beyond worthwhile, body trembling and coiled, hand scrambling to brace yourself as the other fervently dug into his chestnut tresses. You never imagined that such pleasure was even possible, filling you with an excitable ecstasy that sank into your bones.

Splitting past your folds, Cregan tasted every inch of you, tongue seeking your cunt with a fervor. He was vigorous in his ministrations, not shying away from consuming every drop of your arousal. His nose brushed against your mound, hands kneading into your thighs to reassure you, let you know that he had you.

Even when he rested beneath you, he still seemed indomitable, perhaps a touch intimidating. You didn’t look down, body involuntarily trembling and rocking forward, back beginning to arch. “Gods, a—ah!” You stammered, thighs twitching and quivering as his tongue gently flicked over your clit.

Visibly flustered, you felt so strange and smitten, riding your husband’s face as you would your dragon. It filled your belly with a rousing fire, one bright enough to consume the rest of your body, licking along the length of your spine.

A low rumble emerged from Cregan’s chest, a vibration that rattled you to your core. He wanted you to have your fill, take as much as you could and drown within pleasure. Your maidenhead was still intact, a virtue that he did not treat lightly. He didn’t feel the need to breathe, lapping at your cunt with a wolfish gluttony.

You were undeniably soaked, like a fine stout upon his tongue as he devoured you. Cregan was passionate, each stroke of his tongue ensuring that you felt it all, bliss erupting throughout your stomach.

Chasing after what you imagined to be your release, you happened to peer down for a moment, finding the contented face of your husband, whose face was lodged between your legs. His brows were creased in concentration, tongue prodding against your entrance before languidly flicking back to your clit.

It was only when he pursed his lips around that sensitive clutch of nerves, that you nearly collapsed around him. Even your draconic blood could melt, tempered by the hardened ice of your Northern paramour. You gasped, hips stuttering as your thighs squeezed at either side of his head — fortunately, he didn’t seem to care.

The only thing you wanted was this, forever — your husband’s tongue between your legs, a sanctuary in the North with a potential family, a life in which you could finally find your solace. You continued to squirm and writhe, moaning his praises into the warmth of your chambers.

As you approached your peak, you grappled with Cregan’s tresses, tugging at the root as you rocked forward, again and again. “Cregan,” You moaned, countenance contorting into a look of sheer pleasure, bones crawling with an insatiable heat. “Cregan, Cregan, please!” It was a siren’s song of desire.

He did not stop, but he didn’t change course, either. Instead, he simply continued on, suckling at your clit as he intermingled it with timed laps of his tongue. Your release slammed into you, white-hot and blistering, gnawing away at your stomach as that coil of heat effectively snapped.

A whine emerged from you, one that was nearly breathless as you rocked forward again, legs shaking from ecstasy as you rode out your peak. Cregan, ever the dutiful husband, lapped at your nectar, savoring the taste, the scent of a pleasurable aftermath.

“What —” You had to catch your breath again, attempting to recuperate as you sat back on his chest instead, thick, burly muscle plentiful enough to cushion you. “Where did you learn how to do that?” It was an innocuous question, one so sweetly-spoken that it nearly caused Cregan to chuckle.

He did, however, smile — a rare, sentimental gesture reserved only for you. It was threadbare, and if it weren’t for the nature of your relationship, one might’ve thought him to be rugged and indifferent. “You need only ask, princess, and I will oblige.” His voice was a deep rumble that warmed your insides.

You thoroughly enjoyed the nickname of princess — a term of endearment given your status, but you were a princess no longer. “I am a lady of the North now, aren’t I? A princess no longer,” You proclaimed, skin shimmering with perspiration. “What will you call me, now?” You asked.

“Hm,” Cregan contemplated, pressing a kiss against your leg before he sat up enough to have a good look at you, chin still glistening with your slick. The sight was lewd, enough to make you unbelievably flustered as he grew closer, nearly chest-to-chest with you. “Lady Stark would suffice.” He murmured.

Something amorous burned within you, a smolder that soon turned to ignited sparks. “It would please me greatly.” You hummed, running your hands over his biceps before Cregan gently changed places with you, moving you beneath his bulk, comfortable upon your back.

Soft was a mere understatement — he could feel himself melt. It was not your dragon’s blood or heat that made him crumble, but your heart. He could imagine you as the mother of his children, belly round with his heirs, the Lady of Winterfell, a Hightower no longer.

He settled between your legs, and you gasped when his cock gently glided against your slick core. Cregan knew to temper himself, to be as gentle as he could with it being your wedding night, but his resolve was steadily diminished in your presence. He steeled himself, pressing a string of kisses along your body.

Without thinking, you unconsciously goaded Cregan into a point of near-frenzy. Your hands found the taut, trunk-like muscle of his biceps, visage filled with a sense of awe and adoration. “A child would please me greatly.” You confessed, having no clue what it would do to your husband.

Cregan stopped, digits curling into the thick furs on either side of your head. It took every fiber of his being not to fuck you then and there — and he wouldn’t, it wasn’t right for him to take your maidenhead with such roughness. His fantasy became reality, a visceral, beautiful vision that made him grunt, jaw unnaturally tense.

His rough palm soothingly stroked along your thigh, lust swelling within him like a blizzard, a violent storm of need that transcended all bonds of propriety. “Does Lady Stark want me to put a pup in her belly?” Cregan rumbled, tempestuous hues ignited with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, sending shockwaves right to your core.

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, shuddering at the sound of his voice — an edged husk, like the rumbling of thunder before a deluge or the shaking of a mountain. “Yes,” You exhaled, searching his countenance, only to find desire. “I would.”

The Gods were testing him, aiming to see if he would break beneath the pressure, but he refused. Cregan lowered himself over you, lips molding themselves against yours in a hot kiss. Your hands remained poised atop his biceps, barely able to wrap themselves around the thick, corded muscle.

He wasn��t much of a talker, and it quickly dwindled into deep grunts and heavier sighs as he aligned his cock with your entrance. He made sure to part your legs, keeping them spread as he began to push inside of you. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, startled at the twinge of pain, the discomfort of it all.

Cregan despised the mere thought of causing you harm, and even he was willing to end it all then and there. “We don’t have to continue, beloved.” He rumbled, pressing a soothing string of kisses along your face. The endearing nickname made you preen, nails digging into his arms.

“No, I — I’m well enough,” You breathed, insistent on continuing. Cregan deliberated, but when you let out a low whine, he obeyed your command. “Gods, I need you, Cregan.” Pitched with a wanton resonance, you urged him to keep going.

Your neediness made his blood run hot, and he nodded, sluggishly resuming his pace. He continued to tilt his hips forward, cock feeding into you, inch by agonizing inch. Cregan felt the desperate bite of your nails clutching into muscle, leaving behind angry crescents.

You were never fully warned of the pain, the discomfort that accompanied pleasure. It was always sold as some fantasy, particularly for men — nights of heavenly passion resulting in bliss. For you, it was simply a marital duty to provide your husband with an heir, but this transcended that. Passion and affection sparked between the both of you, and it felt right.

As Cregan finally bottomed out inside of you, he allowed you time to fully adjust, rocking into you at a lackadaisical pace. He continued to shower you in kisses, wherever his lips could reach, giving particular affection to the crook of your neck.

Whatever discontent you felt, you hastily pushed it aside, tossing it into the recesses of your mind. Instead, you focused on him — on how incredible he made you feel, the warmth you experienced in his presence. One of your hands slipped to thread within his chestnut tresses, mouth agape.

You took him so well — better than expected, and it filled him with a sense of pride and ardor. Cregan pressed hungry kisses along your throat, nose buried into the hollow of it, right beneath your jugular. He continued to go slow, afraid of causing you further pain.

Cregan repositioned his hand, leaving one lodged beside your head, the other sinking into your haunch, digits tenderly kneading into your thigh. It was an offer of reassurance, and he watched your countenance shift from discontented to relaxed.

“Move,” The sharpness of your command brought him to heel, and he very nearly smiled — it was there, the ghost of it toying at his lips. Bringing his hips back and then forward, you moaned, knowing that the sting of pain would soon blossom into pleasure. “Please.”

Molten heat swirled within the pit of your stomach, arousal thick between your legs as Cregan began to find his pace, a rhythm that shook you to your core. He was so very gentle, even for a man of his herculean mass and muscle. He took care of you, soothingly caressing your thigh as he thrusted into you.

His cock filled you completely, a stretch that would take you more than just one night to adjust to. Your maidenhead was gone, your cunt tight around his length, pulling him in again and again.

Cregan’s breathing became heavier, somewhat labored as he consummated your union. Each snap of his hips held meaning, beyond the creation of an heir. It was tenuous with feelings, a burning sentiment he felt for you, ardor that had grown into a fire.

Admittedly, his mind was hazy, fueled by desire and the mere thought of you wanting a child — you had asked it of him, demanded, and he was at your mercy. Cregan couldn’t have gotten any luckier with you, the most resplendent woman he’d ever seen.

Imagining you full and round, still as lovely as the day he set his eyes upon you, a mother and a dragon — it was nothing short of true perfection. He chased after it, evident by the growing vigor and passion in each thrust of his hips, cock nearly tearing you into two.

No matter how gentle and careful Cregan was with you, it was to no avail, but you no longer cared. “Cregan,” You moaned, lifting one leg to hitch it around his waist, and that only seemed to further spur him on, allowing him to hit new depths. His throbbing length nearly kissed your womb, filling you to the brim. “Cregan!” You cried.

For a moment, you feared being split in-half by your mountain of a husband, but he slowed enough to let you recuperate, throat reverberating with carnal grunts. The rumbling of his chest, the heat that radiated from him in waves — it was all perfect.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest brushing against his. Cregan grunted, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension.

His thrusts deepened, became passionate and invigorated with love, and each snap of his hips made your head spin with delirium. You were drunk on desire, clinging to him as if you were a drowning maiden, hand splayed against his shoulder.

Whenever he happened to become a touch too vigorous, he felt your nails dig deep into his flesh, leaving behind the reddened marks of your consummation. Cregan was getting close, chest erupting with labored pants as he pressed his forehead against yours.

You moaned, body bending beneath his passion, malleable within his hands. His cock throbbed within you as he sought to spill his seed, face against yours, lips occasionally connecting in a series of sloppy, warm kisses. Everything felt incredible, in ways that you couldn’t comprehend.

He was so burly, a thick wall of impenetrable muscle that seemed to envelop you entirely, shield you from everything else, from all harm. Strands of chestnut stuck to his temples, flesh glittering with perspiration from the exertion of lovemaking, coupled with the heat in your chambers.

With another brusque thrust of his hips, he settled inside of you, reaching his peak with a subtle groan. His seed filled your cunt in hot ropes, more than enough to take, if the Gods were good. Cregan exhaled, feverishly hot as he began to recuperate, neglecting to remove himself from you for a few moments.

“Are you alright?” Cregan murmured, ensuring your wellbeing first, above all else. A stinging soreness settled into your thighs and your core, but you would survive. He didn’t completely obliterate you, thankfully — you wondered what he would be like, unrestrained.

“Yes,” You smiled, visibly flustered beneath the intensity of his stare. “That was incredible.” Your confession made him huff, likely one of amusement as he pressed a kiss against your forehead. Even you glittered with sweat, but that was to be expected.

You already wanted more — and you nearly asked it of him.

Lascivious fantasies took root within your mind, and the mere idea of him being rough and completely domineering made your cunt throb. You could not do it now, given how exhausted you were, but he had certainly unlocked a new side to you, a side that you were unfamiliar with.

Cregan pulled himself from you, propping your hips up beneath a feathered pillow to ensure that his seed would take. He rested beside you, drawing you into the bulk of his muscled arms, allowing you to rest your head against the expanse of his chest. “You were perfect.” He rumbled, roughened digits stroking along your spine.

It pleased you to know that your husband was satisfied with you, much to your delight. “I am glad,” Relief rippled through you as you inched closer, perfectly slotted against his frame. “So were you.” Your pleasant accolades made him smile, fracturing his stony exterior.

“There will be plenty of time for this, that I can promise you,” Cregan was more concerned with getting to know you, his beautiful lady-wife, Lady Stark. “I would like to start with you.” He murmured, savoring the sensation of your fingers tracing across his abdomen.

You blinked, seemingly surprised by Cregan’s genuine interest in you. It made you happy — perhaps you could have both. Moments of learning and moments like these, where you could indulge in pleasure.

“Would it offend you if I asked you to do both?” You questioned, warmth crawling along your body as Cregan squeezed the swell of your hip, gray hues sparkling with a semblance of mirth.

“It wouldn’t,” Cregan mused, timbre dropping to a lull, a husky octave that seemed to envelop you in its stoicism and warmth. “It pleases me to know that Lady Stark possesses the appetite of a dragon.” His teasing made you squirm, but he simply caressed you and held you closer.

With a coy smile, you lifted your head, pressing your lips against his, asserting your still-lingering desire for your husband. “Not a dragon,” Your tone softened with a sweeter resonance. “A wolf.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not steal my work and claim it as your own or translate it onto other platforms.

[zosan-secondchances]

The Pirate King of the North

Main Themes: Villain Sanji, Alternate Universe, Zosan Ship

Sanji-centric AU from a reality where Reiju didn't have emotions.

Warning: Long post ahead and some One Piece spoilers. Contains strong language and explicit content.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 (Special) | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

Young Zoro hates the fucker but those scars and piercings are doing a number to his soul.

Old Sanji's story goes like this:

He didn't experience compassion from anyone else aside from his mother, who--you know what happened.

Judge kept him locked away until he was 13. He had him released when he was deemed too broken to do anything, and he was apparently a waste of space. As far as the world was concerned, he was already dead. He gets left behind at some random pirate town in the North.

His swirly brows were recognized by the pirates who took him in--only for him to be enslaved because people would pay a lot to have their way with royalty.

He picked up some skills from the other slaves and became cunning af--because he had to be.

At 17 he started a revolt against the slaver pirates, effectively taking over as their new pirate captain.

He became the feared "Mr. Prince" and his words are as sharp as his bite.

He's underweight because he doesn't give two shits about good food.

"The All Blue? It's nothing but an old fishwive's tale," he says.

He used his cunning mind and new pirate crew to hunt down and kill his own father from the shadows.

He enslaved his own siblings and becomes the new ruler of Germa Kingdom. Over the years, he used them for warfare and expanded the territory of the North.

His heart is a bottomless pit for power and control.

He had a fling or two or several with is closely allied with Doflamingo because god damn they're both mad like that. The alliance eventually lead to direct connections with Celestial Dragons.

Sanji gains more power and becomes the notorious "Pirate King of the North"

Meanwhile at the other side of the world, Luffy didn't make it as far as he could have without a good cook.

Luffy would have recruited one from Baratie but the restaurant was absolutely destroyed before the smaller Straw Hat crew could make a difference. Some of the staff didn't make it.

Zoro left the crew when it fell apart at some point.

Due to Zoro's reputation and bounty that he had occurred during his limited time with Luffy, he was offered a position as a Warlord, ultimately taking over the late Jinbe's old role. He accepted and served for several years before he was assigned a job that he didn't know would be the most challenging one yet.

The Celestial Dragons didn't like the fact that Sanji had started to have more worldly control over their own, so Zoro was quietly assigned to hunt down the great Pirate King of the North. Zoro accepted because he felt that he needed more experience before he could take on Mihawk again.

Zoro quickly realised that this mission is not a walk in the park.

Sanji loves toying with the Demon Warlord so he insists on taking him on by himself.

It becomes an endless game of cat and mouse. Sometimes Sanji chases and sometimes he runs, sometimes he wins and sometimes he loses.

They're at each others' throats everywhere in the world. Any person, city or being of any kind that gets in the way usually gets torn apart in the chaos. The hunt goes on for a lifetime. They're currently in their 40's.

Zoro severs Sanji's left arm during one huge fight.

Because of this, Sanji relentlessly tries to get Zoro to marry him to use him in so many ways he can think of--both as an asset and under the sheets--oh the things that he wants the swordsman to do and beg for.

Sanji likes to refer to the tiniest scar on his lip as "Zoro's love bite"

He was about to get a nice fresh one on his chest when some fuckers teleported him away.

Hearing old Sanji's backstory was a bit much. It was young Zoro's turn to have a nosebleed that day.

----------

Oh yes I had fun drawing old silver fox, damaged Sanji. I wish I have the time to colour it up. I've also been very much into reading AU stories, especially soul brand ones. Keep them coming, you beautiful people.

Edit: Woo! I finally decided to make my own AO3 account. It's about time. Link here for the story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60686077

[tbaluver]

his treasure- sylus x reader

pairing: dragon!sylus x fem!reader cw/tags: MDNI, monster fucking-ish(?), size diference, p in v, sucking breasts genre: smut + drabble a/n: this is just inspo from his new myth that's coming out and omgee im so excited ٩(^ᗜ^)و i hope everyone that wants his memory gets it! enjoy reading! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

no one dared to enter the dragon’s cave. the tales of hidden riches of gold, jewels, and treasures beyond anyone’s dreams laid all out by a fearsome dragon who kept it all to himself.

groups and groups of townspeople have set out on the journey to see if the stories were true but have never returned to tell the horrible tale of what they have witnessed.

as they stepped into the cave, piles of gold in every corner of the room, mixed in with a pile of jewels and treasures they’ve heard from the tales. but as they stepped further in they witnessed the beast itself.

there he was, on top of a girl, marks littered all over her body as she whimpered in ‘pain’. his wings shielded over his and her body and the possible true horrors of what he’s done to her.

they had dug their own graves, foolishly shouting at the beast and raising their weapons as if it were to intimate him. the dragon- sylus, lifts his head from your neck. his growl menacing and filled with annoyance.

the torches that lined along the walls extinguished in an instant, the dragon striking each and every man that had decided to trespass his lair that day.

each time the townspeople refused to learn from the past group, stubbornly believing they would succeed with the dragon slain with hoards of golds and jewels in tow.

as weeks and months passed by, the townspeople's expeditions dwindled until no one dared to try again anymore.

at last, he has you all to himself. no more foolish humans to bother and no distractions. just him and you.

-

he laid you down onto the plush carpet, better than the rough surface he calls his throne. around you flickered the glow of candles, leaving a warm glow around both of your bodies.

sylus leans forward, placing a kiss on your nipple before looking up at you. his tongue slowly rolls around your bud, sucking it gently after. he found himself groaning, nuzzling against the valley of your breasts.

biting your lip, you watch as sucks the other, his eyes never leaving yours as his tongue continues to tease you. his warm mouth surrounds your nipple as his fangs barely graze your soft skin.

with a quiet pop, he pulls off your breasts, a string of saliva keeping him and your breasts connected. he sits up, his crimson eyes traced the delicate curves of your body. 

his tail coiled around you, wrapping you to keep you in place. the scales brushed against your skin, prickling you and leaving small marks. he made sure to lick each and every mark he had left, his tongue gliding across your skin making the lingering sting begin to fade.

sylus was always tender at times like this, treating you like find gold- not counting what he’s like during his heat.

you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as you continue to rock yourself below him.

he was big, almost too big for your liking. it took some time getting used too and no matter how many times you both fucked, your pussy was always so tight around him, the stretch burning you so deliciously.

his hard cock too thick and long to fit inside of you as he ruts between your thighs, shaking your whole entire body. its rough edges massaged your walls good that your drools pooled down to your neck.

your body twitched and trembled as he continued to plow into you and you knew he was getting closer. your walls were squeezing him and had him near the edge, ready to spill his load deep inside of you. 

his eyes fluttered shut, tilting his head back. groans escaping his lips as his hips picked up the pace. your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you felt a slight burn on the lower half of your body.

his knot stretched into you wider, his bulge in your lower abdomen growing as hot loads painted your walls creamy white.

he growls, careful not to place his claws on you. you were so tight, so warm, so perfect. his mind was spinning as his heart raced.

even with all this fine gold and jewels in this cave nothing can compare to the treasure he has cradled in his arms.

[sanemistar]

DANGEROUS MAN

contents ★ clan leader!gojo x fem!reader, enemies to lovers, fluff, suggestive (17+), making out, slight mention of biting/marking, reader gets called princess, 1.6k+ wc. ﾉ requested for my milestone event.

event m.list ★ jjk m.list

your parents had warned you several times about satoru gojo, the leader of the gojo clan. one of the strongest clans to exist, along with your own clan. they had forbidden you from speaking him, let alone being in the same room as him. due to the long history and the rivalry between your clan and the gojos, your clans had considered each other enemies for as long as one could remember. you had been familiar with their warnings like the back of your hand, and you had abided by them for so long. though you personally had no ill intentions towards him, nor even understood the hatred against the gojos.

that was, until you had met him in person at one of those boring higher up gatherings that you were forced to attend when you two coincidently went outside to get a breath of fresh air, away from all the tension and awkwardness inside.

the first thought that had come across your mind when you first saw satoru was that he was charming, like one of those charming princes you read about in fairy tales. you’d seen him in pictures before, but never this close. truth be told, pictures could’ve never fully captured how ethereal he looked in real life. you’d never seen anyone like him before, and you probably never would. he was simply out of this world, like a work of art—a one in a million man. enchanted by his beauty, you couldn’t help but stare at him in admiration. your eyes never dared to look away from him, as if they were glued onto him.

“well well. if it isn’t you, the princess from that clan.” satoru’s voice pierced through your ears, waking you up from your dazed state. “you’ve been staring at me for so long, like i’m a statue in a museum or something.” you were unaware of how long you’d been staring at satoru until you saw the confusion on his face as he pointed out. you felt your face redden in embarrassment and you immediately looked down in an attempt to hide your flushed face.

“s-sorry about that, gojo-san. i didn’t mean to do that, i just…” you trailed off mid sentence, unsure of what to say in order to justify your actions earlier. your head was in and your thoughts were all over the place.

you heard a pair of footsteps coming closer to you and before you was none other than satoru. the one man you shouldn’t be standing so close to. your mind was telling you to run away and leave, but your body refused to move an inch. his thumb quickly glazed over your chin, swiftly lifting it up and your eyes got caught in his alluring gaze like a mouse in a cheese trap that was unable to escape before he let go of your chin. you could swear that the spot where he touched you earlier was tingling, as if his touch was electric.

“oh c’mon, no need for these formalities. they mean nothing to me. my name is satoru, so just call me satoru.” he spoke and you were slightly taken aback, you two had just met and he already wanted you to act on a first name basis.

“but..” he cut you mid sentence.

“no buts, it’s pretty easy. just repeat after me, satoru.” he said his name again slowly, waiting for you to say it back. he was pretty insistent on it so it looked like you had no choice.

“satoru.” his name finally rolled off your tongue, and a proud smirk made its way onto his face upon hearing you say his name. the way it came off your lips got him a little excited.

just then an idea popped up in satoru’s head, a reckless one at that.

“why don’t we go somewhere else where it’s just us two? away from all this.” he grabbed your hand gently yet firmly, like he had no intention of leaving you alone.

you knew best that it was never good ignoring what your parents had told you and involving yourself with him. but at that moment, you agreed to go with him. completely forgetting about everything, the rivalry, the hatred, everything. you weren’t sure if that was a rebellion phase or what, all you knew was that it felt right leaving with him.

satoru seemed surprised for a moment by how quickly you agreed to follow him, but grinned and took your hand before dragging the two of you away as you disappeared from the main entrance and into a quieter place where it was just you and him.

you had no idea how you ended up being pinned against the wall with satoru’s tall, lean figure hovering over you. completely blocking your view and blocking you from sight.

“why did you follow me so easily, hm? what if i had a malicious intention of some sort. didn’t your parents warn you about how dangerous the gojos were? especially their leader.” your chest moved up and down as your heart began racing rapidly.

“if you had any malicious intentions like you said, you would’ve taken me somewhere outside the territory. but since we didn’t really go that far away, it’d be useless for you to be doing anything dangerous here.” you began explaining. and satoru seemed so impressed by your smart response.

“you’re indeed very amusing.” he chuckled softly. he rested his hands on the wall, forcing you to look at nothing else around but him.

tension between the two of you began rising, and you found yourself subconsciously looking at his lips.

and satoru was so quick to notice how you were eyeing his lips for a while now.

“you could’ve simply asked me for a kiss if you want it so badly instead of just staring at my lips, princess.” he leaned in as he whispered into your ear and you could feel it heat up a bit in embarrassment.

and before you could get the chance to say anything you felt satoru’s lips smacking onto yours. you gasped into the kiss in surprise, your mind screamed at you to break away and push him off of you. but this time not only your body, but also your heart, refused to. you wrapped your arms around his neck, getting in the mood as you pulled him even closer to you. your fingers ran through the back of his soft hair.

meanwhile, satoru’s hands delicately trailed all over your back, slowly exploring every part and every bit of your skin. he was taking his sweet time touching you all while having your lips against his own, tongue exploring every corner of your mouth.

as the two of you further got in the mood, your kisses had become sloppier and hungrier. teeth clashing against each other as tongues swirled around one another in sync. what started off as a soft, gentle kiss had become a series of deep, passionate kisses that held so much lust and desire in them.

you felt so good that you could almost see stars.

“mhmm..” careful not to make any loud noises in order to avoid getting caught by anyone, you hummed against his lips. and you never knew you had the ability to hum like that ever so sweetly.

you couldn’t believe that you were doing such things with the one man you were never supposed to be doing all of that with.

satoru gojo was indeed dangerous, he was too dangerous for your heart.

the two of you had been making out for almost ten minutes straight. if it wasn’t for your desperate need for air to breathe, you wouldn’t have broken away. but due to the lack of oxygen, you had to break away from the kiss and catch your breath. eyes were only half open, your head was still light and dizzy after that makeout session as you were heavily panting, your lips which were now swollen were still slightly parted as a small trail of drool trickled down your chin.

“you look so beautiful right now, i think i’m in love.” satoru glazed his thumb over the corner of your lips, wiping the drool off. he leaned in once more and began nibbling on the crook of your slender neck and you winced a little as you felt him biting a bit too hard which would have probably left a mark that you would have to hide.

“maybe we should leave all this behind and run away together. it’s a great idea, don’t you think?” he suggested as he looked up at you, his blue eyes glowed slightly in the dark.

you suddenly came back to your senses upon hearing the words he said and slightly pushed him off of you.

“satoru we..” you began speaking, trying to form a coherent sentence. “we can’t do that. we’re supposed to be enemies, remember?” it was more of a reminder to yourself than it was to him that you and satoru would never be anything more than enemies.

“but enemies don’t kiss each other like that.” he whispered as he continued kissing your neck and up to your cheeks, then your nose, then back to your lips. he gave you quick, light pecks before pulling away.

“guess i’ll have to talk to those annoying higher ups of ours and end that nonsense rivalry, cause no way i’m gonna let you be with anyone else that’s not me.”

and the next thing you knew, you were being dragged by satoru into the main hall where all the higher ups were as both of you made a dramatic entrance when he announced that he’d be marrying you before kissing you in front of all of them. leaving everyone in the room, you included, in great shock.

satoru gojo was a dangerous, very dangerous man.

𝜗𝜚 taglist: @unriding @lxnarphase @sylusdoll @itachiiwrites @itoshivy @17020 @creamflix @luv-lies

[pretentious-blonde]

confidence

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: a few cocktails and an evening with Robin reveal a new side to your boyfriend, one you really didn't see coming

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, scars, alcohol consumption (reader does not partake), graphic descriptions of sex, oral f receiving, p in v, cocky steve, condescending steve (ikr!! just trust me), all around filth here, steve has one too many cocktails and runs with it

a/n: this was so fun and is my treat for putting you through all the angst (and there will be more trust me) but hey, consider this part a catharsis. we also needed to get robin involved for what comes next so this is what you get. tipsy steve is WILD you have all been warned.

series masterlist

You scramble around your flat, tossing items from one surface to the next, desperate to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything crucial. Keys, check. Purse, check. Chapstick, check. 

Whatever you have on your vanity table feels like it’s winking at you, reminding you that, no, you’re still not quite ready. But you can’t let yourself fuss any longer because outside, through your window, you catch the glare of headlights and hear the impatient beep of a horn. 

Steve’s here—and he’s been here, and you should have been ready ten minutes ago, at least.

You’re still excited, even though you’re late, because tonight is special. Tonight’s the night you finally get to meet the Robin Buckley, the person who’s been such a staple in your boyfriend’s new stories. 

He was determined to pick the “nice bar” in the next town over, the one that apparently “played the good music.” 

You had to bite your tongue. His idea of “good music” usually lines right up with the biggest chart hits, but you figure hey, if he’s excited, you’ll go along for the ride. What matters is that this night is one of his design, and you find it completely endearing that he’s gone out of his way to make it special for you and Robin both. 

He can listen to Ace of Base as much as he wants... even if you have to stifle a fond snort whenever he’s not looking. 

He’s told you so many wonderful (and ridiculous) stories about her that you practically badgered him into setting this up. Tales you hadn’t been privy to before—now slowly unravelling as he let slip new, juicy details bit by bit.

Your big chance to meet the girl who’s shared so much of your boyfriend’s humour and history. And if tonight ends up being half as fun as the pictures you’ve conjured in your head, you’re in for a wild ride.

You snatch your bag and do one last mirror check—just a fleeting glance, making sure your dress is sitting just right and your hair hasn’t decided to rebel. This time, you went for something a little more daring: a flirty dress that shows off your figure in a way you know Steve won’t be able to ignore. 

On a good day, he could barely keep his hands to himself—let alone after last weekend. Taking things all the way had only cemented his need to be close to you, and now, whether in public or private, he always had to have some part of him touching you.

And in this dress? You knew his hands wouldn’t just wander—they’d roam.

Maybe, by the end of the night, you’d let them.

Finally, you rush out, keys jingling in your hand, and clatter down the stairs leading to your shop door. You lock up carefully, tugging the handle to ensure it’s secure—no matter how excited you are, you still need to be responsible—and you pivot on your heel and walk out onto the pavement.

Your steps falter as your eyes land on your boyfriend, casually leaning against his car, arms crossed, looking completely at ease—like this wasn’t a big deal at all, just another night to unwind. But even in that brief glance, you could tell he’d put in just as much effort as you had. 

He’d told you to dress up a little and clearly, he’d taken his own advice. The oversized jumpers and worn jeans were nowhere to be seen. 

This Steve was something else entirely. 

And Jesus, he knew how to clean up well.

He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt, the kind that clings just enough to hint at every plane and angle of his torso. Over it, a sleek black suit jacket, open in front, sleeves rolled just enough to conceal the marks, but also revealing his toned forearms.

It’s like some casual afterthought, but you know him better than that. Every detail is deliberate. The jacket’s tailoring is perfect, nipping in at the waist and broad across his shoulders. It gives him a certain sharpness, a polished edge that you’re not used to seeing in his typical laidback outfits. 

And by God, does it work—too damn well, if the heat creeping up your neck is anything to go by.

His sunglasses perch on the bridge of his nose, not because of one of his migraines—you’d recognise that look a mile away—but purely to complete the aesthetic. They’re modern, minimalist, and do nothing to hide the playful smirk curling at the corner of his lips

The glint of something metal at his wrist (a simple watch) catches your eye, and then your focus is back on his face, following the neat slope of his hair. It’s perfectly styled, golden-brown waves shaped in that signature swoop, but smoother, sleeker—like he spent real time in front of the mirror, carefully combing each strand into place until it sat just right. 

By the look on his face, he knows you’re staring—knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

He watches you approach, eyes dragging over you slowly, drinking in the sight of you just as shamelessly as you’re doing with him.

You step toward his car, face warming at the sight of your date. He lowers his sunglasses in one exaggerated motion, revealing the hint of mischief in his eyes. A slow whistle slips from his lips, just as corny as you might have expected—and somehow twice as charming.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, letting his gaze travel over you from head to toe, “you walk up to me looking like that, we might not make it to the bar.”

Heat seeps into your cheeks, and you roll your eyes in a halfhearted attempt at nonchalance. It’s near impossible to pretend you aren’t melting under the weight of that gaze. 

“I could say the same,” you counter. “What happened to Mr. Harrington, huh? Thought you were all about faded jeans and paint covered nikes.”

He throws back his head with a laugh, then glances at his watch, pretending to read the small face. 

“We might still have time for me to swing home and change if it's—”

You bat his wrist down before he can so much as move. 

“Don’t you dare,” you warn. Because right now, he looks so sinfully delicious you can hardly keep your focus.

“Really—it’s no problem,” he jokes, though the playful glint in his eyes betrays him. His hand slides behind your neck, warm and sure, and your breath hitches at the teasing sensation of his touch.

“It’s gonna be hard to concentrate on anything coming out of your mouth tonight,” you admit, pulse jumping when his thumb brushes a circle over your skin. Pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head, nudging some stray hair off his forehead. 

“Good,” he says, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I’m alright with being your eye candy.” 

He leans down, kissing you in a way that makes your toes curl and your mind fog over. On instinct, you try to deepen it, hands sliding to his lapels, but he draws back with a soft chuckle.

“Whoa there, angel,” he murmurs, his voice playful. “We’ll get to that soon enough.”

You pout, bottom lip pushing out a fraction. Instantly, he shakes his head, one brow lifting. 

“Hey, don’t go getting all pouty on me.” He brushes your lower lip lightly. “You’re the one who’s been on my ass about this whole thing.”

He had a point there. 

Damn him. 

“Fine, fine, you’re right,” you relent. “But you’ve got to make it up to me when we get home.”

The shift in his expression is downright wicked as he leans in. 

“Honey, with that dress?” He tongues the inside of his cheek in a way that sets fire to your nerves. “I’ll be more than making up for it.”

The bar is chic in that slightly pretentious way—low lights, plush seating, a neon sign glowing over shelves stacked with rainbow-coloured bottles. The bass of some popular track flows through the speakers. 

You can’t help but grin when Steve, ever the gentleman, strides ahead to pull open the heavy door for you. He gives you a playful nod as you step inside, his hand warm against your back. It’s reassuring, filling you with the same confidence he seems to be sporting tonight.

“After you,” he teases, voice low, and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you pass him. Even though it’s cheesy, there’s an endearing sincerity beneath his grin.

Once you’re both settled at the bar, he presses a kiss to your temple before glancing at the bartender. 

“What’ll it be?” he asks, tipping his head toward you.

“Just a tonic water,” you say as he frowns.

“You sure?” he drawls, leaning in. There’s an irresistible tilt to his lips, a look that says he’s perfectly fine with either choice as long as you’re happy.

“Yup.” You nod. “You go crazy, though—it’s your night out.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your night out too,” he points out, turning his body to face you more fully.

“Ah, yes, but I have to make a good first impression,” you shoot him a knowing smile.  “Remember?”

He slides a hand around your waist, squeezing you into his side. There he goes with the full on physical affection. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he shrugs as his fingers trace your shoulder. “If I’m anything to go by, Rob’s got questionable taste in friends already.”

Your laugh escapes in a soft huff, and you lean your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, savouring his comforting heat. 

“We’ve gotta work on your self-deprecating humour,” you mumble into the fabric of his suit jacket.

He snorts, pressing another quick kiss to your temple. 

“I told you, angel, I am working on it.”

When he lifts his arm to catch the bartender’s attention, you let your gaze trail over him: the lean lines of his shoulders, the way his hair curls just so. You feel a stir of something low in your stomach at how ridiculously good he looks in the dim, moody lighting. 

Watching him come out of his shell was absolutely delectable—seeing him navigate a crowded room with such ease felt like witnessing a victory in real time, a step forward that was physical proof of progress.

He places the order—your tonic, his own cocktail—and is about to make another witty remark when there’s a gentle tap on his arm.

You glance over to see a brunette woman with an explosive grin, practically vibrating with excitement. She’s dressed up just enough for the night—high-waisted black trousers that elongate her frame, paired with a silky button-up in a deep, jewel-toned shade, the sleeves casually rolled to her elbows.

Her face is alight as she meets Steve’s eyes, and she looks moments away from flinging her arms around him—though she’s clearly checking herself, as if aware of exactly how he handles the unexpected. When he spins, and his entire face brightens in recognition.

“Hey, you made it!” he exclaims, wrapping her in a hug that’s enthusiastic. She squeaks as he squeezes a bit too tight.

“Oof—yeah, I did,” she laughs, patting his shoulder. “Yep—alright—good to see you too, maybe let’s not crush me to death?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says sheepishly, releasing her. Straightening up, he glances back at you, a hint of a blush crawling across his cheeks. 

This is it—the moment he’s been waiting for. He’s known you for a few months, but somehow, it feels like so much more. This is the event he’s imagined over and over, finally introducing you to his closest friend. 

The idea of bringing a romantic partner into this part of his life had once felt so far out of reach, but now that he can? 

That’s exactly what’s fueling his confidence tonight.

“Uh, so… this is—this is who I’ve been telling you about. This is my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

He pauses, savouring the word like it’s something that delights him every time he says it—because it does. 

His eyes flick to Robin, and he can tell there’s something on the tip of her tongue as she takes in his expression. He knows how proud he must look, how transparent his feelings are, but for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

He steps aside for you two to be introduced properly. Her eyes are bright as she takes you in, a wide smile stretching across her face.

“So, you finally asked her?” she asks him, but she’s already beaming at you like an old friend. The excitement in her voice makes your own heart feel more at ease.

Steve’s flush deepens. “Yeah—yeah, I did.”

The girl doesn’t hesitate. She engulfs you in a hug, and the warmth of her personality radiates through every second of contact. 

“Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushes, pulling back just enough to look at you but still keeping her hands on your arms.

You can’t resist flicking your gaze at Steve over her shoulder, your lips curving into a playful smile. 

“Really?”

You didn’t expect any less. 

“Oh absolutely, who do you think he called after every date you guys had?” She steps back to give you a little breathing room. “You should’ve heard him. He was like—”

“Hey, hey—no,” Steve interrupts, pressing one hand to his friend's shoulder. “Can we not share all the embarrassing details of my life right now?”

“Get a few more drinks in him, and you can ask him yourself.” She snorts, rolling her eyes at you. 

Steve laughs, feeling your eyes flick up to him. He doesn’t need the drinks to loosen his tongue—he’s already so hopelessly smitten with you. That much was obvious.

Still, he’s eager to get the night started, to show you off the way he’s been dying to.

“Alright,” he says, finally breaking that little reverie, “I got the drinks, you two go find a seat.” He turns to Robin. “Rum and Coke?”

As always.

“Ugh, yes,” she says, linking her arm with yours. It’s easy, natural—there’s an immediate sense that you’ll get along just fine. As the two of you meander toward a free table, she leans in conspiratorially. 

“So… did he tell you about the ice cream uniform?”

“Oh my god, yes.” A flash of amusement dances across your face. “Please tell me there’s more?”

Her chuckle is mischievous. 

“Oh yeah, there’s a lot more where that came from.”

Time feels fluid as the three of you settle into conversation, the low thrumming pulse of the bar’s music weaving around your table, though not too loud to drown out your voices. 

It’s been a while since you first claimed your seats, and yet you barely notice the hours slipping by. Every story Steve and Robin launch into starts with them tossing playful jabs back and forth, only to pause mid-sentence and glance at you, beckoning you to weigh in. 

You find yourself giggling along, giving opinions on whether a certain scheme was more ridiculous than some ill-fated date night, or whether one of them was actually to blame for a mishap they still remember. They trade banter like it’s second nature, and you feel like you’ve been part of their duo from the very start.

At some point, the discussion circles back to their high school days—a topic they both seem to have endless material for. You’re practically on the edge of your seat, soaking in every detail they’re willing to spill. Robin leans forward, clutching her glass as she narrows her eyes at Steve with playful accusation.

“Well, this guy could have been hanging out with me a lot sooner,” she says, wagging a finger in his direction, “if he’d actually paid attention in class, that is. Did you know I sat behind him in history for a whole year? Yeah—a year.” She stretches out the word for emphasis. “Didn’t even remember it.”

Steve huffs in protest. 

“Hey now, that’s not entirely true—”

“Yes, it is,” she cuts in, her grin bright with triumph. “When we both started working together, he introduced himself to me. Honestly, like I didn’t already know who he was.”

“In my defense,” he insists, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I was trying to focus.”

“You were so not.” Robin snorts. “How many tardies did you get that year?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. 

“I passed, didn’t I?”

“Barely.” She arches an eyebrow, and you laugh at the indignation blossoming on your boyfriend’s face.

“Yeah, well,” he shoots back, folding his arms across his chest, “how many times did you have to take your driving test, huh? What was it—three? And who was stuck chauffeuring you to band practice before class even started?”

Robin’s jaw drops in mock outrage. 

“That’s not fair, driving is hard!” She punctuates her point by thumping Steve’s shoulder, though there’s no real force behind it.

“Yeah, sure it is,” he snickers. “Especially when you shut your eyes at a junction because you’re scared to get on the freeway.”

She shoves him more firmly this time, but her eyes sparkle with affection. You can practically feel the fondness thrumming between them. Every playful jab is undercut with closeness, revealing just how much they trust one another. 

Steve is so at ease—practically glowing. There isn’t a hint of the anxiety you sometimes catch in his eyes, no shadow of the stresses he’s hinted at before. He’s all laughter and bright colours here, the multiple cocktails probably loosening him up even more.

Watching them, it dawns on you just how special his friend is. She’s watched him become the man he is, seen him through phases you’ve only heard vague references to. There’s a sweet, sibling-like bond between them that would have made you insecure if not for how purely platonic they obviously are. 

They’re too busy ribbing each other and finishing one another’s sentences to harbour any romantic tension. And the sincerity in their smiles, the way they drift into each other’s personal space—this is the foundation that’s helped him grow. As you observe the two of them, you feel nothing but gratitude towards her.  

Does he feel this way around you too? 

Or is this kind of bond reserved for someone who’s known him since high school, who’s seen him through everything.

You lean in closer, meeting his gaze as his expression softens. As you sip your drink, you catch the way his playfully annoyed look melts into something fonder—a small, boyish smile taking its place. 

He nudges your foot under the table, a quiet little gesture just for you, as Robin continues listing her many reasons for despising driving. When he shoots you a wink, you can’t help but hope that one day, you’ll share that same camaraderie—the kind that comes with knowing someone inside and out.

The conversation drifts into a lull before Robin suddenly pipes up again, leaning toward you with a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes. 

“Has he cooked for you yet?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows as if preparing you for some shocking revelation. “He better have with all the work I put in teaching him.”

“Oh, he has!” You nod eagerly, sipping your tonic. “I guess I have you to thank, huh?”

“You sure do.” She leans back with a self-satisfied grin, crossing her arms. “Should’ve seen him the first time I tried to get him into the kitchen—boiling an egg was apparently a herculean task.”

The boy groans in protest, shooting her a halfhearted glare.

“They cracked! That’s not my fault.”

Robin laughs, drink nearly sloshing over the rim. 

“Yeah, because you turned the heat too high.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” he defends himself. “They get hot and break.”

Bless him.

“Uh, no, Steve.” You try to stifle your own laugh, but fail completely. “It’s because the water was boiling too hard, they bang around in the pot.”

His brow furrows in puzzlement. 

“That’s what that is?”

Robin's expression matches your own, and both of you fall into giggles again at his earnest confusion. 

God, he’s sweet. 

“Seems like I have more work to do,” she sighs, taking another sip of her drink.

“Clearly,” you agree, throwing Steve a playful side-eye. He raises his hands in protest.

“Wow, okay—” he says, rolling his eyes, “so you’re both ganging up on me now?”

He sees how it is.

Typical. 

Robin props her elbow on the table, her head tilting back with a grin that’s gone a little hazy from too many drinks. 

“Yeah, well,” she begins, voice lilting with mischief, “you have gotten better. Remember when you basically refused to go into the meat aisle? You said it smelled like the tunnels, but I asked Dustin about it and he said that—”

She’s halfway through the sentence when Steve stiffens, his foot giving her a not-so-subtle nudge under the table. At once, the mirth drains a bit from her face, and she glances over at him, clearly realising she’s stepped onto sensitive ground. 

You perk up—another piece of information. But instead of clarifying anything, it only adds to the puzzle. 

A tunnel? 

Steve had never mentioned that before, but your brain immediately tries to slot it into the story you already know. Was there a tunnel at the old mall? 

It's possible.

But that wouldn’t make much sense in the context of meat. He worked at an ice cream shop, not a damn butcher’s.

“Sorry.” Robin whispers, looking apologetic. You know you were not meant to hear that apology and you couldn’t help your curiosity. 

“What?” Your eyebrows draw together. “What is it?”

Tell me. 

“It’s nothing, sweetheart.” He forces a tight-lipped smile, shrugging a little too casually. “Don’t worry about it.”

You want to be sad, but you can’t. And you certainly can’t press him on it, not here. Not when he was so excited about tonight, so eager to show you off.

You feel his hand resting on your thigh, but now there’s a tension in it that wasn’t there before. That shift, that change from the easy one he had just moments ago, is what makes the decision for you. There will be other times for this, other moments to piece things together. But not now.

You exchange a lingering look between them—Robin mouths out another apology, and he gives her a small, forgiving nod. 

You don’t dwell on the moment. Besides, you still have a new piece of the puzzle. 

That was better than nothing.

By the time you step out of the bar, it’s just past midnight, and the cool air rushes to greet you. Steve is practically attached to your side, his arm draped over your shoulder as though he might topple over without your support. There’s a flush on his cheeks, and you can’t help but find it adorable—his usual guarded composure replaced with an open, slightly wonky, grin.

And it's hilarious to witness.

“C’mon, Steve,” you coax, wrapping an arm around his waist for balance. “We gotta get back.”

He’s clearly not ready for the night to end as he opens his mouth to protest. 

“Nooo, we can stay,” he pleads, turning big eyes on Robin, who stands nearby with her own contented smile. “Rob, tell her we can stay. She got all dolled up for this, wouldn't be fair—”

You exchange a conspiratorial smile with her. Leaning in close so Steve can’t quite hear.

“Does he always get like this?” You whisper.

"When he drinks?" Robin stifles a laugh. "Oh yeah, big time—gets super sappy."

Then, turning toward the pouting grown man beside you, she huffs. 

"I told you to take it easy with the mojitos."

Steve was clearly not listening. 

“Pssh, whatever,” he interjects, only half hearing her. “I don’t have to be up tomorrow, and neither do you,” he says, pointing somewhat dramatically at Robin.

She lifts a hand, palm out to stop his rambling. 

“Yeah, well, if I go home to Vickie like that, she’ll have more than a few choice words for me.”

He tips forward in a woozy attempt at reassurance. 

“You can… you can blame it on me?” He offers, voice trailing off into a sweet but slurred laugh, like he can't even take himself seriously.

His friend just shakes her head, clearly endeared. 

“Nice try—but no.” She says before turning to you. “You alright getting him home?”

Glancing up at your boyfriend—his eyes half-lidded, a sleepy smile hinting on his lips—you nod, your own fondness tugging at your heart. 

“I’m sure I can handle him,” you confirm with a tiny smirk. 

You’ve guided him through worse nights than this.

“Alright, Steve, let go of your girlfriend for a sec so I can say goodbye,” Robin says, trying her best to be stern. He frowns but reluctantly loosens his hold on you.

You slip away long enough for her to wrap you in a quick hug. Her voice is brimming with excitement as she pulls back. 

“We have to do this again. I haven’t even told you about working at the video store and his terrible sorting system—”

"Hey!" A spark of protest ignites in Steve's gaze. "I don’t wanna hear it, alright? It was superior to whatever—" he waves his hands in front of him, searching for the right word, "carnage you had going on."

“Alphabetical is far from carnage.”

He huffs, nose wrinkling in mock indignation, but even through his tipsy state, he can’t hide the affection in his eyes. He tugs Robin into a hug goodbye and you can feel the tenderness between them. 

And just like that, you’re left with a very happy, very tipsy Steve Harrington—who has promptly glued himself right back to your side.

You guide him, swaying on his feet, into the passenger side of his car. He flops in with a soft grunt, blinking as though everything around him is subtly moving. You close the door gently, careful all of his limbs are inside, before walking around the front of the car to slide into the driver’s seat. The interior still carries the faint trace of his cologne, a small reminder that—despite how he looks right now—he is, in fact, a put-together adult. 

Well, mostly.

“All right, Mr Harrington,” you say, scanning the dashboard. “Where’re your keys?”

He puts on an exaggerated, perplexed expression, patting his chest and shaking his head. 

“I dunno what you’re talking about…”

Rolling your eyes, you lean over, determined. 

“We are not going back in there,” you tell him, stern enough to make him give you a dramatic pout when he realises you won’t budge.

“Fine,” he mumbles, fishing around in the inner pocket of his blazer before finally producing the car key. He hands them over, and you give him a grateful smile, slipping them into the ignition.

“Seat belt?” you prompt.

“Yes, ma’am.” He sighs as though you’re asking the world of him. His voice is playful, edged with that mellow tone people get after a few too many drinks.

“You’re so bossy,” he continues in a tone that cannot be taken seriously. “Are you usually this bossy?”

“Well, sorry for caring about your physical safety,” you fire back, carefully easing out of the parking space.

“Always looking after me, aren’t you?”

He releases a soft laugh, leaning against the passenger door, his eyes remained fixed on you. 

“Someone’s gotta,” you reply, face softening as you glance over at him. “You feeling okay, or are things spinning?”

“What? I’m fine.” His eyes widen in mock indignation. “Do I not look like fine?”

You flick a wry smile his way. 

“You look drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he objects, though his lopsided grin and rosy cheeks tell a different story.

You look at him now—not as perfectly put together as when he picked you up, but somehow, he looks even better. 

His hair is no longer an art form, tousled and a little wild, and his posture has lost all its careful composure, slumped and comfortable. His eyes, softer now, lock onto yours, completely unguarded. 

He looks utterly relaxed—and for him, that’s something big.

It seems like the perfect time to test just how far gone he is, just a little fun—tease him while he’s in this gullible, blissed-out state.

"Good," you start, the drawl in your tone unmistakable, eyes flicking over him knowingly. "Because if you were, I would’ve stayed the night. Helped you through the hangover tomorrow."

“What?” His reaction is immediate. “You’re not staying?” He sits up straighter as if you’ve just admitted to murder.

You shrug with as much nonchalance as you can manage. 

“Not sure. I have a few things I need to get done tomorrow…”

"No—baby," he blurts out, sounding more pitiful than you’ve ever heard. "I’m so drunk, practically wasted here—can’t even see straight."

“Oh yeah? That bad, huh?"

"So bad," he nods vigorously, eyes wide with dramatics. "You gotta stay."

He tilts his head just enough to sell it. 

"C’mon, what if I wake up miserable and there’s, like, no one there to feel sorry for me?"

A laugh bursts out of you. His soulful, puppy-eyed expression tugs on your heart. For a moment, you feel a tiny pang of guilt for teasing him—but it was just so goddamn easy.

“All right, then,” you relent. “I guess I’ll have to stay—” you shoot him a sly smile, “just in case.”

His relief is obvious. A broad, boyish smile breaks across his face, and he exhales a dramatic sigh as he melts back into the passenger seat. 

By the time you park outside his place, he’s steadier on his feet—though still leaning on you for support, but you suspect it’s not from the drinks. His fingers trail along your waist and up your spine, as if he can’t bear to stop touching you for even a second. 

Once inside, you gently push the door shut behind you and help him shrug out of his blazer. He doesn’t flinch or resist—not a single indication of the usual tension that sometimes appears when his arms are exposed. 

Whatever self-consciousness he carries about his scars is nowhere to be found right now. As soon as the it’s off, his hands return to your waist, pulling you flush against him so he can bury his face in your hair.

“Steve,” you murmur, pressing a hand to his chest. “Let me get you some water.”

“In a second,” he groans, leaning down to brush his lips against your jaw. “I haven’t given you nearly enough attention tonight.”

“You’ve given me more than enough, trust me.” You laugh softly, sliding a hand up to his cheek to coax him back. “C’mon, water first, then bed.”

He lets you guide him into the kitchen, though he still can’t resist peppering little kisses along your shoulder whenever he can sneak them in.

At the sink, you fill two cups of water—familiar with where everything is kept by now—but the moment you straighten, he is behind you, his chin hooked over your shoulder, lips lightly grazing the side of your neck.

“Hey—nuh-uh," you chide, reluctantly. “We can’t right now. You’ve had a drink.”

No matter how much you want to.

“No—can’t do that to me.” He groans dramatically, pressing himself against your back. “Y'knew what you were doing with that dress. Been thinkin' about it all night…”

A flush warms your cheeks at his plea, you turn in his arms and hold out the glass. 

“Drink this, please?”

His frown is exaggerated, but he dutifully tips back the glass. Downing the water in a few large gulps, then setting it aside, blinking down at you with heavy-lidded adoration. You stifle a laugh and take a sip from your own cup while he keeps his gaze locked on you.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, voice thick with sincerity.

“Steve…” Your cheeks heat even more.

It's the drink talking.

“No, I’m serious—” He shakes his head, eyes soft. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw you tonight—was just… so excited to have you on my arm, for everyone to see.”

See how far he'd come.

The statement makes your heart thump, and when he lifts a hand to brush some hair off your forehead, you lean into his touch.

“You think she liked me?” you ask quietly,. A half smile curves on your lips as you probably know the answer, but you need the reassurance that you made him proud.

“Don’t think it’s possible for someone not to like you.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and your heart melts a little further.

“You’re real sweet when you’re drunk,” you tease.

“I’m sweet all the time.” His hands trail languidly down your arms, leaving your skin tingling in their wake. You nod, breath catching slightly. 

“Yeah, you are,” you admit, cheeks still flushed. His lips graze your neck again, sending a pleasant shiver through you.

“You gonna let me be real sweet to you?” he whispers, his breath tickling your skin.

You hum, gently pushing him back just enough to meet his eyes. He’s gazing at you so intently, smitten and serious all at once. The haze of alcohol may linger in his system, but the affection shining in his expression is crystal clear.

He looks down at you, catching the hesitation in your eyes. He knows exactly what it means—you won’t do anything unless he’s fully there, fully present in the moment. And that only makes him want you more. 

The fact that you’d wait for him, that you care enough to make sure he’s in the right headspace, has him feeling completely enamored.

But he’s right—he has been patient. And the cocktails? They aren’t clouding his judgment in any way that concerns him. He’s a little fuzzy, sure, but not intoxicated. Well—maybe by you. And if he’s being honest, he’s been itching to get his hands on you all night.

He drops a soft kiss to your lips, then pulls back. 

“I’m not drunk, angel,” he insists quietly. “Just a little tipsy.”

You still look unsure, and he sees it instantly. But Steve knows exactly how to sweet-talk you into trusting him—how to make you see that this isn’t the alcohol talking, that you're gonna be safe with him.

He's choosing this. 

"I want this, angel," he murmurs, nudging his nose against yours. "Not because I’ve been drinking—because it’s you. I've got you."

His fingers trace gently along your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. You're nearly there.

The final blow.

"So if you’ll let me… I’d really, really like to show you just how much."

You cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over his warm skin. 

How on earth can you say no to that? 

“Alright, we can—”

You’re cut off by him letting out a triumphant breath and scooping you right up, hands slipping under your thighs to support you as he strides toward the bedroom. You squeal, clinging to him in surprise as you try to talk through the stream of nervous giggles.

“Steve!” you exclaim, your laughter echoing off the walls.

He just laughs in return, the sound rich and throaty, carrying you through the doorway as though you weigh nothing at all.

He practically tosses you onto the bed in his haste, eliciting a squeak of laughter from you as your back hits the soft covers. It’s immediately clear there’s something different in him tonight—he’s excited, charged, and looking at you with eyes that burn like embers. 

Before you can fully process his transformation, his mouth slants over yours in a desperate kiss that has you gasping into him. His palms roam over your body, broad and possessive, like he can’t decide which part of you he wants to touch first.

A startled giggle leaves your lips when he breaks away to mouth along your jaw. You tip your head back, giving him room, unable to stifle a grin at how single-minded he is.

“Eager, huh?” you tease, voice breathless.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, pupils blown wide with desire. His hair’s slightly mussed from your fingers, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. 

“Honey—if you knew half the shit I was thinking about at the bar,” he says in a low rasp, “you wouldn’t be teasing me right now.”

A shiver courses through you—filled with pure want. There’s a spark of mischief in your veins. Something about seeing him like this, so unguarded, emboldens you. 

“Big words,” you reply, cocking a brow, “for someone who still hasn’t touched me properly yet.”

He barks out a laugh—almost incredulous, the corners of his mouth quirking like he’s delighted you’d dare to challenge him. 

“Is that how you wanna play tonight?”

He doesn’t know what’s come over him. He wasn’t lying, he wasn’t drunk, but there’s a desperation bleeding out of every part of him, something hungry and entirely focused on you.

He feels confident—only spurred on by the way you’re pawing at him, the way you were looking at him all night.

Like you belonged to him.

For once, there’s no hesitation, no fear of disappointment when he will rid himself of his clothes. He knows you’ll like what you see, and that sends a realisation through his mind, tipping him straight back into King Steve territory—sure of himself and completely in his element with something he is verifiably good at.  

Judging by the way you arch up into him, the way your fingers grip at his skin like you need him closer.

You can feel it, too.

He gently gathers both your wrists, guiding them above your head, pressing them into the bed which sends a slow, delicious shiver down your spine.

He’s testing now, feeling out this new territory between the two of you. He feels you hold your breath and his grip stays firm—but never forceful. His strength is potent, but he wields it gently, a reassurance that you could break free at any moment if you wanted to.

He glances down at you, breath still heavy, eyes searching. His fingers squeeze yours once.

Are you okay with this? 

He waits, unmoving. 

And when your hands squeeze back, the answer is clear.

You’re allowing him to do this to you.

And fuck, that sends something primal through him.

He leans down, teeth grazing the juncture of your neck and shoulder in a teasing nip that has you keening.

“Careful what you wish for, baby,” he murmurs, moving his kisses along the curve of your throat. “I don’t do halfway.”

A thrill of anticipation flares in your belly at his words. This new side of him—so sure, so hungry—has you spinning. Each nip draws a gasp, your entire body stirring under the onslaught of sensation.

After one last kiss pressed into your collarbone, he releases your wrists and skims his palms down your torso, pausing at your hips. The shift of power jolts your heart when he slides off the bed, kneeling at the edge.

He wears a crooked grin as he grabs your thighs and unceremoniously yanks you closer, your lower half practically dangling off the mattress. Then he hooks a finger under the waistband of your underwear, his gaze dropping like he’s savouring every detail of you.

He runs the pad of his thumb over the thin fabric, right at the wet patch where you’re most sensitive, and your breath seizes.

He’s gonna have some fun with you. 

“You know,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, tantalising circles, “I could be mean… take my time, really make you work for it.”

You swallow.

Hard.

Where the hell did that come from?

Steve has flirted with dirty talk before, tossing out teasing remarks that left you flustered, but he’s never drawn it out like this—never tested your patience with such slow, deliberate cruelty.

It’s so different from the way he usually is, and his look tonight only amplifies it. His all-black outfit is still visible through the planes of your thighs, a monumental contrast to the flustered, second-grade teacher you stumbled upon all those months ago—the one who could barely string together a sentence to ask you out outside his classroom.

Now he’s like this—in control, commanding, completely reveling in the role he’s taken tonight.

It hits you all at once: how much he’s changed.

How much he’s grown.

You can hardly imagine that past version of Steve taking charge the way he is now, and fuck.

It’s beautiful.

It makes you want to give in completely, to relinquish yourself to him, to let him feel what it’s like to lead again—to call the shots, to take what he wants, to be the old him once more.

“You wouldn’t,” you manage to retort, but your bravado falters the moment you see his face.

He arches a brow, amused by your statement.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chides as he runs a hand down your leg, “you know I would." He pulls himself closer to your core, never breaking eye contact. "Not just gonna hand it to you, not tonight—you’re gonna ask for it, real sweet for me, okay?”

You’re about to fire off another witty remark when he slips your underwear down your legs, the fabric disappearing in one swift motion. Goosebumps race over your skin at the cool air against your heated flesh. 

His eyes darken at the sight of how wet you are, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he fights to stay in control. You see his throat bob when he swallows, like he’s genuinely trying not to devour you on the spot.

A surge of embarrassment rises in your chest at how the exposure, but it’s overshadowed by the torrent of desire swirling inside you.

He settles in, nudging your knees apart, and plants soft, teasing bites along your inner thighs. The gentle scrape of his teeth makes you shudder. It’s maddening that he’s so close yet deliberately avoiding the place you need him most.

“Steve… please—”

You stop, voice cracking on the final syllable, unable to fully spit out what he wants. The vulnerability of wanting something so fiercely—of needing him so shamelessly—clutches at your chest. But he only smiles against your skin, smug and satisfied.

He's enjoying this.

“Mmm,” he hums “that’s a start, baby." His large hand presses lightly on your hip, keeping you still. "But you can do better than that, c’mon.”

Christ—he’s really doing it.

Making you earn it tonight.

His words shoot molten heat straight to your core, and your cheeks burn at how easily he’s backed you into this corner. You’re used to him being sweet, doting, bending to please you. Now he’s making you work for it.

A new wave of arousal slides through you, and your pride cracks under the tension. 

“Steve, fuck—” you grit out, “I need… I need your mouth on me.”

Your voice is so pitiful, so wrecked, that it makes him pause. Just for a second. Letting your request hang in the air between you. He tips his head back, eyes shutting as the pretty words sink in, echoing in his mind, wrapping around his ego like silk.

You always ask so nicely—so sweet, like you know he’s the only one who can give you what you need.

When his gaze drifts back down to you, his lips curl into a slow, wolfish grin, full of intent and promise.

You got it, angel.

“See?” he murmurs, voice buzzing with triumph. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His fingers grip the underside of your thighs, the press of his thumbs guiding you to spread open for him. He’s so sure in his movements—like he’s found a new rhythm to the confidence that’s always been under the surface.

His eyes flick up, meeting yours, silently asking for every ounce of trust.

“Now,” he purrs, “be good for me and hold still.”

Your half-formed reply dies on your lips the moment his tongue flicks out in a slow, deliberate stroke, and every one of your senses sparks with raw heat as you gasp.

The slick sound of him feasting on you, the wet slide of his mouth and the soft, desperate little hums in his throat—it’s a rush of sensation you can’t possibly process all at once. Your breath hitches, eyes rolling back, and you grasp at the sheets for any sort of grounding.

He’s relentless, and your responses only spur him in more, bracing his arms under your thighs and pulling you closer as he licks you in languid, thorough passes that have you panting. 

You’ve felt his enthusiasm before, but never quite like this—he’s devouring you, every flick of his tongue precise, and he's barely even started. His nose nudges in precisely the right spot against your clit, sending another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.

You can feel his smile against you as you writhe beneath him, he knows exactly how good he is, and he’s revelling in it. And he doesn’t waste a second—doesn’t tease, doesn’t draw it out—just gives you exactly what you need, slipping a finger inside your walls slowly. 

He’s reading you like a damn book, tracking every little reaction, every shaky breath, every twitch of your body. And when he feels you clench down around his digit, a quiet, broken sound slipping from your lips, he looks up—just to see the glazed-over look in your eyes, the telltale sign that your mind has emptied of anything but him.

Perfect. 

Exactly where he wants you.

A strangled moan bubbles up in your chest, almost slipping free, but your reflex is to clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the embarrassing sound. 

Immediately, he notices your movements. He stills, bites down on your thigh—not too hard, but with enough force to jolt you out of your pleasured haze—and you gasp, eyes snapping down to meet his.

“Oh no, baby,” he admonishes, voice reverberating against your skin, “none of that. If I’m makin' you feel good, I wanna hear it.”

Flustered heat floods your cheeks. 

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, sweetheart, you were,” he cuts in with a smile that’s maddeningly confident. “But that’s alright.”

He reaches for your wrist, prying your arm away from your face. The gentle kiss he presses into your palm is so achingly tender it makes your breath stutter. Then, he guides your hand to the top of his head, tangling your fingers into his hair.

“Go on,” he murmurs, sighing when your fingers scrape against his scalp. “Keep me here. Let me finish what I started.”

You don’t need to be asked twice. Your grip tightens in his hair, trying to ground yourself against the swirling sensation of his mouth and hands. He groans in approval at the tug, the vibration sending fresh sparks of pleasure dancing along your spine. 

It’s overwhelming—the sloppy sound of him working, the heady smell of desire in the air, the blazing heat coiling in your stomach that’s already coiled too tight.

The pressure builds fast, almost too much. A litany of moans and half-formed pleas stutter from your lips, and your thighs clamp around his head, unconsciously trying to pull him closer. He doesn’t let up, his mouth so perfectly focused that you feel yourself hurtling toward the brink.

“Steve,” you gasp, voice cracking as you arch your back. “Please—I need you inside—”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your wild, pleading gaze. A cocky smirk paints his face, and you’re distantly aware of how your own arousal slicks the lower half of his jaw. 

He looks downright smug.

“So bossy,” he drawls, drunk on lust and repeating the earlier sentiment. He slips his fingers out, ignoring the needy tremor that wracks your body. “But you knew how this was gonna go—first you come on my tongue. Then you get my cock.”

Jesus.

Did he really just say that?

He dives back in without waiting for your reply. Shock ripples through you at the brazen filth coming out of his mouth, but it’s drowned by the delirious pleasure of his tongue lapping at you again. A strangled moan escapes you, and you tighten your hold in his hair.

The pleasure whips through you in dizzying waves, and you can’t hold on any longer—your voice cracks on a broken cry as you cum, your muscles seizing, back arching off the bed as he drinks in your release. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure blooming hot beneath your skin. 

He groans, feeling your thighs quake around him, but he only slows when you start to whimper that it’s too sensitive. Gently, he eases the pressure, placing a series of soft, almost apologetic kisses against your shaking inner thigh.

He could get used to this new confidence.

Especially when you reacted like that.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still hooded and dark, chest heaving as he looks at you sprawled on the bed. A deep flush staining his cheeks, seeming almost in awe of you—of what he’s just done.

Of what he was capable of. 

“Fuck—” he breathes, voice ragged. “That was so fucking beautiful.”

And he’s gonna make you do it again. 

He leans back on his heels, gaze tracking over your trembling form. For a moment, all he does is toy with the hem of your dress, the fabric rumpled from all his manhandling.

“Dressed so pretty for me,” he murmurs, dragging his fingertips along the edge of the material. “Should’ve been patient, taken my time peeling it off first.”

Your heart feels like it’s about to punch a hole through your chest. The desire in his eyes is thick—tangible enough that it makes every nerve in your body light up. You lift your shoulder slightly, desperate to be rid of the clingy fabric.

 “T-take it off—”

He huffs a low laugh and shakes his head, catching both of your wrists gently and pressing them back onto the bed. His grip is firm but never harsh, the contrast makes your pulse jump even higher.

“Ah-ah, sweetheart,” he chides. “Lemme enjoy it a little longer.”

You wore it for him, after all. 

Still fully clothed himself—his slacks pressing against your hypersensitive core—he leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, open-mouthed kiss that has your head spinning. You can feel the rough fabric nudge between your thighs, stoking the heat that hasn’t subsided one bit since he first put his mouth on you.

His breath warms your neck as he breaks the kiss. 

“Begged so pretty for my mouth—how 'bout you tell me how bad you want my cock?”

His voice is all tease, dripping with amusement as he watches the effect his words have on you. He holds back a chuckle when you tug at his shirt. His impatient girl.

He knows what you want.

He’s not dumb.

He just likes watching how precious you are when you're needy.

“I swear—if you don’t—”

He grins, cutting you off.

“If I don’t what?” The low rasp in his voice vibrates through you as he finally lets go of your wrists to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, taking pity on you at last.

He doesn’t even register the scars covering his torso—you’ve already seen them, already traced them with careful fingers, already accepted them. Right now, that’s not what matters.

The only thing on his mind is you—how far he can take you, how much he can push with this new trust you’ve given him. He’s going to drag this out, drink up every second.

And later, when the night is over, he’ll revisit this moment again and again, replaying it until it’s burned into him,

Until it’s engraved into his eyelids. 

“You want me to take these off?” he drawls, glancing at your still mostly clothed figure, “What d'you think?” He pauses and pretends to contemplate his question. “Should I make you beg for that too?”

God no, you plead looking up at him. 

Your expression must be downright pitiful—eyes big, mouth parted—because after a few agonising seconds of letting you squirm, he exhales a soft chuckle. 

He’s not gonna be that mean. 

At least not tonight.

“Alright,” he says, voice warming, “waited long enough. Let’s get you out of this—before you tear it off yourself.”

Finally.

His hands move with purpose, helping you out of the dress in record time. The bra follows in one swift motion, baring your skin to the chilled air. The hunger in his gaze intensifies, and you instinctively cross your arms over yourself, but he gently pulls them apart with a soft, adoring look.

He might be all sharp tongues and teasing words, but he’s still your Steve—and it slips through the second he sees you like this, sees the softness in your naked body.

Every time, it wrecks him. Leaves him in awe, staring like he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He has to school himself, to remind himself why he’s here.

Not just to have you.

To make love to you.

Fuck you so good you forget your own name.

He stands to rid himself of his jeans and underwear, fumbling briefly with the button in his haste. The condom he grabs from the top drawer is on in a flash, and you can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes your lips.

“Were you planning this?” you quip, arching a brow.

He smirks, bracing a hand on the mattress as he crawls over you. 

“Wouldn’t call it planning,” he admits, “more like wishful thinking.”

He looks down at you, gauging every little reaction as he settles between your thighs, his mind spinning from the way you’ve handed yourself over to him tonight.

Every teasing thought that crosses his mind? 

He says it. 

Every slow, deliberate movement? 

He makes it. 

He’s always had a quick mouth, always had a knack for getting the last word, and it turns out that skill translates pretty well in the bedroom. 

From the way you’re responding—whimpering, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, he understands it's effect.

He drags his cock through your slick, soaking in the way you shudder, still sensitive from your last release. The broken little sound you let out nearly ends him right there. 

He almost slows down, almost stops to check in, almost asks if you need a second—

But then he sees it. 

That look in your eyes.

Like you’re seconds away from combusting. Like if he doesn’t fill you up right now, you might actually fall apart. That puts his mind at ease real quick.

You can take it. You can take him.

You always have, every curveball his fucked up life has thrown at you and now, this is your reward. 

His tough girl—so pretty, so pliant, and all his.

“You’re so worked up, baby,” he murmurs, rolling his hips just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath. "Fuck—bet I could make you cum again before I’m even all the way in—"

Your body clenches at the idea, but a flicker of alarm crosses your features. He notices and offers a crooked grin, leaning down to press a comforting kiss to your cheek.

You can have him now. 

"Shhh—I'll be nice, promise.” He assures, sliding his hand to the back of your neck. "I know—let me give it to you, yeah? Just how you like."

He pushes inside with deliberate slowness, guiding himself until he’s fully sheathed, and the stretch is a sharp, blissful edge that has your toes curling into the sheets. Heat flares bright as you take him in, your breath catching in your throat at the way he fills you.

"Shit," he breathes, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering shut. "You—fuck, you have any idea what you did tonight?"

His mind flashes to the bar—how pretty you looked, how fucking dangerous you stared at him, all soft-spoken and sweet while chatting with Robin, while his brain was miles deep in the gutter.

"Had me losing my fucking mind, baby—kept looking at me like you wanted me to bend you over the damn table—"

Your cheeks burn, fresh embarrassment creeping up your neck. Sure, you were flirting with him—but not to that extent, right?

The way his eyes darkened whenever you brushed against him, the way his jaw tensed, like he was barely keeping himself in check. And now, hearing him say it out loud, knowing just how much it got to him.

Yeah. 

You don’t regret it one bit.

“I-I didn’t mean to—”

His hips flex, drawing a startled cry from you. 

“No?” he challenges, leaning down so his breath skates across your lips. “Then why're you squeezing me like this, huh? Feels like you wanted it real bad.”

A strangled moan rips from your chest when he adjusts his angle, the friction almost too exquisite to bear. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints on his skin, and he seems to relish it. It only spurs him to thrust deeper, rolling his body in a fluid, deliberate motion that has you arching up into him.

“Can you feel how deep I am?” he rasps, pressing a broad palm over your lower stomach.

You nearly wail at the added pressure, your body tightening involuntarily. Every nerve feels overexposed, and the sweet ache is already coiling again, dangerously close to snapping.

"Yes—yes," you pant, voice breaking, eyes squeezing shut like it’s too much. "Fuck—fuck, I can feel it—"

His own breathing is ragged, that confident smirk never fully leaving his face. 

"Yeah—you do," he groans, voice cracking. "Fuck—stretching around me so fucking perfect—"

He pounds you into the mattress, each thrust driving sparks of ecstasy through your veins. The headboard knocks against the wall, but all you can do is cling to him, trying to keep your mind from fracturing under the overwhelming pleasure.

“Steve—Steve, I—,” you gasp, the tension in your core reaching a fever pitch, “I’m gonna—”

“Shhh, baby,” he croons, sliding a hand under your back to pull you closer, forehead pressed to yours. “It’s okay—I got you. Been so good for me tonight—go on, let go.”

Your body locks up, the orgasm tearing through you with near-blinding intensity, muscles clamping around him in a cascade of pleasure that leaves you sobbing out broken moans. His rhythm stutters, his eyes squeezing shut as he chases his own release.

“That’s it—” he mutters, voice cracking with urgency. “Fuck, I can’t—I—”

One more thrust and he’s lost, groaning low in his chest as he spills into the condom. The two of you ride out the final tremors together, foreheads pressed, breath mingling in the heavy air.

It takes a moment for you both to resurface after his release, his chest still heaving against yours. The pleasure in his eyes slowly gives way to something gentler.

He leans down, pressing a series of lazy, heartfelt kisses to your forehead, your cheekbones, the corners of your mouth—wherever his lips can reach. Each touch is imbued with care.

“Did so good,” he murmurs between kisses, voice affectionate. “So good for me, angel.”

You melt under the praise, letting your eyes drift shut as you soak in his breathless devotion. It contrasts how wild he’d been just moments ago—downright relentless—makes his current tenderness all the sweeter.

With a gentle grunt, he pushes himself onto his elbows, brushing back the stray hair that clings to your damp forehead. 

“I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move.”

In your blissed-out state, all you can manage is a drowsy hum of assent. He slips off the bed, and you watch through lidded eyes as he pads across the room, disappearing into the bathroom. 

You hear the tap running, the faint rustle of him disposing of the condom, then the soft swish of water in a washcloth. Your body feels utterly spent, a pleasant tingle still humming along your skin.

There’s a quiet care in the way he cleans you up. The washcloth is warm and soothing against your overly sensitive skin, and you shiver at the sensation. 

His gaze follows your every little twitch, making sure he hasn’t hurt you. You can feel his hand trembling ever so slightly—not from uncertainty, but from the flood of emotions surging through him.

“Hey,” he says, voice subdued, “that was okay?” His eyes lift to yours, a glint of worry in them. “I mean… you’re good, right?”

You let out a lazy, content laugh. 

Yeah, you're pretty fucking good.

“Think I’m gonna need a week to recover.”

“Yeah?” His eyebrows shoot up. 

“Definitely.” A mischievous curl graces your lips. “Now, come here and let me fall asleep on you.”

You really are bossy tonight. 

“Alright. Gimme a second.” He stands up, rummaging through a drawer for a pair of boxers. When he slips them on, you catch a glimpse of the faint lines of his scars, but he still doesn't seem bothered.

He fishes out a soft, worn T-shirt for you, returning to the bed to help you pull it over your head. The patience contrasts all of his previous actions.

“Better?” he asks, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

You nod, contentment seeping into your bones. He climbs in beside you, pulling the covers up until you’re both tucked in. He wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you close enough that you can press your face against his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat lulls you, punctuating the silence.

You open your mouth to say something—maybe to tease him about how he just passed some imaginary line from shy to sweet to downright insatiable—but before you can form the words, you realise his breathing has already gone soft and rhythmic. 

The drinks and all the exertion apparently caught up to him, and he’s fallen asleep, mouth parted and face slightly smushed into his pillow.

“Good night,” you murmur, a fond smile tugging at your lips, even though you know he can’t hear you. You lean up to plant a delicate kiss on his jaw.

You knew he'd appreciate it if he was awake.

He mumbles something incoherent, shifting only to pull you tighter against him, and you let out a quiet giggle that he sleeps right through. Feeling his warmth, your own exhaustion rushes in, and you finally let your eyes flutter shut.

The hungover teacher stirred with a low groan, rolling onto his side as the dull ache behind his temples made itself known. His mouth felt tacky and dry, and he blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the morning light filtering through the blinds. 

Nine o’clock was the time displayed on his alarm—usually he was up before then, but after the night he’d had, it was hardly surprising.

Last night was fun.

Last night...

Last night.

Oh, God.

The realisation hit him like a jolt of caffeine. He cast a quick glance around the bed. The rumpled sheets on your side were cool to the touch, and his heart gave a lurch. He noticed right away that the clothes the two of you had tossed around last night were no longer strewn across the floor. 

His mind whirred with images of the previous evening: how he’d practically been glued to your side in the car, half-drunk and babbling. How he’d lost every ounce of self-consciousness once you got inside… 

And dear lord, that torrent of absolute filth that had poured out of his mouth.

He didn’t regret the closeness—far from it. But the specifics came rushing back, making him wince. 

He’d definitely gone too far, pushed some kind of boundary here. A flush crept over his cheeks at the recollection of the way he’d practically manhandled you, said things to you he hadn’t allowed himself to say in years. 

And the marks—no, not his—he vividly recalled leaving little reminders of himself on your skin. What if you were hurt or upset? Is that why you weren’t next to him in bed?

Fuck this is bad. 

So very very bad. 

Just as he was about to scramble out from under the covers to search for you, he heard the bedroom door creak open. His stomach flipped—and there you were, peeking in with a bright grin, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.

“Oh, Casanova has finally risen,” you teased, stepping fully into the room.

Relief flooded him so quickly he almost felt dizzy. You were still here. 

And you looked…

Well, you looked content. 

Happy, even?

You were practically glowing.

He stayed propped on one elbow, eyes roving over the fresh T-shirt you’d thrown on, a new one from the previous night, hair still mussed. He swallowed, trying to find words, but they didn’t come. He settled for a sheepish smile as you rounded the bed and set the cups on the bedside table before perching on the edge of the mattress, near his legs.

“How’s the head this morning?” you asked, tilting your head in concern.

“It’s, uh…” He shrugged a bit stiffly, still grappling with the residual embarrassment. “I’ll live,” he managed, realising only then how dry his throat was.

You leaned back, letting out a laugh, you couldn’t help it. He looked so frazzled in the low light of the morning. Your movement caused your hair to shift, and he finally noticed the marks he’d left on your neck. 

His stomach lurched. Guilt surging through him.

Crap. 

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted, pushing himself upright. His hands slid over your shoulders, fingertips grazing the bruises with excruciating caution. “I swear, I never should’ve done that. Please tell me they don't hurt—are you hurt? I promise—”

You pressed a finger to his lips to stop his apologies spilling. 

“I’m fine,” you soothed.

He shook his head, eyes clouded with worry. He didn’t believe it, you were just being nice—too nice—like you always were. 

“Angel, you don’t have to lie to me,” he insisted, voice hushed. “I got carried away, I know I did. Just—just look at your neck. I—”

He never wanted to leave anything physical on your body. 

You batted his fussing hands away before he could delve into another apology. He felt you shift closer, sliding a leg over his lap and effectively straddling him. The contact made his heart thump in a way that was not filled with desire, but with reluctant relief.

If you were willingly crawling into his space like this, you couldn’t be too upset. 

Right?

“Hey,” you said softly, “look at me.”

He did, brown eyes trained on yours. The moment they did, he felt the tension in his chest loosen just a fraction. 

“Were you ever going to tell me where you learned to talk like that?” You teased, voice playful as you decided to steer the conversation in a new direction. 

You knew he’d be beating himself up—that’s just how he is. So, it was up to you to pull him out of it, to ease his mind from the intensity of the night before and steer him somewhere lighter, something more playful.

Also, you were definitely curious about where he got that mouth from.

A deep crimson spread across his cheeks. He remembered fragments of last night. The shamelessness of it all, the confidence, the raw desire that had him spouting every sinful thought crossing his mind. 

“… I don’t know!” He admitted, eyes shifting away but he knew you would not be satisfied with that answer. “Back in high school, I, uh… picked some stuff up, I guess. Whenever I just said what I wanted, reactions were… enthusiastic.”

“Reactions, huh?” You arched a brow. “Were you some kind of player?” You press further, leaning into him and watching him squirm. “I can imagine you had all the girls wrapped around your finger.”

Steve’s stomach knotted—he hated how this conversation was going, even if you punctuated it with a compliment. 

“I wasn’t, like, a player player,” he defended, lost as to how to word it right, “but I—fuck—I know my way around a woman, okay?”

“Way around a woman? So romantic.”

He groaned, planting his face in his hands in a thoroughly mortified gesture. 

“You know what I mean, God—” he mumbled, voice muffled. “You’re bullying me right now—this? This is bullying. Shouldn’t have introduced you to Rob, she’s rubbing off on you.”

With a grin, you gently peeled his hands away from his face, enjoying every once of embarrassment. 

“Call it payback,” you said, eyes dancing. “Because if this is bullying, I don’t know what to call your behaviour last night.”

He tried to retort, but ended up pressing his lips together. 

You got him there. 

He couldn’t bear it any longer, needed to put an end to this ruthless interrogation and wipe that cruel expression off your features. 

“Come ‘ere,” he said, voice still raw from sleep. Slipping his arms around your waist, he tugged you beneath him, rolling you onto the bed in a playful tumble. Your giggles filled the space, effectively silencing your questions.

When the laughter finally subsided, you stroked his cheek, a question in your eyes. 

“So I take it the hangover isn’t too bad?”

You’re finally done with torturing him.

“No, not too bad,” he shook his head, lips curving. “Told you I wasn’t that drunk.”

You gave him a dramatic eye-roll. 

“Yeah, alright,” you teased, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. “Hop in the shower. I’ll make us breakfast.”

His brows rose, something like hope glinting behind his eyes. 

“You’re not gonna have one too?” He tried to sound casual, but truth be told, he was already imagining the possibility of you joining him.

“I already did,” you replied, shrugging. “You were dead to the world. Didn’t wanna to wake you.”

“Well, next time, do.” He huffed in playful protest. “I could’ve helped.”

You shot him a pointed look as you slid out from under him. 

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

He tries to follow, strong arms itching to have you back in them. 

“Depends what you mean,” he countered with a sly half-smile. “I can be very useful when I wanna be.”

You’re sure he could. 

“Go shower, lover boy.” You roll your eyes and grab a pillow, swatting him lightly. “I’ll get us something to eat.”

He laughs as he stretches up, blanket slipping to expose his torso as he clicks out all the sleep of his spine. He slips off the bed, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before he scurries through the doorway.

You wander into the kitchen, the morning sun giving the space a homey atmosphere despite the sparse contents of the fridge. When you open it, you are met with a mildly irritating discovery.

Three eggs. 

Damn it. 

You decide he’s earned two of them for all his hard work last night. A shopping trip is definitely in order, he’s not going to survive on leftover cereal and a couple of condiments. Setting the eggs aside, you gather bread and butter for toast, determined to whip up a breakfast that’s at least semi-nutritious. 

Grabbing a small notepad from a drawer, you remember that your boyfriend tends to dump half his belongings in the console table by the entrance whenever he can’t find a proper place for them.

So you wander over, opening the drawer and flipping through random scraps of paper in search of a pen. Old receipts, a couple gold star stickers, a manual for an appliance that he apparently never installed—typical Steve Harrington clutter.

Your fingers still on something that immediately stands out. A small stack of official-looking envelopes, bold printed letters across the front. The same sender, repeated name after name on each envelope. 

The stamp—some government seal or maybe an organisation’s letterhead—catches your eye. Your heart gives a peculiar jolt. 

National Laboratory? 

You’re not entirely sure, but it’s definitely not from his school. It looks official, maybe serious. Possibly part of the story he’s only given you glimpses of. You hover there, tempted. 

It’s not your place. 

You know that. 

But curiosity thrums in your veins—if only you knew more about where these came from and how they tie into his past. You catch a snippet of text on the paper, scanning just enough to see some names that mean nothing to you—except that they might mean everything to him.

Before you can open it fully, the shower in the next room clicks off, the pipes clanging in that telltale way. Mild panic surges up your spine, and you hurriedly tuck the envelope away. 

Grabbing the first pen you spot, you practically race back into the kitchen with it clutched in one hand, notepad in the other, as though scribbling down a grocery list had been your sole focus this entire time.

Trying to steady the beat of your heart, you begin jotting random items—milk, bread, eggs, fruit?—each word an effort to keep your thoughts from drifting back to those envelopes and the million questions you suddenly have. 

You care about Steve, more than you can articulate, and you still yearn to know every piece of his history. 

A soft rustle of movement alerts you to his presence before you feel it. He steps up behind you, pressing a warm, damp kiss to your shoulder. The heat of his skin seeps through the thin T-shirt you’re wearing. You notice his hair’s still dripping from the shower, and he smells faintly of soap.

“What are you up to?” 

“What does it look like?” Feigning ease, you hold up the list. “Making sure you don’t starve here. Clearly, you didn’t plan on feeding yourself for more than a day or two.”

He leans in, peering over your shoulder at the small list, then huffs a quiet laugh. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Wanna go to the store with me later? I’m sure there’s some pizza in the frozen-food section calling my name.”

You turn your head enough to catch his eye, relieved he hasn’t noticed anything amiss. 

“We should probably go soon,” you point out, recalling Sunday hours. “They won’t be open all day.”

Instead of answering right away, he skims his lips up the side of your neck,. The bare expanse of your skin prickles with goosebumps, and you fight the urge to melt against him entirely. He chuckles at your reaction, pressing a little closer so you can feel the solid weight of him.

“I can be quick,” he teases, voice dipping into the same husky register you remember all too vividly from the night before. 

“You’re not tired enough from last night?”

He’s insatiable.

“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning into you, “you’ve got me wide awake this morning.”

Your eyes flutter shut when he turns you around, guiding your hips so you’re facing him, your notepad nearly forgotten in your grip. He kisses you then, slow but with a playful flick of his tongue that reminds you he’s not quite done pushing your buttons. 

“Bet I can have you calling my name again in five minutes, tops,” he whispers, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

You roll your eyes—though your pulse jumps traitorously—and push gently at his chest. 

“We’ve got errands now. If you wanna eat something besides toast for the next few days, you better rein it in.”

You playfully bat his hand away, though you can’t suppress your grin. He leans in for one more quick kiss before he finally heads into the bedroom to put some clothes on.

You watch him go, and he’s still the Steve you know. There’s still a layer of him you’ve only just glimpsed, wrapped up in those official envelopes, as well as Robin's previous slip-up.

That is the real Steve Harrington, the one you intend to fully understand. 

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish

[onepieceisreeeeaaalll]

Smutty Law HCs

I finally did it. Just like I did for Zoro, here are my self-indulgent Law smutty headcanons in their full glory. I can't help it. My brain rot is too far gone. I may go back and edit after posting like I usually do, but here it is.

CW: NSFW MDNI! P in v, light impact play, slightly dominant Law, possessive Law, some sweetness too though

Check out my masterlist if you like stuff like this!

Law is someone who keeps himself relatively focused and composed. It’s obvious to anyone who knows him that he’s a busy man. Honestly, you weren’t even sure he had a sex drive until you got together.

Oh boy, were you wrong.

This man has a fairly good grasp on work-life balance despite how busy he keeps himself. He’ll work for hours on end tirelessly but always makes room for companionship to spend time with his crew. You included.

So, after a grueling day of work, he might need to blow off a little steam.

Where he’ll start might seem obvious - he’ll grab you up the moment you’re alone in either of your quarters, already placing heated kisses and nips along your neck. There isn’t always a warning, but it’s become fairly routine at this point.

Law loves necks, collarbones, ears - the whole upper body is his domain for foreplay. He loves to tease, nipping and claiming territory where he’s careful to place in areas that no one will see. 

Not that he minds if anyone did see the marks he’s left. 

He’ll push you up against a wall, his tongue lavishing your throat with attention, sucking and nipping at the helpless flesh as he pulls small gasps and moans that vibrate against his mouth.

It just makes him go crazy.

His hands like to travel, moving down your chest, to your hips, your waist. Anywhere he can grab, he’s gonna grab. Love handles? He’s grabbing them. Hip dips? Baby, those are the perfect indents for his hands.

It’s always needy with him, too, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s pent up or because he can’t get enough of you. Probably both.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about you,” He’ll groan, his voice muffled against your skin.

The moment he decides he can’t stand to wait anymore, when he’s already covered you with a sufficient amount of hickeys and love bites, the clothes have been tossed aside and you’re on the bed. He’s kissing everywhere his lips can land.

When he’s feeling a little more rough, though? He loves to push you down over a desk, a table, a nightstand. One of his favorite things is to bend you over, smack your ass, grab it, and tell you that you’ve been getting on his nerves all day. He’ll even provide examples, though on days you were fine, he’ll honestly just nitpick all the ways your body drove him crazy.

“You’re such a pain in my ass, you know that? Walking around like you own the goddamn ship. Remind me who your captain is.”

“Tired of seeing you show that much skin in battle. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get yourself killed.”

When he’s taking his time, though, it’s more careful. His hands travel, and he loves to caress you anywhere he can. His touch is always deliberate - slow, calculated. Mind over matter.

He’ll kiss down your body, worshipping it in a way that’s purely possessive. Every inch of your body is part of the journey, his hands running over your breasts, down your stomach, tracing along each curve with his tongue.

He likes to tease with his fingers more than anything, whether it be against your pert nipples, down your sides, into your aching cunt. He knows how to use his hands very well - they’re steady, practiced, the tell-tale signs of a surgeon. Law treats your body with as much care as any operation he performs.

The 'E' and 'A' tattoos on his hands always sink so perfectly into you, curling in the way that he knows you crave. If you rut against his hand, he'll tut, holding your hips steady with the full grip of 'death' on his other hand.

"So needy. Can't you be patient for me?"

All the while, his smile is bordering sadistic. He loves seeing you go crazy for his hands.

Law has your body mapped out in his brain, all the places that elicit very specific reactions from you. He lives for the moans or gasps from grabbing your hips, gripping your ass, spreading your thighs. 

He likes to take you apart piece by piece, a small reminder to both himself and you that each part of your body inexplicably belongs to him and no one else. Nobody else can touch you the way that he can, can systematically bring you to the edge of orgasm and hold you there the way he effortlessly does. 

Blowjobs, though. We need to talk about blowjobs, because these are always an event. This is a quick blow-job sidebar.

Law used to hate them. Full-stop, he hated the idea of his dick in someone’s mouth. It always felt too vulnerable, and far too unsanitary.

Something about you though just makes him want to see how far down your throat he can get it, if you’re willing.

He used to think he couldn’t come from a blowjob. He was almost certain. One time he saw your eyes prick up with tears, though, and heard you moan around his cock. That sent him over easily, and now it’s a regular occurrence. He loves the idea of you enjoying sucking his dick, bringing him that pleasure, and he’ll happily let you sink to your knees and take care of him.

Sex itself just depends on his mood. 

While he talks more during foreplay, he’s usually more quiet during sex. This is mostly because he’s using so much effort to keep himself from coming too fast. 

When he wants to be rougher and say nasty things to you, you’re on your hands and knees so he can’t come too quickly from the fucked out look on your face.

“Yeah - listen to you, so loud for me. You gonna be a good girl and keep taking what I give you?”

He’ll whisper expletives under his breath, and if you fuck back on him? He’ll lose it, right then and there, easily. It’s your quickest way to ensure a fast orgasm from him.

Otherwise, he looooooves to push you onto your stomach so he can kiss your back, grab your ass, slide his fingers down to that aching wet pussy he’s already worked up so well just by giving you attention. Something about you not being able to see what he’s doing turns him on.

“So sensitive, and I’ve barely even done anything.”

His favorite positions, though, are the ones where he can see your face. He loves every expression you make, the way your face contorts in ecstasy, how your eyes glaze over as you get closer to coming. He’s never seen anything more erotic.

During this kind of sex, Law’s still a talker, but it’s quiet. Hushed. He doesn’t want others to hear anything remotely vulnerable from him. It’s only for you. Only ever for you.

He’ll whisper that he loves you, that you’re beautiful, things that he’s certain he’ll only ever say when his cock is buried deep in your velvet walls. Outside of sex, Law keeps these feelings to himself - making love, however, he lets it out. It’s almost impossible for him not to.

When he finally comes, he’s always louder than he wants to be, but he can’t help it. The grunts from holding it in always turn into long, quiet whines that he muffles into your shoulder or neck. His hips always slow steadily, pumping as much as he can until he finally gives out from exhaustion.

He likes to just cock warm after sex for a while, always careful to place his arms around you once he’s picked himself up. He doesn’t want to crush you or anything like that, but the proximity of having you perfectly wrapped around him feels nice. The connection is what gets him more than anything.

If he doesn’t go more than once, it’s a rare occurrence. Refractory time on this man is crazy. We’re talking at least two rounds every time you go at it, likely because he’s been pent up.

Aftercare is important. In fact, it’s not even a second thought with Law. It’s so natural.

When he’s finally had enough and lets his cock out of you, he takes a brief second to admire his come spilling out of you before he’ll let himself lay back on the bed. His bedside table always has towels at the ready, along with painkillers and water. He likes to cuddle, to rest for a while before getting into the shower with you.

At first, showering with you felt awkward. He didn’t know where to stand or what to do with his hands. Eventually, though, he grew more comfortable.

Now it’s a matter of just staying as close as possible to share the warm water, and his hands are always gentle as they caress and wash your body.

[adragonsfriend]

A scree-bat launches itself from a branch, opening flimsi-thin wings to flutter over to a berry bush. It lands on a bobbing branch and chitters with happiness. Its sharp teeth puncture the skin of a purple fruit, round with juice, and sugar spills over its tongue.

The Room of a Thousand Fountains is an oasis in the Force, and from Coruscant’s durasteel structure. These days, the arching canopy of its trees and the trickle of water over the land provide the only true shelter in the Temple. Always, there were pockets of distress or anxiety here. The daily fluctuations no one is immune to. But beneath those was always the foundation of goodness wrought by a thousand years of difficult, personal work done by a collective of individuals seeking rich soil.

Under the soil—there are layers of earth here, deep enough to turn a patch of space on a city planet into real water system—an eight-legged chanit marches, holding a grain of sand in its first set of legs. It follows a string of its fellows, thousands long. Each carries a brick for the base of their colony.

The foundation is still there, those individuals working as hard as they ever have, harder even, to be the best of themselves.

Dozens of species of moss, clover, and grass cover the ground. They spring up easily from the right soil, and with enough water. Their roots are tended by fungi gardeners in a relationship half as old as the Force itself.

But after two years of war, even the Jedi Order can begin to buckle, hairline cracks appearing in the structure. Others in the Order are aware of how war clouds the Force. Each of them are aware of their own struggles.

A single betnek tree grows taller than anything else in the garden. Its bark is smooth, its leaves wide. It holds a taf-hawk's nest in its branches and shelters a Jedi in its shade. After it traveled from Ryloth through deep space as a seedling nearly eight hundred years ago, its tap roots reached through the soil of the gardens until they broke through the stone base of the Temple.

It is Yoda alone whom the Force allows to reach out and touch the cracks, trace the way they’ll develop, see the way the whole will shatter if left unattended.

In a time when most Jedi favor the saber, Yoda meditates. He fills the cracks with vines, moss, and mortar made of gentle joy. He lifts columns and braces roofs with woody sprouts until they heal on their own. To pockets of fatigue, he offers the high trickle of streams over layers of silt and loam and sand and home, so that war weary jedi find healing. His work is never ending. Often, he loses ground. Still, he centers himself in the Force and stands, as mighty as betnek tree and as subtle as moss, a bulwark against the evil prowling outside his home.

This is what it means to be the grandmaster of the Jedi Order

—the canon compliant part of This Story can Kill You

When did the Jedi lose their way?

A notion put forward by Tales of the Jedi and The Acolyte is the idea that the Jedi were losing their way, as an Order, by letting themselves become more institutionalized and mired in bureaucracy.

Is that the intended narrative? Nope!

Because here's the thing, Lucas acknowledges the fact that the Jedi start to be corrupted, at some point. But if you ask him, that happens as a consequences of being used as generals during the Clone Wars.

(note the keywords "used" and "forced"... aka they didn't willingly join the war, they were drafted by the Senate to fight in it, see here for more research & quotes)

But during The Phantom Menace? The Jedi are in their heyday.

"You see the heyday of the Jedi, when they are the guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy, sort of like the old marshals out West. And there's thousands of them." - Vanity Fair, 1999

Their only fault is that:

the Senate is their boss and the Senate is corrupted af which limits their mandate greatly (so not really the Jedi's fault, but it does make their hands tied)

they're oblivious to the Sith's scheme.

This notion that "they were so institutionalized/detached from the regular Joes of the galaxy that they became dispassionate and lost their way, forgot about the little guy" is absolute headcanon from fans and current authors. Lucas never brings it up once.

On the contrary, during development, he and concept artists took measures to make them look less institutionalized and heartless.

The Jedi temple isn't meant to signify an ivory tower, it represents a place of warmth/worship that contrasts with the coldness dispassion of the Senate building.

The Jedi used to wear uniforms, it was softened to a humble tunic.

Because the intended narrative is that the Republic (including the Jedi) and Anakin's downfall are paralleled with Palpatine's rise to power. There is a direct correlation, both in-universe and thematically.

As Palpatine becomes Emperor, the Republic dies under thunderous applause while the Jedi get slaughtered, and Anakin becomes Darth Vader.

As Palpatine gets emergency powers, the Republic weakens because of the war, the Jedi's values are foregone and Anakin is put in situations where he fails to uphold the Jedi teachings, over and over.

And it all starts when Palpatine becomes Chancellor after pushing out Finis Valorum, marking the end of an age of value.

(Get it? Finis Valorum? "Finis", latin for "end", "Valorem", latin for "value" puns are fun!)

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods VIII

series masterlist - part seven

Pairing - Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary - The pot finally boils over.

Warnings - 18+, minors dni, historical inaccuracies, mentions of injured animals, reader is briefly intoxicated, dub-con, forced proximity, obsessive/possessive/unhealthy relationships & behavior, biting, dirty talk, reader is traumatized, alcohol consumption, violence depicted, blood, gore, vomit, slight breeding kink

Word Count - 5.4k

The cuffs on your wrists felt unnatural and heavy. They were not unlike the cuffs that slaves wore to signal who they belonged to, although yours were dotted with jewels and made with solid gold.

They had a matching necklace; a big, chunky thing that made you feel as though you were about to topple over. The jewelry paired with the fine clothing made you feel unrecognizable. Anyone who looked at you would not assume you had once been a simple worker.

The crowd roared with excitement and the sound created a buzz in your ears. Never had you thought you would have to endure the games again; once had been more than enough for you. Now, not only were you being forced to watch the games, you would be doing so from a prime viewing position.

It could have been your imagination but you felt as though you could already smell the scent of blood in the air. Cloying, suffocating. You reached up a hand to adjust the necklace and quickly dropped it when Geta side-eyed you.

You had thought the games would distract them from you. Their attention had become even harder to shake since your room had been destroyed. Crushed under the weight of it, you were desperate for a break that would not come.

Once again you had been placed on a wooden chair, but this time it was between the seats of the emperors. A position of honor. You wanted to tear the jewellery from your body and flee, disappear into the crowd and become invisible once more.

Occasionally you would catch the eye of someone in the crowd. You were getting used to receiving that same pondering look from everyone you saw. They wanted to know who you were, why you were sitting with the emperors, why their hands were all over you.

It was as if they were stripping you of you past, moulding you into someone who was more suitable. Dressing you up as they would a prized doll. Jewelry, clothes - there was even a smearing of kohl on your outer lids.

Would your friends recognize you if they saw you now?

The emperors were dripping in luxury. Draped with expensive clothing with the most intricate of patterns and colors you could not even name; you couldn't help but admire them up close. They looked every bit the gods you had believed them to be.

Caracalla's enthusiasm was palpable. He kept yanking you close to his side, pointing out things in the crowd or regaling you with tales of past games. You nodded numbly through his explanations, too wrapped up in your own nerves.

Geta was unusually twitchy and it took you a moment to realise that he, too, was eager for the games to begin. Your hands clenched around the fan you had been given and you glanced over your shoulder, at Lucilla and her husband.

General Acacius was striking man. Tall, muscular and certainly handsome. Together, he and Lucilla made an impressive couple.

Geta leaned close and hissed, "Is there something particularly interesting back there?"

"I have never seen a General before," you said stiffly, returning your attention back to the arena.

Geta's lips twisted and he placed a warm hand on your thigh, squeezing.

The crowd adored Acacius. Geta instructed him to speak and he did so, offering a few coarse words before returning to his seat beside his wife. Geta and Caracalla earned similar applause, likely because of the food that had been provided. People were all too easy to please.

With that, the games began.

Your face tightened as several men rode out on exotic animals, swiping and slashing at the gladiators to thunderous applause. It seemed such a waste - both of human and animal life. You snapped open your fan and attempted to breath steadily.

Caracalla pushed a cup of wine into your hands and you drank it down in its entirety. It was more potent that what you were used to and you leaned heavily on the side of Geta's throne, exploring the bitter taste in your mouth.

Both emperors were enraptured by the games. When the first man died you gasped, craning your neck to watch him flail in the sand. Red blossomed around him and it felt as though it took hours for him to finally go still.

The smells were getting to you. Blood, filthy men and animals. You stuck your nose into another cup of wine and attempted to drink slowly.

"That gladiator is talented, is he not?" Geta asked.

"Certainly," Caracalla agreed.

You felt their eyes on you, gauging your level of interest. You busied yourself with another cup of wine, drinking it down in big gulps. You felt nervous and yearned for a distraction. You had found one in the bottom of your cup.

Once your cup was empty Geta signalled for it to be filled again. Your hand trembled as the attendant topped up your cup. You stared at the woman and she finally met your gaze and dipped her head.

"My lady," she said.

You breathed slowly out of your nose. You were so far from a lady it was comical. Could no one else see that? Could they not feel it the way you felt it?

Caracalla pinched your waist. "My lady," he cackled. "You certainly look the part."

"It is all thanks to the generosity of my emperors," you smiled tightly.

Caracalla's attention was pulled from you once more when the crowd cried out. He got to his feet, pressed himself to the edge of the box for a better look.

Geta eyed you, an unfamiliar look on his face. "You are going to be drunk by the end of this if you continue."

"I am thirsty," you lied.

It had been an age since you had last been drunk. And never off of something so exquisite. The wine drowned out the roars of the crowd and the squealing of injured animals.

Miserable, you scanned the crowd. How could they dislike the emperors when they, too, were so bloodthirsty? As long as it was not theirs, they did not care. How was that any different to Geta or Caracalla?

Nauseous, you finally set down your cup. It would not do to make yourself physically sick.

Geta ran and finger down your inner arm before entwining his hand with yours. The physical affection startled you and you would have moved if you didn't feel so suddenly ill.

He called for a refill - of water this time. He used his free hand to push the cup into yours, telling you to drink.

"Fool," he shook his head, "you should not have drank so quickly. Now sit up and look amused."

You did your best to sit up straight and do as he had ordered. Whenever you began to shiver or look away his hand would tighten on yours ever so slightly. You were almost grateful; the last thing you wanted to do was humiliate yourself in front of any curious onlookers.

Even shaded from the sun you felt hot. So many heaving bodies pressed together generated almost unbearable heat, even from your position in the emperor's box.

An hour slipped lazily by. You felt every moment of it even in your drunken state. Men died below you like flies. The crowd devoured every death until they became meaningless.

It took a moment for you to realise why Geta was getting to his feet. The games were almost over. There was one man standing and another on his knees. Both were bloodied and dirty, sweating in the hot sun.

The winner looked up to Geta for his answer. Geta paced for a moment, palms upturned as though asking for guidance from the gods. It looked real enough from where you sat; you could not imagine how he appeared to those in the crowd.

Geta held out his hand, shaking as though coursing with power. You stilled, leaning forward. What would he decide? What would the gods decide?

When Geta flipped up his thumb you nearly vomited with relief. The crowd went wild, rising to their feet and screaming for the hero in the arena. Relief - albeit temporary. The man would likely meet his death before he earned his freedom.

Your feet felt unsteady as you attempted to get up. Geta saw you sway and locked your elbows together, jerking his head at Caracalla who appeared on your other side.

If you spoke to Lucilla or Acacius you did not remember it. The emperors were doing a good job of making it look like you weren't about to spill all over the floor. You leaned heavily on them, teetering down the steps like a newborn babe.

The journey back to the palace felt torturous. Geta's hands wandered, encouraged by your inebriated state. His rings were cool against your skin and you welcomed his touch, sagging into his side. Pleased with your reaction, he peppered tiny kisses behind your ear whilst scolding you for drinking so much alcohol.

Geta's forwardness would have been startling if not for your current state. The heat of the afternoon sun combined with the wine was making you delirious.

Once you were back in the confines of Geta's rooms, Caracalla placed a smacking kiss on your lips.

"You taste of wine," he commented, squeezing your chin. He leaned in for another kiss, relishing the taste.

You took a step back, evading Caracalla's grabbing hands. He pouted and followed, hands tight at your waist. You swayed in his arms, letting your head drop onto his shoulder. The jewelry he wore dug into your forehead but you felt paralysed.

"I am not well," you moaned.

"Poor girl," Caracalla cooed, hands cupping your ass. "She cannot hold her wine, brother."

He released you and you sank to the floor, curling into a ball and breathing heavily through your nose to ward of the nausea. Foolish indeed.

You could hear Caracalla and Geta arguing but it barely registered. Your thoughts turned slow and syrupy and you succumbed to the alluring lull of wine-fueled dreams.

Sleep was filled with feverish dreams. Crowns of golden laurels, soft hands, red hair. You awoke sweating, dizzy and alone.

Staggering to the table, you poured yourself a cup of water. It went down smoothly, soothing your throat. Geta's rooms were empty and you were, for once, blissfully alone.

The cuffs had left indents in your skin and you hissed as you pulled them off, followed by the chunky necklace. You rubbed at your neck, absentmindedly tracing the patterns it had left on your skin.

You poured yourself another glass, lowering yourself to the floor in a sitting position. The sky had darkened considerably since you had slept and it left you feeling disorientated.

Lifting your hand to your eyes, you patted gingerly at the corners, pulling away to see kohl still on your fingers.

You no longer felt entirely fearful around the emperors. There was always a level of uncertainty, naturally, but it was exhausting to constantly be afraid. They would always be unpredictable and you would never be able to fully understand them but you had come to feel somewhat. . .secure.

You did not know what you had done to deserve this. Both the positive and the negative.

Your days all blurred together in a smear of gold and red. They had inserted themselves in your life - or, rather, forced you into theirs.

They could still have you killed at any moment. The way Geta had looked at you when he caught you staring at Acacius had turned your stomach. How far would you have to push to have the full brunt of that aggression turned on you?

Their violence was something you had to keep reminding yourself of. You had seen it with your own eyes and heard so much worse. Yet it was hard to remember when none of it had been directed at you and it made you feel like a traitor to those who had been beaten bloody and killed on the orders of Geta and Caracalla.

Sighing, you got back to your feet. You put the jewelry back on. It was probably best the emperors did not see you took it off without their permission.

With no one around to tell you otherwise, you left the room under the pretence of searching for the emperors. You needed to get out of Geta's rooms for at least a little while.

There was a Praetorian waiting outside the room. For you, you realised. He told you that the emperors were in a meeting of sorts with Macrinus and that he was to bring you to them once you awoke.

You nodded. "I'd like to go this way, please."

The Praetorian allowed you to lead him the longer way round. He did not comment if he noticed you dragging your feet.

Being trailed by a guard felt strange. It had been enough just to have their eyes on you, now they were ordering others to watch you as well. You did not have it in you to protest. Whatever boundaries you had had been crushed by Geta and Caracalla days ago.

The shadows deepened the longer you walked. Cool air floated through the windows, dusting across your cheeks. The scent of food and smoke was in the air. You inhaled eagerly, a smile forming on your lips. In a moment like this it was simple to pretend everything was normal.

It disappeared as you went further into the palace. Once you entered the entertainment hall you stalled, glancing about at unlit walls. It was an odd place to be when it was empty of revellers.

A thump sounded from behind you and you glanced over your shoulder at the unexpected noise. Everything stopped as the guard fell forward, clutching at his throat and trying to stop the red river that was pouring from it.

He fell to the floor, amour clanking, body spasming. Your mouth parted and you tore your eyes from his body, meeting eyes with the man who had slid up behind him and slit his throat to the bone.

Iron, you thought, it stinks of iron.

There was nothing unusual about him; he looked like any man you would pass in a market or brush shoulders with in the hallway. The only thing that stood out was the knife he held and the serious expression on his face.

"Who - who are you?" you spat out, staggering back.

There were no guards in sight other than the dead one on the floor. Never had you so yearned for the sight of a Praetorian. Your hands twitched at your side, desperate for a weapon of your own.

"It does not matter," he said. "This is nothing to do with me. Or you. Not really."

There was no time to consider his words. He dove at you and you screamed and raised your hands. By some luck the knife glanced off of the cuff and clattered to the floor. The man considered this for only a moment before tackling you to the floor and securing his hands around your throat.

Being choked was more painful that you expected. You could feel the grinding of your bones beneath his hands, the full weight of his upper body being forced down onto such a fragile body part.

You could feel your legs flailing on the floor behind him. Your hands scrabbled at his fingers but you could not get him to release. Finally you turned your attention elsewhere, clawing at his eyes until he gave a shout and released you.

Turning on your stomach, you heaved painful breaths and tried to blink the bleariness out of your eyes, crawling frantically across the floor to reach the dropped knife.

The man swore and, still clutching his right eye, ran past you. You grabbed at his ankles and he fell with an almighty thud.

Each breath felt like agony but you had the knife in your hands. Shaking, you held it with both hands and pointed it at your attacker.

It was him, you thought, he broke my wolf.

This time, when he charged, you were somewhat ready. You swung your arm back and slashed with the knife. Blood splattered over the marble as he wrestled with you for the weapon.

"Please," you sobbed through clenched teeth, "please, please."  

You could not say how it happened. Only that, in one moment the man was on top of you and the next he was looking up, distracted. Sensing a moment of opportunity you slid the blade through his fingers and into the side of his neck.

Free once more, you screamed. The sound was painful and croaky and muffled by blood falling into your open mouth. You turned your head to the side and vomited. You could not tell what was wine and what was blood.

The man fell off to the side, suffocating on his own blood, writhing amongst it.

Everything ached as you struggled to sit up. Your ribs, your wrists, your throat. Your lungs were on fire as you took huge, greedy gulps of air. You would never take it for granted again.

A heavy hand fell on your shoulder and you screamed again, scratching at it and trying to get away.

"Shhh," Geta hauled you up from the floor, "shhh, it's okay."

His eyes were wide and he could not stop looking at you and the men on the floor. There was so much blood. He could not tell how much of it was yours.

"No," you sobbed, "it is not okay. He tried to kill me. I killed him. I killed a man."

Before, you had been so angry at the person who had destroyed your carving. You had thought you wanted to see him dead. And maybe you had - but not by your own hand!

You were covered in his life's essence. It would stain more than your clothes.

"Praetorians!" Geta roared. His entire body was shaking in unbridled rage, you could feel it.

"He killed that Praetorian," you said numbly, pointing.

Caracalla appeared next to you, furious. "Good!" he cried, "What use was he if he could not protect you?"

You flinched as Caracalla kicked the corpse of the fallen Praetorian. It made a disturbingly meaty sound and you would've thrown up if you hadn't already emptied your stomach.

Caracalla knelt beside your attacker. "This one is still alive, brother. Barely."

"No, no," you shook your head. "I killed him."

Guilt was clawing it's way up your throat. You had ended a man's life and you did not even know why it had happened.

Caracalla pulled the knife from the man's neck and he jolted. You gasped and stepped back further into Geta's arms. The man let out a garbled moan and Caracalla spat at him, plunging the knife once, twice, into his neck again.

"You did not kill him," Caracalla said, "I did. See? It will be okay."

The tears would not stop coming. You looked down at yourself and saw nothing but blood.

Geta cupped your cheek and forced you to turn to him. "What did he do to you?"

"He strangled me," your own hands came up to encircle your throat. "Hurts. Bad."

Geta's nostrils flared. Praetorians had began to fill up the room behind him but you could not focus on them. Caracalla was in front of them, furious. He kept pointing over at you, gesturing wildly, his voice getting louder and louder.

"He - he said it was not about him," your words hardly made sense to your own ears but you continued, "or me. He was on top of me, strangling me -"

"Shhhh," Geta soothed once more, cupping your face. "It will be okay."

"I'm covered in his blood," you said, "how can it be okay?"

Geta called over a woman. She was elderly and appeared kind. She took your hand in hers and squeezed.

"Take her to our baths," Geta ordered, "we need to see how bad the injuries are."

"No," you shuddered, "what if someone else comes?"

Geta considered this, his own eyes wide and frantic. You sensed that he wanted to go with you but he needed to deal with the Praetorians.

In the end, he chose six of them to accompany you and the woman to the baths. He watched you leave the room as though he couldn't bear to tear his eyes from you.

Numb, you followed the woman. You would have been too afraid to go if not for the sheer amount of Praetorians accompanying you.

The woman led you down an unfamiliar route until you came to an ornate set of doors. Upon opening, steam spilled out and soothed your aching throat.

A bath suddenly seemed appealing, the urge to be clean overtaking any of your reservations. The woman gestured to go with you but you shook your head and told her she could wait outside with the Praetorians. Being alone was scary but your trust of strangers was slipping away.

The bath was huge and the waterwould come up to your neck once you were sat. There were several tiny windows littered across the top of the room to reduce the steam. Small enough that no-one could climb in. There were petals scattered across the surface of the water and bottles of oils and perfumes littered the side. There was a small set of steps leading up to it, allowing you to clamber over the sides. This was the bath of the emperors.

Breathing heavily, you peeled your blood-soaked clothes from your body. The blood had begun to dry and tugged at your skin. You stripped as quickly as you could and dumped your clothes in the corner.

You stepped back, biting your lip, before bending down and arrange them so that you could not see the blood. You ran your fingers over the cuffs, reluctant to take them off. You could see a slight indent in one where the knife had threatened to pierce you.

It took a moment but you eventually took it all off, laying the pieces reverently on top of your clothing.

Naked, you shivered. You let your hands explore your body, searching for any injuries. Apart from your throat and several cuts on your hands you could not find any. The gods had been merciful.

You tip-toed up the steps before bending and seating yourself on the edge. The stone was comfortingly warm beneath your bare ass. You slipped your toes in and moaned at the delicious heat licking up your calves.

You allowed yourself a moment to adjust before sliding in. The sensation was incredible, the water clean and scented. The heat seemed to help your throat and you ventured further in.

The water on the outskirts of the bath came up to your shoulders in place but varied in shallowness. As you neared the centre it began to deepen until you were kneeling. You half walked half swam to the furthest side, pressing your back to the edge and curling in on yourself.

Blood flaked from your skin in the water. Although you wanted it off of you, you could not bring yourself to touch it.

Your eyes fluttered shut. The only sound was that of the water. Exhaustion settled in every line of your body, battling with fear. Someone had tried to kill you.

He was dead now. By your hand and Caracalla's. A combination of relief and guilt stirred in your gut and you buried it deep, recalling your previous words.

Kill or be killed.

The hinges of the door squeaked as it opened and you sat up, almost spilling water over the edge. Your heart calmed as Caracalla entered, his eyes rounding at the sight of you in the bath.

You said nothing and watched as he shut the door, eyes never leaving you. He began to tug off his own clothes, expensive accessories clattering to the floor as though they were nothing.

Something else stirred in your gut at the sight of his chest, dusted with hair. Your eyes drifted lower, naturally, until they settled on his cock, bare and twitching against his thigh.

The tip was flushed red. It was thick and longer than you had imagined, nestled in a bed of reddish-brown hair. It seemed to perk up beneath your gaze and you swallowed, eyes jerking up back to his face.

His expression was one of pure want. The blatant desire did something to you, made the ache in your throat fade. You watched as he climbed into the bath and made his way to you, water lapping at your shoulders.

Caracalla stopped in front of you and settled his chin on your knees.

"Show me where it hurts," he urged. It reminded you of that first night in his room.

You found his hand under the water. He was watching your face carefully, looking for something. You brought up his hand and settled it on the base of your throat.

"Here," you croaked.

Caracalla's hand was gentle. He reached over your shoulder to pick up a woven cloth, dipping it into the water and dabbing at the blood crusted on your face.

It was a bad idea to let him touch you the way he was but no part of you wanted him to stop. You yearned for a distraction, for tenderness in the wake of such violence.

So you let him pull your knees from your chest. His breathing got heavy at the sight of your breasts and he wiped at your chest with a cloth, wiped your arms and legs until there was no more blood and the water took on a pinkish tint.

You reached out to grab his hand and he stilled, eyes bleary but questioning. You gently tugged the cloth from his grip and brought his hands up to cup your breasts.

"Oh," he breathed, palms firm against your puckered nipples.

"Please," you begged.

Caracalla's hands left your breasts to cup your face and slot your lips together. His tongue flickered into your mouth, drawing a languid moan from you as you melted in his hands.

You shuddered in his hands as his tongue began to massage yours. When he parted from your lips you felt dazed, blood buzzing in your ears. Caracalla urged you up, higher out of the water until your breasts broke the surface.

The feeling of his mouth on your breasts was intoxicating. You let your head fall back, burying your hands in his hair in encouragement. He lapped at your nipples, teasing them, before taking them in his mouth and sucking.

"Gods," you purred, "Caracalla."

He pulled from your nipple with a wet pop, looking at you with red cheeks and damp hair. His breathing was ragged and you could see the wetness on his lips from where he had kissed you.

"You want it too," he rasped, hands coming to part your knees under the water.

Then he seemed to change his mind. With some careful rearranging, he got you out of the water and perched on the side of the bath. There was enough room for you to sit back, half supported by the wall.

You felt a little dizzy at how exposed the position left you as Caracalla knelt and spread your knees. Your hands fluttered at your sides, not entirely sure what to do.

"Elysium," Caracalla moaned, eyes glued to your cunt and the wetness that was glistening on your puffy folds.

He tucked his arms under your thighs and moved you until you were right in front of his face. He took one, long lick from the bottom to the top of your cunt, eyes on yours the entire time. He lapped at the wetness gathering at your entrance, parting your lips to expose even more of you because he wanted to see and taste everything.

Babbling incoherently, you let yourself be feasted on. You could feel yourself dissolving into pleasure, your only connection to earth being Caracalla's hot tongue flicking across your clit. He watched your every reaction greedily, determined not to miss a thing.

He ate like a man starved, devouring your wetness with broad strokes of his tongue that left you reeling.

You jolted when one of his hands left your thighs, delving under the water. It pumped rhythmically, sending ripples across the bath.

Fire seared across your skin. "Are you. . .?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Your cunt is so pretty. Tastes like ambrosia."

Your orgasm pulsed through you, made you draw your legs up to your body and cry out. Hips undulating, you rode out the shockwaves of your orgasm on Caracalla's tongue as he stroked his cock beneath the water.

Before you could think, Caracalla rose from the water. Water sluiced down his body, his cock was heavy and flushed against his stomach. His eyes were scorching and he grabbed himself and positioned you at the edge of the bath.

"Wanted this," he said, "wanted you so bad."

He positioned the fat head of his cock against your cunt, rutting against you several times until you could hear the slick mess you had made. You keened when he sank inside in one slow move, all the way in until your hips were flush together.

Panting, he pressed one bruising kiss onto your lips, keeping you pinned with his cock until you were practically writhing, yearning for movement.

"Fuck me," you cried wantonly, "Caracalla, need you to fuck me."

From the moment he pulled back his hips and slammed into you, you knew there was no denying it. You were his. Would soon be Geta's too. A part of you whispered that you would do terrible, terrible things so long as he kept making you feel like this.

Caracalla must have read it on your face. "Tell me you're mine."

"'M yours," you breathed, rolling your hips to meet his.

Hands on your hips, he rolled into you as though you had been made for this - made for them. When your eyes threatened to flutter shut he cupped your cheek, directing your gaze to downward and to his cock pumping inside of you.

"Need you to see this," he swore, "want you to remember how good I made you feel."

You were not sure you could ever forget. The room became an orchestra of sloshing water and slick, wet sounds from your union, punctuated by Caracalla's possessive words.

"You belong to us," he thrust into you as though that would make you believe it. "Ours. With us, always."

"Yes, yes, yes," you babbled, believing it entirely.

Everything had been working up to this moment; you could see it now. There was no need for confusion or fear when there was this. Blissful, mindless pleasure.

When Caracalla slotted his hand between you and began to rub tight circles on your clit, you nearly lost your mind. Your nails dug into his back and then his hips, drawing him impossibly closer and urging him on. No experience you had had before compared to this and pleasure was quickly mounting again.

"I can feel you," Caracalla fucked into you harder, faster, "can feel you tightening on my cock. You want me inside you, want to be ours forever."

You squeezed your eyes shut, white light splintering across your vision as you came once more. Caracalla followed close behind you, rutting desperately and palming at your breasts until he reached his own orgasm. He rode it out, hips stuttering into yours as his chest heaved and he partially collapsed onto you.

He did not pull out of you immediately. He pressed soft kisses to the base of your neck and your cheeks, whispering filthy things into your ears. You did not push him away. Instead you ran your fingers through his damp hair and let him nuzzle at your jaw.

Finally, he pulled out. You bit your lip at the feeling of his seed spilling out of you. Caracalla ran a finger through your swollen folds, collecting some on his fingers before pushing it back in. You whined a little but held still, letting him push his seed deep inside of you.

"I hope it takes," he whispered, nipping at your lips.

You slid back into the water, boneless. You had heard other women talk about their sexual experiences before, about how sometimes when you gave in the man lost all interest. You had had two partners before but had never cared enough about them to be bothered when you lost contact so you were not sure what to expect with Caracalla.

If possible, he was more affectionate than before. He pressed his body tight to your side, hands busying themselves with your breasts and exploring your inner thighs. Insatiable.

Caracalla picked a glass bottle from the side, pouring the oil in contained into his hands. You held still as he oiled your shoulders and body, covering you thoroughly.

"Smells like you," you said.

He giggled before pushing the bottle into your hands and turning around. He had several scars on his back and chest that seemed to have healed. You bit your lip at the scratches that now adorned his back along with several puncture marks from your nails. He shuddered when you ran your fingers across them.

You let the oil pour across his back and began to massage it into his skin. He sank into your touch until there was no space between you and his back was pressed against your chest. Intimacy was something you had not experienced in a long time and you almost teared up at how relaxed you felt.

Caracalla took the bottle. "Don't cry," he cooed, "no more tears because of those animals."

"No more tears," you agreed.

It had been a very fucking long day.

Author’s Note - okay guys how did I do??? Let me know with notes/comments/reblogs and asks!!! Interactions with you guys is my favourite thing♥️

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[adragonsfriend]

massive props to fic authors who successfully portray just how immature, unsightly, cruel, childish, harmful, irritating, frankly downright embarrassing Anakin’s personality can be. I cannot do it myself because I cannot handle characters who constantly embarrass themselves—especially by yelling all their feelings like put that back inside your chest where it belongs please—I used to skip large sections of books as a kid simply so I didn’t have to read that shit

(this is what goes through my head when ppl compliment my post Vader Anakin as not feeling like clone wars era anakin btw. like yeah that is what I’m going for but it’s also like that cuz clone wars era anakin is above my fanfictional pay grade)

[phantomchick]

"Scorn become him well, and appetite and defiance becomes him well The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him."

"Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition... And wonders within there yet."

"He is action and power, The flush of the known universe is in him,"

"A vessel of pure Force the Chosen One will be, more powerful than any Jedi in history."

"The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion."

"Trust in the force, do you?"

“I said to the sun, ‘Tell me about the big bang.’ The sun said, ‘it hurts to become.”

"Hallelujah to the grace, and the body, and every cell of us all"

"For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes. Even between the land and the ship."

"…And in the time of greatest despair, there shall come a savior, and he shall be known as THE SON OF THE SUNS." ―Journal of the Whills, 3:127

"Dukkra ba Dukkra"

"The energy between all things. A tension, a balance that binds the universe together."

"Stars, galaxies, how are things from within Infinitely, Infinitely."

"Ekkreth, the slave who makes free"

"May the force be with you"

Anakin's pupil is scratched by a lightsaber, and he starts to see the force 👀

gift for @vandervoiz as part of the Vaderkin Creative Exchange, organised by @vaderkin-is-a-lightning-rod!