#exile series

[imaginedreamwrite]

Since today is headcanon kinda day, I would like to suggest something I thought about few weeks ago.

I was hit by nostalgia and rewatched few videos about bookcanon of Game of Thrones. One of them was about real size of Winterfell and it made me think about Exile.

I don't know if the castle in the Exile is big - you didn't specify it I think (but maybe, I should re-read it since it is one my favorite fics of yours), but... If it is big or there is free space, my headcanon is that Steve would plant a little forest within castle walls like a godswood in GOT universe. He knows that Reader would be content living in the forest for the rest of her life if she wasn't stolen by him. Her connection to nature, her ability to live off the resources the forest provided fascinated Steve and (I think) he would want her to have that land of solitude, where her soul could rest. So, he would ask to plant lots young trees as a start (I think it was possible even in medieval times to replant trees that has grown for some time), maybe also some wild flowers and forest berries to create beautiful glade in the center of the forest.

idk - but reading how devoted Steve is and how much he loves Reader even when she fights with him, made me think he absolutely would do that for her.

(Tumblr, please, don't make the ask disappear 😢)

While I didn’t specify how big it was, I love this idea of Steve giving her her own forest in the interior grounds of the castle. Its her own private escape and it helps mend bridges between them

“I told you not to look.”

“I told you I’d cut your hand off and feed it to the crocodiles.” You spur him and his attempt to scold you almost playfully, and jut back against him when he gets a little too close to your back.

And that still doesn’t stop him.

“There’s no crocodiles in this area.” Despite your warning, Steve still leans in close enough to whisper in your ear, a husky drone that elicits a shiver.

“Where are you taking me anyway? To a torture chamber? A bottomless pit?” Your spite draws a laugh from him and with his hands still covering your eyes you’re forced to put a little faith and trust in him.

“I think I’ll suspend you from the tower, make an example of you.” The teasing continues and Steve is decidingly coy about how eased he is now, and much to your dismay you find yourself relaxing around him.

Instead of commenting on the teasing nature as you perhaps should have, you avoided the immediate easement of your relationship to comment on the surprise that he had for you.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me? And if you don’t tell me in the next few minutes, I’m going to-”

“A surprise, spitfire.” Steve embraced you fully, drawing his hands from your eyes to place them on your hips, and as your vision had come to fruition you had seen an encased forest and meadow before you.

“Your own private meadow and wilderness. Somewhere for you to feel safe with nature while being home-”

“I remember these flowers.” You departed from him immediately, drawing toward a bushel of petals and greenery that reminded you of the brook you’d cross every morning on your walk.

“And these vines…” you were at a loss for words, truly and wholly unaware of how much detail Steve had picked up on when he heard you talk about missing your freedom away from this all.

It was overwhelming to see it, no small amount of space for you to experience life as you once had and yet you were safely nestled within the confines of the castle walls. It was endless, a seamless and even compromise between the nature that raised you and the man who would be your husband.

“Steve-” you turned on your heel, silence befalling you as you watched him, gazed at him with some unreserved and unfiltered emotional shift reflecting in your eyes.

It was as if you were seeing him cast in an entirely new light, as if every ounce of bitterness had been carved away to reveal true person lingering beneath his animosity and heavy guard he had held in place.

“Do you…want to walk with me?” It wasn’t what you really wished to say, but it was something akin to the truth bubbling on your tongue.

[buckets-and-trees]

When He First Got Me

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 2200 Summary: Prequel in the Exiled Nomad Series. July 3, 2017. Steve sees you at a city festival for the Fourth of July, but he's not content with only seeing...

Content/Warnings: explicit smut, vaginal fingering, kissing, rough sex, emotional unavailability, a broken Nomad who thinks he's fine but definitely is not

Author Notes: IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO READ ANY OF THE REST OF THIS SERIES. True stand-alone prequel. A little something for Steve's birthday weekend... This will be a bit of a darker indulgence for @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar challenge: mint chocolate chip (involving a loner), sprinkles (birthday and 4th of July), cherries (meet-cute), and we'll even say some caramel (because Steve is not quite in a great headspace if we're being honest). AND I'm entering this for @witchywithwhiskey's Slasher Summer writing challenge: carnival/fair, slight stalker (but not fully), and I bolded the dialogue prompt that I used.

Steve didn’t feel like he could breathe easily, but he did feel like he could breathe here. Nothing like New York or DC. A place small enough not to be noticed but big enough to blend in without drawing attention as a stranger.

Being invisible somewhere had been easier than carving out the opportunity to do so solo over the 4th of July – less because it was America’s Birthday and more because it was his. Steve had suggested Wanda finally reconnect with Vision (they’d been on the run long enough, it should be safe for her to reach out and discreetly stay off the grid). The case he made to Sam was that he’d been on the run for over a year, and the 4th was less expected for a sentimental return to stop in on family but would still afford a holiday’s community celebrations and to give him reasonable cover to slip in and out. Nat hadn’t needed convincing. She saw, asked if he was sure, but understood without him needing to explain, and said she had things of her own that she’d take care of.

He just didn’t want any of the fuss of them trying to make him feel better on his birthday.

Steve was sitting on a shaded grassy knoll in the city park, hundreds of people around him, all weaving in and out of booths with games, vendors, and food, a vibrant temporary set up for a few days around the 4th, and on the far side of the park the sounds of carnival rides underscored it all.

He hadn’t come to this place to find someone.

But the moment he first noticed you, the plans started forming in his head before he could stop them.

And why should he stop them?

As he alternated between sketching in his notebook and people-watching, people watching turned into watching only you – you wandering this place clearly alone. Must be on your own in this city.

It would be so easy to harmlessly bump into you.

So he did.

When you recognized him, he could easily use the moment to draw you into keeping his presence in such a public place secret, getting you to trust him by him “trusting you” with his secret.

And he did.

He could easily ask if there were any good places to eat in town, then ask if you would join him.

He did, and you did.

After walking you home, it would be so easy to get you to invite him in, an afternoon and evening of conversation, compounding moments, and more and more casual touches on your arm, your shoulder, the small of your back, the back of your hand, having your body attune to him.

And it worked.

You hesitated, but invite him in you did.

And he tried for a moment to convince himself that being invited in had been all he wanted – to be someplace that wasn’t a stolen moment or a hotel room or a safe house that itself wasn’t very safe, just to be someplace private, someplace normal, someplace that felt like home.

But that was not the only thing he wanted.

And why shouldn’t he take the rest of what he wanted? After everything, didn’t he deserve it?

You didn’t notice that he locked the door behind him. You’d been apologizing for the state of your place, though after a quick glance around, he assured you it only looked lived in, not a mess.

Not like the mess he was so eager to make you into beneath him.

After insisting you didn’t need to get anything for him, he sat on your couch. He told you how nice it was just to sit there, nowhere to be, no reason to hide, how tired he was of running. You listened; you soothed him. He leaned in and kissed you.

You kissed him back.

All he did was kiss you until you leaned back on the couch and urged him along with you.

He let his chest press into your deliciously soft body. He groaned into the kiss, and you opened your mouth to his. This kisss grew in fervor, tongues exploring and tangling with each other. His hand ran up and down your thigh, slowly coaxing you to hitch it up around his waist. You moaned when he ground gently against your core – gentle only to test the waters. His need was mounting exponentially, and he knew the damn would break soon. He intended to let it.

He moved his lips from your mouth to your shoulder, kissing there before teasing his lips and teeth and tongue along your collar bone to the sensitive point of your neck. You sighed in bliss, and he moved his hand back up your thigh, over your hip, across your stomach, undid the top button he found there, and started to reach into your jeans.

Your breath hitched, and your hands flew to his.

“Steve, wait,” you said.

But you didn’t say stop.

He waited.

He could hear the wild racing of your heart beneath him.

The pressure of your hands on his body didn’t change, no part of you shifted to move away. Your eyes closed, the only sign of your reticence were your teeth worrying your bottom lip.

Steve slid his hand down to cup your pussy and his fingers found the wetness growing there that he expected. You let out a shuddering breath as his fingers worked your labia, but he didn’t linger there. He pulled his fingers out and then pushed them into your mouth.

“Neither of us wants to wait,” he snarled as you licked your slick from the pads of his fingers. “And it’s summer, we’re supposed to be having fun.”

Super soldier serum running through his veins, Steve picked you up with ease, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, while he held one of your thighs and pressed his other hand at the base of your spine, pinning you securely to him while he captured your lips to kiss you again.

He easily found your bedroom, and he lowered you to the bed in a kneeling position. He didn’t relent in his kissing, devouring you, demanding your supplication. He only broke off the kiss once you were breathless, moaning, and pulling at his clothes. Then he stepped back and told you to undress. Steve quicky removed all his own clothing while keeping his eyes on you. You only removed your shirt and jeans, leaving you in your underwear, but he could work with that for now. He’d have you willing to shed the rest soon enough.

Steve got up on the bed with you, pleased that he could see your eyes darkening with the lust and the want. He recognized exactly the kind of want he was dealing with – it was how he imagined he would have behaved before living the harsh life of denial he’d lived while exiled and on the run for the past year. The old him would have wanted but been hesitant, gone slow, paid attention to more of the dance before even getting into bed.

He didn’t have the luxury of time or the patience for that.

He only had an insatiable need that he’d pushed down and ignored – ignored for years even before becoming Nomad. He’d denied himself so many things, sacrificed for others, for missions, too many legitimate and imagined reasons holding him back.

He wouldn’t hold back now.

But he would coax you into needing him as much as he needed you.

You only glanced at his naked groin with a moment of hesitance as he pulled you into his lap, but you still let him. He resumed your kissing, and you were quick to continue making out with him. He allowed you take the reins to steer the kissing, letting you lap up at the pace you wanted. He let his hands roam over your back as he eased you along, seemingly unhurried. But his hands soon made their way to your hips, and he secured his grip there and began grinding you down against his hard cock. He moaned unabashedly into your mouth as he adjusted the angle of your hips and continued rocking your core against him.

He was insistent on torturing you where your most intimate parts met until, clinging to his shoulders, you threw your head back, gasped for air.

“Steve,” you keened his name, clearly in the early stages of sweet ruin that he wanted.

He smirked against your neck and laid you down on your back with deceptive sweetness. He kissed slowly down your chest, between your breasts, down over your belly button. His fingers hooked into the top of your panties just as his lips arrived at the top of that fabric, and he peeled them down and fully off your legs. Your fingers worked anxiously over the sheets beneath you as he made you wait for him to touch you more.

His hands opened your legs back up, pushing at your knees to splay you open like a butterfly beneath his attention.

He worked both of his thumbs up and down over your labia, smearing your cunt with your juices, studying what he was about to claim and ruin. Then he looked up at your face and said, “This is mine now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” your voice was soft, nervous, but also eager.

It hadn’t actually been a question, but he wanted you to say it out loud.

The only question was how he wanted to take you first.

Since he planned on taking you in every way, he went with the most convenient first, easing his cock into you slowly, but with no apologies for how thick he was, pressing into you despite the resistance – not that of a virgin, but of a cunt that had never taken a cock so big before. You cried out – but he knew the tone of it was pain drenched with bliss, he could hear it. What’s more, when he was fully sheathed inside you, he waited, unmoving. He watched your chest rise and fall with a few breaths. When you finally shifted your hips against his, he knew he had won. You wanted more. The beast inside of him surged in satisfaction, and then he began to aggressively thrust in and out of your tight channel.

He leaned forward, and your knees hitched up around his waist to urge him on. You clawed at his back, and when he reached between your bodies and found your swollen clit, he rubbed furious circles over it until he was rewarded with the clenching of your cunt around him, the seizing up of every muscle in your body, as he delivered your first orgasm of the night.

He continued pumping in and out of your spasming cunt until he was right at the edge, then pulled out and fisted his cock with only two more strokes before releasing hot ribbons of cum over your stomach.

Your fingers inched hesitantly toward the mess, and he put his hand over yours and pushed your fingers and his through the mess, pressing it into your skin. Then he moved your hands away and lowered his body down onto yours, the sticky spend between your skin and his there.

“I…” you started, but then paused.

He slipped his other hand beneath your head, cradling it in his palm. “Mmm?” he hummed against the spot behind your ear.

“I’m clean and have an IUD.”

He groaned and nipped at your neck. “You want me to continue to fuck you more. You want me to cum inside you.”

“Yes, Steve,” you simpered.

“Mmm, such a good girl,” he pressed a hot kiss against your neck, then rolled off being on top of you, and to his side next to you. “Best give you what we both want, then,” he said as he turned you onto your side, back pressed to his chest, and felt below to press his dick into your hole again.

Hours later when its far past midnight, you’ve passed out from exhaustion.

Or at least that’s what he thought.

But when he slipped back onto your bed after taking a piss, you scooted your body in next to him, put your hand on his chest, and muttered the sleepiest, “Happy birthday,” to him he’d ever heard. He almost wondered how you knew switching from the third to the fourth meant it was his day, but then he remembered the time when seemingly everyone knew it was Cap’s birthday.

While he wasn’t Cap anymore, it still struck something in him and made his chest warm.

But he didn’t feel like you would make a big deal out of it or make him feel bad and that maybe it would be nice to be with someone on his birthday, so he decided to stay. He told himself it was to be distracted chasing more bliss with your body. He ignored the other thoughts working through his mind. He only wanted – only needed – the distraction. Nothing else.

NEXT: July 4, 2017. read more Exiled Nomad Series

I'M GLAD Steve's POV won in the poll I ran earlier this week... clearly since I made the poll my muse was leaning heavy towards it anyway, but this was certainly illuminating to see more of where Steve's head is at in this ... situationship.

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[weapon-xox]

he is just a baby your honor

[camelspit]

if i was dex i wouldntve forgiven the council the shit they did to him and sophie was RANCID

[crowhoonter]

KotOR's Sith vs SWtOR's Empire

It's rather interesting to look at the "True Sith" as described by Kreia in KotOR 2 vs the Sith Empire we got in SWtOR. Back in KotOR, the True Sith were implied to be something near cosmic horror. Beings that had been changed by the Dark Side beyond any convention of human understanding, things that could no longer be reasoned or compromised with in any fashion, and would very possibly pose a threat to all life when they returned. Granted, what we know of them from KotOR is part conjecture and most of it comes from Kreia, who is an untrustworthy source at the best of times.

Then SWtOR roles around with the Sith Empire and they are... very much not that. They are a functioning, if dystopian, society with actual values and culture. They have wants and desires, goals outside just blind slaughter and killing. Y'know, like real people. Granted, I suppose the threat to all life did carry over with Vitiate and his whole deal, but he hardly is representative of everyone in the Empire. He is just a freak like that.

This drastic change in portrayal does make sense when you look at the writing teams goals with the faction. Obsidian and Chris Avellone in particular wanted to make a major big bad for what they thought would be the upcoming KotOR 3 (may it rest in peace), and wanted that threat to be something different than the typical Star Wars fanfare. As we know however, KotOR 3 never got made and instead became SWtOR, and Bioware wanted to make it palatable to more general audiences so they copy-pasted the Galactic Empire over into the past with some minor changes.

Of course, in doing this, they could no longer follow with the original idea of the True Sith. Making an entire society innately evil and desiring to wipe out all life has some... icky implications. So instead we got the Sith Empire, a still terrible and evil state, but one that is an actual society. The True Sith of KotOR were just made into one man, Vitiate, and everyone else in the empire is a mostly normal person, or as close as they can be to being normal.

While I would have loved to see the original vision of the True Sith, I can't help but believe the Sith Empire is the better than what we would've gotten. Vitiate, being honest, sucks as an antagonist. He's boring, uninspired, and lacks the charisma that made Palpatine fun. He got a bit better in Knights of the Fallen Empire, but still was overall underwhelming. I can't imagine something where legions of people like him are the main antagonist. The conflict would probably be reminiscent of the Fate of the Jedi books once Abeloth got introduced. Boring, impersonal, and just tedious to get through.

Granted, a villain like that can be done well, as exemplified by KotOR 2's own Darth Nihilus. He works because he is completely void. Nihilus' discerning feature is his lack of personality, being subsumed into his own hunger. Power has destroyed and reduced him, but even in such a state, you can make out the faint outline of the man he once was. His last shred of humanity showing through when he spared Visas Marr. A twisted sense of compassion, but compassion nonetheless. He is tragic, but still thoroughly inhuman and evil. The problem would arise in trying to make legions of characters like this. It would wear thin fast.

Side tangent aside, I really love the Sith Empire we got. It is, as of now, maybe the most complex view we have gotten of the Sith outside of books. They are still thoroughly evil, but it gives some insight into what made them into that. Whether it be trauma, ambition, grief, or even a sense of duty, the Sith have actual motivations besides kill and rule. It demonstrates that at their core, they are still people, not just evil caricatures.

This got longer than I expected, sorry about that. Just have a lot of thoughts about these fellas.

[netmors]

Last year, after watching the Ahsoka series, I discovered Karyn as a character (I haven't finished the books yet, but I got obsessed with her regardless), and imagined her meeting Hera Syndulla after joining the New Republic.

Needless to say, when I discovered your Eleventh Fleet AU after that, it turned me into a fan of your art and head canon. :D

Karyn and Hera have… Let's say, a complex and confusing relationship, but they often have to work together.

“Spectre-2” and “Seven” cannot stand each other, but they have been very diplomatically trying to get along with each other for the last five years. True, they don’t always succeed.

Thank you, glad you like "Eleventh Fleet AU".

[harriertail]

actually realising how bullshit the 'nightpelt didnt get his lives because brokenstar was still alive' decision was. i initially assumed it was not a choice by StarClan, as Brokenstar was still leader even in exile, but with further books having the 'alive but chose to leave Pinestar' let Sunstar get 8 lives, and recently alive Bramblestar 'step down' and let Squirrelstar presumeably get her lives, it becomes a choice that StarClan made- and a fucking stupid one.

[winwin17]

I miss when the whole dynamic was like this . . . 😢

[harperbrynne]

Band of Exiles Headcanon

[isthemedia]

So this post I made-and man did those ideas bounce around. @cryptidfoxes thank you for letting just make a word salad in our DMs

[imaginedreamwrite]

Exile: Part 8

You hadn’t returned to the private chambers of the castle until you had heard word that tyrant King Rogers had retired after hours of having servants and maids trying to find you in the castle and on the grounds.

Your ability to hide in plain sight had done you well, at least well enough to hide from the man you had been pressed against hours before.

It was the kiss that grated you, the first physically intimate extension that had been a direct blow to your protected core, the walls you had built with every word from your guardian in the woods had started to crumble.

You ran and you hid, you squirrelled yourself away in any holding you could find until you thought it was safe to return to a spare chamber that had been set aside for you, even if the tyrant king demanded otherwise.

You slipped into the room and latched the lock behind you, checking its security with two quickened pulls before your defences slipped for the night.

Your fingers started to tug and pull at the laces of your tunic, loosening the material in order to slip out over your head and toss it to the side. It fell against the wood floor with a soft flutter and had soon been joined by the rest of your clothes, ending in the same heap.

The light from the nearly full moon radiating through the window of your chamber had aided your ability to yank a chemise from the chest at the end of the bed, getting dressed with as much haste as you could from your instincts and desire to sink into the mattress and start a new day.

You expected to find that relief the moment you slipped under the covers, sinking into the mattress and the warmth provided by the handcrafted quilts that were stretched across the bed.

Instead of finding the rest you required, you found sleeplessness. It was irrevocable, the difference between the atmosphere and noise of the castle compared to the cottage that had been your home.

The noise of the castle and the grounds, even when most were sleeping, was debilitating even if it wasn’t necessarily vivacious. You could detect and hear the sound of the guards patrolling the castle grounds beneath your window, a situation likely set into place from Steve’s fear that you would try and escape the castle.

And if it wasn’t the guards patrolling below, then it was the noise of nearby cattle, chickens and pigs that would make the occasional complaint.

You found yourself staring at the ceiling of your chamber, your hands folded across the quilts as you grit your teeth, willing your brain to shut itself off to give you rest.

It seemed endless, it seemed pointless to try and fight your inability to sleep and although you had scolded yourself you still threw the covers back. It had felt like you were laying there for hours, counting every fleck in the carved stone roof or every notch in the wardrobe that you had not yet touched.

You kicked the covers off your legs and pushed yourself to sit, bending your left knee under your right thigh. You sat in the darkness, your teeth nibbling on your bottom lip as you process what you could in the darkness, analyzing and weighing the risk of potentially sneaking out of your bedroom to explore. You wouldn’t be able to sleep, you knew you couldn’t, and you wouldn’t allow yourself to sit idly.

“Barnes told me there’s a private library nearby.” You hummed and unfurled your legs, slowly stepping onto the chilled wood floor, hesitating just long enough to look back at the bed. “I won’t sleep.”

You carried yourself toward the door, unlatching the door and slowly opening the door in order to look into the hall, checking for any lingering guards. As you stepped outside of your room, you closed the door behind you with the same quiet likeness and kept to the wall, your hand running against the stone wall, stepping carefully and quietly in order to keep yourself unnoticed.

You prayed that your bearings would hold to make it to the private library and study without being caught. If you had been caught out of bed, you knew full well that someone would have told the tyrant and he would have dragged you back to his bed, kicking and screaming regardless.

“The library—“ you felt along the wall until you came to a door, suspecting it was what you were looking for, and slipped into the room without wasting a moment.

As you had turned and pressed your back against the door, your joy was both vibrant and simultaneously short.

You hadn’t found the library as you had wanted, however, you had come across some kind of artists’ haven, the room illuminated and warmed by a fire that was still burning and the moonlight streaming in from the open balcony.

Your feet carried your forward until you had reached the first of many stretched linen canvases against light wood.

Etched onto the linen was an image that was only halfway finished with depth and immaculate colour usage that gave the half-finished work a kind of realism that seemed otherworldly. It was impossible to ignore the technique and the artistry, it was impossible to resist reaching for the piece that was calling to you.

It felt as if you could have felt the texture of the grass that was etched along the edge of the linen, or embrace the warmth of the spring day that was likely going to be continued. You were enraptured by the artwork, wholly captivated by the skill and the care that was required to capture such beauty.

Your decision to stave off sleep was welcomed now, it was wholly embraced as you moved from one painting to the next, taking your time to appreciate every single brushstroke.

He stepped into the room and immediately took pause his hands falling limply to his side, finger twitching aimlessly as his blue-green eyes narrowed.

His gaze had been zeroed in on the figure sleeping curled up on the fur rug in front of the fire while a gold letter book was tucked between her hands. Steve had completely faltered, his mind going deridingly blank, every train of thought falling silent and lifeless the longer he had gazed upon her.

It was endearing at this moment, being able to study you while you slept in front of the fading fire with delicate and warm shadows cast upon your face. You were breathtaking beyond reason, every piece of you from the soft curve of your cupid’s bow and the slight protrusion of your bottom lip as you slept.

There was nothing about you that he didn’t find desirable or awe-inspiring, nothing that hadn’t pulled at every nerve in his body, striking fire to deepen every instinct and the natural urge to provide and give you everything he could offer.

Your anger, your spite and hatred hadn’t meant anything to Steve now.

It hadn’t given him any reason not to walk toward you as you slept and ever so gently lift you from the floor. He hadn’t wavered in tucking you against his chest, crooning softly when you stirred and whispered. Steve had carried you away from the fading fire, balancing you as if you weighed no more than a spring hare, and made his departure from his artist haven.

He carried you down the hall away from where you had fallen asleep, debating for a moment to set you back in your chamber, although his greed wouldn’t allow him to.

Instead, Steve had cracked open the door of his bedroom and carried you across the threshold, wishing for a moment that you would’ve been experiencing a kind of high from your wedding night rather than exhaustion from the day. He wished he could’ve carried you to your shard bedroom after committing vows and coating your tongue with spiced meat and sweet wine, still, he wasn’t going to deny yielding the chance.

“You’re going to kill me in the morning, little vixen.” Steve had whispered among the dark.

He lift the covers on his bed to tuck you into the left side of the bed, keeping himself closest to the door and the window, helping you settle in while resisting crumbling when you had curled in on yourself and nuzzled your head against the feather pillow beneath your head.

He was a statue, unable to move let alone breathe as he studied you. It was all he could do, in order to commit the image of you sleeping in his bed to memory.

He hadn’t felt like the, sometimes, vengeful king who had sent his men to every corner of the kingdom to find his true soulmate, he hadn’t felt like the cold man who had lost his first, arranged, wife and felt the betrayal of a second false engagement.

Steve felt as young as his age, only on the cusp of 33 years old. It had been far too long since he had felt as young as he truly was. Just as he had felt weighed down by expectations when he first took the throne he had felt weighed down by how incomplete he was without his soulmate, his true and destined other half.

Steve hadn’t been able to find rest after waking up shortly after the witching hour had struck. It was almost as if something had yanked from a dead sleep, although now he thought it could have been some kind of reaction to your sleeplessness. Almost as if he could sense your inability to find rest, Steve had pulled himself out of bed.

He was overtaken with the idea that he could have hashed out the details of a meadow he had seen in a dream, working on catching the fine details on the linen canvas. He hadn’t expected to find you asleep by the fireplace with a book, nor had he expected to find some peacefulness in taking you back to bed.

He let out a breath he had been holding and raised his hand, running his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, wincing when he had caught his fingertips on some knots that had formed in his sleep.

He was still watching you, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Even if he wanted to, he was afraid that he would blink and you would be gone again, leaving him with another deep cut of lingering emptiness.

He only broke the spell you had on him in order to lift the covers and join you in bed, sliding closer to you before hesitating to slip his arm around your waist.

He had let himself wait, bracing himself for your angry strike and when a minute had passed without incident, Steve hid his face in the back of your neck. He breathed in your scent, revelling in the feeling of absolute bliss that had overcome him from feeling you and having you sleeping in his bed.

“I saw a sweet and seemly sight, A blissful burd, a blossom bright, That morning made and mirth among.” The melody was whispered against you, whispering the lullaby he remembered his mother singing to him when he was a child, and in the future, he would sing it to his child.

Content and blissful, Steve had drawn himself closer to you. With his entire body relaxing, becoming heavy with sleep, Steve joined you in peaceful slumber.

When you woke, it would be another fight. When reason returned to you, you’d try to cut off his balls and feed them to him.

For now…he was relaxed; he was home.

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[buckets-and-trees]

Puzzle Pieces in the Dead of Night

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark and rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count: 1.5k Summary: March 21, 2018. Still on the run, still in exile, you still never know when he will show up, but tonight Steve visits you again.

Content/Warnings: explicit smut: semi-rough sex, hints of somnophilia, manhandling, finger sucking, choking/breathplay, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex/creampie

Author Notes: Well, y'all did vote for more rough Nomad Steve. This is connected to the previous encounter/situationship from It Fit Too Right, with this happening just over a week later, but this has next to no plot, just smut, so you DO NOT need to have read the previous part. HAHA, THAT CHANGED, AND NOW IT'S PART OF THE FULL ON EXILED NOMAD SERIES. Title inspo from Taylor Swift again.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

It’s the jostling of your lower half that woke you up. You groaned sleepily and tried to reach for the covers that had gone missing, only your hand met the warm skin of a thickly corded bicep. You inhaled sharply, suddenly more awake, and smell him. Musky, leather, a hint of something spicy you still haven’t been able to identify, and some natural sweat. His scent has been embedded into your mind at this point.

“Steve,” you murmured.

The jostling had been him removing your underwear. You’d been sleeping on your side, and he kept you that way, only bending your knees a little more as he knelt behind you and lined up his cock with your cunt. Steve’s hand moved smoothly down your thigh to the crook of your knee, where he gave a soft squeeze. Then he leaned forward, and clamped his big hand down on your forearm, pinning it to the bed and bracing himself above you. You weren’t wet or ready for him yet, but he made do with only the precum leaking from his tip and pushed his length into your tight channel in one thrust that forced the breath out of you in a huff, burying himself inside you.

Your hand went down to paw helplessly at his hip. He gave you only a moment to take in the overwhelming fullness, and then he took up a blistering pace of shallow thrusts. Your shoulders shrank forward, hunkering in on yourself, and on the spot where his hand anchored your arm to the bed. You brought your other hand up to curl over his.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned.

And it did feel good, being too full of him. Your body agreed, welcomed him, slickening up to accommodate him.

He brought his free hand up to grip the back of your neck, angling your head where he wanted it. He nipped at your ear, licked the shell of it, and just kept you close, his heated breath over your skin yet another point of closeness and the feeling of being overtaken by him.

Steve shifted the grip on your arm to instead grasp both of your wrists and push them further up the bed. You wouldn’t fight him, but now he owned the restriction. You were trapped – and willingly so – beneath him. The rhythm of skin slapping against skin underscored your short little moans.  

He slid the other hand he had on you from the back of your neck around beneath your head to cradle the side of your face, cupped your jaw, and then his thumb pushed insistently into your mouth. You closed your lips around it and sucked gently, still moaning. The pressure on your tongue had you surrendering even more to him. He was here with a single objective: pleasure. And if he was going to use your body as that vessel, you would yield in order to extract every moment of bliss you could in return.

Steve kept the same pace far longer than usual did. The sensation was good but unsatisfying. It felt like he needed to fuck you to fuck, to feel. He was not yet building toward his orgasm or yours. You let him keep taking what he needed, losing track of the passing of time in the dead of night, only dim illumination bleeding in from the bedroom window.

When your hands finally started to feel numb in his grip, you twisted them gently beneath his hands. He grunted and released them. “Sorry,” he muttered against your shoulder. Gruff, but aware.

He then moved you to lay flat on your stomach. He slipped his thick thighs between your legs, spreading you open, and inserted himself into your pussy again. At this angle, his cock dragged against that spongy spot on the front of your walls with each thrust, and he kept the steady pace he had before, but went for deeper thrusts now.

You didn’t put on a show with the sounds you made, never had with any previous partners, but Steve knew how to manipulate your body too well, and gasps, moans, groans, cries, and sometimes screams, flowed freely from you. You couldn’t keep them in. You wanted him to know how you felt, and you also had no fear of judgment from him. He only ever encouraged you to let loose of all inhibitions with him. The gratified moan that melted out of you when he fucked you at this angle couldn’t be helped.

Steve pressed his palm down between your shoulder blades, forcing some of his weight down on you. His mere physicality was intoxicating, and he always used his body as much as he used yours when he came to you for sex.

And now the pleasure mounted beneath him as he fucked you into the mattress.

You gripped the sheets, tugging as the tension built, your muscles went taught, and  toes curled. You hung for just a few moments at the edge, and then a violent shiver went down your spine as your orgasm finally cascaded over you.

Steve groaned as your pussy clenched around him, and he squeezed your ass, groping the flesh.

You took in a lungful of air on your way back down and keened softly as he continued fucking you. “Good girl.”

He pulled out of you, and you whined.

“Not done with you yet,” he chuckled darkly.

In another swift movement that belied his preternatural speed and strength, he had you on your back, and pressed your thighs up against your chest. He drug the head of his cock against up and down over your swollen clit, making you whimper for him.

You recognized that look.

He needed to be in you even deeper, needed to dominate you, and look into your eyes while he did it.

When he fixed you with that look, your belly burned, and you needed it, too.

“Steve,” you begged.

No more warning, all the endless build up was only the preparation for this.

He pounded into you. His thrusts were brutal, drawing his length in and out in long strokes now. You felt it in overwhelming force. You didn’t want anything else. You wanted him to lose himself in you.

His hand moved to your neck, and you were already breathless, but he applied pressure there, restricting your air. It was a testament to his senses and skills that he could so carefully watch for your safety while continuing his deep and relentless thrusts. You let him steal your breath, one hand gripping the forearm pressed between your breasts to hold your throat. When you tapped at him, he was already letting up, and the flood of oxygen back into your lungs surged to spike your second orgasm while he ground his pelvis down against your clit. A silent scream was all you could manage.

Steve claimed your lips in a messy kiss as he came, hips stuttering, and then continuing in purposeful thrusts as he pumped you with his cum.

Finally, he let your legs relax and drop back to the bed. He let his full weight drop down onto you, and you let your fingers trail lightly up and down his spine as he caught his breath in the crook of your neck.

But Steve didn’t linger as long as you hoped for, biting your lip and turning your head away from him when you realized you had hoped he would stay there.

He left the room and entered your modest en suite bathroom. You listened to the sound of him cleaning up, then getting a washcloth from your cupboard, dampening it, and bring it back to wash you up – as he always did.

But it didn’t always mean he would stay.

Broken beast of a man as he was, it was laced through with glimpses of a more tender side of him – the side that you saw enough of not to be afraid of him.

The side that was becoming too much of its own danger to you. The side that made you yearn for him – not wanting the mind-blowing sex, but him.

When he returned to the bed, you tried to steady your breath and didn’t look at him.

When he slid down behind you and wrapped an arm around your front, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Of course, he felt and heard it.

“You okay?”

“I thought you would leave.”

The last time he’d come to your bed - a week and a half ago - it had only been for a quick fuck, and then he’d disappeared within the hour. You had been left wondering if you'd be reduced to only quick fucks.

“Not yet,” he said. He pressed a kiss just behind your earlobe. The gesture was too intimate for what the two of you were not. “I have the weekend,” he promised.

And you could not deny him.

You laced your fingers with his and sunk back against his chest.

You knew you could not have him, but you were as selfish as he was.

I honestly don't know what to say here. I watched something that implanted this scene into my brain, and that is all the explanation I have.

read more of the Exiled Nomad Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[strangercarla]

Exile - Captain James Hook x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff ♡ Pronouns: She/Her

It was a stormy night on the Neverland, the unfortunate weather interrupted the crew's plans to set sail.

As the crew scattered around the ship, a woman stood still watching the droplets fall & the lighting crash. She found peace watching the weather, especially at sea.

She shivered as the rain hit her bare skin, clutching onto herself to keep warm.

James sat in the chambers of his ship, keeping himself to himself. It is how he preferred to spend his time. However, James had a nagging feeling to go onto the deck.

He grabbed his classic red & gold jacket & made his way to the deck where he found Y/N.

The captain approached her, offering her his jacket. She took him up on his offer & he placed it around the pirates shoulders.

Y/N may keep her cool on the outside however, internally she was squealing.

"You're going to catch a cold dear Y/N."

She continued looking out to sea, and shrugged her shoulders at the Captain. James held out a hand, smiling gently.

"Please join me inside, it is absolutely freezing."

Y/N sighed but took his hand, making their way to the chamber.

James made his way to the grand piano to resume his playing. Y/N sat across from the captain, watching his every move.

She could not keep lying to herself any longer. She adored him, the way he takes care of her, the way he protects her, the way he laughed, the way he played his piano so beautifully.

He felt her watchful eyes & grinned.

"Sing with me."

She sat in shock as she was pulled away from her thoughts.

"Please dear, sing with me."

"Certainly, captain."

"This is a song I wrote a melody to along time ago, but I wrote the lyrics recently. Just follow my lead."

James began to sing the first verse, he had a magnificent voice, so versatile. His lower register was something Y/N loved to hear.

"Now I want you to sing the next verse dear."

She nodded & sang the next verse. The melody laced her lips so beautifully.

When the pair finished their duet, a look of admiration was shared between them.

"I think we make a great musical duo don't you?" He winked.

Butterflies formed in Y/N's stomach.

"I have to agree with you James."

He placed a hand on her knee, looked to his side & into her eyes. He knew how he felt about her for a long time but he didn't know if it was a good idea to tell her.

Masterlist Part 1

Folklore Series

[yallemagne]

I keep fuckin' griping, I know. So annoying. But like I really don't like how most fanfic writers depict Morph (Kevin Sydney). Not all, but definitely most.

So many fanfics I have read (and they're all Morpherine because those are the only fics that feature Morph as a main character), have this obligatory scene that I have not seen done well even once: Morph and Wolverine are having a moment when Morph transforms into Jean for no other reason than to set Wolverine up to say that he doesn't want Jean, he wants Morph. And I have read that exact scenario so many goddamn times that it's not even sweet, I just go ughhhhh grow up.

First issue I take with it: I don't think Morph would use the form of other people during sex without explicit consent from all parties involved. I think that'd be a really gross thing to do, and I don't think Morph would violate someone's boundaries like that. Also, I personally headcanon that they are averse to using shapeshifting in the bedroom other than adjusting their own base form for trauma reasons.

Second: having Morph sabotage the moment like that paints them as so obnoxiously insecure that it feels like they have just become a reskinned Lance McClain in fandom eyes. If you know, you know.

Third: It takes me out of the moment for the two previous reasons, completely killing the impact of whatever intimacy that follows (and nothing typically follows, the fic usually just ends there).

And you can just expand that into fanfic writers seeming to hate Morph's mutation. They don't want Morph to morph. They will add debuffs like saying Morph can't shapeshift often because it drains them, Morph needs to stay in their base form at practically all times, hell maybe they'll depict Morph just straight up HATING morphing. And I hate that. There are shapeshifters that don't like taking on other forms, that prefer their own body, but dog, that ain't Morph's thing

Morph's mutation is that their body is composed of unstable molecules, so it makes more sense to say that like... they can't ever not shapeshift. They can't stay still, they have to change. I view it as not only does their body naturally want to switch forms constantly, but mentally, they're always running in the back of their mind: "What'll be the best form to win a fight and/or what is the best form for comedic purposes?" Because that's one thing: Morph is a jokester. Most of their shapeshifting is not utilitarian, it is done purely for comedy.

And since there are no solo Morph fics, it's always only Morpherine (and I love Morpherine, but Morph can get it. let them fuck other people as well), how fic writers police Morph's shapeshifting is always by using Logan as a mouthpiece to tell them to stick to their base form and basically never shapeshift. And that's basically telling Morph "never use your mutation" and that's really shitty?? Like imagine if in every single Wolverine fic, his love interest was telling him "never use your claws, they aren't the real you". Like what the hell? Imagine if someone was telling Storm to stop making it rain. Jubilee, stop making fireworks, it's too flashy, it's not being true to yourself.

Now, this is where I start not making sense to non-trans folk, okay? It feels like Morph being told to stay in their base grey form, that they shouldn't even use their OTHER base form which is legit just the same body with more features, is like when people police the gender expression of nonbinary people. Can't be too feminine or masculine in your expression because then "you're not actually nonbinary you're something else". Can't have certain physical traits (breasts, body/facial hair, body fat) because it's not androgynous enough, you aren't trying hard enough to fit into the nonbinary box. Which is wild because the whole purpose of being nonbinary is not wanting to be put into a box. It isn't just a third gender.

And I'm fine with depicting Logan as not really getting it! As trying to be supportive by saying "just be yourself, you don't have to shapeshift all the time", but you can't play it as if Logan is right. He isn't right because Morph's base form is not the one and only Them. They contain multitudes.

Think like Nimona. Nimona is a nonbinary shapeshifter who likes to shapeshift. Ballister tries to get her to stop, tells her to just be her (always meaning her base girl form), but she tells him that it's all her. Every form is her. It itches not to shapeshift because it is denying a part of her being and forcing her into a box. And what a fucking slap in the face that Morph gets confirmed as nonbinary, and now everyone wants to force Morph into a box (their base form) and not let them come out of that box because supposedly them shapeshifting is going against who they really are.

[divineandmajesticinone]

RED BLUE (2024) I To be released on 17/12/2024

Hasegawa Makoto as Iwase Sannosuke Kasamatsu Sho as Amachi Wataru

[chicalepidoptera]

Between Armand beheading Marius and Armand & Marius sharing a bathtub, guess which one is canon 🤭