#help my brain broke half way ;-;;; | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedrito-friskito · 2 years ago

Note

hey kay bb!! hope you're doing well 💖

mando has been on the brain lately so i'm requesting fluffy smut with him pls 🥺😫 (the yearning is *extra* today)

niiiiiiiiik my darling my dear hope you are also well 💗

ok…this got away from me. I blinked and suddenly a plot! exposition! SMUT! (multiple scenes at that) all the things. I’m a slut for Din Djarin and it really jumped out on this one.

(smut below the cut, a full plot, the helmet comes off, a bit of inexperienced!din, reader is kind of a bad ass, descriptions of bodies, unprotected p-in-v sex - wrap ur shit even if ur in space ok)

sleepover saturday

uncharted territory

(word count 9.1k - it REALLY got away from me okay)

gif by @aceofwhump

Then you are a Mandalorian no more.

Din Djarin aches in a way he has never felt before, much more powerful than any injury he could ever sustain. His Creed, demolished. His son, gone. His life, upended. As he staggers out of the Covert, trying to think of where to go next, he cannot shake the feeling of lost that settles around his shoulders like a cloak.

Maybe coming to Glavis was a mistake; maybe he should have stayed back on Nevarro, kept taking jobs from Karga until he finally had enough credits to take the old man’s advice, get himself a camtono full of spice and disappear into the Twi’lek healing baths until he forgot the whole thing.

The truth of it? He knew he could never forget. There wasn’t enough spice in the galaxy to help him forget it all. It wasn’t possible. And the larger part was that Din didn’t want to forget.

His leg aches as he walks. The bacta Paz had sprayed him down with had helped some, but the ache runs deep, and the drills the Armourer had forced him to run with the Darksaber had only made matters worse. He should find a place to lie down, to hide for the night before he decides what he plans to do next, where he plans to go.

Where will he go?

You are a Mandalorian no more.

The echo of the words make his head split, and for a moment, he has half a mind to wrench the helmet off, to launch it off the ring, let space swallow the beskar whole. But he stops himself; it feels as though his armour is all he has left.

His armour, and the Darksaber. The right to the throne of Mandalore.

Maker, he can’t think straight. The ache only worsens, his limp more prominent, and it gets to the point where he can take no more. He falls onto the nearest crate, his injured leg stuck straight out in front of him. His body feels twice as heavy, his head even more so, and he tips it back against the wall to lighten the load. He’ll rest just a moment, he’ll just shut his eyes for one—

“Mando?”

Din pulls his blaster from his holster as his eyes shoot open. There’s the sound of shuffled steps, something metallic hitting the floor, a murmured dank farrik! He hits a button on his vambrace, turns off the thermal setting on his visor.

“Sweets?”

You look exactly the same as he remembers. It’s been ages, but he could never forget your face. He knows what’s underneath your clothes, too, and the memory speeds to the surface of his mind faster than a pod-racer.

Before he had an in with Peli on Tatooine, the Razor Crest routinely parked and tuned up in Hangar 3-5, he had you. You were well-known within the Guild, had more than a few contracts with different gangs and hunters in the galaxy. If something on a ship broke, you were the one to fix it, and you had enough heavily-armed thugs on your side to make anyone think twice about trying to mess with you.

Some called you the Mechanic, simple and descriptive. Others, those you let a little closer, knew you as Sweets, a moniker earned by your penchant for candies and treats. You’d let your favoured clients off easy if they were short a few credits, but had something sweet from the far reaches of the galaxy to offer in lieu of the missing cash.

Din knew he was one of your favoured clients, perhaps your favourite. Or, had been. You’d crowed endlessly about the Crest, desperate to get your hands on it any time he hauled it in for service, whether it actually needed it or not. Sometimes he genuinely needed something fixed, some times he’d found some candy or sweet in a far off corner of the galaxy that he’d brought back just for you.

Other times, he just wanted to see you.

You were sweet in other ways, too. He knew first-hand. And he knew he was the only client you let into your bed. He’d been drawn to you the first time you’d been introduced — a common contact between you and Din sent him your way when the Crest was in serious need of a tune-up, and you were the closest mechanic he could get to without doing more damage to the ship.

Your knowledge astounded him, to start. You were barely into a diagnostic and you knew exactly what needed to be fixed, what parts you had and didn’t, how many credits it was going to cost him. And you hadn’t even set foot on the ship yet. Your competency drove him wild, only spurred on when he brought you aboard the Crest to give the interior a once-over, eager to see if he’d kept everything original, or if you had any modifications to offer that he might be interested in. Din followed you around the ship silently, answering whatever questions you had, mostly just watching you work. It was intriguing beyond belief.

“That’s not much of a bed,” you’d commented, cocking your head to the side when you hit the button that opened the bunk. “When’s the last time you had a new mattress?”

He just shrugged.

“One thing you should know,” you said over your shoulder, descending the Crest’s ramp, heading back towards the entrance to your shop. “I don’t use droids.”

Din nearly fell over. “That’s not a problem.”

“Good,” you replied, tapping at your data pad, your brow scrunching. “It’ll take longer than your usual hangar; I do everything myself.”

“I’m happy to wait,” he said, dipping his helmet, thankful it was hiding the way he was raking his eyes over you. I don’t use droids. Had someone made you in a lab somewhere, on some backwater planet, just for him? “I know she’s in good hands.”

The grin you’d offered him was sweeter than anything he’d ever seen, and you shooed him out a moment later, muttering something about getting back to work.

When he returned three days later to retrieve his ship, he almost didn’t recognize it. You’d repainted most of the outside panels, replaced all the ones that were missing, and the engines were so shiny Din could see his helmet reflected in them. Inside the Crest was another story; you’d outfitted him with a carbonite cell system, top of the line and primed for use. That meant no more mouthy bounties, no more wasting durasteel cuffs and gags when he could just hit a button and have a quiet ride back to the Guild.

And in the bunk, a new mattress, complete with a pillow, and bolted on the wall, a mount for his helmet.

“You don’t sleep with that thing on, do you?”

“The carbonite system,” he nearly sputtered, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t have the credits, I didn’t—”

You poked the toe of his boot with your own. “Call it a gift, Mando. Let’s just say I shouldn’t have had the thing hanging around to begin with.”

“Is that gonna cause me any problems?”

“Nope,” you replied, popping the p. “Wiped all the identification numbers from the system. No one will know where it came from. Except you.”

He stared at you a long moment. “Except me.”

He was sure to pay you in full, plus the candied flowers he’d found at one of the vendors in the markets. You’d smiled again at that, and while Din committed the sight to memory, he also promised himself that he wouldn’t let it be long before he saw your smile again.

And he kept that promise. The next time he landed the Crest in your hangar, it wasn’t because he needed a tune-up or new parts. He’d struck gold at a black market on Coruscant; his bounty had lead him into the belly of a sweet shop, and after the Gungan had been dealt with, Din did some hunting of his own. He took as many boxes as he could carry, trying to take one of each flavour, a few extra of the ones he’d seen on the shelf in your shop.

“What in Maker’s name are you doing here?” you’d called as soon as he landed, stepping out of the shop and into the hangar, your hands on your hips, cocked to one side. “You ruin my handiwork that fast?”

“Not exactly,” he’d replied, walking down the ramp, his arms laden with goodies. Your eyes had gone huge. “I come bearing gifts.”

“For me?” you cried, gasping as you took the boxes from him, tongue poking between your teeth. “Mandalorian, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

He’d never been so grateful for his helmet at that exact moment. He might have crumbled to dust if you’d seen how red his cheeks were. “I-I owed you,” he stuttered out, “for the carbonite.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” you quipped, swaying from side to side on your feet, staring down at your treats. “I told you, it was a gift.” You gave him one of those smiles again, and Din felt his stomach twist at the glitter in your eyes. “Why don’t you stay a while? I’ll feed you and everything.”

You disappeared into the shop, and Din paused a moment before following.

He saw you disappear behind a dark curtain that had definitely seen better days, and Din followed your further to discover there was an apartment of sorts attached to the shop. Apartment was perhaps too kind a word; it was one large room, a kitchen to one side, a large futon spread in the middle. Trunks and boxes and crates stacked along the far wall, a few grease-stained jumpsuits littering the floor. You stumbled over your feet trying to pick them up, tossing the offending fabric into a nearby crate, before you turned back to him. “What are you hungry for?”

You served him first. Noodles with dark sauce and some kind of shredded meat you thought was bantha but weren’t quite sure. But, as you stated with a shrug, “it’s good, and it hasn’t killed me yet.” After you slid the bowl across the table to him, you turned back to the stove and stayed that way. After a moment, Din wasn’t sure what to do, but then your head turned slightly, your eyes trained directly to the left, not wandering towards him over your shoulder. “I won’t look. Swear.”

He lifted the helmet just enough to shovel the food into his mouth. You were right, the mystery meat was good, and the sauce you’d made to go with it was even better. He nearly inhaled the food, not wanting to keep you too long, and when the helmet slid back down, the mechanism hissing back into place, your head turned again, still not looking at him.

“You’re safe,” he said, sliding his empty bowl back across the table.

You turned fully, serving yourself, and he expected you to sit across from him, keeping a bit of distance between you, but instead, you rounded the table and plunked yourself down on the stool right beside him. You ate much slower than he had, and Din let his eyes graze over you. The streak of engine grease on your cheek, the scar that split your lower lip, the intricately messy way you wore your hair. A silver chain sat around your throat, strung with a tiny silver ring. It disappeared down the front of your shirt most of the time, but right then it sat awkwardly, the chain caught on your collar, the ring sitting in the hollow of your throat. He resisted the urge to reach out and fix it.

The jumpsuit you wore was nearly identical to the ones you’d hurriedly swiped off the floor. Torn on one knee, zipper unfurling beneath your chest, a symbol he didn’t recognize patched onto your thigh. You’d tied the sleeves around your waist like a belt, a dirty rag tucked in at your hip. The Mechanic, herself. Sweets.

He thought you were beautiful. He had a feeling you’d look beautiful in anything.

Or nothing.

Din was distracted by your thumb at your lips, swiping a drop of sauce from your chin and sucking your finger into your mouth. His flight-suit was tight beneath his beskar to begin with, and you weren’t helping matters. “So,” you said simply, reaching for your food again. “Tell me a story, Mando. A good one. Best bounty you ever caught.”

The conversation filtered between you two easily. You were a good listener, easy to talk to, and Din felt like he couldn’t stop talking to you, telling you about his first kill, his first bounty. His first ship, before the Crest. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you about the before, before the Guild, before he was just the Mandalorian, when he was just Din Djarin. A foundling. Part of him wondered what you think, what your reaction might be to his past, but a larger part forced his mouth shut.

At some point, he turned himself towards you on his stool, one arm braced on the table, the other resting on his thigh. After you finished your food, you leaned heavily on the table, your head pushed into your palm, legs crossed at your ankles, swinging slowly, the toe of your boot tapping his shin every once in a while.

He could see you were tired, the way you started covering your yawns and rubbing at your eyes. “I should go,” he said, starting to get to his feet. “You’re tired, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Your hand flashed out quick — not quick enough to startle him, though — and wrapped around his wrist. You’d managed to wedge your fingers right into the space where his glove met his vambrace, and he felt you against his pulse, against his bare skin. “You don’t have to leave, Mando.”

Din. He wanted to tell you. My name is Din.

Slowly, his own hand reached out, hovering in the air, shaking more than a vibroblade. He saw your eyes trace its path, watching until it lowered, dropped until the flat of his palm met the curve of your thigh. His gloved fingers wrapped around the meat of your leg, his thumb pressing towards the inside.

He heard you gasp.

He moved forward an inch, and his hand moved higher, thumb riding the seam of your jumpsuit. You hummed, fingered squeezing around his wrist, and Din moved closer, until he had one leg between yours. He let his hand wander higher, listening carefully to the changes in your breathing, the hitch in your throat. The heat between your legs was almost stifling, and something feral in the back of his brain screamed for more.

Whatever snapped in him, it seemed to break in you at exactly the same time. You both shot to your feet together, and Din’s hands moved to your waist, to where your sleeves were knotted at your waist. Yours roamed his chest plate, fingers tapping along beskar until you hooked them in his cloak. He halted his own hands, ready to help you remove the fabric, but you handled it just fine on your own, finding the hidden snaps with ease.

His blood turned to flame when he felt your fingers along his throat, seeking his pulse in another spot. “You should stay,” you breathed out, your voice barely above a murmur. “Please, Mando, I want you to stay.”

He forced himself to nod, his mind now preoccupied with ripping his gloves from his hands. He needed to feel you, no barriers in between.

He needed to see you, something in him screamed, no barriers in between.

He silenced that voice before it could spur him further. Busied himself with diving his hand beneath the waist of the jumpsuit, the broken zipper catching on his wrist. You were even hotter beneath, and he sucked down a breath when he found you wet, slick coating his fingers.

Your body leaned into him, chasing his touches, and he hooked his other hand around your thigh, lifting you up and backwards onto the table. He could feel you watching, your eyes moving from his helmet down his front, to where his hand was jammed beneath the jumpsuit. He crooked one finger, testing, pressing it into you, and grinned beneath his helmet when you moaned.

Din hooked his arm under your waist, lifting you just enough that he could maneuver the jumpsuit over your hips, down your legs. His cock jolted between his legs at the sight of you bare, leaned back on the table, your chest heaving. Even though the visor, he could see how slick you were, the evidence shining on the insides of your thighs.

He wanted to taste you.

He pushed the thought away again. Another time, when he wasn’t smearing the inside of his flight-suit with precum, when you weren’t keening into his touch as he dragged his fingers against the sensitive skin between your legs, when he could turn the lights off and shed his armour, bare himself to you the same way.

You moaned again when his fingers found your clit, drawing a sloppy circle that had your muscles tensing against his hand, knees closing against his hips. “F-fuck, Mando,” you ground out, tipping your head back on your shoulders. “You’re good with those hands.” Another stuttered breath as he twisted his wrist, curling two fingers just inside your entrance, thumb stretching up to swipe over your clit. “Really good.”

He was grinning beneath the helmet again, eyes glued to your face as he pressed further, fingers threading deeper into you. He could feel everything, the twitch of your thighs, the clench of your cunt. You reached out with one hand, using the other to balance yourself, and closed it around his elbow, your fingers digging into the thick fabric so hard he was shocked your nails didn’t bite right through.

“How do you like it, Sweets?” he asked, leaning forward until he was nearly hovering over you. Your hand moved from his elbow to chest, fingers hooked in his armour. “Tell me what you need.”

Your hand moved again, this time moving straight down his front, past his waist, right between his legs. His cock throbbed as you palmed him, a cat-like grin on your lips as you tilted your head level with the visor. You leaned up slightly, pressed your lips to the beskar edge that mirrored his jaw. Another squeeze, and the slow pace of his fingers faltered, his head nearly smacking into yours. “I need this.”

Din couldn’t hold back anymore. Something in the way you stared up at him, eyes tracing over the helmet, told him you didn’t want him to.

“I like it rough.”

It all happened in one fluid motion. He pulled you closer, right off the edge of the table, and you spun in his grip, leaning forward over the table, planting your hands flat. The jumpsuit slid further towards your ankles and you arched your back, your ass grinding against his hardness, and Din groaned audibly, tilting his head towards the ceiling. Your legs spread as much as the jumpsuit would allow, and Din worked his own zipper down, freeing himself from the flight-suit. You made the most delicious noise as the tip of his cock smacked against your ass, the tip dripping with precum.

Your head turned as he took himself in hand, tapping your ass with his cock again. “Maker,” you breathed out, your eyes widening. “I knew you’d be big.”

Beneath the helmet, Din turned crimson.

He planted his other hand between your shoulders, tipping you forward. You went willingly, eyes rolling back as he pushed his hips against your ass. He could see how wet you were as you bent, slick still dripping down your thighs.

There was nothing stopping him from dropping to his knees right then and there, lifting the helmet just enough to drag his tongue through your cunt. The thought alone made his cock pulse.

But then your hand reached back, twisting in the fabric covering his hip, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He bent his knees slightly, notching himself at your entrance, and pushed inside.

The noise you let out was nearly enough to make him cum right then and there. He knew he wasn’t gonna last, and judging by the sounds you continued to make and the way you were bearing down on him, hands clenched into fists on the tabletop, he didn’t think you were either. He set a fast pace, the space filling with the slick sound of him driving in and out of you, your moans echoing each move. Din’s gaze dropped, trained on the sight of his cock disappearing to you. Your hand flapped at his hip, scrabbling for purchase, and he wrapped his fingers around your forearm, groaning when you did the same.

He was right; you didn’t last long, and neither did he. Your entire body clenched as you came, one hand slamming against the table, nails digging deep into his wrist. It spurred his own orgasm, that coil at the base of his spine snapping, and he pulled out, cumming hard across the curve of your ass.

Silence settled over the both of you as you caught your breath. Din couldn’t help himself, rubbing his bare fingers over the expanse of your back, tracing over your spine. You arched a bit into his touch, making a satisfied noise before you lifted yourself off the table. You turned to him, leaned up to press a hot kiss to his bare throat. It made him shiver.

“Think we could do that again?” you murmured, lifting a finger and dragging it along the edge of his helmet. “Maybe you take all the metal off.”

Din cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched, already wanting a second round. “Helmet stays on.”

You stared at him a long moment, smile on your lips. “Helmet stays on.”

He kept close to you after that night. He rarely took bounties that took him to further reaches of the galaxy, loathe to admit that he was always within a few parsecs of your hangar. He brought you a long-distance commlink so he could tell you when he was coming back, so you could contact him if you ever needed him. He didn’t worry about you, per se; you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, and he knew for a fact you knew how to shoot the blaster you kept holstered on your thigh when he wasn’t around.

But then the comm went quiet. He called, you didn’t answer. A lead weight formed in his stomach, and he pushed the Crest’s engines are fast as they’d go. Carefully, though — he wouldn’t dare ruin any of your handiwork.

When he landed in the hangar, the lights were all off. It didn’t help his worry, and it only grew worse as he sprinted off the Crest, heading straight for the shop door.

It was locked, but the lock was no match for his vibroblade and a bit of brute force. Inside, the space was empty. no trace of you left inside. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood smeared on the floor or the wall, but it didn’t ease his mind any. What if someone had come for you, spirited you away in the dead of night to some backwater planet? Dank farrik, what if someone had put out a bounty on you? His mind reeled, raced, chewed him up and spit him out.

He never meant to get so attached to you.

Din switched the settings on his visor, finally determining that all the footprints he could make out on the floor were your own. Then he saw it, sitting on the edge of one of the shelves in the kitchen. The commlink, perched precariously, just enough out of sight that no one else would think twice, but not Din.

He thumbed through the screen, saw the icon flashing with a recorded message. Your face lit up the screen instantly, and he stifled the way his stomach clenched. You looked…scared. Not hurt, not injured, but scared.

“Someone sold me out,” you said, your voice distorted and warped. “I can’t give you details. I can’t really tell you anything. Just know I’m going somewhere safe, and I’ll miss you, Mandalorian. Take care of yourself.”

Your eye were shiny as you reached out to cut the recording, and Din’s heart sank into his toes.

He put the commlink in his pocket, and returned to his ship.

He’d watched the message so many times the words were engraved into his brain. The change in your voice, the way you’d blinked harder the more you spoke. The way you paused in the middle, glanced over your shoulder with a shock of fear in your eyes.

And now here you are, standing in front of him, a pile of metal spilling out of a crate tucked beneath your arm, that same streak of fear in those big eyes. Eyes that have haunted him all these years. You nearly drop the crate as you crouch, your gaze zeroing in on the wound on his leg. “Maker, Mando, what the hell did you do?”

“Long story,” he groans out, wincing as you adjust his leg slightly, leaning to the side so you can get a better look. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you reply, getting back to your feet, retrieving your crate of parts. “C’mon, let me clean you up. You look like hell.”

Din goes willingly, not sure what else to do, his mind racing from the combination of the Covert and you appearing out of nowhere. He lets you pull him slowly to his feet, tuck yourself under his arm. “Sweets,” he starts to protest, but you drag his arm around your shoulders.

“Shush,” you whisper, glancing around as you start to lead him in the opposite direction he’d been going. “Lean your weight on me.” He does as you say, nearly crumbling with relief. “There you go.”

The ache only worsens as you go, Din resisting the urge to lean his head against yours. When you finally turn him towards the door, he thinks he may topple over completely, but you’re quicker, producing a remote from your pocket. The door slides open, revealing the inside of a hangar, and you all but carry him through, discarding the crate of parts the moment you’re through, hitting the button again once you’re inside. The door slides shut, and Din lifts his head enough to look around. It looks nearly identical to your old hangar.

Then he hears a curious little beep, and looks down to see a tiny droid scurrying towards you. A BD-1 unit; he recognizes it from Peli’s, though yours is a little more rusty around the edges, the cleaner bits of metal painted grey and yellow. “Not now, Shrimp,” you grit, waving at the droid. It beeps loudly back at you, like an arguing child, and Din stifles his laugh.

“I thought you didn’t use droids,” he mumbles.

“He came with the hangar,” you reply, moving him across the hangar. Shrimp follows a few more steps before darting off, disappearing into a pile of crates. “Couldn’t bring myself to scrap him. Besides, not like he’s much help; tiny thing can’t even lift a socket wrench.”

He laughs out loud this time, and when you pull him into the shop, he laughs again, despite himself.

There’s a shelf of sweets above the workbench.

There’s no curtain between the shop and the apartment, instead another sliding door, another remote. Din lets out a low hum when he sees the apartment beyond. More than one room, furnished with actual furniture. It’s…nice. It’s really nice.

You deposit him on the couch, propping his leg up on the table in front of it. “Wait here,” you mumble, pointing a finger at him before disappearing into another room.

He doesn’t move, but hooks his fingers into the edge of his helmet and yanks it off, depositing it on the couch beside him. He sucks down a breath of unfiltered air.

You gasp as you walk back into the room, nearly dropping the silver case in your hand. “Mando, you—”

“Din,” he says instantly, reaching down, tugging his gloves off, tossing them onto the helmet. “My name is Din Djarin.”

“Din,” you repeat, slowly, like you’re tasting his name on your tongue. The corner of your mouth quirks. “Din…Djarin.”

He just nods. You approach him carefully, like you’re walking towards an injured animal instead of a man, the silver case clutched against your chest.

“Your helmet,” you start, gesturing vaguely. A memory sparks. He told you before — not in so many words — about his Creed, his upbringing. You’d asked, and he’d answered. It wasn’t information he gave willingly. The second time he had you, when you were sprawled out completely naked on that old futon, writhing and moaning beneath him, when he’d shed almost all his beskar, felt the warmth of your body pressed up against all of him. Afterward, when you’d both been sated for the time being, you’d peered up at him from your place on his chest. “Do you ever take it off?” you asked, your voice laced with sleep.

And he’d answered.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says now, eyes darting towards the curve of silver. “I’m not a Mandalorian anymore.”

“What?” you ask, your brow furrowing. He wants to reach out, let his thumb ride the space between your eyebrows, feel it smooth over as he kisses the spot. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He trails off. Loaded question. What does it mean? Truly? “My name is Din Djarin.”

There’s still confusion etched into your features, but you don’t question him further. Your brow doesn’t loosen, and you perch on the table.

“What’s in the case?” he asks, jutting his chin towards the silver case still in your hands.

You look at him for a long moment, eyes sweeping over his face, over his features. Like you’re committing him to memory. He’s doing the same, almost scrutinizing your face, trying to remember what it looks like without the filter of his visor, what you truly look like, with no barriers in between.

He could taste you easily now.

The thought catches him off guard, the throb between his legs a welcome change to the pulsing of the wound on his thigh. The bacta the Covert had given him has worn off almost completely, and the pain is climbing.

“B-bacta shot,” you stutter out, shaking your head slightly as you flipped open the case. Your eyes moved to the wound on his leg, peering at the plates of beskar, the flight-suit, the discarded helmet on the couch. “That needs to be cleaned.”

Din just nods.

“Think you can walk to the bedroom?” you ask, shoving the silver case into the chest pocket of your jumpsuit. He recognizes it — the tear in the knee, the patch on your thigh. You fixed the zipper. “It’ll be easier.”

It’s slow-going, getting him back to his feet, shuffling carefully to the bedroom. You ask him if he wants to bring the helmet; he just shakes his head.

What does that mean?

Your bed is unmade, but Din barely notices. The scent of you is amplified in here, and he’s sucking down breaths like he’s been deprived of oxygen. You help him lower to the edge of the bed, and he starts on the armour. You sink to your knees in front of him, setting the bacta shot on the mattress beside him. He removes a pauldron with shaking fingers, and you’re right there to take it from him, your movements sure, setting the metal carefully onto the floor, waiting for the next piece.

“You disappeared,” he says, after more pieces of beskar have been removed, when you’ve moved onto his boots, setting them both carefully at your side.

Your brow had just smoothed out, and it pinches again. “I had to. I left you a message.”

Din pulls the zipper on his flight-suit, reaches into the pocket sewn into the lining, and produces the commlink. “I know.”

Your lips part as you look at the piece of metal, dwarfed by his hand. “You found it.”

“I did.”

Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you look back up at him through your lashes. “It wasn’t safe.”

“You’re safe now,” he says, and you reach for the bacta shot. “Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” you reply, your voice bordering on stern. “Somebody sold me out.”

“I knew that much,” Din mumbles, and you shoot him a glare.

You sigh. “Let’s just say, there were some parts in the hangar that shouldn’t have been there, someone wasn’t happy with some work I did, and then next thing I knew, there were Imps on my tail. So I disappeared.”

“You could have told me where you were going.”

You shake your head. “They were listening. Tracking every message I sent out. I couldn’t let you get roped into it too.”

“You could have gone to the Guild,” he says. He’s too distracted to notice you pull the syringe out of the case. He doesn’t see the needle until you’re pushing it into his muscle above the wound. He grits his teeth audibly, hands curling hard around the edge of the mattress. “Dank farrik.”

“Sorry.”

“I would have come for you,” he says, breath hitching in his throat as you push the plunger down. It feels like his body has been flooded with ice water, his teeth chattering for a moment before the cold turns to a woozy sort of warmth that spreads through his chest like Corellian fire whiskey. He blinks hard, slow, one eye than the other.

“Can you stand?” He nods. Or thinks he does. “The bacta will help, but I need to put a bandage on that wound, at least.” More nodding. He’s vaguely aware of you draping his arms around your neck, your arms sliding around his waist to haul him up. He plants his feet beneath him, forces his weight over his ankles. His movements are slow, languid, like he’s moving through water. You manoeuvre one arm out of his flight-suit, pushing the fabric down his shoulders, until it settles around his hips. The metallic sound of the zipper seems to echo through his brain, and he knows you’re touching his waist, moving the fabric slowly over his injured thigh. But it doesn’t hurt.

All he can feel is you.

You sit him down again, work on pulling the suit off completely. Your hands are warm, soft, gentle against his bare legs, and he nearly buries his nose in the crown of your head when you bend down. Once the flight-suit has been removed, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt, you disappear again, and Din’s not sure if it’s thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

Something cold presses against his thigh, and he flinches. “Does it hurt?” you ask instantly, and your voice is clear, then muffled, then clear again. “It shouldn’t.”

“Nuh-uh,” he slurs out. He hears you laugh, and the sound is like tinkling bells. He wants to hear it again. “Sweets.”

“Yes, Din?” Clear, muffled. His name is a song on your lips.

“You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

“Mesh’la,” he mumbles, and then his eyes fall shut, his body slumps back, and he thinks you laugh again. He’s not quite sure; sleep is too busy yanking him under.

Din wakes to the sound of running water.

He’s disoriented, confused, not sure where he is until he pushes up on his elbows, looks around, drinks in the sight of your bedroom. The memory floods back; the Covert, then the hangar, taking the helmet off, the bacta shot that knocked him out.

But more importantly: you.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes. How long was he out? He can’t be sure; there’s a window on the far side of the room, but time on Glavis is different, artificial nighttime and starlight instead of sun. His armour has been moved from the floor, neatly piled on a dresser against the wall, his boots on the floor underneath. His flight-suit is spread out on a worktable in the middle of the room, and he can see from his spot that you’ve tried to mend it, patching the spot the Darksaber had cut open with a square of fabric. It’s looks to be the same kind of material, but the colour is darker. Beneath the sheets, his leg is wrapped in cotton bandages, and there’s no sign of blood seeping to the surface.

His head turns in the direction of the noise of the water, and he pauses, waits for some kind of pain to prick through his body, but it never comes. He feels…good. Well-rested. His eyes follow the sound, and then he sees it.

The door to your bathroom is wide open, and from his spot on your bed, he can see directly into the shower. You’re inside, steam pouring over the top of the glass wall, and Din’s whole body jerks. He never forgot what you looked like naked, and it’s been a long time, but somehow it still feels like the first time. He can feel the blood rushing south, and his hands clench in the bedsheets.

He just stares, watching the water move over you, cascading down your spine, rolling in rivulets over your curves, following the lines of your body. He wants to follow them too, wants to read you like a map only he knows the key to.

Dank farrik, he’s missed you. He hadn’t realized how much.

The water shuts off, and he sees you reach for a towel, wiping your face first. He sinks back down on the bed, wondering if he should feign sleep, feeling like a kid caught doing something he’s not supposed to. But before he can— “You’re awake,” he hears you call, and looks back just as you wrap the towel around your middle. “I thought you’d be out for the night.”

Din coughs, shifting the blankets, trying to hide the tent that’s formed in his boxers. “You don’t close the door?” He doesn’t know what else to say.

You laugh. “I live alone,” you say, stepping out of the bathroom, walking towards the dresser his armour sits upon. “Force of habit.”

He clears his throat. Loudly. Pauses. “…it’s a nice view.”

Your tongue peeks between your lips as you walk over to him, still in just the towel. Your hair is still dripping, water droplets dotting your shoulders. You sink slowly onto the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“G-good,” he spits out, adjusting himself, making more room for you. “Really good.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I’m glad. You scared me, Man—” You catch yourself. “Din.”

A drop of water splashes down from your hair, starts a path down your upper arm, and Din reaches out, catching it on his finger. You watch his hand, lips softly parted, and he continues the path, drawing his hand up and down your skin, the backs of his knuckles against your bicep.

“I wondered where you were, all these years,” you whisper. There’s longing in your voice, he notices; the same feeling sits like a weight on his chest. “I never stopped wondering.”

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he whispers back. There’s something forming in the air between you, thick like the steam that still foams from the open bathroom. Din can almost taste it, and the thought he’d had in your living room resurfaces, making him twitch beneath the sheets. He could taste you so easily now. “It’s a long story.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “I got nothing but time.”

So does he, he realizes. He’s without a ship, without his son, without anything anchoring him to one planet or another, to any sort of path. He’d been wandering already, trying to find the Covert, and now he is unmoored once more, yet somehow managed to find his way back to your hangar.

To your bed.

His hand stops chasing water droplets, and he sees your teeth sink into your lower lip. He lowers his palm until it rests on your bare thigh, and he can feel how your skin is still hot from the shower. “I never kissed you,” he rasps. “Before.”

Your head shakes slowly, and you turn towards him more fully. The towel is loose around your chest, your hand holding it in place, and he reaches for it, slowly uncurling your fingers from the fabric, until your grip falls slack, and the towel goes with it. “You should fix that,” you murmur.

“I’m out of practice.”

Your lips twitch again. “How bad?”

“Few decades,” he says softly. “Since before I swore the Creed.”

“You were a child.”

“It was a childish kiss.” He pauses, moves his hand again, brushes dripping locks of hair from your face. “I don’t want to kiss you like that.”

“Just…” Din leans in slightly, tilts his head to the side. “Do what feels natural.” You mirror his movement, and his eyes are glued to your mouth, to the way your lips stay parted even when you’re done speaking, the way your collar lifts with shuddered breaths. He sees your hands move the towel out of the corner of his eye, pulling the fabric away from your body completely until you’re bared to him, head to toe.

You’re just as beautiful as he remembers. If not more.

The tip of his nose drags along the slope of yours, and his hand slides from your thigh to your hip. “I need you closer, Sweets,” he murmurs, and you nod against him, your foreheads tapping together. There’s a bit of shuffling, the blankets moved back, his tented boxers exposed but barely acknowledged as you climb into his lap. He revels in the way you look above him, your knees pressed either side of his hips. You’re hesitant to lower your weight onto his leg, and he guides you slow, giving you a quiet it’s okay as you settle onto him.

He doesn’t feel any pain; he just feels you.

Once you’re comfortable, your hands clutching at his shoulders, he adjusts his grip on you, palms skimming up your spine, mapping out your ribs and the curve of your ass. You make a quiet noise when he squeezes one cheek, the movement propelling you forward, making your hips roll into his, your core pushed against his hard cock. It makes him hiss with pleasure, and he slides one hand up to your hair, knotting his fingers in it and dragging your mouth down to his.

It’s not artful; he’s sure it doesn’t look pretty from the outside. There’s a lot of teeth and tongue, the fumble of hands as he tries to get you even closer. He’s sure you’ve been kissed better than this, and it makes his cheeks heat, makes him pull away, tucking his chin towards his chest. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey,” you say softly, your hands moving to cup his cheeks, tilting his face back up towards you. “It’s okay. Just…follow my lead?” You say it like a question, your thumbs swiping over his face, through the smatter of facial hair along his jaw. “I got you.”

Din nods, lets his lips part as you cock your head to the side, leaning in slow. You kiss his top lip and then his bottom one, giving him just enough teeth that he wants more, wants it harder. He grips your hips as you move, but your kiss stays tender, slow, your tongue a wet heat against his own. He’d dreamed of this, of kissing you, and this one — albeit the second attempt — is everything he ever imagined.

Finally, your mouth grows more insistent. He’s hard as steel between his legs, and he can feel how hot you are, your wetness spreading across his boxers with every roll of your hips. Your mouth is sweet, almost sugary, and he finds himself chuckling against your lips, still trying to get you closer. Your stomach presses to his as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him harder, your tongue licking into his mouth.

“Sweets,” he grinds out when you start pulling at his undershirt, insistent to get it over his head. He lets you, and when you lower your head again, your mouth moves to his throat instead, and it makes him moan. “Mesh’la, wait, please, I need—”

You pull back instantly, your eyes bright with worry. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I want…” His eyes drop, tracing a path down your body, his throat growing dry when they land on the apex of your thighs, the glistening wetness he knows he’s caused. He lets one hand follow the path his eyes made, rubs his thumb over your clit. Your whole body shivers. “I want to taste you.”

Your eyes go big, pupils blown with lust, and Din uses your momentary shock to his advantage. He’s stronger than you, perks of the bounty hunting lifestyle, and he flips you easily with one arm around your waist, his other hand hitching your thigh over his hip. You squeak as your head hits the pillows, clinging to him until you’re laid out beneath him.

It’s his turn to kiss his way down your throat, and he does, laving his tongue against your pulse as he makes his way down your body. He pauses at your chest, moves to the side to close his lips around your nipple. It makes your back arch, a high-pitched noise falling from your mouth, and he grins against you, giving you just the edge of his teeth before he’s wandering across your chest to give the other the same attention.

You’re a writhing mess by the time he’s settled between your thighs. He can’t keep his eyes still, raking over every inch of you, trying to remember every part. He can see the muscles in your legs jump as he traces his fingers over them, the more sensitive parts of your skin making you keen.

With your legs spread, he can see everything, and his mouth waters at the sight of your wet cunt, walls fluttering around nothing as he teases you with his fingers, collecting your wetness on the tips before drawing them to his mouth.

He moans at the taste. Of course, you’re sweet. Deliciously so.

“Din,” you groan out, propping yourself up on your elbows. He can feel you watching, and his gaze flicks up to yours as he drops his jaw, lowers his mouth to you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, one hand moving to knot in his hair, and Din moans into you. His tongue explodes with the taste of you, sending shocks down his spine, making his hips rolls into the mattress, seeking relief.

Just do what feels natural, your words echo in his head. So he does. He licks into you, wide stripes with the flat of his tongue, smaller kitten licks to your clit. He can’t get enough of your taste, hooking his hands around your thighs, pulling himself deeper into you. And you guide him some, your hand in his hair an anchor of sorts, tugging slightly to get him right where you need him, a gasped oh fuck, right there! reaching his ears.

It’s not before long that you’re smacking at his shoulder, muffled moans on your lips with your teeth sunk into your lower one. He detaches from you, gets one more good look and lick in before he’s following your grip, kissing every inch of you he can reach as he makes his way back up your body.

“I need you inside me,” you slur, your hands reaching down, pushing at his boxers. His cock springs up against his stomach and he groans, the sound growing louder when you wrap your fingers around him. “Please, Din, I want to cum on your cock.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum right then and there, hearing your words turn filthy. And filthier still as he hauls himself over you, plants one elbow beside your head, looks between you, reaches down to line himself up and—

Freezes.

He can feel your eyes on his face, features pinched with anticipation. Your hands have found homes along his ribs, fingers tapping out rhythmless patterns. Hips lifting, you must see something in his expression, because you move a hand to his chin, lifting his eyes to yours again. “Din,” you say, and a shiver shoots down his spine again at the way his name sounds on your lips. “It’s okay. We can stop, if you need to.”

“No!” he nearly shouts, and feels himself flush, lowering himself slightly, careful not to drop all his weight on you. “No, that’s not what I…I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” you murmur. Your voice is quiet, understanding. You give a soft laugh. “I know you’re not a virgin, but if you don’t want to, it’s okay, I won’t say any—”

“It’s not that,” he cuts you off, petting his hand over your still-damp hair. “I want to. I want you. It’s just that…” He chews at his lip. “No one’s ever seen my face, while we…when I…”

Realization slides through your features. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have to look,” you say quickly, skimming your knuckles along his cheek. “I can turn over, if you like, if that’s easier than—”

“No,” he says, not a shout this time, but firmer. “I want you to see, Sweets.” He drops his chin, emboldened by your softness, your understanding. He kisses you soundly. “I want to kiss you while you cum.” His words pull a silky noise from your throat.

He breaks the kiss as he takes himself in hand, pushes into your dripping cunt. You’re hot, clenching down on him instantly, arms draped around his neck as he lowers himself further, latches his lips to yours. He hitches one of your legs high on his hip, drives into you deep. He had you close on his tongue already, and he rolls his hips hard, catching something deep inside that makes your entire body seize.

“Yes, Din, please, oh gods, please, please, please,” you’re babbling against his lips, one hand pressed flat between his shoulders, the other knotted in the back of his hair. “Yes!”

Just as he said, he kisses you while you cum. He feels it pulse through your body, your limbs taut and then lax, still holding him close. Your hips chase his, cunt clenching tight as a vice, and Din’s not far behind you, pleasure lighting a fuse down his spine.

You pull your lips from his just as he starts to spill in you. Your hand moves to grip his chin, and you force his gaze to yours. He gasps and your mouth mirrors his, lips parted in a soft o, turning to a grin as he grinds into you, painting your insides as deep as he can go. It feels like an implosion, his bones rattled in his body, but then set on the softest bed of silk as he collapses into your chest. You hold him close, petting one hand through his hair, breathing deep and slow until his own evens out, matches yours, until your heartbeat syncs with his.

“Mesh’la?” he calls after a moment, cheek still pressed to your sternum.

“Yes, Din?” you reply, your voice scratchy as your nails start to drag along his scalp. His eyes are heavy.

“I missed you.”

He can hear the smile in your voice. “I missed you too.”

Din wakes alone in your bed again.

He thinks it’s the next morning — the rest of what he assume to be evening was spent in your bed, both of you naked and wrapped in each other. Again and again and again, he pulled pleasure from your body, let you pull it from his, found your bliss together. By the time you were both too tired to move, sprawled on the mattress, your head on his shoulder, you’d whispered, “You’re a good kisser, Din Djarin.” And then you were asleep, Din not too far behind.

He dresses quickly, boxers pulled back on, undershirt in his hand as he pads out of the room. He finds you standing in the kitchen, a steaming cup of caf in your hands. The droid — Shrimp, he dimly recalls — is perched on the table, beeping out a message to you. You’re nodding along, blowing the steam off the top of your caf, and your eyes flick to him as he steps into the kitchen.

“You know Peli Motto?”

Din’s brow crinkles with confusion. “You know Peli?”

You scoff. “That woman taught me everything I know.”

“You’re joking.”

“Swear on my hangar.”

Din just laughs, walking around the table. He slides an arm around your waist once he’s close enough, leans into kiss the side of your head. You lean into him. “Why are we talking about Peli?”

“She sent me a message,” you say, offering him your caf. He takes a sip, only feeling more confused. “Asking if I had any spare ships laying around my hangar. A replacement for her Mandalorian friend.”

Din balks. He hasn’t told you about the Crest. “Sweets…”

You step away from him, pressing a hand to his chest as your eyes go wide with realization. “Din Djarin, what did you do to that ship?”

“I didn’t—”

“Din.”

“It was Imps,” he says, trying to reach for your hip. “It wasn’t—”

“Where is the Razor Crest?”

He sighs heavily, and reaches out to take the cup of caf from you again. “Now it’s nothing but a scorch mark on the planet Tython. It was the Imps. They took my son.” The words are out before he can stop them.

Your eyes go so wide he’s worried they might pop out of your skull. “Your son?”

“It’s a long story.”

You pluck the caf out of his hands, walk around the table, pull out a chair and sink into it. “I got nothing but time.”

#sleepover saturday #my fics #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin fluff #din djarin headcanon #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian headcanon #the mandalorian fanfiction

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moxfirefly · 2 years ago

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Rated Some What Spicy.

A little something that came to mind and I’m gifting it to @turtle-babe83 (NOT ANYMORE LOSER)

The feeling coiled within his stomach, deep and low to the point that he thought he was going to puke.

One can puke from excitement, right?

Because he was just about to prove it.

There was no anxious mission, no fighting about to start. He was simply existing within himself and probably training his green eyes at you. Watching carefully as you moved about the space. A section of his brain screamed at him to stop, to quit staring and shut his brain off.

But, fuck…

How could he? He hasn’t succeeded in doing so since the first day he had met you. The very second you had smiled up at him, something sweet and innocent that he wanted to eat.

He wanted to eat you.

Not in the full definition of the word, but the spirit of it. He wondered what sinking his teeth into sensitive gentle flesh would feel like. He wondered what the shape of his name would sound like exhaled from your throat. He wondered what the sweat that clung to your skin would mingle like with his seed sprayed against it.

Raph swallowed, audibly, but it proved useless to swallow the metaphorical knot stuck in his throat.

He picked up a piece of candy that April had flung towards Mikey’s direction not five minutes ago. Concentrated on the mundane task of unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. The swirl of his tongue wrapped around t until the gooey centered spilled.

And yet all his brain could picture was your lips, his dick and that atrociously desperate need to see your swallow him whole.

His teeth broke the candy, loud enough that April cringed.

“You alright big guy?” She asked, avoiding another onslaught of Mikey hurling popcorn at her. They had been engaged in a hefty debate on what tonight’s movie marathon genre should be.

Raph hadn’t been mentally present for half of it. He had personally checked out when you had pushed your seat out and gotten up to get the food ready. The whole motion of movement had made your skirt floosh and the faintest reveal of thigh had been enough to send him into his own personal horny hell.

“M’fine, just getting a headache from Mikey defending The Matrix so much” He managed to move his eyes from you to cast a glare at his youngest brother.

“We can’t watch a Patrick Swayze marathon for the fifth time dude, we gotta expand our horizons” He was adamant that Mikey simply wanted to bust his balls.

“One doesn’t get tired of Point Break” Was his final statement before April offered up another trilogy as an option.

The five minute break had helped, the candy had fully melted in his mouth and by the time his eyes found you like autopilot, you had gone to the bathroom by the lack of your presence.

“Keep an eye on the food numbnuts, be right back, and no April we ain’t watching Jennifer’s Body, ya get a weird look in yer eye when that broad goes berserk on them dudes” Her huff made him smile but why were his legs lifting him up and delivering him towards the bathroom that surely was occupied?

Had he finally fucking lost his mind?

He silently prayed he’d trip and perish on his way but much to his dismay he was at the door just as you began to step out. The little jump was endearing, the wide look in your eyes quickly changing before the nervous laugh kicked in.

“Jesus I didn’t hear you” You commented with a giggle.

“My bad, ninja shit and all that” He felt his tongue was made of clay.

“Well naturally you’d be good at sneaking around, so what’s the finale decision for the marathon?” You asked, peaking a glance behind him as the debate for The Matrix had now been swapped for Rush Hour.

Raph swallowed, eyes taking in your small frame compared to his massive one. The concept of how you’d look beneath him punched him in the gut and exhilarated him all at once.

God he wanted to fucking eat you up.

“…Do ya wanna skip the movie?”

It was out of his mouth before he could shove it back down his esophagus.

“What? Like not watch them?” You weren’t taken aback, merely intrigued by his sudden change. But he could tell there was a little beneath your words an almost hopeful want.

It took a great deal for Raph to unglue his mouth, a rattle in his spirits as the adrenaline zig zagged inside of his veins.

“Kinda just wanna hang with ya…just us” He whispered it, a little nugget of information that found itself smacking your concern into a grin.

Why were you grinning?

Oh fuck!

“If you wanna be alone with me all you had to do was ask, is that it? Is that what you want Raphie?” His palms felt sweaty, he felt his stomach do a violent somersaults but your grin, your eyes casted upwards at him didn’t allow him to move. All he could muster was a nod, slow and meaningful enough to make your eyes shiny with curiosity.

Did you know? Could you read every shameful thought that’s ran through his brain all these years?

The aftertaste of the candy still clung to the inside of his cheeks, it mixed with the little saliva he had left from swallowing so much.

“Hey Mike, watch the food, something came up and Raph’s gotta take me home!” There was a muffled yeah yeah yeah from him and before Raph could look back your hand was in his.

Soft skin on his callouses.

“Well, let’s go” You smiled whilst leading him towards one of the exits in the Lair.

He allowed you to tug him, mind too wrapped up still on how your hand felt against his own. That impossible desire to pull back against him, to feel your further against him.

That need to consume you ran through his body like electricity.

What the fuck was he getting himself into?

#paimon writes #tmnt bayverse #tmnt raphael x reader #raphael x reader #raph x reader #raphael #tmnt raphael #gift fic #turtle-babe83

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bettysupremacy · 3 years ago

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Family Video blues

Steve Harrington x Fem! Reader

Summary: With family videos broken AC, Steve has to take care of his poor heat exhausted girlfriend.

Warnings: food and mentions of eating, not drinking enough water, horrible summer heat, cursing, fem! reader, tooth rotting fluff, kind of sick! Reader maybe? Tell me if there’s more!

A/N: would you believe me if I told you this was supposed to be a completely different fic, but I got too caught up in Steve taking care of her? So here’s this love letter to my beloved Steve Harrington.

1.2k words, kinda short.

Cold AC is the only thing forgiving about working at Family Video during the summer. She could be out shopping with Max, or swimming with Robin, but no, she’s stuck in Family Videos horror section putting away returns.

Cold AC is the only thing forgiving about working at family video during the summer, but the AC broke three days ago.

Sweat trickles down her neck as she looks for the correct spot to put Gremlins, eyes scanning over the rows and rows of G horror movies. Keith insisted that they keep the movies in alphabetical order.

“Goddammit,” It comes out as a murmur, not wanting to disturb Robin and Steve, not wanting to pass her bad mood to her innocent coworkers, but ultimately she gives up, stuffing it between Godzilla: King of The Monster and Godzilla Raids Again.

It’s so hot in this goddamn store, she’s afraid the tapes will melt. Can they do that?

The heat seeps into her head making her brain foggy, so she grabs a new tape and sinks to her knees for a little reprieve.

When was the last time she drank water?

Alien. The new tape she grabbed is Alien, and she’s on the ground kneeling next to the fucking Z section. Her forehead makes slow contact with the metal holding the movies, it’s warm, and the VHS cover of Alien sitting in her lap mocks her. Bold, white, A, reminding her that she needs to stand up.

Someone cruelly flicks cold water onto her neck. She tenses up rigidly before turning her head.

“You hot, baby?” Steve stands over her, stainless steel water bottle popped open guiltily. “You feelin okay?”

The ice sloshes as he crouches next to her, gently ripping Alien from her grip, and looking at the big fat Z painted over the section she’s sitting in.

His big warm hand comes up to her forehead. “Have you drank enough water today? It’s really hot in here.”

“No.”

“No?” He hands his water bottle to her, mumbling “Drink a little more.” when she pulls it from her lips, and smiling when she listens.

“Let’s take lunch break.”

“What about Rob?”

Steve looks around the empty store warily. “I think Rob’ll manage.”

“You think?”

“Definitely.” The kiss he presses to her forehead is warm, but not unwelcome. She leans into his touch, frowning when he pulls back to help her up.

The employees only room is significantly cooler than the rest of the store. A box fan, that Steve bought, rests in the corner. Goosebumps rise to the skin of her arms immediately, and Steve smiles at the way she shivers.

“What’d you bring for lunch, babe?” He pulls a strand of sweat sticky hair from her forehead.

She shy’s away from his hand, “Forgot.”

“My girl forgot her lunch?” He tsks, pulling out the brown sack of lunch he brought today. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.” She could cry at the way Steve is treating her right now, with such love and affection.

“Enough for a sandwich? Or just my chips?”

“I don’t wanna eat your lunch, Stevie.”

“Please.”

“What will you eat?”

Steve knows she won’t eat his food, not unless he eats with her, and he doesn’t want to be the reason guilt gnaws at her stomach. “You get half the sandwich and I’ll get the other half, okay?”

She looks hesitant.

“And I’ll share the chips. God forbid you eat the whole bag without me.”

She doesn’t smile very much, and he wasn’t expecting her to, but the twitch in the corner of her lips is a success in his books.

“Come sit on my lap.” She shakes her head no. “At least sit next to me.”

She moves to pull her chair out, but he moves quicker and pulls it closer to him. Steve recounts an old story as they eat together. Her soft responds in all the right places gets him every time.

“-And he was in the kitchen mixing a drink!”

“But he told you he was out of town? That’s so rude.”

“Exactly!”

When they’re almost finished, he fishes the rest of the zips out of the bag and dumps them on her zip lock bag, accepting it when she lifts one up to his mouth. He lifts one up to her mouth and she turns her head.

“Um, no? You can’t feed me but deny me feeding you? Eat the chip.“

She giggles at the offense dripping from his voice, turning her head farther away. He grabs her cheeks in his left hand, managing to get her to look at him, while his right hand holds the chip.

“Eat the chip.”

Her shoulders are shaking with silent giggles as he looks at her very mock sternly.

“Eat it.” He bites back a laugh.

She accepts the chip into her mouth, letting her giggles get louder when he drops his hand from her face. A fond smile works it’s way onto his lips as he watches her laugh.

“There’s my smiley girl, where’s she been?”

“Waiting in the AC.”

“Oh, makes sense. Will she come out with me to finish putting the horror returns away?”

“I’m putting the horror returns away, you’re doing romance.”

“What? I can’t help you and then do my own?”

“Keith will get mad.”

“Keith’s always mad about something.”

She huffs out indignantly, looking away. Steve can’t stand the couple seconds that her eyes aren’t on him. He taps her cheek twice.

“Let me come help, please? If not for your sake, for Keith’s sake. I’m sure he doesn’t want to see Alien in the Z section.”

He can’t help but laugh when he watches her jaw drop. “You’re using that against me? I was hot. I was dying from..”

“Heatstroke?”

“Heatstroke!”

“Heat exhaustion?”

“Maybe!”

He giggles boyishly. It drips with a sticky fondness that has her facade crumbling.

“C’mere.” He reaches his arms out wide for her, and this time she doesn’t deny him of her sitting on his lap. Arms wrapped around each other languidly, their shirts cling to each other’s sweaty skin. “Gimme a kiss.”

She doesn’t deny him of that either.

“You gotta tell me when you’re not feeling so hot.” He rests his forehead to her temple.

“I was feeling really hot.”

His nose nudges hers, “You know what I mean.”

She nods, closing her eyes and accepting the kiss he presses to the corner of her mouth.

“Jus’ wanna take care of you.”

She wraps her arms a little tighter around his neck, nuzzling her nose into the side of his neck. She wishes she could kiss it. She does.

He preens delightedly, so she does it again.

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

He presses her lips into her hair, silently shaking his head no.

“Oh my god, are you for real?” They look up to see Robin standing in the doorway, lunch box in hand. “How could you cuddle in these temperatures? Fucking disgusting I tell you.”

She sits across from them, shoving their lunch garbage out of the way to stick her own down.

“Oh yeah, just move our shit Robs.”

“Okay.” She pushes the chip bag away from her.

The look he gives Y/N is coated in bafflement, but he can’t keep it on his face when he sees her shoulders shaking in silent giggles again. He leans down to press a sticky kiss to her lips.

“I’m eating here.”

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #Steve Harrington #steve harrington imagine #Steve Harrington x reader #Steve Harrington blurb #Steve Harrington x reader fluff #Steve Harrington x y/n #Steve Harrington x you #steve x you #Steve Harrington x fem! reader

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pedgito · 2 years ago

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Hi! I saw this in a prompt list and thought it might be cute, immediately thought of Eddie munson.

“You broke into my apartment drunk thinking it was your friend’s house and I should call the cops but my cat kinda likes you so we’re good”

author’s note: i love giving my brain a break from smut for adorable prompts like these, so thank you!! i saw this and had to write it haha, it’s so perfect.

cw: sfw, meet-cutes, slightly mean!reader, cats loving eddie for no reason, steve being an annoying neighbor, mentions of drinking, if i missed anything lmk!

word count: 1.3k

You could’ve sworn you locked your door—every night, on the way to your room, just a simple turn of the lock and you were secure—not tonight, apparently. The day was long and exhausting and you ended up falling asleep on the couch half-dressed in your pajamas after a shower, an over-sized shirt covering your thighs to leave you some decency to the underwear hidden beneath.

It’s a small jingle to the doorknob that startles you, swearing that it’s all in your head—or that Steve was having another one of his wild nights and lost his keys, it’s why he left an extra in your apartment.

You didn’t know him incredibly well, but after being his neighbor for two years there was a weird bond of trust, that and he gave you free rentals every week when you came into the store, he was actually a pretty sweet guy despite his disregard for noise when it came to neighbors.

You heave a heavy sigh, peeking your eyes open to watch the shadow under the door as it stumbles clumsily, their weight shifting against it as if they slipped—it startled your cat, a scraggly black and grey feline that was always either sleeping or ripping up your furniture. It was a rocky love and hate relationship, most of the love attempting to be forced on your end while there was mostly hate being received in response. He climbs over your head and plops onto the floor, shoving himself under the couch and away from whatever predator lurked beyond.

“I feed you, take care of you—you’re such an asshole.” You call after him, leaning up from the couch to stomp toward the door and yell at whoever was waiting on the other side—but that never happens.

The door opens before you get a chance to move, the dimness of the room making it impossible to clock who it is at first glance, your eyes squinting to make out the shape of them.

It dawns on you quickly—that definitely wasn’t Steve.

There’s a low curse as they step on one of your cats scattered toys, nearly slipping as they slapped their hand against the wall to catch themselves. Normally, your first instinct would be to scream, run, either of the two would work—but all signs were pointing elsewhere and you couldn’t help but watch on in amusement, waiting for the person to realize they might’ve stepped into the wrong apartment. It wasn’t like you were hooking up with anyone lately, let alone bring them home.

“Why the fuck—“ The voice huffs, kicking the toy to the side as they regained their balance, “Steve, did you get a fucking cat?”

And that explains it.

“No, he didn’t.” You reply with amusement, pushing up on your hands until the blanket falls to your waist, hair bemused from sleep—there was no telling how ridiculous you looked right now.

Eddie shouts, “Jesus, dude—who the hell are you?”

The door falls shut without Eddie’s doing and the silence is deafening.

“The owner of this apartment.” You point out, doing an obvious scan of the apartment until it clicks in his brain, his eyes widening in both shock and embarrassment.

“Holy shit—I am so—“

Your cat jumps out then, circling the stranger’s feet curiously. Your face scrunched up in annoyance as he betrayed you once again, finding safety in a stranger rather than you.

Eddie forgets what he’s saying, leaning down to pet at the cat’s soft fur, “Oh hey, little guy,” The cat purrs softly, nudging his head into his palm, “did I scare you?”

“Not to interrupt, but I still have every reason to call the cops on your right now,” You remind him, shoving the blanket away to scamper toward him, forgetting your severe lack of clothing to grab at your car, hurling him up into your arms, “the least you could do is introduce yourself.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, shifting to your face immediately.

“Uh—Eddie. Munson. Steve’s friend.” He explains quickly, “The light’s out in the hall—and I’m a little drunk if I’m being honest, I guess I got the numbers mixed up.”

You huff a laugh at that, feeling your cat wiggle from your grasp until he could paw at Eddie, jumping the distance to snuggle into Eddie’s waiting arms, sensing the need before it even happened.

“Well, Steve’s friend Eddie Munson,” You say dramatically, “you seem to be the only person my cat doesn’t despise—so I won’t call the cops, not yet.”

On cue, the tiny fury betrayer rubs against Eddie’s jacket, closing his eyes as he relaxes.

“You little shit.” You say snidely causing Eddie to chuckle—his eyes linger on your face briefly until he can’t stand it, drifting further down the expanse of your legs.

You notice it, answering with a dismissive, “I was sleeping.”

“On your couch?” He asks quizzically, noting the size of your apartment. He knew there had to be a bedroom somewhere—though, who was he to judge?

“I was tired.” You shrug, “—Why are you still here?”

“Yeah, shit,” Eddie curses again, something that seemed to be a habit of his, “I didn’t expect to make a friend.”

He scratches the cat’s head gently, another soft purr rumbling in the quiet and another annoyed eye roll coming from you.

There’s a rough knock at the door that startles both of you, a soft yelp escaping your throat. It sends your cat fleeing in a hurry to your bedroom, body slinking through the cracked door and away from danger once again.

You shove Eddie away from the door gently, twisting the doorknob until the door creaked open, brimming with frustration at the sudden flurry of events—all you wanted was a decent night of sleep.

“Hey—oh,” Steve’s eyes go wide, his figure becoming clearer as the door opens wide, “—Eddie?”

“It’s a long story.” You tell him before Eddie has the chance to answer.

“You’re—“ He points at you and your state of undress, eyebrows pulling together in confusion, “do you two—wait, are you two screwing each other?”

Eddie stutters out a quick, “No.”

Followed by your pointed look of disgust, “God—absolutely not.”

Eddie looks slightly offended but forces it away, Steve’s mouth pulling up into a smirk, “I probably should’ve introduced you two sooner—Eddie’s moving in with me next week.”

“Yeah, well it looks like your new roomie partied too hard,” You tell Steve, plucking at the sleeve of Eddie’s slack arm, the metal of his bracelet jingling against his wrist, “I already took in one stray—two, counting you,” Your eyes narrow on Steve, “I don’t need a third.”

“I’m right here,” Eddie says, feeling dejectedly despite his lack of knowing you, “I have feelings.”

“You’ll learn, buddy,” Steve offers comfortingly, grasping at his friend’s wrist to pull him along, “let’s go.”

“My cat didn’t try to maul him—so I guess that’s something,” You offer, Steve’s face contorting in shock, “—yeah, literally ran toward him like a fuckin’ traitor.”

“Huh,” Steve laughs, glancing over at his friend who still had an apparent frown on his face—you feel like you apologizing is a good idea, but Steve quickly rectifies that, “he’s fine—just an emotional drunk.”

“Well, I guess that makes two of you.”

“Hey,” Steve says, coming to his own defense, “not true.”

“Yeah—he likes to strip naked too.” Eddie interjects and Steve has the audacity to look mortified despite how many times you’ve witnessed just that.

Steve is on the precipice of a retort, mouth open in defense, but you quickly close the door in his face and catch the muffled beginnings of what you were sure was going to turn into an hour long rant—luckily, that wasn’t your problem.

Eddie Munson, though—that was soon to prove in being the biggest problem of your life.

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson blurb #my writing

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sixofpomegranates · 2 years ago

Text

All of them are Eddie Munson fics since I am going through some severe brain rot because of this spicy golden retriever.

The order is random and not indicative of how much I liked them. There is no ranking, just sharing some really good pieces of work so we can all enjoy it!

10 Recommendations || 🐇 = My opinion. || Pink Color = SMUT

As You Wish (series) by @corroded-hellfire

➢ Summary: When Eddie isn’t appreciated like he should be, his babysitter feels the need to step in and comfort him.

🐇: I am OBSESSED with the entire universe. Like, really, really obsessed. Older!Dad!Eddie has my whole heart. His boys too. Brittany can go to hell. Long story short: Highly Recommended! It rearranged my brain chemistry. Oh, and it's spicy. || Not sure if it's still ongoing, but the way I am stalking the author's page I’ll sure as hell find out.

Eddie Had A Little Lamb (one-shot) by @honey-flustered

➢ Summary: Eddie is trying to be good and with your help, he could be exactly that. But Kas, on the other hand, thrives in all that is unholy and he’ll stop at nothing to bring you and Eddie to the dark side.

🐇: This rearranged my brain chemistry. I want more like this. I love this. Send me recommendations with fics like this. Jesus H. Christ.

who’s to say [pt.2] by @quinnsbower

➢ Summary: your father, jason carver, promises you one thing and can’t deliver it to you. you decide to get back at him and it him where it really hurts: eddie munson.

🐇: This is responsible for getting me hooked on older!eddie. This is the reason I will be writing an older!eddie fic. This rearranged my brain chemistry. I liked this way too much. So good. Sweet, old guy Eddie.

Caught Me Slippin’ (one-shot) by @uglypastels

➢ Summary: [modern!au] feeling insecure about your skills in bed, you decide to find someone who could help you learn. Except, when the guy actually shows up, a mistake seems to have occurred. Fortunately, you're both quite adaptable (or, at least, you try to be), and the night quickly takes off into unexpected territories.

🐇: No, because YOU hurt my feelings. You gave me an amazing one-shot with banging smut and then broke my heart. I love you and this piece, and forgive you, but damn.

Honey, I'm Home! (series) by @trashmouth-richie

➢ Summary: you were desperate for a roommate after Nancy got married and moved out. An ad in the paper goes unanswered until someone comes knocking on the door.

🐇: Obsessed, but I’d kill this menace!Eddie. I do not have enough self-control to not go to prison for ending this feral raccoon’s existence. || It's still ongoing. Eventual smut.

The Soulmates (series) by @neonghostlights

➢ Summary: Eddie Munson never thought he would be one of the lucky ones. Him being the only one in his family to be given a soulmate mark was a miracle. What happens when his soulmate is not the one he wanted? Will he be able to give up his dream girl to be with the one he’s meant to be with? Or will he just have to learn to ignore the other half of his soul?

🐇: Like it a lot. I found it through a reblog and read all the existing parts in one go. It's a Soulmate AU, the first one I read. || It's still ongoing.

You Give Love A Bad Name [pt.2] by @cinemaquinn

➢ Summary: eddie munson was a world famous rockstar. and, apparently, an asshole. but you weren't one to believe rumours, so when eddie asks to meet you, who are you to say no?

Conviction (one-shot) by @tiannasfanfic

➢ Summary: Life takes an unexpected turn when a one time fling with your best friend leads to an unplanned pregnancy. Will years of friendship be enough to build a solid marriage off of...or are you destined for heartbreak due to a wandering eye like the town rumor mill predicts?

🐇: This was so cute. Especially the ending. Yes, this was spicy. Very good.

Destructive Solutions (one-shot) by @bimbobaggins69

➢ Summary: after becoming roommates with your high school crush and finally getting out of your crazy strict parents house, you get a little too close to him and his best friend (your coworker) —but they’re straight, right?

🐇: yes. I am Steddie x f!Reader trash. I love it when the chemistry is there. And it was there. I loved this so much that I am writing my thoughts on this for the 7th time now because tumblr is a bitch.

Show Me (one-shot) by @bimbobaggins69

➢ Summary: you accidentally stumble upon your best friend/roommates porn stash, you quickly learn he’s the main star. After seeing him in ways you never have, will your friendship ever be the same?

🐇: yes. yes. You may have noticed that that's the second fic from @bimbobaggins69 That's because I found her through reblogs and since then am sure that her fics don't miss, no matter what she posts.

Seriously.

Fuck Tumblr for always deleting the last couple of sentences.

#—🫀lynn recommends #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #stranger things smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson comfort #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #kas!eddie #older!eddie #husband!eddie munson #husband!eddie #soulmate!eddie

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winter-darling · 2 years ago

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May i request comfort for rui, akito and touya where theyre having dinner with readers family but they keep saying harmful things about them that arent true and being overall toxic? Im in a similar situation where my brother blames me for everything and everyones shaming me when its not my fault

Very sorry that’s happening to u :(

Sosososo sorry for the long wait, i’ve had like no motivation to finish this and it kinda seems half assed towards the end

And ty to milk who helped with this cuz brain is dead

AKITO SHINONOME

-ohboy he’s pissed to say the least

-will throw back pretty much anything they've said about you back at them

-mf almost broke the fucking table

********

You all sat at the dining table, silently munching on the food your mother had prepared. The sounds of utensils hitting against the plates echoed across the room.

Panic washed over you, you knew one of your family members would eventually make a comment about you.

Not today, please. You thought to yourself.

You tried to ease the intensity of your shaking hands, and avoided looking up. Akito, who sat beside you, caught onto how you’ve been acting. Ever since the two of you arrived at your family’s home, you were awfully quiet. He brushed it off since he thought it was just you nervous about him meeting your family, but still kept close attention to how you were.

“So, do tell how you managed to date someone so out of your league” your brother teased.

“Yeah, you’re so unorganized, and you look so pathetic when next to someone who clearly has their things set straight.” Your mother added on.

You dropped the utensil that was in your hand and just sat there, trembling helplessly knowing you couldn’t talk back to them, as you knew that would only result in them throwing more insults at you.

“Excuse you?” A voice announced, and you knew exactly who it was. You could tell just from his tone that he was furious.

“What? You don’t agree?” Your mother said with a cocky grin on her face.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Akito argued. His fist hit the table. You winced from the sudden bang that rattled the table, the plates and silverware clanging from the force serving as another ringing in your ear.

“I’d like to know if you’re better than them; if you’ve actually gone farther than they have in your life. Do you actually think you can achieve something from doing shit like this?

To your own damn child?”

Your mother stood in shock, still trying to register what he said while her grin faded.

“And you have the nerve to call them pathetic. So how ‘bout this, shut your mouth.” The boy added.

You felt a gentle tap on your shoulder,

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

*********

You both left the gathering, and just walked together back to his home. Hand in hand, and with silence.

“Why didn’t you say something back to them?” He questioned, fury hinted in his words.

You didn’t respond. You simply just continued walking while staring at the ground.

Akito comes to a sudden halt. Which had caused you to pause as well.

“Answer me, please.” He added, while turning towards you.

At this point, he was desperate for a response. He didn’t understand why you didn’t defend yourself.

You couldn’t bring yourself to lock eyes with him. The swirling feeling of shame and embarrassment washed over you as you recalled the events that happened not too long ago. The stinging in your eyes warned you about the tears that had welled up, threatening to spill.

“I’m just scared, Akito” you muttered out, voice cracking.

“Why?”

“My family always liked ruining people’s view of me, throwing around things I've never said or done. I didn’t want you to fall for that.”

He couldn’t really figure out a way to respond. But nonetheless, he took some time for himself to recollect his thoughts.

“Look, you don’t seem like the kind of person to do any harm to other people. Even if you parents told me some bs like that, I wouldn't believe it.”

You smiled from the reassurance. Overwhelmed with your current emotions, you couldn’t help but cry, while embracing Akito in a hug.

TOYA AOYAGI

-anger builds up as they progress w/ the comments

-literally just gets up and leaves with you

-doesnt feel like wasting his time on something so stupid since most of the time its projecting

-not leaving ur side for the rest of the night

*******

“So you’re dating someone who actually has decent grades? Maybe you’re using him for your own benefits. How selfish!”

“No, Mom. It’s not like that at all!

Why won’t you listen to me?!”

This only caused your mother to fume at your sudden 'attitude', raising her voice as she continued to accuse you of other matters at hand. The constant yelling filled the dining room, ruining the atmosphere of a peaceful dinner you'd hoped to have.

Toya had been silently watching this argument go on for the past few minutes. Frustration with your mothers accusations slowly crept up on him. He figured the only way out of this was to just.. leave. He didn’t appreciate how cruel your mother was to you.

He rose from his chair, and held your hand with a gentle, yet firm grip. When you looked up towards him, he announced,

“I appreciate the gesture of inviting us over, but I think I've heard enough.

*******

The setting sun illuminates toya's darkened room as you lay there within his arms; in a comfortable silence. It was peaceful and calm, much different from the situation that had happened before. You felt oddly drained from spending all your energy arguing with your mom so you drift in and out of sleep, clinging onto consciousness.

Toya had recognized your current state, and had thought it’d be best for you to stray into slumber. He wants you to forget the worries of your mother, and once you regain your energy, he will continue to remind you that he knows you're not what your mother accuses you about.

With a gentle smile he begins to hum a small tune that drifts throughout his room while stroking your hair in a loving manner.

Eventually, the boy heard your soft breathing, realizing you had finally fallen asleep.

“Sleep well, my love”

RUI KAMISHIRO

-favorite

-kinda like akito but much calmer abt it

-if u walk out he’ll excuse himself but also call them out before he leaves

-will also roast the living hell out of them tbh

-just walks u to his home holding ur hand like the world is ending

*****

The evening with your family had been going well. Everyone got along with Rui, cracking jokes once in a while, and occasional chit-chat about interests they shared.

“Can you throw this out, y/n?” Your mother asked, her tone hinting it was more of a demand rather than a favor.

“Not right now ma, could I do it when I finish my food?”

“It’s a simple task! Why can’t you do it now?! You good-for-nothing-“

A voice interrupted her;

“If it’s so simple, then do it yourself,” The boy retorted.

“But-“

“You said it was a simple task, correct? I think you’re more than capable of doing it yourself.” Rui added, his signature cheeky grin sat upon his face.

This situation with your mother occurs often, and you didn’t feel like going over this for the 100th time. You got up from your chair, and without a word, you left the dining room and eventually left the house.

Rui wasn’t very pleased with your mother’s cruel way of treating you.

“If you’ll excuse me, I'll be leaving now.”

************

The both of you walked back to Rui’s place, although your mind wandered elsewhere, disregarding the boy who eyed you concerned. Your grip on his hand tightens due to your tense state, but that was quickly broken when you felt his thumb tracing small circles on your hand as an act of comfort. You glanced at him to only be met with his soft smile.

#fluff #wonderlands x showtime #kamishiro rui x reader #rui kamishiro x reader #toya aoyagi x reader #project sekai #project sekai headcanons #akito shinonome x reader #vivid bad squad #vbs akito

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theinariakuma · 3 years ago

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Office Playtime

Ran Haitani x Petite!Fem!Reader

Tw: Mild Dark Content, overstimulation, name calling, size difference, daddy kink, dumbification, slight mind break, breeding, spitting, pet names, corrupt (fake) cop!Ran, Police Receptionist!Reader

Her breathing was heavy, her chest against the desk as Ran had one of her legs in his grasp. It was several months into playing a role as one of the transfer detectives to help Bonten.

Since "joining" the police force he couldn't keep his hands off the front desk girl. She was just so fun to play with.

"Y-you're too big..." Her mind too hazy to think straight as she felt his cock trying to bully it's way into her cunt..it didn't matter how often he fucked her, every time was like the first time.

"Then I guess we'll just have to break you in each time we do this, Princess." Ran couldn't help but grin as his cock pressed harder against her, feeling as he slowly sank into her cunt. Her grip around him was tight, but he knew she was overwhelmed already by the way her nails clawed at the wood of his desk.

"T-too much! I can't, I can't..." She couldn't take anymore, only half of his cock buried inside her, her cunt was a dripping, quivering mess. She wasn't sure if she'd break or cum first. Maybe both at the same time.

Ran instead roughly snapped his hips to hers, his hand covering her mouth before he did so. His cock roughly bottoming her out, pushing against her cervix--even pushing her belly out some, feeling her body trembling as instead of crying out like he thought she would, tears just slipped down her face as she came. He couldn't help but admire as she broke under him, a trembling, near convulsing mess.

When her body stopped trembling, he tilted her chin towards him, seeing her glazed over eyes, her jaw slackened.

"Did I make your brain break, baby? Did my cock just make you go stupid?" He couldn't help but mock her. She looked so pretty when she was broken and cock drunk.

He had no intention of stopping even as she came… he just wanted to watch her break again and again.

Each roll of his hips had her make some of the lewdest whines he'd ever heard. Cum leaking from around his cock, the way her eyes were crossed from the overwhelming pleasure.

"My little fuck doll can't even talk. Can she?" Ran mocked, he'd come deep inside her, her core filled to the brim with his see. "That's okay, means no complaining when I'm fucking a baby into your needy cunt.

"D-Daddy..." Was the only word she could make out. Every time his cock pushed against her cervix, her mind went blank. Every orgasm stole her thoughts.

"Shhh, no trying to talk." His fingers drew her chin down as he leaned over her, when her mouth was open, he just couldn't help but spit into her mouth, forcing her chin up to close her mouth so she made sure to swallow.

"My obedient you. My perfect, dumb cockslut." He crooned as he gave her the final load of the afternoon.

He loved seeing how limp she went over his desk.

Who knows, with any luck he might have actually fucked a baby into his pretty doll.

#ran haitani #ran haitani x reader #ran haitani x mc #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo rev #tokyo rev smut #tr smut #mild dark content #tw: breeding #corrupt cop ran #petite reader #petite mc #tw: size kink #f!mc #f!reader

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smoooothoperator · 3 years ago

Text

Good Time (D.R.)

a/n: hello my lovelies! This will be part of a small series. I got inspired by a TikTok, so yeah hehe, one of F1 Drivers as Love tropes. This is the 'Everyone can see' one. Send me an ask with the driver and the type of love trope you want!💖💖

"Fucking finally" Daniel exclaimed leaving his suitcases on his bedroom, laying on the bed.

She chuckled hearing him walking through the corridors of their shared apartment, getting up from her bed and walking to his bedroom, leaning on the door frame.

"Hard week?" she smiles looking how he stretched his arms above his head.

"The worst. I needed this summer break" he sighed rubbing his eyes. "I finished the race with P15, and I feel that this incoming weeks will have many drama. They just announced Alonso is going to Aston Martin, I already can hear people asking where I'm going to be after what Piastri did".

She looked him, how he sat on his bed while looking at the wall in front of him. He had a bad first half of the season, the car is not going well for him and even if Lando is helping him all weeks and training together, he just can't do what the boss ask.

"Maybe the best is disconnect from social media" she sighed folding her arms in front of her chest. "Go to a trip, maybe Michael and some of your friends will be glad to join you. I'm sure Kristen and Dax will go if you ask them too".

He looked at her and a small smile started to show up on his lips, the mechanism of his brains started working making a plan for them.

"Get ready" he said smirking. "We're going to a party".

"Wait, what?" she exclaimed frowning. "Dude, you know I don't do that!"

"Come on! I want to spend time with my best friend and roommate. When was the last time you had a good time?" he said looking at her with a bigger smile. "When was the last time you brought a guy to your bed?"

"Daniel! Oh my god!" she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide. "That's nothing of your business!"

It was, actually.

Let's go to the start.

Daniel Ricciardo and Melissa Montgomery were friends for many years. They met when he moved to Italy at the start of his racing career, both of them bumping on each other one day when they were running late and had a fight to see who got the taxi first (he won, by the way). After that, they found each other again on a local coffee, both of them ordering the same thing at the same time. So he, as innocent as he was back then, got the courage to ask her to meet him again on the same place the next day.

"Are you asking me for a date, stranger?" she said laughing, drinking a little of her iced coffee.

"No, of course not!" he exclaimed quickly. "And I'm Daniel".

"Okay, Daniel" she smiled. "See you tomorrow".

It was a date. Of course it was. He fell in love for her the first time he saw her. In fact, he's still loving her. But she doesn't know. And she won't ever know.

Years went by and they got closer and closer. His heart broke a few times, finding out she had a boyfriend then taking care of her all the times her heart got broken by those morons. They started to work together, him as a driver and her as his personal doctor, since she studied on the med school.

"Come on!" he exclaimed, like begging her to go to her room to get ready for the night that it's waiting for them. But she looked at him serious, her left eyebrow up and a questionable look in her eyes. "I've been working all week. I'm tired but I can't sleep, and all I want to have a good time, Mel. Please!"

She sighed and nodded slowly, giving up. Hearing his cheering she rolled her eyes while walking to her room.

It's not like she doesn't like going to parties. She loves it. But with her girl friends. When it's party time with Daniel, she hates it so deeply. The reason? He's a flirt, goes around the dance floor dancing with other girls, flirting with them and probably going to the bathroom with them to have a good time. Who would say no to him? Just look at him! His smile and the way his curls go down his forehead is all he needs to have a girl wrapped around his finger.

That's what happened to her. She's wrapped around his finger, falling for him every day that goes on.

"Can you wear that dress you wore for Abu Dhabi?" he asked her walking to the door of her bedroom on his way to the kitchen.

"The blue one? Really?" she frowned. She bought that dress for the party McLaren did last year at the end of the season, wanting to match the color of the drivers suits.

"Yeah, that one" he smiled. "It looked so good on you".

That blue dress drove him crazy that night. The way it hugged her body? Insane. Lando had to slap his nape a few times because he was staring at her all the time.

"Dude, just tell her!" Lando whisper screaming on his ear. "It's so obvious, you are acting worse than a teenager"

"What? Are you stupid? I can't tell her! She's my best friend!" he said back frowning.

"You were undressing her with your eyes all the night. Best friend my ass" Lando sighed rolling his eyes. "Go. Tell. Her".

"I can't!"

"God, sometimes I want to take off my eyes and put them on you" the Brit groaned looking at his teammate and then at her. "It's so obvious, really. You are so blind"

Obvious what? What it's obvious?

She opened the door of her wardrobe, her fingers searching the material of the silk dress and when she touched it she blushed immediately. He said it looked good on her. It does?

Closing the door of her room and making sure he won't open it, hearing he was on the kitchen making something to eat before going to that damned party, she took off her oversized shirt and then her bra, standing naked in front of her bed looking at the dress.

When Daniel heard her closing the door he knew that she was going to get dressed. And he had to fight the need of running to her door and open it, wanting to see her body, wrap his arms around her and place his lips on her perfectly tanned skin. Sometimes living with her was a challenge, the first years were a disaster. He had to get used to go fully dressed around the apartment and she had to wear bras and shorts with the shirts. Only their bedrooms were a safe place to dress however they wanted.

But it's not the first time both of them fight the need of being on each other. Kissing, touching, marking. Two idiots in love that are too afraid of confessing, a classic.

"Okay, I'm ready" Melissa said opening the door, adjusting her breasts on the dress and touching her hair to make it not look like if she just woke up. "Are you going like that?"

He nearly chocked his water looking at her. Yeah, that dress still drives him crazy.

"What? This shirt doesn't look good?" he said looking at the dark blue shirt.

"The shirt looks good. What looks weird is the hat" she said looking at the cowboy hat that is hiding his curls.

"Ah, come on! I know you love it!" he exclaimed looking how she walked towards him taking off his hat. "You are so boring".

"If I'm boring then let me be boring on my bedroom, thank you" she sighed looking at him.

"Nope" he smirked. "I need to party. Some of the guys will be there, so yeah. Fun. And you are coming with me".

She rolled her eyes and nod, eating some of the food he made and then finished getting her make up done. Daniel was waiting for her on the front door, trying his best to not faint once he saw her ready, red cherry lips that are screaming "kiss me" to him. He swallowed hard, making sure the boner is not too obvious and opened the door of the apartment after grabbing the keys of this McLaren, walking out after her.

Monaco streets have that summer festive vibes. The clubs are open and some people are already eating their dinner on the restaurants. The sun is going down and he's driving to the outdoors party place Max told him some drivers will be. Music on the radio, the windows down and a soft sea breeze getting inside the car makes the best mood they can have.

"Who will be there?" she asked him placing her phone down, closing her eyes when the sun just kissed her skin with golden rays.

"The Monaco guys" he said looking at her. "You know, Alex, Max, Lando... I think Lando's best friend will be there too"

"Max Fewtrell? Ah, he's cute" she smiled. "Talked with him a few times when he came to cheer Lando on the races"

Oh, you know what is that? Jealousy. Jealousy starting to get on Daniel's system.

"Cute, hm?" he said, trying to not sound jealous.

"Yeah, maybe I'll have a good time too" she said shrugging her shoulders, looking at her red nails. "You were right, I needed to go to a party".

The grip on the wheel was tighter that at the start of the ride, his knuckles were getting white. But who is he to not let her have a good time with someone? After all, he doesn't have the needed courage to confess.

When he parked the car she got out without his help, walking fast to the door when she found Lily walking with Alex, hugging her and giggling together. Alex,on the other hand, looked at the Aussie and smirked.

"So? You will tell her?" he said laughing.

"Tell her what?" he frowned. "Fuck, does everyone knows?"

"That you two are in love with each other? Oh, yeah" Alex laughed patting his back.

"What are you talking about?" he said confused. "Mel in love with me? Are you joking?" he laughed. "Come on, she just said she wanted to fuck with Max Fewtrell a few minutes ago. Don't play with me, mate".

Alex looked how he walked away, shaking his head. "My God, how blind they are..." he sighed.

Melissa was already inside the place, going towards the group of girlfriends she recognized: Charlotte, Kelly, Luisa and Tiffany. Lily and her were linking their arms, standing close to each other and gossiping.

"Lu, Max came to the party?" she asked her without shame, wanting to know if the Brit was around.

"Fewtrell?" the Portuguese asked frowning, looking at the other girls around her. "Yeah, why?"

"Oh, I just wanted to talk with him" she smiled. "He looks kinda interesting".

"And Daniel?" Charlotte asked smiling. "I mean, he looks cute tonight. Matching shirt with you, that's really sweet"

"Daniel? Like if he ever paid attention to me" she groaned rolling her eyes. "I'm curious to see with who he will came tonight at our apartment".

"Is that why you want Max? To make him jealous?" Luisa frowned. "Look, you are my friend and that, but... You should take off that veil and see the real world".

"What? What real world?" she frowned confused, looking at all the girls. All of them having the same gaze, looking at her.

"Oh god, you two are so blind..." they laughed. "Daniel is in love with you! Have you ever seen the way he looks at you?"

What? How does he look at her?

With love. So much love. The first one to notice that was Pierre. In fact, he noticed how they look at each other.

It was the first time he actually had a conversation with her. She had graduated form med school and became officially a doctor. While she didn't work at the hospital she was on the track working as the doctor of the team Daniel was in. At that time, Daniel was on Renault. It was cute, the two of them walking around the paddock like if they were a couple. Actu, people that didn't know who she was, they thought she was his girlfriend.

The first time he saw the way she looked at him was when he started with the "Pieeeerre Gaslyyyy" joke. She had a spark in her eyes and a big smile on her lips. Her head was moving side to side with a grin, but her smile never disappeared.

"This is the new Nico Hulkenberg thing?" she asked him with a smile.

"Of course, darling" he answered winking his eye at her. "I ways find a way to make you smile, right?"

Then everyone around started to notice the little things: how he made two cups of coffee, on for him and the other for her (with half a spoon of cocoa and almond milk, sweet to death); the way she always was first to get up from the seat of the garage when he has something near a crash; the way he kissed the tattooed rose on his left hand before getting out of the garage with his car or rubbed it with his fingers whenever he got nervous, later discoverimg he tattooed that because roses are her favourite flower (it was Lily the one that noticed, her room has always a bouquet of rose roses she buys all weeks).

And the most hurtful thing: how she fought the tears whenever they went to a party and Daniel flirted with another woman or how he swallowed hard and breathed in deeply when Melissa stood in front of him like a goddess for him and he wasn't brave enough to lay a finger on her.

"Whatever" she groaned looking around, and when she found him she smirked. "Well, if none of you want to have a good time, I'm going to have it by myself".

She found Max on the drinks bar talking with Lando. He was drinking something that looked like a soda, or a cocktail, she didn't recognized it. When she walked close to the pair, the older of them smiled at her.

"Melissa!" Max exclaimed smiling. "Hey, you look beautiful tonight".

"Thank you, Max" she smiled standing closer to him than to Lando. "You want to dance with me?"

Both Brits looked at each other, frowning. Everyone on the paddock knows about he and Daniel being in love with each other. It's not a secret, even the team principals know that, they enjoy being part of the gossip too.

"What about Daniel?" Lando frowned looking at her. "I mean, he came with you? I think you should go with him"

"What the hell is wrong with everybody?!" she exclaimed looking at him, getting annoyed. "Daniel is fucking another in the bathroom, why the hell I have to be with him?!"

"Because it's too obvious" Max said sighing, and it made her look at him. "Come on, it's getting a little annoying. You two are so into each other and all you two do is hurt each other".

"Max..." Lando sighed, stopping him.

"No, dude! It's time to someone open their eyes!" he said, and Alex, who was near, came to the group. "A whole year of everyone trying to get you two together. Even when I was racing I could see how you two are in love!"

She was speechless, looking at the three man in front of her. And she stared to feel ridiculous, like a clown. It's no longer a secret what she feels for the Australian man, it's seems that it's too obvious and everyone knows. So she did what someone in a rom-com movie would do: walk away towards the beach that was close to the party, bumping into people that smiled at her and leaving them with a from asking themselves where was she going.

When she arrived to the beach she sat on the sand, looking at the street lights of the other side of Monaco, how they were reflected on the water and the boats moved side to side like dancing a waltz. The waves that arrived to the seashore sounded like a rhythmic lullaby, making her close her eyes and breathe in deeply trying to calm her accelerated heart.

He loves her? How? His can be that possible? He left it clear all the times he called her bestie, or even the coffee cup that says "You've got a friend in me" with draws of Toy-Story on it. He basically friendzoned her since they started to get along. How can he love her? It's ridiculous.

Daniel saw everything, and heard everything. He was at the end of the drinks bar, sitting with a beer bottle on his hand and looking at her from afar. Looking how she talked with the girls, her smile fading away slowly until she found Max Fewtrell. He saw how she tried to flirt, asking him to dance with her, how her some disappeared after something he said making Alex and Lando look at him surprised. He saw how she walked away, bumping into people and nearly falling ti the floor a few times, finally getting out of the crowd and going to the beach.

He sighed heavily, ignoring every woman that tried ro flirt with him, drinking his beer and looking at the door she crossed to disappear from there.

"Are you going to talk with her?" Max asked him being followed by Lando and Alex, Verstappen and Charles joining them.

"I guess it's time, eh?" he sighed, drinking a long last sip of the beer and leaving the bottle on the table, jumping out of the high chair and going where Melissa is.

He found her there, her golden hair moving with the breeze and sitting on the sand, her legs folded and arms wrapping them close to her chest.

"Mel?" he sighed, making her flinch hearing his voice. "What are you doing here, petal?"

Petal. That's how he uses to call her when she feels bad, or sick. When she needs a cuddle-buddy on her bad days. And right now she's not feeling bad. Not at all.

"Do you love me?" she said directly. "Is it true what they say?"

"Well, yeah" he laughed sadly, that laugh that hurts on his chest. "It seems that it was too obvious"

"Whatever" she groaned.

"And you love me" he said, sitting next to her the same way she was sitting, looking at the water like her. "We are so blind-"

"Shut up" she said cutting his words, making him look at her with a frown on his eyebrows. "If you loved me why the hell you fucked another? Why the hell you were smiley and flirty with other women when you had me in front of you for many years?"

"Because I'm a coward, Melissa" he sighed with a smile. "And an idiot, because the love of my life was exactly in front of me, and everything I did was ignore her".

Silence was around them. She couldn't talk, neither him. But their bodies were aching to be touched by the other, her heart was beating fast, the heartbeat sounding loud on her ears. His arms worked alone, wrapping her shoulder and pulling her close to him, he head resting on his shoulder. Silence, that's what they needed.

"I love you, okay?" he whispered. "Since the moment I won that taxi when we played paper, scissors and rock. Since that non date we had on that coffee. And having you with me since that day was the best thing that could happen to me, you being my doctor, my roommate, my best friend. You are everything I need, Melissa".

She was quiet, looking at him. That was what she needed. A confession to take that invisible veil put of her eyes and make her see what she missed all those years.

Her hand cupped his cheek making him look down at her and she just had to stand on her knees to finally press her lips on his, a dream she had for many years. And even if they did kiss in the past (truth or dare game), this kiss felt different. It felt like they were confessing their love with touches and without words.

That's how they work, they tell each other things in silence, with looks and gestures. He knows where he has to look because she tells him with her eyes. She knows he's in pain because he touches where it hurts. He knows she's tired because she blinks slowly and her shoulders feel heavy.

"Let's have a good time" he whispered on her lips, brushing them on hers making her feel goosebumps. "Together. Let's drink beer on ice just like Hank taught us when we went to Texas. Sing the songs they put on the speakers like if we are on a karaoke. Sit on my lap, because I need good looking woman to claim I'm hers. I'm yours, Melissa. I have always been yours"

"And I'm yours" she whispered looking at him with a smile.

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 drabble #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 imagine #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo blurb

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thebibliosphere · 3 years ago

Note

Mental health question if it doesn’t bother you; how did you manage to get the self-discipline and/or willpower to constantly get up and do things by your own volition? Just thinking about how much work you had to do to get your book written then out has me wanting to hide in my bedsheets.

With a lot of struggle, a great deal of help, and lasting mental trauma that left me unable to write for a year. I'd say 'lol' to lighten the mood, but, well...

The rest of this answer talks about death, so if you're not up for that, now you're time to scroll away.

At the time of writing Phangs, I knew I was being left to die from medical negligence. I knew I was dying, and I'm pretty certain everyone following me on here at the time knew it too. And yet they still supported my patreon, likely knowing that the thing they were pledging for would never see the light of day.

Grimly determined to not go gently into that good night and confined to my bed most days, I wrote what I could on the days I was lucid. The end result was a 500k manuscript that I have since spent the better half of two years during my recovery, breaking up and reworking into something (hopefully) resembling coherence.

But make no mistake, I did none of this alone.

I'm very fortunate to have had a partner who loved and cared for me at my worst and continues to do so. Friends who support me and cheer me on when my brain weasels come back. And also the team of professionals I work with to get the book(s) ready for publication.

I was also very fortunate that my editors over at @roselarkpublishing were willing to hold my hand through a lot of the administration stuff, which seemed wholly daunting and undoable at the time. (And still does if I'm having a low spoons day.)

And even then with all that help I still have plenty of days where my brain does the equivalent of a toddler throwing themselves down on the ground, kicking their legs in the air, and wailing, "I dun waaanaaaaa."

Because I am mentally ill on top of the ADHD, and I will always have bad days. And while some folks might be able to brute force their way out of them, I'm no longer one of them. I broke my brain by forcing myself to work when I should have been resting. So now it's less a question of 'willpower' and 'discipline,' and more about what I'm doing to support myself that enables me to be creative and do my job.

I have purposely spent the last year trying to come up with a system for getting shit done that works for me. And in all things, I try to treat myself with kindness.

Have you eaten? Slept? Is your work/living environment conducive to focusing and getting shit done? Have you been doing things that make you happy? What are you struggling with? Is there someone you can ask to help clarify things? No? Let's find some then, shall we...

So please don't think of it as a lack of willpower or discipline, and consider instead what you need to feel better in order to get things done. And also to ask for help.

Any author who tells you they do everything themselves without any help from others is either a liar or oblivious to the amount of work other people do on their behalf. They're not good people to take writing advice from.

#writing #death mention #mental health

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targaryenvodka · 2 years ago

Text

impossible to forget

summary - you knew you should just forget aegon. completely expunge him from your brain. and, yet, it seems you can’t help yourself from doing the exact opposite

warnings - college!aegon x you, blatant cheating, angst, guilt

word count - 1.2k

authors note - this is just one of those concepts that crept into my brain and basically forced me to write it. ive almost deleted this story a solid three times, but fuck that i guess. if you have any thoughts on this story, send them my way :) thanks for reading!

“Call your girlfriend. I want to hear you. I want to hear you tell her you’re done.”

aegon swallowed, nodding before fishing his phone from his pocket with fumbling hands as he called her.

you were under him, feeling heat drip off his body and onto yours. breaths tight and fast, excitement fluttering wildly under your skin. it was all happening so fast- so fucking fast.

one moment you were in the car behind the college dangerously flirting, and then the next was spent furiously speeding to his house, radio blaring through the speakers.

he had a girlfriend. you knew her. a friendly girl with dirty blonde hair and wide, always searching eyes. pretty enough, soft and sweet.

but he… he was something else. dark cresants hung beneath longing, warm eyes. his silver hair was never neat, though he sometimes kept it tucked behind his ear. but he always ran his hand through it anyway when thinking, pulled his lip between his teeth when considering or concentrating.

you’d been watching him for a while, guiltily imagining his lips between your own teeth. it, as things tend to do, had started out small.

glances, jokes in groups, occasional study partners who rarely got much studying done. but it really kicked when you finally had a free period together. it was like the boundaries were taken away; the world was a free-for-all.

in stolen conversations and stomach-aching laughs, he pulled you in. forced you to crave his arms, his eyes tracing across your skin. the jokes he made were usually stupid, and the excuses he found to spend time with you were worse, but you found yourself slowly falling into- but no, he had a GIRLFRIEND. you couldn’t do that to another girl.

that was wrong. so fucking wrong.

on the list of things that were not okay, that was first. actively deceiving someone else, stealing someone they cared about- you couldn’t do that to another girl.

but holy shit, the way he looked at you. like you were his. like his whole world was contained within you, the sound of your voice, the way your head tilted back as you laughed. his hands started holding you, slipping to your side when he talked to you in the hall, grazing your cheek in the morning while you spoke.

aegon loved coffee and donuts, but he usually hated driving- especially if he was stoned or tipsy. or, he liked to watch you drive. watching as you bite your cheek and furrow your brow and groan at the changing of the lights.

that day, that gloomy winters day, he convinced you to go to the parking lot. held your keys above your head before pressing his body against yours until your back met the car. there was no one around, but you were still terrified someone would see. that anyone would see.

you? you and this boy, this boyfriend, this person who was with SOMEONE ELSE-

and his lips, they broke down the wall you had been diligantly putting up for weeks. months, even.

the whispers, the half-answered questions, the fear jumping in your stomach; all of it was in full-bloom. and there it was, a deep, warm kiss against the car.

you wanted to jerk your head back-what you were doing was WRONG- but there was nowhere to go but his arms. the ones you’d been dreaming about for months, hating yourself for imagining this. exact. moment.

you found yourself running your hands through his shaggy hair, gasping for breath as his teeth explored your lip.

“Let’s go,” he murmured in your ear, deep voice sending thrills from within your chest and throughout the rest of your body.

“Where?” you laughed nervously, hating how your voice sounded. hating how you couldn’t take your eyes off of the windows behind him. hating how you knew the entire world was watching.

“Home, of course.” he grinned, not taking his eyes off of you.

it was the longest drive you’ve ever taken, hitting every single yellow light while he cranked the radio as high as it would go. crazy energy bubbled inside you as he laughed with a joint hanging from his lips. he rolled down the window, letting cold wind tug on your faces.

you knew it was a bad idea. a stupid one, even. you knew this is something you shouldn't be doing. you knew you knew you knew and you THOUGHT it was going to be okay-

when you finally pulled into his driveway, time seemed to slam to a stop. giggling, you followed him up the stairs that lead to the porch, laughing at the barking dog watching you from across the street. laughing at his hands as he fumbled for the keys, laughing at anything in the world except for what you were doing.

the phone rang, and the rest of the sounds hung thick in the air between you. hot, heavy breaths curling from his lips, the sticking of his skin to yours. the way your blood pounded in your ears, how your heartbeat punched it’s way to the surface.

no one picked up. he looked at you, then looked at the phone.

“Again,” you whispered. you couldn’t cheat another girl. you couldn’t.

his eyes went dangerous, sharp and hard.

“Later.”

before you could protest, his lips were on yours again, infuriatingly irresistible. heavy and deep and full, he brought every piece of anger from inside of him and laid it out in front of you. on your skin. inside your chest.

there was nothing in the world except for the harsh sighs in your ear, the tight hands wrapped around your skin. he was the only thing in your world. his eyes found yours in the storm, briefly flicking to your face in the whirlwind of the bed.

back on campus, psychology after his room was truly the hardest you have ever had to try to focus in your life. with his sweat drying on your skin, the scent of him in your hair, he was impossible to forget. crammed into a small room, too stuffy to be comfortable, you tried to think about norepinephrine and schildkraut and NOT the bruises blossoming across your neck-

your phone buzzed. you didn’t want to look at it, not at the words that were typed from his fingers and sent to yours, not at the invitation to the world in his hands, the betrayal that dripped from his mouth.

you were an accident. a flaw. a break. a sin. a mistake.

you had destroyed something that was once alive, but the thought of his lips on yours drove away all guilt.

you should have felt bad, and you let the emotions paint themselves on your face. but inside, all you could linger on was the promise of the storm waiting for you when you got back.

#aegon ii targaryen #modern!aegon #college!aegon #aegon targaryen #aegon the conqueror #aegon ii fanfic #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon targaryen x you #house of the dragon #concept writing #aegon ii x reader #angst #tw cheating

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magniloquent-raven · 3 years ago

Text

@ihni your idea got lodged in my brain lmao

Billy spends the month of November trying to ditch the phantom sensation of ceramic shattering under his fingers, jarring impact up his forearm, the briefest brush with soft brown hair.

He tries everything he can think of. All his usual methods are distractions at best, keeping his hands occupied just to feel something else, anything else. A cold steel barbell, the peeling leather of his steering wheel, rough denim, scratch, scratch, scratching the knee of his jeans while he sits in class and tries to ignore his nerves all lit up on instant replay. He drinks himself blind and smokes his way through every penny of his savings. None of it stops him from laying awake at night with trembling hands, biting his nails bloody.

Doesn’t help that he has to see Steve every fucking day. When he’s not at school, at basketball practice—shooting hoops is one of the things that almost helps, concentrating on the dimpled rubber in his hands, scrubbing his palms pink in the shower afterwards—he’s always hanging around Max for some goddamn reason. Driving her and her dumb friends places. Coming by the house like he isn’t walking into a lion’s den, cool as a fucking cucumber when he tells Susan he’s here to pick up her daughter.

And Billy can’t do shit about it. Any of it.

Some time in the beginning of December Neil hands Billy a cardboard box full of household junk and tells him to drop it off at Goodwill. They’re making space for all the shit that hasn’t been unpacked yet, and the holidays are a time to be charitable or whatever the fuck. Contributing to the community, blah, blah.

Billy makes an earnest effort to sound genuine when he promises to drop it off, and then tosses the shit in his backseat, where it sits for three days, staring at him in the rearview mirror.

There’s a tacky macramé owl draped over the shitty wooden bowl they used to keep keys in. A leggy ballerina figurine with half the paint chipped off. It’s useless crap that no one would want, he’s not in a hurry.

But after Max tossed a cassette on the floor yesterday it slid under her seat. He has to clamber into the back to fish it out, and ends up sitting next to the stupid box. Looking into it. And pausing.

It’s stupid. It’s stupid. But there’s a couple plates hidden under a folded up sweater they found laying around that didn’t fit anyone. Plain off-white ceramic plates. Innocently nestled amongst the junk.

He’s seen fucking plates since the fight at the Byers, he’s not, like, traumatized by dishware. He can eat dinner just fine and everything. Or at least, he could after the first couple tries—

The fucking point is, these just look…uncannily simliar to the one he smashed over Steve Harrington’s head. At least, what he saw of it before it broke. And what he saw of the shards when he woke up.

Or maybe agonizing over the fight all month has just gotten to him. Or he’s just a little too buzzed on a bad batch. Maybe.

Whatever the reason, he’s sitting in the backseat of his own car, shaking like a leaf in a storm, fingers clenched, tendons tense and knuckles white, the feeling of breaking, shattering, destroying everything he touches needling under his skin.

It’s Saturday. He doesn’t have anywhere to be.

He drives to the Byers’ first.

There’s a car in the driveway, he notes with a sinking feeling in his stomach. All he can do is hope no one’s feeling like checking out the conspicuous sound of a car engine outside.

He hasn’t felt like this since he was a kid, so unsure and off-kilter. Knowing he isn’t welcome somewhere and actually caring. It makes him feel small and he hates it. He clutches the plate in front of him, in both hands walking slowly up to the porch. The crunch of frozen gravel under his boots is deafening. There’s no sound coming from inside the house.

Maybe he’ll get lucky, and—

The door creaks open a crack.

Apparently not.

A small, pale face peeks out at him, stares at him with less hostility than is probably warranted. “Hi?” The kid stays mostly behind the door, at the very least a tiny bit wary.

Billy’s fingers itch. He needs a goddamn cigarette.

“Your mom home?”

“Um.” The kid’s wide, dark eyes narrow a little, looking him up and down, flicking over to his car, and back at him. There’s wheels turning in his head, but Billy’s not sure where they’re taking him. “...Yyeees? Yeah. She’s just. Uh. Busy.”

“Can anyone in this town lie, or is it just something about this fucking house.”

The kid blinks at him. “I’m not lying.”

Billy blows out a breath, rolling his eyes skyward. “Whatever, shitbird. I don’t actually care, I’m just—” he grits his teeth. What is he doing. He doesn’t even know, how is he supposed to explain it to this random fucking kid.

“You’re Max’s brother, right?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. Swallows the bitter retort on the tip of his tongue. It doesn’t matter anymore, if it ever did. “Yeah.”

The kid shuffles a little. His shoulders go stiff. It’s subtle, like he’s trying to hide it, but he’s inching back into the house. Afraid.

Right, this kid must be friends with Max’s little pack of brats. The ones that saw him beat the shit out of their babysitter. He wonders if he’s gonna have Max on his case after this. If this counts as harassing her friends.

The plate feels fragile, all of a sudden. Like if he tightened his grip it would crack, explode into dust and debris in his hands. His palms are sweating.

He takes the last couple steps across the porch—ignoring the way the kid flinches at the sound of his boots against splintering wood—and, as gently as he can, puts the plate on the rickety table next to the door.

“To replace the one I broke,” he mutters, gesturing at it as he backs away.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He’s not sure he wants one.

The cigarette he smokes in the car does nothing to calm his nerves. Harrington’s place is barely a three minute drive from the Byers’ and he has no fucking clue what he’s gonna say.

He wipes his hand on his jeans. It does nothing for the pins and needles tingling up and down his fingers, the ghost of ceramic dust crunching in his nail beds, in every line of his palm.

Feels like he’s barely had time to blink before he’s standing on Steve’s front step, ringing the doorbell and gnawing a hole through his bottom lip.

The second plate is cold from sitting in his car. There’s a chip on the underside of it that he keeps scraping a bitten-down fingernail over, tracing in circles around it.

He is still wholly unprepared when Steve opens the door. And stands there, in a soft green sweater, staring at Billy like he’s a mildly difficult math problem. His gaze shifts from Billy’s face to the plate in his hands and twists into something even more confused.

“Am I gonna get a second concussion for Christmas?”

Billy grimaces. “No.” He shoves it at Steve, and prods him in the chest a couple times before he actually takes it.

“Dude, what the hell.”

“Just…” Billy flexes his fingers, restless at his side. He puts his hands in his jacket pockets when Steve starts to eye him suspiciously. “I’m giving you a free shot, Harrington. Payback. Get even with me.”

Steve takes a step back, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. “I’m not breaking a plate over your head, you fucking weirdo.”

“C’mon, King Steve, give me what I deserve!”

“Are you actually insane? Take your plate and go, man.” He holds it out, gingerly, apprehensive.

“I can’t. I can’t fucking deal with this anymore, and this was the only thing I could think of.”

Neil might’ve punished him the night he came home battered and alone, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t for the right reasons. So maybe Steve…

“Wait, is this, like.” Steve squints at him. “An…apology? A really fucked up one.”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“...No.”

“Wow, thanks for clearing that up. Look, man, it’s freezing out here, and you’re freaking me out, so why don’t you come inside and, I dunno, sit down. Calm down a little.”

“What?”

“Seriously, were you dropped on your head as a child? Come. Sit. Be calm. Simple, right?”

If only.

But he goes. He sits. And miraculously, he calms. A little.

It takes him two weeks of a tentative truce—that he hesitates to call the beginnings of a friendship for fear of getting his heart broken—for him to actually apologize. He gets drunk off his ass and slurs out an explanation, the guilt, the nightmares, feeling bone and cartilage crunch under his knuckles for weeks after it happened. He doesn’t remember exactly how Steve responded, it’s all a little fuzzy, but he woke up on the Harringtons’ couch the next morning and wasn’t immediately thrown out, so it must’ve gone okay.

And from there it goes more than okay. Terrifyingly good, actually. They’re honest to god friends after that.

But every time Billy eats at Steve’s house, Steve gives him the goddamn plate to eat off of. Billy’s not sure what to make of that. He probably shouldn’t make anything of it, it’s just a stupid plate, but it’s the same one every fucking time and it’s starting to get weird.

He doesn’t bring it up for months. On his 18th birthday Steve puts a cupcake in front of him with a candle sticking out of it. Served, of course, on The Plate.

It’s the little twitch of a suppressed smile, like Steve’s sharing an inside joke with himself, that makes Billy crack and finally ask what the deal is.

Steve grins. “I’m giving you what you deserve.”

“I—" Billy blinks at him. "You're a corny bastard, you know that.”

"You love it."

"...Yeah."

~~~tag list @growup-thatbeautiful @spreckle

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove x steve harrington #stranger things #a raven's writing desk

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separatist-apologist · 2 years ago

Text

Red Earth & Pouring Rain

Remember what we found? No one can ever take that away. Something forever.

Summary: When Feyre's father tries to set her up with one of his high society friends' sons, Feyre does the only thing that makes sense in the moment: she fakes a Scottish fiánce. Writing him letters detailing her escapades, Feyre never expects anyone to read them. But when a mysterious uncle leaves her and her sisters three scattered castles, Feyre's forgotten fiánce appears on her doorstep, determined to make an honest woman of her yet.

Or- that time Rhys fell in love with a stranger writing him letters.

Big thanks to Unhinged Bookclub for help with the moodboard and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant (which consisted mostly of me asking about swear words)

Part 2: Something Forever Part 1 | Read on AO3

Feyre stood slowly, leaving the letters scattered at her feet. There was curiously no emotion on Rhys’s face—as if he’d wiped himself blank. Swallowing, Feyre tried to think of something to say to him.

“I’m sorry,” was all that came out. He blinked, brows furrowed and truthfully, she didn’t know what she was apologizing for. The loss of his family? Or this intrusion that, in retrospect, felt mean spirited.

Rhys stepped forward, blocking the only way out of his room. And, oh, how Feyre desperately did not want to be in here with him. She backed away from him, needing a breath of air untainted by the scent of him.

“Ye’re sorry?” he repeated. Sirens went off in her brain, warning her to get away from him. There was no danger, unless you counted being thrown to his bed dangerous. And Feyre absolutely did. Reading those letters put them on somewhat stable footing, though Rhys had the benefit of years thinking about her, and Feyre had been given half an hour to speed run through his life.

When he stepped again, Feyre ducked past him, just narrowly avoiding his attempt to catch her. She halted in the door frame, turning again to look at him. What could she say to him that he hadn’t already said first? He looked wild at that moment, so wholly at odds with the controlled man she’d come to know.

“You should have sent them,” she said, because that was, at least, true.”

“FEYRE!” he yelled after her, but she was running again, this time to the safety of her own bedroom. And like before, Rhys didn’t chase after her. She was merely pausing the conversation for a later date. Maybe in twenty years, when she was filing for divorce.

Because fuck her, Feyre was still going through with this.

She locked her bedroom behind her, flopping onto her bed only to scream into a pillow that smelled distinctly of Rhys. Feyre couldn’t escape him. Even if she managed to wiggle free of this cursed engagement, he’d always be hanging over her head. She’d taken things too far, both writing him, but also now—she could have told Elain the truth. Elain, out of everyone, would have been the most forgiving, the most understanding. Even knowing how Feyre had been unkind as she spoke of her middle sister, Elain would have swallowed whatever hurt she felt in order to help get Feyre out of the mess.

And Elain would have softened the blow for Feyre’s father, working as an intermediary. It hadn’t even occurred to Feyre to do it. She could lie and say that she didn’t have that sort of relationship with Elain, but truthfully, Feyre had merely made peace with what was about to happen. She wasn’t even angry about it—not really.

Out in the Scottish countryside, far from London and everything she hated, Feyre was free. Marrying him meant she’d never be forced into an engagement with someone like the Nolans—even if Elain broke it off, she’d still be expected to marry well. Nesta, too. Feyre, overlooked and unwanted her entire life, though?

She’d do what she wanted.

Feyre wasn’t entirely certain Rhys was what she wanted forever, but for now maybe he was. Not romantically, but there was a certain amount of poetry to marrying a literal nobody. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t like the thought of the scandal it would cause, of trotting him through society every Christmas. Feyre the fuck up, they’d whisper.

Oh, how it amused her.

Feyre crept out of her room for dinner, but Rhys did not join her. Outside, a storm raged, rattling the chandeliers and causing the lights to flicker with each new crack of thunder. Feyre had hoped it would settle and knew the minute she saw that streak of lightning, followed by a deafening boom, that it was all over for her.

The lights flickered, before switching entirely off. She sighed, alone at the dining table now bathed in darkness.

She’d have to walk all the way into the dungeons to reset the breaker. Thanking god for small mercies, Feyre only had to walk a few feet through pitch black to find a flashlight, stored helpfully in the kitchen. She had to slap it against her palm to get it to work, but once it was on, Feyre only felt a little nervous about the winding trek into the damp dungeons.

That may or may not have been haunted.

“Definitely haunted,” she whispered, which wasn’t helping. The light sliced through the darkness just enough for Feyre to see, but not so much that it chased the shadows away. Every time Ferye turned a corner, she swore she saw movement. Some seventeenth-century ghost was coming to claim retribution on the English—or, that was what her mind began screaming at her.

Feyre found the old, rounded door that led down into the bowels of the castle. Outside, another boom of thunder drew an echoing shriek from her, quickly smothered with a stern, “Get it together, Feyre.”

She took a breath before plunging into the musty dark, hand gripping the rail as she made her way down. Halfway down, Feyre swore she heard the sound of footsteps. Of loud breathing and someone shuffling around. She froze.

“Hello?” she called into the gloom. “Is someone—”

“Feyre.” Rhys replied, appearing in the bright beam of light like a specter. Feyre screamed, dropping the flashlight in her surprise.

“Christ, Feyre,” he mumbled, reaching for the light to hand back to her. “What are ye doing down here?”

“What are you doing?”

“My husbandly duty,” he retorted, pointing toward the breaker. “I figured ye weren’t gonna want to be down here in the dark.”

“I thought you were a ghost!” she confessed, one hand pressed to her chest. She couldn’t see his expression any longer, though she could hear the soft, huffing laugh that escaped him.

“A’ll bet there’s one somewhere on tae grounds.”

“Out for English blood, no doubt.”

“That would only be right,” he agreed solemnly. Feyre waited at the bottom of the steps, not wanting to run all the way back up without him. Instead, she inched closer and closer until her nose was practically flush against her back.

“Are ye scared of tae dark, lass?” he murmured.

“I’m not scar—” Another crack of thunder made her yelp, punctuating what a liar she really was.

“Brave creature, my wife,” he murmured, slinging an arm around her. “Facing the fearsome, vengeful Scots so she can turn tae lights back on.”

“Why haven’t you?” she asked, the warble in her voice keeping her from truly sounding imperious.

“They’re out,” she said, closing the metal box with a frown. “I think we need tae consider a new plan.”

“And what’s that?”

His smile seemed vicious in the dark. “Candles.”

Feyre had a lot of candles. And she had to admit, it was rather fun gathering them up with Rhys, who had big hands and long arms. He held each new jar she handed him with a lopsided grin, and Feyre suspected he was just happy to be included in this game. She was happy, too, though she wasn’t willing to admit that. Rhys spoke loudly to the many imaginary ghosts, swapping between English and Gaelic while translating for Feyre.

“I’ve told them ye’re unwed,” he said, trailing behind her with a strawberry-scented candle. “And that you’ve a taste for Scot—”

Feyre smacked him lightly in the stomach. “Don’t tell them that. I don’t need any more men knocking down my door trying to trap me into marriage.”

“Aye, good thinking,” he replied. Feyre pushed open her bedroom door to collect pajamas since she’d agreed to sleep in his bedroom while the storm continued. Just until the lights came back on. And just like before—no touching. “I don’t know I’d fare if I had tae compete with a true Scottish gentleman.”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Ghosts, if you’re listening? Please show Mr. Campbell here what a rake he is!” “What did I say about tae Mr. Campbell business?” he growled.

“Oh, well, my apologies, Rhys—”

“Better.”

The warm pleasure dripping from that one word was enough to make her shiver. Determined to salvage the situation—and to try and hide the fact that he was having an obvious effect on her, Feyre said, “I meant what I said earlier—no touching. And I’ll be wearing the unsexiest pajamas I have, lest you get any ideas.”

“Feyre, everything you wear is sexy,” he replied, back to reclining in the doorway like some sort of long-forgotten prince of old.

“We’ll see,” she retorted, because men like that only existed in movies. Rhys was not a fantasy, but a real person with more than just those letters for secrets. He could say whatever he liked, but Feyre knew the truth of it. She couldn’t figure out if it was all a game of pretend to him—or why he’d come back after telling her goodbye.

So she dug out a ratty t-shirt covered in paint and a pair of plaid sleep shorts that immediately caught his attention. They were the same blue and green of the kilt he wore, and from the way his expression darkened with such obvious, and open want, she wondered if it wouldn’t have been smarter to shove them right back in the drawer and pick out something else.

But all her other sleep clothes were silken, and that seemed too pretty when she’d promised a night of nothing at all. Feyre swallowed, hiding in the bathroom to quickly peel herself out of her shorts and tank top for the sleep clothes. She finger combed her hair, letting it cascade in long, golden brown waves down her back before quickly washing her face and brushing her teeth.

He was still waiting, his eyes immediately on her legs. “My clan colors look good on ye.”

“Stop it.”

“I won’t,” he retorted with an easy grin. “Let’s go—I heard tae sound of bagpipes—”

“Will you stop it?” she demanded as Rhys laughed, still They made their way back through the dark halls, the only light the small flame held in Rhys’s hand. Feyre kept close which she swore wasn’t just her trying to touch him no matter how many times her shoulder brushed his arm.

Feyre didn’t let herself hesitate stepping back over the threshold. He’d cleaned up after her, tucking the letters back beneath his bed where they belonged. While he vanished to do his own nightly rituals, Feyre crept to the large, neatly made bed and slipped beneath the sheets.

His scent was everywhere. He couldn’t see her, which made it okay to bury her face in his pillow and inhale.

When he did return, it was in the same dark pants and white t-shirt. Rhys flopped into bed beside her, one arm flung out in invitation.

“No touching.”

“Not even a little?”

Feyre gritted her teeth. “How about a truth for a truth, Rhys? And at the end, I’ll decide if you can hold me while I sleep or not.” It was a poor deal, but Rhys was desperate enough and dumb enough to agree all the same.

“Deal.”

“Why did you come back?”

His whole body went rigid. “Right for tae throat I see,” he murmured. “English brutality all over again.”

“Answer the question.”

He looked over at her, sliding a hand behind his head. She could see his features gently illuminated in the candles they’d set around the room, giving him a rather romantic glow. Rhys was beautiful. It was a lie to say otherwise. And she did want to touch him. She wanted to know what he tasted like, if he’d be any fun to be married to, stranger or not.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about ye. Sometimes I’d convince myself that ye were better off, and whatever I thought was just a fiction. But ye found me. Of all tae people ye could have made up, ye made up me. And after a while, I couldn’t pretend I didnae want to meet ye. So I looked up recent castles sold and found this one…and there ye were. I was looking for ye, Feyre.”

Feyre couldn’t speak, though if she had, she might have told him that she thought she’d been looking for him, too. Instead, Feyre turned to her side and brushed a lock of that inky hair from his face.

“My turn,” he murmured, head turned to face her. Feyre nodded, terrified of what he might ask.

“Do ye want me tae leave?”

Feyre responded before she could think better of it.

Before she could lie.

“No.”

Rhys twisted, pressing himself against her before Feyre’s brain could catch up. All she felt was his hands on her cheeks, his thumb sliding over her lips and all she could smell was the heady scent of citrus and the sea.

“I’m going tae kiss ye, now. Don’t slap me.”

She started to tell him she had no intention of hitting him, but Rhys had already pressed his mouth to hers, rendering Feyre speechless—maybe forever. Heat flooded through her at that simple touch, leaving her breathless.

It was chaste.

Utterly polite.

A kiss from a man wary of spooking the woman beneath him. Rhys pulled back to look at her, eyes searching her face for some hint of what she was feeling.

Feyre cleared her throat. “You uh…” She felt like an idiot. “You don’t have to stop.”

“Más é do thoil é,” he groaned, his words unintelligible—he could have told her he was planning to bury her out in the yard. Feyre would have done unspeakable things to hear him speak to her like that again.

She plunged her fingers into his hair and took a deep breath before letting herself drown in the taste of him. There was nothing polite about him now—Rhys was all lips and tongue and teeth. Feyre hadn’t realized just how much she’d wanted to feel the hard length of his body crushing her to the mattress, or his demanding fingers raking through the waves of her hair, pulling just enough he’d begun to edge her pleasure with pain.

Was it possible for him to taste better than he smelled? She was chasing it, her tongue finding his over and over, and when she felt like she couldn’t get enough of him, she hooked her leg around his waist and pulled him closer. She needed to touch him.

She just needed him. Feyre slid her hands beneath his shirt, drawing a gasp from Rhys’s throat.

“Feyre, yer hands—”

He gripped her wrists, pulling them from his tone stomach palm forward so he might kiss each in turn.

“Cold?” she guessed.

He hummed his agreement, drawing her thumb between his teeth for a moment. “I cannae pretend this new affection of yers isn’t doing it for me. Only—” he hesitated, kissing the pad of her finger before speaking again. “What happened to no touching?”

“I changed my mind,” she replied, pushing her hips upward in invitation. It clearly had some effect on him. Rhys’s eyes rolled upward as a soft sigh of air escaped him.

“Aye, I see that,” he managed.

“Then what’s the problem?”

He hesitated, and then, “A thought for a thought?”

“Now?”

He nodded. Feeling as if she were slowly going insane, Feyre nodded. “Okay. You first.”

“I’m thinking yer going tae regret this in tae morning. And I think it might be better tae leave it at just a kiss rather than push and see ye angry with me again. That I…” he swallowed. “That I want this more than ye do, and I can live with just this.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to make this marriage a reality.”

“We’re not married yet,” he reminded her solemnly. “I intend to make a proper lady out of ye when tae time comes. And I am jumping,” he added, grinding his hips back into her so she could feel just how much he wanted her.

“I don’t understand.”

“What do ye want, Feyre?” he asked, watching as she had no response.

“I��”

“Exactly,” he murmured, lowering himself for another kiss.

“Can’t I just—” he silenced her with another too passionate kiss. The kind that made her forget her name, her purpose. “Can’t I just want fun?”

He drew back, and she thought for a moment she’d said something wrong. His expression was unreadable, and Feyre fully expected him to tell her that was not good enough. She wondered if he didn’t see the lie for what it was—if he hadn’t figured out there there was an undercurrent of affection running through her, threatening to drown her entirely if she wasn’t careful.

A smirk graced his features. “Well. Allow me the pleasure of distracting ye, then.”

She could have wept when he returned to kissing her. The stubble of his jaw scraped against her cheek as his calloused hands created friction over her bare arms. She’d gone back to hooking her leg around him so she could rub herself against the hard contours of his body.

He whispered, “mo chridhe,” against her neck, the words spoken so sweetly she was certain it couldn’t be filth.

“I don’t know—Rhys,” she choked when his own warm fingers slipped up her overly large shirt to cup her breast.

“Hm?” he murmured, thumb lazily circling her nipple. But Feyre had forgotten what she’d been about to say. Everything was pointed on him, on his hand touching her while those violet eyes watched her with near predatory intent. “Is this what ye need?”

“Lower,” she admitted, willing herself not to feel shame.

He exhaled a breath, teeth catching the sensitive flesh of her ear. “Lower?” he asked, still teasing her. Feyre squirmed, grinding into the rather impressive erection tucked against her hip. Thinking she could motivate him into giving her what she wanted, Feyre tried to reach for him but Rhys was quicker, pinning her wrist above her head.

“Nice try,” he murmured, kissing her for the effort. “Ye do what I say, now.”

“You don't want me to touch you?”

Rhys kissed her again, rough enough to make her dizzy and, perhaps, a little stupid too. “I want ye tae touch me verra, verra much,” he whispered, his words a deep rumble. “I want tae ye on yer knees, I want tae hear ye beg. But before all that, I need to see ye spread out, m’eudail.”

The only response Feyre had was a pathetic whimper. He smiled, plucking at her nipple before tugging her shirt off her. A candle flickered as he tossed the offending garment to the floor.

Rhys reclined back on his heels, settled between her parted thighs to look at her.

“I like ye in my colors,” he said, sliding a finger over the band of her shorts.

“I’m starting to think you’re sentimental,” Feyre whispered, excitement pounding through her. Her experience with men was limited to Isaac, who had been decent enough if he got his rhythm right. She’d never been difficult to get off, which was lucky for him because Isaac didn’t believe in, or didn’t understand, any other touching that didn’t involve his penis.

Feyre had been too afraid of seeming stuck up or fussy if she asked for anything more, so Feyre never had. That didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted to know what it would be like.

“I am, tae,” he said, his words immediately ruined when he ripped down her shorts. Rhys choked at the sight of her, hands hovering in mid-air, her shorts still tangled around her ankles. He swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders before flexing his fingers.

“I—fuck,” was all he managed to say. She kicked off her shorts and tried to clamp her knees together, suddenly embarrassed. Rhys pushed them back open, spreading her apart just like he’d promised.

“Bonnie lass,” he murmured, raising one of her legs to pepper kisses up her calf. Feyre’s breath hitched as he lowered himself, inching higher and higher until he was nearly there, only to switch sides. He was watching, his eyes a brand upon her skin. If he were any other man, Feyre would have been certain he was watching out of self-gratification, enjoying her reaction to his touch.

She knew he was gauging how she felt.

Waiting for her to change her mind.

Maybe she should have. Maybe she should have sat herself down, ordered her to be rational, to tell the truth.

But Feyre had been lying for so long—to her family, to herself—that it hardly mattered if she lied about this, too.

“You act as if you have all night,” Feyre told him, enjoying that curved smirk spreading against his beautiful face.

“Don’t I?” he replied, hovering just between her legs. “Or do ye have some plans I don’t know about?”

“At this rate I’m going to—” Rhys licked up the center of her pussy, still holding her gaze. Feyre’s brain went dark for a moment, lights out just like the castle. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but certainly not that.

“Impatient,” he murmured, licking again. “Greedy.”

Suddenly, she was all of the things he accused her of. Feyre tried to close her eyes, to lean into the soft sucking of his mouth but Rhys wasn’t having it.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and too late, Feyre thought of the letter she’d sent him, detailing a rather embarrassing moment with Isaac in which she’d closed her eyes to pretend he was some famous actor rather than the man currently fucking her.

She hadn’t been about to do that. All Feyre could think about was Rhys. Watching him was easy, only heightened the pleasure she already felt. Feyre carded her fingers through his thick, dark hair, earning a muffled groan for her trouble. Stubble scraped against her thighs while his fingers practically bruised from the effort it took to keep her pinned to the bed. Release was gathering along her spine, building pressure until she was a writhing, moaning mess.

Rhys was an expert—or, possibly, Feyre a novice. In truth, it didn’t matter so long as he kept swirling his tongue around her clit like it was his sole purpose in life. His only reason for being, his one passion in life. Feyre spread herself wider, lifting her hips as she built upward, cresting and then falling apart with a scream that might have woken the dead had thunder and pelting rain not drowned her out.

Rhys kept going, reaching a fever pitch. He spread her pussy open, riding her through her release with obvious, unrestrained excitement. His own body rolled against the mattress in an attempt to alleviate some of his need, and when Feyre found herself in need of a few sharp breaths of air, she pushed him away.

“Feyre, that was—”

“Stand up, stand up,” she chanted, determined to make two of the things he’d wanted to see happen all in one night.

“Feyre—”

“Shut up,” she ordered, sinking to her knees the second he’d wobbled into a standing position. She could see the outline of him even in the wavering dark, straining against those sleep pants. “You talk so much I’m starting to think you’re in love with the sound of your own voice.”

“Tha gaol agam ort,” he panted, his lips still glossy.

“I don’t know what that means,” she reminded him, pulling his pants over his hips.

“Ye will,” he replied, gathering up her hair. “I’ll teach ye.”

How she looked forward to lessons with Rhys. Feyre bit back a million sarcastic responses in favor of taking the long, thick length of him in her hand and pumping experimentally. His whole body jerked in response.

“I suppose being married to you isn’t the worst thing,” she said, earning a choking laugh in response.

“Feyre, m’eudail,” he moaned, fingers clenching in her hair. She wished she knew what he was calling her—for all she knew, m’eudail was Gaelic for whore, though the way he said it made her think maybe not. Maybe it was something sweet.

Something that didn’t belong between two people as naked as they were. Rhys dropped his hold on her to both pull off his shirt and toss her a pillow for her knees and Feyre, grateful for that small kindness, licked up the length of him. The muscles of his thighs contracted and his stomach tightened, drawing her attention to the thin strip of hair trailing beneath his navel.

He was so terribly good looking, so impossibly beautiful that it was a marvel he was trying so hard to wed himself to her. Surely he had women falling at his feet everywhere he went.

“Let me take ye out,” Rhys was babbling, back to talking in an effort to fill the noise in his own head. Feyre, preoccupied with sucking the tip of his cock into her mouth, hummed noncommittally. He’d say anything. She knew that about men very well. “On a proper date.”

Feyre managed about a third of him before he hit the back of her throat. He swore, a litany of Gaelic words she promised to make him teach her later so she could use them when she was angry.

Using one hand to make up the difference, Feyre used the other to brace her body weight on his thigh, digging her nails into his flesh until he moaned. He was just as easy as she was, head thrown back.

Eyes closed.

Feyre pulled back with a wet pop. “Look at me,” she ordered, delighted when his eyes snapped back to her face.

“Cruel, beautiful creature,” he whispered, his words breathy from desire. This was a good distraction, she decided. She’d asked him for fun and Rhys was providing. Feyre didn’t need to think about anything but keeping her teeth off the delicate skin of his hard cock, or how best to use her tongue in order to draw more of the breathless moans from his throat.

She rather liked the sound of him undone.

Desperate.

Quick, too, if the pulsating vein nestled against his head was any indication. That served her perfectly well, given the size of him made her jaw ache. He could rest, and they could have at each other again.

And again.

Until he tired of her hand and her mouth and finally buried himself in her body like she wanted. He was chanting something, hips jerking as he tried—and failed—not to fuck her face. She let him until he gagged her, ignoring the pooling saliva against her chest or how no one had ever dared to touch her like this.

It was only when he came, spilling with a roar, that she realized he’d been saying her name. Over and over, like a prayer to long forgotten gods. Pulling her to her feet, Rhys didn’t care if she still tasted like his come or if she looked like a mess. He kissed her all the same, pulling her hard against him so his cock rubbed between her legs.

“I need a minute to breathe,” he told her, pushing her back to the bed. Rhys took her place on the pillow, hooking her legs over those tattooed shoulders.

“Just a minute?” she teased as he rested his sweaty forehead against her thigh.

“Just a minute.”

-*-

It took the two of them days before Rhys ever made good on his promise to take her out. She’d been so certain he’d break, that he’d have fucked her for real instead of just with his tongue and fingers. Rhys was perfectly content to wait, presumably for their wedding night. Feyre couldn’t say what the hold up was, exactly. Only that with each passing night they shared a bed, she was antsy to finally know what it was like to be with him completely.

“You’re enjoying this,” Feyre accused, smoothing out the blue of her sundress. Rhys had traded in his kilt for a pair of dark slacks and a black button up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Enjoying what, exactly?” he replied, picking at some invisible speck of lint on his sleeve.

“Making me wait?”

“Aye,” he agreed with a roguish grin. “It’s nice tae know ye want me as badly as I want ye.”

He reached for her hand, examining the blue sapphire inlaid on a silver band. “I want my wife tae want me.”

His car sat parked at the end of the long drive, trunk still filled with his things. “Is that all you want out of a wife?”

He chuckled, jogging just ahead to pull open the door for her. “No, but I’m not stupid. I have to make ye stupid with need, first—and then I can finish my diabolical plot.’

Feyre scowled, sliding into the leather interior that smelled, like everything else he touched, just like him. Drinking in her fill, Feyre waited for him to join her behind the wheel, a lopsided smile painted against his face. It was so easy to like him when his guard was done.

“Imagine if you’d just shown up and asked me on a date,” she teased, poking him in the rib.

“I imagine a lot of things when it comes tae ye,” he murmured, backing down the steep slope carefully. “I couldnae risk rejection, though.”

“Charming until the last. It’s too bad, because I quite like you.”

His grin widened. “Do ye, now?”

“Yes.” That seemed safe enough to admit. “And if you wanted, we could merely postpone the engagement? Date a little more?”

Rhys swallowed, and she wished he’d just tell her whatever else he was keeping from her.

“Have you ever been to jail, Rhys?”

He chuckled. “No. Can’t imagine I’d do well, given…” he gestured at his face.

“Are you wanted?”

He laughed again. “No, m’eudail. What makes ye think a criminal record would tempt me into marriage?”

Feyre gestured at his face. “I’m starting to think the only way you could get a wife was by tricking her.”

“How am I tricking ye?”

“Oh, my apologies Mr–”

“Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she continued, “you’re not tricking me, you’re blackmailing me.”

“Exactly,” he said, though the tightness around his eyes told her that he didn’t think it was quite as funny as he was letting on. “And in a month, none of this will matter any longer.”

“You’re so confident I’ll forgive you?” she asked, thinking down a list of things that were unforgivable, regardless of how hot someone's husband was.

“Yes.”

She didn’t think he’d lie about that, though in truth, Feyre still didn’t know a lot about him other than what she’d learned in his letters and what she’d observed over the last two weeks. Hardly enough time to decide to spend the rest of one's life with another person.

Going into the nearby village would hopefully ease some of those feelings. Rhys wanted to take her on a proper date, to prove that he liked her, which wasn’t the problem. Feyre believed that long before the power had gone out.

It was the fact that Rhys didn’t believe she could ever like him in return. That this was the only way to have her. Feyre let herself consider that whatever had happened after his sister had died had left Rhys so deeply scarred that maybe there was no secret at all. He was just afraid of losing another thing, of having nothing and no one who cared about him.

It softened her.

At least, enough to convince her to hold his hand as they walked through the charming town. She told him about growing up in London, which was hardly fascinating, and he told her about his sister. Rhys seemed so happy, his eyes bright like moonlight despite the warm afternoon sun. If anything, Feyre was more convinced than ever that what they needed was to get out of the house more often, because Rhys was more relaxed than she’d ever seen.

They had dinner on a quiet patio where Rhys was charming and funny and Feyre, somehow, was too. He kept throwing his head back to laugh when she’d say something she hoped he thought was amusing.

People kept looking at him, too. Checking him, smiling in his direction. Feyre didn’t think he noticed at all. Rhys also paid, which required him to chase down their waitress. Feyre took a moment to drink in her surroundings as dusk began to settle around her.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice interrupted Feyre, who, to be fair, had been trying (and failing) to figure out what type of flowers were blooming in a wooden planter box. “Are ye with Lord Campbell?”

Feyre turned to find two women a good decade older than her, both peering with obvious, nosy interest. “Lord Campbell? You mean Rhys?”

“English,” the second woman sniffed, while the first giggled. “I knew it.”

There might have been more, but Rhys came back into view and they melted away, watching him as he walked. Feyre drank him in with new eyes.

Lord Campbell.

Surely not. She’d just assumed he was a regular bloke, that this was maybe about a debt he had—despite how he’d protested he didn’t want her money. And why wouldn’t he if he was a lord. He’d have money of his own.

No family.

“Everything okay?” he asked, dropping back into his chair. Feyre almost confronted him. Demanded that he tell her it was a lie, that he was just a regular man. No one important. No one that would impress her father.

Instead, she smiled. “Of course. Are you ready to go?”

“Aye,” he agreed, reaching for her hand. Feyre let him kiss her cheek and lead her on. It wasn’t until she was back in the castle, exhausted and satiated, and Rhys was passed out face down in a pillow, his naked back visible in the pooling moonlight, that Feyre dared to get her phone out and do the one thing she ought to have done the moment he arrived on her doorstep.

She googled him.

It took a moment for the page to load. Which was worse? That he was a lord, or he was scamming her?

There was no time to truly decide. Several pictures of Rhys came up. One that was obviously fairly recent, but the other two were when he was a boy. Feyre pulled up the family photo, attached to an article outlining Ainsley’s death. The picture itself was formal—Rhys was in a little kilt, much like the one he wore now. Paired with a little suit jacket and bow tie, he cut a rather cute figure. Beside him, Ainsley wore a pretty blue dress and a beaming smile. She had the same ebony hair as Rhys, curled neatly with a little bow pulling half of it off her face. Same violet blue eyes. The hair came from their mother, beaming with joy behind them, but their eyes were from their father, smiling softly with a hand on his wife's shoulder.

Colin Campbell–13th Duke of Argyll. He was a peer. He had a family tree that was traced all the way back to the thirteenth century. Fuck, Rhysand had a wikipedia page that outlined his accomplishments, from the primary school he’d attended to the fact he’d played on the elephant polo squad.

Rhys was a Marquess, and when his father died, he’d be the Duke.

Feyre pressed her fingertips to her eyes. This was the exact thing she’d been trying to avoid her entire life…which of course, he’d know…because he read her fucking letters. She’d told him all about the allure of Isaac and how it had hurt her feelings that he had chosen someone else. How she loathed the arrogant, preening assholes she’d been constantly surrounded with. Her family wasn’t royalty—they didn’t run in those circles. She didn’t have that kind of money. Upper class money, not a clan name so well known it, too, had its own wikipedia page.

Of course he didn’t want her inheritance. Feyre doubted he even wanted the castle, despite what he’d made it seem.

She looked over at him, sleeping soundly beside her. What did he want?

Oh, god, was she the girl he was using to piss his family off? Was she—

“Feyre?” he murmured, throwing out an arm in search of her. “Where’d ye go?”

“I’m right here,” she murmured, turning her phone screen off so she could scoot down the bed. Rhys dragged her closer, nestling her against his chest. With a soft, sleepy grunt of pleasure,

Rhys pressed a kiss just behind her ear.

“I need sleep before I take ye again.”

“You haven’t had me at all,” Feyre reminded him, twisting in his grasp so she could look at his face. He smiled, though he kept his eyes closed.

“Soon, m’eudail,” he murmured.

“What does that mean?” she asked, tracing the outline of his lips with the pads of her fingers.

“My darling,” he replied.

“And…if I wanted to say, my husband is a bastard, how would I say that?”

A wider smile graced his features. “Aye, ye’ll be needing that. Ye’d say, tha gaol agam ort. Loudly, without breaking eye contact.”

Feyre frowned. “I thought you said that the first night we erm…”

He shook his head. “I’m certain I didnae. All good Scottish wives scream that at tae husbands from time to time.”

“A thought for a thought?” she whispered. Rhys groaned.

“Just tell me what's on yer mind.”

“What are you getting out of this marriage, if not my money? Is it the castle?”

Rhys peeked open one eye for just a moment. “Ah. I thought ye’d figured that out. Just ye, m’eudail.”

He settled against the pillows, taking in a deep breath.

Just you.

Feyre swallowed, waiting until he was asleep again to sneak out under his arm. Phone in hand, she slipped to the hall and dialed.

“Hello?” Elain’s voice was thick with sleep. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” Feyre replied, wondering how even to say everything she needed to. “Could you do me one more favor for the wedding?”

There was a pause. And then Elain, ever agreeable, responded.

“Anything.”

-*-

The day of the wedding was the busiest the castle had ever been. How Elain had managed to get so many people in one place, despite being in an entirely different country, was a mystery Feyre hoped to never learn. She also hoped to move out of the castle, though she didn’t want to go back to London.

That was something to talk to Rhys about, just as soon as she managed to find him. To confront him. For the moment, Feyre was up in her bedroom while Elain very carefully used a pearl comb to pull glossy waves off Feyre’s face. Feyre barely recognized herself, carefully made up and dressed in silvery blue.

“Are you certain you want to marry this man?” Nesta asked, staring out the open window as though she expected someone to come crashing through. “This is all so sudden.”

“Hush,” Elain replied, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Both of them were in pretty lavender, a few shades paler than the color of Rhys’s eyes. That was Elain’s touch, just like everything else. Feyre had never learned what had caused her older sister to call off her engagement, but she knew he was missing out.

“I’m serious,” Nesta said, turning to face Feyre, hands on her slim hips. “What do you even know about him?”

Elain and Feyre exchanged a glance.

“Enough,” Feyre finally said. “I know enough.”

“Do you ever wonder why Uncle gave us these castles?” Elain asked, her own gaze taking on a faraway quality. “Was there some lesson we were supposed to learn?”

“Perhaps he meant to humble us,” Nesta retorted, her cheeks warming. Feyre’s brows shot skyward.

“And is it working?”

Nesta, imperious as ever, sniffed. “Of course not.”

But that felt like an obvious lie. Maybe Feyre would pay her sister a visit once this was all over. See what—or who—was giving her so much trouble.

A soft knock on the door drew Elain away. She poked out her head before turning to look at Feyre.

“He’s here.”

Ferye shook out her hands. “Good. Take me to him.”

Nesta trailed behind them, a little clumsy in her heels just like Feyre was. Only Elain maneuvered the steep, winding stairs with immaculate precision, every inch the well-born lady she was supposed to be. Feyre didn’t care about it enough to try, gripping the rails like her life depended on it.

“Where is Rhys?” she asked Elain when they reached the grand hall.

“Busy.” That was all Elain was willing to say in response. As long as there was no danger in him interrupting, Feyre supposed she didn’t care. She continued forward to the drawing room, glancing at both sisters like they were her personal, armed guards.

“Let no one in.”

And then Feyre walked through the oak, double doors, to greet Duke Campbell himself. He was the near spitting image of his son, though his hair was a lighter shade of brown, his skin several shades fairer. He had those same bright eyes, though—and how bad could anyone be, with eyes like that?

“Do I bow?”

“Please don’t,” he replied, enunciating his words carefully. “I’m surprised ye called…or…had yer sister call, at any rate.”

Feyre gestured for him to take a seat in one of the high back leather chairs facing the rounded coffee table. A decanter of whiskey had been set out—one, she knew, he personally represented thanks to her internet sleuthing. Behind him, a case of rather nice books made her seem far more accomplished than she was, while in front of them, a row of windows looked out against the hilly greenery of the Highlands.

“I wanted to meet you,” Feyre admitted, sitting only after he had. “I wanted to tell you about your son.”

“Ah. I gathered this is his wedding,” Colin murmured, twisting a signet ring around his finger. Feyre hesitated.

“It should be,” she finally said, resisting the urge to fiddle with her own.

“He didn’t invite me.” It wasn’t the scathing condemnation she’d expected. Just soft resignation, as if he should have expected such a slight.

“I invited you,” Feyre said gently, wondering how to ask what he wanted without seeming as if she were judging him. “And I’d like if you stayed. If you…if you would walk me down along with my father.”

Colin’s eyes fell to his lap. “I suppose he told ye everything?”

“He did,” she lied. The letters were strictly between her and Rhys. “And I think he regrets the distance. I…this is a fresh start, Mr. Campbell. I’d like it if you were part of our family.”

“Family,” he murmured, nodding his head. “And my son? Does he know I’m here?”

“He will in five minutes, if you agree,” Feyre told him, practically vibrating with excitement.

Colin nodded. “Aye, of course. Of course, I—” he nodded. “Thank ye, for inviting me.”

“It’s a small affair, but if we should have invited more people—”

“This is fine enough,” he agreed, rising to his feet. Feyre took a breath, openly delighted everything was going exactly as she hoped. She was marrying the man she’d always wanted, even if she’d thought he only existed in her mind. Even if marrying him meant making her father happy. That was merely an accident that could not be helped.

And there were no secrets between them, now.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Tha gaol agam ort,” she began, thinking of how she’d flung it in his face the other day when he’d irritated her, and how soft his expression had become. “That doesn’t mean you’re a bastard, does it?”

Colin chuckled. “No. Is that what he told you?”

She nodded, earning another laugh. “That’s just like him.”

“What does it mean?”

Colin only stared, his eyes just as gentle as his sons had been when he’d heard her say it. “You haven’t guessed?”

And, of course, Feyre had.

It would have been all well and good, walking down that aisle if Rhys had actually shown up. Feyre was spared embarrassment by Elain, her cheeks flaming red as she explained no one could find him. Two of his friends from university had come—Azriel, who swore that was his god given name despite Feyre’s open skepticism, and Cassian who, inexplicably, somehow knew Nesta.

They were both looking for him, too (though, Cassian was spending the majority of his time openly harassing Nesta like he had some kind of death wish), but Feyre knew where Rhys would be if he hadn’t actually left.

She left her shoes in the hall, gathered up the hem of that beaded gown, and took off running across the grounds. She was likely wrecking her hair and her makeup, and was certainly going to wreck her dress in the mud that lingered from the rainstorm two days before.

But Rhys was there, in the stables just like she thought he’d be. Eyes rimmed red like he’d been crying, his hair wild from dragging his hand through the strands. He was in that kilt she was so fond of, his dark black button up hidden beneath another black jacket.

Black on black—like night himself.

“Are you seriously standing me up?” Feyre demanded, drawing his attention to her. She’d expected to see misery, maybe even anger.

Not relief.

And certainly not hope.

“I’m letting ye out—”

“Oh Christ, Rhysand!” she exploded, throwing one hand up in the air. He was drinking her in, realizing she was truly in wedding attire and had absolutely intended to go through with the marriage. “The time for a change of heart was the day you strolled into my life, not now.”

He hesitated. “Ye’re angry.”

“Yes, noticed that, did you?” she snapped, forcing herself to take a breath. “What happened? What changed your mind?”

“There are things ye don’t know about me—”

“Your father is waiting for you inside,” she interrupted, cutting off his unnecessary confession. Rhys went still, eyes wide. “I gave him a whole speech about being a family and setting the old aside, and now you’re out here and he’s in there.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “So…ah…ye know about…”

“Yes, Lord Campbell. I have known for a while.”

“And…ye’re still here.”

“Still here,” she agreed, creeping just a little closer. Without her anger, Feyre was able to look around at the work he’d done—he’d been restoring the stables, and a little over a month and a half, had made it look like something worth using again. The splotch of spilled wood stain was still on the floor, a monument to meeting her sister. Feyre felt a surge of warmth flood through her.

“The day I met ye, I should have gotten on one knee and asked ye to marry me,” he told her ruefully. “I thought…I thought ye’d say no, and I’m a coward.”

“What’s stopping you?” she asked, pulling the ring off her finger and holding it, along with a letter she’d written him, out. Rhys’s eyes bounced from Feyre’s face to the ring before he tentatively took it. “Ask me now. Risk it all, Rhysand—risk rejection, risk walking away and never seeing me again. Ask me to marry you.”

He swallowed, and then sank to one knee after tucking her letter into his breast pocket. “Feyre, ye asked why I came back when I told ye goodbye. I didnae want to answer it truthfully then, because, as ye so aptly put it, I’m a coward. I tried tae forget ye. Tae put ye out of my mind, tae tell myself ye would be happier without me. And then…and then I thought, what if she marries Tamlin? Or some other bloke—what if she loves someone who isn’t me? Because I’ve been in love with ye for a long time now, Feyre. And when ye stopped writing, I missed ye. Ye were my only friend for so long…”

He took a great, gulping breath. “If ye tell me no, I’ll leave. I’ll leave and I won’t come back, but…marry me, Feyre. Tha gaol agam ort.”

“You love me?” she asked, vividly recalling the first time he’d said it to her. How blind she’d been, not to realize the whole time, as he promised he wanted nothing else, as he swore all he wanted was her, that he’d been trying to tell her he loved her.

Rhys nodded, eyes massive.

“Then get up,” she said, tugging at his hand. “And get back inside, and marry me.”

Rhys slid the ring back on her finger before he stood and cupped her face. “I wrote ye a letter, tae.”

“Give it to me after I’m your wife,” she ordered, leaning up on tiptoes to kiss him.

“Aye, I’ll be giving ye a lot of things before that,” he joked, the color returning to his face.

They kissed again, and again, until Feyre considered that her guests were already waiting—where else did they have to be? And Rhys was hoisting her up, his large hands spanning her ass as he walked her to the nearby wall. Feyre thought she’d die if he stopped, and when he tried to pull back, she growled, “Don’t you fucking dare.” He chuckled for only a moment, the sound replaced with a groan when their lips collided all over again, losing some of their finesse in favor of burning passion. How had she ever gone without this—without him? Some small part of her brain demanded she tell him to put her down so he’d marry her and there would be nothing separating them, but his hand was palming her through her beaded gown and all Feyre could think about was how good it would feel if he pushed up her dress and touched her there, too.

“I’ll be having all of ye, now,” he murmured against the column of her neck, nipping kisses over her sensitive skin. “And again, just as soon as ye say ye’re mine.”

“I’ve always been yours,” Feyre replied, legs wrapped around his waist. Rhys ground against her in response, adjusting so he had her braced against the wall and one arm while the other began frantically pushing up the long skirt of her dress. This was happening, she realized breathlessly. They were doing this. And for some reason, it was the idea of finally having all of him, of sharing a body, that made what was happening between them feel unbreakable. Not the marriage, which seemed like the natural conclusion to their circumstances.

Perhaps it was because they’d put it off for so long. He felt it, too. He paused, eyes so dark it was like staring into a night sky. “Ready?” he whispered, kissing her before she could respond. Feyre clasped his face in her hands, nodding and kissing all at once which might have been confusing if he didn’t already know.

“Feyre, m’eudail,” he whispered, adjusting them both so the head of his cock was nudging against her. That answered her question regarding what he wore beneath his kilt. Conveniently, nothing—the same as her, though that was practical. The dress was so tight that wearing anything beneath created little bunches in the smooth fabric. Feyre didn’t want to ruin the illusion of a smooth silhouette, and figured Rhys wasn’t likely to care what was under the dress so long as he got to take her out of it.

She’d been right. Rhys’s eyes widened when he realized he was touching bare skin. He tried to look, but Feyre’s dress was ruched between them, intermingled with the blue and green plaid of his kilt.

“I should take ye upstairs,” he growled.

“We’d never make it. Everyone is looking for you,” she whispered, wiggling just enough to cause the blunt head of his cock to slide against her. They both gasped. Feyre was slick with want, and his skin was soft, rubbing against her clit. Rhys did it again, and again, until Feyre’s eyes were rolling upward.

“Needy,” he murmured, like he wasn’t, too. He tried to rub again, but Feyre lifted her hips, causing his cock to catch against her. Feyre tightened at that first push, drawing a ragged moan from his lips.

“Now who’s needy, Lord Campbell.”

“This is why I didnae tell ye,” he grumbled, thrusting himself wholly into her. Feyre gasped, unprepared for the fullness she’d feel, of the delicious stretch that came with accommodating him. He held himself there, muscles trembling with effort. Feyre wondered if he’d just take her on the barn floor and before she could even offer, Rhys had already read her mind, was dragging them both down to the smooth wood. There was no hope for her hair—or his face, which was smeared with the red of her lipstick.

Everyone would know what happened out here, how she’d gone looking for him and found far more than she’d meant to.

“That’s better,” he breathed, pulling her knees higher, until he had them pinned to her chest. Rhys looked between them, taking his cock in hand and rubbing it over her clit again. Feyre moaned softly.

“Rhys,” she whispered. He smiled.

“That’s better.”

And with no further preamble, he slid back into her. There was no polite holding, no waiting for her to adjust, which suited Feyre just fine. With her back against the wood, Feyre could push her heels to the floor without accidentally knocking them off balance. She could rake her fingers through his hair, could kiss him and roll her hips in time with his own, until they were a panting, moaning mess. Anyone on the grounds was likely to hear them, a fact that might have bothered Feyre any other time but right then.

“Now who is needy?” she whispered when a soft whimper escaped him. Rhys buried his face against the crook of her neck, stroking long and slow. Feyre couldn’t breathe. Pulling his shirt up just enough to dig her nails down his muscled back, Feyre breathed him in, trying to slow the building orgasm pooling in her gut. Feyre had forgotten they were supposed to be getting married right until Rhys, wild and undone in a way she’d never witnessed before, grunted, “We’re going tae be late.”

Not that it sped them up at all. Feyre merely clung tighter, turning his face for a bruising kiss. Could you be late for your own wedding? Feyre was certain you couldn’t. She was going to come, though. Feyre couldn’t hold it back and, maybe selfishly, wanted to see him fall apart, too.

“I love you,” she whispered. Rhys lost himself, denoting a mere moment before she did with a loud, guttural cry. He was still thrusting into her, dragging Feyre over the edge with him whether she wanted to go or not. Rhys grabbed her neck, kissing her roughly, swallowing her own desperate moaning.

“Feyre, Feyre, Feyre,” he whispered, hips still jerking into her. “Again, I—”

“FEYRE!” Nesta’s voice called in the distance, causing both Rhys and Feyre to twist, looking toward the opening of the stables.

“C’mon, Nes, ye’re getting mud all over your feet—” A masculine voice chided too loudly in the distance, clearly both a warning and an attempt to buy time.

“Cassian if you touch me I swear I will—-! PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!”

Rhys grinned, though he pulled himself out of her all the same. “I think that’s our cue, lass.”

“How do they know each other?” Feyre asked, straightening her dress as Rhys helped her to her feet. He smoothed out his kilt, tucked his shirt back into the hem, and ran a hand through his wrecked hair.

“If I know him, he likely saw ye’re sister and decided tae try and get under her skin,” Rhys replied.

“Nesta can be pretty uptight,” Feyre murmured. “But underneath all that, she’s sensitive…and underneath that, she is very capable of violence.”

Rhys only smiled. “Trust me. Cassian can handle it.” Feyre nodded, her thoughts straying from the fading sounds of Nesta shouting and Cassian laughing.

“Are you ready, then?”

Rhys smiled. “After you, then, Mrs. Campbell.”

-*-

My darling Feyre,

You’re asleep right now with wet, tangled hair and I can’t sleep. We’ll be wed tomorrow, and I can’t stop thinking about you and this future I want so badly. I should have been honest the minute I saw you. Would you believe me if I told you I panicked? That you were so beautiful that I forgot everything I’d rehearsed on the way over. I forgot who I was supposed to be, and words began falling out of my mouth.

All I could think was there you are—I’ve been looking for you.

Now we’re here, and I don’t know how you feel about it. I could wake you and ask, but I’m too afraid. I think if I offered you an out, you’d take it, which means I should probably do it. I am scared of life without you, and more afraid of life like my parents—of missing you and a distance so unbridgeable we’re hardly married at all.

I’ve been in love with you since you began writing me. I think you’ve guessed that, that you know. You saw my letters, I wasn’t hiding my affection within them. But just in case you didn’t, I’m in love with you. Knowing you here, in this place has only made it worse. I love you more than I ever did when you were writing to me, and it’s hell pretending I don’t.

You screamed it back at me (your Gaelic is getting so much better), and I almost had a heart attack, hearing those words come out of your mouth. You thought you were calling me a bastard, so maybe it didn’t count.

I could die happy, I think, having heard you say it. Even if you leave. Even if you never feel the same.

This month has been the best years of my life. Even before the accident—but certainly after.

I love you.

Eternally,

Rhys

Dearest Rhys,

In a week, you and I will be married. Coincidentally, you’ve been in my life officially for one month and a week. You’re actually asleep next to me, so writing this feels a little strange. I keep thinking I should wake you up and just tell it all to you, but I want you to know all this at our wedding, so you understand. And I won’t be eloquent at the altar (and we agreed no personal vows, so I’m guessing you don’t think you can be, either).

I look at you, and I forget what I’m trying to say. It’s not just your face (which, admittedly IS very beautiful). I’ll see you, and I’ll think, he’s real. He’s actually real. And I know you think it’s some kind of curse (though you don’t say it, I can see it all the same), but before I knew you existed, I used to wish you were real. That I could somehow make you exist by wanting you hard enough, by writing enough letters.

I don’t think we could have done this any differently, so please forgive your regrets. If you’d come, hat in hand, and told me who you were, I would have sent you away out of sheer embarrassment. It would have been me living with my constant regret, too proud to try and find you, all the while missing you and wishing you’d come back. I don’t know how else to tell you that—only that there is nothing to forgive.

And I love you, despite the things you think about yourself. I think I’ll tell you one of these days, when I muster up the courage. Before our wedding, at least, so you know that I want to be here with you. I loved you when I thought you were trying to scam me (and that you were a serial murderer, for whatever that says about me), when you were just some strange man from a small, Scottish hamlet.

And I love you now, even if you’re making all my fathers wildest dreams come true. I think that’s the last secret you’re keeping, the one you think is insurmountable for us. I promise it’s not, although I did look you up, and suddenly owning a castle seems less special.

I don’t care who you are, so long as you exist. And I don’t care about anything else, as long as we’re together. As long as I still get to write you letters, fold them up, and then reach across the bed and touch you.

I think I agree with you—finding you was fate. And maybe we’re messy, but at least we’re together, right? I have no regrets. And by the time you read this, I hope you know I’m proud to be your wife.

Forever,

Feyre

#feysand #feyre x rhysand #AS A REMINDER: YOU DONT NEED TO TELL ME IF YOU DONT LIKE THIS #i can see your reviews and your tags and like consider keeping it to yourself?????#anyway with that out of the way #guess who is next?

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here2bbtstrash · 3 years ago

Note

HI! I wanted to say I love your idol joonie one shot I enjoyed reading it it was amazing. If only the OC can be invited on tour and ride him backstage before he starts the show.

five minutes (explicit)

genre: smutty lil drabble!! and me popping my request cherry >:)

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: your fuckbuddy has a graduation gift for you, but he might have overestimated your self-control.

this is a companion fic to my oneshot park and ride! read that one first if you want to get all the references, or don't, i'm not your mom

word count: 2.6k

contains: explicit sexual content~*~ idol verse, fuckbuddies, semi-public sex (aka a quickie in the green room), fingering, unprotected sex, dick-riding, dirty talk, squirting, a 3 second blowjob, joon's dick is still Very Big, ft. tiny cameos from JK and yoongi

A/N: remember when i said i would write this later, i LIED, i'm a LIAR, i wrote it NOW because i really liked the idea (and i was super bored while traveling). ask and you shall receive anon, i hope this is what you were looking for!!!! 💜

this is also on AO3!

~*~

You’re enjoying a quiet Friday night in, basking in the glow of not having to stress about homework for the first time in two years, when a familiar number pops up on your phone.

“So, how does it feel to be done with grad school?” You’re surprised to hear him ask. Maybe the bar is in hell, but his own schedule is busy enough, you didn’t think he’d have the brain space to remember yours, too. “I know you worked hard for it. I’m proud of you.”

“Yep, I finally got my stupid piece of paper.” You say dryly. “Maybe now I can actually get paid enough to get a new car.”

You swear you can hear him smile on the other end of the phone. “Pretty soon you won’t even need me anymore.”

“I thought we discussed last time that I keep you around for one specific reason.” You can’t help yourself. “A very big reason.”

Namjoon laughs softly. “Well, maybe this will help my case. I got you a graduation present.”

Now he’s surprised you twice in under a minute. “I– what?”

“Did you know we have a stop on this tour that’s right by you?”

You do know. The tickets had sold out in approximately four seconds, if your Twitter feed was any indication. You didn’t even try for one; you’re so broke you’d only be able to afford nosebleeds at best anyway, and the thought of being that close but that far from him makes your heart sink in a way you can’t quite understand.

“So I’ve heard. Am I gonna be your Uber driver again?”

“I probably won’t be able to get away, unfortunately.” He says, and you nod, leaning back against the cushions of your couch. Hearing that phrase never sucks any less, but you’re used to it. He’s a busy guy. Sex is nowhere near the top of the priorities list.

“But,” he continues, “I did get you a ticket, if you want it.”

The revelation shocks you, and your stomach turns a little. Better seats would be great, especially for free, but you have other reasons for not being an avid concert-goer.

Namjoon is an incredible performer, they all are, but the thought of standing in a massive crowd where people next to you are loudly obsessing over his thighs and his chest has never sounded particularly appealing. It’s not jealousy; you understand as well as anyone that he’s an attractive man, it’s just… it’s weird.

“Joon,” you start, with no idea how you’re supposed to phrase this. Who turns down a free ticket to a BTS concert?

“It’d be backstage in VIP, okay? I promise, the screaming isn’t so bad there.” Backstage? Your head swims. He pauses for a second, but can clearly tell you’re not convinced, and his tone softens. “I hated the thought of being so close to you and not doing anything about it. I really just want to see you, even if we can’t…” he clears his throat with a half-laugh. “You know, go for a drive.”

You absolutely do not feel like a VIP, but your heart jumps at the thought of seeing him before you can tell it not to.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be there.”

He can only chat for a few more minutes before he’s pulled away for the next thing on his schedule. After you hang up, you slide entirely off your couch and onto the floor in a daze, wondering what the hell you just agreed to.

~*~

It turns out attending a concert as a VIP guest is not that far off from your well-worn hotel ritual. You go through the familiar motions, flashing various people your ID and the badge around your neck, and you receive a security escort through the network of hallways that lead into the heart of the stadium.

At security’s direction, you hang a left, past a room where you see racks upon racks of clothes ready and waiting for quick changes, and you’re so distracted that you nearly collide into Jungkook. His eyes widen. “Oh, hi!”

You’ve met most of the members in passing– it’s sort of hard not to– but you’ve always had a particular soft spot for JK. It might have something to do with the time he voluntarily sexiled himself to Taehyung and Jimin’s room for a night so that Namjoon could invite you over. A true friend.

“Hi, Jungkook,” you say with a nervous smile.

“It’s good to see you! Namjoon said you were coming. He’s in the green room if you’re looking for him.” He gestures to a door at the end of the hallway, and you thank him as your pulse starts to race.

You gently push the door open and peek in. Namjoon is sitting alone at a chair in front of the vanity mirror, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his legs. He has headphones on, and his fingers are steepled, pressed to his lips. He’s clearly deep in thought, and a feeling washes over you like you shouldn’t be here, like maybe you should just turn around.

But then he glances over and sees you standing there, and his whole face lights up, those killer dimples on full display.

He slips his headphones off as you step inside; you can’t close the distance between the two of you fast enough. You loop your arms around his neck and he wraps his around your waist, and then you squeak as your feet leave the ground when he fully picks you up.

“Hi,” he says against your ear with a laugh, and when your feet make contact with the floor again, you push up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach at the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands at the small of your back. Kissing Namjoon standing up doesn’t happen often, and it’s enough to give you a head rush.

His lips linger on yours as his hands travel gently downwards, and then he makes a noise of surprise against your mouth and pulls away.

“Oh my god,” he groans softly, pinching the fabric of your new favorite skirt between his fingers. “You did this on purpose.”

You can’t hide your wicked smile. “It’s possible. You did say you liked it, if I recall correctly.”

You lose your composure as his hands slip under your skirt to grab your ass. You inhale sharply, thankful that you’re alone. Namjoon’s mouth drops to your neck. “God, I wish we had more time,” he groans against your skin.

You should behave. The fact that you can see him and touch him should be more than enough, and you should just be grateful. But he really does make you insatiable. “I can be quick if you can,” you murmur against his ear.

His life-ruiningly big dick hardens against your thigh; you can feel every inch of it straining against the fabric of his pants, and you shift to grind your core against him.

“Fuck,” he hisses. Arousal floods through you at the notion of how close he is, the fact that only a few layers of clothes separate him from where you need him most. You’re already soaked, ready for all of him.

You hear a grunt and a shifting sound from behind you and nearly jump out of your skin, quickly leaping back to put some space between you and Namjoon. When you turn towards the source, you realize that you completely missed Yoongi, asleep on the green room couch.

Namjoon winces when you whip your head back to glare accusingly at him. “Sorry. I totally forgot he was there.”

You fix him in your gaze for a second, but you’re honestly too horny to stay mad. “To be fair, you were distracted.”

“Still am,” he grunts, running a hand over the front of his pants. You can only imagine the internet-wide panic that would ensue if he went out onstage this hard. The dick print blogs would have a field day. You’re frozen in place, ridiculously turned on but also starting to feel guilty for putting him in this predicament.

Namjoon crosses to the sofa, one hand slipping into his pants to tuck his erection into his waistband.

“Hyung,” he whispers, giving the couch a light kick.

Yoongi grunts again, but doesn’t move, eyes still closed.

“Hyung, I need the room for a minute.”

At this, he finally cracks an eye open. “Hmm?”

“Can you nap somewhere backstage?”

Yoongi squints at both of you as he slowly sits up. He looks pissed– although he kind of always looks like that, so maybe that’s just his face– but seems to realize he can get back to sleep faster if he doesn’t waste time on an argument.

He yawns as he shuffles out of the room, turning over his shoulder in the open doorway. “Just so you know, you’ve got like, five minutes.” Then he slams the door behind him.

Namjoon doesn’t waste even a second, instantly pulling you to him and finding your lips with his, tongue sweeping into your mouth. You let him guide you backwards until you’re pressed up against the green room door, and you hear the lock click.

His lips move to your neck again, his hands sliding up your thighs. “Can you do five minutes, baby?”

“Y-yes,” your answer turns into a whine as his hand brushes over your panties, and you spread your legs to give him more room. He pulls the fabric of your underwear to the side, and when he slips two fingers into your cunt, you both groan: you at the pleasure, and him at how little resistance there is when he pushes in.

“Fuck, you really want me, huh?” Namjoon practically growls into your ear, and you whimper open-mouthed as he curls his fingers inside you. He shifts and you can feel him pressed hard against your thigh, and your knees nearly buckle. “You want to take all of this?”

“God, yes.” You think you’ll die if you don’t.

He hesitates for just a second, clearly weighing some option in his head. Then he groans in your ear again. “Will you ride me, baby?”

You can’t even speak, but when he sees you nod, it’s enough. Pressing you up against the door, he lifts your legs to wrap around his waist, and then his hands move to cup your ass and pull you to him. He lifts you up and carries you like that across the room, his still-clothed erection grinding into your core. Your desire is almost painful now, you want him so bad.

He settles on the couch with you in his lap, and you lean forward on your knees so that he can fumble to undo his belt and pull his pants and boxers down.

There’s no time for the teasing you’re both so fond of, but you don’t feel like you could last a single second longer without him inside you. When you pull your panties to the side again so you can sink down on him, it’s fucking perfect, and you can’t hold back a moan of relief.

“Shit, baby,” Namjoon groans. His head drops against the couch and his hand is already on your clit in steady circles. The urgency just makes everything hotter.

You rock up and down along his length, and you’re so fucking wet that he easily bottoms out inside you, hitting the spot that makes you squeeze your eyes shut and gasp. Your arousal coils tight inside you, the pressure already building.

Namjoon’s fingers work you expertly, and he knows your mind just as well as your body. He knows the fastest way to get you to come is with his words, and he doesn’t hold back, his hips starting to rock up into you.

“You take my cock so well, baby, fuck. This tight little pussy was made just for me, huh?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whine with every thrust.

“Mine to have whenever I want, wherever I want. Always so fucking wet and ready for me, so desperate to take it all like a good girl.”

You whimper loudly in agreement. His cock, his hands, his voice, it’s all too much. He can feel your walls start to flutter and that only makes him thrust and circle his fingers faster, and your moans are nearly sobs now.

“That’s it, baby. Soak yourself for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

“Oh, fuck!” You cry out as the pressure inside you swells and bursts, and you can feel the rush of fluid as it splashes over him and the couch beneath you.

Namjoon groans beneath you at the feeling, and you thank god he has the awareness and the strength to lift you up off of him, because it fully escaped you that he never put a condom on.

He strokes himself fast and hard, clearly just shy of his own end, and even now, you still can’t get enough. You drop to your knees on the floor and practically shove his legs apart so you can take him in your mouth, your cunt still quivering from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Holy shit,” he gasps as you bob up and down, sloppy and fast. When you swallow him down, gagging slightly, his hips buck against your mouth, and you take it all with a whimper as he comes down your throat.

You make sure to work every drop out of him before you pull off, sitting back on your heels and wiping at your mouth. You watch Namjoon as he collapses against the couch, breathing heavy and smiling wide. He runs a hand through his hair and looks down at you, clearly still trying to recover.

“You,” he says with a gasp, “are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You beam at the compliment, and you stand up on shaking legs, reaching down to awkwardly adjust your underwear back in place. At his request, you circle around him to assess the damage as he pulls his pants up.

It occurs to you only in hindsight that attempting a mess-free quickie with a girl who squirts is quite the lofty goal, but there doesn’t seem to be any sign of it on his clothes. The couch cushion, however, was not so lucky. You both giggle at the wet spot as he wraps his arms around you and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I think we’re at five,” you murmur, but he tilts your jaw up anyway, his lips finding yours for one more kiss.

He reluctantly walks you towards the door. “I gotta go get my mic, but if you head backstage to the left, there’s a spot where you can watch the show.” He presses his lips to your forehead one more time. “I’ll make it a good one for you.”

You laugh as he opens the door. “I’ll be watching, so you better not fuck up the choreo!”

For the second time tonight, you nearly run face-first into Jungkook. “Ah, sorry! Is my phone in here?” He shoves past you both and lets out a sigh of relief as he retrieves it from the vanity counter.

You give Namjoon a final smile and then head towards backstage, but you’re still in earshot to hear Jungkook ask, “What happened to the couch? Hyung, did you spill something?”

You press your hand to your mouth to hold the laughter in.

The show is even better than you thought it would be, and though you might just be imagining it, you swear Namjoon’s hip thrusts are a little more enthusiastic than usual.

A/N: i wrote this in like 30 minutes (so it is quite literally a quickie on a quickie) so if this is slightly lower quality than my usual, don't roast me!!! but i had so much fun revisiting these two!! hope you enjoyed, would love a comment or review if you did 💜 and i'm always tentatively open to requests, tho i have very little control over what will spark the muse lol. ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD THE ACTUAL NEXT THING I POST WILL BE LDOMLT 🙈 thanks for reading!!!!!

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #bts smut #bts x reader #fic request #anonymous #five minutes

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