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adieutristana · 14 days ago

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love languages; arcane women x fem! reader

heeeyyy guys... my birthday is in exactly 6 days (the 16th) just thought you should know

summary: headcanons of how arcane characters express all five love languages.

characters included: jinx, vi, mel, sevika, maddie, lest.

tags/warnings: fluff, slight hurt/comfort, mentions of poor mental health, smoking mention, maaaaybe the slightest bit suggestive?, just a lot of fluff

men and minors dni.

jinx;

✧.* words of affirmation; jinx is not good with words, she never has been. trying to rationalize her feelings with words seems next to impossible for the girl, but she’ll still try. at first, it starts with little compliments in passing. “you’re so beautiful, toots…” she’ll whisper, or, “you make things a lot less boring around here.” but over time, it’ll grow into jinx assuring you how much she loves you. that you make her happy, because she sees how happy it makes you to hear that.

“i love you a lot, sugar, don’t forget that!” she’d say, a goofy grin on her face. “y’know how to make a girl happy, that’s for sure.”

✧.* quality time; quality time is probably one of jinx’s strongest love languages, next to gift giving. she wants to include you in absolutely everything she does. whether that be dragging you along to run errands (for bomb supplies or stolen goods) with her, watching her tinker, tagging walls in the undercity together, or simply enjoying each others’ presence while eating, jinx loves it. she loves every second she gets with you, it helps keep her grounded. the voices grow quieter, her demeanor visibly shifts, and you can see little hints of powder coming out.

✧.* physical touch; jinx is extremely touch-starved at the beginning of your relationship. not only that, but she’s a bit fearful of touch. you do have to ease her into being okay with the idea of being touched with light squeezes on the shoulder, hugs that seem too short, and soft kisses to her hands. but over time, jinx grows to love physical touch. kissing your shoulders, neck, forehead, temples, anywhere. falling asleep on top of you. placing you in her lap no matter how tall you are. jinx grows to love the proximity.

✧.* acts of service; jinx likes to try and do favors for you, but she kind of… messes them up? unintentionally, of course. but if you ask her to run errands for her, you’ll have to be very specific about you want because she might accidentally pick up the wrong thing, and also specify that you’d like her to pay for it. she also may want to cook for you, but jinx should not be trusted in a kitchen. overall, jinx does enjoy trying to do little acts of service for you! but in her own way.

✧.* gift giving; gift giving is probably jinx’s strongest love language. she hand makes all of her bombs and gadgets, so naturally, she’d hand make gifts for her girlfriend! she’ll make you crude stick-figure drawings of the two of you with little hearts around them, smoke bombs in your favorite colors, and charm necklaces out of scrap metal. putting her time and energy into making things for you is jinx’s ultimate showcase of her love. she prides herself on her creations!

“look! i made this!” jinx would beam, dropping a piece of jewelry into your lap. a charm bracelet filled with little trinkets she crafted and a matching necklace. “isn’t it neat?! do you like it?”

vi;

✧.* words of affirmation; although vi isn’t always the best with words, she does truly value words of affirmation. to her, actions speak louder than words, but words can do a hell of a job, too. she’ll tell you again and again just how much she loves you. complimenting you, using one of her millions of pet names for you, letting you know how crazy she is for you.

“i can’t go a second without thinking about you, cupcake. you know that? don’t ever think that you’re not important to me, because truth be told, i’m crazy about you. i always will be.”

✧.* quality time; vi loves any moment she gets with you. whether that be time spent laughing over cheesy jokes in the last drop, playfully sparring with you, or naps curled into each other, vi can’t get enough. she’d show up at your door unannounced, asking if she can come in because she misses you despite seeing you the day prior (and the day before that.) she does enjoy her alone time as well, so she won’t be attached to you at the hip necessarily, but vi does enjoy her time with you. she’s at her happiest when she’s with her girlfriend.

✧.* physical touch; vi is a sucker for physical touch. it’s probably her strongest love language. vi always has to be touching you somehow- it’s both her love for you and her protective nature. an arm around you, hand resting firmly on your waist. snaking her arms around you from behind with a hum. kisses peppered all over your face as she drinks in the sound of your giggles. putting her hand atop yours when sat together. pressing you flush against her chest during late night cuddles. sleeping with her face in the crook of your neck and using her calloused fingers to draw little shapes into your bare back or arms. it’s all just so addictive to vi.

“hm…” vi would hum, using the pad of her thumbs to trace little stars and hearts into the skin of your lower back. laying her head on your shoulder, pink locks tickling your neck. “you’re so soft. so warm.”

✧.* acts of service; vi does everything she can to make your life easier. she’d slip your shoes on for you and buy all of your groceries and carry you out of bed every morning just to save the hassle if you’d allow her, but she settles for making you meals and doing little favors for you. i think vi can actually cook fairly well- she did have to look after powder for so many years. she’ll make you breakfast at least twice a week, she’ll put away your laundry after a particularly long day, and run errands for you. she’ll always return with a cheesy grin on her face. vi enjoys it, she both feels useful and gets to see her girl happy. it’s a win-win.

✧.* gift giving; i honestly can’t see vi caring much for gift giving. but if she does, she’d give you things she knows can be practical in daily life. household supplies, food ingredients, and replacements for broken appliances. it’s not that she doesn’t see the point in gift-giving, it’s just that vi doesn’t want to be wasteful- mostly due to her upbringing. she doesn’t see the use for having more than she needs, so she’d probably apply that same logic to giving gifts.

mel;

✧.* words of affirmation; mel is so good when it comes to communication, and by extension, words of affirmation. the councilwoman is always telling you how important you are to her, how beautiful you are, how happy you make her. the fact that she can’t imagine a life without you. you are her sun, her sky, her galaxy. mel knows exactly how to use her words to make you feel loved.

“i waited all day to see you, dearest…” mel would whisper, her soft hand tracing your cheek and coming up to cup it. running the pad of her thumb across your cheek so gently. “the council can be so dull. i couldn’t take my mind off of you, truth be told. you just motivate me to keep going- you’ll always be waiting for me.”

✧.* quality time; mel doesn’t necessarily have much time to spare. being caught up with the council, her own family affairs, and being something of a socialite, mel is frequently busy. but that makes the time she does get alone with you so much more valuable. she’ll have you by her side while doing last-minute paperwork, drag out mornings so she can get just a few more minutes with you, clinging to any little moment she gets. mel also enjoys including you where she can, so she’ll take you to galas and meetings that’ll allow guests.

✧.* physical touch; mel cannot get enough of physical touch. she has the restraint of a warrior, otherwise she would be touching you somehow 24/7. she loves to loop your arm around hers, elbows linked, she loves to nuzzle into the crook of your neck or interlace your fingers. she loves kissing- probably her favorite form of physical touch. there’s very little mel loves more than your lips on hers, her lips on your temples, her lips trailing up your arm to meet your shoulder, then up your neck and to your lips. leaving a trail of glittering lipstick the whole way. she craves the proximity, the warmth, the companionship. she also loves sharing a bed with you. she doesn’t mind being the big or little spoon, as long as she gets to be close to you somehow. clinging to you or vice versa while sleeping makes mel melt.

✧.* acts of service; mel tries to help you with things around the house and run errands for you, but she’s usually the one who needs favors. that’s not to say that she won’t fold your laundry if you ask her to or help you wash your hair, but she’s usually caught up with what she has to do and what she needs help with. when it comes to acts of service, mel is usually on the receiving end.

✧.* gift giving; gods help you, mel will spoil you rotten with gifts. it’s not only because she’s incredibly wealthy and luxury goods won’t put a dent in her account, but just because she loves seeing your expression when she presents you with something she knows you’ve been looking at. she gives the best gifts and goes above and beyond. if you mentioned needing a hair dryer, she’ll get you one- as well as a bunch of different diffusers, different types of brushes or combs, and hair treatments. if you’re walking down a street and stare at something in a shop window for a little too long, mel takes a mental note. the next time you see each other, she has the item you were looking at in her hands. jewelry, knick-knacks, sweets, and new clothing are her favorite things to gift you.

“mel, you really didn’t have to.” you’d whisper, holding a pair of brand-new golden hoop earrings, in the shape of stars. “nonsense. you had your eyes on them, so you naturally had to have them.”

sevika;

✧.* words of affirmation; sevika is not good with words. she’s not good at being vulnerable. so words of affirmation are definitely something that she struggles with. she’ll comfort you, she’ll reassure you, and she’ll be a shoulder for you to cry on, but talking about her own feelings is just… difficult for sevika. regardless, she’ll try.

“look. i don’t do this… i don’t know how to.” sevika would whisper, looking… somewhere. not at you, it’s clear that she’s nervous. “i love you. i love you a lot.”

✧.* quality time; sevika loves her quality time with you. yes, she’s a busy woman, but she’ll still do her best to involve you in everything she can. running errands for silco, filling out piles of paperwork, late night games at the casino, etc. even if it’s something as simple as a smoke break outside, sevika wants you to be by her side (unless you have problems with that, then she doesn’t mind). she’ll do the same for you, of course. she wants to be involved however she can be, so even if you’re doing something as mundane as picking up a prescription, sevika wants to be there with you!

✧.* physical touch; sevika was very touch-starved before she met you. no time nor desire for relationships, the only companionship she had coming from zaun’s brothel. so now, she’ll rest your head on her shoulder, sit you on her lap, squeeze your shoulder in reassurance, have a hand on your thigh… sevika craves that contact. now that she has it, she has you, she can’t get enough of touching you one way or the other.

“hey, babe? i’ve got a shit ton of paperwork to fill out.” sevika would call out to you. it’s clear that she’s annoyed, so why is she calling on you? “come sit in my lap. make it more bearable.”

✧.* acts of service; sevika’s strongest love language. her name means ‘servant of god,’ after all. fiercely loyal to silco for years, and now fiercely loyal to you. she will do absolutely anything she can to make things easier, to make you happy. she’ll clean for you, zip up your clothes, braid your hair when you don’t feel like it, clasp necklaces, run grocery trips when you’re too tired to do it yourself, the whole nine yards. sevika likes to feel needed, so the second you mention needing to do something, she’s on it. you could say you had food that needed taking out of the oven, and she’d bolt to get it for you- despite the fact that you didn’t technically ask her to do anything.

✧.* gift-giving; i think that like vi, sevika wouldn’t be crazy about gift-giving and would prefer practical gifts. however, when she does give you gifts, they’re usually custom. handmade by herself or a professional in zaun. this way, sevika feels like it’s more personal, more intimate, unique to you. she at one point gifted you a custom leather bracelet with intricate engravings, and has also given you carefully crafted tote bags when she notices your own are getting worn down.

maddie;

✧.* words of affirmation; i feel like maddie would be pretty good at words of affirmation! she’s open about her feelings and her love for you. she likes to be a comforting presence for you, so words of affirmation come naturally to her. sometimes she goes a little overboard and can be a bit too forthcoming with her feelings, but it all comes from a place of love.

“i love you a lot, you know that?” maddie would ask, her lips pursing. “sometimes too much, i think. i’d keep you here to keep you out of harm’s way forever if i could.”

✧.* quality time; maddie just doesn’t have much time to spare, unfortunately. being an enforcer is time-consuming as is, but being a junior officer means hours of training, volunteering, and education. maddie can’t give you much of her time, but when she can, she makes it worth it! she’ll take you all around piltover and tell you what kinds of things she’s done in what spots, let you do (what you can with) her hair, and use her brand-new, shiny camera to take lots of photos with you. making those memories and saving them in photo form is important to maddie, seeing as she doesn’t get many opportunities to do this kind of thing. i think she’d be the type to keep a photo of you in her wallet for when she goes on dangerous missions.

✧.* physical touch; maddie loves physical touch! she’s very playful and lively, very spontaneous. she likes to keep you on your toes. giggling while snuggling you, tickling your sides, wrapping her arms around you from behind to purposely startle you. she’ll tease you, pepper kisses all over your face… maddie just finds you adorable and can’t help herself when it comes to physical affection.

“behind you! oh, sorry, did i scare you?” maddie would ask with a giggle. “aw, you’re just so cute. i can’t not hug you.”

✧.* acts of service; as an enforcer, the majority of maddie’s life is service already. she enjoys being able to help you! however, she needs to be asked to do things, as she doesn’t want to take the initiative and accidentally mess things up. as long as you actually verbalize what you need- little favors and help, maddie will gladly be of service to you. she just doesn’t want to overstep and doesn’t want to accidentally do something that does she opposite of helping you.

✧.* gift giving; maddie enjoys giving you gifts, but they’re all bought and rather small because of her time constraints. they are thoughtful, though, and with each gift comes a very sweet card! written in neat penmanship, both sides of the card covered in her adoration for you. maddie would likely give you things like jewelry, candles, sweets, blankets, and weather-appropriate clothing.

lest;

✧.* words of affirmation; lest is great when it comes to words of affirmation. half of her job is speaking to clients and putting their nerves to rest. so doing the same to her girlfriend comes naturally to lest. her voice is always so soothing, her tone soft and sweet. it’s a talent of lest’s, always knowing exactly what to say at exactly what moment.

“don’t forget that i love you,” she’d purr, her lips close to your ear and soft eyes slipping shut. “i miss you each day i’m away from you, only hope to be with you sooner each passing second. i treasure moments like this, where you’re right here.”

✧.* quality time; lest unfortunately doesn’t have much time to spare, but her schedule is more flexible than someone like mel’s or maddie’s. if she really wants the time off, she can take it, and sometimes she does just that. you’d be surprised to see lest home so soon, but she’d just assure you that everything at work was taken care of, her clients and coworkers would be just fine. you were more important. much of what lest enjoys doing with you is in silence and relaxing together. she enjoys being able to curl up next to you with a book, or doing her nightly self-maintenance by your side.

“stay here with me, hm? i’m almost finished reading this… you help me focus.”

✧.* physical touch; lest loves and values physical touch with you. she prefers to be gentle and soft with you as she can take her time, truly savor and enjoy her time with you. but she’ll tell you exactly what she wants. whether she wants you to hold her, whether she wants to cradle your face and kiss you, hold your hands in hers, she’s very upfront and clear. lest adores the proximity, and she very often (literally) is purring while she’s curled up with her head in your lap. it’s endearing.

✧.* acts of service; lest’s entire job is made up of acts of service. so this does translate into your relationship. she loves taking care of you more than anything. let her detangle your hair after washing it, let her give you a warm bath, let her lay you on your lap and whisper sweet nothings to you as you’re pulled into sleep. let her adorn you with her own jewelry and paint your nails. lest enjoys being able to help you relax and unwind, especially after particularly taxing days. knowing that she can have that effect on you makes lest feel both needed, and significant.

✧.* gift giving; lest is very good at giving gifts. she knows some of the finest craftsmen in piltover, and she’s always able to give you something completely unique to you. most of the time it’s some kind of incense, fragrance, or jewelry, as is fitting for lest. scarves made by the same people who crafted hers, and earrings by some of the most experienced metal smiths. but she also is the type of person to buy everything you touch at the store simply because she saw that you were interested in it. that is if you let her, of course.

#arcane x reader #jinx x reader #mel medarda x reader #vi x reader #sevika x reader #maddie nolen x reader #lest x reader #reader insert #arcane x you #sapphic

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moonstruckme · 10 days ago

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Hi lovie a lil request: the first time Steve May be raises his voice or gets upset with reader? And just like angst with fluff

Thank you for your request (and for your patience)!

cw: near-miss car accident, it's lightly implied that reader has trauma (or maybe she's just jumpy and easily upset! who's to say)

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 748 words

“You can’t tell me you don’t know who this is.”

“I don’t!” Steve swears. “I’ve heard the song, I just don’t know who sings it.”

You shake your head, grinning. You’ve got one leg hiked up on the driver’s seat and Steve’s hand trapped beneath the other, his fingers spread on the fleshy underside of your thigh.

“This is Hall and Oates!”

When Steve doesn’t react however you think he should, you glance over. He raises his eyebrows. “Should I know who that is?”

You laugh. “Yes!” you insist. “How can you not know who they are?”

“Sounds more like a cereal than a band,” he says. “I don’t know what to tell you. I listen to songs on the radio, but I just don’t keep track of the names. I like this song, though.”

You smile at him sideways. “I feel like you could be a secret Hall and Oates fan.”

Steve gives your leg a squeeze. “It’d have to be a secret from me, too,” he says, “but I guess—hey, hey!” His voice rises sharply as he looks out his window. “Y/N!”

You jolt, swerving out of the lane you’d been changing into as the car in your blind spot honks. You set your other leg down, hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“Shit.” Steve lets out a breath. He realizes his grip on your leg has turned cruel in his panic, and he lets go. “Sorry. That was…shit, that was close.”

You make a small sound of agreement.

Steve breathes out again. He combs a hand through his hair, heart still going a mile a minute but starting to come down. “Y’okay?”

You don’t say anything. Steve looks over, hand finding your thigh again automatically. Your body is stiff in your seat, and your eyes are bright.

“Hey,” he says, surprised. Dread starts to take form in his gut. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s…it’s fine, why don’t we pull over? Pull over, baby.”

You do, biting your lip to keep your tears from spilling. It makes Steve’s chest ache. He’s seen you like this before, when there’s fighting or sharp voices or once when Robin opened a cabinet and three metal pots clattered out onto the floor, but never with him, never because of him.

“It’s okay,” he says again, once the car is in park. He tries to sound believable, making his voice soft and gentle. “Can I…do you want a hug?”

You nod. Steve reaches for you, then stops, his hands hovering by your waist. “You sure?” he checks.

“Yeah,” you rasp, and he goes all the way.

He knows you’ve cut yourself loose when you press your face to his shoulder and he feels a tiny wet spot seep into his shirt. Steve hugs you tight, leaning over the center console until it digs into his side painfully.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“No.” You draw in a wet breath. “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

“I know, but I shouldn’t have yelled. I was just—I just got scared.”

“I know,” you say back. You hold onto him. “I’m glad you yelled. It got my attention.”

Steve frowns, retreating enough to see your face. He brushes away a couple of tears, and your eyes go to the side like you’re embarrassed.

“I don’t ever want to scare you,” he says, earnestly.

You shake your head. “You don’t.”

He lowers his voice again. It’s nearly a whisper. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“Don’t,” you insist. “I’m fine.”

Steve watches you carefully. “Yeah? You’re okay?” he asks. You nod, and he relaxes. “Okay. C’mere.”

You meet him across the console without reservation, returning his gentle kisses with your own. He does his best to soothe the bullied flesh of your bitten lip.

“Y’okay?” he asks again, just to be sure. You make a soft sound of confirmation. “You want me to drive the rest of the way?”

You pull back to look at him. A little bit of humor is back in your eyes. “Would that make you feel better?”

Steve grins, sheepish. “A little bit. Only because you’re upset.”

“Yeah,” you sigh heavily, and it’s a jokey thing, but the rest of the tension goes out of you with it. “That’s fine, we can switch.”

“Thanks.” Steve gives you another kiss, lingering for a moment before unbuckling his seatbelt. “It’ll be easier this way. You can tell me more about honey bunches of oats.”

“You know that’s not what they’re called.”

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st4rpiece · 3 months ago

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nipple piercings pt. 1

NSFW

characters: luffy, zoro, and sanji x fem! reader summary: the monster trios reaction to your new nipple piercings content warnings: established relationships, nipple sucking, breast play others: lowercase intended, not proofread, pictures from pinterest

_____

Monkey D. Luffy

you had recently gotten them done, so while they healed, you wore thin clothing instantly drawing luffy's attention. he was immediately fascinated by your new piercings.

he'd probably poke at them with a childlike curiosity, his eyes wide with wonder. "wow, these are so cool! do they hurt?" he'd ask, genuinely intrigued. surprisingly, as you explain the sensation and the reason behind getting them, luffy would listen intently, absorbing every word.

as the days went by, luffy would occasionally bring up the piercings in conversations, always with the same level of excitement. "babe, show me those cool piercings again," he'd say, his eyes sparkling with interest. he'd honestly never get tired of seeing them.

your first time fucking after getting them ignited a side of luffy you rarely saw in bed. luffy was extra careful and attentive as his hands trailed up your body before resting on your breast. his calloused hands cupping them as his thumb softly ran across the piercing, tracing its outline.

"does it feel good?" you nod, back arching, pushing your breast further into his hands. without warning he'd roughly flick the piercings, soaking in your reaction with a mischievous grin.

"i wonder how they taste," he'd say before leaning in to give them a teasing lick, his warm breath sending shivers down their spine. the saltiness of your skin mixed with the metallic taste of the metal bar tasted so good. he licked, sucked, and bit, giving your nipple the attention they deserved.

Roronoa Zoro

zoro would have a more intense reaction to your new piercings. you quickly ran to go show him the minute you and nami returned back to the sunny. you found him resting against the headboard of your shared bed.

his eye opened the second you entered the room, waiting for a kiss (something you always do after returning to him) instead you just stood there at the foot of the bed with a mischievous grin.

"what?" he'd asked, instead of answering you lifted up your shirt and showed off your new piercings.

he would stare intently at your bare tits and the contrasting silver bar with a playful smirk on his lips. "didn't think you had it in you," he'd tease, his voice a deep rumble laced with arousal.

"come here, i want to get a better look," the second you are close, he would pull you over his lap in a straddling position. while his hands rested on your hip, his eyes never left your breast. he wanted nothing more than to take them into his mouth and hear how you sounded to a new sensation. but first, he had to make sure you were okay. be began throwing questions at you.

did it hurt?

how much did they cost?

and lastly, how sensitive are you right now?

once he knows that you are okay, his grip on your waist will tighten, pulling your body closer.

without reserve, his lips would pepper you with kisses trailing from your neck down to the piercings, giving them a gentle tug with his teeth. causing you to grip his hair releasing a moan from the sensation, one he hadn't heard before.

"mmh, i like that," he'd grunt against their skin, his breath hot and tantalizing. "these suit you well, baby." his voice husky as he lifted his eyes wanting to watch your reactions closely as his fingers tugged and pulled on one while his mouth bit and sucked on the other. his eyes darken with lust as he takes in the pleasure written on their face.

Vinsmoke Sanji

before parting ways with nami you tell her to send a message to sanji about you needing him in your room. you sat on the bed, nervous and excited ready to show sanji how you spent your evening.

sanji, ever the romantic, would be utterly captivated by your new piercings. "holy shit baby," his eyes would widen in surprise and admiration, a very noticeable blush spreading across his face. "how did you manage to make yourself even hotter," he'd say, his voice filled with genuine awe.

"may i?" you nodded, even though you were still pretty sore, you craved his touch. he'd gently cup you breasts, his fingers brushing over the piercings with a feather-light touch. loving the contrast between your soft warm skin against the cool metal bar.

his touch would become more confident, his fingers teasing the piercings with a mix of tenderness and desire. causing you to let out a kitten-like moan. which further turns him on, "i want to make you feel incredible," he'd whisper, his breath warm against your skin.

his lips would follow the path of his fingers, kissing and licking around the piercings, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. "look at how swollen these bud are," he says, pinching your nipples harder.

"sanji," you managed to moan out.

"hold on my love, i'm just getting started," with lips still attached to your breast, his hands toy with the band of your shorts, dipping inside skimpy underwear.

_____

I just wanted to thank everyone for reading and liking my work >.<. it means a lot!!

I'm working on part 2 atm still, I hope you guys enjoyed this one!!

in the meantime, feel free to check out my kid one shot >.<!

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kissenturine · 6 months ago

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boothill,, gunplay. thats the thought,, if ur comfortable writing that ofc ofc

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 boothill x m!reader — 1.4k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: gun play, slight chocking, boothill puts his gun in reader's mouth, boothill kind of bends reader over, boothill also makes reader jerk off, uh boothill kinda mean-ish, he pretends to shoot reader, aftercare is not written but it is given! lmk if i missed anyy :3

KAI SAYS: hello guys,, shorter than usual bc ive landed myself in the er due to multiple reasons haha (chronic hives, low blood pressure, fainting spells, dehydration, etc) and i miiight not be able to post until like next weekend maybe (?) so so soso sorry for the inconvenience aaargh, writing this in the hospital too... not dying tho everything super minor so!!

The first time you ever saw Boothill pull a gun was at a training centre. He said something about wanting to work on his aim, and so he decided to head there, late at night. No one else was there—just the two of you.

Boothill pulls out his gun, flicking a few bullets into the spinning revolver with practiced ease before he pulls the trigger. A loud ‘bang’ fills the room, followed by the sound of his metal bullets clinking to the floor after the shot.

“Well color me stoked.” Boothill grins, showing off his sharp teeth. “Seems I ain’t that bad after all!”

“Well, you were always good with guns, anyway.” You respond, returning Boothill’s grin with a smile of your own. He was indeed good with guns, and it was undoubtedly attractive.

Boothill’s hands spin the revolver, watching the metal clink. It was much too fast for you to see, so you didn’t know which one ended up landing. Boothill is quick to draw his gun again, smirking as he pointed it at you—straight into your chest.

“Boothill?” You question. “What are you—”

You are cut off by the loud sound of his gun shooting. Your eyes shut and you winced instinctively, your body tensing up for the bullet that was about to hit your skin.

…Yet it never happened.

Cracking one eye open, you peer at Boothill cautiously, only to find him gripping his metal abs, a roaring laugh rolling from his lips. “Oh, darlin’ you know I’d never shoot ya!” He laughs again, though this time it was softer. “C’mon, love, I’d never hurt ya.” He murmurs sweetly as he makes his way closer to you, his gun still in hand.

He presses the muzzle playfully against your chest, trailing it up and down your abdomen. Boothill’s smirk only widened as he slipped his gun—along with the hand holding it—under your shirt. He presses the muzzle right against your nipple, watching you shiver at the cool metal.

“Boothill.” You whisper firmly. “What’re you doing?”

He says nothing, only continuing to drag his gun against your skin, sending shivers of delight across your body.

Eventually, his gun finds its way to the hem of your pants. Boothill gives you a wicked smile before he uses his free hand to yank down your pants and boxers, exposing your half-hard cock. “Well, ain’t that a pretty sight.” He cooes, letting the muzzle of his gun rest against your tip.

“Jerk it for me, pretty boy.” Boothill says. You blink up at him, confusion filling your face.

“Huh…?” You question.

“I said.” Boothill groans, pressing the muzzle of his gun harder into your tip. “Jerk it for me, or else I’m gonna be shootin’ this pretty lil’ dick o’ yours.” Boothill wouldn’t really. You knew that. He said it himself. And yet… the fear that he would is still there, forcing small tears to well in your pretty eyes as you looked up at him desperately.

“O-Okay.” You comply, wrapping your hand around your shaft as you slowly start to glide your closed fist up and down.

“Good boy.” Boothill praises, and his voice makes your dick twitch against his gun.

You move your hand, squeezing as you get to your tip and rolling your thumb to spread your precum. You throw your head back, moaning loudly as Boothill rocked the muzzle of his gun in time with your hand.

“Look at ya.” He groans, his free hand going to squeeze at your throat. “Gettin’ off to my gun pointed at ya.” Boothill smirks, rolling the revolver again until the familiar ‘click’ sound resounds around the room. “Pretty thing, d’ya even know what this could do to you? Or are you too dumbed down already?”

“Stop teasin’” You whine, your hand's pace slowing as you turn your gaze away from Boothill’s. “Not that dumb yet…”

“Yet.” He repeats, removing his gun from your dick. “Think I can change that real quick, no?” A sharp laugh escapes Boothill’s lips as he suddenly hoists you up and off the barstool you sat on. He spins your body with only a smidge of grace as he lands you roughly on your stomach against the table, your ass now facing Boothill.

“Aeons, you’re so pretty…” He murmurs, his hands roughly groping the fat of your ass. “Can’t believe yer all mine…”

A whine slips from your lips, high and pathetic as your eyes flutter closed. “Yeah…” You whisper. “All yours…” You feel Boothill drag the muzzle along your back—sliding it under your shirt, before he pulls his arm up, tearing through the thin fabric. You shiver at the newfound cold, goosebumps prickling your exposed skin.

You hear the zipper of his pants as he pulls it down, pulling out his cock and tapping it against your clothed ass before he’s yanking down your shorts. Boothill traces a metal finger around your puckered rim, eyeing you carefully. “Such a cute ‘lil hole…” He whispers out breathlessly. “Can’t wait to fuckin’ destroy it.”

The instant Boothill stops speaking, you feel the tip of his metal cock push past your hole, stretching you out more than you could ever imagine—despite doing this with him before. “Boothill.” You moan out, eyes fluttering as you crane your neck to look at him—only to have your face pushed right back into the table by the shove of his gun against the back of your head,

“Stay still f’me, pretty.” Boothill groans, easing his cock into you. The more he pushes in, the more painful the stretch is… And yet, the more painful it is, the more pleasure your body seems to derive from it. Boothill is only halfway in when you feel like you’ve been stuffed to your limit. A pathetic sound escapes you and you feel his gun press down harder.

Boothill removes his gun from you, using it to force your head to the side. He leans down, spitting a thick glob of spit all over the muzzle, smirking as it gets his gun all messy. “Open.” He taps it against your lips, making sure to smear his spit all over. Boothill’s smirk only widens when you follow, opening your mouth and letting his muzzle sit between your pretty lips. “Atta boy.” He whispers, thrusting with full force his cock into your awaiting hole.

“Boothill…!” You moan out, though it’s muffled by his gun pressing against the flat of your tongue. Your thighs tense at the sudden pleasure. A gurgly whine leaves your throat. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Boothill growls, pressing his gun deeper into your throat. His thumb goes to spin the revolver, making sure it lands on a slot with a bullet before continuing, “and you will. Ya know why, cutie? ‘Cause you're my good boy, and good boys take what they’re given.”

He sets a brutal pace after, thrusting into you relentlessly. It doesn’t matter how you plead, all Boothill does is press his gun further down your throat—until you’re sure your lips will bleed from the stretch. Eventually, his tip knocks against your prostate, sending you over the edge. Your dick squirts a load, all over the table and floor, yet Boothill doesn’t falter.

“Look at you, cummin’ like a slut.” He groans, and his pace seems to increase. He’s suddenly going harder, faster, everything that makes your head spin with the added overstimulation.

You cry against the gun, tears welling in the corner of your eyes. Boothill seems to enjoy the sight, leaning down to kiss softly against the back of your neck, his free hand wrapping around your waist and fisting your spent cock.

“That’s it…” He coos. “You think ya can give me one more?” His hand increases, matching the rhythm of his thrusts as he knocks into your prostate again and again and again. “C-C’mon, need t’do it together.” You nod your head eagerly, drool slipping from between the corner of your lips and his gun.

Boothill thrusts harshly, finally sending you over the edge for the second time, and you feel his metal dick twitch in time with you. Your eyes roll back, ecstasy overwhelming you as Boothill pumps a thick, sticky load into your ass, painting your walls white.

“You’re so good f’me…” He coos into your ear, sliding his gun slowly out of your mouth. With a familiar click, the resounding sound of a gunshot echoes throughout the room as he shoots his last bullet into the table��right by your head. “You’re always so good an’ pretty with my gun…”

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @helloanime @kiekole (send ask without anon to be added)

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bucks-babe · 1 year ago

Text

More Virgin Bucky

Pairing: Virgin!Bucky

Summary: Bucky jerks off to the memory of your movie night

Word Count: ~900

Warnings: male masturbation, mention of past blowjob, Bucky is a horny boy, reader is not in this one but he thinks about them

A/N: The part two that a lot of yall wanted. Am I a tease? Yes. Bucky does not lose his v-card in this one. BUT I will write a part three I promise. I want to corrupt this man so bad. Also, I wrote this in like an hour sooo. Part of the Virgin!Bucky series but can be read alone

One week. Actually eight days and five hours, but Bucky is the only one counting. That’s how long it's been since you sucked the sense out of your boyfriend. It has taken every ounce of control Bucky has to not ask you to do it again. It’s all he thinks about ever since that night.

He would be embarrassed if you knew, but in all fairness, you did this to him. You effectively made him malfunction. Bucky has been fucking his fist practally every night, replaying the best moment of his life. How your mouth wrapped around him perfectly, the slight gagging sounds, and don’t even get him started on how you looked up at him.

And when you told him to cum in your mouth? Fuck! His cock pulses at the memory. Bucky is a greedy man - he wants more. He wants you to suck his cock again, maybe you’ll suck on his ball this time, get them all wet and slobbery, make him cum without even touching his cock.

For the past few days of his incessant horniness, he’s been thinking about something else, too. It always starts out with you, his throbbing cock in your mouth, but there is a shift, you on the bed with his head between your legs. He never gets very far into this fantasy before he cums all over his hand and chest. Something about eating you out has him cumming in seconds.

But Bucky can’t bring himself to ask for what he wants. He’s too embarrassed; no one in the 40’s ever talked about eating their girl’s pussy. He wasn’t completely ignorant to the fact that women’s pleasure wasn’t important to men back then, but Bucky didn’t know if what he wanted was normal, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.

As he lies in bed, once again Bucky feels his cock harden in his pants. Luckily for his pride, he’s alone in bed, and nothing is stopping his flesh hand from inching toward his crotch. His balls are so heavy and full even though he jerked himself off twice the night before, cumming so much he had to change the sheets.

Grabbing his erection, Bucky hissed in pleasure. No matter how many times he’s touched himself this past week, he is still a sensitive baby when it comes to his cock. “Fuck, doll, touch my cock, just like that.” Bucky lets his mind wander to his go to fantasy. He imagines you between his legs, that the hand rubbing his dick is your soft palms and not his callused one.

His hips jerk off the bed, chasing friction of his hand through his boxers. “Go ahead, doll, take it out.” When you aren’t there, Bucky is in charge, making himself feel good, directing you in his fantasy. But can’t help himself but let you take charge when he’s with you. He just gets so nervous, not wanting to let you down and never experiencing pleasure so intense.

He’s trying to take this slow, drawing his pleasure out, but, hell, you make him so damn horny that he just can’t help but push his boxers down to his thighs, past his heavy balls, and ignores the wet spot on his underwear from his weeping head.

Using his precum, Bucky wraps his hand around his head and slowly pulls his hand down to his base. “Oh, God! Just like that!” He has to squeeze his base to stop himself from cumming at the first stroke of this hand.

Scrambling, he pushes his boxers down to his ankles and spreads his legs, “doll, touch my balls, get them nice and wet.” His metal hand cups his ever growing sack, “shit, yeah that feels fucking great! You feel how heavy they are? All that cum is going down your throat tonight. You hear me, doll?”

With his metal hand still on his balls, he uses his flesh hand on his cock, imagining your lips instead, you slobbering over his cock, not his precum lubing it. “So good with your mouth, you know that? You’re such a fucking slut.” His thumb traces over the thick vein right under the head of this cock and has Bucky calling you a slut, something he didn’t even know he’d be into, but once that image was in his head he had to take his hand off his cock; he didn’t want to cum just yet. Not when he just started.

Taking deep breaths, Bucky tries to calm himself down, but imaginary you climbs up his body and Bucky knows this is the end. “Sit on my face, doll, and let me eat your pussy.” He closes his eyes for this part, because Bucky has never seen your pussy before, he wonders if you are sporting a bush like the women in his old porn mags did, or if you shave, or wax, Bucky doesn’t give a shit.

He’s never tasted a cunt before, and has nothing to base it on, but the thought of your entire weight on his face, smothering him with your pussy, makes the most pornographic moan leave his mouth and cum shoots out of his tip without him touching it.

He cums for what feels like minutes before he finally stops and he lays back against his pillow, not having the energy to clean himself off before he falls asleep. He needs to taste your pussy and soon.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky smut #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #sebastian stan x reader

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honey-on-your-tongue · 4 months ago

Note

Sfw and nsfw alphabet headcanon for Logan!! PLEASEE

-🌸🌸🌸

I live laugh LOVE this idea omggg

Sfw

A for aware. Logan is always, always, always aware of you, no matter where you are or who you're around, he's making sure you're comfortable and safe and that you know he's there for you if you need anything. And the moment he senses any discomfort from you, he'll get you out and to a safe space <3

B is for baby. The first time he calls you baby, you two are just chilling in the mansion and you playfully ask to see his claws. They amaze you, intrigue you, and you want the opportunity to see them up close for once without him swinging them through someone's neck. He sighs but smils and draws his claws. You grin, fingers tracing the metal. “Careful, you'll cut yourself, baby,” he says. Your eyes snap up to him and a slight blush covers his cheeks. You didn't say anything about the nickname, just kissed his cheek, and he's called you baby since.

C is for cuddles. He may seem like the big, bad wolf, but really? He's super soft when it comes to cuddling with you. He loves to lay down on the couch or the bed, watching TV or just chatting or hanging out, and he always has you close, his legs tangled with yours, his fingers tracing your soft skin be it on your shoulder or your stomach or your thigh, wherever he can touch.

D is for detailed. Logan keeps up the facade that he doesn't care about anything and that he doesn't pay attention, but he's actually hyper-focused. You have a favorite type of flower that you mentioned once? He'll bring them to you again and again for date night. You're bothered by a specific situation or person? He'll make sure to keep you away if he can. And if not, he'll be there for you to hold your hand and reassure you.

E is for embarrassed. Logan is sometimes a little shy about how whipped he is about you. Like, really. He feels like a puppy around you, always keeping his eyes on you, always needing to feel you close. And yes, he's aware he's sometimes got separation anxiety. Especially when you're apart for too long, like when he's gotta go on missions you're not included in :((( but when he comes back, he'll stick to you for hours and refuse to let you go.

F is for fights. He hates fighting with you, hates whenever you're upset at him. He knows it's healthy to disagree, but it frustrates him so much because he's just constantly afraid that you'll get enough of him and leave him. But then after fights, when you two apologize and make up, he'll hold you close and pray to God or whoever is up there and listening that they never take you out of his life.

G is for greedy. So so so greedy. He wants you always, all the time, in too many ways. He can't let go of you, won't ever get over you. He adores you and he can never ever get enough. He wants everything you can offer and more, and sometimes he worries he demands too much. But when you're with him, so willing to love him, he knows it'll be okay.

H is for handsy. Logan's super super super handsy. Whenever, wherever, he's touching you. His hand on your lower back, your hand in his, his arm around your waist. If you're sitting somewhere, he has a hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder. He's always feeling you next to him because it makes him feel safe.

I is for immature. Not in a bad way, really. Just sometimes he can be very immature. When you get busy, when you don't pay enough attention to him, he'll get pouty and upset, maybe even only grumble every now and then when you try to talk to him. Once you realize what's going on, however, all it takes are a few kisses and hugs and he'll melt in your hands, forgetting any slight.

J is for jealous. C'mon, Logan is crazy jealous, especially because of your age gap. He's worried that maybe those younger guys might someday seem more attractive to you than he is, and that scares him. And when he sees some twenty-something kid eyeing you, he gets pissed. He'll grab you closer, glare at whatever boy is watching you, and then he'll kiss you, maybe groping you a little for good measure. He ensures his message is clear: you're his.

K is for knuckle kisses. He'd never admit it to you, but he loves when you grab his hand and kiss his knuckles, right where his claws come out. There's something about the gesture, so soft and sweet, that makes his heart race and butterflies fill his stomach. He just loves when you show little hints of affection, it kills him in the best way.

L is for the L-word. He's so scared that you won't feel the same way, that when he realizes he loves you, he doesn't say it for almost months. He's terrified of scaring you off. If he lost you, he'd be done for. But one day, it slips out of him and when he sees the way your eyes light up and you smile, he knows you feel it too. And you tell him you love him more than he tells you, but that's just because he doesn't say it. He shows it. At first, he'd say it and nuzzle against your neck as he spoke the words. Now, he nuzzles into your neck and kisses your jaw and says, “You know I do, right?” And of course you know he loves you. He makes it so clear and he's not ashamed to.

M is for mornings. The first morning you wake up in his bed, he's mesmerized. You look so beautiful asleep there, tranquil, happy. So vulnerable, like someone he has to protect from this cold, fucked up world. He will never let anyone hurt you, he'll never leave you alone or in danger. He'll always be there for you, every morning for the rest of your life, if you'll let him.

N is for nights. Nights with Logan are the best. Especially if it's a weekend and neither of you has any work to do. You'll relax while he puts on a movie and makes popcorn, and you'll cuddle while you watch TV. Then, he'll let you put a face mask on, even if it's pink and shiny, because he knows you enjoy it and he also likes doing these things with you. He'll let you give him massages and do a skin routine. And he'll draw a bath and carefully wash you, his fingertips grazing over your skin with reverence. And then you'll go to bed to sleep, (among other things) and he'll hold you close all night long.

O is for ordinary. Logan knows he's a mutant and he's one of the X-men.. There'll never be anything ordinary for him. Never. But when he's with you on a tranquil morning and you two are lazying around or he cooks for you and you walk up and hug him, he thinks that maybe someday, you two could have a simple, domestic life. You and him, a picket fence, maybe kids if you want. He feels like maybe he deserves that kind of ordinary life, and he knows he wants it with you. Only you.

P is for period. When you're on your period, Logan is the sweetest, most caring man ever. He'll buy you whatever you're craving. He'll let you stay in bed, wearing his shirt and a pair of his boxers. He'll bring you pills if you need them and warming pads. He'll spend all day with you, babying you, making sure you don't lift a single finger. Not when he's around.

Q is for quandary. Logan isn't a big love man. He isn't used to relationships and he isn't sure about how to manage one. Especially when he's with you because you're so sweet, you're so young. He'd hate to break your heart or hurt you in any way, and he's terrified whenever he realizes how serious things are getting with you. He'll have a few panic attacks when he overthinks it. And one day, when he finally admits to you that he's not sure how to love, you smile softly and tell him, “Me either. I kind of just go with it.” And there. Right there, he knows you're the one.

R is for ring. Yes, ring. It's hidden in his closet, in a corner far away where you'll never find it. He never thought he'd be the type to marry and settle down, but the idea constantly haunts him every time he sees you. And now he knows, you're the one for him. All he's struggling to do is figure out how to propose. Should it be all fancy and well planned? Or spontaneous, when all the love he feels for you just gets the best of him? He's still not sure, but he knows he doesn't want to let a single month pass without asking if he can be your husband.

S is for safe. He's always alert, always on edge. But around you, his guard is down. For once, he's living in the moment, just enjoying the time he's spending with you, not worrying about whatever may be going out in the world. You're his safe space and he adores it. Whenever he comes home from a mission, stressed and on edge and upset, he'll just get back to the mansion, go into your room and lay in your arms. He'll let you hold him, make everything that happened go away until he's at peace. Until it seems like the world isn't gonna end the next day. Until your love consumes him.

T is for true. True because he knows how you feel about him is real. There are so many people that want something from him. But not you. No. You accept all of him. His mistakes, his flaws, his strengths, all of it. You just accept him. And what's more, you love him for it. And he knows how you feel is real. He knows you only want him. And it's the kind of love he's been looking for his entire life, the kind he can't ever live without, the kind he'll never let go.

U is for unwavering. Logan's love for you is unwavering. There is nothing, nothing you could do to make him stop loving you. For starters, he's a very bad man, much worse than you could ever be. The things he's done...And yet you love him. Compared to him, you're a saint. And it's so easy to love you. So easy. He sometimes feels it's unfair to you because it must be more difficult to love him. Still, he's extremely grateful for you and he knows nothing and no one will ever make him stop loving you.

V is for vulnerable. Logan's walls are made of steel. He never, ever opens up to anyone. He hides his emotions, expresses everything only through anger. But you make him vulnerable. You can read him like a book, there's no point in hiding anything from you, so he's found out it's easier to just open up to you. And he's surprised to feel...relieved. When he talks to you, his shoulders feel lighter. He's not as angry, not as mean. You make him a better person, and he loves you a lot for it.

W is for worship. The way Logan treats you is damn near to worship. He takes care of you like you're a goddess, a divine being he's not worthy of. But he tries his best. He cooks for you, he pays for everything if you let him. He'll take you out on dates, put his jacket on your shoulders, carry you if you two have gone dancing and your feet hurt. He sees you as a deity and he loves you. He worships you and he will continue for the rest of his days if you allow him to.

X marks the treasure. He's not sure what he did to deserve you, what superior power decided to put him in your path. He's even more amazed you're into him too. You're his treasure. He feels like he's been wandering around aimlessly until he ran into you. Until he found you, his treasure, his love. You're all he's ever needed.

Y is for you. You perfect, sweet, smart, young thing. You're gorgeous. You're funny. You're everything any guy would ever want. And you chose him? Him, out of all people? He can't believe it. He's not sure he ever will, but he's always grateful. You are his world. You are his everything. His motivation and his patience and his safe space. You're his life, his universe. Without you, there is nothing.

Z is for zeroed. Ever since he met you and you two started dating, Logan's entire perspective has shifted. Now, everything he does and thinks is zeroed in on you. You and your needs and how to make you happy. You're what gets him through every mission, what gets him out of bed in the morning. He feels like you give his life meaning. And that's not something he's ever gonna lose.

Nsfw

A is for addict. Because that's how Logan feels about you. Whenever he fucks you, when your pretty pussy is wet and clenched around his cock, he knows he'll never get enough. He knows only you'll make him feel this way and that he's going to start fucking you more often if he doesn't wanna lose his goddamned mind.

B is for breasts because Logan loves yours. He knows sometimes you feel insecure because they're not like this or they're like that, but he's never seen a prettier pair of tits on anyone. Yours are perfect. He can suck on them, bite them, nuzzle into them all day and still want more. And when he comes on them? Fuck. That's heaven right there for him.

C is for cockwarming. I imagine it would go like this. Really, Logan loves feeling your cunt around his cock. He loves seeing you squirm as you ache for the pleasure only he can give you. It sends his ego through the roof. Plus, he's just a man, how is he gonna resist you looking so beautiful and desperate on his cock?

D is for dacryphilia. One of his favorite things to do is fuck you for hours, slow and deep, making you come over and over and over again until you're crying from the ecstasy. He loves seeing you so weak, so vulnerable for him, so unashamed to show him how good he makes you feel. There's nothing better for him than when he sees those tears of ecstasy in the corners of your eyes and he knows he's doing a good job.

E is for endurance. Logan's healing ability also means that his body doesn't wear out as quick. So he can go for hours, literally fuck you an entire night without breaking so much as a sweat. You may be weak, panting, almost sobbing with pleasure, but he'll keep going until you tell him to stop. He'll fuck you dumb just because he can.

F is for “Fuck!”. That deep, low rumble that leaves his lips when he comes. Or the way he says it in your ear as he slides his cock into you. And when he sees you wearing some skimpy outfit, he'll murmur it under his breath. It's his go-to word, really, whenever you do or say or make him feel something that blows his mind.

G is for g-spot. Logan considers you to be a very knowledgeable woman in regards to your sexual pleasure. That's why he's surprised when, one day as he's fingering you and he curls his fingers against that spongy spot, your body convulses and you gasp, asking him what he did. So now, he redoubles his efforts when he fucks you, making sure his cock rubs your g-spot just how you like it, and he enjoys teaching you about the pleasures of that particular spot. But also, G is for guilt. You gorgeous, perfect, young thing. What are you doing with him? He's fucked up. Broken. A whole fucking mess. And you still love him. He feels guilty about it, as if he's stealing your life away. But when you look at him with those precious eyes and he sees the love in them, he knows he must be doing something right to deserve an angel like you.

H is for hickeys. Hickeys everywhere. If you've been with Logan, everyone's gonna know. He leaves hickeys where others can't see—the swell of your ass, your inner thighs, the underside of your tits and between them—but he also leaves them where everyone can see. Your shoulders, your neck, your collarbone. And you wear them with so much pride, it drives him insane. And knowing you have his marks under your clothes? Yeah, he loves leaving hickeys on your perfect body, just a little reminder that you're his.

I is for insatiable. No matter how much he gets, he always wants more. If you two have a couple of free days, it's guaranteed he'll fuck you senseless the entire time. His stamina is impressive, his dedication to your pleasure otherworldly. He can never get enough of you, and he takes more and more each time, always pushing you to your limits and then some.

J is for jealous. So right after he's established that you're his, he'll drag you to the nearest private corner and fuck you. He fucks you hard, rough, deep, making you come as many times as you can until you're weak and sweating and whimpering. He wants you to feel how much he loves you, how much he appreciates you, and he's hoping you'll never ever leave him.

K is for kink exploration. Logan will never, ever shame you for whatever you like. In fact, be quite enjoys learning what you like and, in turn, teaching you, as well as finding out what else you two enjoy. Not only does he feel more connected to you that way, but seeing the look in your eyes when he's doing exactly what you like the way you like it? Jesus, he lives for that.

L is for lingerie. Pretty lacy lingerie, usually tiny skirts and half-cup bras with little bows. He loves seeing you in them, he loves fucking you in them even more. The way you look in them has his mind reeling, and he also adores tearing them off you when you take too long to take them off. He adores it. So much so, that he can spend hundreds of bucks on lingerie he knows he's only gonna tear into pieces a few hours after they're bought.

M is for masturbation. Be it mutual or when you're not around, he likes to fist his cock in his hand and jerk himself while he imagines you or watches you. It's not the same as being in you, and it's not the same as you touching him, but it's better than nothing. What he likes most, though, is watching you touch yourself, his eyes fixated on your pussy as your fingers work eagerly to bring you to your orgasm. More often than not, he can't help but do it for you himself.

N is for naughty. You can be a naughty little thing sometimes, especially when you're trying to rile him up. He'll let you misbehave a little, like wearing those pretty skirts he likes on you or leave him Polaroids of you naked under his pillows. But he keeps count. When you strike out, he'll punish you. Rough, deep, hard, edging kind of punishment as he fucks you, taking out every little ounce of anger or frustration or jealousy you've made him feel. It'll keep you nice for a while, but Logan knows you'll act up again. And when you do, he'll be ready.

O is for oral. Now, yes, Logan loves when you suck him off. He loves seeing you on your knees, his cock all the way down your throat, the way you gag as you fit him. But he loves eating you out more. He can—and has—spent hours between your thighs, licking your cunt, enjoying your taste and your scent. He loves how you grind against his mouth, how you tangle your fingers in his hair and lead him to where you want him. He likes giving you that little ounce of control while he worships you like the goddess you are.

P is for pregnancy. The idea of you pregnant with his baby...Fuuuck. He imagines you nice and round, breasts heavy, his little child kicking in you. So he'll fuck you again and again, wanting so bad to fill you up and give you a baby. But P is for pullout also. Which he also enjoys, especially when he spills his load all over your stomach, or your lower back, and he gets to see the mess he's made. But one day, be promises himself, he'll give you one of his babies.

Q is for quarrel. Logan is in a constant state of war with himself. He loves taking control, loves how you submit with so much ease. But sometimes, he just wants to give in to you, let him do whatever you want. The thought haunts him at night and he's constantly considering asking you to take control for once, to let you do as you want with his body...

R is for raw. He's a very careful man, and you a very careful woman. But after being together for a few months, going raw is the obvious option. And once you do, Logan will never turn back. Your bare, soft, wet, tight pussy around his cock is a vice. Nothing with no one has ever felt as amazing as fucking you raw, and he needs it daily now. He has has has to feel your gummy walls on his cock if he wants to function properly, otherwise you'll all he'll ever think about and he doesn't want anyone reading his mind when they realize how distracted he is, especially since you're naked in there all the time.

S is for spit. Logan is a dirty, dirty man when it comes to sex. And there's not much he likes more than seeing you coated in his saliva. He likes to lick you all over, a thin trail of spit decorating your skin. He loves to spit on your tits, in your mouth, on your pussy and your ass. God, it makes him crazy. It's a small way of marking you, but it means the world to him.

T is for thigh fucking. Logan is a thigh man through and through. He'll finger you and make you come as many times as you need until your slick is all over your inner thighs, and then he'll stand behind you, slipping his cock between your soft thighs. And it's the only time during sex when he whimpers for you, his hands digging into your hips as he thrusts his hips, his long, thick cock rubbing your clit in the perfect way for him to pull more orgasms out of you.

U is for uninhibited. When he fucks you, Logan's mind is completely focused on you and the feeling of you. He doesn't even realize it when it happens, but he'll start murmuring, “Pretty pussy. So tight, so wet. So ready for my come.” Or, “Perfect tits. Perfect. Can't wait to knock you up, see them swollen with milk, maybe try some...” It's like he can't hold back his thoughts and they just leave his mouth without his permission. “Gorgeous. Fuckin' gorgeous, always so good to me. This cunt is so good to me, I'm gonna make her feel so good.”

V is for videos. His phone is full of videos of you, either of you touching yourself or spread out while he fucks you or your pussy wet and raw with his fingers pumping in and out of you. He'll watch those videos again and again, especially when you two are apart because of missions, and it's the only thing that keeps him going. He'll jerk off to the videos of you, groaning, gasping. He can almost feel your warm cunt around him, your wet walls tightening around him. He never lasts long when he watches your videos. And when he returns to you...Let's just say you won't be walking around the next day.

W is for whipped cream. Logan loves to spread whipped cream all over your body. On your stomach, your nipples, your pussy. And he licks it off. Little by little, the sugar mixed with your taste driving him almost over the edge. He's, maybe once or twice, actually comed in his pants just from licking the whipped cream off you. He loves it that much.

X marks the treasure. And in this case, you've marked a big yellow X on yourself. You're lying naked on his bed, the paint going from your shoulders, over your nipples, and crossing on your belly button, ending just at your thighs. You're waiting for Logan like this when he returns from a mission he'd said was particularly stressful over the phone. And when he sees you. Fuck, when he sees you. He shuts the door after himself quickly and walks to you, standing in front of you, stunned for a moment before he reacts. He's on you in seconds and he doesn't stop until you're a mess, sweating so much that the X painted on your skin is smeared everywhere. It's still one of his favorite times. And now, whenever he sees the X on his suit, he thinks of you.

Y is for yearn. Logan yearns for you, your touch, your body. And it's not always wild, rough sex. He actually enjoys making love to you, as corny as it sounds. Slow, deep thrusts, gentle kisses on your neck and face. He loves it. Holding you, his hands tracing your body, feeling your skin underneath his fingertips...He knows that everything that's happened to him is worth it since he gets to be with you. He yearns for your love, your approval, yearns to be worthy of you.

Z is for zeal. Logan is around 200 years old. He looks somewhere around thirty five, maybe more maybe less. But he fucks like he's in his twenties. He has so much enthusiasm when it comes to giving you pleasure. His stamina is crazy, his endurance unbelievable. You always end up more exhausted than him, body weak and sweating and trembling, and it fuels his ego. Knowing he can make a mess out of you even though he's much older than you makes him proud of himself.

---

Omg I'm so sorry this literally took me so long 😭😭😭 but I hope you guys enjoy it 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Blog masterlist

#inbox <3 #ilysm anon #anon <3 #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan wolverine #logan smut #logan howlett #wolverine smut #wolverine #x fem!reader

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milksuu · 8 months ago

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ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, mention of blood/violence, mention of death

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

A gleam of orange blazed in the bleakness of night.

You watched from your hilltop window—the thatched roofs off the eastern slopes of Berk twisting and writhing in flames. Even from a distance, you heard the breaking moans of ceilings, the cracks and bends of collapsing wooden structures, and the piercing wails of scales met with sharp edges of iron. Despite The Red Death’s fall, dragon raids still plagued the lands.

Perhaps it was all a sign of retribution.

You were told to stay within the safe confines of your home. Your father hadn’t wanted to risk your life, considering how precious you’d become. The next Seer in line after Gothi, gifted with spiritual wisdom, healing, and authority of officiating the next chief.

But the price to pay had been steep.

The house was dark, not even the smallest candle lit. Nothing that would draw a glimmer of attention to the home. A creak ached the roof above, and you flitted your nose up to the rafters, drawing lines across the ceiling. Nothing but your shallow breaths filled the silent dark.

The hearth then erupted with flame and spark, jolting you from back to neck bone. Had you any voice, a strangled scream would’ve ripped from your throat. Twisting, you had almost forgotten to breathe. A figure shrouded in shadow and leather stood beside the crackling firewood. Light and dark danced in an undulating battle across the strangers’ features.

Revealing a horrifying familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind if I warm this place up a bit.” That voice, boy-ish in tone, lacked any hint of innocence or niceties. He stretched a gloved hand towards the licking flames, doing nothing to warm the ice coating his insides. “Couldn’t help but notice you looked a little cold and...alone.”

A snap of wood made you flinch; addressing him with quivering lips and dilated eyes. Your long-lost greeting didn’t forebode well.

Every piece of leather tightened around his body as he shifted. Turning to ensnare you within his talon like stare. When embers casted a sheen across his face, you braced against the sight. Soft features long since abandoned, reforged into a visage of cold iron. Carved and littered with scars and nicks across his furrowed brows, cheeks, and clenched jaw line.

“Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Wait, no. That’s not the word I was looking for. More like—disappointing. That sounds like a better fit. For you and everyone else here.” Hiccup stalked forward, a contraption of metal clanking and scratching against the splintering floors. Each step clanged through you, until he stood one heartbeat away. “After all these years, I’d thought you’d have a bit more to say. And you want to know something else? Every night, I dreamed about how this conversation would go. Just like how I dreamed things could be better than what they were. Funny how you can plan for things to go a certain way, but then…”

He pressed his hands at each side of your head, the glass window behind begging to crack from the pressure. His scent permeated, forcing you to swallow. Once smelling of spring honey and rolling glades, now sundered to singe your senses like bone ash and lightning storms.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s a little different.” He placed a calloused finger into the dip of your clavicle. He dug and dug until your pained gasp fell deaf to his ears. Tilting his head, he curled the lip of his mouth. “So, just like Gothi, you gave up your voice. Good—great, actually. This works out better for me.”

The smile that crept over his lips never made it up to his eyes. Not like before. Those vibrant meadows sullied into a sickly, muddled green. Thick and ichorous, and dared you stare long enough, you could never trudge your way out. Afraid of being stuck within them, your hand slipped silently into the pocket of your dress, where your fingers brushed against the hilt of a dagger.

You drew it a mere inch before his hand captured yours, twisting until he pried it into his possession.

“Come on. We both know you were never good at fighting.” He chuckled, wagging the sharpest point between your trembling eyes. “I’ll admit it. I wasn’t either back then. That’s something we had in common…until I had to be. Guess that didn’t work out in anyone’s favor on this wet piece of rock. Now, did it?”

Your vision blurred. Screams of the village roared in your ears. Screeches of dragons pierced through the air, engulfed in smoke and fire. Having consumed so much in its wake, you felt the heat of chaos leech into the glass. Searing your back pressed against it.

“Woah. Hey, don’t cry. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He swept a rough thumb over a fallen tear stain. “Not all of them will die tonight. I mean, just think about it for a second. Can’t be chief and rule over a bunch of burnt corpses. How counterintuitive would that be?”

“As for you though…” he continued, and your heart stalled as he traced the cold metal down your flush cheek and neck, pausing just above your breastbone. “I’m only standing here, watching everything and everyone turn to ash around us, all because of you. And don't tell me you don't remember. When you mended my leg. Somehow kept me from bleeding out. Just before the entire village abandoned me.” His clouded eyes narrowed down. “Including you.”

Releasing you from his pinning weight, your legs wobbled. As if he hadn’t just snatched your foothold underneath. Terror kept your feet webbed in place, watching as he twirled your dagger in his fingers like a child's play thing. Crouching near the fire, he mindlessly poked and prodded at the stoking wood. He picked away a scrap of charred chipping, before plunging the blade into the flank of the burning log. You gazed at him, chest tight, aching. How he hadn’t flinched when the fire slicked around his hand like oil.

He dragged the smoldering stump from the hearth, creating a scorched line. When the licks of fire seeped into the house floors, he rose, one vertebra at a time.

“If I’m being honest, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

He unhooked a masked contraption from his belt buckle and tightened it over his face. The eye sockets were of yellow stained sea glass, and the mouth of it appeared like a muzzle of iron teeth.

“Leave something already weak, then crippled to survive on its own. Gambling on the high-stakes of death. So sure of the outcome, no one bothered to turn over a shoulder.” Hellfire rose and swelled in the reflection of his mask. “Maybe they should’ve.”

The rapid hunger of the hearth fire blazed and curled across the floor of the home. Heat lapped towards your skin, drawing out sweat from your pores. Dense smoke began filling the wooden death chamber. You inhaled the black snowflakes, searing your lungs once they melted inside you. You slapped a hard hand over your mouth, coughing and shuddering against it. A pang of panic willed your body to move. You attempted to open the window behind you, but to your horror, it had been welded to the frame.

Your eyes watered, hugging the wall as you traced it to the door. When the handle clattered against your pulls and tugs, a ghostly laugh floated around you. The metal was bolted shut from the outside. A bout of nausea cramped your stomach. Fear darted your eyes toward the stairs, where the flames hadn’t yet reached—but soon. Perhaps the window of your room hadn’t been tampered with.

You darted towards the steps, and before you could place one foot up, a black beast stalked from the darkness of the second floor.

The floating embers danced hauntingly over the onyx scales, and gashes rippled in the firelight. Revealing wounds healed twice, perhaps three times over. That body of night perfectly reflected it's master’s outward appearance.

And as you drowned in those feral slits of pure abandon, it was apparent they also shared the same broken, unmendable soul.

“Oh. You remember Toothless, don’t you?” Your face paled, backing slowly as the Nightfury slithered down the steps like black ink. A predatory growl rumbled above the snapping and collapsing wood around you. Hiccup sauntered to the dragon’s side, patting the thick of his neck, pulsing with power. Another laugh at your expense. “Looks like he remembers you.”

You fought the claw of unconsciousness raking over every part of you. Choking, straining against your hand pathetically covering your mouth.

“Since you did me a favor back then, I’m going to give you one last chance to make it up to me.” The mask muffled his voice, but the wickedness screamed, rattling your veins. “You can either choose to stay here and burn with the rest of Berk or…” he lifted a hand, hardly an invitation, but a devilish bargain. “You can choose me.”

In the thick of your pounding head and chest, you considered burning to death was the wiser option of the two. All that he was—what he’d inevitably become—held no promise of a life worth degrading yourself for. Nothing about you would be spared. And it wouldn’t be long till you dropped on hands and knees, begging for him to take your life. To end his drawn out game of torture. One he’d carefully crafted for years and years.

Just for you, only for you.

Still, you clung to life. A measly mortal thread. Your shaking hand lifted, painfully reaching for his fingertips. One step forward, and the world spun in wisps of red and black. Your lungs and heart throbbed, practically seizing. A calculated arm caught you, cradling you wholly, close as any lover would.

“Good choice.”

You heard the waning words of approval, and through the fading light of your vision, something fastened over your face. Your last conscious breath had been clean, airy—a pleasant contrast to the toxic fumes.

Then, nothing.

#hiccup #hiccup x reader #hiccup imagines #hiccup haddock #httyd #httyd fanfiction #httyd x reader #httyd imagines #how to train your dragon #evil!hiccup #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere male #reader insert #x reader #fem reader

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 2 months ago

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hihihi rae!!!!! congratulations on 900 followers🥹🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻i still remember the day u first posted ur jason fics aaaa ive loved every single one of ur fics ever since!!!

for the event, how about something angsty since ur the kween of angst!!!

“cmon, open your eyes. please, just open your eyes”

~900 words

It didn't hurt at first. The shrapnel in your side was a nuisance, of course. It slowed your movements, made you sluggish as you helped pull person after person out of the rubble.

But it didn't hurt. You knew, realistically, that it did, that adrenaline could only keep you on your feet for so long. But between disarming the rest of Fireflys bombs and getting the surviving victims to paramedics, you'd brushed off your own injuries.

Just one more person. One more life. The mantra repeated itself over and over in your head. Over and over until there was no one left to help. Then, and only then, did you follow the other vigilantes to a nearby roof.

Batman is the first to speak, gaze set on the scene below, "There's been no other sightings of Firefly. We'll split into teams of two and look into his usual hideouts. Robin and I will take East End. Spoiler and," you tune out the rest of his orders, more focused on not swaying on your feet.

You discreetly press your hand to your side, fighting the urge to wince at the blood seeping into your armor. Your vision is starting to swim, and you can practically feel your body crashing.

You shift your weight, trying to steady yourself. If you can just make it it a couple more hours, if you can just find Firefly before anyone else gets hurt–

"You okay," a quiet voice asks. You turn your head as Red Hood settles himself at your side, head tilted like he's observed your every movement.

You debate lying. Jason's always been observant, but it's not really a lie if you are okay, right? Sure, maybe there's some blood, and maybe it's starting to hurt when you breathe, but you are okay.

You open your mouth to tell him as much while putting on your most convincing face. Instead of getting to say a word, your world just kind of tips to the side.

One second, you're standing and the next? Nothing. A void of blackness and silence.

You must not be out for long, because you slowly wake up to shouts and firm pressure to your side.

You're not sure when you got so cold, but the body cradling you is warm. It draws you further away from the darkness threatening to take you under again.

There's a hand cupping your face, a thigh bracing your back, and a chest pressed to your side. If you had the strength to move, you'd want to curl into it, to savor how safe it feels.

A pair of hands work over your side, and you start to register sharp words and pleading tones. It takes more effort than it should to start to recognize what they're saying.

'Lost a lot of blood,' you manage to pick out. Something about getting the cave ready. Reassurances that you were caught before hit your head, and you've survived worse than a piece of metal to your kidney.

But it's none of those words, none of those voices that will you to open your eyes.

It's Jason. His voice cuts through the hazy fog in your mind, "C'mon, open your eyes. Please, just open your eyes." He sounds like he's begging, desperate and anxious for any sign of life from you.

You hate it. Hate that you made him worry. Made him scared. It takes all the strength you have left, but you crack your eyes open.

His helmet is off, thrown somewhere and forgotten, and you've never seen him look so relieved, "Hey, hey, sweetheart. There you are. You need to keep your eyes open for me, okay? We're gonna get you taken care of."

You'd like to nod, but all you manage is a weak hum. Your body feels heavy, your eyes even heavier, but his thumb is stroking your cheek, and it's so soothing that you actually want to stay awake, to soak up every soft word and gentle touch.

"Good," he murmurs, his gaze never leaving you, even as the others work diligently over your injury. "Just stay awake, stay with me," he pleads.

Someone says something about the batmobile, but it's getting more and more difficult to focus on words. There's a brief argument about it being too dangerous to move you, at least you think there is.

Then you're lifted into the air, held tightly in Red Hood's arms. Your head lolls to his shoulder.

You know he's still speaking to you, you can hear the way his voice is starting to pitch into something more desperate again. But whatever he's saying is lost to your dazed state.

Lights seem to flash in your vision, but the warmth of him never fades. The engine of the batmobile roars in time with your eyes rolling back.

You know you've lost some time. You must have blacked out somewhere in between the roof and getting to the cave.

Your eyes flutter sluggishly. There's an IV in your arm, a hand clutching yours, and a white light baring down at you.

The familiar sensation of stitches pulling your skin back together registers. It's enough to know you won't die, even if it feels like you are.

There's a soft voice in your ear. The words sound like gibberish, but the tone is comforting. Sleep starts to drag you back under, but there's a peace to it this time, comforted by the idea that when you wake up, and you will wake up, that voice will still be at your side.

#jason todd x reader #raes 900 follower event

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chidorrrita · 1 month ago

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・❥・and I just might know you too

the worries of a scientist never go away but you make them slightly better

: ̗̀➛ viktor x gn!reader

: ̗̀➛ cw: just sweet fluff, s1 act2 vik, angst if you squint your eyes and have watched s2 (but no spoilers so don't worry)

: ̗̀➛ wc: 1k+

: ̗̀➛ a/n: My finals are coming up and I’m feeling incredibly stressed so in the spirit of things I thought of making Viktor equally stressed so we can tear our hair out together

Progress Day is only a week away and Viktor couldn’t be more stressed. He’s spent almost every day he can at his lab, opting to sleep in his makeshift bed and eating subpar cafeteria food in order to try and finish the grand machinery he and Jayce have planned to show off.

On the rare occasion, you drop by his little lair to leave an important paper from his apartment or a home cooked meal. He gives you a curt thank you and immediately returns to work leaving no time for distraction as you are often his biggest one. You had once come with plans of eating lunch with him, which he greatly appreciated, but had to turn down as he surely would not want to leave your company and work would never be done. So you keep your visits short if only to save Jayce the headache of yet another unfinished stack of papers on his desk.

The week slowly passes, uneventful and boring with Viktor cooped up, unable to share his new findings or sassy wit, which you sorely miss, but soon Progress Day arrives.

The entirety of Piltover is buzzing in excitement and everyone at your job can’t seem to stop talking about what “Golden Boy” Talis has in store for them this year. Although it is a very exciting day, your giddiness is not towards the new fancy technology or the colorful parade, but rather a certain, currently distressed, scientist. Your boss yells over the commotion for everyone to settle down before sulking off to his office and you count the minutes until your shift is over.

The moment the clock hand hits three you are out of there, missing your boss once again shouting over the desks demanding a thank you for half-day of work, and rush out the door and towards the trolleys taking people to the center of town. You hop on the back just as one is leaving, nearly tumbling over your impatient feet before grabbing the copper pole, watching as the buildings get smaller in the distance as you approach the ever growing academy building. Leaping off the trolley, you race inside, taking two steps at a time on the several staircases until you find yourself in front of Viktor’s lab once again.

You rap your knuckles against the door once then twice. On the other side you hear light shuffling and the sound of a metal crutch hitting the floor until the door opens to an exhausted looking Viktor.

The bags under his eyes have gotten significantly deeper, and his suit quite wrinkled no doubt from hours of hunching over his desk. His face visibly lightens at the sight of you

“What a welcome surprise. I thought you were coming here after the ceremony.”

You step through, eyes scanning the messy state of his lab, crumbled paper strewn about the floor and varying sizes of metal gears taking up most of his desk.

“I was but my boss let us out early today. A sign of his endless generosity.” You draw out your words, elegantly throwing your hands up, as your boss is anything but generous. Chuckling to yourself, you spin on your back foot towards Viktor, taking in his disheveled appearance, the fluffy spikes pointing in all different directions. “I hope that’s okay.”

He lets out a light laugh, nodding his head. “Of course.”

Closing the door behind him and settling into his stool pushed to the corner of his desk, the only part that isn’t covered in gears. You saunter over, leaning against the side of the desk, peering at piles of paper with chicken scratch writing that could only belong to Viktor. How he’s able to read his notes is beyond you. One of science's greatest mysteries.

The desk creaks as Viktor places his elbows upon it, a hand above his brow then dragging it down his face in frustration, shutting his eyes. A low grumble escapes his chest before he blurts out “I just don’t understand.”

You turn your head slightly, but stay silent and let him continue, and he lets out another dejected sigh. “The professor won’t allow us to present our new technology. We could be changing lives right now.”

Now you’ve never been very scientifically inclined, but you have learned that much in the field is controlled by shady deals and red tape through Viktor. This must be another one of those cases and Viktor has never been one to care for what he would call “petty office politics” even concerning the Council.

There isn’t much you can do other than comfort him, so you take his tired hands in yours, rubbing slow circles over his overworked tendons. “I’m sorry Vik.”

His voice softens, relaxing against your touch. “There's no need to be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

He momentarily leaves your hold to guide you in front of him, moving his papers and patting the empty spot on the desk. You oblige and gently take a seat as to not disturb the rest of his contraptions. Opening your legs, you scoot his stool closer with your feet, and he smoothly slots in between, head resting against your chest. The soft beating of your heart calms him, and he melts further into you.

Your hand reaches up to brush through his thick hair, tucking it behind his ear, bending down to whisper, “it will all work out. I’m sure of it.”

He snorts and gives you an incredulous look. “How can you be so confident?”

Your reply comes easily. “Because I know you. You’ll find a way. You always have.”

Any response he had dies on his tongue and instead he gives you a sheepish smile, cheeks turning slightly red at your compliment. You smile back, leaning forward to give him a chaste kiss which only turns him even more red. He retreats back to your chest, arms circling around your waist squeezing tighter than before.

Perhaps you are right. All this will work out in the end and he can do what he set out to be. Not merely a scientist chained to create whatever his contributors wanted but someone who actually helps people. Perhaps even help the people of Zaun. Give them the same hope you have given him.

He presses a kiss just above your heart, a promise to you and himself that he will stay true to his dream.

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane #arcane x reader #star divider by @/chachachannah #rita writes

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goodlucktai · 1 month ago

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raised on little light (1/3)

rise of the tmnt word count: 2k pairing: leo & oc i've had this idea rattling around since the rise farewell comic earlier this year made it canon that the turtles had another brother and a sister floating around somewhere. we know who their sister is, so this is my take on that 5th brother. i hope you enjoy meeting him <3 big thank you to @soldrawss and @mykimouser for enabling my insane behavior (and thank you again to sol for drawing the art i included in this chapter!!!) title borrowed from northern attitude by noah kahan read on ao3

2020

Leo regretted his last words as soon as they left his mouth.

“Hero moves are totally your style”? As if Raph doesn’t have enough issues already.

But what he meant—what he would have tried to explain if there was time—was that Raph is his hero. He’s always been Leo’s hero. And if Leo could be anything like him, even for a second, even if it was the last thing he ever did, then he could be satisfied with that.

It’s a silly thing to be stuck thinking about, laying on a torn up chunk of earth with a monster ominously lumbering somewhere below, looking for where it threw its toy. Laying there, feeling every bruise and broken bone, and hoping that he didn’t hurt his big brother’s feelings.

They’ll be okay, Leo thinks, trying to make it be the thing that gives him courage instead of just more homesickness. They’ll miss me, maybe for a long time, but they’ll be okay.

Leo’s supposed to be fighting for his life, but it’s all he can do to keep a grip on the photo in his hand, the only thing in this entire dimension worth holding onto. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes open when every blink is longer than the last.

It feels like enough of a rebellion. The Krang looked annoyed that he was still breathing the last time it batted him through the void like a fly, which gives Leo the idea that he should probably be dead by now. He feels a detached sort of pride at how grown-up he’s being about all this. Better late than never

Leo waits for the Krang to come for him, dripping his blood and sneering his daddy’s nickname for him hatefully as it does, and hopes he made his family proud.

Leo hopes he’ll go wherever Gram-gram is. It would be nice to know someone when he gets there.

Movement in his periphery snags Leo’s attention. His brain starts throwing up warning flags, signaling danger—anything moving around in here is another parasite, or a Krang hound, nothing he’ll want to be sprawled out on a silver platter for—but he can’t summon any urgency.

He turns his head and finds himself looking up at another turtle.

It’s the very last thing he expected to see. They both just stare at each other for a moment.

The newcomer appears to be a few years older than Leo, based on the broadness of their shoulders, and half a head taller. Their skin is more gray than green and their plastron is so pale it’s closer to white than yellow. Their carapace, what Leo can see of it, is a deep blue-black and they’re covered, skin and shell both, in white spots. Two of the spots on their face give the impression of eyebrows lowered in a glare, but they don’t seem angry at him.

The turtle is completely unfamiliar to Leo, which is saying something. He thought he and his family had the monopoly on… this whole situation.

Disquieted, Leo remembers that he’s supposed to be the only turtle here. That was a very significant part of the decision he’d made.

It must be a hallucination, he decides, instantly comforted by his own reasoning. That makes sense. He just wished that if his mind was going to conjure him some dying company it could at least be someone he knows. An imaginary Mikey or Donnie or Raphie for one last hug. One last affectionate forehead bonk. An “I still love you,” if that wasn’t asking too much.

Don’t you cry now, he scolds himself sternly when his eyes start to blur and burn. It’s not about you.

With a resounding crash of metal against stone, the Krang finds them at last. He’s snarling something that Leo is too slow to piece together before he cuts himself off—surprising the hell out of Leonardo by acknowledging the hallucination. That’s not how that works.

“Another pest ,” the Krang hisses. His serrated teeth glint when he draws his gummy lips back in an ugly smile. His tone is oily and unpleasant when he adds, “You’re less colorful than those other ones. I would have remembered seeing you. Where were you when your accomplices were fumbling about in my Technodrome like the stupid creatures they are?”

“We won,” Leo reminds the alien, even though it makes him cough. His lips are warm and wet now but he won’t think about why. “Blew up your ugly ship. Who looks stupid now?”

“Shut your mouth!” the Krang roars, going from slimy to homicidal in about three seconds. Leo cringes, every ounce of animal instinct in his body urging him to hide in his shell and ride the rest of this nightmare out.

The spotted turtle snaps, “Don’t talk to him.”

It would have made sense if he was looking at Leo when he said it. Don’t engage, don’t bait the big monster that could kill you with as much effort as it takes you to blink, et cetera ad nauseum. If only he’d had a nickel for every time he heard that.

But instead the turtle is looking at the Krang, and he’s radiating the kind of cold-blooded murder that you mostly only see in movies. He has one arm flung out in front of Leo like he actually means to use it to stop the Krang from getting any closer.

“Don’t even look at him,” he goes on, sounding seconds away from baring his teeth.

This guy is significantly unaware of the danger he’s facing, and Leo ought to warn him about what enormous clusterfuck he’d just wandered into. Leo ought to say he appreciates the reptile solidarity, but you should definitely run, new guy.

But this probably isn’t actually happening outside of his own head. And besides, Leo has to focus really hard on his numb fingers so he doesn’t drop his photo.

“I’ll look where I please,” the Krang says, as unbothered by the hallucination as he was by Leo’s entire family. “Starting with that fool head of yours. I’m interested in whatever backdoor led you here. If it’s my way out, well —”

Adrenaline surges through Leo, and he’s hardly aware of moving before he’s lurching up and shouting out, “No!”

He can’t get out, he can’t. Leonardo won’t be able to trick him again. He won’t be there to help this time.

“I do have one thing for you,” the spotted turtle interrupts to say, reaching over his shoulder for what turns out to be a compound crossbow strapped to his back.

Leo doesn’t know a lot about archery so it’s weird his fictional turtle does, crank-cocking the weapon like it’s an extension of his arm. He watches cluelessly as the turtle slides something very purple out of his jacket pocket and notches it into the groove where the bolts are supposed to go. It’s definitely not a bolt, but it’s a piercing-type projectile of some kind, and it fits in the crossbow like it was designed with crossbows in mind.

The turtle aims the bow at the Krang, who clicks the claws of his metal suit on the ground the way Splinter would drum his fingers on the kitchen counter when he was waiting on the microwave. The Krang looks condescending and mildly curious, like he’s watching dumb little animals do something they’re not trained to do.

“He told me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t be here to see this part,” the spotted turtle says, and then shoots without a second of hesitation or unnecessary dramatics.

The Krang bats the projectile away, or tries to, but it explodes on contact with his armor, and suddenly all Leo can smell is burning metal. Then burning meat.

The Krang begins to scream, clawing at something defiantly purple with a mind of its own that eats straight through him the effortless, immediate way corrosive acid chews through soft tissue. It moves like nanotech, covering as much of the Krang as possible in a manner of seconds and clearly designed to consume whatever it touches like a school of cartoon piranhas.

Donnie would love it, color scheme and all.

The Krang stumbles drunkenly, howling like a creature possessed, and Leo and his turtle companion both watch silently until he tips over the edge of the hunk of torn earth they’re on. Gravity is nonexistent in this dimension, so he doesn’t so much fall as sort of drift in another direction while he’s distracted with the purple stuff that’s doing its best to eat him alive.

The last handful of minutes have been so bizarre that it’s actually going pretty far in convincing Leo that none of it happened for real. The Krang hasn’t actually found him yet. This is clearly a dream. Or a pre-death electrical storm as the neurons in his brain fire up to fizzle out.

He tips his head to the side again to stare up at the archer, who is putting his bow away with perfect confidence that whatever that purple thing was, it will do the job.

“Who are you?” Leo asks stupidly.

“Gio,” the probably imaginary turtle replies.

Leo’s mouth runs off before he can stop it. “Just Gio? Like Cher?”

God, he thinks. That was stupid, Leo. Not the time or place, Leo. You’re in the prison dimension. You’re dying here and you can’t even cut the jokes now? Raph was so right about you.

But the imaginary turtle surprises him by smiling slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling just barely upwards in a way that somehow completely transforms him. Not the time or place for jokes or smiling at them but here they are. Like company.

“Giorgio Hamato,” ‘Gio’ says. That lands in Leo’s ears as something remarkably worth making a lot of noise over, but he can’t begin to unpack it. And after a second, he forgets what the remarkable part was. His mind is a deck of cards that got shuffled too enthusiastically and ended up scattered all over the floor. Gio doesn’t seem to mind when Leo just blinks at him, adding, “I’m here to take you home.”

“Pretty sure Uber doesn’t come out this far,” Leo mumbles, the words a paint smear, all thick and wet and muddy. One of his teeth feels broken and it’s keeping him awake, a blistering ache that cracks through the back of his mouth like lightning. “And I’ve got, like, zero bars.”

This is how I cope, he thinks, watching the bigger turtle absorb the second bad joke in as many minutes. Leo’s blinking fast so he doesn’t cry. He’s trying to focus on anything but the pain radiating through his whole body, and the swallowing darkness all around him, and the ruins of ancient metal ships looming where they float unrestricted by gravity, and the ballistic howls of a pissed-off pink alien still dealing with whatever the heck this Gio guy did to him.

He can’t��focus on any of that because all of that is scary and he’s already terrified. He needs to not be terrified because he doesn’t want to be that kind of ghost when he haunts his family. He wants to be the friendly, funny kind, the kind that gets to stay at the end of the movie, the kind that will make silly faces at Mikey so he doesn’t get scared, and leave sticky notes for Donnie to remember to charge his phone and drink enough water, and cover Raphie with an extra blanket while he’s asleep because it gets cold at night but he always leaves his bedroom door open for them.

If Leo’s friendly and funny, if he helps, he’ll get to stay. He didn’t get to stay the first time, so this time he has to make it stick.

Larger hands wrap around his. It doesn’t register for a second, and then it does in a big way.

Leo jerks his head up. Moving just that much hurts like his ribs are broken all the way down and the bones in his leg have all melted into liquid agony, but it clears some of the fog away.

Someone is holding his hands in the prison dimension.

An alien like the Krang wouldn’t know the first thing about the human gesture, the togetherness of it, so it’s not some mean trick that’s being played. And it can’t be an imaginary turtle that Leo dreamed up, after all, because kindness would be the last thing he’d give himself.

Possibly very real Gio says, “Fuck Uber. Whatever that is. And don’t repeat that word.”

The punchy breath Leo chokes in is going to punch out again as a laugh or a sob. Leo squeezes the bigger turtle’s hands, photo crinkling between them, suddenly tethered to something in this void and hysterically certain that he’ll die for real if Gio lets go.

“I’m sixteen.” Leo’s voice wobbles. He doesn’t know what to react to first. He doesn’t understand how this is happening. He holds on. “I can say the fuck word if I want to, I’m practically an adult.”

Gio’s face does something it hurts to look at. His eyes are dark and sincere, the shape of them entirely familiar. There’s a warmth inside him that permeates the gloom. A star belonging to a much larger galaxy, but more significantly, belonging to the same crooked constellation Leo belongs to.

I know you, he thinks, surprised by the truth of it. I do. Where have you been?

“We’re going home,” Gio says, the certainty in his voice like one of those huge stones a river parts around, unmoved by the currents and crashing water. “I know the way out. Don’t worry about it. Close your eyes.”

The worst thing that could happen has already happened, Leo thinks. There’s no reason not to trust him. There’s nothing left to lose. He closes his eyes.

He feels himself drawn in, tucked against the built-in armor of a turtle chest, head resting on a broad shoulder. He’s been carried like this a million times before. He didn’t think it would happen again. Somewhere along the line, he’d been picked up for the last time and put down for the last time, and now he’s here, where no one who loves him can reach him, to scoop him up when he falls asleep on the sofa and take him to bed.

But Gio lifts him up like he’s still a kid. The Krang is bellowing hateful promises in between the grating shrieks of pain, promises of what he’ll do when he gets his hands on Leo, but all of that is far away.

Leo isn’t afraid anymore. He isn’t going to be a ghost.

He’s pretty sure he’s going home.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #hamato leonardo #rottmnt oc #tmnt fic #my writing #the archer au #hamato giorgio #me yesterday: yeah im really not sure whether to post it yet or not #me today: 🕺🕺

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charliemwrites · 11 months ago

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Government Asset Soap! This is half of the last part (the smut got too long and I wanted to post this dammit).

Original concept comes from @ceilidho’s military asset Soap. Further inspiration came from @391780’s Nikto version “The Summons”. Both are very good and you should definitely check out!!

Content: Post-trauma coping, Non-Con Touching and Kissing, Violence (mentioned), Unstable Soap

It’s probably a fire hazard, the candles. They’re sprinkled across your little cabin like fireflies, feeble but steady heartbeats of a home you’re failing to build. Too many of them, likely. Two, sometimes three, per room. Tiny tealights, smokeless soy, scented pine. It would be easier, safer, to just turn on the lamps you foolishly invested in.

You can’t bear anything brighter than golden halogen anymore, though. The glare drags you back to a tiny cell bisected by cruel metal, holding back an even crueler fate. No, you’d much rather wade through pools of shadow and firelight, fire code be damned.

It’s a small cabin, but you’ve already cluttered it up with furniture and rugs, a theme for each room. Yellow and blue for the kitchen. Purple and cream for the den. Green and brown for your bedroom. Nooks to hide in, spaces to squeeze into, big shapes to huddle behind. You’ll never be caught out in a cold, barren room ever again.

Your days are long regardless of the time of year. Get groceries in town every day, making a point to be friendly and seen so that someone might notice if you suddenly stop coming. Clean incessantly, so many surfaces to dust. Pick hobbies like daisies. Knitting and crocheting, different paint styles, felting. You’re contemplating carpentry, would like to build shelves for all the books stacked up in the den. Keep a dream journal by your bed that you neglect for weeks at a time.

You draw out the nights until you can count the hours until dawn on one hand. Stay up baking, making homemade ink, learning new ways to style your hair, anything, anything, anything—

It’s not the sleeping – or at least that’s not the worst of it. It’s the waking.

Laswell suggested a cat.

You told her to stop suggesting pussy to unstable people.

But it’s still not a bad idea. Another living thing to keep you accountable; the plants are pretty and time-consuming, but not good company.

You talk yourself out of it every time, knowing the worst-case scenario. It’s not catastrophizing if it actually happens, and you can feel an invisible time weighing on your shoulders like another gravity. Tick, tick, tick. Heavier, heavier, heavier. It’s hard to breathe beneath the wait.

The military doesn’t do apologies. It does platitudes at best. Well wishes and good intentions are painted in brushstrokes of blood. Victory flags are planted on bodies, living or otherwise. Laswell apologized. She swore that if there had been another way – any other way…

She didn’t promise to leave you alone. Didn’t assure you that you’d never see her or her goons again.

If you thought it would do any good, you’d tip one of the candles over and set it all aflame. Rebirth through fire. But you never did figure yourself for a phoenix. And besides, a phoenix is still itself, even when the ash falls away.

So, you spool out your time like picking at tapestry threads, one thin string at time.

Tonight, it’s bread. Cinnamon chocolate babka, to be specific. You were craving something sweet. Are debating the merits of some sort of cream cheese icing while you shower off the long, ever-busy day.

Have decided on an optimistic why not as you slip out to begin your overly complicated self-care routine. Moisturizers, hair oils, lotion. An unexpected benefit of overloading yourself, you suppose. Even when you first got out of the military, you didn’t take such good care of yourself. You have a jogging route now. You’re handling your trauma every possible way except therapy. (And sleeping.) Better than nothing, you figure.

The candles have gone out in your bedroom. You click your tongue in annoyance, trying to remember where you left the matches this time. Bedside table?

You pad across the soft carpet, using the edge of the bed as a guide in the pitch black. The only other problem with candles is that their humble light doesn’t reach very far. But you know this house and keep the floors tidy enough that you’re confident you won’t trip.

Make it to the nightstand without incident and pat around. Knock the side of your hand into the little carton and only just catch it before it hits the deck. Let out a little huff and start to fumble it open.

“Nice catch, bonnie.”

You gasp, but your voice doesn’t get any farther than the back of your tongue. The box slips from your numb fingers, matchsticks scattering across the floor. He tsks.

“Shame that. We’ll get ‘em later.”

You can’t move. Can barely breathe. You’re just frozen, heart thundering with a sudden storm of fear and confusion. Hands still aloft in front of you, spine rigid, knees locked.

You feel more than hear movement behind you, and then the warmth of his body seeping into your naked skin. Not quite touching. Not yet.

“Missed you, little bird,” he rasps in your ear.

You always thought that in a moment like this you would scream. Kick and elbow and fight, damn your certain loss. But when it comes down to it, survival drowns out all those stupid, haughty ideas about pride and dignity. So you don’t curse and shout like you always fancied you would.

You whisper, “Soap.”

He hums but it sounds like a growl in your panicked state. “Missed me too, aye? You’re already naked fer me.”

His hands are searing when they settle on your waist like they belong there. He pulls you back against him; in the dark he’s bigger, broader than you remember. At least, you think, he’s fully clothed for now.

“What are you… how are you here?” you ask.

He barks a laugh, mean and rough. “Was only a matter of time after that shite they pulled.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and see it recreated in the phosphenes behind your lids.

Soap buried balls deep inside of you, murmuring a constant stream of filth as he got harder and harder inside you. Filling you up as you twitched around him, oversensitive and teary, afraid of what would come next.

Then the lights flashed, flicked red. An alarm sounded, Laswell’s voice ordering Soap away from you. But he just snarled and hunched over you, hips snapping to bury himself right back inside while you cried out.

The locked door swung in, armed guards swarming in. Yanked Soap off you while you scrambled to cover yourself. Someone grabbing your arm none too gently to pull you from the room. Soap wild-eyed and snarling like something possessed, until he was overtaken by struggling guards and you were trembling naked in that damned hallway.

“Was mad at you, at first, cannae lie,” he says, almost conversational. Your eyes snap open, though you know it’ll do you no good. “But I’ve had time to think on it. Wasnae yer fault, was it? Saw them drag you out.”

An awful relief floods you. Fuck dignity, fuck honesty. This is Soap right behind you, completely unrestrained and unsupervised.

“Yeah,” you answer, voice small. “I didn’t know they would do that. What… um. What happened to you?”

He presses his face into your damp hair, pressing closer, snaking his arms to squeeze you against him.

“Sent me off on some shite mission,” he explains, “probably hoped I’d die out there. You smell so good, lass.”

You shiver as his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck. Hot, humid.

“And… and then what?” you insist, trying to stall.

You’re not sure what you’re stalling for. There will be no miraculous saves here – not that you really got any last time. It’s not like there’s any real plan to be made here, either. None that you’d be confident enough to risk his wrath on.

“Disappeared. Took care of business. Came to get my pretty little bird.”

A rough hand trails over the curve of your hip, brush the neat curls of your mound. You suck in a breath, hands twitching with the urge to stop him but not sure of putting up resistance when you’re still unsure of his mental state.

“And what about you, hm?” he rumbles. “Been a good girl while I’ve been away?”

His fingers dart down towards your entrance, not nearly prepared for anything. Least of all his thick digits.

“Y-yes!” you yelp, grabbing at his wrist. Relief makes you dizzy when you manage to stop him. “I-I’ve been good. Which means I’m not… I can’t just take you. I need… I need prep.”

He huffs, nips at the tender spot beneath your ear. The thrill that shoots through your stomach is terrifying.

“That’s what these are for, bonnie.”

And to your horror, he starts to push past your resistance like your staying hands aren’t there at all.

“John!”

He freezes. You shudder air into your burning lungs, feeling dizzy on panic.

You can get through this without pain, just think.

“I haven’t even got to see you,” you stutter, voice shaky. Can’t quite inject the disappointment you’re trying for, but hopefully it’ll work. “And I bet you’re all dirty from travel.”

He grumbles. “So what?”

You scramble to think of a satisfactory response. “S-so let’s get reacquainted in the shower, yeah? That way I can see your handsome face, at least.”

He chuckles, grazes his teeth “playfully” across your cheek. “Bossy thing.”

“You like it.”

And to your shock, he agrees with an amused huff. Hauls you up in his arms and walks you back to the still muggy bathroom. You’re set on your feet and spun around, chin jerked up to receive a savage kiss. All tongue and teeth, no finesse. He’s just licking into your mouth, hungry and animalistic, spit dribbling down your chin.

When he finally pulls away, you blink spots from your vision. Finally focus on his smug features and make a soft, horrified noise when you register the splatter of crimson across them.

“Och, that? My little bird had watchers.”

Of course you did. The horror ebbs a bit. Resentment has made you indiscriminately bitter.

“Oh,” you say, “th-thank you. Definitely glad we’re showering first, then.”

“Squeamish?”

You’d like to know when the world turned upside down and John fucking “Soap” MacTavish began teasing you about the blood on his face.

“A bit,” you admit.

“Poor dear,” he coos. “Hard to believe we were made for each other sometimes, aye? Complementary, we are.”

Is that what he thinks? Christ.

You turn to start the shower again, spine prickling with the weight of his eyes on your back. The water rushes down and then he’s crowding you against the cold wall beneath the (thankfully) warm spray.

“Y-you’re still dressed!” you protest between sharp nips to your collarbone.

“Fix it, then,” he snarls.

You claw his shirt up his back, get momentarily distracted by the impressive display of muscle hidden beneath. Draw your palms over his chest and feel him shudder.

“Fuckin’ heavenly, love,” he purrs. “Missed this.”

A vague memory comes back to you, him gripping you close because he felt you naked against him for the first time. Him admitting he hasn’t had affectionate touch in a while.

This… this you could work with.

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#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #asset soap #asset john soap mactavish #dub con #non con #rape

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run-little-hero · 5 months ago

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“What surprise awaits me today?” Hero leans against the bars of Villain’s cell, smiling. It’s their daily ritual, something Villain hates to admit they always look forward to. Hero is kind to them.

“You have such high expectations of me. You guilt me delivering them.”

“And you never disappoint.” Hero drops their head to meet Villain’s eyes from outside the cell. Villain smirks like they’re sharing a secret.

They hate that this is the happiest they’ve ever been—behind bars, swooning at the attention of the hero who put them there.

Villain retreats to a small desk in the corner of their cell. It’s littered with graphite drawings, a privilege granted for ‘good behavior.’ Villain scoffs at the irony, but decides not to challenge it.

They return to the bars, slipping a choice drawing through. Their fingers brush against Hero’s as the drawing is passed along. It’s calculated, Villain knows it. Just like the visits—a prescription to keep them from going off the rails and trying to escape. Villain swallows the medicine.

“Beautiful. As always.” It’s a landscape. A recreation of something they sketched years earlier. Hero seems pleased.

Emboldened by their reaction, Villain tests, “When do I get a surprise from you?”

Hero is nothing if not generous. They play along. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise, would it?”

“Give me a hint?” Villain sets a hand on the bar, They shift their weight so the motion is hidden from a security camera in the corner.

Hero isn’t phased by the gesture. “What would you want from me anyways?”

“Hm…” Villain trails. “Something genuine. Something beautiful. That’s what my art is to you, isn’t it? You should return the favor one of these days.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

For a moment, Hero’s hand finds Villain’s against the metal cell before they leave. Villain knows their routine by heart. They know Hero will never return their affections unless they need information or expertise out of them. But they’re content to play along, bask in a bit of that attention.

Villain believes Hero is kind. But at night, Villain does everything to squash the fractional piece of their heart that believes Hero cares for them.

Hero appears outside Villain’s cell late one afternoon.

“Where’ve you been?” Villain asks, approaching the bars. “It’s nearly dark. I thought you might’ve forgotten about me.” They keep their voice light, agreeable.

“I’d never. I just needed to prepare something.”

Villain crosses their arms. “And do I get to know what that is?”

Hero is beaming. “Of course. I tell you all my secrets.” Liar. “Come here.”

Villain indulges them and steps forward. Before they know it, Hero grips their arms and pulls them close. They embrace through the bars of the cell. Villain’s stomach plunges and their eyes dart towards the security camera.

“What are you—“

“I’m looping the footage. We should have about five minutes before it goes back to normal.”

Villain focuses on Hero. “Are you crazy? What the fuck are you—“

“You wanted a surprise,” Hero interrupts. They grip Villain’s side, steadying them. “How’s this for one?”

Hero’s lips crash against Villain’s before they can comprehend the fingers lacing through their hair. They can’t believe this is happening. They give into the desire they’ve been fighting since their first battle with Hero.

They part slowly. Villain keeps their gaze low. “Why did you do that?” They mutter.

“I’ve been thinking about doing it for a while.”

Rationally, Villain knows it’s not the best idea to trust a hero. “We’re enemies. You put me in prison.”

Hero grins. “But, you have to admit. Now we get to see each other more often!”

Despite everything, Villain can’t deny the gesture. “You’re insane.”

“You know, we still have four minutes. Care to do it again?” With a nod from Villain, Hero takes the lead and connects their lips again.

Villain supposes they can figure out what this means for their relationship tomorrow.

—

snippet #12

#hero x villain #hero x villan #heroes #heroes and villains #heroes x villains #spilled ink #villain x hero #villains #writeblr #writers on tumblr #hero x villain community #fluff #heroxvillain #villains and heroes #villain and hero

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casuallyimagining · 11 months ago

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Family. Duty. Self. || myg

Less of Them - One: Family. Duty. Self.

NSFW. minors dni Pairing: Min Yoongi x reader Genre: arranged marriage au, established relationship, star-crossed lovers, angst, smut, fluff Word Count: 9,968

Summary: As the daughter of one of the oldest families in the kingdom, when the king decides that it's you he wishes to marry, you're forced to make a decision and fulfill your duty, leaving behind everything you've ever known--and the only man you've ever loved.

Warnings: weaponry (swords), language; nsfw: awkward first-time, hand-job, fingering, unprotected sex

Notes: Thanks to @oddinary4bts for really coming in clutch and helping with the smut and to both her and @daechwitatamic for encouraging me to make it more sad.

The book mc is reading at the beginning is Wurthering Heights.

"I do know there are all kinds of barriers to love. I do believe the world needs less of them." - Lang Leav

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The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind.

The clank of metal against metal grates against your ears and jolts you out of your book. It’s a nice day, and you had some free time; you thought that maybe it would be nice to read outside for a change. But now, you aren’t sure that was the greatest idea you’d ever had.

…shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully-

The soft thump of a dulled blade hitting the softness of a body and an exasperated curse again draws you away.

“Again,” a gruff voice commands, and there’s the clink of metal clashing briefly.

Another voice groans. “This is pointless.”

“Your father told me to teach you how to fight,” the first voice says. “Again.”

You roll your eyes. They’d been at this for a week now. You were starting to believe that maybe it was pointless.

It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the “missis,” an individual whose existence I had never previously-

Metal against metal once again, and then the clatter of a sword falling into the dirt. A frustrated sigh.

I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me-

A soft thud, then, “Shit.”

I bowed and waited, thinking-

The shriek of metal on metal, then the clatter of a sword hitting the dirt. “Shit!”

I bowed and-

“Take a break,” the gruff voice says, and the second voice grumbles something in response. “Don’t go far. We have more work to do.”

You try to go back to your book, you really do. But then a body plops down under the tree beside you. Ever so gently, the book is taken from your hands. He keeps a finger in the pages to mark where you’d left off, but he turns the book to inspect the cover and the spine. He hums. It’s his book.

“You shouldn’t torture him like that,” you chide once he’s returned the book to your hands. “You know he isn’t suited for it.”

“Your father wants him trained.”

“You and I both know Namjoon has no business on a battlefield.”

At that, he laughs. “His form is really terrible.”

“Even I’m better than he is.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh come on, Yoon.” You roll your eyes and nudge him slightly. You both know you’re right. His father had trained you beside Yoongi, and while you hadn’t been as quick to the blade as the young knight, you could defend yourself well enough.

He stands, plucks the book from your hand once again, and leans in so that his face is mere centimeters from your own. “Come, then, my lady. Prove yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

He closes the gap, lips connecting to yours ever so briefly. Even though the kiss is short, it sets your veins alight all the same.

“Fine,” you say when he pulls back. “To battle, then, Min Yoongi.”

He smirks, and you steal a kiss when he helps you stand. For a moment, he has the audacity to look offended, but you push him out of the way.

“Come on,” you say. “You wanted to spar. Let’s get it over with.”

“We’ll see how smug you are when you’ve been defeated.”

You shrug and follow him to the training yard. It’s only a few feet from the tree you had been reading under, but your back had been to it, and you’d been unable to see Namjoon before he left. Now, though, you can see that your younger brother had gone in a huff, his practice sword tossed carelessly to the side. You pick it up. It’s a bastard sword, longer than you’d like and a little on the heavy side, but it’ll do. You roll your wrist, testing the balance as you wait for Yoongi to ready himself.

As he turns to face you, you widen your stance. You know you look ridiculous, legs and arms wide, positioned better to climb a tree than for sword fighting. It has its intended effect, though, because Yoongi erupts into a fit of near-silent giggles, shoulders shaking and eyes crinkled at the corners.

“What are you doing?” he asks gleefully.

“Are we not fighting?” you question, deepening your voice to match Namjoon’s lower timbre. “Is this not how you do it?”

He almost drops his sword, he laughs so hard. “Okay, fine,” he says, body still shaking from giggles. “You can go back to your book.”

You smile. That hadn’t really been your goal, but you aren’t one to turn down an opportunity. You hand him the practice sword as you pass and open your mouth to leave him with one last quip about trying to be patient with Namjoon, but he catches your waist as soon as he can and pulls you flush against him. Immediately, your hands come up to rest on his chest, playing with the loose collar of his cream colored shirt.

“Can I help you, sir?” you ask coyly, tugging a little at the fabric over his collarbone.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, lips mere centimeters from your ear. “Can you?”

He kisses you then, properly this time, firm hands on the small of your back, holding you against his body. He’s warm and soft and solid, and you can smell a hint of the cologne you’d bought him for his last birthday. His kiss is slow, almost lazy, but there’s a greed in it, like he could keep at this forever if you’d let him.

You’re tempted to let him.

You slide your hand up his chest to tangle in the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. You give a gentle tug, and he lets out a low whine.

“Don’t tease, my lady,” he mumbles darkly, pulling away just far enough to kiss up your jaw. “I’m afraid you’ll start something you aren’t prepared to finish.”

You never get the chance to respond. Namjoon calls your name, his voice floating down from the walkway that overlooks the courtyard. Immediately, Yoongi jumps away from you. Your relationship is no secret, but he’s always been shy, and you’ve long grown used to his fleeing any time anyone sneaks up on you.

Namjoon calls for you again, this time, his voice is closer, and when you turn, you can see he’s running down the stairs. He pauses momentarily, catching his breath for just a second before blurting out, “Father is looking for you. He’s received some official-looking letter and asked me to come fetch you.”

You hum and nod. “Alright. Tell him I’ll be along soon.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’d better come now.”

Your eyes drift to Yoongi, who stands now just off to the side. His cheeks and ears are tinged ever so slightly pink, and he busies himself with inspecting one of the practice blades. He must feel you looking at him, because his dark eyes connect with yours. You shoot him a look that you hope conveys an apology. He nods toward the keep silently before picking up the discarded sword and wandering off in the direction of the armory.

“Lead the way,” you tell your brother, gesturing in the direction he’d come from.

You follow him out of the yard, up the stairs onto the walkway and into the keep. Evening is starting to fall, and the attendants already have the sconces lit in the halls to stave off the darkness. You pass some of them as you go, and they nod respectfully–more to you than to Namjoon, but he’s younger and has never really cared about being deferred to in the way that you are.

He leads you to your father’s study, and when you enter, you’re shocked at how full it is. You’ve always loved this room, filled to the brim with the finely crafted furniture made by the people of the forest town. Blackwood trees are known to have a delicate, earthy aroma long after they’ve been felled, so the study has always smelled as warm and inviting as it felt. Now, though, with the number of eyes that dart in your direction when the door opens, you’re uncomfortable.

The five of them sit at the heavy, ebony round table in the center of the room. Your father sits with his back to the window, his fingers steepled and his brow furrowed, papers strewn about in front of him. To his left sits your step-mother, a rare good day for her. She looks grim, but you get the sense that the pain she’s feeling may not be just her own. Namjoon takes a seat to her right. To your father’s left sits Jaesung, your father’s advisor and head of the armory for as long as you can remember. The look on his face is neutral, but you can see an anger behind his eyes. In nearly 30 years, you’ve never seen Jaesung angry. Beside him sits Seokjin, your elder step-brother, a fidgeting ball of nerves.

“Come,” your father says gently, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

You can feel a chill as you pass them all. Your step-mother, paralyzed by an unknown pain. Jaesung, poised for a war you don’t yet understand. And Seokjin, who refuses to look at you, even as you sit down beside him.

It all makes you nervous.

Your father stands, the chair pushing out behind him as he leans forward, passing you the papers in front of him. It’s a letter, the wax seal on the envelope indicating it was sent from the Ironhold.

A letter from the king, you muse. What could he possibly want?

It’s no secret that there’s little love between your family–the Lins of Castle Blackwood–and the Chois in the Crownlands. The Chois have sat on the throne of Cotaria for hundreds of years, and the seat of the Crownlands for hundreds of years before that, and their customs have been around for just as long. They don’t like how your father rules the Westerlands, but there isn’t much they can do about it. The Lin family is far older and has had far longer to build ties, and you contribute more to the Crown’s stores than the Chois would care to admit.

Your gaze falls to the letter in your hands, reading but not comprehending what it says. You fixate on certain words. Duty. King. Auspicious. Marriage. But no matter how many times you read it, no matter how long you stare at the neatly printed words in front of you, they don’t make sense.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. You don’t like how long it’s been since someone’s said something, don’t like how they watch you. Your mouth is dry, and it feels like you’ve tried to swallow a rock.

“This is real?” you manage, swallowing hard. When did your hands start shaking?

“I’m afraid so,” your father responds. His voice is soft, measured.

“And?”

“We did not ask for this.”

“And yet here we are.”

He sighs. “And yet here we are.”

You close your fist around the paper, crumpling it. Beside you, Seokjin jumps, startled. For the briefest of moments, you close your eyes.

Marriage to the king. A man you’d met once three years ago at his father’s funeral. He’d been miserable then, a spoiled brat too accustomed to getting his own way. You’d dreaded the funeral, dreaded being forced to interact with the young king, dreaded having to be pleasant to him. But you’d plastered on a smile and endured the funeral and feast. And now he wanted to take you away from your home, your family.

Your Yoongi.

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts back to your father’s study. You can’t think of him right now. “This,” you lift your fist, the letter still clutched tightly within. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“There’s always a choice,” Namjoon blurts, immediately shrinking back into his chair.

Your father hums. “You can decline. Your brother is right.”

“Jaesung?” The man’s eyes snap to yours, and you’re struck by how similar they are to his son’s–dark, cat-like, ever-observant. “If I say no…?”

He takes a moment, his head bobbing back and forth as he weighs the options. “Chances of retaliation are high, yes.”

“We would weather it,” your father says. “Our family has endured far worse.”

“And if they strip us of our titles? Take away our home?” You toss the letter into the center of the table. “Either way, we lose.”

“So just tell him to fuck off,” Namjoon says. Your step-mother frowns, and immediately, he wilts under her gaze. “Sorry, mother. But you understand what I mean. If both options are bad, pick the best worst choice.”

You glance up, above your father, above the window behind him. The family crest hangs there, centered on the wall. A sea of blue with green chevron, golden thistle in the foreground. The Lin family words are engraved into the bottom: Loyalty does not yield.

Loyalty. It’s been ingrained in you since birth. To family, duty, self. All three in tandem. Now, though, they’re pitted against each other. Your family against your own desires. Your desires against your duty. An impossible choice.

You make eye contact with your father across the table. He nods almost imperceptibly and sighs.

“The steward arrives tomorrow?” you ask softly.

Jaesung nods. “Letter said they would arrive the day after it did.”

“Okay.”

There’s precious little to discuss after that. Jaesung is the first to go, the war in his eyes more fierce than when you’d entered. He doesn’t look at you as he goes. Your stepmother leaves shortly after, walking around the table to you. Her hands find your shoulders, skin cold against yours. She gives a gentle squeeze and kisses the top of your head.

When she’s gone and the door is closed behind her, Namjoon erupts. “You realize how ridiculous this is, right?” he asks. It’s directed toward your father. “They would never dream of doing this to any of the other old families.”

Seokjin sighs. “They couldn’t.” His voice is soft, but holds all the authority of older brother.

Ever insightful, your step-brother is right. The Lin family is the only one of the old families that allows for a female heir, and even then, your father had only married Seokjin and Namjoon’s mother after his first wife–your mother–had died. You’d been here first. In your father’s mind, you were the clear heir. It helps that Seokjin, older than you by one year, has never shown much interest in leading, and between you and Namjoon, you have always been more eager to learn everything. But because all of the other heirs of the old families are male, they will never be put in this position.

You stand. Your head hurts, and so does your heart. You don’t look at your father as you leave the study, too afraid of what you might see.

You’d intended to go to your chambers, but when you get to the staircase, instead of going up, you go down. Yoongi’s chamber is at the end of this wing of the castle, closest to the outer wall and the library tower. Over the years, you’ve probably spent just as much time there as you have in your own chambers. But this is the first time you’ve felt nervous standing at his door.

You knock. You almost never knock, but it feels weird barging in right now, when you’re standing on the precipice of a future so far in the opposite direction of what you’d been imagining. The door opens, and there he is, leaning casually against the heavy, blackwood door. You must be some sort of sight, because almost immediately, he frowns, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Jagi?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.

It’s all it takes. You surge forward, hands coming up to cup his face gently. It’s easy to fall into him, easy to lose yourself in his kiss. He lets you push him back into his room, shutting and locking the door behind you in one easy motion.

He laughs a little as you kiss up his jaw. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You don’t answer. Right now, you just want to lose yourself in him. The room is not large, and you’re able to push him toward the bed in only a few steps. He pauses when his legs hit the edge of the goose feather mattress. Gently, you push and he falls backward, his hands on your waist pulling you down with him.

You hover over him for a moment, just holding his gaze, losing yourself in the dark eyes you’ve come to love so much. You wonder if he’s able to read the distress in your eyes–maybe he is, because he pulls you down in a kiss that leaves your mind spinning, as his hands tighten on your waist ever so slightly.

His tongue hesitantly darts out to meet your lips, and surprised, you pull away to meet his gaze again. His cheeks are slightly flushed pink, and his lips glisten prettily in the light of the sconce on the wall.

You survey his features carefully, feeling your own cheeks turning red as you realize that you don’t want to stop. Not tonight. You want to be able to feel him at least once before you have to go. You bend down again to capture his lips in a languid kiss, welcoming his tongue against your own the moment he does it again.

You gently move your hands up his frame, burying them in his soft hair as he wraps his arms around you to pull you flush against him. You have half a thought that you’ll crush him, but you can’t bring yourself to care as his tongue awkwardly swipes at yours again, earning a breathy sound from you that you’ve never made before.

It startles both you and him, and you pull away from the kiss once more, meeting his gaze.

“What was that?” he asks, the flush on his cheeks having deepened from the prolonged kiss.

You find you can’t look at his eyes anymore, your own gaze sliding away. You laugh awkwardly. “I don’t know.”

He kisses your jaw to gain your attention again, but your eyes stubbornly stay away. That is, until he says, “It was cute.”

Your gaze shoots back to his. “Yeah?”

“Kiss me again,” he asks, and there’s something new in his tone. A desire you’ve never really seen, or maybe it’s just manifesting differently this time around.

Maybe he can feel the sense of urgency in the moment. But he doesn’t question you, just welcomes your lips against his the moment you kiss him again, unable to resist the pull of his gravity.

His hands move down your back, and hesitantly, he grazes his fingers over the curve of your ass, barely even touching. You feel electrified, like lightning is coursing through your bloodstream, and you bite on his bottom lip.

He grunts. He grunts and you know that there is no way you’ll stop now. Not when you sit back on his lap, hands resting on his chest to hold you up. Even through his linen shirt, you feel his heart beating wildly, echoing your own.

And right where you’re perched, you feel the hint of his arousal, matching the arousal that’s slowly warming up your core.

You’ve touched each other before. It was awkward, neither of you really knew what you were doing, and you’d stopped, too afraid to get caught, too afraid of the consequences.

Tonight though? You want to feel his skin on yours, want his warm breath to mingle with your own while you lay with him. So you grab his tunic, pushing it up until it reveals a small sliver of pale skin on his lower stomach. You look at it, admire it as if it’s art, and then you meet Yoongi’s gaze again.

“Can you take this off?” you ask, fingers shaking even though your voice holds firm.

He nods, sitting up so that he can remove the shirt. It brings him close to your face, and you can’t resist but kiss him again, molding your lips to his like it was always meant to be.

But not anymore.

You push the thought away, wanting to focus on Yoongi, on this moment with him. You want to commit it to memory, to remember every plane of his body as he finally, slowly takes his shirt off, revealing more of his sculpted frame.

Being a knight has its advantages. And they show in the powerful build of Yoongi’s body, even though he’s a little more on the lean side. You gently rest on your hands on his chest, before gently caressing down, reveling in the feel of his warm skin under your fingers and palms.

He watches you, lips slightly parted, until your fingers graze the hem of his pants. But then he stops you, grabbing your hands in his.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs when your eyes meet his. “You really want to do this?”

You nod, breathing out a soft, “Yes.” You nod again, though your cheeks burn. “Yes, I want it. All of it.”

He gulps, eyes darting to your lips before going back to your gaze. “Can I take your corset off?”

The question sends your heart into overdrive, yet you agree, guiding his hands to the knot at the top of the corset. You notice his fingers shaking as he slowly starts untying it, much like your own fingers are trembling, and you let out a small chuckle.

It’s unexpected, and a little awkward, yet it feels right in this moment with him. He laughs lightly as he struggles, a sound that makes you feel like you could soar in the sky beside the ravens and falcons of the Blackwood.

Maybe, if you could fly, you’d never have to go to the Ironhold.

Again, you push the thought away to focus on Yoongi’s fingers as they struggle with the laces. He curses under his breath, which makes you chuckle again.

“Let me help,” you tell him, and he begrudgingly lets you take the lead, the tip of his ears red.

You’re much more efficient, and soon enough, you’re able to undo the lacing and take off the stupid garmetn, leaving you in just your linen tunic. Yoongi runs his hands up your sides, dragging the fabric of your shirt up, and your breath hitches in your throat when he slides his hands under the fabric.

His fingers leave a trail of goosebumps on your skin, and he brings his hands up until he’s able to grab your breasts, squeezing lightly. He grunts softly again, and you feel something twitch under your lap.

“Yoongi,” you breathe out.

He doesn’t look at you, just keeps staring at the spot where his hands cover your breasts, hidden beneath your shirt. You take that as a cue to pull the fabric off, and you throw it to the side, to meet his own shirt where it fell to the floor.

Yoongi stares at your chest, eyes slightly widened, cheeks flushed, and his breathing is quicker than usual, as if he’s been sparring for a while. It makes you feel powerful to know that you’re the one with this effect on him, and you smile down at him when he finally meets your gaze again.

“You really are so beautiful,” he says again, as if in awe.

You blush at the compliment, leaning down so that you can kiss him again. To your surprise, his hands leave your breasts to rest flat on your back, and you almost screech when he spins you around, until he’s lying on top of you.

As he’s hovering over you, Yoongi stares down at you, chest moving fast from his quick inhales and exhales.

“Sorry, my lady,” he apologizes at the look on your face.

You chuckle shyly. “Wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

He pecks your cheek, smiling against your skin. “I like taking you by surprise. Doesn’t happen often.”

You melt for him. Like the last snow under the spring sun, you melt for him. Your hand grip his biceps as he looks down at your perked nipples, and you feel like molten ore as he then traces his lips along your neck, down down down until he reaches the top of your breast.

He kisses there, once, before going lower, flicking your nipple with his tongue. When your hands wrap around his shoulders, he does it again, a little harder.

“Yoongi…”

His lips close around your nipple, and he sucks hard. You squirm at the foreign sensation, and Yoongi quickly meets your gaze, apologies written in his gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you immediately reassure him. “It just feels… strange.”

He nods once, and then looks at your nipple, now shimmering with his saliva. “Do you want me to do it again?”

You grab his face, pulling him up to kiss you instead. He doesn’t resist, and he sighs against your mouth as you run your hands through his hair.

Yoongi is gentle. He always has been, but tonight he’s even more so, taking his time to take off your pants once you part from the kiss. He realizes that you’re still wearing your boots when your pants are around your calves, and he curses under his breath as he unties them and slides them off, while you laugh awkwardly, hiding your face behind your hands.

When he finally manages to take all of your clothes off, you look at him from behind your fingers, admiring how his eyes darken as he looks down at your pussy. You instinctively want to hide, to close your thighs together, and he quickly says, “Don’t… it’s…” he clears his throat. “You’re so pretty.”

Your hands fall away from your face, and you hold his gaze longingly, hoping that tonight will never end. That somewhere along the line, you’ll be able to stop time, so that you can dwell in an eternity of lying here with him.

But fantasies like that are works of fiction, and you can’t alter time. So when he stands to take off his own clothes, you quickly sit on the edge of the bed, helping him with his belt even though your hands feel clumsier than they usually are. Maybe because of the nerves wracking through you–it’s hard to tell, and you frankly don’t care.

Because this is Yoongi. Your Yoongi. You want this to be with him, a memory to treasure forever once you’re gone.

A few seconds later, Yoongi is out of his clothes too, and you think your heart stops in your chest at the sight of him.

You’ve never seen him fully naked like this. You’ve touched him, hands sliding in his pants to wrap around his length while you kissed. But you’ve never seen him, standing proud and tall and leaking precum just inches from your face.

It’s sinful, and you look up to meet his gaze as you hesitantly wrap your fingers around his cock, pumping quickly.

He winces, grabbing your wrist to stop you. “Not so fast,” he tells you gently.

You slow down, biting your lower lip, and then your eyes fall down the pretty expanse of his body until you’re watching what you’re doing so that you can do it properly.

Or at least, what you assume is proper.

Yoongi grunts softly as you jerk him off, hips thrusting forward instinctively once in a while. Something wet is pooling between your legs, and all you can do is look at him, at the tip leaking with precum. He’s rock hard under your fingers, rigid veins and velvety soft skin, and it makes your heart race in your chest with every swift motion of your wrist.

“Stop,” Yoongi lets out, sounding out of breath. “Or I… I won’t be able to do more.”

You let go of him, hand sheepishly falling in your lap. Yoongi sits next to you, and he gently pulls you closer. This kiss is softer, slowly, born of the love between you and him.

He pushes you down until you’re lying on the bed again and climbs on top of you. You spread your legs for him, wrapping them around his waist, which leads to the head of his cock rubbing against your entrance.

You let out a soft moan that has him pull away.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

You laugh. “No, you’ve barely touched me yet.”

He seems conflicted for a while, brows furrowing. “Should I touch you first?”

“I don’t… know,” you admit.

You both exchange a look, and Yoongi quirks an eyebrow before finally deciding for the two of you, kneeling between your legs. His eyes drop to your pussy once more, and he hesitantly brings a hand to the apex of your thighs. You stiffen, waiting for his touch, and the moment one of his fingers slides between your folds, a volcano erupts inside of you.

He slowly pushes in, stopping at the first knuckle to gauge your reaction. When you don’t give any sign of discomfort, he finishes pushing in, until most of his finger is swallowed by you.

“It’s so tight,” he says, but there’s barely any lust behind it. Just curiosity, which makes you laugh. He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you. And then he starts moving his finger again. “How does it feel?”

“Strange,” you admit. “Good?”

Though you say it like a question, he nods. And he keeps at it for a while, slowly fingering you. The sensation is new but not unpleasant, the slow drag of his finger against your walls, the slight arch of it as he pushes in and out. It makes you want more, and you blindly grope for his cock, though your hand falls short and lands on his thigh instead.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“I think I want you.”

He stops moving his finger, before pulling it out to return to his previous position. Suddenly bold, Yoongi holds the base of his cock so that he can rub it on your pussy, and his lips parted as he looks down at you.

You moan softly, and he watches you for a moment, never pushing in. Once again, he asks, “You’re sure?”

You nod. “Please.”

It doesn’t take him more to push in, slowly. It hurts, and your face contorts in pain, which makes him stop between your legs.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, about to pull out.

“No, it’s…” You wrap your legs so tight around him that he can’t move. “They say it’s supposed to hurt. At first.”

“Oh?”

You shrug. You’d heard the handmaids gossiping, and after a while, you’d just accepted it as fact.

He nods once, before gently caressing your thighs. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

“I promise,” you whisper.

And though it really does hurt, you don’t stop him as he finishes pushing all the way in, stilling when he’s fully sheathed within you. There, he stops, leaning down so that he can kiss you again, his tongue dancing languidly with yours. You hold him close, bask in the feel of the weight of him on you as his hand finds your hip, his thumb caressing circles into your skin.

It takes a moment, but the pain slowly lessens until it turns into a numb sensation that you can almost entirely ignore. You nod. “I’m ready.”

He moves from your mouth to your neck, and he says against your skin, “I don’t know what to do.”

You hold him tighter. “Just move. I want to feel you.”

He nods, and then he pulls almost all the way out, before pushing in again. It still hurts, but when he does it again the pain is less, and by the tenth time you barely feel it anymore.

You kiss his shoulder, and Yoongi sighs, his lips ghosting on the side of your neck before he decides to suck on it, and the sensation makes you moan again, your arms tightening around you.

“Jagi…”

“Yoongi,” you breathe out like an echo.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to last long,” he admits. “You feel… like silk.”

You nod. “It’s okay.” You kiss his shoulder again, before adding, “Do you think you can go faster?”

He stops moving for a time, meeting your gaze. His dark eyes are filled with intensity, with lust, passion and love for you. He kisses you gently, thumb brushing against your cheek, and then he increases his rhythm.

Your words seem to unleash him, because the second you let out a small moan again, Yoongi starts going even faster, and the sound of skin against skin fills the room. Even though it feels strange, you let him do it, keep holding him close, and soon enough, pleasure starts to vibrate in you, ignited by every deep thrust.

It’s a little rough, a little clumsy, but Yoongi’s pace doesn’t falter. He grunts in your ear, and you instinctively dig your nails in the skin of his back.

That’s when he loses it. He stills deep inside of you, moaning softly, and you feel his cock twitch as he releases. You hold him through his high, gently caressing his back even though he’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat–you don’t care about it. It’s him, and you think you love all of him.

You breathe in and out, slowly, as he’s still deep inside of you. When he turns his head towards you, you kiss him deeply, trying to pour all the love in your heart into the act, trying to let him know that forever and always, he’s the one that you’ll love.

Eventually, the kiss ends, the need for breath overcomes it, and Yoongi lies next to you. When he pulls out of you, you feel his warm seed dripping out, and you blush at the feeling, at the dirtiness of it, though you don’t think there’s anything purer than what just happened between you and him. So you put your head on his chest, molding yourself into his side, content just to lay with him.

It’s quiet, your mingled breathing and the sound of his heart under your ear the only noises in the room. You try to concentrate on everything, to commit it to memory. The warmth of his body, the gentleness of his touch, the stillness of everything. It’s electric, the way his fingers slowly ghost up and down your bare arm. He presses the gentlest of kisses to the crown of your head, and you have to force yourself to stay here, in this moment.

You aren’t sure what prompts it, but his arm tightens around you. “What’s wrong?” he hums, tilting his head so that he can better see your face. “Are you okay?”

Until this moment, you’d been doing well, keeping yourself together as your world shatters around you. But the concern in Yoongi’s voice, it breaks you. You don’t respond to him, merely bury your face in the bare skin of his shoulder and try to stitch yourself back together somehow.

For the two years you’d been together, when you pictured your future, it was this–it was him. You’d loved Yoongi for as long as you’d known what love was. Probably longer. He’d been your best friend, your staunchest rival, your biggest supporter. You’d spent more nights than you’d care to admit sitting on one of the castle balconies and complaining to him about your brothers, and you’d listened as he’d lamented the rigidity of his father. Losing him, being forced to walk away, it feels a little like you’re losing a part of yourself. The part that feels safe, the part that feels loved, the part that could take on anything so long as he’s there with you.

He holds you close as you fall apart, the only thing keeping you from entirely shattering. He’s basically silent, and you can’t help but think that he must be so confused, which only serves to crush you more.

“I’m sorry,” you manage finally, wiping your tears.

“What’s wrong, jagi?” Yoongi asks softly. “You’re worrying me.”

You sigh. “I have been given an impossible choice.”

He hums sympathetically. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.”

His confidence almost spirals you back off the edge you’ve barely clawed yourself away from. But instead of breaking again, you reach up to cup his face. In the silence, you study him, trying to memorize all of him–soft, round cheeks; button nose; dark, feline eyes. He’s handsome in a gentle sort of way. Skilled in swordplay, with a mind to match.

“Not this time, I don’t think.” Where to start? Because you should start. You owe him that, at least, after appearing at his door, bedding him, and then dissolving into tears almost immediately after. “That letter father got earlier? It came from the Ironhold. As it happens, our darling king is looking to find himself a wife.”

He blanches, a frown immediately replacing the concern on his face. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

For the briefest of moments, he deflates, his head sinking deep into his silk and feather pillow. But then his arms snake firmly around you and he pulls you impossibly closer. He kisses the top of your head before nuzzling into your hair. You feel him breathe in deeply and hold it for a moment before he slowly exhales.

“I wish there was a way to get out of this,” you mumble into his chest. “But even your father said-”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I love you,” you say desperately. You know he knows, but you need to say it.

“We’ll get through it,” he says again. “Somehow.”

You don’t sleep. You’re pretty sure that Yoongi doesn’t either. You can’t bring yourself to miss a minute, so you lay there, skin on skin, listening to his breathing and watching the moon out the window. The night is slow, but not nearly slow enough, and eventually, the sky begins to lighten.

“I should go pack,” you mumble softly, snuggling into him more.

His arm tightens around you as he hums. “Want help?”

“You don’t have to.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I’m not ready to let you go just yet. And if that means I have to help you pack, then I help you pack.”

You sigh, resting your chin on his chest so that you can look at him. “I don’t even know how much I’m allowed to bring.”

“We’ll figure it out.” He sounds so confident, but looking at him, you can tell it’s a front. His eyes have lost the sparkle they normally have, and the smile he’s wearing doesn’t go beyond his lips.

You stall for a few more moments, but force yourself to get up. He helps you find your clothes and you dress quickly before sneaking out into the hall. It’s still early, almost no one should be up yet, but you have to pass both Seokjin and Namjoon’s rooms to get to your own, and Namjoon is known for keeping strange hours.

Thankfully, this is not the first time you’ve made this journey, and you know just how to move to avoid making noise. You manage to unlatch the door to your chambers with only the slightest of sounds, and you and Yoongi sneak in. He helps you light the wall sconces and a few candles, and as your room lights up, you sigh.

You suppose you should pack on the lighter side. The king’s letter hadn’t said… anything, really, about what awaits you in the Ironhold, but you suspect that whatever you bring won’t be good enough.

Yoongi helps you fill a trunk with clothes. Or rather, he handles everything, barely letting you do any of it. He folds each garment carefully, like it’s made of glass, choosing his favorite garments like a sommelier chooses wine. You can’t read his expression, can’t tell what he’s thinking, but there’s a cloud over his eyes, and you know he’s lost in thought.

You leave him to it, figure that maybe this is something he needs to do, and busy yourself with gathering other things you want to take. A few books. A figurine of a duck your father had bought for you for your birthday as a child. Your favorite blanket. A drawing that one of the artists in town had done of your family–your father, your step-mother, Seokjin, Namjoon, and you. There’s one of you and Yoongi, too, that you tuck into one of your more boring books.

You aren’t quite sure when it happens, but you look up, and suddenly, it’s light out. A knock at your door pulls you out of the trance of going through your belongings. Yoongi’s closer, and he reaches out to open it before you can even say anything.

It’s Seokjin.

He stands there, looking a little sheepish, clutching a burlap bag. You aren’t sure if he’s nervous because Yoongi opened the door, or if he’s nervous just being there in general.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Do you–am I interrupting something?”

You exchange a quick look with Yoongi, and he shakes his head. “I’ll be back soon, yeah?” he says to you. And when you nod, he leaves you and Seokjin alone.

For a few brief moments, it’s quiet. Seokjin wanders silently and mindlessly around your room, looking at your desk, a shelf, your bedside table. But then he sighs, and a pained look crosses his face.

“What have we done to get here?” His voice is quiet, tentative, like he doesn’t want to talk too loudly.

You shrug helplessly. “I wish I knew.”

“There’s one good thing to come of it, I suppose.” He sighs once again, and this time, it’s dramatic. “Now you’ll finally have a reason to be a royal pain in the ass.”

In any other situation, you may have laughed. The two of you aren’t strangers by any means, but you’ve always been closer with Namjoon. Seokjin has always been far more interested in the artisans in the forest town than what goes on in the castle. You wouldn’t begrudge him anything, but you also annoy the everloving hell out of each other.

True siblings, your father had once proudly declared. You hadn’t always been quite as confident as he was, but the fact that Seokjin is here now… well, maybe you’re closer than you’d thought.

“I uh…” he starts awkwardly, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes before rubbing his neck. “Got you something to take with you.” He lifts up the bag, gesturing with it slightly before handing it to you.

Confused, you take it. The handle of the bag is rough, the burlap tightly woven for strength even though the contents aren’t particularly heavy. Looking in the bag, you pull out a box that’s about the width and length of a book. It’s made of blackwood, the inky black surface polished into glass. There’s a seam that splits it in half, and two golden hinges on the left side. The front of the box is engraved, a gilded thistle stands resolute against the darkness. You slide open the latch on the side and open it. The box is empty, but there’s enough room to store things.

“It’s very pretty,” you tell him, closing the box gently and slipping the latch back into place.

Gently, Seokjin takes the box out of your hands, and with both thumbs, pushes the leaves on either side of the thistle stem. There’s a quiet sound of sliding wood, and when he opens the box again, a panel inside has been moved, and suddenly, there’s more room. He closes the lid, presses the flower of the thistle, and the sliding happens again.

He pushes the box back into your hands, his eyes not leaving yours. You have questions, but the intensity of his gaze says enough.

“How?” you ask finally. You doubt he just had this lying around.

He shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I asked Haejeon to put a rush on it.”

You nod. Haejeon is one of the artisans in the forest town outside the castle walls. He makes games and trinkets. Your father has hired him many times to carve and build small ornaments out of blackwood, and he’s old enough to be your uncle, but when you were kids, he’d given Seokjin a puzzle box to play with, and ever since, your step-brother has been practically stuck to the man’s hip. Over the years, as Seokjin has gotten more and more interested in the creators and builders and artists, Haejeon has taken him under his wing in a way, offering guidance and friendship outside of the castle.

“Thank him for me. Tell him it’s beautiful.” You hope to God you won’t have reason to use the secret compartment.

A noise outside the door draws your attention, and for a brief moment, Seokjin stares at the dark wood. But then he nods. “Probably Yoongi,” he says lightly. But when he smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll let you kids get back to it.”

But when he opens the door, it’s Namjoon that’s standing there. He’s still in his nightshirt, and a pair of warm, woolen pants hang a little crooked on his muscular legs.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be up,” he says from the doorway, looking completely past Seokjin. You motion for him to enter, but he shakes his head. “I don’t want to stay long, I’m sure you still have plenty to do.”

“Namjoon,” you scold, barely any bite in your tone. Easily, he gives in, taking a few tentative steps into the room.

“I brought you this.” He holds out a book in your direction.

It’s bound in plain leather, and is neither particularly large nor particularly small. The pages are old and yellowed. The front cover is entirely non-descript, the only real identifying feature to the outside simply the word ‘Lin’ stamped on the spine.

You open it, and immediately you recognize it as one of the handful of tomes from Castle Blackwood’s library that details your family history. Its handwritten pages go back thousands of years, back to when Seinal Lin first settled the Westerlands.

“I thought that maybe you’d want it. To tell them about us.”

He doesn’t have to say who he means. If this turns out the way most royal weddings do, you aren’t sure when you’ll see your family again. These people who have been your life and your heart for over two decades will more than likely be strangers to any children you may have. This history that Namjoon has given you is more than just a book. It’s a reminder of who you are. It’s a lifeline.

Suddenly, you feel like you’re breaking apart again, but you fight it off, pulling Namjoon into a tight hug. He makes a noise of surprise but after a second, his arms tighten around you. You stand there for a moment, unwilling to pull away, and soon, you feel another body press against your side. Seokjin’s arms wrap around you both, and now you couldn’t pull away, even if you wanted to.

As quick as it came, the moment passes.

“We should let you get back to it,” Namjoon says softly, a hand still on your arm.

They both nod solemnly, and then, just like that, you’re alone.

The silence is unbearable, the soft crackling of the wall sconces deafening as you’re left alone with your thoughts. Thanks to Yoongi’s earlier efforts, your things are packed, so there isn’t much left to do. You pull out your desk chair and sit, picking up your quill and twirling it between your thumb and forefinger. Thoughts swirl in your mind, and you pick up a piece of parchment.

Once you start writing, you can’t stop, and the words flow out of you as quick as you can write them down. You’re mid-word when there’s a knock at your door, and you hurry to finish and sand the ink.

“Come in,” you call, blowing across the page to get rid of the sand and excess ink.

You have the parchment folded by the time the door opens. Your suspicions are confirmed when a dark head of hair pokes in. Yoongi. He enters slowly, almost silently, and sits on the edge of your bed, watching curiously as you hold a dark green wax stick, melting it with the flame of a candle. You press your seal into the warm wax, removing it quickly before it can stick. The thistle stamp glistens in the candlelight, the wax still soft. You leave it to dry and turn your attention to Yoongi.

His gaze follows your every move, dark eyes soft with fondness. You pretend not to see the redness and puffiness that accompanies it. Silently, he reaches out, catching your hand in his own to tug you toward him. His arms hook around your legs, keeping you close.

“Father asked me to tell you they’re close,” he says softly, a pained look crossing his face briefly. “Word was sent from the first guard post.”

You hum and nod, running your hands through his hair. He’s changed his clothes, but his hair’s still a little tousled from your earlier romp. There’s still some time–the first guard post is at the bottom of the mountain, where the forest is still a thin stand of trees–but suddenly, your heart is in your throat. It hadn’t felt real, not really, but now… You push his hair back off his forehead once again and swallow thickly in an attempt to hold yourself together.

“I love you.” It just kind of bubbles to the surface, quiet but necessary.

He squeezes the back of your thigh, a soft, “I love you more,” on his lips. After another moment, he releases you. “You should change,” he says quietly, standing.

He’s almost to the door when you stop him. “Stay.” You aren’t sure why you say it, but he freezes in place. “Please,” you add. And, after a brief moment of consideration, he nods.

You dress quickly, pulling on a pair of trousers and a new tunic, barely checking to make sure they match. Yoongi helps you with your corset, his deft fingers having no trouble with the laces this time round. When he’s done, you pull him close, wrap your arms around him tightly.

You are determined to not let go of him until you have to.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning back away from you ever so slightly. Your hands stay around his waist, but he brings his hands between you to tug at the ring on his littlest finger. Carefully, he pulls your hand away and places the ring in your palm, closing your fingers around it.

“What-?”

“Take this,” he says, squeezing your fist.

You inspect the ring. It’s funny, you’ve seen it before–you’ve played with his hands countless times, looked at it while it was on his finger–but it’s like this is the first time you’re actually seeing it. It’s silver, the flat face of it etched with a shield, a sword standing at attention in its center. On either side of the ring’s face, thistle flowers bloom along the band.

“Yoongi,” you protest. You don’t want to take his signet ring. It’s the crest of the Min family, the ring serves as a seal to press into wax. He needs it.

He insists. “Keep it. Don’t wear it if you don’t want to, but I want you to have it. To remember.”

“As if I could forget.”

Yoongi smiles at that, a soft, somber smile that curves his lips but doesn’t meet his eyes.

The quiet that settles is interrupted rather rudely by the door opening. A head of dark hair and Yoongi’s sharp eyes peer in at you. It’s Jaesung.

“Lord John asked me to fetch you both,” he says, and you can sense the anger barely concealed in his voice. “They’ll be here soon.”

Yoongi nods, but you can feel him let out a sigh.

“Shall I grab your trunk?” Jaesung asks, gesturing to the now full case behind you. It’s probably heavy, but you nod anyway. You’ve seen him lift heavier before, and you trust him to know his limits. You pick up Seokjin’s box and press the leaves, slipping Yoongi’s ring into the compartment before shutting it back up and stashing the whole thing in your trunk.

Yoongi trails behind you, his fingers grasped loosely in your own as you slowly and begrudgingly make your way through the castle. The wall sconces have been extinguished and the shutters have been thrown open, bathing the stone hallways in morning light. Instead of taking the back stairs you did last night–the ones which go past Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s chambers down to Yoongi’s–you follow the plush carpet down the hall to the grand stairs. They curve around the main hall, criss-crossing from front to back.

You pause at the first landing, just above the grand entrance. Yoongi stops almost immediately, his head falling to one side in confusion.

“Take this,” you say softly, handing him the letter from earlier.

“But-”

“Take it,” you insist, pressing it into his chest. “Don’t read it now. Give it a day or two. Please.”

Your eyes meet his, and silently, you plead with him. For a moment, he stands firm, his grip on your wrist tight. But then he relents, shoulders sagging, and nods. “Fine,” he says, taking the letter from your grasp and stuffing it into his pocket.

The heavy blackwood main doors of the castle are at least double your height, and they stand wide-open now. Your father and step-mother are in the courtyard, you can see them out by the centuries-old blackwood tree that stands sentinel in front of the castle. You’d spent many days of your childhood climbing its thick boughs, throwing seeds down to pelt Namjoon as he sat in the shade and read. Usually, the courtyard is bustling with people–from the castle, from the forest town, visitors–but now, aside from your father and step-mother, it’s completely empty.

“Stop pacing, love,” your step-mother says. She sits in a chair just to the left of the sentinel tree. She must not be feeling as well today. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“I fear it’s too late for that, Sara, my dear” your father mumbles. And when he looks up, he sees you and Yoongi approaching. “Ah.” He outstretches an arm, beckoning you forward.

When you’re close enough, your step-mother grabs your free hand, enveloping it in her own. Her hands are cold, and there’s no real strength to her grip. Yoongi stands close behind you, his chest practically touching your back as you hold the gaze of your step-mother.

“Brave girl,” she says softly.

“The towers sent word ahead of time. The envoy is in a hurry to get back to the Ironhold,” your father tells you. He’s stopped his pacing and now stands beside your step-mother’s chair. “We wanted to have time to say goodbye.”

You frown. Already, the king is not making a good impression on you. Between the sudden letter and the incoming envoy that feels more like an abduction than a transport, you’re certain that this is the worst decision you’ve ever made in your life. And yet, as you look back and forth between your father and step-mother, as you hold Yoongi’s hand, you know it’s probably also–unfortunately–the right one.

Your father comes forward, his big hands cupping your cheeks. “You are smart,” he tells you, voice low. “You are strong. You are kind. Give ‘em hell.” He kisses your forehead and lets you go, turning almost immediately and walking toward the castle entrance to watch the road. You don’t miss the glisten in his eyes.

Your step-mother pats your hand. “I don’t think he will ever let this go. The Ironhold may say they’re doing this for the good of our two families, but…” She sighs. “I fear they’ve made an enemy out of the west.” She meets your gaze again, honeyed dark eyes big and sad. “Don’t let them dull you.”

Carefully, she reaches up and unpins a brooch from the front of her dress. It’s beautiful–you’ve admired it since you were a kid. A mother-of-pearl thistle blossom inset into an oval of ebony blackwood. She stands, a little unsteadily at first, and you reach out to help her gain her balance. Without looking up, she pins the brooch to your tunic, right over your heart.

You hear the hoofbeats before you see the envoy, the clattering of a carriage and several horses enough to draw anyone’s attention. Jaesung arrives just in time; he and Namjoon place your trunk just under the tree beside your step-mother’s chair. Like a spectre, Seokjin appears to your left. They all huddle closer when the first horse appears at the gates.

It’s not really that large of a traveling party–two men on horseback, a carriage with its driver, and a supply wagon–but the sight of it has your stomach churning all the same. You’re glad you didn’t take time for breakfast, or you might actually be sick. Yoongi presses closer, your entwined hands hidden behind your back.

One of the riders dismounts–you assume the steward–and approaches your father. They shake hands, and you can see the man’s gaze flick to you as they talk. Yoongi squeezes your hand. After a moment, they come closer. Your father’s face is grave, almost ashen, as he gestures for you.

The whole exchange is silent. You dare not look at Yoongi, too afraid that if you do, you’ll falter or worse. But as you step forward, he refuses to let go of your hand. Only until you’re physically too far away does he loosen his grip, and as soon as his fingers are out of your grasp, you miss him.

Your trunk gets moved to the carriage. The steward shakes your father’s hand again. Namjoon hugs you. Seokjin kisses your forehead. You’re passed around your father and step-mother and Jaesung. You refuse to look at Yoongi. And then it’s over. And you have nothing left to do but get in the carriage.

The inside of the carriage looks lavish, with soft velvet covering the bench and luxurious curtains covering the windows. But when you actually get in, the bench is hard, and the fabric over the windows leaves the carriage dark and confining. It’s impossible to see out, but you do your best, pulling the fabric away from the window and shoving your face against the wood of the wall.

They stand there, everyone you hold close, clumped together. The carriage jolts forward, and even though they can’t see you, you wave. Yoongi is the only one that lifts his hand, and you hold his gaze until the carriage enters the forest town and you can no longer see him.

Your heart hurts, and somewhere, deep inside your soul, you feel something breaking.

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your support means a whole lot, especially now when I'm low on energy and time. grad school is hell, but I wanted to post this to give us both some joy. please let me know your thoughts. I hope to finish this sometime this century, so please look forward to the next two parts!

#yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #suga fic #suga fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fic #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #myg x reader

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