#knuckles and split lips and hes comfortable in a body aching with bruises and pumping hot blood through his veins. he fucking hates

[dirt-str1der]

Ngh awake thinking about the way phantasmagorias author portrays the majima everywhere alert through prose like YOW the second before the door slams open you already feel ten thousand icy cold needles shooting into your skin so deep they pierce to the marrow, like youve walked into a spiderweb spun with threads of fate and theyre all wrapping around you and trying to converge inside your body and then the door opens and its him. Its really him and you have every reason to square your shoulders up and tell him get the FUCK out of my home

[lothlaer]

Proposal: Jaskier's got a fist clenched painfully hard one time when he's really really hurt and Yen has to force his palm open so she can tangle their fingers together and try to keep him from hurting his own hand. And they're both kind of like "oh" at some point idk 😳

Anon this apparently awakened something in me, so thank you for expanding on my post and giving me the inspo to write (checks notes) 1.7k. Hope you enjoy whatever this is!!! 

Pre-yennskier, description of blood and injury, 100% hurt/comfort. Read on AO3

“Stop fucking moving,” Geralt hisses, pushing down hard on the hips beneath his hands to still the man’s squirming.

A choked off, muffled whine dies in Jaskier’s throat, his lips pursed tight enough to turn them pale and thin. He’s panting through his nose, clearly in agony, and too out of it to understand that moving will only make this worse.

Yennefer spares the witcher a glance, noting the anxiety and fear that’s obvious on his face, in the tension across his brow, the frantic not-focus of his eyes that flick between the bard’s half-delirious expression and the gaping wound at his side.

She’s done all she can to heal him, sealed up the torn and leaking insides that they all know would have killed him if they hadn’t been here – that still might kill him if they can’t stem the blood loss and prevent infection. She thinks of it like this; clinical, sensible, because she has to.

Jaskier’s heartbeat is quicker than it should be, his breathing equally fast, panicked and pained and shallow. She keeps her ear trained to its frantic rhythm, notices how Geralt’s heart thumps faster than normal too, almost human, almost matching hers. She’d laugh at the symmetry of it all, if it were funny. She’s sure Jaskier would write a poem, if he knew, but she won’t ever tell him. 

He stills a little under the pressure of Geralt’s hands, though still struggles. He probably can’t help it by this point, too confused and the pain too intense to allow much rational thought. Geralt can’t work if he keeps kicking, shifting his hips to try to escape the discomfort.

“Yen,” Geralt growls, and she’d tell him off if she thought it would help.

She tells him off anyway, growling his name back as she presses her weight onto the bard’s chest, keeping him pinned. She watches his face, stares at the lines of tears down his temples, wrung out from his scrunched eyes.

The tight seam of Jaskier’s lips splits open, a deep groan and hitching sob forcing its way out as Geralt flushes the wound. He shifts again, and it’s only then that Yennefer notices his hands. The one nearest her grips at her skirt, tugging it towards himself, the other clenched tight enough at his side that the whites of his knuckles stand out even against his bloodless skin.

She reaches for it before she can think about it, dragging his hand over his chest, looking at the way he’s digging his nails into the meat of his palm.

Yennefer doesn’t say anything as she fits her thumb under his, prying it open like the hinge on a rusted box. There’s no treasure within as she does the same with his fingers, forcing them loose enough that his reflex to clench releases, each digit unfolding only to reveal deep indents in his skin like faint purple mouths.

She slips her fingers between his, taking the pressure into her own grip, resting their joined hands over his heart.

He blinks up at her, eyes wet with tears, then lifts his head to look down at himself.

“Don’t look,” Yennefer snaps, pointedly leaning forward to block the vivid red of Geralt’s hands from view.

She knocks her knuckles against his breastbone, drawing his attention back, and he focuses in on the press of their skin together.

She thinks that if he had enough blood left in his body to do so, Jaskier would be blushing. She feels heat rise in her own cheeks in sympathy. His lips part on an inappropriately dreamy sigh, and she realises she’s stroking her thumb back and forth over his clammy skin, then swiftly stops.

Yennefer checks his expression and discovers his eyes on her again, a long moment dragging on as she finds herself unable to look away, their faces closer than she realised and his short breaths puffing against her skin. She’s horribly aware of their entwined hands, the unpleasant sensation of drying blood and mud between them, the frantic heart mere centimetres away, trapped beneath only by fragile human flesh and bone.

Between another aborted cry of pain and a feeble attempt at another kick, Jaskier lets his head fall back to the ground, gaze swimming and dizzy as he stares up at the canopy of the trees above them, his grip tightening to the point of pain as the joints in Yennefer’s hand compress.

She loses track of time for a while, her knees and back aching from being folded over for so long, the quiet and sometimes unpleasant noises coming from Geralt working opposite her the only way to gauge how long they’ve been here, alongside the warbling beat that still echoes against her eardrums. It’s not like his usual music.

She looks back to his face after some time, catches his eyelids fluttering.

“None of that,” she scolds, loud enough to jerk him back into wakefulness.

She turns her head to look at the wound, relieved to find it closed with stitches, no longer sluggishly leaking blood down Jaskier’s side. He’s still covered in it, soaked into his shirt and the trousers covering his propped-up legs, even on the blanket they’ve thrown over him.

Geralt looks up and the relief is clear on his face; they’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s a step in the right direction. His eyes flick to Jaskier’s hand in hers, looking pointedly at where he’s still gripping her dress too, then walking away with a mutter about getting bandages.

Yennefer finds herself alarmingly embarrassed, and withdraws her hand.

Jaskier doesn’t complain, his fingers falling loose and curled where she leaves them.

Geralt returns quickly, begins packing the injury. Jaskier jerks again, then they begin the agonising process of winding bandages around his waist, having to manoeuvre him upright enough to pass them under his back.

By the end he’s even sweatier and paler than he was before. His noises of pain throughout have been quieter than Yennefer was expecting, the usual volume and raucousness of his voice muffled and contained. It’s simultaneously impressive and irritating – men, she thinks.

He groans long and low nonetheless as they shift him sideways onto a bedroll and prop another bag under his knees.

“It’s done, it’s over,” Yennefer finds herself saying quietly while Geralt resituates the blanket.

She wipes a tear away from Jaskier’s cheek with the backs of her fingers, and tries not to overthink the action in the seconds afterwards as his sobs subside.

He’s trembling, either from pain or shock or the cold, and Geralt wastes no time getting him water with some herbs mixed in. He drinks greedily, water spilling out around his mouth until the witcher urges him to slow.

Geralt lays him back down, calls his name softly until his wobbly attention wanders back to them.

“All better?” Jaskier murmurs after a moment, eyelids already half-mast.

Geralt lays a wet cloth over the bard’s forehead and holds his palm on it, steady and reassuring, long enough to lean over and catch Jaskier’s gaze.

“Good enough,” he says, beginning to wipe away the sweat and dirt from Jaskier’s face in gentle strokes.

“Bastard,” Jaskier mutters, eyes falling closed. He only settles for a moment before jerking awake, his eyes wide and alarmed. “Yen?”

He looks around blearily, waving an uncoordinated hand out – seeking her presence, Yennefer realises. She reaches for him, grasping his hand in hers. His gaze snaps to her, and softens.

“Okay?” he asks.

His skin is cool, his heart still racing.

“You’ll be pissing us off with your usual obnoxious poetics within a day, I imagine.”

He frowns at her and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he swallows dryly, “you okay?”

Yennefer opens her mouth, ready for a witty retort to manifest, but all that emerges is the escape of a surprised breath. She thinks of the way they’d been standing side by side when the attack had happened, the way the bard had fallen against her and brought her to her knees in the grass and mud, last autumn’s shed of rotting leaves compacting beneath her hands. The drip of red blending against the dirt. Her stomach twists, then releases.

“Rest, Jaskier.”

He still stares at her.

“I’m fine, you fool.” She squeezes his hand again, thinks of the indents on his palm. “Rest.”

He does, finally, slipping easily into something deeper than sleep. She knows she and Geralt will have their senses fixed on the pump of his blood for days yet, and that it’ll be a while before his body replenishes what he’s lost.

For now, the steadiness of his pulse and his breathing will have to be enough, even if they remain unnatural and fast.

Yennefer realises she’s been staring for a while when she notices Geralt bringing a bowl over, his hands and arms already washed clean of the mess from the past hour.

“Wonderful timing,” he says dryly, shaking the red-tinged water off his fingers with a couple of quick flicks.

“For what, witcher?” Yennefer says shortly, her nerves strung thin and dangerous.

Geralt snorts. Yennefer glares.

“For a realisation.” He smirks at her, smug.

“Fuck off,” she spits, not turning away quick enough to miss the way the man’s smile widens further.

She draws her hands away from Jaskier, his grip limp now, and washes her hands too, surprised to see the ripples on the surface from where she’s shaking. Geralt comes up behind her, his hand falling to her shoulder, and they both look down at the bard. The porcelain tinge of his skin is unnerving, his eyes bruised, and dirt and leaves still cling to his hair. But he’s alive, alive, and the knots in their chests release.

She thinks about leaving now her job’s done, the unpleasant warmth blooming somewhere in her gut making her want to run away, to flee from whatever the bard’s pain and gaze and hands have triggered in her, the feeling snapping sharp like a wire under her skin.

Geralt squeezes her shoulder.

“Stay with him.”

Yennefer feels the words rumble through her, less than an order but more than a suggestion. Her heart leans into it, giving way so carelessly to harmonise with the rhythm of his.

She stays.

[ionlyjoinedforstuffilike]

The Pain of Love

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Word Count: 1,900

Rating/Warnings: E (18+), smut, hurt comfort, angst, description of injuries and mention of weapons and violence.

Summary: Tending your wounds from a fight you're not sure you've won, Steve arrives uninvited to your apartment. He helps clean you up but will his presence only cause you more pain? (Takes place before cacw)

A/N: Thank you to @barnessupremacy for both inspiring and supporting me to write for Steve.

The face staring back at you barely recognisable, the purple spreading across your eye, down your cheek, swelling at the cut near your brow, your lip split, pretty sure your tooth cracked though you prayed it was just the ache of your battered jaw. The bruising trailed over your body, you turned this way and that, looking at them in front of the mirror, assessing the damage. A map of carnage half hidden by your cami. Definitely cracked ribs, scrapes on your hands, knees. It really didn't feel like you'd won the fight. You weren't really sure you had.

You'd discarded your outer clothes slowly and painfully before dumping the contents of your pharmacy run on the vanity. Bandages and antiseptic to try and clean yourself up, strong painkillers too though you were depending on the large scotch you'd poured until they kicked in.

Life after the Avengers was supposed to be easier, safer. But then you had chosen to freelance, you had chosen this case, to confront a group of very violent men alone. Investigating security breaches, corporate espionage of course came with risk, but a breeze compared to saving the world. Though back when you were your backup had been a group of exceptional individuals with unlimited resources. It wasn't easy to walk away, everyone made an effort to ask you to stay, more out of politeness than genuine need, after all whatever you offered the team was hardly unique and easy enough to replace. You couldn't stay, it had gotten too hard. Not to fight. Not to get up and face unknowable foes. No, you couldn't be near him and not be with him. Not anymore. Steve was the reason you joined, he was the reason he left. At first you convinced yourself it was a silly crush, though soon you realised it was so much more, not just one side and that made it was harder to brush off. Every time you thought you were moving forward, he'd pull back. You couldn't compete with ghosts. So, breaking your own heart, you walked away.

Sighing as you stretched, testing out the ache and strain of your muscles, you picked you a cotton ball, dabbed it to the bottle of antiseptic then to your knuckles, cursing the sting and the situation. A few knuckles and string of expletives later you heard something. Gathering your drink, you moved out to the hallway, waited, listened and there a few moments later - three quiet but distinct raps. You placed your glass on the hall table, exchanged it for your Glock and made your way to the door. Heart hammering, wondering how the hell the guys from earlier got your address, you hadn't been followed, maybe you had and you were simply distracted by your injuries to notice. You removed the safety as you peered through the peephole.

An unimpressed chuckle escaped you, rattled against your tender ribs, you flipped the safety back on on twisted the door handle. Letting the door swing open as you made your way back through the hallway, dropping the gun with a clunk before snatching up your drink and going back to the bathroom. He followed. You'd taken up the cotton ball to continue tending your wounds when his reflection appeared in the mirror. Hands in pockets he leaned against the door jamb, his plain t-shirt stretching across his biceps, he'd taken off the jacket (probably hung neatly on the hook by the door).

"Should I ask?" He blue eyes finding yours in the glass. "Are you okay?"

"You should see the other guy." your smirk quickly followed by a wince as the antiseptic hit your skin.

He walked towards you, his tall broad frame filling the space and towering over you, "I don't care about the other guy." His hands went to your waist, picking you up he placed you next to the sink, then took the cotton ball from your hand and carefully began pressing it to your cut. "It looks pretty bad, maybe we should get you to a medic."

"It's fine. This is how non superhumans look after a fist fight."

He ignored you, though you caught the slight arch of his brow. He continued to clean the wound, moving closer to attend it better, his firm body close enough that you could feel the heat, heart hammering once more when he blew gently across the gash, his lips almost brushing your skin.

"Why are you here Steve?"

"I came to convince you to come back home."

"It's not home Steve. It is a compound where colleagues live and train."

"It's my home." a soft whisper, and you know your words had stung. Regret and the throb of your heart ate at the silence.

"I can't."

"Why?" His hands resting either side of you as his blue eyes searched yours.

"I'll get hurt if I stay."

"You're hurt now."

"That's not how I mean." It was your turn to whisper, "You'll hurt me." His frown was instant, expression pained as if you stabbed him square in his gut. "I want to build a future and you're always looking to the past." His eyes scrunched shut as you twisted the knife.

He said nothing just gathered a clean cotton ball, kneeled down and started to tend to your knees, one hand underneath cupping your calf keeping you still as he dabbed at the scrapes. Then after the longest time he simply said, "I want you home."

You both stayed silent as he finished his task. You gulped the last of the scotch while his fingers danced over your skin seeking out damage, once all cuts and grazes had been cleaned, he started examining your bruises. Gently moving limbs, this way and that, checking for more sinister injuries, broken bones, his hands finally finding their way back to your waist. You winced as his hands pressed against you, carefully he tugged the cami up to expose the bruise blossoming over your ribs, his fingers touching so tentatively, "I think they are broken."

"Cracked maybe."

"We need to go to a hos-"

"Steve I'm fine," reaching for his cheek, try as you might you couldn't hold back, the wall you'd build weak and crumbling and tears filled in your eyes. He broke your gaze, focusing back on your torso, leaning forward placing his lips to the spot, kissing across your broken body. You didn't stop him, instead carded your fingers through his blond hair. He stood then, to kiss your lips. It was soft and sweet and everything you'd imagined. But you had imagined more, you spread your legs tempting him closer, kissing him back more forcefully. He returned the urgency, though the yelp as your split lip was disturbed slowed you both. Steve's fingers inched up under your shirt, pushing it up, breast now exposed to the air you ached wanting him so desperately to touch you there, he's hesitating, knowing that once the move was made he couldn't go back. The line irrevocably crossed. Maybe you should have hesitated too, instead of running head on into the danger you had tried to escape, but now in the moment you didn't care. You wanted him, yearned for him.

When his thumb grazed your nipple, you shivered and melted into him, arms around his thick shoulders. His large hands becoming more assured, cupping and squeezing, you groaned as he rolled the pebbled peaks. As wonderful as it was, each and every movement fuelled your desperation and his too. He tugged up your vest, pulling it over your head, quickly followed with the removal of his own. His tanned chilled muscles beautiful and perfect but you focused on his belt buckle, fumbling to unfasten it. Steve was back kissing you, his firm flesh hot next to yours, his hands cradling your head as yours dipped down the front of his trousers and felt the hot firmness there. The evidence of his own yearning. Deep growls emanated from his chest as you stroked his hard cock, hand encircling his shaft pumping up and down. Steve lips broke their connection, resting his forehead to yours, eyes closed, lost to the pleasure of your touch.

"Let's go to the bedroom," you shook your head and gently squeezed him, "I can be more careful then."

"No, here." You knew it was probably a better idea to let him take you to bed, let him love you so softly and sweetly yet it was fear that stopped you. Fear that once you left the confines of the small bathroom the spell would be broken, and his reservations would take charge. You needed him, right then and there - and that was what you told him.

His hands dropped and hooked into the underwear, pulling them from you, then returned to his space between your legs, his fingers finding your clit, circling the sensitive nub before delving deeper, teasing your entrance. Head hazy from lust and medication, the ache and pains of your body were nothing to the needy tension coiling in your core, desire ever growing, consuming every thought and feeling. Your mewling caught by Steve's mouth when his fingers entered you, first one then the other, twisting and flexing and working you open. All the while your hands roamed his body, unable to settle - tangled in his hair, swept across the taught muscles of his back, down over his abdomen to the fine fair hair near his pelvis. You needed all of him, spent so long willing him to you and now you had him the very way you wanted most, and you couldn't get enough.

"I need you." you whimpered.

He removed his hands, pushed down his khakis and boxers, you wanted to see all of his magnificent, but his lips never left you, your tongues engaged in a dance he wasn't willing to end. It was a small sacrifice for soon you felt the tip against you, moving up and down your wet slit till neither of you could stand it any longer, he pushed forward. Your cunt wet and wanton still needed to stretch to accommodate his size, gradually inching his way into you, you're lightheaded and starry eyed when he finally reached the hilt.

He rocked slowly, his movements hesitant not you thought from the act but from his unwillingness to cause your battered body more discomfort. You settled your hands on his broad shoulders, encouraging him with your touch, your moans. It may have been that or the firm grip of his desire that caused him to quicken. Each thrust more wonderful than the next. Steve grabbed at the thickness of your thigh, pushing your leg out and up, you screamed not from the jolt to your tender ribs but from pure ecstasy, the new angle tilting you just right so his hard cock rubbed against that most magical spot. Again and again, thrust after thrust and the tight coil snapped and came for him, once and twice before he stiffened and throbbed within you.

Panting, Steve's head rested on your shoulder, his lips puckering now and then against your skin, you kissed him too, pecks to the side of his face, temple, hair.

"Are you okay?" his asked, voice raspy.

"I will be."

[just-a-creep-babe]

Kinktober Day 16

Jason the Toymaker: Holding Hands

W why did I think holding hands was an acceptable prompt for this? Why did no one try to stop me? Smdh,,,,,,,, I’m blaming you guys

~Requests are closed~

Masterlist: x

Any tips are greatly appreciated!

“Twirl for me, doll~”

The man’s voice is low and silky, his lips curling into a smirk in the reflection of the antique mirror

You gladly obey, spinning in place, enjoying the way the fabric feels when it puffs up and twists with the motion of your hips

“Slower, angel”

The pleased drawl in his voice has your heart fluttering in your chest

Again, you twirl in place, moving slower, giving him more of a show to admire his handiwork

The dress is absolutely breathtaking—no doubt about it

He tilts his head, dazzling features lost in thought for a moment

And then he offers up his hand to take, returning his full attention towards you

You try to ignore the warmth blossoming to your cheeks as you place your hand in his

His long, elegant fingers wrap around yours, the feeling somehow both comforting and electrifying at the same time

“Again,” he all but purrs

This time, your spin is much, much slower

His hand grasping yours leads the pace, giving him more than enough time to absorb every detail of the fabric hugging your curves

“Such a pretty thing~” he croons once you’re back to facing the mirror

And though he seems satisfied with what you’ve shown him, he still doesn’t let go of your hand

The simple contact, admittedly, has you feeling hot, your body tingling as the warmth of his body presses closer to yours

No matter how long you’d been with the demon, you could never quite get used to the way he spoke, or the way he sometimes eyed you up and down—like you were a delicacy he was moments away from indulging in

The faintest touches never failed to get your blood pumping and your thoughts swimming

He tilts your face up with his free index finger, so you’ve no choice but to look at your reflection

“Look at how perfect you look, angel. So divine~”

You know he wants you to look at yourself, but your gaze ends up wandering to him instead

He seems to notice this, and it has him smirking

He takes a seat on the vanity chair and, still clasping your hand in his, he tugs you down so that you’re sitting on his lap

You squirm, trying to get settled, when you feel his erection press against your backside

You freeze

His breath is warm on your neck as he chuckles, his grip tightening around your fingers, urging you to give the faintest squeeze in return

He carefully moves your hair to one side of you face and nuzzles into your neck, breathing your scent, taking in as much of you as he can

“My precious doll” he murmurs

His voice sounds huskier, deeper than it did a few moments ago

You suppress a whimper, fidgeting in his hold as you try to rub your thighs together, involuntarily looking for some kind of relief from the ache between your legs

He doesn’t hesitate to trail his free hand up your thighs, moving beneath all the layers of silk and lace to rub one long stroke up your slit

The contact has you stiffening, a gasp catching in your throat, your hips buckling as he reaches your clit

“P-please,” you breathe

“Please what, little doll?”

You swallow thickly, looking anywhere but at the mirror because you probably look like a mess and he barely started touching you

“Please... touch me, uhm… u-under”

He smiles into your neck

Every steady stroke has you growing wetter, soaking your panties as they push up into your slit, nestling ever so closer against your throbbing clit

“Mmh, you want me to play with your pretty little cunt, angel?”

He circles your bundle of nerves, toying with you at his own leisure

Your head rolls back onto his shoulder, arching faintly into him, one hand squeezing his while the other grips the armrest

“Yes… please”

He tugs the material aside, and then everything feel so much more sensitive as he slowly gathers up your arousal between two digits

Up and down, he drags his fingers along your slit, savoring the way you squirm and whimper and squeeze his hand with every jolt of pleasure raking up your spine

A groan bubbles past your lips, accompanied by quiet little pleas for more because he’s driving you insane

And then, finally, after what feels like way too long, he pushes one finger into your tight entrance, teasing it in before adding a second one

“F-fuck, Master~”

You try to roll your pelvis up into him, and it has him making what sounds like both a groan and a purr

He tilts his hand so that the heel of his palm grinds into your clit as he slowly works his fingers into your sopping sex

“Such a beautiful doll”

You almost shiver at the rumbling of his voice

And then he’s pulling his fingers from your core and shifting beneath you

There’s the sound of fabric rustling, followed by a breathy sigh, and then his hand, still slick with your arousal, gently lifts you up and settles you down on his full length

Inch by inch, he seats you on his cock—and the sheer size of him has you mewling openly in delight

“Atta girl, so nice and responsive~” he groans

Your core clenches and unclenches around him, trying to get used to the way he presses into your walls, splitting your insides wide open

And then he brings his fingers to his mouth, humming pleasantly at your taste, before grabbing your hips and guiding you so that you’re rocking on top of him

The pace he has you setting is slow and even, with synchronized thrusts that have your skin smacking against him, filling the room with the sounds of your pleasure

Your brows furrow, face contorting in bliss as his cock rubs right against your most sensitive spot, sending your cunt spazzing around him

And then he releases his grip on your thighs, letting you take full control, only to offer up his second hand for you to hold

You take it without second thought, using the newfound grip to steady yourself as you bounce yourself up and down on his perfect cock

“F-fuck—“ you groan, “fuck, fuck, fuck!~”

His fingers tighten around yours, his cock twitching, and you squeeze around him, whimpering pathetically

“Does my little angel enjoy that? Does that feel nice, darling?”

You nod, choking out a moan

“Y-yes, f-feels so good~”

You want so badly to rub at your aching clit, but he’s not letting go of your hands and it’s torturous

You pick up the pace, growing desperate, driving yourself harder and faster down onto him until you can’t stop cinching around him

Every stroke has you breathless, panting obscenities between lewd moans as your peak grows, your silky walls fluttering tightly around him

“So good for me, little angel. So tight and perfect for me to use~”

He presses his lips to your neck, nipping bruises and planting hungry kisses that have sharp teeth breaking through skin

Your peak beckons, so unbearably close that all you can do is moan and whine for him, the feeling of his cock repeatedly ramming your insides completely taking over your senses

And when he coaxes you to cum with more honeyed praises, your body submits to him, buckling in frantic thrusts as you ride out your high through the rustling of the dress

Your muscles tense, fingers grasping his until your knuckles turn white

With a low, smoldering moan, he reaches his own climax as well, cock twitching and spluttering cum, filling you to the brim with his thick seed

You sit on top of him, panting, your face flushed and glowing in the mirror—though you can’t even begin to compete with the way he looks—so utterly captivating and divine in the afterglow of his orgasm

He seems to almost purr as he presses you further into him, pulling your back flush against his chest

“Such a perfect doll” he sighs

He runs the pad of his thumbs over your hands, stroking at the underside of your palm

You settle back into him with a content noise, closing your eyes and enveloping yourself in his embrace

The last thing you feel as you slip into unconsciousness is the gentleness of his fingertips tracing over your soft hands

[lesetoilesfous]

Hii :3 I love reading your stories Lese? Is it alright if I call you Lese?? I saw that you were taking prompts and are very close to getting a bingo on that last row. Buried Alive for Anders maybe, whenever youre available ofc? Fenders??? :0 hshsjsjskjd

Hey, thank you so much!! I'm happy to be called Lese, I like Les or Kat, but anything works!!! Thank you so much for helping me try to get a bingo, I really hope you enjoy this one!!!

@badthingshappenbingo Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: Buried Alive

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders, Marian Hawke, Varric Tethras

Additional Tags: Graphic Depiction of Injury, Buried Alive, Panic Attack, Trauma Responses, Pre-Relationship, Past Flogging, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word Count: 2,380

Rating: Mature

“I’ve got it, go! GO!” Anders’ voice bellowing is the last thing Fenris hears before the overwhelming thunder of the cavern collapsing around them drowns out everything else.

He feels as if his mind and his body are torn apart as he runs: his legs leaving his conscious control as they’re overtaken by sheer animal instinct to get away from the collapsing mountain, his mind and sweat-stinging eyes full of the image of Anders’ tall, broad body holding his staff over his shoulders and propping up enough of a threshold for his friends to escape. Fenris’ sweating, bloody feet skid on the sandy stone as he’s deafened by the roar, his breath coming in and out of his lungs in great heaves of fresh snow and broken glass. Ahead of him is the ocean: wide and blue and wrinkled, utterly untouched by the chaos on the beach. Varric skids into the sand beside him with Hawke’s hand on the back of his jacket, her bicep tense where she’s half-lifting the dwarf off the ground.

Fenris blinks, turning around, dizzy suddenly with breathlessness and adrenaline as every chemical pumping through his body flushes into his racing mind. He stumbles, and Hawke catches him, deftly, her blue eyes wide and over-alert the way they always are whenever they get into a situation they might not survive. Fenris has seen that expression on soldiers before, and doesn’t doubt she’s carried it with her since Lothering. He neither pulls away nor leans into her touch, and after a moment she drops her hand to rest on her thighs, bending almost double as she heaves in her breath.

Behind them there’s a hissing avalanche of sand, and great scabs of reeds come tumbling down onto the beach as the cavern crumbles. Fenris has seen the devastating effects of gaatlok before, but somehow his memory never fully prepares him for the imminent blast radius. Slowly, terribly slowly, Fenris’ heart starts to slow, and his breathing begins to return to normal. He becomes aware of the sweat drying on his neck, and the salty taste of the sea breeze in his mouth. His ears are still ringing with the thunder of the cavern collapse when he hears a snap.

The sound is sharp as a whip, even through the stormcloud of noise, and Fenris notices Hawke and Varric exchange a startled look out of the corner of his eye in the split second before he starts running. Fenris stumbles to a stop in front of the cave entrance: a mess of black and grey boulders stained with algae and riddled with tumorous molluscs. The stones have cracked open in places, revealing rich layers of red and orange and yellow. Fenris barely notices, he breathes, and coughs on the sand kicked up the collapse, and breathes again before shouting into the mess. “MAGE! MAGE! MAGE! IF YOU YET LIVE, ANSWER ME.”

Fenris stops, and hears his own voice snatched by the wind and away down the dunes. At Hawke’s heels, Dog is whining, frightened by Fenris’ uncharacteristic display of emotion. Hawke puts a hand on Fenris’ shoulders, and he shrugs her off and hates her a little when her mouth falls in a brief moue of sympathy that’s gone when he blinks. She climbs up the rocks a little, one boulder reaching halfway up her torso. “ANDERS! ANDERS, ARE YOU IN THERE?”

There’s an ominous rumble, and a skittering rain of gravel and sand tumbles down the boulders. Varric clears his throat. “Go easy on the yelling, you two. We don’t want to make it worse.”

Fenris turns to him, seized by a sudden, terrible blade of hope that skewers his heart and twists in it. “Varric. What do we do?”

Varric raises an eyebrow at him. “I grew up on the surface, remember? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Anger, sudden and red, floods behind Fenris’ eyes. “That’s not good enough!” His voice rings against the rocks, and Varric purses his lips. Hawke steps between them.

“Quietly, remember? Come on, if we start moving this lot now then -” She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t say, if he’s unconscious, he might have a chance. Doesn’t say, we could get him before he bleeds out. Doesn’t say, there’s no way we can stop him suffocating, now.

Fenris nods, more relieved than he wants to admit at finally having something to do. He starts grabbing rocks, randomly at first - until one boulder grinds down onto his hand and he has to bite his arm til it bleeds to stop himself from screaming. After that it’s slow, terrible work, one rock at a time, for hours, as the bright blue sky above them bleeds to gray to welcome a hot, muggy evening and black stinging bugs emerge from the dunes to nip curiously at their burning skin.

Fenris’ knuckles are aching, and his palms are chafed raw, scratched and bleeding by the time they get through. Hawke is little better, her knuckles scraped and bruised. Even Dog is covered in a thick layer of dust, and Varric has lain Bianca reverently beside a dune with his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, an expression of uncharacteristic severity on his face as he frowns at the boulders.

The first thing they find is his staff. Fenris knows it wasn’t important to him - had seen how easily Anders had dropped one staff for another, stolen from a former gangster or some other ne’er-do-well who had had the misfortune to attack them. But there’s still something terribly simple about the snapped, useless wood when they find a splintered shaft in the rubble. Fenris blinks, and sees Anders, wide shoulders braced by that staff as he held up the collapsing ceiling, hair thick with dust and rubble. He swallows against his dry throat, sore with rock dust, and keeps moving rubble.

The sky is bleeding red by the time they find him. Dog finds him first, yelping and then whining as she scrabbles at the dust. Fenris thinks, distant, numb in his shock and delayed grief, that Anders would be surprised to learn the hound cared. But then he’s there, his feet having moved him again, without thought, and he’s crouching to lift a great splintered boulder out of the way, and his toes touch soft hair and Fenris nearly cries out. As it is, he dumps the boulder and rushes forward.

Anders is pinned between a series of rocks. His eyes are open and his hand is purple and covered with cherry red blood. Blood seeps out between the boulders around him, and his nose and mouth are thick with it. His eyes are wide open and staring, and for an awful, awful heartbeat Fenris thinks he’s dead. But then the low, soft sound of murmuring reaches him over the constant sound of the sea. “Letmeoutletmeoutletmeoutletmeoutletmeout.”

Fenris drags on the lyrium sewn into his skin and for the first time in his known life finds himself thanking the Maker, or Andraste, or the Creators, for this hideous, agonising ability. He plunges his hands through the thick stone of the rock, and wraps his fingers around a horrifically mangled mass that he thinks is one of Anders’ shoulders, and pulls.

Anders screams - an awful, hoarse thing that breaks on the way out of his split lips. But he’s out, and in the dirt, and breathing, and Fenris doesn’t think before he pulls the man into his arms and holds him so tightly his arms hurt. Fenris’ tattoos are still glowing, star-bright in the growing dark, and his muscles feel locked in place as he buries his face in Anders’ shoulder and breathes in the stink of sweat and piss and blood. He doesn’t care. He holds Anders so hard he’s shivering. He can’t shake the idea that if he lets go, even a little, he’ll forget how to breathe.

After several long minutes, in which Fenris’ muscles become so tense they ache like a bruise, Anders comes back into himself, slumping into Fenris’ arms. The movement jostles his mangled shoulder, and he whimpers, and Fenris’ arms tighten around him, as if a simple embrace will stop the pain. When Anders starts to cry, softly, trembling into Fenris’ shoulder, Fenris realises that his own face is already wet with cold tears that he doesn’t remember crying. Above them, the sky is charcoal and midnight blue, and the first stars are climbing over the sea.

Hawke lights a campfire, and steps closer to touch Fenris’ shoulder. He doesn’t react, but she doesn’t let go until he turns to look at her. Her face is still streaked with dust, and her eyes are red, but there are no signs of tear tracks that he can see in the dark. Her strong jaw is tense when she says, firmly, “We need to deal with his injuries.” Her face softens, slightly, as she adds, “You can hold him again, after.”

Slowly, feeling as if he’s been petrified in place and is now trying to coax stone, Fenris stiffly uncurls his arms. Anders doesn’t do or say anything, though his breathing hitches at the movement of his mangled arm. Fenris pushes his dusty hair out of his face, trying to avoid a thick gash across his forehead. “Mage. We need to look at your injuries.”

Anders looks at him slowly, his brown eyes almost gold in the firelight. He nods, and Fenris moves his hand to gently begin the process of peeling his blood-encrusted coat away from his skin. Anders clenches his teeth, his jaw thick with stubble full of dust, and breathes in long, shaking breaths as Fenris moves the filthy leather. When he gets to the worst of it - a place where Anders’ coat and shirt are black with blood and concave as they’ve been pushed into his body, Fenris grits his teeth. “One - two -” Before he says three, Fenris rips the coat free, causing Anders to cry out and topple forward. Fenris catches him on his good shoulder, and behind Anders, Hawke and Varric’s faces go pale.

“Blood and ashes.” Varric murmurs, looking sick. Anders’ breath starts coming faster in short, shallow pants. Fenris rushes forward, brushing his cheek with his thumb, fingers curled around his ear.

“It’s alright. It’s alright. We’ve got you.”

It takes Hawke an hour to get the debris out of the torn, broken mess of Anders’ shoulder blade. When she’s done, there’s a thin sheen of sweat across her pale skin and she looks older than she has since Bethany joined the Wardens. The fire is low and red, but Varric keeps wandering off to fetch more driftwood. There’s a small pile of shattered stone and bone on the sand that Hawke buries almost immediately. Dog is lying down beside her master, sandy head on her great paws, whining occasionally when Anders huffs a soft sound of pain. Fenris is trying, hard, not to stare at the canvas of familiar scars exposed by their impromptu operation, glittering silver in the dark like a crosshatch tattooed across Anders’ freckled back.

The sea laps softly at the beach behind them, and around them the dunes hiss with the breeze. Hawke looks at Fenris, “That’s all I can do, for now. Hopefully his mana will be back tomorrow and he’ll be able to heal the rest.” She swallows, thickly. “I knew I should’ve brought Merrill.”

Between them, Anders is all but unconscious, lying on his front, naked down to his waist, skin covered in newly cleaned cuts and bruises. Fenris stares at him for a long moment, running his fingers through the other man’s hair. He thinks he’s trying to comb the dust out, but it’s not doing much and it’s more of a nervous habit than anything. He breaks the sighing silence between them. “It’s not your fault.”

Hawke says nothing, sitting back on the other side of the fire and staring at the shifting sea, gilded with silver by the moon. The fire licks gold and rubies across her skin. She bends her knees, and rests her elbows on them, pressing her forehead to her skin and breathing for several long moments. Fenris waits. He knows he won’t be sleeping much tonight, anyway. Eventually, Hawke turns her head to the side, still resting on the pillow of her forearms. “I didn’t know you were close.”

Fenris’ fingers pause in their combing of Anders’ hair. But after two heartbeats, the discomfort of not reminding himself that the man beside him is still alive is greater than compromising whatever bud of new life they’d been nurturing between them. He bites the inside of his cheek to try and wake himself up from the distant feeling of grief and shock. “It...has not been happening for long. But I think the feelings which led to it have been growing for some time.” A shadow of a smile touches the corner of his lips. “Perhaps it has been growing since the day we met.” Hawke snorts, and Fenris’ ghost of a smile grows into something honest when he looks at her, and more than a little self deprecating. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Hawke shrugs, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth softening as she looks at him. “Oh, I don’t know. Opposites attract.”

Fenris snorts, then, and Dog looks up with a hiccoughing huff to see what they’re coughing at. Fenris leans forward, feeling the heat of the fire licking up his sides as he scratches Dog’s soft head. She whines, and yawns, baring a series of black and yellow teeth. Fenris leans further, and digs his fingertips behind the warm velvet of her ears. Dog’s tail thumps softly against the sand. Fenris looks up when he feels Hawke watching him. Her blue eyes are like bottled lightning in the dark. “You’re a good man, Fenris.”

Fenris gives her a tight smile, trying to stifle the pain behind it, and sits back, moving to drag a blanket out of his pack and lay it lightly over Anders. Anders huffs, and sighs in his sleep, face creasing in pain when he moves onto his shoulder. Fenris cards his fingers through his hair until the wrinkles ease, before looking back up at Hawke and saying, honestly. “So is he.”

[blahkugo]

SUUUUUUNNYYYYYYYYYYY HOLY HELL CONGRATULATIONS!! This is awesome! Your writing is so fucking phenomenal, and you deserve every follower and more!! For the event *cough* TanakaRyū? In an, oof, dangerous professions au? 👀🥊🏹🏂🤺🧗🏎🚀🔫🧨 I’m unsure how many more dangerous emojis there are but lol. Have a wonderful day!! Xxxxxx congrats again!

CLAUDIAAA I LOVE YOU!! your writing is absolutely phenomenal and your compliments make my heart HURT ♡ enjoy your tanaka baby, i had so much fun writing it!!

                                  -ˋˏ ༻ 光 ༺ ˎˊ-

「TANAKA RYŪ」

— street fighter! au

— warnings: 18+ smut, blood kink, tanaka being a merciless tease<3 

⤏ okay, okay: i know this is a ‘dangerous profession au’ and not an underground one, but this just makes the most sense for tanaka

⤏ ryū is all bark and no bite, but it doesn’t stop him from pretending he’s got the muscle to back the mouth

⤏ this is precisely why i think he’d be the perfect fit for an underground street fighter. think, ‘fight club’ mixed with ufc

⤏ he’s the epitome of a shit talker, never stops goading his opponents even when they’ve got him two seconds away from losing consciousness; he doesn’t know how to shut his mouth, even though he’s always losing

⤏ even so, he’s got a knack for being the crowd‘s #1. his grin never wavers, his fists never go down. he fights until his last breath, and that’s why he’s everyone’s favorite underdog

⤏ the fights are illegal, betting pools made in shady abandoned subways and grimy basements, but the man really has no other choice

⤏ see, he was initially better known for brazilian jiu-jitsu; in fact, he was an extremely famous fighter that won the hearts of people around the world

⤏ but he got too cocky; feeling invincible under the shroud of fame, he began to spiral

⤏ and 1 tragic run in with the police later, his public image was destroyed; so, he reluctantly decided to trade in grapples and chokeholds for bruised knuckles and bloody teeth

⤏ though he simply does it to survive, he can’t deny that the thrill of the match sends blood pumping through his veins, keeps him feeling alive and present

⤏ to make some extra cash, you decide to act as impromptu ring girl— and ryū is utterly infatuated upon first sight

⤏ honestly, you were a bit afraid at first. here’s this heavily tattooed, gruff looking man with a shaved head hitting you with an onslaught of attention every time you walk into the room. what are you supposed to think?

⤏ though you quickly realize he’s a sweetheart underneath that tough appearance, it doesn’t stop you from rolling your eyes at every dramatic come-on. and trust me, there’s a lot of them

⤏ he flirts relentlessly, will say anything and everything that crosses his mind. it’s sweet, maybe, but mostly embarrassing. you never really take him seriously anyways; every comment is paired with a sly smirk and booming laugh

⤏ one day, he proposes a bet. if he wins, he gets to take you out. of course, he never wins, so why not humor the man?

⤏ yeah, you guessed it: he loses

⤏ but watching him fight this time, you found something in your perception of ryū shift...

As everyone files out of the dingy basement, you find yourself lagging behind, eyes trained of the man crouching in the makeshift ring. You’re unsure what possesses you as you make your way over to him, clean towel in hand. He’s a flirt— a persistent one at that— but watching him fight today, you realize there’s a certain elegance to losing with dignity. His smile, though bloodied, never once wavered, his bandaged knuckles never once dropped. 

When he notices you approaching, he rubs his wounded nose; it does nothing but smudge crimson over his stained bandages, a bright red warning sign begging you to keep away. You never listen. Kneeling next to him, you blurt out the question running through your mind, 

“Why do you fight so hard if you lose every time?” 

Instead of his usual quick retorts or coy banter, he flashes you that same toothy grin and relaxed brows he bares to opponents and friends alike. Carefree, nonchalant, happy— even with the unseemly purple bruises forming on his cheekbones.  

As always, it’s utterly infectious, and before you know it, you’re grinning right back at him. 

“Do you want to hear the deep answer or the honest truth?” His words seem teasing, but they hold a sobriety you’ve never quite witnessed on Tanaka. He shifts his jaw, making room for you to wipe at his injuries with the clean rag.

“Both,” you prod, curiosity overtaking you as you have your first serious conversation with the sly boxer. 

“Would it be completely pathetic if I said it makes me feel alive?” His smile wavers a bit, as though he’s revealed something deeply intimate, a concept he’s grappled a million times over in his head. You simply nod, allowing him to speak freely. “Every bruise is a reminder that I’m not dead,” his voice falters, “like I would be if I was still on the streets.” 

The severity of his confession shakes you, reminds you that most of the members at the underground club don’t come from preppy private schools or trust funds. They’re here to make a living— to survive. 

“And the honest truth?” You don’t bother with consolation, don’t believe pity or faux reassurance would satisfy Tanaka anyways. 

“I think I look pretty damn cool in the ring,” his eyes bore into yours, smirk back in full force as he regains his usual composure. Forever a flirt. Have his eyes always been that stormy gray? 

“Want to hear my honest truth?” He nods, gaze bordering on ravenous as he awaits your admission. “I think you do too.” 

It’s as though the words have a physical effect on the tired boxer; he immediately puffs his chest up, his head is held just a bit higher. The words, quite possibly your first ever compliment towards him, instill a newfound confidence that you’re only used to seeing when he’s poking fun. 

“Ha! Always knew you found me irresistible,” he raises battered fingers towards your jaw, pulling it between them and grazing at your cheeks. He’s probably smearing blood all over you and typically, you’d push him away— but tonight everything feels different. 

Perhaps it’s the low fluorescent lighting or the charged silence filling the empty room. Maybe it’s his attitude. Any which way, there’s a magnetism in the air that pulls you to him, tugs at your heartstrings and urges you to care for the underdog. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” lips puckering, you do your best to remain stoic, to no avail. His eyes bore into yours, darkening by the second. Though the moment becomes infused with tension, you refuse to drop your gaze, instead attempting to shift back into the comfortable banter you and Ryū share. “Who said anything about being irresis—”

He doesn’t allow you a moment to finish your sentence, yanking your face to his. He tongues you with a fervor, lithe fingers wrapping across the back of your head to tug you impossibly closer. Sweat, the sharp tang of metal, and even something a bit minty— the flavor of his mouth spreads through you, clouds your head with greed, and intoxicates you in such a way that your only thought is of wanting more. 

When you finally pull away, flushed and breathless, Ryū notices the kiss has split his wound once again. Deep red drips across his soft lips, down his chin, and dribbles onto his knee. But it seems he’s been stupefied, utterly amazed by this unforeseen turn of events; his thumb inches towards the blood, but he doesn’t seem to care to clean it all up. So, you figure you’ll take matters into your own hands. 

“Let me,” you offer, bringing his rugged fingers towards your mouth. Licking a long stripe from wrist to thumb, you never once break eye contact as you peer up at him through thick lashes. He’s unable to do anything but watch, enchanted by your wet tongue lapping at his digits. 

Gradually, your lips travel upwards, kissing and suckling at bruised knuckles, making sure to soothe over every gash, every groove of pained flesh. The hair on his arms rises, a throaty groan caught in his throat. Heat and heat and so much heat— the warmth in your stomach, across his cheeks and the tips of his ears— flows freely, intertwining. 

It doesn’t matter that the enormous room is empty, or that the air is chilled outside; the ring is filled with a feverish longing, a craving for touch you never even realized was there. Not until you reach his defined collarbones, teeth grazing at his skin. 

As soon as your mouth sucks at the sweet spot on his neck, a switch flips in him. Before you know it, you’re on your back; Ryū’s body looms over yours, his knee pressed between your legs. His hands roam, loosely tied bandages traveling your waist, dashing beneath your top and over your taut stomach. 

Though his touch is gentle, a ghost of a breath, it sends your nerves into a frenzy. Slowly, slowly, ever-so slowly, slender fingers toy at your breasts, squeezing and circling your hardened nipples. A bite at your neck, a wet lick to soothe the burn; he’s teasing, even now, as you mewl and writhe for more. 

And yet again, you’re flipped, this time onto hands and knees. You’re nothing more than a rag doll to the hearty boxer, a feathery thing to the man who lifts almost twice your weight daily. Your back meets solid muscle as he cages you between him and the ring’s chilled floor. 

He wastes no time tugging your shorts and panties down, drifting his palms over the globes of your ass, and squeezing. But still, he never touches your cunny. And God, does it ache for it. 

“You’re still teasing,” you pant, arms reaching behind you to tap at his bicep. 

“Maybe,” a finger slips towards your cunt, brushes across the sopping slit and onto your clit, “Wanna hear you beg for it.” 

His answer stuns you, so unlike the buoyant man that fawns over you day after day. It’s a pleasant change, to say the least.

“Ryū,” your whine echoes through the vacant room, “can’t.” There’s no way in hell you’ll be begging for him. 

“Can’t,” his voice is raspy, teeming with desire, “or won’t?”  He inches a digit in, stopping just short of a second knuckle, while the other rubs at your swollen bundle of nerves. You stifle a groan when he begins nipping the shell of your ear, but as soon as he begins his movements, he stills once again. 

“F-fine,” whimpering, you admit defeat, “fuck, please.”

“You can tap out if it gets too much,” he chuckles under his breath. 

And then, finally, he’s pumping into you again, stretching you once more; one finger, then another, his thumb drawing cruel circles at your clit. It’s shameful, immoral even, the way you plead and moan with every push into you. Curling his fingers, he dips further into your doughy walls, pushing against a spot that you swear has you seeing God. And his name, it leaves your lips like a prayer, over and over— a sinner at confession. 

You search for something, anything, to grasp at. But the floor is smooth, the ring’s ropes just a hair too far for you to pull at. So, you settle for wrapping a hand around the arm that pushes into your lower back, your other rapping, fingernails scratching, at the mat below you. 

“I said you could tap,” another deep pump into you elicits a lengthy mewl, “but I didn’t say I would listen.” 

                          ᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ 光 ⚘᠂ ⚘ ᠃

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A New Arrangement [Part 7/9][NSFW]

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Mask

<- Part 6 | Part 8 ->

Summary: Fingers.

For @thatesqcrush​‘s kink bingo 

1,416 words

Satisfied that he had explored the rest your body, he finally dipped his hand between your legs. Slippery with saliva, the pad of his thumb rubbed slow, teasing, wet circles on your clit.

“Oh god, fuck!” you gasped with relief the moment he made contact with the aching bud of flesh that had been waiting so long for this.

“Do you like that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You moaned lewdly, nodding, as your hips rocked involuntarily against his thumb.

He dragged his fingers through your folds, finding your opening, and dipped one inside. He hummed to find you already drenched, your walls gripping around his finger greedily. He removed his hand and held it up, rubbing your slickness between his fingers. “Look how wet you are for me,” he said, voice husky with desire and pride. You whimpered at the loss of contact.

“Keep going,” you begged, chin trembling.

He slipped in two long fingers this time, making you cry out and grip the bed sheets at the unexpected stretch.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he whispered, lust barely contained.

“Yes—yes, oh fuck—” a shuddering breath broke from your chest as his fingers curled deeper inside “—Please. Please fuck me.”

“Come for me first.”

You looked up at the mask, but it was unflinching, leaving no recourse but to accept its challenge.

“Faster,” you said, writhing your hips to set a harder tempo, racing toward your climax, and his thumb followed suit. The electric charge building under his touch grew fiercer, licking out warm tendrils of static through your lower back, arcing up each vertebrae. “Good,” your breath shivered. “Just like that.” You grabbed his hand as you bucked your hips to meet him. “Deeper,” you growled, sinking his fingers deeper inside, your walls clenching around them as your pleasure grew white-hot. He eagerly followed your instruction, and went further, curling his fingers to rub against your sweet spot, making your hips stutter as you moaned out—“Doctor!”

The mask remained frustratingly, tantalizingly cool and uncaring.

You were already so hot from him studying your body like a lab specimen, it didn’t take much to bring you close to the edge now that he was filling you with those long, sexy fingers, pumping them into you while his diligent thumb kept pressure on your clit. Every muscle in your body burned with tension as you arched up against him, feeling the electricity under your skin, crackling through the air.

You locked eyes on the mask, placid and calm as it observed you. Its breathing was coming out shallow and fast, and the hand that wasn’t knuckles-deep inside you stroked his cock as he watched you falling apart beneath him. As you took in that hauntingly calm face, the air seemed to part, holding still with unimaginable tension. Then it snapped back together all at once like a roaring crack of thunder that shook your body in devastating waves. A cry ripped from your throat, back arching until your hips were off the mattress, your walls clenching around him as his fingers continued to pump through each jolt of your body. He kept working you through the peak of your climax, and kept going, adding more pressure until it was too much, almost painful, and you yelped and writhed beneath his unrelenting thumb.

“Stop! S-stop, it’s too much!” you whimpered, and finally he stopped.

This wasn't the same shy, skittish man you'd known for the past few weeks. There was a confidence, a wolfishness coming to the surface that you were excited to have drawn out. After all the nervous testing the waters, you'd told him to jump in—and he was. He had always followed your lead on how comfortable you were with touching him, cuddling. Now he was taking control, and you wanted him to fuck your brains out and call you a filthy slut for it.

“I am going to fuck you now,” he panted.

Too spent to form words, you nodded drunkenly, and pulled him down on top of you, kissing his cold, porcelain lips. The cute surprised noise he made sent an aftershock shivering through you.

He lined up with your still-twitching entrance, and pressed inside so slowly, so carefully, as if expecting that you (or he) might change your mind at any moment. Inch by inch he parted you, feeling each incremental stretch, until his balls pressed snug against your pussylips and you could be filled no further. He was still for a moment, just panting, giving you time to adjust. He was so gentle.

He was always so gentle.

“I’ve never been paid for sex before,” you said, the strange idea that that was what you were doing washing over you with a devious smile. And it was not the least of what was strange about this situation.

“Does it excite you?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” he purred. His hips began thrusting into you hard and fast, practically knocking the air from you. He fucked you with a desperation of a dying man in a desert searching for a cool glass of water. He couldn’t choke back the frantic grunts and helpless throaty moans warbling in his throat. He was starving, and you were food.

You angled your hips up to meet his thrusts, surprised but enthralled by this new unrestrained side of Frederick Chilton. You wrapped your legs around his back, pulling him into you. The mask put so much distance between you, you wanted to feel closer. More of his body weight sank against you, and you reveled in the comfort of his solid presence pushing you down. God, his body was perfect. You ran your hands down his back and squeezed his ass, feeling the twitch of his muscles with each powerful stroke.

“Oh god... fuck me hard,” you moaned against his neck.

He made a noise that wasn’t quite words—he couldn’t manage words—in acknowledgment, and his next thrust made you cry out. He turned his head and kissed you with his mask lips. You kissed him back with a passion he hadn’t expected, gasping in surprise and pleasure as you pretended it was his real face, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in deeper. Half-hidden in the dark holes of the mask, his eyes were closed, and you wondered if he was pretending he was kissing your lips, too.

Fuck, between being pounded into the mattress and those muffled perverse sounds he was making, you were going to come again. You crossed your legs higher up his back, adding friction to your sweet spot, sucking and nipping at the only exposed skin he allowed you access to—his neck. You moaned into it, knowing he would be covered in bruises when you were done.

The rhythm of his hips stuttered, and his arms, braced to either side of your shoulders, crushed inward on you. You could tell he was close to coming. You wondered what he looked like in his climax, what fervid expression he wore. Was his jaw slack, lids heavy with lust? Or was his brow scrunched in concentration, a snarl of effort curling his lips?

The question burned in your gut, turning you on but all the while driving you crazy. You wanted to know, but you didn’t want to know. Curiosity stabbed you, but the not knowing was the exciting part.

What if he was ugly? Or boring? What if you saw his face, and wished you go back to the time he was only a beautifully soft voice and heartbreakingly gentle touch? What if you hated what you saw, and you broke his heart?

You didn’t want to break his heart.

His scarred cock felt amazing as it struck you deeper, stuffing and splitting you open. The texture of it filled you with all new sensations as he worked you hard, making you cry out and bite down on his neck at a particularly reckless thrust. You kissed and licked the bite apologetically.

He bowed his head down into the crook of your neck as he chased his climax, fucking you like he would never get another chance, and something happened.

The edge of it caught, or the weight he put on it at a wrong angle made the whole mask shift, the fastening loosened. You don’t know why, but you reached up. To help? But instead—you didn’t mean to—when his head jerked up, your hand pulled down, and it came off.

[solynaceawrites]

#32: “Kitten, don’t make me tell you twice.”

Sex with Ban has become a distraction for them both. Enough ale to dull the guilt at sleeping with someone else, a slow wink, and a hand on his thigh, and Meliodas gladly surrenders himself to his friend, letting the pleasure and the dull haze of alcohol drown out thoughts of Elizabeth. He’s sure that Ban is doing the same, finding comfort from his grief over Elaine in their encounters, and none of the other Sins care enough to question what they’re doing. All of them have their scars, all of them have their own ways to cope. None of them bat an eye at their captain and his second-in-command disappearing at night, emerging the next morning with no signs of what transpired between them other than mussed hair and the scent of sex clinging to them like cologne.

Sometimes, when he’s more angry than depressed, Meliodas initiates. But even then, it’s Ban who controls him, Ban who sets the pace and dictates what happens, prying dominance from his hands. And Meliodas is grateful for it, no matter how much it wounds what’s left of his pride to have someone else take the reins, an arrogance from his time as the Demon King’s favorite son that’s never quite left him. Ban draws his grief and rage out with every touch, until he’s trembling and begging for release, and this time is no different.

He’d started this early in the morning, wanting Ban wound up tight enough to break. Squeezing by Ban so their bodies dragged along one another, pinning him a second too long during training, holding his friend’s gaze and letting his own darken as he licked blood from his healing split lip, all things he knew would have the immortal coming at him, and coming at him hard. Sure enough, the moment they’d been alone, Ban had shoved him to the wall with enough force that his teeth rattled, and his kiss had been brutal: fists clenched into Meliodas’ shirt, tongue thrusting aggressively over his own, thigh pressed between his legs to grind against his stiffening cock brutal. Meliodas had given as good as he got, not caring that they were in his study, where anyone could walk in, or that Dreyfus’ office was next door. All he wanted was Ban, and the satisfaction and peace that comes after these moments, and he was going to make damn sure that he got it.

All of that resolve, however, went right out of the window when Ban manhandled him to the desk and palmed his cock through his trousers.

“Now,” Ban pants harshly, “yer gonna listen to me, Cap’n. All damn day I’ve put up with ya actin’ like ya didn’t know what ya were doin’, which I think makes me a damned saint, so you’re gonna shut up and be good for me, aren’t ya?”

“Fuck you,” Meliodas bites back.

Ban catches his wrists in one hand and pins them above his head, his grin more predatory than not. “Kitten,” he purrs, the nickname one Meliodas loves and hates in equal measure, “don’t make me ask you twice.”

Meliodas turns his head away, biting his lip to muffle a groan of anticipation as Ban slowly works through the ties of his trousers, though he fails to suppress a shiver when his knuckles graze his heated flesh. He wants this hard and fast and rough, wants bruises despite knowing they’ll heal, and it seems to be going that way. The only time Ban calls him kitten is before ruining him in the best way possible. Calloused fingers curl around his aching length, and Ban huffs a laugh as he strokes him sloppily, smearing the precum at the tip with his thumb and squeezing around the base. Ban crowds him against the desk, his strong thighs keeping Meliodas’ own apart, his lean frame letting him cover Meliodas completely, and Meliodas watches Ban watch him from the corner of his eye. The haphazard touch feels good enough that he doesn’t move his arms when they’re released, nor does he bat an eye when Ban reaches for the bottle of oil sitting neatly on the corner of the desk, another of the taunts he’d planned to use to rile him up.

There’s a low pop before a slick finger slides between his cheeks, caressing over the seam of his body. “No matter how many times I fuck ya,” Ban murmurs, “you’re just as tight as the first.” 

He lets out a gasp as Ban prepares him for what’s to come. Everything about him is long and thick, and Meliodas knows he needs it, though that doesn’t stop the faint lash of irritation at being temporarily denied. It’s buried beneath the dull sparks of pleasure as Ban pumps his finger, adding another when Meliodas is whining and twisting on the desk, and that draws a groan from his throat as he grabs for Ban’s hair. The languid way Ban pumps his length is at odds enough with the firm thrust of his hand that it leaves Meliodas’ head spinning, and he barely notices when Ban draws away until he’s twisted onto his front, his hips held up and his cock leaking against the desk.

Ban leans over him, the blunt head of him pressing between his cheeks, and Meliodas presses his cheek to the cool wood as he’s slowly stretched open, his magic working to blur discomfort and pleasure into something heady and sharp that would have him squirming if not for the iron-tight grip Ban has on him. Teeth nip his shoulder as Ban’s hips come flush to the curve of his backside, and he exhales sharply when Ban laughs hoarsely. “Tap out if you need to, Cap’n, ‘cause I’m not stopping ‘til you’ve forgotten everything but my name.”

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 16 (NSFW)

Read on AO3

Read chapter fifteen (NSFW)

Title: Wake-up Call

Words: 4500

Summary: Who knew men's underwear could be so erotic?

ST Rambles:  Y'all. We are getting closer and closer to the good stuff, my friends. Not that there hasn't been good stuff already, but the really good, messy, plot-heavy stuff. When I was just reading through this chapter I started to get very excited about the future of this fic. I hope I can deliver on this, I really do. 

[Masterlist]

Sleepy eyes peered around the mirror, examining the savaging which took new residence over your skin. All shapes and shades of dusk covered your prominences; one purpled puddle spanning your elbow, another three parallel over your side – one etching over your hip, another dripping over the curve of your rib cage, and the final fringing atop your deltoid in a russet starburst. A suggestion of a hand print fixed itself over your opposite shoulder, the bruise more vivid where your Commander’s fingers had bitten into the muscle. The grisly sight continued below your waist, both your knees inked in injury, one blotch creeping upwards in memoriam of the joint’s protrusions crashing against the floor. For once your neck remained free of the ghosted grip of Kylo Ren, the only evidence of him blending together in a patchy trail along your artery.

The tips of your fingers traced down the perforated contusions starting at the hinge of your jaw, drawing down the curve of your pulse, and ending at the proximal end of your clavicle; a violet twilight splayed beneath your touch, the memory of its fruition warming the tops of your cheeks. The reflection gave light to the faint lines which racked together over your wrists, the sight prompting the mindless rolling of the joint to test its range of motion. To any unsuspecting onlooker you appeared a survivor of a gruesome tale, one that indicated a battle with some ferocious creature; in a way, you thought, that wasn’t completely false.

Every welt lingering over your skin, visible or not – the torment which your core had endured aching with each suggestion of movement – belonged completely to Kylo Ren. Last night he’d painted his own pain over your body, the ache of his anger obvious with even the slightest pressure over the affected areas. Though you knew this, knew that these marks were premeditated, you distantly regarded the comfort the echoed pain offered; while the night had been birthed in egregious wrath, its end offered a breath-stealing contrast.

In the full light of Kylo Ren’s bathroom, you brought your hands together before you, the mirror falling out of focus as they turned over and brushed over each other’s knuckles and tendons. The soft skin was painted with vestiges in the valleys between each knuckle, the sight reminding you of the intimacy which had created them, the irony of how a moment of such beauty could manifest in such an injurious manner lighting a spark at your spine. The frozen air of his quarters nipped at your bare skin, reminding you what had prompted you from the warm, yet vacated, covers: the search for clothing.

Waking up had been disorienting, jolting you past the haze of morning and into the acknowledgment of the unfamiliar environment. It felt hollow waking up alone, like you were on some separate plane of reality without Kylo’s presence in his own bed. Out of habit, you’d gone to search for the time on your wrist, only remembering the timepiece’s absence when its red-shining face didn’t blind you in the shadows of early light, artificial in its existence, which framed the ceiling.

It had been too chaotic to get a good look at the Starkiller quarters last night, but as the frozen floor bit at your toes in your walk through the unfamiliar space, you noticed how mundane the provisions were. Everything lacked in comparison to the Finalizer, noting how the smaller rooms and shorter walls created a false sense of hominess; there was barely a kitchen, no dining table, and a hint at a sitting area – all of which blended together in various shades of similar blacks, greys, and whites. It felt uncomfortable to think that the Commander of the First Order lived in such normalcy and necessity when he wasn’t killing innocents or training to do so.

A pile sat at the countertop’s center, your uniform obvious at the top, the red embroidery prominent even in darkness. After a short search, you flicked on a light and padded towards it, crossing your arms as your breath shuddered through the cold air. It was a curious sight, your uniform folded into a frumpy square as your bra poked out from beneath the collar and your watch sat parallel above the red threading. Confused alarms sounded in your head, the fact that Kylo Ren had spent time collecting your belongings and compiling them into a neat pile making you doubt your consciousness, momentarily stopping to see if you had only been imagining the past few minutes.

Something else stole your attention, bringing your eyes away from the stack and up towards a rectangle of paper. It was folded in half, its torn edges and faded print indicating it had come from some scrapped document he no longer needed. Reaching for it, you found something underneath, a soft piece of unfamiliar black fabric. Then, when you lifted it, something slipped out from its confines, a black plastic rectangle glinting beneath the overhead light; its familiar design quickly indicating that of your Finalizer room key. Squinting in effort and inquiry, you read the hand-penned note, skin igniting as your leaned into the icy counter and half-admired the pointed scrawl of your first name at the top left-hand corner.

I’ve arranged for your residence’s security to be updated and reprogrammed to this key. Return there unless otherwise indicated.

You’ll also need these, as yours are tucked into the fasteners of my uniform.

Thanks for the keepsake, officer,

K.R.

With a hesitant curiosity, you took the folded fabric and unfolded each of its creases. It was a pair of his briefs, the sight eliciting a heartbeat between your legs. An astonished gasp fell from your lips, your face burning with exhilaration at the thought of your panties – unwashed and nearly three days old – stowed at his hip, their presence only known to him and you. As you imagined the frail stitching hanging loosely at his waistband, your thighs clamped together, the shifted bones of your pelvis crying out in protest at the sudden plead for satiety. He took your panties as a prize, spoils from last night’s conquest. Such a sick, unapologetic, hot bastard, you thought, your face split in an unintentional grin.

Taking his donation in stride, you pulled the article over your legs, surprised to find the elastic resting easily at your hips. The material was stretchy, an excess amount of give indicating, though they could fit, they were intended for legs much larger than your own. The hem rested four inches below the apex of your thighs, your hands smoothing over the front, your thumb catching on the open flap which rested along the line of your inner right leg. The light sensation, sending tiny continuous vibrations over your mound, built on the prominent pulse beating at your entrance.

Kylo’s face, nonsensically beautiful, passed through your memory, your teeth pulling your lip between them as you thought of how his tongue felt over yours, how his breath ignited body-enrapturing sparks at your ear. A gasp caught in your throat, your thighs pressing together in need, your head bowing down into the counter while you filed through the endless thoughts you’d cataloged from previous encounters. Congratulations. A sharp throb came from your core, your hands grappling onto the countertop’s edge at the memory of graduation.

“Stars.” The plead led into a moan, your throat thickening with need as your body ached for what it couldn’t have.

Closing your eyes and pushing a long breath from your lungs, your fingers dipped into the briefs’ opening, the knowledge that they were his frenzying you further, your skin reveling in the feel of the smooth fabric gliding over the back of your hand. The tips of your index and middle fingers trailed parallel down your slit, mind drifting to how Kylo’s could frame your sex in their length as they drifted closer towards your entrance, the thought seething a whine through your teeth. His modulated voice percolated in your ears, the way his breath falls out in proximity eliciting another merciless pulse, your abdomen tightening to absorb the ramifications.

Parting your folds, your fingers dipped into your slit, collecting the fluid which fled from your core. Just the thought of Kylo Ren – the way his abdomen ripples with every calculated step, the way his hair shifts in rhythm with his thrusts, the way it feels to have his full weight consume your body and alter your breathing – had worked diligently to ruin the fresh garment, your center preparing for a fullness it couldn’t currently achieve. Taking the pad of your middle finger, you pressed against the buzzing flesh of your clit, winding a wide, deep circle around it. A muffled cry fought to unlock your teeth, your head falling back at the taunting.

Are you a good girl? The melody of his past words crept over your skin, your leg crossing behind the other as you remembered his lips kissing the tops of his gifted stockings; a hum buzzed in your head, your fingers leading down to your entrance so your thumb could take residence over your clit. Hunching down lower, your head pressing down onto the smooth countertop as you took a wider stance, you pushed two fingers past your entrance, a shuddered whimper leaving your now parted lips. Your walls were throbbing, your pulse rising with each new reminiscent thought of your master.

The pad of your thumb wound a tighter, fuller path around the engorged flesh beneath, your fingers pumping into your core, your mind wandering through time while pressure heightened within you. A fast thought, a wondering instead of a memory, passed through, imagining how Kylo would react seeing you like this, setting eyes on you while you stood in his kitchen, wearing only his briefs while you bucked into your hand as thoughts of him cascaded from your mind to his. Would he be angry, furious that you could build your own release without him? Or would he watch you, his hidden eyes gawking as he felt your every intention before it came to be, attuned to the way your body sang at the memory of his voice, of his eyes, of his frame?

“Fucking hell,” you gasped, the heel of your hand grinding into the rapturous nerves as your digits hooked into your core, fluid streaming past your knuckles as your body promised an impending release.

With each second and every flex of your hand you crawled towards climax, thinking of Kylo Ren’s cock as it throbbed in need, beads of precum dripping from the slit as it twitched in his hands, readying to fill you with each torturous inch of its pulsating length. Breath stuck in your throat, your pulse pounding in your skull as your mouth hung open, salivating at the thought of him painting your face with thick, hot ropes of his cum, moaning as you remembered how the liquid collected over your nose and slowly dripped within reach of your hunting tongue.

“Oh, Kylo,” you whined, drool dripping onto the floor within your spread stance, remembering how badly you’d wanted his cock, dowsed in his own blood, to completely destroy your cunt, to stretch you until you tore, to have your own blood combine with his as he rocked into you, relentless even in your pain.

Your walls peaked, your body stalling and unfurling into a nebula of pleasure, hearing the phantom cries of your master echo into the false reality as your free hand strained against the countertop, your lungs trembling with quick breaths. Taking in your accomplishment, you leaned down onto the marble, your hand leaving his briefs and hugging onto the chilled stone, gulping as you slowly left the hazed state of contentment.

“Thanks for the wake-up call, Commander.” Not that he could hear you, you felt it was now a fair trade, your panties for his briefs, acknowledging the notion had done a nice job at kick starting your day.

Reaching over towards the pile, you brushed over the watch’s screen, finding it to be a quarter before seven. Although you knew you hadn’t been to the stormtrooper hub in what seemed like a lifetime, you could make it there for shift change if you left from here in five minutes. Reluctantly, wanting to stay here and hide from life’s responsibilities, you pushed off from the counter and grappled your uniform over your head, not bothering to toil with the buttons. Without looking down, you slipped your shoes on and fastened the watch around your wrist; with a quick finger-brush through your hair and a swish of water from the sink, you stowed the keycard into the front pocket of your uniform and activated the door, keeping your head low and face hidden as you made your way into the open hallways.

In an effort to multitask, you pulled your phone out, finding an email waiting on its home screen. The subject line read CONFIDENTIAL: Trial proceedings. In your hobbled stride, the notification dropped your heart. Had it really been less than twenty-four hours since meeting with Hux? He’d informed you of the email, that it would come later in the day, but you’d been so tossed up in the world of Kylo Ren that you’d forgotten to worry about it, forgotten that life wasn’t simple anymore. Even as you skulked away from your Commander’s quarters after not just fucking him, but sleeping with him, this email was what brought you back to reality, your shoulders falling as to remind you of the burdens they’d set down for the night.

Swiping across the screen, you opened the contents, being half-mindful of your surroundings as you trekked towards Starkiller’s general med bay. The scrollbar indicated the lengthiness of the correspondence, your pulse quickening thinking about how serious this all was. This was the beginning of the end, or at least the beginning of trying to prevent the end. It was difficult not to place blame, accepting that it was both a risk and a necessity to take the blood, but also knowing full well that none of this would be happening if Kylo Ren hadn’t taken you from the valuable clinical experience you would have obtained had you been allowed the time to learn in a professional setting. Inwardly you knew you did the right thing, but knowing the entire Board of Physicians was against your cause made it impossible not to feel guilty.

Continuing towards your destination, you delved into the email, first reading the sender information of the Board in all caps – their institutional name, address, contact information, and correspondence code – and then seeing your own information, stomach churning at the sight, head dizzying simultaneously.

Concerning the defendant,

This is an official summons to appear before the Board of Physicians to be tried for the accusation made of first-degree larceny based on multiple eyewitness accounts, a detailed variance report provided by an on-staff provider, and physical evidence surrounding this case collected during the time between the incident’s occurrence and determined trial date. The defendant is required to be notified via word of mouth and either physical or electronic correspondence; once these requirements have been met, construction of the case can and will be expedited.

The defendant will appear directly before the Board, bypassing the selection of a jury as to keep in pace with this time sensitive matter. For clarity’s sake it is reinforced that the defendant is being tried on the matter of her execution, as her license will be promptly revoked upon the formal announcement of the Board’s judgement. As the defendant has been informed, she will be placed under surveillance in an effort to provide adequate evidence regarding not only her practice as a nurse and provider, but as a functioning member of the First Order. During this time of surveillance the defendant should go about her daily life as she normally would to provide the most accurate idea of her character. In addition to technological monitoring, the character review will be centered around personal accounts of those who have worked with the defendant and superior reviews; these documents will be collected directly by the offices of the Board of Physicians and are to be collected no later than the morning of the defendant’s initial hearing.

The initial hearing will provide the defendant the opportunity to be introduced to the current elected members of the Board of Physicians. There shall be no questions asked verbally during this time as the defendant will be provided a list of official inquiries following her appearance. In the time between the initial hearing and the official trial – which shall be no less than five days and no more than seven – the defendant will be allotted adequate time to prepare for her questioning; during this same period, the defendant will choose a representative. Let it be known that the defendant is limited to the representatives provided for and selected by the Board of Physicians. Though it is ill-advised, the defendant also has the choice of representing herself.

Once the defendant has prepared her answers and chosen her representative, the official trial will promptly begin at O-eight hundred the following morning. The trial will follow all legal policies and proceedings as established by the First Order in exception of a selected jury. In the absence of a jury, the defendant will plead directly to the Board of Physicians; the Board has gone through training and certification to disallow bias, emotional or otherwise, to affect their judgments, barring the defendant from skewing their final decision. There will be three testimonies in accordance to the case – one from Officer Talia Harper, another from General Armitage Hux, and a final to be chosen by the defendant to speak in her favor.

The deciding members of the Board will be allotted seven days to construct their judgments and rationales. As there are five members of the Board, there will be no possibility of a tie. A majority of three will decide if the defendant is to be executed. Once the final judgement has been ratified, one chosen representative will formally announce the decision before the Board and the defendant. As disclosed earlier, upon the judgement’s announcement, the defendant’s license will be permanently revoked and she will be barred from practicing medicine under the First Order. Should the judgment entail the defendant’s execution, she will spend an additional seven days on Cantonica; during this time, the defendant will be allowed the facilities and liberties to get her affairs in order.

The trial will be conducted in the city of Canto Bight, six weeks from the initial send date of this correspondence. The defendant will need to arrange for travel and plan to arrive two days prior to the morning of her initial hearing. Standard necessities will be provided to the defendant during her time on Canto Bight; in addition, the defendant will also be assigned a security detail who will report to General Hux at the end of each day. During the defendant’s time away from her Master, Commander Ren, he will be assigned a new provider in her absence; this new provider will be selected from the pool of individuals who were screened for the position earlier this year.

Let it be known that this correspondence does not require a return from the recipient as she cannot refuse an audience with the Board of Physicians without forfeiting her case. Should the defendant be absent at her initial hearing, it would result in a call for her capture followed by an immediate scheduling of her execution.

On a final note, the Board of Physicians has deemed it necessary to put emphasis on this case, meaning all legal proceedings – the initial hearing, the official trial, the formal sentencing, and the potential execution – are to be televised and allowed for public viewing. The defendant should be prepared to go before upwards of two hundred people.

Direct any questions to the return address at the top of this official correspondence.

Respectfully,

Karmen Zag, Esq.

Head of Communications,

The Board of Physicians

The glutton of air which your lungs sucked in pointed out the fact that you hadn’t taken a full breath since you began reading the document. As you’d been reading, your head down and your eyes focused on the bright white screen, the world had fallen away, your journey towards the stormtrooper hub nearly complete. It was five minutes to seven, time evading you in the wake of all the new overwhelming information.

Six weeks didn’t seem like a long enough time for life to change so drastically. Then again, though, it had only been a little over two months since graduation and look how different life looked from then. Standing so far out yet to close to the trial, it felt impossible to win; and how could you win? What’s the prize at this point? Even if the Board rules against your execution, what life could you return to? All the schooling you’d put yourself through, every hour of studying and practicing, just, gone; if you had known it would be so ephemeral and pointless, maybe you’d have spent less time in the library, enjoyed your youth more than you did.

When you turned the corner, you collided into something solid, your body tripping backwards as you took in the familiar sight of your masked master, mind quickly thinking about your hidden belongings tucked beneath the layers of clothing they rested behind. Taking another step back, you regarded General Hux at his right arm, face resting in its usual repugnance.

“Oh, uh, I’m so sorry Commander Ren, I was just on my way to the stormtrooper hub,” you said, shifting your hair so it hid the superficial injury.

“I trust you’ve read over the email detailing your trial, officer?” Each syllable was annunciated, Hux’s voice clear and loud, a sense of unmistakable pride seeping from the question.

“Yes, actually. That’s what had me so distracted from my surroundings.”

“Hm. I’ll see you in six weeks, I suppose.” He took a step forward, away from your Commander. “I’ll notify you when the documents have been cataloged and filed.” With a too-long glare, he tromped past you, his steps growing quieter in his distance.

Looking back up at Kylo’s visor, you went to speak, but he beat you to it. “I trust you’ve had a productive morning.” There was something seductive about his tone, like it was laced with intentional double entendre.

Looking over your shoulder, you scanned the room for onlookers and cameras, finding nothing within earshot before looking back to him. “You could say that.” An unintentional throb came from between your legs, your mind trying and failing at not recounting your earlier self-satisfaction.

“I assume you found my note.”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you for the… resources. They are both very much appreciated.” It felt funny being so formal with him in public, like a game of pretend.

“Oh, you’re welcome, by the way.”

Had you not just thanked him for the security – both technological and textile? “What… am I missing something?”

Kylo stepped forward, his arm grazing over yours as his head turned down towards your ear. “For the wake-up call, of course.”

Your mouth fell open, a gasp coming from your stunned lungs. “How did you – but you were nowhere near me.”

“I found you last night without that glorified compass on your wrist, didn’t I?” Two fingers pressed into the curve of your hip, goosebumps prickling your skin in fast waves.

Turning your head so your nose almost met his sleeved bicep, you cleared your throat. “So, what? You can hear me now?”

“Not in the literal sense, no. But, you were particularly obvious in your pursuits this morning. You were easy to sense above everyone else.”

You said nothing, still astonished that he grew more attuned to your presence with every encounter. He brushed past you, his fingers pulling at your uniform until they left completely. “Have a nice day, officer.”

His boots echoed behind you in his stride, leaving you hanging like it was nothing to him. Standing there a moment longer, you realized it was past seven, now. Shift change had already begun, and you were once again going to be late due to Kylo Ren’s distractions. Nearly running through the halls, you made it to the nurses’ station five minutes late, seeing the small huddles of night and day nurses around the patients’ doors, listening to their whispers related to client care. A few faces were twisted in confused disbelief, your face hot under their scrutiny.

Walking to the nurse manager’s office, you leaned into the room as you lightly knocked at her door, alerting her to spin in her chair to face you, her own expression following suit with the others’.  “Uh, hi. I don’t know if you remember me, but-,”

“You can’t be here,” the woman said, her words fast and jarring.

“I’m sorry, have I done something wrong?”

“Here—” she patted her desk until she gripped the document of her intent “—this should explain it.”

The paper was fresh, warming your hands when she passed it to you. On the front it had a photocopy of your ID, your unbeknownst face looking back at you in black and white next to your licensure information. Looking at the bottom of the document, you found a short blip of information, reading:

By signing this document, you hereby enforce the temporary disbarment of the above indicated physician from practicing medicine not related to his or her own assigned master.

Once more you looked further down the document, seeing the same pointed script from earlier scrawled across a printed line, next to it finding General Hux’s name in its own full, sweeping signature. Was this a joke? He really let you embarrass yourself in coming here instead of telling you in the halls? And, just, why? Why was he insistent in finding new ways to drive you insane? There was no logical reason for him to ban you from practice.

Without noticing, your teeth had clenched together, your fingers gripping too roughly into the thin document, staining your thumb in the fresh ink as it contorted within your grasp. The nurse manager was looking at you with a forced smile, silently saying you had no more business being here.

“Feel free to keep that,” she said, pointing to the crumpled copy.

Shaking with anger, you fought to contain yourself. “Yep.”

With that, you skulked out of the infirmary, not bothering to look up at the knowing faces of the coworkers you never got the chance to befriend. Would there ever come a day where you weren’t humiliated in your professional life? No. That was a pointless question to ask. Whatever career you currently had was about to end, and now you couldn’t even attempt to make up for it. As you whipped down the halls, fast, seething sounds left you, curses for Kylo Ren and General Hux distorted in a frenzied talk.

As if to piss you off further, your phone buzzed at your hip, hand tearing it from your uniform like the object had any say in the matter. The screen was free of emails, but your stride still stopped abruptly, your anger quickly replaced with a sense of ill-defined fear. Staring back at you was a message from Mason, only offering a single question with no context; three words that could mean anything:

Can we talk?

[sabraeal]

Tender Concessions, Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

A companion to Sensitive Negotiations. Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

A stupid number of years in the making; I promised @xaphrin​ Obi returning the favor of scar kissing in Sensitive Negotiations way back when she was still working on Talk Too Much, and then promptly got distracted by other things, then promised two chapters of this fic to @fashun-able​ for the 500 followers raffle, had it grow too big and become its own companion, and then had it get split into three pieces, just in time for this to fit the bill for the prompt “Kisses Where One Person Is Sitting In The Other’s Lap” I picked for the Obiyuki Kiss-a-thon. SO FINALLY, THE MUCH PROMISED SMUT.

Despite all her training-- and all of Yuzuri’s explicit stories-- Shirayuki has to admit: she was not quite ready for the, ah, moment.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Obi slurs from the pillow as she coughs, his fingers carding soothingly through her hair. “Are you alright?”

The taste that lingers in her mouth is bitter, earthy, and her jaw feels subtly stretched beyond comfort, but besides that, she’s fine. Better than fine with his chest beneath her hands, with the memory of how he had thrown his head back, how he had called out her name--

She squirms, and it does nothing to dull the yawning ache between her legs. Oh no, now she’s more aware of it, that persistent pulse, throbbing with the beat of her heart. No matter how much she tries to live in this moment, to appreciate the patchwork of pale scars and smooth skin beneath her, it’s impossible to forget how he had offered to give it to her if she wanted.

Oh, how she had wanted then, how she still wants now--

Her breath gasps out of her as her back hits the mattress, jarring her thoughts into disarray, but she has no time to collect either before Obi appears above her, mouth canted coyly. His hands cup under her thighs, grip firm but gentle, guiding her knees up to her chest.

“Obi,” she breathes, bracing her hands on his chest, enjoying the rabbit beat of his heart beneath them, “what--?”

“I believe--” his palms smooth up her thighs, rucking up her chemise-- “you said that you should finish what you start.”

His calluses scrape along the soft skin between her legs, creeping up and up, and oh, she never thought she’d like anything like this, something rough where she is smooth, but she shivers at his touch, the scent of her blooming bright in the air. Yuzuri had always said it must be terrible for boys to get hard all the time, that at least girls could hide what they want and when they wanted it, but now—

Now she knows the exact moment he smells her, his teeth flashing behind his lips, smug and yet—hungry. Predatory.

Her toes curl. “Y-yes.”

“And it seems—“ fingers brush over the wet curls between her thighs, stealing her breath, but it’s nothing to the jolt that snaps through her when his thumb parts her folds—“I have some unfinished business with you, Miss.”

She almost manages, you have no idea, but one long finger traces her slit, and her back nearly clears the bed. “Obi!”

Shirayuki clutches at him, gripping his biceps so hard she’s sure he’ll have bruises the size of her fingers when they’re done, but she can hardly care, not when his own slide up the length of her lips so easily she moans.

“Is there something you need?” he asks, almost conversationally, as he dips his finger inside her. She expects resistance, but even in this her body yields to him; it slides in smoothly, right down to the last knuckle. “Fuck.”

She opens her mouth to tease him, to mind him to watch his language, or maybe ask if he planned to kiss her with that mouth, but--

But he curls his finger, and now she can barely do more than breathe, her whole body focused down to that single, throbbing point. “Obi!” she tries again, but there’s no words in her, not when he slips in a second, stretching her until she’s-- she’s filled.

It’s obscene how wet she is, how his fingers drawn out a wet squelch with every pump, her scent growing thicker on the air. She’s flushed just knowing it, knowing that there’s no way to hide how desperate he makes her, how much she wants him. Her cheeks and chest burn even as she raises her hips to meet the thrust of his fingers, and she opens her mouth to-- to apologize, but--

“You’re so ready,” he whines, hips grinding into her thigh. She can feel him, half-hard against her, and her cunt clenches hard, drawing out his moan. He’s filling her, but it’s not enough, not what she needs, not when it’s already so close.

“For you,” she pants, pawing at his arms, his shoulders. “I want you, please.”

Obi’s breath huffs out on a laugh, head shaking. He surges forward between her legs, the thrust of his hips pushing his fingers deeper, drawing her world to a single, aching point and--

“Please.” Shirayuki has never begged for anything, only ever earned it, but oh, she will beg for this. “Obi, please.”

“Yes,” he groans, tilting forward to place a kiss on her chest. “Yes, I’ll give it to you, just...”

He loses his words, mouth too busy kissing what skin he can find. His hand grips her thigh, looping her leg up over his shoulder, until she’s open for him, wanting, the wet noise of his touch obscene on the air, and--

He stops.

“Obi.” There’s no breath left in her to scold or to beg, but she manages that.

He bends over, mouth curling as he presses it to her knee. “What’s this from?”

Shirayuki blinks, chest still heaving. “Haah?”

“This.” His nose brushes along the same place, eyelashes fluttering against the sensitive skin of her thigh.

It takes her one long moment to focus, to see the small, silvery scar that stretches just under her kneecap. “I crawled through a bramble patch looking for truffles.”

His eyebrows raise. “Truffles?”

“The boy next door told me that princes ate them.” She lets out a huff, heat blooming across her cheeks. This was not exactly what had come to mind when Yuzuri had told her about pillowtalk. “I thought if I could find some, my grandparents could use them.”

His chest rumbles against her shin. “And did you?”

A laugh bubbles out of her as she shakes her head. “No. And I’m lucky that’s the only souvenir I kept from that excursion.”

Obi grins at that, his hand sliding along her arm, lifting her palm up to him. He barely looks before he presses a kiss there. “And this one?”

His breath puffs hotly against her hand, and it's...intimate, in a different way than it was before. “I grabbed a flask with my bare hand.”

“Miss,” he admonished, moving up to a finger. Hers are slender, small, and she expects a delicate kiss, just a pucker of his lips, but--

“Haah,” she breathes as his lips open, threatening to envelop it whole. “Broken glass,” she offers, hazy, “or a thorn I can’t-- ahh-- remember.”

He smiles around the tip, teeth scraping her skin, and she’s suddenly very aware that his fingers are still inside her, motionless, waiting.

“Obi,” she whines, wriggling her hips.

“Mm?” His brows raise as he gives one, solid suck that she feels straight down to her toes.

“I...” She licks her lips, mouth terribly dry. “I have one on my lip too.”

His mouth leaves her with a pop. “Is that so?”

She nods, emphatic.

“Well,” he drawls, rolling the word obscenely across his tongue. “We can’t ignore that, can we?”

He hovers over her, gaze fixed on her mouth, and her eyes flutter, falling to half mast, waiting--

“Oh!” she yelps, clutching at his shoulders as he flips her up, straddling his lap. His fingers are still in her, impossible to ignore with the way she’s spread wide over him, and he gives one long, languid pump of his wrist. “Obi!”

“I need to get a better look,” he says, too innocent, ducking his head to inspect her mouth. Her lips tingle with anticipation, something that would annoy her if he wasn’t still moving his fingers in her, so slow, stroking just lower than where she needs him.

His breath ghosts over her lips, so close, and she leans in, hoping--

His mouth presses to the corner of hers and is gone just as fast. “Ah, not there. Maybe here?”

Lips barely brush the other corner before he is grinning at her, far too smug. “Or is it--?”

“Here,” she huffs, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him to her mouth.

It’s softer than she expects-- both the bristle against her palms and kiss on her lips. Despite his yelp of surprise, Obi is ready for her, tilting his head to open his mouth against hers, to let his tongue shyly lap at the lip caught between his own.

Shy is not what Shirayuki wants, not right now, not when his fingers still rest within her and she can feel the bare skin of his chest against her belly. She surges against him with a roll of her hips, tongue reaching out to lick at his teeth, and--

“Ah-ah,” he clucks, pulling back, eyes little more than thin golden rings behind the veil of his lashes. “You’re distracting me.”

“Distracting you?” she echoes, breathless, uncomprehending.

“You should always finish what you start.” His teeth flash wickedly as he leans in, pressing his lips against the bone of her cheek, just beneath her eye. “This?”

She blinks away the haze in her mind, trying to remember, but then it comes her her: the endless rocking of the boat, the sharp sting of a blade--

Obi stiffens, pulling away. Even his finger leave her, wrapping around her hip. “Miss? Are you--?”

“It’s nothing,” she says, “just a scratch.”

“Miss...” His gaze fixes to the spot, and she can see the moment he remembers. “Is that...?”

“You should call me by my name, Obi,” she tells him, louder than she needs to. Her fingernails scrape along his scalp. There’s nothing she can't say to Obi, nothing she needs to hide, but-- she doesn’t want to talk about that. Tanbarun. Not now. “You’ve already used it anyway.”

He hesitates, eyes still caught on the silvered line, so faint it’s practically faded. With a shuddering breath, he drags himself away, fixing his gaze on her lips. “Oh?”

“Earlier,” she tells him, enjoying the way his eyes pulse wide with shock. “And I don’t think there’s any need to worry about propriety now. Not when I’ve done...things, and you’ve already offered to make me feel good.”

Obi’s mouth rucks up into a smirk. “Did I now? And here I thought I only said we had unfinished business.”

“You did.” She hesitates, just a moment, before adding, “At Kaninshala.”

His eyebrows raise. “Kaninshala? I don’t remember that.”

“You were drunk at the time.” Her heart flutters in her chest, but there’s no risk left in this, not when the taste of him still lingers on her tongue, and his fingers spread wetness along her side. “But you said that you wanted to make me feel good. That you could make me feel good.”

It’s not often that Obi blushes enough for her to see, but she’s close enough to see his cheeks flare red, matching the tips of his ears. “I-I did not!”

“You did!” she insists.“You even told me you would give me a child--”

Obi lets out a pained bleat, burying his face in her neck. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

She smiles, carding her fingers through his hair. “You thought I might be missing what a marriage might have given me.”

His breath huffs hotly against her neck. “I doubt my intentions were quite so selfless as that, Miss.”

She hums, disapproving. “I thought I told you to call me by my name.”

“I might as well,” he grumbles, “since I already offered to sire your children.”

“I should have insisted earlier,” her mouth curves as she presses it to his neck, “you already told me you could hold me down with just your thighs.”

His head snaps up. “Wha--? You said that!”

She blinks. “No, you did, at Svarbjorn, when I--”

“No, you told me that you--” he huffs out a breath, shaking his head-- “at Lord Hideo’s, when we went cow tipping with his idiot sons. You rode home with me.”

She barely remembers that night, but she does vaguely recall his warmth pressed into her back, the way one of his hands had spread distractingly over her stomach. “I did.”

“And then you grabbed my thighs and asked me if I could hold you down with just them.”

“I did not!” she squeaks, mortified. “I don’t-- I don’t remember that at all!”

“You were drunk at the time,” he admits with a sly cant to his mouth, “but you were very clear. And asked about Master too.”

She covers her face with a groan. “No.”

“Yes,” he tells her gleefully, tugging at her hands. “I must admit, it was very pretty picture you painted.”

There’s something about the way he drops his voice, the way it practically sinks into a purr, that makes her...curious. “Could you?”

He blinks. “Could I what?”

“Hold me down.” She drops her hands to his chest, letting them drag over every ridge of muscle between his collarbone and hip. “With just your thighs.”

His cock twitches hard against her bare thigh. “I, ah...” He licks his lips. “Why don’t we find out?”

She spills back against the bed, thighs clenching as Obi crawls over her, gaze searing as he drags it up her.

“You said you wanted to be sweet to me,” she sighs as his legs pin her, her hands tracing up and over the cords of his thighs, “are you going to be?”

“Did I now?” he hums, hands circling her arms, running up to her wrists. “I don’t quite recall...”

“At Kichirou’s,” she gasps as his mouth presses at her neck, sending sparks racing down to her toes. “When you-- haah-- offered to make me feel good.”

“Mm,” he hums, mouth canting slyly against her skin. “I meant I wanted to taste how sweet you are.”

Her brow furrows. “Taste how--? Oh.”

Yuzuri had told her about that once, how a man might put his mouth on a woman there. Then it has seemed just as improbable as someone putting a cock in their mouth, but now--

But now her mouth is still bitter with him, and the thought of him between her legs, doing to her cunt what he is doing to her breast--

“You would...?” She doesn’t know how to ask, how to say that she wants to feel his stubble on her thighs and his tongue at her slit. Despite all the one-sided conversations on the subject, Yuzuri had never quite touched upon anything more than theory. 

“Mm.” His hum goes right through her with the way his mouth is wrapped around her nipple. “I think about that quite a bit.”

It should be easy to turn this into something, to insinuate that she might like to experience all-- all that, but all she manages is, “O-oh?”

He chuckles against her breast, self-deprecating, and gives her a sly look. “It always seemed too much to hope that you might want...” He hesitates, humor leeching from his face. “I thought...serving you might at least be a more likely fantasy.”

“Obi.” She sinks her hands into his hair, pulling him back to look him in the eye. “I have never thought of you as anything less than my friend.”

His eyes shine, even as his mouth quirks. “Even in the beginning?”

Shirayuki blinks, remembering the scrawny young messenger who popped out of every bush and dropped from every rooftop; who asked her if it would not be easier if Zen wasn’t a prince-- “Well, maybe an annoyance, at first.”

His lips split into a grin. “That’s fair.”

“But after that,” she presses, emphatic, “I never thought of you as my servant. I thought that we were...that you thought we might be...”

His hand tangles in hers, settling over her heart. “You've always been my best friend, always. I just thought that I...” His lips press together. “Sometimes I wondered if I was just seeing what I wanted to see. You know, a dog that thinks its the same as its--”

“No.” She strokes his cheek, his stubble rough against her palm, breath catching as he leans into the touch. “No.”

His breath pulses roughly between them, once, twice, before his hand raises, covering her own.

“I mean what I said before,” he murmurs, nuzzling her thumb. “I love you, Shirayuki.”

Her breath stills in her chest. “Obi...”

The words are right there, right on the tip of her tongue, but...but this is not her moment. She’d welcomed him home once, years ago now, and his answer had only been to lift her off her feet, to show her what his heart could not convey in words. She’d been content with that, carrying the memory close to her heart, like how some people wore lockets, but then he’d done what he’d never done before--

He found his words. For her.

As easy as these have come for him today, she knows that each one is hard-won, a battle she’s not seen-- or at least, one she can’t remember.

Her thumb rubs at the dark circle beneath his eye, faded since they’ve come to Rodatrad. She can wait to tell him.

“I’ve thought about that a lot, you know.” His eyes slit open, so dark behind the curtain of his eyelashes. “How I wanted to make you feel good. How I would show you.” His voice drops into a purr, “That I’d like to taste you.”

“Oh!” she gasps, heat flaring as bright on her cheeks as it does between her legs. “I...I...”

“Yes?” he hums curiously, hand dropping to cup her breast, rolling its peak between two of his enticingly long fingers.

“If that’s what you would like,” she says, miraculously steady as she meets his eyes, “then far be it from me to deny you.”

His breath catches in his chest, still against her skin. “Miss--”

“Shirayuki,” she tells him, and presses a hand to the top of his head.

The amber of his eyes turns molten, scorching. “Shirayuki.”

With no more goading than that, his mouth traces a scalding path down her body, licking and nipping at every inch of skin until he finally sits in the vee of her legs, gaze fixed to where she lays open for him. His breath huffs warmly against her, sending shivers up her spine, and she squirms.

“Obi, I think-- haah--” She loses the rest of her thought at his mouth closes over her, tongue sliding up her slit. Her hips jerk, and if she wasn’t about to die from embarrassment, the way his chuckle rumbles against her would be enough to send her over.

His arm settles across her waist, a heavy band, and then his tongue laps at her again, parting her folds, and-- “Oh,” she sighs, back arching as she squirms against the sheets. “That’s good.”

He pulls back with a hum, grinning. “It gets better.”

She means to-- to ask him what he means, to maybe even tease, but his fingers replace where his tongue hand been and his mouth latches hard on to the aching bud between her legs and, well-- she’s only human.

Pleasure overtakes her, as sudden and relentless as the undertow, dragging her under. She’s panting hard when she surfaces, throat raw, knuckles blanched bone-white where she grips his hair.

“Oh,” she breathes, “oh, I didn’t mean to...”

Words refuse to come to her. Obi rests his chin on her belly, grin pulling wide. “I don’t mind. I have to say, the enthusiasm’s...enjoyable.”

Shirayuki nods, loosening her grip, blood tingling as it ekes back into her fingers. She pats his head absently, bristle pleasantly tickling her palms. “I love you.”

Well, there goes that good intention.

He stills under her hand, eyes wide. “M...”

His breath leaves him on a rasp, and he surges up her, mouth open and devouring as it meets hers. Ages ago, it seems, she had been afraid of kisses like this, staring out the iced windows of an inn room, wondering if the snows would free her. But now she catches him, just as eager, knees squeezing his hips as he writhes into her, the soft cotton of his pants caught between her toes.

Obi pulls away, but only to tear at her chemise, yanking it up the rest of her body and throwing it to the floor, somewhere beyond the horizon of the mattress. She cannot bring herself to care, not when she is bent of ridding him of his pants, using both fingers and toes to work it down over his hips, down along the lean line of his calves.

He’s hard against her when she’s done, the length of his cock grinding sweetly into her. “Do you...?”

She cannot possibly miss what he is asking, not when his eyes are so desperate. “Yes,” she gasps, curling into him, “yes.”

All of her theoretical experience has braced her for this part to be unpleasant, maybe even painful, but as his cock slips through her folds, the tip gently pushing into her, there’s nothing but the slow slide of him in her, filling her until she gasps.

“Now that,” he breathes, pressing kisses to to column of her neck, “is good.”

She threads her fingers through his hair, gently scraping her nails down his scalp, enjoying the way he stops to groan against her skin. “Does it get better?”

He jerks back, the worry in his eyes fading as he catches her smile. “Yes,” he says, rolling his hips into hers, laughing as she throws back her head and moans, “it does.”

His pace is torturous, both too slow and not enough, barely filling her before he pulls away, leaving her empty, aching, clawing at him for more--

It doesn’t take long, not for either of them.

He moves just right, hips grinding against hers in a way that had her seeing stars, and then his cock slides all the way in, to a place where her worlds whites out at the edges. With little more that a squirm of his hips she’s falling again, harder this time, every part of her so hot she’d be afraid she might scald him, if she had any room for any more thoughts that yes and more and don’t stop.

Her ears are still ringing as she comes down, but she catches Obi just in time, his back stiffening under her fingers as he lets out a noise that sounds more like a wounded animal than a man. His cock pulses as he spills over, a detail both obvious in hindsight and yet somehow shocking in the moment, but she’s so sensitive that it feels good, better than good, and she holds on to him, coaxing him over with mindless sweet nothings.

Boneless, he collapses into her, the weight of his body oddly comforting against hers. She strokes his back absently, tracing patterns in the sweat that slicks it until he laughs, rolling off beside her.

Ohh, it should not feel so good when his cock leaves her. It only makes her want to start again.

“You know,” he sighs, smile spread wide and warm as he twines her fingers in his, “that’s not when you’re supposed to say it.”

She blinks. “Say what?”

He’s flushed already, dewy and pink, but it settles deeper now. “I...you know. When you...ah...”

It still takes her a full moment of watching him squirm to realize, “You mean when I said I love you?”

“Yes,” he sighs, relived. “That.”

Shirayuki can only stare. “Why not? You made me feel very good, and I love you. It seemed like the perfect time to say it.”

His eyes widen. “You make a fair point, M--” he catches himself-- “Shirayuki. But also...”

She hums, inquisitive.

“Well,” he coughs, “I can’t really tell anyone this story. Ever.”

Her brows raise. “Oh, and somehow when you said it to me is a much safer story?”

He has the decency to blush at that one. “Well, it was, you know, before.”

“Hm,” she grunts, “by a few seconds, maybe.”

“By enough,” he insists, pulling her against him. “But I suppose we’ll just have to keep it to ourselves anyway. A mystery.”

She grins, settling her head against his chest. “You do love to have secrets.”

She can feel his grin as he pressed a kiss to her hair. “I do.”

“But...” Her smile turns wicked, hidden against his chest. “Yuzuri hates them.”

He groans. “Oh no, Yuzuri.”

“Are you going to come to bed?”

Akihito frowns at his wife’s reflection in the window, but turns to her anyway. “This is cheating, I hope you know.”

“Me?” Masami flutters her eyelashes, just as she had the night they met. His lords always talk of women losing their beauty as they age, but every year has only made her more beautiful, more herself-- and she knows it. “I merely sent a congratulatory gift.”

“To Sir Obi’s room,” he grouses, slipping between the covers.

She slides across silk to lay her head on his chest. “It’s where we both know she will be.”

“Still.” He frowns, not to be moved. Between the two of them, he is the one with an acute sense of fairness. “Still.”

“Oh, and threatening a daughter was somehow a fair play?” she inquires archly.

“I did not threaten a daughter! I only--” he casts about for the right words-- “informed Lady Shirayuki that she existed. And would make a good match for Sir Obi, should none other provide itself.”

“I’m sure Chisato will be pleased to hear you were making such plans in her absence,” his wife observes wryly, “perhaps we might mention it in our next letter.”

He grimaces. “That won’t be necessary. And there’s no need to be sour over it, in any case. You could have used the same ploy. She’s your daughter as much as mine.”

She favors him with a cool look. “Oh, do you think so?”

He coughs, aware of the ice creaking beneath his feet. “What was it that you wanted, then? A greenhouse?”

“Ah!” Masami crows, levering herself up to meet his eyes. “So you admit I won?”

“We cannot know until morning.” Their plans had too often been spoiled by the stubbornness of Lady Shirayuki and her guard to be too certain of any one move working. “But...” he sighs, “where would we even put such a thing?”

She curls against his chest, a satisfied smile unfurling against his skin. “I know just the spot.”

[mamichigo]

@that-taters-my-tots gave me the prompt “bruises” for dazatsu, so here you go! Excuse my tardness, I hope you like it. AO3 link!

the color of your skin (words: 1.4k)

When thunder screamed outside, a loud and powerful sound that reverberated inside his bones, Atsushi didn't flinch; he scooted closer to the body beside him, however. Dazai, who had his eyes closed and a peaceful expression gracing his features, didn't seem to mind the shorter distance between them—in fact, there was no sign that he even took notice of it.

Atsushi was under no delusions of believing Dazai had fallen asleep—even if the fatigue in the creases of his face and the ugly purple of his dark circles compelled him to hope Dazai would he resting, no matter how unlikely the prospect was. Most likely, the man was attentive to the every noise around him: from the merciless rain hammering on the roof to the muffled voices of the officers walking in a frenzy of quick steps.

Atsushi hadn't had the mind to check if it was the Agency or the police. As long as it meant this case was over, either would do just fine.

Unable to stop himself, his eyes trailed back to Dazai’s face, to his split lip and the dried blood around it, to the utter calm that could only be a mask—how could it not be, when the cut on Dazai’s cheek was still bleeding, a slow but constant stream of crimson staining his skin.

Atsushi, tired of holding his own weight, let his head fall against Dazai’s shoulder, a disgruntled noise escaping from his lips without his permission. This way, he no longer could look at Dazai’s face, and maybe that was for the best. Atsushi curled closer into himself, fighting against the cold of the wind and the ground below him.

“Cold, Atsushi?” Dazai murmured, shattering the remaining of his small hope on the possibility of Dazai getting any amount of sleep.

“A little bit,” he whispered back.

“We should probably move soon,” Dazai hummed. Despite his words, Dazai made no move to leave his seat on the floor, so neither did Atsushi. “I can't have you catching a cold, can I?”

“There's no need to worry about me.” Atsushi glanced at Dazai's knuckles, painted a sick yellow that only darkened by the minute, then at his own unscathed ones. “I don't know if I can even catch one to begin with.”

Dazai chuckled low in his throat. Atsushi was unsure why they were being quiet, as it was unlikely anyone could hear them with all the noise outside, but Atsushi didn't dare breach the moment.

“Even so, being cold can't be all that comfortable.” Dazai moved to the side, jostling Atsushi from his resting place. “Here, let me help you.”

Dazai shook his coat off; the way he didn't move his left hand at all as he slid it off one arm, then winced when a finger twitched against his will didn't escape Atsushi. When Dazai passed him the coat, Atsushi had a refusal on the tip of his tongue that he unwillingly swallowed down, uncomfortable with denying the help when Dazai had offered it despite the pain he was in.

Atsushi wrapped the coat around himself, not bothering with the sleeves. “Thank you.”

“It's no problem, no problem!” Dazai said with his usual airy and cheery tone, though Atsushi noticed the lack of hand gestures now.

He bit down on his bottom lip, squeezing the tan fabric between his fingers.

“You're thinking too loud, Atsushi,” Dazai commented, without even looking at Atsushi once.

Atsushi offered an awkward smile, eyes never leaving the floor. “You should get that looked at.”

“I will, I will.” Dazai traced the bruises with his right thumb, drawing indefinite shapes onto his skin. “It's just some dislocated bones, nothing doctor Yosano can't fix.”

Atsushi gritted his teeth, no response coming from him. Heavy silence threatened to wrap around Atsushi’s throat, but he didn't have the courage to break it, inadvertently allowing it suffocate him.

“Does it bother you?” When Dazai speaks this time, Atsushi can't decide if he's grateful or not. “The bruises, I mean.”

“Of course it does!” His head snaps towards Dazai, his voice raises an octave. Faced with Dazai's serene smile, Atsushi realizes his outburst, and continues in a heated whisper, “How could it not?”

“I'll be healed and as good as new soon, won't I? This is nothing.”

“Maybe for you.” Atsushi squeezed his fists, enough so they were aching. “For me— I—”

Dazai tilted his head and made a curious sound. Atsushi looked away. “Forget it.”

Dazai hummed again, tapping his index finger on his chin. “Hey, Atsushi.” He looked at Atsushi from the corner of his eyes. “Do you maybe feel guilty?”

Atsushi flinched and, knowing the action itself was answer enough, didn't utter a word.

“You get such weird ideas in your head sometimes, Atsushi.” Dazai leaned on his right hand, head tilted so their eyes could meet. He was smiling, without an ounce of worry. “What you should be feeling is relief, instead, right? Since you're not hurt.”

“Doesn't that mean I also should be not relieved, since you are hurt?”

“Not exactly, I'm not dead yet, am I?” Atsushi glared and Dazai laughed. “You worry too much, you know.”

“And you worry too little,” he retorted, irritated.

“Don't be like that, Atsushi!” When Atsushi didn't reply, Dazai pouted at him. “Seriously, you… Here.”

That was the only warning Atsushi got before Dazai straightened up so he could reach for Atsushi’s wrist, tugging his hand to Dazai's left one. His fingers hovered over the bruises, and Atsushi tried to pull away, afraid of hurting Dazai further.

“Relax for a sec, Atsushi. Just don't press and it's fine.” Atsushi, knowing Dazai had no plans of letting him go, exhaled and forced himself to do as instructed.

Just as Dazai had done before, Atsushi traced the bruises, feeling the swollen and warmer than normal skin underneath his fingertips. Soon enough, Dazai didn't have to hold his hand there, as Atsushi got pulled into the rhythm of it, into the odd sense of calm the motions brought him.

“See, Atsushi? There's still blood pumping in there. The pain doesn't matter as long as you've got that.” Atsushi nodded slowly, transfixed by the faint heartbeat he felt on one of Dazai's fingers. “It means you survived.”

Atsushi almost squeezes the injured hand, but holds himself back, settling for pressing close to Dazai's side instead.

Alive. He's alive; the warm blood said so, and the heartbeat whispered it to him.

“You're okay,” Atsushi said.

“I'm okay,” Dazai agreed.

Laughter escaped from him, shaky and short lived, an almost pathetic sound that got out in expression of his relief. “Okay.”

“Atsushi?”

“Yes?”

Atsushi looked up, just before Dazai tugged on one side of the coat around Atsushi, bringing him closer. Atsushi stumbles forward, flailing so he doesn't hit any of Dazai’s injuries; in his carefulness and due to Dazai’s insistence—he is surprisingly strong for someone who is supposed to be wounded—, Atsushi ends up clumsily straddling Dazai’s lap.

A moment later, he is overwhelmed by the taste of blood on Dazai’s lips. He pulls away instinctively, but is tugged back in; this time, he is prepared for it, so Atsushi moved his lips against Dazai's with gentleness, careful not to aggravate the cut.

The copper lingers when they pull away; Atsushi licks at the taste until it disappears completely.

“...This is embarrassing, Dazai.” Atsushi throws a glance to the people still working nearby. “Everyone can see us.”

“It's fine, no one is paying attention anyways.” Contradicting his words, Dazai tugs the coat up so it covers Atsushi’s head and face entirely; when he leans in this time, their kiss is hidden behind the fabric from any curious eyes. “Better?”

“I suppose,” Atsushi mumbles, refusing to acknowledge the heat rising to his face.

Dazai gave a satisfied smile and put a hand on Atsushi’s back, nudging him so his head would come to rest on Dazai's shoulder, his nose on the crook of his neck. “Rest, Atsushi.”

“You should be the one sleeping, not me.”

“I can't hear you!”

Atsushi sighed in exasperation, but in the end acquiesced to the gentle order. His eyes closed and he went lax against Dazai, arms loosely wrapped around his waist.

The smell of ozone clung to the air and Dazai's skin; even behind his closed eyelids, Atsushi could see a flash of lightning light up the room. Dazai's breath was steady and silent, only the rise and fall of his chest giving it away. His heartbeat thudded against Atsushi’s own.

Atsushi snuggled closer and, soon enough, he dozed off to the sound of the rain.

[huntertales]

Part Four: Misery Loves Company. (My Bloody Valentine S05E14)

Episode Summary: Castiel helps Sam, Dean and the reader hunt down Cupid on Valentine’s Day after people begin killing each other for love. But things become worse when each of them starts to be consumed with their own lust for hunger. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 2,207.

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You didn’t know where you were for a split second. As you slowly came back into consciousness, your entire body felt like someone threw you off a building. Your muscles haven’t ached this bad in a long time, and when you tried stretching out your fingers, you were suddenly hit with an overwhelming amount of pain, making you regret the move. It hurt when you tried to move on your side, and your wrist felt like someone broke it. You kept your eyes closed, not only did you start to psychically hurt, but your mind suddenly came flooding back with all these images of things that you had dreamed about while you were passed out. Horrible things that you hoped were just a nightmare created by the figment of your creative imagination. Ever so cautiously, you opened up one eye to inspect the damage of what you’ve done to yourself.

Your knuckles were the first thing you took notice of; they were severely bruised and bits of skin were torn. Someone tried their hardest to clean them best as they could, but they felt raw, like you fought someone. One wrist was bandaged up and the other had a strange bruise around it, you knew where both of them had come from. You looked away from the self inflicted wounds to the room you had been lying in. The familiar sight brought a sense of safety over you when you realized that you were at Bobby’s, lying in that ratty couch of his you always crashed on while the boys took the floor. You had managed to push yourself up into a sitting position, but the action caused you to not forget the gash on your side. You winced in pain as you leaned back in your seat, suddenly feeling out of breath from the excruciating psychical movement you put yourself through. For a second you tried to figure out what was going on, presuming all those memories that were cluttering your head were just fictional.  

You couldn't have done all those horrible, terrible things. Why would you attack a random stranger on the street because they bumped into you? And it didn't make it better that it happened to have been a demon. And you faking everything. But you knew that wasn't the worst of it. Your eyes glanced down to the bruised and bloody knuckles. All the blood that stained your clothes, the things you did to those people...Then what you allowed Sam to do. Your fingers tightly grazed the gauze around your wrist. You wanted, hoped...prayed that, out of anything you did, that was just a dream. There was no way you could have done that to him.

The pleads and shouting you heard coming from the basement told a different story. It told the truth.

You wanted to cry, but you couldn’t. You stared off into space with a tight knot in your throat. You attacked that stranger. You beat those demons up and used them like your own stress toy, a rage you never felt before in your life took over you, like a monster. You let Sam drink your own blood. Why? Because the Devil made you do it. Because he said it would make Sam strong.

 Funny thing...he only came to you when you were sleeping, He didn't have the ability to pop up whenever he desired. Maybe you hallucinated the entire thing. And it would make sense if you picked up on the things the boys wouldn't tell you. The real reason why Sam left all those months ago wasn't because he needed space. Of why he was becoming hungry for demon blood. Because he wanted to feed off of you. And, without fighting it, you let him.

 Footsteps coming up from the basements stairs made you flinch, knowing well enough of who it was going to be. You watched as Dean came up from hearing his brother go through withdrawal. It was painful the first time, but this...this was the real deal. All of you had to endure the entire process through. Withdrawing from demon blood can be nasty. Sam had to go through all the dizzy spells, hot flashes and chills, even those nasty little hallucination that crossed the poor man’s mind. All of this was happening because of you. You did did it to him.

Dean passed by the library. While you felt tempted to call out to him and apologize, the words remained at the tip of your tongue. They felt so wrong to say right “Sorry.” Sorry for what? Sorry for making your baby brother relapse. Sorry for crushing all your hopes for a better tomorrow. Sorry, for being the one who is supposed to be your better half, fail you miserably.

 You quickly wiped away a tear when you felt it roll down your cheek. The boys have done their worst deeds against one another. Dean tortured souls in Hell because of all his unhappiness and unworthy feelings to being alive at the sake of his father. Only he broke the first seal. Sam trusted Ruby and drank demon blood because thought it was the right thing to do. Turns out, he set Lucifer free without realizing the demon’s true motive. You lost yourself in the spell of Famine to see what you were going to become and pumped Sam full of demon blood. Because you thought it would make him stronger. All of you try so hard to do right. But you do the wrong thing every single time. You always do what everyone wants you to. Maybe there is no such thing as free will.

 “You look better.” You found yourself jumping out of your skin at the sound of a voice that broke you out of your personal thoughts. You looked away from the floor and to the doorway. The heaviness sitting in your chest only becomes worse when you see that it's Dean. You notice right away he was still in his clothes, a half empty liquor bottle hung loose in his grip as he leaned against the door frame. You kept yourself quiet, afraid you might say the wrong thing. But Dean keeps talking, wanting only to keep himself occupied. “You've been in and out for the past few days. You lost a lot of blood. Cas said you should be okay.”

 “Dean,” You couldn't help yourself when you went out right with it, the guilt too much for you to bare anymore. “I’m so sor—”

 “It wasn't your fault, Y/N.” Dean cut you off, saying four words that didn't make you feel any better. You stared at him with eyes glazed over as a hardening expression set across your face, wondering why he was doing this. He acted like this was his doing. Maybe it was the liquor he’d been drinking over the past few days, but his lips were loose, he spoke a secret that he didn't want to keep to himself anymore. “I failed you and Sammy. Like I always do. Maybe that son of a bitch is right.

 “Who was right?” You cautiously asked him, you sniffled a few times, trying to compose yourself for what he was about to tell you.

 "You were right. I've been keeping something from you since we got back. I didn't want to tell you. But I don't have a choice now, do I?" Dean let out a soft chuckle, but the pain in his eyes told a much different story. As the smile started to drift off his face, you could see the pain starting to settle in his face from what he was about to say. "Michael and I had a talk. He told me a few things. Went on about this woman named Katerina. She was some woman he loved. Didn't think much of it, that was, until he told me more about her. He said that he tried to keep her safe from his brother. And...And he couldn't. She went dark side."

You furrowed your brow in slight confusion, all though you didn't want to, you forced yourself to ask the question that started to burn in the back of your head. "Did she..."

 "Lucifer turned her into a demon. The first demon created, turns out. She ran off with him, and never looked back. Michael tried to save her...but he couldn’t protect the woman he loved. Not even his little brother.” Dean admitted everything about the story that the angel had told him to you. “Want to know why I got so pissed when Cupid told us we were soulmates, sweetheart? It’s not because I’m ashamed of you. Damn it, I love you. I do. I always have. Ever since we were little kids. And that’s never going to change. No matter what happens between us.” You watched as he walked into the library until he was hovering over you. He tried his hardest not to feel anything. But you could see the pain in fear in his eyes. He reached out his free hand, and ever so lightly, brushed a tear that escaped. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N.”

 Dean left you alone with your own personal thoughts. He mumbled something about needing some air from everything that was going on. Maybe Famine was right when he said he was dead inside. He was, for a while. Dean felt a comfort with things. He didn’t need his usual crutches to get him through the day. There were no thoughts crushing him. He felt nothing. Until...that night in the diner when he’d seen the truth.

That was his moment of facing the future straight in the eyes. There was no more running, no more denying. All of it was possibility.

 The man walked through the junkyard with his thoughts and a half empty liquor bottle as his only company. For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester felt lost. He didn’t know what to do anymore. He couldn’t keep the people he loved, his only family, safe anymore. Dean was at a crossroads when he thought about you. What if he tried breaking up with you? Push you so far away from this disaster you wouldn’t get hurt. But that would risk the chance of hating him and running into the arms of the enemy. Dean could try his hardest to keep you close and safe as possible. What if that wasn’t good enough? He loved you, every single inch of you, there wasn't anything he would change about you. And the soul crushing reason why a man like him, a screwed up disaster, had someone like you in his life was because you were playing the part like his mother. Poor Mary. She was the nightmare fuel his father needed to get him and his brother out on the road and started hunting. Just like you were going to be if Lucifer got his hands on you.

 That wasn’t even the worst of it. His brother, his baby brother who he had practically raised, who always tried to do good and see things in a better light, might die at the hands of him. Because it was the right thing to do. Because it was what God commanded. Fathers are supposed to know what’s best. How was any of this right? How could God sit back and watch this happen?

 He wants to feel numb. He wants to be dead inside. But he can’t. Not anymore. Not after what he’d seen.

 Dean found himself stopping in his tracks near the Impala. The keys felt heavy in his back pocket as the idea of running from his problems crossed his mind. But he knew that there wasn’t enough space in this world to distant him from everything. Dean looked down at the bottle, contemplating if he should take another drink, he decided against it, knowing his old vices wouldn’t help him tonight. He poked his tongue between his teeth as his eyes glanced up to the cloudy night sky.

 He couldn't keep it together anymore. He could feel tears starting to fill his eyes as he stared off into the miles above him, hoping that this little human, the one who was just a vessel for His son, would take the chance just to listen. Just for one simple second.

 “Please…I can’t,” Dean found himself flooded with all his fears and anxiety just like that. The wall inside his went crumbling down, presenting himself fully to the big man upstairs. People say that God gives one that they can handle. And in times of distress, pray. “I can’t do this. Please?”

 Dean Winchester, the man who thought he could face just about anything, couldn't. He couldn't even get God himself out from his hiding place. How was he going to try and holding off Michael or stopping the apocalypse? Maybe they were right about all of this. Maybe there is no such thing as free will or true love. Perhaps we’re all just on this planet to play a part until we die. And there was nothing anybody could do about it.

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